#what does enya's speaking voice sound like

[tallbluelady]

11. How are they vocally expressive? What kind of voice, accent, tones, inflections, volume, phrases and slang, and manner of speaking do they use?

Rowan's voice is usually soft in tone and volume. She's often trying to be as polite and sensitive as possible to strangers to give as gentle of an impression as possible. In more relaxed situations her volume rises and she can have a very sarcastic tone if she's in the mood for it.

All of that and I've somewhat recently decided that a good voice claim would be Enya (for both speaking and singing):

Thanks for the ask!

#ask meme #rowan argentas #rowan did not have a voice claim for like 6 million years #then i think i was listening to enya as one does #then i was like #wait #what does enya's speaking voice sound like #and i found that clip and that was it #also i am ignoring any implications that come from accents #because enya's voice is just so lovely

[simplynotcapable]

hey blue!! how was vacay?

also i had so many feels around this and would kill for your thoughts on this:

“I know you,” Visenya agreed. Her voice was shaking more than she liked, but she could not make it go steady. It was let it shake or break down crying, and she would not weep here with Daemon’s eyes on her face and Nyra’s anger slicking her skin like oil. “I know you, and I love you. I do, Nyra, I love you well, better than anyone, but that does not make me blind. I was there. I was there on Driftmark, when the two of you went to the beaches before Laena’s body had hit the seabed, when you came back with sand in your hair. I saw the way he looked at us, and I knew something terrible was going to happen, and, when the letters came, when they told me Laenor was dead, I knew. I knew it did not matter what Father said, I knew how he died, and I love you so fucking well that I bit my tongue until it bled and defended you every time anyone dared to suggest it—”

 “You think I would let him lay a hand on Laenor? I did not love him, no, but he was dear to me! I would not wed the man who killed him! If you knew me half so well as I thought you did, you would know that!”

“Lie,” Visenya hissed through clenched teeth. “You are no fool. You are not stupid. You are lying to me, or you are lying to yourself, but you are lying all the same.”

Rhaenyra laughed, an incredulous sound as her face flickered through more feelings than Visenya could place. “Is this why you would not speak to me? Years now, and it was because the snakes in the Keep has poisoned you against me? Because of Laenor?”

“He taught me to swim,” she answered, helplessly, and roughly fisted the tears away from her eyes. “He read to me, when I could not sleep. He and Harwin taught me the sword. He was silly, and he was foolish, and sometimes I hated him for never being what we all needed him to be, but he was good. He was a good man, and he did not deserve to die just so Daemon could find his way to your bed! I love you. I love you. But I cannot just…forgive that and forget it. I cannot just pretend it did not happen, it is not so simple!”

and also daemon's and even nyra's. honestly, i'll take anything you can tell me about this entire confrontation if it isn't too much lmao

my brother and i climbed a small mountain to explore a weird cave and we both fell down a hill so vacation was a success 10/10

Visenya and Laenor is really interesting to me because he’s one of the few people that she doesn’t have to have complicated feelings about. Laenor is just Laenor. She wishes he was more what Rhaenyra needs in a husband, and sometimes she’s angry that he doesn’t see the things she and Rhaenyra can see so easily, but none of that changes that she loves him. He’s Laenor. He doesn’t treat her differently from the boys, even though she’s not his daughter, and he never looks through her like Viserys does. She can love him without constantly being on edge about it, like she is with the Targtowers. He’s not Nyra, who Visenya is always worried about making bad decisions and acts as this kind of icy buffer between Enya and the rest of their siblings because of her own hangups about them. He’s not Harwin, who she can’t even care about in front of anyone else.

She gets to just be a child with Laenor, completely uncomplicated. She doesn’t have to do anything or be anything, she doesn’t have to help hold him up. She doesn’t have to protect him, like she feels she needs to protect everyone else.

Laenor’s death completely takes that away from her. There is no one else in her life that she loves without feeling like they’re her responsibility to look after. Even Rhaenyra, who she thinks of as something like a mother, Visenya is constantly fretting over her decisions and her behavior. Harwin was kind of similar, but he’s dead, too.

Laenor’s the only one, and that’s why his death hurts so bad.

And she knows it was Daemon. There are lots of rumors flying around that Rhaenyra and Daemon had him killed or killed him themselves, and she fights them hard because she still loves her sister, but she’s pissed. She’s lost someone, someone that by all rights Rhaenyra should also be devastated over losing, and instead her sister marries the man Visenya believes killed him.

And she hates Daemon for taking Laenor away from her, for taking him away from the boys, and a part of her hates Rhaenyra for letting it all happen—and she’s angry with herself for being angry with Rhaenyra. She’s a ball of grief and anger and indignation, and none of this ever even crosses Rhaenyra’s mind.

She has no idea why Visenya won’t answer her letters! She cannot figure it out. They didn’t argue after Driftmark. They’ve never really argued. The only thing she can think of is Visenya being angry about Rhaenyra flinging Aemond into the line of fire during the confrontation, but she didn’t seem angry about that after it happened. She doesn’t know. She has no clue. She spends years with her mind whirling, trying to come up with an answer, and Jace and Luke have no idea, if they ask Visenya ignores the question, and she just. She wants her sister back.

And then she gets her back, and she finds out…Visenya’s angry over something she didn’t do. She’s angry about them killing Laenor, which they didn’t do, Laenor isn’t even dead. She’s listened to the rumors and she believes them. She believes Rhaenyra would allow it or, at the very least, overlook it, and she hates that. She hates that her sister could believe this of her, that Visenya doesn’t believe her even when she denies it. It hurts. It pisses her off.

She feels like she’s lost her, that Visenya’s been snatched up by Alicent and all her little whisperers in the Keep, and she can’t handle that. She can’t handle losing Visenya anymore than she could handle losing one of her boys, which is why she snaps and tells her the truth.

And this is Daemon’s first real dose of the Targaryen sisters’ relationship, and he is genuinely pleased about it in a way Visenya doesn’t notice. Because, yes, Visenya hates him, Visenya’s pissed at Rhaenyra, but even within all that she’s still loyal to Rhaenyra. Even thinking they killed someone she loved, that doesn’t waver.

She loves Rhaenyra the way he loves Viserys, though purer and not tinged with Daemon’s personal brand of envious tomfuckery. She loves her sister even when she hates her, and he sees himself in that. He sees himself in her, and—no matter how much she hates it—he’s right. She’s angry like Daemon and she’s spiteful like Daemon, she’s loyal to the point of losing herself like Daemon. She’s a little bit mad, just like Daemon.

He likes that. He feels connected to her because of that, even if Visenya would rather claw out his eyes than have a conversation with him.

To push it a little more even though this isn’t technically related to this quote, Visenya maintains her dislike after finding out Laenor is alive is because she has memories of a different Daemon.

Visenya remembers a Daemon who had a much better life and was much softer. He was a better person, for the most part, and a kinder person because Baelon’s existence pushes him onto a different path. She loved that Daemon. She thought of him like a father.

And she sees this Daemon, and he’s different. She sees the difference, the twisted parts of him, that he’s more brutal and broken, and she doesn’t trust that. She can see all the parts of him that are poison, and she wants nothing to do with it.

And it’s hard for her to hate him in this life—harder than grieving him was in that other life—but there’s something not right about him and she can’t make herself look past it.

[carewyncromwell]

“Weightless in love -- unraveling --  For all that's to come and all that's ever been... We're back to the board With every shade under the sun... Let's make it a good one! It couldn't be any more beautiful... It couldn't be any more beautiful! I can't take it in...” ~“Can’t Take It In” by Imogen Heap

x~x~x~x

Hey guys! So I realized it’s been absolute AGES since I’ve drawn Carewyn and Jacob’s mum Lane, especially as a young woman...so here she is! And gosh, does she look so beautiful when she’s happy... 💙

Being a daughter of the cruel and manipulative Charles Cromwell, Lane was raised in a very suppressed, austere, and emotionally abusive home, devoid of any truly selfless familial love let alone any real freedom. It was at school -- and ultimately through her school friends -- that she found both and how much she truly couldn’t live a life without those things. And the first time she went with her dormmate and best friend Judy Castine to her Muggle neighborhood and visited all of the usual hubs, Lane felt so happy that she felt like she could fly without even mounting a broom. For as soft-spoken and reclusive as Lane has always been, the joy was written all over her face as she combed row upon row of books in the local library and ordered food and drinks she would’ve never allowed to sample at home when she and Judy went to the bar. The best part, though, was when Lane's ear caught what turned out to be Easter service at the local church. The sound of the choir’s beautiful Latin chanting and harmonies ethereally echoing across the walls and up into the rafters touched Lane’s heart so much that her almond-shaped, Cromwell blue eyes fluttered closed and she twirled around, her face flushing with pure elation as she drank it all in. No words were needed at all -- it was clear that Lane Cromwell had never been happier and more complete in her entire life than she was in that moment...and if she was talented enough in Charms to produce a corporeal Patronus, she undoubtedly would’ve been able to, in that very moment. 

Lane’s outfit (100% borrowed from Judy’s wardrobe, so as to fit in a little better) is based off the look on the left side of this picture because early 60′s, baby!. The song is one I added to Lane’s playlist a long while back partly because Imogen Heap and Enya’s voices are similar to how I hear Lane’s speaking voice sounding (namely, soft and slightly breathy, but not shaky or insecure), which you can find here. Hope this made you smile...if it did, please consider liking/reblogging/commenting, and I hope you all have a lovely evening!

#lane cromwell #my art #hphm #hogwarts mystery #you can damn well bet lane loved being able to dress in casual muggle clothes instead of stuffy old-fashioned dress robes too <3 #I do see one of her outings with judy being where she first encountered her future husband evan bach too #I should really redraw pearl claire and blaise at some point too... #give them proper portraits

[ticklish-touch]

HELL YEA OC song/voice headcanon time let’s goooo I’ve been wanting to do one of these for a long time now. And after seeing my friend @shunfluff​ do one for some of their OCs, I finally decided to sit down and take time to throw this together while I actually still have a drawing bug. Strike while the iron’s hot and all. Though I… didn’t just stop at drawings and and song titles. I really shouldn’t have access to Filmora X’D After seeing how fun the effects could be, I played around a bit to make it all a bit more dynamic. Ofc I couldn’t get to all 50 of my OCs, I mostly just picked ones that I already had a song in mind for. If I feel like doing another vid with more OCs at a later date, then I definitely will. More rambling under the cut.

Harvey: “You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid” by The Offspring (Singer: Dexter Holland) Harvey loves all things rock. Mostly British & Australian punk rock, but also a good majority of alternative and some metal. His voice was actually pretty hard to pinpoint; I see it being at a range anywhere between Queen and Adam Lambert, plus he’s a master at changing his voice. But ultimately I settled on this singer, which is a good middle-ground. Terry: “The World That He Sees” by Trans-Siberian Orchestra (Singer: Zak Stevens) Terry is inspired directly from TSO, so it only seemed fitting to use one of their songs. He has a beautiful booming operatic singing voice, which his family had him use in their Catholic church to sing classic hymns during masses. Seth: “Indigo” by Ed-Alleyne Johnson As you can tell, this isn’t a song with vocals. Seth’s voice is somewhat close to Josh Groban’s, he’s just not as skilled of a singer. But in a sense, his electric violin is his voice so I decided to switch things up. Marie: “Kings & Queens” by Ava Max Marie is a criminally under-used OC of mine. She was the lead scientist behind the Animalia - the group of animal hybrid subjects (like Harvey). She does a lot of work for humanitarian, environmentalist and gender equality efforts. She’s very self-confident and knows damn well how to strut her stuff to get what she wants. She uses every bit of media attention to bring important issues to light, and often has men in the science community at her beck and call, pointing out the double-standards of the science community and their treatment of women in the field. Riley: “Monster” by Skillet (Singer: John Cooper) Angsty badger is angsty. Riley battles a lot of internal rage and violent urges, struggling to keep it in check. I was torn between this song and “Animal I Have Become”, but ultimately this one just sounds more like him. Kenisime: “ Deora Ar Mo Chroí ” by Enya I ended up using Kenni’s female form for this, since there weren’t any songs off the top of my head that had a really deep, really soft/silky voice. So Enya’s soothing singing is very fitting for Kenni in this form. Ragaeli: “Say My Name” from Beetlejuice (Singer: Alex Brightman) I already posted this in a diff video, but might as well include him here too. Pitched-down Alex Brightman is still a dead-ringer for Rags’ normal speaking & singing voice. Kama: “Ijazat” from the movie One Night Stand (Singer: Tanuj Virwani)  Ngl, my first song choice for Kama was “Tonight (I’m Fckin You)” by Enrique Iglesias. His voice tone and the lyrics were very fitting for Kama, but a friend pointed out that it might be uhhh weird to have a Spanish singer as a voice claim for an Indian character. So instead I found a nice sensual Indian song that works well for him. Clancy: “Dulaman” by (Singer: Ciaran O’Donovan) There was a different singer/version for this song on TikTok that’s a closer match to Clancy’s voice, but the account got deleted for some reason :c So this one works. He has a very light, airy, pleasant voice. I like to imagine that the choir in the background is his other fairy workers at his trading post. …And then Harvey again, lmao. He’s a fucking awesome guitarist and I had to show that off. “Through the Fire and Flames” has just the right amount of chaotic, fiery enthusiasm for his character.

#oc #original character #voice #voices #voice claim #voice claims #video #audio #music #artoftt

[mcrmadness]

Song asks - 3, 6, 23, 25 :D

Thanks!!!

3.) Which music genre is your least favourite?

It’d have been easier to answer to what is my favourite as I dislike everything that I don’t like. Well duh... :DDD But I gotta answer rap here, and it’s not even a least favourite, I just simply dislike it. It’s something that I sometimes don’t even call as music. Vocals and singing style in music is really important to me and I just can’t stand hearing it when people basically talk instead of singing + I don’t usually like the music beat of rap either because it’s so repetitive and repetition really drives me crazy.

There’s probably only two bands that have done rapcore or something that does not annoy me and one of them is actually The Rasmus, their album Playboys has lots of rapcore kind of vocals but it actually fits the music so well? I actually never saw this as a teenager even when I already then hated rap, only just a couple of years ago I was listening to Playboys again and was like “wait a second this is like... rap-singing??? o.O And it’s... good??? O.O” And the other band is Bloodhound Gang, altho I skip like every second song and like the faster more punkrock songs a lot more and actually don’t listen to the first album at all because it had too much rap on it? But there’s a couple of songs that have rap vocals but I still like the songs. (Also Die Ärzte has a few songs where they have rap and those I listen to because they’re funny :D)

Fun fact: my dad also hates rap and once I was driving to another city with him and we were listening to Rammstein. I put the albums on in a chronological order and my dad likes Rammstein but has never time to listen to full albums from pretty much any band and he got so angry over Till’s vocals and he just announced: “What is this, this can’t be Rammstein, this is rap! But it’s the best rap I have ever heard! >:(” Like, that dedication, he was so angry because it was “rap” but even more angry because it still sounded good :D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D

Talking of Rammstein, I didn’t like Ausländer at first because of how Till sings aka doesn’t sing, but I kept listening to it to make sure I form a proper opiniong and can understand what I really think of it and started really liking it because you can really save a song with good music and good singing voice even if it’d imitate singing that sounds more like speaking :p

Whoops, what a long answer :D

***

6.) What’s a song that makes you think of your favourite fictional character?

It’s gotta be one of the songs that are played in Deadpool  and Deadpool 2 movies. There’s at least 3 of these songs that I don’t even know the name of but every time I hear them somewhere, my brain goes “DEADPOOL 8)” and I know one of these songs is that, I guess it’s already a meme song? The singer called Enya or something like that, I don’t know the song’s name or anything about her either but it plays at some point in the movie and I’ve seen it used in meme videos so many times. But my brain just yeets to Deadpool because I think that movie was the first time I recognized that this song might be a meme song.

I chose Deadpool because he was the first one to come to my mind when asked about songs and fictional characters, I don’t really have any number 1 favorite but Deadpool is one of them and I might have had a tiny (or not so tiny) obsessiong and hyperfixation every time the movies have come out.

***

23.) What’s one of your favourite song lyrics?

Someone tell me how it happened Why my head is so confused? Can it be my circuits finally blew a fuse? Can a human being really change into a humanoid? Or is my imagination paranoid All I need is peace and quiet; maybe just a little time Turn the channel, turn the channel—peace of mind Peace of mind Hard to keep Hard to find Look ahead Look behind Looking for Peace of mind Can't relax Can't unwind Deep inside Secret mind Oh, no! That’s an old rarity song from Oingo Boingo, called I’m Afraid, and honestly the whole song is one big mood! Also I really love this song musically, it’s so diverse and interesting!!!

***

25.) When do you listen to music most?

Only when I have something to do that will keep me busy for more than 5-10 minutes aka usually in the car, I love long rides because I know I have plenty of time to listen to music - only problem is that can I decide what I want to hear?

I also listen to music in the shower sometimes, I bought myself this bathroom bluetooth speaker in case it would make my motivation higher and executive dysfunction/procrastination smaller when I have to go to shower. Sometimes I also listen to cds the old school way, from the cd player I bought when I was 10. I have it in my kitchen because I don’t have any better way of bringing music to that room.

My favorite time is probably when I’m drawing or doing something else that is creative and takes lots of time, like writing, reading something from computer (like sims blogs). With some video games I’m also able to listen to music, e.g. when building houses in The Sims 3, driving trucks in Euro Truck Simulator 2 or desinging and renovating houses in House Flipper.

Rammstein’s newest actually will forever sound like House Flipper because the album was released one day after the first DLC of that video game and needless to say, I played that game and listened to that album on repeat simultaneously for probably the whole week or more. So now I will forever associate it with me cutting video game grass.

#kitthefox #ask games #music talk~

[mayasshitposts]

Yoshira - The Love Story of a Warrior

Theme: The force of love is greater than anything Game: Shall we Date Destiny Ninja Character: Yoshitsune Minamoto, Akira Fukuhara

Title: Yoshira the Love Story of a Warrior

Trigger warning: Mentions of seppuku, aka ritual suicide. Read at your own discretion.

Novel Summary: In the backdrop of the fierce Genpei War lurks a beautiful love story. Follow the journey of Minamoto-no-Yoshitsune, the general of the Genji and Akira, a princess from foreign lands. Yoshitsune’s hand in marriage was already promised to Shizuka Gozen, the daughter of an ally, when he met and fell in love with Akira. Will the Minamoto clan accept this development in the midst of conflict? “I lay my head before the sword of thee, if falling in love is such a heinous crime then punish me” Akira.

If you would like to read the complete novel, let me know in the comments Movie inspiration- Bajirao Mastani (2015)

This is fanfiction, based on long research into the historical events that the game Shall we Date Destiny Ninja was based on. So this can also be considered historical fiction. Remember the word fiction- so it's not entirely true! Also this short is three chapters squeezed into one chapter, so if there seem to be any weird skips, that's why.

The head of the Minamoto clan, Minamoto Yoritomo sat in the hall with his trusted vassals. A nobleman, Kajiwara Kagetoki, and three shinobi, Enya, Goyo and Kazemasa Hattori Hanzo. They were all upset with the daughter of the Fukuhara clan. She had continued to live and fight back despite all the warnings and threats. Yoritomo had to resort to the final tactic. He had already sentenced his brother, Minamoto Yoshitsune, to an honourable death. He gave out one last order, "Capture the girl and throw her into the dungeons till she dies."

                                                           *****************

It was a spring afternoon. The Sakura flowers were starting to bloom and the air felt alive. The fgrass was fresh and green. The sun was high and mighty, bathing the earth in its soft golden glow. Akira Fukuhara sat under the very sakura tree where the So-Daisho and her had first shared their love. 'Has it really been two years?' She wondered. Akira shut her eyes, dwelling on the wonderful memories she made with the So-Daisho.

There was a loud rustling in the bushes and four men surrounded her. One of the men, Kajiwara Kagetoki Kajiwara stepped forward.

Akira stood up and held her hands out towards him, "You're here to capture me, aren't you?" She asked. "Bind these wrists together and carry out your orders. Death is a welcome escape if it means having to live another day without the So-Daisho." Kajiwara smirked, "You sure are smart for a dancer girl. Who would have thought that the only daughter of Fukuhara Kaito would fall into a love trap?" He scoffed. "How does it feel to dishonour the name of the Fukuhara clan?"

Akira's eyes waver for a second before she regains her calm. "I may have dishonoured the name of my family, but I have not dishonoured the name of love," said Akira.

Kajiwara Kagetoki grunts, and says, "What is this love you speak of?"

 "Love, that battles stormy seas is love, that fights the world in front of everyone is love, that binds two souls together for eternity, that is the love I speak of," said Akira, looking into the nobleman's eyes.

 One of the men, Enya speaks up. "It is this love that is punishing you so." Akira smiled while calmly responding, "I lay my head before the sword of thee, if love is such a heinous crime then punish me."

                                                            *****************

"Yoshitsune sama! Yoshitsune sama!" cried a voice.

Yoshitsune Minamoto, who was sitting in a room at the Minamoto headquarters in Kamakura, snapped his head up towards the direction of the voice that had called out to him. "Sohma? What is it? Any news from Kyoto?" He asked, anticipation lacing his voice. "Yes Yoshitsune sama, and I'm afraid that it is bad news," Answered Sohma. "Lady Akira was captured and thrown into the dungeons."

Yoshitsune felt an arrow like feeling pierce his heart. He stood up, picking up his katana and ran out of his room, towards the dais where his older brother, Minamoto Yoritomo sat. He lunged towards the leader of the Genji, only to be pinned down by one of the guards. Yoritomo smirked, as he ordered for the ceremony for Yoshitsune's seppuku to begin. The guard led Yoshitsune to the raised platform where he would slit his belly.

"Any last words?" asked Minamoto Yoritomo.

Yoshitsune, still furious, but with a calm expression says, "I have loved Akira Fukuhara, not lusted for her."

                                                           *****************

The sounds of the ceremonial drum, the chants of monks. All is calm.

One man, Minamoto Yoshitsune sat upon the platform where he would commit ritual suicide.

Hands bound together, pale skin, strong winds, the scent of sakura blossoms.

One woman, Fukuhara Akira, stood in her jail cell.

Both were asked only one question, "Any final wishes?"

"To see my beloved," They said.

"Minamoto Yoshitsune," said she.

"Fukuhara Akira," said he.

                                                          *****************

Yoshitsune's four retainers stood outside the Minamoto camp, fending off any enemies that dared come close. Three ninja fought their former comrades. Arrows flew high and mighty as each warrior fought valiantly.

 Musashibou Benkei was the lone soldier standing after a long and tiring battle. Yoshitsune's trusted vassal continued to stand as arrows pierced his body. Suddenly, one of the soldiers noticed that Musashibou Benkei had stopped moving. And then, the great warrior fell to the ground, dead. Benkei had died standing, and legends would tell the story of the standing death of Musashibou Benkei.

                                                          *****************

Yoshitsune silently held the blade of his short sword to his belly and proceeded to disembowel himself.

Akira pulled at her chains that were binding her to the jail cell.

Both could see the sakura petals blowing in the wind. The setting sun glowed orange in the Western sky as the full moon illuminated the sky in the East. Monks were chanting hymns in the background. A strong wind brought soft droplets of rain. For a moment, Yoshitsune and Akira were transported to the last time they saw each other.

 Flashback

Yoshitsune was holding Akira in his arms. He had just informed her of his brother's orders. Akira tearfully asked him, "Will we ever meet again, Yoshitsune sama?" Yoshitsune hugged her tightly and said, "Don't worry Akira. I promise we will meet again. When the sakura flowers blossom and their petals rain down on earth, when the cool wind brings soft rainfall, when the full moon rises in the east as the sun sets in the west, when we hear the monks chant their prayers, our souls will forever united, and our names will always be remembered as one."

Flashback end

 Akira fell to her knees as her breathing shallowed. She felt a searing pain in her chest as she sensed her life force draining away.

A man leapt to his feet, ready to behead Yoshitsune.

At that moment, Yoshitsune and Akira remembered the conclusion to their conversation.

"Our hearts beat together Akira,"

"And they cease together."

Right then, the man swiftly beheads Yoshitsune, as the warrior falls forward.

 Akira's eyes shut firmly as her form falls limp.

The lovers now united for all eternity.

                                                          *****************

We often make wishes when we see a shooting star. Perhaps, Yoshitsune and Akira were two stars that had fallen to teach the world about the power of love. They succeeded. The world will forever sing the praises of their love. Their names will always be called together. One will always be remembered with the other. The legends shall forever tell the tale of Yoshira.

[aurora-daily]

Nine Songs: AURORA

Interview by Thomas Harvey for The Line of Best Fit (May 30th, 2019).

Ahead of the release of her third album, Norway’s greatest pop export talks Thomas Harvey through the songs that have shaped her life and sound.

From a bustling city to the stillness of the forest; one of the first things that AURORA says to me is that as much as she loves music, she rarely listens to it. Instead it’s the sounds, sights and smells of the world that truly influence the Norwegian singer/songwriter.

Aurora Aksnes grew up without a television or radio. It’s not been the study of listening that’s carried her craft as a songwriter, rather the experiences and feelings she’s discovered and observed. Consequently, when we meet in London to talk about the songs that have made an impact on her, she references the memories attached to each of them, rather than musical influences.

AURORA feels it’s important to take solace in the finer details of a piece of music, as well as the core of good song-writing. Many of her selections are from timeless, legendary artists, unsurprisingly for a writer whose productions can often be modernised on songs like ‘Queendom’, from 2018’s Infections Of A Different Kind - Step 1, the follow up to her debut All My Demons Greeting Me As A Friend.

With the next chapter of the songwriters musical story arriving with A Different Kind Of Human - Step 2, AURORA explains how these nine songs have helped to shape her during the different periods of her life, from the feeling of kinship she felt with the audience at a Mastodon show at the age of eleven, to her honour in playing in the name of Leonard Cohen, to whom she paid tribute in a museum exhibition to his memory in Montreal

“Perfection is impossible” AURORA explains, an idea that’s an important reminder to herself when creating her music. Nonetheless, her relationship with music always stays with her as a friend.

“Rez” by Underworld

“I discovered this song and this band a year ago, quite randomly. I love going to rave parties alone and of course I don’t drink, because I don’t want to be vulnerable to an attack and get into any trouble. I don’t drink, but I stay safe and I just dance.

“I just really love to dance. It’s kind of like a workout for me, because I’m very energetic on stage. I was at a rave party in France on a boat and I heard this song and I had to ask someone ‘What song is this?’ and I found it later.

“Now I listen to it sometimes when I cook - everything techno is my cooking song. The last meal I was cooking and listening to it with was waffles I think. I have a new waffle maker and it can cook two waffles at a time.”

“Suzanne” by Leonard Cohen

“May he rest in peace, the lovely little angel. I love this song. Musically we only heard Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen and Enya when I was a child, there was nothing else as we didn’t have a radio. I love Enya as well, especially the way she just stays the same and doesn’t change her sound. She knows what she’s here to do and she does it.

"This was one of the songs that I really loved when I was unable to understand what he was saying, because I didn’t know English then, or at least I didn’t know these lyrics yet, because they were so complicated. I ended up learning my English mainly from online gaming or computer games like World Of Warcraft.

“A Seated Night” by Moby

“This song was on my computer, by a mistake I think, and on our family computer. We had a computer much later on - before computers were normal to have in every house - and we didn’t have a radio or MTV when I was growing up.

“I didn’t discover music when I was a kid and I still don’t really, because I don’t have many music platforms on my phone, but ‘A Seated Night’ was randomly downloaded through LimeWire onto our computer and it was the first song that I discovered through technology.

“I really love Moby, although I haven’t dived deep into him yet. I love the choir and I think that’s why I fell in love with this song, it’s just so nice. I love arranging myself into a choir and I’ve used a real choir for my music, a gay choir from Norway called Faggots. They’re really good, they just sing like real people and are really talented, more than I ever knew before I was working with them.

“They’re on “It Happened Quiet” and “Churchyard” and they’re also on my new record, where you can hear them quite promptly. They’re gorgeous. Ever since I heard this song, it had always been my dream to have a choir on my record.”

“Tomorrow Never Knows” by The Beatles

“This was the first song where I really enjoyed some of the production stuff in it. I really love different cultures and I’m really into this kind of vibe. I really liked it when I was a kid, I heard it when I was a sixteen-year-old kid, not like four, I was a bit older.

“I found all my music through CD’s, even though there were other platforms, I was just really slow. We didn’t have stuff at home like a TV or radio, so I discovered this through a CD because I really liked the cover and that’s why I bought it, an LP actually, so old-fashioned! It was the second LP I ever bought for myself.

“The cover was really nice, and I just really liked it. And of course I knew about The Beatles, I knew that they were a big name, and I should listen to them and see if I like them or not. I just really realised that you can play along with things, and that’s when I became a producer.”

“Born Slippy” by Underworld

“I was driving through Iceland listening to this song and it’s just really gorgeous. I think this is how people feel when they take drugs - they begin on this floating cloud and then it becomes a bit chaotic at the end.

“It sounds like they were on drugs when they made it, but it doesn’t make me sad when I think about it, there’s something with it, it’s positive without making me vomit, which I really enjoy. Sometimes happier music is hard to listen to, because you can question as to why you aren’t as happy as the people in the song, but I like this song.

“I discovered this song much later, after ‘Rez’. When I hear one song I don’t automatically go and find the whole album, I kind of stop and just have fun with that song for months - I get really patient with songs and I can listen to them for months. I saw that ‘Born Slippy’ was on the same album as ‘Rez’ and now of course I have the whole album and I have rave parties for myself, just me.

“I also love to listen to this song whilst I paint, when I paint something without meaning. I’m full of opposites or coherent contrasts, one day I like to be at rave parties and then I like to be in forests. I like to see what the world has to offer me.”

“American Beauty: Original Motion Picture Score” by Thomas Newman

“This is my alarm clock; I wake up to it every morning. It’s so brilliant because it begins with this... and then I listen to it when I read books on a loop and it’s enough for me. It’s all I need. I have like one song for every mood.

“I heard this way before I watched the movie American Beauty. It was many, many years ago and it was one of the first songs I had. I had an orange iPod which I got for Christmas and I only had this song on it for years. I still think if I went into that iPod now, this is the only song I would have on it. I haven’t had it for years though, and they were such nice colours.

“It’s good for walks in the forest, it’s like everything is still. Another is the Finding Nemo soundtrack which is also good for timeouts or when you go for walks. It’s really lovely.”

“The Hunter” by Mastodon

“I really love heavy metal. I’m very open, so I don’t really care about genres and often with heavy metal I just like it. I was a huge fan of many heavy metal bands when I was a kid, the first concert I went to was Gojira and then Mastodon and then Slayer. I was eleven and I really loved it.

“None of my friends liked the music and so I remember feeling at home at the shows, because I met people who understood it. It’s so angry without being hostile if you really listen to it, but it can sound hostile to people who don’t understand it.

“This is quite a calm song by Mastodon. It’s a childhood memory, but a song that allowed me to discover Mastodon with a more melodic song than most heavy metal bands I knew. I saw them play two times actually.

“I try and turn what I love about heavy metal into something that more people can understand, like in songs like “Under The Water” and “The Seed”, the single I just released, is more heavy. I like the weight.”

“The Partisan” by Leonard Cohen

“I did this song for an installation at a museum in Montreal, I covered it in one of the rooms in his memory and it was really an honour. It was all of his life and achievements as pieces of art in the museum, and they asked artists to showcase his art so that people could see those that he influenced.

“I really love this song. I know that he speaks of the Second World War and I think that’s not often spoken about, considering how much pain it brought the world. Also, in art and music we don’t really paint or sing much about it but it’s important that people talk about it, because it’s something we carry on our shoulders and we did it to each other as a species.

“I think about it a lot, but it’s good to distance ourselves from the memory too. I have a few songs about the matter, though some are more obvious than others.”

“Hide and Seek” by Imogen Heap

“This is a really sad song for me. I listened to it in a sad stage of my life, I could have gotten through without it, but it encouraged self-pity and staying in the sorrow, and I think that’s not always a bad thing. Sometimes you can stay for a while on things and cry and move on a bit later. I never listen to this song anymore because it reminds me of a sad time, but it’s still an important song to me.

“I like Imogen Heap as a producer. I like the vocoder on this, even though I think she’s using a different machine than the standard vocoder; I don’t really like the way a vocoder makes double voices sound so thin. If it sounds like I’m using a vocoder then I have always made it myself, but it’s a good balance here with this song. It works. I think vocoders are an ugly thing, but the way it’s executing its mission in this song is good.

“A Different Kind Of Human” is out now via Decca.

#aurora #aurora aksnes #interviews #step 2

[peraltasames]

mountains and valleys (and all that will come in between) - chapter three

Jake, Amy, and four distinct yet painfully similar times the universe pulled them apart and pushed them back together.

read on ao3

part three: prison

Amy is falling apart.

It’s after the jury says “guilty”, the judge gives two of her favourite people on the planet each a sentence of fifteen years in prison, and the court is adjourned.

It’s after two officers handcuff Jake and Rosa, respectively, and she’s overwhelmed by how wrong it feels to see them on this side of the law.

It’s after Amy makes desperate eye contact with him for only a split second and attempts to convey everything she can with such a look - predominantly “I love you and I will bring you home” - but worries that her fear and pain are more evident.

It’s after Gina’s arms wrap around her and her cold fingers come up to stroke Amy’s hair and provide her with some semblance of comfort.

It’s after the squad, which is noticeably too small, convenes briefly in the hallway of the courthouse and they try to comfort each other while also making a plan, which they will begin to execute tomorrow, to bust Hawkins.

It’s after she receives offers from every one of her friends to take her for drinks or drive her home or, if going home might be too painful, to stay at one of their places.

It’s after she politely declines said offers and accepts one more hug from Charles, immediately afterwards retreating to her car in the parking lot.

It happens when she unlocks her little sedan and climbs into the driver’s seat. She turns the key in the ignition and the Enya CD automatically starts to play, but in stark contrast to their drive back from Pennsylvania only a few hours ago, there is no Jake sitting in the seat next to her and singing along or squeezing her thigh periodically while she drives.

Right away, she ejects the CD and chucks it haphazardly into the back seat, leaving her in complete silence.

That is when breaks, because life with Jake is never this quiet, but life without him - a life she knows all too well from his time in witness protection - is painfully so. Her heart feels like it’s shattering inside her chest, making her entire body physically ache, and she releases the pain with a strangled sob.

Her forehead comes to rest against the steering wheel as tears stream down her face and cloud her vision. Her ears are still ringing with the “guilty” verdict, her brain is still replaying the image of him being dragged away from her.

She doesn’t pull herself together until the sun begins to set over the courthouse parking lot. Her phone buzzes incessantly, to the point that she can no longer ignore it, and she picks it up without checking the name on the screen.

“Hello?” Her voice is weak and a little hoarse - it’s the first word she’s spoken in almost an hour.

“Amy, how was the trial?”

Her dad’s firm, formal tone shrouds most of the fear in his voice. He’s been a rock for them the past few months, offering to help pay for legal fees or come to New York and assist her in digging for evidence to indict Hawkins.

She opens her mouth to answer and no words come out, no sound other than a quiet whimper, the aftershock of the wails that just wracked her body.

“Oh, no, honey. They didn’t…”

She hadn’t been sure until now - until this horrible, awful circumstance - if her father even liked Jake. Now, with the slight trembling in his usually steady voice, she thinks he’s begun to see him more like an eighth son than his daughter’s boyfriend.

“Guilty on all charges,” she chokes out. “Jake and Rosa. They both got-they got fifteen years.“

“You’ll get them out, mija, I know you will,” Victor cuts in firmly. “You have a strong detective squad, your captain is brilliant-”

“What if we can’t, Dad?”

There’s a brief silence. If he were here, she’s sure she would see the typical pensive, thoughtful look on her father’s face as he tries to formulate the best possible response to ease his daughter’s worries. He’s always, always known the right thing to say for every situation life has thrown at her.

This isn’t a B on a math test or a mean girl who didn’t invite Amy to her birthday party, though.

“We’ll figure something out, Amy,” he responds with vague uncertainty. “Do you want your mother and I to come stay with you for a while?”

“I-I don’t know. No. I think I need to be alone and…and try to process this.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Whatever you need.” Another long pause. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“I hope so.”

She drives home, climbs into his side of the bed, and cries until it’s no longer physically possible.

-

Around half past four in the morning, Amy wakes with sweat on her forehead and bits and pieces of the dream she’s experienced every time she closes her eyes tonight still fresh in her memory.

The dreams have varied slightly, but all of them start with her in Jake’s arms, in the bed that is currently half-empty, and subsequently end with him being dragged out of a courtroom.

Needless to say, going back to sleep is not an option - she isn’t sure if her heart can take seeing his desperate eyes and shaky hands another time. Instead of closing her eyes and attempting to get more than one or two hours of rest before work, she accepts defeat.

The apartment is cold, too cold for summer, and it doesn’t help that her primary heat source is hundreds of miles away. That doesn’t help anything, actually - all it does is make her want to scream about the injustice of the state of New York and America and, really, the universe.

(She’s a good person. Good people don’t deserve to watch their boyfriend go to prison for a crime they didn’t commit.)

She proceeds with her morning routine hours ahead of schedule, filling out the crossword and drinking her coffee. She grabs a pantsuit from her side of the closet and tries not to look at the half occupied with plaid shirts and hoodies.

By six-thirty, she’s parked her car in front of the precinct. She recognizes that in order to maintain her regular workload and work on the case, there is no time to be wasted.

She’s engrossed in a witness report from one of the first robberies, her nose buried in one of the many files on her desk, when her ears faintly register footsteps and a concerned voice calling out her name.

Still, she doesn’t look up from the file - no time to be wasted.

“Santiago,” the voice says again, closer this time, followed by a much softer: “Amy.”

Only when she strays far enough from her train of thought to register who is speaking to her does she look up from her desk, a quick glance to acknowledge Captain Holt’s presence before resuming her careful perusing.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” Holt says.

“Why not?” she asks without looking up.

“I can imagine this must be very difficult for you. Jake being convicted.” He adds the last part like she doesn’t know, like she hasn’t spent the past sixteen hours hearing the word guilty echo in her brain like a gunshot. “I thought it went without saying, but you are welcome to take a few days off is you need time to process this.”

“I can’t.”

“I’m sure your colleagues will be more than willing to cover your cases-“

“No.” She cuts him off with firmness that surprises both of them, shaking her head. “I can’t just sit at home while Jake is alone and probably terrified and in danger in a goddamn cell in the middle of nowhere. I have to find a way to get him and Rosa out. I need to be working.”

She braces herself for the speech - the reprimanding that will almost certainly end in her going home and realizing the error in her approach - but, even if the captain has crafted such a message in his mind, it never comes. He simply nods and takes a step back.

“Okay,” he speaks quietly, voice lacking its usual authoritative quality. “Just please let me know if you need anything.”

She barely manages to rasp a “thank you” before he’s in his office and closing the door behind him, his desk already covered in a similar array of papers and - maybe, hopefully - some sort of clue that will lead them to Hawkins’ arrest.

-

The first day she visits him, with Captain Holt and Charles in company, she’s left feeling much worse than before.

She’s able to hold it together during the visit, with Jake’s eyes so intently watching her every move. His analytical gaze hardly leaves her face for the entirety of the hour, and she knows that he can see the dark circles she tried her best to cover up with concealer in the airport bathroom and the smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She wishes he didn’t know her so well, or that he wasn’t such an observant person - maybe then she could fool him into thinking she’s okay.

She listens to him talk about the crappy food in the dining hall, his quirky cellmate, and the general gist of life as an inmate. She laughs when he makes a joke and smiles when he smiles at her. She tries to ignore the pit in her stomach.

Finally, she hugs him goodbye; his stubbly face brushes against hers and she can feel the loss of weight when her hand curls around his back, and she’s overwhelmed by the ways prison has already changed him physically. When she thinks about the mental and emotional toll it’s inevitably going to take, she begins to feel a little bit nauseous.

The nausea takes hold and refuses to relent when they step out of the visiting room and she hears an announcement over the P.A. that an inmate has just been stabbed in the cafeteria. She knows it’s not him - he was in her arms less than two minutes ago, there’s no way he got there that quickly - but it could be him tomorrow, or the next day, or any minute of any day until she gets him out of here.

Amy is strong, so she shakes her head when Holt asks if she needs a moment before starting their rental car and heading back to the airport to catch their flight (back to New York, back to being thousands of miles from the other half of her heart).

Amy is strong, but her stomach is decidedly not - they only make it twenty minutes down the empty South Carolina backroads before she’s blurting out a request for Holt to pull over and Charles is holding her hair back while she throws up.

The rest of the trip home - the drive, the flight, the taxi back to the precinct - is completely silent.

-

The collective concern for Amy among the Nine-Nine grows substantially after the South Carolina incident.

Gina, now on maternity leave and only weeks away from giving birth, invites her over to gossip about the other women in her prenatal class, drink tea and watch TLC shows.

Charles makes her dinner at least a few times a week after realizing how little she’s been eating at work. Nothing too weird, either - mostly pasta, casseroles, the sort of food he thinks she’s most likely to actually eat.

Holt extends an open invitation to dinner with him and Kevin, which she accepts one night when her apartment is feeling even more eerily empty than usual. Kevin tries to crack jokes about that morning’s New York Times crossword puzzle, and she tries to let herself laugh and enjoy that this would be her dream dinner under normal circumstances.

Terry comes over one Saturday morning with Ava while Sharon is at a birthday party with the twins, and Amy does feel a small resurgence of warmth in her chest while playing with Jake’s two year-old goddaughter.

While she’s incredibly grateful for her friends and their support, it doesn’t really fill the void that is drinking tequila on the couch with Rosa (the very thing that got her through much of Jake’s time in WITSEC) or making out with Jake in their kitchen on a lazy Sunday afternoon. There is no substitute for Rosa Diaz or Jake Peralta (the latter she learned the hard way years ago while trying to convince herself she could be happy with other men).

She only cries at work once. She’s been at the precinct for twelve hours, working tirelessly on a lead concerning one of Hawkins’ subordinates that ultimately led to another in a long string of dead ends. The moment she realizes she’s made zero progress in nearly five weeks - five weeks of Jake sitting in prison - she feels the floodgates open, her feet carrying her to the evidence lockup as quickly as possible as to not break down in front of the entire bullpen.

It’s no surprise, really, that a paIr of footsteps follow her and strong arms wrap around her before the first sob is released.

“It’s okay, Amy, you can let it out,” Terry says softly, patting her back.

“I can’t keep letting him down,” she whimpers. “I need to find something.”

It’s a thought she’s entertained a few too many times - that if she or someone else had been incarcerated in his place, Jake surely would’ve figured out a way to get them out by now. Jake, the brilliant detective, dedicated friend and perfect boyfriend. God, he always figures it out.

“You aren’t letting him down, you’re doing the best that you can,” he assures her. “And it’s not just your burden, okay? We’re all with you. We’re gonna get them out, together.”

She nods against Terry’s chest as the tears staining his white shirt continue to flow freely.

“I miss him so much.”

“I know, Amy. I know.”

-

It’s a Tuesday afternoon when she gets a phone call from an unknown number, and her heart nearly stops for a variety of reasons, the most worrisome being the fact that she’s Jake’s emergency contact in prison -the first person to be called if he’s injured or, god forbid, worse.

“Hello, this is Amy Santiago.” She tries to keep her voice firm and steady.

“Ames, it’s me.”

The phone almost slips out of her fingers as soon as she hears the familiar voice.

“Jake? How are - you got the contraband phone?”

“Yep,” Jake replies cheerfully on the other end. “All it took was giving a murderer some ramen.”

He sounds happy - happy for someone in his situation, anyways - and despite the way her throat tightens at the thought of him colluding with convicted murderers, she tries to be a little bit happy, too.

“I’m glad you managed to get one, babe,” she says softly, leaning forward in her desk chair. “Especially after our last visit was cut short.”

He sighs happily, and she can almost see the content, dreamy look on his face that often accompanies such a sigh buried deep in her memory.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing your voice.”

“I know.” She clutches the phone a little tighter, trying to memorize the sound of his breathing. “It’s so amazing.”

“And now every day can be like visiting day, and we can talk about whatever, whenever-“

He’s cut off abruptly, and Amy tenses as she hears the faint sound of another man’s voice in the background.

“I gotta go.”

“Jake?”

The line goes dead before she can receive a response or ascertain for herself what kind of situation had arisen that required him to hang up so quickly.

She doesn’t get much time to dwell on it; a brief moment later, Terry is calling her over to look at something in one of the robbery files.

They’re getting closer, she thinks. She’s going to get him out.

-

The spark of hope in the form of an address for a bus station is quickly extinguished. On the drive home from Linden, New Jersey, Amy feels her optimism deteriorate more with every mile. Hawkins was one step ahead of them.

Hawkins is always one step ahead of them. Maybe she always will be.

She’s trying to find some other solution, some desperate Hail Mary to save them, but not even the deepest corners of her mind can come up with any route they haven’t already explored.

Once Captain Holt comes out of his office rambling about finishing pigs, everything is shoved into hyper speed: running to change into tactical gear; storming the Slaughterhouse and the sweet vindication of Melanie Hawkins’ face as she realizes she’s lost; reluctantly complying with Holt’s orders to assist Terry in arresting the remainder of Hawkins’ men up in Queens, letting Charles and Holt go to retrieve Jake and Rosa, respectively; finally seeing every one of the people responsible for making her and her loved ones’ lives a living hell for months behind bars; scrambling to finish arrest reports without even double-checking for grammatical errors because she needs to get to the airport.

She doesn’t even have time to process what’s happening until she’s standing at the arrivals gate, her eyes glued to the TBD next to Charleston, wringing her hands together as she awaits for the ARRIVED to appear in big, green letters.

He’s coming home. After the two most gruelling and emotionally exhausting months of her life, she will finally get to hold him with no guards yelling that their time is up and kiss him until her heart pieces itself back together.

He’s coming home, he’s coming home, he’s coming home.

She repeats it like a mantra in her head to keep herself grounded to reality, so preoccupied with reminding herself she isn’t dreaming that she doesn’t notice as the sign changes - the plane landed six minutes early - and is completely unprepared and lost in her own thoughts when she hears Charles’ voice cut through the noisy room.

“Amy!”

The scene that follows is almost too cinematic to be real. The crowd seems to part serendipitously, their eyes meet at exactly the same time, the bag Jake is carrying is abandoned on the ground at Boyle’s feet as he sprints towards her. She’s too shellshocked by the perfection of it all that she only makes it a few feet before he reaches her.

His momentum nearly knocks her off her feet, but he scoops her up in his arms and spins her around - a full three-sixty - with ease, her joyous laughter ringing out through the swarm of New Yorkers reuniting with loved ones (most of them in less dramatic manner) and going utterly unnoticed by anyone other than them (and Charles, obviously).

He doesn’t set her down for a few seconds, her arms winding around his neck while she burrows her face past his hoodie and her lips connect with his collarbone.

“Oh my god, Ames,” he sighs, pulling away to look at her with hands firmly gripping her upper arms, “I can’t believe this is happening. This is real.”

She doesn’t completely register that she’s crying until she’s nodding rapidly and the tears fall from her eyes. A bright smile forms on her face, not unlike the awestruck grin on his.

“It’s real, babe.”

She isn’t sure she believes it until she says it herself: Jake is wearing a t-shirt, hoodie and leather jacket instead of an orange jumpsuit; he smells like his cologne and not the cheap prison soap; his face is completely shaven, no trace of the beard remaining. He looks like a dream.

“You got rid of the beard,” she murmurs, her thumbs brushing over his cheeks.

“With a crappy razor in a gas station bathroom, but I wanted to get rid of all evidence of prison by the time I got home. I had Charles bring me a bag of my stuff.” She manages a smile despite the ache in her chest, a small voice telling her that the ramifications of this traumatic time will not be fixed with cologne and a gas station razor. “Do you miss it?”

“Nope,” she says without thought. Then, a little quieter: “I missed you.”

“Same here, babe. You have no idea how much.”

She raises herself onto the tips of her toes to pull him in for a long, searing kiss. Her hand strokes his hair, slightly longer than the last time she ran her fingers through it. Other than that tiny, minuscule change, it feels strikingly similar to every other kiss she’s shared with her boyfriend - beautiful, right, full of love.

“I love you,” she whispers after pulling away, pecking his lips softly.

“I love you t-Boyle, c’mon man.”

She spins around to face their coworker, whose presence she had completely forgotten, where he stands only a few feet away from them, holding his phone up.

“Did you seriously film all that?” Amy asks, laughing a little because she can’t bring herself to be annoyed right now, not when Jake is stroking the small of her back.

“Can you blame me?” Charles exclaims, throwing his hands up defensively. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

She rolls her eyes, wiping a few stray tears away and leaning into Jake’s side for support. She can’t really disagree with him.

“Believe it or not, mine and Charles’ reunion was actually much more emotional,” Jake states, tilting his head down so that his nose barely brushes her temple and he can see her laugh.

“Oh, I believe it.” She takes his hand and slides her fingers into the spaces between his. “We should get going. I told the squad we’ll be at Shaw’s in half an hour and it’s gonna be a nightmare getting out of here.”

Jake sighs happily, squeezing her hand as he retrieves his bag from the floor.

“Is it weird that I actually missed New York traffic?”

-

Amy’s never been completely certain what her favourite place on Earth is.

Before today, she could’ve made an argument for a few different spots: the small reading nook off in her apartment, the fireplace at her parents’ house in New Jersey, the main branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue.

Now, as she’s nestled into a booth with Jake and Rosa on either side of her, Jake’s arm around her and his chest vibrating as he laughs at a story Charles is telling, she is certain there’s no completion.

As glorious as the sounds of her reunited squad’s laughter and as warm as the look on Jake’s face is making her insides, there are certain things that cannot be done or said until they are alone. With every kiss he presses to her cheek and every stroke of her hand on his thigh, she longs for the privacy of their apartment.

“Let’s go home,” she murmurs in his ear after an hour or so.

He doesn’t argue or even hesitate, he just nods, presses a subtle kiss to her head and begins saying goodbye to each member of the squad.

As she watches him hug Charles, who is reluctant to let go, shake hands with Captain Holt and Terry, squeeze Rosa’s shoulder and stop to smile brightly at Hitchcock and Scully, she feels the tectonic plates of her world begin to shift back together. It isn’t exactly normal, but it’s on its way to being something resembling normal. Maybe something better, some time in the future.

He wraps his arm around her waist, his fingers grazing the material of her soft, pink sweater as he thanks everyone one more time and says he’ll see them at work on Monday, which is the most delightfully mundane statement Amy’s ever heard.

Their limbs tangle in the back of the cab; her leg is crossed and draped over his and his arm is hung around her shoulders. It’s intimate yet casual until his hand reaches down to rest on her thigh, starting close to her knee and inching upwards. It’s warm and comforting at first, but his touch ignites her body with ease after two months without this kind of intimacy.

She glances up at him to find his eyes already on her, dark and focused. He knows exactly what he’s doing to her, and it’s fully intentional.

It’s not an easy feat, but she restrains from kissing him until she unlocks their front door - she isn’t sure if she’ll be able to stop kissing him once she begins - and he has a moment to take in their apartment for the first time in way too long.

The apartment is dark, lit only by the small light above the stove and the glow of the city through the window, and neither of them move to turn on the lights. Instead, they move towards each other like magnets, her hands cupping his face and his tugging at her waist as their lips meet.

All of the tenderness of the kisses they shared at the bar is gone as they relish in finally, finally being alone in a room together. It’s been months since she’s kissed him this deeply. She’s missed the ability to prove her love for him through her actions rather than just telling him repeatedly through the speaker of a cheap prison phone.

She doesn’t realize she’s been gently pushing him forward, unknowingly moving through the apartment, until the backs of his legs connect with the couch and he’s pulling her down next to him. Never breaking the kiss, Amy shoves the leather jacket and hoodie off of him all at once and lets them fall to the floor, her hands immediately flying to run up and down his newly-exposed biceps.

Still feeling far too separate from him, Amy swings her leg over to straddle his waist and slowly thrusts against him while simultaneously deepening the kiss, a move which earns her a low moan from Jake’s lips. He tugs off her sweater and the tank top underneath in one swift movement, discarding them in the pile of his already-removed garments. Warm hands sweep over her back and pull her closer.

“I missed you so much,” Amy mutters frantically when she takes a second to pull away for air.

“You have no idea, Santiago,” Jake groans, his eyes trailing her lacy black bra that she definitely wore on purpose for his homecoming while his hands unbutton her jeans and stroke the sides of her matching underwear.

Amy kisses him again and pulls at the bottom of his t-shirt until he frees his arms to assist her in tugging it over his head. Her fingers drift downward, grazing his ribs, and quickly pull away as soon as she feels him tense below her.

“Sorry, babe, are my hands too cold-“

She glances down, her eyes widening as she takes in the array of faded bruises and scars covering much of her boyfriend’s torso.

“Jake...” she whispers, her hand covering her mouth as she takes in every inch of discolouration on his ribs, abdomen, back and shoulders.

“I’m okay!” he cuts in quickly, glancing down in surprise as if he’s seeing this for the first time, too. “It’s really not that bad, Ames. Trust me, it looks a lot worse than it is.”

She shakes her head, blinking back the tears that have already formed. “What happened? Was this that Romero guy? You promised me you didn’t do anything dangerous to get the phone-“

“No, babe, it wasn’t him,” Jake assures her, gently guiding her waist so that she’s sitting next to him, her legs still draped over his lap. “He asked me to kill a guard, so I decided to let the guard beat me up on camera to try to get him fired instead. It was weeks ago, I’ve mostly healed, I swear.”

Amy nods, biting her lip to stifle a sob and reaching out to grab one of his hands between both of hers.

“So you were safe after that, right? Nobody else touched you?”

“Yeah. I mean, things got kinda complicated, in a weird turn of events my cannibal cell mate ended up getting stabbed for me, but-“ Jake stops as he sees her eyes widen with fear once more. “I was mostly safe. Don’t worry. I’m fine now, really.”

She can hardly process the idea of him locked up with murderers and cannibals, her boyfriend with a heart of gold surrounded by so much evil makes her feel queasy, but she tries to suppress her emotions for his benefit. He’s just been through hell, he doesn’t need to see the pain she’s endured through this experience just yet.

“I’m going to speak to Captain Holt in the morning and file an official complaint against that guard and the prison,” Amy says with a slightly clearer voice, squeezing his hand a bit tighter.

For a moment, Jake looks like he’s going to tell her to let it be and leave this all in the past, but he just nods and pulls his hand away to wrap his arm around her shoulders and bring her closer.

“Let’s not talk about it any more tonight, okay?”

She buries her face in his neck, fully aware that he can feel the tears leaking onto his skin, and nods slowly.

“You’re home,” she murmurs, her hand rubbing small circles on his thigh. “You’re really here.”

“I’m here.” His lips press a kiss, long and warm, against her forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

His lips move back to hers and his hands back to her jeans, pulling them down to her ankles while they kiss as fervently as before.

“We should-”

“Yep,” Jake says against her lips before she can finish. His hands swoop down to lift her up and she curls her legs around his waist in response, continuing to distract him with her tongue as he slowly walks them towards their bedroom.

-

The birds aren’t yet chirping and the sky is still dark, but it’s indisputably morning by the time Jake pulls out of her and presses one long, lingering kiss on her lips before flopping down on his side of the bed.

They made love slowly and softly, neither in a hurry for it to be over, holding on as long as possible to keep it from ending. In one word, it was incredible.

(If more words were to be used, Amy would describe it as more passionate and loving and emotional than she knew it could be, even with the man she knows to be the love of her life.)

“Have I told you how much I love you?” Amy asks as she curls into his side and places her head on his chest, dropping a few light kisses before settling in comfortably.

“A few times in the past hour. But you should probably say it again for good measure.”

She does, and she kisses his knuckles, which are intertwined with hers, after each syllable.

“I love you too, honey.” It’s a new term of endearment from him, and it warms her heart almost as much as the words that precede it. “So much.”

“Life really sucks without you,” she says, absentmindedly playing with his fingers.

“Agreed. Let’s never do it again.”

It’s not a proposal, but her detective brain takes note of the glint in his eye and the way he’s noticeably staring down at her left hand. She certainly doesn’t need a diamond ring or a white dress or any legal confirmation of their love to be happy, but she really wouldn’t be surprised if those things are a part of her near future.

Regardless of whether they exchange proper vows some time six months or a year or ten years from now, there isn’t a shadow of doubt in her mind that she’ll love this man for the rest of her life.

#i'm not gonna lie to u guys this is essentially 5k of amy missing jake + some gratuitous sexy timez #jake x amy #peraltiago #b99 fic #this caused me physical pain to write #but i guess that's what i signed up for when starting a 4 chapter fic about them being separated from each other jsdskksks #myfics

[thesinglesjukebox]

ONUKA - ZENIT

[7.40]

Q: Who can we feature to fill out our 2020 sidebar as quickly as possible?

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: "Zenit" is one of those weird monstrosities that defies description. Imagine the littlest recorder solo recorded in 4th grade music class, accompanied by marching band drums, with synths that sound like water dripping out of your ear. Then add in Nata Zhyzhchenko's oddly soothing but slightly bratty voice, cinematic warm horns from outer space, and then the blaring horn from Britney's "Stronger." "Zenit" sounds like a chimera of a Charli XCX, Bjork, Britney, and M83 song, yet the end result is completely unlike any of them. Is this what people who like 100 gecs think 100 gecs sounds like? [9]

Alfred Soto: Leading with a minute of electronic fooferal, "Zenit" creates ponds of sound with brass instruments and keyboards. The translated lyrics suggest self-affirmation -- as if the confidence of "Zenit" didn't already speak for itself. [8]

Will Adams: I love Onuka for most of the same reasons I love Kate Boy. Both hone in on themes of human potential, of reaching a point of perfection, and both avoid falling into cloying territory by making the music as massive as possible. "Zenit" is Onuka in standard form, with the traditional Ukrainian instruments vaulting octaves over tectonic, Homogenic-esque beats. Nata Zhyzhchenko is a more reserved vocalist than Kate Akhurst, so the arrangement does most of the lifting here. But that walloping drop is exquisite nonetheless. [7]

Ian Mathers: I mean, the bit with the drumming and the flute or flute-like instrument is so much better than the more singy bits that at first it's a letdown, but further reflection reveals the singy bits are nice too. [7]

Camille Nibungco: It would be reductive to draw similarities to Enya, though that's what I immediately think of. But the aggressive switching between the minimal to pounding production and unique sound of the Ukrainian instruments give Onuka its novelty. [5]

Katherine St Asaph: One of those tracks that impresses or suffers in context. Placed adjacent to a bunch of other artpop/alt-pop tracks in a playlist, which it could be, the flute would sound akin to so many other pop flute samples in the last decade, the percussion akin to so many other such drops, the snaking soprano line like so many others, in tone as well as melody (I hear Charlotte Martin's "Cut the Cord" but am not convinced I'm not actually remembering something else). The arrangement's lapses into near-silence and that ratcheting-up synth -- imagine a kid's cartoon, the SFX for pouring liquid to fill up a measuring cup -- are striking, but more striking when heard in isolation. But then, everything in the track is; I'm grading on that curve. [8]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Repetitive flute melodies are admittedly overdone, but the sopilka has an abrasiveness to it that adds tension and bombast to this stop 'n' go stadium romp. Similar songs abound, but "Zenit" at least sells its drama. [6]

Iain Mew: The skittering chaos of the drop, high-end and low-end in wild accordance, is everything in "Zenit." The rest is build-up and playing with tension as to when it's going to blast its way through again. It doesn't drag because they play their teasing so well, picking out different echoes of the drop to lurk in the distance each time. [7]

Julian Axelrod: I can't remember the last time I heard professional production sound this rickety and abrasive. That's a compliment, of course; I'm happy to give myself over to the song, even as it grinds my nerves to dust with a beat that's equal parts Hans Zimmer and Chinese water torture. The drop sounds inhuman, unstable and all-encompassing, a shrieking behemoth that threatens to tear the track to smithereens. The fact that it reaches the finish line in one piece is a feat in itself. [8]

Brad Shoup: They've paired the techno blats of "Vidlik" with the atmospheric, cinematic chirp of "Vsesvit." Instead of going as hard as either, they coast on cold air until it's time to call the Zimmerblast down. Gorgeously mixed, austere without being chilly: I can't believe I forget how good these folks are. [9]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#Onuka #pop #music #music review

[gaveherhearttotheliontattoo]

Title: Once Upon A December - Chapter 2

Pairing: Swanfire

Word Count: 1831

Warnings: None that I know of

Prompt: Emma doesn’t remember anything except that she comes from the Enchanted Forest. The first 8 years of her life are a blur but she does have a necklace to help her find her way… And apparently a man who thinks she could be the missing princess. Emma doesn’t know what to think except that it’s her only way to get back to the Enchanted Forest so if this Neal guy thinks she could be this princess she will go along with it. Love and family will find their way.

Note: Yikes, it’s been a long, hot minute, since I was sharing this rewrite but I’ve finished all parts so I plan on posting all of them and getting them going. As always let me know if you want to be tagged.

Series: Prologue, Chapter 1

Taglist: @sassyandclassy94, @swanfireheart, @notalwaysthevillian

--

“That’s it Neal. Game over.” August threw the papers in the trash.

“We’ll find her. She’s here somewhere, right under our noses.” Neal flipped through the papers in front of him before standing up and shrugging his coat on. “Let’s go back to the shed.” Neal was trying to keep up the hope but there was no one even close to resembling what Emma would look like now, and they couldn’t act well enough to pull it off without the looks. He was starting to think August might be right.

------

Emma peered through the wood covered windows into the abandoned machine shed. It was really more like a warehouse, she thought. Chains locked the doors and the siding was falling off. A sudden chill brought goosebumps to her skin. She was resigning herself to staying outside of the abandoned building but heard Pongo’s bark echo. She glanced around her but it was the second bark that drew her attention back to the boarded up building. Groaning she knew she had to go in and retrieve him before he hurt himself.

She pried the boards off the spot that had once been a doorway and made her way through the debris until she was standing in the middle of an open space. A sense of familiarity washed over her. Had this always been a warehouse? Pongo’s tiny barks carried her to a large set of doors that opened to a room, larger than any she could have ever imagined, with a marvelous staircase. There’s no way it was always a machine shed.

Pongo taking off up the stairs, barking as he went, shook Emma back to the situation at hand. “Pongo, get back here!” The stairs seemed never ending was all she could think as she ran after him.

She found him seated in front of several paintings of people who appeared regal. Her skin crawled as she felt oddly connected to the people in the pictures, to the place. Who were these people? Emma continued stare, before blinking out of her reverie and facing the empty room. “Hello! Anybody home?”

------

“Did you hear that?” Neal jumped from his seat, dropping the papers he’d been going through.

August dropped another grape in his mouth, swallowed. “No.”

Moving toward the door, Neal glanced back at his friend who still wasn’t moving. “Come on.”

He moved from one of the many bedrooms to the great hall before ending up in the ballroom, where he saw her. “Hey! What are you doing?” The girl caught his eyes, fear filling out her features, before taking off for the stairs. “Hey! Stop! Hold on a minute!”

Neal ran after her until they were both stopped in front of the portraits. “How did you get in h-here?” Neal was struck dumb when he saw a pair of ocean blue eyes staring back at him. Emma? Neal shook his head trying to gain the use of his vocal chords back. He could hear the throat clearing next to him but still couldn’t stop staring.

“Excuse me,” August said.

“August,” Neal whispered in a rush. Could it really be? “This is who we’ve been waiting for.” He looked down at the thing next to her and rolled his shoulders. “A dog.”

“Are you Neal?” Hands on hips, Emma straightened, hoping to be intimidating.

“Cute,” Neal mumbled, but decided to play along, see where this was going. He was used to people looking for him, for one of the many tips, tricks, or resources he could provide. “Perhaps. Depends on who’s looking for him.”

Emma shrugged off the cute comment, sincerely hoping it was directed towards the dog. “I’m Emma and I need a boat. They say you’re the man to see,” Emma dropped her voice, “But I can’t tell you who told me.” Neal was only a breath away and Emma felt another strange wave of familiarity.

Emma? Coincidence. Neal started circling her. It really could be her, but even if it wasn’t, people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

“Why are you circling me?” Emma demanded. “Were you a vulture in another life?”

“I’m sorry… Enya.”

“It’s Emma.” Emma’s frustration radiated, filling the large room.

“Right,” Neal said, still struggling to form complete sentences. Way to go idiot, you couldn’t even get her name right. “Emma, it’s just that, well, you look an awful lot like… You know what, never mind. You said you were looking for a boat?”

“I’m looking to get to the Enchanted Forest.”

Neal was flummoxed. What were the chances? This girl was the whole package. “You want to go to the Enchanted Forest?” Neal risked a glance back at August but found him preoccupied with that dog. Rolling his eyes, he focused back on the blue ones staring at him with curiosity.

“Yes,” she said slowly. Was he acting like an idiot or just that slow?

“Is there a last name that goes with Emma?”

Laughing, Emma turned back to the paintings. “This is going to sound crazy, but I don’t know my last name.” I don’t know much of anything, she thought. “I was found wandering around when I was eight.”

Neal’s heart sped up. “And, uh, before that? Before you were eight?”

“I don’t know,” Emma said, her voice rising an octave. “I have very few memories from before the orphanage.”

Neal crossed his arms over his chest, speaking so only he could hear. “Well, that’s just perfect.”

Emma straightened back up, finding control of her voice again. “I do have one clue though and that’s the Enchanted Forest.” She glanced between the man on the floor with Pongo and the deep brown eyes staring at her. “So, can you two help me or not?”

Neal worked to get August’s attention from the dog, he needed the tickets. “August, tickets.”

August reluctantly pulled away from the dog long enough to hand the tickets to his friend. Then his attention was straight back to the black and white spotted creature in front of him. He always wanted a dog but his father had told him it wouldn’t be a good idea.

“Here’s the thing,” Neal said, fanning the tickets out in front of him. “We’ve got three tickets. One for each of us and one for the Princess Emilia.”

Emma’s heart sunk. “Oh.”

“We’re going to reunite her with her father,” August said, finally speaking to her.

Neal looked her up and down. “Ya know, you do kind of resemble her.” Neal walked down a few paintings to a small one of the Charming family. More than kind of.

August joined his friend glancing from the picture to the woman in front of them. “The same blue eyes.”

“Those Charming eyes,” Neal agreed.

“David’s smile.”

“Snow’s chin.” Neal looked from the painting to Emma and back to the painting. “She’s the same age, the same physical type.”

“Are you trying to tell me you think I am Emilia?” Emma couldn’t contain the laugh that bubbled out of her from deep within.

Neal threw his hands up. “All I’m trying to tell you is that I’ve seen thousands of girls all over the country, and not one of them looks as much like the princess as you. I mean look at the portrait.” Emma stepped closer, admiring the framed painting. There was a little girl, long blonde curls that didn’t match Emma’s cropped hair. The eyes though, could it be, could this be what she was looking for? Emma laughed again, backing away from the picture. “I knew you were crazy from the beginning, but now I think you’re both mad.”

Neal stepped back, offended. “Why? You don’t remember what happened to you?”

August had now picked up the dog and was scratching his head. “No one knows what happened to her.”

“You’re looking for family in the Enchanted Forest.”

“And her only family is in the Enchanted Forest.”

Neal shrugged. “You ever considered the possibility?”

“That I could be royalty?”

Neal and August looked at each other, nodded and said, “Yes.”

Emma looked back to the painting. “Well, I don’t know. It’s kind of hard to think of yourself as a princess when you’re sleeping on a damp floor. But sure, yeah, I guess every lonely girl would hope she’s a princess.”

Neal sighed. This was getting him nowhere. “I wish we could help you, but the third ticket is for the Princess Emilia. Good luck.” Neal walked away, forcing a reluctant August to put the puppy down and follow.

“Neal, why didn’t you tell her about our plan?”

Neal thought about how familiar she looked and shrugged. “All she wants to do is go to the Enchanted Forest. Why give away a third of the reward money?”

August shook his head, sighing. “I’m telling you, we’re walking away too soon.”

Neal chuckled softly. “Not to worry. I’ve got this all under control. Okay, walk a little slower…”

Emma paced. This was crazy. A princess? But it was the closest she could get, and it couldn’t hurt to try. Oh, perhaps she was just as crazy.”

“Neal!”

Neal turned and found Emma running towards him. He was immediately thrown back to when he was younger and Emilia would run around. No, he told himself, do not get attached. No one even knows if this is, for a fact, her. There was no way to prove it either. “Did you call me?”

He knew she called him but he was continuing to play his mind games. Rolling her eyes she crossed her arms. “If I don’t remember who I am, then who’s to say I’m not the princess, right?”

“Go on.”

“Yeah,” Emma said, still short of breath. “If I’m not Emilia then the king will certainly know right away, and it’s all just an honest mistake.”

Neal agreed. “Sounds plausible.”

August picked the puppy back up. “If you are the princess then you’ll finally know who you are and have your family back.”

“You know,” Neal said, shifting away from the curious dog. “He’s right. Either way, it gets you to the Enchanted Forest.”

“Right!”

Neal grinned and bowed. “May I present Her Royal Highness, the Princess Emilia.”

Emma scooped Pongo into her arms. “Pongo, we’re going to the Enchanted Forest.”

“The dog stays.”

Emma turned her icy stare on Neal. “What are you talking about? The dog goes.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“I say he goes.”

“I’m allergic to dogs.”

Rolling her eyes, Emma handed Pongo back over to the enthusiastic August. She was going to the Enchanted Forest.

------

“Emilia?” Walsh nearly fell off the high ceiling ledge laughing. “Yeah, just one problem there, fella. Emilia’s dead. All the Charming’s are dead. They’re dead! Am I right, my friend?”

Walsh looked to the green magic swirling in a tube next to him. He peeked closer but was pushed off the edge, only holding on by his tail. He looked back at the girl for a split second before he was carried off.

#swanfire #swan thief #ouat #once upon a time #daddy charming #once upon a dream #rewrite #emma swan #neal cassidy #baelfire #august booth #tags are open #requests are open #fanfiction #ouat fanfiction #swanfire fanfiction

[conceptofzero]

diopucci week - snapshot

(set in porn au)

-

The first time Pucci does it by accident. 

The video is eight long. It’s a selfie, or it was supposed to be. Pucci holds his thumb down a little too long, frowning as he realizes what he’s done. Then, in the background, Hol plantively whines out, “Nena, baby, I’m sorry-” 

“Shove it up your ass.” Nena retorts, getting another low whine from Hol. Pucci snorts softly and doesn’t stop the video, turning the phone slightly to get a better view of Nena and Hol over his shoulder as they fight in the living room. Hol is clutching his cowboy hat to his naked chest. Nena’s in a showgirl outfit. Clearly something went wrong during filming. 

“I told you, I forgot, baby, baby please, I’ll wash my dick next time-” Is about all Pucci captures before his face breaks and he lifts his thumb. He watches it with the volume turned low, and puts it on his story.

Nothing afterwards ever is an accident.

- 

Pucci’s doing the selfie-ruse again, multi-tasking some as he checks his face for powdered sugar. His phone’s tipped to get what’s happening behind him. 

Midler’s trying to feed Alessi her churro. He’s not having it, but Midler isn’t stopping either, prodding him in the cheek with the end of it. “Come ooooon. Just the tip. Just the tip."

“Fuck off.” Alessi tries to slap it out of her hand. It just leaves him open, and she pokes his mouth, leaving a streak of caramel sauce and cinnamon sugar on his face. The look of disgust on Alessi’s face is the last thing Pucci catches before the time limit on videos runs out. 

-

Dio is looking at himself in the mirror, wearing a leotard covered in feathers and sequins. Pucci raises his eyebrows, and asks, “Where are we going to dinner again?” 

“The food truck.” Dio answers and Pucci makes a face. Automatically, without even needing to glance from his reflection, Dio speaks again, “Don’t make that face.” 

Pucci makes the face anyway. 

-

A video, this time without Pucci’s face in it. It’s a shot of the ‘food truck’. The side has been spray painted over, but you can still see the plumbers logo showing through. It doesn’t have tires. It certainly doesn’t have any permits posted on the truck, or proof that a food inspector is even aware the place exists. 

Dio’s ordering dinner, wearing his leotard with a cropped jacket and thigh high boots. The ‘chef’ doesn’t seem even vaguely phased. 

He’s added a caption.

[This is how I die]

-

He doesn’t, of course. The food is good and there’s no sign of it by the time he takes another shot. They’re lying on the hood of Dio’s car, watching the sun set. Dio soaks up the setting sun. Pucci discretely films him, his head resting on Dio’s shoulder. The sound of sea gulls and waves can be heard. But the only view worth showing is Dio. 

(at least, on snapchat. Instagram gets a photo of the view. It’s magnificent)

-

Pucci bats his eyes at the video as Telence yells in the background.

“-hard drive is dead!” 

Mariah takes a drag off her smoke and blows it out. She waits for Telence to take a breath, then adds casually, “You should have grounded it.”

“I shouldn’t have to fucking ground everything because you carry around a static charge-” Telence launches back up, cut off when the video runs out of time. 

-

Vanilla Ice is driving. He doesn’t react, not even as Oingo leans into view, his make-up making him look uncannily like Vanilla. They drive in silence for a moment, before Oingo whispers, “My own clone. Now neither of us will be virgins.” 

Pucci tries to hold it in, but he can’t help but laugh in the second before he stop the video

-

Dio sleeps. The mood lighting shifts from red to yellow to green and blue. He looks handsome. 

-

Dio is completely naked, standing on the roof. Midler wolf-whistles from the pool. He strikes a pose. There’s a flash behind him, someone running over the peak and down. Dio barely has time to turn before Hol plows into him, and they both falls straight into the water. 

The splash is huge and Pucci curses as he quickly shields his camera from the wave. 

-

Hours later. Hol stands in the hallway, wearing a homemade dunce cap crafted just for this occasion. 

Vanilla Ice stands guard, glowering at Hol. 

Midler’s already getting a selfie with Hol, who’s forgotten he’s supposed to be in trouble. He beams at Midler’s camera, copying her peace sign and wink, but not the little bit of tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. 

She takes it, looks at it, and makes him take it again. Hol’s happy to oblige. 

-

N’Doul’s sitting in the garden, his cane across his lap. His face is tipped up towards the night sky.

“It’s rude to take pictures without permission.” 

“It’s not a picture.” 

He turns his head towards Pucci and gives him the most single, perfect unimpressed look he’s ever seen on anyone’s face.

“You little shit.” N’Doul remarks. 

-

Daniel’s in the living room with a cat in his lap. He pets it, giving it a little scratch under it’s chin.

[That isn’t ours]

-

Off-camera, Midler is busting a gut. 

“Like what?” Dio says.

“Like ‘nyah’.” Pucci repeats. 

Dio brings his hand up, mimicking the motion. “Like nyah.”  

“Stop!” Midler cackles. 

Dio, smirking, does it again, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction, “Nyah.” 

“Stoooop!” Midler loses it and Pucci can’t help but laugh a little too. 

-

Pucci tries the selfie-tactic with Pet Shop. The director spends the entire eleven seconds glaring at Pucci, not blinking even once.

-

Enya and Dio are by the computer, looking at the website together. The size difference is astonishing, even with Enya on a stool and Dio leaning over. Dio has a hand on her back, and the other pointing to a video of N’Doul sliding himself down on a horse dildo.

[A tender moment]

-

Pucci pans around the care. They’re crammed into tight. Vanilla Ice driving, Telence on his DS beside him, and Hol against the door, with Nena in his lap. In the backseat,  Mariah has Midler in her lap, with Alessi in the middle. Pucci’s in the far right, parked in Dio’s lap. When the camera comes to focus on them, Dio leans forward and settles his chin on Pucci’s shoulder, giving the camera a smoldering look.

[On our way to get food poisoning]

-

The food truck, once again. Everyone has tacos and churos. It’s a beautiful day. 

[Gift all my earthly possessions to whoever survives]

-

Pucci’s lying in bed with Dio. The cycling mood lighting is on. Dio lies on his back, half-off the bed as he reads an art book. Pucci’s bare feet are in frame. 

Dio doesn’t look up from his book, remarking quietly, “I never expected I could love anyone the way I love you.” 

“Oh.” Pucci’s voice is soft. “Dio-” 

It cuts off. 

-

Later, much later. Dio’s lounging the proper way in bed, Pucci tucked into his shoulder. 

Dio’s posed. Pucci isn’t as he looks at Dio in the camera. “I love you too.” 

He captures the look on Dio’s face. It’s something he’ll treasure forever.

#diopucciweek #jjba #dio #enrico pucci #day 6

[dailymudad]

mudad sickfic ahoy

Title: Grow

Summary: Dio’s own awakening prompts his son’s stand to emerge. Through the fever and illness, Dio attempts to give him the strength to master it and survive. Dio-raises-Giorno!AU.

Word Count: 2,007.

Leave me a kudos here if you end up liking this! (o´▽`o)

The rounded clock sitting on top of Dio’s dresser sounds loud and imposing enough to be a countdown. He’s tempted to stop time for a moment’s peace.

The child that had been left on his doorstep now lays sick in a bed far too big for him, a cool cloth resting on his forehead as he rolls around to get comfortable in the too-warm blankets. Dio has been reading aloud to him nonstop. It’s a tome too thick for a near three year old to understand, but the real gift is the sound of Dio’s voice preventing him from drifting off. He’d already slept too much during the day, and Dio believes they are about to reach the peak of his fever.

None of his servants are with him. Enya was the only one he’d thought would be any help, but she had only idly commented that Giorno would have to overpower this sickness on his own, or Dio should seek out another one of his offspring— a comment he didn’t appreciate. Giorno’s stand had planted roots from his skin into the bed, trying to find soil that wasn’t there. A gift of creation— things he’d touch would grow ivy or sprout legs in a feverish hurry before losing energy and shifting back into an ordinary object. Such potential couldn’t be wasted so early in life. He fondly strokes Giorno’s cheek, taking note of the heat beneath it. He would raise this son with love, provided he lives.

“Giogio,” The name is fondly mocking, revived from the ground to tease Jonathan’s memory and the imprint he left on DIO’s son’s shoulder. “Stay awake.”

“I’m tired…”

“If you sleep, you may never wake up.”

Giorno blinks in his direction, amber eyes that match Dio’s own meet his. “Not so bad.”

“It is, I promise. Don’t fall asleep. For my, Dio’s, sake.”

He takes a glass of water from the nightstand and gently lifts Giorno up by the back of his neck, tilting the rim between his lips. There’s no medicine here, no IVs, just water and patience and Dio’s constant presence. The roots make it hard to pull him up, but the ones around his shoulder come undone. A sign of control? Maybe. Dio doesn’t discredit his own strength. He doesn’t discredit Giorno’s, either.

Giorno drinks the water, but immediately loses strength against Dio’s hands. Dio tuts him and lets him rest against the bed, pulling out a book on Austrian philosophy and beginning to read it like it’s a fairytale. Eyes always flickering up to make sure he’s conscious, he ignores the slightly open door with a servant peeking in. He had forbidden their presence, and they’re sure to be punished later, but they set a tray inside the door.

“Enya made Giorno medicine. Forgive my presence, Lord Dio.”

“Come here.”

The order is brisk and this nameless follower approaches him with trepidation and respect. Dio doesn’t waste time, his fingers penetrate their throat and silence their vocal chords as he indulges in a light snack as a reward for his own patience. Giorno is watching, and Dio wisely thinks that it’s good to get him used to this sight early, before pity overtakes him for Dio’s food. Sure enough, Giorno doesn’t think twice and only quietly watches as the servant drops to their knees and keels over, leaving the small bottle of murky fluid on the bed.

Dio picks it up when he’s done and looks it over. The instructions are written on the side, one spoonful will subside the fever and give lucidity— if the patient is already not too far gone. He is tempted to withhold it, to see Giorno’s strength emerge on its own, but the temptation is only that. Dio is more than reasonable enough to know that mastering his own stand is different from his two year old son given the same opportunity. There will be plenty of time for Giorno to prove his strength later. Dio humbly chooses mercy for now.

He pours the disgusting-looking concoction, still mixed with mashed roots and leaves that hadn’t melted into liquid yet, onto a spoon and stops time for only a moment to press it into his mouth. It resumes when Dio holds the glass of water to his lips, encouraging his son to drink. There’s no mistaking his face scrunched up in disgust, but Dio pinches his nose and eventually, it’s done. He even finishes the rest of his water to wash out the taste, as well.

“Good…” Dio is proud, because many children wouldn’t survive this, wouldn’t quietly endure without tears or pain. Perhaps Giorno’s life with his mother was already too bleak for him to consider this a pain— if so, Dio will reward him with a life of luxury and love almost too much to be real. He will learn his place atop a throne of others, not as a successor but as a favored child. Dio would be there every step of the way. It is only fitting that something of his own blood and creation follows him. Dio makes no mistakes, and neither does he grant them life.

“Stay awake, Giogio. You’ll feel better soon.” If not, he was sure to have words with Enya.

—

He looked like a dying animal, but one that was powerfully fighting against the light at the end of the tunnel. Dio’s heart warms and constricts at the sight.

“The World,” He murmurs, and at once his stand is out next to him, fixing him with a curious glance. There was nothing he could do for his master at a time like this, but Dio urges him to sit next to his child, as he looms and pets Giorno’s forehead. Dio’s thoughts easily move his stand to do what he wants— to stroke at the vines and blooms and the things that only a stand could manipulate. It was a long shot, but he wondered if one stand could coax out the other, and The World obliges by cupping Giorno’s head.

Dio can feel it through him, a second body occupying Giorno’s, one that feels of cool metal and is currently trying to crawl out through the vines it sprouted. If Giorno was his own child, this one belonged to The World. Even his stand seems to show an interest in meeting him.

“Listen, child.” Dio whispers quietly over Giorno, as the boy struggles to breathe. “You will endure. You haven’t given up yet, and that shows you want to live. How will you figure out what kind of life awaits you if you call it here? You are my son… that means you have the tools to survive already within you. Start cutting yourself free from what’s holding you back. Do it.”

“Pa… pá…”

“Haruno.” A name more familiar to him than the one Dio christened him with.

At this moment, Giorno only understands one thing. That he must live, but he’s fighting against something that has no face, that he cannot touch or strike against. Even at his young age, he understands that this is life or death, and the tethers in his back are trying to stop his heart. The World could see a glint of gold behind Giorno’s back.

Hours tick away, and eventually, Giorno’s harsh breathing subsides. The vines growing out of his skin and the roots growing out of his back recede. He gains a second hand, then a leg, then at once, something small and golden, with a head shaped like a beetle, sits up and breaks free.

“Curious…” Dio murmurs, looking over the stand that emerged. It bears resemblance to himself in an interesting way, down to taking on his fashion. It glitters like its made of gold, and at once, it fades back into Giorno’s body. Shakily, the boy sits up and looks at Dio. The mattress beneath him is torn by the plantlife that tried to make Giorno grow, and though he is very weak, he wonders if this is the end of it.

Dio kisses his forehead. “Sleep.”

Giorno hardly needs the encouragement.

—

“So he lived…”

It’s strange to see Dio carrying around the boy with a sling on his shoulder, but he’s overcome with a sense of protection that befits a father and not a villain. Enya stares at him as he picks books from a shelf, somehow both surprised and pleased.

“How much influence did that medicine of yours have?”

“Do you really want to know…?” The hag cackles.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

“It was a placebo.” She smirks up at him. “It was only the ingredients for a specific kind of tea. No medicine can help a stand emerge. I thought it would comfort you to give something to him.”

“…”

Dio rubs at Giorno’s back, giving a soft smirk. So that was all Giorno’s strength… and only at the cusp of three years old. Despite his pride, he also feels a little… angry? Of course, he doesn’t like to be tricked. Especially by those who are supposed to serve him, no less. But it satisfied something Dio had wanted to know about him since he’d gotten ill— was he capable of fighting it off on his own, or did he need help?

“I don’t require such comforts.”

“Most parents do. Especially ones that wait by their child’s bedside around the clock.”

“Leave me,” He insists, pulling out a book of Goethe’s and deciding it would be Giorno’s bedtime story.

—

Giorno has been at his side for two weeks now.

The stand that follows him around takes interest in inanimate objects. Creatures emerge from paperweights and books, and Dio encourages his interest by splicing them together. The combination of a frog and a rat hops around the top of Giorno’s bed, before he touches it again and the fusion of a clock and a lamp falls apart on the bed. His father had been encouraging it as he went along, making sure he stretched his wings with his power, and even tested them on his other servants. Each time Dio praises him, Giorno gets a little more daring and tries something new. Even The World has been taking a vested interest in Gold Experience.

“Muda.”

“Muda…?”

Dio is nothing short of amused he speaks the same kind of stand-like language. This really was his son, and while he sees more of Jonathan’s resemblance, it was only with Dio’s nurturing care that Giorno blossomed. He can already tell this small child is destined for great things— and Dio looks forward to testing him in the future. One of his servants commented that the world around them slowed after Giorno had touched them, before things going back to normal. Ah, Dio thought, there’s more to him that meets the eye. Perhaps his son’s stand had even gained a kind of manipulation of time— the very thought fills him with pride. He’ll give his son his youth for now, make sure he’s educated and tended to. Make sure he grows up respecting and loving his father, because it would be so dreadfully ironic if he were to raise a Joestar to kill him in the future. No, that kind of grim fairy tale wouldn’t come to pass in his household.

Watching as he disassembles and reassembles things to grant life to, Dio pets Giorno’s head, and something catches his eye.

The slightest flicker of gold.

Little wefts of golden hair are now growing throughout his head, climbing up the back of his scalp and sprouting up. Jonathan’s dark hair color was slowly being replaced with his own. If all of this had grown since the last time Dio checked, Giorno was sure to be entirely golden by the end of the week. By the look of the boy, he hasn’t even noticed yet. Dio gets curious and tilts his head, suddenly curious about his ears. Though the placement isn’t the exact same, three dots line the shell of his ear.

Dio’s doubts flee him about raising a piece of Jonathan.

He smiles.

#dio brando #giorno giovanna #jjba #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #mudad

[pinelife3]

Music I Can’t Understand

Getting into hip hop in my late teens was like learning a new language: slang, cars, food, drugs, brands, gangs, locations. For example:

What does it mean to be sitting on 44s?

44 inch rims on your car - highly coveted, a desirable rim size.

What about coming from the 504?

The area code of Hollygrove, New Orleans: the neighbourhood Lil Wayne grew up in.

Please double cup me?

Kindly serve me lean in two double stacked Styrofoam cups.

Ice cream paint job?

Cars again - clean exterior with creamy white leather interior.

Finna hit a lick?

Fixing (intending) to rob a liquor store.

Wavy Brazilian?

Human hair grown from the scalps of the fine people of Brazil, harvested, treated and then sold to be used in wigs and weaves. The hair has a natural wavy texture and is typically long and dark.

Cop dome? 

Receive a blow job. Confusingly, I’ve also heard ‘domed’ to mean shooting someone in the head. 

Chopper?

You might be thinking of a helicopter or a motorcycle, but in hip hop a chopper is almost always a fully automatic weapon - I guess because it cuts people down?

A bird?

A kilo of drugs, typically cocaine.

Beyond the slang, I also found some of the accents difficult to understand. Lil Wayne speaks in a hoarse, treacly voice, he’s usually fucked up, his word association is crazy, he loves puns, and he rapidly jumps from topic to topic. So, initially, listening to Wayne was like trying to speed read Shakespeare. It took me a while to be able to properly tune in and listen to the lyrics - but when I did, I found hip hop so rewarding and fun. This is all from one song:

‘Cause I’ll serve anyone like a blind waiter

I work out in my office, guess I’m fit for business

Your flow never wet, like grandma pussy/ I’m always good, like grandma cookies

You niggas best not slip, Ice Road Truckers

I also appreciate the trite but appealing throwaways:

felt like rockstar, might die later idk

(Music critics under the misapprehension that rappers didn’t glorify hard drugs and depresso partying before Future need to go back to school.)

I have memories of rapturous repeat listens of Good Kid, Maad City, trying to decode the story. Falling in love with the mythology of Kanye. Digging through forums. Listening to famous classics and thinking I was the first to uncover an unknown treasure, like an oblivious archaeologist. The golden age of Big Ghost’s blog. MF DOOM super fandom. Discovering old artists online and stuffing my ears with their back catalogs. Visiting country towns and thinking ‘I bet no one here has even heard of Aesop Rock’ like a smug fuck. Pouring over lyrics on genius.com. Sweating profusely at gigs. Hoarding mixtapes from DatPiff. Weirdly, I associate a lot of my fondest hip hop memories with being by myself on my laptop. 

The interface hasn’t changed one bit:

Over time, though, I’ve gotten bored with hip hop. I feel like I haven’t really fallen in love with anything released since ~2014. Piñata might be the last hip hop album that really worked on me (exception: the Hamburger Helper album Watch the Stove from 2016). Even To Pimp A Butterfly has serious issues: listen to “Mortal Man” and tell me it’s not the corniest shit ever. The extended butterfly/chrysalis/caterpillar metaphor throughout the album is like bad high school poetry. For a while, I thought my cynical outlook on modern hip hop was just a product of getting older and being wistful for the music I liked when I was younger. But now I’ve decided that this is a problem solely between me and hip hop, because I still find music that I get obsessed with. But that music is exclusively Celtic.

I would timebox my Celtic music obsession to the past year or so, but Spotify went to great pains to inform me that Enya was my artist of the decade, so this must have been latent within me for some time. 

When initially dipping my toe in the Celtic genre, I started with instrumentals and songs sung in English, but I’m waist deep now and have started listening to Gaelic music. It’s like birdsong: I don’t know what they’re saying, but I like the way it sounds. Throaty, clear. Choking, sweet. Windswept, warm. Profound, unknowable. Ancient, important. Echoing, intimate. They could be singing about stale muesli bars and stubbed toes for all I know. 

(If you don’t listen to these songs - especially the one below - I don’t think this blog post will work on you. See please listen.)

Take the song “Thig An Smeòrach As t-Earrach” (above). Obviously ‘Thig An Smeòrach As t-Earrach’ sounds like something Gollum would hiss under his breath, but I find the song itself practically spiritual. Gaelic is so foreign - the words bear no similarity to words I’ve ever heard before - but I feel like I still understand what’s being said. It’s like a fiery angel has appeared at the foot of your bed and is telling you something important: but the angel is so beautiful and bright, your eyes are watering. You can hardly look. And you certainly can’t listen. But the message is burned in your brain. You didn’t understand a word, and wouldn’t know how to repeat what the angel said - but you understand their meaning perfectly.

Do you think the past or the future is more important? And not in terms of your own life (e.g. will your retirement be better than your time in high school) - that’s chickenshit, that’s two turns in early game Civ V, that’s low stakes table. No, I mean in terms of the whole timeline of the planet: neolithic magic in stone circles, valleys where no human has ever walked, unturned stones beneath deep water, dead languages. Should we protect the physical remnants of history or privilege the possibilities of the future? Would we crush Grecian pottery if it unlocked clean, sustainable power which allowed us to create AirPod batteries which never lose their charge? Without even asking, I will tell you that anyone making Celtic music thinks the past is more important than the future. And while you listen to Celtic music, you will agree. 

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

Celtic music is humanist, but ancient humanist. It is not interested in what Elon Musk is doing, it doesn’t care what shirt you’re wearing, or whether you’re an Episcopalian vegan, or if you can finish The New Yorker crossword puzzle, or really any modern concerns - at least, I don’t think it cares. In a way, I don’t care what they’re saying, because I like the way it makes me feel: peaceful and romantic and connected to something eternal and profound. Like when a huge rock is warm to the touch. These are underrated feelings.

#lil wayne #enya #kendrick lamar #to pimp a butterfly #mf doom #julie fowlis #celtic #folk #solas

[debussyanddarcy]

raise a tiger verse, father’s day

part of this verse; but if you haven’t read it: an au in which viktor acquires legal guardianship of yuri p who is a distant cousin

Yuri is strangely quiet at dinner.

Viktor chews on his linguini thoughtfully, casting glances at his younger cousin from beneath his lashes. It’s a game they play, and one that Viktor has become very good at: caring while pretending not to, and the one who gets caught first loses. It’s a stupid game, his Yuuri has told him more than once, but they’ve both lived this way for so long they don’t quite know how to stop.

At length, Yuri clears his throat, fixing his gaze on the corner of the table where Viktor’s phone sits. “They celebrate weird holidays here,” he says.

“Hm,” Viktor says noncommittally. “Americans often do. Wasn’t it National Doughnut Day just a few weeks ago? You liked that one, though. You and Kenjirou came home with entirely too many donuts.” He tries, but fails to inject the appropriate amount of disappointment in his voice. He had stolen two donuts from them when they weren’t looking. “What is it this time?”

Yuri crams a forkful of pasta in his mouth. “Father’s Day is on Sunday,” he mumbles, tomato sauce smeared all over his lips, but Viktor still hears it loud and clear.

Viktor falters slightly, but manages to catch himself just in time. “Ah,” he says. Yuri shoves more pasta into his mouth. “Well, that’s not so strange,” Viktor continues. “We have something similar back home.”

Yuri says nothing.

It’s one of those conversations where Viktor feels as though he’s treading on very, very thin ice; he thinks about Yuri gliding effortlessly in the rink, preparing himself for a jump he’s not ready for, extending his leg behind him and leaping into the air—

“Is there anything I can—” Viktor starts, just as Yuri shoves his chair back, scraping noisily against the wooden floor.

“I gotta do my homework,” he mutters, hastily fleeing the room.

—and crashing terribly, spectacularly.

*

Viktor says, “I don’t know what to do with him.”

Yuuri tilts his head at him and says, “I don’t think there is anything to do with him.”

Viktor pauses. “Well. Yes. Usually, I don’t. I’m very hands-off with him, you know that. But he’s been so quiet lately. Too quiet. Almost—sad? Is this because he’s a teenager now? Teenagers are supposed to be difficult, aren’t they? I don’t know what to do with a sad Yura. I’d much rather have him be furious at me, stomping around in his room in his tiger print, listening to his terrible death metal and ignoring every word I say.” Viktor delicately twitches his nose. “I swear I caught him listening to Enya the other day. Enya.”

“Vitya,” Yuuri says patiently, and Viktor’s brain short-circuits briefly at the diminutive, “the Enya music is for his program. He wanted to try something different.”

It’s the eleventh time that Yuuri has called him Vitya, Viktor thinks dreamily. He wonders if Yuuri will say it again. Then he realizes what else Yuuri had said. “Yura had wanted to try something different?” He peers at Yuuri, dubious. “Enya-different?”

“Well,” Yuuri hedges, “Otabek may have convinced him with the promise of an original song for his next program?”

Viktor makes a mental note to ask Otabek what his intentions towards Yuri are. He seems like a nice boy, but then again, most people think Viktor’s a nice boy, and, oh, Yuuri is giving him that Look again, which probably means he’s talking out loud.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Yuuri says dryly, “or else Yuri probably never will speak to you again.”

“No, I wouldn’t dream of interrogating Otabek Altin, sixteen-years-old, five-foot-six, sophomore at—”

“Oh my god, Vitya—”

Viktor stops short, leaning into Yuuri’s personal space. “Say it again.”

Yuuri flushes, a delightful red that spreads from the apples of his cheeks down to the graceful column of his neck.

“Don’t harass my students,” Yuuri manages, poking Viktor solidly in the chest.

Viktor grasps his hand, slotting their fingers together. “Will you make it worth my while if I don’t?”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “I can’t imagine who would possibly think you’re a nice boy.”

Viktor falls back on the couch dramatically, tugging Yuuri down with him. “My Yuuri wounds me, me, the man who adores him and would pluck every single star from the sky for him, who would—”

“Shut up,” Yuuri says, laughing.

“Make me?” Viktor asks hopefully.

“That’s a terrible line,” Yuuri informs him, and, oh, his face is suddenly very, very close.

“But you’re going to fall for it anyway?” Viktor murmurs, sneaking a hand behind Yuuri’s neck and stroking the soft hairs he finds there.

Yuuri grins at him, a wickedly lovely sight, and Viktor finds that he’s the one who falls helplessly yet again.

*

“What are you doing on Sunday,” Yuri mumbles as he’s warming up on the ice.

Yuuri blinks. “Well. The rink will be closed. I signed up for a summer class, so I guess I could start on some of the reading.”

“No,” Yuri grits out, determinedly glaring at the ice. “I mean. With your. Dad.”

“Ah.” Yuuri adjusts his glasses, considering. “I mean, we usually don’t do anything big for Father’s Day? My dad’s not really into that stuff. We’ll probably just stay in. Have a nice quiet dinner. Something like that.”

Yuri stares at him. “That’s—That’s it?”

Yuuri shrugs. “Well, yeah. That’s what we’ve always done.”

Yuri stares off into the distance as he skates figure-eights, and Yuuri studies him from his vantage point, leaning against the boards.

“Viktor doesn’t expect anything from you,” he says quietly, and Yuri stiffens. “And besides, it’s—” Yuuri spreads his hands out. “Commercialism, mostly? Like every other holiday. You don’t need some arbitrary holiday to tell you when to show affection for the father figures in your life. It’s just. It’s silly. But it’s fun. I don’t know. You don’t need to stress so much about it.”

“Am not,” Yuri snarls, skating faster.

“Okay,” Yuuri says.

Yuri comes to an abrupt stop in front of him. “Viktor’s not.” He balls his hands into tight, angry fists. “He’s not my dad.”

“No,” Yuuri says, slightly bemused. “He’s not.”

“But he’s still. He’s. He’s.” Yuri falls into a frustrated silence. Yuuri waits for him to gather his thoughts, having learned that it’s imperative to let Yuri figure things out on his own, lest he get shoved away. “He’s… important.” It sounds as though it physically pains him to admit it, which it probably does.

“Anything you do for him, he’ll appreciate,” Yuuri tells him. “In his own, special, Viktor way.”

That earns him a snort. “Whatever,” Yuri scoffs. “Are we practicing or what?”

Yuuri smiles. “Alright. Let’s go.”

*

Yuri clutches the hastily wrapped gift in his hands, staring at Viktor’s closed door. It’s Sunday night, now, and the day had passed quietly, uneventfully. It’s just—it’s so stupid, is what it is. He didn’t even have proper wrapping paper. He’d used their leftover Christmas gift wrap, and Frosty the fucking Snowman grins cheerfully at him from the crumpled blue paper.

Viktor’s not his father. He’s never wanted to be, and Yuri’s never wanted him to be, either. But he came when nobody else did, giving Yuri a second shot at family. Because even though he still can’t cook worth a damn and has zero shame whatsoever about what he and Yuuri get up to behind closed doors (and sometimes not so closed doors, that rotten perverted exhibitionist bastard), he always makes a point to pick Yuri up from school whenever it’s raining, and he’s never, ever missed a skating exhibition.

Besides, Yuri’s gotten attached to Makkachin.

“Ugh, whatever,” he mutters, tossing the gift to the floor and fleeing to his room. He turns off the light and buries himself beneath the blankets, praying for a swift and painless death.

*

Viktor shuffles out of his bedroom on Monday morning, stifling a yawn. His foot nudges something on his way out, and he rubs at his eyes before realizing that yes, there is indeed what appears to be a Christmas gift on the floor.

He kneels down, tearing the gift open.

He lets out a bark of startled, genuine laughter at the sight of an orange, tiger print tie.

It’s utterly hideous.

He loves it.

FIN

#this is just silly fluff don't mind me #yuri on ice #yoi #fic #raise a tiger verse

[hulahoopingholt]

a promise lives within you now

ANYWAY I told myself I’d start writing some happy B99 fic post-finale and then the finale happened so this happened instead. Title taken from Enya's May It Be because of course we need some Enya and this one has always been one of my faves. Also on AO3.

Everything is happening so fast.

There’s the guilty verdict, and then Jake knows he’s speaking, saying something, although he can’t be sure what it is, if the words are even English (well, they probably are, it’s the only language he knows; Amy has pretty much failed teaching him any useful Spanish whatsoever), or if they’re even words at all. But he knows his lips are moving, and sounds are coming out of them, and as rapidly as it’s all happening, they can’t possibly be spilling forth as quickly as all the thoughts are dashing about in his brain because there’s no way, there’s just no way…

He keeps talking, doesn’t even pause for a breath, because if he does, it’ll mean it’s stopped. If he does, it means this is the end. If it does, it means they’ll snap the cuffs around his wrists with a soft clink and he’ll be lead out of the courtroom and then stuffed into the back of a squad car and then to jail to jail to…

Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool --

The sound of the cuffs closing around his wrists echoes like a gunshot in his mind.

And if things had been moving in hyperspeed before, now it was hyperspeed on speed and cocaine and whatever other drugs Hawkins was hawking, all strapped into a rogue car on a sky high roller coaster, hurdling through twists and turns before crashing into a runaway train.

He feels like he’s about to throw up.

It’s loud, so loud, deafening, even. He knows there are people talking to him, shouting his name, some voices he recognizes, others that are probably reporters or Hawkins’ cronies. But his skin is burning so hot, and everything’s jumbling together in a crazy rush, and it’s like being trapped in a madhouse, or a fun house, or --

He blinks, and for a split second he’s back at the Fun Zone, gun drawn, waiting, ready, prepared. The operation is dangerous, and could go wrong at any second, but Jake’s got this, he knows his game, and he has the Nine-Nine at his back. No matter what.

The vision, along with its accompanying sense of complete confidence even in the face of death and disaster, vanishes before his eyelids can manage their second descent.

There’s pressure at his back, and somehow he’s moving forward. He catches a brief glimpse of Rosa’s face, her expression even more closed off than he’s ever seen, before a guard turns her around and marches her away from him. If he could stretch out his arm, she’d be close enough to touch (not that he would, of course, no touchy), but at the moment she might as well be on another planet.

And there’s nothing he can do. Nothing. He’ll be behind bars for fifteen years, fifteen years, powerless, helpless, forced to wait as time ticks on by, leaving him behind and ripping him away from everything and everyone he loves. Fifteen years sitting in a six by eight foot cell while his friends go on without him. Amy becoming captain, Gina having her baby, Terry marketing his own brand of yogurt… the world may jolt to a stop for him, but it wouldn’t stop for any of them. And who even knows what would happen to Rosa? She’ll probably take the farthest flight out of New York she can find the second she gets out, start a new identity where she lets even fewer people into her life. Probably nobody at all.

No. This is it. This is the end. It’s fine. He’ll pick up a hobby. Maybe running. Running could be good. It would also come in handy when he inevitably runs into one of the murderers he put away for life. Cool. Cool cool cool cool coolcoolcoolcool...

He doesn’t know how, but somehow, even though he was just at the front of the courtroom, he’s now standing by the door.

Like Usain Bolt.

Amy.

Her name cuts through all the noise in his head, and as if right on cue (and honestly, it probably was; Amy is always right on time, even when the world is falling apart without warning), there she is, waiting for him. He can see her lips moving, and he tries so hard to make out what she’s saying, but it’s still loud, it’s so loud, there’s pandemonium all around him and it’s forcing its way back inside his head too, and --

She presses her hand on his, and then that’s all there is.

It’s cold, of course. Amy’s hands are always cold, even on sticky, sweltering days in the middle of summer. Right now, he’s never been more grateful. He focuses everything he has on that spot where their skin touches, her cool hand on his burning one, and, finally, time begins to slow down. The chaos boiling inside his head falls down to a low simmer, and as he forces himself to draw a long, controlled breath, the rest of the courtroom fades away. There’s no longer shouting all around him, but the unmistakable otherworldly harmonies of Enya and her choir of angels.

“Jake,” Amy says. “Jake.”

They’re not in the courtroom anymore. They’re sitting on the roof, looking down at the cars driving by down the street below. And even though they’re in one of the most populated cities in the world, right now, they’re the only two people on this earth. Jake nudges Amy’s shoulder with his own, drawing forth a laugh from her that makes him fall just a little bit more in love with her.

He looks down at her hand, at her bare ring finger, and then he finds himself down on one knee, holding out the ring he’s been saving up for ever since he saw Amy’s eyes linger on it just a touch too long at the jewelry store by their apartment. His hands are shaking as he slips it onto her finger, and when he looks up he realizes that she’s smiling through her tears. Amy pulls him up and he holds her hand over his heart. In that moment he knows he can stay here like this forever, kissing her, loving her, content.

When they part, there’s a loud cheer, and Jake’s smiling so hard it’s almost painful, but he doesn’t care. He holds Amy’s hand in the air in triumph, and the cheering grows even louder. She’s beaming, and in that moment Jake finally understands what it means to call someone radiant. Radiant, in her white gown and veil as she looks over at him, quite literally glowing with love. They walk down the aisle, still hand-in-hand, stopping to accept their friends’ well wishes along the way. Terry pulls them both into a hug so tight Jake’s briefly afraid he’ll lose consciousness. Charles is weeping, of course, but Jake is surprised (and delighted!) to see that even Holt has a stray tear in his eye. Gina attempts to ambush them with a handful of rose petals, but it’s hard to do when also attempting to wrangle a wriggly toddler who is determined to wrestle Amy’s veil off her head. Amy only laughs and presses a kiss to one chubby cheek.

Chubby cheeks and tiny feet and little hands that reach up to curl around his finger. Jake carefully adjusts his daughter in his arms so he can join Amy where she’s resting on the couch. She immediately curls up next to him, covering his hand with hers so they can hold their child's hand together, and he drops a kiss on the top of her head. This perfect world they’ve built together is growing, and will only grow fuller with time.

One moment cascades into another, and then another. In their home, at the precinct, on a plane to Paris. Amy in evening gowns, Amy in one of Jake’s plaid shirts, Amy in her captain’s uniform. Years upon years of memories not yet born flowing into each other, washing over him, of all those perfect days of loving Amy, basking in the pleasure that comes from knowing you have all the time in the world.

“Jake! Listen to me.”

No. Not this time. He can’t. He tries to focus on Enya, wills the steady, soothing sounds to grow louder. Because if they do, he can still live in that moment. He can still see a future for them, he can still feel Amy’s hand on his, he can --

“Jake!”

Amy shakes his hand, hard, and Jake is thrust back into reality.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years. None of this can happen. Not with fifteen years between them. Fifteen years. Fiftenyears. Fifteenyearsfifteenyearsfifteenyearsfifteenfifteenfifteen.

“Look at me.”

Nobody in their right mind would say no to that voice, so he does. He was afraid she’d look devastated, and she does. There are tears in her eyes, and her nose is red, and Jake’s aching to break out of his handcuffs so he can hold her and promise her it’ll be okay, even if he can’t believe it himself right now.

But more than that, she looks strong. And determined.

And unbelievably pissed off.

“This isn’t over. We’re going to get you out of there.”

“Amy, you saw her. We punch once, she punches back twice.”

“And we punch back again,” Amy says. “No matter what. We won’t give up on you.”

“I wish there was something I could do,” Jake mutters. “I should have dug deeper while I was still out. I could've found something.”

“We’ll figure it out."

“It’s fifteen years,” Jake says. “That’s a long time to wait if --”

“I don’t plan on just waiting,” Amy says. “I plan on fighting. Those fifteen years belong to you, and to Rosa.” She juts her chin out. “And to us. I’m not letting her just rip them away.”

Jake’s vision grows blurry. “Ames.”

“And you have to keep fighting, too.” Amy’s tears, which so far had managed to stay safely contained, were now threatening to spill forth. “Promise me. You have to keep fighting.”

“How am I supposed to --”

“Just trust me,” Amy says. “Trust me. That’s all I ask.”

Jake forces a weak smile. “Never had trouble with that before.”

Amy laughs -- it’s a weak laugh, and she sounds exhausted, but goddamnit, if there’s one thing Jake Peralta can do, it’s make Amy laugh, no matter what, and that small victory in the face of this minor apocalypse is enough to make think maybe it would be okay after all.

“Move along, Peralta. You can talk to your girlfriend during visiting hours.”

He draws a deep breath, and as he exhales, Amy is there, covering his mouth with her own. The kiss is all too brief, but it’s sweet and perfect and seals their promise to each other.

“Move, Peralta!”

“I love you,” he says. “So much.”

“I love you so much, too,” Amy whispers.

She doesn’t release his hand until the guard has pulled them far enough apart that they can no longer touch.

But Jake can still feel the lingering coolness of her hand on his skin, and Enya’s voice is once again echoing throughout his mind.

If all it takes is believing in Amy, they’ve got this covered.

This time is theirs.

#B99 #Jake Peralta #Amy Santiago #Jake x Amy #B99 spoilers #my fic #my B99 fic #takes place immediately after the guilty verdict in case that wasn't clear from the A/N #okay but I was aiming for a hopeful ending to help soothe my anxiety so there's that? #otp: I just care about being with you

[charley-warlzz]

He hadn’t seen her since the day they left High School.

A/N: Here is number two! I remembered! Also this was meant to be  super casual one shot set in one of my worlds that had only slight relevance to the plot but wasn’t necessary except now I’ve suddenly got a much clearer picture on why one of my charecter’s dislikes the other one and also how that comes out. Which is always interesting. 

Word count: 1405 words

Time taken to write: 1 hour, 9 minutes, 37 seconds.

words per second: 0.34 (well, 0.336, so slightly lower than yesterday)

2) He hadn’t seen her since the day they left High School

He hadn’t seen her since the day they’d left high school. Watching her navigate the crowds with ease, he could clearly remember why. Still, people changed, and he could hardly hold anything against her given his own reputation back then.

He downed the rest of his drink and plastered a smile on his face as she reached him. “Hey. Long-time no see.”

“Too long.” She hummed appreciatively as she took the stool next to him. He glanced over her shoulder to his friends who were staring at her in surprise. Her likeness to walking pheromones had apparently not changed. She tossed her blonde hair easily over her shoulder and smiled at the women who’d appeared to refill his drink. “I’ll just have a Sprite, please.”

“No problem.” The women – who’s name tag read ‘Enya’ – reached under the bar to pull out a can which she placed in front of them. He passed over a note before she could even ask and turned back to the conversation at hand while she moved to serve other customers.

“You know, usually when people buy me a drink it’s with an ulterior motive in mind.” Teased the blonde next to him, snapping open her can.

“I have no doubt about that.” He picked up his own drink. “Why did you want to meet me here?”

“Oh, straight to business. You have changed.”

“Allison.” Her name burned on his tongue after all that time.

“Chris.” She mimicked his tone, adopting an expression of mock seriousness before rolling her eyes. “Lighten up. We’ve got all night to talk.”

Chris paused for a second, before leaning closer so his lips were next to her ear – an action that was unnecessary given the pulsating music that made it hard to hear anything that was more than a foot away. “You called me, remember?” He murmured softly. “That means you need me, not the other way around. I could still walk out of here.”

He leaned back and felt a spark of satisfaction at her momentarily nonplussed expression before she smoothed her features back into her usual half-smile.

“Somebodies impatient.” She hummed lightly, before shifting so her back was blocking the view of them from almost any angle. “Fine. I need your help.”

“You need help?”

“Shut up.” She huffed, sounding mildly irritated. “Yes, I need help. And I think it would be in your best interests to help me.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because I know Myra.”

He knew she was expecting the look of recognition that flew across his face, and sure enough it was her turn to look smug when she saw it, but he couldn’t be bothered resisting it. “What are you talking about?” He asked, finally.

“I met her the other week. I was surprised to find out that you’re working with her now. I was even more surprised that you were in the city and didn’t bother to at least call.”

“It honestly never occurred to me.”

“Good to see what I’ve been reduced to in your mind.”

“Were you expecting me to be gushing over you?”

“Maybe not.” Allison leaned back, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “But I was at least expecting my memory to somewhat burn you.”

“Your memory hasn’t burned me in a long time.” He didn’t bother trying to keep the scoff out of his voice.

“I slept with your best friend while we were going out. I let you walk in on us. That doesn’t bother you in the slightest?”

“Not anymore.” A smile tugged at his lips. “You guys went out for, what, a week?”

“And a half.”

“A week and a half. What’s the point of getting worked up about a relationship that can’t even make it to the one month mark? Besides, I figured out why you did it.”

“Did you now?”

“It’s all one big game to you, isn’t it? You just enjoy messing with people’s lives.”

“It can be quite a welcomed distraction.”

Chris paused, staring at her for a few seconds before finding a response. “You’re still the same person, aren’t you?” He realised finally. She pretended to look offended.

“I’ll have you know I’ve grown up a lot, thank you. I’m much more focussed now.” Her voice took on a flirtatious tone, and he rolled his eyes.

“I bet you have.” He took a long gulp off his drink before spinning the conversation back to its main point. “What kind of help do you need?”

Her expression became as serious as it could get. “Your silence.” She responded, peaking his interest.

“About what?” He asked suspiciously.

“About me, for now. In case anyone asks.”

“You called me out here, showing me where you were, to tell me not to tell anyone about you?”

She frowned. “It’s not as simple as that. I got into trouble with some bad people. Your little friend, Myra, is helping me with it. I just need to know I can count on you to help me.”

“You’re talking like you’ve killed someone.” He paused waiting for her to contradict him, but found he wasn’t all that surprised when she didn’t. He wasn’t exactly expecting the news, but he wasn’t shocked by it. He let out a long breath. “Jesus, Allison.”

She shrugged. “That’s kind of my life now-“

“So you’re an assassin?”

“So to speak, yes.”

“You’re… not kidding me. Okay.” He paused. “Sorry. Why are you telling me this?” He waited for a response but ended up speaking again after a full minute of silence. “Does Myra know?”

“I’d assume so. She’s certainly researched everything else about me.” The blonde shrugged. “She knows why she’s helping me, in any case.”

“And that’s because…?”

“Because some bad people heard about me and decided they want to shut me up.” She leaned forward, her green eyes sparking in the light. “She offered to help me.”

“Why would she offer to help with something like that without knowing the full story?”

“I don’t know. I don’t question the people helping me – not upfront, anyway.”

Chris paused for a secnd, his head reeling. “I still don’t understand why you insisted on calling me here.” He blurted finally. She raised an eyebrow.

“Well, you will. At some point.” She pushed herself off the stool, tossing her hair over her shoulder and glancing behind her. “Now, I assume those guys shooting us not so subtle looks are your friends?”

He leaned to glance around to see, true to her word, his friends glancing over in what was clearly meant to be an understated way. “Yes, but-“ He was cut off by his own phone vibrating in his pocket, and he fished it out to read the name ‘Myra’ on the caller id. Allison grinned.

“Duty calls.” She hummed, ignoring his stare as he turned back to her.

“I’ll call her back in a minute.” He responded immediately. “Look, I have no idea what’s going on, but-“

“You’re going to have to trust me.” She cut him off, glancing back behind. “Who’s the guy in the suit?”

“Max. But, seriously, if these guys are so dangerous-“

“I think your friend will be able to handle them, don’t you?” Something in her voice made him stop dead, and he stared at her for a second as she gave him a smile that told him she knew exactly what he was thinking and turned away.

Unable to think of a response, he redialled the number on his phone and brought it to his ear.

“Hey, uh… sorry if I’m interrupting something, but I just found something I think you should see. I was checking the-”

“Have you offered to help anyone recently?”

“What?”

“Just, uh, possibly called Allison, possibly not.” There was a pause.

“Um… Someone called Allison, why? Do you know her?”

“Kind of. It’s not important.”

“…Okay. Is there a problem?”

“No, just… Why?” He couldn’t resist asking, and he could practically see her confused expression.

“Well, it’s kind of complicated really. But she’s having some trouble with these people… are you sure there isn’t a problem?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He turned to watch as the blonde leaned up to his friend, whispered something in his ear and then proceeded to lead him towards the back exit of the building.

Some people could change, but he doubted she ever would.

#warley writes #prompts #oc #writing #writing fiction #I uploaded this on desktop so i didn't have to format it myself #its so much easier #omg