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i-will-physically-fight-you · 4 years

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Till The Sun Is in the Sky Fanfic

Title: Till The Sun is in the Sky Fanfic

Summary: Roman is a genie who has granted wishes for over a millennia. The only reason he’d be eager to serve his next master is for a chance to briefly escape the lamp’s darkness. Not for a chance at freedom--for that’s just wishful thinking and he knows what that all entails.

Or at least that’s his assumption until he meets Patton, the newest master of his lamp.

Pairing: platonic royality

Word-Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Crying, Fear, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending

This set in the same ‘verse as When the Blazing Sun Is Gone but you don’t need to read that fic to understand this one. @delimeful requested seeing Roman’s/Logan’s role in the AU as part of my follower milestone celebration and so I went with Roman. Also huge thanks to @stillebesat who beta-read two different drafts of this fic and offered valuable input, I appreciate it! <3

He didn't know how long it had been since his last Master had thrown the lamp into the sea. It didn't matter really. Minutes, years, centuries...it didn't. Because he knew his next master would be the same as the last six hundred. Selfish, full of empty promises of freedom that never came to pass.

No, the only reason why he would ever be eager to come out of the lamp to serve his six hundredth and one master would be for those precious moments to get out of the darkness.

Some of his more inquisitive masters would ask him what it felt like to have one’s soul crammed into a lamp.

He always laughed it off and made a joke about how it made for a great napping place.

But the truth was far from it. He knew it was silly, but he feared the darkness. He feared its loneliness, feared no one would ever find his lamp again and he’d be stuck there forever.

He never told them how many times he uselessly fought against the magic barriers, hoping beyond hope to find a defect in the spell that bound him there. He didn’t tell them how much he feared them being the last master he ever had—not because they freed him but because his lamp never found another master to serve. Worse yet, his lamp shattering.

His soul was bound to the lamp and if it broke--then his soul would split into a thousand pieces along with it. Suffice to say, it was not a happy fate and not something happy to dwell on.

So he sang instead. His voice filling up the lamp, bouncing all around him. He could pretend someone was with him, that way, singing alongside him. He sang the few songs he knew and then some. He made up songs, even, about anything his mind could dwell on. He was halfway through singing about a gallant knight when a pair of hands made contact with the lamp.

A new master; both relief and trepidation hit him at once. Relief that he’d be free from the darkness once more. Trepidation in knowing that it was only a fleeting temporary respite from it.

That was quite alright. After all, his new master was probably someone in great need of his assistance—they always were. The lamp magic sought out those who were plagued by horrible life circumstances. He would be the knight in shining armor to them, like he’d been to many others before.

For that was his true purpose in life and not freedom. That was just wishful thinking—and he knew all of what that entailed.

With a shroud of red mist, he rose up in front of his new master. All of which was entirely for the sheer dramatics of it. He enjoyed putting on a good show and the adrenaline that came along with it.

“Greetings!” He boomed, waving his arms around in a grand gesture, “I am a great and powerful genie—and I am here to make all your dreams come true!”

The human gawked at him, slack-jawed. His brown eyes bulged from behind his glasses, much like a cartoon character. There was a crack in one of the glasses’ lenses and upon closer look, the glasses appeared to be practically held together by tape.

The man’s clothing appeared to be in a similar disheveled state—unraveling hems, holes in his shoes, scuff marks. The cardigan tied around his neck looked hardly wearable. Lying at the man’s feet was a blue backpack that the genie wouldn’t doubt contained all of his worldly belongings.

The lamp sought out the unfortunate and if there was one constant in any century, it was poverty.

“You’re…really a genie?” The human asked, pressing his eyebrows together.

“In the flesh.” The Genie winked.

He was well aware of what a fine specimen he was to behold. Flowing locks of russet hair, eyes that glimmered like emeralds, a voluptuous figure. Clothed in only the finest cloth that the eleventh century had to offer. Centuries of existence in the lamp had not diminished his beauty in the slightest.

If there was one thing he could take pleasure in, it was the awe humans gave him before they decided demanding for wishes. It usually lasted for only about five seconds. But during those five seconds, he could pretend that they were actually ecstatic to see him.

“What’s your name?”

He startled at those words.

“Pardon?” He asked, tilting his head backwards.

The last thing the Genie had been expecting, was those words to come out of his mouth. No one ever bothered to ask for his name. It was as though they assumed their wish-granting cosmic vending machine had no name. Or was indeed a living being with thoughts and feelings for that matter. They always started demanding rules and stipulations for their wishes as fast as they could.

“I’m sorry!” The human cried, wringing his hands together, “that was rude of me to ask without introducing myself first.”

He held out a hand, beaming, “I’m Patton! What’s your name?”

“I…” He stared down at the man’s hand, “My name?”

“Oh,” Patton’s eyes widened, “do you not have a name?”

The Genie looked away. He did once have a name, long ago before he inhabited the lamp. He couldn’t remember it. A strained, lilted laugh broke from his lips, not assuaging Patton’s concerns in the slightest.

How could he forget his own name? Names were important—special. Names had power. Names were a person’s identity. How could he let that damn lamp take something so precious away from him? It’d already taken everything else away—what more could it take?

“I can’t seem to recall it,” He shook his head, before desperately trying to change the subject, “But enough about my fabulous self! I’m here to grant you not one, not two, but three! Three wishes of immeasurable power! Say the magic word, and I’ll spin your dreams into reality.”

He expected Patton to forget the name nonsense entirely at the mention of wishes. Surely, the man had unfulfilled desires—everyone always possessed those. Instead, the man slowly shook his head.

“I can help you find a new name, if you’d like.” He offered, a smile softly framing his face.

The Genie blinked, “You wish to give me a new name?”

He could not make heads nor tails of this strange human. He scarcely knew Patton for a single minute, but his aura oozed nothing but positivity. Still, it was an odd waste of a wish, if you asked him. He’d hate to see someone so good and in need of his cosmic help squander a wish like that.

“No,” Patton said, laughing, “I want to help you find a new name.”

Patton sat down on the beach, the lamp by his side. The human looked up at him and patted the space next to him. Reluctantly, the Genie joined him.

“How does the name Daniel sound to you?” Patton asked.

Daniel. One of his more unpleasant masters went by that name. The genie made a face before shaking his head.

“That’s okay! What about Philip then?”

“Phiiiilip…” He drew out the consonants, testing how they felt against the roof of his mouth, “What do you think, dear Patton? Do I look like a Philip to you?”

“Well, you’re very princely-looking, and I’d say Philip is a very princely name!” The man giggled, “but as long as you love it—I’ll love it as well!”

The Genie hesitated. As much as he liked the name—it didn’t quite scream him. It didn’t encompass his whole being. Philip felt as tight and constraining as his lamp. The genie could lie and tell Patton he liked it just to move on from this whole naming business. His purpose here was supposed to be focused on the wish-bearer and not him, the wish-granter.

However, as he looked upon Patton’s earnest gaze he found himself unable to lie to him.

“I am afraid that I’m not entirely in love with the idea of Philip.” He admittedly with a great sigh.

“That’s alright! We just gotta keep trying then!” Patton declared, undeterred.

He continued listing off names, but none of them seemed to satisfy the Genie. The latter of whom grew despondent that they’d never find the perfect name. There were millions of names in the world, yet none of them appealed to him. He voiced this to Patton, who refused to give up hope that easily and urged him to keep trying.

“Hmm…oh! What about Roman?” Patton asked, “I knew a guy back in high school named Roman. He did theatre.”

Something sparked within the hollow cavity of the Genie’s chest.

“Theatre? As in acting out a story in front of an audience?” The Genie asked, his eyes lit bright with wonder.

He’d never seen a play before. His masters never bothered taking him to events like that. Instead he’d remain in their household, his lamp sitting on a shelf or hidden in a cabinet. Like a jar of quarters to use on a rainy day. He could only manifest within twenty-five yards around his lamp, leaving him unable to sneak off and enjoy something like a theatre show.

But what little he heard of them reminded him greatly of the bards of his time. They used to travel all over, singing sweetly in poetic verse of great heroes and terrifying monsters. He’d always loved watching a bard perform. He almost ran off and became a bard himself before he ended up stuck inside the lamp.

“Yup! He played Lumiere in our production of Beauty and the Beast.”

The names of the character and story were unfamiliar to him. But the Genie could tell by Patton’s phrasing that it had been an important role.

“Roo-man,” He tried, liking how it sounded on his lips, “Roman, Roman, Romaaaaaaaaaaan!”

Patton giggled as the Genie held out the name for as long as he could.

Roman. It was bold, it was brash, it was perfect. Not too snug, not too loose—it fit him just right.

“Well then,” He said, clearing his throat, “I’d be honored to go by the name of such a great bard!”

“I’m happy to hear that!” Patton beamed, “We should go celebrate!”

The human stood up, stuffing the lamp into his backpack in the process. He offered a hand towards the Genie—or rather Roman.

“Celebrate?” Roman questioned, as he accepted Patton’s hand, “Don’t you want your three wishes—"

“That can wait for later,” Patton said as he pulled Roman onto his feet with ease, “what’s important right now is celebrating your new name—with ice cream! I know just the place!”

“Forgive me for asking, but what is ice cream?”

“You don’t know what ice cream is?” Patton gasped, a determined look settling onto his features, “we’ll definitely have to fix that!”

He took hold of Roman’s hand—and marched towards the direction of the ice cream stand. Roman, bemused by the human, laughed as he allowed himself to be tugged along by Patton. He didn’t know why Patton was so concerned about his wellbeing but he found it a nice change from the norm.

Patton chattered along the way, mainly about ice cream and puns relating to the icy dessert and to other things.

“What did the popsicle say to his sonsicle in a crowd?” Patton asked, already snickering at his own joke.

“What?”

“He said, stick with me kid!” Patton burst into a fit of giggles, and Roman followed suit. Admittedly a lot of the contextual humor of Patton’s puns were lost on him but there was something contagious about Patton’s cheery disposition. You couldn’t help but want to laugh along and feel about a bit of that happiness glow in your lungs.

For those brief seconds of laughter, Roman felt human again. He’d have to treasure this feeling--coveting it once he inevitably ended up in the darkness of the lamp once more.

The sun set in the horizon as they reached their destination; a brilliant splash of crimson red with streaks of golden orange and lilac purple. There were a few customers already in line at the ice cream stand. Cheery music blared. Where, Roman had no clue. He could not see a band nearby. Perhaps it was magic?

“Hey um,” Patton said, ducking his head a bit, “mind if we split a bowl? I’ll let you pick out the flavor. You should go with vanilla—it’s a classic! But, uh you can get whatever you’d like!”

“Patton…” Roman frowned, “I could wish into existence a whole ice cream shop of your own if you truly wanted it. You don’t have to waste money on me.”

“No, I don’t have to,” Patton said with a determined glint in his eyes, “But I want to.”

Roman gawked at him, stunned. What was this human? People normally expected genies to do things for them, not the other way around! When it came time to order, Roman merely pointed to the vanilla as Patton had suggested.

There were tables set up next to the ice cream stand where customers could consume their ice cream. But Patton shook his head, telling Roman he knew a much better place.

“It’s a place my friend Virgil and I like to visit,” Patton said, “It’s nice and quiet, unlike most of the city. The noise can be too much sometimes, y’know?”

This peaceful location happened to be a bench in the middle of a park. Trees gracefully arched over it, dressed in the beginnings of autumn colors. Orange, yellow, red. A warm glowing yellow light emanated from the lamppost beside the bench.

“You can have the first taste of the ice cream,” Patton told him as they settled onto the bench. Roman obliged him, dipping his spoon a little in the white substance and bringing it to his mouth. He blinked. It was colder than he expected. But not unpleasantly so. It was a smooth, sweet texture.

“What do you think?” Patton asked, practically bouncing in his seat.

“It’s--it’s absolutely divine!” Roman exclaimed, his eyes flickered down to the ice cream, “May I…?”

“Of course!” Patton grinned. Roman took another spoonful, savoring the taste longer this time. They took turns finishing it off as they continued to converse.

Roman wasn’t used to talking. Sure, he talked plenty over the centuries, but his conversations with his masters revolved strictly around wish-granting. Mundane conversations about the weather were anything but mundane to the genie.

“What’s your favorite animal?” Patton asked, swinging his legs back and forth in a careless manner.

“Dogs—they are lovable, loyal creatures and mankind is undeserving of their affections.” Roman declared.

“Dogs are my favorite too!” Patton giggled, “Oh! And so are cats, horses, lizards, lions and tigers and bears—oh my! Elephants, giraffes, hippos—”

“So all of them are your favorite, I take it?”

“I guess you could say that,” Patton sheepishly grinned, “I wanted to be a veterinarian be—before—”

The human inhaled shakily, the smile slipping off his face. Instead of continuing, he stared down into the mostly empty plastic ice cream bowl. Something obviously happened in Patton’s past that upset him. It wasn’t Roman’s place to pry—but it didn’t mean he couldn’t help in the only way he knew best; magic. In all his centuries as a genie, he’s never met anyone deserving of it than Patton.

The man had been the first in a long while to treat Roman like his thoughts and feelings actually mattered. Like the genie was actually...human.

“You could still be a veterinarian, if you so badly wished,” Roman spoke softly, “Your every wish is my command.”

Patton flinched, looking more distressed than comforted by Roman’s words.

“Roman please, I can’t do that—”

“Why not?” Roman said, “you are my master—you can make any wish you’ve ever desired.”

“Roman, I’m not your master.” Patton choked.

“Of course you are,” Roman tilted his head, “you are the keeper of my lamp. What else would you be?”

“A friend?” Patton suggested, “Roman, please I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“This is different,” Roman said fervently, grasping hold of Patton’s hands, “this I offer to you freely for you are the most worthy keeper of my lamp. You must have unfulfilled desires, something, anything I can grant.”

Patton stared at Roman, his face void of expression. Several times he opened his mouth before abruptly closing it. As if thinking better of what he was about to say.

“Please.” Roman pressed further.

His heart rattled against his chest, wanting badly to escape its cage as he did with his lamp. Like the latter, it was a pointless venture. As long as his lamp remained intact so would his soul. Unless of course it shattered, and with it his soul into a thousand pieces. His psyche splintered and fractured, too broken to put back together again. Like Humpty Dumpty except worse for it was a living death, one inescapable. Yet it was a fate that was inevitable and also something he shouldn’t be dwelling on at the moment.

“There is…” Patton hesitated, “one desire I have.”

“Say it,” Roman said as he bowed his head, not daring to look at the human, “Speak it into existence and it shall be yours.”

It was going to hurt, he knew this. The genie wasn’t the true wish-granter, all the magic they possessed came from the lamp itself. The magic only used his form as a mere conduit. Because that was all a genie was—a damn puppet to his masters’ wills.

Roman brought this curse upon himself—he wanted immeasurable power and he attained it. Except, it was never his will to wield such power. Nay, only his masters possessed it. Only their wishes and not his would be granted. It’d be this way forever and ever, because everyone always cared about their happy endings and not his own.

Even Patton, once he saw the immeasurable power that surged forth from even the simplest of wishes. Roman wouldn’t blame him for it. The human has already given him more than what he’s ever deserved.

Patton squeezed Roman’s hands. It took every ounce of Roman’s willpower not to sneak a glance up at him. He had to remain strong for whatever wish Patton threw at him. In the short time he’d spent with Patton, he didn’t get off the vibe of a frivolous wisher. He dealt with plenty of those over the years. Ones who used the wishes in willy-nilly ways, without any forethought behind them.

No, he’d probably be practical. He’d wish for money, or perhaps a mistake in the past to be reversed. Those were always tricky ones. They didn’t always end in the way humans believed they would.

“Roman,” Patton began, “I wish to free you, the genie, from your lamp.”

The genie leapt off the bench as if electrocuted, hands clumsily detangling themselves from Patton’s own. The lamp’s magic roared in his ears, swelling inside him like a great storm. He gaped at the human, his heart bursting out of his chest and into his throat.

“P-patton, mind repeating that?” He gasped.

“I wish to free you the genie from your lamp.” Patton said once more, his voice firm and unbreaking.

This time he couldn’t hold off the wish. A bright red light enveloped him like a supernova explosion. Magic consumed him, rippling through every fiber of his being. A warmth fell across him, one that he hadn’t felt in a long, long while. A great shattering noise occurred. The light died down as he looked to see the lamp had spilled out of Patton’s pack, glittering underneath the lamppost, in pieces.

Breath heaving, he fell to his knees, touching the pieces. The lamp had broken and he was still here, whole and complete and free.

“Why?” He stared down at the broken lamp, quivering, “I--I don’t understand. You had three wishes. You could’ve had so much—all the wealth and fame you could ever desire!”

“But I didn’t want that,” Patton protested, resting a hand on Roman’s shoulder, “not if it came from a wish you were involuntarily bound to serve no matter what. That isn’t fair. Everyone deserves the freedom of choice. Including you.”

Roman laughed. Except it wasn’t quite a laugh. More of a strangled, gargled croak than anything else. He pressed his hands into his face, shutting his eyes as he tried to block out the dizzying nausea sweeping through him.

After six-hundred masters and a millennia inside the lamp, Roman knew a lot about the freedom of choice. His masters employed it with how they chose to use his wishes. Flaunting it so arrogantly in his face. The wishes were self-serving for most. Sometimes they used it to better others’ situations. But never his own, despite many promising to free him. Because at the end of that third wish, they’d walk away while he’d once more get trapped inside the lamp.

Over and over again, they chose to not free him. Except Patton. He chose to free Roman on his very first wish. For as long as he’d dreamt of this moment, of being free from the lamp, he never expected it to actually happen. It was just a foolish fantasy, too abstract to become reality. Not to mention in this manner. He had imagined a master would free him after he’d proven himself worthy with a great feat of magic. How could Patton think he was deserving of this gift?

He laughed weirdly again. This time it hurt his vocal chords.

“Roman?” Patton asked.

He responded with a noise, halfway resembling a hiccup and a shriek. A gentle set of arms enveloped him, pulling him closer until his forehead rested against a warm chest. A hug? Was Patton hugging him?

“It’s okay, kiddo,” Patton murmured, ruffling a hand through his hair, “let it all out.”

Kiddo. Roman wanted to snort. He was a millennia older than Patton, he wasn’t exactly a child. Except at those words, he bawled like one as he realized that those were sobs from before. Not laughter. Roman couldn’t remember the last time he cried. Just like he couldn’t remember a time before being a genie.

Who was he, without the lamp? For as much as he hated it, it’d been a part of him. It defined him and the purpose of his existence. Now he was free of it, free to be his own person, with his own wishes and desires. But he didn’t know the first step of what that looked like.

It was like he was thrown into a raging ocean of confusion and turmoil. Treading aimlessly, desperately hoping for a piece of driftwood to grab a hold on. Something that could anchor him, keep him afloat.

“P-patton--” He whispers, voice hoarse from crying, “can I--can I choose to be your friend?”

The human had suggested it earlier. Surely, he meant it still? It was quiet for a few seconds. Enough to cause Roman to doubt himself. But then the man who unbelievably granted him his freedom hugged him tighter.

“Of course, Roman,” Patton told him, “I’d be honored.”

With a sniffle, Roman’s hands fell from his face as he threw his arms around Patton to fiercely return the embrace. A few more ugly sobs wracked his throat. How was it that Patton was the one honored to be his friend when it was the opposite?

Roman hardly knew what being free looked like. But he did know he’d do anything to protect Patton, to preserve this kind, selfless spark that rested in the human’s soul.

As he dwelt encircled by Patton’s loving arms, the last slivers of the sun’s glow faded at last, dousing them in darkness. But for once, he didn’t find himself afraid of it.

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #patton sanders #roman sanders #kat writes #i tried to get virgil in this fic #but pls dont imagine vampire virge getting both jealous and concerned that patton is replacing him #or that roman (not wanting to lose his new friend) accuses him being a monster and sees him as a threat to patton #and poor patton being in the middle of it #:))))

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being-of-rain · 3 years

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I've been enjoying the Time Lord Victorious series so far, and since I caught up with a lot of it recently and we’re about half-way through it, I thought I'd post a bunch of thoughts on it here together.

I’m fascinated by the idea of a Doctor Who series made up of lots of different interconnected media, which feels like a natural thing to do when you consider how much history the franchise has with so many different formats of storytelling. And it’s wild to me that, contrary to what I first assumed, it was actually conceived before the whole global pandemic thing happened; it felt like almost perfect timing to give Doctor Who fans something to think about during lockdown.

One of the series’ greatest shortcomings was its promotion, which seemed to consist entirely of the title and that one promo visual. The lack of a clear, simple, all-encompassing premise from the start means that I still see fans reacting to TLV with confusion. Using ‘Time Lord Victorious’ as the only promotion also feels a little misleading - I think many people imagined the series being an Evil Ten AU (similar to the timeline glimpsed in the Four Doctors comic), when really most of the content is either building up to that or just tangentially connected to it. On the other hand, the series was clearly lovingly designed for Who fans (who are all about piecing together timelines and consuming a large range of stories) instead of a wider audience, so the unclear promotion feels more like a miscalculation than a fatal error.

Defender of the Daleks: Titan’s comic is easily the weakest link of the series for me- it didn’t have a meaningful part of the series to fill, I was bothered by a lot of the page layouts, and it felt like a lot of it was made only for Dalek superfans. Well, I genuinely hope the Dalek superfans enjoyed it.

Monstrous Beauty: It’s really nice to see BBC give Nine some love in the series, and you can tell writers like Scott Gray and Steve Cole enjoyed writing for him and Rose. The extreme gothic aesthetic for the Dark Times, the Great Vampires, and the coffin ship is lots of fun, even if the story itself is a little straight-forward and meandering. Rassilon turning up felt very unnessecary to me, at this point I wish authors would leave the Time Lords’ founders alone unless they have something genuinely interesting to add. Admittedly, seeing the Cucurbites return and Nine make an explicit reference to the ‘90s Eight comics made my day. Y’all know I’m an Eight comics nerd.

Master Thief/Lesser Evils: Honestly, both of these stories left me a little confused to what actually happened in them, and what the point of them were. The first one didn’t even seem to tie in to TLV at all. Despite that, I’m really happy to see the Delgado Master and Ainley Master get some audios to themselves. Both characters were captured wonderfully by the stories and were a joy to listen to.

He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not: I was really surprised by this just being an out-and-out Western, but I loved it! Brian sticking close to his hostage while the other characters slowly pieced together what was going on and what they should do about it made for a very different kind of tension to the usual Who story. Brian’s explanation about killing with a thought made me properly nervous about him being around any other characters. I’m glad they got to do some non-formulaic stuff with Eight before the Daleks turned up at the end. Overall, the Daleks have a larger part in TLV than I’m happy with, since it makes it feel like the series is split between experimenting with new ideas and retreading old ground.

The Knight, The Fool and The Dead: The novels are definitely the heart of the Time Lord Victorious story, and so I’m very happy with the choice of authors for them. This first one was great. I really liked Ten’s characterisation of being at his limit but trying to continue on as normal and do what’s right.

His temporary companion Brian the Ood Assassin is every bit as fun as the concept sounds. I love how Brian doesn’t (usually) try to hide that he’s a merciless murder, but is still very polite and dresses in a tux. The little descriptions of him commanding a space fleet of mercenaries like a headwaiter running an expensive restaurant are hilarious. I can’t wait for more stories with him.

The villains of the piece, the Kotturuh, are surprisingly and delightfully eldritch, with their tentacles and their symbols in the sky. Not to mention their plans for the universe written on the cave walls of the planet that acts as a gateway between their cosmos and ours, writing which make people who look at it go mad. The Kotturuh, or Kotts, spread the effects of a natural lifespan to every species in the universe, ending an era of immortality for most of them.

This leads me to the heart of the story, and the premise of the series as a whole; is the Doctor doing the right thing by trying to stopping natural death from spreading in the Dark Times? But there’s a problem here. The concept of death being unnatural is one that TLV introduces to the Doctor Who universe without warning or really giving you space to process it. If all death by old age is something artificially added to the universe, and isn’t a natural part of life and change (as has been part of the heart of basically every other Who story), then is it really wrong to oppose that? Surely that would make the Kotts the uncontested biggest mass murderers in the history of everything. It feels like we need to develop a whole new moral compass just to reckon with this. And it doesn’t help that the other side of the argument is about if it’s right to change time, something the Who franchise has never been super consistent about and another thing that we don’t have morality established to deal with in the real world.

It feels like far too complex a set-up to be explored in just two short novels and a collection of tie-ins more interested in Daleks and Ood than the Time Lord Victorious himself. I’m a little worried that the moral question will be boiled down to the ‘killing is inconceivable even in the face of genocide’ stance that the franchise has held before, and practically never handled well. But needless to say, I’m very interested in what will happen in the future stories, especially second novel and series finale All Flesh Is Grass.

#Time Lord Victorious #Tenth Doctor #Ninth Doctor #Eighth Doctor #Daleks #my posts #my thoughts #I hope the read more works #also sorry if there's any mistakes or bad wording. It's past midnight whoops #Yknow maybe I should get a real blog and not a tumblr one for this kind of thing #Ten #Brian #Nine #Rose #Eight #Master

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renxamamiya · 4 years

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Bitter Madwoman

An AU I was talking about with @rui-the-galax-angel and @digifangirl97 that I finally got done!

Contains P5R spoilers. Obvs.

Also on AO3!

Warm lights illuminated the patrons that sat below them, plush seats and tables draped in beautiful white decorated the room alongside vases of flowers and potted trees, the voices of happy couples and the clattering of cutlery on plates from hungry diners echoed from the ivory-coloured walls, golden accented windows framed the Tokyo skyline as lights from buildings and cars twinkled in the murky blue-black haze of night as the full moon rose above them.

Takuto smiled as he watched Rumi laugh, a light blush appearing on his cheeks as he chuckled alongside her. They were at an outing together, their time apart too long for either of their liking as their commitments pulled them apart, moments between them before shared only by fleeting meetings in the cafeteria they shared before going about their education. They had missed each other, yet when the shackles of work and obligations loosened, they both jumped at the chance of arranging a formal date between them, and what better date then the anniversary of their relationship?

They had also met for another occasion: the meeting of Takuto's parents. Four years into their relationship it felt appropriate to meet the ones who raised Takuto, as he had met Rumi's parents a couple of months ago, a courtesy that was suggested by Rumi herself before they parted towards their own personal obligations.

“I can’t- I can’t believe that happened!” Rumi laughed, clearly entertained by the tale Takuto told of her of his childhood, giggling between breaths as Takuto rubbed his neck in sheepish embarrassment, having told her a tale of a camping trip gone awry.

"Yeah," Takuto said sheepishly, yet he peaked a look at Rumi as she continued to laugh. The way her red hair shone under the light, how captivating her eyes were as she laughed, how her cheeks puffed as she laughed; Takuto thought she looked captivating, an angel on Earth, his treasure as she reached for her glass of wine, having calmed as she took a sip from the cup. "I'm sure that the deer was more startled than me. My parents were less than impressed with me going off on my own into the woods at night, even if I was desperate for some privacy,"

"I'm sure they were just looking out for you," Rumi rationalised, fiddling the simple apple-like pendant on her neck that Takuto had given her that night, "Though to be honest, you were a lot braver than I would have been. I remember being so scared of bats that would swoop by our tent. My parents would insist they wouldn't get in but, little old me would still be deathly afraid of them,"

"Oh? I thought you would have at least fought them off," Takuto jokes, and Rumi pulls an unimpressed face.

"So, your father's a no-nonsense man who would fight a deer in order to protect his son," Rumi summarised as she curled her finger around the chain of her pendant, still amused by the camping story Takuto had told her, "What about your mom?"

"My, mom? Well," Takuto blinked, gazing in thought, "Oh, my mom! Well... she's... interesting,"

"Like all mothers,"

"Yes, like all mothers. She's, uh, trendy? Unlike my father, my mother tends to be ore in the know when it comes to trends and technology, always insisting I go into computing or the sciences when the Internet was still in its infancy, though I remember my dad needed to be thoroughly convinced that the investment of a home computer wasn't a total waste," Takuto explained.

"I bet he regrets his perspective as technology continues to improve," Rumi said almost mischievously, and Takuto chuckles.

"Maybe, I don't know. He still insists that traditional pen and paper working is more efficient, though he doesn't deny the new business opportunities the technology we have now has given him and his company. Honestly, I'm still surprised he allowed me to pursue a degree in psychology, being the traditional man, he is… maybe he’s finally catching up with the rest of the world,"

"Oh, speaking of psychology," Rumi piqued as their food arrived in front of them, the two thanking their waiter before turning back to their conversation, "How's your research paper on Cognitive Psience coming along?"

"It's coming along fine, actually," Takuto smiles as he digs into his meal, "I'm just finishing up compiling and referencing sources for the current chapter I'm working on. It's such a pain sometimes, you have no idea how many journals I have open on both my laptop and my desk,"

"A lot," Rumi guesses jokingly, and Takuto laughed.

"How 'a lot' are you talking about?"

"Oh, I was thinking about, 'a hurricane of paper and books scattered around the room as you try to find the paper you are actually holding in your hand' a lot,"

"That's... not really far from the truth," Takuto admitted embarrassingly, and Rumi laughed, "You really know me,"

"I mean, we spent a lot of study nights together,"

"That is also true,"

“But” Rumi started, now intensely looking at Takuto, her eyes glowing with earnest and appreciation, “This whole ‘Cognitive Psience’ research… A whole new field of psychology… It’s...”

“I know,” Takuto breathed, “It’s certainly interesting, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “It certainly is,”

---

Siren lights danced dizzyingly against the heavy darkness that seemed to encompass the narrow neighbourhood that Takuto’s parents lived in, Rumi taking a sip from the warm cup of water she nestled in her hands as she looked worryingly at the crime scene in front of her.

Takuto had yet to emerge from the house, yet Rui could not blame him. He was the one who first stumbled upon the obscene, visceral aftermath of a robbery gone horribly, horribly wrong. Rumi gagged remembering the sour, metallic smell of blood, the amount of it. The pool; it seemed to inch towards them, Takuto just standing there, mouth agape and skin pale and eyes wide and-

She swallowed the bile that rose from the back of her throat, quickly sipping another gulp of the water that the paramedics had given her, pulling the comforting blanket they provided her tighter as she stared down at the worn concrete of the road. It wasn’t her who’d had called the police, but a neighbour who was thankfully up at the time after hearing gunshots, though she would have wished they had called sooner…

“Miss Tanaka,” a small, petite woman in a paramedic uniform approached her, “How are you doing? Is there anything you might need?”

“Takuto,” she thought as she looked at the nurse with a dull expression, feeling nothing but numb. Her chest was hollow, the rhythmic feel of her heart was intangible to her, and she begged silently that this was some sort of sick, twisted nightmare. That Takuto’s parents were still alive, that Takuto was beside her, carefree and romantic in what felt like an age ago.

“I-”

A scream that was not hers rang from the house; Rumi instinctively jolted onto her feet as the paramedic ran back in alongside police. Thrashing could be heard, the sound of broken pottery and glass and falling objects echoed out from the doorway as more personnel went in. Rumi wanted to ask someone what had happened. Had they caught one of the perpetrators? Had they found another relative miraculously alive? Yet when she saw the familiar curl of hair her stomach sunk as Takuto was dragged outside into the cold, February air, screaming and howling in frantic despair as police officers and personnel alike restrained him, flailing about in their grip as they tried their best to escort him back into one of the ambulances.

“Takuto!” Rumi screamed after her love, dropping the cup in her hands, the metal clanging onto the faded asphalt as she rushed to be at his side, the blanket that hugged her shoulders desperately clinging onto her small frame as she ran through the crowd of strangers, only to be stopped by a police officer who cut the path before her.

“Ma’am, I need you to calm down-”

“Calm down?! Calm down?!” Rumi snapped, denial swelling into anger as she shouted at the officer who impeded her path towards Takuto, “My boyfriend’s parents are dead, and he’s currency screaming like a lunatic, how can I calm down if he’s suffering?! I need to be at his side, I need-”

“Ma’am, please be assured that your partner will be safely escorted to a nearby hospital,” the officer informed her with professional calmness, his gaze sympathetic towards the redhead as Rumi stared at him with hateful eyes.

Seconds passed between them before Rumi sighed defeatedly, her shoulders relaxing as she looked sadly passed the officer to see the paramedics finally able to escort Takuto into a nearby ambulance, one of them poking their head out of the vehicle, but not before making eye contact with the solemn redhead, giving her quick, pitiful look before closing the doors fully, Rumi watching wearily as the man she loves being sped away. She stood there, long after the red and white vehicle disappeared amongst the houses, and clutched the blanket tightly around her, allowing herself to be escorted by the officer away from the scene of the crime.

---

The claustrophobic room was dark, the only light that illuminated the words were from the desk lamp that buzzed lazily over the papers in her hands as Rumi began to read the familiar handwriting of Takuto. Her fingers were coiled around the lined paper of his notes, back hunched while she sat as she intensely scanned the pages for anything that could help her in rescuing Takuto from his trance-like state. She was desperate. They had told her - assured her even - that Takuto would come out of this paralysed state, that they were putting him through treatments to coax him out of his traumatised state; but that was weeks ago, and with no improvements to his condition, Rumi desperately turned to his research.

Cognitive Psience, the study of the supernatural foundations of the human mind. Rumi remembers while in university together Takuto expressed a fascination, often sending articles and stories about the untapped potential of the human mind, the perception of the world around them, and the fascination of concepts that were totally 'fake' becoming 'real' in the public's eye. Though the human mind had been explored countless of different ways in numerous case studies and experiments, this field was something new, something uncharted, and Rumi could not deny the spark Takuto had in his eyes when discussing the possible applications this new research could help in the field of therapy.

She continued to flick through the pages, scrambling in trying to find anything that could help Takuto, almost tearing the pages as she turns them, yet when she reaches the blank, back of the notebook she felt like crying in frustration, slamming the book closed and tossing it away among other similarly bound books, and she buries her face in her hands.

Days. She spent so many days reading and rereading his notes, trying to find something that could help her, yet the despair and grief she had been running away from all this time had finally caught up to her, gripping her throat as the sobs she choked on as she allowed hot tears to roll down her pale face. The sleepless nights that continually plagued her, the aching loneliness she felt when her hand drifted into Takuto's space on the bed. Even cuddling his shirts, inhaling his soft, familiar musky scent did nothing to ease the stress and desperation she felt knowing Takuto wasn't there with her. She missed how sweet and gentle his laugh was, his warm eyes glimmered under the light of the setting sun, the comforting feeling of security and ease when his arms were wrapped around her. She missed him, and her heart ached more each time she defeatedly wandered back into Takuto's hospital room to find the man she loved now reduced to a hollow, staring statue of his former self.

Her head ached as much as her heart, Rumi groaned, reflexively reaching one of her hands to massage her eyes. The headaches she got from lack of sleep were quickly becoming commonplace as she continued her search for anything that could salvage even a fragment of her lover, a dull thud pulsated in her skull alongside her heavy eyelids and stinging eyes. She felt sick, she felt awful, but she needed to keep going, she thought to herself, she needed to-

A sharp, more forceful pain shot through her head, Rumi yelped in pain as she clutched a fistful of her red hair. She felt sick, dizzying nausea taking over, her vision swimming as she splayed her other hand onto the table, and she swore she could see something hover near her; a foreign voice echoed in her mind, calling to her.

“H-Hello?” she called out into the empty room; her voice weak as she tried to fight through the oppressive exhaustion that clawed away at her sanity. She got up from her seat, immediately regretting her decision as her legs wobbled weakly under the weight of her small body. A hand on the desk as she called out again, "Hello? Is… is anyone there?"

"...o...mu...eek...e..."

She gripped her head again, her surroundings flashed before her eyes. That voice. There was something. Something behind her. Something with her. Yet when she turned again there was nothing but scattered papers and silence.

---

“Hello Takuto, how are you feeling today?”

Light shone through the wide windows of the hospital room, the slight sterile smell permeated throughout, only tempered with the fresh scent of flowers - daisies and hydrangeas - that sat next to Takuto on his bedside table. Rumi sat next to him in a small, sturdy wooden chair, a cheery smile on her face, yet her eyes betrayed her hidden anxiety as they darted around Takuto’s body for any sign of recovery.

It has been more than three months ever since the robbery-turned-murder of his parents. Each day Rumi never once failed to visit Takuto in his room. Each time she arrived she would sit on the same chair that had never left its spot beside the bed, and each time she would talk to Takuto as he stirred from his sleep into the same, empty stare she had to grow used to. She would talk about mundane topics, updates on his parent’s murder case, her life outside the hospital walls, and all Takuto would do, day in and day out was stare blankly while she talked.

She hated it. Hated out absent his eyes were. Hated his still, vacant expression as he stared into oblivion as if he himself was staring at the inner workings of the universe. He was alive, as much as his beating heart would correct anyone, but he wasn’t the man she loved; he wasn’t Takuto, just a living mockery of him as she rested her pale hand on his lap, trying to seek any comfort she could get out from this hideous state, yet knowing she was get nothing from him.

“I’m doing okay,” Rumi smiled desperately as she continued her one-sided conversation, a skill she mastered while watching over Takuto, “And Shibusawa is doing well. He’s up to… well… Shibusawa things, as usual,”

No response.

“And I was looking through some of your research notes as well,” Rumi said, unconsciously reaching for the bags under her eyes that were masked with concealer, “you were always talking about that ‘Cognitive Psience’ stuff to me, and while I still don’t quite understand it, everything you’ve gathered so far in the few years has been such an eye-opener, and possibly has recontextualised the entire science as a whole! You’ve really outdone yourself, Takuto,”

No response.

“They um… They also caught the culprits who took away your family. They’re in police custody right now,”

No response.

“I-”

“Rumi… f… amil...y,”

Rumi scrambled closer towards Takuto. Was she hallucinating?

“Takuto?”

She swore he spoke.

“F...ami-”

Takuto suddenly lurched forward from his sitting position, running his fingers through his brown hair and clutching tufts of it tightly as he squeezed his eyes tightly, as if in extreme pain.

“No!” he screamed before Rumi could act, thrashing his head side to side as he wailed. Rumi rushed next to him, almost getting hit as he struggled in the bed, Takuto paying no heed to his surroundings. It was almost as if he were back at the scene of the crime all those months ago, having seen the butchered corpses of his parents… Rumi swallowed sickly as she pushed the intercom, crying out for a nurse to help her subdue the flailing Takuto, “I can’t… this can’t be happening!”

“Takuto, Takuto it’s okay, it’s going to be okay!” Rumi pleaded to Takuto, trying to calm him down as she put a hand on his back, the best she could currently do as she desperately waited for a nurse to assist her in pacifying her traumatised lover.

“No! Mother, father! Why?! Why?” he wailed, clearly a world away from her, trapped in a never-ending nightmare where all that encompassed it was the dishevelled corpses of his parents and the sour, metallic smell of blood. Rumi could not help but pity him; it was as though he was a scared child, and the touches of comfort that she gave to him was all she could do as Takuto continued to beg for the Gods to return his family to him once more.

“...ou...want...”

The familiar migraine returned, Rumi clutching her hair in pain as the familiar sensation ripped once more. The headaches were becoming more frequent, the woman explaining them away as the result of the added stress of worrying about Takuto and her own responsibilities, having just finished getting her psychiatric degree after a gargantuan round of exams and sleepless nights. However, the intensity she felt at that moment was great; as if reality around her warped for a heartbeat. She uttered a curse under her breath. After calming Takuto down, she really needed to pick up some painkillers, she noted to herself.

The nurse came soon after and sedated Takuto, Rumi felt sickly as his thrashes became less and less energetic before he was medically lulled into sleep once again. The nurse gave a shy nod to Rumi before retreating out of the room as soon as he laid still on the bed, and Rumi was left on her own with Takuto’s sleeping form once again.

“Takuto,” she murmured once silence fell onto the room once again, approaching Takuto’s sleeping form to stroke his fluffy hair from his face. It was getting harder and harder to bear seeing him like this, a tear rolling down her face as she continued to tenderly curl the locks of his hair gently between her fingers. She wanted to free him, free him from the vicious cycle that was brought on by the memories of his trauma. Could he even recover from this? She wasn’t so sure, cases like this, where the patient was too far gone… Rumi doubts Takuto could be saved, it would take a miracle to-

“...seek...me...”

Another headache, Rumi squeezed her eyes in pain as it came and went, the same intensity as before; yet the voice. It was… calling to her? Rumi laughs at herself out of comfort more than humour. Great, she too is going mad.

“Rumi?”

Rui reacts to Takuto’s voice, his eyes still closed in an uneasy sleep.

“I’m..hurt...make...it stop...I want to…forget...”

“Forget?” she mumbles sadly, “Takuto, I don’t… I don’t know how to make you forget… But we’ll think of something, okay? We’ll-”

She remembers something from Takuto’s notes.

“By altering a subject’s cognition- by changing their heart-” Rumi recalled out loud, “any related trauma is eliminated.”

“You must seek me!”

“So, if I’m able to… if I’m able to change Takuto’s heart, I should be able to remove his trauma, and anyone else’s! I can save them!” Rumi exclaims triumphantly, absorbed in her resolve to save Takuto, too concerned with saving the man in front of her to even acknowledge the strange voice that now echoed freely in her head.

“Seek me… I am that who manifests thought itself. I shall echo your blasphemous fury with reality so that we may together change the world… Now, call me forth!”

“I will,” Rumi cried desperately, “I will! Please, whoever you are, lend me your strength! Help me save the man I love! Let him live his life once again!”

Nothing happened, at first; and suddenly it was as if reality shook around her, warping incomprehensibly, until snapping back into the present. Rumi blinked, taken aback by the sudden sensation. What… what had happened? Did it, what it was, work?

Takuto wakes from his sleep.

“Takuto, Takuto!” Rumi gasps in surprise, almost choking her words as the familiar, kind glint she first fell in love with sparked in his eyes once more. It was too long for her to again feel joy once more, the last months a horrible, weighted slog of existence as the world dashed by her, Rumi once again able to allow herself some semblance as Takuto blinked curiously around his surroundings. It was a miracle. Azathoth had brought her Takuto back from his perpetual state of shock.

Yet it was too soon that she realised that her wish had come at a price, as Takuto looked upon her face with the same unfamiliar curiosity that he had when he’d woken up. He blinked at her and furrowed his eyebrows.

“Hello… Miss?” he asked, too cautiously for her liking, yet she rationalised to herself that he was too dazed and disoriented for him to recognise her properly, his mind playing catch up from weeks of absence.

“Takuto, it’s me,” Rumi said, her tone a plea for him to remember their shared love, gesturing to herself by pressing her hand onto her chest, “It’s me, it’s Rumi,”

“Rumi...” Takuto almost slurred her name out loud, rolling each syllable on his tongue, as if the name itself was foreign to him. His expression narrowed to one of concentration as his eyes drifted down onto his lap. Rumi inched forward in her seat, patiently waiting for him to remember her, yet her eager smile turned into a disappointed frown when he shook his head, “I’m sorry, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,”

Rumi could physically feel her heart shatter.

“I’ve just had surgery,” he said, absentmindedly ignoring the slow disbelief and horror that crept onto Rumi’s pale face, “Cycling accident. I’m a clutz, so I get hurt pretty often, and unfortunately, I managed to somehow crash into a fence and broke a couple of bones. I lost my parents when I was quite young, and I lived with my grandparents before coming into the city for a University degree in Psychology. I’m actually finished with my recovery, so I’m happy that I’m finally going home today,”

Rumi looked at him with shock, her face paled, her hands shook as she balled them into fists.

“Takuto,” Rumi said, “Takuto… you… you’ve… I...”

Did… did that voice… do this? Rumi wasn’t sure, even if Takuto was in front of her, looking at her with the brown eyes she loves so, so much. Yet, there was no mistaking it, while Takuto did come out of his stupor, he… he forgot her. It was as if his entire history was rewritten. She…it didn’t matter… What mattered to her then was that Takuto was okay.

Takuto looked at her with concern, his eyes churning her stomach.

“Miss, are you alright?”

“I’m,” she swallowed her nervousness and disbelief, putting on a facade of happiness as she continued to address him, “I’m sorry, I must have had the wrong Takuto, I must have not looked where I was going,” she laughed as she stood up from his chair, giving him a nervous laugh as she rubbed the back of her neck, “I’m such a clutz as well haha, always having my head in the clouds!”

“Oh,” Takuto smiled, that innocent smile that tugged the strings. He was smiling but, what happened if he relapsed? She needed to go, but she didn’t want to look away, “Is he a friend?”

“Boy...friend,” Rumi answered forcefully as she choked back a sob, “He’s sick as well, and...”

“You should go to him,” Takuto said as he flashed a smile, and Rumi wanted to cry right there, “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me,”

Rumi could only nod, her mouth left agape as she turned on her heel and opened the door behind her.

“One more thing,” Takuto said, and Rumi turned to face him, yet she was reluctant to meet his eyes, “I know this is forward of me to ask but, may we meet again? I’ve enjoyed our meeting and would love to get a coffee with you; platonically, of course,”

“I… I don’t think so,” Rumi almost heaves the words out of her throat, her fingers tapping on the ajar door, “I’m very busy right now, sorry. He died not long ago… I’m sorry,”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Takuto apologises, “But, it was nice to meet you. Please take care of yourself, and send my regards to his family,” he smiled melancholy at her, and she weakly smiled in turn, vomit rising from her throat. Spilling into the hallway she lethargically wandered towards the exit of the hospital, barely making eye contact with the various nurses and doctor she passed. The whole world around her felt it like it turned mute, colours that were once vibrant now dull.

She did not recall when she finally made it back to her apartment she once shared with Takuto, throwing herself onto her couch. She had no idea how much time passed, she lied there, staring at the blank ceiling above. It was sunset when she finally allowed herself to cry.

---

Rumi sat across the downtrodden girl, her hands resting on the clipboard that was placed on her lap as she waited for Sumire Yoshizawa to speak. Sunlight shone through the windows beside them, illuminating the bowl of sweets that sat on the round table, Rumi seeing Sumire’s gaze shifting between them and her feet as her face hid behind the bangs of her long, red hair.

Her sister had died in front of her, Rumi was informed by her grieving father as he ushered her into the room. An accident with a speeding car at the crossroads of Shibuya, where her sister had pushed her away from getting hit. It had caused Sumire to retreat into her shell, eyes empty, barely eating and drinking, and her father was desperate not to lose another child.

Rumi herself was aware as to why her father sought her out specifically to treat his near-catatonic daughter. After Takuto’s recovery - his change of heart - Rumi went on to use her powers to help people, to ease their trauma, practising her ability to shift the attitudes and personalities with the help of her newfound friend. Her reputation grew with each heart she changed, a rate of success never seen before for a fresh hire, but Rumi did not care.

Rumi shifted in her seat, uncrossing her legs as Sumire fixated on the table in front of her. Silence returned between them. Neither of them said a word.

“Hello, Sumire Yoshizawa,” Rumi started, breaking the tension between the both of them, yet the girl did not appear to shift her gaze, “It’s very nice to meet you. My name is Dr Tanaka, and I’ll be your counsellor,”

Sumire merely nodded in acknowledgement.

“Thank you for coming to see me today,” Rumi continued, trying to stir conversation out from the troubled teen before her, “I really appreciate it,”

“Thank you… for seeing me… in the first place,” Sumire spoke just above a whisper, her voice hesitant, still avoiding eye contact with Rumi, “Though I don’t quite know what to talk about…To be honestly, I only came here because my parents wanted me to be here...”

“It’s okay,” Rumi assured her, voice comforting as she settled her clipboard onto the table, “It’s hard to talk about what’s troubling you, I certainly don't expect for you to trust me with something so personal,”

Sumire did not respond.

“How about we just, chat?” Rumi offered, “Until your time’s up, of course,”

“...Chat?” Sumire mumbles.

“Yeah, about anything you’d like. It can be about anything, school, boys, any TV shows that are currently on… Oh! And I’ve got some snacks for us to share if you like! Plenty of snacks, so feel free to help yourself with them,”

Sumire stares at the bowl of sweet in front of her.

“Do you like to cook?” Rumi piqued up, “I do, a lot. It usually takes my mind off things after a long day of work. The other day I saw a great deal on some apples, and they looked amazing too! So, I bought some to make an apple dish, just to mix it up you know?”

Sumire did not respond.

“But, the result was… not that good,” Rumi laughs awkwardly, continuing her tale, yet her eye flickered observantly towards Sumire, “Tried some other sweet and savoury combinations in the form of some European dishes, but those didn’t turn out so great as well...”

“Apples do make for good ingredients,” Sumire replied, and Rumi snapped to attention as the girl in front of her talked, “If you grate them, you can make a surprisingly versatile sauce. I use the fruit in plenty of my dishes when I can. It’s pretty nutritious and good for digestion.”

“You cook as well, Yoshizawa-san?” Rumi inquired, relieved that she was able to get the girl to talk, “And I’m impressed that you care a lot about nutrition at your age. Most teenagers seem to be eating a lot of junk food and pre-processed meals everywhere I look… not that I blame them, of course,”

“It’s fine,” Sumire sighed, “I’m a gymnast. My coach has told me more than once to be conscious of everything I eat,”

“How amazing,” Rumi praised her, yet Sumire’s expression did not change, “You must be really dedicated with practice. How is it going for you lately?”

Sumire winced at the mention of her practise.

“It… has been rough lately,” Sumire admits, something Rumi couldn’t blame her for. Grief was something hard and heavy; to see a loved one perish right before your eyes. Rumi knew how it felt, “It’s nothing I can’t handle, but...”

Sumire takes a minute for herself.

“It’s not going well,” she said, her voice forceful as if coughing out her admittance, “I… I don’t even know what I want to do anymore,”

“I’m… I’m sorry to hear that, Sumire,” Rumi apologises to Sumire, her eyebrows knitted together with a sympathetic expression, “Do you still enjoy gymnastics?”

“I’m… I’m not even sure of that. My older sister… Kasumi… and I made a promise… We’d both compete and win the biggest gymnastics awards in the world… But...”

She again looked away from Rumi.

“She… passed away...” she swallowed, “She… protected me from a car...”

The incident. Rumi was aware, yet it was utterly heart-breaking to see the tears welling from Sumire’s eyes, her wide eyes. Her terrible, wide eyes as she leaned forward, now hiding her face from Rumi.

“I can’t, I can’t do it anymore, I can’t do this anymore, I can’t go on like this,” Sumire started to sob. The way her voice wailed, the tears down her framed eyes… Rumi gripped the frills of her lab coat... It was like Takuto all over again, “If Kasumi were here instead, I know she’d make her dream come true, only Kasumi could have done it, no matter how long I try to compete, it’s not going to change anything, it’s not going to...”

Sumire took a deep breath, hastily wiping the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, unconsciously tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“Please don’t apologize, you did nothing wrong, Sumire,” Rumi assured her, wanting to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, “Sometimes we just need to vent about our feelings, it’s perfectly natural to want to relieve bottled emotions; especially when dealing with a loss of a lost one,”

“Yeah,” Sumire mumbled, “It’s just… I can’t really deal with anything anymore. I can’t just go on, living like this. I’ve been feeling like this for a long time; everything I do, even when Kasumi was still...”

She chokes another sob.

“If Kasumi were here instead, I know she’d make her dream come true… Only Kasumi could achieve it. No matter how long I try to compete, it’s not going to change anything,”

Sumire looks at Rumi.

“I’m sorry,” she apologises again.

“It’s alright,” Rumi smiles comfortingly at her, “I don’t judge, and I’m glad that you’re able to at least confide with me what’s troubling you,”

Sumire looks down again.

“It’s just...” she starts, her gaze wandering, her voice trailing, “I…. I sometimes can’t help but think that… things would’ve been better if I was my sister… if I was Kasumi Yoshizawa… After all, just wishing to make her dream come true does nothing for her in real life... considering she’s...”

“You want to make her sister’s dream come true, huh?” Rumi muttered to herself in thought. Maybe…

She turned to smile at Sumire.

“I can see where you’re coming from, Yoshizawa,” Rumi said as she leaned back in her chair, “And really? Wanting to become someone else isn’t an entirely bad thing,”

“You… you think so?” Sumire asked with a confused expression.

“Of course! Everyone has the ability to change themselves - the only limit is your imagination! By imitating the actions of another person - asking yourself ‘what would this person do’ in a given situation - helps you better emulate them! Thought exercises that utilise this can lead to people eventually becoming like the target person themselves,”

Rumi leans closer to Sumire.

“Can you still imagine what your sister was like?”

“Yes...” Sumire said.

“Well, if your sister were in your shoes, what do you think she’d do?”

“Well, she wouldn’t cry,” Sumire started as she shook her head, “and if she had to, she’d just practice more instead...”

Sumire’s voice drifted into silence.

“Dr Tanaka...” her voice wavered, “I want… I want to become Kasumi,”

“I know, Sumire. And I’m sure you can, too! You just have to believe in yourself,”

Rumi could feel Azathoth in her heart. Her… friend… stirred. Sumire closed her eyes, reality flashed before her eyes, the familiar twisting and warping feeling around her subsided as fast as it came.

Kasumi’s eyes suddenly fluttered open. The light that flickered in them complimented her smile. She seemed happier; much happier.

“Are you feeling any better?” Rumi asks the girl, yet she felt that she knew the answer as Kasumi nodded happily.

“Yes!” Kasumi exclaimed, “I feel like a weight’s been lifted off of me!”

Rumi smiled.

“You’re amazing, Doctor!”

“I’m happy to help,” Rumi smiled, watching as Kasumi reached for her bag, “It seemed like my counselling approach did some good,”

Kasumi zipped opened her bag, reaching for something inside of it. She took out a ribbon and scooped some of her red hair, before tying it into a ponytail. She took off her glasses. And smiled at Rumi.

“Thank you again, Dr Tanaka. I’m not sure how to put it, but… I feel like I’ve been reborn all over again,”

“I’m glad to hear it, Yoshizawa!” Rumi said, “Now if you need anything else, or something else comes up, please don’t hesitate to come into my office, okay? We can just even have a chat, like today! And please feel free to have some snacks,”

“Thank you, Dr Tanaka. I would like to actually pick up from where we left off, talking about-”

Kasumi’s eyes suddenly widened in shock.

“Is something the matter?” Rumi inquired worryingly.

“It’s just that… now that I think about it… I’m not any good at cooking!” Kasumi laughed, “I don’t know why I said those things earlier. My younger sister’s the one who was really great at it,”

Rumi’s smile grew wider, admiring the work she’d done in front of her.

---

Rumi settled into the small sofa that sat in front of a small coffee table, pulling her lab coat inwards, the pendant that Takuto had given her clung proudly around her neck. She had to get used to the sharp smell of disinfectant that permeated throughout the relatively small room, her eyes scanning the various labels of bottles that were locked in the cabinet beside her. She had tried to make the room more comforting; her favourite sweets, one of the only things she had left of Takuto, sat on top of the table before her. The stark, buzzing lights above reflected against the multicoloured plastic, Rumi unconsciously reaching for them, before she motioned a delicate hand to the piping hot tea in front of her instead.

Shujin Academy. The school had purposely reached out for her as she left her old position, wanting to broaden her horizons and helped more people, especially the current youth of today. Her meeting with Sumire - now Kasumi - had opened her eyes on the mental health needs of the teenagers that inhabited the city; how oppressive the curriculum had become, and how many teenagers were drowning in their own depression and grief, most reaching the point of no return until they never realised it until they were suddenly teetering at the edge of a building.

Shiho Suzui, the catalyst of her prompt interview and hiring, the girl who had sent the school’s administration scrambling to find a counsellor, resulting in her immediate interview and hiring.

It was evident that the school only hired her to save their reputation, having heard about the abuse the volleyball team had to endure under the hands of an ex-Olympian Volleyball Coach, Suguru Kamoshida. Though she wasn’t aware of it back then, only hearing whispers about how a poor girl threw herself off the school roof intending to die, the revelation made her gag. How could abuses so severe be brushed under the rug?

The truth wasn’t the only thing that spurred her to take the job, rumours had been circulating about a vigilante group that slinked around the school that travelled among students as she wandered the halls towards her new office, a group only known as the Phantom Thieves. They had targeted Kamoshida if the rumours were to be believed; the ones who stole something from him… a ‘treasure’... one to enact a ‘change of heart’. She almost wished she was there to see the aftermath, as students regularly commented on how the man was reduced to a wailing, sobbing mess in front of the school, begging for forgiveness, wanting to end his life there and then. It was a sort of poetic justice when one of his victims, Ann Takamaki, called him out for being the coward he was.

But she didn’t trust them. Yes, they had enacted justice for those who needed it, but who’s to say that it was merely a facade to placate the public? To trick them into letting their guard down, before enacting crimes? Rumi did not trust this facade of vigilante justice, the word ‘thief’ alone soured her perspective towards them. Thieves, that work to bring the law unto the lawless? An oxymoron, their true intentions as murky as their identities.

Though she had her suspicions. On coming out from her interview, clambering down the steps she saw a sight that left her startled; three teenagers, students from the school appearing out of thin air, all huddled together around a phone in an alleyway. She managed to walk away before they saw her, the woman dazed and confused, and ever since witnessing such an event she pondered to herself: did those kids have the same powers she did?

She shook her head. It didn’t matter; what mattered to her the most was her need to save them from misery, to save them from pain and cruelty, and to ensure that crime on a wider scale was eradicated from the World. No one should suffer the same fate she did, the same grief Takuto and Sumire had to endure. She had Azathoth, had the power to change reality, and she had few scraps of Takuto’s notes hidden away, to be developed upon, to be used to achieve her own goal.

Rumi looked down at her clipboard. There were students she was told by the Principle himself to look out for, mostly ones that suffered under the hands of Kamoshida. There were three kids that stood out to her; they were the same ones that appeared spontaneously into existence that day in the alleyway in front of the school. The first one: an ex-track member named Ryuji Sakamoto; his dyed blond hair evident in the semi faded picture she had of him. The second one: Ann Takamaki; a victim of Kamoshida’s abuse and a friend of Shiho Suzui, the girl who jumped off the roof (and Rumi felt sympathetic towards her). And the third one: a transfer student currently on probation, Ren Amamiya; the delinquent.

Her gaze lingered at Amamiya’s portrait. His hair curled wildly upon his head, grey eyes staring at her behind thick-framed glasses. A delinquent… she would have to keep a close eye on him, she can’t allow him to spiral into a life of crime, she can’t allow him to become a criminal, like those thieves, those thieves turned murderers, who killed Takuto’s parents, who killed her Takuto…

Hearing the room’s door open snapped Rumi back into attention. She looked up to see sheepish grey eyes stare back at her. It was as if looking at Amamiya’s portrait had summoned him, the boy blinked sheepishly behind the door, his head poking out, wild hair sticking out in all directions.

“Excuse me,” he inquired politely, “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, not at all,” Rumi exclaimed, gesturing towards the seat in front of him, “Come on in!”

Her plan was in motion. Amamiya sat in front of her, ready to talk, Azathoth stirred in her head, power sparked at the end of her fingertips. Her new project, Amamiya, was the final push she would need before she had the confidence to spread her power towards all of reality. To fix the heart of a delinquent child, meant that she could save him. She could save all the troubled youths of the world and beyond.

Whether they knew it or not, she was going to save them.

She was going to save them all.

#persona #persona 5 #rumi #takuto maruki #dan's log #txt #mywriting #myfanfic

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macabre-musings · 3 years

Text

The Pensive Depth of Souls

When asked what is the nature of meaning I say it is to increase the number of ideas and the causal relations between them. Is this merely what meaning consists of? Is it nothing more than an increase?

*1a. I feel that meaning consists of ideas, their individual correlations, and that with which ideas we will utilize. In order to further our collective reasoning, as whole, this is essential.

*1b. I disagree with the notion that meaning is solely derived from an increase in ideas. There is more to life than the conscious mind. Humans use less than 20% of their brains with their conscious mind. The subconscious subliminally influences each and every one of our self-announced “arbitrary mannerisms.”

One example which to my mind creates meaning, gives rise to meaning is the instinct of preservation. The desire for sustenance. For to live we must supply our bodies with nourishment. Is this what meaning can be reduced to?

*2a. Although human needs are vital for our cumulative survival, all meaning cannot be reduced to this alone. To simply exist is not to live. It is to take up space. To fill the terrestrial void.

If it can what of those noble and lofty ideals and concepts in which some invest so great a meaning? Religion, Literature, Art, God, Justice, Love, and Beauty…

*2b. Life is generally an empty cycle, unless we, as a society, acknowledge that to have meaning, you must first show interest, attach motivation, and or emotion to the mundane tasks that are expected of us.

Firstly let us inquire into the nature of Beauty. For by beauty can be meant the loftier beauties of all Art and Divine Love; the Romantic beauty of the sublime or Absolute of which the German Romantics and philosophers so much discussed.

*3a. Beauty can both be objective and subjective. A topic can have a profound effect on how we may perceive the world and its current state of being. Art is a Divine Love of nature and living organisms. It’s an observance of the fleeting instances that we call, “small, still moments.” Some may consider it dull, and others may succumb to the intrigue of it all. Romantic beauty is dependent on the mutual allure one feels to another. Each of these scenarios is incumbent upon asking, what is love?

It encompasses all parts and aspects of life. A true gerund.

Absolute, to me, is an unshaken feeling of certainty. Few have the luxury of being in a constant state of certainty-- especially in the unfiltered digital age. We’ve become desensitized to what truly captures our minds and hearts.

And what universally captures the hearts of humanity? Beauty, in its rawest form. Purity or quality is an acquired criticism that comes with maturity.

Once one has happened upon a “coming-of-age” moment in their life, why is it that we yearn to divert our attention elsewhere?

Why do we remain lost in our pasts?

Sublime is to Divinity as Love is to Beauty. There is an undeniable magnetism between these four words.

Also by it can be meant mere aesthetic pleasure although there is overlap between these two as when our eyes fall upon a fair and comely personage our lust or concupiesce is called forth by their physical beauty although we may be appreciating their beauty in a loftier more poetic perhaps divine sense in that we see in their figure the characteristics with which they were endowed by the Creator.

*3b. Aesthetics alone has become a conduit of superficial vanity.

We adore our mirror so much that it reflects even the slightest “iniquities” or “mistakes.” What seems “fair and comely” to one could be repulsive to the other.

Lust and concupiscence are both learned emotional and physical states. An infant is born without any carnal knowledge whatsoever.

The irony in that which we must endure this same desire to procreate fascinates me; we’ve created a being so oblivious of its origins, it seems we are in an incessant state of perpetual self-recycling.

Idealism can both attract two star-crossed lovers into destiny, whilst simultaneously, another pair of beings are repelled apart in an abrupt, relentless end.

What is the ultimate meaning of beauty? In my mind the existence of Beauty means there is something beyond which we may someday learn. If this thing not be God the unmoved mover or first cause in the chain, it may be something which will reconcile everything. Everything will make sense all the evils, ills, misfortunes, why there is pain and suffering. In a flash of mystic light all will be clear, light will be shed upon everything. The Buddhists ascribe the existence of suffering to desire and if one is able to extinguish desire he may also end all suffering become enlightened and attain Nibbana. The blowing out of the candle. If death be not which is to my mind most likely the end of consciousness.

#collective #philosophy #monologue

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meistray · 4 years

Text

Summer Daze, Midnight Haze

Pairing: Minho x Jisung

I have no idea if this will turn into fluff or angst(maybe a mix of both?)

>idea blurb

•non idol AU

•fateful Baltic Sea trip leads the two together

(Tbh I only plan to use the idols' names and vague "on cam" personalities they display so don't at me for info I change about them in this fic)

P.p.s. I would have used my OCs (original characters) in this instead but….no one would connect with them enough here anyways, so next best thing was this pairing (my lowkey kpop fan ass is showing sorry unu).

>Mood setter

All I have is my aching soul

Lost wandering through this life

Where did you go?

A rainy Denmark night underneath the city lights

Fleeting moments, tragic ends, lasting memories, painful fights

Your electric soul took me by surprise

I look up at the deep sky wishing to once again meet your eyes.

(Sorry for all the slant rhymes)

>Hook

The memory of an electrifying trip would linger on two intertwined souls, whether or not they could bear the weight of finding their other half so early in life.

A family residing in Incheon, South Korea, though comfortable, was not the richest but had their fair share of travel experience. Jisung's mom had blurted out during one, initially, quiet family dinner, that it had been decided that their summer trip would be on a cruise sailing the Baltic Sea. Ultimately he was excited to actually travel somewhere new, but still undoubtedly annoyed that he wasn’t able to have much say in the trip that was supposedly his eighteenth birthday present. The days passed by monotonously, one spent buying a couple new clothing items, and another getting his hair cut to get rid of what was left of his old highlights. He was left with his natural dark brown locks which would be styled slightly wavy with a subtle off center part. Days turned to hours, and hours trickled down to minutes, until the morning of their flight finally came. He, and his parents, arrived at the airport, luggage in hand and butterflies in his stomach.

>cut to Minho

Minho and his family had been saving up for their upcoming trip for at least two years to ensure they could get as much enjoyment out of the cruise as they could. They weren't sure if the time or opportunity would present itself again, but what they do know is that they won't squander this chance to relax and let loose. His mom and dad wanted to go ham celebrating his nineteenth birthday since they sort of missed his eighteenth because of conflicting schedules the previous year. It wouldn't be long before they departed from Daegot-myeon.

When they finally settled into their plane seats Jisung had started dozing off while humming and leaning his head near the plane window, which framed the view of a beautiful blue tinted sky, peppered with fluffy white clouds highlighted by golden rays. Minho, plagued by broken earphones, had been mindlessly listening through his whole playlist, unable to be fully immersed due to the left earbud not functioning. The annoyance subsided when he heard hums and hushed fragmented singing, coming from the row behind him.

Time passes by peacefully, save for sounds of restless children, and occasional rustling of fellow passengers.

If it was possible to feel pain, sadness, and faltering hope from a person's voice all at once, this was the perfect combination to move Minho. It took all of his willpower to keep himself from turning in his seat to look at the source of the melodic whispers, and end up looking like a creep. Eventually he used what was left of that "will" to calm his mind and drift off to sleep. Not too long after, Jisung had also found himself encompassed in the warmth of sleep, eyes closing amidst the darkening hues of pink clouds and searing orange skies.

To be continued(if people like my dumpster fire lol)

#skz #stray kids #lee know #han jisung #Minho x Jisung #fluff #angst #skz angst #skz fluff #skz han #skz minho #skz minsung #imagery gimme aLL oF iT #maybe one day I can rewrite this but with my beloved OCs #fluff or angst only time will tell eyes emoji #Summer Daze Midnight Haze #SDMH

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anotherplacemag · 5 years

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O Hanami | Paul Kenny

The majority of my almost 50 year career making photographs has been focussed on the seashore. However I have constantly applied the same eye, the same sensibilities and the same techniques to the landscape. Looking at the micro, thinking about the macro, finding links between the insignificant material at our feet and bigger concerns of our place in the universe. Over the years, at certain times, these thoughts have coalesced and almost erupted into coherent groups of images.

Between 1995 and 1999 I made a large series of works utilising leaves picked up on walks in Scorton Woods, Lancashire. I called the work ‘Leaving’, and it formed part of my first ever London show in 1998.

In the spring of 1999 I travelled to Japan with a grant from the Sasakawa Foundation. While there I witnessed the phenomena of ‘O Hanami’, the festival honouring the brief, fleeting few days that cherry blossom covers the tree before being blown away by the wind.

I saw groups of businessmen sitting under the trees at lunchtime, applauding when the wind showered them with gossamer pink petal ‘snow’. I saw the TV special reports with ‘weather’ maps of the whole countr y with lines like isobars predicting the bursting out of blossom.

The literal translation of O Hanami from the Japanese is ‘flower watching’, the more poetic translation is ‘the celebration of transient beauty’. As the year came around and I began to see the repeat of the cycle, I wanted to punctuate the body of work with some form of conclusion so I revisited some negatives made following my return from Japan. I developed half-formed thoughts and ideas about an English ‘Hanami’ – fleeting manifestations of natural beauty of flowering Blackthorn, of paper thin sheets of silver birch bark or the slow firework explosions of cow parsley and hogweed in the hedgerows.

The same ideas and concerns again rose to the surface in 2003 when I spent 3 months as artist in residence at Mere Sands Wood, a nature reserve in Lancashire. Once again this was a very self contained “project” and work I was really proud of, however following an exhibition , I returned to the Seaworks themes.

The catalyst that allowed all these treads to join was a very harsh winter in Northumberland. We were completely snowed in for over three weeks around January 2011 and I was forced to stick close to home – trips to the beach were out of the question for about a month. This resulted in my field of vision being restricted; I was forced to work with the world around my feet. Teasing some scraps of natural material from under the snow or from the ice in the frozen garden pond, I began making a new body of work.

It was quite liberating, my concentration on the seashore had become the routine and I was glad to transfer the focus to new material: to challenge my eye, my artistic vision and my view of the world.

I sought out beauty and fragility in the scraps of gathered material from my garden and the hedgerows, mindful of my concerns about the landscape and the scars and marks left by man as the land is ordered and shaped, clipped and manicured.

As the winter moved on, dead hosta leaves evolved into relief maps; the wind lashed and stripped paper-thin sheets from the birches around the pond; the silver leaves of last summer’s bedding plants were flattened and creased by the weight of snow and ice; on a dog walk, the ash keys lay like an ordered shoal of goldfish on wet tarmac; the farmer clipped and levelled and straightened the few remaining hedgerows; at the entrance to my studio, blown from another garden, the dried heads of hydrangea flowers appeared; the slivers of windblown leaves sat frozen on the surface of the pond like scraps of maps or aerial photographs ... these and many more layers were the roots of the winter’s work.

As winter led into spring, I saw the possibility of forming a coherent body of work encompassing the whole year cycle. A series made from the landscape, about the landscape around home and studio, using material which follows the seasons and their cyclical pattern of brief but spectacular existence.

What evolved is a body of work I am really proud of.There is an arc of colour from the washed out tones of a hard winter, through the intense colour of a forget-me-not summer, to the rich sepia of autumn. There are references to my whole 40 years of work and comments about here and now.

The most recent works were made using material gathered on my daily dog walk from trees that were damaged during the heavy storms (Storm Ali and Bronagh September 2018)

The work contained in this book traces the development of my ideas but also the development of my practice as I moved from analog to digital, from monochrome to colour and from camera to scanning as my chosen method of capturing images.

website

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book - Paul’s beautiful series has just been published as a stunning casebound photobook by Kozu Books, and is available to pre-order now! Highly recommended folks... this book will be a thing of real beauty!

All images & text © Paul Kenny

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godkilller · 5 years

Text

❝ I hope we always get to do this, ❞ she spoke wistfully, punctuating her aspiration with the crisp plop of another pebble thrown into the cool waters. Beside her, the lounging deity hummed----thoughtful, though a signature stretching smile soon spread despite her vaguely serious sentiment.

❝ ...throw rocks into a lake? ❞ Gin teased. Rangiku scoffed. The familiarity of their exchange, the playfulness, the rolling of her eyes and puff of her cheeks... merely added to the serene normalcy of their getaway. As though they had always been together, here within the trees, for centuries.

The mountainous horizon met a summer sun with vigor, the vibrancy of life hardly disturbed by the cities and villages at its base----most who shallowly entered were merchants traveling for goods to trade, or hermits, and even then they dared not venture too deep into the mysterious woods far too ancient to be respectfully tamed. Old torii resided, dominated by extending greenery leeching across their faded red husks. No paths were pressed within the soft grass leading through the mountain, they departed from tentative trade routes swiftly under Gin’s leadership long before reaching their secret destination. Through thick foliage he guided her, insistent, and she trusted him to not lead her astray. Gin took her within its depths, past the silver rocks and twisted trees, further still into the army of ancient branches, towering trunks, and raging roots until they spilled into the mouth of a grand lake.

Water sparkling clear, they rested in a hidden valley of their own. A sanctuary from her human duties; the god could steal Rangiku away to be a little less of a mortal for a few hours... surrounded by all things ( unbeknownst to her ) spiritual... until she was required to retire home. There, they could spend hours undisturbed------though the present visit counted as merely her third time within the deity’s natural domain, she seemed comfortable enough to linger gladly. She stood without her typical elegant robes, fine fabrics, and rather freed herself in the simplicity of a plain outfit best suited for the summer days, wavy locks captured in a makeshift bun hanging loosely by the base of her neck. She looked beautiful.

❝ ----no, I meant... like, spending more time together like this. You’re always vanishing off somewhere or I’m too busy to sneak out. ❞ Rangiku persisted, defending her earlier statement with a signature pout, and Gin knew better than to even weakly mock her. Straightening up, the god appeared as anything but divine. Though silver strands did betray his facade of mortality with a tint of strangeness, a slight unique trait to be glimpsed at with uncertainty----the main betrayal resided in his eyes.

Though the shape-shifting deity could control all aspects of his appearance, whether human or not, it was a different gesture entirely to dismiss the vibrancy of the eyes. Keepers of the soul, it was widely considered by all celestial and dark alike as a great deception to cloud or otherwise alter the eyes with whatever power available. Demons and spirits could not cloak their eye color no matter the unnatural hue, though gods obeyed via unspoken pact, a promise made to not so shamefully deceive others of one’s true form. But the fox-like entity did not quite play to such clean-cut rules, a trickster and maker of mischief. Gin often remedied the tell by simply squinting his eyes to levels that rendered his vibrant gaze unseen. Though, with her, he felt an openness------especially considering Rangiku didn’t know the significance of their gazes meeting, nor the truth behind the potency of his azure eyes.

Her soul was exposed to him by a mere glimpse, she didn’t know. She couldn’t have known how he knew her with a gaze. Blurred beyond the curves of her body burned her very core, brilliant and tangible if he so wished to reach out and touch her. Brush slender fingers against the wispy humming light of her sheer existence past what soft skin sheltered her. Thoughts of keeping her fire burning for an eternity flowed through his mind, how he vehemently matched her wistful sentiment of wanting this, ALWAYS. What fate guided her to his shrine that night forever linked them. Love seemed far too human, too simple, but perhaps that was the joke of it all. How the bored god had desperately wished for a complication, for an issue to dissect, a puzzle to solve, something new and tangled for him to carefully and slowly unwrap, unravel... now, he wanted plain. Human. Their connection could be of a simpler nature; her, the chrysanthemum renowned within the Hanamachi she called home, and him, the boy from under the bridge. They could remain within their dynamic and he could watch her bloom. Perhaps he’d become her Danna, eventually, in another form. How selfish he became, wanting to encompass her in every way. Emotions expanded beyond the spectrum of colors available to a mere mortal’s soul----here, the divine’s 'soul’ gleamed with tendrils of unseen light, multitudes of flaring flourishes painted across the canvas, ink staining past describable hue. He thought himself incapable, and yet he still looked upon her with it. Enthralled, mesmerized, absolutely captivated, unable to pull away... the god had fallen in love with a human.

❝ ----------well, maybe soon y’won’t haveta sneak out anymore. ❞ He spoke smoothly, uninterested in touching upon his vanishing act. Omnipresence did not behave in the ways humans daydreamed about, but he couldn’t fault them for wishing it so. Gin didn’t enjoy his departure, but could not simply dwell as a pretend-mortal to forsake his divine duties. As nice as that idea sounded...

❝ Oooor... you could just stop disappearing randomly. ❞ She pushed the issue regardless, bent knees shifting against grass to scoot her frame closer to his in assertion.

❝ Where do ya think I go? Y’know, when I vanish and all? ❞ Silver tongue, refined, delicately dipped upon the topic. And he spoke with truth. Intrigue, genuine, tipped his chin upwards in observance of her. There his gaze watched, piercing blue as the cloudless heavens above, and there his gaze entered. Thoughts of him aimlessly wandering off to other cities to flirt among women or perhaps even capture one as a lover, forsaking every thought of her to be overcome with some sort of affair in secrecy, floated briefly in her mind. The image itself was sharp, a thought revisited perhaps or at the very least formulated with focus, worried, and tinges of concern for her own importance. His smile remained as she desperately swatted the concept from her immediate thoughts. He delved no deeper for her internal turmoil of an answer, curiosity appeased.

❝ I don’t know, that’s the whole point, you just---- ❞ she waved her hands, uncertain, then flopped them back beside her to absently grip upon blades of grass, tinkering with discarded pebbles and rocks that were of her previous attention. Now, the stress-relieving motion aided her through admittance. ❝ --and sometimes you’re gone for weeks. ❞

❝ I always come back though, right? ❞ He lacked any hesitation or uncertainty when he answered----nearing pride by the strength of his conviction: he would always return to her. Regardless, Rangiku whined at his answer, as she deemed it insufficient in terms of strength to chase away her insecurities, though he knew her better than to count a fleeting thought as her ultimate weakness. Over time it would brew, grow, or simmer depending on her emotions at that given moment. Whilst the concept itself upset her, she did not feel distraught nor did she strongly wish to confront him on the matter. The value she placed on their time spent together greatly exceeded her desire for answers----and for that, Gin was grateful. One day, perhaps, he’d indulge her with the truth in its entirety. He’d speak of ageless tales, otherworldly and far beyond human harvests, a quiet prayer spoken with coin dispensed. For today? He wished only to throw a few more rocks into a lake.

Rangiku sighed lightly, then smiled with warmth as she smoothed her thumb across a round stone she had captured idly to ease her nerves. Clouds receeded across her thoughts, and once more she embodied the very golden rays that danced within stray strands kissed by a gentle breeze. Delicate, yet dazzling.

❝ Mm... hey, Gin, can you promise me something? ❞

Perhaps the gesture was a tad too animalistic in nature----the simple cant of his head with eyes glinting beneath the shade of an arching branch----which therein indicated the attentive energies of someone far greater than a mere man. A promise was not made lightly, even within the mortal plains. What pacts of demons boasted was that of unending loyalty to their bonds despite the parasitic dynamic they presented, and spirits too held themselves to the standards of eternity within any connection made, any promise spoken, seals made. The shapeshifter deity existed in this same eternity, ingrained within the bloodstream of the ground they sat upon, the air they breathed. The very mountains they lay nestled between remained with integrity to their protective force promised upon the feeble villages below to stay off evils that endured for centuries.

TO WHAT END, THEN, WOULD HE KEEP HERS?

❝ Never change. ❞

#(thinking emoji)#dokuhai #[ ginran ] will you grow from the sorrow in me; the winter in us?#[ verse: inari ] he would name himself trickster; demon; before claiming divinity #[ drabble ] his silver tongue weaves words; but he doesn’t lie

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neveradiva · 5 years

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Idk if anyone's asked you this already but why do you ship karamel?

This is a loaded question and I’m trying to think of how to answer it without having my response turn into a five paragraph essay, but I’m not sure that’s going to happen. (And yes, even as a girl who likes girls who understands the want, the need for Supercorp, I’m going to try and explain myself without bringing that whole idea into this).

One of the beauties of television and the stories acted out on the shows we love is that each viewer has the ability to interpret them however they want, or however they need. When it comes to me in particular, I’m a writer who currently works in tv and wants to write tv someday. Even though there’s always going to be a bit of a fangirl who still lives inside of me, I also try to (and can’t help but to) watch shows and analyze the characters and how they’re written while reminding myself of what that whole process entails, what goes into running and producing a show, and the many minds who do AND don’t have say in the execution of all of it.

When it comes to television — and especially the making of it — I’ve found one phrase which encompasses the truth of it 99.9% of the time: There is no winning. Not for set PA’s, not for writers, not for production designers, not for costumers. Literally not for anyone. Mon-El is not a perfect character (because perfect characters do not exist) and Karamel is by no means a perfect ship. There are a handful of reasons why I ship Karamel. There are a multitude of reasons why I don’t.

I’m not going to outline and detail every single scene pertaining to why I do, but here’s what I will say…

This world is full of beings who are flawed and complex built upon a combination of nature, nurture, experiences, and dreams. A lot of the time, Mon-El is the antithesis of the kind of person Kara is and the life that she leads. He’s a liar, he’s an asshole at times, and he’s such a product of his nurture and his planet and his past. He’s not written to be a likable character, even with some of the comic relief that I think he added to the show, hence why so many fans don’t like him. He embodies the qualities of the anti-hero. He’s awful to Kara, he practically destroys everything he touches. Yet Kara’s human heart falls for him anyway because if there’s one sure-fire thing I’ve learned in my twenty-seven years of life it’s this: we can’t help or control who we fall in love with.

Their relationship isn’t the healthiest we’ve seen, but there was a realness to it and I can appreciate the struggle and the way it was written. Ultimately, I ship Kara with happiness, but happiness is also a fleeting emotion. I loved the way Karamel’s relationship took a toll on Kara, forced her to grow, broke her heart, and exhibited how she came out stronger on the other side because of it. I don’t think Mon-El casted a shadow over Kara’s character development; I think he played an important role in it. She may be Kryptonian, but her heart and emotions are human. They made one another happy at times, they clashed at times, and in the end, Kara was forced to make a decision to save the world and she had to break her own heart in doing so.

When people are forced to make a quick, world-shifting, traumatizing decision it can alter how they look at what once was. Grief is so overpowering. And grief is such an important part of Kara’s story in season 3, and the same goes for how she continues to evolve and grow while carrying the weight of it on her shoulders. I bet most of you reading this have gone through a heartbreaking breakup, right? Or you’ve lost someone you love. Grief is shitty but we all feel it, it’s something we all experience. I think grief and heartbreak are two things that Supergirl depicts so well within the show. Their depiction of it has made me feel less alone. That’s another reason why I ship their rollercoaster of a relationship.

So, in the end — if you’ve even made it this far — maybe it’s best for me to correct myself. Maybe I don’t ship Karamel, so to speak. Or at last not as an ‘endgame’ ship. Karamel was never written to last. But I ship their individual characters, how they interacted with one another, how they learned and grew because of one another, and their storyline as a whole for what it was, from what I took from it, the same way I ship Sanvers and theirs (but let’s not go down that rabbit hole).

There’s so much more I could write about this, but I’m going to leave it at that. Thanks for taking the time to listen to my opinion. I definitely appreciate all of yours.

#answered #anonymous #supergirl #karamel #kara danvers #mon-el

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capnjay21 · 5 years

Text

doubt truth to be a liar (never doubt I love) 1/1

I have missed writing for CS, so this is me throwing something back out into the ether and seeing who yells back. In the weeks that follow their return from the Underworld, Killian begins to question the new revelations that have changed everything. CS, with effusively referenced Milah/Killian.

Rating: T Words: 2,992 AO3

Even now, weeks on, Hell still clutches at his back.

It murmurs in his ear, brushes white hot caresses down his spine until he spasms, and conjures the scent of smoke and rotting flesh no matter how long he spends scrubbing his clothes to get it out. His neck occasionally smarts with phantom pain, and in hostile, fleeting flashes, the streets of his home burn in a mirage of orange and he panics, clutching at whomever is near to him to pull him back to the world above. In his quieter moments, he can hear the ground whispering, beckoning him back into the darkness underneath.

Zeus had put him back where he belonged, he daren’t doubt that; the souls of the departed do not always agree.

No matter how many times his friends suggest it might help, he does not return to the park. Not when a drop of his blood into the lake, the blood of a man restored, might lure the unworldly mist and summon the only beings with the power to drag him back to the Underworld. When he considers it, he cannot stop his breath from catching.

These are some of the new truths for Killian Jones. Not all, but some.

Others are far more pleasant.

Like the way he can wake up beside Emma in a house they call their own, and have her only tuck herself deeper into his side. The way he can join the Charmings for dinner at Granny’s without remark, how he can take Henry sailing when the weather is fair, how willing Regina is to trade barbs over a game of darts instead of a clash of wills; after their ordeals over the past year, he is finally a proud, welcome member of their family. It wasn’t just Emma’s quest to rescue him, it was all of theirs. He is happy. And when his soul burns red Killian can make love to Emma and she will be right there with him, loving him, begging for the sun to rise.

He loves Emma more than anything in any realm. This is not a new truth for Killian Jones.

What is, however, is the strength of that love. True Love, capital T, capital L. Emma lying atop him as an ancient door creaks open, you chose me. The most powerful magic of all, and he and Emma share it. That knowledge bolsters their interactions, pulls smiles from a light inside of him whenever it is mentioned, becomes the foundation for many a teasing jest mumbled into the juncture of her neck while she giggles into his shoulder.

Other than that, nothing feels different.

And it’s been gnawing away at him.

Emma Swan is his True Love. True Love like the kind that meant Snow White and Prince Charming could share a heart, the kind that could revive Henry from a sleeping curse, that could rescue entire worlds from darkness. With as much as he loves Emma, this does not feel entirely beyond the realm of reason. When they are together he feels like he can make entire kingdoms collide. That said, there wasn’t some shining moment he decided what he felt for her was pure — it built, it pounded against him gently first until it cascaded to a roar that nearly overwhelmed his senses. He didn’t know he felt it until he realised the ringing in his ears had already been there for what felt like centuries.

The only trouble is, this isn’t the only time he’s felt this way.

“What is it that makes love True?” he queries one afternoon, when he can suppress the question no longer. Beside him Snow starts, and he realises that although his thoughts have been full of their usual tumult, they had been working quite pleasantly in silence.

After lunch, David and Emma had been called away on some minor emergency on the other side of Storybrooke, and after they had insisted they would not need any assistance he had volunteered to stay with Snow and finish clearing up. They settled easily into a routine, her washing and him drying, and as he watched her he couldn’t help but imagine she was some sort of authority on the subject of True Love; she and David were the staple pair, surely. The story of Snow White and Prince Charming was practically synonymous with the concept. So, without thinking, he blurts the question forward.

When Snow turns to look at him curiously he feels a warm flush creep up from his collar, so he busies himself with putting a plate away, balancing the cloth on his hook.

“What do you mean?” she asks, not unkindly.

Killian offers an abashed shrug. “Just — this whole True Love palaver. I’m not entirely certain I understand it.”

Snow laughs. “I don’t know if there’s anything to understand,” she smiles as if he’s a child making a funny remark about something straightforward, and it irks him slightly. “You just feel it. You must know what I mean, you and Emma have it.”

“No, I do, I do feel it,” he says, drawing out the word, “I would do anything for Emma and she for me. What I mean is… who decides? Who decides when the love a heart feels is True or — or just regular love?”

(Is it wonderful, she had breathed, to travel so much?

He had told her of the air filled with spices, of distant queens in fleeting kingdoms —

— Sometimes he thinks he may have loved her even then.)

“Is there such a thing as regular love?”

“Well,” Killian scratches behind his ear, “not every impassioned couple has the ability to break a curse.”

“It’s not about that,” she turns fully to face him, drying her hands on a dishcloth. “It’s about building something together over time, it’s about sacrifice.” She lets out a long sigh. “I’ve never loved anybody like I love David. It’s just more. And those are all the answers I have, I’m afraid.”

She nudges his shoulder playfully with hers, and he knows she means to lighten the mood, but all she has said only vexes him further.

“I’m not a young man. I’ve loved before Emma,” it’s not quite a confession when the entirety of Storybrooke knew about his feud with the Crocodile, “fiercely. I would’ve easily given my life for her — I tried to, she didn’t let me.” He leans heavily against the counter, and although he can see Snow’s expression shifting into one of sympathy, he presses on. “But with all this talk of True Love, of its rarity, that you should consider yourself lucky to have felt it once…” Killian shrugs helplessly. “What does that mean for Milah?”

He feels a squeeze on his upper arm, sees Snow’s hand resting there. “Oh, Killian.”

“Did I not love her, then?” Three hundred years of all-encompassing grief and a vehement desire for revenge would, to him, suggest the contrary. Which left another possibility clutching suddenly at his insides with anguish. “Or did she not love me?”

The mere idea of it makes him seize up. She had risked Hades’ wrath to help Emma and the others get to him in the Underworld, and had lost her soul to eternal torment in the process. Even the satisfaction of knowing that Hades had been destroyed isn’t quite enough to soothe that particular ache. What if she had never truly loved him?

“Have you spoken to Emma about this?” Snow asks gently. Killian frowns, shakes his head. He doesn’t exactly think bringing up his past love is the most romantic of conversations. “I think you should.”

She’s probably right.

“But I will say this,” she continues, “what you and Emma have… it’s special. But it doesn’t make what came before any less so. We are all who we are because of our experiences.” She rises on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’ve fought hard for your happiness — please remember to enjoy it.”

She leaves him in the kitchen then, her words having done little to soothe his troubled mind.

-/-

Killian takes a moment to observe the house they have built together as Emma rises from her position nestled into his side on the sofa. She reaches for their discarded plates, and heads out into the kitchen.

The room had felt enormous when she had first welcomed him inside it, all bare walls and scarcely populated floor space — it had been a reflection, really, on the darkened state of her mind that found itself projected onto the even colder space around them. Even when she had led him to the telescope and the stunning view of the sea he found it hard to imagine making a home out of it. Yet, on their return from the Underworld, they had done exactly that.

A fire burns in the hearth, bright and warm, golden light flickering from memory to memory across the room. The once exposed walls are now lined with Henry’s schoolwork, with photos of the Charmings, of Regina, of Robin. Robin. The man whose soul had been lost because of Emma’s quest to save him. They both owe him so much, it had felt important to honour him some way as they moved forward; he would never be forgotten.

Killian had never even considered finding a home apart from the sea — he had been abandoned first on the ocean, lost his brother to its lure, it was hard to even fathom another person becoming a reason to maroon himself away from its natural pull. Yet when he sees pieces of the life he and Emma are just beginning to stitch together from their rags of broken things, it is impossible to ignore the reality. Anchored, but exquisitely happy.

Lost in thought, Killian only just realises Emma has been speaking, her voice floating above the running of the tap in the next room.

“I told him if he wanted that kind of ‘favour’ he’d need to ask Regina — and whaddya know, he asks to stay at hers an extra night. He’s as transparent as they come. Still,” she continues, and he can hear the padding of her socks on the floor bringing her nearer, “we don’t mind the extra night on our own, do we?”

Mary Margaret’s advice rings quietly in his ear, like a murmur. When Killian lifts his head to see her standing in the doorway, he is as always stunned by her beauty. Even dressed down for an evening spent in their house, she could not appear lovelier.

“Emma,” he says softly, and maybe it’s his tone or his mood all evening, but the utterance gives her pause, “may I talk to you about something?”

“Of course,” she responds automatically, and as she crosses the room and drops down next to him he can see the light furrow in her brow. He wants nothing more than to smooth it over with his thumb, kiss the uncertainty from the line of her mouth. Trepidation stays his hand.

When he doesn’t immediately respond, Emma turns to face him on the sofa and reaches a hand across to squeeze his arm. “You were thrashing about in your sleep again last night.”

Hades had him dangled above the river of lost souls, only that time Emma had not made it before he found oblivion.

“Is it —?”

“Aye,” he says, partly to stop her dwelling on the subject. They had spoken enough of his ordeal to last a lifetime. “But I find my mind is frayed with thoughts of a different kind.” She waits, her expression open and kind. It is so far from the walls she threw up the moment they met that his heart squeezes with gratitude — it becomes stifling to even consider revealing that which he had quietly admitted to her mother that morning. “I don’t want to hurt you, Swan.”

(And perhaps maybe a year ago, that comment may have spooked her.)

Emma lifts his hand and squeezes it. Quietly determined. “Go ahead.”

“Recently,” he starts, and it is difficult to find the words, “recently I can’t help feeling… I love you,” he hastens to assure her, “and I know you love me. That this love is true. We have proof of that.”

“No broken curses in sight but we did open a creepy old door.”

Killian breathes out a laugh to match the glimmer of amusement in her expression, the way her mouth is tugged gently into a smirk. He feels some of the tension in his shoulders ease away even as he is drawn back into solemnity.

“I just — recently, I can’t help but feel this… veneration of what lies between us makes me a traitor to an old love.”

Emma’s eyes dawn with understanding. She nods slowly once.

“Milah.”

“It sounds ridiculous.”

“Hey, I met her, remember?” Emma sidesteps his attempt at a dismissal with ease. “She was kind, and brave, and nothing about you wanting to honour her memory is ridiculous.”

Killian slips his hand out of Emma’s, runs it through his hair.

“I find myself doubting even that which I’ve always taken for truth. Did she and I not love each other as much as you and I do? Why is one hailed as True where the other just… was?” He sighs. “I even pestered your mother today, such is the extent of my anxiety.”

Was he merely a fool?

Emma had turned her face slightly away from him, staring into the hearth with a soft frown, thoughtful in its most open corners. It makes Killian squirm to see it, and he instantly wishes he hadn’t been so thoughtless as to follow Snow White’s advice.

(Of course she would advocate for total honesty, spilling secrets was practically her modus operandi).

“I’m sorry.” He means it with a depth and severity he cannot measure, and reaches for her hand again. “I want to just enjoy what we have. I wish I weren’t thinking this way.”

“I love that you are.”

A damn lucky fool.

Killian’s bemusement must have shown on his face, because Emma smiles kindly as if he were Henry asking for help with a particularly challenging mathematical problem.

“You think I haven’t had similar thoughts?” she muses. “I loved before you too, you know.”

A vision of Baelfire stuns him then, the familiar rush of guilt and anguish and sorrow coming to the fore before he attempts to soothe them with thoughts of the peace of their last encounter. With Emma’s love, quietly earned and steadfastly valued. He knows the young man would approve — he can feel it in the deepest chambers of his heart.

“Neal might not have always been brave, but he was when it counted. He died for me and Henry. You and me, we’re…” Emma hesitates, and he can see her searching for the right words to pluck from the space between them. “We’re different to Mom and Dad. They fought hard for their love, sure, but they’ve never lost. Not really. Not the way you and I have.”

(I love you, she had whispered, before crumpling into his arms —

— the beast had laughed, cackled, taunted the extent of his despair —

Is it wonderful, she had breathed, to travel so much?)

“I never thought I would love again after Neal. I imagine things were the same for you.”

He had spent 300 years convinced he never would, he never could. Had foregone all else in his pursuit of revenge.

Until he met her.

“Aye,” he agrees, needlessly. She knows the answer already.

“Then maybe —” Emma begins with a renewed sense of purpose, adjusts her position next to him, demands his full focus as she tosses some of her hair over her shoulder impatiently. “Maybe it’s not some secret power or magical authority that decides what’s different this time. Maybe it’s just us.”

He frowns, waits for her to continue.

“We chose each other, Killian. After everything that’s happened to us.”

He thinks back to the test that had engulfed him in flame, how Emma had launched herself at him instead of her own heart.

“You chose me,” he echoes that moment with wonder, his mouth beginning to lift into a smile.

She mirrors it. “And you chose me.” As she leans forward he meets her halfway, allows the gentlest press of her lips to his before she pulls back. “I wanted to believe in us, so I did. And here we are.”

And it’s a damn near perfect place to be.

“Here we are.”

“It doesn’t mean we loved them less. It just means we loved again.”

He has no idea if they have reached a real conclusion – whether the breadth of True Love can really be measured in such a way — but he figures if mystical scales buried under miles of rock beneath the mortal realm are authorised to make that judgement, then so are they. It mutes the stir of his mind, in any case. The Milah of his soul can continue to smile, unimpeded by the cloud of his own uncertainty. They had loved. Bloody hell, they had loved. And they had lost.

Zeus had made it clear enough; he was where he belonged now.

“I like that,” he decides, kissing her again because he can’t not do it.

“Me too.”

“I like you.”

Emma laughs, and it’s an open and honest sound. “Yeah, the feeling’s mutual.”

As the embers die he finds comfort with her long into the night. When they make love he watches stars burst around them, feels her warmth carry him into a dreamless sleep. With her, he need not worry where his home might be anymore. The earth does not beckon him beneath its shell, and as the dark stretches until morning he does not again doubt that the sun will rise.

He knows it with a certainty, a surety, one only born of the privilege to deeply love, and be loved deeply in return.

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fr3aklike-me · 2 years

Note

I’d lovingly help you put your shirt on, but why even wear a pretty bra when you could tease me by not wearing one? Letting me go the whole evening with that knowledge, knowing there’s one less piece of clothing I’d have to try and take off of you. I’d be all over you, pulling you into my lap and keeping you by my side, trying to work you up with my passing touches. When you slide my hand up to feel how wet you got I’d have to resist fingering right then and there. Or would you like that? Rubbing you under the table in front of all these people, we could get caught. I could tease your pussy a bit more there and then fuck you properly when we get home. I’d be so horny and needy I’d just lay you down on the closest thing, a couch, a table or whatever. I wouldn’t be able to take my hands off you

Yes that series is so pretty! And same I’d love to go there or to any of the places that he painted. I’d really like to go to his house and studio. His garden is where he painted water lilies! Also I’m sorry that your magazine idea got rejected, I forgot to say that in the last ask.

-✨

better yet, why don't I keep the bra on when you help me put the shirt on, tracing my back with your fingertips, but then, halfway through the party, take it off and see if you notice how the shapes of my breast are so much more prominent, how my nipples are sticking out. after that, you'd be left wondering at if I have it on or off. your fleeting touches would get me worked up faster than you know. casually brushing the back of your hand against mine, soft kisses along my neck, stroking my back. it'd get me shifting in arousal then and there. and you know me, don't you, baby? of course I want you rubbing me right there. knowing we got so needy for each other, aching to get at least some touch, would have me soaked. you rubbing your fingers on my clit over my panties would have me folding my lips to not breathe heavily. I'd wrap my fingers around your wrist, helping you move your hand in small circles as you continue talking to people as though my juices aren't coating seeping through the material onto your fingers. god, a sitting me on the table sounds nice - immediately standing between my legs and getting your mouth on my neck as I shake.

it is so beautiful! art like that that really encompasses nostalgia and almost looks like a hazy memory really gets to me. can you imagine doing a trip like that, hopping from spot to spot he painted and visiting them all? that would be such a great trip. omg okay, I'm immediately searing for pictures and videos his house and studio after this. seeing artists' studios is so interesting. my friend and I once went to this local art studio that had different artists' workplaces, and it was so cool to see where they do their planning. omg I didn't know that's where he painted the water lillies, thank you so much for telling me, that's so cool. and you're so sweet. it's okay, I was a bit bummed out, but you know, rejection is as inevitable as acceptance. plus, it was my first time submitting.

#answered asks #✨ anon

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moonsandstar-s · 6 years

Text

everyone knows you can’t let it go.

Summary: Sixteen minutes and forty-one seconds ago, she turned her back on love. Sixteen minutes since, she's fled from her own heart, lying like an open wound between her and Blake. Fifteen ago, she ran here, a howling speed that echoes down to the base of her spine.

Now Ilia counts the distance between then and now in terms of the moonlight's slanted silver across the floor: her heart will be blacker than Blake's eyes when she's through with her.

{ read on AO3 }

I am Ilia Amitola. I am a soldier. That doesn’t ring true in her mind. Irritated, she has another go at it from a different angle. I am. I am Ilia Amitola, I am a - She thinks for a moment, strips away the lie and replaces it. I am Ilia Amitola. And I am a goddamned coward. There, that’s better. By now, it’s midnight, and the ambush of the Belladonna manor is well underway. She would be surprised if Kali hasn’t already fallen, if Ghira isn’t the next to go. This isn’t a pleasant task and she wills it to be over as soon as possible. The memories of the Belladonna parents - Kali’s unwavering optimism, Ghira’s quiet strength - are stifling her with their proximity, and she’s already choking on guilt at the idea that she’s the orchestrator of their demises. They once fought on the same side. But now - Breathing shakily, Ilia dons her mask and closes her eyes, closing her eyes on the vision of the world seen through two slits. In the makeshift dark she seeks out her center of gravity, her tether to certainty, but it’s inexplicably gone, replaced by a yawning hollowness in her chest that induces the worst kind of nausea in her stomach. Beneath her feet, the balcony railing shifts warningly, the squeak a bare breath of noise in her controlled quiet. In the distance, she can hear pistol shots, shrieking, the shattering of the world as she knows it, but she remains aloft in her bubble of temporary peace. Temporary because she knows Yuma is out there, waiting to strike down the Belladonnas once Corsac and Fennec take out the house guards and weaken Ghira; temporary, because she’s still not sure of where she stands. Temporary, because what happened in the alley is a test, and she’s sure that Trifa and Gila won’t be able to hold Blake down long enough to transport her to Mistral. If she ever knew Blake at all, she knows that she’ll be here soon, guns blazing to protect her family. So here Ilia sits, waiting to assassinate the girl she once called her whole heart.

Atop her precarious perch - precarious, that’s more accurate, that’s the best description of this terrible limbo she’s stumbling through. Ilia feels like she’s swallowed the sun. There’s something scalding that swells and sinks in her chest like living light, encompassed by shadows so thick that she thinks nothing will ever be able to blot them out. What grates her nerves most of all is the idea that she can’t keep a leash on her heart enough to choke out the feelings that once drew breath and flickered with fire in Blake’s presence, feelings that are now encased in ice but still very much alive. What was once earnest is now bitter. What was once driven by passion is now pushed aside to make way for desperation. The taste of hope has decayed to desperation. But still, even now, the sight of amber eyes still makes her feel like a little girl again. And here she is, trying to extinguish their light. Ilia stares longingly up at the sky through the dusty window of grandeur that doesn’t belong to her. The shattered moon is a distorted thumbprint of pure white in the sea of shimmering velvet black. Winter has fallen across Menagerie in its frost-locked position at the bottom of the world, below - her heart shudders, constricts - always below, behind, too late. The spidery slant of the conifer’s shadows fall across the sheen of snow draped across Kuo Kuana. The world is incandescent with that strange sort of reflected light that bounces back from the dunes of white. There are four things she lets herself dream of in fleeting moments, only in complete solitude and silence and dark, secrets so shameful that she would rather surrender to her own demise than expose them to light and truth. Such moments don’t come along often, but she’s sustained these visions because they were all that ever brought her selfish happiness amid her fruitless fight for equality: four things. A world where she doesn’t need to keep control of her colors, her gruff mother and gentle father smiling at her, the Faunus coexisting in genuine, easy peace, and this, the secret she buries so deep that even in privacy she’s reluctant to dig it up: Blake’s lips, soft and warm against her own. Soldier. Coward.

Maybe she’s neither. Maybe she’s just the kind of broken you don’t bother fixing. She’d be loathe to admit it, but she misses the old days, the old Fang. Ghira’s White Fang, not Sienna’s and now Adam’s. Back when it was three of them, a fourteen-year-old and a thirteen-year-old and a seventeen-year-old. Blake’s triangular mask, Adam’s ferocious white swirled with scarlet, hers with horns and stripes. The justice-bound trio. Those days were sorrow followed by thrilling excitement followed by jealousy so tangible it almost used its cruel claws to extinguish her will to press on to tomorrow. Nobody knows what she’s been through; nobody knows the way she’s come. A myriad of yesterdays ago, she was the one who had to stand there every day and keep her eyes straight and check her poise while perfect Blake stood inches away, hand-in-hand with her perfect partner. Ilia had to watch Blake fall in love while she herself fell apart. Once upon a world there was a gentler time, and she knows she has that phrase backward, but it’s true. Sometimes, the White Fang would be forced to pack up and flee when they got too close to the violent villages, back under Ghira’s rule, when he fought more for keeping the uneasy peace between his people and their oppressors than for their liberation. It always seemed to happen in the winter months, and even though Blake had the option of nesting in the warmer tents when they finally settled back down after their flight from hatred, she never did. She’d seek out Ilia where she shivered on the outskirts of the camp, bare arms silver with ice and involuntary efforts to blend in with the snow, and lead her back to where the bonfires burned. Slowly, the ice melted to memory, and Ilia turned from silver back to bronze. Blake guided her into shelter, and they sat amid the crates and the burlap and canvas flaps that doubled up as blankets, sharing their body heat amid the bitter cold. Sometimes the clouds would part and through the tent flap, you could see the blinding sunrays fracture off the sparkling snow, but in their pretend bubble of flames and comfort, Blake would brush her shoulder against Ilia’s and their ankles would knock together. On the better days, they would lean against each other to preserve body heat. Atlas, for all its beauty, was fucking freezing. But Ilia never minded the cold back then - it was always amusing to see the sheen of ebony fur on Blake’s ears bristle shock-straight as if she could stay warm that way, always made Ilia’s heart trip up a few beats when Blake would rest her head against her shoulder, a low, content noise humming in the back of her throat, like the buzz of a bee dipping from flower to flower. Her hand would loop lazy circles through the dust on the tent floor, the contact points of her skin against Ilia’s sending pulses of static warmth through her veins. And sometimes because it made her smile, Ilia would send little shockwaves of rainbow rippling across her arms, to where their shoulders met. It was in one of these times that Ilia realized she was in love with Blake, not with any great romance or overtures, but with a mild surprise, like the sun had come out sooner than she had expected.

Below Ilia’s now-colorless arms, the door bangs open and the past rushes in. She’ll admit that it takes her a moment to comprehend that Blake Belladonna is standing below her with her eyes like flashes of fire and her arms dusted with the cobwebbed remnants of Trifa’s trap, but she comprehends it pretty fast all the same. A moment and nothing more. “So,” Ilia manages. “You escaped from the docks, did you?” “You bitch,” Blake snarls up at her. “You traitorous piece of scu- ” “I’m not the traitor.” Ilia fights back a flinch. “How did you manage to outwit Trifa and Gila, Blake?” “That’s none of your concern.” Blake’s teeth are showing. She’s never looked so much like a furious panther, just like her father. “If anything is anymore besides blind treachery and blinder loyalty.” “It was that boy, I would think,” Ilia snaps down to Blake, bitterness thick as the blood in her veins. If she ever loved, she wouldn’t know, because right about now, the sight of Blake sparks up more absolute hatred in her than she ever thought was possible. “That ignorant excuse of a Faunus. So you’ve finally learned the proper places to wager your faith, Blake. I wouldn’t call that a sure bet. Did he save you?”

“I saved myself,” Blake declares. “I saved myself from you.” Ilia narrows her eyes. “I’m not the danger here.” “Then we have to agree to disagree.” “As always. And we disagree on who needs to die tonight so that more can live free, Blake. Because your family will die.” Gambol Shroud is out and lying like a promise in Blake’s hand faster than the eye can follow. “So this is what the Fang has come to stand for,” she says, her voice strained with ragged grief and pain. “Ambushes and betrayal.” “For our place in the world,” Ilia corrects. “No matter the cost. Don’t you remember that much, at least? You used to fight alongside me, Blake.” “I don’t know who you are anymore,” Blake hisses. “And I would never fight on your side again, Ilia.” Ilia rises, coolly unsheathing her weapon in a fluid snap of the wrist, electric sparks dancing around its length. “That makes two of us.”

“You believe that these are the stepping-stones to reach the world you want?” Blake cries out. “How can you be so stupid?” “You think you can get to equality if you try hard enough,” Ilia snaps. “There’s no peace in persistence, Blake. The path you’re trying to walk doesn’t exist. Humans don’t understand restraint. They have only ever understood violence.” The air is crackling between them. Ilia releases the safety lever on her weapon, and Blake’s eyes narrow. “Is this what you want, Ilia? Because we can do this.” That’s the final straw for Ilia: she remembers her cheeks flooding with heat, Blake bound helpless at her feet, defiance exuding from every pore despite her position. Back in the darkened alley, it was some strange wraith that spoke through her mouth and forced out her confession and it’s the same wraith that consumes her now. “I loved you,” she says, and it’s almost on a cry, her vision breaking up like ice floes, blurring and shimmering with a strange light, some bleak inversion of the aurora borealis. “Every single day I knew you, I loved you so much it hurt to breathe, and you abandoned me like it was the easiest thing in the world to do, and even after you broke our life in two, Blake, God help me, I still love you.” Blake’s not tied up and vulnerable now, but the selfsame defiance still cloaks her like a mantle. “You love me, Ilia?” Blake’s eyes are strange, hard things, like bits of amber on a tree trunk, trapping and killing. “Very well. I believe you. Because you wouldn’t take any of the actions you have were it not in the name of love. Love for the Faunus, but you call the things you’ve done tonight love for me?” Her ears are pinned flat to her skull; her lip lifts with the barest hint of a feline’s snarl, a bruise slowly shadowing her cheek from her downward fall onto the concrete in the alleyway less than twenty minutes ago. “Love instills purity into the foulest of men and beasts, Ilia, but love has made a monster of you. Love isn’t something done to you as punishment. It’s a motivation that drives the actions you choose to take.” The unknown expression suddenly and violently transforms into a fury that’s alien on her face. “Do you imagine that you’re the only person on this planet who’s shackled and dying under the weight of unbearable love?” Blind with tears of rage and loathing, Ilia hurls herself at Blake, but she is a hurricane, and she is ready for the onslaught. It’s like slamming face-first into a brick wall. Beneath that deceptive mask are capable muscles, cruel ones, and Blake’s fingers sink into Ilia’s shoulders and yank her bodily around, flinging her to the floor with a crack of wood and bone. But Ilia is ready for that trick. She knows Blake’s way of fighting. She helped her mold it. She’s back on her feet and electricity crackles through her palms in one solitary whip of gold. At the drawing of her weapon, Blake opens fire, spitting flames towards her heart. Ilia lifts her arm, deflects one swarm of bullets, rolls to avoid the whip, and feels a tsunami of dark blue overtake her skin, melding to the darkness around them; clothed in shadows, she advances on Blake. “You think you hate me now?” Ilia snarls. “Think on weakness and blindness, Blake, and remember them! Remember for me now, because those are your legacies!” Blake’s elbow slams into her gut and throws her backward, and she slams Ilia’s shoulders into the ground in less than a second. Ilia draws breath to rise, but then it’s impossible, because Blake is on top of her and everything spins into shadow, then into light, dizzying and refocusing fast enough to turn the world to an out-of-control top. And then, as Ilia struggles to get to her feet, her Aura down from the shock of it, Blake shoots her. It takes a moment for the pain to register, but when it does, it plows into her like an avalanche and it’s all she can do to remain on her feet. Ilia’s mask falls away to the ground; she sways. The world swims in a rainbow before Ilia’s eyes, an epicenter of pain beginning at her shoulder and radiating out, and she stumbles - oh God - she - Soundlessly, Ilia collapses. Time seems to dilate. All of a sudden, Blake is looming over her, her eyes enormous and shimmering and agonized. “Ilia - “ “Fighter,” Ilia whispers, agony trembling like an electric current through her veins, making everything shimmer with a bright halo around her. “The bullet. I didn’t think you—you had it in you.” Blake lets out a soft hiss and makes as if to rise, and Ilia reaches out and seizes her wrist. “Stop. Don’t go, Blake, don’t leave me yet. Please… if I deserved anything—” Swimming in the eyes of her former best friend, her former world, and still the one she loves, is the frozen shadow of a little Faunus girl who trouped through the dust and litter brandishing a sign with a five-year-old’s messy scrawl of equality, heartbreakingly young. She never fell for Blake because of her courage. She fell for her hope. “I don’t know what you deserve for what you’ve done tonight.” Blake’s calloused hand closes over Ilia’s. “If not this.” “Still defiant, right?” Ilia shudders out a breath. “There are some things you need to know, Blake, please. Something terrible is coming, but you - don’t let me be hated now when I always was… please understand, Blake, I never wanted to hurt your family this way… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. There is nothing I… if there was some way I could take it back, if there was anything I could do to go back in time and prevent the world from dividing this way and our lives splitting up the way they did and tell you and my people I’m sorry and I just… I just can’t… ” “Not can’t.” Blake releases her hand and it drops sharply to the ground. “You won’t.” Ilia sucks in a sharp breath, laden with the swirls of gray-silver dust motes around them, a galaxy of ruin, tears streaking through the dirt and blood on her cheeks. “I… I know. The world is always the way it is. And I am the way I must be.” She takes a ragged, shuddering breath. “But I still ask you for one thing.” Blake is still, silent as the moment after thunder. “Forgive me,” Ilia breathes. “Because a day is drawing on quickly when forgiveness does not exist. The world is about to see war, Blake. But I cannot bear to see you standing on the wrong side.” And now, lightning in her eyes, darting back and forth, studying Ilia’s own. “For what, Ilia, do you beg forgiveness? For everything you’ve done? Do you really regret any of it?” “I regret the things that led us here,” Ilia chokes out. “But never the arms I bear to exonerate our people. You can’t ask that of me. Blake, please, I’m begging you - ”

“How can you possibly ask me for that redemption, Ilia?” Blake asks, an ache in her voice. “Do you think I can absolve you of something for which there can never be absolution? How could I ever give you that when you refused to show it to me, to my family?” Her amber eyes are agonized. “You held me suspended over a precipice of my life above and bottomless grief below, looked me straight in the eyes, and then let me fall. And yet…” Ilia waits, her breath still on her tongue. Echoing out through Blake’s soft words, there it is: her mantra, her belief. You must choose tomorrow. “And yet you used to be my family,” Blake murmurs. “And yet, you used to be the shelter succeeding the storm. Someday, Ilia. Make amends. Call off this attack. Go your own way, and pioneer after your own soul. Someday, these paths will cross again. And then, maybe once you have done these, I can find something like forgiveness for you.” She rises up to her feet, and helplessly, Ilia stares up at her, unable to think of anything but how much a reverse this is from only twenty-three minutes ago. “There’s terrible things to come? We knew that already. Go and be a harbinger of Adam’s war. Ride in with the swords, and see the blood you’ve wrought. But don’t blame me for fighting for peace even though I’ve never known it. You’re fighting for a world that’s never existed, too.”

Ilia hisses and clamps a hand to her shoulder; it meets a hot and slick wetness, the coppery stench of her own blood thick in her nose. Stumbling, slow, she manages to find solid ground on her feet, and to sway towards the door, Blake’s eyes drilling holes into her back all the while. “Goodbye,” Ilia whispers, not daring to turn around.

Only when she is outside does she hear Blake’s returning call of farewell, rising and lilting into the dead of night, soaring up to the floating shards of the moon itself. Agony finding a new pattern in her blood, Ilia lets the light shut out behind her, and staggers out into Menagerie.

A thin, paltry snow is falling outside, a flurrying pepper of gray dusting the ground like sugar, like ice. Ilia watches an icicle splinter and plummet from the eaves of this house she will never return to, pirouetting to the ground and burying itself into the white. Her blood stains the ground like the red lilies of Vacuo, spreading across the surface of a still lake, and now Ilia stands at the precipice of today and the black unknown, tethered only by the smallest shadow of amber eyes in the dark, and whispers back to the deaf night in the slimmest hope that somewhere, sometime, a pair of velvet ears and a knowing expression might resolve themselves out of the trees and look upon her one last time: “Forgive yourself.”

#RWBY #RWBY V5 #Ilia Amitola #Blake Belladonna #catmeleon #bellatola #calico #whatever the hell their ship name is idk

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bizarre-conception · 6 years

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Christmas-Present for Jovi [ @luciferborn ] ♡♡♡~

The shimmering lights in the grandeur of a castle, illuminated with countless of candles, with the subtle glimmering souls, set deeply in chests whenever they catch glimpse here and there about this or that murmuring little secret hushedly breathed into the warm and encompassing air. It’s beautiful. Embellished with scents unknown to anybody else [ and how they craved to hold and keep in arms, circled close as embrace, what never was theirs to touch, could be burned to ashes by the smallest grace ]. Scents they only breathe in around one another and carry themselves through any sense.

Their eyes. Their ears. Their noses. Their mouth, lips tingling with the delight, and subtle feel of thumb gracing along bottom lip - completely and utterly captivated by one another, drowning out whoever is just around them. Whoever might take place in the night.

It was amusing for those that know the pair. That were aware of the noble engagement’s antics, found delight in it and diversion settling deeply in eyes [ a drowning low chuckle as an answer to the song - before the next set rhythm would captivate them again ]. They danced - and danced. Forgotten was the whole surrounding in their swinging back and forth, cradling each other in adoring arms, to find a footing, find their steps. And each create a new reign, a new move, a new lead. It was unbeknownst to those around them, that they did not truly need to speak.

Words, those disposable little human creations, how they were replaced with songs of love and rhymes of adoration - each hum and breath - another tune to their everlasting lullaby. It’s a beautiful exposure of deeply settled love. Love unlike any other [ and nowhere ever to be found ]. She breathes when his hands do trace, do move and linger - set palm flat with one on slender waist. The sway of thoughts, to the sway of music, a dip that followed, set her a laughter to a chime. Draws a hum just moments later, when eyes of brilliantly darkened shine find his of hellfire furnace, burning so bright.

That chuckle that had broken the fine and lingering waltz - came from the man setting parade to the hour - that had invited them inside. Their dearest relative was surely smitten like any else [ but he, in comparison just, had permission, allowance, and would never raise a word ]. Let them dance, so Vlad thinks, seated aside on higher throne. Let them dance, and get lost, for their wars and fights are not long enough gone.

So they do, with each and every change of a song, with the way they laugh and smile and so far withdrawn. And suddenly, the notes do demand their setting steps to halt, so they stand just beside one another, would look at each other, not a single eye to be torn away [ nothing around them, past the ground beneath their feet, and the music singing with orchestra throughout the air, nothing just, was truly important here ]. They stare and watch and get lost inside each other. With hands interlinked, with their feet locked to another set of steps, following the known and rehearsed dance to a ballad, that was only natural, only a flowing cadence to a thrum. It’s an embellishing masterpiece they both are entangled in.

A beautiful tale spoken with pictures and movements sure alone.

They are a picture perfect engagement of pulchritude. The perfect harmony of yin and yang.Her clad in white. Him dressed in black. The way it clashes, and melts into another anew. She was like an angel so soft and clear - the purity of long flowing fabrics, gold and silver, here and there. He was like a storm, a devil in a human’s disguise - complimenting, with how he swallows her whole, and still was shining through her light.

Clean and clear, the whole place of ball just was.

None was to dare to step up with them, all were to made to leave them to their love. The next set of notes was driving them again. The next set of sounds, by violin and piano sung, was made for them to twirl anew. She fastens a hand upon his shoulder, has him guide her time and time around. He places a hand, along the hem and seams of her back, feeling pale skin, and the softness about. How they appeared just, like being taken out of dream. Of an age-old, centuries gone fairy tale, now breathed to life, within this time. Within these seconds ticking away [ does it not remind of those old stories told to children’s generations again and again? ]. Do they not feel and seem and move like taken out of a painting’s pulchritude?

Like they danced just out of something their Lord’s thoughts would allude?

As if they weren’t even real. Weren’t even people, beings with souls and hearts one was able to touch. Those softened sounds that swirled around them. Those thoughts and ideas, that set a smile to her husband’s lips [ she could have asked, could have inquired, it meant nothing at all - he would let her in soon enough ]. She laughs once again, with the whirl of feet spinning over the floor, his arm to raise higher, let her through with a pirouette, so that layers upon layers, made of satin and brocade, would dance with an unknown wind to the tune.

They were taken out of a dream. In the whisps of an upcoming night [ hauntingly beautiful nightmares in human forms ], brought to life. Just with each and every melodiousness catching strings of chords in the fine lining of adorned vest clinging perfectly to broad chest. How she just appears like a doll, held by silvery string attached to long fingers of her partner’s hold. How she swirls and moves - and was just surely free. Dancing with a love, unknown to mankind as a whole. She laughs again, before the next reign of captivating bells would break around them in fine crystalline waves. She laughs in the subtle purity of a caught up moment.

And winds arms around his neck, when once she’s dipped again.

Keeps him close and ever closer, pressed so tightly against him. She could have murmured words of love, could have whispered in a thousand different tongues. Could have turned and twisted him about, and smiles just like the new day’s birth. All those that try to listen in, greedily, eerily, disturbing picture of pure fervour’s worth. All those that wanted, what they were never permit to hold, drowned out with softness of a lingering kiss. A brush of lips. A breath in time, tasted, shared [ breathe in me, never leave me, bring me life as only I do live through you, for you ]. The softness of a fleeting moment, the rise of that slender, doll-like form.

He sets her back on her feet. Sets her back into reality’s time.

Sunken still in a dream of bliss. Never meant, to have reason or rhyme.

Applause around them, it meant little to none, for they only exist for one another, are never truly in favour’s gone. She’s endlessly smiling - with how she sees him anew and his eyes do light with a fire, dancing, singing, to a silent tune.

#luciferborn #♔ [ the sapphire depth of my own love... startles and warms and wounds my SOUL ] Alucard #{;;my edits}#♔ drabble #[ MERRY CHRISTMAS #♡♡♡♡~ I HOPE YOU LIKE THE THINGIE #it was fun to write 'v' /#♡♡♡ ]

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diamonddeposits · 6 years

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BEST TRACKS OF 2017-ARTISTS LIST #12

WOOZLES

Emotional rock as bright as a votive candle. Woozles is the avatar of Connecticut's very own Conor Ryan and in his sound he perfectly captures the essence of relationships between friends and lovers, the restlessness of days both good and bad and the enduring spirit to carry on even when life keeps giving you the hits. His Wasted Nights LP was released earlier this year via the venerable Z Tapes . In 2017 he will be gifting us more music. Here is his list with some thoughts on his favorite artists that did not make the cut!

2017 has been an awful year in general, but an incredible year for music. If I were to have not given myself limits on this end of the year list it would have included Tyler the Creator, Paramore, Khalid, Lorde, Deerhoof, Japanese Breakfast, Fleet Foxes, Grizzly Bear, Phoenix, Big Thief, and so many others. However, I wanted to try to focus on some "lesser known" bands that in my opinion might not have gotten the exposure they deserved this year. For anyone that just wants to listen instead of reading my rambling, here's a Spotify playlist of all the songs on this list that are available on Spotify. I hope you find some new hidden gems with this list and if you can be sure to support these artists! They need you!

01. Rose by Sam Nazz I can't pinpoint in words exactly what makes this song so magical. Sam's vocals are absolutely incredible and the melody melts my heart. The lyrics are still cryptic to me, but somehow still hold a lot of meaning. For whatever reason, listening to this song has helped calm me down on multiple occasions this year and has helped me through a lot.

02. Dark Red by Steve Lacy Wow this song is....amazing. The lyrics on this song hit hard for me and talk about dealing with anxiety in relationships, "What if she's fine / It's my mind that wrong." Steve's vocals are executed so well and I love the way the arrangement flows. There's a whole lot of amazing ideas packed into this three minute long song. This is going to be a bop for years to come.

03. Lake by Flossy Clouds First of all, I want to say that this entire album is amazing. As a whole, it lives in a very special sonic world all on its own that I love to revisit, especially when I need to step back from the things running through my mind. This song in particular is a highlight that blends a borderline trap drumbeat with cycling acoustic guitars and emotional auto-harmonized vocals. Lyrically, like the last song, it touches on anxiety in relationships, but ends on a hopeful note, "But I remember when we're on the road / It doesn't matter where we go"

04. Footscray Station by Camp Cope Everything about this song is so special. The way this song unfolds rips my heart apart and makes me feel some kind of hard to pinpoint nostalgia. The lyrics are packed with such specific imagery that by the end of the song I feel like I've just finished reading someone's diary. Not to mention that the vocal delivery is so packed with emotion that it's hard to not hear this song without having tears in my eyes.

05. Fault by Alex Napping Welcome to the heartbreak song with one of the best choruses of the year. It's a reflective song about feelings of guilt and blame in a relationship. The song builds a musical atmosphere that's painful and cathartic all at once. Not to mention, Alex's vocals are soaring on on this track, which elevates it to a whole other level.

06. Makin' Excuses by Mister Heavenly Here's another song where it was hard for me to pick just one song from an album. Mister Heavenly is an indie supergroup composed of Honus Honus (the front person of Man Man), Nick Thorburn (the front person of Islands), and Joe Plummer (the drummer of The Shins). This song is a bop through and through. It has an infectious groove that bursts into pure sonic fun during the impossible-to-not-sing-along-to chorus. Lyrically it's about the hesitation that can come with starting a relationship. That feeling of not wanting to open yourself up completely and just be yourself with another person. On top of all this, the video is weirdly endearing and super creative.

07. The Bus Song by Jay Som I can't say enough about how much I love this song and how much it means to me. The production on it is absolutely perfect, which is even more impressive when you consider that Melina Duterte wrote and recorded the whole album almost entirely by herself. The song is impeccably arranged and unfolds so perfectly. It's easily one of my favorite songs lyrically that I've heard in a long time, "Take time to figure it out / I'll be the one that sticks around" hits me so hard every single time I hear it. I've cried to this song more times than I'd like to admit, but it's also helped calm me down more times than I can count and I'm just so thankful that it exists. Also the music video might possibly be the most uplifting music video ever created.

08. Divinity by Jelani Sei Before I go on, you all should buy this EP immediately. Trust me, it's so worth it. The first time I saw this band live I was absolutely blown away. I'd never listened to their recorded material before, but I was absolutely floored by their performance and immediately fell in love with their sound. Listening to this song on headphones is such a special experience. The production is just so creative and well executed. The actual arrangement is so groovy with so many moving parts, but that all fit together into a cohesive whole. I love this band with all my heart and can't wait for them to become huge because they truly deserve it.

09. Gone by Queen Moo A staple of the Connecticut music scene, I've seen this band play live more than anyone else. On their sophomore album, Mean Well, they capture their own special brand of punk that twists and turns with an almost infinite amount of catchy hooks packed in. "Gone" is a highlight for me because it ebbs, flows, and builds so effortlessly both musically and lyrically. If you want a truly unique experience, treat yourself and dig into to this whole album. I promise it's worth it.

10. Bronxville (Gasoline Fantasy) by False Priest Holy shit. This song should be a an alternative rock hit immediately. This should be blasting as you're flying down a desert highway with the setting sun as a backdrop. I'm gonna admit that I've listened to this song 10+ times in a row because it's so damn catchy. Everything is mixed perfectly with each instrument having just the right amount of punch. The lyrics deal with feelings of restlessness and that creeping feeling we all sometimes have of wanting to leave a situation, whether physically or emotionally, "A full tank of gasoline / Is really all you could need."

12. Interstate Vision by Lomelda The lyrics to this song capture something special that a lot of artists try and fail to bottle in a song. The chorus is simple, but with Hannah's vocal delivery it becomes extremely powerful, "Can you feel me now? Do you know me yet?" I feel a whole lot of random nostalgia while listening to this one. It's a magical song.

13. Fit to Be Found by Harvey Trisdale This song is really special to me. It's the first single from my friend Jeremy's new band, who you might know as one of the songwriters in the band Furnsss (and his can't miss hit "Where Did My Pets Go?). We've been friends since 4th grade and he's one of the most talented musicians I know. Fit to Be Found is just ridiculously catchy and the dynamic builds throughout the song are perfect. Keep an eye out for the full album next year because it's going to blow you away.

14. Jacuzzi by Cheem Bop bop bop bop this is a major bop. Cheem's sophomore LP, "Downhill," is definitely one of my favorite albums of the year. Short songs packed to the brim with an incredible amount of extremely well-executed musical ideas. The chorus of "Jacuzzi" is catchy as hell, there's an awesome musical breakdown, the two vocalists (Sam and Skye) have some amazing vocal interplay, and the production is spotless. Lyrically it hits hard because it touches on dealing with mental health while trying to maintain a relationship, "You don't even know, the pressure that keeps me so low / Hold me close, I'll float away if you let me go."

15. Anywhere by Fuvk This song is from an album that's technically two EPs put together in one. These collections of songs are both heartbreaking. The production, especially when listened to on headphones, is all encompassing. Everything feels so close and painful words pour out over gently plucked guitars and instruments that pop in and out in these beautiful arrangements. "Anywhere" is the opener and it immediately sucks you in. It's best experienced while lying on your bed staring at the ceiling.

16. Need to Feel Your Love by Sheer Mag How can you listen to this song without grooving to it? I love everything about this song. Hooky guitar parts, powerful vocal delivery, a sweet bass groove, and "toasty" production to tie it all together. I love the lyrics for this song because they talk about wanting, as the song title says, to actually feel the love of someone else they're interested in. Both of the people in the song have been hesitant about opening up to the possibility of truly loving again, "I've been holding back so much / But at what cost?" In the end though, the chorus rings out as a proclamation of being willing to try again after all. It's a triumphant and dangerously catchy song that stays on repeat every time I put it on.

17. On Top by Hoops Is this a perfect dream pop song? Hell yeah it is. There's a real warmth to this production that brings the instrumental arrangement to the next level. First of all, "On Top" is ridiculously catchy, which as you can tell by now is something that I'm a sucker for. The real reason I love this song though is the lyrics because the chorus is essentially cheering you on through those hard days, "Keep your head up, you're doing fine / I know it's hard but you'll be alright." This sounds wildly cheesy, but when I'm having a bad day and I put this song on it really does help me to push through. Thanks, Hoops, for rooting for me.

#BEST OF 2017 #woozles #hoops #sheer mag #fuvk #cheem #harvey trisdale #lomelda #false priest #queen moon #jelani sei #jay som #mister heavenly #alex napping #camp cope #flossy clouds #sam nazz #steve lacey

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