#blame it on my emotional impermanence

[crushingcasanova]

meow

[mostlikelytofangirl]

This is maybe a bit personal but I can tell you from personal experience that abusive behavior doesn't necessarily come from a place of strategy. Abusive tendencies can come from places like:

"I need someone to blame (because the real culprit is inaccessible)"

"Make it stop make it stop make it STOP" <- the other person is providing some kind of trigger or stressor unintentionally and without malice, but the result is still that it's hurting you. So you will do anything to make it stop.

"You disagreeing with me (opinion) is you disagreeing with Me (identity)" <-sense of self is dependent upon 'winning'

"You can't leave. I can't be alone." <- fear of abandonment and loneliness

The difference between abusive tendencies and being an 'abuser' is merely habit. Sure, some people would rather find a convenient punching bag than try to actually deal with their issues and break those habits if given a choice, but not everyone is self aware enough to know that there is a choice. And some people who are still fuck it up. Every choice you tell yourself will be Just This Once can easily become a slippery slope to bad habits.

I've seen plenty of relationships go sour or fall apart because of the above. It sure sucks empathizing with both the abuser and the victims when you are supposed to believe the the abuser is one of Them, while you are one of Us, and you could never be Them.

Anyway, I've read fics of a lot of characters I love being abusive/abusers and liked them because their potential to be their Worst doesn't cancel out their potential to be their Best. We are multifaceted creatures with no true self constantly affected by the impermanence of nature ect ect.

Sorry for the long ask about abuse haha. None of these are even textbook, just observations. Reminding myself it's okay to disagree.

– Regular Anon

Hello again anon! Once again, sorry for the late reply ^^;

First of all, I just want to say that I'm sorry you went through this and I in no way try to invalidate it. You are fully entitled to how to experience your fandoming through the lense of your own life circumstances.

About the topic of abusers and abusive behavior, it is indeed much more complex than just "bad person does bad thing to another one". Maybe the way I expressed myself in the other reply could have suggested otherwise, but I didn't mean to imply that all abusers are these masterminds that know exactly what they are doing and plan everything. That's just the pattern of behavior they developed through their own circumstances for whatever reason it might be.

However, that's one heavy and delicate topic I'm not equiped to tackle, and honestly, neither do I have the mental and emotional energy to deep dive into orz.

I was just exposing my point of view about why I PERSONALLY and very BIASEDLY think that in JGY's case in particular, him being an abuser doesn't work for me, starting with the fact that FOR ME he is not a villain to begin with.

That was the core of your question, so that was what I focused on in a way that explained where I come from with my opinion. I can't in no humanly possible way account for every instance in which my opinion doesn't fit this or that other experience. This my own personal interpretation of this fictional guy in a fictional story, and neither should it serve as a sample of how I feel about real life abuse or any other irl situation (or we would start playing into antis' rethoric tbh, only able to enjoy pure media or putting disclaimers everywhere about how we don't condone this Bad Action from this Bad Character)

I think it's obivous that we stand on different sides on this issue and that's totally ok! I have no intention of trying to change your mind, I merely offer my opinion that your question requested ^^.

There's a lot of diversity in the fandom and always a fic for every need, so if you find that this portrayal of JGY is in-character for you, then all the power to you, I fully mean it! You are clearly the target audience the writers are trying to reach :D

For me tho, it doesn't, so I just don't engage with it bc fandom is a great place for exploration and meta, but also for unwinding after a long day and just have fun.

[chorusfm]

Sasha Alex Sloan Announces New Album

Sasha Alex Sloan will release Me Again on May 17th. Today she’s shared the title track. Sasha Alex Sloan has today announced her forthcoming album Me Again and shares the painstakingly beautiful title track. Written and recorded in Nashville, where she now lives with her husband and their many pets, Sloan’s third album, Me Again is a portrait of an artist in a state of unrest. With a career built on cheeky, at times irreverent, pop-inflected songs that directly pointed to her embattled emotional health, Me Again is Sloan fully realized. “With this album, I wanted to be more honest, because I was fucking sad,” she unveils.  On the heart-stopping title track, Sloan inhabits an earlier version of herself. Written a few years ago, Sloan had initially filed the song away, but rediscovering “Me Again” ignited a spark that would define the essence of this album. It’s a reminder that the past is ever present, but despite this, we keep moving forward, waving to the ghosts in the rearview. She assures herself on “Me Again” that life’s only promise is impermanence. “The perspective reflects how I felt writing this whole record,” she adds. “Kind of confused, hopeless, knowing there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, but now knowing how things are gonna play out or how I’m gonna get there.” Born and raised in the Boston area, Sasha Sloan started writing songs as a teenager and was accepted to the prestigious Berklee College of Music. Her schooling was cut short when, at 19, she signed a publishing deal and moved to Los Angeles. RCA released Sloan’s first EPs, Sad Girl, Loser, and Self-Portrait in quick succession, followed by her first two albums, Only Childand I Blame the World. Prolific output established Sloan as a wunderkind songwriter to watch, and she amassed songwriting and feature credits with artists as disparate as Juice WRLD, Idina Menzel, Charlie Puth, Kygo, and Sam Hunt. As her star rose, she played to late night audiences, amassed over five billion global streams, grew an audience of nine million monthly Spotify listeners, and went gold and platinum before turning thirty. Despite all of this, she was struggling. Last year, a month after she played Coachella, Sloan announced she was going independent, news that would surprise anyone observing her from the outside, thinking she’d really made it. “Suddenly the thing that made me happy, that made me who I was, gave me crippling anxiety,” Sloan said. “My whole life has been about music. I needed to slow down, to figure out who I was outside of that.”  Going independent forced Sloan to take responsibility for every aspect of the writing process: “It’s freeing but equally terrifying. I can’t hide behind anything. I made all of these choices.” To craft Me Again, Sloan had to act like no one would ever hear it. Aside from a few collaborative sessions with choice songwriters she trusted, like Joy Williams (the Civil Wars) and Ruston Kelly, Sloan wrote the entire album with her husband, King Henry, picking up a guitar or scribbling down a lyric as they went about their life as a couple. Sloan was determined that the instrumentation not distract from the plainspoken admissions in her lyrics, making the album feel like a conversation between intimates. “Me Again had to be simple and organic, like you can listen to it and imagine four people on the stage performing these songs.” --- Please consider becoming a member so we can keep bringing you stories like this one. ◎ https://chorus.fm/news/sasha-alex-sloan-announces-new-album/

[hopesandparachutes]

For Mark (06-07-23)

I felt so scared watching you perform during your recital. I was starting to fall hard for you. While you were playing, I was imagining that you were my boyfriend. I went to the restroom during the intermission because I had a hard time breathing. Being alone didn't help because I also felt socially anxious.

If only I were okay.

I wouldn't have run away if I were confident enough. I would've waited for you after your recital and then you would've introduced me to your friends

I wouldn't have been so anxious and excited for you to confess and I would've let you say how you felt for me at your own pace.

When the lockdown came right after we confessed our feelings, I was devastated. I wondered why we always seem to have bad timing. I sort of blame the pandemic. I guess it heightened our anxieties even more.

But even so, I shouldn't have felt insecure with the love we had. It's 10 fucking years in the making. If only I were okay.

I don't know if I will ever feel secure with anyone's feelings towards me. Emotional impermanence, trust issues, whatever it is. It's probably a survival skill I've learned, growing up in an unpredictable household. There were days when my dad loved me so much, when he'd just make me laugh, and days when he'd be so angry that I couldn't understand. From then on, I learned that people's feelings towards me are always subject to change. I want to say I believe you will love me forever, but I can't. Even if you say so. I'm really sorry about that. If only I were okay.

Thank you for trying to love and understand me. I was so busy trying to understand the people around me, so I never really took the time to understand myself. Thank you for pointing me to that direction.

I'm a mess and just really heartbroken right now. Feeling lost is a sign naman daw that you're recovering. You just showed me so many things that I never saw before, that it seems like my whole identity for the past 26 years is a lie. How did I grow up to be like this?

It's so hard to take in because I've lived my whole life as a recluse who has rejected all forms of affection. I'm literally a feral cat. But I guess it's easier for animals to relearn. I don't know how I will ever be okay.

But hmmm what happens when a feral cat that has learned to trust gets hurt again? Maybe that's how I feel right now. But it's okay, no one's perfect and it's not like you deliberately tried to hurt me. I'm just really so suspicious of love and affection.

Who am I underneath all these traumas and bad coping mechanisms? Nailibing na kaya ng buhay at di na humihinga? Or were you able to see me, underneath all my cuts and bruises?

I almost transferred schools during our third year.  I wonder how it must've been like if we never became seatmates. Maybe I wouldn't have known that I am capable of loving.

Thank you for staying by my side all these years.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Pendent.

Written for a very lovely, very patient anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Bokuto/Reader (Haikyuu!!).

Word Count: 2.0k.

TW: F. Reader, Toxic Relationships, Co-Dependency, Mention of Injury, Threats of Violence, Victim-Blaming.

[Part Two]

You were better, when you were on your own.

It might’ve been because you were so used to being alone. You’d never been one for social circles, the idea of spending time with people you barely liked for any longer than you deemed acceptable, and with how often your parents moved, how many schools you’d been through, your relationships were bound to be short-lived, if they ever formed at all. You didn’t hate it. You should’ve, you had every reason to, but you didn’t. You were good with impermanence, superficial flare that would never have time to die out. You were good with what you were used to. You were better, when you got to work within the barriers you’d already grown fond of.

That might’ve been why Bokuto felt like such a dead weight. You’d had boyfriends before, both short-term flings and partners persistent enough to try to make it long-distance, but you couldn’t say any of them had care quite as strongly as Bokuto had, none of them had taken as much effort to keep happy as Bokuto had. He didn’t just want your affection. He needed your time, too, your loyalty, your attention, all the things you weren’t sure you wanted to give him, just yet. If you’d been a better person, you might’ve tried to give him what he wanted, attempted to think of him as a companion rather than an unending list of repetitive tasks, but you weren’t. You didn’t want to be. You just didn’t work well with Bokuto. That was the problem, really – the two of you just did belong together.

Well, that and he was fucking crazy, obviously, but you were beginning to think you might’ve been the only one who noticed.

Konoha certainly didn’t, at least. If he had, he wouldn’t be so aggressive, his arms crossed as he kept you trapped in an isolated corner of the courtyard, the school day over and most students long-since gone. He was standing too close, his chest nearly touching yours, but the rest of the team wasn’t any better, mingling around you in a loose half-circle. They didn’t want to be as straight-forward as Konoha, clearly. They didn’t want to live with the guilt. When they walked away from this, and they would walk away from this, they wanted to be able to minimize their role, mark it down as an act of necessity. They didn’t want to have to remember you, and you could only hope they wouldn’t give you a reason to remember them.

But, if this was going to be anything like the first time they confronted you, you doubted you’d get that lucky.

In his defense, Konoha was blunt. If he planned on wasting your time, he didn’t seem to want to waste any more of it than he absolutely had to. “We had a deal.”

It was your turn to cross your arms, now, to scowl. You weren’t as imposing as they were, not on your own, but you’d like to think you could’ve stood your ground. “It wasn’t a deal,” You started, slowly, keeping your tone calm. This wouldn’t be any easier if they thought you were as irrational as their captain. “You asked me for a something, and I gave it to you. I did you a favor. I don’t owe you anything, and I certainly don’t have to stand around being yelled at by the person I tried to help.”

Konoha opened his mouth again, his eyes already narrowed and his lips pulled into a sharp scowl, but another boy stepped forward before he could get anything out, his expression slightly more passive, albeit still concerned. It wasn’t an improvement. If anything, the genuine worry written across his face only made him easier to villainize. He was worried about Bokuto, not you. This was about Bokuto. Your feelings hardly warranted a passing thought.

“What Akinori’s trying to say,” Komi started, his name resurfacing from the dozens of hours you’d spent watching their drills, attending their practice matches, melting into Bokuto’s side after he guilted you into eating lunch with his team, rather than the other girls you were still trying to impress. If you’d been any more emotional, you could’ve hated him for it, loathed him by association. It was almost a shame that you weren’t. “Is that we just think you were a little hasty. I mean, I know we put you up to it, but…” He trailed off, purposefully, clearly hoping you’d be nice enough to cut him off. Again, it was a shame that you weren’t, and Komi went on with a sigh. “We just think the two of you made a good pair. There’s no reason to go and ruin that just because he found out.”

Your head felt fuzzy. You wanted to sit down. It was a difficult sort of discomfort, disorienting and instantaneous, but you didn’t let yourself linger on it. If you did that, you’d have to explain yourself, make your argument more sympathetic than logical. You’d have to tell them about the arguments, the way he’d kissed you, the bruises on your arm that still hadn’t faded despite your dutiful avoidance. You’d have to admit there were bruises at all, and…

That wasn’t going to happen. You already knew it wasn’t going to happen.

“Cut the shit.” It took you a moment to notice Konoha was talking, turned towards his teammates and away from you. A few months ago, you might’ve taken it as an insult, but that might’ve been Bokuto’s one silver lining – you got used to being pushed into the background, when he was around. Hell, even when he wasn’t, sometimes. “He won’t play. He hasn’t come to school in a week. He can barely get out of bed. The poor guy’s a fucking wreck.” There was a pause, something similar to a groan. He didn’t have to tell you it was your fault, not when you could practically hear him thinking it, whether or not his lips moved. “It’s sad. He’s fucking miserable. If you saw it, you’d know what I mean.”

“That’s not my problem.” It wasn’t. Bokuto could’ve hurt you. For a moment, he’d looked like he wanted to hurt you. That wasn’t something you’d forgive with a few tears and a little sulking. “I’m not responsible for him. I don’t want to be responsible for him, and I never have. If you need a babysitter, you’re going to have to look somewhere else.”

“It’ll only be for a few more months.” Like always, Washio was calm, composed, cutting in before Konoha could provide a decent rebuttal. “Just until graduation. He’ll probably be over it, by then, and you won’t have to worry about any of us.”

Until the next moody third-year decides he wants a pick-me-up, too.

“I’m not interested.” You let yourself scoff, look of to the side, pretend you had better places to be. You did have better places to be. Anywhere would be better than this, as long as it meant you didn’t have to think about him. As long as it meant you didn’t have to think about Bokuto ever again, you’d do just about anything. “You saw the way he acted, I couldn’t look at someone else without having to worry about whether or not he’d lose his shit. I wasn’t happy. Fuck, I was a second away from losing my shit. You can’t ask me to go back to that just so you can win at... what? Volleyball?.” You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stop. You didn’t want to talk about this. If you were going to spill your guts to anyone, it wasn’t going to be a dozen teenage boys who thought the only way to make their dear captain happy was to torture you, intentionally or otherwise. “If it’s only a few months, then the rest of you can wait it out. This isn’t my burden. It’s not my problem, and I don’t care enough to pretend it is.”

You didn’t want to hear his response. You didn’t want a part of this fight. You tried to walk away, to push past him, but Konoha only stiffened, catching you by the arm before you could take a full step. You flinched, going rigid as soon as you felt his fist wrap around your wrist, but if he noticed the way you drew back, if he heard the soft, panicked noise that slipped through your parted lips, he didn’t bother apologizing. If anything, into only seemed to inflate his ego further, to make him even more self-righteous. Like he was the caring friend, and you were the stone-cold bitch who was finally starting to see the weight of the situation. Like he was the one in the right. You couldn’t blame him, on that front. No one would be willing to go this far unless they really believed their own bullshit.

“I don’t think you understand.” He was speaking slowly, now. If he hadn’t made it obvious he was willing to hit back, you might’ve been tempted to smack him. “We’re not asking.”

Oh. Right. That changed things.

It was all you could do not to let your voice shake, as you forced yourself to spit something out. “And what’s that supposed to mean, exactly?”

To his credit, Konoha didn’t try to make any idle threats. No, not right now, not when he was so determined to make himself the good guy. Not when it was already clear he’d convinced himself he’d do whatever he had to, as long as it was for Bokuto’s sake. “Bokuto needs this,” He said, instead, like it was all the explanation you could need. “Go back to him on your own. It’ll be easier, if you do.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you tore your eyes away from Konoha, scanning over the other athletes instead. You weren’t sure to look for, support or regret or just enough guilt to draw one or the other out, but you barely had a chance to look before your attention was drawn to a familiar face – Akaashi, standing at the edge of the group, eyes sheepishly focused on the ground. He’d been the first one you talked to, when you first transferred halfway through the year, the first person to offer to walk you home and to invite you to a game and to smile sympathetically, whenever you asked how long your ‘arrangement’ was supposed to last. You didn’t make friends, but if you did, you would’ve counted Akaashi as one. You tried not to get attached to people, but if you were any weaker, you’d be attached to Akaashi. He was a nice guy, despite the company he kept. You trusted him. Or, you would’ve liked to, at least. You could’ve, if you’d trusted yourself to.

You must’ve been staring for a second too long. By the time you thought to say something, he was already glancing up, consciously looking past you. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve thought he was embarrassed. Something near guilt, but not quite there. Empathy pulled in two different directions, but he’d already chosen one side over the other.  “I think it would be… better, if you apologized to Bokuto.” He was talking to you. That, you could be thankful for. At least he was talking to you, rather than whatever enemy the rest of his team must’ve morphed you into before deciding to go through with their little confrontation. “He loves you. You should’ve heard the way he sounded, after he found out.” He faltered, for a moment, but the display of vulnerability was short-lived. “If nothing else, he really does love you.”

It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. It shouldn’t have, you were sure of that.

That didn’t mean you could stop it from hurting, though.

You didn’t believe them. You weren’t convinced. You wanted to keep going, to try to talk them down, to do anything but roll over and throw yourself into the arms of their psychopathic captain, but suddenly, your throat felt dry, and it was all you could do to stay on your feet. You felt small, smaller than you had a minute ago. You felt vulnerable, even if you knew there was nothing they could do here, on school-grounds, where any passing teacher or student could see. You didn’t want to be here, you didn’t want to do this, but as you forced yourself to notice Akaashi’s careful aversion, how tightly Konoha was holding you…

You realized you might not have a choice, either way.

[stuckyfingers]

I think there are better ways to put than "ADHD Men= bad".

Disclaimer: my conclusions are based on what I've seen in my life. I don't expect it to be a universal truth.

Emotions are perceived differently between different genders, classes and races. So the same level of emotional dysregulation will be treated differently for different people, leading to their coping mechanisms being developed different. So there's an intersection between being fem presenting/ poc and also being neurodivergent.

In the case for men, unaddressed ADHD can manifest as the automatic emotional labor of the wife to accommodate a husband in all the ways other people won't.

HOWEVER,,

So does literally everything else. The difficulty here is not the fact that the husband is ADHD. Even a neurotypical husband in this society would have a similar effect on his wife.

This inequality getting more pronounced because of ADHD is not the fault of ADHD- it's the problem with how our society works.

I have friends with ADHD who I've had issues with, in terms of their neurodivergence, but since we know we're ND, we just talk it through. There's hardly any drama because it's understood that different people want different things.

They're open about their object impermanence and so I don't feel left out if they forget about me or anything. When I put off something becuase of ED, they don't blame me for being wilfully incompetent because they know I'm ADHD too.

We just TALK. So many things are better because we can TALK about it. The married couple I mentioned here doesn't do that.

I was avoiding my homework earlier so I ended up searching a bunch of info about ADHD and

Are the neurotypicals okay?

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Lost and Found

Prompt: Hello, you can ignore this but can you write Logince hurt/comfort?

look there's been too much character angst in my notes recently so I'm giving you no-one-is-at-fault-sweet-protective-boys h/c tonight

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none!

Pairings: logince can be platonic or romantic i don't care I'm to aroace to parse out which is which

Word Count: 3116

He’d just wanted to find Roman.

Or, Logan gets lost in the Imagination looking for Roman when the weather takes a turn.

He’d just wanted to find Roman.

Logan grits his teeth against the wind as he pushes further into the Imagination. His glasses get knocked askew by a particularly enthusiastic burst of wind and he winces, fixing them before shaking his head at himself.

“This isn’t real,” he mutters, still pushing forward, “this is the Imagination. It isn’t real. Nothing can really hurt me here.”

And Roman would never hurt me.

Logan turns. And turns. And turns. Where did he come from again?

Ah, yes, there’s the broken tree branch he stumbled into when he came into the clearing. That’s where he came from. So, logically, he should turn so that is at his back before continuing. Yes, that’s what he should do.

So he does, turning so that the tree branch is behind him and walking forward. Well, stumbling forward. There’s something wrong with his shoes, he decides as he looks down and sees his legs perfectly intact. Perhaps they are not ideal for slogging through windy forests. Which, alright, he cannot be fully blamed for, he was not intending on going on a quest today—he just wants to find Roman. They have plans today and they’d both been looking forward to them. So he needs to find Roman. Yes, that’s what he needs to do.

…where is Roman, again?

Logan frowns, still trying to hold his glasses in place against the wind that—if he were someone else, he would say it seems determined to strip him of them. But that’s ridiculous. Wind doesn’t have emotions or goals, and this wind isn’t real.

But then would that mean that it could have emotions or goals?

He shakes again and walks forward, narrowly dodging a broken tree branch. He winces as he stumbles into the trunk and narrowly avoids smashing his head into its side. He keeps going. It’s cold. It sends him more off-balance, sends him staggering into another tree. He reaches out to grip the bark and squeezes his eyes shut.

This isn’t real. I’m fine. I just need to find Roman and get out.

His fingers slip on the jagged bark as he pushes himself up. He moves forward.

Something hits his face. He flinches, hand coming up instinctively to block his path when something hits his hand. He flails, trying to swat it away, only for something else to hit his hand. And again. And again. He swipes at his face, trying to figure out what it is, what’s hitting him, only for his hand to come away damp.

Oh. It’s raining.

Indeed, his glasses become speckled with water droplets before he can fully come to this conclusion. His shirt begins to stick to his skin, his tie hangs limply, caught by the buttons. He grits his teeth anew and keeps pushing forward. Just get to Roman, just get to Roman.

…where is Roman?

Logan turns around. And turns. And turns.

He’s in a forest. Dark trees frown over him, the wind gleefully stripping bark and flinging it at him. He throws his arms up to protect his face. Rain stings as it slaps bare skin. It’s cold.

He turns once more and—

Smack!

Logan cries out as he stumbles, landing hard against the roots of a tree sprawled across the forest floor. His pants whine in protest as he collapses. His leg burns. A very quick, very absent-minded assessment says it’s not broken, not sprained, just scraped. But anything more than that would mean moving and the rain seems determined to pin him to the ground. The wind whistles against him, delighting in seeing him there, at the base of the tree, unable to move.

But he has to find Roman.

Roman will know what to do.

Roman won’t hurt him.

“Logan?” The wind starts to sound like Roman’s voice. “Logan? Logan, is that you? Logan!”

His eyes closed against the onslaught of bark, Logan reaches out, baring his arms to the wind, reaching for the voice that sounds too far away.

“Logan! Oh my stars, Logan, you’re hurt, what’re you doing here, come here—“

“R-roman?”

“Yes,” Roman says, and oh, there’s Roman, “I’m right here, my darling nerd, come on, come here, let’s just—let’s get you out of here. What are you doing here, you don’t even have a coat—“

“Thought I didn’t need one,” he slurs, belatedly realizing how warm Roman is, “not real.”

“Oh, Logan,” Roman sighs, fondness bleeding into his tone as he lifts—when did he get his arms around him?— Logan up and begins to walk, “you can’t solve all of your problems with object impermanence.”

“…watch me.”

“Gladly,” comes the murmur as a warm kiss is pressed against his forehead, “but not right now, hmm? Let’s get you warm.”

It takes a few moments of realizing that it’s over, he’s safe, he found Roman, for Logan to put the pieces together that he’s being carried out of Roman’s realm like a child.

“I can walk,” Logan protests, trying to free himself only to be thwarted by Roman’s hold, “you can put me down.”

“I’m sure I could, and I’m sure you can, sweetheart,” Roman murmurs, still walking without trying to put him down, “but you can also let me carry you.”

Logan does not pout, he doesn’t, as Roman walks them out of the Imagination. The wave of warm as they cross the threshold into Roman’s room grants him the immediate knowledge that had he been standing under his own power, the contrast would’ve sent him right back into Roman’s arms.

“Shh,” Roman says quietly when he lets out an unconscious gasp at how cold he must be, “shh, sweetheart, thankfully you’re not hypothermic. Let’s get you in the warm shower, okay?”

“No, wait—after drop, core temperature causes—“

“That’s when you’ve been swimming,” Roman corrects, still carrying Logan as they make it to the bathroom, “not out in the rain.”

“Oh.” Logan blinks. “I—didn’t mean to go swimming.”

Roman chuckles, setting him down carefully on the steps to the bathtub. He reaches up to gently take off Logan’s glasses, drying them on a soft towel and sliding them back on. Logan blinks, trying to orient himself in Roman’s bathroom.

“…has this room always been this…extravagant?”

He’s rewarded with another laugh from Roman as they look around. Really, the last time Logan remembers being in here, it had looked much like Thomas’s bathroom. Shower, mirror, toilet, sink, a few cabinets. But now—

Now he’s sitting on the steps up to a truly massive bathtub, across the room from an equally massive walk-in shower. The vanity looks large enough for him to lie across with room to spare, the two sinks just below enormous mirrors. The toilet looks like—well, a throne.

It’s a miracle of a bathroom.

“Janus helped me make it,” Roman says softly, calling his attention back with a gentle hand under his chin, “it doesn’t stay all the time, but when someone needs to be spoiled, this is what it looks like.”

“Who needs to be spoiled?”

Roman chucks him lightly under the chin. “You, sweetheart, you’re freezing. Come on, let’s get you into the shower. I’ll grab something soft for you to wear afterward.”

Logan nods, attempting to get up to do as Roman bids only to wince. Roman, turning away, immediately crouches back down, hands reaching in concern.

“Are you hurt, sweetheart,” he murmurs, looking him over, “can I help? What can I do?”

“I fell.” Logan stubbornly ignores the flush in his face as he gestures weakly toward his leg. “Tripped on a root, I think it’s scraped.”

Roman winces in sympathy, reaching to hover his hand over where Logan indicates. “Sometimes I swear those trees are trying to trip me.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Logan’s mouth. “It’s not Remus, is it?”

Roman laughs. “No, no, when he wants you on the ground, he doesn’t stop at passively trying to trip you. Trust me.”

“Oh, I’m aware.” Roman’s hand lands on the scrape and he sucks in air through his teeth. “There.”

“Mm, I can feel how warm it is. You poor thing…alright. There’s a first aid kit in the left drawer over there—yes, that one, and the stuff in the shower is meant to be gentle. I’d avoid trying to clean it fully, that’s going to hurt, but just enough to make sure there’s nothing in the wound.”

“I understand.”

Roman pats his knee and stands. “I’ll be just outside, take as long as you need. I’ll leave the clothes on the counter, okay?”

Logan tries to look up and winces. The bright lights and the white tile make it difficult to keep his eyes open without his glasses.

“…sweetheart?”

“Can it be—“ Logan waves his hand at the ceiling— “less?”

“Of course, here—give me your hand.” Roman helps him stand, slips his arm around his waist, and guides him to the shower. He presses Logan’s hand against the wall to feel the set of light switches. “There’s one that controls all the lights, one for the overhead, one for the shower light, and one for the fan.”

Logan clicks a couple of times until he can look up again, yellow light spilling into the shower area and only the shower area. “Thank you.”

“Always.” Roman kisses the back of his hand and leaves him be.

Peeling himself out of his damp clothes takes longer than he expected, but his frustration is tempered by the knowledge that he’s here, he found Roman, Roman would never let him be hurt in his own bathroom, and that it’s okay, now.

Everything is okay.

He leaves his clothes laid out on the steps, his glasses set on the counter nearest the shower. The curtain has the same weight as a key in his hand. The warm water beats down over his shoulders, flowing softer over his leg. He can’t see it too well in the soft light, but he can make out the angry red skin and it still feels too hot to the touch. He winces as the water hits the wound, turning so it hits his head first. After a moment, he lies down, the cool tiles beneath him the perfect contrast to the pitter-patter of warm water on his front.

Logan lies there, in the warm light, soft under the water, and remembers how to breathe.

When his chest no longer aches from the cold, he stands, shutting off the water and reaching for the towels. Oh, Roman must have heated towel racks; the towel he wraps himself in is so, so, warm. A noise escapes his mouth as he walks over to the pile of clothes left on the counter. A glance over his shoulder shows Roman must’ve come in while he was drifting. His wet clothes are gone too. He reaches for the dry ones only to wince when the towel rubs against the scrape on his leg.

Right.

He turns on the brighter lights, wincing and trying to see the full scope of the injury. It doesn’t look good; he’s scraped along most of his upper thigh, red and angry and too sore for him to rest his weight on. There’s probably not much he can do. It’s not severe enough to merit a full bandage and smearing any sort of cream over that much surface area just guarantees it’ll get on something he’d rather it didn’t. He sighs and exits the bathroom only to pause.

Oh, Roman’s turned his fairy lights on.

Roman glances up from under the strings of lights hanging around his room, smiling when he sees Logan and holding out his arms. The room is dim, not too dark that he can’t see, but not bright and shining as it normally is. Roman is still in his prince costume, looking every bit like he’s stepped out of a storybook. Logan suddenly feels very underdressed in the pajama shirt and shorts.

“Come here,” Roman calls when Logan hesitates, “let me have a look at you.”

Logan moves, making to sit next to Roman when Roman stops him with a hand on his hip.

“…did you not find the first aid kit?”

Oh. “There’s not much use in it. It’s not bad enough to cover and I—“

Roman moves his hand to touch the scrape and Logan flinches. At Roman’s fond yet disappointed look, something like shame bubbles up in his chest.

“…will you help me?”

“Always,” Roman says, pushing Logan’s hip, “now lie down. I’ll be right back.”

Logan lies down, worrying a little about getting anything on Roman’s bed only for Roman to hush any protests and tuck a pillow under his head.

“Don’t strain your neck. I’ll be right here.”

Logan tries, but as soon as he feels the bed sag behind him and the clunk of the first aid kit opening he tenses.

“Roman.”

“Yes?”

“I can’t—can’t do this. Not like this.” He shakes his head. “I can’t see you. I don’t know where you’re—when you’re going to touch me.”

“Okay.” Roman moves to crouch in front of him. “I still need to be able to see your leg. Can we try something else?”

They end up with Logan resting against Roman’s shoulder, his leg across Roman’s lap. Roman takes one of Logan’s hands and rests it on his arm.

“It’s on the outside of your thigh,” he says, “so I’m going to need you to turn it or I’m going to have to lean over. Either way, I won’t always be looking at you so if you need me to stop at any time, squeeze.”

Roman won’t hurt him. Roman won’t let him be hurt. His hands are gentle as he applies the cream, strong enough to hold Logan’s leg in place without it hurting. When he brushes a raw part of the scrape and Logan hisses, he rubs soothing circles into the skin with his thumb as Logan lets out a breath over a few seconds.

“Good.”

Only when Roman starts making sure the cream is properly rubbed in does Logan realize he’s focusing more on the dry warmth of Roman’s hand than the slight sting of the cream. He’s more focused on the slight furrow of Roman’s brow than the angry red welts on his leg. He’s more focused on the way his leg rests in Roman’s lap, in Roman’s grip, Roman’s arms flexing and relaxing under his hand than the slight strain of keeping his leg turned.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Roman, of course, can feel the moment he tenses, no matter how small, stopping his motions and looking up at Logan’s face. Logan, of course, would rather Roman didn’t look at his face right now and turns away, steadfastly focusing on the wound on his leg and not the way his face heats up under Roman’s focus. But then there are fingers under his chin that turn him back to Roman’s face and that’s not fair. Roman simply raises an eyebrow, wordlessly asking in a way that ensures Logan can’t speak.

Have Roman’s eyes always been that color brown?

He can see the moment realization clicks by the way Roman’s face softens, mouth curling up in the way it does when he’s about to tease Logan for the next hour. Logan flinches only for Roman to cup the side of his face and hold him still.

“Eyes closed now, Specs,” Roman murmurs instead, thumb running over his leg.

“W-what?”

“Close your eyes,” he repeats, “let me put the bandage on and we’ll be done.”

Logan opens his mouth again but Roman raises his eyebrows.

“Closed.”

He hears the gentle pull of the tape, feels Roman’s warm hands tape the gauze in place. Feels one of Roman’s arms hook under his leg, the other around his back, hears the soft thump of the covers as Roman stands, turns, and lays him down properly. He hushes the soft noise of surprise and snaps his fingers, the prince costume turning to pajama under Logan’s hand.

“We had plans,” Logan protests blearily as he feels Roman slide his glasses off his face, “we were going to—to—“

“To what, sweetheart,” comes the murmur next to his ear when he can’t finish his sentence, “what were we going to do?”

He grits his teeth in frustration, much to Roman’s amusement.

“Relax, Specs,” he chuckles, “it’s alright. I’ll be right here when you remember what we were going to do. In the meantime, why don’t you just lie here with me?”

Logan bites back a curse. Damn Roman for being as perceptive as he is, and damn him for knowing it’s working.

“Shh,” as a hand strokes his cheek, “none of that, now, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

“Should’ve known a prince could never resist a damsel in distress,” he bites out, just to have something to say.

“Oh? Is that why you came into the storm with no jacket?” Damn. “So I’d have to come save you? Logan, really, if you wanted my attention, you needn’t resort to such extremes.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he says in a way he hopes doesn’t sound as much like a whine as he thinks it does.

Judging by Roman’s chuckle, it’s definitely a whine. “Oh, Logan, you know you always have my attention.”

“Stop teasing.”

“I can’t help it,” he murmurs, “you’re so teaseable.”

“That’s not a word.”

“It is now.” Before he can open his mouth again, there’s a kiss pressed to his cheek and warm arms around him. “Now shush, my dearest nerd, and rest. My damsel’s hurt.”

Through the rapidly growing drowsiness, Logan manages to mutter: “not your damsel.”

“Of course not,” Roman coos, “you’re my Logan.”

“Roman!”

He laughs again, a hand coming up to ruffle his damp hair. “Come here, roll onto your side—yes, that’s it. There. Let me hold you. This way you won’t roll onto the scrape and hurt yourself.”

Roman’s leg wraps through his, drawing him into a gentle pin. Nothing that will work if Logan actually wants to be free—and he knows Roman would let him go the instant he asks. The hand in his hair threatens to lull him right to sleep, but not before he says thank you.

“Anything for you, sweetheart,” comes the reply, the other hand scratching lightly between his shoulder blades, “now you just lie there and fall asleep to me.”

Just before he slips under, he hears one last whisper.

“Me too, Logan, me too.”

Logan drifts off in Roman’s arms, safe, warm, found.

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[just-dreaming-marvel]

I’m From Brooklyn, Too ~ 142

OUT OF TIME MASTERLIST

I’M FROM BROOKLYN, TOO MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,065ish

Summary: Y/N tells Tony the truth, after all this time. The Team learns about the Stones.

Notes: You must read Out Of Time in order to understand this. The chapter numbers continue from Out Of Time. (Gifs are not mine.)

Previous on Out Of Time…

“Tony…” She tried to turn away, but Tony grabbed onto her arms, keeping her facing him.

“No, you don’t get to run away right now. I need an answer. If we’re going to do this, bring everyone back. I need to know the truth, once and for all. That I wasn’t the second choice, that I wasn’t just the only option so you went for it… So, tell me, would you have chosen me if Barnes was still here?”

Y/N pursed her lips and looked away, staying silent. But that was enough of an answer for Tony. Tony scoffed softly and shook his head.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Tony said. “In some twisted up way, I’ve always seen this coming.”

“Tony,” emotions were building in her throat and eyes as she said his name. “I’m so very sorry.”

“That day you were trying to tell me something and i was rambling on about my dream about Morgan… you were trying to end this… Weren’t you?”

“Yes,” she cried. “I’m so sorry. You have to believe me when I say that I love you so much too. It’s just… he’s—“

“Your first.” Tony sighed as he ran his hand down his face. “I don’t know how I thought I could even compare to what you two have… a love that transcends time.”

“I’m so sorry, Tony.” She grasped onto his hand, scared to lose him even still. “I really am… And I really do love you.”

“I know, cause you wouldn’t have stuck around if you didn’t.” Tony pulled away from her and started to walk away.

“Where are you going?”

“I need a moment.” He turned and quickly have her head a kiss. “Go to bed. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Then he left without another word, shutting the door to their bedroom behind him. Y/N burst into sobs. Yes, she loved Bucky and he was the one she wanted. But she loved Tony and had grown used to the life they had made together. 

And if this plan didn’t work, Y/N knew she had just destroyed her daughter’s family.

~~~

Morning came and it was clear to everyone that there was something wrong with Y/N and Tony. Everyone was just too afraid or preoccupied to say anything. They ate breakfast in different rooms and when it came time for them to gather with the team to talk about the Stones, they placed themselves on opposite ends of the room.

“What’s going on?” Natasha whispered to Y/N. 

Y/N bit her lip as she answered with a shake of her head, unable to look at Natasha. Taking a hint, Nat reached over and held Y/N’s hand as Steve began.

“Okay, so the how works,” Steve said. “Now we gotta figure out the when and the where. Almost all of us has had an encounter with at least one of the six Infinity Stones.”

“Well I'd substitute the word encounter for damn well near been killed by one of the six Infinity Stones,” Tony said. “Or is connected with them.” 

Y/N took in a harsh breath as she felt the stares of everyone in the room. Natasha gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Glancing towards Tony, she met his gaze. He looked heartbroken, which was breaking Y/N.

“I haven’t,” Scott cut in. “I don't even know what the hell you're all talking about.”

“Regardless, we only have enough Pym Particles for one round trip each,” Bruce stated. “And these Stones have been in a lot of different places throughout history.”

“Our history,” Tony corrected. “So, not a lot of convenient spots to just drop in.”

“Which means we have to pick our targets,” Clint said.

“Correct.”

“Let’s start with the Aether,” Steve suggested. “Thor, what do you know?”

Everyone turned to look back at Thor. He was sitting on a chair, beer in hand and sunglasses on. Unmoving.

“Is he asleep?” Natasha questioned.

“No,” Rhodey responded. “I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

Tony gently woke up Thor and helped him stand in front of the group.

“Where to start?” Thor asked himself, clearly still out of it. “Umm... The Aether, first, is not a stone, someone called it a stone before. It's more of a... an angry sludge thing, so... someones gonna need to amend that. Here's an interesting story though, many years ago... My grandfather had to hide the stones from the Dark Elves…” He wiggled his fingers. “Woooooh, scary beings. So Jane,” an image of Jane Foster popped up on the screen. “Oh, there she is. That’s Jane… She’s… an old flame of mine… she… she stuck her hand inside a rock this one time… and then the Aether stuck itself inside her... And, she became very, very sick.” 

“So I had to take her to Asgard, which is where I'm from,” Thor continued. “And we had to try and fix her. We were dating at the time, you see. I got to introduce her to my Mother... who's dead,” everyone was trying to give their full attention to Thor as he began to look broken and rambled on, “and oh you know, Jane and I aren't even dating anymore, these things happen though you know, nothing last forever,” Tony went up to him, guiding him back to his chair. “I'm not done yet, the only thing permanent in life is impermanence.”

“Awesome,” Tony responded, keeping a hold of him. “Eggs? Breakfast?”

“I’d like a Bloody Mary, thank you.”

“Alright, maybe we stop for breakfast,” Steve cut in. “We’ll reconvene later.”

Y/N was the first person out of the room, with Natasha hot on her tail.

“Y/N! Y/N, stop!” Y/N ignored her friends call. “Y/N.” Natasha grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a side room, locking the door. “Talk.” She stood in front of the door, blocking Y/N’s only way out.

“I screwed up my marriage,” Y/N whispered, unable to meet Nat’s gaze.

“What? How?”

Y/N gasped for air, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Because I’m still in love with Bucky… and Tony asked, and I couldn’t lie. Not to him, not anymore.”

“But you love Tony too.”

“I do. It’s just not the same… And no matter the outcome of this plan, I’ve now ruined my child’s family.” Y/N’s arm trembled as it went up to cover her mouth. “I did that… I will be the one to cause my own child pain. How—how could I do that to her? How could I fail another one of my children?” “You didn’t fail—“

“But I did! I failed AJ and now I have failed Morgan. If… If this works, and we all make it, I wouldn’t blame Tony for wanting to take her away from me. And I think I’d let him.”

“I would never do that to Morgan,” Tony’s voice cut in, making Y/N jump in surprise. 

He had been listening through the door and decided he couldn’t standby and listen anymore. Tony slipped into the room and Natasha quickly took her leave, shutting the door behind her.

“I would never do that to you either,” Tony continued. “Because, damn-it Y/N, I love you more than anything. Even after finding out the truth last night. You will always be it for me. No matter what. And because of that, I would never do anything to hurt you, including taking Morgan away from you.” Tony sighed. “I was up all night thinking about how to react to this. And just me, I wanted to freak. But I couldn’t get myself to, because I still love you.”

“What do you want to do?” Y/N meekly asked.

“I want to go through with the plan and then figure it out. Worry about one thing at a time.” Tony carefully walked up and took Y/N’s hands. He looked down at them, running his fingers across hers. “I… If… If this all works out, and we get everyone back, I want you to know that I’ll let you go.”

“Tony—“

“Let me finish. I’m trying to be the good man for once, okay? Just let me have this moment. Though I really want to be selfish with you… cause it’s you.” Y/N nodded, allowing him to continue without interruption. “I… I will let you go, if that’s what you want. If that is what will make you happy. I can live with that… I’ve only ever wanted your happiness. And I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I stepped in the way of that.”

“I’m so sorry, Tony. I need you to know that I really am.”

“I know…” Tony pulled her into his chest, cradling her head close. Y/N latched onto him. “I know…”

“We’re going to make it through this, right?” She whispered after a few minutes of silence, just holding onto each other.

He pressed a kiss to her head. “Always.”

~~~

The rest of the day was focused on making the quantum suits for everyone and gathering more information on the Stones. They gathered together once again for dinner, where Rocket was answering questions about the Power Stone.

“Quill said he stole the Power Stone from Morag,” Rocket told everyone.

“Is that a person?” Scott asked.

“Morag’s a planet. Quill was a person.”

“A planet? Like in outer space?”

“Oh, look. It's like a little puppy, all happy and everything.” Rocket changed his tone to one that he was use when talking to a puppy. “Do you wanna go to space? You wanna go to space, puppy? I'll get you to space.”

“Alright, Rocket,” Steve said, stopping the raccoon from making Scott feel worse. “Explain to us how the Power Stone works.”

“It has the ability to destroy whole planets.”

“It is the most destructive of all the Stones,” Y/N spoke up quietly, causing everyone to look at her. “The power is… tremendous, in the most terrifying of ways. I’ve felt it.”

“Right. You’re connected to the Stones.”

“I was, until Thanos destroyed them.” Y/N focused on her food, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone. Tony set a hand on her knee, trying to be supportive.

“How much do you know about the Stones?” Steve asked.

“A lot, yet nothing. They’re so complex and they are each their own being, and each the same being. I know more about their powers and capabilities than anything else.” 

She finally looked up to look at Steve. He was clearly unhappy with her. Probably feeling like she purposefully kept everything about the Stones from him, which wouldn’t exactly be a lie. But Y/N felt that she was doing what she had to, to protect the people she cares about.

“How about we wrap it up for the night and talk about this more in the morning?” Tony suggested, trying to help Y/N out of this mess.

That only made Y/N feel more guilty. She knew that she had basically crushed Tony's heart, yet he was still protecting her. She awkwardly looked down at her lap, nervously fiddling with her fingers.

“I think we need answers,” Steve retorted, angry eyes never leaving Y/N.

“And I think we all need to sleep on it for a night,” Tony argued, glaring at Steve. He stood up, pulling Y/N will him. “Come on, honey. We’re going to bed.” 

Tony guided Y/N out of the room and to their bedroom. As he shut the door, Y/N struggled to hold back the tears.

“I-I’m so sor-ry,” she stuttered. She was shaking. Tony quickly came over and guided her to set on the edge of the bed, with him kneeling in front of her. “I’m… s-s-o…sorry.”

“Hey, shhh,” he cupped her check, catching the tears. “Stop apologizing.”

“B-but I should h-ha-ve been… more o-open with ev-everyone… I should have told everyone everything about the Stones.” 

She hid her head in her hands as she broke down. Tony stayed kneeling in front of her, hands on her knees to comfort her. He knew there was nothing that he could say to make her feel better. Y/N needed to let it all out, feel all the emotions running through her.

next chapter >

I’M SO EXCITED TO SHOW YOU ALL WHAT I HAVE PLANNED! I hope that this chapter didn’t disappoint. I was really nervous to post it.

I appreciate all likes, comments, asks, and reblogs! Thank you for all the positive support!

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[yutaya]

Unfortunately, Ward isn't automatically rid of Harold once he kills him. Either time.

Harold is there every time Ward hurts someone that was trying to reach out to him, every time he remembers what a complete asshole he used to be to Danny, every time the word "pussy" crosses Ward's mind in a derogatory fashion.

He's there every time Ward sends his employees home early, at every NA meeting, every time Ward needs to handle his kid and chooses to do the opposite of whatever Harold's reaction would have been.

Ward's escape from Harold isn't wrapped up in the stilling of a murky lake, or the harsh recoil of a gun, or the consuming flames of a crematorium. It isn't even in a week without nightmares, or picking up a sketchbook, or the long, twisty process of reconciling with Joy.

This particular freedom comes slowly and subtly, as Ward's life continues to expand in ways he never imagined. He grabs takeout from a hole-in-the-wall place that Misty (Danny's cop friend with the arm, has some bond with Colleen and must therefore be feared) of all people introduced him to, just because their food is good and he knows he'll enjoy it, and he doesn't once think the words "shabby" or "questionable" or even "fuck you, Dad." He cries in front of Danny and it's horrifying and embarrassing and he absolutely blames it on chemical imbalance caused by stress and lack of sleep, but he also doesn't for a second think to worry about Danny using a blatant display of weakness against him. The first time Colleen trusts Ward alone with some of her little downworld ducklings while she runs off to save their friend from whatever problem they've come running to her with - probably a glowing assassin who shoots lasers out of their third eye, knowing Colleen and Danny - he doesn't feel any smugness or victory or anything besides terrified honor.

One day, Ward looks up from furniture shopping (because his kid, who he loves more than anything in this world, had taken a brown magic marker and slashed an "X" over every single white couch cushion and cabinet door in the entertainment room yesterday) to find Joy brandishing a bottle of her favorite Rosé, a bouquet of flowers, and a second bottle of what she tends to refer to as Ward's "toddler juice".

"Special occasion?" He asks mildly. "How many millions did you crush Judith by this time that it warrants pity flowers?"

Joy raises a judgemental eyebrow right back at him. "Dad's anniversary?" she prompts, in her usual why-must-you-remind-me-how-stupid-you-are voice.

(It's a complicated thing, Ward and Joy's relationship to their father and each other and their father in light of each other. Over the years they've had a lot of - painful - communication sessions about it and they respect that Harold will always mean different things to each of them. Joy may know, now: feels the bitter tinge of hindsight to "I was his punching bag," and every memory of Ward oh-so-casually mentioning running away and starting over and "Never trust him again," but she will always grieve the father that she lost. And Ward, he'd hated Harold; he'd hated the never ending fear and condescension and mind games, but most of all, he'd hated that it wasn't all bad. There was joking and "didn't know you had it in you; good job, kid"s and "When I was about your age, my old man shared this with me... And now I'm the old man, passing it on to my son," and there was Joy's delighted giggling as she span in the air and Joy's gap-toothed grins in frames on Harold's desk, and how could anything be completely rotten that put that happiness on Joy's face? Ward held Joy through her tears over her beautiful dreams of her dead father waiting for her after school to hold her hand, so he gets it, too.)

Possibly, he should feel ashamed of completely forgetting their annual visit to Dad's (fake) grave on his (fake? impermanent, anyway) deathday. The two of them went every year before Danny's return, and after the tumult from his crash back into their lives and all the revelations that came with it had relatively settled down, they resumed the tradition, sticking with Harold's first deathdate, the one that Joy still uses to mourn the version of their father that she loved, and on which Ward usually finds himself dwelling on the idea of the father that they should have had.

He doesn't feel ashamed, though, no matter how blatantly Joy judges him. He's surprised. He forgot. He just... forgot.

What's more, it seems absurd to say that Ward has been forgetting Harold a lot lately, because he doesn't forget, not really, but... how long has it been since a reminder of Harold came along with recalling the tone of his voice and feeling echoes of the emotions Ward had felt hearing it, as opposed to an acknowledging 'that was such bullshit' and a return to whatever Ward had been doing? When was the last time Ward tensed or shot a look towards the nearest surveillance camera as he passed the turn that would have taken him towards the penthouse? When did the roiling mass of anger-guilt-hurt "I hate that bastard" turn into a dismissive, contemptuous "Ugh, that bastard"?

It doesn't scare him. It's a relief.

"Let's pick up some birdseed on the way," Ward says as he rounds his desk to walk beside Joy out of the building. "We can put it on top of his grave so all the birds crap on him."

"Ward," Joy scolds, part scandalized, part tentative. "It's a cemetery."

"Two bags," Ward replies. "We can put some on Danny's, too."

"Ward!" Joy repeats, but there's laughter in it this time. "You're horrible!"

Ward flashes a grin at her, and pushes the button for the elevator.

[chibimyumi]

Hi there! So I've been meaning to ask this for a while after realizing it, but don't O!Ciel's, Doll's, Alois', and Lizzy's color schemes kind of reveal their past and future a tad bit? I've know Alois outfits are bold yet kind of gothic colors like violet emerald green black and brown which all in the world of art are color forms of different emotions depending how you work with them, green being envy or disgusted but he hides it with royal purple, black means wounded which are his shorts & tie

Dear Blackbutlerfandomnerddomain,

While colour symbolism is popular, I personally don’t think the colours in Kuroshitsuji’s costumes are supposed to deliver any meaning other than aesthetic value. Especially with O!Ciel and Lizzie we can say with some certainty colour symbolism is not within the intention, because they change clothes in every single illustration, and every time they wear different colours. Yes, these characters do have tones they tend to wear, but that’s how real people dress themselves too. Somebody who likes calm colours is slightly less likely to have a rainbow assortment of neon, for example.

This is simply the way I understand Yana’s style, there’s not really ONE correct answer here. So feel free to read as much into the colours as it pleases you. But as I personally see it, Yana’s style of using symbolism tends to rely on objects rather than colours. Allow me to briefly analyse two artworks to illustrate what I mean and how I came to my understanding.

Case One

One of the most famous artworks is the front illustration of the second illustration book. Many colours including green, red, blue, white, gold are all present here.

One could make arguments for the black and white of the Earl’s attire being symbolism, but this meaning is quickly overshadowed by the ravens emerging from the Escher patterns. Red is the most eye-catching colour in this illustration. One might say O!Ciel’s gloves being red means to symbolise his hands being blood-dyed, or his shoes red because he walks a bloody path... but then how do we explain the inside of the drape or Sebastian’s waistcoat?

The setting is a place that appears to be a type of greenhouse; a place built to maximise the function of sunlight. And yet, while the illustration seems to suggest it is daytime, the sun is failing miserably in face of the heavy clouds. Rather than painting the sky ominous red or just dark, Yana uses the unsuccessful sun to set a mood or convey symbolism. “Is the white light against the dark clouds not also a type of colour symbolism?” Yes, it may be, but then one should also ask the question: "why choose a greenhouse then, and not any other setting that could have conveyed the light/dark contrast?”

Case two

Another famous piece is this 2014 artwork. The overall tone is gloomy and is mostly lacking in colours. Though held back in terms of colour, there is a lot to be unpacked here!

The first thing that catches the eye is indeed the overwhelmingly sombre palate of this illustration. Black can symbolise many things, but when 70% of the illustration is black, one could say this illustration is either incompetent in conveying symbolism in it being over-saturated with “meaning”, or that the black is merely here to set a tone.

Instead, we can see white lilies in O!Ciel’s hair as well as one stem carried by Sebas. Rather than colour symbolism, Japan has a long history of flower-symbolism (花言葉・Hanakotoba), and Yana herself is big fan of this style. When Western culture was introduced to Japan, black and white lilies were accepted as symbols for death.

The composition of the artwork leads the eye from the bottom left corner to the top right. This guides our vision to the empty plate at the top of the table, where a bright white saucer lies with a conspicuous bit of red sauce.

Red might symbolise blood here, and it is befitting. But more importantly we also need to consider this choice from an artist’s point of view. How many different colours of edible sauces are there? There’s chocolate sauce and other dark sauces, but that would just blend in with the rest of the illustration. Yellowy sauce is certainly a thing, but that’d be overpowered by the golden details. So red is the only bright colour that would make the empty saucer pop out. The Empty saucer has a fork placed diagonally on top, meaning that somebody had consumed food and is now finished. Rather than the colour of red, I think it is the now-empty saucer that is supposed to symbolise Sebastian’s goal of consuming his master.

Next to the saucer is the skeleton of a bird; presumably a crow judging from the size. Skeletons universally symbolise death, but it has nothing to do with the colour.

In Japanese native culture the topic of ‘death’ is big taboo. In older Japanese buildings for example, the 4th floor would often be skipped because ‘4′ (四・shi) is a homophone of death (死・shi).

In the past when Buddhism was introduced, the Japanese embraced this religion with open arms because finally there was something else that would deal with ‘death’ while native culture could stay in its comfort-zone. It was a bit like: “we do we... Hey, Buddhism, can you take care of that thing we’re too afraid of for us? Thanks dude!” Since the introduction of Buddhism, images of skeletons came to not just mean ‘death’, but more specifically ‘impermanence’ (無常・mujou). Impermanence is one of the core teachings in Buddhism, reminding humanity that everything will eventually come to an end, be it good or bad. With Buddhism introduced, skeletons were no longer only associated with pure fear, but instead gained an additional meaning of acceptance of change and the cycle of nature.

The origins of the meaning of skeletons have blurred through the years, many Japanese people probably don’t even know why things evoke certain meanings in them (just like in other cultures, I presume). But fact remains that though still macabre, in Japan a skeleton is now assumed to symbolise the naturalness of death.

That the skeleton of the bird is preserved in a glass dome is interesting. Glass domes’ function is primarily display. Out of all things, Yana chose to specifically display the symbol of impermanence and death, meaning that within this artwork that skeleton is the key object of display. In human subjectivity death is finite and fearsome. To a demon like Sebastian however (from whose perspective we view this artwork as he’s the only one awake here), he probably views death more akin to the way Buddhism views it; as just impermanence. I am NOT saying that Sebastian subscribes to a Buddhist philosophy, but I am saying that he must view death a lot more neutrally than most humans do.

Most Japanese people are not raised consciously religiously, but everyone is always influenced to some extent, Yana included. And therefore it is no surprise that Yana might have been inspired by the neutral view towards death (for at least Sebastian), even if she might not know where this inspiration comes from.

The casualness of ‘death’ in this illustration is further indicated by the coffin that is set up as a dining table. There is no respect, no ceremony, objects are scattered on top and around. The message is rather straightforward so I shall waste no more time explaining the obvious here. But I do wish to point out how this gives further evidence for how the meanings of this illustration should be considered from Sebas’ perspective, just like the crow’s skeleton as explained above. What is finite to us, is just a fact of nature to Sebas.

Conclusion

Yana has created many illustrations. Not all include symbolism, but the more elaborate pieces are usually packed with them. Of course I have only analysed two illustrations, and I would not blame anyone for calling this post insufficient evidence. But... I could just go on and on forever, and I need to draw a line somewhere, right? What I can say with confidence however, is that if you were to grab any artwork by Yana and see it for yourself, rather than colour, item symbolism is stronger.

Also, the way Yana uses colour is just not very symbolism heavy; she has a much stronger tendency to use colours purely aesthetically. Take any of the inside covers of this series, and one would quickly find out there really is no pattern to be found here.

In a nutshell, Yana’s colouring style is mostly aesthetic and used to set a tone for her illustrations. What carries the symbolism instead is in the objects.

Again, this is merely how I personally read Yana’s illustrations and an elaboration of how I came to this reading. There is not one correct answer to read illustrations, because art is subjective in its core. So if the colours do mean more to you than they do to me, please do enjoy doing so by all means ^^

[stargazersastronomy]

Social Change & Protest Astrology

“I can't get it out of my mind how you were left to bleed Was it how you dressed? Or how you act? I can't believe how they could act so violently, without regret. Well, we will not forget”

-- ‘We are the Others‘ by Delain

I normally don’t make posts like this, posts that deal with violence or politics. These subjects are similar to religion and sexuality, etc. There are so many different perspectives that you can never know what backlash, if any, will happen because of your words. However, people George Floyd’s murder, the protests, everything has effected the world. I haven’t felt this affected by murders since Brian Deneke’s and Sophie Lancaster’s deaths. Like Deneke and Lancaster, I still hear Floyd’s pleas for  his life, for his mother, for mercy echoing in my mind. My imagination could never do his suffering justice; I keep imagining the pain Floyd suffered as his neck was crushed by Derek Chauvin’s knee.  I’m someone who believes that Hell is impermanent – and that humans’ depictions of Hell originate from our artists and poets than our holy books – but I hope Chauvin burns in whatever Hell he’s sent to. Even if that hell is life imprisonment.

Similar to Deneke and Lancaster, we’ve heard the same statements: that Floyd was killed for his differences. While that is partially correct, killed because he was different, shifts blame from the murderers to the victim. Statements like these imply that if Deneke hadn’t be Punk, Lancaster hadn’t been Goth, and Floyd hadn’t been Black, they would not have been killed. Yes, the fact that they were all minorities in some way is part of our discourse of it; their attackers – and society’s intolerance – of them was the cause of their deaths. Dustin, the jock, mowed Deneke down with his car. The five boys who pummels Lancaster and her boyfriend killed Lancaster. And it was Chauvin that suffocated Floyd to death. These seven would have gone after anyone different and weaker from them, they chose the easiest targets.

In each case the murders were unplanned, random, that the victims happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But with the violent acts that happened before then – Deneke and his friends beaten by the Jocks, there were beatings against others before Lancaster was killed, and racial deaths have only been increasing here in the States. Signs were there and without intervention of some kind, Floyd’s, Deneke’s, and Lancaster’s deaths were inevitable. No one knew when or to whom these tragedies would happen to, but something like this would.

Anyway, this has been a very long prelude to introduce my point to all this. When these things happen I like to do a horoscope on the event in order to understand it, aka electional/event astrology. Last time I looked up this chart I was reading an event horoscope about the Port Arthur Massacre, so I decided to try my hand at this type of astrology. Now, I’ll probably cast a horoscope for Sohpie Lancaster and Brian Deneke, but for know this chart will focus on George Floyd’s Death, its impact, and the Lafayette Square Protest earlier this week. Before I start this reading, just know I use the Whole Sign house system and not Placidus. Lastly, Floyd was a person and astrology can’t explain away everything, so I’m going to treat him with the dignity he deserves.

Whenever one sees horrific violence and mass uproars in astrology, Mars and Pluto are the prominent players in the horoscope. This isn’t surprising because Pluto is a higher octave of Mars (like Neptune is to Venus, and Uranus to Saturn) and they’re dignified in Aries and Scorpio. Mars is Ares, it is raw masculinity, sexuality, conquest, war, anger, passion. Pluto, aka Hades, Greek God of the Dead, is all that Mars is with one difference. Pluto bides its time waiting for the opportune moment unlike Mars that is impatient and impulsive. In these charts we expect Gemini to be one the dominant signs because it’s Gemini season, Sagittarius because that’s Floyd’s death ascendant (rising sign), and Scorpio because that the protest’s ascendant. However, I did not expect Hades Moon[*1] to be so important here. More on that later.

Gemini Sun (7/Descendant) squared Pisces Mars (4/IC)

Sun is the ego, who we are as an individual. Mars is our drive, its our fighting words. Harsh aspects like oppositions and squares are blessings in disguises because if one can work through the initial turbulence, this person is unstoppable. How this power is often abused. Floyd begs Chauvin for mercy but his words (Gemini/third house) are going unheard. Witnesses are telling Chauvin to stop but they’re ignored and Chauvin’s fellow coworkers are silent.

For now, I’ll give the other cops the benefit of the doubt. Bystanders tend to fall under three camps: one, the bystanders that side with the aggressor, two, the bystanders that sympathize with the victim but are too frightened to confront the bully. Three, perhaps the most insidious, the bystanders that are apathetic to both sides. No matter which camp they fall into they’re cowards and unfortunately the law doesn’t punish inaction.

Pisces is exalted in Venus (Aphrodite) and while it rather not be situated in Mars, Pisces realizes Mars (Ares) is the gender-flipped equivalent of Venus.  Pisces Mars is the seafarer, it is Captain Ishamal, Captain Nemo, the old man from The Old Man and the Sea. And Mars in conflict with the sun is causing a storm.  Instead of noble victory, Mars uses its strength to dominate. Look at the videos, Chauvin’s photo during the scene. His semi-slouched posture indicates nonchalance and with his hands stuffed in his pockets say that he has nothing to hide. How he eyes the spectators is that of confusing and superiority. They’re saying, “Yeah, I’m boring my knee into this innocent man. And? You guys can’t do anything.” He’s also forcing his will on Floyd. Aphrodite is definitely not happy being thrust into war.

Gemini Venus (7th House) squared Pisces Neptune (4th House)

I mentioned how the generational planets are the higher octaves of the primar planets. Venus is the Greek love Eros while Neptune is Agape, or universal love. Neptune is also illusion. American cops are often placed on pedestals and absolved of their actions, but Venus here is breaking the American people’s disillusions of that. Chauvin is abusing his authority murdering an innocent man in public, no one can ignore this power imbalance now.  The crowd that witnessed this atrocity, the millions more worldwide that saw this televised and online can’t erase this from their minds. We’re seeing that the Other (7th House) has no differences from us, that Floyd is not different from us. Pisces Neptune is communicating to us to show love and compassion to our fellow man. Later, in Washington DC Rahul Dubey offered his home to approximately 60 protesters overnight, so they’d remain safe from the police. When interviewed Dubey said what he did wasn’t a choice, it was the right thing to do.

Chauvin showed no kindness, and people are calling him out on this. None of the people in the crowd can do anything, all they can do is beg and shout from the sidelines to help Floyd. This didn’t help Floyd, and this is of little consolation because he died, but people cared enough to record the cops’ crime. They cared enough to demand the cops help Floyd. It feels inadequate at the time, it won’t resurrect him. At least he heard some kindness and concern in the voices of others.  

Cancer Moon (8th House) squared Taurus Uranus (6th House)

A Hades Moon is any moon connection to Pluto and/or the eighth house. Whenever the moon is connected to the generational planets – specifically Saturn and Pluto – there’s a war between feminine, nurturing energy and masculine, destroying energy. Saturn freezes emotions whether it’s trined or opposed the Moon. Pluto when aspected to the moon gives the moon psychic, explosive energy. Moon is dignified in Cancer which gives it added strength, however, it’s in the eighth house of death weakening it. “From tomb of the womb, to womb of the tomb.” (Hero of a Thousand Faces) Women give life and we live with the knowledge that life will be taken away. With Floyd’s last breaths he says that he “can’t breathe” and calls out “mama.” How many heartstrings were tugged at? How many mothers, girlfriends, daughters, embraced their children and significant others when they heard this?

Taurus is Eve from the Garden of Eden. Taurus craves stability and sensuality which is why it is fallen in Uranus. Uranus uproots Taurus’ stability to initiate change but note where Uranus; it’s in the house of work and health (6th house). Floyd’s life was taken by men who swore oaths to serve and protect. Chauvin’s coworkers should have done their duty (Virgo/6th house) and protected Floyd from one of their own. Instead they lazily stand aside and let a man die. They ignore his health when Floyd informed them earlier that he was claustrophobic.

Yet the civilians around them did their duty. They videotaped these cops so they’d be held accountable and couldn’t lie about their actions. Women and men called out to the cops demanding the Chauvin get off of Floyd and for the others to call an ambulance. Granted, Floyd still died. His daughters and wife weren’t there to hold his hand in his final moments. He was denied a good death, a death where he’s an old man surrounded by family who loves him. He’ll never see his daughters, graduate, marry, and bear children of their own. The only solace is that his memory has become immortal, no one will forget him now. I doubt he wanted to be a symbol in death, but now we can ensure that his death isn’t in vain. We can make sure we can bring change to the States. We can make sure that these cops are forced to take responsibility for their crimes. That’s our duty in remembrance to Floyd.

“One day we won't slay our brothers One day we won't hate each other One day we'll help one another But that day is not today”

-- ‘The Pallbearer Walks Alone’, The Dark Element

Lafayette Square Protests

For the most part the placements of the Lafayette Square Protests stay the same as Floyd’s death horoscope. The differences are:

Scorpio Ascendant, meaning Mars & Pluto rule the chart

Scorpio Moon (first house/ascendant)

Cancer Mercury (Eighth House)

Mercury trined Uranus

and Moon trined Saturn

Ultimately, the astrology placements I discussed earlier apply here. But for the protests I just want to focus on the 9th House and 10th House/Midheaven.

Cancer Ninth House & Leo Midheaven

Each country has its own natal chart, for the States, this nation was founded during Cancer season. Many people consider America to be their motherland (Cancer), even people who emigrate here. Personally, I think the States have 2 main lessons to learn: One not to be the savior and think itself the hero of other countries, and two, learn that how it’s governed affects the world (ninth house). In my opening paragraphs I mentioned that Sophie and Brian’s deaths impacted the world as does George’s. That’s exactly what happened. As a nation we have daily protests since Floyd’s death. We’re using emotionally charged language to to force Trump, our legislators, police officials for equal rights for black minorities. Saturn is in Aquarius – and we’re about to enter Pluto in Aquarius in the next few years – we’re finally heeding Saturn’s lesson. That everyone should be treated the same, that we must collaborate to enact change.

Whenever there are empty houses, that house is still important but the lessons and symbols that house represents aren’t important at the moment. Trump used his authority, military, police loyal to him to force them out of the square. Why? For a photo-op. Leo long to be center stage and calling attention to itself; the midheaven makes and ideal home for Leo. But this empty house shows Trump’s failure here. It shows no one will allow him to dominate them anymore. I’m not saying astrology can explain all of Trump’s behaviour, but his incessant need for admiration and attention backfired. Now, I never expected much from him, but if he had the ability to think through his actions and consider anothers’ perspective, I would have tolerated him. (The 2020 elections will not be kind to him.) More importantly Floyd’s death and the proceeding protests have effected the world. And if we as American citizens don’t change, the entire world will be affected. (Pluto and Uranus). The United  States are considered a superpower with Russia and China close behind as world powers. I’m not psychic nor have a crystal ball, but how this nation handles these conflicts will make or break 7 billion + people in this world. I didn’t intend for this astrology post to sound political. I just wanted to explain this through astrology.  

“There will come a day not so far away When the hunter becomes the prey (and you will pay).

Its a hellish inferno This is war eternal.”

-- ‘War Eternal‘, Arch Enemy

[musicollage]

Benoit Pioulard. The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter, 2016. Kranky. ( Mastered By – Rafael Anton Irisarri )  ~ [ Album Review |   1) Pop Matters  +  2) Exclaim!  + 3) All Music  +  4) Impose Magazine  + 5) Echoes And Dust  ]

1) The peculiar title of Benoît Pioulard’s latest album gives the impression that it could be some kind of best-of collection. It isn’t, but The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter could stand in as a succinct summation of Thomas Meluch’s charismatic melding of dream-folk, field recordings, and sandwashed atmospheres.

The completion of The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter has been trailed by poignant timing and tragic coincidence. Meluch’s first album for Kranky, Précis, was released ten years earlier, nearly to the day. His brother, for whom the record is dedicated, passed away on the same day that it was finished. Listening Matter’s mood is not easily read. Its pleasure and melancholy are both wary. Meluch being a photographer as well, several of his Polaroids serve as the album art. There’s surely some reflection of the music to be drawn from the cover image; a fish eye mirror on a dark weathered wall, offering a detached and bent view of a beautiful day.

Starting with Sonnet in 2015, Benoît Pioulard has let loose an outpouring of ambient releases. There was Stanza, a companion to the Sonnet LP, Stanza II, the Noyaux EP put out by Morr Music, and the tour EP Thine. This past June he released the Radial EP, which featured an ‘interpretation’ of the Aphex Twin song “Stone in Focus”, to help pay for medical bills he incurred breaking his wrist while hiking in the Cascade foothills near North Bend, Washington.

Listening Matter swings back toward the singer-songwriter yin to Meluch’s structure-averse yang, a mode he hasn���t dwelled much in since Hymnal in 2013. Working again with Benoît Pioulard here is Rafael Anton Irisarri, who mastered the album at Black Knoll Studio in New York. Along with being the go-to guy for completing his own music, Irisarri is a composer with whom Meluch collaborates as Orcas. The duo’s stunning, underappreciated second album, Yearling, is a standout in both of their bodies of work.

Opening euphoric gust “Initials B.P.” is both a clearing of the throat and a girding of the loins. Outside the door lay a progression of perils to face down. “Narcologue” wastes no time, cutting into time and distance’s grip on love: "But this freezing of the heart / Is a shameful shuttering born of being apart / With numbness but in command / My senescence proves we hold together like sand”. Addiction lurks in “Layette”, which begins with the admission, “In a matter of time / I’ll slowly burn through my vices / Cos when I level with them / They still put me through my paces”.

The elated melody of the brief but voluble “Anchor as the Muse” belies its sense of futility. Nearly halfway in and there’s still no resolution in sight on “I Walked Into the Blackness and Built a Fire”: “So I will give chase / The back roads are clearer than before / But mist is in pace / And I can’t see the paths anymore”. Not to overstate the point, but after going practically speechless since Sonnet, Meluch has a lot to get off his chest here. He also gives himself a narrow window in which to do it; a baker’s dozen of future-past pop songs etched onto water-warped tape that average in length somewhere in the two-minute range.

Contradictions being key to the album’s balance, it is only natural that Listening Matter’s greatest moment of levity comes wrapped in cataclysm. On “The Sun Is Going to Explode But Whatever It’s OK”, each successive verse is an eloquent capture of a different thought or perspective in the context of the end of it all; a couple of the sentimental kind, but most of the ‘oh well’ variety. “Oh in the great conflagration of the universe / The sun is going to fucking explode/It doesn’t help to block it with your hand / So just tremble with the ruptures in the land”. It’s the “Take It Easy” this generation deserves.

2) Over the past decade-and-a-half, Thomas Meluch (aka Benoît Pioulard) has covered a lot of musical ground. The Washington-via-Michigan producer has averaged a release per year, tackling electronic, ambient, electroacoustic and even shoegaze and folk along the way but on his latest LP, the aptly titled The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter, Meluch has focused on a subject that has seemed to elude him over the years: himself.

According to Pioulard, the album was recorded during a rough period in his life; the 13-track LP tackles such subjects as grief ("I Walked Into a Blackness and Built a Fire"), turmoil ("In-the-Vapor") and self-medication ("Narcologue"). Opening the record off with the bleary and antonymous electronics of "Initials B.P.," Pioulard goes on to fill the album with guitar strums and vulnerable vocal sighs, while distancing himself from his most recent work. Despite the themes covered throughout, tracks like "Defect" and "A Mantle for Charon" sound honourably optimistic and cheery as Pioulard's voice comes off clean, clear and often chatty, akin to the warbling vocals of the Beta Band's Steve Mason.

Surrounded by ambient hiss and faint female backing vocals, The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter shows Pioulard expressing emotion through simple but intensely personal songwriting.

3) Over a decade's worth of albums, Thomas Meluch took Benoît Pioulard's music in such wide-ranging directions that, by the time of Sonnet's expansive ambient instrumentals, it seemed unlikely he'd return to the project's folktronic beginnings. However, he does exactly that with The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter, an album title that hints at coming full circle: if Precis was a concise introduction, then these songs are a poignant summary. Benoît Pioulard's music feels lighter and freer than ever, even as it touches on heavy subject matter. Within half an hour, Meluch reflects on life's impermanence ("Narcologue"), the fleeting comforts of vice ("Layette"), and mortality ("A Mantle for Charon") in ways that give Precis' affecting simplicity a greater depth. On songs such as "Perennial Comforts" and the gorgeous "I Walked into the Blackness and Built a Fire," he couples his flair for atmosphere with lyrical storytelling that paints a more complete picture of his world than ever before. Meluch surrounds these deep dives with ambient pieces that are the mainstay of Benoît Pioulard's work -- the breezy album opener is even called "Initials B.P." -- and the interplay of space and texture is lovely as always on "In-the-Vapor" and the velvety final track, "Ruth." Nevertheless, a voice as expressive as Meluch's should be used as much as possible, and his singing is especially welcome after Sonnet; on the lilting "Like There's Nothing Under You," he says as much with his circling harmonies as he does with his poetic words. Indeed, The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter features some of his catchiest songs in some time, from the shimmering "Anchor as the Muse" to "The Sun Is Going to Explode But Whatever It's OK," a brisk singalong for an end-of-the-world campfire. A tenth anniversary is as good a time as any to take stock, but to Meluch's credit, it doesn't feel like he's revisiting the past merely for nostalgia's sake. Instead, adding the clarity of experience to his early work's atmospheric conciseness only makes The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter all the richer.

4) Musicians often need to assume a persona, giving an alter-identity to better create and perform. Thomas Meluch has been working under such a pseudonym for his solo efforts since 2005, moving deliberately toward his current intersection of folk and ambient electronica. His previous output under his Benoît Pioulard name has often been nebulous and, as with the case of last year’s album Sonnet, voiceless. With the release of The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter, Meluch opens up his expressions both lyrically and via acoustic guitar. With this new effort, he shades his atmospheric music with a humanity that also works as a curative measure for his grief and emotional state.

Listening Matter begins with one of Meluch’s signature drone-based expressions, reminding of the ethereal and isolating moods of Brian Eno. Throughout the album, he uses these quick interims as a respite between vocal sets, seemingly giving himself a breather from his realizations and confessionals. When he does open up, his voice has a calming lilt reminding of many heartfelt troubadours like Nick Drake and Elliot Smith, recalling moments while looking forward. “Narcologue” has a flamenco flair but soothes like a opiate, emulating that painless relief from reality. With the bright outset of single “Anchor and The Muse”, Meluch reaches for balance and awareness in the aftermath of his struggles. Meluch states poignantly that “If you still resent me after everything I’ve done/ Well, then I can’t really blame you, can I?”, owning his faults with a weary finality.

The tracks on The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter rarely last beyond the three minute mark, but the impressions made are distinct and indelible. His production is stark yet sprightly, finding the right moments to add a layer of anodic ambience or environmental hum. The harpsichord produced on “I Walked Into the Blackness and Built a Fire” matches well with an understated gallop as rhythm track, echoing with rich history and a tangible sound. The album’s best track “A Match for Charon” features an uplifting chord progression and swells that creep out gradually bursts through the mix like sunlight. The listener acts almost as an audience member in a theatre, where Meluch’s songs are vignettes to be experienced as well as heard.

That hazy, memorable ambience is a trademark of the music from Chicago-based label Kranky and its impact is easily recognized on the Benoît Pioulard signature. What makes the efforts of Meluch distinct on this LP is his representation of the ebb and flow of life, acting both as the cause and effect of his music. One can perceive Meluch lift the weight off of his shoulders as his songs resonate with individual pain and resilience. This feeling becomes clearer with the knowledge that he lost his brother tragically upon completing this album. With this, Listening Matter is an unmistakable release from a record label committed to a singular sound and an individual effort from a musician still coming to terms with his own art and station in life.

5) Following an excursion of a wholly ambient release, one that truly enveloped the listener into a world that offered intrigue and mystery, composer Thomas Meluch offers his latest work under the Benoît Pioulard moniker. Returning now to his roots of experimental ambient folk, The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter features Meluch taking a step back from his 2015 album of Sonnet, utilizing his incredible range of ambient composition to further push and extenuate his own acoustic-folk musings. The result of it all is an album that that feels strangely familiar and comforting, whilst managing to express many ideas and notions that are certainly different.

Whilst Sonnet emphasized ambient techniques greatly and featured very sparse vocals, The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter instead focuses around Meluch’s own folk notions, all accompanied, pushed, moved and broken up by his own ambient techniques. At the heart of every musical technique, is Meluch himself who examines himself and his own experiences and understanding of troubling times with great examination, using the recording process of The Benoît Pioulard Listening Matter as a growing and healing process. Vices, virtues, life and death are all mused upon and expressed by Meluch, all blurred and obscured by ambient washes, as though there’s only so much we’re supposed to see.

There’s a great intrigue following this album and its release. Meluch seems to have spent much of the past two years really turning his gaze into himself, looking at how he views the world and understands it, before turning at introspection outward through the medium of his songs. There’s an incredible fragility to much of the work on the album, whilst also being incredibly headstrong and confident. As a body of work, much of the album seems to jump further ahead than much of Meluch’s work, sounding more concise and direct than the 2015 ambient work of Sonnet or even the more folk-directed 2013 album of Hymnal.

Meluch’s works may sometimes feel a little hard to really tap into at times, especially much of his earlier work which really felt experimental at times. It seems now Meluch has really honed in his incredible range and talents, creating an album that is no doubt experimental, but is also much easier to digest and understand, whilst still being a wonderful album experience that simply achieves everything it has set out to do. It’s arguable that Meluch has created a perfect entry point into his music for those who may be unfamiliar to his unique style, whilst also releasing a work that will really inspire his many lifelong fans.

[sheusedtobesassier]

Day 10,413

Well. I’m going to let me write something nice about him. Something that isn’t submerged in remorse. Good parts. There was a lot of good.

While we were in love I told several women I trust that even if it wasn’t going to last forever, Omar was a perfect first. I was impatiently waiting around for such a long time and starting to believe maybe there wasn’t someone wonderful out there for me and then. Then there was him. Mm. And it was dreamy for most of it., well a lot of it. Glitter in the air sometimes. Such sweetness.

It’s been almost a year since we broke up and tonight I’m watching one of my favorite fictitious love stories. And like. There is an unspoken camaraderie in loving somebody and not ending up with them. I’ve been noticing it lately. When I’m driving around or when I see a really beautiful stranger or the light will hit a certain way and. Idk. For a lot of the beginning of the broken heart part I was truly feeling like um. Like I couldn’t make something special work that was supposed to work. That everybody else ever had found a way to make theirs work but I was too fucked up to figure mine out. But. I don’t feel like that as much now. Instead it’s like. Yeah. I don’t know how to express it fully right now but the gist is uh. What we came up with together was lovely in meaningful ways and also impermanent. And LOTS of humankind has experienced lovely meaningfulness with another person that didn’t last. THAT’S COMMON. Sure it’s sad. But. It isn’t unordinary. It’s human as fuck.

I just lol. I feel like. My head is clearing up. And I don’t want to keep acting like uh. Okay I write this so carefully because I’m not interested in sacrificing the pain I’ve genuinely suffered through in light of a gentler/softer moment. I don’t think I’ve been a fool for being overwhelmingly heartbroken at times. That was earned and I won’t be ashamed of it. But! Tonight I just feel like I could let him off the hook. Like uh. Lol. Alright I’m going to go for it. Here. Hahaha so like not really going for it but. Whatever. Next paragraph.

Dear Omar,

Thank you for the parts when you were loving me and were loving me back. That was really really fun, huh? The Most Fun. Um. I’ve come to a place where it seems right to make a certain decision as well as offer an apology. The decision is: I’m going to quit holding hostage the idea that we’re supposed be together. As if it’s what was Meant To Be and letting it burn out was a huge fucking mistake. That take is too dramatic. It’s too severe. Yeah I’ve been so severe for months and months and it cannot go on like that. We were in love and we broke up anyways. That is a sad story, but not an uncommon one. Lol mostly I’m suddenly remembering times we were tangled up in each other talking about how it might end eventually and wow I was SO INSISTENT that we’d both be okay eventually. Right? You’d say you were afraid of hurting me and I’d swear I could take care of me and be fine. I remember having different varieties of that conversation several times. Do you? God. I’m embarrassed. That was a wise and calm me in those moments. She was a good friend to you! I have not been her for quite some time. Mm. Okay yes here is the apology. I’m sorry for assuring you it was okay to go a dozen times and then throwing such a treacherous fit when you finally did. I don’t regret it because um. Well I was heartbroken and I won’t blame me for being more fervently devoted to you than I thought I was. But. I am sad ways I took out on you, sad for relentlessly messaging you as if it was your responsibility to uh. I don’t know. I’ve felt a lot of accusations towards you. I leaned hard into the narrative that what you’d done was reprehensible. I am sorry for that. Mm yeah I just wrote the other day, “I think you almost always wanted to go. I think with my words/head I was constantly trying to offer you an easy out, but with my emotions/heart I was making leaving seem impossible.” That wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry. I believe you were doing what you believed had to be done. I believe it was hard to explain it to me in a way that wouldn’t be extremely painful for you and for me. Yeah I think the way it happened fucking sucked, but I guess I can’t really imagine an alternate version of breaking up that wouldn’t have fucking sucked. You seemed like you were in serious pain that final morning. So. I refuse to fault me for the ways I acted while I was in serious pain, so it seems pretty fair to quit faulting you as well. Alright.

I wonder often why the fuck I’ve never been brave enough to call him to actually talk. Like I’ve seriously come closer to asking to visit him multiple times rather than just simply figuring out his phone number. I think it’s because I’m convinced he wouldn’t answer. I’ve written so many tirades to him and felt consistently disappointed with his replies. Which. I rarely ever felt like he was in love with me when it came to our phones. Not even when things were great. It wasn’t his thing. He came off polite and/or disinterested. Even then.

It’s tiring to write long things knowing it’s unlikely he’ll write much back. Lol it feels like I’m stoning him to death honestly. Like he won’t defend himself and I’m just mercilessly attacking him. It’s not really an attack though. It’s more so begging I guess. Idk. Lol I said at the start that this would be a positive take and I’m drifting into the usual distressed territory. Pull it back.

Just. I feel like I’m far enough away from it that I can remember how to be that good friend to him again. THIS IS NOT ME SAYING I WANT TO BE FRIENDS AGAIN BECAUSE TBH I DON’T AND IT PROBABLY WOULDN’T TAKE LONG AT ALL FOR ME TO GET WORKED UP ALL OVER AGAIN. What I mean is I’ve settled down enough and the hurt isn’t quite so intense that like. I do remember promising him I would be okay and that I’m very competent at taking care of myself, haha. And like. I’ve reached there. Not 100%. But honestly mostly. I am okay. I’ve returned to taking care of me and I’m doing a decent job of it. A lot of good days. Regularing out. Even feeling stronger/healthier in certain ways that I did before.

Okay. I’ll be honest with you tumblr. I think the goodness of this night is giving me the courage to actually write up something to send him. Which. Goddamn. Lol. I’m gonna say it!! Hopefully it’s THE LAST CHAPTER. Or like, lol. The epilogue even. Hopefully it provides us both with a measure of closure. A sigh of relief. That’s what I want to write. My own sigh of relief in hopes that it’ll be a catalyst for his own haha. Okay, okay. Don’t want to lose this buzz. (Oh and to clarify I’ve been drinking tea. I’m currently very very bored with drinking on my own late into the night. No me gusta.)

[tonyglowheart]

so since I can’t stop obsessing over 无羁 (Wuji) I decided to pop open Microsoft Word and through the power of a random youtube commenter who transcribed it, a working knowledge of heritage Mandarin, and many translation sites, I can now absolutely lose my mind even more over the significance of the lyrics and who sings them.

more under the cut, a lot of it is unorganized emotion-fueled yelling

tumblr is kind of rough for long-form stuff, but I guess I’m just going to braindump:

Note: btw do I finally wised up to the fact that the uhh actual lyrics appear in some Tencent videos (and actually a lot of the verses show up with lyrics in the end themes) and also realized that the transcription I got - which was from a Youtube comment - was... wrong in places. And I ALSO realized “Yunshen” was probably referring to Cloud Recesses lol. And so yeah, I’ve edited it to update it.

first off: LAN ZHAN SINGING ABOUT HOW THE RIGHTS AND WRONGS ARE IN THE PAST, HOW CAN WE PRETEND IT’S A DREAM UPON WAKING? Like this is so sad and filled with like...honestly, righteous bitterness towards the world? but also so practical? This is of particular note because Wei Ying’s corresponding line in the second part/repeat. Just you wait

Wei Ying having the line about how can the [praises, blames, gains & losses] of the mortal world be measured is :( bc like. yeah... it’s so in character it makes me sad as heck. Because like. he’s done So Much for the world, and the world continues to denigrate and belittle and revile him, and it hurts him but ultimately he takes it with like.. a sad resignation. D8 babey,,,

*poetic stuff, poetic stuff, blah blah* (although I will add that the added layer of poetic imagery is the “feng liang” means something like cuttingly cold. “feng” refers to the sharp/cutting edge of a knife/sword, and then “liang” is cold. So it’s the imagery of someone getting cut or stabbed by a cold sword and their hot blood rustling down it (the first part is onomatopoeia)

okay the ZITHER LINE. I guess “wen” could be anything, BUT we know there’s a guqin spell Inquiry, so I’m! going to interpret it as more along that lines! I think the Tencent translation actually has it as “also” but it could be “again” I think? Implying that even when they’re far away from each other and Wei Ying is playing his flute all alone and melancholy, there’s an answering zither sound inquiring on him? (i’m going to take it as his well-being :’) )

Edit: so it turns out the “wen” was incorrectly transcribed in the first version of the lyrics I saw; it’s actually the same “wen” as the flute line, so more of it can also be heard, like the Tencent translation. ...but I Want to Believe....

edit: ALSO HOLD ON A MINUTE. I DIDN’T NOTICE, BUT I SAW A SCREENSHOT THAT SAID SOMETHING ABOUT HIM PLAYING INQUIRY LOOKING FOR WEI YING ONLY TO BE MET BY HOLLOW SILENCE? IS THAT FROM THE NOVEL? IS THAT MISTRANSLATED? OR DID I JUST NOT NOTICE. Guess I’ll have to find out

the last line/duet line: I can...kind of see where the “unrequited love” comes from? This is one of those lines where I wonder if it’s classical Chinese and therefore has layers of meaning that don’t convey through translation engines. I might need to actually search it and see but I’m scared to :’) my last brain cell is on Wuji I can’t deal with a wall of Chinese text right now :”)

so just going by the pinyin and what the translation engines tell me individual parts mean, the first part is something about a petition left open, which I can see as meaning unrequited (or more gently, “the story is not over” lol), but not sure what business Google has coming out of left field with a flat-out UNREQUITED LOVE for 8V bls my heart can only take so much

the last part of that line, NO clue at all, must be some kind of poetic thing... so I just gotta go with their translation and no other layers of understanding

Edit: ChenQing, interestingly, is the name of Wei Wuxian’s flute, and is also in the Chinese title of the series. so I think that first line is open to interpretation, it’s one of the lines I’d love to discuss with someone who knows Chinese and hear what they think.

the second part is mostly poetic imagery. it’s saying like low-laying silvergrass in the moonlight looks like frost (silvergrass being a common grass in parts of Asia. It’s that one with the fluffy fronds). When I googled the Chinese, it returned this specific species: Miscanthus sacchariflorus 

wOw the part about preparing a pot (metaphoric) of all of life & death’s ups and downs to memorialize/offer a sacrifice for a young man? hits me right in the heart and the feels and im going to sob over Wei Ying again

the other line that absolutely makes me lose my mind - and like the one above, it’s one that Wei Ying has a direct counterpart in part two - is Lan Zhan’s line here. Tackling the second part before I lose my mind over the first part, I sort of have an impression that second part is kind of a “go with the flow” (of life?) sort of deal, since to my understanding, it means something like... [traverse through time/through time/over history?][wind and waves]

okay but the part that makes me lose my mind is the “xiaoxiaosasa” part, which is a counterpart to the line sung by Wei later, “tantandangdang.” xiaoxiaosasa means like... in a natural/unrestrained/carefree manner. And at first I was like..Lan Zhan?? xiaosa?? but actually I kind of see it as like.... not a serious suggestion, but an impossible wish? Like this other post I think I where someone talked about them watching Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen wandering off, free of duties and clans, to hunt monsters etc. and I think that’s something that might be an impossible wish in Lan Zhan’s heart of hearts that he wouldn’t ever materialize because his sense of duty is so important to him. But maybe in a world where the two of them - or Lan Wangji especially - isn’t/aren’t bound by clans and sects and sundry, maybe they’re able to take a more carefree approach to life.

and then sharing the melodious song together at the ends of the earth is another one that has all of my ;A; ‘s

aaand here we are on the repeat, where Lan Zhan sings a line first, and Wei Ying has some sweet sweet counterpart lines that extra hit me straight in the heart:

okay so first off, first line. Unless that’s some Classical Chinese idiom, or honestly just flat-out idiom, I’m not sure where “I became lost after facing a dead end” comes from. Anyway.

HERE IT IS. HERE IT IS. okay so remember. the first verse, Wei Ying’s line is about a lonely and melancholy flute, and then Lan Zhan’s line is kind of tinged with a sort of world-weary bitterness but also resignation. But here!! Wei Ying’s line! is like sO magnanimous and accepting. Whatever the turmoils and rights and wrongs of the past, he’s already let it go. Granted I’m seeing this from a “the world wronged him” perspective so I’m like “D8 my generous-hearted boy... oH No my feelings...” Lan Zhan may move on but I think he can’t quite forgive the world for how it treated Wei Ying, but Wei Ying, like he said in the show, is ready to forgive and forget, it’s all in the past, and also I get the vibe of “yeah I’m used to it.” anyway gOD the contrast, and also I’m sad

[the rest of the intervening lines are the same, until]

okay the line is mostly the same, but one translation also gave me “fickle” instead of unpredictable or impermanent, and I feel that mood. It’s saying like “laughing over how fickle worldly matters can be”

aaand then here it is. Wei Ying’s counterpart to Lan Zhan’s carefree/unrestrained. why not go through life with a magnanimous heart. Which! is so in character for Wei Ying and honestly exactly what I think he does, like it HURTS him when ppl make shit So Personal about him which might have mitigating factors, or like... aren’t even his fault. But to some extent, he’s willing to bear it, for the sake of the world. Some of I think is out of misplaced sense of guilt trained into him (like when Madame Yu blamed him for bringing calamity to the Jiang Clan and he just accepts that :’) ) but I do think he’s also got a martyr’s heart.

Anyway, all of this taken together, and with the beautiful melody and the two singers switching lines and also dueting together, a b s o l u t e ly makes me go, as the kids say, feral

thanks for coming to my TED Talk

[compassionatereminders]

(abusive relationship anon) I'm just so drained now, its so tiring over and over again and I just want it to stop, I've only ever dealt with abusive and toxic friendships and relationships and on top of that I've experienced nothing but abuse and neglect from my parents and its just so hard to keep all this anger in still when these things happen bc I have so much of it built up but then when I force myself to stop my emotional impermanence kicks in as a survival mechanism and I just "forget"

I am very sorry to hear that you have been abused so much throughout your life, and I really don’t blame you for struggling to cope with it, especially not considering that you’re still stuck in an abusive situation and probably haven’t been able to start the process of healing and recovering from your many traumas yet. 

So please don’t beat yourself up for struggling to deal with all the abuse. No one can deal with a pattern of abuse in a healthy and rational way cause abuse is the exact opposite of healthy and rational. So for now and until you can get away from this asshole for good, just do whatever you need to do in order to stay as safe as you can.

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 33

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: Still aiming for once a week updates, could be more, will never be less; thanks for sticking around; I love this story and everyone who reads it dearly and with all my heart.

Warnings: so much smut so much smut; Platonic Forms?

Abstract: Young is the night it feels so right now that you’re mine...

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Everything was black and white.

He was surrounded.

It was the apotheosis of fainting. Some unification he couldn’t yet describe, yet intuitively knew like the beat of every song he had ever written; his music had been screwed out of his heart as a bloody pulp and smashed on each page, all pomegranate seeds and peach pits; his art, and hers were works of color and intense emoting. And that was part of it, art was intricately part of this feeling, of this experience; because being with her was being with a walking piece of art.

It was, because he knew things like this, the Stendhal syndrome.

Roger had taken off his sepia-toned glasses. They were round and almost delicate in a spindly way that did much to betray the inner workings of the man who wore them. Flashy on the outside cotton-candy frail on the inside. Much like the candy confection, his moods were transient yet shockingly robust; they’d pierce you in the heart and evaporate after doing so, like some joke only he knew the punchline to, which is exactly how he liked it. This, however, did not mean his feelings were impermanent or purely esoteric; Roger preferred a full-bodied expression of his feelings at all times. For him, feelings were something you could touch and should touch. And he sensed the woman across from him, more or less, had the exact same emotional profile. Her profile was fine, fine, fine.

Deacy always loved those particular sunglasses; he had told Roger on many occasions they were his “film school” glasses, because they made everything appear like an old movie from the 1930s or that odd time in the 1970s when everything was a nostalgic throwback in color tones. It always came back to color. Of all of Roger’s pairs, those sepia ones were Deacy’s singular mission and desire to steal the most frequently. Roger was very protective of his collection, and no matter how many pairs of sepia-colored sunglasses Roger bought for Deacy, the bassist always only wanted Rog’s personal pair. This was, as everything else had been for them, some unspoken, spoken game. Though at this time, the men had no idea they were both slowly engaging in the same game, near the same time, with women with whom they were both falling in love. These decisions are barely noticed or noted, and yet they happen everyday. Rock stars are no exception to this rule.

With the glasses now removed, Roger could see Lydia’s paintings in full force. All harsh lines, cutting and uneven, and deeply felt, as if necessary. It was as if she had sliced her arm open and painted with her own black blood, as if she had smeared her very life on the canvas. Her fingerprints covered every line, even though she never used such techniques. Despite this critical distance, every line and impression spoke of some Truth, some mixed emotion, some passionate distraction, a powerful act of consolation.

They gave him pause. Piece after piece. Parts of her, all of her. He froze, for a moment. It had only been a moment. But it always is just merely a moment. We romanticize it in our own minds, making some trivial seconds into an expanse of time that shook us for eons. When in reality the moments when love happens are brief, singular, and yet universal. Another paradox; Deacy would be pleased. To each person who is having them, it could be about anything, and yet the feeling always equals the same emotion. It could be over coffee, the passing of a note, a whisper, a laugh, a glance; bringing her something that was lost, fixing something that was broken; the mundane, the easy, the forgettable, yet entirely and always recalled in flowery prose and undying poems. Shakespeare wrote sonnets for a reason, folks.

So, to Roger, a closeted romantic, and he certainly thought of himself as a new-aged Shakespeare, this moment in space-time did something to his heart he couldn’t entirely understand at this time, which was saying something since he had the emotional intelligence and sophistication of an FBI agent performing opera. All cosmic depth and precision of intention. What did he remember the most? The art--her art? The use of color and light to create depth where there was none, or should be none? Or was it her? Her torn red dress, his rainbow blazer, her golden hair. When exactly did they become one, those ideas? Inextricably tied together, black and white and her, all color and light? Well, it was our friend Stendhal. Cocky asshat, Roger thought. Roger had never met Stendhal, separated as they were by time and space, yet that jerk was right. Roger hated it when other people were right; on all occasions, he preferred to be the right one. Though, Lydia was right. She was right. She had probably always been right. He just hadn’t met her yet. But maybe he had always known anyway.

Distracted as he was by the art and the beautiful woman in front of him, he still managed to close the door by leaning on it, suggestively. Though, everything with Roger Taylor was suggestive. The moment in question happened during this small gesture. The closing of a door. And we’d all like to think he was leaning up against it as a seduction, a keen way to put the moves on the unacknowledged, unrealized love of his life. We’d all like to think Roger was that good, and that invincible in the face of ineffable beauty.

He wasn’t.

Lydia hadn’t noticed, she had chosen that moment to close her eyes, to swipe her hair back, to turn her neck, and gaze off, performing her own quiet seduction while he should have been performing his. She had ever been his match, you see.

In reality, Roger had leaned up against the door, closing it on accident, because he had fainted. It had lasted for a handful of simple seconds, nothing long, nothing melodramatic, or even noticeable to anyone else but himself. He had fainted in the face of beauty. There was something shockingly Platonic about it, which was ironic considering Plato hated the arts and artists with a passion that held hands with an outright and violent jealousy. The way Roger saw it, if he had been Plato and his mentor (Socrates) had told him he could only study philosophy or poetry, not both, and was forced to pick philosophy, well, he’d hate the arts too. Despite Plato’s blatant envy, every Platonic Form working in this room swirled around Roger, intermingled, and he experienced a keen apotheosis with the Godhead; his life would never be the same again.

He fainted.

His too blue eyes rolled back, and he felt his vision blur into blackness, all color erased, all light evaporated: he held hands with some divine Form of the Arts and Love, and everything else fell away.

He fainted. Fuck Stendhal, he thought upon waking.

He fainted. Mere seconds, but he never escaped. His body lightly became suspended in action, leaning back without his power or will to control it. He had gone some other place. That elusive place of creation no artist can name. He had gone there, on a seventeen second journey. Part of him would always be there. Part of it would always be her.

He fainted. Eyes gone, mind some place else. His body folded into the door, casually, elegantly. He leaned. His back hit the door, and he swayed with it. They danced together until the door closed. His body followed the force of it, forward, then back.

He fainted. Maybe it was her, her beauty alone. Or her artworks, and their soul-swaddling beauty. Maybe it was both. Maybe it didn’t matter. Plato would know which it was, Roger thought. And Shakespeare would be capable with his numerous talents to put it into words, and Stendhal would be able to explain it him. He’d understand.

He fainted. Wrapped in the arms of Stendhal, Roger sunk bog-deep. It was an immovable free-fall. Another paradox.

But then, Roger woke up. He came too. And he saw her.

He saw Lydia.

He thought, besides a good fuck you to Stendhal, he could look at her forever, admire her, like work of art; everyday he’d notice something he hadn’t before that would only increase her beauty, which could never be diminished. Something in her was eternal. Roger waxed Platonic. Though nothing about his feelings for Lydia were remotely platonic.

He had fainted. Slipped away for a mere seventeen seconds. Come back from some journey. And he saw her.

That’s probably when he knew. When the first hint creeped up to say hi. He hadn’t listened, though. He pushed it back down, trying to deny what was there. And that denial, that split-second choice to ignore his heart and the existential beauty trip he had been on, that’s when Stendhal reared his ugly head again. He hadn’t noticed the second occurrence, because he had been distracted by her kiss.

It was easy to forgive such an indiscretion.

Kisses can be magic.

But so can Stendhal: that’s when the hallucinations started.

All the colors started vanishing, but he hadn’t noticed.

So, he slipped further down the rabbit hole; this he would regret later, but not now. Not with her tongue down his throat.

He had fainted, up against the door, then he came back. And he saw Lydia. She peered at him. Head turned to profile, eyes down, then flicked up to his.

Well, he couldn’t resist.

Could you?

They moved in syncopation. Him first, then she mirrored him. She didn’t notice his sluggish start. And he shook it off as ecstasy--he wasn’t entirely wrong. He didn’t notice the lack of color, because the entire room was black and white already. It is hard to blame him.

As their lips touched, and their tongues touched, he slid the blazer from her shoulders, and wrapped his arms around her. Her skin was silk. He never wanted to let go of her. Never wanted to let go of her. He never wanted to. He felt that. He meant it.

He pulled away from her kiss, and she clawed him back to her, cradling his face and blond hair simultaneously. He smiled, not wanting to pull away, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her neck; it was hard to blame him.

Roger kissed down her chin, and fondled her waistline, down to her plentiful, fantastically feminine hips. And proceeded to lick her neck in tantalizing swirls that sent shocks through her entire body. He traced down her cleavage with his tongue, interrupted by her bra. He flicked his sapphire eyes to her’s; asking permission with them. She laughed softly, bit her lip, and winked at him.

That was all he needed to hear. He knew. Well, he knew a lot. But these moments happen, and we pass them by in the moment, only to revisit them later and go: was that when? Was that moment when I first knew? Roger would be trapped in this cycle for a long time. Stendhal wouldn’t help this at all either. Maybe it had been the giggle? The wink? When she threw her head back and arched her back? It was hard to tell. Love looked different to different eyes. He intertwined a hand in hers, which she readily held back.

He unhooked her bra in one skilled motion, with one knowing hand. He slipped it off one arm, and they broke touch with their other hands to remove it completely. The break in touch lasted for a second. No more.

She sifted a hand to his black pants, and began slowly undoing the button, the zipper. Each movement an important step in seduction, each second a path to exquisite foreplay.

Roger began kissing Lydia again. He pinched one of her nipples hard, until she moaned in his mouth. He hastily traveled down her decolletage once more, carefully licking her other nipple. Then, he started biting. Softly at first, then hard. He moved to the tender skin around her nipple, and bit crescent moons around her breast in one elegant line. Each bite was harder than the last, and each level of intensity made her writhe and shine, and made him grow tumescent, surrounded by black and white masterpieces.

His black pants were off, and she moved to his white shirt, though concentration was growing more and more difficult with each passing bite, with each passing second. He moved a hand slowly down, and up underneath what remained of her dress. She was wet already when he felt her tenderly. He pulled back from her breast, and gazed into her eyes--only dark to him, for all color was gone, but he hadn’t noticed that sensation any more than he could pinpoint the exact second he knew he loved her.

He wanted to make love to her, to look her in the eyes as he gave her pleasure; he wanted a connection, he wanted intimacy, he wanted vulnerability. He was a stranger in a strange land. Where was that prick Plato when you needed him, he thought, fleetingly.

His fingers worked around her clit, and she pulled herself close to his white tee-shirt, clinging to him. She sighed in his ear, and the sound of her breath caused him such shocking ecstasy he couldn’t put it into words, let alone music. His other hand found her neck, her face, and he pulled her back, so he could look at her. This was surprisingly tender, not rough, yet not negotiable. He could easily please her, and only her, forever, and count himself a happy man.

Lydia put her hand on his, and they looked at each other, as he slowly massaged her. She deftly slipped a hand around his cock, and began tracing his length in rhythm with his movements.

Roger was startled at how close he could be with someone without being inside them. This was entirely new to him. Everything about this feeling, about this closeness, was entirely new. Was this love? Was this Stendhal?

It was both.

They still had half their clothes on, and yet he had never felt closer to anyone.

They were up against the door now, holding each other’s heads, sliding their hands skillfully to pleasure the other. And in every gesture, love was there. In every movement, care occupied a space.

Time escaped them, and it was hard to blame them.

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Tag List:  @phantom-fangirl-stuff @triggeredpossum @obsessedwithrogertaylor @groupiie-love @partydulce @richiethotzierz @sophierobisonartfoundationblr @psychostarkid @teathymewithben @smittyjaws @just-ladyme @botinstqueen  @mydogisthebest @little-welsh-wonder @maxjesty @deakysdiscos @yourealegendroger @marvellouspengwing @molethemollie @deakysgirl @arrowswithwifi @tardisgrump @mikey-sway