#i just read iris message in the books and vibed with it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

liriostigre · 4 years ago

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hey! I wanted to ask what your favorite poetry books are? I have a few but I want to read new and interesting stuff, and I trust your taste :D

hiii ♡

tbh i only started reading poetry collections like,, last year. i'm subscribed to poetryfoundation's newsletter (poem of the day) so i usually just read random poems

anyway, i'm not sure my recs could be considered new (cause i'm gonna start with Mary Oliver ♡) but feel free to message me if you want to know the themes, style, feeling (vibes, if you will) or anything you want to know about these collections. for now, i'm linking my favorite poems in each collection, i hope this helps you choose! ♡

here you go:

Dream Work —Mary Oliver (“Wild Geese.” “Dogfish.”)

Red Bird —Mary Oliver (“Summer Morning.” “Love Sorrow.”)

Blue Horses —Mary Oliver (“To Be Human Is to Sing Your Own Song.” “Loneliness.” “Little Crazy Love Song.”)

The Wild Iris —Louise Glück (“Sunset.” “Retreating Light.”)

Haruko/Love Poems —June Jordan (“On a New Year’s Eve.” “Mendocino Memory.” “Toward a City That Sings.” *under the cut)

Extracting the Stone of Madness —Alejandra Pizarnik (“Primitive Eyes.” “Summer Goodbyes.” *under the cut)

Ariel —Sylvia Plath (“Tulips.” “The Rival.”)

Prelude to Bruise —Saeed Jones (“Postapocalyptic Heartbeat.” *under the cut)

Absolute Trust in the Goodness of the Earth —Alice Walker (“Coming Back from Seeing Your People.” *under the cut)

I Must Be Living Twice —Eileen Myles (“Edward the Confessor.” *under the cut)

Teaching My Mother How To Give Birth —Warsan Shire (“Conversations About Home (at the Deportation Centre.”)

The Black Unicorn —Audre Lorde (“Hanging Fire.” “Sister Outsider.”)

Bright Dead Things —Ada Limón (“The Riveter.” “Glow.”)

Night Sky With Exit Wounds —Ocean Vuong (“Thanksgiving 2006.” “Logophobia.”)

Postcolonial Love Poem —Natalie Diaz (“Manhattan Is a Lenape Word.”)

Crush —Richard Siken (“Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.”)

Once —Alice Walker (“So We've Come at Last to Freud.”)

“Toward a City That Sings” by June Jordan

Into the topaz the crystalline signals of Manhattan the nightplane lowers my body scintillate with longing to lie positive beside the electric waters of your flesh and I will never tell you the meaning of this poem: Just say, ‘She wrote it and I recognize the reference.’ Please let it go at that. Although it is all the willingness you lend the world as when you picked it up the garbage scattering the cool formalities of Madison Avenue after midnight (where we walked for miles as though we knew the woods well enough to ignore the darkness) although it is all the willingness you lend the world that makes me want to clean up everything in sight (myself included)

for your possible discovery

“Primitive Eyes” by Alejandra Pizarnik

Where fear neither speaks in stories or poems, nor gives shape to terrors or triumphs.

My name, my pronoun — a grey void.

I’m familiar with the full range of fear. I know what it’s like to start singing and to set off slowly through the narrow mountain pass that leads back to the stranger in me, to my own emigrant.

I write to ward off fear and the clawing wind that lodges in my throat.

And in the morning, when you are afraid of finding yourself dead (of there being no more images): the silence of compression, the silence of existence itself. This is how the years fly by. This is how we lost that beautiful animal happiness.

“Summer Goodbyes” by Alejandra Pizarnik

The soft rumor of spreading weeds. The sound of things ruined by the wind. They come to me as if I were the heart of all that exists. I would like to be dead, and also to go inside another heart.

“Postapocalyptic Heartbeat” by Saeed Jones

I. Drugged, I dreamed you a plume of ash, great rush of wrecked air through the towns of my stupor. And when the ocean in your blood went toxic, I thought fire was what we needed: serrated light through the skin, grenade in the chest—pulled linchpin. I saw us breathing on the other side of after. But a blackout is not night; orange-bottled dreams are not sleep. II. I was a cross-legged boy in the third lifetime, empire of blocks in my lap while you walked through the door of your silence, hunting knife in one hand, flask in the other. I waited for you until I forgot to breathe, my want turning me colors only tongues of amaryllis could answer for. It owned me, that hunger, tendriled its way into my name for you. III. In a city made of rain each door, a silence; each lock, a mouth, I walked daily through the spit-slick streets, harbingers on my hands in henna: there will be no after Black-and-blue-garbed strangers, they called me Cassandra. (I had such a body then.) Umbrellas in hand, they listened while they unlistened. there will be no no. after

the world will end no.

you are the reason it no. ends

you no. IV. I didn’t exactly mean to survive myself. Half this life I’ve spent falling out of fourth-story windows. Pigeons for hair, wind for feet. Sometimes I sing “Stormy Weather” on the way down. Today, “Strange Fruit.” Each time, strangers find me drawing my own chalk outline on the sidewalk, cursing with a mouth full of iron, furious at my pulse. V. After ruin, after shards of glass like misplaced stars, after dredge, after the black bite of frost: you are the after, you are the first hour in a life without clocks; the name of whatever falls from the clouds now is you (it is not rain), a song in a dead language, an unlit earth, a coast broken— how was I to know every word was your name?

“Coming Back from Seeing Your People” by Alice Walker

Coming back From seeing your people You were So wonderfully Full Of yourself.

But now You have supped With vampires They have fed Feasted On you.

They arise Bright-eyed Fit.

You alone have lost Not only Your sleep But also Your glow The luster of Affection Heart welcome Your people Sent home With you.

Beloved You must learn To walk alone To hold The precious Silence To bring home And keep the precious Little That is left Of yourself.

“Edward the Confessor” by Eileen Myles

I have a confession to make I wish there were some role in society I could fulfill I could be a confessor I have a confession to make I have this way when I step into the bakery on 2nd Ave. of wanting to be the only really nice person in the store so the harried sales woman with several toned hair will like me. I do this in all kinds of stores, coffee shops xerox shops, everywhere I go. And invariably I leave my keys, xeroxing, my coffee from the last place I am being so nice. I try so hard to make a great impression on these neutral strangers right down to the perfect warm smile I get entirely lost and stagger back out onto the street, bereft of something major. It’s really leaning too hard on the everyday. My mother was the kind of woman who dragging us into stores always seemed to charm the pants off the cashier. She was such a great person, so human though at home she was such a bitch, I mean really distant. I imitate her and I don’t do it well. She didn’t leave her wallet or us in a store. I’m just a pale imitation it is simply not my style to open the hearts of strangers to my true personhood. I hope you accept this tiny confession of what I am currently going through. And if you are experiencing something of a similar nature tell someone, not me, but tell someone. It’s the new human program to be in. It would be nice for at least these final moments if we could sigh with the relief of being in the same program with all the other humans whispering in school. I can’t quite locate the terror, but I am trying to be my mother or Edward the Confessor smiling down on you with up-praying hands. I am looking down at the tips of my boots as I step across the balcony of the church excited to be allowed to say these things. Outside my church is a relationship. On 11th street this guy and this woman are selling the woman so they can get more dope. All their things are there, rags and loaves of bread and make-up. And there was— this was incredible. Two men lying by the door of the church giving each other blow-jobs. They were sort of street guys, one black one white. I said hey you can’t do that here. They jumped up, one spit come out of his mouth. If you don’t get out of here I’ll call the cops. Don’t call the cops we’ll go, we’ll leave. That was a shock. That was more than I expected to see in a day. Something about seeing the guy spit come out of his mouth. He didn’t have to do that. I guess I scared him. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was scared too.

#btw!!!! i'm sorry!!! SO SORRY it took me weeks to reply 🤕#hope you're having good days <3 #💌

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riptidespen · 3 years ago

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Things I'd like to see in the pjo tv series:

More camper interactions:

Give me more Clarisse interactions with our trio. Clarisse starts off being this classic big/older girl bully that has to act tough but really is one of the most caring and dedicated person to her home and family. I want more growth shown for her. I want that Percy and Clarisse love to hate each other but with no real heat behind it because they respect each other vibes. (Also I want that Percy and Clarisse event in New York but that could be a cute little short episode)

Give me Connor and Travis to drag Percy around showing him tricks and pulling tricks on him. I want to see the Stoll brothers reeking havoc on in the background with random campers screaming out Travis or Connors names.

Give me Malcolm anonymously appear during random times of Annabeth and Percy being 'alone' around camp. Like just him chilling reading a book in the background, secretly keeping his eye on them.

Give me Beckendorf and Percy begin their bond and see how it grows. We hardly know about him, but we know Beckendorf is sort of the brotherly/ older camper replacement for Luke when it comes to Percy. I want to see Percy in the cabin nine shop attempting to make something and Beckendorf is just standing there trying not to judge but he's so judging. Maybe even random comments of Percy talking about phone calls or iris messages for Mrs. O'Leary updates from Beckendorf while he was away at school.

Give me Silena humming or singing some romantic tune anytime she passes by Percy and Annabeth after the third book because she knows. Let Silena drop random pieces of advice just for Percy to be completely clueless and tell Annabeth and/or Grover about it.

Give me Luke on the ship slowly losing his mind, will, and hope. I want to see Luke go from absolutely enraged, consumed with revenge to being scared and realizing he's made a big mistake but can't back out now and has to follow through. I want more of Luke's point of view and maybe him casually hinting at the fact that he knows about camp Jupiter without explicitly saying it.

#i just want more character development for the background minor character babies ok?#pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #percy jackson #feel free to add more #I'm sure there is more to add #i just want a lot #if it doesn't happen fine its ok but still I want more little bits of my babies #Clarisse specifically because i think shes pretty awesome and we don't get much out of her for thr next two series which is a shame

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galacticxcosmos · 4 years ago

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𝑳𝒖𝒏𝒂 ♔︎ 𝐁𝐓𝐒 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 « ᵐᵃᵏⁿᵃᵉ ˡⁱⁿᵉ »

Pairing :- Maknae line X BTS 8th member < Female Reader>

Genre :- Idol AU, Bandmates with benefits

Rating :- 18+ { M }

Word Count :- Will be mentioned when the actual chapters start.

Chapter Summary :- This is just the introduction chapter of the 8th member of the famous boy band BTS, that won't be a boy band anymore.

Warnings :- Will be set according to the scenarios and imagines

A/N :- I really wanted to start working on this asap, I took a long break from Tumblr to settle in some things but I am finally back. Make sure to read this blog till the end.

Name :- Kim Y/N

English Name :- Venessa Kim

Stage Name :- Luna

Birthday :- September 04, 1996

Zodiac Sign :- Virgo

Chinese Zodiac Sign :- Rat

Height :- 5"3.76/ 162cm

Weight :- 42kg

Ethnicity :- Korean

Active from :- 2015 to present year

Position :- Main Vocalist, Sub rapper, Part of the dance line, Visual.

Home Town :- Sydney, Australia

Languages known :- Korean, English ( with Aussie Accent ), Japanese, Spanish and French.

Hobbies :- Reading, Creating own choreography, composing, playing guitar or piano, talking long walks, vibing to soft music, cooking, drawing and binging on Netflix.

𝐴𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑦

Doe eyed ( natural light brown iris )

Plump Lips.

One cheek dimple.

Golden face ratio.

Little nose.

Medium sized, slim fingers.

Naturally straight hair.

Unusually sharp cannies that appears when she smiles.

Has abbs and a body to die for.

ℝ𝕖𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕥 ℝ𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕤 :-

Just INBOX me or you can even COMMENT below THIS post.

It should be someone from the maknae line.

Mention the genre :- smut ( hard or soft )/ fluff/ angst

Mention of its a perticular incident that you want me to recreate or any perticular situation or reaction to something { otherwise I will just make up any scenario }

Do not hesitate and feel free to send any type of request as long as it's in the given criteria.

You can even request anonymously.

Private message me if you want to be added to this book's taglist.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Chapters :-

But I Still Want You ♡ PJM ♡

─────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹─────

Make sure to reblog so that more and more people can know about it.

Peace out ♡

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encrucijada · 4 years ago

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PÍA RAMBLES #2

okay. truly i don’t know how well this updates thing is gonna go because my writing process is what the kids like to call “a hot mess”, but after posting the fantasybane informal intro i just kinda... wanna talk about three girls who cried wolf?? in a way that’s more coherent than me messaging @rxinbowbright at random times of the day to tell them about the new change i implemented for the lolz

anywho.

[ image id: a foggy pine tree forest with “three girs who cried wolf” written on serif font at the centre, “iris’ part” is written below it in the same font but smaller / end id. ]

i don’t know if i ever mentioned this but iris’ part is actually the second one of the book. it goes: winnie, iris, maree. i’m just a tiny bit biased because iris is the one based off of my character from that story i made with my cousins so i wanted to write her part first. my plan is to draft the entirety of iris’ part and then maybe work on winnie’s part. using iris’ to help with the timeline. making a calendar for the events because i have to keep things consistent has been a time.

but what is three girls who cried wolf? glad you asked! the wip has an intro post right here that i lowkey gotta update, but basically: three girls living on a lake-side town set somewhere (geography is fake i am using southern hemisphere seasons but there’s grey wolves nothing is real) take in a litter of orphan wolf cubs. in the process they become wolves themselves, and you might call it an accident but really it is all iris’ fault (more on that later). because the cubs are so young and their parents died before they could learn real survival skills, the girls take over that place on the pack — mostly by learning how to hunt. the book takes place over the span of two years: last year of high school and the year afterwards, the time period is very early 00s. 2011 at the latest.

i admit that i don’t know if the title makes a lot of sense, i mainly chose it because i like the “who cried wolf” wordplay and i’m a native spanish speaker to whom english phrases don’t bear a lot of weight. but i have been excusing it with the part of the story’s premise where the girls sorta blame all their shortcomings and the Bad Stuff that happens on the wolves?? idk if when i publish this i am told to change the title i probably will.

allow me to present to you the first person narrator of part two: iris ibarra

[ image id: a three-square collage. the left square shows a picrew of a light skinned girl with poofy brown hair with one brown eye and one blue eye on a yellow background. the middle square reads “iris ibarra”, an arrow pointing to the left reads “human”, an arrow pointing right reads “wolfie”. the right square has the image of a pale brown wolf ]

i talked about her appearance here and about her in general here

home life inspired on from up the poppy hill. her mum is out of the picture, she lives with her dad and younger sister in this big old house that has 3 tenants to help make ends meet. all the fancy things they own are heirlooms, really iris and her sister lirio are eating box mac n cheese more often than not

identifies as asexual! and also as nonbinary, uses she/they pronouns interchangeably

never grew out of the weird girl on the school playground phase

wannabe forest nymph who collects pinecones, empty bird egg shells, empty bird nests, and leaves she turns into garlands or wreaths or presses on her books

*john mulaney voice* iris is a bitch and i like her so much

makes decisions for others and will be petty on purpose if she’s in a mood. has no sense of collateral damage

appearance keys include: wavy brunette hair she cuts at home with mixed results, heterochromia eyes where one is blue and the other brown, has a dandelion yellow army jacket that’s her old reliable, perpetually blushed cheeks

would honestly actually bite you as a warning in and out of wolf form

my best friend vibe checked her as a leo

i have written about 5 chapters of iris’ part which is very sad considering i had planned to have the first draft done by the end of this year but whatever. i gotta make a few changes because i moved some events around but allow me to share what we’ve got so far!

CHAPTER I

i still don’t know how winnie’s part is going to open the book, but for iris we jump straight into the meat of things. she lives close to where mama wolf and her mate were keeping their cubs and she’d been watching them a while before papa wolf suddenly disappeared. and lupa can’t really hunt on her own to feed a full litter. the book begins in april which equals to autumn on the southern hemisphere, don’t think too much about the logistics of it.

in this chapter we have the main (external) conflict which is iris getting bitten by lupa for getting too close to her cubs. that’s only phase one on the werewolf-ing process but iris is not gonna step on the breaks now.

[ image id: an assortment of leaves arranged in a circle on a cream-coloured table. “I made garlands with the dry flowers and leaves to hang them the way Winnie hung fairy lights in her room, and I made a collection of handmade wreaths piled up on my headboard.” is written on it in serif font / id end ]

The forest was my backyard and frontyard and surrounding area. I went and searched for leaves and flowers to dry or press, and then keep inside mugs and jars i took from the kitchen (I was the reason why we had to keep buying new ones they were all in my room). I collected bird nests and empty bird egg shells, pine cones, feathers. I made garlands with the dry flowers and leaves to hang them the way Winnie hung fairy lights in her room, and I made a collection of handmade wreaths piled up on my headboard. I went to school still with hawthorn, birch and rowan leaves in the pockets of my dandelion yellow army jacket.

CHAPTER II

chapter 2 needs some rewrites with the new changes. but here’s iris being Problematique and getting in the personal space of the friend she knows has a crush on her. this is one of my favourite bits of dialogue so far.

“I’m getting no scar,” Winnie said, she was the one whose desk we were crowding around.

“We could make it like our thing,” I said.

“We’re not the only ones in the school with scars, Iris,” Winnie said. “Julia Carrero’s got one from surgery.”

“But see,” I said, “that’s not a cool story.”

“Neither is getting a fishhook through your cheek.” Winnie gestured with an open palm to Maree.

I scoffed. “No one’s gotta know Juan Ca is an idiot. I think…” I poked the tender skin on Maree’s face. “I think she was attacked by a bird, that way we can make them all animal themed!”

“Everyone already knows it’s from a fishhook.” I twisted my mouth because that wasn’t true and I could prove it. Winnie kept talking, “Can’t we just get some friendship bracelets?”

I leaned down because she was sitting, sticking my nose against hers. Winnie’s eyes were hazel, a blend of green and brown, and when the class started she would snap open the case of her glasses to see what was on the board. “No,�� I said and laughed like I didn’t mean it, but I did. Her cheeks had turned rosy like mine were all the time.

CHAPTER III

chapter 3 is my Favourite chapter so far. i’m gonna have to move around some stuff because i made changes haven’t you heard. but even so it’s got some of my favourite prose and descriptions as of now. we get a look at iris’ home situation with her dad, sister, and the three tenants: karina, fernanda (aka fer) and génesis (aka doc). i would love to share the conversation she has with fernanda but can’t because of spoilers... i actually don’t know if it’s a spoiler that Matters because it’s something that literally happens chapter 2 and this is just the aftermath. but fuck it. at least for now i won’t reveal it.

in this chapter we also get the second bit of information about the werewolves: apparently you have to sleep under the full moon with an unhealed wolf bite! iris then proceeds to do that. it sends everyone in the house into a panic when they don’t find her in her room in the morning.

��Iris!” My dad appeared next to Karina, still dressed only in his pyjamas and wearing the thick parka reserved for the dead of winter. His rain boots too. He helped Karina pull the clematis and he huffed put he picked me up. Holding my cold nose against the furry inside of the hood hanging on his shoulders. “Iris… Iris, what are you doing out here?”

And I could only say, “I fell asleep.”

Karina wrapped her scarf, a thing knitted with the ugliest yarn, around my neck. “Listen to her,” she said, “fell asleep, she says. Doc is going to eat you alive.”

My dad asked for a second opinion on how to deal with this, deal with me. How do you discipline careless behaviour like that? And was it careless or just an off-set of who me, his daughter, had proved to be for seventeen years? She did this a lot when she was little too, he said to Karina and Fer as if I were asleep in his arms and couldn’t hear. She slept in the weirdest places, Tamara kept finding her in wardrobes and in the bushes.

CHAPTER IV

... i actually haven’t finished this chapter. stuff sure does happen! we get to meet winnie’s older sister who happens to be dating iris’ dad, which makes it a bit awkward. emilice is an mvp though and i love her a lot. i want her and iris’ dad to adopt me. iris also got sick from sleeping outside, Obviously. so she has a cold now.

“And one of the babies bit her!” Lirio said.

“I’m gonna turn into a wolf now,” I said.

Emi laughed, a bit awkwardly, because it was girls Lirio’s age who said things like that. Not seventeen-year-olds who knew it was impossible. I answered only with a good-natured smile.

The sky was darkening when Emi drove Lirio and I home, so I couldn’t go off to the forest. Doc wouldn’t have allowed it. I normally wouldn’t listen, it was the probability of being sick longer or having fever again what stopped me. My dad walked out when he heard the engine. Winnie called a loud goodbye. Emi leaned out of the driver’s window and my dad kissed her in one movement, with ease, with familiarity. I matched Winnie’s volume in my goodbye, trying to be teasing, and I waved.

CHAPTER V

i am in the middle of writing this chapter in particular but had to pause to go back to implement the changes. iris tells winnie and maree that one of their classmates told her that his brother told him that someone told him that you can turn into a werewolf if you sleep under the full moon after being bitten by a wolf. winnie and maree call bs. they are also looking for a place to take the cubs because it’s getting dangerous for them on the rendezvous point, they are too close to the town (named lake aune btw). so they settle for an abandoned cabin on the opposite shore of the lake (subject to possible changes of location).

[ image id: an earth globe marked with constellations. “Winnie preferred to leave it to the earth instead of the stars, or well, leave it to the water. Leave it to the cold.” written on it in serif font / end id. ]

I had stopped believing in it. Told Winnie it was her horoscope, really, that had orchestrated the double-spin. That I’d read Gemini would surely succeed in all they put their mind on that week. Winnie preferred to leave it to the earth instead of the stars, or well, leave it to the water. Leave it to the cold.

There were still nine fish in the pond. Maree and I debated what might have taken the tenth because there was no cadaver to discard. I suspected a bird of prey. She suspected a fox.

CHAPTER VII

okay so. i haven’t actually written chapter 6, i only have notes for it, but i did start chapter 7 because i really wanted to introduce the character of argyle macbay whom i Love. and i can do whatever i want with my writing process. the scene is about iris and maree getting their graduation photo taken. argyle, who is a self-made photographer, is the one taking the photos. this scene’s only purpose is existing because i like it. and also... meet-cute?? iris and argyle get like 3 meet-cutes, honestly their power. the enbies are dating <3

They muttered a curse when, in the haste to stand up and put the camera back on the tripod, their backpack slipped from the desk table and crashed on the floor. “Fuck,” they mumbled, “fuck, fuck.” Followed by an: “I got it— got it,” when the boy by the door asked if they needed help. I picked up the pens, all from a gel match set, that rolled towards me and I handed them back.

“Fuck— thank you, sorry.” The first half was for them and the second for me. “Sorry. Hi, Iris.”

I smiled and said, “Hi. Do I stand here?”

“Yeah, move back just a bit. Right there.” They weren’t wearing their glasses. The case was there on the desk next to theirs but I guess if they were wearing contact lenses they didn’t need them. “Alright, here we go.”

“Make me laugh.”

“Sorry?”

“I can’t smile naturally on command.”

okay that’s officially all the writing i’ve done! if you’ve fallen in love with argyle just from that excerpt please thank my co-writer teddy because they’re the one who made argyle’s character. again, i don’t know how frequent or if i’ll even keep up with these updates but if i do they won’t be back until i actually manage to write past chapter 7. i have some notes for chapters 8 and 9, and then not a clue. i guess we’ll see what happens @ myself

anyways, if you read all of that thank you! have a smooch 😚

cheers,

pía

#pia rambles #( wip ) who cried wolf #pia.docx

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lukecastellandeservedbetter · 5 years ago

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14. Gold

a/n: a third update??? In a row?? By the Gods, i have so much creative energy right now. I hope y’all enjoy this. Might be one more coming your way when I finish my homework.

read the others!: Masterlist

The feast was fantastic. Jason and Percy seemed to be getting along just fine, and Luke thought it was ironic how the sons of two clashing Gods and Cultures managed to click so quickly. Reyna kept looking at him, her eyes stormy and angry, and he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

“The last time we met, your eyes were gold.” She murmured to him, under the boisterous noise of Percy and Jason trading stories of their last quests.

Luke regarded Reyna, trying hard to dig through his murky memories. “I don’t remember fighting Romans,” Luke told her honestly. “He disregarded them.”

“Of course he did, you’re Greek. You raised his Greek Form.” She bit out. “But don’t think for a moment I don’t remember the damage you caused.”

“I worked in Manhattan before I came to find Percy, and I lived at Camp under strict regulations before that. I don’t need you to remember the damage I caused, I have plenty of reminders on the other side of the country.” He murmured. “It’s not worth much, but I am sorry, Praetor.” He bowed his head, trying to show this girl the utmost respect she deserved. “I never meant for it to escalate the way it did.”

Reyna was quiet for a moment, and he looked back up at her. She studied him, nodding slowly. “Jason seems to trust you. He’s changed… he’s not quite Roman anymore. But… ultimately, I trust his judgement.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Luke thought Reyna and Annabeth were going to make fine friends.

“Yes ma’am,” He nodded.

She nodded back and turned her attention to the rest of the group.

Luke studied the group, especially the Augur. Octavian gave him a certain… vibe. A power hungry, resentful vibe. It only grew with Percy and Jason pulling rank, and Ella’s Prophecy that came out of nowhere.

He jumped in when Octavian started accusing the Harpie of giving a prophecy, and Percy glanced at Luke with a ‘help me’ expression. “Come on man, I’m not really sure how the Harpies on the Roman side work, but back at Camp they only know how to cook, clean and eat campers who are out after curfew. We have an Oracle for Prophecies. You need someone coherent and powerful to give them out.” He shrugged. “I imagine that’s your job here, isn’t it?” He offered a relaxed smile, relying on the Hermes charm to put his mind at ease.

Octavian huffed and crossed his arms. Luke maybe laid the flattery on a little thick, but it got Octavian to drop the subject nonetheless. “So what, we’re just going to trust these Greeks and their Greek Warship that’s looming over our city?” He asked Reyna.

“If the ship is what you’re worried about, I can show you around,” Leo shrugged. “Let you take a look yourself.”

“That would-”

“That’s an excellent idea Leo,” Reyna interrupted Octavian’s protest. “Octavian, go with Leo and make sure it will be suitable for such a voyage.”

Octavian opened his mouth to protest, but Reyna made it clear that it wouldn’t be in his best interest to do so. Leo grinned. “This is going to be epic.” He announced and led Octavian through the Forum, back to the Argo II.

Jason got up with Piper to show her around, however, Annabeth was swept away by Reyna before Percy could take her, which left Percy with Luke. Percy shook it off and grinned at Luke. “Guess that means I get to show you the armoury.”

“Lead the way.” Luke chuckled. “It was nice meeting you, Hazel and Frank.” He saluted and followed Percy through the areas.

Percy told him about different areas as they passed them, but it was obvious he still wasn’t completely caught up in his duties as a Praetor.

“That kid,” Luke started as Percy brought him into the weapon area- a huge area, the size of the Hermes and Poseidon cabins combined at least, were dedicated to swords. Luke picked one out as Percy sat to the side, watching him swing it around experimentally. “Octavian. Who’s his godly parent?”

Percy shrugged. “He doesn’t have one. He’s a Legacy of Apollo, apparently his family has been here for like, a century.”

Luke nodded, putting the sword back and grabbing another, swinging that one. “He’s the Augur,” Luke mused. “I’m assuming he wants to climb higher?”

“He was pissed when I was announced Praetor.” Percy admitted, studying Luke. “Don’t take this the wrong way Luke, but he kind of… reminds me of you. Younger you.”

Luke shook his head. “No, I get it.” He looked at the gold weapon in his hand, his eyes reflecting the colour dangerously, like a bad dream he couldn’t quite wake up from. “He reminds me of me too.”

“Do you think he could be…?” Percy trailed off. “I don’t think Octavian would be capable.”

“I don’t know.” Luke admitted, putting the sword back and grabbing a third, much more balanced one. “It’s not completely out of the question though. I just get a bad vibe from him. Just… be careful, okay? I didn’t come all this way only to go back to Sally empty handed because another blonde asshole was trying to get power.”

Percy chuckled and shook his head before getting quiet. “How is she?” He asked.

Luke sighed and looked over at him. “As good as can be expected. I’ve been Iris-Messaging her during the search, and I went to go see her before we came here. She misses you Percy, and she’s worried, that’s all.”

“I should Iris-Message her later.” He murmured and shook his head. “So whatcha think? You like it?” He nodded to the sword.

“Yeah, it’s nice, lighter than bronze.” He admired.

“It’s yours then. As an apology for pulling you back in.” Percy told him.

“Percy, I don’t think Reyna-”

“Well, I’m still Praetor for now, so I say it’s okay.” He shrugged and got up.

Luke nodded and took the sheath from Percy, putting the sword in and setting it to the side. “So,” He paused. “You gonna tell me about that harpie? And why she can speak prophecies?”

Percy sighed and glanced around, lowering his voice and told Luke the story of how they came across Ella, and the books she’d read.

He was just getting to the part about the Prophecies when a high pitched whistle pierced the air, followed by the sound of an explosion. Luke and Percy were on their feet and out the door in an instant.

#Luke Castellan's Second Chance #luke castellan #percy jackson #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #pjo #Heroes of Olympus #hoo

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sleeplessdreamer14 · 5 years ago

Note

Seeing as you've posted what Sophie's dad looks like not too long ago, maybe you could give us some more info on the man? Perhaps some headcanons about mama and papa Iris?

Oh boy, here we go!! Info on Sophie’s parents!

Connor ✨

was born into royalty but ran away at the age of 15-16 (it’s a little complicated. I’ll explain later)

met Theodosia when they were around 16-17 and married her about 4 years later

was absolutely elated when he found out Theodosia was having a baby.

cried out of happiness when Sophie was born.

swore to love and protect her for as long as he lived.

BEST. DAD. EVER.

Connor used to take late night shifts whenever he could to help his wife, and was always the one to hold Sophie when she got scared during storms.

taught Sophie from the start that home and loved ones are more important than materialistic possessions

supportive af

soft yet protective

“Connor, come back to bed.” “No. I read somewhere that babies can randomly stop breathing in their sleep, so I’m watching our daughter like a freaking hawk.”

cried at Titanic

has a hella ton of respect for women

read Sophie a bunch of adventure books at bedtime, promoting her love of adventure

would sometimes carry Sophie in one of those baby carrier slings when he went out (she just slept for the most part)

Proud Crime Dad ™

got super protective when others commented on Sophie’s freckles, seeing as she was the only person in the galaxy to have them

“What’s that in her face?” “It’s called beauty!”

Chaotic Good

Robin Hood of the Treasure Planet universe. “We never rob, we just sort of borrow a bit from those who can afford it.”

if anyone even so much as looked at his wife the wrong way, he would normally just go and (verbally) beat the shit out of them

but insult his daughter, insult his baby, you better pick a god and pray for mercy

“hold my daughter, I’m about to go feral.”

Mess with this man’s family = most fatal mistake of your life

when Sophie met Jim, Connor approved of him instantly, seeing how polite he was to his daughter

if it were anyone else, he would probably have gone into protective mode

hated Leland

Connor also knew about Jim’s situation at home with his father, and did his best to step in as a father figure whenever he could

(Sophie was more than happy to share her dad with Jim from time to time)

Connor would spend as much time with his family as possible

on multiple occasions, he’s fallen asleep on the floor with little Sophie curled up on top of him, a napping blanket draped over them and a Peter Pan storybook lying on the floor

played a few string instruments (banjo, guitar, harp) for Theodosia when they fell in love, and for Sophie when she was little, prompting her to start learning to play the ukulele

definitely sang Waterbound to her on rainy days while softly playing on his banjo

also Lana Del Ray’s Season Of The Witch managed to put Sophie out like a light in minutes.

───── sad part. ─────

obviously being a spacer meant taking some risks, so he records a bunch of messages for Sophie on a little gadget every time he leaves for work. (Silver has it)

but when he left his home that one day, none of them were expecting him to not come back

the cannon blast didn’t injure him beyond recognition, but it did a fatal number on his torso

in his last moment of life, he thought of his wife and daughter, and how much he loved both of them more than life itself, apologizing for not being able to come home

has been watching over his family ever since then

all he really wanted was to give his daughter the freedom of choice he never had as a child

in the end, the greatest adventure of his life wasn’t any of the voyages he went on, but meeting Theodosia and raising his daughter with the love of his life

Theodosia ✨

grew up on Montressor as an only child and daughter of a tailor

loved dancing and horseback riding

was close friends with Sarah from 16 years old, but lost touch after a couple years

always dreamt of marrying and raising a family from a young age

had a slight drinking problem from the age of about 17

Although she drank often, it wasn’t too much of a problem (in all honesty, it was a bit more humorous than anything)

“Yeah, I have a drinking probelm. The problem is that I don’t have a freakin’ drink in my hand.”

but after she met Connor, she began to cut back of the alcohol

the last time she had a drink was on their wedding night

as soon as she discovered that she was with a baby, she stopped completely

was a little anxious to tell Connor, but was quickly put at ease when he beamed with delight and pulled her into a hug

wrote to Sarah about it, but was a little nervous about her response, seeing as they hadn’t spoken in about 3 years (but Sarah was very happy to hear the news, and wrote back saying congratulations and that she just had a son a few months ago)

Moominmamma vibes

her due date was around the first week of October, but she gave birth about a week and a half early (September 23rd)

she was so worried that Sophie wouldn’t make it, seeing how small she was when she was born. But Connor reassured her that she would grow to become someone extraordinary.

Connor wanted to do the Circle of Life thing w/ the baby but she said no... at least not until they got home

when her daughter was born with freckles, she was a bit curious as to how that was possible, but still loved her all the same

when she realized that Sophie looked a lot like her dad, she knew that she was gonna grow to be a bit of a handful

lucky she had two hands, plus an extra set to help her

they enrolled Sophie in school early since she could read by the time she was about 2 & 1/2. (smart kid)

on Sophie’s first day of kindergarten, she felt so bad when Sophie got all sad because she was in an unfamiliar place and her parents wouldn’t be there

but when Jim spotted the little girl sitting in the corner all by herself, he came over to comfort her, and they stayed together for the rest of the day

Theodosia and Sarah were both very happy to see that both their children had become friends

even though it was clear how her marriage was going downhill, Theodosia did her best to support Sarah

───── sad part. ─────

there would be times that Connor would come home a day or two late, but she still worried

when it rolled into day three, she received news from the police department that her husband had died out on the field

and in that one moment, it felt as though she’d lost everything

and then she remembered Sophie, leaving her to wonder howin the world she was supposed to tell her seven year old daughter that she’d lost her dad.

it took a while, but when Theodosia returned home, she just barely managed to not cry when she broke the bad news to her daughter.

after the funeral, things were never the same.

Theodosia wound up having to go to about a year or so of therapy to even begin to move on or at the very least heal from Connor’s death.

but Sophie didn’t go to therapy, or counseling, or anything. She just sort of closed herself off for a while. And that scared Theodosia.

worries the world for her daughter, even when she insists that she’s okay

fell ill with anemia about 5 years after Connor’s passing

when they found the map, Theodosia was very opposed to letting Sophie go, but she knew that there was no talking her out of it

while the kids were away, Theodosia considered having a drink, but stopped herself

when she and Sarah received news that the RLS Legacy had returned, she refused to stay home.

When she reunited with Sophie, she broke out into tears, thanking whatever deity was up there that her baby had come home safe

Special Taglist: @thenewnio @wallymcflubberfins @from-shattered-stars @catrillion @carlottastudios @friendofcybermen @snowflake-dreamer @thatonerockerfreak

#treasure planet #disney #disney treasure planet #treasure planet disney #treasure planet fanfiction #fanfiction disney #disney fanfiction #connor j. iris #theodosia iris #sophie iris #jim hawkins #treasure planet original character #disney original character #original charcater #self insert fanfiction #headcanons

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herorps · 5 years ago

Text

EIGHT PEOPLE I’D LIKE TO GET TO KNOW BETTER.

𝟎𝟏. alias / name : flo / mac / iris ; i highkey dont really go by iris anymore, but some of you may have known me as iris rather than flo or mac. as for why i use multiple aliases ... mind ur own business. jk, flo is my real life nickname ( people have called me this since childhood ), mac is like ... idk when u put on a sexy little maid outfit for funsies

𝟎𝟐. birthday : december 28

𝟎𝟑. zodiac sign : capricorn (:

𝟎𝟒. height : 5′4″ / 164cm

𝟎𝟓. hobbies : watching videos idk, i’m watching a lot of sims / animal crossing streams lately. i also make gif packs to fill time, and fantasize about a life outside of quarantine and the prison of my own mind. also i play a lot of animal crossing as of late

𝟎𝟔. favourite colour : like a maroon color ? i’m really into a lot of “royal” and “deeper” colors, so like maroon, navy, forest greens, etc. real autumnal colors tbh

𝟎𝟕. favourite book : y’all read ??????!??? i haven’t read an actual mass published BOOK since like october 2019 and that’s bc i couldn’t access the internet while on my cruise to read fanfic on ao3. but uh,, my favorite book i’ve read in my lifetime so far is probably ( i didnt even fucking answer this bc i was thinking so hard at the books i’ve read in my life that i forgot to come back to this after and i fucking published instead , uhhh ) pride and prejudice ( even tho i’m probably forgetting a book i like more than p&p )

𝟎𝟖. last song : i listened to the tablo podcast on my way to work this morning but before that i was listening to cynthia erivo’s version of i’m here from the color purple obcr

𝟎𝟗. last film / show : idk if this counts but it is an actual tv show, i’m currently watching john oliver’s last week tonight on youtube while i answer some messages for work ( yes i am at work rn )

𝟏𝟎. inspiration : eye -- idk what this means per se. i mean like what do i strive to be ?? what vibe do i wanna give off ?? i guess i’d like to be like that li ziqi, that one chinese countryside vlogger, but like .. with the chaos and energy of macdoesit. like sometimes i want to give up on my career and societal aspirations and idk like work at a mom and pop shop for the rest of my life or something like i’m a white heroine in a lifetime movie who just moved to a small town bc the city was too suffocating and i must solve the mystery of this one box i found in the attic of the house i’m staying in. but u know i’m like .. not white lmao and i’d be so bored of that life in like a mONTH

𝟏𝟏. story behind url : to be matching with @villainrps bc she’s a bully

tagged by : @captainflintwrites ( ilu uwu 💕 )

tagging : @incjghafas @civilianrps @villainrps @palettrbls @kuroshitsujii @loganlcrmans @usagitsuikno @tonkinwrites and anyone who wants to ✌🏼

#about

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thirteen-beaxhes · 6 years ago

Text

@fluffyzutara hope you like this it didn't let me answer your ask properly!

"So," TJ said with a smile, looking over at Cyrus who was lying down beside him reading his book.

"So," Cyrus said back, putting down his book as he sat up.

"This was nice."

"Wouldve been nicer if you didn't eat my baby taters."

"It was one time!" TJ said loudly, earning a few startled looks from passers-by.

Cyrus laughed, placing a hand on TJ's shoulder. "It's okay, I forgive you."

"Thank you, Underdog," TJ said with a smile, squeezing Cyrus' hand, making the other boy blush.

Cyrus looked up at TJ, who was staring at him quite endearingly, but he couldn't help but notice the way TJ was leaning in ever so slightly. His heart began to race, as his gaze flicked down. TJ leaned in more, and Cyrus closed his eyes, trying to stop his head from spinning so much, just waiting for what came next. When...

🎶sOMEBODY ONCE TOLD ME🎶

TJ groaned as he leaned back, Cyrus laughing loudly at the boy's ringtone, silently slightly relieved.

"Why did you ever make that your ringtone?" Cyrus asked, amused at TJ's embarrassment.

"It's all Marty's fault," TJ said, shaking his head as he typed out a quick message. When he was done, he looked back up at Cyrus with a soft smile. "Now, where were we?"

Uh oh. Panic back. Cyrus gulped slightly as he looked down and grabbed his back, causing TJ to start slightly.

"Oh, would you look at the time?" Cyrus said, lifting his hand to check his watch (only to realise he wasn't wearing one) and getting up. "I'll see you tomorrow Teej, bye!" He called out, before running all the way home, leaving behind a very confused TJ.

"Oh this is bad, this is really bad," Cyrus muttered, and Jonah looked over at him with an amused smile.

"What is?" He asked, and Cyrus showed him a text from TJ. "It just says 'Hey can we talk?' That isn't bad."

"That's the classic text before a breakup!" Cyrus said, turning around to face Jonah. "I need to face it. It was too good to last."

"Cyrus relax, TJ isn't gonna break up with you," Jonah said shrugging. "Maybe he just wants to talk."

"Yeah I guess you're right," Cyrus said, sighing as he said goodbye to Jonah and stepped into the Spoon.

TJ was sitting in the booth and he smiled as Cyrus approached.

"Hey Underdgo," He said, his voice unusually nervous.

"Hey," Cyrus said, smiling slightly. "You said you wanted to talk?"

"Actually," TJ said, pulling his hands toward himself. "I wanted to apologise."

"What for?" Cyrus asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"For making you uncomfortable yesterday?" TJ said, raising an eyebrow. "I, I shouldn't have leaned in like that, and I'm sorry. I, I just hope it doesn't make things too bad between us."

"Whoa whoa Teej, hold on," Cyrus said, grabbing his hand. "You didn't make me uncomfortable."

"Then why did you run off?"

Cyrus sighed, pulling his hand back. He looked down at his hands. "I got scared."

"Of what?" TJ asked, confused.

Cyrus kept his eyes down, avoiding TJ's eyes. It didn't take long for him to realise what he meant, though.

"Cyrus, have you never, kissed anyone before?" TJ asked quietly.

"No, no I have I just," Cyrus said, looking up. He took a breath and said, "I've just never kissed a boy before."

"Oh," TJ said, leaning back in his seat. Things were silent for a moment before he smiled and took Cyrus' hand. "Hey."

Cyrus looked up, a small smile on his face.

"I haven't kissed a boy either. But if you wanna wait, I'm ready to wait," TJ said, and Cyrus smiled back, squeezing his hand.

How did he get so lucky?

"Give me a T! Give me a J! What does that spell? TJ!" Andi yelled, waving the pom-poms around as the crowd cheered behind her. Cyrus, who was holding up a sign of his own, shook his head laughing.

"This is why you never became a cheerleader," He said, and Andi smacked his arm.

"How dare you insult my mad skills," She said, and Jonah, who was standing beside them, snorted as he tried to hold back his laughter.

"Oh my god they have ten seconds left," Buffy said, looking intently at the court, as Darren passed TJ the ball. Cyrus held his breath in anticit, smiling and nodding encouragingly at his boyfriend, as if he believes his positive vibes would transfer to the boy.

TJ dribbled the ball, swerving past the other players, and tossed the ball into the basket with 2 seconds to spare.

41-40

"They did it! They won!" Andi yelled, and Cyrus, Buffy and her cheered with the rest of the crowd as the team all hugged and high-fived, pumped by the win.

Cyrus pushed his way down the bleachers, immediately running up to pull TJ into a tight embrace. "I knew you could do it!" Cyrus said, grabbing TJ.

"Thanks for cheering for me Underdog," TJ said, hugging Cyrus back.

They pulled away, and with the sounds of the cheers in the background, Cyrus smiled up at TJ and his gaze shifted down before he made up his mind.

"I don't wanna wait anymore."

TJ furrowed his eyebrows, confused, until Cyrus placed his hand on the beck of TJ's back, pulling him in and kissing him softly.

So that's what Iris meant by itll get better, was the first thing Cyrus thought of as he kissed TJ, surprised at just how different it was. How he felt the butterflies in his stomach erupt to life, how he felt warm and perfectly at home with TJ, how it was perfect.

When they pulled away, TJ took a deep breath, his eyes still closed. "Whoa," Was all he could say.

Cyrus laughed, raising his eyebrows. "Whoa," He agreed, before leaning in for another kiss, eating more hoots and cheers from TJ's teammates and the students around, Buffy, Andi and Jonah being the loudest.

Yeah this was as perfect as it got.

#andi mack #tyrus #my fic

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thesinglesjukebox · 6 years ago

Video

youtube

JAMILA WOODS - BALDWIN

[8.20]

Her legacy is secure on our sidebar, but she clearly has more lofty ambitions...

Alfred Soto: Absorbing James Baldwin's incantatory power into musical history that encompasses soul horns and a unforced communitarian spirit, Jamila Woods remains skeptical of his legacy anyway. She understands how an influence is a menace too. [8]

Nellie Gayle: How do you live a legacy, honor a history, that's equally heartbreaking and triumphant? Jamila Woods brings brightness and joy to her reflections on African American history in the United States, without ignoring the trauma implicit in its story. "Your crown has been bought and paid for. All you have to do is put in on your head" the video quotes from Baldwin. Much like the author she named the track after, Woods will not gloss over the daily suffering and indignities of white supremacy in the US. But also like Baldwin, she's an optimist who derives happiness and hardwon joy from a history of resistance. So long as there is a vibrant culture and community whose stories deserve to be celebrated (not just told), Woods will literally sing its praises with melodies reminiscent of Bill Withers - upbeat, sunny, and heartfelt. Another Baldwin quote for Woods, one that deserves to be framed & hung up on bedroom walls in times like these: "To be a pessimist means that you have agreed that human life is an academic matter, so I'm forced to be an optimist. I'm forced to believe that we can survive whatever we must survive." [9]

Nortey Dowuona: A warm, dreamlike roll of piano chords swirl with the wind as a loping bass limps alongside dribbling drums as warm bursts of horns drift past Jamila, who gently stirs the cauldron, which bubbles warmly as the kids gather around in cautious excitement. [9]

Kylo Nocom: "BALDWIN" is a perfect explanation of how the idea of (argh!) optimistic and loving resistance can (often justifiably) feel like a pointless endeavour, especially when applied to the struggles of black Americans. Poetic descriptions of gentrification, police brutality, and non-black inaction are painfully outlined, betraying a central exhaustion that lies in Jamila's doubts of her friends' and icons' messages of hope. Jamila's croon also reads as tired, perhaps unintentionally, but with the help of some tasteful vocal accompaniment the sincerity beneath her uneasiness is allowed to flourish. Despite the underlying hesitance, "BALDWIN" is ultimately inspired by a real desire to see love as a means towards building community. As for Nico Segal, it seems he was just invited to aim at my weakness towards percussive horn blasts, punctuating the lines that seem to resonate the most powerfully: "we don't go out, can't wish us away." [9]

Joshua Lu: Utterly sublime and warm, like the aural equivalent of a hazy summertime sunset, which is startling for a song with this subject matter. "BALDWIN" touches on the different ways racism manifests, bringing up not just images of black fathers dead on the streets and white women clutching their purses, but also referencing the "casual violence" in white speech and white silence. It's subtly damning, and Jamila sounds too weary to accept the solution she's been offered, to extend love to the people who will never reciprocate it. The song ends uncertainly, hanging on a cryptic line and an unsatisfying melody, as if daring the listener to provide their own resolution. [8]

Joshua Copperman: "BALDWIN" struggles with its namesake's theory that "you must accept them with love" - 'them' referring to white people - "for these innocent people have no other hope." How is love even possible, even in Woods' definition of love, with the aggressions both macro (police brutality) and micro (purse-clutching) addressed in the lyrics? Obviously, there aren't easy answers, but Woods' educated guess on surviving is not just resilience, but community. That chorus starts with "all my friends" for a reason. It's not quite as anarchic as "You can tell your deity I'm alright/Wake up in the bed, call me Jesus Christ," but it's the same eventual conclusion. Instead of defying religion, Woods defies the expectation of being respectable. That's the interesting thing about this beat too, from Slot-A, mixing more traditional R&B instrumentation like Rhodes piano and canned synth pads with trap snares and horn stabs. He takes advantage of Woods' thin voice, not only contrasting it with those heavier textures but also giving it space to breathe. Another hook of this song - there are several - is "You don't know a thing about our story/you tell it wrong all the time," suggesting that if love alone won't overcome, telling your own tale will be more than sufficient. [9]

Will Adams: So many (usually white) musicians handle the topic of racism as deftly as if it were a hot potato slathered in grease. Jamila Woods cuts to the core in a single verse, addressing police brutality, gentrification and purse-clutching casual racism. The arc of the song is balancing that anger with weariness of those who preach civility in the face of hate. If that all sounds a bit too down, Nico Segal's punctuation in the form of bright horn stabs are there to keep the message alive and resonant. [7]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Not the most transcendent piece on LEGACY! LEGACY! (see "BASQUIAT"), but a close competitor. The jazzy production sets the groove well, and the stabs of Nico Segal's horns and Gospel-adjacent choirs fill the space beautifully. But it's Jamila herself who takes "Baldwin" from something pleasant to something glorious. She bridges romance, protest, and memory like no one else can, melding them with her sweet, pointed voice into the album's best demonstration of its thesis. [9]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: "BALDWIN" is a song that finds Jamila Woods detailing the outright, inescapable racism that occurs against Blacks every day. In referencing James Baldwin, she makes clear how such fear and hatred-fueled actions have persisted to the present day. But what makes this so fascinating a song is that Woods muddies the waters; she spends a bit of time wrestling with the positivity that Baldwin espoused throughout his lifetime, finding herself conflicted by the effectiveness of such praxis. In a way, listening to this feels like a legitimate Sermon on the Mount moment, where "lov[ing] your enemy and pray[ing] for those who persecute you" comes as a shocking command instead of a spoonfed Sunday School lesson. Miraculously, "BALDWIN" doesn't end up feeling knotty and tense, but overwhelmingly triumphant. You can sense it in the gospel choir and Nico Segal's horns, but it's Woods's own silk-smooth vocals and circuitous melodies that announce her impossible serenity. Has she found truth in such ostensible cognitive dissonance, or is she too elated to be bothered by this disagreement? That internal struggle finds no conclusion here, but Woods transcends it all by being an inspiration herself. She embodies something that Baldwin had written to his nephew in 1962--a specific instruction that feels ever necessary today: "You don't be afraid." [7]

Iris Xie: With such a clear, gentle series of asks here, you would have to have an adherence to bigotry, or at least avoiding the discomfort of examining your own internalized anti-Black biases, in order to avoid considering what Woods is saying here. I think about this a lot as a queer Asian American, what my responsibility is to the project of helping not contribute and help demolish the project of anti-Blackness as enacted by white supremacist institutions and those who are complicit and facilitate them, especially when I see the amount of pain in both the news and what my friends experience. The line of "All my friends / Been readin' the books / readin' the books you ain't read" cuts deep for me especially, because I have an Bachelor's degree in Gender, Sexuality, and Women's Studies, which is an enormous amount of privilege in itself to receive and is due to countless activist histories that made that possible. It also made me think of the sheer amount of books about queer Black feminism that I genuinely feel I've barely scratched the surface of understanding, but am always in awe of the brilliance exuding forth. All of it is already written here for anyone to read, with new scholarship and articles and media produced all the time to help digest and made accessible for the rest of us. The loveliness of this song is that in its quiet neo-soul tempos, with the subtle snares, synths, and horns, results in a vibe she is secure in itself and asks the listener to move towards Woods. Black activists have put together the work and articulated these for decades, for any of us to read. The least we can do is listen and pay attention, as a complete bare minimum. [7]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#Jamila Woods #soul #music #music review #writing

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hanalwayssolo · 6 years ago

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Somewhere Between The Music and Lyrics: Ch. 1

A/N: I’m terribly off my own schedule, as usual! So. This Prompto one-shot became a monster I did not expect so I’m splitting it into two chapters. Honestly, among the chocobros, Prompto’s the first one that came to mind when I wanted to do a band AU of sorts—because I’ve heard Robbie Daymond sing on one of their LAVA streams and it is glorious. Anyway! Song featured for this first half is Gavin DeGraw’s We Belong Together.

Tagging pals! @raspberryandechinacea @noboomoon@emmydots @bleucommelhiver @gowithme @hanatsuki89 @valkyrieofardyn @animakupo @lazarustrashpit @blindedstarlight @mp938368 @boo-dangy

Prompto had been busily sifting through The Lost Boys’ unanswered emails at the back of their tour bus when he hears his song.

Except, it’s not quite his song.

He recognizes the lyrics in an instant—and he of all people would know of course, since he had written those words as a cry for help for his hopelessly romantic soul. But the song that aches through the speakers holds none of Ignis’s electric riffs, the swell of Gladio’s drums, the steady hum of Noctis’s bass, let alone his own vocals. The one he hears is his music stripped to its rawest, the words made vulnerable by a melancholic leak of a lone acoustic guitar and an exquisitely soulful voice.

We belong together Like the open seas and shores Wedded by the planet force We’ve all been spoken for

Prompto scrambles to the front lounge to find Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis huddling by the booth over a laptop set on the table, their eyes glued to the screen in wild wonder.

Curiously, Prompto eyes them—still grinning wide in awe—and asks, “Are you guys hearing what I’m hearing now? Am I dreaming? What is happening?”

Noctis snorts a laugh. He swivels the laptop to face Prompto. “You might want to check this out, my friend.”

Prompto excitedly moves closer. Immediately, he sees the video accompanying the song entitled “we belong together (cover) by my amazingly talented roommate!!!” posted by username MasterPelnaK. He barely even notices how this video has been raking almost five hundred thousand views and likes in the last twenty-four hours as his attention zeroes in on the stranger sitting on a bean bag, equipped with nothing but the guitar and that voice.

What good is a life With no one to share The light of the moon The honour of a swear

Gods. The tone and vibrato is so on point it sends shivers down his spine. But then, Prompto begins to wonder why this person is not even looking directly at the camera. Were they even aware that they were being recorded? It seems all too candid given the angle, as if the camera had just been discreetly set up on a low-lying table. Not to mention the very personal space in the background, too: a well-lit room of white walls, a cozy looking sofa, an impressive shelf of books and vinyl records tucked between potted fiddle leaf figs. Somewhere out of sight, hushed whispers could still be heard. Was this only recorded from a mobile phone?

Anyway, not that any of these things mattered. Prompto has rarely come across other artists covering their songs, and when he does, each one he cherishes dearly. But this one—this one, for heaven’s sake—has moved him the way the winds bend the trees to its will, a tiny flint that sparks a flame. He didn’t realize that the words he had written could be afforded such lyrical heft, that the music he had created had been a delicate and honest confessional that could fit someone else’s voice so beautifully, like finding a piece of a puzzle he never knew he had been missing.

Where have you been all my life?

So Prompto watches it again. And then a couple times more. Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis gather to watch him curiously. Prompto briefly skims through the comments section and is thoroughly relieved to read overwhelmingly positive feedback. He didn’t even mind when he comes across a comment that says “this is even better than the original!” because fuck it, he shares the same sentiment.

And before Prompto could even scroll back up to replay the video, Gladio drags the laptop away from him.

Prompto sneers in protest. “Dude. Not cool at all—”

“What’s not cool is obsessing over a cover of your own fucking song,” Gladio says in jest.

“Hey, it’s a fucking cool cover, okay!” Prompto scoffs and flicks his eyes on the ceiling—almost rolls them, but not quite so. “And please, big guy. I’m not obsessing. I’m too chill to be obsessed, thank you very much.”

“I clearly remember you saying to the crowd earlier how you’re never the ‘chill’ person of sort, and my word. How quickly the tables have turned,” Ignis casually remarks as he takes a sip from his mug of coffee.

Prompto’s mouth falls open. He did say that onstage during their performance back at Leiden Fest. His immediate regret is letting Ignis triumphantly take it against him.

Meanwhile, Noctis lifts a suspicious eyebrow at Ignis. “Iggy, are you sure you’re not drinking tea? ‘Cause you just poured a scalding one right there.”

“I’m impressed—that’s a good one.” Gladio gives Noctis and Ignis a thundering high-five. They burst out in a gale of laughter.

“You guys are enjoying this, huh.” Prompto grabs a pillow and smashes it at Noctis, who only yelps in between fits of laughter. He hurls one at Gladio, too, but the big guy has reflexes of a jungle cat, so he only ends up catching the thing. Ignis, however, Prompto hesitates at the last second when he shoots him a menacing glance. “Okay, I’m not even going to bother attacking you, ‘cause I’m pretty sure you will kill me if you spill that coffee.”

Ignis gives him a smile and a nod, and returns to his drink.

“Also,” Noctis says, “now that I think about it, you’re giving off that same look and vibe the first time you were crushing on Cindy.”

“What? I do not—okay, okay—” Prompto groans, jabbing a finger at Noctis— “that is different. Cindy is our road manager, so I’m choosing not to cross the line. While this…” Prompto pauses and takes a deep breath. “This is also different. A very surreal and magical kind of different.”

“Now I’d say someone’s been bitten by a lovebug.” Ignis leans back on his seat, arms crossed, regarding Prompto with a pleasant smile.

Gladio laughs. “Tell me about it.”

“I can’t believe I’m friends with you guys,” Prompto says in a miserable groan.

But frankly, Prompto is far from miserable having Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis as friends. He considers himself quite fortunate to have found brothers in them, painfully annoying as they may be from time to time. Besides, it was through their music that helped them bond and weather the toughest of their adolescent years: they were no stranger to teenage angst, to riotous episodes of rebellion, to whirlwind romances and crazy ex-lovers, and to the turbulent journey that led them to be the band that they are today. Naming themselves The Lost Boys seemed to be a fitting tribute to the misadventures of their youth: Always lost and never found.

And yet, regardless of their highs and lows, the four of them have always had each other’s back. And that has not changed even now that they are in their thirties.

Perhaps Prompto is being overly sentimental at this point, but that’s just how it is.

Or maybe, he really has been bitten by a lovebug.

“In any case—“ Noctis firmly clasps Prompto’s shoulder— “this amazing cover of your song is breaking the Internet as we speak.”

“Well, yeah.” Prompto shrugs, though he cannot hide it in from his face how pleased he truly is. “Though I do wonder who this MasterPelnaK is.”

“Definitely not the person in the video, that’s for sure,” says Gladio.

“If I may?” Ignis reaches for the laptop from Gladio. “Let’s see here—“ the boys squeeze themselves into the seat so they could also get a look as Ignis hovers around the profile page— “this Pelna Khara happens to be a video game blogger—“

“It’s a vlogger, Iggy—get in with the times,” Prompto corrects cheerfully.

Ignis exhales an exasperated sigh. He returns his attention back on screen. “Apparently, this vlogger streams gameplays and commentaries—“

“Really?” Noctis interrupts out of a sudden rush of excitement. “Do you think he has one for Assassin's Creed—“

Prompto nudges Noctis by the arm. “Dude.”

“Right. Sorry,” Noctis says sheepishly. “Carry on.”

“Anyway.” Ignis is unfazed by the interruption as he goes on: “It appears that this is the first time this Pelna fellow uploaded this sort of material.”

“Oh and look, he’s very popular, too,” Noctis says. “Ten million subscribers? What the fuck—“

“Wouldn’t be surprised now that the video got so many hits overnight,” Gladio notes pensively. “And check it out—“ he points at the bio section— “he lives in the city. Says his hub is somewhere in Downtown Insomnia.”

As if struck by the same spectacular idea, Noctis and Gladio exchange knowing glances. Ignis, of course, is quick to catch on.

It takes a while for Prompto to understand what’s going on, and when he finally does, he shoots them all a dubious gaze. His friends are up to something, and the glint in their eyes could only spell mischief.

“Guys—” Prompto starts as calmly as he could, hands raised in an almost surrender— “whatever you guys are thinking, we don’t need to do this—”

“We don’t need to—but you do,” Gladio claps Prompto’s back. “We got ya, my guy.”

“And before you all intend to push through with this,” Ignis says, “would anyone be so kind as to ask Cindy if we can change our course and make a quick pitstop. And let Iris know, too, since… well. She’s our handler, after all.”

Gladio rises out of the booth. “On it,” he says as he makes his way to the driver’s seat.

“And allow me to send a message to this fella,” Noctis adds promptly, already typing away in front of the laptop.

Prompto sinks helplessly to the seat beside Noctis. “Why are we all friends again?” he says loudly, and the meaningful response he receives is the sound of their amused laughter.

“I want that video deleted right now.”

Pelna winces at the sharpness of your words. Crowe, on the other hand, looks like she is ready to give you everything the world has to offer. In the years you have spent sharing a flat with them, this must be the first time you have ever seen them this apologetic. Which is only fair because this is the first time they have done something quite outrageous to upset you. Yes, sure—Crowe and Pelna might think you’re overreacting right now, but you’re no video blogger or Internet celebrity like the both of them are, so that’s entirely beside the point. As they sit side by side cowering on the couch and you standing over them—hands on waist, jaws clenched, eyes seething in fury—it’s as if they have committed a crime against all of humanity that cannot be forgiven.

Except the casualty of the said crime is you, and only you.

“Look, you have every right to be mad at me for my negligence—” Pelna nervously raises a hand, trying to look at you dead in the eye but flinches as if you are burning bright like the sun— “but I fucking swear, it wasn’t me who uploaded the thing! Okay, I admit—I’ve been tempted to record you for some time now ‘cause in case you don’t know this yet, you’re a really good singer. But trust me on this! I really have no idea how that video got out, I promise!”

“And it’s certainly not me who recorded you!” Crowe adds in their defense. “My alibi may not be perfect but I was already drunk that time! And even if I’m sober, I wouldn’t dare barge in Pelna’s room and tinker with his toys. Gods know what I’d find in there—”

“Only the good stuff, my dude,” Pelna says, suddenly pleased with himself. “Nothing but the good stuff—”

“How about we focus on the issue at hand, yes?” You pace back and forth, and in dire resignation, you finally flop on the armchair next to the couch. Fucking hell. It’s too early in the morning to have a head-splitting migraine. You wish this had been from a hangover or some other sickness, but it’s insane how this is all caused by seeing a video of yourself on the fucking Internet with no recollection of recording it at all. Sleuthing to find out the events that unfolded the night of Pelna’s birthday only seemed to make throbbing in your head even worse. As far as you could remember, most of the folks had been severely battered—which was why you had the guts to pull out your guitar and sing the blues away as everyone dozed off in their drunken stupor. But in your tight-knit circle of friends, if there’s anyone who could impressively hold their liquor the same way they could hold a knife, it could only be...

“Wait a fucking second.” Crowe narrow her eyes at Pelna, and then at you. She fishes out the phone in her pocket and hurriedly dials a number. With her phone on loudspeaker, the line rings once, twice, thrice. And then, a voice.

“What’s up, Crowe—”

“Nyx.” Crowe’s tone is already accusing that you didn’t even bother butting in. “You’re the one who uploaded the video on Pelna’s channel, weren’t you?”

A suspicious pause. Then, Nyx laughs. “Maybe.”

Pelna grabs the phone from Crowe. “I swear I will kill you when I see you, man! How dare you dishonour me—” as a knee-jerk reaction to his response, you kick Pelna in the shin that he yelps when he says— “and how dare you dishonour our friend!”

On the other line, Nyx is still laughing. “Wait, on a scale of one to ten, how angry is —”

“Not the fucking point!” Pelna snaps back. “How did you even manage to get into my account, you piece of beautiful shit?”

“Well, maybe next time you should make sure you always logout, alright?”

“Well, fuck you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Nyx says breezily. Even in a phone call, his voice never fails to carry his air of arrogance. “But hey, kidding aside. You all said that we should help each other in living to the best of our potential, right? And our friend right there with you, Pelna—yes, you, I know you’re listening, too—do you even realize how fucking talented you are? You have been serenading us all our life, and this is the least I could do to share how proud I am to have a gifted friend like you. I’m sorry if it’s a jackass move, but I know if I asked for your permission, that thing would never see the light of day.”

The four of you bask in a sudden uneasy silence. You should not have been touched by Nyx’s words, but here you are, almost moved into tears. Despite his occasional display of pride and vanity, Nyx is one of the kindest human beings you have ever had the pleasure to meet. He may not seem like it, but he’s the very definition of a jerk with a heart of gold. You just hope he could completely forego being the jerk and stick with his golden heart instead.

This time, you take the phone from Pelna and say, “Treat the three of us for dinner for the next two weeks, and I’ll decide if I should forgive you.”

“Consider it done. I’m a man of my word,” Nyx says, and the sound of his relief is evident in his voice. “Now... am I out of trouble?”

“Certainly not, you dickhead. Later.”

You drop from the call and hand the phone back to Crowe. The two of them gape at you as if you have finally turned out to be the monster they have always known you to be.

“Wow. You really did that,” Crowe says, looking very impressed. “You actually shut Nyx up and made him agree to pay for two weeks worth of dinner. Aren’t you a delight.”

You manage a small smile. Pelna heaves one loud sigh of relief. “Now that we’ve finally cleared things up, are you sure you want me to take the video down? You’re really getting a lot of hype from my channel, I mean we’re close to half a million views! And—“

The shrieking sound of the doorbell cuts your conversation in an abrupt halt.

“Wait, I’ll get that,” Crowe gets up and rushes toward the door.

“So? Whaddaya say?” Pelna urges fervently. He is still invested on persuading you, and you can see it in his kind eyes. “It’s one video, I know… but you gotta believe us, you really are a fucking talent—”

“Pel, it’s not that. It’s...” You get on your feet, circling around the coffee table, as if it would help you articulate all the reasons behind your sense of trepidation. Honestly, you appreciate having Pelna and Crowe as friends for their selfless outpour of love and support for your craft. But how can you explain to them that sometimes, your own music terrifies you? Is there any logical explanation behind being scared of your own voice? So here you are, standing in front of Pelna, falling extremely inadequate to gather the words out of your mouth. Instead, you say, “I’m… just worried. What if The Lost Boys had seen it? And what if they’d hate me for it?”

Pelna offers you a weird, strained look. “Well, about that—”

“I don’t think there should be anything to worry about. We love it!”

The bell-like bounce of the voice that spoke clearly does not belong to Pelna nor Crowe, nor does it fit in the ordinariness of the space of your shared apartment.

You turn—hesitantly, too carefully—to see three of The Lost Boys standing by the doorway with Crowe. And standing in front of you is their frontman, Prompto, smilingly extending his hand to reach yours.

This horribly sunny day is getting stranger and stranger, and it’s not even noon yet.

Pleasantries have been made—and a little bit of internally slapping yourself in the face to make sure this is all happening—and now, it has all come to this. Leaning from the bar counter, you watch as the four infuriatingly beautiful men of The Lost Boys struggle to squeeze themselves in the poor thing you all call a sofa. Across from them is Crowe, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table, analyzing each of them from head to toe with the sole purpose of intimidating the shit out them. Which is no surprise, of course; Crowe rarely gets star-struck in the presence of famous people, and even if she does, she hides it effortlessly well. Meanwhile, Pelna is playing a staring game with the band’s drummer—and frighteningly the tallest and largest in the group—that you cannot help but wonder if Pelna has some sort of a death wish that he needs to get fulfilled right this instant.

“So, let me get this straight—” Crowe says, crossing her arms— “and I hope you don’t mind if we’re being cautious ‘cause, well, we don’t want our roommate to get dragged into something sketchy, but… you came all the way down here to this shabby neighbourhood after you saw the cover of your song, and now you want to collaborate on a song? Is that it?”

Prompto is the one who willingly answers with a vigorous nod. He seems unfazed with Crowe’s intention of scaring them off. He glances your way before he says, “And there’s no need to worry about the contract and all that legal stuff, ‘cause we’ll have that arranged. Right, Ignis?”

“Indeed,” says Ignis. “I know this arrangement seems completely out of sorts, seeing as we came here on such a short notice, but I can assure you that we offer nothing but the best of intentions.”

“Really?” you say as you move from behind the counter to sit together with Crowe. “But you’re all men. And you know what’s more dangerous than men? Celebrity men.” No one said a word. A moment’s silence lingers as you study each of their faces, and then: “So how do I make sure that I could trust you with… this? That this isn’t some publicity stunt you’re trying to pull—”

“It’s not like that at all,” Prompto says firmly. “And if you have any doubts with your safety, well, I’m sorry if our friend Gladio looks so menacing for our image—”

“Seriously?” Gladio scoffs, turning to Prompto. “You really hurt my feelings.”

You try to stifle your laughter. Somehow, now that you look closely at the four of them, they remind you of Nyx, Libertus, and Pelna.

And suddenly, you feel bad for putting them in a hot seat like this.

As The Lost Boys begin to discuss amongst themselves with what you assume to be a stream of their inside jokes, Pelna sidles up to you while Crowe loops her arm around yours. Whispering, she says, “I think you should do it.”

Pelna discreetly adds, “And if they ever get you into trouble, Nyx is a lawyer so he should have your back. I already texted him and he’s ready to keep an eye out for you.”

You let out a rueful sigh. You have to admit, it’s hard to stay mad at Crowe and Pelna and Nyx when this is the way they exhibit their unwavering friendship: with a flourish of genuine love and steadfast support.

Empowered by your friends’ confidence, you clear your throat and you turn your attention to the four men sitting in front of you. You fix your eyes at Prompto, and you ask, “So. When do we start this thing?”

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #ffxv fanfiction #fanfic #prompto argentum #older!prompto argentum #prompto x reader #older!prompto x reader #my writing

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royal-writer · 6 years ago

Text

It’s only a nightmare

i want to wake up

A final squeak echoed from the last step on the spiral staircase. Essätha shivered involuntarily from the icy cold sensation it left in her bones. Her insides quivered, breathing in the musky stale odors of the home. No breeze. No fresh air to fill lungs. Only floating specks in the air, and the disturbance of loud breathing from those in front of and behind her that made the space seem too loud.

Just as the rest of the old palazzo, this area was covered in a thin layer of dust. She noted the impression of new footsteps imprinted on the long runner carpet from the party’s series of shoes and feet as they looked around the impressive room. Large in size only however; it lacked and true character aside from paintings and a chandelier that sat high in the towering architecture of the ceiling. Lowering it daily likely proved a terrible chore when people had last resided here, in order to light the many candles.

“This place gives a La Belle et La Bête vibe, don’t you think?” Adela remarked with a strained laugh.

Essätha gave a snort in answer. Fairytale rubbish; there were much better reads to be had. The only redeeming quality of the novel had been the honest and true developing quality of the prince and Beauty’s love.

“Let’s hope no Beast comes out, begging for a virgin’s love,” Penimra all but purred, earning a swift disapproving glance from the pink Tiefling.

“That’s not what he asked for,” Essie tartly informed the high elf. “He told the merchant he wished for one of his daughters to suffer in his place, and he would let him go. He had no memory that the wicked one cursed him to his beastly form; he didn’t remember the fairy changed his shape at all until he could get a beautiful virgin to consent to marry him.”

“Well he’d be in poor luck,” Pen offered in a snotty tone, placing his hands on his wide hips. “The only beauty here has been bedded so many times-”

“Disgusting,” Ravamora muttered in revulsion.

“That’s not need-to-know information,” Sulhadur muttered, although there was no sign of surprise in his expression.

“Oh dear godsss,” Essätha groaned, stepping around some of the others. “A virgin doesn’t necessarily imply to sexual experiences, Pen. It could mean simply a free woman. Typically it means unmarried, but in a broader sense, it could just refer to one who is not owned as such like property; has no boss, no lover, no leader.”

Sulking, the warlock hunched his shoulders over with a dreadful sigh. “The world screwed the virginity out of me from the start.”

“Now now, Penimra, that’s no way to talk,” Abernathy soothed, stepping over to wrap one of his thick arms around the sullen elf’s shoulders.

A pity party? Now? Releasing a frustrated noise in her hand as she smothered her face, Essätha slid past the converging mass of her companions. It was like they couldn’t enter a manor to reclaim at all without something bad happening.

Pri’cha; having lit the way with a candle in their claw for the less-fortunate visual abilities, turned their gaze upon her as she approached. Eerie light refracted on the shine of their exo-skeleton from the wick’s flame; making a cascading aura of gold seem to shine around Pelor’s little follower.

It made her a convenient beacon for Amon, who seemed just as irate as she, as he shifted his jaw and worked his gaze over the room.

“Niss Essätha? Why would a Beast-nan be cursed by a fae folk?”

“It’s only a bedtime story, Pri’cha,” Essie soothed with a crooked smile of amusement. “The prince was cursed to appear like a bipedal animal because he refused to marry a wicked fairy; an unholy wench whose care he was left in because his mother left to wage war and defend the kingdom.”

Appalled, the small bug parted their mandibles in astonishment. “The fairy caretaker tried to seduce the prince?”

She shrugged. “It’s a strange book, to say the least.”

While the cleric struggled to comprehend and unravel the deranged message in the novel, Essie turned her eyes upon the nobleman. He took to one knee, inspecting the floorboards with a critical eye.

“Something wrong?”

He shook his head, and began to rise. The bottom of his cloak swirled dust around him; covering the bottom of his clothes in smears of filth.

“No,” he stated with unease. “The only other footprints that appear to be in this room are from small creatures; mice, lizards perhaps.”

“You don’t think the manor would be booby-trapped, do you…?” she ventured, tapping her boot against a space in front of her. The floorboards squeaked quietly beneath the test of her weight.

Amon grunted. “Doubtful. If anything else resides here, though…”

“Magic booby-traps,” Pri’cha whispered in almost awed reverence, stepping between them.

They exchanged barely-restrained laughter, to the Thri-Kreen’s confused staring from one to the other.

“Are you suggesting there’s some, or do you sense something?” Essätha inquired, trying to restrain her giggling.

The bug gave a shake of their head, wiping dirt that had collected on their pristine form off. “I feel nothing,” they solemnly stated. “There appears to be no magic in this area.”

Bobbing her head with understanding, Essätha stepped forward to investigate more of the surrounding area. There was a large throw carpet in the middle of the room; a pattern that seemed to emerge into some shape she couldn’t identify beneath the dirt and smears and smudges of footprints and discoloration. Frowning, she turned her attention elsewhere.

Peering at the panels of the wall, her eyes scanned each painting. Landscapes only; the farthest being an image of the villa it appeared. She looked to the doors; three on either side. Two had been left open. The middle on the left hand side, and the furthest on the right. Each appeared to lead to a bedroom, but it was hard to see inside at current angle.

While Amon circled the rug with Pri’cha’s candle aid, Essie crept over to the closest room open on the left. Her mind tuned out the noise from behind her. Bickering indecision; novel discussion, the definition of virgin, all of it. Her tongue darted out nervously over her lips, tasting the still air and the lingering odor of damp wood in it.

It was a simple bedroom. Clearly no master room. A bed; queen sized at least, with a veil of stained curtains much of it to block out the sun. Likewise, the window was covered; thick drapery shrouding out the light and shuttering the outdoors. There was no sound of songbirds or crickets; no chirp of critters or breeze to be heard moving outside. Silence. Disturbing, uneasy silence.

She stepped closer, examining the dresser and built-in closet in the wall. A nightstand stood on either side of the bed. There appeared to be a picture frame on the floor, with shards of glass scattered by the bedside. Nothing otherwise stood out as a personal object or memento. No paintings aside from more landscapes of valleys and hills, and no trinkets or children’s toys to differentiate the tastes or age of its previous owner.

Drawn to the only available clue, Essätha slipped inside the doorway.

The room felt suffocating. A lightheadedness swam over her as she breathed in the stifling air, and sank down to her knees to pick up the frame. Her hands began to shake uncontrollably. A shard of glass sank into her palm, drawing a line of red as she flipped it over.

Beneath the muffled ringing in her ears, the door slammed shut.

Oblivious, head throbbing, she turned it over to stare upon the image. A girl, young, sitting upon the lap of what one could presume to be the mother. Their hair color the same, their outfits quite similar. The child’s eyes were blank; purely white, with no iris, no pupil.

The longer she stared, the more horrifying it became. The shape of the woman appeared to erode; a sinister shape taking her image. Morphing, twisting, a skeletal shape that was not quite human.

The picture frame fell from her hands, and what glass still clung to the frame broke off to shatter loudly across the floor.

Awaken as though from a spell, Essätha sucked in a breathe and whipped her head around.

A scream tore from her throat.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Amon was the first to react; brandishing his sword as the sound of the door hurtled into the frame with enough force to shake the wall and send a wave of dust flying to the floor. His eyes jerked first to where Pri’cha was; still at his side as he’d been examining the carpet, and then to where the rest of where his colleagues stood gathered with mixes of similar confusion at the startling noise.

His heartrate; so steady even at the abrupt noise, suddenly jumped.

Where was Essätha?

Charging the door, with stunned companions a few steps behind in their sluggish shock, the nobleman grabbed for the knob and threw his weight into the door.

It did not budge. The handle did not turn. It felt cold to the touch, even wearing his leather gloves.

“Essätha?!”

His voice tore through him; raw and frantic.

A scream. An unholy scream; blood curdling and filled with terror.

His blood turned to ice.

Slamming into the door, he grunted as he threw himself bodily into the wood. Again, to no avail.

Too quiet. There was no other sound now on the other side of the door.

Another slam, gripping and twisting the knob uselessly in his hand, but still it did not budge.

He could hardly bare to breathe. The only other time he could recall that he felt this way was years ago. The strain on his chest; the paralysis that wanted to take over, the helpless feeling of panic. Fear so real and so vile it rendered him breathless and shaking. His head spinning, his muscles tense, the entire world but a casualty to his wrath in any pursuit to keep safe the soft glow of light that exuded from his heart’s fondest affection.

The last time he’d been this completely terrified is when no one knew where Marie was. They’d found her, minutes later in their search, asleep in the back of the manor having tired herself playing with the dogs outside.

He’d never been so scared. He was ready to do anything to make sure she was safe. To have some bit of information. Anything. Anything at all to know she was okay.

And that same feeling was surging up in him; a hurricane, a typhoon, an earthquake rocking his foundation and the only drive burning his lungs and bringing the hoarse cry of rage in his tight throat and keeping him focused; keeping his erratic heart from liberating from his chest, was that he had to get through that door. She had to be okay. He would get through, and he would protect her.

He had to. He had to.

Not her, too.

Not her.

Ripping out another husky battlecry, Amon lashed out at the sealing space between the door and the frame with his sword as he lunged into it once again.

The blade stuck into the wood.

“Step back, Amon,” a firm voice commanded of him. Abe’s.

Someone grabbed at him. He struggled, shaking as he was hauled back by Sulhadur’s firm grip. The dragonborn’s golden eyes were pleading, and just as frightened as his as Amon threw his elbow into the Dragonborn’s side to force his release.

“Amon-”

He ignored the red Dragonborn. His eyes darted back to the door, holding his breath as Abernathy swung his mighty axe with a sharp cry of fury.

It stuck, sending shards of wood like shrapnel flinging in every direction.

He wedged the battleaxe free, pulled it over his head, and grunted as it came forward again, smashing apart the doorhandle and with enough momentum to send the door flying open.

Nauseous with dread, Amon threw himself headlong ahead of the party; barely out of the way of the axe as he flung into the room ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Her mind couldn’t even comprehend what it was seeing. One second the black figure appeared humanoid, and the next it seemed almost cat-like. Shifting down, distorting upward, it’s face almost appearing canine next. It’s form a fluid mass of inky movement; the only consistency being the shape of its empty, lifeless eye sockets.

A sphere of oozing toxin formed above her hand, and she flung the poisonous magic at the shapeless mass. The sound it made caused her skin to pimple and the hair to rise on the back of her throat. It was a mixed sound between a mournful, crying woman and a wolf’s snarl of anger and hurt.

Half-crying half-laughing, the puzzling figure pounced at her; a muzzle forming from its face.

Teeth sank into the arm she threw up to defend herself, and another wild shriek escaped her. Her legs kicked out as she struggled, drawing a shape in the air with her other hand. The invisible rune and choked hiss of words summoned a skeletal hand, which grabbed at the monster’s throat as a shag of maned brown-red fur began to coat it.

Another roll of pain staggered into her brain as the creature reared back, snarling. She sucked in a breathe; the feeling as though something was spearing her head, pain coming and going randomly, made her twitch and recoil into the nightstand. Blood seeped down her arm, and speckled from her bloody hand upon the floor and the monstrosities canine-humanoid shape.

Her brain reeled, struggling to make sense of it as the furry complexion contorted again. A memory this time. Familiar. Wrapped in happiness; in love; in a carefully stitched pattern of images.

She sought the eyes of her mother’s face. They were green, just like she remembered. But lacking; void of spirit.

The haze of white seemed to wash over them, and consume her. All she could see was white.

Then her face, staring back at her.

Part of the door came flying out; chunks of wood hitting her. Her? She saw herself, detached, flinching from the shards of oak with a hiss.

Before another strike could blow the door open, the vision massed in a shadowy black once more. Faster this time; taking the shape of something it seemed to know well. A raven.

The bird flung itself over to the window. To her shock, it broke the single-pane glass, sending glass flying outward and leaving a collection of feathers stuck to sharp edges as it took to flight.

Lightheaded, Essie’s head fell back into the short table with a thunk. She gasped raggedly for air as a figure rushed the room. Her body tensed; in a whirlwind of motion too fast for the eye, barely making out the fur mantle and dark navy in a mistake for the uneasy figure that had been there moments before.

Lord Amon turned to face her. She scrambled back further.

Real, or not real? Real, or not real?

Her eyes moved upward, searching his face.

His dark eyes were soulful; overflowing with emotion. Terror, relief, worry; they were brimming with life and affection.

Real, her mind decided with its own sigh of relief. Recognition.

“Essätha,” Amon wheezed. His voice lacked depth; hardly had sound. It was a wheeze of a man with little air left inside to utter barely a word.

She tried to sit up more; a streak of crimson left from her hand as she slipped back into her half-laying position. Not that it mattered. The moment she moved, the nobleman took a few short strides across the room, his boots crunching on broken glass until he was beside her. He went to his knees with a bit more care to the surrounding sharp slivers, immediately gathering her against his torso.

The smell of dog and old forests clung to his skin. He seemed to find the will to breathe all at once; sucking in a great force of it as he pulled her closer.

She rested her head into his chest. The sound of his pulse was like a drum in her ear.

With more careful footsteps following in from behind, she managed to peer up from over Amon’s shoulder to see the rest of the company filing in the quaint room with mixed expressions. Fear, concern, and tension in most of them. Most everyone had a weapon at the ready uneasily.

“What happened?” Sulhadur spoke up; seeming to be speaking on everyone’s behalf as they studied the peculiar scene.

Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t find her voice. Swallowing helplessly, Essie leaned into Amon, digging her fingers into the back of his cloak for stability and leaving a stained bloody print of her hand on the fabric.

Abe moved forward gingerly. He met Amon’s gaze as he reflexively tightened his hold upon her, casting a wary glance to the approaching sound before seeing the half-elf-orc. He took a few seconds to examine the wound on her arm; engraved with teethmarks, before tentatively leaning over.

As the paladin laid a hand upon her shoulder, she sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled as her skin began to stitch itself back together.

“I saw a photo laying on the floor and went to fetch it,” she struggled, her voice distant and rough. “When I did I- I saw the image change. It was like a fog came over me. I didn’t know what was happening until I dropped the picture, and turned around to see a… thing standing behind me.”

“What photo?” Abernathy mused, looking around. He spotted the image, and lifted the frame from the floor. “This photo?”

Gasping, Essie swatted at him. “Don’t look at it-”

The frame fell back to the floor. She stared at it, surprised to see a non-animated image. The only thing that was the same as before, was the unsettling empty white area in the little girl’s eyesockets.

“What’s wrong with the picture?” Adela inquired, a shudder visibly moving over her as she leaned in.

“N-Nothing. Now,” Essätha explained, leaning her cheek against the sturdy shape of Amon’s shoulder. “Earlier it- it changed. The mother figure- or older figure, whatever you want to call it- began to take on a different form. You could see her skeletal shape as her skin almost… melted-”

She shivered, going silent as Amon stroked her back comfortingly. Her eyelids fluttered, wanting nothing more than to close and rest, but fearing the horrifying images might return.

“Creepy,” Ravamora observed a bit too nonchalantly for her taste. She shot the wood elf a glaring look.

“How did you get those bite marks?” Abernathy inquired, extending a hand to place carefully against her arm. He ran his fingers over where they had previously been, before he’d healed her.

“The thing standing behind me- about where Pri’cha is now, attacked me when I turned to look at it,” she whispered. The misshappen mass seemed to materialize even in her waking mind’s eye, and her spine grew tense.

Amon stroked her back slowly once more, murmuring something in a language she didn’t understand close to her ear. She couldn’t make sense of it, but the tone was gentle and sweet.

“What did it look like?”

Considering Abernathy’s words, she struggled to convey the oddity: “At first, it looked almost human. Tall. A little bit shorter than Sul? Entirely black, like a shadow. The only identifying feature were its eyes; they were white. Just… white.”

“It almost seemed to polymorph in front of me, but into multiple things at once. At one point it seemed almost cougar, another bear-like, then mouse, then wolf. It settled on the wolfish form. A hybrid? Like a werewolf? But just as it was almost on all fours, and materializing fur, I hit it with an acid blob. It jumped back and screamed. God it was the most unsettling sound I’ve ever heard; like a sobbing woman and numerous screeching animals all at once.”

Another shudder. She took a deep breath, and continued: “Then a pounding headache came over me. It seemed like it was poking at the inside of my skull, and it… Whatever it was, it began to look like… my mother.”

The room fell uneasily silent. Somewhere in the middle of her recollection, Amon had moved to sit- very carefully- amongst the glass with her, and had settled to pull her into his lap. She wrapped her hand into his clothes, taking deep breaths of his cologne to steady her resolve. The sound of his heartbeat had lulled back to its normal pace against her eardrum once again, and the strength of his arms offered a much-needed sense of security to her frail will.

To her dismay, Abe offered her a question before she could finish. “Did the creature begin to look like anyone else you know?”

“Yes, in fact,” she murmured in a dry, cracked voice. “It… took the shape of me. The door then- it shuddered and exploded bits over the room, and the thing turned once more, into a raven before breaking out of the window, right over there.”

She pointed to where the curtains had been displaced, and the foggy unclean glass sprayed out on the windowsill and outside.

Torm’s devote follower grunted with displeasure.

“I hate to say it, but it sounds like you’ve encountered a skin-changer, Essätha.”

A tense pause. “A what?”

“Skin-changer,” Abernathy offered once more. “Cursed people; they are not like were-beasts or other polymorphers. Nor are they like druids. Little is actually known about them, but Skin-changers are said to be once magic-weilding folk who used their magic in perverse and disturbing rituals.”

“Because of this, or perhaps on purpose, these people were changed. They no longer have a permanent form, and instead obtain the ability to change into other creatures at will. However, they can not take the form of an embodiment unless they have seen it.”

“If it changed into the shape of someone you knew, then whatever it was must have an ability to look into a person’s mind; an unproven theory until now,” Abernathy explained, uncomfortably adding on, “If… it has changed into you, Essätha, we need all be alert. There are tales of Skin-changer’s taking the place of the living whose form they can take. Some stories say if you look into the eyes of a Skin-changer, it steals a portion of your soul to aid in its transformations.”

A chill ran over her like an ice bath. Her lungs forgot how to function entirely.

“Abe,” Sul rumbled nervously, gazing over her pale features.

The paladin seemed to realized his error, and cleared his throat. “You’ve nothing to fear, Essätha. We’ll keep an eye on you to make sure nothing tries to replace you with any of us unaware and unguarded.”

That didn’t make her feel any better.

“There’s some blood and feathers still stuck on the window,” Ravamora chimed in. “Maybe we could check it out and use it to track the Skin-changer, somehow?”

“Good idea!” Abernathy agreed, grunting as he pushed himself up to his feet once again.

Essätha could hardly pay them a piece of her concentration. Her soul? That thing could have a piece of her soul?

She pressed her face into Amon’s chest, trembling all over as she breathed in his jerkin in quick little bursts. On the edge. Flickers of the creature; something that clearly should not be, clawing at the back of her mind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Her form shook, nestled into his ribs and pressing closer like she wanted to climb inside him.

Amon was fine with the idea. He already held close her secrets, her fears, her softness. Swaddled them close, kept them gently near the fire beneath his breast in the beating of his heart. Let them be warmed, there. Let the light keep her fears away, there.

As the spread of the group began to disperse to thoroughly inspect the room, brought a hand to his face. Teeth dug into the leather of his glove, and he tore it off to toss it aside. His hand smothered down her backside as he repeated the gesture with the other, pulling her into his chest even more. One hand to cradle her back, the other to stroke her hair, and push the loose strands tenderly behind her ears with care.

A hiccup of breath pressed into his clothes, and Essie struggled to get closer, check shaking. Her fingers pawed at his coat.

“Hey,” he breathed in a hush, reaching down to take her hands. “Take a deep breathe. Hold it four seconds. Let it out, slowly.”

While he rearranged her position so she could sink into him, her arms placed around his shoulders so she could wrap them around his neck, the stuffy rasp of her breathing poured against him. Her breathing choked with tears she withheld, resting her face into his chest.

After the fourteenth-or-so deep breath, she finally spoke in a small, timid voice: “I want to leave.”

“Of course-”

“Stay with me,” Essätha wheezed against him, burying herself into him. “Please. I need you.”

The nobleman felt a stirring flutter deep in his heart.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered close, caressing her back. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Another choked sound; a broken sob breaking through, and she slumped into the cradling of his arms. Completely vulnerable, shattered, and trusting.

He spoke low in her ear. The words of elvish had such relaxing tones. She may not understand the sweet nothings he promised her; his sword, his shield, his protection, his heart and all his love, but the soothing depth and meaning seem to bring her a sense of calm. Her crying was quickly turned to merely weak snivels in no time. He cared for neither sound; each made his heart hurt in the worst way, but it was an improvement to soul-crushing weeping or the scream he could not shake from his thoughts.

Abernathy approached once again from around the bed.

“We are going to check the other rooms-”

Arms tightened around his neck.

“I’m taking Essätha outside,” Amon reported shortly. He’d had enough of his mad-house, and the poor woman crumbled against him had surely seen enough for the day.

The orcish-elf did not argue, but solemnly nodded with understanding. “We’ll join you shortly.”

Sighing as the paladin turned away to address the others, Amon slipped his legs carefully in. He could feel the tension rise in Essie’s spine once again as she clutched for him; like he was but an apparition, and would vanish if she did not hold too tight with all her might.

“It’s okay,” he comforted her softly. “I’m not letting go of you.”

A muted, wavering sigh pressed into his collarbone. He could only make out a single ‘M’lord’ in whatever she suppressed to say into his clothes, but even just one word from her sweet voice melted any doubt and further strengthened his resolve.

Resting her weight carefully against himself, Amon slipped a hand against her rear for support, and stood. His neck hurt for a moment as she hung for a moment; a dead weight, before he could drag her closer and she looped her legs around his hips for purchase.

Stepping out of the ghastly haunted room, the nobleman murmured endearing affections into her hair, pressing a kiss against the curly waves of black before turning the opposite direction of their peers to head down the stairs.

The grateful shape of her lips trailed his collarbone as she sighed, going placidly lax in his arms.

He wore the most awed smile of devotion a man could ever have, taking one slow step at a time, as they left the wash of the ugly moment behind.

He would keep her safe. No demonized fiend would take her beautiful soul, now or ever.

Not her.

Not his beautiful Essätha.

#royal writes #essamon ship #Essie rw #amon illiad #slight tw for body horror

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rain0205-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Terminal State

Summary: She tried leaving, submerging herself in work to escape the horrors she had seen. The horrors she kept seeing. She never wanted to go back to that life. But when the Empire takes her home, she’s forced to face her past. Can she move on? Can she cope? Or will she require a bit of help? still bad at summaries, still working on it. ever so slightly more than slight AU gadioxoc

Unwanted Guest

...

Gladiolus was not going to sleep tonight, he and his companions were bunking in a camper with a strange man only known as Ardyn. The first time they had encountered the stranger he was in Gadlin Quay, informing them of the lack of ferries to Altissia and giving them a strange coin. Later on in Lestallum, after they had come back from the cave behind the waterfall, this man seemed to be there waiting for them. Noctis was having headaches as of late, strange ones that didn't affect anyone else, however, he was seeing the astral known as Titan and since they couldn't physically go and have a look, they went toward the outlook which is where Ardyn was waiting for them. Conveniently, he was willing to take them to the Archeon as what seemed to be a good gesture.

They decided to go and Ardyn insisted on Noctis driving the car. It wasn't a very long drive, they had only made it as far as Coernix Station where it was decided that they would use the camper instead of a haven - due to Ardyn's insistence. Gladiolus didn't trust this man at all. The vibes he was getting were completely negative and he wore a scowl on his face more often than not since they agreed to go on this journey with him. On top of that, every time he made eye contact with Ardyn the man simply smiled in a suspicious way, like he knew something intimate and personal and wasn't going to share it The guy even looked shady, amber coloured eye that hid some sort of ulterior motive behind them. His hair was long, purplish or red, hard to see based on the different lights hitting it, and his age was difficult to pinpoint but it seemed older than his appearance. The worst of it was his smile, that wide, amused smile that occupied his face filled with deceit and what looked like a hint of jealousy. Words flowed out of his mouth in a thick, accented voice and carried with them an insult lying beneath every single one of them. His demeanour, in general, was suspicious enough and it put all of them on edge, making him an extremely unwanted guest.

After they had eaten with awkward conversation, everyone except Gladiolus had gone to bed. Instead, he was out at one of the tables reading one of Athenacia's medical texts that Ignis had borrowed. The Shield had taken to doing that a lot lately despite having brought his own books. While he didn't understand a lot of what he was reading, it only made him admire her more for being able to know all of this stuff. Being a doctor was hard work, he was aware of that, however, he never knew how much actually went into it. Since the invasion, he usually selected a book at random and starting to eat through it during drives or when he needed a distraction from his thoughts; and since he had arrived in Lestallum they seemed to be racing when he wasn't focused on Noctis. After the conversation he had with Gin in the hospital, more questions seemed to rise within him. The voice message Athenacia had left him was listened to at least twice per day, not having the heart to delete it. She knew that something was going to happen that day, but she seemed to have it in her head that he and the others were in danger as well. Specifically, she had mentioned more than once that she was relieved they were okay and to keep safe. The more he listened to it, the more it worried him. Had she known that the city would fall? How? Was she indeed a spy? Gladio didn't believe it. Cor didn't believe it then he didn't either. The Marshal is probably the one that convinced her to pack up a bag in the first place, never trusting the Niffs from day one and rightfully so, however, it still rose a bunch of questions. If she knew something, why wouldn't she tell him?

The large man sighed, leaning back in his chair and closing the book. He wasn't really focused on it anyway and he was sure it was because this one was mostly on the infectious disease and he didn't want to lose his dinner. The other one he was reading was a lot better, containing different poisonous ailments pertaining to all over Eos and the different courses of treatment. Gladio grabbed that one from the bag and actually continued from where he marked his page. Did Athenacia really know all of this? How could one person possibly memorize all of these facts and then use them in a split second while in the middle of a battlefield? She really was something else. The door to the camper opened, then closed, and immediately his body felt defensive. Ardyn behind him. Gladio's face went back to a scowl as he tried to focus on the words in front of them. Their guest sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table. The Shield didn't acknowledge him, not wanting anything to do with him despite that he could feel the amber stare burning into his soul it seemed like. That amused look still occupied his face and it made Gladio even more uneasy about everything.

"Those are quite the books. Looking for a second career?" Ardyn spoke in his thick accent and amused manner.

"They're not mine," grunted Gladiolus, not even bothering to raise his eyes.

"I had thought not. None of you appear to be this far advanced in medicine."

"They belong to a friend," Gladio looked up with suspicion.

Ardyn's eyes seemed to brighten, "Ah yes a friend. All friends are important, but ones you take an interest in can be the dearest to your heart. Tell me, did this friend make it out of your once fair city okay?"

Gladiolus just shrugged, "Doesn't matter."

"Uncertainty can be a trying thing," his expression was almost bored, "But I find that some things, or even some people, turn up in the most unusual of places."

Gladiolus just narrowed his eyes. Ardyn only offered that same smile before wordlessly standing from his seat and leaving the Shield alone again. The words running through his head caused him to frown, sounding like he was trying to toy with him. Nothing about that guy made any sense and the sooner they got to part ways with him, the better.

Shaking his head, he brought his attention back the book he was reading. What he also liked the most about this one was the bestiary listed, and that included daemons. As a combat medic, she would need to know all of these while out in the field. He flipped the page, coming to one he hadn't the pleasure of running into. Arachne. They spit out level six poisons which are only responsive to two types of antidotes. The wrong one can speed up symptoms which lead victims to expire. Gladio's frown deepened as he took in the words, looking over at the images on the page. Listed there were the antibodies that were needed to fight off the poison and what would happen if the victims were left untreated. Flipping the page again, he wondered how in the hell Athenacia was able to deal with all of this. Some of the diagrams made him feel queasy, he couldn't imagine having to be up close and personal with it.

Sighing, he leaning back in the chair and looking up at the stars. Sleep would elude him tonight and not just because he was on guard duty about Ardyn. At times like these, Gladiolus found he couldn't stop thinking about Athenacia, the girl occupying his mind completely when he wasn't busy watching Noctis. He really missed her, never realizing how much until she wasn't around. After the way he acted, he was lucky she even gave him a chance again the way she did. Her last words to him swam through his head and he again wondered how much she knew about the signing ceremony. At least she was armed, wherever she was. Somehow in the pit of his gut, he knew that they would cross paths again soon, he just hoped that when they did she was alive and well.

...

Athenacia's heart raced as she looked through the binoculars stationed at the lookout point of Lestallum. The Archeon, Titan, was awake and the Empire was on the way, but she also saw four specific people right in the way of the astral's wrath. Whatever Gladiolus and others were doing there, she hoped that they would make it out alive. The quakes from the God had stirred everyone else to the same place so that they could have a proper look. Iris was fretting right beside her, the only reason that she had come this far and stayed in the first place.

The young doctor had not really meant to come into Lestallum again at all. After using a mild sedative on herself the other night, she woke up with a splitting headache. Athenacia knew why, of course, on her way down she managed to hit her head on the door of the truck. It was stupid, she really should have planned that out better but the poison didn't help. Thankfully the sun was only just starting to rise so no one had been by to go through her stuff. The other benefit: it was dreamless, even if it was for only an hour. Clearly the dosages were measured wrong, a problem that she fixed immediately. Her ankle was still twisted so she used her magic to heal that up, and magicked her laceration where the Arachne had struck her. It left a faint scar, hopefully one that would fade away before long. Once that was finished, she gathered all of her things, ready to leave.

The physician took off from that spot, going back to her aimless wandering around Lucis, however, supplies were running low and she needed some clean clothes. Unfortunately, all of that was in the humid city, so she begrudgingly made her way back in her truck. While filling it with gas, Iris had caught sight of her and insisted that the woman meet her brother. Athenacia was not interested in that whatsoever, but didn't say something about it. There would be plenty of opportunities to slip out before Gladiolus returned to the city for any reason, despite how much she actually did want to see him. The flaw in that was, Iris wasn't going to let the young doctor out of her reach, especially after Talcott was also informed of "Tia's" return. It wasn't entirely unpleasant to have them along while she did her shopping, in fact, a woman's opinion on new clothing was a welcoming approach. Athenacia was able to get a few decent items without exhausting her savings, wishing to delay the notion of hunting that would expose her to more people. Then an earthquake shook the very ground beneath them. Someone had screamed about the Archeon and they all found themselves in the outlook area to see what was going on.

Iris was the first to look and she spotted her brother instantly. That was when Athenacia's breath caught in her throat. Once the young Amicitia had let the doctor take a look, she couldn't take her hazel gaze away. The doctor watched Gladiolus and Noctis run away from the God while also trying to fight him off. It was nerve-wracking, especially when the Empire had shown up with their dreadnaughts. Now they all waged battle against a God. What were they thinking? Seriously, a God? She just couldn't bear to watch it anymore and as she took her eyes away, someone else had pushed in between the two women in order to get a better look. Athenacia went to stand on the other side of Iris who was just a wreck. Talcott had taken the doctor's hand tightly as he looked on with the wonder of a young boy and the worry of a child. The three of them watched but all they could see was an army of airships and clouds of dust coming up from where the astral would swing his giant arm. Each strike made the doctor more nervous than the last, something that Iris was also having trouble coping with.

"What are they doing there anyway?" asked Athenacia.

"Noct needs Titan's blessing," answered Iris.

"Excuse me?" she frowned.

"I don't know much about it, just that he needs the blessings of the Gods."

Titan's blessing? Whatever for? Is this what the Oracle meant when she said she had to aid the King? Is the truth of the stories Cor used to tell her as a young girl before bed coming to pass? But it couldn't be real. None of this was making any sense. Athenacia was so cut off from everything the last few days that she had no idea about what was going on around her despite being in the outside world. It was a good thing she decided to come back to the city today or else she was sure she'd be caught up in action at the Disc. That was the sort of attention she didn't need.

Her eyes snapped into focus as a blinding golden light surrounded the Archeon. Talcott squeezed her hand tighter while Iris shoved her head into the older woman's shoulder, all of them shielding their eyes from it. And then he was simply gone. The physician's breath caught in her throat once more as her eyes widened. The explosion took out the nearby dreadnaughts - which caused Iris to wail and latch onto the doctor with tears in her eyes. Athenacia put a comforting arm around the girl while she continued to watch the scene before her. If only she could see down here, to know what happened to Gladiolus and the others. Fear gripped her heart as she pictured them dead, bodies strewn among the ground lifeless, the sort of things that cropped up in her nightmares. A breath escaped her when she saw a single dreadnaught make its way out of the Disc. There was no help for it, she would have to remain in Lestallum until she heard some more news of what went on down there. Assuming they had made it out alive - and she sincerely hoped that they did - she was going to wait around until they contacted Iris. Hell, she was going to sit around in the shadows until they came back for her, because Athenacia had to see for herself with her own eyes that everyone was okay.

...

The next morning Athenacia slipped out of the bed in the hotel room of Lestallum quietly. Ordinarily, she would have stayed in her truck for the night, however, the distraught young Talcott had clung to her in the hopes that she would stay. Jared had chided him but Athenacia assured the man that everything was okay. The truth of the matter was, the boy provided her with some comfort as well and she didn't want to leave him just yet. Iris had managed to sleep only after her brother had told her that they were all safe and would talk when he got back. Athenacia had no idea when that was going to be but she definitely wasn't going to be sleeping in the same room as his sister. Despite the fact that she looked different, Gladio would recognize her instantly, of that she was certain. Besides, she just wanted to observe from a distance and get back to... well whatever it was that she was doing.

Sighing lightly, she pulled the covers back over Talcott to rest under his chin. Keeping a light smile on her face, she looked over at Iris who was also snuggled into her bed. The doctor then padded quietly across the carpeted floor toward the bathroom and shut the door behind her with a soft click. Taking a look at herself in the mirror, she was shocked at her own appearance. The dye was starting to grow out a bit but that wasn't really an issue she had. There was dirt all over her face and it dawned on her that it had been a long time since she had a proper shower and probably stunk something fierce. Her hazel eyes were still puffy and bloodshot with those same dark circles, however, she seemed to look a little better than usual. Hair was matted and greasy from not having been washed in a few days, a scrape on her cheek from her hunting and she could see the scar on her arm from fighting the Arachne with a few contusions here and there. Nothing serious at least.

Tearing her gaze away, she grabbed the tie from the end of her braid and pulled it out, placing it on the counter before beginning to unlace the braid with deft fingers. It was a bit of a struggle, all tangled and knotted together. Once it was finished, she fanned it out across her back, her eyes catching that ugly scar on the right side of her neck. Athenacia took her finger and traced over it, most of it dirty from her poor treatment of herself. The blemished skin only made her feel more disgusted and she pulled her wavy hair over her shoulder, hiding it again. Turning her back on her reflection, turned the water on in the tub and got the shower going. Steam started to billow out and she began to peel off her extremely dirty clothes, leaving them on the ground before stepping in. Athenacia sighed in relief as the scorching hot water turned her skin red instantly, basking a moment, closing her eyes and releasing a content sigh as the water fell off of her. That familiar tranquillity took over and she was reluctant to leave it. When she opened them again, she could see the dirt coming off of her so she grabbed a cloth to begin scrubbing. Her skin was raw by the time she was finished, her pressure increasing as images from the devastation of Insomnia and her own monstrosity of power came into her mind. Tears escaped the bottom of her eyes, the blood not coming off, just like when she was in the war. The cloth was thrown away in disgust, dirty from her and the clear water suggesting that she was clean. Athenacia knew better, she would never be clean with all those lives on her hands.

The doctor wiped the steam from the mirror when she was finished, wrapping a towel around her slender frame and stared back at the ugly scar that now gleamed in the lighting above her. This thing would always remind her of the failure she was, all the screams that filled her ears whenever she closed her eyes. Clenching her jaw, she grabbed another towel and began to dry her hair with it. When she was finished fussing with it, she then began the methodical twisting of her hair, leaving it in that braid that perfectly hid that ugly scar, the identifier that put everyone in danger while she remained. The towel was tossed aside before she rummaged through one of the shopping bags from yesterday, pulled on her clothes and having another look at herself. Her damp hair was hiding her left eye while the braid came down her right shoulder against her neck and stopped just short of her last rib. To help hide her blemish, she wore a sleeveless shirt that didn't come against her neck but didn't hang too low from her collarbone either and was a darker pink. Her light jeans with a tear in the upper right thigh and lower left knee were a little loose on her hips but her belt helped with that. Sighing again, her fingers ran along where her necklace would be. Eventually she would get it back, for now, it was where it belonged. At least she hoped it was.

Athenacia carefully opened the door, picking up her dirty clothes and placing them with her bag. The younger two were still sleeping soundly and she didn't want to wake them up. Pulling on her boots, she debated on strapping her weapon to her back or not. Chewing her lip in thought, she decided against it, knowing it would make her stand out walking around the city with a weapon. The goal was to blend in, not attract unwanted attention. Down the stairs of the hotel and out the door, the unmistakable smell of breakfast foods starting to cook, invading her nostrils and reminding her of the last time she ate. Her stomach began to reprimand her for the poor excuse of sustenance she had been feeding it, placing her hands there and walking to the smell that stood out to her nose the most. The physician paid for her food while making minimal eye contact with the vendor and began to eat quickly. Shoving a rather large last bite in her mouth, she began walking the streets, doing her best to blend into the crowds. It was almost nice to try and feel normal again and be around other people.

Memories washed over her as she gathered food for the upcoming trip in the market. The first time she had ever come here was with Cor and she didn't have time to really enjoy it. With the Glaive, she wasn't able to do much exploring but thankfully the foods she liked to eat the most were right near the hotel. It wasn't the same as Insomnia, nothing was ever going to be like that for a long while, however, she was still happy with what this place had to offer. It was too bad that she couldn't just stay here and live with the rest of the refugees. If only she knew why that strange man was chasing her down. Surely he could have just killed her and got it over with, instead he was playing games with her, leaving her with one eye over her shoulder and in constant fear of being. Sighing, she held her bags tightly and began to walk away from the crowds of people. Cor taught her better than this, to not let the enemy inside her head or else she had already lost the battle.

Athenacia was again caught up in her thoughts - only this time they were on Gladiolus. The images of him, the Prince and all the chaos that surrounded them while basically at the astral's feet played over in her head. Gladio... she wanted to see him so badly, missed him more than she realized. It was easier before she had actually seen him for herself, even if it was through a lens. The dangers surrounding him was much more serious than previously thought and if there was something she could do to help, she wanted to. There had to be a way for her to get a message to him, a way to meet up without bringing the enemy to them with the target on her back. For now, the safest place for her was away from all of them.

The doctor grunted as someone had bumped into her, knocking her off balance a little and pulling her from her thoughts. Instantly she looked back at the man with a frown on her face and her eyes met his. He was taller than her, with piercing green eyes and messy untamed black hair on top of his head. There was a scar on his chin that was obscured by his short beard, but his eyes were studying her a moment and she felt scared that this man knew her despite never seeing him before in her life. Shaking his head, he turned around and kept walking, not bothering to talk to her or look back again. Athenacia breathed a sigh of relief and then continued her journey, looking back one last time to make sure no unfriendly eyes were upon her.

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disappearingground · 6 years ago

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Jenny Lewis Escapes the Void

Pitchfork March 21, 2019

After a turbulent childhood and two decades of brilliantly vulnerable songs, the L.A. idol has finally arrived at something like happiness.

By Jenn Pelly

Jenny Lewis and I are in her brown Volvo, idling outside her childhood home. On a Tuesday afternoon in Los Angeles’ San Fernando Valley, we are two blocks from Van Nuys Middle School, where Lewis once sang “Killing Me Softly” in a talent show and got suspended for flashing a peace sign in a class photo (it was mistaken for a gang symbol). We are walking distance from what used to be a Sam Goody record store on Van Nuys Boulevard, where Lewis once bought a life-changing tape of De La Soul’s 3 Feet High and Rising, stoking her obsession with magnetic wordplay, as well as her first Bright Eyes CD, Fevers and Mirrors, which she quickly shared with the three men in her burgeoning indie band, Rilo Kiley, in the early 2000s.

We are not far from the bar where Lewis’ older sister, Leslie, sings in a cover band every Saturday, following in the tradition of their parents, who sang covers in a Las Vegas lounge act called Love’s Way in the 1970s. And that strip-mall pub is just across from the movie theater where Lewis and her mother once conspired to steal a cardboard cutout of Lewis’ 13-year-old self—a souvenir from when, as one of the busiest child actors of her generation, she starred alongside Fred Savage in the 1989 video game flick The Wizard.

Lewis left the Valley alone when she was 16 and vowed to never go back. “That was my number one goal: just to get out,” she tells me now, at 43. But on the occasion of her fourth solo record, On the Line, I asked for a tour of her past life, and here we are—Lewis in a royal blue jumpsuit, with electric blue sneakers and eyeliner to match; me, staring up at the rainbow of buttons fastened to the sun visor of her passenger seat, a collage that includes Bob Dylan, a peace sign, and a hot-orange sad face.

From the driver’s seat, behind her oversized shades, Lewis mentions the Bob Marley blacklight poster that once hung in her Van Nuys bedroom, and I imagine the scores of teenage bedroom walls that have made space for her own iconic image through the years. Lewis’ catalog of cleverly morbid, storytelling songs with Rilo Kiley and the Watson Twins ushered a generation of young listeners through suburban ennui and personal becoming—like a wise older sister we could visit on our iPods, offering an example of how to do something smart and cool with your sadness and your solitude.

In the mid-2000s, Lewis was like an indie rock Joni Mitchell for the soul-bearing Livejournal era, or an emo Dylan, the poet laureate of AIM away messages. Words—some cryptic, some elegant, some brutally, achingly direct—burst from the edges of her diaristic songs, with a dash of Didion-esque deadpan for good measure. It’s no surprise that Lewis’ earliest bedroom recordings were just Casio beats and what she describes as “raps.” Lewis was the first feminine voice I ever encountered leading a band outside the mainstream, with a sound that initially befuddled my ears because it was, in that overwhelmingly male indie era, so rare: a woman’s plainspoken voice.

Cruising around L.A. together, my mind maps the California of her lyrics. What does it mean for the palm trees to “bow their heads”? What becomes of the cheating, California-bound man in Rilo Kiley’s filmic “Does He Love You”—the soulful rave-up where Lewis belted the heroic mantra, “I am flawed if I’m not free!”? But my most pressing question, the one I must ask Lewis: Is California still “a recipe for a black hole,” as she sang on 2001’s “Pictures of Success”? “I guess it’s all the void,” she tells me straight. “It’s not really geographical. That’s what you find out on your adventures. It doesn’t really matter where you go. You accompany yourself there.”

The main destination of our Van Nuys excursion is the small ranch home of Lewis’ youth—or rather, homes, as there are two, practically adjacent. It’s a little complicated, I learn, as are many things with Lewis’ upbringing.

Lewis was born in Vegas on Elvis Presley’s birthday. In 1976, her parents and sister were living out of suitcases on the road, playing Carpenters and Sonny and Cher songs at casinos like the Sands, the Mint, and the Tropicana. “My mom was so pregnant but she would not miss a show,” recalls Leslie, who was 8 at the time. “Jenny would be kicking her on stage, and I remember seeing my mom flinch. I think that was Jenny saying, ‘Let me out, I want to sing!’”

Soon after Lewis was born, her parents divorced, and her father, Eddie Gordon, left the family and continued his career as one of the world’s leading harmonica virtuosos. Lewis’ mother, Linda, moved back to her native Los Angeles, working three jobs to rebuild a life with her daughters. At 2-and-a-half years old, Lewis was discovered by the powerful Hollywood agent Iris Burton (a young Drew Barrymore and the Olsen Twins were among her clients) after the toddler spontaneously wandered over to her table in a restaurant.

When Lewis was 5, she was already supporting Leslie and their mom with her commercial and TV acting, and they bought their humble first home, the one we’re visiting. “But we always used to dream about the house on the corner,” Lewis says, slowly circling the block, “so then my mom bought that house, too.” It’s two doors down, looks pretty similar—why dream of it? “Because it was right there,” Lewis says, “and it was nicer than the one we had!” (A 1992 L.A. Times headline dubbed Lewis “A Teen-Age Actress With 3 Mortgages”—she owned a townhouse in North Hollywood by then as well—calling her “the youngest member of the United Homeowners Association.”) “I know it’s confusing,” Lewis says. “This is part of the simulation; this is craziness. Why did we also want that house?” She erupts into a cackle. “None of this makes any fucking sense.”

In life as in her songs, Lewis is a consummate storyteller, mindful of how tiny details make a great tale. In the car, for instance, she tells me about the time she played Lucille Ball’s granddaughter on the notoriously bad 1986 sitcom “Life With Lucy.” It was the last show Lucy ever starred in, and it was canceled before the first season even finished. The mood was blue, but a wrap party was still planned, and Lewis’ mother convinced Lucy to have the gathering at their little house in Van Nuys. “So Lucy rolled up with her two dogs,” Lewis remembers. “She walked in the front door, looked around, and said, ‘What a dump!’”

Lewis’ mother typically attracted fascinating characters to the house—like the producers of the TV special “Circus of the Stars,” who trained Lewis in trapeze; or “Fantasy Island” star Hervé Villechaize, who came over for a scammy “Pyramid Party”; or The Exorcist writer William Peter Blatty. One year on Halloween, at the recommendation of the family’s illusionist friend—who, according to Leslie, levitated Jenny in their house—her mother invited over Ghostbusters star Dan Aykroyd’s brother Peter, who was himself a real-life ghost buster. Peter planned to “check out the levels” of the house.

Intrigued by the Lewis’ paranormal investigation, the local news showed up. Back then, Lewis was hanging out with fellow child actors Sarah Gilbert, Toby Maguire, and Leonardo DiCaprio—who also came through to scope things out. Recalling the ghost-busting scene, Lewis says, “They came over and set up their vague, infrared equipment and they captured some sort of reading coming down the hallway and going into my childhood bedroom.”

I ask Lewis if the ghostbusters’ findings felt accurate. “Well, totally,” she says. “Something was going on. We always had weird vibes in the house. Very dark vibes.”

In person, Lewis’ temperament is one of constant cheer. She radiates positivity, takes bong rips in her kitchen, says “dope” and “vibe” often. This sunny disposition is occasionally punctuated by looks of deep, welling concern for others—as if she is on the brink of tears for humanity. Still, she calls herself a “total skeptic,” and tells me that show business trained her, early on, to master the art of getting along. “I didn’t ever wanna be one of the dicks on set—like in a family situation, where one person can really fuck up Thanksgiving,” she says, before veering into more existential territory. “We all know we’re careening towards the end of humanity. I just wanna do my work and hang out with my people.”

It’s only later, while sipping Modelos at the dining room table of her quaint ranch house in the hills of Studio City, that Lewis reveals the source of her childhood home’s “dark vibes” was her mother’s lifelong heroin addiction. “It is painful to go back there,” Lewis tells me. “I get a weird feeling. I don’t know if the ghostbusters could have detected it, but there was some kind of energy that was not conducive to survival. So when I left, I left.”

“My mom was an addict my entire life, and it was a fucking rollercoaster,” she continues. “It lent itself to some amazing situations, but it was manic as fuck, and there were drugs constantly. It’s a lifestyle, and it’s a community to grow up around. I feel grateful for having been witness to some pretty outrageous human behavior from a young age. Nothing really shocks me.”

Leslie attests to their complicated home environment, and recalls “stepping over people trying to find my books to go to school.” She became a mother figure to Jenny, taking her little sister to school on her bicycle and making sure she did her homework. Leslie was just a teenager when she put it together that their mother was pushing Jenny’s acting money into buying drugs and, ultimately, selling them. “It was a terrible realization for both Jenny and I to have,” Leslie says. “I give our mom a lot of credit for being resourceful prior to that. We probably wouldn’t be talking to you today if she hadn’t been so inventive and so diligent. But it escalated.”

When Jenny quit acting in her early 20s, Leslie wasn’t surprised. “I remember her finally having the burden lifted off her shoulders, that she didn’t need to support our mom anymore, and she didn’t need to be told what to do anymore—she was free,” Leslie says. “Her agents were calling me, asking ‘What the hell’s going on? We’re booking her in all this stuff.’ It was a big deal for her to walk away. But she had to do it. I think she didn’t want to be saying other people’s words anymore.” Leslie recalls the bubbly dialogue Lewis would have to recite on screen and adds, “That’s just not where she was at in her life.”

Focusing on her own words, Lewis arrived instead at death, disease, loneliness, deflated dreams. Rilo Kiley’s 2002 breakthrough The Execution of All Things opens with a hushed monologue from Lewis about the melting ground. On the title track, she sings genially of a will to “murder what matters to you most and move on to your neighbors and kids.” Disguised by twee album art, Rilo Kiley created an indie rock uncanny valley, a sweet-sung pop moroseness of Morrissey-like proportions.

The centerpiece of Execution is a gritted-teeth fight song called “A Better Son/Daughter.” It bursts from a music-box twinkle to a monumental marching-band wallop, from a depressed paralysis to refurbished self-worth, from “your mother […] calling you insane and high, swearing it’s different this time” to “not giving in to the cries and wails of the Valley below.” In the past, Lewis has rarely discussed how her own biography fits into her songs, but the sense of hard-earned triumph and conviction powering this particular song is unequivocal. When I ask what might have inspired its climax—“But the lows are so extreme/That the good seems fucking cheap”—she simply remarks, “I mean everything I say.”

In 2006, Lewis wrote the fablistic title ballad of her solo masterpiece, Rabbit Fur Coat, to convey the feeling of her story—a mother waitressing on welfare in the Valley, the promise of a working child, a fortune that fades—if not the concrete details, which, she says, don’t really matter. But the haunting “Rabbit Fur Coat” laid her mythology bare. “I became a hundred-thousand-dollar kid/When I was old enough to realize/Wiped the dust from my mother’s eyes,” Lewis sings, the last line quivering into a moment of piercing a capella. “Is all this for that rabbit fur coat?”

I ask Lewis where she thinks her optimism comes from, and she just says “survival.” This summarizes an equation of emotional resilience that more women than not are tasked with solving young. “Jenny has basically been on her own her entire life,” says her best friend, the musician Morgan Nagler. “She’s the definition of buoyant.”

It’s hard to imagine rock in 2019 without Lewis’ radical honesty, without her hyper-lyrical mix of the sweet and the sinister. “In the early 2000s, the really big indie artists were Bright Eyes and Death Cab for Cutie, and Jenny was one of the only women fronting that kind of music,” says Katie Crutchfield, aka Waxahatchee. “But in the next generation after that in indie music, there are so many women. How could she not have been a huge part of that?”

Crutchfield, now an indie figurehead in her own right, says no songwriter has directly influenced her more than Lewis. When she was still a 20-year-old punk living in Alabama, Crutchfield got the cover of The Execution of All Things tattooed prominently on her arm. Lewis’ odd, poppy, poetic songs had a musicality she hadn’t found in punk, but they still spoke to her as an outcast.

Seeing Rilo Kiley play for the first time—at a Birmingham venue she would go on to play herself—was a watershed moment. Crutchfield and her two sisters stood front row center, sang every word, and cried. “It was so huge to see a woman on stage holding a guitar, being powerful but still very feminine,” Crutchfield says. “That was my first foray into seeing that as a possibility for myself.” She recalls the exact outfit Lewis wore that night: red leather skirt, knee socks, T-shirt tucked in, and “a belt that was like a ruler—something you would see on a teacher.”

When Eva Hendricks, singer of sugarrushing New York pop-rock band Charly Bliss, was still in high school, she would spend days writing Lewis’ lyrics in her notebooks over and over, becoming attuned to the virtues of unsparing openness in songwriting. “Listening to that music unlocked something I otherwise wouldn’t have been able to understand about myself,” says Hendricks, who also appreciated how Lewis never downplayed her femininity. She distinctly recalls going to a Lewis record signing around 2014’s The Voyager: “I waited in line and when it got to be my turn, the only thing I could think to say was, ‘I can’t believe that your voice is coming out of a real human being.’”

Harmony Tividad, of Girlpool, was 12 the first time she heard Rilo Kiley, and calls Execution’s “The Good That Won’t Come Out” one of her favorite songs of all time. “That song is more like a diary entry, and vulnerable in this way that feels like a secret,” Tividad says. The unvarnished album opener peaks with Lewis speak-singing, “You say I choose sadness, that it never once has chosen me/Maybe you’re right.”

“I was a really emotional, awkward young person and felt kind of socially trapped,” Tividad, now 23, reflects. “I was a freak. And that song is about exploring all of this stuff inside of yourself that you can’t really show people. It’s about isolation, which I have felt a lot. This music was a soundtrack to that recalibration of personhood. It was very integral in me developing a sense of self.”

Lewis has resided in the quiet show-biz neighborhood of Studio City—which she refers to as “Stud City”—for 11 years. She mentions that her current home is still, technically, located in the Valley, and shoots me a conspiratorial look: “Don’t tell anyone.” There are retro-looking landlines all around the house (cell service is poor), and eye-catching vintage Christmas bulbs strung in the kitchen window. The house was previously owned by the late Disney animator Art Stevens, who worked on Fantasia and Peter Pan. Standing amid dozens of plants in the little green room at the heart of her home, sipping a coconut La Croix, Lewis enthuses about Mort Garson’s obscure 1976 electronic record, called Mother Earth’s Plantasia. The whole place has an air of magic.

Its infrastructure has been unchanged for decades, which stuck out to a location scout for Quentin Tarantino’s upcoming Charles Manson film, who knocked on the door one day and asked to take some photos. He did not return, but his business card is on Lewis’ refrigerator, alongside one from legendary songwriter Van Dyke Parks, and a Bob Dylan backstage pass. The fridge is mostly covered with hospital stickers from when Lewis was visiting her mom, who died of cancer in 2017, and inspired her new song “Little White Dove.”

The other big change in Lewis’ life was the dissolution of her 12-year relationship with singer-songwriter Jonathan Rice—after which, to shake up the energy of the house, Lewis’ friend and photographer Autumn de Wilde painted the walls of her bedroom a striking shade of rose. Directly outside the door is a life-size photo of her best friend Morgan, and the window of her bedroom, spanning the right wall, looks out to a built-in pool. The sill holds carefully arranged objects: ruby slippers, her passport, a candle, a plethora of sunglasses, and a violet notebook labeled “Lewis homework for On the Line.”

Talking with Lewis, the despairing elephant in the room is Ryan Adams, who played on the album. Two weeks before we meet, Adams was accused of sexual misconduct and emotional manipulation from musician Phoebe Bridgers, his ex-wife Mandy Moore, and others, including a woman who was allegedly 14 at the time, prompting a criminal investigation by the FBI. “The allegations are so serious and shocking and really fucked up, and I was so sad on so many levels when I heard,” Lewis tells me. “I hate that he’s on this album, but you can’t rewrite how things went. We started the record together two years ago, and he worked on it—we were in the studio for five days. Then he pretty much bounced, and I had to finish the album by myself.”

“This is part of my lifelong catalog,” Lewis continues. “The album is an extension of that thing that started back at my mom’s house—I had to save myself and my music, and get away from the toxicity. Ultimately, it’s me and my songs. I began in my bedroom with a tape recorder, and it was like my own fantasy world. I’ve taken all these weird turns in my life—with mostly men, sometimes women—but I feel like I’m finally back to that place, which is autonomy.”

Though On the Line features an impressive array of players—Beck, Rolling Stones producer Don Was, Dylan drummer Jim Keltner, literally Ringo Starr—the album marks the first time Lewis has penned an album of songs solo, without co-writers, since Rabbit Fur Coat. “I’m not fully myself when I’m co-writing,” Lewis admits, describing a directness to the songs she’s penned with men, like Rilo Kiley’s “Portions for Foxes,” as opposed to songs she’s written alone, like “Silver Lining.” “With the songs I’ve co-written, it’s almost as if there’s a trimming of the emotional, rambling, poetic hysteria, which is where I live when I’m writing by myself,” Lewis says. “I don’t think of songs structurally. It’s a feeling, and I’m chasing the feeling.”

The cover of On the Line is a close-up of Lewis’ chest in an ornate blue gown. She chose the snapshot intuitively, from a pile of Polaroids taken by de Wilde, and only later recognized it as a deep homage to her mom, who once dressed similarly in Vegas and had an identical mole between her breasts. “Over the years I’ve become more comfortable in my skin,” Lewis says. “It’s funny to feel good in your skin when it’s not quite as tight as it used to be.”

With her voice sounding more refined than ever, On the Line finds Lewis singing about getting head in a black Corvette, feeling “wicked,” and—on the devastatingly delicate “Taffy”—sending nudes to a lover she knows will leave. “There’s a lot of fantasy in my songs,” Lewis tells me. “Sadly, I don’t get that much action. I should have gotten more.” She says she has always written about sex as “character projection,” but when she did so on Rilo Kiley’s final album, 2007’s Under the Black Light, it polarized fans. Lewis recalls one journalist who made a flow chart claiming to correlate the declining quality of the band’s music and the shrinking size of her hot pants. “It was so puritanical,” she says. But as the borders between the underground, mainstream, and genre have broken down, the artists who Lewis inspired are continuing to make space for more expansive expressions of sexuality.

The new record’s sound is warm and sleek, and when Lewis says she listened primarily to Kanye’s recent work while mixing it, I recall yet another wacky tale she shared with me at her house: Once, circa 2008, Lewis chanced upon Kanye at an airport. He played her a cut from 808s and Heartbreaks, and she played him her sprawling psych-rock triptych “The Next Messiah.”

Listening to On the Line, I find myself fixated on “Wasted Youth,” which uses a jaunty piano arrangement to deliver its neatly bleak refrain: “I wasted my youth on a poppy.” Lewis then slyly draws a line from the drugs to our numbing daily realities. When she sings, “Everybody knows we’re in trouble/Doo doo doo doo doo/Candy Crush,” I can feel my phone festering in my palm.

“I feel like that song is more about Candy Crush than heroin, if that’s even fucking possible,” Lewis says. “That’s the fuckin’ end: Candy Crush. It’s terrifying. I feel like my brain has been taken over by one of those weird fungi that grow out of the head of an ant in the rainforest. It’s like we’re spracked out on our Instagrams. It makes me feel like shit even talking about it.”

By the bridge, however, Lewis offers a blunt jolt of hope: “We’re all here, then we’re gone/Do something while your heart is thumping!” That’s a surprisingly heartening sentiment from a songwriter who has referred to herself as “a walking corpse,” who once made a springy emo anthem entitled “Jenny, You’re Barely Alive.”

“I’m in my 40s and something has shifted,” she says, when I ask what she does these days to help herself through. “Maybe you’re more aware of your own mortality, and have the balls to walk away from things, and be untethered, and do the reflection and the hard work—getting your ass out of bed and walking a couple miles, going to the gym, talking to a therapist.”

Lewis says her relationships with her female friends have deepened profoundly in recent years. “Maybe this is what we’re picking up on: the collective consciousness,” she says. “Women are talking to one another more. Reaching out to my girlfriends has helped me through these lessons that keep coming up. It’s the same lesson, where I’m like, ‘How am I in this situation with this fucking person that’s crazy… again? Why am I here and why have I stayed this long?’ And then my girlfriends are there to go: ‘Get the fuck out of there!’” (She is clear that this is not about her relationship with Rice, but rather about other romantic and working partnerships.)

I tell Lewis that these get-me-out predicaments remind me of her own song, “Godspeed,” from 2008’s Acid Tongue, which I had been revisiting quite a bit lately—a golden-hour piano ballad from one woman to another, a paean to “keep the lighthouse in sight,” to get “up and out of his house,” because “no man should treat you like he do.” “I wrote that for my friend,” Lewis says. “But maybe I wrote it for myself now.”

By the end of my time at Lewis’ house, the sun has set and we’re sitting in near total darkness, save for the neon pink glow of one of her many landlines. “You have to make a choice to be happy, or try to be,” Lewis insists. “Sometimes that involves moving away from people that you love, or that hurt you, or that are toxic. You have to find your bliss in life, right?”

I almost can’t believe that the same woman who provided me with my personal millennial-burnout anthems is asking me about unfettered joy—the artist who wrote the lyrics “I do this thing where I think I’m real sick, but I won’t go to the doctor to find out about it” and “I’m a modern girl but I fold in half so easily when I put myself in the picture of success” and “It must be nice to finish when you’re dead.” But I nod; it’s true.

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