#i think it’s one of his rawest and most beautiful songs

[tenthsfreezeout]

this is slowly becoming one of my favourite ever bruce songs.

one of the things i think about often is a performance when patti saw this as a sign request i think early in the 2010s? or late 2000s? anyway then she asks bruce to play it, then they both start crying (but do a pretty good job hiding it) while playing and i think it’s because it brought back memories of when they played it back in tunnel of love era and what they felt for each other playing it all those nights… and how far they have come since then. how haunting this song is… wow.

[therealsaintscully]

Paul's body language listening to Beautiful Boy and what I think is Paul's greatest tragedy

I had to capture Paul's body language while listening to Beautiful Boy as one of his choices on Desert Island Discs in 1982. He says the song is 'very moving' for him—you can listen to the whole thing here and watch the actual video captured in these gifs here.

Desert Island Discs is a radio programme, so I wonder if Paul wasn’t expecting cameras, or perhaps he knew there would be one but wasn’t prepared for his own emotional response once the song started playing. His body language is incredibly poignant to watch, and while I'm no expert, this feels like the rawest I've ever seen him captured on film, even more so than the most difficult parts of Get Back/Let It Be.

It starts when the songs starts playing: his eyes are everywhere, and he puffs his cheeks and bites his lips. He clearly knows the lyrics, you can tell througout this video that he does, but he keeps himself from singing along out loud.

Then, when John sings, “And your daddy’s here,” he puffs his cheeks again and fully turns his back to the camera to collect himself, flicking his hair, and starts rocking back and forth.

His eye are EVERYWHERE at that point, with some more hair flicks. Also, you can't hear in the gif, but there's a second or two of him tapping along with his hands on a table or his thighs, perhaps in discomfort or a nervious tick, and then he stops.

And just when you think he’s composed himself, he turns his back to the camera again and stays like that for a good while. To clarify, the show’s host is sitting right next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder and elbow-to-elbow on Paul’s right, but Paul is clearly avoiding eye contact and communication altogether.

This continues for several more seconds until John sings, “It’s getting better and better.” That's a hint to Paul's own line from Sgt. Pepper, I think we can all agree to that. Then, the camera operator—perhaps taking pity or simply doing their job well—pans the camera and focuses on something even more telling; after tapping along and swiveling, he's now hugging himself.

And that's when the camera cuts, thankfully. I can imagine this is exactly how he must have spent hours in the early eighties, listening to Double Fantasy and the Real Love/Free as a Bird/Now and Then demos and taking it all in.

And herein lies what I think is Paul's greatest tragedy: if, as he's claimed for decades, they were never knowingly or consciously romantically or physically involved while John was alive, I wonder if the understanding of what they actually had crept up on him after John's death, especially in moments like these. It could be argued that it's reflected in songs and lyrics throughout his solo career—a progression of moments, memories, and conversations, all deciphered and processed in a new light.

How heartbreaking.

[tealvenetianmask]

How Blitz and Stolas figure out how they feel: external vs. internal processing

I've been in therapy a ton (feeling like I'm not alone in that in this fandom), and one of the things I've learned from it is that I like to process my thoughts and feelings externally- by talking about them. It turns out not everyone is like that. I'm like Blitz in this way.

I first got on this topic when I was thinking about how Blitz flip flops in Apology Tour. When he goes to see Stolas at the beginning of the episode, he goes in with an idea he's trying out- a narrative he's committed to FOR NOW, insisting that he's there to reinstate the full moon deal with TONS of undue and shaky confidence.

Is this plan something he's actually confident in? Absolutely not. But he's going to commit to it damnit and see how it plays out. Does he believe it? I think he does in the moment. He's convinced himself anyway, and when Stolas wears him down and he understands that he's not doing himself any favors . . .

He starts processing the real shit aloud.

I don't think Blitz has ever admitted this to himself, at least not this articulately and accurately. He needs to say it aloud in order for it to be real. Oops too real.

He's SCARED because he didn't even KNOW he felt this way, but things are becoming very clear and dangerously close to the heart of the matter . . . so he pivots again back into comfortable territory (conflict).

By the end of the conversation, he arrives at a new mission, one that's sort of an equilibrium between his realizations about his honest feelings and his need to have a mission he feels confident in. He's not all confident or all honest- he's still in flux.

There are SO many more examples of Blitz realizing how he feels BY TALKING (later in Apology Tour when he's talking to Stolas, and then when he's talking to Verosika . . . but then also back in Oops, etc.), but I'm going to leave it at one for brevity here. What's important is that we NEVER see Blitz processing alone. Even in his part of the duet (more on songs in a sec), when he's technically singing to himself, he's consoling himself with a narrative rather than really processing the things that need to be processed.

Blitz needs a person to process with.

But Stolas is an internal processor. We know this already because he made the plan to give Blitz the Asmodean crystal and sat on it for literal months, procuring the crystal, ironing out what he would say, trying to initiate conversations with Blitz, but never explaining how he felt to anyone before it was time- and absolutely NEVER in a way that was half baked.

The way Stolas sings his feelings actually gives us a really clear and beautiful picture of how he processes and figures things out. I forget who said it, but someone on the Helluva creative team referenced a broadway truism that in a musical, characters sing what they can't speak. I think for Stolas it's often what he can't YET speak because he's still processing. He has full honest conversations with himself (Stolas Sings, Just Look My Way), and then when he's face to face with Blitz, he knows exactly what he wants to say. His feelings and beliefs actually progress from song to song- he expresses his awareness of a problem in Stolas Sings and gets more precise about how he feels and what he needs to do about it in Just Look My Way.

By The Full Moon, for better or worse (kind of both), Stolas knows exactly what he wants to say to Blitz and how he wants to say it.

Even when he's upset, angry, and then drunk, when Stolas speaks about his feelings, he's consistent. He's decided. He loves Blitz. He wants a real relationship. From his point of view, he doesn't care about social class, so he can't understand why Blitz is so stuck on it.

But he's missing something key (it's the social class thing- it's definitely the social class thing), and internally, he's cooking, and we see that (again) when he sings.

This is the rawest and most in flux stage of his thought process that we've seen. Because this is how he figures out what he thinks and feels- with himself, in song.

Okay- so interesting psychoanalysis- why does this matter to the story?

Well, I think that Stolas doesn't understand that when Blitz speaks in these super emotional, fraught conversations, he doesn't go in knowing what he thinks and feels. He's figuring it out on the fly. He's figuring it out BY talking, and needs to be allowed to do that. Should he do this with a therapist instead of with the person most likely to be hurt by the ideas he flies through on his way to his true feelings? For sure, but this is Blitz.

In turn, Blitz doesn't understand that when Stolas acts absolutely certain and doesn't seem to take in the things Blitz is saying, he's not talking to a brick wall. He's talking to a moveable person who, once he's alone (or singing) is going over and over everything and breaking his thoughts down and reformulating until he arrives at something new.

So . . . it might be a little much to ask these two to understand each other's different processing styles- but they're coming along in their own ways. And I'm looking forward to them understanding each other. Someday. Maybe. Fucking sit down and talk. Slowly. AGH.

[consoledacup]

There is a hell of a lot to say about mirrors. Aside from Colin and Penelope's perfect love story, I love how their romance is completely intertwined with identity.

Mirrors are everywhere this season. Penelope's staring at herself with Genevieve behind her, outwardly prioritizing her career over love. And her transformation is only skin deep and smartly subverted at the ball.

Varley is encouraging Penelope's new look, saying, "the looking glass does not lie." Such a sweet thing to say! But she says it during the Whistledown voice over. So the looking glass doesn't lie, but Penelope sure does. And at the end of the episode, after that captivating gossip scene at the Osterley Ball, Penelope simply reflects what the rest of the ton is saying in Whistledown.

Colin's brief reflection in the mirror behind Penelope at Stowell House highlights how he is never far from her thoughts.

Love the little moment Colin has with Violet where she comes to see him in the study, and he leans into the light when she brings up friendship and love, and you see his reflection behind her. The mirror play in the Fuller Library was so great. The thin persona Colin is projecting to the toxic lord squad is so not reflective of who is actually in his heart. And I really love Penelope's resigned little vanity mirror shot, readying herself for Debling's proposal and convincing herself she has no need for love.

The mirror intimacy scene is the sexiest, rawest, most revealing, most tender love scene I've ever seen. I personally think that the vulnerability of the mirror scene alone makes this season the most intimate it's ever been. I love that it starts with the mirror. I love that the mirror was all over in promos and was the third character in the teaser trailer. I love that the song that plays is "p.o.v."

And then we have the parallel of Genevieve behind Penelope in front of the mirror once more, this time with Penelope surrendering her career for love.

What makes the mirror intimacy scene so well-written and angsty is Colin believing that they were completely baring themselves to one another in that moment, mind, body, and soul. And while Penelope had found no other moment with him more special, she was still holding back parts of herself. And that is why it is so heartbreaking when Colin tells her the reason they'll still marry is because they were intimate. He's struggling to get the words out, as he reflects on their time together. He feels betrayed. He was honest with her inside and out, and she wasn't. And once again, Genevieve is an incredible support when she reminds Penelope that true love comes from loving each other, and themselves, fully.

When we see Colin battling with himself after admitting defeat to Penelope's team, there is a brief shot of him in the mirror as he openly lusts after his wife, frozen in conflict. And Penelope's reflection is shown as she's made the firm decision to unmask Whistledown, leading to the public reveal of her identity.

These characters are not just stepping into the light this season, but they're also forced to confront their own reflections. And as they examine all aspects of themselves, even the parts they used to hide from, they can't help but fall that much more deeply in love with each other. It really is such a beautiful message!

[desmon1995]

The Warriors and their Odyssey of misogyny

I can’t stop thinking about how The Warriors is more relevant now than ever, especially in the wake of the 2024 election. This isn’t just a story about gang conflicts and survival—it's a brutally honest reflection of the world that marginalized people have to navigate every day. At its core, it’s about fighting through a sea of misogyny and toxic masculinity to survive in a system that’s dead set on crushing those who don’t fit its narrative.

Let’s start with Luther. He’s a white incel in every sense—angry, destructive, and, above all, ready to deflect blame the moment he’s caught in his own violence. After killing a black female activist, he immediately accuses the Warriors. Cleon, a character who knows what it means to fight for your community, begs for reason, for justice. But it’s hopeless—Luther’s lie spreads through his gang the Rouges, and every gang believes him. They want to believe the white man’s narrative. This is how the Warriors become outcasts, hunted by everyone.

What’s chilling, though, is how The Warriors dives deep into the nuances of toxic masculinity, showing it in forms we recognize all too well.

First, we have the Turnbull ACs—the poster boys of hyper-masculine violence. They’re the first to pursue the Warriors, and they’re more than willing to turn their hunt into something brutal. The ACs don't just want revenge; they want to dominate, to assert their power over the Warriors in every violent way possible. All in the name of Cyrus, no less—a symbol of a leader they’ll never understand. And they’re acting this way because of a lie, blindly following a dangerous white man’s narrative without question. It’s the rawest depiction of machismo and rage—almost an anthem of how Men of Color end up perpetuating harmful Eurocentric viewpoints just be a part of a society that hates them too.

Then come the Orphans. The Orphans are all talk, acting like the typical online "alpha males" we see on Reddit or Twitter. They talk big about their strength and what they’d do to women, but they’re nothing but insecure. The moment a more feminine-presenting Warrior flirts with them, they back down, only to puff up again when Mercy questions their manhood. It’s pathetic, really, but also painfully real. As soon as the Warriors fight back, the Orphans crumble, showing us exactly how performative their masculinity truly is.

Then there’s the Hurricanes—the only group to stand with the Warriors. They’re queer, and they know what it’s like to be outcast, to run because society sees you as something to be destroyed. The Hurricanes offer a quiet, resilient kind of mentorship, showing the Warriors that they don’t have to run—that they can fight. The solidarity here is beautiful, and historically resonant. Queer rights and women’s rights are so deeply intertwined because they’ve both faced the brutal crush of patriarchy, especially from those determined to keep the world “pure” and “safe” for white, conservative ideals. The Hurricanes help the Warriors see their own power, and it’s their influence that eventually allows them to survive.

But the most frightening group? The Bizzies. They’re the “nice guys,” the false allies who sing about being there to help. In their song “We Got You,” they say everything marginalized people want to hear. They’re supportive, kind, and reassuring—until they get you in a dark place, where your screams can’t be heard. Cowgirl lets her guard down with them, only to find out that their support was a façade. The Bizzies are insidious because this happens all the time in real life. Fake allies talk about helping marginalized people but vanish or even turn hostile the moment things get difficult. In 2024, we’re reminded every day that this kind of allyship is hollow.

A recent Vulture review questioned why most of the male characters in The Warriors are “bad” and argued that this one-sided view “limits” the story. But here’s the thing: this isn’t one-sided for those of us who are marginalized. For women, queer folks, and people of color, this is our reality. The Warriors reveals what’s true for many of us: that we have to rely on each other, and that the fight for our own freedom is in our hands because no one else will fight it for us without diluting or dismissing it.

In a way, The Warriors is the sequel to Hamilton we need in 2024. It’s a call to action, a piece that understands what it means to exist on the fringes of a world that was never designed for you. For those who think this story isn’t “realistic,” I urge you to think about what it means to live without the privilege of being heard, of being believed. This is the life marginalized communities face every day—the struggle of knowing that no matter how loud we shout, society might never listen.

We’re the ones who have to make our voices heard. And The Warriors reminds us that we’re not alone in this fight.

[lavellenchanted]

having watched the final episode and thinking about the season as a whole, overall I still have very mixed feelings - it's still very enjoyable to watch, the animation is beautifully done and the acting is fantastic, but I think this season is definitely weaker than the previous two and I have a lot more criticisms than I had of them

I think that's for a mix of reasons: there's the inevitable issues with compressing an improvised campaign of hundreds of hours into seasons of 12 half-hour episodes, and I think this season shows that the chroma conclave arc could easily have stretched to another season (though I can understand why they wouldn't want to push that when they didn't know if they were getting a season four), but while I never expected the show to be a 1:1 of the campaign and certain changes were always going to be necessary, I do think some of the more significant departures they've made this season don't actually help the greater narrative and in some cases have actually been harmful to characterisation and the emotional beats of the story

I also think we're seeing the butterfly effect of choosing to start s1 with vox machina building their reputation in emon and then skipping ahead in the narrative rather than introducing them as an already established and competent group - they're just not in the same place they were for these story beats in the campaign, and that has an overall impact

as said I still enjoy watching the show, it is overall a positive experience and it's nice to spend any time back with these characters I love, and I hope s4 will be tighter because it's not as sprawling as the chroma arc, but we'll see

more specific thoughts under the cut - spoilers ahead, ye be warned:

starting with positives:

loved seeing keyleth's earth trial, I think the way they've folded her class features into the story and her arc is great

raishan managing to achieve her goal with thordak's body was fascinating, I really enjoyed getting the sense of what a genuine threat she really was

same with thordak, you could really feel his menace and what a genuinely terrifying enemy he was

the songs were great this season and kaylie's song was beautiful

I actually really liked the change of scanlan being in a coma rather than dead and how kaylie brought him round, as well as her encouraging him to go and join the fight against raishan

lots of nice little references - grog "blacking out" to be smart because travis just couldn't hold back that one time, anna's men playing uko'toa, keyfish reference, "do you spice?"

laura broke my heart with vex's confession during percy's resurrection

and while I wasn't a fan of different order things happened in, every perc'ahlia scene was still a delight to watch

seeing inside orthax's realm was very cool

dis was rightfully horrifying and will haunt my nightmares

I did also love them folding in some of the wider exu lore through zerxus

the fight choreography was always fantastic

as was the cinematography

and now on to negatives

my biggest disappointment this season is the complete failure to really showcase any of the group dynamics outside the romantic pairings (and occasionally the twins and pike & grog, and even they suffer), to the point that vex seemed to be the only character grieving for percy or even wanting to avenge him, when ripley's death was one of the rawest, most emotional moments on stream because it was the entire team coming together. would anyone watching the show only even know that keyleth was percy's best friend? or that one of her biggest struggles with her aramente was knowing she was going to outlive them all, not just vax?

don't get me wrong, the boat fight in ep11 was very well done and enjoyable and I loved getting some 1 on 1 moments with the twins, and vex using percy's arrow was still an emotional moment but taken in context overall it felt very anti-climatic - especially when the only comment anyone had about it was keyleth saying "I saw".

just at this point I don't know that I really buy that the show versions of vox machina really do consider themselves to be family, so the "break up" at the end wasn't as impactful as it could have been, nor was keyleth's anger at the group when raishan took thordak's body

and honestly I think you could keep most of the changes and still show those dynamics with just a few tweaks like,

have percy be the one keyleth really butts heads with over raishan - his cold practical logic vs her morals and emotions, remind us of their friendship (which was shown so well in s1) and have her regretting their fighting when he dies

keep grog and keyleth's conversation about anger; it's a beautiful character moment for both of them, and grog's assurance that they will stand with keyleth against raishan if need be would make her anger at the team and running away from them instead of relying on them echo better later

especially if that's following up with keyleth holding herself back because of her fears of outliving everyone and letting herself rely on all her friends, especially when her best friend just died, instead of making it all about committing to vax (even though he was the one with the aging fears this time)

let pike and vax talk about religion - vax suddenly finding himself the champion of a god when he's never been religious turning to the group's cleric, who can be honest with her own struggles. let pike threaten the raven queen! let it be clear why vax tells her at the end, "you showed me the way"

have scanlan talk to vex and vax about kaylie, because they grew up with a shitty father and can offer some perspective on how kaylie might be feeling (and depending on the conversation that could either play into the bard's lament or help play into the softer ending they went with)

if they were really set on not having the "how do you, vox machina, want to do this?" moment then at least let the others express gladness that ripley's dead and disappointment that they couldn't be there for it

if they're also set on having percy stay dead (which I hated purely because it means he was left out of the two major endgame fights) have pike try to resurrect percy and fail because she can't find his soul, let her feel like she failed him and have that play into her questioning storyline

although I have to say on that note I am also overall disappointed in how they've handled pike this season - which obviously to some extent is because she was in and out of the campaign so much, but even so it really didn't feel like she had a complete arc this season and I'm hoping they do properly follow up next season

because it is very unclear how she actually feels faith-wise at the moment. I'm interested to see where they take this bloodline personally I'm not a fan of giving her another crisis of faith storyline when she had that in s1 - I would have preferred to see her faith in herself growing as a reflection of the strength of her faith in her everlight, understanding that the everlight chose her because of who she is - and as it is I'm not sure if she's doubting the everlight, or just doubting whether a life of faith is for her, or if that's going to have any knock on impact on her magic

and part of that is because apart from one or two very cool set battles like using the plate of the dawn martyr against thordak . . . pike's powers have very much been nerfed. to the point that she can't even handle percy's resurrection on her own. even though in stream she's performed multiple resurrections and got a goddess to punch a fucking dragon for the team (no I'm still not over that being cut, I never will be)

she's not the only one. I feel like vex's powers have been downplayed a lot (like has she cast a single spell ever?), and so have scanlan's.

other things that I wasn't thrilled with:

really don't like where they seem to be going with vax saving percy being the reason he ends up a revenant, not least since it implies that percy's soul being taken by orthax was his pre-ordained "fate" not actually a complete perversion of the natural order

also very sad we lost all the aftermath of percy's resurrection, especially percy and vex's forest walk and long talk about forgiveness and that he heard her, and percy and cass's reunion

grog seemed to just be there for comic relief and to punch things this season, I'd really like to see him given more moments to show his deeper characters

sad we didn't get j'mon sa ord joining the fight against thordak

I do feel like gilmore's relationship with the whole team but especially vax is shortchanged a lot in the series, and I'd love them to give us a bit more of his character the way they did kima and allura

very 'mmmm' on them including vex's line about not getting married which is contextually very different than it was on the stream - mostly I'm worried that between that and her then eloping with percy, plus vax's doom being because he saved percy for vex, that there's going to be a lot of fandom blowback on vex (it was bad enough just on stream when vax hadn't yet died)

still absolutely furious that they killed kash

name checking cabal's ruin but not getting it? like, what was the point

things I'd like to see in s4:

taryon darrington. they cannot rob me of him.

kynan appearing as a whitestone guard or cass's personal guard (if jarret can be a guard in emon then why not)

more spotlight on the platonic dynamics beween the group

following up on percy looking at the dragon scales by having him make vex's armour

some unambiguously positive depictions of the gods, especially the everlight

kash being resurrected. or just like ... turning up somewhere like, "yeah I got better, it's cool".

[mrssarablack]

Is it weird that you're heading into a happy time and your husband just released an entire album about being depressed?

It may seem like it should feel weird but it doesn't. I had some idea of what this album was forming into. Unlike most people, the content within the songs didn't surprise me. I have seen him at his worst. I've been by his side through the night terrors and the hiding depression for years and I've also seen him come out the other side of it.

Yes, we are happy and our life together is what we've forged from all of this. It is also fast approaching a new chapter but that doesn't mean our pasts don't creep in and affect us. If anything, the fact we are about to become parents prompts being more reflective about the past. At least for me it has and from this work of art he has as well. I think it's a pretty natural part of the process of transitioning.

When I had my first listen of this album, yes, it was hard to listen to the pain he was rehashing but I can also see the healing in it. Feel the healing in it. The optimistic notes throughout the hurt feels like closing the book on that so that the next one can be opened. Does that erase what happened? No, but it does feel like healing and so many people are relating to this to the degree that I can't help but feel this is true for others as well.

This album is hurt, hope, pain, love all the rawest parts of being human and it's a beautiful work of art that I'm so proud he's shared with the world.

[queerasforks]

Allow me to set the scene for you:

Edward and Bella are driving down the road in one of their stupidly expensive cars.

They’ve been alive for far too long, and are really starting to feel the grates of being married for all eternity, at the ages of 17 and 18 respectively, very acutely.

Because they’re vampires, and as such, have no capacity to change their brain chemistry anymore, they still engage in what would be considered immature or childish spats.

These could last anywhere from a few hours, to a few months, a couple of years if the severity of hurt feelings calls for it.

Bella, much to Edward’s chagrin, is driving, along a winding wooded backroad. The radio has been playing what are currently considered “classics” though by their standards had once been contemporary, and it had given Bella a lot of nostalgia for the early days of their relationship.

She’s been quietly reminiscing with him, occasionally even showing him things, memories associated with the songs. Singing to bubblegum pop in the car with Renee on one of their many road trips. Bopping along to the divorced dad rock that Charlie and Billy had always been so fond of. Soft, emotionally charged songs Jacob had showed her while they hunched together over a CD player in a dimly lit record shop in Seattle.

She suddenly gets very excited about the opening piano chord of a song, murmuring “I loved this one too,” before turning the volume to an ear-splitting decibel.

Edward is transfixed; the music is beautiful, and Bella is reaching down deep, tapping into her rawest emotions as she sings along. Her thumbs drum along to the beat, and she really starts to dig in and belt the words. The music warps from simplistic piano into something a little more produced and electronic but Bella seems no less invested, and the car rattles with the reverb. Bella seems to think it’s amusing, that he’s so enamored with her like this, that she splits into a wide grin and laughs at him.

he’s missing the joke, she thinks, turning down the fade out instrumentals. “Get it?”

“Get what?”

“The song. It’s funny.”

“I thought it was beautiful,” He admits, a little sheepish that he had been so captivated by her that he hadn’t stopped to consider what it was she had been singing. She laughs at him again, and promises to have their daughter play it for him some time. She says they had acquired a vinyl pressing of the album, when Nes had wanted to attend a festival the artist was a part of.

It was one Edward had insisted was too dangerous for them to go, seeing as it had been in broad daylight. Bella had argued that their supernatural skin condition wouldn’t be noticed among the human festival goers, as most of them were some level of intoxicated, and the rest would simply assume it was their attire, as it had been standard at the time to douse yourself in sparkling glitters to attend these things. Eventually Edward had relented, and they had gone into the city, and come back a few days later covered in dirt and traces of loose glitter with merchandise bags in tow. They had managed to find a little something for everyone on that trip, and they had even surprised Edward with a silly little t shirt, with the pegboard game he was so fond of on the front, that had said something on the back to the effect of “i got pegged at Cracker Barrel Old Country Store”

(He hadn’t gotten this joke, either. He was just happy they had thought of him in the midst of their fun.)

They continue on their trip, and Edward forgets about the song, but keeps the memory of watching his wife look so thrilled to be alive tucked safely to his chest.

Eventually, he does get around to asking Nes about the song, when he finds his coveted Cracker Barrel shirt packed away in a box when they return to an old home.

(He can’t deduce for the life of him why Emmett always asks about how his ass feels when he wears it. It’s a shirt, not pants, Emmett, his ass is fine.)

Nes plays the song for him. He listens intently to the lyrics this time, and comes away feeling scraped raw by the sheer emotion Bella had exhibited in the car that day. This song had clearly affected her in a deep way. He asks what it is, and Nes laughs at him.

Vampire by Olivia Rodrigo.

Edward locks himself in his study to cry and doesn’t talk to Bella for six months, during which she plays the song over the surround sound speakers, and reminds him vehemently that she wouldn’t have felt that way if he had simply stayed with her after the birthday party incident.

He extends his study-stay another six months until Bella agrees to stop poking fun at him.

[goldencherryhazz]

Shower

A/n: just a short smutty piece for you with a shitty ending. And once again I could not think of a title. Notes would be much appreciated! Pls don’t copy my work!!

Warning: smut, shower sex, fluff, swearing

Soapy suds littered your soft skin, the warm water of the shower cascading down your body, trying to wash away all the grogginess from being on a 9 hour flight from LA back to London. You felt amazing, not only because of the warmth spreading throughout your body but the fact that you had just traveled the world with your boyfriend Harry, you got to watch him perform practically every single night in the most flamboyant outfits singing his absolute heart out.

It was the best decision you’ve made, you’d decided your job had been made remotely accessible so how could you say no, being Harry’s second solo tour he had to admit that he was nervous even though he had toured countless times before, it was just that Fine Line was so raw, the rawest he’s ever been, there were a lot of his emotions harboured into every song but most of all he was more afraid that people wouldn’t like it, but you had comforted him along the way, which he was so grateful for having you there with him, instead of talking and maintaining your relationship through a tiny screen.

Sometimes you would have to grab both of his cheeks when he was overthinking and a little panicky pacing up and down his dressing room before a show ‘do you hear yourself, you’re being silly, that album is so beautiful and you are so so beautiful H inside and out, as long as you are happy nobody can tell you your not successful’ or something along those lines. Your last sentence was memorised in his head from the moment you said it even mentioned it in his Zane Lowe interview, it just meant soo much and grounded him erasing all of his worries, because it was true, his passion always laid with music it was a release for him the and it truly did make him happy even at the worst of times.

You are distracted from your thoughts when you hear the bathroom door creak open and a not even moment later Harry was walking into the room a little out of breath, he instantly started stripping. You chuckled at him, he had told you to take a shower whilst he sorted all of your twos luggage, and you knew he had done it as quickly as possible so he could get in the showers with you, hence why he was out of breath.

‘What are you laughing at’ he said trying to get his leg out of his jeans.

‘You’ by now Harry had flung his boxers onto the floor along with all his other clothes, and you couldn’t lie that you looked him up and down, all in naked glory.

‘You know my parents taught me that staring is rude y/n’ you looked at him in slight shock not realising that you had been staring at him, but you quickly conceal it.

‘M’not staring’ you say innocently

‘Then what are you doing’

‘I’m admiring you’ he chuckled at your response.

He steps into the showers and under the water towering in front of you, ‘and do you like what you see baby?’

You hide your face into his chest at his question, you know he already knew the answer but he wanted to hear you say it. ‘Don’t hide away from me, gimme a kiss’ he lightly grips your chin so that you would look up at him your eyes instantly lock with his green ones.

You clasp your hands behind his neck tangling you fingers in his now wet curls, moving to catch his lips in yours the mint from the gum he chews and the remnants of his cologne on his skin invade your senses. He brings his hand to the side of your jaw stroking it with his thumb, his tongue swiping your bottom lip, you gladly grant him access.

You start to feel a nudge on your thigh and you don’t have to look to see what I was ‘someones a little exited’ he smiles into the kiss ‘not had a proper fuck in ages my love, wanna feel you’ it was true that you and Harry hadn’t been properly intimate since being on your. Yes, you had had sex but only quick fucks here and there, Harry being busy all the time and then when it was time to go back to wherever they were staying he was utterly exhausted, but who could blame him, being a singer is very tiring work. Having sex on tour had fully satisfied your exhibitionist kink though, having quick sex before a show trying to keep quiet whilst there were people working away outside and always the possibility of someone walking in, cause Harry had a thing for forgetting to lock the door it was as if he wanted that to happen, which to be fair would be something Harry would do being the little shit that he is, and now that you were at home it felt so different, you could moan as loud as you wanted without anyone hearing you, and you could fuck in any room of the house without a care in the world.

‘Hmm, want you in my mouth’ you say biting his top lip ‘I have another idea sweet girl, and it involves a showers head’ you moan at this already knowing where this was going. ‘Do you want me to make you cum with the shower head darling’

‘Yes please H’ you clit tingling in anticipation, he quickly grabs the retractable shower head off the holder and sits down on the little bench along the wall, then gesturing for you to come sit, which you do turning around you ass on full show to him, so he couldn’t help himself when he gave each of your cheeks a small slap making you let out a quiet yelp, he just loved the way your ass jiggled.

As soon as you are seated in his lap, with your back against his chest he brings an arms around your middle to secure you from slipping. He then brings the shower head between your legs, the sound when his fingers intricately changed the setting to jet made shivers run up your spine ‘you ready sweet girl’ and before you have time to answer he aims the strong jet of water onto your clit, making you almost clamp your legs shut at the suddenness, you moaned uncontrollably at the way he ran the water in small circles almost to replicate the way his fingers would rub circles on your clit when you were close to cumming. ‘Feels soo good H’ your legs threatening to clamp shit once again, which Harry notices and quickly shoves your legs to the outside of his so that when you tried to clamp them shut again his legs would be able to stop the action. When the water hits a particularly sensitive spot on your clit it makes your back arch against him, your head falling into the crook of his neck, where he presses we kisses to your jaw. ‘Like the water on your pussy, don’t you’ he moans into your ear, his cock slightly rutting again to slope of your back to try and relieve some of the pressure.

‘Fucking love it’ you say frantically already being so close to the edge. ‘Bet your going to cum for me soon, can feel how your tensing up, knuckles are white from grabbing the bench too darling, so just let go, no need to hold it cause if you think this is the only time your cumming tonight then you are oh so mistaken baby, gonna have you screaming for me so much the neighbours are gonna get sick of hearing my name’ your on the edge now, legs shaking slightly you just need another gentle nudge and you will collapse, and as if Harry can sense it, he hovers his mouth over your ear his hot breath making contact with your cool skin ‘go on baby, cum for me’ and with that you are cumming, your back arcing impossibly more so much you thought you were going to break it, you hole pulsating rapidly, struggled breaths make it past your lips. Harry circles the jet around you clit a few more times before it all becomes too much for you, already growing incredibly sensitive, you push his hand away and Harry gets the message, immediately turning the settings so he could place the shower head down without it spurting water all over the room.

‘How was that baby?’

‘Felt really good, but I really would like your cock inside of me now’ your forwardness making him rut his hips against you back once again. You had only just cum and you were very sensitive but all you wanted right now was to be filled to the brim with your boyfriends cock, and who was he to deny you. He lifts you off his lap so that you would stand up so that he could do the same,he places the shower back in the holder and then immediately pulls you in for another kiss as if he had been deprived even though it had probably only been 5 minutes, seconds later you back hits the wall, the cold tiles against your skin making you hiss but also become a lot more horny the fact that Harry would inevitably be fucking you against that wall in the next few minutes. His hand run ups and down your body, making sure to touch every square inch of you skin, his hand starts to go lower and lower until the tips of his fingers come into contact with you pussy, still slick from your juices he runs them through you folds, making you jerk against him, a chuckle emitting from his lips ‘steady on there love’. He then brings his hand up to his mouth sucking in his fingers, then kissing you even deeper than before making sure that you got a taste of yourself ‘always taste-soo-fucking-sweet my sweet girl’ he manages to get out between heavy kisses. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders you trace shapes onto the back of his neck, the sensation making him feel all fuzzy and all the more desperate to be inside you ‘jump’ he utters. Immediately making you wrap your legs around his hips, and the second you do you slip slightly, a yelp emitting from you lips but Harry’s hands come under your thighs securing you in his grip ‘don’t worry, would never let you fall my love’

‘Hmm, why thankyou my handsome boy’ you say making him hide in your neck ‘shut up’ he protests.

‘Never’ you chuckle at him threading your fingers through this hair once again, the moment soon turns into one of lust again when he starts sucking a hickey onto your neck, kissing over your collarbones to. ‘Really wanna fuck you’ he moans his eyes searching for yours, and when they make contact you can tell just how desperate he is ‘well fuck me then’ and that’s all you have to say before Harry lines his throbbing cock up with your entrance, then sinking into you to the hilt in one long thrust. Both of your moans fill the room, the angle making his cock go soo deep that it felt as though he was nudging at your stomach. ‘Soo fucking tight’ he whimpers at the overwhelming feeling of your walls squeezing around him.

‘You can move, please move’ and he doesn’t have to be told twice, although he swore he could have cum from merely placing his cock inside you, he steadily starts thrusting into you finding a rhythm. You fingers tug at his hair, you think you must be hurting him but when he moans even louder at a particularly harsh tug you are reminded of Harry’s undeniable pain kink, and you swear you can feel a new pool of wetness forming at your hole. ‘Faster please Harry’ you whimper when you feel his cock pick up pace you throw your head back, making a thud when it came into contact with the wall. ‘Shit feels soo good sweet girl, swear I could be buried in you pretty little cunt forever, s’like you were made for me’ he moans out.

‘Just for you Harry’ you whimper getting him even more riled up and delivers a particularly hard thrust up into your pussy, making you quiver around him. ‘Like that don’t you baby, like it when I’m a little rough with you’

‘I do, love it soo muc- shit you feel so good, hitting my special spot every time’ the knot in your belly starting to tighten. ‘Gonna cum for me again angel’ he asks already knowing the answer, you could hear the smugness dripping from his voice.

‘Yeah, I’m clos-so close’ you whimper, when you say this he starts fucking you harder so that you would fall over the edge even quicker as he was pretty close aswell, staring into your eyes as he does, which you found hot just in itself. ‘Cant even speak properly can you, am I fucking you that good angel’

‘Cock’s f-filling me up soo good’ you whimper. The only sound resonating in the room now were moans and the slapping of skin, you couldn’t control the sounds coming from your mouth and neither could he.

‘Holy shit, I’m gonna cum’

‘Me too angel, want you to cum with me, yeah’ he reaches his hand around from one of your thighs to toy with your clit, knowing that’s all you would need. ‘I’m cumming, oh my god’ you shout your back arcing once again, Harry kept thrusting into you at the same pace only intensified your release, and seconds later you feel his cock twitch inside you one last time before he’s releasing rope after rope of cum inside your warm walls, his face finding home in the crook of your neck as your pulsating walls milk his cock, his moans being muffled in your warm skin.

You could feel you body slipping slightly down the tiles, you limbs felt like jelly after being fucked soo good, he senses that your struggling to keep yourself up so he brings you into his chest and wraps his arms around you, his cock still buried deep inside you. You bring you arms to wrap even tighter around his neck, pressing sweet kisses along his jawline making him hum contently, ‘was that okay baby’ he murmurs into your wet hair ‘more than okay H’.

You stay like this for a few minutes, basking in each others warmth’s, this is disturbed when Harry reaches to turn the shower off, shivers now run up your spine the air around you suddenly becoming chilly. You realise Harry still hadn’t gone soft within you making you look up at him in slight shock ‘how are you still hard H’ he smirks at your question ‘cause I’m not done with you yet, told you the neighbours are probably going to put in a noise complaint by tomorrow morning’ he says making you bit your lip.

‘Bet you would love that wouldn’t you, letting everyone know who you belong to’ he say walking out the shower with you still on him and grabbing a towel, he pulls out of you before you stand up properly still being a little unsteady, the mixture of his cum and your juices had dripped down onto your thigh so he doesn’t hesitate to drop to his knees to clean you up, making you grab onto the counter so you wouldn’t fall over, once he is done he stands back up innocently looking up at you then grabbing the towel and quickly drying you both off like he hadn’t just had his face buried between your legs.

‘So baby, when do you want to fuck next, there’s our bedroom but I think I wanna doing it in the dining room first, fancy having you bent over the dining table for me’ you both look at each other with lust blown eyes before you practically pounce on each other once again, Harry obviously taking that as a yes.

From that point on you realise that you wouldn’t be getting a wink of sleep tonight even after a 9 hour flight, but even then not a single care crosses your mind.

[yaku-soba]

everything i could never say to you (i wrote into a song)

༶•┈┈ semi eita x gn!reader | light angst, eventual fluff

༶•┈┈ general m.list

warnings/tags: childhood best friends to lovers, this bad boy can fit so much pining in it, in this fic semi plays the guitar and the piano and also sings, i looped sorry for writing all the songs about you by clara mae while writing this and it shows

word count: 2k

a/n: a repost from my old account!! re-reading this made me realize how much my writing has changed :””) i hope yall enjoy this!!

summary: All of his songs are about you. Eita doesn’t know how to write anything else. 

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

Eita’s had many favourite singers. He doesn’t remember them all, because there are too many, but there’s an interview he’d watched once, back in his first year of middle school that sticks with him.

Find a muse, he remembers the singer saying - he doesn’t remember their name anymore, but he knows these words by heart - find a muse, and write them into your music.

(It’ll be the most painful thing you’ve ever sung, but it will be the most beautiful.

He hadn’t understood what the singer had meant, then.)

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

“Semi-semi!” You shout gleefully as you throw open the doors to the gym. Catching Tendou’s eye, you shoot him finger-guns, smiling even as your best friend storms towards you, the volleyball in his hand flying against the side of Tendou's head. 

“Out,” he says gruffly, catching you by the back of your collar, and you wave a jaunty salute at the rest of Shiratorizawa’s volleyball team as Eita hauls you out of the gym.

“That was mean,” you pout, turning when he finally lets go of you, “and after I came all the way here to pass you your math homework.” You drawl the word all, and delight in the tick in Eita’s brow. 

Your best friend sighs, massaging his temple in a way that has no business looking that all-suffering, “I never should have let you meet Tendou.”

Laughing, you hand him the worksheet he’d left under his table. “We would have met anyway,” you point out, “seeing as he had a puppy crush on me back in first year.”

Eita stiffens, and the hand taking his worksheet from you crumbles into itself. 

“You’re crumpling the worksheet,” you say, “what, are you jealous?” You wink, your tone just shy of flirtation.

(You wish you were brave enough to just ask.)

He laughs, voice cracking, and the sound grates more than it should. 

“Of course not,” he says, free hand smoothing out the wrinkles until it’s like they were never there, “I just wouldn’t wish you on anyone.”

“Right,” you agree easily, “says Semi-I’ve-been-single-my-entire-high-school-career-Eita.”

Your best friend scowls at that. “There’s still a few months,” he argues, and you brush off the rest of his statement by pushing him back into the gym.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, grinning, “I bet you’re a real heartbreaker, Eita.”

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

The first song Eita writes that’s worth mentioning is about you.

It’s full of steady strums and simple notes, and when his lips form the lyrics, he sees in his mind's eye the way the sun catches in your lashes in the way they do on gentle spring afternoons. He’s long since memorized the way it drips across your cheeks, honeyed gold like the belly of the guitar that he’d promised himself he’d save up for.

(It’ll be the most painful thing you’ve ever sung, but it will be the most beautiful. Eita hadn't understood it at twelve. At eighteen, he thinks he does.

He understands it now, as a third-year usurped by his junior. Every game he doesn’t spend as the starting setter stings like road burn, but still the court beckons like a mirage in a desert and he cannot let go.

Eita learns to tell himself that this is okay. He’s fine with being a pinch server if it means he gets to stand on the court. At least he still gets to hear the squeak his shoes make against the wood when he takes off like a bird in flight.

So - of course Eita understands, he’s your best friend, after all. And he knows that’s all he’ll ever be.)

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

Once, when you were children freshly enrolled in middle school, Eita had asked you to be his muse.

You still remember how nervous he had been, how his hands - long even at their age, beautiful like a pianist or a setter’s - shook. You remember the blush across his cheeks, cherry blossom petals you had wanted to keep. 

You wonder if he still remembers, if he still writes his songs with you as his muse.

You wonder if they're love songs.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

Sometimes, you think that he might like you back. 

It’s a thought that you can’t help thinking whenever you catch him staring at you a breath too long, when he makes eye contact with you the moment right before he serves (intense), whenever his fingers linger on your arm (butterfly kiss-light). 

Sometimes, he looks at you the way he strums his guitar - gently, all adoration and other soft things. He’ll look at you with the corners of his eyes crinkled (just slightly, like origami), and his lips stretched into a small smile - and your heart will leap, it’ll tumble gracelessly, and you’ll think, what if. 

But you are, at heart, a coward. You love Eita more than you have ever loved someone else, and it terrifies you - you don’t know what you’ll do if you lose your best friend.

You don't want to find out. You'll learn to satisfy yourself with just his friendship, because you know, without a doubt, that losing it will kill you.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

All his songs are about you. 

It’s not even that Eita’s trying. He writes a lyric and realizes it’s a metaphor for your eyes; he hums a verse and finds that it’s the exact pentatonic scale of your laugh.

You’ve wormed your way into every page of his music and into every turn of phrase, and Eita cannot stop hearing you in every song. It’s keeping him from writing anything else.

It's only terrifying because he doesn't know if he wants to write anything else. He tries not to think too much about it, but sometimes - only sometimes - he thinks that by writing you into every note and every lyric, he can make you his. Even if it's only for the length of a song. 

(He wonders what you’d say if you heard them. 

He wonders if you’d hear the arching crescendo, the way it builds and builds and builds before overflowing, crashing like a wave against the shore - and know that it’s about that night you’d crawled through his bedroom window just because he’d called you, upset. He wonders if you’d pick out the light, sure-footed rhythm that he hides in all of his music and know that it’s a desperate imitation of the thousands of times you’d skipped ahead of him on the walk home.

Eita wonders and wonders and wonders, and knows that the only dreams that hurt him are those that he wants, more than anything else.)

He doesn’t let you listen to the songs he composes, anymore.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

It comes to a head two weeks before graduation. 

You’re late to lunch with your friend, rushing down the halls with your bag slipping down your shoulder, when you hear it. 

There’s someone playing the piano in Shiratorizawa’s perpetually-empty music room, and it’s the rawest thing you’ve heard since the first song of Eita’s that he’d let you listen to. 

(It had been simple, no fancy chord progressions, no key change or two-part melody. 

When he’d sung it to you, all you could see was the graceful line of his neck, traced by the sunlight through the window of his bedroom, and the tenderness of his fingers on the strings.)

You pause, peering through the tiny window in the door. 

It’s Eita. Your next exhale is shaky. 

He’s playing a song you don’t know on the piano, and after a few bars you realize it must be one of his own. It’s played too adoringly to be anything else. 

It feels like cheating, crouching like a thief outside of the music room, hunched so he can't see you through the window in the door. Eita hasn't played his songs for you in ages, and while you're happy that you finally can hear them, listening to them this way feels too much like a betrayal.

You've just resolved yourself to knock on the door when he starts playing the first song he ever sung to you. 

It's a little different - there are triplets now, and they stumble into each other the way you remember tripping into Semi the night you'd skinned your knee and cried, back when you were nothing but children. The phrasing is different, too; there are more arcs now, and every slur feels heady, feels giddy like the brush of his hands against yours on the evenings you walk home with him after he’s finished volleyball practice.

It's different, more complicated. But it's still unmistakably Eita, and every press of piano keys tugs at your heartstrings like calloused fingers on a guitar. 

(You think it sounds like heartbreak, slow in the making. It sounds like a decade's worth of nights spent staring at the lit room in the house next to yours, trying to make out his silhouette through the drawn curtains.)

"You should play that for Y/n," someone says suddenly, and you startle before you realize that it came from inside the music room. The voice speaks again, and you recognize it as Tendou's. "It's not as hopeless as you think it is, take the Guess Monster's word for it!" 

There's a pause, and you strain your ears to hear Eita's reply. 

"This isn't a game, Tendou," is all your best friend says. He sounds defeated, but you can't even focus on that, not when this sounds so much like what you want that it's too good to be true. "And there's no way Y/n thinks of me that way. Even if I-"

You lean closer, pressing your ear to the door more firmly-

-And lose your balance. There's a moment of too-loud silence as Eita cuts himself off abruptly when you tumble into the room, and the three of you look at each other in shock.

Tendou is the first to move. "Well," he says cheerfully, blissfully ignoring the pleading looks you send his way as he stands, "guess I’ll leave you two to it!"

He grins as he walks past you and through the doorway. You’ve never despised him more than you do in that moment. 

You turn your gaze back to Eita, mind racing even as you know that it's blatantly obvious that you'd been eavesdropping. You’re still half-sprawled on the ground. 

Eita clears his throat. "Um," he starts eloquently. You're struck with the reminder of what he’d been about to say.

Even if you what? You think desperately. What were you going to say?

"Eita," you say, testing his name on your tongue like you haven't already spoken it enough times to fill the seas, "what were you going to say?" 

He looks panicked, fingers twitching like bird wings against where they’re resting on the piano keys.

"Please," you add. You have to know.

You watch as he pinches the bridge of his nose and takes in a deep breath the way he does right before a service ace. 

"I like you," he says finally, "and I'm sorry."

You’ve never been the musician, not with Eita around, but with his confession, your heart sings. 

"I’m sorry," you breathe, and the air aches beautifully as it enters your lungs, and it feels like coming home. Eita’s face falls, something knowing and terrible - like heartbreak - setting in. "Because I like you too," you finish. 

There’s a sparrow chirping on the windowsill of Shiratorizawa's music room. 

"Oh," your best friend says, except he can be more now, can't he? "Oh," he repeats, and you smile, opening your arms in welcome as he makes an aborted motion to stand.

He fits into your arms like notes on an empty score.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------«« 

On a lazy spring afternoon, Eita plays to you all the songs he’s ever written.

He tells you they’re about you. 

You tell him you know, you ask him if that’s why he used to keep from playing them to you. 

He peppers you with kisses.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

as always, likes and reblogs are appreciated!! do let me know what you thought in asks / the tags!! </3

[starbornsinger]

Nepenthe

Azriel x Gwyn one-shot (light angst, fluff)

Warning: ⚠️ ACOSF spoilers, mentions of abuse ⚠️

The day was not turning out as Azriel had originally anticipated. That much, at least, he had gathered. Now today wasn't like other unanticipated, unwelcome distractions. Those were the kinds he dreaded— days where he would return to the townhouse soaked in blood he wasn't sure belonged to him.

Those days haunted him on ones like this.

Yes, today was a different kind of unexpected. Rhysand had decidedly summoned him for lunch in his office, to discuss politics and prisoners and what color he and Feyre would paint the baby's room. It went in and out of Azriel's mind. Most things did, these days. The time after the war, after spending months trying to get those goddamn Illyrians back in line, it was taking its toll on him. His shadows, which curled behind his ears like tufts of dark hair, now seemed to swallow Azriel’s face whole, clenching around his body with an armored ferocity Rhysand was accustomed to.

Maybe, Azriel told himself, that was why he called him here. To see what he was up to. How he was doing. It annoyed him, when Rhys fluttered around him like a concerned mother hen, desperate to understand his feelings and thoughts.

He doubted he deserved to be cared for like that.

And maybe, he thought with a wry snort, it was why he had sent him on such a meaningless errand. A distraction, one he merely welcomed with indifference.

"There's a book," Rhys had drawled, leaning back in the chair pushed out from his onyx desk. Behind him, the portrait of his Mate seemed to glimmer with curiosity. "In the library beneath the House of Wind. A history book, about the royal bloodline. Feyre is making a family tree, and wishes to learn more about my ancestors. If you don't mind, I'd like you to retrieve it for me."

As though Azriel had nothing better to do. Truthfully, he didn't. But still he had replied slowly, his voice tight, "Can't you get it yourself? Or send Cass?" Rhysand only barked a laugh. When it came to his brother, Azriel knew he would do anything he asked. For his brother, he would have jumped into the Sidra if he had asked. It was beyond the duty to the High Lord with which Azriel regarded Rhysand; but that didn't mean he wouldn't give him grief for such a stupid task.

"No, shadowsinger," he had purred in reply, mouth stretching into a taunting grin. "I cannot. I'm far too busy looking at paint samples with my Mate. And besides, the priestesses like you best, don't they?" Rhys barked a laugh. Azriel opened his mouth to retort, to defend the way his shadows flinched, but he set his jaw tightly. The shadowsinger gave a subtle nod, then rose from his seat. A soft brushing of knuckles against his stony mental shields had him pausing in the doorway.

You can hide it, Rhys had said. You can hide many things from us. But you can't hide from me. You need this today.

Hide it, indeed.

Azriel huffed as he flew, wings beating against the cool summer breeze that rippled across his dark head. He needed to stretch his wings, to clear his head and focus on the warmth beating down on his back. The sun, hanging lazily in the afternoon sky, illuminated the blues and reds of his wings and cast his shadow over Velaris as he made his way to the library. He told himself he had only wanted to get it over with, and that was why he was moving so quickly, darting across the sky. That he wanted to go back to the townhouse and sulk. But Mother damn him, he couldn't stop that swell in his chest as he came nearer and nearer. That swell was akin to dying a joyous and euphoric death— there was no other way Azriel could accurately describe it. His heart pounded in anticipation at what he knew lay beyond those ancient doors.

Her.

Azriel had become accustomed to Gwyneth Berdara’s strange beauty and equally strange humour during their training; had grown to like her friendly nature and competitive, passionate spirit. If anything, he admired her. He might have even feared her. That cheerful female with copper hair that shined in the light of the sun and moon, both of which seemed to love her. They had spent months, moving side-by-side, grinning at each other across the ring while trying to slash the other with a sword.

Their encounters outside of training were brief, and conversations short. He supposed he wasn't one for talking, and allowed her to lead them in a dialogue. But as time went on, Azriel found the little smiles on her rosy lips now reflected on his, and the bright laughter that filled his ears now echoed softly in his own throat. With her, he felt his emotions bob to the surface, and for once, he didn't stop them.

From the moment he'd met Gwyn, she'd held Azriel's attention with a preternatural ability, and had caught him off guard more times than he'd like to admit. The shadowsinger, spymaster, king of shadows— taken by surprise by a young priestess.

His lips turned upward at the thought of her.

᯽

Azriel landed on the balcony of the House of Wind, his wings snapping behind him as he eased into a walk. His descent down the swirling staircase to the library was a silent one. Azriel had been to this athenaeum hundreds of times, far more than he could count, but it had never gotten easier.

The pain and sorrow he felt in the priestesses' sanctuary was suffocating, at times. Not because he had felt the same anguish himself, but because he had rescued many of them from it. Because the shadowsinger had seen the horrors they'd escaped from, and faltered, unknowing of what to say or do to offer comfort.

He remembered rescuing Gwyn. Azriel was the first of the Inner Circle to arrive. He remembered dragging his blade across the throat of the Hybern general who thought he had a claim to Gwyn, who thought he was worthy of even gracing her presence. His scarred hands shook even now with fury, fury and rage towards the soldiers who had defiled her home and her body.

Azriel knew though, it was nothing compared to the pain she must have felt. He couldn't bring himself to think of it. Every inch of him now trembled with that dark rage, the joy now vanished without a trace, and he clenched his fists— the fists of a killer, he thought bitterly. Distraction was a fruitless effort. They had hurt her, and he had made them pay with their lives.

He only wished that killing them might have eased her mind, as he hoped to. It didn't. Even now, he found himself staring at the wall late at night, wondering if those mental scars were healing.

Or if they were just as ugly and unavoidable as the ones he bore on his skin.

Melancholy filled him as he walked further into the forlorn depths of the ancient library. He seemed to disappear into it, willing the shadows nearby to whisk him away into oblivion.

᯽

The hymn sung during today’s dawn service had yet to leave Gwyn's mind. It was a soft, gentle song, full of joy and sorrow and hope— the beacon she needed today. When she had woken this morning, the heaviness of her heart had weighed on her with a particular viciousness. It had been difficult to rise, to dress in her familiar blue robes and run a brush through her tangles of copper hair.

But she had done it. A small victory. And she had dragged herself to morning service, as she did every day. It had taken her many months to work up the courage to attend after arriving initially. She couldn't bring herself to fill her heart with music, with love. Not when it was so ravaged by hate. Gwyn didn't know if she deserved to feel joy like that. But when she was through with feeling sorry for herself, through with feeling such overwhelming shame, she dragged herself to that first service and never looked back.

Now, she led the songs with a fervor she hadn't felt in the 2 years since Sangravah. Now, she was bursting with life. With passion. Although the shame had never quite left her, she was happier. Lighter. Gwyn was healing, and happy to do so.

Gwyn had suggested the priestesses sing an older selection of music today, one that cried love in the rawest of forms. It was in a language long forgotten, and the words that had been lost were replaced by lyrics in the common tongue. The song carried on long after the service had ended, caressing the dark confines of her mind and coaxing her out of her stupor.

Perhaps, she thought to herself with a small smile, it was magic. To her, music was magic.

And so Gwyn carried on with her day, pushing the cart that only seemed to get heavier and heavier as the hours flew by. She nodded to priestesses that passed by, and offered small smiles to those she recognized the scents of. The library was a quiet existence, save for the occasional conversation; so she filled the silence, humming and singing and tapping her fingers as she worked.

᯽

It was that soft singing that caught Azriel's attention as he stood before Clotho, his hands resting on the desk politely. Perhaps a reminder to those watching that he too, was damaged. A silent request to be accepted into their sacred space. He had asked politely about the book Rhysand had requested, and a silent prodding about the possibility of him seeking it out. With a shallow nod, Clotho permitted it, and waved a gnarled hand of dismission. She too, seemed to perk up at that singing, but merely shrugged when Az raised a brow. He studied her for a moment, before nodding and turning away. Clotho returned to her work without another word, but a secret smile ghosted her lips.

A few priestesses had indeed watched from afar, but quickly returned to their work as he approached the endless rows of books. Level Four, Section 3A, he repeated over and over. Level Four, Section 3A. Curiously, Azriel glanced over at the group of priestesses who now spoke quietly, and offered a rare, gentle smile to the group before descending down the spiral ramp to the next level.

Still that singing seemed to follow him, echoing off the stone walls.

It was, in simplest terms, the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. His shadows harmonized with the gorgeous melody, a reverence of the Mother like no other. The song called to Azriel with an intensity that made his blood tremble, and pulled him until his feet seemed to move on their own, down and down and down into those depths of darkness and light and beauty. He picked up speed, his heartbeat erratic as his mind echoed with that damn music.

When he reached the fourth level, he turned in the direction Section 3A, looking up at a nearby sign. But when he took the first step, his shadows nipped at him, grabbing him by the sleeve and tugging him in the opposite direction. Come, they whispered. Find her.

Azriel hesitated for a breath, glancing back at the sign, then obliged. He was walking blind, betraying every battle instinct that had drilled into him. Ignoring them, he let his shadows guide him with a racing heart, until he found the source.

Mere feet away, there she stood, her straight copper hair tied back by a simple blue ribbon, the same sapphire shade as his siphons. A few stray wisps of red were tucked behind her delicately pointed ears. His shadows wanted to curl around those pretty ears, to run their dark fingers through the silky strands of her perfect hair, but he quickly tugged on their leash before they could slip away from him. Gwyn's lips moved gently, her voice vibrating with a clarity he wasn't quite sure was possible for Fae— but she wasn't entirely Fae, was she?

This damned female would surely be the end of him.

He felt his knees wobble, as her voice waltzed towards him on a star-studded breeze. Azriel had heard beautiful singing before— had been to the theatre several times with Rhysand and the Inner Circle, had tapped his foot to the sound of street performers on the cobblestone pathways of Velaris. But this was nothing like them. She was casual, examining the spines of books and then tucking them into spots on the shelves, rearranging them until she was satisfied. Her musical prowess was a stark contrast to the sight of her; Mother, just seeing her standing there was a perfect melody that made his blood sang. The words that left her lips though, were something wholly magical.

Gwyn was confident in her singing, confident enough to do so in a near silent library where all listened and admired her talent. When Gwyneth Berdara sang, the troubles of the priestesses weren't simply forgotten. Instead, they became tangible, and beautiful, and raw. They became a song, a flawless execution of emotion, a dance of mourning and a waltz of life , all at once. It was a release; a rebirth. It was an almost laughably common occurrence for females to cry tears of relief during her performances, but one that gave Gwyn a swelling sense of pride.

In her songs, there was an honesty that only Mor had ever shown; it was all swirling together like she herself was Cauldron-blessed and the Mother was pouring Gwyn's soul into the world. Time had frozen for— well, Azriel wasn't sure for how long. The faelights flickered around them, two beings lost in the eternity of the library, one seemingly unaware of the other.

If Azriel hadn't known better, he might have admitted how much his heart had calmed. How his chest had warmed, and the heavy weight he had been feeling on his shoulders had slowly but surely vanished. But he dare not say a word, and instead, savored the moment in contented silence.

His shadows, on the other hand, were perfectly content to dance and harmonize alongside her. They hugged the shadow cast at her feet, their misty forms swaying between them. Azriel clenched his fist, and swallowed. Stop it, he tried to command them. And of course, they ignored him wholly. Gwyn's song came to a close, and she hummed the tune to herself as she pushed the cart a bit further down the aisle. The shadows followed, and Azriel took a silent step forward, beckoning them. You're supposed to listen me, you know. They laughed at him in reply.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to eavesdrop, shadowsinger?"

Azriel's heart stopped.

᯽

Gwyn had known Azriel was near the moment he had stepped foot into the library. She wasn't sure how or why, but something in her seemed to suddenly resonate— a feeling ringing inside her that she couldn't quite explain, and only seemed to grow louder and more intense.

Until it was behind her, and she swore she felt the most tender of brushes against her ear, tucking her hair back. A bit of darkness flickered in and out of the corner of her eye, and a smile formed on her lips. Gwyn welcomed his shadows, let them settle at her feet and dance to her song. She had always liked them, anyway. She had been humming throughout the day, but when she had felt that warmth in her blood, it was as though the voice of the Mother had whispered into the curve of her ear: Sing.

So she did.

Gwyn had heard Azriel's soft footsteps as they approached the rows of shelves on Level Four. It wasn't particularly hard to identify them; no other males outside of the Inner Circle were permitted to visit, and no other was as subtle about his movements as the shadowsinger was. Months of training and sparring had accustomed her to his preternatural stillness. Yes, Gwyn assured herself, she had become very familiar with him. Had deduced that it must be him. Nothing more than that.

She dare not admit that she would have felt him and his shadows even if she were blind and deaf.

So finally, Gwyn spoke. Her lips curled into a teasing smile, and she turned to face Azriel fully. And of course, there he was, standing at the end of the aisle as she had expected. What she hadn't expected however, was that his eyes would be as wide and mouth hanging open as it was. Gwyn blinked, the only indicator of surprise, before she soothed her expression into one of cool teasing. The High Lord's spymaster straightened up as well, setting his jaw tightly. He cast his gaze to the floor.

"Gwyn," was all he said in greeting.

"Azriel." Her teal eyes sparkled, and her freckles seemed to glow like stars in the faelight. "What brings you here? Surely not my singing." A soft laugh.

What he wanted to say was, Yes. It was you. You and that damn gorgeous voice. I couldn't hear anything but you. Couldn't think about anything else. Hell, I forget walking down here.

But instead, he simply answered, "Book."

A pause. Azriel's cheeks flared, and his shadows made to quickly hide his embarrassment. He coughed. "A book. For Rhysand. A— a history book. Clotho directed me to this level."

"Ah," replied Gwyn. There was no hint of judgement in her tone. At least she didn't think he was a moron. His shadows flicked towards her curiously. "I see. And what sort of history book could interest our mighty High Lord?"

Gwyn's grin was unrelenting, but Azriel was far too stiff to even look up at her. He had been caught. The shadowsinger, the fucking spymaster for the Night Court, had been caught red-handed by a young female. Cassian would have guffawed at the sight of him blushing like an idiot.

Gwyn picked up a particularly heavy book, standing on her toes to reach a higher shelf. She strained, but was determined to reach what was too high above her head. Without thinking, Azriel moved. His strides were smooth, powerful even, and he stood beside her. A comfortable distance away, he took hold of the book, and gently pried it from her hand. A silent request. She obliged, releasing her hold as his scarred fingers grazed hers. A tingling sensation crept up her body from that contact, while Az pushed the book into its slot effortlessly. Gwyn still remained on her toes, looking up at him as he seemingly towered over her. Yet, she was not afraid of him. It was impossible to be, not when he was so gentle, and so strong, and had saved her life—

"Family history," he clarified. His voice was a low caress. "For Feyre." Azriel's hand lingered on the shelf high above her for a moment, a finger trailing slowly down the cracked spine of the book. Gwyn's eyes darted from his face to the book, then back to his face. A moment seemed to stretch into a thousand tiny moments that burned into his mind like etchings on a cave: face, so smooth and gentle, yet lively; plush, pink lips that curved upwards, that seemed to have a magnetic pull to his. If he leaned down far enough, his mouth might have met hers. Gods, she was divine. As expected of a priestess, he supposed.

He took in the rest of her face: a strong, stubborn chin, with equally opposing gentle eyes, that flared with surprise once more. He sensed a gradual change in her scent, one he didn't recognize. Gwyn's freckled face flushed pink, and Az worried that he might have overstepped her boundaries.

So he retracted his arm, and took a step back. The heels of Gwyn’s silk-slippered feet lowered to the floor. The male ran a scarred hand through his dark hair, and Gwyn tracked the movement, her eyes catching on every strand and wave of his silken locks. Her face seemed a bit rosier than it had before. He swore silently, worried he had upset her.

"Thank you," Gwyn said rather suddenly, as though snapping out of a daze. The faint blush did not leave her cheeks, though. Her hand drifted to her necklace, fiddling with it and zipping the small flower pendant along the chain. He only stole a glance at her, not wanting to stare too long and make her uncomfortable. But seeing her in that necklace, touching it so affectionately... Az felt his mind ease into a calm. With Gwyn, he felt absolved. Even for just a moment.

"Would you mind helping me? Find the book, I mean." Azriel asked, jerking his chin towards the section. Thinking for a moment, he quickly added, "That is, if you're not too busy."

Gwyn halted, and chewed on her lip. She glanced up at the other floors, as though looking at something in quiet consideration. then returned her gaze to him. There was no way she could say no— not when he made the sorrow in her mind settle. Not when he made her feel so... happy.

"I would love to."

Something about that smile… It was so disarming. He had no defenses, no stealth, no plans for her. Even his shadows, usually astute guard dogs, had rolled over to bear their bellies to her.

They liked her.

He liked her.

A secret, happy possibility was tucked away in the back of his mind.

Gwyn’s heart skipped a beat, as though she was wondering the same thing.

What they could be.

“Lead the way, Berdara.” He made a lazy motion with his hand, and the corners of his lips tugged upwards. He sketched a bow, like a true courtly gentleman.

She returned the smile, her teal eyes sparkling with a new feeling, and took his arm. "Gladly."

The touch sent his heart soaring.

nepenthe (noun)— something that makes you forget grief or suffering.

[wangxianficrecs]

❤️live from new york by varnes

❤️live from new york

by varnes

E, 87k, wangxian

Summary:  Wei Ying lets out a long, ugly groan. “I am fine, Lan Zhan. Everybody is overreacting, it’s so embarrassing for all of you.”

“You had undiagnosed pneumonia, which you walked around with for weeks until you passed out during dress,” Lan Wangji corrects him. “It got a big laugh, until everyone thought you were dead.”

He keeps his voice even and does not tell Wei Ying that it had been Lan Wangji who caught him, who called the ambulance, and who rode with him to the hospital, where he was yelled at by nurses who wanted to know why he hadn’t noticed that Wei Ying couldn’t stop shivering or string proper sentences together.

“Rumors of my demise have been vastly overstated,” Wei Ying says. “Anyway, I’m already feeling much better. Basically fine. Really almost completely back to normal, so stop babying me and tell me why the fuck you let your stupid brother hire the worst man in the world to host our show.”

-

OR: the one where they all work at SNL, Yanli's ex-boyfriend is hosting, and that's just the beginning of everybody's problems.

My comments:  This was sooo funny, ohmygoodness, but also chock full of pining and withheld communication and stupidly sacrificial idiots. Author juggles an ensemble cast flawlessly, and everyone's personality shines in the rawest and most shamelessly hilarious way (I saw someone comment that they were all feral, which suits). Story is most often lwj POV (he and wwx are co-head writers) and this boy is SO IN LOVE, but doesn't want to damage what he's got, so he stays silent (mostly). Their relationship drama is subsumed in the utterly hectic week that leads up to a Saturday show (Sunday is off, Tuesdays have a hallucinatory never-ending feel, Fridays are actually much busier than Saturdays).

Excerpt 1:  There is no “end” to Tuesdays. There is Tuesday, and then later Tuesday, and then midnight Tuesday, and then timeless Tuesday, when it stops being nighttime but isn’t yet morning, and then eventually the sun is up and it’s not Tuesday on the calendar but it’s still Tuesday spiritually, because no one has slept and everyone is all hopped up on caffeine and cigarettes.

Excerpt 2:  Some funny bits: 

“Laughter is the best medicine!” Wei Ying wheedles. “Come onnnnn, Lan Zhan, I’ve been rotting away for months and months, if someone doesn’t let me get a joke on TV in the next twenty minutes I’ll die. I’ll literally be forced to fling myself out of the Jiang family’s beautiful bay windows, and on the way down I’ll shout, ‘This was avoidable! This is because Lan Zhan wouldn’t let me punch up the promos!’ and then you’ll be fired for secondhand murder and it’ll be a tragedy like the sketch comedy circuit has never seen.”

Lan Wangji says, “Second-degree.”

“What?”

“Murder. Not secondhand.”

Wei Ying furrows his brow. “...I’ve heard it both ways,” he says. “That would make a good detective show spoof skit, though. Secondhand Murder.”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agrees. “Murder She Wrote, but an idiot.”

“Keeps suggesting a series of increasingly implausible manners of death,” Wei Ying agrees, scribbling on the back of the takeout menu. Yanli and Lan Wangji share a look. “All the deaths are like — incredibly obvious and she goes buckwild with her theories anyway.”

“Police keep asking her to leave.”

“I want to be one of the victims,” Yanli says. “Put like, a sword right through my chest, but I’m still alive, telling the cops what happened, and she’s still like, ‘No no, that’s what the murderer wants you to think.’”

“Gruesome! Love it,” says Wei Ying, making a note.

Excerpt 3:  some just plain esoteric turns of phrase:

Lan Zhan mutters, “Wei Ying,” in that voice of his. He says Wei Ying eight million times a day but never the same way twice. A mood ring of Wei Ying. Wei Wuxian wants to be fully dead about it, wholly and completely excused from this earth because of how Lan Zhan says his stupid name.

“Lan Zhan,” he sing-songs back. “Ah, Lan Zhaaaaan.”

Excerpt 4:  Some gut-punches: 

Wei Wuxian wants bruises; Lan Wangji wants scars.

_____________________

ETA: There's a Sequel!

It's 19k of sheer delight as our boys go to the courthouse to get hitched... only to find out they've been married for the past 3.5 years. How. How did this happen? Wwx points out that they've never had anything but married sex which is very responsible and traditional of them. But still. How do you get accidentally married???

Excerpt:  “How are you so chill about this,” Wei Wuxian demands, turning his face into Lan Zhan’s palm and kissing it at the center. “I feel like someone just informed me that everyone else on the planet except me has two dicks, and you’re just like, tralala, dry cleaning.”

“It’s easier for me,” says Lan Zhan, very tenderly. “I’ve always had two dicks.”

Wei Wuxian laughs, helplessly. “Lan Zhan.”

modern au, SNL au, saturday night live, humor, comedy, pining, FOREST OF PINES, light angst, lots of jokes, ensemble cast, feels, oblivious wei wuxian, oblivious lan wangji, idiots in love, slow burn, lack of communication, self-sacrificial idiots, flirting, getting together, everyone ships it, top lan wangji, bottom wei wuxian, roommates, hijinks and shenanigans, comedian everybody, jiang siblings, friends to lovers, found family, adorable juniors, happy ending, favorite, @itsvarnes​​

(You may wish to REBLOG as a signal boost for this author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[moku-youbi]

I didn't start this post as an album review a decade and a half too late...

But here we are. disclaimer that this is full of digressions and might not matter to anyone except for me. I'm not really interested in arguing about who does these things "better," like those critical at the time did. I love MCR just as much as FOB, and Green Day holds a special place in my heart, but lyrically Pete speaks to me the most, and guess what? I can love more than one band that does similar things for different reasons???

to this day, I do not understand how Folie a Deux was so roundly dismissed and/or hated on by FOB fans. Purists want to act like emo as a genre can't draw on or include anything else, which I've always found obnoxious as hell anyway, so maybe that's why I don't understand the hate. But it's particularly funny to me, because I think in a lot of ways this is one of the darkest albums lyrically with a lot of tragically, aggressively dismal outlooks from Pete on his mental health and suicidal ideation. It's some of his most honest, rawest truths, but because of the music it's set to, his fans accused him of selling out instead of listening to what he was saying.

Songs like "27" (so named for the infamous 27 Club, which Pete was just slightly past at the time of writing it), "(Coffee's for Closers)," "Tiffany Blews," "What a Catch, Donnie," "w.a.m.s.," "20 Dollar Nosebleed," and "West Coast Smoker," (over half of the 13 song album) deal heavily with themes of lack of self-worth, the vicious cycle of drug use to deal with depression(both legal and illicit), conflating mental illness with talent, lack of control over his own life, struggling with feelings ungrateful in the face of fame (what does someone so famous/wealthy/well-loved/good-looking have to complain about anyway, cry-baby?!), being accused of using his mental illness as a prop, or faking it for notoriety, unable to find a human connection or not being able to hold onto it when he does, and on, and on, and on, all laced through, sometimes subtly, sometimes overtly, with this idea that he doesn't know how to continue living, wants something desperately to show him how to continue living.

It's someone screaming for help, and given that Pete later discussed much of the inspiration coming from his feeling of the inevitability of the band's breakup, it's no wonder. These things are lyrically explicit or discussed in depth in interviews: He saw Fall Out Boy as the thing that had kept him alive past 27 (Pete and his management legitimately thought he would not live past that age). He saw Patrick as someone he was very close to, who understood him, something he regularly says feels impossible to him (what a match/I'm half-doomed, and you're semi-sweet). And he saw it falling apart (two songs acknowledge how tired they're getting in their first lines, "The (shipped) Gold Standard" and "20 Dollar Nosebleed" with Sometimes I wanna quit this song and become an accountant now/But I'm no good at math and besides the dollar is down and Have you ever wanted to disappear/And join a monastery, respectively). In "Tiffany Blews," Pete tells us he's A caterpillar that got stuck/Mr. Moth, come quick with any luck/A long walk to a dark house/A roman candle heart keep us far apart. He'd made it halfway through this transformation into something or someone else, maybe someone healthier or at least past self-destructive tendencies, and now he's stuck. He doesn't know what's coming next, but he needs it fast because he doesn't know if he can hold on for it. (Slightly off-topic, but I can't help but wonder how seeing Panic! at the Disco's split might have fucked him up over it even more--thank fuck things went much better for Fall Out Boy in that regard...)(If this is all getting you down, just remember the hiatus ended, and we have several beautiful albums that followed.) (Also off topic, but if you're an FOB fan and haven't listened to Pete's hiatus band's work, you are seriously missing the fuck out. I'll do a post on that later...)

But FOB fans are notoriously hard to please, something Pete acknowledges frequently on this album as well as others (on "She's My Winona" Patrick sings, Even the young ones become irrelevant/They always bring up how you changed/Never the same person when I go to sleep/As when I wake up,) while simultaneously letting them know he doesn't give a fuck (All of "I Don't Care").

I mean, I get that it's not a perfect album, but it's so full of pomp and passion, with all these catchy, pop-y choruses that make you wanna sing along at the top of your lungs while racing through the city with windows down (yes, okay, I'm harkening back to Infinity on High, but "Bang the Doldrums" is one of my favourite songs ever, so...) Poignant and tragic or breezy and giddy or maybe sometimes just a little bombastic, but with style. It also is a preview of some of the internal conflict over creative control that led to their hiatus, and the lyrical and stylistic changes from the albums that came after it ended. You can almost divide FOB's sound into Before Folie a Deux and After Folie a Deux (others will argue that Infinity on High marks that change. I think it has a lot more in common with what came before than what came after, but that's just me. I could alternately see their career as 3 distinct eras with 1 being PR/EOwYG, TTtYG, FUtCT, 2 being IoH and FaD, and 3 being everything post hiatus thus far, but I digress even further...)

But there are so few artists out there that create an album with such a mishmash of songs and pull it off. I mean, the rock opera anthems, power ballads, funk, 60's and 70's pop and rock influences, and whatever the hell "20 Dollar Nosebleed" is (other than absolutely delightful, especially with Brendon's vocals in there merging beautifully with Patrick's)--ragtime? IDEK?

There's so much in these lyrics, from the self-aware struggle for authenticity given their wealth and fame ("Disloyal Order of Water Buffalo": imperfect boys/With their perfect ploys/Nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy). Pete's self-destructiveness, tempered by impending fatherhood: ("She's My Wyonna:" The only thing suicidal here is the door/We had a good run/Even I have to admit/Life's just a pace-car on death/Only less diligent/Hell or Glory/I don't want anything in between/Then came a baby boy with long eyelashes/Daddy said, "you gotta show the world the thunder!"), and maybe bitterness over the mockery made of his suicide attempts ("West Coast Smoker:" Don't feel bad for the suicidal cats/Gotta kill themselves 9 times before they get it right.) The politically invective ("20 Dollar Nosebleed:" The man who would be king goes to the/Desert the same war his dad rehearsed/Came back with flags on coffins and said/We won, oh, we won). The absolute tragic (All of "27," really, but starting off rough with, If home is where the heart is/then we're all just fucked/I can't remember.) And the just plain fun ("w.a.m.s.:" My head's in heaven/My soles are in hell/Let's meet in the purgatory of my hips and get well, and the absurdly whimsicality of "20 Dollar Nosebleed's chorus," Ba ba ba ba Benzedrine, bla bla bla Benzedrine/Ba ba ba ba ba Benzedrine, ahh.

I understand how scary it can be as a fan of a particular musician or band when their sound changes. I get it in a very profound way I'll touch on later in a different post, because this one is getting out of hand. But if we insist on our artists never changing, then we're just going to stagnate right along with them. Growth and change can be painful, but it can lead to beautiful things. Folie a Deux was Fall Out Boy going through growing pains, as individuals in their personal and professional lives, and as artists, both together and separately. I am as thankful for it as I am for everything they've created and shared with us. Even the few songs of theirs that aren't to my tastes. Either you accept that you aren't interested in authenticity so much as playing to your expectations, or you can't yell at them about betraying you.

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Find Me In The Lost Love

Keanu Reeves x reader (A/n- the shortest one of these that I've written, on my definite favorite song from the album)

Masterlist

Warnings- Angst.

They were the ‘it’ couple, the one everybody thought of when they wondered what a perfect love was like. They had something special, they still do, though, sitting in the dark, on the living room sofa of her old apartment, Y/n thought she didn’t remember what it was. She wished she did because above everything else, she missed him. The man that changed her life in a frighteningly beautiful way. Keanu had been exactly the opposite everything she’d wanted in a man. Before him, Y/n had gone through too much of the same; the nine to five guys, the ones with gym memberships that they never used, a 401k and too huge of an ego for their own good. But Keanu, from the minute she’d meant him, Y/n knew that he was trouble, what she hadn’t realized was that he was the best kind of trouble she’d ever run into. In just a month, he’d lead her out of her comfort zone; he’d convinced to take a week off spontaneously, just so they could fly out to Mexico when he’d just gotten back from filming. He had wanted to spend his first week back with her.

After that, everything had fallen to place effortlessly. It was like they knew without consciously knowing; when they were together nothing could be more right. Keanu and Y/n; they complimented each other, in almost every way. He made her laugh more than she ever had, she gave him the peace that would ease his restlessness. When she was with him, a construed future wasn’t so daunting because she knew that he would be in it, and when they were together Keanu could finally rest easy knowing that life hadn’t flown by without him finding what he was looking for; the person that made everything make sense. It was love, in its rawest way. Unconditional, ablaze like a fire keeping you warm in winter and so deep that you could feel it in the pit of your stomach.

And one day, it was gone.

How did they get there? To the point where a comfortable silence turned flustered and ‘me time’ morphed into an unbridgeable space that had felt as wide an awning ocean. They didn’t know what more they could say to each other to take their relationship further and when Keanu proposed as a throw away attempt to save things, Y/n had almost said yes. Almost. Until she’d deduced that he wanted to marry her for the same reason she’d clung to their dying relationship, because they were scared that ‘next’ meant ‘alone’. So they held on, tighter and tighter until what they shared was shattered, the scattered shards cutting so deep that it was enough to rip them apart.

From a part to apart.

Y/n had been sitting there for a while, surrounded by the memories she’d left there before moving. It was dark, but she knew they were there, mocking her, reminding her of a time where things made sense and she didn’t lose time asking, “Where’d it go wrong?” Over and over, the simple question had bounced back and forth in her mind, rare intervals spent replaying the night that she’d left and Keanu let her, much different from the man that couldn’t stand to be away for a week.

The heavy ticking of the wall clock had been the only thing counting the lost seconds and when the knocking first started, it sounded far off. She stood on instinct, dragged her tired frame to the front door and looked through the peephole because it was a reflex. Though, when Y/n saw him, a sleeping part of her jolted awake and for the first time in months, Keanu made her feel something. It wasn’t good or bad, but it was more than the apathy towards their relationship that she’d been cursed with since their before their demise.

That something though, it wasn’t enough to make Y/n open the door, and instead of knocking again, Keanu spoke, “I know you’re in there.” His words were meek and afraid, “But I understand if you don’t want to talk to me.”

On Y/n’s end, she offered nothing, though in her mind, the dark turned to grey, just a little brighter as she placed her palm on the cool wood. The words, the right ones, the wrong ones and the ones that would never matter swirled around her head where they’d stay. “That’s okay,” Keanu choked out, “But I just…..I guess I just wanted to be with you.” As he spoke, she pressed the side of her face to the door, a fleeting memory taking her back to a time where she could press her face to his chest and let the sound of his steady heartbeat lull her to sleep. “I’ve been thinking about you these days, the way we ended……the way we began.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came and so, Keanu continued, “Do you remember that? You hate that place,” it was a club, much too loud for Y/n’s liking, but she’d gone cause it was her friend’s birthday and he was there celebrating the weekend with some co stars. Keanu was right, she did hate that place, but going there had been one of the best decisions she’d ever made, that was where they'd met after all. It could have been something of the movies, they’d spotted each other from opposite ends of the bar, subconsciously drawing closer. “But you always said the best part of that night was…..”

Meeting him.

"Meeting me."

A soft, hitched breath parted her bare lips just as a lone tear crept down her cheek, and Y/n wasn’t sure if Keanu heard it, but he did continue, “I never told you, but I hope you know that meeting you was the best part of my night too,” he sighed heavily and she could just picture him running his fingers through his unruly mane, “I wish could do it over, I wish I could fix us,” he whispered and Y/n heard him step forward and she could have sworn that she could feel his warmth seeping through the wood as he too leaned against the door. “There so much I want to say to you, but I don’t know if it matters. Does it matter? I’m gonna tell you,” he breathed softly, “You have to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry about the way we ended things, I’m sorry I checked out of our relationship and I’m sorry that I let you check out. I want you to know that if I had the chance, I’d do it all over again, and I’d propose again, not because I’m scared to lose you, but because you’re the only woman that I’d ever want to spend the rest of my life with,” He strained to stifle a sob before continuing and her hands closed in on themselves. Y/n knew she was a coward for not speaking. She was a coward for not being able to open the door and face him. But most of all, she was a coward for being too afraid of trying to fix their relationship, Y/n just couldn’t stand the thought of it ending the same.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he gently tapped the surface, ���I love you Y/n.” Keanu lingered for a moment, probably waiting to see if she’d offer anything in return, his steps eventually growing distant when he realized she wouldn’t.

Then it hit her; she couldn’t let him leave like that, even if she was scared of losing him all over again. Even if the good times had been reduced to dear memories. Even if she didn’t know how to begin to be with him again. Because even though there was loss, confusion, pain and fright, there was still love. Un-dwindling, unconditional, all consuming love.

Hastily undoing the locks, Y/n pulled the door open, desperately hoping she’d get him before he’d gotten to the elevator. And by sheer luck, she did, the soft sound of her door creaking open making Keanu turn around, the softest smile brightening his familiar beauty just as she offered, “I love you too.”

*****

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana @keandrews @greenmanalishi @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves @planetkt @wheretheriversrunintothesea

[darling-archeron]

this is as good a place to fall as any + feysand for the fic request thing? angst would be good (;

ask and you shall receive - i hope you like angst. I may have used this as personal catharsis and it came out as one of the rawest, and, in my opinion, most painful things I’ve ever written. Not super edited, but I hope you enjoy!  <333.

TW for minor mentions of suicide

Music in the Night

It was the end of another infinitely long day, and Feyre found herself on the roof of the townhouse. The same place she had spent lazy nights with Rhysand, curled up with the stars until dawn. They had once promised each other infinite nights like this, filled with love and whispered secrets and lazy touches.

This time, she was alone.

She had gone out into Velaris by herself today, walked the streets, and been with her people in a way that she hadn’t in years. It had left her bone-weary deep in her soul. After the war, when what was left of her family returned to Velaris, she had been too broken by her grief to mingle with her people. The only thing she was aware of was the emptiness of the void in her head where such life had once flowed. The funeral had been hell, numbness coating her mind and tongue when the priestess asked if she would say a few words.

After she had finally picked herself up, convinced herself to keep going, there was so much to be done. Simply going for a walk never seemed to make the list. Mor had kept Velaris running for years, but she didn’t rule the entire court. And Feyre had never run anything of the sort. It wasn’t long after he was gone that she realized how much Rhys had left to teach her, how much he had not known himself. It had been exhausting as she turned all her energy on fixing the Court instead of looking inward at the dark shards within herself.

 Learn as best as she could from Mor and Lucien what it took to rule, to heal rifts with the Hewn City, who barely recognized her as High Lady, and to Illyria, who only began to respect her once she showed what she was capable of. When they had time, she did physical training with Cassian. Continuing to explore the facets of her magic had been harder. The two beings who might have taught her something more about it were gone.

So for the most part, she gave herself over to her court. They deserved that much. It was nights like these when she allowed herself self-pitying, angry, sorrowful moments. Just her, the night sky, and a bottle of whiskey she had swiped from Rhys’s huge stash. The roof seemed as good a place to fall as any. To ask the Cauldron why so much of the good in her life had been taken. To ask why she always seemed to end up alone.

Because Rhys…Rhys had been taken from her. She had loved him with a passion and fury she knew had been called foolish. But the only foolish thing about their love was how she hadn’t seen the end coming, hadn’t realized that he would sacrifice everything he had to heal the cleaved Cauldron. And when Rhys was truly gone, and even trying to bring him back as he had done to her hadn’t worked – she didn’t reflect on those moments. Ever.

She had survived poverty, Amarantha, and being made, the Ouroboros, and the War. She had been born a fighter.

It hadn’t stopped her from reaching for a knife to turn on herself on that battlefield, in moments when everyone else was too distracted. Azriel had only just stopped her, and there were days she could still feel the sharp kiss of the blade on her chest.

Most of the time – most of the time she was glad she hadn’t done it.

A breeze came up, and Feyre shivered. The backs of her thighs were beginning to dig into the roof.

In the emptiness of the weeks that had followed, she found that she hated silence. Because there was never again going to be passed jokes and musings down that bridge of gold. Never again going to be music sent to her in her darkest moments.

The townhouse became emptier as well.

 Amren had sacrificed herself to end the war. Elain had eventually left Night to pursue a life of travel, slowly healing from the horrors she had witnessed. Lucien was building alliances on the continent, though only after he had been convinced that she wasn’t going to fall apart. Nesta…was complicated. She still lived in Velaris, off of accounts Feyre kept filled, but she barely saw her sister anymore. Feyre wasn’t sure which one of them was more broken, some days.

Mor needed out of Velaris too. Feyre knew she was losing her mind. Though no physical wards kept her here as they once had, she couldn’t abandon the duty she had. Because she didn’t think Feyre was strong enough.

Feyre still doubted herself every step of the way. Because in the end, she did blame herself. She had made a bad choice with what mattered the most, hadn’t seen that his final “I love you” was not a declaration, but a goodbye.

He had known what she would want to believe, apparently known her better than she had known him.

She had always been a fool for a happy ending. Had always wanted it for herself. Her mate had helped her believe that she deserved it until she saw it herself. She had been a dreamer in a Court of Dreams.

Feyre watched the city below, taking a swig of the whiskey. There was a revel in the streets a few blocks away, the beautiful, seductive music taking away the emptiness that lingered in her head.

The Night Court needed a strong leader. They deserved someone who dreamt of a better world, who wasn’t falling apart. And as much as she was unqualified, she knew she had to learn. And as much as she had wanted to let the world fall away as she descended into her grief – she had made a vow. To Rhysand, to her people, to herself. To deny that – it would make her an utter failure.

So, she had forced herself to become that person, and learn to lead, to play the games of Court. To heal wounds the war had ripped open. A leader with an iron heart and mask of steel.  

The one thing she couldn’t learn again was how to forgive. She couldn’t forgive Tamlin, or Hybern, or herself. No matter how much Mor and Elain beseeched her. Elain had dragged her to the same mind-healer that she had been seeing in Dawn. Not a daemati – but someone who focused on emotional and psychological wellness. After a few visits, she had stopped going.

She needed closure, Elain had told her. It was easy for her to say. Every inch of this place didn’t remind her of their father. How could you find closure when the wound was ripped open again every day?

Another swig of whiskey and the music grew louder. A sob hiccupped in her throat, and she pushed it down. She wasn’t drunk enough to stop caring yet, and if she started crying now she would never stop.

She wondered how the history books would be written, sometimes. Human and Fae alike. Would the fae praise how she had defeated Amarantha, or as time went on, would the ballads and stories be edited and brushed under the rug to hide how helpless the faeries had really been? Would they tell how she fought her way across that bloody plain, each swing of her sword for a better world?

Would the elegies they painted eulogize Rhysand properly?

Would they tell how she had let him die?

She shook her head violently, strands of hair shaking free from the tight braid she had pulled it back into. She had cut it to shoulder length a few weeks after the war – practically a cliché from one of the books she had read. Since then, she had never let it grow back out.

She wouldn’t let herself think of all she hadn’t done now. She had done that enough – days where nightmares tore her from sleep and she replayed those minutes on the battlefield over and over, trying to find a different way.

 Instead, she thought back to what that healer had told her at the Dawn Court. She had given Feyre breathing exercises she couldn’t remember now, and she had told her that it was okay to talk about them. It had all seemed so useless at the time.

Elain had found catharsis in it, though. She didn’t just talk about their father – she talked to him, she had confided.

Another swig of whiskey – longer, this time. It burned as it went down, and it made her buzzed enough to say what the hell.

“Rhys?” She whispered, so softly. She had never – never spoken to him like this. Screaming his name as she was torn from his arms in every last nightmare, yes. But this - she had always thought it would hurt too much.

“I hope that you’re happy, Rhys.” She knew that he thought he was Lord of Nightmares, that wherever he went after he died wouldn’t be pleasant. It was something she had been working to slowly changed his mind about, making him see that he wasn’t damned.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t stop you – didn’t realize until it was too late. I didn’t find any other way. I know – I know that you wouldn’t have had it any other way. That you didn’t want to stop me. But I’m so sorry and I will never stop regretting and hating myself for it –” Her words broke off with a sob as she finally let the tears come. “And if you can somehow hear this – I just need you to know that I will never stop loving you. And I’m trying my best to fill the void you left behind, to be the leader everyone needs me to be.” For a while, the only sound was her breathing and the distant music as her words were swallowed up by the night.

She sniffed a little. “Do you remember our last night up here? It was just a few days before we left. Did you know you wouldn’t be back?” Another long pause, like she was giving him time to reply. “I’m sure even then you were planning. But I just remember – we were up here, it was a night a lot like this. No wine or lingerie – it was just us, the stars, and the city. I fell asleep up here, in your arms. You told me stories of your adventures years ago. The time you and Azriel got lost in Malwich and – well, I never heard the end of it. I was so exhausted. Do you think Az would tell it to me if I asked him?”   

Silence echoed as the distant song wound down.

“I miss you.” She said quieter than ever, barely a breath. “You spent your last breaths telling me that you loved me…and I never said it back. Because I thought I would have a million more times to say it, and so you never heard it that final time even though I’m sure you knew –“ Snot plugged up her nose and she sniffed again, voice ugly and cracking. “I love you, Rhysand.”

She buried her head in her arms as the music slowly started up again. It slowly grew louder until she could make out a familiar tune.

Feyre could have laughed. It wasn’t the music Rhysand had sent her Under the Mountain. It was an echo of it, an answer to the original piece’s question. The haunting melody and drifting notes filled her head and her soul. They chased out the awful silence and made her feel new, if only for a moment.

She recalled back when she was human, laying in her cell as that music floated down. She had drifted somewhere in the clouds, seen faces she couldn’t make out. Just as it had been then – as she gazed out at the unclouded sky, she could have sworn she saw Rhysand peering back at her with love in his eyes – for just a moment.

Perhaps just a trick of her eyes, of a desperate soul. But as she gazed up at those bright stars, she didn’t stop the tears from falling.

I love you, Rhys. 

She stayed out there long after the music had died down until she could see a hint of dawn’s rosy hue rising over the Sidra. The memory of the song echoed in her head, keeping the silence at bay.

[themoonispurple7]

This is a delicate subject but some of the rawest, most moving instances of the 'jikook are just bros' pretense falling happened when one of them suffered injury or had an emergency. In 'Burn the Stage' when every other member left the room so that Jk could take off his pants and be tended to by medical professionals, Jimin stayed, NO QUESTIONS. The other members are like brothers to Jk, but Jimin is different. When Jk took his stitches out, Jimin was in the room with him. It is a pattern. 1/

/2 They have been repeatedly shown to fulfill roles in each others lives most commonly associated with romantic partners. When you watch the footage in context, you actually get an even clearer sense of this. Their love and attentiveness is so tangible. I am not trying to denigrate the important role that platonic friends play in ones life. But Jikook feel different, as though they hold a unique place for one another. I could be wrong of course. Bfs or bffs, either is beautiful and sweet.

It does make me pause. And it clearly shows how these two are especially close. 

I have a little personal anecdote about one of these moments. We’ve watched a fanmade video for My Time where the creator used footage of Jungkook (I think) getting his stitches out. My son, after that, couldn’t stand the song, he couldn’t listen to it at all. It took me forever to get him to confess the reason. He finally said it was because of the footage where JK got hurt... But not because of his injury... It was because he could tell Jimin was sad there. If five-year-old’s can see it...