#the hand-in-hand solace and hopelessness of the chorus

[purecommemasolitude]

you guys ever listen to vse kar vem

[portfolio-of-dreams]

violin dips || semi eita x afab! reader

warnings: 18+ minors dni! slice of life/domestic fluff, afab! reader, reader gets called baby, insecurities of body image, descriptions of body, soft smut, semi wears a condom like a good boy, non-descriptive sex (wanted to keep it soft).

w/c: 1.5k

a/n: this was a request by @bunnykou / @bokutosmochi I hope it did it some justice!

The hot rays of sun beamed through the glass creating pockets of golden hues across your legs. You lazily roll out of bed and pull back the curtains, through diamond windows the sunlight streams creating an array of iridescent rainbow colors along the canvas of the wall. There’s something almost innocent about waking up naturally, no chorus of sounds, no alarm clock. The delicate glow has a freshness to it; a new day while the imperceptible flecks of dust hopeless to find solace in the light. Once the haze of tiredness dissolves into awareness you turn your head to the man in your bed, still softly snoring. 

His ash blond hair decorated with obsidian tips was messy around his delicate features. His dark eyebrows furrowed slightly in his sleep state as he slung an arm over the edge of the bed. A soft smile creeped across your face as you shook your head at him. You wandered to his side of the bed, and placed a chaste kiss against his temple, he stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

You made your way to the kitchen to brew some coffee, in an attempt to calm the noise that still muddled your brain. The aroma of the Colombian roast wafted through the space as the coffee pot sizzled and drained the hot water through the grinds. It later becomes accompanied by the sweet smell of bread, butter, and brown sugar. You make a cup and sit at the table with your toast. It’s warm and inviting as you relax into your seat at the table. You take a moment to breathe, soaking in your surroundings. The melancholic serendipity of the morning, tinting your edges and trickling over you, washing away the version of yourself that existed before this moment. 

The rough sliding of heavy feet down the corridor tore you from your tranquil state. He still smelled of peppermint toothpaste and his hair unruly as he rubbed his eye with the back of his hand. He leaned down to your cheek, kissing you once, then twice. His mouth formed into a pout and you rolled your eyes with a snicker to turn your face to allow him to kiss your lips. 

“Getting ready for the day, darlin’?” He looks over his shoulder at you briefly as he pours his own cup of coffee. Three sugars, two creams; Light enough to still enjoy but still holding a tint of sweetness. 

You hum affirmatively as he sits across from you. He takes a sip and smiles at you again. His signature perfect smile- it curves up into his cheeks, lifting and crinkling into the delicate skin surrounding his fox-like eyes. You take it in, letting yourself be dazzled by your boyfriend, Semi Eita, before you exchange a bashful look. After you finished your breakfast you head back to the bedroom to get dressed. Today was his day off and you planned the whole day together. 

You threw a couple outfit choices across the unmade bed and watched the colors of each clash against another. You put on outfit after outfit but every time the image in the mirror stared back at you in dismay. The shorts you loved on the rack, don’t sit right on you, the flatness of your backside made you sigh. The form fitting jeans that had lace-edged pocket details came inward on the dips of your hips, another sigh. Nothing fit quite like you’d imagined, the body you were given didn’t match your sense of style. Quiet tears rolled down your face as you stared at the mirror. Everything felt so wrong. You tossed the clothing onto the ground and slipped back into your sweats.

It was then that Semi came up behind you, wrapping his arms daintily around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder as he slouched down. “You're beautiful, baby. Don’t let the reflection fool you.” 

You can’t help it. You can’t help that you feel so much, think too much; reality is crushing and it hurts.

“Can we just stay home today?” Your voice is timid and airy as you wipe your tears away with the back of your sleeve.

“We can do whatever you want to, as long as I get you all to myself. And baby, I promise. You are beautiful.”

You can only shake your head as your lashes drown in the droplets that form along the base. He turns you around to face him, hands quickly finding their place on your cheeks. The calloused edges of his thumbs wipe away the tears that threaten to spill over and a soft saccharine kiss is placed between your eyebrows.

“What’s wrong?” The voice is soft, like a whisper lost in the wind when he looks into your eyes.

“Everything. Nothing fits right because I have no ass and these weird dips in my hips.” Your lip quivers when you say the words that have been plaguing your mind.

He chuckles in hushed tones and trails his fingers down to the waistband of your sweats. He looks at you, waiting for confirmation that it’s okay to remove them. You look away in a rush and blink your lowered eyes before an ‘okay,’ falls from your lips. He slips them down your legs carefully, and puts his hands in the indent of your skin where your hips meet your thighs.

“You know, some call them violin hips. Violins are gracefully crafted by an expert and create a serene elegant sound.” - His index finger walks along your flesh and stops at the inside seam of your underwear.- “Just like you.”

You suck in a breath as he leans in, lips connecting to your stomach, right underneath your belly button. A ghosted touch runs along to the outside of your legs and stops to squeeze the flesh of your butt. “You have an ass, baby. I have something to grab onto.”

Your teeth take in your bottom lip at his declaration. He kisses up your stomach, pulling your top up with every higher placement of his mouth. Your hands snake around his naked torso, finding comfort in his muscular form. An unabashed moan escapes when he moves his tongue along your collarbone. He easily picks you up, treading lightly over your discarded clothing, back to the bed you were in not too long ago.

His lips easily find yours, even behind closed eyes. He’s memorized every curve and dip of your body. He holds a faint taste of coffee and chocolate as he slips his tongue along the grooves of your teeth, exploring the insides of your cheeks as you open and close your mouths in tandem like you share the same breath. His pajama pants get tossed to the edge of the bed before he lowers himself against you, but not full weight. He doesn’t stop kissing you when he leans over to the bedside table to open a drawer and pull out a small golden packet. He doesn’t stop kissing you as he grinds his hardening length up your wetness as lube. And he doesn’t break contact when he rips the packet open, sliding the condom onto his cock.

“Tell me what you want, baby.” 

“You, please.”

He swallows your words as he eases himself into you, slowly. You intake the breath he exudes when he groans. He takes his time, shifting just the tip along your velvety walls, adding inch by inch everytime you soften under his touch. He’s delicate with his motions, with his hips, with you. He finds the spot on your neck with his teeth that has you reeling and opening up underneath him. His thrusts pick up pace when your hands meet his shoulders, sliding over the muscles and down his back. In and out, in a steady rhythm as you adjust. His hands roam down your body, over your chest, down your cascading divots in your sides, following the steady dip in your hips and tracing the veins in your arms to find purchase in your hands. 

You feel his heartbeat against you as loves you. He loves you. 

His thrusts move in a way only he can, brushing along your soft spot elegantly. Your moans become louder and apparent as his movements start to get sloppy. You’re so close, the knot inside you tightens and crashes like a wave of euphoria against a shore. Semi leans back in, capturing your mouth with his as he rides out his own high. His breaths are heavy as he props himself up above you. You take in the way his lips are swollen, the smallest sweat bead rolls over his brow bone, and his brown eyes submerged in honey and hot tea, looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. 

“You’re perfect to me, y/n,. And I’ll love you, and your violin dips endlessly.” Another kiss to your forehead in the same manner as he did before, right between your eyebrows.

tagging the networks: @downtown-roponggi @tokyometronetwork @hanayanetwork @planetonet

[sinceileftyoublog]

Bill Ryder-Jones Interview: Defiant, Not Defeated

Photo by Marieke Macklon

BY JORDAN MAINZER

On Bill Ryder-Jones' most personal and heart-wrenching record yet, the first voice you hear is not his own. In fact, it's not even clear whose voice it is: It's a ghostly sample of somebody repeatedly cooing "baby." Though Tropicália fans might recognize the sound as a washy sample of Gal Costa's song "Baby", the effect is disorienting, especially as Ryder-Jones introduces you into the world of Iechyd Da (Domino)--which means "good health" in Welsh--and its balance of broad hope and tangible pain.

Ryder-Jones has never been one to shy away from his struggles. He left The Coral temporarily in 2005 and permanently in 2008 due to suffering from panic attacks, sharing his story in a short film about mental health in the music industry. In an interview with The Quietus from earlier this year, he revealed long-running suffering from addiction and mental illness, ranging from alcohol and prescription drug abuse to agoraphobia exacerbated by COVID lockdown. At the time of that interview's publication last month, Ryder-Jones was, thankfully, doing better. But it's also a disservice to the contextually provocatively titled Iechyd Da to call it an album "about" Ryder-Jones' inner battles. Though many of the songs reference specific points in his journey towards conquering fears and demons, it's an album namely about surrounding yourself with love.

That the first voice we hear on Iechyd Da is Costa's only foreshadows what we hear on the rest of the record. There's singer-songwriter Michael Head (who Ryder-Jones has produced) reading a passage from Ulysses on "...And The Sea...". A chorus of children, who Ryder-Jones worked with extensively on the record, provide contrasting, innately buoyant timbres to his weary croak. On "This Can't Go On", a song representing one of Ryder-Jones' rock bottoms, he finds solace in Echo & The Bunnymen's "The Killing Moon", further references The Stooges, and samples strings from a 1978 disco track. The swaying, romantic "If Tomorrow Starts Without Me"--which gets its title from a line a sex worker reads in Eurotrash--is akin to It's A Wonderful Life, though it's not clear who's the hopeless one and who's the angel. "If the monsters call you names, then I'm with you," Ryder-Jones sings, "I've had monsters play games with me too." Perhaps best of all are the people he addresses by name in song, like Jase on the jangly "I Hold Something In My Hand", and the titular Anthony on "Thankfully For Anthony". Inspired by a real-life experience where a concerned friend took a sick Ryder-Jones to the hospital after receiving a cryptic text message from him, the latter song covers the moment Ryder-Jones thought he might die to when he overcame. Hearing him sing, "I'm thinking this might just be it" is as heartbreaking as it is inspiring to hear him sing, "I felt love." Atop xylophone and strings, it's as life-affirming as anything Spiritualized have ever released.

Ultimately, Iechyd Da is an aspirational record, not a mere biographical one. The connotatively positive words may sometimes adopt past tense, like, "Oh how I loved you," on "A Bad Wind Blows In My Heart pt. 3", the next entry in the series started on the 2013 album of the same name. [Among everything else, Ryder-Jones went through a bad breakup during lockdown.] But for every nostalgic or wistful aspect on the album, there's something positive and realistic. Closer "Nos Da", which means "good night" in Welsh, warbles to a gorgeous imperfection, its synths and strings off-kilter. And on melodramatic strummer "It's Today Again", Ryder-Jones sings, "There's something great about life," perhaps the ethos of the entire album. Notably, he doesn't sing, "Life is great," which would be a statement as absurd as it is corny. But he admits that, among all ups and downs, with a worn sense of perspective, there are things to be thankful for. A cynic might disagree. With Iechyd Da, Bill Ryder-Jones demonstrates his humanism.

Earlier this month, I asked Ryder-Jones a few questions about the album over email. Read his responses below, edited for length and clarity.

Since I Left You: With Iechyd Da, you wanted to make a more hopeful record. What about it do you think is hopeful?

Bill Ryder-Jones: I feel like the music in places is more hopeful and promising of hope than music I've made in the past. It's hard to put into words what I think makes music sound hopeful. I guess if nothing else, the music doesn't sound defeated--maybe [it sounds] even defiant.

SILY: Some of your lyrics are confessional, but they're not quite like you're reading somebody's diary. What's the importance of keeping some of your more personal stories on the vague side? How do you decide when to share certain details, like the names of songs you were listening to during a difficult time, or the names of people?

BRJ: I think that's something I have a natural taste for. I don't think I'm conscious of how direct the lyrics are. More often than not, the first verse will dictate where the song is going, so I tend to just go with it.

SILY: From characters on previous albums to older song titles ["A Bad Wind Blows In My Heart pt. 3"], you reference your previous work quite a bit on Iechyd Da. Do your records work in concert with one another?

BRJ: No, not really. Maybe they do; I'm not sure. The others weren't designed for that reason in the way Iechyd Da was. It was a deliberate attempt to draw a link between this album and A Bad Wind Blows in My Heart. I feel they sit really sweetly together.

SILY: What inherent qualities do you think the sound of children singing has? When they sing lines like, "I just don't see myself getting past this one," do the words carry a different meaning?

BRJ: Yeah, I think there's something inherently beautiful in the sound of children singing. It's so, so sweet and powerful. The idea that you can have them sound that way whilst saying a few things that are possibly beyond their understanding I think is a good idea.

SILY: You've mentioned that Iechyd Da is your most produced record. What about the specific albums you produced in the past five years gave you the confidence to make your own record more produced?

BRJ: Well, confidence isn't the word I would use. In fact, music is one of the few things I feel confident in. The decision to make an album sound like this one was mainly down to wanting to push myself and make music that truly made me happy, but of course, working with artists will influence you in myriad ways. Certainly...Michael Head [and the Red Elastic Band's Dear Scott] and Saint Saviour['s In The Seams] were important for me in terms of scope and ambition.

SILY: The instrumentation on the final song, "Nos Da", is warbly and a bit hazy. Is it supposed to reflect memory or nostalgia?

BRJ: It was originally written as a lullaby for my friend's daughter, Luna. I remembered it by chance when I was finishing the album. The warble I think I added to bookend the album, hoping it sounded similar to the sample of Gal Costa['s "Baby"].

SILY: How do you find playing live some of the songs that reference more difficult times in your life? Are you able to get into an appropriate headspace?

BRJ: I'm fine with that. I'm mainly trying to remember lyrics and not have a panic attack. I detach from things quite easily, if I'm honest.

SILY: How does the tale of Ulysses and the Michael Head-featuring track "…And The Sea…" fit within the narrative of Iechyd Da?

BRJ: I guess in the way that I thought, "I can do whatever I want," and I wanted to have this strange piece in the album as a respite from my voice. I listen to much more performance music these days as opposed to purely melodic music. I think it came from there.

SILY: How would you describe your treatment of the Gal Costa sample at the beginning of “I Know That It’s Like This (Baby)”? And the chatter on "Nothing To Be Done"?

BRJ: The sample is Gal Costa singing "Baby" but recorded to give the effect that it's playing in the background in the room I was in rather than crisply. The chatter, I think, is probably just bits of audio from the kids when they were talking mid-recording.

SILY: Are you a fan of Eurotrash?

BRJ: Ha, I haven't seen it in years.

[itsallyscorner]

I'm loving your little mix works so much I wanted to request something if you're not too busy idk if you've seen the interview where perrie says that alex went to rehearsals with her because she couldn't get choreographies right and he would help her well what if tom did the same for reader??? and Jesy is soft for them but she won't admit it

Hi lovey! Thank you so much for the request! I added a little twist to it, but it’s still the same concept you wanted. AND YES, JESY LOVES THEM TOGETHER SHE JUST DOESN’T WANT TO ADMIT IT. I hope you like it, happy reading!💜✨

💌.

Patience

I hope you enjoy this! I honestly had so much fun rewatching Break Up Song over and over again to get the little dance they do in the chorus, it’s stuck in my head lol. That’s basically the dance the reader is trying to do, if you want to see the dance it’s somewhere towards the end of the Break Up Song video!

You watched the video your choreographer sent to you and the girls. You watched it over and over again, taking a moment to study the moves before getting up from the bed and doing them yourself. The video was a little dance Kayleigh, your choreographer, created for the Break Up Song music video. Since the pandemic was still in full affect and everyone was still on lockdown, shooting a music video at a studio was an absolute no go. As much as it sadden you and the girls that you couldn’t film your original vision for the video, your health and the crew’s health meant the most to all of you at the moment. Instead of not filming a music video at all, you and the girls have decided that it would be fun to shoot the video on your own at your own homes.

Which brings you to today. You were in your room, that you shared with Tom, trying to learn the choreography. Honestly, it wasn’t that hard of a dance, it was quite simple. The video Kayleigh sent you all was probably less than a minute. The dance was supposed to be done during the chorus, the rest of the song would be freestyle or clips of you all doing some nonsense for fun.

Your brows furrowed together, eyes glaring at your phone screen while you tried to figure out how to sway your arms and circle them to make them cross. Like Perrie, it took you a while to learn choreography. Unlike the other three, you and Perrie took extra time studying the dancers and had extra sessions at the studio to get the choreography down. Though it was sometimes frustrating, the end result was always worth it.

You cursed to yourself as the video ended for the twentieth time. You tried repeating the steps, watching yourself in the mirror, but it just wasn’t coming out right. You felt your body growing hot as you became upset at yourself for not understanding a few simple steps. You thought learning through a video would be easier, but no, it’s more difficult for you. There was no guidance from Kayleigh, she wasn’t there to tell you what you were doing wrong or what you were doing right. You just felt lost and confused.

Groaning, you snatch your phone from the table and throw yourself onto your bed. You take Tom’s pillow, hugging it as you lay on your stomach. You shove your face into his pillow, the smell of him with a mix of his shampoo bringing you some kind of solace from your frustration.

(Y/n)🌺: Girls, do we really need to have a dance in the video?

Perrie🦋: Yeah I agree. Do we REALLY need one?

Jesy💖: Don’t tell me you guys can’t get that?

Do you not get it?

Leigh-Anne😻: Huns, it’s like learning a TikTok dance

Jade💜: It’s so easy! Girls, it’s like 30 secs of the video. We always have a dance choreo in our videos!

(Y/n)🌺: But we’re bad at dancing🥺

Perrie🦋: You all know how hard it is for me and (y/n) to pick up choreography:(

Jesy💖: (y/n), isn’t Tom a dancer?

(Y/n)🌺: He used to do ballet and he was in Billy Elliot, he won’t shut up about it.

Why?

Jesy💖: Ask twinkle toes to help you, he might be able to teach you.

If he can teach you how to spoil things, he can teach you how to dance👌🏽

Jade💜: ^^^ she’s got a point

Leigh-Anne😻: Omg Tom did ballet?

Jesy💖: Lmao what a loser

(Y/n)🌺: That’s actually a good idea, I’ll go bother him rn:))

Perrie🦋: Right I’m glad (y/n) has a way to learn the dance but what about me? I live with a football player🙁

Turning your phone off, you hop out of bed and skip your way out of the bedroom. You walk around the house looking for Tom, but instead bump into Harrison and Tuwaine.

“Boys, where’s Thomas?” You ask them, stealing one of the chips Harrison was eating. With a playful glare, he softly smacks your hand. You cheekily grin at him as you eat the chip.

“He’s outside with Harry, they’re cleaning the patio.” Tuwaine answers. Harrison snorts, “And doing a shit job at it.” You quickly thank them and pull on the glass sliding doors to get to the backyard. You see Harry with one of those power hoses spraying dirt off the concrete as Tom stood to the side filming him. You wait for him to end his video before coming up behind him and wrapping your arms around his torso.

“I thought you were supposed to be cleaning with Harry?” You ask him, earning Harry’s attention.

“You know what (y/n), that’s exactly what I said!” Harry answered sarcasticly, spraying the hose dangerously close to Tom’s feet. Your boyfriend yelps, turning around to scoop you in his arms and move you both away from Harry and the hose.

“You dick!” He hissed at his brother. Harry chuckles satisfied at riling up his brother. He turns around and returns to his task at hand.

Tom puts you down on your feet though his hands remain at your hips. You look up at him, admiring the way his eyes and hair give off a sweet honey color in the sun.

“What’s up bub? Have you got the dance down yet?” He asks, thumbs rubbing circles onto your hips. Your face contorts together, nose scrunched up in irritation at the mention of the dance. Tom notices your change in expression and pouts at you.

“I’m gonna take that as a no?” You sigh, leaning into his chest and rest your head on his shoulder. Picking up on your exasperation, he pulls you in closer and places his palm on your back rubbing soothing circles onto it.

“I don’t know why I can’t just get it. It’s so bloody simple and I just can’t do it. Why am I like this?” You ramble, beating your head against his shoulder with every word. Tom makes a sound of disagreement as he gently pulls you away from his shoulder.

Before he can speak he presses multiple kisses onto your forehead making you giggle, “There’s nothing wrong with you, darling. It just takes you a little bit longer to properly learn choreography, there’s nothing wrong with that! You’re an excellent dancer in my eyes.”

You fondly roll your eyes at him, always one for the sweet talk, “You’re only saying that because you’re my boyfriend.”

“No, I’ve seen you dance before (y/n), you’re actually good.” His eyes quickly rake over your body, “But as your boyfriend, I think you look extremely hot when you dance. Especially in those little costumes you wear during tour.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, placing a light kiss on his lips. “Hmmm, ok. Well, then as my boyfriend, will you help me learn the dance?” You try to soften him up with some puppy eyes and a smile that made the corner of your lips squish up to your cheeks.

Without any hesitation, he agrees, not thinking of how difficult it would be to actually teach you the dance.

~⏰~

Hours pass and Tom was slowly losing his shit. He loves you, absolutely adores you, like nothing in the world will ever make him stop loving you. But trying to teach you simple choreography was making him loose his mind.

Tom stares blankly at the floor, sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. You stood a few feet away from him, cringing to yourself as you watched your boyfriend regain his patience with you.

“I love you.” You squeaked out sinking into your shoulders. Tom sighs and takes his head out his hands to look at you tiredly. He drags himself off the bed and stands in front of you. He cups your face in his hand, squishing it gently and playfully growls at you.

“Darling, I love you too.” He affirms with a fond smile. He lets out a breath before resting his forehead onto yours, “I just—why can’t you get it? I don’t understand.”

You pout at him and huff, “It’s not that easy, it’s really hard!” You and him had been practicing for a while now. For the first few minutes, Tom watched the video a number of times until he finally got the steps memorized. Then he took an hour of breaking down each step for you while you stood beside him repeating his moves. When he asked you to do it all together, all the steps you’ve rehearsed went out the window. Which lead to Tom breaking down the steps for you once again and so on.

“Baby, I did everything I can. I’ve done it really slow and explained each step to you.” He reasoned. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“But it’s hard Tommy!” You defended yourself, almost on the verge of crying because you still couldn’t comprehend the steps. Though you were probably overreacting, your whole day had been full of frustration; you were tired and mad at yourself for not understanding something so simple and now it was all coming together to make you explode.

“(Y/n), it’s like only ten to nine steps, you could do it.” Tom tried to encourage you. You groaned and pull yourself away from him. You plop yourself down to the bed, face smushed right into the pillows.

“I’m hopeless.” You said into the pillow, though it might have came out muffled for Tom. Tom frowned at your figure on the bed. He was upset at two things. One, he hated seeing you so frustrated with yourself. He just wanted to wrap you up in hugs and tell you that he was proud of you for trying your best. Two, he was mad at himself for kind of loosing his temper with you. You asked him for help and he did do that but he could have been a bit more patient. He knew you weren’t that good with rehearsing choreography so he should have expected the process to take a little bit slower.

“(Y/n), it’s swing, swing, round, swing, what’s so hard to understand?” Tom swung his arms like how Kayleigh did in the video, though his motions were quite harsh and sharp.

“I don’t know! I can’t swing my arms properly.” You complained, repeating his steps, your arms moving loosely.

“It’s just swinging your arms! There’s nothing hard about swinging your arms!” He exploded, throwing his arms in the air. An almost crazed look was in his eyes as he gripped onto the roots of his hair. Squeezing his eyes shut he took a breath in, “I need a break.”

Guilt filled him as he heard a sniff come from the pillow. Tom was immediately by your side trying to get you to look at him. “Darling, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled.”

He sees you move your face so he can hear you properly, “No, it’s okay, you were just expressing how you feel. It’s my fault I can’t comprehend simple choreograph.”

Tom sighs, shifting so he’s laying against you, head resting on the same pillow as yours while he waits for you to look at him again. One hand supports his head and the other rubs circles onto your back. He feels you relax under his touch making him pull you closer because he felt like you needed the comfort. You were trying your best, he knew you were. In fact, he even saw you getting some of the steps correct, you just instantly doubted yourself.

“No, I should’ve remembered that it takes a few times for you to memorize choreography. I should’ve been more patient.” He began. “And you came to me for help and I did nothing but make you even more upset, I’m sorry.” He apologized. Your head rises from the pillow, Tom softly chuckles at the strands of hair that covered your face.

“Don’t say that, you did a great job at helping me, I’m just—stupid.” You shrug nonchalantly. Tom rolls his eyes, brushing the strands of hair that covered your face behind your ear. “Now that’s stupid, you’re one of the smartest girls I know.”

You snort shoving his hand away from you, “You said I was an excellent dancer and look at where that got us.”

“You are an excellent dancer, love. You just doubt yourself.” He gets up from the bed and holds his hand out for you. “Let’s try again?”

You glance at him then at his hand before finally giving in. You grasp his hand, using it as leverage to help yourself off the bed. Tom smiles proudly at you, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, “That’s my girl.”

~⏰~

Since standing beside each other was not doing the trick, Tom decided that he would try standing behind you. With your back against his chest, he outstretched his hands to hold onto your arms and guide them.

“Right, so we’re swinging this way, that way, then we go around and swing again.” Tom explained as he puppets your arms in those directions. You stare at yourself in the mirror and repeat Tom’s words to yourself. Tom glances at you from your shoulder, where his chin rested, seeing the gears shifting in your brain.

“Ok, we swing twice, then go around once, and swing again.”

Tom hums at you in response, “Yeah, you’ve got that part down.” He takes your left arm and brings it to your right shoulder, then your right arm to your left shoulder.

“After the swing we go chest, chest, so that it makes an x.” Tom continues to explain. You nod along, making mental notes to yourself. Suddenly, you jump, taking Tom by surprise.

“What happened?”

“I know the next move!” You beamed, shaking your arms from his grip and forming a heart with them. “After the X, we make a heart, and then it’s that shimmy thing.”

The grin on Tom’s face made the corners of his eyes crinkle and made his pearly whites twinkle at you, “Yeah, that’s right! Can you show me the stuff we’ve rehearsed so far?”

You purse your lips at yourself in the mirror, going over the mental notes you took in your head. The opening steps involved a little skipping in place while you punched the air three times; two punches on the left and one on the right. Then that would lead into the swinging, then the chests that make an X, the heart and shimmy.

“You remember darling, don’t doubt yourself.” He motivates you.

You jump around your spot and shake your limbs out, “Alright, I think I’m good.”

“Go for it, love.” Tom nods at you as he stands to the side with his hands on his hips, almost like a dance instructor or some teacher.

“I’m gonna sing the lyrics out, it helps.” You comment. Tom waves you off, “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“So it’s—so tonight I’ll sing another,” You skip and do the punches.

“Another break up song,” You transition into the arm’s choreography, swinging them and going around once. You jump so your legs are together and do the X with your arms over you chest. You make the heart and do the shimmies, squealing excitedly when you finally get all the steps done correctly.

“I DID IT!” You happily yell jumping into Tom’s arms. He catches you right on time with just as much cheerfulness as you.

“I KNOW, I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!” He cheers making you both jump in celebration. You hug him tightly, continuously thanking him. Without Tom, you probably would’ve never learned the dance properly and would have given up the moment you felt like it. But thankfully, you had a loving boyfriend who never gave up on you. No matter how much you drove him mad.

“Seriously Tom, thank you for helping me. You didn’t have to, but I really appreciate it.” You tell him once he places you back on the ground.

“It’s no trouble, especially for you, I’d do anything for you.” He grins pecking your lips. You hum against his soft lips pulling him back in to meet yours again.

“Let’s just hope I can still remember this till tomorrow.” 

Tom chuckles against your lips, “Darling we aren’t even done yet, that was just the first bit.” You pull away from him, mouth agape, “Wait there’s more?”

[404fmdhaon]

creative claims verification — superstar

summary: lyrical, composition & production claims for superstar warnings: none wc: 1880

when he steps into the studio inside bc — it feels like he’s in a state of limbo. nobody tells him frequency doesn’t relay to assimilation, and bc no longer feels like a home (despite how many hours he’s invested into the damn building). fuck it, he thinks. home is a piece where his body lays, imprints itself against the sofa and the chair. how his fingers rub the print raw of the keyboard, and how the grease of late-night eats come to smear against the mouse.

and if he’s had to guess the time he’s spent — it’s countless. an unlimited amount of hours ranging from the -ings of working on songs never released. yet, the cacophony brings resolve when nothing else speaks and jarred notes become a safe haven of comfort when he’s left alone in late hour spouts. 

when his body shoves past the doors, head down and shoulders curved, he’s met with nothing more than the hellos of an empty room. the lights flicker on, and the computer monitor untouched. his personal space, pristine from the night before by the way the piles of clothes topple upon the corner of the room (laundry, he’ll do eventually), and the barren toothbrush sitting in the pocket of his desk (he’ll use it later tonight).

it comes piece by piece by the time he sits himself on the desk, fingers pressing the button on for the monitor to come to light. he’ll use ableton today in lieu of what logic gives when the groan of his voice becomes reminiscent of nothing more than a heavy sigh of another recording.

make this album a good one, it’s your only time.

another heavy sigh, and he wonders what it’s like to press rewind. not fast-forward nor the resume of the tides of life. it’s the full-on riptide, and he’s left lost at sea where the tempest storms drown him whole. perhaps then, life would be kinder — but that sort of wishful thinking’s left for when his hands already click away to a barren file and the other’s pounding away on a keyboard with no thought in mind.

call it an effect that comes off the tails of weeks on end finishing up a song. the drawl in his voice, the deep baritone husk enough to give proof he’s irrational at best. built up motivation plucked by inspiration from the track done prior — he tries it again. gives it another go, something similar but blandly different. 

it all starts with the staccatos of a piano, the way they toss and jump illuminating the grin he has all goofy and lop-sided across his face (an effect of no sleep? or an effect of music itself? he couldn’t tell you.) the cacophony of the chords bring him back to the elementary days of picking up music the first time, his eyes crinkling the way they curve higher — still, to the third person view, it livens up to something somber.

the way the chords play a childhood book, and it’s a mere cry for help out in the open of an empty studio. he wonders how he can transpose it as the salve for the wounds gaping open — the harrowing feeling of loneliness now ripping stitch by stitch. and his only remedy? making the track flair with each and every embellishment of high-tone happiness, mimicking a circus imagery he crafts in his head. with the horns brought back, and the low-end percussion that adds with the ad-libs of snapping fingers. {it’s here he decides, the grand piano won’t do. he wants an electric key, borderline organ playing).

he saves it as a file — help.wav. 

but there’s no one to reach out, when he puts his hand forth. nobody to shuttle his woes in the gentle pats, swaying back — fuck. when was he ever in the seat of consolation paired with desperation? there’s a heavy sigh that escapes his mouth, when he runs back to the pen and paper. the eye of the beholder, and he positions himself in the role of the talker. weaponry in a stagnant pen and paper becoming the sole therapist to house his woes.

no talk back, no judgements. the pen and paper listen when he forces the unease ripping away from his chest, and for a second — he thinks he can breathe. feels his lungs cuff up with air. surprise, he doesn’t pant. doesn’t get startled. doesn’t slip out of his skin when he thinks of the first word that comes to his mind — superstar. 

the public paints knight as superstars, shining bright as the nation’s pick sitting pretty for the variable amount of years. (nobody ever tells you how lonely the top is. not when you’re surrounded by the bodies that become the walls to echo the voice you barely manage to sneak out when time calls). he writes down the things the public perception follows — a big house, a super car, money. honor. the limelight blinding his eyes to where it leaves him untouchable, ha. funny and incredulous, he doesn’t buy into it. 

self-made, he taunts it further by the time he closes his eyes and pictures his own house they gawk at. the art curated in expensive taste, the aid of his managers and the bodies that never frequent it. seoul forest becoming his own little garden and now, the song shifts in subject when it becomes a boast of his own hard earning works. 

it’s all money made from the years in knight. all the money funneled into the art that transforms his house into a galleria, and the richard mille watch that sits on his wrist. he laughs at how the ten year old learning the same chords would’ve billowed with stomach-hugging laughter at the sight of twenty-seven year old him living large, sitting on top. becoming the people on tv rather than the side shuffle of his father’s shadow. 

(he writes all of this down. again and again. each one engraving its mark deep into the persona he’s been filled to become). 

rap, hip hop. it all falls short when the stereotypes formulate the standard opinion: bad boys boasting about money. it’s a hopeless stereotype when he’s always five steps short of becoming whatever he’d imagine himself to be. 

it’s pointless to keep up a lie. so, he tells the truth. writes down the sadness that plagues him, and the melancholy that clings when he’s sitting alone in the studio — a part of his heart empty, far stretched away to where material goods do harm than good.

he asks for help.

“i need somebody.” 

the words feel uplifting, freeing by the time they meet the empty air. all tongue-tied and flustered, it’s the heat that rises again to flush out his cheeks. he writes it over and over, calls out for the help he won’t be met with tonight.

loneliness always a full-time burden.

and when another day brings freedom with recordings out of the way, no worry for knight behind the end of his i don’t give a fuck attitude, he ceases his comfort. comes to his own apartment, sitting down in the studio where the hard drive opens back to the state of disorder.

for that, he gives himself the benefit of the doubt — the feelings of home and comfort when he’s lounged out in a pair of sweats and the hoodie that wafts home. five pm, the leftovers in the fridge from the night before (he’ll eat that later, two am he bets.)

shit always go south, and by the time his phone rings and it’s another manager with another call — it’s the expectations coming to fill their predecessor: an early morning schedule the next day. gyujeong tosses the phone over his back — an aim straight to the sofa sitting pretty behind him, and he groans heavily back into the pillow that’s heard the brunt of his woes. 

he wants to forget about it all. forget about it even if it’s just for a brief moment, and this all becomes some fucked up reverie he’s lost in. five minutes of solace, and he’ll take it for the hours of wary shoulders tossing and turning at night. (he remembers how to forget, plugs in his hard drive and pulls up help.wav). 

the track plays with the recording he managed to finish the night — the effects of an all-nighter, and therapy in momentary bliss. he laughs, a pointed look tapered towards the empty screen as the demo takes over the silence. repeat, listen again. do it five more times, and he yanks away the beanie as his spine curves over the desk with fingers brushing past his lips. he knows what he sees. what he wants to salvage inside moments of sheer desperation where it’s the music that speaks louder than the voice that’s dwindled down in the past few years. 

no punches tonight, just the clicks that compose the song into frame. his voice sounds breathy when it plays, he picks that up on the second verse, easily. 

it’s bound to be a long night when he’s busy tuning his voice into something polished, less breathy. less gritty and rough when he wants the lyrics to speak to the masses that won’t read between the lines. it’s a reckoning all while a shame that he lays passive, using the music to speak on his behalf where his voice won’t raise higher. 

and by the time his head bobs, and it sounds more coherent. smoother, and flexible with the flow of his original intentions, there’s something that still lacks: desperation. there’s no urge to pull the spotlight back onto him, just the five seconds of a voice in hopes someone reaches their hands out — all warm and soft against the cracked dryness of his own. 

empathy, everyone says when you lack it, you’ll figure out the gaping void (they were right).

right inside each and every notion, and he bends over silently with his eyes on his screen and fingers edging to his temple, scratching then tapping. impatience flows back in when he files through the corner of his desk for a dusty mic that adds the hint to what he’s wanting: ad-libs.

it’s in the chorus where he wants to shout — call out for help. from anyone, for anyone. i need somebody becomes repeated, followed through when ‘anyone’ falls in his own voice in a multitude of different ways. soft, then harsh. loud and boisterous, passive and meek. what leaves the screen is nothing more than fifteen different ways for “anybody.” and “hello?”

he picks his favorite ones, the ones that breed desperation in the subtle movement of his voice. index finger and thumb against his chin, he taps patiently against the sides when satisfaction comes from a full picture. whole and somber with how the playback comes: belts of the music inside cheery chords, the addition of the horns then trumpets. fine-tuned by the base — then, it’s the lyrics that become the second hit, the punch that any sixth sense can pick up. hollowed out loneliness, and it’s a cry for help no longer seizing greatness nor the confines of things he’s collected over the years. 

[made-me-deep-blue]

mc x dark!mc - obsession

Word Count: 4573

Summary: Amy Ashryver has a one-on-one personal talk with her inner darkness after the Opera Hall Massacre, and finds herself torn between illusions and reality. 

Warning: TW, Heavy angst, teeny bit of fluff at the end, some spoilers if you are not caught up with BB3

Based on EXO’s Obsession: https://youtu.be/uxmP4b2a0uY

Tags list: @wildsayeed @kashikokawaii @iddevouryou @kamilahsayeed-owns-me @sayeedbound @lightning-fury @timetopartaay-waitno @hamiltonstorywriter @midnightstress

-

The door clicked shut as Amy closed the door to her room, Rheya already moving to her bedroom as the younger vampire slid her shoes off.

“You did wonderful today, my darling,” Rheya purred. A sight to behold, as expected of the Mother of Vampires, fully naked and drenched in blood. Amy merely spared an empty glance at the former priestess, before proceeding to shed off her blood-soaked clothes and wash it off in the bathroom.

Amy felt a hand tugging on her wrist but didn’t bother to respond to the touch. She didn’t feel like communicating with the world in general.

So she decided to send her words through her powers, a small whisper in Rheya’s mind. What is it?

“Is there something wrong, my dear?” Rheya might look and sound worried for her, but Amy knew she was nothing more than a woman who was isolated for over 3000 years and needed to understand how the current world runs.

She might have lost her betrothed long ago, and Amy is the descendant of her own daughter, but nothing could compare to the loss that now wrecked inside her vulnerable, vampire body. A large wound scored across her chest, Amy couldn’t tap on her well of emotions at the moment.

How did she felt? Sadness. Devastation. Hopelessness. An ale tankard’s worth of anger and rage. A whole universe’s worth of emptiness that could not be healed and filled up again.

Amy slowly eased Rheya’s hand off her wrist and gave an empty look to the naked woman on her bed, sending words through that bridge formed between them. I would like some time alone if you don’t mind. I need to clear my head.

Understanding filled Rheya’s eyes, and Amy tried her best to push past the guttered look in her predator-bright eyes. “As you wish, dear. I will be at my mansion if you need me.”

The amber-haired woman didn’t send words through her powers, instead ducking into her bathroom and braced her arms against the sink. When she raised her head to see her reflection in her mirror, she ran her red eyes over her face. Despite being nocturnal, the dark circles under her eyes weren’t doing it any justice, and her eyebrows just felt so heavy to even raise them.

Her amber coloured, messy half up-do was slightly unkempt and soaked with blood, along with the lower half of her face and nearly her whole body. As much as it smells more alluring than any wine, Amy felt like she wanted to puke right now. She needed to get all this blood off of her body, stat.

Then, she saw—thought she saw her reflection warp. Her hair was now moon-white, with two smaller braids with different lengths, which reminded her of a dreamcatcher’s feathers, tied at the left side of her head starting from above the shell of her ear. There was a strong hint of red and purple eyeshadow around her eyes, which brought them out more due to her pale complexion. On top of that, there was a chain that ran across her face and hung onto her ears and a scar down her right eye and a cut on her lower lip.

Despite not smiling herself, Amy’s reflection grinned wickedly, causing Amy’s eyes to widen.

Please stop it now

She shook her head and reopened her eyes, seeing herself in the mirror again. Not wanting to ‘hallucinate’ any further, she picked up the pace and turned on the hot water and let it seep into her skin, into her hair that would wash away the coppery tang of the blood and the slight stickiness on her pale skin.

Out of nowhere, she felt something—or someone, lurking in the bathroom. A presence, not a physical body.

As the night makes me blind

You snuck in again

A ghost of sinister chuckling followed. Amy wanted to believe that it was just her body’s response to being drained of all emotions in a single night. 

You lick around my ears while I’m asleep, stare,

Then you scratch and laugh

Amy watched the red of the blood cloud the clear water on the floor. Watched the colours swirl together, no doubt making her stand in a red sea of some sorts.

She heard it again.

That sinister chuckling, and what felt like a finger tracing her jawline from her back.

She shouldn’t be scared of it. That might be just amongst the chorus of voices in her head, lingering from the PTSD she had after she was killed. No—it was different. It sounded like her own voice, laughing softly behind her back.

Your voice whispers endlessly

Oh you’re the bad dream kill

Amy decided to scrub harder at her skin. As if the extra effort could erase all the events that had happened prior to coming back home. But no—it couldn’t. No matter how hard she scrubbed at her hair, her body, nothing could erase that beautiful face wrecked with sadness and devastation from her mind.

Those swirl of emotions couldn’t move past each other so Amy couldn’t remember who that painstakingly beautiful woman was. Her name…

Her name.

She felt her pent up anger building up and immediately clenched her fists tight and shut her eyes closed with that same pressure.

Deep breaths, Amy. Deep breaths. It’s okay, you’re going to be—

“…no, I’m not fine…” Her words were near guttural, feeling the pricking of her fangs on her lower lip. 

She felt something thicker than water trickling down her fingers, and that familiar coppery tangy scent filled the room. The skin at her nails knitted themselves back together, and the water washed the blood away as nothing happened.

Amy needed to get out of her apartment, stat.

You keep possessing and calling me

To come to where you are, yes to come to you

Stepping out of her immensely suffocating bathroom, Amy was relieved to notice Rheya’s absence, better without a powerful ancestor in her apartment, more specifically in her bedroom. Sliding open her wardrobe doors, she picked out a full monochrome ensemble; a dark grey turtleneck sweater, a black leather jacket, black skinny jeans and a pair of black vans. 

Once she was satisfied, Amy took a deep breath and stepped out of her windows, silent and unseen, leaping into the silent night.

You say you know me? (I don’t think so)

Who are you to snuggle in (I don’t think so)

You cover my eyes (I don’t think so)

You cover up the truths (I don’t think so)

It was definitely a hindrance when she awoke from the dead for barely a week and she had to race against two other experienced vampires by leaping from building to building, but now that it was becoming part of her daily routine, she became better at it. Using the momentum, she did flips between buildings and all sorts of stunts to get the energy out of her system.

Finding herself in the familiar path, Amy decided to head towards the building her heart desired. Not her mind. It definitely wasn’t in the right state to bear all of the pain she was going to feel once she reached. Don’t even mention her heart. Such a versatile organ but yet something so fragile.

Deciding that it wasn’t the best decision to break into the CEO’s office (yet), Amy landed to a stop on the rooftop of the Ahmanet Financial Building. The last time she was here, it was where she had taken the initiative to kiss that woman first. That woman, who was a tough shell to crack.

She who had decided to let her in of her own accord.

She…

Amy reached into her mind, struggling past the jumble of emotions and thoughts in her mind which was preventing her from thinking straight and have clearer thoughts—

Let go of the empty dreams (I don’t think so)

Don’t make me spit out the poison (I don’t think so)

You’ll never have me again (I don’t think so)

Shut up and go away

A wave of agony crashed into her head with turbulence. It seemed that whenever she tried to remember her name, all that would come out would be a headache, or worse, migraines. She had been lost in her emotions that she couldn’t remember who her significant other was.

Yes. She had been her lover. The love of her life. The one who had that tough eggshell to crack and finally let her in. The only human she’d ever accepted back then.

“Adrian finds solace in the company of others. I find it in solitude.”

Amy’s eyes drifted to the pool next to her.

“Swimming here alone, under the stars…it brings me peace.”

“But you invited me up here,” Amy pointed out.

Kamilah looked at the young woman pointedly, “So I did.”

Thousand nights, I repeated so many times

A vicious cycle of nightmares, I’ll end it now

As Amy stripped out of her clothes, she heard her own voice drift to her vampiric ears, with a heightened sense of hearing.

“Hey, Amy…”

The turned-off exit light

Get away from me now

The water lapped at her arms as she slowly sunk into the depths of the pool. She allowed the cool and calming waters to seep into her skin, the lazy waves of her amber hair. If only the memories could wash away just like the water does to Amy.

She knew she couldn’t turn back time. But her, with so much power, she should have that power to turn back time. Back to the first generation of Bloodkeepers, and end them. So that none of this would happen.

But yet…

I’m sick of it

“You try so hard to play the big, bad villain. But your heart’s never been in it, has it?”

Ha! It’s enough

All the gibberish on my ear Imma let it blow

She felt a hand on her bare shoulder, as if her own self was just right next to her ear, deftly speaking those words.

“People have hurt you, haven’t they? They didn’t believe in you… They didn’t trust you… didn’t need you… left you.”

Amy swivelled her head to hiss and bare her fangs, but only stopped to find the reflection of herself that she saw in the bathroom mirror smirking wickedly at herself.

My five senses are focused on it, on edge

You come in and stir it up recklessly

“But did you ever stop to think… ” Dark-Amy tapped her chin thoughtfully. “…maybe they’re not the problem?”

Sure, it was her fault. Her fault that Rheya had returned because of everything that had happened with Gaius. Her fault that she had to be Turned because she was so important to a vampire who had loved and lost so much that she couldn’t bear to lose Amy. Her fault that she had to be a Bloodkeeper and that only amplified her powers after she became a vampire—

Amy riled for a punch at her alternate self. “Stop…stop it!”

Her reflection rippled as Amy’s fist passed through, leaving a gaping hole through her chest, but the image shifted, stitching herself back together. 

Dark-Amy mused. “Whoa! I didn’t know that this would get a rise out of you, but still…”

Amy pulled back her hand, sinking further back into the water. “When Serafine told me that there was a darkness in me… it was you, wasn’t it?”

“I’m surprised that it took this long for you to find out, Amy,” Dark-Amy examined her midnight-black fingernails, clicking her tongue. “I guess now that we’re vampires, everything seems clearer, doesn’t it?”

When I fall asleep with one eye open

You permeate without a sound, the phantom

Amy rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and eyed her alternate form. “What do you want from me?”

“While you tried to keep me low, I’ve obviously heard what you told Rheya and everything that had happened prior to us coming back to the apartment complex. I was just having my fun at the opera house when you and your doing-good decided to ruin the party.”

Amy only winced in return, then muttered, “I… I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Shadows curling around her body in tendrils, whisking away into the late night, Dark-Amy perched on top of one of the sun-tanning chairs along the edge of the pool and crossed her legs. “You just keep running away from reality, don’t you?” She sighed.

“There’s already one Rheya,” Amy grumbled. “We don’t need another one in New York City.”

I’m so sick and tired of it

When the light turns on, I hope you’re gone

“You, however,” Dark-Amy jutted a finger at Amy’s chest. “Are different from her. Because you are a do-gooder.”

“But—”

“Don’t you dare ‘but’ me, Ashryver,” Amy could see her dark self’s different coloured eyes; white on the right and the same cerulean blue of her own on the left. “We’re 23 years old and that beautiful hag is 3 centuries older than you. Of course you—we—can make a difference.”

You say it’s for me? (I don’t think so)

Who are you to snuggle in (I don’t think so)

Permeating deeply (I don’t think so)

I’m confused (I don’t think so)

“How?” Amy questioned.

Dark-Amy rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, huffing. “Do I really need to tell you, Ames? You have to accept me in order to keep moving on.”

The darkness. That was what she meant.

Amy swallowed past the lump that was formed in her throat. She knew what would happen if she’d succumb to the darkness that was lying dormant inside of her. That woman had told her of the countless horrors that she had to undergo because of the darkness that blinded her and soaked her in the blood which could metaphorically not be washed away.

What would happen to her if she were to do the same? Would she be the same person the others had seen her before Rheya came along and manipulated them at her whims?

“I just don’t know if I’m capable enough to do so,” Amy shrugged. She disappeared beneath the shimmering surface and reappeared a few metres away from the edge where she was sitting at with Dark-Amy. She slicked back her hair with a hand. “After all, I’m pretty much a baby still in vampire years. Most of my heart is still human.”

Take whatever (I don’t think so)

Don’t even be seen (I don’t think so)

You’ll never have me again (I don’t think so)

Stop your obsession

The shadows curling around Dark-Amy’s body twisted and receded, somehow as if in amusement. She stood up from her seat and walked across the surface of the water, before dropping to sit with her legs underneath her.

“You doubt yourself too much,” she scoffed, cracking her white coloured eye open. “I bet you hadn’t review what amazing shit you did in this past year after dragging yourself into this rabbit hole.”

Amy and the others had found the truth of who was behind the increase of Feral attacks last summer. She and the crew managed to beat the shit out of Gaius into the new Tree of Eternal Life. And also defeated a rogue group of vampires who were terrorizing both humans and vampires alike.

That was indeed a lot that she had managed to accomplish in almost a year, but it…didn’t feel enough to feel like it was a big deal.

Dark-Amy raised her hands in defence. “I’m not as bad as you would portray me to be, I’m not all those power-hungry bitches like a certain old hag we know. I’m part of you, which means your do-good would influence what I do as well.”

Thousand nights, I repeated so many times

A vicious cycle of nightmares, I’ll end it now

Amy chuckled softly, eyeing her duplicate. “Really?”

She groaned. “Spare me from the doing-good part please, it doesn’t go well with my personality and fashion choice, talk about resume too.”

“Like I will, you’re pretty unwilling.”

Dark-Amy’s lip ring glistened under the moonlight, small chains dangling from the rings. “Why did Adrian even hire you as his assistant where you could be a comedian like that comedian-turned-scriptwriter…what was his name again?”

Amy rolled her eyes in amusement. “Seth Levine?”

“Ah, yes,” Dark-Amy said. “But you get what I mean.”

The light version of herself looked away and stared at the horizon beyond these tall city buildings of New York. Of what it could be if everything was resolved. If everyone wasn’t under Rheya’s control, and most importantly, in her advantage.

“But…” Amy contemplated. “It feels like it’s a lot to take in. I’ve never let the darkness take over me like that. I’ve already heard countless stories of other people sharing to me their experiences. Makes my skin crawl.”

Dark-Amy laughed gruffly, before ruffling the top of Amy’s wet hair. “You’re just making excuses.”

The turned-off exit light

Get away from me now

Amy chuckled softly, a small smile tugging at the end of her lips. “You really aren’t that evil, a broody duplicate of me, huh?”

The white-haired woman mimicked barfing, smacking Amy’s bare back. “Please don’t. And also can you please get back into your clothes? You’re gonna catch a cold and we’re gonna be one step behind in trying to stop Rheya.”

After much convincing, Amy was dried off with one of the towels lying behind the bar and back into her dry clothes and standing next to her supposed ‘evil’ doppelganger. Both of them stared down at the New York City nightlife. 

“So you’ve been lying in all of the Bloodkeepers of all of my ancestors?”

“Pretty much,” Dark-Amy had her arms dangling over the railings. “I would only be awakened if any of them happened to be Turned into vampires, which in that case, didn’t happen until you. You’re the first Bloodkeeper to be Turned.”

“That’s why when my blood and hers fused…”

“You became Rheya’s equal,” Dark-Amy finished her sentence. “That’s why she wanted you specifically out of your quintet. She keeps saying you’re special, it’s because you’re her equal.”

That darkness. The one standing right next to her, it also blinded Rheya and thus straying her from the path to justice when she had claimed that she didn’t want to rule as a Goddess over Mydiea just as how the late King Kaelisus did. In the end, she still did, until her demise in what would be formally known as the Tomb of the First.

“If you accept me,” Dark-Amy said, still looking down at the streets. “Your mind will be cleared and you’ll be able to remember things… the people whom you deeply care for.”

That beautiful woman crossed her mind again. But without a headache this time.

Amy turned to face Dark-Amy squarely with resolution. Without hesitation.

“Alright, I’ll accept you.”

“Good, then take my hand.”

The shadows coiling and shifting around her arm seemed to grow stronger as Amy reached her hand forward. “Remember, relax as I merge myself with you. If you happen to hesitate or lose focus, I would only feed on your fear, anger and… you know the consequences already.”

Amy didn’t need her to mention it twice. She’d heard enough.

“Alright, then hang on tight, me.”

Blacken my heart,

Creepin’ dark night,

Stainin’ my soul

When I open my eyes like yet I’m still asleep,

Amy felt overwhelmed immediately as her darkness converged on her senses like a stampede, but there was a constant calm presence, probably from her doppelganger, soothing her nerves as the process took place. 

She could feel the dark aura coiling around her limbs, her torso, its tendrils an anchor to hold her down. Then, the change came. She felt it; in the roots of her hair, the muscles in her body, and her five senses all returning, but clearer.

Amy was then brought to a white coloured space, with Dark-Amy on her opposite end, shadows curling in tendrils off her body as usual. 

There were images—memories—floating around them. Her memories, all from the day where Amy had first met Adrian Raines for the job interview. And there was her first meeting… with what would be the former Council members, Lester Castellanos, and her.

Amy still couldn’t bring herself to remember her name.

“Your emotions are still in the way of your memories,” Dark-Amy’s voice echoed, but yet she didn’t speak verbally. “Allow me to resolve that for you.”

Amy closed her eyes and braced herself for the impending wave of darkness that came at her.

The sudden goosebumps and its clear traces,

And the names on the ground that are owned by no one

Call out, dance tonight

Say it what you like

She felt a dark presence worming into her head again, and a memory flashed before her eyes.

Amy was back in the conference room again, and she peered into the box that held two gifts from Adrian to his fellow Council members. She picked up the bejewelled scarab and faced toward the woman.

Then, the words just rolled off her tongue of familiarity.

“This scarab is for Kamilah Sayeed.”

The image shifted again.

The times we were

Happy together, I know

They were in Kamilah’s apartment, with the former carrying Amy in her arms in a spin as they laughed happily. As they slowed down, they came together in a passionate kiss as Kamilah dipped her low, when Amy noticed the gleaming bands on each of their left ring fingers.

This wasn’t a memory. This was a vision of the future.

I have to end them now

Forget everything yeah

God before she could even relish herself in the small moment of happiness, she was wrenched back to reality again.

As the blinding light receded, her first instinct was to reach her lower lip, where the cold metal of Dark-Amy’s lip ring laid pierced through her flesh. A hand through her hair confirmed that it was not her amber-coloured hair but moon-white instead. And her sleeves and pants definitely felt tighter than before. Must be the increase in muscle definition.

She also felt much looser than she was an hour ago. No more strained muscles, tight knots in her back. No more migraines and headaches.

It all happened in a blink, barely giving her any time to react.

As her hand reached out to catch a familiar ornate dagger which whirred towards her back.

Amy’s eyes sank into the intricate patterns of the metal hilt, as they disappeared into the silver blade. The ruby engraved on top of the hilt gleamed under the moonlight as she ran the cold, sharpened blade along her tongue, spinning on one heel to face the owner of the dagger.

Lavender, laced with cedarwood. That was what her scent was. She committed it to memory, ever since she was Turned. She took advantage of her heightened sense of smell to commit her beloved’s scent to memory. It was engraved in her mind.

“Amy?” 

You say you know me? (I don’t think so)

Who are you to snuggle in (I don’t think so)

You cover my eyes (I don’t think so)

You cover up the truths (I don’t think so)

Kamilah Sayeed’s hostile expression immediately morphed into that of wariness, disbelief and shock. “I heard a faint heartbeat from my office and footsteps as well. I thought it was an intruder, considering it being out in the open, but I didn’t expect it to be you.”

Amy chuckled, tossing her now white hair behind her shoulder as she flicked her wrist where her hand held the dagger. It was as if her dark counterpart was taking the reins of her body. Since she trusted her from the conversation they’ve had and how tired she was, Amy trusted her to take over for a while.

“You shouldn’t be here, Kamilah,” sadness and fatigue filtered into her tone. “Not after what happened tonight.”

“I’m real, Amy. I’m here.”

Let go of the empty dreams (I don’t think so)

Don’t make me spit out the poison (I don’t think so)

You’ll never have me again (I don’t think so)

Shut up and go away

Amy shook her head. “How am I supposed to know that you’re being manipulated by her?” She lied. “How am I supposed to know that you worship me more than you do to her?”

Kamilah Sayeed wasn’t with her. She clearly saw and felt what happened at the opera house. Amy nearly puked while remembering the sea of crimson red which coated the seats and the stage and basically…everywhere.

Even if she could still feel the long years of Kamilah’s life still wrapped around her.

Thousand nights, I repeated so many times

A vicious cycle of nightmares, I’ll end it now

Kamilah opened her arms. “That’s for you to find out.”

The turned-off exit light

Get away from me now

“No, no, no, no, no…” Amy felt her chest starting to get tighter, her breath coming in short as she tried to stabilise herself. “No… you aren’t real. I saw what happened… I killed everyone, because… no…” A growl escaped her throat as she struggled to fight back her tears.

Amy suddenly hated the way that sadness and pain, filled her hazel brown eyes. She should be the one feeling those. She was sure she didn’t see things.

She was still hyperventilating, murmuring under her breath still as she hurriedly turned on her heel to leap off the rooftop, but a pair of strong arms managed to hold her in place.

There was that scent again. Intoxicating and inviting.

“Get…away…from me,” Amy resisted, growling through gritted teeth. “Get…away from me!”

Kamilah still didn’t let go as Amy thrashed harder this time, bellowing.

“Let me go!”

One night what I saw in the darkness

Was the strange shadow that chased me after

“Amy!” She heard her darkness calling out to her in her ears, ringing like church bells. “You have to stop resisting. I already ran my aura over her, and she’s here for good, not under Rheya’s orders!”

No… I know how Rheya hides the fact that she manipulates people. Kamilah died right in front of my eyes. This… this isn’t real, it must be a ruse to get me sabotaged.

“Please, Amy, habibti,” Kamilah whispered softly into Amy’s hair. “I promise I’m not here to hurt you. Please… “

“Amy, you have to listen to her. I already know that she’s speaking the truth, now it’s just you who has to believe her.”

The turned-on exit light

It’s me looking at myself in the mirror

Hot tears were already streaming down Amy’s cheeks as she thrashed and screamed in Kamilah’s arms, with the latter’s cheek pressed to the top of Amy’s head with her eyes closed.

As if she already knew that everything would be okay.

Get away from me

“Get away from me!” Amy screamed, her voice rasping with a choked sob. “Please… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Nonsense, you would never,” Kamilah said. “Because you know who you care for, Amy Ashryver.”

Disappear

Her full name seemed to awaken her, as her screams and cries of protest slowly died down, sinking slowly into the older woman’s arms.

Get away from me

As she broke down completely into Kamilah Sayeed’s embrace.

[momma-mogai-sphinx]

hi! i’m a 15 y/o lesbian who’s really struggling with her identity. my dad and siblings both disagree with the idea of gay marriage and i feel pretty rejected. i keep wondering if i’m just faking my sexuality for attention, even though i know i’m not. i feel weird and abnormal, and worst of all, my friends think it’s trendy and funny to be apart of the lgbtqia community when it comes with a lot of struggles. could i possibly get some positivity or kind words? or a way to feel better? ty. 💞

I have a few things I could share, actually…

I definitely understand how it is you might be feeling right now, so let me tell you—as someone who grew up in quite the inhospitable home, in a wildly homophobic town, who continues to live happily in said town despite all the odds—it can get better.

I know that can be hard to believe sometimes. I know there are things in your life which are far out of your control; systems that you might not understand, but which have a powerful effect, not only on how much you’re allowed to do and say before your identity is called into question, but also on the very course and structure of life itself. I know it can be suffocating and feel like there’s no escape. I know following the axiom “work hard and have good morals” to a t will never be enough to grant you your personhood in the face of blind bigotry.

But let me tell you why holding on is worth it.

It can be exhausting to be endlessly scrutinized by “normal” society. A single slip up could have you mercilessly questioned on the basis of whichever marginalized identity they decide is going to be society’s downfall today (one that could be and often is largely irrelevant to whatever situation led you to such a discussion to begin with). One false move might see you kicked to the curb (or worse) by your so-called “allies,” your friends and family when they deem you too low in the social hierarchy to risk their image. When you try to argue for or against something, they will see you as nothing more than your marginalized identity, see you as a spokesperson for others who share this identity. And they will use this not only as a way to dismiss you as foolish and “backwards,” but as a means to bully and harass you into complete silence.

It can be frustrating to be erased. When you find a character in a work of fiction that you see a lot of yourself in and headcanon them as sharing an identity with you, they’ll ask, “Why does everything have to be about you?” “Why do you have to make it political?” “Quit sexualizing them, they’re a child!” They ignore the fact that your group has gotten next to no representation in the past (and that you can’t influence the text just by having a headcanon); they fail to see the problem in politicizing someone else’s identity when they’re just trying to be; while they get to flaunt their sexuality around and have it catered to wherever they go, you can’t even mention the fact that you’re of a marginalized orientation without being demonized for it. And when you try to bring any of these things up and discuss how and why they should be changed to give people of all marginalized orientations and gender identities a fair share of the “privilege?” They say, “You have marriage equality and can identify as whatever gender you claim to be. What more could you possibly want? Why are you asking for all these special privileges?”

And, because of all of this, it can be infuriating to be right. It can be maddening to know that, no matter where you go, there will be people with their “hot takes,” prepared to tell you (or, rather, other bigots who already share their opinion of you) why your identity is “a phase”; why it’s sinful or perverse; or even why it can be reasonably commodified for the consumption of another group that doesn’t understand your struggle one bit (and largely doesn’t care to). And their audience will nod along, taking notes on how to “debate” those nasty SJWs and secretly feeling validated in their sheer contempt for those fellow human beings who don’t fit their preconceived notions of what is good and natural. They’ll be told that, when you speak up and point out how there are many examples of people happily identifying as non-straight and/or non-cis for most of their lives (and that it really shouldn’t matter to them whether or not some teen they’ve never met is questioning their identity), they can make leaps in logic to show how “gay marriage is just a ploy to destroy the family and western ideals! We have to stamp the gay out of these kids before they get indoctrinated!” and then show you some bunk statistics about cis people who detransitioned or something (something that really doesn’t matter, given the fact that plenty of trans people are much happier living as their actual gender). When you explain that they shouldn’t be using their religion to justify hatred of an entire group of people, and that calling someone’s identity sinful isn’t much of an argument since you (likely) don’t share the same principles of morality, they’ll gaslight you and say you’re against freedom of speech and freedom of religion (ignoring how such notions have historically been used to enact physical violence against groups whose very existence they disagree with, without ever asking, “Who’s silencing whom?”). When you try to explain how homosexuality is perfectly normal and the existence of trans and nonbinary people is just a side effect of building a complex society that puts value in both emphasizing personal identity and categorizing patterns… When you try to explain why consuming queer media without having at least a semblance of understanding of queer struggles… When you try to explain why all of this can make being queer dreadful at times–not because of anything inherently wrong with us, but because of the way society alienates, silences, and enables violence toward us–and that our “pride” comes from a place of resistance against it all and not because being queer is “cool” and fun… They will not listen.

But there is relief. From all of this.

There is solace in knowledge, comfort in history. When you find yourself in times of despair; when you wonder whether or not it’s worth it pressing onward, knowing how much suffering there is to come…

Remember where you are. You are a young branch atop an oak tree that is both vast and timeless. The tree needs you to survive. As you stretch your wanting leaves toward sun, you may forget that, far below you, there are roots, ever-boring their way deeper into the earth. For as long as this tree has tasted the sunlight, it has been anchoring itself into the soils of time. The roots refuse to be forgotten. When the sun feels like a lifetime away, remember the roots. Remember where you came from.

You come from fire, an untamable flood. You’re descended of wild spirits, unrelenting.

Their Excellence is in you.

Before you is a legacy of roaring lions. After you? That’s for you to decide.

Let your exhaustion be a name. When society tries to dictate who you’re allowed to be, be uncompromising. Refuse to be silent about who you really are.

Let your frustration be a voice. Make art, make music. Tell your story. Refuse to have your struggles erased.

As fury entwines itself with passion, you will become unbreakable as you are unsilenceable.

Emboldened. Empassioned. Empowered.

And when you tire, come to the fountain of knowledge and drink. Know their names, know their stories. Know your roots.

Know Marsha P. Johnson.

Know Silvia Rivera.

Know Harvey Milk.

Know Gilbert Baker.

Know Karl Heinrich Ulrichs.

Know Michael Dillon.

Know Lili Elbe.

Know Lucy Hicks Anderson.

Know Christine Jorgensen.

Know Bayard Rustin.

Know Magnus Hirschfeld.

Know Simon Nkoli.

Know Ifti Nasim.

Know Jason Jones.

Know Barbara Gittings.

Know Audre Lorde.

Know Angelica Ross.

Know Emil Wilbekin.

Know Frida Kahlo.

Know Nancy Cárdenas.

Know Your History. Know how Far we’ve Come.

-

And, look. No one expects you to be passionate at every stage of the game. You don’t have to be the paradigm of the perfect activist every second of the day. You’re allowed to just be exhausted and need a break to recharge. You’re allowed to just be frustrated when people treat you like you’re a representative of the entire LGBTQ community and expect you to know everything about our history and be able to recite all of our “policies.” Never forget that just being you is powerful enough.

Hell, you’re even allowed to feel sometimes that it’s hopeless and wonder if there’s even a point to all this work we’ve done if bigotry still prevails. But what’s important to understand is that is that how you feel and what is true—while both very real and very important to your lived experience and absolutely worth taking seriously—are not one in the same. You may feel that there is no purpose in continuing on with what seems to be a never-ending fight; but know that there is a community, all around you. There are ears to listen, hearts to sympathize, words to encourage, and hands to guide. It may get dark, may become hard to see the way forward. But it’s okay to cry out into the darkness and watch it illuminate with love and compassion and understanding. We are here.

-

There’s a GSA at the school at which I work, and one thing I always try to tell the students who attend about is (what I like to call) “The Breath of Absolute Clarity.” Unlearning the lies we’ve been taught from birth and learning ourselves is a long and arduous process, one that may take even a lifetime. But in every story I’ve ever heard about a queer person accepting themselves (including my own), there is always described this moment; this one instance (or perhaps several) of perfect understanding of oneself. For some, it can be a spiritual experience, tied to their religious beliefs. For others, it can be seen as a moment of self-actualization—where the turmoil of human existence ceases its chaotic chorus, if only for a second, leaving nothing but the sound of a beating heart. Whenever and wherever this moment comes to you, whatever you see, however it must happen… You will know. In this moment, you will know, beyond any feasible shadow of a doubt, Who You Are.

This moment will not last. It is not unquestionable. You may forget it in your darkest times. But if you really try to hold onto it, it will come back to you. Like a towering tsunami, it will invade your senses so completely, you will know as intimately and as viscerally as the human mind can comprehend anything what it is to be unapologetically you.

This moment is not the be-all-end-all of understanding yourself, but it is a start. It’s the moment where questioning and certainty are no longer mutually exclusive; where not having all the answers doesn’t equate to a dizzying network of what-ifs; where you understand just being is enough. Maybe you’ll wake up one morning, years in the future, and your partner will be laying in bed next to you, and you’ll think to yourself, “They know me.” And in a single breath, you will feel absolute clarity.

-

So, with all of that said, I hope your takeaway here can be this:

You are more than the lies and the misunderstandings about your identity.

More than a cog in a monstrous machine.

More than the exhaustion and frustration you feel in the face of unyielding bigotry.

More than the questions you have about yourself.

More than even the history and the legacies that precede you.

You are a human being

You are not broken

You are not worthless

You are not a disappointment just for being you.

But above all this, the one thing I want you to know is that

***TL;DR***

You Are Not Alone.

Just keep holding on. Things can change if you just keep holding on.

[emmyewesseyesee]

mura masa & charli xcx – “1 night”

this feels somehow very modern young britain right now both in its audio-visual capacity but also its efficient ability to convey the current sense of temporary stasis and inertia – that feeling of being caught somewhere between looking back with fondness and sentimentality to times on or before that “1 night” and starting to tentatively regain our movement and rediscover our humour to inspire us to move forward and continue to create with renewed confidence, fresh invention and shared belief.

in this uncertain space we find ourselves on the one hand treading extra-carefully around one another, and on the other holding, cradling and comforting each other in an attempt to protect ourselves from the fears and demons that might lie beyond the humble cocoons of our baths, our beds and our rooms, worrying that we might never be able to truly trust nor step outside again.

mura masa and charli xcx’s stunning music set to yoni lappin’s most tender images captures this search for connection perfectly. the opening music-box chimes and vinyl crackle present a fragility that’s matched by the detachment of feeling hopeless and alone in the face of the brooding bass-lines and cold exteriors of the outside world, and how we seek solace, no matter how cautiously, in each other. act two sees la xcx enter the frame to help us reacquaint ourselves with our surroundings, to newly find our feet and begin to repair and re-learn our purpose through the power of movement, kisses and a single flame. in turn, the accompaniment begins to open up chinks of light and space between the individual bass notes making them seem altogether less daunting.

this culminates in one of the finest releases in music this year, four echo-toms giving way to a super-smart, exquisitely crafted second of taut rolling drum breakdown and quick-spliced retrospection. as a chorus, it is utterly revelatory in its idealist conception, and sees us able to smile again, to smoke again, to share again, to once more brave the concrete streets with our puffer-jacket protection and inscrutable pout. while still tinged with melancholia, musically it’s completely uplifting with the mischievous play of beats and bass finally realised and matched by the emancipatory bounce in the steel drums and reinvigorating joy of the “oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh” chant. 

throughout all this, you sense it’s charli’s sheer indomitable spirit, her infectious energy and enthusiasm, her tenacious delivery and determination, her bright and perceptive storytelling, her resolute and refreshing sonic siren that provide us with a focus, a constant, and somehow carry the hopes of young britain on their collective broad shoulders. it’s almost as if xcx is the “don’t be scared, things’ll be ok” reassuring mantra we all need deep down to hold things together and enable us to emerge on the other side both buoyed and unscathed.

this combination of mura masa’s finger-click crisp and savvy production with charli xcx’s incisive songwriting and lyrical brass have delivered one of the best tunes of the year bar none. it’s a perfect balance of alienation and affection, of outer darkness and inner radiance, of past present and future, and while restless and detached at its inception, it’s ultimately tender and caring in its outlook. as a celebration of the human condition, it is indeed a beautiful thing, and credit must go to yoni lappin and his wider creative team for so wonderfully realising such a pertinent, timely and salutary tale of good and gentle if flawed people taking time to look out for one another. heaven knows, we could all do with a bit of that right now.

[filmsisnice]

                                           If Beale Street Could Talk

Published by Scannain

“Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up.” -  James Baldwin

Maybe it’s the light, the light that bathes these bodies in fonts of colour, sculpting skin into marble and characters into monuments of love and resilience.  Maybe it’s the camera, though restless and hungry it too can pull a face into focus, from faces of grace to those that provoke us.  And just when we feel the chorus of strings lifting us toward an indescribable splendor it’s the sound of brass that rumbles, sinking us into melancholy’s familiar melody.  If Beale Street Could Talk seeps into the soul in such inexplicable ways.  It’s a film which doesn't shout yet is undeniably clear in what it wants to say.  It may not be as bold as its predecessor but daring in its nuanced delicacy where it’s within the expressions of light we find an everlasting warmth.

There’s a certain tenderness radiating through Barry Jenkins’ work to date.  From his assured feature debut, Medicine for Melancholy (2008), to his electrifying chronicle of masculinity in Moonlight (2016), the director’s cinema crafts an open hand grasping for a grip in the dark, where characters and audiences alike seek to find a solace in its enchanted embrace.  If Beale Street Could Talk (adapted from Baldwin’s book of the same name) continues this approach, taking us all the way back to 1970s Harlem where we follow Tish (KiKi Layne) and Fonny (Stephan James), childhood friends who fall in love as young adults.  Inseparable and unwavering, their bond is tested when Fonny is falsely imprisoned for rape.  Pregnant with his child, Tish, along with her family, must rally to prove his innocence.  

To focus on the film’s plot is to swim against the lyrical current sweeping undertow.  It’s only by detaching oneself from the broad strokes that we begin to revel in the many subtle touches rippling throughout the film and soak in the resonance beneath the text.  As simple as a knowing glance or a perfectly placed prop, there’s an ever-glowing intimacy flickering between light and shade, one which imbues the camera with a richness of spirit through history’s haunted memory.  Our characters are trapped, not only in the cell of circumstance but in the sliver of liberty a shallow depth of field can provide where the frame can seal periphery alongside a familiar fate.  Pools of autumn hues fill the screen with cosy palettes of red, gold and green.  But the sense of an approaching winter needles through the narrative, and while characters insulate their souls we’re reminded of the inevitable struggle to find hope in a hopeless system.

The score too weaves a bittersweet trance, strings and horns conjure sounds as if forgotten harmonies you’d swear you've heard before.  But it’s the cast that hit the highest notes, and much like Moonlight, it’s the supporting players whose performances resonate the most. Colman Domingo, as Tish’s father is a joy to watch while Brian Tyree Henry, with only a couple of scenes manages to echo in our minds long after the credits roll.  Faces of quiet strength is what we see again and again, closeups that lock eyes and throw away the keys. The way Regina King or KiKi Layne can hold our gaze is both powerful and paralyzing, as if we've been drafted into a scene only to miss our cue and all we can do now is look and listen, peeking into the infinite depths of the human face.

Though mesmerizing the film can remain too faithful to the novel at times, leaving dialogue sounding like dialogue, constructed and at odds with the emotional pull of a scene.  At Its best it works as a collage of shuffled memories slipping back and forward through time to untangle our preconceptions.  When introduced to Fonny we’re not told exactly what crime he has been accused of, Jenkins doesn't allow us to label him as a criminal but asks us to connect with the boy, the artist, the soon to be father.  

That humanist approach is what makes Jenkins’ worlds so compelling.  There’s no happy endings here, or climatic twists but a sober reminder that the american dream is a dream deferred for many. A period piece whose themes of racial politics are forever contemporary, If Beale Street Could Talk finds an intimate space between shades of heartbreak, a space where both love and pain coexist to form hope.