#Project Lonel

[tryingtimi]

51 for the spotty ask game! @bloodlessheirbyjacques <3

Okay, this one is a bit different, because I realised that this piece I once wrote (and you already read, love) to @the-wip-project's #60daysshortstory challange was inspired by this song. I logged my progress, but never posted the finished piece because it needs polishing. But, you know what? Here it is anyway.

SHORT STORY | TW: GORE | HORROR | WC: 1,417

Flesh was never meant for worship. Belief could not live in one meant to rot and wither — or simply change. Everything that was born foul has been conceived in change. Shifting darkness, deforming forms, corrupted souls. The dead of the night brought the most viles alive, Amity knew it well from all the tales in town. Still, she questioned whether all change was meant to be from the Devil. 

Nightfall hung heavy from the horizon over the main street. 

Blackened blue sky waved above Amity, no stars spotting it at all. She turned around, making sure nothing and no one was following. A flower crown hugged her head, one dear Meredith made her as a token of their friendship. She said it would bring her luck on the hunt for a partner. 

Amity held her basket tighter. 

The Moonrise Festival never meant as much to her as it did to her friend and mother. However, what they treasured, she did too. They needed it to soothe their worries, letting them dream at night without terrors seeping inside. It was the only change that was celebrated in her community. 

And celebrate they did, filling the street with booths full of fruity sweets, charm-sellers and drumming melodies. The wind tapped the lanterns hanging on every house, gently swinging them before carved wooden wolf masks over the entrances.

Amity walked behind a reeking cart, staying at the perimeter of the forest and the Festival. She listened to the people talking, thumping their feet to the ground around the bonfire nearby, sharing candid apples and decorating themselves with charms. The symbols that kept away the spawns of night, creatures that stole children and roamed to destroy without control or satisfaction. She knew the stories, but Meredith feared them. As did most of the folk. 

She clutched her basket, following a familiar chestnut hair in the crowd. Amity wasn’t too eager to celebrate anything — it was her first time attending such an event. The townsfolk had never been a bad lot, but they could be much. Therefore, with so many people around she stayed in the forest’s solidarity just a little longer. 

The house’s wall she was ducked behind was cold under her touch, her eyes carefully watching Meredith laughing with a girl from church. She leaned back a little to keep herself in the shadows, and her hand found paper along the damp plank’s surface. Tattered edges — as if age would have already been feasting on it — embraced a drawing made of charcoal, depicting a missing child. A little girl, barely old enough to count properly.  

Amity raised her fingers to the wooden claw pendant she kept around her neck, the same as Meredith’s or the girl’s. It should have meant protection from night creatures and bad omens. 

She walked the half-lit, half-shadowed grassland that lay parallel to the street her friend was taking. Would Meredith like her gift? She enjoyed surprises, that much Amity knew. Yet, her basket hung awkwardly between her fingers. 

The moon’s silver shine barely flickered between two clouds as they were still some hours before midnight. 

Amity should have joined them. All the preparations, Meredith’s luring, her mother’s encouraging talks. It would all be for nothing if she would decide not to show. Yet, her ears trembled from the windchimes over the porches, and her heart drummed in the embrace of her ribcage. Every hollow-eyed wooden mask watched her movements from the houses. 

The forest was oddly quiet as she walked. The celebration probably sent the animals away, every deeply booming drumbeat coming from the bonfire echoing through the blackness of the woods. 

Amity’s mother appeared beside Meredith and the girl. They greeted each other warmly, clearly whispering a prayer at the end. Their smiles hid their fear. Amity knew. One knew well there was no greater threat to a lurking devil than a celebration of their divinity, yet it never came without risk. They left the threshold of change; staying out after dusk, marching towards the true transformation with the deepening night. 

Nothing could be as powerful as the fullest of the Moon. 

Amity cocked her head, slipping over to a barber shop’s porch. The church girl’s hair billowed in the lantern’s light as her mother caressed her head. Meredith’s eyes shone at them softly, and her sunflower scent reached even Amity too. They stopped to admire the wooden figurines in a shop, sour-smelling bouquets and dried fruit decorations adorning a stand beside them. 

Amity smelled blood. 

The music pounded around her like a beating heart, crackling fire changing the air. Ash danced towards the starless black sky, twirling and spinning as the singing bunch. It grew louder and louder, perfect unison empowering the rhythm. Amity took a step closer towards Meredith. She awaited her, just like her mother. Their heart would never change, as change was from the Devil. 

They would never change, would they?

A foul stench circulated in the air. Burned meat, sweet meat, sour blood, a never-worshipped flesh totem — a body. Many bodies. Amity heard the laughter. Amity heard the screams. 

Screams.

Screams? 

She faced Meredith, wide-eyed, looking right into her face. She enjoyed surprises, yet she didn’t glance at her gift from Amity. Why didn’t she?

Amity glared at her basket that was full of flowers for Meredith’s crown. Her basket that was full of blood, severed limbs and guts. 

She dropped it so hard that everything spilt onto the porch’s wood. Strong-scented, ironic blood seeped inside the cracks, dripping to the earth below. 

What was happening?

 Amity choked on a growing lump in her throat, when Meredith fell to her knees with her mother and the girl. A terrible claw mark opened up her friend’s belly to spill out her insides, right beside the girl’s severed head. Amity’s mother didn’t stay recognisable. 

Nightfall hung heavy from the horizon over the main street. 

Blackened blue sky waved above Amity as she ran. She turned around, making sure no one was following, yet she knew there was someone. A blood-soaked, half-flower crown hugged her head, bone chips dangling before her eyes. Her panting drummed in her chest just like the drums sometimes ago. Wetness soaked her face, tears streaking down on stained cheeks. 

She ran and ran. There was no escape from the unchanging Moon, and the slowly brightening landscape littered with horribly butchered corpses. The wooden wolf masks growled and snarled at Amity, the wind chiming along with their voices. 

Loud sobbing erupted from her throat as she panted. 

A noise that was identical to the wolf masks’. 

Her legs nearly gave up, sore and dragged through the pooling bloodriver around her. She screamed as she recoiled from something rock solid with a grumbling bang. Skin peeling from knees, she crawled to the wall. The wall, that wasn’t wood or stone. Her nails scraped at it, popping from her fingers like rust from iron. So smooth and white it was, Amity whimpered. It was just like a skull. 

Then, her hand found a hole. Quaking, and rumbling. Screaming and splashing crimson. She glanced back at the too-quickly changing — falling into ruin town. She couldn’t watch it anymore, so she turned to the hole and looked inside. 

The charcoal child looked back. 

A scraped-up black mass, that was snatched away from a home in the middle of the night. A little body, that bore the Devil’s work — changing every night when the Moon bloated to the fullest on the sky. Amity watched the charcoal figure distort into a terrible wolf, one that stalked a similar girl like her, and a woman with no children. Fire crackled and feet tumped at the drum beats. The creature prowled around the houses, watching them while snatching and devouring everything around them one by one. Meredith and mother. Those were the names it gave them. 

The names she gave them.

Amity watched her claws rip a priest apart on the main street. Her lungs blazed from the scream-like howl that escaped her ears and crawled into her throat. However she trashed and clawed at the skull’s bone, she couldn’t stop herself. There was nothing she could do. The wolf was out, and feasting like the townsfolk always feared. The one they were terrified of, yet revered just like the Moon. 

But flesh was never meant for worship. Belief could not live in one meant to rot and wither — or simply change. Everything that was born foul has been conceived in change. 

Just like Amity. 

[snehithiye]

sami salivates (recommending some vampiric vibes)

hello blood bags, it is time for season 2 of sami screams into the void about wips she's definitely insane for. I have bitten the inside of my cheek and i keep tasting blood, so in honour of my oncoming week of mouth ulcer pain, we're doing vampire recs! as always, if you think i've captured the vibes wrong or you'd just like your work removed, please just dm!

Project Honeymoon by @macabremoons evil vampires and deals with the devil?? highkey rumpelstiltskin folktale vibes! lots of trickery and an absolute treat

Saints of Nothing at all by @glam-pir okay we're going vampire vibes remember and nothing serves vampy campy like jennifer's body meets heathers in dark academia! i am seated and you should be too

Lethal Bloods by @maguayans is blood thicker than water? do you like your vampire horror served with a good ol' side of this family is cray-cray? this is the wip for you!

Sanguine Express by @faelanvance was this in my last recommendation post? yes. am i going to shut up about it until everyone who follows me checks it out? no.

Lonel by @tryingtimi wizards of waverly place season three finale selenators, have i got a treat for you hehehe. vampires vs werewolves hnnngh slay slay slaughter slurp blood NOT TO MENTION this also has bffs to lovers??? sold

[nevebennett-viscom]

lifestyle of potential target audiences - these are my key insights, contemporary, statistical, secondary and data anaylsis research, after research all of these elements, these are the key insights shaping my project.

7/3/24

money, spend on a magazine, buy a magazine?? what do they use? social media, prioritising their money on mortgages etc etc

do they have children?? not want children? what kind of travelling do they want to do.

a key point is raised here https://www.statista.com/statistics/1087669/share-of-individuals-taking-overseas-holidays-uk-by-age-group/#:~:text=Over%20the%20period%20considered%2C%20surveyed,group%20taking%20an%20overseas%20vacation.

Over the period considered, surveyed Britons aged 25 to 34 years vacationed abroad the most, with 62 percent of respondents from this age group taking an overseas vacation.7 Sept 2023

In 2021, the average age of mothers who gave birth in England and Wales increased to 30.9 years, while the average age of fathers remained at 33.7 years. (ONS)

Magazines reached nearly 28 million people aged 35+ and newsbrands reached just over 33 million out of a total adult population of 67.1 million.

Magazines and news brands reached nearly 26 million and 30 million in the ABC1 bracket, whereas in the C2DE demographic, magazine brands reached 14 million people and newsbrands reached 17 million.

People over 35 were also more likely to access this content. Content from newsbrands was read by 33 million people in this demographic, and from people between 15-34 newsbrands were read by nearly 14 million people.

Younger Gen Xers — ages 35-44 — spend the most out of all the groups on housing and groceries, whereas older Gen Xers — ages 45-54 — spend the most on utilities. however this data is less useful since it is american data

25-34-year-olds make up the largest proportion of magazine readers, followed by 18-24-year-olds and 35-44-year-olds. This provides an insight into which age group is most likely to read magazines, which can help publishers target their content and advertising to the most relevant age group.

New data from Zip, a ‘buy now pay later’ service, reveals the average Brit is spending nearly a third of their holiday money on items and treatments before even boarding.

Despite the prevalence of digital resources, sales of printed travel guides in the USA totaled over $124 million last year, marking a 5% increase from 2016. This resurgence follows a period of decline, with sales dropping over 40% from 2005 to 2011 before stabilizing. Stephen Mesquita, a travel guide consultant, notes that 2017 saw the best sales in over a decade, suggesting a renewed appreciation for printed guides among travellers. Mesquita attributes this to travellers recognszing the unique value that printed guides offer as part of their information mix.

This is a contemporasry exmaple of guide books in a more formal fashion and design. it combines the sightseeing element of trip advisor as well as having added elements to help you plan your trip. This is useful as it shows you can have a combination of these to make it successful, and there is a gap still in this market for those who want a physical copy of this kind of thing as opposed to being online all the time.

[thebandcampdiaries]

Mou5EmO is back with a one-of-a-kind  piece of music titled "Lonely Drive" (Featuring Mou5ZyZZ)

May 2023 - Mou5EmO is an artist with a focus on creating music that sets the bar higher in terms of genre variety and compositional creativity. The pulsating beats and hypnotic rhythms will undoubtedly transport the audience to another world, where people can lose themselves in the music and dance the night away. This song has a distinctive psychedelic quality, with trippy sound effects and swirling synths that add to the otherworldly atmosphere, perfectly resembling the mood of driving alone, perhaps at night, with nothing but the road, the faraway lights of the city, and the music blasting out of the speakers.

"Lonely Drive" is energetic and uplifting, but there is still a very immersive, very ethereal side to the arrangement. The sound of this track is characterized by its fast tempo and driving bass line. In addition to the driving beat, the song offers soaring melodies and ethereal pads that add so much texture and atmosphere to contrast the speed and intensity of the groove. The pulsing bassline and intricate percussion create a very strong yet surprisingly mesmerizing groove.

The big sawtooth-style synth leads, in particular, soar through the instruments beautifully, establishing themselves as the leading component in the mix bit without overpowering the rest of the song. At the same time, the instrumental is also very balanced, showcasing some incredibly dynamic parts and a melodic backdrop that really adds more ambiance and personality to this track overall. The composition consists of many layers of electronic sounds and captivating melodies that are strikingly cinematic. This makes for a very rich and dynamic sonic landscape. 

There's something undeniably liberating about taking a solo drive. The open road spreads out ahead of you, offering a sense of freedom and possibility that's hard to find anywhere else. As you leave your worries behind and hit the gas, it's like shedding the weight of the world and embracing the present moment. Of course, driving alone isn't just a physical act - it's also a powerful metaphor for leaving behind the things that hold us back. Whether it's a toxic relationship, a dead-end job, or just the weight of our own anxieties, sometimes we need to step away from it all and just breathe. This powerful song actually captures the feeling of absolute perfection! "Lonely Drive" will hopefully leave the audience feeling inspired and invigorated because it packs so much punch and a lot of fantastic energy.

To add to that, the collaboration with Mou5ZyZZ is also really spot-on, as it actually feels like a perfect match with the overall mood of this track. In addition, there is something mysterious at play here, as Mou5ZyZZ might or might not be Mou5EmO's trance alter-ego! Maintaining two different musical identities can be overwhelming: When you have a musical alter ego, it means that you have two different musical identities to uphold, so the idea of creating a collaboration with the alter-ego project is nothing short of genius! It really shows all the hard work, dedication, and talent that drives the artist's endeavors. "Lonely Drive" is indeed an amazing example of everything will fall into place when artists like Mou5EmO (and his Mou5ZyZZ) alter-ego put complete trust in the creative process of the production and simply let the music flow out of the soul tap in a very spontaneous and creative way.

In conclusion, "Lonely Drive" is a truly outstanding piece of music that should definitely be right up your alley if you do enjoy the work of artists such as Ghost Rider, Ranjii, and Astrix, only to mention a few. This track is really all about creating a high-energy and immersive experience for the listener. Whether you're dancing at a music festival or just listening at home, this "Lonely Drive" is going to take you on a journey you'll never forget!

Find out more about Mou5EmO, and do not miss out on "Lonely Drive." This release is now available on Spotify and many of the best digital music streaming services.

https://open.spotify.com/track/6VJ5DA0sXotKWn7Ea1uCqw?si=842ffac0a7434c66

https://instagram.com/mou5emomusic

https://instagram.com/mou5zyzz

We also had the chance to catch up with the artist for a full-on interview! Keep reading to learn more!

I love how you manage to render your tracks so personal and organic. Does the melody come first? Answer: YES! THE MELODY USUALLY COMES FIRST WHEN I START TO CREATE A NEW SOUND. I HEAR THE SOUNDS IN MY MIND FIRST. THEN I START TO LAY OUT INSTRUMENTS AND BUILD MY TRACKS IN MY STUDIOS. Do you perform live? If so, do you feel more comfortable on a stage or within the walls of the recording studio? Answer: I PERFORM LIVE WHENEVER A CLUB OR FESTIVAL HIRES ME. I LOVE PLAYING LIVE HONESTLY. ITS ONE OF THE BEST NATURAL HIGHS BEING ON STAGE PERFORMING FOR FANS. If you could only pick one song to make a “first impression,” which would it be and why? Answer: I LOVE "🎵 Mou5EmO & Mou5ZyZZ - DOCTOR" BECAUSE OF ITS MELODIC SOUND AND VIBE. "WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO BE HAPPY". What does it take to be “innovative” in music? Answer: HAVING AN OPEN MIND TO FORSURE. I HAVE "ADHD" SO MY MIND IS ALWAYS CREATING VERY INTRICATE SOUNDS AND IDEAS, WITH MULTIPLE LAYERS. Do you have any upcoming release or tour coming up? Answer: I AM NOT CURRENTLY TOURING, BUT I GET SMALL GIGS EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE, LIKE "UNGROUNDED SHOWS". ALSO NEW MUSIC ALWAYS COMING AND MY NEXT TRACK WILL BE "🎵 Mou5EmO & Mou5ZyZZ- TAKE ME OR LEAVE ME". What is the best way for fans to connect with you online? Answer: FANS SEND ME EMAILS ALL THE TIME TO MY EMAIL @ mou5zyzz@gmail.com YOU CAN ALSO REACH MY ON MY INSTAGRAM OR LINKTR.EE

[imsodunwiththis]

“Npd abuse” is not real but your trauma is

If you see something you don’t like BLOCK it don’t report it

People who are recovering may find my blog triggering

Don’t ask anyone for a doctor diagnosis! It is none of your business and it’s not up to you wether it is valid or not

(Post here)

I kind of rant/vent on this blog but I also do research on mental health topics and I also talk about life lessons I’ve learned

Active 2024

January

February

March

April

May

June

July

August

September

October

November

December

I’m a feminist and I don’t hate men (don’t call yourself a feminist if you hate men)

🚫 DNI 🚫

(Do not interact)

Stigmatize mental illnesses

Encourage suicide or self harm or any other dangerous behaviors

Anti recovery

Fatphobes

Believe anyone with a cluster B disorder are “evil” or “bad”

Believe in “narc abuse”

Believe in “BPD abuse”

Exclude schizophrenic and psychotic people

If you think empathy makes you an inherently good person

If you think that people with No or low empathy are inherently bad

Use any mental illness as an adjective

Example: “omg I’m so OCD” (obsessive compulsive disorder)

If you purposely trigger someone (for any reason)

Anti self diagnosing

Use censorship for words

Example: “41€0h01” (supposed to say alcohol)

TikTok

(Go see this post to know only few of the reasons I hate tik tok)

Racism

Mental health stigma

Ableism

Toxic positivity (post here)

Toxicity

Anything Yandere related (post here)

(Yanderecore, irl yandere)

Gender is not important to me

I think I should mention that if you aren’t currently in recovery but aren’t anti recovery you are allowed here.

I’m not left wing or right wing I just have a brain

I am a safe space for anyone

💬Crisis text/call line📞

988

I am open to talk about anything

The ten personality disorders

Cool forest with a wolf pack

Don’t know what this post is but it felt important

The first link below is for a project I’m doing it’s due in January

The second link is for npd awareness

My header image was photographed by me

My pfp was photographed by me

[sideblogformindtrash]

🍃🌼💐 for Orfeu ! -whumpzone

💐- Where is this oc's favorite place to relax?

Living room sofa is his favorite, with windows wide open so he can watch the trees outside or reading something.

🌼- What's your favorite thing about this oc?

I really appreciate his sense of independence/freedom and how he always ends up finding a way to deal with things, no matter how hard the situation is. It’s not always healthy and he does feel lonely, but then again I’m projecting stuff that I lack on myself so 

🍃- Describe this oc in one word

........bitch.

[rovethings]

This entire scene is like .... okay. But there’s two things that got me, the first one being .... Wasn’t Lionel the one who funded the cloning project of Lana’s childhood friend back in s1-s2? So why is he so disgused by it *now*? The second one is when Lex talks about Julian’s clone as if it’s his property and Lionel stars talking about how Julian is an adult and all that, but back in s5 he pulls the strings of Jonathan’s election and then tells Lex, who was also an adult, that he could never ever escape him (and he said something similar to this like ... thee episodes ago). Like I know the writers want me to understand that LIonel = good and Lex = bad but all I can think about is that Lonel is a hypocrite and if it took Lex to fully snap for him to leave Lex alone then good for Lex

[mellorad]

Hey love, whatever's going on, I hope you are able to push on through. Sending good thoughts your way.

Tanya... thank you so much for sending me this. I... really appreciate it.

[patricianandclerk]

Bold & Prideful

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!

It wasn’t often that one saw the Nightingale in the Herald’s Rest. She didn’t tend to allow herself to relax at all, seeing such things as a distraction from her work, and while Solas respected it, he did wonder… She had used to be much lighter once upon a time, he was informed, much freer, much happier and easier of smile.

Watching her now, Solas could believe it.

She was seated toward the corner of the room, her hood for once drawn back, and she was speaking over glasses of Antivan wine with an elf Solas had never seen before. He wore Dalish clothes, a green tunic and leggings, halla hide boots with silver embroidery, but the rings on his fingers were golden, as was the ring through his ear, and the tattoos on his face were not at all like vallaslin. He had long hair that reminded Solas, inescapably, of a home long-past: it was shaved on one side, a braid curling along the shaved half, and on the other side it was loose and soft.

He was laughing, his handsome head thrown back.

“You can’t speak to him like that!” Leliana was saying, giggling like a woman much younger, her cheeks red. “He’s the Arishok now!”

“We are friends!” the elf replied. “And if he was offended, he would tell me so. I know the Arishok would not hold back his tongue if he wanted to whip me with it, and I asked him many times to—”

Leliana laughed, burying her face in her hands, and Solas made to move past, but the elf turned his gaze, and it landed on Solas. There was a sadness in his eyes that Solas did not expect: it seemed to all but shine from their glinting depths even as he smiled, showing white teeth. It was subtle, a deep-buried melancholy. Solas perhaps only recognised it because he saw it often in the looking glass Dorian had placed in the library.

“Who is this?” the elf asked, leaning forward. He had a thick Antivan accent, but no discomfort with the tongue that Solas could make out. “So many elves in Skyhold, and so many of them Dalish.”

“I am not Dalish,” Solas said.

“But you are no city elf,” he insisted, getting to his feet.

“This is Solas,” Leliana said, and the elf let out a delighted noise, putting out a hand.

“Pride! What a name for a handsome man.” The proclamation came with a salacious growl, and never, not for a moment, did Solas tear his gaze away from his eyes, still so sad. “What is it you are proud of?”

Solas couldn’t help the surprise on his face at the boldness of the other man, his lips parting, even as he took his hand and shook it. He had a warm hand, strong, and it was marked all over with small burns and acid marks – the mark of a long-time rogue. “Were you to ask any of those who call themselves my friends, they might tell you I’m proud of everything.”

“Who call themselves your friends, hm,” the elf repeated, his head tilting. “You have a funny way of phrasing things.”

“Solas, this is Zevran Arainai,” Leliana said, hiding her smile. She did not usually trust Solas any more than most, but it seemed that she was relaxed tonight, for she looked at him with warmth enough in her features. “Like me, he fought at the side of the Hero of Ferelden.”

“Ah, I have heard of the Grey Warden Mahariel,” Solas murmured, politely. “What was she like?”

“Lyna?” Zevran asked, and looking at his eyes Solas understood everything: they gleamed with brightness, and although the grief seemed to radiate from Zevran in heavy swathes, it seemed it was only Solas noticed it. His tone was still light, his body language still free and easy, and he laughed softly. “She was everything.”

--

“I am told,” Zevran said, sliding into the seat beside Solas when Leliana had left, making Solas glance up from the book he was reading, “that you do not often visit this tavern.”

“I am required by a lost wager to attend for two hours per week,” Solas said pleasantly, and Zevran laughed, tapping his fingers upon the table. “You and Master Tethras are acquainted, I take it.”

“He and his friend Hawke helped me from an encounter some years back,” Zevran said, nodding his head. “We had a mutual friend.”

“It seems you have friends from far and wide,” Solas said, closing his book. “There are not many outsiders that the Dalish will accept so freely, and yet the Inquisitor tells me he met you previously, at the last Arlathvhen.”

The meeting of the Dalish clans, Solas was informed, happened every ten years or so – a time when mages might be swapped to more suitable clans for their training, when what little useless and cobbled-together lore might be scribbled down in what amounted to Dalish records. Such was their purpose: accumulating old knowledge from half-destroyed ruins and dead men’s bones, and achieving naught at all. The bitterness of the thought stung Solas’ throat.

“Lyna asked me to,” Zevran said quietly. “We learned much, when we travelled Ferelden, before the time came to face the Archdemon. And then, I… I was aimless. I travelled with her clan for a time, and decided to devote myself to collecting records from those ruins that the Dalish could not safely reach.”

“Why such loyalty to the Dalish?” Solas asked.

“You dislike the Dalish,” Zevran purred, smiling as if there was some hidden joke in the sentence. “And you dislike taverns! You, Solas, are a funny man.”

“Am I indeed?” Solas asked, raising his eyebrows. “Bold statements to make of a man you’ve met but hours before.”

“I am bold, my friend,” Zevran said. “If I was as you, my name would be Bold! You think it’s a good name, yes? Trom!”

Solas laughed, strangely charmed by the other man’s ease, his brightness in conversation, and yet… It had been nearly a decade since the Blight had ended with Mahariel’s sacrifice at the hands of the Archdemon, Grey Wardens doing as they could with forces they did not and could not understand. And still, the sadness…

“What is it that brings you here, Trom?”

“Well, Solas,” Zevran said, beaming, “I had a message to deliver to the Nightingale. This is all. I will move on, then.”

“To where?”

“I do not know,” Zevran said, shrugging his shoulders. “Leliana, she asks if I would join you here, but I know how you would make use of me. I would be an assassin for the Inquisition, and this…” He trailed off. “I can do this. It is not hard. But it is not the life I wish for. Your Inquisitor, he asks me to go to his clan, so this is what I shall do.”

“He worries for his clan,” Solas murmured. “It is only natural.”

“From what clan do you come?”

“I come from no clan. As I told you, I am no Dalish.”

“What, did you fall out of the Rift?” Zevran asked, arching his eyebrows. “No clan, but not from a city either… Who made you, my friend? Who raised you? Where is it you call home?”

“You ask a great many questions.”

“And when I get no answers, I make my own,” Zevran said, winking.

“How bold of you,” Solas murmured, standing. “But alas, my two prescribed hours of crowded contact are at an end.”

“Please,” Zevran said, “allow me to walk you safely to your door.”

“Will you stop at the stoop, if I let you?”

“If you tell me to.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I will not.” Zevran’s fingers touched the back of Solas’ hand where it clasped around the book, and for a moment it seemed as though the tavern faded away from about them. Zevran looked up at him, his gaze intent and so full of that desperate melancholy, so all-encompassing in one so young. It was the sadness of a man who had lost his one great love.

The way that he was looking up at Solas, Solas could only imagine what he thought he saw in Solas’ own eyes, and yet, was he not right? Was there not a shared thread between them, however thin and flimsy?

“You are sure Trom would be your name?” Solas asked softly. “And not Hella?”

“Noble, me?” Zevran asked, and he gasped, ostentatious, theatrical. “Do not say such things. My reputation as a rogue will be ruined.”

“Walk with me,” Solas murmured, and Zevran came with graceful step.

--

“I was told once, by a Keeper in Antiva, that all elves are tied together by a sense of tragedy. Even before Arlathan fell, she said, elves have felt so deeply that tragedy becomes them as easily as shoots become trees, as corpses become bones. It is the natural way of things. Is this true, when you walk the Fade?”

Solas watched Zevran, sprawled as he was in the bed, a light sheen of sweat still gleaming on his chest, his hair a loose mess about his head. His eyes were half-lidded, as though he would soon sleep, and Solas wondered what that would be like, to have someone sleep beside him, to listen to their breathing, in his own bed.

“A wise woman,” Solas said softly, leaning closer, his hands either side of Zevran’s waist, and doing as he could to ignore the ache in his chest. “Alas, I fear she was right.”

“You are too handsome to be so sad,” Zevran said in an equally soft voice, sliding his fingers over Solas’ throat, his knuckles brushing the base of his chin. “But how I can chide you, when I am so much more handsome, and just as sad?”

Solas laughed, despite himself, and Zevran smiled.

“No one sees sadness when they look at me,” Solas murmured. “Only you. Perhaps you are projecting.”

“They see it,” Zevran replied, shrugging his shoulders. “Your friends. They do not comment on it, for they are your friends. This is the way of things, hm?”

Solas drew his fingers into Zevran’s hair, and he pulled the other man to kiss him. Zevran surged up to do so, and they tumbled onto their sides together. It was not as it was, before everything. But there was something in it, a warmth in the intimacy – there was something safe in a widower’s touch, knowing he would not feel things that he oughtn’t for Solas, knowing that there was no danger of some malformed love connection.

“You do not seem so prideful,” Zevran mumbled against his chest, later on, when they were tangled together, their breathing even, preparing for sleep. There were still so many hours before the dawn.

“Solas is not my only name,” Solas replied, for reasons he could not explain, perhaps because he is lonely and exhausted and half-mad from bad choices; perhaps because he doubts Zevran will ever bother to share this conversation with anyone of note.

“Really? You seem like a man with many names,” the other elf said, drifting. “Like one of those animals that many clans name differently, because it lives so long, but walks alone, half-legendary. You know, a bear, or a halla…”

“A wolf?” Solas suggested, and Zevran laughed softly, his head lolling.

“Yes,” he murmured, smiling, as if at a memory. “Like an old, old wolf.”

Solas curled his fingers in Zevran’s hair, and he let the Fade take him.

[tryingtimi]

44 👀

The Crimson Masquerade

One of my favourite songs from NBT, so thank you for the number!❤️ It also helped me finish a piece I started a hundred years ago. This was originally written to this drabble challenge, and it was a nice little time with Lonel and the crew. Plus, I got to explore some of the Phobia too, so it's a winner for sure.

Small Context: Lonel, Selys and Odena go to the Phobia to gather information on vampire activites, after Odena found out about vampirism and werewolves and was adamant on going with the boys.

DYNAMIC AND ENVIRONEMNT EXPLORATION | NON-CANON | WC: 2,278

“Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Odena held back a smile as she squeezed on Lonel’s forearm. They stopped at the entrance of the ballroom—the biggest room the Phobia held within. Curving concrete twisted into silky fabrics hanging loosely on the walls, and red lightning painted everything into a sensual mystery of the night. The dark, sparkling decoration brought a sinister touch to the environment.

Wicked shadows chased the lights on every idling, masked person’s face.

“The best disguise is standing in plain sight, is it not?” Selys asked, still holding out the wolf mask to Lonel. He ignored the other’s subtle snarling, keeping an oblivious smile on his lips. “Besides, it suits you, wolf. You can rip my head off if it doesn’t work.”

“Don’t tempt me, hellspawn.”

“As much as I enjoy watching bickering men tearing at each other, we should start mingling, don’t we, gentlemen?” Odena offered, putting up her own mask: a beautifully crafted hummingbird with feathers that felt too real to the touch, and a small, gilded beak adorned with gemstones. It was a masterpiece of a true craftsman, just like every other one that VIP attendants handed out to guests.

“The lady is right, of course.” Selys mimicked her, placing the horned, hardened paper over his face. Its red matched with the lightning, and the colours of the Phobia. “Shall we then?”

He gestured with his hand, eyes creased deeply from his now-hidden smile. Lonel huffed, snatching the wolf mask away, and putting up with a disapproving grunt. The creation did fit him, actually. Detailed to the sharp point of the carved fangs, it was no less a sight to the laical eye.

Odena hooked back her arm into Lonel’s as they walked deeper into the enemy’s den.

They earned — very proficiently disguised — glances with their pause, but none of the people seemed to think too much into it. Staying alert, however, never hurt anyone. Therefore Odena pulled out her filigrane cigarettes gifted by Selys and offered one to Lonel as well.

“Thanks,” he said, distaste evident in his tone.

Her smoke slipped through her teeth as she smiled at him, the nearly translucent, forming and disappearing shapes crawling to the thin cloud that occupied the rest of the ceiling.

“And how should we know which one is your kind?”

Lonel emphasised the last words with syrupy venom in his throat. He might have accepted Selys, but not the other… vampires.

Odena found it still odd to name such creatures with certainty.

“You’ll know. This way,” Selys led them to a table packed with bite-sized tasters and tarts. Overwhelming perfume and incense clouds lingered in the air since they stepped into the club, yet here the scent of food finally overruled it. One could nearly taste the salmon salt and lemon sour, champagne sweet and absinthe bitter with every breath. She was glad for that humble dinner they ate before coming so her focus wouldn’t falter. Selys began filling up his plate. “They’re preying, and outnumber the warmbloods. I’m positive you both can spot predators on a hunt.”

Odena ran her gaze over the crowd, careful not to make eye contact with anyone longer than a few seconds. She felt Lonel’s biceps tense a little under her palm, so she gave it a reassuring squeeze. Not that he would need it, she knew him too well to believe it could calm him. But it was something, and it helped her ignore the name Sleys addressed them with.

She took a plate, and packed some fruit and cheese at it, letting Lonel handle the drinks. Orange and red reflectors rushed to embrace them, then slid onward without a goodbye. The sensual, quiet music played relentlessly somewhere above. Odena could barely see the food in the dimness of the room, so she did her best to follow Lonel’s forever advice and let her nose guide her.

A man walked beside her, reaching for another glass of drink.

“Good evening,” he said, clear intention in his voice. Odena turned to him, alongside Lonel and Selys. The man wore a black tuxedo over his wine-red shirt and vest. Chest covered with frizzled cotton, corn blond hair freely flowing onto his shoulders. He looked as if he had stepped out of one of Selys paintings in his manor. “Who are your lovely guests Dumwermere?”

“Mr and Mrs Morninger. A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Odena initiated, offering her hand which the man took with clear amusement. It was the coldest kiss ever planted on her skin.

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Lonel’s arm tensed again, pulling it out from her grip and rather resting a hand on her waist. He did not offer a handshake to the man, but after a hidden poke in his side, he nodded as a greeting. The skin creased softly around one of the man’s eyes underneath the gilded fox mask, gaze steady on Lonel’s face. He kept staring with a smile as if he mused about a secret irony.

Selys continued, polite, yet distant. “They’re old workmates of mine. Mr and Mrs Morninger, this is Silvenus Galhart, the Phobia’s event manager. The praise you’ve showered me about the interior Mrs Morninger, they all shall go to him.”

“Oh, marvellous job, Mr Galhart. I’m thoroughly impressed.” Odena mimicked a smile sweet enough. She hoped for an opportunity to pry, but Silvenus simply bowed his head a touch, sipping from his drink.

“You flatter me, my lady. But it’s still early. I should only get a hold of my musicians so the evening could bloom into its full form.”

Odena caught a peek of the moderate stage in the belly of the club. A varnished guitar body and cymbals glinted around the three figures shuffling around the pedestal. The blackness of the stage was lost in the shadowed corner they were put into, making the people above glide on nothing but pure, thick darkness. Lonel joined her gaze for a second.

“Aren’t they out there?” he asked.

Silvenus inclined his brow in what seemed like well-contained irritation. “Only half of them. Our frontman and lead guitarist vanished into thin air, and we’re about to start in ten minutes.”

His tight tone told Odena that it wasn’t exactly the first time they might have done this. Silvenus, also, was surprisingly talkative. She assumed he might be rather ashamed of difficulties concerning the event, yet he didn’t give any indication of that. He simply looked as someone who had had enough.

“That’s tough. Are they playing tributes or originals?”

Lonel’s continuing question earned a subtle look from both Selys and Odena. His body was still tense as ever, yet he sounded nothing short of calm. There was the slightest hint of his distaste from earlier, but that was barely perceptible too. She took a drag from her cigarette, trying to figure out where he was heading — and why. Silvenus, on the other hand, had rearranged his face into the amused expression from before.

“Triubtes for tonight. Some of our guests might not be familiar with their work otherwise, given the large number of new faces,” he said, creasing his brows over his mask, and offering a darkly curious stare. “Forgive me, if I’m frank, but I feel like you have a proposition for me, Mr. Morninger.”

Odena did have the exact same feeling.

The music overhead began to quiet ever so slowly. A sign that the start was near, perhaps. Silvenus glanced up when the lights began to dim, then brighten again.

Lonel put out his smoke on the closest glass ashtray, and his hand pulled Odena a touch closer with a gentle tug.

“If you need people, I can get around a guitar, and she was the lead singer back at home in our school band. We’re also familiar with all the big hits of the last decade, so we could fill in for the time being.”

“A musical couple, I see,” Silvenus purred in a suddenly deeply intrigued manner. He conjured a wide, yet somehow sharp smile on his face. “It must have been fate that brought us together tonight then. It would be much help, if you could do that, Mr. and Mrs. Morninger. Alongside a fair compensation for your trouble, of course.”

Surprise would have been an understatement to what Odena was struck with. She kept her face friendly, nodding along, but she moulded into Lonel’s side sharp as a sign to elaborate on his train of thought immediately when the opportunity arose.

“Well, I wouldn’t have thought what a turn this event would take,” Selys commented, his words edged with jest for the public ear. “Although I had the pleasure of hearing them both in their respective roles separately, and I must say, they are definitely great candidates, Silvenus.”

Lonel spared a sharp glance at Selys, but only for a moment.

Silvenus put his palms together when the next dimming and brightening danced through the room, glancing towards the stage this time. “Excellent, wonderful. I’d like to ask for a minute then, to talk to the present members. Just a minute.” And with that, he slipped into the shadows of the half-lit ballroom.

Odena leaned towards Lonel’s shoulder, half turning to Selys too. “Would you please let in on us, too?”

She let her voice drip with a hint of her awakening frustration. She didn’t mind trying something with more risk, but she was never for improvisation. Not this kind, anyway.

Selys drew up a brow in support of her question.

“He must have been one of him.” Lonel scratched at his short beard, a habit Odena knew to be a nervous movement since he could grow it out. “And he seemed the type who could get us to the rest of them. If not, then the attention will.”

“Always an advantage to make the enemy owe you,” Selys smiled in impressed agreement.

On the far end, Silvenus’s faint figure seemed to finish talking to the assembled band members. His mask gleamed wickedly in the light while he turned to them, gesturing something Odean couldn’t see, but interpreted as an inviting motion. Her skin prickled from the possibility that he might see them clearly even through the shadowed distance.

“If they’re not trapping us first.” Her words met with a half-lidded, waiting set of eyes from Lonel. “Keep the possibility that he realised what and who we are. Just to stay alert.”

A small smile — barely but a smirk, really, found Lonel’s lips. “Look at you preaching caution, after dragging us here in the first place.”

They made their way to the stage, leaving Selys behind, and pushing through bodies at some points. It didn’t go unnoticed how Lonel made way to her with his hands, paying attention to that none of them touched her if it wasn’t necessary.

“I’ve had a great mentor to learn from,” she said, matching his casually accusatory tone nonetheless. It should have been evident that none of them were to sit around and wait until Selys alone figured something out. Not with all at stake.

They climbed backstage, joining the figures waiting in the ominous darkness of the curtains. Silvenus wore a dark smile, but a welcoming posture.

“Band, they would be your mates for the next forty-five minutes, the least. Go easy on them.” He then turned to Lonel and Odena. “Thank you for your offer, again. I’ll make sure our people are here until you finish, and after that, your food, drink and entertainment will be on the Phobia.”

“That is most generous of you, Mr Galhart.”

Odena reciprocated his smile, seeking a hold in Lonel’s warm touch on her back. Her mind clouded just a touch, yet it cleared as soon as it came. So, the cigarette truly neutralised mindreading from the vampires, just as Selys claimed. That, at least, was a relief.

However, it also confirmed Lonel’s previous statement about Silvenus.

“Alright, warm up to each other as much as possible before we start, and make the evening shine,” was the last thing Silvenus said, before he departed to the front.

The three members eyed them with a united gaze that bordered on curiosity and disdain. Two men and a woman, dressed in what seemed a fusion of blackened leather and dark satin. The harsh, expressive make-up on their faces only sharpened their look.

The woman stepped forth first, a gum livid between her teeth.

“Which one of you sings?” she asked in a rather soft voice. It did not go much with the look.

Odena stepped forward, extending a hand. “Livia Morninger, nice to meet you.”

“A delight.” She looked down at her hand, then back at her face. “Sing for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sing for me. We need to check if you match with tonight’s tone. If not, that gruff should do behind you.”

Odena retreated her tongue from her cheeks which she pushed into, and met the woman’s nonchalant eyes. If they wanted to get rid of her, then they should do better than that. She inhaled softly and began a song she couldn’t get out of her head when she first started to wonder about joining the school band. Her voice came out rusty and in clear need of oiling. But, it wasn’t half bad. She sang the lyrics, hitting most of the notes clearly, and the others a touch twisted, yet not breaking the harmony. She added her own flair to many parts, even those that she experimented with the family during holidays.

In the end, the two men stepped beside the woman too.

Odena’s throat dried out, not used to such a use anymore. She felt Lonel’s presence beside her, close and ready.

The woman shrugged, nodding towards the water bottles on a little stool, while the shorter of the men handed Lonel an electronic guitar. “Good enough. I’m Marcelin, this is Jerico,” she gestured to the tall, lanky man. Then towards the shorter, bulkier one. “And that is Bichtra. Here’s the setlist. Study it, while we tune in, and follow our lead outside. That goes to you too, wolfman.”

Lonel grunted, plucking some strings and visibly cracking the arrogant demeanour on all the members for a moment, as if to wordlessly say he didn't have faith in his skill in vain, after all. Odena crossed her arms at the fact he had a more well-maintained skillset.

“Huh.” Jerico didn’t add more, but he did pluck at his own guitar. Soon enough, the two men began a routine of some kind, harmonising, and what seemed to practicing some passages. Bichtra joined them with his drums here and there. Odena, in the meantime, earned a little from Marcelin’s grace. Turned out, she was the keyboardist and one of a kind at that. She could help Odena work out some of the kinks before a staff member arrived to tell them it was time.

Odena felt at her neck. It was a long time ago since she stepped onto the stage, let alone was expected to rule it. She wouldn’t have been nervous for the crowd if she had known there weren’t people — creatures among them that actively feasted on her kind. Yet there she was, about to entertain them.

The things she didn’t do to gather information.

Lonel’s palm touched the small of her back, the soft fabric of her dress thin enough so she could feel the calluses on his skin. She turned to him, finding his overly calm, almost bored expression close. “Ready?”

“Hardly.”

He scoffed a half-joking sound. “Just like old times, then.”

“Just like old times,” she huffed out a short laugh, walking close beside Lonel. The bustling outside began to quiet, people’s chattering softening into a barely audible buzz. “It better work, Nel, or I’m going to rip your head off.”

They took their places at the edge of the stage. Even in this situation, a kind of nostalgia found her. Lonel, wrinkled and hardened with age, seemed to morph back into their teenage years as well. And he truly did, as he leaned over to her ear and whispered like he did back then.

“If it doesn’t, you are more than welcome to. But you wanted to come, and you wanted information. So, it’s time to sing for your supper, Blossom.”

[youngandhungryent]

East Cleveland’s Kipp Stone Connects With Chicago’s Mick Jenkins For “Sprague Street,” Announces New Project

Source: Lonell “LJ” Swoope / @wonton_swoope

Kipp Stone burst on the scene in 2017 with his debut prokect Dirty Face Angel, a solid introduction to his blend of gritty lyrics placed atop soulful production that showed amazing promise. As the East Cleveland producer and rapper prepares for his latest mixtape releasing next month, Kipp connected with Chicago’s Mick Jenkins for the single “Sprague Street” and the pair’s powerful performances mesh well over polished boom bamp production.

The “Sprague Street” single serves as a precursor for HOMMÈ, Kipp’s fist full-length project for the year. It serves as a followup to Kipp’s aforementioned Dirty Face Angel project, a 12-track affair that sounds just as potent today as it did three years ago and cementing his place as one of his hometown’s sharpest prospects.

HOMMÈ will be the first full-length from Kipp to be released by Closed Sessions out of Chicago and is slated for release in October. Joining Kipp on the mixtape is rising Cleveland rappers Nuke Franklin, and Torre Lott, with production handled by Blokhead Johnny and Kipp himself. Kipp is framing HOMMÈ as an autobiography of sorts, sharing the tale of his rough upbringing in the 216 but never from a position of glorifying his woes.

Making Kipp’s story even more interesting is the honesty is apparent not only in his music but how he presents his actual life. Kipp works as an essential health care worker during the day, recording his project in what was reportedly a dilapidated home. Thus “Sprague Street” is titled as it was to celebrate Kopp’s new home in his native East Cleveland.

Check out “Sprague Street” featuring Mick Jenkins by following this link for the DSP of your choosing.

HOMMÈ is set for release on Oct. 20.

—

Photo: Lonell “LJ” Swoope

source https://hiphopwired.com/907944/kipp-stone-mick-jenkins-homme-annoucement/

[lonellmultimedia]

Should we meet by phone, online or over coffee?

Should we meet by phone, online or over coffee?

by Cedric Lonell Haynes of Strong Beach Media

When I first started my multimedia business Strong Beach Media, converting leads into actual projects, I would follow a simplified checklist. Usually a questionnaire would be emailed to the lead.

I would direct the person to my website online and in particular the page where they could fill out the same questionnaire or at the very least, fill…

[rtirman-blog]

27 Romance-Ended and Begun

When Marcia turned her head so my friendly little kiss landed on her cheek, it was humiliating.  After that, I actively avoided seeing Marcia in the hospital hallways.  If I ever did run into her, I would have been totally embarrassed. More importantly, I do not include that moment with Marcia as a romantic encounter.  So my life-long romantic encounters remained at three- Mickie Finn on my 4th birthday, that girl who scolded me for almost getting hit by a bus, and Linda Larriar’s pressing lips, and bear hug, the night of the apple ducking, or what others might call bobbing for apples.  That is my entire romantic history from birth to near the end of my freshman year at college.  

 It was then, with just a few weeks until the end of the school year, I met what’s- her-name.  I apologize for forgetting her name, and even what she looked like. What I do remember is her job. She was a secretary at Central High School downtown South Bend.

I also remember she was already 20, while I had about six weeks to go to be 19. I don’t remember how I met her or ever doing anything with her. What I do recall was embarrassing enough not to share any of it with my friends.  I was with her at her house.  We were sitting close to one another. I do remember she was blonde, just a smidgen taller than me, and I liked being with her, a lot. I wanted to tell her I liked her, but didn’t have the courage to say it clearly.  I said to her, “I-L-Y”.  She looked straight into my eyes, and then, kissed me like I had never been kissed before. We hugged each other.  I was getting sexually turned on. I was afraid she might react negatively to me getting a bulge in my pants. Or she might even be angry with me, and never want to see me again. So I told her, I was sorry, but it was late, and I needed to get back to my Uncle’s before I get locked out. I did tell her I wanted to see her again.

 I guess my comment to her, about getting home before I get locked out, had more truth to it than I thought. My Uncle was waiting up for me.  He had lots of questions. I answered all of them. He said I could go up to my room, but that we would discuss my relationship with this girl tomorrow.

 The following evening, without discussion, he told me I was not to see this girl again. He asked me for her phone number. Then, in front of me, he called her. His message to her was for her to stay away from me.  He told her that I had a lot of hard work ahead of me, and she is nothing but a distraction.  I do not know what she said to him.  He then gave me the same order- I was not to call her or contact her.  I was too embarrassed to ever call her again.  My parents would have never done anything like that. Moreover, if I had the courage, I should have told him to “go jump in the lake”.

 Today, I might have a different response.  I think Wally took control of me and my affairs in a way he wished someone would have done for him.  I don’t have any idea of his romantic history.  But my guess is that he committed himself to his wife, Harriet, and had not explored his romantic and sexual self.  I think he felt that Harriet got hold of him, knowing what a secure future she would have. I believe that is what he projected onto my relationship with that high school secretary. That is, she was trying to get a grasp on a future doctor.  I followed his demands.

I think I told you Wally and Harriet already decided not to let me live with them the following year. This meant that I would have to make enough money to pay my tuition, room, and board.  I would be living on the west side of South Bend, about a mile and a half from the University. It would take two buses to get to school.  As I said before, I did very well second semester, and I was ready to become a sophomore. I would be totally independent.

 When I made it home, I immediately began a job search. In Nassau County, there were openings for lifeguards.  I was a fairly decent swimmer, but I had never thought about being a lifeguard. Even though I was a shrimp, I decided to apply.  After hearing that I was applying, one of my brother’s closest friends, Pat Killikutty, phoned and told me he was going to apply, as well. 

Our tryouts were held at Jones Beach, on Long Island’s South Shore.  Out beyond the waves, we had to swim about a half mile to a mile. Pat asked me if I would slow myself down a bit, so he wouldn’t look so bad.  That presented a minor issue- I wanted to swim fast enough to get the job, and I wanted Pat to get a job, also.  I decided not to race, but to take leisurely strokes throughout. Pat stayed pretty much by my side. Lo, and Behold!  We both got a job.  The main purpose of the tryouts was to find lifeguards for the Levittown pools. We both ended up in Levittown, but in different pools.  I was assigned to the Bluegrass Lane Pool, and Pat was assigned to the Wolcott Road Pool. We both attended training, for which we were paid. Then on to the job.

 Surprisingly, my height and non-muscular body was a non- issue.  Most of the swimming patrons were little kids with parents, school kids, and few adult swimmers. Since I was a lifeguard, and behaved responsibly, I was seen as a lifeguard, and not a scrawny kid.. I can’t remember a sole mentioning anything about my size.  To boot, all lifeguards were publically tested each month. In front of fairly large crowds, our swimming and lifesaving skills we tested. On every one of those tests I came out with “honors”.  I received compliments from both the kids and adults. In swimming, that had never happened to me before. Maybe I was a very good swimmer, after all.  Later in the summer, a parent showed me a film she had taken of me during one of the monthly public tests.  I couldn’t believe what I saw.  I was stunned to see me swim.  I shouted out, “Is that me?”  I actually swam like a lifeguard.

 Just about everyday, the Levittown pools were crowded.  But late one afternoon, there was absolutely no one in the Bluegrass pool.  It had stormed enough earlier in the day to send most everyone home.  The sun wasn’t shining, but it wasn’t raining anymore, and we were open for business.

I was sitting at the entrance to the pool talking to Mrs. Longo.  Her job was to check for tags for admittance.  Mrs. Longo was okay, but from my point of view,  she talked a lot...I mean lot. Since my job was to keep an eye on the people in the water, I seldom was around her.  But when it was just she and I, it was hard for me to act like I was too busy to chat.  Truthfully, I learned a lifeguard is hardly ever busy.  A lifeguard is usually bored.  So there I was- passing time with her at the gate.  

I can’t remember what we were talking about.  Maybe that’s because I saw a girl I had never seen before, walking on the other side of the fence near the far end of the pool.  Mrs. Frank spotted her as well, and said something about that girl being a little bitch.  That meant that I’d probably like that girl.  As she came around the  corner of the fence, I noticed her blonde hair and the smile on her face.  As she came through the gate, she said a nice hello to Mrs. Frank, said hi to me, and winked.  I had a shit-ass grin on my face.  I was embarrassed.  But I said hi, trying to be cool.  Her name was Sally.  I had never seen her before, but she sure was friendly.  She went up to the deep end of the pool.  

 Naturally, as any good lifeguard would do, I walked to the deep end, and kept a watchful eye on her. I think that pissed off Mrs. Longo. But what was I to do?  It was my job. Sally was in the deep water seeming to beckon me to jump in and join her. I was feeling a bit scared and shaky.  As you know, I was always afraid of girls.  Sally began to tease me.  She then got out of the water and grabbed hold of me and threw me in.  Even though she surprised me, I sort of let her do it. Before I knew it, we were dunking each other and laughing.  I couldn’t believe I was doing such a dumb thing.  I’ll bet Mrs. Longo thought I was a child, and I ought to be fired.  Anyway, we kept dunking each other, laughing and chasing each other all around the pool.  I was genuinely having fun, and I wasn’t scared anymore.  Sally was just as friendly as could be...and Boy!,..was she pretty!  The only thing about her was when my nose got close to her hair, I could smell the worst smell I ever smelled.  It smelled like somebody died and rotted.  I didn’t want to say anything.  Why embarrass her, and me, and spoil a good thing. So we just kept on playing, The smell got pretty bad, but I made it through our fun and time together. 

As Sally walked away, I realized how good-looking she was.  She was almost as tall as me, and she smiled a lot.  I was afraid to ask her out or to ask her to come back.  I sure wanted to see her again.  In all the fun, I had my arms around her, my hands on her waist, my face touching her face, and our bodies bouncing off of each other.  In all that fun, I was pretty comfortable.  Sure, I was conscious of not touching her tits, or of getting my leg between hers or one of her legs between mine.  But other than that, I was pretty comfortable.  As she disappeared from view, I felt lonel,y and anxious.   I really wanted to be with her again.  Oh, and that smell!  That was the only bad thing about her.

[tryingtimi]

45 for the spotty ask game!

@bloodlessheirbyjacques <3

Hôtel du Soleil Couchant

The song that I could listen to for a thousand years without getting tired of it. Also, the sole inspiration for Selys's whole backstory lol. Anyway, here's a little more Selys x Léon with a kinda rushed ending. Bear with my tired brain please.

Tiny Context: Selys's backtstory will build around this vampire hotel where mortals get trapped. (no specifics yet) That's where he meets Léon (faceclaim in the border), the mortal who'll steal his heart.

DYNAMIC EXPLORATION | FLUFF AND ANGST I GUESS | WC: 1,504

The Biessean wind burned through the hotel’s poolside, bright sunshine glowing on the lounging folks and illuminating their form like petroleum a room. Besides three or four warmbloods, there wasn’t much of a crowd on the sunbeds. Instead, the tumult resided in the shadowed passage that occupied a big chunk of the curving, tiled pool. The hotel’s own troupe performers mingled with other guests, some staff members active among them, too. Continuous conversations and the soft rock on the radio crittered in the warm winter air. Selys paid only half a mind to them under the artificial shade far beside the water. He gently grazed his sharp nails along Léon’s umber skin, enjoying the goosebumps that trailed the touch. 

“You're a tease,” Léon scoffed in a purring voice. He turned his head towards him, the short coils of his dark hair tickling Selys’s exposed chest between the half-opened shirt. 

The vampire kept grazing his arm. He revelled in the warmness of Léon’s body pressed to his, the Biessean fever nothing compared to the sensation. Selys found the weather’s temperature insignificant, lacking the senses to shiver in cold or shed a drop of sweat. Besides feeding, only another being could bring him the phenomenon of heat again. 

Selys slowly drew his nails up on his shoulder, through his neck where fingertips glided over Léon’s sweetly throbbing artery, only to roll some of the midnight ringlets over his forefinger. 

Léon hummed with a half-smile. “Don’t go existential on me now, mon cher.”  

“I’m not,” Selys chuckled, burying his finger in his hair. “I have no quarrel with life when you’re in my arms like this.” 

A mischief-fueled curve tugged upward Léon’s lips, Selys’s ghost touch running through the thin darkening of coming stubble over them. He gently bit on the pale finger, releasing it when Selys pulled it away. 

“Perhaps, but you are drifting. Otherwise, you would have remembered that this old man devotion didn’t rub on me yet.”

“I am old, my sweet. How do you wish me to speak to you?”

The placid look on Léon’s face brightened by the gentle light in his onyx eyes. It was a seriousness that framed his curiosity, and his unshakable life-loving that made him immune to the fact of Selys’s true nature. Or the casually frightening span of his existence. 

Léon blinked up at him, thoughtful, the scent of chlorine omitting from his figure. “No different, I suppose. It was just a simple reminder. But,” he said, turning back to the pool then snuggling higher on Selys’s front, freckled, evenly throbbing neck in close proximity. “I’d appreciate it if you’d talk more about what you’re ruminating on all the time.” 

“I was under the impression that you didn’t want me to be existential.”

“Now I do.” Selys could feel Léon’s smile when he himself chuckled again. “If that’s all you’ve got, then go ahead. Talk to me, mon cher.” 

“You’re so fond of mere words.” 

Selys brought his sharp nose to his jawline, the pool’s and Léon’s own scent intoxicating like one too many glasses of fine wine. He enclosed him in his embrace, enveloping the sinewy body with his.

Once, Selys kept mortal lovers for this — the pulsating warmness that enthusiastic veins could conjure only. A meat blanket that could provide what he lacked, and missed occasionally. 

He could keep them replaceable; up until Léon showed. 

Selys licked at the tempting, painfully tantalising neck. The taste of the pool was sour on his tongue, and the urge to sink his fangs into the flesh clicketing in the back of his mind. It was always there, but Selys did not care. He’d have rather starved for a thousand years than to feel the warmth of Léon’s blood in his throat. 

But, he nibbled on other’s neck, licking and sometimes poking his skin with fangs without barely even touching flesh, just to make him giggle. And he let him — without an inch of alarm, Léon slightly rolled his head to the side, giving way to Selys’s whims. It was an innocent love affair to tease what one couldn’t have, a serene play Léon taught him to cherish.

“I can’t read minds, mon cher, so words are all I have.” 

“That, I still doubt.” No one could know so precisely, or trust so fully in Selys without invading his mind. Even those who did had never left their guard down. 

“Hm, well.” Léon hummed along to the music on the radio. “You’re right. I can also dance and do acrobatics. Which are not much help in learning what is playing over in your pretty white head.”

Selys chuckled into the sensitive spot behind Léon’s ear. Half-opened eyes watched his pale arms around the beautiful amber boy underneath. His bleached skin looked like a cage built from bones compared to the mortal lover, yet Léon was far from a prisoner. He’d absorbed the laughters, the tears, the awes, the horrors, the celebrations and the struggles. He rode the freeness of his finite existence, fully embracing the mortality of the ever-passing time. Out here in the semi-calmness, or on the roaring stage — everywhere he went, he’d been the only one that truly coloured the world with life. 

Selys pulled the slowly dozing off Léon closer. 

“You are. That’s what’s playing in my head; your performances, your interactions with others, your routines before bed. I am unable to ruminate on my dreary existence anymore because you’ve tainted it with hope and fondness for all the living. So, excuse me my crudeness, but shame on you, my sweet,” Selys whispered in his ear, and finally earned a throaty laughter. The sound brought some gazes towards them from the crowd, yet Selys kept ignoring their surroundings. 

Until a soft tug on his thoughts made him freeze.

A most subtle sensation, a phantom stir, really — but an unmistakable change, nevertheless. Like a soft, morning haze, it came to blanket his mind in a momentary disorientation. Then, a silk of a voice tickled alive within his skull. 

“I, too, always favoured playing with the meal.” 

Selys’s body ran colder than before, and he dragged the sudden dread into a corner where she wouldn’t find it. His eyes flicked towards the crowd, the glinting eyes of his peers smug among the tumult. Their wordless hunt echoed in their sparsely joined mindfield. 

“But you should be careful, my darling,” her voice prickled within his ears. “They spoil fast.”

The gathering around the pool morphed before Selys’s eyes, the silhouettes — every staff member — that shouldn’t have been outside in the day sharp and wicked. The shade that had been put all over now revealed to be an oily darkness, an unearthly creation that deceived the rest. His peers’ gazes were on the prey, while they were also on him. 

On him, and the man between his arms. 

The unending hunger set alight in Selys’s insides tenfold, urging him to feast and devour. It wasn’t his blight only, but the mob’s, all pushed down his throat to make him submit; to warn him. He forced his jaw to relax before he’d pierce flesh inside his mouth. “Worry not, my lady. I’m only savouring, but my attention is set. I have not forgotten my duty.” 

A pause, while the craving built and built, sharp nails itching to puncture the inviting, deliciously pulsing vein on Léon’s lean arm. Through gritted teeth, Selys inhaled the sweet-candy scent of his hidden blood. 

“I believe you.” 

The sensation released its grip, leaving him without air for a moment. The presence lingered in his mind, but only so much like a small slit in an almost closed door. He could still sense the others’s eyes, and their search, their seduction. They were hungry for the troupe, the guests — Léon, too. 

Selys flicked his gaze at the crowd, releasing a telepathic grip towards them much like his Lady’s. Those who were around him tended to forget the years he had behind him — and the power he claimed by them. 

“He’s mine,” Selys hissed, venom lacing his words. 

His peers stiffened in body and shrieked in mind. His Lady once said he had a talent for finding the mortal in their kind; the last bit of desires, longings, fragile feelings. He knew she was right. And that was how he twisted those around them to their knees. 

Selys knew it was time to release Léon. To drift back to his original objective, yet he did not plan to leave him on his own. To leave him to the mongrels of a hotel that was built to trap his kind. 

Many of Selys’s peers excused themselves, others falling deathly silent on their conversational partners. With cold, hard grief and the anger of a caged animal, he gripped them harder, cracking their minds, and squeezing their hearts. All the predators around them quieted, and through their link, they begged in unison.

In the distant haze of his mind, Selys felt the thrilled approvment of his Lady. 

[tryingtimi]

The Cold Dead Reality

Aight, first off, thank you lovely @aalinaaaaaa for the numbers! 🩶 I'll do this one separately, because the two others are Sasin songs, however Redeemer is a full on Lonel one. I spent much less time with this story recently, but boy I missed it. The song made me think of exploring the time when Lonel loses his mother because of the vampires who want to erease their kind comletely.

CHARACTER EXPLORATION | TW: HINT OF DEATH | WC: 529

Lonel’s burning lungs brought tears to his eyes.

He scrambled through the ground, running on feet that barely held his weight, let alone his mother’s. Dust swirled around him, bone aching under his changing skin. There was no time to keep it hidden — there was no care in him to try it. Lonel fell on all fours in his rush, coughing and screaming, fur bursting through pores, hands retreating into paws. His face tugged forward into a snout, teeth piercing flesh to draw blood in his mouth. His small child back extended into a wolf cub’s, big enough to carry his mother’s body.

Thick, silver blood drops whirled with the kicked-up dirt.

Lonel growled, tears dripping from his now-rounded eyes. He didn’t care if he was seen, he didn’t care if he lost control. Perhaps since the first time he transformed, he wished to lose it.

He ran as if chased, wind prickling his too-sensitive skin like needles poking him all over. He couldn’t focus, the forest blurring from the edge to the centre, steady in its pace. Lonel barked from the lump in his throat, biting on thin air.

The animals around him squirred away. The world turned from a paralysing quiet to a crashing vortex of sounds.

Crunching leaves, little tapping legs, scurries and hoots. Lonel heard the tapping of fine shoes, smelled luxurious perfumes, and saw sinister smiles.

He ran and ran, and ran.

The soft swish of skin on skin in applause. His mother, snarling without a whine.

Lonel cut his paws, closed his yellow eyes and ran.

He huffed and trashed his head. The sounds followed as if to leave a trail just to make him never forget where it happened. Where he saw silver blood spilt the first time. Where they — those wretched pale monsters in men's skin fulfilled a promise from long ago. Where he hid and couldn’t do a thing. Where his mother tortured herself to defy them from doing so. Where she told him to go, not to look back.

Lonel’s paws felt concrete as he reached the city’s edge, and he stumbled, howling as he crashed to the ground, his mother’s body coming along. He coughed hard enough to make his throat flame with pain as if he could have spit the hurt out. His legs trembled, and the rain started to drizzle. The urge nudged him to get up, to go, to either kill or getaway. But his limbs didn’t move. Only his chest heaves in a crazed rhythm, his eyes frozen on his mother’s body — on her corpse. Silver blood oozed out the wounds, the stench of decay thick in the air.

Lonel whined as the lump ballooned in his throat, the crowd, the hunt, the girl plaguing his mind. A flash of fangs, of teeth, and spilt blood, both blackened red and silver. He howled, desperate, not being able to keep any sound inside. He ran to get away from the slaughter, and the cold dead reality that lay before him now bare and inescapable.

That he, after all, became the very last of his kind.

[tryingtimi]

75 for the spotify ask game!

@bloodlessheirbyjacques <3

Wait for Me, My Sweet

This song haunted me for months because I knew I wanted to write something for it, but didn’t know what. Then it hit me. I already had a perfect story for it.

Tiny context: Selys is Lady Lyonette’s spawn and they have a (you guessed it) very toxic, very servant-master relationship. Selys however fell in love with a mortal and because of plot circumstances, Lady Lyonette turned this lover into a basically zombie as a punishment, chained to Selys so he could never die.

EXPLORATION | TW: GRAPHIC DECAY | TW: TOXICITY | WC: 1,561

The preternatural pain throbbed through Selys’s long-dead artery. A sensation he would miss on numerous days; the flaming of his cold skin, the piercing ache as it plucked through with a silent pop, the oh-so-torturous itch to make it stop.

The stir of something coming alive within a crumbling shell without the soft beating of a heart.

Selys missed it so many times through the days; still, he’d swallow back the memory of bile on his silver tongue in these burgundy walls' confines.

“Where are you headed next, Salvatore?” Lady Lyonette inquired, the silk of her voice sandpaper on his skin. She posed before her cherry wood vanity, delicate brush correcting the dark paint on her lips. Her reflection slithered and danced in a grotesque no-shape.

Selys swiped the last drops of crimson from his neck. “Home.”

Such an insignificant detail shouldn’t have had the weight to lie about. And yet his tongue longed to twist in the plea long given up on and forgotten, leaving only the ache of wanting, but never doing. The quiet prickling inside his head, a phantom presence lingering in the back of his mind — even if… when he tried to, he couldn’t deceive his Lady.

Her vibrant emerald eyes flicked at him through the mirror. And so Selys coated his voice in honey, bearing the dread spreading through his bones. “I’m heading home, my lady.”

“Home,” she mocked, velvet nightgown sliding off a soft brown shoulder. “Will your fondness of mortal concepts ever tire out, darling?” She released him from her stare. He let out a breath that had been trapped inside his lungs by her will. Lady Lyonette’s focus began to wither away from him.

“Should it? But you find it most entertaining, my lady.” Selys started buttoning his shirt, drenched, then dried and ruined on the neckline. He kept his voice daring enough to make her smile, wholly averting her attention from his inner world.

“I’m glad. I thought I drained you out of your precious wit.” She lifted the finely crafted comb from her desk, sliding through her chestnut locks. “I do find it entertaining.” Selys adjusted his scarf around the open wounds on his neck and slipped up his coat while walking to her with a smile so sweet. She didn’t turn, yet Selys’s skin crawled underneath as she spoke. “And if you insist upon the sentiment, then let yourself never forget; we are the only home you’ll ever have, my darling Salvatore.”

There was no need to face him. Her softly spoken words had the haunting sharpness of her fangs, sinking into the freshly torn flesh on his neck, blind yet precise. His shoulders struggled enough to keep him straight, but he did not falter.

Selys leaned over and planted a kiss on her ice-cold cheek. “Never, my lady.”

A smile; a venomous, hypnotising smile she gifted him, something to remind him of his place. Only then he was free to leave.

He left the plush room through the curving double doors, a silent servant close on his heel. None were allowed to stroll the manor’s unearthly halls alone. Especially not if they wanted to find their exit.

Selys scraped at his thumb inside his coat’s pocket, breaking skin to keep his weak knees stiff and moving. The servant shuffled past him in the dimly lit hallway and opened the entrance with a creak. Time moved simultaneously too quickly and too slowly inside Lady Lyonette’s mansion, and so Selys grew used to finding himself outside fast enough when he didn’t strain to escape.

The bite of late winter brought back the hollow coolness of his body. It put a lightness in his steps that the hope of getting away could only. He walked through the dying garden, where trees bent under blinding white snow piles, and bushes lay bare, leaving the animals without the last of their shelters. Selys strolled through it as if chased, the lingering attention of his Lady way too present on these grounds. The wound on his neck pulsed raw like the moment she freed his blood into her throat.

He couldn’t rush, or plant the idea of a hunt. Therefore he arrived at the sculpted iron gates in a calm daze. His head swayed, and the dizziness of blood loss — the ridiculously mortal consequence of her feast kept eating at his concentration. He kept going, nevertheless.

Through the exposed branches that reached towards him like bone fingers, through the roads frozen and dead, through the city that finally came into sight. He straightened from the lamplights and the bustling of the concrete life. Lady Lyonette once asked him why he’d live in such a place, and he answered briefly. He wouldn’t have told her it was the only place that didn’t care about them. The only place that could devour and swallow the ancient, leaving them just as mortal as humans.

Selys inhaled the smog of the city, feeling the tangible waning of Lady Lyonette’s grip on his consciousness.

A short time later, he turned into a small house with a single floor and a garden tended to well enough. There were no neighbours, its street framed by a bakery, a flower shop, a graveyard and a church. Selys bought a bouquet in the shop before he sauntered up to the house.

Inside, the living room breathed a new sensation into him. The familiar brown of his home scraped away the last of her essence, leaving her just out of reach. There was no closing out fully, he was her creation after all. But he’d find the line that kept the illusion of being close without giving himself up to the proximity.

“I’m home,” he crocked, closing out the cold behind him.

The house rang with his words, receiving no response.

Selys stripped out of his coat, and scarf, the wound on his neck pulsing less and less real.

His home was not entirely different from hers. The antique furniture from his favourite times, the treasures he collected throughout his lifetime — but his had the touch of something else. Selys grabbed the crystal vase from the front table, where withered flowers nodded into demise. Their lovely scent disappeared with their passing, and the smell of rot bloomed into focus again.

After he’d switched out the water, and placed the fresh flowers in, Selys aimed to the bedroom on the other end. The words of Lady Lyonette echoed in his head; “...we are the only home you’ll ever have.” With a clearer head, Selys could release the despise, the numb loathing trashing in his chest. He stepped into the half-moonlit room and lit a kerosene lamp.

“I’m back,” he said, closing the door behind him.

Léon growled on the bed, shying away from the light. Despite his clear disturbance, he remained seated, snarling quietly through his lipless mouth. Selys picked out the formaldehyde balm from one of the drawers and walked up to Léon. He kneeled before him, the sight of his chained ankle dragging a sigh out of his lungs. The skin peeled away where the metal met flesh, too decayed to stay attached to the bone. “Longed for a walk again, I see.”

Selys pulled off the ripped, dead skin while Léon softly grumbled but otherwise did not respond much to the act. The pungent smell of rot puffed into the air as Selys put it into the trash bag, closing it tight. Freed, some of Léon’s shin bone shined around the ankle, the chain clinking as he slid his feet forward, then back.

Selys poured some of the balm on a textile tissue and began patting at Léon’s decomposing arm. His neck throbbed, but the usually numbed pain in his chest shrieked and boiled up as it always did after a feast. On his face, Léon wore the memory of his freckled, golden skin, lips chewed away by decay, eyeholes soon exposed with time. Selys softly massaged his once elegant fingers, careful not to scrape off more skin.

“Do you remember what you told me during your proposal?” he asked in his self-inflicted mandatory talking session. Sometimes, he thought he’d gotten a glimpse of recognition. But more times, he was convinced his mind finally gave in to the unending repetition of his lives.

Léon growled, glassy eyes forward, unfocused.

“You’ve told me how romantic it would be to rot next to each other. A crude humour, given my nature. But I was always enamoured by dark comedians, and you were one gem among the many.” He inhaled the sharp scent of the chemical balm and the smell of a never coming rest. “You then told me you meant it, that you wanted to live and die with me. That you’d walk in death beside me. You sweet, sweet lover boy.”

The once thick, yet short hair on Léon’s head weakened, almost fully fallen out. Still, Selys caressed it like silk, cupping his face in balm-coated hands then. “She’ll be done for soon, I’ll make sure of it. And you’ll be back,” he whispered his eternal promise, again and again, night after night. He carefully pulled the rotten forehead to his, the stench of blackened organs and the all too familiar sour taste of death sneaking up to his nostrils. “You wait only a little more, my sweet.”