#and I’m more drawn to older songs including more traditional kinds

[beeffilledshark]

While I’m very happy at wfm’s success and how it’s drawn so many people into Gundam (me included), it’s so upsetting we have to do this song and dance and explain how to “interpret” the explicit narrative that Sulemio is a real romance despite “them never kissing or saying I love you.” The whole fucking point of Gundam and the Newtype story is “understanding each other without misconception,” and while Witches aren’t able to really do that the same way Newtypes are, the core story of Suletta is getting people to truly understand her.

Sulemio’s resolution is Miorine finally “understanding“ that Suletta WANTS to save her family and Miorine revealing her “ugly” and disheveled self she’s hidden from everyone, only getting a taste of it when she invited Suletta to her room in ep 4. Suletta “understands” her mother and Aerial’s betrayal after Quinnharbor and that they do love her, just that they think she’ll be fine separated from them and to not involve her in their machinations. Chuchu’s entire arc is the perfect example of this theme: she goes from violently hating Spacians and picking fights with them on a regular basis to basically becoming Suletta’s older sister and rescuing hundreds of Spacian students and providing food and aid to them. The tragedy of Norea and El5n is amplified by this theme since only El5n could possibly “understand” Norea’s agony and existential anguish in considering herself a living casualty of war as a Gundam pilot. What’s made worse is she “understands” El5n empathizes with her and truly cares for her moments before being killed by Cathedra after her rampage. Hell, the Space Magic solution of Gwitch is a direct reference to Unicorn where the Gundams project the love interest's voice throughout the Earth Sphere so that they can communicate directly with the common person.

If you’ve watched Unicorn as many times as I have, you know they drill this fucking theme into your head every chance you give them but similarly to gwitch, there’s no kiss scene or “I love you” scene. Gundam, and Sunrise in general, has a long-standing tradition of demonstrating the primary romance through the dialogue and actions of the characters. I have never seen anyone question if Audrey and Banagher are in a relationship despite them never having any kind of kiss scene or a scene where they utter “I love you.” Of course, they were kind of meant to parallel Amuro and Sayla, but the dynamic between Suletta and Miorine are almost identical: Gundam pilot who has to protect the Princess from scheming enemies on both the enemy and their side.

The point of this post is that you have to be able to possess an ounce of media literacy in order to understand the sheer plot and character interactions of most popular Gundam media. Now that a lot more people are interested in picking up this franchise, I’m BEGGING you to really think about these shows and movies beyond the mech fights. Every Gundam series has something you can pick apart and the first step in analyzing that is to understand some of the core ideas of Gundam. We don’t kiss here. We’re too high brow to have that so we have characters say shit like “promise you’ll come with me to Earth,” since it means Miorine intends to incorporate Suletta into her future and in her desires or calling the Princess of Zeon Audrey despite her government name being Mineva. Though it may have been forceful, Banagher understood what Mineva wanted and vocalized that by referring to her as her cover name until the end of the OVA.

I do also want to add, this theme is why the Blowjob Brothers exist in nearly every incarnation of Gundam ever. Once you learn how to interpret characters' actions and how they demonstrate love, you'll understand why the fandom has so many gay ships with varying degrees of "authenticity" or canon-ness. The difference with Suletta and Miorine is that it's unabashedly explicit and the focus of Gwitch.

Anyways, any fellow Gwitch enthusiasts who are dipping their toes into 0079 or IBO or any other property as their second Gundam experience, please understand that a LOT of narrative devices and characters are direct references or homages to the past and trying to catch up on it all is like trying to integrate yourself into a religion you converted into. There's a lot of unwritten practices and beliefs that you have to learn and teach yourself, especially since there's psychos out there in the fandom.

(this entire post was spurred on by a dipshit twitter user arguing Sulemio wasn't the goal of gwitch and they changed it mid-hiatus to appeal to the wokes asdfklafd;ljkasf. Anyways Chamuro is real and gundam loves doing polycules this is unironically true)

[peachfruitcake]

I’ve developed a reoccurring hyperfixation on nueva canción chilena ever since last year and it’s making me even more excited on the idea of flying over there

[wuyifankris]

Kris Wu in Harper’s BAZAAR, July 2020 Issue

“Only when there’s improvement, will you feel alive.”

"A person with his own way of thinking" - more and more people see this in Kris Wu. From starting off with films to continuing on with variety programs, he has skilfully executed his roles with a sense of control, clear self-recognition and steadiness. We see a young man who goes along the path set with his own rules, has definite goals, is dedicated to work, and is constantly improving. In several months' time, Kris Wu will be thirty years old. BAZAAR invited him to share more about his story, and discuss about the past twenty nine years of his life.

In this world, one must be full of vigour

If this is a letter for myself, I think I'll say: For the past twenty nine years of my life, I've lived a life with no regrets. Every task I've done, every decision I've made, the experiences at at every stage of my life, the honour, the applause, the slander... are all indispensable in my journey of growth.

Regretting is painful, and it's hard not to regret. I am well aware that I'm lucky in this aspect. But whether or not I regret, in the end, it all depends on myself.

I have a very straightforward attitude when it comes to my life. I will only do the things that I'm sure I want to do, anything else or other less than ideal alternatives simply do not exist in my field of consideration. Only little kids will have endless choices and dilemmas, as an adult one should set their goals at the highest standard and focus on accomplishing it well.

Therefore, there was never a "Plan B" in my life. I would never prepare a second plan for myself. I feel that this trait of mine is typical of Scorpios, as long as I am set on doing something, I will make sure it's done to the best that I can.

You'd ask, what kind of preparations will I make? Everything. I'll do every kind of preparation that comes to mind. I will be deep in thought about it every moment, every minute, every second, and even in my dreams. This is the kind of focus and effort I give towards my goals.

Before turning thirty, I have already found a very good balance. I'm getting closer towards it, and my goals in life are clearer.

But the "most important things in life" are not set in stone, and change at every phase. I will set long term goals and short term goals. For example music - music is very important to me, it's something which I have invested a lot of time in that I love and am passionate about. At the same time it's my career, my job. So of course, I will continue pursuing it. However, at the same time, this doesn't mean that there aren't any other parts in my life with new directions and new goals. Like racing, it's something that I really enjoy now. I will also continue to set new goals for  myself for small things such as this.

I have always strongly believed in setting and following goals, and it is because of them that I am motivated to constantly improve. But thinking about my life as a whole, I'll refrain from prematurely setting an ultimate aim for certain things. Instead, I will maintain an open mind and allow myself to constantly aim for new goals. Also, at any point in time I will not allow myself to become someone without any goals.

Persistently setting goals for yourself and ceaselessly moving forth is the way one can continue to live youthfully and enthusiastically. I think that this is also a good way to maintain a positive mindset. Only when there's improvement, will you feel alive. Otherwise, there may not be much motivation in your life, and it could become very dim.

Since we are in this world, let's live this life with vigour! This has always been my attitude towards life.

Amidst all the recognition from others, your inner voice is what matters the most.

You have to take control of your life

As one gets older, they will gradually realise that although judgements from others may affect a person externally or mentally, this is merely the icing on the cake.

When you work hard, you will receive honour and recognition. But amidst all the recognition from others, your inner voice is what matters the most. Whether you believe the things you do are meaningful or not, whether through doing them you can obtain value, it's your opinion that far outweighs other matters.

So I feel that for many situations, regardless of the outcome, regardless of how much honour and success it brings to you, what's even more important is whether you have enjoyed the process or not.

To me, music is a very good way of expressing myself and allows me to make a mark in history. It allows me to express certain things that cannot be put into words, which can invoke an emotional response from the listener. Listeners who resonate to the song will be drawn towards it, and as a result of our shared similar experiences, bring about "us".

Perhaps one day I'll get old, or not be in this world anymore, but throughout my whole life, all the music I've made will remain, and will still continue to reach people, whether they're still young or already aging. This is really meaningful and important to me. This is a joy that I have found in music, it's a motivation that will spur me on to continue to improve in this area.

Furthermore, you guys will be able to see a very clear storyline and path of growth in my works, which includes my passion towards hip hop now, as well as my love for traditional Chinese style. As I move forth in life, I continue to incorporate my observations and thoughts [into my music] progressively. When you guys look back on my works, you'll be able to find the answers in them.

My love for music has led me to be deeply immersed in related industries as well. Why do I like fashion? It's because fashion is closely linked to music. When I like one industry, I'll pick up all the skills that I can that are possibly linked to it. From singing to dancing, acting, fashion, producing music, writing lyrics, and even taking up directing roles at times. I hope that I can pick up all sorts of skills that are associated with the things I like. After all, it's always good to have more skills.

The more you know, the more you will want to treat the things you're most interested in with the greatest detail of effort and professionalism, as well as open explore new possibilities. Even if one day I am no longer a "popular celebrity", I will still find a place for myself in this world. I can also take a step back behind the scenes and lead the life that I want to live. I feel that this defines a person's values and worth. With such skills and confidence I feel that I can continue to navigate on this path towards the unknown. This is probably why I don't get anxious too easily too.

So you see, it's your interests that will carry you along to further places. These interests are a part of life. Your life is still in your hands, you have to take full control of it. Do the things that you want to do, let the things you truly believe in lead your way. This is what matters the most.

So if you ask what I'm chasing, I'll tell you that I'm chasing the lifelong mindset of non-stop improvement.

I constantly feel as if I'm in the middle of the ocean, not knowing when deadly waves will arrive.

30 is just a number

Actually I don't think that just because I'm turning 30, I've matured a great deal. There are many stages in life from birth till now that have made me grow. Perhaps every two years I'll encounter a somewhat major life problem or unforeseen circumstance.

I constantly feel as if I'm in the middle of the ocean, not knowing when deadly waves will arrive, nor knowing when it will turn calm and tranquil. Perhaps in the blink of an eye the waves become rough and choppy at night, and the next moment at dawn the skies are clear. This is already the norm in my life.

As a result, this cultivated my mindset from very early on in life. My moods wouldn't fluctuate that much, perhaps starting around 20 years old I was already pretty calm and stable. It also wasn't because I was at this age that I began to treasure time even more and work extremely hard, as I had always put in so much effort all this while.

30 years of age is just a number. I'll tell myself, I'm already 30 years old, I have to be more stable. But in fact, I did not define what I wanted to do in certain stages of my life merely because I reached a specific age. I feel that I shouldn't be affected by a "midlife crisis". At age 30, it's still early, after living for another 10 years it probably won't be considered middle aged. Even at that age, one should not use terms such as middle aged, youth, elderly, young person and such to define the stages in your life.

You should define what you want to do at each stage in life. Continue doing what you want to do according to your own pace and you will be fine. As for the things beyond our control - I used to dream of being a professional basketball player, but due to an injury it was not possible. Let it go if it can't work out, there will always be regrets in life.

Gains and losses, strengths and weaknesses are all often experienced in life. Missing something or messing it up it also part of life. When life isn't perfect, you don't have to beat yourself up over it. Because when you begin to do so, your whole system may break down and you won't be able to efficiently think of ways to solve the problem, and things may end up spiralling downwards.

If it's not done well, then continue to try, or switch to an alternate route. Don't rashly choose to berate yourself.

This isn't vanity or arrogance, but a form of self-awareness. If you wish to lead a happier life, you must possess a sense of self-awareness. No matter where you go, you have to stand behind yourself with utmost support, and be your number one fan. You have to say out with confidence: I think I'm still not bad.

Actually, I feel that during this stage in life, I am most curious about the things that I can't do well. The more I can't do something well, the harder I want to work on it. Once I've accomplished it through further determination and actions, I have once again levelled up.

But before that, I definitely have to be interested in the task. If it's something I don't like, no matter how good it is, I won't be envious of it.

This is a form of respect towards myself. Life is short, we shouldn't make do with too many compromises, nor should we waste it.

No matter how good an era is, if you're not in it, it can't be considered good. An era that doesn't include you is meaningless.

There are blazing flames in my heart

There are some people who may think that since debut I was a super idol, a big celebrity that's worlds apart from my peers. But that's not the case, my personal life isn't too different from other young people. I enjoy going out on my own, without a driver, bodyguard or babysitter... and I'll also go out with non-industry friends to shop, eat, and play basketball. I was able to lead the life that everyone had, there was just a little gap due to my career.

Setting aside career, I am someone who is very close to the era of 90s kids.

I feel that this is a very good era, of course, it's not because this era is a certain way that makes it good or not. I believe that: As long as it's an era that I exist in, it's a good era. No matter how good an era is, if you're not in it, it can't be considered good. An era that doesn't include you is meaningless.

Obviously, I still maintain this mindset with blazing flames in my heart. I still believe I'm a simple and pure person, otherwise I won't be racing cars at this age all of a sudden.

However there are many ways to define "pure", and many people believe that when a person is said to be pure, it's because they are good - have not encountered much, is a good boy, a great kid - then I'm obviously not someone who appears to be one.

But I believe that the meaning of pureness extends beyond this.

True pureness exists within your heart, it's whether you have undivided focus towards the things that you are passionate about, leaving behind all other reasons, whether you are still able to put in effort into the things you love, whether you are able to understand this world simply, whether you can treat every person you meet with sincerity, and whether you can face the world with a childlike gentleness and curiosity.

We all feel that once we step into the adult world, everything immediately turns boundlessly complex. But true pureness is understanding all of your past experiences. With such events and turbulent times, if you can continue to maintain pureness in your heart, you are pure.

This is the kind of pureness I possess. 

Perhaps it's because my goals in life are constantly changing, and small goals are constantly emerging, so I have always lived a life that's pulsing with vitality, and my galaxy is still blazing. Perhaps it's because I have gone through certain experiences, which surprisingly widened my heart.

Looking forward in life, perhaps I may encounter some stress when I reach 40 years of age. But I feel that even if I'm 40, I'll still be a very cool person, still continue to take part in car racing, and stay immersed in my studio making music. I also think that at that time, I'll probably slow down my pace in life.

Perhaps I'll spend more time to really feel this world at present, travel to places I've never been before, explore more and see more, discover life, experience life.

I believe that [when I reach] that time I will have an entirely different mindset than what I do now. I'm still nervous now because there are certain aspects that I am lacking in. I'm looking forward to having that mindset.

But right now, at 30 years of age, I'll take my blazing flames along with me and race forth!

translation: @wu_yi_fan

[icyharrington]

Is It Wrong?- Part 3 (Michael Langdon X Reader)

so i got a lot of requests for michael to be put in his place, and i just gotta say... that doesn’t exactly happen in this part lmao. it will definitely happen in a future part tho!! y’all also wanted jealous!michael, which i was glad to deliver!! i really hope y’all like this part. please reblog and leave comments if u do!!! :) 

please check out my masterlist for part 1 and 2, since i’ve heard that including links in posts now fucks with the tags (i don’t know if this is true, but just to be safe i’m not gonna include links). lmao

plot: michael langdon is a picture-perfect fuckboy, and, lucky for you, he’s also your stepbrother. how will you survive?

warnings: inappropriate relationships, fuckboy michael, fem!Reader, high school au, underage drinking, smoking, jealous!michael, teen angst, public (ish) sex, fingering, choking, blowjobs/facefucking, rough sex, hair pulling, degradation, spanking (both traditional and non-traditional, if yanno what i mean...), dirty talk

word count: 7k

tags: @alicecooper19 @blackfyrez @bbyduncan @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @satansapostle @trelaney @tickled--pinkmoodpoisoning @alexa-is-on-fire @kissydevil @langdonalien @langdonsdemon @sloppy-wrist @wroteclassicaly @langdonsinferno @duncvn @langdonsrapture @ccodyfern @starwlkers @xtheinevitableprophecyx @americanhorrorstudies @sodanova @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @divinelangdon @sojournmichael @kahhlo

i.

A month had passed since the… incident with Michael, and since that time, you’d transformed into somebody you hardly recognized.

You and Michael? Well, you and Michael had begun to get along quite well. Gone were the days of pointless arguing- if there was ever a problem, it usually wouldn’t be long before Michael’s dick was somewhere inside of you, and by the time you both were done, neither of you would have the energy to fight anymore. You still bickered, of course, and you both loved nothing more than to get on each other’s nerves, but the initial hatred you’d harbored towards your stepbrother was now, for the most part, gone.

The change was obvious and palpable. Sometimes you were surprised that your parents hadn’t caught on to something going on between you and Michael, but you figured they were just happy you were both coexisting. We’re finally like a family, your father had said, beaming, when you and Michael had shared a blanket during family movie night.

You’d exchanged a look with Michael, uncomfortable giggles passing both of your lips. If only your father had known where Michael’s hand had been placed, right that very minute, underneath the blanket.

You supposed that what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

In the mornings, Michael would drive you to school without complaint. You suspected this was because of the opportunities for quick car… activities: on several occasions, he’d fingered you on the short drive to school, testing himself to see how quickly he could bring you to an orgasm, your hands clamped around his forearm as his fingers moved between your thighs, tinted lens-covered eyes focused on the road.

That boy was always in the mood, you’d come to realize.  

On this particular day, Michael seemed to be more in the mood than usual; he’d given your ass a particularly hard slap as you passed him in the hallway that morning, a cocky grin crossing his face when you’d told him, only half-seriously, to fuck off.

God, this was fucking ridiculous. You knew this was ridiculous, that this was wrong, that you should feel unclean, dirty, every time you let him touch you. It made complete sense, logically, for you to cut things off with him.

Besides the glaringly obvious fact that he was your stepbrother, he was also a total douchebag, a fuckboy, a player. He’d been balls deep in at least a quarter of your grade at some point or another. He objectified you- you (admittedly fondly) recalled a time he’d pushed you up against the sink one morning, snaking those big hands up your pajama shirt to grab a fistful of your tits before walking off like nothing had happened.

And, like the fucking idiot you were, you’d been left in a state of absolute, pathetic euphoria, your cheeks flushed and heart pounding, teeth sinking into your lower lip like a pornstar.

Sometimes you really hated yourself.

Scratch that, you hated yourself a lot more than sometimes.

When you’d finally come downstairs for breakfast, dressed in your usual jeans and sweater, you’d noticed Michael’s gaze lingering on the curves of your thighs, prominent through the form-fitting denim material. Had he always checked you out like this?

“You need a ride to school today?” Michael asked, shoveling a spoonful of your favorite cereal into his mouth. You pursed your lips disapprovingly, but decided not to mention it.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Miriam seemed pleased with this exchange, shuffling over to where Michael sat and ruffling his hair affectionately, much to his obvious dismay. “I love seeing you two finally getting along. See, isn’t it so much better being nice to your sister?”

Michael raised an eyebrow at you, hands lifting to adjust his hair back to how it’d been before Miriam touched it. “Yeah, it really is. Right, sis?”

You cut your eyes at him, leaning your elbows on the counter and checking the time on your phone. “We’re gonna be late, bro.”

Michael stood up, again leaving his bowl on the table like the entitled, spoiled brat he was. He looked good, with black jeans and his favorite, faded pair of Doc Martens, paired with a white t-shirt and his beloved leather jacket. Lately he’d been letting his hair grow out, and his soft curls were nearly reaching his shoulders now.  

When you noticed the chain that he’d attached to his belt loops, you snorted.

“Nice chain. Good luck on your Hot Topic interview.”

He looked down at the silver appendage, leveling it idly with one hand before looking back to you. “You don’t like it?”

“I’m not saying I don’t like it, I’m just saying you look like you’re about to pull up to a My Chemical Romance concert circa 2008. All you need is some eyeliner.”

He walked past you to the front door, seemingly unaffected by your comment. “Honestly, eyeliner doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

You followed behind him until both of you were outside. It was almost admirable how little Michael cared of what other people thought of him; his confidence was probably why he was so popular, even though he didn’t necessarily fit in with the frat-boy-to-bes who were usually at the top of the high school food chain.

“So,” he said as you walked side-by-side to his car, giving you that familiar look that you knew so well. You swallowed, knowing fully well how little self-control you had when it came to Michael.

“I was thinking, maybe we should ditch first period today.”

You huffed, pretending to be opposed to this idea, even though you willingly went along with nearly anything Michael suggested no matter what it was. You got in the car, inhaling that telltale mixture of cologne and cigarettes and fast-food grease, getting yourself comfortable before answering.

“Michael, I can’t miss math again. I’ve already missed three times in two weeks.”

“So what’s one more time?” He ran his fingers through his hair before turning the key in ignition, the golden morning sun hitting his angelic features just right. Your mouth watered, and all at once your will dissolved into nothingness.

“I really hate you.”

He looked at you from the corners of his eyes with a smirk, pulling his sunglasses off the front of his shirt and putting them on.

“Fine.”

ii.

This is why I can’t fucking resist him, you thought, breath slow and heavy as Michael laid kiss after sloppy kiss across your collarbones, hand placed firmly between your thighs.

Michael had put in his favorite Pink Floyd CD once you’d arrived at the abandoned parking lot (the same one that his creepy friend had taken you to- apparently it was a popular place for teenagers to fuck). You’d both sat there for a bit, making small talk and sharing a joint that he’d pre-rolled, knowing fully well what you’d both come there to do.

I kind of wanna stretch my legs out, he’d finally said, voice low, the baby blue of his eyes accentuated by the red tinge surrounding his irises. Why don’t we go in the back?

Leave it to Michael to get straight to the action.

He’d gotten you undressed in a matter of minutes- your jeans and boots were discarded on the already cluttered floor of the car, leaving you in nothing but your sweater, socks, and pale blue underwear. He’d looked unbelievably sexy, lips red and glossed with spit, when he’d drawn back to pull off his jacket, eyes clouded with a voracious, possessive lust.  

Part of you wondered how many other girls had seen him in that exact state.

The thought dissipated, however, when he’d pushed aside the thin fabric of your underwear and promptly slipped two long fingers inside you.

“Always so fucking wet for me,” he’d murmured, playing with the hem of your sweater before pulling it off over your head. The warmth of his breath against your neck and the lewdness of his raspy words may as well have made you melt into a puddle right then.

Who’s gonna show this stranger around?

Ooh, I need a dirty woman

Ooh, I need a dirty girl

Michael’s fingers seemed to match the beat of the song playing, thumb flicking at your clit as he sucked a trail of bruises across your heaving chest, marking you, claiming you. You moaned, rolling your hips against his, feeling his hard length pressing into your thigh through the tough material of his jeans; you reached between his legs and squeezed it, making him chuckle against you, and he brought his head up to face you.

“And you’re always so eager,” he said, retreating back onto his knees. Then he slid your underwear off and tossed it amongst the rest of the clothes that had piled up, hands flying to unzip his pants once you’d been disrobed. “My baby sister is such a bad girl for me.”

You considered reminding him that he was only a month older than you, and that you were hardly a baby, but you didn’t have time to correct him before he pulled his pants and boxers halfway down his thighs, allowing his erection to spring forward.

Your legs spread instinctively for him, and he inched towards you, positioning himself on top of you while your back rested partially against the door. He aligned the head of his cock with your opening and you sighed, reaching up his shirt from behind and pressing your fingernails into the smooth skin of his back.

“Fuck,” he grunted, eyelids fluttering as he pushed inside your tight heat, your narrow walls swallowing him up. Wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him in closer, you moaned softly, heart rate increasing when he began to thrust slowly, but with just enough force to make your legs feel weak.

Every time he fucked you was like the first time; he was huge, and you weren’t sure you’d ever get used to the feeling of him stretching you out. You loved the pain, though, loved the way you couldn’t walk right when he was finished with you, even when he went as gently as he could; you liked the bruises, the scratches, the indents of his short fingernails where they’d dug into your skin.

“Michael,” you sighed, bucking your hips up to meet his rhythmic thrusts, both your sounds of pleasure becoming diluted by the drums and guitar and keyboard blaring from the stereo.

He buried his head in the crook of your neck, and you were sure he could taste the salt of your sweat, his tongue darting out to trail along your skin as he fucked into you.

You were stricken with ecstasy, shivering when Michael’s firm torso made friction on your clit, and you brought one hand up to run through his sweat-dampened golden waves.

“H-harder,” you choked out, and he sank his teeth into your shoulder before mumbling a half-hearted response to your plea.

“You want me to fuck you harder, baby? Wanna feel me for the rest of the day?”

“Mhm.” You gave his hair an urgent tug, and again he tilted his head up to look at you, his eyes so dilated they almost appeared entirely black. Placing one hand loosely around your throat, just like he knew you liked, he pulled himself all the way out of you; there was a vulgar slapping noise as he gave a hard, pointed shove of his hips, impaling you to the hilt, and you cried out at the fullness.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” he praised, eyes locked with yours while he pounded you into the leather seat, hard enough to bruise. His grip tightened around your neck as he came closer to his release, forehead slick with perspiration, perfect mouth agape.

This was everything, everything you thought about, everything you wanted: moments like this, your bodies pressed flush together, moving in perfect time. You caressed Michael’s hair so softly, one might mistake it as a loving touch, your other hand making shallow scratches up and down the expanse of skin beside his spine.

Your cunt clenched around him and you were almost there, his thrusts becoming sloppier with each passing second; there was a moment of silence, amplifying the raw sounds of sex as the song came to an end; that silence was followed by a quiet whirring, and then another song came on, psychedelic chords flooding your senses along with- fuck-

The head of Michael’s cock hit something sensitive deep inside of you, sending your lower body into convulsions, and you were sure your fingernails were drawing blood now, clawing onto Michael for dear life.

oh god-

-your thoughts weren’t coherent anymore, and then you were crying out, Michael’s cock working you open like your fingers never could, head lolling back and nearly colliding with the window, and-

“Oh god- oh fuck-“

The pads of Michael’s fingers pressed harshly into your throat, his eyes half-open in pure, fucked-out bliss, while yours rolled back into your head. It took only a few more strokes for you to cum, and then Michael was too, and you were glad you’d went on birth control for your period cramps when you were sixteen because holy shit did it feel good when he spilled his hot load inside you.

He pulled out of you, admiring the sight of his cum leaking down your inner thighs; he slid one finger up between your folds, gathering the sticky secretion and rubbing it against your pulsing clit, a self-satisfied expression crossing his face when your body twitched at the sensation.

“Ew, Michael,” you said, wrinkling your nose. He was so fucking smug every time he came inside of you, like he’d just marked his territory.

He just laughed at your reaction, moving back to pull his pants back up and refasten his jeans, reaching into the back pocket to pull out his package of cigarettes once he was finished re-dressing.

“Don’t wanna go back to school,” he grunted, retrieving a cigarette from the pack and sticking it between his teeth.

“How come? All your adoring fans are there,” you said, having found yourself in a sarcastic mood. You put your underwear back on, followed by your sweater; you decided you’d wait until later to put on your jeans, given the limited amount of space you had right now.

“I like you so much better when I’m inside you,” he said, picking up a lighter from the floor of the car and lighting his cigarette. “You’re too busy moaning my name to give me any attitude.”

You narrowed your eyes, but you were too exhausted to come up with a biting response. “Fuck you.”

“Just did.”

A trail of pale gray smoke wafted in your direction and you waved it away, coughing dramatically for good measure. “You know you can open the windows, right?”

“You know it’s my car so I can do whatever I want, right?” He took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke directly in your face, eating up your resulting look of disgust.

Some things would never change, and no matter how many times you let him fuck you raw, no matter how many times you brought each other to orgasm, you doubted the stepsibling rivalry would ever completely fade.

From the front seat, Michael’s phone vibrated, and he cursed under his breath as he grabbed for it.

“Hey, man,” he said once he’d accepted the call, resting his elbow against the window, flicking ash carelessly onto the floor of the car. The worry that it’d been Miriam calling to inquire about your whereabouts disappeared, and you reclined back against the seat.

“Uh, yeah, I skipped first period.” He shot you a warning look, indicating for you to stay silent, and you rolled your eyes. “Yeah, uh, I’m picking up some shit for tomorrow.”

He sucked at the end of his cigarette, waiting for a response from his friend, while you picked your jeans up and put them on, struggling slightly as you attempted to get them on in a sitting position.

“No, I told you I can’t steal my stepdad’s shit anymore. My dumb fucking stepsister ratted me out and now he has a lock on the cabinet,” he said into the phone, shooting you a contemptuous scowl from the corner of his eye.

You batted your eyelashes innocently as you worked the tight denim up your legs; you were still proud of yourself for that one.

“Yeah, I’m picking up a few cases of beer. I- yeah.” Long pause. He flicked away some more ash, this time onto the seat, and you could see an orange ember still glowing in one of the tiny piles that had landed beside you. You wriggled your hips, finally getting the waistband of your jeans up and securing the silver button in its place. “Fuck no, dude, I’m not buying any of that 4 Loko shit. You remember what happened last time?”

Another pause. You were somewhat intrigued now, and Michael could tell; he held up his hand, dwindling cigarette poised between two fingers, waving you away with an obnoxious flourish.

“Yeah, man. I’ll see you in gym, dude-“ you could hear his friend speaking on the other end of the line, and Michael laughed at whatever he’d said. “Yeah, dude, those gym shorts Zoe Benson wears shouldn’t be allowed. I don’t know how anyone expects us to focus on fuckin’ volleyball with her ass hanging out like that.”

More laughing.

“You’re such an asshole,” you muttered, and Michael held a slender finger up to his lips.

“Yep. Bye, man.” He pressed his thumb into the “end call” button, before putting his cigarette out on the door and turning to you. “C’mon, we gotta go pick some shit up.”

You grabbed your boots from the floor and pulled them on. “For what?”

“None of your business.” He slung his leather jacket over one shoulder and got out of the car, the rubber soles of his combat boots slapping noisily against the asphalt as he walked around to the driver’s side.

You followed suit, hoping Michael couldn’t see how difficult it was for you to walk as you made your way to the passenger’s side and got into the car.

“C’mon, just tell me,” you said with a pout; in all honesty, you were fairly certain of what Michael’s plans were- he did the same thing nearly every single weekend, house party-hopping with his friends until he came home past 2 am, stumbling by your bedroom with absolutely no attempt at discretion.

The difference now, though, was that you kind of sort of wanted him to invite you to come with him for once. You were a senior in high school, after all, and you’d never even once been to a high school party. So sue you for being curious!

“If you must know,” he said, putting the car into drive, “it’s for a party. You don’t go to those.”

“You don’t know that,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Uh, I kinda do. I’ve never once seen you at a party. And I go to a lot of them.”

Wow, Michael, you’re sooo cool, you thought bitterly.

You had to admit, though, he was right.

He noticed the look on your face and snickered, perhaps a bit too condescendingly for your liking. “Aww, what, does my baby sister want her big brother to take her to her first high school party?”

Your skin prickled, and you looked out the window to avoid his piercing stare. You couldn’t believe the number of times you’d allowed this total douchebag to cum inside you. Even worse, you couldn’t believe that you were definitely going to let him do it again. “I wouldn’t be caught dead at a party with you,” you managed through clenched teeth, thoroughly embarrassed.

“Yeah, I know you wouldn’t.”

He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road, starting in the direction of the local gas station which was infamous for not carding underaged kids when they went to buy alcohol.

Fuck it. If he wasn’t going to invite you to come, you’d find your own way.

iii.  

Later that day, you’d asked your slightly-more-social acquaintance for a ride to the party that weekend, since your former best friend was no longer an option. She’d agreed, and you were surprised at how easy it’d been to get an ‘in’ on the high school social scene without Michael’s assistance.

You couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when you walked into the party.

You’d searched through your drawers and in your closet for something cute (and also enticing enough to catch Michael’s attention, although you’d never say that outright) to wear; eventually you’d found a little red tank top, which your best friend had always said made your tits look good, and a pair of high-waisted jeans that you’d always thought made your butt look bigger.

Turning around in the mirror, observing your exposed midriff and pronounced chest and round ass, you had to admit you felt positively mouthwatering.

On the night of the party, your acquaintance arranged to pick you up at ten, which was perfect, since Michael had headed out at 9:30. You wanted this to be a surprise, and so a fashionably-late entrance was ideal.

You got yourself ready, straightening your hair and dousing yourself in perfume with hints of cinnamon (Michael’s favorite scent, although you swore to yourself you hadn’t done this on purpose). You smudged black eyeliner under your eyes, hoping this would make you look sexy and not like a raccoon, and put on a red lipstick that you only ever wore on special occasions.

Seeing yourself like this made you wonder why you didn’t dress up more often.

Before your ride came, you found your father’s key to the liquor cabinet (just as you’d expected, he’d hidden it inside one of his steel-toed work boots, which collected dust by the front door all year long while he continued to insist that he needed them for an upcoming ‘project’, whatever that meant) and unlocked it.

With shaking hands, you’d poured yourself a few shots, holding your nose each time you threw one back, throat burning and body shuddering at the awful flavor that you figured was probably what gasoline tasted like.

By the time you got the text from your acquaintance, alerting you that she was outside, you were decently drunk. Your thoughts were clouded with a thick fog and your cheeks were hot, but you liked it, liked the way your insides felt warm and uplifted, the way your mind felt numb; holding your hand against the wall to steady yourself as you walked to the front door, you attempted to mentally prepare yourself for the night to come.

You didn’t think you’d ever been so ready for something in your life.

iv.

In less than an hour, the party had gone from decent to good to great.

You knew the girl who was throwing the party, albeit very vaguely; you’d spoken a couple of times to her about school-related things, and she’d been nice enough. From what you’d heard, her parents had gone out of town for the weekend, and she’d taken full advantage of the opportunity.

It reminded you of when Miriam and your father had gone off on their honeymoon in July, and Michael had taken it upon himself to throw 3 consecutive keg parties in your fucking house. Well, technically, your backyard. But still. You’d stayed up in your room those nights, kept awake by the thumping bass coming from outside, ranting to your (ex) best friend over FaceTime about how goddamn much you hated the newest addition to your family.

And, of course, she’d gone and fucked him.

Could you really judge her, though? You were fucking him now, too, and you had infinitely more reasons than she did not to fuck him.

But that was besides the point.

The small group of girls who’d been in the car when you were picked up immediately dispersed upon arrival, leaving you to your own devices; already intoxicated, you’d begun your search for Michael in the crowd of drunken teenagers, keeping an eye out for that impeccable, lush mop of blonde hair.

You didn’t know what you were planning to do once you saw him. You couldn’t approach him, especially not if he was with his friends, but you wanted him to see you in all your glory, wanted him to see that hey, look, I can go to parties too if I want, and I don’t need you.

Michael, however, found you first.

It was much later (though you couldn’t be quite sure how much later), after you’d given up on your search, opting instead to talk to a cute boy who you thought looked very similar to one of Michael’s friends.

Honestly, it probably was one of Michael’s friends- at this point, you were too drunk to tell, having indulged in one or two (okay, more like three or four) more shots during the time you’d spent weaving through the party.

You were in the middle of telling the boy exactly how you knew that Chuck E Cheese recycled their pizza slices when a thick, slurred voice interrupted you.

“(Y/n)?”

You turned, eyes heavy-lidded, a stupid, sloppy smile plastered across your made-up face.

That smile only slightly faltered when you saw who had spoken. It was Michael (because who else would it be?), looking stupidly beautiful like he always did, face twisted up into something you couldn’t quite decipher- maybe you were too drunk to tell, or maybe he was too drunk to properly convey his emotions; either way, you were unsure of what he was planning to say to you.

“Who did you come here with?” he asked. He was practically yelling, struggling to be heard over the shouts of teenagers and blasting rap music.

“Wouldn’t you-“ you hiccuped- “like to know?”

His line of sight suddenly dropped down to your chest, and then to your hips, and then back to your eyes, and you were 99.9 percent sure you’d just witnessed his eyes nearly bulging out of his head.

When he realized you’d noticed him looking, he made an attempt to save himself. “Huh. Looks like you actually put effort into looking good for once.”

You probably would’ve been offended at this comment, had you not been multiple shots deep.

“You think I look good?” you purred, rocking back and forth on your heels like a spoiled little girl asking for her father for a pony.

He ignored your question, focusing his attention now on the boy you’d been talking to.

“There you are, dude, we were wondering where you went.” He poised an eyebrow, not bothering to conceal his confusion with the situation at hand, which was, of course, the fact that you were mid-conversation with one of his friends. “So, um... whatcha doing?”

He dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans, a venomous smile stretching across his full lips. He wasn’t happy, that much you could tell.

The boy let out an oblivious chuckle. “Your sister was just telling me about- what was it, (y/n)?”

“Chuck E Cheese,” you said quietly, probably too quietly for Michael to hear. Not that you really believed Michael cared much about what you’d been talking about.

“Right- well, did you know that there’s like, a conspiracy, I guess? That they-“

“-Don’t fuck around with my sister, okay?” Michael interjected, his tone firm and unyielding, and you felt your face bloom with color. “It’s my fucking sister, man. I would back off if I were you.”

All at once, the boy’s smile faded, as did yours. So apparently Michael was an aggressive drunk. Noted.

“Michael, I can talk to whoever I want and there’s nothing-“ you jabbed your finger at Michael’s chest, giggling uncontrollably at the resistance of the muscular surface. “-you can do about it. So suck. My. Dick.”

The muscles in Michael’s face tightened, and you got the smallest urge to run your tongue along the sharp, angular stretch of his clenched jawline. Of course, you refrained.

“I would’ve thought you learned not to run around with my friends after the first time, but I guess I was wrong,” he said with a shrug that you could tell was meant to make him appear indifferent to the matter; it didn’t take a psychologist to tell, though, that he cared far more than you knew he’d ever admit.

“Yeah, I guess you were,” you slurred, spinning around to take hold of your new friend’s hand. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Without another word to Michael, you walked away, your new friend allowing you to guide him as you searched for somewhere else to go. Swaying your hips with each step, you hoped Michael was getting a good eyeful of your ass in those skintight jeans of yours.

God, it was like a natural high whenever you got under Michael’s skin, and right now, you were over the moon.

v.

You should’ve known that things would end up like this, because your life was one massive cacophony of clichés and this was just the way things played out in every single teen sitcom.

It felt disrespectful, somehow, being pushed up against the wall of a total stranger’s bedroom, your tongue tangling with some kid you hardly knew, the taste of liquor ripe on the back of your throat.

It felt even more disrespectful when you sat him down on the edge of the bed, sinking onto your knees so you were between his jean-clad thighs, and it felt downright indecorous when you unzipped his pants to pull his cock out of his boxers.

You shut your eyes to avoid accidentally making eye contact with any of the pictures adorning the wall, especially the family photo enclosed within a picture frame that had Family Is Everything written across the bottom in hot pink script.

What the fuck were you doing?

Taking the boy’s cock in your hand, you applied a few thoughtless licks to the head of his dick, his sighs audible even over the muffled music that spilled into the room underneath the closed door. You bobbed your head down, taking him into your mouth, his fingers gently lacing with your hair as you dipped further.

With your eyes closed, you could almost pretend that it was Michael’s dick in your mouth, and not one of his not-as-cute friend’s.

“Fuck yeah, baby,” moaned the boy, and you cringed at his dirty talk; still, you took more of him into your mouth, pressing your tongue flat against his shaft, wishing he’d put more pressure on the back of your head with his palm like Michael always did.

Fuck Michael Langdon, fuck the way you wanted him even when he was a total asshole to you, and fuck the fact that he was on your mind, nonstop, even when you had another guy’s dick in your goddamn mouth.

You brought your hand away from the boy’s shaft and instead placed it on his thigh, pushing your head down until you were gagging around him, nose nearly reaching his balls. The boy gasped, inadvertently lifting his hips and shoving himself deeper in your mouth, and you sputtered.

From out in the hallway, you heard someone talking about finding the bathroom, the voice growing louder and louder until the mystery speaker was directly outside the bedroom; it didn’t occur to you to be concerned, or at least not until it was far too late and the door had already swung open, and you heard two startled shouts- one from the boy you’d been sucking off, and one from the person who’d just barged in.

“Michael-“ exclaimed the boy, and it was then that you realized how truly fucked you were.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Michael said, and you felt a hand entangle with your hair to yank you back, painfully, so you were sprawled on your ass.

You looked up at your stepbrother, his nostrils flaring in that way that only happened when he was pissed, and silently you scolded yourself for thinking that he looked hot like this.

“Didn’t I tell you not to fuck with my sister?” he continued, grabbing his friend by the front of his shirt and jerking him to his feet. The boy looked positively terrified, lower lip trembling as Michael whirled him around and sent him catapulting out into the hallway.

“You ever touch her again and I’ll snap your fucking neck,” he yelled after him, sounding so dead serious that you thought it’d be foolish not to believe his threat.

Now it was just the two of you, and honestly, you were pretty fucking scared (though why, oh why, did you also feel something like excitement building up in your belly?). Michael slammed the door shut before coming to tower over you; you scrambled back, moving to stand up, but he stopped you.

“No. You stay down there,” he spat, voice laden with disgust. “Who knew you were such a little slut? If you wanted something to suck on, (y/n), you could’ve just asked me.”

“Mi-Michael, I-“

“-Shut the fuck up.” He reached down to take a fistful of your hair in his hand, using it to bring you roughly to your knees.

Why the fuck was this happening? And why the fuck were you so completely turned on?

“If cock in your mouth is what you wanted, then that’s exactly what you’re going to get,” he said, unzipping his pants and retrieving himself from the confines of his boxers; he was already hard, his cock springing forward so suddenly it almost hit you across the face, and you flinched.

“Aww, what’s the matter? I thought you liked having cock in your face,” he taunted, taking his thick shaft in hand and slapping you across the cheek with it. He did this a few more times until the side of your face was stinging, sadistic laughter bubbling past his lips each time you squeezed your eyes shut in utter humiliation and arousal.

When he grew bored of this, he reached down and manually unhinged your jaw, wasting no time before pushing himself into your mouth, brushing the back of your throat with his first thrust.

You gagged, drool already seeping from the corners of your lips, balling your hands into fists at your sides as you allowed your stepbrother to mercilessly use you.

He snapped his hips forward, his cock so deep in your throat that you were now face-to-face with the soft curls surrounding his pelvis.

“I bet he didn’t fuck your face like this,” he said between pants, holding your face against his balls before pulling out and fucking back into your hot mouth. “Bet he didn’t show you who you belong to like I do.”

You moaned around his stiff skin, sending vibrations up the length of his cock, and he cursed loudly; tears streamed down your face, no doubt ruining your makeup, but you were too far gone to care.

Michael pulled out of your swollen mouth, strings of saliva stretching and breaking between your mouth and his glistening cock. You took in a much-needed breath just as he took you by the front of your shirt and forced you to stand, groping your tits as he thrust you backwards onto the bed.

“Did you let him inside you?” he demanded, making quick work of removing your jeans and tossing them off the side of the bed.

“No, Michael, I swear-“

He cupped your pussy, making you squirm when he pressed two fingers against your clit through the thin material of your panties. “I better not find out that you’re lying.”

He pulled your underwear off and discarded it on the floor, leaning down to spit a thick wad of saliva onto your dripping cunt. You whimpered, wiggling slightly against the mattress, and in turn he pinned you down by your hips with a bruising hold.

“I’m gonna be as clear as I can be,” he said, flipping you onto your stomach and lifting you up by your waist so your ass was in the air. He wrapped a strand of your hair around his hand, tugging your head back, and you could feel his hard length pressing against your thigh as he brought his head down to whisper in your ear.

“This pussy?” He landed a painful slap on your cunt, and you jumped. “It belongs to me.”

You bit your lip at his words, ringing in your ears even after they’d left his mouth. He let your hair go, hooking his fingers around your cheek to push them inside your mouth, and obediently you opened up for him.

“And this pretty mouth?” He lined his cock up with your slit, pumping his fingers in and out of your gaping mouth, your eyes watering when he pushed them down on the back of your tongue. “It’s mine too.”

In one swift motion, he pushed all the way into you, not allowing you any time to adjust before he began hammering inside at a ruthless pace; you cried out, overtaken with the seamless blend of pain and pleasure that Michael had gotten you so accustomed to, more tears streaming down your cheeks and dropping onto the sheets below.

He pulled his fingers out from your mouth, using his hand instead to smack the rounded curve of your ass. You buried your face in the pillow, hoping you wouldn’t stain the case too badly with your smeared makeup, arching your back higher so you could feel every inch of Michael’s cock filling you up.

The vulgar, wet sounds of his cock slamming in and out of you were almost too much to bear, a mixture of your arousal and Michael’s spit dripping down your inner thighs in a crude display; Michael gripped your hips for leverage, undoubtedly forming five fingerprint-shaped bruises on your padded skin in the process.

“Oh fuck- Michael, please-“ It hurt, the way he was fucking you, but you would’ve sold your soul right then if it meant always being able to feel this intense, rapturous pleasure.

“Who do you belong to?” Michael barked, voice raspy, but still harsh enough to cut through your consciousness like a knife.

“Y-you, Michael, fuck,” you moaned, twisting the bedsheets in your hands until your knuckles turned white, eyes rolling back into your skull as Michael bottomed out inside you again and again and again.

For a moment, he steadied his thrusting so he could catch his breath, slowly pressing himself all the way inside so his balls rested against your ass.

“You- take me- so- well,” he said between sharp inhales, tracing one hand gingerly down the length of your spine. Your skin erupted with goosebumps at the tenderness of his touch, your hips grinding back to increase the stimulation.

It only took a few moments for Michael to recuperate himself, and once he had, he was back to his animalistic ways; behind you, you could hear him grunting, and you could only imagine how beautiful he looked back there in all his fucked-out bliss.

“I’m- I’m-“ you couldn’t get the words out, your walls clenching around him as you came unexpectedly, your juices dribbling down your inner thighs and all over Michael’s cock.

“Holy shit,” Michael laughed, coating his fingertips until they were slick with your essence and observing them in awe. You went to get up, but he turned you onto your back, kneeling over your shoulders and promptly inserting himself down your throat.  

He groaned, releasing his thick, salty load in your mouth; he was so deep in your throat that you didn’t even have to swallow.

“Fuck,” Michael said, falling back to lie beside you. You were a mess, trails of mascara staining your cheeks and red lipstick smudged, and you had no idea how you were going to leave the room without someone wondering what the hell had happened to you.

You got into a cross-legged position; you definitely weren’t in any position to get up or walk anywhere at this point in time. “So were you actually pissed that I sucked your friend’s dick? Or was that just an excuse to throw me around and fuck my face?”

It was an earnest question that you genuinely didn’t know the answer to. Why did Michael care so much anyway? Especially considering the times he’d fucked your (ex) best friend?

“Little bit of both,” he said, hoisting up his hips so he could pull up his boxers and jeans. “Look. I- I may have overreacted just a little bit. I just don’t want my douchebag friends putting their hands on my sister, you know?”

You scoffed. “We both know you don’t consider me your sister.”

“Doesn’t matter. I just- I don’t know. Forget it.” He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and rising to his feet. “I’m gonna go see if I can find makeup remover somewhere. You look like a fucking wreck.”

There was something about that statement that made your heart swell in your chest; Michael was actually doing something nice for you?

“Aww, really? Thanks, Michael,” you said with a smile.

He scrunched up his face. “Alright, calm down.”

He opened the door and disappeared into the hallway, leaving you half-naked and alone with your thoughts. You felt conflicted, like you always did after you spent time with Michael, but you couldn’t help but feel that there was something, deep down, inside the hardened, fucked-up heart of your stepbrother, that actually resembled something good.

Or maybe it was just the alcohol talking.

[fuse2dx]

August ‘20

Ruiner

Ruiner frames its action at an isometric tilt. There’s a lot of red; in the game’s interface, as the prominent colour of the neon lighting that adorns its stages, and in the blood that is frequently spilled. Its cyberpunk setting isn’t anything particularly new, but as a unifying aesthetic, the glitchy effects, and out-there personalities doing their best to cope in a dystopia do well to build a convincing and intriguing world. Stages are action packed and throb with electronic noise and big loud industrial bass hits, with the play being akin to an arena shooter; enemies surging at you in bite size, minute-at-a-time waves, with each of these closing out with a grading screen serving as the pat on the back to keep that dopamine rhythm pulsing. It’s a pretty hypnotic cocktail.

These stages evolve out of a singular hub city, and while it’s not particularly big, there’s just the right level of hubbub, and it has a lovely Hirusawa Susumu track acting as an excellent, melancholic mood-setter. Based on the size of its world and the the quick-fire action being split between a very small number of stages, it’s not surprising to say it’s fairly brief - I mean, how could it get so big? But what is important is that it’s plenty of fun and and has style by the bucketload. I got a good kick out of it.

Carrion

On one hand, a horror game where you play the horror is just the kind of flip on a genre that’s needed to freshen things up a bit. On the other, it’s one straight out of the spoof ‘Peter Molydeux’ playbook. What a carri-on.

... I’m sorry. After your initial escape from a lab, Carrion centres around a hub world, with individual stages then breaking off to allow for more specific themed stages. What you’re trying to do within these is to spread your big, goopy self around, where certain spots will act as save points but also count toward unlocking an alternative path back to the hub and opening up new routes in the process. What’s unique to this particular metroidvania take is that while there are new skills that open up new routes, your movement in general is uniquely freeform - point in a direction and off you go, free of any worries about platforming and the gravity that’d otherwise bind you. While it may not be the most precise movement given the size to which you grow - and boy does this become a point during some forms of combat - it does remain responsive, and quite fun to simply shamble about like a giant congealed blob of bloody, multi-toothed sinew-y mess. Everything scales up nicely on both sides of the fighting, with distraught pistol-equipped humans turning to shielded folks with flamethrowers, all the way up to drones and mechs that are just as mobile and / or deadly as yourself, even in spite of your own upgrades that allow for more ranged, varied, and sharper extremities. It’s not especially long, and is never so taxing as to demand too much expertise of you, but it is fun and importantly, quite unlike anything else out there.

Yoku’s Island Express

Pinball continues to feel like a lost art form to me, with the nuance of skilled play being more like a foreign language than another type of game you can easily pick up. Yoku, newly-appointed postmaster, is but a tiny little bug, and as such is indebted to these skills in his efforts to travel and clamber about an environment much larger than he. Flippers are casually littered about to shoot you from one area to the next, but there’s also plenty of sections you’re led to by the story that are small yet just detailed enough to play like a neatly sectioned off area of a complete table - complete with requirements for precise shots to move forward, and those inevitable moments where you have to sit back and watch as your ball falls with miserable, exacting precision between the flippers. Failure typically sets you back a few pickups, but given these are just as quickly re-earned, you’re never punished too hard - there’s certainly no three strikes and out mentality here. It’s a very friendly interpretation of pinball’s mechanics, and there’s a decent enough story layered on top, with its characters and art demonstrating enough pleasant charm that you can definitely see this being a great way to introduce pinball to a younger audience. That’s not to say it’s not enjoyable from an older player’s point of view - just that you know what’s being presented is a wisely palatable version of a classic hobby, rather than the arse-kicking ordeal you may be used to. 

Rime

I am certain that Rime would love me to compare it to a certain Fumito Ueda PS2 game. There’s the ultra-minimal scene that’s set as a boy washes up on an island; a sparse, beautiful, somewhat Mediterranean set of landscapes, and with very few ways to interact with it all that don’t involve clambering over things or shouting out in wordless desperation. But as you’ll have noted, I haven’t found it in myself to justify using that game’s name here. 

As much as I wanted to give this a chance, it often felt directionless, uninspired, and at worst, slow and tedious. The puzzles are derivative of any number of games I’ve played before, and the biggest danger is that you might assume as to their difficulty and over-engineer your approach, rather than not be able to tackle them. The platforming is simplistic and regularly drawn out with ledges, ledges, and more ledges to climb across and dangle from; even if you were to find a way to fall to your doom, as is tempting, it is unlikely to take you back much further than a few seconds. Crucially, there’s really very little to sink your teeth into on any front, and even when the game does finally start to weave some plot threads into the game’s canvas, it’s well into the latter half - long after I’d already racked my brains for any hint of an allegory that’d fit, and given up on expecting one. Sadly, to the point that the actual story felt like a cheap afterthought when it did finally start to unravel. This bounced off me much harder than I’d expected - I came away wishing it had forged a bit more of an identity and a purpose rather than just an aesthetic strung together with some weak elements of play. 

If Found

As far as interactive elements in visual novel-type games go, If Found has a different approach to most. The story’s primarily told by means of a diary - one that’s full of witty observations, personal reflections and enigmatic sketches - that you actively erase as a means to push events along. The diary belongs to Kasio, a trans girl returning to their small Irish hometown after a stint away at university in the city; a return that’s not met in the warmest or most understanding fashion. As a mechanic, the erasure of this diary is loaded with meaning; peeling back layers of a scene often matches a more poignant set of observations, and the scrubbing of such personal details away offers a painful reflection on an identity being chipped away at. It’s very much a story about finding one’s self, about coming of age, and as it rides these highs and lows it does an excellent job in making you ride along these alongside the characters, and it does one hell of a job to make you think about the compassion that you both see and offer in the world outside. I’ll put my hands up and say that there are some elements of the story running in parallel to this main one that didn’t gel with me quite so well, but this is a minor footnote to an otherwise highly enjoyable play through. In a short space of time, Annapurna have done a great job in winning me over with their publishing choices - particularly in holding up the kinds of voices and ideas that fit these smaller titles so perfectly. 

Double Kick Heroes

It’s a rhythm game. I like rhythm games! It’s about a zombie apocalypse. Oh no. It’s... a heavy metal rhythm game? Ok, maybe we can work with this.

After a trailer name dropping a bunch of familiar artists - Jinjer, Carpenter Brut, Gojira - what surprised me straight off was that none of these licensed artists featured in the game’s story mode. They’re all sectioned off in a separate menu, and while on the bright side they’ve each given a unique stage with a visual theming in keeping with the bands in question, it feels like a bit of a missed opportunity. Instead, all tracks throughout the story were composed by just one person, and with only a small handful of featured musicians being included to diversify things. It starts with more (arguably) palatable hard rock numbers, but goes up to and includes grindcore, death metal, black metal and the like, meaning that not only is it going to put a lot of folks off right away, but that it’s asking a heck of a lot for one composer to cover all of these sub-genres with the appropriate care. While it was refreshing to hear some types of music I’d normally not expect to hear in a game, some tracks inevitably grated, and while I enjoyed some others, I wasn’t ever bowled over too strongly either.

The story itself is fairly by the numbers. It sees an on-tour band fighting back against a zombie uprising, and has unsubtle references to any number of heavy artists, albums and songs shoe-horned in at every opportunity. It also bears the hallmarks of its dialogue being written by someone that has a very particular sense of humour which personally all fell very flat. While the team undoubtably do love music, the over-enthusiastic style rubbed me in a similarly uncomfortable fashion as Jack Black does regularly, with his half-comedian, half-musician schtick. The gameplay itself is based around the drum parts of its songs also corresponding to different weaponry on your car that holds the hordes back, and while this on its own can prove tricky, higher difficulties also mounts other expectations - like steering your vehicle, or alternating pedals to shoot different parts of the screen. Some of my frustration with all of this is likely my own fault for having chosen to play on the ‘Hard’ difficulty, but traditional wisdom feels a little bit lost when you can still get damaged when your combo meter is racked up well into triple digits.

In all, Double Kick Heroes presented some pretty unique gaming scenarios; like having to work out the best controller configuration to play blast beats with, or asking out loud “did I just hear the words ‘we are Genital Absolution’ coming from a Nintendo console?”, and it’s clearly a small team working on something they really care about. I respect that. I didn’t enjoy it as much as I was hoping, but I hope they’re proud of what they’ve created.

Manifold Garden

A puzzle game taking significant inspiration from the works of M.C. Escher is a pretty good starting point in my eyes. It being presented in a wonderful manner certainly doesn’t harm either; from the UI all the way into the game, it’s beautifully clean and defined, opting for delicate shading rather than messy textures, and with its intricate, recursive geometric patterns, you’ll likely find cause to stop and take stock on a regular basis.

One button looks after your basic interactions with the world (pushing, picking up, and so on), with your other crucial way of interacting with the world being the ability to approach a surface and then assign it as ‘the new down’ - spinning everything about an axis, planting your feet to it, and changing your perspective on everything. There’s a nice steady introduction of puzzle pieces as you ease your way in, but they all stem gracefully from these simple mechanics. That I - not the world’s greatest puzzle gamer - was able to enjoy this without every getting too stuck may hint at it perhaps not being as complex as some puzzle fiends might desire, however this amounted to me coming out the other side with great waves of satisfaction, and nought but positives to say. I would go so far as to say that it’s the most fun I’ve had playing a puzzle game in a long, long time, and to boot it’s also perhaps the game where I’ve used the screenshot button the most copiously. Wonderful stuff.

[templeofulchtar]

On Connecting with Starscream

So, true story:

The first time I tried to perform a ritual for Ghost Season, I had no idea what I was doing. None. Which makes sense, since I may have been the first person ever to attempt such a thing. I set up an altar on my apartment balcony using various things that felt “Starscreamian” to me, and when the night of August 22 arrived, I nervously cast my circle. I invited Starscream to enter into the circle, and… waited.

And waited.

For what, you might ask? Well, I have always had a sense of what his presence ‘feels’ like. It’s a little hard to describe, but I’ve made an attempt in the section below, titled Sensing Starscream’s Presence. I’ve included comments from a couple of other people who work with him so you can compare your experiences to ours and, perhaps, have some idea of what to expect.

In any case, I was getting nothing. Not a tingle, not a flicker, not a mental image; nothing. I began to feel ridiculous. Why was I sitting here in the dark waiting for a cartoon robot to speak to me? I’m pretty sure that’s not something normal people do. Not that I’ve ever aspired to be normal, but… well. It wasn’t working. I packed up and went to bed, feeling embarrassed and ashamed. As I burrowed under the covers, though, a car roared past outside with an old AC/DC song blasting out the windows:

You told me to come, but I was already there.

For those who know that song, yes, I do realize that’s a slight misquote. But that’s how I heard the lyrics in that moment, and their message couldn’t have been clearer:

I am always with you. You don’t have to summon me.

For this message to have been delivered in a voice that’s always reminded me of Starscream’s made it seem incredibly personal and real. And yes, it’s wrapped up a double entendre. If you work with Starscream, you’ll likely discover his ribald sense of humor for yourself.

Why am I telling you this?

Because if you turned to this post wondering how to establish a connection with Starscream, this might be your answer. If you love him, he’s probably already with you. If you feel drawn to Starscream, admire him and would love a deeper connection, there's an excellent chance that he'd be open to working with you as well. If you've been having dreams about him or finding that he, or things you associate with him are ‘coincidentally’ popping up in your life, he may be reaching out to you.

If you’re still not sure, though, you can try this exercise:

Connection Excercise

Open your journal to a fresh page and give some thought to the questions below. You don’t have to answer all of them. Pick the ones that resonate, and write down whatever comes up:

★ Does Starscream provoke strong emotions in you (positive or negative)?

★ Does he show up in your dreams?

★ Do you daydream about him?

★ Are you inspired to create works that feature him, such as fanfic, fanart, cosplay, and so on?

★ Are there certain songs that remind you of Starscream?

★ Do you have favorite quotes by or about Starscream?

★ Do you, at times, catch yourself ‘talking’ to him in your inner dialogue?

★ Do you ever wish you could talk to him?

★ Do you identify with Starscream and see yourself in him? In what way(s)?

★ Have you taken on new interests because of him? (Example: jets.)

★ Do you imagine yourself as Starscream in some way, either physically (eg. Having null-rays, ability to fly), or in terms of your personality or life situation?

★ If you were part of the TF Universe, would you want to know him personally and be part of his life in some way?

★ Has he inspired your life in some way?

★ Have you changed how you dress (say, by wearing more red) because of him?

Those are just a few examples of the ways Starscream could be showing up in your life. You might think of others. If you do, note those down as well. Now, you might be thinking these are simply examples of fannish obsession. You may even have found some of the questions embarrassing. That’s very natural. These questions touch on some very intimate, sensitive aspects of being a fan, and there’s good reason for that.

These questions are embarrassing because they bring up feelings of vulnerability. When we love something, we open ourselves to being hurt. The mockery that’s so often aimed at fans is motivated by people’s desire not to feel vulnerable themselves. They try make themselves feel safe by ridiculing others, but in doing so, they cut themselves off from the source of their own magick.

Yes, you read that right. Your magick, and your spiritual connection to Starscream, flows from that intimate space within. It’s that vulnerable, awkward, geeky place where you innocently, unabashedly adore a character and are totally obsessed with them. Treasure that place. It’s your inner temple. Guard it with care, because it’s where your magick resides.

But, you might be asking, are the ‘symptoms’ on this list actually signs of a spiritual connection? I’m going to say yes. I believe they are, and if you’re open to the possibility of deepening that connection, you can begin to make it a two-way street. Starscream is many things, but ‘shy’ is not one of them. He will show up if you make space for him, and the place where he’ll meet you is within the heart of your magick; your inner temple.

Sensing Starscream’s Presence

So what can you expect? What does Starscream’s presence feel like? It’s hard to give a definite answer, since everyone is different. Your experience will be your own, and in many ways incomparable to anyone else’s. In case it helps, though, I’ve included commentaries by three different people who work with Starscream, including yours truly, to give you an idea of what you might experience...

Starshadow writes:

I think I first became aware of [Starscream] as such while I was in high school. I was initially drawn to his character on the animated show, and at first that was all he was. But I quickly became intensely invested in his story, especially when I started to follow him in other media (comics, etc) as well. He became more to me, and began to transcend the stories and art presented. He literally seemed to take on a life of his own. I started to feel (and sometimes see) him in my dreams encouraging me and telling me to be strong.

His presence is distinctly strong. It sometimes borders on aggressive, but it is not threatening to me. I think he just has a particularly powerful presence. It's very fiery and passionate, which makes it distinct from other entities I sense which are more calm and protective. I will often "see" in my mind's eye his red eyes and wings as well when I feel he is near.

Occasionally [he communicates through] dreams, but much more often I will "hear" his "voice" in my mind, often giving advice and emotional input. As I mentioned before, he has from time to time actually yelled (screamed? ;)) at me, but only at times when I really needed it. Sometimes his colors will show up in combination and songs I associate with him will be played out of nowhere when he is taking a more subtle approach.

[My sense of his presence has] waned at times. For a while it seems like he is just hovering on the fringes, but he never completely goes away. His means of communication hasn't changed much though.

He has made me braver than I probably would have been. He is still working on my self-confidence, though. He's been back again recently encouraging me with that. He has also definitely influenced my creativity and aspirations. He has helped me be driven enough to pursue my desires for so long and explore creative work beyond the "traditional female" expectations.

He [also] does sometimes seem to share aspects with other entities I've communed with, like my [wolf guides]. He will almost seem to "combine" with them, or share their energy, and sometimes they with him. I haven't quite figured out why this happens or for what purpose yet, but I am very curious!

Dark Star of Chaos writes:

It’s no exaggeration to say I spent my whole life looking for Starscream. If you want to get technical I first “met” him as a kid watching Transformers Armada, but though he became my favorite character, that was all he was to me then: A character. I loved him, but what I really wanted at that time was an imaginary friend. Not a real one; an imaginary one. The catch was, I didn’t want to invent one. That, in my mind, was not how it worked. The imaginary friends in cartoons all interacted with their humans as though they were real, and that was what I wanted. I didn’t see how a thing invented from my own head could ever take on that kind of life.

When I was older - after Starscream had slipped off my radar - I came across a book called “The Fire Within”, about an aspiring author and his clay dragon Muse. That book, and those which followed, completely redefined what I was after. I wanted to be a part of this world of dragons and shamans, where words held magic and transdimensional aliens “commingled” (merged consciousnesses) with Earth creatures. And I wanted a Muse of my own; always just a thought away, and always ready with some flash of inspiration to offer.

Looking back on it, I don’t think it’s any coincidence that Starscream reappeared in my life within a few months of that series ending. Our reintroduction came via the original cartoon, and after only a few episodes - specifically, by the end of “Fire in the Sky” - I had already decided I had to write about him. I couldn’t say exactly when I began to perceive him as an entity separate from his cartoon portrayal, but when the idea was suggested to me, it didn’t sound strange or crazy. It sounded right.

Starscream’s energy has always been subtle for me. I’ve never had much luck “feeling” his presence, though I’ve come to trust that he’s there. I only have to talk to him to get proof of that, because he always replies. Sometimes there are words, but more often it’s emotions and concepts, and it can take a while for me to figure out what he means. He also appears in my dreams rather frequently, and we’ve had more than one “face-to-face” meeting that way.

His influence on my life, on the other hand, has been anything but subtle. In addition to inspiring me creatively, he helped me overcome embarrassment about sex, played a role in my moving from a small desert town to a big city, and most recently, he’s come down on me about my abysmal self-care habits. He can be pushy sometimes, but it’s never harsh, and I always end up happier for having listened to him.

In short, Starscream is the friend and Muse I’d been searching for all those years, and I’m endlessly grateful for his presence in my life. After all, how many people get to make dreams of magick a reality?

Grayseeker writes:

I first became aware of Starscream’s presence when I got a call from work asking me to come in, even though it was my night off. The idea of going in made me sick, but I felt I had to. It wasn’t just that I was afraid of getting fired; I also had a strong impulse to obey authority figures. I didn’t know how to say no. But on that particular night, a voice spoke inside my mind:

You don't have to do anything you don't want to.

It was a voice I recognized, and the words were accompanied by what I can only describe as a ‘feeling image’ of myself as a sovereign being with full authority over my own life. I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to, and I didn’t go in to work that night. I told my supervisor I’d had some drinks (untrue, but effective) and after that, they stopped calling me on my nights off. Maybe they sensed that something in me had changed. It had.

I believe Starscream has always been with me, but that incident, over three decades ago, is the moment I became consciously aware of his presence. My sense of him has remained pretty consistent over time. I still ‘hear’ him as a voice inside my head. Usually it’s just a few words, but they’re always imbued with a sense of meaning that goes beyond the words themselves. I also get physical sensations, such as warmth or tingling, emotional communication (which is hard to describe!), dreams and synchronicities, usually involving numbers, colors, and/or song lyrics.

To me, Starscream’s presence feels warm, welcoming, comforting, affectionate, and… amused. His communications with me are typically laced with a certain wry humor, and the observations he makes are often phrased in sardonic, even sarcastic terms, though they’re somehow never hurtful. I always feel the warmth behind them, and they make me feel loved. I always feel like he’s on my side, even when he’s pointing out ways that I could improve.

On very rare occasions, he will get serious. That’s when I know to pay extra attention, because it usually means there’s some danger to me, or that I’m venturing into territory that isn’t healthy. I’ve learned (the hard way!) that he’s always right. He’s immensely wise, and I’ve learned to listen when he says ‘no.’ He doesn’t say it often, and he always has a good reason.

Starscream has influenced my life in countless ways. He’s my creative Muse, and has been the impetus for my desire to write. He’s also my main guide, my teacher and spiritual awakener. I think of him as more a friend, and more than family. I love, trust and respect him, and feel that I receive the same in return. I hope these words will find their way to someone who is starting on the same path, or a similar one. If I can offer any reassurance or inspiration, perhaps it’s just to say trust you heart. I’m glad I trusted mine.

I know he’s sad because he couldn’t blow up the Earth, but kinda want to hug him anyway...

A Few Last Thoughts

You might be wondering how to make sense of all this. In particular, you may wonder how to distinguish what’s real from what’s a product of your imagination. And what am I trying to say, anyway? Am I, in fact, suggesting that Starscream is real?

Why yes, I am. Now before you decide that I'm nuts and walk away, let me explain what I mean. I am not necessarily implying that Starscream is a physical entity. I'm not saying that if you were to hop into a really fast spaceship and fly far enough and in the right direction, you would arrive at a metallic world named Cybertron, populated by living robots who are able to transform into various types of vehicles and other machines, and that among those Cybertronian entities you would find an individual named Starscream.

Of course, I'm not ruling that out, either. Our universe is too vast and strange to rule out much of anything. But what I am saying, based on several decades of personal experience, is that there is a real, non-physical entity named Starscream, with whom it's possible to communicate and have real interactions.

Can I prove this? Nope! There is no tangible, objective phenomenon I could point to as "proof" of his existence, but for me, that's beside the point. I feel Starscream as a constant presence in my life. He is my guide, teacher, healer and dearest friend, and his impact on my life has been very real indeed. I hope that the personal examples given above will provide a starting point for you to begin having your own experiences, if you desire them, and that your relationship with Starscream will be as rewarding as mine has always been.

Blessed be, Grayseeker

[loubuggins]

Paint

A BBRae one-shot inspired by THIS piece drawn by @kiome-yasha. Check it out before or after you read! Reblogs always appreciated! 

The buzzing of the cicadas drifted through the rainforest and faded away into the background. The birdsongs that played endlessly through the day and night offered an unusual comfort to his surroundings. The silence was an enemy out here. With every step he took, the water splashed around his bare legs. The frogs croaked and jumped out of his way while the fish swam quickly past his feet. As he waded through the murky pond, he kept an eye out for any unwelcome guests to come stalking from their latest snack. Though he supposed it was he who was the stranger here, after all, it had been too long since he had ever called this place his home.

He trekked slowly through the mud, being careful to balance the crimson paint that swirled in the large, hand-carved bowl in his hands. As he traveled deeper into the swamp, his pointed ears twitched at a new sound that mixed with the natural tune of the forest. It was a pleasant addition, one that was faint was easily recognizable. It began in a blend of the animal’s chorus, but as he followed the sound it became the most distinct. A low, gentle humming of a wordless song that made his heart swell and his legs pick up speed as he carried himself with a restored purpose. He focused on the whimsical song until he came into sight of the one who sang it.

She sat beneath an old water willow, her back leaning against its trunk and her legs saddling its largest root. The violet strands of her hair were dis-even and abruptly cut, but they still curled at the ends and framed her circular face. She had her face tilted downward as her gaze looked over her swollen belly. Her arms were wrapped protectively around her womb and her fingers traced her pink stretch marks. Her toes were dipped lazily into the cool water as she drew small circles with her feet. It was a tranquil sight to behold, one that made him take pause and soak in, hopefully committing every detail of this moment into a memory.

But his presence was quickly detected as she caught sight of him through the corner of her eye. She turned her attention to him completely and offered him a small smile as he returned to her.

“Is that the last one?” She asked him as she looked to the bowl in his hands.

He nodded but included a, “sure is,” in his reply before he sat the bowl beside two others at the end of the root. She lifted her feet out of the water and bent her knees so that she feet rested on the bark of the tree and so that he could take a seat in front of her. When he sat down, she took one leg and draped it over his lap.

“Good, now you can stay.”

He laughed at her statement and at her silly antics as he noticed she had effectively trapped him in between her legs. Normally, this position would garner a much different reaction from him, but these were different circumstances.

“I was only gone a moment you know.” He explained to her as he slowly ran his hand up the bottom of her calf and stopped at her thigh. The intimate action sent her body aflame with goosebumps and a blush working its way up her cheeks.

“Felt like ages to us.” She insisted as her gaze dropped back down to her round stomach.

An amused grin pulled at the corner of his lips. “Well then, I’m sorry for keeping you two waiting.” He apologized, then leaned down to press a loving kiss above her belly button.  

Her small smile widened ever so slightly as she regarded him with amusement and affection pooling in her deep purple eyes. “You’ll have to make it up to us.”

Slowly, he lifted his lips off her tight, but soft skin and his dark emerald eyes met her gaze. His smirk matching her own. “Oh is that so?” His voice rising in a teasing fashion.

“Mhm...and you know exactly what we want too.” She said with knowing smile as she tried to lean in closer to him, but her extended belly stopped her halfway.

Gar nodded his head as he slid his hands down her legs, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Leaning her head back against the trunk of the old cypress tree, she watched him move with bated breath and she chewed on her bottom lip as she tried to stifle her anticipation. The tips of his claws grazed her porcelain skin as he came to the curve of her swollen right ankle. Then his bare, calloused fingers wrapped firmly around her awaiting foot, one hand on the base of her ankle and the other on the top of her arch. Without breaking eye contact with her, he tenderly kneaded the swollen flesh, digging deep into the muscles.

Raven’s eyes slid to the back of her head and a long, audible moan escaped past her lips. “Oh, sweet Azar that feels so good.”   

Gar grinned to himself, pride swelling his chest as he continued his massage on her foot. He loved to pamper his angel beauty any chance he could, especially as she carried their child all the way out to this unforgiven terrain. With this being her first pregnancy, and with an actual demon child no less, they had been airing on the side of caution for the past six months; but on the brink of the third trimester, he had been given a notice he could not ignore. Dick had been the one to tell him. He had explained over their video chat the details of threat rising right in the heart of the African tribe he had once in his life called home. The people of this land, his people, were in grave danger and he knew he had to be the one to go in and investigate. Dick had tried to convince him to stay, to send in a younger, less tied-down Titan, but he refused. Much in the same way his wife has refused to stay behind as he went on this perilous adventure.

Raven knew the African heat would be brutal and the forest marsh would be merciless on her aching back. She knew that going to a place where the nearest hospital was a two-day drive while being seven months pregnant would put her and the baby in jeopardy in a place that was already hiding in danger’s shadow. But nothing could keep her from being at her husband’s side, now more than ever. Not only did she depend on him to help her through the pregnancy, but she also knew he needed her for his own emotional support.

They have known each other for nearly six years now, and despite their closeness, she still did not fully understand all that he went through in his past. She had known that this small slice of the African Congo had been where he spent his earliest days. She knew that he had grown close to the native people here and that the king of the tribal nation had taken favor of him. So when he told her of the trouble brewing in his old home, she knew this mission would strike some emotional cords for him.

What she had not expected was to be welcomed into the tribe like a queen greeting her subjects. From the moment Gar was recognized by the warriors that had met them at the border of their land, she was given respectful bows and high praises. When the warriors escorted them to the main village, the woman working the weaves and cooking fires looked up to her with awe. Their children stopped their playing and rushed to catch glimpses of her and her husband past the royal guard. Music had played in their honor as they were led to the largest hut at the center of the village. When they finally met the aging chieftain, he had greeted Gar as he was welcoming a son. For Gar had failed to mention one very important detail - the man was their prince.

And that’s when she realized the people of this tribe were treating her like their princess. A group of women helped her bathe and gave her a set of traditional tribal clothing. They all understood her English, but only one spoke it fluently. She was young, about Raven’s age, and revealed herself to be the chief’s daughter. She translated what the older women were saying, mostly praises regarding her beauty and her pregnancy. They gossiped about the people of the village, giving her a rundown of the happenings and relationships of people she had no inkling of, but she nodded along respectfully. Somehow during the conversation, they had brought up a special tradition meant to be between two lovers. That a newly married couple was sent deeper into the forest to give each other new body markings that would be unique to their future family. Raven’s first thought was that they did not have time to participate in such ceremonial events, but the prospect of being alone with Gar had made the suggestion all the more tempting. Only a day into staying here and she already craved the peace and quiet she normally had back home.

Not that she was not grateful to the kindness of the tribe, but she was not accustomed to having so many people pamper her at once. She also had become used to having Gar’s presence looming over her most of the day. Since she told him she was pregnant, he had been a constant presence around her. His overprotectiveness had been bothersome at first, but now it had come to be appreciated and not having him where she could see him made her agitated.

When they were finally reunited, the daughter recommended the ceremony to the chief, who quickly agreed to the idea. Gar had been hesitant at first, much like her. They had both traveled a great deal and were both mentally and physically drained for the day, but the look Raven gave him told him she had an alternative interest for going out for the evening. Not being one to question that look, Gar had graciously accepted the offer.

“So is this why you wanted to come all the way out here? For a foot rub?” He teased her as he continued to massage her swollen feet.

She scoffed at the false accusation and adjusted herself on the oversized tree root. “No of course not.” She insisted, but paused before she added, “This is just a bonus.”

A hardy laugh rumbled in his chest. “So what, you genuinely wanted me to put paint all over you?”

His words had been phrased as a skeptical question, but the pregnant woman narrowed her eyes as they glistened with lust. Though her mouth was in a mischievous smirk.

“No,” she began, her voice lowered and slow. “I want to put paint all over you.”

Shamelessly, she let her gaze devour his midsection. His bare chest exposing every curly jade hair and every chiseled muscle. She looked all the way down to the lone loincloth that covered the part of him she longed for most at this moment. Gar squirmed under her hungry stare, and he could not tell if he was flattered or scared at the way she ogled his body like a starving jungle cat.

“Careful Mama, this isn’t the place for that kind of look.”

He had stopped massaging her feet and opted instead to rub wide circles over her pregnant belly. The gesture acting as an unspoken reminder of her current condition. Much to her frustration and disappointment, she knew he was probably right. A tree in the middle of a swamp was not exactly an ideal place to make love and being with child only complicated matters more. She could wait until they returned to the village and enjoy the luxury of a bed, but she was not sure just how comfortable a mattress stuffed with hay could be. Besides, she doubted the tent they were to share would be soundproof. So really, this was as good a spot as any, now that she thought about it.

Foreigning an innocent smile, she offered this time to simply apply the paint. To which Gar had agreed by handing her a bowl of liquid as dark as a midnight sky. Wordlessly, she dipped her pointer and index finger into the thick, gooey paint and swirled them around in slow circles. Gar watched her which a quirked eyebrow as she rose her fingers out of the bowl and held them there for a moment. The paint rained down into the pool of obsidian black and she waited until it waned into a steady dripping before she lowered her fingers back into the cold liquid. This time, she lifted her fingers back up, but only to her first knuckles. Then she slid them back into the dark pool. She repeated the action several times, each one faster than the last. The changeling watched her with wide eyes and mouth agape.

Once she decided to stop, she let the paint drizzle off her fingers one last time, then brought them over to his chest. She pressed into the firm muscle of his top-left ab and traced the small indent of his rib. Black paint smeared his minty-green skin in her wake. We movements were deliberate as she took her time with each sensual touch. She added painted streaks above each of his abs and as she traveled further down, he shivered under her hand. Then she sat up and took his arms and added paint in each crook. When she finished, she moved on to his cheeks and his pointed nose, leaving smaller lines over all of his facial features. She paused for a moment to admire her work, but squinted and chewed her bottom lip in deep thought. Gar sat there silently as she contemplated her next move. Finally settling on what was missing, she used her free hand to bring his face closer to her’s, then used her paint-covered fingers to add small black dots over his dark freckles.

She was close enough that he could feel her hot breath warm his face. Her vanilla scent carried in the air and washed over his senses, sending blood rushing to both his cheeks and his groin. Once her task was complete, she gently pushed him back and added dots to his arms and his rib cage.

“Now your legs.” Her demand was met with a suspicious glance, but he complied nonetheless. She dropped her own legs so that he could lift one up and drape it over the log, awaiting her careful touch. She started with his ankle, adding little lines and dots on the top on his leg. But then she began moving upwards, slowly and patiently climbing his leg until she came to the royal purple material of his loincloth.

Her hand snuck past the thick clothing and ran up his thigh. She could hear the rumbling in his chest as her hand came closer to his most sensitive spot. She looked him dead in the eyes, her face playing off innocence as she brushed the tips of her fingers over the base of his cock. Her icy touch made him spring into life. His hands gripped the tree and his claws dug into the bark. His jaw clenched and air hissed between his fangs. His head shot upward, along with the head of the very appendage Raven toyed with under his clothes.

She finally dropped her innocent facade in favor of eyeing him curiously, trying to judge if she would get away with her actions or not. He definitely did not look pleased, but when he made no move to stop her, she assumed it meant he wanted to be pleased. So she slid her hand out from under the cloth and reapplied some paint to her fingers.

“Other leg.” She stated simply and he replied with only a gruff as he dropped the first one and slug over the second. She repeated the same steps and when she came back to the top of his leg, once again she slid her hand under the animal hide. This time she was bolder and took him completely in her hand. She stroked him as he both growl and moaned in pleasure. She felt her hand dampen with what she knew was not the paint and that’s when she decided to reach a stopping point. She slid her hand up to his shaft one last time, before quickly pulling her hand away.

His face tightened in anger and he growled at her, but she remained unfazed. Instead, she sat the bowl of black paint down and picked up another bowl that was beside it.

She gave him a devilish smirk. “Now, for the yellow.” Was all she said as she went back over his body again.

[tisthenightofthewitch]

Grammy-nominated metal band Ghost addresses ‘satanic’ accusations: ‘There are other music styles that promote a way worse lifestyle’

Bombastic, theatric, operatic metal Swedes have become unlikely Grammy darlings, winning Best Metal Performance in 2016 and scoring two nominations at this year’s upcoming 61st Annual Grammy Awards for Best Rock Album and Best Rock Song. But not everyone’s a fan. “We obviously are a polarizing band,” Ghost’s fearless leader Tobias Forge — alternately known as the diabolical priest character Papa Emeritus or Papa’s panda-eyed successor, Cardinal Copia — tells Yahoo Entertainment.

Though Ghost’s over-the-top, presumably tongue-in-greasepainted-cheek satanic imagery has always drawn detractors, the band has finally started to gain widespread acceptance. Aside from its multiple Grammy nods, its fourth album, Prequelle, went to No. 3 on the Billboard album chart and made Yahoo Entertainment’s list of the top 10 albums of 2018, and that album’s monster single, “Rats,” spent an incredible seven weeks at No. 1 on the Billboard Mainstream Rock Songs chart. However, as Ghost’s fame has grown, so have some of the protests targeting the band — including a bizarre one that took place last year in Midland, Texas, during Ghost’s “A Pale Tour Named Death” U.S. arena trek.

Last November, Larry Long, the pastor of the Fellowship Community Church, said Midland needed to be protected from the supposedly devil-worshiping group, warning a local CBS affiliate, “This kind of band will bring spiritual influences into this area. We’re concerned about it, because we believe the devil is real, just as we believe God is real. … I think if [young fans are] singing along to those lyrics, who knows what in the world they’re opening their hearts and lives up to?”

Ghost’s Midland show went on as planned, of course. “At the end of the day, what [the Fellowship Community Church] caused was more tickets sold — so thank you very much,” Forge chuckles.

Still, although Forge says such outrage is “to an extent, amusing,” he adds, “To a greater extent, I think it’s sad. … I find it saddening thinking that there are people who don’t know f***ing bad from good and s*** from Shinola. I find it saddening that people would choose to stand out in the cold [protesting Ghost], thinking that they’re making a difference. I think it’s sad that people are wasting their time thinking that we’re bad for people, when actually what we’re really trying to do is make people happy and make people feel good about themselves when they come to our show and have a good time.”

Although certain PMRC-baiting shock-rockers that paved the way for Ghost — Ozzy Osbourne, AC/DC, Judas Priest, Marilyn Manson — have been accused of encouraging suicidal or homicidal tendencies among impressionable fans, Forge believes that “dark music, everything from gothic to death metal and black metal and hardcore” can, on the contrary, be a source of celebration and even salvation. “There are definitely rock fans over the years that have done negative things toward each other and or towards themselves, but I don’t think that’s because of the music. That’s because they were in a bad place in their lives,” he stresses. “Actually, it might have even been the music that made them live so long, that kept them going. Hard rock, in general, does not promote that you should harm anyone.

“I definitely think there are other music styles that promote a way worse lifestyle, that you could look upon as being more negative,” Forge says. “Other music styles that promote a way of living that their fans will never have — when music is all about ‘making it’ and wearing ‘bling-bling’ and ‘all them bitches,’ and the idea that without that stuff you’re nothing — that is a bad influence for your fans. At least with most gothic or hard rock music, it’s about feeling good about yourself.”

Forge instead sees Ghost as following in tradition of “the big shock-rock bands of 1984” that his much older, punk-rocker brother introduced him to when he was growing up in a liberal, pop-culture-savvy home in Linköping, Sweden. “The artists I immediately grasped onto were when I was 3 years old,” Forge recalls. “[Motley Crue’s] Shout at the Devil, [Twisted Sister’s] Stay Hungry, KISS, stuff like that. My brother was so nice and just passed those records on to me, like, ‘Here, you’ll like this more.’ I played them all the time. Then it just blossomed from there.”

Now Ghost is being heralded as the imagination-sparking band that will serve the same purpose for today’s rock-starved youth. “I do believe that there is a glimmer of hope in what we do with regards to the fact that there are a lot of kids coming to our shows. We are the first band that they see live. That is a really good thing, thinking long-term,” Forge muses. “I don’t mind being that glimmer of hope. I do believe that the more exposure we get, the more time that we spend in people’s ears, I hope that the interest in analog rock will be kept alive or awoken or might find a way into kids of today. I guess we could be a little bit [for today’s young fans] what KISS was in the ’70s.”

That being said, Forge is reluctant to accept the pro-Ghost media’s proclamations that Ghost are the new saviors of rock ‘n’ roll. “I’d love for the mainstream music climate to steer back towards rock, and I’m sure it will at some point. But does that mean there will be image-driven shock-rock bands, as far as a movement? I don’t know,” he says. “I do believe that the rock bands that will be big in the future are the ones that are being formed by kids, the 18-year-olds, today, right now. They are the ones that will rock the future, because that’s how it always is. The bands that will be big in five or 10 years, when there might be a big domination of rock again, will be bands that we most likely don’t know as of right now.”

But those bands, as Forge hints, may very well be Ghost disciples, because today’s kids, despite the handwringing of concerned conservatives like Long, are loving Ghost’s epic live shows — in which a Pope-robed Papa Emeritus, flanked by horn-headed and occasionally keytar-wielding Nameless Ghouls, perform anti-authority anthems like “Satan Prayer,” “Depth of Satan’s Eyes,” “Death Knell,” “From the Pinnacle to the Pit,” “Witch Image Life Eternal” and the undeniably earwormy “Dance Macabre” in a rock ‘n’ roll church bedecked with inverted crosses. Such imagery and song titles may be alarming to some, but it seems the little kids understand.

“The biggest misconception [about Ghost] is that the lyrical content is being provocative because it’s about God. And it’s not. It’s not about God at all,” insists Forge. “It’s about man, mankind. I use language and analogy to make it seem that it is about other things, but the songs are usually, they are about very real things. Sometimes I think it’s almost laughable to the point of annoying that protesters are just picking up on the literal meaning.

“There are many misconceptions about who I am or how I think, and of course it’s annoying. But that is just part of being in a band nowadays. If I didn’t want any of this, I shouldn’t be in a band. But I want to do this. I want to rock.”

Yahoo.com

[finnlongman]

any celtic folk recs? any thoughts on celtic fusion (especially when, for example, slavic influences are weaved in)?

Like, trad music? Hmm, I don't know if I have any recs per se -- I'm just getting back into folk myself and my knowledge of the bands and musicians that are out there these days is extremely limited. It would be an exaggeration to say my folk knowledge stops with Planxty but unfortunately not as much of one as I'd like it to be. (When I first got into folk my uncle bought me Clannad, the Chieftains, Planxty etc... meaning I had the music taste of someone ten or twenty years older than me. I come from a family with zero trad background -- my parents are Classical musicians -- and lived in an area with no folk scene, so I was kind of fumbling around in the dark trying to figure it all out.)

With regard to currently active contemp folk musicians, I enjoy Fergal Scahill's "tune a day" videos on Facebook! (He's a fiddle player, he's posting a different tune every day for 2019. Sometimes he does them with others, especially if he's overlapping with anyone's tour or performances, and sometimes they're solo.)

What else... I used to listen to Leahy quite a bit. They're from... hmm, I wanna say Cape Breton, but that might be wrong. I've always been pretty drawn to instruments that I play myself, so I love a good fiddle player. I also had a couple of CDs by Brian Finnegan, who's a flute player -- based in Scotland, I think, but again, don't quote me on that.

Just flicking through my Spotify... I also enjoy Lúnasa and Sileas, both bands I think I discovered through a rec from Maggie Stiefvater a few years ago. I also got really into like... folk-punk fusiony stuff for a while. There's a band called Ockham's Razor who did some really trad stuff, but some much less trad stuff, and I was *super* into their music in like 2012. (I actually wrote a novel inspired by one of their songs.)

Not sure if she's really what you're looking for, but there's a Northumbrian piper (as in, she plays Northumbrian pipes, I don't know where she'd from herself) called Kathryn Tickell whose stuff I like. I saw her perform a few years ago and that was kind of fusiony with Classical; she did some versions of classical pieces with pipes alongside the cello, though also more trad folk.

For Scottish stuff my aunt bought me a Julie Fowlis album like, I don't know, going on ten years ago now. Most people know her from the Brave soundtrack. She's pretty good, I like her.

But honestly this is a rubbish list, lol. One thing I discovered at the Blas summer school this year (well, I already knew, it was a reminder) was that my folk knowledge is woefully limited. There are so many GREAT bands out there producing music all the time, and I probably couldn't name any of them. I'm trying to broaden my knowledge a bit as part of my whole 'getting back into folk music' thing (and I also want to learn more songs, including Irish-language songs).

As for fusion stuff, I'm definitely a fan! I love seeing trad music played on non-trad instruments or on another country's trad instruments. I love people doing trad dance to non-trad music and the reverse. I think it's good fun. I don't have a lot of experience with it outside of, like, folk rock, folk punk type situations -- I've listened to less that directly mixes trad influences from different traditions -- but I'm down to hear more if anyone's got any recs!

[doomedandstoned]

I’ll Take a Sling of Singapore Sludge, Thank You

  Axis Mundi is the name. Learn it well. 

It wasn't two months ago that I stumbled upon 'The Depths' (2019), debut EP by sludge metal trio AXIS MUNDI. I'm aware of merely a handful of heavy bands from the Republic of Singapore (which is totally my fault, I'm sure), but it wasn't just the novelty of relative obscurity that gave the band its allure. When I listened to The Depths, it was its hard-biting heaviness, gritty realism, and (I confess) the courage to cover Nirvana that ultimately endeared me to vocalist Sathish Kumar, guitarist Vinod Dass, and drummer Mitch Goon. Following is my exchange with Vinod about the band's origins, the meaning behind their name, and what it's like to be oh so sludge in Singapore.

☿

I have to say, we haven't encountered too many sludge or death-doom bands in Singapore, but it's encouraging to see more and more with each passing year. Tell us, if you please, how Axis Mundi got its start and introduce us to the members of the band.

The idea to form this band came to me in early 2018 after coming back to home soil after staying abroad for about two years. I got my first exposure to the sludge and stoner doom in Melbourne Australia by getting my face completely melted off by Dixie and gang from Weedeater, it was one of the first gigs I attended in Melbourne and it really resonated with me as it was something completely fresh and different from the mainly thrash and death scene metal -- the whole lineup for this band all played and still play in death metal bands back home. (laughs) And seeing then drummer Travis Owens bouncing sticks off the floor while destroying the drums was a life changing experience no doubt.

I had some things to express and found myself naturally starting to write in the direction of sludge and doom and decided it was time to get some partners in crime, so I got in touch with Mitch for drums, since we played together in a previous band for close to a decade and I knew his hard hitting style would suit the sound I was going for.

I then hit up Sathish, who was the vocalist of his band I was sessioning bass for. I loved his low growls and aggression and thought it was a perfect fit for what I wanted. We formed around march of 2018, so it is a very fresh band although its members have been (and still are) close friends for more than a decade.

What is the significance of the name Axis Mundi?

The term Axis Mundi hit me after getting into the study of symbols and their significance to the human mind. I had always found them interesting and the deeper I read into them the symbol of the World Tree kept reappearing in art and media I resonated with, especially during the writing phase of this EP, so I let things take their course. Its basic idea is the center of the universe, the connection of higher and lower, heaven and earth, Consciousness and the Unconscious.

What are some distinctives of your style? Asked another way, how would you describe your sound to someone who has never heard you before?

What resulted from the three of us coming together was a blend of the sludge and doom riffs together with a faster tempo coupled with brutal vocals. I was listening to a lot of High on Fire, Monolord and Nails, my drummer was listening to Dyscarnate and Aborted and my vocalist was pushing Full of Hell and Comeback Kid. So ideas were pulled from all these sources!

You have a new EP! Walk us through it, please, track by track (sharing any background about each song's composition and recording, lyrical and thematic tie-ins, and any anecdotes that come to mind related to each).

Track 1 – The Depths

The Depths EP by Axis Mundi

The basic idea behind this track was it was going to be a noise track introducing the album and was meant to put the idea of being “down in the depths” to the listener, which was kind of how I was feeling as I wrote this record, so I though this was a good place to begin. I took this chance to give some Bladerunner 2049 worship. That movie was a goddamn religious experience sonically and visually.

Track 2 – Summoning the Serpent

The Depths EP by Axis Mundi

This song was the first song to be completed in terms of writing for the EP. It was one of the cases where I had a couple of riffs and had no idea how to bring them together or even if they were going to be part of the same song, but the moment the band came together, everything fit together like a jigsaw puzzle out of the blue, that kind of creative spark is the shit I live for. The basic idea for the song is the looking inside of oneself to come face to face with your fears and your flaws, to summon them up like a serpent and face them.

Track 3 – Revelations

The Depths EP by Axis Mundi

The opening riff of this song is the riff which gave birth to the band, it was one of the first riffs written, but it was also one of the last songs to be completed as we were writing for an album. The writing process for this song was really one of patience, I would try some ideas out with the band, they wouldn’t work and we would be back at the drawing board, but I remember I had to keep reminding myself not to rush things and cram some jackass riff in there just to finish the song. It had to feel right.

The driving force of this song was one of searching -- searching for clarity, for vision, for meaning. It ties in with Track 2 as Summoning the Serpent is like an admission of wrongdoing and Revelations is like a search for a new path.

Track 4 – Territorial Pissings

The Depths EP by Axis Mundi

I am a super huge Nirvana fan and I knew I wanted to cover one of their songs for this release. I also wanted to do it our way and put our own twist to it as I love it when bands do that. This was another song that came out the way it was in like 10 minutes, and now that I’m thinking about it, the chorus of this song actually ties in with Revelations. (laughs) Life is strange.

Who is responsible for the album art and what does it signify?

The album art work is done by Faris Samri, a killer drummer I used to play with in a black metal band! I happened upon some of his designs and thought he could take my rough demo for the album art to the next level. I came into contact with the Adinkra symbol "Hye Won Hye" which basically means "that which cannot be burnt," a West African symbol of endurance, which I thought was perfect for the EP. I then decided to recreate the symbol with the goat skull and Christ on the cross, which is the voluntary acceptance of suffering, symbolically speaking. The skull and cross was mirrored downward, creating the symbol of Hye Won Hye, as well as signifying the duality within a person, light and dark, love and hate and the struggle to balance them. Faris took it to the next level with the addition of flames to the lower half. Here is his take on it:

“The artwork was meant to resemble an Adinkran symbol of endurance. Reading more into its origins, it is said that the symbol got its meaning from traditional priests who were capable of walking on fire without being burnt. This made me inclined to include the element of fire from its history into my illustration.

I began by drawing the first goat skull, engulfing it in flames, scorching some of its original skeletal features. Before I began on the second skull, I realised I was not fond of the idea of having two identical burning goat skulls, as I could have easily duplicated the one i had just drawn and inverted it to complete the illustration. Referring back to the bed of fire the priests had to walk on, I decided to illustrate flames in the shape of the goat skull instead of the actual skull. These newly drawn flames will enter through the first goat skull, which exhibits the skull’s imperishability in such circumstances.

The next step was to colour the piece, which I did on Photoshop as I wanted to experiment with a selection of palettes I had come up with. The colours chosen mostly had a gore or horror vibe about them, referencing older metal album artworks from bands like Slipknot or Mastodon, to Horror film posters such as It or Blair Witch Project.”

What are some of the bands you play with in Singapore and, more specifically, how is the doom-sludge scene in your country?

Mitch and I played in a death metal outfit called Zaganoth, which was our first serious band and Sathish used to head another death metal band called Stillborn and both bands used to play shows with each other in the past!

Now besides playing in this band I play guitars for Truth Be Known a death/funcore veteran band that is heading down south to Australia for the Dead of Winter Festival! I also play in a band called Mucus Mortuary which is a -- well, I don’t have words to describe this band you have to see it for yourself. (laughs)

The sludge and doom scene in Singapore is pretty small even within the heavy music scene here (might be the insane laws against drugs but who knows eh?) however the bands that are currently holding up the banner are killer, check out Marijannah, Hrvst and Beelzebud!

Thank you so much for visiting with Doomed & Stoned! We wish you much success now and in the future.

Thank you so much for taking the time to listen to some music coming out of a dot in the world map! I am humbled and grateful for this opportunity and may The Doomed and Stoned Show last for many seasons to come!

God Luck and Good Speed.

The Great Axis Mundi Giveaway!

Come one, come all! Get your own copy of 'The Depths' (2019) by Axis Mundi by grabbing one of the available download codes below. Hurry, these will go quickly! Redeem them here.

ln2g-7clq 4amy-5h5t e78z-752b gwnn-vuwx 3sav-kphp dq78-6np2 pgw2-ym7c 6vhe-jb8y kfeb-ycuf ka7l-bxam n654-xv3g my7j-58du 9tmr-b24p 3u8a-wlj2 55zb-he8c b8t5-5bbx dnn9-7wlq s5az-5x5t j7nh-ufze 7lwp-eqku vsj8-3tgq fjb3-c7fz mbxw-xej6 9acq-j38y yfjf-ywuf y5bx-34am 38as-hq3g azfp-5tdu 8yab-bb4p xjfg-k7e2 j9dn-gvfc 724m-ukex lxp7-v9np 4e6d-g8vn qr3s-unze blxe-emku 5ceg-3ggq rj7n-cufz afwl-x5j6 8ahj-vr8y xun8-7sxq hmat-5lat jr9y-7a3b 9x23-v7dx ncmm-654p lpr9-kue2 e9lu-yqfc b3ca-79ex dxjr-vznp sqgw-gtvn pruc-u7ze vkbq-egwu 6yvf-33hp u2gv-w4q2 mvtr-hpgc fgza-52rx l22g-7dxq cmmy-5hat eb8z-7e3b 8xnn-vudx 24av-kp4p dp78-6fe2 v7wd-xaq6 65he-j2gy kreb-ycnf zm7l-bh5m ng54-xv2g 5k7j-eywu gzmr-brhp 338a-wlq2 avzb-hagc r9t5-5brx d2n9-7cxq hj8l-yymn jbnh-7uke 7dwp-eqzu m4j8-3t8q feb3-cn7z 57xw-xeq6 gmcq-jbgy yrjf-ywnf tvbx-bx5m 29as-hq2g atfp-58wu uha5-6ahp xefg-k7p2 j8dn-gj7c fn4m-ukpx lwp7-jkup cj6d-g8mn ef3s-ufke bdxe-emzu aheg-3g8q re7n-c77z arwl-x5q6 79kv-e3bx x3n8-7slq haat-545t qf9y-7a2b

Follow The Band

Get Their Music

[bottomofthemeniscus]

Wedding Day Dreams from 2016

Wedding Day Dreams

Since I was nine years old I have been fantasizing about my wedding. It was my favorite daydream topic, and I spent way too much time thinking about it for someone of such a young age. By the time I was eleven I had drawn sketches of what my cake and dress were going to look like, and by the time I was thirteen I had started imagining and drawing out my venue. Both my parents found it amusing, and my mom even started helping me plan out other details by explaining which dress shapes she thought I would look best in and what color flowers would be appropriate for the different seasons.

But when I turned sixteen, I realized that my dream wedding was going to change dramatically. Don’t get me wrong, I still have plans for a beautiful dress and a delicious cake, but it’s who I’m marrying that has changed. I will not be saying “I do” to a groom, but to another bride. And because of this, my parents want nothing to do with my wedding...or me.

I continued to plan my wedding throughout my teenage years though, eventually getting focused on food. What food would I have at my wedding? What meal would be special enough for my wife-to-be and me to share on this special night? In order to answer these questions, I became obsessed with food. I began to cook and experiment with different flavors and ingredients. After a few years, I took a chance and I started a small restaurant, and then I started to cater weddings.

That’s where I am now, 28-years-old and already an entrepreneurial business woman. If only that was what my parents saw in me.

“Well, that’s all the food,” Paige says to me. She’s my partner in crime when it comes to running this business. She’s also my fiancée.

We’re currently working a wedding for some friend of a friend of Paige’s who heard about us. Dinner was over now, all the guests full and happy. It went well if I do say so myself.

“Yeah, but we still have all the cleaning up to do,” I say.

“Well, maybe you should take a break.”

“No, no it’s okay.”

“Come on, Sam. It’s okay, I can take care of it. I know you like to watch.”

It sounds creepy when she puts it that way, but I do like to watch the weddings. I like looking at whatever marvel the wedding cake is, and taking notes about the choice of flowers and centerpieces. I also like watching the happy bride and groom, and their parents, even if it always makes me sad. I suppose it’s a way for me to imagine how my parents would act if they ever came to my wedding, for me to have that experience vicariously.

“All right,” I say with a shrug and guilty smile. I step out of the kitchen and into the heart of the celebration. Right out in front of the doors to the kitchen, I see the banquet table I had set up earlier in the night being taken down, platters with varying amounts of food being cleared away by my employees. Nearby is another table with a five-tiered mountain of fondant-covered cake, waiting to be cut later in the night. I walk over to it and see the bouquet of red and yellow sugar flowers adorning the top of the cake and cascading down the tiers on one side. It is gorgeous and I love the decorations, but I can’t imagine having a cake that size and I wonder what it must have cost. I take my eyes away from it and step further out into the room.

The wedding venue is inside an old firehouse, I believe as homage to either the bride or groom, as one of them works as a firefighter. The walls are all made of brick, giving the place its own charm and character. The only decorations hung from the walls are strings of white Christmas lights that are strung around the building, lighting the place in a homey and magical way.

Within the walls of the firehouse, the layout of the wedding is set up fairly traditionally, and similarly to how I would set up my wedding. There is a DJ up on a makeshift stage to my left, with a long head table for the wedding party directly below it. In the center, two ornate chairs, that appear more like thrones, are set for the bride and groom. In front of the head table are a cluster of about 20 other round tables for the wedding guests. Each table is adorned with a decorative candle in the center that casts beautiful, spiraling shadows on to the place settings. The tables are setup to allow an empty space in the middle, where it seems everyone in the wedding is currently gathered. It is most likely the dance floor. I don’t know for sure until a few people in the crowd shift and I peek through the heads of the crowd and see a wisp of white float by. I realize that the crowd must be watching the bride and groom dance their first dance.

That was my favorite topic of my fantasies as I got older, the first dance song. My parents danced to “Color My World” by Chicago at their wedding. It is a beautiful song and I always said that I would love to find a song just as sweet. However, my non-traditional fiancé wants to rock out to Smash Mouth’s version of “I’m a Believer” instead. But, I am still not convinced I want that to be our first dance.

I don’t know the song that this couple is dancing to, but it is slow and calming. As the song starts to wind down, people begin to disperse and head back to their seats, giving me a better view of the dance. It is just as sweet as the song they are dancing to. The bride and groom are standing arm in arm, gently swaying back and forth. As the final chord of the song is played, the groom dips his bride and plants a kiss on her. I feel a dopey smile spread across my face at the cheesy romanticism.

“Let’s give a round of applause to the bride and groom!” I hear the DJ announced. The crowd, including myself, obliges his request and begins to applaud. “Ok folks, if the bride would be so kind as to find her father, we will begin the father-daughter dance.”

I see a man make his way out onto the dance floor and hug the bride. Another song I don’t recognize starts to play, and the bride and her father begin to dance. The sight is beautiful, but as I watch the two of them dance, a pang of sorrow hits me and begins to well up inside of me, until it feels like I am drowning in it.

I am hit with memories of my dad. Old memories, from when I was a kid; we were really close. He was the one who raised me as a baby, and my mom the one who was always working. He would take me to the park all the time as a kid, and every Friday after school we would go get ice cream from the ice cream truck that was always parked around the corner from my house. He was always there for me with a hug when I needed it, and he was always there to support me.

I had always loved the idea of my dad and me sharing a dance together on my wedding day. I imagined us swaying back and forth to music; tears forming in both of our eyes, sharing a father-daughter moment unlike any other that I would carry with me for the rest of my life. But, of course, that dream would have to stay a dream, because my father no longer loved or supported me.

He was the one who told me I was an abomination when I was sixteen years old.

He’s the one who kicked me out the day that I turned eighteen, without saying a word other than “get out.”

He is the one who never answers my calls on Christmas, or birthdays.

And he will never dance with me at my wedding.

Thinking about my dad feels like taking a gunshot wound to the heart. Emotions swell up inside me, and soon I feel the tears bubbling up in my eyes and I see the lights on the dance floor start to go blurry. It does not take long for the tears spill over and run down my cheeks. I cover my eyes to hide the fact that I’m crying.

Every time I come to a wedding, I remember that my parents, and much of the rest of my family, no longer want me to be a part of their lives. I have given up all hope in them, yet I still cry when I think about it. All my childhood wedding fantasies involved my family. My dad walking me down the aisle, and me looking over at my mom, blotting tears from her eyes as I stand at the altar. Having my aunts and uncles party into the night at my reception and making memories that we could share during future family holidays. Thinking about it makes the tears fall from my eyes faster.

I feel an arm wrap around me while my eyes are still buried in my hands. “Sam?” the voice says.

I look up and see Paige staring at me, concern and compassion written on her face.

“Oh, Sam,” she says as she wraps me into a hug.

“I just wish…” I start to choke out

“I know, I know. I do too,” she responds, not even needing me to complete my thought. She pulls me out of the hug for a second and wipes away the tears on my cheeks.

Paige has been with me through all of this. She was my first girlfriend; I met her when I was 15, and she has stuck with me ever since. I don't know what she saw in me back then. She was cool and looked like a badass to me with her short, blonde hair that always dyed funky colors. I was just a shy, book nerd who spent most of her free time in the library.

I remember the day she first talked to me. It was raining outside, and I think that was why she had come in. I was sitting in a bean bag chair that was in the school’s library, reading a fantasy novel during our lunch break. I didn’t notice her right away, as my book was holding my attention, but eventually I looked up and she was standing right in front of me, watching me. I was actually a little scared of Paige at first, worried she was going to try to sell me drugs or ask me to go vandalize the school. I had never talked to her before, but she had a certain vibe that made me think she was a bad influence. That changed though once we started talking.

She asked me what I was reading, which prompted her to sit next to me and start a small conversation about the book. She later told me that she actually had no interest in the book at all; she just wanted an excuse to talk to me because she thought I was cute.

I didn’t know I was gay until I met her, but it did not take me long to realize that that I could never leave her again. With her, all my worries floated away. She helped me in high school when some stupid kid decided to tell the whole school that we were going out. She was standing by my side when I told my parents the truth, even as they threw books and water glasses at us. When I was officially kicked out of my house at eighteen, she invited me to move in with her family, who has always been more supportive.

“You can always dance with my dad at our wedding,” she says, keeping her arms wrapped around me.

“If he’s not passed out drunk by that time,” I reply back through tears. Paige’s dad had a reputation for getting plastered at parties. Paige’s 21st birthday was the worst; they were both out cold before midnight.

“Well, that’s why I keep telling you that we can’t have an open bar,” she says smiling.

“Now is not the time for wedding planning,” I say, pouting, although part of me realizes this is a lame comeback considering that I have been thinking about our wedding throughout the night.

“Oh contraire, look around you. This is the perfect place to plan a wedding! We’re literally at a wedding! ”

I look up again and see the bride and her father continuing their dance. I can see the father tearing up. I feel the tears coming back to my eyes again.

“Okay, never mind,” Paige says, grabbing my chin and turning it back towards her. “I was only kidding anyway. Jeez. It’s a wonder I let you out to watch. Every time you end up a weeping mess!”

As if on cue, I start sobbing again. Paige pulls me closer and I hold her for support, staining her shirt with tears and streaked mascara.

“It’s okay. I still love you,” she says stroking my hair affectionately as I cry into her shoulder. After a minute she props me up so I’m standing up straight, wipes the tears off my cheeks once more, and kisses me.

Her kiss brings me out of my crying spell and I try to compose myself. I take a few deep breaths to calm down, “Alright. I’ll be alright.”

“There’s my Sammy-Wammy,” she says. I lightly punch her in response. I hate the nick-name. “Fine, sorry, Sam.”

“Come on,” I say “Let’s get back to work.”

“Hey!”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I say, and we walk hand in hand back to the kitchen, a small smile beginning to grow on my face, the kind of smile only someone you love can bring to you.

[exkernal]

Fanfic: The Life and Death of Hector Rivera

“Hector, mijo, pay attention!” was the constant refrain of his childhood. By seven, he’d lost count of how many times his abuelita, exasperated, let those words slip from her lips. For a time when he was six or so, he’d become half convinced that that was his full name and that everyone just called him Hector for short.

It wasn’t his fault. He tried to focus on his chores (boring as they were) or his lessons (mostly to avoid Senorita Garcia’s lethally sharp ruler) or mass (though, really, what was the point of paying attention when the priest spoke in Latin?) but his mind kept wandering away from him. He would find himself humming a tune or tapping his fingers against his calves in the perfect beat. He’d think, this could be a song, and then he was gone, creating the story in his mind, stringing the words and sounds together.

He couldn’t help it. It was just the way he was.

He grew up poor, but then, everyone was poor in Santa Cecilia. He didn’t have much family to speak of. He entered the world at a tumultuous time, and each year more and more men in his family disappeared to the revolution, or else the many diseases that ran rampant, snatching children from their families like a monster come to life. That was the fate of his cousins, his siblings, but strangely, it spared him. He’d had his mama once, but he couldn’t remember her. She died in childbirth, not with him, but a stillborn hermanito. This left Hector in the care of his aging, arthritic abuelita, who was forever lamenting Hector’s foolishness but still loved him fiercely, in her way.

Hector was drawn to the Mariachi Plaza. The music pulled him in, the timber of their voices, the sounds of the various instruments working together to create something magical. Was no one else hearing this? Yes, they enjoyed the music—he could see it in the way the townspeople danced, how they sang along—but it didn’t seem to move them like it did him.

It was no wonder, then, that he and Ernesto became friends. Ernesto understood. He was two years Hector’s senior, and came from a loving, doting family that was whole unlike Hector’s tattered one, yet he was the only other person in Santa Cecilia who loved music like Hector.

While the other boys were out in the streets playing football and tag (and Hector still joined them, some of the time, because he was still a boy, after all) he and Ernesto would often head to Mariachi Plaza to hear the music.

“Hey, Ernesto,” Hector said one summer day, as the two of them found shelter from the sun in the shade behind the fish vendor’s cart. “If I tell you something, do you swear you won’t tell anyone?”

“Of course, amigo,” Ernesto replied as he swatted at a particularly pesky gnat.

“I’m going to be a musician when I grow up.”

To his credit, Ernesto didn’t laugh. But he wasn’t enthusiastic either.

“Don’t you need to play an instrument to be a musician?”

“I’ll get an instrument. A guitar.” And already he could see it in his mind: the perfect guitar, bedazzled with diamonds in intricate designs, strapped across his chest.

This time Ernesto did laugh. “Where are you going to get the dinero?”

Both boys were currently wearing threadbare, patched up pants and shoes with worn down soles.

“I’ll find away,” Hector vowed. “Believe me, amigo, I’ll become a musician if it kills me.”

Ernesto pondered it. His voice broke into a smile. “Perhaps we could both be musicians,” he said, “and travel the world.”

“Si, we could go to Guadalajara—”

“And Cuidad de Mexico—”

“And California—”

“And Cuba—”

“And Paris.”

They were both grinning ear to ear.

Hector found his chance when he was nine-years-old.

It was the Day of the Dead. After the visit to the cemetery (always Hector’s least favorite part. His abuelita became so emotional, but Hector couldn’t share her connection to relatives he had never known in life), he’d gone to listening to the performers in the plaza.

“Come on, mijo!” his abuelita called, “it’s been a long day, you need your rest.”

He’d gone to follow, reluctantly, when he crossed paths with a disgruntled singer, who nearly ran into Hector as he made his way to the dumpster.

“Bah! This piece of shit! What good is it?”

He heard the sound of something heavy crashing down. Hector waited until the man had gone, then dashed over towards the dumpster. There, amongst the garbage pile, was a guitar. It was the most beautiful thing Hector had ever seen. Sure, it was covered in trash, and the guitar itself wasn’t in the best condition with its peeling white paint and splintering handle, but it was workable. Fixable, for sure.

He used some tap to fix up the handle. It wasn’t perfect, but it wouldn’t break anytime soon. With a little shoe polish, he was able to cover over the peeling paint and various dirt stains, turning it into black and white designs, including a skull that he was rather proud of.

They didn’t have a teacher. No books to guide them. Hector and Ernesto essentially taught themselves to play through mimicking the sounds they heard, passing the guitar back and forth. It was slow at first. Hector’s fingers calloused and bled, and he messed up the notes more often than not, but he pressed on. He found time to sneak away for practice each day, sometimes with Ernesto and sometimes without. By the time he was twelve, he finally felt semi confident in his abilities.

He left school that year. The family needed him to work to help them get by. He didn’t mind. He could read and write, which was enough for him to put his lyrics to paper. His true education came from the plaza.

He worked a series of odd jobs, never quite sticking to one. His favorite, though, were the occasions that he and Ernesto were able to play at the plaza or the local tavern, and collected a coin or two as tip. Typically, Hector played the guitar and Ernesto sang lead, with Hector occasionally providing back up. Puberty had been kind to Ernesto: he was tall and broad while Hector was a perpetual string bean, with a chiseled, handsome face and dark, soulful eyes. Girls flocked to hear them play, swooning over the dashing, charming Ernesto de la Cruz. Hector wasn’t too hard on the eyes himself; he had his share of admirers, even if Ernesto had twice as many. Not that he cared. The music was what mattered.

In those early years, they stuck to playing old favorites. Folk songs, traditional, humorous little ditties that always got a laugh. Hector became well known for his rendition of “Juanita,” though he only ever played that for the men at the tavern, when he was sure that his abuelita wasn’t around.

He tried his hand at writing his own songs. Those first attempts would embarrass him, slightly, in the years to come. He drew inspiration from the things around him—one particularly memorable sunrise that filled his bedroom in an orange glow, the people that he encountered in Santa Cecilia. This got him in trouble from time to time. On one notable instance when he was fourteen he tried between gasped breaths to explain to Mariana Lopez’s ham-fisted older brothers that “Donkey-Faced Mariana” was about some other girl, one they’d never met before and so definitely couldn’t be related to them.

He was returning home from playing in the plaza, in the autumn of his fourteenth year, when he heard the most beautiful sound. A girl was singing somewhere just ahead of him. He recognized it as “La Llorona.” Each note captured the sheer tragedy and longing of the song, as if the girl had lived a thousand lifetimes, each with a fresh share of sorrows. He needed to find the owner of that voice.

After dashing ahead and turning a corner, he found her, the loveliest girl he’d ever seen. She was tall and slender, with a round, flawless face and black hair tied up in an elegant bun. She carried a basket of laundry in her arms and continued to sing, unaware of her new audience. Hector grinned. Carefully, he slid the guitar into his arms and began to play along.

“La LLorona, la Lloron—argh!” she jumped at the sight of him, dropping the laundry on the dirt road.

“I’m so sorry! Let me help you!” he said, scurrying to collect her now dirty clothes. He felt himself blush, and ducked his face down to hide it.

“What’s the matter with you?” the girl demanded. She was about his age, and clearly not someone to be messed with. “Who do you think you are, sneaking up on people like that?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I heard you singing and I had to follow. Senorita, you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.”

She scowled, but it didn’t hide the pinkish tinge that appeared on her cheeks. Hector took that as a good sign. “I know you. You’re that boy that plays in the plaza.”

“Hector,” he said, with a theatrical, and he hoped, charming bow.

She was not amused. “Imelda.”

“You should join me in the plaza, Imelda,” he said eagerly. “A voice like yours needs to be heard.”

“I don’t have time for that nonsense,” Imelda scoffed. “Not when there’s work that needs to be done.”

She sounded harsh, but Hector caught the look that flickered across her eyes. It was wistful, perhaps longing. Hector was half convinced that he already loved the girl.

“If you say so,” he said. “Here, let me carry that for you. It’s the least I can do after scaring you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” she said, but she didn’t protest when he reached for the basket, and let him walk her all the way back to her casa.

He saw Imelda a couple of times a week. They talked about nothing in particular, and after a while, sang together. She had older brothers like poor Marianna Lopez, unlike the hermonos Lopez, Felipe and Oscar were not very intimidating. It balanced out, for Imelda was intimidating enough for her entire family, and could ensure that his intentions were honorable. Not that Hector intended anything less! Ernesto could chase after their female fans all he wanted, but Hector’s heart belonged solely to Imelda.

His abuelita died when he was fifteen. Pneumonia, he thought it was. He buried her with all of the rites of the Roman Catholic Church and made a point of placing her photograph on the ofrenda. Although he ached for her (he even missed her nagging) it caused only minimal change to his life. He was a man now, or close enough. He still worked whatever jobs he could, still played with Ernesto, still courted Imelda. It was a simple life, but he enjoyed every minute of it.

His songwriting improved, too.

“Hector, mi amigo,” Ernesto aid one night, clasping him on the back. “Where do you get your inspiration? ‘Un Poco Loco’ is genius!”

Hector grinned. ‘Un Poco Loco’ had been a smashing success at the tavern that night. In fact, at that very moment, he could hear two drunks stumbling around the street, belting out their own version of the song, which missed half of the words but still got the gist right.

“Ay, Ernesto, I can’t tell you. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Come on, you know I wouldn’t—” realization dawned on his friend’s face. “It’s about Imelda, isn’t it?”

Hector tried to keep a straight face, but failed miserably. They broke up into a fit of laughter.

“I don’t understand how you two stay together the way you fight,” Ernesto said. “Mark my words, you won’t last another year!”

“We’ll see.”

It took nearly two years before Hector could finally persuade Imelda to join them on the plaza.

She was uncharacteristically quiet as they walked to the plaza, her skin as white as a ghost.

“It’s normal to have stage fright,” he said. “My first time in front of an audience, I almost threw up on my zapatos.”

“I do not have stage fright,” she said automatically.

“Oh, si, si, of course you don’t,” Hector said. “But what helped my stage fright was loosening up like this.”

He wiggled his arms, shoulders, then neck, exaggerating every moment. “See, querida?”

She laughed. “Hector, you look foolish.”

“Si, mi amor, but I feel wonderful.”

She rolled those gorgeous brown eyes, but she went along with it. Not quite with Hector’s enthusiasm, but she did it all the same.

“Feels better, no?” he smirked, elbowing her in the ribs (lightly, of course). She pushed his hand away, but she was smiling, too.

They never had to worry about stage fright again.

He loved Imelda with his heart and soul, but there was a reason why she inspired ‘Un Poco Loco.’ Their bickering was legendary. Their relationship seemed to swing between periods of blissful happiness and tumultuous fighting. None of their friends could understand it, but Hector knew that’s just how they were.

One such incident occurred when he was sixteen. He found Imelda in the garden behind the house she shared with her older brothers.

“Ay, mi amor! As beautiful as ever—”

He had only a split second to dodge the shoe she aimed his way.

“You idiot!” she cried.

“What was that for?” he asked, more baffled than anything else. Usually the reason behind her anger was clearer.

“Oh, what was that for, he asks,” Imelda said, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m pregnant, estupido.”

Hector’s heart skipped a beat. He must have misheard. There’s no way she could have said what he thought she said. Then came the panic. This can’t be happening, he thought. We’re too young, we’re not ready. How can I support a child? He peered into Imelda’s eyes and saw his own doubt and fears reflected back to him. He wanted to comfort her. Would it really be so bad? They could make it work. And he’d have a proper family—he and Imelda and the child they had made, all together.

“That’s wonderful, mi amor,” he said, and by the time he said it, he was half convinced that he actually meant it.

The night before his impromptu wedding (Imelda was starting to show, but they could still hide it with the right dresses), Hector sat at the tavern, surround by friends and well-wishers.

Ernesto led the toast. “To Hector!” he raised his glass. “It's this crazy bastard’s last night of freedom!”

“To Hector!” the others echoed, clanking their glasses and laughing. Hector felt pleasantly warm, and couldn’t keep the smile from his face.

“Congratulations, Hector, she’s a real beauty,” Diego said.

“Ay, but that temper,” Antonio said, elbowing him in the side. “You can keep her, amigo.”

“Having a wife and family changes everything,” said Elian, the only married man of their group.

“It won’t for me,” Hector said, “I’ll still be out here every night, playing ‘Juanita’ for you bastards.”

As the others laughed, Hector noticed, briefly, the look that came over Ernesto’s face. He couldn’t place it, not exactly, but it was serious, almost grave. Before Hector could dwell on it, the topic changed, and the party switched back to the same boisterous mood as before.

Imelda went into labor two weeks after Hector’s seventeenth birthday. He was banished from the casa by a stern-faced midwife, though that didn’t stop him from making seven attempts to sneak back in. He couldn’t stand to see his wife in such pain, especially when he was powerless to do anything about it. Apparently, she couldn’t stand to see him when in such pain, either, because the last time he tried, she looked him square in his eyes, her face layered with sweat, her black hair askew, and said, “You did this to me, you bastard!” It did not strike Hector as an appropriate time to point out that that technically they did this to her.

So he sat outside of the window (hearing every moan and cry of pain) and strummed his guitar. He played a medley of songs, some traditional and some his own invention, all gentle and soothing. He hoped she’d hear it and know that he was thinking of her.

His daughter was born just before sunset. She was perfect: looked just like her mama with big, soulful eyes and a tuft of black hair. He couldn’t quite believe it. Him, a father. He was the father of a beautiful, healthy, perfect baby girl. They named her Socorro, but everyone called her Coco for short.

If marriage was an adjustment, it was nothing compared with adding a baby to the mix. For the first month and a half, no one slept.

Hector loved his daughter dearly, but he also missed his sleep.

It was particularly bad one night when Coco was about a month old. He and Imelda sat up in their tiny bedroom, red eyed and so exhausted that they could barely think. Nothing could soothe the screaming baby, not rocking her, not changing her, not feeding her.

“Ay Dios mio,” Imelda groaned. “Go to sleep, mija, por favor.”

Hector, who had been rocking the wailing child in his arms, met Imelda’s eyes.

“Hey, Imelda,” he said, then motioned with his arms as if to mimic throwing the baby out of the window.

Imelda looked a second away from scolding him, but then her face crumpled into laughter. Hector joined in. Laughter felt so good to his weary body.

“Let me try something,” he said. He began to sing, “Oh mija please go to sleep/so mama and papa can sleep/because if you don’t go to sleep/ than mama will claw out papa’s eyes.”

Imelda snorted.

It didn’t work instantly, but after a few more minutes of adding nonsense versus, Coco’s eyelids grew heavy, and after nestling against Hector’s chest, she finally succumbed to sleep.

Hector never felt so proud in his life.

“The lyrics were terrible,” Imelda commented, “but the melody was sweet.”

She was right. He had something there, if he could just fix the words.

[ellanainthetardis]

Prompt: :Loved this ! How about a 5 dances, 4 for the games/rebellion one for them post MJ?

Here you go [X]

5 Dances and 1 Of Another Kind

1.

“What are we doing here, Chaff?” Haymitch asked with a groan as they entered the house where the party was in full swing.

“Taking advantage of drunk models who are all gonna be desperate to sleep with victors.” his friend retorted before calling out the woman Haymitch figured to be their host with a big smile. He watched Eleven’s victor greet her and kiss both of her cheeks – prompting her to giggle – and made an effort to smile and nod when he was introduced.

Still, it didn’t prevent him from shaking his head when his best friend disappeared in the crowd of people. Chaff might be five years older than he was but Haymitch often felt that the man had tossed any idea of behaving like an adult through the window when women were concerned. With so many lovely specimens around though he could almost understand the urge.

He was only twenty-three after all and rather lonely. He had long resolved not to get close to anyone in Twelve for everyone’s safety including his and that ruled out possible affairs during the rest of the year so he tended to make the most of his time in the city - even if he was always uncomfortable going for Capitols and their weird ideas of make-up.

He didn’t have to see their make-up in the dark though.

A waiter walked nearby with a tray and he snatched a glass, looking around curiously, still somehow flabbergasted by the parties those people threw even eight years after his victory. The flashing lights, the loud music, the hysterical laughter and the food…. They were far from the more distinguished events the Games usually threw. This felt more genuine, just a couple of friends – or a hundred – having fun in a mansion with what looked to be a foaming pool. He understood the purpose when he spotted the people rubbing together in the middle of the foam in time with the beat of the music.

He wandered a bit at random, sometimes whirling around and walking backwards to better stare at a pretty ass a second longer. Models indeed.

He was busy doing just that when someone pointedly cleared their throat next to him. The woman was gorgeous, there was no other word for it. Endless legs that immediately made his mouth water, nice curves that her sequined white dress was barely covering, a red wig styled in a puffy bun at the top of her head outlining her slender neck, bright blue eyes that sparkled with amusement. The bearing of a queen and the body of a goddess.

“Rude.” she commented, tilting her head toward the woman he had been ogling and could now barely remember.

The smirk was instinctive. “Hi.”

Her crimson painted lips closed on the bud of a cigarette. Everything from the way she took a drag to the way she breathed out the smoke was graceful and so obviously a rehearsed act of seduction that he wavered between being put out and succumbing to it.

“Hello.” she answered at last, flicking ashes in an ashtray placed on the dresser against which she was leaning. “Mr Abernathy.”

“Now you have me at a disadvantage, sweetheart.” he joked, propping his own hip against the dresser, his whole attention on her. The room could have caught fire, he didn’t think he would have noticed.

“Being famous has its perks.” she agreed, a twinkle in her eyes.

“Sure does.” he toasted her with his half-empty glass. “Got a name of your own?”

“I am disappointed you don’t know.” she retorted. “I happen to be quite famous myself, I will have you know.”

It was said with the perfect mix of arrogance and humor to make it endearing rather than irritating. She was witty. He loved witty.

“Let me guess…” he teased. “You’re a model.”

“Brilliant deduction. Of course the fact that almost everyone here works in the fashion industry might have been a big clue.” she taunted right back.

And he found himself chuckling. “Tell me, sweetheart… You ever did lingerie?”

“Shocking!” she exclaimed, laughing. When she stopped laughing she gave him a heated look. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” Actually, he really did. “Do you dance, Haymitch?”

“Not if I can help it.” he answered truthfully.

“A shame.” she deadpanned, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray before sauntering away toward the dance floor without even a look for him.

So confident he would follow…

He wanted to stay there just to so he wouldn't give her the satisfaction but given the heads that turned in her wake, he was pretty sure someone else would soon make a move.

With a muttered curse at his own incapacity to resist difficult women, he caught up with her and tugged her on the dance floor without giving her a choice. It wasn’t exactly Twelve’s dances or even the more regulated waltzes that were mandatory to every victory party though and he had never really mastered the art of wriggling to those songs without looking like an idiot. She saved him by tossing her arms around his neck and rubbing against him slowly, in total opposition to the quick beat. That was a sort of dancing he could handle though.

“So, mystery girl, you’re ever going to give me a name?” he asked after a few seconds, mainly because he was drowning in her eyes and quickly losing sight of… a lot of things. He had never been so drawn to a Capitol before and it was wrong on many levels. He wanted to keep ahead of it.

“I still think you should know.” she grinned. “I am quite popular at the moment.”

“Never heard of you, sweetheart.” he shrugged apologetically, letting his hands wander from the small of her back to her ass. “But I ain’t likely to forget you.”

“You are not likely to forget the slap I will give you if you leave your hands there, that is certain.” she grinned.

He didn't move them and she didn’t slap him.

“Not to alarm you but I’m gonna seduce you into sleeping with me tonight.” he warned her, his smirk so genuine it almost hurt his lips. He couldn’t’ remember the last time he had had so much fun trying to hook up with a girl.

“Not to alarm you but you will have to buy me dinner first.” she chuckled.

He shook his head, pressing her tighter against him. She was the one doing most of the dancing, he was just following her lead. “I don’t do dates.”

“You do not dance if you can help it either and yet here you are…” she pointed out, far too smug.

Oh, she was dangerous that one…

“Here you are!” Chaff cut in, grabbing his arm with his good hand and tugging him away from the girl. “We need to go. Quick.”

“What?” he frowned, trying to shrug his friend off because he just knew the girl was playing hard to get but he still had a shot. “Why?”

“Cause stalky Katy just arrived and I’m so not in the mood for that. Not even for so many models.” Eleven’s victor explained, tugging hard.

Stalky Katy was what they had nicknamed the woman who followed Chaff around like a shadow. She was the crazy sort of fans, the kind who sneaked past security to surprise you in the shower. Repeatedly. Stalky Katy was driving the Peacekeepers at the Center completely mad. She wasn’t to be trifled with and Haymitch so didn’t want to get caught in the middle again. Last time she had accused him of stealing Chaff’s attention away from her and had tried to claw his face off.

So he let himself be dragged away, tossing a last regretful look to the now extremely annoyed girl. The pout was sexy.

“The girl I was dancing with… You know her?” he asked, once they were a few streets away from the house and hopefully safe from the likes of Katy.

Chaff made a sound of ignorance. “No idea, buddy. With all that make-up they all look the same. Can ask around if you're interested.”

He hesitated for a moment and then waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind.”

He was a bit too sure she would have found a way to be a little more than a one night stand.

It was safer to forget all about her.

2.

They had been forced to play this game two times already and Haymitch still hated every minute of it.

It was traditional – and by that he meant more or less mandatory – for mentors and escorts to share a dance at the Victory Banquet after the Crowning.

The first year Effie hadn't been able to shut up about it for days before the actual ball. He could still hear her rant about how beautiful and inspiring the whole charade was and what an honor it would be to partake in it. That had lasted until the actual dance when he had made it his duty to ruin the experience as much as possible for her by stomping on her feet, tripping her and generally acting like a klutz.

Then, of course, there had been the second year when he had forgotten to pretend he couldn't dance and when she had sworn she would get her revenge for the previous year’s humiliation – which had ended with them having a terrible argument in the middle of a waltz that had had everyone covertly laughing at them. They had stormed away from each other long before the last note.

And now there they were again for the third time, waltzing around that room with moderate ease - he had been doing this for more than a decade, after all – unable to look at each other because of what had happened the other day in the elevator. And then a few days after that in the living-room. And that morning on the hallway’s carpet. He still had burns on his knees from all the rubbing against the rug.

It was awkward on many levels and, while Haymitch pretended not to be bothered by what he had insisted were simple accidents, it was a bit difficult not to remember the softness of her skin or the taste of her mouth or even how her nails felt when they dug deep into his back.

Being forced to hold her so close wasn't helping any.

It had been inevitable, he figured. They were simply too… explosive together. They clashed. They didn’t know how to do anything else but clash. They fought and argued and screamed at each other in frustration. He hated her and she loathed him. He loathed her and she hated him.

And the more they fought, the thicker the tension between them became.

He wasn’t exactly surprised they had ended up fucking, clothes still on and roughly shoving the other away only to tug them back closer. He wasn’t even sure it could be called fucking. It had felt more like fighting. Animals giving in to their baser instincts, rolling around because they couldn’t help themselves. It was either fucking the brain out of each other or murdering each other.

It wasn’t even that good. The first two times had been over before it had really begun and he didn’t think she had even really enjoyed it. And yet they had still ended up flat on the carpet that morning, her hand angrily pumping him and her mouth unforgiving against his.

She had come that morning, a mewl escaping her throat as she had strained her neck, exposing her throat to his teeth… He could still guess at the mark he had left there under the make-up and it left him hungry for more. He wanted to bite her again. Scratch her. Bruise her. Fuck her so bad the only thing she would remember was his name…

It scared him to death how much he wanted her.

“You are staring at my chest.” she murmured, her eyes still looking at a point over his shoulder not to meet his gaze. Her tone was slightly subdued compared to her usually bossy attitude.

Any other time, any other year, he would have replied with an inappropriate gibe because for how annoying she was, he liked that she could always match him wit for wit.

Right then, their peculiar brand of flirting felt like playing with fire.

“Sorry.” he muttered and made an effort to look away.

It seemed to surprise her.

He didn’t pause to wonder if that was disappointment flashing on her face.

He couldn't wait for the dance to end before he lost his sanity.

3.

The hand that felt on Haymitch’s shoulder was light and almost hesitant.

He looked up from his seat to find his escort looking anything but that. When did she ever look hesitant? Effie Trinket was arrogant to the point of blindness. She had to know better than anyone else and particularly him, always. And when confronted with ugly truths she would have preferred to keep on ignoring…

His jaw clenched and he brought his glass to his lips, ignoring the questioning looks Chaff and Blight were both giving him. “Not in the mood, Trinket.”

She pursed her lips in clear irritation but didn’t outright verbally attack him. Maybe because they were in public and she didn’t want to cause a scene. Maybe because the party wasn’t the right place to reenact the nasty fight from the night before. He hadn’t seen her all day and he had been grateful for her absence.

They had had fights before, of course – they hardly did anything but fight. But that one had been the worse they had ever had. Her incessant insistence that he ought to talk to Finnick about the company he kept and about what he was doing with said company… His repeated requests for her to drop it… The inevitable culmination of that argument in a screaming match where he had accused her of being blind to what was going on behind closed doors – and he knew it wasn’t really her fault because she may have been an escort for five years but he wasn’t popular enough that she had to deal with that and the whole thing was rather hush-hush – and where she had accused him of being a liar…

Her shouting at him that he was a liar hadn’t set well with him and he had told her every bit of nasty truth she might still have been unaware of… She had flung a glass at his head with a roar of rage, repeating again and again that he was a liar, a coward, that he got their tributes killed every year because he was too lazy to do his job… He had shouted back that she was the one reaping the children so that if she wanted to cast blames, she should start at her own door, he had told her she was stupid, shallow, ridiculous, that she was nothing exceptional, that he had seen a hundred girls like her thinking they were it before and that there would be a hundred more once she would be gone…

He had pushed her every buttons, ending with the one he knew would really hurt her: her pathological thirst for fame and how those people out there screaming her name didn’t really love her… It hadn’t been that much of a surprise that she had tried to jump on him, to hit him… But it had enraged him. He had shoved her away easily, had warned her to stay away… She had brought up his Games with something akin to sick enjoyment…

He had almost hit her then.

He had come very close.

It had taken every ounce of control he had to just grab a couple of bottles and head to his room.

All in all, he thought she had been lucky he hadn’t been completely wasted because then… Then, he wasn’t sure what he would have done.

The fight, his behavior, her stupidity, had been bothering him all day but he wasn’t in any mood to confront his feelings about it and certainly not at a party where everyone would study them and try to decipher what was going on. A victor had no private life. He had learned that early enough.

“I did not come here to fight.” she sighed, waving a hand in a clicking of bangles. “This whole thing is ridiculous anyway. Let’s just… Let’s just forget about it, shall we? Let’s be friends again, Haymitch.”

She was all smile and cheers, her bright eyes briefly darting to Eleven’s and Seven’s victors – the only hint perhaps that she was more nervous than she appeared.

“Friends.” he scoffed, sneering at her. “I ain’t your friend, Trinket. You’re a pain in my ass I’d gladly be rid of.”

Chaff and Blight exchanged a look and fought off smiles but didn’t make any attempt to cut in. Good. He wouldn’t have welcomed any sort of teasing at that moment.

“Language.” she pouted. She deflated but it only lasted a second, then she was bubbly again, her perpetual good mood apparently impossible to vanquish. “There is no reason to be rude when I am simply extending an olive branch.”  

“Oh, you’re extending an olive branch…” he spat. “How fucking generous of you. ‘Cause you’re the injured party here, yeah?”

“I think we can both agree we both crossed the line.” she hissed. “However if you intent to keep a grudge, far from me to stop you. I was willing to be the bigger person but clearly acting like an adult was expecting too much of you.”

She stormed off into the crowd, immediately finding a group of people to mingle with, leaving Haymitch to glare at her. The red dress she was wearing wasn’t helping any. It left her back bare right up to the swell of her ass and made him want to… He downed his glass. Damn those endless legs of hers. Damn that ass. Damn the slender neck he was desperate to squeeze. Damn the breasts he could almost feel in his hands…  

“What was that about?” Chaff asked, a touch of humor in his voice.

“Nothing.” he grumbled. “Drop it.”

It was asking too much of his best friend though. Eleven’s victor chuckled. “Well, you know what I think, buddy. You should just fuck her. Get rid of all that sexual tension between the two of you… Get rid of her in the process too.”

He let out a non-committing grunt.

He had fucked her. Not every way under the sun but close enough.

They had kept stumbling in bed the previous year, had kept on repeating it was just as much an accident as it had been the year before that, had kept on avoiding each other… This year though… This year they had stopped claiming it wasn’t on purpose. They fought and they fucked. That was how it worked now. And if both of them sometimes pretended to get more angry than strictly necessary just so they could have an excuse to push the other against the closest flat surface… Well…

He had fucked her. Repeatedly. In every position he could think of.

The sexual tension wasn’t going away and neither was his lust for her.

The more he took her, the more he wanted her.

Even now, he was staring at that dress she had on and all he could think about was bending her over a table, bundle the fabric up around her waist and have her way with her while biting at every bump of her spine. She would let him too. Beg for more probably. Cry out in pleasure when he would…

His grip tightened badly on the glass and he snatched the bottle Blight had been hogging to pour himself another that he downed just as fast. It did nothing to steady his nerves or to help the bulge in his pants.

Fighting with her made his blood hot.

But not the kind of fight they had shared last night. That one… He could have hurt her. He really could have. He had been so furious it had driven him mad.

And there she came sauntering back with an offer to pretend nothing happened…

He barely followed the conversation between Chaff and Blight, completely focused on Trinket. He watched her laugh with a sponsor, watch the way she let the guy place a hand on her arm, watched as the man’s hand trailed down to her hand in a confident caress…

And he gritted his teeth, might have snarled a little even…

“You’re okay there, Haymitch?” Blight frowned, stopping mid-sentence.

Chaff followed Twelve’s victor’s gaze and rolled his eyes. “When you go get your girl back, try not to punch the sponsor.”

“Not my girl.” he growled. “And I ain’t going.”

“Sure, you’re not.” Eleven’s victor mocked.

The guy was leading Trinket away. To where couples were rubbing against each other… The man’s fingers let go of her hand to rest at the small of her back as he guided her more firmly toward the dance floor… The hand was far too low. Haymitch was sure the guy’s pinky was brushing against the crack of her ass.

He shot out of his chair so fast he barely heard Chaff’s bark of a laughter.

He was next to his escort so quickly it almost made him dizzy.

“You owe me a dance, Trinket.” he snapped with a glare for the guy who backed away easily enough faced with his obvious irritation.

“That is so rude!” she protested even as he dragged her to the dance floor by the wrist and tugged her against him. “Truly! I have never!”

“Cut the act.” he mumbled. Because she was pleased, he could see it plain as day. She could play the proper lady all she wanted, she was very much a minx when it came to some things.

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him, tilting her head to the side before stepping even closer to him, her arms locking around his neck. His hands found their place at the small of her back, on her warm skin. Where they belonged.

“I thought you did not dance if you could help it?” she challenged.

He couldn’t remember telling her that but he had been wasted often enough at parties to have forgotten so he simply shrugged, glowering at her. “Don’t try to make me jealous.”

She lifted a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Why? Is it working?”

She had pink spirals curling from her eye to her cheek – the last trend in term of make-up apparently – and it was just silly. Like a child playing dress up.

“I ain’t jealous ‘cause I don’t give a shit about you.” he growled.

Hurt flashed in her eyes but it was quickly concealed behind amusement. “And yet that man barely brushed his hand on me and here you come running…”

He wasn’t jealous. Possessive, maybe. And even then… He wasn’t sure that it was the right word for what he felt.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.” he warned, barely making the effort to sway to the music. “What you did last night…”

“What about what you did?” she huffed.

“Just told you the truth.” he spat. “’Cause you were like a dog with a bone and…”

“Well, so did I.” she cut him off, jutting her chin high in the air with that arrogance that infuriated him so much.

They stared at each other for the longest time.

“I hate you.” he sneered eventually, pushing her hips harder against his, not even caring that anyone could figure out what was going on at any point because they were in the middle of a crowded dance floor and he had a boner. She drove him crazy. Completely crazy.

“So do I.” she claimed, her breathing a bit short for reasons that had nothing to do with the dancing. “Are we alright now? There is fighting and fighting… Last night… We went too far, last night.”

“Are we ever alright?” he snorted before rolling his eyes. “I want to rip that dress off instead of your throat now. So, you know… Progress.”

“Perhaps it is time for us to call it a night.” she offered, leaving him alone on the dance floor before she even finished her sentence.

He stared after her for a second.

And then he gave chase, already certain they would never make it past the elevator.

4.

The Victory Banquet was crowded and everyone wanted to talk to Haymitch about something or other. He didn’t remember the last time he had eaten something – probably the sandwich while they had been waiting for news of Peeta’s condition – and the glass of champagne he had downed after the Crowning hadn’t done much to stop the shakes. There simply hadn’t been time for drinking in the last few weeks and he had been forced to drastically cut down.

It had been worth it though.

Not one victor but two…

He could scarcely believe it still.

Even knowing that the stunt with the berries would come back to bite them in the ass, even knowing they couldn’t afford any mistake… He looked at the kids holding hands and all he could feel was relief and happiness and it trumped the dread and the worry that wanted to rail their ugly heads.

He looked around the Mansion’s ballroom for Cinna who had told him he wanted to talk to him about something important, something that would apparently change his life, but couldn’t spot the stylist anywhere.

He did spot his escort though.

Effie seemed to be in the same strange daze he was in. Ecstatic, exhausted and waiting for the other shoe to drop all at once. She was even more hyper than usual and he figured it had to do with the pills she had been popping like candies in the last few days. Nothing but perfectly harmless stimulants, she had claimed, to keep the edge of. He didn’t like it but there had been no time to address that either.

He wasn’t the only one with self-destructive tendencies. She was simply better at hiding them.

He made his way over to her, nodding in greeting at the couple she had been talking to – a Gamemaker and his wife.

“Oh, Haymitch, there you are!” she exclaimed in delight, her cheek flushed and her eyes bright.

Tipsy.

Not good, given the circumstances.

“Was hoping for a dance.” he said quietly, turning on the charm because it couldn’t hurt. “You don’t mind if I borrow her for a moment, yeah?”

The Gamemaker and the wife offered no protest and Effie wrapped her arms around his, clearly pleased by the attention. She snuggled into his side a lot more than was clever given the audience.

“You had to choose today to get drunk at a party.” he chided, once they were safely on the dance floor, away from curious ears. Fortunately, it wasn’t anything too complicated and they could get away with simply swaying to the music.

“I barely had a flute of champagne.” she denied with a pout and then she giggled. “Perhaps I should not have drunk while taking those pills…”

“Those pills are going straight into the trash as soon as we’re back in the penthouse.” he ordered. “I need you focused.”

“I am focused.” she sulked and then admitted. “I may be really tired too.”

“Tell me about it…” he sighed, adjusting his grip on her waist so she could lean against his chest a little more without it being too obvious. “I’m gonna hunt down Cinna, then we grab the kids and we get out of here.”

She shook her head. “We need to stay at least another hour. We cannot afford to cause offense, not now.” He grunted because she was right but he also was desperate to collapse on his bed – or on hers, he had a vague idea he didn’t want to sleep alone that night. They swayed in silence for a little while and then she hummed “I had no idea that winning would be like this. I thought it would be all celebrating and partying… All I feel like doing is going to bed and sleep for the rest of the week.”

“I could sleep for a month.” he agreed, briefly letting go of her waist to rub his face. “No chance we will get a day off tomorrow, right?”

“The children have to appear on Caesar’s live show at ten.” she muttered. “Then we will all have to record interviews for Talia’s talk show. And then you and I will have to sit with Claudius for a joined interview.”

“And that’s only tomorrow.” he snorted.

There would be more days of that to come.

“I am so tired I cannot feel my body anymore…” she whispered.

They had been up and running after sponsors for weeks and he wouldn’t have had anything against a holiday. “Another hour and we’re out of here.”

“Another hour.” she repeated as if it was the golden goal.

5.

“It is not that difficult!” Effie sighed in frustration. “You simply have to remember to keep count. Again. One, two, three and one, two, three and… No, Katniss! You have to let Peeta lead…”

Haymitch slouched on the armchair that had been dragged to the wall to clear a space in the middle of the penthouse’s living-room, trying not to be too obvious in his hilarity. Watching Effie whirl around the kids, waving her arms in the air to illustrate her advices, all the while trying to teach the children to waltz was hilarious.

They had started teaching them on the train but the Tour had demanded attention from everyone and there hadn’t been a lot of time for dancing lessons – something they were now regretting given the speed at which the victory ball at the Presidential Mansion was approaching. Victors were expected to open that ball and given that the kids had just announced their engagement…

Effie was falling apart over their victors’ lack of talent on a dance floor.

It wasn’t exactly Peeta’s fault. Not only was he handicapped by his leg but Katniss was like a straight rod of wood in his arms.

“No, no, no! Stop! This is no use.” Effie lamented, tossing her arms high only to let them fall in defeat. “It should not look so… So…”

“Awkward?” Haymitch suggested, fishing a piece of ice from his glass and popping it in his mouth. He studied Peeta and Katniss in turn. The boy looked put-off and the girl was staring at her feet, arms crossed defensively in front of her chest. “You’re in love. Try to act the part.”

Katniss’ head shot up and she glared at him. “I’m doing my best.”

“You’re stiff and you’re moving like you’ve got a giant stick in your ass.” he shrugged.

“Haymitch!” Effie snapped. “There is no need for your usual brand of vulgarity, thank you very much.”

“It’s a waltz, it’s supposed to be stiff.” the girl retorted. “Effie lectured us for two hours about proper dancing and stuff.”

“Now, that is not what I said at all…” their escort protested.

“We have to stay at a certain distance and keep a straight back and…” Katniss shot back.

“Yeah, that doesn’t mean you have to look like a breadboard.” Haymitch shook his head. “You know, waltzes were the most romantic dance once upon a time, yeah? Really scandalous too.” Effie let out a noise that was halfway between a snort and a huff and he looked at her with annoyance. “What?”

“Nothing.” she dismissed. “You talking about romance…”

“I know a thing or two about romance.” he argued with a pointed smirk. When he made the effort. He turned his attention back to the kids. “Look, the distance is the whole point, yeah? You don’t want to keep that distance. You want to be closer.”

“But Effie said…” Katniss argued.

“Forget about what Effie said.” he scoffed.

“Lovely.” Effie commented. “Well, if you think you would be a better teacher, please be my guest. I have done what I could.”

He rolled his eyes and hauled himself out of the armchair, finishing his glass in one long mouthful.

“Watch and learn.” he muttered to the kids.

And without any warning whatsoever, he grabbed Effie by the waist and pulled her in his arms. She squealed in surprise but soon adjusted with a small annoyed glare. She placed her hand on his shoulder and let him outstretch her other arm so they would be in position like they had done so many times before.

They started moving in perfect synchronicity. She followed his lead and they went through the steps slowly so the children could watch.

“Alright, see?” he called out after a minute of that. “We start at the right distance ‘cause it’s all proper and shit.”

“Language.” Effie grumbled for the second time.

He ignored her, sliding the hand that was resting on her hip to the small of her back, forcing her a little closer.

“Then, after a minute or so, you pull her closer, Peeta, yeah? Cause you can’t bear to be so far from her anymore. Cause that’s how people in love feel.” he instructed.

“Oh, is that what you were trying to convey all those years with that little move?” Effie muttered under her breath, low enough that the kids wouldn’t catch it. “And there I thought you were just trying to get me into your bed.”

“Shush.” he told her pointedly. “See how Effie’s not looking anywhere but in my eyes, Katniss?”

“How am I supposed to know where to put my feet if I’m looking at Peeta?” the girl replied.

“I don’t care.” he retorted, never leaving his escort’s gaze. “You’re dancing, you’re in love, it’s all magical… He’s the only thing that exists for you. Forget your fucking feet. I ain’t looking at my feet and I’m drunk.”

He wasn’t drunk but Katniss didn’t need to know that.

Effie wasn’t fooled though and her lips twitched in amusement. She stepped a little closer too, resolutely breaking the codes of the dance. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder as they adjusted their speed to something a little more natural for a waltz.  

“Easy for you to say. You’re leading!” the girl complained.

“I wouldn’t let you fall.” Peeta protested.

“Trust me, Katniss, if Haymitch managed to never trip me, Peeta certainly won’t.” Effie huffed.

“You make it look so easy.” the boy remarked, half impressed and half depressed.

“We have a lot of practice.” their escort cajoled, briefly glancing at him over her shoulder as Haymitch led her for another tour of the room.

“At waltzing like you’re in love?” Peeta teased.

Haymitch made Effie twirl under his arm and released her, turning to the boy with his mouth set in a hard line. “At dancing together, smartass.” He waved at the kids. “Try again.”

He slumped back in his armchair, not quite surprised when Effie perched herself on the armrest. Her short dress rode high on her thighs, tempting him with the shimmering fabric of her stockings.

The kids were busy trying to apply what Haymitch had just showed them and weren’t paying them any attention so he risked it and placed his hand on her leg.

“For all your claims, I believe you do enjoy dancing.” Effie hummed quietly.

“Only with the right partner, sweetheart.” he smirked.

6.

Haymitch leaned against the doorframe of their living-room, smiling to himself as he watched an oblivious Effie wriggle and sing out loud to the music that spilled from the stereo. A music he had been able to hear from the backyard and that he had initially come in to tell her to lower it down a little because he doubted the neighbors wanted to know what her taste in music was.

She was too cute though.

She was shaking her head left and right, her arms high above her head…

He wondered what it said about him that he found her so sexy when she was wearing woolen socks up to her knees, a baggy long-sleeve shirt that belonged to him and shapeless boxers. Maybe it was the fact that every item of clothing belonged to him. Maybe it was the fact that she trusted him enough to wander around the house not looking all dolled up anymore. Maybe it was just the crazy way she was shimmying to that music like she was twenty instead of almost forty.

She spotted him eventually and he lifted his eyebrows, the smirk impossible to fight. The look of surprise on her face soon morphed into a grin and it wasn’t long before she advanced on him. He tried to escape but she was determined and soon she had dragged him to the middle of the living-room, their fingers entwined together as she waved both of their hands in the air. He refused to wriggle but he humored her twirling and squirming in front of him.  

Eventually, the song turned into another slower one and she wrapped her arms around his neck. They swayed slowly for a while until he started nuzzling her cheek, brushing his lips against her jaw…

“What about another kind of dancing?” he mumbled in her ear, sneaking his hands inside her shirt.

She laughed and flashed him a bright smile. “How can I say no? It is my favorite kind.”

[northcountryprimitive]

The North Country Primer # 3: William Csorba, Houston, TX

Originally published at North Country Primitive in March 2015

Here we are with another edition of the North Country Primer. This time it's the turn of Texan guitarist, William Csorba, whose recent album, The Bear Creek Child Cemetery, has been getting a lot of ear time here at North Country Primitive. Our thanks go out to William for his illuminating responses to our not always illuminating questions...

Tell us a bit about yourself and the musical journey that took you to a place where you concluded that playing an acoustic guitar on your own was a good idea... Well, for the most part, playing music by myself is the only way I’ve ever played music. I grew up largely on the country music I heard from my mom as a kid. My family has really deep Texas roots on my mom’s side, going back to the time when Texas was an independent nation. I’ve always been really aware of and fascinated by that sort of thing and I think my taste in music has been influenced similarly. I listened to a lot of Texas country music early on - guys like Jerry Jeff Walker, Waylon Jennings and Guy Clark, along with many of the greats of classic country music - Hank Williams above all, of course. So I guess a lot of the music I’ve been drawn to tends towards being a solo affair. The great Texan songwriter, Townes Van Zandt, was a pretty close relative of mine, even though I never had the opportunity to know him - I would have been very young at the time of his passing. It’s kind of funny, actually - I remember growing up and hearing that I had a cousin who “wrote songs for Willie Nelson,” which was simply based on the fact that Willie had done a rather popular cover of Pancho and Lefty and that Townes had never had the commercial success that some of those dudes enjoyed. First hearing some of Townes’ recordings years later was a rather momentous event for me. I was really blown away by them and I guess knowing that I had a connection with him by blood only heightened the profundity of his music for me. To me, he should be remembered not only as a master songwriter, but really as a substantial American poet. I first picked up a guitar pretty much because I wanted to play some of his songs - as well as some Hank Williams songs. I soon recognised that I wasn’t that interested in singing, especially since I didn’t seem to have much of a talent for it. Anyway, through Townes I encountered the hometown blues legend Lightnin’ Hopkins, who he cited as a big influence, which led me to the world of pre-war blues and hillbilly music. This became something of an obsession around the time I went to college six years back. While I was at school out in New Mexico, I fell in with a group of friends who were real into old blues and old-time music. My roommate and good friend that first year, a guy named Michael Laudenbach, played fingerstyle guitar quite well and I made him teach me some of the basics of that kind of playing, with tunes picked up from Elizabeth Cotton, the Carter Family and some other similar stuff. He also introduced me to John Fahey, who, as it must surely come as no surprise, was my inspiration for getting pretty serious about music and on whom I felt compelled to model an approach to begin trying to make some music of my own. To me, Fahey is in many ways the consummate American artist. Aside from the particulars of his work and aesthetic, the most important and compelling significance for me lies in borrowing a method from him as a starting point for a way of doing serious music. In other words, the really decisive thing I got from Fahey was a novel philosophy for composing and art-making in general. This philosophy resonated strongly with me in so many ways, although it was of course the music itself that first got my attention. I wouldn’t even say that the guitar - specifically the solo guitar format he championed - was an absolutely essential element of what I interpret to be his artistic philosophy, but I would definitely say that it undoubtedly fits into it and cultivates this approach better than anything else I can come up with. And since I was already somewhat under the spell of the instrument, it seemed to be a pretty obvious direction for me to go in. What has influenced your music and why? As far as strictly musical influences go, in addition to the spectrum of stuff I’ve already suggested, I’ve always been pretty hugely into classical music - or formal music, if you like - more or less of all kinds and from all periods. There was a fantastic class I took in college, which I can best describe as a sort of survey of Western music. It was far more than simply an overviewt really allowed me to work out a lot of my thoughts and feelings about music and to grow significantly in the art of listening, which I feel to be one of the most important things for becoming a good musician. So, I have definitely gotten a lot of inspiration from many of the classical composers and also from some of the older traditions that play into the Western musical tradition. Perhaps my most important and primal musical influence is the church and sacred music. For me, this originally comes from having been brought up in the southern Baptist Church. Probably the greatest virtue of the southern Baptist denomination is in its hymnal, which is largely composed of strongly American-feeling melodies, mostly from the latter half of the 19th century. This differs from some of the other denominations that preserve and emphasise a lot more an older generation of hymns originating from Europe. My very strong, unhappy reaction to the disaster of the crappy contemporary worship music that was beginning to replace the traditional hymns sung in church while I was growing up is probably worth mentioning as well. Different kinds of world music have also definitely been a big interest for some time, especially after encountering the sounds of India when a friend and I spent a good bit time over there after graduating from high school. I like and listen to a lot of other kinds of music, but it’s hard to say what has really had an actual influence on the music I’ve been making, but there are probably many little bits of things from all over the place that come into it, if you know what I mean. Speaking more generally, I actually came to understand music as something I wanted to do by way of my studies in philosophy and literature. At an even more basic level, I’d say that music has come to occupy a place for me previously chiefly held by more explicitly religious concerns. My relationship to music definitely has a strong religious dimension, which I would say is right at the centre of what I’m trying to do with it. To put it more concretely, a lot what inspires me often comes from a desire, or maybe a need, to express various reflections on personal history, particular places and landscapes that have stuck with me and the diverse emotional states that make up the inner life. In addition to sometimes just going off of a kernel of what I’m feeling at a particular time, simply, I often try to write music while holding in mind certain mental images or memories - sometimes including, for instance, a feeling for the earth itself in a place I’ve been before, if that makes any sense. You know, like nature and stuff, although I’m not confident that’s quite my meaning exactly. I think what I’m trying to get at comes through most perspicuously in the first recording efforts I made last summer with an album I called The Bear Creek Child Cemetery, which is probably why it’s still my favorite thing I’ve made so far. What have you been up to recently? Well, I’m still in school, so I’m doing that stuff. But mostly my real preoccupation these days is, as much as possible, with the music - trying to write music and get better at composing. I’m also just starting to play out in public some lately, which is a lot of fun and pretty challenging. What are you listening to right now, old or new? Any recommendations you’d like to share with us? The first thing that comes to mind right now is that guy Abner Jay, who I listen to quite a lot. If you’re not familiar with him you got to check it out. The dude was a genius, and I don’t say that easily. I feel like he deserves a lot more recognition than he has probably gotten. I’ve got a CD in my car right now of some of Bartok’s piano music, which is pretty great. I’ve also been on a bit of a Brahms kick recently: the violin concerto, which is pretty new to me, but also the piano concertos and symphonies, which I’ve always really dug - especially the 3rd. I always have a healthy dose of old-time music going on at any given time. I guess that’s just like an essential nutrient or something at this point. I’ve been listening a bunch to this clawhammer banjo album by a guy I knew from New Mexico named Ariel Winnick. He’s a fantastic player. The album’s called Glory Beams and can be found on the web. I’d definitely recommend it, especially to folks already into old-time music and such. I should also mention that I’ve been checking out a lot of other the guitarists who I’ve been finding out about since I started trying to get my music out there over the past several months. I had no idea how many great players there are out there nowadays doing this kind of thing. Specifically, just to name a couple things I’ve come upon recently, I really like Chuck Johnson’s album Crows in the Basilica, which I’ve been listening to a lot. I’ve also got to mention that dude Daniel Bachman. I was super impressed by him when I first heard him sometime this past year and it still hasn’t worn off a bit - his playing really resonates with me. But yeah, it’s been really fun and, I guess, encouraging in a way, to check out all these similarly-minded musicians that are now coming to my attention. Oh, and because I just thought of it, that Irish guy Cian Nugent. The other day I listened to a pair of his pieces called Grass Above My Head and My War Blues. I really enjoyed those a lot. The guitar nerd bit: what guitars do you play and what do you like about them? Is there anything out there you’re coveting? I am honestly pretty ignorant when it comes to guitars and whatnot. I play a Johnson guitar, OM size, I think, which I bought off a friend a few years back. It’s not a particularly nice instrument or anything, but it works good and I like it a lot. It’s got a nice, pretty wide fretboard and the neck has a sort of v-shaped cut, which I really like the feel of. Maybe it’s just that I’ve gotten real comfortable with the thing. I like the size of it too. I’m not sure I’m really coveting anything, maybe just because I am not particularly aware of what’s out there, but I would really like to have one of those big, loud Martin Dreadnoughts one day. I’ve played some of those before and they felt and sounded really great. Banjos: yes or no? Oh yes. Personally, I love the banjo. As I actually already mentioned, when I lived in New Mexico there was a really great clawhammer player named Ariel Winnick at my school and I was just totally mesmerized by his playing. It made such an impression on me that I felt that I had to learn how to do it, so I began to pick it up. I still fool around and play fiddle tunes and stuff on the thing all the time. I’ve also always been a huge sucker for that classic hard-driving bluegrass banjo sound. There’s something marvelous about that relentless, cascading sound you get in really good Scruggs-style picking. I really could go on and on about banjos. They’re weird and American and really very attractive to me all round. What’s that Mark Twain quote about banjos? Something about smashing pianos and taking up instead the “glory beaming banjo.” What are you planning to do next? Well, I want to try to make another solo guitar record in the near future, but I want to try to take more time with it than I have with most of my releases so far. I feel like I want to work more deliberately on some much more fine-tuned composition. I also want to get better production values with the recording and get it sounding real nice. I’ve also been trying to start playing publicly a lot more and give that a shot. This means that I’m trying to pull together a more fully worked out repertoire of my songs - most of the stuff I’ve written and recorded over the past while, I haven’t really committed to memory. Oh, and I’ve actually been trying to work out some music to play with another musician I know, which is a lot fun and different for me. What should we have asked you and didn’t? Hmm… I don’t know. These have been very good, wide-ranging questions that have allowed me to talk about a lot of things that I like to talk about. I really appreciate the opportunity to reflect on these topics and share some of my thoughts. And forgive me if I went on and on a bit much - it’s hard to keep it brief when responding to questions like these.

You can find more of William Csorba's music, including his compact disc, The Bear Creek Child Cemetery, at his Bandcamp page. 

[stainedgrin]

The Legend of Mr. Rager

“I never gave a fuck. I never gave a fuck about what niggas thought about me. I mean, i did, but like fuck it. You know what i’m saying?” 

When I first heard those lyrics from Kid Cudi’s��“Man on The Moon Anthem” off of A Kid Named Cudi, I thought to myself, What the actual fuck, how could someone explain this feeling of anxiety that i’ve been harboring for so long, and say it so plainly as this. I wasn’t even aware of what to call that feeling at the time, but I knew whatever it was, it was crippling, leaving you in an inactive state, where you come across as relaxed, and laid back, but behind those distant eyes, chaos was homeostasis. 

With having an older sibling, his taste in music would spill over into the mold that I was yet to actively and consciously fill on my own. Like most people, my first introduction to Kid Cudi, was his breakout track “Day N Night”, which serves as a quick introduction to his life, and his own coping mechanism to escape the reality he dreads to face. But this "Day N Night” is meant to be digestible to the average listener. When listening to Cudi’s mixtape, I can’t help but be drawn to “The Prayer”. To the average music listener, i’m sure the last thing they’d want to experience is a moment as existential as that, on their morning or evening commute. It was Cudi’s ability to present the pain he was going through, without the disguise of metaphors used to distance the experience from the himself that helped him become the “Big Brother” that we (the lost, anxious, confused, outcast types) all needed. In an interview with Timeout, Cudi reflections on the position he’s in, being able to guide those who can resonate with the feelings he had and couldn’t navigate himself at the time. 

But before “Day N Night”, A Kid Named Cudi, and signing to Kanye West’s GOOD Music label, Cudi another dreamer, stuck in his hometown of Cleveland, Ohio. In a later interview with Music Connection, Cudi speaks on the HipHop music scene in Cleveland at the time. “there was a very small scene that was a dope collection of hip-hop heads, but you had to know about it and ask around.” The resistant in Cudi’s acceptance into the scene only served to make him feel like even more of an outcast, but that didn’t prevent him from wanting to make the kind of music he wanted, continuing to state: 

“I would win some [rap battle] competitions and lose some, but when I lost everyone looked at me like I was fuckin’ crazy. They were like, “what the fuck am I listening to?” And, “Who is this dude?” I was always pushing the envelope and trying new things, I went out of my way to find my own voice, and I think that’s how I developed my sound. I was about growth and adventures and living life and seeing what was out there, but I always felt trapped in Cleveland. I’m gonna tell it to you like this, and this might come off crazy, but I was like, “This town ain’t ready for me. Who I am don’t fit here. I need to go where I fit, where I find inspiration.”

And with no plan, and only about 500 dollars, he picked up everything and moved to New York with his estranged uncle, telling himself he’s only be there till he got on his feet. When making that move to New York, Cudi explained his reasoning stating New York was 

“a place where [he] could grow and meet interesting people, because that’s what [he] was really yearning for. [he] was pursuing a career in music and going into acting; [he] wanted to be around people who were like me and there were no people like that in Cleveland. New York is definitely where [his] shed my skin. New York was like me coming into manhood.”

We always hear the Cliche about the stars aligning, but for the stars to be in your favor, that require you putting in the work as well to meet them halfway. Connecting with Plain Pat , Kid Cudi picked up on a lot of knowledge needed to work in the industry, and having had managed the early career of Kanye West, this helped with being able to get Cudi’s music into the right hands. 

But ultimately what made Kid Cudi stand out, was his alternative take on HipHop, and the influences that he was able to bring into the track to create something entirely new and true to his self. When we go back to “The Prayer”, those who are familiar will recognize that it’s in fact a sample of Band Of Horses “The Funeral”. Apart from production, it was the melodic elements that Kid Cudi included within his style which was something he entirely owned and had confidence in. People like to credit drake for being one to make it possible for “rappers” to be melodic and sensitive, but if it wasn’t for Kid Cudi paving that way, Drake wouldn’t have been able to take it a step further.

When speaking about cultural influence, we have to look at Kid Cudi’s contributions to Kanye West’s 808s and Heartbreak, which can be seen as the first evolution in sound that Kanye underwent. DJBooth gives credit where credit is due, when they discuss the impact and influence Kid Cudi had in the HipHop: “Cudi’s melodies, his singing and rapping, and his ability to create production that felt more like a fusion of genres than traditional hip-hop are what Kanye gravitated toward.” Apart from lending additional vocals to the album, Cudi co-wrote many of the songs as well, such as “Welcome To Heartbreak”, which is seen below.

Even if we look at drakes influences, it leads back to Kid Cudi, being that drake used 808s and Heartbreak as a “point of reference to build an album that blended personal singing, introspective rapping, and production that set a cathartic mood”, all of which where the results of Cudi pushing the envelope to where others felt more comfortable within that same space.

While we make sure to credit Kid Cudi for his contributions, it’s almost undermining in some way to see the way we had to accept his art. Having to go through someone already established as Kanye West to ease the masses into this shift in sound, before coming out with his debut Man On The Moon; The End Of Day”. and DJBooth might be right when stating “Cudi needed a solid foundation to build such an experimental album that took rap into a different stratosphere.”

We’ve continued to follow Kid Cudi in his progression of sound over the course of the six studio albums that he’s gone to release, but the Man on The Moon I & II can be seen as his rise and fall, but battling depression and drug abuse played a heavy role in the art that Cudi was able to create. As much as we enjoyed the music he was giving us, we forgot the cost in which it was to be given to us, and with this newfound life and his becoming aware that he needed help for his cocaine habit, and it only seemed as Cudi continued to get better in health the quality of the music declined. And he was well aware of this quality and what came from his own suffering, as he puts it well in “Dont Play This Song”.

What Kid Cudi did over the course of his ongoing career was open space for conversation, on a deeper and more personal level, as apposed to the disconnection that we’re all so used to, while HipHop was so focused on the external world, Kid Cudi helped changed that focus to the self, as a way to help not only himself find answers that he could live with, but to help others by providing them with this reassuring feeling that they aren’t going through their troubles alone, and it’s perfectly fine to feel vulnerable.

[onestowatch]

22 Rising Artists on the First Record They Ever Bought

Crinkly reverbs, satisfying vibrations, and blissful tenderness are all essential to the intoxicating experience of playing a vinyl record. Even just watching the spiral groove spin around the needle is utterly gratifying, and it’s a tradition we here at Ones To Watch think should be kept alive. 

In honor of Record Store Day, we asked 22 rising artists to tell us about the first record they ever bought and their answers are definitely taking us back to the days when vinyl was the talk of the town. Keep reading for responses from FINNEAS, grandson, Olivia O’Brien, and many more!

Ashe - John Mayer’s Continuum (LP 2006) or Carole King’s Tapestry (LP 1971)

“It was either John Mayer’s ‘Continuum’ or Carole King’s ‘Tapestry.’ Both those albums feel like coming home.”

AUGUST 08 - Kanye West’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy (LP 2010)

“First Fridays before the album dropped, they put out a bunch of songs leading up to the album.”

Cautious Clay - Lenny Kravitz’s Greatest Hits (LP 2000)

"The first album I bought was a Lenny Kravitz’ greatest hits album. I remember listening to it on repeat and loving the sax solo on the record ‘Let Love Rule.’ The melodic and chordal structure around this song felt perfect as well."

Dennis Lloyd - Linkin Park’s Meteora (LP 2003)

“It is still one of my all time favorite albums and was a massive part of my childhood.”

DUCKWRTH - Ludacris’ Word of Mouf (LP 2001)

“Going to my first public school. Wearing uniform (dark blue dickies, white button up). The little homie was selling bootleg CDs with legitimate printed covers. I still wasn’t allowed to listen to rap, so this was my chance to gain entry to hip hop. I copped it, threw it on my CD player, and I remember hearing the phrase, ‘The royal penis is clean, your highness,’ and started dying laughing.”

Ella Vos - TLC’s CrazySexyCool (LP 1994)

“The first record I bought… was TLC’s ‘CrazySexyCool’ on TAPE! I remember feeling so cool that I owned my own music and that it was not my parents’ music! My cousin came over not long after I’d gotten it and we drew “crazy sexy cool” on our underwear, sagged our jeans, and danced in front of the mirror to the whole album front to back.”

FINNEAS - Leon Bridges’ Coming Home (LP 2015)

“First vinyl I ever bought was ‘Coming Home’ by Leon Bridges. To me, that album sounds like it was made to be played on vinyl.”

grandson - James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James (LP 1970)

“I found a used copy of James Taylor’s first album, ‘Sweet Baby James,’ in Amoeba on Sunset Boulevard. I had just moved to Los Angeles and was getting into sampling old records so I bought myself a terrible Crosley record player with a janky built-in speaker and started digging. I grew up with James Taylor and older folk music around me, so it connected me to home and to my father in some way. I had been digging for old soul and jazz records for a while and finding that record reminded me why I’m doing this in the first place. Connection, family.”

Greyson Chance - Coldplay’s Parachutes (LP 2000)

“The first album I ever bought was Coldplay’s ‘Parachutes.’ I remember my older brother driving me to the record store to get it after I had expressed a strong liking to ‘Yellow.’ I have distinct memories of my brother and I blasting that song anytime it came on the radio when we were in the car. I remember thinking that Chris Martin was an actual God after listening to the album a few weeks after buying it. Even at a young age (I think I was eight or nine at the time), there was something mesmerizing about his lyrics and the piano lines on that album. Favorite tracks include ‘Shiver,’ ‘Sparks,’ and ‘Don’t Panic.’”

HONNE - Radiohead’s OK Computer (LP 1997)

“The first record I ever bought was ‘OK Computer’ by Radiohead--which I still believe, to this day, is one of the best albums ever made. I have so many memories of putting it on and just sitting and taking it all in. No other distractions, no phones, eyes closed, wondering how they made everything sound like it did.”

Jasmine Thompson - The Ting Tings’ We Started Nothing (LP 2008)

“The first record I ever bought was The Ting Tings’ ‘We Started Nothing.’ I remember singing loudly to each song with my brother in a car for hours as we traveled from London to the Lake District. I knew all the lyrics!”

KALLITECHNIS - Sade’s The Best of Sade (LP 1994)

“The first record I ever bought was Sade’s ‘The Best of Sade.’ My dad had been playing her music my entire childhood, and buying this particular record felt like a musical torch had been passed onto me. It marked the start of my own musical identity--with Sade’s unmatched soulfulness being the foundation.”

Kodie Shane - Ashanti’s Ashanti (LP 2002)

“The first record I purchased was Ashanti’s self-titled. ‘Ashanti…’ my strongest memory is that I was only five years old and I asked my mom and dad for it. We purchased the album in cassette form and a Walkman. And that became the background music of my little pre-K life and on… (I loved Ashanti and JaRule. Lowkey, I still do.) When I think about it, I miss the feeling of anticipating a record you really want and having to wait to get it, the pleasure you feel at the counter paying for the music of the artist you support, excitedly unwrapping the packaging popping it in and pressing play!”

Olivia O’Brien - Miley Cyrus’ Breakout (LP 2008)

“I remember playing it in this white bulky CD player that my mom gave me… I had drawn all over it with Sharpie and colored the speakers with green and pink highlighter markers. I would sit in my room and play it over and over.”

Phony Ppl - *NSYNC’s No Strings Attached (LP 2000)

“My first album that I ever bought with my own money for my eighth birthday was *NSYNC’s ‘No Strings Attached.’ I remember buying it with a couple other albums at the time because my dad wanted me to pick some music for my birthday party, but that was definitely the first one I went for and in 2019, I gotta say it still slaps stupidly. I actually just heard Ariana Grande sample one of their songs on the radio the other day.” - Elijah Rawk

Pink Sweat$ - Mario’s Mario (LP 2002)

“No particular memories come to mind - other than my mom loving it and buying it for me.”

Role Model - The Notorious B.I.G.’s Life After Death (LP 1997)

“I honestly don’t remember if I’ve ever bought a record in my life, but I used to go through my brother’s car and steal shit when he wasn’t home. And I remember the first CD I ever had was ‘Life After Death’ because I took it from his car. I think hearing that album at such a young age made me hit puberty instantly and I became a big boy. I learned all my bad words that day.”

slenderbodies - Aaron Carter’s Aaron’s Party (LP 2000)

“The only story I can offer is actually based on a CD that I bought at Tower Records, so not technically a record itself. When I was young, for my fourth or fifth birthday I was given a small Walkman-style blue CD player. My mom had tons of CDs so The Beatles and Paul Simon were covered. The first record I remember picking out and buying was Aaron Carter’s ‘Aaron’s Party’ purely off of seeing ads for it on TV. This was the first pop record I ever bought and I listened to it pretty religiously. I took out the inside insert and unfolded it and hung it on my wall as a makeshift poster--a habit I’d continue well into being a teenager. In a strange way, I think buying that record and wanting to listen through all of it because I had bought the whole album inspired a persevering kind of attachment to appreciating albums as whole pieces of work.” - Benji Cormack

SWMRS - *NSYNC’s No Strings Attached (LP 2000)

“*NSYNC - ‘No Strings Attached.’ Was my first concert. And it changed my life.” - Max Becker

UMI - Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life (LP 1976)

“First vinyl I got was Stevie Wonder’s ‘Songs in the Key of Life!’ I found it at the thrift store and bought it before I even had a record player because I knew future Umi would be happy to have it. Now I have a record player and it’s one of my favorite records to play in the morning.”

Valentina - Kanye West’s Late Registration (LP 2005)

“The first record I bought was ‘Late Registration,’ and I’m 100% sure that every single time I cried in high school I listened to that album. It was the soundtrack to all my happy and sad moments, and still is.”

Yoke Lore - Green Day’s Dookie (LP 1994)

“My first album was ‘Dookie’ by Green Day. And it changed my life. The first song I learned with my middle school band was ‘When I Come Around,’ and I learned to play drums listening to Tré Cool.”