#beta band

[omegaremix]

Omega Radio for December 2, 2023; #363.

Velvet Underground, The: “Candy Says”

John Cale: “Barracuda”

Young Gods, The: “Skinflowers”

Love & Rockets: “Waiting For The Flood”

Cows: “Mr. Cancelled”

Blonde Redhead: “I Don’t Want U”

XTC: “Dear God”

Beta Band: “Dry The Rain”

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club: “Love Burns”

Notwist, The: “Neon Golden”

TV On The Radio: “Staring At The Sun”

Graham Coxon: “Life It Sucks”

First Year 12 broadcast; deluxe marquee broadcast with sounds provided by an Omega supporter.

[omegaradiowusb]

DECEMBER 2, 2023 (#363)

Velvet Underground, The: "Candy Says" John Cale: "Barracuda" Young Gods, The: "Skinflowers" Love & Rockets: "Waiting For The Flood" Cows: "Mr. Cancelled" Blonde Redhead: "I Don't Want U" XTC: "Dear God" Beta Band: "Dry The Rain" Black Rebel Motorcycle Club: "Love Burns" Notwist, The: "Neon Golden" TV On The Radio: "Staring At The Sun" Graham Coxon: "Life It Sucks"

A big hello to all of our followers and listeners locally and worldwide as Omega Radio begins it's 12th broadcasting year. We are WUSB's most diverse show on its grid; always showcasing an almost endless amount of new, current, and favorite sounds and artists everywhere.

For our abbreviated first show of Year 12, we play 12 songs of top-shelf sounds and standards from legacy and favorite acts. It's an updated, newer way of featuring marquee artists as we've done in the past, and as a show of thanks to our supporters of Omega and WUSB.

We thank @tewz for providing us with ideas and sounds for tonight's show. We're getting ready for our annual Winners of '23 broadcast(s) and much more. We hope you'll join us, and thank you for listening.

December 16, 2023 (10PM EST): Winners of '23 Pt. 1.

December 30, 2023 (10PM EST): Winners of '23 Pt. 2.

January 13, 2024 (10PM EST): deluxe Omega.

January 27, 2024 (10PM EST): deluxe Omega.

February 10, 2024 (10PM EST): deluxe Omega.

February 24, 2024 (10PM EST): final Winter '24 Omega.

[dustedmagazine]

Conchúr White — Swirling Violets (Bella Union)

Conchúr White sings with a breathless, tremulous urgency.  His voice flutters somewhere between a falsetto and a whisper but there is nothing delicate about it.  It vibrates with barely containable feeling, straining at the curves of his sweet folky melodies.  He is screaming, but very quietly, so that you can barely hear it. 

White is from Northern Ireland, quite young still but a veteran of the folk-rock-y Silences, which made two well-received EPs in the 2010s and then called it quits.  If you’re familiar with Silences, you’ll find much that’s familiar here—that unusual voice, a penchant for soft, bewitching melodies, the use of surging, banging percussion to kick things into gear.  But Swirling Violets is finer and more idiosyncratic than that earlier material, with sweeter lulls and sharper climaxes.  It’s a record that seems, on first listen, a bit too ingratiating but picks up friction and contradiction as you hear it repeatedly. 

White sets up wispy little melodies, then blows them out into dramatic, beat-driven climaxes.  He sounds like Elliott Smith at the onset of “Red House Parlour,” for instance, pure and unadorned but still full of feeling.  That’s not a terrible thing in itself, though I don’t think he’ll ever match Smith’s lyrical twistiness.  However, the payoff comes in the chorus when this little tune goes wild, with florid rolls of piano and high kicking, rave-ecstatic percussion.  The absolute king of this sort of thing—that is, folk songs jacked up on electronic beats—was the Beta Band.  This is no “Dry the Rain” but it has that same exhilarating swell. 

Not all the songs take off like this, and one of the best, the late album “Deadwood,” mostly avoids a climax.  Instead it shimmers and quivers on plucked guitars and hushed harmonies.  White’s voice smolders quietly and with startling clarity, like the red tip of a cigarette sighted across the yard in twilight.  Beautiful. 

Jennifer Kelly

[vinyl-connection]

BETA ALPHA

The transition from novel to film involves many changes. Some enhance, others distract; often the response depends on what you did first… watched the film or read the book. The novel High Fidelity, by Nick Hornby, was first published in 1995. The movie, starring John Cusack and directed by Stephen Frears, was released in 2000. In between, Edinburgh combo The Beta Band put out three EPs (12”…

[cooroouo]

ivan doodle (with ivan’s mosquito kiss lol)

[nerd-artist]

Horizon Rock Bands AU: Alpha Prime

This is heavily inspired by the animated series Jem and The Holograms (I’m sorry if you know the reference because it means you’re as old as me 😆). There will be posts about other bands. Ereloy implied 🧡.

The band

Alpha Prime is a synth-punk rock band that performs songs about the struggles of social life and humanity's downfall. Aloy and her twin sister Beta started the band to take down Nemesis, the evil group that was winning every contest through dishonest ways before Alpha Prime showed up. Petra, Alva, Zo, and Talanah also had their own personal discordances with Nemesis, so they teamed up with the sisters to bring them down and make the world a little brighter with their music.

Unstoppable on stage, they've been number one since their first appearance at The Proving, the most prestigious battle of the bands in the music scene. There, they met the band Rock Breakers, who are not only their competitors but also great friends and allies against Nemesis.

With their manager Ersa, they’re getting ready for the competition by touring across the country. Their shows are called epic, thanks to their magical computer GAIA, which adds awesome visual effects and illusions to their performances.

Character profiles under the cut

Aloy

She's the leader of the band and their main songwriter. She plays her guitar ‘Outcast’, and her soft voice mixed with her feral screams make her the perfect backup vocalist. When she and her sister Beta were little, their mother disappeared, which shattered Aloy's trust in others. This caused her to become closed off, and now she struggles with social interactions. She seeks revenge on Tilda, the leader of Nemesis, because she suspects her of being involved in her mother's mysterious disappearance. When the weight of her mother's legacy and her own frustrations become too much to bear, she turns to her best friend Erend, the leader of Rock Breakers. Being by his side makes her feel more at home than anywhere else, sparking emotions she doesn't quite understand—emotions that end up fueling her songwriting.

Zo

Fans describe the soothing tone of her voice as healing, so it’s no surprise that she uses her ‘Fa’ mic to take on the role of the band’s lead vocalist. Always looking out for the other girls, it’s common to see her setting up meditation sessions before shows. As an environmentalist, she’s determined to take down Nemesis to stop the pollution caused by the companies owned by their members. She’s also (very) openly in a relationship with Varl, a member of Rock Breakers.

Beta

Even more isolated than her sister after their mother disappeared, she found solace in sci-fi movies and video games, completely avoiding social life. She’s a tech nerd who spends most of her time planning new shows with the computer GAIA. For her, forming Alpha Prime has meant gaining a new, bigger family that’s slowly helping her come out of her shell. Though she keeps a low profile, the deep beats of her bass, ‘Matrix,’ make the crowd feel the tremble and are essential to completing the band’s sound.

Talanah

Her cultural background made her believe all her life that guitars weren't meant for women—until she picked up "Khalis," the guitar passed down from her father, who was said to be the greatest guitarist under the sun. It felt like she had finally found herself. She made it her mission to become the best guitarist out there, regardless of gender—and she did. Now, she shreds alongside Aloy to take down Jiran, a member of Nemesis and the one responsible for her father's death.

Alva

CEO, a member of Nemesis, controls the town of Alva from a distance. Both he and his predecessors have erased music from existence there, repressing the creative minds of its inhabitants and keeping them submissive. Alva is determined to recover musical knowledge and bring it back to her people, across the world, along with her beloved Federa. With her keyboard 'Ancestor' in hand and performing alongside Aloy, she feels capable of freeing her people from the torment of living without music.

Petra

It's no coincidence that the crowd's cheers grow louder whenever Petra shows up. The power of the rhythms from her drums, 'Forge’s Breath,' combined with her strong personality and physique, make her a favorite, especially among women. She's an amazing musical engineer and has crafted all the band's instruments in their players needs. She's not here seeking justice or revenge; she's here to hit hard and push the rhythm of their songs to the max.

Thank you for reading! What do you think they would sound like?

If you want to know more about Rock Breakers check this post ✨🤘

[evidenceof]

i have just said something ridiculous to you

Joe Toye has a nice face, George thinks. Strong nose, strong brows, and a scowl that George realized he liked to earn. Miles deep into 2nd Battalion's march to Atlanta, George Luz hears an Irish song from across their frozen campground.

happiest holidays, @blood-mocha-latte, my hbo war 2025 secret santa baby!! ♡ crossing my fingers and hoping i did their voices/headspaces justice. this present is brought to you by equal parts mary oliver's 'i have just said,' that you love, and toye's atlanta march predicament™. i very humbly give to you my very first luztoye fic.

I have just said something ridiculous to you and in response, your glorious laughter. - 'I Have Just Said' by Mary Oliver

-----------------------------------

December 1, 1942 | 2330 hours Campgrounds, 38 miles from Fort Benning

The butter tastes like nothing on his frozen tongue. George winces at the thin oily film it leaves behind in his mouth after he swallows. Too fucking cold, everything was too fucking cold. A ragged chuckle saws its way through his throat while he watches Perco fight a losing battle against his hard slice of bread. Eventually, he rips it in half, elbow colliding with the tent wall and almost costing them their flimsy shelter. A hundred and fifteen miles and they had to survive off of stale bread and pats of butter.

“The way we live you’d think we’re already at the front of the fucking lines.” Perco’s voice was muffled under a thick scarf. “I don’t know what’s worse. This or shit on a shingle.”

“Come on, we got it made.” George lights a cigarette, and flicks off his lighter in an attempt to sweep away any talk of war. “Sightseeing the backcountry, free food, free clothes. These fuckin’ boots? Babies are the best in General Patton's Third Army, so I’ve heard.” His boot lands back on the cold ground with a pathetic thump from where he lifted it. 

“Aw, shut up, Luz.” Perco shoves him backwards, hard, half a slice of bread still in his hand, but with a grin already plastered on his face.

Just barely missing the tent wall, George regains his balance. “All right, all right. Jeez,” he laughs. He presses his hand on Perco’s head to push himself up, earning him a scowl. “Gonna go find a fire before this thing collapses on us.”

The flap of the tent all but snaps in half when he throws it open. Ice crackles down the drab green canvas like peanut brittle. Outside, cold air smacks against George’s face as he takes in the columns of tents around him that stand frosted and gleaming in the moonlight. The temperature had dropped earlier in the afternoon, but tomorrow promised worse terrain because, as far as George was concerned, God had abandoned 2nd Battalion specifically. Why else would they be the only ones walking all the way to fucking Atlanta? There's thirty eight more miles and not nearly enough bad Sobel impressions in George’s back pocket to last them that far.

With a single drag, he polishes off the remainder of his cigarette. Squinting, he spots Lip and Guarnere in the middle of what looks like an attempt at walking without having to bend their knees. Their frosty puffs of breath mirror the smoke he exhales. He sees Lip’s hand raise to greet him at the same time a bad tune cuts across the field, louder than the muffled grousing from inside the pup tents. Only George whips his head towards the direction of the sound.

“Luz, what’re you up to?” Lip’s voice is firm. George doesn’t see, but he hears the smile in it.

“Better not be doin’ anything fuckin’ stupid. I’m goddamn tired of that pansy chicken-shit officer breathing down my neck all fuckin’ day,” spits Guarnere, digging his hands deeper into his pockets. “Sobel, I mean. Winters ain’t no chicken-shit at least.”

George doesn't expect the polite chuckle from Lip who's quick to follow it up with a stern, “Bill.” At that, Guarnere raises an eyebrow like a demanding child, a look that George knows he never let his ma see. “But he’s right, keep your head outta trouble, Luz. Got enough to deal with while Toye’s relegated to K.P,” continues Lip with a grimace.

George tips his head in the direction of the broken Irish song still flitting in the air. “That him?” The scowl on Guarnere’s face is confirmation enough. “What’d he do?”

“Go ask him if you’re so fuckin’ curious,” Guarnere sneers. “Hey, I’m serious Luz. Give Sobel an excuse to take away passes and I’ll shove a trench knife up your ass.”

George knuckles his forehead to mock-salute Guarnere and gives Lip a wink. “I’ll behave for you, Bill,” he sing-songs. It only takes him a second to quash his finished cigarette under his boot before his feet start moving towards the sound almost involuntarily. He finds Toye hunched over a fire, chin resting on his legs that are folded in front of him. Even tucked into himself, there was something intimidating about his angles. It’s those goddamn broad shoulders of his, wide like no one’s business. Certainly not George’s. He doesn’t recognize the words Joe is singing but the tune’s familiar enough. Once or twice, he found himself straining to hear it in the Toccoa showers. It almost feels like a shame to put an end to it. Almost.

“Thought someone was dying. Your bad singing why they’re making you do this?” chides George, nudging Toye with his boot before he takes a seat on the ground. 

Toye clenches his jaw in acknowledgment, any lingering mirth vanishing from his face. “Luz,” says Toye, already exasperated. George watches him jab the weak fire with a stick. The orange glow casts shadows on his irritated face. Nothing quite like pissing off Joe Toye. He has a nice face, George thinks. Strong nose, strong brows, a scowl that George realized he liked to earn. Even with the darkness under his eyes, Toye looks sturdy.

“Aw, c’mon Toye. Not happy to see me?” His teeth chatter and Toye’s lip twitches into the beginnings of a smile. “Lighten up will ya?”

A gust of wind makes them both adjust their scarves. From under his own, Toye shakes his head before glaring at the stick in his hand. George can see him weighing out the pros and cons of throwing it into the pit. “I did. Look where that got me,” says Toye, eventually.

“Hey, least you’re warm right?” George smiles at him while dislodging a clump of dirt from the sole of his boot to throw in Toye’s direction. When it hits the side of his leg, Toye barely flinches. So it was like that, huh? George digs his heel into the hardened ground, dragging himself closer to Joe. “So what’d you do? You can trust me. Who the fuck am I gonna tell?”

Toye continues staring at the flames like they’d done something to offend him. When he doesn’t answer, George inches forward, tracking cold moisture and mud on his trousers. For a moment he’s convinced Toye isn’t paying attention, but George sees how his eye twitches in time with the sound of his ODs scritching against the ground.

“Toye. Toye. Toye. Joe Toye. C’mon, buddy. Tell good ol’ George,” he says, slightly out of breath as he continues to drag himself closer. 

Bright dots of orange float up into the inky blue night when Toye jostles the firewood with his stick. “Not sure you wanna know, Luz,” he says gravely. “What, you need new source material or something? Running out of punchlines?”

“Me? Nah. Been practicing my Strayer,” says George, grinning. He’s not sure if he imagines the little nod from Toye. “When I get that pitch perfect, it'll last us ’til we ship out at least. You’ll fuckin’ see.” There’s caked mud on the ass of his ODs, he feels it. But now Toye was in perfect prodding distance and that made the journey worth it. With his fist, George nudges him once, twice, but he still looks like a goddamn statue staring at the fire, unmoving. “C’mon Toye. What’d you do?”

Nothing prepares him for how quickly Toye swivels his body towards his. He’s so close that George feels his breath on his cheek when Toye says, “You really wanna know? How about you ask me nice, Luz? Throw in a little favor?”

“Like what…?” says George, schooling his face into seriousness. Were Toye’s lashes always this long? George swears he feels the phantom brush of them against his goddamn forehead. He isn’t proud of the way it makes him miss a beat or causes that slight tremble in his voice. Nothing he couldn’t chalk up to the cold, he thinks. And he fucking would, if anyone asks.

“Like take over with these fires for me, you fuckin’ idiot,” growls Toye in his usual low gravelly voice. The white of his teeth catches the corner of George’s eye, then the pink of his lower lip. Damn. It feels almost too late when Toye thwacks the long stick against George’s chest and he nearly falls backwards. “My arm’s falling asleep.”

Clearing his throat to pull himself together is a decision George regrets immediately. It’s raw and cold like the rest of him. But he can deal with the shards of glass lodged into his windpipe better than the fucking knots that just erupted in his stomach. What was with that? He swipes the stick and turns to face the fire so that Joe is just a smudge in his periphery. From a few feet away, he hears Lieb and Alley laughing mercilessly. The thought of them witnessing all that makes his face burn, but he reminds himself everyone’s huddled in their own pup tents.

Toye's voice, resigned now, floats from beside George suddenly. It’s soft from fatigue. “Kid wanted to know what it felt like,” he says but doesn't continue. 

“What what felt like?” George pokes the fire. There’s a hiss and crackle of wood before Toye replies.

“What it’s like to pick up a skirt,” mumbles Toye, sounding embarrassed, forgiving maybe. “Says he gets nervous easy. He’s a buddy of mine from Dog Company, knew him from Pennsylvania, worked the coal mines together. He’s… you know? All stiff-like. Kinda like—”

“Like Winters?” George answers. “The fuck is wrong with you people from Pennsylvania. You born with a complimentary stick up your ass or what?” George wonders if that was too much, but he hears a huff from beside him—a sound that, from his limited knowledge, is the closest thing Toye gets to laughing. There’s a giddiness in his chest that tells him he’s been wanting to hear that for a while.

“Yeah. Yeah, like Lieutenant Winters,” replies Toye, less grave now. George turns to find him smiling down at the ground almost sleepily. It triggers a fresh set of knots right below George’s belly. It makes sense that the guy would ask Toye, George decides. With a face like that, eyes like that, he could bring home just about anyone he wanted. “Tells me he gets jittery, that friend of mine. Loses his fucking words. Needs practice. Needs advice,” says Toye. 

“Just need a face like yours.” It tumbles out of George’s mouth automatically. God, he wanted to shove one of the burning logs down his throat. But if Toye heard, he didn’t show it. Recovering, George continues, “What’d you tell him?”

Calm as anything, Toye lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I didn’t. Gave him a little practical exercise and pushed the guy against a wall,” he says with an even voice. From where he’s turned, the fire illuminates only a portion of his face. Even from a partial view, George could tell he wasn’t joking. Unsurprising; Toye rarely did. “Evans saw.”

“So he served you K.P. duty for jostling a guy? Sounds about right.” George laughs, imagining Evans’ prissy frown. “Your broads usually slam you against walls?”

As an answer, Toye smiles, all teeth, and George stops laughing. 

“It was nothing serious. Wanted to see how well he could come up with one of those lines of his in that position. Said he’s been practicing,” insists Toye. A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his lip at the sudden shift in George’s face. “I was gentle though, but I think that was the problem. I, uh… I think he liked it.”

There was something about the image George couldn’t quite put together in his mind. He frowns. I think he liked it. 

“You shoulda seen Evans’ face. Kinda looks like yours right now actually, but less red,” Toye grins and George fights the urge to hide his head under his scarf. “Ripped my friend away from me and doled out the punishment. But really, the fucking kicker was him telling me to go see the chaplain. Fucking self-righteous asshole.”

“The chaplain? Since when the fuck do you need to—” Suddenly, it clicks in his mind, and he imagines the scene Evans must have walked into that night. Toye resting a hand against the wall beside the private’s face, the incline of his broad shoulders pointing inward, caging him. Gentle . Those big eyes and lashes too fucking close: Toye looking like the very picture of ease. Only in his head, George erases the face of the nameless PFC from Dog Company and replaces it with his own. Toye’s angles leaning towards him, lips inches away from his face, the feeling of his gravelly voice trailing from the tip of George’s nose all the way down under his shirt. He chokes a bit when he says, disbelieving, “No. Fuck, Toye. Nah, that ain’t right. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” says Toye tightly and looks up to glare at him. George can’t quite meet his eyes. “I was lightening up, remember?”

This close to the fire, George’s hands still feel like ice. “You’re insane, Joe. Fucking insane,” he says, trying to shake off the thought of Toye being close, peering up at a guy through his lashes like a dame. Suddenly, George’s trousers feel tight and his head was spinning in all possible directions.

“Didn’t hurt him. Was only trying to help. I was gentle, like I said,” Toye says lightly, voice already edged with sleep and without a trace of guilt. “Want a demonstration, Luz?”

“What, so you can get caught again? You plan on being K.P. until we’re shipped out?” George hears the higher register in his voice, and feels the way his heart rams against his sternum. He can’t look at Toye so he pokes the fire instead. A hot splinter flies onto his hand and he lets it sting, steering his full attention to the tiny patch of burning flesh.

Toye’s voice is thick with the lack of sleep, but more importantly is suddenly right behind George’s ear, brushing against the tiny hairs he didn’t know existed there. “I won’t tell if you don’t. I can keep a secret,” whispers Toye. George almost moans, but catches himself. It comes out a fumbling huff instead. The tightness of his trousers stop him from moving away.

“Well,” George tries to say. His zipper brushes against his skivvies and he almost jumps. If not for the jacket, the tented crotch area of his trousers would be on full display. Christ, he hopes Toye’s sleep-deprived enough to forget all this by the end of the march. “I can’t.” 

Toye laughs, fully now. George feels it on his nape, the hahas hitting his skin like long-burning coals. God, it felt good. 

“I’ll try it on you one day, Luz,” says Toye. George isn’t sure if he imagines Toye’s palm resting on his hip. It's too much and he feels like passing out. All the blood from his brain seems pool to right down into his crotch. It was getting harder to think, let alone respond. 

“You’re funny,” manages George eventually. Toye’s breath smells like Juicy Fruit, sweet.

“Yeah? I like surprising people like that,” says Toye, like a purr. When he moves away, Toye keeps the smile fixed on his face. The missing pressure of his hand leaves a cold mark on George’s side. So that was real. The affirmation only intensifies the heat below his stomach.

“You make a habit of shoving enlisted men against walls?” breathes George. It feels too good to keep this line of conversation going, everything in his body says so. But George couldn’t trust himself or his faculties. He was still thinking of Juicy Fruit in his mouth.

“Among other things.” Toye smirks lazily at him, and tilts his head up at the sky. George tells himself it’s the fatigue and the proximity to smoke that makes every word Toye says sound flirtatious. This fucking march had everyone acting strange, especially him.

“You are insane,” he says again, voice trembling. No way in hell was this guy a fairy. Didn’t fucking look like one anyway, all broad shouldered and angular. Nothing about him swished: not his fucking voice, or his fucking hips. Shit just don’t add up like that. But neither did the tightness in his OD trousers that didn't feel like it would disappear fast enough.

“A compliment coming from you, George.” Toye buries his face in his palms. “Fuck, I’m tired,” he says, the words drawn out of him like an exhale.

George watches his body sway slightly, tipping almost imperceptibly in and out of consciousness. “You sleep at all Joe?” Toye yawns as an answer; it shudders through him. He was just tired and spread thin, George thinks, they all were. And that got you acting different, that got you acting abnormal.

“No. But Evans still has it out for me. He’s lurking somewhere,” Toye says, not looking up from where George thinks he’s already fallen half asleep. The sharp angles of Toye’s shoulders droop, sagging under the weight of a second day without sleep. George lights another cigarette, finally, to keep his hands from doing something really fucking stupid like throwing a blanket over Toye and shoving his head onto his lap. Shit that guy from Dog Company can’t do, he thinks, feeling an odd barb of possessiveness while looking at Toye’s drooping head.

“Hey, I got this, all right?” argues George, gesturing at the growing fire.

“Shut up, Luz. I’m not looking for handouts.” But Toye’s voice dips in volume, belying the stubbornness in it.

“C’mon, Joe. You can’t be the only one handing out favors from the goodness of your heart,” George offers something like understanding. From his palms, Toye glances up at him, questioning. He’d look almost offended if he didn’t look so soft.

“Twenty minutes. Sleep. We got thirty-eight miles left in the morning and you look like shit,” continues George. Toye’s gaze doesn’t move away from him. So he stares back, feeling a little selfish, tracing Toye’s dark lashes and pink lips with his eyes. He wonders if they’ll ever get to sit this close again. “I’m saying if Evans comes around, I’ll charm him for ya.”

“Yeah?” says Toye, still looking at George, a small smile hooked on his lips. The sounds of the camp feel like they’ve all but disappeared. “Yeah. You’re good at that.”

His cigarette burns down to the filter but George continues to suck on it, unable to fish it out with his shaking hands that he’s hidden in his jacket pockets. They’re warm now, so it couldn’t have been the cold causing the trembling. He can still feel Toye’s laugh ricocheting on his neck.

Toye breaks their little staring contest and faces the fire. “Fine, twenty minutes.” 

“Sure buddy.” George watches Toye’s chin droop down onto his chest and his eyes flutter shut, lashes twitching. He’s asleep immediately. When he’s sure Toye was out cold, George fishes out a blanket from his pack and drapes the whole thing across Toye’s shoulders with a gentleness he didn’t know he had. “Take as long as you like.”

[wrathofrats]

What was that I saw about butch piss kink?

You should probably say more.

@everybodyshusband Me posting bait for specific mutuals works again /hj

I saw some post on Twitter that was like “when a butch is pissing you better shut up and listen” and like YES MA’AM

Guys I swear I don’t usually go here like I’m not usually over here like do you believe me this is a ONE TIME THING!!!!!

Uhhhh weird. It’s weird. Trans fem Mountain is a fucking freak about her Butch girlfriend aether and wants to watch her piss because that’s very normal and she should be allowed to. Barely horny unless you’re into that. As always. As fucking usual. What the fuck else goes on around here. This is way too fucking long btw I’m not counting the words but it’s too many

Aether gave the bottle of beer a hard flick against her belt buckle. Some stupid party trick, a bottle opener on her belt buckle that she thought was funny one night and clicked order without a second thought. She handed it to Swiss with a loud cheer from him, taking a long swig.

“Is it supposed to look like you pissed yourself” dew mocked, eyeing aether up and down. Black tank top with specks of foam soaking into the fabric and her jeans littered with dark spots and streaks from the beer.

“Turn you on or something? I could get you one too” aether turned to grab another bottle, shoving it against her belt buckle and turning her head from the spray, only adding to the mess.

“Yeah whatever you fucking wish, won’t waste a beer though”

“Rain tells me what you too get up to. Don’t act cocky now just because there’s an audience”

Dew sneered, rolling his eyes but taking a drink anyways.

Mountain sat on the counter next to her. Simply watching with some sort of amusement. The way the beer soaked in and darkened her jeans, the way it clung to the thick fabric of her cut off t shirt. She didn’t want to think about it too hard. Maybe she was being a creep. Sure aether was her girlfriend, she was allowed to be a creep. But something as …. Intimate … private as that felt almost gross to think about, or shameful at least.

She waited for the night to wind down. For aether to grab her and pull her upstairs. Tipsy off a couple beers and a bit more handsy than when she’s sober. Mountain would never complain though, not when aether had an arm slung around her waist, leading her back to their room.

“You smell like beer” mountain wrinkled her nose, pushing her away with a faked disgust that was easily torn apart by the way she laughed.

“Join me for a shower then junebug”

Aether fiddled with the tap for a moment while mountain set out a couple towels and a random assortment of things that could be pajamas she grabbed from a drawer. Aether knew mountain was bad at handling the hotter temperatures. Always claimed she was trying to boil her.

“You can hop in, I’ll be there in a sec” aether pulled her shirt over her head, watching mountain try and fold her clothes into a semi neat pile.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Just gotta pee, mess with the temperature if you don’t like it, yeah?”

She shouldn’t. Mountain really shouldn’t stop her but the curiosity is too tempting not to speak up about. Or maybe it was the two white claws rain made her drink. Whatever it was had her speaking without thinking first.

“Dont”

“That’s not exactly how this works I can’t just not piss-“

“No. No I mean-“ mountain took the shower curtain in her hand, nails threatening to poke holes into the plastic liner, “I want to watch”

Aether just stared at her for a second. “You want to watch me piss?”

“If- it’s weird you don’t have to-“ mountain quickly stumbled over her words to retract her statement. “Forget I said it- its not a big deal I was just-“

“You could at least say please”

Mountain whispered a please under her breath, watching aether strip the rest of her clothes off, slotting herself behind mountain in the small tub. The stream of water soaked into mountains hair, matting it to her face as she sunk down to her knees instinctively.

“What’s the reason for this baby?” Aether placed a hand in her hair, carefully pulling her head back to look up at her “just feeling dirty? Poor thing. Seem so ashamed of it too”

Mountain gave a wounded whimper at her words. She did feel ashamed. Cock semi hard between her thighs, staring right at aethers cunt, clit standing hard and proud between her folds. One of her hands slid down her stomach, flicking between her thighs and spreading herself open for mountain to see.

“Get a hand on yourself junebug. If you wanted to watch so bad then watch”

Mountains hand gripped herself at the base, watching aethers stomach clench and release as a small trickle of liquid slipped down her thighs. It was followed by a thicker stream, hot and heavy over mountains fingers where one of her hands held her thigh for dear life.

It didn’t feel gross, more intimate than anything else. Mountain gave herself a tentative stroke as aether continued, strong hand keeping her gaze directly at her cunt as she pissed.

“Could you cum just from that? Jerk yourself off just from me pissing? Pathetic little thing. Obsessed with me”

[imsatu]

my fav hc about the ghouls is that they were alive and then died, to then get summoned as ghouls, so here's what i imagine they were like as humans

im just going to quickly go over some of them, but i can do the others, and i'll probably go deeper in each story later too.

CW for death mentions, also the way i imagine them is not tied to the unmasked musicians in any way. these are not definitive or anything, just based on vibes

first, i think all ghouls did something related to music when they were alive, especially something related to their instruments, and that's why they got chosen also, they forget who they were when they were alive, but they can remember, like recovering from amnesia and getting your memories back

I'll start with phantom and aurora

phantom: he is the youngest ghoul in every sense, he is the last that was summoned, the youngest at his human death, and the one that spent the least time in the pit

he was a twenty something year old guy that lived in the 80's and was born somewhere in the middle of the usa in a conservative and strictly christian home. he lived his teen years feeling like an outcast, but, after learning about the rising of rock and metal music and the alternative communities in the big cities, he ran away from home to live his dream, which was of course to become a rockstar. he didn't last too long, as he died shortly after meeting a group of sketchy people and disappearing, his cause of death is still unknown

one day, searching youtube for something to fall asleep to, he stumbled on a video of his own cold case that is still open to this day

aurora: she lived during the last quarter of the 1700s in france, (the french revolution). she was born a duchess in the middle of luxury and refined fashion and arts, her favorite of course being the big, fluffy dresses and the music.

she was an extremely gifted singer and loved to perform, but due to her social status, she never got to properly enjoy as she would've wanted. she admired the entertainers at the balls, who were able to express their arts and talent, and when she started planning her escape to go and live free, her family fell prisoner during the revolution, and the rest is history

her room is decorated in a very ornate way, with hundreds of bows and ruffles, golden pillars and a small chandelier she diy'ed, and mountain gifts her fresh flowers often so she can keep them in there, even though she has no idea about her previous life, and is not interested in it

[justdavina]

Camila Montoya : Such a Cute Transgender Girl! I love her nightclub outfit!

[lifes-eternal-ghoul]

Just some phantom doodles and stuff.... Nom num nummy?

[d3molition-lov3rs]

“you’re gonna kill them dead, rockstar.”

third chapter of my dorcasxmarlene sapphic warped tour fic is up rn!!

time for the first show of the tour! the new chapter can be found here, otherwise will be linked below :)

[taradactylus]

Hey.. hey Trolls fandom of tumblr. Want some angsty shit about the new movie? Don't worry, I got you-

‼️WARNING: SPOILERS FOR TROLLS BAND TOGETHER‼️

So... Just read the notes of the story and you'll understand everything. I had fun writing it even though Im tired af-

[forlorn-crows]

Yours In The End

Rating: M for Mature (and A for Angst)

Pairing(s): Mountain/Aether/Dewdrop

Tags: implied/referenced major character death, implied/referenced banishment, angst, emotional hurt, (attempted) comfort, era iii ghouls.

Words: 1,404

Summary: What would normally be an easy silence hangs oppressive around them, full of things unsaid. Things that could break more than just the quiet if they were said.

Wordlessly, the earth ghoul circles around the couch and slides in beside him. Lanky limbs folding inwards until he cuddles up against him—a wet, newborn pup anchoring itself to his littermate in a blind search for warmth and familiarity. Wee and fresh, all of them just trying to get their bearings.

So, so much has changed.

⛧

Notes: This is the product of multiple days of feeling shitty. Started as a prompt for Mushy May and ran in the fucking opposite direction. Referenced murders of the three Emeritus brothers. Implied/Referenced death/banishment of Zephyr and Ifrit. Essentially, Mountain, Dew, and Aether are alone together, running from ghosts. Not a happy vignette.

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

The fire crackles steadily, quick pops and crumbles of charcoaled wood falling into the hearth. It’s the only light left in the room, the sun having long dipped down past the sills of the leaded glass windows. It coats the small seating area in a dying amber light, the stacks of books behind cast in ominous shadow. It’s late.

And yet. 

Dewdrop sighs, his eyes unable to look away from the dancing flames. Despite being just feet from the fire, wrapped up in a worn quilt, his nose feels like ice, and his cheeks are chilled from the still-wet tracks of tears. They’ve stopped for now, leaving the water ghoul to sniffle and stare. Numb. Unwilling to rise from a stupor he suspects will make its home in his chest for years to come. 

The floor creaks somewhere behind him. Footsteps softly approaching until they join him in his little cocoon of bittersweet comfort. Dew feels their hands in his hair, scooping it out from where it’s trapped beneath layers of cotton and batting. Silver threads gone barren at the ends. Rubbed one too many times between his trembling, nervous fingers. Gentle hands pull it all back, smoothing it around his horns. Silently combing through the tangles and draping the bulk of it over one shoulder. 

“Coming back to bed?” a rumbly, tired voice asks. 

Dew doesn’t say anything as he closes his eyes, flickers of the embers still sparkling behind his eyelids. Mountain shifts behind him, sighing heavily. Hands rubbing idly over his blanketed shoulders. Apart from the fire, the library is eerily quiet when the moment stretches out between them. What would normally be an easy silence hangs oppressive around them, full of things unsaid. Things that could break more than just the quiet if they were said. 

Wordlessly, the earth ghoul circles around the couch and slides in beside him. Lanky limbs folding inwards until he cuddles up against him—a wet, newborn pup anchoring itself to his littermate in a blind search for warmth and familiarity. Wee and fresh, all of them just trying to get their bearings. 

So, so much has changed. 

Mountain swipes a fresh tear from his cheek. Dew barely feels it, but he leans into it anyway, chest heaving with a silent sob. The arms around him grow tighter, and soon he’s surrounded in the earth ghoul’s woody scent. Lips press against his hairline as he wills it all just to stop. 

“You’re cold, waterlily,” he whispers. It’s an obvious, easy thing to state when you have so much else to say. “Will you come back to bed?” 

Dew turns his head to look at him. Through muddled vision he can see the lines of worry beginning to etch themselves into his handsome face. The skin under his eyes is sunken, colored with an almost bruised hue. His normally plump, boyish cheeks are sunken too, the firelight casting them in gaunt shadow. The water ghoul’s sure he doesn’t look much better, with his thinning hair and blotchy face and dead water eyes. 

Dew swallows hard. “I want to go home,” he says in a broken voice. A few more tears fall, soaking into the fraying stitching of the quilt. He doesn’t care if the wish is unrealistic, unreasonable. Pathetic. It’s how he feels. Whatever semblance of home he felt before this has collapsed into rubble and blown away as dust in the wind.   

Mountain shakes his head. Melancholy in a tiny movement. “Come back to bed,” he says, no longer a question. 

“Please don’t be scared of me,” Dew begs. He doesn’t know why he says it. Why he thinks Mountain looks at him with fear as much as love. 

His ears droop. Emerald eyes growing big and round. He reaches out to cradle Dew’s cheek, and the water ghoul fights everything not to flinch away. 

“Dewdrop,” he says softly. Pleading as much as he can in the utterance of only his name. 

The water ghoul nods and looks up towards the cavernous ceilings, praying for the crying to stop. “I know,” he breathes, lip quivering. “I know.” The sadness welling up in Mountain’s own eyes is what pushes him over again, and he lets himself be pulled into his chest with heavy limbs and a heavy heart. Shuddering through waves of grief and anger and directionless emotions that continue to renew instead of release. Mountain whispers promises of not your fault and not going anywhere into his hair, holding him tight. 

It’s a long while before he pulls back for air again. The fire’s turned to ash, smoldering valiantly through its last few flames. Dew can barely register Mountain’s face now, but there’s just enough light to illuminate his temple, the high point of his cheek. Highlighting the way his face has softened and the exhaustion has set in once more. 

“I love you.” It’s all he can think to say. Breathed like a prayer meant only for the Dark One himself. Maybe if he says it enough the three of them will be left alone. While they may have been wronged by mortals Above, he knows his other packmates will be protected eternally Below. 

But Satanas, does it hurt to be spared this time. 

“I love you, too,” Mountain replies easily. Like he’s said it a thousand times before. The earth ghoul casts a glance towards the hearth, looking at it with such concentration that Dew wouldn’t be surprised if he had slipped somewhere else in his mind, far away from reality. But he snaps out of it quickly, turning back to Dew. Hands tugging at the folds of the quilt still wrapped tightly around him. 

“Aether.” He’s waiting now for both of them to come back to bed, Dew knows, most likely pacing or contemplating throwing another glass at the wall. There’s shards still stuck in the piles of the rug from the last time. As much as he could stay here until the last of the fire snuffs out, he shouldn’t. “Come on,” Mountain insists one last time. “Up.”

Dew lets himself be pulled off the couch and into Mountain’s side. Sheltered under his proverbial wing. He pulls him away from the false solace of the fireplace, the embers disappearing behind them as they move throughout the maze of the library. Back through the cavernous, echoing hallways until they reach the ghoul wing. There’s lamplight spilling into the hallway from Mountain’s room—their room, at this point; the only room with a bed big enough for three. None of them can really bear to leave it, nowadays. 

It’s the only place left without ghosts. 

Aether sighs with relief when the two shuffle back into the bedroom. He frowns sadly when he sees tear-stained cheeks and droopy ears; wordlessly, he ushers them back into bed, locking the door behind them and clicking off the lamp. The moonlight shines into the room, casting them all in moody blue. Even if it’s somber, there’s something about the coolness that lifts a weight off Dew’s shoulders every time he’s bathed in it. Exhaustion worms its way out of his joints and floods his system as soon as he’s settled between the two bigger ghouls, eyelids already too heavy to stop from closing. Balsam and ozone curling around him like a gentle breeze caressing the cattails surrounding the lake. 

“Sleep,” Aether says softly, pressing his forehead to Dew’s. Mountain tucks his nose into the nape of his neck, inhaling his scent as he’s done every night since then. A lungful of his crisp apple shampoo (though there’s not much of that today) before he succumbs to sleep. The water ghoul feels his rumbling purr against his back as he burrows further into the quilt. Aether’s soon to follow; whether Dew will reciprocate their calming sounds with his own little purr is a tossup. Especially now. 

Despite the hours of tears, he can feel the sound creep up in his throat. Much like the crackle of a toy with an overused voice box, it’s muffled, fading in and out unpredictably. But the other two hold him tighter at the first stir of it in his chest. 

He’s tired. So, so tired. 

Love you, Aether mouths against his hairline. Just above a whisper, like he’s afraid for someone else to hear. On the edge between awake and asleep, Dew makes a noise he hopes conveys his love in return.