#catch suspended bass

[httpswritings]

night crawling

alexia putellas x reader

The rhythmic thrumming of the bass vibrated through the bar floor, a stark contrast to the dull ache in your head. Work tomorrow seemed a distant world, a nagging afterthought drowned out by the pulsating music. You coerced yourself into a semblance of "fun," a hollow echo of a voice urging you to break free from the monotony. But the forced cheer quickly waned, replaced by a dull detachment. You weren't dancing, just a solitary figure glued to a barstool, nursing a lukewarm Coke. Every time a brightly dressed woman approached, a practiced smile and polite decline became your mantra. Tonight, the spark of flirting was absent, replaced by a yearning for solitude.

Across the crowded room, a pair of hazel eyes watched you with amusement. Alexia, a name whispered with a touch of reverence throughout the city's vibrant lesbian scene, couldn't help but be intrigued by your subtle rebuffs. Each rejection held a hidden grace, a quiet strength that piqued her interest. You were a captivating anomaly amidst the usual bar flirtations. Just as Alexia decided to call it a night, you turned, your gaze locking unexpectedly with hers. A hesitant smile bloomed on your face, catching her off guard. Time seemed to suspend itself, the thumping music fading into a distant hum.

"Hi?" Alexia finally managed, her voice a husky whisper in the cacophony.

A small blush crept up your neck, a spark of nervousness flickering in your eyes before a genuine smile returned. You greeted her, your voice a melodic contrast to the bar's raucous energy. The conversation unfolded unexpectedly, a surprising ease flowing between you. You were oblivious to the curious stares directed at Alexia, not just from the women you'd politely declined, but from the bartender herself. A silent competition seemed to play out, fueled by Alexia's subtle amusement at their envious glances.

The more you talked, the more drawn Alexia felt. Watching the way you engaged with her, the genuine interest flickering in your eyes, ignited a spark within her. Honestly, fending off advances was a well-worn path compared to the exhilarating pull she felt towards you. There was an air of intrigue surrounding you, an unspoken depth that made her yearn to know more.

But Alexia knew the terrain. She was a seasoned player in this game, and she recognized the potential for rejection. It was a possibility she had to acknowledge, no matter how much it stung.

Yet, the lingering way your eyes lingered on her lips, full and inviting, sent a delicious shiver down her spine. The weight of countless flirtatious conversations hung heavy in the air, adding another layer of pressure. Being in a lesbian bar, surrounded by the aura of Alexia's reputation, intensified your nerves. You wanted her, and the desire was a palpable force drawing you closer.

The music swelled, momentarily drowning out the conversations around you. A boisterous group of girls near your seats provided the perfect opportunity. You leaned in closer, your voice a soft murmur tinged with a hint of mischief. A wayward strand of hair brushed against Alexia's cheek, sending a delicious jolt through her. The scent of your perfume, a mix of citrus and something warm and intoxicating, added another layer of temptation. Her mind conjured images of the figure beneath your clothes, fueling a rising desire.

Catching the envious stares of other women blatantly checking you out, Alexia couldn't help but grin. She playfully tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, leaning in to whisper something that elicited a soft sigh from your lips. It was confirmation – you were definitely interested.

But a playful glint remained in Alexia's eyes. She craved a bit more control in this captivating dance. "I like your skirt," she murmured, her voice a teasing caress. How could you resist? You were captivated by Spain's most desired lesbian, her every touch sending a jolt through your system.

"So do I like yours. Very fitting," you countered, your voice a low purr that sent shivers down her spine.

Just then, another woman approached Alexia, a carefully crafted smile plastered on her face. "Drink with me?" she offered, her eyes flickering between you and Alexia.

The way your grip subtly tightened on Alexia's arm sent a thrill coursing through her. It was a silent victory dance, a declaration whispered through touch. As Alexia rejected the woman's offer, you felt a surge of triumph. She was yours, at least for tonight.

"Your place or mine?" Alexia asked, her voice a seductive murmur brushing against your ear.

You met her gaze, the playful smile previously reserved for conversation now tinged with a hint of something more. "Depends on what you want to do," you replied, a playful challenge in your voice. "My walls are soundproofed, though." your voice a low purr that sent shivers dancing down Alexia's spine.

A mischievous glint shone in Alexia's hazel eyes. This wasn't just a bar pick-up, not anymore. The initial spark of intrigue had morphed into something more potent, a heady mix of desire and a captivating unknown.

Before you could even say anything else, Alexia was already in motion. With a practiced flick of her wrist, a fifty-euro bill landed on the bar counter, expertly covering the cost of both your drinks. Then, with a confident grin that stole your breath away, she grabbed your hand, the gentle grip surprisingly firm.

There were no goodbyes, no fumbled exchanges. Alexia simply pulled you towards the exit, her touch sending a current of anticipation buzzing through your veins. The bar entrance blurred past you, the rhythmic thrum of the bass fading into the night. It was a silent agreement, a shared desire that promised more than just a casual encounter. Tonight, under the neon glow of the city, something new and exciting was about to begin

[verspia]

hii, i really liked your last work that was inspired by a song, so i was wondering if you could write smth thats inspired by “one of the girls” from the weeknd?💘

ONE OF THE GIRLS • KENAN YILDIZ

( pairing ) kenan yıldız x reader

thank you for this request i didn’t see it so im sorry it took so long 🥲

18+ mdni (i tried but it’s barely anything)

The city buzzes like a living thing outside, neon lights flickering in the distance as the bass-heavy music spills from every corner of the streets. It’s one of those nights where the air feels thick with the promise of something more—something just out of reach. Something in the air makes you feel restless tonight, charged with the kind of energy that hums beneath your skin and makes every light seem brighter, every shadow deeper. It’s one of those evenings that feels suspended in time, where the air is thick with anticipation and everything seems poised on the edge of something you can’t quite name. You find yourself in a dimly lit lounge downtown, a place where the music pulses softly against the walls and the conversations are low, like secrets whispered in the dark. It’s the perfect place to get lost, to disappear into the rhythm of the night and let the noise drown out whatever’s been weighing on your mind. The Weeknd’s voice hums softly over the speakers, the lyrics to “One of the Girls” cutting through the noise, dripping with seduction and blurred intentions.

That’s when your eyes land on him, Kenan. He stands at the far end of the bar, leaning casually against the counter with a half-empty glass of redbull in his hand, no alcohol. There’s something magnetic about him, something in the way he carries himself with a quiet confidence that seems to draw every gaze in the room. He’s tall, dressed in a sleek black shirt that clings to his frame, something he wouldn’t normally wear. Special occasion, you think to yourself as you observe sharp features set in an expression that hovers between amusement and something darker. Kenan’s presence has always been commanding, forcing everyone’s attention towards him, and the way he’s dressed makes it all the more obvious, his presence understated but impossible to ignore.

But, he’s not alone. There’s a girl with him, one of those effortlessly beautiful types who looks like she belongs in every magazine you’ve ever seen. She’s laughing, you can tell from the way her head tilts back, and she’s leaning into him, fingers grazing his arm in a way that’s too familiar, too easy. You watch the way he tilts his head down to listen to her, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips, and something tightens in your chest. It’s not jealousy—not exactly. But there’s a sting there, something sharp and aching, like watching a scene you’re not meant to be a part of. The feeling is something you’ve become all too familiar with, watching it happen too often, although the setting is usually starkly different from this one.

You try to shake it off, turning your attention back to the party, but the image of them lingers in the back of your mind, like a song you can’t quite get out of your head. You throw yourself on the stage, dancing around with a bunch of nameless bodies, yet you catch glimpses of them throughout the night, little flashes of Kenan’s dark eyes and her bright smile, and each time, you feel that same flicker of something you can’t quite name. You know this feeling—this mix of wanting and frustration, of being close but never close enough. It’s a game you’ve played before, a dance you know all too well, and still, you can’t seem to stop yourself from playing along. You can’t help it. His confidence is unwavering as he stands and you catch his eye. For a moment, it’s as if the whole room fades away, leaving just the two of you in a charged silence that says more than any words could. You can’t quite figure out what it is about him, but his demeanour has a gravitational pull to it that you always find yourself victim to.

The moment is over as quickly as it happened. His attention is back to the girl he’s been wrapped around and you turn back to the crowd you’re in.

Eventually, you find yourself near the edge of the rooftop, feet aching from the dancing you’d done in an attempt to forget, when Kenan approaches. He’s alone now, the girl nowhere in sight, and he leans against the railing beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence stretching between you, filled only by the distant sounds of the city and the faint thrum of music. Then he looks over at you, you meet his gaze head on, catching his green eyes that sparkle under the moonlight with something golden dazzling amongst them.

A beat passes, you don’t look away, and neither does he. There’s a boldness in his stare, a challenge that you can’t quite ignore. He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but there’s a flicker of interest in his green eyes that passes across his face—a slight tilt of his head, a subtle arch of his brow that feels like an invitation. There’s something charged in the way he watches you, a subtle tension that sets your nerves alight. It’s not flirtation, it’s something deeper, something that makes your pulse quicken despite yourself. You can feel the pull of it, the way his gaze settles on you like a weight, and you find yourself moving toward him without really thinking about it, drawn in by some invisible thread that winds tighter with every step. The way his gaze sweeps over you, as if he knows everything you’re hiding, knows everything about you.

“This isn’t your usual type of thing,” he says, his voice low, almost drowned out by the music. It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and there’s something about the way he says it that feels like he’s already drawn his own conclusions.

“What gave it away?” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady, but there’s an edge there—something between defensiveness and curiosity.

Kenan tilts his head, studying you with a gaze that feels heavy and knowing. “You don’t look lost, just… searching.”

The words hit you harder than they should. You weren’t expecting this, the sharpness of his insight, the way he seems to see right through you. It’s unsettling, this stranger who talks like he’s known you for longer than a few minutes and a few stolen glances, and yet there’s a pull there, an undeniable magnetism that keeps you rooted in place.

“you’ve got me all figured out huh?” your voice is lilting, amusement covering your tone but there's an edge of vulnerability underneath.

Kenan doesn’t answer, and there’s a stretch of silence that embraces the both of you, despite the loud music, it feels muted in each other's presence. Kenan stares at you, and you struggle to identify what he’s thinking.

It makes you feel on edge, the fact that he seems to have you all figured out yet you struggle to decipher the slightest gestures from him.

You’re almost lost in your own train of thought when his voice interrupts, “Not yet.” he says finally. Once again, you can’t tell what he’s truly hinting, a promise or a threat?

“She left?” you ask, before you can help yourself. The question has been at the back of your throat since the moment Kenan joined you. You try to keep your voice casual, like you hadn’t noticed at all.

Kenan shrugs, a slow, deliberate movement. “She’s not staying the night,” he says, his voice low and smooth, tinged with a hint of something you can’t quite place. “Not that kind of thing.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just nod, staring out at the city below, at the endless sprawl of lights that seem to go on forever. The Weeknd’s song comes on again , the lyrics floating through the air like a whisper, “We don’t gotta be in love no, I don’t gotta be the one, no, I just wanna be one of your girls tonight.”

“Do you ever get tired of it?” you ask suddenly, the question slipping out before you can stop it for the second time tonight. Kenan turns to look at you, his expression unreadable, and you feel the weight of his gaze settle on you like a challenge.

“Tired of what?” he asks, though you suspect he already knows the answer.

You gesture vaguely toward the rooftop, the party, the endless cycle of nights spent drifting through half-lit rooms and fleeting moments. “All of this. The pretending. The never really being… anything.”

For a second, you think he’s going to brush you off, make some clever remark that’ll deflect the question, but instead, he just sighs, a quiet, weary sound that you weren’t expecting. “I don’t know,” he says finally, and there’s a heaviness in his voice that catches you off guard. “It’s easier, sometimes, to just keep things simple. No expectations. No strings.”

For the first time, you feel as if you’re finally beginning to understand him, not just playing a game of guess, but rather truly knowing. You feel a pang of recognition, because you understand that logic all too well—the way it’s easier to stay on the surface, to keep things light and meaningless, rather than risk the messiness of something real. But tonight, with the city spread out below you and the song still echoing in your ears, it all feels emptier than usual.

“You’re not really like that, though, are you?” you say, quieter this time, your words barely audible over the music. “You like to pretend you are, but… you want more.”

It’s clear you’ve hit the mark, Kenan’s gaze sharpens, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to decide whether or not to let you in. You can see the conflict there, the war between what’s easy and what’s real, and for a moment, you think he might turn away, might let the moment pass like all the others. But then he leans in, closer than before, so close that you can see the faint lines of tiredness around his green eyes, the shadows of everything he’s not saying.

There’s a weight to his stare that makes your skin prickle, and you feel exposed, like he’s peeling back all the layers you’ve carefully built around yourself, leaving you bare in front of him.

“You think you know me?” he finally says, his voice low, almost mocking. There’s a challenge in his tone, and it sends a shiver through you, a reminder of why you’re drawn to him in the first place. He’s dangerous in a way that doesn’t involve risks to your body but to your soul. The kind of danger that pulls you in and makes you want to give everything, even when you know you shouldn’t.

“I think we’re both more alike than you let on,” you say instead, and it’s more honest than you intended, the words slipping out like a confession. He doesn’t react right away, just keeps watching you, his expression shifting in that subtle, unreadable way that makes you feel like you’re on the edge of something you can’t control.

He steps closer, invading your space, and you can feel the heat of him, the pull of his presence like a gravitational force that draws you in whether you want it or not. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he murmurs, and there’s something almost predatory in his tone, like he’s got you exactly where he wants you. “You like it. You like what I make you feel.”

You want to deny it, to pull back and put some distance between you, but you can’t. Because he’s right. You do like it. You like the way he makes you forget, the way he makes everything feel sharper, more vivid, like you’re finally alive in a world that’s constantly trying to dull you down. He has this way of stripping away the parts of you that don’t matter, leaving only the raw, unfiltered core of who you are—a side of yourself you’ve buried deep and only let out in the dark, away from everyone’s eyes.

The words hit you harder than you expected, because he’s right—he knows exactly what to say to unravel you. You’re not used to feeling this exposed, this seen, and it’s terrifying and thrilling all at once. With him, every moment feels heightened, like he’s pulled you out of the gray haze of your everyday life and into something sharper, more real. It’s dangerous, the way he makes you feel like you could trade everything for these fleeting moments, where nothing else exists but this connection, raw and unfiltered.

“You don’t know what I want,” you say, but your voice wavers, betraying the defiance you’re trying to hold onto. He smirks, not cruelly, but like he’s already won. And maybe he has, because standing here, inches away from him, you feel like you’d give up anything just to keep feeling this way—this alive.

He brushes his fingers along your jaw, a light touch that makes your breath hitch, and you can’t help but lean into it, craving the contact. “I don’t need to know everything,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. He says that, but it feels like he is aware of every thought that has crossed your mind.

It scares you just as much as it excites you, and your eyes flicker from his eyes to his lips, but there’s a hesitancy that clings on to you, your fear more prominent than your desire.

He knows the parts of you that you keep locked away, the side that craves this—the thrill, the rush, the way he makes you forget everything else. It’s like he’s unlocked something in you, something you didn’t even know you were missing until now. With him, you don’t have to be strong, don’t have to be perfect or put together. You can just be. And it’s that feeling that scares you the most, because you know it won’t last, but you’re willing to risk it anyway.

Kenan watches you, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says, and it’s not gentle, it’s a little bit broken, a little bit like he’s speaking to himself as much as to you. There’s a crack in his composure, and it’s enough to remind you that underneath all his sharp edges, he’s just as lost as you are.

“You don’t have to either” You whisper at him, and you’re so much closer now, you can see the moles that dot his face, count every eyelash, and most importantly, you’re given access to the intensity behind his eyes, the same burning sensation in you is lit alight in his gaze.

You can feel his breath against your skin, hear the faint hitch of his breathing “You’re trouble,” he says finally, his voice quiet and rough, like he’s admitting it to himself as much as to you.

He’s close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, and it’s like every nerve in your body is on fire, every part of you screaming to pull him closer even though you know you shouldn’t.

The kiss is inevitable. It’s slow at first, hesitant, like he’s holding back, but it doesn’t last. The restraint melts away in an instant, and then it’s all heat and urgency, a clash of mouths and desperate hands as you pull each other closer, seeking something neither of you can name. His fingers tangle in your hair, his lips trailing down your neck, and you arch into him, losing yourself in the sensation, in the way he makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters.

There’s a kind of desperation in the way you move together, a frantic need to forget everything but this moment. Clothes fall away, discarded carelessly, and you find yourself pressed against the cold glass of the window, opposite the railing of the roof, the city sprawling out on the other side of you like a sea of lights. It feels reckless, dangerous, but that only makes you want him more, makes you crave the feeling of losing control.

“You’re trouble too” You whisper when you’re both a mess of tangled lips, foreheads pressed together and breathing heavily.

Your words are tinged with something sad, and Kenan must recognise it, because he presses a soft kiss to your forehead that feels so different from the facade you’re so used to seeing him put up. His one action speaks a thousand words.

It’s enough to make you understand and for now, that’s all you need.

fin.

[thefreakandthehair]

@eddiemonth prompt, oct 30th:  Costumes | Children of the Grave - Black Sabbath | Loyal [1.9k, rated T] read on ao3 + masterpost | tumblr masterlist

“No, no, no, no—” Gareth protests, ducking the Donkey costume mask that Eddie tosses his way backstage. “Not again! Dude, that thing smells like having a condom over your face and it’s impossible to drum in. I’m not doing it this year. No way. Someone else is taking one for the team this time.” 

Eddie cackles, trying not to cry with laughter and smudge his green face paint. “Decide amongst yourselves then, but someone is wearing it. We’ve gotta commit.” 

Jeff snorts and shakes his head. “No chance, why can’t someone be like, Fiona or something?” 

“We need Donkey! He’s crucial to the story!” Eddie rolls his eyes and walks over to grab the mask. “Okay, circle up. We’re gonna Rock, Paper, Scissors this. On my count.” 

The rest of the band huddles around and Eddie counts to three. Gareth throws rock and celebrates as Frank and Jeff both throw scissors. 

“Redemption!” He celebrates as Eddie counts Frank and Jeff in for three. 

In the end, Frank gets stuck with the Donkey costume, Jeff reprises his Pinocchio costume, and Gareth steals Farquaad out from under Frank in the Rock, Paper, Scissors coup. No one is particularly happy, but Eddie doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t care because Shrek Night is his favorite show of the year. Since its inception a few years earlier, entirely by accident when Eddie was forced to perform as Shrek as a dare, it’s become something of a cult classic among Corroded Coffin fans. The last show they play before Halloween is a costume night, and the fans have taken to the theme like, well, like an ogre to mud. 

There’s something incredibly special about screaming the lyrics to their latest hit while a sea of Shreks and Gingys and Fionas scream along with him. 

And tonight is no different. 

—

“Shreddie! Shreddie! Shreddie!” 

The crowd roars to life as the group takes the stage, waddling in costumes and maybe a little itchy from body paint and latex masks. 

“Give it up for Donkey on the bass!” Eddie shouts, pointing to Frank. He gives his best, saddest wave. 

“Give it up for Pinocchio on the guitar!” He yells again as Jeff hammers a riff in response and grins in his fedora and suspenders. 

“And last but certainly not least, give it up for Lord Farquaad on the drums!” Gareth drums a little rimshot as the hat pokes out over the top of his high hat. How he plans on drumming the whole night crouched on his knees is beyond Eddie, but ultimately not up to him. 

The crowd goes insane, as usual, and Eddie takes a second to soak it all in, to glance over the various costumes before everyone melds into one collective unit of chaos. Fairy Godmothers, and Donkeys, and Fionas as far as the eye can see. He even spots a Puss in Boots in the front of the pit, standing next to a very attractive Gingy. 

He doesn’t have time to assess the life choices that lead him to have that particular thought though, because Gareth starts counting them in. 

—

Their originals are hits, of course, as are the covers. After all, it wouldn’t be a true Shrek Night without at least a couple of songs from the famed movies. 

“And then I saw her face!” He shrieks, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the crowd. “Now I’m a believer!” 

He runs around the stage, careful not to lose the microphone (again) as Jeff, Gareth, and Frank pound away at the melody. As the song comes to a close, Eddie slides on his knees, hardly protected by the cheap beige pants from Walmart, to the edge of the stage. 

“Not a trace! Of doubt in my mind! I’m a believer!” He sings, drawing out the final note. 

Chants and applause follow him up and he falls to his back, guitar over his chest, pounding his feet and fists on the stage as he catches his breath. Green paint melts from his forehead and when he brushes his hair back, he pulls his fingers away to see shades of ogre paint that’s surely made its way into his hairline. 

Before he can stand, Gareth shouts into his microphone, presumably to give Eddie another second or two. It’s no secret that I’m A Believer is high octane. 

“Do you know…” Gareth pauses for effect before shouting. “The muffin man?” 

Before the crowd yells out together, jumbled and out of sync, a faux high-pitched voice rings out surprisingly close to Eddie’s feet. 

“The muffin man!” 

He sits up and spots him: the hot Gingy he’d noticed earlier, laughing with a scrunched up nose, leaning on his friend’s shoulder. 

Oh, fuck me, Eddie thinks. He’s adorable. 

It’s usually the other way around: Eddie being ogled by a fan in the front row, staring up at him like he’s something to eat, like he’s prey. Ignoring them is easy enough, typically appeased with just a smile or a wink to carry with them forever, but this guy? The one with the fuzzy brown onesie with purple button and white, pretend icing lining the legs and waist? Well, Eddie’s never actually wanted a fan in the front row to look at him until now. 

So he scoots to the end of the stage, legs dangling over the edge, and steals Gareth’s line. Grinning down at the guy pressed to the railing, he screeches. “The muffin man!”

Gingy’s friend, known only to him at this point as Puss in Boots, elbows him hard in the ribs and he looks up to see Eddie staring right at him, crooked grin, and in hindsight, probably a bit more unhinged than planned. 

His friend looks back and forth between them, disbelief in the shape of her mouth and furrowed forehead, but it seems to work because Gingy returns the smile and has the audacity to wink at him. 

Eddie raises his green brows towards his hairline and nods appreciatively. The barricade isn’t far from the edge of the stage, close enough for Eddie to leave the microphone to the side and ask Gingy and his friend to hang back after the show. 

—

After one crowdsurfing escapade from Jeff, one quip into the microphone from Gareth about how he now understands why Farquaad is always so cranky, and few more of the originals peppered with All Star and Bad Reputation covers, Corroded Coffin takes an awkward but well-deserved bow. The crowd cheers for more, even after their encore, but eventually filter out through the venue’s exit doors, flooding the parking lots and nearby streets with Shrek characters. 

Eddie’s sure the local bars are having a blast. 

The only fans left are Gingy and Puss in Boots, who Eddie desperately needs the real names of before his thoughts turn into a troubling Shrek fanfiction. With a quick word to their manager, Chrissy, he makes sure they won’t leave before he comes back with a plan— a very weird, very niche plan that he hopes works on the presumably dorky, albeit confident, man in the fuzzy onesie. 

Her wings bump him in the shoulder and remind him that she truly is his Fairy Godmother. 

“Eddie,” Jeff deadpans as he plops his prop fedora on the backstage table and unfastens the buttons of his suspenders. “Are you really about to go hit on a fan? Dressed as Shrek? With an onion?”

“Do you have a better idea?” He whirls on him, a lone onion from a backstage fridge somewhere in one hand and a sponge trying to at least clean up his face paint in the other. He’s sure he looks insane. And he may as well be at this point. 

“Uh, don’t? That’s the better idea?” Frank offers in the corner, his face red and sweaty from the suffocating Donkey mask. 

“Not an option, so Operation Onion is on. I’ll be back. Or not. Hopefully not, actually.” Eddie shakes his head and sets down the makeup sponge, places the onion in his prop burlap bag. “Wish me luck!” 

Gareth sighs with ice packs on his knees. “Nope.” 

—

Eddie approaches the open backstage area, the spare lounge where Chrissy’s talking with Gingy and Puss in Boots. Maybe talking a little more intently to Puss in Boots, but he can’t begrudge her. After all, Eddie’s doing the same thing, isn’t he? 

He catches a bit of the conversation before opening the door, overhearing Chrissy refer to them as Steve and Robin. 

Thank God, he thinks to himself. Better than the placeholders. 

By no means does Eddie consider himself a rockstar— not yet, anyways. He enjoys the mid-level shows he gets to do with his friends, especially on nights like this, but he’s yet to harness that rockstar swagger. At his core, he’s still the marginally insecure, frantic kid from Bumfuck Nowhere, Indiana who paints D&D miniatures and speaks Elvish. And dresses up as Shrek, apparently. 

All of that to say, his heart pounds in his chest and his tongue feels twisted around itself when he knocks on the door. 

“Oh, hey, Eddie! Come on in! Great show tonight!” Chrissy smiles, wide and bright, as she introduces Steve and Robin. “This is Steve, and this is Robin. Steve, Robin, you all know Eddie. Or, should I say, Shreddie?” 

All three groan and shake their heads in good nature. 

“To be fair, man, you are still in the get-up. I thought you were going backstage to change or something.” Steve teases, eyes full of mirth and challenge. 

Exactly Eddie’s type. 

“And leave the three of you dressed up and feel out of place? Not a fucking chance.” Eddie takes a breath and goes for it, channeling his years of drama and general theatrics. 

He goes to take his seat on the sofa and pretends to trip, his burlap bag tipping over in time for his onion to fall to the floor at Steve’s feet. 

“Shit, sorry, that’s my onion,” Eddie shrugs. “Happens sometimes. Ogre and all, y’know? By the way, you’re gorgeous.” 

“Oh my God,” Chrissy mutters under her breath and ducks her head, leaning an elbow on Robin’s shoulder and covering her eyes. 

Steve’s mouth falls open into a little O and sits quietly for a few beats, nothing but the girls chuckling off to the side and an onion between them. Eddie’s about to swallow his tongue and see himself out when Steve leans forward and picks it up, tossing it up in the air above his head and catching it like a baseball. 

“Looks like you dropped this. And uh, thanks. I could say the same to you.” 

Robin wheezes and doubles over. “Jesus Christ, Steve. I know I’m a lesbian and all but this? This is what works on you?” 

Eddie likes her already, and a quick glance to Chrissy tells him Chrissy does, too. 

“Is this Ogre discrimination? Do I have to explain that we have—”

“Layers!” Steve finishes for him, nudging her in the ribs. “Ogres have layers, Rob. Don’t be so close-minded, God. Besides, he’s half melted and just ransacked backstage for an onion. Don’t judge our mating rituals.” 

Mating rituals? Eddie grins with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. “Yeah, what he said.” 

Robin just shakes her head and gestures with one hand at the air between the two men, speechless. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go see if this sweaty, half-melted, babbling Onion Man wants to make out or something.” Steve slaps his hands on his thighs, still covered in fuzzy material, and stands. “What do you say?” 

When he shows up backstage to introduce Steve to the rest of Corroded Coffin, both of their faces are now smeared with green paint and Steve sports painted handprints in some telling places. 

Eddie gives them a bright smile and jazz hands, his friends’ expressions are as impressed as they are confused.

Shrek Night really is his favorite show of the year. 

tagging people who expressed interest <3: @cuips-not-cute @just-my-latest-hyperfixation @useless-nb-bisexual @kkpwnall@cuoredimuschio @doublecherrypiediscosuperfly@ohmagicalunicornlord @hellion-child @bxnsheeslxdia @pomegranatebb @vampeddie @horsegirleddiemunson @stobinesque @sidekick-hero @medusapelagia @slipperygiraff @epiclazershark @bayouteche thank you to @nostalgicbones for beta-reading and inspiring this!

[shefightslikeagirl]

Hobby Drama: Emilie Autumn's Asylum [Part 1]

u/pillowcase-of-eels posted a link to their fandom-and-EA-history write up to the r/EmilieAutumn Reddit, and I thought it would be a fun project to share! 2 out of 7 parts have been posted to r/HobbyDrama so far.

Picture this: it's the early 2010s, somewhere in the western world. Instagram is a novelty, Harvey Weinstein runs Hollywood, almost no one on Earth leans one way or the other about RNA vaccines, and Donald Trump is that one real estate guy you vaguely remember from Home Alone 2. New player Lady Gaga is the most interesting thing to have happened to pop since Madonna, and the whole industry is attempting to catch up; Miley Cyrus is the chick who used to be on Hannah Montana; Melanie Martinez hasn't hatched yet. The time of Oddball Concept Divas is dawning just below the horizon.

You're a Bowie-loving student who skipped goth night at the club to tag along with your art school friends for a very special evening. You're a giddy sixteen-year old rocking cat ears, purple Wet 'n Wild eyeliner, a polyester petticoat, and a coffin-shaped backpack. You're an effete theater kid who sewed his own waistcoat for the occasion, but won't dare wear it to school the next day. You're a buff, bearded dude in a Venom shirt who's trying not to look too excited, since your girlfriend supposedly had to drag you here. You're a slightly bemused parent leaning against the back wall of the venue, sipping a warm half-pint, wondering if this isn't all a bit dark for a tween. ("It's called 'Victoriandustrial', mom," you've been told in the car, "and it's not dark, it's art.")

On stage is a pink-haired woman, with red porcelain-doll lips and a heart painted on her cheek. Among a set of antique consoles, twee tchotchkes, teacups and plastic rats, she pounces and twirls in glittery platform boots, tattered striped stockings, and a tightly laced crystal-studded corset that looks like it's splattered in blood. This is ostensibly a concert, but there is no live band. Where one would expect a drum kit or a bass, three bedazzled burlesque vixens act as back-up singers and dancers, with the occasional vaudeville act a fire-twirling number, a fan dance, throwing pastries and spitting tea into the audience. Lots of wholesome girl-on-girl kissing, too. The music on the backing track is a genre-bender of clanging beats and beeps, lofty orchestral strings, and the frantic hammering of a MIDI harpsichord, as the pink-haired frontlady sings of heartache and betrayal and drowning. Think if the Brontë sisters had invented industrial rock.

The audience gasps in excitement when the lady whips out a vamped-out wireless electric violin. With rockstar cool and virtuoso poise, she leans into the instrument, touches the bow to the strings, and tears out a single plaintive, impeccably distorted high note. Then her fingers go wild, and for a few seconds, everything is perfect suspended animation. Uncannily perfect, almost. Just behind you, you hear someone whisper: "Wait, is she miming it?"

[middlingmay]

maybe just a sweet, post war scene of them making love? like absolutely gone for one another ?

Hello!

This took me a sec, but thank you for the ask! It let me try another type of tone for writing sex scenes and I mostly like the way it turned out. Hope you like it!

-

The soft squishy press of the wet and soapy cloth slipping against smooth ceramic. The touch of one hand rendered hot from the water against one dry and a soft from the terry cloth towel. The coy looks sent over one shoulder as he catches the other watching the stretch and bend of his body as he put dishes away. The press of a solid back into a thick and warm front as they sway in front of the sink.

Doing the dishes together was such a sweet luxury. Such a beautiful privilege. It brings John to his knees.

Gale gazes down at him, bestowing apple cheeks so sweet John wants to dab them with caramel.

John nuzzles into the increasing squidge of Gale’s belly and pulls at the hem of his trousers with his teeth. A pretty cream bite peeking from under the wide and soft expanse of John’s mouth.

Gale pets John’s soft and curling hair. He scratches gently at the scalp as John drops his forehead to the front of Gale’s crotch and and rubs his cheek against the hardening line of him.

Gale bites down on the thick, plump mound of his lower lip and curls his fingers under John’s chin.

“Bed,” he whispers and John hums happy and obeys.

Some men struggled with soft beds after the military, never mind after a POW camp. But not them. They splurged on the softest, comfiest, most spine-meltingly good mattress they could find.

Gale presses John into it, now. His shirt is gone, and he crawls up John’s legs on his knees whilst pulling his suspenders down over his shoulders. John watches him like he’s the rapture. Like his end and his beginning.

His mouth opens in prayer when Gale finally bares all of himself. It opens in song when he swallows John down. His hands clasp in prayer around Gale’s waist, raising him to the heavens and plunging him down to hell with each pulse of Gale’s hips.

But he doesn’t see how revered he is. He doesn’t see Gale straining not to blink so he doesn't miss a second of John’s eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks because Gale is giving it to him so good. He doesn’t see the bright slick of slather form of Gale’s lower lip because he wants to devour John like he was bread, like he was wine. He doesn’t see Gale’s fingers carve out tiny little slivers from the top most layer of skin, leaving infinitesimal pieces of John underneath his nails.

But he does see Gale’s rhythm stutter. Feels it too, judging by the way he rears up and clasps his hand underneath Gale’s ass and picks it up for him. The conductor to Gale’s symphony.

They crescendo together, bass and baritone, pressing kitten licks and soft kisses as they fall and fall and fall.

The plush softness of the bed catches them as they land. Gale rubs his nose against John’s. And John falls asleep still inside.

Luxury. Privilege. This was theirs.

[omegaremix]

Omega Radio for July 19 & July 20, 2014; #56.

Wu-Tang Clan “Can It Be So Simple”

Public Enemy “Tie Goes To The Runner”

A Tribe Called Quest “Lyrics To Go”

Wu-Tang Clan “Da Mystery Of Chessboxing”

Black Moon “Crooklyn”

Gang Starr “Take It Personal”

Organized Konfusion f. O.C. “You Won’t Go Far”

Boogiemonsters “R.T.N.S. (Recognized Thresholds Of Negative Stress)”

Bushwackass “Ruff, Rugged, And Raw”

Jeru Tha Damaja “Mental Stamina”

AZ “Rather Unique”

Notorious B.I.G. “Unbelievable”

Group Home “Suspended In Time”

Funkdoobiest “Doobie In The Head”

Q-Ball & Kurt Kazal “Makin’ Moves (Bass Radio VER)”

Smooth Da Hustler “Broken Language”

Mic Geronimo “Shit’s Real”

Half A Mil “Another Homicide Scene”

Kool Keith (as Dr. Octagon) “Blue Flowers”

All City “Move On You” (RMX)

Reflection Eternal f. Gil-Scott Heron “The Blast”

Big L “Holdin’ It Down”

GZA f. DJ Muggs “When The Fat Lady Sings”

Bad Seed “For The Kids”

Deltron 3030 “Virus”

Hieroglyphics “Oakland Blackouts”

Smut Peddlers “One By One” (demo)

Kool G Rap & RZA “Cakes”

Slum Villlage “Raise It Up”

KRS-One “Underground”

Nas f. Large Professor “Stay Chiseled”

Peanut Butter Wolf “Dopestyle”

Company Flow “8 Steps To Perfection”

Yak Ballz “Nasty Or Nice”

Arsonists “Flashback”

Chi-N.Y. Network “Keep The Fame”

Dalek “Trampled Brethen”

Rubberoom “Evil Arch Angels”

Murs “H-U-S-T-L-E”

Company Flow “Collude / Interlude”

Cannibal Ox f. Vast Aire “Atom”

Smut Peddlers “Smut Control”

MF Grimm f. Kool G Rap & Akinyele “AIDS”

Cage f. Jello Biafra “Grand Ol’ Party Crash”

King Gheedorah “Take Me To Your Leader (Fazers)”

Madlib as Quasimoto “Return Of The Loop Digga”

MF Grimm f. MF Doom “Foolish”

Vast Aire “Cholesterol”

Madvillain “America’s Most Blunted”

MF Doom & MF Grimm “Tick Tock pt. 2”

King Gheedorah “G-Force pt. 2”

Molemen “Put Your Quarter Up”

R.A. The Rugged Man “On The Block”

CX Kidtronik “Wild Kingdom”

Jonwayne “404 Garbage”

Matches Malone / PIllsbury “It’s Like That��

Tragedy Khadafi “Best Of Both Worlds”

Diverse “Ain’t Right” (DJ Mitsu RMX)

Immortal Technique “Harlem Streets”

Tech N9ne “Who Do I Catch”

Action Bronson “Savage From Sarasota”

Jonwayne “The Come Up”

Skeme Team & Brooklyn Academy “Con Artists”

Serengeti “Directions”

DC The Midi Alien f. Vinnie Paz “Man-Made Ways”

Bonus Omega; overnight golden-era and backpacker hip-hop / rap.

[herrlindemann]

Access All Area - November 1997, Concert Review

Thanks to ramjohn for the scans!

As you can see with us, there is a solution for everything, even if the Rammstein management really doesn't have all the cups in the closet. With an important air, our photo team was sent from one end of the hall to the other, and after the opening act KMFDM was over, there was finally the pass... « What, you are presenters? - I do not care? » With a contract that is not legally tenable anyway, you should coordinate your publications with this 'management', make copies of the pictures available and assign all rights to Rammstein GbR. The Berliners have a total damage, one can only say. In their home town, this has already resulted in nobody taking pictures of Rammstein anymore; none of those who once made the band great. We thought long and hard about how to proceed. In the end we decided against 'our' photos and used various agencies and some fans who secretly snapped the entire show. Thank you very much!

Marius Müller-Westernhagen needed ten full years for this behavior; Rammstein only a short one: You could celebrate extensively. Gone was the anger that jumped from the band into the audience when they caused a sensation as the support act for the Ramones on their farewell tour. Singer Till Lindemann tries his hand at pantomime, gesticulating wildly, but fails from the start of the show: First he crawls ridiculously through a second bass drum (?) set up especially for him, then he looks like a mixture of a tired Terminator copy and the Michelin man. Then later, during 'Bestrafe mich', he wears a kind of jockey pants with suspenders and beats his washboard back with a little whip. His eldest, 12-year-old daughter allegedly judged the Rammstein show with the words "Dad, you're crazy" - she's right!

The stage is immersed in white light throughout the show and, with the exception of Lindemann, the musicians hardly move from the spot, but thrash their instruments with a stony expression (uiiii, how cruel). Critics claimed in advance that the band would not manage to implement their brutal sound live on CD - correct, and that becomes clear at the latest with the fastest song of the evening, 'Bück dich': When the sounds blur, the guitars catch up again If the guitar sounds like electro-metal-industrial stuff, the fascination with the Rammstein phenomenon is over.

And they love to play with fire, the children. The self-proclaimed pyromaniacs are considered Kiss fans from the very beginning, but they are not light years away from the casual, decadent performance of a 20-year-old show by their role models.

Gene Simmons, Paul Stanley & Co. would only have a tired smile. Anyway, among the props were: foot fountains, air bursts, green fire, bow-string rockets, pyroballs, multiple CO2 and of course flamethrowers.

Maybe the expectations were a little too high or the band's stage fright?! Singer Till refrained from any conversation with the audience, which had given Rammstein a sold-out tour, except for a final "Thank you" - three words less than Arnie Schwarzenegger as Terminator! By German standards, it was quite a nice spring festival fireworks display and since everyone was curious about the band, you could also meet plenty of celebrities everywhere. It will be interesting to see what the band is planning next... at least not " Cut off" - that's what the doctors, who also come from Berlin, propagated almost 15 years ago. Although it would certainly not be a pity for Till's rubber dildo...

[redmyeyes]

some kind of murder

for @wincestwednesdays

"How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it's some kind of murder?"

― Richard Siken, War of the Foxes

You tilt the flask into your palm and wait, jittery, for the last drops to fall. 

There must be some left. A single drop. Just enough to tide you over. It's been days since she's come and she knows you're dry and she's not answering the phone and you even tried praying but demons don't answer prayers either.

Where is she?

A commercial for Heinz Ketchup when you were a kid—there's this girl, pretty girl in a sundress, with curly brown hair you wanted to sink your hands into, even then.  She's standing on a fire escape outside an anonymous brick apartment building, her hip leaning daringly against the iron rail.  On top of the world, and no fear of falling.  It's summer.  The breeze rustles her thin dress, revealing tantalizing glimpses of tanned thigh.

She's flirting with this blur of a guy—you don't remember this part well—some guy who wants her ketchup.  Metaphor.  

She extends the bottle over the edge of the fire escape, as though holding it hostage.  One wrong move and the bottle gets it.  And then she smiles, tilts it upside-down invitingly.  You want my ketchup?  Run and claim it.  Blurry guy runs three flights down, just in time to catch the precious falling drops on his bun at the bottom. 

Splat. 

It feels like that, this wait, though the fall is only inches.

It needs to be on your palm before you suck it down. You can't just knock the flask back like whiskey, you need to see it first, to make sure. You've long since stopped thinking of it as what it is. It's simply— necessary.

Wait.

Nanoseconds stretch into eons.  Your focus zeros in on the lip of the flask, a drop of brilliant red hanging there, suspended.

Wait.

When the drops finally fall, 

—lightning, a nine-volt battery to the tongue, an electro-charged cymbal crash, and an immediate, hollowed-out wanting, and you shut your eyes tight against the sudden cacophony of sound and sight, a world on fire—

you inhale them from the palm of your hand like a starved dog, feral and ravenous.

Breathe.

The blue-white lights in this motel parking lot scrape your retinas; the hum of the vending machine next to you amps up to a jackhammer.  And drowning out all the rest is the all-consuming, life-affirming thump of your heart:  da-DUM.  da-DUM.

The taste lingers on your tongue, spicy and dark with undertones of old copper.  You're developing a palate.

You close your eyes to feel the familiar surge of power course through you.  Making you stronger.  If he understood— if he could just understand the necessity of this—the potential—but his thinking has always been so black-and-white.  You need to be strong enough— enough to convince him, to make him see, and then he'll— 

It's her words in your head, her lithe body pressed up against you as she whispers low into your ear—it's okay, Sammy. Big brother would be so proud. 

The voice is far away when it comes, muffled and unimportant compared to the bass drum thump of blood in your veins. When the fog clears, it registers, distant: someone saying your name.  

"Sam."

You spin, wild, and— he's there, Dean, your brother, and for a suspended second, you're elated.  Nevermind that you saw him two minutes ago as you were sneaking out of the motel room (sleeping, his mouth softly parted, arm stretched towards you across the canyon between the beds), for that fraction of a second, every time is the first time. A split soul recombining like beads of mercury.

"Dean," you say, breathless, a smile tugging on your lips.

Then you catch the frown on his face, his crossed arms.  "Dean, hey, I was just—" You clutch the flask in your hand, gesturing with it, then curse your stupidity.  "A soda."

His eyes flick towards the flask then back to you.  His brow furrows.  It could be anger or— "Long time for a soda."  —it's fear.  You're a connoisseur of Dean's expressions.  It's the type of fear he's always tried to hide.  It's worry.  For you.

You're flooded with affection suddenly, and the past horrible year—years—melt away like ice-cream on August pavement. 

—he loves you he cares for you he protects you don't have to worry about a thing—

You're nine years old again, a VHS tape rewinding on triple speed undoing all your mistakes—failure after failure all the way back to—

—and he wants you—

You grin, giddy, something like a giggle escaping your mouth.  It's not anger on his face, but care.  You've always needed his attention on you and in this moment you have it, undivided.  Intoxicating.  

"It's okay, Dean.  You don't have to worry."  You move closer and he moves back, until he's pressed against the dirty concrete wall in the dark alcove between the vending machine and the stairs.  "I'm okay, don't worry."

"Sammy…" A token protest, his arms coming up to press against your chest, but you're familiar with this dance.  He'd needed convincing the first few times, in those early days.  As though he wasn't desperate for it too.

"Dean."  You pour everything into that single word, love and hate and desperation and you see the flicker in his eye as it registers.  He shudders out a breath, his eyes closing, and you move in closer, bending down to nuzzle into his neck.  His pulse beats madly against your lips.

"Dean…"

His hands slide down to grip your hips.  You press him back into the shadows, your blood rushing rushing rushing, and you nose under his chin, inhale his scent.  God, but you have missed this.

You haven't, since— before. Before, before.  Unless you count that never-ending series of Tuesdays where things got— real desperate, for a minute there, but you don't count that, you were out of your head, driven mad.  It can't be counted if only one person remembers anyway, and you thank god, thank god, thank god for that simple fact.

You've missed this, missed him.  Since he's been back he's been so— distracted.  Wary, even.  Almost like— 

It's natural.  Normal.  You've been telling yourself that since the first moment he walked through the door, alive and whole, shocking you so much you barely knew how to respond, your body awkward as it went in for a hug, muscle memory operating without your conscious input.  It's normal.  It's trauma.  Maybe even, still, thinks he's trapped there sometimes.  Of course he's going to be shying away from you, especially with the voice of the devil—hah—whispering in his ear.  You've taken Psych 101.  And you've done your own reading, when you were in college and still thought you could work your way through your own trauma just by understanding the mechanisms of it.  No way through but through.

One of your legs slot between his, easy. "Cowboy legs," Dad had once slurred out when he was drunk. "Made for riding." Dean had flushed pink. 

He's hard against your hip, and the triumph of that surges in you like the— no, better than.  If only you could bottle this…

You're struck suddenly by how much bigger you are, even since last year.  Your bodies slot together in an entirely new way.  You tower over him, encompass him.  Does he like the fact that you're bigger, that you can crush him against the wall and he has no chance of escaping?  His hands are still, not pushing away, but not encouraging either. When you pull back enough to see, his eyes are screwed tight. You nuzzle down further, try to make yourself small, and finally his hands crawl up your back.  Feels like he's hanging on to the edge of a cliff, the way his fingers dig in through the corduroy.

Your room is only two doors down, but the thought of relocating doesn't even enter your mind. To prise yourself from this spot in the shadows of the stairwell seems impossible.

You're connected in this moment, and it's been so long.  So very very long.

You're connected, blood still pulsing loud through your veins, the same that runs through him, except— no, you know you can convince him.  It's making you strong.  It's a tool, just like all the other tools in your arsenal—the guns, the salt, the holy water.  It's not like before, with your ever-increasing powers, where there was a danger of— where the purpose was controlled by— it's different this time.  It's a tool to be used, otherwise—

Otherwise, otherwise.  You can't let yourself think that the purpose has already passed, pulled like a rug out from under you the moment Dean walked—unassisted by you—out of a grave and back into your life.

To think that would be to admit the impossible.  That this is no longer a choice, but a need—

Burrow down, tuck your head up under his chin, you've missed feeling small.  Taken care of.  Didn't appreciate it at the time, of course.  You've been carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders for too long, a lifetime trying to prove yourself and you just want to set it down for a second.  Just for a second.

"Sam, stop this."  His voice is ragged, his hands a vice grip around your arms now as you paw against his chest.

Burrow down, burrow in, nose against his sternum.  Worn flannel against your cheek, smell of—leatherwhiskeygunsalt—Him.  That's how it was when this whole thing started, Dean a head taller than you, but you shot up fast.  Your shins ached for months. 

"Getting a soda," he says, echoing your words from a lifetime ago.  Sounds like he's spitting out something foul.  "Taking a phone call.  At all hours of the night.  Sammy, you think I don't know what's going on?"  Then, his hands digging in painfully and his voice dangerously low, "You think. I don't know."

Rage surges up, strangling, and you push it down down down, locked tight, but you've flattened Dean against the wall so hard you hear the breath knocked out of him.  You can't breathe—in sympathy, you think for a moment until you realize his thumbs are in your windpipe, cutting off your air supply.

You fall to your knees, mouth gaping like a fish out of water.  That's the first thing you ever watched die—consciously, anyway—Dad attempting to impart some kind of lesson when you were five or six, hauling a caught trout onto the deck and making you watch as it took its last non-breaths. A moment heavy with solemnity, you remember the proud weight of it, that you were old enough now in Dad's eyes to experience this.

The only thing remaining is that image embedded in your brain—the fish flopping on the rain-weathered wood, the way it wouldn't stop wriggling for what seemed like ages, iron hook pierced through its cheek.

You gaze up at your brother, eyes burning.  The flask goes clattering loud against the concrete—have you been holding it all this time?—as your hands come up to wrap around his wrists.  Not pulling, just— holding. His thumbs inch deeper.  Your mouth gulps for air.

You shove the voice down deeper, the one that wants to rage up against the unfairness of it all—that Dean could die, willingly, sell his soul and leave you alone to deal with the guilt of it, and you can't even— it was justified!  Everything is justified when it comes to saving one another, you thought that was part and parcel of the whole deal.  And yet he's looking at you, he's been looking at you— with disappointment.  Betrayal.  Disgust.  

And the voice you're really trying to ignore—the voice that has a hold on Dean's wrists but isn't making him pull away—is the one that agrees with him.  Your self-worth is so wrapped up in what he thinks of you, tugged on the end of a fishing line with the hook dug right through your chest, yanked between validation and disappointment—and let's be real it's mostly been disappointment—and the you from four years ago that thought you were finally free and clear, on the cusp of a new life, would look at you now and feel… pity.

Pity and disgust, same as the eyes looking down on you now and it would all be warranted because—

Because what you felt, in that instant Dean walked through the door—before the hug, before the thaw of shock, just for a split second, but real and preserved in amber way down deep where you've buried it—was not joy, or gratitude or relief, but— fury.

Because it should have been your win and it was stolen from you.  You were supposed to save him, it was the only thing that would have made things right between you, and what was all this suffering for, if not for that?  The entire summer, getting stronger and stronger, justifying away— everything, because everything was allowed if it was for That, but now—

You were preparing.  You were ready.  And then he just walked through the door.

All of that energy has to go somewhere.

Dean wrenches his hands away with a sob and collapses against the wall, sliding down until his head is buried in his knees, hands fisted in the hair at the back of his head.

You gulp in air, sitting back on your haunches as you stare unseeing at the ground.

You take a deep shuddering breath in, let it out slow.  Force your breathing back to even.  Your blood pounds in your ears.  th-THUMP. th-THUMP.

"You don't know anything," you say, but your voice is muffled under the rush of blood, like you're speaking under water.  That moment in amber, shattered and laid out finally for you to see, has sapped all your energy, your limbs heavy and sluggish.

It changes nothing.  You've already invested too much to back out now.  Sunk cost fallacy.  The term burbles up from the back of your mind, and you almost laugh.  If only you were playing with something as absurd and abstract as money.

You haul yourself to your feet, leaving Dean huddled there on the pavement.  "You don't know anything," you say again louder.

You'll make him understand, or— there is no 'or'.

Somewhere in the far distance, an ambulance wails.

[film-in-my-soul]

For bingo - first kiss, hangster? 🥹

Okay, not gonna lie, this is a little angstier than intended? But it's not like, sad sad. Promise.

.⋆｡°✩ The night before the rest of Bradley's life he gets pretty drunk and a little lucky. ✩°｡⋆.

Bradley is, perhaps, more drunk than he should be, given he has to report bright and early in- he looks down blurrily at his watch and guesses that the big hand is closer to the two than the one- five hours or so. But he'd made it. Orders in his phone and a room assignment with a couple of guys who'd been chill enough, each of them eager in their own ways for their training block, ready to get their sea legs under them and their wings even more.

But even then, even knowing he's stumbling more than walking, letting his hips guide him around so it doesn't look like he's a strong breeze from tipping over, there are still tightly pressed bodies and music flowing. He doesn't want to stop the feeling of victory, sun-bright and vindicating, from coursing through his veins. So he spins himself further into the crush of bodies, not a lick of them wearing their uniforms or stripes, Navy brats only distinguished by the particular kind of awareness they carry with them and the occasional academy ring that Bradley tries not to linger on too much.

When one lands on his arm, just as he's about to run himself into a cluster of tightly packed bodies he hadn't been entirely aware of, it's easy for his eyes to drift. The hand the rings placed on is tan and broad, and when he follows it up an equally tan arm, corded with well-earned muscles, all the way to a face that's strong-jawed and magazine-worthy, the academy ring floats right out of Bradley's head along with any elegant 'hello's he might have managed.

It's lucky for him the man still holding on to him is as notably drunk as Bradley is, his smile as loose as his shoulders, a wideness to his pupils, and a level of friendliness that's a dead giveaway of being four shots deep.

"Watch yourself," the blonde man says, voice lightly accented and teasing.

Bradley feels his own smile slide onto his mouth, lets himself lean into the sweat-warm body only a foot or so away.

"Watch yourself, cowboy." He's proud; it only comes out a bit slurred. It earns him a straight-toothed beaming grin and a laugh that Bradley thinks he can feel in his own chest, the vibration of the unbidden delight traveling from the man's hand down Bradley's arm.

For a moment, suspending in the drawn-out bass note that has everyone around them throwing up their hands in a cheer that Bradley can't hear past the roar or noise in his ear, they don't move, their eyes locked. Something passes through them in agreement as if through osmosis. Then the moment breaks, Bradley being nudged forward by an elbow in his back, the man still touching him laughing softer, shaking his head and letting his chest catch where Bradley stumbles.

"You wanna dance?" the man asks, and Bradley is pretty sure his sea-foam eyes are dancing already, or maybe that's just the strobing lights overhead or the general way that Bradley can't seem to make his own focus.

Bradley thinks of dragging him the rest of the way in, hand on his hips or maybe the other way around, thighs slotted together and heaving chests as they get hotter, dizzier in the swell of bodies around them. Then he thinks of something else, something better. It's a way to top off what he's considering a perfect night- no forward thought on the hangover he's going to have to pretend doesn't exist come sunrise.

He turns his arm in the blond's grip and catches his hand, liquor-bold and confident in a way that he only feels when wearing a flight suit or walking around with half a bottle in his gut.

"I've got a better idea."

Seeing as it gets him pressed against the outside of the building, arms full of hot, hard muscle, and mouth caught in a whiskey-sweet kiss, it's the best idea. The man, because Bradley still doesn't know his name even though he thinks maybe it's been pressed into the skin of his throat by wicked teeth and lapped over by a talented tongue, is a livewire of sensation. Bradley tries to give back as much as he's getting, nipping at what soft skin he can reach when he comes up for air and twisting his fingers into military-cut fringe, shivering at the hot-cold shivers wracking his nerves.

He doesn't know how long they kiss, doesn't know how he gets home, except for the distant memory of someone pulling up Lyft on his phone and one of the guys letting him into the apartment, blurry-eyed but non-judgemental for his late night.

There's a phantom of touch across his mouth, the thrum of what he hopes are bruises he can cover with his uniform collar, and then nothing else, not until his alarm goes off and he's heaving into the toilet. And when that's done, half-remembered dreams floating out of his brain of an academy ring and the whisper of something important against his ear, it's all a wash of poor choices and semi-regret.

He figures, pulling himself into his khakis, if it mattered, he'd have made more of a point of not forgetting.

Ficlet Bingo!

[whatavery]

Late Summer Lullaby (Lucaby)

A short story written as part of an art trade with @blogplutocrat featuring Lola de Luca and Rocky Rickaby. This was written as a short companion piece to her Lucaby comic, set during the transition between summer and autumn, inspired by an old, Danish lullaby Sensommervise. Hence the title. Anyhow, hope you Lucaby fans like this one!

___

In the glow of the midday sun, the yellowing leaves on the trees almost looked like tongues of fire, dancing off the branches as they swayed in the wind. As Lola plucked steel strings, the clear, bright tunes emanated from the resonating chamber inside her trusty, white six-string. Each note rang out into the still warm autumn air.

A few people were out and about today, though not many were paying attention to the golden feline with the white guitar. And she liked it that way. She was seated on the grass of Forest Park where she could overlook the nearby lake.

Eyes closed, Lola’s left hand traveled up and down along the neck of the guitar, fingers gripping the fret board as she plucked with the fingers on her right hand. She was so used to playing, she didn’t even need to look to know where she was gripping by now. It was all muscle memory at this point.

She was playing an old-world tune, one of the ones she’d learned to play when she was younger. However, now she had the skill to pluck more than one string at a time. Utilizing all her fingers, Lola could work four strings at once or in rapid succession, the deeper bass strings complimenting the higher ones beautifully.

Clad in a thin, pastel green summer dress, Lola had taken to sitting on her brown jacket, using it as a makeshift blanket. Autumn was here, though it was still early. The sun still beamed down upon St. Louis enough to make it warm enough to go outside without warm clothes. The lawn was still vibrantly green, blades of grass swaying in the breeze, like a miniature ocean with tiny waves.

Opening her bright blue eyes, Lola took in the beautiful idyllic scene before her; Forest Park in autumn was as picture perfect as an illustration in an old fairytale book. As she played, a rose-tinted scene unfolded before her eyes, as vivid as any dream she might have at night. Lola’s fingers never stopped playing as she beheld a little girl and a little boy standing on the bridge that crossed the lake.

Though no boats sailed on the lake in the present, Lola pictured those as well. She could picture them from memory, see them floating on by, rowed by couples, while the kids above watched them. The gray tabby boy was dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and a pair of blue denim pants held up by suspenders. Even these many years later, Lola could clearly picture the broken seams along the sides of his pants legs. She could similarly picture the wear and tear to the knees from many hours of being outside, running wild, tumbling and crawling around. The little girl, she wore a frilly, little summer dress, white as the clouds that floated overhead. Well, safe for those unsightly grass stains around her knees. Oh, her nonna was not going to like that one bit…

“Oh, look, look – down there!” Lola smiled as she pictured the two of them leaving the bridge, hurrying down to the water’s edge. She could see the boy’s bare, gray- and beige-furred feet sinking into the soft ground where water plants were sprouting. Lola remembered how many insects were around on that day. Dragonflies were patrolling, mosquitoes were lazily bobbing along in the air and water striders were skating across the surface of the lake.

“Rocky, what are you doing?” the little girl called to the gray tabby as he peered out into the water.

“Look, you see that fish? The one right there? Bet you I can grab it!” Present-day Lola chuckled as a cool stray breeze reminded her of getting splashed as Rocky lunged forward, reaching for the fish, but accidentally submerging himself in the process. And of course, doing so without managing to catch the fish with his tiny hands.

“Awww, rats… that would’ve made an excellent meal too,” those had been the words Rocky had sputtered out once he got himself back on dry land. His gray, striped fur clung to his lean form, as did his soaked clothes. The golden-furred little girl giggled as she looked at her drenched friend. Their blue eyes met and they laughed together, leaving the lake behind.

Lola came to a halt with her song, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, those deep blue eyes settled on the very lawn in front of the St. Louis Art Museum. The very same lawn where Rocky had spent his time drying off with her under the intense summer sun, while they were gazing at what few clouds were in the sky.

As Lola put her guitar down by her side, the golden cornicello attached to her guitar dangled to and fro, glimmering in the sunlight like a spark. Leaning back, Lola placed her bright golden hands down into the soft grass, each blade bending under her weight. She cast her blue gaze upwards at the equally blue sky, watching the clouds above, just as she and Rocky had on that day.

She tried to think back on it, tried to imagine what a ten year old Rocky might have to say about the clouds she could see now. Large, fluffy shapes that floated high above her… One looked almost like a bird with a wide, seemingly flat form in a very… very vague wing-like silhouette. Maybe it was more of a kite-shape…

Lola imagined Rocky might call it pancake shaped. That’s what he did for all the clouds that had shapes that were too vague back then. She chuckled. Even if they weren’t round, he’d try and describe what might have happened to them; one could have been dropped on the floor, another chewed on, another cut to pieces.

Somehow, it always came back to pancakes with Rocky.

Stretching her back, Lola tossed her voluminous, golden locks around slightly, getting them out of her face. Another stray breeze caught her hair, the wind current streaming through each strand of it like an invisible comb. It was such a pleasant feeling, especially paired with the wind gracing her bright, furred face. It carried a faint scent of ripe berries from somewhere within the park, the kind she and Rocky might have picked back in the day. Oh, she’d shared many a summer around here, both with and without Rocky. Her most vivid memories always seemed to center around the energetic, gray tabby, however.

She reached for her guitar yet again.

Lola resumed her melancholic plucking as she remembered other summers with her childhood friend. As was sometimes the case, this childhood friendship had lasted into their teens – lasted and grown.

It was also here in Forest Park that they’d shared more adolescent memories together. Walking together along the lake shore, they’d even been among the couples that sailed in the small rowing boats here. As Lola’s blue eyes looked back at the lake, she could remember one time in particular…

Rocky sailing her across the lake during an afternoon, the sun low in the sky, the fireflies out and about, frogs singing; it was the perfect romantic scene, especially for two teens who still had their own sort of idealized version of romance in mind.

Rocky had always had a flair for the dramatic, for theatrics and for poetry. Lola could effortlessly picture herself in a boat, seated in front, facing Rocky who insisted on standing up, using the paddle as if he were steering a gondola. It was something Rocky had seemed to insist on, given Lola’s Italian heritage, even if it wasn’t quite the ideal type of boat or paddle for it. But who was Lola to deny her boyfriend’s efforts to impress her?

And of course, no such boat ride would be complete without Rocky reciting poetry at her. And although the ride was slightly bumpy, at the very least Rocky hadn’t taken a dive in the lake on that night.

Just as the rose-tinted mental image of the two in a boat faded, so did the music from Lola’s guitar. She released the fret board as she felt her throat tighten slightly as she pictured her memory being torn up by the wind and made to dissolve in the air. Lola watched as the wind drew patterns on the surface of the dark water, like a rippling blanket where she had envisioned her and Rocky in a boat.

Her time with Rocky was the happiest time Lola could recall, but they hadn’t been together for long before he left town – and by extension left her. She hadn’t known what was happening at the time, nor had Rocky explained anything to Lola before he’d essentially disappeared.

When he first left, it almost felt like a betrayal, even if he had told her he was going to. The reality of not having him around had hit her rather hard. He was a manic sort of presence that made her life brighter, more exciting. Not many would put up with Rocky’s antics, but Lola had. She’d stuck it out and gladly stuck with him through it all. At least until he left.

Though Lola had no way of contacting him, she had received his letters. He’d sent her pictures, drawings, recollections, even what seemed like diary entries. Lola hadn’t know how hard things were for Rocky at the time.

The letters she received were a reminder that he hadn’t forgotten her, a reassuring thought, even if she herself had no way of reaching him. She had received very few letters that were sent from the same location; Rocky had seemingly been constantly on the move. Every last letter from him was kept in a special box, which she had hidden away under her bed; her father had never been too fond of Rocky, to put it mildly. When Lola and Rocky were little, he used to excuse his unorthodox tendencies as being a byproduct of his age. As Rocky and Lola got older and started dating, however, things got… complicated.

Though Rocky certainly matured, like Lola and their peers, he didn’t outgrow many of his habits that Lola’s father had overlooked when he was younger. He might have even found them amusing at one point. However, when Rocky seemed like he’d never lose that manic, unpredictable edge, it was more often than not too much for Lola’s father to stomach. She and Rocky spent much time away from the de Luca home – far easier to get away with seeing Rocky that way.

Though Rocky did turn out to be rather harmless, at least as far as most fathers were concerned, it never changed Lola’s father’s mind about the young tabby. He did seem to take great pleasure in loudly discussing Rocky flaws at the dinner table when it was just him, Lola and Lola’s nonna around. He’d used quite colorful language, both in English and Italian to describe “that Rickaby boy.” As mean-spirited as much of her father’s commentary had been, Lola never dared speak up to defend Rocky. However, saying that Rocky had “spaghetti arms” was one of the few things he’d said that she had told Rocky about. The term had since become somewhat of an inside joke between the two. They had laughed about that many a time.

Bringing the memories to an end with a single strum of her guitar, Lola let the open chord ring out till it faded, carried away by the breeze. Looking up at the sky, Lola once more gazed upon the clouds, before she got to her feet. Right hand firmly holding her trusty six-string, Lola’s free hand reached for her jacket, draping it over her left shoulder, like a cloak.

She cast one last look at the dark lake water, before she turned to walk along the park towards the exit. She’d best get home and get ready for tonight. She had a gig to attend.

The golden-furred feline’s fluffy tail swayed behind her as the wind picked up ever so slightly. It was still a gentle caress for now, but Lola had a feeling a storm might be blowing in. The brown jacket she had draped around her billowed slightly as she walked. It wasn't unlike her lonely walks after Rocky’s departure, except a gentle autumn breeze like the ones she felt now would have felt like a cold monsoon to her back then. The world had seemed so dull, lonely, quiet.

She had forgiven him, especially now that he was back and she knew why he left. But a decade ago, suddenly losing him had hurt her badly. She’d take lonely walks in Forest Park, reminiscing, trying to feel close to Rocky, despite him being many miles away. The memories they’d made together remained so vivid and clear to her, and Lola knew that Rocky too remembered them fondly.

Lola also knew she ought to bring Rocky along next time she visited the park; it likely wouldn’t be long until it’d be too cold for a little picnic. A picnic did sound good; her, Rocky, an obscene amount of pancakes, watermelon… Just the thought made Lola’s mouth water, but she did her best to push the thought from her mind. She ought to enjoy more watermelon soon, while they were still available to her…

Stepping through the gates to Forest Park felt like crossing over into a different realm. Leaving the green grass, the golden leaves and the beautiful flowers, Lola stepped into a monochromatic world of cobblestone, bricks and concrete. The earthy tones of her brown jacket and pastel green dress stuck out here, like a random tree sprouting out of the sidewalk.

The scent of the city likewise wasn’t one she was as fond of. Especially when compared to the scent of flowers, nature and ripe berries that the wind carried in the park.

It was also as if noise was much more prevalent here; cars driving to and fro on the road and people on the sidewalk seemed more talkative and noisy than in the park. Lola walked with purpose at a brisk pace. Though she hadn’t brought a strap for her guitar, she wished she could put it on and play as she walked. Songs were bouncing around in her head; songs she’d come up with, songs Rocky had suggested to her, and tonight’s set list for the house band she was now part of with Rocky.

Thankfully, Lola’s apartment wasn’t too far. When she made it there, she made her way up the stairs in the hall, after she greeted her landlady, who was on her way out. Lola did her best to be polite, even holding the door for her and everything. She was in hot water with her for bringing Rocky around to her place when she really shouldn’t. It wasn’t decent for a woman to bring a man home like that. That and it was also against the rules around here to bring a man home.

Ascending the steps, Lola felt as though she were climbing the steps to heaven itself, knowing what most likely awaited her in her apartment. As it turned out, her door was unlocked. To most, this might be an alarming thing to be greeted by, but to Lola, it made her heart soar. As she turned the knob, an all too familiar, sweet, hearty scent greeted her.

Smiling, she closed the door behind her and called out, “Rocky, I’m home!”

[tv-girllover07]

Something metal🥁

Kevin schlieb × fem!reader

Movie: Metal lords

Part 5

Blue italic= there thoughts

Green italic= Kevin narrating

Y/n’s POV

As Im playing the song “Cello Suite No. 1” I see someone walk up to the door slide something underneath it and leave I walk up and pick up the piece of paper and see it has Kevin‘s name on it. I opened up the piece of paper and saw a list of songs on it. When I get home I lay down on my bed with my laptop resting on them, I look up the first song on the list on YouTube.

“War Pigs” never heard it before, I haven’t gotten all the way through it yet as I look at the video, it starts to get really intense and kind of horrifying, and it looked like there was a guy with needles sticking out of his head.

Scene skip ⏭️

The next day I’m in the school, I walk up to the room Kevin was practicing in and see him with headphones in practicing on his drum, I smile to myself then walk away. Then I did the same thing the next day debating if I should go in but I walk away again.

Scene skip ⏭️

After two days of debating if I should go in or not, today I finally decide I’m going to I stand outside the door biting on my thumb nail and I look back at my cello and sigh then I open the door and Kevin stops playing and I drag my cello with me “Hey. Um…” I said nervously “Hi” he said breathing heavily. I grab a chair and take my cello out of its case and rest it against my chest then look at Kevin and play the first note of “War Pigs” then he looks confused and I play the first note again and look at him and turn my head a bit hopefully he will understand then he does and we both start to play the intro to “War Pigs” and we continue to play and as we play we look at each other a couple of times.

Kevin’s POV

Man, she’s amazing. Maybe Hunter’ll change his mind about her when I tell him how much she shreds

Y/n’s POV

As I’m sitting in my speech class listening to the teacher talk about “enunciation and projection” I can feel eyes on me and it’s pissing me off a little, I scratch the side of my head and I still feel eyes on the side on my head and I turn my head to the left and see Hunter looking at me and when I catch him staring at me he looks up and pretends to listen to what the teacher was saying, then there’s a knock on the door and we all turn our heads and some kid in a plaid shirt walks in “Dean Swanson want to see Hunter Sylvester.” The kid says, Hunter nods his head and leaves the room.

Scene skip ⏭️

Kevin’s POV

I pace back-and-forth in Hunter’s basement hearing the sound of the shaver buzzing as Hunter talked “They only got suspended two weeks. Swanson wanted a month, but their ass-rapist coach intervened.” “Yeah, still, they’re gone. They can’t come back to campus or anything.” I said to Hunter trying to be positive “But when they come back, they’ll totally ass-rape me for getting them suspended in the first place” is he serious? “Getting them suspended? It’s their fault. They defaced your hair” I try and reason with him “I flicked him in the chops first” he said remembering what happened just a few days ago “Okay, well, at Clay Moss’s party, they pushed you into the speaker in front of everybody. They started it.”

“Yeah, I don’t think your average suburban Nazi shitbag is gonna see it that way.” The buzzing from the shaver stops, Hunter and I both look in the mirror “How is it?” Hunter asked and I don’t really know what to say “It’s cool. Yeah, it’s cool. Yeah…Yeah” I said quietly “Yeah, I kind of look like Jason Newsted for Metallica, the bass player.” I get confused for a second “Hmm. Oh, right, the one who got fired.” Then Hunter looks a me a little upset then we started walking upstairs to the kitchen “It’s more Viking than Newsted.” I agree “Yeah, like the school mascot.” But Hunter disagrees “No. No, not like the school mascot. Less like the school mascot than anything on Earth. More like a baby’s dick than the school mascot. If a baby’s dick grew its own baby dick, then my hair would be more like--“ Mr Sylvester turns around and looks at both of us and Hunter stops talking so Mr. Sylvester grabs his toast from the toaster and leaves.

Part 6 🥁

[simiansmoke]

@pvachypessa

She saw the Kong going to the Stage, the pat on her shoulder wasn't unwelcome,𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒖𝒃 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒍𝒚. But looking at the other with a bit of a smile in her features. But a feeling hit her directly...𝐖𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫? 𝐎𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐫? 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰... 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞...

She likes him? No. Not like that.... but she has to admit that he knows how to make her feel a bit more hapy with her position. Her job as a princess.

"Good luck! I hope the best from your show!"

Oh... The answer that he gave her wasn't expected at all, she expected him to be more crude, less kind, 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝, 𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬... 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲?

--------

PAST://

The 'good luck' gave a little pep towards his step. Mainly because he was sure to get an earful from Dad after he blew the 'show the mushroom kingdom the strength of the kong army' deal. Granted, he was still just a rookie in the army anyway, so it wasn't like that would have impressed either. Especially not with their ... current audience - sans one warlord and plus one a princess.

Thankfully his buddies were all in on getting him set up for the show, since they along with plenty others in the crowd had been promised a certain type of show, lest they would have attended.

Wandering out onto a metal beam suspended miles above the shoreline in the deep purple darkness of the stage's dimmed lights, he sighed, tapping the small mic pinned to his tie and shivering in place as the reverberations tickled his fur. This would be his shot to really impress the mushroom Kingdom...and with the chance audience he had, he was sure he could issue a compelling argument.

As the full crowd's sounds swelled and swayed around the dome, he breathed out slowly and deeply, trying to collect his thoughts. The audience wanted to see him - maybe in a certain mood, but as soon as the lights came up, he'd be there for them no matter what he felt. Pressing pause on one's self reflection was a gift few possessed to make others happy and forget their own troubles for a small duration.

Maybe that was why it was so important for folks like the princess to be out and seen. Folks calmed down and felt seen for once.

The lights in the arena snapped on suddenly, though not as bright as they would be otherwise - settling for a mix of violet and pink meshed together and lightened by a bright contour. The roar of the crowd seemed to lighten it more as many Kongs (many his friends and definitely his fans) gave their noise to the swell of voices rising like a tidal wave through the dome. The bass of it tickled his fur, and he stood to receive it on two legs, arms out to catch the vibrations of each set of sound waves.

"KONGS OF THE KINGDOM! IS THIS WHAT YOU CAME HERE FOR?" He grins at the resounding hoots and hollers, trying to block out the loud groan from the King's side of the viewing station. Dad would have to give him a stern talking to later...he'd written up TWO songs for this occasion, and he was about to let the sweeter one free thanks to a certain someone's request.

"We all want to give it up for the Mushroom kingdom tonight with this SWEET welcome!" As the screams and screeches slowed thanks to the lights dimming, DK stood ready at the bottom rebar, his gaze lifting to search the crowd near his Dad's viewing area for their guest of honor.

The music drifted through the valley of bars and blocks surprisingly well, encouraging bass beats to rock through the audience on all sides as DK addressed them huskily, swaying in place as he allowed the rhythm to move his steps knowingly along the thin tight rope between him and a tumble to a watery grave. He took a deep breath before crooning out: "Didn' even wanna go out, why'd you call me? Been a long day, and still got laundry-"

Hackles tight, he spent the next few belts leaping up to the next bar, and then the other, and one more after to the beat of- "2, 3 4...make me drink more." Settling on one of the middle foundation bars' red, steel frame, he tilted his gaze up towards the royal viewing side of the stadium, figuring she might be over there if not taking a bathroom break. "Then you walk through the door..."

As the crowd surged with screams and swoons, a potent 'we love you DK!!!' produced from somewhere in the thrashing wave, DK smiled inwardly and gestured aimlessly in the air as he paced up and down the bar. "All my friends are buyin' blow in the bathroom ~ there's people climbin' up the wall 'cause it's a packed house..." A small scream from the folks that had climbed the wall and sat on top of the arena gates made him snort as he toed the edge of the bar he was on, encouraging it to sway wildly before he tipped its weight towards the royal viewing suite. He swore he saw a pair of blue eyes up there. Maybe it was time to find out? "Who are you- what's your name? I ask..."

With a swift movement, he produced a ripe peach from behind his shoulder, giving it a spin on a finger before shining it nonchalantly on his chest. "Surprised she answer fast ~" Stomping the bar's tip forward, he rode the unstable construction piece close to the audience. "I think there's too many ~" As it drifted around the bowl, he reached a hand out to screams and hands frantic and batting for a chance to slap his on the way around. "raaandom bodies dancin' near us. If three's a crowd..."

The music seemed to pause as he took the moment to bounce from the spinning bar from one bar to another until he could hunker down on the end of the one pointed directly towards the royal suite, and the princess who sat watching inside. "Heh..." He gave a sheepish kick of his leg off the edge that he sat on, letting it swing until it passed by her just as closely as he had with the audience.

"...what would you call this?" Gently, he gave an underhand throw and tossed her the peach before the bar sent him on his way back out into the middle of the arena as it swayed from one end to the other in a pendulum style movement that could easily make anyone sick just strapped on. Instead, he stood on it on both legs, eyes closed as he continued the tribute to the mushroom kingdom's esteemed guest.

"Air ~ ? We should go some-where. You choose...I don't care." Eyes cracking, he smiled as the bar drifted back closer to Peach's chair and tipped his head back cutely as he explained himself through the lyrics. "As long as you're right here? Stay next to me-" Before the bar could send him careening to the other side of the arena again, he galloped shortly and leapt across the divide in favor of grappling onto a stationary block near the princess's viewing edge, clambering onto he top of it quickly to explain himself. "Yeah...we can barely stand ~ I'll move, just hold my hand-" He reached towards her, palm outstretched with a fond expression soaked through with a playful fondness. "...stay next to me?"

As the music died down and the audience was a mixture of screams and 'aws', DK tipped his head to the side and gave the princess a raised brow and a smug smirk as if to inquire what she thought. Unfortunately for him, his Dad seemed to beat him to the punch- with an orange bouncing off the back of his head.

"DONKEY KONG THE THIRD JUNIOR! GET YOUR ROYAL BEHIND BACK STAGE IMMEDIATELY. YOU ARE IN BIG TROUBLE, YOUNG KONG!"

Rubbing the back of his head where the orange, hit, DK huffed and quickly fixed his hair with a fluff and a finger twirl before shooting Peach a mischievous little grin.

"Catch ya later, Princess!" He cackled, flipping upside down on the block and then springing down towards a lower level with the power of a flea and twice the annoyance of one.

[tiptapricot]

Misadventure May Day 8!

Prev

This one was so sO fun to write augHhH!!

———

8. Chain Lightning

It starts as a low rustle, building like distant rain as it sweeps in behind them. The wind and wing beats slowly fade, dampened below a growing buzz Romero can’t quite place. It’s like being suspended in fuzzy water, a foreign sense of anticipation swelling in his throat where a breath he doesn’t have is caught in expectation.

They are waiting for something, something nearly there.

A chill slides over his shoulders like cool, strange hands, wrapping him up in choked uncertainty. It feels inescapable. The sound builds, vague voices pressing closer and closer until—

He hears it.

The soft impact of spurred boots.

It echoes out, warped and ringing, coming closer and closer like it’s trapped in an empty room. His shoulders prickle with each step, arms wrapping tighter around Rigel, tension building behind his eyes as the rumble grows and grows.

And then the footsteps stop, all sound sucked out from his ears, and Romero looks to his side with a tremble shaking in his fingers, and freezes.

The man is an electric outline against the sky, the lines of a person standing suspended beside them. His hat is pulled low, stars flickering against his vest and high boots, glittered tassels spilling off his forearms in dripping waves of light. He’s like a welcome sign, made up of the same twisted lines of colored neon still sought as rarities in settlements blessed with ion charge. When he tilts his chin up, the creases of his eyes are like stars.

Romero can’t move as the man leans forward, the lines of him shifting to form a reaching hand, a bending back. The air is odd and sharp and sinks cold into his core, but Rigel’s voice breaks through it like warm butter.

“Get a move on Bass,” they shout, “we haven’t got all night!”

And just like that the man snaps back, a flash of movement he stutters into darkness for. There’s a line of shining blue swinging from his fingers when he stands straight again, a ghostly outline of Rigel’s own lasso connecting back to the real thing wrapped around the bat creature’s ears.

“Hholld onn,” he says, his voice a slow, crackling, presence that pushes into Romero’s mind.

The sound of spurs returns as he walks through the air to the front of the beast, the rumble from before growing to an intense hum. He faces the creature, boots planted firm on ground that doesn’t exist, and for a moment, Romero thinks he catches a smile.

And then, the air explodes.

It’s like a hammer coming down on the back of Romero’s head, pressure popping in stark white clarity as the rumble from before crashes down into the deafening screech of a cheering crowd. Whoops and hollers and women crying out for something, children laughing, vendors screaming, all so visceral and present he can almost taste the summer breeze. Sparks fly out before them, lit up stars and cartoonish rays of sunlight streaming into the night air. The man’s lasso rips through it all like a lightning strike, spectral and mesmerizing as it rolls in loops above him, twisting and snapping out to whip in front of the creature’s face.

It is a live thunderstorm of color, the crackle palpable in the back of Romero’s throat, the exhilaration inescapable.

The beast’s reaction is instant. It flaps back in terror, trying to escape the overwhelm beating down against them. It ducks and lunges, every move it makes causing the spectacle to shift, following it, driving it down from every direction.

“There we go, there we go!” Rigel shouts, tugging their makeshift reigns to guide it through the flashing bolts of light.

It’s a team effort that works wonderfully, every echoing snap of the lasso corralling the beast when it tries to fly higher. Romero can feel the dip in his stomach as they soar downwards, a weightless wonder making him giddy. The ground comes into sight soon enough, lit into faint shapes by the moonlight, and Rigel tugs up hard, the soundscape around them shifting to bear down from above. The beast levels out, skimming over the dunes just low enough to leave a dark blue plume in its wake, and Rigel laughs loud enough for Romero to hear them.

“Told you I had this!” they call back proudly, just as a bridge like mesa looms into view too low and too fast to stop it.

———

Next

(ID in ALT)

[musicarenagh]

sssiv Impresses With “sssiv 1” There’s something about the way a raindrop refracts a streetlight – random, yet orchestrated – that feels akin to sssiv's debut album, “sssiv 1”. It’s like water moving where it wants, hitting familiar surfaces but with fresh, pulsating energy. At its core, this album isn’t interested in drawing clean lines between improvisation and composition, but rather in the cracks where complexity and simplicity collide—and eventually, dance. https://open.spotify.com/album/14iJIksoBMW4q3z0BSdIUq?si=v0Rnid95QJWBDp6rAMEh3w Sara, Stephen, and Sasha seem, at points, less like musicians and more like cartographers, mapping terrains we never knew were there. But don’t mistake that for cold precision. This album has a human warmth that’s comfortable with its edges, like a handwritten letter with some misspellings that make it all the more meaningful. You feel it, especially during the improvisations—those spaces where the trio lets unspoken conversation guide the melody. The drums know where they’re headed but take twists with playful shyness; the guitars don’t ask questions with their lines, and the bass feels like it's sharing secrets at 2 AM. [caption id="attachment_57637" align="alignnone" width="1080"] sssiv Impresses With “sssiv 1”[/caption] But while it sounds formless on the surface, lies a heavier intention. The point? Consider what happens when we stop editing ourselves for the sake of perfection. “sssiv 1” is not burdened by wanting to impress, it just is—an ongoing dialogue between familiarity and expansion. It's almost as if the music floats—but then you catch yourself thinking that maybe you’re the one suspended. If anything, sssiv reminds us that joy doesn’t require polish. Sometimes it’s just about setting out with your friends, letting your instruments (and minds) wander. Did Sara’s hi-hat save western civilization? Unclear. But this album, for certain, feels like a well-earned breath. Follow sssiv on Facebook, Bandcamp, Instagram

[rishgih]

Technique: Jigging in Open Water

Technique: Jigging in Open Water

Jigging is an effective fishing technique widely used for catching various species in open water. It involves a vertical, jerking motion of the fishing lure, known as a jig, to mimic the movements of injured or fleeing prey, thereby attracting fish. This technique works well in deep waters where fish are suspended or near the bottom, making it suitable for anglers targeting species such as bass, walleye, pike, and even larger saltwater fish like tuna.

Equipment and Setup

The key to successful jigging lies in using the right equipment. A sturdy rod with a sensitive tip allows the angler to feel the jig's movement and detect even the lightest bites. Pairing it with a high-quality spinning or baitcasting reel that offers a smooth drag system can enhance the experience. Jigs come in various weights, sizes, and colors, each designed for specific water depths and fish species. Heavier jigs are ideal for deeper waters or fast currents, while lighter ones work well in shallower areas. It's essential to match the jig's weight with the fishing conditions.

Jigging Techniques

There are several jigging styles to choose from, depending on the water conditions and the target species. The most common method is vertical jigging, where the angler drops the jig directly below the boat and lifts it up and down in a rhythmic motion. This technique is effective for fish that stay near the bottom or are suspended in deeper waters.

Another popular approach is speed jigging, often used in saltwater fishing for aggressive species like tuna or mackerel. The angler quickly reels in the jig while simultaneously jerking the rod, creating a rapid, erratic motion that triggers the fish's predatory instincts. Slow-pitch jigging, on the other hand, involves a slower, more deliberate rod movement, making it ideal for bottom-dwelling species like groupers.

Tips for Success

The success of jigging depends on timing, location, and technique. Fish tend to be more active during dawn and dusk, so these times can be particularly effective for jigging. It's also crucial to identify the right fishing spots, such as underwater structures, drop-offs, or reefs, where fish are more likely to congregate. Adjusting the jigging speed and style based on the fish's behavior and water conditions can significantly improve your catch rate.

Conclusion

Jigging in open water is a versatile and rewarding technique for anglers of all skill levels. With the right gear, technique, and understanding of the target species' behavior, jigging can yield impressive results in both freshwater and saltwater environments. Whether you're a seasoned angler or just starting, mastering jigging can enhance your fishing experience and help you catch more fish.

[devanbald]

Mastering Bass Fishing Throughout the Year: Expert Seasonal Techniques for Every Angler

Bass fishing is exhilarating, offering anglers the thrill of landing one of the most sought-after freshwater game fish. But bass behavior is anything but predictable, changing throughout the year in response to shifting water temperatures, food availability, and seasonal cycles. Adjusting your strategy to align with these changes is essential for anglers hoping to land trophy bass regardless of the season. Whether it’s spring feeding frenzy or winter's slow bite, mastering year-round bass fishing techniques can elevate your experience on the water. This guide will explore expert strategies tailored to each season.

The Seasonal Shift: How Bass Behavior Changes Throughout the Year

Bass are cold-blooded creatures, meaning their body temperature and metabolic rate are directly influenced by the water temperature around them. As a result, their feeding habits, movement patterns, and overall activity change with the seasons. Understanding how these changes affect bass behavior is the first step in becoming a more versatile and successful angler.

In warm seasons, bass are more active and chase fast-moving prey. In contrast, cooler months cause them to slow down, and they seek comfort in deeper waters. Each season offers a unique set of challenges but ample opportunity for those who can adapt their tactics.

Spring: The Pre-Spawn Build-Up and Spawning Rituals

Spring is widely regarded as the prime time for bass fishing. The bass enters the pre-spawn phase as water temperatures rise to the 50°F-70°F range. During this time, both male and female bass move from deeper waters into the shallows to prepare for spawning. This period provides the best opportunities to catch large, aggressive bass.

In the pre-spawn phase, bass are driven by the need to bulk up before spawning. They are often found in transitional areas such as the edges of drop-offs, creek mouths, and submerged structures. Anglers can capitalize on this period using crankbaits, spinnerbaits, and jerk baits that imitate baitfish, as bass aggressively feeds in preparation for the spawn.

Once bass start spawning, they shift focus from feeding to protecting their nests. During the spawn, the bass (particularly males) stay close to their beds, guarding eggs from predators. Slow presentations using soft plastics, like Senkos or crawfish imitations, can trigger strikes from protective males.

After the spawn, bass tends to be fatigued and scatter into deeper waters. However, the post-spawn period still offers excellent fishing opportunities as they gradually regain energy. During this time, topwater lures and soft swimbaits can prove effective, particularly in the early morning or late evening when bass return to shallower waters to feed.

Summer: Fishing in the Heat

As summer sets in, bass faces increasing water temperatures exceeding 75°F. This temperature rise can make daytime fishing more difficult, as bass move to deeper, cooler waters to avoid the heat. Understanding the summer heat's effects and how to adapt your techniques can still yield great results during the hottest months of the year.

Fishing during the early morning and late evening is essential during summer, as this is when the water is cooler and bass are more active. Topwater baits such as poppers, buzz baits, and frogs excel in low-light conditions, enticing surface strikes from bass hunting in shallow waters.

As the sun climbs and temperatures rise, bass moves to deeper, more comfortable environments. Anglers will find more success targeting areas with deep structures, such as ledges, points, and submerged timber. Deep-diving crankbaits, Carolina rigs, and drop shot rigs are the go-to when fishing deeper water. The key during summer is patience, as bass tend to be less aggressive in extreme heat.

Pay attention to the thermocline—the layer of water where the temperature changes sharply with depth. Bass often suspend just above or within the thermocline, seeking the optimal combination of oxygen and comfort. Fishing just above this layer with slower presentations will increase your odds of a bite during the peak of summer.

Fall: The Season of Abundance

As water temperatures drop in the fall, bass instinctively feed heavily to prepare for winter. This season is characterized by abundant food, including baitfish, crawfish, and insects, making fall one of the best times to target bass. Unlike in summer, bass are much more willing to chase down prey in cooler waters.

Look for baitfish schools during the fall—bass will rarely be far behind. Fast-moving lures like lipless crankbaits, spinnerbaits, and swimbaits are excellent for imitating baitfish and triggering aggressive strikes. Covering a lot of water with these search baits is a good strategy, as fall bass tend to move frequently in search of food.

During the fall, bass are likely found in transitional zones, such as points, flats, and creek channels. Bass will follow schools of shad or other baitfish into these areas, making them prime fishing locations. As the season progresses and water temperatures continue to cool, bass will begin to retreat into deeper waters for the winter. Switching to slower, deeper presentations as the temperature drops will ensure you stay on top of them.

Winter: Slowing Down for the Cold Months

Winter is often the most challenging season for bass fishing. As water temperatures drop below 50°F, bass become lethargic, feeding less frequently and spending most of their time in deeper, warmer water. However, winter bass fishing can still be rewarding with the right approach.

Slowing down your presentation is key during the winter. Lures such as jigs, blade baits, and suspending jerk baits are effective when fished slowly along the bottom or through the water column. Anglers should focus on deeper structures, such as rock piles, drop-offs, and submerged trees, where bass gather during colder months.

Because bass are less willing to chase fast-moving prey in winter, keeping your lure in the strike zone for longer is important. Fishing slower and using smaller baits, such as finesse worms or hair jigs, can tempt cold, inactive bass into biting.

Winter fishing also rewards anglers who pay close attention to weather patterns. On sunny days, shallow waters near rock or vegetation can warm enough to attract bass looking for warmer temperatures. Focus on these areas during midday, when the sun is at its peak, for a better chance of landing a fish.

Year-Round Gear Considerations

Seasonal strategies require the right gear to maximize your success on the water. In colder months, lighter lines and more sensitive rods are essential for detecting subtle bites. Fluorocarbon line, in particular, offers increased sensitivity and invisibility underwater, making it ideal for winter and early spring fishing.

In contrast, summer and fall often call for heavier tackle. Braided lines are perfect for fishing heavy cover or deep structure, offering the strength to haul bass out of dense vegetation. Topwater fishing during summer mornings can be enhanced using monofilament, which floats and allows optimal lure action.

Finally, consider the size and speed of your reel. Higher gear ratios are ideal for fast-moving baits in the spring and fall, while slower gear ratios will give you the control needed to fish deep water during the summer and winter.

Year-round bass fishing is an art that requires a deep understanding of seasonal patterns and the flexibility to adjust your tactics as conditions change. Whether you’re battling summer heat, enticing sluggish winter bass, or capitalizing on the spring and fall-feeding frenzies, these strategies will give you the tools to stay ahead of the game. With the right gear, patience, and a little finesse, every season offers the potential for success. Happy fishing!