#hot to use slash chords

[ma1dita]

when the curtains close

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader prev -> love me dry | next -> asking for trouble words: 5.3k summary: (post-tlt) The one where you lose two people in the Labyrinth that day. All strings are cut. (Pollux, Annabeth, Percy, and Mr. D find out the biggest difference between you and Luke.) (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: yeah to me this fic sounds and feels like that tiktok of the girl humming to her microwave. depictions of the titular battle of the labyrinth at CHB, some blood/gore, death & grief. the usual. you forced me to by lizzy mcalpine. references to cat on a hot tin roof by tennessee williams if you squint (posted 5/14/24)

—

The first time Pollux has a panic attack, time seems to stop and the world keeps moving on without him.

He’s reminded of a time when you rambled on about how anxiety takes possession of the senses like a moment frozen in a snapshot meant for you to identify. In the memory, you had your feet kicked up on the dash flipping through a DSM-5 while he and Castor took turns speeding up and down Farm Road (totally normal older sister behavior from you, and when a cop pulled you over, the three of you narrowly escaped a ticket by talking in riddles and godly smoke that smelled like grapes). Pollux still remembers the sound of laughter in the car blending like three different chords to an archaic melody (or squawking crows in the strawberry fields)— the bond between you three laid out before time knew limits and was always meant to be.

It’s still his favorite song. You’re their favorite (and only) sister, they love to joke. These are facts that will never change.

“You two have each other, and well, I’ve got this,” you had said, the Zippo flicking open and closed against your thumb in the blossoming darkness of the car. Pink and purple rays of waning light blanketed the old hatchback as it steadily made its way back towards Half-Blood Hill, comfortable silence shared in the way only siblings can stand to be quiet—when there are no words needed to get a point across. But you’ve always set yourself apart from the pack, not needing anyone like how they need each other.

Not since Luke left, at least. The growing distance between you three since your untimely resignation from camp was proof enough. Pollux’s eyes met Castor’s in the rearview mirror as they both noticed your sad smile. His brother’s voice broke through the silence then, having always been the one blunt enough to say what was on his mind, “You’ve got us too if you let us see you more often.” Your fidgeting stops.

“It’s not you two, it’s just hard to be back here sometimes. I see things for what they used to be instead of how they really are now. Now it’s just… it has to be all business.”

Pollux cracked a smile, “S’what you get for growing up. Soon we’ll just be annoying voices in your head like you are to us.” Shutting your textbook, you turned to look at them from the passenger seat, eyes that match theirs darting between their blond heads, “All of us have to grow up eventually. Except maybe you two— I prefer you in my nightmares like the kids from The Shining. Whenever you get sick of Dad, come see me. Gods know that camp deserves a break from the two of you too.” Your knuckles knocked against both of their heads affectionately as he put the car in park, “My built-in bodyguards, huh? Always looking out for me.”

All words and meaning escape Pollux now as he stands in the greenery of the North Woods with battle gear ill-fitted to his large frame. It’s the first siege he’s ever taken part in, the first time he’s had to use battle strategies outside of Capture the Flag and the first time he’s slashed his way through monsters and demigods with the intent to try and kill or be killed. Sword and Shield could have never prepared any of them for this—as his eyes meet Castor’s and then yours with all of you thinking the same thing, the three of you join the sea of iridescent orange through mind-numbing black moving like a sharp three-pronged sword.

This type of stuff isn’t typical for him, he thinks. He and Castor are used to being comedic relief— being the source of laughs and juice boxes for pesky little campers instead of facing the real world outside the boundaries of the Mist. Perhaps your father babied them to make up for the time he lost with you, but there’s a moment where he wonders how being kept soft will keep him alive in a world as harsh as this one.

Childlike innocence is ripped away from them in the bubble they’ve inhabited until this moment. Home is now a warzone and like lambs set up for slaughter, the twins both turn to look at you as a shuddering gasp leaves your mouth at the carnage in your surroundings, monster blood and fallen friends and enemies at your feet. Breaking away from formation to take a deep breath, he looks at the sky and wonders where your father is, but smoke and soot fill his lungs and he coughs desperately for a breath of fresh air.

Pollux thinks he must have stopped breathing before Castor took his last breath. It wasn’t supposed to be a competition, but sometimes life was just funny like that.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Just like you told him.

Castor was always the more manic one while Pollux knew how to endure. Children of Dionysus are forced to befriend insanity before it makes an enemy out of them—twisting the ugly into what’s real and creating something beautiful out of the deranged. You’ve shown the boys how you detach from emotion by recognizing the details—separating fact and fiction, a methodical process only describable by the blood that runs through your veins. Pollux doesn’t know where to start—everything happens so fast but it plays out in front of him like someone put the pieces together to a stop-motion animation.

He sees Castor’s sword fall to the ground when he gets slashed on the forearm and sees him get clubbed over the head with a metal weapon he’s only seen bad renditions forged for theater practices and hanging on the walls of the armory. Castor falls first to his knees, and then into the dirt with a thud. He never knew there could be that much blood coming out of a person, much less a mirror image of himself. Pollux sees your face come into his line of vision, deep maroon splatters on your face glittering with hints of ichor and then you’re moving because he can’t. The enemy is coming back for him now, and for a moment he wonders if Castor will be mad if he lets him. He sees you turn in an instant, swinging your sword down on the neck of the aggressor, a teenager not much older than he and his brother are—were. It’s funny how his brain immediately makes the switch to past tense, and how he can’t stop thinking about how he’ll now and forever be older than his twin. Pollux then sees you catch the body of the boy you just killed as life seeps out of him slower than it did for Castor.

It doesn’t make him feel any better, though.

His knees hit the ground next to his twin, touching the sludge of dirt soft like quicksand and moist with what he hopes is not blood, but Pollux is not quite sure of what else there is to hope for. His fist is wrapped around Castor’s shirtsleeve, touching faded orange and sweat as he holds on for dear life. Maybe if he tries hard enough his soul will still be intertwined with his. Your hand touches his shoulder, five fingers reaching out to brush the back of his neck and the feeling of your skin helps him refocus a bit, even if you’re saying something he can’t make out. Then the metal of your Zippo lighter feels cool to the touch within his palm and he knows what he needs to do.

The battle isn’t over, but for the three of you, everything stops here. There is no going forward without your brother. You were never meant to be children of war.

Pollux hears the sound of his heartbeat thundering through his ears, blood rushing through his veins and can’t help but notice the silence amid the chaos. There are no words fit for this—and even if there were, Castor and you were always the more talkative ones. He hears the spark of the purple flame between his fingers, blowing the smoke over him and his brother’s body, and their father’s powers blanket them like how you used to tuck them into bed, warm and safe. This is what your family is—unconventional and unending even in different realms of existence. And then Grover’s scream of panic echoes through the air and everyone hears that. Hysteria ensues as monsters and demigods alike run amok, and Pollux realizes he’s stopped shaking.

In his father’s domain, he will always find comfort.

You stand above him now directing campers calmly with a free hand—a brewing storm crackling underneath your skin that he now understands. Hidden by the illusion of smoke, Pollux’s tired bones rest alongside his brother’s dead ones— together as they always were meant to be.

The three of you together, his little family—that is a fact he hoped would never change.

The smell of grapes envelops him as he leans his forehead against your muddy leg… when did the battle end? It almost masks the scent of death that rips through the air as your hand brushes through his sandy hair. Pollux stinks of sweat and you stifle a laugh as you see him smell his armpit. You three were always the same type of fucked up. He doesn’t look down at Castor laid across his lap but knows he would’ve found it funny too. Ignorance of reality even for a moment serves as a comfort. Purple meets purple as he looks up at you with a smile that doesn’t fit his face anymore and he croaks, “Wonder what dad would say about our first battle…”

Glory was never meant to be this bittersweet—it tastes like blood in his mouth until he wipes it away from his cheek and realizes it’s Castor’s. In a way, it’s his too, everything about him and within him is exactly the same down to the star stuff the fates wove them from.

“I’ll be the one to tell him. You take care of Castor,” you answer, as if there’s anything else he would want to do and then he realizes you’re crying— and he’s seeing all of the pieces put together in front of him in this photograph in his mind.

Pollux blinks slowly.

Suddenly the image he has of you is more defined— there is new meaning to the sadness you could never shake off all these years, and he is too young to lose his greatest love, which makes him realize then that so were you.

How long does this have to go on? he wonders, grabbing onto your hand with an eagerness only comparable to the feeling he got when you and Luke whisked him and Castor away from Florida all those years ago. This punishment of living while half of his soul does not—what is he supposed to do next? This was supposed to be the safe place. There is nowhere left to run. His thumb rubs circles into the back of your shaking blood-soaked hand, a secret within the smoke.

Pollux thinks there will always be a part of him frozen in time now, a memory of this day hung up in his mind like a portrait as he holds Castor’s cold hand in his warm one.

—

Annabeth finds you in the middle of the strawberry fields before the sun sets. She knows you won’t be sleeping tonight, not if you can fight it— not when there’s so much to do. You’ve long grown out of your ripped-up and tie-dyed camp shirts, and the one slung on your frame is newly pressed and starchy from the storage room of the Big House, still stiff against your freshly washed skin. When she’s close enough to touch you, you’ve been scrubbed clean of today.

She doesn’t have to be a daughter of Athena to know that you know that she’s there even if you can’t see her, but for once she feels like she has to hide. For once, Annabeth Chase doesn’t know what to say. How can she explain the feeling of guilt that coils around her brain like barbed wire—how can she even begin to apologize for the thing wearing her brother’s skin, knowing that it killed yours? For once, her hubris is crushed by the sinking feeling of humiliation.

“Was your first quest all you thought it would be, Annie?”

As she takes her navy cap off, silver braided strands around her face wave in the wind as a reminder of what Luke put her through. Though as she looks at you now with your berry-stained fingers plucking at stems one by one instead of using your powers, she thinks that your mind is elsewhere—anywhere but here, where everything is a painful reminder of your five years as a camper.

Five years with Luke.

Mourning him isn’t a new feeling for either of you, even though he comes in and out of your lives like a poltergeist you want to bash across the head, just always out of reach. But he’s a constant, even when he’s not here and he’s what binds you two together as you huddle hidden away from the rest of camp.

“He did this for you.”

It’s not a question, more so a fact out of Annie’s mouth when you finally meet her eyes and sigh, “Luke’s always had a way going about things. The most stubborn man to ever live.” You toss another strawberry into the crate at your feet. No one’s working right now, trying to tend to the injured and the dead. Everyone’s doing their best to chase away the nightmares that are bound to come, and she knows you’ll be making rounds with her on the night shift to ease everyone’s anxieties. But there’s a thought so strong it makes her head hurt, bursting at the seams until she can’t stop with her last-ditch effort to fix her found family.

“Maybe if we find him, we can save—”

“He’s been out of time for a while now, Annabeth. We both knew that,” you say, voice firm and unwavering. You’ve never sounded so monotone before, and it hits her as her mouth falls agape, “You’re giving up on him? Why… why would you give up on him?” Anger courses through her veins like fire and she’s mad that she’s at the center of this prophecy, of Hermes’s anger for his doomed son who will love you until the ends of the earth.

And what of her?

What of the hope she has in happy endings, how is it that you’re so damn calm? Annabeth kicks at the crate, strawberries rolling out in different directions and your jaw tightens as you let her be petulant, let her scream and yell until her inner child can catch up with the reality of the world around you.

“How could you?”

Your name echoes as she repeats it, grabbing at your shoulders and she’s as desperate as the truth that shakes her when you cup her face in your hands and wipe her tears.

“You’ve carried the weight of the world Annabeth– you know what it feels like to let it go. It’s time to let him go. There’s nothing I can do or say to fix this.”

Then it hits her that you knew of his fate and yet this was still the outcome. There was nothing else to do but watch him be puppeteered by a Titan and have to fight evil while it wears his face.

“He came to you after he saw me, didn’t he? Why didn’t you tell me? Why don’t you love him anymore?”

Because it wouldn’t have changed a thing, your eyes say. Instead, you grimace as you say, “Wouldn’t that be funny if it were true?” You lean down and pick up the fallen berries, some bruised and covered in dirt, and then you look at her again with teary eyes.

“Some prophecy huh? To lose a love to worse than death. What could we have done besides love him until the end?”

“He’s still in there. I know you know that too. Don’t talk about him like he’s not,” Annabeth insists, and a sad smile settles upon your face. It’s as gentle as the kiss of the breeze on your cheeks.

“I lost a brother today, Annie.”

“Me too.”

—

The funny thing about planning funerals is that with all the fuss it takes to organize one, you still find extra time on your hands. Barely getting any sleep and dragging yourself out of your dad’s bed, Pollux snores loudly next to you after hours of working on Castor’s shroud. Sleep wasn’t expected for either of you, but being unconscious was the only way of giving your brains a reprieve. The both of you have been busy doubling down on the preparations, even if it means Mr. D won’t be back in time while he’s out rallying gods for war.

The faster Castor’s earthly body is reconnected with his soul, the easier his trip will be into the Underworld, Nico says, and it’s funny how comforting the little emo pipsqueak can be when it comes to matters of death.

Perhaps this is the solace you bring to others with things you’re able to control—keeping camp afloat is something you were always good at, and helping every traumatized child that comes up to you for a juice box or a lullaby eases the guilt that follows you. Walking around Camp Half-Blood for more than a weekend made you feel like a judge, jury, and executioner. Though most of the campers from almost five years ago have either aged out, defected, or died—the ones that remain still look at you like you’re trouble.

Perhaps you always will be.

You even found yourself with the time to pray to Hermes last night for your brother’s safe passage into the afterlife, though if he’s angry at Annabeth, he must hate you for letting Luke go. Dinner didn’t seem appetizing enough anyway, so your whole plate was tossed into the hearth. You hope he likes chicken and rice.

But if a god can’t fight fate, what did he expect you to do?

The Iris Message to your dad last night was difficult, to say the least. Pollux’s hands shook as he continued to paint grape vines onto the silk cloth and the both of you didn’t say anything when your father started to cry. He out of all of the gods knows what it’s like to be tested to the limits—to endure pain and it’s a gift you and your brother are grateful for in times like these. Watching the god display the human emotion that either of you couldn’t as freely made it more real though.

There was also the interesting predicament of Chris Rodriguez being locked up in the basement of the Big House. Replacing screaming fits with serenity was almost second nature, and your gentle hands were what got Clarisse to truly respect you again for the first time in years. You could hear her sneak downstairs and talk to him while he slept (and the look in her eyes when you’d greet her with a cup of coffee made it known to you that she finally understands what it means to love someone who’s lost—two demigod daughters filled with a lot of rage and hurt were more alike than they think).

So the morning of your little brother’s funeral, you found yourself on the shoreline of Canoe Lake, setting your Redbull against the post of the dock and looking out onto the water.

You needed to do something with your hands. In the past few days, if your fingers were not occupied by pen and paper, a guitar, supply crates, or anything else that was helpful to others and all the more distracting for you, it’s been so easy to pick at any little thing. Perhaps it was your subconscious trying to reflect the damage on the inside, but today, your nail polish was chipped beyond belief. A small price to pay to not lose it without a signature boyish smile to ease your worries and amber eyes that could help you escape from the routine.

Running camp was always easier back then with your runaway boy and his scarred cheek.

How pathetic.

Crouched over in the sand, you plucked stones and filled your pockets with them. They knocked against each other — weighing your pockets down as you walked closer to the dock. Swinging your feet off the side and chucking them into the water, you could barely achieve a ripple.

It’s so quiet that you end up wondering if the rocks in your pockets would weigh you down to the bottom of the lake. It must be nice down there, to exist away from everything.

Bubbles surface slowly in front of you, then Percy’s head bobs in the water as he squints at you through sunlight.

“You chucked a rock at my head!”

A smile tugs at your lips, almost indiscernible but definitely there, “I was trying to skip them. Didn’t know you were doing water tricks in there, kid.” His grin gleams like freshwater pearls, pulling himself up onto the dock as his hand clasps yours. Shaking his sopping hair, Percy’s gangly frame sits next to yours like a wet bag of sand—all wrinkly and misshapen and sprinkling you with lakewater.

“Maybe next time don’t pick rocks the size of your fist. How many have you got in there? Your aim is scarily accurate,” he laughs and you huff and shake your head when his hand sticks into your pocket and takes out a few smooth ones to roll around in his hand. You mirror him, watching him skip a few stones into the water that reach a good distance before sinking into the depths of the lake.

There’s something sad about feeling comfortable to trauma dump on the teenage son of Poseidon, but with the way he grabs your arm at your third unsuccessful toss of a rock, you can’t do anything else but sigh.

“Why didn’t any of you call me, Percy?”

He was waiting for this question—it’s been banging around in his head since the beginning of Annabeth’s quest, and perhaps her talk with you yesterday didn’t go as expected so once again he’s left with the difficult part.

Things happen to turn out pretty difficult for him a lot, he's noticed.

Many things could have been made easier in the past few weeks: Ariadne being your stepmother and her blessing to you would’ve made the Labyrinth easier to navigate, and having another demigod to fight alongside him instead of a mortal girl would’ve been a plus too. But he looks at you with ocean eyes and a smaller smile that reminds you of how he looked at you when you dropped him off in Montauk the summer you met him and quit your head counselor job.

“You’ve already made a lot of difficult decisions. We weren’t sure if…”

The rotten wood beneath you creaks under your shifting weight as you turn to him, tucking your legs underneath your bottom.

“Didn’t think I could handle it?”

He shakes his head, “The opposite, actually. Annabeth has this notion that you’re the only one that can save him. You know, back on my first quest I met Luke’s dad and he told me something…”

You swallow instead of answering. There’s no way Percy is giving you Hermes’s advice right now. Somehow this feels like karmic retribution after years of spiting that asshole, and what he tells you next is more of a sign that it must be true.

“He said, ‘Do you know what that feels like? To be so close to someone you love knowing neither of you has any choice but to keep hurting each other?’ I didn’t get it then, but I do now.”

“With Luke and his mom?” you ask, picking at the remaining slivers of varnish on your thumbnail.

“With you and Luke. I didn’t call you, because… why would I want to see you hurt after everything?” Percy says this like it’s something he would do for everyone.

Perhaps it is, but the knot that forms in your throat feels as heavy as the boulder you almost sunk into his skull. He’s tall enough to lean your head against now, and you don’t mind the water spots that will form along the side of your funeral outfit. The shape of him it leaves will remind you of the little brother you gained through so much loss.

“Plus he has a new girlfriend. Absolute horse of a girl,” he jokes. It slips over your head but you still giggle, “I could’ve taken her.”

“I know, that was Grover’s worry. You’re prettier anyway…” Percy pauses, and then clears his throat, “You’ve always taken care of this place, y’know? Even after….I just think someone ought to take care of you.”

Your shoulder bumps against his as you finally skip a rock. It only bounces across the water twice and you think Percy might have had something to do with it, but you’re not bothered by the help this time around.

—

You wake up in the dark of night to see your dad looming in the doorway to his office. With drool and a post-it stuck to your cheek, he comes over to ruffle your hair in amicable silence.

“Hard at work or hardly working?” he chuckles, leaning over your shoulder to scan over the paperwork sorted into piles for him to sign from his absence.

“Hm. You wish,” you scoff, leaning against your arm as you look at him. He’s not in his usual eyesore of attire, wearing a clean-pressed suit with his hair slightly slicked back.

“You look good. The meeting went okay?”

“Grover will be fine. The Council of Cloven Elders? Not so much. Neither are the gods ready to take sides. Putting out little fires everywhere as we speak.”

The wheels of the office chair roll as you swing your feet, and if you both listen closely enough you can hear Pollux snoring upstairs. Chiron loved the earplugs you gave him.

Your father’s face smooths out a bit at the sight of you and the sound of his son’s breathing upstairs and he asks, “Are you? Good?”

A shrug slides off your shoulders, “How does one be good in a world like this one?”

A startling scream echoes off the walls of the Big House, rattling the floorboards from below as your father grimaces.

The work is never done for you two.

“Don’t look at me like that. It was worse when he first came here.”

“Don’t doubt it,” he mumbles, brushing lint off your shirt before he notices you’re donning neon orange. “Didn’t do laundry, princess?”

“Pollux and I haven’t gone back to our cabin since... I can wake him up if you—”

Mr. D shakes his head and goes to toss his body onto the couch against the window, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Dad? Do you think Chris is a bad person?”

A beat passes and you think he may have fallen asleep, but then his voice sounds like gravel scraping up his throat.

“I don’t think anyone can be bad, kid. I think it is more often that people get lost. What Rodriguez needs is someone to take hold of him gently, and hand his life back to him—you…Clarisse… that’s what we’re giving him.”

Now you’re silent, staring at the dust on his name placard at the edge of the desk.

“Do you think otherwise?”

He calls your name again, and you look up like you’re about to lie to him but don’t have the energy to.

“Princess, do you think you’re a bad person?”

He stands up and walks around to your side of the desk, sitting on the edge so you have to look at him.

“I killed someone. During the battle. Didn’t even think twice about it, slashed his neck as soon as Castor went down and…” you sniff. “I kill monsters, Dad, not children. How does that make me any different?”

The last time blood was on your hands like this it was Luke’s in the Garden of Hesperides. All these years later you ended up being right— the only person you vowed to get bloody for is Luke Castellan, and now in a twisted turn of fate, you’ve bloodied your hands because of him.

“Because you did it for your brother. There are no other explanations needed.”

He sees the exhaustion in your eyes, the drop in your shoulders, but your dad also sees the strength in your bones that spans generations and he knows you and Pollux are strong because you are both his.

“Humans believe in life everlasting—glory, as some call it, but they’re too focused on achieving it on earth instead of enjoying what life has to offer,” he scoffs, “Everyone has the guts to die, but no one has the guts to truly live. How sad.”

“His name was Rowan. Son of Hecate. I taught him how to whistle the summer I left. This is all my fault, Dad,” you say shakily as he comes near and pulls you into his side. He shushes you but you relent.

“Luke’s killing all these people to fulfill a promise he made for me. I’m just fucking disgusted with myself for being the cause of it all. What good life can I deserve when wherever I go I leave a trail of blood?”

Love and addiction must be so alike; to know that to be sober you can’t indulge in the vice ever again—not only does it hurt you, but others around you. But through the years you’ve always kept the taste of his name in your mouth, the feeling of his skin under your fingertips, and the knowledge of why he’s destroying the world so he can make you a better one. Insanity stems from fighting for so long that you embrace the pain; feeling something so intensely that when it consumes you you’re able to walk out the other side and wear it as armor.

Not everyone is hardwired to persevere.

There are moments like a night like these where it would be easy to give up. Instead, you pour two glasses of whiskey you’ve conjured and hand one to your dad. You both sip on your drinks slowly, embracing the crawling feeling of the burn.

“Liquor is one way out and death is another,” your dad sighs blissfully. He almost looks rejuvenated by the alcohol he knows he’ll hear about from Zeus later, but perhaps the death of his son is a good enough pardon.

“For some of us, we don’t have to think about the answer.”

Mr. D grabs a pen off the desk and starts signing papers to do something with his hands, and then you speak again, “I think I’d rather die for people I love,” and your dad’s attention whips to your blank face staring at the moon outside the window. “Instead of killing for them. I’ve never been a good soldier, Dad.”

Mr. D looks at you thoughtfully and wonders where all the time has gone that you sit there in front of him with more knowledge than him at your mortal age before saying, “You’re my daughter. You’re a fighter. Death is for chumps anyway.”

He lifts you by the arm to try to usher you up the stairs but you stay in his office chair swatting his hands away.

“Got work to do, you and I. Not getting rid of me until it’s done.”

“When are you going home?” he asks, pulling up a chair next to yours.

“I am home.”

You don’t look up from the papers you were filing, stubbornness leaking through your voice.

“If there is a war coming, I want to be home as much as I can. I’m finishing my last semester and I’ll be here before and after classes. You can’t stop me, dad.”

And he knows that too.

There is no such thing as leaving Camp Half-Blood for you.

Never for too long. Your love for it is scattered everywhere campers can see.

—

In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness. - Tennessee Williams

[nausicaamusiclover20]

Load!Kirk asking reader to be in an open relationship (mostly to hook up with groupies guilt free), while she’s devastated initially, she then comes out with a plan to avenge herself. At one of parties a few months later (with Kirk totally enjoying himself on tour) he finds her on Slash’s lap with guitar- Slash is teaching her to play and even promises to write her a song. Kirk is mad, but reader reminds him that open relationship works both ways, so she can sleep with whoever she wants too - so he finally understands how much he messed up and apologies?

I hope you like it!❤

Open wounds

“I’ve been thinking,” Kirk said, his tone almost too casual. He leaned against the couch, his guitar resting beside him. “Maybe we should try an open relationship.”

I froze, unsure if I’d heard him correctly. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding my eyes. “You know, it’d make things easier. No guilt if something happens on tour. And you’d have the same freedom.”

Freedom? That’s what he called it? My stomach twisted as the meaning sank in. I could already picture the groupies—backstage, in hotel rooms, on his lap—laughing and clinking drinks while I sat at home, trying to convince myself it didn’t mean anything.

“You don’t think this is going to hurt me?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

His brow furrowed, like he hadn’t even considered it. “It’s not like I love you any less,” he added quickly, as if that made it better.

The betrayal stung, sharp and hot. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. “Fine,” I said, my voice cold.

His face lit up with relief. “Really? Thanks for understanding. You’re amazing.”

I sat there, silent, as he kissed my forehead and disappeared to pack for the tour. The moment the door closed, I let the tears fall.

 

The first few months were agony. Every magazine rack was a minefield. There he was on the glossy covers, headlines like “Kirk Hammett’s Wild Nights on Tour!” and “Metallica Guitarist Spotted With Mystery Blonde!” screaming at me. The photos were worse—his arms around some fan, laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world.

It was humiliating. But after weeks of stewing, I came to a decision. If Kirk wanted an open relationship, it worked both ways. I wasn’t going to sit at home playing the fool while he had all the fun. 

The afterparty was packed, smoky, and loud. The energy was electric, the high from the night’s show still buzzing through the room. Kirk was somewhere in the mix, but I wasn’t there for him.

“Here, like this,” Slash murmured, his gravelly voice close to my ear as he adjusted my fingers on his guitar. He was perched on a couch, and I was sitting sideways on his lap, my legs draped casually over his.

“Am I getting it?” I asked, letting my voice sound light and teasing.

“You’re a quick learner,” he said with a grin, his fingers brushing mine as he helped me form the chords. “Maybe I’ll write you a song someday.”

I laughed, tossing my hair over my shoulder. That’s when I saw Kirk.

He stood in the doorway, drink in hand, his dark eyes locked on me. His expression shifted—from confusion, to anger, to something more vulnerable.

“Having fun?” he asked, his voice sharp as he walked toward us.

I looked up, feigning surprise. “Oh, hey, Kirk. Didn’t see you there.”

“What’s going on here?”

Slash leaned back, his smirk as relaxed as ever. “Just teaching her a few chords. She’s got talent.”

Kirk’s jaw clenched. “You’re sitting on his lap.”

“And?” I asked, standing up and handing the guitar back to Slash, who gave me a playful wink. “This is what you wanted, remember?”

“That’s not—” he started, running a hand through his hair.

“Oh, but it is,” I said, crossing my arms. “You get to hook up with whoever you want, and so do I. Fair is fair, right?”

His face softened as the reality of his choices hit him. For the first time, I saw guilt in his eyes. “I didn’t think...”

“No, you didn’t,” I interrupted, my voice sharp. “You didn’t think about how much this would hurt me. About how humiliating it is to see you on magazine covers with some random woman. About how it would feel to be treated like I don’t matter.”

“I was selfish,” he admitted, his voice low. “I thought I could handle it. I thought it’d be easy, but... seeing you with someone else—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I hate it. I hate that I made you feel this way. I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

I raised an eyebrow, letting his words hang in the air. “You can’t just say sorry and expect everything to go back to normal, Kirk.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this. I’ll stop—everything. No more open relationships, no more groupies. I just want you.”

For a moment, I stared at him, my emotions warring inside me. Anger, sadness, and a flicker of hope.

“You’re going to have to prove it,” I said finally, my voice softer. “No more taking me for granted.”

“I will,” he promised, his eyes steady on mine. “I’ll prove it to you.”

I gave him a small smile, brushing past him. “Good. Because Slash promised me a song, and I’d hate to miss out.”

As I disappeared back into the crowd, I felt his eyes on me. For the first time in months, Kirk wasn’t the carefree rockstar surrounded by adoring fans—he was just a man who finally understood what he stood to lose.

[prettypersuasion]

(The notorious) KLOS Rockline radio interview!!!

With Slash, Duff, Izzy

11 July, 1988

Q: name your fave quote / moment?

I absolutely LOVE this interview. Izzy is funny af. They’re all a hot mess 🔥😜❤️

TRANSCRIPT and ADDITIONAL INFO below the cut

Bob Coburn: And once again Rockline returns. I’m Bob Coburn. Your number to call is toll-free from anywhere in North America, only one number for the one and only Rockline. It’s 1800-344 ROCK. Guns N’ Roses is one of the most amazing success stories in recent rock ‘n’ roll history. Their album, Appetite for Destruction, has already sold over 2.2 million copies and shows no signs of slowing down. In fact, with the third song receiving a lot of airplay, the album is sure to catch fire again. And Rockline welcomes some Guns N’ Roses. Izzy. Nice to see you, nice to have you here, Izzy.

Izzy: Hi man, it’s good to be here.

Bob Coburn: Nice to have you here. Also with us this evening is Slash...

Slash: Hey.

Bob Coburn: How are ya?

Slash: Hey.

Bob Coburn: And also tonight, Duff. Duff, how you doing?

Duff: Hey you guys, how you doing tonight?

Bob Coburn: Doing really great this evening. The first thing I want to ask you, guys: Did you ever think you'd be at 2.2 million and counting?

Slash: What? Records?

Duff: Records?

Bob Coburn: Records sold of you guys.

Duff: I don't think we really ever thought about, you know, like, how many we were gonna sell. We just did the record, you know, as best we could, and what we wanted to do, and it came out...

Izzy: It’s a good even number.

Duff: We just toured.

Slash: Did you see us sitting there going there, how many records do you think this sold...

Duff: Yeah, how many is 2.2.

Slash: It’s like ridiculous.

Bob Coburn: Yeah, well, I can understand that, but you had to have thought that you were on to something. But this has to be beyond your...

Izzy: No, we never did, we just...

Interviewer: Really?

Izzy: We just did what we wanted to do, yeah?

Bob Coburn: (Laughs) Now the other thing I wanted to ask you before we play a song, and this leads into the first song we're gonna play, which is Sweet Child O’ Mine. This is really a pretty straight ahead love song for you guys.

Slash: It's a great edited version we have here.

Bob Coburn: It's an edited version that we're gonna hear? (laughs) Now I guess ...

Izzy: Actually in the album it’s much better.

Slash: It’s not meat and potatoes, it's like spinach and pork with some rice thrown in.

(Laughter)

Izzy: A la carte.

Bob Coburn: Now, I guess the story goes that Axl, your vocalist, had this poem that he had written and kind of just tucked away and forgot about...

Slash: The way it went was...

Duff: (?)

Bob Coburn: You tell us, you tell us how it went.

Slash: Alright. We were sitting around in the living room at this house we used to live in. And there was a guitar thing that I made up, that beginning thing, right? And we were all sitting together. And Axl already had these lyrics, and then Izzy came up with these chords, and then Duff came up with the bass line. It's very basic, as far as that goes. We just all put it together, you know. Real fast.

Bob Coburn: And here's how it turned out. Sweet Child O’ Mine, by Guns N’ Roses...

Slash: I’ve been sloppy, but, you know...

Bob Coburn: ... On Rockline.

[Sweet Child O’ Mine is played]

Bob Coburn: Sweet Child O’ Mine, Guns N’ Roses, on Rockline and the Global Satellite Network. A couple of concert dates for the band quickly with Aerosmith, in the month of July:

(Talking and laughing in the background)

Bob Coburn: On the 17th, Hoffman Estates; on the 19th, Richfield Ohio; the 20th, Wheeling, West Virginia; 22nd, Cape Girardeau, Missouri; Dallas, Texas, the 24th; you'll find the band in Bonner Springs, Kansas, the 26th; Ames, Iowa, the 27th; Troy, Wisconsin, the 29th - that's Alpine Valley; and Meers, Michigan on the 30th and Val Du Lakes Amphitheatre.

Duff: So now I know where we're going.

Izzy: Now we know!

...: We didn’t know where we were heading yet. Pack your bags, gentlemen.

Izzy: (?) wasn’t it?

Bob Coburn: (Laughs)

Slash: Later.

Bob Coburn: First call for you tonight from Charleston, South Carolina...

Izzy: Hey, we played there.

Bob Coburn: ... Pete is listening to 96 Wave in North Charleston. Pete, you're on with Guns N’ Roses.

Pete: Hey yeah, first of all I’d like to say that I saw your last concert in Lake View, in San Francisco over there....

Izzy: Frisco!

Slash: Yeah, that’s right!

Izzy: We played there, yeah.

Pete: And I had the pleasure of going...

Duff: Shoreline! Lake View, Shoreline. Okay.

Pete: I had the pleasure to go up to Slash’s room when we were waiting in the lobby...

Izzy: Hey, you better not say anything really bad over the radio.

(Everybody laughs)

Slash: What room, I didn’t have a room.

Izzy: Our attorney is on here listening and... Okay, and... Yeah. What was the question?

(Someone laughs)

Pete: Okay. This friend of mine in Colorado got this album. It’s a double live album called “Some Kind of Orange?”

Izzy: Um, it's some kind of a bootleg, I think.

Pete: Yeah. I was...

Izzy: Yeah. Don't buy it, save your money.

Pete: (Laughs) Well, hell has it. ‘Cause it’s got this song, “Shadows Of Your Life”?

Izzy: No, shadow of your (none ?).

Slash: It’s called Shadow of your... (chuckles)

Izzy: It used to be called Shadow of your Love.

(Laughs)

Pete: Yeah, I want it. I want to find that song.

Izzy: Do you like that song?

Pete: I haven’t heard it yet...

Izzy: Oh, well.

Slash: You haven't heard it yet.

Duff: That's an old song that Izzy wrote some years ago in a McDonald's...

Slash: (?)

Duff: You’re right.

Bob Coburn: Did you get your question in there Pete, or you’re just making a statement?

Duff: Yeah, what was the question, Pete?

(Laughs)

Pete: Yeah, Duff. That's about it.

Duff: What was the question?

Bob Coburn: That’s it. If he just wanted to call to talk to you guys (?)

....: (doing a voice) Hi, hi! (giggling) What’s your girlfriend’s name?

Izzy: The original title was actually Shadow of your Love and Axl wrote the lyrics to that song.

Bob Coburn: Now, obviously you don't want to endorse a bootleg...

Izzy: No, we don’t!

Bob Coburn: I hear you have some live tracks coming out, what, October, maybe November?

Slash: Yeah, this is acoustic stuff coming out (?)

Bob Coburn: Yeah, yeah, so that should be in an album with...

Slash: It's live because we were all sitting in one room.

(Laughs)

Bob Coburn: Let’s move on now...

Izzy: Frisco!

Duff: See ya!

(Laughs)

Bob Coburn: We’re gonna go to Brockville, Ontario. We have Dan on the line, listening to SHAY106 in Ottawa. Dan, you're on the Rockline.

Izzy (?): Hey, hey!

Dan: How is it going?

Izzy (?): Hey, okay! (?) Take some (?)

Dan: I just wanted to say, Appetite is the most amazing record. It’s unbelievable.

Izzy: Appetite!

Slash: Thank you!

Duff: Thanks, man!

Izzy: Thank you, dude.

Slash: That’s great. No, no, really, we appreciate that stuff.

Dan: Okay, I’d like to...

Slash: I would have said something else, but I'm on the radio, so I have to say “stuff”.

Izzy: Yeah.

Slash: Thanks.

Duff: Thanks.

(Laughter)

Bob Coburn: What’s your question, Dan?

Dan: Okay, my question is about the song “My Michelle”. Is that about a real person?

Slash: Yeah.

Izzy: It’s about some chick. Blow head (?)

Duff: (?) girl.

Slash: Yeah, she does a lot of that.

Izzy: Nice chick, though.

Bob Coburn: Except for that.

....: What, what!

Bob Coburn: I guess that’s it, Dan. Thanks for the call.

Izzy: Anything else?

...: What do you want? Whaaat? (yelling)

(Giggles)

Bob Coburn: I guess he just wanted to know if it's about a real girl, and yes, it is.

Izzy: Yes, real.

Duff: Thanks for calling.

...: Thanks!

....: Ottawa.

Bob Coburn: We’ve got a real girl on the line, Renee, in Harlingen, Texas. She’s listening to 99X in Brownsville. Renee, you’re on the Rockline.

Renee: Hi Slash, and everybody else.

Izzy: What am I? (?) linoleums?

Duff: What?

(Giggles)

Slash: Hi.

Renee: Hi. My question is for Slash.

Slash: Uh-huh.

Renee: Um, who are your main influences, and... Then I have another question after this.

Slash: Okay, my main influences is Duff, Izzy and Steve and Axl, because if you knew these guys, it would be one of those situations where you couldn't be influenced by anybody else; you wouldn’t have enough time, right?

(Laughter)

Izzy: (?)

Duff: I’ll give you that five bucks later, man.

Bob Coburn: And the other question, Renee.

Slash: Yeah, what's the other question.

Izzy: What’s the other one.

Renee: Okay, my other question is, how did the band come about?

Izzy: Come about? Or around?

Slash: We just met in Hollywood, and that was it. And we were the only five guys that I think we could tolerate each other for an extended period of time.

(Laughter)

Izzy: It all came together, um...

Duff: Once. Once! We all came together once and we said okay, let’s get (?) and that was good.

(Laughter)

....: Whooooh! Good!

....: That was good.

Bob Coburn: Oh, my! Renee, thanks for the call. We’ve got a time-out coming, and then we'll welcome you to the jungle when we have more of Guns N’ Roses.

[Commercial break]

[Welcome to the Jungle is played]

Interviewer: Welcome to the Jungle, Guns N’ Roses, on Rockline and the Global Satellite Network.

....: You’re alright?

....: (?)

Bob Coburn: We're gonna talk with Kim... [talk and noises in the background]. Calm down, boys, calm down! We have Kim on the line, in Davenport, Iowa. She's listening to 97X, serving the Quad Cities. Hi there, Kim.

Kim: Hi!

....: (yelling in high-pitched voice) Hi! Hi!

Kim: You guys are like God’s gift to rock ‘n’ roll.

Izzy: God’s gift?

Kim: I just wanted you to know that.

Slash: God doesn’t make those things.

Izzy: That’s heavy. I don’t think he believes in this thing. That’s Stryper.

Kim: I’m sorry, I missed you guys and everything. You guys didn’t come with Iron Maiden, I’m glad to hear you guys are coming to (?)

Izzy: Coming where?

(Giggles)

Kim: (?) But I wanted to know how you guys got involved in the Clint Eastwood movie.

Izzy: Clint.

Slash: Um, we were asked, somehow, I don't know. (laughs)

Duff: Supposedly....

Izzy: God’s gift!

Duff: ...Supposedly Clint heard the record - I kind of doubt it, personally - but...

Izzy: No, he said, “Great album”

Slash: “Great album”.

Duff: So, yeah, they flew us to San Francisco a couple times, we... acted to the movie...

(Giggles)

Duff: We, like, stood there and they put a camera on us...

Izzy: Can we get a barf bag in here, to go, please?

Duff: So yeah, it just came about for some reason we actually really don't know about, but we're in it.

Bob Coburn: There you go Kim, thanks for your call. We're gonna talk now to Tracy in Reno, Nevada, listening to 105.7 KOZZ. Tracy, you’re on with Guns N’ Roses.

Tracy: Hi.

Slash: Hi.

Izzy (?): Hey

Duff (?): Hey!

Tracy: Um, I’d like to know, in your own words...

Izzy: Our own...

Tracy:... to describe your music, because a lot of people got a wrong impression.

....: Okay. (makes a noise)

Interviewer: (laughs)

Duff: What do you mean the wrong impression?

Tracy: Well, I don’t know, just there’s a lot of people out there that...

....: (makes the same noise)

....: (?) Witch!

.... (?)

Tracy: There’s a lot of people out there that just... they don’t know if it’s metal...

Slash: It’s just a rock ‘n’ roll band, you know...

Izzy: Excuse me man, what do you want? Thank you.

Tracy: I just think you guys are real good. You’re my favorite band.

Izzy: Thank you.

Duff: Yeah, that’s cool, that’s cool.

Slash: No, we're just a rock 'n' roll band, seriously.

Kim: And... what’s the motive behind “My Michelle”?

Slash: The motive?

Izzy: “The motive”!

Duff: The motive of the song, or the...

Slash: The motive was to be, like...

Izzy: God, that’s heavy (?)

....: What?

Duff: Tracy, um, listen. Ιt's just about, it's about...

Izzy: Enjoy it, you know, just enjoy it.

Duff: (?)

Izzy: It's a song that we wrote about a situation.

Duff: Yeah, it's very simple. It's about a friend of ours, you know, who... who these things happened in her life. You know, her dad was this, her mom was that, who is no more. And she's, you know, she’s just a friend of ours.

Izzy: There’s no real motive, is there? It's (?) a song on the record.

Slash: Yeah, it’s just some chick we've known for like a really long time...

....: (yelling something in the background)

Slash: ...and she’s really cool and just a good friend of ours and, you know, she's gone through, you know, gone through hell with with drugs and stuff. And it's just a real life situation, you know.

Izzy: I think she's writing a book this year called “Me, Michelle”.

Slash: “Me Michelle” (Laughs)

Bob Coburn: Tracy, I’m glad you had a chance to talk with the band (?). We're gonna take a break. We'll be back in just one moment. Your numbers toll-free from anywhere North America: 1800-344 ROCK. It’s Rockline.

[Commercial break]

Bob Coburn: Welcome back to Rockline with Guns N’ 'Roses right now. Some other concert dates with Aerosmith, and these are all in the month of August: Cincinnati, the 1st; Indianapolis, the 2nd; Philly, the 4th, followed by a date in Saratoga Springs, New York, on the 6th; Middletown, New York the 7th; Weedsport, on the 9th - that’s also in New York; Clarkston, Michigan, the 11th through the 13th - that's Pine Knob; Giants Stadium, East Rutherford, the 16th; Columbia, Maryland, the 17th, at Merriweather Post Pavillion; and Mansfield, Mass. for the Boston area, Great Woods, 24th through the 26th. We’ve got some rock 'n' roll by Guns N’ Roses right now. This is Paradise City, on Rockline and the Global Satellite Network.

[Paradise City is played]

Bob Coburn: Paradise City the name of that, Guns N’ Roses, on Rockline and the Global Satellite Network. Time for couple more calls. From Lansing, Kansas is our first. It’s Jenny, a listener of KY102 in KC. Hi, Jenny.

Jenny: Hi. I think you guys are really great. And I was wondering how is Axl recovering from his illness?

Slash: He is fine.

....: (Makes a noise)

Slash: Νο, he is.

Duff: We played two...

Slash: No, he is fine. We just played two gigs in Phoenix.

Interviewer: And he had what, laryngitis is that?

Izzy: (?)

Slash: You know, one of those things that singers get. You know, it’s (?)

Duff: I mean, a guy... A guy can’t go...

Bob Coburn: You can’t (?) it down, yeah (laughs).

Slash: We got on the road for almost two year, so...

Duff: A guy can't go around screaming every night like he does, you know. The guy puts out, you know, it’s like.. I...

Izzy: I think he’s really (?). I’m sorry, I’m stepping...

(Giggles)

Duff: I just had people tell me, you know, from gigs, after the gig, you know, how does he do that. So yeah, the guy cannot go a whole tour, and you know, with, like, singing that way, you know...

Slash: Seriously, we’ve been on the road for ages. Yeah, it’s like you’re on the road for a long time and not too many people tour as this long.

Izzy: Yeah, almost a fiscal year.

Slash: We've been on the road since last summer, so it's like the kind of thing where you you're at the mercy of the other band’s, you know, schedule. And so if it's like day in, day out, day in, day out, then it’s something you have to deal with.

Bob Coburn: Wears you out after a while. Jenny, thanks for the call.

Izzy: Axl is doing well, Jenny.

Bob Coburn: Let’s just move on to Davenport, Iowa. We're gonna talk to Laurie, a listener to 97X. Laurie, you're on the show.

Laurie: Oh, hi. I think you guys are really great, especially Axl.

Slash: Oh thanks.

Duff: Oh thanks.

Slash: Thanks a lot.

Duff: I'm sure you appreciate...

Laurie: I love you guys too.

Izzy: What’s that? The rest of the band too? Thank you. (laughs)

Laurie: Oh, but my question was, um, do you guys enjoy making videos or is it a pain?

Slash: It's a pain.

Izzy: Pain, um, enjoyment. Yeah.

Slash: It's a pain.

Duff: It’s a finished product, so it’s great.

Slash: (?) same song over and over again. But you know, I mean, after the fact...

Duff: The outcome.

Slash: Mmm-mmm.

Duff: I’m sorry, go on. It’s actually pretty... I think it's kinda boring. It's really boring.

Slash: But the coffee and vodkas are great.

(Laughter)

Bob Coburn: Laurie, thanks for calling. Thanks to everybody for listening and calling. Our address, if you want it, is PO Box 4383, Hollywood, California, 90078. Next week, John Entwistle from The Who. And then, coming soon the Moody Blues and a whole lot more, as Rockline gives you brand-new shows all summer long. Thanks to Tony Mandich of Atlantic Records, to Mondy Carlos and Howard Gelman of Public Radio KQED in San Francisco, for their hospitality and their help with Robin Trower. Also thanks to Alan Niven and everybody at Geffen Records, to the Guitar Center in Hollywood and to Mike Kelley for his help tonight. Thanks to Robin Trower, obviously. And also thanks to... to you guys, to Izzy and Duff and Slash...

....: Hey, man, it was a pleasure being here.

Bob Coburn: Good luck on the tour with Aerosmith. I’m B.C. And I'll be seeing you.

*************

NOTES:

The interview seems to have taken place after the Phoenix show on July 10th and before the first date of the tour with Aerosmith on July 17. EDIT - I found the exact date of the interview: it was on July 11th.

And it caused a feud between the band/the label and the radio station (KLOS).

Los Angeles Times, July 24, 1988:

No Bed of Roses

Guns N' Roses may be the hottest new band in the country - a No. 2 album on Billboard's chart and a growing rep as the most charismatic group to emerge from the local rock scene since Van Halen. So why isn't L.A.'s top album-rock station, KLOS-FM, playing the album's hit single, "Sweet Child O' Mine"?

"Our testing found it had a highly negative reaction with anyone over 25 - they just don't like the song," explained program director Charlie West. "Those listeners are really important to us, so it wasn't worth the risk of playing it."

Says Geffen Records promo chief Al Coury: "I think they must've pulled the record because of the way the band behaved on 'Rockline' [a syndicated radio show hosted by KLOS deejay Bob Coburn]."

According to West, the band's behavior was "disgraceful." He added: "They couldn't even straighten up long enough to do the show. The guitarist, Flash [sic] vomited all over the studio - and Bob said they ripped a girl's blouse and were pretty out of control. But that had nothing to do with my decision to pull the record."

Retorted Coury, "Flash did vomit - he told us he'd eaten a bad artichoke. But he didn't attack any girls or anything. And geez - he did vomit in a paper bag. It's not like he threw up on the program director!"

1988.07.11 - KLOS Rockline (Slash, Izzy, Duff)

*************

From an interview with Bob Coburn, the KLOS DJ who hosted the Rockline show:

Bob Coburn wrote:

Izzy, Duff and Slash from GNR came on the show absolutely smashed and a ridiculous feud broke out between the band, the label, KLOS and anyone else within earshot, including the L.A. Times.

That led to a show where halfway through, Axl Rose confessed to me he came to Rockline listening to NWA on 11, parked in a median on Cahuenga Blvd. and was going to kick my ass for messing with his "Boys." He didn't, he said, because I was too nice and "a lot bigger" than he is. The dust on that fiasco settled long ago.

The show with Axl Bob Coburn mentions was in 1991, three years after this "unfortunate" 1988 interview:

1991.11.27 - Interview on Rockline (Axl)

Interviewer: [...] Axl, I didn’t know what to expect coming into the show. I mean, Rockline and GN’R have a history. I had never met you before. I was ready for almost anything! The last thing I was expecting...

Axl: I was hoping there would just be an argument, man. I was like all psychotic. I was listening to N.W.A. (?)

Interviewer [talking over Axl]: I was ready for that if that was the case, you know. Like let’s go after each other, you know. I’ve got to tell you that the last thing that I really was expecting was for you to be so nice, and calm, and answer the calls the way you have, and...

------

UPDATE Oct. 11 2018 (thanks to Guns N' Roses Central):

***********

Izzy, in August 1988, talking about Slash throwing up: "Well, he ate an artichoke, and about seven gin and tonics, and a couple of margaritas, and just... […] But he did it real quick, Slash didn’t – and just, you know, no big deal. We just kept – you know, did the interview, yeah." [The Friday Rock Show with Tommy Vance, August 19, 1988].

Source: A-F-D forum.

[midnightwind]

Clipped Wings

Summary: One Year. Lucanis Dellamorte has been imprisoned for a whole year. If he had to guess. Desperate, almost hopeless, rescue has finally arrived in the guise of two excitable elves, but his saviors might be too late. Who would want a demon to come home? (Lucanis and Spite PoV)

Word Count: 6743

Previous | Read on AO3 | Next

Chapter Four: Demon in the Depths

It was cold when the haze of unconsciousness finally faded, his body sluggish. Flashes of what had happened played like the hitched scenes of a stage play. They had brought the accursed vial of his blood to the cell, had wound the strings of their vile magic around his limbs, and contorted his motions to suit their needs. The demon had thrashed in his bones at it, throwing himself against his ribs painfully and clawing behind his eyes as he screamed in fury. They had returned his leathers, a baffling action, and had him cast aside the prisoner's rags he had worn for almost a year. His gear hung loosely around him, the torture and confinement hollowing him out. Spite hissed at the ugly feeling it caused, sinking teeth into the soft meat of his soul.

Struggling against the magic’s hold, he had to simply watch as another mage approached. The man held a comb in one hand and scissors in the other. The sight was so absurd he wanted to laugh, but the spell only allowed him a vicious smile. The man's hands shook, the tremor worsening as the assassin glared him down with naked bloodlust the closer he got. A year at their mercy and they still were terrified to approach him. It was one of the only pleasures left to him here. Spite had lodged himself in his throat, gripping his vocal chords and begging for blood. It caused an almost feral growl to crawl from his lips, his would-be barber jumping at the noise.

They were making him presentable, he realized. Dressing him up for someone or something. It caused a drowning panic to rise in him like a vile tide. Spite howled, seizing his limbs with his own phantom versions and thrashing. His fingers twitched and the man stumbled backwards, away from him at the motion. No one stopped the cultist as he fled out of the cell, though the mage with the phylactery did bark orders at him. When they weren't met with obedience, he scoffed. Fear always won. Instead of trying to finish his twisted spa day, they trapped his hands behind his back and clapped iron around his wrists and ankles. The mage in charge had muttered something about having other subjects to prepare and he was soon being led through the facility as his phylactery was spirited back into the depths.

He had waited until the searing pull of the thing faded before launching into action. A simple jump to pull his hands back in front of himself, using the shackles to bludgeon one cultist to the ground. When another swung their magic imbued daggers at him, he caught the blades with the chain between his hands. The enchantment cut through it like a hot knife through butter. If nothing else, the Venatori were deft hands at crafting weapons to draw blood from even the most armored victims. He still had to dodge the rest of the swing, but his hands were free and that changed everything. Now the familiar rhythm of work was settling into his frame, every movement and swing of blades like a beloved symphony he had almost forgotten. His body sang with each kill. He carved a bloody trail through the halls, using another cultist blade to cut the shackles free completely during a brief reprieve. He had searched the bodies for keys, whatever relic or weird device would allow him to finally leave the prison.

He never got far, another wave of Venatori descending on him. It was exhausting, but he was a Crow. He had trained for exhausting. The wave of demons was a surprise he should have been expecting. The surge of the tiny bastards nipped at his heels, pushing him away from the path to freedom with slashing claws and sharp teeth. Spite was hissing like a feral cat at them. It caused every hair on his body to prickle, an electric hum so intense it felt like his bones were vibrating. The creatures seemed to falter and as he surged forward into that hesitation with sharp blades, he barely noticed the large shape that crashed into his side. He was thrown against a crumbling wall, left scrambling in the sand for purchase before a large clawed hand wrapped around his chest. The demon squeezed, his ribs screaming as the air was forced from his lungs. He angled vicious stabs into the creature's flesh, but it didn't seem to phase it. It simply tightened its hold. His world spotted black as he wheezed for a breath, clawing at the iron grip. And then the world went dark.

Now he was in a new prison, cold ice steadily locking him in place. He thrashed, the desperate need to escape chasing the fatigue from his limbs. Wherever they planned to take him next would be worse than the Ossuary, he had no doubt. Spite was rousing at the sharp emotions, sinking sharp nails into his psyche as he clawed awake. The spell was winding closer and closer, alarm almost blinding the assassin now. And then it paused, wavering, as discordant voices cut in. The demon surged, a sharp snap heralding skeletal wings bursting into existence on his back. They lunged for freedom as one, the ice shattering as the spell failed. The familiar work of killing settled into his hands once more, his world narrowed down to the cultists trying to trap him and nothing else. He was a flurry of ruthless violence, each Venatori dead within seconds of the last. Pulling in a shivering breath, he turned to face whatever had interrupted the ritual and then paused in surprise. Those were not cultists.

Mage.

The demon’s voice curled at the edges of his thoughts, almost purring the word as he stared at the two women blocking his way out. There was a fascination to it, but also a hunger, a pull the spirit felt. He watched its ghostly form stalk around the tanned elf, pulling in huffing breaths. It pawed at her red hair, as if trying to capture a lock between its fingers. Frustration growled from the spirit, turning instead to stare into her slate eyes.

Smells sweet. New scent. What is it? So sweet…

He blinked in confusion, taken aback. In the year since the demon had been forced into him, it had expressed curiosity only a handful of times. The pure rage of being trapped usually took up most of their stay. It unsettled him how Spite was suddenly enamored with a stranger. It felt foreboding. Then the demon was twitching to look at the woman’s companion. Another elf, dressed in bright leathers with her dark hair gathered in a messy bun. She seemed to vibrate with nerves and energy in equal measure, with heavy looking metal… contraptions, for lack of a better word, wrapped over her arms.

Dusty. Reeks of magic. Stolen. Borrowed. Found. Smells of ancient.

And then it was back to prowling around the redhead, a starving grin cracking its face. It caused a scowl to crease his own. Anything or anyone that captured the demon's attention like this was trouble. He shouldn't have even given them pause. A few more knife flicks and he'd be on his way to freedom. The cold calculation of his work was washing through him, but then Spite was surging to stand in front of him, causing him to jump.

Smell good. Maybe help? Finally! Let us out! Free us! Outoutout!

The thoughts were a deluge, slamming into his mind like a tidal wave. It scattered him for a moment, causing his head to swirl. He tightened his grip on his daggers, leather and steel biting into his palm. The weight of his weapons centered him, but before he could pull himself into familiar, deadly action, Spite's fascination was speaking.

“You must be Lucanis Dellamorte.” It wasn't a question. Her eyes seemed to almost shine as she looked him over.

She knows you.

He narrowed his eyes. “Who sent you?” And then his brain finally recognized the armor she wore. “You're a Crow.” She was sporting the leathers tailored for mages, loose sleeves trailing her motions. Had another House put a price on his head? Did this mean he had been properly abandoned here?

Before the doubts could work themselves into a proper panic, she was giving him a flourishing bow. “Of House de Riva. It's an honor.” It sounded almost genuine, voice tinged with a laugh. Then her head flicked up slightly, her gaze meeting his. “Caterina sent us. She’d like you home.”

Hope swelled in his chest, bittersweet and sickly. He hadn't been forgotten, but it was too late wasn't it? He was far too changed, now. A monster in human skin. It was a cruel twist of fate. He pulled in a long breath, finally sheathing his daggers. A member of Viago's House meant this was likely genuine. Rescue had come and he could trust that. So long as the other Crow led, he wouldn't have to worry about a poisoned blade nicking him. A second assassin would make his job easier, too.

“I still have a contract here. I need to kill Calivan, but before I can do that we need to find the vial of my blood they took.” He had to grind the words from his throat, disuse trying to choke them back down. “They can use it to control me otherwise.”

The other elf finally spoke up at that as she almost cowered behind the Crow. “Because of the demon.” Her voice was soft, empty of malice, but the single sentence cut him to the core.

This was where they'd leave him at best, or try to kill him at worst. He felt his fingers twitch, heartbeat leaping as adrenaline surged. He'd have to kill the mage first, that was fine. He knew how to do that. She sported a knife instead of a staff, so he'd have a few seconds to close the distance as her orb was summoned. That was plenty of time to slit her throat and collide with the archer before her bow could be nocked. He'd owe Viago an apology for killing one of his Crows, but it was par for the course.

“That’s fine, assuming you're still the Mage Killer the First Talon promised me.” The mage said brightly, smiling.

She didn't move for her weapon, her hands even clapping quietly in front of her. That was baffling. The word demon sent mages into a panic, usually, all fire and brimstone raining down at the thought. Why did she look almost gleeful?

“I can still work.” He answered carefully.

“Perfect!” Relief caused her shoulders to sag for a moment. “Once we clean up your contract, I have my own for two ancient elven mages pretending at godhood. If the stories I've heard about your work are even partially true, your help would really turn the tides.”

“I…” Gods? That was a new one. “I would owe you.”

“A favor between Crows.” She closed the distance in an instant, startlingly fast, and held a hand out to him.

The sweet scent that had fascinated Spite washed over him. Red berries and jasmine. It was pleasant enough, but strong. Hiding the acrid smell of poisons and venoms with perfume was a popular cover among assassins. Given her House, it made sense. The scent was simply dizzying after his year in this pit of the ocean smelling only rotting seaweed, blood, and burning flesh. It also made him hesitant to touch her at all. His reluctance must have been obvious because she laughed, pulling her hand back.

“You know Viago, huh? I don't coat myself in poison quite as enthusiastically as him. Perfectly safe to touch!” And then she was winking at him. “Kissing less so, but you look like a gentleman.” He wasn't sure what to do with that, but she was spinning on her heel and waving at him over her shoulder. “I’m Mirenna, by the way, though people are calling me Rook nowadays. Maybe Viago mentioned me?” There was a hopeful note in her voice, a desire for acknowledgement. When he remained quiet, she let out a disappointed sigh. “Likely not by name. If you ever had to listen to him rant about an annoying protege, I apologize. I exist to annoy him, apparently.”

That did stir some faint memories of the Fifth Talon muttering about a recruit causing nothing but trouble. His tone had never been properly angry or even particularly murderous. It had always read to him as a similar energy he reserved for Illario. A sibling that needed to be scolded, but whom you loved. Now he had a face for the many complaints. The reverie was interrupted as her companion popped into his view.

“Um, I’m Bellara, by the way. It's nice to meet you. I think?” She seemed to want to say more, mouth opening before snapping shut as she scurried after the mage. “Do you really have poison on your lips, Rook?”

Rook’s eyes crinkled as a devious smile curled across her face. “Would you like to find out?” 

Her voice was low, almost sultry. Tempting. It was familiar. Viago was close with Teia, it wasn't a far leap to assume that the elf would have had contact with House Cantori. The casual seduction had Teia written all over it. The perfume also made a little more sense, the initial allure of the honeytrap. His assumption that she was trouble only felt more vindicated.

Bellara tittered away from her, half laughing and half nerves. “No! I'm okay. I like not being poisoned.”

“Shame, it's a fun one.” Rook hummed. “I can give you the rundown back at the Lighthouse. We have Venatori to gut and a legendary assassin to free.”

Knows of you. Likes the idea. Spite was prowling behind her, head cocked. What would. Poison taste like?

“Not as pleasant as you want.” He muttered, voice quiet and leaden feet finally following his odd saviors.

Taste like smells? So sweet. What is scent?

“Red berries and jasmine.”

She glanced over her shoulder, a knowing smile on her lips. How loud had he said that? Turning on her heel, she walked backwards to face him.

“Offer stands for you, too.” Her voice was just as alluring as before, but she had dipped her head toward her chest, looking up at him through her lashes.

Cheeky! I like her!

He blinked blandly back at her, cursing himself for letting the demon bait him into this situation. “I'm familiar enough with what the Fifth and Seventh Talons may have taught you.”

She tilted her head to the side, mischief touching her features. “No curiosity for what their talents combined might create?”

Spite is! Let me talk. More fun.

“I am perfectly content as is.” His tone was flat, emotion scrubbed free.

Boring! Let me out! Let me talk. Spite was raking claws through his psyche, his shade looming before him as he screamed. Outoutout! You cage! You trap!

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he walked past her, trying not to think about the myriad of poisons she could sprinkle on his leathers at this distance. Dealing with the demon was exhausting enough, a second Teia would simply be too much. There was a quiet scuff of her boot on the rock floor as she turned back around. The silent speed that had her matching his pace shortly after was unnerving. She seemed on the verge of saying something when they finally emerged back into the facility.

A group of Venatori had been desperately trying to set up the wards again, the blood magic causing his eyes to ache. The two Crows were in motion instantly, his daggers almost leaping into his hands and a crackling orb sparking to life in hers. Lightning magic explained her speed. Bellara was a few seconds slow on shrugging her bow off her shoulder, each assassin removing a blood mage before she had an arrow loose. The smell of ozone filled the room, like the air before a storm. He had expected the mage to fight at a distance, but she peppered the Venatori with quick bolts before lunging forward with the mageknife. Her magic jolted through their bodies at the contact, their writhing forms easy prey for his blades. And then she was shooting off to swipe the enchanted blade at the next target, sweeping their legs and falling upon them with a ferocious stab.

It had been some time since he last saw a Crow mage in a melee. Watching her parry a bolt of energy back at the caster before letting loose a scorching ray from the orb, walking slowly forward as the magic ate the man alive, quashed any doubts he had about her training. She danced and dashed among swinging blades, hunted down any mage that dared to fire in her direction, and was careful to curve her dagger around his and Bellara's strikes as they navigated the field. She was skilled. By the time the Venatori were dead, he had a seed of respect for her taking root. He had been afraid the flippant energy had meant he'd be babysitting another Illario in a fight. He had been wrong.

Smells of blood. Metal and sharp. Powerful.

Wiping his daggers clean on the tunic of a dead mage, he watched her sheath her weapon and shake her hands. Almost like she was trying to regain feeling in them. When she caught his eye, she gave him another wink. He frowned, turning away to pluck the key for the door from a corpse. She followed two steps behind him, quiet for a moment.

“You don't like the tactic.” Again, not a question.

“I was never fond of Teia’s method. It is more my cousin's style.” He rested a hand on the pommel of a dagger. “I prefer being direct.”

“Oh.” There was a note of disappointment coating the word. “Teia took me for a ride. She promised it would be funny, but she meant for herself, didn't she.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, busying himself with unlocking the door. “What?”

“Told me to tease you. Said it would be hilarious.” Was she pouting? “Now I just feel like a jerk and like I made a terrible first impression.”

“Would you have preferred I swoon?” The door opened silently under his touch.

She made a noncommittal noise in her throat. “If it made you a little less gloomy, sure. Laughing would have worked, too.”

Gloomy? He imagined he would look a little worse for wear, but gloomy?

She wants. A smile?

Ah. That felt beyond him.

“Rook messes with everyone.” Bellara chimed in, hovering several steps behind him. It made him wonder how long it would take to slip a dagger between her ribs from this distance. A few seconds, just a handful of quick steps. “Usually means she likes you!”

“Should I be flattered?” There was an almost bright note to his voice as he led them through to the next dilapidated chamber, perhaps an overcorrection on his part.

“Only if she stays nice with it.” She continued, her steps gaining an almost bouncing quality as they walked.

“Don't give away all my tells, Bell!” The mage feigned injury, hand pressed her chest, but the wide smile betrayed her intent. “I'll only look cool and capable until we get back to the Diamond.”

“Oh, was Viago not done? He sure yelled at you for a long time already…” Bellara gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“He could berate me for a week straight and still have a bone to pick.” She shook her head sadly. “Such is my lot.”

The two continued their inane banter for a while longer, but he ceased to listen. Instead, he focused on the twisting pull of his would be phylactery. Normally its presence filled him with dread. It still did, as they drew closer, but there was a note of dizzying anticipation. The shedding of the final chain. Freedom. His steps quickened, pulling ahead of the two women. He led the duo toward his target, singular focus trained ahead. And then he stopped, staring at the wide chasm that yawned between him and a very enthusiastic stabbing. The path had collapsed at some point and he faltered. He didn't know the facility well enough to pick an alternative route, if one even still stood.

“Ah. Damn.” Rook muttered, chewing on her thumb. “I really hoped we wouldn't come back this way. I don't have a plan for this.”

Just walk? Path is right there.

“What?” He forgot to quiet his voice, too baffled by the suggestion.

Do you not see? Oh! A path. Just for Spite! Poor Lucanis. Needs help! The demon was definitely laughing at him. I can pull. The path through. Let me reach.

Rook had turned a confused eye to him and he groused under the gaze. “He says he can pull something through.”

“Who..?” She started, but he was already holding a hand out.

Spite had pressed itself into his body, the ghostly avatar layering over his skin. He felt the demon grab something, weighty and odd, and together they pulled. Phantasmal rubble sprang into being over the gap, an echo of what used to be. It felt draining in a strange way, an inkling that the path wouldn't stay forever.

“You can just do that?” The mage gasped.

“I'm as surprised as you.” He breathed before shaking his head. “I don't think it lasts, let's move.”

That seemed to light a fire under them as they quickly scrambled to the other side. The route grew more precarious as they went, large chunks of the facility sheared away from itself to form deadly chasms. Bellara had fallen silent, staring down at her feet as they shimmied along a crumbling wall. Rook for her part was almost trapezing along the rubble, lips curled faintly in a smile. She paused as they reached the next section of fractured flooring, head tilting.

“Demons.” Her voice was almost flat.

He stole a peek, sizing up the several prowling shades. “Zara’s pets. That’s what success looks like.”

She gave a hum at that before tossing him a wild grin. “I’ll get their attention. Looking forward to seeing you work again!”

Before either he or Bellara could object, the mage was vaulting over a broken pillar. Lightning crackled as her orb materialized, her mageknife rolling once in her hand. She took bounding steps, running the outer ring of the platform as her weapons streamed magic. The demons swarmed towards her like moths to a flame. Lucanis cursed under his breath, sliding down the slight incline to try and close the distance. Bellara had begun nocking arrows, firing into the mass from her vantage point. He wasn’t going to make it before the creatures reached the elf. Why did all his jobs go south?

He loosed a handful of throwing daggers, downing one demon and staggering another. That earned him a few more seconds. It might actually be fine so long as she kept running. Except she turned on her heel without warning, her orb shimmering into a second dagger as she lunged into the mass of monsters. She planted the two blades into the heart of one demon and then pulled. The air sounded like it was torn apart violently, a violet maw cut open with electricity and lightning slicing free. It floored several demons, easy prey for his daggers. As the magic fizzled away she was throwing out another spell, a carpet of thunder that sent her jumping backwards with a cackle. For a split second, the magic almost looked like a cloud of feathers before it too evaporated.

When the creatures finally recovered, most of them were dissipating back to the Fade. The stragglers went down easily to the dancing blades and patient arrows. He huffed as he pulled a dagger free from the steadily disappearing corpse under his boot. Rook was back to shaking her hands, bouncing from foot to foot for a moment. The sounds of rocks being displaced announced Bellara joining them on the lower platform.

“You,” he started slowly, pointing a blade at the mage, “are reckless.”

“But it tends to work.” She gave him a lopsided smile.

“Until it doesn’t.” He clipped.

“S’why I have you guys!”

“Rook…” Bellara cut in, her tone scolding.

The mage sighed, holding her hands up in surrender. “Fine, sorry. Proper plan before the next fight.”

“With any luck, our ‘next fight’ is Calivan.” There was a sharp edge to his voice now as he started to pick his way further into the facility.

She was silently at his side again with no warning. “Was there a specific way you wanted to deal with him? It is your contract, after all.”

“Oh, do Crows not usually work together?” Bellara asked, popping up on his other side.

Rook hummed, shrugging. “If you belong to the same House and your Talon tells you to? Then sure. Between Houses is more rare, but poaching a contract is frowned upon. Unless they super fuck it up, anyways. Besides just being rude and an insult, the buyer can use it to try and weasel out of paying which causes all sorts of issues. But since I’m here on a contract for the First Talon, I think we’re good. I don’t plan on trying to cash in on the Calivan contract either.”

“If you help me take him down,” Lucanis cut in quietly, “you would be entitled to the reward.”

She gave him a queer look at that, head tilting slightly. “Viago would likely take any gold I make. Besides, your whole thing is killing mages. I don’t want to get in your way.”

“And here I thought you had a fondness for attention.” He mused.

A wide grin slowly stole across her face. “Is the Demon of Vyrantium teasing me?”

“Surely not, I’m gloomy after all.”

“Bell, I need you to pinch me.” She extended an arm behind his back, causing every alarm in his mind to scream. “This has to be a dream.”

The sound of the other elf gently slapping her hand away with a laugh had him quickening his steps. They responded well enough if he played along, good to know. It kept them distracted, but that had its uses. He didn't fully trust having another Crow from an ostensibly rival House at his back, but he could only dedicate so much worry towards her right now. If Caterina had truly given de Riva the contract to rescue him, she was maybe safe enough.

He had a bigger target to focus on. Confronting Calivan had a few ways to play out. If they were lucky, he was holed up in a chamber with deep shadows and high perches. Dropping on the man from above to crush the air from his lungs as daggers bit deep would be ideal. Quick but brutal. Given the state of the facility, however, it was far more likely the mage would be in an annoyingly open area with next to no cover. Getting to punch him into submission had its allure, but it was messy. Unreliable. Dangerous. He did have a mage and ranged support, so a head to head confrontation would likely go better than usual. It made him uneasy, but a little trust would go a long way.

“When we find Calivan,” he started suddenly, voice even, “if he's in a place where I can take him down from stealth, that works perfectly. I think it more likely he'll see us coming a mile away with the state the Ossuary is in. Which means I'll likely be the distraction whether I want to or not.”

“I'll make sure to shock him within an inch of his life for you.” Her grin had a hungry edge to it this time, the job bringing a sharp focus.

“Helping with a Crow contract…” Bellara sounded almost in awe at the idea. “The Jumpers won't believe me.”

“We gotta find him first.” Rook hummed before she stopped suddenly, catching the edge of his leathers and tugging gently to have him follow suit. He almost wrenched it violently from her grasp, a year of bad memories leaping up at the touch. “Lots of Fade activity ahead. It's a mage at the very least, could be Calivan though.”

“Quick and quiet, then.” He murmured the little mantra, blades snapping into his hands as he prowled forward.

It was, unfortunately, not their target or his blood vial. Instead it was an underling trying to fend off loose demons. They simply waited for the mage to finish killing off the monsters before quietly approaching and putting an end to the Venatori. The next few chambers were just as disappointing. More demons and abominations to be put down to clear the path, the facility seeming to hold an obnoxious amount of them. The tug was growing more incessant and there was a sense of familiarity to the area. He'd walk this path many times on the way to the Venatori lab. His stomach twisted at the thought. That singular room held many horrors for him.

For us. Spite hissed.

There was a nagging worry as they entered the large chamber that functioned as a torturous lab. If they didn't want to break his phylactery, if instead they wanted to use it, would he have time to stop them? Would it be better to lead the way, forcing them to pass him to seize control, or hover behind them, daggers hungry?

He was playing and replaying the scenario in his mind as they took in the remains of the less fortunate subjects. When they quietly destroyed the many Venatori crystals locking them out, he was favoring the plan that let him bury a knife in each back with one strike. He let them walk in first, eyes watching their weapons carefully as they beheld the sizable phylactery.

“I’m guessing the monstrous vial is yours?” Rook offered weakly, trying to force a note of mirth into the words and failing.

His daggers slipped silently from their sheaths. “Destroy it and let's move on.” His voice was level, not quite emotionless, but peaceful. Encouraging.

“Should we-” Bellara started, but she cut herself off with a yelp.

The vial exploded without warning as Rook flung her mageknife at it. The loud shattering was the most beautiful sound he had heard in his life. She shifted a foot back, bracing, as the fiery laser leapt from her hand again. The blood concoction ignited, burning any lingering connection to a crisp. His daggers were sheathed in the next instant, eyes fixed on the mage. There was a familiar cold calculation to her features, the Crow focus brushing aside the lopsided grin. There was a deeper emotion buried in it, almost like a fury. That was interesting.

Free. Spite seemed to breathe the word. She freed us. She hated. The final chain. Why?

Maybe she knew something about being controlled like that. Maybe as a mage she simply had a dislike for phylacteries. Maybe the mere thought of dominating someone like that sat ill with her. He didn't have an answer for the demon. So he remained quiet as they boarded the elevator, focusing instead on carving his path to Calivan. Killing the man wouldn't make up for what had been done to him, but it would feel good. He'd take the scrap of positivity.

His mind turned back to planning, imagining sinking a dagger to the hilt in his tormentor. If they gave him the time, there were several places he could plant a knife before finally killing the man. A little payback would be nice. Some kind of retribution for the cruelty.

“So,” Rook's voice sliced through his murderous fantasy abruptly as Bellara seemed to huff next to her, “what's Caterina like, usually?”

Was she trying to fill the time? Couldn't she have asked anything else? He couldn't help the bitterness in his voice. “I've been gone so long, I fear I don't remember.”

She seemed to flinch, a quick hunching of her shoulders. “Right. Well… we’ll have you reunited soon enough it won't matter.”

The elevator thunking to a stop saved them both from trying to salvage the conversation. Rook led them down the crumbling hallway with quick steps, a sharp focus coming over her. She was almost darting forward, seemingly appearing on top of piles of rubble to look ahead. She had pulled the hood of her leathers up to hide her shocking red hair as she scouted. An unhappy hum escaped her as she bounded back to them.

“Big open space. Might be some side rooms, but… we should be ready for a fight with little cover.”

Iron and salt. Screams and curses. Blood for blood. Kill Calivan.

It felt like Spite was clawing at the world from behind his eyes. He rolled his shoulders, neck cracking. “Time to work. Ready?”

Bellara swallowed heavily, but gripped her bow tightly in hand and nodded. “If he doesn't know Rook and I are here, then that gives us an edge.”

Rook flicked her mageknife into hand, the blade glinting as her orb crackled to life. “Quick and quiet.” It was unto a prayer for their work, her features sharp and focused.

“Quick and quiet.” He echoed before he stepped into the open.

The Venatori mage was waiting for them, in a sense. A ritual circle was carved into the floor, a permanent fixture to the chamber. He had been turning a slow circle, observing the runes, when Lucanis stepped into the open. The jailer clicked his tongue in almost disgust, an exaggerated shrug lifting his shoulders.

“Of course it’s you.” He spat. “Zara and her little jests. ‘He’s already the Demon of Vyrantium! Won’t this be ironic?’ We should have killed you months ago when the demon never manifested. Waste of time and effort.”

The Crow didn’t wait, daggers in hand as he sprinted towards the man. If the monster wanted to taunt, let him waste the air. The Fade fizzled as glaring red orbs sprang up around his target, forcing him to spend precious time dodging left and right. He caught a brief blur out of the corner of his eye as his knife lunged out. The blade caught against the mage’s staff, his offhand punching towards the man’s gut. The burn of magic in the air stung his eyes, his strike missing as the Venatori fade stepped away. The scream that followed from the mageknife biting into his back brought a ravenous grin to his lips.

Rook had used his initial rush to dart around the little piles of rubble and crumbling pillars. Calivan had positioned himself directly in front of her hiding place and she had wasted no time capitalizing on it. Her magic sparked along his body, shimmering as it pinged off the barrier so common to mages. Calivan spun with a snarl, swinging his staff towards her, but she tossed out her own spell. The carpet of electric feathers blinded the man as she darted back into the shadows.

“You made friends. Was the demon not enough?”

The taunt was met with two daggers swinging for his neck, the barrier cracking heavily under the dual strike. He snarled, a wave of red crystals erupting from under his feet that left a flaming trail. It forced Lucanis to leap backwards, daggers held defensively against a follow up attack that never came. An arrow cracked loudly against the barrier and it shattered as Calivan half turned with the strike, a red line cut into his cheek. Spite surged at the smell of blood, a fury and glee rushing through his limbs with such strength it caused his hands to shake.

Blood for blood! Screams and curses! Iron and salt!

The manic chanting caused his head to swim, his step faltering. It earned him a crimson bolt in the shoulder. The pain grounded him and he let the attack’s momentum spin him into a low crouch. A throwing dagger was plucked from his belt and loosed in the motion, gifting the mage a matching pain. Two more arrows arced towards Calivan, a zigzagging shadow rapidly approaching from behind. His angry summons sliced through the air, the force of the Fade bursting open throwing the two Crows back as a lumbering demon took the mage’s place. That… that was a problem. Lightning crackled along its body as it clawed into the physical realm. Lucanis took two steps back, assessing, trying to find the weak point, bracing for an attack. A familiar mad laugh reached his ears, his gaze stuttering over to Rook.

Her orb was streaming magic again, held aloft like a beacon as a wide grin split her lips. “Now there’s a challenge!”

She was taunting demons again. It turned on her with a starved hunger, blade lashing out. Lightning arced along her legs, the air burning with her magic and she seemed to blink around the strikes the demon aimed at her. Her cackle matched Spite’s own echoing laugh in his mind. She was weaving closer and closer to the demon before her orb seemed to snap out, snagging the demon’s blade mid strike. It flicked the weapon back into the creature’s face and it staggered backwards. Three daggers and a flurry of arrows descended in an instant, the thing screeching. The next exchange of blows it managed were weaker, scattered, and Bellara managed to bury two expertly shot arrows into its core. It died with the sound of dry wood cracking.

Victory was short as Calivan manifested where the demon had stood, a look of pure fury on his face. The shimmer of his barrier was back and as he fade stepped out of the way of more arrows, several copies of himself popped into existence. They all smiled with his sickening grin, but the gloating ended abruptly. Rook had lunged forward into the center of the clones, two magic daggers sparking. The air was rended, a loud cracking of lightning heralding the devastating tear she had used earlier. Calivan staggered, alone in the center of the room and cursing. The line of spikes he sent out with a furious growl did catch Rook before she could recover from her casting, sending her staggering over a pile of rubble.

Two more arrows thudded into the man before he could chase the downed Crow. He spun with a snarl, launching a barrage towards the archer. It was all the opening Lucanis needed. He was behind Calivan like a dark shadow, one dagger slipping easily between the ribs to puncture the heart, the other drawing a quick line across the throat. The mage sputtered, hand grasping uselessly at his neck before he crumpled. Lucanis let him slide off his blade with a heavy thud.

“The Crows send their regards.” Was all he offered, bending down to wipe the blood from his daggers on the rich robes of the Venatori.

Cold and quiet! Heavy chains, scraping metal, sharp edges! Silent and gone!

The demon's celebration felt like it was rattling his teeth. Bellara was sprinting to where Rook was struggling to sit up, the mage rubbing her legs gingerly. Her leathers were singed, but she appeared fine otherwise. She was wincing as the elf helped her to her feet. With wobbling steps, she joined Lucanis over the body.

“Well, one contract down.” A lopsided grin settled on her lips.

Lucanis nodded, his response drowned by Spite.

Smells like blood. Ashes. Not done. Not yet!

His eyes narrowed as he stared at the demon manifesting at his side, to the point where he almost missed Rook's question.

“Lucanis? Are you good?”

Careful. They know. We're not right.

“You cannot see him. I had wondered…” His voice was tinged with weary curiosity.

“Alright, vaguely ominous. But more on all that later.” She waved it away. “I'm tired of the ocean, aren't you?”

An earnest laugh rumbled in his chest. “More than you know. Lead the way.”

She seemed to beam at his response. “Oh, does your plus one have a name or… title? How do demons like to be addressed…”

A wry smile tugged at his lips as they filed out of the chamber. “It's Spite.”

Requested Tags: @weaponizedvirtue

[deityoftherain]

chord crush - Scwhip Band AU Fanfic

Rating: Teen

Relationship: M/M, Gen

Archive Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Status: Completed Oneshot

Word Count: 7,578

Summary: Being a musician himself, Fwhip often found himself admiring another's music, even if their style wasn't what he normally went for. When scrolling through their socials after practice, they stumbled upon an influencer who managed to peak their interest the moment he opened his mouth to sing for the camera. Fwhip had expected his infatuation to stop there, but, as luck would have it, that very influencer decided to visit Empires Nightclub during one of the nights WRA was working a gig there...

Written for @djpurple3, my artist, through @mcytblraufest!!!

Full fanfic underneath the cut! Please reblog, leave kudos on the AO3 fic slash notes/likes here on Tumblr, comment either place, and etc if you enjoy the story :D

𓆩♪⛧₊˚ Fwhip ﾟ₊⛧♪ 𓆪

“Good practice, everyone!” Joey clapped his hands together quickly. “Gem, you were a bit pitchy, and there was some stumbling on timing from a few of you, but only a trained ear like mine would pick that up.” “...Thanks Joey,” Fwhip replied flatly, trying to keep the annoyance out of their tone. Joey could be frustrating to deal with, especially when almost every praise was paired with criticism, but Joey was a good employer and a pretty decent friend deep down. Fwhip tried not to let it bother him too much.

Wither Rose Alliance (WRA for branding purposes) was currently practicing at Empires Nightclub, preparing for the gig they had there the next day. Though they often practiced in Pearl’s garage, when Joey offered them the venue, they’d take it. Getting on the stage they would be performing at allowed them to get a feel of the room and also see for themselves how their new songs bounced off the walls.

Joey waved his hand dismissively. “Get some water in you and start wrapping up. I need you out within the hour so we can start opening. Cod Alliance is supposed to be here soon and I don’t need you all distracting each other.”

Cod Alliance was another rock band that played here regularly. They were more of a punk band, whereas WRA had more folk influences in their music, especially considering they had a violinist. The two bands have known each other for quite awhile, which was unsurprising considering the town they lived in wasn’t that huge and their music styles had some similarities.

“Distract each other?” Sausage gasped dramatically, even as Joey turned away to start setting up. “Why, I would never!”

“Uh-huh, sure you wouldn’t.” Gem snorted with a roll of her eyes. “Last time you and Jimmy saw each other, you got into an argument and ended up making out.”

“It’s not my fault you walked in on us!” Sausage exclaimed with a playful smirk. “You’re just jealous you’re not the one to kiss him. You know, he does this really hot thing with his tongue–”

“Shut up!” Gem pressed her palms against her ears, turning away from him. “Nope! I don’t need to hear this!”

“But Gemmm!” Sausage draped an arm over Gem’s shoulders, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. 

Jimmy and Sausage have a very messy and complicated dating history that honestly gave Fwhip a headache to think about. No matter how many times they fought, Sausage always managed to win back Jimmy, even if it was only for a night. Fwhip was aware that Jimmy’s other partners, Katherine, Joel, and Pix, disapproved, but they also couldn’t stop her anymore than the WRA could stop Sausage. Technically, what they were doing didn’t hurt anybody. It just made it extremely awkward for Gem and Pearl to try and foster a relationship beyond friendship with Katherine and Lizzie respectively.

WRA didn’t have any in-band dating going on– at least, not now, but anything could happen in the future– much unlike Cod Alliance. They were in a big string of polyamorous relationships, only further complicated by Fwhip’s bandmates crushing on some of them as well. Fwhip had to admit that he and Jimmy also had a bit of a thing going on at one point, but that had since ended.

Fwhip wasn’t necessarily against being in a polyamorous or open relationship, but he did tend to learn more towards monogamy himself. Part of it was probably due to their grayromantism, making it so they didn’t experience romantic attraction for others very frequently. When it did hit them, though, it usually came at them like a freight train, hard and fast. They still had a hard time identifying it when it came, unfortunately.

Sausage, Gem, and Pearl (they dragged her in at some point) continued to bicker, as they often did, while they put away their instruments. Fwhip shook his head fondly, but he didn’t engage. He would normally love to join in, but he wasn’t feeling up to it at the moment. He finished packing up his guitar before them, so he put in his wireless earbuds and pulled out his phone to scroll through his socials. 

Fwhip followed a lot of music related tags, especially ones specific to their area. When browsing through a series of photos and videos, he must have lingered too long on one because one of the videos started to automatically play. The video opened with a melancholic solo guitar, a much more moody style of country music than Fwhip typically listened to, but he found himself drawn in. The allure only increased when the artist began to sing, his voice enchantingly beautiful.

Intrigued, Fwhip clicked open his profile. Their jaw dropped at the follower count for just a second, before they quickly recovered, playing it cool before anyone could ask what he was looking at. He had several thousand more followers than WRA did! Looking a bit deeper, that was no surprise. The account was filled with aesthetic pictures and videos, usually including music and some sort of pretty imagery. WRA’s was more to share information about their gigs than anything else.

The profile belonged to someone named Scott Smajor. Fwhip left the app to search the name on Mezalea Music, the current top music streaming app. Unsurprisingly at this point in his search, Scott was there with a fairly impressive following for an independent artist. Fwhip pressed the shuffle button and they were instantly greeted by Scott’s pretty singing voice. His voice seemed to scratch Fwhip’s brain in all the right places, making them want to melt into it.

They switched back to their social app to put a face to the name and voice. It wasn’t hard to find for there were several recurring photos of who Fwhip assumed was all Scott. The music paused when the video started, showing the singer strumming on an acoustic guitar covered with custom decals. When the singer opened his mouth, Fwhip could instantly tell it was him.

Scott was as stunning as his voice would suggest. He had fair skin that was partly flushed red from exposure to the sun-- almost like he had done it on purpose with blush. His eyes were an icy blue, though his features were soft and sad, not cold. Fwhip wasn’t sure how, but he pulled it off. Scott’s dyed cyan blue hair was wavy and reached down to his shoulders. Fwhip could get lost staring at him forever.

The end of one of Gem’s arm crutches poked Fwhip’s side, startling them out of their trance. They turned off their phone and removed one of their earbuds, looking up at their sister, though music still played in the other ear. “Yes?”

“We’re ready to leave.” Gem jutted her head in Sausage and Pearl’s direction, who were chatting by the door. “I don’t know about you, but I would like to get home and off my feet. You can get distracted by your phone in the car.”

Fwhip opened his mouth to respond when Joey burst through the backstage door. 

“Don’t worry,” Fwhip told him, “we were just leaving.” “You’re running slow,” Joey huffed briefly with a shake of his head, “but no matter! Your tardiness benefits me this time. I wanted to be the first to inform you of the competition I’m putting on."

“Competition?” Gem parroted, furrowing her eyebrows. “What competition?”

“A coin flipping competition, duh,” Joey responded before rolling his eyes. “No, dumbass, a music competition. I’m a music gay talking to other musical queers. What else would it be? It’s in three months, but sign-ups are open now. Just got confirmation that we’re good to go, which is why I’m telling you all now.”

“Is there a prize?” Pearl inquired. Pearl had always enjoyed some friendly competition… maybe a little too much. Gem ended up keeping a running tally of stupid bets the band still had active on her phone, twelve and counting, and most of them were Pearl’s fault.

“What kind of competition would it be without a prize?” Joey puffed out his chest, looking extremely pleased with himself. “An old friend of mine is looking for some new talent for his record label, so I told him I have tabs on multiple other bands in the area, especially the ones working at my club. One thing led to another and we’re hosting a competition together. We will have a panel of judges, ticket sales, just everything! It will be absolutely gorgeous and bring in more business for me. It’s a win-win! So, you’ll sign up, yeah?” The four of them glanced between each other, looking for signs of protest, before Sausage spoke up. “Oh, yes, we would love to.”

“Okay, wonderful!” Joey grinned ear to ear. “The sign up form is on Empires’ socials, which I’m sure all of you follow. I expect to see your submission soon or I will have to talk to you again after your shift tomorrow!” “We’ll get right on that,” Fwhip promised. He took one look at Gem and realized by the way she was shuffling on her arm crutches that her fatigue levels were at their limit. It was clear to him that they needed to get a move on. She'd said it was a good day this morning, but rehearsing always took it out of her, and Fwhip could read that off her face easily– especially considering they still lived together. She couldn't hide it from him even if she tried. 

“Perfect, now shoo!” Joey flicked his hands out towards them twice. “I’m trying to run a bar here.”

Not wanting to get on his bad side, they did as they were told, scurrying out to Sausage’s car. The four of them chatted about the competition the entire car ride to Fwhip and Gem’s apartment, and Fwhip participated, but he still had Scott Smajor’s music playing in his ear.

𓆩♪⛧₊˚ Scott ﾟ₊⛧♪ 𓆪

Yelling was, unfortunately, something Scott Smajor was quite familiar with. For as long as he could remember, it had been part of his life. He'd always tried to avoid raised voices as best he could, hoping he'd stay under their radar and that they would forget about him just enough to help him stay out of needing the therapy he likely still should sign up for. His “golden child” avoidance strategy only semi-worked because Xornoth, his older brother, took most of the heat.

Xornoth protected him from a lot. Scott hadn’t always realized it, especially back when their father, Exor, and their uncle, Aeor, got into his head. They each wanted to mold Scott and Xornoth into their own image, absolutely stuck in their own ways. They'd hate to be compared, but they both had a god complex a mile wide and their egos were far too easy to inflate. It was... not easy to live with. 

Scott could recall several times (usually when the yelling far escalated beyond simply yelling) where Xornoth would promise that, once he was old enough, he would get them out of there. The yelling in Scott’s life had reduced significantly when Xornoth turned eighteen. He kept true to his promise, taking Scott with him when he left the small farm they lived at for most of their childhoods. They couldn’t afford to move very far (they moved closer to town than the more rural-esque area they resided in their youth) so “home sweet home” wasn’t too far away, but Exor and Aeor tended to stay out of their lives… for the most part, anyway.

“How many times do I need to tell you ‘no’, old man?” Xornoth snapped, his face contorting with fury. He tugged at his long, dyed purple hair, trying to ground himself. Scott noticed a few strands snapped by the action, but he didn’t say anything. He’d had the habit for years; Scott knew it would be hard to shake. “You may have been able to drag me into that shit when I still lived with you, but I’m not facing jail time because you need someone to take the fall.”

Scott quietly picked out a little musical line on his guitar, seeing if he liked how it sounded, before jotting it down in his songwriting notebook. Phrases and half finished phrases hummed from his lips as he thought out loud to himself. It was all a part of his process. Xornoth’s conversation with Exor was merely background noise; Scott was used to finding focus in their chaos.

“‘I wouldn’t put you in harm’s way.’ Oh, you have other guys for that?” Xornoth mocked before scoffing. “Like I believe that, asshole. You know I’ve already been in juvie, I can’t risk– Exor, I swear I will– What kind of father gets their eleven year old to deal drugs? Or brings their thirteen year old along to a fucking armed robbery for ‘experience’? Go bother someone else and stop calling me. I’m tired of blocking your numbers and ignoring your calls.”

Xornoth hung up the phone and tossed it down on the couch. It bounced off of the cushions and landed on the floor, though it didn’t appear damaged in any way. He groaned loudly, practically stomping over to the alcohol cabinet and swinging the door open. Xornoth considered his options for a moment before pulling out some whiskey. He turned toward Scott and held up the bottle. “Do you want any?” “Nope, go for it.” Scott wasn’t in the mood for alcohol, especially not whiskey. His preferred choice of drink was vodka with some sort of fruity mixer in it. Maybe some sort of cocktail, if he was in the mood.

“More for me,” Xornoth murmured, twisting off the cap most of the way before flicking it off. He brought the bottle’s rim up to his lips and shot some back with a sort of gurgling noise Scott recognized as Xornoth’s response to the cheap whiskey’s burning sensation.

“What did he want this time?” Scott inquired, passively strumming a few more chords. Neither Scott nor Xornoth referred to their father as ‘dad’ for he didn’t deserve that title. Exor was strictly referred to with he/him pronouns or by his first name. Well, they occasionally threw in she/her pronouns if they caught him being transphobic. That method managed to kick that “nasty habit” out of him real quick.

“Someone to do his dirty work.” Xornoth plopped down heavily on one of the arm chairs. He took another swig of the whiskey before setting the bottle down on the coffee table. “Tempted to block his new number too, but I don't want him coming over here again. I already had to change the locks this year and I don’t want to do it again.”

Nothing Scott could say would be new information, so he let silence fall between them besides the music coming from his guitar and the sound of pencil against paper.

“I like that tune so far,” Xornoth complimented after a moment, noticeably calmer than before. Either the whiskey had kicked in already or their time sitting peacefully allowed him to blow off enough steam. “Sounds good.” The ends of Scott’s lips twitched up at the praise, a warmth sparking in his chest. He knew his style of music wasn’t exactly Xornoth’s typical taste, so it felt extra pleasant to know Xornoth supported him and his dream of pursuing music. He always had, even when Scott was first starting out. “Thank you. One of the last songs I released got fairly popular, so I want to capitalize on its success and try to get something else out as well. I’ve been trying to fine tune some half-finished songs I’ve been messing around with for a while.”

Xornoth straightened up, his eyes brightening as Scott reminded him of something. He quickly got up to grab something before returning to hand Scott a flier. “There was a guy handing these out when I went to Empires Nightclub the other day.” “I thought you didn’t like that place?” Scott raised an eyebrow, partly amused as he took the flier from Xornoth. “Something about the nightclub’s owner coming on too strong? Or have you changed your mind?”

“Joey’s not that bad. I was just pissed off about something else that night and wasn’t in the mood.” Xornoth scrunched his nose. “I may have over exaggerated, but it’s whatever. Either way, nothing has happened or will ever happen between Joey and I, so don’t even think about it. They just have good drinks for a half decent price, and the music’s pretty alright as well.”

Scott turned his attention toward the flier. It was promoting a band competition with the prize being a record label. Scott would have to look into the fine print, of course, but the initial impression was fairly positive. They seemed to be looking for bands, which didn’t include Scott for he ran solo. Still, checking it out was an excuse to get himself to leave the apartment. 

“I’ll check it out,” Scott promised, setting the flier in his guitar case for safekeeping. “Thank you.” “No problem.” Xornoth appeared pleased with himself as he turned to grab the whiskey he had set aside before leaving the living room. He headed toward his bedroom, leaving Scott alone to work on his music in peace.

𓆩♪⛧₊˚ Fwhip ﾟ₊⛧♪ 𓆪

Fwhip knew they would never get over what it's like to play for a crowd. There was a special type of adrenaline that would pump through their veins that they couldn’t get quite the same doing anything else. Messing around with Gem, Pearl, and Sausage during practice was one thing, but these live gigs were something else entirely.

They were booked for three hours that night: three sets and got a ten minute break in between each. Reaching their first break, Fwhip wiped the sweat from their brow before chugging down a cold bottle of water Joey provided.

His eyes wandered over the crowd, not really paying attention to anything in particular until he caught a flash of cyan sitting in the corner. Fwhip squinted, attempting to focus on the figure and confirm his suspicion.

“Who are you looking at?” Gem asked, hitting the side of her arm crutches against his leg like she often did. Those things helped her walk, yes, but she enjoyed using them as assault weapons. Fwhip must have grown calves of steel at this point because it barely hurt anymore.

“I think the guy sitting over there is Scott Smajor.” Fwhip nodded in Scott’s direction– or they were fairly sure it was Scott, anyway. He had the same blue hair and fair skin. They tried to discern other details, but he was too far away and the lighting didn’t do them any favors. 

“That musician guy you’ve been obsessed with?” Gem gave him a knowing smirk before nudging his shoulder. “You should go talk to him.” “What? No!” Fwhip shook his head, waving his hands frantically in front of him. Scott looked busy writing down something in his notebook. Besides, they didn’t have too long before they had to start the next set.

“If you don’t go talk to him, I will,” Gem threatened with a gleam of mischief in her green eyes, and Fwhip couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. “I will tell him all about how you’ve developed a little celebrity crush on him–” “I have not!” Fwhip denied, wrinkling their nose. They stared at each other for a long moment before Fwhip groaned. He took another sip of water before pushing himself to his feet. “Fine, I’ll go talk to him. Just, don’t do that.” “Yay!” Gem cheered as Fwhip weaved his way through the crowd to get to Scott, very pleased with herself for her insignificant triumph.

Fwhip chose to ignore her, adjusting his signature red scarf. He paused for a moment, sniffing the scarf to make sure he didn’t smell too bad. The closer they got to the cyan haired man, the more they were sure it was him.

Before he had a chance to speak and introduce himself, Scott glanced up and noticed him. He gave them a polite smile before speaking in the very accent Fwhip had grown used to hearing from the speakers of their phone. “Hey, you’re Fwhip, right?” Fwhip blinked at him in surprise. “Yeah, I am. How did you know?” “I looked up who was going to be performing tonight before showing up,” Scott explained nonchalantly. “I’m impressed by your fingerpicking technique. Some of those songs moved very quickly, yet your fingers hit every note perfectly. I don’t think I saw or heard you stumble even once. You know, I wonder if that skill transfers to anything else.” Fwhip was caught off guard by the flirting tacked on at the end. He coughed to try and cover up his shock enough to respond. He didn’t wish to become a mess, at least not that quickly. “Thanks, I’ve had a lot of practice with it so I’m glad it’s paying off. That’s some high praise, especially coming from another guitarist.”

Now it was Scott’s turn to blink in surprise. “How did you know?”

“Your fingertips are calloused, so I would assume you play some sort of string instrument,” Fwhip explained, “but I also found your music recently. I love finding indie artists, so when you stumbled upon my feed, I had to check you out. Your style isn’t what I typically go for, but I'm always open to expanding my horizons.” “Well, I appreciate it.” Scott swirled his drink as a small, pleased smile grew on his face. “Fortunately for you and your band, I enjoy a diverse amount of music, including folklore rock. I don’t typically come out to these sorts of things, though, but I told my brother I would check it out. He gave me a flier about the competition Empires Nightclub is hosting, which I assume you know about already.”

“Yeah, we’re going to take a shot at it.” Fwhip nodded in the direction of the stage. “The possibility of a record deal is too big to pass up.”

“That’s why my brother told me about it.” Scott sipped his drink, mildly dyeing his lips red from the fruity drink. Fwhip wondered (though he wouldn’t admit it) what it would taste like to kiss him, the phantom taste of sweet cherries, strawberries, and raspberries on his tongue. “I don’t think I will compete though. I’m doing fairly well on my own without a company backing me up.”

“Has no one offered you one yet?” Considering Scott’s follower count and musical talent, Fwhip was sure producers would have approached him. In this modern age, music labels loved snatching up people who already had a devoted online audience to build off of.

“They have, but I haven’t found one that didn’t want to trap me into an awful contract.” Scott shrugged, unconcerned. “I read the fineprint for this one, and the deal is actually a good one, so I’m rooting for you and the rest of the WRA. I thought about going for it, but they seem to be looking more for bands, not solo musicians.”

“Nah, c’mon! You could and should totally compete. You would have a good shot at winning!” Fwhip was confident in that, but he wasn’t going to push someone who he was still getting to know too hard. “If you’re adamant about that, you could try just playing here. It’s a good, regular gig to land; we play here often. Have you talked to Joey yet? The club owner?”

Scott hummed softly, considering the prospect as he surveyed the crowd, before giving his attention back to Fwhip. “I haven’t, but I wouldn’t be opposed. I’ve heard things.”

“I’ll introduce you,” Fwhip promised. “Or, I’ll at least tell Joey ‘bout you. If you give me your number, I can share it with Joey.”

“Smooth.” Even Scott’s laugh was musical and practically addicting to hear. Fwhip grinned, proud that he made Scott laugh. He wished to do it again several times over. “I don’t normally hand out my number, but for you, I’ll make an exception.”

“You’re just trying to butter me up so I put in an extra special word in with Joey.” Fwhip teased as he pulled out his phone.

“Is it working?” Scott fluttered his eyelashes, a playful smirk on his lips.

Scott’s icy blue eyes sparkled warmly at their back and forth– like moonlight through stained glass– and Fwhip wanted nothing more than to stare into them. His previous enchantment by the man standing in front of him didn’t feel as silly now that they were face to face.

“Maybe.” Fwhip passed his phone over to Scott, already open to the correct screen. As Scott typed in his information, Fwhip glanced back toward the stage. He knew he was pushing it on time already, but he did want to keep talking to Scott.

They made eye contact with Pearl, who tapped her finger against her wrist before mouthing “hurry up!”

They wrinkled their nose briefly before turning back to Scott, who promptly gave their phone back. “Are you planning to stick around?” Scott clicked his tongue in consideration, eyes shifting from Fwhip to the stage and back again. “I’ll be here when you finish your next set.”

“Awesome! See you then.” Fwhip grinned widely, suddenly feeling more energized than before. He headed back towards the stage, prepared to pour his heart and soul into his music as he often does, but even more excited to go back to talk to a certain blue haired guy.

𓆩♪⛧₊˚ Scott ﾟ₊⛧♪ 𓆪

Scott hadn’t expected to stay at Empires too long that night, but he did, hours past what he had anticipated. He allowed himself to fall under the Wither Rose Alliance’s trance, making him unable to focus on his own lyrical writing. Scott didn’t find himself minding, contently under their spell. Besides, if he were to give an excuse, he would claim that tucking his notebook away allowed him to take note of how they played to properly compliment Fwhip in even more detail.

After WRA’s last set, Scott and Fwhip managed to chat a bit more before the violinist (he soon deduced her name was Pearl) dragged Fwhip off to go home. She shot a few teasing jabs at Fwhip, which amused Scott, but he had also been subject to a few looks himself.

Needless to say, Scott headed back to his and Xornoth’s apartment with a bigger smile than he could remember wearing in a long time. Xornoth even commented on it, gloating a bit about being right about Scott enjoying himself. Scott couldn’t even deny it. It’d only been a few weeks since they met, but Scott felt like he had known Fwhip for years. It was a strange sensation, yes, but it wasn’t unwelcomed.

“You’ve been smiling at your phone a lot.” Xornoth clicked his tongue, reminding Scott of his presence. “Tell me, have you developed a little crush on that red-headed guitarist?”

Scott scrunched his nose, glancing back at Xornoth as he opened the tab on his soda can. “How do you even know that’s who I’m texting? I could be texting literally anyone else.”

“Because I know you, little brother.” Xornoth came up behind Scott and ruffled his hair with his free hand. “You’re too much of a workaholic to text people back. At least, you were until you met them-”

Scott swatted their hand away before combing their fingers through the blue locks to try and fix the damage inflicted on it. “He’s just a friend and a fellow guitarist. Plus, he got me a well-paying gig at the nightclub you liked so much.”

“Yeah, and I’m the protagonist of a preteen, slow burn, baby’s first monsterfucker fantasty romance.” Xornoth fake-gagged, plopping down on the couch nearby. “But, sure, don’t tell me. Just make sure to use protection.”

Scott tried his best to bite back his blush as he tossed a throw pillow at Xornoth. A surge of pride washed over him when the pillow hit Xornoth exactly where he had aimed for. Before Xornoth could protest more than a “Hey!”, Scott fled to his room, out of Xornoth’s pillow projectile range, muffling his giggles all the while. 

𓆩♪⛧₊˚ Fwhip ﾟ₊⛧♪ 𓆪

Fwhip wasn’t a songwriter and they were okay with that. It wasn’t their passion nor their strength, and that was fine. That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy messing around with chords and lyrics to try and create a song from time to time, even if it wouldn’t be something he could perform with his band.

They often stayed away from such a thing, but Scott’s encouragements were so genuine and inspiring (probably because they came from Scott Smajor, someone known for his sound and meaningful lyrics) that Fwhip couldn’t imagine abandoning any project they mentioned to Scott.

“It just isn’t flowing and I don’t get it,” Fwhip complained loudly. He was laying on his bed with his phone by his head and Scott on speaker. “It’s meant to be a duet, but the two parts aren’t complimenting each other like I intended. I’m honestly sick of hearing my own voice recording.”

“You? Sick of your own voice? I never would have guessed,” Scott teased lightheartedly with a laugh. Fwhip simply huffed in response, but he wasn’t upset at Scott’s words. “You’re at home, right? How about you go grab your guitar and we can fiddle around with it.”

Fwhip hesitated for a brief moment before propping himself up to go retrieve his instrument. “You’re lucky Gem is out on a date right now. I never would play something so rough around her. She would never let me hear the end of it!”

It was an over exaggeration, sure, but it wasn’t that unlikely. Poking fun at one another was just a thing they did. Gem wasn’t much help with his music because the stringed instruments Fwhip played had different techniques than the keyed instruments Gem specialized in. This just left them to vaguely pointing out things that sounded off and hoping for the best.

“Her date with Katherine, correct?” Scott asked to confirm, which Fwhip appreciated. He was slowly becoming a part of Fwhip’s friend group, yes, but even before that, Scott was making an attempt to keep mental notes on the people Fwhip mentioned. Scott actually did a good job at it, especially considering half of Fwhip’s friend group was in a sort of web composed of various polyamorous (both romantic and queerplatonic), platonic, and familial relationships. Even Fwhip struggled to know who was with who some days (especially with Sausage and Jimmy… doing their thing) and he’s known them all forever!

“Yeah, you got it!” Fwhip nodded as he settled back down on his bed and propped up his phone to video call with Scott. “Gem has been crushing on her for awhile, but chickened out on telling her several times despite me telling her to just do it already! Katherine clearly has a lot of love to give, considering she’s already dating Lizzie and Jimmy and is so affectionate with her friends. Katherine is also one of my closest friends out of the lot of ‘em, so, believe me, I would know.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Scott replied before sending the request through to Fwhip for them to switch to video. Fwhip leaned forward to accept it and waited for their phones to switch over. When it did, Scott was revealed to be sitting with his custom guitar already sitting on his lap. “Okay, show me what you got.”

𓆩♪⛧₊˚ Scott ﾟ₊⛧♪ 𓆪

Scott wasn’t sure when the switch flipped from not really having friends to suddenly being accepted into a gigantic friend group. It was sometime after meeting Fwhip– a good few weeks, that was for sure– but the line of them being Fwhip’s friends to being his friends was too blurred to pinpoint.

Seemingly without Fwhip’s knowledge, several of them DMed him and they got to talking outside of their relations with Fwhip. Not to mention that he’s gotten to know several of them face-to-face at Empires between gigs and simply being invited out. Scott hasn’t taken any of them up on that, though. He’s been keeping his distance, feeling as if he were intruding, but they weren’t ready to just accept Scott’s reluctance just like that.

That was proven by Joey insisting time and time again that Scott should go out on the town with him, which Scott always wormed his way out of. That was, he had succeeded until Joey showed up at his apartment one evening. 

“I can’t have my performers living like hermits!” Joey always had a sense for the dramatics, but Scott could tell he genuinely cared about those who worked for him even if he didn’t always show it like a normal person would. “You need friends and to have fun every once in a while.” “I have friends,” Scott insisted, though he knew that most of his friendships were still fairly surface-level. The deepest he’s gotten with anyone was Fwhip and, even then, there were still some walls up. 

Joey gave him a pointed look before pushing past Scott to slip into his apartment. “I know your whole thing is ‘gay moody country boy’, but the mood doesn’t have to be depressing all of the time!”

“Joey, you can’t just barge into my place!” Scott exclaimed, following Joey as he beelined to Scott’s room. His door was decorated, making it well-labeled. “How did you even know where I live?”

“I have connections,” Joey replied nonchalantly as he swung open Scott’s closet doors. He started to sift through Scott’s outfits with precision and skill. “Besides, if I don’t drag you out, you’ll never have fun!” “I have fun!” Scott insisted defensively. Still though, he switched out his piercings for something a tad more dolled up in preparation of being dragged out against his will.

“Mhm,” Joey hummed, doubtful. “Sure you do. Now have you agreed to come or am I going to have to get Sausage to throw you over his shoulder?”

“Sausage?” Scott echoed, furrowing his eyebrows. “Why Sausage? He’s not even here.”

“Void knows I won’t be doing it!” Joey huffed, amused. He gestured at himself, already dressed for going out clubbing. Granted, he was always dressed up like that. Scott didn’t know if Joey knew what a casual, comfort-over-style outfit was. “This body wasn’t made for manual labor. Now how about this one?”

Scott eyed the blouse Joey selected, considering it for a moment. “Yeah, okay, hand it over.” “Perfect!” Joey practically jumped for joy as he handed the blouse to Scott. “The pants you’re wearing now are fine, so just get some shoes on. We’re supposed to meet up with Sausage and Gem soon.”

Scott turned so his back was to Joey to secure himself that minimal amount of privacy before stripping himself of his top and pulling the blouse on. “They’re coming too?” “Yeah, Sausage and I are besties, so we go out frequently, but we wanted to switch it up a tad. Add some new faces, you know.” Joey whistled at Scott when he turned around, eyes wandering down Scott’s body. “Okay, damn! Hey there, sexy.”

“You say that like I don’t always dress well.” Scott rolled his eyes, not really offended. Joey was the type to comment on other’s outfits like that so he knew it was intended to be a genuine compliment over anything else. “We can go now. Just let me tell my brother I’m leaving so he knows I’m not home.”

“Xornoth, right? Hot goth guy with purple hair?” Joey straightened up at the mention. “Is he here?” Scott sucked in his lips briefly before deciding to avoid the question. “I’ll meet you outside, Joey.”

Joey was on his phone outside the apartment complex when Scott approached him, and, when Joey noticed Scott’s presence, he grinned widely. “Perfect timing! Sausage just pulled in.”

He grabbed Scott’s hand and dragged him along to Sausage’s sedan. Joey called shotgun and left Scott to sit in the back next to a ginger who reminded him a lot of Fwhip.

“Oh!” Scott put a few pieces together with the recognition of the woman sitting beside him. “Gem! Fwhip’s sister, right? The keyboardist of WRA?”

“Yeah, you got it,” Gem confirmed. She was wearing a green dress with purple crystal accessories and her hair was tied into a long braid. “And you’re Scott. My brother hasn’t stopped talking about you.” Scott ignored the heat he felt on his cheeks at that. “He hasn’t?”

“Nope.” Gem popped the P before lowering the register of her voice, leaning in toward Scott. “Hurt him and I hurt you. Understood?”

Scott blinked at her rapidly, caught a bit off guard. Her threat was clear, and Scott didn’t want to be on the receiving end of whatever that ended up being. Besides, considering how his relationship was going with Fwhip, he didn’t want to piss off their sister. “Understood.” “Good.” Gem brightened up before glancing at the two chatting away in the front seat. “Now do you know where they’re taking us?”

Scott had not known any specifics, leaving Gem and Scott left to the wills of their captors. He had learned that Sausage also dragged Gem out of her apartment to go out with them. They were both in this together, and it gave Gem and Scott a chance to get to know one another better.

They must’ve gotten to know each other a bit too well, because they woke up to birds chirping and the rising sun on their faces. Scott groaned, sitting up from the tree he was leaning against with a hand pressed against his head. It took a second to register, but he was near positive he was hungover and he was not enjoying the feeling.

Gem stirred beside him, muttering nonsense that Scott couldn’t understand. He poked her side and she woke up with a start. “What happened? Where are we?” “Shhh, not so loud.” Scott shushed her, his head pounding aggressively. He squinted at his surroundings. “Where are-?”

Before he could finish his question, Scott realized someone had spotted them. He squinted at them too, as the person approached, trying to place them in his foggy memory.

"There you two are!" the person called, their voice so very familiar.

Gem rubbed the sleep from her eyes before asking, "...Jimmy?"

“Yeah, yeah, I found them,” Jimmy spoke to someone who wasn’t one of them. That is when Scott realized she was holding a phone to her ear. “Here, I’ll put you on speaker while I check they aren’t hurt.”

The person on the other end spoke something to Jimmy before he placed them on speaker and set down his phone. The Caller I.D. read off Pearl’s name, but another voice came over the line that wasn’t Pearl’s, if Scott’s memory was serving correctly. It should be, but his mind was still hazy from inadequate sleep and alcohol.

“Are you out of your mind?” Jimmy snapped at the person on the phone, causing Scott to wince. She muttered an apology to Scott before going back to her conversation with no-longer-Pearl and checking for wounds on Gem. “Sausage, you and Joey lost two drunk people and we couldn’t find them for hours.”

“I’m sorry, mi amor!” Sausage pleaded over the call. “Next time I see you, I’ll kiss it better.” “I don’t want to talk to you,” Jimmy grumbled, sounding totally over him. “Either put Pearl back on the phone or I’m hanging up on you.” “But, Jimmy-” Before Sausage could finish speaking, Jimmy hung up. Not acknowledging it, he turned his attention from Gem to Scott. “Okay, you both look fine. Can you walk?” “I can probably stand, but I don’t see my arm crutches….” Gem used the tree to try and push herself to her feet, though she was fairly unstable. “Ugh, I need some water. And a nap. Another one. Preferably in a bed this time.” “Me too,” Scott agreed, his body aching from sleeping on the ground.

“My apartment is nearby. I’ll just let Lizzie and Joel know that I’m bringing you, and you can nap the hangover off there,” Jimmy offered, moving Gem’s arm over his shoulders to help her walk.

Gem leaned into Jimmy’s support, leaving Scott to walk on his own. Luckily, he’s had his fair share of hangovers and was otherwise able bodied so he was stable enough to walk on his own. He was passively concerned where Gem’s arm crutches ended up though…  “Thanks, Jimmy.”

Scott was fairly sure Jimmy replied with “You’re welcome” or something along those lines, but he honestly wasn’t sure. That was the last thing he remembered before he woke up again, snuggled under the covers within an ocean themed bedroom. Scott didn’t dwell on it, keeping his eyes closed and relishing in the bed’s comfort. He would deal with the repercussions of whatever was waiting for him later.

𓆩♪⛧₊˚ Fwhip ﾟ₊⛧♪ 𓆪

Fwhip felt like they were on the top of the world. It may be a little silly to feel that way for winning a competition, but that competition was a big deal for his band! WRA was moving up in the world and it only filled him with determination, motivation, and energy. Cultivating that energy, Fwhip sat down to polish the song he had been working on for a while now.

Scott helped him out with some parts, and now, thanks to him, the chords flowed perfectly and the lyrics matched. The chords flowed perfectly and the lyrics matched. The song was a duet, and he’s heard both parts played together by recording himself and then layering them, but it wasn’t the same. Fwhip wanted to hear the song as intended, and he could only think of one person that would fit the part perfectly.

That led to Fwhip asking Scott to meet him at Empires during the day. He got permission from Joey, as long as Fwhip got the keys back in a timely manner. After all the continuous daydreaming of Scott, his singing voice, and his guitar playing skills, Fwhip finally worked up the courage to ask him and it was starting to pay off.

“Do you like it?” Fwhip asked shyly as Scott looked over the sheet music.

“Like it?” Scott parroted with a laugh. “Fwhip, I love it. This is amazing! It has the folk rock elements you’re used to, but there’s also inspiration from my style of music. Theoretically, it blends together perfectly.”

“Oh,” Fwhip blinked, before leaning forward to look down at his own handwriting again. “What would make it no longer theoretical?” If Scott had notes on how to improve it, Fwhip would absolutely take them into consideration.

“Playing it and seeing how it sounds together.” Scott grinned as retrieved his guitar, threw the strap over his head, and set the guitar in his lap. 

They didn’t waste anymore time to start playing. The spirit of the music overtook them, bliss swelling within them and being poured onto every stroke of the strings. Fwhip didn’t consider himself a good singer, but Scott had a way of complimenting Fwhip’s voice and making him sound even better than he actually was.

Fwhip knew the lyrics and chords by heart, so he didn’t need to rely on reading the sheet music to help guide him. This meant that they stared at Scott, all their focus on the beautiful man across from him. When the song ended, Scott turned his attention to Fwhip, catching them staring at him.

“You’re incredible,” Fwhip admitted with a breathless whisper.

Scott laughed an airy, baffled laugh, his cheeks flushing a light pink. “Me? Fwhip, this was all you. Sure, I helped a little, but this is still your song. I’m just honored you picked me to play it with you.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Fwhip asked, blushing dark red. Before he could overthink it, he took his shot. “It is about you, after all. About… us.”

The song was about new relationships and getting to know someone that they previously admired. It contained lots of subtle praises and compliments that Fwhip knew Scott was smart enough to pick up on. He just wouldn’t have known that Fwhip meant those things genuinely about Scott.

Fwhip wasn't sure when they had drifted so close to each other, closing the distance, but... here they were, only a few inches apart. His eyes flicked to Scott's lips, then back up to Scott's icy blue eyes. Icy yet glittering with such beautiful warmth.

“Can I kiss you?” “I thought you would never ask,” Scott murmured in return, leaning down to lock their lips together. As the kiss deepened, Scott climbed onto Fwhip’s lap with his legs around Fwhip’s waist and Fwhip’s hands supporting Scott’s back. A three-legged metal stool was probably not the best place for two people to make out, but Fwhip couldn’t care less right now. All he knew was that he felt happy. Everything was looking up for him and he couldn’t wait to see where everything led to next. The future held many opportunities and experiences to be had, and Fwhip was more than ready to brave the unknown with Scott by his side.

[gaijin-fujin-resonance]

プシュケー - PSYCHE -

Oh thank goodness, Hide has finally left the farty synth noises behind, and returned to form with one of his big, windswept shoegaze epics!

Hell, yes, this is what Hide is best at! Haunting minor chords, whispered vocals, intertwined textures - he’s been scratching this kind of itch since the days of Pleasure Land and Jupiter. But he’s really come into his own in the past decade, exploring this slightly Arabesque, slightly Spanish air on songs like El Dorado and Ai no Harem. He elegantly balances delicate, filigree pretty sounds with quite ugly sounds mixed low in the background to convey a sense of menace. Drifting prettiness on its own is not that interesting. But prettiness mixed in with the edge of fear results in the sense of awe that is crucial for true beauty.

It starts with a lovely, low filter sweep like a desert wind, then ups the anticipation with an insistent but slightly restrained, single-note bass keyboard drone. Yes! He’s toned down the squelchiness of the synth's filter and added a little overdrive, to minimise that fart-effect that spoiled some of the earlier tracks, but still maintains a dark, driving tone. When Yuta’s stringed bass comes in, it’s clean, but low and growly, coiling around the synth drone like a serpent. Natural and synth bass work together to create a compelling sense of movement.

On the verses, the guitars are clean, one striking bell-like chiming chords, the other strummed and silvery. Whispered background vocals help build an air of mystery, while Hide does that extremely Sakurai-like trick of close-miking but leaving in the breaths and gasps for air between phrases. It’s really quite sexy, isn’t it?

When the chorus comes in at 0:47, both guitars slam on the distortion - one chugging along with the synth bass, the other slashing an alarm through the hot, dense air. The long step delay catches and holds the riff subtly in the background, echoing away like a mirage while the kick drum and bass synth interweave a stomping dance rhythm. It’s such a simple trick: switching back and forth between quiet part / loud part and clean guitar / distorted guitar, but it’s so effective at building momentum, the way the guitars tease almost to the point of orgasm, before backing off again.

After the long build all on one chord, the keychange at 1:43 is a real pulse-quickening moment, but the mood doesn’t let up. Strangled pads drift through the background, evocative of The Cure in their Pornography era, but the real surprise is the moaning. Moaning? From our Hidehiko? I don’t know, he always struck me as so shy and straight-laced, blushing sweetly at Acchan’s provocative lyrics and onstage antics. And yet here, our prim and proper rhythm guitarist is very definitely sighing and mewling over the sensual synth breaks like a man tossed by desire. Honestly, I did not know you had it in you, Hide! (I mean, obviously, the man has three children, he knows about the facts of life as well as death on earth. I just wasn’t expecting him to evoke them so explicitly in performance!)

The whispered vocals of the last verse - especially the ones at 2:32, where all the instruments drop out except for the low, howling, wind-like synth and Hide’s close, breathy voice… my goodness, it’s like the moment in a film where the librarian suddenly takes off her glasses and… good heavens, Mr. Hoshino, you’re beautiful!

Ach, but the perfection of those very New Order-esque stabby synths creeping in through the background, giving way to a snare roll that sweeps us up into the chorus again! There’s a steampunk interlude during the break at 2:55, and when the chorus comes back, it has gone all INDUSTRIAL!!! Yes! Yes! Hide is muscling in on Imai's ‘weird sounds’ bandwagon, weaving in submarine depth charges, a huffing sound almost like a steam engine, metal-smashing samples, and a distinctly pneumatic drill-like tone that makes this Neubauten fan roll over on my back like a baby! The sample track carries on through the ecstatic orgasm of the last chorus, before fading out like a sudden rainstorm.

Best Bit: THE MOANING. Clearly, the moaning. Sorry, I will never get over the revelation that is the sudden sexy turn of Hide’s vocals. But oh yes. The music. Definitely that little steampunk break at 2:55, the ping of the sonar followed by the buzz of the drill-tone. Ugly sounds rendered extraordinarily beautiful in context. That’s what I listen to Buck-Tick for!

[raccoonfallsharder]

golden hour ☀︎ ⋆⁺☁︎⋆₊⊹ preview part three of sunshine ☀︎ book one of kinktober 2024

[anticipated 10/16]

sunshine masterlist | kinktober 2024 | navigation

rocket steals all the warmth he can get before the sun inevitably sets. aka, last call. KINKS/WARNINGS: free-use, mentions of sex toys, nipple-play, dom/sub vibes, pussy-claiming, shower sex, sensation play. 

“What are you still doing awake?” you’d asked, brow crinkled with worry as he’d crowded in with you, turning and closing you both inside the stall. Steam had already been pearlizing the air, turning it misty and opalescent, while the fall of water hushed against the ceramic tile. Bluesy electric chords teased through the vapor like a lover, then shifted into pensive, rhythmic lyrics. “Heard you padding around the hallway like a cute little mouse.” His teeth had gleamed up at you through the ribbons of fog: sharp and challenging. “Thought I’d come claim my cunt.”

Your eyebrows had swung upward, a ribbon of molten gold immediately unspooling in your belly. “Yours?” The slashing line of his mouth — somewhere between a smirk and a sneer — had widened. “Isn’t it? Unless you’re changing your mind, f’course. But you did say—“ “Sure,” you’d agreed breathily, before he could spit out another word. “It can be yours.” His own brows had arched briefly, surprise flickering through that shimmering, glinting red gaze. You’d swayed backward one step, then two — clenching your fingers into the hem of your towel, and teasing the opening between the edges of it. The teasing had been — not quite an accident, but a mask, perhaps. You hadn’t been reluctant — but hesitant, yes.  Uncertain, really. Maybe a little shy,  given his withdrawal after that night on the flightdeck.  But still. “How do you want me?” you’d managed to ask, your voice crimped and crackling, tumbled in the sudden rapid flutter of your heart and abdomen.  “In,” he’d rasped, twisting one fist in your towel. You’d yelped when he’d pulled it casually from your grasp, tossing it to the  floor. That feeling inside you — soft melted platinum, hot spun gold, muted wet sunlight — had sparked and sizzled in your belly, and then he’d advanced. Maybe, if you hadn’t been so dazed and hazy-eyes, it would have been shocking — how someone so small could suddenly seem so predatory. Hackles raised, claws curled, teeth bared — eyes gleaming — he’d stalked toward you through the moonstone-steam until you’d suddenly found yourself under the warm spray of the shower, squeaking and ducking when the fine torrent of droplets had suddenly danced on your skin.  “H—how—“ you’d started to repeat, but he’d lightly slapped your left thigh — a love-tap, really, but just enough to sting. Your words had staggered in your throat with a gasp.  “Up,” he’d said loosely, starting to unbuckle the straps of his jumpsuit. “Put that pretty foot on the bench and lean back.” Your thoughts had stuttered. “B-but—” He’d raised one brow — half a question, and half a warning — and your brain had blanked out completely. You’d leaned back against the cold metal wall, shivering, and let the raindrop-spray dance and patter over your skin. You’d barely been anxious at all in any of these exploits and adventures, since you’d met him — too caught up in the way he’d unspiralled all that shimmery arousal in your belly, too focused on helping him enjoy it as much as you were. But now — knowing what he’d been asking for — self-consciousness had rippled through you. He’d stilled, jumpsuit already shoved down around his hips, and blinked those red-bourbon eyes up at you. “You change your mind?” he’d asked, and somehow, it’s nowhere as bitter or sharp or annoyed as you might have expected. It’s — simple, and matter-of-fact. Not quite resigned, but certainly unsurprised. “All that wherever, whenever, however stuff — you change your mind?”

part three of sunshine ☀︎ ⋆⁺☁︎⋆₊⊹

kinktober 2024 | navigation | fanfiction masterlist

orange support/mdni banners and fairylight dividers by @/saradika-graphics | yellow flower dividers by @/thecutestgrotto

[laineycaldwell]

who: Lainey & @tefibetancourt where: The Pour House

CJ had blown Lainey off for the night and she, bored of all the bars within walking distance of her apartment, wound up here. The Pour House. Sure, it wasn't really blowing off if they hadn't made plans in the first place... but Lainey was biding her time, especially after her run-in with Sebastian at the birthday. It was obvious he had a problem with her, and while it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why, Lainey didn't want to confront that just yet.

There were a lot of things Lainey didn't want to confront just yet, which was unusual for her. Dad used to call her a bull in a china shop-- tackling everything head-on. But she was tired. So tired that she was going out of her way to avoid her ex's roommate slash husband. How the mighty had fallen. It wasn't so bad, in actuality, especially after Lainey batted her eyelashes at the bartender and got unfettered access to the aux.

After her fourth vodka cranberry, Lainey was on her feet looking for someone to pester. A striking woman at the other end of the bar caught her eye, and she slid into the seat next to her. "I'm Lainey, and I think we're both way too hot to be drinking alone," she announced with a friendly smile. "Let me buy you a shot?" There was no sense beating around the bush. With the tequila blazing its trail down her throat, Lainey felt so much more herself. And maybe... a little sloppy. She got to her feet again, recognizing the opening chords of 'Witchoo.' "Shit, you know Durand Jones?" she asked her new friend, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her to her feet, too.

"It's illegal not to dance to this, by the way," she said, pulling Tefi by the hands to the middle of the bar. Lainey didn't mind making a scene-- especially not when she was absolutely sure the Pour House clientele wouldn't mind a bit.

[deadnburied13]

"Sweet Child o' Mine" is a song by Guns N' Roses. It appeared on their debut album Appetite for Destruction. The song was released in June 1988 as the album's third single, and topped the Billboard Hot 100 chart, becoming the band's only number 1 US single. Billboard ranked it the number 5 song of 1988.

The lyrics came from a poem Axl Rose was working on. He wrote the song about his girlfriend, Erin Everly. Slash came up with the riff when he was playing around on his guitar. He thought it was silly and wanted nothing to do with it, but Axl loved it and had him keep playing it. Izzy Stradlin added some chords, and the song came together. According to Duff McKagan's 2012 autobiography, Slash always considered it the worst Guns N' Roses song.

A third verse Axl wrote was edited out because the record company thought it made the song too long.

(Slash, Rose, Stradlin, Recorded 1987, Released June 1988 (US), May 29, 1989 (UK), Length 5:55 (album version)

#GnFnR

[inspirdgboutique01]

Green Day Graffiti Punk Limited Edition Air Force 1

Link Product: https://inspirdg.com/product/green-day-graffiti-punk-limited-edition-air-force-1/

A Loud and Rebellious Symphony: The Green Day Graffiti Punk Limited Edition Air Force 1

In a world where sneaker collaborations have become an art form, the Green Day Graffiti Punk Limited Edition Air Force 1 emerges as an explosive celebration of punk rock, street art, and bold creative expression. This design is not simply footwear—it’s a rebellious manifesto stitched, painted, and printed onto one of the most iconic sneaker silhouettes in history.

Inspired by the raw energy of Green Day’s music and infused with the unfiltered vibrancy of urban graffiti, this limited-edition release stands as a fearless tribute to punk culture. Every element has been meticulously crafted to capture the band’s anarchic spirit, channeling decades of influence into a pair of shoes that feel just as defiant as Green Day’s first power chord.

A Fusion of Punk Energy and Street Art

At first glance, the Green Day Graffiti Punk Air Force 1 bursts off the canvas with an intensity that feels almost electric. The design captures the visceral emotion of the punk scene: loud, unpolished, and unapologetically honest.

The upper is drenched in an eye-catching lime green and black striped base, immediately evoking the chaotic pulse of street art walls layered with posters, stickers, and rebellious graffiti tags. This chaotic yet controlled backdrop perfectly mirrors Green Day’s ability to blend infectious hooks with unfiltered social commentary—a wild balance of order and disorder that defines the punk ethos.

It’s a visual anthem for those who refuse to blend in, designed for anyone who carries that same rebellious spark within themselves.

Color Theory: Vibrancy Meets Rebellion

The color palette employed in this design is no accident—it’s a carefully orchestrated balance of rebellion and vibrancy:

The acid green base screams vitality, youth, and danger—a nod to punk’s electric lifeblood.

The jet black stripes ground the design, adding visual tension that mirrors the genre’s dark edge.

The bold hot pink Swoosh cuts across the design like a rebellious slash of spray paint, injecting both contrast and a dose of pop-punk flair that Green Day fans will immediately recognize.

The white sole and lace bed balance the chaos, anchoring the design with a classic sneaker foundation that honors Nike’s Air Force 1 heritage.

The end result is a color scheme that punches the senses while staying cohesive—a perfect marriage of sneaker culture and punk aesthetics.

Artistic Graphics That Speak Punk Fluently

Beyond color, the true soul of this design lives in its graffiti-style graphics, which turn the sneaker into a living, wearable Green Day mural.

Peppered across the panels are hand-drawn illustrations and punk-inspired motifs that include:

Cartoonish skulls

Punk rock caricatures

Scribbled band references

Edgy visual shout-outs to Green Day’s signature iconography

The pink-haired punk rabbit featured prominently on the side panel feels like the perfect mascot for this release: mischievous, rebellious, and delightfully unpredictable. These graphics are not polished for mass appeal—they’re raw and energetic, just like the garage-band spirit that fueled Green Day’s rise from the Bay Area underground to global stages.

The carefully arranged graphics feel like a punk zine exploded onto the sneaker, capturing the layered, DIY aesthetic that defines the genre. It's not trying to be perfect — it's trying to be real.

Typography That Commands Attention

The “Green Day” wordmark emblazoned near the toe box uses a distorted graffiti font in deep green and purple. The sharp, jagged edges of the letters ooze with punk attitude, channeling a sense of urgency and defiance that mirrors the band’s music.

This typography placement is subtle yet potent, ensuring that every wearer carries a small but powerful banner of allegiance to both punk rock and sneaker culture. It’s a brilliant fusion of music and design that feels personal, not commercial—a true tribute to the fans.

Craftsmanship That Honors the Air Force 1 Legacy

While the design screams rebellion, the craftsmanship behind these sneakers remains meticulously high quality, honoring Nike’s Air Force 1 legacy:

The durable leather upper provides both structure and longevity.

The classic AF1 sole unit offers the dependable comfort and traction sneakerheads expect.

Sublimation and print technology ensure that the vivid colors and complex graphics remain sharp even after extended wear.

Premium laces and interior linings maintain the balance between street-ready fashion and high-end construction.

This is not a sneaker built only to sit in a box—it’s meant to be worn, flaunted, and lived in.

A Collector’s Dream with Cultural Significance

As a limited edition release, the Green Day Graffiti Punk Air Force 1 holds tremendous appeal for both sneaker collectors and music fans alike. In many ways, it serves as a physical time capsule, capturing Green Day’s punk legacy at a cultural moment when fashion and music continue to collide.

For Green Day fans, it’s a deeply personal collectible—a way to wear their love for the band on their feet. For sneakerheads, it’s a rare and audacious collaboration that stands out in a sea of predictable designs. For both, it’s a symbol of rebellion, creativity, and cultural crossover.

Conclusion: Punk Rock Worn Proudly on Your Feet

The Green Day Graffiti Punk Limited Edition Air Force 1 is a design triumph that perfectly encapsulates the explosive spirit of both punk rock and sneaker culture. Through vibrant color theory, aggressive graphics, and fearless design choices, it achieves what all great collaborations aspire to: it feels honest, authentic, and completely unforgettable.

In a world where sneaker releases often play it safe, this design screams loudly and unapologetically—just like a Green Day anthem. It’s not merely footwear; it’s a wearable middle finger to conformity, a love letter to punk rock, and a beacon for those who proudly walk to the beat of their own drum.

[ghcstwired]

Ryujin had seen a lot in his time. Fans throwing bras onstage, sasaengs hiding in his closet, a raccoon trying to steal his mic during an outdoor fan sign once… but this? This? His girlfriend casually admitting to neighbor-cannibalism while licking her lips like she’d just finished a perfectly medium-rare steak?

He stopped pacing. His foot froze mid-step. His jaw was somewhere on the floor. ❝ Sayuri, ❞ he began, voice high and tight with the kind of tension reserved for PR disasters and broken choreography counts, ❝ please tell me this is one of your extremely vivid metaphors for ‘he annoyed you and you unfollowed him.’ Please. For my sanity. Just say he was metaphorically digested. I will believe you. I am so willing to live in that kind of delusion right now. ❞

But she kept smiling. That terrifying, glowing kind of smile, like she was the hero in her own musical where the chorus line was made of meat-puppets. ❝ Oh my god. Oh my god, ❞ he muttered, dragging a hand down his face as he resumed pacing, faster now. ❝ We’re not even married and I’m already in one of those true crime dramas. I’m gonna be that guy who looks at the camera and says ‘I never suspected a thing. She was always so calm, so composed, so… hot.’ And then the reenactment actor playing me is gonna be ugly and shirtless and screaming over a fake body bag! ❞ She took a step toward him and he recoiled slightly — not out of fear, but more like a man just trying to find a wall to lean on before the dramatic swooning began. ❝ You left a bone? ❞ , he exclaimed, hand flying to his chest like she’d just told him she scratched his favorite vinyl. ❝ As a souvenir?? Do you want the police to scrapbook our downfall? ❞

At her mercy killing defense, he stared at her like she’d grown a second head — which, honestly, wouldn’t even rank top five in shocking revelations at this point. ❝ Sayuri. That man couldn’t hit a chord if it punched him in the face, but that doesn’t mean you get to eat him! There are noise complaints! There are civil lawsuits! There is therapy! Not… digestion! ❞ She was still purring, still teasing, still looking at him like he was the one being dramatic. And then came the sweet voice — the saccharine warning wrapped in a sugar shell with the very real implication of “rat me out and I’ll use your femur as a backscratcher.” Ryujin blinked slowly. Then took a deep breath. ❝ Snitch? Baby, no. ❞ He straightened up, rolling his shoulders back and planting a very brave (no, deeply panicked) grin on his face. ❝ I’m your loyal little idol boyfriend, remember? Tight schedules, tighter pants, and absolutely no interest in getting dismembered in my sleep. ❞

He stepped cautiously closer, hands up in surrender. ❝ Besides, ❞ he added with a cheeky grin, ❝ who else would write a love song about the girl who snacks on bad musicians like they’re late-night ramen? You’re not just terrifying. You’re inspiring. And possibly my greatest muse-slash-murderous menace. ❞

A beat passed. ❝ But next time? Could you at least text me before dessert? ❞

@ghcstwired,  continued  from  here  !

Ryujin’s reaction was a sight to behold, really — on top of her deliciously full stomach, it served as a vivid reminder to why snacking down on their neighbor had been a fantastic idea! In her deeply satisfied state, her hunger momentarily stilled, it proved as the perfect after-dinner entertainment to watch him wrangle with her morbid confession. 

❛ Aww, you’re pretty when you’re spiraling, ❜ Sayuri purred, a lightness woven into her words as if she was talking about something casual — like the weather on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, painting murder as no more exciting than a grocery list. ❛ And for the record, I left exactly one bone. As a souvenir. Even though it wasn’t the greatest dinner I’ve ever had... lots of sinew, not enough substance. Really, he should be ashamed for not even being tasty. I’m the real victim here. ❜ Dramatically, she rolled her eyes — as if the sheer audacity of the lack in flavor was a personal affront by their now-deceased neighbor. Then, she took a step closer — approaching Ryujin while he was pacing in a circle like an apathetic, caged lion in an outdated zoo. Amusement remained etched onto her features as she watched him — the way humans wrangled with something as minuscule as death, especially when caused by a little binge-eating, never failed to delight her. It was fascinating, really, the way they all clung to life, to morality, to these arbitrary rules she had never bothered to learn. 

❛ He did play guitar at 3AM, though. Badly. So really, this was a mercy killing. A selfless act to preserve public sanity. You’re welcome. ❜ Convinced of her own heroic mission, she seemed slightly proud of her doing, even — her smile blazing, as if she had just selflessly saved the day... for everyone, except the neighbor-turned-dinner. ❛ Don’t worry, baby — no one’s going to prison. I cleaned up immaculately. And besides… ❜ Her voice dropped, sly and sweet, while she tilted her head; faux-curiosity appearing in her glimmering eyes. ❛ You wouldn’t snitch on me, would you? ❜ A sugary tone, but her gaze sharpened, just for a second — a silent reminder that he better not pick the wrong answer. 

[guitarguitarworld]

Modern Jazz Fusion Slash Chords

Modern Jazz Fusion Slash Chords

CLICK SUBSCRIBE! Modern Jazz Fusion Chords [Slash Chords] IMPORTANT: Please watch video above for detailed info: Hi Guys, Today we will look at Modern Jazz Fusion Chords. These are mainly based around a Triad over a different bass note commonly called “Slash” chords. Here are the main common slash chords employed in reharmonisation. The fist chord is C/F# and creates a colurful tri-tone…

[evnovia]

— 8:54am

+ pairing. dabi x reader  + word count. 1.174 + warnings. kinda explicit mentions of violence/wounds + author’s note. that one scene from the new suicide squad movie had me rushing home to whip this very random and unneeded scene up

Slashing through the neck of another hopeless officer, you shove his limp form into another burly man headed your way. His breathless gasp is cut short when you skewer your blade through both their bodies and effortlessly flick their dead weight off to the side as you push open the front door.

The overwhelming brightness of the light outside burns your irises, having become well accustomed to the dim interior of the police station. Your narrowed eyes scan the length of the empty street before you, nonchalantly searching for a taxi.

Trying to rub off the copious amounts of blood staining your skin only spreads the crimson colour over a larger patch of your arm, countering your attempts to clean up your ragged appearance. The torture you had undergone is horridly evident in the tattered, grisly state of your clothes, unveiling the open wounds festering in the flesh underneath.

It’s sure to be a pain in the ass later, but the adrenaline high from your murdering spree leaves you up in the mellow clouds, where your nerves fail to report the presence of the many lacerations eating away at your skin. Right now, all your concerns lie with the pint of ice cream you left waiting for you in the freezer, warning everyone in sight that their necks were on the line if they so much as looked at the frozen treat the wrong way.

To your despair, not a single soul stirs nearby—no pedestrians for you to threaten, no vehicles for you to highjack, no shops for you to snag some spare cash from. You spin around to head back to the station filled with fresh corpses before you spot a lone policeman rounding the corner of the building.

“Thank fuck,” you sigh, whipping a dirtied blade out from your belt and beginning to advance on the unsuspecting man. “I really didn’t feel like walking all the way back there. Since you’re helping me out here, I’ll end this quickly.”

He evidently catches wind of your voice, stiffening at your rapidly approaching figure. An illegally high-pitched screech rips through his vocal chords as he shakes his fists back and forth, hopping from one foot to another with his harsh features scrunched up in… elation?

You aim for his exposed neck to end the torment he wreaks upon your unsuspecting eardrums, but he swiftly dodges out of your line of fire. Huffing at the man’s agility, you suppress the tick raging near your temples from the delay in your plans. The weaklings inside the station were nowhere near this stranger’s ability.

Today’s officers didn’t prove to be as challenging as Shigaraki made them out to be, leaving you sorely disappointed by both their cowawrdly methods of torture and their physical prowess—not that you minded ripping this man’s jaw off in exchange for all your troubles. “If you don’t stay still, this might hurt a bit.”

When everything from the strands of his scraggly, unkempt hair to the royal blue fabric of his uniform begins to melt into a gray puddle, you abruptly halt in your advance. “Toga-chan?”

She howls out your name as her stark naked figure bolts into your arms with a force that nearly topples the both of you straight to the rough pavement. You carefully pocket your knife and delicately wrap what’s left of your outer coat around her shoulders, wiping the grime off her soft cheeks. “What’re you doing here?”

Toga giggles, snuggling deeper into your chest. “We’re here to save you, silly!”

Your hands around her torso tighten, still unfamiliar with the sudden throbbing that hammers at the organs within your chest. “Save me? We?”

Two towering men appear from the dark shadows behind the buildings, sauntering up to you. From the tophat and the creepy mask, you detect Mr. Compress flanked by a startled boy with jet black hair and scars covering the lower half of his face. Mr. Compress accusingly points his cane at you. “And to think Shigaraki made us come all the way over here for this.”

“He told you to save me? Shigaraki did?”

Mr. Compress hums his affirmation, and—without waiting for a response—wanders off to inspect the body count lining your bloody trail of escape, most likely to report back to Shigaraki. You stay stunned in your spot, shifting your gaze between the three of them before lamely spitting out, “I-I mean I can go back in there, the chains and ropes and everything are still there. You can come and save me as planned!”

Dabi’s deep chuckle sends a chill down your spine. “I don’t know, doll. The lack of armed soldiers guarding your cell kinda kills the fantasy.”

You can’t rip your eyes from the piercing cerulean that stares you down hungrily, exasperation and pride swirling in their depths. Stroking Toga’s locks in order to feel the pleased purring rise from her chest, you outstretch your other arm and flick your fingers as a signal for him to come closer. “I’ll let those idiots catch me again if it means you’ll come to my rescue.”

“It’s not the same.” He wolfishly smirks at your wicked countenance, features glazed over in a dangerous desire. Dabi stalks over, circling around you to bury his chin into the crook of your neck with his excessively warm chest against your back. “Couldn’t you let me swoop in as your prince charming for once?”

You croon, “‘M not sure if prince charming would be very inclined to burn down a police station with dozens of people stuck inside.”

“Ah, it seems like I never fit into that role from the very beginning then.” His hot breath fans over your ear, a tingling sensation racing over the lengths of your arms as goosebumps follow in their wake.

One of his hands sneaks their way underneath your jaw, directing your head towards him to slot his plush, dry lips against yours. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth, resorting to firmly nibbling at the corners until you grant him access past your lips, which he immediately takes advantage of. You groan, pleased with the way his tongue meshes with your own.

“That’s enough of that, you sickos.” Mr. Compress pops back out of the empty station, a hand resting on his hip. “Go get a room, preferably somewhere far away from poor Toga.”

One idle glance to the girl wrapped in your arms, making a home in the space between your collarbones, and all three of you recognize the far-off look in her eyes, coupled with the light blush dusting her cheeks. Her mind is definitely filled with delight at the extensive rivulets of blood dripping off your wounds. You stroke her cheek affectionately. “Toga-chan’s pretty little brain isn’t able to come to the phone right now, please leave a message after the beep.”

Dabi scoffs, sliding off your shoulder to waltz up to Mr. Compress’ side. “Better hurry back before Twice eats all your ice cream for breakfast.”

Your enraged gasp spurs the villains into action.

[golden-mediocrity]

Channel

***Warning for self harm, violence, blood.***

The plush chair seemed to hug his form, something he had not been very accustomed to lately, the emptiness that had been consuming him from the inside was trying to fill it's own void.  Try as he might, the every-present pounding of his heart could be felt in his head and he attempted to isolate the sound's vibration in his horns, but it was no use. He channeled all he could of himself, his feelings, his emotions, his very soul into that point, desperately needing to silence the yelling of ten thousand voidsent screaming in discordant operatic melodies, giving a feeling of flesh rent from bone and tendon, but instead, applied to the inside of his mind unraveling his brain.

His blood boiled and he could feel the emptiness of the void overtaking every aspect of his senses. Mizuhiro struck out with clawed hands, and slashed at his own flesh along his chest and arms, causing rivulets of blood to follow in their destructive wake.  He could feel each and every ilm as they ripped through, he dug deep enough down to part muscle from vein, expose arteries that were normally hidden.  Even with as much pain and horror as it manifested in his mind, he still felt more in that moment, more than in recent memory.  The blinding white hot pain that pulsed in his vision, momentarily caused the screaming of the void to get washed out, the tinnitus in his horns rang out with every sawing cut and tear.  The hot drip-drip of blood tapping on the stone floor sounded like the second hand of the clock as the time of his life continued to tick on by.

There was no music, only the screams, but even with so many of them calling him home, he felt the thumping of a drum beat, the raising of another scream began to resonate separately and purposefully.  The wailing began to overtake the chorus of the rest, and it's familiarity haunted him, stabbed at his heart.  It was as if his entirety was spinning, round and round and over and over, causing his dizziness to increase.  He needed to know where it was coming from, this low guttural growl, harmonizing on it's own with itself, with a scraping blood-curdling shriek that echoed like a bat locating it's prey in the darkest of caverns, he could feel the hard pangs of hunger welling, driving him to feed, nothing was clear, his vision all a blur... He took one step, then another, and another, and on and on...

It didn't matter where he looked, walking along the nearly empty streets of the Goblet, but there were beacons out here, signalling for him, coaxing and calling him home, like the sirens of old, demanding sacrifice of ship and sanity, to crush them both on their rocky shores.  Mizu could feel the smashing of his will and rationality against the sharpest of objects, a slivered, shattered anvil, wrapped in barbed wire, ripping apart his lucidity and all reason... The rise of the chorus had matched his screaming now, pulling the ten thousand cacophonous voices into one, coordinated, identical song... The burst of white light had sprung forth in front of him, the beacon lit and answered, he bolted quick and dexterously to capture it in his arms, claws digging deep into it's flesh, along with his horns and teeth goring the entity of light, cutting it open and allowing him to feed freely on the pure fount of aether he had seized for himself.  

But in few, short moments later, the song ceased, the beacon fell dim and dull, along with everything that he had been conducting, the orchestra stopped, instruments clanged to the ground.  He crouched over the poor man, body now shriveled and desiccated, his aether fully removed so much that only a blood covered shell of what he had been remained.  There was another scream, a mortal one this time, one that shredded vocal chords and throat-flesh in a horrific display of regret and sorrow.  The Himaa dropped the corpse and stood above, tears streaming down his face along with the blood that trailed down his extremities, "No... no.... no......... no............," he continued to repeat over and over, his black-lit eyes glowed as they sought a way to escape.  He was flooded with self doubt and mortification at his actions, he had been past all of this, hadn't he? He had fallen asleep, something he had been doing more and more lately, and woke up as if from a nightmare that just didn't stop when his eyes opened, and revealed the fact that he had done this, he had let himself go, allowed his weaker nature to prevail...

He could not hold back the floodgates of pain and regret, but knew he needed to run, there was no explanation for what had happened other than the obvious, and he needed to distance himself from it as soon as humanly possible.  He picked up his feet, one after the other, faster and faster and finally until he found the end, he vaulted over the railing and down into the chasm, sliding with the rocks, and he prayed desperately he would not stop until he hit the abyss.

[musiceater]

Scorpions "Rock Believer"

Probablement si fos una altra banda, aquest àlbum pasaria desapercebut, però que a aquestes alçades els reis del 'Heavy Pop' continuïn fent àlbums és d'agrair i bé mereix la sentida.

Que no us faci mandra sentir-ho perquè sona molt bé, gràcies a la labor de producció i la contundent conjunció entre Mikkey Dee a la bateria i Pawel Mąciwoda al baix, als que se'ls uneixen els originaris Rudolf Schenker a la rítmica, Matthias Jabs a la solista i Klaus Meine a la veu.

Arrenca l'àlbum amb un "Gas in the Tank" de riffs poderosos, ben destacats i una tornada major característica, amb un solo, en progressió i so, molt Slash. Els riffs de la intro de "Roots in My Boots" ens recordaran al mític "Dynamite", això ens agrada, i donarà pas a "Knock 'Em Dead" on fan gala, una altra vegada, d'aquest stacatto d'acords (Rudolf Trademark) mentre el baix roda a tòniques. El tema que dóna titol a l'album és, com el seu propi nom indica, tot un himne que ens recordarà al "No One Like You" però amb una altra finalització d'acords. "Shining On Your Soul" sorprèn per la seva barreja de ritmes: per una banda la intro amb power-chords de interval menor i el estil reggae del vers que mariden força bé. Li segueix el mig temps "Seventh Son" de pic-i-pala amb una intro 'a lo' "Running With The Devil" i un vers més proper al "The Zoo". Quan pensava que el "Hot and Cold" el passaria, em sorprenc sentint un vers que camina a la perfecció seguit d'un pont tan estrany com agradable i culminant en una tornada hard-roquera molt bona. L'esbojarrada i roquera "When I Lay My Bones to Rest" (on la tornada em recorda als Mötorhead) dóna pas al "Peacemaker", un tema de caire més dur. Proven sort amb "Call of the Wild", molt fora del seu estil, on aproven amb escreix per fer-nos caure a la 'seva' balada (que seria dels Scorpions sense una?) en "When You Know (Where You Come From)" on el baix no deixa de roncar fent que, en certes parts, no sigui tan embafadora. Quedava clar (com a mínim per a mi) que no es podia acabar aquí, com la discogràfica ho va pair, haviem de despertar d'alguna manera i no l'haguessin pogut fer sense el que l'edició deluxe ens ofereix: 5 temes més que comencen pel "Shoot For The Heart" de tall més clàssic i molt trepidant, seguit de "When Tomorrow Comes" que, tot i que comença bé, es torna una mica desconcertant, ja que s'allunya de la comercialitat a la que ens tenen acostumats, i el mateix passa amb "Unleash the Beast" sense deixar de ser bons temes. Un "Crossing Borders", en el que podria entrar a la guitarra Joe Satriani, però en tempo més lent i que ens fa moure el cap amb el seu groove. Tanquen paradeta amb la versió acústica del "When You Know (Where You Come From)", tot i que pels més fanàtics, encara hi ha la versió japonesa amb 1 pista més: "Out Go The Lights".

Els riffs de Rudolf són poderosos, els solos de Matthias, brillants (tant en so com en execució), el baix de Pawel, rodó, metàl·lic i gruixut, la bateria de Mikkey, contundent i la veu de Klaus està en perfecta forma (més reposada i no tan nasal).

Des del "Unbreakable" del 2004 no els hi sentia res decent, però amb aquest 20è. treball d'estudi, els Germànics s'han superat: mantenen la seva frescor més clàssica amb un so i producció contemporània.

[gullethead]

Writing In Eternian

Hey! I made a post about a little season 5 easter egg yesterday (not linking it here because for some reason it blocks the post from showing in the tags)and while I was poking through the tags, I noticed that a lot of people want to learn how to use First Ones writing! Writing and orthography are actually things I'm really interested in, so I decided to make this guide for people. It's a bit more in-depth than the official press release, so if you just want to use that, feel free!

Here’s the original tweet from the She-Ra Twitter account, which has more examples: twitter. com /dreamworksshera/status/1055474341553623040

Here we go! Putting it under a break so it doesn't eat up your whole screen.

THE SOUNDS OF ENGLISH & THE IPA

So first of all, we need to start with a brief introduction to the IPA. (If you’re already familiar, you can skip to the next big heading.) Lots of languages use a lot of different letters or other characters to represent certain sounds, but when you're working with linguistics, you need to be able to say exactly what you mean. So, we made the International Phonetic Alphabet. This is a long list of individual letters and markings that represent very specific sounds, and you use them by placing them between slashes, like /d/, and sometimes to distinguish, you place the actual writing between corner brackets, like <d>. So for instance, /t/ and /h/ make the same sounds that <t> and <h> make in English, but <th> (usually) makes either the /θ/ or /ð/ sounds. These change based on where you live, but in general the consonants are the same for all English speakers.

Knowing this is important, because something I love about the First Ones alphabet is that it isn't just a letter substitution! Many "secret language" alphabets I've seen in kid's series (like Artemis Fowl, for instance) are just simple one-to-one substitutions for the Latin alphabet we use. But First Ones writing is actually very different! It uses the actual sounds made in the word. So if you wrote "cat" in the First Ones script (which I'm gonna call Eternian, after Eternia from He-Man, which flows better than "First Ones script"), it would actually look like "kat", because the letter c can be used for the sounds k or s, so it doesn't translate.

The alphabet we're using right now was created for the Latin language, derived from the Greek alphabet, which itself has a very long history behind it. English is NOT descended from Latin - it's a Germanic language, and the Germanic family is only kind of related to the Romantic family that developed out of Latin. However, a lot of our vocabulary has a Latin infusion because of mixing with Old French in the 1000s-1100s, and even before that, we used the Latin alphabet because it was the most common. This means that in order to express all the sounds we have, English speakers writing English had to combine different letters together; this, plus over a thousand years of different spellings and dialects, means that our orthography - our way of writing the sounds we say - is FUCKED. The Eternian alphabet is actually a much more efficient way of writing these sounds!

This is the total list of English consonants:

A few notes here:

To make sure you're not lost, /ŋ/ is <ng>, /j/ is <y>, /θ/ and /ð/ are <th>, /ʃ/ and /ʒ/ are <sh> and <zh> (the French <j>, not usually distinguished in English writing) respectively, and /tʃ/ and /dʒ/ are <ch> and the English <j> respectively.

Most consonants can come in voiced and unvoiced versions (although, because English is weird, these are called "fortis" and "lensis" because we pronounce them with different amounts of energy). /b/ is /p/, but pronounced using the vocal chords. Only the nasal sounds, the "approximants", and /h/ don't have pairs in English, although /h/ DOES actually have a common voiced pair, and you can technically pronounce the others voiceless in some languages although it's very rare.

The /x/ sound, famously the end of the Scottish word "loch", is only found in Celtic accents (Scottish, Irish, Welsh) and in the South African accent (because of influence from Dutch). Other English speakers realize it as /k/.

The /r/ sound is weird. What /r/ technically represents is a trill, like in the Spanish <rr>. However, in English, that trill is very rare; what we use <r> for is called a "postalveolar approximant", [ɹ̠]. However, it is usually easier just to write the letter r, so that's how we transcribe it for English's IPA.

English also sometimes has what are called "syllabic consonants", which are consonants that can act as the center of a syllable in the place of a vowel. In English, these are mostly /l/, /m/, and /n/. For instance, the word "bottle" is technically pronounced [ˈbɑɾl̩] in General American English, and the same goes for words like "rhythm" and "button"; however, because this would complicate things a lot, phonologists consider it to include a very small vowel, so with the example of "bottle", it would be /ˈbɑtəl/ instead.

The vowels are a bit more weird than the consonants. Our alphabet was originally created for Latin, which only has ten vowel sounds, long and short a, e, i, o, and u (although technically the short vowels are /a ɛ ɪ ɔ ʊ/ instead of /a e i o u/, because fuck it I guess). However, we have a MUCH different vowel "inventory" in English - instead of the uniform 10 paired Latin vowels, in General American English we have anywhere from 11-13 vowels depending on your interpretation along with three diphthongs (combinations of two vowels used as a single vowel):

If you look at the British (Received Pronunciation) chart it's much different from that, which is why the accents are so distinct; however, Eternian is made with GA English in mind, so I'm just going to focus on that.

More notes:

/ə/ (a schwa, like in "uh"), /ɜ/ (very similar and hard to distinguish in writing), and /ʌ/ (something between an "uh" and an "ah"), are all very close to each other and sometimes interchangeable, especially between the first two.

/oʊ/ is usually simplified to /o/, and /eɪ/ is sometimes simplified to /e/, since the normal versions of those sounds don't show up so we don't have to make the difference clear.

A lot of accents in North America make /ɔ/ sounds (similar to "aw" or "au", like in "caught") into /ɑ/ sounds (the o in "hot").

Now, let's move on to the alphabet!

ETERNIAN GLYPHS & SIGILS

The "letters" of the Eternian alphabet, in my opinion, are better described using the more general term "glyph". This is because, while they are distinct shapes that mean specific sounds, they are used kind of artistically and variably within one large interconnected word-shape called a "sigil", much different than we would consider letters in the English alphabet. These glyphs are organized in words by lines starting at the basic shape of the sigil and stringing them together in order.

Eternian glyphs are split into two major categories that differ by shape: consonants and vowels.

CONSONANTS

The system of glyphs for Eternian consonants is actually very easy to remember, once you get the shapes down! Let's go back to the voiced/voiceless pairs. English has eight pairs of these, four plosives (made by quickly starting and stopping air with your mouth) and four fricatives (made by constantly moving air through your mouth). These eight pairs - along with another pair for /r/ and /l/ even though they aren't voiced/voiceless, because they're also closely related - make up most of the sounds in English and most of the consonant glyphs in Eternian. In each of these pairs, the voiceless (and /l/) have a basic, empty polygon shape; the voiced pair (and /r/) use the exact same shape, but with a dot in the middle. Like so:

Outside of this, English has four more vowels - /m/, /n/, /ŋ/, and /h/ - and two "semivowels", which can be used either as a vowel or a consonant. One of these semivowels, /j/ (the English y), is used as a vowel in Eternian, while the other, /w/, is treated as a consonant. Except for /w/, these remaining consonants are all marked by the fact that they’re solid color; they also all use the same basic shapes as many of the others, but aren’t related to the sounds which share their shape:

Pretty simple once you get the hang of it! Excuse the messiness; if you want a more precise rendering, you can reference the original release at the top.

I'm pretty sure this is all accurate, but there's one thing that seems weird to me. In English, <th> can be used to express either voiceless /θ/ or voiced /ð/. However, in Eternian, they gave us a "dh" glyph. I assume that this is meant to represent /ð/. However, in Wrong Hordak's "Smooch The Chef" apron, "the" is spelled with the glyph used for /θ/. But honestly I'm just assuming human error on that one, especially because /ð/ is very rare at the beginning of words except for articles or pronouns like the and these, most cases of <th> at the beginning of a word are /θ/ like in "thorn".

Now, for vowels!

VOWELS

Like I said earlier, this bit is much more complicated to get than the consonants, but luckily, this is actually much better for English than Latin letters!

Eternian vowel glyphs are divided, seemingly at random, into two subsets with a single exception. First are line-glyphs, which are formed by altering the connective line between two geometric glyphs. The others are circle-glyphs, the ones used for /ɛ/, /i/, /u/, and /o/. These function in the exact same way as the consonant glyphs, except that they are all circles where none of the consonants (except /n/) are.

There's a few issues here with transcribing words, but they mostly come out of simplifying English's horrible vowel fluidity. For instance, there's no distinct letter for writing the schwa /ə/, but it can be folded into the letter for /ʌ/. That, and combining /ɔ/ with /ɑ/, simplify 16 sounds into 13 letters. The last letter, /j/, is the other semivowel I mentioned above; <y> in English can be used for either /j/ or /aɪ/ and /ɪ/, but this letter specifically represents the /j/ sound like in "yes" or "yak".

BRINGING IT TOGETHER

This is where things get very interesting. Let's start with the basics, walking through how to write the word "Adora".

Eternian, as a writing system, is much more artistic by design than Latin, and words and sentences can be constructed in many ways which are all read the same way. Eternian words - better called "sigils" - are read right-to-left, like Hebrew, Arabic, or traditional Japanese and Chinese. We form the sigils starting with a line sloping down in that direction book-ended with dots. The exact angle and length doesn't matter, but the right side is always noticeably higher than the left, like this:

We then add two additional decorative lines built off of that base, which end in dots:

These flourishes can be curved, geometric, or a mix of both, and often inform a lot about the "personality" of both a sigil and its writer, and can distinguish one sigil from another. They're like the sigil's signature. They can be any shape or length, but never overlap with themselves or other lines.

The next step is to begin adding the sounds. Much like the flourishes, these are constructed differently for every sigil, although again they are all read from right-to-left and the symbols are placed with that in mind. These are strung down from the sigil's base, connecting with straight lines. Let's start by placing the a-sound in "Adora" near the right-side edge of the line (this is the /ʌ/ line-glyph, like the u in "fun"):

Because the /ʌ/ glyph is a line, it replaces the normal connecting line. Let's finish this syllable line with the /d/ glyph:

...and then add another line with the glyphs for /orʌ/:

Generally, when a cluster ends with a line-glyph, it connects back to the base line. Clusters not at the end cannot end on a line-glyph (though I'm not sure about what to do for line-glyph-only words like "I" or "a" - perhaps the base line is changed, the line curves in an arc, or it ends at the changed portion?). Additionally, line-glyphs are always turned in the direction they're going - the beginning and ending /ʌ/ glyphs are flipped from each other, because the ending glyph is turned upwards going towards the base line while the beginning is stemming from it.

The important thing to remember is that sigils can be formed in a variety of ways - the flourishes, line angles, how you structure the syllables, all of these are dependent on the writer, so long as they follow those general rules. I constructed that sigil “AD.ORA”, but it could just as easily be “ADO.RA”, and in larger words there’s much more potential for structural changes.

Sigils in a sentence are connected through lines which meet the word next to each of the flourishes, and which bend to fit the shape of the sentence. Sentences are not read in any specific direction, but words are clustered in aesthetically pleasing ways and sentence order is shown by these connecting lines. However, The initial word in a sentence only has a line connecting on its left side, the final word only has a line on its right side, and words in between connect to the previous word on their right and the next word on their left.

Let's try extending this to a simple sentence - "Adora is She-Ra." We already have the She-Ra sigil from canon, so we just need to connect them with the word "is".

First, let's write the next word, below and to the left:

And connect the two with a line:

And then repeat with the "She-Ra" sigil.

...and finally...

There we go! You've officially written a sentence using Eternian glyphs! I hope you have fun with it! If you have any questions feel free to shoot me an ask. Thanks for reading!