#i mean i love it but not enough to have a full arena chanting its name with me lol

[techtechonmymind]

they do not understand the love for this song 😭

sources: x x

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

Kingdom Collisions XVII

masterlist; my links

CW: blood, death

Phew, when i first started this fic (way back when in august last year, i think) i didn’t expect it to become a multi-chapter nor did i expect it to go in literally any of the directions it went in. with each new chapter the boys cooked up something different and apparently more and more dark. nonetheless this has been one of the most absolute fun, exciting, and rewarding fics i’ve ever put out there because 1. i just kind of did whatever i liked with it (plot holes be damned) and 2. because the interaction i got from this fic was mind-boggling. Every plot twist brought a gasp, an angst gremlin, and a sweet supporter to my doorstep (i cant name anyone because you all swopped roles continuously). 

when i started writing this chapter tbh i was dreading it because how on earth do i get myself out of the sheer monstrosity that i dug myself into in the last one? but i wrote some words and even though they were all wrong and it was only seven hundred of them at least i had written something you know? but then i was at the beach and the ocean water was shoving itself into my lungs and the salt was stinging my eyes and i literally couldn’t have been happier if i tried and suddenly i just kind of knew what i wanted to write... or rather i knew i wanted to write and these troublesome princes knew how they wanted their story to close. yes, indeed, close. somehow, without me realising it, we kind of got to the last chapter. i truly didn’t think this would be it but with each word i put down it just kept drawing closer and closer to a close. and i can’t force this fic to be anything but what it is. So, my dear ones, this is the last chapter of Kingdom Collisions. thank you for coming along, i hope with all my heart you enjoyed it even a fraction as much as i did. I love these Princes so hard and Nish, Gretch, and A can tell you how sad i was to see them end. Nonetheless, please enjoy!

Since it’s been a hot minute since the previous chapter, here’s a recap:

Prince Jason Grace stumbles from the mouth of the arena and falls to his knees in front of the platform.

“Kill him Perseus.” A voice glimmers around him, leaking in through the ringing in his ears.

“Come home Prince,” That voice lilts, “Do not die so far from the sea.”

Jason looks up at him, blue eyes hazy, a dagger loose in his clasp. “Hello Prince.”

Percy steps down from the platform, and takes the dagger from his husband’s hands. It is almost sickening how easily he gives it over.

The crowd stomps its feet: they are ready for blood; they are ready for slaughter.

He holds the dagger up, making sure it glints in the sun. And then he draws his husband close until there is nothing between their bodies, not space, not even air.

“Let’s go home my love.” He whispers. “We will not die so far from the sea.”

Prince Perseus Jackson brings the blade down.

[image has alt text]

We’ll never get free// lamb to the slaughter// what you gon’ do when there’s blood in the water

Prince Perseus Jackson knows he’s going to die today. It is not a feeling, or a morbid premonition. It is the cold, hard truth. If he does not the world will continue to suffer for it. And what kind of prince would he be if he allowed his people to suffer? His father would say he’d be a coward. His father did not know the meaning of the word until he screamed as a blade sunk into his chest. Percy wonders how a man made from the Rivers themselves, can die by knife. He supposes when you spend long enough pretending to be human, you die like one too.

All the same Percy must take his last breath today, before the setting sun has managed to hide for the night. Before the darkness can wrap around his bones like cigarette smoke, and keep him trapped once more. 

But first, Percy must kill his husband. 

The crowd is violent; their need for bloodshed a hyena’s cackle in his head. He cannot keep them out. He cannot keep them at bay. It drives into his blood, makes every dangerous drop slosh through him, as wild as the rivers of his father. As wild as the blue eyes staring him down.

Perseus Jackson looks at his husband, barely an inch apart, so close it seems no room is left for air. He can’t breathe, so it must have been pushed away, pushed out. Those blue eyes, as striking as the brilliant sky above them, are looking at him with so much… sorrow, love, joy, rage? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know and it terrifies him. He knows and that scares him more. Prince Jason Grace is looking at him with delight and it makes him want to sin.

“I will find you again, my love.” His lips brush the sensitive skin of his ear. He feels that beautiful body shudder underneath him.

The musician’s box echoes with the notes of the wind, a melody that rackets around in his head, bouncing off the walls of his memories. He has died to this tune many times. Died as a king, and a peasant, and a squallor, and a whore, and every form of human scum and royalty alike. They all bleed the same in the end. All die with regrets on their tongue, and the unconquering falsehood of love in their hearts, as if that alone is enough to save them. He has never been safe from death. But love saves him all the same. He wonders if he will die again.

“I will not be lost.” Jason whispers back, so quiet, so full of sweet darkness.

Percy slams the blade into his Jason’s heart and watches as the light from beckoning eyes morphs into a smile that surrenders the world. He doesn’t acknowledge the warmth at his side. There is only his Prince, his husband, his other half, his, his, his. 

“I will be waiting.” Jason Grace grins. Jason Grace dies.

Already he can feel the absence of his other. It is not a dull ache, nor a sharp one. It is not really an ache at all. Rather as if a veil has been placed over him, leeching the world of colour and light. Leeching him of any goodness. What is a destroyer, without his healer?

The Prince of Mare pulls the knife out of his husband’s chest and holds it up to the crowd. His smile dances, violence coating the angles of his face like a liquid mask. The colosseum responds in vigour, chanting his name, chanting the name of Princess Piper Mclean, chanting victory as if they’ve won. Dust begins to settle at his feet, settle then jump as they jump, then settle once more. And endless dance. He knows the score by heart. 

“What you have witnessed today my good people,” The woman in power stands in her box, surveying the scene before her with triumph in her brown, glinting eyes. “Is the beginning of forever, again.”

The people cheer, clap, stomp their feet, make the stone underneath them quiver.

A drop of blood falls to the floor.

“We have completed what our ancestors could not. We have made sure that the threat— ” She sneers at them; at him in his bloodied rags, and the husband still in his arms, limp and fast growing cold. “The threat of Our Downfall may never rise from the ashes.”

The deafening sound of celebration is a vice around his throat. He wants to rip the air from their lungs, make their joy a noose around their necks. They celebrate the loss of a life as if it were the birth of a thousand more; they celebrate the death of his husband as if they had won the war. But they have never seen war. And his past selves, rushing up to him in these moments, like reeling pictures, smile at the prospect. They seem to gather in his mind, grinning with endless terror and say, so very softly, “You think this is war? We’ve only just begun.”

We’ll never get free// lamb to the slaughter// what you gon’ do when there’s blood in the water

“My people,” Piper’s voice is a lull in the tides, a blind comfort to distract from the storm ahead. “We have severed the wings of a phoenix so it may never rise again.”

The crowd stomps, he stomps with them. A fissure runs under his feet, small, unnoticeable. Blood drips down, down, down, into the cracks. There is nothing left for him here. He smiles, soft and small. It is a smile only he knows exists.

With a gentleness he does not possess for anyone else but the man before him he lays his husband down, wincing as the dusty platform touches that beautiful golden skin. But he does not have time to make it clean. To give him a worthy place to rest. He only has right now. Eternity is a second in itself.

And when Prince Perseus stands, straight and unburdened. He reveals the last piece in a twisted puzzle. For sticking out of his own side— the side his prince was pressed against— is a dagger of his own. One that is killing him slowly.

The people are still cheering, Princess Piper is still revelling in her glory. She looks ethereal up on her dais, every bit the goddess she craves to be. Her brown skin shines in the brightening sun, her black hair flowing down, down, down past her hips, swishing at her thighs. And the crown that sits on her head, perched there as if it was too scared to be trapped to such power, glints almost menacingly, jewels reflecting onto the people closest to her. To the woman at her side. Annabeth, sister to Jason, lover to Piper, and honorary daughter of Hekima, sees him. Sees all of him and goes as pale as the moon. She grabs her lover’s arm, points a shaky finger in their direction, at the blade in his side.

The look of horror on their faces is almost enough to make him laugh; it’s certainly enough to make him smile. He watches on as their plans unravel, remembering the deadly words Piper had said to him all those days ago. “Instead we will kill one of you and keep the other continually alive.” But what good would that do, if he had killed them both, if he made sure his blood was smeared across his husband’s wound; if he made sure his husband’s blood could not be used to heal them. He has become the destroyer they so badly wanted. 

Prince Perseus Jackson falls to his knees, at the symphony of a princess’s screech. And as he looks to his side, his fingers find the cool hand of Jason Grace. The sky is a lover’s blue. He closes his eyes. He finds his husband amongst the dead. And ever so slowly, the colosseum starts to crumble. For the blood from his wound seeps into the cracks running rivers of their own, and eats at the stone that holds the people, the power, the world. He has become his father. His mind is fill of his own stories, just like his mother. He feels the cold band on his husband’s finger. He becomes life.

We’ll never get free// lamb to the slaughter// what you gon’ do when there’s blood in the water

The walls behind her turn to dust in slow motion. She sees particles fall, land at her feet in never-ending waterfalls. Her gaze tilts to the sky where she half expects to find it raining blue, as if the whole world would collapse on top of them. She can hear the screaming, she doesn’t known if it’s joy or fear. Sh doesn’t know if anyone has realised what’s just happened, if they know the true extent of her failure. 

“PIPER!” That voice is so far away, but it is one she recognizes. One she has loved since she was left on a lover’s bench ten years prior. “We have to go, we have to stop it from reaching the water.”

A pale hand gestures in front of her, to the crimson rivers speeding across the ground. They are the prettiest canals she’s ever seen. She wants to— 

“PIPER,” The time for shock has gone, and in it’s place is a violent need to save herself, to be saved. “We have to get out of here, this whole place is going to come down.”

When she looks to Annabeth, grey eyes bright with fear, she is struck with feeling so deep she fears she may drown. It wouldn't’ matter; she’ll be dead before she gets to submerge.

“My people,” Her voice is loud, blessedly steady, as she surveys the uneasy crowd who are only now noticing the red brooks bubbling up to meet them. “We must leave here at once. The colosseum is no longer safe. I urge you to go home to your famililes, to pack important things and make your way as far from the oceans and rivers as possible. Danger is here, and it is not a force we can fight.”

A thousand eyes look at her, emotions blatant on their faces ranging from denial, to anger, to fear, to the worst of them all, resignation. Those are the ones, she knows, who have lived through this before, in some way or the other. Whether in a past life, or the echo of their current one through stories carried down.

The ground underneath them shakes, making their feet stumble, their legs quiver. It is laughing at them, at the idea that they can escape this destruction. It has done this a thousand times before, it will do it a thousand more. The end has never been about them. They cannot escape it, no matter where they run, how hard they pray. And people are. Praying. They don’t know it is their gods who order this. Their gods who have no care for the lives of them when they can create a million more. In the end they are pawns to an endless game of chess. The first to be discarded, despite how hard they fight to prove useful. And Jason, her lover’s brother, and Perseus, her own ex lover, are soldiers sent to do their duty. Pawns themselves, maybe knights. But gods they have never been, and gods they will never become.

Annabeth’s hand is warm in hers as they race to their death. Her blonde curls fly behind her and Piper thinks it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. And then the princess looks to her and she changes her mind. With each glance, each step, each squeeze of their skin, she changes and changes and changes. Until the beauty cannot be pinned to a single thing, until it is a tapestry continuously incomplete, of all the features that make up her love. If she— when, when she dies she will do it with this image in her mind.

And then they’re at the river, the one that feeds her kingdom, the one that runs into to the forest and branches to the five other kingdoms, before feeding into Perseus’s own and out to the ocean. There is no red tainting it’s glistening blue. They have time, maybe, just maybe they have time to save the only home they have ever known, the only one they ever will. 

We’ll never get free// lamb to the slaughter// what you gon’ do when there’s blood in the water

Quickly, with a haste she has never seen, Annabeth pulls a single match from her pocket.

“Will you grant me permission, my love?” Her princess nods to the little stick.

There is only one way to stop a stream from turning towards a river. She nods. “For the kingdoms.”

“For the kingdoms.” The blonde echoes. She strikes the match.

Sunshine yellow flame bursts from the small head, and as it settles it turns orange, blue, goes back to yellow. Annabeth lets it fall to the floor.

And they both watch, flames dancing in their eyes, as the little match catches a dry leaf, which catches dry wood, which catches, and catches, and catches.

They clasp hands, look at each other. Piper runs a finger down a freckled cheek, skin already so warm from the blaze before them.

“Let us live.” Her princess whispers.

They jump into the river. The forest burns to an inferno behind them.

But there, trickling slowly, as if it has all the time in the world, is a single stream of blood. It creeps through the forest, turning already charring soil to nothing. The fire jumps over it, around it, beyond it. The fire does not stop it. 

A single drop of blood catches on a shard of blackened stick, once a match, and as the wind blows it carries the wood over over over. It lands in the river. The stick floats away. The blood spreads wide.

And two princesses, still hand in hand, frantically swimming for their life, start to crumble to ash, like the forest they had left to burn.

We’ll never get free// lamb to the slaughter// what you gon’ do when there’s blood in the water

Perseus Jackson opens his eyes to sky blue, ice blue, saviour blue. And he cannot help but smile.

“Where have you been, my love?”

“Just had to take care of some things before i could join you.” He reaches up a hand to caress a golden cheek, warm and reddening under his touch.

“Are we finally free?” That voice is so soft, full of angled hope.

“Till the next time.” He sees that hope startle and shape before him, as if it can bend to fit around steeled will.

“What shall we do while we wait?”

“As long as we are together,” He brushes back a lock of gold. “It does not matter to me.”

“Might i suggest, staying here for the next decade at the very least?” A laughing reply, one that heats him to his bones.

“Your wish,” His green eyes sparkle dangerously, deliciously, “Is my salvation.”

“Wicked, wicked being.” Lips find his, press to him. It is so familiar, and somehow new all at once. As if the shadows they are made from need to get used to the light within them once more. As if they have not done this for a millennia, longer. 

“I cannot help it when i’m with you.”

“And you are always with me,” Those blue eyes set him on fire.

“Yes,” He says simply. He touches the golden chest, the heart within. His heart.

“What shall we be in the next life?” The question is soft against his skin, raising bumps across his arms.

“I think i shall be a painter,” He muses, lips falling to a shoulder. They trace their way up, catching on collarbones and the crook of a neck, and the dimple behind an ear. “And you, my sweet? How do you intend for us to meet?”

“I think i shall like to be your nude model.” That grin is enough to cause a flush through his form.

“And who will be our heroes?”

“The queen of course.” The blonde’s voice gets conspiratorially low, “I’m her favourite servant you see, and she cannot bear the idea of anyone else seeing me naked.”

He cannot hold in his laughter, the mind of his other half an endless stream of amusement. “And how do we intend to end it this time?”

“That’s up to you dear one.” The being curled into him smiles, “I can only heal, and you know i will only heal you.”

“You make me such a villian.” His expression is violent, and beautiful, so so beautiful.

“We have never been anything else.” 

He stares into the face of eternal love and is struck by the thought that it is all for him, that it has only ever been for him. He cradles a golden face in his hand, and with a deep unhurried breath, kisses Jason.

For the infinite time in his endless life, Perseus tastes fire.

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

Tags (if you want to be added to/ taken off the tag list just let me know, all my channels of communication are open):

@nishlicious-01 : to Nish for loving this fic harder than anyone, and for loving me harder still.

@queen-of-demons-and-hell : to Gretch for always being there even though were many countries, and many timezones apart

@leyontheway : to Ley for the endless and unwavering support and for making me smile no matter what

@sparkythunderstorm : to Lily for the continuous love and the wonderful comments

@comradefurudate : to avatar for the hilarious interactions and for loving this the way you did. Your comments made my day.

@aalikun : to ali for the theories and the comments that made me smile so hard my cheeks hurt

to A : you don’t have a tumblr account but you asked if you could read one of my fanfics and i sent you this one and you sent me back a 3 minute long voice note telling me every reason you loved it and i cannot begin to explain to you how much it means to me. i listen to the vn all the time. i love you.

and to every single one of you who liked, and/or commented on this fic: you are special to me in every way that matters and i think about you all the time.

[staytiny-angel]

Grace and Country 2/5

Rating: M

Pairing: 'Hangman' Adam Page/F!OC, One-Sided Kenny Omega/F!OC

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Harrassment.

Co-Written with @lilmissriottbliss

Taglist - @moxleyunstable, @axelwolf8109

Summary: Ava and Adam go on that date, it goes about you'd expect with the Dark Order involved, Things with Kenny come to a head.

"Violet!"

"Ava? Mon Cher Smackdown is about to start why are you screaming?"

Violet gave Finn a look before putting her friend on speaker "Mon Roi is here too, what has you so excited?"

"ADAM ASKED ME OUT ON A DATE!" The younger woman yelled

Ava could hear Violet cursing in French from a small distance. “Really? That’s amazing! Give me details now!”

“I lost my phone and he found it near your adopted brother and then Kenny was annoying me again so he covered for me by saying we were going on a date so we’re actually going on one!”

“I’m so happy for you!”

“Could you do me a solid?” Ava asked

Of course darling," Violet agreed

"Could you guys not tell the big boss?" Ava begged "You know I love Seth to death, he's my dad shaped person but he wasn't happy about this whole AEW deal and he'll be even less happy to know I'm going out with one of their biggest stars"

Violet and Finn silently looked at each other before agreeing to the younger woman's request 

"We have you covered darlin" Finn said

"What are you going to do about Omega?I'm starting to worry. He's really not taking no for an answer"

“I honestly don’t know” Violet handed Finn her phone, taking out the one meant to contact family. “I think she’s going to threaten Malachi into watching over you” Finn laughed.

Ava sighed in relief. While Malachi Black, formerly Aleister to Violet, was dark and broody, he did scare Kenny with a simple stare.

“So how’s Mox doing?” Violet asked

"Good, he got Omega off my back last night at Dynamite, threatened him with Ruby." Ava said "He said something about promising Seth to look out for me?"

"Seth called him and Miro when you decided to go to AEW." Finn explained 

"Called in a couple of favors. You are the baby."

Ava rolled her eyes even though the couple couldn't see her "You've got to be kidding. I can take care of myself"

“We know you can take care of yourself, Seth has a overprotective complex” 

Ava sighed but didn’t disagree. “We got to go now, see you tomorrow!” Violet hung up.

Ava turned off her phone, seeing a text from Kenny. Rolling her eyes she deleted it. “Is he ever gonna get the point?” she asked herself before flopping on her hotel bed with a sigh. He thoughts turning to the next day and the date she'd been dreaming of for years. 

-Next Day-

She met Adam outside a café, the cowboy looking handsome in normal street clothes and without a certain purple and black group shadowing him.

“Wow, you look great” He said. As she grinned and twirled once, showing off the chic black suit she'd chosen for their date. 

“Hope you don’t mind but I invited Violet and Finn just in case your friends crash this”

Adam laughed. “They probably will ”

Inside the cafe, Finn and Violet were waiting at a four person table, surprisingly without their daughter in tow.

"Where's my honey bunches?" Ava said with a pout, that Adam found adorable

"Becky and Seth have her" Finn explained "Shes having a playdate"

“Next time you bring her” Ava pointed. Finn raised his hands and laughed. Violet slid over a black coffee to Adam. 

He accepted it with a smile. “So you’re both going after the top titles in Smackdown” he grinned.

“Yup!” Finn grinned. “It was fun in NXT but I wasn’t spending another week without my husband there” Ava sighed.

“It’s harder to get a title shot in AEW, I have no idea how to get to Britt”

“I lost the chance to be the inaugural champ because someone thought an ass deserved it” Adam muttered.

“Adam I think your shadows are here” Violet pointed to a booth in the corner

Sure enough, the purple and black clad Dark Order filled 2 corner booths, trying and failing to be inconspicuous.

"Oh god" Adam murmured "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have told them where we were going"

"They really care about you" Ava smiled at Adam causing that feeling to flutter in his chest again.

"You may not, have been the first AEW champion but you've got a shot at Kenny at All Out" Finn says

"Sure do" Adam says "I can't wait, I've owed Kenny an ass whipping for a while now"

“Fucking creep” Ava rolled her eyes. “How’s Paige?”

“You don’t know that from Mox?” Violet raised an eyebrow. Ava shook her head

“She’s ok, doing wonders with her makeup. Her and Sonya are planning a wedding”

Ava nodded. “Sorry about the Kingdom disbanding” 

Finn rolled his eyes. “Of course Vince brings up Shotzi and us but doesn’t want Kyle, Millie, Priscilla or Jordan”

Adam and Ava share a smile knowing while AEW wasn't a paradise by any means…it wasn't run by Vince. 

A loud bang sounded from the back of the restaurant and every turned to see one of the corner tables flipped on its side as John Silver looked around sheepishly. 

Adam dropped his head in his hands as Ava giggled "I'm sorry, I'm gonna go uh…handle this" he said rising from his seat and heading toward the back.

"They are quite the band of misfits aren't they?" Violet said as she tried not to laugh as they watched Adam easily lift the table back in place and start seemingly scolding them for crashing their double date.

"They love him, and with the entire….mess with the Elite…their very overprotective." Ava explained

“Reminds me of Seth” Violet said. Ava’s eyes widened.

“It totally is!” Finn laughed as Adam came back and sat down.

“They swear it’s just a coincidence they all wanted to come here on the same day and time as my date”

Violet flipped her hair and put on her flirty voice. “So this a date?

Adam blushed hard. “Um…well, it’s definitely not a…friend thing…we’re not friends. I mean we are friends!, but I want to be more then friends!" 

Ava blushed as she watched Adam flounder under Violet's question 

"Leave him alone, mo chroi" Finn finally rescued the younger man from his wife. 

“I was just being a good friend” Violet smirked.

Adam took a breath. “I don’t know why but I have a thing for goth people”

Ava looked at Violet.

“Really? Is that why you went to the Dark Order?”

“Honestly? Kenny ruined tag teams for me. The Bullet Club went to shit after you were kicked out”  

Finn’s eye twitched, remembering how the Young Bucks fucked him over.

“The Bullet Club is nothing to me now. They ruined it!”

“The Elite’s worse, nothing but kissing Kenny’s ass, apparently he was looking to go to Impact and take their top title”

“Thank god the old man bought them, Impact might have been the worse part of my career but AEW would have ruined them” Violet sipped her ice coffee.

Adam sighed.

“I don’t know what happened. One minute he was my brother, now he’s a stranger” Adam said quietly as Ava rubbed his back

"Its okay, your going to take the AEW title from him at All Out." Ava consoled him.

The 2 couples finished their meal and left the restuarant, Finn and Violet heading to the arena to get ready for Smackdown, and Ava and Adam walking though the city streets enjoying each other's company. 

"This has been great" Ava says as they finally end up back at the hotel

"We'll have to do it again sometime" Adam replied causing Ava to blush again.

"Maybe next time….just the two of us?" He asked softly

“No demon and vampires. No Dark Order” Ava agreed. Adam hugged her.

“Adam!” Evil Uno yelled. The pair looked at the stable. Anna walked over. “Well, the date was a success so Alex made you this” She handed a black jacket to Ava. It had a purple rose stitched in the back.

“Wow, Alex’s a suckup” Adam joked. “I’m totally wearing this next week” Anna smiled.

“C’mon Adam, before the idiots start screaming” 

He rolled his eyes but hugged Ava goodbye, kissing her hair before walking away.

The Next Week 

After spending the weekend and into the next week bouncing between elation over her successful date with Adam (including spending a hefty amount of time texting back and forth with the cowboy) and annoyance that Kenny just would not stop texting and calling, it was finally Wednesday and time for that weeks episode of Dynamite, at which Ava had a match against Nyla Rose.

 

Over the past few days she had gone hunting for more appropriate gear to compliment her new jacket and was now wearing black leather shorts with purple accents and a purple and black corset top. 

"Don't you look like a full fledged member of the misfit society, I really thought you'd have better taste Sweetheart" Kenny said walking up to her, the Young Bucks flanking him

“I’ve liked purple and black before the Dark Order existed” Ava snapped.

Kenny grabbed her arm. “Let go!”

“I just want what’s best for you” Kenny said fiercely 

“HEY!” Darby Allin hit Kenny with a skateboard.

“She’s said no to you for weeks now, get lost!” He roared, Ava seeing why Mox had pretty much adopted him.

Kenny looked panicked and all but ran. The Bucks, glaring at her as the followed

“Thanks” Ava said to Darby. “I hate that fucker”

"Join the club" Darby replied 

Later that night after beating Nyla Rose, Ava was celebrating in the ring when Kenny's music hit and The Elite surrounded the ring. 

"I really tried to do this in private Ava, baby but you just won't listen to me, you'd rather hang out with those losers instead of being part of The Elite"

“I. Am. Not. Your. Baby!” Ava screamed,.

Kenny stepped in, smirking. “Just accept the date”

The crowd began chanting variations of yes and no. 

Then the music of the Dark Order hit, Adam leading the stable to a beat down. Colt tackled Kenny, Adam waving sarcastically at him before going over to Ava, "You okay Darlin?"

"Yeah, fucking asshole. Why won't he leave me alone" 

"Ava, Ava!" Kenny panted, "I have a deal for you, since you and the drunk, seem so close lately, Next week….you and Adam against me and Britt Baker. You win, you get a title shot at All Out. You two lose, Cowboy loses his shot, and you go out with me"

Ava looked at Adam, who was clenching his jaw. Anna and Evil Uno nodded their heads.

Ava grabbed a mic. “We accept! And let’s raise the stakes!!! If we win and move on to kick you asses at All Out, you leave me the fuck alone!” 

Kenny gulped "Done!"

“I’ll add to that!” Adam yelled. “When I kick your ass, you don’t get to have a rematch as long as I’m champion. Let someone else get an opportunity”

"Deal!" Kenny said cockily "It doesn't matter anyway "You two are gonna lose and when you do...not only will Adam never get a shot at the AEW Championship,  Ava...baby...your all mine" 

[johannstutt413]

TOURNAMENT ARC 1: CH’EN vs SWIRE

“Now, Miss Ch’en, I can understand wanting to be sure the bracket is fair for yourself and your opponent,” Jessica was explaining to the Lung who’d made a beeline for the Doctor’s office not too long after the announcement was made, “but the Doctor and I aren’t in charge of the bracket-”

“You know who is, though. Give me a fight with that bag-stealing money-grubbing fat-cat layabout Round 1.”

Normally, this would be enough to cow the Feline, but the Doctor was with her and this big-shot was being unreasonable, so she felt a certain amount of power she wasn’t used to having. “Miss Ch’en, you may be one of Rhodes Island’s highest-promoted Operators, but that doesn’t mean you have the right to talk like-”

“Hey, Jess?” The Doctor showed them both the bracket. “It says ‘Swire vs Ch’en’ is Fight 1.”

“O-oh!...That’s convenient.” The Sniper turned back to the Guard with a nervous smile.

In exchange, she received a curt nod. “Good. I hope the audience will appreciate a good thrashing.”

“...I think the best part,” the Doctor continued when the Lung had left, “is that out of the people we could put her against, Swire’s actually got one of the best chances of making the fight interesting. Maybe not long, but interesting.”

“W-why’s that, Doctor?” Still a little shaken after that encounter, the nervous Feline retreated into her brave boss’s arms.

He kissed her forehead with a smile. “Well, my courageous kitty-kat, it’s about their relationship. See, a lot of people - Miss Ch’en included - think that Miss Hoshiguma is a tough woman who likes her women tough, and maybe at some level that’s true. From what I’ve seen, though, she’s more of a case of ‘opposites attract,’ and Miss Swire seems to have figured that out, too. What Miss Ch’en wants this to be is a battle for Miss Hoshi’s affections, but if I’m honest? I think she’s already lost that fight. Not that she won’t use everything within her power to beat Miss Swire, of course.”

“That m-makes sense.” Jessica looked up at him. “So Miss Swire isn’t tough?”

“I wouldn’t say that-”

At the moment, the Feline in question stormed into the office. “Doctor!”

“You’re fighting her Round 1,” he replied. She immediately turned around and left. “Like I said, it’s not that she’s not tough. People just overlook it because she’s a fluffy girl’s girl, but she swings that crescent hammer like a truck when she wants to.”

“Her hair is really fluffy...Do you think I’d look good with hair like that, Doctor?” She pressed lightly against her ponytail.

The Doctor chuckled, squeezing her just a little closer. “I think you’re perfect juuuuuust the way you are, but you’d look good with fluffy hair, too. Although, if you get much cuter...”

-------

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, Operators, Staff, and Esteemed Guests! Welcome one and all to the Top Operator Tourney!!! *crowd cheers*

“Thanks, Hung. Ladies and gentlemen, for anyone out there who doesn’t recognize my voice, I’m Click, and joining me in the booth today is the Iron Fist herself, FEater!”

“That’s right, Click, and today we’ll be giving you folks watching at home or in the office the blow-by-blow breakdown of what promises to be a real battle of wills! On the north side, with over 4 years of experience cleaning up the streets of Lungmen with her trusty blade, it’s Madame Ch’en!” *cheers* “And on the south side- hey, Click, babe, calm down, she’s in the ring, not us - it’s Miss Swire!” *more cheers, including one very loud Oni*

“Sorry about that! Let’s look at the numbers, shall we? According to the objective measurements of our Medical Department and the Operator Training Team, Ch’en has a commanding lead in terms of both raw power and experience, especially if she can manage to convince that blade of hers to unleash its full potential for this fight, but despite the disparity, Miss Sw-Swire has one thing going for her: the reach on that ball of pain she’s got in her hands! It’s kind of hard to imagine someone so scrawny throwing that around with enough force to knock a person on their ass, but as everyone knows, Felines don’t care what you think about physics, so she finds a way somehow even so!”

“Uh, right! Thanks for that breakdown, Click. Alright, so back down in the arena proper, the Doctor has taken his position in the umpire’s stand, surrounded by an even crazier number of camera feeds than normal. Seriously, he’s around more cameras than me and Click combined! It’s crazy! He’s counting down now - chant along, guys! 3! 2!1! And here we go!!!!”

“Now, one problem we’re likely to see for Ch’en early is actually getting to Swire-Sama in the first place, as her Feline instinct and predatory cunning in conjunction with her death-ball are going to make closing the gap pretty diffi- Just like that! A solid hit from Swire-Sama into Ch’en chest!”

“I hope her Lungs are strong enough to withstand that kind of hit, Click...Aww, come on, you know you still love me~ The follow-up isn’t entirely there, though, as Swire struggles to swing back around in time to hit her while she’s down. Oh, and Ch’en now running her down in a clockwise spiral, following the crescent hammer’s trajectory and actually closing in! Oof, that’s gonna leave a nasty scar - or at least it would,” “One, two, three” “-if our sponsors in the Medical Department weren’t totally going to fix that once they’re done here!”

“-Seven, eight, nine slashes, and she’s still standing?! Hang on, what is...Is she even hitting with those?”

“Looks like she’s just tormenting her, Click.”

“I know Felines will play with their food, but this is something else! Oh, and the Doctor is calling for the bout to e- OH MY GOD!”

“Swire just punched her in the face! No claws, no knuckledusters, just a single punch to the face in an infinitesimal break in the wall of sword strokes being put up by Lungmen’s former Chief Inspector! That wasn’t nearly enough to knock the breath out of the Lung, of course- hey, I thought that one was pretty good! - but it’s enough to give Swire some time to think through her next move.”

“And it’s looking like she’ll...wait, when did she get a drone out there?”

“She’s using it to blast Lungmen rap songs?! Shit, we might get demonetized if she keeps this up, right?”

“Nah, we’re hosting it on our private network, and our only sponsors are us any- And Ch’en just vanished!”

“No, she’s still on the field, just moving too fast to see with our eyes! There’s a cloud of blood forming around the pair now th- OH MY GAAAAAAA-”

“Holy shit. Medics! The Doctor’s hurriedly calling an end to this fight to try and determine a winner before one of these two actually finishes the job on the other!”

“If this is the level of action we’re gonna be seeing in these fights, ladies and gentlemen, then the front few rows miiiiight wanna invest in some kind of rain gear - like, say, the splash guards currently on sale at Closure’s for over 40% off!”

“And as the dust settles, Madame Ch’en is walking off the field with an easy victory. Wowza, that’s looking...that’s looking pretty bag. Oh, hey, that’s Hoshiguma coming down into the arena, I wonder if- whoa! Babe, she just punched Ch’en in the face! Maaaan, it’s a shame we won’t ever get to see that fight, huh?”

-------

Hoshiguma flicked the blood from Ch’en’s nose off her fist as she approached where the Medics were tending to Swire. “How’s she doing?”

“We’ve got her stable,” Warfarin reported, “and between the emergency coagulants and regeneration stimulants, she should be able to stand on her own power before the end of the night...Nothing too heavy until at least 48 hours have passed, though.”

“Thanks for the heads up. Can I talk to her?”

The Sarkaz sighed. “There’s no way she’s still con-”

“Hoshiiii?” Swire’s voice wheezed from some other dimension; within seconds, the Oni was at her side. “Hoshi...Sorry.”

“Sorry? Why are you apologizing? You did great out there.” The Defender took her hand gently in both of hers, letting a tear fall from her face at the sight of her girlfriend in such pain.

The Feline shook her head, which Aak grimaced at and set to work immobilizing her further. “I lost...I can’t see you anymore.”

“What? Why not?” Hoshi kissed her head, causing even more distress to the Medics in the process. “I don’t like her; I love you.”

“...Oh, Hoshi~”

Warfarin tapped the Oni on her shoulder. “I’m afraid visitor hours are closing; we need to move her somewhere not covered in her own blood.”

“I’ll go with you.” She waited for the folks carrying her girlfriend out to have her situated before following them out. ‘Thinking she could beat my Fluffy Cuddles in a fight and claim me like a trophy wife...I’m no one’s prize, damnit, I’m a prize fighter. I hope she wins her bracket, so I can give her a proper beating when I win mine.’

“...You know, if it was that easy, she probably wouldn’t have waited for the tournament,” a shadowy figure observed aloud as they walked past her in the opposite direction. Hoshi turned to confront them-

-but it was like they were never there...nothing but a Phantom of her imagination...

[bxllafanficc]

What lies within our voice

Part one.

Summary: The hottest current singing competition in your country; Beyond The Voice, is taking contestants for this years new season. And you’re competing, something you’ve dreamed of since you were a little kid. Your best friend Natasha joins you on your audition day with the assurance that everything’s going to go just as planned. As in; you preform, get all the standing ovations from the jury and then you go out to celebrate. But it doesn’t quite work like that, does it? Especially not when a handsome blue eyed singer with angelic pipes (and dare I say, jackass?) enters the competition and gives you some serious problems; both on a competitive and on a personal level.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: implied smut, smut later on as the story progresses, Bucky’s kind of a prick at first glance, Natasha being cringeworthy,

Anyone will have to believe you when you say that you’re meant for this.

“Girl, you’re going to kill this! You’re the best singer here. The judges will find you irresistible!”

The stage and the cheer of a crowd is where you feel at home. Like you could do anything you put your mind to. If you only got the chance to show the world what you got to offer. That you belong on stage, to please a crowd.

That’s why you’re here. At the large entrance hall of the largest arena in your country, ready to perform your heart out at this years season of the hottest contest currently in the making; Beyond The Voice. The competition that will be your awakening as the artist you’ve dreamed to be for so long. Because already as a little girl, you used to sit in front of the tv with your best friend since diapers; Natasha. And oh, how you loved B.T.V. From the first season ever all the way to where you’re standing now. Here, ready to be a part of something you’ve set as a goal since years back. And so you have come here and along with you, brought your best friend so that you can live the dream together now all grown up.

“I have a hard time believing that, Nat. There are so many talented and attractive people here who want this too. And I don’t doubt for a second that there will be a lot of people putting on their best efforts here tonight.”

You scan the large groups of people in the hall, some pacing around nervously, others sitting down on benches and some awkwardly attempting to put on their best sides of themselves as the camera team sneaks through the crowds to shoot some interviews with the contestants.

The camera team has already been filming their interview with you, and if you should say it yourself, you had done the best possible out of the situation. To be yourself. No faces and no strained jokes, just plain you, unlike some of the other contestants you had seen earlier who seemingly failed to acknowledge the fabric of their shirt hiding their cleavage noticeably sliding down their shoulders until the producers felt the urge to cut because they ‘would need to censor that out’ somehow.

“Puh-lease! No one wants this as much as you do. And sure, there may be great singers here today, but no one has the pure and raw talent like you. Most of the people we’ve seen so far is clearly showing in their voices that they’ve taken dozens of singing lessons, and some not at all. Everyone here started out as a rookie but not you. You were born with it. I can confirm since I’ve known you so long. See, the only other people here skilled enough to put you up for a challenge is that guy performing for the jury right now. Look! He’s like the hunkier more brooding version of Josh Groban!”

You look towards the big screen displaying everything that’s going on in the auditions room. Right now there’s a guy in a deep blue suit performing “Being alive” originally sung by Stephen Sondheim from the musical Company; a classic and and a regularity when it comes to audition songs. Not a choice you would’ve gone with because of everyone before this man who’s chosen the song on previous seasons of Behind The Voice. But maybe his choice might just make this performance a success. That voice is unlike any other contestant you’ve seen today and those blue eyes are definitely moneymakers on their own. A handsome man to be sure, Nat wasn’t joking around with her comparison. And the look on the female judges faces reveals that the sexy mysterious persona he’s putting on is working its magic on them.

“Make me confused, mock me with praise. Let me be used, vary me days.”

“Goodness, that vibrato is to die for! There’s no effort displayed on his face what so ever and completely free from strained vocals or any muffled sounds from accidentally switching back to using his nose as support!”

“Right?! Maybe he’s good enough for my best gal right here? Why don’t you give it a try?” Nat elbows you and makes a rather inappropriate finger motion with her hands as her eyebrow raises and sinks in a provocative manner.

You quickly squeal with disapproval at her and slap her hands away, afraid that someone in the hall, or worse, the camera crew, had caught her little message.

“You know I’m too busy with focusing on my career for that kind of stuff. And he’s most likely to be my most skilled rival so far!”

“Somebody crowd me with love, somebody force me to care. Somebody let me come through, I’ll always be there, as frightened as you, to help us survive...”

The song finishes and the crowd in the hall is overwhelming with cheers and blowing whistles. It’s four yes out of four possible from the jury; a crystal clear win.

The man who just performed and the jury can clearly hear the crowd’s chanting from inside the studio, because everyone is glancing at the door with a low snicker.

“Next up, contestant #70!” One of the managers shouts from an opened door in the hall.

Your number is #71, which means your up after the shocked young girl beside you who were too caught up in the man singing just now that she completely forgot to prepare herself.

You stand up as well and make your way towards the door leading into the corridors of the audition’s studio, just to prepare yourself a little extra. Nat follows along and whispers encouraging nothings into your ear. She pats your shoulder and bumps into your crimson colored les paul hanging strapped inside its case on your back.

Right, you failed to mention your own audition song in the interview (and the genre you’ll be singing.)

You like to label yourself as a rock singer who also plays the electric guitar in the songs you perform. So you’ve carefully chosen the song “Anastasia” made by Slash, Myles Kennedy and The Conspirators. You’ve requested the assigned go-to band for this song because it simply can’t be done by just a guitar and a voice. Your song of choice is also going to give the judges the full feeling of how a concert later on with you as their star would look like. The vocals are great, showing off a lot of control but not too complicated so there’s room enough to blow the crowd and judge’s minds later on in the competition. The guitar isn’t essential for a singing competition like this but to aggregate with playing the guitar and singing at the time always gain some extra points since the judges will understand that your multitasking abilities will come in handy if and when a casual error or scene malfunction occurs in the life as an artist.

Of course you sing other genres as expected from you in this competition, but rock will forever be your go-to genre if you’re out to bedazzle the crowd or just want to dance your heart out in the living room (aggressive head banging is included).

But in your current situation, you had been so caught up in your own plans and preparation that you failed to acknowledge the man standing in front of you until it’s too late and you bump into something broad and rock hard.

The stranger gets pushed forwards and his friend catches him before he tumbles too far. A pair of blue eyes turns around to glare at you with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m so sorry! I was just-“ You stop and silence yourself. It’s the previous contestant with the angelic voice; and he does not look pleased.

“Shouldn’t a person competing in such a high prestige competition be aware of their surroundings always and watch where they’re going?” The man speaks up and turns to face you entirely, his blonde friend standing right beside him. Nat comes to join your side when she senses the tension going on.

“I... excuse me, I was just so caught up in my on thoughts that I didn’t notice you. People make mistakes and I’m sorry. It’s not that big of a deal.”

You fold your arms and try to flash a genuine smile at the stranger but he doesn’t seem affected by your words.

“So you’re a little self absorbed, you say? That’s not a personality trait I would go with in a competitive area like this but you do you, I guess.”

Is this man for real? He seemed like such a genuine and open guy when he sang but now when he’s in front of you, he’s just an asshole. Guess that’s what they call on point stage presence then.

“Hey now handsome, Aren’t you being a little rude to my friend? It was actually nothing more than a simple mistake. There’s nothing to feel personal about if your feelings got hurt. Happens to anybody.” Nat joins in and defends you, but she’s not paying attention to the blue eyed prick in front of her, but she’s eying the tall blondie beside him with careful eyes.

“Yeah, whatever.” The man answers with a huff and leaves, his friend following right behind him. As you watch them go, Blondie seemingly scolds his friend about something, though you never catch the response of your now-rival.

“Well that’s a waste. A beautiful brunette with magical eyes but on the inside he’s just a bastard with low-dick-energy.” Nat mumbles and snorts, pushing you towards the corridors you originally planned to make your way to. You giggle in response and bite your lip.

“With an attitude like that to a lady, he couldn’t possibly afford having a small dick, Nat. It must be pretty huge if it’s gonna make up for his frame of mind.”

Well, at least it’s not a must to befriend the other contestants, because then you would be forced into some kind of team building exercise with Mr. Jackass. The last thing you needed right now was excessive negativity in your life.

“Yeah, you go (Y/n)! Dab on them haters!” Nat yells and proceeds to do the dabbing motion with a cheerful expression.

The crowds standing near the two of you suddenly fall silent and eyes you with a judgements stare.

“Don’t you ever do that in public again or I will-“

“Contestant #71, you’re up!

The crowd stops glaring at you and shifts to clap their hands with encouragement, some even shouts stuff like ‘You can do this!’ Or ‘Go inside and kick some ass!’

You’re heart immediately takes two turns and beats like crazy in your chest; something it always does right before when you’re about to preform. Much to your gratitude, it always rolls off of you like a waterfall the second you start to sing.

‘This is your chance, (Y/n). You have to prove to everyone in the hall, to Nat, to yourself, to Jackass Ocean eyes, and most importantly the judges, that you’ve earned your right to be on this program and on television. Tonight we focus on getting the judges’ approval, tomorrow, a new goal will be set.’ The internal speech you go through with yourself echoes through your eardrums as you step into the audition’s studio and into the camera’s view.

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-two - a brother’s promise

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

DEIMOS ROARS WHEN he enters the villa in Phokis, knocking over a weapons rack in the courtyard —chest heaving in his rage. Everything was predicated on a lie. He shouts again, lashing out at the cold, iron brazier. It topples to the tiled floor, spreading ash and coal over the white stone slabs. The words of the Cultists play over in his mind. Tightening the laces of his cuirass, Deimos sets his mind on finding Lesya —he does not know what he will say, nor if he will be able to tell her she is right. He just knows he needs to see her. Sliding the Damoklean sword into the sheath on his hip, Deimos sets off to Kirrha with fury and cold determination. 

Kirrha’s Harbor is always bustling with merchant ships —pilgrims who come to seek the wisdom of the Pythia. Among them is a trireme with three masts, a gilded figurehead, dark Tyrian red sails. The vessel once belonged to Elpenor, though now it fully belongs to the Cult. The Areion remains a fine ship. “Deimos!” Labdakos exclaims, the captain had not expected to see the champion so soon after Kleon’s messenger departed. 

“Prepare the ship,” Deimos announces, ascending the short staircase to the helm of the trireme. Labdakos barks orders at the crew and they bustle around the deck, securing lines and arranging the barrels of freshly fletched arrows. The horizon is dark, mimicking the raging storm within his heart and mind. 

The captain stands behind his chair, hand resting on the carved back. He knows something is wrong —that Deimos is not falling in line with the given orders. “Where do we sail?” Labdakos asks. 

“Keos,” Deimos answers. He will sail to where Lesya is, or at least where she is rumored to be.   

“But Kleon’s orders–” Labdakos trails off —a fool to fear Kleon more than the unhinged demigod before him. Deimos seizes the captain by the neck, fingers tightening around his throat until his pitiful cries for air are nigh silent wheezes. “Fuck his orders,” Deimos spits, throwing the captain back to the deck. “Take me to Keos or I’ll see the sharks have their bellies filled.” It is not so much a threat as it is a promise. 

Labdakos dips his head low, hand rubbing the tender places of his neck. “Of course, champion.” But the appeasement is insincere. Kleon has paid enough to sail the champion to Athens regardless of the champion’s wishes to travel to the Pirate Islands. Deimos can tell the captain’s loyalty no longer lies with him. He places his hand on the back of the Labdakos’ head, forcing him to his knees, then twists to the left with the other —then a little farther. Deimos does not even strain and with a quick, final jerk there is a crack and the captain’s head snaps around to face backward. Stepping back, the Labdakos’ head loosely rolls back to the front, then lolls —his neck hanging at an angle with white bones poking through the skin, leaking scarlet blood. 

The body flops forward onto the deck. Deimos looks at the frightened deckhands and the lieutenant of the vessel —he steps toward the second-in-command and motions at the captain’s chair with his bloody hand. “You’ve just been promoted to captain,” he announces with a grim smile.

“THANKS,” LESYA SAYS when Kassandra hands her the other blade. It had been buried to the hilt in the back of an Athenian spy. Save for the corpses, the camp on Keos has been emptied. Xenia’s lieutenant will offer a hefty reward for helping him remove the Athenian thorn from her side and it will put Kass closer to earning the drachmae to pay for information about Myrrine. 

Kass eyes the pair of daggers again —she has noticed the strange glint of the metal several times, it is similar to her spear and the sword Deimos had carried. There had been a cast for a dagger the same shape and size in the Ancient Forge as the two Lesya carries. “What’s so special about them?” She asks, though she knows they never need to be sharpened or honed, much like the Spear of Leonidas. 

Lesya holds out the blade, balancing it on two fingers. She remembers the stories Chrysis told about the daggers and the Damokles sword. Mighty weapons from long ago. It was only after she and Deimos had been named champion that the Cult gave them the blades. “They belonged to the Amazon Penthesilea,” Lesya explains —a daughter of Ares and queen of the Amazons but slain in battle by Achilles. “Or at least that is what the Cult claims.” With ease, Lesya spins the dagger between her fingers and sighs. There is something special about the weapons, she can feel the difference with a normal spear or kopis in hand. “I believe it though, whenever I use these it’s like I can see my opponent’s next move before it comes.”

Smoke lingers in the battered streets of Koressia, masking the foul stench of death. Barnabas had spoken of the horrors committed in the polis before the Adrestia docks three days ago. Pirates had taken the city by force, but a shortage in food could mean starvation and the rise of sickness. The elder denizens within the city were forced to drink hemlock tea, culling the population of the city. Merchants said Aphrodite had forsaken Keos after that. The misthios leaves to report their success to the lieutenant and collect on the deed, but Lesya wanders the ravaged town. 

Tucked away near the white cliff-face is a sunken pit, with stairs carved into the rock. Pirates surround the pit, watching one of their brethren fend off a wild boar. Wagers are made and collected on who will emerge from the fight victorious. Given the size of the beast and the bloody gash in the man’s side, Lesya already knows who will win the fight. It happens quickly when the boar charges —its sharp tusks sinking into the fighter’s gut and pinning him against the smooth wall. Red streaks the white marble and when the boar halts the assault a bloody mess of entrails are left strewn across the white sand. 

“Are there any other challengers who wish to face this mighty descendant of the Erymanthian?” Lesya looks down into the pit at the beast roaming around its freshest kill. She and Deimos had skewered plenty of boar in the past —and a rasher of fried back fat does sound good. Stepping forward to the edge of the rope fence, she calls out. Accepting the challenge. The organizer thinks her a fool for not taking the leather-and-metal cuirass they offer. All she takes into the pit is a wooden lance affixed with a rusting leaf-shaped spearhead and her twin blades. 

The beast does not notice when Lesya steps into the arena —it is busy rooting around the guts of its last victim, but she knows better than to strike first from behind. Moving around in a low crouch, she clicks her tongue —drawing its attention to her. The boar charges and Lesya rolls out of the way and reaches behind her, unsheathing one of the daggers. 

Weighing the blade and the opportunity, she throws it. The boar squeals when the dagger buries itself to the hilt in its flank. A wave of chants and cheers sweeps through the rabble above, but she tunes them out —eyes narrowing on the beast as it returns its raging black eyes on her. Stamping its hooves into the sand. When Lesya rolls to the side again, she reaches for the second dagger on her back —cutting a deep line into the boar’s side, it rears up and cries as though it had already been skewered. 

The beast readies to charge again, but Lesya is done with the spectacle. Crouching, she adjusts her grip on the spear and faces down the boar as it races toward her, bloody mouth agape. Lunging as it nears her, she thrusts the spear forward and up —pressing into the wooden lance with a loud cry. The crowd above grows silent as the boar halts, its squeals of pain turning to silence. Metal glinting with red pushes through the top of the boar’s skull —twisting the spear, she jerks it free and drives the bloody point into the ground next to her foot. 

Tundareos is there when she emerges from the fighting pit, grinning —his clear blue eyes like a sparkling sea. Sandy blond hair windswept and loosely tied back from his face. He is so much like the lively boy Lesya remembers from a distant childhood, but a pang of despondency rises in her chest. Tundareos has not led a gentle life either, that much is evident from the deep scar running across his left cheek down to his lips —half-hidden by a scruffy beard a shade lighter than his hair. “You’re insane,” he laughs, clapping her on the shoulder, having watched the fight from above.  

The purse is heavy with silver and gold —from the prize and the bets even if the organizer is reluctant to part ways with the pay. Her brother trails along as she returns to the Adrestia, tossing the earnings down at Kassandra’s feet. It will put her closer to paying Xenia’s hefty price.  

FOR WHEN TUNDAREOS is not at sea, he has a small house in Koressia beneath the Temple of Athena Nedousia. He pours two cups of watered wine and lays the thick-cut slices of boar fat into a bronze tagēnon to fry and render over an earthen brazier. The supper of fried back fat, brown bread, olives, figs, and honey is taken in silence —though Tundareos and Lesya exchange quick looks and small smiles. It is the first time either of them has been with family in over a decade and had been longer since sharing a meal. 

Lesya does not part ways for the night as she had initially planned, instead, her brother leads her up to the roof. A full moon hangs in the clear dark sky, pocked with the twinkle of a thousand stars. Tundareos looks out over the sea, a deep sorrow washing over him. “Sister,” he breathes, “tell me what happened to you after that night.” He has heard stories of a ghost with copper hair, fighting like a demon —after witnessing her kill the same beast who gored countless men there is not a doubt in his mind the stories had been about his sister

“Tundareos,” Lesya shakes her head, laurel gaze darting down to her palms. Remembering is one of the hardest things to do, but forgetting is even harder. “I–” she pauses and when Lesya begins again, the words come pouring out as a torrent. Lesya tells him everything and it feels good to have someone to confide in without fear of judgment. 

His face twists in anger —no one would have hurt his sister if his father had not given her up as a girl. “What can I do to help you stop these people?” He asks but Lesya does not have that answer for herself either. Luck leads her to some Cultists and Deimos to others. The only way to stop them from choking Hellas was to cut the head from every serpent. “I’ll do it. I promise,” Tundareos says, voice reflecting his iron will. “They all deserve to die and rot in Tartarus.” A good number already were. 

Then something stirs in the pit of her stomach, rising to seize her heart. “Deimos doesn’t,” she says, softly. Deimos was the only person who knew what it was like to be a weapon, to be twisted into something valuable from a young age, to have freedom and humanity stripped away. Lesya cannot stop her heart from aching every time she thinks of him —can not stop hoping their paths will cross sooner rather than later. Tundareos looks at her oddly for a moment before he begins to understand what the pause and the rose color on her cheeks mean. “His name is Alexios,” she tells her brother, smiling. I love him. 

@wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fjor-ok-skadi @fucking-dip-shit

[happymetalgirl]

Lindemann - F & M

The surprising part is not Rammstein’s Till Lindemann and Swedish Renaissance man Peter Tätgren releasing another album together after the two minds met on 2015’s debaucherous Skills in Pills; it’s that the duo’s sophomore collaboration together coincided with Rammstein’s return from their ten-year silence this year. It’s not the wildest thing in the world for the two releases to come out the same year, but I just wasn’t expecting it with how much Rammstein was clearly putting into their self-titled album this year. And I don’t just bring this up for the mere statistical content; it will come up later.

While this project (Lindemann) is a duo on paper, and while Per Tätgren’s instrumental talents drive that front of the duo’s music, Lindemann, as its being named only after the Rammstein frontman, is more of a solo project in spirit, with Tätgren serving his usual purpose as a hired gun to help Till Lindemann achieve his artistic vision. Much like how his Rammstein compatriot Richard Kruspe had chosen to do on his side project, Emmigrate, Till Lindemann sang entirely in English on his solo project’s debut record, Skills in Pills, for which the Rammstein frontman had clear artistic reasons. While not shy about taboo or uneasy topics in Rammstein’s music, Till Lindemann’s poetic talent has given extra artistic depth and creativity to the band’s approach to such challenging subjects, their fearlessness to write songs about the most uncomfortable of topics becoming a big part of their notoriety and identity, and their singer’s astute wordsmithery allowing them to do so beyond mere shock value. With Skills in Pills though, the Rammstein singer wanted to express himself and his promiscuous side more personally and in primal honesty. The songs on the album generally revolve around sex and Till Lindemann’s personal experiences and fantasies. And the readily understandable and more upfront English lyricism (in comparison to his German lyricism) really highlights the primal lust within the various songs, with songs like “Fat”, “Ladyboy”, and “Golden Shower” being pretty self-explanatory by their titles alone. It’s an album that really captures that overwhelming urge of being really horny for something and just being like “ugggggghhhh, I just wanna fuckin’ get pissed on right now! AAAAGGGHH!!!”. While that’s not my thing, I get the feeling. There’s no song about eating ass, though, which is a travesty. But I’m sure someday we’ll get a Rammstein song about eating ass. The highlight of the album though, is probably the morbidly comical “Praise Abort”, on which Lindemann complains about having too many damn children because he only has sex without a condom and is jealous of all his friends who can indulge themselves rather than some thankless offspring. Musically, the album isn’t too far off from the industrial metal the German’s main band makes, though with a focus more on rocking grooves rather than crushing metallic power.

On F & M, standing for “Frau und Mann” (man and woman), Lindemann returns to writing in German, which does see a return in lyrical complexity and creativity, but not as consistently as it was on Rammstein’s album earlier this year. The album starts out with the invigorated arena chugging of “Steh auf” (Stand up), whose chorus’ emboldened call to get up out of bed is given some foreboding eight-string treatment by Tätgren. The speaker of the song is eventually revealed to be not just Lindemann urging us to get off our asses, but a character in a much darker tale, a child begging their wasted or perhaps even fatally overdosed mother to get up and take them to the circus. It’s a fucking grim piece of poetry in the same vein as “Puppe” off the self-titled Rammstein album, another testament to Till Lindemann’s ability as a compelling poetic storyteller of the most ghastly variety.

At its best, the album is full of the kind of poetically insightful and captivating writing that Rammstein is known for, and with the powerful instrumentation to back it up. And while it peaks early with “Steh auf”, there are plenty of worthy tracks on F & M that seem to have been written in a similar mindest to what much of Rammstein seemed to have been written in. “Allesfresser” (German for omnivore) is another synthy, dancy, and unsettling banger about insatiable consumption that at first seems to just be about plain old indiscriminate gluttony, but the song seems to be about relating that to overconsumption on a larger scale, humankind eating up everything in the world carelessly and to the sound of music as a representation of our distracted obliviousness to the effects of it.

The industrial metal banger “Gummi” (rubber), about a latex suit fetish, both sounds and reads like something that would have been right at home on Skills in Pills, while the similarly BDSM-motifed song “Knebel” (meaning “gag”) is this kind of comedically pathetic, poetic, woeful, and intentionally surface-level meditation on the general struggles of life (by a speaker who seems like the archetype of a frustrated disenfranchised man with ample privilege) over some bare acoustic folk instrumentation interspersed with this expression of loving “you” with a gag in mouth, which seems more about this kind of person actively silencing anyone wanting to interject their own perspective into his masturbatory meditations on destiny and the hardness of life, which explodes suddenly into a metallic tantrum of “I hate you.” All in all, pretty funny (or maddening) song depending on how you look at it. In a similar vein, “Ach so gern” is another accordion-laced, campy, café-folky ballad about a womanizer recounting in seemingly increasing insecurity his pushy sexual conquests. The kitschy tone of the song leads me to believe that this character is being made fun of, but it is hard to read that in the lyrics’ portrait alone.

Another tongue-in-cheek cut, the choir-backed industrial rocker “Platz Einz” seems to be a similarly silly portrait of deluded overcompensation about the egotistical, autofelatiolic attitude of a bigtime music star. The cleverness of the song is in the tone of course, and the bombastic production certainly helps out with that, though it’s such a closely performed piece of acting that it’s uncanny distastefulness makes it a not so fun song to listen to, which might be kind of the point.

The song the album’s title is derived from “Frau & Mann” simply lists a whole bunch of opposites as if to point out how silly the reductiveness of everything into binaries is, leaving the inclusion of man and woman in that list to be, well... I don’t think I need to spell it out. While I appreciate the lyrical concept of breaking down gender binaries, the song musically is kind of bland and features this kooky “ay ay ay!” sort of chant that I just can’t take seriously, but maybe that’s also part of the point.

The album is not without its flatter moments though, songs that feels like they might have been odds and ends or unfinished projects from Rammstein’s most recent recording sessions, as they sound similar in tone and structure despite Peter Tätgren’s embellishments. The second track “Ich Weiß es Nicht” is a more industrially heavy, yet also dancy, track about the confusing haze of amnesia, not the most lyrically or musically creative track on the album. The song “Blut” is a big choir-backed lament seemingly about self-harm in the form of cutting or even suicide. The lyrics are kind of vague and romantic, but it’s possible there’s something I’m missing in the tone of it all since I’m not a native speaker. “Schlaf ein” is probably the most underwhelming song on the album, a kind of cheesy orchestral piano lullaby, not really doing anything at all musically exciting or lyrically interesting. It sounds like a generic part of a kid’s movie soundtrack and the flowery imagery is nothing new for Till Lindemann, who is punching quite below his weight on this one.

On a more mixed note, while the shoulder-shrugging lyrics of the closing string-laden ballad don’t really do much for me, the gradual swells of the instrumentation and Till Lindemann’s vocal performance over it are enough to make up for it.

It can’t be said for certain, but for better and for worse, much of F & M seems to be made up of leftovers from the latest cranking of Rammstein’s creative mill, tracks that might have been made into B-sides on that album. There are some bright highlights that would have sounded great on that album in place of other tracks, but perhaps deemed too thematically redundant, like Till Lindemann had the choice to include either “Puppe” or “Steh auf” on Rammstein’s seventh album and ultimately went with “Puppe”. And despite its several eccentric moments and arguably more consistent composition, F & M lacks that flamboyant character that Skills in Pills had, and it seems more like a decent Rammstein leftovers album than a Lindemann solo album.

I’ll still take it/10

[novantinuum]

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 4.1K~

Summary: In another world, he doesn’t have his mother’s sword or shield to hide behind when Bismuth lands her strike. The bubble pops.

Steven falls apart. (AU from s3ep20 “Bismuth”)

Chapter summary: In which Steven has to be the most mature Crystal Gem.

First | Last chapter

While I’m cross posting all of these to tumblr, I’d love to have your support over on AO3 too! Plus, it’s easier to subscribe there. A win-win, I’d say. 

Chapter 4: Pandemonium

“—it’s Pink Diamond.”

Garnet’s words hang over them, as commanding in their presence as the hands of the temple when he’s out playing on the beach under their shadow. Shifting in her arms, Steven squints, the reveal holding far less meaning for him than he imagines it does for everyone else. Did the Gems mention a Pink Diamond before? Sure, he knows a little bit about the so-called Great Diamond Authority, mainly how they tend to colonize and destroy all life on whatever fertile planets they come across— and thanks to Peridot he’s actually seen Yellow Diamond— but Pink? It doesn’t ring any bells. To be fair, they’re still not super transparent about much of their involvement in Earth’s history, but if it’s supposed to be important—

“And how is that even possible?” Bismuth outbursts. Like an overfilled balloon, the tension pops. “We knew Rose, we- we all fought with her against Pink, she—“

As the others continue to tussle over this revelation, Steven realizes with a jolt that Pink Diamond’s existence has been staring him in the face this whole time. “Holy moley,” he breathes to himself, eyes wide as saucers. Of course! The symbols on the ancient sky arena bear a fourth diamond, where more recent Gem structures do not. What color is it? Pink. Back in August, just past his birthday, they popped up to the moon base on Lion’s back. On the bottom floor of the base, the Diamonds are depicted in monolithic murals that are like, fifty feet fall. And how many does he remember seeing? Four. Blue, Peridot’s Yellow, White, and...

The last mural is Pink.

And somehow, according to Garnet Pink Diamond is... Rose? Is his mom? And so then as the recipient of her gem... so is he...? In a way? Geeze, this is so confusing.

“Garnet?!” Pearl calls, and he realizes then that the fusion’s body is quivering. Her arms still wrap protectively around him, but their hold is progressively weakening. Her mouth contorts into a painful grimace.

“Garnet, what’s wro—“ he reaches out, intending to affectionately pat his guardian’s hair, but then her form begins to glow white. All at once, she loses control.

He’s unable to hold back his yelp when her grip on him gives up, unable to heft his weight in this state. Bedspread and all, Steven tumbles to the hard stone. The blankets unravel around him like a ball of yarn. Pearl is at his side in a flash, one hand on his back and the other protectively cupped around his gem. With her help he pulls himself to his knees, limbs shaking with the effort, and turns to set his gaze on Garnet. His throat grows dry at the sight of the agony she’s in.

She’s bent over, arms desperately clinging to herself as if this is the only way she can avoid splitting into two. She clenches her teeth, practically seething as she rides the waves of instability.

“Not the time, not the time, not the time,” she chants to herself. Her body morphs, almost pulling apart into smaller halves.

Almost.

Moments pass, only noticeable via the frantic beating of Steven’s heart, and miraculously Garnet is still together. Her breathing stills as she stabilizes. The two gems on her hands stop glowing. Slowly but surely, a wide eyed Bismuth approaches and supports her by the shoulder.

“You okay?” she asks, genuine concern tinting her voice.

“I—“ Garnet pauses, her mouth falling slack. “For now. But don’t think this changes anything,” she adds quickly, shrugging away and piercing her with the same sort of intense look that he‘s on the receiving end of whenever he’s in trouble.

She holds her palms outstretched in defense. “Just tryin’ to help where I can, no need to cut your facets down a size.”

“Believe me, you’ve already done enough.”

Pearl taps her foot impatiently, still clutching the inert gemstone. “The fountain is just around the corner,” she says. “Steven, can you walk?”

His brow creases in concentration. That’s a good question, can he? Carefully, he moves one bare foot under him, and tries putting a little weight on it. It’s a little wobbly, his system still acclimating to being entirely without the gem side of his physiology, (a problem which they’ll hopefully fix soon), but not entirely unstable. He shrugs.

“Uh... maybe if I’m leaning on someone?”

“Excellent!” she says, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Here, take my arm, and I’ll lead you the last few steps.”

“And you,” Garnet growls, striding across to Pearl.

She flinches, her pupils shrinking to pinpricks in the shadow of the fusion’s anger. Steven’s gut twists at the sight. Suddenly he’s unable to shake the memories of the last time the two of them fought.

“Wha- me?”

“You knew, didn’t you?”

Her ivory cheeks flush bright blue. “I—“

All further words are cut off as she slaps her palm to her mouth. She trembles violently, her horrified gaze snapping to that hand as if it’s something invasive and doesn’t belong there.

Bismuth also advances upon her. “You did seem rather calm about all this earlier,” she points out, crossing her arms.

This comment is enough to drive Pearl to channel all her nervous energy elsewhere. She takes a bold step in front of him, no longer hindered by that mysterious invisible force. “And for someone who tried to shatter the most important person on this planet to me, you don’t seem panicked enough,” she spits.

“Save your words!” Garnet says, jabbing her finger at her. “Admit it. You knew, you knew Rose was Pink Diamond, this whole time!”

“Y’ guys!” Steven croaks from his position on the rough stone, watching in dismay as the two of them devolve into conflict. Kneeling there behind them, he can’t help but feel a cold dread climb deep into his skin and seep through his veins— an immobilizing sense of emotional helplessness that rivals that which the loss of his gem gave —or is that merely the morning chill seeping through the legs of his jeans? It’s hard to tell.

“You lied to us. To your friends! To me, to Amethyst… to Steven…”

Rapidly, Pearl shakes her head. “It was never my intention to—“

“But you know what the worst part is? I trusted you so implicitly that I never saw this betrayal coming, not ever!”

“Garnet, please,” she begs, “you have to understand, there are some things that are impossible for me to explain!”

“Try anyway,” she snarls, and summons a gauntlet over her ruby gem.

“I’m trying to tell you, I literally can’t!”

“But why not?!”

All that helplessness builds and builds within him as he watches this shameless display, until suddenly something in his mind shifts like the tumblers inside a lock and those feelings turn inside out. Frustration is the only fire burning within him now— frustration that no one’s listening to each other, that everyone is yelling, that every minute they spend arguing over the unchanging past is another minute his gem is damaged and entirely removed from his body, frustration about the disastrous circumstances that threw him into this whole ugly mess in the first place...

Steven slams his eyes shut.

“STOOOP!” he hollers.

He frantically hobbles across to Garnet on his knees, the patterns of the stone’s grain distinguishable through the fabric of his jeans. As he throws his arms around her leg, she lowers her gauntlet... ever so slowly. Pearl breaths a visible sigh of relief. Even Bismuth, standing close behind, turns her gaze in interest to what he has to say. In a perfect world he’d have the strength to literally stand his ground while securing their full attention, but for now he’ll have to improvise. He hugs her leg tighter.

“Come on, stop fighting,” he begs, blinking up at both of them through wide, red rimmed eyes. “You two love each other! And if you love me...”

He pulls away, and gestures towards the gem in Pearl’s grasp. His fingers open wide, ready to take hold of it himself. Ready to feel halfway whole again.

“Let me have it, please.”

She’s about to do just that when the bridge of Bismuth‘s nose crinkles with alarm. “B-but wait,” the rainbow haired Gem butts in, pushing her broad figure between them, “if we fix the crack, when Pink reforms, how do we know she won’t—“

“It’s not her anymore,” Steven says insistently, fighting to keep the full intensity of his frustration with her out of the micro expressions of his face. “It’s me! You all saw him.” Taking a deep breath, he sits back on his heels and takes this moment to make eye contact with each one of them in turn. “Listen, I know there’s a lot you’re upset about, and a lot we still don’t understand. I mean, I barely know who this Pink Diamond is! But all the arguing‘s gotta stop. If we’re going to figure this out, it has to be together. It has to. Okay?”

Pearl gives a tight nod, her mouth pressing into a thin line. She silences any further argument from Bismuth in a single acerbic glare, the stockier Gem backing away as if standing on hot coals, and suddenly he understands why people used to call her the ‘terrifying renegade pearl.’ Her expression softens when she turns to him. She extends the gemstone to him like an offering, gently guiding it into his hands. They held it together for a moment, and as his quivering thumbs stroke its glassy surface he swears he can sense faint vibrations from within. Damaged, but inside, still so very much brimming with life.

“It’s not about us,” she says, and releases the gem to his care. She peers up at Garnet, inclining her brow pointedly. “It’s about him.”

At hearing her earlier words thrown back at her, the fusion sighs wearily. She drops her gauntlet laden arm, and lets the weapon phase back into her gem. Like steam dissipating with exposure to chilled air, it’s clear all the fight’s been drained out of her. “You’re right, Steven. Of course you are. We‘re wrong to jump to conclusions with so little information to work with.”

“Yeah, exactly!” he chimes, lifting his pink gemstone to eye level and admiring the way the light refracts through its facets— though this refraction is of course thrown off by the jagged gouge marring its flat pentagonal center. “For all we know, maybe you got a bit carried away and this gem’s just a regular ol’ rose quartz after all!”

“No, that’s definitely a diamond.”

The bluntness of this statement wipes the faint smile off his face.

“...oh.”

“But you made a good point,” Garnet says, and at noticing his stress ruffles his hair. “No matter what we feel, it’s not her. It’s your gem now. So, we’re gonna mend it.”

Pearl loops her arm through his, helping him up. For the first time since all this madness began Steven plants his bare feet on solid ground. His knees wobble under his body weight, and he inhales sharply, an intrusive image of him collapsing, dropping his gem, and watching it shatter into a zillion tiny shards zipping through his mind like lightning. But his guardian holds tight, keeping him from toppling over.

“That’s it, small steps,” she whispers, guiding him. “We’ll walk slowly, okay?”

Garnet promptly falls in line behind them, and he can only assume Bismuth tries to follow as well because Garnet barks for her to stay back. He swivels to match eyes with the one who cracked him— a flurry of complicated emotions swirling within him all the while that he’s definitely not ready to unpack— and watches her face crumple as they leave her behind. The foliage thins. Soon enough they reach the vast, glittering basin, filled to the brim with his mom’s healing tears. Adorning the central platform of the grand fountain, that familiar ringlet laden statue looms over them. Steven thought it almost ethereal the first time he came to this place, but seeing it now just serves to leave him with a knot in his stomach, right in the hole his mother’s gem left. Knowing the bitter truths they do now, the peaceful smile painstakingly etched across her stone visage feels like a mockery.

Pearl leads him to the fountain’s edge and helps him sit on its rim. Both her and Garnet join him on either side. Basking in the morning sun’s warmth, it’s easy to forget that it’s like one am back in Beach City, and that he’s not supposed to be awake right now. His eyelids droop. Hopefully soon this nightmare will all be over so he can collapse in his bed, cuddle with one of his stuffed animals, and have the deepest, most dreamless sleep of his life. His glance drops to the diamond in his hands.

“Well,” he says, a noticeable shake in his voice. “Here goes nothing.”

Slowly and oh-so-carefully, he plunges his gem under the water’s surface. The other two watch, enraptured, as its surface glows with a shimmering brilliance. Simultaneously the deep crack splayed across its pentagonal facet begins to recede. He counts three seconds… then five… by eight, the gouge is gone entirely. Eyes sparkling, he lifts the gem into the air. Now he can barely tell it was damaged in the first place! Maybe he’s reading into things too much and it’s nothing more but the manifestation of sweet, sweet relief, but Steven wonders if fixing his gem is to thank for lifting the cloud over his mind. He already feels ten times more alert and able than before. (Although he still doubts his ability to walk. Should he be concerned how physically weak he is on his own, completely human?) Nevertheless, he clutches the repaired diamond to his chest, grinning at his guardians.

“Maybe we should come here more often, ‘coz I think this is the shiniest my gem’s ever been,” he jokes with a weak laugh.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Pearl sighs, and throws herself around him.

Garnet joins her in the embrace, and with a sniffle, Steven buries his face in the crook of her arm. His eyes flutter shut as he allows his worries to momentarily melt away. The faint vibrations of their hard light bodies thrum steadily in time with his heartbeat. Gems may not have a physical heart like humans or other kinds of organic life, but Pearl taught him their gemstones constantly refresh their forms through the channels of light running from their core outward, and that in practice it’s pretty similar to the blood pumping through his circulatory system. In any case, it’s a comforting reminder that he’s safe.

“Now can we talk about this peacefully, without yelling?” he says softly.

“Of course,” Garnet says with one of her customary half-smiles, and after giving him one last squeeze pulls away. “Bismuth!” she calls. “Your damage has been fixed. You can come out from the tree you’re sulking behind now.”

Still clutching him tight, Pearl stiffens. “Wha-! After what she did to Steven, you’re just going to let her—?”

She tips down her visor, regarding her directly. “Believe me,” she mutters, voice brimming with a rock solid assurance that could only come from future vision, “she won’t be trying that again.”

Pearl helps him sit with his back against the fountain’s lip as the other Crystal Gem rejoins the group. Bismuth’s fingers fidget almost hyperactively, clasping and folding over and over in front of her blacksmith’s apron. Steven watches her glance drift to the gem he now holds in his lap, and while she's calmer than before now that it's mended, there’s an undeniable fear lurking underneath as well. His shoulders hunch. Is that what his mother’s shadowy past evokes in everyone? Fear?

He‘s beginning to wish he never popped that bubble in Lion’s mane in the first place.

“Pearl, can you tell us anything about Pink Diamond and Rose?” he asks, opening the conversation.

She bites at her lip, glancing between the three of them. Garnet regards her with an especially careful focus.

“No...”

He frowns. “But you want to, right?”

“More than anything,” she whispers, her blue irises glittering.

Apparently her words enclose some sort of hidden meaning, because the tenseness in Garnet’s expression begins to fade away, a wave of understanding crashing onto shore to replace it. “Gag order.”

His nose crinkles. “What’s that? It doesn’t sound very nice.”

“That’s because it isn’t. The diamonds have the capability of giving irrefutable orders to Gems who are bound to them,” the fusion explains, crossing her arms. “Such as, individuals in their court who were given as gifts, or... personal pearls. Pink Diamond must have commanded her not to speak of her true identity.”

“So hold on. Lemme see if I can get this straight. You think,” Bismuth begins, and points directly at Pearl, “that before the rebellion she was Pink Diamond’s personal pearl? Our lone Pearl?”

The Gem in question shifts uncomfortably at their discussion, clamping her lips together. Silently, Steven hugs her from the side, pressing his cheek against her upper arm. Her form quivers.

“Yes, I do.”

“And then somehow, Rose Quartz, respected leader of that rebellion, was actually the diamond were were supposedly fighting against all along? Was fake? Just some created persona? But why would some spoiled, imperialistic upper crust do that in the first place? None of this makes any sense!”

“If I could actually explain anything, it’d make more sense than you’d expect,” Pearl says.

“Maybe she just wanted to be Rose Quartz,” Steven shrugs. “Is that so bad?”

Garnet adjusts her opaque glasses. “Depends on what her motives were. See, I thought I knew Rose. Knew what she stood for. Now I have no way of being sure.” She pauses, gazing vacantly between him and Bismuth. “None of us do.”

The group lapses into uncomfortable silence at this, their sense of morale deflating further and further as the moment stretches on. That sick, twisted feeling in his gut returns with a vengeance. Talking is still leagues better than fighting, but… now his family is suspicious and tense, battered and broken. He doesn’t want this. Desperately, he looks to Garnet.

“But… Pearl can find a way to get around that gag order eventually, can’t she? Then she can tell us everything herself!”

“I’ve tried,” the lithe Gem blurts out, hugging her knees to her chest. “Ever since Homeworld Gems started returning to this planet I’ve tried everything I could think of to get around it, but it’s been a part of me for so long that I don’t know if I can.”

“Tampering with a Diamond’s commands is too risky. A Gem could shatter under that pressure,” Garnet says. Delicately, she rests her hand on Pearl’s shoulder. “I’ve lost too many friends to this war. As much as I want to know the truth, I won’t risk another.”

Tears bud at the corner of Pearl’s eyes, which she quickly dabs away with the butt of her palm. In the lush garden around the fountain, a flurry of birds begin their morning songs, their lilting chirps meshing together into more complex melodies until they coalesce into a grand symphony. It’s achingly beautiful, and since song birds like this don’t nest near his home Steven is mesmerized. There’s a bizarre dissonance, however, between the content mood their singing encourages and the dour shadow he can’t seem to escape from under. A golf ball sized lump catching in his throat, his attention returns to the pink diamond in his lap. The diamond that should be sitting flush in his belly right now, its weight as ordinary and familiar as the clothes on his back. He splays his hand over his stomach. Even if he’s beginning to recover from the initial shock by now, the absence of his gem still haunts him to his core, still feels like someone’s reached into his chest cavity and yanked out one of his essential organs. It’s always been a part of him, ever since he was born, but now, because of what Bismuth did, because he wasn’t careful enough...

His eyes burn, growing damp.

“So... does this mean I’m just. Human, now? Forever? Is that it?”

“Oh, Steven,” Pearl breathes, and pulls him tight into her embrace. The dams break, and hot, sloppy tears roll down his cheeks.

“No matter what, you’ll always be a Crystal Gem to us,” Garnet says softly, tracing abstract shapes on his back as he cries.

“But I won’t have my shield!” he blubbers, voice thick. “Without my gem I won’t have any of my powers! And- a-and if I’m completely human now, and humans can’t fuse with Gems, then how—“

“We wait and see. You’ll be alright, I promise.”

“I hear footsteps approaching,” Bismuth says. Bounding in front of them with the force of a door slamming shut, she morphs her fist into a mallet.

Sure enough, true to her claim he hears movement nearby— and as it grows closer, wonderfully familiar voices too. His heart soars. When did they miss the sound of the warp pad activating?

Pearl bristles. “Put that away, it’s just Amethyst and Greg.”

“Greg? What kinda Gem’s a Greg?” she asks, brow creasing.

“He’s not a Gem, he’s my dad!”

Fresh tears spring forth as he catches a glimpse of the pair approaching from the distance at a generous clip. They emerge into the clearing, forms no longer obscured by the trees’ shadows. Amethyst’s features are wide and frantic, and his dad hauls the bedspread they left behind midway to the fountain. He’s breathing heavy as he plods along, nearly wheezing. They match eyes simultaneously.

“Dad!” he cries, hoarse.

“Steven! I’m coming!”

His dad hastens his pace, scurrying across the remainder of the clearing on his last burst of adrenaline quicker than even Amethyst. He almost trips on a dangling edge of the comforter but catches himself a heartbeat before disaster. Shaking his head he tosses the whole mass of blankets to the ground and keeps running. Steven thrusts his gem into Pearl’s care and daringly, on his own strength, pushes himself to his feet. His knees almost buckle, but through either a miracle or sheer stubbornness he somehow manages to carve his way across the rough hewn stone to the one person he needs right now more than anyone in the world. With all the rest of the Crystal Gems in witness, he bounds towards the promise of his dad’s cozy embrace. He gasps in alarm when his legs finally give out at the last step. Unable to stop himself, he starts to crumple…

“Whoa-ho there!” Dad exclaims, catching him just as he’s about to crash knee-first into the rocky ground. “We don’t need you hurting yourself again…”

“I’m okay now!” Steven says, swaying unevenly in his hold. “I’m- I don’t know how much Amethyst told you, but I’m okay.”

The rigidity in his dad’s body increases tenfold as he pulls him even tighter, pressing his tear stained cheek against the hem of his sweaty old tank top.

“She said that- that you’d split apart or something, and your gem was cracked, and—“

“Dad, you’re squishing me,” he says, voice muffled against his chest.

“Oh, whoops!” he chuckles, and eases up on him. “Guess I’m just really glad to see you moving and alert. Sorry we took so long, Schtu-ball. Your ol’ man ain’t as agile as he used to be.”

Steven flashes him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and wipes his face dry. A hand lays itself on his shoulder then, and he turns his head to find Amethyst peering at him in interest.

“Yo, where’d your creepy twin go?”

Pearl crosses her arms. “Amethyst!”

“Did you guys, like, deal with his crack yet?” she asks, completely ignoring the other Gem’s chastising. He has to admit, ignoring the jab she made at the other Steven, the level of concern etched upon her face is genuinely touching.

“Uh, he kinda poofed?” he says, gesturing towards the rest of the Gems. “But the gem’s fixed! Pearl has it.”

Pearl lifts the diamond so they can all see. Its facets catch the sun's glow, scattering the light in all directions. His dad’s face grows pale at the sight.

“Man, and here I thought you were exaggerating,” he mutters to Amethyst.

She shrugs widely. “Maybe about everything else, but not when it’s actually serious.”

“What I don’t understand is how it happened. That gem’s huge! And it’s not like it’s gonna fall right out. How on Earth did you lose it anyway?”

Garnet and Pearl shoot a poisonous glance in Bismuth’s direction. If it were subtle that'd be one thing, but it's blatant enough that all other conversation runs silent. His skin nearly crawls in the awkward silence. He can feel sweat bead on his brow as he watches his dad's expression grow taut.

“Whoa," Amethyst says, holding up her hands. "I’m, uh, feeling some real uncomfortable vibes here. What’d I miss?”

Steven gives a nervous laugh, and runs his hand through the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Well... that’s kinda a long story.”

Notes:

-Pearl’s gag order still stands even after the reveal because that mental lock has not been undone yet. I headcanon that it would take an individual actually crossing through her memories ala in canon to unlock that door. But since “Hey Steven, climb through my head and find my phone” is such a bizarrely specific idea, it won’t be something Pearl will consider as a potential solution for a long while.

-In the end, I chose to interpret the order this way because it allows Steven to still have a mystery to unfold. As a writer that’s far more fun than an info-dump.

-Garnet, as unstable as she currently is, was letting her anger get the best of her in her fear of the fact that she never saw this possibility coming, and took that out on Pearl. If she stopped to think she would’ve realized the reason why Pearl couldn’t provide any information much earlier.

-At this point, Bismuth is super lucky that her rash attempt at shattering Steven isn’t the headline right now. Everyone’s still so focused on the Pink Diamond revelation that nobody’s quite gotten around to dealing with that issue yet. Her time is coming, though. It's just not currently a priority.

[an-ephemeral-blog]

What’s standing in the way of women’s soccer?

When chants of ‘equal pay!’ ring through soccer stadiums, men jump on Twitter to explain why, despite performing better internationally than the men’s team, women soccer players don’t deserve equal pay because they don’t earn as much revenue.

Over the past two months I’ve become a big NWSL fan.  It’s very different from being an MLB fan, my only previous experience of passionate sports fandom.  There are a lot of things I take for granted that a professional sports team has, which NWSL teams do not have.  These things absolutely affect revenue, either directly, or by lowering the quality of play or the experience of watching games.  Here’s a list.

1.  NWSL stadiums are less accessible than MLS and other stadiums.

My local team, the Washington Spirit, plays at the Maryland SoccerPlex.  To get to the Plex, if you don’t have a car, requires an hour-plus train ride to the end of the metro and then either a 25+ minute car ride or a 45+ bus ride.  I have multiple friends who’ve expressed interested in going to a game but balked when they found out how long it would take to get there.  Another friend had to cancel because she was working late and couldn’t finish by 5:30pm, which was the time she’d have to leave to make it to a 7:30pm game.

As a trial run, the Spirit are playing a game tomorrow at Audi Field, home field of the MLS team DC United.  Audi Field is about 30 minutes away from downtown and is easily accessible via Metro.  Correspondingly, the Spirit is on track to more than triple their season record at the Plex.  They may even sell out Audi Field.  Surely if they can sell out Audi Field, they deserve to play in it?

Which brings me to the next item on the list...

2.  NWSL stadiums are smaller than MLS stadiums.

The Spirit’s plex sells out at around 5,500 tickets.  For tomorrow’s Audi Field game, they’ve currently sold over 16,000 tickets.

Sky Blue’s regular park also holds about 5,000 fans.  When they played a game last weekend at Red Bull Arena, aka the stadium of their local MLS team, they nearly doubled attendance at 9,000+ tickets sold.

I don’t know the breakdown for every team in the league.  I do know that Orlando Pride, despite having access to a great stadium, tends to draw fewer fans do to their lower quality of play.  (They’re second to last in the league.)  On the other hand, the Portland Thorns already share a stadium with their MLS neighbor team, the Timbers, and also boast the biggest and loudest fanbase in the NWSL.  Portland recently set a league record with 25,000+ tickets sold to a game.

Items #1 and #2 combine to make clear that to grow as a league, NWSL teams need to play in larger stadiums that are easier to access.  (This doesn’t even take into account how stadium facilities might impact quality of play.  Some NWSL teams don’t even have showers in their locker rooms!)  Owners and league managers need to invest in securing these spaces for teams, even if they might not be profitable at first. The experience of Sky Blue and Spirit suggests that managers won’t have to wait to reap the benefits.  

3.  NWSL games are often scheduled simultaneously, decreasing viewership.

With only nine teams in the NWSL, there are four to six NWSL games each week.  Given this small number, you’d think they’d all be on at different times, right?

Nope.  Every week, there’s at least one pair of games scheduled against each other.  Often there’s two.  If you don’t have the ability to tape games, you’re forced to miss at least one game every week.  As I have taken to tweeting despairingly at the NWSL each time this happens: whyyyyyyyy.

Schedule creation is complicated, and there are more factors that go into it than I know of.  But one key element is when teams even have their field available.  Most teams don’t own their own fields, and have to work within a restricted subset of dates and times.  To the extent that this contributed to overlapping games, it’s yet another way that issues securing good stadiums get in the way of fans supporting their teams.

4.  NWSL teams have a lower quality of commentating.

Complaining about the announcers/commentators on NWSL matches is a sport of its own.  Announcers regularly mispronounce players’ names and sometimes misidentify them.  They repeat facts and stories, and use the same turns of phrase over and over until you can’t help but twitch every time you hear them say “she sprays the ball out wide” or “the ball found it’s way to...” The last Spirit game I attended, I sat in front of a woman who, after Elise Kellond-Knight left with a pulled hamstring, briefly explained to her friends why women were more likely than men to have hamstring injuries.  (It has something to do with women having more developed quad muscles, which puts the opposing muscles, the hamstrings, at greater risk.  This also leads to increased ACL injuries among women.)  This random stranger had more interesting commentary than any of the people I’d heard on TV. But why are these announcers so bad?  The answer’s easy: NWSL announcers are barely paid.  They make $300-$400 a game, with no travel or lodging expenses paid, which means unless you live in Fort Lauderdale where the announcing is recorded, you have to pay to announce.   I don’t know how much MLS announcers make, but I bet it’s better than that.

5.  NWSL teams have a lower quality of refereeing.

Oh boy.  Okay.  There have been some issues with NWSL refereeing lately.  As national team star Ali Krieger put it:

We’re putting a good product out on the field and every year we’re getting better and the referees seem like they are not.  So, I beg the NWSL — just the standard needs to be higher. It’s just unfortunate that you feel like the referee is ruining the game. They are taking the fun out of the game because they are not good enough.

How could we raise the standards of referees?  Well, they could stop treating the NWSL like a training ground for MLS:

There are five tiers in the U.S. Soccer refereeing program. The top-level, called “FIFA,” is the highest tier. These referees can officiate in FIFA-sanctioned matches. 

”The second tier is “P.R.O.” These referees can officiate MLS matches and are selected by the Professional Referee Organization.

The next tier down is called “National,” and these officials are certified by U.S. Soccer. These referees can officiate USL Championship and NWSL matches. And therein lies the problem.

The NWSL will never have officiating as good as the MLS as long as this remains US Soccer’s official policy.  It doesn’t get any clearer than that.

6.  NWSL games are not marketed as well as they could be.

I won’t pretend to understand marketing, but I know that it’s hard for people to go to games they don’t even know about: 

[Portland Thorns defender Meghan Klingenberg ] couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed when she saw Fox discuss the U.S. Men’s National Team’s run at the CONCACAF Gold Cup during halftime of the Women’s World Cup final Sunday, rather than preview the upcoming games in the National Women’s Soccer League (NWSL).

“I love Fox. I think they did a great job. They gave the Women’s World Cup the attention that it deserves, but I wish we mentioned the NWSL more. [...] We need that to be put into the consciousness of the general public. We need ESPN to talk about the NWSL year-round. We need beat reporters in every single city that has an NWSL team. We need investment in advertising and marketing, in ground support, in make sure that people know that there’s a freaking team in their area.”  [source]

It seems that marketing is another area in which US Soccer is underinvesting in women:

[Soccer United Marketing, the commercial arm of Major League Soccer] handles deals for MLS and the U.S. Soccer Federation but not the NWSL, even though U.S. Soccer runs the NWSL. This fact has long been lamented by the women’s soccer community.

The NWSL marketing team needs the resources to at least let people know that their teams exist and their games are happening.  But beyond that... the NWSL is full of charismatic stars, both current and potential.  Let’s give them the spotlight.

7.  NWSL salaries are, for all but the biggest stars, below average income.

No one goes into women’s soccer for the money, even if a few of the game’s biggest stars have managed to get some lucrative sponsorships.  The league guarantees a minimum salary of $16,538, barely above the poverty line, and caps max salary at $46,200, a bit belong the mean American income.

Talented young women who are making decisions about where to go to college and what to do after college need to take this into account.  If they have dependents, family members with health issues, or significant debt, they simply may not be able to afford to play soccer professionally.  

This impacts the number of women available to play professionally as well as their ability to nurture their own talent by investing in themselves via special camps and training.  For every Megan Rapinoe or Alex Morgan or Crystal Dunn who has made it to the NWSL there’s someone equally talented who stopped playing in high school or college because law school or medical school or learning to code seemed like a more financially viable career path.  

In other words, for all the strides women’s soccer has made over the last twenty to thirty years, the NWSL still selecting from only a fraction of the potential talent pool.

*

I’ve been an NWSL fan for less than two months, so I’m surely missing other ways that women’s soccer has been under-invested in.  But the seven issues outlined above should be enough to convince you there’s a problem.  

Saying that people just don’t want to watch women’s soccer isn’t merely an oversimplification - it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.  The whole point of investment is you take a risk now to reap a payoff later.  The NWSL needs US Soccer and the wider sports community to invest in them, and given time, everyone will benefit.

You know what keeps ringing in my ears?  Research that shows that men are judged on their potential, while women are only judged on their performance.  The NWSL has the potential to be a thriving league with the revenues and fan enthusiasm of the MLS.  The question is whether women’s soccer will be given the support they need to deliver on that potential.

[saywhatjessie]

DCBB 2018: “Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner” by JessJesstheBest, art by purzelndeesbaeumchen

“I’m Baby Del Mar and I think y'all are mighty fine. It’s time for ass-whooping. Who’s next in line?”

Baby Del Mar is one of the top faces in the WWE universe. But in real life, Dean Winchester is just a guy who wants to keep his personal and professional lives separate. This turns out to be a problem for several reasons.

Dean was pretty proud of his entrance.

Since he was a kid, he’d thought about what it would be like to be a professional wrestler. Not the wrestling itself – the training, the matches, the moves – but everything that came with it. The costume and drama. The character.

He hadn’t always known it was a character. He hadn’t known the wrestlers didn’t always use their real names, that the fights were scripted and the wrestlers went into a match knowing if they were going to win or lose. But that didn’t matter to him. Even if he was wrestling as Dean Winchester, he’d always known he’d come out in a cowboy hat with “The Immigrant Song” playing him out.

Well, he couldn’t use copyrighted music. But he was definitely wearing a cowboy hat over his sandy brown hair as he made his way to the ring.

And he wasn’t wrestling as Dean Winchester either.

The stage was lit up underneath and above Dean, a rush of blue and pink and purple rushing past him before everything went black except for his name in the Winchester guns font on the back screen. It was a little inside joke between him and himself.

“Baby! Baby! Baby! Baby!”

Dean grinned and threw a wink at the crowd. They chanted his name louder.

Dean was proud of his entrance. He was proud of his name. He was proud of his image.

He could probably be more proud of his wrestling, but fuck it, he was living the dream.

Dean rolled under the ropes, casual as you please, and hopped to his feet, bouncing a little on his toes before turning and shooting finger guns at the crowd. They screamed.

He grabbed a mic from the ref standing ring-side and brought it up to his face. He pressed his lips to the mesh and hummed the four notes that preceded his theme music.

Sammy said it sounded like that salute thing from The Hunger Games but Sammy was a nerd. None of Dean’s fans thought that. They fucking loved it. Because they knew what came next, and they shouted Dean’s lines along with him.

“I’m Baby Del Mar and I think y’all are mighty fine.” Dean played up his southern accent. It was part of the schtick but it also would have sounded ridiculous saying these lines in anything but a southern accent. “It’s time for ass-whooping. Who’s next in line?”

Everyone screamed. Dean leaned back on his heels, smirking. He was the picture of ease.

He’d absolutely refused to wear fringe when they’d asked him about his costume. He wasn’t Macho Man. He wasn’t Ultimate Warrior. No, his outfit was simple. Classic. He wore jeans and a white t-shirt with his cowboy hat. The t-shirt usually came off, and he threw the hat somewhere into the crowd every match (it was a hard sell when he first started, but he was a big enough face now that the network didn’t mind getting him new ones). But that was Baby Del Mar. He was a classic American cowboy. There to kick your ass.

Dean fucking loved his job.

This wasn’t a televised event. Nothing would go down at this match that would be in any way new or exciting. No belts would change hands, no fresh faces would come up or old faces make surprise re-appearances. No, Dean was just there to wrestle. There to flirt with fans and fight with friends. It was one of the easier things he got to do.

Especially when Cas was in the ring.

Cas stood in the ring in the uppity dress pants and waistcoat the network thought would make their GM look professional. The waistcoat came with pocket watch and pocket watch chain. It was a good look, if Dean was honest, but the professional vibe was utterly ruined by the thick mass of dark hair creating anarchy on top of Cas’s head. It turned the look from ‘hard-working professional’ to ‘freshly fucked librarian.’ Which, needless to say, was a look Dean was firmly in favor of.

He turned to Cas, grinning smugly. Cas’s face was neutral, but Dean definitely caught a flash in his eye.

“If I’d’ve known you’d be here, Castiel, I would’ve worn something nice.”

The put-upon accent sanded the g off of something and rounded the ‘haves’ in ‘I’d’ve’ and ‘would’ve’ into open ‘a’s. I’dda. Woulda. Cas rolled his eyes.

“Baby, you knew I’d be here.” His voice was unnaturally smooth. “You got the schedule same as me.”

Dean winked. “Guess that means I already knew I looked good.”

Groans and jeers from the audience before the familiar chant started up behind him.

“Baby’s gonna kiss you. Baby’s gonna kiss you.”

Dean had thought it was hilarious at first. Now he thought it was fucking amazing.

Cas shook his head, theatrically. “You’re kind of interrupting something, Baby.”

“Oh am I?” Dean asked, exposing his teeth but only on the left side. “Something important, I trust? Not just a cash grab at the expense of all of these kind people who came out to see us tonight?”

It was a cheap pop. A way for the audience to feel like Dean was on their side, even though they knew he was fully a part of this system that demanded their money. Wanted them to pay for their network, wanted them to buy merch in the lobby. It was pretty standard for the general manager to come out and promo the network – let the audience know about upcoming pay-per-views and where to go online to buy commemorative t-shirts. It wasn’t really fair for Dean to call Cas out like this, but Dean was glad to have this excuse to banter with Cas in the ring, even if he wasn’t wrestling anymore.

Cas rolled his eyes. “Right, Baby, like you don’t like money.”

Dean struck a pose. It didn’t look like striking a pose, which is how he knew he was good at it. “I just like wrestling. That’s why I’m here.”

The crowd screamed.

Cas shook his head again. “Why don’t we just get on with the match. Can we do that?”

Dean shrugged, moving his shoulders more than he would if he weren’t in front of hundreds of people. He made sure to lift them high enough to expose that sliver of skin above his waistband. “That depends.”

Cas knew his line. “On what?”

Dean waited, letting the audience build a little before he said, “On who’s next in line for an ass-whooping.”

The crowd went nuts, soon doubling its volume when a seagull call sounded through the arena. The crash of waves followed and the entrance stage lit up blue white and green, violins and whistling playing in another wrestler. “The Captain” shone brightly in white on the overhead as he strolled out in a long coat, a captain’s hat, and the title belt.

Anyone who knew anything about wrestling would know as soon as Benny ‘The Captain’ Lafitte walked out into the arena that Dean was about to lose this match. Change titles at a live event? The fan network would riot.

So Dean was about to lose. He knew it. The crowd knew it. But he had a part to play.

Dean waited until Benny ducked into the ring – no rolls, no swagger, full dignity – before he said his line. He stuck his left thumb through a belt loop of his jeans and leaned back on his heels. He still wished he could wear cowboy boots. “Captain! To what do I owe the pleasure.”

Benny just smirked. He brought the microphone up to his face almost lazily, being sure not to let the bristles of his beard interfere. “Oh, Baby, you know what you did.”

Dean bit back a grimace. Being the cowboy was his bit, yes, but there was no faking Benny’s authentic Louisiana drawl.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

The fans all started yelling at once. Dean caught snatches of ‘You said he got lucky!’ and ‘You said you could take the belt easy!’

To be fair: Dean had said those things. Or at least Baby had, in one of the backstage interviews with Renee Young.

Listen, if he and Benny were both Faces, they needed to make conflict somehow.

Benny laughed, a low chuckle directly into the microphone. Dean repressed a shiver. That would never not be hot.

“Brother… I know you’re not lying to me.”

A cluster of fans toward the back start singing the Pirates of the Caribbean theme. This kind of thing happened now and then, what with Benny being called “The Captain.” It got them in trouble sometimes when you could hear it on tv. But tonight’s match wasn’t being broadcast so…

He shrugged. “A dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest.” Shouts went up in the crowd from people who recognized the quote. “Honestly. It’s the honest ones you want to watch out for.”

Dean watched as Benny bit back a grin and saw Cas do a full facepalm behind him. Dean was always getting in trouble for changing lines but he was a performer! He saw his chance and he took it.

They got the gist of what his line was supposed to be anyway. Probably. He’d see what Benny said.

“I won this belt honest.” Benny gestured at it, billowing his coat out so you could see the belt over his otherwise bare torso. “And you don’t think I did. Luck? Nah, brother. Honest work. I’m an honest man.” He paused, letting the cheers ramp up before bringing the microphone right to his lips. “And you should watch out for me.”

Damn. But Benny was good. Adding Dean’s quote into his own line? Masterful. And Benny would probably get him back for this. Make Dean work just as hard next match. Double damn.

Dean leaned his head forward, unhooking his thumb from his jeans so he could slowly take off his hat. The screams from the first dozen rows amped up immediately, knowing one of them was about to get Dean’s hat.

Dean only said, “Let’s go then.” before tossing it, no look, to a young-ish kid a couple rows off center. She was holding a sign that said, ‘Hit him, Baby, one more time.’ Dean was only human.

He circled around Benny, casually handing Cas his mic as he did. Benny had also subtly relieved himself of his mic and circled Dean back, sliding the coat from his shoulders.

Dean wasn’t saying it was watching professional wrestling that made him gay. But looking at Benny, in his tight pants, no shirt, muscly and oiled to the gods, Dean couldn’t say it wasn’t watching that made him gay.

The bell rang to mark the start of the match and Dean barrelled in, no holds barred. This was a cocky move, and not totally uncharacteristic for Baby, but it earned him a swift kick in the face and he landed on his back with a hard whap!

Yeah, Dean was losing this match. But he was going to make everyone in that stadium love watching him lose.

He let loose a wail of pain, curling in on himself in an expression of pure agony. Benny took no time in dropping down on Dean in a body slam.

The groaned “Oh!” from the audience was hugely satisfying.

Dean didn’t go down easily, determined to put on a good show. He did a few of his favorite moves – taking Benny down by putting a shoulder right in his solar plexus in a spear, putting him in his signature armbar, “The Deal-Breaker” – and Benny put on a good show of being worn down.

But everyone knew they were just one Cajun Cage-In away from a Captain victory.

Dean hated losing by submission. He wanted to be pinned, dammit! He wanted to show that he’d given everything he could to the match – for the audience to see he was sweating and exhausted and had given his all to this performance. To this fight.

Tapping out was giving up. Dean was raised to never give up.

But there he was, in the middle of the ring, splayed like a figurehead on the prow of a ship – back arched with Benny’s weight pushing his hips down, his arms locked in front of Dean’s face, pulling his head back. It hurt, for sure. He was suspended: his chest hanging from where Benny had him gripped and his face to the lights, blinding him. Dean could feel his pelvis pressing into the stage, his shoulders straining where they were locked in flight behind Benny’s bent knees. His jaw cracked from the tight grip of Benny’s forearms. This was a finisher. Dean had nowhere to go.

He did not want to tap out.

But he was here to lose. So he’d lose.

He tapped at Benny’s calf – the closest solid surface he could reach with his arms suspended as they were – and the bell rang again to signify the end of the match.

The crowd went nuts. Benny released him and he slumped to the floor, defeated. He rolled and sat up to pout, as was tradition. He was Baby – he had to act like a baby when he lost.

Plus he was cute when he pouted.

Cas ducked back into the ring and clapped Benny on the shoulder. “Your winner and remaining your Smackdown champion: The Captain!”

Benny lifted the belt and the crowd went nuts.

Dean crossed his legs pretzel style and rested his elbows on his knees, sinking his pouting face into his right hand. He watched Benny smirk and Castiel roll his eyes again.

Read the rest on Ao3

[projectalbum]

Radio songs. 189. “Green,” 190. “Out of Time,” 191. “Automatic for the People,” 192. “Monster,” 193. “New Adventures in Hi-Fi" by R.E.M.

For R.E.M., signing to Warner Bros Records meant reaching more people, in the U.S. and abroad. It meant a bigger promotional push behind their albums.

It meant an exponential increase in their touring schedule, to the point where all four were pretty burned out by the idea after being on the road for most of ’88-’89. But for me, it was a move that meant my favorite music in existence was allowed to sprout from the fertile loam of commercialism.

If you’ll remember from my previous post, it was a compilation of songs from the WB era that first made me a fan. And it was the first few albums under that banner that made R.E.M. superstars, i.e. a band established enough that I would be aware of them growing up. It’s hard for me to grasp the amount of R.E.M. saturation that existed from roughly ’88 - ’94. By the time I was humming “What’s The Frequency, Kenneth?” and “Orange Crush” in high school, it was 2005 and the band’s incandescence had faded to the soft, respectable glow of “Dad Rock.” They were hipper than the Billy Joel & Electric Light Orchestra discs that they had replaced in my repertoire, but as far as my peers were concerned, barely. 

The first Christmas after I had announced myself as a fan brought, in shiny happy gift wrapping, Green (#189) and Out Of Time (#190). A veritable Mandolin-apalooza: in the campfire folk trance of “You Are The Everything,” mournful character study “The Wrong Child,” and midnight hippie spiritual “Hairshirt” that are scattered through the mix of Green, and powering the über-hit that secured their legacy, “Losing My Religion,” on Out Of Time. My relationship to those tracks has dipped and risen through the years— I was much less open to strange acoustic explorations back then (or in the case of “LMR,” its overfamiliarity), so I tended to skip them. I grooved on the electric menace of “Turn You Inside-Out” and the poptimism of “Untitled.”

“World Leader Pretend,” in which all the band’s instruments, including Stipe’s voice, seemed tuned to a lower register than ever before (now THAT’S some counter-programming to the bubblegum of “Stand”), has become a God-level composition in my mind. It’s gained some resurgence recently, seen as a pointed critique of the venal and power-hungry who are obsessed with controlling geopolitical barriers. "I raised the wall / And I will be the one to knock it down,” the protagonist intones, and yeah, “the Wall” has a connotation for current events in 2018, as it did 30 years ago (roughly a year after the album’s release, Berlin’s concrete schism was demolished). But I hear the divided self in “World Leader Pretend”: the man erecting the walls of his own isolation chamber, shoring up his fragile ego against outer pain, denying the possibility for connection. "I decree a stalemate, I divine my deeper motives / I recognize the weapons / I've practiced them well, I fitted them myself.” In other words, I hear myself.

Fortunately, he concludes that it’s within his power to level these barriers he's constructed, and I feel I can learn the same lesson. There’s a triumphant slide guitar in the bridge, an iconically Country-Western flavor that the band returns to on one of the most indelible tracks on Out of Time— the descriptively-titled “Country Feedback.” Heartache on an epic scale, deliberate, hypnotic tempo but bubbling like a volcano, the words a stream-of-consciousness chant over Peter Buck’s searching electric guitar and Mike Mills funereal organ. “It’s crazy what you could have had,” Stipe laments, his voice rising, and then, “I need this. I need this.” Is it the confession that he needs, or the connection slipping away from his grasping fingers? He’s called it his favorite song in the band’s canon; they’ve performed it with Neil Young providing the wailing guitar counterpart, like a Dead Man end credits song that never happened, and there’s a clever mashup on the Unplugged set that bowled me over (I’ll mention it when I get there).

The acoustic arrangements and sonic experimentation continued on Automatic for the People (#191), with a purge of the bubblegum (“The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite” is a notable exception, but for a goof, it’s gorgeous.) Much has been made of the album’s apparent preoccupation with mortality and loss. For sure, there's the straight-forward teen suicide deterrent “Everybody Hurts,” predating It Gets Better by a couple decades; “Sweetness Follows,” about the steady, plodding journey through mourning, and the peaceful plateau you can reach; “Monty Got A Raw Deal,” a steely Western ballad inspired in part by the tortured, bisexual film actor Montgomery Clift. But it’s a hopeful album, not a dour slog.

To me, the common thread is The Past: that personal history that’s less about the agreed-upon facts and more about the feelings tied to events, coloring your reminiscence. “Drive,” the darkly insinuating opening track, takes inspiration for its rhythmic Beat poetry vocal from David Essex's “Rock On,” a song that Stipe might have heard as a teenager, one that itself looks back a further 20 years to the birth of rock n’roll. Add the string arrangement by rock royalty, John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin, and it’s nostalgia brined in nostalgia.

We’re looking at the reflection of the old photograph as caught by the passing streetlights: several layers of removal from the events. But in looking back, our feelings strike us clearer than whatever life we’ve built for ourselves in the interim; we’re still dwelling on whatever innocence we think we’ve lost. "I have seen things that you will never see / Leave it to memory me,” are the parting words of a person at the end of their life in “Try Not To Breathe” (often in the running for my favorite R.E.M. recording). "I will try not to burden you,” they promise, holding in secrets of a time gone by in hopes that the listener will forge a new path.

“Find The River,” which draws the book to a close with accordion and harmonizing voices, is another in a line of R.E.M. songs drawing on the river as a symbol of lost harmony. In youthful exuberance, there was “Nightswimming,” but "The ocean is the river's goal / A need to leave the water knows,” and time moves inexorably forward. The past feeds into the unfathomable depths of the future. Automatic for the People draws its title from the slogan at a soul food joint in the band’s hometown. It’s that sense of their own history, 8 records in and on top of the world, that merges with their innate creative restlessness, compelling them to shoot off in a new direction.  “I have got to leave to find my way."

This fuels their mission statement with each album since the WB era began: “Let’s write songs that don’t sound like ‘R.E.M. songs.’” If Automatic is self-reflective, Monster (#192) is about adopted personas. The sound of a middle-aged Art Rock band pretending to be a 20-something Glam Rock band, adding more neon and guitar distortion and posturing than you can shake a Mott The Hoople at. “What can I make myself be? (Faker!)” 

The video for “Crush With Eyeliner” furthers that sense of playful irony: the band members pushed off to the corner of the bar as a new generation, from a different cultural background, expresses the song for them. The entire radioactive orange LP kind of encapsulates every messy teenage feeling I've had since high school. I'm still a "faker," pretending to sing this song. And looking good doing it. (Though, full disclosure, the first time I did karaoke I went with “Bang and Blame.” I don’t mind telling you I nailed it.)

Monster is marked by the most prevalent sexual overtones in R.E.M. canon, as if they were embracing that self-aware Rock Star trope. It’s hard to get more on the nose than the title “Star 69,” but “I Don’t Sleep, I Dream” wins the prize with “Are you coming to ease my headache? / Do you give good head? / Am I good in bed?” As the public debated Michael Stipe’s sexuality, he parried the question in the press and played with his image in the lyrics. The topic of his “Crush” is gendered “she,” giving hetereos like myself plenty to appropriate for our own impossible Cool Girl daydreams— never mind that it’s an ode to his friend Courtney Love. “King of Comedy” addresses a legion of Rupert Pupkins getting their big shot by whatever means necessary, but it also contains the lyric "I'm straight, I'm queer, I'm bi,” a few years before he revealed publicly where the needle pointed on that dial for him. “Tongue” is a lilting, falsetto performance: piano-driven cabaret written for a female protagonist lamenting her inconsiderate lovers. More masks for a closely-scrutinized celebrity to find freedom behind.

New Adventures in Hi-Fi (#193) felt as appropriate a title as any for my first year at a university— trading my hometown for a cinderblock dorm-room, starting down my career path with all the film courses they’d allow me to sign up for. The road-grit guitars, open road expansive sound, Stipe’s tour-shredded front man vocals: the album is alternately weary and electrified. Choruses and riffs fit to fill a stadium (as many basic tracks were recorded at live soundcheck) beside intimate 3AM tour bus confessionals. I scored this huge chapter of my young life with the strutting, T. Rex glam of “The Wake-Up Bomb,” arena-ready choruses of “Bittersweet Me” and “So Fast, So Numb,” felt inspired by the dreamlike inscrutability of “How The West Was Won and Where It Got Us” and darkly-reflective poetry of “E-Bow The Letter.”

I’m not overly surprised to hear that this LP didn’t hit with the same impact as the previous ones— it’s always felt like an acquired taste that I couldn’t impart to anyone else. “You haven’t heard 'Leave?’ Ah man, it’s over 7 minutes long, and there’s a constant siren loop in the background! But trust me, when you hear the acoustic riff from the opening interlude reprised by double-tracked electric guitar, the goose pimples will be visible from space.”

Where Monster boasted the straight-arrow torch song “Strange Currencies,” the hushed, surrealistic “Be Mine” seemed as if it emanated from my own bruised heart. "I'll be the sky above the Ganges / I'll be the vast and stormy sea / I'll be the lights that guide you inward / I'll be the visions you will see”— it’s a cross-spiritual devotional that funnels the tenets of world religions into a promise for total intimacy. I would pay top dollar for the raw footage of Thom Yorke’s guest interpretation. 

Despite the public’s anemic response, the band’s estimation of Hi-Fi’s strengths is justifiably high. It’s an accomplished, energetic record that shows every member playing at his peak. It’s now frozen in history as the last document of the band as a foursome. In the next entry, I’ll delve into the CDs released after drummer Bill Berry retired and R.E.M. dramatically changed gears, rocketing into the 21st century.

[baseballlibertarian]

Clinton Operation Runs Aground Against Obama Movement in Milford

MILFORD, N.H. — In politics there are operations and movements.

There is an operation in every campaign and the best one always wins. Unless it comes up against a movement.

Operations understand the fundamentals of a campaign and execute them with awe-inspiring precision — everything from the candidate’s message and TV ads, to voter identification and mobilization, to interest group wooing and massaging, to on-site bunting and balloons.

In a national campaign this is a massive undertaking. Getting all these fundamentals right signals important attributes about a future president: discipline, organization, vision and diligence — they always have and always will.

Movements, however, are different and they can sometimes rise up and challenge superior political operations. Movements possess passionate supporters, one or two over-arching causes and a leader with genuine charisma who can attract people even without the well-financed voter identification efforts possessed by a rival’s “operation.”

Movements can be powerful and movements can win. But in my experience, most movements die because they can’t sustain themselves against the overwhelming pressure applied by a superior national “operation.”

I’ve witnessed the following movements come and go: Dean in 2004, Pat Buchanan in 1996 and Ross Perot in 1992.

They all lost. In fact, they didn’t come close. They touched a chord, drew big crowds, attracted massive press coverage and even drove important issues into the debate (Dean the Iraq war, Buchanan trade, Perot the deficit). But they all lost to the superior operations because one or many things broke down, chief among them the leader’s inability to broaden the audience beyond the original “movement” believers.

What we are seeing in the Democratic race for the presidency, I am now convinced, is a movement that may in fact succeed.

It is the Obama movement.

The results in Iowa expanded the known universe of what was possible in Democratic Party politics. Some of the party’s most brilliant and successful leaders have competed in Iowa (save for Bill Clinton, but I’ll be back to him in a minute), and not one of them came close to doing what Barack Obama achieved on Thursday with his win over Hillary Clinton. What everyone thought they knew about Iowa and the caucuses is now irrelevant. Obama changed the game and changed it forever. That is a massive, movement-like accomplishment and what’s even more amazing is this: Obama said it was possible and it happened.

The distance between theory and reality is often what crushes movement because what is dreamed for rarely comes to pass. It did in Iowa and that matters not only at a political level, it matters enormously at a psychological level because movements thrive on the intangible emotional synergy of hope, aspirations and dewy-eyed dreaming — yes, all those things wise observers of politics have long scorned because they flame out and die so frequently.

What’s different about Obama and this moment is the movement has operational tendencies, which is to say it doesn’t live off of its good intentions and good vibrations. This movement gets in the trenches and fights it out — but on its terms, with its gusto and with its inventive tactical precision.

Never was that on display more clearly than at the 100 Club Dinner here Friday night. This is the New Hampshire Democratic Party’s big celebration. It was held in a big dome covering a football field surrounded by a synthetic running track — the biggest venue ever for the event.

What you need to understand about the dinner and the venue is this: it was supposed to be a Clinton room.

The Clinton brand name among Democrats is golden. The party love affair goes back to before 1992 when the Clintons first began campaigning for the White House in 1991. The legend of “The Comeback Kid” and Bill and Hill’s regular and celebratory visits back to the state throughout their presidency and thereafter have made them something akin the party royalty here.

So last night was the perfect night for the Clinton operation to demonstrate that Iowa was a fluke, New Hampshire is home and things will be different on primary Tuesday.

It didn’t happen. The operation tried but just like in Iowa it lost to the Obama movement.

Hillary Clinton’s tables were well within camera range of the TV riser and far closer to the stage than the Obama tables (this is what you can do when your operation seeks to own the room). The Obama tables were on the far end of the domed facility, near the trailers holding the portable toilets.

When Clinton hit the stage, her well-positioned supporters rose up en masse and waved her signs carrying her new one word slogan: “Ready.” It was an impressive crowd and full of energy. By standard operational measurement, it all worked really well. The crowd was bunched right before the TV riser and the “Ready” placards waved happily before the cameras and Clinton beamed at what must have felt like a warm and nerve-soothing homecoming of sorts.

But the first indication of trouble came when she warned that Democrats must not be beguiled by “false hopes” (an obvious shot at Obama) and a ripple of boos arose from the Obama tables.

Clinton’s stump speech was warmly received — of that there can be no doubt — and she certainly appeared to have charmed if not won the room (after all, it was supposed to be hers).

Then Bill Richardson spoke and the Obama movement swung into action.

As Richardson boomed about ending the war in Iraq, team Obama pre-positioned men, women and young adults with Obama signs smack-dab in front of the stage. Hundreds upon hundreds marched silently and cheerfully (some were literally dancing barely suppressed jigs) from their distant tables and into the center of the “football” field, clogging all available space and encircling the tables of the amazed and slightly disconcerted Clinton supporters.

As soon as Richardson finished and Obama was waiting to be announced, Obama supporters hefted placards in bouncing waves and began chanting “Fired Up, Ready to Go” as the fire marshals frantically raced around to keep lanes open for people to walk around the TV riser. Rhythmic chants of “Obama” also arose in the arena as the round O-shaped Obama placards appeared to float by the hundreds in mid-air creating a mesmerizing sea of Obama signs that rocked and rolled before an empty stage.

So intense was the crowd up front, that an announcement was made that Obama wouldn’t be brought out until the crowd returned to their distant seats in Siberia. The Obama legions booed, made a token move away from the stage, but largely held their ground.

When Obama took the stage the response was thunderous and jubilant, three times as loud as that for Clinton. Obama said “Thank you” as a means to quiet the crowd, one woman yelled out “Thank YOU” and the crowd burst out in a roar and cheer.

“In four days you can do what Iowa did last night,” Obama said.

Obama, his voice hoarse, moved through an abbreviated stump speech and called for “one nation, one people.”

“We started last night, attracting not only the tried and true Democrat, but the independent and the Republican.”

On this night, the speeches mattered less than the moment. And at an event filled with party die-hards supposedly devoted body and soul to Hillary and the Clinton cause, the Obama demonstration generated more body and more soul and rolled over the Clinton operation like a tractor tire over an anthill.

And that is why I believe we are witnessing the birth of a movement that may be on the verge of defeating an operation. That would be rare enough on its own. But this particular contest is of generational importance because the Clinton operation is the most formidable modern American politics has ever seen and it would take quite a movement to knock it down.

[adampage]

AJ Birthday Drabble

Summary: Just your regular ol’ fluff and smut. AJ surprises his girl with a night at the Georgia Aquarium.

Word Count: 2,280 lol apparently this is what I call drabble

Warnings: uhhh Daddy kink, light choking. that’s it really

Author’s Note: The idea just came to me yesterday, idk. Love y’all bye

Tagging: @llowkeys / @the-geekgoddes / @crowleysqueenofhell / @xxmaddhatter39xx / @justrae9903 / @ajstylesworld / @wrestlewriting (idk if you’ll like it but idk) / @wrestlingbabe / @sexygamommy / @xstylesxclashx / @xuhwheredidkylogox / @remembertheclub /

“I bought out the Georgia Aquarium for the night.” “You did what?” “You heard me.” “No you didn’t.” “Yes I did.” “AJ, it’s your birthday, not mine!” AJ nuzzled into her, chuckles escaping his lips and landing on her neck as warm, humid breath. “I know it’s my birthday. That’s why I got myself a birthday present. Tonight, we sleep with the fishes.” She giggled at his near-literal use of the phrase, entwining her fingers with his own as he dragged her up the steps of the Georgia Aquarium, the night sky bright with the white lights of Atlanta’s windows. The letters CNN glowed red amongst them, with the large Phillips arena behind. Just a few days ago, AJ had lost there, in his home state, clad in Georgia red. She remembered the crowd chanting his name that night, the looks on people’s faces when they realized he’d lost at home. The hometown curse, they called it, though the ATL wasn’t exactly his hometown. Still, it was close enough. She sighed, content. This had been the week long homecoming she’d been aching for, not having seen him in months. AJ was doing them a favor in finding a beautiful, quiet place to be together. And it was just as well: what can you get the man who has everything? “Come on, sweetheart. I want you to see the otters.” Her white sun dress wasn’t enough to keep her warm, so she did her best to hold on to his arm all the way through to the main area. From there, he led them through what she would call the kids’ exploration area, where, had the aquarium been open, children could dip their hands and feel at the different kinds of faceless marine life, like starfish. [Y/N] was enjoying herself so much already; everywhere she looked was a new tank of blue water filled with tiny multi-colored fish swimming in schools, she nearly forgot about the otters. AJ squeezed her hand, pointing to her right. “Look,” he said in a hushed tone, as he dragged her towards the glass. “They’re sleeping.” The noise that came out of her mouth when she noticed the otters holding hands in their sleep was enough to wake them from their slumber. “Oh, no,” she cried, “I woke them.” “Don’t worry,” AJ said, kissing her sweetly on the hand, “I think they’re nocturnal this time of year anyway. I read that somewhere.” “You mean this sign?” she inquired sarcastically, pointing at the nearby sign. “Maybe,” he grinned. One of the otters peeked up, one hand covering an eye, rubbing at it to wash away the sleep. “I’m dead,” [Y/N] laughed, her heart aching at how fucking adorable the otter was. She looked at AJ, as if to ask if he was seeing what she was seeing, and she caught him gazing at her with such love in his bright eyes that it was enough to make her heart burst, so she leaned forward, arms hooking around his neck to bring AJ into a deep, passionate, loving kiss. His fingers lightly grazed the arms around him, causing her hairs to stand on end, her nipples hardening beneath the sheer fabric of her dress, and [Y/N] let out a squeal of pleasure. The otters chirped in reply, and AJ paused their kiss to rest his forehead against hers and giggle restlessly. “This is the best birthday present ever and I’m glad I thought about it,” he declared, hands now slowly inching her dress higher up her thigh. [Y/N]’s breaths shallowed, inhaling and exhaling quickly, hands reaching for the scruff of his beard. The terse hairs beneath her fingertips reminded her of all the moments they scratched at the sensitive skin between her legs, and she grew wetter with each thought. “AJ, baby,” she breathed. “Is there anywhere in this place that’s a little bit more, I don’t know, intimate?” His eyes flashed, as if he’d actually been prepared for a moment like this. “I was prepared for a moment like this, come on, let’s go.” He grabbed her hand and led her through the aquarium, blue waters within the place reflecting off every surface in a beautiful blue glow around them. [Y/N] smiled to herself. AJ looked positively stunning surrounded by blue. Granted, he looked good in every color - red, black, white included. But there was nothing more arousing than the way the man appealed to her in every shade of blue imaginable. He took a sharp turn through a door she never would’ve noticed, had the aquarium been crowded on a normal day. It seemed like a perfectly normal office corridor, and they passed by many doors, each with its own cute aquatic themed nameplates, describing what was held inside. Staffing Lounge, Restroom (Employees Only), etc. As [Y/N] began to wonder if they were going to enter one that said Broom Closet, the walls transitioned from their bland office look, to full on aquatic glass tunnel. She’d never seen this area before. A small brass plate near the glass read, “VIP: Reserved.” Passing through the tunnel, she looked down at the carpet beneath her feet, and she could feel the air around them darkening. With a small gasp, she reached for AJ’s arm, and he whispered, “look up.” Above them was the creamy white underbelly of a whale shark, its massive body darkening the light refracting through the water. The other, smaller fish danced and hopped around it, treading lightly around this massive, aquatic being, though [Y/N] knew there was nothing to be afraid of, as whale sharks were some of the most somber, serene species of shark. “Here we go,” AJ said, breaking [Y/N]’s focus on the awesome sight. He pointed down the tunnel, where another door appeared. It had a keycard lock. “AJ, what is this?” “Trust me. You’ll see,” he stated calmly, though she could practically feel the energy and excitement in his undertones. Her breath hitched as the door beeped open to a sight more wonderful than all she had seen this night. A giant, king-sized bed with a darling blue comforter detailing the very same marine life she could see above. The room was like a piece of tunnel carved out on its own, the walls and ceiling one and the same. She turned to AJ, eyes nearly wet with tears. “This is amazing!” she exclaimed. “I thought as much,” he said, nearing closer. “I’m glad you like it.” “So I guess we really are sleeping with the fishes?” “Damn right, Missy.” Oh, God. So there it was. Just like that? It was a silent implication, one they never really talked about. But she knew. If he called her Missy, it was party time. She jumped into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist and meeting him for a passionate kiss. AJ’s strong, toned arms held her with ease as he took them towards the bed. He laid her flat, fingers entwined as he raised her arms over her head, kissing her everywhere he could get his lips on. He tugged at the fabric of her dress, wanting to see her beautiful naked form so badly it would kill him if he didn’t, but she stopped him, and with her legs still wrapped around him, [Y/N] flipped him over to lay flat beneath her. Eyebrows furrowed, he looked at her inquisitively, yet loving the look of triumph on her face. She gave him a coy smile, eyes filled with lust. You’ll see, they said, and AJ’s cock hardened under her, rubbing at her sex through two layers of fabric. “Ooh,” she moaned, grinding her hips into him as he groaned, his nails scratching slowly down her thighs. Remembering this was his birthday, not hers, she slid off of him at the edge of the bed, to his lightning fast protest. “Trust me, this is better for you,” she replied. “Darlin’, you know I get off on seeing you squirm.” “I know, I know,” she conceded, undoing his belt buckle and sliding his jeans down to pool at the floor next to her feet. “But today I want to see just how badly I can make you squirm for me. I’ll enjoy it, I promise.” With that, his battle for dominance was over, and [Y/N’]’s own began. It really was massive, she thought, staring his cock. Her body shivered at the thought of it inside her. But this was no time for that, and without further ado she wet her plump lips and took her first taste. “Oh, God!” he groaned almost immediately. Nearly, she thought. I’ll have him breathlessly swearing like a sailor in no time. It was enough to have her panties soaking. She took him in further, fighting back the urge to choke as she thought about how fucking sexy he looked when he was writhing beneath her. “Jeez, oh, Jesus,” he gasped, raising himself on his elbows to get a good look at [Y/N] pleasuring him with all she had. She pumped his cock with her mouth so sexually, up and down, up and down, sometimes slowing the rhythm to make him beg for more. “Holy, God, oh, sh-” he continued; the torture she was putting him through was just pure agony. “Mmmm.” He reached to grab her by the hair, but she pulled away just in time, forcing him to deal with his own chaotic emotions. [Y/N], pleased with herself at the state AJ was in, finally jumped into his lap, straddling him. His cock, erect and lathered with his own juices and her saliva, bumped and pressed at her entrance (who knew when she had dropped her panties?) as she gave him an open mouth kiss, allowing AJ to taste himself on her lips. “Come on, Daddy,” she moaned, unable to bear it any longer, “fuck me like you mean it.” “F-fuck, Missy. Ya had me beggin’.” She giggled in reply, helping his cock position itself perfectly at her sopping wet entrance. “Ya ready?” he asked, and before she could let out a “yes” he was inside her, cock expanding her like no other man (as if she wanted another) could do. It was an experience unlike any other, and she did her best to play her part. “Nah, Missy. You just sit tight and let Daddy do all the work,” he replied, arching his hips above the bed and literally fucking her into oblivion. [Y/N] was seeing stars already, it was so intense. She closed her eyes and raised her head up, opening them to catch a dolphin swimming overhead. She looked back down at her lover, smiling as he noticed, too. He flipped her over, pulling his shirt off and over his head as he did. AJ was like that. He wanted her to feel every part of him, touch every bit of him, make him feel warm and whole like he knew he could do to her. He stopped mid-stroke, pulling the hanging straps of her white dress even lower down her arms, revealing round, plump breasts. She could feel his cock harden even more inside her. He enjoyed a nice ass, of course, but he wasn’t going to say he hated to squeeze a breast or suck on a nipple now and again. So that’s what he did. It was [Y/N]’s turn to moan in pleasure as sucked expertly at her breast, stopping now and again to leave bites along its roundness, a thumb rubbing harshly at her clit, like he knew she enjoyed. He began to tease her, knowing the combined sensations of sucking her nipple, rubbing at her clit, and his quick strokes inside her would be her undoing, so he would slow himself, cocky smile and proud eyes locking onto hers. “Daddy,” she cried. “Don’t tease me like this.” He reached a hand back up to her neck, lightly choking her, making her feel all the more light-headed and dazed. “Not yet, darlin’. Almost.” She held back tears of agony mixed with ecstasy, nodding tersely. He was so close, she could feel it. She clenched around him, her own body begging for release. His breaths were coming fast and shallow, groans spilling from his mouth as well as her own. “God, Missy,” he gasped, “I’m gonna come.” She took the opportunity to dig her nails right into his back, lips right at his ear. “Come for me, Daddy. Oh, God, Daddy, please come for me.” “Yeah?” “Oh, God, yes,” came her reply. And his warm seed spilled within her, her own walls spasming with every stroke, both of them moaning each other’s names with reckless abandon. When at last they settled, AJ dropped his body onto hers, sweat sticking between them, and she held onto him, not once moving underneath him but squeezing him tightly as if to say, “I’m here and I’ll never let you go.” Content, she looked up again, surprised once more, having forgotten where they were. The blue water was marvelous, giving both of them a sense of peace they would probably never feel any place else than beneath this wonderful aquatic view. AJ finally rolled off of her, propped up on an elbow at her side, watching her watch the fish skittering by above. “Happy birthday to me,” he whispered. [Y/N] smiled sweetly at him, opening her mouth and then closing it again, deciding not to speak her mind. “What is it?” he said, puzzled, entranced as he stroked her hair. She laughed. “I guess the only way you can top this now is if we have sex in space.”

[gigsoupmusic]

ArcTanGent 2019 review

‘ArcTan…what?’ ‘ArcTanGent. In Bristol. Same team as 2000trees.' ‘Oh yeah, the chilled punk fest you keep talking about. Same vibe?’ ‘Similar set-up, but different music.’ ‘What kind of music?’ ‘Heavier, more prog and math-rock’ ‘What’s math-rock?’ ‘…..never mind.’ If 2000trees is the UK festival worlds best kept secret, its sister festival ArcTanGent is a fleeting rumor, a prog and math-rock haven known only to insiders. While Trees has, despite its relative obscurity, bolstered something of a ‘little fest that could’ indie-reputation, and a whack of awards, ArcTanGent seems to only be known to those who go to ArcTanGent*.   Seven years in, and Goc O’Callaghan’s Bristol event has expertly carved out its niche, filling that gap between Download and Bloodstocks ‘big arena festival with a general-heavy vibe’  and Damnations ‘niche genre festival that’s too small to justify a full weekend’. With a cap just shy of 10,000, ATG (as she’s known to friends) enjoys a nice-sized crowd while retaining a relaxed ambience, mellower staff and the gratifying ability to manoeuvre the site, check a new stage or run to the car within a 10 minute window.

While it’s categorically a genre festival with no claim to offer ‘variety’ in the Glasto or Leeds sense, it would be remiss to call ATG one-note – there are plenty of flavors within the fairly flexible  boundaries set here. Those looking for ‘fuck my eardrums’ heavy get an atmospheric, highly visual set courtesy of the always-excellent Cult of Luna and tech-metal Scots Frontierer. Bossk are out offering the layered sludge, enigmatic Carpenter Brut does his synth-wizard thing, with Bostonian veterans Caspian providing the bass-laden post-rock. Further afield, affable Taiwanese trio Elephant Gym are a grand discovery.  Matt Calvert makes two appearances this years event, once with Three Trapped Tigers, and again with an orchestral arrangement – only the third time he has performed in this style, and a thoroughly enjoyable change in tone. There’s more experimental and some brass with The Physics House Experiment. And The St Pierre Snake Invasion, swiftly becoming one of the most fun heavy festival staples, bring the hardcore, the cracking stage-irreverence (‘this is a song about being a sad Welsh twat’), and whatever the hell that keyboard-recorder is – if you’ve not seen a St Pierre set, get right with that. Friday night splits the crowd and pits the experimental (official headliner Battles) against the groove-metal (Brutus, packing out the tiny PS3 stage)

Opening night headliners Coheed and Cambria are probably the closest thing to a ‘mainstream’ act on this years bill – one of the few on a major label anyway - and considering they are an indie-prog band whose albums are accompanied by a series of existential graphic novels, that says a lot. Lets talk about that headline set though - their first this side of the Atlantic, and it was a journey – both a display of prog-smithery and a nostalgia bite for those of us who cut our teeth on ‘Good Apollo’. With swirls and eddies of melodic riffs backed by enticing yet unobtrusive visuals, Claudio ‘Cousin It’ Sanchez* and his merry prog-men prove an excellent choice, and a contender for the ongoing ‘next generation of metal headliners’ debate. Setlist-wise, it’s a very ‘festival’ tracklist – aka, heavy on the 00’s ‘hits’* and the latest album. Not a bad thing - Dark Sentancer proves a powerful gig-opener, and we get ‘In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth’, an unexpected ‘The Suffering’, and come the encore, an explosive cheer as the iconic acoustic intro of ‘Welcome Home’ ushers the first night to a close.

The event has been lumped with something of a ‘Friday curse’ – this year is no exception, as the second day was treated to 12 hours of relentless downpour, turning the entire site into a quagmire of Mr. Whippy-consistency. If there’s one negative to throw out about this years Arc, it’s the relative lack of effort from the team to counter-act this apparently recurring problem – the stalls quickly ran out of ponchos and there was enough straw for the main stage, but not for the mud-Baikal that blocked the entrance. It’s a festival of treats, many sets feeling like rewards for the loyal punters here for the music. Northern Irish instrumental colossus And So I Watch You From Afar have garnered a well-earned reputation as one of the most exciting live acts in the genre, and their playthrough of their self titled debut to mark its tin anniversary is an experience – watching the pure intensity on their faces as they carve out an intricate wall of sound is a feeling of watching master craftsmen at work. Its not even the only album play-through, crowd favourites Black Peaks give their last record, ‘All That Divides’ a full run, with Jamie Lenman (‘I don’t have a saxophone and my moustache isn’t as good’ he cheekily warns the sodden crowd) featuring up front.

Speaking of treats, a rare set from elusive Swedish titans Meshugghah finishes the weekend – the crowd gathered before the Medusa columns segue beautifully between a 10k strong sing-a-long of ‘I Want to Know What Love Is’ into a war chant of ‘ME-SHU-GAH!’ as the grizzled quintet emerge on stage for a blistering, relentless hour-and-fifteen onslaught that is both technically complex and phenomenologically overpowering. Its an unassuming festival with no need for bells and whistles – while there are a few fun side activities (axe throwing, a board game café) the crowd are unquestionably here for the music. Still, the team must be commended for the subtle touches – havens of quiet, some intricately designed merch. Food-wise, Arc shares Trees selection of small-time festival stalls with few of the big names from arena events – the Pad Thai stand bringing so many bangers it became a sixth stage. Shoutout to Piggie Smalls and a peanut-butter jelly hot-dog that was transcendental. A selection of local ales, real West Country cider and White Russians grace the bar, while new for 2019 is the Bar Room stage – treated to a number of sets, the apogee of which comes courtesy of No Violets, whose frantic grungey vibe and captivating PJ Harvey-esque front-siren Ellie* mark them as one to keep a serious eye on.

The after-hours entertainment is a fun twist on the norm - ArcTanGent does the typical Silent Disco but with its own take on this festival staple – the Thursday night crowd are treated to a full-on silent gig, with Gost providing an entire set through the headphones. The Disco King revellers for Friday and Saturday get an astute blend of nu-metal classics and 80’s numbers….with the added option of an entire channel dedicated to Mars Volta* ArcTanGent is a strange one to critique – of course its highly recommended for fans of the heavy and the intricate – but it seems a futile recommendation when pretty much anyone whose heart lies in this heady world is likely already an ATG convert. As for casuals looking to explore a new avenue…. Well if you like your riffs complex, your crowd in good spirits, and a place that’s somehow heavy-as-balls while retaining an easy-going atmosphere, well, ArcTanGent has you covered. As long as you can deal with a little mud. *As a metal-fest aficionado but math-rock casual, I was only dimly aware of Arc before my flatmate Nathan, an ATG regular, piqued my curiosity enough to check it. *There was something of a contest going on in the photo pit as to if anyone could get a shot of his face. *I mean, Coheed don’t really have ‘hits’ as such, but the Apollo/Silent Earth tracks that were singles – Suffering and Home here. My wish for Ten Speed wasn’t met and Wake Up would have probably confused the crowd…. *6 seconds of Google did not turn up a last name so……sick vocals, Ellie. *Speaking of bar…. the crowd managed to literally drink both remaining bars dry by the end of Sunday’s disco. I’ve literally never seen this at a festival before, and took weird pride in having the last can of cider at the event. *I’d heard of this beforehand but genuinely wondered if Nathan was going for satire. Nope. Whole channel. Just plays Mars Volta for four hours. Read the full article

[junker-town]

A taxonomy of all the fans you see at the Tour de France

Ryan Siu

The Tour de France has the most colorful cast of fans in the world. Here is one man’s attempt to categorize them all.

The Tour de France claims to be the most-attended sporting event in the world. It’s certainly the world’s largest arena. Anyone can walk up and claim a spot along 2,000-plus miles of roadside and see it live, for free, no ticket necessary. As a result, there may not be a more colorful cast of fans anywhere.

Here is a taxonomy of the people you might see next to the road of the Tour de France. It is as exhaustive as I could make it, but by no means complete. Please let me know if I missed a key subgroup in the comments. Or just @ me.

Locals

“Local” here is loosely defined as anyone who easily blends into the scenery. I reckon most of the people you see by the side of the road don’t come from far, but it’s a specific set who are so comfortable with the environment they can seem like a natural part of it.

Locals with furniture

Locals without furniture

Ryan Siu

Some people don’t think through their day at the Tour de France as much more than showing up, standing around for hours, snagging a free hat, yelling their asses off for the three seconds that riders are going by, and going home.

On the far end, some locals won’t watch the Tour go by except in utmost comfort, hauling out full living room sets by the side of the road so they can eat a four-course lunch, smoke cigarettes, snag a free hat, yell their asses off for the three seconds that riders are going by, and go home.

Man in a ditch sleeping at a 90-degree angle on a mountain

A surprising number of people like to sleep next to the Tour de France. While others are picnic-ing, drinking, chatting, or doing any of the things people usually do to pass the time before a sporting event, others are curled up on some nearby grass using a jacket as a pillow.

Something about the brutal climb up to La Planche des Belles Filles made one man supremely comfortable. He stuck his butt in the ditch next to the road, bent his body into a perfect ‘L’, and slumbered peacefully before the riders came by.

Keepers of the regional flag

Ryan Siu

Usually young men, these people have taken upon themselves the duty of reminding people where they are. It’s a noble task, given how quickly the Tour passes in and out of regions. A notable subset of these people are Bretons, who will show up anywhere and everywhere to wave Brittany’s flag.

Note: France’s regional flags are beautiful.

French local industry protestors

Either in favor of industry or against industry, and usually equipped with a spray-painted burlap sign. In the Vosges mountains it was against industry, namely loggers who had been clearing out the area. On rural roads everywhere, it was local farmers standing up against corporate mega-farming. A good reminder that the gorgeous scenery is made up of real places and doesn’t simply exist over the course of the 23 days we get to stare at it through our TVs.

Window creepers

I see you, peeking down at the road around a half-closed shutter.

Window flaunters

We see you, standing with a glass of wine and a cigarette with a perfect view down onto the finish line that everyone who’s mushed up against the barrier would kill to have.

Un-boozed

Banging on the plastic panels lining the final meters into the finish in an enthusiastic yet still-hinged manner.

Boozed

Ryan Siu

Just murdering that shit.

Cheeky old people

La Planche des Belles Filles was the first Category 1 climb of the 2019 Tour, at seven kilometers and gradients that tipped into 20 percent near the top. Its name translates to “The Plank of the Beautiful Girls,” and references the legend of a group of local girls who fled into the Vosges mountains to escape capture by Swedish mercenaries during the Thirty Years’ War. They committed suicide by throwing themselves off the mountain into the lake below rather than be taken captive.

Ryan Siu

This terrible story that gets repeated every time La Planche is featured in the Tour also set up this terrible exchange between a group of old friends sitting in folding chairs and me as I was mid-climb to the top, and very tired.

Them: “Keep going! The Belles Filles are at the top!”

Me: “Look for the plank, right?”

Them: “Oui!”

Fin.

Old guys just hanging out by themselves

Ryan Siu

LOTS of them. Just there to see what the hubbub’s about. Often reading a newspaper.

Seekers

What’s the point being at the Tour de France if you can’t get proof? And else are you gonna do when Julian Alaphilippe is suddenly two feet away from you? Leave him be? Don’t be stupid.

Autograph kids

At the start of every stage, every rider has to ride up to a big dais on a stage where an emcee is jabbering away in French to a crowd. On the way, they often have to ride along fencing where adorable children beg for autographs and look very sad when a rider goes by without stopping.

Which, in actuality, is surprisingly rare. Most riders stopped, especially if they were among the bigger names. I saw Geraint Thomas, Julian Alaphilippe, Thibaut Pinot, and Peter Sagan — perhaps THE four most popular riders in the 2019 edition of the Tour — all give their time to the kids who wanted their attention, despite being in the throes of one of the most competitive Tours in memory.

Autograph adults

Only got anything signed when they essentially shoved a pen in a rider’s hand and moved it for them.

People who will do anything for the Gram

Ryan Siu

Surprisingly few during the nine stages I saw in 2019, so I’d like to think the world is becoming a better place where people feel less and less compelled to document their every move, even to the potential physical detriment of themselves and others, in hopes of capturing fleeting joy of accruing internet points.

But I also wasn’t in the high mountains like I was in 2014, where Gram-happy fans were a pox.

People who will do anything for a polka-dot hat

Ryan Siu

Of all the iconic pieces of swag at the Tour de France — the hats, the kits, the flags, the signs — nothing is more sought after than any item with polka-dots on it. The dots represent the jersey given to the rider leading the King of the Mountains classification. More importantly, as far as swag goes, they aren’t flat yellow — which feels sacrilegious to wear — or green or white — which are far too boring.

When the caravane comes by tossing out polka-dot hats (brought to you by the fine people at Leclerc superstores), the barriers are crushed with fans. Better to politely ask someone who got two if you can have their spare.

People who will do anything for a glimpse of AlaPinot

As much as fans interfere with the riders of the Tour de France, and as taxing as it must be to deal with knuckleheads on a daily basis while also trying to stay focused on the unfathomably difficult race at hand, it is refreshing to see world-class athletes commune with the people who adore them.

Before each stage, team buses are typically situated near stomach-high metal fencing where fans might be able to stand within 15 feet of riders as they come off the team bus and mill around. For the biggest heros — the Alaphilippes, or Pinots — even just catching a glimpse of their kits through the photographers and journalists surrounding them is a thrill. After all, could you imagine ever getting so close to Tom Brady or Lionel Messi as they stretched?

For lesser riders, you can even have a conversation. And by “lesser” I don’t mean bottom of the peloton riders. I saw Rigoberto Uran, a pre-Tour yellow jersey contender and second-place finisher in 2017, walk off the Education First bus to a group of Colombian fans who had been chanting his name. EF isn’t having the strongest Tour, granted, but the scene was quiet around the bus compared to the French squads, and Uran stood with his arm up on the fence for a good three or four minutes, chatting and smiling with the people who came just to see him.

Then he popped his helmet on and prepared to put his body through hell.

Creatures

Unlike locals, creatures exist solely to stand out amongst the scenery. They’re there to be seen — photographers love them, and they love photographers. Whether anybody else gets a kick out of them is another matter, but also entirely besides the point.

Ryan Siu

Lapinou

Lapinou is a man dressed in a pink bunny costume. Lapinou holds a sign telling you he is Lapinou. Lapinou is the creepiest anthropomorphic bunny since Frank from Donnie Darko.

Zaza and Sasha

Zaza wears a gymnast uniform. Sasha is her brother. You know it’s them because above their camper is an enormous sign that says “ZAZA AND SACHA.” Vehicles in the caravane stop and talk to them on a daily basis.

The Devil

Getty Images

Tales of this man’s demise have been greatly exaggerated. Didi Senft has been a fixture on the Tour since 1993. He’s stuck around long enough to become a mostly welcome sight for fans and riders. He was reportedly going to retire in 2014, but he has continued to attend the Tour, appearing on every stage thus far in 2019.

Bro in far too little clothing

Did you know that people are still busting out Borat mankinis for laughs? In 2019!

Color

Not necessarily a local, but not necessarily looking to be noticed, either, those who add to the color of the Tour de France are perhaps the best, most earnest subset of fans. They’re not trying to stand out, but they shine all the same by making the atmosphere undeniably better.

Belgians

Ryan Siu

The Grand Départ in Brussels showed me what cycling fanaticism truly means.

In many ways, Belgium embodies the Tour better than its eponymous nation. France likes to wield the Tour with a subdued sense of duty. Belgium, a country lopped onto France’s head like a brain slug, wields it like the sack of firecrackers that it is. Belgium regularly gets Tour stages, but not regularly enough to get used to the novelty. Saturday in Brussels will be the first Belgian start for the Tour de France since 2012, and the city is filled to the cracks with decorative yellow and green and polka dot nods to the race.

The people came in many varieties — there were the locals at a Flemish bar, a dad who knew Tiesj Benoot, two old ladies drinking beer in lawn chairs just off their curb — but they all wanted to tell you their best Eddy Merckx story, and they were all supremely friendly.

The people who cheer at everyone who rides a bicycle like they’re in the Tour de France

Before every stage, fans can ride the course on their own. And every one gets cheered like they’re Bernard Hinault. I probably heard “Allez Pinot!” directed 10,000 times to people who definitely weren’t Pinot, and it never got old.

The fans who brought every nation’s flag to the Tour

Louis Bien

An evolution of cheering everyone who rides a bicycle in the Tour de France is bringing a flag of every country represented in the Tour so that, when you find out where someone is from, you can bust out their flag and shout a former national hero at them, like the German man who got “Jan Ullrich! Jan Ullrich!”

The four fans claimed to be from Belgium, Luxembourg, Uzbekistan, and Romania.

Old woman in a bright green vest who blew kisses at every vehicle that passed by

She was miniscule, appeared to be in her 80s, and walking briskly up a mountain at the time.

Guy who spent 15 minutes blowing up an inflatable lobster

No notes.

Amateur cyclists, especially geriatrics with calves of coiled steel

Ryan Siu

A lot of people like to ride their bikes before the Tour de France: some in full kit, some in cargo shorts; some with a tow rope attached around their kid’s bike, some who look and ride like they once hoped to taste Tour glory.

They’re all heroes, especially those who brave the major climbs that the professionals will be taking on later in the day. But none are quite as awe-inspiring as the older set who have faces like your grandma and legs like Pawel Poljanski. They have never gone anywhere except via bicycle, and they are both inspiring and frightening.

Mega cycling legend stuffed in a suit

They will be hauled up on stage to shake hands and be gawked at. They will either appear extremely happy to be there, or extremely uncomfortable. And they will have a look that seems to wonder if perhaps the crowd could love them more.

Bros

Bros dominate the Tour landscape, from big groups of bros to intimate groups of bros, across all ages and levels of verve. Sitting around and drinking in a weird place has been a staple of brohood since the beginning of man, making the Tour perhaps the ultimate bro out event.

Bachelor party bros

Ryan Siu

Soccer is their favorite sport, actually, but the Tour was coming right by and how could you not? Heading to a music festival later.

Old man bros

Sittin’ ‘round a cooler that they hauled up in the trunk. Not into dressing up.

Young bros

Sittin’ ‘round a cooler that they hauled up in the trunk. Shirtless or wearing a team kit and cycling casquette, most likely.

Bros who fiercely stan one rider

Ryan Siu

Usually in groups while wearing matching T-shirts and exhibiting personality traits befitting the riders.

A sampling:

Dumoulin Fan Club: Respectful, demur, cool like the rider himself. Also thoroughly lost, given Dumoulin is rehabbing in another country.

King Küng Freunde, AKA the KKF: Loyal, pensive, and happy to be here.

Sagan Team: Won’t stop jumping up and down for one goddamn second.

Bros in a cycling caravan dragging mini kegs of Heineken down the road

Ryan Siu

Tempting to call them creatures, but their friendship is real and they charm the pants off everyone who stops and talks with them. Plus they make it all the way up a mountain on that contraption.

Campers

The hardest of the hardcore drive themselves to every stage and live out of an RV for three weeks. The people residing in them are a combination of the Locals, Color, and Creatures above. But there are some delineations worth discussing.

River bathers

Showerers

Ryan Siu

Perhaps the biggest distinction among the campers is how they take care of their personal stank. If you can afford it, you get a camper with a fully-equipped shower in it, in which you case you’re probably also the type who will be rolling out an incredible spread of red wine, paté, and fine cheeses on a card table before every stage.

If you can’t afford it, you’re showering at campsites when you can find them, or, in a pinch, rinsing off in a nearby body of water. Your spread will look more like a standard sporting-event fare of salty snacks eaten on top of a cooler, but you will still have a bottle of red wine because you’re in France, for God’s sake.

Caravaners

Ryan Siu

RVs traveling in packs of three or more are particularly impressive because that means sometimes spending hours the night before a stage hunting for the perfect spot big enough to accommodate everyone. Doing that every night for three weeks represents a level of dedication to friendship that is both touching and ill-advised.

DOGS

Lots of people bring their dogs to the Tour de France. They are usually better behaved than their humans, and they are all good.

Officials

People need to run and document this massive three-week enterprise. They walk around with badges and are only semi-sure how anything is supposed to work.

Cops

Ryan Siu

Lots of them! Enough to be their own subspecies. Briefly, we have:

Good cops (Will help you cross the course)

Bad cops (Is upset you asked to cross the course)

Clueless cops (Possibly from out of town, not sure where the course is)

Cops who are taking their jobs way too seriously (Will point you to the 30-minute drive you’re supposed to take to cross the course)

Cops who don’t have nearly enough to do (Will help you cross the course, but first wants to hear about your life for 30 minutes)

Cops who probably aren’t taking their jobs seriously enough (Too busy trying to get a polka-dot hat to help you cross the course)

People with badges and green polos

Tour pro tip: Show up to the course with a yellow lanyard and a plain green polo, and you’ll have free reign over the Tour de France. On race day, no one is more respected than the person who you think looks official.

Over-eager emcee

Simultaneously calling the race for fans at the finish line, while also keeping the atmosphere FUN and ENERGETIC and just, real quick, double checking that everyone is having FUN even though the riders are two hours away still. Incomprehensible except when he’s pronouncing every rider’s name like there’s a period between each syllable, so that Thibaut Pinot is actually TEE. BO. PEE. NO.

Journalists

Also get yellow lanyards. Allowed to wander in the fence sometimes. Have it pretty good, actually.

[topweeklyupdate]

TØP Weekly Update #42: You Guys All OK? (6/25/17)

Well, fellas. It’s been a crazy week. The era ends today. That means another long, long, long update. Let’s do it, and then lets all watch Twitter all night to see how things all wrap up.

This Week’s TØPics:

Complete Tour de Columbus Recap (Plus More Cryptic Nonsense)

UPCOMING: Schott Tonight

Teen Choice Nominations

Yours Truly Makes TØP History (Not Really)

Major News and Announcements:

The only major piece of news from this week was that “Stressed Out” hit one billion views on YouTube. I fully take the credit for this achievement, as I asked you guys to turn out to make sure this happened (joking). 

The band was also nominated for three Teen’s Choice Awards for Choice Music and Rock Groups and Choice Group Song for “Heathens”.

Oh, and there was this thing called Tour de Columbus. You guys heard of it? Just a little thing we’ll. A lot of a thing. Let’s get into it in the recap section.

Performances, Interviews, and Other Shenanigans:

Whoo, boy. Obviously, this was a very busy week. However, it wasn’t quite as busy as I expected when writing the Upcoming section last week. For the most part, the shows have all stuck to the basic Emotional Roadshow setlist, with the minor changes of using the 2016 Old Songs Medley and including “Truce” at the beginning of the encore. That said, there were a few points that set each of the shows apart from each other. These include:

Basement

The Basement opened with Tyler running out (with the keytar!) and playing “Fake You Out” for the first time since before Blurryface’s release. I may or may not have wept.

Tyler’s Trees Speech for Basement was notably old school, featuring him pacing the stage, talking more directly to the crowd, and even rambling a bit. In fact, Tyler in general was looser in this show than we’ve seen him in a long time. He was constantly smiling, joked about how the first time he played the venue he lost a Battle of the Bands, thanked a fan who said he was doing great, and stated that people didn’t need to “whoo” to fill awkward pauses. This looseness was likely because, as Tyler explains it, he and Josh just came straight from their homes to play music with their friends. And that’s why this tour is so amazing. (A pretty well-edited together version of the full show can be viewed here.)

To prove their hardcore cred, they kept the cryo and confetti for “Trees”. Yes, they shot the full load into the tiny room, smoking it out the Basement (heh) almost instantly and even knocking out some people in the front row (Tyler stumbling over his “We are…” speech while watching security bridal-carry an unconscious girl away with great concern is a great image). Still, it was hardcore.

Newport

Apparently, somebody in the management (possibly Tyler and Josh themselves) ordered Chipotle for the folks in line at Newport.

Newport featured Tyler pointing out that one of the exits was the exact spot he and Josh met for the first time (tears).

Ohio Governor John Kasich was apparently in the audience at Newport (I believe his daughters are fans).

Don’t have a good video of it with clear audio, but multiple sources have corroborated the story that the crowd chanted “TAXI CAB” multiple times before Tyler played “Trees”. He appears to have said “Sorry”, but sadly, folks, it doesn’t look like we’ll be getting “Taxi Cab” this week.

The ending screen got me feeling something. 

Express

Express Live had a bit of a kerfuffle in the line. That’s all I’m getting into that drama. Moving on.

New TOPxMM colla-

Oh, screw it, I’m addressing it: the line stuff was nonsense, and was the only part of the week that really bummed me out. It seems pretty clear that Express Live HUGELY underestimated the number of workers and planning that would be necessary to handle the huge crowds and failed to provide adequate care for their patrons. That said, I have a real hard time criticizing only them when looking at what they had to deal with. Perhaps I’m biased because I’ve worked events of this size before, but it is an incredibly difficult job to manage thousands of people, especially when those people act as a mob and do not pay attention to any directions they’re issued. Let’s be clear: There is no excuse for those people who ignoring the venues’ orders not to camp and then were angry that their position in line wasn’t honored. There’s also no excuse for the many people who broke laws by rushing across a busy street, pushing and shoving to get to the front of the line, and leaving buckets of trash everywhere. It’s a shame that so much of the Clique appears to be so entitled that they’re blind to their own shared responsibility for the chaos.

Erm… moving on.

New TOPxMM, complete with more awkward dance moves from Tyler.

Tyler told people to be sure to pick up their trash, since he used to have to clean up the LC.

Tyler stopped the show during “Stressed Out” to help someone out of the pit. He joked that the song had just hit a billion views and they didn’t need to finish it, but, at the crowd’s insistence, he pushed through.

The Trees Speech on this one was lengthy and more structured than any I can think of since MSG last year. Tyler framed it around the idea of belief and how much of a positive impact it has on people, and thanked their families (who put up with having TV programs ruined by drumming and screaming from the basement), Fueled By Ramen (who were in attendance), and the fans for believing in them.

Nationwide

This show might have had the most lit crowd of any Twenty One Pilots arena show, with several dance-offs, a conga line, and a beautiful, peaceful circle during “Trees”.

The Trees Speech was another stellar one, with Tyler thanking the fans for making the journey from around the world to make Tour de Columbus so special.

The band’s activity this week was not limited to their performances. The boys also hopped around a couple of local radio stations and gave good, lengthy interviews for the first time in quite awhile. Here’s some highlights:

Dave and Jimmy Show, 97.9

These guys were pretty casual and open, enjoyed the conversations. I particularly appreciated that they didn’t sugar coat a lot of aspects about the entertainment industry, freely dissing award shows, SNL, and even some artists for their fakeness. I can dig it.

Lots of Grammy underwear talk, which is to be expected. Honestly, it’s Tyler’s fault as much as anyone else, he kept redirecting the convo to the underwear. “How does it feel when they call your name for an actual Grammy?” Tyler: “I mean, I was just thinking about the buttons on my pants.”

Tyler: “Just to clarify, there were more than just us two. There were multiple dudes in their underwear.” Josh: “For sure no females though.” Tyler: “Yeah, just a bunch of bros getting drafty.” (Oh my God.)

They brought the underwear issue to a vote with their friends and family on the van ride over to the Grammys, resulting in an evenly split vote. Tyler claims they called their manager to make the final decision; he said, “Go for it,” making history.

Tyler: “[Walking up to the stage in my underwear] was a long moment in my life.”

Perhaps the most groundbreaking news: Tyler was approached by SAXX underwear to join Kevin Love in promoting their product after he demonstrated it live on national television. Though he turned it down, he still stands by the underwear as his favorite and its compartmentalizing mesh.

They chat a little bit about how the Grammys are the only award shows that actually don’t tell the artists beforehand who has won and seem to confirm that they won’t go to a show they’ve been nominated for but know they won’t win. Tyler: “The people who go and lose just really have nothing else to do that day.”

Interviewer: “So let’s talk about “Heathens”. I think that song did better than the movie.” Tyler tries to stay on script and say that they both loved the movie when they saw it, even making the argument that no one really knows that a movie’s bad until they go home and read the reviews, but there’s just enough backpeddling and trademarked Joseph sarcasm that I’m not sure I buy it. 

Their discussion of their appearance on SNL is actually probably my favorite part of the whole interview, since it’s pretty darn upfront about the whole thing. Tyler said that he was honored to be invited on, but as soon as one of the hosts says that he’s actually been to it and observed the disconnect between the audience and artist, Tyler immediately opens up and discusses his quibbles with the show’s format. Specifically, he points to how the opening dress rehearsal has great energy, with all the jokes landing perfectly and the younger crowd of “slops” off the street really being into it. However, by the live filming, the audience has been replaced mostly by more reserved people with connections and the show becomes more stiff. The interviewers muse that it must have something to do with the greater pressure, but Tyler makes the interesting point that it likely has more to do with doing the same thing in front of the same camera guys, comparing it to when he does multiple shows in a single city and becomes aware that the security guards see right through him when his apparently spontaneous performances and speeches are exactly the same.

Tyler throws Kyle Mooney under the bus again, and also criticizes the entire ending schtick of SNL where they all hug each other as “the most awkward thing I’ve ever done in my life.” Tyler says that it was the first time they had ever met most of the crew, making it especially weird to have to act like they all had worked together to put on a show.

While in the process of burning bridges with the entertainment industry, Tyler and Josh both talk about how they never even met Kimmel and Conan despite playing their shows, calling the whole thing “garbage”. Specifically, Tyler goes in on Conan, revealing that they performed their set on that show to an empty audience and no Conan. They speculate it was either because Jennifer Aniston and her team requested it, or perhaps that Conan just was on vacation.

The interviewers ask the guys if they mind when they’re asked about old content (though it seems to just be a way for them to complain about the Chainsmokers). Tyler says that he doesn’t mind, because they make sure to put meaning into all of their stuff (which I’m taking as a Chainsmokers dig).

Andre on Air, 102.5

This interview really gets into the nitty gritty of Tour de Columbus and the band’s relationship with their hometown.

Andre asks the big question lots of us have been wondering about: what about playing Ohio Stadium, one of the largest venues in the world (at 100,000 capacity, they could fit the crowds of all the Columbus shows in the stadium and not even fill it halfway). Tyler says that still sounds “ridiculous” to them, but he also fully admits that they still expect people not to show up to their shows.

Andre points out the remarkably close connection the boys have to their hometown, between this tour, featuring the city in their Grammys speech, and a million other things, even going so far as to say that Twenty One Pilots put Columbus back on the map and is the thing the city is most well-known for now behind Ohio State football (which, to be honest, I think is accurate). Tyler says that he’s honored by that praise. He says further that he likely wouldn’t have left Columbus if not for his music, stating that before touring took him and Josh all over the world, he’d only been on a plane once. Even now, though, he still prefers the city to anyplace else.

Tyler: “We’ve been all over now, but whenever anyone asks what our favorite place is, it’s Columbus. There’s nothing better. We’re not trying to be sentimental, we really… we like the highways here.” 

Josh speaks to the experience of being at home while being famous. He says that there’s a real sense of normalcy so long as they’re hanging out with their families, but going out with their families to do something and having to take a picture with fans has become the new normal. (Tyler jokes that he’s found out that he’s had more cousins than he’s ever known.)

Tyler reveals that Zach was skipping out on a few concerts to play rec league basketball, and that his dad skipped shows to watch him. Perf.

No tattoos planned for these shows.

Tyler states that, while they planned to make minor alterations to every show to make them special, they were never going to be able to have drastically different setlists for each space for logistical reasons. Tyler says the tour’s less about the content of the shows and more about just honoring the city.

Discussing the “HeavyDirtySoul” video, Josh was glad for the flames due to how freezing cold it was (roughly eight degrees). Tyler: “I thought we were going to lose him.”

For what I think is the first time, Tyler talks a bit about recording “Heathens” in a very DIY fashion in European greenrooms. Tyler says that he has demos of a bunch of songs that have the sounds of people in the background banging on the door of the hotel room asking him to keep it down. 

When discussing their favorite cover songs, Tyler says that his is probably “My Heart Will Go On”, telling a story of a concert where he found out that Kate Winslet was in the audience and that she sang her heart out, despite the fact that she probably is sick of that song.

Andre suggests that they should recruit Jack Hannah at Columbus Zoo to get a hold of the giraffe whose birth was livestreamed for the last show of TDC to fulfill their greatest career goals. Josh says Tyler should ride the baby since he’s smaller. They joke that they really shouldn’t try to actually use giraffes, as it would represent a peak in their career they could never top, but Tyler points out that if they keep talking about it, they will inevitably get to bring giraffes onstage at their final show.

Tyler says that they’re definitely taking a break, and that he’s looking forward to get away from all the external pressures and getting back to making songs he likes with Josh.

In honor of TDC, The Columbus Dispatch did a front-page spotlight on the band. It’s honestly kind of amusing: since they weren’t able to secure interviews with anyone in the band or their families, their main sources are fans, the owner of the PromoWest venues, Tyler’s high school basketball coach, a guy who worked with Josh at Guitar Center (lol), and Chris Salih. The only new information the article provides is that Chris was the one who actually took the picture of Josh with the wedding crashers that set the Clique on-fire last week. That’s quality journalism.

I would also be totally remiss not to talk about Artopia. The Facebook stream for the event was very well produced, and David McCreary did a pretty good job at keeping things high energy. The stream contained hours of interviews and interactions with the Clique, hundreds of amazing pieces of art, and cameos from Mark. After the stream was over, Tyler and Josh surprised all the folks who stuck around at the free event by coming out to thank the artists and do a meet and greet with everyone. Some of my favorite moments:

David challenging some fan to cartwheeling contests. Not only did the girls own him, they criticized Josh’s form in the backflips.

After David jokingly asked people to ask him questions about the band, he got a bunch of questions (”Latin America tour!” “When’s the new album?”) that he was not able to answer. When asked their favorite song: “We Are Young” by Fun (Mark laughed).

Tyler’s mom showed up and talked trashed him (and oh my god she sounds just like him and has his sarcasm, omg).

All the people from across the country. All of the concert stories. All the dads.

Outside of TDC, which has understandably overwhelmed a lot of other news, Josh also filmed a promo for Columbus’s Roosevelt Coffee, a favorite spot of both band members (they gave their only 2016 performance in Columbus at the shop) that also serves as a charity that fights hunger, disease, and human trafficking. The promo notably makes use of the TØP deep cut “Clear” from Regional at Best; it fits the theme perfectly. One last minor point: here’s Josh doing an unboxing video of his own drum. Hear that’s popular YouTube content.

Upcoming Shows:

Show 5: Schottenstein Center at Value City Arena, (6/25)

Capacity: 18,800

It’s all led up to this: the last show of the Blurryface era, and the last show for the foreseeable future. Despite being a tad smaller than Nationwide, this is the obvious spot to host the final concert: located on the Ohio State campus, the Schott was the first arena the boys ever headlined and is one of Columbus’s premier venues. I don’t know what to expect from this one. MisterWives are opening, so I think we’d be pretty safe in assuming that we should get a trumpet assist on a song or two. I doubt we’ll be getting too much else, but I do know one thing: that Trees Speech is gonna make me cry. The curtain’s falling on the Blurryface Era, ladies and gents. Hold each other.

BLIND SPECULATION OF THE WEEK:

Each concert so far has had a unique opening. Basement played some audio of Tyler and Josh talking to each other; Newport featured this image of the repeated word “WAIT”. Express featured an extended montage of the band’s history with a Nigel voiceover questioning “how many days” it takes to reach where the band is now. It is entirely possible that some of these things were actually features of the venue and have nothing to do with a Blurryface-style viral marketing campaign. 

It’s all come down to this. Depending on what happens between now and then, next week’s update might be the last for a good while. We’ll see. Regardless, as always: Power to the local dreamer.

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