#working out the [getting muted by music volume] lyrics calls to me like for one thing; those iconis perfect rhymes

[unproduciblesmackdown]

throwback to already making the post like yeah lo cocodrilo is very xmas show villain with it but independently having fun Reading Into "& you know what that got me, hm? 😌 mmm...Not A Thing! =)" b/c i mean Of Course read into the like song / monologue Villain Explaining Their Deal that glosses over things like [that would be a crucial defining turning point & his own figurative death] & omits or misdirects & such but is Already also expressing some things openly enough in these ways that it does also let you know like this isn't a Flat Other kind of villainy deal, part of the relatable streak to any/all or what's the point, part of the [we are informed he has the range, feelings are relevant] so like yeah i'm going why Not that he had a special guy who was one way or another lost to him? then i get to connect like Lol Yeah Exactly when xmas goes "how can one small man have so much hate in his heart :(" (it's not the size of the heart of the man, it's the size of the hate in the heart of the man) "well it certainly doesn't have anything to do with my dead husband, rufus!!"

(nor his supposedly never-had little turkey man / junior, who knows what went down....all while naturally i don't think any particular More Granular & Locked Down explanation of cocodrilo backstory is needed, it's so hard to stay pure in a world where the tree branch turns into a gun to be sure in a world with an artificial sun, he used to be a turkey, got him not a thing, so he's not a turkey anymore, Plus any & everything he isn't explaining to us that might happen aproposly in a life, Up For Interpretation & that the effect of this villain is the [it could be you] for the hero, not [could never be me], or [is part of you] in that relevant overlap, having the ideals, sure, but what if they're disappointed....the kinda sheilaish, kinda judithish i read into cocodrilo's villainy origin implications, speaking of that disappointment & losing everything despite it all & [comparing the Respect/ed lyrics; importance of reputation for/& violence] & but also fuck everybody else then i'm looking out for myself responses & playing into the villainy as a means to do so, fun that then ofc in lihn these characters have specific beef & at first it seems like that hints at sheila's Oh No Absolutely Viciousness? but that that's turned on its head with the context beyond "uh oh. violence" like no, that was sheila being the more Sticking To Ideals one there in a way vs judith's [hold on to your ideals everything else is death] Is Death as cocodrilo brushes off his own So I'm Not A Turkey Anymore death & judith is the like peer minivillain if not for the adults who have the "greater" ideals about the broader systems playing out As They Should rather than just [fuck everybody else, i make sure i get mine, the only way] as with cocodrilo who is a villain who i'm sure could likewise believably pivot if the story had that Greater Villain who'd fuck him over too / prompts the reconciliation of Foilship there where he's a villain stemming from disappointed [being same as the hero]ness....have also in years prior, forget why but ofc does it really need a specific reason, been like hey i mean if mister macabee & the villain kissed like it might not fix the latter, but maybe it would, & it wouldn't make them Worse, & i'm up for that, so also i was like am i expressing this as well with pouncing on coconana shaking this jar of glitter? well no not quite i don't think lmao, even a bit beyond the Not Quiteness of [these are different shows] even with fun comparisons & parallels drawing, but it's also sure not all That different. maybe it can make him worse but if so in a way that's gonna circle around / had to get worse to get better there, kind of like with the jumping off canon [their one interaction] & make that Nigh fatal but also where of course that's gonna become another figurative death turning point too, it already was, what if you just were still also literally alive? & perhaps already the case in bsol where it is not telling us this is a literally conveyed story, here's every 5 min later for the friendship song reprise & i'm soooo. oh my god

[existentialmagazine]

Review: Alexandra’s new indie-pop single ‘I’m Not Good At This Anymore’ tethers a growing, layered soundscape with a heartfelt message

Growing up as a singer, the indie-pop singer-songwriter Alexandra found herself confiding in her lyricism where reality failed as a release, now merging her life-long love affair of live performance with meticulously crafted releases. Layering vocals, penning authentic storytelling and overall building enchanting soundscapes with ease, it’s without a doubt that Alexandra should be a name just as known to the masses as those like Phoebe Bridgers and Dodie. Following on from her lighthearted release ‘Bonnie & Clyde’, Alexandra now sees herself sharing more of an intimate side of her musical talents in newest single ‘I’m Not Good At This Anymore.’

Settling in with gently strummed, slightly palm-muted acoustic guitar, ‘I’m Not Good At This Anymore’ immediately captures a real essence of rawness in its stripped-back approach, with even the slight squeaks that come from shifting between chords adding an essence to the soundscape that inadvertently leaves it so profoundly hard-hitting right from its beginnings. Picking up more with strums that ring out to their full volume and impact, the song begins a slow-burning progressive build from sorrow to more deep jadedness. Very light electric guitar leaves the first chorus standing out too, creating an atmospheric moment you can’t help but be both hooked on while still hurting. Stumbling along with the addition of a driving pulse-like beat and built-up instrumentals that leave the second chorus absolutely flourishing, every element of the production feels carefully curated and sure to whisk you away on a journey you won’t regret pressing play on. As Alexandra’s layered vocals throughout only top off this gorgeous setting, she soars in a higher range that’s personal and emotionally infused, making it unavoidable for you to not leave ‘I’m Not Good At This Anymore’ singing along like you’d always known the words.

All-too real and reflective, ‘I’m Not Good At This Anymore’ is the soundtrack to any post-party comedown, finding yourself looking in the mirror as well as reliving everything you said and did and thinking - who’s the stranger looking back at me? Detached and hinting at dissociating, Alexandra’s aching lines detail how it feels to lose yourself, introspectively looking for answers and finding you don’t have them. As a partner - or potentially just a newfound flirt - surrounds the track’s narrative, Alexandra finds herself emotionally distant: ‘You say, darling what’s on your mind? But I don’t break, I’m a brick wall, and I hate when you say I’m getting red.’ Seemingly resentful towards them, fallen out of love or just keeping herself closed away, Alexandra’s woefully penned lines seep with a fear of not knowing her own identity while trying to make sense of this romance: ‘don’t call me honey, I don’t feel so sweet. Don’t recognise me, how am I not good at this anymore?’ The track intentionally feels a little vague, allowing for you to resonate with it in whichever capacity it relates to your own experiences, not directly implying any one thing. If you’re struggling to know who you are and feeling cynical about the reality of that self-awareness, Alexandra is here to remind you that’s perfectly okay, she’s still working through waves of that herself: ‘rather be quiet than misunderstood.’

Check out ‘I’m Not Good At This Anymore’ for yourself here to uncover your own meaning in Alexandra’s beautifully written lyricism and tender but wonderfully catchy soundscape!

Written by: Tatiana Whybrow

Photo Credits: Unknown

// This coverage was created via Musosoup, #SustainableCurator

[glitterge1pen]

Um Hello? Roadtrip Bonding?

Shoto Todoroki  x reader, sfw, fluff?, word count 717,

shout out to @red-kewpie-cap​ for this idea and concept!!! Go check out their stuff :P 

It was Shoto’s turn to drive again and you had ended up in the passenger seat. Shoto was a cautious, steady driver, he was the one who suggested getting a map at the gas station for when the service would eventually go out on the road. You didn't really need the map, since the GPS on the phone still worked, but you had unfolded it and were reading over your route to pass the time.

Your friends were asleep in the backseats. The AC on, the sky outside gray, like rain could break at any moment, and Shoto had the radio on the classical station. Driver got to pick music to maintain peace in the car. Usually Shoto let you use his phone to choose the music while he drove but it had died some miles back.

“Is this the type of music you like?”

“Huh? Shoto, it’s a radio?”

“Huh? Shoto, it’s a radio?”

“Huh? Shoto, it’s a radio?”

“Yeah, but by the time I was old enough to drive the car I got had a screen and bluetooth,”

You nod understanding.

“But what about when you were younger? You never had to change the station? Not even once?”

Shoto gave a shrug.

“My family has drivers, we sit in the back,”

Whenever Shoto said ‘family’, you got an uneasy feeling in your gut. Not ever sure what would come out of Shoto's mouth next. He rarely had any average experiences or platitudes to add when it came to family conversation.

“Well, did you ever have a favorite station?”

Shoto contemplates. The road was empty, it had been for about an hour now, nothing but farmers fields and muddy soil this far out. When you looked at him, his bright hair stood out against what had become dull scenery.

“Natsuo and Fuyumi, they used to play music in Fuyumi’s room sometimes after Enji would go to bed. It would always be really late. I’m not sure how I would even manage to wake up. The music was never loud. But I would sit on Fuyumi’s bed too tired to dance with them.”

He slows the car, the first turn in forty five minutes was approaching.

“It was one of those top hits stations, because after an hour the songs would loop. I’d whisper the few lyrics I knew, and I’m pretty sure they would carry me back to my room. I was years younger than them and fell asleep faster. Fuyumi still has that radio, it's pink, has a cat on it. Hello kitty, it has Hello Kitty on it. “

The car turns. You shift in your seat a little, waiting for Shoto to tell you more but he is quiet once again. He stares off, seemingly done reminiscing. Then he perks up, his back perfectly straight as he takes his eyes off the road to look at you.

“Sorry for telling you all that, I didn't mean too,”

“It’s okay, I don't mind at all,”

You say reassuring him. You reach for the volume dial and turn it down lower.

“What type of music did they used to play?”

“I guess you would call it pop,”

“And how old were you?”

“Seven or eight, maybe even six”

You talk in the softest voice you can muster. Showing him how to tune the radio, which buttons pop open the tape deck or let you put CD’s in. How to mute, stop, rewind. You cruise through the stations easily, listening intently for a particular type of station.

You clench your fists in silent triumph when you catch the station. There was always a station like this, no matter where you went. The talk show host was closing out their segment.

“Up next it's everyone's favorite hour, our 90s to the 10’s forever hits! First up is SOS by Rihanna followed by Mariah Carey’s Heartbreaker! Enjoy folks!”

Shoto looks at the radio suspiciously. Like it knows something about him. Then he turns to you mumbling out his words, shy, and avoiding your gaze.

“Thank you”

༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

A/N: I’m back!!! Kinda. Presumably. Maybe. Have been super tired lately but hopefully I can write some more. First tine writing Shoto too :p he's a little goofball :p Also I mentioned it early in this post but this piece is really only thanks to @red-kewpie-cap​ !!!!

[storiesofsvu]

Paper Rings

Rita Calhoun x fem!reader Warnings: language, fluff Covers the “Paper Rings” by Tswift square of storiesofsvuoneyearbingo.

Rita was in the home office, the door wide open since she wasn’t working on anything too important, and it was mid Saturday afternoon, she didn’t want you to feel like she was kicking you out or anything. A phone call had lead to a new light being shed on the case and she just wanted to go over her arguments and questioning quickly. It probably could have waited until later on Sunday evening, but in case she did find something she needed to revamp she wanted to have ample time to form it.

Spring had finally sprung in New York, the warm breeze flowing through the apartment while the flowers were in full bloom, the city alive again with people enjoying the warmth. The two of you had indulged in a lazy morning, breakfast ordered in and eaten in bed, limbs still entangled as you fed each other little bites of bacon and waffles. After a quick shower and finally getting dressed for the day you’d began to make a tentative plan to go enjoy as much of the outdoors as one could get within city limits. Rita had suggested a drive out to the Hamptons but your nose crinkled and asked if you could wait until it was warm enough to actually go in the ocean. She laughed softly, kissing the scrunch out of your nose and agreed, opting for a walk through the park (with extra coffee of course) followed by a late lunch at Papillon.

It appeared her phone call and work interruption was taking a little too long for your liking, she heard you rustle through the outer part of the apartment, clicking on a playlist as you normally did whenever you were cooking. While breakfast had been big, you had a pretty early dinner the previous night (followed by some more than enthusiastic adult times) and you were starting to feel peckish, even if you did have lunch plans. The music floated through the apartment, Rita smiling at your affinity for playful pop songs, knowing there was no doubt you were having a little dance party for one as you put together a snack. A small sizzle from a pan echoed through the air and Rita sighed softly, as much as she wanted to focus on getting the work done, she simply just wanted to be able to spend her weekend with her girl.

“Oh fuck yes!”

She chuckled at your excited mumble as you turned up the volume on the speaker, a song she recognized as Taylor Swift bouncing off the walls, your muted voice singing along to the words. Smiling, she shut her laptop, flipping closed the file and pushed it off to the side to be dealt with later.

She found you exactly as she’d pictured, adorned in cute little cozy romper that you wore so often she’d bought you one in every colour, hips bopping to the tune of the song as you shifted whatever was in the pan. You did a little spin, giggling at the sight of her leaning against the door way, nearly pausing your moments.

“Oh by all means, don’t stop on my accord.” She smiled and you let out a louder laugh, as if her watching eyes had ever made you self conscious before.

“Only if you join me.” You smirked, grabbing at her hand as you tugged her further into the kitchen. Rita let out a soft laugh but wasn’t about to let you dance alone. Right as the chorus started the spatula became your microphone as you openly sang the lyrics out to her, “I like shiny things, but I’d marry you with paper rings, uh-hu! That’s right! Darlin’ you’re the one I want.”

Laughing, the gleam in your eye ever evident you wrapped your arms around her shoulders, kissing her gently. She pulled you in for a second one and you gasped, jumping back as you moved the spatula away from her.

“It’s fine, I’m not exactly wearing Prada right now.” She teased and you giggled, stirring at the pan again before dropping the tool on the counter.

“I still don’t wanna risk getting garlic butter in your hair.” You leant forward, kissing her cheek quickly before your hand turned the dial on the speaker down, “sorry.” You winced, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”

“I’m not complaining.” She wrapped an arm around your waist, nuzzling into your side, “besides that’s one of your favourite songs.” She half teased, poking at your ribs, and you swatted at her hand.

“It’s a fucking bop Rita.” You insisted and she laughed.

“I don’t get the paper rings thing.”

“Really?” You glanced up at her, brow furrowed.

“Well I get the sentiment of it, that part I understand.”

“When you were a kid did you never tie paper into a ring? Or like, grass when you were out playing with your friends?” You paused, feigning offence, “your parents did let you play in the park right?”

“I was allowed outside.” She scoffed, swatting at your arm before laying a kiss on your temple, “I can’t say I ever made grass rings for anyone.”

“You’re missin’ out, it’s the symbol of true love.” You mocked, “here…” your hand swiped one of the straws sitting on the counter that had come with the takeout that morning. Swiftly you ripped the package open, dumping the straw out of it before gesturing for Rita’s hand. She chuckled softly but held it up for you, watching as you expertly and carefully wound the paper around her left ring finger, managing to even tie it off into the best resembling gem that you could. After tearing off the excess paper you looked up to her, shrugging, “one of my friends was super good with origami, she learnt how to make super cute rings, we all had matching ones in school until we realized paper was water soluble.”

“Adorable.” Rita chuckled, kissing your cheek gently.

“Sorry.” You kissed her cheek quickly, “I should let you get back to work.”

“On the contrary, work can wait. Whatever you’re making smells delicious and I promised you a day together.”

“Snack and then we’ll head out?” You asked, “try and actually catch some sun before it disappears?”

“Sounds like the greatest way to spend a day.” Rita smiled, kissing you softly before you moved back to the stove.

You’d thrown together the leftover shrimp from the other night with a few varying veggies that you knew wouldn’t take too long to grill up. Knowing Rita might’ve been hungry you’d tossed in enough to share, but it still wasn’t a huge portion. You ate quickly and then left the apartment hand in hand, basking in the sun as you made your way down to the park.

Rita was still insistent on stopping at your usual favourite coffee shop for the mid afternoon pick me up, though you opted for an iced latte today trying the new feature flavour they had, claiming that it was finally warm enough out you wanted to actually indulge. Rita couldn’t help but playfully roll her eyes at you, she was never one for adding sweetness to her coffee, and thought that a lot of the flavourings seemed a bit ridiculous (and don’t even get her started on pumpkin spice) but as long as she wasn’t drinking it, she’d put up with your habits.

Central Park was busy, as you’d expected, families out taking advantage of the big fields, parents playing a variety of sports with their kids, some simply playing tag trying to burn off as much energy from the little ones that they could outside of the apartment for once. You paused slightly watching a Dad playing a makeshift game of kickball while you sucked the last of your coffee through the straw, your eyes nearly lingering before tossing the cup into the trash. You felt the squeeze of Rita’s hand around yours and you glanced up to her face, head tilted in question.

“You sure you don’t want to have kids?” She asked hesitantly and you nodded.

“Yeah. A hundred percent.” You fell back into step beside her, your free hand wrapping around her bicep softly, “while I like the idea of kids, tiny humans who are half you? That you get to experience the world for the first time again through their eyes, watch the succeed in life, yeah that sounds great. But I’m not here for the tantrums, and the exhaustion, the price of raising a kid! Do you have any idea how expensive diapers are? Jesus…” she laughed at your muttering, “I am more than happy and satisfied with being an Aunt.”

“Good.” She mused, kissing your cheek softly as you continued to make your way through the park.

“I wouldn’t say no to a cat though.”

“A cat I can definitely deal with.” She laughed softly, smiling into the soft kiss you laid on her lips.

As planned, you stopped in for an semi early dinner, splitting plates of calamari, shrimp tacos and mushroom risotto croquettes. You practically dragged Rita into a bakery a few doors down, nearly drooling over the pastries as you tried to decide which ones would be coming home with you. Laughing, she kissed you softly, telling you to just get one of everything that you had your eye on. You kissed her nearly breathless in excitement and adoration for the way she spoiled you on a regular basis. (The shop owner couldn’t help but smile, throwing in a few extra tarts on the house because not only were you regulars, but you were too cute not to).

Back at the apartment you laid the treats out on the coffee table while Rita cracked a bottle of wine, bringing it over to you. The windows had a perfect view as the sky turned a swirling combination of pink and yellow, hints of blue clinging onto the season as the sun began to sink in the horizon. Leaning against her shoulder you picked up Rita’s hand in yours, rubbing your thumb across her knuckles before you lifted your head, glancing down at the straw wrapper still wrapped around her finger.

“You’re still wearing that?” You half laughed.

“Guess it just felt natural.” She murmured softly, pressing a kiss into your forehead, “feels kind of unfair that you don’t have one.”

“Well isn’t that how it works?” You playfully shoved at her arm, “if I ask you to marry me you’d be the one with the ring until the wedding, right?”

“I suppose.” She sighed, suddenly pushing up from the couch, “still feels like you deserve one.”

“Well bring me the other straw, I’ll teach you how to make one.” You nestled into the couch, your attention distracted by the t.v, “better yet I can pick up some origami paper tomorrow and we can try to make the fancy ones.” You heard Rita rummaging through one of the drawers in the kitchen and your brow furrowed, though it stayed on the show in front of you, “it’s on the counter babe.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” She called back and you wondered what on earth she was going on about, even more so when she returned to the couch with nothing in her open hand.

“Where’s the straw?”

“You said you liked shiny things.” She half shrugged, revealing the little blue box in her other hand and you gasped.

“Rita…” your hands flew to your mouth as she cracked the box open, you’d had no doubt the diamond was going to be extravagant but you still weren’t prepared. “That certainly is fucking shiny.”

“Darling…you’re the one that I want.” Her free hand cupped at your cheek gently, “believe me, I had something a little more extravagant planned for this weekend but you axed going to the Hamptons.”

“I’m so sorry…”

“Oh don’t be.” She half scoffed, “being with you isn’t about the fancy times, it’s about being together, forever. I want your dreary Monday’s, I want your complications too. In picture frames, in dirty dreams.” You couldn’t help but giggle at that sentiment, “I’ve waited my whole life for someone like you to come around and I’m surprised I even waited this long to ask. Will you marry me?”

“Oh Rita Calhoun of fucking course I’ll marry you.” Your voice was clogged with tears as you lunged toward her, your arms tightly wrapping around her shoulders as hers slid around your waist. You nearly laughed at the heavy sigh of relief she let out, cupping the back of your head softly as she pressed a kiss to your temple. As if you could ever say no to her, much less say no to spending your life with her. “I love you so much you couldn’t even imagine.” You murmured into her shoulder

“Darling I really think I can.” Her own words were thick with emotion by now and you pulled back, your hands trailing down her arms as you saw the happy tears in her eyes. The hand not holding the ring box moved back up to your face, wiping away a stray tear, “I love you more than anything. And another day going by without you knowing that I wanted to be your wife was a waste.”

“Well it’s a good thing I know now.” You teased, watching as she slipped the diamond onto your finger, “I can’t believe I get you as my wife.”

“Likewise sweetheart.” She murmured softly as she leant in, her lips meeting yours in a deep yet soft kiss. Your lips moving with grace against each other’s before a small giggle broke you apart.

“Guess you can take off that silly paper one now.”

“Oh…I’ll take it off but it’s not going anywhere.” Very carefully she raised her hand, slipping the paper off her finger, she shifted forward, dropping into the small dish on the coffee table, “without it I doubt I would have had the courage to ask you today.” She kissed the tip of your nose and you giggled quietly, “technically, you instigated this. We can think of a better place to keep it later.”

“And you’ll let me buy you a shiny one?”

“Of course darling.” Rita kissed you once again, the smile breaking out on her cheeks as she gazed at you in what could only be described as ultimate true love. She’d loved you from the moment she had met you, and now? She got to spend the rest of her life with you and neither of you could be any happier than you were in that moment.

_______ @charabs @natasha-danvers @ineedafinghug @veteranwerewolf95 @billiedeannovak @stardust-galaxies @laurenhope13 @randomthingssss @farahs-faeling @beccabarba @imlike-so-gaydude @thatesqcrush @bisexual-dreamer02 @altsvu @svulife-rl @svushots @gay-ass-bitch @lesbianspacecowboy @paulson-hargitay @whispered-tear-drops @wannabe-fic-reader @witchxaf @sarcasticmami @angelicdestieldemon @lawandorderimagines @gaylorrds @smuttty @infiniteoddball @delphineecormierr @gabby-mueller23 @solemnnova @whimsicallymad @mysticfalls01 @1000spices @oliviaswifey @thatgaygiraffesquirrelgirl @nocreditinthestraightworld @redlipstickandplaid @cmmndrwidw @bumblebear30 @denpine @molllss @wosoimagines @snowsgay19 @michael-rooker @jj-arms@infernumlilith @yourtaletotell @australiancarisi @cerberus-spectre

[multifandomwriter18]

“If only I could hear your voice” Chatnoir x reader PART 1

A/n: this was requested by DianaTales on wattpad I hope you like it, just to let you know this one shot I believe will be at least two parts. Also I thought this song was suitable for this one!

Also possible triggering warning. This imagine contains strong language, bullying etc.

••••

I never was born like this..

I don't remember much about when I was little..

Don't remember what happiness was..what peace was..how it felt to talk or sing..

How it felt to hear my voice..for people to hear my voice.

Things use to be perfect..my goal was to sing..to sing my heart out and become a singer.

I mean isn't that every girls dream? To become someone people look up to?

To be noticeable?

The doctor's voice rings in my head again.

"(Y/n) sweetie, I'm sorry but your voice box was damaged in the accident..I'm afraid you won't be able to talk..or sing.."

"(Y/n), honey you'll be late for school!" My mother called from down stairs. I let out a small sigh and I gave myself one last look in the mirror before heading down stairs.

I greet my parents with a smile and they gave me a kiss and a hug. I ate breakfast and I walk to school.

I kept my (eye colour) eyes glued to the ground while I listen to music. As I walked I tried to sing again.

I know I can't speak but I've been trying a lot to try to..I just want..I want to sing..

I let out a sigh which sounds like I was being strangled in a way. I hate not being able to speak.

I higher the volume on the music as I walk.

Once I get to school I scan the area for that girl Chloe and her 'friend' Sabrina. With them not in sight I head straight to the school doors.

Without looking up I bump into someone. When I look up I see Adrien. "Oh jeez I'm sorry (y/n) I didn't see you there..you ok?" I nodded and he helped me up.

"Oh Adrien!!!" I froze as I see Chloe and Sabrina running over. Adrien gasped as he is suddenly embraced by the mean blonde girl.

"I missed you so much!" I take a step back and turn to run to only be tripped by Sabrina.

"Well, well, well, look what we have here. The little mute girl is back." Sneered Chloe as she flipped her hair over her shoulder.

My eyes narrowed as I met her cold blue eyes burn in my (E/c) ones. I brushed a lock of my (h/l) (h/c) hair and glared at her.

What does she want now?!

As I stood up Sabrina pulled out a sheet of paper that slipped from my binder. My eyes widened as I tried to grab it from her.

As I opened my mouth try and speak only a squeal escaped my lips.

Chloe laughed. "Aw the mute is trying to speak again, you really a pathetic."

Tears weld in my eyes as my (s/c) became flushed with anger.

Sabrina giggled as she handed Chloe my sheet of paper I was trying to get back. "Chloe, give it back now." Adrien stated angrily.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't worry Adrien, I want to see what Mute made..oh my!"

It was a drawing I made of Chat Noir and I..in the drawing I was in his arms and he was holding me tightly as were in the sky.

It was based on the dream I had last night..when I have a dream I like to draw my favourite scenes so I could cherish it forever.

She laughed even more when she found some son lyrics on the back of it representing about Chat.

Chloe began to read.

" 'I don't want to say about you, the way you move, the way you talk, the way you walk, the way your always in my mind~your eyes shine so bright, it's like I'm seeing a whole new light yeah..' What kind of crap is this?" I froze and the look on Adrien's face made me heart shatter.

"Oh my god! You have a crush on Chat! What a loser!" She shouted loud enough for people to hear. Another squeak escaped my lips as I yank the paper out of her hands and ran the other way as tears escape my eyes.

I ran to the girls washroom and sobbed my heart out.

Stupid Chloe..

*Time Skip*

After crying for a while and controlling myself I stepped out of the washroom and cleaned up my hair.

My (e/c) eyes were red and blood shot. Around my whole eyes they were puffy and red. My skin colour was no longer had its natural (s/c) glow. It was now pale.

I splashed cold water on my face and tied my (h/c) in a pony tail.

I step out and walk to class. Miss. Bustier looked at me. "Ms. (L/n) your late to class." I bowed my head and walked up the back of the class.

"She was too busy dreaming about Chat Noir." Teased Chloe making some students laugh.

My heart clenched as I sat down. "Isn't that right Mute? Oh wait you can't answer that cause you can't talk!" Chloe added on with another laugh.

"Chloe, that's enough!" Our teacher stated calmly and I looked down at my shaking hands.

"I mean what chances do you have with Chat?"

"Leave her alone Chloe!" Snapped Marionette making my heart flutter a little.

Marionette and I use to be good friends when we were little. We still are..just..I prefer to keep my distance.

I let my (h/c) bangs cover my eyes as I tried to not focus on Chloe. "Hello? Loser I'm talking to you? Are you deaf too?"

"Chloe leave her alone!"

"She's so pathetic, at least now I don't get to hear her ugly voice, she has no talent what she ever, glad she had that accident."

I froze, my whole body just shut down on me. Without anymore thought I grabbed my things and ran.

A sob breaks out of my chest even before I could make it out the door. I stood back up trying to ignore Chloe's taunts.

"Maybe you should leave, like forever. There is no point if you even being here. No one wants a mute. Your just too pathetic for this world."

I ran, not caring that the teacher was calling after me. I don't care anymore..

I just want the pain to stop..

Strands of my (h/c) hair stuck to my sweaty (s/c) forehead as I ran down the hall and out on the streets.

I even ran all the way home, I didn't care about school, I'd rather stay home..that's the only place I can feel safe..

Where no one can hurt me..

I sobbed as I run to my room and collapse on the floor pulling my knees to my chest.

I tried to scream but only a squeak came out of my mouth. I kicked and three things across my room. I grabbed my music book and threw it hard against the wall making all my papers go flying.

Chloe's right..I am useless..

There's no point for me..

I cried even harder as I grabbed my sketch book and tossed it in my little garbage bin.

I sank to knees again and sobbed.

I hate her..

I hate her..

I hate them..

I hate the world..

I hate myself..

Hate..

Hate..

Hate..

The doctors voice rings in my head again.

"I'm sorry but she won't be able to talk again..she will be mute..I'm sorry.."

That what I always will be..

Forever and always..

Mute..

•••

Two updates in one day. I’ll probably post part 2 later on today. And I’ll try to post some more transformer one shots as well.

I’m also well aware that I got a few asks as well. I’ll try to work on them later if I can. I’m currently working on my other books too.

I’m also going back to work next week so I won’t be active that much again but I’ll try my best.

[ireadyabooks]

Books to Read in 2021

It’s a NEW YEAR, everyone! 

We made it through 2020, and whether or not you hit your reading goal this past year, don’t worry! 2021 is a new year for your TBR, and we have an AMAZING line-up of books you should add to your reading list ASAP.

THE LIFE I’M IN 

This story of the power of forgiveness and second chances presents the unflinching story of a young woman trapped in the underworld of human trafficking. In Sharon G. Flake's latest and unflinching novel, we follow Charlese Jones, who, with her raw, blistering voice speaks the truths many girls face, offering insight to some of the causes and conditions that make a bully. Turned out of the only home she has known, Char boards a bus to nowhere where she is lured into the dangerous web of human trafficking.

HOLD BACK THE TIDE

A darkly seductive story of murder, betrayal, love, and family secrets in a small town in the Scottish Highlands. Alva knows that her father killed her mother, but she can’t prove it. The more she investigates though, the more she realizes that the truth can be more monstrous than lies/ And while you might be able to outrun anything that emerges from the dark water, you can never escape your past . . .

MUTED 

Denver is more than ready on the day she and her best friends Dali and Shak sing their way into the orbit of the biggest R&B star in the world, Sean "Mercury" Ellis. Merc gives them everything: parties, perks, wild nights -- plus hours and hours in the recording studio. Even the painful sacrifices and the lies the girls have to tell are all worth it. Until they're not. Denver begins to realize that she's trapped in Merc's world, struggling to hold on to her own voice. As the dream turns into a nightmare, she must make a choice: lose her big break, or get broken.

THE POETRY OF SECRETS

A lyrical portrait of hidden identities and forbidden love set against the harrowing backdrop of the Spanish Inquisition. Isabel’s dreams to pursue poetry and a partner of her own choosing are thrown into jeopardy when the Spanish Inquisition reaches her small town. 

SHURI #2: THE VANISHED 

Shuri, the Princess of Wakanda (and sister to the Black Panther), sets out to save a group of kidnapped girls in this all-new, original novel by New York Times bestselling author Nic Stone!

BRIDGE OF SOULS

Where there are ghosts, Cassidy Blake follows . . .unless it's the other way around? Cass thinks she might have this ghost-hunting thing down. But nothing can prepare Cass for New Orleans, which wears all of its hauntings on its sleeve. And the city's biggest surprise is a foe Cass never expected to face: a servant of Death itself.

FOLLOW YOUR ARROW

When bisexual influencer CeCe breaks up with her girlfriend, Silvie, she’s devastated. But then she starts falling for a new guy who has no idea she’s internet famous...and CeCe wants to keep it that way. But as her secrets catch up to her, she finds herself in the middle of an online storm, where she'll have to confront the blurriness of public vs. private life, and figure out what it really means to speak her truth.   

MIRROR’S EDGE

The danger rises and the deception grows in the heart-stopping third book in the New York Times bestselling Impostors series! Are twins Frey and Rafi on the same side . . . or are they playing to their own agendas? If their father is deposed from Shreve, who will take control? And what other forces may be waiting in the wings?

ZARA HOSSAIN IS HERE

Zara's family has waited years for their visa process to be finalized so that they can officially become US citizens. While dealing with the Islamophobia that she faces at school, Zara has to lay low. But when her tormentor vandalizes her house with racist graffiti, a violent crime puts Zara’s entire future at risk. Now she must pay the ultimate price and choose between fighting to stay in the only place she's ever called home or losing the life she loves and everyone in it.

REMEDY

It's a mystery - why is Cara so sick? It feels like she's been sick all her life . . . but she and her mom have never stayed in one place long enough for doctors to really understand what's happening to her. Now, at fourteen, Cara is tired of being tired, and sick of being sick. Unable to afford the care she needs, Cara's mom starts a Caring for Cara campaign online. The money starts pouring in. But something's not right to Cara. And the harder she looks, the less she understands.

HEARTSTOPPER VOLUME 3

The third volume in the poignant and sweet Heartstopper series, featuring beautiful two-color artwork! Charlie didn't think Nick could ever like him back, but now they're officially boyfriends. Nick has even found the courage to come out to his mom. But coming out isn't something that happens just once, and Nick and Charlie try to figure out when to tell their friends that they're dating. Not being out to their classmates gets even harder during a school trip to Paris. As Nick and Charlie's feelings get more serious, they'll need each other more than ever.

THE BLOCK

In the second book of The Loop trilogy, Luka is trapped in a fate worse than death. But now that he knows the truth about what he and his fellow inmates are being used for, it's more important than ever that he not only escapes, but that he builds an army.

ON THE HOOK

Hector has always minded his own business while he works towards a better life. Until Joey, whose older brother, Chavo, is head of the Discípulos gang, tells Hector that he's going to kill him: maybe not today, or tomorrow, but someday. And Hector, frozen with fear, does nothing. From that day forward, Hector's death is hanging over his head every time he leaves the house. But when a fight between Chavo and Hector's brother escalates, Hector is left with no choice but to take a stand. It's up to Hector to choose whether he's going to lose himself to revenge or get back to the hard work of living.

MISTER IMPOSSIBLE

Do the dreamers need the ley lines to save the world . . . or will their actions end up dooming the world? As Ronan, Hennessy, and Bryde try to make dreamers more powerful, the Moderators are closing in, sure that this power will bring about disaster. In the remarkable second book of The Dreamer Trilogy, Maggie Stiefvater pushes her characters to their limits – and shows what happens to them and others when they start to break.

THE GHOSTS WE KEEP 

Everything happens for a reason.At least that's what everyone keeps telling Liam Cooper after his older brother Ethan is killed suddenly in a hit-and-run. Feeling more alone and isolated than ever, Liam has to not only learn to face the world without one of the people he loved the most, but also face the fading relationships of his two best friends in the process. Soon, Liam finds themself spending time with Ethan's best friend, Marcus, who might just be the only person that seems to know exactly what they're going through - for better and for worse.

SIMONE BREAKS ALL THE RULES

Simone is shaking things up by making a bucket list of everything she hasn’t been able to do thanks to her strict Haitian immigrant parents. But as the list takes on a life of its own, things get much more complicated than Simone expected. She'll have to discover which rules are worth breaking, and which might save her from heartbreak.

SPEAK FOR YOURSELF

Skylar is ready to show everyone that her latest app is brilliant by winning an academic competition. To do that, she's going to use it to win State at the Scholastic Exposition, the nerdiest academic competition around. But when she falls for one of her team members and things get complicated, is her path to greatness over before it begins?

THE GIRL FROM THE SEA

A graphic novel about family, romance, and first love! Morgan's biggest secret is that she has a lot of secrets, including the one about wanting to kiss another girl. Then one night, Morgan is saved from drowning by a mysterious girl named Keltie. The two become friends and suddenly life on the island doesn't seem so stifling anymore. But Keltie has some secrets of her own. And as the girls start to fall in love, everything they're each trying to hide will find its way to the surface...whether Morgan is ready or not.

RISE TO THE SUN

Three days. Two girls. One life-changing music festival. Toni is reeling in the wake of the loss of her roadie father and desperate to figure out where her life will go from here. Olivia is a hopeless romantic whose heart has just taken a beating (again). When the two collide at the Farmland Music and Arts Festival, it feels like kismet. But when something goes wrong and the festival is sent into a panic, Toni and Olivia find that they need each other, and the music, more than they ever imagined.

YOU & ME AT THE END OF THE WORLD

Hannah Ashton wakes up to silence. The entire city around her is empty, except for one other person: Leo Sterling. Leo might be the hottest boy ever (and not just because he's the only one left), but he's also too charming, too selfish, and too devastating for his own good, let alone Hannah's. Together, they search for answers amid crushing isolation. But while their empty world may appear harmless . . . it's not. Because nothing is quite as it seems, and if Hannah and Leo don't figure out what's going on, they might just be torn apart forever.

IN THE SAME BOAT 

Sadie is ready for the race of a lifetime: The Texas River Odyssey. But then her brother ditches her and she has to pair up with her former best friend, Cully. It's irritating enough that he grew up to be so attractive, but once they're on the river it turns out he's ill-prepared for such a dangerous race. But as the miles pass, the pain of the race builds, they uncover the truth about their feuding families, and Sadie's feelings for Cully begin to shift. Could this race change her life more than she ever could have imagined?

THE GREAT DESTROYERS 

In this alternate-history novel, Jo joins the Pax Games: an Olympics-style competition that pits pilots of mechas against each other. But when fighters start dying in the arena, Jo is drawn into a deadly political plot. In a global arms race between superpowers, playing out in violent games that only humanity could create, comes a chilling story of clashing titans, ruthless competition, freedom, and the girl caught in the middle of it all.

[cozycryptidcorner]

Sarakh the Gallu

Commissioned by a lovely anonymous user who wanted to expand their monster match. I hope you all enjoy!

With the volume turned down on your speakers, you select a playlist, then make sure your hair is out of your face. Even though you are grateful for your internship, the amount of work the museum staff shovels on you is quickly growing, and the checklist you have to fill out and categorize is thickly stacked. The many boxes coming up from storage and shipped from neighboring galleries are placed about with no rhyme or reason, but it’s your job to make sure all the objects for an upcoming exhibition on Mesopotamian artifacts. Supposedly, everything is there, because the paid daytime personnel already gave it a lookover and signed off, but checking and double-checking seems to be your boss’ MO. Even though you are begrudging to approach a redundant task, he swore up and down that being able to do this will increase your chances of getting hired once you get that sweet, sweet degree.

A benefit from working past closing is that you can listen to music. Earphones? Strictly forbidden for workers, though you don’t know why. Still, you guess you aren’t really in a place to complain since you managed to snag such a coveted internship position... but come on. No customers are allowed back here, it’s not like you’re going to have to be ready to answer every question about a particular expressionist piece, but nope! Zero tolerance from upper management. Cool. So anyway, you turn on your playlist, softly mumbling along to the lyrics, bobbing your head to the beat.

Most of the boxes are filled with the decorations for the actual setup, and once you’re done making sure everything’s here, you’re also supposed to begin setting up the exhibition. Under no circumstances, though, are you allowed to go poking around the genuine artifacts. Still, you’re expected to place the plaques, the fakes, the pedestals, and the long, plastic boards covered in various information where they belong. You look over the diagram on a crumpled piece of paper, mouthing the lyrics of the accompanying music, and dig through the decorations until you find the one labeled ASHJ-123, then pin it in place.

Something thuds in the adjoining room.

Immediately, your anxiety spikes, but you try to calm yourself with some logic. One of the plaques probably fell down, or maybe a new security guard just bit the dust. You need to stop imagining the worst. Still, turning your music down just a bit, you step out to investigate. The area where you heard the noise is mostly finished, with the artifacts already out on display, the whole thing resembling a tomb. Props to the designers, too, because walking through during your late shifts always gives you this weird, eerie feeling, like you’re trespassing on sacred grounds.

As you near a corner, you see one of the coffins slightly ajar, which is odd. Indignation sparks inside your chest, because if someone is going around willy-nilly and touching the artifacts, you’re going to be the one who suffers for it. You aren’t even allowed to fix it, you don’t have the know-how or skill, so that means you’re going to have to report it immediately and hope it can wait until morning. Turning the camera app on, you lift your phone up, snapping a picture from three different sides, and send it to your manager with an angry huff.

More noises. You’re back on alert, phone gripped tightly in hand, and you predial 911, thumb hovering the call button. Along the wall, where a reconstructed archway is, there’s a warm, bluish glow, the cuneiform engraved in the stone pulsing with some kind of strange energy. Which… Okay, maybe the curator uncharacteristically wanted some special effects to spice things up? To make some sort of ‘appeal to the younger generation,’ as he has said before? You gulp, wondering what’s triggering it, if you’re alone, or maybe the crew is still here?

Someone steps out from behind a statue, and you scream.

In your hasty stress, though, instead of managing to hit the Call button with your shaking fingers, you end up dropping your phone onto the thinly carpeted floor. You try to pick it back up, eyes on whoever that is, trembling, hoping that the very tall, muscular, bearded man wearing- uh, you don’t know what those robes are- isn’t here to harm you. But you want that fucking phone in your hands just in case.

“Do not be afraid,” he says, voice remarkably calming, low, and soft, “I mean no harm to you.”

“So-sorry,” you gasp, trying to calm yourself, “I um- I thought I was alone.”

He nods once, then looks around the exhibit, his eyebrows scrunched and furrowed in concentration. Like he’s lost. His hair is long, dark, falling past his shoulders in perfectly crafted waves, his beard about the same length, perfectly coiled in long ringlets. It’s… definitely a look, that’s for sure, though you don’t know what exactly he’s going for. Six thousand years too late, maybe? Washed out Bible movie actor? Having a beard is one thing, but giving it those Shirly Temple curls is something else. Perhaps it’s some sort of new underground hipster trend you aren’t aware of.

Letting in a deep, calming breath, you rub your arms. “Are you lost? The museum is closed, you’re not supposed to be here.”

The man frowns, his eyes… weirdly glowing, you think, when he looks at you. “I wouldn’t be here unless I needed to be.”

Sass. Great. Instead of the cops, you’re already dialing up the number for the museum’s internal security. “No, really, if you don’t have a badge, you need to leave.”

Something tingles in the air, causing all your hair to stand on end. “I assure you,” the man says, calmly, “I would not be called to this place unless there was a task for me to accomplish.”

“Cool,” you say, hitting the call button and setting your phone to speaker mode, the wall behind you exploding before the security guard even has a chance to pick up. You didn’t even know that’s what happened until a few moments after, because your vision takes a moment to return, chunks of the exhibit spread out around the floor. There’s blood in your mouth, tiny pricks of heat pinch against your arms and back.

Shakily, you try to get your bearings, maybe to rise to your knees, and you notice the man is standing over you, facing something just over your shoulder, arms outstretched, eyes glowing with an intensity that sends shivers through your spine. Something cackles, loud, chittering, you don’t know what could make that sound, it’s like a wounded animal. Wheezing from the plaster dust, you reach over to where your phone fell, bringing back a horrifically cracked mess. Fuck. Frantically, with tears pricking the edges of your eyes, you tap on the screen and press the sleep button, but nothing happens.

The man steps around your body, you hear the sound of… smacking? Like cement against cement, the telltale crunch of something breaking vibrating through the space. You roll, flipping your body over, trying to scurry out of the line of fire. As you look around for a hiding spot, you finally catch a glimpse of what busted through the walls, and you gulp, because surely your eyes are playing tricks. This can’t be happening.

It’s like a shadow, black and shimmering, a thick, viscous fog devoid of any kind of color beyond to, glowing orbs on its seemingly fluid-like body, but then it splits in half, revealing a throbbing, drooling maw filled to the brink with needle-like teeth. And the man- the man is fighting it, arms glowing with some kind of warm, primordial energy that almost seems to match the color of his eyes? It’s like magma, orange, red, and yellow, oozing and melting together, and he’s wrapping the stuff around whatever that creature is like a lasso. It’s struggling, knocking over priceless fucking artifacts as it writhes, wriggles, and shrieks, your ears popping oddly against the desperate shrillness.

You don’t even have it in you to scream in fear, despite the fact you are deeply afraid, because you are currently focused on one thing: survival. There are no places for you to hide that you would trust not to get immediately smashed, so you’re focused solely on dodging the scuffle, your eyes focused on the fire alarm on the other side of the room, where the hallway that leads out of this dead end exhibit also is. With a careful gaze, you watch the fight, slowly picking your way around the chunks of wall plaster and brick, trying to call the least amount of attention to yourself as you do so.

Something swipes at the back of your head, leaving a thick, slimy trail in your hair. Already you’re planning on how long and hot the shower you’re going to take once you manage to get home, thousands of little, prickly snakes working their way through your nerves as you dodge another one of that thing’s tendrils. Gross, gross, gross, gross, you almost choke, stepping over a fallen pedestal, then make a run for the fire alarm, reaching out and pulling on the little lever harder than you need to.

Alarms start blaring, red flashing light pulsing at the ceiling. No water, though, this is a museum, after all, with priceless artifacts hung up against the walls, can you even imagine? But the sound seems to throw the creature off its rhythm, it folds in on itself and starts screaming, you have to cover your ears because you’re afraid you might go deaf. The man who might not be a man takes advantage of this little hiccup, smiting the creature with a bright, hot flash of energy bursting from his hands, and the damn thing melts, the screams fading into a muted sob, and you suddenly can’t help but feel pity for the little thing. It… it’s like it’s in pain.

You watch, sickly fascinated, as it folds in on itself, crumpling like a piece of thin paper, smaller, smaller, until it no longer seems to exist. There’s a soft, anticlimactic pop, and the shadow is gone, like it never existed. The only evidence that it had would be the, well, the leftover, decimated exhibit, pieces of priceless objects from thousands of years ago shattered and broken. You swallow, thickly, staring at the mess, and realize numbly that you’re probably going to be fired.

The man approaches where you stand, gasping and shaking with a jumble of emotions you don’t have time to place, and he reaches out his hand. Carefully, he looks over the area where that thing slimed you, a thick layer of black mucus clinging onto your skin for dear life. The messy thoughts in your head slowly manage to form a full sentence, and, gasping, you manage to choke out, “what was that thing?”

Sirens roar in the distance, but the man seems only mildly bothered by them, “a corrupted spirit. If you aren’t careful, you’re going to end up just like that.”

Fear spikes through your system. “What?”

With a kind of calm that only works to annoy you, he says, “any living creature that the corrupted spirit marks are likely to become corrupt themselves. Come, my brothers and I should be able to cleanse you.”

“I’m sorry- go where? You’re over this already, there’s a layer of nervous sweat on your skin, and you’re afraid. “I don’t think I’m going anywhere with you.”

He lets out a huff of frustration, shaking his head. “Given the fact you aided in my victory- I am indebted to you. I must help your mortal health.”

The sirens grow closer. Rapidly, you shake your head, refusing the offer, downright suspicious of what it might mean. It’s just goop, you can probably get the damn stuff off with a bit of shampoo and hot water. Still, though, he’s insistent.

“It won’t happen overnight, but it will eventually overtake your heart and corrupt your spirit.” He holds his hand out. “You must accept my help if you would prefer remaining sane.”

You hear people calling your name, realizing dully that it must be the security guards. Numbly, you turn around, seeing their silhouettes in the stairway, running down with frantic desperation. You need to go to them, to tell them what happened- but you realize that no one is going to believe you. Letting in a soft, calming breath, you turn back to the man, brain trying to restart after being knocked around a few times. Even if what he says is true, can you really trust him to do as he claims? You can’t just run from a crime scene, that would make you suspect number one.

What reason would he have to lie, though? He just saved you from that thing, you don’t know how you would have managed to escape without those… fantastic… biceps. Rubbing your arms, you try to quickly weigh the pros and cons of following him, but someone grabs you, pulling you back from the mess, you can feel them looking over the bruises on your arm. Something solid pinches in your hand suddenly, and you look down, finding an unfamiliar coin in your palm. Slyly, you pocket the thing as you’re swarmed by a few rather concerned paramedics.

You get questioned by the police as someone bandages you, but you’re… well, unbelievably wary about telling the truth, so you forget to mention the presence of the man and the creature. Did you notice any odd smells? No. Did you see anyone? You heard noises and went to investigate. Do you know anyone who would do you harm? Not like this. Are you aware of any groups threatening the museum? No. It goes on like that for a while, and you have to put your information down so they can contact you as a witness to what they believe to be a terrorist attack.

A bomb, they decide, though they can’t seem to find any evidence beyond what appeared to be an actual explosion. Still, no shrapnel from a weapon, no traces of chemicals, and the wall clearly look like it was unceremoniously shoved through, rather than an evenly dispersed burst of energy. You can tell that one of the detectives think that you’re the one to do it, but of course, there’s no bomb, no evidence. Plus, you pulled the fire alarm, that’s a point in your basket.

The paramedics want you to get a once-over from a doctor, but you want to go home and shower. After you swear on your mom’s life that you’ll book an appointment shortly, after you reassure to your supervisor that you’re fine, you’re just tired, they book you an uber home, so you don’t have to drive. Once you get back, you go into a cleaning frenzy, stripping out of your dusty, plaster covered and slightly torn clothes, and spending about an hour in the shower, slightly hotter than you can tolerate, shampooing, reshampooing, conditioning, shampooing again.

You’re still shaking, even after wrapping yourself up in your biggest, fluffiest pampering towel, looking over your dirty clothes, trying to figure out what to do with them. A part of you wants to throw them away, forget the night, put the memories under lock and key, because it’s been a few hours and you’re not even sure if what you experienced was at all true, or if you imagined the entire thing in some sort of trauma-induced lucid dream. A glimmer flickers, the coin slipping out of your pocket, and you find yourself on the verge of crumbling.

Carefully, you pick it up, running your fingers over the golden inscription, biting your lower lip. This has to mean something, why else would it just… appear in your hand? You flick it against your thumb, sending it across the table, and then it disappears. Well, maybe it transforms, or summons, or you don’t fucking know, but the man is in your kitchen. The same man from the museum. In your kitchen. And you, you’re wearing nothing but a towel, so that’s just the cherry on top.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

He breaks eye contact first.

“I’m going to get dressed,” you say as calmly as you turn around, heading back to the bathroom, clothes in hand. You gave yourself some time to think about… well, that, working to put your pajamas as slowly as possible. When you reemerge, you take a long, huffy, exhausted breath, placing your hands on the kitchen counter as you try to fight for words. Finally, all you can imagine saying is, “would you like some tea?”

“If you would be so inclined.” He doesn’t seem to know what you’re talking about but accepts out of politeness.

You don’t care about the actual tea, though, but you are definitely thankful for the mindless work. Two mugs. Two teabags. If he doesn’t know what tea is, he’s not going to have a preference, right? The water heats up, and you have to take a moment, staring at the clock on your microwave, to think. Turning around, you look back to him and ask what exactly is on your mind. “Why are you here?”

“You still need to be cleansed from the corrupted spirit.”

You suspected that might be the case. At least this way, you can think about it in the comfort of your own home, without the time tables of frantic paramedics rushing to get to your first.

“Can we do it here?” You ask, because you just got home, and you’d like to go to bed.

“If you’d like,” he says, nodding.

You hand him the mug of tea, not bothering to offer any honey or cream. “How long will it take?”

“A few months, by your calendar. Your soul must be wholly purified for there to be no remains, it takes… prayer, chants, rituals of cleansing.”

“Where will you be staying in the meantime?”

He seems caught off guard by the question and takes a moment to think it over.

With a sigh, you offer, “I guess you can stay with me. But,” you gesture in his general direction, “we’re going to have to modernize that look a bit, alright?” At his look of confusion, you elaborate with a sigh. “If you’re going to stay with me, anyone and everyone will notice you, you have a very strong presence, so I think it would be best if you try to… blend in a bit more.”

He offers a nod, “if that would make you happy, then I will allow you to… er, ‘modernize’ my appearance.”

Oh, you almost forgot. Drumming your fingers against the table, you ask, “what’s your name?”

“Sarakh, the Seventh son of Asag, my predecessor, Gallu of the Underworld, Slayer of those Corrupt, Salt of the-”

“Can I call you Sarakh?” You ask, almost overwhelmed by the amount of titles he has.

“If it pleases you,” he nods.

“Cool.” You nod to yourself, letting out a breath. “Welcome to my home, then, Sarakh.”

[a-patheticapathetic]

Rishloo - Feathergun: Review

New year, new me. Let’s repeat that until it becomes true. 

There seems to be a pattern with how I discover music. At a very young age, I hear a song in a very specific circumstance. It has a big impact on me, but I make absolutely zero effort to check out any of the artist’s other music and instead meander onto another earworm. Then, years later, I have another chance meeting with the same song/album/artist and fall completely down a rabbithole that foundationally changes my taste in music. It happened with Radiohead (High and Dry as one of the default songs in the original Rocksmith), Queens of the Stone Age (Lost Art of Keeping a Secret in a stick figure animation), and Nine Inch Nails (Hurt (Quiet) on Spotify radio). Then, there was this strange song called “Scissorlips” that I saw on a very small Rock Band 3 drum channel. I showed it to my brother because of how fun the chart looked, and made the mistake of watching his reaction to the video. His disinterest embarrassed me enough that I never chased the music. That is, of course, until many years later, when I was introduced to Tool. The rest is history, and is frankly stalling me from starting the actual review. Let’s get to it.

Scissorlips - 8/10

The strange, dark jungle the album begins with is a nice representation of the album cover, although it won’t rule over the entire runtime. Don’t let the de-tuned guitar under the vocals deter you; the rest of the guitarwork here is beautiful. As we reach the pre-chorus, the percussionists may hear why I was interested in this song as a kid. This is also where the sonic background really opens up, swallowing you for a moment before the intro verse comes back. The lyricism here is also very abstract, yet isn’t impossible to follow. A couple of metallic bites taken out of the mostly psychedelic walls of guitars, then, the first of many beautiful delay effects. The build-up got me pretty good when I heard this so many years ago, and It’s still damn good. For the love. There are so many guitar lines here that just intertwine and enlace you. Then, something a bit heavier (yet oddly hopeful) to round the song out.

Turning Sheep into Goats - 7/10

This intro is more of what can be expected for the rest of the album, sonically speaking. A lone guitar with delay playing a complicated and alluring line in a strange time signature, then built upon. The path you may assume this song will follow is extremely suddenly changed at the chorus, the vocals really driving it home. Then, back into that nice opening riff like nothing happened. The next time that chorus comes thundering around, listen to that low guitar and the way it combines with the drums. Then drop out the ugliness into a floating mesh of palm mutes and synthetic strings. And don’t miss the fl

Systematomatic - 7/10

awless transition into the next song. Immediately, a new riff rises from the pond of reverb. You may not identify it immediately, but don’t worry, you’ll get more chances to. Very fast guitar-work that somehow doesn't sound so frantic, although the chorus definitely has a certain desperation to it. The mood gets heavy again, before quickly sliding into a strange, feverish haze. Some hits of percussion, then a recontexutalized and slower return to the riff at the start of the song. Weave us back into war.

River of Glass - 8/10

Now this is an ear-catching introduction. What seems to be a calm wave of delay is punctuated by war drums and a grimier lead. The mood builds, then crescendos into the song proper. The chorus is hear damn near immediately, and is extremely catchy for prog. This album is really just full of extremely memorable vocals, and the instrumentals complement them perfectly. We get two goes-around before we fall into these twisting and sliding strings. The drummer is also on his A-game here. Then, the guitars push into the clouds before coming back down with another short but heavy low. Then it all cuts out for a second, juts to make the burst into the final chorus that much more effective.

Keyhole in the Sky - 7/10

This one is simpler, but also very filling and peaceful. Unfortunately it does begin to showcase my only problem with this album; the vocals are mixed too loud at times. And while the singer is absolutely incredible, sometimes I’d like the instrumentals to breathe a bit more. The walls of high guitar come back around, this time feeling much more friendly and familiar. One last chorus, closing on a quiet note. Though it’s not over; an alien feedback loop and somber, echoey horn passage lead us into the next track

Downhill - 10/10

This song has two main phases, and is absolutely perfect throughout. An easy start; a relatively simple and serene riff fed through a pleasant delay pedal, with some subtle synth and bass backing. The vocals shine through, as clear as ever. And wave, goodbye. Then, like stepping through a portal into phase one. A very interesting, rhythmic and almost bluesy instrumental accompanies the title-drop. Then, we fall for miles down a well of piano. The bottom greets us with a moonlit key solo, then an incredible Floydian guitar solo. Hanging on the last note, phase two begins with an ominous drone and repeating guitar line. The drums rise, give a false start. then... perfection. I cannot do phase two justice with words. Just close your eyes, listen, and be swept away in what I believe to be one of the greatest vocal performances of all time.

Lost.

Feathergun in the Garden of the Sun - 9/10

Not to be outdone by the previous masterpiece, the title track opens with another wonderful soundscape, before the distortion comes in. The drums pick up the tension, bringing us into the pre-chorus. That riff is going to be impossible to tap your foot to at first, but the next ones should be easier. And here we have perhaps the best chorus on the record; extremely powerful in writing and execution on the parts of every band member. The second time around is just as good as the first, then the brdige begins. Ready, aim... The heaviest riff on the album, and an abrupt switch into the last chorus. Fade out.

Dreamcatcher - 7/10

A nice break from the intensity. This feels like a peaceful tidepool on an alien world, with creatures and colors beyond the world floating around my head. Short but sweet.

Diamond Eyes - 6/10

By no means bad, I do feel like this one may be the weakest track on the album. While it’s certainly beautiful, I feel like it doesn’t do a whole lot that’s new or interesting. Also, when listening at high volume (which is the proper way to listen to this album), the faults in the mixing really rear their ugly heads during the choruses. Still, there are some very pleasant rolling delay loops here during the bridge, and a nice and satisfying buildup towards the end.

Katsushika - 7/10

While the guitar opening this track may be the most straight-forward and least effects-driven riff we’ve heard so far, this song will eventually become the most alien one of the entire lineup. In a good way, of course. I can barely even decipher exactly what’s going on in the instrumentation during that build. The chorus also ends with a nice drop-off into the next verse. You may be noticing a pattern with the songwriting, where the chorus usually leads into the second verse, following the pattern of the first one but with more layering. I like it; it gives the ideas present more time to mature and develop. Anyways, here comes the bridge, where everything changes. Out of everything going on here, I feel like the drums and the background vocals are the most striking thing about this outro. What a fantastic progression and dropout. Beautiful monsters.

Weevil Bride - 8/10

The finale. This riff here is extremely well-done. The tone here is somehow piercingly bright and concerningly dark at the same time. The lyricals themes of the album also come to a head here. This chorus is another incredibly written and performed beast; just wait until it’s modulated. The second verse lays away with the subtleties and strikes at the head. And I just need to know that everything is fine, and everyone’s alright. This bridge also kicks ass, with its heart-pouding combination of guitars and toms. Then, comes the heaviest part of the entire album: Yes, please. Then we are snapped out of the masochism and lifted back to hear the main point of the album, before the intro riff carries us into an uncertain but complete conclusion. After the “true” song ends, there is a long passage of somber horns and a tranquil, almost lullaby-esque keyboard. There’s something extremely nostalgic about this outro to me, but I still can’t put my finger on where it comes from. This section almost feels like the music they play after the end of a play, as the lights come on and you make your way down the dimly-lit theater steps on slightly numb and shaky legs. The story is over; this is your time to reflect.

The main reason I wanted to write about this album in particular is because I feel like it hasn’t gotten the attention it’s deserved. It truly feels like a masterpiece worthy of widespread recognition and praise, but despite being released over a decade ago, few people have even heard of this band. It feels like injustice, not only for Rishloo’s efforts, but for the people who would connect with this album as much as I have. Also, there’s the slightly selfish hope that increased attention would incentivize the band to work on more new stuff, or better yet, remaster their older works.

In any case, It’s very late, my back hurts because my spine hates my nervous system, and I need to actually get to sleep tonight so I can heal the godforsaken nerve that wedged itself in my inner workings yesterday. On a scale from “Your all-time low just lowered again”, to “Want some? Yes, please”, I give Feathergun a “Oh, what beautiful monsters”.

[yeoldontknow]

As Still As Sound: 4

Author’s Note: thank you to everyone who has patiently waited for this update. ive been waiting for it too. ily so much. i hope you enjoy <3  Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Songs Mentioned: From Her To Eternity - Nick Cave and The Badseeds / Cry To Me - Solomon Burke Genre: soulmate!au; angst; fluff; romance Rating (this chapter): R Warnings: some mature sexual themes; explicit language Word Count: 9K

masterlist

Months ago, the concert was your idea, a thing you suggested with fire behind your teeth and adrenaline in your veins. 

You remember, now, the way your hands rushed to buy the tickets, typing passwords and entering pre-sale codes, telling Kate over and over down the phone that you’d pay for hers if you got in, that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity - that Nick Cave, more than anyone, had constructed your adulthood. In your heart, you carried him, the sound of his voice, and the words from his lips - a soundtrack of misery, anguish, and the fleeting experience of contentment that painted your journey into maturity red and red and red. 

Months ago, Kate agreed, her excitement at the prospect of joining you almost wild and ravenous. Together, you’d looked forward to this, marked days on calendars and held the tickets in your hands in the morning before work, disbelieving and somewhat overwhelmed.

Today, the concert is her idea, a suggestion born purely from kindness; a friendly reminder you need to go out, away from your home and away from your constant, desperate soundtrack - released, finally, from your state of entrapment.

It is not, you imagine, that your anticipation of the show has ceased - far from it - merely that your anticipation and excitement has been redirected to a man whose voice is just as low, just as effective, and meant for your ears alone. The gravel nestled within Chanyeol’s voice is a chocolate honeycomb of affection, putting syrup and sweetness and devotion into your blood - a sugar rush upon which you get high; where Nick’s lyrics remind you of the heartbreak so unilaterally partnered with the act of living, Chanyeol’s words - simple and unpoetic as they often are - ignite the hope you had scorned and turned away, putting the thrill of living back into your lungs.

For weeks you have wondered if this is how people live now, if this is how people had been living long before the solar flare - endlessly searching and seeking, restless and waiting for the vibrancy of an overeager heartbeat; hoping and hoping and hoping to be touched and felt and needed. 

Until Chanyeol, this was not you. These types of deep rooted, tenacious emotions carried with them an unprecedented sense of repulsion - not to the person, but to the intensity, and to, more than anything, the incomprehensible notion that you needed another person to feel whole. 

Finding romance, for you, was a pleasure, and seeking pleasure in another person was a brief, impermanent adventure, something only slightly more transient than a roller coaster. Did people always crave like this? Did your parents want and need and yearn for one another long before they had confirmation they could? Was it not existentially exhausting to want and pine and wish, almost as compulsively as breathing, for the arms of another?

Would you, had you met Chanyeol on the street and not entwined or laced between your music, have felt such pining and longing for his hands, his voice, his breath as you do now? Would you, had you seen him at the shop, buying records and buying albums, unknowingly sharing his music taste with your cash register, have listened to all the same things, hoping to share a part of him as you do now?

In the end, it does not matter. 

These questions do not matter because the cosmos has built itself around you and around him, twining your hearts together until the days have started to blur into one half formed and hardly tangible rise and set of the sun. In your efforts of hearing him once more, the play count and hours logged on your last.fm have reached new highs, an almost constant list of songs based on genres, artists, and decades you imagine he would like growing and growing until, for several hours, it stopped counting altogether, seemingly overwhelmed. Where before you listened to only one album, playing through enough Neil Diamond to feel as though his lyrics are the lexicon of your speech, now you have knowledge of a science and a pattern, but no element of control to manage your testing.

All you know is that you will meet him when you play the same song, and you have, and will and are, pushed yourself into obsession in the effort of meeting him again.

And so it is not that you do not want to go to the show any longer. 

On the contrary, you find, as you tie the laces of your combat boots and check - twice before you leave and once after the tube carriage doors close - for your tickets, you are craving the thunder and violence of live music. Lately, you have needed to be rattled - shaken down to your core by something familiar, not something cosmic. Live music builds the person you are back up from nothing, the person you have lost after days and weeks and months of work, and family, and responsibility structured through a sound wave. 

In losing yourself completely, surrendering to the passion and the energy and the noise until your mind is full of nothing else, do you find your true soul, remember who you are and what you are, someone who survives on the edge of existence and with a smile wide enough to hurt.

And so, it is not that you don't want to go to the show. You are adamant about this, reminding yourself that you need the emotional rest and that you crave this as you stand on the tube platform. An approaching train puts a warm breeze through your hair, the unprecedented loudness drowning out all other sounds and leaving you, momentarily, in a dull roar of silence. Grimacing, you step on the train, frustrated with the noise of the tube and the sense that you lose time every time you take a journey.

Time you could have spent finding Chanyeol.

Annoyed with yourself, you release a chastising laugh. It is not that you don’t want to go to the show, it is simply the hours with live music are hours without him, without an opportunity to find him, have him, hold him - three minutes amongst hours that slip through your fingers. Pressing your back against rough cushion of the tube seat, you raise the volume of the music in your headphones, hoping the sound of Etta James can slow your rapid thoughts into silence, a pout pushing at your lips in disdain.

You only ever have three minutes with Chanyeol, three minutes which seem to pass in seconds, time slipping through and around you as though you are both simultaneously part of the natural order of the earth and separate from it altogether. His voice alone renders time meaningless, a concept the air in his lungs blows to dust, lips kissing at words that become stars in your eyes and held together by the fabric of your ardor. Three minutes and endless seconds, hours missed and hours lost, and it is all completely unequivocally unfair. 

Tonight, the tube carriage is full of people and strangers, some bonded, some free; some headed to the same show as you, evidenced by their band tee shirts and their jittery, shaking legs, and all, most likely, will get to experience the slow descent into love at a pace they have chosen to set. Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you bite back a frustrated sigh, willing your mouth to suck the bitterness from your tongue. The envy of their supposed simplicity sends your heart sinking, resentful and aware that you deserve nothing less than what you have been given.

Gifted to you, somewhat cruelly, is a love that appears only when you least expect it and always when you imagine it has departed from you entirely, a fluke or trick of the imagination brought forward by the human instinct to want a partner. Once more, you are reminded of Kate's words, her small laugh and the acknowledgement that this sort of connection is so like you, your inherent distrust of love resulting in a connection that feels incredible but seems to distrust if you were worthy of it. 

But still, your hand grips your phone tightly, hoping that maybe Chanyeol is listening to Etta James too and that, even if you do not meet in these songs, he wants you, through and beyond time, and down to his very core.

Kate is waiting for you at the front entry of the Eventim Apollo, a delicate flush painted on her cheeks from the uncharacteristically cool night and a bounce in her knees, unable to keep still. A smile is tucked into the corner of her lips as she speaks on the phone, a secret affection given away by the glimmer of joy in her eyes. The surrounding city lights are eaten by the matte fabric of her burgundy coat, as though she absorbs the world and glows on her own. Hurrying through her conversation as you approach, she laughs, the sound adopting a musical cadence she only ever exudes when she is blissfully happy.

'Yes, I'll text when it's over and we're leaving,' she says, rushing through the words as she waves you over. 'Do you want me to call if they play Jesus of the Moon? Okay, love you too. Bye.'

Coming to stand at her side, you dig through your bag, smiling to yourself. 'Baekhyun couldn't make it?'

She slips her phone into her pocket, taking the ticket you hand her with a small pout. 'No, he couldn't find any tickets on StubHub or the forums. The prices were astronomical.'

Nodding, you walk with her to the queue, which has already begun to shrink. Doors opened twenty minutes ago, and while you both have standing stall tickets, neither of you had the energy to queue. It will be just as magical, you know, standing towards the back and letting the light in.

'I can't imagine the fans would be selling,' you muse, opening your bag for checking and offering a polite smile to the security guard who nods mutely in gratitude. 'I'm disappointed, though. I was looking forward to meeting him.'

'You'll meet him soon enough,’ she replies offhandedly, muttering a gentle thank you as security waves her forward. 'I'm impressed by you, though.'

Walking through the entry, you hand your ticket for scanning and cock a quizzical brow in her direction. 'How do you mean?'

Ticket scanned, she pushes it into her bag before gesturing her hands over her ears, giving the impression of ear muffs. 'You brought the small earbuds and not your big clunkers.'

Rolling your eyes, you purse your lips. 'I hate that you call them that.’ 

The slight irritation in your voice is undercut by the hum of people within the venue, some at the bar and others heading towards coat check. Glancing in Kate's direction, you find her eyes remain locked on the entryway to the stage floor, expression unfazed and unmarred by your displeasure. It does not matter if she heard you or not, she's had this conversation enough to know your opinion.

 'They're studio headphones,’ you finish, unbothered by the petulant tone you’ve adopted.

She laughs, nodding at your clarification while she trains a focused stare on the sound booth and the surrounding barrier. 

'There good?' she asks, pointing to the section just in front of the sound desk - a place for you to stand and lean if you grow tired. At your hum of approval, she beelines with you in tow, and continues where your conversation left off. 

'Precisely zero people walk around the tube with those,’ she says, pride overtaking an edge to her voice, pleased by her success of finding a good spot.

'Fuck off,' you murmur, leaning back against the barrier and assessing your view of the stage. 'I just didn't want to bring a big bag. And,' you emphasize, turning to finally look at her once more, 'I'll have you know those headphones have incredible audio quality.'

'For music?' Kate's lip curls in a mischievous smirk, and your mouth runs dry in anticipation. 'Or for a certain someone?'

A small hiss of air escapes your teeth, bemused but unsurprised. For a moment, you let your eyes wander around the room, battling with yourself as you decide just how much you want to give away.

'And if I said both?' you counter eventually, voice bold and unflinchingly honest as you watch her expression immediately softens. 

'Any luck the last few days, then?'

You shake your head, spine straightening as you roll your shoulders back, determined to appear decidedly okay. 'No.'

‘Are you certain he’s your soulmate?’

It is neither an insult nor an accusation, but still the air escapes your lungs, chest winded and pained by the unintended cruelty of her question. But then, you quickly realize the last she's heard is that you were uncertain - that you had no idea about him at all, meeting with her at the pub only to disappear for weeks, responding here and there through text. To her, your relationship with Chanyeol is as good as a science experiment. While you know for a fact you had lied, unwilling to admit, then, that you knew from the moment his first breath reached your ears he was yours, now she simply questions your diligence in an act of concern for her closest friend.

And so you smile, aware that the expression looks sad, unmoved in your effort to make someone else feel comfortable when discussing this topic.

‘I’m confident it’s him.’ 

The firmness in your tone as you say the words does not make up for the pain your muscles had taken on after you lied, but at least, in this moment, the weightlessness of such a melancholy statement gives your heart the sensation of floating beneath your sternum.

It feels good to say it, to admit it. It feels good to be claimed by him.

Warmth floods her irises, one of her hands coming to hold your arm in gentle reassurance. Empathy mixes with sympathy, shades of the Kate you remember pre-Baekhyun glossing over her current visage in a sort of time slip. It hits you, then, that she had felt this way, once. While she had a clear marker for her connection, a clock beneath her skin stopping the moment she came into contact with her soulmate, the confidence that she would ever be released from her own prison had never once been something she believed she could touch. 

All at once, you are reminded of the months she said she wanted to bond even if she didn’t like it, just so that it could be over.

'You'll figure it out soon,' she affirms, the softness in her voice mixing with her stubborn determination. 'On the bright side, this is a vast improvement from believing you don't have anyone at all.'

'Is it though?' You don't mean for it to sound pleading, but the ferocity of your affection has taken hold of pieces within your soul you did not know existed. And, while you are confident you don’t wish to be freed from this new, uncharted intensity, you simply wish there was a logic to make the pain a little more bearable. 'Or am I simply driving myself mad, thinking and overthinking?'

'You do that anyway,' she counters, playfully, 'so I'm not sure the bond is to blame.'

Laughing, you nudge your shoulder into hers and release a groan of agreement, jostled by her honesty. Regardless if you had bonded with Chanyeol or not, your mind would have raced towards an infinite number of conclusions, exhausting your heart into a state of paralysis. Bond or no bond, your mind was never one to allow itself a moment of reprieve.

'Look,' she continues, cocking her head towards the stage in encouragement. 'Just forget about it for tonight. You need a break. No bonds. Just us and our first boyfriend.'

Kate’s advice is sound, and it works for a while. For a time, you are tethered to the moment by the strength in the hold of her hand, the way she holds you to her side and shares, with all of herself, the light and the sound and the feeling. But soon, her grasp on your hand turns your thoughts inward, in that purgatory of time between the opener and the main act, when there is little to do apart from buy another pint of cider, feeling the thrum of excitement down into your bones.

While she checks her phone for texts from Baekhyun, you wonder if Chanyeol is here, sharing this moment with you the same way you have been sharing songs. It would not be preposterous to assume he would be, the majority of London’s rock scene gathered to get high and get wrecked by a sonic release that will likely feel akin to something biblical. Craning your neck, you glance around the venue, hoping to be struck by him as if by lightning. 

For weeks, you’ve wondered if you’ve passed him, shared a tube with him - if he’s even in London at all. Being separated by miles and seas from your soulmate is not uncommon; you would not be the first instance of such a curse, but still those couples found one another, and so you have not given up the waxy sensation of hope as it glides over your fingers. 

But still, you may be the first instance of couple sharing song and sharing sound, only having minutes - perhaps less - to glean as much information from one another as you can. Those who hear one another’s thoughts coordinate meeting places, already knowing what and who they should be looking for; those with sensory loss and clocks have concise ways of knowing when and how to find their person, the earthquake of first contact partnered with a monumental change. Yet, there is no guarantee you would find Chanyeol even if he were here, no promise that you would feel him even if he were rows behind or in front of you. 

And so you cling, in the end, to the prayer that tonight, even if he is not here, he finds his way to any of the twenty-six songs on the setlist. 

The lights dim at nine on the dot, carrying with it the familiar sensation of floating, the yells from the crowd swiftly wiping any further thought from your mind. You smile -  you feel yourself smiling, and you are unsure when your cheeks had pulled back to reveal your teeth, but you do not mind. At once, the hairs on your arms stand on end, brought to life by the strength of adrenaline alone, the gooseflesh along your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. Kate’s hand squeezes yours, a touch and a hold that feels to you like a liveware, and you lift yourself taller, back straightening as though boosted by the roar of the speaker feedback. 

The first notes hit you in the center of your chest, the kind of eruption that could leave a person winded, and the force of it does not seem to stop throughout the night. Eyes closed, mouth screaming the words, the only tether you have to the earth is Kate’s hand, rooting you to gravity. Tension leaves your jaw, the stress of existence seeping from your bones and leaving you weightless, skin tingling from the sudden relaxation. Throughout the night, Kate’s hand in yours becomes a comfort, a familiar sensation you do not need to focus on but recognize just the same, feeling safe simply because her own fingers press into your knuckles in delight. 

And it is then, in the middle of From Her To Eternity, when you realize touch and contact carries with it its own set of rules, a logic and an understanding that goes far beyond conscious conception; a logic that need not be experienced in order to be conceived - you can feel the texture of silk just by thinking of the word; you can feel, rather easily, the cool clasp of a leather jacket, just by picturing the silver.

And it is then, in the middle of From Her To Eternity, that you think on Chanyeol, on the way he pulls at you and your soul, and suddenly, all at once, as if he had never been departed from you at all, feel him over and inside of you.

From out of the black, his hands tug at your waist, aching to press you flush against his body - seemingly disdainful of any separation. During the guitar riff before the chorus, you can almost hear him, cheering and singing along to the notes with an ecstatic sort of howl - one hand fisting in your shirt in an effort to make sure you experience him at the same time. Heart racing and blood rushing beneath your skin, you lean back into where you imagine his chest would be, careful not to fall or pull Kate with you. You take luxury in the peculiarity of this sensation, at a body without a body being at once behind and a part of yours. Almost instantly, you open for and open to him, begging him to stay, to never leave, to make a home of you, and you spread your legs a little wider hoping to feel his leg press against your thighs, encouraging him to bind his bones with yours.

A shiver walks along your nerves as his other hand glides up your extended arm, carding your fingers together as he sings - rich, and full voiced, and transcendent - all the lyrics you echo back to him, to Nick, to the atmosphere. The warmth of his aura floods your muscles, a small moan escaping your lips in the middle your favourite lyric, words garbled by the sudden overwhelm of heat. As badly as you want Chanyeol, so too does he want your skin, wants the prints of your fingertips smeared all over him, bodies thrumming from passion, adrenaline, and delirium.

The fabric of your clothes becomes tight, the denim of your black jeans feeling thin and damp around the curve of your ass; your shirt, wrapped in his grip and rubbing against your waist, is moist at the base of your spine, the heat from the crowd and the heat from Chanyeol pulling the wetness from your pores. His long fingers extend upward against your stomach, grazing the soft fabric of your bra with his nails - a sensation that tickles you, barely there and barely tangible, but felt all the same.

Looking up at your hand, vision blurred and lips pulled into a messy, lopsided smile, you suddenly feel dizzy.

This hand is empty. You know and can see that it is empty. Part of you does not question this because if he were here, if he were truly with you, the roughness of his skin would ignite the chemistry of your molecules, transforming you into something Other and something Unknown. You know your hand is empty, but still the haze of fingers and knuckles and the pink redness of blood at the fingertips takes shape. The blurred edges of this image make you feel motion sick, bewildered by the sudden trick of the light and the trick of your heart, blinking once and twice before it is gone altogether.

There is no hand holding yours, no fingers pressing hungrily at your breast, but you feel them - you still feel him, as though the seismic weight of your wishing has brought him forth, brought the memory of every other contact you’ve felt into the nerves of your palm and married it, desperately, with the malformed shadow of Chanyeol. 

It’s difficult, you find, building a person around a voice or building a heart around sound, but then - isn’t that what a heartbeat is? A constant rhythm keeping space and keeping time, pulling you close and close and close, able to be recognized regardless of the cartilage that separates you from it.

Chanyeol holds you close, curled into you from fear that you will leave him, rocking into your back and pressing a smile into the skin of your neck as he sings and sings and sings. You’re vibrating, holding onto nothing at the same time as you hold onto Kate, feeling wetness pool between your thighs from the sheer magnitude of wanting without having, knowing how it feels to be pressed close to a body, the hardness of a person grazing your back and ass, and allow your mind to fill the missing pieces in on your behalf. The sound of his voice travels through your ears, your mind, and into your open mouth, tongue going dry from the sheer force of him.

Like always, he is a flood, a force of nature you absolutely cannot resist, soul surrendering, almost immediately, to the magic of his existence.

It could be the cider, you think, that elevates your heart rate and puts a rush of blood into your lips that makes them feel swollen, and full, begging to be kissed or bitten. It could be the crowd and their energy making you wish and crave for someone to share this intimacy with, the energy of the room pushed flush the chambers of your heart, and your brain ensuring the hazy outline of Chanyeol be there to deliver you to paradise. In the end, you decide it does not matter, the answers to these questions are not nearly as meaningful as the way he tells you this is his favourite song too, and you cling to the way he speaks and breathes; mostly, you cling to the way his lips seem to press against your ear, demanding you hear him and you do not forget.

And just as swiftly as the song started, just as quickly as the feeling came, it leaves you, the red flush on your chest lingering even after he is gone. The heat from the room sticks to your skin, much the same way Kate’s eyes burn into your profile. With vigor, she pulls her hand from yours, tugging it from your grip. In your peripheral, you watch the way she stretches out her hand and fingers, massaging the bones and regards you with wide, worried eyes that demand an explanation. Unsure what to say and unprepared to speak at all, you keep your eyes trained on the stage, watching the stage as it goes dark and waiting for the sadness of your loss to creep back in as it always does.

But this time, there is change. This time, you are left with a tangible residue to mark his presence, a sign that your overactive imagination was not alone in its efforts.

This time, instead of the loss and the torment of separation, you focus on the sensation of your wet underwear, a pulsing vibration from inside your core reminding you this was real.

This was real. 

The deep flush of your cheeks and the dry skin of your lips is grateful for the chilly night air as you exit the venue after the show. Tonight, the sky of London is clear and black, stars swallowed by the street lights with only the glow of the full moon reminding you there exists a world beyond this, beyond the world you've fallen into with Chanyeol. Breathless, you stand outside and check the time, hands shaking from both adrenaline and memory. This late at night, the tube is still running, but you crave the open expanse of the world, synapses too flooded with desire to handle the closed tunnels of the underground.

Close quarters and tight seats would only make you yearn for the press of his hands and his groin into your lap, the longing to be handled brimming over in the heat of your blood.

‘What the fuck was that?’ Kate asks, the disbelieving nature of her voice breaking your thoughts.

Tearing your eyes away from the sky, you regard her, wide eyed and breathless. Shadows have been carved into her features from the Eventim Apollo marquee sign and the silver glimmers of moonlight, a darkness under her eyes and cheekbones making her look severe and unnerved.

‘What?’ The small, thinness to your voice gives away you know precisely to what she is referring, but you need her to say it.

You need her to say it and to confirm it.

‘You nearly broke my hand during that song.’ Neither angry nor upset, she simply massages her hand in concern, easing the lingering soreness. ‘I know its your favourite, but have some consideration for my joints, yeah?’

Looking down at your feet, your mind empties, mouth giving shape to apologies before your mind can properly form them. ‘Sorry,' you mutter, 'I didn’t realize I was squeezing you so tightly.’

Kate steps closer to you, bending down to study your face with a furrowed brow. ‘You’re all flushed, too. Are you drunk?’

You laugh, but you're not sure why. The sound is a faint whisper of humour carrying with it the turmoil of confusion, sounding, altogether, like you could be drunk. You might be, you think. He makes your skin feel just as edgeless as when you are too many ciders deep and telling London it is your only true, passionate love affair. 

‘Maybe?’ you manage, the words little more than a noise of delirium.

‘You only had three ciders,’ she chuckles, yet her eyes remain guarded.

‘Well,’ you shrug, turning in the direction of the night bus. Your feet move of their own accord, not bothering to see if she follows. ‘Nick will do that to you.’

Pulling out her phone to presumably text Baekhyun, she hums in agreement, but still you feel her eyes bore into your back as you walk away, watching and watching, almost certain you might disappear.

You realize you never said goodbye.

The night bus home is difficult. 

Normally, you relish this journey, take your time savoring the top level of the bus which somehow always feels reserved for concert goers. This late at night, their voices carry, domed around you as they discuss the show, the highlights, or, conversely, simply not talking at all, choosing instead to relive the show through their headphones. Tonight you join them, settling in an open row of seats next to the window and resting your head against the glass, seeking the refreshing texture in the hopes that it will cool your skin. 

Tonight should be no different from all your other post-gig journeys home, excitement palpable in the almost thick heat of the bus and the way there’s a rush of emotion as the bus pulls away from the stop. This is when you’d smile, take your headphones out and play your way through the setlist; other times, you’d eavesdrop on the other conversations, smiling at their reactions and responses, turning inward and tuning out only after you cross the bridge over the Thames and the conversation turns a bit quiet, and a bit personal.

But tonight, the difference is in you - in the way you still cannot shake the feeling of Chanyeol’s strong hands and the thick cream of his voice, the memory of him seeming to overtake the memory of the show altogether. 

Headphones wound in your lap, you regard them with a small pout. The ringing in your ears will do you no favors should you listen to any music, but your hesitation to touch and to use them runs deeper than the usual post-gig tinnitus. Even now, you can still feel him, the paradoxically smooth roughness of his palms as they moved over your skin, and the way his voice made you vibrate, trembling into nothingness in the effort of seeking more. Now, the white wires of your headphones pose an element of distrust and betrayal, the ground rules of your connection seeming to change just as soon as you understand them, and you wonder if you’re ready to feel him again, if you could, or if you’ve even stopped.

Turning to glance out the window, London seems to pass in a crystal haze, the lights from the city dotting the river like miniature spotlights, the city still alive and glittering. The vibrancy of London puts a smile on your face, the memory of the last time you rode a bus mixing with the memories of all the times before you’ve looked out at the skyline and wondered who was living, who was dying, and how many stories could be contained beneath just one streetlight. These idle thoughts always compelled you, your love for London and for the heartbeat of the city always overtaking your thoughts once the bus grew quiet.

Now, your imagination has become consumed with a man and the frequency of a voice that haunts you. Staring down at your hands, you study the lines in your skin and wonder what you felt - if you truly were feeling. Already a naturally warm person, the tender hold of his hand in yours put a rush of blood in your fingers, making them appear swollen and pink. And while you could see through and beyond him, as though he were an ephemeral mirage comprised of a longing that reached down into the chasm of your essence, for one moment you swore you could see the pink of his knuckles as he held you, clutching at your bones in an effort to stitch your bodies together.

Tonight, too, the steps up to your door feel endless, walls of the stairway closing in and becoming tight, compressed. Laughter echoes around you, strange for this hour of the night when your neighbors are usually asleep or out even later than you. It doesn’t sound familiar but it doesn’t sound foreign, the richness of the tone giving way to a younger Mr. Kim and a female voice you place as his wife, Aki. How many times had they walked these stairs, holding hands and kissing wrists, laughing and laughing until they silenced one another with kisses that seared against their smiles? How many times had they pressed one another against these walls, pressing fingers to lips to keep quiet only to fall into one another instead? 

Were they soulmates, too, long before the world allowed for such a love?

The nostalgia of these unlived experiences burns against your throat, a lump forming that seems out of place and altogether irrational. A missing has taken root within you, deep down and all over again, though this time it is not for Chanyeol but for a future and a past running in beside one another in tandem. Do you miss the idea of youth, spending too much time with Mr. Kim and watching the way time eats at a heart and at a person? Do you miss the connection that comes from bodies? Your last boyfriend was years ago, just before the solar flare, and even then you had stopped connecting long before you called the relationship off. Even when you were together, pressed against one another in bed and sharing breaths, you weren’t really there, heart and mind going elsewhere to find pleasure.

Perhaps, in the end, you simply miss the happiness of coming home to someone, coming home to Chanyeol, or, most likely, coming home at all. Pushing through your door, the silence seems to swallow you, the quietness of your flat unfit for the energy pooling at your fingertips. Home hasn't felt like home for months, not since you first played Neil Diamond on repeat for days. Something about your flat has felt off, right in the ways that are familiar and wrong as thought something terribly important had been lost, or never found at all. Tonight, the quiet of it all eats at you, skin still stinging with the strength of Chanyeol's touch, and you find you need sound to drown out this loneliness.

Stripping off your clothes, the freedom of your removed bra makes you smile, suddenly hyper aware of the curves of your body. Embodied as you are, you find you need music to hold you together, to press against you the way hands should be - the way Chanyeol's hands would.

Solomon Burke's record is torn at the sides, the edges fraying and taped too many times for you to count. It should never have been left in a charity shop, but then, if it hadn't you never would have come to own it. Faded and worn as its sleeve may be, the record still rings clean and true, the pressed black vinyl glossy and glimmering in the low light of your flat. Uncorking a bottle of wine, your lips go numb as your heart begins to race, head tilting to the side in the expectation of a mouth gliding along your neck. The hair on your arms stands on end, the atmosphere suddenly full of static, electric as it kisses against your skin.

The world fades, the familiarity of this comforting and so unlike the illusion of his touch at the concert. In this, you ground, the world around you silenced except for the music and for him.

‘God, I’ve missed you,' you mumble, knowing he can hear you just fine.

Redness spreads across your chest, a flush of embarrassment at your admission painting you pink and pink. Silly, you think, for there was nothing to miss. You're certain he had never left you.

Chanyeol's laugh is low, a thunder roll easily missed if one is not hanging on every sound he makes. ‘I can still feel you,' he says, though the words come together behind a soft, impatient whine. ‘You’re driving me wild.’

‘Speak for yourself,' you snort, watching the wine as you pour it through half lidded eyes. ‘You’re the one that found me, and now I’m wearing you. I didn’t think we’d be able to...do that.’

He hums in agreement, pride evident in the smile you can almost hear him wear. ‘This, too.’

You knit your brows together, corking the bottle as you glance around your flat, confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s the first time I’m hearing you without headphones.'

Eyes widening, your gaze lands on the record as it turns and turns, the glimmers of light swirling over the record as it plays. Your headphones, earbuds and studio over-ear alike, are in your bedroom, packed away for their use tomorrow when you'll need them for your commute. Out of habit and the inherent human need for rationality, you look around your flat, feeling him close and hearing his breath as falls in a rushed, excited rhythm. Outside your window, the streetlights take on an otherworldly glow, the fabric of your couches, chairs, and curtains suddenly richer, deeper, your world coloured entirely by his presence.

Overwhelmed, you find all you can manage is the painfully simple, whispered exclamation, 'Oh, my god.'

He moves, that much is evident by the sound of his rustling clothes, and you turn around, looking for his shadow.

‘It’s the clearest you’ve ever been,' he says, sounding pleased. The joy of it, the joy and the shock and the clarity of him is heady, and you reach a hand out, gripping your counter. 'You’re surrounding me.’

Once again, he is not wrong, the sound of his voice seeming to fill the empty corners of your house and mind. Your grip on the counter tightens, joints aching from the effort of keeping still. If he were here, you'd reach for him, pull him to you and kiss him until your lungs hurt from lack of breath. If he were just as needy, maybe he'd place you on the counter top, spilling your wine as his hands massaged bruises into your thighs, leaving marks on your neck for the world to see.

It's shocking, you realize, what the sound of his voice can do. Just one laugh and already he stains the walls.

Swallowing thickly, you take in a long inhale, hoping to clear your mind and focus. ‘So you were at the show.’

It is not a question, just a statement of fact.

Chanyeol's laugh is one of disbelief and one of comfort, an odd mix of emotions you read so easily and find yourself getting drunk on just the same. Glancing down, you see the wine, untouched. ‘It’s so bizarre you just know it,' he says, breathless in his delight. ‘It’s like continuing a conversation we never started.’

‘So you were there tonight?’ you repeat, needing to hear his confirmation and refusing to let yourself run wild with the sheer magnitude of him.

‘Yeah, I was,' he admits. ‘I started feeling like you were there and...I don’t know.’ Chanyeol falls silent, but just as clearly as you can hear him, so too does your mind see him. He blushes, looking down at his hands and standing in the same place as you, sleeveless grey shirt revealing the muscles in his arms as he holds onto the counter. ‘I couldn’t help myself.’

The sound of your heartbeat fills your ears, and while you want to rush forward and talk and talk, for a moment you are speechless.

Chanyeol is in London.

There are no seas separating you.

Tonight, he was at the concert and just as easily as sharing a song, so too can you share the city. This kind of confirmation is worthy of a celebration, a late night phone call or text message to give an address, a number, a cab ride to a doorstep so hands and mouths can finally meet. But you don't mention it or expand on it, biting the side of your tongue in hesitation instead. Blood rushing in your ears interrupts all your fantasies, mouth unsure you're ready for your own admission to make it real.

When it's real, it breaks, and you're still unsure you're ready to be moved beyond the confines of the earth.

Blinking slowly, you ground yourself back in the deep breaths he takes to keep himself calm, and smile. 'I'm glad you didn't.' Once more, your eyes find your wine glass, hand reaching for the stem to swirl it around and around. 'It's been a long time since I've felt someone hold me so close at a concert. You were keeping me warm.'

Almost immediately, he replies. ‘Don’t talk about someone else's hands on you.' It is neither a demand not a command, but a plea. ‘I don’t like picturing it.’

Smirking, you cock your head to the side, the honey sweet drip of arousal running down your spine. ‘Possessive already?’

‘Yes,' comes his quick, unashamed reply. ‘Everyone before doesn’t matter,' he clarifies, eyes falling closed to keep himself calm, 'but I still can’t help it. My hands have been aching all night. I'll never have my fill of you.'

Uncertain how to reply, you simply smile. You smile straight ahead and at nothing at all, knowing that he can feel it. Nothing matters anymore, so long as he can feel it.

‘I wouldn’t have expected you to be there,' he says, words falling quickly in an effort of making the most of your time together. 'There weren’t many women, especially towards the front.’

Rolling your eyes, you sigh, tired of these types of gendered comments men so easily make when it comes to rock music. ‘Then you weren’t looking hard enough.’

Chanyeol, however, acquiesces easily. ‘True,' he affirms. ‘Though, to be fair, I was really only looking for you.’ You both fall into the memory, of the way you found one another in the breadth of a moment, in a setlist, and in the all encompassing ecstasy that comes from live music. ‘That’s my favourite song of his,' Chanyeol shares, sounding almost shy. 'From Her To Eternity is so powerful.'

Something about this makes you feel young, impossibly young and carefree, like your longtime crush has just admitted he likes the same things as you, and therefore it must be destiny. You laugh, feeling yourself go light headed from the force of it, and remind yourself that it is. It is actually destiny. 

‘Mine too,' you agree, giggling. ‘It’s funny, people don’t mention that deep cut.’

‘Deep cut?’ he questions, and you have to stop yourself from sighing in deep affection at the image of his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. ‘Do you know something I don’t?’

‘No...just…’ Your words die, backtracking from your blanket statement. ‘It doesn’t get chosen very often as a favourite, is all.’

Seeming to realize that your time together is coming short, the end of side A looming closer, Chanyeol changes the subject. ‘I didn’t think I’d find you in this record.’

Humming, you look back at the record, and the torn somewhat bent edges of the sleeve. 'That's true,' you nod at no one in particular. 'It's a hard record to find, which is a shame because Cry To Me is the best part of Dirty Dancing.’

A small noise of uncertainty blooms from Chanyeol's chest, curiosity and interest blending together in one small, magical sound. ‘I don’t know what that is.'

Baffled and overtaken by skepticism, you laugh. Normally, such statements make you roll your eyes in disgust but there is something so wonderfully endearing about his joke you cannot help but smile. ‘That’s literally impossible. You’re such a guy.’

A low, slow rumble quakes in his chest, your eyes falling shut in preparation of the thickness of pleasure you know he is about to adopt. ‘If dirty dancing is what you want…’

‘Don’t start,' you whisper, mind replaying the sound over and over, addicted. ‘You’ve got me drunk on you.’

‘Speak for yourself,' he teases, mirroring your earlier statement.

For a brief moment, you can almost see him. Bottom lip caught between his teeth, his wide eyes look longing through you, hoping to find and touch and hold whatever part of you he can access. Like this, you both fall quiet, looking everywhere and nowhere for one another, and eventually, the shift of the earth on its axis makes your body sway, overcome by your unintentional stillness. Just like you could at the concert, you feel his hand reach for your waist, catching you, and it is this contact that makes you understand the difference between imagination and connection.

Where imagination is distant and feather light, a super imposition of assumption onto expectation, this is is a cosmic wave in which your drown, skin and soul and heart rattled by the impossibility and intensity of him. Neither fictional nor imagined, he is hyper-present and he is cosmic, a sunbeam trick that runs along the endings of your nerves.

‘So, do you like soul music, then?’ he asks, breaking your silence with an anxious tension at the back of his throat. His words are thick, heavy things that weigh against you, and you know he too is struggling to hold himself together.

A slow smile tugs at your lips, a lopsided grin of adoration. ‘I love it,’ you begin, pressing your tongue against your teeth unsure if you should continue. There’s so much on this you want to say, so much you normally give to other people with little passion returned. But he’s your soulmate, and if he’s really yours he will give back in spades. ‘Most days, I think it’s my favourite genre. It’s speaks of human connection in a way that I think other genres just can’t comprehend.’ 

‘Absolutely,’ he agrees, enthusiasm palpable in every syllable. ‘Their voices are full of the full spectrum of human emotion...it’s like they’ve felt so much more than I ever could. Every lyric is a love letter.’

Silently, you chuckle to yourself, eyes roaming up towards your ceiling in thanks to a God you never really had faith in. ‘Every time I listen to it, especially to an Otis song -’

‘God, I love Otis,’ he interrupts, over eager. ‘Sorry,’ comes his rushed apology, bemused by his excitement. ‘It’s just good to talk about it with someone.’

‘It’s okay.’ 

You want to reassure him everything he will ever say, every interruption is fine and good and gold, because you want, more than anything, to listen to him speak until the sun goes black. But Chanyeol remains quiet, impatiently waiting for you to continue, and you are so willing to give him absolutely everything he desires. 

‘It’s so hard to explain…’ Your words fade, mind struggling to form a sentence that could convey the depth of your emotion. ‘He moves me,’ you finally announce, uncertain anything further needs to be said. 

You have said this before. This thought and opinion is not unfamiliar or new. You have said as much to countless other people, people who simply laugh and tell you this thought is incomplete. Movement is born from a moment of pleasure, a spark and release of joy, and rarely is such a feeling understood outside of the moment in which it exists. To everyone else, this thought is illogical - not impossible, just unusual.

But Chanyeol sighs, a long exclamation of understanding, his heart and soul wilting directly into yours, finally witnessed. ‘Yeah?’ he swoons, urging you to continue with the force of his ardor. 

Turning, you lean back against the counter, tilting your head upwards as though anticipating a kiss. ‘He was so young,’ you continue, voice small and distant, longing tracing every word on your tongue, ;but the way he spoke and the way he sang…’ You drift, trembling at the sudden sensation of a light touch ghosting along your cheek. You think it might be his nose as he runs it along your skin, breathing you in. ‘His music always feels like he’s lived three lifetimes, and loved, intensely, his way through each of them. I think I’d like to live like that.’ 

With his hands on you, you don’t even apologize for the slight stutter to your speech, affected.

‘Intensely in love?’ he whispers, and you lean into the sound, wanting.

‘Yeah.’ 

The sensation shifts to your other cheek, and you tilt your head in the mime of granting permission. Barely there grazes move along the edge of your cheekbone, tickling a phantom of wave of affection in its wake. But he remains silent, expecting and yearning for more.

‘For a long time,’ you manage, voice strained against your tight throat, ‘it was something I thought I’d ever want or need, that feeling of being loved through your humanity and into your spirit. I never thought I’d want it, because it couldn’t exist or, if it did, it was rare enough most of humanity shouldn’t bother trying to find it.’

‘A losing game,’ he clarifies, wistful and longing in his agreement.

Briefly reminded of Amy Winehouse, the distant melody plays in your mind. You wonder if he likes her as much as you. ‘But now -’ you raise your hands, curling your fingers and almost feeling the hard muscles of his hips as you pull him into you, ‘it’s like unlocking a door, you know? Stepping through to the other side and realizing, finally, what everyone had been singing about. I want that...to be loved so intensely, so in love, that it becomes the one thing I never question.’

Drowning in one another, you let yourself be held, body warming to a temperature that makes you crave the refreshment of air conditioning. Your skin is flushed, cheeks and neck and knuckles a reddish pink from both heat and desire, the rhythm of your heart putting a sheen of sweat at your brow. You don’t know when you got so warm, when he became a fire for your hands alone, but you don’t mind. If having him means burning, you don’t ever want to be cooled.

‘I want that, too.’ His forehead rests against yours, the last force of a touch you know is about to fade. ‘I want to give that to you.’

And with that, he is gone. The record stops, apartment quiet enough to make your teeth and ears ache, Side A complete. Normally, you’d whine and let yourself grieve, screaming to yourself that you want it, god how you want that, too, but tonight, for some reason, there is no place for such woe. 

Chanyeol is in London. 

Chanyeol is in London and now you have both heard and felt and learned him.

Chanyeol is in London. 

It won’t be long now.

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 6, Number 5

Courtney Marie Andrews

The lockdown continues, and live music has disappeared, replaced by a somewhat antiseptic and unsatisfying spate of live streamed shows mostly one person with a guitar on the couch in their living room.  We salute the courage and the effort but miss bands and audiences and even the chatter drifting in from the bar area.  In the meantime, at least for now, there are still lots of new records vying for our attention.  We present this Dust to catch up with some of them.  It’s an ecletic survey of contemporary classical, vengeful hip hop, psyche, jazz, folk and metal artists, all continuing to try to navigate a very difficult period.  Our writers this time include many of the usual suspects, Bill Meyer, Ray Garraty, Jonathan Shaw, Andrew Forell, Tim Clarke, Jennifer Kelly, Tobias Carroll and Patrick Masterson.  

a•pe•ri•od•ic—For (New Focus Recordings)

for a•pe•ri•od•ic by a•pe•ri•od•ic

Silence is a rhythm, too, and a•pe•ri•od•ic dances to it repeatedly throughout their second recording. The Chicago-based ensemble has traversed the new music continuum, performing music by composers from Peter Ablinger to Christian Wolff. Sometimes that silence isn’t quite what you want to hear — the COVID-19 pandemic cut short its tenth anniversary spring season one concert too soon — but it proves to be rich loam from which to grow music on this CD. All four of its pieces were composed specifically for the group by individuals who recognize the merit of non-imposing sounds. That knowledge derives in part from the fact that three of the composers also perform with the group, but also from their long-standing engagement with post-Cage-ian and Wandelweiser material. Director and pianist Nomi Epstein’s descriptively entitled “Combine, Juxtapose, Delayed Overlap” feels like a ceremony intermittently perceived through an opening and closing door. Billie Howard’s “Roll” tucks the composer’s whispering violin behind muted French horn and voice, wringing intensity from the effort one must apply to following its retreating sonorities. Vocalist Kenn Klumpf’s “Triadic Expansions (2)” moves in the other direction, sprouting ivy-like from the slenderest branches of sound. By comparison, Michael Pisaro’s stately “festhalten/loslassen” is a veritable riot of unwinding tonal colors. As the decade ticks towards year eleven, rest assured that a•pe•ri•od•ic is searching for the next promising idea.

Bill Meyer

 Agallah — Fuck You The Album (Propain Campain)

Fuck You The Album by Agallah

This is a personal vendetta album. After more than 25 years in the game, Agallah has got to settle the score against the whole world. To say he just has a chip on his shoulder would an understatement. Thirteen songs of pure hate with the title quite properly reflecting its content. In his fight, the rapper strips down all the artistry, including the production. Known for making beats for other hip hop acts, Agallah here not only uses barely serviceable beats, he doesn’t even makes pretense he needs beats. Almost all the tracks work as a capellas. His gruffy voice and arrogant flow don’t need sonic support. And what support can you expect from the world full of phonies, liars, actors, pretenders, cowards and fair weather friends? “Stop pretending, my career is not ending,” he almost screams on “Telling Lies To Me.” If this CD feels like a dinosaur in 2020, then it says that it is not something wrong with this album but with the world.

Ray Garraty

 Courtney Marie Andrews — “Burlap String” single (Fat Possum)

Old Flowers by Courtney Marie Andrews

As the eponymous song of 2018’s May Your Kindness Remain amply demonstrated, Courtney Marie Andrews’ pipes are not to be fucked with. But while that was perhaps the most vivid depiction yet of her abilities, the Phoenix native’s delivery can be just as powerful on a muzzle. Such has been her approach thus far with what we’ve heard from Old Flowers, originally slated for an early June release but since pushed back to July (or beyond, who knows). The post-breakup lyrical territory was initially revealed with first single “If I Told,” but it’s the gently loping “Burlap String” I’ve had on repeat for much of the past month. Ever ended a relationship with someone and regretted it? Lush piano and a sighing slide guitar tell you Courtney has without her ever having to utter a word, and much of the song is an illustration of the internal conflict that lingers long after you’ve made the call. I’m inclined to write out the whole second verse here, but it’s the end of the third that lingers as Andrews evokes barely holding back tears: There’s no replacing someone like you. That ensuing pause runs bone-deep, its implication clear — no amount of Mary Oliver can save you from yourself.

Patrick Masterson

 Dennis Callaci — The Dead of the Day (Shrimper Records)

Some albums could be said to hum. In the case of the latest from Dennis Callaci, that’s meant literally: many of the songs on his new album The Dead of the Day feature warm clouds of feedback or droning organ notes. It’s a companion piece to his recent book 100 Cassettes, which features thoughts on musical icons throughout the year. This album’s focus is more insular: some of the songs have a drifting, improvised feel to them. But Callaci also taps into some terrifically subdued songwriting veins here — “Broadway Blues Pt. II” recalls the haunted dub-folk of Souled American, and Franklin Bruno’s piano lends a propulsive dimension to the ruminative title track. And on “Scoreless,” Callaci teams with his Refrigerator bandmate (and brother) Allen Callaci for a song that slowly builds from acoustic foundations to something modestly grandiose. Contrary to what its title might suggest, this album feels very much like a document of one man’s life.  

Tobias Carroll

 Cameron / Carter / Håker Flaten — Tau Ceti (Astral Spirits)

Tau Ceti by Cameron / Carter / Håker Flaten

Tau Ceti is a planet that is hypothesized to be similar enough to Earth that it could potentially support similar life forms. The three musicians that recorded this tape may come not come from the same system, but they fall into a harmonious orbit around a common circumstance — they were all in the same swanky studio, Halversonics, on a particular winter day in early 2019. One supposes that whatever they were rotating, they move towards the source of heat, since Tau Ceti builds slowly from chill acoustic exploration to a fuzzed-out solar flare. As they progress, abstraction burns away and velocity increases. It’s a gas to hear Ingebrigt Håker Flaten and Lisa Cameron lock in behind Tom Carter’s increasingly gritty sound-bursts.

Bill Meyer  

 Tim Daisy — Sereno (Relay)

Tim Daisy - Sereno :: music for marimba, turntables and percussion (relay 028) by Tim Daisy

Sometimes the timing of even the most tuned-in drummer is foiled by external circumstances. Sereno was supposed to signal the end of an intense phase of solo practice by Tim Daisy. His intentions for 2020 included making an album of duets and writing music for two ensembles. But at press time he, like everyone else, is hunkered down with his family, and everything he had planned is on hold.  

Daisy’s stint as a primarily solo artist coincided with a reconsideration of identity; he wasn’t just a drummer, but a multi-instrumentalist and an orchestrator of electro-acoustic sound. Sereno is split between three elegiac marimba solos that showcase Daisy’s instinct for deliberate melodic development and five much denser constructions for imprecisely tuned radios, playing and skipping records, and Daisy’s strategically reflective drumming. If this record is the only new music that Daisy puts out this year, it leaves us with plenty to think about.

Bill Meyer

  Kaja Draksler & Terrie Ex — The Swim (Terp)

On the surface, this looks like quite the odd couple. Terrie Ex Is a Dutch electric guitarist in his mid-60s who still goes by his punk rock name. He’s a ferocious improviser whose scrabbling instrumental attack incurs intensity from any ensemble that doesn’t want to get bowled over, and he knows more Ethiopian tunes by heart than anyone on your block. Kaja Draksler is a Slovenian pianist exactly half his age whose recent projects include a fast-paced, idiosyncratically balanced trio with Petter Eldh and Christian Lillinger, and an octet for which she sets Robert Frost poems to a combination of chanson, Baroque chamber music, and thorny free improvisation. But neither got where they are by letting fear deter them from a musical challenge, and both of them have a fine awareness that one way of understanding their respective instruments is that they are pieces of wood with wires attached. Given that common understanding of music as a combination of coexisting textures and assertive actions, they work together quite well on this CD, which documents a performance that took place at London’s Café Oto in 2018. Scrape meets sigh, jagged fish-hook pluck meets sparse wire-damped drizzle, instinct meets intuition, and when the disc is done, it’ll seem quite sensible to dive back in and swim the whole length in reverse.

Bill Meyer  

 Errant — S/T EP (Manatee Rampage Recordings)

errant by errant

Errant is the one-woman project of Rae Amitay. Some listeners of metal music may be familiar with Amitay’s work, as vocalist for death-grind-hybridists Immortal Bird and as drummer for the folk-metal act Thrawsunblat. For Errant, Amitay has created songs and sounds that have little in common with those other bands’ aesthetic extremities. “The Amorphic Burden” may prompt you to recall the melodic black metal that Ludicra was making toward the end of that band’s storied run, or the sludgy drama of Agrimonia’s most recent record. In any case, Errant’s sound skews toward more luminescent atmospheres. Production values are largely pristine; Amitay wants you to hear clearly every string and cymbal strike. It makes sense. She plays a bunch of instruments well, and that’s part of the point: that one woman is producing all the sounds, and all the affect. She ends the EP with a cover of Failure’s “Saturday Savior,” and it’s the least interesting thing on the record. But even there, she presents the listener with something worth hearing. Her clean vocals are lovely, disarmingly so. What may be most impressive about this early iteration of Errant is the extent of Amitay’s talents, and how those talents allow her to encroach on the hyper-masculine territory of the “one-man” act.

Jonathan Shaw  

 Field Works — Ultrasonic (Temporary Residence)

Ultrasonic by Field Works

Stuart Hyatt’s latest compilation in the Field Works series is an absolute beauty — and timely given it’s being released during a pandemic whose origins may be linked to bats. The field recordings that the contributors used to create the music on Ultrasonic come from the echolocation of bats, and the approaches tend towards rhythmic or atmospheric. At the rhythmic end of the spectrum we have Eluvium’s majestic opener “Dusk Tempi,” akin to his work on Talk Amongst the Trees. Mary Lattimore’s glimmering harp patterns are fitting accompaniment to the chittering bat sounds on “Silver Secrets.” And Kelly Moran’s prepared piano on “Sodalis” sends the listener down a hall of mirrors, chased by gorgeous bass tones. At the more abstract, atmospheric end of the spectrum we have Jefre Cantu-Ledesma’s radiant “Night Swimming.” Christina Vantzou blurs the line between the sounds of modular synthesis and bat sonar on “Music for a Room with Vaulted Ceiling.” And on Sarah Davachi’s “Marion,” the listener is immersed in a luminous halo of nocturnal overtones. Wherever the artists venture, this is a varied yet consistently evocative collection.

Tim Clarke  

 FMB DZ — The Gift 3 (Fast Money Boyz / EMPIRE)

The Gift 3 was initially set to be released in December 2019 but was postponed until now. DZ’s “Merry Christmas, pussies!” on one of the tracks doesn’t sound so odd, though, because the whole world has plunged into a constant holiday. The new album continues two trends. It carries on the “ape” theme from the previous album Ape Season. “Ape Activities,” “Keep It on Me” and “No Features” are the grittiest tracks from a disc where the prevalent mood is a sick worry. DZ made it out of the hood but had to be on the lookout as the enemies are out to get him. The other trend is that The Gift 3 continues the ideas of The Gift series. The songs have a usual verse-hook structure, are poppier and more relaxed than on Ape Season. DZ, thankfully, doesn’t try to sing anymore but hires some singers on choruses. The hardest track here is “High Speed” with Rio Da Yung Og where Detroit/Flint duo spit vicious lines.

Ray Garraty

  Hala — Red Herring (Cinematic)

Detroit multi-instrumentalist Ian Ruhala wears his heart dripping from his sleeve on “Red Herring” his latest record as Hala. Skipping from the yacht rock of “Making Me Nervous” to the country blues of “True Colors” via power pop, The Kinks and Tom Petty, Ruhala manages to create a thread with deceptively simple melodies and the sincerity of his delivery.  There’s more than a touch of Kevin Barnes in the voice and the delight in throwing genres at the wall to see what sticks and, like Barnes, some of it fails to adhere. The pleasure here is in the sense of eavesdropping on the process and reveling in unexpected flourishes that refuse to be ignored.  

Ruhala writes a smooth love song and isn’t afraid to turn up the guitar or address politics on standout “Lies” - “I’m eating breakfast with the fascists/Oh man they stand about ten feet tall/My mouth is bleeding at their proceedings/They get their courage through a plastic straw” It may not be Guthrie but he makes it work through a leavening wit and a mid-tempo vamp straight from the solar plexus. “Red Herring” suffers somewhat from its stylistic roaming but a fundamental big heartedness and willingness to reach makes it an enjoyable trip.  

Andrew Forell  

 Las Kellies — Suck This Tangerine (Fire)

Suck This Tangerine opens with a loose groove and a grime smeared highlife guitar line, the voice enters with ironic invitations over choppy Gang of Four chords. In the new one from Las Kellies, Argentinian duo Cecilia Kelly and Silvina Costa sling taut bass lines and slash guitars over mutant disco rhythms for 12 tracks of slinky indie dance. Drawing on elements from Leeds, London and the Bronx, Kelly and Costa add dubby space and South American humidity to their sound, to elevate the album beyond the sum of its influences.  

Kelly handles guitar and bass, wielding the former like a cross between Andy Gill and Viv Albertine and unfurling loose funky serpents with the latter. Costa swings between ESG and The Bush Tetras and incorporates an array of hand drums that deepen and enliven the rhythmic pulse. There is a palpable and joyful chemistry between the two evidenced by their easy interplay and enhanced by the production that gives clarity and elbowroom to each instrument. If the lyrics can tend toward the perfunctory, they are delivered with a winking insouciance on put downs like “Close Talker” and “Rid Of You”.  Suck This Tangerine is a worthy addition to the growing collection of feminist post-punk inspired albums we’ve been dancing to of late.  

Andrew Forell  

 Mint Mile — Ambertron (Comedy Minus One)

Ambertron by Mint Mile

Silkworm, the band, may have ended in 2005 with the death of drummer Michael Dahlquist, but its legacy of slow, gut-socking heaviness, mordant wit and muscular guitar lives on, first in Bottomless Pit and now in Tim Midyett’s new band Ambertron. Midyett’s voice and clangorous baritone guitar is instantly recognizable, of course, to anyone who loved Silkworm, but the band diverges somewhat with the pedal steel played by Justin Brown of Palliard, weaving eerily though the slow buzz and moan of “Likelihood.” Jeff Panall, from Songs:Ohio, plays the hard, heavy drums that undergird these songs, giving them structure and forward motion. Other players include Matthew Barnhart from Tre Orsi and Horward Draper from Shearwater. Greg Normal of Bitter Tears contributes a mournful bit of trumpet to “Fallen Rock,” and Chicago alt-country mainstay Kelly Hogan takes the lead in “Sang.” The music is raw and morose; even dense strings can’t quite lift the gloom in “Christmas Comes and Goes,” a song as raw as late November in Chicago. And yet there’s a sort of resilience in it, a strength that comes through persistence. “If we could only find a way to bank the time we had together,” sings Midyett in “Giving Love,” his hoarse voice full of ragged loss, his guitar raging against it all and not quite beaten down even now.

Jennifer Kelly

 Gard Nilssen’s Supersonic Orchestra — If You Listen Carefully the Music Is Yours (Odin)

If You Listen Carefully The Music Is Yours by Gard Nilssen´s Supersonic Orchestra

Perched atop his drum stool, Gard Nilssen sits where styles converge. He’s supplied the controlled boil that drives the free-bop combo Cortex, laid down some heavier beats with Bushman’s Revenge and exemplified long-form lucidity with his own trio, Acoustic Unity. In 2019, the Molde Jazz Festival recognized his versatility and forward perspective by anointing him the artist in residence. Besides showcasing his ongoing projects and accompanying heavy guests from abroad, most notably Bill Frisell, he got to put together a dream project. This 16-piece big band, which includes members of Cortex, Acoustic Unity, and the Trondheim Jazz Orchestra, is it. With the assistance of co-arranger André Roligheten, Nilssen has taken some of his trio’s sturdy melodies and turned them into frameworks for boisterous but subtly colored performances. With three basses and three drummers, this could have been either a mess or an uptight game of “you first,” “no sir after you.” But the rhythm crew shifts easily between swinging unisons and refractory elaborations. Roligheten often plays two saxophones at once in smaller settings, and one suspects that he has a lot to do with the rich colors that the horns paint around the featured soloists.

Bill Meyer  

 Matthew J. Rolin — Ohio (Garden Portal)

Ohio by Matthew J. Rolin

The ghoulish image on the j-card belies the sounds encoded upon this tape. Matthew J. Rolin is a relative newcomer to the practice of acoustic guitar performance; the earliest release on his Bandcamp page was recorded in late 2017. But he’s catching on fast. Switching between six and twelve-string guitars, he serves up equal measures of ingratiating lyricism and immersive surrender to pure sound. Opener “Red Brick” slots into the former category, with a heart-tugging melody that keeps doling out turns that’ll keep you wondering where it’s going and backtracks that’ll ensure that you never feel lost. “Brooklyn Centre,” on the other hand, grows filaments of string sound out of a pool of prayer bowl resonance centering enough to make you cancel your mindfulness app subscription due to perceived lack of need. Rolin develops ideas situated between these poles over the rest of this brief set, which runs just shy of 28 minutes and definitely leaves one wanting a bit more.

Bill Meyer

 Nick Storring — My Magic Dreams Have Lost Their Spell (Orange Milk)

My Magic Dreams Have Lost Their Spell by Nick Storring

What Jim O’Rourke did for the music of Van Dyke Parks and John Fahey on Bad Timing, Nick Storring does for Roberta Flack’s on My Magic Dreams Have Lost Their Spell. The Canadian composer may not have O’Rourke’s name recognition or past membership in a very famous rock band going for him, but consider these parallels. He’s a handy with quite a few instruments, he’s an inveterate assistant to other artists across disciplinary lines, and he functions with equal commitment and fluency in a variety of genres. For this record, his first to be pressed on vinyl (albeit in miniscule numbers), Storring uses the lush string sound of Flack’s 1970s hits as a launching point for deep sonic immersions that are considerably more emotionally oblique than their inspirations’ articulations of loneliness and surrender. When he goes melodic, the cello-led tunes seem to reach for something that they never touch, and when he goes for slow-motion density, the music imparts an experience akin to watching the sort of cinematic experience where you can’t tell if you’re seeing a really slow take or the film has frozen at a single frame.

Bill Meyer

 Sunn Trio — Electric Esoterica (Twenty One Eight Two Recording Company)

Electric Esoterica by Sunn Trio

Sunn Trio, from Arizona, makes sprawling, multi-ethnic psychedelia that juxtaposes the scree and groan of heavy improvisational rock with the otherly chords and rhythms of the Middle East.  Opener “Alhiruiyn” slicks a trebly sheen over its surging, rampaging improvisations, more in the vein of Black Sun Ensemble than Cem Karaca.  But “Majoun” layers antic percussion and tone-shifting bent notes in a limber evocation of the souk.  “Roktabija The Promulgator” blasts a strident, swaggering surf riff, about as Arabic as “Miserlou” (which is, in fact, Arabic).  “Khons at Karnak” buzzes with hard rock aggression, but shimmies with belly dancing syncopation.  Because of the name, the preoccupation with non-Western cultures and the Phoenix mailing address, you might think that Sunn Trio is aligned somehow with Sun City Girls, but no.  All kinds of weirdness lurks in the desert out there, lucky for us.  

Jennifer Kelly  

 Turbo, Gunna & Young Thug — “Quarantine Clean” single (Playmakers)

Despite the subject matter’s potential (ahem) virality, “Quarantine Clean” slipped out almost unnoticed in early April and is the kind of muted performance Young Thug doesn’t get enough credit for (while, curiously, his followers often get too much derision for). For all of Thugger’s hyperfluorescent hijinx over the years that have produced earworms like, say, “That’s All” and “Wyclef Jean,” there’s another side that shows up in stuff like “The Blanguage” and “Freaky” where he lets the words do the work; that’s the subterranean sonic world we’re living in here as he opines on God’s role in the pandemic and why he’s lost so much money but still has to pay for his parents’ penthouse (which: welcome to the revolution, pal). Thug’s acolyte in slime Gunna, meanwhile, does most of the song’s heavy lifting with duties on the first verse and chorus, but it’s pretty hard to tell the two apart, such is the slippery restraint both opt to exercise here. The real star, then, is beatmaker Turbo, whose buoyant anchor melody is complemented by what sounds like a lilting flute. It’s a light touch from all parties, a mellow mood well suited to our time of collective party-eschewing shelter. Run that back in prudence.

Patrick Masterson

 Various Artists—Ten Years Gone (A Tribute to Jack Rose) (Tompkins Square)

Ten Years Gone : A Tribute to Jack Rose by Various Artists

A decade on from the too early passing of the great American Primitive/blues/raga player Jack Rose, Arborea’s Buck Curran gathers friends, collaborators and younger artists inspired by Rose for a gorgeous tribute to the master. Mike Gangloff, who played with Rose in Pelt and Black Twig Pickers, leads off with a plaintive, sepia-toned fiddle lament (“The Other Side of Catawbwa”), while next generation experimental droner Prana Crafter closes with an expansive, space folk reverie (“High Country Dynamo”). In between, old friends like Sir Richard Bishop evoke Rose’s full-blown orchestral guitar playing (“By Any Other Name”) while young pickers like Matt Sowell take up the trail forged by Dr. Ragtime. Isasa from Spain and Paulo Laboule Novellino from Italy attest to Rose’s global appeal. It’s mostly guitar, but not entirely; Helena Espvall from Espers contributes a brooding, reverberant “Alcantara” on cello. Curran’s own “Greenfields of America (Spiritual for Jack Rose)” is slow and thoughtful, letting long bent notes ring out with liquid clarity; it’s a hymn and a prayer and a testimony to the wide influence of an artist gone too soon.  

Jennifer Kelly

 Emily Jane White — Immanent Fire (Talitres)

Immanent Fire by Emily Jane White

Emily Jane White gets tagged as a folk singer, but on this, her sixth full-length, the Oakland songwriter brings a fair amount of goth-tinged drama. Taut string arrangements and big booming drums lift “Infernal” well out of the woman-with-guitar category, and White sounds more like PJ Harvey or even Chelsea Wolfe than a sweet voiced strummer. Immanent Fire sticks, topically, to environmental concerns with track titles like “Washed Away,” “Drowned” and “Metamorphosis.” A foreboding creeps through the songs, pretty as they are, even piano lit “Dew” asks “Does poison drop like the dew?” Arrangements, by Anton Patzner, the composer, arranger and violinist of Foxtails Brigade and Judgment Day, give these cuts weight and heft, punctuating eerie melodies with thick swathes of strings, rumbling percussion and keyboards. The disc culminates in “Light” which begins in a whisper and climaxes in drum-shocked, orchestral swoon. Soothing background music it is not.

Jennifer Kelly

 Z-Ro — Quarantine: Social Distancing (1 Deep Entertainment / EMPIRE)

An unexpected seven-track EP bears an expected title from a Dirty South legend. Z-Ro’s usual topics — trust and loneliness — gain a new meaning in the time of social distancing. To keep away women who only want his money is a necessary precaution now. To be at the corner at the party is a rule for survival. Z-Ro is on his ground counting his dough alone in the house. Earlier he did it so no ‘shife’ (the title of one of the tracks) friends could rob him, now it’s just to obey quarantine rules. The first half of this EP is a bit muddled by unnecessary intros and reggae tunes but the second one hits hard. As always with Z-Ro, the hardest content takes the gentlest form (“Niggas is Hoes” especially is almost a pop song). On the final track “Life of the Party” Boosie Badazz drops by, giving his verdict on the pandemic: “Fuck Corona!”

Ray Garraty

[han-jisung]

my doctor story:

so like i rlly don't know what to say & why i'm saying this here rn but... well this is crazy

everything started in the waiting room when i had to wait to go in & yea. so in the waiting room it is always very quiet right? & i also always have my phone muted then if i'm not listening to music & yea so i even checked whether i had it muted before. but yea i somehow went on twt and found video and was playing it & SUDDENLY my phone turned on the volume!!! dhdjfj and i was like no.way. it was a video of jisung's intro part in double knot from a live performance aaand yea... i couldn't stop it cause my phone somehow didn't work like i wanted it to??? this never happened to me?? and yea like after a few seconds i could only stop it and hfdjdkdkkd it was so embarrassing & i only said a short "sorry" after it & everything was quiet then like so awkward djfjfj so yea everyone in this waiting room basically heard jisung's legendary intro part djdhdkdkdk

and then after i finally could talk w my doctor & everything; she also draw my blood? like she did take it away? withdraw it??? (i hv no idea rn rlly what it is called) and like after it i was in a not so good state bc i cannot deal w it last time i passed out after it & i did it almost again but yea so i also did not sleep the entire night and more so i was feeling very very very bad otherwise i wouldn't go to a doctor BUT

after my doctor did her part another one came in cause like it's an office where more doctors work? like about three? & she's not my usual doctor but she did it bc it wasn't much that still had to be done AND suddenly she noticed smth on my backpack.. she noticed my jungkook keychain!!!! she said "oh a bts fan!!" and i was like no way but after a bit i thought okay well she's probably one of the newer fans like everyone here who only knows bts.. but like we started to TALK about all of KPOP

and she told me how she loves jungkook the most & how she loves hobi's bright personality so much & the way namjoon speaks and writes his lyrics and i??? she knew them???? she knew them ALL and she's an army together w her daughter!! like she also went to 2 concerts of them last year and this year!! and like i said me too!!! and we talked about the concerts and stuff!!!! and also she said actually i love the song 'dope' the most and i was like NEVER CAUSE DOPE IS MY FAVOURITE!!! i got into them because of dope back then i said!!!! and she said me too!!!!!! avdjdjdndnfk so yea we had so much stuff in common and she also did not stop talking about jungkook and yea me too me too me too love of my life yea

and then i also suddenly asked do you maybe know stray kids too? u probably dont it's okay! :( but theeen!!! she said of course i know them!!! aahhhhhdnfnfnf she KNOWS STRAY KIDS and "never u really know stray kids???" "yeah!!!" and then she also talked about all the posters her daughter has in her room of them and how she also loves them and then i showed her my lockscreen of jisung and how much i also love that boy and she said "omg jisung the boy w the cute cheeks" and i dhdjdkdkdnendjf YEA SO she knew them all she knew everything man & then she asked me whether they'll come here one day and i said they already did! and that i saw them in august & how i talked to jisung and everything i told her!!!! dhdjdjdj and omg djdjdj

and so yea i also asked her whether she knows got7!! bc if i'm already talking about my main groups the last group has to get included as well right?? and yea i told her that i'll see got7 in two days!!! in concert! and she didnt know at first who they are and i was so :(((( but she immediately took out her phone and told me to write it down the name so that she can check them out later!!! so like i promoted them again dhffndjdjd this time not in school but infront of my doctor yvdbdbdb so yea when she saw the name written down she said she has heard of them before! and yea djdbfbfb omg so much rlly we also talked about other groups as well but yea mainly those ones and!! she did also want to take a selfie w me fjdjdjd like i was like WHAT I LOOK SO TERRIBLE fjfjfj bc it has its reason why i'm at a doctor right?? i was about to pass out a few seconds before fjdbdjdb but yea we took a photo together w my keychain and to show it to her daughter also dhdjdjd

so yea we were both so happy & excited and i think i'm gonna changed my doctor now to her lol

[thesinglesjukebox]

DIXIE CHICKS - GASLIGHTER

[7.67]

Well, we're ready to make nice...

Jessica Doyle: I made the mistake of reading some of the hell-hath-no-fury-like-Natalie-Maines-on-vocals early publicity, and ended up expecting something a lot less jaunty. If you played "Gaslighter" for a non-English speaker, I'm not sure they'd hear the angry breakup from the music and vocals alone. That stray "Look out you little--" heading into the chorus at 2:05 sounds downright affectionate. This makes for a less emotionally clean song, and the video feels like overcompensation (was the "Daisy" ad really necessary?). But it makes a certain sense. This isn't a fictional story à la "Before He Cheats"; the Chicks chose to eschew the luxury of marinating in two-dimensional righteousness. Adrian Pasdar, as much as he will now forever be known as That Guy Who Did Something on Natalie Maines's Boat, is also presumably tied up irrevocably with Maines's two sons and a couple decades' worth of her memories; she's allowed to refrain from hating him straightforwardly. "Gaslighter" is less cathartic than it could have been -- it might get bellowed into karaoke mics less often than it could have been -- but truer. [6]

Katie Gill: Someone please just tell me what Adrian Pasdar did! I suspect that part of my love of this song is sheer nostalgia. I adore the Dixie Chicks and I'm so happy to see them make a comeback now, even if I worry that, with the current state of country music, it won't go anywhere. And I am here for the big divorce energy this single has. It's wonderful to see that the Dixie Chicks can summon up the beautiful cathartic anger that made their last album, Taking the Long Way, so good even over ten years later. And that anger is matched with gorgeous harmonies (that, granted, are a little bit too hidden by the arrangement), a cathartic chorus, and a brief moment of wonderful vulnerability from Maines near the end. Top that off with one of the best lyrics in 2020 in "you're sorry but where's my apology" and, look, I just can't wait for this dang album to come out already. [8]

Alex Clifton: "Gaslighter, you broke me/You're sorry, but where's my apology?" has rung in my ears for nearly two weeks. I wrote a boatload of bad poetry for years around that sentiment, and the Dixie Chicks sing ten words what I couldn't do in a thousand, and I love them for it. [10]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: "You're sorry, but where's my apology?" So many lines in "Gaslighter" speak truth to my experience of being emotionally and psychologically manipulated, but every time I hear this one in particular, several things happen. First, my blood starts to boil and race and I feel my hands get clammy. Then, I instinctively clench my teeth and get the urge to pump my fists in the air. Finally, I remind myself that if the Dixie Chicks can get through the past decades, I can too -- and my anger dissipates like air from a balloon. That's the argument the Dixie Chicks are making here: winning the argument means not letting anyone else's actions consume your emotional state. [7]

Tobi Tella: "Repeating all of the mistakes of your father" cuts like a knife, the harmonies are tight, and the lightness of the production makes it clear that they can still do fun. If there's any justice in this world, this would be a hit on country radio. [7]

Michael Hong: "Gaslighter" is the Dixie Chicks' first single in fourteen years, and by virtue of being that, is interwoven with each thread its own narrative: 1) the story of the Dixie Chicks -- the rise, the fall, the good, the bad, all of it always culminating in the idea that the women had something to prove. 2) Jack Antonoff on writing and production, straying into bold country territory, furthering his influence in modern music. 3) The rampant use, and in some cases, overuse, of the term "gaslighting," and how it's already led to thinkpieces on whether or not Natalie Maines was actually gaslit. And finally, 4) the politicization of the Dixie Chicks, broadcasting the political as a mirror of the personal. All of these narratives matter, and yet, none are necessary to understand "Gaslighter." The track is compact in all the right ways, with tight harmonies on top of fiddle and banjo arrangements and verses that pick up right where the chorus lets off. The Dixie Chicks package the gleeful realization of the truth into a chorus so jovial you can't help but sing along. All that's to say, even divorced from every narrative that you can throw at "Gaslighter," "Gaslighter" still demands you turn the volume up when you hear it through your car stereo. [7]

Alfred Soto: The inevitable emphasis on the dropped hook is purest Jack Antonoff, not Dixie Chicks, but the best of their tunes relied on outside help anyway. "Gaslighter" squeaks by on chutzpah, skill, and nostalgia from the silent minority of lib country listeners. But Antonoff's infatuation with percussion gives the Chicks the gaslighting urgency necessary to sell the songs in Labelle, Lynchburg, and Mena. They're still not ready to make nice -- except with Taylor Swift's producer's platinum cred. [7]

Joshua Lu: Jack Antonoff is perhaps the last producer I'd expect or want to produce a Dixie Chicks comeback song, largely because his limited palette of plinky pianos and muted synths isn't something I'd think I'd like to hear in country music. To Jack's credit, though, "Gaslighter" is a veritable romp, even in spite of how unfulfilled some of the instruments are and how the chorus sounds like it's coming from a couple of rooms over. The real charm, though, is in the lyrics, so full of the charm and wit that really signify that this is a Dixie Chicks song -- "you know exactly what you did on my boat" alone makes the song a perfect addition to the sizable "My Partner Cheated on Me and Now I Must Destroy the World" section of the country music canon. Fourteen years might've been a long wait, but at least it was worth it. [8]

Jackie Powell: So while 2020 has absolutely been an abysmal year, here's it's one redeeming quality: it set up an absolute glorious return for the Dixie Chicks. Their new single "Gaslighter" comes in at the right place at the right time. So do we have Taylor Swift to thank for this? Is it fair to assume that their vocals on "Soon You'll Get Better" (which might be the most beautiful song on Lover) were an introduction to Jack Antonoff? His signature drums on the second chorus and beyond provide the track with the train that will entice stans of Spacey Kacey Musgraves. A divorce anthem that is also reflexive to frustration with the world in 2020 is so on brand I want to cry. But tears of joy this time. The Dixie Chicks were some of the original victims of cancel culture. But really they were gaslit by their entire genre. Tomato-gate didn't happen until 2015, but the sexism the Dixie Chicks faced preceded the incident. What's fascinating about their return is they won't be in this fight with their genre and the country music establishment alone. Since the Dixie Chicks' hiatus, Musgraves, Maren Morris, The Highwomen and others have taken a spot on the no bullshit mantel next to the trio. It's refreshing. In classic Natalie Maines fashion, she regrets nothing, calling the repercussions of "Not Ready to Make Nice" a "blessing." But really, in 2020, we are the ones who are really truly blessed. [8]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: "Gaslighter" is triumphant both in its specificity ("you know exactly what you did on my boat"!!!) and its broadness (the harmonies, Jack Antonoff's shiny-as-hell production.) Despite that glory, though, "Gaslighter" feels a little empty at its core. It's the rush of the breakup without the consideration of the fallout, the thrill without any crash. [8]

Edward Okulicz: On first listen, this sounded too small, too restrained, too modest for its concept. These aren't things that you would expect from the big ambitions and big voices of the Dixie Chicks. But when the chorus comes in a second time with the drumbeat, it works as a mantra for a protagonist no more ready to forgive than she is to forget. And, as if you needed to be told, their voices still sound gorgeous together. [8]

Oliver Maier: A tumbling boulder of rage for a chorus and Jack Antonoff graciously refraining from turning "Gaslighter" into a big echoey 80s-inflected synth pop confection. "We moved to California and we followed your dreams" is such a great opening line for the verse, charging the events of the song with a mythological, Dust Bowl-era resonance and signalling the relationship's disintegration before it even occurs, like something out of a Steinbeck novel. Maines rattles off each charge against her ex just vividly enough to get the raw emotional beats across, without fixating long enough to stall the song's momentum. A relationship is cremated and catharsis is achieved; no need for an autopsy when there's no ambiguity left. [8]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[skybound2]

David x Michael, on a road trip, arguing over music choices (or whatever permutation of that you would like to use!).

Hey, so 500 years later, I know, but I’ve written a thing! Well, several things, sorta? This is basically a series of short ficlets each focusing on a different song, but all connected, and is basically a direct follow on to the response I wrote MONTHS ago for a different prompt (You Are My Sunshine)! 

THANK YOU SO MUCH for the prompt, it helped get me out of a rut, LIKE A LOT. (Also, I had a TON OF FUN thinking up songs to set each piece too :-D)

Takes place in my Walk Unafraid universe sometime after Michael has gone full vamp, and is maybe just a little bit cracky ;-P

Hope you enjoy!

Billy Idol “Rebel Yell”

Michael frowns as the first few beating notes of the song start pouring out of the speakers. Before the first line is over, he’s a freshman again, shuffling into the streamer and tinsel decorated nightmare that was his first (and last) high school homecoming dance.

He hadn’t wanted to go. Would rather have been playing chicken with his skateboard on the highway. Or at home, babysitting Sam and rewatching that movie with the talking rats for the fiftieth time.

Or working on his math homework.

Really, just about anywhere else doing anything else would have been preferable.

But he’d made junior varsity on the football team (Thanks, he’s sure, to him being a year older than the rest of the freshman class. Flunking third grade. So helpful.) and even though he hadn’t played a second of that day’s game, it had been made clear that he was expected to attend that evening’s festivities. 

To support his team. And school.

Rah rah rah.

He hadn’t given a rat’s ass about any of it, not when the girl he’d been seeing (if you could call one awkward make-out session ‘seeing’) had broken things off with Michael the day before, opting to go to the dance with Michael’s friend Keith instead. 

The situation might have been less of a mess, Michael suspects, if the sight of his friend and former almost-girlfriend dancing together had sparked the expected kind of jealousy for Michael.

Which of course, it hadn’t. Instead, it had dosed Michael with a confusing case of adolescent ‘what the fucks’ when he’d caught Keith and Jenny kissing mid-dance, and he’d realized just who he was jealous over. 

The whole thing had gone topsy-turvy not long after, in a spectacular (sloppy, messy, pathetic) fist fight between Michael and Keith on the dance floor to the tune of that damn overplayed Billy Idol song.

Michael had been suspended for two days following the fight. Which had been fine by him, as it gave him time to first come to terms with what he’d been feeling, and then to find a careful place in his psyche to shove said feelings into, to be dealt with never.

Three years later, Michael had moved away, the bond between him and Keith forever broken.

As the memories play back in Michael’s head, Michael finds that the old agitation, that bitter ache of confusion and loss he’d always felt in the past, is muted. The scene’s a faded sort of matte gray, instead of technicolor. Like it happened to someone else, and he’s just catching the repeat on late night TV. 

Which in a way, he guesses it kind of had. The person he is now so far removed from who he was then as to be unrecognizable.

Different person or not, he still hates the song. (Maybe he hasn’t changed that much.) And so Michael’s lip lifts up in a sneering approximation of the blond singer’s trademark curl as he reaches for the knob and seeks out another station. 

“Hey. I was listening to that.” The complaint from the driver’s seat is annoyed but without any real heat. 

Michael keeps twisting the knob, not looking at his companion, skipping over white noise in search of something - anything - else. “We’ll find something else. Can’t stand Billy Idol.”

Even though Michael knows it’s not actually possible, it feels as if the temperature inside the car drops several degrees. Shock reverberates across the link between Michael and David loud enough that it bounces Michael’s brain around inside his skull, forcing him to turn his head away from the radio towards the blond as he continues to spin the dial. 

David appears downright scandalized as he stares back at Michael, eyebrows making friends with his hairline. “You can’t stand Billy Idol?”

Michael nods, head tilting at David, confused by the obvious annoyance rolling off of him. 

And also a little worried by how long David has kept his eyes from the road, regretting having let the blond take over driving duties at the last gas station. “Uh, yeah. Leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Can you watch the road, David? Don’t feel like getting up close and personal with the guardrail.”

David sneers, but turns his head back to the road, grumbling incoherent words beneath his breath that, try as he might, Michael can’t pick out. 

Not that it matters, as when an audible sentence finally does work its way up and out, Michael’s still as confused as when all he’d heard was gibberish. “I’ve made a mistake.”

Michael frowns. “With what?”

“Making you immortal. I can’t spend eternity with someone who doesn’t appreciate Billy Idol.”

Michael snorts, his hand dropping away from the dial when he locates something less detestable to listen to. The fast pace guitar chords and beats of Mötley Cr��e playing through the speakers as a backdrop, he leans back in his seat, head angled towards David, the better to watch the exaggerated play of disgust on his lover’s face. “Too late. No take backs.” 

David’s frown deepens, but there’s a twitch at the corners of his mouth, like he’s fighting the upward tug of a smile. “Never too late for anything, Michael.”

Michael smirks at him, stretching his legs out and dragging his tongue across his bottom lip in a deliberate attention grabbing move that pulls David’s eyes straight to his mouth. “Yeah. Right. After how hard and long you fought for me?” Michael drags the words out with dirty intent. Feeling playful, and eager to wash away the lingering remnants of that earlier time, of that earlier life. He draws upon more recent, much more pleasurable memories, letting them hover at the front of his mind. The spike of lust that floods the air between them all the proof he needs that David’s on the same page. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” 

“So damn sure of yourself, aren’t you?” The question is spoken with careful neutrality that does nothing to disguise the visceral want pouring off of David.  

A growl thrums across Michael’s vocal chords. “Pull over. Let’s find out.”

David does.

And they both forget all about Billy Idol. 

Abba “Fernando” 

Sated and settled back in the passenger seat on the road south, David knows what song it is from just the first couple of notes. He has no intention of subjecting himself to it, so he reaches for the dial only to have his hand smacked away by Michael. Shocked, he looks up at the man behind the wheel, the driver’s blue eyes alight with mischief as he starts to sing along with the music while David watches on in horror. “No. No absolutely not. Turn it off. Right now.”

But Michael’s hand stays covering the dial as his voice gets stronger. When he hits the title lyric he leans heavily away from the wheel in David’s direction and croons it in his face. David’s frozen in place by the disturbing sight. “Why do you even know the lyrics?”

‘You’ve met my mother and my brother, you honestly think I wouldn’t know the lyrics?’ The thought jumps from Michael’s mind to David’s, but Michael’s singing voice doesn’t falter at all as he sings about crossing the Rio Grande.

Under any other circumstances, David would be damn proud of Michael that his ability for telepathic multi-tasking has come along so far, but as is, he’s too distressed to feel much of anything else.

“Is this a method of torture? Is that why you’re doing this? Testing the waters? Because if so, bravo. Very effective. But it’s time to stop now.” 

Michael cackles. Cackles! As he smacks David’s hand away from the dial again, the sound bleeding into an off-key “Liberty” with a devilish grin upon his face as he turns the volume up.

David sinks as deep into the leather bench seat as is possible, all the way against the door, trying to put distance between himself and the… horror happening on the other side of the car. “Just stake me. It would hurt less.”

The gleam in Michael’s eyes is pure evil as he sways towards David again, all his earlier concern for road safety seeming forgotten in his Abba-induced haze. 

He manages to keep the car between the painted lines and away from any ditches as the song comes to an end - though it weaves a considerable amount. The smile on his face when he looks David’s way on the final note is wide and brilliant and blinding. Pleasant waves of giddy happiness echoing across the bond so strongly, that David’s own treacherous emotions race to sync up with those of his tormentor.

David hates himself a little for being so far gone on the bastard, but the shared laughter that fills the car between them feels good all the same.

Deep Purple “You Keep On Moving”

Another tank, another station, another song.

Michael smiles as the beat of a tune he never hears getting radio airplay hits his ears. He drums his fingers against his knee, mouthing along to the lyrics and bouncing his leg in time. Thinking it might be fun to finally learn how to play something other than his kneecap. The drums, or the guitar even. Or hell, why not both? He’s got nothing but time now, right? Why shouldn’t he spend it learning how to play a dozen instruments if he wants?

David speaks up when the song hits the third verse and Michael’s halfway through an imaginary worldwide tour as the next biggest drummer since Bonham. “Paul had a copy of this album.” He chuckles, once, the sound dark and heavy. “Two copies, actually. One he’d worn down to nothing. Sounded like garbled shit, but it was the only one he’d play. Said he was keeping the other ‘for posterity’ or something.”

Michael returns from his European stage debut and looks to David, trying to judge the meaning behind the story. The other man offering up information on the absent boys so rare, that he figures there must be a reason for it.

There’s not much light to illuminate him, the dash on the old vehicle mostly dark, but Michael’s eyes don’t need much light to see by these days. Not that it matters, as there’s nothing to read on the blond’s face, his expression that disconnected mask that Michael’s grown so familiar with in the past year.

“Think he bought the first one on account of the cover, but turned out he liked the music too.” David’s voice is muted - not so soft as to be wistful, but a next door neighbor to it maybe.

Michael digs through his brain, trying to recall what the cover looked like, but comes up empty. He prods at David for some help, snorting when David reproduces in Michael’s mind the image of the band’s disembodied heads floating in a wine glass of dark red liquid, with the tagline ‘Come Taste the Band’ scrolled over the top. He guffaws at the sight. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Paul was always easily amused.” The comment is said with a quiet intensity that peters out to a heavy silence, despite the song still rocking through the car.

It leaves Michael feeling like he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t be. He inches back and forth in his seat, tapping the leather seating between the two of them instead of his knee. “You, uh, you want me to change it?”

David glances at Michael, the expression on his face a little mournful, but not despondent or angry as it may have been in the past. “Nah. It’s a good song. Let it play.” 

Michael nods once, and the song plays on.

Fleetwood Mac “Landslide”

“…”

“…”

“I - you can change it if you want.”

“Course I can.”

“…”

“…”

“Are you gonna change it or…”

“Nah. Took too long to find this station. Probably just be static everywhere else.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right. So…we leave it then?”

“Might as well. It’ll be over soon.”

“Okay.“ Michael takes a deep breath, uncertain about what he’s about to say, but unable to stop himself. “This was Star’s-”

“I know.”

“And you still don’t mind-”

“No. Should I?” The questions is flat. Unconcerned, but Michael doesn’t miss the way David’s face tightens when he asks it. 

Michael moves his right shoulder in an awkward shrug. “Just got the impression you didn’t care for her much.”

David makes a low humming sound. “Liked her well enough at first. Liked her a whole lot less later on.”

Michael doesn’t have a ready response for that, knowing damn good and well why David’s feelings towards Star changed. 

“You heard from her lately?”

Michael whips his head towards David, surprised by the question.“No. I haven’t.“ 

David hums again, fingers flexing on the steering wheel as he does. “Sure about that?”

“When exactly do you think I would have talked to her, David?”

“No clue. It’s why I asked.”

Michael thinks that’s a lie, but doesn’t call David on it. Instead, he settles back, letting Stevie Nicks serenade them for a few verses before offering what little he does know. “She calls my Mom sometimes. They…talk.” David’s gaze stays firmly on the road, though Michael can feel the way tension thrums through his frame. “Think she’s still with Laddie, wherever they went. I don’t - I haven’t spoken to her since she left.” It’s the truth, but for some reason it feels like a lie.

“She took Laddie back to his father I take it?”

Michael gives a noncommittal bounce of his head. “Think so.”

“Hmm. Maybe we should pay them a visit.”

Michael lets out a low laugh at the comment. “Doubt we’d be welcome.”

A sly smile that Michael knows can’t mean anything good lifts the corner’s of David’s mouth. “Never know if we don’t try. Could pencil it sometime after Phoenix.”

Michael rolls his eyes, knowing he’s being baited and not about to be caught. “Yeah sure. Why the hell not?” Michael smirks at the way David’s forehead scrunches up at the easy agreement. He means it - he’s curious enough about where Star ended up and what she’s been doing that visiting her isn’t the worst idea he’s ever heard - though he’s not so much of an idiot that he doesn’t know that David’s reasons for wanting to see her are far from benign.

No longer in the mood for the song, Michael changes the station.

Billie Holiday “You’re My Thrill”

David hums as he twists the dial through station after station of white noise. He spins it past an old jazz tune, but then twirls it back again, making an appreciative noise as a crooning female voice starts to spill from the speakers.

Satisfied with his find, he slouches back into the leather upholstery, eyes closed and an almost dream-like smile on his face.

From his spot in the driver’s seat, Michael goggles at him. “Seriously?”

“Michael Emerson, if the next words out of your mouth are that you don’t like Billie Holiday either, I’m leaving you at the next truck stop and you can find your own way back to Santa Carla. I don’t care how close to sunrise it is.”

The way his voice doesn’t falter when he says it brings Michael up short, making him think that it may be more than just an idle threat. (Not that Michael would let him leave him behind without a fight, but that’s beside the point).

Michael manages to keep his mouth shut for a cool twenty seconds, during which he watches David out of the corner of his eye. Watches as the bleached-blond, spiky-haired murderous vampire clad all in black - not a small amount of it leather, hell, there are spurs on his boots for Chrissakes - quietly enjoys the old-fashioned song. The disconnect between the image he presents and the one the song evokes makes Michael laugh. “Damn, what decade are you from, Old Man?”

“The seventies, Michael.”

Michael snorts, rolling his eyes. Not that David can see him with his own eyes enjoying the view behind their lids. “Yeah sure. You’re younger than me. Explains the occasional tendency to throw tantrums still.” 

“The eighteen-seventies, Michael.” David says, calm and cool and not at all joking.

Michael’s hands on the wheel jerk sideways in surprise, sending the car swerving over the line before he can yank it back where it belongs. David’s eyes crack open at the disturbance, leveling a glare at Michael, but he doesn’t react otherwise. “Seriously?”

David smirks at him, slipping the cigarette he had stowed behind his ear down and to his mouth. He doesn’t give Michael an answer, just flicks his lighter open and sets flame to the stick, puffing on the end to get it to light, and settles back into his seat, eyes half-closed.

Michael molls the unexpected tidbit of information over in the space between verses. One particular thought standing out in greater relief against the rest. “Shit…you’re older than my Grandpa. By a lot.”

“I am. And if you want to be too one day, shut it and let me enjoy the song!” 

It’s only the lingering shock of the information that keeps Michael quiet. It has nothing to do with the amber gleam in David’s eyes.

Really.

Besides, as far as old-as-sin songs go, it’s not half-bad. 

Starland Vocal Band “Afternoon Delight”

Approximately one point five seconds into the song, David’s hand meets Michael’s as they both reach for the dial. David growls, fangs dropping. “I will break your hand, your arm, and all your fingers if you try and stop me from changing the station, Michael.”

Michael’s hand raises up in the air in a placating gesture that David doesn’t trust. At all. “Hey! I was trying to change it too.”

“Sure you were.” David twists the dial, spinning it through endless seas of static and snowstorms and a whole lot of absolutely nothing else.  

“I was.” Michael’s voice is pleading, but there’s mischievous glint in his eyes that doesn’t match the sound.  

David gives him a sideways glare. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

Michael breathes out a heavy-handed sigh. “So little trust. And here I thought we’d really been getting somewhere this past year.”

David rolls his eyes. “You forfeited all rights to musical trust after that horrendous ‘Mamma Mia’ sing-along.

“Hey! First off, it was ‘Fernando’, and second: you enjoyed that. You were smiling. I saw you.”

“That was a defense mechanism, Michael.”

“Liar.”

Which is true, but David’s not about to admit it. So he ignores him, and stops the dial on a patch of white noise; settling back in his seat to enjoy the scratchy sound of absence.

Less than a minute of quiet passes between them before Michael’s hand inches for the radio. David’s voice is curated calm when he says: “Try me, Michael.” 

“Idle threat.”

“When have you ever known me to be idle, hmm?”

Michael scoffs, giving David a tilted smile that tells the elder vampire just how little Michael thinks of David’s threats. “Go ahead, tell me all the ways that you’re gonna torture me if I change the station. What’s it gonna be this time? Something more creative than holy water dipped knives, I hope?”

“You ever heard of ‘torpor,’ Michael?” David asks, dipping into the darker part of his psyche. To the blackened memories of his early life under Max’s so-called-care. Fully intending to shower Michael with the visual of being trapped - buried - deep beneath the earth in a impenetrable box, screaming for his maker to let him out. To let him go. Screaming until his throat runs dry, and the blood in his veins slows to a trickle. Skin gone paper-thin, and ashen. So desperate to be released that he’ll say anything. Do anything.

David doesn’t plan to exact such a punishment on Michael of course, but he’s not above a little mental torment. Especially not after being trapped in a car for two-hundred plus miles with Michael and his previously undocumented love of country music and disco.

But before David can so much as conjure up an image of a box or a handful of dirt, Michael frowns in his direction. “Don’t think so. That a New Wave group or something?”

A surprised bark of laughter bursts out of David, amused eyes latching onto Michael. “What? No, it’s-” He shakes his head, small peels of laughter leaking out of him as he does. David’s laughter grows in time with Michael’s confusion. The uncertain look upon the younger vampire’s face endearing to David in a way that it has no right to be.

David shakes his head, his plans to teach Michael a lesson forgotten. “You know what, never mind.”

A frown stays planted on Michael’s face for a while longer, the confusion fading at a snail’s pace. But he drops the subject, and the two of them drive on in silence. 

A silence that lasts for the length of time it takes Michael to forget why the radio was off in the first place.

But David hasn’t. So really, it’s Michael’s fault that David launches at him, teeth bared, and the car is sent skidding off the road.

At least there aren’t any guardrails to hit. 

And if the only casualty of the accident ends up being the radio, well, they were do for an upgrade anyway.

Preferably one with a cassette deck. 

~End

[saltys-writings]

Dancing Doll

Optional dancer bias

~ 2.7k words

Author’s note: I originally wrote this with Svt’s Jun in mind, but it works for other main/lead dancers too, so I decided to keep it optional bias~

Just as announced, my small appartment’s front door swings open right as I very ungracefully opened a bag of chips, scattering about half of them on my lap and the couch next to me. As I look up into my friend’s face, he doesn’t even stop for a second to laugh at me or mock me and he also doesn’t immediately collect the snacks off me to eat them himself. Instead he just plunges down on the sofa across me, letting out a sigh he must’ve been holding in for quite a while now, then leaning forward and taking his head in his hands.

“…what’s up?” I ask, stuffing a handful of chips into my mouth. The answer is another long sigh, him dropping his hands between his knees and giving my room a very annoyed look. I see a drop of sweat sitting on his forehead that he doesn’t even bother to wipe off. I pick up the chips that had fallen onto my pants and hold them out to him. “Want some?” He gives them a suspicious look, then stares into my eyes and I can finally tickle at least half a smile out of his not very friendly face. He takes the snacks from me and stuffs them into his mouth, leaning back and taking his sweet time to chew them.

“You know how to make me happy,” he finally lets me hear his voice.

“Glad I could heal you from being mute,” I joke. “Now what’s the matter?” I set aside the plastic bag with a rustling noise. His expression grows cold again and he lets his hand glide through his hair, brushing it back.

“The choreography…” He doesn’t need to say anymore for me to know what his bad mood is about. After all this has been going on for days now.

“Is your manager still not satisfied?”

“It’s not about our manager this time…” he sighs, “I’m just not feeling it, you know? I’ve been going over this same song so many times, always doing the same set of moves, adjusting only details. Because the others like the overall concept, but something kept feeling off…”

“And now you went over it so many times that you can’t tell anymore if it’s good or not?” I assume and he nods.

“That’s it. It started feeling dry a while ago…”

“Then why not take a break and dance something else for a while? And then a day or two later you dig out that song again and try the choreo once more.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he says and gets up, walking a few steps away, then after letting his hand quickly brush through his unkempt hair, throwing his head back. “You’re not an idol, you wouldn’t understand the stress that comes with people telling you to finish this choreography as soon as possible.” He turns his head to look at me. “Because that means they’d rather you serve it to them yesterday.”

“You’re not a superhuman though…” I argue with my very irritated friend. “Good things need time.”

“Well, I’m happy at least one of us can see things this relaxed,” he throws back. I huff.

“Then why are you here if you don’t have time to relax?” A pissed off look from his side tells me he did not appreciate my teasing.

“You’re right, I should leave,” he says and walks to the door, crouching down to put his shoes back on.

“No, no!” I call out to him and run after him, to which he gets back up.

“I thought I might be able to clear my head here, or even find some inspiration…” With a smile he adds, “But it seems like you just want to take out your frustrations about the torn chips pack on me and chase me away.” I can’t hold back a laugh.

“Yeah, that’s definitely what this is.” He joins in on the laughter, though a little less enthusiastic than me and I earn a ruffle over my head by him, to which I playfully complain about him ‘messing up my hair’ – which was already kind of a mess to begin with.

“What kind of dance is it even?” I ask. We have talked about this before and I know the song he’s using, but I’ve never seen more than a glimpse of the whole performance.

“It’s kind of a couple dance,” he explains.

“Kind of? Maybe… I can help with that?” I offer, but get flustered immediately by the surprised look on his face. “I mean! I’m not a dancer obviously so… I doubt I can do much…” He cuts me off.

“No, this might actually work. I haven’t thought about trying it out with another person yet…”

“…but I thought it was a couple dance?”

“Well… kind of. Have you listened to the lyrics of the song closely?” I shake my head.

“I haven’t really studied them…”

“The song’s about someone chasing a woman so beautiful, he thinks she’s more like a doll than a human. That’s why in the finished performance, there is supposed to be a female person on stage, but she doesn’t really move, since she portrays that doll-like beauty.”

“Oh!” I exclaim, a scene of what the finished stage might be like forming before my inner eye. “That sounds… tricky to create.” He lets out a tired laugh.

“That’s what I’ve been saying the past few days…”

“But how can I help with that then?”

“Up until now I’ve only imagined the girl standing there… the feeling might change if there is actually a pretty woman in the room, and I get to seduce her with my dancing.” I hit him in embarrassment.

“Stop spitting such cheesy lines!” I yell at him, before we leave and he takes me back to the company building, taking the backdoor to the practice rooms, just to be sure nobody sees him letting in a female from outside of the company. Not that it would be a problem for his higher-ups, but other fans that have his group under surveillance 24/7 might misinterpret. As we enter the broad room with the mirrors spread along one wall and I close the door behind me, he quickly stretches, then puts on the song and stares at himself in the mirror, his foot tapping to the music.

“Aren’t you… going to do anything?” I dare ask after watching the awkward scene for a while.

“I’m seeing if I can implement a different move-set in the middle. So I like to just visualize the dance first to find out if it would work on a stage,” he explains without paying me a single look, closing his eyes. After passing the bridge of the song, he gestures for me to come to where he’s standing. Taking me by the shoulders he leads me away from the middle of the room, placing me a bit to the right.

“Do I need to do anything special?” I ask.

“Just keep standing there, and play along when I lead your arms somewhere.”

“…you’re not gonna lift me up though, are you?” As he walks over to the equipment to restart the song, he shoots me a smile over his shoulder, winking at me.

“At least I’m not planning to!” Suddenly feeling a little uneasy, I collect myself to calm down. I can’t exactly be of much help if I’m a nervous wreck, can I? …Why am I even so nervous about this? As the music sets in and he starts approaching me with swift moves, carrying a whole different energy to him than just a second ago, I realize why I’m so tense. Even when he’s not on stage, as soon as he switches to performer-mode, his presence is… overwhelming. Watching his every move, the way he sets one step after the other securely, emitting a strong energy while still remaining graceful at the same time, I get sucked into that space he seems to be creating just for the two of us to retell the story of the song in his own way. I hold my breath when he suddenly stands next to me and I slowly lift my head to look at our frames in the mirror – his every muscle visibly tense, ready for the next sharp move at any second, while I just stand there, kinda limp, pulling back my shoulders which only makes me seem even more awkward. I see his hand touching mine, his fingers walking up my arm, reaching my chin and lifting it up, turning my head so I’m forced to face him.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t ask if you were okay with me touching you like this,” he mumbles over the beat of the song, his eyes glued to my lips. In a haze I just stare back at him for a few seconds, unable to answer until he moves to my other side, breaking the physical connection.

“I-it’s okay,” I respond, still a little flustered. I didn’t think this would be so intense… then again – what did I even expect? Looking back up into the mirror to see him take a step towards me, eyes still fixated on me, I watch as he slowly incorporates me into the piece of art he is aiming to create with his body. Focusing hard to keep my mouth from gaping, I hold my breath once again as he suddenly stands behind me, taking a hold of my hand and lifting it in the air as if I was his most precious treasure. I need to mentally kick myself out of falling into that feeling. No, this is just acting, got it? He takes a spin away from me, only to come back, his face so close to my arm, I am getting ready for him to kiss his way up to my shoulder. My eyes meet his and a certain passion arises in my stomach, that I can no longer stop. Him breaking off the eye-contact is followed by his arms embracing me from behind, creating an electric atmosphere in the room that I have never felt before. I proceed watching us in the mirror, longing for more surprises, more of those sharp, beautiful moves. His head comes dangerously close to my neck and through the reflection he now stares into my eyes. His breathing suddenly seems louder than the music surrounding us and I swallow heavily.

“Is this all part of the dance…?” I dare not speak louder than a whisper, and his answer comes in about the same volume.

“It wasn’t up until now…” he says. “But I can stop here if it’s too much for you.” With those words and without waiting for my answer, he removes himself, continuing the dance next to me, where I feel nothing of him but the air strongly being whirled around by his movements. I watch his reflection that is still staring back at me and mouth the words “come back”. As if he hasn’t already seemed like a completely different person than usual, I feel like that flicked a switch within him and he comes up to me, the back of his hand gliding over the side of my face, to then gain a strong grip on my chin, further closing the distance between us. Again, his eyes land on my lips and he lets out a breath through his mouth. As we stay in that position for a few seconds, I gather my courage to ask the question that’s been circling in my head time and time again.

“This… was never just about friendship, was it?” Without hesitating, he gives me a short, but clear answer.

“No.” He looks into my eyes and I feel like I’m being sucked into that warm brown color of his pupils. My mind blank, I reach out behind his neck to have him bow down to me, our lips meeting for a second before he breaks the kiss, searching my eyes for some kind of signal of wanting him to stop. However, the thought that we could stop hasn’t even crossed my mind, and our lips meet again, quickly deepening the kiss. We stumble backwards and separate for a second to catch a breath, before I feel his hands glide down my back and over my butt, to grab my thighs and lift me up, while I put my arms around his shoulders. He keeps walking, until I roughly meet the wall behind me, gasping. His face disappears in my neck, continuing to kiss me there.

“I’ve waited so long for this…” he whispers. The next moment I feel his teeth against my skin, pulling him just a little closer in response. I knew this was going to happen at some point… My hand finds its way up his hair, tugging at it so he throws his head back, exposing his neck, but closing the distance between us too fast for me to return the favor of placing a mark onto his skin. As if he knew what I was up to, he grins at me.

“What if the fans see…?” he breathes with a spark in his eyes that almost makes me think he is challenging me. I wriggle in his hold for him to let me down and drop to my knees, my hand gliding up his abdomen and lifting up his shirt in the process.

“But they won’t see here, will they?” I shoot him a cheeky look before placing my lips right next to his hip bone, feeling him twitch under my touch, before I start sucking on his skin, watching how his facial expression slightly changes and his hand lands on top of my head, burying his fingers in my hair. The song has stopped by now and the room has become silent, the only sounds filling it being our breathing and the moan that escapes him as I dig my teeth into him. Before I move back to look at the mark I gave him, I make sure to lick over it and place a gentle kiss on the spot to reduce any pain caused. Smiling in satisfaction, I let his shirt drop and get up. He watches my every move with hungry eyes, just getting ready to slam me against the wall again, when he suddenly stops and turns around, the door opening mere seconds later. A staff member walks in and makes eye contact with him.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were practicing here. Sorry for the interruption.”

“Ah, no, it’s fine, what did you need?” While I try to calm down my breathing, the staff member asks him about some of his group members and if he knew where they went. When he finally managed to shoo the other person away, he drops his shoulders and lets out a huge sigh, shooting me a certain look and we both start laughing.

“God that was close…” he says.

“What if he had walked in a minute earlier?” I exclaim, running up to him and hugging him, laughing in relief.

“I have no idea,” he answers while patting the top of my head, before drawing back to get a proper look at my face. “Does this mean… you like me back?” Suddenly the atmosphere becomes serious.

“Well, you’re not a bad guy I suppose,” I say, shrugging, and he spins me around faster than I can comprehend what’s going on, having me watch him immobilizing me in the mirror, placing his head on my shoulder and holding my hands behind my back.

“And now I want an honest answer, or I’m starting the dance again – this time with more self-control and more teasing,” he whispers and despite the shiver of excitement running down my spine, I retort,

“As if self-control and you was a thing when it comes to me…” He lets out a laugh.

“I can’t exactly admit you’re right here, can I?” I shake my head and he lets go of my hands, which I immediately make use of by spinning around and wrapping my arms around his neck. Despite the danger of yet another person walking in and disturbing us, I get on tiptoes to place a kiss on his lips, unable to hold back a smile. I whisper my response while we part for a second.

“Yes. I like you too.” Then I playfully hit his shoulder and shove him a little closer to the mirror. “And now do something! You have a choreography to finish, right?”

[grell-writes-stuff]

I finished chapter 28 and I’m posting it here because I did so many bad things

Tag List: @fenfaerie @arieswriting

I spent the week avoiding my phone as much as possible, and immediately deleting any notifications that popped up from that group chat. To keep it all confined to that forbidden, digital space, I tried to distance myself from the guys at school. Kelley had a lot to say about that yesterday.

“Do I have to bribe you into doing stuff?”

“Using what?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far yet. Maybe I just need to start smacking you with a newspaper until you do the thing that I want you to do.”

“You said we’re not hitting people.”

“I said you aren’t hitting people. I have free rein to do whatever is best for your health, and, at this point, I’m thinking of getting a little spray bottle–”

“Seriously?”

“You’re like a misbehaving cat, and I’m training you to stay off the kitchen table.”

She let up when I told her what my plans were for today.

At around six, I receive the “Here” text from Cole as his Cherokee rolls into our driveway behind – avoidance – something that I decide not to think about. Not today. For the sake of getting through this jam session and keeping it a good day, I can’t let myself focus on anything except drumming. That’s it. Nothing else.

That’s also why I slip my headphones in before leaving the house. I don’t have any music playing, but it keeps the ride to West Hills quiet – with the exception of Cole’s screamo. I say a polite “hey” to him and Matt, but that’s about it.

In approximately fifteen minutes, we’re pulling into the Mechis’ driveway next to a sleek, black Lexus that I refuse to look at. I don’t notice it, or the person walking from it to the entrance to the garage. I wedge a broom through the handle, because I refuse to open that door in my mind and let the memory of the screaming match ruin this day. Frankly, I’m determined to block out her shrill voice in whatever way I can. I fight against the ever-present urge to give myself tinnitus.

The three of us get out of Cole’s car, and I hang back for a moment as they grab their guitars. Together, we enter the garage, and I tug out my earbuds.

I swallow back the lump in my throat, but that’s tough when my windpipe is constricted.

It’s such a familiar place. It used to be comforting, but now it feels tainted and hollow. The old, duct-taped couches that are falling apart seem like dusty relics of some long-forgotten past for which I am the sole historian. The boxes of Full Stop. merch lying around feel like clutter now instead of a celebration and achievement, like some ancient memorabilia that no one will ever purchase, not even the most dedicated collectors. The band binder is still just hanging on by a thread, but it feels like it’s already exploded and setlists and notes are paper shrapnel raining down from the sky. My drum kit feels like a foreign technology that I don’t understand. This room is infested with age. It’s an abandoned ghost town, and I feel haunted.

As we enter, Bryson greets me. Cole and Matt say hi back, but I’m still finding it hard to make words, so I just nod and try to put my attention elsewhere. I try to remember the workings of my setup. I’ve been visualizing the placement of cymbals, and toms, and the kickdrum while I’ve been recovering. I know where everything is. I can figure out how I’d once played music on this strange contraption again. Maybe someday it’ll feel the same.

I head to one of the sofas as Matt and Cole go about tuning their instruments.

And I ignore the screeches that she calls vocal warmups. In fact, I do everything within my power to forget her presence all together.

“Okay,” Bryson interrupts after a few minutes have passed. In that time, I’d listened to the twangs of the guitar and bass, and not her shrieks into the microphone. “I guess we can start.”

Since we don’t have a gig lined up, and this is just an unofficial jam session for something like fun, there’s a difference in his tone. It’s not as desperate. That’s probably a good thing. He’s not stressed, and there’s less pressure on us to be perfect. We’ll be far from it. The walking boot on my leg acts as a constant reminder of that fact as I rise and move over to my kit.

“We’ll probably be a bit rusty,” he elaborates. “But everyone just try your best. We don’t have to sound filled-out. Just let us know if you need a break, Scott.” He gestures to my leg, to the boot.

I nod. There was no hope of us sounding full anyway, and I haven’t tried drumming with a cast ever, but I doubt it will help my limb coordination and timing, and it probably won’t feel too great after a while, so I’ll definitely be off. And we’re painfully lacking in guitars, but I force that thought out of my mind.

I don’t purposefully bump into her shoulder as I pass. It’s easier to pretend she’s not there – that she’s not even furniture – rather than acknowledging her as an obstacle.

“All right. So, Scott?” Bryson says to grab my attention. Once I’m sat on my stool behind my setup, I look at him. It’s tough to define what’s in his expression, but his words are rather transparent. I didn’t text him back at all the past few days and he knows that was a deliberate choice. “We all picked songs this week that we want to run today, and, after that, we’ll focus on originals, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Cole wants to run Ocean Avenue – so we’ll start there – and Selena picked Told You So.”

Of course it’s a Paramore song. Of course it is.

“Matt chose You Think You Know It All by Red As Dusk. What’s your pick?”

It takes me a second longer than normal to peruse my mental music library because now it’s shrunk in size, and so many songs have been filed away and are now off-limits. Kelley’s suggestions are background noise as I search the stacks. Purge the excess negative energy. Purge the anger. Hitting my sticks against my drums will help, but only if I can find a way to throw everything that I possibly can into it. It’s a good thing that I’m battling rage because those tracks are the safe ones now, and anything rebellious will do.

“The Anthem – Good Charlotte.”

Bryson gives me a brief nod, but that’s ruined immediately. Every hair on my body seems to rise in defense.

“Um, I don’t know that one!” It’s her sharp voice speaking, and I shove my earplugs in to filter out some of the volume and annoyance. “I would have learned it if you’d picked sooner.”

“Sucks to be you!” It slips out of me, and I realize that means I’ve broken my vow for the day, and now Selena’s materialized in the garage, and my glare lands on her, which she matches with one of her own. In my peripheral, the rest of the guys look like they’re getting ready to break up the resulting physical fistfight that seems to be inevitable.

But that will get me in trouble in some way. I know it for a fact. I’ve already reacted, so retreating is tough, but I grapple for a way to deescalate.

“I’ll fucking sing it then. Why does it even need lyrics anyway? It just needs to be cynical and loud.” My fingers clamp around my sticks, the tools that will help me feel better and prevent me from punching her square in her contoured cheek.

“You just want Vikki to come in here and yell at us again, don’t you?” Bryson asks, deadpan, probably so Selena doesn’t have a chance to retaliate.

“Yes,” says Cole.

“Oh, my God,” he sighs. “Really, Cole?”

“Dude, I can’t be the only one who’s told you that your sister is hot.”

“She’s hot,” Matt agrees.

“See? Verdict’s in: she’s hot.”

“Why am I friends with you?” That knocks the desperation back into his tone, and it almost feels like a normal detour from practicing. Like we have a gig soon, but we’re all screwing around, and Bryson’s the only one with a sense of urgency and deadlines. I almost make myself savour it. “Can we just start the song? Please? Just play the fucking song?”

At that, Cole shrugs slightly, and his gaze sweeps over us to find confirmation. I signal back, my limbs still humming with everything I had to repress a second ago. They’re vibrating with the need to get it out, and I feel ready to drum to release it all before it boils my blood. She injected the steam into my veins and it wants out.

When everyone’s ready, Cole’s guitar plays the chugging, palm-muted intro to Ocean Avenue. Finally, my sticks hit and my foot stomps the kickdrum’s pedal. Matt’s bass fills it out a little bit, but we still sound empty. We’ve played this track before, but it doesn’t sound anything like it used to when it came out of our instruments. Selena’s unstable voice wails without a care, and I try to block it out and focus on my drumming so I don’t sound so off even though I totally am.

My limb coordination is flawed because the boot is throwing off my time-keeping and I haven’t put my formerly-sprained wrist to much work until now. I knew that I wouldn’t be perfect, but it’s bugging me nevertheless. My brain is telling me that it shouldn’t be like this. As a whole, we should sound better. My limbs shouldn’t feel so stiff as if I were a marble statue, as if I’m turning to stone. I hope for a second where I get the chance to shake it off, except–

Except my throat has a tight knot in it, and it hastily, heavily drops down into my chest. It’s so sudden and strange, but I feel something stirring and then curdling within me, rising up and bubbling through every artery before solidifying into a heavy, black mass that weighs down my arms. I remember a moment too late that I should be breathing, and I only accomplish that because I haven’t been taking in air and it already feels like my lungs have been set on fire after being filled with concrete, so it’s tough to shove into my subconscious. My eyes are stinging so bad that I can’t see my sticks where they rest in my shaking hands. The knot launches itself up from my chest and I feel like I have to gag. My pulmonary function fails and I become as empty as the music that falls silent.

Not all at once. It dies off in pieces, but I stop first, right at the start of the chorus. Then, everyone else cuts off too. The sticks slip through my loose fingers, but I barely hear them hit the hard floor with a soft clatter because a song is echoing in my mind now, and it’s not Ocean Avenue.

But it’s close. Too close. Ahead of me, I see blurs.

But also, an endless horizon of blue.

“Scott?”

Bryson’s voice penetrates my earplugs, but it still sounds twenty-thousand feet away from me. My mouth feels like it’s been filled with sand, and my stomach hurts, and everything is blocked by the firm, congealed sludge living inside of me. My hands are caught up in earthquakes, and I hear my hollow attempts to breathe as something between gasps and augmenting sobs.

I suddenly feel his hand on my shoulder and I don’t know how because his touch is light and everything is hot and numb.

“Are you okay?” he asks in a distorted voice.

No. I’m not. I’m not okay, but I can’t speak to lie and say that I’m fine, or to, for once, tell the truth. My mind is not a blank whiteboard. Instead, someone has written lyrics on it in permanent marker, and now the words are tormenting me along with dark chords, and a frantic, panicking drum beat that’s pounding against my skull.

“What’s wrong, Scott?” One of them questions me. I can’t even tell which one of them it is anymore. Matt, I think. Maybe.

I want to throw up. Or I need to. Or I just need to take in air. Any fucking air at all. Before everything finally shuts down, I have to get it out. Quavering. Quiet.

“Yellowcard.”

There’s some silence. Or it would be, but my ears are ringing, and my cheeks feel wet. After a few hundred, frenzied heartbeats, Bryson stiffens beside me, which I know because the hand that’s on my shoulder is attached to a body that I feel go rigid. His voice mingles with the deafening tone and my tears, and I hate how horrified and sorry it sounds. How lost and guilt-ridden it is.

“I was playing Lights And Sounds when they jumped…”

It’s not even the same fucking song! So what?! I’m just never going to be able to listen to Yellowcard again?! Because now they are tainted with tragedy and I’ll always remember in some crevice of my mind that that stupid song was playing, and I can almost feel our arms locked, and the salty breeze as it all rushes up ahead of us–

“Shit, man. I-I’m sorry.” I hear Cole say, and I hate the way that it sounds too because he shouldn’t have to apologize. “I didn’t know–”

I can’t even tell him to stop because I won’t be able to make any words, and I can’t breathe. Nothing’s going in and reaching my burning lungs even though I’m gasping for it. It’s not his fault, but those words stop on my tongue. It isn’t Cole’s fault. He doesn’t have to say sorry. He was in the water. He couldn’t have heard it. It’s not Cole’s fault. It’s not Matt’s fault. It’s not Bryson’s fault.

Because maybe it’s mine. We did it together, and one of us tripped, and what if it was me? Maybe if we hadn’t jumped at the same time, things would be different. He would be here, and this would be a practice for a gig instead of a failed jam session, and his guitar would have filled out Full Stop. and we would feel like Full Stop., and I wouldn’t be breaking down over a fucking Yellowcard song! But it’s too late now, and it’s all my fault.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Fuck it! Move!”

Such a loud voice that slices through my earplugs like a razor blade and splits the air with the shrill metal sound of an axe hammering down. If I wasn’t shaking so terribly, I’d flinch at it because it hurts, but it also makes every trembling muscle inside of me tense painfully.

It’s sudden, but Bryson’s hand withdraws quick, and my vision finally goes dark, and then talons dig into my flesh and sear it, and I’m yanked up violently to the sounds of muffled protests surrounding us. My own laboured, raspy, wailing gasps rise above the guys as I try to bring in anything at all, but it turns out to just be another futile attempt because there’s not enough air in the atmosphere to keep me alive.

My skin burns where fingernails dig in and inflict agony like they’re steel nails instead, and I don’t know how I stumble when my legs have turned to rubber, and my feet feel weighted down. I could crumble and snap and break at any moment like a building ready to topple. All the retentions are groaning, the supports failing, and I’m about to fall, and I can’t fucking breathe!

There are bewildered and demanding words coming from the dark blurs around me, and I try to blink the water away, but it’s coming too fast. Only one forceful voice has the volume to rise above, and it’s almost clear, and so close to me, and shoving me harshly as if the sound itself has become a physical entity, and it’s so damn annoying. It pushes and pulls me, and I’m running out of the strength to fight it because everything I have left is trying to suppress the bile gathering in my stomach and threatening my useless esophagus.

Then everything is bright, like the sun on that horrible, unsuspecting day. I’d say I feel blinded by it, but I didn’t see anything before anyway. There’s more forced stumbling and a muddling of voices and sounds. Another rises over them, so loud, and shrill, yet it can never hit the notes it sets out to despite always trying to rise at the end of every line.

“Get in,” it demands.

“Selena, what the fuck are you doing?!” Bryson. I think it’s Bryson. It sounds kind of like Bryson, but so far away.

I think there’s a response, but I’m trapped in a fishbowl and everything is half muted. I’m sitting, and all I hear before someone else speaks is a loud slam right beside me. Then there’s something that sounds like angry arguing, but I can’t make it out because my thundering heartbeat and broken lungs are trying to kill me. Another harsh slam, then a jingle, sputter, and hum, and then the whole world lurches forward.

And my gut lurches forward and upwards again, and that forces the blackness clouding my eyes to dissolve into dizzy, sparkling fragments. I barely have the air to heave, but I manage to start gagging, rocking forward in my leather seat, and then her voice shrieks:

“Don’t you fucking dare puke in my car!”

I’m in Selena Walton’s stupid, expensive Lexus. There’s that small, sane part of me clinging to the thought that blowing chunks inside of her Lexus is a bigger fuck you to her than smearing Vaseline on the door handle, but it’s microscopic because the acidic needles of the bile are pricking the base of my empty windpipe, and it’s so fucking hot in here, and no matter how much blinking I do everything is blurry, and those lyrics are stuck in my mind.

“But make it loud, cause nobody’s there.”

Nobody’s there.

He’s not there. He’s not here. One. I’m alone in the chapel with a monument to destruction, the end of an era. Two. Together, we jump. Three. My leg feels like it’s been severed. Four. My head has exploded. Five. I shatter into pieces. Six. I’m gripping the porcelain sides of a bathroom sink to keep from falling. Seven. In the nightmares, I’m falling. Falling, falling, falling. Eight. I’m suffocated by the emptiness of a black abyss and closed-in walls of my bedroom without him in it. Nine. The futon is in couch mode. And that’s not ever going to change again. Ten. There’s not enough air, but I can’t seem to drown. Eleven. We hit the ledge over half-way down a thirty-foot fall, and it was all my fault. He’s gone, and I should have gone with him, but I didn’t and he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone – You’re never going to get rid of me, Morgan – and why can’t I fucking breathe–

And then something unimaginable happens.

It’s fast, unpredictable, and unprompted, and my boiled blood becomes lava because the second I realize what’s going on, I am furious.

Her arm smacks into and lays across my chest and pushes me back harshly against the seat, pinning me. She’s leaned over the console in the middle with her other hand still stretched to hold the wheel, but I only notice that after the fact, and it’s still not the most terrifying thing. My tear-blinded eyes go wide, and probably vault out of my skull like a cartoon because this is a new kind of unwelcome proximity.

Her lips are on my lips. She kisses me with her greasy, scalding, obnoxious, red mouth and suddenly my trembling limbs freeze in place. The world pauses for a second – or it feels like it except she’s also fucking driving in West Hills, which is just as uneven and winding as Woodland Hills and Bryson’s street is no exception, and her fucking foot must be pressing the accelerator to the floor.

But I am less focused on fearing for my life and more focused on the fact that I have now kissed Selena fucking Walton.

“What the FUCK?!”

[queensofrap]

The Year of Cardi B - She went from stripping to becoming the breakout star of 2017. So what's she worried about?

Cardi B is butt-naked in the doorway of her hotel bathroom, yelling about her vagina. On a mid-October evening, she's readying herself for a college show in Baltimore, and the toiletries provided by the hotel aren't to her liking. "That soap gave me the yeast infection of 2017!" she hollers in her thick Bronx accent. "My pussy was burnin' like a Mexican taco!"

It takes all of 10 seconds in Cardi B's presence to be reminded of the sheer force and hilarity of her personality. Simply being Cardi B, at maximum volume, made her a star – first on Instagram, then on the VH1 reality show Love & Hip-Hop: New York – before she'd recorded any music at all, let alone knocked Taylor Swift from the top of the pop charts with the sly swagger of her single "Bodak Yellow." She is the people's diva – or "the strip-club Mariah Carey," as she once rapped – unfiltered in a way the world often doesn't allow female stars to be. In a culture reshaped by streaming and social media, where the kids, without much corporate nudging, get to decide who the stars are, Cardi B is what you get.

Yesterday, Cardi turned 25.
 She took a rare day off, hanging
 with her entire family – sister, parents, cousins – at her mother's house. But she missed her boyfriend (now fiancé), Offset of Migos, who was touring in Australia. "I was sad, because it's like, 'Oh, my gosh, I'm not getting no dick on my birthday,'" says Cardi, whose bedazzled acrylic nails are decorated with tiny reproductions of Offset paparazzi shots. "But I wasn't going to get dick on my birthday anyway, because I got my period."

She finds a cleanser she can deal with and hops into the shower, before slipping into a bright-red spacesuit-inspired Milano di Rouge jumpsuit, complete with a yellow patch that reads "Safe sex saves lives," part of the designer's anti-HIV initiative. She glances at it and arches her eyebrows. "Girl," she says, "I don't even use a condom."

It may not seem like it, but this is actually a newer, more cautious Cardi B. After a few social-media controversies – including when she was justly called out for a since-deleted tweet that referred to Kim Jong Un as "Won Tung Soup" – she is trying to learn to hold back a bit. "I used to tell myself that I will always be myself," she says. But she worries that she's going back on that vow. "Little by little, I'm feeling like I'm getting trapped and muted."

Her life is changing fast. She put out her first mixtape, Gangsta Bitch Music, Vol. 1, in March last year, back when she was still Love & Hip-Hop's breakout star. It was a gloriously raw and raunchy introduction that cashed in on her TV catchphrases with songs like "Washpoppin'" and "Foreva." She released Vol. 2 in January this year, five months before announcing a major-label contract with Atlantic Records.

In June came "Bodak Yellow," named in homage to Florida rapper Kodak Black, whose song "No Flockin'" inspired its flow. "Bodak Yellow" is an unlikely Number One: a tough trap song with zero concessions to the mainstream, or even anything like a conventional pop hook. In a year when the youth power of streaming services, which now count toward chart positions, is changing the very meaning of pop, she's become the first female rapper to score a solo Number One since Lauryn Hill in 1998. Not bad for someone who initially pursued rapping as a way to monetize her reality fame. ("I said, 'TV don't make you rich,'" recalls her manager, Shaft, who once produced Lil' Kim. "'You gotta sell something! Waist trainers, hair, something.'")

The pressure is building. Her once-carefree social-media presence has drifted toward moody reflections about the downsides of fame. She's stressed about creating a debut album – the very word "album" makes her wince – that can live up to "Bodak Yellow" and the best of her mixtape tracks, not to mention the challenge of creating singles that can keep her on the charts and avoid one-hit-wonderdom. There is a chorus of doubters in her head, she acknowledges, and it sounds something like this: "Can she make another hit, can she make another hit?"

She fears failure, and paints a vivid picture of what it might look like: "If you go broke and lose your career, it's bad – and everybody is talkin' shit about it! At least if you lose your 9-to-5 you don't got millions of people judging you and talking shit while you lost your job."

Seven years ago, Cardi B was convinced she'd already failed at life. To please her mom, she was studying at a Manhattan community college with plans to become a history teacher. Born Belcalis Almanzar, she'd grown up in the Bronx's Highbridge neighborhood, and she was struggling to survive financially on her own. "It was just very sad," she says, uncharacteristically subdued. She's in the back seat of a black SUV on her way to a performance at Baltimore's Morgan State University, and the college setting is bringing back memories. "It was very frustrating – you have to pay for everything. When I finally got a job at Amish Market, I had to debate, 'Do I wanna go to class or do I wanna finish my shift?'"

She dropped out after two semesters, and soon took up stripping – a career move helpfully suggested by her Amish Market boss. "A lot of people wonder, 'Why would anybody want to be a dancer?'" she says. "Because there's money!" She used some of her stripping cash to briefly return to school. "I kept missing classes," she says, "and quit because I felt like I was already failing. It was such a disappointment."

Her strict Trinidadian mother worked seven days a week at a local college; her Dominican father, who separated from her mom when Cardi was 13, was "the cool parent," she says. For Cardi, his experience doing "different things in the streets" was a cautionary tale. "That's why I be so careful with my money and always try to invest. I see people who have it all and then lose it."

As a kid, Cardi had a sense that she was destined to do something creative, which led her to a performing-arts school on the Bronx's east side. She tried acting and singing (though she was convinced all of her classmates were better), wrote some poetry. But she'd also crack up friends and boyfriends by rewriting songs by, say, Beyoncé to make them "waaay sluttier." That hobby caught Shaft's attention years later, leading him to encourage her to pursue rapping seriously.

Until then, Cardi B relied on her abilities to charm and to hustle to pay the bills. And it worked: She quickly broke 100,000 Instagram followers in her strip-club days, expanding outward from her loyal customers, mostly on the strength of playful videos – "sucking dick" and scamming men were favored topics.

After Shaft suggested rapping, he began making beats for her at home, and helped her find a lyrical voice that matched the charm of her delivery.

But Cardi – who calls herself "a negative person" – had to overcome her own skepticism. She thought hard about her subject matter (her first single: "Stripper Hoe"), determined to defy haters "expecting me to drop something trash. It just made me, like, 'Aha, I gotta study these other rappers,'" she says. "Study how to do something different from them. You know all these female rappers, they talking about they money, they talking about they cars, so it's like, what's something that I enjoy? I enjoy fights!"

A few hours after the show, Cardi B is back in her hotel room, still wearing her red jumpsuit. She's curled up in the bed, blankets piled on top of her, talking about the future in a tone that's almost resigned. "I cannot turn my life back around," she muses. "I'm already a public figure, I'm famous. … It's like, I might as well keep it going, might as well make the money. People are always going to talk shit – I cannot make myself unfamous."

She's faced an impressively varied set of criticisms and unsolicited opinions. She's been accused of not being a real lyricist ("I'm not trying to be"); of somehow "not being black" because of her Latina heritage and light skin ("It gets to the point that you ask yourself, 'Damn, what the fuck am I?'"); of sleeping her way to the top ("I always had sex appeal – and niggas still give me a hard time"). The rapper Azealia Banks has quarreled with her, but Cardi B has tried hard not to play into the narrative that female rappers can't get along. "It's not even the female rappers that are catty, it's the fans," she says. "They just want that beef."

Her in-progress album is never far from her thoughts. "I got six, seven solid songs that I like, but I wonder if a month from now, I'm going to change my mind." All the looming expectations, she admits, are making it harder to come up with songs. "It's not as fun to do music," she says. "My mind doesn't flow as free 'cause I have so much on my mind."

She's aiming to mix the Spanish and reggae music of her youth with the trap sound that's inescapable at the moment, putting in late nights with her "Bodak Yellow" producer, J. White, and dancehall specialist Rvssian. She freely acknowledges she's chasing hits. "It's so sad to say, and I don't want to be the one to say it, but you gotta follow the trend," she says. "This generation loves to get high. They love to be on drugs. This is why they on that shit: They don't want to think about what you're saying."

She cites Kendrick Lamar and J. Cole as rappers who still write brilliant, conscious lyrics – some part of her might want to try to follow suit, but she feels like she couldn't get away with it. "A bitch like me, it might not work out for me," she says, "so I'm going to stick to trapping."

It's barely past midnight in Cardi's hotel room, and she is already exhausted. "I'm an old-ass girl now," she says with a sigh, head on a pillow. For all her outrageousness – she finished her show tonight by hopping offstage and twerking in the audience – she's not much of a partier. She stopped smoking weed at 21 because it interfered with her increasing fame and accompanying schedule. She had taken Molly as a confidence booster before stripping but doesn't need it anymore. She rarely drinks. "If I drink," she says, "it's like, my man is gonna be around, and I'm gonna have sex."

She's been with Offset since a chance meeting with him in New York in February – just after Migos scored their own Number One with "Bad and Boujee." "We polish each other," she says, noting they confer on music-biz questions. "I could always ask him, 'Do you think this is OK to do? Do you think I'm getting tricked?'"

She hasn’t been shy about the ups and downs in her relationship with Offset, like the night in October when she seemed to break up and make up with him on Instagram in the course of several hours. She also hasn’t been shy about her intentions to marry him — and, a few days before Halloween, Offset made her dreams come true, popping the question at a Philly concert with a raindrop-shaped ring. She knows she wants to have a family. "I need to make money for my family and my future family," she says. "I'm not a YOLO person. I think 25 years from now. I think about my future kids, future husband, future house."

And where exactly will she be in 25 years? She smiles dreamily, and says, "I see myself cursin' at my kids."