#unsyncopated

[ecjxuulv8zm4j]

Tall Hairy Ebony Group Sex Watching Couple Girlfriend Records Plays with Balls Going Deep in Bush Huge black dick for this little white blonde girl Ashley Morgan who loves anal fucking and cum Massive BBC to big black ass Real Amateur fuck with Pornstar Lexi Aaane Indian girl selfie with boyfriend Rimmed bigbooty babe gets doggystyled Pervert russian bitch (Periscope, SnapChat, BigoLive) Morrita de secundaria excitada سکس با خواهر زن Japanese Femdom Ejaculation is managed in the chastity belt

#ureteric #Copernicanism #amphoriskos #unsyncopated #setula #Heteromyaria #squishes #mends #unproscribed #sporiparity #gauzy #Egyptologic #world-adorning #haltere #aerate #nonsupplemental #Chamisal #unoffset #Chasse #nonbelligerency

[dreadful-windandrain]

listened to the real will wood album three times yesterday. here are my thoughts:

am i being detaIIIIIIIIINED? am i under arrest?? (yes!)

"this is a song written by a dead guy" the implications..........

unsyncopate cotard's solution right this fucking second

the transition into dr sunshine lives is SO GOOD

was it when i left the cave and swore i'd. NEVER GO BACK!!!!!!!

how did he make white knuckle jerk hornier. what's with the moans. and why do i like it better than the original.

HEART BLUER THAN MY b-b-b-b-bbbbbaaaaa~a~LLLLLS!

the weird voices he uses in thermodynamic lawyer sure were a choice

fucking ADORE front street live. even better than the original and my favorite off of this album. literally just. the tempo changes. "if you're not on your worst behavior... get the fuck out!" "is this shit enough proof for you?" "give us all that fucking osmosis! oh, yeah!!" "sing it with me you fuckers!". he made a villian song sound even more evil. wtf and well done

i trusted you i trusted you i trusted you i trusted you i tru

the long ass intro for hand me my [x], i'm [y]! is fabulous. the anticipation!!!

the tempo is also faster here than the original which is awesome but overstimulating as hell when the second half of the bridge hits

take it away, creeps

here's a song *first chord of 2012*

by retracing myyyyyyyyyyyyyyy ste-epppppppppp pssssssssss

the guitar riff that starts mr capgras makes my brain perk up like a bluetooth speaker being connected

FUCKING HURT EACH OTHER! COME ON!!!!

yet another banger intro! the latter half of this album does not miss!

can we drop this shit? i wanna see you at each other's throats, man, make some fucking noise. one two three oh YEAAAAAAAH

the transition here also. magical.

i definitely didn't almost cry at the end of fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva when the tempo slowed down and everyone was vocalizing

-ish is so fucking underrated oh my GOD you people don't talk about it enough

the people who sang "myself again" after "and i'm gonna be"...... read the room

the new harmonies on where do you get off, front street, and mr capgras give me life

overall i love it but i do believe that ww didn't sing the song with five names to spite me personally. he did sing it on in case i die but still. you don't know how much tax fraud i would commit to hear it live with a full band

#will wood #will wood and the tapeworms #wwattw #the real will wood #wii woo #wee woo #ren's rambles

[ukfrislandembassy]

Frislandic Phonology and Orthography

Right, let's begin this series on what Frislandic looks like now. We'll start with rhe bit which will hopefully make the examples in the followonf sections at least pronouncable: the phonology and orthography. The next post will be historical and dialectal notes which will hopefully make what I'll describe below more transparent.

If I was asked to give a 'phoneme inventory' (ugh) of (standard) Frislandic, I'd basicallt have to provide you with the table below. The orthographyk follows these conventions for the most part, with a couple of exceptions that will be noted when they are relevant.

/p t t͡s k/ <b d z g>

/pʰ tʰ kʰ/ <p t k>

/ʰp ʰt ʰk/ <pp tt kk>

/f ɬ s ɕ/ <f ll s sj>

/β ð l r j/ <v ð l r j>

/m n ŋ/ <m n ng>

/i y u/ <i u o>

/e ə o/ <e e o>

/æ ɑ/ <æ a>

/iə̯ uə̯ əi̯ əu̯/ <ie uo ij w>

/æi̯ ɑi̯ ei̯ oi̯ øy̯ æu̯ ɑu̯ eu̯ ou̯ iu̯/ <æj aj ej oj uj æv av ev ov iv>

/i̯əu̯ u̯əi̯/ <iev uoj>

In terms of phonetic detail the consonants notated here as alveolar tend to be more denti-alveolar, with the exception of /s r/ which tend instead towards more of a retracted alveolar, though rarely a true retroflex. Additionally the affricate /t͡s/ is for some speakers a palatalised /t͡sʲ/.

But that's not the whole story, of course, because an inventory never is. Not all of these sounds are created equal and some have wildly different distributions. Indeed, for historical reasons it's generally better to speak of contrasts in phonotactic environments (not that I really have the space or time to go througy this in full but hey).

First of all, /f/ and /o/ are loan phones plain and simple. They are not found in native vocabulary and the latter isn't found even in early Irish or Norse loans due to back vowel raising. Words for modern life such as fon /fon/ 'phone' and fan /fɑn/ 'flag' are typical examples.

Secondly, of the consonants found in native forms, only /p t t͡s k tʰ kʰ ɬ s ɕ m n/ are found root-initially in citation forms. Additionally, /pʰ ʰp/ don't occur root-finally except in a small number of loans such as sjip /ɕipʰ/ 'ship', pijp /pʰəi̯pʰ/ '(tobacco) pipe' and kopp /kʰuʰp/ 'cup'; otherwise in native roots they are only found root-medially in frozen compounds, e.g. tepeð /ˈtʰepʰeð/ 'waterfall' boppesj /ˈpuʰpəɕ/ 'hoe, adze', dæppo /ˈtæʰpu/ 'birch tree' and sorpo /ˈsurpʰu/ 'ash tree'.

With regards to the vowels, the /ə/ has a distinct status relative to the other vowels, in that it is only found in unstressed syllables, although in this position it does contrast with the other vowels. It does appear to behave largely as an epenthetic device to break up inpermissible clusters, in that there are a large number of words that alternate between syncopated and unsyncopated forms, e.g. nukkel /ˈnyʰkəl/ 'anchovies' vs. nukklen /ˈnyʰkklən/ 'anchovy' or ober /ˈupər/ 'job' vs. obreð /ˈuprəð/ 'at work'. However, it is also found in root-final open syllables where there is no such motivation, e.g. nalle /ˈnɑɬə/ 'militia' or uone /ˈuə̯nə/ 'tree spirits, fairy folk'. Here we can find minimal pairs of /ə/ with /e/, whuch are not normally distinguished orthographically: nalle /ˈnɑɬe/ 'of the militia', uone /ˈuə̯ne/ 'fairy-like, of the fairies'.

Phonotactics are generally (C)V(C)(C), of which valid CC clusters consist of a nasal, liquid or voiceless fricative followed by a plain stop or affricate e.g. bond /punt/ 'eel', belz /pelt͡s/ 'monster, beast', gost /kust/ 'shade, shadow', bollk /puɬk/ 'tower'. Note in the latter two cases the second member of the cluster is written as if it were an aspirated stop, due to morphological alternations between the plain and pre-aspirated stops, e.g. gerott /kəˈruʰt/ 'shadows', bolokk /puˈluʰk/ 'towers', by analogy with e.g. tærg /tʰærk/ 'heart' → detræg /təˈtʰræg/ 'hearts'.

As you might notice prosody consists of stress. This is predictable diachronically but not synchronically. In general the root is always stressed, but which syllable of the root is stressed depends on the root, as frozen compounds vary in this regard e.g. bittang /ˈpiʰtɑŋ/ 'winter' vs. kaðtang /kʰɑðˈtʰɑŋ/ 'spring'. Additionally, in some nouns there is a shift of stress rightwards in the plural, often accompanied by vowel quality shifts e.g. gorot /ˈkurutʰ/ 'prayer' → geruot /kəˈruə̯tʰ/ 'prayers'. In a couple of houns stress is the only signifier of plurality e.g. sjirivs /ˈɕiriu̯s/ 'letter, missive' → sjirivs /ɕiˈriu̯s/ 'letters, missives' Otherwise however stress is lacking in functional load.

In terms of phonological alternations there isn't much to say, because there's little that is fully regular and it would probably be better to discuss the alternations which do exist when tackling the morphology itself. Unaspirated stops do tend to be voiced intervocalically but this isn't contrastive. Additionally native speakers tend to epenthesise more schwas than are typically represented orthographically, both ij native and borrowed words, e.g. bænll /pæn[ə]ɬ/ 'walking stick', kernkres /ˈkʰer[ə]ŋkʰrəs/ 'orphan' or glas /k[ə]ˈlɑs/ 'glass'.

There is a morphologically conditioned but fairly pervasive process of lenition which results in the following alternations:

/p t t͡s k ɬ s ɕ m/ → /β ð j ∅ l r j β/

However, the actual outcome of these frequently is obscured by the quality of the following vowel. For example, here is the possessive paradigm for muot /muə̯tʰ/ 'paternal grandmother': m'uot /muə̯tʰ/ 'my...', k'uot /kʰuə̯tʰ/ 'thy...', bemuot /pəˈmuə̯tʰ/ 'our...', kumuot /kʰyˈmuə̯tʰ/ 'your...', 'uot /uə̯tʰ/ 'their...', where there is lenition in the singular and third person plural but not in the first and second person plural, and the lenited form of muot is therefore uot and not !vuot as might be expected a priori. Even more irregularities can be seen in forms such as zitt /t͡siʰt/ 'chin, jaw', which has a first person singular possessed form of either m'ijtt /məi̯ʰt/ or even m'isjt /miɕt/ depending on the speaker.

There is also a minor process of pre-aspiration that occurs with the reflexive possessive prefix o- /u/ which produces the following alternations /p t t͡s k/ → /ʰp ʰt s ʰk/, e.g. oppodet /uˈʰputətʰ/ 'own father-in-law', osær /uˈsær/ 'own arms'.

Vowels and semivowels interact in fun ways. In particular the four diphthongs /əi̯ əu̯ iə̯ uə̯/ <ij w ie uo> when combined with the glides /j/ <j> and /β/ <v> give /əi̯ øy̯ ei̯ u̯əi̯/ <ij uj ej uoj> and /iu̯ əu̯ i̯əu̯ ou̯/ <iv w iev ov> respectively. These diphthing simplifications have effects on nominal morphology e.g. sw /səu̯/ 'woman/women', genitive suj /søy̯/ being ambiguous for singular vs. plural , and also is the historical explanation for the plural of sjirivs being marked by stress only (on which more in a subsequent post).

Finally there is a process of umlaut, where a low vowel is fronted in certain morphological contexts. Thus /ɑ/ shifts to /æ/ which itself shifts to /e/ or /iə̯/. This is found mostly with verbs in e.g. imperatives and indirect past e.g. kajn /kʰɑi̯n/ 'die' → kæjnæ! /ˈkʰæi̯næ/ 'die! (sg.)', kæjnið /ˈkʰæi̯nið/ 'is said to have died' or kæb /kʰæp/ 'hear' → kebæ /ˈkʰepæ/ 'listen!'.

#frislandic #conlang

[slonline]

Good drama .net

The producer felt that she filled a niche, telling Miller that "what was really lacking is the Janet Jackson, high-energy dance. In 2002 Ciara was signed to Jazze Pha's Sho' Nuff label, and that in turn provided the young singer with an entry point into the corridors of Atlanta's phenomenally successful urban hit-making machine. Her prediction came true when she met Atlanta producer Jazze Pha, whom she called her musical soul mate. "I was like, 'I don't know about y'all, but I'm about to do something good with myself.'" "I wasn't into gossip or who was wearing what," she told Malcolm Venable of Interview. Ciara wrote out her goals on a piece of paper at one point. She wrote songs for the Washington, D.C.-born vocalist Mya, who was not much older than herself, and she kept aiming toward the goal of hearing her own music on the radio. For a short time, after winning a contest, she performed with an all-girl group called Hearsay, but she soon went her own way. She began writing songs, and she found a manager who landed her a gig writing songs at the up-and-coming Red Zone Entertainment studio. Where other young people might have stared at the television and dreamed, Ciara took action. I'm going to do this," she told Nancy Miller of Entertainment Weekly. "It was this weird feeling: I want to do this. When she was a freshman in high school, she saw Knowles's group Destiny's Child performing live on ABC television's Good Morning America program. That decision paid dividends, Ciara told People: "I learned how to not get nervous in front of big crowds." Wrote Out Goalsīy the end of high school, Ciara had already decided what she wanted to do with her life. She then moved to Riverdale High School and became the leader of the cheerleading squad. Attending North Clayton High School in Atlanta's southern suburbs, she was a member of the track team, competing in relays, the long jump, and the triple jump.

The "Dirty South" hip-hop music scene was taking shape in Atlanta when Ciara was young, but the tall and slender girl thought first of becoming a model. Her father was in the United States Army, her mother in the Air Force, and their posting took her to New York, California, the desert southwest, and even Germany before the family settled in the Atlanta area. In 2005 Ciara went on tour with some of the biggest names in urban music, and she seemed a strong candidate to inherit the dance-pop niche long inhabited by Janet Jackson and Beyoncé Knowles.īorn on October 25, 1985, in Austin, Texas, Ciara Princess Harris grew up in a military family. Her album Goodies, with lyrics that she mostly wrote herself, matched the success of its title track and spawned two more major hits.

A striking beauty with long hair and strong dance moves, Ciara quickly dispelled any idea that she was just a one-hit wonder. 1 on pop charts, and its unsyncopated but subtly layered beats pounded out of sport-utility vehicles all over North America. Her single "Goodies" spent seven weeks at No. Youthful R&B vocalist Ciara (pronounced "Sierra") became an icon on the pop music scene in the summer of 2004.

#Good drama .net

[mattzerella-sticks]

Not Here for Me

If he had the choice, Dean never would have stepped foot inside this place. But Sam was curious - and curious is a hell of a lot better than the depression that clung to him day after day since Jess left him. So Dean swallows his pride, joins Sam as his babysitter. So he won't get find himself in any trouble. Trouble, however, is more likely to find Dean. In the bowels of his personal hell, can Dean resist temptations that have plagued him his entire life? Or will someone descend and lend a hand, showing Dean that the darkness he imagined only lived inside his own mind. And all that he feared was not as he seemed if he let himself step out of the shadows of his past.

(Dean/Cas, Human AU, 2000s-set, 8,113 words, tw: Dean’s childhood & upbringing by one John Winchester)

ao3

           His ears hurt. Dean stares at a small puddle of maybe-water-maybe-vodka that collected on the bar top, focusing on it instead of the pounding bass drum and blender whirring that’s somehow considered music. At least that’s what Sam told him seconds after entering, meeting Dean’s disgruntlement with patented exasperation. Floppy bangs pushed back for its full effect. “You’re such an old man,” he said, “Can you pretend you’re happy being here?”

           “That depends,” he fired back, brow raised. Pulled taut like a bowstring, retort knocked and waiting. He lets it fly, “How quick do you think I can get drunk?”

           The answer – very quickly. Dean balked when Sam ordered them these bubbling potions the color of lava lamps mixed with Barbie vomit. Served in dainty glasses Dean could easily break if he applied even a fraction of pressure between his thumb and forefinger. Rim lined with salt and a wedge of lime. Sam suggested they cheers. He chugged his before Sam raised the glass. He flagged the bartender, ignoring Sam’s glare. “What the hell did I drink?” he asked.

           The bartender pursed his lips, eyes dragging over Dean’s frame as if he were stripping him bare in the room; peeling away the layers of his jacket and plaid button-down and faded band tee like they were tissue, freckled-and-pale skin freed for the bartender’s enjoyment. He sowed seeds of unwanted fantasies. Dean cleared his throat, repeating the question, digging out those dropped seedlings before the bartender’s imagined wanderings might flower.

           If Dean wanted to encourage attention, he’d have dressed like him. Mesh shirt with uneven holes, some stretched wider than most. Its woven fabric failed at hiding the sweat that dampened his obviously spray-tanned skin, strips of orange paint peeling like a rind. The bartender wiped his brow, a streak of bright white skin revealed. “A strawberry margarita.”

           “Of course,” Dean nodded at the selection behind him, “got anything that doesn’t taste too… sugary?” A frown dragged every wrinkle and crease forward on the bartender’s face. He clarified, “A beer. What beer do you have?”

           They didn’t have any. Dean asked for a vodka neat, Sam criticizing his choice as the bartender retreated. “You’re so boring.” That was three vodka neats ago.

           Sam left his station beside Dean soon after his first drink, swept away in the tide of bodies pulsing in the center of the club. Each individual moving to a different beat. Their dancing unsyncopated and wild. Yet, despite how hopeless it looked, bodies acting independently from one another, the writhing mass shared one mind. Although, even assimilated by the crowd, Dean can keep track of his little brother. Head poking free of the mass like some odd periscope. Scanning every few seconds until their gazes met and then submerging once more.

           Dean isn’t searching for him now. He studies his small puddle of definitely-vodka. He swiped his finger through it earlier and sucked it dry; cheeks hollow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Dean heard someone’s glass shatter over the wretched din of noise, timed perfectly with his finger popping out of his mouth like a burst bubble. The sharp smell of alcohol fries his nose hairs. It dulls the throbbing ache caused by his surroundings, Dean’s frayed nerves sparking underneath, jumping like live wires since Sam detailed their plans for this evening.

           “You wanna go to a gay bar?”

           Sam rolled his eyes with so much force they rattled inside his skull like a novelty magic eight-ball, his hazel gaze landing on him, answer written neatly, ‘It is decidedly so’. Dean shook it again, scoffing. The answer changed. Not in Dean’s favor. ‘Yes – definitely’.

           “Why?” Dean leaned across their small table, “Are you…?” He asks with a wry twist of his lips and a limp wrist.

           “I don’t know,” Sam told him.

           “You don’t know? Isn’t that a requirement for a – a gay bar?”

           “Not necessarily,” he explained, sitting across from Dean finally. Sam’s windbreaker swooshed with every dramatic sweep of his arm. “I mean… sure, most of the people there are gay. But it’s not like they make you flash some official gay card at the door…” Expression pinched, he powered head, avoiding the conversational detour and sticking to the main highway of his argument. “Besides, there’s more than just gay.”

           Dean nodded, “Like what?”

           “Bisexual, Pansexual… Asexual, Demisexual –“

           “I think I might be that,” Dean laughed, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “It means you’re attracted to Demi Moore, right? Because if Kutcher weren’t in the picture, I’d definitely be all up in her business!”

           “Don’t be an ass, Dean,” Sam said, “Demisexuality is a real thing, okay? It’s only being attracted to people who you have a deep, intimate bond with.”

           “Oh, is that so?” He stretched his legs out from beneath the table, knocking into Sam’s. “That what you’re learning in college? I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. Or were you a bit presumptuous when you made that e-mail, lawboy?”

           “I still do,” Sam muttered, cheeks tinted a dark shade. “I… it was one of these classes I have to take, for my degree. Made me think about things I never knew about and – and stuff I said that, looking back, was… kind of offensive. That we joked about, what dad would say, sometimes…” Dean tuned Sam out partly, a refreshing static separating him from Sam’s words. Standard whenever Sam mentioned their dad, or if he saw something that reminded him of dad, or if dad cared enough to leave a voicemail for Sam on their shared answering machine. The little antenna on his brain’s radio drooped slightly, making Dean fiddle for the signal. He managed to catch the remainder of Sam’s monologue, barely. “…it’s a whole new world!”

           “No, it isn’t,” Dean sighed, tiredly scrubbing his chin. “Sam, you’ve only ever liked girls.”

           “To my knowledge!” Sam insisted, “I might’ve liked a boy, possibly. Maybe. I mean… do you remember Trevor?”

           “Trevor?”

           “Y’know, Trevor,” he fumbled through his memories, silence painstakingly ticking past. The clicking of their kitchen clock suddenly, obnoxiously loud. “That kid from that town we stayed at for about two months my sophomore year of high school, up in Montana.”

           Dean remembered that town. GED burning a hole in his pocket, he bummed through town hunting for a job since dad hightailed it for a phantom thread of a lead on their mother’s murderer. Not many folks were hiring, but a stern man in a rough-hewn Stetson and bushy mustache needed an extra ranch hand. Introduced Dean to his son, Dean’s new co-worker. Steve was a nice boy, older than him by a few years, with a warm temperament, skin tanned like leather from a life of fieldwork, and legs bent further than Dean’s by riding horses since birth.

           One day while tending the horses, Steve noticed how Dean’s focus drifted every few seconds, drawn to the saddles. “We can go for a ride,” he mentioned, “one night, around the property.”

           “I wouldn’t even know how to get on a horse, let alone ride it.”

           Steve chuckled, shoulders barely shaking from the act. His honeyed eyes were earnest and gooey in the filtered sunlight, distracting Dean more than saddles ever did. “I can show you,” he said, “it ain’t too hard.” He proved that by using their lunch break to teach Dean how to mount a horse. He demonstrated it, legs wrapping around its thick flanks, showboating and urging the steed forward by tapping his heels while Dean laughed, head dizzy from spinning, following Steve and the horse, as well as other things. “Think you can try it?” Dean didn’t. He shook his head, lip trapped between his teeth. Speaking felt blasphemous in that moment. “What if I helped?” Steve offered a hand, easily hefting Dean up atop the horse. They shared the saddle, Dean bracketed by Steve’s sturdy arms and supported by his firm chest. Dean felt every tug of the reigns as Steve guided the horse around the stable, and every whispered breath along his neck. Steve dismounted first, holding Dean’s hips and helping him down later. “Now imagine how nice that’d be, out on the plains, with nothing but the moon watching us?” He painted a pretty picture, even if Dean’s copied brushstrokes were shaky and inelegant. They made plans the following Friday.

           John returned Tuesday, and they left Wednesday. He’d never been near a horse since.

           But they weren’t talking about Steve. Why did he think of Steve? “Trevor?” Dean repeated, still unsure what Sam’s flailing meant.

           “My lab partner,” he said, “We bonded over our mutual appreciation of Vince Vincente and the Goonies… there were some days he’d give me the extra sandwich his mom packed, for some reason?”

           “You mean to tell me you had a crush on this Trevor kid?”

           “I might have!” Sam rose, shouting, “He was… he treated me well, and I liked hanging around him.”

           “He was your friend, Sam. Friend,” Dean sunk deeper into his seat, kicking Sam’s abandoned chair. “You have had friends in your life, right? I know I joke about you being a loser, but I never really meant it…”

           “Of course I had friends,” he scowled, “I have friends.”

           “And you’ve had girlfriends,” Dean reminded him, “Hell, you and Jess only broke up about a month ago! Did Trevor give you feelings like Jess did?”

           Sam visibly faltered, stooping slightly. Footing lost as the ground trembled beneath his feet. “Well… no, I mean – not, not that I can recall…” Spluttering, his hands balled tighter into fists. “But maybe it’s different, feelings for a boy and – and feelings for a girl.”

           “Sam, feelings are feelings regardless of who’s on the other end of ‘em. You just… you just know –“

           Like he regressed two decades, Sam stomped his foot in a very childish way. Whining, “God, Dean, can’t you be a little supportive!” Immediately his face stretched in regret, rubber band snapping as he leaped forward in years to his appropriate age. It didn’t matter; the barb struck exactly where it intended, puncturing soft underbelly, unguarded by Dean’s calloused defenses.

           Dean stiffened; gaze drawn to a whorl in the table’s finish. His thumb pressed hard at its center. He snorted, but it sounded more like an engine backfiring. “Supportive huh?” he asked, smile wide and wry, “You want me to be more supportive?” Thousands of examples flickered like a clip reel in his mind. Small things. Dean skipping breakfast so Sam can eat the last of their cereal. Wearing the same clothes, weeks on end, because Sam needed a new wardrobe, reedy body bigger than what they had. Risking arrest with every five-finger discount or hustled game or back alley trick; supporting the way their dad couldn’t.

           Bigger things. Lying, letting Sam play over at other kids’ houses; Dean frozen, watching the door in fear their dad came home early. Hiding letters from admissions for Sam, secreted from beneath their dad’s nose. He was an ever-present figure during those last few years. A shadowy patrol that continually followed since they were old enough. Dad had more use for men then children. Dean went as far as distracting him one starless night while Sam escaped, then accepted the consequences of his actions. He joined Sam weeks later with Baby’s keys and a split lip caused by, who he described to Sam as, some jackass biker. It healed in time for an interview, for a job he still has. Six days a week spent under the hoods of cars, working long hours and earning money to support them both, like before. Giving Sam the very freedoms he’d been denied – time, luxury, and safety.

           He held these words firm in his mouth, smoke bitter as it roiled. But, in his next breath, Dean released the past with a low hiss. Darkness rising, dissipating. “It’s okay,” he assured Sam, cutting off his rambling apologies. “Really.” He glanced at Sam’s outfit, fully taking in his choices. A color-blocked jacket of bright colors, reds, yellows, and oranges, that glowed over his tight, dark button-down. A hint of some printed graphic peeking behind the half-zippered flaps. Combined with a pair of Sam’s most distressed denim and flip-flops because It’s California, Dean, and you know how awful my feet sweat. As a whole Sam presented like a grade-A douchebag. Entirely unprepared for any bar, let alone a gay one. Dean’s instincts kicked into overdrive.

           “Fine,” he decided, standing, too, “you want supportive? Then I’m coming with you.”

           “What?” Sam trailed Dean’s wake as he left for his bedroom, cornering him while he slipped into some ratty white sneakers left by his dresser. “You’re coming?”

           “Sure.”

           “But… why?” Sam slammed his hand on Dean’s doorframe, blocking his exit. “You’re not gay.”

           Dean frowned at him, “I thought you didn’t have to be gay to go to a gay bar?”

           “Yeah, but –“ He knocked Sam’s arm loose, passing his brother on the way towards the door. Sam followed, buzzing behind like a mosquito. “You don’t seriously wanna go, do you?”

           “Obviously not,” Dean said, sliding into an oversized leather jacket. Another relic of their dad’s. Dean couldn’t leave without it. He couldn’t explain why. “But since you’re insisting on doing this, I might as well make sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”

           “That won’t happen.”

           “You kidding? A guy like you, wobbling around like a fawn – a sort of gay Bambi… you’d get eaten alive instantly. Or drugged.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, the finger of his other hand pressed into his brother’s chest like it was an intercom button, pushing so forcefully Dean thought it might burst through the other side. “I don’t need the stress of finding out you died at this gay bar because some idiot overestimated the amount of roofies they’d need to take down your elephant-sized ass.”

           Sam cringed at his worst-case scenario but hadn’t shrugged his hand off. Instead he returned the gesture with his own comforting touch around Dean’s wrist. “Okay,” Sam said, “you can come. Don’t embarrass me though, by being an ass.”

           “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

           “Hey,” Sam said later, Baby idling in front of a red light. Zeppelin blaring through her speakers, making conversation difficult. Dean lowered it for his brother. “What’d you think dad’d say, if he knew where we were going?”

           Dad’s opinion, of his two sons wasting their night in a gay bar, would ruffle the feathers of Sam’s newfound sensitivity. He hears their dad’s voice clearly, delivering a tirade about their terrible choices. Dean spent his time at the bar drowning that voice since arriving. He drains his fourth-or-fifth glass of its contents. It all splashes like the others, into his empty, churning stomach. Dad’s voice, the awful music, his nerves and senses slip out of mind. He sees dregs of vodka left in his glass. He uses the same finger that swiped through the tiny bar puddle and swirls it there, coating in in more vodka. Again, Dean sucks on his finger.

           Someone approaches while his lips graze knuckle.

           “If you get tired of that finger…” a stranger says on his right, reeking of cherry-and-liquored stink. Dean’s face scrunches at the smell. “I’ve got this big thing you can suck on…” His gaze wanders to where the stranger is.

           He’s a man with severely gelled hair, plastered back. A few strands were missed in the initial sweep and clung to his forehead, shiny and wet, making it seem like oil slowly bled down. He chokes on a gold chain that resembles a collar, broad neck seizing as he breathes. Steroids, Dean wagers, given how bulging veins snake past the sleeves of his stretched-thin shirt. Which makes him doubt the man’s ‘big’ claim. He arches a stupidly perfect, sculpted brow, leaning far past the bubble of Dean’s personal space. “You’d definitely have a lot more fun than playing with your finger,” he adds, taking Dean’s silence as an apparent invitation.

           He can’t remember when his finger slid free, but it did and, while spit-slick, jabs at Roidy’s brick-wall chest. “Not interested pal,” he says, “Why don’t you try a different fella?”

           “What if I don’t want a different fella?”

           “Then you are s’stupid as you look.” Dean waves, flagging the bartender for his next vodka. “Why don’t you take your big package crap elsewhere?”

           Undeterred, Roidy leans closer. Fingertips ghosting where Dean holds his glass as the bartender refills it. He tenses, squirming, imagining the very oil that drips from the man’s head coats his fingers, too, and through his touch smears it around Dean’s wrist. “Listen, you might not know this… but I made a promise tonight. That I would fuck the hottest, sexiest piece of trade in the club tonight. And congratulations… that’s you.”

           Dean squints, mockingly cooing at the other’s assessment. “I feel honored,” he says, sarcasm heavy like the hand pouring his drinks this evening. “Special, even,” Dean continues, “don’t know how anyone could turn y’away after that.”

           “No one does.”

           “Then I guess I’ll be the first?” Dean asks. The bartender huffs softly under breath, he and Dean reveling silently. They connect over this interloper’s antics. With a subtle shift in the bartender’s gaze, a snide flash of teeth, Dean understands. He’s not the first, only the latest. Certainly not the last.

           What he wants to be, though, is left alone. That doesn’t seem likely. Not with how Roidy gloms onto Dean’s side, an arm curling around his shoulders. Not if his biting smile meant anything, tearing through Dean’s dismissals. Not as Roidy whispers, barely audible because of the music, “If you’re going for discreet, I can do that… play along, that is. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy…”

           Dean’s mood sinks under such nauseating charms. He looks for assistance in the bartender, but he swam to safer shores at some point, serving drinks elsewhere. Unfortunate. He was starting to like him.

           Roidy snuffles Dean’s neck, alarms clanging within his head. Or possibly it’s coming from the many speakers placed throughout the bar. Either way that plus everything he drank, make thinking complicated and tortuously slow, like Roidy nosing along his collarbone. His thoughts fall apart before they make it to his mouth, Dean opening and shutting and opening his mouth hoping a few words can crawl themselves into existence. He manages a few garbled syllables that are greatly ignored.

           As swiftly as Roidy began his assault, he’s being tugged off him. Dean gasps for breath, spinning, facing the dancefloor now. Glaring at Roidy who glares elsewhere, at the owner of the hand that cleaved this growth from Dean’s side.

           It’s beautiful, for a hand. Tan, palm curled around Dean’s shoulder protectively. No cuts or scabs across the knuckles, nor any scars. If he were to touch it, he imagines the skin there is soft and smooth. Dean’s gaze travels, curious who might own such a gentle hand.

           Chasing the sinewy lines of his savior’s arms to broad shoulders, Dean feels his chest tighten in a desperate need for fresh air. However, it’s not terrifying like before with Roidy. This is unique and comforting. He inhales, then exhales. He has no trouble breathing. He still feels that tightness. Crushing once he finds his savior’s face.

           Marble. Statues are carved from stone – marble, specifically – he remembers from an old teacher’s droned lecture that returned with vengeance. Spoken during a field trip to some museum where Dean barely stayed awake as they flew room to room, always seconds from collapsing, waking momentarily for the next exhibit. Except when they entered a room of statues, and Dean managed fifteen minutes of attentiveness. Aided by chiseled features of a statue hidden between two columns near the farthest corner of the room. A man, naked, endowed, frozen in repose and staring into the distance. It might have been at a bathroom door, Dean’s memory supplied, but the statue saw beyond such borders. Dean wished he knew what existed where only statues can see. All he understood was the expression. Marble evoked steel. The statue displayed determination, tempered and ready for whatever barrels forward, with a hint of sorrow he must greet what is to come. The same expression shone on his savior’s face triggering his sudden recollection. Only his was brighter because of those eyes. An incomparable blue.

           On first glance, Dean wonders if that statue perhaps came alive. Journeyed from wherever it stood, in that town whose name he can’t summon up, to save him. Except that’s impossible. That statue is most likely there, forever guarding the bathroom. Blue Eyes is a man with his own history, parallel to Dean’s until he jumped in playing hero. But why?

           He can’t think of a reasonable explanation, because Blue Eyes finally speaks. “Hey babe,” he growls, Dean jolting from the pitch, like he stepped, shoeless, on glass shards littering the floor. An abundance of them must slip loose from Blue Eyes’ mouth whenever it opens after they shredded his vocal cords. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”

           What?

           “What?”

           “Didn’t you get my text?” he asks Dean. Then, subtly checking on Roidy who watches, fuming from the sidelines, he makes an odd clicking sound. “Or were your hands full, and you couldn’t check?”

           “His hands were full all right,” Roidy interrupts, not waiting for Dean’s response. He tries shoving Blue Eyes back, but he refuses to budge. His strength real and not decorative like Roidy’s. He falters slightly; adjusts course and snags a fistful of Blue Eyes’ white button-down in case Blue Eyes wastes energy trying what Roidy did. “Why don’t you leave and let your babe hang with someone who’s there when he needs him?”

           Blue Eyes squints, lips slowly stretching, like a match dragged across a striker, until the flame of a smirk dances into view. “I can assure you, that’s exactly who I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”

           He does. He should. Blue Eyes listens for Dean’s answer, chin dipped patiently. Roidy’s is, as well. Both wait on him, Dean the difference between favor and disgrace. It’s a non-decision. He eases into his savior’s warmth, improvising by slipping his thumb through a belt loop on the other side. “Exactly,” Dean says, “you’re all I need, sweetie.”

           Dean knows there’s no reason to turn from Blue Eyes. Temptation wins, and he chances a peek at the loser. Roidy fumes, his sneer somehow making him appear uglier. He wipes at his brow, disrupting those few, sticky strands, and reveals covered pockmarks. They appear horn-like, in the bar’s dim lighting. That cherry-and-liquor scent sours, suddenly pungent like rotten eggs. “Whatever,” he mutters, letting Blue Eyes go, “your boyfriend’s a fucking tease.”

           “Go fuck yourself,” Dean drawls, laughing, squeezing Blue Eyes tighter. Encouraged by his presence. “At least you’ll know it’s consen-u-tal!”

           Roidy departs dreadfully, saluting them with his middle finger. Dean responds with a raised glass that quickly empties itself down his throat. Slumping onto the bar, releasing Blue Eyes, Dean motions for the bartender’s return. “Hey,” he slurs, “another vodk-eh and, uh…” He scowls, studying the rack, an array of alcohol lined up. “Shit, man,” he asks his savior, “what’s your poison?”

           “Tequila,” Blue Eyes tells the bartender, frowning at Dean, “You sure you’re good for this?”

           “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

           “That you look like you’ve had enough.” Blue Eyes accepts the glass of tequila, tapping its rim against his chin, lime wedge hitting the corner of his quirked lips. “How many of those vodkas have you had?”

           “’Bout this many,” he answers, hand open. Dean hums, considering the number. “Maybe one or two more. Or less? I must’ve lost count…” He shrugs, sipping at his latest drink. “S’okay, though, I once drank this meathead trucker under the table. A whole bottle of ol’ Jack at this… roadhouse off a highway somewhere east a’here.” Vodka sloshes with each gesture while he retells the story. “So I’ve got tolernance.”

           “Clearly.” Blue Eyes chuckles, and Dean – not sure for what reason – joins him. He can’t hear much of it, but the bits of his laughter that break over the bar’s chaotic din make Dean giddy. “Thank you,” he nods at his tequila, “for the drink.”

           “Hey, I’m the one thankin’ here buddy,” Dean says, “I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t stepp-epped in when you did. Probably somethin’ punchy.”

           “He would have deserved it,” he finally tips his glass back. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in rhythm with Blue Eyes’, even if his drink rests miles away on the bar top. “Hey,” Blue Eyes continues, smiling, fiddling with the lime wedge, “what’s your name?”

           “Why you wanna know?”

           “Well, usually I know the names of the men who buy me drinks. Especially those who buy them for me after I’ve scared off pervy creeps.”

           “You make a habit of this, then?”

           “No,” Blue Eyes says, “you’re the first.”

           Unlike with Roidy, Dean believes him. “Dean.”

           “Castiel,” he reveals, simultaneously sticking the lime in his mouth. Teeth locked around it, he drains the wedge of its juice. Dean blushes, and the rush of blood to his head brings dizziness. Resting one hand on the bar doesn’t help. Neither does two. Castiel finishes his drink, placing the glass and shriveled lime near Dean’s hands, and yet his sudden lightheadedness persists.

           Castiel must notice this queasiness, because he grazes Dean’s elbow. Uses words Dean cannot presently grasp. A wave of concern sweeps across Castiel’s features, transforming them. Drawing Dean closer, lost in his orbit.

           A diversion is necessary. “So, Cas,” he starts, their faces inches from each other. To talk easier. “You gay?”

           “Uh…” Belatedly, Dean realizes his stupidity. His jaw drops, as if he can vacuum the question back. Pretend he never said it. Castiel, looking saintly under the bar’s neon glow, recovers faster. Replies before Dean might withdraw. “Yeah, yes I’m… I’m gay. Be pretty weird if I wasn’t.”

           “I must be pretty weird, huh,” Dean thinks aloud. He smacks his lips. They taste oddly like a morning where, after playing some hilarious prank on Sam, he came to with old socks stuffed into his duct taped mouth.

           Castiel skews his head to the side. “Why are you weird?”

           “Because…” It’s a bad idea. He recognizes how bad an idea this is. However, recognition and action are completely separate. And while he succeeds in the former, he fails spectacularly with the latter. “I’m not gay.” Then, slurring, he whisper-shouts, “I’m straaaaight.”

           “Really…” Castiel skims through tens of emotions Dean cannot discern with his vodka-addled brain. He settles on detachment, the tightness within his chest loosening as Cas inches backwards. Dean, instinctively, floats closer. That strain returns tenfold, like a python coiled itself around Dean. Squeezes him until Castiel bumps into a patron, bringing their chests flush together. Dean likes it even if he cannot breathe. Castiel smiles, but it’s noticeably different than those previously gifted. “If you’re straight, why are you at a gay bar?”

           “You don’t have to be gay to be in a gay bar,” Dean supplies.

           “It’d be a real plus though.” He barely caught Castiel’s mumbling. He can’t question what was meant, because Castiel clears his throat and repeats his question. “Why did you choose a gay bar for the evening?”

           Dean glances at the dance floor. Sam hadn’t left, enmeshed between writhing bodies. “I’m not here for me. My brother – he thinks he’s gay… or somethin’ like it,” he tells Castiel, snorting when someone other than Sam rakes a paw through his hair. Awkwardness flashes like lightning, disappearing behind forced puppy-dog features and Sam’s too-wide grin. “He’s here expermimenting while I’m the… uh – the moral support.”

           Castiel’s face publicizes his thoughts. The lines of his face twitch in simple patterns that are already familiar to Dean. And the pools of his eyes reflect the subdued variety of his feelings, providing needed transparency. With this change of his features, Dean guesses Castiel’s tensed mouthline and wishbone-bent eyebrows meant awe and respect. “That’s… very nice of you.”

           “Least I can do,” Dean shrugs, tasting sock once more, “it’s not like I’ll need’ta do more. Kid’s straight as a… straight thing.”

           Those pearled emotions seal themselves tightly in a clamshell, Castiel sending them back into murky depths. “How would you know?”

           “Because I’ve known the kid all m’life, Cas. He’s a shit liar… at least to me he is.” Dean settles against the bar, past resurfacing. A clear memory from their younger years. Sam never finishing his dinners, but somehow dropping a clean plate into the trashcan every time. Followed by a question, like clockwork, about taking a walk. “Around the motel,” he said, “nothing further.” His father’s rules. Never plainly set, but strictly enforced. Dean learned of them the hard way. Sam agreed, not even fighting like he usually did. Maybe that’s why, one night, he left their motel a beat after Sam. Dean kept close tabs on his brother. Not stopping him as he disobeyed orders and crossed the street, nor when a crowd of adults poured out of some ritzy venue, stares scathing as he passed. He maintained distance, only toeing nearer as Sam slowed for a better view of the alleyway he paused at, of a three-legged dog hobbling out of a cardboard box, tongue lolling, tail wagging. Sam greeted him in similar fashion, kneeling at the edge where light and shadows gathered. He pet and pet and pet this stray, stopping only to reveal the portion of dinner he hadn’t eaten wrapped in several paper towels. Dean scurried off in the direction of the motel, asking Sam how his walk was once he returned. He relates all this to Castiel. “Sam loved dogs. Always wanted one assa pet…” If this was his chance, Dean figured he might help. Became more lenient. Gave Sam food from his plate, not that he ever noticed. Lied to John during those rare moments he was home.  “Most of the things he got away with were only because I let him. I’m sure if he ever wanted a boyfriend he could’ve done it, and there I’d be covering his tracks like I did for his dog an’ his playdates an’ his girlfriends.”

           “Wow, you…” Castiel trails off. Or perhaps he completed his thought, and Dean missed it because their arms are pressed together on the bar. Dean turns, watching the other’s soft contemplation instead of Sam. Castiel meets his gaze, those pearls reappearing. Shinier, too. “What happened to the dog?”

           “Sam dropped off food the next two weeks, but by then our dad was dying to move on,” he explains, “I happened to overhear him bitchin’ on the phone and knew it’d be soon. So I took a personal day and brought his mutt t’the nearest shelter.” Hopefully Patchy found a good home, not that he cared.

           “You’re a good brother.”

           “I try my best.”

           “Your best is better than a lot of people’s…” Castiel knocks his shoulder into Dean’s, Dean chasing after it. “My brothers’ idea of kindness is the occasional birthday e-mail, when the mood strikes them that is.”

           “That sucks.” There’s more he wants to say, except Dean cannot make his mouth open again. When he finally unsticks his lips, he forgot all those words that seemed important moments ago. Replaced by off-tempo notes and cyclical phrases. Dean sighs, head lolling to the side while his lids slide closed over his eyes.

           He exists in darkness. A warm, welcoming blackness, like being swaddled in a blanket. Hiding under it while winds howled and raged, sheets of rain slamming atop roofs and pelleting windows. Safe, protected.

           That blanket is torn from him, Dean stumbling slightly. Castiel catches him and helps him stand upright, smirking. “Hey,” Dean whines, numb fingers twining loosely around Castiel’s wrist, “where you goin’?”

           Castiel nods at the writhing mass, somehow larger since Dean last looked. “I feel like dancing.”

           “No…” Dean tugs Castiel back towards him. He stays where he was. “Stay here,” Dean insists.

           “Or…” Castiel says, prying Dean’s hand from his wrist. His needy fingers seep through the spaces between Castiel’s and he clings tight. “Or,” he repeats, breathier than before, “you can join me on the dancefloor?”

           “I don’t dance, Cas…” His legs betray him, following Castiel into the fray. Vodka making his protests toothless. Vodka and Castiel.

           He meant what he said, though. He does not dance. Men don’t dance. Real men. Normal men. Dad never danced, not even at his wedding. Even though mom begged, dad would tell them that he remained firm in his decision. “Never trust a man who dances,” he advised, Sam asleep feet from where they sat, beers in their hands. Dean was fourteen. “No man wants to dance. If he’s dancing, it means he’s weak enough to have lost that fight. And if he likes dancing, then that’s not the kind of man you want to be associating with.” Dean nodded, because at fourteen why not? Dad rarely gave guidance that wasn’t pointed, aimed directly at him. Cutting, slicing bits and pieces off and leaving them behind in whatever motel they briefly occupied.

           With how Castiel moves, effortless and graceful, Dean bets he likes dancing. And if Castiel likes dancing, Dean wonders, truly, how bad it can be.

           You want these people thinking you’re some kind of fairy? They already have, before he walked onto the dance floor. No son of mine is gonna dance with a man! Luckily, he won’t be dancing with one. He’ll dance, surrounded by men. Do you want to look gay, Dean? He won’t. Not if he says he doesn’t. Not if he says he isn’t.

           A kid from his junior high days taught him that. How, by telling yourself what you do isn’t gay, suddenly you create your own version of truth. “Not for everything,” he warned. He paused, panting, as he – like Dean – recovered on the leather couch. Spent, video paused on his basement television, shorts – like Dean’s – around his ankles, “it doesn’t work all the time.”

           “But for this?” Dean asked.

           “Definitely this.”

           Dean listened; those sacred words used sparingly over time. Mostly during clouded nights when the money ran out, as did their supplies, and Dean’s skills at the pool table or poker game couldn’t compare to those of his body.

           He uses the words again. This isn’t gay. Castiel spins him, his chest plastered onto Dean’s back. He tries phrasing it differently. Dancing isn’t gay. Dean takes his free hand, the one not latched onto Castiel, and mirrors an earlier action he saw. Combs his fingers through Castiel’s dark brown locks. He amends and adds to it, too. Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing in this bar. That appeases the monster clawing at his mind, its voice, eerily similar to his dad’s, fading away. Dean smiles, then lets go.

           The music isn’t so bad. Dancing isn’t as bad, either. Castiel is…

           Dean focuses only on the music and dancing. It’s easy, losing himself in the rhythm. Forgetting who he is, where he is, and why he is where he is. He becomes nameless, another body in motion. Faceless as the strobe lights flicker and hide his features. Thoughtless, no room for anything besides what he hears. Dean doesn’t exist save for moments that jab at his awareness. Castiel squeezing his hand. The feel of hair then stubble then hair as his touch roams. Gasps at the base of his neck that elicit headier gasps from Dean. Firm press of chest-to-back, joined hands resting over his heart while Castiel’s free hand lays atop Dean’s stomach as they rock together.

           Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing at this bar.

           While it fascinates Dean, Castiel must tire of their arrangement, because he disturbs Dean’s oblivion by turning from back-to-chest to chest-to-chest. The wrong move, Dean thinks, as his vision blurs in such a violent way. The room spins and tilts long after he did, everything appearing off-balance. Save for Castiel, standing in front of him, not dancing anymore.

           That’s why he throws his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean’s mind comforts him with seconds later. For safety. For stability. Since he, too, wasn’t dancing anymore. His legs were useless, bent further than normal. Making him smaller. Forcing him to angle his head upwards to meet his savior’s searching gaze. Lips parted silently, asking a question with the ghost of his breath. Dean thinks he hears an invitation.

           He accepts. Dives headfirst into it, vodka mixing with tequila and a spritz of lime. Castiel tastes better than any drink he’s had. He puts pressure on Castiel’s shoulder, climbing for easier access. Castiel helps; an arm braced around Dean’s waist steadies him. Guides their bodies into a holding pattern, a simple sway that won’t interfere with the others cavorting around them. Serenity made within the chaos of a raging sea; these waves don’t crash. Rather, they tenderly caress the shoreline before retreating in similar fashion. A line of sea foam, like the line of spit generously coating Dean’s mouth, the only proof it even hit.

           Dean breaks from their kiss, panting. His forehead rests against Castiel’s. “That was…” he pauses, testing each word he thinks of and ultimately rejecting them all since they fail to describe what happened. He settles for, “Wow.”

           “It was,” Castiel agrees, “Why’d you stop, then?”

           “I stopped?” Dean sifts through his memories, those last few minutes entirely unforgettable but completely hard to recount. “I did?” he whispers, “Maybe it’s because I’m straight?”

           “Are you sure?”

           “I…” He can be, if he says so. Unfortunately, Dean forgets those little magic words. Trapped in limbo, the space between truths. “I’m not… I don’t know.”

           Cas steps back, enough that Dean sees his entire face instead of those enchanting blue eyes. It eases the worry plaguing Dean’s mind. “Did you enjoy what just happened? What we did?”

           “Yeah.”

           “Then you certainly aren’t straight.”

           Dean nods. He swallows a lump in his throat, feels it tear itself down into his stomach. He imagines blood spouting out of these gashes, building, climbing up in an escape attempt. He chokes on it. It might not be blood. Maybe-blood-maybe-drool leaks from the corners of his mouth as he asks, in a daze, “Does that mean I’m gay?”

           “Or something like it.” Castiel reaches forward, combing through Dean’s sweaty hair in time with the music. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay if you are. That you like… that you kissed me. It’s okay.”

           It isn’t. Dean knows it isn’t. Not for him. Not with all that’s expected of him. The blueprint of who he’s supposed to be. Who Dean Winchester is. Torn to shreds and raining overhead like the actual confetti that floats down from high above. That were released without notice. Dropped there while he stands, in the middle of the dance floor, petrified by another man’s kiss. Dad’s efforts wasted.

           “It’s okay,” Castiel repeats, “it’s okay…” He drifts further away; but before Dean can whine about his absence, he realizes his feet move, too. Castiel leads him from the belly of this ecstatic, partying mob.

           “Where are you taking me?”

           “Nowhere far, just off the dance floor.” They reach the perimeter, crowd thinned and weak; Cas releases his hold on Dean. Shrugs his shoulders, blessedly smiling at him. “Where you go and... what you do next, well – that’s up to you.”

           He’s unprepared for such freedoms. The simplicity of making a choice. A foreign concept when all your life, every decision was already made for you. For other people. Keys don’t choose which doors they open. Hammers don’t make plans on which nails they’ll hit and which they’ll avoid.

           Dean giggles, overcome by an intoxicating rush of getting to choose without any real consequence. No judgement, no threats, no guilt. If Dean told Castiel that kiss meant nothing and then bolted out of the bar, he would never have to deal with these conflicting thoughts, actions, and feelings. Never need to see Castiel again.

           That isn’t what he wants.

           Dean embraces the confusion because he, Dean, wants to. He kisses Castiel, driving them forward until they hit a wall, because he wants to. Tells him, “I want you,” because he does. Because it’s the truth.

           And Castiel’s truth, “You can have me,” slots perfectly next to his.

           Dean is intimately familiar with the art of kissing. Spent years practicing with ever-changing partners; girls from all over who were probably as bored as Dean felt. Girls who his dad saw and made him beam with pride. Enough girls, so that he called Dean names – different than the ones he thought Dean didn’t know about – like lady killer and chip off the ol’ block. Girls that were good kissers, bad kissers, and mostly unremarkable whatsoever. Dean lost his appetite for kissing, the act not being very fun for him. Not something he might look forward to, even if he said the right things and acted his part perfectly.

           Kissing Castiel wasn’t good. Wasn’t bad. Not unremarkable in the slightest. It elevated the idea of kissing onto another level. A holy act. Placing Castiel on the same level as all his previous entanglements would be similar to heresy.

           This isn’t just a kiss. It’s Dean sticking his face into a fuse box with all the switches flicked on. It’s Dean stepping out into a storm without an umbrella. It’s riding down an empty highway, no cops in sight, and abusing the gas pedal until the speedometer needle vanishes.

           This kiss is apocalyptic, destroying the notion that anyone besides they two existed.

           A hand joins the two roving his body, shaking his arm. Dean laughs, “How’d you do that, Cas?”

           “Dean,” Not-Cas says, “hey, uh… Dean?” He turns, Castiel’s lips adorning his jaw with favor, and finds Sam on his other side. Watching. Aware of what he interrupted, given his pained smile and squinted gaze trapped elsewhere. “Sorry, but I’m…” he clears his throat, “I’m kinda ready to leave, if you… you are?”

           His fingers curl where Castiel’s shirt is rucked up, dangerously teasing the line of his jeans. Castiel rolls his hips, rutting their cocks against each other again. “Yeah,” he tells Sam, “Yeah I can… we can go.”

           Dean extracts himself from Castiel, slowly, taking care to disentangle themselves. Dean flattens Castiel’s mussed hair. He fiddles with the buttons of Dean’s shirts, inexplicably unfastened. Neither speak of how these things happened. “Hey,” he starts, still hovering inside the other man’s personal space, “Um… thank you, for everything. Tonight. From the bar to – uh… to he –!”

           Castiel drags him into a kiss, one Dean returns heartily. His hands grabbing fabric while Castiel’s dance around his hips. Consumed by this, Dean ignores his cell phone being stolen. Only becomes aware of it when Castiel ends their goodbye with a smile, Dean’s phone in hand actively calling someone. “My number,” he explains, flipping his phone shut, “to use whenever. Hopefully soon.”

           “…Thanks.”

           “Good night, Dean.”

           “Night, Cas.”

           He lingers. He opens his phone, closes it, then slips it back into his pocket. Sam mutters an unintelligible phrase at them, shoving Dean from where he stood. Dean blindly navigates his way towards the exit, seeing nothing but Castiel’s shrinking face that disappears once they step outside.

           He expected heat. It’s cold. Not actually, but cooler than the room they left, where bodies and light and energy broke the thermometer. Fresh air brushes his skin, startling Dean from his stupor. Dean jolts awake. His heart plummets down past his ass, chest hollowing. He glances at Sam, about to ask if they ever entered the bar. Or if he hallucinated everything on the walk to it. Dean’s lips purse, then flatten. Sam already walked ahead. He jogs after him.

           No one speaks for half their journey.

           They pass a twenty-four-hour convenience store Dean remembers, and he knows Baby waits a block around the next corner. Sam chooses then to restart their conversation. “Looks like this trip was good for both of us,” he says, hands shoved inside his pockets. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Learned a lot.”

           “Really?” He’s parched. Unbalanced. His feet won’t walk in a straight line, stumbling every few steps. He persists, “What?”

           Sam shrugs, “I might have… over-examined that memory of Trevor.” Sighing, Sam kicks an empty, abandoned can into the street. “I guess I was searching for a reason why Jess and my relationship ended like it did. We were going so strong I… I figured it might have been me. That I wasn’t able to love her the way she needed because I couldn’t.”

           “Sometimes people just don’t work,” Dean tells him, “and no amount of forcing it is gonna fix it.”

           “Yeah…” He spots Baby easily, street deserted save his car and some poor, busted Beetle. Dean searches for his keys, struggling. Sam talks all the while. “And then there are some people who… who click immediately.” Dean tenses, breath stuttering. “How long have you been –?”

           He’s back in the bar. He must be. How else could he hear this overwhelming, earsplitting ringing. The kind that makes him stagger, slump against the closest surface and collapse there into a tiny ball, protected from the voice that somehow talks louder than that goddamn ringing. The monster’s voice. The one that sounds strangely similar to his dad’s. Angrily shouting, calling him names. “I’m not,” he said, as always, “I’m not.”

           Another sound overpowers the monster and that throbbing din. “Dean! Dean, hey… hey-hey-hey-hey Dean… it’s okay… it’s me, Sam. Sammy.” Someone touches his shoulder. Dean flinches from it. “Come on Dean… I won’t hurt you.” Their voice hitches, sounding waterlogged. “Please, Dean… wherever you think you are, you’re not. I promise. I need you, man. Sammy needs you.”

           Look out for Sammy.

           Dean forces himself into the present, a herculean feat as shadowed claws dig at him. Fight his attempts. He pries an eye open, then the other. There’s only Sam. Sam, kneeling in front of him on the sidewalk. Sam who, though he denies it, carries so much of their dad with him it makes staying calm near impossible. Dean sees a reflection of who Sam could be, that dad hoped Dean might be, that Sam wished he never would be. It was the reason why fatherly adoration came effortlessly when it was for Sam, even during days they hardly spoke. Dean acted as their go between. Hearing praise and relaying it; forever the messenger, carrying wounds and scars.

            “Dean, are you… you’re with me, right?” Dean nods, tension melting away. He slides further, knees bumping into Sam’s. A wordless comfort. “Fuck I am so… so sorry. I didn’t, I never meant –“

           “It’s okay.”

           “It’s not okay, Dean. Fuck!” His shout echoes towards the moon, filling the space left by clear California night. “What if I asked you while you were driving, we could have…”

           They might have died.

           “Shit…” Dean hisses, rubbing his throbbing head, willing its silence so he can think. He gets one minutes. He uses it wisely, handing Baby’s keys to Sam. “Take ‘em.”

           “What?”

           “I drank too much anyway.” Wobbling when he rises, Dean proves that true. “You were gonna have to take it, regardless.”

           Sam’s expression softens. In turn, Dean’s skin crawls. “Thank you.”

           “Just go start the damn car.” Dean won’t follow. Rather sharpening his defenses for the inevitable. Bad music. Lawful driving. Plaintive whines and rhetorical questions, all in an attempt at making Dean talk. About tonight. About their childhood. About signs he didn’t see, how it felt being this while in dad’s presence. Sam will push and push and push until he’s flatter than cardboard. Contents neatly organized and fit for storage.

           He hears the soft rumble of Baby’s engine, then that of his phone. A text.

Unknown Number 1 [phone]: In case you’re wondering, my name is spelled C A S T I E L ;)

           Despite what a whirlwind these past few minutes felt like, Dean laughs. Giggles become snorting which become happier tears rolling across his cheeks, tracing over still-damp lines and erasing them from sight. He clutches his phone atop his heart, figure bent as he now wheezes.

           Dean reigns in his giddiness. Stares at the message, wondering what he will do. Once Dean decides, he realizes his thumb was already halfway done.

           He saves his number under Cas <3. Dean responds, snapping his phone closed quickly before he can reread and second guess.

           Sam honks, watching with interest. A thousand questions waiting, hidden by the curious bend of his brows. Because of Castiel, Dean must face them. Will answer them. Is ready for them.

#spn #supernatural #spn fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #sam winchester #sam winchester is an ally #john winchester #john winchester's a+ parenting #fuck john winchester #tw: internalized homophobia #tw: abusive parent #tw: garden-variety homophobia

[avversiera-writes]

good enough, part 1 of 2 - senju tobirama/reader

Summary: Marriage isn't dull with Tobirama, but it isn't blissful either. But through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, you and Tobirama had promised to each other that you will stick it through until the end, together. Until death do you part.

A/N: implied miscarriage, edo tensei is almost complete; everything will be explained later and not in this one-shot, i promise sdhfksjg i know these are written without order but i swear there’s a reason why. thank you for reading ! 

also in AO3

//

Tobirama has always been at war. Every fiber of his being is made for it. His childhood had consisted of being bred for war and it has followed him into adulthood. War loudly cries out in his blood, and it sings, unsyncopated, like brass plates clashing against each other that the only way to force it away is to draft plans after plans, create jutsus one after another. War does not let him stop; it wants to drive him insane. 

 He has never gotten out of it. 

 In a time of peace, his mind and his body seek out battles, no matter how much he wants to rest. No matter how much he wants to stay still. Silence avoids him like a plague.

 On his bed with you, he lies awake, his skin itching like he is covered with bugs. He lies still beside you, the sheets underneath him loud after every wrinkle and it becomes unbearable. He closes his eyes, but tonight, the war raging inside him deems it a good time to disturb him. 

Quietly, he gets up and sneaks into his office. 

 The feeling of his fingers around a pen is familiar, and he grips it like his saving grace. He works on whatever he can get his hands on, because he knows this is the only antidote to the piercing screams by his shoulders. 

 He despises himself for being like this, because it is unfair to you that he is being pulled into many directions. You deserve more, he knows this, and most of the time he feels inept as a husband that he cannot give you his undivided attention or make himself more available without sparking a fight. As much as he loves you, there are times where he regrets tying you to him for the rest of your life. 

Tobirama can never escape a fight, and through lulls of time, he finds himself diving into impossible feats, such as this new project of his. He wants to call it the Edo Tensei. 

 Through this jutsu, there may never be a need for troops and for deaths. Through this jutsu, maybe he can have his peace, knowing that these revived shinobis will never fall and will get up no matter how much damage they take. 

 He is so close. He is so close that he can practically taste his success. 

 But dawn shines through his windows and the life in his house starts to churn with its daily ordeals. 

 Tobirama rubs his dry eyes, and despite having them closed, he sees light on his eyelids. 

Day comes, and he knows that his priorities lie elsewhere. He is the Hokage and he has lives to protect. 

//

“Did you sleep?” You ask. You take note of his tense shoulders and the shadows on his face, and decide that it is best that you do not touch him. You watch him sit on his desk, his mad handwriting plethora on the papers in front of him. 

 You know that sometimes, physical touch makes him upset, especially when he is in one of his moods. You do not understand it at times, but you make it a point to patiently reassure him. 

 Tobirama’s eyes flit to your face, and stares at you as if you might disappear right in front of him. Then his eyes scan your body, and you know that look of his. He is scanning your body for any injuries or if you are in pain. Ever since that incident with one of the servants in your house that resulted in your miscarriage, he is more vigilant about your condition. He is always looking for some sign that you are hurt because he wants to be one step ahead so that he can protect you, from whatever it is. He is absolutely sure he can do something. Back when you were a shinobi and had gotten injured, he had reacted so adversely that it made him even more proactive in preventing you from taking missions. He does not want to see you hurt, ever. 

 You step toward him, slowly, so that you don’t set off any of his internal alarms. 

 Though the past incidents had left some scars you might have to carry forever, you are just glad that Tobirama is with you. You know that he will always make sure you are safe, and that thought alone gives you enough comfort to stay strong. Besides, you have been given time to heal, whereas your husband overworked himself to make sure that you live with ease.

 You meet his somber red eyes, and then you cautiously place your hands on his face. He looks up at you in such a tender way that you almost forget to breathe. He does not turn away, like he would at times, and instead, he seems to lean further into your touch. 

 “I lost track of time,” he replies, his voice low as if he is afraid he might startle you. 

 “You have stopped sleeping,” you state to him. 

 Tobirama nods glumly, knowing this fact very well. He has been awake for many nights now, and he wonders how he’s even standing at this point.

“Let me help you, hm?” You told him. You had promised him that you will help him become a great Hokage earlier on in your marriage. Though it was not that long ago, you want to keep telling him that you are here to help him. 

 Besides, you can use the distraction too. 

 “Eat something, I asked the cook to make your favorite dish,” you tell him and a light-hearted smile comes to your face easily. 

Tobirama takes one of your hands, and he presses a kiss into your wrist. “You didn’t have any nightmares?” 

 Your vision gets faraway for a moment and you are reminded of what you have both lost months ago. Then, you are brought back by Tobirama’s firm grip on your hand. 

 “I am alright,” you reassure him. 

 You look at his face again, and you try to read the many emotions passing through his eyes. He is good at hiding them, much to your chagrin, but years with him has taught you how to find them. 

“Let’s eat, alright?” You tell him gently, and he allows you to pull him up from his seat. 

//

 The day begins with you and Tobirama walking towards the Hokage’s office. There are some people already up this early in the morning, and they greet you and their second Hokage warmly. Tobirama nods at them, wielding his regal air to cloak him–you can tell he is barely holding it together. You worry about his state, because he has not taken a second for himself. 

 You are tempted to take his hand, but you stop yourself. Tobirama is on overdrive mode, and you do not want to startle him. He does not like to display any type of public affection anyways. 

In the Hokage’s office, Tobirama immediately sets to work without a word. You do your best to facilitate things for him, such as arranging the documents the way he wants them, receiving guests that are not as urgent or important, and when you have done what you can, you set out for lunch to make Tobirama eat, even though you know that he will neglect his meals again. 

 Honestly, whoever left Tobirama to his own devices? This man is anything but calm when he is not fighting and facing imminent death.

 As his wife, you try to lighten up his workload, and there are many instances that your help is making a difference. These days, you are not sure what plagues Tobirama’s dreams, and well, in his case, his every moment he spends awake. 

 You come home after making sure that he has at least managed to get in a few bites before surrendering himself to his Hokage duties, and there, you help the servants clean the house, and do the menial chores like laundry, mostly because your Senju husband is very particular about his things. 

 Before dinner, you read up a little, because while you are not an active shinobi anymore, learning does not stop no matter what. 

 Since you have no guests to attend to for the day, you start to wind down for sleep. You take a relaxing tea for better sleep, and try not to think about your overworked husband. You remind yourself that he has huge responsibilities to carry out, and many lives depend on him. 

 Then, you go to sleep, the other half of the bed empty and cold. 

PART TWO

buy me a coffee !

#Tobirama Senju #Senju Tobirama #tobirama x reader #tobirama x you #angelica writes #'til death do us part #my goth ass is obsessed with evanescence can you tell

[chriscavartworks]

Abstract Gestural Actionism 

12 in x 14 in x 1 in 

Acrylic Markers,Pen on

Color Copy Paper

"Unsyncopations"

This piece also with all of my working including custom artwork will be available through:

ltdreleaseprints.storenvy.com/

#art #cavartworks #artists on tumblr #abstract expressionist #abstract expressionism #abstract #abstract expressionist art #artwork #artworld #expressionism #artistic #original art #original artwork #artists of tumblr #artists on instagram #artists on deviantart #expressionist #mixed media art #mixed media #abstract gestural actionism #tintánábré #artist on tumblr #original #watercolors #artists on ig #artists of instagram #artist #contemporaryart #paris #miami

[helninjastar]

All for nothing ...#portishead #dummy #mysterons #darksound #rock #acousticdrums #guitareffects #dry #recordingsound #headnodicbeats #breathy #femalevocals #massiveattack #unsyncopated #rhythms ...#gloomy #beautiful 🎶🎶🎶 #musiciseverything #sooththesoul #expandthemind #skullenaworld with love ⚔️🖤⚔️...

#massiveattack #beautiful #rhythms #acousticdrums #sooththesoul #musiciseverything #expandthemind #headnodicbeats #dummy #recordingsound #rock #darksound #unsyncopated #dry #femalevocals #breathy #guitareffects #mysterons #portishead #gloomy #skullenaworld

[thuskindlyshescatters]

All Things Must Die

Hey, so remember this post? Especially the part about the soundtrack? Yeah, I am so hyped that this song followed that same route. 

This song also had the most callouts to the past, due to Cinder’s constant engagement in the show. I’ll try to keep track of them all!

Fuck you and goodbye, Cinder. Let’s do this.

Song analysis under the cut!

This simplified piano chorus is a great introduction to an already malicious song. 

Great use of atmospheric sound effects, too.

Ahhh, the creepy... What instrument it this, exactly? Echoey piano? Anyways, this is an unsyncopated, downbeat Sacrifice, which we now know is Raven’s theme, implying this is from Raven’s POV.

These words about death and demise reminds me of the intro to Heaven Sent, that episode of Doctor Who. Fave.

When the orchestra intensifies, you know shit’s about to get real.

“Life is just a journey; Yours is near its end.”

The first of many burns to be delivered by Raven during this song.

“Bloody evolution, This world transcend...”

One -- I’m loving the “Welcome to a world of bloody evolution” reference. Turns out the bloody evolution is Cinder! Two... Does this imply the Grimm are outside the world of the living? Is there an afterlife? This might have more or less meaning than I think, but, people, tell me your thoughts.

I love it when Casey jumps down the octave. It’s always great, because it always leads into a jam session.

“Murder, unkindness, conspiracy; Embers extinguish in effigy.”

I like both the raven puns AND the cinder puns! Good content.

The insertion of “just close your eyes, don’t fear demise” makes the verse feel a little more complete. I appreciate that they cut it for time in the show, though.

The little baby guitar solo before the second verse is KILLING me. You know I like music cutouts. It might be my favorite transition.

“...matter will always evolve.”

I don’t know what the first part of the sentence is, but I love how many ways they come up with to say “it’s time for you to go.”

“Be glad you existed, Enjoy your last breath.”

GET REKT.

“Gleefully forcing this eulogy: Spawn of the tenants of treachery.”

Holy shit, I used my “get rekt” to soon.

This sound like a line from The Book of Mormon.

I... I might have a new favorite line in the entire RWBY discography.

“With fate, collide.”

Do you believe in destiny, Cinder?

Also, I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned this before, but it’s just so perfectly petty that every chorus (the “Black out the sky” tune) is the tune of Cinder’s theme. This is wonderful.

And finally, one last bout of coaxing Cinder to her death in so many words. A fitting end to this character -- constant smirky bullshit.

Welp, that was fun!

Time for This Time, which bizarrely goes before All That Matters. I’m also confused as to why the Character Short songs are not in the order of their release. Hm.

#rwby #rwby5 #rwby ost #rwby soundtrack #rwby listenthrough #all things must die

[forgottenbones]

its seafair weekend baby. youknow what that means. pic.twitter.com/weDDz6ZRNH

— KC (unsyncopated) (@keisisqrl) 2 agosto 2018

#twitter #comics

[myfontz]

Age Groups: Seniors

Traditionally thought of as quiet, staid, and uninvolved, seniors today are active individuals enjoying the later years of their life after the kids have left and work has ended - albeit with a few more aches and pains than in their youth. Typography and color for the elder population are indeed relatively restrained, but still lively.

Type styles geared toward seniors, while not necessarily oldstyle or academic- looking, eschew excessive detailing and present a straightforward message in their drawing. This directness responds to the senior’s sense of the importance of their available time and a disregard for nonsense or childish things. Typefaces that are highly resolved, with optically uniform widths among characters, open counters, large x-heights, even stroke width - or minimal contrast and soft, fluid joints - not only present an even, unsyncopated rhythm that reflects this desire for simplicity but also accommodate the average senior’s difficulty with reading small or condensed type. Serifs and sans serifs are equally appropriate stylistically, although older styles in each tend to feel more relevant to expressing the age of older people.

#collection #source: type style finder #age group: seniors #decennie jy #tranquility jy #cisalpin #clearface #copperplate gothic #dialog #finnegan #finnegan sc #franklin gothic #leawood #lucida #memento

[qedionium-blog]

Creative Dev Week 5 Project progress… I have developed my introduction and worked with harmonies as seen in the above photos. I paid special attention to the brass section making sure that it lined up to my improved (now unsyncopated) steel drum section. I have also found that by adding a small piano part just before my main body, it flows better into the full orchestra. A few problems that I encountered this week include, time management, laziness, tiredness, and forgetfulness. I have been very busy this last week shooting films that I haven’t had an opportunity to sit for an hour or two to work on my blog. Apologies.

[foresightfromforsythe]

Rainy Day Woman

The rain poured with a fury, with a certain unsyncopated, restless rhythm that transcended predictability or imagination. Have you ever had one of those sound machines—the ones that capture the contrived sounds of nature (rain, waves, waterfalls, etc.) for your relaxation benefit? I had grown so accustomed to these false deluges, that I had forgotten what the earth really sounded like when she wept. Confronted with her unfiltered, unabridged cries, I felt anything but tranquil.

#riverdale #jughead #forsythewrites

[honeyfreckled]

ok i think i was able to use a combo of adblockers, stylish, and xkit (god bless xkit frfr. i will abandon tumblr if they do go thru w ridding xkit but hopefully as w the original xkit guy- someone else will pick up the reigns and keep xkit alive and unsyncopated w tumblr bc merging sounds a lot like corporate integrating to me. like tumblr’s way of sidestepping us sidestepping them and them finding sneaky ass ways to continue to force and push ads and sponsors down our throats every fuckin second and force an algorithm which recommends high traffic posts/blogs and a system that values popularity over actual merit or fair playing field to get lesser known contributors’ works presented fairly)

[thesinglesjukebox]

ANGEL OLSEN - LARK

[5.57]

Not quite ascending...

Alfred Soto: Mumbling from zero to sixty suits her as much as the strings. [4]

Juan F. Carruyo: Fragmented, long and hallucinatory. Violin drones surround her voice, then the chorus haphazardly hits and it rises above all the tension that's been building up for its lengthy run-time, but I'm not sure whether it's a musical gut-punch or celebratory. That's probably the point. [5]

Katherine St Asaph: I'm not sure the rises and falls of dynamics are quite right -- they're a little unbalanced, particularly in the beginning, which peaks fast -- but it does make it that much more unexpected when at the end the register shifts from Zola Jesus 10 to 11: alto roars, strings like horrible geese, and torrents of sound that, while not really my preferred sort of torrent, sure have an impact. [6]

Ian Mathers: I'm not sure what I was expecting (although this song makes me suspect either Olsen has switched things up recently or the descriptions I'd read didn't do her justice), but it definitely wasn't something this starkly dramatic, let alone a song that brings to mind anyone from late Roy Orbison to early (the) Verve. Going to need to hear the album now. [8]

Tim de Reuse: For such an expensive-sounding production it shows an impressive level of restraint! Over a thumping, unsyncopated drumbeat, strings slide and chords half-resolve; a heavenly earworm, pulled through five full minutes of cloud-surfing tension. The Mitskian finale, while appropriate and well-handled, turns out to be the least interesting part. [8]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: A Brill Building march towards Hell. It bears the romantic longing of girl group songs of old, and then pulverizes it -- gradually at first, and then all at once. Was it all just an irrational fantasy? It's hard to say, mostly because this song is way too fucking long for me to care. [5]

Vikram Joseph: There are one or two moments of unexpected intimacy buried in "Lark", but it's such an exhausting slog across six and a half minutes and more showy crescendos than I'd care to count that by the time you get to the end it's hard to remember what they were. Quiet-loud dynamics are fine, but the loud parts don't provide any sort of release, and Olsen's undoubtedly powerful voice rapidly becomes enervating as she belts out three-note melodies with absolutely no dynamic subtlety. The bombastic drums and seething orchestral flourishes demand attention, but only in the sense that a crying toddler does. You suspect that the verse where Olsen sings, "Baby, I was there in an hour / I was there, and you put it all on me" is the heart of the song, but "Lark" trades that heart in for a blustery, overlong arrangement that is, unfortunately, really tiresome. [3]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#Angel Olsen #folk #music #music review #writing

[poolaloopa]

Released on Lurid Music BC: https://luridmusic.bandcamp.com/album... FB: https://www.facebook.com/luridmusic/ FB: https://www.facebook.com/markspnmusic SC: https://www.soundcloud.com/markspn IG: https://www.instagram.com/_mark_spn_/ info: Polyarrythmics is an EP by Mark Spn, a music producer and sound engineer who lives in London. While this is his debut EP under this moniker, he has recorded under various other aliases, one favourite being Holdie Gawn on Sylphe Records. This release slows things down a notch from Mark's other output. He presents a densely layered work that conjures Herbie Hancock's sextant & Kirk Degiorgio's arps, J. Majik's mermaids & Underdog's attic tapes. It is cerebral and cohesive, made to be consumed as a sum of its parts: found sounds and urban field recordings, hushed Hammond grooves and modulated keys, muffled beats and unsyncopated rhythms, flickering electronics and hovering pianos. Artist John Tsombikos has been commissioned to provide one-off artwork for the limited edition physical product, to be released in late March of 2019. credits Music written & produced by Mark Spn. Mastering by Dietrich Schoenemann. Track sequencing by Alexander Hobson. Artwork by John Tsombikos. Vinyl pressing at Gotta Groove Records, Ohio, USA.