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morvantmortuary · 2 years

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Leon Labeau -

The Grey Man

(Rarae Aves’s Vampire/Slasher OC)

“Look, kiddo, it’s nothing personal. I promise. This is just the way things shake out sometimes. Destiny’s a shit date with a vicious sense of humor. But come on, you’d be doing me a huge favor here.

You wouldn’t begrudge a guy needing to eat, would you?”

that’s not his real name, don’t trust anything he tells you about himself

age: Looks 42

birthplace: Somewhere in what would eventually become Austin, Texas

height: 6’0”

current location: nowadays, usually his bar on the (in)famous Bourbon Street and his speakeasy somewhere deeper in the French Quarter. (But recently, a strange shadow has been moving around the small town of Greymoon…)

favorite book: the road - cormac mcarthy (an outlier for him, considering he usually prefers decades-old pulpy genre paperbacks.)

(what he thinks his walk-on music would be: vampire money - mcr

what it actually would be: sleep - mcr

fc: bill heck with his featured scruff.)

hobbies: tinkering with his vintage motorcycle, sweet-talking tourists, taking in some live theater, skulking along behind evening ghost tours waiting for some unsuspecting drunk straggler, afternoons at the firing range, chatting with locals in the same scene circles as him for all the latest gossip. He knows a disconcerting amount of both Louisiana and Texas history, though he swears he’s only a dilettante.

occupation: owner of the kitschiest Vampire-themed bar in New Orleans multiple years running (which is a surprisingly competitive honor, as he will happily tell you). Though recently as in in the last hundred years or so, he’s had to start picking up some… odd jobs, to make ends meet.

“You know how it is nowadays - ‘gig economy,’ and all that,” he says, waving a rough but tapered hand lazily. He’s leaning on one elbow against the gorgeous polished cherrywood of his bar - something you can tell he takes great pride in, from the way he traces it with a delicate touch and a dreamy (if noticeably crooked, close-mouthed) smile. “I do a little here, a little there, not too much to it. Lagniappe, you know? Help out my neighbors, that sort of thing. Times are hard in a tourist city with no tourists. When it wasn’t the pandemic, it was Ida. Sure, she wasn’t my first hurricane - not by a long shot - but between the two, you’d swear the place was a ghost town. There was a point they weren’t even sure they’d have Mardi Gras, you hear about that?” he asks, looking back up at you with eyes that gleam a crafty… grey? You want to say grey. It’s the weirdest thing: the longer you look at this guy, the less you seem to remember about him the minute something else catches your attention. And at this bar - bright red neon everywhere, music that practically thumps the walls with its bass, raucous laughter from the seeming never-ending party just outside, and the bevy of cute little vampire trinkets both for sale and on display that practically cram the space around you - it’s hard not to get distracted.

When you look back to him, the laissez-faire dreaminess is gone. His eyes are focused, clear. You’d almost swear he’s sizing you up. There’s something a little… tighter, to his crooked smile. Like he’s struggling not to grin. Like he knows something you don’t. “But enough about little old me. What can I get you, partner?”

a history, of sorts:

Leon - “Leo,” to those who actually know him, and that is very few - is a slippery man with an even more slippery past. It’s a constant toss-up how much is true, how much is some “showmanship” on his end, and how much he actually remembers. The story tends to change from person to person, sometimes from day to day, depending on how well business is doing.

He knows he was born in what would become Texas - then, eventually, what would become the capital city. His home, he thinks, was outside of that, closer to the endless dry sea of hills and prairie. He remembers the smell of hay, of chimney smoke and spun cotton, and the evening ache of a long day’s work. He remembers a family: parents, he assumes, and brothers, maybe even a little sister - but it’s been so long now, it gets harder every day to place details. Real ones, something more than just the birth and death certificates he eventually went back for, and are now mouldering in a box under his bed. Something tangible, human: voices, laughter. The color of their eyes, their smiles. The way the sun sat on their skin. Did they look like him? Would they look at him now, and still know him?

That’s part of this curse, he guesses: he has an excellent head for dates, for numbers in general, but faces can get… tricky, after a while.

He doesn’t know entirely how he ended up like he is now, truthfully. He remembers where he was; he remembers fighting, screams, and cannonfire. He remembers what felt like a never-ending squelch of blood, shit, and mud around his feet, for a cause that he would later understand only ended up benefitting the human kind of monster. (He remembers the Alamo, all right, and not with any degree of fondness.)

He remembers lying in that reeking mixture, tattered boots rushing past his head as he gasped futilely to get air into his ruined lungs, the stark flash of gunfire against the pale stone walls like ghosts rushing to claim their newest compatriot.

When he woke up again, nights and nights later, it was in a shallow grave. He clawed his way out of the mud and dirt, gasping as though he had never stopped. The dirt that should have suffocated him anew merely shifted out of his way, as though for a restless playing child at the beach. That’s how lots of things tend to move around him, now: not as they would for any mere man, though he’d hardly consider himself anything higher.

Tired of fighting, tired of the pointless cycle of pain and violence and the same old broken systems in new words, he ran. He helped others running, when he could. When he came to New Orleans, he found a city that was so caught up in its endless cycle of joy and death and sickness and disaster and life, he figured… well. Better here than anywhere else. (He’d dreamed of coming here, when he was human, but now for the life of him he couldn’t remember what that farm boy thought he’d find.)

So in some form, he’s been there ever since, drifting in and out of town as needed. But he always returns to the sweet siren song of laughter, of the human need for delight and debauchery even in the face of the bitterest sorrow.

(He still has that himself, he supposes, so he can’t say he’s entirely something else.)

People will come and go, but he’s never loved anywhere else more. He’d do anything to stay here, to be part of it somehow. If he has to ride out eternity, what more could one want?

Unfortunately, there’s nothing supernatural in the Mississippi delta that They Who Provide doesn’t know about. It was only inevitable, having made the place his home, that he should eventually run across their path - and, being who and what he is, run afoul of their plans.

And they have uses for a man like him, a man so intertwined with the city that he knows its very pulse. And should something - or someone - they want happen to escape a ruined masquerade one Halloween night, happen to flee to some little nowhere town near the swamps, well. It’s not like Mr. Labeau can really refuse to follow them at his erstwhile employer’s behest.

Times are hard, after all.

And a man has to eat.

#leo labeau #leon labeau #vampire oc #slasher oc #morvant mortuary #monsterkisser fics #the next october #vamptember

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afniel · 10 months

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Tears of the Kingdom and early Metroid games share SO much design DNA. Especially in the Depths, but just in general.

Mild spoilers re: the Depths atmospheric design basically and the intro sequence of the game, nothing plotty, but I'll put it under a cut in case you've been avoiding everything about it until you can play it yourself. Which I recommend, it's SO good blind.

You're exploring a vast, oppressively dark, alien space, cavernous and claustrophobic in equal measure. There are signs of past civilization in the existence of cyclopean stone and metal megastructures, the exact function of which is hard to imagine from where you are now, and they bring you no comfort. There's very little music, but a lot of strange, echoing, disconcerting sounds. Are they a threat? Are they just background noise? Who knows. The landscape doesn't care about you. It is essentially inimical to your existence. You are small, alone, and uninvited, and anything could be lurking in the echoing blackness. Over time, you find hidden items, overcome bizarre creatures, grow in strength, and your forays become a little less sweaty-palmed...but not completely.

Okay, am I describing Metroid 1 and 2, or the Depths? Both? Both. Both is good.

For as much as Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom riff off the first few Zelda games, with their sense of open-ended adventure and ability to do things in whatever order you can physically manage, TotK in particular draws a huge chunk of its design from the first several Metroid games; mostly 1 and 2, somewhat Super Metroid (which is in fact subtitled as Metroid 3, though nobody really calls it that, because it was in the era of titling everything Super because, you know, Super Famicom/Nintendo Entertainment System).

The design cues they use to create a feeling of dread and fear in the Depths are basically one-to-one the same, just expanded on since the Switch has more capability to do so. Black is used heavily as a background color. On the NES, this was a limitation turned into a design feature; on the Switch, this is a very intentional decision. It's not just dark, it's pitch-black, and the drifting patches of fog and particles add to that feeling by showing you the vaguest dimensions of the open space yawning before you, but nothing else. The feeling of the darkness pressing in on you in a very visceral way is increased even further by the use of an extremely clever low-light shader that actually replicates how humans see in low light: we have far more rods, which detect contrast, than cones, which detect color, and our very low light vision is almost colorless as a result. Find a dark corner of the Depths and wander into it, and you'll see the saturation of your surroundings do the same. It's not even a simple desaturation filter, either! The contrast of the textures around you will actually increase as the overall light level drops. Certain colors will persist a little longer than others, which is true in human vision too. It's IMPRESSIVE. They very much did their homework to make the darkness feel like a physical presence.

The music is in the same vein as well. It's discordant, unsettling, and sparse enough that you can't readily pin down any sort of beat, with non-tonal flourishes like a jagged-sounding burst of bass. And it echoes forever. It feels like the Depths look: not necessarily malicious, but inhospitable, and incompatible with surface life. In the areas that do have recognizable music, it's somber and distant, and still very much discomforting.

Much like any of the early Metroid games (and many of the following ones), the scenery is largely organic, punctuated by constructions of mostly unknown function. You do of course have the benefit of some place names; this is a mine, that's a processing center of some kind, et cetera. But they still don't look like any kind of facility we might recognize without that prompt. Despite being mainly natural, though, it's designed after no nature we know, and once you shed some light on things, it's no less alien. Plants are blue and pink and gray, stone is yellow and white. The quality of the light is bioluminescent except for directly under activated lightroots. It could just as easily be an entire other planet down there. There's even a superheated area that you need specific armor to navigate, not unlike Norfair...and just like Norfair, if you're feeling adventurous and know what you're doing, you can entirely skip that armor and navigate without it.

This is all without getting into the obvious part where Link is alive because of an alien graft, from a dead race, which interfaces with their lost technology and gives him extraordinary abilities and upgrades. Samus has this same plot beat exactly, only hers is some kind of Chozo modification in her backstory rather than a limb replacement, and later in Metroid Fusion, a literal dose of metroid DNA that transfers some of their absorption abilities and cold weakness to her. Link and Samus could form the most strangely specific support group ever.

Also, the music that plays when you're being spoken to by a shrine is very, very much like any of the Metroid riffs (especially in Super Metroid) that play when you pick up items or load a save file. There's not as much to say there, because my ear is not good enough to try and compare the chord structure, but it's audible even without that so it's whatever.

Anyway yeah I've spent way too much time thinking about this, which is probably obvious lol. But I was REALLY excited when it suddenly clicked for me what the Depths reminded me of, and the more I compared TotK and the Metroid series, the more I realized they shared in design, and I'm a design nerd so now I'm making it everyone's problem. Hopefully it's interesting to others! And also if I missed anything you caught, or you've got a different take on it, don't be shy about adding to reblogs, I love discussing this stuff and I will absolutely not be upset if you saw something else instead. I think that's cool and I want to hear about it! There's so much going on with this game that there's no one right interpretation, especially for something like world design elements, and I love it to death for that.

#the legend of zelda: tears of the kingdom #loz totk #totk #loz #zelda #legend of zelda #tears of the kingdom

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mack-anthology-mp3 · 11 months

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The Beths ✨

The Beths are an indie band from Auckland, Aotearoa New Zealand, with three studio albums, a live album, a couple eps, and recently completed a couple international tours with many sellout shows.

And they are the fricken best NZ band currently recording, in my opinion. (by all means tell me who you think are better I might not have heard of, but consider : the Beths.)

They mainly work in the indie rock format, their earlier stuff being quite pop-punk (though the title track of Jump Rope Gazers sounds uncannily like nostalgic Taylor Swift it's a bit disconcerting). Their 2022 album Expert In A Dying Field, is mostly nicer soundwise, a bit less distorted as a whole (with the notable exception of Silence is Golden, with a searing solo and excellent high-on-the-fretboard-bass-playing), but still with the unflinchingly personal lyrics that typify Beths songs. They have extraordinarily catchy choruses, memorable tunes and a fine combination of distorted guitar and chirpy backup vocals.

Singer/songwriter/guitarist Elizabeth Stokes' songs are full of passion, tenderness, and the very real anxiety of sharing your feelings with people. They bring up real emotions and experiences, things everyone even slightly introspective and introverted and socially anxious is surely very familiar with. Her lyrics, even when bordering on Morrissey-level angst 'you wouldn't like me / if you saw what was inside me' and 'misery loves me / but I don't love her', often surprisingly dark contrasting with the cheerful tone of the melody 'I told you that I was afraid / of stating my opinions in a clear and honest way [...] some thoughts are best deleted // I don't know what I'm getting up for'. The lyrics are highly emotionally charged while still seeming completely genuine, without the melodramatics.

Producer/lead guitarist Jonathan Pearce reminds me of Lenny Kaye (or Johnny Marr, but for some reason Lenny Kaye) - the guitarist who is crucial in shaping the sound of the band, singing backup (and backing vocals are a key feature of Beths songs) and being a *presence* in the music. His solos are excellent, drawing from a wide variety of indie influences, being technically quite good, impactful without showing off or going on too long, they always suit the song very well. He seems a true musical partner, and any band that produces their own music has full respect from me. They've had a couple drummers, especially for different tours, the drumming is a bit more heavy on their first album Future Me Hates Me. There are so far not really any particular stand out basslines I can remember but the bass always has really good tone. All band members contribute vocals, which I think is really cool.

The Beths make particular use of NZ made amps like Jansen - quick NZ music history courtesy of my friends dad / band mentor - for a long time from the 60s onwards, it was cheaper to build amps here than it was to import them from the US, so there are a lot of virtually indestructible vintage amps lying around the country - and Stokes also has a really vibey looking turquoise guitar, never seen another one like it. Their music videos are also really cool, have that nice indie / low budget / *lets do random stuff in front of the camera with some props* vibe to them.

I have seen the Beths live once, which was amazing and I loved it, it was one of those gigs that makes me want to go home and practice so that I can one day be that cool. They are really heavy live, far more distorted and on the rock end of the indie spectrum. I have also been lucky enough to meet them after said show and get a cd signed, they were all really nice. I said to Elizabeth that I had learned Future Me Hates Me with my band, and she asked if it was easy or hard, and I said it just has a lot of chords (she agreed, it does have a lot of chords). Next time they do a show here I am 100% going. I hope they will have a new album out in the next couple years and continue to explore their style a bit more, and that they continue to find an international audience because they are certainly good enough to.

Lots of love to the Beths <3

#the beths #nz music #band recommendations #music recommendation #future me hates me #jump rope gazers #expert in a dying field #indie rock #indie band #elizabeth stokes

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groovesnjams · 1 year

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..................number37 ....................of50

“Edge of the Edge” by Panda Bear & Sonic Boom

DV:

A bouncy song about the slow apocalypse we’re living through, “Edge of the Edge” is the rare Animal Collective-adjacent song that I brought to the Grooves N Jams table. It wormed its way into my heart on the strength of that doo-wop vocal layered through the song, which I only later discovered halfway comes from “Denise” by Randy and the Rainbows. I can’t discount the power of that sample: I grew up listening almost exclusively to Oldies radio and that song was a fixture. I haven’t heard it in probably two decades, didn’t recognize this pitched-down snippet, but knew it as soon as I saw the title. “Edge of the Edge” pairs that high “oooh ooooh” with a bass “dum dum dum dum” of its own, and that’s where it clicks, in that contrast and combination, old and new united to commemorate our impending doom.

MG:

On ominous undercurrent runs through the whole of Reset, and I feel like most critics aren’t sure what to make of it, preferring instead to focus on Panda Bear and Sonic Boom’s mutual love of interpolation and crate digging, the sheer heft of the album’s reference points. Avoid at your own peril because the context of fear, addiction, ambiguity, and collapse is what makes a song like “Edge of the Edge” so thrilling, but also, especially, so intriguing. Is this a song about alcoholism? Is it about social media? Does it matter? The mechanism of addiction is the same and our culture is similarly dismissive and critical of addicts no matter their drug. “Edge of the Edge” isn’t exactly sympathetic -- in fact, the way it combines its weighty subject matter with chipper production that layers handclaps and dial-up modems beneath Panda Bear’s erstwhile naive, boyish vocals verges on creepy. It’s an unsettling, often jarring listen that begs the question: what is going on here? What is this all about? The two men look haggard and off kilter in all their promo shots while all the music videos are rote psychedelia. Are they aliens? Are they horsemen? Sorry to raise so many questions and answer none of them but in a year that started with Panda Bear rejected by the calm app and ended with him featured on a Nosaj Thing album, “Edge of the Edge” was the most disconcerting and undeniable of all his output.

#gnjsoty2k22 #edge of the edge #panda bear & sonic boom #music #randy and the rainbows

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batmads-ao3 · 2 years

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Across the Universe

Detroit: Yuri’s done the math. He done the research and the consideration and the planning. This will be his last year of competitive figure skating, and this time next year, he’ll be moving on to grad school. No matter what, though, Yuri hopes to hold onto Victor in any way that he can. Even if he has to compromise and change his own dreams to do it.

St. Petersburg: Victor is tired of compromising. Tired of having dreams deferred, of stealing moments in the off season and after competitions to spend time with Yuri. The way he sees it, there are only two options: keep Yuri in competitive skating, or find a way to stay by Yuri’s side after this year is through. Because if there’s anything that Victor knows for certain, it’s that he’s never letting anything come between him and his soulmate ever again.

But how far are Yuri and Victor willing to go to protect the other’s dreams? And with a whole universe separating them, will a soulmate bond really be enough to hold them together when it matters most?

**Part Three of the Defy the Stars Trilogy**

Soulmates!AU • College! AU (kinda) • Happy Ending

Read Chapter Three here!

In which Yuri strongly rejects the suggestion that he's overworking himself, and Victor designs his programs for the season.

Posting every Friday at 5:00, chapter preview below the cut

Yuri was lying on the floor in Patrick’s living room, squinting at his data from yesterday. It was July, and the air conditioner was out in his and Phichit’s apartment, and open windows and fans just weren’t cutting it anymore. Patrick’s was the only safe haven where Yuri could work on this without actively hating his life. Phichit was coming over later today too, after he was done at the rink. Honestly, if this heat wave continued, if their AC continued to sputter and fail, there was a real possibility that he and Phichit would just pack up and start living on Patrick’s floor.

The numbers swam before Yuri’s eyes, and he pushed his glasses up so he could rub the bridge of his nose. How could it already be July? How could it already be two months since he’d since Victor? It was disconcerting how quickly the time had flown, although, admittedly, between research and skating, Yuri hadn’t had a lot of time to miss his soulmate.

What was really disconcerting was that if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that it was still two summers ago, and that Victor and everything else that had happened since that fateful August was a dream. He could hear Patrick singing along to his pump-up playlist in the bathroom, water hissing while he showered. Sunlight danced over Yuri’s face, his eyelids, and the future yawned open in front of him, wondering what it was he was planning on doing with his life. His heart still ached for it all like it had back then. He reached out without thinking about it, knuckles dragging against the carpet, half expecting to find Victor’s hand waiting for him.

The bathroom door swung up and Patrick’s music got that much louder. Yuri let it all wash over him; the pounding bass, the singer’s voice sharp like a knife. Patrick’s feet scuffed on the carpet. He must have hit pause though, because the music abruptly cut off.

“Are you okay?” Patrick asked. He didn’t sound concerned. More dubious. More vaguely curious.

Yuri peeled open his eyes again, tilted his head back to look at Patrick. His ex was peering over the couch at where Yuri was lying on the floor.

“I’m fine,” he said.

Continue on Ao3

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primatechnosynthpop · 8 months

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If You Push Them Too Hard, They're Going To Break

Part 4

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

The next few weeks were surreal to say the least. By day, Jemaine and Bret carried on with their regular lives. By night they performed to moderate success at bars, clubs, auditoriums, corporate events-- not public libraries or elevators. None of their gigs drew in huge numbers, but the numbers they drew went beyond single digits. And they always got paid.

Mel was never in the crowd, of course. Neither was Doug, which Jemaine felt a bit betrayed by whereas Bret didn't really notice or care. He could have showed up to support them, Jemaine thought, to pay tribute to his wife's legacy. People applauded, but never with the volume or enthusiasm Mel used to, nor did fans approach them with anywhere near her level of zeal. In fact, hardly anyone approached them at all. People just showed up, watched them play, and left. It was disconcerting. They'd always thought if they ever succeeded, their loyal fan would be there to cheer them on, gushing about how proud she was that her guys had finally made it.

"It's too bad," Jemaine remarked once while they were backstage, tuning his bass in preparation to perform. "I could've included her in my wish if I'd remembered."

"Maybe Doug can make a contract," Bret suggested. "If he wants to bring her back."

Jemaine grimaced and shook his head. "No, Doug would make a terrible magical girl."

There was still a familiar face who cropped up amidst the crowds, though. Dave usually sat near the back, hoping to come off as aloof and not make it seem like he was overly invested in the band's performance. They may have been moving up in the world, but he still had a reputation to uphold. But by the end of the night he'd be pointing up at the stage and proclaiming to anyone in earshot, "Hey, I knew these guys before they were famous. If you wanna hear any stories about 'em, just ask me-- although, fair warning, they're boring as hell except the parts where I show up."

They weren't famous even now, really-- nobody talked about them on the street or on social media, and there was still no sign of a record deal. But if Dave wanted to call them famous, they weren't going to correct him.

"I always knew you guys would hit the big time someday," he told them one night after a performance that was successful but not too successful as always. He poured each of them a drink and slid the glasses across the bar counter toward them. The drink in question was just water, but Bret and Jemaine took it without complaint because they didn't really feel like alcohol anyway. "I guess some of my advice must have finally paid off."

"Oh, uh, I don't know about that," Bret admitted. "It was mostly because Jemaine did something you told us not to do."

"Bret, we don't need to tell him that."

"What? Did you guys get your big break by going on a date with each other's exes or... shit, what else have I told you not to do?" Dave scratched his head, pushing his bandana askew. "Or, wait, is this about the whole gay thing? Listen, I never actually said you couldn't be gay. It's just that if you were, chicks wouldn't be--"

"It's not a gay thing," Jemaine cut him off. He took a sip of water, shooting Bret a dirty look over the rim of the glass, which Bret was oblivious to because he was also sipping water and doing it with his eyes closed for some reason. "It has to do with magical girls. And one of us becoming one."

"Yeah, no shit, you already told me Bret's a magical girl."

"No, I mean... another one of us. Both of us, now, we're magical girls."

"Oh." Dave squinted at Jemaine's hand, and sure enough, there was one of those rings just like Bret had. "Well, fuck, man."

Jemaine, sensing how much the mood had immediately soured, tried weakly to steer it back to cheerful. "It's not so bad. Better than I thought it would be. I like my costume."

Dave didn't say anything to that. He didn't know what to say. So two of his friends had basically thrown their lives away? After all the bullshit advice he made up on the spot to impress them, this was the time they decided not to listen. The one time he actually had a real, serious warning, and they ignored it. Well, shit. What could you say to that?

Instead of responding, he chugged his own drink (not water) and let his gaze stray around the bar. There were people dancing, a couple hot chicks, but none that got him too excited. He thought he spotted Murray in a corner trying to chat up a couple guys in suits, but the suits didn't look interested in whatever he was saying. People had been singing along when Jemaine and Bret got up there and played their lame nerd-ass songs, but nobody was approaching them now. That was weird. Didn't there used to be someone who was always on their dicks?

"What happened to that psycho chick, anyway?" he muttered. "The one who wants to fuck you guys so bad it makes her look stupid."

Jemaine and Bret exchanged a glance, their faces jarringly solemn. Bret looked more pensive, while Jemaine seemed resigned. Now it was Dave's turn to realize he'd asked the wrong question. But, to their credit, they answered him anyway.

"Mel's not around anymore," said Jemaine.

Bret sighed, staring down into the cup of water in his hands. "She turned into a witch and we had to kill her."

Jemaine turned to Bret with as much incredulity as Dave did. Both said "What?" almost in unison, though with Jemaine's much flatter delivery you'd never know he was equally taken aback.

"You didn't mention she became a witch," said Jemaine.

"Didn't I?"

"No, you didn't. When did that happen?"

"Oh, sorry, I thought I mentioned it. It was the time Murray died."

"What?"

"Murray fucking died?" Dave interjected. "But he's standing right over there."

"Yeah, but then-- you know, your wish, Jemaine..." Bret gestured vaguely, cheeks colouring with embarrassment as he realized how poorly he was explaining himself. He really thought he'd been over this, but obviously it had slipped his mind. "Anyway, he is alive now, but Mel's not because she became a witch."

"I don't believe this," Jemaine muttered.

"Sorry, man, I just--"

"Not you," he clarified. "Kyubey. It didn't say anything about people turning into witches. We might have wanted to know that before making contracts with it."

"See, that's why-- I fucking told you New Guinea morons not to be magical girls!" Dave snapped, slamming his glass down on the bar. The drinks had gone to his head a little, and he knew he wasn't being cool and he'd regret blowing up like this later, but fuck, he was pretty sure he was allowed to be mad about this right now. "Rule number one of making a deal, you wanna know shit about what you're getting into. That means you ask questions before giving anything up, because if you get scammed, nobody's gonna give you a refund."

"...Sorry, Dave."

"We're from New Zealand. But yeah, sorry, Dave."

"Yeah, whatever." He took one last swig of his drink even though it tasted like shit now. "Just don't die, okay? And if you do, don't say I didn't warn you."

On the nights they didn't have gigs, they fought witches, which was only a slightly bigger change of pace than the gigs.

Bret ran through a twisting Parisian street, occasionally shooting at the witch towering above him. The familiars, fancy woman-shaped dolls dressed up in scarves and berets, had Jemaine surrounded. They were speaking in some garbled language he couldn't understand. It made his head ache. He beat them back with a nunchuck in each hand, one wood and one metal.

The ground shook as one of the witch's giant metal legs came crashing down inches from where Bret had been a moment ago. The witch was dressed the same as its familiars, but instead of a doll body it had the body of a full-size eiffel tower. Bret, tired of running, ducked into the closest building that had a working door-- a library. He ducked between two bookshelves, where he hid until the thundering steps from outside faded away and he could relax with the knowledge that the witch had passed him by.

<Jemaine,> he called out telepathically. <Where are you? I'm in a library.>

It took a moment for Jemaine to respond, and Bret briefly wondered if his friend might have been hurt or worse. But luckily his response came through eventually. <I think I'm in a dance hall. Are you sure you're in the same labyrinth as me?>

<Pretty sure,> Bret replied. He stepped out of his library shelter and looked across the ravaged street. Through a window on the opposite side of the street, he could see Jemaine standing in a discotheque with his back turned, one hand on his hip and the other near his ear like he was making a phone call. Bret's lips quirked in amusement. <Yeah, I can see you from here. Turn around.>

It was bad timing, however, as just then the witch turned around and came charging down the road at Bret again. He ducked inside another building, this time a swimming pool, just as Jemaine turned around.

<I don't see you,> Jemaine said with a frown. <Are you messing with me?>

<I'm not messing with you.>

Bret just rolled his eyes without responding to that remark and lined up a shot through a window. He wanted to see if he could knock the beret right off that witch's head.

They'd been in this city-themed labyrinth for what felt like hours now and hadn't found the witch. Neon signs pulsed, the buildings seemed to press in tighter every minute, and a periodically shifting landscape kept them running back and forth across the same streets with no sense of direction. Bret fired arrows wildly into the air, while Jemaine slumped against a cold concrete wall to catch his breath.

There was a shifting sound, and they turned in unison to see a familiar shuffling toward them. It was a humanoid figure dressed like a store clerk, but its body was cobbled together out of muesli. Jemaine cocked an eyebrow at it. His stomach grumbled despite himself-- he hadn't eaten yet-- and Bret gave him an incredulous look.

"What?" he said defensively. "Witches eat humans. Maybe we could start eating their familiars. Even things out a little."

Bret just shook his head. He drew back an arrow and fired it off, but it sailed right through the familiar and didn't even slow it down. Jemaine glanced behind them to see a second one coming up a hill. He tightened his grip on his own weapon and stood behind Bret facing the opposite way so their backs were almost touching.

"What are you doing that for?" Bret asked.

"It's a cool pose," Jemaine explained. "We're like a battle couple."

"We're not a couple."

"I know, that's why I said 'like'. We're just a couple of... battlers."

Bret shrugged. "Alright. Whatever, man."

While Bret's arrows proved ineffective against the familiars, a few whacks from Jemaine's nunchucks made them crumble away. Soon Bret ducked out of the battle altogether and sat down on a fire escape to watch while Jemaine finished them off. Jemaine wasn't pleased with that. He was about to hassle Bret about abandoning him when he felt something shift underfoot.

"Augh, what's that?"

"What's what?" Bret asked, but then he felt it too a moment later. The streets were moving again-- but not just moving. The pavement was contracting and expanding like a beating heart. "Oh, wow. That's freaky."

There was a theory forming in his mind, and he motioned for Jemaine to move out of the way so he could test it. Jemaine didn't need any prompting to take several steps back when he saw Bret lining up a shot. His confidence in his friend's skills had improved drastically since they started fighting together, but he still wasn't keen on taking risks.

Bret fired straight down, and a thick oily substance spurted up from the crack that his arrow split in the pavement. The ground shook and they heard a bellowing sound from below. Jemaine stumbled, momentarily losing his footing, while Bret smirked at the confirmation of his suspicion: the witch had been right under their feet all along.

While Bret leapt from rocky crag to rocky crag dodging crashing waves and picking off familiars, Jemaine grappled with a witch in the form of a giant mutated seagull. After a lot of hard work and struggle he'd managed to get up on its back and now he had his nunchucks around its throat, strangling it. Things were looking good until Jemaine felt a sudden chill and looked up to see a piano falling at him from the sky.

"Bret," he yelped, jerking back and letting go of the witch in shock. Now free, it shook him off and took to the sky again with a flap of its wings and a screech. "There's a piano...!"

Bret either didn't hear him over the crash of the waves or ignored him. He just kept studiously shooting down the feathery hands that periodically shot up from the water. Now that the witch was free it took a dive for him too, but he scared it away with a couple arrows that missed by a wide margin but made for good warning shots.

The piano was too big to dodge in time, so Jemaine raised his nunchucks to block it. The corner of the piano balanced precariously on the slim metal chain between the two wooden sticks, which groaned and threatened to buckle under the weight.

<Bret,> Jemaine called with more insistence, using telepathy this time despite his misgivings about the mode of communication. <I could use a little help.>

Bret paused, lowering his bow, and looked over. "What is it?"

"This piano is going to crush me," Jemaine explained tersely. His arms and legs were already wobbling from having to keep it balanced above his head, and something deeper in his core ached from the concentrated magic power required to keep his nunchucks intact while committing this implausible feat. "You need to move it out of the way."

"Ohh, yeah," Bret said, nodding. "Yeah, I can do that, hold on."

He raised a hand, which glowed the colour of his magic, and the same glow spread to the piano as it gently lifted into the air. As soon as the weight vanished from Jemaine's arms, he wasted no time getting well out from under the piano.

"You could've done that sooner," Jemaine remarked as he jumped up on a rocky ledge to join Bret.

"I was busy."

"I almost died. Would you have been busy then?"

Bret shrugged, unbothered, because he hadn't been paying attention and thought Jemaine was exaggerating. One corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk. "I guess I'd be busy finding a replacement roommate."

Jemaine grumbled about how impossible it was to work with Bret as the two of them worked in tandem to bring down the witch. He caught the witch's leg in his nunchucks, Bret shot a few arrows through each of its wings to bring it down, and it was finished in less than a minute.

Jemaine couldn't get used to the sensation of sleeping in jewelry, so he took to keeping his soul gem on the nightstand beside his glasses overnight. One evening when they were getting ready for bed, he was struck with an odd sort of ticklish sensation and looked over to see Bret sitting up in bed inspecting his soul gem.

"What are you doing with that, Bret?"

"Oh, I was just trying to figure out the shape of your soul gem," Bret said. "Like how mine's an animal. I can never tell its shape when you're transformed because it's stuck inside that flower. The petals get in the way."

"Does it matter?"

He shrugged. "It's interesting. Says something about a person, I think."

Jemaine sat down on the edge of his own bed and leaned forward, cupping his chin in his hand. It wasn't something he paid attention to himself, but that assertion had him curious. "Oh yeah? What's Murray's, then?"

Bret pursed his lips, rocking back and forth in his cross-legged position. "A pen or pencil, I think. It's got that, you know, sort of shape..."

He indicated the shape he meant by gesturing with his hands.

"Are you sure that's not a phallic symbol?" Jemaine asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Mm..." Bret narrowed his eyes, lips screwing to the side, and shook his head. "No, I don't think it's that."

"Right, I guess it wouldn't be. I don't know if Murray even has a dick."

"He has one."

"Oh yeah?" Jemaine challenged. "Have you seen it?"

Bret gave him an odd look. "No. Have you?"

"No, but with the way you ran up and hugged him that time, I thought maybe there was something you weren't telling me."

Bret rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe Jemaine was still hung up on that. Rather than dignify that comment with a response, he flopped over onto his back and resumed inspecting the soul gem and the little symbol on top. Out of nowhere it hit him.

"Oh, I know. It's a pair of lips."

"...Pardon?"

"Your soul gem," he explained, holding it out for Jemaine to see. "It's shaped like a pair of lips. Your lips, I'd imagine."

"Aw, is that really it?" Jemaine looked skeptical and vaguely disappointed as Bret handed the soul gem over to him. He transformed in a flash of light, then plucked the gem out of his flower accessory and examined it. In that form it was much easier to tell... and yes, it looked like Bret was right. "That's probably because I kiss so many people," he said unconvincingly. "Especially women. Entirely women, actually."

"Or it could be because you've got a big mouth," Bret suggested with a smirk.

Jemaine scoffed and gave Bret a gentle shove. It was supposed to be gentle, anyway. He forgot he had the strength of a magical girl now. Bret went rolling off the bed, and upon climbing back up, transformed into his magical girl costume just to shove Jemaine back.

It quickly escalated into a lighthearted war, the two both ending up on Bret's bed rolling around and pushing each other. Jemaine won out in the end. He was the physically stronger of the two, and not even Bret's fancy agility would let him wriggle out from under a pair of large hands that had each of his arms firmly pinned down. Jemaine panted to catch his breath, a sheen of sweat coating his brow as he stared down into Bret's wide eyes...

Bret let out a startled yelp at the sound of their bedroom door swinging open. He drew his legs up and threw his arms around himself like he was naked despite being fully clothed. The reaction made Jemaine jump too as the way the situation looked caught up to him. Kyubey stood calmly in the doorway, staring at them.

"Agh! Did you see all that just now? That wasn't... we weren't..."

<I was under no false pretenses about your activities,> Kyubey replied levelly. <As a species driven by calculations rather than emotion, I do not make unreasonable assumptions as humans often do.>

"Even if we had been doing anything," Jemaine said against his best interests, "Bret's a magical girl, so..."

"No, I'm a magical man," Bret corrected him. "You're a magical girl."

"Yes, either way it's like one of us is a girl, sort of... like we're both girls, really... so if we were to do anything, it wouldn't be gay," Jemaine flawlessly concluded his thought. "Not that we were. But if we did."

Kyubey found that logic deeply questionable, as it did with the complexities of many human emotions, but said nothing as it glanced back and forth between the musicians. Bret had shuffled to one end of his bed and was sitting hunched over, staring at the floor. Jemaine was at the opposite end of the bed but had yet to retreat to his own, in a simulacrum of a casual pose but with his neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle so he could look as far away from Bret as possible. Both their faces had turned a deep red.

"Kyubey," Bret said slowly, "Could you please leave the room? I'd like to talk with Jemaine alone for a bit."

That got Jemaine's attention. He looked back at Bret, blinking in surprise. "You... you would?"

His eyes asked more questions than he was willing to voice aloud, and Bret gave him a shy smile and dip of his head that answered them. Kyubey nodded its assent and politely trotted out of the room. Of course it could still listen in on them from any distance, but they didn't need to know that.

And whatever happened once that door was closed was confidential business that could only be disclosed in a private magical girl meeting.

[Part 5]

#hey did you know that i write stuff sometimes?#a bit of a lighter one this time before things get sad in the next and final couple installments

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actingdeep · 1 year

Text

Individuals [In Progress]

Pools are collecting round. Emptiness filling slowly the basin of the day so far while Hector stands in the light evening rain and smokes a cigarette; micro-dots of wet leopard-skinning the shaft of it, and the crackling end flickering from bouncing drips. Only cars and a low humming from the muffled electric sounds from upstairs make a stir beyond the winds against him. Upstairs, a rock and roll band is scheduled to practice at six; now minutes away. Hector is not in the band; but is simply here to try and feel out his mood for the hour. A door opens, and the music heightens; but only for a moment, as the dripping drains down into evening. The upperlevel of his old singer friend Scott's pad could be reached only through what felt like a cardboard tube: a narrow set of stairs within two white walls that seemed to be having a permanent staring contest. Impassively, Hector entered the tight bay of foot-long and toe-wide steps, reaching a door cut off from the middle up, like one you might see in your great grandmother's kitchen before you pass through it to watch her bake you cookies in tablecloth apron on copper linoleum covered in mushroom-like patterns; the rudiments of the practice exciting. He opened the heavy door to the practice room, band tuning. The full stack two feet from his right ear was Scott's. Connected to his band's rhythm guitar was a Sunn amplifier: the growling, unmatched demi-god of all guitar amplifiers. Hector's ears would be hearing faint, reverberating pitches for the rest of the night until he slept because of this (to satisfaction). Playing behind Scott was Wes, the lead guitarist, adorned in an aqua Fender strat; followed to his left by bearded bassist Chaz and drummer Eli; over to Hector, blocking the door and sitting on a mini inner-tube he had found; back round to standing Scott, with a campfire of rugs and cases and pedalboards in center. Song one, titled "Over" (in C) began. Four hits from Eli first, then all at once: the melodic, airy, pulverizing, biotic chugging commences; the vocals roaring, yet almost inaudible completely. Their sound one could describe as ironically disheveled sonic organization-- cathartic anarchy; maybe the catchy side of grunge with a predilection for melody, quickness, and keen on the mastery of the outro. A few songs in, with only quick seconds between each one--this one now a bit slower and heavier than those previous--filled the hot air; then, a sprightly will-be crowd pleaser: a cover of The Misfits' "Hybrid Moments." The lights were flickering now: Hector not realizing this, being caught in the bright madness of head-bobbings, bass bendings, stompings of homemade pedals, scattering like rats scribbled with blue Sharpie, heavy crushings of gum in teeth, disconcerted bookshelves, cables and cymbals, microphone stands;--the forever distorted, laconic pool of aptitude. Him and Scott having been more or less stoned since four--Soon, an unexpected wave of warming calm fell upon Hector (the band not noticing; being caught up deep in the zone of wire and thunder). Hector looked up, and his ears came back for a moment. The band was mid-outro to a very Bon Scott-y cover of "T.N.T." The song came and went like the pop of bubble gum. A hop of light feedback; then the jacks clicked. Smoke break was happening now. Porch for smokers, attic for pot-smokers. The sticks dropped and stretching, the musician Eli smiled cooly and descended the cardboard tube to the rain and pools collecting out the other end, Wes following. Having just recently smoked his own leopard skin, Hector went this time with Scott, the noble pot-smoking general of the club, who had a leftover half-blunt that the two were burning a few hours before. The attic was like a large, wooden tent, and silent. It had a mild smell of laundry detergent (likely Snuggle, from what Hector could surmise). They slouched and settled into the run-down linty couches. Lighting up, old Scotty and Hector--friends since this particular band's formation (and Scott's others from long before)-- shared the moment quietly together; passing the halfer blunt in reactionary silence, comfortable in their own worlds. Back in the practice room only the bassist Chaz remained; sitting Indian style to practice a song he was a week behind on. The singer-songwriter Scotty had layed out the notes for him when Chaz politely and halfheartledly apologized for his slack; for he was at the Fountain of Wayne show in Logansport, which, according to him, was "actually, pretty okay," which he quietly and happily came to notice, as the other musicians had exited, plucking watchfully.

Sigmund was a grateful man when outside moments of pain. Sigmund lives alone. When he walks down the hall and hears the soft creak from the wood floor, he becomes irritated; because if he didn’t exist, there wouldn’t be a sound. He is polite in company. When asked a question about himself, he grows weary and unfocused. Sigmund would arrive at home and turn the doorknob slowly to be as quiet as possible. He lives alone. He would walk gently in hopes of not hearing a toe knuckle crack or a pant leg brush. He angers himself deeply with his loathsome, superfluous racket. He dreads cooking because of the sound the silverware drawer makes when he pulls it open. He detests the clatter of plates if he’s the one causing the noise. Plus, all the water droplets the faucet will make. Sigmund cares about the impression he makes on others. He doesn't know why. He wants to seem cool--unfazed by anything that could possibly happen or be said. He hates himself for that. One evening, he was sitting up in bed as still as he could so he wouldn’t make the springs squeak and asked himself why he loathed himself so. He decided that he was simultaneously in awe and terribly frightened of life. He was a great bother to himself. Sigmund wants everyone to love him. Despite everything, Sigmund sees mountains of insight. Unfortunately, this insight is unintelligible. He doesn’t know how to articulate his important thoughts--and even if he could, he can't think of a good reason why he ought to. He knows what he feels inside is true insight--pure and fragile--but can never put it into words on the rare moments he tries. Sigmund longs to be advantageous. To him, advantageousness is a perfect blend of bravery and audacity, the ingredients of a hero. “What a thing to be,” he thinks at times. “Nothing could be better than to be advantageous.” Sigmund knows that he is vain and morally indecisive. He’s a perfect gentleman, until he finds himself in the mirror. Then, he becomes a beast: a frothing caricature, a ripe mask dangling in the glass. The crooked smile he perceives, the wasteland of emotional potential, the vibrant fragment of something meant for much more: frighten him.

III

Conversations with Marcus are a disheartening balance: precious, his words--pouring out like a bag of gold, but all the while making your own worth less than the dust of an afterthought. His peculiar framework of indisputable confidence alone could generate, in others, a sense of pure prestige emanating from him; and--extraordinarily--could seemingly deactivate any and all around him with half-open ears from their personal judgements and perceptions and pull them away effortlessly like nature's most insidious vines of and into his own. This is what Marcus craved most: humbling others to the point of sickening, making their individuality shrink like a vampire in light as it nervously crosses between the shadows. His voice was the light. He takes aim at personal fortitude and laughs aloud beside all your enemies while still coming off as rather friendly—even encouraging. Life to Marcus is a test in which the answers that aren't etched into a pristine and preeminent brain, or written upon the flesh and hidden under the sleeve are the ones not worth getting correct. To Marcus, diligence, compassion and honesty are wastes of time: uninstinctive flourishes only superfluous members of humankind (of middling cleverness) should implement out of pure weakness. Marcus could take hold of any fancy, opinion or musing you could put forward and decide undoubtedly whether it held credence for not just now, and not just for one person, or a few--but for all beings, across all of time itself--simply, and totally. No person that knew Marcus would likely find a man with a higher regard for courtesy and politeness in his assertions; but when faced with rival assertions, he would mock them with wit, irony, sarcasm and laughter. Sometimes, when his nose ran, Marcus would blow it into an old T-shirt that was laying on the floor.

Ernest is at peace. The people around him are anxious, and are usually away for a long time because they are busy making money. After they have made money, they spend it so they may no longer be so anxious. Ernest feels pain because he feels their pain, and can only appease the pain by directing all of his energy into loving contemplation for their souls. As a young man, Ernest would go around from person to person, asking how they were feeling, and if anybody were honest enough to say "not so great," he would offer them advice, and became widely known as the best man to go to for advice. As he grew older, Ernest stopped giving advice because of all the same people continued to feel not so great. He laughed to himself over his harmless follies. Where others crave, Ernest is satisfied. Where others loop around the edge of a circle, Ernest floats inside a sphere. Where others study upon statistics, Ernest simmers in the mysterious. When Ernest is at peace, the people around him forget completely that he is even there. They will walk by him in crossing into a different room, spot him, and say, "Oh, hello! I forgot you were here!" This would make them laugh, and Ernest would smile because they laughed. Sometimes, he is at peace for so long, he begins to feel rather spoiled, and will willfully exit his trance and seek material pleasure. In doing this, he sets to purposefully bring upon him sadness, or anguish, or even despair, so that when it is time to step back into the trance, it becomes all the more beautiful. Ernest knows this trap he has placed himself in well; yet is still weary of leaving it. The day Ernest stopped giving advice was on a day when he had asked a person how they were feeling, and they said "Really great!", and he could tell from their voice and eyes that they meant it. At first, he smiled and moved on; later on, however, he relized that he had actually hoped she would have said "not so great." After this realization, he shuddered and became quite weary, but did not understand. Years later, he understood.

As long as he could remember, Joseph was afraid to feel pride. In all pursuits, he would carry the deep fear--not of failing--but of becoming the greatest. His soul would tell him that he was indescribably exceptional; and that he could easily conquer over any man. "Nothing," he would think, "could possibly come close to the tortures." "No ruler with true authenticity wishes to rule. This life is burdensome, and conciousness has always flown with dubious discretion. Life fools it's own sheep, making them unite in a bliss, seemingly so real. The left has life it's leaders; whereupon the vast majority of it's true weight can reliably fixate itself, with no fear of collapse. Such a distribution," thought Joseph, as he walked, reflecting, "should appear impossible, unsustainable. Yet upon thought, becomes so infinite, resolute." "Man can neither be confident, nor insecure," Joseph thought, "but be either resolved, or vulnerable." He crossed a river. To Joseph, breaking the code of life, and answering the biggest question man has ever asked himself in his most quiet moments of reflection was to be his own burden, his blessing; all else seemed so trivial. "What is left, but to search?" said Joseph, before seating himself on a sunny patch of grass beyond the river, looking East.

"Would you mind if I sat here for a little bit?" "Free country." He pulls out the chair to the right of the cute girl and sits. When the bartender asks what he can get him, he orders a moscato. "But could I please have it in a regular rocks glass with ice? I have bad luck with stemmed glasses." "I can do that." He sits upright, and is looking forward with a calm smile, joining his hands and resting his arms on the bar. The girl glances at him from the side. Her legs are crossed and she's also very upright. There's a purse on the floor near her feet. Once he has his drink and has paid, he takes a couple sips and remains still just as before and calmly and pleasantly looks ahead. "Muh-ska-toe," she says, scratching away polish from a fingernail with another nail. "Indeed." "Never had one." "One of my go-tos." "So why no stemmed glass?" The bar is dim, except because of the afternoon sunlight coming in; and mostly empty. It's not quite five-o-clock. A car outside honks. He takes a gulp of the moscato, asks what she's having, which happens to be a vodka tonic. "With extra, extra lime." "So I see." "Lime all the time." "I like your lime rhyme." She laughs. "I use it all the time." "Will it cost a dime?" "That would be a crime." The front door opens behind them with a loud clash and ringing of bells, and less than a second after, a booming masculine voice was calling: "Cass-ie! Let's fuckin' go," and then the door shutting again with another clash. "That's me," she says, after a little nervous start, looking over her shoulder and reaching for her purse. She smooths her clothes as she stands up, sets the purse on her chair and pays for her drink. She waits for her change and begins tying up her hair in the back with a black hair tie that had been wrapped around her wrist. "Sorry. That was loud." He moves his arms to his lap and watches her neck come out as her hair goes up: the skin looking very delicate and milky compared to her much more tan face. The bartender gets her change for her with a placid round face looking at her and she looks up and says "Thank you, Donnie. Keep it real, man." Now she's pushing things around in her purse as if searching for something but not finding it, all the while seeming to get just a tiny bit more nervous with each second that passes. With her head looking down, still digging around her purse, she says: "So listen, I gotta go now. It was nice meeting you. What's your name?" Do you come here very often?" She gives up the search and huffs out, composing her thoughts. She looks at him. "Isaac. Nice to meet you, too." He put out his hand and they shook. "Cassie. Well--obviously--you know that by now." "Have a good evening." "Bye."

VII

She come in talking like, I think I wanna do porn. These are three thousand, four thousand dollar offers here. I mean wouldn't you? Talking about she has dead kids, she knows grief. Talking about how she been all fucked up and drinking Hennessy. Talking about Tim, divorcing after a decade and all the confusion. Talkin bout Jews and Egypt, after a long silence I finally give the best advice she got all night. I dont care about her. If only her brother sitting right in front of her knew what I did. He is full of love, among other things; displaced so far and away like now. We be talking about people in jail and mad laughter. I wanna tell her about the dirt. The discovery, the mushrooms I took, and what I was told, about the dirt. Oh they think it actually means something. All the effort is truly astounding, So much effort. This girl is going to Chicago to meet directors. This family shit too much. Good vibes and silence once I get to typing. SIlence. Yes. Good. That's the dirt. It's what was once, and will be and always has. He's got a lot of old friends that he calls brothers and sisters, so every other face I see pop in the door becomes my face, my blood. It's a fine and delicate trick we play on ourselves; nothing in the world of beauty can compare to the sophistication. Real shame that wore off. Very rarely do we abscond the distractions and truly dissolve. Most have no fear of the outside, but fear the inner. I always enjoyed the middle of the pool; just below the shoulders, with my toes barely dragging below. What I feel in the room tonight is like that perfect medium space in pools as a kid. SHe might do porn. She has a sugar daddy. (So does he). But he got a job this morning. Hers is pissed at her. Sugar daddy, that is. Talkin bout she can barely text a sentence and that's totally bogus upon her part. Verbatim. Talkin bout she treatin him like a peon. This dude forty seven, by the way. At least she's laughin. Usually it's not this sister but another pair of sisters. They're teenagers and lesbians and both seem to have mental things happening once in a while so it's usually these two girls huddled up together looking at their phones for hours upin end. They're kind enough. The whole world seems detatched, but kindly: lost, forgotten, perhaps even dead inside. But the soul can only sleep for so long.

VIII

Just before daybreak as Tommy Wexler was preparing coffee for himself in ritual for his Monday morning paper route, he came to the casement window to breathe in what the day would offer him to discover an indeterminate package nearby his front doorstep. Perfectly square in the typical brown paper, it bore no visible label or address, sitting in solitude in the quiet morning. After a brief struggle between openness and neurosis, he brought it inside and set it on the counter where he already had his mail bag and uniform for work set out and ready. Tommy's first instinct told him not to bother himself about the mystery box until after his work shift. Nothing much in his life was happening as of late, and this fact Tommy was growing (some might say unhealthily) accustomed to. He woke up that morning feeling well rested, and having had his second favorite Sunday dinner the night previous (steak and sweet potato salad), he was feeling generally grateful all around, and decided the best decision to make was to spend his good energies focusing on his job. He brought the mystery box back outside and replaced it in the same spot and position he found it. He did this with curious caution, after considering that the package may have been put there by mistake and was not even meant for him; for he truly could not find any reason to have expected it. He unconsciously hoped that the package would be gone upon his return home. Tommy was sentimental, and since he was still to be considered a rather young man supposedly tasked by society to attain supreme achievements and influences with unrelenting determination, he considered this his presiding weakness; he felt that sentimentality was the guaranteed, natural killer of ambition. Some days, he wished he were the type of headstrong and unscrupulous man that stops at nothing to get what he wants: a man of impact. Some days, he wished he could think of something, anything, that he wanted to get. In reality, he was gracious, pleasant, empathic, merciful, trustworthy, a pushover. He often wondered about the inner-workings of the minds of those men those uppermost regimes of success were occupied by. He fancied that they were either the most insecure people alive or the very least. He still cannot decide which is more likely. Tommy always had a sneaking suspicion that he was not among the least or the most secure. He was only "scientific" when completely necessarry, and he considered psychological self-exploration and improvement being a given, if not the top necessity. Was this "necessity" the means to his insecure end? Was he a classic overthinker? He would ponder. Would the term "overthink" exist at all were it not, as he believed, the guaranteed, natural killer of confidence? Was "insecurity" not a simple rephrasing of a general lack of confidence? He hoped not, for it would mean that those uppermost regimes of society were, in fact, made up of wholly "secure" persons; this, Tommy found quite unsettling. The most difficult aspect about Tommy's incessant self-scrutiny was the fact of him having very few friends or friendly people to discuss all of his possible adequacies and inadequacies, leaving him without any "relative to"s to substantiate his theories. Only in books and poetry did Tommy ever uncover those everlasting and ubiquitous human qualities with which we remain eternally connected with, and without them (the books and poetry), he fancied that he would be firmly sinking, and beyond alone. And yet, he remains pleasant and grateful most of his days. Once more considering the package, Tommy mulled over the idea that he might be grateful for all the wrong reasons. Going further, he immediately began to theorize upon the possibility of cowardice behind many of his actions he commited in the name of gratitude: his eleventh year at the postal service, the unchanging list of his top ten Sunday dinners, an unending corpus of literature as his sole interest. Should he dare consider his personal habits and passions, at first so seemingly sound, a hallmark of cowardice? Could a would-be friend of his also consider such an idea in regard to Thomas (or to himself)? He did not know. Upon turning right onto Webster Street after hitting the last house on Southlea, Tommy continued to deliberate, against his previous resolve to focus on the mail. His usual control of emotions wavered atypically. "No addressee, no definitive stamp, no anything--dead mail." A light drizzle was beginning to come down and Tommy once again elected to try and focus all of his attention to the day's work. Though not exactly a proud mail carrier, Tommy often recognized his consistency of overall competence at his perennial occupation, always with patent surprise--and always with gratitude. The big balloon slapping against his blue shorts was slowly deflating to Tommy's relief; for he was not anticipitive of this chilly wind and rain, the morning having been quite luminous and somewhat tepid. He had about an hour left before his mind, once again, began to linger elsewhere. "What is to be done when dilligence bumps against futility? Are the repercussions of abandonment overstated? That box! How many of us walk around in hidden, dampened fear? Moreso: what do we not admit to ourselves more than anything if not deep, subconscious enduring traces of fear? Do we worship the conquerer for his lack of fear? No! We worship his pugilistic grappling with it. That box..." On approaching his driveway around four o'clock Tommy spotted the mystery box exactly as he left it; outside a damp coating that wrinkled the top of it from the afternoon drizzle that had since finished. He called his buddy Tracer on his drive home, having the typical catch-up after Tommy's impromptu dinner invitation. Tracer insisted he would make it up to him soon. They would arrange a dinner for a week from tomorrow. "How much nuance is there in accomplishment? How much merit is lost when reaching the summit turns out to be futile, and failure rather a guarantee? Is abandonment self-mercy? Is there anything within self-mercy other than veiled cowardice, the shadow of fear? Is "futility" simply a pretext for calculated fear, a simple forecast of instinct?" He brought the package inside and set it on the counter next to his coffee pot and tea kettle, preparing the latter for his ritual Matcha Monday. After looking over the package once again, his thoughts still adrift. Tommy began scrubbing out a sticky spot on the side of a cabinet. Then, he found himself removing the stovetop grates in order to scrub some more against the edges of the ignitors, then the handle, then the control panel. Looking over during the deep cleaning, he noticed a smudge on the "Start" button of his microwave, and proceeded to wipe it away. In a minute, he was vaccuuming and dusting shelves, correcting the angles on every one of his fixtures and homely accessories as he passed by them. Everything went from his mind, and he was content. In an hour he would find nothing left to neaten, so he made a second cup of tea. In the brief lapse of duty he caught himself avoiding the direction of the counter where the box lay. Now adorned in his maroon fleece robe and linen pajamas, the light from outside fading away, Tommy glared mildly at himself in the mirror throughout his brushing and flossing. He came back into the kitchen and flipped off the light, and the box vanished in the darkness. He settled himself in his Chesterfield, opened up his copy of Tender Is The Night and managed to put the mystery box out of his head, his overtaxed brain ingraining into the pages until, at last, he fell asleep. The next weekend passed. On Sunday night, Tommy ate a Lean Cuisine out of the plastic container that it came in. "What do you think of gratitude?" Tommy asked as they wiped their mouths over freshly cleaned plates. "I'm grateful to you for the invitation, and for the tuna," Tracer began. "But, you know I'm not religious." "Does gratitude have to be synonymous with faith?" "I think so. When you say 'I'm grateful' do you mean grateful to God?" "Well, yes...perhaps "thankful" is more secular?" "I don't know. After all, you must have someone or something to thank. I would say 'appreciative' is a good way to put it." "How did you feel when Christine was born? Did you ever think the word 'grateful' to yourself?" "Maybe. Once we got her into her crib that first night--I'll admit--I prayed." "Didn't you once call agnostics fence-sitting pussycats?" They both laughed. "I'm sure I did. But I feel like even atheists probably say a prayer once their child is born safely without any issues," Tracer suggested. "I mean, it's because after that happens, you're just so...I don't know. Happy. And It's not going to hurt anything." "What about luck?" "I feel lucky sometimes; in the sense that everything is random and happens for no reason. So if good things happen to you without even trying, I'll call it being lucky." "But isn't luck considered superstitious?" asked Tommy. "I guess it is. I don't know. I just know when I feel lucky, it's not because I think God did something for me. More like, calling a coin flip correctly. It's just us against the odds." There was a moment of silence. "So what's this?" Tracer asked, indicating the box. "I don't know. It just showed up. I don't know who it could be from. It has no labelling whatsoever. Should I open it?" "A mystery box. Bring it over." Tommy grabbed the package from the floor beside the sofa. He was excited to see what was inside, and this he noted to mull over later on. Tracer moved the plates to the sink, clearing a space on the table. Tommy grabbed a small knife from a nearby drawer as Tracer made his way back to the table. Tommy pulled the box toward him and opened it.

Only Penelope could manage to mend and remain. Marvin was the opposite: tending to leave displeasure altogether, or ignore it's entire existence. She could remain in the most sacrifical stances and poses for hours; gliding over the outstretched fingertips and just safely enough outside of tumbling into Marvin's greedy field of gravity: a force of attraction fully emcompassed already to be honest; over-full by now with his egregious mis-shapen posse of greaser followers right behind groaning and foaming 'Penelope! Penelope! Save us, Penelope!' not far behind.

Mac was blessed with the ability to enjoy himself. He had a few friends and mentors who had told him to play it straight, tow the line, and other such things. The way to live life, they had said, was to embrace an unyielding sense of discipline, to make no compromise in developing an inner toughness, to sacrifice his favorite things that happened to exist at the same time he did. He was so open-minded and ready to listen he forgot to place stakes, to only hear. In due time the question he ultimately had in mind in regard to these others’ insistences and his own personal reactions had become:“ What do they have that I don’t?” Only after much time had flied did he realize the dao, equitable counter-response to these torturing advices would have, could have and should have been: “What do I have that they don’t?” All of this, though in his mind, never presented itself in the ideal conscious fashion and, after two years and two months of mental struggle and impossible attempts at reconciliation, he took out, sniffed out, eliminated completely and totally what he considered for the source, to he mainspring, the base plague of all these symptoms of his stress and confusion: his life.

Darik was a victim. He was, but he would never admit it. It was the mainspring of his sadness, that damn victimhood, was. He though he was invincible, he thought he was ageless, he thought he was a genius. Two things he always thanked atheistic luck and randomness sources like that’s a real act you could possibly do for was his humor and humility. (Not to mention, gratitude—a soul requisite.) Darik would rather vomit a comet than dime on his own masked insecurity. Darik Isn’t very smart. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t noble—Isn’t wise. If, just maybe when, he came to reason and crawled out of this terrifying Pink-Floyd-The-Wall state of mind, he dreamed. He would float along forward, in a clouded yet unhazy road into something along the lines of fantastic light streets and cars passing with indescribable shadows, reflections, expulsions. But in waking moments?

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thepermanentrainpress · 1 year

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UNDER THE RADAR: DECEMBER 2022

Hope everyone got to ring in 2023 with their loved ones! 🎉 We’re throwing it back for December’s Under the Radar only, featuring releases from Eleanor, salt sword, Touray, Isobel, chengcheng, and Buddie.

1) Eleanor - “Make Sense”

“No, please don’t need your worries / Just looking for a place to voice my woes freely.”

Ontario’s Eleanor and her mother feel familiar in the sense of a generational gap, and how those differences are bridged. A conversation between the pair that reflects on “missed deadlines” and milestones not yet reached, it voices both fear and frustration. Carrying concern and urgency can work together to mend if communication exists, built on respect and a conscious effort to heal and understand. It becomes easy to overlook others’ feelings (namely a child, or a parent and grandparent) in set expectations, and Eleanor hones in on the disappointment and anxiety young people so often experience.

Her tone has a trying and fighting spirit, gripping in the speech-like delivery atop the R&B/soul soundscape. The way her upper register lingers is beautiful. “Make Sense” has heightened emotions that casts light on reconciliation and common ground.

Written by: Chloe Hoy

2) salt sword - “90′s game”

Cool and impassioned is experimental pop wonder “90′s game,” a personal recollection of artist Colin Ablitt’s ‘new kid on the block’ chapters early in his life. About “identities and faces” and the confusion it bestowed, the single’s video game focal point is largely appropriate. I felt the disassociation and urge to please and prove, while haunted by the characters of one’s past (“I’m bursting in flames but you don’t hear the sound”). Adaptability is the overarching theme, and is juxtaposed with harsher synths and drums that capture the essence of an outsider in an big new world. It opens with a poem constructed out of samples from a 1950′s instructional video and references familiar gameplay in labyrinths, save functions, and boundary breaks.

"90′s game” is painstakingly imaginative and sensitive, searching for belonging in all the entanglement.

Written by: Chloe Hoy

3) Touray - “Where I’m Going”

Touray’s “Where I’m Going” captures both the bright-eyed and disconcerting energy of young adulthood. It piles on the guitars – dazzling and chaotically paced – and is steeped in melancholic delivery. “Wake me up in June / when city grass is colder than my heart,” the London-based artist remarks in his urge to feel alive. Its blaring chorus really pulls out the emotions of the song: ecstasy, fear, peace of mind. Coloured from an early 2000s indie rock palette, "Where I’m Going” teases at dissonance before folding seamlessly into itself.

Written by: Natalie Hoy

4) Isobel - “Miles”

A self-described “sad girl winter ballad” couldn’t be more accurate for “Miles.” Feeling blue and romantic is an unfortunate pairing, but it can create the most sincere piece of art in how loss and love intertwine. While written about a first love and the shared memories, the sentiment holds the same weight for any relationship that has run its course (willingly or unwillingly). Isobel collaborated with Andrew Lo (keys and strings) and producer Benjamin Paul de Caiman; I love the levity in the layered arrangement.

It’s very validating towards the emotions felt for another and the situation (“didn’t wanna roll up my sleeves / didn’t wanna cover your heart”) – becoming self-assured is a journey. "Miles” shows us that time and distance form appreciation, and that falling prey to nostalgia is precious time to learn and grow.

Written by: Chloe Hoy

5) chengcheng - “Boundaries”

"Boundaries” is songwriter/pop producer chengcheng’s debut release. Despite a stylish dance pop beat, the track divulges raw feelings about a past relationship and goes so far as to include voice memos sent between him and his ex. It feels bright and provocative, with an accusatory tone nestled in its summertime bass line. Calling out the disposability of some modern day relationships, “Boundaries” is delivered with confidence; anything to make it hurt a little less.

Born and raised in Shanghai, Chengcheng Tang obtained a bachelor’s degree in music production and engineering from Berklee College of Music before relocating to Los Angeles. His debut EP is expected out early 2023.

Written by: Natalie Hoy

6) Buddie - “Sunday Morning”

They bring a new meaning to lazy Sundays—shaken and resilient in an unfamiliar environment we used to take for granted. Led by Daniel Forrest, the band originated in Philadelphia before being reassembled upon Forrest’s move to Vancouver in fall 2021. Lyrically, the song explores disruption and familiarity, but has a cozy indie rock meets power pop sound. Buddie evaluates their interactions and approach to life, bearing a rebirth at song’s end that is earned (“We have tools to dig the roots out / and replant with lilac”).

They’re attentive to a balance between relaxed and exasperated, much like how society has moved forward. The primarily instrumental final third is harmonious. A style that is empathetic but can still debate, the act impresses with their new release. Transplant EP is out now.

Transplant by Buddie

Written by: Chloe Hoy

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 years

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chained, m | myg

pairing(s): yoongi x reader

summary: You ever fuck someone wearing a collar and a chain... that's attached to the hot girl with the demonic grin? No? Just Min Yoongi? In his defense, he really likes a bad bitch.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; yup, there are Marilyn Manson and Slipknot references; D/s smut (fem reader, black leather collars and a chain leash, [a lot of] choking, saliva everywhere, handjob, m-receiving oral, slight edging, hair pulling, penetrative sex); non-idol!AU - rapper, sub!Yoongi x goth (also kinda his manager? lol) dom!reader; kinda PWP; Yoongi's POV

feel like I'm hexed, yeah, that bitch bad collar on her neck and her ass real fat

Most people would say, “Nah, dude, don’t mess with girls like that.”

Most people would say, “She’s fucking scary, why the hell would you think she’s hot?”

Most people would, but Min Yoongi wasn’t most people.

“I want to play a game.”

He tilted his head. “Then let’s play a game.”

She grinned, wild hair over her left eye. “Yeah?”

The first time he met her, he was at a bar and a woman was chatting him up, engaging him in conversation he didn’t want to be in. Fuck. The only reason he came was to accompany his friends, but they were all much more extroverted than he was and had already wandered off with potentials of the night. He didn’t want a potential. He just wanted a damn shot of whiskey and then he was going to slink into a corner and pretend nobody existed.

He minimized his responses to, “Mhm” and “Yeah,” but the woman wasn’t getting the hint and the bartender was busy. Sigh.

All of a sudden, a short man with a white, mannequin-like mask appeared. The white mask was painted with black streaks. He had stringy, long black and red hair and was wearing black coveralls.

Yoongi and the woman jumped away from each other, disconcerted by the appearance of the strange, tiny man.

“Bartender! Hey, real quick, can you get my friend here a drink?”

And then, fuck.

Black leather jacket, silver hardware. Tight fitted white top, so shredded the black bra underneath was visible. Short black pleated skirt. Ripped tights. Thick black boots with chains. Yoongi felt his eyes widen, looking up and down at this curvy frame. Wild hair, lush tits, juicy thighs, an ass that could put anyone in a trance with the way those hips swayed. Dark makeup, playful grin with red-stained lips.

A black choker with at least eight-centimeter spikes.

A pure white contact lens in her left eye.

“Hey, you can’t cover your face here,” a patron interrupted. “That’s creepy.”

The small man in the mask didn’t reply. The woman in black, however, swatted a hand like she was whacking away a fly.

“He’s part of the entertainment. Buzz off.”

“Oh, yes, you’re the band’s drummer, right?” The bartender rushed over. “Sorry, sorry. What will it be?”

The masked man said nothing.

“Double shot whiskey on the rocks,” the woman replied for him. “Did I get it right this time, Hana?”

A single nod from that stringy head.

“What about you?”

Yoongi jumped, startled the woman in black leather was addressing him. She cocked her head to the confused bartender. “You’ve been standing here ignored for the past ten minutes. I noticed because I was waiting for the guys to suit up to bring Hana to the bar.” She waved her hand. “Come on. Give me your order. I got you.”

“O… Oh. Same thing.”

She nodded. “Ya heard him. And don’t just only pay attention to cute girls, bartender.”

The bartender’s cheeks flushed. “A-Ah, I apologize! I’ll have them ready right away.”

The woman sighed and shook her head, completely ignoring the chatty woman who was making eyes at Yoongi, trying to get near him again. Yoongi pretended not to notice, stepping closer to the short, creepy man. The white mask didn’t move. The woman leaned down a bit because the man was shorter than she was with her height and platform boots.

“Don’t be takin’ nothing with the whiskey now. I’m treatin’ ya,” she chuckled under her breath.

Yoongi noticed the slight satoori. It made her voice a little deep and gruff.

“Shut it.”

She snickered. “Made you talk, Hana.”

The white mask went back to being silent.

She sighed and stood back up turning her attention to Yoongi. “Sorry about my friend here. He doesn’t like talking or people. I’m trying to get him to be more personable. Is it working?”

Yoongi blinked.

“Uh.”

Damn, every time she smiled, he felt a thrill shoot up his spine. White teeth showing, pink tongue peeking out between them.

It just seemed a little psychotic, a little mischievous, and a lot sexy.

“I know it’s not working. Can’t say I didn’t try.”

The masked man might as well have been a mannequin with how still he was.

“You’re his manager?” Yoongi found himself asking.

She shrugged. “Kind of? I actually just own the studio space the band records. But I like coming to the gigs sometimes if I can. Good excuse to get a little drunk, eh? Plus, I’m trying to find musicians to rent out the other spaces.”

Fuck.

Was it his lucky day or what?

“I’m looking for a studio space to record my music, actually.”

Her eyebrows raised. “No shit? You wanna talk some business?”

Oh, they talked business to bass and drums thundering the bar.

Later, they talked about some… other things too. What could he say? Yoongi liked a bad bitch. She wore leather, she owned cluster of studio spaces – “well, they ain’t mine, they’re my dad’s, but he’s never here, he’s off gambling and chasing booty, I think” – she gave him a fair price, and she loved to suck dick.

Yoongi didn’t find out about that last bit until later.

Right now, she was clipping the end of a silver chain to the collar around his neck.

It was heavy, probably metal. The collar he was wearing was thick black leather, with a steel ring resting against his collarbones. Yoongi was pretty sure she was doing a number on him. He wore a lot of black, yeah. He liked leather jackets too. But being around her presence was messing with his head and he was pretty sure he was being influenced by her energy. He used to hate his eye shape and his dark circles, but when he saw himself in the mirror with her tangled around him, riding his dick, he found himself thinking he didn’t look so bad after all. He looked good standing with the woman with the white contact lens and the demonic grin.

Maybe he was a little crazy, but everyone was a little crazy. Yoongi wasn’t worried about something like that.

Right now, she licked her teeth with that lithe, pink tongue of hers.

The other end of the chain was connected to the collar around her neck.

“You wanna play?” she drawled.

Fuck, he loved that shit. Her voice got slightly deep and throaty when she spoke in satoori. He wasn’t sure if she noticed it or not. It must be from her father. She mentioned that she had been raised by her dad – “sporadically, he liked to travel and, by travel, I mean gamble and chase ass, although surprisingly he didn’t come back with more kids, so I guess he learned his lesson” – but she was kind of the same way.

Not the gambling bit.

He didn’t really mind it though. She didn’t try to hide anything and he encouraged her to be herself. Plus, no one was getting the treatment he got. Yoongi was pretty sure about that, because when she fucked around, she did it in public. He had to be the one to tell her to take it upstairs and go for the throat.

Alright, not the throat. The dick.

In some way, Yoongi felt that was her way of asking if he approved, because she never took it upstairs and out of his sight unless he gave her the go ahead.

Right now, her tongue extended and wiggled in the air, glossy and slick with her saliva.

He smirked, open-mouthed and with a flick of tongue at the edge of his teeth.

She gripped the chain and yanked him by the neck to her face, crashing that demonic grin to his lips.

Like an injection or a spell, it gave him a rush, the firm leather snapping against his neck, chained to her, both wearing the collars, but she was always in control, always, and he liked it like that, liked the way she traced his lips with her powerful tongue, her saliva his aphrodisiac, before she captured his lips and rolled her body into his lap, skin to skin, moving like a snake, his gasp against her devouring mouth, her bare ass sliding on his thigh, fuck, so sexy, so soft, so bouncy, one hand on his face and another on his shoulder, fingers spread out and tendons flexing.

He liked to say she was the angel that held up her blinding halo with devil horns.

She yanked on the chain and Yoongi sucked in a breath, closing one eye as she licked his cheek, ending with a kiss on his brow. Cold air chilled his wet skin, making him shiver.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ hot, Yoongi.”

Pretty sure neither of them believed in a god but it got the point across.

He raised his hand and she smacked his wrist down, pinning it to the bed.

“Nuh uh.”

Yoongi wasn’t really expecting her to let him.

He raised his other hand. It was immediately swatted down onto the bed, her eyebrow cocking.

“Naughty, naughty.”

He cocked an eyebrow back, defying.

She leaned down and snatched the chain in her mouth, tugging on it with teeth and neck, narrowing her eyes. The white contact lens on her left eye gleamed under her lashes. She always wore it except right before sleeping. He once asked her why and she had shrugged.

“Mental security, I guess.”

Now, she growled like an animal.

“Down.”

She looked like she was about to headbutt him. He wouldn’t put it past her.

He lowered himself slowly, her mouth holding the chain taut until he was laying on the bed. She grinned, pleased at his obedience. Yoongi was quite sure that she was probably the closest being to a succubus that he would ever encounter with the violent thrill of arousal she was giving him with those plush lips and white teeth around the silver chain, pink tongue circling around the metal to tease him.

Maybe he was the crazy one for being turned on by it.

She dropped the chain on his chest. He flinched, the wet, heavy metal thudding onto his sternum, right against his pounding heartbeat. She rubbed her thigh against his balls and hardening cock, raising her head, chain following, higher, higher, letting go of his hands, arching her back, tits up, until it was fully taut between his neck and hers, the sides of the collars forcefully digging into his neck and hers. Yoongi did not lift his head from the bed to reduce the tension. Her devilish smile widened. A chain tug-of-war between collar to collar, both of them choking the other.

She lifted her hand and licked her palm, saturating it with saliva.

She reached down and wrapped her long fingers around his stiff length.

Didn’t say he could touch her though, so Yoongi didn’t.

“Think you can last longer than last time?”

He clenched his jaw. “Maybe.”

She pulled harder and he locked his neck and shoulders, clutching the sheets with a sharp gasp, pleasure shooting up his core, firm, strong strokes up and down his cock, fuck, fuck, every damn time, that second of cold as her saliva soaked his skin and then it warmed up fast to hot, slippery ecstasy, hard and getting harder, his pre-cum mixing with her saliva, staring at her hard nipples and juicy hips, knees around one of his thighs, shaking her ass when she noticed him looking, changing the pace, addicted to the feeling of her hands. He could feel the bones and the hard muscle of her grip and, sure, that didn’t sound sexy, but it felt incredible, adding stimulation in that inescapable hold and paired with slickness, choking his cock slightly and he craved every second of it, thighs tense and hard, growling in his throat as he dug his head into the mattress, pulling the chain for all it was worth, lightheaded now, the leather cutting in, probably leaving a mark, locking eyes with mischievous orbs and an impish smirk, the sides of her collar also cutting into the sides of her neck, choking herself as she was choking him while jacking him off.

Black haze threatened the edges of his vision.

He was going to pass out or cum. Yoongi didn’t care which happened first.

“F… Fuck!”

Yoongi snapped his jaw shut and shot up her forearm and down his length, strained groan of her name leaking past his teeth, bolts of pleasure invading his nerves all the way up to his scalp, blossoming into an erotic haze. She snapped her head forward. Oxygen flooded his brain, his jaw going slack with a moan, his eyes rolling back, high so high his whole body shuddered, barely registering her movement, hearing the lewd slurps of her drinking up his cum.

Wet.

Hot.

“Shit!”

Her mouth enveloped his twitching length, burying it deep into her throat, slathering tongue and satisfied hiss, chain clinking against his stomach and hitting his trembling balls, twisting her head so the chain wouldn’t cause any damage to them as she began to suck, flashes of tongue flickering out of the edges of those plush lips, grazing his crotch and scrotum, pointedly staring at him with an arched eyebrow.

She bounced her hips when she noticed him looking, shaking her ass as she sucked his dick.

Yoongi grinned.

His vision was barely focusing, trying to recover from orgasm in the midst of the intoxicating pleasure of her soft and tight mouth, tongue rubbing under the head of his cock, causing it to jerk and swell in the back of her throat and then she thrust it all the way back in there, taking him impossibly deep, sinfully moaning around his cock, vibrating it with lust. He glanced at her hands, fingers spread out and joints locked, tendons flexed, pointed black fingernails clawing into the sheets.

The heat flaring over his abdomen and hips was rising to his limit once more.

Yoongi panted her name, hoarse and breathless, realizing his Daegu satoori was suddenly more prominent in his disheveled state.

“I’m gonna cum–”

She popped her mouth off his cock and he snapped his teeth, snarling.

“You bitch.”

She grinned, wiggling her tongue, thick plops of saliva dripping down and hitting his flinching hips and throbbing cock, the head an angry purple-red from being so roughly stimulated after orgasm. The white contact gleamed alongside the devious glint in her right eye, black pupils blown out, a little psychotic, a little mischievous, and a lot sexy.

It didn’t matter who was on top because she knew she was always on top.

To be clear, Yoongi didn’t take shit from anyone without a fight. It got him in trouble sometimes, but this particular brand was trouble was the kind he liked. She gave him a long period of two seconds to roll the condom down before tangling one hand in the metal chain and the other in his black hair, pulling both in opposite directions. He hissed dangerously, plunging his hard cock into the wet, waiting heat, scorched by her roughness and his desire, one of her legs on his shoulder and the other around his waist, smacking their bodies together with violent force.

The tip of her tongue traced her teeth, grinning demonically.

“Come on, you said you were gonna play the game with me, Yoongi,” she chuckled, naughtily mocking him, voice deep and rough from her satoori.

“Let’s see if you can keep up,” he growled in kind, low and gravelly.

She pulled on the collar much harder than his hair, but both were equally arousing, prickling pain on his scalp and circulation cut short once again, brief flashes of oxygen bleeding through with his aggressive thrusts, the excess chain knocking against her collarbones, just another layer of sound along with slapping hips and squelching juices, her velvet walls clenching around him with every descent, not going fast so he could last, burying deep and hitting her hard. She winced, guttural growl at the base of her throat and the side of his lips quirked up.

“Too much?” he taunted.

“I’ll tell you when it’s too much,” she grunted, jerking her hips up and brutally squeezing the head deep inside.

“Fuck…”

He knew she wouldn’t let him do anything she didn’t want, so he kept going, her wrist flicking up with every thrust, leather collar snapping into his skin, thinning his breath to gasps at the stinging pain, the hand in his hair releasing him, messy black strands invading his vision, but he had no time to complain, groaning as her nails dug into his back and dragged up, inflamed hot lines that shot into his system and fed his adrenaline. His fists bunched the sheets, locking his shoulders, clenching his jaw, flexing his neck, and now he was being choked again, consistently this time, oxygen thinning out once more, barely able to keep his eyes open.

Her smile sent thrills up his spine and they split at the base of his head, tendrils of vicious desire numbing all sensations except lust, gluttonous for the pain that nourished more pleasure, greedy for everything she forced him to take, too prideful to ask her to loosen her hold, desperate not to give in to her wrath, usually slothful but now using every fiber of his strength to push himself to the limit, high getting higher knowing that anyone would be envious of how good he got it from that fiendish playful grin and hot delicious body under him, collared together in joined sin.

She let out a low moan, basking in him, feeding his need to satisfy hers.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot, Yoongi.”

He managed to get out half of a breath, staring into those irises, one real, one covered in white.

“Fuck, your voice gets me off every time,” he hissed.

He slammed his hips down and she clamped around his entire length, releasing the chain, both of their heads tipping back, his in the air and hers into the pillows, moans in unison as he shot into the condom and she released onto his twitching length and skin, coating him with slickness. The scent of sex permeated the air, his previous orgasm soaked into the sheets already and hers smearing with it as their hips descended, his throbbing cock pulsed by her flinching walls, her thighs tense around his waist and his hard ones against her ass, making sure to lean forward so he didn’t fall out, savoring every second of their joined bodies.

The hotel room was certainly getting some important use.

Yoongi remembered he had been annoyed when she said he should rent one since the potential gig was rather far away and transportation so late at night was going to be a bitch. He almost didn’t do it, but she rolled her eyes and booked it anyway, triumphant when he sold out the venue. Not a huge venue, but bigger than he had ever performed before.

He still said she had to make it up to him for making him travel farther than he originally wanted.

As usual, Yoongi was not disappointed.

“Housekeeping is gonna be pissed,” she chuckled. “Smells like sex.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“How’s your throat?”

“Pretty sure rapping strains the inside of my throat, not the outside.”

She chuckled. “Now you hurt all over.”

“Good.”

Yoongi closed the distance and kissed that smirk, metal chain sandwiched between their hot, sweaty skin, the steel rings of the black leather collars clinking against each other.

masterpost

the lyrics in the beginning are from hot demon b!tches near u!! by CORPSE ft night lovell

#yoongi x reader #bts smut #yoongi smut #yoongi x you #yoongi fanfic #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you #min yoongi smut

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otonymous · 3 years

Text

Lessons (MLQC Shaw - NSFW)

Description: Let Shaw remind you of what a kiss is supposed to feel like.

Warnings: NSFW/18+: Explicit/graphic language & mature themes — reader discretion is advised. Potential trigger warnings: PDAs, lots of tongue LOL

Word Count: 1263 words (~6.5 mins of sexual tension)

Author’s Notes: I had to write this because who wouldn't want to get hot and heavy with Shaw after he steps offstage? 😆

(This piece was originally posted on my Patreon page on March 17, 2021 as an Early Access benefit)

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

“What was that?”

The air hung heavy in the space between you, hazy still with summer heat though the sun had set hours ago. And there, in the dark alleyway behind the Live House where Shaw had just stepped off-stage, even the moon’s silver slivers seemed hesitant to intrude on the pair of lovers merging in the shadows.

Gentle fingers pinch your chin, tilting your eyes until you slip into the amber gold of his — leaving you breathless, as always.

“I said, ‘what was that?’ ” Shaw repeats, so near now every detail stood out in the dark — those lips, faintly pink and soft, the line of his cupid’s bow so perfect it looked drawn to life. “That wasn’t a kiss.”

Masculine hands fit to the curve of your hips, pulling you even closer. You can feel the heat rolling off his body, permeating the V-neck tee that clung in parts to that lean, muscular physique; was drawn to the sweat-glazed skin stretched over the Adam’s apple bobbing along the length of his neck and you knew.

Knew he was getting impatient, impetuous…

…and right where you wanted him.

“I did kiss you.” Your response is flippant despite the excitement rising in your chest.

“That was a peck.”

“Our lips touched. That’s the definition of a kiss.”

“Not in my books.”

Feigning coyness, you turn your face away, wondering if he caught the smile crossing your lips before you promptly bit down on it.

“I thought I taught you better than that, didn’t I?” Shaw whispers, breath warm and moist on the shell of your ear. And if it had been any other man — let alone one younger than you — you would’ve rolled your eyes at the bravado.

But Shaw wore it well, cheek and worldliness sitting upon the square of his shoulders like a faded leather jacket, weathered and wise. Even you couldn’t deny the gravitas that graced his countenance when the corners of those amber eyes weren’t crinkled in a teasing smirk, like an old soul trapped in the body of a young man.

And what a body it was: hard and beautiful from above and below and in all the angles you had the chance to study him in when he wasn’t leaving you gasping for dear life. It presses upon you now, molten heat running from your core to the tips of pebbling nipples when he steps his leg between your own, those ripped jeans burying beneath your skirt to dampen silk.

“I…I don’t remember.”

It was near impossible to formulate a reply let alone a witty one. Your mind was already blanking at the touch of his hands running lightly up and down the sides of your body, leaving you frazzled with the promise of lust in this very public place.

“Looks like we need to brush up on our lessons then.”

The tip of his nose touches yours; you stop breathing. Heart thundering in your chest, the rush of blood in your ears competes with the bass-heavy beat barely contained by the walls of the Live House. Every now and then, the heavy steel door of the back exit swings open, idle chatter and laughter spilling out into the night as people came and went. But there, caught in the shadows of your lover’s embrace, you couldn’t care less who saw.

In fact, you welcomed it.

Hoped that the next person to pass through the door would be one of those groupies who had watched Shaw perform with tears in their eyes, screaming his name while trying to pass scraps of paper with scribbled phone numbers to the bouncer who kept them from rushing the stage. Just so they could see him now, with one hand on your cheek and the other moulding to the curve of your ass.

There would be no mistaking who was going home with him that night, no room to wonder about who it was that he wanted.

So you close your eyes, catch a sweet, spicy hint of cinnamon from the gum he habitually chewed. His lips brush yours: top, bottom…warm silk dragging from corner to corner, touch barely there and pulling back right when they baited yours close.

Like the tease that he was.

You fight back the only way you knew how, hands combing through lavender hair until they lace together at the back of his neck, tracing the initials of your names with fingertips onto the skin at his nape just to feel his breath stop short on your lips.

The hand that falls at the small of your back pulls your bodies together until there is nowhere left to go. And the heart beating in time with yours tells you that despite that cool exterior, Shaw was just as much of a mess on the inside as you were.

Because in the moment that handsome face angles to yours, pink tongue gliding over the swell of your lower lip before it is sucked into his mouth, hot and moist, you bloomed.

Flushed cheeks. Weak knees. The sweet drip of dew between petals that spread only for him.

It was disconcerting — the intensity you felt for someone you couldn’t quite grasp. And though you had intended from the very start of your relationship to remain detached, matching him tease for tease, the enigma of this man had a way of keeping you honest.

Your body certainly was.

“C’mon, baby. You know what to do,” Shaw breathes, amber eyes half-lidded and darkening with each passing second.

Drunk on the lulling buzz of his exhalation, the mask of inhibition slips and suddenly, you are ravenous. He slips the tip of his tongue into your mouth and you welcome it, tasting him further with every swirling caress of yours until the man is irrevocably drawn in.

The hand in your hair tightens the way you like it when you pucker around his tongue, gently sucking it into your mouth until you release it just to hear him moan. Shaw lays faint expletives at the seam of your lips before he dives back in for more, frantic kisses spreading to cheeks, chin and jaw before they warm the pulse throbbing along your neck.

A slight pinch of pain and you know the proof of your lover’s passion will be obvious to all in shades of vermillion and plum, but you could not stop, craved more of those lips on you, of the hands wandering your curves with all the authority of one imprinting his name onto your body.

He didn’t need to.

You already belonged to him.

“Oh my god! Is that…oh shit, it is! It’s Shaw!! Who the hell is that girl?”

You stiffen at the shriek that echoes down the alleyway, the waves of hostility following on the heels of a cacophony of high-pitched screams and too many women speaking all at once. But the arm around you holds tight, Shaw cupping your cheek to turn until you are facing the crowd head on.

“Shall we teach them a lesson?” he asks, amber eyes full of mischief as he winks so only you could see.

Before you could even process what was happening, those lips are on you again, full of passion as your eyes widen to take in the crestfallen expressions of groupies with broken hearts.

He really was a tease. But he was yours. And you were glad for each and every one of his lessons.

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

Hope you all enjoyed this piece and thanks so much for reading! 💕 You can find more of my work here and check out my newest and spiciest content exclusively on my Patreon page!

- XOXO, Otonymous 🥰

#mlqc #mr love queen's choice #love and producer #mldd #mr love dream date #evol x love #mlqc shaw #mlqc ling xiao #mlqc fanfic #mlqc fic #my writing #mine #mlqc smut #mlqc shaw smut

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