#one thing I will say for this band is that it sparks my creativity like NUTHIN ELSE

[barkilphedros-hat]

Something something paint a pair of eyes something something-

Sneak WIP of a new oil paint piece. The Creature. From the Feature. The Creature Feature. Featuring: The Creature.

[kpopstaytiny]

Say please

Pairing: Bang Chan x F!reader

Word Count: 7251

Genre: smut, fluff, friends to lovers

Warnings: smut (minors DNI), softdom!Chan, sub!reader, oral (female receiving), fingering, edging, dirty talk, pet names (baby, love, sweetheart), unprotected sex, choking, hair pulling, praise!kink, she's a little bratty, cursing, feeling a little homesick, aftercare.

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He's always working until the stars blur outside the studio windows—my night owl, my relentless creator. The hallway smells like soundproofing foam and the air carries the faintest tang of citrus—probably from the half-empty pineapple juice carton I know is perched on his desk—as I raise my knuckles to the door, pausing to listen to the faint click-clack of keyboard strokes before knocking—the familiar weight of a paper bag swinging from my arm, a taste of Australia tucked inside.

His head jerks up, fingers freezing mid-keystroke. For one suspended moment, he just stares—eyes wide, lips parted—like I'm some sleep-deprivation mirage. Then his shoulders drop, tension bleeding out as his mouth curves into that private smile reserved for 1 AM confessions.

“Hey,” his voice is rough with disuse, warm with recognition. “What’re you doing up so late?”

"Says the man who thinks sunrise is a suggestion," I counter, stepping into the familiar cocoon of his workspace. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing us in this blue-lit universe of his making.

“You know I work late.”

“I do,” I close the distance between us, the paper bag in my arm rustling with its precious cargo. "Couldn't sleep." A shrug that doesn't fool either of us.

“And you came all the way here?” His brows rise, voice tipping toward disbelief.

"I went for a walk. Ended up at that 24-hour mart down the street." I gesture vaguely toward the window where neon signs glow in the distance. "Next thing I knew..." The unspoken truth hangs between us—my feet always know the way to him.

His gaze flicks toward the bag on my arm, curiosity softening his features. “That what’s in there?”

“Sort of,” I let the bag swing temptingly. “Not exactly.”

When he takes it, his fingers brush mine—just enough to send a spark up my arm. The moment stretches as he peers inside, then—

"Tim Tams?" His whole face transforms, boyish delight breaking through the exhaustion. "Where the hell did you find these?"

I bite my lip, feigning nonchalance. "They might've fallen into my basket at the international grocery."

"Liar." His laugh is all warmth, no bite. He knows—knows I called three stores, knows I asked Felix where to find them, knows this was never about cookies but about stitching a piece of his homeland into this endless night.

“What’re you working on?” I nod toward his screen, the glow painting his profile in liquid blue. My voice comes out steadier than I feel, trying to shift gears before the moment swallows me whole.

“New song,” he says, gaze flickering back to the monitor. But his voice has changed—slower now, syrup-warm. Not distracted. Inviting.

“Duh.” I roll my eyes, aiming for casual. But it’s too soft. Too fond. “Figured.”

“Wanna hear it?”

I blink. “Seriously?” My pulse stutters like a skipped track. He never shares unfinished work—not when there are still seams showing, not when the lyrics haven’t settled into their final shape.

But tonight, he just nods, easy as anything. “Yeah.” Then he pats his thigh. “Come here.”

For a heartbeat, I forget how to move.

We’ve been closer than this. Done more than this. But this—him pulling me into his creative space, into the part of himself he usually keeps locked tight—feels like stepping over a threshold neither of us named.

I settle into his lap with deliberate slowness, but he doesn’t give me room to overthink it. His arm bands around my waist, tugging me back against his chest like we’ve done this a thousand times. The familiarity of it unravels me more than any grand gesture could.

His free hand moves across the keyboard—click, drag, a flurry of shortcuts—before passing me headphones still warm from his skin. I catch the faint scent of his shampoo as he leans in to adjust the volume, his breath fanning across my temple. Then—play.

The first notes bloom soft and hesitant, piano keys pressed like a question. Layers build: the sigh of strings, a heartbeat rhythm, something that sounds like rain against studio glass. Then his voice—not the polished perfection of recordings, but the raw, sleep-rough version that exists only in these midnight hours. He hums where words fail, fills gaps with melodies that ache with unfinished honesty.

It wraps around me like a shared secret. Like being let inside a dream.

When I pull the headphones down, they catch on the rapid flutter in my throat. “Channie,” I whisper, the nickname slipping out unbidden. “This is… fuck, this is good.”

He’s already watching me, eyes dark with something perilously close to hope. “You liked it?”

“Liked it?” I twist in his lap. “I loved it.”

The grin that breaks across his face could power cities—all boyish delight and sudden sunshine. His hand splays across my stomach, anchoring me as if I might float away. “It’s nowhere near done,” he mutters automatically. “The bridge needs—"

“No.” My fingers find his jaw, turning him back to me. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

The headphones fall silent, but the song lingers in the air between us. My blood hums with it. So does his.

His thumb draws lazy circles over the fabric of my shirt, slow and absentminded. The room feels warmer now. Denser. Like we’re standing on the edge of something unnamed, hearts tipped forward, waiting.

The chair creaks as I shift, my knee bumping the desk. His grip tightens reflexively—not restraining, just keeping—as the monitor lights carve shadows across his face. That damn lower lip caught between his teeth, the flutter of his lashes when my fingers brush his wrist.

I should leave. Let him work.

But then his hand rises, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. His fingertips linger, tracing the shell before skating down to the sensitive hollow beneath my jaw. The shiver that follows is beyond my control.

His breath hitches in answer, fingers flexing at my waist—not pulling me closer, not pushing away. Just holding on. Just staying.

The screen flickers, casting jagged blue shadows across the curve of his throat as the track stays paused mid-chorus. Neither of us moves to restart it—the song forgotten, the world narrowed to this: the solid warmth of his chest against my back, the way his breath hitches when my head tilts instinctively toward his shoulder.

He looks at me. Really looks. Like I’m the only thing his eyes know how to focus on, like the studio—the city outside, his precious music—has dissolved into static.

I feel it then, that electric hum building between us, live-wire and inevitable.

"You're distracting me." His voice is rough, frayed at the edges like he's been holding the words back for hours.

"I mean," I tease, but it comes out breathless, "you could use a break."

His thumb presses into the dip of my waist, a silent counterargument. "Is that so?"

I nod, too quick. He notices—of course he notices—his lips curving as he tracks the flush spreading down my neck.

"What do you suggest we do, then?" Controlled. Careful. But his gaze keeps dropping to my mouth, betraying him.

My throat tightens. Words pile up behind my teeth, half-formed and trembling.

He reads them anyway. "You're thinking about it," he murmurs. "Right now." Not guessing. Knowing.

My pulse thrums under his touch. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he echoes, voice dark with amusement. He leans in, nose brushing mine. “Tell me.”

I stay frozen. Barely breathing.

His thumb grazes my bottom lip, feather-light. “Use your words.”

“You’re—” I swallow hard. “You’re enjoying this.”

His smile is slow, devastating. "Yeah. I really am." His hand tilts my chin up, forcing eye contact. "So tell me. What do you need?"

My hands find his hoodie before I can second-guess myself. Fisting the fabric. Pulling.

Or maybe he moves first.

All I know is his mouth—hot and insistent, the groan vibrating against my lips as his fingers dig into my hips like he's trying to fuse us together. His hand tangles in my hair, angling me deeper as the kiss turns filthy, deliberate. Every slide of his tongue sparks liquid heat down my spine. When I whimper, he smiles against my mouth—just a quirk of lips, but it's enough. He heard that.

"God," he pants when we break apart, foreheads touching, "I've wanted to do that all week."

I can't speak. Can't think.

He kisses me again, softer this time. A promise. "Still distracting," he murmurs.

"Then stop pretending you mind."

And this time—he doesn’t.

The second kiss is all pent-up hunger—weeks of stolen glances and almost-touches poured into the way his teeth catch my lip, how his hands roam my back like he's relearning my shape. I fist his hoodie again, dragging him closer until there's no space left between us.

And I feel it in him too—the moment hesitation shatters. His touch turns bolder, palms skating up my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through my shirt.

I shift in his lap, turning slowly to face him fully—knees sliding to either side of his hips, thighs bracketing his. The movement presses our bodies together in a way that steals my breath, and I feel his hands slip to my hips, steadying me without thinking. His fingers flex once. Then again. Like he's memorizing the weight of me there.

"Fuck," he hisses when I roll my hips.

I don't look away as I reach for his hoodie. His eyes flare—surprise giving way to raw hunger—before he lifts his arms in surrender. The fabric catches on my headphones, the cord snagging around my neck, but neither of us cares.

Not when he's revealed like this: black tank top stretched taut over his shoulders, the muscles of his arms flexing as he grips my thighs. My palms slide down his biceps, tracing the ridges I've missed more than I'd admit.

He watches me look, his gaze heavy. "Better?"

I nod, thumbs brushing the neckline of his shirt, feeling his pulse hammer under my touch. "Much."

His fingers toy with the headphone cord still looped around my neck. “You planning to keep these on?”

"I forgot," I admit, flustered.

"Let me." He removes them gently, tossing them aside without breaking eye contact. His other hand stays anchored at my hip, thumb drawing slow circles that burn through my jeans.

Then his mouth is on mine again, hotter this time, his tongue sweeping in like he's chasing the taste of my laughter. His tank top is soft under my palms, but the body beneath is all hard lines and tension. I push the fabric up, needing skin—

He breaks the kiss with a gasp when my nails scrape his abs. "I thought you were working," I murmur against his jaw.

"I was." His teeth graze my earlobe. "Then you showed up."

I tilt my head back to give him more access. “You make it sound like an inconvenience.”

His laugh ruffles my hair as he nuzzles into my neck. "You're the opposite of that."

My fingers rake through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. "That night," I whisper, "it keeps replaying in my head."

His grip tightens. "Yeah?" His voice drops to that register that liquefies my bones. "You think about it too?"

"More than I should."

A beat. Then his hands slide under my shirt—not asking, not hesitating. “Then let’s stop pretending this is just some accidental drop-by.”

His lips crash into mine again—no patience left, no question remaining. Only the sharp creak of his studio chair protesting beneath us as he drags me closer, his hands desperate against my waist like he's been counting seconds since I first showed up in his doorway.

The kiss shifts—slower now, but devastatingly deliberate. Controlled in that way of his, all coiled restraint and simmering intent. As if now that we've crossed this line, he intends to map every inch of it with his mouth, savoring the way my breath hitches when his teeth graze my lower lip.

I feel it everywhere—in the rough pads of his fingers skating up my ribs, in the way his palms mold against my back like he's relearning my shape. Not just touching. Claiming. But always, always asking.

“What do you want, baby?” the words rumble against my mouth, warm with promise.

His voice thrums low—not a command, but an invitation woven in velvet and smoke.

My nails scrape lightly down his shoulders, delighting in the full-body shiver it wrings from him. "I think you already know."

He huffs a laugh, the sound vibrating through my chest where we're pressed together. "Say it anyway."

I trail my lips along his jaw, tasting salt and exhaustion. "I want you."

His grip on my waist goes vice-tight—like those three words just short-circuited his last shred of self-control.

“Then you’d better hang on.”

His hands slide up my back with agonizing precision, slipping under my shirt to brand my skin with his heat. I arch instinctively when his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts, the thin fabric of my bra doing nothing to mute the electric shock of contact.

“Can I?”

The question ghosts across my swollen lips as his fingers pause, trembling slightly against my flushed skin.

I lock eyes with him, my voice ragged. "If you don't, I might lose my mind.”

That pulls a rough chuckle from him—the kind that lives in the space between amusement and utter desperation. "Impatient?"

"No," I breathe, rolling my hips just to watch his pupils blow wider. "Just done pretending I came here for fucking Tim Tams."

The groan that tears from his throat is half-laughter, half-suffering as he lifts my shirt over my head, dragging it off with agonizing slowness. The air between us goes thick and charged, his gaze raking over me like I'm the last sip of water in a desert.

"Still the prettiest thing I've ever seen," he murmurs, calloused hands skimming down my sides like he's committing every curve to memory.

I let him look—let him feel the way my pulse jumps under his touch, the way my body leans in like a compass finding north. My own hands slip beneath his tank, rediscovering the familiar planes of his torso. "You're staring."

“I’ve earned the right,” he says simply, his voice gone gravel-rough.

A pleased hum vibrates in my throat. “You planning to keep me on edge like this all night?”

He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mischief and something darker. “Depends. You gonna ask nicely?”

My palm flattens against his chest, fingers splaying over his hammering heartbeat. “I’ve got better things to do with my mouth.”

His jaw flexes, and I know I’ve got him.

“Gonna be trouble tonight, aren’t you?”

“Only if you’re lucky.”

Something primal flashes in his eyes before he manhandles me closer, the sudden friction wringing a gasp from my lungs. “You tell me to stop, and I stop. You understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper—not submission, but surrender.

“Say it,” his voice drops to that register that liquefies my spine.

“I want this, Chan.”

And God, the way he reacts to that.

The kiss is rough, impatient—a clash of lips and teeth and pent-up longing. His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head back with a gentle urgency that sends sparks skittering down my spine. His breath is warm against my mouth, flavored with the faintest hint of mint and something darker, smokier.

“Jeans off.” The command is a grunt, barely more than a vibration against my lips, but it crackles through me like live wire.

I slip from his lap, my knees unsteady as I toe off my shoes and shimmy out of my jeans. The air is cool against my flushed skin, but his gaze is hotter—a slow, deliberate sweep from my bare thighs to the lace clinging to my hips, lingering where my nipples peak beneath the flimsy fabric.

“You really came here with an idea in mind.” His smirk is all wicked amusement, dimple flashing as he pats his thigh. “Come sit again.”

I roll my eyes but obey, settling back against him with a huff. His chest is solid against my back, his heartbeat a steady thrum beneath my shoulder blades. “Like you weren’t thinking the same thing the second I walked in,” I mutter, grinding down just to feel him shudder beneath me.

His breath hitches—a sharp, fractured sound—before his lips brush my ear. “Open.” The word is a whisper, a plea wrapped in velvet. His hand taps my thigh, but his own legs are already nudging mine apart, his cock a hard line against my ass.

“Always so fucking eager,” he murmurs, but his hands betray him, sliding up my sides with agonizing slowness. His fingers trace the lace of my bra like he’s memorizing every stitch, every flutter of my breath. “These need to go.”

The clasp gives way with a whisper, and then his palms are on me—warm, rough from rehearsals, perfect. He cups my breasts like they’re something holy, thumbs brushing my nipples in slow, maddening circles. A moan spills from my lips, unbidden, and his chuckle is dark, triumphant, as his mouth finds the curve of my neck.

“So fucking perfect.” His voice is a growl, low and reverent, as he kneads gently before pinching—just hard enough to make me gasp. “Love how responsive you are. How pretty you look when you fall apart for me.”

His teeth scrape my shoulder, a sharp contrast to the slow, deliberate drag of his hands across my skin—as if he’s committing every curve, every shudder, to memory. "Every sound you make is fucking perfect," he murmurs, his tongue flicking over the spot he just nipped. "Gonna ruin you just to hear how pretty you beg when you're desperate for me."

One hand slips lower, tracing the lace edge of my underwear with torturous patience, while the other stays busy—rolling a nipple between his fingers, tugging just enough to make my hips jerk. A whimper escapes me as I squirm in his lap, but he holds me still, his breath hot against my ear.

“Tell me.” His fingertips trace slow, taunting circles over the damp lace, teasing but never giving me what I need. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

I bite my lip, thighs trembling as his palm presses flat against me, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric—so close, but not enough. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re stalling.” His teeth graze my earlobe, his free hand pinning my hip down when I try to rock against him. “Use your words, sweetheart. Or do I need to tease it out of you?”

A frustrated groan tears from my throat as his thumb finally—finally—strokes along my clothed seam, once, twice, the touch achingly light. My nails dig into his thigh, but he tuts, catching my wrist and pressing it to my stomach.

“Hands here. Let me take care of you.”

He doesn’t rush, just traces idle, maddening patterns over my clit through the soaked lace, letting the friction build in slow, torturous waves.

“Chan—”

“Tell me,” he coaxes, his other hand wrapping around my throat—not squeezing, just holding. A reminder. “What do you need?”

I arch, my head falling back against his shoulder. “Your fingers. Now.”

He laughs, low and rough. “Uhm… say please?”

“Or,” I pant, “you could stop pretending you don’t want this just as badly and put them to use.”

His grip tightens—just a fraction—and his breath hitches against my neck. “Fuck, I love your mouth.”

“Then quit admiring it,” I gasp as his thumb presses harder, “and give me a reason to put it to work.”

A growl rumbles through his chest, but his fingers finally slip beneath the lace, stroking through slick heat. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, though the crack in his voice betrays him.

“And yet,” I twist in his grasp, just enough to meet his eyes, “you’re the one who can’t keep his hands off me.”

His grip tightens on my throat—not cutting off air, just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm. “Cheeky.” His lips brush my jaw, the words a dark hum. “You really think you’re calling the shots here, sweetheart?”

I open my mouth, but he silences me with two fingers pressing against my entrance—not pushing in, just teasing. “Try again.”

My breath hitches. “Make me.”

“Mm. Wrong answer.” His thumb grazes my clit, so light it’s agony, and I jerk against him. “You want my fingers? Ask. Nicely.”

I arch into his touch, gasping. “I don’t recall you needing an invitation.”

A pause. Then his laugh is rough, warmth bleeding into my skin as his forehead drops to my shoulder. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me.” His hips roll up, betraying his own desperation, but his fingers stay maddeningly still—until his teeth sink into my neck, sharp and claiming. “But I’m still the one who decides how this goes.”

His voice drops, velvet and threat. “Imagine how good it’ll feel when I finally let you come. My fingers fucking into you, my thumb right—” A fleeting stroke over my clit. “—here. Getting you ready for me. You’d take me so pretty, wouldn’t you? Let me feel every sweet pulse of you around me? I'd ruin you with how good I'd make it."

I rock against him, pleading without words. "Then do it."

This time, when he slides two fingers in, it’s with aching slowness, curling just there, his thumb circling my clit—too gentle, too much. I clench around him, overwhelmed, and his groan vibrates against my ear. “Always so tight. So perfect.” His teeth scrape my earlobe. “Gonna beg for me yet?”

“No.” The word trembles.

“No?” Amusement laces his voice. His thumb slows to a torturous glide, every pass sending shocks up my thighs. Just as the coil inside me tightens—he stops.

The sound I make is raw.

His grip flexes at my throat, controlling, as his fingers twist deep—one sharp drag—wringing out another moan. “Look at you, baby,” he murmurs, “all worked up over two fingers."

His thumb skims my clit once, twice, and my hips buck. “One word, love.”

I grit my teeth—but my body arches, traitorous, needing.

Chan’s chuckle is dark, knowing, vibrating through me like a struck chord. "Stubborn." His fingers withdraw with deliberate slowness, dragging through my slickness before pressing against my lips. His voice is rough, but there’s something beneath it—warmth, a thread of admiration tangled in the command. "Taste yourself. Then show me how you’d touch yourself if I weren’t here."

I don’t hesitate. His fingers slip into my mouth, and I keep my eyes locked on his, defiant, relishing the way his pupils swallow the dark brown of his irises. The taste of myself is salt-sweet, intoxicating, and I swirl my tongue around his fingers just to watch his jaw clench, his breath hitch. Good. Let him ache too.

A grunt escapes him as his free hand grips my hip, guiding me back onto my feet before steering me toward the couch. He drops into his chair, thighs spreading—a gesture that would earn an eye roll any other time, but now feels like pure provocation. "Go on," he murmurs, voice gravel-rough. "Let me watch."

A challenge. A dare.

His gaze burns as my fingers hook into the lace at my hips, thumbs tracing the delicate edge. I drag the fabric down inch by inch, letting the cool air kiss my skin, letting him see the way my thighs tremble—just slightly. The underwear catches at my knees, and I pause, biting my lip like I might reconsider.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Don’t fucking stop."

I exhale a laugh, shaky with anticipation, and step free of the lace, kicking it aside. His stare follows the movement like a brand, searing every exposed curve. The power of it coils low in my belly—the way his chest rises faster, the way his grip whitens on the arms of the chair. This is what control feels like: the weight of his want, the silent plea in the way he spreads his thighs wider.

“Happy?” I murmur, palming myself again, this time with nothing between us.

His voice is wrecked. “Getting there.”

My pulse thrums in my throat, part defiance, part thrill. If he wants a show, I’ll give him one. My hands trail down my body, fingertips skimming my ribs, the dip of my waist—teasing, just like he would. His nostrils flare when I finally brush my clit, my own gasp sharp in the quiet between us. The contact is electric, but it’s not enough, not after the way he wound me tight and left me trembling.

Chan’s fingers flex against his knees, knuckles whitening with restraint. "That’s it," he murmurs, gaze dark and unblinking. “Let me see how pretty you are when you fall apart.”

I bite my lip, arching into my own touch—but it’s hollow compared to the way he commands my body. My hips stutter, frustration coiling hotter.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Problem, love?” That voice, all honey and smoke, curls around me before I even see his smirk.

My breath hitches, sharp in my throat. “You’re distracting me.”

A laugh, low and knowing. “I’m not even touching you.”

“You’re watching.” And God, it’s worse. His gaze lingers like a touch, slow and deliberate, leaving me exposed.

Then he moves—fluid, effortless—caging me against the couch without laying a finger on me. The heat of him radiates through the sliver of air between us. “Admit it.” His breath fans over my lips. “You’d trade every stroke of your own fingers for one of mine.”

I bite my tongue. But my body betrays me, thighs pressing tight together, and his grin turns lethal.

“Beg.” His thumb grazes my lower lip, a whisper of pressure. “Just once. Let me hear it.”

My hands freeze, but his covers mine, guiding me back into rhythm with firm insistence. “Don’t stop yet.” His scent—cool mint and warm vanilla—floods my senses, his mouth hovering just shy of mine.

A heartbeat of hesitation. Pride wars with the ache between my thighs, crumbling under the weight of his stare.

“Please.” The word cracks, raw.

“That’s my girl.” Triumph flares in his eyes a second before his lips claim mine, swallowing my whimper as his fingers sink deep, curling just so. I moan into his mouth, back arching off the couch, but he doesn’t relent—his kiss is fevered, his touch unyielding, and when his thumb drags over my clit, the pressure is perfect.

“You’re close.” His voice is rough against my lips. “I can feel it. That desperate little clench—” A twist of his wrist. “You feel incredible like this—so tight, so eager.”

Then his fingers slip free, glistening, and before I can protest, he’s sliding down my body, breath scorching between my thighs. “But I want to taste you when you come.”

The first lick is slow—agonizing—drawing a broken sound from my throat. His hands anchor my hips as his tongue flicks over my clit, once, twice, teasing. “Fuck, even sweeter than I remembered,” he murmurs, teeth grazing my inner thigh.

“Chan—”

His name shatters into a gasp as his tongue swirls in slow, torturous circles. The couch dips under his weight, his grip firm but not restraining—steadying. Every flick is a promise, every suck a silent mine, until my legs tremble around his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against me, the warmth of his breath sending another ripple of pleasure through my core. “Just like that. Let me feel you.”

And God, I do. His mouth is relentless, not in punishment but worship, broad strokes wringing whimpers from my lips. A hum of approval vibrates through me as he glances up, eyes dark.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, lips glistening. “Gonna come just like this? Just from my mouth?”

Before I can answer, his fingers press inside, one deep, unhurried thrust. The stretch pulls a moan from my throat, but he doesn’t stop—just crooks them there, curling ruthlessly as his tongue circles my clit again.

The orgasm crashes without warning. A sob tears free as I arch off the couch, clenching around his fingers in helpless waves. He doesn’t pull away—gentles his touch instead, working me through it with slow, reverent strokes, lapping up every shudder until I’m limp beneath him.

“Perfect.” His lips brush my inner thigh, my hip, the flutter of my stomach. “So fucking perfect for me.”

When he finally sinks onto the couch and pulls me against his chest, his breathing is ragged, his skin scorching where we touch—proof, even now, that I unravel him too.

His arms lock around me, his clothed body a furnace against my bare skin. The hard line of his cock presses into my hip through his sweats, insistent, impatient. A shudder ripples through him when I shift, my fingers twisting into the fabric of his tank top.

“Still with me?” His voice is rough velvet, lips brushing my temple. The contradiction of him—hands tender as they smooth down my spine, like gentling something wild—makes my throat tighten.

I tilt my head back, meeting his gaze: dark, hungry. “You’re still dressed.” My voice is wrecked, but the challenge in it is clear.

His smirk is slow, deliberate. “Observant.” His palm spreads over the small of my back, pressing me flush against him until I can’t ignore the heat, the way his hips roll once—just once—against me. “You gonna do something about it?”

I don’t hesitate. My hands slip under his shirt, nails skimming the rigid planes of his stomach. He hisses, muscles jumping, but I don’t stop—pushing the fabric up until he growls and tears it off himself in one impatient motion.

The sight of him—bare, sweat-slicked, control fraying at the edges—sends a fresh throb of want between my thighs. My fingers dart toward the waistband of his sweats, but he catches my wrist, grip firm.

“Ah-ah.” His other hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back. “You don’t get to rush me.”

I arch into him, breath catching. “Then what do I get?”

His laugh is dark, delicious. “Everything. Just not yet.”

Then his mouth crashes into mine, hot and claiming, and I taste myself on his tongue—sinful, sweet. His hands roam, gripping my waist, palming my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples until I whimper into his kiss.

When he pulls back, his eyes are black with need. “Up.” The word is ragged.

I don’t need explanation. Heart hammering, I rise onto my knees on the couch, bracing one hand against the backrest. His fingers dig into my hips as he drags me back against him, his cock a heavy, aching pressure against my ass.

“Tell me you want it,” he demands, teeth grazing my shoulder.

I exhale a shaky laugh. “You already know.”

“Say it.”

I twist to look at him over my shoulder, letting him see the raw want in my gaze. “Fuck me.”

His groan is filthy, broken. “Good girl.”

Then his sweats are shoved down just enough, his hands spread me open, and he’s pushing in—slow, so slow—until the stretch burns and I’m gasping, nails clawing into the couch.

“Fuck—you’re tight.” His voice is rough, strained, as he sheathes himself fully inside me with one sharp snap of his hips. “Gonna take every inch, yeah? Just like this?”

Words fail me. I can only nod, overwhelmed by the stretch of him, the way he fills me so completely it steals my breath.

Then he moves.

The first thrust is punishing—deep enough to blur my vision, to leave me gasping—but he stills abruptly, his body trembling against mine. “Fuck. Need a second.” His fingers dig into my hips, holding me in place, his breath hot and uneven against my neck. Like he’s fighting for control.

I whimper, clenching around him instinctively, and he curses under his breath. “You’re killing me.”

“Then stop being gentle,” I pant, pushing back against him.

A dark laugh rumbles through his chest. “Who said anything about gentle?”

But instead of giving me the rough pace I expect, he rolls his hips in a slow, deliberate circle, letting me feel every inch of him. His hand slides up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair to tilt my head back. “You just came,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “Gonna make sure you feel everything this time.”

And then he starts moving—not fast, not frantic, but with deep, measured thrusts that burn through me like liquid fire. Each one drags just shy of brutal, his hips working with a precision that leaves me writhing. He adjusts my body slightly, tilting my hips up, and suddenly he’s deeper, the stretch bordering on unbearable.

“There.” His voice is raw, lips skimming my ear. “That’s how I remember you. Taking me so perfectly, like you were made for me.”

I arch back against him, nails biting into the couch, and let out a breathy laugh. “Someone’s greedy.”

His rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—before his grip tightens on my hip, his next thrust slower, deeper. “Oh?” A challenge laces his tone. “Explain.”

“Mmm.” I clench around him, relishing the way his breath hitches. “The way you take what you want. Like you can’t get enough.”

A groan vibrates against my skin as he nips lightly at my shoulder. “And if I can’t?” His hand gentles in my hair, angling my face toward his. “Tell me to stop.”

A lie. A game. We both know I won’t.

“Never,” I whisper.

“That’s what I thought.” His free hand slides down, fingers circling my clit with just enough pressure to make my thighs shake. “But since you’re so observant…” His hips snap forward, punching the air from my lungs. “…let me show you just how greedy I can be.”

And then he does.

No more measured thrusts, no teasing restraint—just pure, relentless possession.

He drives into me with a rhythm that borders on brutal, each snap of his hips forcing me deeper into the couch, the slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin filling the space between us. My gasp catches in my throat, fingers clawing at the backrest, but he doesn’t slow—doesn’t stop. One hand fists in my hair, arching my spine to his will, while the other grips my hip hard enough to leave marks, anchoring me exactly where he wants me.

"Fuck," I choke out, voice frayed at the edges. "Just like that—God—you feel so good."

A dark chuckle vibrates against my back. "Yeah? Tell me how much you like it."

"So deep," I pant, rocking back to meet him. "Love it when you take me like this—when you use me—"

His rhythm stutters for half a second, a rough groan tearing from his chest. "Christ, listen to you." His fingers dig harder, dragging me onto him with bruising force. "Dripping all over my cock like you’re made for it."

The sound of it—the filthy, wet slide of him inside me—sends heat licking through my veins. My breath hitches, and he notices, lips curling against my shoulder.

"Hearing it turns you on, doesn’t it?" He punctuates the question with a sharp thrust, wrenching a moan from my throat. "The way you sound? The way we sound?"

I can’t answer—not when he’s hitting there—but my body does, clenching around him in helpless, fluttering pulses.

"Knew it," he growls, teeth grazing my ear. "Every time our skin slaps together, every fucking noise you make—you get even wetter. Can feel it." His hand slides between my thighs, gathering slickness onto his fingers before dragging them up to my mouth. "Taste yourself. Taste what you do to me."

I suck his fingers in, moaning around them, and his hips jerk. "Fuck. Keep doing that, and I won’t last."

"Promises, promises," I taunt, breathless.

He laughs—low, dangerous—before hauling me upright against his chest, his arm a steel band around my waist. "Think you’re clever?" His mouth finds my pulse, teeth scraping. "Let’s see how smart you are when I’ve got you on your back."

The world tilts in a dizzying rush as he flips me onto my back, his grip unrelenting. The sweats and underwear still tangled around his thighs are shoved aside in one impatient motion, finally freeing him completely—and then he’s looming over me, all sweat-slicked muscle and dark, devouring eyes.

“Beg me to ruin you properly,” he rasps, voice rough as gravel.

I open my mouth—to taunt, to challenge—but the words dissolve into a gasp as his hands hook under my knees, yanking me toward him with a single, brutal tug. My calves hit his shoulders, hips lifting off the couch, and then he’s there, the thick head of his cock pressing against me with deliberate, taunting pressure.

“Oh—!” The sound punches out of me before I can stop it, my back arching.

He doesn’t give me time to adjust. One sharp thrust, and he’s buried to the hilt, deeper than before, the angle ruthless. The air rushes from my lungs in a broken moan, my nails scrabbling at the cushions as my vision whites out for a heartbeat.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his own breath ragged. “Look at you—spread open, taking me just like this.” He pulls out almost completely, then slams back in, the force driving a cry from my lips. “Gonna ruin you so good, you’ll feel it for days.”

Every drag of him is a live wire, every snap of his hips stealing my breath. I’m pinned, helpless, my thighs trembling where they bracket his shoulders, my moans loud and unchecked.

“That’s it,” he growls, leaning forward to cage me in, his mouth hovering over mine. “Let me hear how much you love it.”

And God help me—I do.

He lowers himself, balancing his weight on his forearms, and the shift makes my legs rise higher, the new angle bordering on too much—too deep, too intense. A whimper escapes me, and he stills, his voice a ragged whisper.

“Touch yourself for me.”

I don’t hesitate. My fingers slide between us, circling my clit in frantic, desperate strokes. His gaze drops to watch, his pupils swallowing every bit of light, and for a heartbeat, he’s utterly still—just the ragged rise and fall of his chest betraying him.

Then he loses it.

His thrusts turn punishing, deep and fast and hard, the slap of skin echoing in the room. I arch beneath him, my voice breaking around his name.

“Chris—”

His rhythm falters. A groan tears from his throat, his hips jerking like I’ve struck him. “Fuck. Say it again.”

“Chris,” I gasp, and he curses, his mouth crashing down to my breast—nipping, sucking, teeth scraping my nipple until I cry out. The dual sensation of him fucking into me and the sharp, sweet pain pushes me higher, my thighs trembling where they’re hooked over his shoulders.

“Come with me,” he demands.

And I do, shattering around him as he follows me over the edge.

The air hangs thick between us, charged with the aftermath. Chan stays buried inside me, forehead pressed to my shoulder, his breaths ragged and warm against my sweat-slick skin. His hands slide down my thighs—gentle now, almost reverent—as he lowers my legs from his shoulders, fingers tracing the curve of my calves like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

I wince when my knees protest, and he stills. "Hurts?" His voice is rough, but his touch is featherlight.

"Worth it," I murmur, brushing damp hair from his brow. He turns into my palm, lips grazing the center, and something in my chest tightens.

When he pulls out, it’s with a low groan, collapsing beside me and dragging me half onto his chest. The studio is a wreck—his hoodie tangled with my top near the mic stand, the armchair shoved out of place from when he’d yanked me toward him earlier. My fingers drift over his sternum, catching on the chain around his neck as his heartbeat slows beneath my touch.

"You’re quiet," he says after a while, thumb brushing my hip.

I tilt my head to meet his gaze. "So are you."

A smirk tugs at his mouth. "Recovering." His hand slides up my spine, possessive even now. "You wrecked me, love."

The endearment slips out like it belongs there, and neither of us acknowledge it. Instead, I nod toward the forgotten Tim Tams on the counter. "Still hungry?"

He laughs, warm and surprised, like he’d forgotten. "Fuck yeah." But he doesn’t move, arms tightening around me instead. "Later."

His fingers trace idle patterns along my arm, mapping constellations only he knows. For the first time tonight, there’s no urgency—just the distant hum of the city and the weight of his silence, heavy with words neither of us will say.

Eventually, he reaches for his sweats, pulling them on with a grunt before crossing the room in two strides. He grabs the paper bag I’d brought earlier, returning with Tim Tams and a water bottle pressed into my hands.

"You’re spoiling me," I tease, cracking open the package.

His lips brush my shoulder. "Taste."

I break a cookie in half, offering him the other piece. He takes it, but his eyes stay locked on mine as he chews—slow, deliberate. "Missed this," he admits, voice so soft I almost miss it.

The chocolate melts on my tongue, too sweet. He watches me swallow like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all night, thumb swiping a crumb from my lower lip. When he kisses me, I taste it—sugar and us and something dangerously close to longing.

He tugs me closer, my back against his chest, my head on his shoulder. His fingers trace slower now, heavier with fatigue. The chocolate lingers on his lips when they press to my temple, but it’s the warmth of him that lulls me—the steady rise and fall of his breath syncing with mine.

I don’t remember closing my eyes.

When I blink awake, the studio is bathed in the blue glow of his laptop screen. Chan’s back at his desk, headphones on, one hand scrolling through waveforms while the other taps rhythmlessly against his thigh. The sight is so ordinary, so him, that my chest aches with something tender.

I smile into the blanket—the same thin, scratchy one he keeps under the desk for nights when the city noise keeps him working till dawn. It smells like laundry soap and him, and for a wild second, I consider tugging him back to the couch.

His chair creaks as he shifts, and for a heartbeat, I think he’s noticed I’m awake. His fingers pause mid-adjustment, hovering over the dial. But the track needs fixing, and after a second, he dives back in—though his foot taps restlessly against the chair leg.

[girlgerard]

i’ve been thinking a lot about gerard’s character they developed in the last leg of this tour and the way i believe it really solidified what we might have coming for us in the future.

it’s really sweet, if you look in the comments of some of the videos from brisbane and osaka, you can see people who’ve obviously been my chem fans for at least 15 years saying things like ‘i’ve watched every video from this tour and this is the first show where i really saw the spark come back’ and ‘that’s the gerard way i remember’ and other cheesy shit like that. and the thing is they’re totally right!

this whole tour developed more fluidly in intensity and meaning than in any of their previous gigs. mcr has always been a band to change with their time and creative drive, but this was a different type of transition to me. you could see as characters started to be built, from gerard DIY’ing his own costumes in europe to increasingly meaningful outfits with whole backstories in the USA all the way to one consistent character with a uniquely terrifying stage presence in the last leg.

that last character, at least to me, is totally gripping. she’s unexplained, she’s scary as hell, she’s near-undead, she has this commanding presence gerard hasn’t really done since early-mid black parade. in every single performance they’re so in-character and it’s such a BLAST

importantly, this character also showed up in the shortest, least-publicized part of the tour. imo she wasn’t meant for cameras, really.

to me it’s so clear that she’s a result of gerard earnestly solidifying where they might want their next artistic endeavors to go - that kind of serious direction, maybe even that character specifically.

he’s talked about how he always has stage characters that reflect his music and, broadly, things they’re working through in their life. the revenge stage character was a mix of both demo lovers which can have a ton of different interpretations, the patient was a joan-esque personification of grief and existentialism, party poison was a pop-art way of dealing with your own artistic/literal death. it makes me wonder why this character, the only truly consistent character this whole tour, came about, and if it’s related to gerard’s nightly diatribes on war and later-tour statements on (presumably) queer/trans rights.

it also makes me think that we have a lot coming in the future. a character that solid and a direction so suddenly bottlenecked into such a specific concept, such a mychemicalromance concept, especially out of a tour that was originally supposed to be a casual celebration of music, i think points towards something new.

[black-arcana]

HALESTORM's LZZY HALE Is Writing Her 'Biography': 'But It Is Also A Fantasy Novel', She Says

During an appearance on a recent episode of the Make It Perfect podcast, HALESTORM frontwoman Lzzy Hale revealed that she is working on her first book. "I've been writing my biography, but it is also a fantasy novel because all the names have been changed, but the stories are true," she said (as transcribed by BLABBERMOUTH.NET)." And this is how I feel comfortable doing my biography.

"The thing that makes me sad about reading people's biographies, especially in the music business, is that then you know their secrets, you know they've been raped, or you know their parents don't like them, or you know that they have to struggle to be sober, or they almost died," she explained. "And it's, like, it ruins the magic, because when I think about [Ronnie James] Dio or I think about David Lee Roth or I think about Eddie Van Halen or I think about Alice Cooper, I think about them as being the gods of rock and roll — you know, BLACK SABBATH, Tony Iommi. I don't wanna know that their mom didn't let 'em suck on their thumb when they were kids."

Asked by host Ryan Rado why she doesn't want to know that stuff, Lzzy said: "Well, because I think that it ruins the joy. Because people always focus on people's struggle and not on their recovery or not on their joy. And I feel like a lot of fans and people that aren't willing to understand and deep dive are seeing people like Eminem or people like my good friend Rob Halford [of JUDAS PRIEST]. He just celebrated his — I don't know — 25th anniversary from when he got sober, but everyone's, like, 'Well, you know, here's… ' It's, like, they focus on the alcoholism or they focus on the drug use or they focus on the drug use, and they're not focusing on the fact that they're celebrating themselves."

Earlier this year, Lzzy and her HALESTORM bandmate Joe Hottinger completed "Halestorm's Lzzy And Joe: The Living Room Sessions" tour featuring the duo performing acoustic, stripped down versions of HALESTORM favorites and the music that inspired the band.

HALESTORM has spent the last few months recording the follow-up to 2022's "Back From The Dead" album with producer Dave Cobb.

Cobb has shared in nine Grammy wins, including four for "Best Americana Album" and three for "Best Country Album". He's also been named "Producer Of The Year" by the��Country Music Awards, the Americana Music Association (twice) and the Music Row Awards, and has been a Grammy nominee in the category.

Last summer HALESTORM and I PREVAIL completed a co-headlining tour. Produced by Live Nation, the trek was also the catalyst and the creative spark for HALESTORM and I PREVAIL's collaborative track "Can U See Me In The Dark?", which was released last June.

"Back From The Dead" has tallied over 100 million streams worldwide. Rolling Stone called the title track "a biting but cathartic howler about overcoming all obstacles," and that song as well as "The Steeple" marked their fifth and sixth number ones at rock radio, respectively. Associated Press said the album "will definitely be in the running for best hard rock/metal album of the year." Their previous album, "Vicious", earned the band their second Grammy nomination, for "Best Hard Rock Performance" for the song "Uncomfortable", the band's fourth #1 at rock radio, and led Loudwire to name HALESTORM "Rock Artist Of The Decade" in 2019.

Fronted by Lzzy with drummer Arejay Hale, Hottinger and bass player Josh Smith, HALESTORM's music has earned multiple platinum and gold certifications from the RIAA, and the band has earned a reputation as a powerful live music force, headlining sold-out shows and topping festival bills around the world, and sharing the stage with icons including HEAVEN & HELL, Alice Cooper, Joan Jett and JUDAS PRIEST. Additionally, Lzzy was named the first female brand ambassador for Gibson and served as host of AXS TV's "A Year In Music".

[crguang]

Do you think Shalom is also suitable for the violinist AU? I really love Shalom, but I can't imagine the scenario, will dig into that once I have free time. 2 days ago, I was scrolling my twitter and found an acc that posted something interesting regarding Shalom. That account said, as we look into Shalom's chat in the voice pack, she is afraid that we will leave her, but I don't quite understand why. This is potential. Hmm hmmm

-🎹

ran this by the Shalom Interpersonal Affairs council (sev) and we actually came up with a whole college of performing arts AU for ptn….. it’s kind of a rich university and shalom plays the cello in the school’s orchestra, she’s perfect when it comes to technique, memorization, finesse, things like that so she’s always been told her playing was perfect. on a technical standpoint, it is. the university is affiliated with paradeisos, with whom she’s obtained her scholarship from like one of those corporate scholarships. so she very much represents paradeisos and is repeatedly told to act like it. she’s calm, eloquent, a good listener and an overall sweet girl but the people around her don’t know her at all, shes very good at redirection and never shares too much of herself but ppl don’t really notice that she only makes them talk about themselves. she’s pretty studies focused and disinterested by romance, not because she doesn’t want to experience it but it just never happened for her. here comes the fun part hehe— R is a transfer student that gets here during the winter semester. they’re studying to be a conductor and they take that very seriously. people are surprised they were even able to work with the orchestra considering that inscriptions happen during the fall, and they dont look all that special. some of them probably make bets on how long they’ll last. turns out R is FREAKISHLY talented at like. hearing every single part of a harmony which makes them an insane conductor, and they’re not afraid to call out slackers who they think have no place in their orchestra. when shalom witnesses them in action for the first time it’s literally love at first sight— heart racing, fingertips trembling, she’s holding her breath and her eyes are wide kind of visceral reaction… she’s touched in a way nothing has touched her before. absolutely does not know what to do with herself. and when the orchestra performs for the first time with R as a witness, they zero in on her in particular. afterwards, they take her apart and tells her she sounds empty. there’s no soul in her art. it’s irritating. there are no emotions when she plays and they can hear it and they hate it.

im rambling but ughjhgjgjgg theyre so. theyre so good. shalom goes through a lot of firsts with R; first real connection, first fantasies, first person to see her for who she is, etc. it’s just cute… me when a character sees the world in brighter colors in the presence of another character 😵😵😵

for the orchestra members so far we’ve got: ariel on piano, eirene on violin, lamia on double bass, coquelic on viola, hamel on harp but she still dances cause i’d never do this to my baby, cassia clarinet, cabernet oboe… chelsea’s in there somehow but she has no instrument as of yet. and of course shalom on cello hehe. some of them frequently attend the zoya/bai yi/eleven/serpent band’s concerts when they perform in bars

i love this au a lot and its only like 2 weeks old… your asks always spark creativity i really love that 😭

forgot to mention but about the voice line— i would say chief is the only thing that connects shalom to her humanity/emotions, like she was “reborn” (not anew but rather re-became a version of how she was before) because of chief. they’re extremely important to her as the person who’s given her her freedom. she still struggles to see herself as more than a tool with a predestined end, and she also believes that chief’s end is destined in a similar way for what they represent, so she’s attached to them while trying to come to terms with the fact that they’ll die and she wont be able to do anything about it. in a way, outside of paradeisos, shalom has nothing but chief— in her point of view. she didnt expect rahu to stick by her bc she didnt think rahu cared. she probably doesnt expect a thing from christina either. so to me idk, it makes sense for her to want chief to stay by her side

[lizardrunclub]

2024 Fic Writer End of Year Roundup ✨

I was tagged by @hockeyspiral23 😃

1. How many words did you publish on AO3 in 2024?

54,629… all since October 30th 😆

2. How many fics did you complete this year?

Two one-shots: Turn on the Radio (my post-election venting piece) and Memories Consume (my Solstice Exchange fic for the incomparable @sarcasticmothwrites)

3. How many in progress or ongoing fics did you start this year?

Only one: My multi-chapter rock band AU, Navarre Records Presents…

4. What was your favourite thing you wrote?

Oh man, this is so difficult. Even though, Navarre Records Presents… is my baby and first love, I absolutely adore my Solstice Exchange fic, Memories Consume. It was my first time writing in canon and I got to explore a few signet and venin theories as well as focus on two non-Riorgail ships (Imrrick and Brennaolin).

5. What piece was your most experimental or different from your usual style?

Definitely Memories Consume. Canon, Dragons, Magic, Smut… all of that was new for me when I wrote it 😁

6. Did any fics surprise you - either while writing or their reception?

Navarre Records Presents… It is the very first thing I ever published and I thought maybe five people would read it 😂

I also thought maybe it would have 10 chapters… but I just posted chapter 8 and these rock stars still have so much left to say 🥰

7. Do you have a fic you wrote and loved that went under the radar? (This is your sign to reblog/repost it!)

I don’t think so? I only have the three so far and some 🏴‍☠️ drabbles (IYKYK) that live only on the RQ discord server—come join us over there, it is so fun!

8. Who is an artist that inspired you?

@lunatrixart, @essjaywrites and @jmoonjones for Empyrean works. And a special shout out to @copperfirebird who has created fanfic inspired merch for several of us ❤️

9. Who is an author that inspired you?

There are too many and I am sure I am going to miss some of my favorites either here or in the next answer but here goes… I will read absolutely anything posted by these awesome writers: @suebswrites (I think Just Ask was one of the first fanfics I ever read), @yanny-77 (the undisputed Queen of Comedy), @skyfallscotland (I never thought an OC would be my thing, but damn I love Remi), @justallihere (Storm in the Quiet was a masterpiece), @ubiquitouslyme (I think Here for the Video Games was my first time reading M/M smut and 🥵), and @caeli0306 (castles crumbling is so fun and VSGTSAS was 🧑🏻‍🍳💋)

10. Who is a new author you discovered?

There are so many writers from the RQ discord that just started writing fanfic this year (like me!) and we have so much fun playing with the same source material in very different ways… I have really loved reading and learning from @saranova, @tegantales @thoughtsaboutshows and @overjoyedisland

@lovemedarkly29 also gets a very special shout out because she not only wrote me an AMAZING Sloane/Aaric fic for the Solstice Exchange (Rewritten), but she then took the back-up idea that she had for me and made it into an amazing Violet/Liam fic (Use Somebody).

11. Did you do any collaborations? How did it start?

I have not collaborated, but I do have a wonderful beta, @june-s-pumpkins, who has made my writing better and gives me so many great suggestions that have resulted in some of my favorite lines 🫶🏻

12. What accomplishments are you proudest of?

Hitting post on my first chapter of Navarre Records Presents…

I never thought of myself as a creative person (my husband has always been the creative one!) and I guess I just needed the right inspiration (thank you Rebecca Yarros for writing such inspiring source material!).

13. What did you learn about writing or creating this year?

If you aren’t feeling inspired, go read or spitball silly things on discord or (for me at least) go for a run… inspiration will come and cannot be forced 🥰

14. Any advice you’d like to share with new or aspiring writers?

Write what sparks joy and trust that if you love it, there is likely an audience for it!

15. What are your creative goals for 2025?

Finish Navarre Records Presents… I have the main events outlined and would like to see the story fully come to life 🎸🎤🥁

Other than that, I really want to write more in canon… depending on what Onyx Storm brings us, either alternate POVs or, if I am feeling really inspired at the end of it, my own continuation story 😳

[cryptidsurveys]

Tuesday, June 17th, 2025.

What was the last TV show you binge watched? I haven't watched regular television for quite some time now, but some YouTube channels that I've been watching a lot of lately include ASMR Historian and Irrevelato.

Would you rather eat burgers or tacos? Burgers, but if I had to choose between burgers and nachos, that would be a much more difficult choice.

Have you ever taken a first aid course? Uhh, I read part of the little pamphlet that came with the mini first aid kit that Riley bought for cattery. :')

Did your mother change her maiden name when/if she got marred? She did.

What was the last job you applied for? Did you get the job?

Do you use TikTok? I don't. I do watch a lot of YouTube shorts, though.

Did you participate in any extracurricular activities when you were a kid? Track (800 meter), volleyball, tee ball, Destination Imagination, scouts, summer swimming lessons.

If you were given the chance to relocate for work, would you do it? The animal shelter doesn't really have any relocation opportunities. I mean, I could take my skills elsewhere, if necessary, but it's not as though they're going to send me off like I'm some sort of world class cat whisperer.

What decorations do you have in your bathroom? The soap holder is celestial and there's a mug that holds a few things that says, "an ordinary cat makes life extraordinary," but there aren't really any decorations.

What was the last thing you cooked in an oven? An Oreo coffee cake.

Describe your favourite coat or jacket. It's just a gray fleece jacket.

Do you like Seinfeld? I think I've only seen a couple of episodes.

Have you ever lost something really meaningful? Maybe not objects, but more intangible things. Time, opportunities, hope, connections, purpose, direction, my creative spark, etc.

What’s something you could teach a class in? I don't think I could teach a proper class on anything.

What do you look forward to the most at Christmas/holidays? Cold weather, snowy days, holiday foods, longer nights, being all cozy in my favorite hoodies, driving around to look at Christmas lights, etc.

How do you like your coffee? I think I'm going to start having iced coffee more often. Just need to get myself some ice trays.

What year was your favourite band formed? I don't have just one favorite band.

What’s your least favourite pizza topping? I've never tried them, but I don't think I would care for anchovies.

What does your shampoo smell like? Whatever Equate brand Head & Shoulders smells like.

How old were you when you learned how to drive? I was around 19-20 when I first learned how to drive. I was 34 when I finally got back into it again.

Are you in a relationship? How’s it going? I'm not.

What grocery store do you shop at most often? Walmart.

What percentage battery is your phone on right now? It's at 80%.

What’s the best way to spend a rainy afternoon? It's looking potentially stormy right now, and I'm most likely going to spend my afternoon in bed watching YouTube. Maybe take some more surveys if I feel up to it.

Have you ever smoked a cigarette? Did you like it? I am a smoker.

Are you closer to your mother or father? My dad.

What do you wish didn’t exist? Ignorance. I think we should all be burdened by the totality of absolute truth. :')

Do you own any costumes? There might be some childhood Halloween costumes in the basement.

Is your bedroom clean or messy right now? It's fairly tidy.

What’s your favourite fruit? Mangoes, apples, bananas, blueberries…

[mega-pixie-dream-girl]

Making Space - Part I

1990

❣ I am still very new at writing these! I know I am long-winded... I could probably edit even more and make small moment high-intensity fics, but this is sort of my style ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and I have decided to make this story more of a chap book. Note: I leave some details in brackets when I don't want to associate a real name/place/thing, fill it in madlibs style ❣

This first chapter is mostly fluff and angst!

Pairing: Dave Mustaine x f!reader

Summary: Y/n is a musician--well, sort of. She is getting back into it when she meets Dave who has a practice space she can use. She wasn't looking for a muse... just a spark to ignite her creative passions. But falling for another musician is like playing with fire–falling for the frontman of Megadeth, that's like playing with an a-bomb.

𝓦𝓐𝓡𝓝𝓘𝓝𝓖𝓢: power dynamic/mentorship, size, fluff, smut, angst

read Part II here

.・。♪.・���✧・.♬・☆・゜・。. • ✧ ♪ . ° .• °:.♬ *₊ ° . ✧.・。♪.・゜✧

It was 1am. Not quite the witching hour… especially on a Tuesday… especially at this bar, the Diamond Saloon. But that’s what I needed–a moderately empty dive on a weeknight at an hour way too close to when my alarm clock would be going off to consider any of this a good idea. I was desperate to get out of my apartment… After all, it was summertime in the city. But it felt like everyone was traveling except for me. And everyone I wanted to be friends with was in a band… except for me. I needed to take the dive and get back to working on my music, yet somehow, being at this bar was the first plunge, dusting off of my leather pants, shaking off of the rock and roll attitude I had put on a shelf. Like lighting a candle, it was a ritual for my own confidence to be around other people, people who were actually creating.

I didn’t particularly like beer, but I cared enough to enjoy myself (...so I didn’t particularly like cheap beer either…). I took small sips from the stout that I had doubt I’d finish, letting my head bop, quietly singing along to the throwback dance hits playing in the background that painted the paneled bar room with a warmth of analog haze. 

“You sing?” asked the bartender.

“Yeah. But I’m mostly a guitarist.”

“You in a band?”

“...on hiatus.”

“Oh? Maybe I’ve seen you guys.”

He hadn’t. I averted my gaze. “I’m working on new stuff… I promised myself I would take lessons with my favorite guitarist–I’ve been saying that for 10yrs… I finally got it set up but money got unexpectedly tight last month. I’m just working on writing songs right now.”

“Have you met Dave?” The bartender pointed to a guy about 6 barstools away, “He gives guitar lessons.” I had noticed him when I had first walked in. He was hunched over the bar, long strawberry blond hair waving around his shoulders obscuring his face in a bit of a chic mess.

“Hey, Dave! She is looking for guitar lessons–” The bartender turned back to me, “what’s your name?”

“Y/n–”

Dave turned his head ¾ of the way, his eyes down for a moment before they awoke with such focus. He was beautiful–his sharp features framed by the waves of apricot around his face, curving red lips–I felt my cheeks flush a bit as I tried to suppress a stupid grin. “Actually I’m not looking for lessons–I mean, I am but–I mean, maybe I am–I mean I wanted to study with this one person.” 

He raised an eyebrow at my babbling, his hazel eyes catching the light of a disco ball floating in its own universe towards the back of the bar.

“I am looking for rehearsal space though. Do you know of any available right now?” I added.

“Yeah.” Dave said, smirking, I couldn’t tell if his eyes were curious or laughing at me. “What hours are you looking for?”

“Preferably a fixed time weekly. Preferably weekday mornings… 8am-12pm?” I responded, regaining my tongue as I acclimated to his piercing, confident gaze.

He looked down for a moment, making a slight frown as he thought. “How are Mondays for you?” he asked.

“Yes. Yeah. Mondays are great!” I smiled, trying to match his confidence as my stomach recoiled wondering if I sounded ridiculous. Ugh… I must sound like such a poser. Or worse, vapid… I reigned in my smile to a slight curl of the lips, matching his.

“I mean, if you want… we can walk over and I can show you the space now… if you don’t mind walking to a soundproofed room with a stranger at 1am, that is.” Dave replied with a smirk.

“I’m down.”

Dave closed out his tab and nodded goodbye to the bartender.

We walked down the empty street without chatting. Fluorescent lights from the 24/7 laundromat communed in the darkness with the glow of neon lotto signs from the corner deli as the hum of air conditioners fell around us. I felt the butterflies in my stomach awakening as I listened to the sound of our steps. 

There was something about Dave that seemed so laid-back yet so energetic–we had only exchanged a few words but the heat building inside me was already fueled by the hunch that he was going to be one of the smartest people I’d meet here–he knew just what words were required and his eyes spoke for the rest. I wrestled my lips to stay shut, fighting with my desire to ask him asinine things just to hear his voice and learn its inflections.

We came halfway up an industrial block to a door where he stopped, punching in a number passkey on the lock, the faint beeping of trucks backing up in the distance blipped away as a cool breeze passed us by. The door groaned open. “Ladies first.” His demeanor seemed almost as if it was a dare, as if he was observing me–I couldn’t quite figure him out but I couldn’t help but feel the electric pulse of desire, like flipping a switch that made me want to pout my lips a bit and walk a little sultrier, if only I could capture his eyes once more.

Entering the dark corridor Dave realized maybe he better lead the way. “It’s on the 3rd floor–hope you don’t mind stairs.” 

I nodded, though he was already ahead of me.

Passing a few metal doors, he finally stopped at one, fishing for his keys before opening not 1 but 2 doors back to back and disappearing through them. 

Stepping through the doorway, a wave of calm washed over me, the warmth of string lights and incense wrapping around me and softening the few strewn and crumpled beer cans littered around the floor. 

“We are pretty limited with space, but you are welcome to bring gear if you can find a spot to fit on that rack.” Dave pointed over to the side. “We’ve got a JCM800, a twin reverb, a bass amp, a kit, ummm… some mics–they hook up to that preamp, the mixer is over there. Monitors obviously… you should try it out.” His eyes floated around the space before resting back in my gaze.

Dave handed me a guitar. Grabbing the cable resting on the amp I plugged in and hopped up on the high stool to sit. I felt like I was home. I started playing… tuning… playing… for a moment I forgot Dave was there–it just felt so natural, like I belonged here. I started playing the run I had been trying to learn–I had been playing the record over and over inevitably wearing the most important part a little thinner–the one I had hoped I would learn from the man himself, [jazz guitarist]...

“[Jazz guitarist]?” Dave asked after a moment–his gaze somehow softened and attentive at the same time.

I could have gasped but instead I grinned, keeping my cool. It wasn’t often that I got to talk about this stuff with people, certainly not [jazz guitarist]’s music. “Ughhh I love his playing so much… he’s actually who I was going to take lessons with…” I replied, trying not to word-vomit my excitement.

Dave nodded slowly. “I recommend it. I took a few lessons with him and… yeah. I would not talk you out of that experience.” He replied with a warm, soft smile, his muscular arms folded across his chest.

“Really?! What was he like?” I asked, unable to contain my excitement despite the immediate embarrassment for my exuberance.

“Intense. Nice guy… but the type who will sit in front of an amp for 8 hrs and then corner you to show you this thing he is excited about, something he’s been working on… and it’s always something mind blowing.” Dave chuckled. His smile was a little goofy but I never wanted him to stop smiling.

“That sounds amazing.”

“Like this one time…” Dave turned, hand in search of another guitar before getting himself plugged in, “it was this gnarly thing…” he leaned against an amp to sit in his tight jeans, starting to play and explaining the riff to me. He was good. Like good good. “Try it–it starts on the 8th fret…”

I copied after him as he played it slower. He leaned towards me, hesitating, getting permission with a glance before delicately curving my fingers into a daunting chord shape with his own hands, which dwarfed mine. His hair tumbled down his shoulders a bit. I played the end of the riff again, the notes now more perfectly in reach.

“That’s it… oh then–you got it.” He watched my hand on the fretboard intently.

I felt the warmth that had been welling inside me start to pour over, tingling on my skin, his magnetism pulling on me so strongly now, I was desperate to feel his skin on mine again.

I needed this space. I needed to see Dave again. I looked down, breaking our mutual gaze as I felt his eyes still on me. “...how much per month for the Monday mornings?”

“Um, how ‘bout $50?” He replied.

“Done.”

“It’s yours.” He curled his lips.

I explored the crevices and textures of the cluttered room, reading the scribbles on the wall like it was an archival truth, a history I could absorb. There were some stickers and graffiti around, flyers for drum lessons and gear for sale.

“Goatmouth… Weather Friend? …Do they practice here?”

“Yeah. Warren is a friend.” Dave replied, “Um... They’re playing Friday night, we are too… um… come by, it’ll be a great show.” He rustled through the nest of papers that had collected in a corner, handing me a little black and white flier.

“Megadeth?” 

“It’s at Sally’s Place–dunno if you’ve been there–great rock venue.” He replied.

I nodded, “Yeah, um… totally, I’ll try to stop by.” 

He bit his lip for a moment. “Uh, are you going back to Diamond?” He asked.

I shook my head… It was about time for me to get home. “I gotta head out actually.”

“Cool. Um… Do you want me to walk you to the bus or something? It’s kinda late…”

“Sure.” I said with a light smile. “Also, I need to pay you for this month.”

“Just get it to me the next time you see me… I’ll be around.”

Standing at the bus stop, I wished it would never come. For all I could tell, Dave could have lived at Diamond Saloon–he was going back there for yet another round and his five o’clock shadow was coppery on his jaw–but my mind was as desperate to know what made him tick as my arms were to wrap around him and thank him for being at the right place at the right time, helping me get what I needed while the universe felt to move against me this summer. We took turns alternating between looking down the street to see if a ball of light was finally growing towards us down the street to then looking at our shoes. 

“This is me.” I said as the bus approached. I paused, imagining him pulling me into a passionate kiss with hungry need… I gave him a parting smile and waved. He nodded, as if searching for the words, but instead pressed his lips together into a line, waiting for me to board and disappear into the night. The hiss of the pneumatic risers punctuated my departure, leaving me wishing I had grabbed him by the hand and pulled him onboard with me, without any clue as to what I would have done next had I done so. I just wanted to feel what it would be like to be close to him, to know what he was thinking about.

All I could think about was his show. I had to go. When it was finally Friday night, I decided to wear something simple that would stand out without trying too hard–a white silk mini skirt, a white halter top, black fishnets, and patent red gogo boots–I figured most people would be wearing black. I made my eyeliner super smudgy and sultry and let my hair down. I was determined to be noticed without screaming for Dave’s attention from the front row.

The club was flowing with people, people chatting out front, in the doorway, at the bar, on the dance floor, by the stage… everyone seemed to know everyone… or at least someone. I kept my eyes down until I got to the bar. “Gin and tonic. Thanks.” Scanning the room the cacophony of revelers shifted as I turned my head, but I just wanted to see red, Dave’s gingery hair somewhere in the crowd. Suddenly the crowd started to shift and hush momentarily before an even louder chorus of awe came across the room. There Dave was, adjusting the height of the mic a bit higher. The bass blared out. The show started. 

My breath caught in my chest as I saw him begin the first song–it was like the guitar was part of him. His brooding eyes looked somewhere and nowhere as he curled his lips at the mic. His t-shirt had the sleeves cut off, his biceps flexing as he moved around the stage, scanning the room and making faces as if arguing with the world. The band was heavy. Loud. I had craved to know his voice and this was perhaps its most honest, raw form. It was inspiring to see him perform, but I was not going to be one of those fans jumping up and down at the front of the stage, flashing him like a groupie. Yet deep down I wanted to scream his name, entranced by his glistening body, his intention, his control over the music–he had a grip on me and I felt my own wetness envelop my heat.

Looking on from the bar, I sipped my gin and tonic. They were between songs when finally those deep hazel eyes scanning the room came to mine and stopped. I smiled. For a moment he paused, smirking and looking down before capturing my eyes once more with his. The moment felt like an eternity but the next song was already starting when the feeling of satisfaction finally landed. 

Soon the show was over and they sauntered off stage and through a nondescript door. Shit. Who knew how many girls were back there. In fact–maybe I was silly to think Dave could possibly be available at all. Maybe I should try to hit Diamond Saloon late at night again tomorrow–he would probably be there, right? I swirled the ice around in my glass as the next band finished setting up for their set and checking levels. The rock songs playing at the bar sounded so frail compared to Megadeth’s set, song after song melted into one as if it was AM radio.

“Can I buy you another?” Dave’s voice was soft behind me.

“Oh, hey. Yeah, sure. G&T” I said, turning to face him. I needed to see him with my own eyes to believe it–that Dave, frontman of the hour, got off stage and came to find me.

“Two gin and tonics.” Dave told the bartender, as he leaned between me and the guy at the next bar stool.

“You guys sounded really good.”

“Eh. The monitoring was all fucked up. All I could hear was Junior’s bass… vocals were nonexistent.”

“Yet it worked out–at least from over here.” I smiled.

“I didn’t see you right away–I mean–I–you were easy to spot.” He blushed and looked away as he let his eagerness slip. He sipped his drink.

I averted my gaze coquettishly. “So… what are you doing next?” I asked.

“Next show? Tuesday at Marz Bar. Tonight? Gotta load up my gear, but then… Um… Maybe we could get another drink somewhere else? Somewhere… quieter–if you want?”

I smirked. For the first time I felt like I was the cool one, as glints of his nerves showed through his confident facade–he must have been tired from performing. I lifted my gaze to meet his, my doe-eyed poker face holding my cards back as his searched mine for an answer. “Yeah, that sounds nice.” I replied. He smiled softly nodding as he sipped on his cocktail. 

Once Dave was ready to head out he came back to meet me where I was finishing my drink. “I know a place only a few blocks away–I think you’ll like it.” We filtered out of the crowded club, his hand placed lightly on the back of my arm sending shock waves through me. I couldn’t help but lean into his touch.

“Dave!” Junior called out, catching us by surprise. “You’ll never guess who’s here, man.”

I felt Dave’s touch tense a bit. Junior acknowledged me with a nod before continuing. “Y’know that dude whose car you pissed on because he was talking during the set but he ended up being from Capitol a few months ago? He actually came to see us tonight. He’s inside–”

Dave smirked. He was about to say something. He must have remembered that I was right there. He looked at me, looked up, looked back at me, for once he didn’t have the words nor the piercing gaze. “Hey… do you mind waiting for a moment? I’ll be right back.” He turned to me and asked. I nodded–he had to take his opportunity… maybe they would make it–maybe we would be–they were gone.

I leaned against the standpipe. People filtered in and out, some taking one smoke break, then another… I felt the time in my feet as they started to ache in my gogo boots. It was like I had traded my opportunity with him for his own–maybe I never had it in the first place… I could have been the girl of the day, I guess… and on Tuesday who knows. Feeling empty, I walked painfully to the bus stop.

.・。♪.・゜✧・.♬・☆・゜・。. • ✧ ♪ . ° .• °:.♬ *₊ ° . ✧.・。♪.・゜✧

…to be continued... read Part II here

[seniasworld]

Dream Interpretation #1

I had an interesting dream last night and instead of logging it in my dream journal like I usually do, I thought I'd share it with you if you're into that kinda thing. I want to give a little background to my experience with dreams and dream interpretation, but you can skip to the "***" if you just want to read about my funny dream, which will also be followed by my own interpretation.

Preface

I consider myself to be spiritual, but like woo-woo spiritual, not so much religious spiritual. Iykyk. And I have always had intense and vivid dreams that sparked curiosity, revealed truths, and inspired my imagination. At a young age, I decided to write them down so I could remember them a little better and maybe get something from them. At first, I just wanted to use events from my dreams for stories because I like to write, but a deeper curiosity of why I was having these dreams began to surface. Before I knew it, I had a Dream Dictionary from a witchy section at a Barnes & Noble and instead of just writing about my dreams to write about them, I began recording my dreams with intent to decipher them.

Writing about my dreams quickly became a way for me to connect with my subconscious, as I believed that my dreams were just way for my subconscious to connect with me. I’ve often had dreams that quite literally showed me things about my future. Some of my dreams were meant to help me cope with trauma, some even give me perspective on situations I face, or even give me insight on someone else's situation.

Long story long, I have been interpreting my dreams for over half my life and it has helped me with my mental health and self-awareness. Perhaps you could benefit by me sharing some of the more intimate moments in my own little world, so if you took the time to read my preface, thank you so much for being here! Please enjoy and feel free to share your thoughts! :D

***

I was standing in a stadium at night with what I assume were a bunch of classmates. When I say a bunch, I wanna estimate that there were a few hundred people in this stadium that felt like it was just floating through space and I think we had auditioned for something and were waiting to see whether our coach assigned us a role or had decided to leave us to be spectators. I was hoping to play a creative role, like singing during sports events or dancing on the space/dream-land-high-school POMS Squad. Lots of people were being assigned to fill roles on our athletic teams while others would be in band, cheerleaders, bookworms of various niche topics, etc. Just like actual high school, except, we didn't have a lot of choice in what we would do here.

I watched the crowd of people around me fade away and line up on the other side of the space stadium as each person received their role. I didn't care when this coach guy would get to me, I cared about what I would end up doing and my hope was thinning just as quickly as this crowd as I watched someone else get to be the singer. I watched plenty others get to be the dancers, the cheerleaders, the artists; the expressive and otherwise vocal ones. Before I knew it, all of the roles I was remotely interested in were filled up. What could possibly be left for me that I cared about?

Finally, our coach walked right up to me and handed me a red flag with a yellow stripe and the tiniest yellow stars on it. He stated I would be our flag girl and I immediately frowned up at him for giving me such a non-role. I'm not even sure if this kind of role exists in real life, why am I getting it in the space stadium?! I can do so much more! Why would he give me this? And also... what is that?

He noticed I wasn’t satisfied, and instantly took it back. “Fine,” he said, “You can be in charge of keeping everyone engaged.”

I was a little confused. If we all had a role to play, why wouldn’t those who were assigned to be in the audience actually commit to their role? And the dancers and everyone else? Why would I need to keep them engaged with what they know they're supposed to be doing? As I pondered why and how and what, Coach gave the flag to someone else who was already assigned a different role, and left me to carry on. It seemed like he was handing this flag to this other guy to just hold it for me and keep an eye on me, so that's what he ended up doing.

Once everyone else had their role, I wandered through the crowd to interact with people who were there to simply spectate. I didn't really know what it meant to keep everyone engaged and it seemed like everyone I talked to was getting less interested in this space stadium thing as I spoke with them. I was lost and just didn't understand and eventually, fell totally silent and once I fell totally silent, all eyes were suddenly on me.

I scanned the faces in hopes to find some sort of hint as to what I am intended to do, but I just didn't know and I became frustrated and confused. I began to get upset and sought out the coach, who was already silently watching me through the crowd with everyone else.

Now, I don't remember what was said if there was anything at all, I think I just became so overwhelmed with the pressure to do something that it eventually just clicked. I suddenly knew exactly what to do. I began to smile and laugh.

"How about let's get this thing started already?!" I exclaimed as loud as I could throughout the stadium and was immediately energized with the overwhelming response. Faces beamed so brightly at me, I would've believed that magical lights turned up throughout the whole space stadium. I ran through the small crowd of audience members, across the stadium to where the rest of the classmates were lined up and in their assigned uniform, ran straight to the guy who was cheering the loudest and waving what was supposed to be my flag at me. He cheered and high fived me the moment that flag was back in my hand, and everyone went wild!

I emerged from the crowd of assigned roles and into the space between them and the audience members, holding the flag high above my head in an attempt to match their volume with how high I could reach. I jumped up and sprinted along the space between these groups of hundreds of people, high-fiving them as I passed them, being carried by their cheerful exclamations. I felt so much relief that I was finally able to fulfill my oddly cryptic role within the space stadium, and it was short-lived.

Then, I woke up.

Interpretation

The idea of being in high school again and being assigned a role there was oddly unsettling at the start. I think I felt this way when I was in my teenage years: like I was supposed to fill this role but never seemed to actually be doing what I felt I was good at or even what I wanted to be doing. I was miserable for a few reasons in my youth, and the social pressure I felt was a big one. Plus, often times when I did attempt to go after something I did enjoy or was interested in, it never seemed to work out or fulfill me in a way I needed. It also didn't help that I was so curious about many things, most of them being creative outlets, and I was limited to one thing.

On top of that, if I didn't get a solo or when I didn't make the dance team, I felt like I was being forced to turn in a different direction. I think I felt like if someone else was already doing a thing and was being celebrated for it, that meant there was no room for me to also excel at that thing or to even try it/continue it. I don't feel this way anymore, but I have been thinking a lot about my role in this world as it stands versus what kind of contribution I want to be making moving forward. I think this curiosity and this frustration of wanting to do more was demonstrated in this dream by being assigned a role that I had never even heard of before and before I even knew or asked what it was, I was turning it down because it wasn't what I was expecting. Honestly, what I want to do with my life has no set path and I think that much autonomy and freedom tends to overwhelm me a bit.

I want to talk about the symbolism of the flag as well. If you remember in the dream description, it was a red flag with little yellow stars and a yellow stripe that ran through it, horizontally. Seeing red in a dream can be associated with great passion, and seeing yellow can indicate a sense of joy and creativity. Additionally, the symbol of the flag itself is heavily associated with one's sense of identity and belonging.

I was given this flag and told to keep everyone engaged because it was my way of feeling like I belonged. By immediately shunning away the flag and interacting one by one with only people who were in the audience, I was failing to fulfill my role. Because I was not embracing my passions and doing what made me happy, I was interacting with others in a way that communicated to them that I was miserable and unfulfilled. Whether they realized it or not, people could tell I was frustrated so much so that there was nothing to even be gained by interacting with me.

I find this really interesting because I really did not talk with many people in school and I was convinced everyone just hated me. But, that wasn't the case. I was insecure, undecided, and depressed and people could feel that, again, whether they realized it or not. I have always loved singing and writing, but I wasn't investing my energy into doing either, even though I would be celebrated anytime I did share those gifts of mine. Even though they would cheer when I would raise that flag.

So, I think it's funny that in real life when I was in high school, I wanted to stand out and be celebrated and here I am in this dream getting frustrated that I am standing out, but inevitably used that to my advantage and ended up being celebrated. My role was to keep everyone engaged with their roles and with each other and all I needed to do was stay committed to what I am meant to do and that was enough for me to connect with and inspire everyone around me.

My 28th birthday passed a little over one month ago, and my astrology girlies will understand this is my Saturn's Return. For those of you who aren't into that shit, it basically means that I am very seriously and critically thinking about what I am doing with my life. If you are in this stage of your life and you are not doing something that fulfills you, it will cause an upset and you will feel immense pressure to make a change.

I have been itching to write and to sing my entire life and am only now growing the balls to actually write and share it with people, which is why you are reading this right now. Very soon, I can share my music with the world, too.

To conclude my interpretation of this dream, I think it was a good way for me to reflect on how much I have changed since high school. I am much more confident and healthy minded. I know there is room for all of us to be good at everything we want to be good at. I also have learned that the most important role I will ever need to fill is literally just showing up as my true and authentic self, because that alone is inspiring for anyone I will ever interact with.

~

Thank you SO MUCH for taking the time to read and consider my thoughts! Please share any thoughts you may have, follow me, shoot me a message, and maybe we can talk about some dreams you've had as well.

Toodles,

Yesenia

[fredandginger64]

Dean says " telling what I really think of my partner is a hazardous chore. Our partnership in many ways is like a marriage. I dare say we have spent more time together than most married couples do. On the road together while we were mainly doing nightclubs we even roomed together most of the time. We never had a difference of opinion that we couldn't resolve ourselves and very quickly. Indeed, until a bunch of outsiders got into the act, we never had a problem we couldn't resolve by sundown. As a gag sometimes I say that it seems like we've been together 15 years but it's actually 5. Psychologists will tell you the first 10 years of a marriage are the toughest. It's the same with a creative partnership such as ours.

"I don't want to sound stuffy yet in some ways our relationship has been a far greater trial than the usual blending of abilities and efforts towards a common goal. We've worked under continuous pressure and a never ending sussession of deadlines. This sort of thing can try the patience of an angel and you won't see either of us wearing wings. We've matured to the point where we realize no two humans see exactly alike but this need not break up the family. In fact Jerry and I both feel that if either of us had to sacrifice our individuality, the team would suffer irreparable damage. What makes it spark and create the kind of entertainment that our particular public buys is a blending of two divergent personalities. We're not twins identical in temperament and backgrounds- we're "Pardners" which is the name of our new film. Of course I think Jerry works too hard but he doesn't think so, not even when he's so tired he can't see straight. I think he is too generous with material. His clowning on the set, at home or the golf course is frequently more amusing than many specially written acts written and produced in plush cabarets. He's wide open to ideas and appreciates the little things as much as the big ones. He loves everything he does-thats why he insists on working with the writers on our show and our films. That's why every little detail concerns him, every decimal point in a film budget, every curl on an extras' hair. People ask if it's true if Jerry makes most of our decisions concerning our careers. Jerry would be the first to explain that a team needs a spokesman and he frequently speaks for the both of us- but only after we have consulted with each other and thrashed things out. Professionally we think so much alike and our interests are so mutual and I trust him explicitly. Jerry will on day be a highly successful producer if he wants to. He has great executive talent and an inquisitiveness that would get a cat in trouble. His is sensitive yet he can take a joke. I remember when we were playing the Copacabana in New York City. We went out to dinner and got back late, barely in time to dress for the show. We got into our tuxedos in a hurry and could hear the band playing our introductory music. I slipped into my shoes and was halfway out the door yelling for Jerry to hurry. But he couldn't. There he sat, slipping his feet into his patent leather shoes but unable to move them off the floor. No wonder, I had nailed them down as a gag. So he went on in his tuxedo and socks. But he got me back later on. It was my wife's birthday so Jerry sent her a mink coat in my name. Naturally he charged it to me. How was he to know I had already bought her a mink coat that day

--------------------–-------------------

"Until a bunch of outsiders got into the act"

I hope this helps @judy1926

If you need any more help please let me know.

[malhare-archive]

On this day 33 years ago the world lost a black metal legend and creative visionary when Per Yngve Ohlin took his own life at age 22. However, the spark that Pelle ignited in the souls of the morbid, the misfits, and the freaks will never be extinguished. His impact and legacy on the genre of black metal cannot be overstated. Throughout the (now ten!) years that I've been involved in the black metal scene I've met people from all over the world and all walks of life but one of the universal uniting factors between us all is that Pelle touched our lives in one way or another. Whether it be through simple morbid fascination, creative inspiration, or a deeper spiritual connection, Pelle's lingering presence in the scene is inarguable. His spirit will always live on in the hearts of the true 🕯️🥀🖤

Personally? I can say that Pelle saved my life. Following my first suicide attempt at age 16 I was left with this persistent disconnect from reality, a feeling that everything was "wrong" and that I had truly died. I expressed these feelings to Alex, my then friend and now partner, and one day he told me,"You remind me of a girl version of Dead." (Ironic in hindsight.) He explained who Dead - Pelle Ohlin - was to me, and his story instantly resonated with me in a serious way. I felt like I finally had someone who I could relate to, someone who would have understood what I was going through. I started listening to Mayhem and Morbid obsessively and quickly branched out into other black metal bands.

As someone who was taught to repress everything; To keep every sad, unpleasant, and dark trait pushed deep deep inside so as not to cause a scene or embarrass my mother or be a bother, it was incredibly cathartic to see a music scene where extremity and mental illness are put on full display without shame. To see black metal musicians singing about their depression, the hopelessness and hatred they felt, the evils of the church, and to see them slicing themselves open on stage - it felt like a cathartic exorcism and expression of all of the things I felt. I finally had an outlet for all of the horrible things that had been silently festering inside of me. Having a (mostly) constructive outlet like that made the pain I was experiencing so much more bearable.

That aside, black metal is how I bonded with my partner. It's also how I reconnected with my father, and to this day we see lots of metal concerts and even make black metal music together! For being such a negative genre in appearance to outsiders, black metal breathed life into my lungs and I can honestly say that I likely wouldn't be here today if I had never found it thanks to Pelle.

[uh-velkommen]

My thoughts on Fall Out Boy have changed a bit over time as I've grown out of my "Bandom/Emo trinity" teenage girl in need of friends era. See before I was very forgiving of Fall Out Boy's style and sound change because the early 20-teens was a period of change for almost everyone. Every new album that came from rock or post hardcore bands that I liked got lighter and lighter and in a sea of generic dad rock, Fall Out Boy was still at least creative with their sound. I grew accustomed to their theatrical style and found that their lyricism was still on par with their pre-hiatus stuff, even if you had to dig a bit to find it. If I was looking for heavy rock and screamo, I would never turn to Fall Out Boy for it. If I wanted to sing my heart out and have a good time, then that's what I had them for. But I'll admit that every now and then I want to yell along to more of 20 year old Patrick Stump's anger. Sure I could put on TTTYG for that but after 20 years, I want to know if he's still got it. Sometimes I want new devastatingly emo lyrics and I wonder if Pete ever finds himself feeling very FUTCT again.

When Fall Out Boy dropped SMFSD, I liked it. Because it sounded like what everything Post SRAR wanted to be. It sounded like the Fall Out Boy boys finally got on the same page. The quality production is there. The double meaning lyricism is there. The instruments are there. But a certain je ne sais quoi is still missing. "Making music to send a message" is no longer FOB's shtick. I think now they're more about making music to put art out into the world. Which is never a bad thing but in the context of Fall Out Boy's career, where they started and how they've grown, it's clear we'll never get the same band as before.

And I'm not a person who's like, "I miss the old Fall Out Boy" because in that case I would just listen to old Fall Out Boy. But what I have become is a person who praises met expectations. I've realized that when I rave to people about new Fall Out Boy music, I'm not raving about life changing songs and heartbreaking lyrics. I'm praising the fact that Fall Out Boy knows what they're doing. I never recommend songs anymore. I recommend albums as a concept. I love bands who know who they are, who understand their sound and can replicate it while still sounding new and refreshing. I've praised Pierce The Veil for this very thing until The Jaws of Life, which felt like their Mania. I've praised Siamese for this and still do. But praising consistency is only one layer of adoration for an artist. Their music no longer speaks to me. I don't find myself crying over lyrics or replaying songs for a singular guitar line.

It's like handing out a participation trophy. Congratulations, you did it again and you did it well!

I've known that this is how I've been feeling for a while but I'll never let go of how much Fall Out Boy had meant to me at one point. And for that, I will never admit that something they make is "bad." But I can and will admit that the spark is gone. Maybe it's just because I've calmed down over the years. Maybe it's because I no longer live in a space where I have to search for and give my love to a third party. Maybe this is how love works. I still love Fall Out Boy for all they are and all they have been. But I don't care as much about their music. Despite them always being top 5 in my spotify wrapped, they are clearly no longer my top artist. Still my favourite band as a concept, no longer my favorite musicians.

[adreamingofguns]

Reverse Unpopular Opinion: tell me what you love about Saw

Takes your hands. We are going on a journey. I'm probably doing the reverse unpopular opinion thing wrong but ❤️ it's 5 am by me. we deal.

Personally I like that some of the traps are done with practical effects, much to the detriment of the VERY ENTHUSIASTIC cast who are surprisingly chill with almost drowning IRL and/or having to suffer through wearing 30+ lbs of jagged steel while having the flu and/or actually being stuck in the shackle prop because there was a malfunction while everybody else goes for lunch and/or requesting real glass for the stunt scenes and insisting on throwing real punches in the stunt fights because they're a masochistic freak of an actor (the masochism isn't the bad part, the EVERYTHING ELSE about him sucks) Some of the worst traps and effects are when they use cgi. Looks bad, tom.

I also appreciate that the through-line of the movie is not only justice (and the malformations of it) but also love. Love is what drives the characters to do what they do!! At least three of the apprentices/jigsawers do what they do because they are doing it for love of another person!! And not even romantic love for most of them. I love that the fandom has led me to more friendships and sparked more creativity in me that was lacking for a while. I love that the cast list is just random b-c list actors and also Greg Bryk is there and every time I see him I get jumpscared. I love that it gave me an idea for a tattoo (original idea do not steal!!!) where it'll say "do you like how brutality feels?" but in the shape of a spiral and I kinda wanna get it on the inside of my forearm.

As the adage goes, one must cultivate their online experience because there are some WEIRD ASS headcanons out there. That being said, I love and appreciate the people who are normal about the fat characters. I love that people banded together against an artist who was very adamant and weird about drawing fat characters (which there are a few) like twinks. I wish they kept that energy going. I LOVE that seeing a specific fat character and the way he's built/the way people draw him voluptuously (😂) gives me so much gender euphoria. I love when people acknowledge this character as an erudite and well-dressed man with an art degree and a secret passion for home remodeling (this is canon) who also happens to be a fat man. Like fat people are real three dimensional human beings or something. He's also super deranged and mows down like 70+ people at once in a spree that ends in him stuck and trapped, possibly killed and possibly just held captive by a cunty evil doctor in the basement of his own home like how in the Sims game where you make somebody live in the basement and paint constantly so you can make money selling the paintings.

I love how a few months ago on Twitter the fandom came together to mourn as the bot that goes through the script line by line came to a particularly devastating part and that stupid image of the cat puppet from the OLD Dr Who

(this image) was the only thing keeping me sane while I was in the trenches of crying in school over stupid bullshit.

I did my final in my religion in film class about Saw and used the following image. My professor and classmates were wowed.

Sadly the accompanying paper sucked major ass (I wrote it in the span of an hour and it's ADHD core topic jumping like HELL) but it got me an A and the respect of my asshole professor 😂

I ALSO LOVE HOW SAW FANDOM POSTS KEEP ESCAPING CONTAINMENT AND GETTING POPULAR AMONG THE GENERAL NON-SAW FANS LIKE THAT 50 GUNS AND VIBRATOR IN THE CAR CUP HOLDER DASH THING MEME THATS A SAW POST

I kinda rambled a bit sorry 😂 here's a gif of Peepaw Jigsaw himself zooted off his ass and staring at a fishtank in his ex-boyfriend's office.

[keanuquotes]

As Keanu confirms — it started with “Lust,” the title of the seventh song on Dogstar’s Somewhere Between the Power Lines and Palm Trees (releasing October 6), and the first they wrote for the new album. He flashes pages from his spiral-bound notebook, symbols, words, and letters that look more like sanskrit. “The guys call it my hieroglyphics,” he says, of his coded method of keeping track while they’re building a song.

“Sunrise,” the album’s eventual ninth track, came second, and this may be the theme of the whole album, as well as Dogstar’s official return to the music scene after 20 years: warm, bright, hopeful with a heavy dose of pull-at-your-heartstrings nostalgia, as only an authentically alt-rock ‘90s band can do. While internationally their names might not carry the same recognition, within the band, they are the sum of three equally vivid parts: singer-guitarist Bret Domrose, bassist Keanu Reeves, and drummer Robert Mailhouse. It’s this triality that sparks reference to that ancient Greek philosopher who proclaimed the number three the best of all numbers — and the most harmonious.

“I guess it's just who we are. Hey, we're warm people,” Bret jokes with a laugh, and though the ease and deep friendship these three share speaks for itself, the overall grungy-summery sound was actually the overall endgame. Robert credits producer Dave Trumfio for bringing “beautiful, layered, lush, warm tones in combination with what we came up with ourselves.”

“We specifically looked for a vintage Neve mixing console because we wanted that warm, fat '70s sound,” Bret adds, explaining the band’s process of choosing studios based on gear. “Lyrically, I try to keep hope as an undercurrent. Musically…if we go to a dark spot or something, we don't spend too much time there.

“That's just the way we craft songs…with some hope.”

No need to call the new album a comeback. They’ve been plenty busy over the last two decades, keeping in touch and even playing together, as friends — who also happen to be bandmates — do. On this mid-September afternoon, they’re just now back on their Southern California home turf after two shows in Yokohama and Osaka. Ironically, as Bret recalls, it was in Japan where they had their “last” show in 2003, after which they decided to pause. “We came back [from Japan in 2003] and it was just one of those things where we just took a break and then everyone went their own way, different musically, and just expanded and tried different things,” Bret explains. “We always stayed together and we were always friends.”

Time passed and lots changed, namely the industry, and the strengthened climate of artists’ creative control. This time, the guys were determined to be in charge.

“There was just such a machinery that we didn't have to contend with this time,” Bret says, describing the process of creating the new album as a fresh experience. “There was just so much garbage back in the day that now, this time around, we realized, ‘Wow. We could be in charge of this thing. We don't need a record company right now. We can do this all ourselves and we can even release it ourselves, and the music will get heard.’”

This time, Dogstar would focus on the music they wanted to create. “If you're an artist, you're sculpting or painting, you're going to start a new project, you never go, ‘This painting has to be a hit,’” Robert says. “I think all those years that passed really helped in a way because when we got back together, that's exactly what happened. We got into a room and we made sounds, and we started building music without thinking anything other than pleasing ourselves.”

They all agreed: At this stage, they were going to start with songs they liked. They’d create music for themselves. Robert remembers Keanu’s let’s-see-what-happens attitude as a “refreshing” start.

“Roast the chicken and see if it burns,” Bret says with a laugh.

“It's this kind of step-by-step approach…” Robert recalls. “It was like a tasting kitchen...let's try the bouillabaisse.”

“Then at the end, we opened a restaurant,” Bret smiles, carrying the joke.

Keanu leans forward, for emphasis, proclaiming: “Rock ‘n roll!”

“You’ve got the lights…you got the waft of cigarette smoke coming in the back door…it was old-school good times,” Bret says of their July show at The Roxy, “a good, old Hollywood, Sunset Boulevard rock night…you look out five rows into the audience and there’s Steven Tyler dancing. You got that going.”

Their DIY/anti-corporate/non-conformist attitude from the beginning should give a hearty glimpse into why these guys create music. Good. Old Hollywood. Sunset Boulevard. Rock night. That’s Dogstar, in sum, not simply because they were formed in Los Angeles, but because their reputation as a kick-ass live band is eternally fixed, their garage-band inception firmly rooted in their souls and sound.

Keanu agrees that a true garage band is a state of mind. Or heart. “Because we get together and we fucking play music and we start to jam and we start to just play.”

“It’s that same energy, for sure,” Bret agrees. “It's that same energy that you have when you're a kid…when you're starting out and you're doing it for all the right reasons. You don't care if your ears are ringing at the end of the day because you're in too small of a space, your amp is too loud, or whatever it is. All that not caring, that's what makes a good record, I think. That's what makes a cohesion between the band members, too.”

“I think we're a marriage of that,” Keanu says. “Now we're a marriage or an integration of that garage band with caring and trying to keep that spirit of that, but take in our experiences and how we want to care about our music and it works.”

Bret starts: “Yes, I think over the years, we've learned to file off the rough edges a bit and how to use the equipment properly and how to—“

“We're pro now,” Keanu quips, and the guys erupt in laughter.

“We're a pro garage band now!” Bret says.

“The pro garage band,” Keanu says. Everyone is still laughing.

“Thanks to Rob, we have a nicer garage,” Bret says.

From their initial jam sessions up to the actual recording, they’ve managed to preserve that authentically stripped-down “pro garage band” sound on Somewhere Between the Power Lines and Palm Trees. In a world of filters and special effects, they’ve chosen a more honest, old-school route. “Hit songs” are amongst the many words they never mention. “Chart success,” “singles,” and “algorithm” are a few notable others that never come up. That means that the undeniably happy alt-pop riffs on “Everything Turns Around,” as well as the strummy, Manchester-movement-eque “Upside” were unintentional, undeniable (sorry, guys, but someone has to say it) ready-made commercial hits.

And no, not every song sounds like this, that wouldn’t make sense for an album-journey album. “Glimmer” — a moody, swelling alt-serenade — is and should be a live-show staple, its crowd at the ready to sing and sway along with thumb-operated, gas-station-purchased flame lighters.

All that said, the album refreshingly lacks predictability. Take the Eastern-influence break on “Lust,” for instance. “You could hear a sitar…out of nowhere,” Robert says, delightedly, recalling Dogstar’s 1999 performance at the Zee Cine Awards in Mumbai, followed by a “drum-off” on the hotel rooftop, as “the most surreal moment of our lives.” No matter how surreal, there’s no doubt some shred of the experience can be heard on “Lust,” a little over a minute in.

Bret recalls the Eastern-influenced break came out of one of their jam sessions. Keanu looks at his “hieroglyphics” treatise to recount the process, like an ancient scholar: “We have here…we go to Rob's house, there's a verse, and then we go, a disco funk, all-star jam. Then I crossed out “funk,” and then it went to the High A, and then we have the Indian [break] put in there. That's, I guess, where Bret started to go into the Indian influence of holding that A and the tension there…”

Somewhere Between the Power Lines and Palm Trees ends with “Breach,” an unapologetic grinder — to use Bret’s words — “a punctuation mark” at the end of this here-comes-the-sun album journey. This is not the hearts-and-flowers sendoff. It’s more of the wake-the-fuck-up-people sendoff. As Robert says, “we digged in a little harder.” Bret explains that they intentionally ended this journey — the album journey — this way.

“It’s a bit of fun cold water,” Keanu says. “It’s a cliffhanger.”

“This genre, it's a lost thing. If you listen to the radio, things are so different now,” Robert says, describing Dogstar as “just three guys playing their instruments…it's not that complicated…it's not the mainstream anymore like it used to be.”

Through the decades, and after all they’ve been through, they’re idealistic. And you can feel it on the album – raw human emotion, the same that inspired them in their early years. “You can't trick people into believing you,” Bret says, after a passionate citing of some of his most influential musical imprints: Hüsker Dü, the Clash, Elton John.

Honest and inspired, Somewhere Between the Power Lines and Palm Trees fully reflects these three guys, the stories of their lives over the last three decades, and exactly who they are.

“Rock is what keeps you young,” Bret says. “30 years times three guys' lives…that's 90 years of living. That's a lot of shit that could happen, that did happen. It ain't all good and it ain't all bad, but it's all in these songs. It sounds hippie-dippy corny, but there's a little bit of every year of our lives in these songs, I think. In that sense, [it’s] a mature endeavor.”

“This is who we are now,” Keanu says. “We're all over 50. I think to what Robert was saying…the influences that we have are coming through us into how we interpret, but also what we create in the moment. I think that's individually and collectively…that's what Dogstar is. It's like all of these personal things and then us collectively coming out with this music that would not happen if it wasn't the three of us.

“Individually, none of us would write a Dogstar song, but collectively, with who we are as artists and who we are, when we all come together and start to make music together…the sum of the parts is Dogstar.”

[the-90s-music-colosseum]

Happy Birthday Flea!!! Fun fact/refresher, depending on how insane you are about one of these men, that Flea, Damon Albarn and Tony Allen formed a jam band (Flea laughs at calling it a supergroup) for one album, both entitled Rocket Juice & The Moon.

Rocket Juice’s launch pad was the Albarn-helmed Africa Express touring collaboration; a 2008 Lagos date provided the initial connection between Flea and Allen, and sparked jam sessions with Albarn. These evolved into a full album, with guests including US soulstress Erykah Badu, Malian songbird Fatoumata Diawara, keyboardist Cheick Tidiane Seck, Ghanaian rapper Manifest and Chicago siblings Hypnotic Brass Ensemble.

Flea: ‘Supergroup sounds pretty silly,’ giggles irreverent superstar and intrepid talent Flea. ‘Damon and Tony are two musicians I admired plenty before I worked with them. Damon’s an amazing musician, and his storytelling ability on a song like Poison seems to be in his blood. And Tony, man, he’s just a treasure. He’ll lay down this funky wicked groove and I just want to get into the middle of it. It’s like being freezing, then immersing yourself into a hot bath. (...) ‘The Rocket Juice album was made with no preconceived plan,’ adds Flea. ‘The playing never felt like a means to an end. We totally improvised over a few meetings, left it wild so it feels cosmic and loose. I love to just jam; my life mission is to play music in the moment.’ (...) ‘Damon’s very English, I’m from Hollywood, Tony’s from Nigeria… and our hearts are all in the same place,’ says Flea.

Damon: ‘You blend all of these things into your life; that’s the secret – otherwise you go stark raving mad,’ says Albarn. Despite his laddish Blur persona, he mostly seems happy being a driving force rather than commanding the spotlight: ‘I am part of a lot of things that are converging at the moment. On Rocket Juice, I’m just having a whale of a time in the background, playing, messing around on silly keyboards. It was an amazing meeting of minds with Tony and Flea, and most of these tracks were one-take wonders. We bounced all over the place.’ (...) projects such as Rocket Juice are as liable to draw as much ‘purist’ criticism as they are crossover praise. ‘I’ve always had an inquiring mind; music has been a constant search and battle with myself,’ says Albarn, smiling. ‘And it took me years not to take criticism negatively. It was strange at the Brits (where Blur won the Outstanding Contribution Award this year), being 17 years older than the other participants in the pageant. I remember what it was like originally, and there’s a marked change in my outlook now; over time you learn to create order, and not be afraid of chaos.’

Tony: ‘When Damon calls me, I might not always know what he’s aiming at, but I know it’s not bullshit,’ says Allen, with gruff fondness. The Afrobeat architect’s highly distinctive drum patterns open the Rocket Juice album; Allen was also part of another Albarn outfit, The Good, The Bad & The Queen, and he collaborates on Albarn's opera Dr Dee. ‘He feels like an inseparable music partner,’ he says. (Couldn't find a direct quote from Tony about Flea, but I'm sure the two got on great!)

This is wonderful! I now feel like there's a collaboration or at least friendship between most of our beloved 90s musicians, like you could pick two names at random and they'd have a project together. Creativity and talent everywhere.

[redmusex]

#000: welcome to redmuse

I want to begin by stating the purpose for redmuse. redmuse is meant to be a place for writing, reading, listening, thinking, and problem-solving. It's meant to be a place where I and anyone else who is interested can share the things they feel they can't say through normal channels. This is not so much an exercise meant to emphasize free speech, but rather to make room for the things that don't fit in the rest of the published world. 

redmuse is a name in two parts. Let's take a look at them:

red: the color of blood and the communist left, the color of the Marxist tradition, the slowest color to reach our eyes as the sun sets, the first color distinguished from dark and light

muse: a source of artistic inspiration, to think about something and talk about it in a lackadaisical sort of way, an English arena rock band, my favorite creative magazine from when I was a kid

Back in its heyday, Muse Magazine was a place that combined science, art, psychology, and silly little comics about ancient gods from various pantheons. Its tagline used to be "The Magazine of Life, the Universe, and Pie Throwing". It may not seem like it, but some of what I read in there gave me a glimpse into a world beyond what I understood. An article that I cannot find today but still sticks with me describes the fundamentality of the color red in the human psyche. It described how the word for red was usually the first word to distinguish colors beyond light and dark across languages and cultures. I can't credit this essay for sparking my interest in language that would push me to go on to study other languages, to study literature and begin to write my own poetry. But it does stay with me after all these years to have been so young, probably barely ten years old, and to have read about something so primordial, so basic to the human condition had a profound impact on me. 

As I've gotten older I've also had (and continue to have) a deep foray into history and politics. Whether its been working in groups with a student, community, or Marxist-Leninist character, I've done my best to work with a dialectical materialist outlook, analyzing the given situation bearing in mind all concrete factors to figure out the best path forward. A comrade recently described this to me as always taking the high road towards revolution. Whether its figuring out how to get demands met in an important mass campaign or thinking through the cultural impact of an album or book, I always think of the potential implications of something from the basis of class contradictions and others that are often exploited to further divide the working class, i.e. oppressed nationality, gender, immigration status, ability, etc. 

It's a complicated thing to be called a red. It usually implicated the receiver of such a name with dangerous consequences. Redbaiting or redtagging is a very common phenomenon across the capitalist world, especially in places like the United States where fascist forces rely on stirring up anti-communist sentiment among the backwards and intermediate masses to confuse their ally with their enemy. It's also common in places like the Philippines, where the struggle for national democracy and socialist revolution are particularly intense. Activists in the Philippines whom have found themselves victims of redtagging face serious consequences whether they are a real red or not, including losing their job, being arrested, or even assassinated. 

But to be red is not a bad thing in and of itself. In fact I would argue its one of the most crucial things a person can be in a world of imperialist hegemony. 

There is something to be said for taking on an insulting name with pride. Another such word that has been used against me but also gives me a sense of pride is queer. I've met people who identify as queer, and sometimes I do myself. But I've also met people who have said things like "if you call me queer I'll punch you." I have had that word spat at me in a disgusted way. But I am happy that I am queer. I wouldn't change that part of me for anything. I'm proud to be part of a lineage of people who stood up for themselves when they were pushed around, and that a long tradition of resistance and resilience, not unlike that of the communist movement.

This brings me to the muse half of redmuse. For myself, I find there to be a severe contradiction between my work as an organizer and as a writer, particularly as a poet. While on one hand, periods of political struggle have inspired some of my best poems, the very demanding work of organizing both in communist and non-communist spaces (every good communist knows they must be among the masses of people if they want to have any hope of getting anything done). The organizing I do is a source of inspiration, containing many muses within it. But it also a drain on my physical and mental resources that could go to working on poetry, music, criticism, whatever. Moreover, when you do political work within a communist organization that works from a structure of democratic centralism (which I genuinely believe based on experience is the best method of internal organizations within a communist organization or party), there are some times when you have to "submit the individual to the collective" and prioritize getting the work done over playing at the typewriter. While I have yet to come across a situation like that of Mayakovsky, who said he had to "put a boot on the throat of [his] song" when it came to being an active member of the CPSU, I am expected to share the political line of the organization publicly, even when it goes against my own opinion. This is not to say that democratically centralized organizations do not allow for internal struggle around what the political line of the organization should be. This does not even say that this has ever really happened to me. But in my case, I think having a space in which I can attempt to work through the problems of our class society and culture on my own, drawing my own conclusions. 

Further, this is not to say that doing this "on my own" means I am doing it alone or in a vacuum. As I stated earlier, I come from different traditions that have their own analyses and ways of thinking that have been built upon long before I was born. I can't not be inspired by these traditions as well; they contain their own myriad muses. 

I've spoken a bit about the problems of being in a communist organization and the problems this poses for my writing practice. But the (mostly online) literary community I was a part of at times presented hurdles for my organizing. The scene I was a part of around 2019 on Twitter, largely centered around the now defunct Paintbucket.page, quickly fell apart when it became clear that certain individuals were being racist in their anti-racist poems (really weird that no one, including me, caught on sooner), or grifting one another with the promise of publication, or other abuses I may not have even been aware of. There was no organization, no central task, no agreed-upon mission, just vibes. There was interesting discourse and big group chats and discord servers, but it all fell apart, in my opinion, due to complacency and trust in the wrong people without any way to hold people accountable for literal theft. What were folks supposed to do, call the FBI because their work was stolen and preorders accepted for a book that never came out?

Nonetheless, poetry, particularly the poetry of that scene, was something that drew me closer towards Marxism whether I liked it or not. It gave me permission to say what needed to be said, and while I found myself tailing the work of others for a while, I eventually began to find my own voice as a poet, as a critic, and even as a musician nowadays. 

redmuse is about giving myself (and who knows, maybe others!) a space where art and Marxism can exist in contradiction without being at odds with one another. Some folks I am close to may fear that going it alone like this will drive me away from work within political organizations altogether, but my hypothesis (and my hope) is the opposite. My intention is to bring together the various traditions and lineages I call home, and make a home for all of me on a little corner of the imperialist internet. We'll see how long it lasts.