#Eyedea and abilities

[henricosaysstuff]

r.eye.p

[todayinhiphophistory]

Today in Hip Hop History:

Eyedea & Abilities released their second album E&A March 23, 2004

[itscodebaby]

s w i m m i n g i n t h e p o w d e r e d w a t e r

[laxxvora]

La #SOTD di oggi è di: Eyedea & Abilities, Eyedea, DJ Abilities

La sua vocalità potente e ruvida accompagnata dalle abilit�� di DJ Abilities... [al link] #sotd #laxxvora #eyedea&abilities

“Smile” di Eyedea & Abilities, Eyedea, DJ Abilities dall’album “By The Throat”. Nel 2004, gli artisti Eyedea e DJ Abilities pubblicano il brano “Smile“, un pezzo che miscela hip-hop underground e lo-fi. Questo duo, proveniente da Minneapolis, già dai fine anni ’90 ha approcciato il genere un po attingendo dai Beastie Boys, Eminem e Puff Daddy. Eyedea, all’anagrafe Adam Nussbaum, era un rapper…

[radiophd]

eyedea & abilities -- spin cycle

[todayinhiphophistory]

Today in Hip Hop History:

Eyedea & Abilities released their debut album First Born October 1, 2001

[luce-goose]

🎶✨when u get this, list 5 songs u like to listen to, and publish. then, send this ask to some of your favourite followers- or simply answer this for your own, there's no pressure! (positivity is cool)🎶✨ <3

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BONUS:

[kaidan-z]

[wedriftlikelonelyplanets]

always been so warm and calculated

Fandom: The Raven Cycle Pairing: Rovinsky (Ronan/Kavinsky), Ronsey (Ronan/Gansey) Rating: Mature/explicit Tags: descriptions of murder/death, violence, noncon/dubcon (implied, not explicitly detailed), the inherent eroticism of being covered in blood Word Count: 1512 Author's Note (?): PLEASE NOTE that this is probably not really canon compliant, and I haven't read the books in 7+ years. The characterization of K in this ficlet is not super favourable, please remember that these are all forgeries and not my interpretations of him as a character. Title is from "Burn Fetish" by Eyedea & Abilities

Every forgery comes back wrong. 

Every version of him isn’t quite right, shaped like K, voice like K, but too savagely sharp, too exceedingly soft, or dancing along the edge of not quite him.

Ronan hates himself for knowing K so well, hates that he knows K in his bones. Hates that they were so entwined only to have it lead to this. Only to have it lead to a countless number of forgeries, none of which soothe the hole in his soul. 

He’s brought so many versions back now that it doesn’t surprise him, if he wakes up to one of them panting his own name in his ear, if he wakes up to ice cold fingers trailing down the length of his spine, spanning across the twisting lines of his tattoo, if he wakes up to a hand wrapped around his throat. 

He doesn’t do it on purpose. 

The first time it happens, he’s dreaming of K on top of him, his wide smile dagger sharp, eyes blazing, bright and burning. 

It shouldn’t surprise him that he wakes up with hands on his hips, pinning him into the mattress. K – the forgery, the fake – lets go of him the moment he squirms, and then leans in to sink his teeth into the side of Ronan’s neck. 

He doesn’t remember it all, just remembers the hot words murmured against the shell of his ear. Telling him to stay still, to be a good dog. 

Killing him doesn’t feel good. It feels like muscle memory though, pinning K beneath his body, in the soft sheets of his bed, hand on his throat. 

K laughs. 

His eyes smolder like embers in the dark of Ronan’s room. 

He dies. 

And Ronan feels it like a stain on his soul. 

He doesn’t tell Gansey. He doesn’t tell Adam. He doesn’t tell Blue. Is it really a murder, if he was a forgery in the first place? If he was never real, if he never existed. 

The graveyard of white Mitsubishis seems like a fitting place to bury him, charred out bodies sitting silent, as if waiting for a call back to war. As if waiting for someone to put them back together again. 

He digs the hole, digs it six feet deep, and his hands blister, and his shoulders ache, and then with tenderness, K’s body is lowered in. Could swear he sees K’s lips twitch, a ghost of a smirk on his face, while Ronan covers his body in loose dirt.

He wonders if it even matters, how deep he buries him. Wonders how many versions of Proko Kavinsky had to make before he had the right one come back. Ronan wishes he knew where the graveyard for all of K’s failed experiments is, wonders if it’s beneath the bodies of the charred Evos, or if Kavinsky gave them more reverence than that.

He wonders if K just gave up at some point, at bringing him back perfect, and settled for the closest thing to it. Wonders if he accepted that no version would be the same as the one that he killed. 

The thought is acrid, a taste of smoke in the back of his throat. 

He tosses the shovel in the back of the BMW, leans against the trunk, and tries to avoid the guilt burning in his chest. 

He wasn’t real. 

That’s what Ronan tells himself, with blistered hands wrapped around the wheel, with the rumble of the road beneath the wheels of the BMW, when he crawls back into bed, into the sheets where K died, it’s what he tells himself when he closes his eyes, an image of K imprinted on the back of his eyelids. 

He’s worse, when he wakes up. Stomach churning, digging his teeth into the leather bracelets wrapped around his wrist, twitchy and exhausted. He can see the concern burning in Gansey’s eyes, can see the words on his lips before he says them. 

Turns away before Gansey can open his mouth. Gets in the BMW and drives just to drive. The radio static is the only thing to keep him company, and if he thinks too hard, he swears he can hear the ghost of K’s voice in the radio waves. 

He wonders, idly, if Gansey can see the blood on his hands. Gansey, who never wanted him to kill. Gansey, who wanted his hands clean, Gansey, who looks at him like he’s something to be revered. Like he’s something to be feared. 

It happens again. 

Again. 

Again. 

He loses count of how many times he wakes up with Kavinsky in his bed, wakes up with Kavinsky’s hands on his skin. Loses count of the times he has to kill.

He wonders if this was K’s plan all along. To get Ronan so twisted up in the idea of him, to get Ronan so twisted up in the complicated ache of longing that he wouldn’t have another choice but to dream K back to life. Wonders if K knew that Ronan would never get it right.

Wonders if it was K’s plan all along, to turn him into a murderer. 

He loses track of how many times it happens. 

Loses track of how many times his hands tighten around the narrow line of Kavinsky’s neck. Loses track of how many times his hands twitch for the pocket knife on his nightstand. Loses track of how many times he thinks about dreaming a gun to come back with K. 

But it’s less clean that way. He doesn’t want Gansey to see him covered in blood, wants Gansey to see him covered in blood, wants Gansey to bring him to heel. 

He wakes up with cold hands pushing underneath his shirt, dragging across the line of his chest, a nail flicking across his nipple. Wakes up in a cold sweat, hears K’s voice, mouth shaping around something that sounds like good boy, something that sounds like stay still, something that sounds like we’re the same, you and me. Wakes up with a firm hand around the base of his throat, pinning him to the mattress, K’s eyes fever bright. Wakes up with his hands pinned over his head. 

Wakes up to K’s voice asking Ronan if he’s going to kill him again. 

He doesn’t know how he stops himself from screaming. Doesn’t know how he stops himself from sobbing. 

He bites down, as soon as K tries to kiss him, and K pulls back laughing, savage and bright. There’s blood staining his lips, and Ronan licks across his own lips, copper bursting across his tongue. 

It’s rare that they fight him like this one does. 

It’s frantic, K trying to keep him pinned down, hand around his throat, pressing down. Ronan feels it like a brand, bright and hot. Ronan feels it like it’s heaven, lightheaded and gasping. Ronan feels it like a betrayal, crashing over him like a wave.

It’s automatic, when he’s reaching for the bedside table. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing until his fingers close around the sharp line of the knife.

K’s eyes are bright and burning, mouth curving in a cruel smile as his hands tighten around Ronan’s wrist, around Ronan’s throat. But it’s too little, too late.

Ronan twists his wrist free, K’s hand grasping at nothing, skeletal and slim, as Ronan brings the knife across his throat. 

K dies with a gurgle, dies straddling Ronan’s hips, dies with his blood dripping onto Ronan’s skin, the sharp edges of his body softening as he slumps, lists to the side. 

K dies, and Ronan retches, twists to vomit over the side of the bed, has to stop himself from screaming as K’s limp body slides off of him, slides to the floor with a thud. 

K dies, and Ronan wonders if Gansey heard it all. Wonders if Gansey heard anything. 

He wraps K’s body in bloody sheets, carries the body downstairs, just another forgery tossed in the trunk of his car. Just another burial. 

He can’t make himself believe it though, guilt twists in his stomach, cloying and thick.

He makes it back to Monmouth as the sun’s just starting to rise. 

He makes it back to Monmouth as the sun starts to break across the horizon, sky lighting up with the faintest hints of warm oranges and pinks. Makes it back, and wonders if this is the last time. 

He flexes his hand around the doorknob as he pushes his way inside, and feels the dried blood crack across his palms. Wonders if he’s still dripping with it, if he still looks feral. 

Gansey’s up and waiting for him, the look on his face blazing, and it reminds Ronan of Gansey at the substance party. Sharp and beautiful. 

“What do you need, Ronan?” he asks, takes one step forward, and then another, and then reaches out, hand cupping Ronan’s cheek, sweeping his thumb across the fragile curve of his cheekbone. 

“What do you need from me?”

Ronan hears it for what it is. 

What is it my dog needs?