#ears&eyes records

[donospl]

Co w jazzie piszczy [sezon 2 odcinek 1]

premierowa emisja 3 stycznia 2024 – 18:00 Graliśmy: François Houle & Charlotte Hug “Cuculo” z albumu “Voci Volante” – Afterday Audio SAN – Satoko Fujii, Taiko Saito, Yuko Oshima “Wa” – z albumu „Hibiki” – Jazzdor Series Sunny Kim, Vardan Ovsepian, Ben Monder “ Yerkinqn Ampele” z albumu “Liminal Silence” – Earshift Music Ray Anderson and Bobby Previte “Austerity” z albumu “Double Trouble” –…

[sillysowa]

SEXTAPE

PAIRING: HOBIE BROWN X FEM!READER

GENRE: SMUT, STARTS OFF PRETTY CUTE BUT GETS KINKY

WORD COUNT: 1.1K

WARNINGS: PERVY HOBIE, VAGINAL FINGERING, BITING, SLIGHT DEGRADATION(?), HOBIE FINGERS YOU WHILE YOU PLAY GUITAR, RECORDING SEX

AUTHORS NOTE: I LOVE THIS SONG AND I FULLY KNOW ITS NOT DIRTY, BUT ITS MY INSPIRATION. (‘TING’ IS JUST SLANG FOR THING!)

SYNOPSIS: HOBIE JUST CANT GET ENOUGH OF HIS GIRL PLAYING HER GUITAR

—

Your amateur fingers danced over your electric guitar, a messier version of Sextape by Deftones ringing out in your empty room. Your amp blinked, your room was freezing, and you found yourself growing more comfortable with the beginning riff. This song was important to you—Hobie having introduced it to you on your first date when he drove you home. It was late, and you were tired, but the song left a mark on you.

The window was open like it always was, awaiting your lover boy. Hobie was at Headquarters for god knows what reason, and he had been gone very long now. You had no way of knowing when he’d be home, busting yourself with your new hobby. It was strange and it was difficult, but when you got it, it sounded beautiful.

Hobie had had an exhausting day, wishing he could be home with you the whole time he was at HQ, but understanding the need for his help. Finally, he was out of there, walking back into London through a portal and sighing in relief. He was standing on the side of your apartment building with his hands in his pockets, walking up the wall and pausing when he heard you cursing,

“Shit, No! I just had it are you kidding?” You grunted, awkwardly adjusting your fingers for the chord you were desperately trying to perfect. Hobie’s ears pricked up, the sound instantly earning his undivided attention as he crouched outside your window, head peeking in just enough to not catch your attention but to give him a good view of you.

To you, you looked a mess. To Hobie, you looked like something straight out of a wet dream—your hair was out of your face, (whether that’s with a bonnet, hair tie, or whatever works for you!) and you were in just your underwear and a tank top. Your guitar was on your lap, and the frustration in your face went straight to his dick. Hobie couldn’t help it, you just looked so ravishing when you were upset.

You were in the middle of the chorus when your boyfriend Hobie makes his arrival through your window, but you don’t jump, you’re used to it by now.

“Hobie, I was beginning to think you’d be gone all ni-“ You start, beginning to take your guitar sling off when Hobies large hands outstretch towards you, palms up,

“Wait-wait-wait! I wanna hear! Don’t wanna miss the show.” He smirks, backing away when you reposition your guitar with a slight eye roll. Hobie just laughs at you as he gets changed,

“It’s really not any good so far, Hobie, and i’ll probably mess up if you’re watching.” You whine, not exactly interested in embarrassing yourself in front of your experienced boyfriend.

“Hey don’t even start with all that, you’re doing great, luv, and I wanna hear the progress.” Hobie quips, a finger pointed towards you as he nears the bed. You’re surprised when Hobie gets real close next to you and then ushers you to scoot forward a bit, then it clicks,

“Hobie-“

“What?” He says, feigning innocence as he invites you to sit with your back to his chest, his legs spread to give you room. You sigh when you realize he won’t let you not do this, positioning yourself,

“You’re such a perv, Hobie.”

“Yeah and you love it.” He smirks, pulling you real close.

You position your fingers on the neck of the guitar, momentarily forgetting what song you were playing. You feel Hobie’s hands on your thighs, and you try to focus. The songs starts. It’s surprisingly steady sounding, and the strings aren’t buzzing like earlier.

“That’s it, good job.” Hobies deep voice rumbles behind you, almost causing you to lose track. You’re playing the song as best as possible, shifting slightly, completely unaware of the effect it was having on Hobie. You feel his fingers creep down to your covered slit, and you pause,

“Hobie?” You question with a slight tilt of your head only for him to grab your chin and face you forward again, hushing you,

“Keep playing.” His voice instantly silences you, and you follow his command, fingers dancing across the strings and continuing the song. You shiver as he starts to rub your clit through your panties, praising you when you do well, giving you tips when you mess up.

A chill trickles down your spine as Hobie moves your underwear to the side, spitting on his fingers before he slowly pushes two into you,

“Ngh~ Hobie! I-I can’t by play like this!” You moans and squirm, only resulting in a toothy grin to take over his features,

“Sure ya can, sweetheart. Just focus f’me.” Hobie reassures you, his voice deep and raspy. He starts to steadily pump his long fingers in and out of your cunt, which is being embarrassingly loud while you play.

“Mmm~ Ha~ Hobie~!” You moan, struggling to keep playing as he speeds up. The feeling of his fingers curling into that soft spot inside you drives you crazy, and you struggle,

“Finish the beautiful song for me love, I know you can.” Hobie whispers in your ear, kissing your neck and making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straight. He fingers you so fast you see stars, and you don’t even realize what you’re saying anymore, moaning anything and everything that you feel. Hobie whispers in your ear the whole time,

“Oh you poor ting can’t even play anymore, feels that good yeah?” He chuckles, picking up speed when he feels your walls clenching around him. Your guitar is long forgotten, Hobie fingering you to your release like it’s a sport to him. When your back arches and you cum, Hobie leaves small bites on your neck and sucks hickeys all over, boner throbbing against your back as he whimpers at the sounds of your pleasure.

“Good girl baby, good girl.” He grunted, pulling his fingers out of your pussy while you whine, then tapping them on your lips, “Clean em up dollface.” He groans, cock hard against you as you suck his fingers into your mouth, swirling your tongue over them. When he pulls them out, he pulls your guitar over your head and web shoots it onto the wall, mounting it. Hobie grabs your neck, his jewelry clanging in the process as he gets up on his knees. He frees his cock and bends you over, your ass up and head down while you grip the sheets, incredibly flustered and shy from his sudden horniness. Suddenly, Hobie pulls your neck back and his phone is right in front of you. He records your expression when he thrusts into you, both of you moaning loudly before Hobie grunts,

“Smile for the camera, luv.”

[shares-a-vest]

Prompt: Family Heirloom and Starry Night (Discord Drabble) Two prompts in 24hrs, the drabblers are spoiled today. It's Lex's birthday! @thefreakandthehair I'm so sorry that my Frankenstien prompt for your b'day is also Steve Sad Boy™ hours. But it has a light-hearted end!!! 🏈🏈🏈 tw: death of a grandparent (way in the past)

"Why would mom mail this to me?" Steve finally mutters from his position at the kitchen bench.

Eddie shimmies upright on the couch and rubs at his eyes, long glazed over from forcing himself to pretend to pay attention to tonight's game. He'd flipped it over a good half an hour ago as the space he had given Steve started to linger on a little too long for his liking.

He just wasn't supposed to almost fall asleep while waiting for Steve to join and watch his favourite team win all those... points? touchdowns?

It doesn't matter nearly as much as the package that was delivered late in the afternoon – one that has left Steve glued to his kitchen stool.

A heavy but small and thin box with 'FRAGILE' and 'DO NOT BEND' emblazoned all over it, the red warnings leaving just enough space for their address and the return label.

Steve has opened it, Eddie realises, looking over his partner's impossibly hunched shoulders when he reaches him.

"I don't remember ever seeing that in your house, sweetheart," he says, standing close and snaking his arms around Steve's middle.

He frowns at the small framed print of Vincent Van Gough's Starry Night painting and rests his chin on Steve's shoulder.

"Mom hated it," Steve explains, "Refused to hang it anywhere in the house after my Grandpa passed. He left it to her."

Eddie hums in the affirmative.

The gold and gaudy frame doesn't exactly scream Mrs Harrington's taste in decor...

"Should I call her?" Steve rasps, setting the print down to pinch his nose, "What if something's wrong and that's why she is sending it to me?"

Eddie can feel his lip quivering.

"Maybe we should talk first, hmm?" he suggests, giving Steve a reassuring squeeze.

"Or..." Steve continues, his tone becoming bitter, "She's sending it now to make it official. That I'm no longer..."

He cuts himself off with a shaky exhale and looks around their relatively new (but technically very old and rundown) apartment. A quiet little spot in Indy they'd scored without too much searching.

One that they soon filled with their records and clothes, Eddie's amp and guitar and Steve's old trophies. Too many knickknacks they'd thrifted with the help of Robin and a lot of second-hand furniture Wayne found.

An apartment they are still in the process of making their own as they work themselves out together.

Their place in the world. Their home.

Eddie looks over to a patch of blank wall by the phone.

A spot that could use something...

"Do you like it, the painting?" he whispers, pressing a kiss to Steve's ear.

Steve grips the frame, his knuckles quickly turning white as he tenses up. He nods his head vigorously and sniffles.

"My grandpa..."

"Starry, starry night," Eddie sings low, "Paint your palette blue and grey..."

He reaches out to place his hands over Steve's and feels them relax in his touch.

"Look out on a summer's day..." Steve continues wetly, "Yeah..."

He sighs and closes his eyes, shifting his weight back onto Eddie.

"Looks like a pretty good heirloom to me," he says, swaying them just enough to leave Steve humming contentedly without threatening his position on the rickety kitchen stool.

Eddie continues humming the song, a favourite of Wayne's that he only ever passively listened to enough to pick up on the opening line and tune.

"Wanna watch the game with me?" he asks, nodding back to the television as he finishes the song.

Steve giggles, his shoulders gradually shaking them both.

"Baby, I watched that game two Sundays ago."

"But it's your favourite," Eddie argues, jostling their conjoined form, "The Cubs!"

"Eds, that's baseball!"

[ghulehthezombiequeen]

Here kitty kitty - Sodo x reader

masterlist.

author's note: i felt bad after dropping three angst fics and then disappearing into the void so have some wholesome sodo 🫶

also i have a headcanon that all the ghouls purr whenever someone pets/scratches their sweet spots and they just melt in your arms and its just so absjdifhfbdbdjsjak i'm in love

other things to note: no pronouns used for reader, sodo gets kinda subby so if you squint there's a bit of suggestive tones (you'll have to squint so hard you can't see though)

word count: 877

“Hey, is it true that ghoul biology is similar to a cat’s?” You asked curiously, looking up from the book you were studying. You and Sodo were in the rehearsal room; Sodo was sitting down on an amp, practicing his solos for the recording of an upcoming album, and he wanted to get it down perfectly. You were just there because you didn’t want him to be lonely. “Um, yeah, why?” Sodo asked, keeping his eyes on his guitar. 

“Well, I’m just studying for my test, and… it says that to earn bonus points on the test, if I’m able to, I have to… um… make a ghoul purr.” You felt your cheeks burn as the words rolled off your tongue, and Sodo stopped playing abruptly. He stared up at you, trying to decipher if you were being serious or not. 

“…You what?” 

“It says only if I’m able to!” You defended yourself.  “Wait, wait, wait… let me get this straight.” Sodo uncrossed his legs, putting his guitar to the side gently. He then looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “You’re asking me… to help you get bonus points on a test… and you have to make me… purr?” He grimaced. 

“Um… yeah. That- that’s what the book says, anyway.” 

“Also, remind me why are you even taking that ghoul biology class? You’re not even a ghoul!” He frowned. 

You rolled your eyes and sighed. “Papa Secondo says that it’s good for a Sibling of Sin to memorize the biology of a ghoul inside and out just in case a ritual goes wrong and someone gets hurt. And it’s a required class for me to take before I take his Latin class.” 

“….Alright, that does seem like a valid point. Alright,” He sighed, folding his arms and standing up, walking over to the couch you were sitting on and looked down at you. “I’ll help you. But only because I know how cranky Papa Secondo can get.” 

You gave him a cheeky grin. “Wait, really?! Oh my gosh, thank you thank you thank you!” You jumped up and excitedly gave him a hug. You thought you were going to have to ask Rain or Mountain to help you, which would probably take longer considering their schedules were filled to the brim with activities. 

“Yeah yeah yeah, alright, okay, get off.” He grumbled, blushing as he automatically put his hands on your waist. He’d never admit it, but he loved hugs. 

“Sorry, sorry.” You giggled, pulling away. 

“Alright, so what do I have to do?” He sighed. He looked like he was already over it, although it had barely started. 

“Here, sit next to me.” You beckoned, and he sat to your left. You glanced at your book, reading the common sweet spots to scratch. “Alright, let’s try… the ears.” 

Your hand slowly went behind his ears, your nails gently scratching the soft fluff, making them twitch at first but stilled as you continued. Sodo let out a small hiss, not expecting the sudden stimulation there. His fangs started to poke out of his lips. 

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” You asked as you stopped scratching once he hissed.  “No… you’re fine. I just- wasn’t expecting it to feel like that.” He mumbled. 

“M’kay.” You continued scratching behind his ears, which flickered down then stilled. You felt a low vibration begin, and your eyes wandered to Sodo’s eyes, which were closed tight. “M…m…mrr….” He grumbled, causing you to laugh.  “Aw, this feels good, doesn’t it?” You asked, and he nodded vigorously. You glanced over his shoulder at the open book, reading that another sensitive spot was the top of their heads and their chins. You opted for his chin, bringing your other hand to rub his soft jawline.  “Mmm… Mrrrr… mrow… ah..” Sodo’s eyes widened as his mewls grew louder, his cheeks turning red. You bit your lip to hold back another giggle, but you couldn’t contain the smirk on your face. 

“Mrrrow…. Ah- hey! D-Don’t…. Mrow… Don’t laugh at me….” He growled, but it morphed into a purr, causing your giggles to spill out of your mouth.  “Awww, you’re so cute! Are you a good kitty? Yeah?” You cooed, continuing to scratch his chin and now the top of his head where his scalp was. When you moved your hand to the new area, his tail flicked against the back of the couch, hard. It then started wagging, tapping against the soft pillow behind him. 

He started purring like crazy, nodding vigorously at your question. “Mrow… y-yes, yes…. I’m good.. I’m a g-good kitty…” 

He started to curl up closer to you, his leg already on your lap. You scooped him up in your arms so that he was curled safely on your lap, continuing to scratch and pet him. 

You had sneakily pulled out your phone and snapped a few photos of Sodo in your lap, as he never usually acted like this. He hissed as he saw you put your phone back, to which you replied with a giggle, “Photo evidence. It’s what the book says.” 

He grumbled something incoherent but kept mewing and purring. 

As you reveled in this moment, you remembered: you’ll have to do this again for the end of the year-review test. 

[shini--chan]

Hello there! Can I request a yandere light yagami blackmailing a smart classmate into working as assistance in his ministration and falling for her or a yandere karasuma falling for a normal female teacher of class E? Thank you and have a good day regardless!

Of course you may, and both ideas will be addressed. 

Yandere Light Yagami - The Tree of Insight

What a wondrous day it had been, thinking that you had gone mad. The worst part of it was that that monster had taken the greatest pleasure in taunting, floating above you and quipping and giggling the longer the hours drew by. Not even covering your ears had blocked out the rasping voice, as it had mused that you were awfully particular for a mortal. 

When you got back home, you would go through your family's medical records to see if schizophrenia infected one of the branches - that might explain the hallucinations then.

Ryuk, or that was at least what he called himself, bobbed up and down as he floated to your side. The other students that were walking up and down the road didn't bother him, as he simply fazed right through them. Suddenly, the apparition flew sideways, and out of reflex, you imitated the apparition out of reflex. 

"Keep going that way, kid. You have somebody waitin' for ya", the raspy voice of that… thing, said loud and clear. As fried as your nerves were, you were tempted to lash out, to disobey out of petulance. Today had been a rough day, and it had been reflected in your demeanour.

Your peers had constantly been casting worried glances your way, and even a teacher had pulled you aside to inquire if everything was alright. As touching as you would have normally found it, it had just been annoying and had exacerbated your mounting irritation. By the end of the school day, you had just wanted to be left alone. Maybe that's why you solemnly followed the floating clown’s instructions - yelling out loud would just make you appear mad, and you were also curious to where heeding the directions would lead to. 

There really was somebody waiting for you - a little to the side of the road, at the  edge of the park that was directly next to the school, was Light Yagami. Now that was strange - he normally went home with his friends. Then again, he had been acting weird for the past few weeks, his slightly standoffish nature being amped up to 11. 

As you approached him, he lowered the book that he had been reading, and raised a questioning eyebrow. All of this seemed like a bad idea. Then, the monster ripped the book out of the boy’s hands and added: “Not act so oblivious. You’re gonna get nowhere by playing coy now, kid”. 

Light shot it a baleful look. “Getting bored already, Ryuk?”, he asked slightly. Brown eyes focused on you the entire time, gouging your reactions. Before this conversation could continue without you, you butted in:

“You can see him too, Light? What is your connection to this … thing?”

It was comforting that you weren’t seeing things that weren’t really there, but on the flip side it meant that more sinister things were afoot. Judging from the plotting expression on your classmates face, he surely wouldn’t disappoint when it came to the latter. 

“Ryuk here is a shinigami, and before you ask, he’ll be in your life a while longer. How, that is up to you to decide.”

Why was he being so unusual to the point? Though, his statement did imply that he had a measure of control over this shinigami. An interesting tidbit that you would dwell and muse over in the future. 

“And why that? What do you want from me?”, you asked.

At your sides, your hands balled into fists, with your nails digging into the tender skin of your palms. With each passing second, this situation was becoming worse. While you were quick on your feet, both mentally and physically, the matter at hand was devolving too fast for you to keep up well. There was no chance of you darting a few steps ahead and taking control, and that was probably intended by Light.

“You truly are a delight. It is wonderful to converse with somebody that can keep up so well. In other circumstances, I would have to spoon feed the whole matter bit by bit”, Light mused, his eyes crinkling in a strangely genuine smile. “What I mean, is you either work for me, or I’ll have Ryuk haunt you until your sanity slips.”

Your heart pounded in your ears upon his words. Turning your head slightly, you stared at the shinigami, at those wide bulging eyes, at that too slim face and the staples at the collar. Today has been hell in its own way, with that spirit dogging your every step, holding its one-sided conversation and making life just difficult in general. Since it could interact with the physical world, as it had just demonstrated a few moments ago, which meant it could even drive you to madness. Today just had been a foretaste, and the demon had been holding back. 

This was too much, too fast. As it was, you were tired, and frustrated and disappearing to go live in the middle of nowhere sounded very attractive right now. What other choice did you have but to give in? 

As indicated above, Light would put you in a position where you wouldn’t be operating at full mental capacity and offer you a deal that you can’t refuse. Since there would be many roads to Rome, in this case, he wouldn’t resort to threatening you with the Death Note. If anything, with L tailing him, having you suddenly die or report him as Kira and then die would be very suspicious and make things more complicated than needed. So he would blackmail you the old fashion way, or use Ryuk to some capacity. 

Next to his feelings for you, having you at his side would serve another purpose - you would act in his stead should he be incapacitated. With two people on the job, the whole thing would go even faster, and give the appearance of an organisation to L. Asides, while Light is arrogant and under a lot of scrutiny and thus makes mistakes, you wouldn’t be, or at least not to the extent that Light is. 

Perhaps he’ll even draw you to his side, and make you see things his way. In that case, it would eradicate some of the fears that he would have about you acting against him. Also, with you looking at the other woman in Light’s life, like Misa, you would come to the conclusion that being the goddess of the new world wouldn’t be a really good position to be in. Best stay the secretary. 

Yandere Tadaomi Karasuma - Normie 

Karasuma would be drawn to you exactly because you are normal. You are no government agent or super spy or assassin-in-training. You are just a normal person, caught up in something far too big for you to handle; way out of your depth in many ways. To him, you would represent an opportunity to just switch off from all the official business for a few hours, touch grass and all that jazz. But because you are worlds apart in many a sense, he would start to dig his claws in you. 

Through the whole experience with Koro-sensei, you would be forced into a world where you would have to hit the ground running, and learn fast. Though you’d probably never be on the level where you would be able to go toe-to-toe with any of the special staff, or even the students for that matter, you would still have to be aware of the basics. With that, two things would become a reality - you would gain an understanding of all the spy and agent shenanigans, and therefore would understand Karasuma when he would complain about his day to you. Secondly, it would probably be him that reached out to you to help you with the situation, and thus a bond would form. 

At first, he would tell himself that he would have to be more privy to your daily going-ons for security reasons. If anything, you would be the weak link in the chain, and he would have to make sure that you don’t spill the tea or become a chess piece of third parties. Then, he would convince himself that he would have to spend so much time for you to ensure that you don’t have a mental breakdown. The whole situation would be never stressful in any case, and the last thing that would be needed would be for a normal staff member to become out of commision. 

These would all be excuses and justifications that he would formulate to distract himself from his own feelings for you, and why he is spending so much time with you. This problem would just be exacerbated by the fact that the octopus would ship the two of you - hard. It might even be that, that would force him to acknowledge his own feelings to you. 

With the pressure of the world ending, the secrecy and his own disposition, the agent would find himself spending an unnatural amount of time with you. Since he’d be one of the very few that would be in the know about the whole situation, you would find yourself embracing it - to a certain extent. Beyond a certain point, he would start spending too much time with you, maybe even going so far as to make you move in with him. All your concerns and protests would be waved away due to “security concerns” and the like. 

Due to that exact reasoning, he would do background checks on your family and friends, and start dictating who you can see and not. When the attacks on the school would start, this point would become all the more relevant. All that would make his protectiveness over you increase. The worst part of it would be that you wouldn’t be able to do a lot against him, since he would have the power and the skills to control your life and make all his arguments seem plausible to third parties.

[thewriterg]

𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐲𝐥

pairing(s); miles morales x gn!reader, can be read as civilian earth 42 miles or 1610 miles

summary; When you entered your second home the last thing you expected to do it to share a vinyl with a less fortunate boy —flufftober day;6–

word count; 1.1k+

warning(s); strangers to friends to whatever your head comes up with, useless backstory, fluff, and language

playlist; dark red by steve lacey

A/n:—GIFs; @mo0nfairy & @merakyn— when I say… I barely, BARELY was able to finish this

The aura of your sacred space called out your name as you stepped from of the train out into the subway the cool air more intense underground before you made you way up the stairs up into the streets of manhattan after two hour with a delayed ride you were on you way to your escape earbuds plugged into your ear an umbrella in your hold as it drizzled the sky cloudy and the streets cold You felt your feet your take you the old rundown beat path before you were at the place where you could spend hours on end

The record shop

You swung the door open the familiar bell greeting a shoegaze playlist calmly spilling through the overhead speakers the bass going ideal with the weather outside and the festive mood as the days progressed deeper into October when the blazing hot heat was in its ending days until the year prior and cool winds took over over for the rest of time being

“Hey stranger” The familiar mellow voice called out to you as you turned your gaze to look at one of your second self Xavier who worked in the shop along with the store owner Alphfred an older man who originally bought the space with his wife whom he ran the establishment with the place was huge in the 90s and early 2000s selling select music equipment, records, and CDs but like every business it had a dry patch and almost closed down around the 2010s when ipods became popular but like everything, they begin to make a come back and business slowly picked up

This time around the only missing part was Lillith, Alphfred's wife who passed a year prior from breast cancer with the man not getting any younger than he was currently was he reluctantly had to hire help which in conclusion got you Xavier his lanky yet slouched figure standing before you blue eyes steering through the smoky black and gray eyeshadow around them, a black beanie over his blonde neck length hair

“It's been two weeks, please tell me you saved me one” You playfully rolled your eyes before wrapping your arms around the boy a pout in you voice that he could picture without having to look at you

“Yea which is like two life times for you, and you know I did even if you don't deserve it” You pulled away with a small squeal and a few jumps in you spot and now it was his turn to roll his eyes before going behind the register counter unlocking a cabinet grabbing the record putting it behind his back as he approached you again before bringing it in your line of sight

“Oh my god I could kiss you” You whispered while letting out a breath approaching the limited addition Steve Lacey record that you’d been waiting on forever there was only a hundred made and yet you had it in your possession you let your hands pick it up from Xaviers hold missing the sarcastic mumble that fell from his lips

“Please save me the romantics”

“Where's the old man?” You called out to the blonde not taking your eyes off the music containing disk who went to go take a seat behind the counter who hummed before responding untangling the wires of his headphones carefully

“Went out, not gonna be back until around six” You unintentionally mimicked his response calling back with a hum deciding you would wait until then since it was already almost three you made your way to your favorite spot of the shop the dark rocking chair in the corner you controlled the sound of the speakers on the wall next to it after carefully unwrapping the vinyl and putting it on the platter turning the headshell to sit on the disk before amping up the volume letting the tune take over the store and you swore you could've heard Xavier mumble about how tedious it was to watch

Sitting down on the “old hunk as wood” as Alphred called it yet you noticed how he never through it out you took out a book you were reading from the tote bag slung over your shoulder starting from where you last left off letting the atmosphere push through your nerve of senses clouding them all together

When you heard the bell ring throughout the store you expected to see Alphred to walk through the door not the soaked, lean, afro latino boy you currently were viewing who you could tell was a bit of a way from home not as if you weren't yourself assuming it was just another cute customer you mentally let Xavier handle it before going back to your book not getting very far before you were interrupted

“Excuse me, do you have any more Limited Lacey records left?” Your attention averted from you page to chocolate eyed boy who seemingly pleaded with you to agree with as he nodded towards the record player the vinyl spinning around the beginning of dark red playing through the speaker and you looked at him with sympathy before responding

“I know how it feels, im sorry” And you truly did even if it sounded dramatic there truly was a gut wrenching feeling when you were just a split second too late or when the person in front of you just got the last one just for it to end up in a thrift store a few months later it had happened to you more than once

“I take it you're not from here?” You questioned gently trying to uplift the visibly down boy you gaze averting to Xavier for a split second who was smirking at you like the cheshire cat before you turning back to soft going boy

“Yeah came here for a convention with a few friends from Brooklyn, record slipped my mind” He sighed visibly defeated and before you could think of the words they were already spewing from your mouth

“You could borrow mine sometime” You offered and mentally cursed yourself while watching the brunette eyes light up like a kid on Christmas

“You would do that? I could pay you!” He questioned hope prominent in voice as you nodded finally standing up from your chair noticing how Xavier was now nowhere to be found as your eyes scanned through the store

“You wouldn't need to do that, don't kick a man when he's down and that sort of thing” You reassured a close mouth smile thrown his way as you took a few steps past him your shoes placing on the floor

“I-Im Miles by the way” The brown haired boy called out ad you turned to face him as he forced his mouth from going agape as he stared raking his eyes over your features

“Nice to meet you Miles”

©2023 thewriterg spooktober do not copy, translate, or modify.

[oh-stars]

Faulty Tunes

Love is tolerating your partner’s terrible singing.

a @steddielovemonth prompt | 570 words | CW: briefly mentioned sick character | Rating: G

--

Everyone assumes Eddie can sing. They see him jamming in the car, rocking air-guitars at red lights and in the passenger seat whenever Steve drives. He’s always screaming at concerts, shouting along to the lyrics with the crowd and dancing until his body’s ready to give out. He slings his guitar around, can play any melody with only one listen, and could probably learn any instrument in record time if he actually tried. 

The thing is, he can’t.

Eddie doesn’t try to hide it, either, Steve finds. Sure, he doesn’t sing with the band and the few times he’s “sung” around Steve and friends, Eddie was mostly talking the words to the melody. And Steve can tell he likes to sing, can see him mouthing the words while he works around the house with his Walkman, bobbing his head as he sings into a soapy spoon. 

It’s absolutely adorable. 

So when Steve’s sitting in the passenger seat as Eddie drives them to their favorite date place, he’s giddy with excitement as Eddie sings to his heart’s content – scratchy, off-key voice and all. It’s a song Steve knows, too, one he learned for Eddie to impress him when he was trying to convince Eddie he did really, for real, like him. And when he starts to sing along, Eddie’s face gets brighter and the music gets turned up even higher. 

Even if he doesn’t claim to have a good singing voice nor is he outwardly ashamed, it still takes some encouragement to get Eddie to sing when there isn’t a backing track of another artist in the background. 

Steve’s laying on Eddie’s bed, stomach roiling with nausea from a bad case of the flu the kids brought home from school. Eddie’s already recovered from it, doting on Steve as tenderly as Steve had for him last week. He’s curled up, hugging Eddie’s pillow and watching him work at his desk with big, watery eyes. 

He sniffles and mumbles, “Eds?” 

Eddie glances up from his guitar, pencil in his mouth and notebook in front of him. “Yes, baby?” 

“Will you play for me?” Steve asks, blinking at him with what he hopes are his best puppy eyes. He’s sick, so that’s an extra bonus point in his favor. “I want to hear what you’re working on.” 

“Are you sure? It’s not that great yet–” ‘ 

“Please?” 

Eddie sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Fine. But don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.” 

It takes a few minutes for Eddie to get comfortable and to read through his freshly written lyrics, but once he does, Steve relaxes into the mattress. The guitar is super soft, not plugged into the amp like it usually is because Steve’s prone to headaches on a good day, much less a sick day, so all Steve can hear with his clogged ears is Eddie. 

He sings the ballad like a whisper, voice breaking and pitching in weird places as he follows the melody or mock screams where Jeff and Frank will inevitably take their stylistic liberties later.  

Eddie may not have the best voice, certainly won’t be getting a record deal from it, but he’s Steve’s favorite singer by far. 

When he finishes, Steve asks for another and another until he falls asleep to the warm lullabies of his love. The last thing he remembers before he falls into a deep sleep is Eddie kissing his temple. 

--

Thank you @lady-lostmind for beta reading!

Ao3 Link

[raytorosaurus]

I could never say this publically but I think wttbp is somewhat overplayed and overhyped. It's a fun song but compared to other mcr anthems it's too perfected and sanitised imo? I can't deny that it's still so much fun live, but it's a skip on a normal listen.

disclaimer. taste is subjective and i respect that and celebrate diverse opinions in our little fandom o7 you do you king.

however.

you're breaking my heart you're breaking my fucking heart....in what way is wttbp perfected or sanitised compared to INOK.........there are a billion things going on at any given second, every time you listen you can pick out something new going on in the background.........the guitar solo in the final studio version was recorded in a hotel room on ray's shitty practice amp when he was rehearsing before tracking and it was never meant to be used but it ended up being their favourite take (bc ray kept fucking up the last day in the studio bc he "didn't want it to be over") so they put it in.........and it shows like that whole solo section..if you listen closely you can hear the metronome behind the opening piano notes bc again i think it was only meant to be a demo but they liked it...........their family members are featured on it................if it sounds perfected that's because it IS PERFECT IN ITS INSANITY. it's not overplayed and overhyped, if anything it's UNDERhyped because it's played so much.

genuinely take a step back and listen with fresh ears.....open ur heart and let it get crushed like an empty coke can by the Music......listen to the instrumental version with your eyes closed. let it take you on a journey and tell me you don't feel fundamentally changed as a person, moved by something larger than human comprehension. tell me you aren't breathless with amazement at what music can do. we literally need to denormalise the black parade y'all are forgetting how LUCKY we are to have her.

anyway if any mcr song is overrated it's inok ✌️

[inknopewetrust]

Electric Music

Summary: Eddie kept his walls fortified strongly, but when he wants to know your favorite song, he makes concessions to get you there.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Warnings: language, sexual situations (non-explicit), the title is a hint to the song I chose.

Quick Links: Masterlist

"Why do you hang it there?"

He slammed the door to his bedroom closed with his bare foot. Two hands occupied with beers and a bag of pretzels, a cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth as his pants were hastily thrown on and the belt buckle rattled lightly.

"Hang what where?"

“The guitar,” Eddie sat down at the edge of the bed, cracking open one of the beers—a much undesired Pabst Blue Ribbon—and handed it to you, “why is it on the mirror like that? So you can always see it?”

You hid your teasing smile behind the lip of the can.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with it if that’s the reason but… you do call the thing ‘sweetheart.’”

“Jealous or somethin’?” He asked as he ripped open the bag of pretzels and fell back against the wall that rested behind his mattress. Eddie was looking at the guitar when he offered you the bag, letting it tilt in your direction. The cigarette in his hand barely burning into the bag.

“Well I don’t know… does she get offered beer and pretzels too?”

Eddie shook his head, taking back the bag after you grabbed a handful. “Nah,” he shoved one into his mouth, “that’s just for my special girls.”

Girls. Plural. Did he mean that intentionally?

It always felt as though he was running. Even in the most intimate of situations.

“Oof,” you winced for the guitar, not letting the sting of his words get to you, “did you hear that Lady in Red?” He didn’t give a name to the guitar but you sure as hell weren’t going to call it sweetheart.

It had some red bolts that refracted off the light, so Lady in Red it was.

You took a drink of the beer and put it down on the floor. Eddie never bothered to have a headboard, he never bothered to buy a frame for the bed. The room was messy yet it was completely him. Records misplaced, random D&D object scattered around, unplugged amps, and a closet overflowing with things as the door hung off by its hinges.

Eddie took a drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke into the room before getting up again and walking toward the mirror.

There was one light on just beside the dresser. It illuminated the room in a yellow glimmer, shining off of the red lighting bolts and a fantastical shimmer reflected from it. He looked at it quizzically, as if he were studying it.

“What?“ You questioned as he continued to stand there letting the cigarette burn further and further down; the red butt glowing periodically. “Did she—“

“Shh,” Eddie nearly yelled but it came out as a loud whisper, “she’s talking.”

“Oh, fuck off,” You picked up your beer again, readjusting the sheet you covered up with as it slipped.

“What?” He repeated you purposefully, “don’t you hear what she’s saying?” He leaned over, pulling his hair to the side and putting his ear close to the guitar. “You’ll never believe what she said.”

“After all she’s seen? I don’t wanna know,” you rolled your eyes, watching him play into your initial joke with ease and a small smile quirked up on his lips.

“She said next time we have to turn off the lights. The sights have burned her eyes.”

“Well if her eyes are burned out maybe she just needs ear plugs then, huh?” You tipped your head to the side, watching him work out the logic.

“She said ‘agreed!’“ Then he plucked the guitar off its hook.

“I’ve never played for you, have I?”

He was sincere. Eddie had never played for you, no. But you had seen him perform before—every year actually. Corroded Coffin always performed at the annual Battle of the Bands and for three years they landed in third place when they truly should have won. All the guys in the band were great, brilliant even. But the people who had organized the event always grew skeptical when they strummed the first chord.

You shook your head, putting the beer back on the floor and pulling one of your legs toward your body while they other one stretched under the sheet. Eddie loved the way you looked wrapped up in his sheets, glistening with a sheen and now-lax position. The smell you left on there. Perfume, shampoo, a natural sweat—the resulting stains he never wanted to wash out.

You made concessions when it came to his cleanliness.

“I don’t think so, no.”

He considered the guitar for a moment as he held it in his hand. Feeling the tough strings beneath his fingers, the weight of it tugging on his arm. It was sacred yet personable; a familiar love and extension of comfort.

“What’s your favorite song?” He asked, looking at you with his big brown eyes and expecting a generic answer. Maybe something by Fleetwood Mac, Journey… he could see you finding a way to listen to ABBA even if the 70’s were part of the not-so-distant-past.

You chuckled nervously—different than what he had anticipated. You ran a hand over your neck and he caught a glimpse of the hickies he had just sucked onto it—still nice and red and not yet turned.

“I don’t have one,” you replied sheepishly.

“Come on… everyone’s got a favorite song,” Eddie lamented, watching as your eyes lingered on him; trailing and keeping a keen eye on every part of him.

The way his fingers gripped the guitar, the slight strain on the muscle in his forearm, the tattoos that had slowly grown in quantity over the last year, and the happy trail that was only partially blocked by the loose belt at his hips.

“Well not this girl. She doesn’t have one,” Your eyes flicked to his in an instant, catching him looking at you in a similar fashion. You could never get anything productive done when you went to his place.

“Lies, lies, lies…” he muttered.

Eddie finally moved from his standing position and sat down on the mattress once more. Instead of where he had been sitting previously, he sat on the edge, leaning back to tap on the leg that you had just raised.

“Put it down,” he laid the guitar in his lap and pulled the necklace off of his neck. He stored a safety pick there—just in case the moment ever rose where he was without one. It also served as a reminder of something he was good at when he thought he was good at nothing.

But you complied and put your head down, shuffling down the mattress slightly so you could rest your upper back on the wall. Eddie leaned all the way over to you, his head finding home in your lap and half of his body draped carelessly across the bed.

“Tell me,” he asked with anxiously curious eyes starring up at you, “what’s your favorite song?”

“I told you. I don’t have one.” He strummed three chords, nothing coherent that you could tell. Eddie narrowed his eyes. You took one of your hands and moved his shaggy bangs away from his eyes.

“I swear I don’t.”

“Then how am I supposed to play for you?”

He relished the feeling of your nails lightly scraping his forehead to the edge of his hair, the way his hair gently moved. It was relaxing and far more intimate than he'd previously let any girl be with him.

He made small concessions when his walls were down.

"Play me your favorite song," You suggested.

"That's not how this is supposed to work, sweetheart," he chuckled, closing his eyes as you continued to move your fingers languidly through his hair. “Besides, I asked you. Not the other way around.”

“Just think about it, alright?”

You hummed, closing your eyes too. And you thought about it—truly. Racking your brain from aisle to aisle in search of a song that made you feel… something. Eddie cracked an eye open, turning his head in your lap to look at your peaceful, content face and smiled. He took the fingers of your hand that you had wrapped around his upper chest, right below his neck and across to his opposite shoulder and kissed the tips of them lightly—never letting go of his guitar.

“I can see the gears turning,” he commented, his breath hot on your fingers.

“Because they are,” you replied, sighing and opening your eyes back up. He was already watching you and you weren’t surprised. Sometimes he thought he was being sly when he did, but you could always feel it when Eddie Munson was staring at you.

“So, did you think of one?”

“You gave me like a minute to think of it.”

“I think you know but won’t tell me,” his eyebrows shot up his forehead accusingly, dropping your hand back onto his chest.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because,” he thought about it for a moment. On occasion, when he really thought about something, Eddie’s tongue would stick out of his lips in concentration. It was the cutest goddamn thing you had ever seen. “Because you’re embarrassed I’ll make fun of you. I promise I won’t. It’s just music.”

It’s just music, he said. Like music didn’t command every part of his life or dreams. Eddie Munson was brought into this world to play music and while no, you didn’t believe he would necessarily make fun of you, it was the entire situation that had you hesitant.

Eddie wanted to play your favorite song. He would have that knowledge forever and then if anything went wrong, in your relationship together or your life beyond him, you’d always remember the song he played. It would always be associated with him.

You sighed, “Margaritaville.”

Eddie nearly died.

“No fucking way is that your favorite song.”

From his upside down position, he looked you dead in the eye. You held it for approximately three solid seconds before laughing. Of course there was no fucking way.

“I knew it!” Eddie pointed a finger at you accusingly. “Just tell me, baby. Come on, I won’t laugh.”

“Fine, fine,” you conceded as your laughter settled.

“Bennie and the Jets.”

“Elton John?” He questioned honestly but didn’t make fun of you. Was it his taste? No. But he couldn’t deny the genius of Elton John’s lyrics. Man could write a song.

“Yes,” you stopped brushing his hair back and covered your face with the hand. “Can you let it go now?”

“Oh hell no,” Eddie sat up quickly, giving himself a head rush doing so. “I gotta learn it.”

“Eddie!”

“I’m serious,” he laughed and sifted through a drawer for a piece of paper and a pencil. You covered your face in embarrassment—he thought it was cute. He wanted to do this, to show you a piece of him that was essential to who he was and relate it to something you enjoyed.

“I’m gonna learn it and it’s gonna be the best version of it that you’ve ever heard.”

His confidence in his talent was inspiring. If only everyone felt that way about the things they were good at.

You conceded with him that evening about the song.

And he did learn it. A week later he played an, albeit, more alternative version of Elton that you had ever heard, but he learned it for you.

And it’s the only version of the song that sticks out in your memory.

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 10, Number 5

Arab Strap

It’s lovely out. The lilacs are in bloom. The weather is warm enough to make a sweater/sweatshirt/coat redundant, and the bugs are swarming happily all over the garden. And yet, here we are, inside, ear buds in place, music on high, because however nice the weather, what if we missed something? What if, you, our readers missed something? Well, fear not, because we’re back with another set of short, impassioned reviews. Scottish lifers obsessed with their phones, South African jazzmen nearly forgotten, mumbling rappers, untethered improvisers—it’s all here for you. What, you were going out? Too nice to stay inside? Well, okay, it’ll be here when you get back.

Contributors include Ian Mathers, Justin Cober-Lake, Ray Garraty, Bill Meyer, Bryon Hayes, Jonathan Shaw, Andrew Forell, Christian Carey, Alex Johnson and Jennifer Kelly.

Arab Strap — I'm totally fine with it 👍 don't give a fuck anymore 👍 (Rock Action)

Even more surprising than this Scottish duo’s perversely triumphant return a few years ago is that in 2024 Aidan Moffat is writing more about the internet than about cheating and booze. (He’s still writing about those things too though, don’t worry.) Less shocking is that his laceratingly keen eye is no less effective when turned on his own relationship with his phone, or the way women are treated by the “fathers, husbands, sons and brothers” around them as soon as the deniability of a screen is in place, or the psychology of someone who turns to QAnon. And not just technology; with songs addressing those who’ve never recovered from the early-pandemic hit to their ability to go outside and those capitalism leaves to die in solitude, this might be the least relationship-y Arab Strap LP to date. Malcolm Middleton roughs up their sound again to match the bruised, heartfelt brutality of Moffat’s subject matter and the result is one of the most simultaneously empathetic and unsettling records from a band who’ve never been short on either quality.

Ian Mathers

Bad Nerves — Still Nervous (Suburban)

For their second album Still Nervous, punk rockers Bad Nerves take their ready-made formula and just amp everything up. Everything's loud and fast; the band clearly descends from the Ramones, but they've gone more manic. They secretly mix in flourishes of power pop. Underneath all the ruckus, they have a knack for catchy melodies, guitar solos and even vocal harmonies. Then Bad Nerves rough up the pop elements to make sure their disaffection comes through with enough spite to keep everything properly punk. The record does little to vary mood or tempo, but it doesn't need to. The band does one thing, but they excel at it. The Strokes comparisons the band's received mostly work, but the lo-fi production keeps everything sounding as if it's in an actual garage. “Plastic Rebel” offers a youthful rampage, bubble gummy enough to touch on Cheap Trick, but continually plowing forward. The Essex quintet closes the album with “The Kids Will Never Have Their Say,” an evergreen sentiment for the young and irritable. The point doesn't break new ground, but it's beside the point. Bad Nerves tap into something long running and rush the tradition on with plenty of verve and a hint of bile.

Justin Cober-Lake

Conway the Machine — Slant Face Killah (Drumwork \ EMPIRE)

If it wasn’t for Conway’s name on the copy to the album you’d think this was a long solo producer tapes with 40 guests on it, each mumbling about something nobody’s interested in except for the mumbler himself. It is not an exaggeration: it really lasts more than an hour, has close to 20 guests (depends on how you count) and even though Slant Face Killah is produced by a dozen of people the beats all sound the same. If it already sounds awful even for the diehard Conway fans, grip for the worst part of it. It ain’t even worth the trouble to skip all the tiring guest verses for the Conway verses because they are not good anyway. A total failure.

Ray Garraty

Alex Cunningham — Rivaled (Storm Cellar)

Remember October 2020? The time of still-subdued traffic, no shows and a looming election? Rivaled is an artifact of that moment. Nowadays, Alex Cunningham is an intensely active improviser, based in St. Louis but active all around the middle of the USA. Back then he was stuck at home and moved to make some noise. “Faith” and “Void” offer two paths to obliteration. The former is pretty plugged in, with electronic effects and appropriated radio noise turning Cunningham’s violin into a full-on electrical storm. The latter is unreliant upon electricity, but maybe even more dogged and savage. Originally released as an edition of 20 cassette, Rivaled is now a CD with a bonus remix that mashes both tracks together, both vertically and temporally, like a piggybacked highlights reel. Of noise relaxes you, you’ll want this close at hand when the next election rolls around.

Bill Meyer

Dun-Dun Band — Pita Parka Pt. 1: Xam Egdub (Ansible Editions)

Dun-Dun Band is an all-star cast of characters comprising some of Toronto’s most creative musicians and led by musical polymath Craig Dunsmuir. Dunsmuir is a shape shifter, trading guises and styles for decades: a guitar loop conjuror known as Guitarkestra, a purveyor of mutant disco vibes alongside Sandro Perri in Glissandro 70, a welder of minimalism, dub, and avant-garde weirdness as Kanada 70. His Dun-Dun Band collects members of Eucalyptus and Badge Époque Ensemble along with stalwarts Colin Fisher, Karen Ng, Josh Cole and Ted Crosby. Pita Parka is the group’s debut on vinyl and features three extended cosmic jazz jams that fuse multi-horn interplay to African-inspired polyrhythm. The music slyly winks at 1970s fusion but is more akin to that of modern ensembles such as Natural Information Society. The extended nature of the pieces allows the reedists to stretch their lungs and roam around, and for the rest of the ensemble to engage in creative interplay. Pita Parka is a stellar offering from some of Toronto’s finest players and one of the city’s most inquisitive and inventive minds.

Bryon Hayes

Roby Glod / Christian Ramond / Klaus Kugel—No ToXic (Nemu)

The three participants in this session are all veterans of middle European jazz that’s free in spirit, if not always in form. Bassist Christian Ramond and Klaus Kugel are from Germany, and soprano/alto saxophonist Roby Glod is from Luxembourg; their collective cv includes work with Kenny Wheeler, Ken Vandermark and Michael Formanek. Online evidence suggests that they’ve played together as a trio since 2015, which explains their easy rapport and nuanced interaction, but this is their first CD. Freedom for these folks means having the latitude to linger over a tune or to settle into nuanced timbral exchanges, but if you carded them, they’d all have jazz driver’s licenses. This music swings, often at speed, which is a very important aspect of their shared aesthetic; the excitement often comes from hearing Glod invent intricate, evolving lines that are lifted off by fast walking bass lines and kept in the air with light but insistent cymbal play. While the album is named No ToXic, the sheer pleasure of hearing these guys lock in could truthfully be labeled counter-toxic.

Bill Meyer

Göden — Veil of the Fallen (Svart)

Longtime listeners of death doom will recognize the name Stephen Flam, guitarist and co-founder of storied band Winter whose Into Darkness (1990) concretized the subgenre in the US; the record was great, and still is. For his recent work with Göden, Flam has dubbed himself “Spacewinds,” and his bandmates follow suit, with stage names that are equal parts risible and ridiculously gravid: vocalist Vas Kallas performs as “Nyxta (Goddess of Night)” (those parens seem to be her idea…) and keyboardist Tony Pinnisi appears as “The Prophet of Göden.” Okay. This reviewer’s inexhaustible appetite for Winter’s slim output disposes him to think kindly of Flam, and there’s nothing especially terrible about Veil of the Fallen — but that’s only because there’s nothing all that special about the record. The sound of the title track is appealingly austere, and the NyQuil-chugging riffs of “Death Magus” are sort of fun. But any listeners hoping for flashes of the inimitable, awesome awfulness of Winter would be well advised to recall the meaning of inimitable. Not even Flam, it seems, can provide a convincing replica of those energies and textures.

Jonathan Shaw

Mick Harvey — Five Ways to Say Goodbye (Mute)

Former Birthday Party and Bad Seeds member Mick Harvey looks back at his life on his autumnal new album “Five Ways to Say Goodbye.” Although he contributes only four original songs, his skill as an arranger and interpreter reaches its zenith. Harvey imbues his own and others’ songs with intense emotion that never tips into melodrama or histrionics. Augmenting his acoustic guitar with evocative string arrangements which provide counterpoint and color to his lyrics “When We Were Young and Beautiful” may be the finest song he has written; poetic in structure, elegiac in feeling, Harvey faces his past with dispassionate empathy for lost friends and acceptance of where he is now. His version of David McComb’s “Setting You Free” locates a Faustian menace in the song, using the strings to carry the dynamic thrust and emphasize the turbulent ambivalence of the original. “Like A Hurricane” becomes an intimate, piano ballad. By changing the tense from present to past and stripping the song of its rock roots, Harvey creates an emotional impact missing from Neil Young’s original. On “Demolition” Harvey replaces Ed Kuepper’s funereal drums with an off-kilter drum machine that clatters like an old projector to evokes the disconnections inherent in the lyrics. Harvey’s treatment of songs from The Saints, Lee Hazelwood, Lo Carmen and Marlene Dietrich are beautifully rendered. A wonderful summation of Harvey’s often underrated talent and an album that deserves a wider audience.

Andrew Forell

I Like To Sleep — Bedmonster’s Groove (All Good Clean Records)

This combo from Trondheim, Norway started out bridging the sound worlds of Gary Burton and Sleep. That’s a canny move if you’re looking for relatively untrodden ground, and as it turns out, a successful one. On Bedmonster’s Groove, which is album number four, the trio has dialed back the heaviness; you won’t hear a power chord until the beginning of side two. Instead, they have taken a turn towards experimentation. The microscopic applications of filters and effects give confer a variable glitter to Amund Storløkken Åse’s vibraphone, squeezable padding to Nicolas Leirtrø’s six-string bass, and some texturable variety to Øyvind Leite’s drums, which are all shown to good effect by some lean grooves and uncluttered melodies. Åse has also added some instrumentation; synths flicker and swirl in the empty spaces, and a mellotron heads a deliberate charge towards prog territory.

Bill Meyer

Kriegshög—Love & Revenge (La Vida Es un Mus)

Throughout the long existence of Kriegshög, it’s been customary to identify the band as a d-beat act. Love & Revenge is Kriegshög’s first release since 2019 and only its second LP in their (at least) 16 years of playing in and around Tokyo. Prolific, they ain’t, but the music is always worth waiting for. On this new record, the band rolls back the pace a bit and amps up the crusty, metal textures. Less squall and rampant chaos, more muscle and riffs that roll up in well-worn biker leathers — but all those qualifiers are relative. There’s still a raw edge to the production (if that’s the term we want…); the bass is laced with so much fat crackle that you’ll want to fry it and eat it. Sort of fun that one of the most volatile tunes on Love & Revenge is titled “Serenity.” Make of that what you will, but don’t spend too much time thinking about it. You’ll miss the next couple songs.

Jonathan Shaw

Niels Lyhne Løkkegaard and Quatuor Bozzini — Colliding Bubbles: Surface Tension and Release (Important)

Niels Lyhne Løkkegaard is a composer based in Copenhagen. On his latest EP he joins forces with the premiere Canadian string quartet for new music, Quatuor Bozzini, to create a piece that deals with the perception of bubbles replicating the human experience. In addition to the harmonics played by the strings, the players are required to play harmonicas at the same time. At first blush, this might sound like a gimmick, but the conception of the piece as instability and friction emerging from continuous sound, like bubbles colliding in space and, concurrently, the often tense unpredictability of the human experience, makes these choices instead seem organic and well-considered. As the piece unfolds, the register of the pitch material makes a slow decline from the stratosphere to the ground floor with a simultaneous long decrescendo. The quartet are masterful musicians, unfazed by the challenge of playing long bowings and long-breathed harmonica chords simultaneously. The resulting sound world is shimmering, liquescent, and, surprising in its occasional metaphoric bubbles popping.

Christian Carey

The Ophelias — Ribbon EP (self-released)

Ribbon is stormy, scathing and often quite beautiful. “Soft and Tame,” the EP’s emotional center, is all three. It begins wistfully: easy acoustic guitar strums and Andrea Gutmann Fuentes’ layered violin, nostalgic and close to sweet. Vocalist Spencer Peppet also starts slow, talking us through the aimless sensory motions of missing someone – “the sun on my cheek/as I walk around/I pick up a pear/I put it down/the radio plays a song we loved.” It doesn’t take long, however, for the skies to darken and the scene to become bleaker. By the line “the hollow sound/my jugular makes as it rolls around,” Mic Adams’s foreboding drums and a percussive creep of electric guitar have stalked in. And by the time Peppet has shown us “an overturned bus on the highway,” heard a“tornado warning” and told her subject to “stay the fuck away” for the second time, the band has built to a blown-out, climactic frenzy, the violin finding operatic heights over mammoth cymbal crashes.

In her review of The Ophelias’ last album, Crocus, Jennifer Kelly described Peppet as sounding “like she’s tilting her chin up and squaring her shoulders.” Likewise on Ribbon, where the band seems resigned to but also quite prepared for a fight. If “Soft and Tame” is aimed to knock “love in southern Ohio” down for good, then “Rind,” the final song, may tell us why they’re in the ring at all. At a brief break in the dynamic, flowering arrangement — it could be a particularly bucolic Magnetic Fields instrumental, especially in Gutmann Fuentes’ spry riffs — Peppet bursts out, “There you go!/On tour with my hometown friends/fucking score/they must have all forgotten!/Look back at what I tolerated.” There’s more to the story, but Peppet pulls back from the fray, settling things ominously: “to name it/makes your life/a little complicated.” Whatever “it” is, The Ophelias seem to have landed their punch. I don’t think I’ve heard more cutting, triumphant “Oohs” than those that end the song and Ribbon’s multifaceted fury with it.

Alex Johnson

Paperniks — Oxygen Tank Flipper 7-inch (Market Square)

Jason Henn is a master of catchy psychedelic punk. Honey Radar, his highest profile outfit, has unfurled a constant stream of hook-laden gems for well over a decade. Paperniks is his newest guise, a solo home recording project that amplifies the Guided by Voices meets Syd Barrett vibe of Honey Radar and doses it with nuggets of guitar noise. This tiny slab of wax is the sophomore Paperniks outing, following a single-sided lathe cut that strayed toward the clamorous edge of the octopus’s garden. On display are a pair of tunes that bear a striking resemblance to Honey Radar. “Oxygen Tank Flipper” is a groovy dose of psych replete with a catchy riff and a roller coaster bassline. Handclaps up the catchiness factor, as does Henn’s honey sweet sigh. “Essex Poem Dial” is a punky, garage-inspired tune. Henn’s reverb-soaked vocal hides inside the propulsive guitar chime. A noise interlude leads to a mellow vignette that slowly fades away. Paperniks showcases Henn’s boisterous side, and the music is certainly engaging, so hopefully there are more songs on the way soon.

Bryon Hayes

Ribbon Stage — Hit with the Most (Perennial/K)

Ribbon Stages hits the giddy sweet spot between punk and pop, their raucous guitar-drums-bass racket pounding on sweet, wistful little songs. The mixture varies with some cuts veering into the snaggle-toothed dream pop of, say, the Jeanines, while others rage harder and more dissonantly. “Stone Heart Blue,” the single, pulls the drums way up in the mix and lets distorted guitars and murmured vocals do battle attention behind them. The result is an uncanny balance of urgency, angst and solace, which is exactly what you want from pop-leaning punk. “Hearst” pushes slashing tangling guitar racket up to the foreground, letting a billowing squall spill over crisp drums and shout-sung vocals, while “Sulfate” lets a sighing romantic croon loose over boiling lavas of rock mayhem. Nice.

Jennifer Kelly

Rio Da Yung OG — Rio Circa 2020 (Boyz Ent)

This is exactly what the title says: a compilation of Rio songs stashed on the label’s HDD, no more, no less. No filler but no hits either. The tape has a “Circa 2020” feel to it, reminding us of when Rio did what he wanted with no shades of doom hanging over the songs. It’s unlike the music he wrote after the trial when he knew he had to do some time. There’s a little bit of everything in here: three songs with RMC Mike, two tracks featuring Louie Ray, a song on a Sav beat, a song on an Enrgy beat and a song on a Primo beat. Yet it’s hardly enough to last us until Rio is free.

Ray Garraty

Spirits Rejoice—S-T (Fredriksberg)

Spirits Rejoice! by Spirits Rejoice

A remastered reissue of a 1978 recording, Spirits Rejoice captures boundary-crossing South African jazz scene, which touches on fusion, rock, funk, soul, disco Latin and African sounds. The ensemble includes some of that time and place’s pre-eminent jazz musicians, Sipho Gumede of the fluid, loping bass lines, breezy, insouciant reeds-man Robbie Jansen, South African pioneering percussionist Gilbert Matthews, keyboardist Mervyn Africa and a very young Paul Peterson on electric guitar. The music is ebullient and clearly tilted towards pop accessibility, and the gleaming sheen of 1970s often dilutes its heat and fury. This is especially true on “Happy and in Love” which could double as a lost Earth Wind and Fire cut. Elsewhere, though, as in “Woza Uzo Kudanisa Nathi,” fervid polyrhythms, tight squalls of sax and an exhilarating call and response light up the groove, fusing African chants with a swaggering samba rhythm. And “Papa’s Funk,” is just what it sounds like—a slithery, stuttery, visceral bass-led swagger that bubbles and smolders and twitches in a universal funk.

Jennifer Kelly

Various Artists — GmBH: An Anthology of Music for Fashion Shows 2016 – 2023, Volume 1 (Studio LABOUR)

GmbH: An Anthology of Music for Fashion Shows 2016-2023 Vol. 1 by Various Artists

LABOUR is a multimedia project of Iranian musician Farahnaz Hatam and American percussionist/composer Colin Hacklander. Based in Berlin, the duo has collaborated widely and eclectically to produce soundtracks for sustainable, underground fashion house GmBH. This compilation collates 12 examples and showcases a variety of work from an international roster of artists including Iraqi-British oud player Khyam Allami, Turkish born DJ Nene H, Kuwaiti musician Fatimi Al Qadiri, American performance artist MJ Harper and Indonesian noise duo Gabber Modus Operandi. The thread that runs through all this is cross pollinations between genre, geography, and chronology. Allami’s oud plays against LABOUR’s electronic washes and synthetic percussion with each element emphasizing and interrogating differences in modality and structure. On “White Noise” LABOUR contrast a 16th century harpsichord piece with static and effects dissolving into a robotic club beat which ends up evoking a cyborg Hooked on Classics. Their collaboration with Harper on the spoken word “ablution” is a reflection on love, religion, and abnegation with elements of gospel, eastern and creeping doom ambience. The Anthology has much of interest but is essential for Belgian composer Billy Bultheel’s “YLEM” featuring German countertenor Steve Katona who soars incandescent from a backdrop of industrial grind. The contrast between earthly weight of the music and radiant purity of the voice is breathtaking.

Andrew Forell

Vertonen — taif’ shel (Oxidation)

taif' shel by Vertonen

Give the Oxidation label credit for radical truthfulness. One of the bummers of our time is the frequency with which folks on BandCamp and elsewhere will call a short-run, blue or green-faced disc a CD when they are selling you a CD-R. Oxidation, on the other hand, is named after the process that will eventually render its products unplayable. On to the sounds. Vertonen is Blake Edwards, who has been working around the edges of sound for over 30 years. On taif’ shel, he displays absolute mastery over the combination of collected, electronically generated and carefully edited sounds. His skill rests on three qualities; knowing where to place sounds, knowing how long to let them carry on and having some pretty good ideas about which ones to use in the first place. He can make a drone of infinite (but never unnecessary) complexity, or punctuate flipping film-ends with a precisely situated, never repeated sequence of chops and splices, to name just two examples found on this impermanent but thoroughly rewarding disc.

Bill Meyer

Villagers — That Golden Time (Domino)

That Golden Time is Villagers’ sixth album. The Conor O’Brien led project presents its most eclectic outing to date. A number of the songs are afforded pop treatment, consisting of memorable tunes and gentle, polished arrangements. The double-tracked vocals on “First Responder” is a case in point, about a relationship fragmenting while the singing coalesces, an interesting tension. “No Drama,” initially pared down to piano and O’Brien’s laconic vocals, eventually adds a coterie of Irish traditional instruments. “Keepsake” veers closer to mid-tempo electronica, with overlaid synth repetitions and treated vocals. The title track employs sustained violin lines, played by Peter Broderick, and an intricate form with supple harmonic shifts. “Brother Hen,” on the other hand, recalls the folk influences present from Villagers’ beginning. The diversity is diverting, even though That Golden Time feels like a collection of singles instead of an album statement.

Christian Carey

[themarginalthinker]

RPM

(Prompt for @ria-coolgirl, who suggested a sleepover with the boys listening to cheesy pop music! Sorry if this kinda got away from that, but hopefully you'll think it's cute lol)

Paul likes music, and wants something to keep him and everyone occupied. He decides to hit up his favorite record store.

-

Call him crazy, call him a tippy-tapping fool, but if ever one was to meet Paul Harris meandering down the Boardwalk, you'd almost have to call it dancing.

Always a tune in his head, always something playing that only he could hear the melody of. Paul danced to the beat of his own drums, and it was some damn good music if he did say so.

Such wandering, feeling the rhythm, took him lots of places. Little pop-up stores that happened over the summer months, here and gone again for the warm nights. Markets and art fairs that stayed active after sunset were fun, Marko liked those. Sometimes he'd mosey into a shop just following an idle thought, see what was about, and under the stares of the clerks (who tried their best to pretend they weren't staring) he'd make his way back out. Usually with something tucked into his jacket or pocket they weren't aware of. (Hey, you can't leave a store without getting something, that was just stupid.)

Tonight, the music in Paul's head was quiet, and disorganized, like a radio you just couldn't get to pick up a signal. It needed tuning - and he needed something to sink his (metaphorical this time) teeth into.

Streetlight Records, his haven away from haven.

Tucked neatly between two much larger buildings, the door for it almost hidden away just around the corner and in an alcove, one might have almost walked right past it. The doorway, however, was lit with garlands of twinkling lights they put out in the summer, and the base of something was humming out into the street, advertising for all who wished to open their eyes and ears, and take a chance.

Paul slips into to the doorway.

The shop was longer than it was wide, and it wasn't a whole lot of that to begin with. Along the left wall and down the straight middle isle, starting basically at the door so close you'd bump into it if you weren't careful, shelves upon shelves of LPs and EPs. Bins filled, racks a mash and collection that a vinyl dragon would go green with envy over. Some were arranged by year, others by genera. Artists' faces in posters and their album art, if they were popular enough, hung from the light strands wound around the ceiling and support beams. Under those were cases of cassettes, displays for tape recorders and the empty tapes to go with them.

The right side was a little less packed, but no less interesting. The glass case under the counter top and register boasted more gift-shoppy material, for those who only knew what played on the radio and when confronted with the font of auditory wonders before them, chose to stay in shallower waters. Racks of post cards, books of music history for the well-listened eggheads, more expensive maintenance tools for people's instruments.

And speaking of, further in the back sat displays of sound equipment for bands. Paul had spent more hours than he could reliably remember giving the old Fender some much-needed love and attention, here with lights and amps where it's rich, rolling sounds could be appreciated.

The place was a feast for anyone looking to discover something about themselves, and Paul was never satiated.

Paul slips past the immediate shelves to get to the front register, hands finding the glass surface and beginning to tap along to the muted cacophony in his head. It was deserted for the moment, but you didn't need supernatural senses to smell that someone had been here not too long ago, partaking in something that made the music sound even better. Paul leans over the desk and eyes the thick, beaded curtain that lead to the back rooms.

"Hey Randy! If you don't come out here someone's gonna come in and steal your signed Grateful Dead shirt!"

Indeed, said shirt was hanging up, proudly displayed on the wall behind the counter. It was a much prized possession - and in some real amount of danger from some fingers more sticky than not. It was also a surefire way to get the attention of a certain shop owner.

There's some sounds from behind the curtain, shuffling and maybe something falling over as someone jumped up, either at the threat or the owner of the voice issuing it. Paul hears the shout back before he can actually make out the words. If there were words being said at all.

Judging from the practically-visible cloud that follows the man who emerges from behind the curtain, it's more likely the latter.

Randy's and older dude, not 'old' but certainly a decade and a half Paul's (visible) elder. His hair is crow black, shoulder length and wavy, held back with a tie and a wrapped, psychedelic bandana. His eyes are blown to space, he's got a red press mark on his face, clearly the picture of a man getting ready to close up for the night and getting the evening come-down started a little early.

He'd probably known who had come in from the shout, but seeing him at the counter changes something in his face. How his back straightens. Eyes dart to the doorway, and then into the depths of the store. Looking for people who follow like ghosts in each other's wake.

His shoulders only relax a little when he finds it's only Paul, still looking at him expectantly. His half-smile could simply be the weed, and being tired. Paul lets it be.

"The man of the hour," Paul says, holding out a hand.

Randy huffs a laugh, and reaches out to take it, grasping it and pulling it in to touch forearms. To his credit, he no longer reacts to the cool skin as it touches him. One too many smokes - or maybe one too many touches with something like Paul to bother reacting.

"Yeah, sure. Only for you."

Paul takes his hand back and places it on his chest. "I consider it the highest honor, dude."

Randy nods a little.

These were words exchanged back and forth easily enough. Informal formalities, but a certain script maintained all the same. Like the glass counter between them. Crystal clear, but a barrier.

The shopkeep shrugs, and leans on his elbow. "Well, you got me here. What's up?"

Paul keeps drumming his fingers on the counter. A pattern only he can make sense of.

"Well, believe it or not, I'm actually not here for anything in particular," Paul says. "I'm uh. Actually looking for something along the lines of. New."

Randy blinks, cocking his head a little. "New?"

"Ya."

Believe it or not, immortality came with downsides. Well. Maybe not downsides so much as reoccurring stumbles. One of which being that the 'new' turned into 'old' faster than one would think, and even for someone who could listen to the same song on repeat for a whole day, there was a whole world of new things being made. New songs, new artists, new sounds. Collecting them to preserve perfectly forever like all the trinkets of the past stored in the cave. Immortal memory.

Randy however, looked over Paul like he'd started growing a second head. However, he knew better than to quibble. The script had run out, and Paul was looking at him expectantly. He was the expert in these things, and his customer had asked for goods.

"Well, we do got some stuff here, towards the front-"

Paul knew what Randy was pointing out, but he shakes his head. The silver bangles Marko had threaded into his hair shake with a metallic clicking, his blade of his earring glinting in the low lights. Randy stops mid-sentence, not about to waste Paul's time on the air it took to make the words. He knew better.

"Nah, man, I don't mean like, new releases. I mean just. Like. New. Somethin' different."

Something to scratch the constant itch of eternal stagnation amidst constant, unstoppable change.

Randy is silent, looking at him. There isn't much of a semblance of the polite, sleepy smile he'd been wearing earlier. Paul keeps looking right back at him, fingers drumming, drumming, drumming away at the counter. Nails clicking against the glass. Dragging.

It's only when Paul moves, shifting from one foot to the other, in a fidget, that Randy comes back into motion.

"Right. Sure. Okay, yeah, I just- hang on."

Paul nods a couple times, a little 'sure' thrown in as well as Randy moves off with maybe a little too much pep in his step, especially considering it's back behind the curtain and into another room. Where Paul's relaxed stare isn't on him the whole time.

There's the sound of boxes being moved, the clack of plastic cases - ans to ears more sensitive, dark mutterings. Paul pretends it's the rattling of the old water pipes along the ceiling.

He reaches over, to one side of the counter, and snatches up a couple jacket patches from the bins left out for sale. Marko had mentioned wanting to potentially start a new jacket project soon. Paul tucks them into his pocket.

Randy comes back after a few minutes. In his hands is a box, and in that box is a mess of things. A couple records, their sleeves looking a little battered, more than a few cassette tapes that looked much more recent, though one had a cracked case.

Paul reaches forward before Randy can say anything and pulls out something from the lot - a magazine, and from the provided pouch in the back of it, a small disc.

"Oh, I love Flexis!" Paul says, grin wide. "They're not making them much anymore."

He holds up the small, colorful record disk, and Randy's shoulders relax a little. He'd pleased the beast.

"There's not a whole lot, I think they only ran that edition with the Flexi for a while, but I had it kinda lying around, so."

Paul snorts. "What, you're using this to pawn your junk off on me, man?"

He flicks a finger at the box, tapping it rather harshly. Randy, again to his credit, doesn't flinch. But from the twitch under his eye, it's a near thing.

Paul grabs the box from him before he can try to say anything else. "I'm joshing you, dude. Jeez. You need some stronger stuff if you're this wound up. You know I'll take anything. You got good taste."

Randy lets Paul take the box from him, fingertips meeting for only a second. Paul's nails are sharp against his skin.

Paul tucks his prize under one arm. With his other, he digs into some pocket or another in his coat. From it, he produces a set of bills. He slaps them down on the countertop.

"You're a pal, Ran-the-man. Catch ya next week!"

Without waiting for Randy to open the till or count the money, or even a goodbye, Paul is already out the door. Barely a sound follows him, just the now empty store, playing its low background music under soft lighting.

When the man does blink out of his stupor, and counts the amount given to him for his motley collection of odds and ends, it's enough to make even his mouth go dry.

He doesn't ask, though. Never does. He simply straightens out the notes, and sets the stained paper in the drawer.

-

"Oh, I wanna dance with somebody! I wanna feel the heat with somebody!"

The music echoed in the main hall, the voices rising and falling with it perhaps not the most in-tune, but the enthusiasm was all that was really necessary.

David watches Star try to keep her smile down at Paul as he strikes a pose, singing into an invisible microphone, swaying her own head side to side with the melody. He lets himself smile with her.

Marko and Dwayne occupy the couch on either side of her, critiquing the performance.

"Good hip movement."

"You know, if he permed his hair, he might actually kinda look like Whitney."

"I vote eight point seven."

"No way, this is freestyle, tens across the board."

"No, there's always room for improvement."

The tall blond shimmies his way over to her, and Star can't help but let out the suppressed giggle at his exaggerated lip-syncing. She protests a fair bit as she's pulled up, and brought to the 'dance floor', her eyes flitting over to David who only raises an eyebrow, before Paul is pulling her in, spinning them around in a dance that doesn't exist and is made purely of the need to move and feel the music.

"Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody! With somebody who loves me!"

The tune in his step matching the music in his head, and all around him. Harmony.

[outstandingblue]

Promises to Keep

Three - Like a Game of Tag

recom!miles quaritch x fem!na'vi oc :)

| Masterlist | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine |  Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen |

Tag was supposed to be a fun game for kids, a way for parents to burn off excess energy and get a good night's rest. Not a game of life or death.

find it on ao3 here content warning: blood, weapons, threat + use of force word count: ~2k

The children and Jiniraa were rounded up like wild animals and moved closer towards the old link center, attempting to get out of the dense brush into a more manageable (and defendable) location. 

Jiniraa did her best to remain strong for the children around her. She could tell Lo’ak and Spider were trying to maintain their macho fronts and cover up how the situation was making them shake head to toe. In her head, she knew everything would be okay in the end - Jake had been notified and he certainly was already on his way. She just needed to keep a level head until they were able to be rescued. 

Jiniraa gazed up towards the sky, savoring the warmth of the sun on her face. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, trying to center herself from the reality of the situation. Unbeknownst to her, a certain recom Marine stood towards the outskirts of the group and looked at the woman with a scowl on his face. She opened her eyes and smiled seeing the eclipse was close. His tail flicked in annoyance, looking up as well towards the skyline. Did she know something he didn’t? He shook those thoughts away, walking over towards Lyle, needing help with video retrieval. 

“Lyle, get me some audio on this,” the sound of his voice had Jiniraa’s ears twitching. She slightly turned her head to see what the Colonel was looking at. She noticed Spider had the same reaction, her heart ached for the human child. It was hard to not feel sorry for him, he never had his own place. Jiniraa did her best to take him under her wing, but it wasn’t the same. He was never accepted by Neytiri, therefore he would never be accepted by the entire clan. 

Focusing back on the two tallest military-clad-Na’vi-lookalikes, Jiniraa strained her eyes trying to see the tablet he was holding. She couldn’t hear the conversation between the Colonel and the bald one - she pursued Lyle. She and Spider watched the death of Quaritch from his own perspective, the look on Neytiri’s face as she defended her mate made Jiniraa gulp. No one should ever be on the receiving end of her rage. 

Jiniraa looks away from the recording - she didn’t have the stomach for fighting. Spider had a grimace on his face and he continued to watch the video, eyes not even blinking. 

The Colonel was too distracted to feel the gaze from across the clearing. She studied the distant look in his eyes, the video clearly shook him to his core, but she couldn’t quite tell why. She watched him run a hand over his head, wiping sweat from his brow before shaking out his upper body. His tail flicked in agitation, unable to hide his true emotional state. 

The light was quickly disappearing, eclipse was a mere moments away. The dark came quickly on Pandora. The darkness was already here, contained in the bodies of these former Marines. They were equipped with the knowledge of a hundred and one ways to kill a person, survive the harshest conditions, and separate their emotions from the orders at hand. Even with all that, they weren’t the deadliest or darkest thing on Pandora.

The Colonel bent toward an old amp suit and grabbed a human skill from the pile of bones entombed within. Jiniraa watched as he surveyed the skull in his hand, which easily fit into the palm of his Na’vi hand. His second-in-command asked a question, but he remained silent, crushing the skull in his hand with ease. Jiniraa’s heart rate jumped in fear. 

Physically, he did not struggle the slightest, but she had no clue about the war raging inside his head. The new Colonel Miles Quaritch struggled gazing upon the skull of his former human host. Is that how he is now? The new host? He felt sick to his stomach, looking straight into the face of death. Literally.

He didn’t have the memories of his death as a human, but watching the recording shook him straight to the core. Part of him wanted to vomit, feeling that familiar salvation creeping up the back of his throat, but he couldn’t let any of the other unit members see that. He had to remain strong, following orders, completing the mission at hand. 

As eclipse settled in and darkness overtook the forest, Jiniraa felt at home. The familiar sounds of animals chirping and water flowing made her feel safe. She’d feel a whole lot better if she wasn’t held by her queue by an Avatar with a gun the size of her torso, but beggars can’t be choosers. 

A soft shower brushed through the forest, soaking everyone head to toe. Jiniraa shivered from the cold - she ran cold all the time and the rain made it worse. 

“Quit it before I slit your throat,” the man behind her threatened, forcing her neck up to enforce his point. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a grasp or groan, something she fell victim to earlier. Her resolve to keep these kids safe had only grown since the time of their initial capture. Jake had to be within a few hundred yards at this point. Too much time has passed. 

As if on cue, there was a call from deep in the forest. To the military Avatars, it sounded just like another animal, but the Na’vi and Spider knew differently. The children grew up hearing their mother’s call’s since before they could remember. Spider and Jiniraa became accustomed to the sounds from all the time they spent with the Sully family.

Jiniraa had to repress a smile knowing help was on the way. She subtly glanced over to the other children, watching Tuk jump and Lo’ak give Spider a knowing glance. Jinraa prayed thanks to the Great Mother. 

The Colonel continued circling the group, keeping his body moving to alleviate the anxiety building up as their extraction team came closer. All Marines are taught that arrival and departure are the most vulnerable positions a person could find themselves with. It’s easy to let your guard down knowing you’re about to leave. Miles Quaritch wasn’t going to let that happen to his squad. 

He glanced down at the oldest Na’vi they captured earlier. His lip curled back slightly, repulsed by her. He did a once over of her, something he hadn’t done earlier that day. His head tilted slightly to the side, noticing her outfit. 

Her top was an intricate macrame decorated with purple and blue beads, similar to other Na’vi clothing he’d seen before. She wasn’t wearing a loincloth like the other three Na’vi. She wore pants. Well, he couldn’t quite call them pants pants. They were loose on her, but he could tell there were intentional slits running from her ankle up towards her hip bone. Although the dark was almost all consuming, Quaritch almost swore he saw something on her one leg, peaking through the gaps in the fabric.

Jiniraa tucked her chin and furled her ears backwards at the lingering gaze of the Colonel, ready to snarl at him if he sent a snarky comment. He seemed to snap back to reality, only giving her a tch before continuing making his rounds. 

Quaritch glanced down towards his watch, timing when the group should move for their departure. He wouldn’t let his nerves get the best of him at this moment. 

The arrival of a single arrow sent everything into chaos. Within seconds, Kiri and Spider were thrown to the ground by Quaritch. Guns returned fire in the direction of the arrow’s origin. Everyone else took advantage of the chaos to free themselves from their captor’s grasp, Tuk and Lo’ak bit at the arms holding their queues. Jiniraa reached up behind her and pulled the trigger of a smoke grenade. 

The green smoke burnt her eyes and throat, but it made the grip around her queue loosen up just enough that she could wrangle herself free. Although her hands were bound together, she knew her way around the dozens of acupoints on the Na’vi body. Which ones could help cure a migraine and which could cause a person to lose control of their arm for a minute. She sent three targeted fingers to the closest pressure points she could reach through the gear the man had on him, effectively sending him to the ground in momentarily blinding pain. 

Jiniraa yelled for the children to run forward. She watched as Lo’ak and Spider disappeared into the tree lines while Tuk and Kiri trailed slightly behind them, only stopping momentarily when a female grabbed Kiri’s queue and ripped her backwards. Jiniraa spun on her heel, baring her teeth to the woman. Luckily, an arrow flew through the air and landed in the woman’s chest, embedding itself deep inside her chest cavity. 

Jiniraa trailed behind the kids as they ran, doing her best to keep everyone within her line of sight. Being at the back of the group would make her the most vulnerable, but if it meant self-sacrifice then so be it. It was like a game of tag. Jiniraa and the children played for hours on end, laughing in the safety of their little bubble. Today, tag was a game of life or death. 

Jiniraa may have been older and taller than the children, but she didn’t have much of a physical advantage over everyone. Her persistent limp slowed her down slightly, but in reality it made her pace match the children in front of her. 

The blood rushing through her ears muffled everything around her, but she could hear the sound of guns getting louder and louder, they changed their weapons of choice. She watched as Kiri and Spider began running across a fallen tree. The dampness of the ground below her feet already made her slip slightly a few times, but she couldn’t slow down. She had to continue to push. 

An ear-shattering explosion behind her completely knocked her off her balance. Almost in slow motion, she watched as she fell towards the ground, seeing a glimpse of pale skin falling besides her. Spider. No. Spider didn’t make it across. Does this mean she failed? Before she even hit the ground she knew there was no way she’d be able to continue running.

In her life, she took a few (maybe more than a few) good falls in her life, but nothing compared to the impact she had that night. Luckily, she didn’t hand on her head - she certainly would’ve broken her neck and died upon impact if she had. 

Her body took a few moments to register the pain. There were a few blissful seconds of silence before the agony took over, engulfing her entirely. She handed on her left side, she wiggled a toe, checking she wasn’t paralyzed. At least there was that. 

She could feel the hot and sticky blood beginning to collect on her skin. The adrenaline of the situation began to leave her body, and she wanted to scream out. Actually, she couldn’t tell if she was screaming or not. She didn’t think she was. 

She was rolled onto her back and she felt her eyes involuntarily widen at the newfound misery that overtook her entire body head to toe. Her eyes began to flutter closed, body unable to withstand the trauma it had gone through. Light taps to her cheeks and two fingers pressed to her throat were the only things that connected her to the land of the living. 

“Colonel! She’s still alive,” a distorted voice yelled above her. Her eyes were too glazed over to try and figure out who it was. She knew it wasn’t anyone she knew. Her heart sank.

“Alright. Let’s take her too. Might as well get one blue one.” 

“Yessir.”

She could feel herself lifted off the ground, but she completely blacked out before she was hosted up onto the shoulders of Lyle. He glanced back to her, seeing she passed out from pain and tightened his grip. He thought to himself it probably was a good thing she passed out. She wouldn’t try and fight back as he carried her to the Samson.

Her last thought was how she lost tonight's game of tag. 

Next Part - Four: Weak in the Knees

●●●

i apologize for slow updates - i start college back up tomorrow ://

[t-horn-n]

— puzzle pieces

PAIRINGS: eddie munson x reader (gender-neutral)

GENRE: fluff

WARNINGS: none

SUMMARY: the dorky little things that comprise the enigma of you and eddie.

Sometimes, Eddie returns to the trailer after a two hour band practise, the electric currents from the amps still racing through his veins and the rhythm of his song falling from his lips.  Wayne is at work, but both the screen and inner doors are pulled tight against their frame, something he never does.  He’s always flinging the doors on their hinges as he hurries out of the morning, perpetually late.  Now he enters his home and sees a pair of legs peeking out from underneath his bed.  He creeps closer and sees your lightened knees, dry from impending winter and lack of lotion.  You lay half shrouded in the darkness Eddie’s bed offers.  Your arms spread to their full wingspan, a walkman in one palm connected to the headphones atop your head.  You can hear Eddie chuckle over the sound of Axl Rose’s voice and he kicks off his shoes.  The soles are caked with dirt and the laces are tinted grey.  He shimmies beside you and together you stare at the wooden slats of his bed frame. 

You and Eddie ditch last period to sit on his picnic table in the woods.  You’re tucked between his legs and one of his hands rests on your thigh, fingers drumming a ceaseless beat.  Behind you, his head bobs to an unheard song.  You’re fiddling with his rings, twisting them around and around his fingers.  You’ve named all of them, some genuinely, others while you were just a little high.  Mr Bones is the silver skull wrapped around his middle finger.  Darlin’ is a thick band inlaid with minuscule moons, you have a matching one with suns stamped around the perimeter.  You address the rings, praising their beauty and babbling about your day until Eddie gets jealous and pulls his hand away, sitting on it.  “I’m going to stop wearing them since they steal all of your attention,” he murmurs into your ear.  You laugh and peck his jaw. 

At 3AM on Tuesday, you and Eddie are sitting on his bed with heavy metal blasting out of his record player so loudly that Wayne has told you to turn it down three times.  The comforter and floor are covered in paper scraps, glitter, and cardboard.  Precariously balanced on top of the assorted junk piled on Eddie’s desk is the remnants of a pizza.  For the past five hours you have been making various props and decorations for his next D&D campaign on Thursday.  False stalagmites, a canopy to hang over the table, lurking eyes made of paper.  “Anything for your sheep,” you had said when Eddie asked you to help him in this endeavour.  “Anything for our sheep,” he had corrected you.  In the morning, Eddie woke up to find googly eyes glued to his face.

Eddie is like a crow.  He finds things, little discarded trinkets, often shiny, and brings them back to you.  You leave to go to the bathroom for five minutes and when you’re back there’s three mystery items on your desk.  Frequently, its discarded change.  A quarter, newly minted in the last half-decade; a dime from 1961; a dollar coin handled so many times the face is nearly rubbed off.  Sometimes he folds gum wrappers into little cranes or a rose.  You keep a jar of his treasures on your bedside table, and when it’s full you move it to your shelf and buy another jar.

— m. list

[welcometothemurdercapital]

Date Night

Fem!Reader x Paul

This will be part of a larger Poly universe I’m building, I just wanted to post this first. 

A/N: My first attempt at writing for the boy, so hopefully you guys like it. Requests are open so feel free to send anything in. 

TW: Briefing cursing

Date night with Paul! 

Paul was known for being the most carefree of the boys. He was out to enjoy his undead life to the fullest all the time. He rarely cared what anyone else thought of him and did things on his own terms. He took drugs, he flirted with anyone who gave him a second glance, he always walked with a self-confident strut, he listened to music that was way too loud for everyone else and rode his bike the craziest. He was always in a good mood and she found it difficult to be in a bad mood around him.

Due to his mannerisms, people often underestimated him and assumed he had nothing but air between his ears; however, she that was far from true. Like everyone, he had his strengths, and his biggest strength was music. Paul was incredibly knowledgeable about music, and she often found herself in awe of him. His mental library was massive and his ability to recall artist, album, and song title from the first few seconds of a song was incredible.

Sandy’s Jukebox came into her view as he rounded the corner. The building had clearly seen better days, but that was part of the appeal of the popular music store in Santa Carla. The town wore its eccentricity like a badge of honor and a business having a long-standing history of embracing that quirkiness was going to be popular with the locals.

Paul pulled into the parking lot and she sensed his nerves as he turned the bike off, the glare in her eyes from the headlight dying against the storefront window. She grinned against his shoulder before pressing a quick kiss to his cheek and stepping off the bike.

“I did good?” She looked him over, smiling sweetly as he raised a wary eyebrow. She knew Paul often thought of himself the least romantic of the boys and worried he didn’t show his thoughtful side enough. She always tried to assuage his fears because she loved him just they way he was for exactly who he was; she wouldn’t change anything about him.

“You did great, baby.” He grinned and pulled her into a bruising kiss.

“Come on.” He lead her inside, throwing a nonchalant “sup” to Carl the cashier as they passed.

They immediately began perusing the aisles looking at each record. Music was a passion they shared and they were constantly trading artists and playing random music they found in the rockbox. She liked to think she expanded his musical horizons, but deep down she knew that wasn’t true. He was a stubborn ass vampire and if he didn’t want to listen to something then he would just take the tape out and put in whatever he wanted.

“Paulie!” His head popped up and it reminded her of a gopher sticking its head out of a hole. She tried to hold in her giggle as he tilted his head in confusion.

“What?” She shook her head and focused back on the album in her hand.

“This song is very appropriate.” She said holding up the Police album Synchronicity.

“Which one?” He looked over the aisle to try and see what she was holding. 

“Every Breathe You Take.” She said pushing the album closer. It took him less than a second to recall the aforementioned song before he shot an award winning smile at her.

“Aww babe, you know we’re always watching you.” She gave him a deadpan look as his teasing grin only grew.

“Comforting.” Paul just shot her one last look before disappearing down another aisle.

“Oh, I like this one.” She called out to him holding up the Let’s Dance album. Whenever Bowie was played it always amped up the boys and made for a good night. Her and Paul could never stop themselves from dancing around the cave trying to get the boys to join in.

“Bowie, can’t go wrong with him.” He agreed. Her eyes trailed over the various album covers and fell on the red cover of Rebel Yell album by Billy Idol.

“Hey, this looks like David.” She grinned and held up the album. Paul let out a barking laugh and pointed in with a boisterous grin. Neither of them paid any mind to the other people in the store looking at them disapprovingly.

“You are so fuckin’ right! You should get that for him.” He agreed. She found his happiness infectious and stared at the album with a happy sigh.

“He is quite attractive.” She nodded before putting it with the others she had set aside. She knew the only reason she found him attractive was because he reminded her of David.

“You be sure to tell David how hot you find Billy Idol, I’m sure he’ll love that.” Paul giggled, surely imagining how the conversation would go. She merely rolled her eyes with a smile before continuing her record search.

“What about Fleetwood Mac?” She asked holding up the Rumors album. Paul looked over and scrunched his nose and shook his head, his jacket jingling at the movement. She could only think of how cute he looked, and she wanted to see him do it more. God, she loved him so much. She was tempted to continue suggesting albums she knew he would hate only so she could see that look on his face again.

“I think that’s an only you album babe. Maybe Star would listen with you. She seems into that hippie shit.”

“You guys kill me sometimes. No culture.” She shook her head at their lack of culture before putting album back.

“Psh, only had to happen to me once.” He grinned causing her to roll her eyes with an exasperated shake of her head.

They wandered separately for a while, continuously calling out to the other with an album held up to recommend it. She enjoyed these types of dates with any of the boys, where they were just chilling and spending time together, not necessarily doing anything particularly important.

“You can be my pretty young thing.” Paul teased sliding up behind her and motioning to the Thriller album in front of her. She wasn’t even surprised Michael Jackson was in his musical rotation despite looking like he just stepped off the Twisted Sister tour bus.

“You think I’m young?” She teased as he chuckled in her ear. He began absentmindedly mouthing at her neck, paying close attention to her pulse point.

“Compared to me everyone is young.” He reminded her.

“Somehow any sweet sentiment you meant has now been lost.” She said with a roll of her eyes and drop of her shoulders. Paul just giggled and playfully bit her neck before releasing her so he could continue browsing.

“I think everyone will like this one.” She grinned as she held up the cassette for Oingo Boingo’s Dead Man’s Party. “I fully admit that I am basing this entirely on the song titles.” She giggled. Paul read some of the titles: Dead Man’s Party, No One Lives Forever, Same Man I was Before, and grinned at her.

“Good choice babe. If not, they need to grow a sense of humor.” He agreed before pocketing it.

She flipped through each album trying to imagine if Paul would enjoy it and actually play it in the cave. She wanted to find the album that succinctly screamed Paul at her and she was prepared to be patient to find it.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” He asked coming up behind her and burying his face in her neck. He was very big on physical touch, second only to Marko, and usually found some way to be always touching her whenever they were out.

“Oi, no peeking pretty boy. I’m trying to find the perfect album for you.” She gave the minimalist attempt at pushing him off causing him to let out a low chuckle right into her ear. 

“Appetite for Destruction is a great choice.” He mumbled, nipping at her skin. She sighed at the pleasure that flooded her body at his ministrations. He was always so in tune with her body and knew all the right spots to make her putty in his hands.

“Psh, too easy.” She shook her head.

“Besides, have you seen that one guys’ hair. He’s clearly copying me.” She had no idea who he was talking about, but she’d take his word for it.

“Sure, whatever helps you sleep during the day bud.” She laughed. Paul let a low growl and grinded his hips against her ass.

“I’ll tell you what’ll help me sleep like a baby.”

“Fuck.” She whispered dropping her head back against his shoulder. He knew how to turn her on in an instant and she wasn’t ashamed of it.

She was quickly spun around before his lips urgently pressed against hers. She fisted the lapels of his jacket, the coins jingling at the movement, and pulled him closer pressing every bit of him against her. She happily met his tongue with her own as he harshly gripped her hips. He pressed his growing erection against her and swallowed her wanton moan before pulling back and trailing kisses down her neck. He dragged his tongue across her skin and grinned at the goosebumps that followed.

“You drive me absolutely crazy, baby.” He groaned giving a shallow thrust as he continued sucking and biting into her skin. She could feel his fangs had begun to emerge.

“Paul…” Her voice carried a warning but it was also sultry and dripping with lust.

“What do you say we get out of her before we give these people too much of a show.” He mumbled as his fangs lightly dragged across her skin. She grinned and nodded, laughing as he all but yanked her out the door.

[two-red-lungs]

Hi, I've been goingthrough your blog and fics and tbh I am OBSESSED, you write so well aaaaa, I love to see it (Lost Boys fanclub hell yeah)

If you're taking requests, could you maybe do Eddie hearing you singing in a stairwell/somewhere you think you're alone and offering to let you jam with his band? This concept has been corroding my brain for the past 24 hrs sngsbs

Hope you're having a good day & thank you!

Haha yesss I’m glad you are enjoying my writing ♥ I actually have a Lost Boys fic WITH Eddie in the works! And YES I can totally write a lil’ drabble about singer reader! Ask and you shall receive.

Little Songbird (Eddie/Singer!Reader Drabble)

The sweat and sticky, sour smell of old beer clung to you like a second skin. The little hole-in-the-wall in the Hawkins basement was dingy, dark, and shitty. Not exactly a 5-star concert hall. But it got the job done: it was shadowy, most people looked the other way, and bored seniors and post-graduates flocked there for the cheap beer and mediocre entertainment. 

There were several bands in the capital of Buttfuck Nowhere, Indiana. Very few of them were good. Your ears were still ringing from the last band’s screaming amps, cranked up so loud they were decibels away from blowout. 

Whatever. The guitarist had been good, fingers moving like lightning, coaxing solos from the metal strings. He was also hot, in a bad-boy way, but you were too tired and mildly tispy to be really ruminating on it.

You sat down hard on the grimey concrete steps in the alleyway outside the makeshift club, the distant parking lot light faint as you slowly unlaced your boots, starting to exchange them for more comfortable walking shoes for the trek home. In the distance you heard people ferrying equipment out from the front, closing down fo the night under the midnight-blue, star-studded sky. 

It was nice, the cool one AM air on your face. You hummed under your breath as you picked at a shoelace knot, hearing they keyboard in your head. Hearing the humming electric guitar plucking alongside it, drums kicking in. 

“I wanted to be with you along,” You warbled out softly, “and talk about the weather. But traditions I can trace against the child in your face, won’t escape my attention.” 

One boot off, one to go. The sweat made everything stick. A distant, far off owl hooted, alone in the night, just like you. You continued to sing. When you got our other boot off, setting the to the side and starting to shove on your tennis shoes, you threw your head back for the chorus.

“Something happens and I’m head over heels, I never find out until I’m head over heels!”

Songbird, your friends and family used to call you teasingly. Singing for the church’s choir when you were younger, and quitting when the young-adult self awareness started to kick in, now only letting the words drift out when you were alone, dancing to records in your room with a hairbrush as a microphone.

Your grandmother had always told you not to waste your talent. But this was Hawkins, Indiana. There wasn’t exactly anything to do with it here, was there?

“Ah, don’t take my heart don’t break my heart, don’t, don’t throw it away!”

The sharp clapping sent you shooting up off your concrete seat, heart hammering in your ears. You looked around wildly, mouth slamming shut tighter that a steel trap, wide-eyed.

Your stomach turned to ice when you finally differentiated the dark, shadowed silhouette of a man from the shadows of brick alleyway wall. He pushed off of it, hands held up as he stepped into the light.

It was him. The guitarist. Distant fluorescent light cast his wild, rock-and-roll hair in a halo of gold, reflecting off the chains on his jacket. His eyes were dark. His smile was big, warm and real. 

“Whoa.” he said through a grin. “Easy. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You put a hand to your chest, catching your breath. “You did anyway. Jesus. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

He cocked his head, observing you. Tucking his hands into his tight jean pockets and scuffing the dirty ground with a shoe, clearly mulling. “You know...” he said eventually, drawing a bit closer. You tensed. “You, uh. You've got a pretty good set of pipes. Do you do sets here?” He jerked a thumb back to the door behind you.

You shook your head vehemently, tucking boots into your bag. “Oh, no. No, I don’t, um. I don’t perform in front of people. At all.” You chuckled weakly, embarrassment starting to creep over the initial shock. “You weren’t supposed to hear any of that, actually.”

He snapped into action, dramatically gasping and bringing his ring-covered fingers to his mouth. “You’re kidding. Seriously. Seriously, you sound like that and you’re not signing up for gigs? Did you get dropped on your head as a kid or some shit?”

You laughed despite yourself. “I’m not that good.”

His dramatics went up another notch. He waved his hands. “Blasphemy. My ears are burning. This is heresy, what you’ve just said. Pure, unadulterated heresy.”

“Hey, dickbag!” A man called from the far distant parking lot. “Get back here and help us fucking pack!” 

The guitarist winced, gesturing vaguely behind me. “I should, uh, probably get going. The old ball and chain is calling me.” He hesitated for a second, looking like he was working up the courage for something, the tip of his pink tongue trapped between his lips. In a jerky movement he closed the distance between you two, sticking a hand out a little awkwardly. “Eddie. Munson. Guitarist for Corroded Coffin.”

You blinked, taking his hand. Soft. Warm and calloused. A little clammy. “I figured.” When he raised his brows, you clarified. “That you were the guitarist. You know, considering you were up on stage like, twenty minutes ago, with a guitar.”

Not it was his turn to smile. It was brilliant, megawatt, lighting up his eyes. “Yeah.” He said, still grinning. “Yeah, that, uh. That does track. Listen...” he scratched the back of his neck, shifting his weight around. “We’re gonna be warming up this Friday at around five. Like an hour before opening? If you’re free, you should totally show up. I’d- we’d- love to jam with you. No pressure, but, uh. Yeah. It would be cool.”

It would be so easy to say no. You’d been saying it, when it came to singing, for years now. But there was something about that soft, oval face, the way his fingers fidgeted with themselves. The shyness, incongruous with his heavy metal visage: it made you want to say yes.

“...Yeah.” Is what you settled on. “Yeah, um. If I have time. Sure.”

That million-dollar smile was back.

“Munson!” A new male voice was shouting. “We’re gonna leave without you!”

Eddie was already backing up, shoes scraping on the uneven ground, making him nearly trip. “I’ll see you,” he said, pointing at you, “around. Soon. Okay? Good?”

You chuckled again. “Good.”

He was grinning and scrambling for the mouth of the alley, bursting into the light. That damnable smile never faded.

Wind whistled through the narrow street, cold and refreshing. You looked to the stars. “Corroded Coffin, huh?” You muttered to yourself. 

Life felt like it was about to get a lot more interesting.

[srorgana1]

Into the Reverb (Kylo Ren/Reader)

Chapter Eight

You yawn as you reach for your coffee thermos. D’Acy has been prattling on about something or another for the last 5 minutes or so. Probably budget or finance based. You shift in your seat, trying to get more comfortable, willing yourself to not go there. Do not think about it, you have already overanalyzed it to death.

He kissed you. He initiated. But why? Was it a heat of the moment thing or something more? You weren't sure. You wanted to text him on Sunday but you lost the nerve to. Now you will be forced to see the agent of your thoughts in all his muscled glory in two hours.

You jump at the sound of your name. “Sorry I missed that” you spit out quickly, embarrassed you missed what was being spoken about you. You look up with flushed cheeks to D’Acy. Her shoulders shake with silent laughter. “What I was saying Y/N, is that we are very impressed with your work with Ochi. We know he’s difficult to work with. But your hard work paid off, girlfriend. The EP is great and has been cleared for release at the end of the month" she says, smiling at you.

Your month drops in shock. You weren't expecting this type of praise. “Y/N, you have been doing really well” Chewie piped up “Your work with the Knights has been exceptional. They all say they love working with you.” Your whole body flushes as you stammer for words. “T-Thank you, wow, um thank you for that”. You cringe inside at your lack of words. You receive a warm smile from D’Acy as the conversation of the meeting shifts to other release dates.

—

Kylo runs a hand through his sweaty hair. It’s at that irritating stage, plenty long enough to hide his ears easily without trying but the front is in his eyes constantly. He huffs, wishing he had something to tie it up with. He and the Knights have been recording the final version of Never Giving Up. You are at the board behind the glass looking determined. You had them record the chorus a couple of times, each time using different vocal techniques and distortions. Kylo personally liked the version with the elongated fry scream at the end.

“Good job guys, I think we got it” you say through the speakers “Come on back and I’ll let you review them.” There’s a chorus of yeah and cools from the men around him. As he unhooks his Fender from the amp, he shifts his eyes to you. So beautiful. He wonders what you thought about what happened on Saturday. He wants to know if this isn’t just one sided.

As he walks in, he notices the only spot available is the chair next to you. How convenient. Smirking to himself, he settles in, placing one leg over the other and turns to you. You don’t meet his eyes. Something is wrong. Your normally expressive face seems impassive. His eyebrows crinkle as he stares.

“Ky? Ky!” Shit. “What?” he says, shaking his head as he meets five other sets of eyes. “Sorry” he grumbles “what did you say?” Kuruk smirked as Vic cleared his throat. “I said of the three choruses I liked the third one the most when we were in there. What do you think?”

Kylo rubs his hands down his face, annoyed and embarrassed. “I agree but let's listen to them, so we can make a combined decision?” Vic nods with a sly smile as he tosses him a water bottle. Damn he needs to pull it together.

They agree quickly and record the whole song in less than an hour. Ushar whoops at the end due to the adrenaline and they decide to keep it on the recording. The band chatters happily as they pack up the space deciding on dinner at the local cantina. “You coming, Kylo?” Kuruk says, slapping his shoulder. “No. Didn’t sleep well last night so I'm gonna crash” he says, not meeting his eyes. “Sure you are” Kuruk show-whispers with a wink. Kylo groans as he swats Kuruk’s hand away.

As he waves the guys off, he grabs his guitar case and steps into the room with you. “That went really well today” you say as you stare at the screen. He watches as your fingers move over the mouse and keyboard, saving and filing all their hard work safely away. “All thanks to you though” he says as he sits next to you.

A surprised expression crosses your face. “I’m serious Y/N, this shit is kickass because of you, we didn’t have this type of support at the First Order” he says, giving you a warm smile. You turn to him slightly in your chair as you take off your headphones. “Thanks Ky” you mumble, your eyes avoiding his. He moves his hand to your thigh to keep you steady.

He sees confusion swirling in your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he whispers. “I... you kissed me” you say softly. “Yeah, yeah I did. Is that a problem?” he says leaning in slightly. “I don’t know, but I…why me? I’m nothing special.” His eyes widened at that. He has the overwhelming need to settle your doubts and show how special you are.

He leans all the way and places a soft kiss on your lips, pulling back slowly to assess your response. Your cheeks are beautifully warm and your full lips slightly parted. “Lemme tell you how you are special” he mumbles as he cups your cheek and pulls you forward. He meets your lips with a strangled groan. Your lips are so soft and your taste is exquisite.

His grip on your thigh tightens as he feels your hands go to his chest. He feels himself harden as your fingers explore his wide shoulders. “You are amazing” He growls, kissing you harder. “Wickedly talented” Kiss “Sexy as hell." Moving quickly, he pulls you out of your chair and onto his lap. Your legs straddle him naturally as your arms lock around his neck, gasping softly. “It’s okay baby girl I got you” he whispers at your lips as he claims yours once again.

He continues his assault on your lips and neck. He loves the feeling on your soft skin under his tongue. You let out a low groan as he kisses you, your hips rotating slightly over him. His hands lock onto your hips, eyes flutter with pleasure.

He relishes the friction. He feels your fingers move into his hair as you rock your hips again. He nuzzles his nose to the side of your face. “Hmmm, baby girl you feel so good,” he groans, placing a kiss behind your ear.

“Kylo” you sigh, apparently just as affected as he is. “Yes baby?” he breathes, lips still at your neck. “What is this?” “Shh baby girl, it's okay, it's whatever you want it to be” he says as faces you. You move one hand back to his shoulder as you run the other through his hair. He hums as your nails scratch along his scalp. He clears his throat, focusing on your eyes. “Y/N, I really mean that. I like you and I'm interested in whatever you want this to be, if that’s okay with you?”

You don’t say anything for a minute or two. Kylo can literally see the wheels spinning in your head. He squeezes your hip in solitude. “You don't need to decide now, just let me know, okay" he says as he kisses your nose. “I don’t normally do stuff like this” you whisper, placing your forehead against his. His cheeks warm at your brutal honesty. It's another reason he’s attracted to you.

“Neither do I, I’m not like Kuruk” he retorts as he wraps his arms around you. He smiles at your giggle. “Yeah, him and Rae are a bit much.” he says, chuckles as he kisses you softly. “Totally agree with you there.”

Big thanks to my girls @asnackdriver @punk-in-docs @the-wayward-rose @thepilotanon @ladyzimmerman for their amazing support.