#ember's song spotlight

[portaltothevoid]

you're losing me part ii -- copia x reader

a/n: i was giggling and kicking my feet at the interest in part one so i hope you all enjoy part two of this lovely little angsty break-up scenario. many many thanks to everyone who read part one!

song inspiration: you're losing me & it's time to go by taylor swift

warnings: some angst, some fluff, a breakdown, hurt with comfort, inferred cheating, flashback

word count: 3.8k

read part one here

There was something about the spotlight you used to love. Maybe it was sharing it with your equal, your partner. The changing of the seasons meant lavish parties at your Ministry. You used to be filled with excitement to plan, to see the decorations change, to set intentions, even to socialize. Now, these celebrations filled you with nothing but dread and misery. 

The Mabon Ball was arguably one of your favorites and you vowed you would at least try to get back to your old self. Maybe you used it as an excuse to distract yourself from everything going wrong in your relationship. Maybe you were using it as a way to help its smoldering embers reignite. 

There were moments leading up to the ball that were reminiscent of the beginning, when you knew Terzo was so smitten with you. And only you. It was enough to fool yourself into thinking things could work and everything would be okay again, as it once was. When Mabon finally came, as you both were getting ready, he even commented on your shift in demeanor, how you had softened. You only glared at him because of loving annoyance at his antics and teasing. He liked this side of you. Of course, this all happened in the privacy of your living space. Your attitude blazed like hellfire every time you saw his touchy flirting with another. The storms in your eyes returned as you glared at him.

No matter what happened tonight, you braced yourself. You wanted to talk to him. You wanted to bare your feelings. Every instinct told you to wait until after Mabon. Your offering would be to reveal why you would had been lashing out and then distancing yourself. There was nothing you hated more than confrontation, no matter how civil it was. Well, maybe except for being lied to.

The feast had your hopes up high. You both talked to those around you as a unit. You were included in the conversations. There was laughter, there were shared looks and smiles between the two of you. 

The butterflies in your stomach whispered to you that there was hope. You wanted to believe the glisten in his distinctive eyes was for you. It wasn’t just from the wine or because of the stolen glances he took of certain others near him… repetitively. No. Things had been going so well. This old, familiar ache in your body was left over from unaddressed past wounds. It wasn’t from when you had felt your heart and soul break before. They couldn’t be calling out to you now, warning you, whispering to you the pulse had faded. No. This was to be a wonderful night, a joyous celebration.

Digging your nails into this delusion, you savored every moment of the first dance of the evening. The one he always saved for you. The first dance, arguably the most important one, was customary for Papa and his beloved. Just the two of you on the dance floor. His contrasting eyes never strayed from you, never faltered. You saw how they shined with love and affection. At least, that was the first half of the dance. During the second part higher members of The Clergy were invited to dance with you both. Even then, he never took his eyes off you. 

He wasn’t putting on a show. That smoldering gaze wasn’t just for the tradition of the evening’s starting dance. He would make his way back to you. Now that you both were to go off and mingle amongst your Brothers and Sisters, he would make his way back home to you. He would find you. Wouldn’t he? 

As he bowed to you and moved throughout the crowd, you watched him for as long as you could. You felt yourself start to slip off the precipice of this delusion. 

You mingled. You smiled. You laughed. Almost every person in attendance could never have guessed that your soul, your heart, was breaking as you looked to the outskirts of the room. Time slowed when you caught sight of him. You saw his telltale smirk, his hand wandering down a fellow Sister’s back. You knew exactly what that meant. As you turned back to your conversation you ignored the snaps from the breaks, from the wounds, that were calling out to you. No. It wasn’t time to go, not yet. The pulse grew even quieter, but it was still there.

But even so, it happened again. You saw that same smirk from across the room. This time, a gloved finger traveled sensually across another Sister’s shoulders then trailed down her arm, until he grabbed her hand to pull her through a different side door. That smirk turned into a devilish grin. One you knew all too well. 

You felt the breaking of your soul. The snaps, so much louder this time. Your face faltered. Whoever you were listening to drone on about something frivolous, missed it. They didn’t know you, not the real you. Unbeknownst to you, there was someone who saw, who also heard the snapping sound. The only other person in the room who you had let in, who truly knew you.

Excusing yourself, you left. You went to catch your breath in the restroom, which praise be to Satan, was empty. The person you saw staring back at you, this current version of yourself, was so unfamiliar. It was as if you could see the breaks, the wounds that had been torn open. They covered you. They were beyond repair. You shook your head, trying to rid the thoughts from your mind. 

No. It wasn’t time to go. Not yet. You held your head high as you went to return to the party. You dug your nails so deep as you clung to the edge of your delusion, you could have sworn they were bleeding.  

You scanned the crowd, in search of him. A light tap on your shoulder stopped you. You never found him. 

“May I have this dance, Sorella?” Your face softened when you saw who vied for your attention. 

“Certo, Cardinale,” you nodded, smiling tenderly as you took the hand he held out to you. You would never know how storms erupted in Terzo’s eyes when he stopped in his tracks on his way back to you. You would never know how he knew exactly what it meant as your face relaxed into a wistful bliss as you looked in the eyes of someone else. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen that look on your face. It made his heart ache.

As the Cardinal held you as you danced, you were barely hanging on to the edge of your delusion. You fought not to let go being this close to him, intensely aware of every centimeter of his touch. Letting go, falling into the arms of the Cardinal, felt like the right thing to do, but no. You couldn’t. It wasn’t time yet. There was a chance after tonight, you could save what you once had with Terzo. The pulse may be faint, but it was still there. Wasn’t it?

“Is everything alright, tesoro?” he asked softly.

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Why wouldn’t it be?” you laughed. You didn’t mean for it to come out as cold as it did. 

He sighed. “Must you always hide the truth under lock and key?” This was the one person you couldn’t lie to. Hiding your emotions here was nothing but a fruitless endeavor. 

“I have to…” you told him, letting the pain flash on your face for just a moment before you stuffed it away as you averted your eyes from his and turned in time with the music.

His only response was to pull you closer to him. You knew exactly what he was telling you. It’s okay. I’m here, I’ve got you. A sad smile perched on your lips. You held him tighter to let him know that you heard his actions, loud and clear. 

You turned once more. A good amount of guests had left the party, so it was even easier for movement along the perimeter of the banquet hall to catch your eye. A door opened and of course you just had to look as you saw him. He was pulling a ghoul by their belt loops into this room of secrets. You had a sudden, sharp intake of breath. You swore you saw his white eye lock with yours. A challenging look dawned on his face, but he slyly directed it up at the ghoul in front of him. 

The Cardinal turned you away from the scene as soon as he saw the look on your face. His face darkened when his similarly mismatched eyes saw what you had. That was the moment that you let go. You couldn’t hear the pulse anymore; it was gone. That final blow crushed any glimmer of hope, any chance you thought you had at saving your relationship with Terzo. That was when you knew. Yes. It was time to go.

~~~~~

Furiously you wiped the tears away from your face. You had to stay strong for just a little bit longer. If you started crying now, you feared you wouldn’t stop and the last thing you needed was to crumple in the middle of the hallway where the seniors members of the church lived. 

The Cardinal only lived one floor down from you, but the walk to the elevator alone felt excruciatingly drawn out. The whole time, a part of you hoped you’d hear someone running behind you shouting your name. This had been a long time coming. You had been searching for a pulse for far too long in that relationship. Your heart had been torn out and shredded too many times to count. You gave him everything you had, while he gave you nothing.

Still fighting back tears, you bit your lip as you raised your hand to knock on the door. You paused to hear the commotion coming from inside.

“Ow! Questo è il mio dito, non un giocattolo di masticare!” he yelped. “Basta! Torna nella tua gabbia. Ow! Cannoli! Brutto topo!” (That’s my finger, not a chew toy! That’s it! Back in your cage… bad rat!)

You shook your head as you lightly chuckled. Somehow he could always make you laugh. Finally you knocked on the door. 

“Sei fortunato ad essere carino, eh?” you heard him mumble as he made his way to the door. (You’re lucky you’re cute.)

When he opened the door to find you standing there, his eyes lit up. As he took the sight of you, your eyes brimming with tears, your lip quivering from trying to hold back sobs, the bag over your shoulder, concern flooded his features. Without a moment’s hesitation he ushered you into his room. 

Gently, he grabbed you by the wrist to pull you inside, guiding you with a strong hand on your shoulder. Just as the door clicked shut, you let your bag slide off your shoulder, hitting the ground with a thud. He placed both hands on your shoulders now, looking for a sign of what exactly happened, if there was any physical damage. You could only look up at him through your watery eyes. “I-it’s over. It’s o-over,” you managed to get out before sobs wracked your entire body. This… this was the moment when the floodgates truly opened. 

Months and months worth of tears you had held back started to pour down your face. All you could do was reach your arms around his waist and hold on to him tightly, like he was your only lifeline, the only thing left tethering you to this world. Burying your face in his chest, you finally, finally allowed yourself to drown in the waves that had been threatening to take you down. 

Guilt. Betrayal. Remorse. Regret. Fear. Pain. Loss. One after the other, crashing down on you like you were in the eyewall of a hurricane. 

“How could he do this to me? Why did I ever love him? Why didn’t he ever just choose me? Why did I let it go on for so long?” you lamented brokenly through your breakdown.

He gave you time to feel, to let out as much as you could. He knew how much you bottled up everything inside. The only thing he could do for you at that moment was hold you tightly and tenderly stroke your hair while choking back tears of his own. 

You would never, ever let anyone see you cry. Displaying this level of emotion in front of anyone was unknown to you. The only time you ever did it was when you were alone. Terzo had never seen you cry like this and you had been with him for a few years at this point. Granted, the only times you ever cried this much recently was because of him. 

Even when you had first found him with someone else, you managed to pull yourself together when the Cardinal… when Copia had offered you a safe haven for the first time. In front of him you immediately transmuted your sorrow into rage. But here? Now? Sorrow took center stage.

You couldn’t do this alone anymore. You couldn’t fight your battles without anyone by your side. You couldn’t fight for anyone else. You needed someone to fight for you. You just needed someone to hold you, someone that loved you, truly loved you.

After every fight, after everything you had gone through, you rose from the ashes. You were exhausted. All you wanted was to lay here in the ruin of what once was so you could process what happened, so you could mourn. You were finally ready to let someone else in, to let someone else take care of you.

Eventually, he stepped in when you were sobbing so much you couldn’t catch your breath. He adjusted you so you were looking at him. His hands moved to cup your face. “Breathe, cara. You need to breathe. Breathe with me,” he instructed as he over exaggerated his breathing in order for you to mimic it. Soon enough, you had calmed down. Wiping your tears away with his thumbs, he nodded. “There, that’s better. We sit now, si?”

Sniffling, you brought your hand up to cover his, leaned into his touch, and nodded. He led you to the couch. You took a seat on one end, your back up against its arm as you hugged your knees up to your chest. He motioned he would be right back while your eyes drifted around his small apartment. They landed on Cannoli’s cage. You swore the little rat was staring at you, it’s little paw holding the bars as if he also wanted to make sure you were okay. You couldn’t help but crack the slightest smile.

Copia rushed back into the room, juggling a bottle of wine in one arm, a box of tissues in the other, a glass of water in one hand, and two wine glasses in the other. You let out a breathy laugh through your nose at the sight of him. Reaching up, you took the glasses from his hands, placing them on the coffee table in front of you, keeping the glass of water as you chugged half of it. Then you grabbed a tissue, not realizing how badly you needed to blow your nose. 

After pouring the wine, he placed himself right next to you. You sighed as he handed you your glass. Once you downed half of it, you set it in front of you. Already, it had felt like a massive weight had been lifted off your shoulders. You curled up into his side, swinging your legs into his lap and nuzzled your head into him. He wrapped his arm around you. The two of you stayed like that for a few moments just listening to the sounds of each other's breathing and the chirping crickets coming through the open window behind you. 

“Do you, uh, want to talk about what happened?” he asked quietly, breaking the silence. 

You hesitated for a second. “I… I’m sorry for what I said when I was, um, wailing. I didn’t mean to–”

He shifted to look at you. “Sorry? Sorry for what?! There is nothing you have to be sorry for,” he scolded. He sounded more taken aback that you even felt it was a necessary thing to say. 

“I just… didn’t know if that put you in an awkward position… You know, me sobbing over my now ex to you even though we have this thing…”

“Dolcezza, we’ve had this talk before. You’re allowed to feel what you feel. I… I’ve been here the whole time. Waiting for you, yes. But… you had to reach this point on your own. You knew I’d be here waiting for you when you did, hm?” he said adoringly as he brushed stray hairs away from your eyes. You nodded as you wrapped your arms around him as you nestled your head against him. “So now will you tell me what happened after the party?” he whispered affectionately as he traced the tattoos covering your forearm.

“He acted like nothing had happened. He asked about how great the party was. Completely casual. Just the sight of him alone, never mind him trying to hold my waist, was just… revolting. So. I was a sarcastic bitch to him,” you paused and let out a dry chuckle. “And then he had the nerve to ask me why I was being like that. So I snapped. I told him everything. How the spotlight changed him,” Copia couldn’t help but scoff at that, “how I went on the backburner… How I just wanted him to see me...”

“Does he know about… about us?” he questioned cautiously.

“He threw it in my face that he knew why I didn’t go home some nights. I told him I went where I actually felt wanted and loved. And I made sure to point out how you’ve kept everyone’s secrets.”

“So you… told him it was me you were with?” His question sounded more like a statement.

You held back a wince as you felt his body tense. You nodded. “When we were dancing… and we saw him go– I know he saw me… saw us… He already had his suspicions.”

“And now he has confirmation. You know more than anyone else that he can't be trusted!” he spoke harshly.

You moved so you could look at him. You placed your hand on his cheek as you made him look at you. “And we have the upper hand. We know he knows. There’s no way he can bring us down without bringing himself down too.”

He knitted his eyebrows with worry as he took your hand away from his face, but he never let go of it. Silence fell between you both once more. You couldn’t stop replaying the memories in your head. The flash of jealousy in his face when he saw you dancing with Copia. The broken look on his face as you confessed everything. Tears started to pool in your eyes again. He did love you. He still did. He was just incapable of showing it. Then you remembered how you looked in the mirror of the bathroom during the party. When you saw yourself in the closet mirror before you left. A shell of your former self. He turned you into something you didn’t even recognize. There was no use holding back the tears.

Your sniffles got Copia’s attention. “Cara? Oh, non, non, I’m not upset with you! We will figure–”

“I just miss who I used to be. I miss being… happy,” you said, your voice cracking. “How could I have l-loved someone who– who turned me into… into a monster?” you asked, your voice dropping into a whisper of disbelief.

“A monster?! Cara mia, how can you think that?” Copia was appalled that you would even dare think something like that of yourself. If he didn’t see red before, he was now.

“Because I’m just like him! I cheated on him too! Not even Lucifer would pardon–”

Copia shot up and turned you to him. Your tear stained face broke his heart. “Listen to me. Lucifer would celebrate what you did. You didn’t do it out of malice. You didn’t do it because you couldn’t help yourself. Your relationship had ended long before we were together. And you accepted that tonight. You stood up for yourself. You even said it yourself, you needed what he stopped giving you. You are no monster. He’s the monster for making you think these things about yourself. And I will do whatever it takes to make sure that… that dickhead knows it.”

You looked up at him as he defended you. As he spoke the truth you needed to hear. This was the love you not only needed, but deserved. 

You reached your arms up around his neck and pulled yourself into his lap. You held his head between your hands and you leaned down to kiss him with nothing but passion and love. As the kiss deepened, you realized this was exactly where you meant to be. Everything that had happened led to this point. Every moment with Copia was one you would cherish. You would do anything for him as he would do anything for you. 

When you parted to catch your breath, you leaned your forehead on his. You stared into his two-toned eyes. “I love you,” you said softly. For a brief second, Copia looked shocked at your sudden confession, but he knew you meant it with every fiber of your being. “Sei la miglior cosa che mi sia capitata,” you added breathlessly. (You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.) And without another word, he whisked you away to his bed.

It wasn’t long after you arguably had the best sex of your life, that you had drifted off into a blissful and peaceful slumber. Copia’s mind, on the other hand, was reeling. He reached for his phone on the nightstand beside him, careful not to wake you. He went to his messages and found Sister Imperator. 

It is time we take care of the Terzo problem. Immediatamente. He typed and hit send.

He put his phone back and watched you sleep, softly stroking your hair. You stirred, but only to snuggle closer to him. He was going to give you the world. And he was going to stop at nothing to avenge you.

tag list: @ivycasket @da-rulah @water-ghoulette @fishwithtitz

part i | part iii

[doodlesdreaming]

Late night self indulgent drabble incoming. (Heavely inspired by @zoanluen 's Dance with the Dead AU)

************************************

The boy couldn't believe it actually worked. He thought he'd get caught for sure, but here was Theo, experiencing his first live-in concert, while practically hanging from the rafters of the ceiling. His tail wrapped tightly around the steel beam to keep his balance.

The show was everything he imagined it would be. The band members themselves were just as spectacular in person. The lead guitarist, energetic and as wild as his massive mane of hot pink hair, almost seemed on fire thanks to the spotlights. The pianist, hyper focused and mysterious, his blue skin giving him an ethereal glow on stage. And there's the drummer, keeping the beat in robotic sense that made it very clear how much they rehearsed for the act.

Their music was as enchanting as it was heart-pounding. Rhythms of a time, of a world, long dead and buried. A ghost that refused to be laid to rest. It stirred an unexplainable longing in Theo's chest. A fire wanting to take wing and burn the night sky until the stars are as bright as the sun itself.

Watching the performance, Theo’s eyes burned its ember glow. The Firebird desperately yearning to rise her song, and to dance with the dead....

[alasse-earfalas]

It is done. I present:

the Fierce Deity Links playlist!

idk why Sick Puppies is still in the thumbnail, I removed that song but oh well

Basic concept here is: the OG Fierce Deity mask is actually a mask of ascended Sky. So what if there were similar masks of the other Links?What would their "Fierce Deities" be like?

Track list under the break. :)

Time: My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark by Fall Out Boy

I've got the scars from tomorrow and I wish you could see That you're the antidote to everything, except for me [...] In the end everything collides My childhood spat back out the monster that you see

Twilight: Not Gonna Die by Skillet

This is how it feels when you take your life back This is how it feels when you finally fight back When life pushes me I push harder What doesn't kill me makes me stronger

Warriors: The Resistance by Skillet

I am a nation, I am a million faces Formed together, made for elevation I am a soldier, I won't surrender Faith is like a fire that never burns to embers

Four: The War Inside (Spotlight Remix) by Switchfoot

Yeah, it's where the fight begins Yeah, underneath the skin Beneath these hopes and where we've been Every fight comes from the fight within

Wind: Ruthlessness from EPIC: The Musical

In all my years of living It isn't very often that I get pissed off I try to chill with the waves But damn, you crossed the line

Wild: The Phoenix by Fall Out Boy

Wearing our vintage misery No, I think it looked a little better on me I'm gonna change you like a remix Then I'll raise you like a phoenix

Legend: Legendary by Skillet

Never gonna keep me down (never keep me) Still the one that's standin' now (never falling) Destiny is callin' me, go down in history Every day, I'll fight to be legendary!

Hyrule: Feel Invincible by Skillet

Here we go again, I will not give in I've got a reason to fight Every day we choose We might win or lose This is the dangerous life

Sky: Say My Name by Divide Music

I will stand in the face of any danger No stranger to an obstacle I'm the force pushing back on any wager To the place that I call my home You'll soon meet your fated demise

[pransesdp]

Please tell us more about your newest OTP, Ghostwriter x Ember~

*rubs hands* Ayyyy here we go!~

Now, Ghostwriter x Ember started off as something that mildly intrigued me as I explored other peoples' pages/ship opinions; after lowkey getting bored of the same ol' Skulker/Ember (& just never really vibing with the other "popular" options like Danny/Ember lol), I couldn't help thinking of who else could possibly fit such a spunky firecracker like her? 🤔

...and then, it hit me when I remembered the presence of the reclusive, hot-headed Ghost Writer; one who was so passionate about his work & creativity that nothing will stop him from writing a good story (*even if others like Danny gotta suffer 'cause yknow... villain lol*)

Putting both of them together just got me thinking more about GW & Ember's dynamic potential; Ember finally getting some love & attention that's not solely-focused on her rockstar persona, GW finding an equally-artistic soul who'd gladly listen on & on about his stories (+helping to inspire new ideas for songs)... and just all-in-all having a good time vibing with eachother, supporting eachother's creative pursuits at their own paces, but at the end of the day still having the time to connect & vibe together no matter where they are (whether its out in the spotlight, chillin' at home, annoyingly mushing it up at the local cafes, etc. etc.)

Soooo yee, that should about cover for why these two are an OTP rn~ ;p ❤️‍🔥💜

[princematcha]

(till i) run with you

bakugou katsuki x fem!reader

contains: rdr gets called ‘girl’ once, no real gendered terms or pronouns other than that, rdr does wear a dress, mostly sfw save for some cussing and nsfw related jokes, drug mentions (mary wanna) and alcohol mentions(and usage??), everyone’s bi including rdr, rdr is in grad school and bkg has graduated, not edited 

a/n: sorry i listened to too many 60′s and 70′s songs and started thinking abt a band au, let’s say xmen days of future past au because i wanted to keep mina pink

wc: 2369 words

Smoke billows out of your mouth as you stare off toward the pretty girl on the drums. Big pink curls held back by a black and white gingham hair band, hazy spotlight shining on her giving a halo. Sweat drips down the side of her forehead when she hits the hi-hat, you can see her arms flexing through her loose bell sleeves from across the bar.

She spins a drumstick on one of her pink knuckles, yellow irises flashing up to you with a wink. Normally you’d feel a touch embarrassed to get caught staring. You recognize most of the group from campus, anyone’s eye would get attracted to something nice to look at in class. Quickly looking away if any of them accidentally looked in your direction. But tonight you ash your joint in the tray on the tacky bartop next to you, smiling at her. You’ll have to thank Camie for the smoke-flavored courage.

Camie dances closer to the stage, her silk green slip dress swaying and rising along with her arms. A tactical, well-thought-out move. She told you she was trying to take one of the band members home tonight, “any one of ‘em will do, if I can get more though…” she winked before you left her dorm earlier. You think she probably has the blond guy on keys in her pocket. You should probably call dibs before she gets the girl too. 

As the orange embers creep closer to your fingers, you put out the roach and go back to watching the band. Looking at the stage is like peering through calcium-stained glass, a warm combination of smoke and the old spotlights from the theatre next door makes the whole room hot. 

The redhead looks like he’s putting his whole soul into the guitar, dark eyebrows furrowed and eyes squeezed shut. His sweat-soaked white button-up does nothing to hide the finely cut body beneath it. The greek god of a man, some textbook you read last week probably contained a sculpture resembling this holy display. Suspenders straining over his broad shoulders. Is it legal for an entire group to be this foxy?

Camie’s boy hasn’t stopped making eyes at her ever since she grooved her way to the front. A real pretty boy, you could see your hands running through his golden hair, see if that black zig-zag over the side was natural. You’ll see if Camie’s in a sharing mood tonight. Though you’re not sure if you are, you sure do love the drums.

Your eyes trail behind the greek god and land on the bass player. You’re not sure how you missed him, though the sticky sweet of Gimlet in your throat answers that for you. Bright, deep red eyes burn in your direction. Is he looking at you? Nah, you glance towards the top shelf bourbon and whiskey behind you, sweaty man probably wants a stiff one. 

And it might be the gin speaking for you, but it almost looked like he smirked when you met his eye. With the mean look and scrunched bridge, he also could’ve had an itchy nose.

Sweaty, but still– pretty. You didn’t think you could say pretty so many times in a song, but tonight’s full of firsts. Big calloused hands pluck at the strings of the bass, muscles flexing with every move. You’ve never seen a man look so beautiful in a tight orange sweater-tee, showing off a slim waist tapered into black slacks. 

Pink hair winked at you first though, and you’re a sucker for a drummer. 

(Unless there’s a compelling offer.)

When their set is over, Camie is quick to lay game down hard and sweet on the pretty boy from the keys. Denki, she purred to you as she passed, her hand squeezing your thigh before leading him to the end of the bar. Denki’s eyes glued to her the whole way down. 

You watch as the girl heaves a large case with ease on top of one of the speakers, deciding now is a good chance to talk her up.

“What are ya drinkin?”

The sudden gruff voice next to your ear makes you jump, slipping straight off of the bar stool. You look to the side and the bassist is sitting on the rickety, rust-colored stool next to yours. And he dwarfs the seat in a way that makes it look a bit too small for him. It’s much darker on this side of the venue, not to mention he looked much smaller on that stage. Almost intimidating when he’s right in front of you.

He leans towards you, eyes like a lion circling- side of his mouth twitching when you move your head away from him but your feet force you to stand your ground, “Know what you’re smokin,” he chuckles, low and rumbly, “Good grass from what I can tell.”

You scoot back onto your stool, looking for any sense of composing yourself even as you can feel him picking you apart in his mind. You smile and hold his eye contact as you grab your glass, wet from condensation, and swallow the rest of the drink. “Nothing anymore,” you remark. You slip some green under the cup and turn back around to see if you can chase, but something is pinching the back of your white dress. 

You squint at him, “Let go, bass boy.”

He turns his head to the side, “Bakugou.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let go, Bakugou.” He says.

The name Bakugou does something for you. What was it? The disk jockey places a new record on the player as your brain flickers through the files that hold Bakugou.

He looks you up and down with little decorum as your thoughts stall, grinning when recognition snaps into place in your eyes.

First year of uni. Teacher’s assistant that everyone had a crush on. Mean as all hell, but a gift straight from God’s ass as a tutor.

The first time you got something below a B in your statistics course, you stared at his beat-up loafers while asking what days he has free TA hours because you were terrified to look him in the eyes. 

You turn to him fully and he releases you, waiting to see how you respond. 

“Bakugou?” You stare at him and he flicks his gaze over your face, “What the fuck?”

It’s been almost five years— still the hot TA in your mind though. Sitting in study rooms while he nudged you for the next question and you steeling your will to pretend he wasn’t the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. That’s fresh in your mind as well. Still true. 

God, he’s fuckin fit. 

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” 

You move to snap at him, but falter when he takes your glass and tilts his head back to take one of the ice cubes. Watching as he swirls it over his tongue, then crunches it in his molars. 

“Ah,” Bakugou grunts, “Look who’s drinking hard spirits like a big girl.”

You find yourself sitting on the stool before you know it. 

(You’re too focused on the bartender stirring your drink with precision to see the drummer walk by with a wink to Bakugou and a brunette on her arm. He’s blushing when you glance back at him.)

You laugh as you press your temple to your palm, elbow sticking to the counter, almost empty drink in your hand. You don’t remember Bakugou being quite the conversationalist, but you have no complaints now. 

“How did you even recognize me?” You gesture to yourself, ice cubes swirling in the glass, “And then why would you come over, I don’t think I was that interesting to tutor— unless I was your worst student. Don’t answer that.”

He snorts at that, grabbing your drink out of your hand and placing it back on the wood, “Don’t sell yourself short.” Bakugou nods to the now empty stage, “And you weren't my worst, fuckin idiot on keys was hell on wheels to teach.”

You snicker and point loosely to distant corners of the bar, “I swear some other alums you tutored were here too.” 

You look over at him again, but he’s already facing you. Eyes on yours, but not in that burning, fiery way like earlier. It’s just warm now, something to swirl and get lost in. You find yourself leaning towards him but you swear it’s not because of him. You’re just a little tipsy, you think. Bakugou presses towards you as well, at the same slow drifting pace of the music. 

You stop when his knee hits the plastic leather of your stool, his figure nearly looming over yours. 

“Maybe I came over-”

“Because I never gave you back that watch?”

“—because someone wouldn’t stop eyefucking my band.”

You fling back like a rubber band when he whispers, spine straight as a rod. He smiles at your expression, a mean glint in his eye. 

“I absolutely was not.”

“Really?” He asks. You were never much of a liar. 

But there’s no point in not trying. “Really.” 

“So you weren’t hitting on Mina?” You stare at him so he tries again, “My drummer.”

You blink at him for a second before turning around and taking in the people you could see around the place, “Oh my god the drummer.”

He made you lose the drummer. Bakugou cackles like a hyena at your despair. 

(He buys you a basket of fries at the diner next door as an apology. Though he does eat half of them which lessened the sentiment in your opinion.)

You stare at the concrete of the paved paths weaving through the campus as you and Bakugou walk side by side back to the dorms. It’s quiet and shiny with early morning dew as you make your way back. 

He told you that he was walking you back to the dorms while you were hopping down the steps of the diner. You had no real complaints, you had a feeling that you might’ve woken up next to the university mascot’s statue if he didn’t accompany you. 

Though now you’re not sure how to feel. The warmth radiating off of your cheeks and the man next to you makes you feel like you just finished a nice date. But that wasn’t a date. That was just- That was-

It was two old fri- Hm. Acquaintances? Associates? Teacher and student? That one makes you feel off. Teacher’s assistant and pal. You cringe. Pal?

Rattling off different ways in your head to define your relationship with Bakugou, you don’t notice him slowing down near your dorm building. He clears his throat when you’re a few feet ahead of him. 

“Oh!” You turn. 

You stare at him as he stands under the streetlamp in front of the dorms. The background seems to crumble away the longer you take him in. The soft light blond of his hair looks heavenly at this time between night and day. Cold air nipping at his cheeks. He looks heavenly in this time between night and day. 

You’re not bold or sober enough to invite him up. 

So you guess this is goodbye for now. 

“So-”

“Breakfast tomorrow.” Bakugou pushes the words out of his mouth like they are boiling on his tongue. 

“What?” You rub your eyes to see if that will help you hear words that have already been said. 

“Hell. What day is it now? Today? Tomorrow? I don’t fuckin know when. As soon as possible.”

You’re not sure but you love whatever day today is.  

“I just,” you watch as he rocks from foot to foot, hands in his pockets. You never thought you’d see a nervous Bakugou. “It’s been a while and I-” He starts walking over and stops right in front of you. You’re too busy taking in the sight to even think of moving. “I just gotta see you again. If you’re okay with that. If you want.”

Something roils over in your stomach mixed with confusion. He’s gotta see you again?

If you were sober, you’d see the precious, delicate moment in your hands. A version of Bakugou you only ever got glimpses of when nights got a little too late in the library, when he came over to your dorm and you made him his favorite tea, keeping company and telling stories from your classes while he graded assignments. If you were sober you’d see the glimpse become a moment, enveloping the man as he is. 

But you aren’t. 

“Are you sweet on me?” You crinkle your nose and wag a finger at him. 

Bakugou is perplexed, with a hint of bewilderment. “Am I sweet on you? Are you- What! What else would I- A whole year of- How did you lose more of that brain the longer you were in school?”

You were too lost in how he interrupted himself several times, “What?”

“Yes,” He grits out, “I am.” Bakugou turns you around and starts pushing you toward your dormitory’s front door. 

“And I am going to be here in the morning to remind you because you’re drunk. And you’re not gonna remember a goddamn word I say, so listen to me when I say:”

He stops you abruptly and spins you around, hands warm on your shoulders, “If you say yes, I am taking you out and you’re going to fall the fuck in love with me and I am going to occupy all the empty spaces in your mind to make up for the years you put me through.”

You blink up at him. 

Bakugou grabs the key ring out of your hands, reaches behind you, opens the door, and walks you backwards inside. Placing the key ring back into your hand, he walks back to the door and gives you one look before he closes it, “It’s only fair.”

(He was right and you did wake up with very little memory of the night before. Breakfast with him was amazing though, good god the man can cook. So sweet of him to offer. You spilt hot coffee on your lap when he asked you to get dinner with him while he washed the dishes. You said yes.)

[stuffymcstuffsworld]

I'd dance again

They say that the entertainment industry is one of the most torturous environments to thrive from. Maybe that's why his sister found it so interesting. March takes a sip from his cup. His eyes wandered the club.

This wasn't exactly his usual scene, but he did like to make an occasional visit on certain nights. His brown eyes lock onto you as you enter. You look like pure sin as always.

All eyes watching your every move. You command the room with your presence. Brushing your hair over your shoulder as the spotlight finds you. The room falls silent as the music starts.

☆I ache for the touch of your lips, dear, but much more for the touch of your whips, dear. You can raise welts like nobody else, as we dance to the masochism tango.☆

Quick movements full of precision. The twist of your hips and the click of your heels as you strut towards him. He sets down his drink and reaches out.

Grasping your wrist and pulling you close. Eyes locked, March leans down and brushes his forehead against yours. He smirks.

☆Let our love be a flame, not an ember! Say it's me that you want to dismember!☆

A harsh snap of the wrist spins you away quickly. The way he follows after you, a lion stalking his prey. He snatches your waist, dipping you. Almost dropping you to the floor with the sudden movements.

You grip tightly to his tie. Your eyes glow in the dim lighting. You stroke his jaw, giving him a dazzling grin. He holds his breath.

☆Blacken my eye, set fire to my tie as we dance to the masochism tango.☆

Again, they part. Such a tease. A game of cat and mouse. The way you slinked across the floor. The moments of delicious pauses.

As if savoring every beat to the song. He wanted you. He always wanted you, especially on nights like this. In times like these.

☆At your command, before you here, I stand, my heart is in my hand. It's here that I must be.☆

You smirked, looking up at him with amused eyes. You step on his foot. He hissed his head, reeling. You laugh wickedly.

☆My heart entreats, just hear those savage beats, and go put on your cleats... and come and trample me.☆

March brushes his lips against your neck. Lingering on your pulse point. He can feel your rapid heartbeat fluttering against your skin.

☆Your heart is hard as stone or mahogany. That's why I'm in such exquisite agony. My soul is on fire, it's aflamed with desire! Which is why I perspire when we tango.☆

Your quick steps match the sharp notes of the violen. The two of you tango across the room. His tail curling around your hips. Your claws digging into his shoulder.

☆You caught my nose, in your left castanet, love. I can feel the pain yet, love, every time I hear drums.☆

You pluck a rose from a random vase, placing it in between your teeth. Raising an eyebrow at him. He feels his heart flutter. Little minx.

He grips your jaw. His own nails dig into your cheeks. He watches your teeth clench tighter on the stem. The delicious sight of your blood made him want you more.

☆And I envy the rose that you held in your teeth love, with the thorns underneath love. Sticking into your gums!☆

You slap him and spit out the flower. He places a hand over his stinging cheek. Wiping away his drool. You really understood what he desires most.

He pulls off his belt and uses it like a whip. It strikes against your shoulder. The welts swell along your skin.

☆Your eyes cast a spell that bewitches! The last time I needed twenty stitches! To sew up the gash that you made with your lash, as we dance to the masochism tango!☆

Your dance becomes more destructive. More violent. It's an addictive feeling to behold. He yanks your hair harshly and you bite his ear.

☆Bash in my brains, and make me scream with pain. Then kick me once again, and say we'll never part.☆

He trips you and drags you across the floor. You scramble up to your feet and shove him towards a wall. Pressing your body against his.

☆I know too well, I'm underneath your spell. So darling, if you smell something burning, it's my heart.☆

The dance ends just as quickly as it starts. You both stand outside, catching your breath. You reach into your pocket, pulling out a packet of cigarettes.

He leans over and lights your smoke. Taking one for himself, he relaxes against the brick wall. Puffing a cloud of smoke into the crisp air.

☆Take your cigarette from its holder and burn your initials in my shoulder. Fracture my spine and swear that you're mine, as we dance to the masochism tango!☆

As he feels his sore limbs, he smiles. You look up at him and affectionately tugs a strand of his hair. You've certainly made him work for your attention.

But it didn't matter. It was worth it. It's worth all the pain that he's received and inflicted. He's addicted to these moments with you. One thing is for sure, he'd definitely dance again.

[birbmonster]

Remade some refs again

it’s two of my MSM ocs, Scorch and Gwen

I’ve had both of them for ages, Gwen was actually the first msm OC I made! She hasn’t actually changed much from her old design, and has always been inspired by the pink apparel costume. There was a really old iteration of the design I made way before the ‘first’ one, which was really just the costume as it was in-game. I think the reasons for this was because I was actually afraid to post or make msm OCs, or deviate from the canon designs. I was still figuring out my hcs of the Monster World, and look how far I’ve come!

If you’ve seen another oc of mine, Ember, posted here, then Scorch is dating her! They meet in secret to avoid attention. The main reason of this is that Scorch comes from a very important family with many ancestors who are important in history. Scorch doesn’t want to be pushed into the spotlight, and being an introvert, neither does Ember, so they’ve decided to keep their relationship a secret for now.

Her theme songs could be Family Jewels (Marina) and Show and Tell (Melanie Martinez)

She would totally listen to AJR songs though if monsters had access to human music

[missamyshay]

11. 12. 17. 18. 38.

11. What fandom do you write for most often?

Spider-Man!

12. What fandom do you want to write for more often?

Honestly, any! I’ve loved writing for The Bear and can definitely see myself doing more of that. But also venturing into Challengers has been fun too. I’ve always been open to writing for any media that inspires me but I can sense a shift towards me more actively looking to do so now.

17. What trope is your favorite to write?

Is ‘missing scenes’ a trope? If so, that one. If not, I’ll always be a sucker for a good Friends to Lovers.

18. What trope have you not written yet, but want to?

I would like to attempt some kind of inversion of a Coffee Shop AU. I’m not sure what it would look like, but I think it’d be fun to turn the trope on its head.

38. Pick three of your fics and share a song to go with each

sparks and embers: Would That I, by Hozier. (This is the song the fic was inspired by.)

spotlights and moonlight: Garage Rooftop, by Q. (The vibe of this song is perfect for how I imagine the last scenes of the story to be.)

One Night in Atlanta: Partial, by Madison Ryann Ward. (The lyrics and the vibe are so, so on point for this fic for me.)

Fanfic Writer Asks

[arugula2048]

please recommend me more female fronted bands or female singers!!

Artists' fame get relative depending on which country/interests we have, so I'll (reasonably (I hope)) list every female artist I listen to and pick out a few songs per. This is long.

Key:

+: has 3 or more albums

*: has some male members in the band but the vocals are all female

[text]: vague genre

green name: I follow them actively

+ Ahn Ye Eun [modernized traditional folk] - Sailing, Changgwi, RATvolution

+ Amber Liu [pop, kpop] - Shake That Brass, neon, Three Million Years

+ Ashnikko [alt-pop, rock] - You Make Me Sick!, Daisy 2.0, Slumber Party

+ Daoko [pop] - 拝啓グッバイさようなら

+ Deb Never [indie, alt] - Stone Cold, Swimming, In the Night

+* Elephant Gym [math rock] - 中途 Midway, Finger, Underwater

+ FKA Twigs - home with you, mary magdelene, fallen alien, cellophane

+ Girls' Generation [pop] - FOREVER 1, Villain, Oh!, Gee

+ Gregory and the Hawk [folk, indie] - Boats & Birds, Oats We Sow, Ghost

Hail Your Highness [alt/indie] - Parallel

HVDES [dance/electronic] - Ember, When I'm Alone, Parasyte

+* JAURIM [pop, ballads] - Twenty-five, twenty-one, 있지

+ Jessie Ware [disco pop] - Spotlight, What's Your Pleasure, Ooh La La

+ Julien Baker [indie rock/alt] - Favor, Repeat

+* Kero Kero Bonito [electro-hyper-pop]+ - The Princess and the Clock, Flamingo

Lang Lee [folk, indie] - 신의 놀이, 삶과 잠과 언니와 나 PRIDE

+ Lauren Babic [rock, covers] - Since U Been Gone, Toxic, Chop Suey (if you like her, check out Violet Oriandi and Halocene!)

+ Lingua Ignota [experimental, industrial] - DO YOU DOUBT ME TRAITOR (be warned, her stuff is very heavy and powerful)

* mamerico [bedroom indie, lullaby-ish honestly] - carioca in paris, esper, natsu no stole

+ Megan Thee Stallion - NDA, Scary (please it's so good)

Nova Twins [rock] - Play Fair, Devil's Face, Antagonist

+ Perfume [pop] - Clockwork, Moon

+* Purity Ring [alt] - fineshrine, begin again

Rebecca Black [pop] - Erase You, Destroy Me, Sick To My Stomach

+ Reol [rock] - 煽げや尊し, drop pop candy, 切っ先

+ Rezz [dubstep, electro] - Puzzle Box, Sacrificial, Paper Walls, Not Enough

* Se So Neon [rock, alt] - 난춘, 긴 꿈, The Wave

SINCE [hip hop] - Let It Go, SWALLOW, BACKSPACE

Su Lee [indie pop] - I'll Just Dance, Dancing in the Wild, Socially Alive

+* Thao & The Get Down Stay Down [folk/alt rock] - Holy Roller, Meticulous Bird, Temple

+* tricot [math rock] - 混ぜるな危険, potage, artsick

+ WEDNESDAY CAMPANELLA [pop, EDM] - Edison, Hot Pot Commander, Melos,

XYLØ [alt pop] - Tongue in the Bag

Yaeji [chill house] - Drink I'm Sippin On, Year to Year

bonus, someone curated a list of some banger kpop girl group songs. if you're a little sus of kpop song quality, that's ok, I vouch for around a third of this - that's how far I got into it so far

[notaguidinglight]

Eras Tour Imagery - The Archer

The visuals during The Archer are true simplicity. Taylor paces the stage alone, with one spotlight shining. The screen has no abstract effects, just Taylor with this soft glow around her.

The edge of the stage is lit with ember-like orange lights that shoot around the border.

Toward the end of the song, the lights start shooting across the stage and all concentrate at one point. This point on the stage is where Taylor exits at the end of the song.

Interpretation:

The Archer is typically thought of as song where Taylor is speaking directly to fans. She wants us to see her and hear her and contemplate her words. No visuals to get in the way of it.

The streaking lights could almost be fiery arrows, as a nod to an archer.

An interesting note on Wikipedia entry for Sagittarius (“the archer”), “Sagittarius is said to never fail in hitting the mark and this depiction alludes to the power of prophecy.” By having all the lights converge at one point (and Taylor exiting there), is she telling us she never fails to hit the mark and that whatever master scheme she has in place for the Eras tour will be fulfilled? Not saying Taylor is a prophet, but she does have an uncanny ability to make all the stars and fates align.

Video image credits: Liu Andy/Youtube

[aeoki]

Grand Slam - The Blood-Vomiting Beast: Chapter 9

Location: Yumenosaki Grounds (Sports Festival) Characters: Tsukasa, Makoto, Ritsu, Arashi, Izumi, Leo & NEGI

< Almost an hour later. Right before the “Cheering Contest” begins on Day 1 of the “Old-Fashioned Sports Festival”. >

NEGI: “Hey.”

“I’ve come, Anzu. A ghost that appears in the daytime couldn’t even dress up for the occasion, though.”

“Hehe… It wasn’t planned at all in the beginning, but you say you’ve prepared a time and location for us underground idols to perform?”

“It’s like a bonus appearance after the cheering contest from the Yumenosaki lot. Like inviting a guest over and having them sing a supporting song at the ‘Music Special Ward’.”

“Thank you for making the arrangements. You remembered what I said.”

“Hm? You’re sorry since that’s the only thing you can do?”

“Don’t apologise. That makes it feel like you’ve done something bad.”

“I’ve heard from my brother. He says you’re doing well, Anzu.”

“You had to help my incompetent brother with his project while also handling ES’ impossible requests perfectly.”

“You even joined forces with the enemy – the “Peace Party” – and put all the parts of the Sports Festival together this year.”

“Making the arrangements for all the areas, reconciling the different interests, as well as gathering the money and personnel… In the end, we couldn’t make it, so it ended up feeling like we’ve abandoned a departing train, though.”

“Come watch us. Everyone will have a good time, even the players and the audience. That means the idols and the fans.”

“That would’ve been good. It would’ve been a success. You fulfilled your duty as a 'producer'.”

“Hm? Well, yeah, it probably won’t be a happy ending where everyone can be happy and smiling.”

“Thanks to ‘Tanabata Fest’ being a huge success, ES wanted to harden its foundations, due to the company being in its first year of establishment, and they strengthened their opposition to those outside of their organisation more than ever.”

“Meaning, they didn’t allow anyone to rise to power other than themselves.”

“ES completely ignored underground idols and female idols and started favouring the ‘beautiful young boy idols’ they supported.”

“Normally, for an event like the “Old-Fashioned Sports Festival’ that ES is responsible for, I’m sure they definitely didn’t want anything to do with ‘people like us’.”

“Hm? Like I said, you don’t have to apologise. If anything, if you show favouritism towards us, you’ll lose your position at ES, right?”

“Besides, I’m actually happy with how things are right now.”

“I mean, if they’re trying to reject us so obviously like that, it just means we’re that much of a threat to them, right?”

“It’s a big improvement seeing as they never even acknowledged us before.”

“I’m sure their attacks will be more fierce. More brazen.”

“But thanks to you giving us some time to shine, the people who love us will also grow in number.”

“If people are obviously rejecting us and bullying us, our fans will definitely be angry.”

“That anger will turn into embers that will someday burn and consume that arrogant and cocky ES.”

“It looks like 'some of those guys' within your organisation appeared in the summer. Was their name ‘Crazy:B’?”

“...That made me happy. I couldn’t believe there were people who would get angry for us.”

“Times have changed. If only I could’ve lived a bit longer.”

“Oh, well. Anyway, that’s why we’re not discouraged. We’ll put on an exciting performance for the “Old-Fashioned Sports Festival” – for your time of youth.”

“That’s my repayment to you for shining the spotlight on us…♪”

Izumi: KYAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!? *Vomits blood*

NEGI: “Look, things are starting to get really exciting again.”

“Wait, what’s that?”

Makoto: “♪~♪~♪”

“Go~ Go~! “Team StarPro! You can do it! Do your best~♪”

Izumi: Kyaaaa! Kyaaaaa! A dream!? Is this a dream!? Am I having a happy dream after falling asleep on the plane?

No! This is real! This is a reward from god after all my hard work! Thank you, god, thank you! It’s my first gratitude for you!

Thank you, thank you, Yuu-kuuun! He’s normally really cold but, in reality, he really wanted to cheer on his Onii-chan, didn’t he!?

I knew it! I had faith that he loved his onii-chan! Your feelings were properly conveyed to me. Onii-chan loves Yuu-kun tooooooo!

Yu-u-kun! Yu-u-kun! YU-U-KUN! *Writes out the alphabet letters with his entire body*

Makoto: “Umm~... You over there, you’re being so loud, we can’t even hear our cheering song, so please keep it down.”

Tsukasa: I apologise! What an embarrassment! I shall get rid of him at once!

Arashi: Come on now, it’s time you come with us to the security office, Mr Suspicious ♪”

Izumi: Stop! Let me go! Don’t get in the way of my dreaAAAAAAMMM! I’ll kill you!?

Ritsu: Your whole character has changed, Secchan. No, I guess you’ve gone back to the old you, huh. It’s been so long since I’ve seen that side of you, I’ve forgotten how to handle you, honestly.

Come on, let’s go over there. I’ll cheer you up in my old cheerleader outfit from last year, so just make do with that.

Izumi: Haa!? Kuma-kun, you think someone like you is equal to Yuu-kun!? Who do you think you are!?

Leo: Wahaha~ Sorry~♪

Sena has been working this whole time, but it looks like he wanted to come cheer you guys on no matter what, so he flew over without getting a wink of sleep, you know?

Arashi: Which means he’s naturally high after staying up the entire night?

Leo: Yeah. He should’ve just slept on the plane but he was reading the script for his next work. It’s not always good to be so serious, huh.

Ritsu: It’s a good example of the more serious they are, the crazier they’ll be when they snap. You should be careful too, Suu-chan.

Tsukasa: Haa… As usual, you are all good examples of what not to do in my eyes.

← Previous Chapter ᠂ ⚘ ˚⊹˚ ⚘ ᠂  Next Chapter →

[jotunheimsaga]

Sigyn Chapter 4

Once the song ended, Sigyn excused herself to the bathroom while Kark cleaned the stage and the audience filed out. She was standing at the sink when the door opened, which she ignored.

Until the lock clicked.

Stilling her body, Sigyn raised her eyes to the mirror. A girl blocked the only exit. Her petite body trembled like those tiny, hairless dog people carried in purses. Sigyn smirked and continued washing her hands.

"I saw what you did," the girl said quietly.

"I'm sorry?"

"I saw you shoot that wolf."

Bold. Sigyn commended her courage, but it was misplaced. This girl had no plan, and less ability to follow through with one. "What wolf?"

Jess' stone-cold confidence began melting under SIgyn's gaze. She balled her fists, desperate to hold on to it. "I know it was you! And I know you saw me!" The desperation in her voice betrayed her.

Sigyn ripped a paper towel from the dispenser and dried her hands. "Unfortunately, our senses often deceive us, so they're not always reliable, are they?"

"My father is the chief of police. I wanted to give you a chance to confess before I handed my evidence over."

How cute.

Sigyn tossed the paper into the bin and stared at Jess. Jess lifted her chin, prepared to stare back for however long it took.

Then Sigyn's face changed.

It wasn't a physical change. Her face, still beautiful, struck a bolt of fear deep through Jess. She changed into something pretending to be human.

Jess' guts knotted. Nausea swayed through her. Wanting to bolt, she didn't dare turn her back on the thing in the bathroom with her. The slightest move would set it off. A predator, eager for its prey to flee, so it could chase.

Sigyn's long legs moved forward, backing Jess into the wall, but she didn't stop until their faces were centimeters apart. Cold breath tickled the pores of her cheeks. Sigyn's left hand brushed past her hair, then braced against the wall, caging her in. In the blink of an eye, she was small. Her body shivered, not entirely from fear.

Up close, Sigyn's eyes were even more vacant and cold. Almost completely white, with a dark ring around the iris. Terrifying and intriguing. Jess searched them for the slightest hint of warmth.

A hand slid into her jeans, but she didn't care.

Sigyn pulled back, lips twisting into a smirk, holding up Jess' phone. She tapped the red button, ending the recording. "I wasn't born yesterday, sweetheart."

Heat built up in Jess' cheeks as she snatched her phone back.

"Don't be discouraged, it was a good try. But you're out of your depth." Sigyn backed away, her face normal again.

"You won't get away with this."

Sigyn didn't bother looking at her, instead checking her hair and makeup. "Either way, what is it to you?"

"It's wrong! That poor animal did nothing to hurt you!"

Sigyn studied her, head to toe, with less emotion than reading a menu. Jess crossed her arms over her chest, feeling naked under her gaze.

Desperation commanded this girl's every move, scrambling for one fleeting second of recognition, and now, here in front of her was a dazzling spotlight. Sigyn couldn't blame her for seizing the opportunity.

Apprehending herself in the mirror, Sigyn remembered a similar quest of her own not long ago. The painful details scorched her memory like dying embers.

"There are forces at play you could never imagine." She softened her eyes. "Unraveling them would be a tragic waste of time. Go to your sister. Celebrate her birthday. Spend the weekend enjoying yourself! Stop worrying about what you cannot understand."

Jess understood perfectly well: Sigyn had no regard for living things, and she was going to taste justice.

She yanked open the lock and stormed out.

[myeroticstories]

The Ballad of Bartholomew: An Asshole's Odyssey in Search of His Mama (and Maybe a Little Less Heartbreak)

This story is inspired by two Frank Zappa songs - "Broken Hearts are for Assholes" and "You Are What You Is" - as well as a Zappa-inspired song I wrote titled "Ain't Your Mama".

Chapter One: The Asshole's Lament

In the heart of Assholeville, a city where neon lights flickered like dying embers and the stench of despair hung heavy in the air, resided Bartholomew, a man perpetually shrouded in a cloud of self-inflicted misery. Bartholomew, a self-proclaimed connoisseur of heartbreak, reveled in the company of equally lost and broken souls, frequenting establishments like The Grape and The Chest, where the only currency was heartache and the only solace was shared misery.

One fateful night, as Bartholomew nursed his sorrows at The Grape, a voice boomed from the dimly lit stage, cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. "Hey! Do you know what you are?" the voice bellowed, its echoes bouncing off the grimy walls. Bartholomew, startled from his melancholic reverie, looked up to see a figure shrouded in darkness, their face obscured by a spotlight.

"You're an asshole!" the voice continued, its tone dripping with accusation. "An ASSHOLE!"

Bartholomew bristled at the insult, his pride momentarily wounded. He scanned the faces around him, searching for any sign of agreement. But the patrons of The Grape, their expressions etched with a familiar blend of apathy and despair, remained unmoved.

"Some of you might not agree," the voice continued, its cadence shifting to a mocking lilt, "'Cause you probably likes a lot of misery."

Bartholomew's anger subsided, replaced by a sense of reluctant recognition. The voice had struck a chord, its words echoing the unspoken truth that lingered in the depths of his soul.

"But think a while and you will see..." the voice intoned, its tone softening. "Broken hearts are for assholes."

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of countless shattered dreams and unrequited loves. Bartholomew felt a knot tighten in his chest, a familiar ache that had become his constant companion.

"Broken hearts are for assholes," the voice repeated, its echoes fading into the smoky haze. "Are you an asshole?"

Bartholomew lowered his gaze, his reflection staring back at him from the murky depths of his half-empty glass. He saw a man haunted by a lifetime of poor choices and missed opportunities, a man who reveled in his own misery.

"Are you an asshole too?" the voice whispered, its echoes lingering in the silence. "Whatcha gonna do, 'cause you're an asshole..."

Bartholomew remained frozen, his mind reeling from the implications of the question. He was an asshole, he realized, a connoisseur of heartbreak, a collector of broken dreams. But what was he going to do about it?

As the voice faded into the background, replaced by the melancholic strains of a forgotten love song, Bartholomew sat alone in the dimly lit bar, grappling with the undeniable truth of his existence. He was an asshole, and broken hearts were his currency. But in the depths of his despair, a glimmer of hope flickered. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a way to break free from the cycle of misery, to find solace in the ruins of his shattered heart.

Chapter Two: The Grape's Grim Embrace

Bartholomew, burdened by the revelation of his assholery, sought refuge in the familiar embrace of The Grape. Its dimly lit interior, reeking of stale beer and unfulfilled dreams, offered a perverse comfort, a sanctuary for those who reveled in their own misery.

As Bartholomew pushed open the heavy wooden door, a wave of familiar sounds washed over him. The clinking of glasses, the muffled conversations, the melancholic strains of a forgotten love song - all blended into a symphony of despair. He found his usual spot at the bar, a worn leather stool that had borne witness to countless tales of heartbreak and woe.

Nursing a glass of cheap whiskey, Bartholomew surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on the faces of his fellow patrons. There was Agnes, the perpetually heartbroken poetess, her eyes perpetually moist with unshed tears. And there was Reginald, the failed musician, his dreams of stardom shattered like a dropped guitar.

Bartholomew, despite his own misery, felt a pang of empathy for these lost souls. They were all assholes, he realized, each one carrying the weight of their own broken hearts. But in their shared misery, they found a strange camaraderie, a twisted sense of belonging.

As the night wore on, Bartholomew's thoughts drifted back to the enigmatic voice that had confronted him the previous night. "Maybe you think you're a lonely guy," the voice had taunted, "Maybe you think you're too tough to cry."

Bartholomew scoffed at the memory. He was tough, he assured himself, hardened by a lifetime of disappointment and betrayal. He didn't need to cry, he didn't need anyone.

But as the whiskey flowed and the night grew darker, Bartholomew's resolve began to crumble. He felt a lump forming in his throat, a familiar tightness in his chest. He tried to fight back the tears, but they welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision.

Finally, unable to hold back any longer, Bartholomew let the tears flow freely. He wept for his broken heart, for his wasted years, for his assholery. He wept for the countless opportunities he had squandered, for the love he had lost, for the dreams he had abandoned.

As Bartholomew's sobs echoed through the dimly lit bar, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Agnes, her face etched with a look of understanding.

"It's okay to cry, Bartholomew," she whispered, her voice soft and reassuring. "We're all assholes here."

Bartholomew nodded, his tears mingling with the whiskey on his cheeks. He had come to The Grape seeking solace in his misery, but he had found something more profound - a shared humanity, a recognition of his own flaws, and the possibility of redemption.

Chapter Three: A Whirlwind of Assholery

Bartholomew's newfound sense of camaraderie at The Grape was short-lived, however. As the nights blurred into a haze of cheap whiskey and shared misery, he found himself drawn into a whirlwind of absurd encounters that only served to solidify his status as an asshole.

One night, he was captivated by the enigmatic Dagmar, a creature of unparalleled ugliness, whose pancake makeup and protruding whiskers somehow coalesced into a perversely alluring beauty. Bartholomew, mesmerized by Dagmar's unconventional charm, found himself drawn into a bizarre dance of desire and repulsion.

Fueled by liquid courage and a desperate need for distraction, Bartholomew embarked on a series of increasingly questionable escapades. He locked lips with a sailor named Tex Abel, whose breath reeked of the sea and cheap rum. He indulged in the "reeking buns" of Angel, a demented bread-boffer whose culinary creations were as repulsive as they were addictive. He even found himself sniffing cucumber pudding like it was cocaine, his senses overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity of it all.

As Bartholomew spiraled deeper into his assholery, he became a regular at the local wrestling matches, his cheers echoing through the smoke-filled arena. He marveled at the flamboyant Ko-Ko, whose costumes defied explanation, and winced as the mighty Caesar faced off against the Samoan powerhouse Kona. He even found himself "working the wall" with Michael, a 379-pound behemoth whose sheer size left Bartholomew's back in agonizing pain.

But amidst the chaos and absurdity, Bartholomew's mind remained fixated on the haunting refrain that had echoed through The Grape: "Broken hearts are for assholes." He tried to ignore it, to drown it out with whiskey and reckless abandon, but the words lingered, a constant reminder of his own shortcomings.

One Sunday, as Bartholomew stumbled out of the arena, his body aching and his mind reeling, he realized that he had forgotten the reason for his escapades. He had been so consumed by the whirlwind of assholery that he had lost sight of his original quest for solace and redemption.

"You're an asshole, you're an asshole," the voice echoed in his mind, its mocking laughter echoing through the empty streets.

Bartholomew hung his head in shame, his shoulders slumped in defeat. He was an asshole, and no amount of whiskey or wrestling matches could change that. He had come to The Grape seeking a way out of his misery, but he had only sunk deeper into the abyss.

As Bartholomew trudged back to his lonely apartment, the weight of his assholery bore down on him like a leaden cloak. He had tried to escape it, to outrun it, but it had caught up with him, its grip tightening with each step.

Bartholomew knew that he had to face his demons, to confront the asshole within. But the road to redemption was long and arduous, and he wasn't sure he had the strength to walk it.

Chapter Four: The Asshole's Anthem

Bartholomew's journey through the underbelly of Assholeville led him to another infamous den of iniquity, The Chest. Its reputation preceded it, a haven for those who reveled in their own depravity. As Bartholomew crossed its threshold, he was greeted by a cacophony of raucous laughter, drunken slurs, and the unmistakable stench of desperation.

The Chest was a stark contrast to The Grape, its dimly lit corners replaced by garish neon signs and its melancholic patrons replaced by a motley crew of misfits and malcontents. Bartholomew, despite his own proclivity for misery, found himself repulsed by the sheer vulgarity of the place.

As he navigated the crowded bar, Bartholomew's ears were assaulted by a familiar voice, this time emanating from a makeshift stage in the corner. The voice, amplified by a crackling microphone, launched into a raucous anthem, its lyrics echoing the sentiment that had haunted Bartholomew for weeks.

"Now you been to The Grape 'n' you been to The Chest," the voice crooned, its tone dripping with sardonic glee, "'N' now I think you know what you are: you're an asshole."

Bartholomew winced at the bluntness of the accusation, his cheeks burning with shame. He had tried to deny it, to bury it beneath a mountain of whiskey and regret, but the truth was undeniable. He was an asshole, and he had the scars to prove it.

The voice continued, its lyrics taking an unexpected turn. "You say you can't live with what you been through," it sang, its tone shifting to a mocking falsetto, "Well, ladies you can be an asshole too."

Bartholomew's gaze shifted to the women scattered throughout The Chest, their faces painted with a mixture of defiance and despair. He saw the same emptiness in their eyes that he had seen in his own reflection, the same hunger for something more, something better.

"You might pretend you ain't got one on the bottom of you," the voice continued, its lyrics growing increasingly explicit, "But don't fool yerself girl, it's lookin' at you."

Bartholomew cringed at the crudeness of the words, but he couldn't deny their underlying truth. Assholery, he realized, was not limited by gender or social status. It was a universal affliction, a stain on the human condition.

As the song reached its climax, its lyrics descending into a litany of graphic descriptions and vulgar suggestions, Bartholomew felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He had come to The Chest seeking a distraction from his own misery, but he had found only a grotesque reflection of his own inner turmoil.

With a newfound sense of resolve, Bartholomew turned and fled The Chest, its raucous laughter and vulgar lyrics echoing in his ears. He had seen the depths of his own assholery, and he was determined to find a way out.

Chapter Five: The Asshole's Epiphany

Bartholomew stumbled out of The Chest, the harsh neon lights of Assholeville blurring in his tear-filled eyes. The vulgar lyrics of the asshole's anthem continued to reverberate in his mind, a relentless reminder of his own depravity.

"Don't fool yerself, girl," the voice echoed, its crude refrain a twisted mantra. "It's goin' right up yer poop chute."

Bartholomew shuddered, his stomach churning at the graphic imagery. He had witnessed the depths of human degradation, the unadulterated assholery that permeated every corner of his existence. And he was sick of it.

As Bartholomew wandered aimlessly through the dimly lit streets, a sense of clarity washed over him. He had spent his entire life wallowing in misery, seeking solace in the company of fellow assholes, but he had found only emptiness and despair.

He had been to The Grape, where heartbreak was the currency of choice. He had been to The Chest, where vulgarity reigned supreme. He had kissed sailors, sniffed bread, and wrestled with giants, all in a futile attempt to escape the truth of his own assholery.

But now, standing alone in the cold night air, Bartholomew realized that he had been running in the wrong direction. He had been searching for redemption in all the wrong places, seeking solace in the company of those who were just as lost and broken as he was.

"Aw, I knew you'd be surprised..." the voice whispered, its mocking tone a final insult.

Bartholomew clenched his fists, his anger rising like a tidal wave. He was done being surprised, done being an asshole. He was ready to change, to break free from the cycle of misery that had defined his existence.

With newfound determination, Bartholomew turned and walked away from the neon lights of Assholeville, his footsteps echoing through the empty streets. He didn't know where he was going, or what he would find, but he knew one thing for certain: he was no longer content to be an asshole.

The road to redemption would be long and arduous, but Bartholomew was ready to face the challenge. He had seen the depths of his own depravity, and he was determined to rise above it.

Chapter Six: Return to Assholeville - Embracing the Asshole Within

Months had passed since Bartholomew's tearful exodus from The Chest. In the quiet solitude of his self-imposed exile, he had grappled with the demons of his past, the echoes of "You're an asshole" ringing in his ears like a relentless tinnitus. Yet, in the depths of his introspection, a profound realization had dawned upon him.

Bartholomew returned to Assholeville a changed man. Gone was the desperate pursuit of fleeting pleasures, the futile attempts to drown his sorrows in cheap whiskey and meaningless encounters. In their place was a newfound acceptance, a quiet resignation to the undeniable truth of his existence.

As he walked the familiar streets of Assholeville, the neon lights no longer held the same allure. The raucous laughter emanating from The Grape and The Chest seemed distant and hollow. Bartholomew had come to terms with his assholery, recognizing it as an intrinsic part of his identity.

"Do you know what you are?" a voice whispered in his mind, its tone no longer accusatory, but rather a gentle reminder.

"I am what I is," Bartholomew replied, his voice firm and resolute. "I is what I am."

He understood now that his past mistakes, his moments of weakness and self-destruction, were all part of the tapestry of his life. He was an asshole, yes, but he was also a complex and multifaceted individual, capable of both darkness and light.

"A cow don't make ham," the voice continued, its words a simple yet profound truth.

Bartholomew smiled, a genuine smile that had been absent from his face for far too long. He was not what he was not, and he had wasted too much time trying to be someone he wasn't.

"You ain't what you're not," the voice echoed, its message clear. "So see what you got."

Bartholomew looked around him, his gaze taking in the familiar sights and sounds of Assholeville. He saw the brokenness, the desperation, the shared humanity that permeated the city. He saw himself reflected in the eyes of his fellow assholes, their flaws and imperfections mirroring his own.

"You are what you is," the voice concluded, its tone filled with acceptance. "An' that's all it is."

Bartholomew nodded, his heart filled with a newfound sense of peace. He was an asshole, and that was okay. He had made mistakes, he had hurt people, but he was also capable of love, compassion, and growth.

As Bartholomew continued his journey through Assholeville, he no longer sought to escape his assholery, but rather to embrace it. He understood that his flaws were what made him human, his imperfections a testament to the challenges he had faced and overcome.

Bartholomew's return to Assholeville was not a triumphant homecoming, nor was it a surrender to his past. It was a quiet acceptance of his true self, a recognition that he was, and always would be, an asshole. But in that acceptance, Bartholomew found a freedom he had never known before, a freedom to be himself, flaws and all.

Chapter Seven: The Wannabe Bluesman

In his newfound acceptance of his true self, Bartholomew found himself drawn to the vibrant underbelly of Assholeville's music scene. One night, he stumbled upon a smoky dive bar where a young man, barely out of his teens, was belting out a bluesy tune with all the angst and bravado he could muster.

The young man, clad in a too-tight denim jacket and sporting a meticulously sculpted pompadour, seemed out of place in the gritty surroundings. His voice, though earnest, lacked the depth and rawness that Bartholomew associated with true blues singers.

As the young man wailed about lost love and hard times, Bartholomew couldn't help but chuckle. This kid, clearly from a comfortable background, was trying to emulate the pain and suffering of those who had lived the blues. It was a caricature, a parody of a genre that was born out of genuine hardship.

"A foolish young man," Bartholomew thought to himself, "From a middle-class family, started singin' the blues 'cause he thought it was manly."

The young man's performance took an even more absurd turn as he began to pepper his lyrics with outdated slang and exaggerated accents, channeling the Kingfish from the old Amos 'n' Andy radio show.

"Holy mack'd dere, Holy makl'e dere," he crooned, his voice dripping with faux-southern charm. "He tells you that chitlins, well, they taste just like candy."

Bartholomew shook his head in amusement. The young man's attempt at authenticity was so contrived, so blatantly inauthentic, that it bordered on the comical.

"He thinks that he's got the whole thing down," Bartholomew mused, "From the Nivea Lotion to the Royal Crown."

The young man's performance reached its crescendo, his voice cracking with emotion as he belted out a final chorus about heartbreak and betrayal. Bartholomew, despite his initial skepticism, found himself strangely moved by the young man's earnestness.

Perhaps, Bartholomew thought, there was a certain beauty in the young man's naive attempt to connect with a genre that was so far removed from his own experience. It was a reminder that even assholes, in their own misguided way, were capable of seeking something deeper, something more meaningful.

Chapter Eight: Acceptance and Self-Discovery

As the wannabe bluesman's final notes faded into the smoky haze of the dive bar, Bartholomew found himself contemplating the young man's performance. Despite its inauthenticity, it had sparked a sense of introspection within him.

"Do you know what you are?" the familiar voice whispered, its tone gentle and reassuring.

Bartholomew nodded, his gaze fixed on the empty stage. "I am what I is," he replied, his voice filled with a quiet conviction.

He had spent so much of his life trying to be someone he wasn't, chasing after fleeting pleasures and empty validation. He had been an asshole, a connoisseur of misery, a collector of broken hearts. But through it all, he had never truly accepted himself for who he was.

"You is what you am," the voice continued, its words echoing the simple truth that Bartholomew had finally come to understand.

He was an asshole, yes, but he was also so much more. He was a complex and flawed individual, capable of both darkness and light. He had made mistakes, he had hurt people, but he had also learned, grown, and evolved.

"A cow don't make ham," the voice reminded him, its gentle humor a welcome balm to his weary soul.

Bartholomew chuckled, a genuine laugh that bubbled up from deep within. He was not what he was not, and that was okay. He had spent too much time trying to fit into a mold that was never meant for him.

"You ain't what you're not," the voice continued, its message clear. "So see what you got."

Bartholomew closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He had spent so long focusing on his flaws, his shortcomings, his assholery. But now, he was ready to see what he had to offer the world, to embrace the unique blend of strengths and weaknesses that made him who he was.

"You are what you is," the voice concluded, its tone filled with unwavering acceptance. "An' that's all it is."

Bartholomew opened his eyes, his gaze filled with a newfound clarity. He was an asshole, and that was part of his story. But it was not the whole story. He was also a survivor, a seeker, a flawed yet resilient individual who had navigated the treacherous waters of Assholeville and emerged, battered but unbroken.

As Bartholomew stepped out of the dive bar and into the cool night air, he felt a sense of liberation he had never known before. He was no longer defined by his past mistakes, his broken heart, or the label of "asshole." He was simply Bartholomew, a complex and multifaceted individual, embracing the totality of his being.

The road ahead was uncertain, but Bartholomew was ready to face it with newfound confidence and self-acceptance. He was an asshole, and that was okay. Because in the end, he was what he was, and that was all it was.

Chapter Nine: The Chameleon's Charade

Bartholomew's journey of self-discovery led him to a chance encounter that further solidified his newfound perspective. As he strolled through the bustling marketplace of Assholeville, he overheard a heated conversation between a young man and his exasperated mother.

The young man, dressed impeccably in designer clothes and sporting a carefully cultivated air of sophistication, was berating his mother for her "unrefined" ways. He spoke with a clipped accent, his words peppered with pretentious phrases and veiled insults.

"A foolish young man of the Negro persuasion," Bartholomew thought to himself, recognizing the young man's desperate attempt to distance himself from his heritage.

The young man's mother, her face etched with a mixture of sadness and frustration, tried to reason with her son, but he remained obstinate. He had devoted his life to becoming something he was not, shedding his cultural identity in favor of a hollow imitation of white upper-class society.

"He stopped eating pork, he stopped eating greens," Bartholomew observed, his heart aching for the young man's misguided pursuit of acceptance.

The young man's transformation was not merely superficial. He had traded his dashiki, a symbol of his African heritage, for a pair of Jordache jeans, the epitome of mainstream fashion. He had even taken up golf, a sport traditionally associated with the white elite, and boasted of his impressive scores.

"Now he says to himself, 'I ain't no nigger no more,'" Bartholomew thought, a wave of sadness washing over him.

The young man's denial of his own identity was a painful reminder of the lengths people would go to fit in, to be accepted by a society that often valued conformity over individuality.

Bartholomew watched as the young man stormed off, leaving his mother standing alone in the crowded marketplace. He felt a pang of empathy for both of them, the mother mourning the loss of her son's true self, and the son trapped in a charade of his own making.

As Bartholomew continued on his way, he couldn't help but reflect on his own journey of self-discovery. He had been an asshole, yes, but he had also been guilty of trying to be someone he wasn't, of seeking validation in the wrong places.

But now, Bartholomew was determined to embrace his true self, flaws and all. He would no longer deny his past, his mistakes, or his assholery. He would be Bartholomew, and that was enough.

Chapter Ten: The Materialist's Mirage

Bartholomew's path led him to a bustling cafe, the air thick with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the murmur of conversations. He settled into a corner table, observing the patrons as they went about their daily routines. His attention was drawn to a particularly loud and animated group, their voices rising above the din.

At the center of the group was a man, impeccably dressed and exuding an air of self-importance. He spoke with a condescending tone, his words laced with a barely concealed disdain for those around him.

"I don't understand you," he declared, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Could you please speak more clearly?"

Bartholomew recognized the man's type immediately. He was a materialist, his self-worth defined by his possessions and his status in society. His every word, every gesture, was a carefully constructed performance designed to impress and intimidate.

"Mercedes Benz," the man continued, his voice rising in pitch. "Who is who? An' what is what? An' why is this? Appropriot!"

Bartholomew cringed at the man's mispronunciation of the word "appropriate," a subtle yet telling sign of his insecurity. He was trying so hard to fit in, to project an image of sophistication, that he had lost sight of his own authenticity.

The man's companions, eager to please their leader, nodded in agreement, their laughter echoing through the cafe. Bartholomew watched in bemusement as the man continued his monologue, his words a jumble of self-aggrandizement and thinly veiled insults.

"If you don't like what you has got, drop it in the dirt an' let it rot," the man proclaimed, his voice booming with self-righteousness.

Bartholomew couldn't help but scoff. The man's materialistic worldview was so shallow, so devoid of any real meaning or purpose. He was chasing after a mirage, a fleeting illusion of happiness that would ultimately leave him empty and unfulfilled.

As the man's rant reached its climax, his words becoming increasingly incoherent and nonsensical, Bartholomew rose from his table and quietly slipped out of the cafe. He had seen enough, heard enough. The materialist's charade was a stark reminder of the emptiness that awaited those who defined themselves by their possessions.

Bartholomew walked away from the cafe, his heart filled with a newfound appreciation for the simple things in life. He had been an asshole, yes, but he had also learned the value of authenticity, of embracing his true self, flaws and all.

He was Bartholomew, and that was enough.

Chapter Eleven: The Turning Point

Bartholomew left the cafe, the materialist's words echoing in his ears like a discordant symphony. The man's obsession with possessions and status served as a stark reminder of the emptiness that awaited those who chased after fleeting illusions of happiness. Bartholomew had been there, done that. He had sought solace in the arms of countless lovers, in the bottom of countless bottles, and in the fleeting highs of reckless abandon. But none of it had filled the void within him.

As he walked the streets of Assholeville, Bartholomew's thoughts drifted to his own life, his own struggles. He had been an asshole, a connoisseur of misery, a collector of broken hearts. But he had also been a seeker, a wanderer, a man in search of something more, something meaningful.

Bartholomew's journey had taken him to the depths of despair and the heights of absurdity. He had confronted his own flaws, embraced his imperfections, and learned to accept himself for who he was. But something was still missing.

He longed for connection, for a sense of belonging, for a love that transcended the superficiality of Assholeville's neon-lit streets. He yearned for a life that was more than just a series of fleeting encounters and empty promises.

As Bartholomew reached his apartment, the nagging voice of his missus, Bertha, echoed in his mind. Bertha, an overbearing battle-axe with a penchant for nagging and a voice that could curdle milk, had been a constant thorn in his side. Their relationship, once a source of comfort, had devolved into a battleground of resentment and frustration.

Bartholomew's thoughts drifted to the framed photograph of his mother that sat on his bedside table. He hadn't seen her in years, not since she had left him and his father to pursue her own dreams. The contrast between the warmth in his mother's eyes and the cold, critical gaze of Bertha was stark and unsettling.

A wave of sadness washed over Bartholomew as he gazed at his mother's smiling face. He missed her, missed the warmth of her embrace, the sound of her laughter. He longed to reconnect with her, to bridge the gap that had grown between them over the years.

Fueled by a mix of desperation and newfound determination, Bartholomew made a decision. He would leave Assholeville, embark on a journey to find his mother, and hopefully, in the process, escape the clutches of his overbearing missus. He packed a small bag, leaving behind the remnants of his past, and stepped out into the night, ready to face the unknown.

As he hailed a cab, the driver's familiar greeting echoed through the still night air.

"Where to, buddy?"

Bartholomew hesitated for a moment, his mind filled with a mixture of trepidation and excitement.

"Just drive," he said finally, his voice filled with a newfound determination. "I'm looking for my mama."

And so, Bartholomew's odyssey began, a journey that would take him from the familiar streets of Assholeville to the bustling heart of Detroit, where a chance encounter with a smoking hot chick wearing a burka would set him on a path he could never have imagined.

Chapter Twelve: A Saturday Night Detour

Detroit was breathing heavy that Saturday night, a symphony of sirens and revving engines providing the backdrop for the city's never-ending hustle. In a cramped apartment on the east side, the symphony was punctuated by the sharp clangs of a domestic dispute. Me and the missus, we'd tangled ourselves in a verbal brawl, each word a barbed hook digging deeper into the festering wounds of our relationship.

Fed up with the escalating cacophony, I did what any self-respecting Detroiter would do - I stormed out, slamming the door behind me with a satisfying thud. The cool night air was a welcome balm to my heated temper as I flagged down a cab, its yellow paint peeling like the facade of a forgotten dream.

"Where to, buddy?" the driver grunted, his voice thick with the accent of a thousand cigarettes.

"Just drive," I mumbled, sinking into the cracked vinyl seat.

The driver, a grizzled veteran of Detroit's mean streets, didn't need further instructions. He navigated the labyrinthine roads with the ease of a seasoned explorer, weaving through potholes and dodging stray cats with practiced precision.

As the cityscape whizzed by, I struck up a conversation with the driver, a man named Ahab who hailed from some far-off desert land. We talked about life, love, and the pursuit of happiness, our words punctuated by the occasional honk and the distant wail of a police siren.

Ahab, despite his gruff exterior, proved to be a surprisingly insightful conversationalist. He shared stories of his homeland, his family, and his dreams for the future. I, in turn, poured out my own frustrations, my anxieties, and my longing for a life less ordinary.

As we cruised down Woodward Avenue, a vision in black leather caught my eye. A woman, her curves accentuated by a skin-tight burka, was strutting down the sidewalk, her confidence radiating like a beacon in the night. I couldn't help but stare, my heart pounding in my chest.

Ahab, noticing my distraction, chuckled knowingly. "Eyes on the road, my friend," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "Remember, you're not a free man tonight."

I sighed, tearing my gaze away from the enigmatic woman. Ahab was right. I was still tethered to the missus, my freedom a distant dream. But for a fleeting moment, as I watched the woman disappear into the crowd, I felt a spark of hope, a glimmer of possibility.

Perhaps, in this city of broken dreams and shattered illusions, there was still a chance for me to find my own path, to break free from the chains of my past and embrace the unknown future.

Chapter Thirteen: Southbound and Sin City

The morning sun painted the Detroit skyline in shades of orange and pink as I boarded a plane bound for warmer climes. My destination was the Windy City, but first, a brief layover in Cincinnati. A chance encounter with a bubbly flight attendant named Cindy led to a whirlwind romance in a cramped airport lounge. It was fleeting, forgettable, but it served its purpose – a temporary distraction from the heartache back home.

Finally, I touched down in Chicago, the city's energy palpable even from the airport terminal. I checked into a nondescript hotel, its faded wallpaper and worn carpets a testament to its storied past. With a few hours to kill before my evening plans, I decided to explore the city, my stomach rumbling in anticipation of the culinary delights that awaited.

My first stop was the legendary Billy Goat Tavern, a dimly lit haunt beneath Michigan Avenue. I ordered a cheeseburger and a Coke, savoring the greasy goodness and the nostalgic ambiance. As I devoured my meal, I couldn't help but feel a sense of liberation. I was miles away from the missus, free to indulge in my own desires, to carve my own path.

Later that evening, I found myself in the company of Amy, a woman whose laughter was as infectious as her smile. We spent the night exploring the city's vibrant nightlife, our conversations flowing as freely as the drinks. Amy, with her playful spirit and adventurous nature, was a welcome distraction from the monotony of my life back in Detroit.

As the night wore on, our connection deepened, our inhibitions melting away with each shared kiss and whispered secret. Amy's playful teasing and suggestive gestures ignited a fire within me, a primal urge that had been dormant for far too long.

In the dimly lit corner of a smoky jazz club, Amy leaned in close, her lips brushing against my ear. "Wanna see something special?" she whispered, her voice husky and seductive.

I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest. Amy's eyes sparkled with mischief as she led me to a secluded booth, her hand trailing along my arm.

The rest of the night was a blur of stolen glances, whispered promises, and illicit pleasures. Amy's "hummers and motorboats" sent shivers down my spine, awakening a part of me that I had long forgotten.

As the sun began to peek over the horizon, casting a warm glow over the sleeping city, I lay in Amy's arms, a sense of contentment washing over me. For the first time in a long time, I felt truly alive, my heart filled with a newfound sense of possibility.

Chapter Fourteen: Shadows of the Past

The morning after my rendezvous with Amy, I woke up with a pounding headache and a lingering sense of unease. The thrill of the night before had faded, replaced by a gnawing emptiness. I knew I couldn't stay in Chicago forever, indulging in fleeting pleasures and avoiding the reality of my situation.

I had come to the Windy City with a purpose, a desperate hope that I might find my mother, who had abandoned me years ago. I had no idea where she might be, but a faint whisper of a rumor had led me to a rundown neighborhood on the outskirts of town.

I took the L train, its rhythmic clatter a stark contrast to the silence of my thoughts. As the train rattled through the dilapidated streets, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was on a fool's errand. My mother had made her choice, and I had no right to expect her to welcome me back into her life.

I stepped off the train and onto a desolate street, the buildings bearing the scars of neglect and decay. The air hung heavy with the smell of urine and cheap liquor, a grim reminder of the harsh realities of life in this forgotten corner of the city.

As I walked deeper into the neighborhood, I spotted a figure sprawled on the sidewalk, her body barely visible in the shadows. I approached cautiously, my heart pounding in my chest. As I got closer, I realized it was a woman, her clothes torn and her face streaked with grime.

"Fifty dollars for some pleasure down there," she rasped, her voice raspy and hollow.

I recoiled in disgust, my stomach churning. "Ain't no way, even if I was Ric Flair," I retorted, my voice laced with revulsion.

The woman sat up, her eyes flashing with anger. "What's your problem?" she snapped.

"All I'm trying to do is find my mama," I replied, my voice softening.

The woman's anger dissipated, replaced by a look of weary resignation. "I ain't your mama," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Your mama ain't here no more."

My heart sank. I had clung to the hope that I might find her here, that I might finally have a chance to reconcile with the woman who had brought me into this world. But the woman's words shattered that hope, leaving me feeling more lost and alone than ever before.

"She said she don't want no more being a nasty whore," the woman continued, her voice thick with emotion. "She said she's tired of that life and she headed out west. She said she needed a change that could only be done out west."

I listened in stunned silence as the woman relayed my mother's message. It was a message of finality, of a clean break from her past. She was gone, and I had no way of finding her.

Chapter Fifteen: From Windy City to Desert Heat

The news of my mother's departure hit me like a punch to the gut. Defeated and disillusioned, I left Chicago with a heavy heart. My aimless journey took me to Albuquerque, a city bathed in the warm glow of the desert sun. The change of scenery did little to lift my spirits, but it offered a temporary reprieve from the biting winds of Chicago.

One evening, as I wandered through the bustling streets of Old Town, I spotted her again – the smoking hot chick with the burka, the same woman who had captivated me in Detroit. Her name, I learned, was Fatima, and she possessed a beauty that transcended cultural boundaries.

We struck up a conversation, our initial awkwardness melting away as we discovered a shared passion for music and art. Fatima, despite her conservative attire, was a free spirit, her mind as vibrant as her smile.

One thing led to another, and we found ourselves back at my hotel room, the desert air thick with anticipation. As we made love, Fatima recited verses from the Quran, her voice a soothing melody that mingled with the sounds of our passion. It was an experience that defied expectations, a collision of cultures and desires that left me breathless.

In the aftermath, Fatima, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint, declared that we were meant to be together. "We better wed," she proclaimed, her voice filled with conviction.

I hesitated, my heart torn between my newfound feelings for Fatima and the lingering pain of my mother's abandonment. I knew I couldn't commit to Fatima, not now, not when my own life was in such disarray.

"I have to run," I confessed, my voice heavy with regret.

Fatima's smile faded, replaced by a look of hurt and betrayal. Before I could explain further, the door to my room burst open, revealing a burly man with a menacing scowl. It was Fatima's brother, his hand gripping a gleaming pistol.

Fear coursed through my veins as I realized the gravity of my situation. I had stumbled into a cultural minefield, my ignorance and impulsiveness threatening to ignite a dangerous conflict.

Chapter Sixteen: A Close Call and a Dirty Getaway

The sight of that gun sent a jolt of adrenaline through my system. With my pants still tangled around my ankles, I dove behind the bed, my heart hammering in my chest. The room was silent, save for the heavy breathing of Fatima's brother and the muffled sobs of Fatima herself.

I knew I had to make a quick escape, but the window was too high, and the door was blocked by the angry brother. Panic seized me, and in that moment of sheer terror, my bowels betrayed me. I shat myself, the warm, foul stench filling the small hotel room.

Mortified and desperate, I grabbed my discarded underwear and flung them into the nearest trash can. With my pants still precariously low, I burst out from behind the bed, colliding with Fatima's brother in a tangle of limbs and curses.

The ensuing scuffle was a chaotic blur of punches, kicks, and guttural grunts. Fatima's brother, fueled by rage and protectiveness, was a formidable opponent. I, on the other hand, was hampered by my compromised state and the lingering fear of a bullet piercing my flesh.

Just as I thought I might gain the upper hand, a cold, metallic sensation encircled my wrists. I looked up to see a pair of handcuffs glinting in the dim light. A burly man, his face contorted in disgust, was pinning me to the ground.

"You're under arrest, you pervert!" he growled, his breath reeking of stale beer.

It turned out Fatima's brother wasn't the only one who had taken offense to my actions. The burly man, a plainclothes officer named Mickey Finnegan, had been staking out the hotel, looking for any signs of illegal activity. My ill-timed escape attempt had landed me squarely in his crosshairs.

As Officer Finnegan hauled me to my feet, I couldn't help but feel a sense of bitter irony. I had come to Albuquerque seeking a connection, a sense of belonging, and instead, I had found myself in the back of a police cruiser, my pants still around my ankles and my dignity in tatters.

Chapter Seventeen: Mama's Transformation

Back in Detroit, a mysterious benefactor had wired my bail money, allowing me to escape the clutches of the Albuquerque Police Department. The benefactor, I later learned, was a fiery Asian woman from California who had taken a liking to my predicament. Intrigued by her offer of assistance and fueled by a newfound sense of recklessness, I hopped on an Amtrak train bound for the West Coast.

The journey was long and uneventful, the rhythmic clacking of the train wheels lulling me into a state of introspection. As I gazed out the window at the passing landscapes, I couldn't help but wonder about the woman who had bailed me out. Who was she? And what did she want from me?

My musings were interrupted by a grumbling stomach. The train's dining car offered little more than stale sandwiches and overpriced coffee, so I decided to disembark at the next stop and seek out something more substantial.

I found myself in a small town, its main street lined with quaint shops and cafes. I settled into a diner, its checkered floors and Formica countertops evoking a sense of nostalgia. As I devoured a plate of pancakes and bacon, I received a call from an unknown number.

"Hello?" I answered, my mouth still full of syrup.

"It's me," a familiar voice said on the other end of the line. "Your mama."

My heart skipped a beat. I hadn't heard my mother's voice in years, and the sound of it sent a wave of conflicting emotions washing over me.

"Mama?" I stammered, my voice thick with emotion. "Is it really you?"

"Yes, it's me," she replied, her voice surprisingly deep and gravelly. "I heard about your troubles, and I wired the bail money from San Francisco."

I was stunned. My mother, who had abandoned me years ago, had come to my rescue. I didn't know what to say, how to react.

"I'm in San Francisco now," she continued. "Come and find me. We need to talk."

With renewed determination, I boarded the next train to San Francisco, my mind racing with questions and anxieties. What would I say to my mother after all these years? Would she even recognize me?

I arrived in San Francisco late that night, the city's iconic fog shrouding the streets in an ethereal mist. I made my way to the address my mother had given me, my heart pounding in my chest.

I knocked on the door, my hand trembling slightly. A moment later, the door swung open, revealing a tall, imposing figure. It was my mother, but she was… different. Her once-feminine features had been replaced by a chiseled jawline and a thick mustache. Her hair was cropped short, and her clothes were decidedly masculine.

"I ain't your mama anymore," she said, her voice deep and resonant. "I don't live that life no more."

I stared at her in disbelief, my mind struggling to comprehend the transformation that had taken place. My mother, the woman who had given me life, was now a man.

"I got tired of people calling me a filthy whore," he explained, his voice laced with bitterness. "So I came to this city so they could transplant a dick."

He paused, a wry smile spreading across his face. "But there's one thing wrong. When I pee, I still have to sit."

I couldn't help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation momentarily overshadowing the complex emotions swirling within me. My mama was now a man, and despite the physical changes, he was still the same person, the same flawed yet resilient individual who had brought me into this world.

As I looked into my mother's eyes, I saw a reflection of my own struggles, my own journey of self-discovery. We were both flawed, both searching for acceptance and belonging in a world that often seemed hostile and unforgiving.

In that moment, I realized that the bond between a parent and child transcended gender, appearance, and even the passage of time. My mama was still my mama, and I was still her child. And that was all that mattered.

Chapter Eighteen: A Shotgun Wedding and a Hasty Retreat

After reconciling with my mother, albeit in his new form, I felt a pull back to Albuquerque. Fatima, despite the chaotic circumstances of our last encounter, held a piece of my heart. I knew I couldn't leave things unresolved, so I returned to the desert city, ready to face the consequences of my actions.

Fatima's brother, Rami, greeted me with a mixture of suspicion and grudging respect. He had heard about my encounter with my mother and seemed to appreciate my willingness to return and face the music.

"You made a wise choice," Rami said, his voice gruff but sincere. "Fatima is carrying your child."

The news hit me like a thunderbolt. I was going to be a father. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over me - fear, excitement, and a profound sense of responsibility.

Despite my initial reservations, I agreed to marry Fatima. It was the right thing to do, the honorable thing. We made hasty arrangements for a small ceremony at a local chapel, the desert sun casting a warm glow on our impromptu nuptials.

As we stood at the altar, Fatima radiant in a simple white dress, I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. My heart wasn't fully in it, and the specter of my past loomed large over the proceedings.

Just as the wedding officiant began to speak, a familiar voice cut through the air.

"Bartholomew!"

I turned to see the missus, her face contorted in a mask of fury. She stormed down the aisle, her eyes blazing with righteous indignation.

"You think you can just run off and marry some floozy?" she shrieked, her voice echoing through the chapel. "You're still my husband, and you're coming home with me right now!"

Before I could protest, she grabbed me by the ear and dragged me out of the chapel, leaving Fatima and Rami standing at the altar in stunned silence.

As we sped away in the missus's beat-up sedan, I glanced back at the chapel, my heart heavy with regret. I had made a mess of things, once again allowing my impulsiveness to dictate my actions.

Back at the chapel, the wedding officiant, oblivious to the drama that had just unfolded, continued with the ceremony.

"By the power vested in me by the state of New Mexico, I now pronounce you husband and wife," he declared, his voice booming through the empty chapel.

Fatima and Rami exchanged bewildered glances.

"But we're brother and sister!" Rami protested.

The officiant shrugged, his face impassive. "In the eyes of the state of New Mexico, you're now also husband and wife."

And so, in the dusty heart of Albuquerque, a shotgun wedding turned into a bizarre twist of fate, leaving two siblings unwittingly bound in matrimony. As for me, I was once again at the mercy of the missus, my dreams of freedom and self-discovery fading into the rearview mirror.

Chapter Nineteen: Desert Reflections and a Fateful Reunion

The missus's beat-up sedan screeched to a halt in the middle of the New Mexico desert, its tires kicking up a cloud of dust. She turned to me, her face a mask of disbelief and disgust.

"Your mother is what?" she shrieked, her voice cracking with incredulity.

"A man," I repeated, bracing myself for her reaction.

With a guttural roar, she threw the car into reverse, flinging open the passenger door. "Get out!" she commanded, her finger jabbing towards the endless expanse of sand and sagebrush.

I stumbled out of the car, my feet sinking into the soft sand. The missus slammed the door shut and sped off, leaving me alone in the vast, unforgiving desert.

I began the long trek back to Albuquerque, the sun beating down on my head and the wind whipping sand into my face. It was a 200-mile journey, a pilgrimage of sorts, a chance to reflect on the absurdity of my life and the choices that had led me to this desolate place.

As I trudged along the dusty road, a car pulled up beside me. It was Rami and Fatima, their faces etched with concern.

"Bartholomew!" Fatima exclaimed, her voice filled with relief. "We were so worried when you disappeared!"

I climbed into the backseat, my legs aching and my spirits low. Fatima filled me in on the bizarre turn of events at the chapel, her voice tinged with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

"The wedding officiant declared us husband and wife," she said, shaking her head. "Rami and I are officially married, even though we're siblings!"

I couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. "Well, at least you have each other," I said, trying to sound upbeat.

"What about you?" Rami asked, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "Where are you headed?"

I hesitated for a moment, my thoughts drifting back to the smoky dive bar in Assholeville and the haunting lyrics of the asshole's anthem.

"Broken hearts are for assholes," I said softly, my voice barely a whisper. "And it's time I faced my destiny."

Fatima's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I'm going back to Assholeville," I declared, my voice firm and resolute. "There's someone there I need to see."

"Who?" Rami asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Dagmar," I replied, a wry smile spreading across my face. "The ugliest son of a bitch I've ever seen in my life."

Fatima and Rami exchanged bewildered glances, but they didn't question my decision. They drove me back to Assholeville, their silence a testament to the unspoken understanding that had developed between us.

As we approached the familiar neon lights of the city, a sense of anticipation mingled with trepidation washed over me. I was returning to the place where my journey had begun, ready to confront the demons of my past and embrace the asshole within.

Chapter Twenty: Assholes Reunited

The familiar neon glow of Assholeville beckoned Bartholomew like a siren song, a chorus of misfits and misadventures calling him home. As he stepped back onto the grimy streets, a wave of nostalgia washed over him. This was where he belonged, among the broken hearts and shattered dreams, the absurdity and the acceptance.

His first stop was The Grape, the dimly lit tavern where he had first encountered Dagmar. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he was greeted by the familiar symphony of clinking glasses, raucous laughter, and the melancholic strains of a forgotten love song.

Dagmar, perched on his usual stool, his pancake makeup cracked and his whiskers defiantly protruding, spotted Bartholomew immediately. A wide grin spread across his face, his eyes sparkling with delight.

"Bartholomew!" he exclaimed, his voice a raspy croak. "You're back!"

Bartholomew returned the smile, his heart swelling with warmth. "I am," he replied, his voice firm and confident. "I'm home."

The news of Bartholomew's return spread like wildfire through The Grape, and soon he was surrounded by a motley crew of familiar faces. Ko-Ko, resplendent in a feathered headdress and sequined jumpsuit, embraced him with a theatrical flourish. Tex Abel, smelling faintly of the sea and cheap rum, clapped him on the back with a hearty laugh. Even Angel, the demented bread-boffer, offered a grudging nod of acknowledgement.

As Bartholomew regaled his friends with tales of his adventures, Fatima and Rami stood quietly in the corner, observing the scene with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment. The chaotic energy of Assholeville, the unabashed embrace of imperfection and absurdity, was a stark contrast to the rigid traditions and expectations of their own upbringing.

Fatima, her eyes wide with wonder, turned to Rami. "I understand now," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "I am an asshole too."

Rami looked at her in surprise, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

Fatima smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I've spent my whole life trying to be perfect, to conform to the expectations of others," she explained. "But here, in this place, I see a different way of being. A way that embraces flaws, celebrates individuality, and revels in the absurdity of life."

Rami's expression softened, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. "You're right," he said, his voice gentle. "We've both been living a lie."

Fatima took Rami's hand in hers, her grip firm and reassuring. "I'm staying here," she declared, her voice filled with conviction. "I'm staying with Bartholomew, and I'm going to embrace my inner asshole."

Rami nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Then I'll stay too," he said, his voice filled with newfound liberation. "After all, who am I to deny my own assholery?"

And so, in the heart of Assholeville, amidst the clinking of glasses and the laughter of misfits, a new chapter began for Bartholomew, Fatima, and Rami. They had found their tribe, their place in the world, where broken hearts were not a burden, but a badge of honor. They were assholes, and they were proud of it.

[powerixnews]

Love Stories in Song: How Taylor Swift's Relationships Inspired Her Music

Taylor Swift's past relationships in a captivating and respectful manner. While I lack access to private details and cannot create detailed narratives without consent, I can offer a more engaging take on the information you provided:

Taylor Swift's love life has been a symphony of emotions, echoing through the halls of fame and the whispers of gossip. From fleeting flings to whirlwind romances, each chapter has painted a vibrant stroke on the canvas of her journey.

Remember the innocent spark with Joe Jonas in 2008? Or the brief encounter with Lucas Till, a shooting star on the set of her music video? Who can forget the passionate dance with Taylor Lautner, a love story born on Valentine's Day?

John Mayer, a melody of contrasts, ignited a fire that left embers in her songs. Jake Gyllenhaal, a fleeting autumn romance, whispered bittersweet memories. Even Conor Kennedy, a Kennedy heir, shared a short-lived waltz in her heart.

But remember, dear listener, these are mere glimpses into a life lived beyond the spotlight. Taylor Swift, an artist who bares her soul through music, chooses to keep certain chapters private. And that's okay. For the true love story lies in her music, where each verse and chorus unveil a piece of her heart.

Currently, whispers suggest her heart beats solo. But who knows what the future holds? Perhaps a new melody is waiting to be written, a love song yet to be sung. One thing is certain: Taylor Swift's journey will continue to captivate us, reminding us that love, in all its forms, is a song worth listening to.

This approach avoids overly dramatic wording while injecting a touch of intrigue and respect for Taylor Swift's privacy. It focuses on the emotions and narratives woven into her public persona, leaving room for the audience's imagination. 

#TaylorLoveStory#SwiftiesLoveStory#FromTeardropsToLover#EmotionalSymphony#HerMusicTellsTheStory

[magic-is-something-we-create]

GABBRO MEYWIN - The Millennium Saga [Firebreathers ; Echoseers ; Goddess-Touched]

Pacing in the watered shadow of the blue glass wall that stretches to the heavens and casts the entirety of Tal’Ren’s Archives in a peaceful light, I can’t help but feel like that stained glass dome behind the theater that I used to look upon in confused awe. A fragment of shattered grandeur, vying for attention and destined for nothingness amid the shadow of greater things.

Basics:

He/him - Cis man

Bisexual, Polyamorous - 22 (~24 on Earth)

Mae Ehlf - Fire Mage

Where he begins:

We meet Gab as he's walking out of the Aree Theater mere minutes after the latest show in which he was the secondary lead acrobat, glitter still clinging to his hair and makeup dusting his cheeks, when Ember seeks him out for comfort. He shirks his conversation with the lead, Ruti, without hesitation when he sees them on the edge of the crowd, and doesn't so much as bat an eyelid before loudly proclaiming that Ruti was asking after the other services Gab offers off-stage in front of the still-thick crowd.

Ruti wasn't asking the price for an hour in Gab's bed, but it shuts him up, and that's all that matters.

What he finds himself confronting:

Gab would follow Ember to the ends of the world and back; it is, in fact, his dream. And when they find a way to join the rebellion... well, they already taught him how to throw a punch once. How hard could it be to disarm someone, in the name of bettering their home?

When retribution rains down after the initial revolt and their families are forced to flee with those of the rebel leaders, it's not exactly what he was picturing when thinking of seeing the world at Ember's side. But it will have to do.

And when he can't sleep because he's starting to catch feelings for a mutual friend, the last thing he wants is to stumble upon world-ending secrets he doesn't understand.

But he's always thought his life a story; why, then, would he not?

Important connections:

Family: Annie and Andy (triplets), Dian, Iggy, Quartz, and Slate Meywin. Aurora and Mahann Meywin-Tell (parents).

Friends: Ember (partner) and Autumn Timber, Isa K'Ron.

Enemies: Ruti Palm (one-sided rivalry for the spotlight), Nimbus Timber (disagreements become arguments become grudges)

MUSIC

Themes - It's Just Like Dancing by Rush Garcia, Lord of Dance by Adriel Fair, Glass by Kevin Penkin

Vibes - Sirensong by Rosendale, Song I Believe In by Vian Izak and Davide Rossi, strawberry lipstick by YUNGBLUD