#looped and spiraled and contorted and twisted in my head

[ihatethishellwebsite]

Thinking about... Aberdeen Zalinki cover again...

Bro really uploaded one of the most beautifully painful songs I have ever heard in my fucking life and then wiped it off the face of the earth without warning, I only have it downloaded bc I was gonna use it in a speedpaint and then HOURS after I downloaded it he took it down like holy shit

[spxllcxstxr]

Twist and Shout • The Marauders

(Not my gif)

Request: Hey 👋 can I have a blurb about poly marauders x reader how they are at the room of requirements just chilling and then they find a little stereo or something and then they all just take turns dancing with the reader 💕💕 it would be so cute just them enjoying their time together and dancing forgetting about everyone —anon

Summary: Just dancing with the boys in the RoR while it’s raining outside

Warnings: I don’t know, the Beatles? Writing about dancing is hard I’ve noticed

Word Count: ~1k

A.N: Yes, it’s Twist and Shout - The Beatles. I couldn’t resist. Could be read as platonic or poly in my opinion, depending on how affectionate your group of friends are? Never done a song fic before so? Keep that in mind

Title: The Beatles - Twist and Shout

****

If you were anywhere else in the castle, you would be subjected to the sounds of the harsh pounding of the relentless thunderstorm that decided to plague the grounds.

It was a shame, really, considering the best place to hang out after one of McGonagall’s infamous complex exams was the Black Lake. You could spend hours there, skipping rocks, dunking Sirius’ head underwater, basking in the afternoon sun.

But it’s raining. So instead, you find yourself in the elusive Room of Requirement.

The room had contorted itself into a space similar to the Gryffindor common room, fit with a few black leather couches and shelves lined with mysterious artifacts collected and lost over the many years.

The four of you were spread out, rummaging through drawers and cupboards filled to the brim with scrolls, pictures, and other oddities.

The shelves tower over you, reaching past the extent of your vision. Must be why you can no longer hear the rain.

“Oi! Love! Heads up!” You hear Sirius call out.

You whip around quickly, dropping the intricate locket you were fiddling with back on the counter.

A worn burgundy Quaffle bounces off your shoulder, and you fumble to catch it between your hands. The padding cracks and flakes off under the tips of your fingers.

“Rem!” You fling the ball at him.

Remus jumps, tossing a purple vial up in the air before scrambling to clutch the ball close to his chest. The vial falls back down and lands safely in his arms.

He lets out a sigh of relief, a lopsided grin appearing.

“Maybe you should’ve tried out for the team, Moons.” Sirius huffs out an impressed laugh.

You slowly clap. “Bloody good catch.”

His cheeks tint pink as he places the vial back on the shelf. “What can I say? I’m a man of many talents.”

You snort, rolling eyes at the fact that this is probably the only time you’ve seen him successfully catch anything at all.

Remus tosses the Quaffle at Mr. Quidditch Captain himself, shouting out his name as it spirals towards him midair.

However, you notice that James isn’t paying attention at all to the ball hurtling towards him. He’s too wrapped up in whatever device he has in front of him.

In a blink of an eye the Quaffle smashes into the left side of James’s face.

“Blimey! What the fuck was that?”

James brings his hand to his face, covering the bright red mark the ball made.

The three of you sprint over to him, worried.

“Aw, Jamsie...”

“Damn Moony, didn’t know you had such a strong arm.” James jests, wincing as Remus glides his fingers over the red splotch.

“Godric, James, I’m so sorry.” Remus guiltily frowns.

“Y’know, a kiss would make it all better.” James trails off, smirking.

Sirius, who’s dragging his fingers through James’ dark curls, pauses his movements.

“Well, since you asked nicely...” He trails off.

The three of you press your lips to James’ cheek, the aggravated red fading.

“There, all better.” You tease, smiling against his skin. Lightly, you pat his cheek.

“So what’d you get distracted by?” Remus asks, his eyes scanning the countertop.

James’ hazel eyes light up in delight. “This old gramophone has some weird markings carved into it. Seems magical though.”

You glance around his shoulder, and sure enough, the brass sound horn was littered with various runes you’ve never seen before.

“Well Moons, you’re the one taking Ancient Runes.” Sirius points out, running his fingers over the carvings.

“I haven’t seen these in the textbook before, so maybe we shouldn’t screw around with it.” His honey brown eyes grow wary, flicking between the gramophone and the three of you.

“Maybe we should, my dear Remus.” James pushes his glasses further up his nose, raising a dark eyebrow at him.

“There’s not even a record around, James.” You mention, glancing around.

“When has that ever stopped us, dear?”

James’ index finger drops to the sound box, pressing a button that makes a sharp click.

Remarkably, the sound of guitars fill the space, louder than anything a normal gramophone should be able to emit. So that’s what the runes were for.

“The Beatles? We get enough of that in our dorm.” Sirius groans, wincing at the beginning of “Twist and Shout”.

“Shove off, Pads, you love ‘em.” James laughs, bobbing his head to the beat.

He takes your hands as the drums ramp up.

Well, shake it up, baby, now

Twist and shout

Come on, come on, come, come on, baby, now

Come on and work it on out

Well, work it on out, honey

Your boisterous laugh rips through the music as James spins you. In the corner of your eye you watch Sirius and Remus tap to the beat, their limbs loosening up.

You know you look so good

You know you got me goin' now

Just like I knew you would

Your arms swing, hands still connected. Hair flies in front of your vision.

Well, shake it up, baby, now

Twist and shout

Come on, come on, come, come on, baby, now

Come on and work it on out

Your hands disconnect and you crash into Sirius, his dark hair tied back, and his Gryffindor tie hanging in two strands loosely over his shoulders.

His teeth tease his bottom lip.

The heels of your shoes allow you to slide against the floor, resulting in your body twisting to the song.

“I’m not drunk enough for this!” Sirius barks out laughing. Strands of dark curls fly from his bun.

You know you twist, little girl

You know you twist so fine

Come on and twist a little closer now

And let me know that you're mine, woo

Remus struts towards you, sandy hair crazily bouncing around him. His white sleeves are rolled up, revealing scarred arms.

They loop around your neck, hips swiveling.

Baby, now

Twist and shout

Come on, come on, come, come on, baby, now

Come on and work it on out

Sirius’ back presses against yours, wriggling in something you can only assume is able to be described as dance.

James joins you, top buttons popped, hands raking through his own hair.

You know you twist, little girl

You know you twist so fine

Come on and twist a little closer now

And let me know that you're mine

You pant, cool sweat appearing on the back of your neck.

Your own hands run through Remus’ hair and make their way slowly down his neck.

Well, shake it, shake it, shake it, baby, now

Well, shake it, shake it, shake it, baby, now

Well, shake it, shake it, shake it, baby, now

The invisible record scratches abruptly, the music disappearing.

The room is plunged into almost complete silence, only the sounds of panting and wisps of faint laughter carry throughout the space.

“Guess it’s one per person.” You wheeze, loosening your tie.

“My turn.” Remus remarks, already making his way to the gramophone to see what song it magically plays for him.

[itsmalachitenow]

BAT001- Down the Rabbit Hole

BAT001 – Case #0212403, taken from the files of Office 31 of the Gotham City Police Department 

Statement of Alice Pleasance, regarding her close encounter with one Jervis Tetch.

-STATEMENT BEGINS-

I know. I know, okay? You don’t have to tell me. I know I don’t match the picture on my driver’s license. I’ve been meaning to get it redone. But when you’ve been missing for a month and a half, a lot of things you mean to get done get piled up, and it takes awhile to deal with them. If the hair dye and piercings bother you that much, I can just leave.

…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just…all of this has been awful for me. I think coming in and saying what happened, getting it all put down on paper, will help me process it. At least, that’s what my therapist says. You’ll have to bear with me. A lot of it is blurry now.

So….here we go. From the top.

It started with a hole in the road.

It was February 13th. …I don’t actually remember which day I disappeared, but that was apparently the last time anyone had seen me, so that’s what we’re going with. I remember feeling…sad. Lonely. You know that feeling when you see couples walking around everywhere and you’re single? Yeah. That’s it.

I was heading home. I work…worked at…a division of Wayne Enterprises. I was a secretary. I can’t do it anymore, though, after what that bastard did to me. But we’ll get to that.

I was taking a different route from usual. I thought I’d pick up some takeout on the way home, maybe a tub of ice cream, really treat myself, you know? To hell with valentine’s day and to hell with romance. Who needs love, right?

And…I guess part of me was hoping I’d find something interesting. Something to brighten up my day.

I turned down the street corner and was debating what I���d order from Dragon Palace when I saw the hole.

Now…you have to understand. This was a big hole. It was big enough to take up the entire street. I wondered if there was some kind of renovation going on with the sewers or repaving the road, but there wasn’t any kind of construction equipment or signs anywhere.

…but there was a stuffed rabbit.

It was a battered old thing. I think it used to be white, but now it was more of a dingy yellow color, with patches of fur scuffed off. Honestly, I got a creepy vibe from it. I remember staring into its big glass eyes and wondering if the kid who’d dropped it was better off for losing it.

And then it moved.

Not on its own, of course. I’m not an idiot. Something…tugged it, towards the hole, and it skidded across the pavement until the tugging stopped.

By that point, I was ready to get the hell out of there and go home the usual way. This is Gotham. I knew something fishy was going on, and I didn’t want any part in it. So I tried to turn around…

…and stopped.

Maybe that’s the wrong way to say it. I guess I should say, something stopped me from turning.

I could still move my feet, my arms, my head! But whatever had grabbed me wasn’t letting me do anything with them.

I saw the rabbit skitter a few feet forward again.

But this time, some force pulled me after it. It was…like someone wrapped a rope around me, and was pulling it like they were pulling the stuffed toy.

By that point, I was wondering if I was dreaming. I had to be, right? Even then, I recognized the similarities to that story—Alice in Wonderland? I know this is Gotham, and things are weird in Gotham, but girls named Alice don’t just chase a toy rabbit into a hole that spawned in the middle of the street. They don’t!

But it kept going. The rabbit would move, and then I’d move. It would move, then I would move. Until eventually the rabbit disappeared down the pit, and I was standing at the very edge of it.

My heart was beating so hard I could hear it, watching that stuffed toy fall into the darkness. I remember listening for it, waiting to hear it hit the ground…

…but somehow, some part of me knew that I wouldn’t.

I tried to fight back. But whatever was pulling me didn’t like that, and it gave one more hard yank. The next thing I knew, I was tumbling down, down, down into the dark.

This is where it all gets blurry for me. So…sorry in advance, I guess.

I was screaming. I remember that much, even though everything after the fall is…murky. I was screaming my head off as I fell down that pit. But somehow, the landing didn’t kill me. I hit something soft…mushrooms? Were they mushrooms? I think they were.

But now the rabbit was back in sight, and now I could see what was moving it. There was a bright red string attached to it, and it was pulling the thing along.

And now there was a bright red string attached to me, coming out of my chest, and it was pulling me right along after it.

I don’t remember how long I ran. It was a very long hallway, with twists and turns…I remember doors. But I didn’t give them so much as a second glance. I wouldn’t have, even if I weren’t struggling to keep my balance with the thread pulling me along. Some part of me knew…that they weren’t for me. Does that make sense?

Whatever. The doors don’t matter. The hallway doesn’t matter—it eventually gave way to…all these bright colors. It seemed like the landscape was changing itself around me. I remember flowers bigger than me, ones that waved to me as I passed them, I remember a technicolor forest…

…but we didn’t stop until we reached the tea party.

It was a huge table, about twenty feet long, covered in all kinds of teapots and cups. There were a few people sitting there. But…it was wrong. The whole thing was wrong.

A man and an older woman were seated across from eachother, drinking tea and chattering about something I couldn’t hear. But none of their movements were on their own—they had red string, the same kind that was attached to me, wrapped around all their limbs. Like puppets…they were like human puppets, being guided through the motions, with half-lidded and glassy eyes.

And sitting between the two of them was a man. That bastard—Jervis Tetch. I know his name now, but at the time I just thought he looked like the Mad Hatter had stepped straight out of the storybook. His fingers were entwined in red string, and he was playing cat’s cradle with them. Do you know that game? The one where you take a large loop of string and make shapes with it? That’s what he was doing—staring intently at his fingers as he moved the string and contorted it.

…and then he looked at me.

He stopped his hands, and the others at the table stopped what they were doing. They just…hung there, like marionettes. Lifeless.

Those huge red eyes were boring into me. He said my name, like a question. “Alice?” He tilted his head at me, like a kid might do at an unexpected toy.

I didn’t say anything. At least, I don’t think I did. I didn’t understand anything that was going on.

And then he smiled at me. That smile…it was horrible to look at. It curled across his face, wider than any human’s should be, with more teeth than any human should have. And what he said next, I remember more clearly than anything else in that horrible place.

“Your hair wants cutting.”

He never did, though. Cut my hair, I mean. In fact, I think my hair was his favorite thing about me—the way he’d coo to me as he brushed it…he ended up putting those same strings on me that those other people had. I couldn’t fight back—he was stronger than I was, especially once the strings were on. My limbs just…stopped working.

The rest of it is mostly a fever dream. We had tea parties and played croquet and ran about, all with me in some hideous Alice dress and parroting the things he wanted me to say. I begged him to let me go, of course. But he’d just tut and tap my nose. Something about me being ‘naughty’. Oh, I could’ve killed him.

None of it felt real. It was…it was bad. That’s the only way I can think to summarize it. Icky. Not right. Wrong. Jesus—listening to myself is painful. Any of those words, amplified a hundred times, wouldn’t be enough to describe the sensation that went on down there, down in ‘Wonderland.’

I saw him kill a man down there. Or maybe the man was already dead. Either way, when the Hatter took a pair of scissors out of his coat and cut the threads holding him up, he didn’t try to get back up again. The Hatter just shook his head, and I watched the dead-eyed man sink down into the floor like quicksand. How many others had he done that to??

Toys. We were all toys, to be discarded when we were too broken to be fun anymore.

There were dozens of people down there.

Not just anyone, either—some of them…some of them I recognized. Cheryl Reed, an older woman who worked in the same building as me—she was down there too, dressed up all in red and crowing for decapitation. She didn’t recognize me, even when I pleaded her to. Or maybe she was just pretending. When the Hatter stomped his foot and demanded we ‘stop that nonsense’, neither of us felt like fighting back.

Neither of us wanted to end up like that man on the floor.

…thinking back…I don’t think all of us were tied up. There was a man who was…different. I know he was different, because he could walk around on his own. No strings. And I never saw the Hatter dress him. Instead of the gaudy colorful clothes he put us in, this person was walking around in a drab brown business suit. He was…tall, yes, he was tall. Taller than the Hatter by at least a foot or two. Brown hair. Glasses…a very sharp chin.

He’d show up sometimes. The Hatter would get very excited when he came to the table, and he made me curtsey to him the first time he came. Introduced him as…J…something. It was a J name. Jonah? James? I guess it doesn’t matter. The name the Hatter gave him was ‘the March Hare’. Whoever he was, the March Hare made it very clear that he wasn’t interested in helping me, or any of us. He’d sit down and talk to the Hatter. I could never follow the conversation, or remember it clearly. …always something about ‘spirals’, I think.

But the important bit here is that the March Hare could leave.

He had a pair of scissors in his pocket, and he’d just….cut through the air, tear a large dark hole into reality, and step through it. The Hatter would stitch it back together with the same red thread he used on the rest of us, though the closed rip would eventually fade into nothing.

It’s how I escaped.

See, most of the time he would take me with him wherever he was going or whatever game he was playing. I was his favorite that way. But everyone else, he’d have them doing something on their own without him having to constantly keep an eye on them. I guess you could call it ‘autopilot’.

After some romp with the Walrus and the Carpenter, we were coming back to the tea table, and I saw a chance at salvation. The Hatter’s scissors weren’t in his pocket anymore—they were laying there, on the floor, just under the tablecloth. He must have dropped them! I knew I had to act fast—who knew when I’d get another chance?

I brought up some fake inconsistency—that the Carpenter had a limb loose, or something like that. I remember how agitated he got. Insisting to me that no, the Carpenter did not have a loose limb, all the strings were still tightly in place. But I kept insisting, and he actually started to doubt himself to the point where he finally buckled and was going to go back and check. He tried to bring me along, but I huffed and said my feet were tired, I wanted to sit down and drink my tea and eat my biscuits.

Normally he would’ve scolded me and made me come along anyway, but I think by that point I’d stressed him out enough that he just let me sit as he hurried off, and for the first time in what felt like years, I was alone again.

It took…a lot of effort, to move on my own. It’s probably the hardest thing I’d ever done. But I managed to pull against the strings, to bend down, to pick up the scissors. And I cut myself free.

The minute the blades cut through the first strand of thread, I knew I’d made a mistake. He’d felt it. And he was coming back. Fortunately, with my arm free, it was much easier to get the rest of the string off of me.

I almost didn’t get out. By the time I was off my strings, the Hatter was practically flying back towards me, angrier than I’d ever seen him. He was screaming at me, screaming at me to stop, that he’d punish me if I went any further.

I tried swinging the scissors through the air, and I almost sobbed when nothing was happening. No portal was appearing, no salvation was coming…I was going to be a doll forever, or until he decided he was done with me.

But then, a thought drifted through my mind. It was something one of my old lecturers at university had said. The gist of it isn’t really important here—but I remembered the phrase ‘fabric of reality.’

When I was thinking of that phrase, suddenly I felt the blade of the scissors catch on something, and I was quick to pull it down. Like you’d tear through a sheet of fabric in your way.

Just before he could grab hold of me, I dove into the hole I’d made.

And then I woke up.

…well…I woke up on the pavement, with paramedics and a crowd gathered around me, along with reporters. The missing Alice Pleasance, returned home in strange clothes, and…you know the rest. Read the newspaper articles if you really want a rehash of that. Honestly, lying there on the street, I thought it really was a dream, that maybe I’d just gotten hit by a car or something and blacked out….but there’s a problem with that. One, I’d been missing for a month and a half, and two, I still had the Hatter’s scissors. I’m leaving them with you. Lord knows I don’t want them. And maybe they’ll help in your investigation.

I cut my hair. It was the first thing I did once I was out of the hospital. I threw out most of my old clothes, all of them were too close to the costumes he had me in for my liking. And every time I looked in the mirror, I saw Alice. Sweet, sassy, stupid Alice, from the books. …I can’t even think of those books now without feeling sick.

I had to quit my job. I can’t focus for long periods anymore, no matter how hard I try. I just lose track of the time, and all of a sudden it’s four hours later than when I last checked. Most of the time, I just stay in nowadays.

…and that’s not all…

Sometimes, when I look around outside…I can see red strings everywhere. Covering everyone. Guiding them. Controlling them. It’s not real. I know it’s not real. And most of the time, I can blink a few times or rub my eyes, and the strings will be gone.

Jervis Tetch…that monster…he ruined my life.

I don’t know how you’d go about capturing someone like that.

But I really hope this helps you catch him.

Archivist Notes: The scissors Ms. Pleasance included with her statement are now in artifact storage, awaiting inspection. If what Ms. Pleasance says is true, this marks the first documented case where someone’s ever escaped from Jervis Tetch—alive, anyway, instead of lying dead in some back alley as if they’d dropped from the sky.

One other thing to note is the description of the ‘March Hare.’ It might be a stretch, but it aligns very closely with a missing person’s report that’s currently ongoing. The case of one Jonathan Crane, missing for at least a year, and appearing in proximity to dangerous individuals. Something to look in to.

-END DOCUMENT-

[foulserpent]

ned meets sheogorath (1836 words)

cw: suicide mentions

"HELLO Nedirael! Glad you could make it out here!" the voice boomed, familiar and all the more alien for it. 

Ned stood across the hall of a grand throne room, weary and bedraggled and half clad in a weak leather armor he’d found himself not needing. A great tree loomed in back, its leaves an autumnal blaze of reds and oranges that bathed the room alien sunlight. Two torches burned a bright icy blue and a pink to either side of the throne, setting the stained glass to either side into a dizzying array of sparkles far too overwhelming to see what they depicted. Everything seemed to bend inwards, space itself being pulled to a singularity at the center.

There sat Sheogorath.

They looked a lot like Xikeel, much as they did when they had appeared to Ned weeks before, almost a decade after he had last seen his friend alive. They were a brighter red and crowned with teal horns, with scales that reflected with iridescence in every color he could imagine and some beyond that. They wore a robe almost equal in vividness and fluttering ceaselessly. It hurt Ned's head to try and see where embroidered fabric ended and tiny, colorful butterflies began. 

Perhaps most striking of all was the beard. How the hell had she grown a beard?

"Hi, Xikeel." Ned said as he made his way down the aisle.

Sheogorath shifted in their seat, resting their hairy chin on three hands with an expression of exaggerated annoyance. Some butterflies swarmed upwards, before settling back into the shape their sleeve.

"Don't you know my name?" Sheogorath asked. "I didn't work so hard just for nasty little mammals to come in here and call me all manners of nonsense words."

The butterfly-robe scattered yet again, their little bodies intertwining and blending like paint on a brush to form another scaly arm. The daedra began to drum that hand onto the throne.

Ned grimaced. If there was any doubt that his old friend had really changed into something else, it was dead and buried.

"For fucks sake Xikeel," he said, ignoring the daedra's many eyes rolling. "I thought you were dead, I thought- I thought the Blades took you out, or you went off and, uh,"

"Tried the same thing you did? And did a better job at it?" Sheogorath grabbed the edge of thin air and lifted off of their throne. They made a great show of crossing their legs in midair, before slouching into another relaxed position. 

"No, no, no, your friend just got lost. Can't blame her. It's sooooo much nicer here than out there!" They punctuated by even more arms flinging themselves into existence in a gesture of pride, before dissipating into more fluttering insects.  

"So, what actually brings you here? Surely not just to stand around and gawk."

“I-” Ned started, but he was interrupted. 

"I hope you like my palace? And my realm? I changed things up around here. My saints really want to kill you, and most of the beasts here wanted to eat you or lay eggs in you, but I told them, 'no! This is a guest of honor!'"

The Golden Saints half hidden in the dizzying light of the room gave no acknowledgment, though they all stared down at him with unblinking needle-slit pupils. Ned continued to ignore them.

"Okay, so if you aren't Xikeel, then what makes me the goddamn ‘guest of honor’?" He asked.

"I mean, if you want my Saints to hunt you for sport I guess I'm open to-"

"No, no, I'm good." Ned interjected. “I’m just. What happened to you?”

“Nothing happened to me. Well, something did. Happens every thousand years or so, but I’m back to normal. I’m my own man. I’m brand new!” Sheogorath cheered, then lowered their head in seriousness. “And to answer your obvious question, your friend helped with that. So I returned the favor. Said goodbye for her. Like, ten or a hundred years or something late, but I did. Sorry, I forgot.” 

Ned felt his head start to ache. 

“I didn’t come all this way to listen to this, I mean holy fuck are you getting this?” He threw his arms out. “I thought you were dead.”

“Well, that’s kind of a you problem, isn’t it?” Sheogorath yawned.

Ned’s rubbed his face in exasperation, sucking air between his teeth.

"Xikeel... Can you please-" He paused, a stupid question forming in his throat. He already regretted it before it clumsily fell from his tongue. "Please just stop it?"

Sheogorath gave him a blank stare.

"Oh, okay!" The daedra said. 

With a puff of smoke, Xikeel stood before him. She was as he remembered, small and spindly, dull red and broken-horned. She wore the same cheap shirt and trousers as that final day. Everything was just as he'd last seen her, standing in the doorway ten years ago, saying "I'm going out" and getting only an "okay" in return, walking out of the door and out of his life and out from the world.

Ned froze at the sight of his friend. He could scarcely bring himself to breathe, feeling as if the very act would blow her away. She gave him a smile - just slightly parted teeth. Not an argonian smile, but one she would give to him, to Martin. A gesture that could soothe a mammalian friend more easily than the subtleties of argonian facial expression. She smiled under blank, golden eyes.

"Did you really think that would work?"

Ned went cold.

Xikeel's body twisted back into oblivion.  It stretched and lengthened until they were something like a dragon, long and blazing and too familiar. They danced in airborne circles around Ned, trailing sparks as they passed.

"Alright, here's one for you. Imagine you find the last surviving shard of your family, blackout drunk, drowning in a river!" They spat the words like venom.

Ned's stomach dropped even further.

"And you pull it out and pull the water from its lungs, and you say, 'Please don't go! I need you!'" They shrieked. A mockery of tears bubbled up from Sheogorath's many eyes as the daedra swam in dizzying loops around the man. "I need you so much! I can't do this alone, please!" They cried.

"And after all that, after everything, it does it again. And it punches your idiot face when you try to stop it!" Sheogorath spun one last loop, catching the tears in their cavernous mouth before swooping up towards the ceiling.

"I'm sorry." Ned said.

He had just wanted to die. He had enough of getting back onto his feet only to have everything he built be ripped out from under him again. He had been so tired of being kicked and beaten until he was reduced to some scarred thing that somehow hadn't yet learned not to rest its head in any open hands that were offered to it. He had only seen one way out. God, he didn't want to hurt her. 

Sheogorath now twisted in tight spirals, filled with some frenetic energy and half screaming.  "Yeah, that really is the kind of thing that changes a person! You're getting it now!"

"I'm sorry." Ned said. "I'm so sorry, Xikeel."

Sheogorath dropped like a shot bird, landing on four legs with a heavy thud. They crawled towards Ned with a terrible speed. The man flinched but did not move. The daedra loomed to their full height, sticking their whiskered snout into his face.

"Who are you apologizing to?"

Ned's face contorted with pain. Finally, a sob tore through his throat.

"Who are you apologizing to?!" Sheogorath roared, yellow eyes flashing like stars far beyond the border of their face. They cut golden fractals through his tears.

"Who are you apo-" Sheogorath was cut off as the man flailed, batting their face away. Ned stepped back, frame now wracked with sobs. He dragged in a shuddering breath, and screamed.

"Fucking STOP IT!"

The palace was silent. A heavy absence now choked out the air. Ned's shuddering gasps came to Sheogorath as if through water, a thick dark river their gills fluttered against in vain.

"Xikeel.. I know... I know..." Ned trailed off as he broke into sobs.

Sheogorath hadn't felt the man's touch. They weren't this body, they were the whole room. They were the whole city. They were the whole realm. The body was merely a face for it, cradled in the daedra's own churning belly. How had it felt the man's touch?

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The daedra did not have tear ducts. Their eyes could hardly even be called eyes, really. They came and went as they pleased. 

"I'm sorry."

Sheogorath did not know if it was the man who now spoke, or their own. They didn't move closer. They just sat on the ground and bent their head.

Bridged in misery, the two rode out their sobs.

"This place isn't safe for you." Sheogorath finally said. Their voice came out a soft monotone. It was smaller now, too much of a fragile hollow-boned thing to come out of a god's mouth.

"I know, I know."

"People who come in here have a hard time getting out, sometimes."

Ned laughed. It caught in his throat and shuddered into another sob. "You think?" He asked.

Sheogorath slithered next to him. He didn’t look at them, far too occupied with wiping tears from his face, which fell in spite of his efforts. His wet face sparkled in the firelight, and he was smiling in a way hurt things do. Sheogorath took one last look, setting all these features to memory and holding them close.

Ned finally looked her in the eyes.

Without another word, Sheogorath opened their mouth and swallowed him. For just a split second, Ned saw an alien sky full of stars. He was a weightless mote, adrift in a sea that stretched shoreless long past any horizon. Wind whipped his sides, eroded him away to a core and back again.

Then, warmth. A sun that was not his sun caressed his skin yet again. He realized, with a start, that he'd been holding his breath.  

He opened his eyes.

Ned stood on the edge of the portal where he had come in just a day before. Brightly colored butterflies drifted around the edges, burning to sparks as they hit the barrier and flaring back into life as they bounced away. He was alone again. Unharmed and untouched, with eyes still burning with stars and tears. His breath came in shudders.  

He was facing the twisted reflection of his own world, far away beyond comprehension and close enough to touch. It was morning. There was the lake near Bravil, the treeline in the distance. He thought he even saw the dim outline of the tent Shap had pitched to wait for him.

The message was clear. It was whispered in the wind, punctuated in the beating of chitinous wings.

Go home.

"I’m sorry.” Ned whispered.

Go home.

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

I Taste Honey but I Haven’t Seen the Hive - Chapter Three

Ao3,  MasterPost,   C.1,   C.2

Relationships: eventual queer-platonic intruality

Warnings: swearing, innuendo (thanks Remus), a bit of spiraling thoughts, even more guilt (patton get a grip man),  

Word Count: 2,721

Patton stood in the center of Remus’ room, waiting patiently while the being darted this way and that. Maybe he should’ve sat down, but none of the furniture in the room looked domesticated enough. Maybe he should’ve moved out of the way, at the very least, but the edges of the room rolled and moved and Patton did not want to know what made the corners seem so indefinite.

Remus moved in repetitions. First, he would reach into some shelf or jar or receptacle (or, on occasion, stick his hand right through the wall)- retrieving some item large or small- and hold it in his claws. He would then turn it over in his hands, and smell/lick/poke it. Each time he’d deem it not what he was looking for, drop it- never in the same place that he’d gotten it from- and then move on again. Around and around he went in the room, doing the same thing on each cycle. 

Patton was starting to get dizzy watching it, honestly. 

Remus stopped in front of his closet this time, and leaned in. He rummaged, loudly, but this time there was a shout of “Aha!” that made Patton start in surprise.

“What-!” He cleared his throat, “What did you find?”

Remus jumped to his feet, shimmying his shoulders back and forth. A loud clatter followed each movement, like legos in a barrel. When Patton tried to see what he had, though, he turned his back to him again. 

“I found something to do that won’t traumatize you!” He sing-songed, dancing around and keeping up the clamor of his mystery object. Patton laughed, light and surprised, trying again to take a look. Again, Remus danced ridiculously out of the way.

“Well, that’s very considerate of you," he trailed behind the source of the noise, smiling,  “Mind telling me what it is?” 

“What’s it sound like?” Remus shook the box again. Although- Patton could see now that it wasn’t a box as much as it was a case; a very, very large and heavy-looking case, half the size of Remus’ torso. 

“Um- bean bag filling?”

Remus cackled, his head tipping side to side.

“Nope! I’m pretty sure I would’ve eaten it by now!”

“Uh-huh,” Patton couldn’t help giggling to himself, as Remus’ laughter- along with many things about him- was infectious. “Is it a box full of maracas?”

Remus bounced on his heels, shook his head. Patton didn’t waste time guessing again. He knew just what an impatient Creativity looked like, and so he waited the last few moments before Remus couldn’t help turning around on his own and happily displaying the container. 

  Cradled in the Duke’s arms was the enormous case of clear-plastic, filled to the brim with what Patton could now see were pony beads. The beads came in every color thinkable- plenty of varieties, too. Glitter, metallic, letters, star-shaped, heart-shaped, tooth-shaped, et cetera et cetera! There were also, of course, spools of elastic. And charms, metal or rubber, plenty of those for decorating.

Patton examined this carefully, as a cautious excitement warmed him through his chest. He looked from the case to Remus, finding the side grinning proudly up at him. 

“Bracelets?” Patton questioned.

“Bracelets!” Remus answered.

He was caught off-guard by such a wholesome hobby, he couldn’t lie, but Remus showed no signs that any of this was odd at all. As he wandered across his room, kicking heaps of trash and laundry out of the way to make room for them to sit, Patton found himself following his lead without much debate. 

“I know you like to make those little thread ones,” Remus sat down on the floor, gesturing loosely to Patton’s arm, “And I make these beady things every now and then, so.” 

“But I’ve never seen you wear any?” He sat down across from Remus, folding his legs beneath himself. The carpet was stained with many unpleasant colors- mostly dark red, and an upsetting amount of yellowed-gray. He was careful to avoid those patches. 

“I wear ‘em under my sleeves, for when I wanna play with them. Making them gives me something to do with my hands, I guess,” Remus slid his fingers under the ruffled cuff of his sleeve, slipping a bracelet off his wrist. He held it up, displaying its murky green and black beads, the word ‘vomit’ spelled out with square beads in the middle of it. 

“Oh!” Patton reached forward in excitement, rolling the plastic between his fingers. It felt smooth, movements fluid, the beads rattling pleasantly against each other. “You use them to stim?”

Something in Remus’ expression lit up like fluorescents, replacing his usual unnerving mania with a flash of genuine excitement. 

“I use everything I wear to stim, Daddio,” he gestured first to his frayed sash, then the teeth sewn into his shirt, and onto the layers of glittered fabric. He was covered in flashing colors and textured fabrics and different parts, all apparently intentionally placed.

That spark of similarity was all it took for Patton to forget the vestiges of his awkwardness, as he let go of Remus’ bracelet and yet again laughed.

 He helped Remus set up the case, slotting the different sections of it out and setting them down in between themselves. There were so many, and once it was all set, Remus wasted no time in getting to work. The motions he went through were practiced, well-worn with almost nothing other than muscle memory and a vague sense of design. 

Just like that, they were both quiet again- Remus because of his focus, Patton because he lacked the words to say. He tried to follow the other side’s lead, snipping a bit of elastic off a thick spool from the center of the case and grabbing a handful of beads, haphazardly.

Opening up his hand to look at the selection, he found a few neon pink ones, reds shaped like anatomically accurate hearts, and an oblong metal charm that bore striking resemblance to a-

Oh! 

He tossed that one back, feeling flustered. 

They’d both been quiet for too long, he realized. He didn’t know what to say, still, came the dawning fear next. Patton looked up from his work, mouth falling open without any plan, to find that Remus was already staring at him. Intently.

“Hi,” Patton blurted.

“Do you like music?” Remus said it at almost the same time as him, the words chasing each other. In his voice was a trace of awkwardness- not nearly as much as Patton’s, but it was there, and that was… comforting, somehow. 

He looked down at his hands, looping a few pink beads down his string. 

“What kind?”

Remus hummed confusedly, giving the distinct impression that he’d forgotten music came in different varieties. 

“Most kinds!” He began, “But today, I think I’m feeling violent- violent in a cute way, don’t worry,” he smiled, too, like that made sense at all, like he was trying to be persuasive. It was- what, endearing? Or at the very least it was funny. 

Patton smiled back, his hands twisting around his string.

“Whatever you want, bud.”

Remus had summoned a speaker already, but as he leaned over to place it he dropped it with a weighty thump. Patton jumped, seeing Remus sitting slack-jawed in surprise across from him. Concern filled his head, but then it clicked.

He’d never called him anything so… friendly.

“Oh- Remus, I-”

“It’s fine!” Remus scrambled to grab the speaker, claws skidding off it more than once. “Call me whatever! I don’t care!”

But his voice was a little too pitchy, and his pupils a bit too dilated, and Patton thought that he did care- that he in fact cared very much. 

When music filled the room, painfully loud at first, Patton said nothing. He watched Remus, twisting the volume knob in a very focused manner, and he felt warm. 

The sounds weren’t what he was used to, to say the least, but it was almost nice. Everything was a little too noisy, and a little too vulgar, and a lot too foul, but beneath it all he could see the appeal. He listened to it, and it seemed almost like he was learning. Patton scooped up another set of beads- this time with a bit more care- threaded them together contentedly. 

It felt like Remus was really trying to be hospitable. He wasn’t doing too bad of a job about it, either- which was more than Patton could say about himself, in years past. A lot more, actually. 

Remus’ voice broke through the music: “What are you thinking about?”

Patton blinked, smiling up at his maybe-sort-of-potential friend. 

“What do you mean?”

Remus’ face was angled down towards his project, contorted with concentration.

“You’re thinking about something. You make less noise than a day-old corpse when you get caught up in your head.”

“Oh!” Was he really that easy to read? Wait, don’t answer that… “It’s not a big deal, don’t worry about it.”

“C’mon, don’t do that. Take it from me- reigning champion in thinking about upsetting shit- talking about it is how you make sure your brain doesn’t devour itself Ouroboros-style.”

And Patton said, quietly:

“Yeah, but your upsetting thoughts don’t upset you.”

“Who said they don’t?” Remus sounded confused- genuinely, sincerely confused. Patton winced, taken aback by his own insensitivity. 

“Oh my goodness, it- I had no idea, I’m so sorry.” 

Remus’ confusion mounted.

“That’s alright?” He started, “I’m used to it all, I know how to handle it. Which is why, I was going to say, if you keep it all up here-” he tapped his head, a faint rattling resulted in it, “-then all your brains are gonna goosh out from your ears and eyes and nose from the stress! Probably.”

“I-” his voice wobbled, “I know.”

There was a beat.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” it wasn’t a question, but it was soft enough to sound like one. Patton refused to look up anyway, hands pulling taut the elastic of his bracelet. His eyes slipped closed for merely a moment, and he sighed.

“I can’t stop feeling guilty around you… but that’s just my problem, okay?”

Remus’ reaction was unexpected, even for him. He breathed out slow, exhaustion crawling down his face in such a foreign expression for him. His lips were quirked down in a half-scowl. 

“I make you uncomfortable, yeah?” He rolled his eyes, gesturing with his free hand. “This was your idea, you know. You can leave anytime you want, I’m sure as fuck not gonna think you’re rude- you think I’m in a place to judge people?” 

With a sudden intake of breath, Patton twisted his partially made bracelet around his hand and pulled it taught, startled and fidgeting. 

“What-? No! You aren’t the problem, Remus, I am,” he shook his head in bewilderment, “I don’t- I have no idea how to talk to you, but I know that I do want to! Everything you’ve done today makes me want to talk to you more, and I still can’t figure out how, and I- I’m sorry. I can’t get over the- well, the everything, Remus.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Remus looked oddly vacant.

“Do you-” He stopped short.

“I should-” Patton cut off. 

This was a bad idea. It was a bad idea and he never should have done this and he never should have accepted Remus’ help in the first place. He wasn’t going to get the hang of this no matter how hard he tried, and now he’d somehow rendered Remus speechless, which clearly meant he’d messed up beyond what he thought possible. Patton hadn’t changed a bit, still so ungrateful and insensitive to this creature, who’d so selflessly helped him and held him and. And.

He felt sick. 

“It’s not your fault?” Remus’ words came out like a question. “I don’t know what you’re apologizing for, actually. Or why you’re doing that.”

Patton dropped the last few beads onto place, staring blankly at the untied jewelry in his hands. He counted the beads. Tried to breathe. 

“I’m sorry because you think that I don’t like you.”

Remus snorted. 

“You don’t like me.”

“Wh- yes, I do!”

“Oh, do you? Or do you like that I did something nice for you, and you think you need to pay it forward.”

Patton ground his teeth, indignant. No, he was confused about a lot of things, but this much he knew wasn’t the reality anymore.

“You know what? Maybe that was true, when I first decided I ‘had’ to do this, but I’ve done a lot of thinking- I can’t stop thinking about you, actually. I had so many ideas about what you were, what you meant, and it’s hard to understand that for thirty years- thirty years- I was wrong,” Patton set his jaw so tight it hurt. “But I’m going to understand it because I can see that you’re- you can be kind. You did a nice thing for me and you didn’t have to. You’re funny, too, I never thought you’d make me laugh, but you-”

Remus interrupted him with a snort. And then, he was cackling, doubled over and wheezing and Patton had no choice but to wait for him to finish. 

“Stop, fuck, stop talking,” Remus giggled, “I knew you were a himbo, but wow, dumb. You’re really beating yourself up about this, huh?” Remus had his chin resting on his hand, leaning forwards with half-lidded eyes and a lazy grin. “You don’t have to list all the reasons you should like me. You don’t owe me anything, and I like it that way.” 

Patton didn’t respond. Remus continued anyway. 

“I let you cry on me cuz you were having a meltdown. That’s just what people do. You’d do it- you’re way more cuddly and lovey-dovey than me, you’d do it for anybody. Anybody would do it for anybody. It doesn’t matter, Pops.”

Patton tied the knot of his bracelet, finally. looped the string over itself thrice and tightened it well. The backs of his eyes stung.

“Is it really so bad that I want to try being friends with you? Is that really so stupid?”

Remus’ expression cleared, the words not yet processed. Slowly, his mouth twisted, his eyes went just a bit wide, all in a look that shouted something like epiphany. He sunk his teeth into his lip. 

Remus snapped the bracelet he’d made with his claw, letting the beads scatter across the floor. He dove forward for the case, scooping up a new set, and got to work. He ordered them strategically, fixing them all into a line and moving so quickly that Patton realized he’d only been working so slowly before so that he was matching Patton’s own pace.

He was done in a minute or less, tying it off and slicing off the excess elastic.

“Arm, gimme.”

Patton felt a small rush of surprise, not even hesitating to stick his wrist out and let Remus push the bracelet up past his hand. The touch was gentle, letting the accessory fall into place on his arm.

It was bright and neon- more so than anything Patton would ever wear, usually. The colors were an eyesore, but they were. Well. Teal, white, interspersed with occasional green, and that said more about the jewelry than however saturated it was. There were unique beads dotted throughout, too- teddy bears and hearts. It was cute. It was comfortable.

Patton glanced up, so many things that he thought he should say but none of them came to fruition. Remus’ eyes bored into him with their intensity, questioning and fierce and almost confused.

Patton picked up his own small creation. It was pink and gray and white, all pastel and pretty, with metal charms that were cool to the touch. He nudged it over to Remus, fully aware that it contrasted with the side’s aesthetic even more than Remus’ gift did for him, and that he already had so very many.

But Remus didn’t hesitate either, shoving his sleeve up and adding the new piece to his collection. He grinned. 

And, as cheery as he ever sounded, like nothing odd had happened at all, Remus said:

“We should do this again sometime, then. Maybe I’ll even make you something with real hearts!”

Chapter Four

Taglist: @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @gayformlessblob 

[demiwonder-a]

you were high in the atmosphere: i disappear below. // koncassie

WHO: Cassie Sandsmark & Conner Kent. @kxnel​. With plenty of mentions of Erik Lehnsherr. 

WORD COUNT: 2580 words. (A short one, I’m proud of us!)

LOCATION: Wayne Manor.

GENERAL NOTES: At the Thanksgiving dinner hosted by the Waynes Kon’s lying finally comes to a head and Cassie is unsure how to proceed after finding out what exactly he was lying about. 

WARNINGS: Gaslighting, unhealthy/toxic relationship behavior. 

CASSIE: It had been building and building for awhile now. This gut feeling that was consistently twisting inside of Cassie as she watched Kon not make full eye contact with her. He was disappearing to hang out with Tim apparently, but she hated the fact that she didn't believe him. She never wanted to feel like this, especially when it came to Kon. He was her best friend before being her boyfriend and the fact she felt like he was lying to her was a gut punch. Especially when it made her mind wander and wander to what he could possibly be hiding. 

Thanksgiving was spent without him by her side and she tried to bite her tongue, but she felt embarrassed. Like she was somehow left out of the loop and in turn, looking like an idiot. (Not that she had any proof for it whatsoever, but her insecurity getting the best of her.) All of that came to a boiling point once she was headed out to her car to go home and that's when he finally showed up.

"Nice of you to make it." Cassie bit out before she could really stop herself. Her temper always burned bright and fast. "So how was your holiday with whoever the fuck you were spending it with? Or are you just going to lie to me again?"

KON: Thanksgiving had been... nice. More than nice, if he was being honest with himself. Erik had greeted him with a smile, one that grew during dinner as Kon shot off into a passionate ramble that would have been embarrassingly open at game night, disregarded at his own apartment, shunned at work and ended in an economics lecture at the manor. For once Kon felt like more than just a string arm for people who thought they were smarter than him or more capable of seeing the world how it truly was. Kon was past that now, past thinking that anyone was anything less than biased, that reality was anything less than a sea of grays. 

Erik understood that, had sent him off with a pat on the back and an obviously well loved book whose dog eared corners piqued his curiosity even more than the twinkle Kon swore he caught in Erik's eyes. 

He flew to the manor in a high, happy and content, even if he hadn't gotten any real answers about Cassie's condition from Erik. He was researching, and Kon understood that research could take time. He was just glad the man had agreed to help at all. 

He didn't have to do that. But he was, for Kon. A favor for a friend. 

He made his way through the manor after picking Alfred up in a bear hug, ready to put aside his nagging feelings of disappointment at its inhabitants and just enjoy being with family. His family.

"What?" He sputtered, his face contorting into a confused grimace as he pulled back from his attempt at a kiss, his words a jumble of a choked laugh and a rushed whisper, "When have I ever lied to you?" 

He shook his head, the arm slung over the back of Cassie's chair dropping back to hang limply at his side. "Why are you so mad at me? Did Tim tell you something?"

CASSIE: Cassie pulled back from the attempt at a kiss with her face screwed up into an angry look. "Are you serious? Are you asking me if Tim told me anything? Do you realize how guilty that makes you look? Does he have something to tell me, Conner?" Her voice raised in volume despite herself, having shoved all these feelings down violently in favor of ignoring everything. She was torn between this gut feeling and dark cloud that plagued her to try to give him the benefit of the doubt of the situation. It's what he deserved after all, but she snapped without thinking, letting her anger win out. She was angry about a lot of things, but most of all scared what was happening to her. 

Cassie felt like her life was spiraling out of control in front of her and there was nothing that she could do to stop it.

Even underneath the eyes of the people at Wayne Manor Cassie let the words spill out of her at a quick pace. 

"You keep disappearing and you keep telling me you're out with Tim or you're doing all this other stuff, I just..." Cassie bit her tongue hard enough she tasted blood. She got up, belatedly realizing the eyes that were on them. "Let's go outside. And talk."

KON: Kon fought a roll of his eyes, his jaw tightening enough that his teeth ground together with a sick, brittle clatter. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at Tim, who's concerned expression only served to stoke the fire in the pit of his stomach. He didn't want to do this here, didn't want to do this ever but with the way Cassie's voice was rising, he didn't think he had much of a choice.

For a moment he wanted nothing more than to turn around and fly back out the door, maybe make his way back to Genosha. Have a glass of wine with Erik.

But he slumped further in his seat instead, his breath coming in a harsh huff. "Well you're freaking the fuck out on me for no reason." he seethed, "so I figured someone had to have at least given you a reason to start attacking me as soon as I walk through the door."

She would never do this to Bart or Tim. Anything they said was taken as fact, sacrosanct truth but for him? Well he was untrustworthy, open to scrutiny much harsher than what was warranted. He was always a threat, a problem.

"Oh yeah, of course. I have a life outside of just being pointed in the direction of the biggest threat and being told to punch and so I must be fucking up right? I have to be doing something wrong because I can't do anything right?"

He let out a sour, breathless, bark of a laugh, his head shaking as he pushed away from the table, the arms of his chair crumbling in his hands before he wiped them over his eyes.

"Yeah, be a good little puppy and come, Kon. Right? Fuck that. I'm a fucking adult, Cassie. If you want to talk, ask."

CASSIE: "It's not for no reason!" Cassie snapped. The absent mention from Kitty about Kon joining the dinner at Genosha had been ringing in her head. Why didn't he tell her? Did he feel compelled to not tell her? The reminder of the text conversation they had what felt like ages ago with Clark, Kara, and Jon and it coming up that Kon had been talking to him hit her like a swift kick to the gut. Maybe he wasn't unfounded in the wariness of her reaction. 

She knew he wasn't. Especially when her temper that had faltered was stoked once more, flaring up like an angry forest fire. "Don't put words in my mouth. I never once said or thought that of you." There was a blossom of hurt that stabbed right into her chest, twisting one, two, three times. Did she really make him feel like that? 

Was Kon that miserable with her? What did that say about her?

The words were lodged in Cassie's throat and she let out a harsh breath, looking up at the arching ceilings of Wayne Manor to try to will back the tears that were starting to sting at her eyes. 

"Conner, can we please go talk outside?" Cassie asked quietly, rubbing at her eyes tiredly and avoiding looking at him now. The room was all too quiet now without Cassie's yelling and the members of the Wayne family not speaking amidst the argument.

KON: Sometimes he felt like Cassie could see right through him and while most of the time it felt like being seen, like being known, right now it felt suffocating and even looking at her felt heavy in the center of his chest. Her eyes were piercing now, steel against steel as they met his. This had always been their problem, even before they got together. He was dry and brittle tinder and she was a match. 

He could almost taste the phosphorus in the air. 

His teeth clacked together inelegantly as he leaned against a pillar in the manor's expansive garden. He used to love coming here with Tim... before. Everything felt so long ago now that it was hard to believe he had walked the same paths for the flowers' first bloom of the season no more than eight months earlier. But he guessed that it was the way of both him and the roses to wither in the cold. 

Truths and untruths, white lies that darkened with each repetition. He should have known that they would catch up to him. He had known that they would catch up to him, had choked on his confessions night after night for weeks now but talking to Cassie lately had been a lesson in futility. 

"It's not about you, Cass," he said brokenly, "What have you done? You, you, you, that's all that matters, right?" He shook his head. "Erik invited me to Thanksgiving. I'm not sorry I went, and I'm not sorry that I'm friends with him. He's, Cassie if you talked to him you would understand."

CASSIE: "I didn't mean—" Cassie swallowed hard and felt herself shrink back in on herself. She hadn't meant to make Conner feel like this, feel like she was the forefront of everything. She had been so fixated on losing her powers and how lost she felt that she hadn't even bothered to look outside herself to see what was happening with Kon. 

"I'm sorry," Cassie whispered, not being able to make her voice much louder with how choked up she felt. "I didn't mean it like that—to make it be about me. I'm sorry. It's not all that matters. You matter—you've always mattered. I'm sorry if I haven't been good about showing that." It didn't feel like enough. She wasn't exactly sure what would.

She'd understand if she talked to him. The mere thought made the girl grimace. There was something about Erik that reminded her of Ares. The promises and the good intentions. The way to hell was always paved in good intentions. Promises of something good but something sinister lingered in the air. The catch would come then he wouldn't be the one to pay the price. She didn't trust him—didn't want to trust him. 

"I don't think I can do that. I don't—I don't want to do that." Cassie admitted quietly. "I don't trust him, Conner. I trust you, you know I do—" And yet there they were, the bot bubbling over due to lies and mistrust, "—but there's something about him that—" that scares me, but she didn't say that.

KON: "You never mean-' he cut himself off, his lips tightening into a thin line as he turned away from her. It was impossible for him to make her see, if only for the complete lack of words she always reduced him to. She made it so hard to think sometimes, something that he both loved and hated desperately about her. He felt like an idiot, and more so, sometimes, he felt like she thought he was an idiot and had just decided to love him anyway. 

Couldn't she see that he had worn himself thin supporting her, loving her? That he just needed her support too? 

"I don't- I don't want a sorry, Cassie. I just want you to listen." He steped back toward her, his hand landing on her shoulder and running down her arm to catch her hand as he kneeled in front of her. "I really hate when we fight," he admitted, his forehead knocking into hers as he grinned sadly. 

They could be okay, they would be. She would hear him out, he could explain how he didn't feel like a ticking time bomb when he spoke to Erik, how he was actually going to help, had agreed to it readily without any strings attached, how much he had learned, how wrong they had been going about things. Add then she continued talking and he pulled back, a disbelieving laugh passing his lips as he stood suddenly, all of the rage that had been bubbling up throughout their fight boiling over. 

"You don't trust me! You don't trust me and you don't respect me or my opinions. You can't, you can't or you would at least hear me out, Cassie. My god!" 

He tore his hand away, his head shaking as he retreated. "He's a good man. He's made mistakes but, but, We've all made mistakes! We've, we-,' he felt manic, his heart thumping wildly as he stumbled over his words. "It's supposed to be you and me against the world, Cass. Why can't you just be with me on this?"

CASSIE: "I am listening!" Cassie insisted, feeling frazzled and worn down to the bone after this conversation snapped her from one extreme to another. It felt like she couldn't catch a breath. That she should be the one apologizing for being angry he was lying to her despite her having every right to. She didn't mean to make him feel like he couldn't talk to her, but he wasn't making it easy to try to approach. He was pulling away and pulling away hard. "I really, really hate when we fight too." She echoed, hating the way her heart wouldn't stop aching. 

As soon as the waves seemed to settle, things went quiet for just a moment, they exploded once more. Kon pulled away and snapped wildly. Cassie watched with wide eyes, any and all words dying promptly on her tongue. When did she say that? When did she ever give off that impression? She felt like she was going crazy. 

Cassie stood up abruptly, fingers curled into a tight fist, feeling that fizzle of lightning seem to come alive if for but a moment. Her eyes burned with tears that started to drip down her cheeks once more. "I don't recognize you. I don't recognize my best friend, and that fucking scares me, Kon-El. I have always trusted you. You're putting words in my mouth and you're making me feel—" She let out an angry noise and dug the heels of her hands against her shut eyes, seeing stars burst in front of her eyelids. There was an undeniable urge to simply scream. 

The fight drained out of her as soon as it arrived. (It was always a fight.) Cassie let her arms drop and hang limply by her side, eyes opening and giving Kon a tired look. "I don't...I don't care what you do, Conner. Go to Genosha. Do what you want. I can't stop you. I'm going h—" a moment of hesitation, "—I'm going to the apartment. I'm sorry you feel that way. It's always been you and me."

Turning, Cassie left her boyfriend standing in the garden to get in her car. She wasn't sure if it would be her and him against the world much longer and that left her with an aching loss and sadness that rivaled the first time she lost him. She was losing him once again and was unsure how to fix it.

[alagaesia-headcanons]

My Love

First fic for this blog! Wow!

Summary:  Dragon tend to share specific endearments with their Riders and sometime vice versa.  Saphira calls Eragon “little one” and even Glaedr uses the term once.  But for Thorn and Murtagh, they always call each other “my love”.

Three times (of many) Murtagh and Thorn call each other "My Love"

Word Count:  4845

Warnings:  Canon Character Death, Self Harm (scratching), Brief and Nondescript Reference to Rape, Angst with a Happy Ending

A/N:  I’ve been wanting to write this for a while.  Based off a headcanon I mentioned in this post.  Oneshot with three parts, divided by lines.  The parts are nonconsecutive.  The self harm and brief mention of rape (used as allegory, nothing sexual is referenced) are only in the middle part.  Feel free to skip if you'd like.

Read on AO3

Murtagh’s eye twitched and his focus faltered when something twinged in the back of his mind. His skin crawled in dread and he fought to keep himself in place. Nevertheless, he leaned back and to the side just a touch, drawn towards the depths of the castle by an inexorable pull. The king had sentenced him to magic drills for the remainder of the evening and it was grueling work. He’d spent hours standing in front of five chest high stones that Galbatorix had presented him with, each he had ensorcelled with countless wards. Murtagh’s task, to destroy all five, was a battle against both Galbatorix’s spell casting as well as the limits of his own strength. His hands were already cold and shaky from the energy expended on the first four and laboring over the fifth. Work, made harder, now, by the distracting pull at the back of his mind.

The king had started, he was sure of it. He could feel it in his muscles, his bones, and he spared a moment to curse Galbatorix with the foulest oaths he knew. Murtagh jerked towards the castle again, then forcibly refocused on the stone in front of him with a muttered curse. He reluctantly discarded the thought of abandoning the assignment; he knew from experience that it would only gain him punishment. The thought of pain didn’t deter him so much as the delay he knew it would cause. He needed to be inside right now, and finishing the drills was the fastest way there.

Attempting to push aside the distraction, Murtagh threw together a new spell to try to shatter the remaining boulder. He cut it off when it had no effect. He started casting spells far faster and more recklessly than he had been before, spurred on by the feeling. Each failure chipped away at his energy and added to his franticness. Every minute dragged on for eternity and he wanted to howl in frustration at his lack of progress.

The stone showed no response to a hasty, somewhat desperate spell to raise its temperature, just like it had for all the preceding spells, but when Murtagh held his hand out, he felt the heat rolling off it in waves. Indulging in a hunch, he cast a spell to reverse the effect, making it as cold as he could as fast as he could. After a painfully tense moment, the stone cracked in two and then split further when the pieces hit the ground. Before Murtagh could feel relieved or proud, a wave of lightheadedness washed over him and he swayed dangerously. He managed to right himself and tried to focus his suddenly blurry vision. With careful consideration of his balance, Murtagh turned to the castle and made his way inside, leaving behind the ruble that remained of the five boulders.

He set as brisk of a pace as he could down the route that had become second nature to him. The staring crowds thinned out as he descended several staircases underground. He turned off one landing into an immense but bare hallway ending in a large pair of double doors. Adrenaline overcoming his exhaustion, he ran down the length of the hall and slipped inside before resealing the doors.

In a heartbeat, Murtagh crossed the room to Thorn’s back. He laid curled up on his side and pressed into the corner. Murtagh released a wordless keen of sympathy and anguish from his chest. He trailed his fingers along his scales as he made his way down his neck to his head, weaving their minds together all the while. He hopped over the end of Thorn’s snout the reach the space between his body and the corner, where he sat down. Thorn shifted to peer down at him, red eye glittering with hurt. Murtagh pulled in a pained gasp and rocked forward to press his forehead against Thorn’s jaw. Oh, Thorn...

Yet again, (damn him,) Galbatorix used the strength of Eldunari to force Thorn’s growth. Through the deepened connection of their minds, they could both feel it; the twisting, cramping, spasms of muscles, the warping, aching, stretch of bones, the contorting, deforming, burn of joints and tendons. Murtagh rubbed his hands hard over Thorn’s broad cheek to give him some other sensation besides pain, but there was little else he could do but intertwine their hearts and minds and share in his agony.

You don’t need to-

I need to, Murtagh interrupted. Thorn didn’t argue. Murtagh had made it abundantly clear long ago that he would always stay with him through this, no matter what Thorn did to persuade him to leave. He already felt guilty enough for not being here when it started, although he could tell by the pain that it hadn’t been going for long. He wasn’t leaving now.

Thorn whined loudly and Murtagh whined right back; they had long abandoned any shame of expressing weakness to each other. They couldn’t throw away the one release they had in this world of mounting misery they had found themselves in. Murtagh pressed a brief kiss onto Thorn’s scales and said, I’m here, I’m with you, I won’t leave you alone again, my love.

Murtagh, I’m sorry, I- Thorn’s thoughts fell apart as another wave of pain rolled through them both, and he shuddered and twisted. It hurts! he cried out and Murtagh pressed himself against him as much as he could. If the best he could do was be here, he would make it count. Their forms melded like they were made for each other, like nothing else in the world could be so right.

I know, my love, I know it does. I’ll end it, I promise. One day, we’ll taste freedom and you’ll never have to go through this again. I’ll never let anyone hurt you, I will protect you, I swear it. And until then, I’ll be with you; I won’t let you face this alone.

Murtagh words couldn’t end his pain, but he felt some of the tension leave Thorn’s body. He left behind his vain attempts to fight off the tormenting magic and turned himself over to his partner, trusting fully in Murtagh’s promise. Murtagh shuddered, ever aware of the weight of their fate, but unshaken in his resolve to change it.

They abandoned words and simply shared emotions across their bond, bracing for the long night ahead of them.

Each hour that dragged by was worse than the last. The king’s spells gave a mounting pain, every unnatural pull and stretch compounding upon the last without any chance of relief. They laid together in that desolate, lonely corner, with only the echoes of their own whimpers and cries to keep them company. Thorn slipped further and further away from him with the time, falling into incoherence underneath the suffocating agony. “My love,” Murtagh said aloud, with an edge of desperation.

“My love!” he called louder, trying to pull Thorn’s attention back to him, away from the pain, please, away from the pain. He embraced his scaly neck tighter, “My love,” and pressed in as close as possible, “my love, my love, my love-” He felt, faint but undeniable, Thorn listen and try to focus on the words. Emboldened, Murtagh continued louder and clearer, “my love, my love, my love,” repeating his affection, “my love, my love, my love,” to the partner of his heart. Before long, the words lost meaning, simply becoming a mantra, “my love my love my love my love” to reassure Thorn that he was here, that he loved him, that he would never leave him. “my love my love my love,” he said. I Am Here With You. he said.

Sometime within the deepest hours of the night, the pair passed out from sheer exhaustion, Murtagh still mumbling “my love,” as he slipped into sleep.

Thorn pumped his wings frantically to balance himself after the titanic, rib bruising blow from the golden-elder-elf-bonded dragon sent him spiraling through the air. He watched with a sense of grim tragedy as Glaedr threw himself through the air after his fallen elf Rider. But he could not focus on that. On his back, Thorn felt Murtagh lurch, almost dropping his sword like Oromis had, and release a wounded cry. He wasn’t hurt, Thorn knew that, but what had just happened...

The jar of Glaedr’s magical blow had broken Galbatorix’s hold on Murtagh’s body, but the occurrence left Murtagh reeling. That the king could even do such a thing, that he could be brushed aside so easily within his own flesh; it was, he felt- he felt-

Well, Thorn didn’t have time to process what Murtagh felt because, as he watched, Glaedr abandoned his chase after Oromis and looped back up towards them.

In a single instant, all of his distractions cleared from Thorn’s mind. His injuries, his fears, his regrets all vanished to be replaced by an intense, single minded focus.

Murtagh had killed the elf Rider. The gold dragon was coming back to them. There was nothing he would not do to kill Murtagh and avenge his Rider. Murtagh was in no state to defend himself.

Protect Murtagh.

Thorn plunged down to meet Glaedr, hoping to take advantage of the dragon’s blind rage. He swept across his front to one side, yowling involuntarily as he bit clean through the end of his tail. Yet the pain didn’t so much as chip his razor focus. Glaedr’s reckless attack was exactly what he needed. Thorn ripped out of his bite and drove himself above Glaedr from the side. Hindered by the forward momentum of his lunge, Glaedr couldn’t turn fast enough to stop Thorn as he snapped fast and calculated at the base of his head. His life flickered and died beneath his jaws. He let go.

Thorn felt his stomach roll as the pungent taste of dragon blood flooded over his tongue. He watched the lifeless form of the gold dragon fall grim and tragic into the buildings of Gil’ead below. He watched with grief, but not regret, and only for a moment. He heard Murtagh’s cry, worse than the first, and felt his agony and incoherence. The Partner-of-his-Heart-Mind-Soul needed him. He wheeled around and winged his way out of the city as quickly as he could, aimed towards an open stretch of ground a safe distance away from the battle.

He pulled out of his break-neck dive with just enough time to land safely. The landing burned at his wings joints horribly, but he barely even noticed the discomfort. But, as he touched down, he reflexively drove his tail against the hard ground and screamed at the sudden shock of white hot pain that went through him.

It was then that all the rest of his injuries came back to him, his bruised and broken ribs, his throbbing wings, and most importantly, the stump of his tail. While the rest he could have, and would have ignored, his tail could kill him if it was not seen too. Blood pulsed from the stump with the beat of his heart. Murtagh would always heal his wounds after a battle, but as he felt him slide gracelessly from his back and crumple to the ground, Thorn knew that he couldn’t heal him now. He couldn’t even reach Murtagh through the waves of despair coming off him.

Fury built in his chest and Thorn nearly howled at his own helplessness. Murtagh had always protected him, from the moment he hatched, and now that his Rider needed him more than ever, he was still the one that needed saving! He needed to be able to protect his Rider!

The emotions in his chest tightened, filling with heat, then suddenly rushed out through his limbs and dissipated into the air. He felt his ribs shift back into the proper places, his wing joints soothe over, and his tail stop bleeding and the open wound close. Thorn didn’t waste a moment to appreciate his use of magic, and instead turned to Murtagh. Without hesitation, he curled his head and neck around his form, enveloping him from all sides, and flared out his wings so that they enshrouded them. The world shrunk to just the two of them.

The sounds of anguished sobbing filled their dark, little refuge. Murtagh laid curled over his folded legs with his head pressed to the ground, hyperventilating through his tears. To Thorn’s alarm, he raised his hands and began to rake his nails furiously over the back of his neck. Within moments, it opened bloody furrows in his skin that he worsened with continued scratching, heedless to his own health.

Thorn let out a distressed wail. For the first time, he wished he was not a dragon, but a man. With their dexterous, delicate, and harmless little fingers, he could pull Murtagh’s hands away from his neck and hold them safely in place. As it was, all he could do was push his head up against Murtagh’s side, pinning his arm and restricting his movements. The scratching didn’t stop, but Thorn felt the action lose some of its urgency.

He began to reach his way deeper into Murtagh’s mind, fighting through the hysteria that suffocated it in thick clouds. Slowly but surely, he threaded their hearts and minds back together. He protected each thread-like link fiercely whenever Murtagh’s pain threatened to overwhelm him again, and forged them into iron once more. Thorn worked tirelessly, never letting himself falter or become distracted or discouraged. With their slow return to coherence, Murtagh’s thoughts grew worse.

Every moment he spent considering what had happened carved his agony deeper. The way it felt when Galbatorix seized his flesh, strength undiminished by the miles stretched between them; the nauseatingly brief amount of time he needed to take full control, crushing Murtagh’s defenses as easily as he might a gnat; the look on Oromis’ face when he was struck by a seizure and the way it transformed when his arm raised Zar’roc... And Thorn stayed with him through every thought and feeling.

My love... Thorn sighed to his partner, sending him all his empathy and understanding. He would- could never fault him his weeping. Their hearts beat as one and Thorn knew the hurt in Murtagh’s soul. And so, he knew that if there was ever something to weep over...

It was wrong. It was violating. Murtagh sobbed as the feeling replayed within their minds again, over and over. The king had forced his way into his mind and body, like a flaying knife under his skin, like a parasite in his blood. But he had gone deeper than skin or blood. His very nerves were severed from his will in a way he hadn’t even considered possible. His limbs, his magic, even his voice, all stolen and used like a puppet by someone else. He was made a phantom, merely spectating the governance of his own flesh.

It was a rape. Galbatorix robbed him of something that should always be his own, should never be shared with anyone, unless at his discretion. Pure and simple, undeniable rape on a level he had never fathomed before, his body’s violent rejection worse than it had ever been in the past.

Murtagh’s fingers flexed hard again, tearing new paths into the bloody mess of his neck. He felt filthy, tainted, like mud had replaced his blood and dirt had wormed its way into his skin. He was profaned, ruined, and a wave of revulsion and loathing of himself threatened to drown him. He clawed at his neck with renewed fury, desperate to spill the filth from his veins.

Thorn pulled back a measure from his mind with a wail. My love! he cried, shoving his jaw harder against Murtagh’s arm, shifting his hand away from his neck. He had to resist the instinct to fuse their minds fully; he couldn’t get swept up in Murtagh’s anguish. He needed to keep his head if he wanted to help him.

My love, my love, my love, he chanted. Never filthy, never tainted, never ruined. He could never do that to you, no one could. Their transgressions will never define you. And it was wrong, WRONG, but that does not make you wrong! He crooned gently to his soulmate. Don’t blame or belittle yourself for this; none of this was your fault. This does not make you lesser.

But, I- Murtagh began, forcibly stilling his hand, I’m defiled, I- I am lesser, I-

NO! Not to me, never to me! Thorn shouted. I love you, love you as much as I possibly can, with every fiber of my being and every piece of my heart. Which is just as much as I loved you this morning, which is just as much as I loved you when I hatched, which is just as much as I shall love you in my final moments. Nothing can ever change this or make you lesser. My LOVE...

His declaration rang through their minds, the word resonating across their link with infinite echoes. Within it was Thorn’s affection, admiration, dedication, passion, devotion, caring, loyalty, trust- truly, his love- of Murtagh.

Murtagh let his arms drop fully to his sides and went quiet for the first time. He raised his head from the ground and fresh trails of tears streamed down his cheeks. After a moment, he took in several loud, aching gasps and started to cry again, though not from pain this time. He sat up and threw himself against Thorn’s head, embracing him as best he could. Thorn crooned again and murmured, My love, my love, my love, across their bond. He started to relax at the feeling of Murtagh giving himself over and trusting in him and his love.

Within the following minutes, Murtagh slowly stopped crying, the tension started to leave their bodies, and grim, bleak reality started to set back in.

Involuntarily, their thoughts turned to the events of the battle. Oromis and Glaedr, the last Rider and dragon of old, were dead at their hands. The thought brought with it rolling clouds of remorse and grief. They had been enraged when they first saw the pair rise towards Gil’ead: yet another self proclaimed freedom fighter that had done nothing to fight for their freedom when they had needed it the most. Yet another disappointment expecting them to give mercy when they had failed to reach out before their enslavement robbed them of the option.

And yet, neither of them could deny the traitorous spark of hope that had flickered in their hearts when they saw that resplendent, golden dragon in the clouds. They hadn’t helped them before... but maybe, just maybe, they could now. Maybe this battle would be their last, and these legends, these heroes on high, would be able to free them!

Seemed only fitting that their hands would be the ones to murder them only minutes later.

You’d think we’d have learned better by now, than to hope, Murtagh thought with bitter humor.

Both Murtagh and Thorn refused to wallow in regret, however. Their actions had been undeniably forced and they would not drown themselves in shame over choices they were not given. But they had killed Oromis and Glaedr, no matter how unwillingly, and they mourned that loss.

“What have we done,” Murtagh murmured aloud.

Something terrible, Thorn admitted.

After a moment, Thorn shifted his head and uncurled his stiff neck. It was difficult to judge, but he thought that perhaps half an hour had passed since they abandoned the battle. Slowly and cautiously, Thorn brought his head out from underneath his wings. He blinked rapidly to adjust to the moonlight washing over the field, then examined their surroundings.

In the distance, in the direction of the elves’ war camp, a group of them stood staring at them, approaching slowly. Thorn snorted and started to rise. The battle is lost, he said, for it was, he could tell. We shouldn’t linger.

Murtagh rose stiffly and turned in the direction Thorn looked, rubbing his sore eyes. He frowned at the elves. Thorn told him, We need to go back.

The words hit Murtagh like a blow with twice as impact as any hit he took in the battle. He doubled over and clapped a hand over his mouth, freezing in place to fight the sudden urge to retch. The thought of going back, now, to confront Galbatorix face-to-face, was damn near unbearable. Instantly, Thorn wanted to take back the words, tell Murtagh that they never had to go back, not if he didn’t want to, but he couldn’t. It would be a lie. They did need to go back, regardless of what they wanted, and he could do nothing to change that. So he merely hummed and sent Murtagh his sympathy.

After several moments, Murtagh straightened and lowered his hand to reveal a twisted grimace. He looked again at the elves and said, “It would be dangerous to loiter here any longer.”

As he climbed up Thorn’s saddle he said, Don’t let me go, my love. For without you, I will surely shatter.

I will always protect you, my love, Thorn vowed.

Everything was quiet as Thorn coasted along the warm air currents, sparse beats of his wings keeping them level. The world had a surreal quality that it hadn’t that morning, and Murtagh felt unsure what he should think or feel. Now that he finally had his freedom, what he had sought for so long, he realized that he didn’t remember what to do with it. He’d forgotten what freedom was supposed to feel like.

Murtagh felt Thorn’s muscles flex beneath him as he flew absently through the sky. Their minds were linked but little crossed the bond for they had little to share. A blankness filled their minds, a silence unbroken by tacit agreement.

Thorn’s thoughts were even quieter than Murtagh’s. While Murtagh had tasted freedom once before, short and bittersweet as it had been, Thorn had no such experience. He knew nothing but the slavery he was born into. The slavery now gone.

Murtagh twisted around and peered behind them for the seventh time. This sky, like the preceding six, showed no glittering blue forms following them, no imposing black citadel shattering the horizon, nothing, but wisps of cloud and a pair of hunting goshawks.

It sunk in to some still functioning, logical part of his brain that they had truly left Uru’baen behind, unchallenged, unmolested, and unshackled.

It felt... unreal.

Murtagh turned back around. He set his hands on top of Thorn’s scales and steadied himself with a deep breath. Carefully, cautiously, he declared, The king is dead, into their silence.

Galbatorix is dead, he repeated. The king is dead. Galbatorix is dead, he said, this time in the ancient language. Each time got a bit easier. Thorn rumbled but said nothing.

Murtagh nudged at Thorn’s mind, wordlessly, but with enough intention that Thorn would understand. He tensed, but did nothing, and Murtagh nudged at him again. He hesitated, then said haltingly, Galbatorix is dead.

Galbatorix is dead. The king is dead, Thorn stated, also with a switch to the ancient language. As the words rang through their minds, the blankness started to fill, replaced with a shaky, nervous energy slowly spreading through them. A grin began to creep across Murtagh’s lips.

He swung around, surveying their surrounding again, with excitement now instead of trepidation. The world felt fresh and reborn beneath them as he looked upon it with new perspective. Thorn jostled him with a shiver, wriggling from head to shortened tail. Murtagh couldn’t help his wobbly smile widening at the feeling, stretching so far his cheeks ached.

With the feeling of leaping off a cliff, Murtagh whispered, “We’re free.”

The result was like shattering a bottle holding a storm. The instant the words left him, Thorn roared thunderously, swooping in an arc through the air. Murtagh joined him, whooping shamelessly, then throwing his head back to laugh like he hadn’t in so long. “FREE! FREE, FREE, WE’RE FREE, YOU WRETCH, AND NEVER FORGET IT!” Murtagh bellowed to the world, for once, not fearing its wrath. He burst into laughter again as Thorn roared in agreement, feeling for the first time that he had control over himself, no longer just a victim of fate.

MY LOVE! Thorn shouted to him, throwing himself into a full upside down loop that made Murtagh holler in exhilaration. No adrenaline left him when the leveled out, only continued to build under the best feeling in the world.

“My love!” Murtagh called in response then laughed breathlessly. Murtagh relished in his own liberation, but it could never compare to the pleasure he took in Thorn’s. The young dragon born into bondage finally freed. Murtagh had spent countless hours agonizing over the fact that the only choice Thorn had made free of Galbatorix’s will was to choose Murtagh as his Rider. And it was that very choice that tied him to Murtagh’s cursed fate. Plagued by shame and guilt and remorse, Murtagh couldn’t remember the number of times he had promised Thorn freedom; that no matter how, no matter when, they would find it one day.

And now, with every promise standing fulfilled, Murtagh’s joy was uncontainable.

“My love, my love, you’re free, we’re free!” he cried. Everything you’ve ever deserved, from the moment you hatched, and I will never let anyone take it from you, my love my love-

They felt weightless- fears, guilts, regrets, pains- all burned away. None of them stood a chance in the face of their happiness. Even the burden of the battle of Gil’ead had eased. Their exchange with Glaedr, brief as it was, did a world of good. Murtagh felt the painful weight of killing one of his own kind finally fall off Thorn’s back. And now! Knowing that there were hundreds more dragon eggs out there, just waiting to hatch! They felt lightheaded from it all.

My love, my love-!

My love, oh, my love!

They went back and forth like yammering crows, so overwhelmed that they were lost for any words but the ones they held deepest in their hearts. They said the words as a celebration, a proclamation. They made it through this, alive, together, unbroken, and they would never go back.

Eventually Murtagh broke their endless call and response with a laugh, leaned back in his saddle, and tipped his head back to study the sky. “My love, there is a whole world I have to show you.” He felt Thorn perk up in eagerness and he beamed.

“There’s so many little things you haven’t seen!” he started, rocking forward. “I want to show you the smallest wild flowers that grow in the great plains, and the birds that walk on trees upside down! Sometimes, you can find spiderwebs woven in perfect circles, and in the morning, when they’re covered in dew, they look prettier than the finest lace.”

“And- and the big things too! You haven’t seen the Hadarac Desert; there’s not much there but heat and sand but you should see it anyway. But the Beor Mountains! They’re extraordinary! Mountains higher than you can fathom, so tall that more than half is covered in snow! Imagine testing how high we can fly against those titans-”

And we’ll be able to fly together whenever we want-

“Where ever we want, without-”

Some bastard telling us when and where we’re-

“Allowed! Yes! And you will grow however slow or fast you please-”

And no one or nothing will be able to rush us in anything because we have all the time in the world and the freedom to do whatever we want with it!

Murtagh sighed breathlessly. He knew it was useless to talk aloud as he spoke to Thorn with his mind, but he couldn’t help himself. He overflowed with energy. He felt like a child again.

“And when autumn comes, oh, it’ll be magnificent! The leaves of the trees turn stunning colors- reds, oranges, yellows- and whole forests look like they’re topped with fire. Oh, I can’t wait to see it from the air, it’ll look stunning, I’m sure of it!”

“Oh, oh, and you should see the auroras! I’ve never seen them before, but I’ve heard. These great bands of color show up in the night sky and shift and dance like ribbons! I know they show up in the north; we’ll hunt down the best spot and once we find it, we’ll fly up and dress ourselves in all the colors. Oh, and snow! You’ve never even seen snow! It’s still summer, but we’ll find a place come winter where it covers everything, doubles mountains and drowns forests! You’ll love it; we’ll make sculptures and forts and burrows and snow houses! And when it melts, we’ll-”

He couldn’t tell if Thorn really listened to his words, but he knew he listened to the joy in his heart, and Murtagh felt the joy in his, and it was enough.

[weirdochick56]

The Seduction Game- Dean Winchester And Klaus Mikaelson Chapter One

Dean Winchester x Reader x Klaus Mikaelson

Warnings: Explicit language. Lots of it. (lol, what’s new) slightly Jealous!Dean 

Disclaimers: I don’t own any SPN or TVD/TO characters/plots mentioned.

Word Count: 2,923 words

A/n: Hey guys....I’m back and well, I know in my “farewell” letter I said I was gonna update completely different stories, and I will, but I’ve decided to make a mini-series inspired by @sherlockedtash88‘s suggestion. Well, technically, I still need to do that one, but this rooted from the rough draft of that one so yeah... I’ve just been really inspired with new stories and if I’m being honest I’m sort of stuck on somee other ones, but I promise it’ll all eventually work out! Anywho... Here it is~ Tell me what you think about this lil’ crossover and if I should continue it please!

Read Summary Here!!

***

“I can’t fucking believe Sam actually convinced made me to go through with this shit,” you growl to yourself through the door, secretly hoping Dean would hear your low grumbles, hear how displeased having to do this made you. And to your twisted pleasure, it’s clear he did when you hear his harsh knocks on the door, startling you so much you stumble back on your excessively tall heels. 

“Would you come out already? God fucking dammit Y/n, it ain’t that big of a deal. It’s just a fucking dress,” Dean snaps back, clearly exasperated beyond belief.

You growl, tugging at the long dress with a disgusted frown. “Oh bite me, Winchester. You try and wear this shit then, fucking asshole.”

Suffices to say: you weren’t a dress gal. Growing up a hunter really left no room for a woman to be anything but a bit of a tomboy. And you had to admit, the heels and dress weren’t that bad. Simply...not you. 

You hastily throw the door open, revealing yourself to the older Winchester after nearly an hour of nonstop banter. Not that it was anything new either. Dean Winchester certainly had a way of getting under your skin like a microscopic parasite. 

You continue to tug at the dress, looking down the barely-tall heels it was completely concealing with pure disdain. 

“Do you realize how fucking hard it is to walk in the monstrosities? Oh! And to top it all off, Sam decided to ever so conveniently break his arm and now I have to go with-” just as you start a whole new rant, your eyes land on Dean dressed from head to toe in a tuxedo and the words completely die in your throat, your breath hitching. You’d be a lying bastard if you said you weren’t completely gobsmacked by his appearance. 

I mean, you were well aware the eldest Winchester was attractive, but Goddamn, today he looked straight up delicious. From his broad shoulders to his slim waist, a tight-fitting dress shirt hugged him nicely underneath a black satin dinner jacket which gripped onto his prominent biceps charmingly. The dress pants clung to his bowed legs like they were made for them and you found it extremely hard not to let the shock you truly felt flash across your face. You refused to let him see the effect this outfit had on you.

Dean, returning the favor, of course, scoped you out subtly, attempting to remain indifferent, but you could see the shock in his infuriatingly bright green eyes. It made your heart flutter with wicked pleasantry and you suppress the roguish grin insistingly tugging at your lips with all your might. You wanted to think that was it, wanted to believe that a part of you, a part of your heart, wasn’t dancing in giddy delight as of now. But that would be a big lie.

His eyes trailed over your entire body, exposed back, plunging v-neck, perfectly-styled hair, glamorous makeup. His gaze was hungry, yes, but there was something else in there too...something soft... And even though you wished you’d missed the action, you watch, breath stolen, as he tugs his plump bottom lip in between his teeth when his eyes meet yours. 

Your gaze flicker to his mouth and you’re sure he can see the sudden desire flooding through your body at the very instant. And anger. Because even though you wore high heels, he was still taller than you. Because even though you fought back and forth like a cat and dog, you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it. Because acting like you hated him back was better than letting the walls around your heart down just to be stomped on by him. Because he hated you and if he got the chance to hurt you over it, he probably would. 

You break the electrifying silence with an embarrassingly raspy snap. “Are you going to stare at me all day or are we going to actually, ya’ know, go?” He seems to snap out of it and releases his lip, shaking his head lightly. The look of lust leaves him in a split second and he’s resorted to glaring holes into your head as you speedwalk away from him, trying really hard not to fall on your face as your legs wobble imperceptibly beneath you.   

Dean snorts behind you. “I was just observing you for the safety hazards. You know, like wearing heels so ridiculously high you can’t even walk properly in them. God, Y/n, you look like a newborn fawn.”

You simply flip him off over your shoulder, attempting to push away the blush spreading rapidly on your face. 

*

The car ride to Mystic Falls is filled with tension and you wonder if it’s because Sam isn’t here to lighten the mood or if it’s this way for some other reason. 

“And you want me to bait a filthy rich vampire for what reason again?” You look over at Dean from the passenger seat, brows furrowed. 

Dean sighs, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Because Y/n, Jake said he’s got a thing for pretty, young, tough girls.” He gestures loosely to you.

You smirk at his words and he glances at you every other second, taking his eyes off the road with a weird look. “What’re you doing, smiling at like that?”

You wiggle your brows at him. “You think I’m pretty and tough.” 

He glares at you. “No, I don’t.” He sounds so indignant yet childish, it takes up all your strength not to burst out into hysterics. 

You chuckle lightly, turning your gaze back to the window. “Oh, I think you really do.”

He growls beside you in frustration. “Will you just shut the hell up?” 

You chuckle silently at his demeanor, finding it beyond amusing. “Now, what’d be the fun in that?”

*

The ball was in full swing when you guys arrived at the luxurious mansion, a  classical music band playing loudly in the background of the elegant place and dozens of guests mingling, glasses of sparkling champagne held lightly in their soft, uncalloused hands. 

You gawk at the mere beauty of the place, from its high ceilings to the huge spiraling staircases wrapping around the sides of the big room and connecting to another floor. Everything was made of marble and spotless, gold intricate designs lined every wall. 

Dean goes to take care of your invitations which you had deprived some other guest the pleasure of, and you stand by the doorway, over your initial shock and in search of your target. 

Your eyes trail over the entire space, desperately searching for the man Dean had shown you in a picture.

No not him. Not him. Definitely not him. And...holy shit.

Your shoulders immediately rise to straighten out your back and your lips part at the sight of the tall, lean man that stood a few feet away from you. It’s him. And he is...positively handsome, much more alluring than the picture had shown him to be. Messy light brown hair, strikingly mischevious blue eyes, and- 

You quickly turn your head away when his gaze suddenly clashes with yours. And in that split second you can see his face contort into the same as yours when your eyes had landed on him and his eyes hold a light of a mix of shock and curiosity. 

Your eyes are still on the ground when goosebumps begin rising on your skin and you feel a dark gaze burning into you. Warily, you raise your head to see where the eyes were coming from and just as you had suspected, he was looking at you, only this time, he was prepared to give you a full-blown smirk. And Goddamn was that smirk sexy as hell.

Your breath hitches with something you can’t really explain spreading on your chest like wildfire, but you refuse to look away, refuse to show him any weakness. So holding his intense gaze, you offer him a small, dry smile. Sarcastic to the extent that you were sure he could tell without that abrupt disconnecting of gazes you did afterward to clue him in. 

You could see his startled expression out of the corner of your eye and a smirk began creeping up your lips. You didn’t allow it to settle there though, intent on keeping up the act: he couldn’t feel that you had any interest or he would see you as an easy win and would therefore not be attracted enough to lure him out and chop his head off.

He liked his women strong and playing hard to get always worked in your experience. Except with Dean, your mind annoyingly reminds. 

You push the thought away, or well- more like, shove it away along with the light tingles on your skin due to Klaus’s hot gaze. 

Suddenly, an arm loops through yours and you jump, startled and ready to take the fucker who’d just dared touch you without permission down. “It’s just me sweetheart, keep walking,” Dean whispers in your ear. You shiver in the tiniest at his warm breath fanning the shell of your ear, but kick him discreetly in the shin, ignore his yelp, and tug him with you down that steps near the entrance. 

Dean grunts. “You’re fucking impossible Y/l/n.” 

You grin up at him, chin held defiantly high in the air. “You just noticed that?”

Dean offers a -what you can only describe as sarcastic- smile and clicks his tongue. “No, actually. You’ve always been a pain in my ass, it just got bigger as time progressed.”

You scoff, settling for a dark corner in the far end of the room and taking two tall glasses of champagne off a tray from a nearby waiter. “Here,” you pass one to Dean, who takes it, brings it up to his nose and sniffs it. Then he shoves it away with a disgusted frown. “Hell no.” 

You roll your eyes. “Dean, drink the fucking champagne and try not to look so...basic, we have a job to do and people to convince.” You wave a dismissive hand his way and sip your champagne lightly, loving the way the cold liquid slid down your throat effortlessly. 

Dean smiles sardonically once more and puts his glass on a passing waiter’s tray. “I may be basic, sweetheart, but at least I don’t act like I have a fuckin’ log shoved up my ass.” 

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You know what? Whatever. We have a case to work and you’re being an ass.” Your tone turns stern, strict and businesslike. “Now; what’s the target’s name again?”

Dean huffs at you, clearly holding back the urge to argue further with you. Smart man. “Klaus Mikaelson.”

You look over your shoulder casually and well aware of the vampire’s eyes still trained on you, you lean over and whisper in Dean’s ear smugly. “Well then, look’s like I caught our target’s eye. How convenient.” 

Klaus raises his brows at Dean and you blush, looking away. Why were you blushing? 

Dean leans away, frowning. He immediately looks around the room, big emerald eyes in search of the vampire. When they land on him, Klaus’s gaze still drinking you in, you can see Dean’s body immediately stiffen up, his jaw clench and his hold on your arm become more firm, tugging you closer to his strong side. You stumble a bit and hold onto his shoulder as he drags you a bit farther away from the attractive man, whose eyes never leave you, without a single word. 

You look up at Dean, glaring holes into his head and tug yourself away from his touch in a grand manner. “Goddamn it Winchester, we need him to find me easy to hunt remember? You giving him those looks and tugging me along like I’m your fucking bitch isn’t helping our case, he might think we’re actually together or something. And then he won’t go for me.” You pretend to shudder, scrunching your nose up in mock disgust.

The truth was, the thought of you and Dean in a relationship -even if it didn’t involve the apple pie life for free- it made a certain type of warm wrap its arms around your heart. 

Dean looks down at you, his green eyes cold as he releases a small snort. “Pfft.. yeah, as if that could ever happen.” His remark sends a pang of hurt directly into your chest and you pray that it didn’t show on your stoic face as he continues. “Anyways it doesn’t matter what Mr. Mikasson thinks about us.” 

You frown. “And why the hell not?” 

Dean sighs. “You’re not going to be bait anymore. I’ve decided we’ll go in an old-fashioned way and chop his head off when he heads off somewhere alone.”

You sigh tiredly, whispering back. “Mhmm, I suppose that’s a genius plan, Winchester. Except for one tiny problem. When exactly do you suspect he’ll be alone because I don’t see that ever happening?” you raise your brows challengingly, pointing towards Klaus being chatted up by, well, everyone.  

Dean doesn’t respond, only shrugs, his gaze completely monotonous. “Dunno. What I do know, though, is that you, sweetheart, are not going to be bait for that blood-sucking leech,” he growls the insult under his breath. 

You reel back, genuinely offended. “Excuse me? And since when do you decide what I can and can’t do?” 

Dean clenches his jaw again, making the sharp edges sharper and tempting you to run your finger along it. You shiver in delight and watch as he gives you that infuriated look that makes you hot all over.

“I am not deciding for you, I’m informing you that you don’t have a choice to decide on.” 

You can feel the match of anger slowly being lit in the pit of your stomach at his words and can’t really seem to find it in you to care for his reasoning behind them as your blind rage takes over. 

“I don’t then, huh? Well, fuck, I guess I gotta listen to the almighty Dean Winchester and not do my job,” you throw your hands up, stepping away from him promptly. You point your index finger at him. “Dean, let me make something very clear for you, in case it wasn’t already; I’m not your bitch nor am I anyone else’s. I decide what happens to me, whether that’d be my body, my life, hell,” You laugh humorlessly, “I’ve probably lost my sanity already.” Your face turns grim and the dry smile melts off as you bite out the next words slowly. “But it’s all happened because I made the decision to put it all on the line. Me, not Sam or Cas and it sure as hell wasn’t you,” you smirk in the tiniest bit. “So let me inform you that I’ll be baited all I want, when and to whom I want to.” You realize that must’ve sounded kind of dumb to say, I mean who wants to be bait? But you really don’t care. 

You suddenly relax your posture, pull on a sly smile at his temperamental face and smooth the non-existent wrinkles on your dress. “Now that that’s out of the way...are you going to help me or will I have to go through this alone? Because with or without you, I’m doing it, Dean.”

Dean eyes you for an entire minute, his expression switching from completely pissed off to blank to thoughtful to about-to-say-something-but-holding-back in the span of that one minute, cluing you into the internal battle he must’ve been having. 

Finally, after the excruciating minute, his shoulders droop and he sighs defeatedly. “Fine,” he speaks in the same hushed tone as before, except this time he’s more pissed, and you grin in delight. 

“Great! Now, we’ll go in as we planned before, except...” you tap your finger on your chin and glance over your shoulder at Klaus who, as you presumed, was no longer looking at you, but talking animatedly to a taller dark-haired man who looked remarkably like himself. Strange.  

“I don’t think the info we’ve been given is accurate. There’s something...different about this vampire don’t you think? And in that case, I say we’d have to go about it in a completely new way.”  

Dean frowns. “What do you mean different?”

“I mean, Klaus Mikaelson is an extremely wealthy, powerful, influential,” handsome “vampire and I think the way to get to him can’t just be done in one day. We might need to work this case longer than we thought. Gather more info.” You keep out the part where he had this strange enticing aura drawing you in even from across this humongous room and you simply couldn’t figure out why. 

Dean groans. “Fucking shit. They’re all the goddamn same Y/n. They’re all evil motherfuckers that need their goddam heads chopped off. I really don’t get what you could possibly think is different about Mr. Fancy Pants Mikaelson over there.” He all but spits the name out like bile in his mouth. 

You sigh and glance over at Klaus for what must’ve been the hundredth time that night. There was something about him, you couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but you felt incredibly attracted to it. Something about the cocky yet charming air he gave off reminded you somewhat of Dean, but in a completely different way.  It was that sparkle in his eyes...

It was strange and sort of scary, to be honest. 

“Dean, I think it’d be best if we took it easy and went with a new plan. Instead of simply dangling me in front of him like he’s a lion and I a piece of tender meat, let’s do it differently.” You never take your eyes off Klaus when you speak and almost as if he can feel you looking at him, he turns to you, baby blue eyes lighting up when they land on your own y/e/c eyes already boring into him. 

“I’m going to seduce him.” 

Read Chapter Two Here!!

***

I’m so happy to be back!

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO SENT ME MESSAGES AND REPLIES AND WORRIED FOR MY WELLBEING, I REALLY APPRECIATE IT ALL AND OF COURSE YOU GUYS FOR THE PATIENCE AND LOVE AND OH FUCK- IM GONNA CRYYYY 😭😭😭

Anywho, Y'all already know. Send me asks, messages, requests, REPLY, LEAVE FEEDBACK MY LOVESS PLEASEEE. Do whatever suits you the most lovelies! (I missed calling you guys that) Tags are all open so don’t hesitate to let me know if you wanna be tagged in any shape or form.

A special thanks to:

@multifandomdisappointment  - currently my only “Dean Sweetheart” 

@wildefire - currently my only “SPN perm” 

And my fantastic forevers!

@jessikared97

@sherlockedtash88

@lilypalmer1987

[tinymixtapes]

Feature: 2018: Second Quarter Favorites

TMT’s Musical Innovation Summit, now in its 14th year, is the oldest meeting of its kind in the industry. Like last quarter’s summit, roughly 10 music professionals from TMT gathered in New York to discuss the latest musical breakthroughs and make predictions on which releases will spark future awe-inspiring innovations. To help make the predictions, we interviewed 45 random fans, 30 venture capitalists, and a handful of media who cover the music industry across the country to get their collective thoughts on what’s imminent. That list is then honed by eliminating long-shot candidates, followed by a double-elimination round to get rid of shitty artists. Nominees are thoroughly vetted, and the groups eliminate candidates throughout the process. Today, we are proud to present the results: the BEST 26 releases of the last three months (with a shortlist at the end). We predict that these releases will change music forever. --- SOPHIE OIL OF EVERY PEARL’S UN-INSIDES [Future Classic] [WATCH · READ] Now’s raw doubt flanges in this memory’s mercury, and we’re back in the basement dark, floor paved with silver marbles. We will shine a light on one, outline the floor with reflecting. I ask are you sure of this? and you say no, never not of any thing. You squeeze your foreign-feeling shoulder, slim quick doubt. Then you hold a marble up to your eye, unclipped cuticles before corneas, a silver pearl. It’s okay. Flashlight on. We gape. There is no neat sequence. No light is set Surface contorts seeing. The shining is bent in coils. There is no straight path, just what we can move into in this whole new world. Roll the flashlight, and it’s a world warping, brilliance refracted, reflections re-membering. The world we built in the dark teaches us how being between might be. Our un-insides, SOPHIE’s sound, teaches us that brilliance doesn’t diminish its self, that light and self and is what we call it. And you say call me Vivian. Becoming who we’re becoming, “no matter where I go, you’ll be here in my heart.” –Frank Falisi --- Playboi Carti Die Lit [Interscope/AWGE] [LISTEN · READ] The arrival of Playboi Carti’s debut album proper, following last year’s crucial self-titled mixtape, could seem like a mere victory lap, an easy cop-out that plays up to the well-established framework of overstuffed rap albums in the streaming age. What a pleasure, then, that Die Lit implodes that logic. The heady balance of mood pieces and out-and-out anthems that characterized Playboi Carti is further refined here, but even without that baggage, Die Lit is a success on its own terms, a flickering visage that compounds Carti’s most enticing impulses — barely-there vocals, Reichian repetition, knotty Pi’erre Bourne beats — with all the best facets of the album form. And if Carti is only incidental on the mic, the tracks left in his wake are anything but. Herein lies a set of real Ohrwürmer, the inner soundtrack to your day, long after the album subsides. The cloud bursts forth; lightning really does strike twice. –Soe Jherwood --- DJ Healer / Prime Minister of Doom Nothing 2 Loose / Mudshadow Propaganda [All Possible Worlds] [LISTEN · LISTEN] On DJ Metatron’s 2 The Sky, the anonymous artist threaded a Jake Gyllenhaal interview through intricate waves of house music that helped give rise to this enigmatic and highly gifted producer. This year, his efforts have come twofold, with a double release under two new monikers that plot the same channels of intricacy but through two very different means. In place of the Donnie Darko reflection that deepens the narrative of 2 The Sky is a 2002 Whitney Houston interview with Diane Sawyer, where the troubled singer discusses her drug problems and an unnerving sense of optimism that inevitably collapsed 10 years later. Essentially, the music that accompanies both of these otherwise unrelated samples is the atmospheric gel that binds them together; an actor speaking about his fascination with a perplexing story line, and a generational icon battling with herself, fighting to overcome the very thing that took her life. That disparity lies at the heart of this joint release, which merges two highly distinctive personalities while linking them through religious and personal overtones. Mudshadow Propaganda is perfect in its projection of minimal techno tracks that build on the traits of our secretive producer’s expired alias, The Prince of Denmark, while Nothing 2 Loose is almost confessional in the sincerity that it lays bare. But where both records celebrate the dexterity and imagination of a single producer, they also paint a picture of human existence at its most conflicted, from the carnal and the primitive to the haunted and the divine. –Birkut --- Grouper Grid of Points [Kranky] [LISTEN · READ] In seven tracks and less than 30 minutes, Liz Harris sought to take us nowhere. So she stranded us anywhere. Giving up on finding anything instructive or stabilizing in the passing moan of a stray vocal, the odd cluster of muted piano keys, or the occasional sharp gust of static, it became clear that the only place where anything “new” could happen was in a place where nothing old and familiar was left. “Where are we?” started to sound more like “Where aren’t we?” It might have been some heavenly shoreline where the water was the same perfect gunmetal color as the sky, but it might just as likely have been the vacant parking lot of some long-since-demolished Disneyland. It didn’t really matter. Anyplace we chose to stand and look from was just as good (or bad) as another. “Might as well call this the center,” we figured. Gotta start somewhere. –Dan Smart --- Seth Graham Gasp [Orange Milk/Noumenal Loom] [LISTEN · READ] A symphony of perversions and memories that ignites every time you rapid-fire through your Instagram stories. Refried beans left over from the camping trip you took to a closed beta somewhere off the coast of Spy Kids 4D. A million splintered renderings of classical text that you half-scrawled onto the back of your hand before you realized that you were actually just passed out on the keyboard again. Gasp is like a raw feed of how music itself operates in 2018; brief bursts of genius materializing right before us, only to be swept away and digested into something unrecognizably new. The entire sum of human history rubbing elbows with that ASMR video you had to rush to minimize before your roommate could ask you what the fuck you were just watching. A guy as unassuming as Orange Milk label head Seth Graham conjuring up untold universes of possibility from his home in Dayton, OH, his bank of MIDIs a window into our gentle, distraught, and hilarious world. –Sam Goldner [pagebreak] Klein cc [Self-Released] [LISTEN · READ] “Oh my god! Who’s actually going to listen to this?” asks Klein, lounging with friends, reflecting on her last EP, Tommy and a still-emerging network of diasporic black art and sound. A year and new EP later, cc sees Klein more comfortable in the discomfort, pushing further with her collages of confrontational intimacy. “You have to squint” as the voices build and spiral, like an endless loop of out-of-office replies, a pitch-bent dawn chorus, singing to each other, but listening too. Klein made us think: about blackness, about opacity, about femininity and Disney princesses, all at once. Feelings too, and a lack of language to convey them; anxiety, elation, mania, but less medical, sometimes an incantation, sometimes an exorcism. In cc, Klein created a space of unique and disarming affect and mood: a deeper, darker stage in the process of “me being my own therapist,” the sound of someone finding a plurality of voices, of listening to yourself. –Joel White --- Beach House 7 [Sub Pop] [WATCH · READ] Attempting to describe what dreams are seems like a task both impossible and pretentious. But, as it floats like a wandering mind, drifting from thought to thought with each track, 7 certainly feels like a dream. Alex Scally plays guitar, but it sounds like an unfamiliar squall from another universe. Victoria Legrand sings, but it comes out in French. Look at the clock, you’ll be unable to tell how much time has passed. You know, dream stuff. For a genre that gets its name from something as complex as the random images our brains send to us while we sleep, “dream pop” music can often be very formulaic. That’s why, seven albums into their career, it’s remarkable that Beach House have found a way to not only completely refresh their sound, but make perhaps their best album yet. Awash in a chaotic darkness that’s been lingering in different forms throughout their entire discography, 7 hurtles towards oblivion: beautiful, glorious, infinite. –Jeremy Klein --- Eartheater Irisiri [PAN] [WATCH · LISTEN · READ] I keep losing track of Irisiri; it keeps slipping away from me. This isn’t meant as the insult it might scan as. An elegiac spin on the cyber-cyborg-meat-machine kick that everything relevant is twirling toward, this series of sad little processed ditties and twisted car jams charts a swerve back-and-forth between evasiveness and directness. Its unnerving stuff, giving the impression of solidity while remaining impossible to hold. Flirting with hip-hop and electro-acoustic, bedroom pop and sexed-up sopping wet plastic, it keeps moving out of view, even as I keep returning to it. Listening to the album is like chasing an object out of reach, an object I desire without knowning, a body I want without seeing. Also, C.L.I.T. fucking slaps. –Jessie Jeffrey Dunn Rovinelli --- THE HIRS COLLECTIVE FRIENDS. LOVERS. FAVORITES. [SRA/Get Better] [LISTEN · READ] For a few decades now, raw musical aggression has been underpinned with a lot of unintelligible vocal sentiment. Just steam on in with howling, power riffs and punishing beats please. But what’s that on the edge of the blast radius, dashing in headlong through the smoke? Clear sentiments that uplift, testify, and provide some sharp kicks in heteronormativity’s floppy old dick? Yes please! Even with its closing remix section, the album’s corroded (and collaborative) essence remains triumphantly tight. The perfect way Lilium Kobayashi’s quick stomping techno pop take on “Murdered by a Woman” flits to “Wake Up Tomorrow” when this album is on repeat further dispels any sort of tacked-on/bonus trax superfluousness. The cultural constant of immediate, frothing punk rage is obviously not going anywhere. It’s essential to have an album, in fuck-this-shit 2018, where that rage is specifically righteous, even with its eternally itinerant self-laceration (i.e., humanity). –Willcoma --- Delroy Edwards Rio Grande [L.A. Club Resource] [LISTEN · READ] Delroy Edwards has made the funk (in its many different strains) the connective tissue of his intrepid, joyful, and often perplexing work. It’s an approach never as explicit as in his latest LP, Rio Grande. That might indeed be its greatest success. In Rio Grande, keeping the raw, hissy, determinedly idiosyncratic credentials that first introduced him to the world, Edwards lets the funk take center stage; sometimes riding grimy techno beats, other times pushing beyond the ridiculous-by-design minimalism of the grooves. The goal is simple: to provide his audience with interesting jams to dance to. Edwards takes pride in the anonymous efficiency of that pretense, as the name of his label L.A. Club Resource indicates. He is happy to be the reliable supplier of a service, the invisible demiurge leading patrons to delirium; slipping in some eccentric turns here and there for the kick of it, to the enjoyment of all but mostly because… why the hell not?. And, let there be no doubt, Rio Grande is the most effective toolkit he has yet assembled in pursuit of that goal. –jrodriguez6 [pagebreak] emamouse X yeongrak mouth mouse maus [Quantum Natives] [LISTEN · READ] Hey, not to bring this up here, but borders, am I right? Why do we even have these invisible lines dividing my side from yours? We can get so much more done without them, not to mention the added benefit of not having to split up families in real life as they cross the imaginary demarcations. Who on earth has the chutzpah to enact stupid shit like that? Not emamouse — no way. No, emamouse had the opposite in mind as she commented from her Tokyo base of ops, “What’s this thing keeping me out of New Zealand? An ocean? Screw that!” And thus, the BORDER between Japan and New Zealand was erased forever — whether through the magic of the internet or the ocean suddenly turning into a jello trampoline is anyone’s guess. But emamouse was no longer separated from NZ sound slinger/cartoon centipede yeongrak, and together, through the magic of Quantum Natives, mouth mouse maus was born, a sticky, gooey, sugary, epilepsy-inducing strobe blast of video-game grit and played-with-too-much pink slime from a plastic egg. Cookcook, in her review, inferred that utopias can emerge from collectivity, highlighting the compatibility of these two artists. I think what she meant was “Fruitopia,” which someone obviously spilled all over the mouth mouse maus backup hard drive. Remember Fruitopia? That was Coca-Cola’s own attempt to eradicate borders, except they were the borders between taste and… OK, between them and your money. –Ryan Masteller --- Félicia Atkinson Coyotes [Geographic North] [LISTEN] I once went to New Mexico but mostly stayed inside. Reasons why. Félicia Atkinson’s Coyotes, inspired by her own trip to New Mexico, maps a journey I may have taken, among other wonders. The crafted narrative and its exploratory form gestures toward an experiential unknown. Her travel log collages echoes, maps, receipts, dried leaves, sand stuck in the crevices of shoes, plaques, diary entries, signposts, mythology, spirituality, and the facts and facets of the land’s native and colonial histories into a total atmosphere, something approaching a direct translation of a lingering impression. It’s so effective and affecting, because the whole is actually a scrap: “a slip of paper, something/tiny & torn off/lifted by the wind” writes poet Christian Hawkey in Citizen Of. Atkinson lineates her memories into similarly moving verses. –Cookcook --- Pusha T Daytona [G.O.O.D. Music] [LISTEN · READ] DAYTONA by Pusha T is hard work. It’s this blurb being written at 5:20 AM on the 7-train to “the office” a day after having led 46 tweens on a non-stop four-day Boston field trip. It’s teaching about heterosexism and female empowerment, leading sixth grade field day, and handling logistics for eighth grade graduation in a single day. It’s your body feeling like a crash-test dummy on a Wednesday, having left in the early, early morning, putting in 12 hours of sweating gallons for money, and arriving home at 8:30 PM. It’s wearing Terminator shades on 125th Street talking Spanish to people you never met. It’s the endurance of confidence while facing every fear you’ve experienced — focused — diving straight into the freezing water. DAYTONA proves Pusha T and Kanye are relentless professionals that continue to transcend literary and sonic aesthetics in space and time. We need role models like these, forever. –C Monster --- DJ Koze Knock Knock [Pampa] [LISTEN · READ] Many publications have referred to Stefan Kozalla as a “trickster” or a “prankster.” While there are freckles of truth on the face of that assessment, much of his affability comes from his most mistaken quality: his earnestness. It’s what makes him such a delightful musicmaker. Being earnest, of course, is the perfect foil to the kind of negativist universalism that plagues the psychedelics/mindfulness landscape in which DJ Koze so often finds himself (and, also, finds himself). Koze’s House is perfect (see: “Pick Up”) and his plunder-pop turns weird into sublime and vice versa (see: the wails incorporated into “Scratch That”), but it’s his unpresuming and gracious approach to influences, samples, and collaborations that push this record into extraordinary territory. It’s not alien; it’s absolutely Earthly, and it reflects so well the modest subject that is Koze. After all, Koze never changes, except in his affections. –E. Fosl --- Elysia Crampton Elysia Crampton [Break World] [WATCH · READ] Elysia Crampton opens in media res, with a nativity. And then it revs up, restlessly — its machinic gears grind like plant medicine visions; water flows and burbles; disharmonic chords take us in unanticipatable directions. And through it all, the oscollo, the feline guardian of people outside gender binaries, oscillates wildly. Elysia Crampton’s maximalist approach takes it beyond the strings and cackles of 2016’s Demon City, yet Golgotha remains always present. Standout track “Moscow (Mariposa Voladora)” was inspired by Ofelia, a Bolivian mariposa (“femme revolutionary”), and it judders roughly, darkly. Crampton’s Aymara and trans identity are her displaced subjects, particularly in light of the gestural movement between her origins in Bolivia and her current home in the US. But this is not any straightforward folk music revival — rather, it’s a deconstruction that reconstructs. The difficulties and contradictions of critical theory, in particular writers such as José Muñoz and his exploration of queer brown-ness, are braided into the work. The first written reference to queers as mariposillas (“little butterflies”) is from Pedro Cieza de León, in the 16th century, in which he compares “sodomites,” subject to punishment by burning at the stake, to moths drawn to the flame. The suffering of our ancestors can’t be recuperated, but through art, we may yet dance grotesquely but triumphantly on the pyre. –Rowan Savage [pagebreak] The Caretaker Everywhere at the end of time - Stage 4 [History Always Favours The Winners] [LISTEN · READ] The late hauntologist Mark Fisher once cruelly noted that the OED lists one of the earliest meanings of the word “haunt” as “to provide with a home, house.” And now that we live in a world that has lost the very possibility of loss, we have also lost the one who can lose, cohabiting with oneself in the present’s presence. Ghosts no longer have a home to haunt in any case, and their yearning and lingering voices are consigned to a past that can never pass away. Although it is haunting and horrifying to behold Everywhere at the end of time’s fourth installment pass from memories to their source — what Kirby calls “the post-awareness stage” — perhaps we must be grateful that someone can forget (for (us)). For, the source of memory must remain, even after all memory has been stripped away from it, even though this source can never be aware of itself. Yet, this source is not, strictly speaking, an identity. What it may be I do not know, but The Caretaker allows you to hear, what, behind those eyes, devoid of any recognition of life; we hope, we plead to be someone who remembers us, yet the only bliss, as transient as it is empty, is the wry smile that, for an instant, says, “Do not save me.” –Evan Coral --- Lucrecia Dalt Anticlines [RVNG Intl.] [WATCH · READ] OK, Hoag. You wake up in 1925, in a different place but with the same objects. Lucrecia Dalt’s Anticlines is playing on the victrola. She sings, “Skinless others/ Oils on waters,” and you realize you’re in the same room as the killer. The only other person in the room is dressed exactly like you, and that person’s talking up the other place — the one you believe you are still in — saying, “I think you’d like it there.” Where again? Both places go out of view. Now possibly dreaming, in a time and place before flight, Gein or radio, you wait at a blue-dipped railway platform as trains roll by on their way to Oclupaca and Ortseam. You’re hoping to catch a ride to somewhere similar but elsewhere, more elemental, past the unseen concupiscence between thermosphere and exosphere, out there where you don’t have to wonder, anymore, what the toys do while you’re away. –Rick Weaver --- Tierra Whack Whack World [Self-Released] [STREAM] In the face of incomprehensible excess and stream-gaming nonsense, Tierra Whack — yes, that’s her real name — provides a grotesque yet charming response with the wonderfully weird “Whack World.” Rather than dragging the tempo or chopping the tracklist, the 22-year-old Philly rapper embraces something like a skip-button aesthetic of preview clips and non-member samples, unceremoniously cutting off her songs as soon as they hit the one-minute mark. With 15 songs in just 15 minutes — an absurdity further heightened by its surreal video — traditional payoffs are just beyond reach, forcing us to sit through a goofy, lighthearted romp of youthful innovation and bizarre genre play that includes everything from slow jams and trap bangers to country parodies and kids pop. It’s delightfully ridiculous and sometimes annoying af, but it arrives with undeniable energy and child-like wonder, bursting out confetti-like from a singular, captivating voice who’s on one of this year’s quickest and most unexpected come-ups. Blink and you’ll miss it. That’s the point. –ミスターおしっこ --- GAS Rausch [Kompakt] [WATCH · LISTEN · READ] I consumed the hour-long experience of Rausch, blaring through my headphones, as golden hour became twilight and the mosquitoes started biting. Luckily, my timing was great; 2017’s Narkopop, with its penchant for forlorn ruminations, ultimately owed a lot to its namesake: pop music. Now, those hopeful moments of liquid sunlight are far away. Rausch finds GAS staying true to its typically ascetic atmosphere, but any strand of accessible melodicism is replaced by shattering layers of dissonant drone upon drone, Doppler effect-synths, and percussive textures that pierce through it all — shimmering cymbals, palpitating kick-snare rhythms. As each funeral march bleeds into the next, the delirious effects of Rausch take hold. My arms are covered in bites, and temperatures still haven’t dropped below 90. For the superimposed intensity of Rausch, a more fitting listening environment couldn’t be created. –Rounak Maiti --- The Body I Have Fought Against It, But I Can’t Any Longer [Thrill Jockey] [LISTEN · READ] It’s so much to bear. We’re expected to carry more than our own weight. The pain and suffering of our past traumas, the present crises, the future uncertainties. More and more, any attempts to alleviate the pain, to share the burden, are undermined. All we ever wanted, all untenable. They demand purity (in lieu of that, submission by “privilege”), individuality, personalization, subscription. They won’t cry for us. Everything must be on you and you alone. Time will not notice you are nothing. You are already hatred as an abstract to someone else. The pull of the personal must end. The allure of ontology and self-indulgence must be shattered in the face of those who leer lewdly into its mirror and contort on the floor in false ecstasy. But it is a painful burden. “I lower my guilty-looking eyes. I’m afraid of looking people in the eye.” War is necessary and proper, to shatter illusions. But it’s all so much to bear. –Ze Pequeno [pagebreak] serpentwithfeet soil [Tri Angle/Secretly Canadian] [WATCH · LISTEN · READ] It’s crazy to think that soil is serpentwithfeet’s debut album. The queer, pagan singer, a former choir boy from Baltimore, emerged in 2016 with blisters, a set of mesmerizing slices of new age R&B delving into faith, superstition, and love. His voice and composition live up to the lofty themes; delicate and meandering, serpent recalled the acrobatic opulence of 90s R&B with brooding, industrial production from The Haxan Cloak. The most visionary artists are those who sound like nothing other than themselves and exhibit a gravitational aura that inspires imitation, lust, and disbelief. soil lurches and waltzes, while Josiah Wise, who prefers to go by “serpent,” remains fully exposed in the mix, employing innovative vocal stacks that whisper, conjure, and croon behind him like a choir of restless spirits. Despite the divine quality to serpent’s voice, which is at times shellacked with layers, often battling against static noise and its own quivering vibrato, the subject matter of soil is immediately relatable and quotidian: the navigation of a shifting dating landscape, the sublime essences of individuals, intimacy and grace in heartbreak, the projection of sorrow onto the world. serpent doesn’t want to be “small sad,” but “big, big sad,” to the point that he’s sure his friends are “tired of him talking.” The domesticity infects us all: How can we properly grieve? How can we redeem ourselves? The occult instrumentation falls away to reveal a queer individual who is merely describing their personal desires. –Ross Devlin --- Sara Davachi Let Night Come On Bells End The Day [Recital] [LISTEN · READ] I walked through the streets barefoot, clothed only in a robe. The bells were ringing, playing their ancient song, letting the world know that the night had begun. My feet were bleeding from the cobblestone streets, which is how they found me in the morning, just outside of town in the woods. I didn’t drink that night. The evening swept me up, and some tribal instinct forced me outside in virtually nothing. My neighbors looked and closed their curtain as I kept walking, holding the hand of the force that was dragging me. I remember parts like my head hurting and my eyes watering. I remember spinning in the center of town underneath a street lamp. I don’t remember why I left town and headed toward the woods. I don’t know why I left my house. I remember being woken up by the police and being embarrassed to face to my neighbors. They took me home and put me in bed, because the medic cleared me at the site. I’ve never spoken of it since, and I still clench up when the night comes on and the bells end the day. –Sam Tornow --- Jenny Hval The Long Sleep EP [Sacred Bones] [WATCH · LISTEN · READ] Roping in some of her favorite jazz musicians to explore ideas, Jenny Hval has managed to escape the noose of her recent collaborative concepts and delve within to produce yet another stunning act of imagination. The pure reach and weight of The Long Sleep is extraordinary. Hval moves across emotional ground with certainty and delicacy, capturing the subtlest of feelings. Like a soundtrack to a brilliant short, Hval plays with recurring motifs first presented in the “conventional” “Spells,” but then swerves genre expectations along the way, through the piano-led clap frappe of “The Dreamer Is Everyone in Her Dream” to the blissful title track drone. On “I Want to Tell You Something,” her presence is so powerful, as she attempts to express trance closure through an oblique narrative before realizing simple words are all she needs. Fecund, savage, and irresistible, The Long Sleep demonstrates once again why Hval is so intriguing. –David Nadelle --- Gemini Sisters Gemini Sisters [Psychic Trouble] [LISTEN] How does one describe something so beautiful and uplifting — a beacon of light in a shroud a darkness. I was wallowing deep in the muck and mire, desperate to claw out of it rather than sinking down into it. But that tar pit of sorrow and defeat is thick, and it cares not about your will. But I saw the light and followed it. It led me to two helpful, outstretched hands. Jon Kolodij and Matt Christensen met my palm with a hardy grasp and a hefty pull. And I felt the warmth of Gemini Sisters. The sprawling, uplifting sonic aura of the duo’s debut speaks to energy from whence Kolodij and Christensen are christened: the two having their daughters born on the same day of the same year (and those offspring being Geminis). It shows with the delicacy of their aural attack. It is spiritual, reaching toward the heavens to pluck the constellation and bringing its brightness to our darkest places. Right now, the flesh is weak and the mind wavers. But our essence remains pure and chaste. Thanks to Kolodij and Christensen, I have traded the hastened quicksand for a tether to the sprawling galaxy. –Jspicer --- Christina Vantzou No. 4 [Kranky] [LISTEN · READ] When you’re in a vehicle moving at a slow, constant speed, sometimes you can convince yourself that you aren’t moving at all. No. 4 moves me like that. I know how tired that metaphor is, and if you listen to gentle drones like “At Dawn” and “Remote Polyphony” and think I’m a hack for digging the spatial metaphor up once again to describe slow, deliberate music, I understand. But I feel that uneasy compromise between motion and rest deeply and at every strange, shimmering moment of the album. It’s in the bells of “Percussion in Nonspace,” ringing in a sort of dual presence and absence; in the little arpeggio that creeps up through “Doorway;” in the pitch-affected choral chant that closes out “Sound House.” Whether we interpret track titles as thematic hints or as mere word games, the names of the tracks on No. 4 suggest, along with the music, that Christina Vantzou wants to domesticate and eventually upend and denature space through sound. Usually a device for ordering abstraction, she turns that hackneyed spatial metaphor into one for abstracting order. This record moves at no speed, in no direction, and toward no goal, except maybe to suspend us temporarily in a kind of beauty without dimension, not far from terror. –Will Neibergall --- Kanye West ye [G.O.O.D./Def Jam] [LISTEN · READ] Just because an album sparks cathartic conversations doesn’t mean it’s good, and not all good albums invite candid dinner table discussions concerning their mercurial merits. Kanye, however, has just as big of a reputation for arousing furor as he does for leaving listeners speechless. Meanwhile, critics scramble for thoughtful words that won’t get them blacklisted for being associated with that black magic that has been infiltrating every aspect of daily life since Cain murdered Abel, thus birthing division. Calling ye a divisive document at TMT would be an understatement, and attributing its inclusion here to justifying countless hours of collectively unpacking just over 23 minutes of noise would obscure what ye actually contains: disturbing spoken word admonitions about premeditated murder, breathless bars on prescription drug addiction, ironic fantasies about butts of sex scandals, gorgeous gospel keys and beautiful dark twisted harmonies, celebratory reflections on fame and success, spectral arena rock vibes, and staggering room for growth cleared out by fear and love and loyalty. Regardless of our own individual feelings, ye keeps reminding us that this music shit that gets us through each day often requires plunging into dark places and reemerging with our own beacons of light. Believe it or not, I still love it, and like watching a bright-eyed child grow up in a world this dark, I’m terrified and excited for what’s next. –Jazz Scott --- The Shortlist: King Vision Ultra’s Pain of Mind, Shygirl’s Cruel Practice, Oneohtrix Point Never’s Age Of, Ashley Paul’s Lost In Shadows, James Ferraro’s Four Pieces For Mirai, Larry Wish’s How More Can You Need, Jon Hassell’s Listening To Pictures, Rainforest Spiritual Enslavement’s Red Ants Genesis, Parquet Courts’s Wide Awake!, The Carters’ EVERYTHING IS LOVE, Bernice’s Puff LP, Carla Bozulich’s Quieter, Pinkshinyultrablast’s Miserable Miracles, Duppy Gun Productions’s Miro Tape, DRINKS’s Hippo Lite, Valee’s GOOD Job, You Found Me, and Frog Eyes’ Violet Psalms.   http://j.mp/2Kt2EKx

[avengeultrons]

Title: Escape the Night II (Stark! Reader x Peter)

Summary: The twisted dinner party continues with a coffin, a piano in the woods, and...mannequins? It’s a thriller, and not the good kind.

Word Count: 2296

A/N: I LOVE LOVE LOVE THIS SERIES ALREADY! I really hope you do, too! Enjoy:)

PART 3

--

My life was taken in order to hide the artifact from the living. To find it, you must find my coffin, exhume it from the earth, and release me. You must also find the key that unlocks the chain that seals it. The path that leads to the key starts at a fork beneath the weeping tree.

“The Weeping Willow, outside!” you shouted, speed walking to the door as the clue was passed around the group. At least you were good at puzzles, they kept your mind from wandering and spiraling down a rabbit hole of negativity that almost felt inevitable here, “Let’s split up, half find the key and half find the coffin.”

You were leading the pack out of the front doors of the house and down the gravel road to the eerie tree in front, its limbs hanging down as if being pulled to the grass by an unknown force. Tony ran forward and walked beside you, gravel crunching under his feet, “You shouldn’t be in charge of this suicide mission, Y/N,” he said, his face contorted in worry.

“Someone has to be,” you said, repositioning the flimsy cloche hat on your head, “If you must know, it makes me feel better, more in control,” Peter started waving his hands violently from his spot near the base of the tree. You gave your dad one final shrug before running as best as you could in your heels to where he was standing, bent over another clue.

Peter picked up a large red stone and another note, “Go to the tree twenty-seven paces from here,” he read the scribbled handwriting aloud. You stared ahead and glanced wearily at Peter; there were so many trees that you weren’t sure which one to choose. Surely finding a coffin wouldn’t be that hard.

“Well, it’s gotta be where that creepy piano is,” Natasha said, leading the way to the large piano in the trees, almost hidden by greenery, “Seriously, Tony? What is this place?”

You sighed and watched as your father became wracked with more guilt, turning his gaze to his feet as you kept walking. Natasha’s comment was meant to be harmless, but you could tell that it stung, “Let’s just focus on getting out of here. Look, there are two missing keys in the piano,” you said, prying the top of the instrument off. Steve helped hold it open while you grabbed the key you needed, “I think we have to dig over there. Judging by the fresh pile of dirt and the shovels, that is definitely where the coffin is.” “I can’t believe we’re exhuming a coffin out of the ground. We’ve fought robots and aliens, but dead people?” Clint was bitter as he dug, the shovels creating a rhythmic scraping sound.

Digging a grave was hard work. Your face was covered in sweat and specks of dust, your hands cramped and burning. Hoisting the coffin out of the ground was the worst part. There was a dead body in there, after all! Your mind went to all of the worst possible outcomes. All you had to do now was wait for the other half of your party, “There they are with the key for this chain!” Pietro shouted, jumping up from his resting spot on a pile of dirt.

Wanda held the large key, her hands shaking as she unlocked the chain and threw it off of the coffin. You squeezed your eyes shut, your stomach filled with anxious butterflies as they tossed the lid off of the coffin to open it.

“There’s...just a letter?” another one of the partygoers, dressed as a mobster, snatched it up and ripped it open like there was no tomorrow. Which, tomorrow wasn’t a given just yet.

I can feel your presence near, my spirit will soon be free. There is only one more task ahead of you. The hiding ritual is used to conceal the artifact required and unwilling soul to be buried alive and it was mine. Now another unwilling soul must be buried alive to reverse the spell. Only then will the artifact rise from its unearthen tomb.

The letter sent a shiver down your spine. You crossed your arms over your chest to keep from shaking, a scowl present on your face. You were already sick of this house’s games, “We have to vote for someone to die? Again?”

“I vote for Mr. Tony Stark. It’s his house, after all, that got us into this mess! He’s probably working against us,” the same partygoer, which you then found out was named Tim, jabbed a finger at your father.

You gasped and shot a glare at him, turning to Tim, “It’s not his fault! Why are you people always trying to turn the group on someone?” you asked. Tony put his hand up, begging you to stop. He looked rather terrified, standing there like a lost puppy, “Let’s vote, then,” you said. You obviously voted for Tim, even when a pang of guilt rooted itself in your stomach, sinking its teeth in and not letting go.

Tim tried to run when his name was called. The groundskeeper, Mark, stopped him and pulled him back to the group. Tony shooed you and Peter back to the line of trees, trying to conserve your innocence for some time. Both of you couldn’t help but watch for a minute; it was like a car crash that you couldn’t look away from. Like a horror movie that you watched at a slumber party once; none of you really wanted to watch it but you did anyways. You didn’t sleep on that dreadful night.

A gasp escaped your lips when the group put the man in the coffin, you couldn’t watch anymore. You turned your head into Peter’s shoulder and shut your eyes, trying to drown out the sounds of your group screaming and the poor victim’s screams. There was blood on all of your hands now.

“Let’s go,” Sam stepped past you, another one of the pyramid shaped artifacts tucked under his arm. He was speed walking to the house, Steve and the rest of the group following closely behind.

Tony stepped past you, another clue in his hands, “Idle? That’s all it says. Peter, Y/N, look for clues while we try to figure this out,” you were being treated like the mystery gang in Scooby Doo. All you needed was a Great Dane who talked.

“What's that car doing over there?” Peter asked, pointing ahead at a 1920s automobile sitting in the middle of the gravel road. You shrugged and ran ahead, crawling into the car without even thinking about the dangers that could be inside.

Peter threw his hands up, “What are you doing?” he asked with a sigh, sliding into the driver’s seat, “I don't think we should be in here,” he said. You rolled your eyes and pushed open the glove compartment. Another note, a small piece of paper with tiny writing, slid out, falling onto your lap.

“Slow Down,” you read it out loud, your eyebrows knotting together in confusion. You and Peter turned to each other, light bulbs going off in your heads as you spoke in unison, “The brakes.”

Peter reached his hand down on the brake, his head resting against the wheel. His eyes lit up as he held something above his head, “A key,” he said. You smiled and gave him a high five; the two of you probably worked better than Mystery Incorporated.

“What do you think it's for?” you asked, turning to look out of the back windshield. Peter watched you think; your eyebrows knitted together and lips pursed, the cherry scented lip gloss you had on shining from the moonlight in front of you. He really had to stop thinking about your cherry lip gloss.

“The trunk!” you clambered out of the car, Peter following you with the tiny key in his hand.

He unlocked the trunk as you squeezed your eyes shut, “I can't look, what if it's a dead body? Well, another one,” you sighed when Peter tapped your shoulder, “A mannequin?” It was a child sized mannequin, its arms and legs tied together with rope.

The two of you scooped it out of the car and carried it up to the house where the rest of your teammate were.

“We found something!” Peter shouted, hoisting the mannequin up above his head. Wanda called for the two of you from the dining room where four other mannequins were set up at a large mahogany dining table.

The group was trying to follow a picture to set up the mannequins in real life, but they were missing one, the small child sized one, “What kind of freaky game is this?” you asked, dropping the mannequin into the open chair.

“Look, another clue,” Tony announced. He pulled a small postcard out of the jewelry box on the table.

My employer,

I have hidden the artifact given to me as you requested in the new art installation on the second floor. I'm afraid it can only be visited by two guests selected by a vote. They should be prepared to play party games.

You groaned loudly, following the group back to the common area to vote yet again. Voting never brought anything good in this house. Especially not when Tony and Wanda were chosen for the party games, “Are you kidding me? These people are just trying to wipe us all out,” you glared at the people sitting on the couch opposite you. Tony sighed and kissed your forehead promptly before following Wanda up the steps, leaving you to fester in your anxiety.

“You're the ones killing off all of us!” the man across from you shouted. He wore a giant crystal watch that matched his pretentious attitude towards the whole situation, “Who’s to say that you're not the puppet master of this whole thing? You and your boyfriend? Think twice before pointing a finger, you little bitch,” when your least favorite word on planet earth rolled off of his tongue, Peter was first to jump up with his fists clenched and raised as if he would punch the face of the 20s gangster.

You jumped up and grabbed his arm, “Woah, woah!” Pietro was quick to pull Natasha back to the couch before she charged as well. Your face was burning bright red as you pulled Peter back down onto the couch, looping your arm through his, “You're lucky we’re holding them back.”

“I'm sorry,” Peter said quietly, sighing a shaky sigh. You looked up at him from your slumped position on the couch. He looked down at the ground like a puppy dog who was just in trouble for something, his hair, which he fixed on the way to the party, falling in front of his eyes. You smiled a painful smile and lay your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes briefly.

His eyes widened as you did so, a small smile creeping onto his face that he tried to hide from the rest of the party. Wanda caught his eye and smiled adoringly resting her chin in her hand as she watched his face turn pink.  

A scream made you jump up, your eyes widening in shock as you watched the woman, dressed as an heiress, in front of you fall to the ground and die almost instantaneously. You could practically hear a pin drop as all of you stared at her, not knowing what to do or say next.

Your mouth fell open as you gaped at her, your stomach dropping to the floor. Creaking of wood could be heard as Tony and Wanda ran down the steps, joining the rest of you in the living room.

Living rooms were typically supposed to be full of lively conversations and comfortable seating, not dead people and silence, “Every time we do a challenge, someone will die,” Natasha said dryly, trying to read the look on Tony’s face.

“I think so,” Wanda nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. Another artifact was tucked under her arm, this one just as creepy as the last, “We have the third artifact; though. One step closer to getting the hell out of here.”

You sighed and tried stretching the fatigue and exhaustion out of your limbs. There was still a long night ahead of you, “So, what did you have to do?” you asked, taking a glass of water from Arthur as he passed them out.

“We had to play Spin the Bottle with a bunch of mannequins. It was...weird,” Tony and Wanda shared a glance, chuckling lightly, “Let’s hurry, we only have one artifact left.”

He unfolded the note and opened is mouth to read it out loud when a loud roar from outside shook the whole house, the glass vibrating and shaking. Peter’s glass slipped from his hand as he jumped, “Sorry,” he said as he stared down at the broken glass.

“What was that?” you stared out at the courtyard, trying to find whatever made the noise.

The room fell completely silent as Arthur stood at the window, talking to all of you as if he was telling a ghost story, “The evil of the house. It knows someone wants to imprison it. It's unleashed its guardian to make sure that it doesn't happen.”

You raised an eyebrow, an uneasy feeling taking over. Peter glanced over at you nervously, gulping as he narrowed his eyes at the window. You were hyper aware of your hands touching, your cheeks burning with a pink blush, even as you blinked your eyes to keep the exhaustion out. All you wanted to do was fall asleep and escape your problems, “What's going on?”

[mirrorfae]

((Legit just wanted to write two Majesties of the Night Court being dorks.))

It wasn’t unusual for a member of the Night Court to love the night, and even less unusual for a Majesty.  Moonless nights had always been Thane’s favorite.  He twisted himself more securely around the high branch he always favored, feeling a bout of sleepiness waver at the edge of his consciousness, and lifted his chin again to watch the stars.

Soft wingbeats fluttered at the edge of his hearing.  Thane grumbled and glanced back down, narrowing his eyes to see another Spiral creeping through the night.

“Plots?” he asked, pitching his voice low enough to only carry to his target.  Axenus, the King of Plots, looked up.

“Blades,” he said, recognizing Thane, and twisted his way up through the sparkling branches of the birch tree to perch next to Thane.  “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Thane murmured, and uncoiled himself.  The shimmering red cape, symbol of his position as Majesty, caught on a twig.  He shook it loose.

Axenus watched him, his face shadowed by his hood.  “My scrying bowl clouded again,” he said.  Thane laughed.

“Sure.  Or else you just scratched a rune on it and wanted an excuse to get out of the Palace.”

Axenus’ wings twitched, and he half smiled before looking up at the stars.  “Don’t tell me you don’t miss it.”

“Miss… what?”

“Running assignments.  Being able to be out in the night without masking your face.”  Axenus cast a glance over at Thane.  “Though that’s one rule you seem to have no trouble flouting.”

Thane stretched and smiled.  “I’m the King of Blades.  Any dragon who sees my face will find out why.”

“How edgy.”

“Shut up.”

Axenus laughed, then shook his cloak into a position better for flying and twisted into the air, contorting himself into figure eights.  “I’m still going to Windstar Bay to scry,” he said.  “Are you coming?”

“And here I thought you didn’t like me.”

Axenus hovered and stared down at Thane.  With his dark coloring, Thane thought with a shiver, Axenus looked like just a black shape blotting out the stars.  Fitting, for Arcane territory.

“It’s just an offer.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Thane said hurriedly, and lifted himself into the air as well, looping around Axenus.  “Race ya.”

“You’re such a child,” Axenus sighed, but quickly untangled himself from the long coil of Thane’s body.  “Last one to the bay has to tell Poisons why we oh-so-suddenly left.”

Thane didn’t need further prompting to shoot off towards the bay.

By the time they got there, both Thane and Axenus were breathing hard.  Thane flopped to the coarse pink sand.

“I won.”

“No, you didn’t,” Axenus argued, and Thane opened one eye to see Axenus’ hood had blown back during the frantic flight.  The King of Plots was smiling.

Thane’s heart flipped.

“Tie?” he asked, yawning and curling up.  Axenus laughed.

“Fine, if you explain to Poisons.”

“Exploiter,” Thane managed through his sudden exhaustion, and promptly fell asleep before he could hear Axenus’ response.

When he woke, Axenus was gone, and the waves were almost lapping at his feet.  Thane jumped up and scrambled backward with a curse.

Someone, he noticed, had rearranged his cloak to lie comfortably over him while he slept.

The King of Blades smiled, ducked his head like a hatchling with his first crush, and slunk into the Starwood Strand with a smile hovering at his mouth.

[fairysoldier-plisetsky]

Valentine’s Event FS - Yuriy Plisetsky

Simple and Clean (Ray of Hope Remix) Theme: Love Costume: Black pants and shirt (Otabek’s still not returned Aria T-Shirt), two chokers, and a white jacket. 

00:00 – 00:16 The music starts, dreamy and wistful. He picked this song specifically for Otabek—for them, and Yuriy wonders briefly if he’ll even recognize the alternate arrangement. Yuriy starts moving immediately, gliding elegantly along the ice as his mind slowly drifts away from Detroit back to Barcelona. He closes his eyes, his feet carrying him easily through his crossovers and spiraling 3turns, and he’s on the back of Otabek’s bike. The Russian Fairy spirited away by the Hero of Kazakhstan, and he’s dreamed about that day more times than he’s ever admit. It was the beginning of everything. Yuriy leans forward into an Ina Bauer and extends one arm out. Yuriy.

00:17 – 00:32 Their progression after that was rocky, to say the least. Yuriy shifts, bringing his free leg forward and out in front of him as he spirals. Yuriy’s rapidly growing feelings for Otabek quickly spiral out of control before either of them either realize it’s happening.

When you walk away, you don’t hear me say “Please, oh baby, don’t go.”

Yuriy twists his body around at his torso and contorting his body until he feels the cold bite of his skate as he grabs the blade. It had hurt like nothing he’d ever experienced before when saw Otabek kiss Mila, and even worse when he walked away from Yuriy without even looking at him. Heartbreak wasn’t something he was used to feeling at the time, but he’s sure that’s what it was; the horrible aching pain in his chest. Simple and clean is the way that you’re making me feel tonight Those few days they went without seeing each other, only speaking to each other through a short exchange of drunk and angry texts had been torture. Everything had been perfect between before that moment. Simple, with nothing to complicate things until suddenly everything became complicated with one kiss. It’s hard to let it go

His first jump is next, a triple axel and he lands it perfectly, swinging back into a deep arc. Otabek was on his mind constantly back then, not like he still isn’t now. He hated thinking that the friendship they’d only just started building together could have been ruined in only one evening.

00:47 – 1:02 You’re giving me too many things lately Yuriy backtracks a bit, trying to draw on more positive memories. He’s supposed to be skating about love, not heartbreak—if they mostly go hand in hand. Otabek presented Yuriy with the helmet and Yuriy immediately fell in love with it. The words they’ve shared between each other as they ride along the streets are easy; something only they can understand. Even when they’re not speaking at all, the soft hum of their breath through the speaks is enough. You’re all I need Yuriy covers his face with one hand, leaning back as he twirls with one foot hovering above the ice, slightly bent. His arms always wound so tightly around Otabek’s waist. After the first time, he was never afraid of falling off—he just wants to be closer. You smiled at me and said He straightens up and drags the hand covering his face down his neck and chest, holding it over his heart as he continues to spin. He can feel it beating beneath his palms, fluttering in the same way it does whenever he’s close enough to notice the scent of Otabek’s leather jacket or brush their hands together. 1:03 – 1:17 The daily things (like this and that and what is what?) that keep us all busy are confusing me The quad toe loop comes easily to him, his body feeling lighter than usual. Right out of it, he swings his free leg around behind him, bending backwards so he can grab his skate as he switches smoothly into his spin combination. Everything with Otabek is entirely new to him and a healthy amount of confusion is completely understandable. When did they cross that line between friends and something more? Was that what they wanted? Was it even possible? That’s when you came to me and said Simple, accidental contact between them is his favourite; when they get so close to each other without trying or meaning to.  Everything feels natural to him; the same way he sinks in and out of his sit spin and contorts his limbs elegantly as he finishes out the combination. 

1:18 – 1:34 “Don’t get me wrong, I love you, but does that mean I have to meet your father?” Otabek skating for him, and just for him, was the wake up call that Yuriy needed. Seeing him pour himself into his a routine, a routine made just for Yuriy and how he felt about him. Yuriy’s heart had been racing the entire time, matching the lyrics to Otabek’s song almost perfectly: I never noticed my heart until I noticed you. I never knew love like this until I knew you. Yuriy takes three quick strides across the ice, picking up speed and launching into a split jump, tossing his head back slightly. He lands on one blade, spinning twice before his free leg joins the first. When we are older you’ll understand what I meant when I said “No, I don’t think life is quite that simple.” 1:35 – 1:49 When you walk away, you don’t hear me say “Please, oh baby, don’t go.” Unfortunately, Yuriy thinks, “love” doesn’t always feel good. He loops and turns through his step sequence, creating exaggerated motions with his arms while twisting and bending his upper body. He shifts on his skates, alternating which foot is the lead and which is his free leg as he works through his choreography. He’d felt useless when Otabek came apart in front of him after his Disney free skate. Seeing him break down and cry like that and being able to do nothing to help him, hurt. Simple and clean is the way that you’re making me feel tonight   It’s hard to let it go They both ended up crying that night, Yuriy trying to kiss away as much of the pain as he could before they fell asleep curled up and emotionally exhausted in each other’s arms. He never wants to see Otabek that torn up again. He wants to keep him in his arms and shield him from everything and everyone in his life that’s ever wrong or hurt him or treated him as if he isn’t good enough. 1:50 – 2:04  Hold me Whatever lies beyond this morning is a little later on Yuriy back tracks again, this time to New Year’s Eve and where he officially marks that everything changed, and he transitions into his next spin combination. He folds his arms over his chest as he slides down into a sit spin. He holds himself tightly and blushes faintly when he imagines it’s Otabek that’s embracing him; perhaps even the same way he did when they shared their third ‘first kiss’ beneath the bursting fireworks. A layback spiral is next, and Yuriy extends one arm out; reaching up and out. Yuriy had felt so warm and so ridiculously happy that he didn’t think he’d come down from his euphoria from his first kiss anytime soon. They had no idea where they were going then, only that they were moving forward in the same direction and they wanted to go together.   Regardless of warnings, the future doesn’t scare me at all Nothing’s like before Yuriy’s seen how badly these types of relationships can go: the fights, the misunderstandings, the break-ups and more. He’s seen all of it, and they’ve had their own fair share of problems already, but nothing that they haven’t been able to come away from; both stronger people. Together. They’re growing together, bringing out the best in each other and taking the worst in stride. 2:05 – 2:20 When you walk away, you don’t hear me say “Please, oh baby, don’t go.” Yuriy bursts into a quad salchow barely punctuated with a small pause before he follows it up with a stunning triple axel, raising both arms in the air. Nearly ‘splitting up’ when they were even together over ice cream had been the worse. It was a pattern with them that Yuriy hoped they’d soon grow out of; starting off so sweet until things turned horribly sour.   Guilt. Disgust. Yuriy had made Otabek feel that way about himself.

“…I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”

Simple and clean is the way that you’re making me feel tonight It’s hard to let it go Yuriy slips in a few crossovers out of his jumps, weaving intricate patterns across the ice as he skates; completely focused. The moments after their near not-break up were a few of the best and worst they shared together. The kissing and cuddling hand been fantastic, but the strained conversation Yuriy forced them to have afterward had been awful. “No more guessing games, Beka.” Yuriy doesn’t want to lose this, any of it, just because they’re too afraid to say what’s on their minds. “I don’t want to do this if we’re too afraid to be honest with each other.” 2:38 – 2:52 You’re giving me too many things lately Yuriy leans forward into a spread eagle with his arms out to the side; open with his hands palm up. He turns back on one foot and elongates himself, shifting into an Ina Bauer. Another ‘fun’ habit they’ve developed is Otabek constantly finding reasons to worry over Yuriy. The hickeys on his neck that Otabek was afraid hurt him, to Yuriy’s insistence to never opening up more than he needed to. Yuriy bends forward to transition into his camel spin. “Not saying things plainly just so you can save me the worry.” You’re all I need Yuriy comes out of his spin, closing his eyes and raising his arms above his head before slowly dragging them back down over his sides with a subtle roll of his hips as he drifts backwards. Yuriy’s breath hitches slightly, his heart fluttering at every soft kiss Otabek pressing into his knuckles. His hands feel cold, but each kiss leaves his skin warm and tingling and it slowly brings a smile to his face. The gesture is so sweet and soft and intimate in the strangest way that Yuriy’s not used to yet; just purely full of love and affection without anything else behind it. Love.

You smiled at me and said 2:53 – 3:08 The daily things (like this and that and what is what?) The triple toe loop is next and his manages it with little trouble, keeping one hand high in the air that he slowly brushes through his hair for a bit of finesse once he’s landed. One of the problems of being technically, not technically with Otabek is he’s too damn attractive for his own good and he doesn't even realize it. Flame of jealousy had licked at Yuriy on more than one occasion, from the horribly brazen and depraved girls from Instagram to the waitress that attempted to give Otabek her number.   that keep us so busy are confusing me Yuriy melts back into another spin combination, reaching up and out with a graceful arch in his spine. He’d claimed Otabek as his to that waitress and his cheeks darkened when he remembers that Otabek had actually heard him. that’s when you came to me, and said “So…I’m taken, huh?” Yuriy does a quick butterfly spin to switch legs into a hairsplitter layback. Otabek’s response to Yuriy declaration had been favourable to say the least and Yuriy swears he can feel his lips tingling at the memory of the kiss; pushed back against his door and loving every second of it before Minami picked the absolute worse time to return. They flew away from each other like they were scalded, Yuriy throwing himself face down into his mattress and pillows to hide his burning cheeks. 3:09 – 3:21 “Don’t get me wrong, I love you, but does that mean I have to meet your father?” When we are older you’ll understand The step sequence is next, filled mostly with crossovers, three turns and Choctaws while Yuriy paints intricate shapes and patterns with his arms. Walking in on Otabek dancing, being completely dumbfounded learning that he could move that way and had been hiding it for so long had been very interesting. Otabek moved like he was one with the music, every pop and roll of his hips making Yuriy’s heart skip a beat and his mouth go dry. He wants to get closer, and he does…it ends about how he expected it to. What I meant when I said “No, I don’t think life is quite that simple.” 3:22 – 3:37 When you walk away you don’t hear me say “Please, oh baby, don’t go.” “Everyone I try to love leaves me!” Yuriy feels his chest tighten up, remembering the words he’d screamed at Otabek when he’d been doing his best to take care of him after they left the hospital. “I’m fucking scared, Beka.” Yuriy exits his sequence in a forward lunge, his front knee bent sharply with one arm reaching out, grasping for the air. “Beka, I’m sorry. I keep fucking this up.” Simple and clean is the way that you’re making me feel tonight It’s hard to let it go A few more crossovers, a low sweeping dip towards the ice and Yuriy spins once. "I can't take away your past hurts even though every last cell of my body wants to. And I can't promise you there won't be any future ones. But I can promise you one thing: I will never leave." 3:41 – 3:56 Hold me Yuriy flies into the first jump of his combo, wrapping his arms securely around himself as he rotates through the air. Otabek unzipped his jacket so that Yuriy could lay back and tuck closer against his warm chest, wrapping the edges of the jacket around Yuriy like a little cocoon. Whatever lies beyond this morning is a little later on Yuriy feels his heart rate pick up. He’s included the lutz again, which he failed to land last night, or any of the previous attempts during his late night practice that Otabek had walked in on. Still, he has to try, ignoring the phantom ice burn pain in the palm of his hand. Yuriy had woken up kicking and screaming, eyes wide and terrified and seeing things that weren’t actually there, but like always, Otabek was able to calm him down. They talked, more liked kissed and cried, in the other room until they were both relaxed enough to sleep, curling up together on the couch. It isn’t flawless, the entry giving him trouble as usual, but he stays on his face and a beautiful smile crosses briefly across his face. Regardless of warnings, the future doesn’t scare me at all Nothing’s like before 3:57 – 4:08 When you walk away, you don’t hear me “Please, oh baby, don’t go.” Yuriy goes into his last step sequence, chasing the sweet, familiar melody of the music that he’s started to think of now as their song. He thinks of a future…one not to faraway, but long enough away that he’ll still enjoy every moment he’s given now with everything he has. Yuriy imagines himself standing in the airport, right in front of his departure gate, but unwilling to go. Otabek’s gate is further away, but…they’re stubborn. Of course they’ll stay by each other for as long as they can, before that last boarding call because neither of them has the stomach to walk away first, or to have to watch the other go. After all, Detroit is only temporary; they however, are not. It’s not like they won’t see each other again once they leave, Yuriy already knows he’ll make damn sure of that. The last note approaches and Yuriy finishes strong, adding once last simple double toe loop he hadn’t planned on before he finishes, arms outstretched with a determined look on his face. Simple and clean is the way that you’re making me feel tonight It’s hard to let it go

[oneent-blog]

Feature: 2018: Second Quarter Favorites

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TMT’s Musical Innovation Summit, now in its 14th year, is the oldest meeting of its kind in the industry. Like last quarter’s summit, roughly 10 music professionals from TMT gathered in New York to discuss the latest musical breakthroughs and make predictions on which releases will spark future awe-inspiring innovations.

To help make the predictions, we interviewed 45 random fans, 30 venture capitalists, and a handful of media who cover the music industry across the country to get their collective thoughts on what’s imminent. That list is then honed by eliminating long-shot candidates, followed by a double-elimination round to get rid of shitty artists. Nominees are thoroughly vetted, and the groups eliminate candidates throughout the process.

Today, we are proud to present the results: the BEST 26 releases of the last three months (with a shortlist at the end). We predict that these releases will change music forever.

SOPHIE

OIL OF EVERY PEARL’S UN-INSIDES

[Future Classic]

[WATCH · READ]

Now’s raw doubt flanges in this memory’s mercury, and we’re back in the basement dark, floor paved with silver marbles. We will shine a light on one, outline the floor with reflecting. I ask are you sure of this? and you say no, never not of any thing. You squeeze your foreign-feeling shoulder, slim quick doubt. Then you hold a marble up to your eye, unclipped cuticles before corneas, a silver pearl. It’s okay. Flashlight on. We gape. There is no neat sequence. No light is set Surface contorts seeing. The shining is bent in coils. There is no straight path, just what we can move into in this whole new world. Roll the flashlight, and it’s a world warping, brilliance refracted, reflections re-membering. The world we built in the dark teaches us how being between might be. Our un-insides, SOPHIE’s sound, teaches us that brilliance doesn’t diminish its self, that light and self and is what we call it. And you say call me Vivian. Becoming who we’re becoming, “no matter where I go, you’ll be here in my heart.” –Frank Falisi

Playboi Carti

Die Lit

[Interscope/AWGE]

[LISTEN · READ]

The arrival of Playboi Carti’s debut album proper, following last year’s crucial self-titled mixtape, could seem like a mere victory lap, an easy cop-out that plays up to the well-established framework of overstuffed rap albums in the streaming age. What a pleasure, then, that Die Lit implodes that logic. The heady balance of mood pieces and out-and-out anthems that characterized Playboi Carti is further refined here, but even without that baggage, Die Lit is a success on its own terms, a flickering visage that compounds Carti’s most enticing impulses — barely-there vocals, Reichian repetition, knotty Pi’erre Bourne beats — with all the best facets of the album form. And if Carti is only incidental on the mic, the tracks left in his wake are anything but. Herein lies a set of real Ohrwürmer, the inner soundtrack to your day, long after the album subsides. The cloud bursts forth; lightning really does strike twice. –Soe Jherwood

DJ Healer / Prime Minister of Doom

Nothing 2 Loose / Mudshadow Propaganda

[All Possible Worlds]

[LISTEN · LISTEN]

On DJ Metatron’s 2 The Sky, the anonymous artist threaded a Jake Gyllenhaal interview through intricate waves of house music that helped give rise to this enigmatic and highly gifted producer. This year, his efforts have come twofold, with a double release under two new monikers that plot the same channels of intricacy but through two very different means. In place of the Donnie Darko reflection that deepens the narrative of 2 The Sky is a 2002 Whitney Houston interview with Diane Sawyer, where the troubled singer discusses her drug problems and an unnerving sense of optimism that inevitably collapsed 10 years later. Essentially, the music that accompanies both of these otherwise unrelated samples is the atmospheric gel that binds them together; an actor speaking about his fascination with a perplexing story line, and a generational icon battling with herself, fighting to overcome the very thing that took her life. That disparity lies at the heart of this joint release, which merges two highly distinctive personalities while linking them through religious and personal overtones. Mudshadow Propaganda is perfect in its projection of minimal techno tracks that build on the traits of our secretive producer’s expired alias, The Prince of Denmark, while Nothing 2 Loose is almost confessional in the sincerity that it lays bare. But where both records celebrate the dexterity and imagination of a single producer, they also paint a picture of human existence at its most conflicted, from the carnal and the primitive to the haunted and the divine. –Birkut

Grouper

Grid of Points

[Kranky]

[LISTEN · READ]

In seven tracks and less than 30 minutes, Liz Harris sought to take us nowhere. So she stranded us anywhere. Giving up on finding anything instructive or stabilizing in the passing moan of a stray vocal, the odd cluster of muted piano keys, or the occasional sharp gust of static, it became clear that the only place where anything “new” could happen was in a place where nothing old and familiar was left. “Where are we?” started to sound more like “Where aren’t we?” It might have been some heavenly shoreline where the water was the same perfect gunmetal color as the sky, but it might just as likely have been the vacant parking lot of some long-since-demolished Disneyland. It didn’t really matter. Anyplace we chose to stand and look from was just as good (or bad) as another. “Might as well call this the center,” we figured. Gotta start somewhere. –Dan Smart

Seth Graham

Gasp

[Orange Milk/Noumenal Loom]

[LISTEN · READ]

A symphony of perversions and memories that ignites every time you rapid-fire through your Instagram stories. Refried beans left over from the camping trip you took to a closed beta somewhere off the coast of Spy Kids 4D. A million splintered renderings of classical text that you half-scrawled onto the back of your hand before you realized that you were actually just passed out on the keyboard again. Gasp is like a raw feed of how music itself operates in 2018; brief bursts of genius materializing right before us, only to be swept away and digested into something unrecognizably new. The entire sum of human history rubbing elbows with that ASMR video you had to rush to minimize before your roommate could ask you what the fuck you were just watching. A guy as unassuming as Orange Milk label head Seth Graham conjuring up untold universes of possibility from his home in Dayton, OH, his bank of MIDIs a window into our gentle, distraught, and hilarious world. –Sam Goldner

[pagebreak]

Klein

cc

[Self-Released]

[LISTEN · READ]

“Oh my god! Who’s actually going to listen to this?” asks Klein, lounging with friends, reflecting on her last EP, Tommy and a still-emerging network of diasporic black art and sound. A year and new EP later, cc sees Klein more comfortable in the discomfort, pushing further with her collages of confrontational intimacy. “You have to squint” as the voices build and spiral, like an endless loop of out-of-office replies, a pitch-bent dawn chorus, singing to each other, but listening too. Klein made us think: about blackness, about opacity, about femininity and Disney princesses, all at once. Feelings too, and a lack of language to convey them; anxiety, elation, mania, but less medical, sometimes an incantation, sometimes an exorcism. In cc, Klein created a space of unique and disarming affect and mood: a deeper, darker stage in the process of “me being my own therapist,” the sound of someone finding a plurality of voices, of listening to yourself. –Joel White

Beach House

7

[Sub Pop]

[WATCH · READ]

Attempting to describe what dreams are seems like a task both impossible and pretentious. But, as it floats like a wandering mind, drifting from thought to thought with each track, 7 certainly feels like a dream. Alex Scally plays guitar, but it sounds like an unfamiliar squall from another universe. Victoria Legrand sings, but it comes out in French. Look at the clock, you’ll be unable to tell how much time has passed. You know, dream stuff. For a genre that gets its name from something as complex as the random images our brains send to us while we sleep, “dream pop” music can often be very formulaic. That’s why, seven albums into their career, it’s remarkable that Beach House have found a way to not only completely refresh their sound, but make perhaps their best album yet. Awash in a chaotic darkness that’s been lingering in different forms throughout their entire discography, 7 hurtles towards oblivion: beautiful, glorious, infinite. –Jeremy Klein

Eartheater

Irisiri

[PAN]

[WATCH · LISTEN · READ]

I keep losing track of Irisiri; it keeps slipping away from me. This isn’t meant as the insult it might scan as. An elegiac spin on the cyber-cyborg-meat-machine kick that everything relevant is twirling toward, this series of sad little processed ditties and twisted car jams charts a swerve back-and-forth between evasiveness and directness. Its unnerving stuff, giving the impression of solidity while remaining impossible to hold. Flirting with hip-hop and electro-acoustic, bedroom pop and sexed-up sopping wet plastic, it keeps moving out of view, even as I keep returning to it. Listening to the album is like chasing an object out of reach, an object I desire without knowning, a body I want without seeing. Also, C.L.I.T. fucking slaps. –Jessie Jeffrey Dunn Rovinelli

THE HIRS COLLECTIVE

FRIENDS. LOVERS. FAVORITES.

[SRA/Get Better]

[LISTEN · READ]

For a few decades now, raw musical aggression has been underpinned with a lot of unintelligible vocal sentiment. Just steam on in with howling, power riffs and punishing beats please. But what’s that on the edge of the blast radius, dashing in headlong through the smoke? Clear sentiments that uplift, testify, and provide some sharp kicks in heteronormativity’s floppy old dick? Yes please! Even with its closing remix section, the album’s corroded (and collaborative) essence remains triumphantly tight. The perfect way Lilium Kobayashi’s quick stomping techno pop take on “Murdered by a Woman” flits to “Wake Up Tomorrow” when this album is on repeat further dispels any sort of tacked-on/bonus trax superfluousness. The cultural constant of immediate, frothing punk rage is obviously not going anywhere. It’s essential to have an album, in fuck-this-shit 2018, where that rage is specifically righteous, even with its eternally itinerant self-laceration (i.e., humanity). –Willcoma

Delroy Edwards

Rio Grande

[L.A. Club Resource]

[LISTEN · READ]

Delroy Edwards has made the funk (in its many different strains) the connective tissue of his intrepid, joyful, and often perplexing work. It’s an approach never as explicit as in his latest LP, Rio Grande. That might indeed be its greatest success. In Rio Grande, keeping the raw, hissy, determinedly idiosyncratic credentials that first introduced him to the world, Edwards lets the funk take center stage; sometimes riding grimy techno beats, other times pushing beyond the ridiculous-by-design minimalism of the grooves. The goal is simple: to provide his audience with interesting jams to dance to. Edwards takes pride in the anonymous efficiency of that pretense, as the name of his label L.A. Club Resource indicates. He is happy to be the reliable supplier of a service, the invisible demiurge leading patrons to delirium; slipping in some eccentric turns here and there for the kick of it, to the enjoyment of all but mostly because… why the hell not?. And, let there be no doubt, Rio Grande is the most effective toolkit he has yet assembled in pursuit of that goal. –jrodriguez6

[pagebreak]

emamouse X yeongrak

mouth mouse maus

[Quantum Natives]

[LISTEN · READ]

Hey, not to bring this up here, but borders, am I right? Why do we even have these invisible lines dividing my side from yours? We can get so much more done without them, not to mention the added benefit of not having to split up families in real life as they cross the imaginary demarcations. Who on earth has the chutzpah to enact stupid shit like that? Not emamouse — no way. No, emamouse had the opposite in mind as she commented from her Tokyo base of ops, “What’s this thing keeping me out of New Zealand? An ocean? Screw that!” And thus, the BORDER between Japan and New Zealand was erased forever — whether through the magic of the internet or the ocean suddenly turning into a jello trampoline is anyone’s guess. But emamouse was no longer separated from NZ sound slinger/cartoon centipede yeongrak, and together, through the magic of Quantum Natives, mouth mouse maus was born, a sticky, gooey, sugary, epilepsy-inducing strobe blast of video-game grit and played-with-too-much pink slime from a plastic egg. Cookcook, in her review, inferred that utopias can emerge from collectivity, highlighting the compatibility of these two artists. I think what she meant was “Fruitopia,” which someone obviously spilled all over the mouth mouse maus backup hard drive. Remember Fruitopia? That was Coca-Cola’s own attempt to eradicate borders, except they were the borders between taste and… OK, between them and your money. –Ryan Masteller

Félicia Atkinson

Coyotes

[Geographic North]

[LISTEN]

I once went to New Mexico but mostly stayed inside. Reasons why. Félicia Atkinson’s Coyotes, inspired by her own trip to New Mexico, maps a journey I may have taken, among other wonders. The crafted narrative and its exploratory form gestures toward an experiential unknown. Her travel log collages echoes, maps, receipts, dried leaves, sand stuck in the crevices of shoes, plaques, diary entries, signposts, mythology, spirituality, and the facts and facets of the land’s native and colonial histories into a total atmosphere, something approaching a direct translation of a lingering impression. It’s so effective and affecting, because the whole is actually a scrap: “a slip of paper, something/tiny & torn off/lifted by the wind” writes poet Christian Hawkey in Citizen Of. Atkinson lineates her memories into similarly moving verses. –Cookcook

Pusha T

Daytona

[G.O.O.D. Music]

[LISTEN · READ]

DAYTONA by Pusha T is hard work. It’s this blurb being written at 5:20 AM on the 7-train to “the office” a day after having led 46 tweens on a non-stop four-day Boston field trip. It’s teaching about heterosexism and female empowerment, leading sixth grade field day, and handling logistics for eighth grade graduation in a single day. It’s your body feeling like a crash-test dummy on a Wednesday, having left in the early, early morning, putting in 12 hours of sweating gallons for money, and arriving home at 8:30 PM. It’s wearing Terminator shades on 125th Street talking Spanish to people you never met. It’s the endurance of confidence while facing every fear you’ve experienced — focused — diving straight into the freezing water. DAYTONA proves Pusha T and Kanye are relentless professionals that continue to transcend literary and sonic aesthetics in space and time. We need role models like these, forever. –C Monster

DJ Koze

Knock Knock

[Pampa]

[LISTEN · READ]

Many publications have referred to Stefan Kozalla as a “trickster” or a “prankster.” While there are freckles of truth on the face of that assessment, much of his affability comes from his most mistaken quality: his earnestness. It’s what makes him such a delightful musicmaker. Being earnest, of course, is the perfect foil to the kind of negativist universalism that plagues the psychedelics/mindfulness landscape in which DJ Koze so often finds himself (and, also, finds himself). Koze’s House is perfect (see: “Pick Up”) and his plunder-pop turns weird into sublime and vice versa (see: the wails incorporated into “Scratch That”), but it’s his unpresuming and gracious approach to influences, samples, and collaborations that push this record into extraordinary territory. It’s not alien; it’s absolutely Earthly, and it reflects so well the modest subject that is Koze. After all, Koze never changes, except in his affections. –E. Fosl

Elysia Crampton

Elysia Crampton

[Break World]

[WATCH · READ]

Elysia Crampton opens in media res, with a nativity. And then it revs up, restlessly — its machinic gears grind like plant medicine visions; water flows and burbles; disharmonic chords take us in unanticipatable directions. And through it all, the oscollo, the feline guardian of people outside gender binaries, oscillates wildly. Elysia Crampton’s maximalist approach takes it beyond the strings and cackles of 2016’s Demon City, yet Golgotha remains always present. Standout track “Moscow (Mariposa Voladora)” was inspired by Ofelia, a Bolivian mariposa (“femme revolutionary”), and it judders roughly, darkly. Crampton’s Aymara and trans identity are her displaced subjects, particularly in light of the gestural movement between her origins in Bolivia and her current home in the US. But this is not any straightforward folk music revival — rather, it’s a deconstruction that reconstructs. The difficulties and contradictions of critical theory, in particular writers such as José Muñoz and his exploration of queer brown-ness, are braided into the work. The first written reference to queers as mariposillas (“little butterflies”) is from Pedro Cieza de León, in the 16th century, in which he compares “sodomites,” subject to punishment by burning at the stake, to moths drawn to the flame. The suffering of our ancestors can’t be recuperated, but through art, we may yet dance grotesquely but triumphantly on the pyre. –Rowan Savage

[pagebreak]

The Caretaker

Everywhere at the end of time – Stage 4

[History Always Favours The Winners]

[LISTEN · READ]

The late hauntologist Mark Fisher once cruelly noted that the OED lists one of the earliest meanings of the word “haunt” as “to provide with a home, house.” And now that we live in a world that has lost the very possibility of loss, we have also lost the one who can lose, cohabiting with oneself in the present’s presence. Ghosts no longer have a home to haunt in any case, and their yearning and lingering voices are consigned to a past that can never pass away. Although it is haunting and horrifying to behold Everywhere at the end of time’s fourth installment pass from memories to their source — what Kirby calls “the post-awareness stage” — perhaps we must be grateful that someone can forget (for (us)). For, the source of memory must remain, even after all memory has been stripped away from it, even though this source can never be aware of itself. Yet, this source is not, strictly speaking, an identity. What it may be I do not know, but The Caretaker allows you to hear, what, behind those eyes, devoid of any recognition of life; we hope, we plead to be someone who remembers us, yet the only bliss, as transient as it is empty, is the wry smile that, for an instant, says, “Do not save me.” –Evan Coral

Lucrecia Dalt

Anticlines

[RVNG Intl.]

[WATCH · READ]

OK, Hoag. You wake up in 1925, in a different place but with the same objects. Lucrecia Dalt’s Anticlines is playing on the victrola. She sings, “Skinless others/ Oils on waters,” and you realize you’re in the same room as the killer. The only other person in the room is dressed exactly like you, and that person’s talking up the other place — the one you believe you are still in — saying, “I think you’d like it there.” Where again? Both places go out of view. Now possibly dreaming, in a time and place before flight, Gein or radio, you wait at a blue-dipped railway platform as trains roll by on their way to Oclupaca and Ortseam. You’re hoping to catch a ride to somewhere similar but elsewhere, more elemental, past the unseen concupiscence between thermosphere and exosphere, out there where you don’t have to wonder, anymore, what the toys do while you’re away. –Rick Weaver

Tierra Whack

Whack World

[Self-Released]

[STREAM]

In the face of incomprehensible excess and stream-gaming nonsense, Tierra Whack — yes, that’s her real name — provides a grotesque yet charming response with the wonderfully weird “Whack World.” Rather than dragging the tempo or chopping the tracklist, the 22-year-old Philly rapper embraces something like a skip-button aesthetic of preview clips and non-member samples, unceremoniously cutting off her songs as soon as they hit the one-minute mark. With 15 songs in just 15 minutes — an absurdity further heightened by its surreal video — traditional payoffs are just beyond reach, forcing us to sit through a goofy, lighthearted romp of youthful innovation and bizarre genre play that includes everything from slow jams and trap bangers to country parodies and kids pop. It’s delightfully ridiculous and sometimes annoying af, but it arrives with undeniable energy and child-like wonder, bursting out confetti-like from a singular, captivating voice who’s on one of this year’s quickest and most unexpected come-ups. Blink and you’ll miss it. That’s the point. –ミスターおしっこ

GAS

Rausch

[Kompakt]

[WATCH · LISTEN · READ]

I consumed the hour-long experience of Rausch, blaring through my headphones, as golden hour became twilight and the mosquitoes started biting. Luckily, my timing was great; 2017’s Narkopop, with its penchant for forlorn ruminations, ultimately owed a lot to its namesake: pop music. Now, those hopeful moments of liquid sunlight are far away. Rausch finds GAS staying true to its typically ascetic atmosphere, but any strand of accessible melodicism is replaced by shattering layers of dissonant drone upon drone, Doppler effect-synths, and percussive textures that pierce through it all — shimmering cymbals, palpitating kick-snare rhythms. As each funeral march bleeds into the next, the delirious effects of Rausch take hold. My arms are covered in bites, and temperatures still haven’t dropped below 90. For the superimposed intensity of Rausch, a more fitting listening environment couldn’t be created. –Rounak Maiti

The Body

I Have Fought Against It, But I Can’t Any Longer

[Thrill Jockey]

[LISTEN · READ]

It’s so much to bear. We’re expected to carry more than our own weight. The pain and suffering of our past traumas, the present crises, the future uncertainties. More and more, any attempts to alleviate the pain, to share the burden, are undermined. All we ever wanted, all untenable. They demand purity (in lieu of that, submission by “privilege”), individuality, personalization, subscription. They won’t cry for us. Everything must be on you and you alone. Time will not notice you are nothing. You are already hatred as an abstract to someone else. The pull of the personal must end. The allure of ontology and self-indulgence must be shattered in the face of those who leer lewdly into its mirror and contort on the floor in false ecstasy. But it is a painful burden. “I lower my guilty-looking eyes. I’m afraid of looking people in the eye.” War is necessary and proper, to shatter illusions. But it’s all so much to bear. –Ze Pequeno

[pagebreak]

serpentwithfeet

soil

[Tri Angle/Secretly Canadian]

[WATCH · LISTEN · READ]

It’s crazy to think that soil is serpentwithfeet’s debut album. The queer, pagan singer, a former choir boy from Baltimore, emerged in 2016 with blisters, a set of mesmerizing slices of new age R&B delving into faith, superstition, and love. His voice and composition live up to the lofty themes; delicate and meandering, serpent recalled the acrobatic opulence of 90s R&B with brooding, industrial production from The Haxan Cloak. The most visionary artists are those who sound like nothing other than themselves and exhibit a gravitational aura that inspires imitation, lust, and disbelief. soil lurches and waltzes, while Josiah Wise, who prefers to go by “serpent,” remains fully exposed in the mix, employing innovative vocal stacks that whisper, conjure, and croon behind him like a choir of restless spirits. Despite the divine quality to serpent’s voice, which is at times shellacked with layers, often battling against static noise and its own quivering vibrato, the subject matter of soil is immediately relatable and quotidian: the navigation of a shifting dating landscape, the sublime essences of individuals, intimacy and grace in heartbreak, the projection of sorrow onto the world. serpent doesn’t want to be “small sad,” but “big, big sad,” to the point that he’s sure his friends are “tired of him talking.” The domesticity infects us all: How can we properly grieve? How can we redeem ourselves? The occult instrumentation falls away to reveal a queer individual who is merely describing their personal desires. –Ross Devlin

Sarah Davachi

Let Night Come On Bells End The Day

[Recital]

[LISTEN · READ]

I walked through the streets barefoot, clothed only in a robe. The bells were ringing, playing their ancient song, letting the world know that the night had begun. My feet were bleeding from the cobblestone streets, which is how they found me in the morning, just outside of town in the woods. I didn’t drink that night. The evening swept me up, and some tribal instinct forced me outside in virtually nothing. My neighbors looked and closed their curtain as I kept walking, holding the hand of the force that was dragging me. I remember parts like my head hurting and my eyes watering. I remember spinning in the center of town underneath a street lamp. I don’t remember why I left town and headed toward the woods. I don’t know why I left my house. I remember being woken up by the police and being embarrassed to face to my neighbors. They took me home and put me in bed, because the medic cleared me at the site. I’ve never spoken of it since, and I still clench up when the night comes on and the bells end the day. –Sam Tornow

Jenny Hval

The Long Sleep EP

[Sacred Bones]

[WATCH · LISTEN · READ]

Roping in some of her favorite jazz musicians to explore ideas, Jenny Hval has managed to escape the noose of her recent collaborative concepts and delve within to produce yet another stunning act of imagination. The pure reach and weight of The Long Sleep is extraordinary. Hval moves across emotional ground with certainty and delicacy, capturing the subtlest of feelings. Like a soundtrack to a brilliant short, Hval plays with recurring motifs first presented in the “conventional” “Spells,” but then swerves genre expectations along the way, through the piano-led clap frappe of “The Dreamer Is Everyone in Her Dream” to the blissful title track drone. On “I Want to Tell You Something,” her presence is so powerful, as she attempts to express trance closure through an oblique narrative before realizing simple words are all she needs. Fecund, savage, and irresistible, The Long Sleep demonstrates once again why Hval is so intriguing. –David Nadelle

Gemini Sisters

Gemini Sisters

[Psychic Trouble]

[LISTEN]

How does one describe something so beautiful and uplifting — a beacon of light in a shroud a darkness. I was wallowing deep in the muck and mire, desperate to claw out of it rather than sinking down into it. But that tar pit of sorrow and defeat is thick, and it cares not about your will. But I saw the light and followed it. It led me to two helpful, outstretched hands. Jon Kolodij and Matt Christensen met my palm with a hardy grasp and a hefty pull. And I felt the warmth of Gemini Sisters. The sprawling, uplifting sonic aura of the duo’s debut speaks to energy from whence Kolodij and Christensen are christened: the two having their daughters born on the same day of the same year (and those offspring being Geminis). It shows with the delicacy of their aural attack. It is spiritual, reaching toward the heavens to pluck the constellation and bringing its brightness to our darkest places. Right now, the flesh is weak and the mind wavers. But our essence remains pure and chaste. Thanks to Kolodij and Christensen, I have traded the hastened quicksand for a tether to the sprawling galaxy. –Jspicer

Christina Vantzou

No. 4

[Kranky]

[LISTEN · READ]

When you’re in a vehicle moving at a slow, constant speed, sometimes you can convince yourself that you aren’t moving at all. No. 4 moves me like that. I know how tired that metaphor is, and if you listen to gentle drones like “At Dawn” and “Remote Polyphony” and think I’m a hack for digging the spatial metaphor up once again to describe slow, deliberate music, I understand. But I feel that uneasy compromise between motion and rest deeply and at every strange, shimmering moment of the album. It’s in the bells of “Percussion in Nonspace,” ringing in a sort of dual presence and absence; in the little arpeggio that creeps up through “Doorway;” in the pitch-affected choral chant that closes out “Sound House.” Whether we interpret track titles as thematic hints or as mere word games, the names of the tracks on No. 4 suggest, along with the music, that Christina Vantzou wants to domesticate and eventually upend and denature space through sound. Usually a device for ordering abstraction, she turns that hackneyed spatial metaphor into one for abstracting order. This record moves at no speed, in no direction, and toward no goal, except maybe to suspend us temporarily in a kind of beauty without dimension, not far from terror. –Will Neibergall

Kanye West

ye

[G.O.O.D./Def Jam]

[LISTEN · READ]

Just because an album sparks cathartic conversations doesn’t mean it’s good, and not all good albums invite candid dinner table discussions concerning their mercurial merits. Kanye, however, has just as big of a reputation for arousing furor as he does for leaving listeners speechless. Meanwhile, critics scramble for thoughtful words that won’t get them blacklisted for being associated with that black magic that has been infiltrating every aspect of daily life since Cain murdered Abel, thus birthing division. Calling ye a divisive document at TMT would be an understatement, and attributing its inclusion here to justifying countless hours of collectively unpacking just over 23 minutes of noise would obscure what ye actually contains: disturbing spoken word admonitions about premeditated murder, breathless bars on prescription drug addiction, ironic fantasies about butts of sex scandals, gorgeous gospel keys and beautiful dark twisted harmonies, celebratory reflections on fame and success, spectral arena rock vibes, and staggering room for growth cleared out by fear and love and loyalty. Regardless of our own individual feelings, ye keeps reminding us that this music shit that gets us through each day often requires plunging into dark places and reemerging with our own beacons of light. Believe it or not, I still love it, and like watching a bright-eyed child grow up in a world this dark, I’m terrified and excited for what’s next. –Jazz Scott

The Shortlist: King Vision Ultra’s Pain of Mind, Shygirl’s Cruel Practice, Oneohtrix Point Never’s Age Of, Ashley Paul’s Lost In Shadows, James Ferraro’s Four Pieces For Mirai, Larry Wish’s How More Can You Need, Jon Hassell’s Listening To Pictures, Rainforest Spiritual Enslavement’s Red Ants Genesis, Parquet Courts’s Wide Awake!, The Carters’ EVERYTHING IS LOVE, Bernice’s Puff LP, Carla Bozulich’s Quieter, Pinkshinyultrablast’s Miserable Miracles, Duppy Gun Productions’s Miro Tape, DRINKS’s Hippo Lite, Valee’s GOOD Job, You Found Me, and Frog Eyes’ Violet Psalms.

Feature: 2018: Second Quarter Favorites published first on medium.com/@buydigitalpiano

Posted by HomerAltizer on 2018-07-04 01:14:14

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The post Feature: 2018: Second Quarter Favorites appeared first on Good Info.