#Featuring Author's Voice Kink In Regards To Dream's Voice
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Touch Me, Please - Part 1
Part 4 of my 'It's Not Abduction If You're Willing' series, now and forever more nicknamed 'Self-Indulgence' the series. I have so many of these written already, this whole thing is just... it won't stop and it's because I leaned heavily into literally writing whatever I wanted. Even if you don't enjoy it, I did! I'm on a writing high like no other.
WARNINGS/TAGS: Fem!Reader (no use of y/n), 18+ MINORS DNI!!!!!! SMUT Oral (fem!receiving) Touch-Starved!Reader, Touch-Starved!Dream, Idiots In Love, Mutual Pining, Kinda Dom!Dream, Kinda Sub!Reader, Alternating POV's, Reader Daydreams About Wearing A Collar And Lead, I think that's it
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You were slowly going insane.
Living in the Dreaming was like a dream come true, no pun intended. You've never felt like you belonged in the Waking, and the Dreaming was welcoming and absolutely stunning.
It helped that you'd been at the end of your rope. The only good things in your life had been Hob and Teleute, one of whom you didn't even get to see that often due to the nature of her function; still, Teleute was definitely a ray of light in an otherwise dull life, definitely the only friends you had. Everything else beyond them had sucked, including your job, though you would be forever thankful to Hob for offering it. Your flat had been small, though not too terrible, you didn't have any family after living for so long, and working at The New Inn as a bartender had been exhausting because it required you to talk to people, which you hated doing.
Adjusting to the Dreaming had been easy in comparison, but you did have one major issue. You were severely touch-starved. This itself wouldn't be an issue except, prior to living in the Dreaming, Hob had provided all of your needed physical contact, your casual intimacy, which Hob gave as easy as breathing. In the Dreaming though? You didn't want anyone to touch you... well, almost anyone. All you could think about anytime you were in his presence was how ethereal Dream was, how beautiful he looked, and how desperately you wanted to touch him. That wouldn't necessarily be an issue, except Matthew, his raven familiar, seemed to be the only one allowed to touch him; even then, Matthew only perched on his shoulder.
And oh, how you ached; it was like an itch under your skin, slowly driving you mad. You wanted to touch him, you wanted to know what his skin felt like against yours; were his hands soft and smooth, or did he have calluses like any other creator? You wanted to know if his hair was as soft as it looked. You wanted to know if his lips were as plush as they seemed. And, you wanted, desperately, to know if he tasted as inhuman as he sometimes looked. But he'd so far been very careful not to touch you, beyond the occasional brush of fingers against your chin when you wouldn't meet his eyes (a rare occurrence, really); you thought you might combust if he didn't touch you soon, properly.
Dream wasn't doing much better than you were. The way you had taken to his realm, to his dreams and nightmares, had made his heart soar. But the more time he spent around you, the stronger his desire to touch you grew. It was getting more and more difficult to not just reach out and touch, but he'd already broken his promise once or twice when you had refused to meet his gaze; he'd guided your chin up with the gentlest of touches. He had sworn not to touch you... but it was getting nearly impossible to resist.
You were just so beautiful and he wanted to show you just how beautiful he found you; he just needed your permission first. It was clear to him that you did not enjoy physical contact unless it came from Hob, who always clearly telegraphed that he was going to touch her before he actually did. According to Hob, he had once almost knocked out one of his customers who had touched you without permission because, evidently, you'd flinched rather violently. So, no, he wouldn't touch you; not unless you made it clear it was okay.
But his logic did nothing to soothe the burning under his skin, nor quell the ache steadily growing inside him, the almost desperate desire to touch every inch of your skin and worship you the way you deserved. He wanted to memorize every inch of your body, not only with his hands but with his lips and tongue as well. He wanted to kiss every part of you and leave his marks all over your skin. It didn't help that you wore his coat all the time now either; it made the possessive creature inside him simultaneously purr in satisfaction and want to properly stake his claim.
It came to a head when he had what you called his 'Kingly Duties', and he had wanted you there with him. You were his consort, his queen, his love, even if he had yet to show you just how much he loved you. You had agreed readily enough, and he'd been expecting to need to make you a throne, would've eagerly done so, but you hadn't even asked.
Instead, he was sitting on his throne, but you... oh, you were trying to drive him to his little sister's realm, surely. You sat lounged at the base of his throne, by his feet. At first, though the sight had made his mouth water, your position had been relatively easy to ignore because you weren't touching. Then, very slowly, as if he were an easily spooked animal, you brushed your arm against his leg, your shoulder brushing his thigh. He forced himself to ignore it, but over the course of several long minutes, your arm and shoulder slowly began pressing more and more firmly against his leg and thigh, a line of distracting warmth burning through his pants, until you were pressed solidly against him.
Instead of the line of contact acting like a balm against his desire to touch you, it only made it worse, and he acted without thinking. One second, his hand was on the arm of his throne, the next it was threaded through your hair; you both froze at the same time. Dream was seconds away from jerking his hand away when you suddenly shuddered, whimpered under your breath, and slumped into him, leaning your head back enticingly; his lips parted and his mouth went dry when he caught sight of how heavy-lidded your gaze had abruptly become. He slowly began petting your hair, gently running his fingers through it.
You... were in Heaven. Dream's hand was soft and unbearably gentle in your hair, his nails lightly scratched at your scalp in a way that made you want to nuzzle into him like a cat, and your eyes were drooping from pleasure. It turned out that draping yourself at his feet like a fucking concubine had been an excellent idea.
You hardly managed to pay even the tiniest bit of attention to the delegation that was led into the throne room. You could feel their gaze, could hear their whispers, but you literally couldn't have cared less; Dream's hand didn't stop caressing your head, and his voice betrayed nothing. He seemed perfectly calm, and it caused an image to pop up in your head, unbidden; an image of something very close to what was already happening, except that you were dressed more like an actual concubine. Your throat and shoulders were exposed by the then straps keeping your top on, though your bottoms were riding low, revealing a small strip of your stomach; both areas were littered with hickeys, bites, and bruises. What caused a pleasurable shudder to run down your spine was what was around your neck in your little daydream; a gleaming black collar with shining stars like the inside of his robe, a black lead attached to it that was wrapped around Dream's hand while he sat on his throne; the lead was pulled just tight enough to force your head back a little to fully expose your throat; all of them being clear signs of Dream's claim on you that you desperately wished were more than just an image in your head. Then, the hand in your hair twitched, breaking you out of your little daydream; your cheeks heated as you abruptly remembered that he could see daydreams as well as dreams and nightmares.
Dream found it quite difficult to focus with your daydream playing in his head, but he managed; he did have eons of practice. When the delegation was finally gone and you both were alone, he slowly removed his hand from your hair; it took all of his self-control not to drag you to your chambers - or his own - when a half-choked whine slipped out of your mouth. You avoided looking at him, even as he stood from his throne. The urge to touch you again was rapidly growing, and he hesitated only a moment before offering his hand to you. Despite clearly being embarrassed, and still not looking at him, you didn't hesitate to take his hand; it made something warm curl in his chest. He grasped your hand and pulled you up, using just a little extra strength than was necessary so that you stumbled forward; he used it as an excuse to place his hands on your waist, steadying you.
"Your daydreams are... interesting."
Your cheeks darkened further, but you didn't pull away from him, which he counted as a victory. In fact, you actually seemed to melt into him; it only made his desire burn hotter. One of his hands slowly began tracing invisible patterns on your waist as you continued to avoid his gaze; it made him pout.
"I- I'm sorry. I didn't mean.... please, forgive me."
Did you actually think he was upset? "There is nothing to apologize for." He paused for a moment before managing to ask his question. "Does it bother you when I touch you?"
You instantly shook your head, suddenly meeting his eyes; your own shined with something he could've sworn was desperation. "No, not at all. I... I really like it when you touch me."
You bit your lip as you looked into Dream's enchanting twin-star eyes, stomach twisting in arousal at the look in them. One of his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you barely managed to bite back a gasp; his touch was electrifying, even through the layers of clothes. Sand abruptly swirled around you and then something impossibly soft was against your back; a brief glance around told you that he'd taken you to his chambers. He was kneeling between your legs, but barely touching you now.
"Would you allow me to continue to do so?"
You whimpered at the words, nodding rapidly; fucking hell, his voice. "Yes. I want you to touch me, please."
A sound that could only be described as a growl came from him, so deep that you felt it in your chest, causing you to shudder; a second later, his hands were everywhere. He caressed your body like you were something precious, like you were a goddess and his entire reason for existing was worshipping you; it was dizzying, but you wanted, needed, to feel skin-on-skin contact. You squirmed until he pulled back, his eyes dark except for the stars, but the look on his face made your heart hurt; he looked like if you denied him now, he would cry.
"I want... please."
He leaned down, your lips suddenly inches apart. "What do you want? Tell me."
It sounded more like a plea than a demand, and how could you possibly deny him? "I want to feel your bare skin against mine." You could feel the heat in your cheeks again, but the embarrassment was promptly washed away by the fucking groan Dream made, deep in his chest.
He pulled away from you only so he could carefully remove his jacket from you, your top turning to sand and vanishing as soon as it was gone; you sucked in a sharp breath at the first touch of his fingers on your bare skin. Instinctively, your hands shot out and you couldn't contain your whimper when they made contact with his bare shoulders; his own robe and shirt that had been underneath it had been turned to sand as well. A fine tremor ran through his body and you almost pulled your hands away, but then he moved so quickly that you didn't even see it, his hand grasping your wrist; you froze as he held one of your hands in place; his eyes were black now, supernovas shining within.
"Please."
You shuddered at the desperation in his voice, the absolute plea of just one word, and everything suddenly clicked into place; he didn't actually have an aversion to touch, he was touch-starved just like you.
His hand released your wrist and you slowly began dragging your fingers along his shoulders, up and down his arms. Another tremor rolled through him and then he practically fell into you, his hands immediately back on you, exploring every inch of your bare skin that he could. You couldn't have contained your gasps and whimpers of delight that every touch of his seemed to bring out if you'd tried. You weren't embarrassed by them, however, because he seemed just as affected by your touch; every touch returned seemed to have him fighting not to groan; he didn't always win.
When his lips brushed against yours, featherlight, you whined; your lips parted for him almost automatically. Another growl tore from his throat, and then his lips were on yours and you couldn't have stopped the way your hips rolled against his if you'd tried. You moaned simultaneously, your tongues tangling together in a heated, messy kiss. You've never been kissed like this before, as if you were a feast and he was starving; it was passionate, it was dirty, and it was perfect. Warmth pooled in your gut and between your legs as Dream's tongue slid against your own; you didn't have a lot of experience with kissing, but Dream didn't seem to care, if the way he plundered your mouth was any indication.
He slowly trailed his hands up to the straps of your bra, lightly tugging on it; the way you moaned enthusiastically into his mouth made him want to devour you entirely, but he managed to hold himself back, settling for allowing your bra to vanish.
As soon as your bra disappeared, Dream finally broke the kiss; you gasped for breath as his lips immediately met your throat, his hands sliding down to your breasts. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, causing an embarrassing whine to slip from your mouth. The sound only seemed to encourage him, his mouth sucking mark after mark onto your throat and shoulders while his hands busied themselves with making you squirm, moan, and whimper at every touch of your breasts; you had never been so turned on in your life.
"Dream."
He groaned at the sound of his name on your tongue, so sweet, his lips trailing down your neck to your collarbone, nipping and sucking everywhere his mouth could reach; you were writhing beneath him and it was rapidly wrecking his control. Your hips suddenly rolled against his and he growled again, rolling his hips and pressing his lower body flush against yours just as he abruptly bit down. Your back arched beautifully at the sudden mix of pleasure and pain, a high-pitched moan ripping free from your throat. He could feel your nails lightly digging into his back, dragging down a bit, and he groaned again as your hips rolled against his once more.
When Dream released his teeth from your collarbone, he ducked his head down further so his mouth enveloped your breast and you cried out his name, rutting your hips desperately against his. His hips began to steadily roll against yours and the perfect friction could've made you cry; you wanted him more than you had ever wanted anyone. Panting for breath already, you tangled a hand in his hair - fuck, it was as soft as it looked - while the other tried to continue your own exploration of his bare, silk-smooth skin. However, you could hardly focus on anything other than the pleasure he was bringing you. His mouth utterly worshipped your breasts, alternating between them while he licked and sucked at your nipples, causing them to quickly stiffen under his ministrations.
When he finally managed to pull his mouth from your breasts, he continued to trail gentle kisses and little nips down your stomach, stopping only when he reached the waistband of your bottoms. He looked up at you through his lashes with a hungry gaze, feeling you shudder beneath him; he felt his lips twitch up into a smirk. He allowed his fingers to lightly trace along the waistband, another whimper slipping out of your pretty mouth.
"Please," you gasped. "Dream, please." You couldn't form any other words, but he didn't seem to mind; you shivered when your bottoms vanished beneath his touch. A choked moan slipped out of your mouth when his fingers suddenly brushed against your thigh, featherlight.
"You have no idea how much I've wanted to touch you these last several months. How much I have wanted to taste you."
You whined, high and needy and too far gone to be embarrassed anymore. You spread your thighs from him so he could settle between them, trailing even more nips and kisses, this time up and down your thighs. You were faintly trembling now - he was so close to where you wanted him to be - but he didn't touch your aching core yet; instead, he latched his mouth onto the inside of your left thigh, sucking hard enough to make you cry out again. A litany of pleas spilled from your mouth as one of his hands pinned your hips to the bed while the other kept your thigh in place.
"Patience, little dreamling. I will give you what you need."
You were bordering on mindless now; all you could think about was his mouth, his hands, his tongue. He left a multitude of bite marks and hickeys all over your left thigh and then switched to your right to do the same before finally, finally, dragging his tongue through your soaked folds; you nearly sobbed.
A deep groan rumbled through him as he finally tasted you; you were slightly sweet, slightly tangy, and he was already addicted. The sound you made when he groaned, when mixed with your taste, made it impossible for him to hold himself back any longer and he buried his face into your pussy, devouring you. He kept your hips pinned as he licked, sucked, and nipped at your folds alternating to occasionally swipe his tongue at your clit; your hands were tangled in his hair in an effort to ground yourself and he knew he'd never get enough of you now.
Your thighs were beginning to shake, you were already so fucking close. When he shoved his tongue into you, you pulled on his hair as you cried out, his pleased growl rumbling through you and nearly sending you over the edge. You were babbling, begging, though you weren't entirely sure if you were begging for more, or for him to let you cum, or if it was just an incoherent string of pleas, though you were aware of the breathless way you whined his name; his answering groan was like a shockwave of pleasure.
Though he didn't remove his mouth from you, he allowed his voice to echo in the room around you as he thrust his tongue deeper into you. "You're so close for me, aren't you, my heart?" He shuddered at your answering whine. "Be a good girl and cum for me." He pulled his tongue out just to seal his mouth around your clit, sucking hard. He watched as you immediately seized underneath him, hips trying in vain to buck against his grip as you came. He watched your face avidly, memorizing the gorgeous expression on your face as you came on his tongue.
You threw your head back with a cry as your orgasm crashed into you like a tsunami, your toes curling, your back arching, your vision nearly whiting out. Dream didn't let up, curling his tongue inside you and lapping at your juices like they were his favorite meal, each flick of his tongue sending another wave of pleasure rolling through you; he didn't pull away until you were a shaking, panting, trembling mess.
He slowly crawled back up your body, planting soft kisses as he went, before pressing his mouth to yours in a much gentler kiss than earlier; you shuddered at the taste of your juices on his lips, giving a weak moan. When your hands made an attempt for the button of his jeans, he took your wrists in hand, shaking his head as he pulled back from your mouth.
You frowned at him. "But you didn't-"
He cut you off with another gentle kiss. "I think you will find that I did."
Your eyes widened and you looked down your bodies, catching sight of the steadily darkening wet spot on the front of his jeans. Your gaze snapped up back to his. "Did you... were you rocking against the bed?"
He seemed almost embarrassed, if the light flush spreading on his cheeks was any indication.
"You have no idea how good you taste."
He smirked when you flushed in response, opening your mouth to counter, but you were cut off before you even began when you yawned. He couldn't help but allow his smirk to soften into a smile at how disgruntled you looked by your yawn; yes you were gorgeous, but you were also adorable. He shifted you around until you were draped over him, his arms curling tight around you, holding you as close as possible; his lips brushed your forehead as he stroked your back.
"Sleep little dreamling. I will be here when you wake."
You allowed your eyes to close before speaking. "I'd hope so. I still need to explore you, too." You thought you might have heard a strangled noise leave him, but you dropped into sleep's waiting embrace before he could respond.
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Hope you enjoyed! I've never liked how I write smut and would very much welcome some constructive criticism on it so that I may improve.
I already have Part 2 of this story, and 2 others written and ready to be posted, while I'm working on a 3rd (technically, I have 4 written pieces, but I'm not sure where 2 of them fit into the timeline so...) This will be added to my Masterlist and posted on my Ao3 soon. In fact, part 2 will likely be on Ao3 before here.
#dream of the endless x reader#morpheus x reader#the sandman netflix#dream of the endless x you#morpheus x you#Featuring Author's Voice Kink In Regards To Dream's Voice#Reader Is Desperate#Then Again So Is Dream So It's Balanced#Also Starring Author's Marking Kink#AND Praise Kink (Giving & Receiving)#Dream Also Has A Praise Kink Guys (Giving & Receiving)#Begging (Reader Has No Pride Because Neither Do I)#My Favorite One Is Up Next#Hair-Pulling Kink?
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METALTANGO FIC MASTERLIST
LAST UPDATED: 2023.12.11
Here's a list of Metaltango fanfiction that I wrote, mostly posted on AO3 under the name Windrider Shiva. Links to other sites will eventually be posted (when I get to posting on other sites, lol), likely regrouped by series (again, when I get to later entries to my WIPs).
HEED THE TAGS AND WARNINGS! I write content that I know people aren't too into or triggered by. My intent isn't to trigger anyone, I just write niche erotica, and all characters involved are nicely over 18. Also note that hateful comments along the lines of "this is sick!" will be screenshotted and made fun of in a handful of Discord servers.
Unless noted, fics tend to take place in the OG timeline (Darkside Chronicles/OG RE4). Fics taking place in RE4R are noted as such.
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NORMAL
Status: WIP
Word count: 150,000+
Features: Ageplay/ABDL, DDLB, Daddy dom, darker themes (human trafficking, canon-typical horror, depression, homophobia, so on), wholesome relationships. I like to call this "slice of kink".
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20
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FALLING (OUT OF THE CHOPPER) 4U
Status: Oneshot
Word count: Under 500
Features: Crackfic.
Doesn't feature: Apologies from the author.
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CAPTURE THE ROOKIE
Status: Oneshot
Word count: Under 500
Features: Ageplay/ABDL, Daddy kink, military settings.
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DOPPLEBÄNGER
Status: Oneshot
Word count: Under 1,000
Features: Dopplegängers. Twice the Metaltango.
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BATTLEFIELD BED
Status: Oneshot
Word count: Under 1,000
Features: Krauser fighting his own way after being discharged from the army.
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JACK/OFF
Status: Oneshot
Word count: ~2,000
Features: RE4R. Leon being horny for Krauser, especially his voice.
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THE BOYSCOUT AND THE SNOWBALL
Status: Oneshot
Word count: 100
Features: Krauser, a boyscout and a snowball.
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NEVERENDING HONEYMOON
Status: Oneshot
Word count: 1,990
Features: Krauser and Leon being corny idiots in love~
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THIS NETWORK OF US
Status: Oneshot
Word count: ~5,000
Features: RE4R. Leon getting fucked by Mendez, Krauser and Saddler. Bigger focus on Krauser.
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HANDS-ON APPROACH
Status: Oneshot
Word count: 100
Features: Krauser and Leon during Operation Javier.
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CLOSURE
Status: Oneshot
Word count: Under 1,000
Features: Leon and the multiple closures regarding Krauser's death(s).
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WORTH STAYING WITH
Status: Oneshot
Word count: ~3,000
Features: Krauser not leaving Leon after Operation Javier.
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POST-JUNGLE DREAM BLUES
Status: Oneshot
Word count: ~3,000
Features: Krauser, Leon, and a hotel room.
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KNIVES VS. HEELS
Status: Oneshot
Word count: ~1,500
Features: Wesker watching Krauser and Ada one-up each other over Leon.
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Is Rock Dead?
I don’t think there’s a single person who doesn’t love music. For me, music is an escape from reality where I can sit and listen to the rhythm of a song and really feel the composition, or connect personally with the lyrics, but it’s more than just “escaping.” Good musicians know how to bring a passion to their voice when singing, making you feel what they feel while they perform. This passion is what reels listeners in, becoming fans and branding themselves as such. Today, rock music is known for its angst lyrics and loud vocals, bringing an either dominating sound to the ears of fans, or showing their feelings to the world. Those feelings are about more personal demons the artists are dealing with and fans really connect with that, but lyrics used to be about social change and was the music behind movements. Now there doesn’t seem to be a focus on politics, so, in a traditional viewpoint, is rock dead?
Rock music was born in the fifties, borrowing from rhythm and blues, country, pop, jazz, and other forms to create this intrinsic powerful sound. It developed during the political period of desegregation and then gained more heat during the Cold War. In 1951, a disc jockey from Cleveland named Alan Freed, coined the term “rock n’ roll” making Cleveland the “birthplace of rock and roll” (Orman 3). As rock music started to get more popular, so did the controversy of it. In 1955, older people, even some political elites, started overreacting to rock music and often related juvenile delinquency to rock n’ roll. “Soviets viewed rock n’ roll as another example of western ‘decadence,’ but right-wing extremists in the United States viewed the same music as part of a Communist conspiracy to undermine our society” (Orman 4). So, rock n’ roll almost always was associated with so-called political agendas and a resistance in the youth against higher up’s. In his article, Young writes that during this era, “everything was questioned – from race to gender, from war to the environment, from consumerism to middle-class values, indeed the way of American life itself” (Young 453). Young people were starting to question their way of life, creating this atmosphere of rebellion.
There were many prominent musicians adding to the discourse of protest music during the Vietnam war and civil rights movement era. Bob Dylan, who was influenced by Martin Luther King Jr.’s speeches, was the forefront of the early 1960’s movement because of his political protest songs. “When Bob Dylan burst on the folk scene, protest music really took off” (Young 462). Dylan wrote songs such as “Masters of War,” “The Times They Are a’Changin’, and “Blowin’ in the Wind” that really added fuel to the movement. The “British invasion” included, “the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Animals, the Dave Clark Five, the Kinks, and numerous other British groups changed many things in America” (Orman 6). The Beatles in particular made rock n’ roll turn into a more dynamic term known as “rock.” British groups changed many things in America, and Americans started buying records and wanting to create their own garage bands.
“Three Days of Peace and Music” will forever be iconic throughout history. In 1969, Woodstock became the biggest attended festival yet in America with over half a million people in attendance. Fans, or otherwise known as hippies, crowded in the 600 acre field to hear musicians like Janis Joplin, Arlo Guthrie, The Grateful Dead, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, and The Who. “The most memorable moment of the concert for many fans was the closing performance by Jimi Hendrix, who gave a rambling, rocking solo guitar performance of ‘The Star Spangled Banner’” (history.com). This festival was a movement in and of itself against the Vietnam war with most of the musicians performing songs showing their opposition to the war and with most of the fans sharing their views. The late 1960’s and early 70’s was the highlight of rock music because of the songs calling out societal flaws and music against the government. After this era, however, what happened to the political statements and movements rock music brought to their listeners?
In the 1990’s and early 2000’s, bands like Rage Against the Machine and Green Day wrote politically influenced songs. Rage Against the Machine’s song such as “Killing in the Name,” and “Bulls On Parade” speak against police brutality and governments war agendas. Green Day’s “American Idiot” talks about society mindlessly following media and the government. So, after bands like Rage Against the Machine, Green Day, and even U2 who is still currently making music, then what? Where has the politics and call for action within rock music gone? In an interview with Tom Morello done by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for their “Louder than Words: Rock, Power, and Politics” exhibit at the museum in 2016, he says, “100 percent of music is political. Music either supports the status quo or challenges the status quo. So every artist is political” (Rolling Stone). He then goes on to explain what he means by saying, “Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez probably don’t identify as political artists, but their music-while often very entertaining and loved by their fan base- is the bread and circuses of our times… if you’re not questioning authority, you’re tacitly submitting to authority...what you say and what you do matters” (Rolling Stone). Can this be said for today's rock music as well?
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It’s commonly known that most pop music today would fall under the category of “submitting to authority” like Morello mentions, but is this true for rock music today as well? When one thinks of rock music, the vision they get in their head is of a group of men wearing leather jackets with tattoos and smoking cigarettes. Why don’t they think of resistance and what the genre was created for? Could it be because the genre is changing? The most popular rock musicians today, according to Billboards charts on “Hot Rock Songs” currently are Imagine Dragons, Bad Wolves, Foster the People, Alice Merton, Panic! At The Disco, Thirty Seconds To Mars featuring Halsey, and Walk The Moon. Later on down the list, we see bands that one might typically associate with rock music more than the bands at the top of chart as I have just mentioned. Those bands include Godsmack, Three Days Grace, Breaking Benjamin and Five Finger Death Punch. So why is it that the bands at the top of list could be somewhat controversial to people who identity as rock n’ roll listeners? Those bands are topping the charts of what Billboard considers “Hot Rock Songs” but are they actually rock?
Rock music started as a rebellion genre against the political machine and societal standards, so shouldn’t that be the standard used when determining if a song or artist today is classified as rock? In a Billboard article titled, “Is Rock Still Relevant In 2016?” the author, Carl Wilson, brings up a good point saying that, “consider how the new rock artists of comparable staying power or cultural significance have emerged since that decade’s [early 1990’s] alt-rock surge. Yes, there are well-regarded figures from the indie, emo and metal scenes, but few of them reach far beyond their niches-” (Wilson). In today’s world of music, what’s considered rock has drastically changed since the genre developed way back when. Wilson is suggesting that rock artist have to change their sound based on what’s popular with current society. For instance, Imagine Dragons has a more pop feel to their music. Before the death of Chester Bennington, Linkin Park’s new album had pop singers as featuring artists, but the most new sound of rock music is Twenty One Pilots. Twenty One Pilots bring a whole mixture of genres into one song and provides lyrics for their listeners to really think about. Wilson writes:
The one rock act that has crossed over in 2016: Twenty One Pilots, an electro-acoustic duo that owes as much to hip-hop and dance as to emo-rock forbears such as My Chemical Romance. Its sound is not amps in the garage but ProTools in the bedroom; its mood is sullen introspection rather than youth rebellion. “I care what you think,” goes part of the refrain from the hit “Stressed Out,” an inversion of Rage Against the Machine’s “F— you, I won’t do what you tell me.” Is this the face of new rock? Introspection rather than rebellion?
A few bands are bringing a “come back” for rock and metal music. The band Nothing More released their self titled album with their once drummer, now frontman, Jonny Hawkins singing thought provoking messages in their lyrics. In their song “This Is The Time” Jonny Hawkins powerful vocals calls to society to look closely how their leading their lives full of hate and trying to be better than next person. Also on the album, the songs Christ On Copyright and Mr. MTV call out politics and societal standards. Nothing More’s newest album “The Stories We Tell Ourselves” conveys the political and social agenda they started to tell in their album previously with songs such as “Do You Really Want It,” “Go To War,” and “Let ‘em Burn.” So, is this the revival rock music needed? In an album review on “The Stories We Tell Ourselves,” Quentin Singer writes, “The band really wanted to make a point out of this song [“Let ‘em Burn”], by showcasing their thoughts on how political and social issues are filled with such tremendous dishonesty throughout today’s media” (Singer). Alongside Nothing More, Papa Roach recently came out with an album titled, “Crooked Teeth” with a few songs addressing politics today: “Born For Greatness” and “American Dreams.” Other bands who are bringing a “revival” to rock music would include Rise Against, Green Day, and what was originally Rage Against the Machine with lead singer Zak de la Rocha, but is now Prophets of Rage with a new lead man. So what does this mean? Why don’t more people know about these musicians?
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Those who say “rock is dead” clearly don’t pay attention to new music and the messages the artists are trying to say. Do we need more rock artists adding to the rebellion against the political machine or do we need more people opening their ears and waking up from their coma induced state created by “feel good” music? Isn’t this the time to stand up against the political agenda and societal standards more than ever? We are grouped together by our generation, being called “those Millennials” with the roll of an eye just as the hippies were during the time of Woodstock. Should there be another Woodstock?
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Is rock music dead? Definitely not. “A disobedient spirit is direly needed to balance out the economic pressures that push both music and media toward a narrow, survival-of-the-fittest emphasis on mega-pop” (Wilson). The “disobedient spirit” Wilson mentions is still alive through bands like Nothing More and Rise Against, but as well as current rap artists like Kendrick Lamar. Rock and metal music may someday not sound the same as it once did because of the ever changing culture and trends, but the “disobedient spirit” it created will always find its way into the lyrics of musicians regardless of genre.
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Works Cited
Orman, John M. The Politics of Rock Music. Nelson-Hall, 1986.
Rolling Stone. “Tom Morello: 'All Music Is Political, Even Justin Bieber'.” Rolling Stone, Rolling Stone, 20 May 2016, www.rollingstone.com/music/news/tom-morello-all-music-is-political-even-justin-bieber-20160520.
Singer, Quentin. “Album Review: Nothing More's The Stories We Tell Ourselves.” The Berklee Groove, 17 Oct. 2017, www.berkleegroove.com/2017/10/10/nothing-more-album-review/.
Street, J. (2001). Rock, pop and politics. Firth S., Straw, W., Street, J. (ed.) The Cambridge
“Top Rock Songs Chart.” Billboard, www.billboard.com/charts/rock-songs.
Wilson, Carl. “Is Rock Still Relevant In 2016?” Billboard, www.billboard.com/articles/events/year-in-music-2016/7616418/rock-relevant-2016.
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Sound On InstaReadings Series Volume 3 with Amber Dawn, Amy Leblanc & Nancy Lee
Welcome to Sound on InstaReadings Series. Our second installment features readers Amber Dawn, Amy Leblanc & Nancy Lee and is hosted by Dina Del Bucchia and David Ly.
Posted here for your enjoyment are the bios of our fine readers and the text of their readings.
Thanks!
Amber Dawn is the author of five books and the editor of three anthologies. Her sophomore poetry collection, My Art Is Killing Me and Other Poems, launched in March 2020.
Reading text:
fountainhead
Sure, I’ve tossed three pennies over my left shoulder into Trevi
Fountain in Rome, but the mermaid fountain in Piazza Sannazaro
Napoli is my favourite. Napoli is a city of mermaids. I lost count
of mermaids. Two tailed and bathing in cracked frescos. Marble
reliefs carved into arched doorways. Mermaid faces on old coins.
I almost bought myself a tears of Parthenope necklace. A gold
chain hung with two blue teardrop shaped Swarovski crystals.
Parthenope and her sisters swam (or flew, myth shows sirens as half
bird or half fish. Either femme beast works) to Ulysses’ ship to curse
him with their song, but Ulysses tied himself to the mast, stopped
his ears with wax and withstood. The entire crew of men survived
simply by not listening, so the story goes and goes. The defeated
mermaids wept at their failure and filled the bay of Naples.
Parthenope died from the shame and was swept ashore. Her blonde hair
turned to sand and her body, stone. A beach I myself have walked along.
I audibly sobbed before the gorgeous baroque blood of Artemisia
Gentileschi’s famous Judith Slaying Holoferneson, on permanent
display at the Uffizi. A man my father’s age asked me nine
times to leave the gallery with him. One of the only Italian
expressions I know so well that my subconscious has spoken
it back to me in dreams is lasciami stare. It means leave me be.
I drank too much at the strip club in Pescara, Abruzzo as a topless dancer
listed the times homophobia nearly killed her. I understood her perfectly
when she asked what Canada is like. Is there libertà per lesbi in Canada?
I furiously recorded the words that I misunderstood in a notebook
as if I might one day retroactively follow meaning. I couldn’t call
upon language fast enough to console her in real time. I couldn’t say
fuck this shit, I’m sorry or chin up, tits out, you know or you
deserve better, femme. I’ve come to associate speaking half a language
or less than half, a tender handful of comprehension, with being
a survivor of sexual violence. My body has breath and spasm where it
should have words. My body can picture ease and desire, but is forever
learning how to say what it wants. I’ve spent a humbple lifetime looking
for others who labour to live inside their skin My kink is to loudly love those
who’ve been told to keep quiet. Erotic boom. I want outlaster’s love. Against-
all-odds love. I, finally, want myself, and slick fluency in this desire.
While in Napoli I wrongly read a museum label to say that Parthenope
wished to marry Circe the sorceress. I read queer determination, and imagine
how that beach might feel if my mistranslation was an origin story.
Image if the grounds we walk were build from queer love? What song
would our queer scion sing six thousand years from now? What shape
would story take? If our bodies were fluid loose, waxy and loud
and fluent in our madrelingue, in a kin spit, in the looped vernaculars
we have long deserved, then imagine what words we’d know so well
that even our subconscious could speak this love back to us in our dreams
tragic interview
An anagram for “creative writing” is “tragic interview”
We will ask you if it is true
We will ask you how true it is
We will ask you where you’re from
We will ask you to verify you belong
We will ask you about vice and god
We will ask you to legitimize blood
We will ask for a pathos worthy childhood
We will ask you about your thronged body
We will ask why you inhabit both and many
We will ask if your kin tolerates such veracity
We will ask if you’ve told the whole story
We will ask if you are attracted to danger
We will ask you if your shame overlingers
We will ask for trauma to be in past tense
We will ask you to narratively arc triumph
We will ask you to lip service progress
We will ask you about free speech
We will ask to contract your name
We will ask you to trouble in stereotypes
We will ask you stroke those fleshy ethics
We will ask how outsiders may write about you
We will ask you for your blanket endorsement
We will ask you wax widespread as hot and now
We will ask you attest to your own exceptionalism
We will ask to couch your fine ass in the theoretical
We will ask you to table round with your enemies
We will ask that you prove pain makes great art
We will ask you to represent en masse
We will ask you to do it for less
We will ask for your free consultation
We will ask you to recommend your own
We will ask where do you find the time
We will ask you to exalt your labour
We will ask if your success is a surprise
We will ask if you’re surprised to be alive
We will ask you to front face as the hero
We will ask you exhibit the future possible
We will ask how the next gen will fathom and ken
We will ask for a kind offering to the institution
We will ask you for the ever positive spin
We will ask you cleave homage and imitation
We will ask your craft for credible dimension
We will ask if the work appears to be uneven
We will ask you to trial your live version
We will ask you how true it is
We will ask you if it is true
Dear IncorrectName: found and redacted from my inbox
Please allow me to introduce myself as the OfficialTitle at the College_University_ GovernmentFundedInstitution. At my InstitutionalPlaceOfEmployment we are Studying_OtheringtheLivingHellOutof Prostitution in Canada_FeministViews
on Prostitution_ProstitutionExploitationTrafficking_and other topics related to your “hellish existence.”
Your book How Poetry Saved My Life is on my students’ critical book review list alongside TextsbyFeministsWhoHateYou and UnethicalResearchers. I feel strong- ly that your perspective would contribute to my students’ learning. Sorry
for the ridiculously late notice, but I want to invite you to visit our class
next Friday. I do not have funds for guest speakers, but I would be happy to offer
a $50 honorarium from my own SalarythatIsFourTimesWhatyouEarnedLastYear and parking permit for the day. Please let me know if this would work for you.
Dear IncorrectName
I am writing on behalf of the AcademicConferenceWithA$200+FeePerAttendee. Part of this year’s goal is to include a performance “cabaret” [erroneous use
of quotation marks for reasons unknown] that will feature any or all varieties
of literary performance (spoken word, performance poetry, slam poetry, sound poetry, etc) with a focus on the voices of diverse populations.
Your presence at this “cabaret” would be of great value
to the conference attendees in their role as AnalyticalOnlookers.
I have heard back from the PlanningCommittee regarding finances and what we can offer you is a BelowStandardArtistFee honorarium, but we are tight so__could you accept a conference pass? We have several other authors who are only getting conference passes. So paying you is a bit of a “double standard” [substantiated use of quotation marks] and there might be hard feelings.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Dear IncorrectName
WeAreOtherArtists. We’d love if you would come to OurSHOW and read
your work_talk about your work_talk about your life_talk about the state of our community_talk about doing work in community. No hard hitting talk_just talk talk_casual talk. You would be fabulous. Our stage is yours
for one hour. We expect around 150 guests.
This is your opportunity to reach a large crowd.
We don’t offer you an appearance fee, but you will see OurVision is VeryInnovative.
Dear Amber Dawn
I am a Writer_Artist_BodyThatisHoldingStory.
I have always loved &admired your work &it would be an honour to have your feedback. It would be awesome if you could read my ScriptCollectionNovelOutlineTreatise &give me some honest &brutal feedback. Read it whenever you want! I hope I see
you in person soon! I can come by your office. Do you still work at ArtsCommunityJob_ FrontLineSupport_DropIn_HeathCentre_CollegeUniversity?
I am HoldingaStory &it is PAINFUL. How did you write your first book?
I have always wanted to be a writer.
Did it feel like a relief
to get that first book out?
How do you read in front of all those people &do interviews &does your mom
still speak to you? I’m afraid of my parents
&hometown &people
I used to know &MySurvivorsStory &what
people will think if I SpeakMyTruth.
What do you like about being a writer
Amy LeBlanc is an MA student in English Literature and creative writing at the University of Calgary. She is currently non-fiction editor at filling Station magazine and will be assuming the role of Managing Editor in July. She is the author of three books: her debut poetry collection, I know something you don’t know, was published with Gordon Hill Press in March 2020. Her novella, Unlocking, will be published by the UCalgary Press in 2021. Pedlar Press will publish her short story collection, Homebodies, in 2022. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Room, PRISM International, EVENT, Prairie Fire, CV2, and the Literary Review of Canada among others. She was recently a finalist for the Minola Review Inaugural Fiction Contest judged by Heather O’Neill.
Reading Text:
Wintering
He torched the skin that I’m still in.
Counting Januarys—
I hold my hair
to sing psalms
and semi vowels.
The wasps bloat with
my belly in December,
gashing panty lines
and pot holes.
The burnt space will tear from my hips.
I am a calamity
asking for armistice.
The storied life of Grace Poole
She dangled striated
scarves from the window
rattling her head as I
held her waist.
He told me to keep her
quiet, to keep her safe, compliant—
this significant
paranoia
that she might be
vaulting
purging
dancing
like red fiber from rafters.
She tells me
my hair reminds her
of a fox. My brush is
a signal to enemy lines:
her lips parting
on a stolen glass
of honey soaked wine.
She and I
watch the tree,
as it splits and succumbs
in the orchard, a slit
where the tree was licked
with a voltage charged tongue.
She says that it will never
be the same again.
We are both behind
the lock and chain, but
I can abscond
to the halls and gates.
She lingers behind
the latch—
her fingers
entwined in a lock
of my red hair.
We are curious bedfellows
with sweetness on our thighs,
the topographical curving
of bones and banks.
She is hers and I am mine.
I will never ask
for more than the chill
of her hands that cool me
until I drown.
She won’t jump with someone
to hush the light.
Girls reading in red coats
– For Paula Jean Welden
She tucked a book
into the folds of her red coat
when she left her room.
She felt the spine against her ribs,
and the edges of paper wrapping
around her skin:
a pair of legs in a claw foot tub
a little birth with a belly full of rocks.
The book would last her
the better part of three days.
She buttoned a scarf to her throat
and picked bloodroot and ate carrots,
nine almonds a day with a glass of water.
She expected to wander and to find an altar
in the trees, in the wasps, in moist roots
and the mud that caught her heels.
She freed insects from jars that never held water
and heard a rattling sound
in her bone marrow,
in her ears eyes hands and teeth.
They searched and searched,
but she stayed hidden at her altar
or the meeting point
of her own sternum and her spine.
She read her book
in her red buttoned coat.
She thought about ivy
and garden walls,
moths that bleed cyanide,
women in turtlenecks,
wine and cake and uncomfortable pantyhose.
Her coat, red as pomegranate seeds
trailed behind her, moist and well-watered.
Her exposed belly could cut open letters
and bloodroot was the bedrock of her spine.
Her book had moistened in the rain,
so she made an herbarium
and slept in the vines.
Stripping the moths of their poison,
she dripped them over a porringer
and encouraged them to dry.
When her fingernails rooted to the paper,
she swallowed herself whole.
The brief reincarnation of Mary Webster on the Amtrak from Boston to New York
Leaves clung to the woman’s shoe
and hair hung from the sides of her face.
It had rained for a week.
She’d eaten a biscuit,
then fell asleep on the train
to the hissing until the low whistle sang.
The man across the aisle
was watching her sleep.
He pretended to read his newspaper
licked his inked fingers,
smudged editorials, blurred black
and white photos with spit on his hands.
She dreamt about being a cat, a fox,
an apple hanging from a tree.
She opened her eyes and found
the man had moved to sit beside her.
He’d been so silent,
she’d hardly felt the air move.
He held out a cigarette
which she placed between her lips.
When his hand shifted closer to her hip,
she put her bag between them
and asked if he had ever played scrabble:
He played cart,
she played cruel,
he played slick,
she played sway,
he played cyan,
she won by adding an i and a d and an e.
She sent him back to his side
of the train with a biscuit
wrapped in a napkin
and a half-drunk mug of tea.
She returned to her dream of the hanging fruit,
felt her small body sway in the breeze
until the train arrived in New York.
Hereafter
He says that she’s unattractive, but the subtext is that he doesn’t like girls who are more comfortable in their skin than he is
with his masculinity. He made me realize I can stop apologizing to the mannequins I run into—stop slipping confession notes into the books
I read for whomever needs them after me. I don’t apologize to the boy who left his gum between my knees, because my arteries continue
to pump and my feet fit into my shoes without him. The amassment of buildings and bodies and dealmakers and white men tells me that I don’t
need to rip eyelashes out for wishes. I’ve learned that the squeaky wheel gets taken away. The arbiter of wineries, golf clubs, mortgages,
window frames, casinos, finds that these are grasping at the ceiling, fingers spread into spider webs. In this bottom-less wanting,
unnecessary roughness earns you a slap on the shoulder and an extra hour of locker room talk. We learn to grab back (if sex happens before
you wanted it) with chemicals between our fingers. I burn my throat on oatmeal and my skin turns to scales– my pages are dog-eared
from turning corners too soon. In this one hundred and forty character locale, I’ll blast out a constant reminder that
this mimeograph heart won’t be stopping any time soon.
Nancy Lee is the author of two critically acclaimed works of fiction, Dead Girls and The Age, and a new poetry collection, What Hurts Going Down (McClelland & Stewart). Her poems have recently appeared in Ploughshares, The Adroit Journal, The Puritan, Arc Poetry Magazine and The Malahat Review. She teaches at the University of British Columbia and lives in Steveston, BC with her husband, the author John Vigna, and their jerk of a dog, Rudy the cardigan welsh corgi.
Reading Text:
four-eyed girls
I’m sitting at the bar with Mary Katherine Gallagher watching prospects grind hope into anything blond.
I’ve peeled off wool tights so my pleated skirt flashes white cotton panties when I cross and uncross. No one notices.
For fun, we switch eyeglasses. In hers, I drown. Fish wriggle and shimmer, groove beyond my reach. She says,
Through these glasses everyone looks thinner. She says, Why aren’t there more girls like us in movies? I tell her
there are plenty, floating in rivers, folded in dumpsters, naked, nameless. She says, It’s time for another shooter.
Something to clean the sink, something the bartender will set on fire, something that hurts going down.
no place for a heart
Start a fire with women’s bodies; stack them deep for heat. What keeps a kind girl alive in the wild? The men in town are crapshoots, sawbucks, coins striking heads and tails. They post naked snaps of her on 4chan, ferry fifteen-year- olds across state lines, weigh options like: hands up her skirt, hands around her throat. She’s ready for a chorus of frogs, a convent timeshare, ready to train a dildo to mow the lawn. Abandon romance. This one’s for mothers who catch their boyfriends fingering their daughters. Here’s to bff date rape in the old man’s sedan. Today a high school football coach showed cheerleaders the glory of his half- hard penis in a hot dog bun, tomorrow a man will cram his wife into a Naugahyde suitcase and drag her to the river. It’s so fucking hot inside; she isn’t surprised.
alphas
i. At three a.m., lip gloss and crop tops wasted in empty clubs, only you are brave enough for new terrain. We hunt at a crawl, every gin joint gated, marquee dim. On the boulevard, we roll down windows to watch a coyote lope, head bowed. A bloody rabbit swings from his jaw. I tell you he’s my first.
ii. Alphas beside the car. Caps pulled, track suits baggy, shoulders rolling, chests sunk, a lazy jog with beer cans, sidewalk be damned. The pack must get hungry at three a.m. They stare through glass, blow their liquored smoke. I say, Ask where they’re going. You shake your head. The night is wild with them.
iii. Once, in a town on the coast you chose celibacy over the hazard of ocean men, woodsmen, mountain men, unwashed hair in pelts. Men with thick paws, bark faces, who stank of wood chip, coal dust, fish. When they entered your bed tangled in nets and splinters snuffled wet muzzles to your neck, you played dead.
iv. Now you raise two hatchlings in a sanctuary. You pound fence posts, lay tripwire, stock bear bangs, kneel at the water to check muddy ground for tracks. Satellites beam our hushed talk of coyotes, mangy middle-aged cheeks, half-eaten carcasses, how they chew old wounds, cut and run. We forget their feral cologne, teeth and charm, until they startle us from the stupor of married sleep.
daughters
i. Tell the daughters we were heartless, crouched behind trees with rusted wire. That flanks bucked as we bled the bodies on beds of pine, stabbed with flint blades and the ends of spoons from a grandmother’s hope chest. Eyes whaled white, pupils drained of ink. One by one in the fog of morning, we scrubbed them from our petticoats.
ii. Stretched and sticky in the sourdough starter, shovels scraping the stable floor, scouring water in the tin tub, sewing flecked with blood. A childhood bridled, saddled, stung with lye, hung to cure in salt and sun. No one believed what their eyes didn’t see, what gnawed through a girl, rustled her work-worn body in the brush.
iii. Did they even want daughters? Sons so adored, rut-hungry, bottle-weak, sloppy work with a scythe. Who didn’t know his charm, the lanolin musk of his wool? And what if all daughters turned to ghosts? Whale bone, sadness, smoke. Tell them, it was kill or be killed. Tell them, we shivered for days beside their cribs, then stood to answer our own prayers.
wife at the end of the world
Fever on the streets as our planet swings closer to the sun, as ocean levels rise, biohazard atomizes, nuclear runoff seeps. Lives mundane
with disaster. At the store, we snipe over which canned soup has more nutrition, chunky or creamy, which shattered pack of crackers
has mice. A stock boy with peeling palms counts water bottles, while outside, men in lab coats debate timelines of extinction.
I climb into a shelf for the last box of oats, and a woman in full makeup, French twist, purse dangling from a charmed wrist, stretches
on tanned legs to help my husband reach a can of waxed beans. Her fingers pulse his biceps. His eyes finish her like a meal.
My T-shirt smells of dead guinea pig, and I wish for one last bolt of catastrophe: a fissure, a sinkhole in the dry goods aisle.
So that weeks from now, it will be my hair unravelled, flecked with debris, my ash-smeared skin in a strappy slip as I lie beside a naked man
whose name I do not ask. Too busy tracking diseased dogs with my night scope and rifle, too busy brewing carboys of anti-toxin,
wielding my flamethrower against mutant spiders, too busy calculating orbit-altering supernovas to settle for repopulating the earth.
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