(Prompt: Ulraviolet by ~MythNymph, via A Writer's Inspiration. I had a moment of existential disgust after watching the worse section of the fandomverse drool over questions of rape and 'eventual' consent. So I worked out my still-not-published-author issues in the usual way...)
With a flicker of her eyelashes, the lights went low. With a tapping of her fingertip, the box started to blow. She loved the way their scintillating eyes drew in the elevating amplifiers waiting in the wings for her to go.
And so... she it flow.
A word, a rhythm and a beat manifest, hit their chests like a bullet and nobody bought a vest. In come lyrics, a message wrapped in narrative and metaphor, her heart and soul erected into rhyme.
Over time, she sets the record straight, she puts her sorrow on the screen and digitized sensations into syncopated screams. She redefines her time of tragedy and cuts it into dreams. She checks her baggage with her luggage, making music with a theme.
But here's the scene.
In the back or at the bottom of the pack, there's a buster, breathing heavy, getting worked up on her raps. Where she sings sorrows of abuses, he gets flickers on his fuses. It infuses him with feelings contradicting all of that.
And in his mind? His way is fact.
Well, look at that. People are crap.
But did she stop her movement methods? Did she recoil from him in shame? Did she feel sick at the sensation of his eyes upon her frame? Of course it bugged her as he body-mugged her, drooling at her style, but all the while, she kept the rhythm rocking, locked in on her music files.
He doesn't own her fucking music. Or her body. Or her fuses. She made lyrics for the needy. She made beauty with her muses. And in the end, it's us who chooses if we hear her or his lies. She'd made her palace from her burning truth. Will you open your eyes?
She welcomes you. So come on through.
It's just the haters we despise.