#and then i just have a little 4 bar instrumental which i have a simple design for then the last verse.. which is longer | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

haliyam · 3 years

Text

Asset

zeke x reader/oc, slight levi x reader/oc

summary: Levi slips into the Liberio internment zone during the festival and finds himself distracted. (Season 4 and manga spoilers ahead)

Reader does have a background that’s hinted at, default name Lucy, but if you have the InteractiveFics browser extension, please feel free to use it to change your first name! This is actually part of a series I'm hoping to write (brain willing lol), but this can stand alone too.

AO3 link if you prefer to read there

hello! i haven’t been on tumblr in a while but stumbling back into aot made me need to write something, and everyone’s fics and gifs here are amazing!

Jean looks around, tilting the brim of his hat forward just before they cover his eyes. “You sure about this, Captain?”

“Nothing wrong with making sure they haven’t caught on,” Levi nods, adjusting the lapel of his jacket. “Or that that bastard hasn’t changed his mind and informed on us to his superiors.”

Jean’s eyes flicker to his at the very thought. He spots a familiar hesitation in them, but it’s quickly fettered away with a nod. When Levi is sure he has nothing more to say, he returns it, and Jean departs for the crowd with a casual swagger that belies his doubt.

Levi hasn’t asked them their opinions on this operation. Of course, they’ve all offered it anyway—but Hange has decided, and he trusts their decision. On that point, the Scouts had all agreed.

Today the internment zone gates are open to all visitors, Eldian or not. Triangular streamers of all colors canopy the streets, and flutes and drums and instruments he’s never heard sound out in joyous cacophony in the near distance, tempting curious ears from beyond the gates. The festival is definitely a trap—but admittedly, a beautiful one. He’s never seen this much cheer since Historia’s ascension, or maybe since they retook Wall Maria. Back then he hadn’t exactly participated, much less left his quarters until it was later and Hange insisted he show himself… but this celebration is in full swing. Between Jean, Connie, and Sasha, Jean was the best choice to bring along. He’s the most likely to stay on track.

...Which is why it shames Levi when he’s caught off guard staring into a stall filled with all kinds of … food, he can only guess. Onyankopon introduced them to new desserts, but this is different. Bright and vivid, the tangy scent of them fills the air, but they’re not lollipops or candy or chocolate. He was supposed to turn the corner into an alley right before this one when he spotted it, and now…

“Here.”

A packet of one of the strange desserts is shoved into his face so quickly that he almost darts back. He reins it in at the last minute, only fixing a glare upon whoever dared invade his personal space like that, much less present themselves as a threat.

You.

A young woman in a simple dress, hand clasped around a packet of mouth-watering orange-yellow strips of the stuff.

“Here,” you smile politely, apparently unfazed by the suspicion he levels at you.

“What is that?”

“Dried mangoes,” you reply, taking a step or two closer to let your arm relax. “You were looking at them, right? They come chocolate-covered, too, but I say try these before the other variants.”

He doesn’t answer. The people manning the stalls beneath the vivid tents in the festival have all been overly friendly, but that’s par for the course, and they know to turn to their next prospective customer when he quickly walks past. Damn his own eyes. They almost make him regret his rule not to accept anything from anyone unvetted. “No thanks.”

Now you give him a different look. A curious one, which makes him almost curse under his breath. He’s supposed to blend in; not draw attention to himself. Levi turns away, heading down the road again and meaning to turn for the alley once he’s shaken you, but you’re already walking next to him.

“Have we met?” you ask, still looking at him.

“No.” He thinks he would remember if you had. And this isn’t good. Now you’ll try to commit his face to memory.

But you look away instead as you bar his way once more—down, to be specific, so you can fish a small piece of the dessert from the packet and take a bite. “Not poisoned,” you promise, clearly biting back a grin while you pause to chew. Infuriatingly, you begin to mirror his squint. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

He stares at you, and is still deciding between bewilderment or irritation when you continue, “It’s not a bad thing. I’m glad that you decided to drop by.”

“What?”

At least the look he gives you makes you recoil just a little now. That’s more what Levi is accustomed to. But it doesn’t stop you from talking. “You’re not from the zone,” you answer, motioning to his bandless left arm. “Not many outsiders want to come, in spite of the festival… so thank you for giving it a chance.”

You extend your arm again, your hand and the packet almost touching his chest in this renewed offer.

He really shouldn’t be doing this. He should be pointing you toward a distraction and leaving, or otherwise putting you off to the extent that you voluntarily leave him alone yourself. But the hope in your gaze is too tender to spoil, reminds him of too many in the past who deserved more than him to be here now—or it’s the festival getting to him.

With a sigh, Levi takes a strip of dried mango from the packet and watches your lips curve upward into a bright smile. He shakes his head, barely just stopping from rolling his eyes as he thinks about how you probably picked a dessert far too sweet for his tastes—but he’s in for another shock when he takes a bite and finds it sour instead. Well, sweet in parts and sour in others. It’s different, but he doesn’t dislike it at all.

It must show on his face as he chews, which is terrible, because you take it as an invitation to speak again. “They’re from the southeastern archipelago. Eldia never conquered much of that continent—and thank goodness for that,” you seem to add quickly for good measure, “but it did pick up a few of their delicacies. It’s common Eldian fare whenever they’re in season.”

“I see,” he says, just to be forgettable. “Thank you.” It’s likely that being rude will make someone like you remember him more, and that isn’t his goal here today. As he swallows the strip (it was too small), Levi almost doesn’t notice you nudging him forward toward the next stall. But he does, and he gives you a look. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You grin sheepishly, knowing you’ve been caught. “I never meet non-Eldians within the zone. Especially none like you. I'm going to tour you around the stalls a little - I know the scents might be confusing, and the armbands are… well. But there are good, honest people here.”

“That so?” the remark is aimed toward you, because his suspicions remain, but he realizes his mistake when your eyes look even more earnest than before.

“There are. And good food, as you can tell,” you say proudly. You offer him the packet again. “Let me show you.”

He should really get going. He and Jean mean to rendezvous in an hour, and he still hasn’t left the festival grounds.

But the look in your eyes tells him you’re going to be very annoying if he refuses. Or maybe that’s what he tells himself when he lets you.

This is how Levi finds himself guided around the festival that afternoon, getting all sorts of history lessons on food (and tea) as he tries them - but only bites, and very reluctantly of course, because he doesn’t care to get too full before tonight, when his stomach has already begun to turn. It’s that he knows he has no right to enjoy himself with the novelty of this event, with the optimism in your quiet laughter when he balks at the spicy undercurrent in the skewer of meat you have the audacity to stick into his hand. Not when he knows what’s going to happen tonight. Not when he doesn’t even know your name.

You tell him, finally, when you take a break by a quiet corner in the festival. Over here they’re selling older Eldian art pieces, some painted and others carved figurines, and the scent of lacquered wood faintly invades his senses. He gets a brief respite only when you lean closer to him to let a passing merchant through. Lilies. “I’m Lucy. I thought you should know the name of your tour guide.”

The name sounds familiar. It’s probably a common one he heard during their last visit.

You’re holding your hand out to him, expectation now in your gaze. He’s clearly spoiled you.

Levi stares at your hand. He doesn’t care to shake it, but again—better to be forgettable. He wracks his mind for a name.

“Kenny.”

Kenny? Levi inwardly sighs.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kenny.” You exchange a good, solid handshake, but you are quick to pull away immediately after. Why? Has he been compromised?

He hopes not, as you give him a reassuring smile and look ahead. At the far, far end of the next avenue is the plaza where the crowds will settle tonight, but you can’t see it from here. “Are you here for Willy’s play tonight?”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“Between you and me,” you say, leaning just a bit closer again as you move on from the area and smile at a waving shopkeep, “It’s probably going to be boring. I would leave after the festival.”

Levi looks down at you, meets your gaze with a critical eye for the first time since your meeting. He ignores the way the afternoon sun sets a golden highlight around your hair. “You think so?”

If you notice, you deflect his look with a little snort. “The Tyburs,” you almost spit the name, with a venom not unfamiliar to someone in his line of work but uncharacteristic enough of what he’s seen of you that he spares you a blink. “The Tybur family’s official policy is to leave the rest of the Eldians on the wayside while they live in their beautiful estates. Why speak now?” Your hand, gentle all this time paying the vendors, passing him food, tossing it in your mouth, now clenches at your side. “He’s a coward. So…”

You trail off, biting your tongue as you turn away briefly. Hatred is something far too familiar for Levi to balk at, and so he doesn’t. Because it wasn’t hatred he saw in your eyes, but a strange defeat. He has to wonder, but he stops himself before he can. That will be moot after tonight.

“He’s saying something now,” he replies blankly, letting you hear the shrug in his tone. He doesn’t really care to defend someone with only a few hours left to live, but maybe he feels guilty for knowing even that much. Death has always been a certainty in his life, but the how and the when? “Some people never say anything at all.”

His words break you out of your stupor. It appears you weren’t really talking to him after all, but now he wishes he bit his tongue. The idea of you leaving before the play actually sounds like a good one, and he should not have gainsaid it.

“I suppose you have a point,” you say, looking slightly abashed at your outburst. Sighing, you gesture around the area. “So what do you think? Not bad for a home of devils, right?”

The question has him turning toward you so sharply that you begin to squirm under his gaze. The truth is you’ve been able to deflect his uninterested, even hostile expressions so far, but this one is new. His eyes are walled off for the most part, but a telling indignation flashes across his grey eyes so quickly you wonder if you even saw it. He sees it in the way you search them.

You gulp and then clear your throat. “I lived here when I was younger,” you explain, appearing both frightened and encouraged. Ultimately unable to withstand his gaze, you start to walk again, down the road toward the plaza.

He hardly notices himself following suit. “You left?” You were allowed to?

“My family isn’t from Liberio,” you admit, slowing to keep apace. “I came here to join the Warrior program when I was little.”

Now the expression in his eyes is indecipherable, but curiosity gives it the smallest edge as his gaze flits to your armband. Pale grey, almost white.

“I didn’t make it,” you say, quickly, since bringing up Marley’s prized Warriors with anyone from outside of the motherland is an awful idea this soon, “so I was called back home. But I had fond memories of this place, all things considered, and now I’ve chosen it as mine.”

A strange feeling now worms its way into Levi’s chest. He’s already managed to shut off his thoughts and apprehensions about tonight’s operation - they can’t afford doubts, after all, and anyway those have never stopped him from getting the job done - but it makes him uncomfortable.

“Where do you live?” Will you be spared the worst of it?

You look surprised, but you smile all the same. “A few blocks from here. An old doctor and his family let me stay with them when I was little, and I still stay there now. Now I… work at the hospital in the zone.”

“You’re a doctor too?”

The question seems to dismay you. “Not exactly.”

He frowns before he can help it. “You’re pretty dodgy for a tour guide.”

Now you can’t help but laugh in what almost looks like offense. “Me? I’m the one who’s been talking about myself, between the two of us,” you say, your indignation diluted with your ringing mirth. It sounds clearly over the din. “I don’t even know where you’re from!”

“You do. Not here.”

Levi feels the side of his mouth quirk when you laugh at such a small remark, but you manage to get a hold of yourself before he can respond.

You meet his gaze again, shaking your head in disbelief, and something appears to click in your mind as your lips part with revelation.

“You’re a war veteran, aren’t you?’

Levi graces you with another blink. “What?”

“I won’t ask where,” you promise again, raising a hand in surrender. “You just remind me of someone I’ve met at the hospital.”

He quirks a brow. “How should I take that?”

“Oh! Not as an insult!” you laugh again, covering your mouth, but your lips are pursed, still stifling another smile when you lower your hand. It takes another moment for you to compose yourself. “I meant rather that… you have soulful eyes.”

His soulful eyes stare straight at you, utterly deadpan. “Soulful.”

You stand by it, clearly suppressing mirth again. “Soulful.”

Levi sighs with some exasperation, as if to wonder how his life choices have led to him having to put up with all this, and it must be the most you’ve gotten out of this man since you interrupted his consideration of those snacks. Somehow you can tell that even his irritation should flatter you. “Anyway,” you say, when he seems resigned to all this, “if you aren’t completely sold on watching the play tonight, maybe you can drop by the hospital instead.”

Levi narrows his eyes at you. “Why would I do that?”

“Well… we don’t get visitors often. But the patients always appreciate them.” After a pause, you add, “Not always. But even just sitting with them is something.”

His furrowed brow relaxes. Not that he’ll be able to say yes - not that he wants to - and not that he’s ever cared all that much for bleeding hearts. It’s really more the determination in your gaze that gets him. Like you’re not exactly going to take no for an answer, or worse, and maybe closer to his heart, that you refuse to let the possibility cross your mind.

“There’s one patient I would love to introduce to you,” you continue, when you catch the hesitation in his silence. “He calls himself K—“

“Lucy?”

A familiar voice calls your name from amid the crowd. The smile that simply illuminates your features as you turn to look over your shoulder draws Levi’s eyes to yours rather than to your mouth this time.

Before you can look, a pair of arms encircles your waist, a beard nuzzling your neck while you squirm and laugh, trying to elbow your way out of the embrace to no avail. It’s token resistance that leads only to his nose nudging at your jaw, mouth grazing your neck. “Zeke, stop!”

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” he murmurs, his glasses nudging your cheek, whisper tickling your skin. “Meeting ran late. You know how Magath is.”

“I know,” you say as you manage to wrangle your way out of his grasp. “But please don’t do that in front of my new—“

You glance to the side with an apology ready for him, but Levi has disappeared. Your hands grasp Zeke’s sleeve for balance as you get on your tiptoes, but you cannot spot his hat among the crowd.

“—friend.” You frown. “He was just here.”

Zeke quirks a brow. “Who?”

“Kenny,” you say. “He was wearing a dark suit and a fedora. Just a little taller than me, black hair… you didn’t see him? And—are you all right?” You reach for his fingers, kneading at the pads of them with yours. “Your hands are so cold.”

Zeke shakes his head, dismissing your second question. “A little taller than you,” he enunciates instead, withdrawing his hands to make a show of stroking his beard. “So did I see another runt? The answer is no, sorry.”

You give his hip a light smack. “I’m not a runt. I’m taller than Pieck!”

“By an inch.” When you make a face at him, Zeke smiles, hands pawing at your shoulders before running down your back and pulling you to him, your chest flush against the wall of his stomach. “Do you want us to look for your Kenny?” he asks, his thumb ghosting your lip.

“He’s not my Kenny,” you give him a look, even though he knows his hands are already giving you other ideas. His other one is stroking your waist. “I just thought he looked lost.”

“My bleeding heart,” he says fondly. “You can’t save everyone.”

You shoot him a look that he ignores. This isn’t the place to get into that discussion, so you shrug it off. “I guess I was imposing on him. At one point he seemed like he’d rather drink rotten milk than listen to me. I just thought we’d built a rapport...”

Zeke snorts. “Okay, okay. I’ll listen to you.”

You squint at him. “Don’t let me twist your arm.”

He grins, leaning closer to whisper in your ear. “I think I let you do a lot more to me than just that, Miss Blanchard.”

The flush that predictably spreads across your face makes him laugh, that warm, hearty chuckle that makes your knees weak. He bends down to touch your lips with his, smiling when you seek his mouth to deepen the kiss. Your hand fists around his shirt, the slightest hum of enjoyment from your throat drawing him further into your thrall, but the nudge of a passerby makes him pull away after a moment. His lips envy the disappointed pout that seizes yours as he closes your hand around his. Zeke lifts it to plant a more chaste kiss to your knuckles in apology.

“But before all that,” he says, “how about that festival date you promised me?”

Zeke gives you a questioning look, as though a part of him might actually doubt that you’ll say yes. Really it’s that he wonders if you’ll still gaze at him with those tender eyes this time tomorrow, but you can’t possibly know that.

You shrug, intertwining your fingers with his. “I’ll let you twist my arm.”

“You let me do a lot more—“

“Yeager...”

“Heh heh.” He withdraws his hand so he can wrap an arm around you instead as he guides you back to the heart of the festival. “I ran into the others while looking for you. The kids wouldn’t shut up about some good wrap nearby—and while their faces were full of pizza. What do you think?”

You lean against him, unable to help the warmth that you practically radiate as he holds you. He knows it too, pulling you closer. You shrug him off briefly to take a last glance around for Kenny, but he really is nowhere to be found.

Ducking back under Zeke’s arm, you smile. “Why not?”

Out of sight, trying to stave off the nausea, Levi watches the pair of you walk away from beside one of the many festival stands littering the avenue. How couldn’t he have realized who you are? Lucy is the name of the asset that sack of shit wants retrieved before the operation begins. He had wondered why, thought it some political ploy that would come into play later on. He didn’t expect the reason to be so... mundane.

He can’t believe he almost felt worried. He knew there had to be something strange about you, ignoring how he was clearly trying to get away. Had you been taunting him? A trap, just like this festival?

It hadn’t seemed like it. Your smile appeared to be genuine.

Not that it matters. He gets smiles all the time that he doesn’t care for; why should a beautiful woman’s remain with him or be any more noteworthy than another’s?

Dismissing the sight lingering in his mind’s eye, Levi turns for his true objective. He’s wasted enough time.

...And anyway, any person who would take up with that monster probably has some skeletons of her own.

Levi supposes he’ll find out later.

---

Thank you for reading! :)

The series I mentioned planning should be zeke x reader/oc, but because levi is very tempting, I'm also planning/considering a levi/reader AU (or ending??) of the ending post-rumbling (we'll see).

EDIT: This is a oneshot which can stand on its own, but if you're interested in a series I've posted the first two chapters of interim, the first of the Zeke-centered fics I mentioned I intended to write! It's a prequel that starts in Liberio after Zeke, Pieck, and Reiner come home post-S3. It'll go into Reader/Lucy's relationship with the Warriors, particularly Zeke, + how exactly they ended up where they are here in Asset. Levi makes a return appearance once we get to the sequel to Asset, going into the Raid on Liberio and onward.

EDIT 2: And if you'd like something completely Zeke-focused in the same year as Asset, here is a short fluff oneshot to accompany art I commissioned of Zeke and Lucy. It will have Lucy's appearance there (and I suppose her appearance is a spoilerish for the family name which you will discover in interim chapter 1), so if you don't want to see what she looks like then don't click it or just scroll down before the art loads. XD these trivial moments takes place some time before Asset, but still within the month that passes between the end of the Marley Mid-East War and the Raid on Liberio.

#zeke x reader #zeke x oc #zeke yeager x reader #zeke yeager x oc #zeke jaeger x reader #zeke jaeger x oc #levi x reader #levi x oc #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x oc #slight #eventually maybe #zeke yeager #levi ackerman #jean cameo because i love him #aot #snk #haliyam #asset

112 notes · View notes

stopeatingwhales · 4 years

Text

about a girl x kurt cobain

hi guys omg- it’s been too long since i’ve last posted something, and my nirvana obsession has risen once again so what a thought into writing something dedicated to the one and only kurt himself <3 thank you ever so much to the person who requested this, i managed to write something i think i’m somewhat proud of aha

Pairing: pre-bleach era kurt x reader

Warnings: nothing!

Word count: 2.165

Requested by anon <3

༉‧₊˚✧

Waiting for him to appear on stage for the first time was like a moment snatched out of a drunken stupor: so surreal I had to continuously pinch myself every few minutes for reassurance that this was really happening. With a mind cluttered in thought, it became hard to sit still for as little as ten seconds without being accompanied by an itch to either scratch my scalp in nervousness, or chew on my already bitten nails - attempting to sand off their roughened look from my previous antics. The most I had drunk that night was a couple sips of my gingerish coloured beer - with the room buzzing in anticipation and curiosity for who was headlining the bar tonight, it caused everything that even shifted slightly in its position to irritate me in all ways plausible. Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t manage to let anything settle in my stomach without having a sudden rush of nausea bubble up in my throat; it was Kurt’s first performance tonight with his new, reformed band, and being told that he was quite nervous triggered an anxiety in my veins stronger than the pain of the first rush of heroin dousing my body after months of not being able to get hold of it - allowing all my stress, agony and dread to escape my body at an expeditious rate as my body adorned the poison I was granting into my limbs. It was inevitable: Kurt was bound to be nervous before his first performance with new material to a bunch of strangers that had never seen the wonders of his model-face before, and although he had performed many times, a grasp of worry still caught into his hair as he tried to pass the time, like a knot you seemingly are unable to rid of, leaving you with no other choice but to resort to grabbing a pair of kitchen scissors and chopping that bunch of hair off. Which he had done many times.

Whilst time speedily went on, I found myself calming down by a small amount, consoling myself with different types of remedies in solution: downing my drink, ordering another (this time a gin & tonic to spice things up) and repeating the same, before slamming my now empty glass to the table and standing up to get a clearer view of the stage, knowing they were going to come on soon. All that wondered in my mind was Kurt, quickly reminding myself over all the time we had spent together - the times when we had first become friends. I had been introduced to him early last year when Krist had asked me if I wanted to see his new band he was bassing for - and immediately was I enthralled, knowing that once I had laid my eyes on him, I would never be able to detach them from him: a poor man, masked in aristocracy in ways not physical as it may seem. He captivated me. His presence carried such warmth it was able to counter against the sun; your cheeks immediately burning as he locked eyes with you. You instantly wanted to wrap your arms around him, and when talking, you were instantly drawn to his short yet meaningful phrases, laced in passion stronger than an avocado seed. As my eyes were locked firmly together with his, I was able to notice something so pure and wondrous I had been unsuccessful in finding in anyone else: care. A simple emotion, somehow one of the hardest to master. Regardless of what the subject matter might be, he always carried a certain interest to it - constantly having something to say. Even if you found him sitting excluded from everyone else, you could notice that there was something either battling his mind, or inspiring him for something - new music, lyrics perhaps. It’s enticing, it's human. He’s human.

Suddenly, a distorted strum of a guitar abruptly blared through one of the many amplifiers dotted around the small stage at the end of the room. The crowded space was now silenced by the hasty noise, my (slightly intoxicated, yet conscious) head now instantly turning to see what had happened - although I was for certain it was the time I had been most excited for. Little whispers and hushes were the only things you were able to hear for the span of a few seconds as the amp's sound had silenced itself, a small buzz affiliating throughout the room, a couple of heads turning back and forth to see the number of people collectively awaiting to listen to the music of the unknown band performing tonight. My eyes stayed glued to the stage as I pictured his character, standing there in the middle, Krist and Chad capturing the rest of the space, adorned by their instruments - playing along to Kurt’s beautiful melodies. Gazing at his figure, beautifully formed with such masculinity, decorated with concerning parts of emeation, slowly embarking its way through to the middle of the stage - guitar gripped firmly in arm - birthed dozens of baby butterflies inside my stomach, tickling my insides in all sorts of ways. My nervousness resurrected itself once again, as I had come to a realisation that I wasn’t imagining anything at all.

Silence.

No introduction, nothing. From his immediate grace to the stage, I could tell he was nervous; the bright light emitting onto his face allowed me to see his features much more prominently - allowing you to just about to see the small stubble that was forming on his face from his forgetfulness to shave in the morning. However, I wasn’t able to admire his face for long, only for a few seconds before he fixed his gaze to his electric guitar, placing his fingers on specific chords, then turning to stare at his bandmates. A couple looks were shared between them all, a mere roll of the eyes from Chad, a small smile from Krist towards Kurt - for motivation, as the good friend he was. Kurt on the other hand didn’t change his facial expression, only nodding his head at both the boys before switching back to stare at the instrument adorned by his grip, beginning to bob his head slowly - counting himself in. Even from afar I was able to tell that at that single moment, he didn’t carry a care or a worry for anyone but his guitar, focusing all his energy and thought into this one specific thing: the start of the performance.

1...2...3...4

As the music began, a smile branched onto my cheeks instantly. A song I recognised, my heart warming as I realised what was playing. About a girl, the song we wrote together.

Usually, Kurt would write alone, not wanting anyone else’s input and ideas; all the band played was what Kurt had written, for it was truly only his work on that stage, just a few people helping out to put it together in life form. However, there was a significant time after a band practice weeks ago where I had attended due to me having nothing else to do, and watching the three of them play always made me feel content - holding my heart with hope for the new wave of music they were producing. As they were packing up their stuff at the end of the rehearsal, Kurt had slowly wandered off from tidying up and had come up to me, awkwardly wanting to show me what he had written for a random song: hungry for my opinion even when he never really cared what anyone thought of his music. We ended up co-writing that specific song together, the song sounding the room at this very moment. As I stared at Kurt all that was met with my eyes was his entire concentration to perfect everything that he was playing; every move of the finger producing a different sound as he attempted to hit all the ones significantly partnered with the song. He knew I was watching him, that’s why he played this song first and foremost.

Lifting his head up from the guitar, his mouth instantly pressed itself onto the microphone, revealing his raw, raspy vocals. My eyes were physically unable to detach themselves from the sight I was seeing at this very moment. They had performed multiple times before, yet this time, something felt different. New. Almost as if everything pieced in together, and with just a bit of sanding around the edges - they’d be perfect, unlike any band I had ever seen live. Watching the crowd’s attention simply staying undivided towards the band made me feel a sort of elation the morning of Christmas would give you, the sensational feeling hitting you that its the date that brought everyone together; this time the music was the thing that brought everyone together. My eyes scanned the crowd, noticing some people bobbing their heads, surprised by their immediate tunes that were being emitted from the song, widening my smile - if that was even humanly possible at this moment. Their fresh, uncensored, gruffy sound was something not many bands at the time even thought about playing - that was for people who were behind their time, Sex Pistols era almost. The feeling that warmed my heart at that moment was something indescribable - illegitimate for words. It felt like a lighter had torched its way into my body, the sharp pain bruising a bright crimson all the way up my torso to my cheeks, a breath hitched back in my throat as I slowly figure out the way to breathe again. The pain that caressed my heart so dearingly was also paired with a strong sense of joy. Happiness. Delighted that the pieces of such a complex puzzle were fitting together.

As a minute or so went on, the crowd slowly began to get more and more into the music, some people now swaying their hips or dancing around with their friends. I couldn’t help but wonder how Kurt was beginning to feel, or what he was already feeling. Euphoria at the highest degree, something so strong not even a multiload of ecstasy could even attempt to give you. I found myself singing along to the words quietly, resulting in the people around me noticing that I was the only one who actually knew the song apart from the band. A random guy had turned to look at me, drink firmly gripped in hand, and with his rough attempt to shout over the loud music, whilst pointing towards the stage. “You know them?”

For a couple of scenes everything went still. I stopped moving, my eyes slowly getting lost with the man standing on the stage in front of me as I accidentally ignored the stranger’s question. I continued watching the stage, my eyes focused on Kurt - until his eyes abruptly opened, locking in with mine instantly. Startled, he noticed my starstruck expression, a little grin hanging off his lips. Maybe it was out of arrogance, however I knew he wasn’t planning on taking them off soon - not that I’d be the one to complain. His eyes were bright, glimmering with happiness; filled with life and fertility as they pierced into my soul so daringly, carrying the same devilish want that Adam had been challenged with once told not to eat the apple off the tree - his mind so intrusive he was simply unable to resist. His wondrous orbs carried a hint of impish, vanity, as they were also laced with a hint of seductivity and perhaps a shed of horniness, sudden greed blistering over his ocean-like eyes; he wanted it all, in the most wicked of ways. It would be a white lie if I had said this didn’t make me feel some sort of way; had he never looked at me like that before, I might’ve said otherwise. Perhaps his sudden bursts of confidence spewing out of him made him act this way, regardless, I knew it was something real. His eyes bestowed the same hunger he had initiated into his sudden approach when asking me what I thought of the music he had written, the first time me and him truly bonded together. I seemingly was unable to detach my eyes from him, for my body, heart and mind stayed encompassed in thought of how bewildered I was; in simply over a year, I had watched him grow, become more confident, sanguine, and it was all showing off now. He was staring at me as if the world was ending, and that I was the last thing he wanted engraved in his mind, aiding him into dying in such complacency it was almost as equal as equilibrium in the world of absolute zero. “Yes I do,” I muttered, nudging the unfamiliar person whom I hadn’t even set eyes upon. Feeling his gaze burn into my cheek, I continued to focus my eyes on Kurt, my tongue licking the sides of my mouth as I figured out words to muster. “That’s my boyfriend,”

#kurt cobain x reader #nirvana #kurt cobain #dave grohl #krist novoselic #90s #grunge #nineties #band imagines #imagines #fluff #smut #angst #my writing #grunge is not dead

206 notes · View notes

mycandylovefanatics · 4 years

Text

Muted Desires

Word count: 2k

Genre: Angst?? Maybe idk lmao

Warnings: Very, very mild NSFW at the end. Nothing you have to hide in your bedroom to read

This is based off of episode 4 of MCL University Life. I wasn’t happy with the way the game portrays his attitude towards us, and our candy just sitting there and taking it. I wanted to add a little more... idk detail to it and why he reacts the way he did? I also wanted to see this from his perspective. Anyways this is my first full oneshot that I’ve written in YEARS so please don’t judge, and feedback is always much appreciated <3

FYI:I do NOT normally do these so don’t request them, if you thought i took forever to get headcanons out then...

Also BIG thanks to my friend @mdme-sora for helping me with the title and being grammar police for me lololol love you girl!

Castiel plays the first few notes of the band’s opening song. He can hear the screams and shouts from behind the curtain as he drags his fingers over the strings of his guitar. The volume from the amp causes his ears to ring just a bit, but after performing so many times he’s used to it. He continues the same tune while the other members of the band join in, one by one until the different rhythms form into one. The screams get more impatient as they wait for the band to reveal themselves, but more specifically, him to reveal himself. The other instruments become silent as he plays the last few notes and the curtain finally rises. A moment of silence, and the crowd is silent with them, until he finally turns around to face the jam packed bar room. He steps up to the mic and introduces the band, not that the introduction was much needed in the first place. The crowd erupts into another fit of screams and cheers as the band starts singing the lyrics to one of their most well known songs. The crowd begins to sing along and dance to the beat, putting a faint smile on his face, unnoticeable by most people. He starts to walk around the small space on the stage and soon enough, Castiel finds himself slipping into that familiar trance that he always fades into whenever he performs. He drowns himself in his music, scanning the crowd but not actually taking them in, not actually seeing them. Nothing can break his focus-

Until his eyes land on you. He can feel his eyes widen and his heart begins to thump so hard he swears it might rip out from his chest. His breathing hitches and he almost fumbles the next line of lyrics, before he catches himself. Your eyes meet, but only for a split second as he forces himself to look away and regain his composure, focusing on a group of squealing girls directly in front of him. Why were you here? When did you get back? Had you been back for long? So many questions run through his mind at one time. The room is suddenly way too warm, his mouth is way too dry and he would want nothing more than a cold glass of water. Scratch that, an ice cold glass of beer. Luckily for him, the current song does not require him to have his hands occupied with his guitar. He takes off his jacket and tosses it to the side of the stage, hoping to alleviate some of the heat but nothing comes of it. It takes every bone in his body to not look at you again. Part of him questions whether or not that was actually you, but he knows. He would recognize those eyes in a sea of people any day.

Suddenly he finds himself wanting this concert to be over sooner than later, and it seems like forever until the final note to the last song of the night plays out. He says his normal ‘goodbye and thank you’ speech while his eyes scan the room for you. He catches a glimpse of your head walking towards the bathroom. The line is long, he notices with relief, which should give him plenty of time to have a quick chat with his band mates and mentally prepare himself to talk to you. He tries to remember the last time you two had spoken. What was it, four years ago now? You guys had kept in touch for a few weeks after you broke up, but eventually you both knew that you couldn’t keep going like that. The daily texts turned into weekly, the weekly turned into monthly and then soon enough, the monthly turned into…never. He feels his heart ache at the memory, but pushes the feeling away almost immediately. It’s been four years, why is he still wallowing in his feelings? Surely you didn’t feel anything for him anymore, so whatever feelings he did have were pointless. At least that’s what he tried to tell himself.

He’s talking to his band mate, Devin, when he notices you’ve come out of the bathroom. You’re making your way to the bar, and Castiel cuts his conversation short. “Hey, I’m gonna stay back and talk to an...old friend for a bit, I’ll catch you guys later.” Before Devin can respond, he’s walking off towards you. You’re pushing your way through, almost to the bar when he grabs your wrist, keeping his grip firm to keep you from going any further. You turn around with wide eyes, clearly not expecting him to be the one grabbing you. His heart starts beating again, but he forces his nerves back down and looks you in the eye. “Hi,” he says. That’s it. He wants to slap himself for it, but then again what else CAN he say?

You’re at a loss for words but force out a hesitant “Hel... Hello.”

“I didn’t know you were back in town, you didn’t tell me,” he says.

Your eyebrows raise up at this. “I haven’t had the chance to… And besides-”

He cuts you off before you can finish your sentence and before he can even stop himself. “No need to make excuses.” He says it a little more coldly than he means to. Or maybe he does mean to, he’s not sure. You start saying something but he cuts you off, again surprised by the sudden brashness in his tone. “So you show up to one of my concerts without saying anything and you didn’t think I’d notice?”

“What? No, it’s not that at all, I just-”

“I noticed you in the crowd during the concert,” he says. You look shocked that he noticed you in the first place, he smirks a bit. “I know there were a million people here tonight but you don’t blend in very well when I’ve known your face for years.”

You’re about to say something when a group of fan girls suddenly surrounds you. He can see the mixture of annoyance and amazement on your face, and he lightly grabs your wrist again. The feeling of your smooth skin makes his breathing hitch for a second.

“Let’s go somewhere a little less crowded.” You let him pull you towards the back of the bar, into a small broom closet. He left the door slightly cracked to allow air to flow in. People were passing by, employees, but they didn’t notice the two of you standing in there.

You looked at him for a moment, as if you were taking in the way his face had changed over the years. And it had, his jaw was more defined, his eyes seemed more intense. You felt a small wave of nostalgia though, as you realized his hair had stayed the exact same length and color from when you’d last seen him. When you first met him. You smiled up at him.

“I’m glad to be seeing you again, it’s been a while.”

He scoffs, “Glad to see me but didn’t bother telling me you were back in the first place.”

Your smile falters at this, and for a split second he feels bad. He doesn’t want to make you feel guilty yet for some reason he can’t stop his bottled up anger from spilling out. He isn’t expecting you to respond with the same snappiness, though.

“And what the hell was I supposed to say? We haven’t spoken in four years but yeah, it would have been totally not weird for me to suddenly get back in touch overnight only to say ‘Hey, I’m back in town’?” You roll your eyes and continue, “Especially after the way we left things, you KNOW it’s not that simple.”

His chest tightens at your response. He knows all too well that you’re right, but he doesn’t want to admit that. He just looks at you with that same glare he would give you whenever he was pissed off.

“You’re right actually, you’re the one who left. I guess you wouldn’t be coming back for me.” He desperately wants to tell himself to just shut the hell up, to just stop talking but he doesn’t.

“Is that what you wanted? Me to come back for you?” You ask. He knows your question is well placed, but he tries to deflect it.

“Pfft, seriously? You leave for years and then waltz back in here expecting me to be available just like that? Waiting nice and sweet for you?” He knows he’s stretching your words but he does this because he knows deep down, you’re right again. Maybe he did want you to come back for him, maybe he did want you to say how much you’d missed him.

“That's not what I meant and you know it,” you say. And he does know it.

“Hm, okay little girl…” His heart thumps as the words come out of his mouth before he can stop them. He plays it off like he means nothing by it, but he can’t deny the warm, yet painful feeling he gets when he remembers the way he used to call you that when you were together. He takes a deep breath and gives you his signature smirk. “How about we wipe the slate clean and start over?”

You nod your head and quickly change the topic. “Well, looks like your music is really taking off. I never imagined you’d be so famous that we’d have to hide just to have a normal conversation.”

He looks off to the side. “Yeah, that’s one of the many costs for fame. But, this is our hometown, where we got started so we’re more well known here. It’s not like this everywhere.”

You notice he seems to be uncomfortable with the topic so you change it again. “Well either way, you sounded great up there. You’ve definitely come a long way since we were in highschool.” He laughs, a real laugh this time, “I would hope so! I was only just getting started back then, and now I’m actually seeing how things are done. It helps to have some pretty good band mates as well.” You smile, he seems to be really happy with how far he’s come. You knew it had been his dream, and seeing it come true for him made you proud.

While you were glad to be conversing with your old friend, or maybe lover is a better word, you remembered that Chani was waiting for you, and you glanced towards the door. He notices how you look a bit anxious.

“If you’re bored just say so.”

Your eyes snap back at him, eyebrows raised again. “N-no it’s not that, it’s just, I came here with someone.”

His heart clenches again, and he can’t stop himself from asking. “Are you on a date?” The question is none of his business, he knows that. But he wants to know anyway.

“Oh, no definitely not,” you are sure why you put emphasis on ‘definitely’. “I’m here with a friend from school, her name is Chani.” He feels relief in his chest, and peeks through the door. He wants to keep you here, wants to keep talking to you. But he feels like he’s about to explode, and it’s suddenly way too hot again. He ends the conversation.

“Well, looks like the crowd has died down. I’m going to go get a drink, I could really go for a beer right now. I’ll see you around.”

And with that he leaves you in the closet by yourself. He walks to the bar and sits on one of the stools, immediately getting attention from a few girls still lounging in the bar. He orders his choice of beer, chugging it as soon as it’s in his hands. Normally he’d be packing up his equipment and getting into bed as soon as possible, but tonight he knew he was gonna need more than a good night’s sleep to process what had just happened.

He entertains the blonde woman by his side, who is trailing her finger up and down his arm, tracing his tattoos. She was saying something about his performance, no doubt saying something about how good he looked up on stage. He had heard it all before, but that’s not why he was zoned out. His gaze shifts past the blonde’s head, and sees you walking towards the exit, Chani, he assumed, by your side. It was as if you could feel his eyes boring into your back because just as you were about to walk through the door, you stopped and turned. Your eyes met once more that night. He couldn’t tell what you were thinking, though he desperately wished he could. Your eyes stayed locked like that for what felt like eternity, before you continued your way out the door once your friend got your attention again. As per request, the bartender gave him another beer bottle. And another, and another. The woman on his arm luckily, doesn’t notice how he’s not listening to a word she’s saying. His clouded mind is focused on you and you alone. How much you’d changed, how you looked so different but still the same. The way your voice still went up a pitch when you got irritated. How your eyes would crinkle whenever you’d laugh. The way that no matter how many people were in a room, his eyes would always find you. Just like they did tonight.

He downs his last beer as if it were water, and stands up from the bar. He drapes an arm around the woman, who he can’t for the life of him remember her name, or if she had even told him what it was in the first place. He leans against her and whispers in her ear, “Why don’t we go back to my place?” And without hesitation, she accepts. They stroll out of the bar together and walk back to his place, as it’s only a few blocks away. He hurriedly opens the door and pushes her through it, kissing her in a slightly drunken haze, not waiting a second to start discarding articles of clothing. He can feel her touching him, he can feel his hot skin melting with hers, and he feels good. But as he’s running his hands up and down the curves of her body, sucking and licking on her neck while she pants in his ear, he can’t help but to wish it were you instead.

#mcl #mclul #mcl oneshot #mcl headcanons #castiel #mcl castiel #mclul castiel #castiel headcanons #mycandylove #mcl headcanon #Castiel headcanon #mclul headcanon #mclul headcanons

96 notes · View notes

kamus15 · 3 years

Text

Heartbreak Weather 2021 Review*

Heartbreak Weather sound takes me to pop-rock elements where 1D left off, somehow Niall manages to put his on twist on it rather than sounding repetitive or following a certain formula. He found his own voice and niche in his first album and now with his second release, he explores further into lusting and one night stands with strangers. It shouldn’t be shocking on how we hear about his romantic escapades throughout the album and how much he yearns for company and also explores into self-doubt, vulnerability, and being young. Without further ado, let’s break into the album track-by-track:

1) Heartbreak Weather We start off with the title of the album, in this song, Niall tells us how sad and lost he was before meeting this girl whom he now shares a room in a hotel, we can pretty much tell that the girl is the one that takes initiative into this swift hook up as they undress each other and can’t wait to find each other wrapped in arms, legs and bedsheet. Poor Niall, you were probably coming off from a dry-spell and this is all you needed to breathe new energy into your life. The instruments played throughout this song are chill and have this Caribbean-tinged arrangements that makes the song feel rather relaxed despite Niall pleas of desperation and how lonely he must have felt.

2) Black & White The typical perfect song for a wedding. Oh yes, Niall narrates how he pictures himself growing older with who knows, maybe the girl on track 1? It’d be impossible to keep track of how many girls Niall must have dated since 1D began. It’s somehow cheesy but not enough for the whole song not to turn into a cheesy festival.

3) Dear Patience This is such a heartfelt song, where we see Niall talking to inner (younger) self. In a path to self-discovery, it’s easy to get lost in the process, and find it hard to hear your own voice. It’s very refreshing to hear Niall being so honest with himself and admit that he’s had his setbacks, just like any of us. During the song, he pleads for more understanding, to come to terms with being more *pun intended* patient.

4) Bend The Rules This has a rather interesting question-and-answer section where Niall wonders what his partner has been up to, even though he gives us a vague idea that he suspects of cheating, yet he knows there’s no proof and he might be seeing things. The song itself drags on quite a bit for my liking, however, it’s great to hear the vulnerability in his voice. Mr. Horan once again shows off his cleverness with his songwriting on this track.

5) Small Talk We’re back to the one-night stand, hook-up type of songs! We get it Niall, you like to drop your pants faster than a skyrocket! In this song, we hear how much Niall has been craving it and thinking it about it. With this type of song, in my mind, it would be perfect to play on a sleazy bar where you go to pick up your latest tinder hot date. Nothing new we haven’t seen before. Just shut up and F me

6) Nice To Meet Ya *Dua’s voice* One look at the lyrics it’s all it takes to figure out that this Irish leprechaun is either thinking about getting laid or having a nice Guinness stout in his nearest bar. I do like the fact his voice sounds different in this song, I can’t quite describe it, but it does remind me somehow of what brit-pop sounded in the late nineties. Niall becomes the second member of One Direction to dabble in French (cou, cou!), although I can’t see how taking your hot date to the sea will keep her warm. But, alas, I do see an effort in this song for creativity.

7) Put a little love on me This song screams Disney-ballad to me. It’s very syrupy and Niall’s vocals showcase quite some emotion as well. It sounds like something One direction would have put out during their peak. I do appreciate that Niall pushes his vocal range a bit further here.

8) Arms of a Stranger Unsure how to feel about this track, other than it’s a filler track.

9) Everywhere Niall can’t escape this girl who keeps turning up in every single corner he turns to, is he a victim or a perpetrator? The song sounds a bit bland and generic but works for the album body of work.

10) Cross your mind Ahh! at last, we have hit the summit of the record! This is my favorite track of the album and I’d definitely sing my lungs out on a karaoke night! It’s such a shame this wasn’t chosen as a single, because it’s a very catchy song. Niall tells us in this song he can’t let go of a girl that brings heart ache to him, he knows that she is toxic to him, yet, he doesn’t mind as long as she comes back to him. Leaving me in pieces, but I swear it's worth it every time, very clever Niall !!

11) New Angel 1D - Hey, Angel HS - Only Angel NH - New Angel What’s the obsession behind angels? I wonder who will be next in mentioning an angel in their solo albums. Nice song.

12) No Judgement Niall encourages the listener (or rather his lover du jour) that they don’t have anything to prove to be with him, since they are at a point where he is comfortable with that person. it’s nice to hear that Niall’s personality really comes through in this song, the man is simple, give him a golf cart full of equipment and a pint of beer and you have yourself a happy man! sonically, this sounds something Ed Sheeran would’ve put out (Shape of you says hello!), but it’s refreshing nonetheless that Niall makes this song his own.

13) San Francisco A bittersweet song. Can’t say much other than Niall shows how much hurt and PAYNE his last relationship in California has caused him, during his time in the Golden state.

14) Still The closing track, very interesting and quite intriguing that N. Horan/NHHQ chose to close this album with this particular track. The beginning of the song reminds me in a strange way of H. Styles “Canyon Moon”, notice how also towards the end of the song, Horan tells us everything will be alright.. sounds familiar? Harry on Fine Line’s closing track also conveys the same message, could this mean that in the near future there could be a Horan/Styles collab? Who knows! I’m exited regardless, their future seems very promising for both! Closing Remarks : The album works quite well as a body of work, Niall is very cohesive throughout the album with its themes and lyricism, I definitely hear his personality and drive in this songs. From track 1 to track 14, Niall had a hand in writing all songs, which I do appreciate in today’s music, he’s very relatable, his music gives anyone easy access to anyone without going deep for mixed messages or having the FBI decode hidden meanings, yes I am looking at you Harry Styles.

I give this album a solid 8/10 stars.

Disclosure : I do not own any images, music, lyrics alluded on this post. This is merely my take on one of today’s Pop music superstars latest to-date release.

#niall horan #heartbreak weather album #one direction #solo #albumreview #2021review reblog

1 note · View note

capnjay21 · 4 years

Text

A House is Never Still 4/6

Five years ago, Emma Swan disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Killian Jones’ disappearance, well, not so mysterious – given the denizens of Storybrooke all but blamed him for her murder. Drawn back to town by a series of strange events, he soon realises the story of what really happened the night she vanished is beginning to unravel, and what’s more: it isn’t over.

A/N: and here is chapter four! thank you so much for all the support so far, this chapter actually has one of my favourite sequences I’ve written for this fic. but I’m not telling which it is!

again, heaps and piles and many fancy vases full of gratitude for @hollyethecurious for creating this amazing aesthetic, without which this fic would not exist.

Rating: T

Warnings: mentions of suicide, canonical character death, and some Spooky Business™.

starting a tiny taglist since I got a request for one, so I am ~tentatively~ tagging a handful of people I think might want to read this - NO obligation to, and feel free to drop me a message to say hell nah if you would prefer! I won’t be offended in any way, shape or form!

@snowbellewells @carpedzem @kmomof4 @optomisticgirl

AO3 | one | two | three

-/-

4 – an unearthly hand

Present Day

The clouds parted for the first time since Killian’s return to Storybrooke on the day he brought Regina to Brooke House, lifting the feeling of grey that had cast its blanket over the town. For days, it had warmed itself in open doorways, prowled after townsfolk around street corners and crept beneath windowsills, and Killian was relieved to be granted something of a reprieve from the fog of autumn in New England.

The house stood, as it had the day before, in the north woods just a brisk, ten-minute walk away from the well-trodden track of the White Pine trail. He didn’t need the faded pieces of string to guide his path to the house anymore, and it had become so present in his impression of the town that he had forgotten that Brooke House, as it looked at that moment, had not always been there.

Regina had stopped twenty paces from the door, expression unreadable but for her parted lips.

It seemed almost unusual to see it in the sparkling sunlight of the morning, like something had been taken right out of it. Here it was white brick and rotted wood and barren, where at night it positively brimmed with something far more than any one person could comprehend. Even at a shell of its normal, terrible self, Regina had taken a little time to process.

“It really is here,” she had said finally. “How about that.”

She said how about that the same way you would say it if you found out an old classmate had gone on to become a movie star, or you discovered your local grocery store was lifting its embargo on branded products.

Not like a house that was sometimes there, sometimes not there, was today, decidedly, there.

It had been a bit more of a laborious journey than he was used to, but Killian’s Chevelle could only take them so far and he had a lot of equipment to bring with him today, cramming everything he could as delicately as possible into his rucksack. Regina, too, had brought a duffle bag full of materials, and Killian could spot the heavy corner of her book of shadows poking out from within, begging to be noticed. The previous times he had visited Brooke House he hadn’t been properly prepared, but this time around Killian was determined to leave the house with something he could quantify, rather than just the deep, sick dread that had left with him every other night.

He had entered the house ahead of her, the novelty of its return long since worn away, and moved into the living room just to the right of the hallway. It was far brighter in the light of day, the long, Victorian windows allowing a brilliant glow from the outside, and Killian could now even spot a few holes near the top of the front wall where the mortar had crumbled away, as dapples of sunlight trickled directly in from above painting yellow specks on the floorboards. Even still, he was not entirely comfortable being there. He walked twice around the edge of the room, every unexpected creak making his heart lurch uncomfortably into his mouth, and even once whispered Emma’s name out into the dust.

Nothing stirred.

Today it was bricks, and rotted wood, and bare.

He was just setting his camera atop its tripod when Regina finally entered, the heels of her boots clicking loudly on the old wood.

“It’s like walking back into high school,” she commented drily, clearly taking in the discarded scarf, the Apollo chocolate bar wrapper. “Is that my Ouija board?”

She looked almost indignant, as if Brooke House were an old friend who had borrowed a CD and never bothered to return it, but Killian wanted her attention focused elsewhere.

“Here, come and feel this.”

He led her by the hand (amid protests) to the centre of the room, a ring of dust slightly newer than the rest just barely visible on the floor. It was the place he had been standing the night prior, when Emma had dug her nails sharply into the back of his jacket.

“Palms out. Doesn’t it feel colder here than the rest of the room?”

Regina looked unconvinced. “Maybe a little.”

“It is,” Killian insisted. “I’m sure of it. Stay right there.” He darted back to his rucksack and pulled out two identical aluminium rods, bent at a right angle six inches from one of the ends. When he returned, he held them out to Regina so she could hold the shorter end, and although she pursed her lips in displeasure, obligingly she took them. “Hold them loosely, like this.” He adjusted her grip to match.

Regina looked unamused. “And what, in God’s name, are these?” She arched an eyebrow. “I better not get struck by lightning.”

Killian returned to where he had been squatting by the camera, tilting the tripod so it could capture the spot Regina was standing in. On the infrared display, she was a warm scarlet and gold storm.

“They’re dowsing rods.”

“You’re joking.”

“Couldn’t be more serious. Hold them steady – like that.” Regina reluctantly obliged. “Tell me if they move.”

Killian had experienced limited success with dowsing in the past – it had been shown to him by a farmer in Iowa who had used it to find buried metals and ores underneath the ground, and admittedly actually had a lot to show for the results. Killian himself had been sceptical, and given how intermittent his own successes were, there was no way to tell if they could be attributed to any real sense of divination or sheer blind luck. Still, he wanted to throw everything in his arsenal at Brooke House.

“I don’t have to tell you about the ideomotor response, do I?” Regina said flatly. “Unconscious involuntary movement. Dowsing is bullshit.”

“Says the woman brewing potions in her living room,” Killian shot back. “I mean it – even if it’s a little, tell me if they move.”

Satisfied with the positioning of the camera, he plugged in his tablet and left it set to record before returning to his rucksack. After some deliberation, he reached for the electro-magnetic field reader he had tried to cushion in the bag with a thick scarf. It was blocky and old, and looked like something that had been lifted from a 60s Star Trek set, but it had become one his most valued instruments over the years.

Regina had been craning her neck to see what he was holding, and once she realised, she let out a noise of frustration.

“Killian, if you wanted an EMF reader I would’ve brought mine – at least it’s not a hundred years old. And that’s clearly a single axis meter.” Single axis meters were notoriously more difficult to use than a tri-axis, as they required significant coordination in order to measure the information recorded across all three axis ,while also trying to move the instrument to gather more data; a tri-axis allowed for much more detailed data acquisition. You could only point Killian’s meter at one thing at a time, slowly, whereas Regina’s could probably handle something far more intricate.

Even so, Killian had far more faith in his own device.

“Believe me,” he informed her, “this is better.”

He could practically hear her rolling her eyes.

“Where did you get all this stuff anyway?”

“Ebay, mostly.”

She scoffed. “You look like a quack.”

Killian laughed. Quack was probably the most positive way Regina had ever described him. “And you’re listening to a quack,” he pointed out, “so what does that make you?” He glanced over to see her still standing where he had left her, holding the two dowsing rods outstretched. It didn’t look like they had moved. “Let me know if they cross.”

He was just tweaking with the settings on the EMF reader when Regina carried on.

“Where’s David today, anyway?”

She said ‘where’s David today’ as if she were enquiring which films her old school friend had starred in, or when branded products would be making their way onto the shelves at her local supermarket. Mild disinterest and a characteristic neutrality. She didn’t fool Killian for a second.

She carried on. “I was sure we’d be joined by the witless wonder in no time.”

Killian had sent David just one text message last night, a simple I’m sorry. David had read it, and not replied. He had to remind himself it was better off this way.

“He’s… busy.”

Regina looked surprised. “It’s been three days. How have you already fallen out with him?”

Killian tried to make his shrug as blithe as possible. “It’s a gift, I suppose.” He could just add David Nolan to the long list of people in Storybrooke who really didn’t want him to be there. Deciding finally that the dowsing rods weren’t getting anything from the cold spot, or perhaps weren’t getting anything from Regina, he crossed back over to her and swapped them for the EMF reader. This was something Regina was far more familiar with, and immediately began spinning slowly in place even as she wrinkled her nose disdainfully at the antiquated design.

“And, why, exactly, are we here?”

“We’re looking for Emma.”

Help me, Killian. Let me out. Please.

He had thought it over constantly over the last day. Maybe those words hadn’t just been spoken by that dark, terrible spectre of the house. Maybe that had been a little of Emma, their Emma, bleeding through. He had to find out for sure if there was anything but darkness left, and these were the only ways he knew to look for ghosts.

“We’re looking for Emma,” Regina repeated, in a strange tone.

It gave him pause, so he turned to look at her. She looked unfairly doubtful, and it made irritation flare within him. “The house is here, isn’t it? Where it wasn’t before. It stands to reason she could be here too. David saw her. So did Ruby. You said it yourself, something is changing. Why can’t it be her?”

He’d seen her, he wanted to say. But something held him back. Something private and longing and scared beyond his wits.

“Why can’t it be her?” he repeated, a little more forcefully when she didn’t immediately reply.

Regina bit her lip, as if trying to work out how best to proceed. She took a few steps forward, the wood underneath her boots creaking loudly.

“You and I both know… Emma wasn’t the only thing there that night. In the dark.”

Black lightning. Her wrist stained red, angry welts erupting across her forearm. Eyes as dark as obsidian.

Killian – Killian, don’t –!

A wave of nausea rose within him.

“Is it wise for us to start messing with stuff we don’t understand – again?” To her credit she looked like the suggestion made her almost as miserable as it did him, but her nature dictated she give voice to the thoughts that cut everybody to the quick. “I mean, what if this is something else, just taking the shape of Emma? And appealing to those made most vulnerable by the sight of her?”

So good of you to come and see me.

First David, then him. After all, Mary Margaret hadn’t reported any ghostly sightings, and neither had Regina – and she had practically drenched herself in the supernatural.

Killian shook his head, clutching the dowsing rods tightly.

“But what if it is Emma?” he said finally. The crux of the thing was that he could never ignore her, no matter how sensible the suggestion that he do so. He knew he looked weak, that the confidence he had projected toward Regina since returning to town had crumbled and he must look stupid next to her now, seventeen again and blithering and hopeful beside her world-worn pragmatism. “We have to try.”

He begged her, pleaded with her silently to support him.

Regina was quiet for a long moment, and the EMF reader let out a low zinging noise from where she was pointing it. After a while she sighed.

“Alright,” she said briskly, and Killian visibly sagged with relief. “But I’m going to need much more sage.”

-/-

October 24th – Five Years Ago

“Killian, it’s creepy here,” whined Mary Margaret. “When can we go?”

Emma watched as Killian laughed from where he sat across the room, drawing something onto the floorboards in thick, black marker.

“I’m sorry, Mary Margaret. Just indulge me a little longer.”

Brooke House wasn’t nearly as scary the second time Emma had visited it. They had come virtually straight from school, the sky starting to fade from bright blue to soft pink, but while Emma still didn’t exactly relish the idea of being there after dark, it had lost something of its harshness from the last time she’d been there. Somehow, by bringing Regina and Mary Margaret too, expanding their nervous trio out into a confident fivesome, it took power away from the old walls of the house. Regina had laughed when they showed her the spinning wheel, kicking it into an aggressively fast spin while they all gaped and cried for her to stop. Mary Margaret had removed the sheet from one of the armchairs in the sitting room, declared it looked comfortable enough to sleep in and confidently sat herself down – only for a large spider to creep out of the seams of the cushion, and crawl onto the edge of her dress.

Her shriek had nearly brought them all to tears, and Emma hadn’t been able to move or breathe for laughter for at least ten minutes.

Ever since Killian had asked them all to come to the house, and David had taken great pleasure in informing them it was probably haunted, Regina had been saying she would bring something to match the occasion, and she did not disappoint. Currently she, David and Mary Margaret sat on the floor (the latter with her skirts bunched up around her, casting nervous, fearful glances around for anymore creepy crawlies) surrounding what Regina had called a Ouija board. Emma recognised it only as something she’d once seen on television.

It was an old, polished wood surface ornately decorated, with all the letters of the alphabet and the numbers 0-9 beautifully calligraphed across the top. The symbol of the sun had been drawn in one corner, and a crescent moon in the other. The board came with a planchette, a triangular pointer with a glass circle in the centre to allow you to see the characters underneath. The idea, as Regina explained, was that spirits were supposed to speak through the board, by directing the planchette around its surface to spell out words and wishes.

All three held the tip of a finger on the pointer, and Emma watched with mild interest as it inched across the board. It was all bullshit anyway, but it did add to the atmosphere.

“Mary Margaret, you’re moving the pointer,” Regina scowled.

“I am not,” she replied, affronted. “David’s moving it!”

“I’m not! I swear I’m not!”

Regina brushed her hair from her face impatiently. “At least wait until we’ve asked it a question.”

“Where’d you get the creepy board, anyway?” Emma asked.

“My mom was keeping in in the attic, I found it last year when I was looking for Christmas decorations. She was so pissed when I brought it down, made me put it straight back. I always knew she was a bit nuts.” Regina grinned smugly. “So obviously I had to get it out again now the occasion called for it.”

David cleared his throat loudly, drawing their attention back to the board. “Let’s start.” He raised his voice, projecting it around the room and inserting as much grandiose as he could muster. “Are we alone in this house?” The planchette slid across the board, and David sounded out the letters it landed on. “N… O. It said no.”

“David, you’re clearly moving it.”

“I’m not!”

Leaving them to bicker, Emma turned her attention back to Killian. He had finished what he had been drawing on the floor, and was now scattering salt in a circle around it. Completely entranced in his work, his attention flickered between the salt in his hand and a few battered pieces of paper he had lain flat against the floor. Emma recognised one of them as the one etched with doodles and a few scribbles that they had found in Liam’s toolbox. Somehow, that only increased her feeling of unease.

“Hey,” she said, after crossing the room to sit beside him, hugging her knees to her chest. She was careful not to let her trainers disturb the circle he had made. She also wondered if Archie knew where all the salt at the group home had gone. “You okay?”

He had joked around with them while they let the others explore the house, but had soon retreated to his work. Which, Emma now realised, was a five-pointed star drawn on the floorboards in thick black marker, with each tip touching the edge of the salt circle.

“Yeah,” he replied, flashing her a smile. “I’m almost done.”

Emma bit her lip. “Remind me what it is you’re hoping to achieve? Do you really expect to, uh… summon some kind of ghost?” The look he gave her was unimpressed, but Emma shrugged. He hadn’t exactly given them a lot of clues. “What? I was there with Belle, remember? ‘Do you believe in magic?’”

Emma most certainly did not believe in magic.

The five-pointed star and the circle of salt were telling her something else about Killian, though.

“All I want is to understand. To just – get in his head, I don’t know. He was working on this house for weeks, but it looks like all he did was start peeling off the wallpaper. And why did he go and see Belle? Why did he –?”

Drive his car into a ravine? Emma couldn’t count the number of times Killian must have asked himself that.

He shook his head.

“It has to have something to do with this house. And look, these were in his toolbox.” Killian stepped carefully over his handiwork so he could crouch beside her, showing her the piece of paper, curling at the edges. “He drew the pentagram, right there.” He pointed out an image identical to the one Killian had just drawn on the floor. “I was doing a little research into the symbolism, and a lot of Satanic cults use it for, uh, stuff.” He trailed off unconvincingly, and Emma tried not to look the equal parts amused and creeped out that she felt.

“And like he’s done here, I’ll light a candle at each point. The notes he’s actually written are brief so I just had to interpret as best I can – ‘salt circle’ and ‘curvy dagger’. Did you bring your fishing knife like I asked?”

Emma leant forward so she could reach into the back pocket of her jeans to retrieve it. She held it close to her chest for a moment, thinking about all the comfort it had given her back when she was a kid – in a world where she could control so little, she had liked how powerful it made her feel. The first time she had showed it to Killian was when they were fourteen, and his eyes had grown so round that she hadn’t been able to stop herself from giggling.

After a moment of hesitation, she handed it over.

Another of David’s noisy questions out into the room drew their focus.

“Will I become rich and famous one day? Oh – Y… E… S.” He smirked triumphantly. “Well, better start sucking up to me now guys.”

Mary Margaret laughed. “It’s for talking to spirits, stupid, not predicting the future.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Regina purred. “Will David get a smack if he keeps moving the pointer? Yeah?”

There was a loud thump as she swatted him on the arm.

“Looks like it tells the future just fine.”

“Regina!”

They joined in the laughter with the others, the indignant surprise on David’s face just too funny to ignore; he protested loudly at all attempts of maltreatment, and started entreating the spirits in the house to retaliate on his behalf.

“They think this is a joke,” Emma said quietly, careful to keep her voice low so the others wouldn’t hear her. “Please don’t let it get to you when… if this goes nowhere.”

Killian had started wandering down a dangerous rabbit hole – she just didn’t want him to get hurt.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her, as he started placing candles at the five corners of the star. “Summoning an evil spirit? I have my expectations really low.”

“E…M…M… Emma, it’s spelt your name!” Mary Margaret squeaked.

Emma rolled her eyes, growing more tired by the minute of the game Regina had started. “Cut it out.”

“C…O…M…E.”

David narrowed his eyes at Regina suspiciously. “You’re moving it, right?”

Regina glowered back. “No, you are.”

“Guys,” Killian called over, “I’m ready.”

They left the Ouija board where it was, planchette resting atop the E, and came over to join them in the centre of the room. Killian directed each of them to sit at a point on the star, David and Mary Margaret giggling to each other but trying to keep a straight face, before he followed the line of the circle with some matches, lighting each candle. David jokingly blew on his, causing the flame to flicker wildly, and Emma shot him a warning look.

She only wanted them to take it seriously for a few minutes, just for Killian.

“What exactly are we trying to do?” Regina asked, looking bored as she played at dabbing the tip of the flame with her finger.

Emma had been about to bark a rebuke, but Killian beat her do it with an indulgent grin.

“We’re trying to get results.”

“I think I saw this ritual on an episode of Ghost Hunters,” Mary Margaret whispered excitedly. “See, the wife had murdered the husband, but they found a second body buried under the…” She seemed to sense the atmosphere starting to shift to something a little more sombre, and let her sentence trail off.

Killian stepped outside the circle to take his place at the final point of the star, placing the knife carefully in his lap once he was settled. Then they waited.

For a beat, nothing happened at all. The candles flickered in place, they exchanged uncertain looks. The shadows inside the sitting room had grown longer the closer the sun inched behind the trees, and it made the dappled light from the star in front of them look a little more ominous now that daylight was fading.

Regina huffed loudly. “Now what?”

“Erm,” Killian scratched the back of his neck, “I don’t really know.”

“Maybe we should hold hands?” David suggested quickly.

Emma felt that suggestion was probably more to do with the hand he would be holding than wanting to increase their chances of success – and she knew Killian agreed from the amused glance he sent her, but they consented all the same. Mary Margaret blushed as she slipped her hand into David’s.

Killian’s hand in Emma’s was warm, and a little clammy. It didn’t feel like it had the day of her birthday, when he had walked her back to the Nolan house from Granny’s. They had held hands the entire way, continuing to talk with enough forced nonchalance that they both knew the other was also clearly trying to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, hiding their smiles with glances out into the road. Then, it had made her feel dizzy with possibility, the gentle move of his thumb on the back of her hand sending her stomach spinning with delight.

This afternoon it didn’t thrill her the same way. She could feel how nervous he was in the slight tremor of his hand, and as she glanced at Regina on his other side she could tell the other girl could feel it too. Whether it was a sense of compassion for him or a desire to just get it over with, Regina slipped smoothly into control.

“We’re talking to the spirit in this house,” Regina said clearly, firmly, looking up into the ceiling. “Are you there?”

They all waited with bated breath.

“Can you hear us?”

All at once Emma was struck by the old, kind face of Belle Gold, wide eyed and fearful.

He found – he found a house, in the woods – and he thought it might make him strong.

Something thumped inside her chest. Like static from a radio, she could hear something crackling at her ear, but every time she turned her head toward the sound it disappeared. Twice she cleared her throat to try and speak but no sound came out. She knew, she knew, but she didn’t know how she knew, and Killian had turned to look at her, concerned, as her hand tightened on his.

“The knife,” she blurted out, and he raised an eyebrow. “It should be in the middle.”

Killian didn’t question her, merely stared at her curiously as he let go of Regina’s hand to slide the knife into the centre of the circle. It clattered against the floorboards before rolling to a stop in the middle.

But it felt – wrong.

“Wrong,” Mary Margaret echoed. Her eyes were closed.

David, too, had shut his eyes, and after Killian had once again completed the circle, Emma did the same. Regina didn’t speak again. Emma sensed she felt the same as she did; they had asked whatever they meant to ask, and it would be cheap to do so again. Only for show. Outside was nothing but stillness, not a sound to drown them out – in fact she had only become conscious of noise in the absence of it, and she now wished she had been playing closer attention to what it was that had stopped dead when they formed the circle.

They had been heard.

“I’m here,” Killian whispered quietly, so quietly Emma couldn’t be sure she hadn’t imagined it. “Find me.”

It had grown colder, gooseflesh beginning to erupt along her arm. Everything began to feel much farther away, as if her ears had popped, and a faint buzzing replaced the quiet that had blanketed them before. Oxygen was taking longer to reach her lungs, like the pressure in the air had changed. She could feel hair rising from the back of her neck and the thought suddenly entered her mind with a shuddering fear that she was about to be struck by lightning.

A rumble sounded from above, the rumble of something trapped beating against impossibly old doors.

The wardrobe.

It was all – wrong.

Come.

Listen.

Static zinged through her grip on Killian’s hand, and they both yelped and broke apart.

“What?” David spoke first, but the other three were all giving them baffled looks. Both Killian and Emma nursed their injured hands with matching grimaces. “What happened?”

“Electric shock,” Killian answered, shaking his hand out. “Bloody hell, ouch.”

“It’s the weather,” Regina offered. “I saw the forecast earlier. It always gets like this right before a storm.” Finally tired of the whole affair, she blew out her candle with an air of finality. “I think we can safely say this house is not haunted.”

Emma was willing her racing pulse to slow, trying to process what the fuck had just happened, but everyone else seemed to be carrying on as if nothing had occurred at all. David was helping Mary Margaret brush cobwebs from her hair while she asked if he wanted to come over to the Blanchard’s for dinner. Regina stood up and began to pack up the Ouija board. Killian stared at the flickering wick of his candle, looking despondent and a little frustrated. All like nothing in the world had taken place.

“Wait,” Emma said, looking around them all at confusion. “Are we really not going to talk about what just happened?”

They all turned to stare at her.

Killian was the first to reply. “What do you mean?”

“The – you know. It went quiet. The, uh, atmosphere.” She realised with frustration that it was amazingly difficult to describe, that breathlessness. The sense of standing on the edge and peering out into the dark. “You said it,” Emma pointed at Mary Margaret, remembering now that the girl had spoken. “You said ‘wrong’.”

Mary Margaret frowned. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.” When Mary Margaret again shook her head, Emma grew indignant. “You did!” She hadn’t goddamn imagined it, so why was the other girl bothering to deny it?

“Emma, she didn’t say anything,” David said cautiously. “Nobody said anything until you guys did.”

When she opened her mouth to retort Killian put a hand on her arm. It made her hesitate long enough for them all to brush past the moment.

“This place is creepy,” Mary Margaret declared, “and I’ve got to get home. David, are you coming?”

As Mary Margaret collected her stuff, David looked torn. Emma merely smiled at him weakly, but nodded her head – he should go. She was just… she was overtired. She probably shouldn’t have stayed up so late the night before studying for their calculus test on Monday. And she was letting the feeling of that house, of Killian’s hopefulness in that house get to her, and she’d let herself get carried right along by something else altogether.

They finished helping Regina pack the board away, but Emma stayed behind to help Killian clear up, promising to see the others at school the next day, and David that night once he got back to Ruth’s. The pair of them worked mostly in silence, using the old bucket and sponge Liam had left and a bottle of water to wipe the black marker away from the floorboards. Even amongst the disrepair of the house, it felt dishonest to leave the markings on the floor.

Or perhaps they just didn’t want to leave any permanent evidence of their being there.

“I believe you,” Killian said quietly. “I didn’t hear her, but I believe you. I think these things have to affect all of us differently.”

And by ‘these things’, he meant the supernatural. Ghosts. The movement of the planchette across Regina’s spirit board.

Things Emma definitely, categorically did not believe in.

Right?

She dismissed him. “You only think I heard something because you want me to have heard something.” It wasn’t true belief in her, it wasn’t because he knew her to be honest or trusted her. It was because something else was what he had come here for, and her ramblings had been his only glimpse of it.

Killian’s wanting, longing, was palpable in his every hopeful inhale.

“That’s unfair.”

Emma chose not to reply.

“What else did you feel? In the circle?”

“Killian, stop.” She made sure her voice was firm. “You promised not to let this get to you. We tried, okay? Nothing happened.”

They had been heard.

“But you said –”

“I didn’t hear anything, alright? Just forget it.” She stalked over to the window and picked up her rucksack. If she said it forcefully enough to him, she could make it just as true to herself. “Do you want to grab some dinner somewhere?”

She knew she sounded irritated, and Kilian didn’t respond, just watched her from the centre of the room. He was not impressed with her brushing him off, clearly wanted to continue down that line of questioning, and was waiting until she felt ready to talk about it. Suddenly irritated with his saintly level of patience, Emma huffed.

“Fine. Stay here by yourself. See if I care.”

Without waiting to see if he would reply, Emma barged out of the front door and stomped down the rotted steps without another word.

-/-

But she couldn’t sleep that night.

Every time she shut her eyes, drifted near enough to something dreamless, images so vivid they felt more real than the bed she lay in assaulted her. Killian’s disappointed expression from the centre of the room, expectant, waiting. The scrape of the pointer across the board. The knife, lying still in the middle of their circle. Firelight flickering. Regina blowing out her candle with a whoosh that seemed to extend for minutes at a time.

The nothing she had felt as she sat and breathed in the circle. That terrible, absence of anything.

She had realised too late that she had left her fishing knife in Brooke House. It was altogether likely that Killian had picked it up, and after a quiet dinner with Ruth she considered going around to the group home to retrieve it from him. Instead, a wave of annoyance had risen in her. If Killian had picked it up, he should have brought it round to her. And after the brief spat they’d had before she left the house, she decided, really, he should be the one putting effort in for her. Her resolve had strengthened, and she had announced to Ruth that she would be going to bed early.

She had lain awake for a few hours, ears pricked for any noise downstairs. David had come home a little later than expected, had spoken with Ruth for a long time before retreating to his own room. Ruth had stayed in the living room for a while, likely catching up on a few chapters of the novel she had been reading, before Emma heard the creak of the stair indicating she, too, had gone to bed. Killian had not come round. Still the night wore on, and Emma found herself no closer to sleep.

Downstairs the refrigerator hummed, and the electric heater on the landing rumbled, with the occasional clank she had grown used to. On her first night, all the odd sounds of the Nolan house had unnerved her. Much like tonight she had stayed awake for hours, worried she would never be able to sleep, certain the Nolan’s would want to send her back before too long, missing Killian terribly. The further her anxiety had skyrocketed, the more restless she became.

Tonight the noises included the sliding pointer, the squeak of Killian’s pen on the floorboards, Mary Margaret’s quiet whisper, wrong.

In Brooke House, something clattered in the attic. The wardrobe doors bumped and groaned.

Emma’s eyes flew open.

Something was trying to get out.

Her heart began to thump wildly.

Come.

Listen.

She threw back the duvet and reached for her trainers.

Which was the last thing she could remember before she found herself stood in front of Brooke House.

Emma stumbled backwards, as if she were just now falling back into her own body and her knees felt weak with the strain of it, and dry leaves crunched underfoot. She was wearing her trainers. She was also still wearing her pyjama shirt and shorts, but had thrown a hoodie and a coat on over the top. Her legs were bare, and cold. In one hand she held a torch and the other was clenched into a fist at her side.

Why had she come here?

Something loud crashed inside the house, a shadow darted across the upstairs window.

Yes, Emma remembered now. She had come for her knife.

She always felt safer with that knife.

Climbing the front steps, slowly, her shoes sounded more muffled than usual. Before she had a chance to touch it the front door creaked open, beckoning her to step inside. She felt foggy, all – all lost, and what time was it, anyway? A dazed search of her pockets told her she hadn’t brought her cell phone. Why had she left without it? Why couldn’t she remember?

The by now familiar creak sounded from the landing. Emma was halfway up the staircase before she remembered setting her foot on the first step.

For a moment she felt Killian’s hand resting on the small of her back again, ready to steady her if she lost her balance, and she began to lean backwards into it – before it vanished and she had to jerk herself forward to avoid toppling down the stairs. Her hand was so tight on the banister that her knuckles had turned white. Right, Killian wasn’t there. Killian was at home, asleep.

Emma was in Brooke House.

The second floor was lit with tendrils of moonlight, dirty white and shapeless, crawling up the walls and stretching across the floor. The creak sounded again, and Emma gently opened the door to the room with the spinning wheel. As expected, the spinning wheel lay turning slowly on its axis by the soft press of the pedal underneath, except this time a man sat there, steadily feeding in pieces of straw until they came out as spun gold twine, which then pooled into a basket at the end. His face was obscured by the shadow of the windowsill, but he raised a hand in greeting before returning to his work.

She shook her head to try and confirm what she was seeing, and realised with a start that the door to the spinning wheel room was closed, and her hand was still poised above the handle. Had she opened it at all? She couldn’t remember. The old wood of the spinning wheel groaned behind the door and, firmly this time, Emma swung the door open inwardly. The wheel spun slowly – but on its own. Gone was the man, the spun gold, the straw. Only the empty dark and the dancing moonlight remained.

An odd noise jerked her attention away from the wheel, just as the light from her torch winked out. Now concerned, Emma smacked it against her palm a few times to try and knock the device back into working, but it did not respond. The sound came again, and to her ears it seemed like –

No, there it was again. She was sure.

It was a giggle.

High-pitched and delighted, something was laughing at her.

“Who’s there?” she said. Or did she?

She might have said: “I’m coming.”

Uncertain which she had said and which she had not said, Emma reached the end of the corridor and stood on her tiptoes so she could begin to scrabble with the door to the attic. The metal ring which would allow her to pull it down was just out of reach, but after she asked politely the panel dislodged from the ceiling by itself, and with it came the ladder. She rose one cautious step at a time, up into the black, and tried to remember why she was there.

Her knife, yes. She was coming for her knife. She had been just thirteen when she took it, lifting it from a set of tools a dockworker had left abandoned while he helped unload a seiner, and it had made Emma feel so dangerous to be holding it that she had immediately cradled it with both hands before making her escape. The blade was deadly sharp, far sharper than any knife she had seen in the group home or otherwise, and she had cut her hand while examining it later.

It had reminded her of herself. All along she had been afraid that one day someone might fall on her, and get hurt on all her sharp edges.

Another banner year, right?

What?

We’ve all got ghosts here.

As she reached the top her pulse began to race, and her heart turned her head and waited for her body to catch up. She ignored the desk, the vials, the shattered glass on the floor; like a string had been tied to the centre of her chest, made of hope and sadness and something wild, it propelled her forward to the darkest corner of the room. There, tucked into the downward slant of the roof, stood the wardrobe. It rattled in place, as if someone were stood behind and shaking it back and forth, and she could feel it.

She could feel it wanting, could feel it longing for her, and she longed for it right back. Breathless and exhilarated, she crossed the room in three short steps and knelt before it, hands reaching for the ornate handles on the doors. Darker swirls of colour spun out from the handles and almost seemed to move, curling delicately around her fingers.

Yes, they whispered, come.

Listen.

Emma tugged open the doors.

Which was the last thing she could remember before she found herself in her bed at the Nolan house, blinking against the hazy light of morning.

Once realisation struck Emma bolted upright, glancing wildly about her room. Her trainers were tucked against her dresser, her coat hung on the back of her door. There were leaves in her hair. Once she registered it was morning she scrambled for the clock at her bedside, which read 6.03am. Almost time to wake up for school.

Had she – had she dreamed it? The house?

It was already beginning to turn foggy and fade, the corners curling in on themselves with greater speed the more she tried to remember, like clutching at the tendrils of a dream that was vanishing out of sight. Everything was as it was.

Except for the knife.

Emma blinked, realising her left hand had been curled around the hilt of a very strange, very ornate knife – no. Dagger.

The hilt was black as pitch, and cool to touch, but the blade was what interested her the most. It’s edge was curved, as if it were blurring in and out of sight in the nature of a mirage, and was ornately patterned with twisting black shapes reaching all the way to its desperately sharp point. It was heavy, and unlike anything Emma had ever seen before.

But perhaps what intrigued her the most was the name emblazoned across it, written in an almost medieval cursive.

Weighty in both heft and emotional damage, Emma could scarcely believe it. What did it mean?

For written on it was a name she recognised. One they were all familiar with.

Liam Jones.

-/-

2nd May 2015 – Seven Months Later

David was the last to arrive by a couple of minutes. Although the air that night was cool, the day had been hot, and he was still dressed in the same t-shirt and shorts he had been wearing earlier. Killian couldn’t be more grateful for the drop in temperature – he could remember a time he had been a fan of the immortal summer, of scorching afternoons and ice cold drinks, it made him think of fly fishing in the lake in the middle of Memorial Park or setting off cheap fireworks by the docks that fizzled and burnt with the whole year’s lost potential. Last year he and Emma had borrowed Archie’s car and driven all the way to Portland, just so they could track down a lobster restaurant a traveller stopping in at Granny’s had told them about. They spent the entire afternoon searching until, tired and hungry, they’d picked up a few sandwiches from a convenience store and perched at the edge of the harbour, watching the boats roll in, and roll away again.

The whole day had been a bust. Killian couldn’t remember it being anything but perfect.

As the days stretched and he found himself looking for her amongst the sun-soaked streets of Storybrooke, summer became just one more thing he wanted no part of anymore.

“Is this going to take long?”

Mary Margaret’s voice jogged him back to the present, and Killian quickly jerked his head around to check nobody else was nearby. They had met at their usual spot, just a little ways into the north woods. Far enough that they would go unnoticed by any stray observer near the edge of the forest, but near enough that the distant sound of cars zooming past on the street could still be heard. Most of them were reluctant to venture any farther in now, if it could be avoided. Especially after dark.

Regina scoffed. “Why, are we keeping you from something?”

“My mom doesn’t like me being out late anymore,” Mary Margaret replied defensively. “I had to sneak out my window.”

“Well, our apologies for the inconvenience.” Unsurprisingly, Regina did not sound that sorry at all.

“Would you just stop?” David groused.

“Guys, please,” Killian interjected, wanting to cut them off before they could start getting too snippy. He turned his attention to Regina. “By the way, are you alright? I hear Humbert gave you a hard time yesterday.”

Regina had been collected from the school gates by Sheriff Humbert, in full view of everyone. He liked them to be observed when he decided to bring them in for another interview; it was one of his favourite tactics.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she shrugged. “It was the same questions as always.”

Why were you out in the woods? When did you see her last?

Is there anything you’re not telling us?

Smooth, long exhale.

Nothing, Sheriff Humbert.

“Good,” Killian answered, nodding slowly. “That’s good. And you, Mary Margaret? Did you get a chance to look for the house this week?”

They had been taking it in turns for the last few months, always making sure that they weren’t spotted together heading down the White Pine Trail, to investigate the place Brooke House had once stood. Ever since the first time they had been caught by Sheriff Humbert there, they had realised the man had started watching their every move in the weeks that followed Emma’s disappearance. Killian, especially, had scarcely been able to get away with taking an unusual route home from school without the sheriff picking up on it. The more time marched forward the less observed they felt, but they still stuck to the same precautions just to be sure.

It had been seven months since Emma had disappeared. Graham Humbert never let him forget it.

And with Emma, Brooke House had also vanished. Nothing stood at the end of the orange string trail Killian had once left anymore, only silence and torment.

Finding it again had to be their best chance at finding her. It was just that these days, finding felt a lot more like waiting.

Mary Margaret hadn’t answered him, so Killian flicked his eyes over. He could see her eyes were averted, jaw clenched. One of her shoes kept stringing up a restless beat on the floor for a few seconds at a time.

“Mary Margaret?”

She let out an almost irritated sigh. “No, Killian, I have not gone looking for the damn house.”

Killian blinked. “And what’s with the tone?”

“I have to study,” she burst, “I have AP tests in two weeks, and if I don’t pass I probably won’t be able to go to college. And instead, I’m disobeying my parents, standing in the middle of the woods and thinking about how much I don’t know about environmental science.”

Regina looked the way Killian felt; completely dumbfounded. “You’re thinking about exams right now?”

“It’s not just exams, Regina,” Mary Margaret insisted. “It’s my life. I want to make something of it one day, and I suggest you do the same.”

Something still had settled between them, as if Mary Margaret had started to lift the lid on something they had sworn to keep closed, and even the night around them was stiffening with anticipation. It was sacred ground on which their harsh words steered them, and it was impossible to discern where the line could be drawn between how to move forward, and how to avoid moving backward. At times they seemed to be the same thing, but somehow it was impossible to think of them the same way.

Emma had wanted to pass her exams too. Desperately, in fact. It had been so important to her that she be able to push off into the rest of her life in better straits than how she had been brought into it, and to that end she had often stayed up long into the night studying at the group home so she could avoid the noise and the steady stream of interruptions that came during the day. It was that which had prompted her to accept Ruth’s offering of a fostering, even after deciding long ago never to hand her heart out again to somebody she was sure would just return it later.

Killian had encouraged her; he had hoped she might find more at the Nolan house than a quiet place to work, and she had. She had found David, and with David came Mary Margaret, and Regina had fallen in as easily with them as she had with Killian and Emma years earlier. They had been a haphazard band, and for a year everything was warm and gold.

That was over now, and they had begun to splinter.

Killian – Killian, don’t –!

He heard her, always. Always, always.

“What about Emma?”

It was David who spoke, and he looked stricken to have even needed to say the words.

What about Emma? Was holding onto this, meeting clandestinely in the middle of the night to yet again swap how little progress they had made in getting her back – was this moving forward? Or was this trying so desperately not to move backward that they couldn’t keep their focus on anything ahead? Brooke House was never there when they looked for it. But Killian didn’t care about school, anyway. He’d had enough credits to graduate at the end of his junior year, before all of this. Every AP class he’d taken he had since dropped. Archie had barely been able to convince him to go to school for much of the year.

It didn’t matter to Killian, not a whisper; but was it okay for this to matter to someone else?

“Emma is gone,” Mary Margaret said, quietly. As if scared that they might hear her and yet desperate for them to. “And it’s…” She sucked in a sharp breath before continuing. “It’s devastating. But it’s – it’s been seven months. We have nothing. And more importantly, the police have nothing.” Killian could tell from a subtle movement in her fist that she was trembling. With fright, anger, sadness. Who could know for sure? “Finding Emma, if she can be found, should be up to them.”

Killian felt as if he’d been slapped. “How can you say that?”

“It’s their job, isn’t it?” she bit back. “And the more I think about that night… the more we feed into that – that hysteria, or – or whatever we thought we saw – the less help we’re being to them. The police, I mean.”

Killian felt his temper rising. He knew what he had seen – they had all seen it, although for reasons Killian couldn’t fathom, it had become a matter of spirited debate between Mary Margaret and David, and he and Regina.

“We never should have lied,” Mary Margaret continued firmly. “We should have told them everything from the start, about the house, about all of it.”

“They would have told us we were crazy,” Regina pointed out. “Hell, I would have called you crazy if I hadn’t seen it myself.”

“But at least I wouldn’t feel like this!” Mary Margaret’s voice cracked on the last syllable, and the bite in her expression had crumpled. She was all melancholy, draped in it like an old cloak, where in their group she had always been warmth. Everything was twisted now, like none of it could ever be light again. “Like I have this weight, poised above my head, and I’m just waiting for it to – to fall and crush me. And it hurts.” She clutched at her throat, eyes wide and sad. “And I’m breathless, and scared. All the time. And sometimes – sometimes I don’t realise I’ve forgotten that it’s there, but then I look up –”

David had taken a few steps closer to her, and put his arm around her shoulders. She curled into it and buried her face into his chest for a few moments, shaking, while he murmured something neither Killian nor Regina could hear. They couldn’t find the words to interject.

After a few long moments she gathered herself, her fist clenching into David’s shirt.

“It’s this lie,” she said fiercely, speaking into the solidness of David’s form, sounding as wretched as she looked. “And this feeling that if – if we’d just told the truth then they would have found something, and they would have found her.”

The accusation was softly cushioned, and gently aimed, but Killian felt it with the keen force of any blow.

“They wouldn’t have found her,” he answered evenly. They couldn’t. “It’s up to us.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “Of course you would say that.”

Killian’s temper flared. “Excuse me?”

“It clearly doesn’t bother you, Killian, but I’m just saying – if I could do this again I wouldn’t lie.”

I wouldn’t tell the lie you told me to tell.

The lie he had told them tell to protect them.

Humbert’s hard expression flashed in front of him.

Your friends say she was with you when she went missing. That you were the last one to see her.

“I wouldn’t either,” David added quietly.

Disbelief marred everything, it made everything black as tar – was this really what it was all coming to? Rounding on him?

“And what would you have told them?” Killian shot back. When David grimaced he pressed on. “No, really, I’m interested to know what you would have told the sheriff about the haunted house and the magic dagger.”

“Stop that,” Mary Margaret snapped, “it’s not magic.”

“Then how the bloody hell do you explain it? Explain this?”

With intent, Killian reached into his jacket and pulled out the dagger. Its curving edges glittered dangerously in the dim light, and in a movement so quick he might have imagined it he thought he saw Regina reach out a hand to take it, before snatching it back. The intricate pattern engraved onto the blade was one he had memorised from long nights spent staring at its edges, begging for it to reveal its secrets. The inky black writing crafted beautifully on top spoke of everything they had lost – the truth they all knew, and the only tangible proof that forces greater than themselves were at work.

The name carved across it was clear: Emma Swan.

Like a spell, it brought with it an almost supernatural quiet. Mary Margaret had begun to weep silently, and she shrugged away from David’s touch this time. Regina watched but did not speak. David couldn’t bear to do more than glance at the dagger, a pained expression on his face clear before he turned to look out into the forest.

“This is how we know she’s still out there,” Killian insisted fiercely. “We can’t give up now. Not after everything we’ve been through.”

For a little while, the only noise was Mary Margaret, trying to suppress a gasp or wiping her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. After some time, she sank down to perch on a nearby log and Regina joined her, threading their fingers together tightly. In the distance Killian could hear the rumble of the road, the sound of an engine increasing in volume before skittering away. Although reluctantly, he slipped the dagger back into the inside pocket of his jacket, and the blade was cool against his chest even through the fabric of his shirt. A cold comfort, but a comfort all the same.

“The truth is,” Mary Margaret began quietly, staring at the mossy ground at their feet. “I want to grieve. I loved Emma. I want to treasure her memory… I want the chance to miss her.” She lifted misty eyes and looked at each of them in turn. “But it’s impossible around all of you. For you she’s still here. But I want to keep moving forward.” She brushed a hand across a tear-stained cheek. “Will you – will you let me do that?”

With quiet strength, she dug the stake into the earth. Beneath it, they cracked.

She stood. There wasn’t anything else to say.

She looked impossibly guilty, and Killian searched for something to say that would deliver her from that, but all of it felt brittle and fake. The honest truth was that he loved her and wanted nothing but her happiness, but he might never forgive her if she walked out of that clearing now.

Mary Margaret looked to all of them, but it was Killian’s gaze she sought most eagerly. He couldn’t give it, staring stonily at the ground instead.

“I’ll… I’ll see you.”

She didn’t say at school, since he wouldn’t be going anyway and they both knew it. Recklessly, he thought that without it there might not be another excuse for their paths to cross. If she wanted to keep moving forward and leave all this in the past, then Killian would not be going with her. Dry leaves crunched as she departed, slowly receding until the only sound was the breeze whistling by.

“I’m not giving up. No way.”

It was Regina who had spoken, and Killian felt a wave of unreserved tenderness for her.

Her face softened, and she stepped over to lay a gentle hand on his arm.

“She’ll come around.”

She wouldn’t, but it was easier to pretend.

After Regina had gone Killian sat on the damp earth underneath him, leaning his head back to stare through the canopy. The trees had clustered together here, dark shapes towering over through which he could spot the stars winking in and out.

David shifted from where he stood. “Are you okay?”

Killian let out a long breath, one that he felt like he had been holding onto for a number of days. His chest felt tight, and he could feel a familiar tugging sensation behind his nose as the stars started to swim before him.

“Belle died. Yesterday.”

David let out a soft expletive. “I’m so sorry, Killian.”

“It was peaceful,” he nodded to himself, like it made everything fine. “In her sleep.”

Belle had been a great source of comfort for him. She talked in circles and remembered very little, but she remembered Liam and often asked after Emma, and had lived a deep and fulfilling life she loved to tell him about. It did her good to talk, the nuns had said, which was why they let him come. Every character in all of her stories was long gone now, but it didn’t cause her any pain. She spoke only of the joy in having known them and the colours with which they had brushed her soul. It didn’t matter how lonely it looked now, or how sad everyone else thought she must be to be alone; she had assured him many times that she was lucky, and wanted for little else.

He wanted desperately to feel like that, even if only for a heartbeat.

Sometimes, she had said with a smile, the best books have the dustiest jackets.

“It just feels like everything is slipping away.”

Mary Margaret, Belle. Liam. Emma. Everything he touched was dust.

Don’t tell me – it’s hot cocoa, with cinnamon, and you’re about to hand it over.

A hot tear spilled down his cheek and he angrily swiped it away.

He cleared his throat loudly, mostly to try and cover the sudden rush of emotion, but he knew that David had seen it. “Sometimes I can’t help but think… maybe it’s all in my head, you know? The more I think about that night the hazier it gets.” Like trying to remember a dream after you’d woken from it, every single day more details faded into nothing. “I just hear her.” That final, startled scream. It would never leave him, he just knew it. “All I can hear is her.”

Killian – Killian, don’t –!

“Me too,” David admitted quietly. “I hear it too.”

“I’m leaving,” he said suddenly, and with the confession came a twinge of relief, and he forgave himself a little more for it. “Right after graduation. I have to find an answer, and there isn’t one here.”

He’d go as far as needed, for as long as it took. He’d walk the stretch of the Earth if he had to.

For a moment David looked crestfallen, but he mastered it quickly. “I understand,” he said. And he might think he did – but David would never be looked at the way Storybrooke looked at Killian. In their eyes he would never be blameless, not the way the David Nolan was. Emma was his sister; she was just Killian’s victim.

“I’d go too,” David continued, “but my mom… it’s just hard, you know? I feel like there’s so much she doesn’t know. And I couldn’t…”

“I know,” Killian assured him, “it’s alright. I wouldn’t ask you to come.” It was something he would rather do alone.

A few moments of stillness passed, before David let out a low whistle.

“So. Right after graduation, huh?”

Killian nodded. June twenty-third, 18:00.

There was a bus to Augusta that he had promised he would not miss.

-/-

Present Day

As night fell, Killian again returned to Brooke House.

He had already spent much of the day there with Regina, taking readings, burning herbs and mumbling variations on familiar incantations from her book of shadows. There were a few key vocabularic differences, but the intention behind a few spells seemed similar to some he had seen from the coven in Pennsylvania. Just once they had let him sit in on a cleansing ceremony, a practice of healing for the soul, and he could recognise some of the actions as Regina guided him through a ritual for cleansing the air in the house. Smudging, she called it. But by the time they had departed in late afternoon, visibly nothing had changed within the house.

After grabbing a quick bite at Granny’s Killian had spent the remainder of early evening categorically working through all the other data he had been able to gather over the course of the day; and not one instrument had indicated anything outside of the realms of a normal abandoned house. In fact, most of the anomalous readings one could expect from a long period of constant use (a sudden spike in electromagnetic radiation, a noise in static on a recorder where there had been none aloud) were completely non-existent. Brooke House was as silent as the dead other than the sounds he and Regina made. It were as if they were measuring nothing at all.

No doubt, that was its intention.

He expected much to be different in the dark.

Again, he left the dagger rolled up in his scarf in his car, not wanting to bring it any closer to Emma – or to whatever Emma was. They were clearly linked, the spectre of the house and the dagger, and he had to believe that somewhere buried in there was his Emma. She retained the same memories, even if she warped them for her use. She recognised him. It was her name on the dagger.

He had taken the dagger to three different psychometrists over the years, seeking insight. Each one had only been able to tell him that its origin was evil, that its master was lost.

Even Killian could have surmised that much.

“Emma?” he called, as he stepped over the threshold. Only creaks of old wood answered back.

He lingered briefly in the sitting room, checking his old tape recorder that he had left running, tucked under the sheet of one of the armchairs as gently as possible. He wanted to avoid the possibility of muffling any sound while also trying to prevent its detection from any nefarious spirits that chose not to make a sound while he and Regina were there. All he needed was some kind of proof that something in the house moved when it was left to its own devices. In the morning he would return for it and listen for any erroneous sound.

As if reading his thoughts, an audible thump came from above him. He headed back out into the hall. For now, Killian decided to pocket the recorder and return it after he’d come to say what he meant to.

Again Killian called Emma’s name, mounting the stairs slowly. Once he reached the top he spotted the flash of white fabric trailing along the floor, disappearing into one of the rooms on the landing. Aside from the room with the spinning wheel that never faltered, Killian hadn’t spent much time in the other two rooms. One was a bedroom and the other a study, boasting only a desk and a wall lined with ancient, brittle bookcases, the tomes atop them turned grey with age with faded and illegible titles. It was into the study that he had seen her go, so Killian opened the door cautiously so as not to startle her away.

The bottom shelf of the bookcase nearest the door had collapsed, the books falling into a haphazard clump onto the floor. A dust cloud still lingered so he imagined it couldn’t have happened too long ago; he wondered if that was the noise he had heard from downstairs.

Emma stood with her back to him, the rustle of pages the only indication that she was moving. Then, without warning, she swung her right arm back and hurtled the book against the wall. The binding tore with a snap, and in pieces it clattered down onto the ground. Killian, reluctant to become a target for one of those heavy missiles, cleared his throat to announce himself, but quickly tucked the tape recorder subtly into one of the bookcases as he did so. He didn’t want her to catch it on him.

Emma turned, her jade eyes sharp in the gloom. As always, they cut right through him.

“Have you decided?” she said, her voice as heavy as stone.

Killian didn’t answer immediately, but tried to look at her more critically. What was he seeing? Just what he wanted to see, or something more?

Regina’s warning repeated itself over and over. What if this is something else, just taking the shape of Emma? And appealing to those made most vulnerable by the sight of her?

“Why didn’t you show yourself to Regina?”

They had been at Brooke House all day, there was ample opportunity. Not a creature had stirred out of place, as if the house had been holding its breath and waiting for them to leave. That meant one of two things – Emma did not think Regina could help with what she wanted, or there was nothing of Emma to show.

Emma lifted a shoulder in a half shrug and turned back to the bookcase. She picked up another book, and began lazily flipping through its contents.

That, too, found itself tossed to the edge of the room.

“I didn’t feel like it.” She reached for another.

“Come here,” he said, before he felt he’d truly made the decision. “Let me look at you.”

She turned slowly to stare at him; it was clear in her expression that she was unaccustomed to receiving orders, and was flirting with the idea of being furious, or going along with it. Keeping her eyes locked on his she discarded her final book, letting it flutter onto the floor, and started to walk towards him. It felt distinctly like being stalked by a predator, and he resisted the urge to step back when she came to a stop in front of him, looking up.

Instead he steeled his resolve, and lifted his thumb and forefinger to her chin. Her skin was glacial to the touch, pale and smooth. Like marble.

Applying a little pressure, Killian turned her head first to one side, then to the other. She allowed him, her eyes continuing to follow him intently. Up close, she looked human. With a little more colour in her cheeks she would look just like he remembered her. Would it even be possible, he wondered, for him to conjure up something so near to perfection? Was he capable? Could he really have imagined this?

“I’m so sorry,” he sighed sadly, brushing his fingers along her jaw, stilling them when they reached the tip of her neck.

Emma tensed underneath him. “What for?”

The list was unending.

“All of it.”

Something flickered across her expression, but it had moved too quickly for him to notice it. A blackened petal dropped from the circlet around her head, and became tangled in her hair. Without thinking, Killian gently tugged it loose.

“You don’t need to be sorry.”

A cold hand came to rest over his. Then, to his surprise, she lifted herself onto her tiptoes and leaned forward. Too shocked to move, Killian froze in place as she reached him. Like the rest of her, her lips were icy to touch, and moved gently against his like the purl of the ocean against the sand. His eyes stayed open but he could see hers had fluttered closed – she looked unarmed. Gentle. Like a girl.

She pulled back because he did not know how to keep her, and he could feel now that he was trembling. He was cold, his heart ached with grief, and he was furious.

That was a kiss that he had been saving, and she had taken it.

He opened his mouth to rattle off a rebuke, but something in her manner had changed. Her brows had knitted a little closer together, her lips parted – even her eyes looked as if they might have dulled from their usual startling shade.

Recognition fluttered across her features. She blinked slowly. “Killian?”

Killian’s heart began to hammer against his ribcage. Hope stuttered to life with every beat, but he tried to remain cautious. Something was different, he was sure of it, and now he wished he had been paying closer attention to her before so he might able to more clearly see now what had changed.

He watched her warily. “Emma?”

It happened in painfully slow motion. Her eyes glazed over, she turned herself away, something that had been out of alignment clicked back into place. In an almost unnatural way her head tilted, and began to stare at him with those new, wide eyes.

Her lips curled in a snarl. “That’s enough of that.”

A rush of air blew past him and she was gone, but Killian, exhilarated and almost breathless, couldn’t let her go.

“Wait, I –” He caught her in the hallway, her hand resting on the door to the spinning wheel room. She whirled around to face him expectantly, eyes ablaze. “I’ll do it. I’ll help you.”

The corner of her mouth curved upwards, a smirk rising into place.

Killian swallowed. He’d been at her mercy since the moment he laid eyes on her.

“Just… tell me what you need me to do.”

#jay writes #a house is never still #cs role reversal #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan #cs au #cs halloweek #gonna go ahead and still tag those #killian jones #emma swan #I hope you guys like this!#also those on the taglist must feel free to tell me to jog on #hahaha

33 notes · View notes

xazz · 4 years

Photo

Moth Wings 4

Pairing: AltMal, Altair+Desmond Rating: Explicit Tags: vampires, romance, servant AU, music AU, fluff, angst, flangst Status: WIP

It’s a very spooky scary time in the US right now. So it seems the best thing to do is to post some extra chapters of Moth Wings. Because vampires are less scary then the current political climate :,)

----

In the morning after breakfast Altair brought the violin case into Desmond’s room. Desmond was playing with some blocks. Altair took the bow out first and tightened and waxed it properly. Then he put the violin up under his chin and started to tighten the pegs. He drew the bow acros the strings and they gave a jumbled dissonance of out of key notes, making him wince.

Over the next hour or so Altair tuned the violin, testing each string one at a time then all together and then playing something, hearing the dissonance, and retuning it. It was slow going really. His ear wasn’t as trained as it used to be. Before all this he’d had nearly perfect pitch and could tell what was out of tune and how much to turn the peg effortlessly. This was taking a great effort now.

Finally he had the instrument tuned and he stood up. “Alright Desmond, I want you to sing along,” he said and drew the bow across the strings with an open neck. The chord was harmonic and beautiful.

He was out of practice playing too and his first attempts were clumsy. He screwed up notes and played things out of tune as he tried to remember some songs he’d once memorized.

The first day was full of failures and his fingers hurt after every attempt. He wasn’t used to playing anymore. After he put Desmond asleep for the night he laid in his bed and cried over his cramped hands, the strings had dug in so deeply they’d nearly drawn blood. It wasn’t even the pain though. It was that he couldn’t play like he used to. He’d grown up playing. He’d spent his entire life playing. And these three and a half years he’d been forced to stay here in the castle had robbed him of calluses and memory of how to do what he loved.

But he tried again the next day, pacing himself instead. He played a bit until his fingers hurt and then stopped and played with Desmond. When his hands felt better he tried again, stumbled his way through a song, and rested his hands again. The next day his hands didn’t hurt as bad.

He spent the next week or so doing that. Playing little ditties on the violin for Desmond’s amusement and building up his muscle memory and hand strength again. It wasn’t all gone really. It had just been buried. By the end of the week he remembered most of it but he still didn’t have the hand dexterity anymore for quick songs.

He needed a rest after a week. He didn’t bring the violin out and instead read Desmond story books. His hands had hurt so much that night and he needed to rest. Desmond liked the story books and picked out all the ones he liked he wanted Altair to read. As he did he tried to encourage Desmond to say some of the words with him. He never did.

As he was putting Desmond to sleep the boy was fussy and whiny. “What is it, Des? Hmm? What’s the matter? Why are you so fussy huh? You’re usually so good about going to bed.” Desmond, of course, didn’t say anything. But he sat up, stopping his fussing for a moment, and crudely mimed playing a violin like Altair had. That surprised him. “You want me to play you a song?” Desmond nodded. “Okay,” he got up from the bed and went to get the violin.

He made sure the instrument was tuned and sat on Desmond’s bed again. He played a simple lullaby instead of a ditty. His father used to play it to him when he was little to help him go to sleep so he only knew it by ear. Umar claimed Altair’s mother had written the piece and Altair liked to think Umar playing it for him was his way of having his mother sing to him at night. It wasn’t a sad lullaby like a lot were but it was down beat.

It was the first time he felt he played with any confidence since he’d brought the instrument here. He closed his eyes as he played, going by feel alone. The lullaby itself wasn’t very long. A dozen or so bars and he repeated them a few times. Eventually he opened his eyes and saw Desmond was sound asleep. He smiled and leaned over, kissing the boy’s cheek. “Goodnight, Desmond,” he said softly.

He started when he heard soft clapping and spun. Standing in the open doorway was the foreign vampire, Malik. Altair’s eyes got very wide and he swallowed. Shit. Had he seen Altair kiss Desmond goodnight? He was pretty sure the Matron would have a fit if she knew. “That was beautiful,” Malik said, just loud enough to hear but not loud enough to wake Desmond. “Come over here,” he beckoned.

Altair hesitated only a moment before obeying. Malik stepped out of the door and into the hall, he closed the door behind Altair to not disturb the babe. “You play very well,” he said.

“Thank you,” Altair swallowed.

“Have you played long?”

“Since I was a boy,” he said, looking down.

He started and flinched when the vampire grabbed him by the chin. “I told you the last time we spoke, look at me when you speak to me,” he said, making Altair look at him.

“Sorry, sir,” he swallowed.

“You learned to play when you were a boy?” Malik kept hold of his chin, like he knew Altair would look away the moment he was allowed. He wasn’t wrong. Altair nodded. “Who taught you?”

“My father. My family has made violins for musicians in the valley for five generations.”

“And you too?”

“I would have. But I was chosen to attend the castle and young master Desmond,” he swallowed.

Malik finally released his chin and he took a step back but didn’t avert his eyes. “Follow me,” was all Malik said and turned around. Altair wilted but did follow Malik. He was surprised when Malik led him into his chambers. In the week or so since his arrival he’d decorated and added his own things to the chamber. Did he intend to stay long? Malik fell gracefully onto a sofa. “Play for me,” he ordered.

“Ah— excuse me?” Altair squeaked.

“The song you played for the boy was lovely. I want one too.”

“Ah— I’m very out of practice. It won’t sound good,” Altair stammered.

“I won’t notice. We don’t have instruments like that where I’m from. Now play me something,” he put his arms on the back of either side of the sofa. Altair swallowed and put the violin up under his chin again. He closed his eyes because seeing Malik watching him was intimidating. He tried to think of something, anything, to play but he came up with nothing. He couldn’t remember a single sheet of music, couldn’t picture a single bar in his head. And Malik was waiting.

He just started playing. Nothing quick, his fingers weren’t fast enough for an upbeat song. He just played how he felt which was all he could do. He could imagine the notes like drops of water, splattering in a pool, and that helped him along. He played something that reminded him of before he was in the castle and he’d go down to the lake near the town and watch the mist lift during the morning. Tranquil, secluded, and with a touch of melancholy. And he knew he’d never get to watch a sunrise over the lake in a long time. Maybe ever again. Who knew how long vampires took to grow up. Desmond might be a child the rest of his life.

As he thought that the music turned from melancholy to sad, long mournful chords that Altair felt in his bones. Playing and hearing the music just made him even sadder. Desmond was two but he didn’t look like he’d aged a day since he’d hatched. Who knew how long it’d be until he looked like he was five, or ten, or fifteen, or old enough for the masters. Altair could be here forever. This could be his entire life now. Taking care of a young vampire who’d never grow up.

He jerked and his eyes flashed open when someone grabbed his wrist holding the bow. Malik was standing in front of him. “Why are you so sad?” Malik asked and to Altair’s horror he reached up to his face and wiped away a track of tears streaming down both cheeks. “What’s William doing to you?”

“N-nothing. I should go,” and before Malik could stop him he bolted.

#Assassin's Creed #Altmal #altair #Desmond Miles #malik al sayf #shut up bb #moth wings

9 notes · View notes

interesting-blog-name · 4 years

Text

Björk DISCOG REVIEW Part 1

One of the most recognized avant-garde singers in the world, Björk Guðmundsdóttir is an Icelandic artist who has been releasing critically acclaimed albums since the early 90s, and an icon in the experimental music scene. I thought it’d be an exciting experience to dive into her discography to find out if her music resonates with me, and to understand what this revered singer is all about. I decided to start with her major studio albums first, then moving on to her early work with Icelandic band The Sugarcubes and whatever else she has out there.

Debut

Björk’s properly titled debut is a wild amalgamation of sweet love songs, upbeat house music inspired by the UK’s early 90s scene, a hint of jazz, and of course, Björk’s enchanting voice. I won’t pretend to be a music university graduate or whatever, as I know close to nothing about what 90s music sounded like, what could have potentially influenced Björk on this album, nor will I try to give some sort of lecture about what is going on here; I’ll just cite what I enjoy and what I don’t, and why.

Debut feels authentic, it’s a finely crafted album, from its musical styles to its production to its songwriting. What spiked my interest immediately in it were the drums, and how fresh and varied they were; this is a very percussion-heavy album, the UK beats Björk implements are all about the infectious rhythms that enter your body and seem to control it, but even on tracks not so influenced by the nightclub life, the percussion is very good, in songs such as the opening Human Behaviour, with its fat bass drums, or the iconic, soothing Venus As a Boy, featuring tambourines, strong kicks, some rattle instrument, a prominent sampled echoing sound and a hint of bongos; these are all alongside various other rich instruments, violin passages that flow with the track perfectly, what sounds like xylophones peppering the track, all of this making this the best song in the album, in my opinion.

And when these instruments are not there, of course Björk herself makes up for it. Like Someone In Love is a beautiful ode to, well, love, comprised only of a harp, the singer’s eye-watering performance, and some ambient noise; it reminds me a bit too much of her cover of I Remember You, mostly because they’re both based on harps, but it is still very beautiful on its own. The Anchor Song is the emptiest on the record, closing the album up with some tension and overall introspection. It features only one verse from Björk sung two times, and like three saxophones? Definitely two at least, I’m not sure how they work, but it makes for a great, simplistic finisher (even if latter editions include Play Dead, a beautiful song, but not exactly fitting after the song before it).

Throughout the first handful of tracks, the pattern of “inward emotionally potent song sequenced by urban-life dance anthem, and back again” became apparent to me, but then broke after One Day did not transition into a dance track. Basically, my instant perception was that the record was this rollercoaster showcase of the hopeless romantic experience in a metropolitan, nocturnal city, and it may be, but if it is, it’s not as in-your-face as I initially thought. What catapulted these thoughts was the live version of There’s More To Life Than This, probably the most commercially-adept instrumental tune in the record, performed by Björk in a version purposefully awkward and weirdly personal, where she sings her second verse directly into a mic while the beat faintly plays in the background, fading further and further until the song flawlessly transitions to Like Someone In Love. It really makes you feel like your are at the Milk Bar, the night is packed, and Björk just pulls you into the bathroom and starts singing the rest of the song (for some reason); it reminded me of all those YouTube videos where the uploader takes a popular song, adds some background chatter, and soaks it all in reverb to give you the experience of listening to the song from the bathroom of a party. It is a distinct, creative way of spinning the original dance track around into something more, something that conveys this feeling of slight loneliness, even when surrounded by people, the central topic of the second song, Crying. The lyrics describe the big city, the huge crowds, but conversely the feeling of solitude and missing your loved one, or maybe even a place, it’s not explicitly told who or what Björk misses.

Romance is ever-present in Debut, through many incarnations. Big Time Sensuality, one of the most upbeat tracks here, is about a fresh romantic relationship, and the growing sensation of “something important (...) about to happen”, assumingly between Björk and whoever else. The house beat paints the scenario for this relationship as a club, by default. It brings you into this exciting nightlife, only for you to be pulled away immediately after by One Day, a track so cheerful it’s irresistible, and holding tight to the theme of romanticizing a loved one, then reaching Aeroplane in yet another beautiful transition. I have to admit this is the first song I don’t love in the album, I think it is good, and in the context of the album, definitely brings something new. What sets it apart is, this time around, the bongos are being used to their full extent, paired with birds chirping and a comfortable bass, incremented by occasional saxophone passages, this track ends up very tropical. After this, Come To Me is another passionate song, this time, Björk sings of comforting her partner and nurturing them, which naturally creates a super chill aura to the song. Accompanied by the violins and the lowkey guitars, it makes for a solid track, which in the context of the album I think eases the mood a bit too much, but is appreciated as a solid production, and closes out by bringing out the bongos once again, in a very nice outro (I should also note this is the first appearance of a real drum set on the album [I think]) (I should also also note the bassline sounds a little like early studio versions of True Love Waits by Radiohead, just some trivia).

Violently Happy right afterwards is the least interesting of the house tracks, with a mostly simple instrumental, and vocals Björk seeming to be compressed, or dowsed in some other effect. It’s not a standout in the tracklist to me, but the beauty of Debut is that the worst song is still solid as fuck. I think it’s a very consistent album, that delivers a unique and one-of-a-kind experience.

I didn’t expect this type of sound from Debut, but I was pleasantly surprised. It took me a while to like, but it definitely grew on me on with this 4 a.m. listening session I just had. I look forward to everything else I will listen to by Björk.

FAVORITE TRACKS: Venus As A Boy, Like Someone In Love, One Day, Big Time Sensuality, Human Behaviour

LEAST FAVORITE TRACK: Violently Happy

8.7/10

“Lately I find myself gazing at stars, hearing guitars like someone in love.”

Post

Going into Post, I was aware this would be quite different from Debut. I had listened to Army of Me and It’s Oh So Quiet before, seeing as they’re two of Björk’s biggest songs, and they obviously sound nothing like the acid house beats and soft, calming ballads in her debut, and that’s what is good about it, the sudden shift from a relatively safe musical environment to aggressive, chunky electronic production in Army of Me and Enjoy, and the absolute turnaround that is It’s Oh So Quiet.

The bold production decisions are what make this album exciting and surprising, in tracks such as I Miss You, mixing a synth-line with super loud bongos and some addictive synthesized drums, and trumpets at the end of the song, or the famous use of the Locrian mode in Army of Me, creating this menacing, dissonant melody, which perfectly fits the song and serves as an appropriate intro to the album that succeeds it. But they don’t always have to be out there to be notable and great: what I can tell from around the internet is that you can ask every single Björk fan ever what their favorite track by her is and it feels like at least a quarter will answer Hyper-ballad, and (even though I’m not nearly done with her discography) I can I say it’s with very good reason, as it is an amazingly composed song; same with Possibly Maybe, an enheartened slow jam which progresses from a cute love song about desiring to be with the one she’s flirting with, to disappointment in how they treat her, to the breakup, where she states she started wearing lipstick again, sucking her own tongue in remembrance of her once lover.

The album is very love-centered, specifically focused on the desire to be physically with someone, with how Björk mentions her love interest’s touch in plenty of tracks, such as I Miss You, a song about missing someone she apparently has never been with, where she literally asks her significant other “when will I get my cuddle?”. uwu.

(also what is this cover art lmao)

Also including this thirst for deeper contact are the songs Enjoy (“I wish I’d only look, and didn’t have to touch”, “How can I ignore? This is sex without touching?”) and Headphones (”They start off as cells that haven’t been touched before, these cells are virgins”), but the subject matter isn’t always literal and spelled out, as the tracks Isobel and Hyper-ballad seem to play with the idea of a hermit lifestyle, whether it’s at the top of a mountain or in the heart of a forest, with different meanings between the two, however. In Hyper-ballad, she’s isolated from the world alongside her lover, while in Isobel, she’s completely alone, married to herself, as she says. I enjoy the theme, but I think the vocals and instrumentation, while interesting, aren’t as good as many other examples from the album, same with the track previous to it, You’ve Been Flirting Again, which employs very faint and uniform violins under some soothing yet stagnant lyrics by Björk; it serves mostly as an interlude, I suppose, but it could go a little further, in my opinion.

To end the album, Cover Me and Headphones subdue the atmosphere by a lot. They’re very toned down, the first features some really nice windy background noise, and what I think is an oud. It’s an amazing section of the album, and from what I can gather, seems to be about her own experimentation with her music, describing a journey into what I think is this very album, a big departure from Debut for sure. It then transitions seamlessly into Headphones, which, on par with its title, is a much better experience if you are wearing headphones. The buzzing bass, Björk’s nearly ASMR vocals turning into gibberish at the end, and bubbly percussion are all super pleasing to the ears, and it continues the theme of her own musical creating process, singing how her headphones saved her life, and how nothing will ever be the same; it’s almost prophetical, and definitely one of my favorite songs here.

Post is much more colorful, daring and wild than Debut, but I don’t know if I like it better than its predecessor. I feel like Debut is obviously much more comfortable and pleasing than Post, and that even though Post has amazing tracks like Hyper-ballad, Enjoy and Possibly Maybe, as an album, I’m not really feeling it as much as the last one. The sense of cohesion in the last one, and how it used the UK beats to the best of their potentials, mixing them with much more soothing tracks and beautiful vocal performances is what attracts me to it so much. I really appreciate the direction Post took, as I don’t suppose many people were doing anything close to this in the 90s or before, and it certainly has its highlights, but I think Debut just got a tighter hold of me, and I just enjoyed it more, if looking at it from a purely superficial standpoint. The experimentation here is great, but I enjoy how fresh Debut sounds slightly more.

FAVORITE TRACKS: Hyper-ballad, I Miss You, Army of Me, Headphones, Possibly Maybe, Enjoy

LEAST FAVORITE TRACK: You’ve Been Flirting Again

8.5/10

“This is really dangerous, cover me. But worth all the effort, cover me.”

Homogenic

Alright shit got real.

This is way better than the last two albums, and they were amazing to begin with. But this album is insane. It’s focused, but also so loose and free. It’s an amazing experience, and I think Björk in her most comfortable style yet. She doesn’t miss the mark in one track of this album, they’re all at the very least good.

It starts off with the delirious drum patterns and violins in Hunter, and I tell you, I haven’t seen a better streak of amazing songs in an album yet: from the intro to 5 Years, all the songs between it are fucking fantastic, and that is only broken by Immature, a track which I don’t think is supposed to be much more than an interlude anyway; then it’s right back with Alarm Call.

I really don’t think I have anything to complain about in this review apart from 5 Years and Immature. On the first listen, I thought Howie B’s version of All Is Full Of Love was inferior to the original, which I had heard and loved a while ago, but I can’t even say that, because this one is perfect as an outro. With the drums gone, the track feels like a goodbye from Björk as you slowly descent from heaven after listening to this album; plus, it comes right after Pluto, by far the most aggressive song in Homogenic, with the singer yelling over her glitchiest production yet. Then it suddenly gives way to that incredible outro. Other amazing transitions include Unravel to Bachelorette, decorated by the overlapping violins, and from 5 Years to Immature. The serene, gorgeous sound of Unravel against the energetic, cinematic Bachelorette orchestra is easily one of the best moments in the album as well.

I find that whenever I find an album really good, I have problems describing why, but I promise this time I’ll try harder than when I listened to MAGDALENE. To start, Björk’s singing and the instruments backing her have never been more in harmony with each other, mainly due to Björk’s and her producers’ focus on maintaining a homogenous sound throughout the record, as its title implies, and this style is the mix of strings and other orchestral instruments (including an accordion at some points) with the odd, sometimes glitchy (All Neon Like, 5 Years, Pluto) other times fleshed out and bulky (Hunter, Immature, Alarm Call) production of Mark Bell, Guy Sigsworth, Howie B, Markus Dravs and, of course, Björk herself. Jóga and Unravel are my favorite Björk songs so far, and the fact that they come back to back, right before Bachelorette, is still crazy to me.

Alarm Call is a beautiful song about how your music impacts the world, and just an anthem of euphoria basically, which might be a little out of place surrounded by the very specific sound the album goes for, with its bop qualities and dance rhythm, but I appreciate it a lot just for how easily Björk can pour her feelings onto a track and make it work out of seemingly nowhere. This song demands happiness from the listener, and it’s extremely difficult not to give in to its groove (“I’m no fucking Buddhist, but this is enlightenment”).

In my opinion, All Neon Like is the perfect embodiment of Homogenic’s atmosphere: it’s not as brilliantly and enormously produced as the songs before it, but it is frigid and ethereal, the lyrics are sung fairy tales, continuing the genius metaphors in Bachelorette.

It’s slightly futile for me to try and dissect Björk’s lyrics one by one, but they do stand out more than in her previous records as well, even though the focus on Homogenic is mainly in its aesthetic. 5 Years is the first song that features lyrics that point themselves against someone, a former love interest of Björk, accusing them of not being able to handle her, and while Immature’s lyrics don’t go anywhere due to them consisting of a verse repeated twice, they follow the theme of abandoning a lover, and this time, the questioning is to herself, wondering how she thought her significant other was a cure to all her personal issues. Hunter, an amazing intro to an amazing album, centers its lyrics around some of the same topics as the outro in Post (Cover Me and Headphones) which describes a voyage into the unknown that was Björk’s musical endeavors at the time, her will to go the distance to create something brand new and exciting. In this intro, she compares it to hunting and bringing the food to the table. It starts: “If travel is searching and home what’s been found, I’m not stopping”. It’s fucking brilliant man holy shit.

Now that I write this, I realize, from 5 Years onward, the songs cease to be about idolizing another person, with tracks such as Immature and Alarm Bell being introspective looks at Björk and her current feelings, and Pluto being about batshit self-change. Even All Is Full Of Love, with its first lyrics being “You’ll be given love, you’ll be taken care of”, seems to be addressing more of the ambient surrounding the person than the person themselves, as if they’re a placeholder for all the angelic ambience around the listener. Maybe the song is literally about placing the listener in this scenario, who knows.

Definitely best album I’ve heard yet, and what excites me is that people praise the next album so much, I’ve never seen someone talk much about Homogenic. I literally don’t know how Björk can top this, but I’ll see.

WORST TO BEST: 5 Years, Immature – Mark Bell’s Version, Hunter, Pluto, Alarm Call, All Neon Like, Bachelorette, All Is Full Of Love – Howie’s Version, Jóga, Unravel

Fuck it, 10/10

“I’m a path of cinders burning under your feet. You’re the one who walks me, I’m your one-way street.”

Vespertine

I am pleased.

This is insane, man. I think I’ll be a huge Björk fan after I’m finished with this discography. Vespertine is meticulous, it’s enchanting, it’s all-around wonderful. You can tell Björk and her team put incredible effort into this album, for it to sound as effortlessly beautiful as possible; not one idea or song here sounds forced, out of its element, or simply put bad. They unite to create one of the most astounding listening experiences I think I’ll ever get in my life.

Vespertine is proud, but introverted. As a sequel to Homogenic, it serves as its lighter half: where Björk described Homogenic as “confrontational”, “active” and “warrior”, Vespertine flips that upside down, and brings microbeats, music boxes and harps to the table. This is a very effective alternative to songs such as Jóga and Bachelorette, where the instrumentals and the singer seemed to try and outdo each other, creating these grand, empowering songs; in this album, they merge together into living, breathing and deeply personal lullabies. One of the most impressive talents of Björk is that she seems to take the identity of her album to heart, and mixes her unique songwriting and singing talents and her otherworldly personality into the project’s own personality, becoming an artform much greater than the sum of its parts.

Songs like Hidden Place, It’s Not Up To You and Pagan Poetry are Björk to the bone, with their more elaborate and ear-catching production, their humongous vocals, and would be comfortable if they were to be pulled from this album into another; however, deeper cuts such as Aurora, Cocoon, Undo and An Echo A Stain are the embodiment of this album’s aesthetic, its frigid atmosphere and tiny, fragile surroundings. They are like symmetrical, unique snowflakes when softer, or huge, arctic blue glistering caves when grander. They’re precise; stable, but at the same time would not work if they weren’t organized exactly how they are.

It’s easy to get too comfortable listening to Vespertine. The tracks are almost spiritual in a way, they convey an unparalleled bliss to the listener, and getting lost in the album is almost part of the experience. Especially in the second half of Vespertine, where things get real lowkey. Songs merge into each other, starting with the wonderful music box interlude Frosti into Aurora, which features one of Björk’s strongest vocal performances, proceeding to An Echo A Stain, a standout for its weird, suspenseful and eerie instrumental, evoking a dark vibe, it sounds like a deep underwater exploration into the darkest abysses of the ocean or some shit. The lyrics are also uniquely confrontational, they don’t portray the undying passion of songs before it, instead proclaiming “Don’t say no to me. You can’t say no to me. I won’t see you, denied.”. With all the vague and spacey lyrics, and the uneventful instrumental, it’s impressive this song progresses so well, mainly due to its weird, unsettling tone that sets itself apart from the rest of the songs. In a way, these odd and abstract lyrics mixed with the ethereal and bittersweet instrumentation remind me of some Radiohead songs, such as The National Anthem, How To Disappear Completely and Ful Stop, and I’m realizing this is a style of music I’m prone to liking.

Sun In My Mouth is not much of a standout topically or sonically to me, as it doesn’t do much to expand upon the sexuality of the album, with lyrics once again referring to inserting fingers into wherever, and closing with “Will I complete the mystery of my flesh?”, the themes seem to have nowhere to go. Heirloom depicts a reoccurring dream about Björk losing her voice, and having her mother and son pour a glowing oil into her mouth, which is a cute and artsy way of saying they’re her fuel for continuing with her craft, I guess. The lyrics don’t go anywhere with themselves after this though, but the instrumental is very creative and memorable, it creates a neat little bubble of involving, resonating synths.

Employing some heavy strings for Harm Of Will, Björk doubles down on the romance of the album, in a rather stripped-down song, with a few vocal highlights from her. It finds its place in the tracklist, I guess, although the oral sex line comes off a bit too strong for the smooth sentiment of the song.

To close Vespertine off, Unison, the longest song in the album, lays back on an ambient sample by Oval, and features one of Björk’s most unique vocal harmonies on its chorus; overall a nice, upbeat outro for a wonderful album.

I will say I felt more excited listening to Homogenic, as I think Vespertine’s romantic, sexual aura doesn’t expand into much after some of the many heavily sensual verses, while Homogenic wasn’t as tight and claustrophobic for me. Vespertine, however, was freer and left a bigger impact on me, It’s Not Up To You succeeded in making me cry. At the same time, none of the songs here felt like they didn’t belong, like they took away from the experience; every sound and line collaborates to make something bigger, something I don’t think I’ll get from many other albums in my lifetime.

BEST TO WORST: It’s Not Up To You, Pagan Poetry, Undo, Hidden Place, An Echo A Stain, Unison, Aurora, Heirloom, Cocoon, Harm Of Will, Frosti, Sun In My Mouth

It is a 10

“I can decide what I give, but it’s not up to me what I get given. Unthinkable surprises about to happen, but what they are, it’s not up to you.”

Medúlla

Björk’s 2004 Medúlla is, surprise surprise, an acapella album. And to further surprise, I liked it.

After Homogenic and Vespertine, I guess there was nowhere to go but towards the more experimental. You can’t really outdo those two albums in their own game, so you gotta branch out, try different things; and trying different things is exactly what Björk excels at, apparently. With Medúlla, all that wild, bombastic or serene instrumentation her previous albums were peppered with is gone, giving way to backing vocals ranging from super deep male bass to angelic choirs, beatboxing, and occasionally an isolated instrument. The album is rooted on the most primary form of music: barely any instruments, almost no effects or audio manipulations, just many voices uniting to become one; lyrics about childbirth, the human body, oceans and, of course, love.

Listening to Medúlla is interesting because it is very familiar, while also being a completely different experience from Björk’s previous albums. Songs like Who Is It and Mouth’s Cradle are unmistakably her, while at the same time being coated with an extra layer of experimentation, and with this new direction, Björk and her team are able to channel an energy that stands shoulder-to-shoulder with some of her best production. Where Is The Line? and Oceania are intricate and complex, showing just how much can be done with only the human voice. The low male vocals and beatboxing structure the songs, the choirs in the background give them depth, all the sounds link with themselves to amount to some incredible songs.

On the flipside, however, few songs fail to achieve that, in my opinion. Desired Constellation is notably bare and empty, with few aspects to its composition. The mystical lyrics that characterize Medúlla are still here, describing Björk playing routinely with stars to form whatever she desires, but apart from that, there isn’t much to experience. Mouth’s Cradle and its successor Miðvikudags are also not of much significance to the rest of the album, as they drift from its acapella compositions by employing some pleasant, but unnecessary synths as the basis of the songs. The simpler, shorter interludes that are peppered through the album are pretty much the standard sound for this record, fleshing it out with small little vocal passages and, of course, gibberish. Show Me Forgiveness, from my interpretation, is Björk apologizing to either herself or her daughter (as implied by the last line, “The girl might live”), for letting her interior voice be drowned out by the exterior; Öll Birtan is a simple buildup to the aforementioned Who Is It, but the best of the bunch are Sonnets/Unrealities XI, the poem it may not always be so; and i say by e. e. cummings over some of the best backing vocals in the album, Vökuró, where Björk sings a traditional Icelandic song in a very intimate and gorgeous moment in the album, and Ancestors, which features some passionate, odd and intriguing growls all throughout it.

It’s remarkable what Björk came up with in this album, the mystical aura surrounding it and forming its lyrics, in particular the verses in Oceania where she takes the role of the Ocean, exploring its perspective of Earth, time and the continents, Pleasure Is All Mine, which describes motherhood and childbirth for a sublime intro, and Submarine, featuring Robert Wyatt, evoking a sense of rebelliousness and urgency. Great album.

FAVORITE TRACKS: Oceania, Sonnets/Unrealities XI, Where Is The Line? Pleasure Is All Mine, Vökuró

LEAST FAVORITE TRACK: Mouth’s Cradle

8.8/10

“When in doubt: give”

Outro

I postponed ths review for like 2 months or something, I don’t even know. Basically, from Debut to Vespertine was probably a one-month span of time, while it took me about double that time to actually write about Medúlla, because of what I think was a depressive episode. In the meantime, I started just reviewing shit on RateYourMusic (my username is fantaguarana, if anyone cares). I thought of stopping, I had this feeling that the whole “writing about everything I listen” thing was really forced and starting to become a chore, but now that I actually got to it, I think I notice how much it helps me organize my thoughts on music, compared to just listening to an album and never really reflecting on what it really means.

I’ll probably stop writing about everything I listen to, and leave this blog for the albums that really change me as a person. Have a good day yall.

#björk #post #debut #medúlla #homogenic #vespertine #art pop #art-pop #pop #review #album #album review

29 notes · View notes

horseyfuture · 3 years

Text

Lockdown 2021

Welcome, you sickening metallic pervert. I don’t know why I even tolerate you, my dues to the club have long since been settled and yet still you show up with your corrugated spleen and your laminated nipples. What? Oh, it’s you. With your simple fleshy appendages and some kind of yellow blancmange for a CPU. I suppose you will suffice. Bend yourself over the table there and we’ll get on with the show. Liquid soap’s on the side, next to the antique bum-hammer.

---

Aries: You find yourself repeatedly followed by crows. This is in no way related to the quite normal phenomenon in which a murder of crows will adopt a human who feeds them, bringing them trinkets and even offering them protection from aggressors. No, these crows find you sexy. Leaping about in your lounge, wearing your goth tops and flapping your arms to the rhythms of online parties, the crows all agree that you are “SKRARK!” or, in Crow, “one fine piece of floppy human tail”. Well done! Crows have good taste and make excellent lovers.

Taurus: Every time you open that damn Taurus mouth of yours, you sound like a broken record. I mean, literally, you sound like a piece of badly scratched vinyl. That’s been up the wrong bit of a rhino. And is being played using a bent nail. Through the speakers of a brown ‘65 Ford Allegro. In Ipswitch. In the rain. On a Wednesday. In November. That’s a lot of detail to pack into an accent every time you decide to prattle on about crisps. People find it offputting.

Gemini: On a whim, you buy yourself a File-o-fax, you know, from the 80s. You must have seen one in a kitschy American TV show or something. While excessively bored on a Sunday afternoon, you begin to fill in some of the entries from your mobile phone. As soon as you finish writing the first one, Adam, he calls! What a crazy coincidence! You move onto the next, Beth - then SHE calls! That’s just insane! As you move onto the next name, you think “My god, what if I bought a MAGICAL File-o-fax? What adventures could I HAVE?” - You look down at the table in awe, when suddenly it all becomes clear: next to the Magic File-o-fax is the Magic Empty Bottle of Gin. Ah.

Cancer: Singing a song about beans, YEAH! Singing a song about toast! Singing a song about beans on toast, ‘cos that food you like the most, WOO! Singing a song about waffles? NO! Can’t be arsed making them! Beans on toast takes like two tiny minutes and waffles take about fucking ten! (FUCK THAT!) Singing a song into the beans can! While the beans turn in the microwave, ALRIGHT! Naming individual beans (YEAH!) pretend they’re all going to a beans rave! (WHISTLE POSSE!) Shovelling the beans into your mouth WOO! Toasting bread is for twats! (LO-SERS!) Pouring cold beans onto your face and half of them fall onto the cat! (SEND HELP!)

Leo: After a successful hour’s staring at the stippled ceiling, you reward yourself with a brisk walk to the door. After three proud steps, diligently recorded by your fitness band (which you’re fairly certain is now emitting a dull weeping sound), you jubilantly punch the air and have a nice relaxing pass out on the floor. After another few hours, you surf another boost of energy and nearly make it to the fridge. Sadly, though this goal is destined to elude you as you trip over a recently-delivered Amazon envelope. A handful of attempts in, you succeed at opening the envelope (only stopping twice to catch breath) and discover it to contain one flimsy plastic finger measurer and a £60 voucher for a wine subscription. You remember the partner you once had, in the distant before times, so vibrant and loud. In recognition of having had what you’re certain is “a feeling”, you fling the ring-measurer away, order the wine and settle into a nice, relaxing cry.

Virgo: There are a number of St Bernards around your neighbourhood and you’ve started to find them more than a little intimidating. What began as friendly barks as you passed in the street has developed into the odd growl and now barking as the owners pull their wretched beasts back from you, swearing in anguish as their hounds’ slavering jaws snap at your heels. After a few weeks of this, Monthly Bath Weekend inevitably comes round and the problem seems to just go away.

Libra: Some people have been baking recently. They - of course - are twats. Others have chosen to use this time to improve existing music skills, or even pick up a new instrument in their abundance of free time. Shit-eating scum, each and every one of them. You are not going to be affected by this self-improvement bullshit and have decided to strike out on your own, tangibly making yourself less pleasant, skilled and attractive with each passing day. Monday is fudge-eating class. Tuesday, “how long can I sit on the loo?” marathons (5 hours PB). Wednesday is Yelling ‘BASTARDS’ at the Sky Day, while Thursday (being the new Friday) you party on down with a life-size model of Prince made from your own toenails. Friday you slam your face into cupboards, repeating the word “APES” in a dull monotone. At the weekend, it’s time to rest! Phew! Just a few hours drilling holes in the ceiling, a slip, a tumble, a fall, a crunching sound and a view from the underside of a very poorly constructed step-ladder until it all goes beautifully dark.

Scorpio: Fuck this, you’re buying beach balls. Yep. Why not? You do, in fact, buy beach balls. Why didn’t you think of this before? They’re bright. They’re entertaining. They’re CHEAP. You can order them in large quantities, it turns out. “Ooh, I hope you’re not having a party!” says the delivery man, with a wink “HAHAHAH, NO. Actually I’m just INFLATING THEM AND POPPING THEM” you cackle toward his suddenly retreating face. It takes a while to inflate all 400, but the high you get from blowing them up is quite intense! Now you have a house full of beach balls! Haha! You can’t bring yourself to pop them in the end. Some of them are lost to accidents (fried beach ball, anyone?) and others you draw on with crude faces of past enemies, then open the door and punt them down the street with a hearty “FUCK YOU, BEATRICE!” (or Ken, as appropriate. You had few enemies. It’s cheap therapy). The last few hundred last you happily into the next month, though the doctor is mildly unimpressed when you attempt to get them vaccinated.

Sagittarius: Your attempts at making LEGO sex toys go badly to begin with. But, weirdly, you do eventually get better at it. You’re particularly proud of the one where you use the gearbox from the racing car for, well, you know. The winking pneumatic sex-donkey (8,014 bricks) is, in most people’s opinion, your pièce de résistance. You can’t wait for the highstreet to open up again, so you can go and show off your repertoire down the local toyshop.

Capricorn: It’s tough getting through lockdown without the internet. In your case, though, it is entirely self-inflicted. You made a promise to yourself to cut down on the doomscrolling and it was successful! Prodigiously so! You end up cutting out the news sites - who needs them? - then the social sites - nothing but trash! - then eventually you just pull the wires out of your router and fling it in the bin with some bits of leftover chicken. Time passes, politicians come and go, vaccines are invented, distributed, mostly successful (with only a small amount of people instantly turning into tiny, angry lizards) and eventually the world passes through the danger period and back into something like normality! You, of course, miss this entirely and get on with your new hobby of writing subversive poetry on the walls in dollops of mouldy Marmite. Weirdly, you ARE happier.

Aquarius: Lockdown doesn’t seem to be getting to you too badly this month (whichever month it turns out to be). You did get to a bit of a peak when you were popping a Toblerone up your bum while playing kazoos just to get yourself ready for the next bloody Zoom meeting of the day, you now you’re limiting it to one bar per day and only using the two kazoos, you feel like you’ve hit your stride, found your flow, really made the most of every work-from-home hour the Lord sends. Ah, yes, the Lord truly has kept you to the virtuous path. Without your faith, you would never have got through the dark days. Sat there on his throne of Bourbons, wearing his Chocolate Finger crown. Slowly rotating on the lazy Susan you bought so you could efficiently respect His Majesty from any angle with a deft flick of the wrist (and a few Bourbons in the eyes if you get too excited). The mighty Lord. You assume his name was Lord. There were only a few letters you could read on the collar when you found him by the bins. Ah, yes. The bins. The biscuits. The Lord. The rapture. Amen.

Pisces: After popping to the door to bring in a food delivery, you notice the day looks quite pleasant for a change, pop a mask on and go for a nice walk. On the way back, you notice a ladder leant up against a tree, with a strange golden light shimmering from high in the branches. Climbing the ladder, you hear the sound of a party, people calling your name in joy, whistles and whoops, clapping and laughter. You tumble into the golden light and down a kind of shoot as a fanfare plays. The dazzling light fades, the noise abates gently and you are sat on your sofa. On the TV are the words “LEVEL 4: YODELLING GEESE”. The geese filling your living room immediately begin to yodel with anger.

---

By the sainted elbows of Bobby Tavistocke, we got there in the end. I may have been a little over-brutal with my use of the bum-hammer there, for which I apologise. Anyway, you have extracted your price once more and I have little left to give. Pick up your clothes and get out of my living room.

As usual, you may of course take a fairy cake. We’ve got the nice ones this week.

DEPART!

3 notes · View notes

justamusicpodcast · 4 years

Link

Sup, I’m Laura Cousineau and welcome to Just A Music Podcast, where I, Laura Cousineau, tell you about some music history, how it relates to the world around us, and hopefully, introduce you to some new tunes. This show is theoretically for everyone but I will swear and when it comes down to it and sometimes we may need to talk about some sensitive topics so ur weeuns might wanna sit this one out.

Folk music! What a fucking blanket of a genre title isn’t it? We got 1960s folk in america, we got different folk genres in terms of mixed genres like folk metal, we got folk music as sort of an interchangeable term for ethnic musics, it’s all fuckin folk from here on out folks! But what is folk music where does it come from, what are we talking about when we talk about folk music? Well that’s what we’re going to talk about this week to kick off our North American music genre analysis with North American folk musics! Truth be told I did wanna start out with an episode on North American Native musics but as I’m whiter than sour cream on rice and there isn’t as much scholarship on it as I would like to confidently do a whole episode on it without input from actual native peoples. That all being said, if anyone listening is native and would like to give me some input on their musics, I would be more than happy to cover it.

But for now folk. North American folk musics. You notice I mention musics, it’s because north American folk music can be defined as a lot of things. So what are we talking about when we talk about the genre of folk musics. Well that’s gonna change depending on who you ask from what I explained before, we have some kind of mish mosh, multiple definition, popular idea of what folk music is and that’s not surprising given how that definition has grown and changed over time. Some of you will be surprised to hear that when we talk about north American folk music’s we’re actually talking about A BUNCH of different musical genres, not just one. Sure we have what people would usually associate with North American folk, the very Appalachian sounding bluegrass, country and then of course western, but we also have native musics (which again, I promise I will talk about at some point), and Maritime Canadian folk musics, we have cajun and creole musics, we have a bunch of racist shit too unfortunately but like legit we have so much stuff to talk about this episode I might have to break it up into two episodes.

Like all other musics, it all started from somewhere… I know, that’s the take of the century isn’t it. I mean it would be so much cooler if all folk music started cause some little gnome hopped out of the ground and was like imma invent music, but like that gnome would also be incredibly racist so I dunno, gnome theory sucks. So where did North American folk music come from? Well that’s a matter of looking at the mostly euro populations that colonized North America and this will change depending on the regions that we’re looking at. So WE need a SHORT HISTORY of the beginning of exploration.

So, there’s some debate as to who we should credit with the “discovery” of north america, cause on one hand we have the Viking settlements in eastern Canada in the year 1000, there’s some speculation that there were even other visitors before then, and of course we have the populations of native people’s who have lived here for forever, but in terms of the European colonial pattern we’re looking for, for our needs we’re looking at Christopher Columbus. So as y’all know Christopher Columbus, Portuguese adventurer, getting permission from Queen Isabella of Castille in 1492 set sail across the Atlantic to try and find a passage to India to get some of them good ass spices everyone was raving about. Though he didn’t find India he managed to find the Caribbean also known as Central America. Now I know in the news for a little bit with the ever increasing prevalence of the Black Lives Matter movement y’all been hearing about people tearing down Christopher Columbus statues in the news and there is a very good reason for that.

So as I’ve already told you Chris didn’t discover North america but he also was, and this is gonna be a massive understatement, but the dude was a massive asshole, like take the biggest asshole you can imagine and times that by about 10. It’s estimated that his colonization of the Caribbean resulted in the deaths of over 8 million people, or or about the entire population of Switzerland. You can’t even use the product of his time excuse because even Queen Isabella, the person in charge of the Spanish Inquisition, which famously saw hte torture and death of tonnes of people under the guise of religious purity, was even like yo dude you need to slow down. I will talk about him more once we reach central American music genres but just for now yeah he existed, yeah he kinda started the wave of north American exploration, but he was also an absolute asshat and there should never have been a statue let alone a day to commemorate the shitheel of a man.

So we get the start of this wave of immigration into what will become northern South america, Central America, and southern north America by Portuguese populations who mainly speak, well, Portuguese, bringing music from the Iberian peninsula. But we’re more concerned with what’s happening up north and for that we’re gonna have to look at later waves of immigration that started with Roanoake starting in the 1520s.

So the start of British colonization started with Roanoake and Newfoundland (which, yes, for our non canadian listeners it’s pronounced newfinland not new found land like the name would suggest, which to be fair would also be cool, I’ll welcome the Fins in my land anytime, they do fantastic music). One of these settlements was infinitely more successful than the other with Newfoundland becoming what we know now to be the east most province of Canada and while Roanoake is still there it failed so hard that a population of 112 people disappeared without a trace. Like legit we still don’t know what precisely happened to them. Some assume they integrated into the local native populations, some assume they were all murdered, some assume cannibals, essentially it was a bad time for all involved.

What this means for newfoundland though and other English colonies is that musically we hear a very British folk song base to the music that’s being established here, with newfoundland being very much established as a fishing colony the musical style echoes that. Since we’re talking about the Kingdom of England more broadly this meant that there was an absolute tonne of Irish and Scottish influence to the music. This is why when you listen to the folk musics of Newfoundland (established in 1583), Virginia (established in 1607), and Parts of the Carolinas (established in 1712), you hear it sounds very similar to that of their colonial forefathers. This means that there was commonly a lot of fiddle, flute, English guitar, a string instrument with a long handle, rounded body and ten strings that was a version of a Renaissance cittern, simple stringed banjos; zithers, which were flat, shallow boxes with strings running the length of the body that were plucked by the fingers and and hammered dulcimers, various shaped (like trapezoidal and peanut shaped) sound boxes with strings across them that were hit with small hammers, Much like this!

So we have all these people coming into the area, and with that too you’re also going to get jigs and reels too. Jigs and reels are both types of dance music widely enjoyed across the British Isles but are most associated with Scottish and Irish dancing musics. The difference between the two is mostly the time signature as the instruments used to play both of them are roughly the same, that being said Scottish musics tend to have more pipes and irish does traditionally use a type of handdrum which are both excellent. Jigs are in compound duple time meaning that there are 12 8th notes in a bar of music and reels are played in simple time like 2/2 (two half notes per bar) or 4/4 (4 quarter notes in a bar). They sound like this.

Its important to note here too that when we talk about all of these peoples from the British Isles that we don’t unintentionally assume that they were all nice and cozy with one another. Many of the Scottish and Irish parties, often referred to simply as the scotch irish or scotts irish came to america as a form of Religious punishmen because they didn’t precisely fit in with the church of England, some of my ancestors were scotts-irish and came to what would eventually become America because they were Quakers.

It is from these traditions that the music then evolves into something different over time and actually we’re gonna take a quick detour into linguistics for a second because it will be particularly helpful in demonstrating my point and y’all will be able to hear something way cool. So for those who are not aware, linguistics is the study of, well, language. (big brain moment right?) But what does that mean? Whereas when you take English, Igbo, Japanese, Arabic, or any other established language in an academic setting (so like learning in school when you’re growing up) the emphasis is on spelling, grammar, how to write and speak your language in the way that it has been determined is the best way to speak it (which isn’t always ACTUALLY the best way to speak it but we’ll get into that in a second.) Linguistics is the study of pretty much every other component of the language. So linguists study the phonemes or the sounds that comprise the word and how they change based on the dialect that a person is speaking (a dialect being a regional difference of a language such as how someone from Scotland speaks English and how I as a Canadian speak English), they study how languages become standard languages and why (spoiler alert there’s a lot of elitism involved), they study meaning and why we put certain words in the order that we do (for Example in English we put adjectives (or the words that describe things) in very specific order being quantity, quality, size, age shape, color, proper adjective and purpose or qualifier so describing a thing could be a shitty old triangular purple metal pair of shoes, but if you were like the triangular purples old shitty pair of shoes you would lose your gourd.)

But why does linguistics matter? Well language actually acts a lot like music in the ways that it travels and changes over time which makes sense doesn’t it? When a people move around and interact with other cultures or are even just are separated from a larger group, over time their language will change! One change that is easy for us to see in our life-time is in word usage, for example, you use different phrases and slang that your parents and your grandparents didn’t use. The same goes for accents this means that your accent is going to be different than your parents and their parents. In some cases this will smooth it out or ramp it up, it will accentuate features, or drop features entirely. And actually this is where I’m going to give you over to a linguist to better explain this because where I do know about some linguistic shift they will definitely explain it better.

Why this is important is BECAUSE music functions similarly in terms of drift. Though musical drift doesn’t happen as FAST as language because language you use everyday with incredibly intensity and music you do not, it does still happen. Even more helpful in the tracing of language is how and where it moves over time. Because language is contingent on people speaking it and music is also contingent on those who play it, you can track how music and language changes and who it interacts with based on the stylistic attributes and or instruments that it acquires over time. If we wanna think about this in a real practical sense come with me into the theater of ur brainhole for a second. Imagine for a second there is a group of people who live in lets say India in like the 500s C.E for some reason or another they’re pushed out of India and into the west where they met like Turks and hung out with them for a couple hundred years. So they pick up some Turkish words, incorporate some of their musical elements and then move farther west. Then they meet the Greeks! The Greeks are pretty rad, they got some good shit going for them, so they stay for another couple hundred years! Again, they pick up some Greek words, some Greek musical elements. After that let’s say some of the people from this group were captured and held as indentured workers in a country forcing them to integrate into the culture of the majority but another portion of the population was fortunate enough to be able to get away and keep moving west into the Balkans where they also picked up a bunch of words and musical elements. You see where I’m going with this? Cultures are all contingent on how often or how little they come in contact with other cultures, this goes for music, this goes for language, hell this pretty much goes for all sorts of art. For the sake of our example I used the Roma who also just serve as a crazy good example for this because we didn’t really even know their history until one scholar was “like hey they got some Indian words in here” and launched a whole study into it which is rad as hell but we’re gonna save that for another episode. BUT YES CULTURE IS CONTINGENT ON THE INTERACTION OR LACK OF INTERACTION WITH OTHER CULTURES, THIS IS A THING AND WE’RE GONNA BE TALKING ABOUT IT A LOT.

SO we were with settlers from the British Isles and they came to north america and then their music changed!

In Canada and Louisianna we also have the addition of the French colonies which make our music a little different. In Canada those colonies would be Acadia in what is now the province of Nova Scotia (established in 1604), Montreal (established in 1642), Quebec (established in 1608), and Trois Riviers (established in 1634) along the Saint Lawrence River with the voyageurs or courier de bois who were fur traders dealing primarily in beaver. In the southern US it’s the colony of Louisianna in the states which is much larger than what is currently the state of Louisianna. All of these colonies together formed one mega colony commonly referred to as New France. Differences between the musics performed by French colonists vs. English colonists was, well first of all the language, obviously French colonists sang more often in French, due to them being… French. But there were also differences in content too. In Canada especially many settlements were originally set up with the intention of converting native populations to Christianity which is a form of cultural genocide by the way. Thus, Jesuit populations often brough a lot of religious music into the area. Sometimes it would be mixed with musical and cultural traditions of the native populations but often it would just be very Christian. An example from the area I grew up in would be the Huron carol which blends native cultural heritage from the area with Christianity. It sounds something like this.

As French populations began intermarrying into native populations this became a more common sonic combination to hear. In Canada we also have a larger amount of music based on or around or deriving from sea shanties due to the fishing populations that settles in East originally as fishing colonies. As I plan to do a whole episode on sea shanties one day I don’t want to go too much into them but quickly speaking sea shanties tend to be broken down into categories based on the task they were performed around. So there were three principal types of shanties: short-haul shanties, which were simple songs sung for short tasks where only a little work was needed, halyard shanties, for jobs such as hoisting sail, in which a certain rhythm was required to signal when it was time to exert effort and when it was time to rest (often referred to as a pull and relax rhythm), and windlass shanties, which synchronized footsteps. I find them incredibly infectious, which is probably intentional because they’re meant to kinda keep spirits up as well as set a pace for work, but I’ll try and sell ya more on that when the time comes. In the meantime you can content yourself with singing drunken sailor to yourself, probably one of the most well known shanties.

French Canadian music also has some very fun additions to it that come from the body itself, like ur own dang body. The first one is a singing technique but also song style. It’s technically a form of non-lexical vocable which is a fancy way of saying “sounds that comes from ur mouth in music that aren’t necessarily words.” In fact sometimes it’s also just referred to as French Canadian mouth music. This specific one I’m talking about kinda, lord how do you describe this, it’s like a scatting but much slower, less bombastic, and more rhythmic. I’m gonna fuck up the pronunciation because, again, even though I have a French Canadian background and had to take it from grade 4 to grade 9 in school I remember it about as well as one might remember an event they’ve never been to, that is to say not at all. The form is called a turlutte (ter-lute) which uses a lot of D, T, and M sounds to kinda fit the sound that ur looking for in a song. It sounds something like this!

French Canadian music also has the real fun addition of podorythmie or foot rhythms which are complex rhythms that people keep with their feet. For those who don’t know what a rhythm is, it is defined as a strong, regular, repeated pattern sound so lets say that you start clapping, and each clap is spaced exactly by one second, now on the first and third claps you clap a little harder, that would be a rhythm. Rhythms can be incredibly simple like that one or they can be really complex and the ones that you will hear in French Canadian music are of the more complex variety. Usually if the person performing them is also playing an instrument they’ll often sit in a chair with a little wood box or hard surface underneath which they will use to tap their feet on. Sometimes they will wear special hard bottomed shoes made with leather or wood to do this in order to accentuate the sound. Less commonly people can also stand while performing a podorythmie turning it into a kind of dance. Here’s my favorite example of what that sounds like.

Some of this style was eventually transported to Louisianna when the Acadians were eventually pushed out of Canada by the English in 1755, many of them ended up actually settling in Louisiana forming the ethnically Cajun population, Cajun deriving from the word Acadian. Not to say that life wasn’t hard for damn near everybody who wasn’t nobility in the 1700s, but the dramatic shift for Acadians made it particularly hard for a long time. People had trouble adjusting to their new way of life at first, coming from a mostly trading based economy to agrarian based was hard on the population, not to mention the massive change in climate that came with moving all the way from what would now be modern nova scotia all the way down to Louisiana. To give a real succinct idea of where exactly they were moving imma quote Loyola university in New Orleans that have done a really good succinct history on the Cajuns of Louisianna ”Few Acadians stayed in the port of arrival, New Orleans. Some settled in the regions south and northwest of New Orleans and along the Teche, Lafourche and Vermilion Bayous. Far more went further west to the marshes and prairies of south central Louisiana. They became hunters and trappers and farmers. It is a popular misconception that most Cajuns live on the bayous and in the marshes, poling their pirogues and hunting alligators. Far more became farmers in the grand triangular prairie that stretches from Lafayette north to Ville Platte and west to Lake Charles.” Like shit man, my giant canadian ass if forced to live in Louisiana would probably catch fire as soon as I got there let alone back then with no air conditioning and what have you. Their music also then changed to reflect their new way of life, not that the music was about catching fire in a corn field (although that would fucking slap), music was written and sung about hard times and hard livin’.

From the same Loyola University document: The music these people brought was simple. It was made by singing, humming, and rhythmic clapping and stamping. Instruments were brought to the colony, with a violinist's death recorded in 1782. Early instrumental music was played primarily on violins, singularily or in pairs. One violin played lead and the second a backing rhythm. A simple rhythm instrument was created out of bent metal bars from hay or rice rakes: the triangle or 'tit fer, meaning little iron. Musicians wrote original songs telling of their life in the new world. The song J'ai passe devant ta porte tells of the suddenness of death from accident and disease. The singer tells of passing by his beloved's door and hearing no answer to his call. Going inside he sees the candles burning around his love's corpse.

In the south they would have been influenced by other settlers in the area, more scotts and irish of course but also eventually African descended peoples. Some were brought as slaves during the French and Spanish colonial period or brought in by settlers after the Louisiana Purchase. Under Spanish rule, slaves were allowed to buy their freedom (which I cannot emphasize entirely how fucking difficult that would have been), leading to an early population of free Blacks in southern Louisiana. People of African descent also came from the Caribbean, including the colonized French-speaking islands. During the revolution in Haiti between 1789 and 1791, French-speaking Haitians who fled the violence often chose the Louisiana coast as a destination due to having a familiar linguistic population and ease of access. These populations would become to be known as creole. The term Creole comes originally from the Spanish criollo, for a child born of Spanish parents in the New World. The French borrowed it as Creole. Creole could refer to anyone of European parentage born in Louisiana. Over two centuries it began to be used to mean a person of mixed foreign and local parentage. One use today is to refer to someone entirely or partly of African descent.

Now, it’s incredibly important that we don’t discount the influence of slaves and former slaves in the creation and dissemination of creole musics because they are absolutely integral to the process. Creole songs originated in the French and Spanish slave plantations in Louisianna and thus contain tonnes of African musical elements from the instruments they used to the syncopated rhythms. For example, original instruments you would have heard could have been percussion instruments made out of gourds, known as shak-shak which would be shaken to create a rhythm, the mouth harp, a type of metal instrument that one holds in place in the mouth and plucks with their finger opening and closing their mouth hole to create different pitches and textures of sound, the bamboula, tambou, or tombou lay lay which are types of drums; and as I mentioned before, a type of banjo known as a banza might have been played if someone could fashion one. Because that in essence is what we’re talking about, when we talk about Creole music we’re talking about music slaves could make with the limited resources that were available to them, in order to make the music they wanted to hear. This is why overtime we also see the addition of the washboard as an instrument because it was something that would have been available to them. A washboard for those who don’t know is most literally a board, usually made out of ridged wood or metal that one would put into a source of water, either a basin or a river, and methodically rub the dirt and stains out of your dirty clothes as well as you could with soap if you could access it, believe me it’s about as fun as it sounds.

So what was this music they were playing? What did it sounds like? Well as I already mentioned there was a lot of African influence to the music. One of the most prominent features of this influence is the syncopated rhythm. A syncopated rhythm is a rhythm that is built so that the strong beats eventually become the weak beats. So if we continue our example from before, where we clap harder on the first beat and third beat, a syncopated rhythm would move to become the opposite of it on the 2nd and 4th beats or the off beats, like this. Don’t be worried if that’s something you can’t do yourself, I still find it hard to switch between.

As no type of culture exists independently of time or location though, the type of music they played was also influenced by the culture of their oppressors. While there was music that existed independently that slaves brought from their Native African groups such as the Bamboula, Calinda, Congo, Carabine and Juba, over time, a lot of their music also began to incorporate French and Spanish influence. A type of French dance called a quadrille for example was worked into the repertoire, a Spanish dance called the contradanza or the habanera actually became some of the first written music to incorporate the aforementioned African rhythms. Even the language used in these musics grew and changed. For the slaves, and even free black folk coming from the Caribbean, they would bring with them what is now known as patois, a language that is a combination of English, French, Spanish, and African languages. So when we think of what creole music is, it really then is a patchwork of different cultures mainly driven and compounded by the efforts of African slaves.

Now I will say before I play this example here that it is difficult when looking for early musics belonging to oppressed peoples because 1. It wasn’t written down for the most part, at least not in the way it would have been originally performed, 2. Pieces that were written down, recorded, or coopted were often done by white people looking to profit off of African music (which we’ll see way too fucking much of as we continue our north American music excursion), which seems like a rather disingenuous way to present it to you, and 3. Because music recording as far as actually recording audio didn’t exist until 1860. So if we’re looking for songs from the periods that they were written or invented we still have to find people who are alive that remember them. Even as I was researching this I was trying to look for recordings that would make it easier to hear the differences between the dance genres I mentioned earlier. Unfortunately there isn’t much in the way of albums or popular bands dedicated to these types of genres, so instead I’m going to play a clip of a bamboula rhythm being played by some students at the Asheh Cultural Arts Center's Kuumba Institute in New Orleans, and then a clip of another group performing a Calinda.

From where we’re currently standing in the year 2020 there is still Creole and Cajun distinct musics but they also created a fusion genre which has become it’s own thing, this genre is called Zydeco. Zydeco developed out of both the Cajun and Creole though (hard core purists will insist that it is a mostly creole development) which then further changed when German Immigrants started moving into the area. The accordion, which was invented in Vienna about 1828, was brought to Louisiana by the German immigrants many of whom lived adjacent to or among the Cajuns. Though it arrived in Louisiana as early as 1884, it was not immediately incorporated into Cajun music. This is because where fiddles were tuned differently than the accordions coming into the country. What I mean by that is that some instruments have pitches they’re better at playing naturally. So for example, you’re standard run of the mill trumpet, like if u look up a trumpet on google, well they’re most suited to play in the key of B flat because the sound that you get when you blow into one without putting any of your fingers on the buttons is B flat. For the accordions that were coming with the Germans, they were tuned to the keys of A and F, so it wasn’t till much later in 1925 that accordions tuned to C and D started appearing and thus started to be better incorporated into the music around it. The guitar was also added pretty late coming in in around 1920ish. The word Zydeco itself is actually derived from the title of a French song Les haricots sont pas sale or The snap beans are not salty! You can hear in the French if you put a little punchiness into it, the transition between the les and haricot sounds like a Z (yes I’m a Canadian that says Zee, I blame it on my American mother, plus it just sounds better, zed sounds like a bee flew into a hard surface). So because of the Z sound it became abbreviated to zarico and through time morphed into Zydeco! We got BEAN music.

And how does this bean music sound, well I personally think it sounds pretty fucking rad, kinda like this:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kPztofSd5Y

fun fact about that one, I’ve known this song for roughly 5 years I knew it I definitely just thought these dudes were scattin, like WHOA BA BA WHOA BA BA WHA BA PA BYE BYE DOO DOO, I did not realize until roughly 2 years until after I heard it that it had lyrics…

Now you may have noticed I haven’t touched on Appalachian folk music yet and I’ve done it very strategically for 2 reasons. One is just simply because if I had put it any earlier yall would have been like HUEHUEHUE I HAVE HEARD ALL I NEED and then absconded into the night like a raccoon after finding half a cheeseburger in the trash. The second was because Appalachian folk music and next week’s episode are gonna be pretty instrumental in the episode after that, so to keep it popping freesh in ur brain bits I figured I’d stick it at the end of the episode.

So appalaichan music turns out is actually a really tricky genre of music, if we wanna go by the United States Library of Congress introduction to Appalaichan music: The term "Appalachian music" is in truth an artificial category, created and defined by a small group of scholars in the early twentieth century, but bearing only a limited relationship to the actual musical activity of people living in the Appalachian mountains. Since the region is not only geographically, but also ethnically and musically diverse (and has been since the early days of European settlement there), music of the Appalachian mountains is as difficult to define as is American music in general. I should also probably say before we get too far that like the Appalachian mountains (which first of all that I pronounce incorrectly because it’s pronounces with a CHian not Shan) but the appalachian mountains are the mountain range that run through a lot of the eastern United States, so like Appalachian Mountains extend 1,500 miles (or 2414 km for everyone else) from Maine to Georgia. They pass through 18 states and encompass the Green Mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont, the Berkshires of Connecticut, New York's Catskills, the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, and the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. The region known as the Southern Highlands, or Upland South, covers most of West Virginia and parts of Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama, Maryland, the Carolinas, and Virginia. In colonial times, this area was known as the "Back Country."

It was in these areas that Cherokee and Algonquin people already existed but then colonists would come from England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales and eventually from other parts of Europe came the Germans, French Huguenots, Polish, and Czechians. So we’ve already looked at the influence from the British Isles before (the jigs and reels and English folk music) but these would evolve into Square dances with a little help from French influences as well. A square dance for those who don’t know is a dance usually with 8 sets of partners who perform steps that are either established and vary based on song or thencaller which then the dancers perform. But just as we saw with instruments and musics being carried by free or escaped slaves to different parts of the southern united states and being integrated into the musical cannon of the area, the same thing happened in this area by the other people settling here as well. For example, the hammered dulcimer I told y’all about earlier (which if you haven’t seen one I would recommend lookin one up they can come in really fun shapes, ) but yeah those same hammered dulcimers were not an invention of the British isles carried over by those settlers but it is almost a direct descendant of a German instrument (the Germans btw came in a couple different waves the first big one being in 1670) so this instrument they brought was called the Scheitholt. Even African American instruments entered the scene in around the 1840s just in time for minstrel shows to start travelling around the country which I will be doing an episode on by the way because you can’t talk about American music without talking about the fucking disaster that is minstrel shows. It was these same free black peoples that also really popularized the call and response type of vocals which is pretty much just what it sounds like. The main singer will call out a line of lyrics sometimes as a holler, sometimes more musically, and other singers will answer it by doing it right back at them. This can be found in all sorts of music but just for the kicks of it here’s an example of it in gospel music.

But we’re gonna back track a little bit back to the Germans because we really haven’t talked about them enough and have left out one of their biggest influences on developing Appalachian folk music which is yodelling. If you’re from the states you’ll probably know yodelling from that kid that got famous a couple years ago and was in a Walmart commercial or something but for those of you who don’t know or people who do know that kid and are just curious about the mechanics of yodelling: The main components of a human singing voice are the head voice and the chest voice which I CAN and will demonstrate but to explain first, the head voice and chest voice are the two registers humans typically have. There’s also falsetto which is slightly different as it is kinda a pushing of the voice to a place it isn’t really supposed to be but I digress. So the head voice is where we get all our higher notes where the chest voice is where we get all out low notes. This is mainly due to the resonators we are using in creating these sounds as well as how tense or thick or thin and how long or short your vocal chords are. Resonators are simply just the air passages and open spaces in your body that sound resonates through. So for head voice you’re pushing the sound up and into the head using like ur nasal passages and all ur skull space for the sound to vibrate through which are all really small so you get a higher often sharper sound and chest voice mainly resonates in the chest (or ur LUNGS) which is a lot more space and so more low and rumbly. You can tell the difference between the two by putting a hand on ur chest while you’re singing, start with your lowest note you can comfortably reach and just start ascending, eventually you will feel your chest vibrate less and less and should be able to feel the switch into head voice. I’ll just give you a quick demonstration as to how different they are. Please bear in mind I am a natural soprano so my low range isn’t incredibly low but here it goes so the head voice “as I don’t do remembering, can’t give this song a ghost of past, I wander, I ponder, why there is weight in time” and again the same line but in chest voice “as I don’t do remembering, can’t give this song a ghost of past, I wander, I ponder, why there is weight in time.”

So if you tried it yourself you’ll notice that there’s a little, what vocalists call, break between where ur chest register is and where ur head voice is, it happens for everyone don’t worry. What yodelling does then is fluctuates between the head and the chest voice really fast and most importantly smoothly like this:

ahh shit man, the sounds of my ancestors, you can almost smell the leiderhosen, taste the octoberfest, YOU CAN ALMOST SEE THE SCHUPLATTING. But yes so Germans brought this with them from their homelands along with their accordions and it established itself the Appalachian folk tradition. Now it’ll probably interest you to know that yodelling isn’t a genre without purpose, as I’d like to do a whole episode on it though at some point I don’t wanna spoil too much but it is good for communicating across mountain ranges because of how it echoes and the types of inflection you can put into it. This makes it easier to understand why it survived the shift from the mountains in Germany all the way to the mountains of America. The Germans also brought something else with them, but it wasn’t just Germans, the Polish, and Czechian influences also brought it with them too! And what is it that they brought? The waltz of course! The waltz is a type of dance that focusses on a ¾ time signature, and has one heavy beat on the front and two lighter beats after. For any of you who’ve ever seen the musical Oliver, this is precisely the type of song Oom Pah Pah is.

So these collections of music and the things they developed into can be called Appalachian folk musics. It’s hard to pin down precisely what Appalachian music then sounds like at times because of all the different influences depending on place that you were living in, if you had to pick out a few things though you would head that firstly you get a lot of stringed instruments like guitars, fiddles and banjos. Secondly the themes were often similar and reflected day to day life living in the region such as mining or logging, there’s the fun little genre of murder ballads which I wanna do a whole episode on some day, and after the civil war we also get the addition of a lot of war songs. Thirdly this music would vary depending on purpose but would definitely include dances, campfire songs. So Imma play you a few samples then, first we just have a good old mountain song

if these sound familiar to other genres of music like bluegrass and country that’s because Appalachian folk music was the predecessor for both genres but those I’m gonna save for their own episode sometime in the future. It might be a part of the north American genre business it might be just another nebulous episode I do in the future at some point. But for now at least you know the history of some of the biggest Genres of American folk music. BUT WHAT ABOUT FOLK MUSIC TODAY, LAURA, WHAT ABOUT MUMFORD AND SONS, HOZIER, FUIMADANE, AND KORPIKLAAN? And I know, they’re ALL fantastic acts and I’ll get to people like them eventually, but for now at least you know where it all started.

So with that, hat’s all for just a music podcast this week, I hope you’ve heard something new, and I hope you’ve heard something that you like. If you haven’t there’s always next week where we’ll be getting heavy with slave and gospel music. In the meantime, though if one of y’all would like to suggest a topic I would love nothing more than to answer your musical question or talk about topics that interest you guys in music. Feel free to drop me a line at [email protected]

Bye!

1. Over the Hills and Far Away - 17th Century English Traditional - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0MR7VihPm2E

2. Woodsong Wanderlust Solo Hammered Dulcimer by Joshua Messick https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ayAvzVdOJJY&list=RDfD0rNyjDAa0&index=13

3. Out on the Ocean https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ynKDggMtMww

4. Rakish Paddy & Braes of Busby (Reels) Uilleann pipes Chris McMullan https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0umOtiKyUc

5. A Quick Lesson on Southern Linguistics https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mNqY6ftqGq0

6. Huron Carol https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DgPeEvUl06Y

7. La Bolduc - Reel Turluté https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ASW3Cejl5oc

8. Le Lys Vert https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ASW3Cejl5oc

9. J'ai passe devant ta porte https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DtchvhughFw

10.New Orleans Kuumba camp https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ItRuHjjGMhg

11. Calinda (Stickfight) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LaM0PI3T1s8

12. Bye, Bye Boozoo https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kPztofSd5Y

13. Call and Response in Gospel Music https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMgNTwZW5gY

14. Underthing Solstice https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=anMKMu9Tpoc

15. Yodelling Franzl Lang https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQhqikWnQCU

16. Final Fantasy Crystal Chronicles – Ost – Maggie is Everything https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Fn1Pw-LxU8&

17. Ola Belle Reed High on the Mountain https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RsRRY5k5Psg

18. Traditional Tennessee Square Dance Caller Gerald Young of Pulaski https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L7-DWvegcL8

#podcast #just a music podcast #music #music history #comedy #comedy podcast #learn urself a thing #folk #folk music #american folk music #canadian folk music

10 notes · View notes

nuttyrabbit · 4 years

Text

Oliver the Barn Owl Bio

So a few weeks ago I made a post where I said I’d start focusing on my OCs more and that, combined with the recent redesign I got for Oliver, finally prompted me into writing something that’s been long, long overdue: an actual bio for the boy.

Before I get into it, I have to give a couple of shout-outs.

First of all, shout outs to @shinkumancer for doing this excellent redesign of Oliver. She’s come so far as an artist and character designer since his first design almost 4 years ago, and in general is just a great artist all around. Check out her stuff and buy a commission, I promise you won’t be disappointed!

The other shout out is to my absolute best friend @pidgeonspen who not only helped me put together this bio, but was instrumental in helping me figure out Oliver’s new direction and a lot of the details for the worldbuilding surrounding him. There’s so much we’ve worked on in relation to his character (as well as certain others I have yet to share) and I’m so excited to start actually sharing it and doing stuff with it, but I’m getting ahead of myself

If you got any questions, comments, feedback, criticism, whatever, feel free to shoot me an ask or DM.

With that out of the way, here it is: Oliver’s bio. As usual, everything’s under the readmore.

Name: Oliver the Barn Owl

Age: 20

Height: 3'4"

Occupation: Aspiring historian/mage. Currently wandering around Eastern Eurish/West Yurashia

Sexuality: Bi

Personality: Kind, curious, socially awkward, overly eager, gullible and naïve; Oliver really wants to do right by the people around him and help out when he can, all while striving to learn more about the world around him and find the answers he seeks.

Oliver dislikes needless violence, but is not entirely opposed to the notion of self defense. That being said, he will try to settle most situations through nonviolent means if possible, whether by taking a diplomatic approach or using his magical illusions to trick them. When he is forced to engage in combat, Oliver never aims to kill, instead seeking to subdue or render his enemies unconscious; the only exception is when he is faced with a life or death situation, and there are no other viable options left.

His naivete shines through in his quirky habits and lack of fundamental social skills, such as voice modulation, wherein he has trouble gauging the volume at which he speaks, switching from being jarringly loud to incredibly quiet. He also rambles on about what interests him, sometimes speaking so fast others may not be able to follow. He's self aware, but unsure how to fix these problems. Because of these factors, he doesn't pick up cues when he's being flirted with, as such advances can go over his head, and he's rather uneasy in crowds, at worst finding himself panicking and fleeing to a more secluded, private location.

His naivete is the root of much of his sweet, seemingly positive traits: due to his isolated upbringing, he isn't a worldly individual and, combined with his compulsion to help others and overtly optimistic outlook, has lead to him being used and manipulated, as well as giving second chances to those who clearly do not deserve it.

Skills: First and foremost, Oliver is skilled in the use of magic, mainly what is known as "dark" magic i.e, magic that invokes the powers of a demonic entity. Using his tome as a conduit, Oliver is able to cast a wide variety of spells, though his preferences usually lie in non-offensive magic such as that of illusions and healing. The former in particular is something Oliver is quite skilled in, being able to invoke something as simple as an auditory illusion and something as complex as creating mirror images of himself, though that is something that cannot be done for too long. In regards to healing, while Oliver cannot completely heal life-threatening wounds, he is able to patch up relatively minor wounds and cure basic ailments. He is also starting to get the hang of more outright defensive spells, such as barriers and even reflectors, though, like his illusions, these cannot be maintained for too long, and he is not as adept with these as he is with his other spells. Finally, Oliver is capable of using offensive magic in the form of basic blasts of dark magic, but given his pacifistic nature, he uses these as an absolute last resort and even then, does not aim to kill with them.

Given both his isolated upbringing and nomadic lifestyle, Oliver is quite skilled when it comes to wilderness survival. He's able to forage for food, build rudimentary shelters and fires, and navigate all with relative ease. That being said however, when it comes to navigating urban environments, Oliver is completely out of his element and will quickly become lost and overwhelmed.

Hobbies: Oliver's hobbies revolve around his interests in magic and history; naturally, he loves reading and exploring. He often seeks out the libraries and bookstores of the towns he passes through, and will even investigate abandoned ruins and castles to satiate his curiosity, often taking barely legible notes in his tome. He can often be seen with his beak in a book, often forming a small collection of titles he's found or purchased with his spare earnings, though he tends to take on more than he can carry and so having to leave them behind is a bit of a sour point for him. He vows to one day get a library of his own so he can actually *keep* all of the books he finds on his travels.

Likes: History, magic, books (Mainly ones that pertain to the aforementioned topics), helping people, snack foods (Pretty much anything he can eat on the go, whether it be granola bars, pretzels, berries, etc. He's got a sweet tooth so anything that's super sweet is right up his alley), libraries, sharing his knowledge/findings with others, the cold (Grew up in it, so he's super comfortable in it as well).

Dislikes: Selfishness, cruelty, ignorance, crowds, excessively bitter food/drink (Not big on coffee), technology (Doesn't actually dislike it, he just has trouble actually using it), being lied to/manipulated (It's something he beats himself up over but continually falls prey to)

Backstory: Born in the remote, frigid forests of Sibral in Northeastern Yurashia, Oliver grew up in almost complete isolation, living in a simple wooden cabin with nobody else but his parents around.

Growing up, Oliver's parents attempted to give the boy the best life they could despite their circumstances, showering him with constant love and attention. They also attempted to provide Oliver with an education, with his mother teaching him the basics of wilderness survival including how to find food and basic first aid, and his father teaching him how to read and fostering his love for history. However, the foremost priority in terms of Oliver's education was in the art of magic, and it is here where Oliver received the most thorough teachings, with his mother teaching him everything she knew healing and defensive spells, and his father helping him to develop his signature illusions as well as some basic curses.

When Oliver wasn't receiving an education, he was spending most of his time either wandering around the woods by his home or reading the varied, yet also limited selection of books from his father's library. Not only did the stories within these books intensify Oliver's love of reading and interest in history, but they also gave him something far more profound: his beliefs. Whether set in fiction or reality, the novels all encompassed similar themes of good people making the world a better place simply by doing the right thing, even if they had to do so alone; the notion that no matter how bad things get or how bleak things look, the innate kindness and good in people will prevail even during the darkest hour - these are things Oliver took to heart and would carry with him for the rest of his life.

Things continued in this manner for most of Oliver's childhood and adolescence; his time split between education, reading, and strolling through the icy woods he called his home. In general, life was rather peaceful. However, the older he got, the more certain things began to bother him and gnaw at the edge of his mind. To start, his parents always seemed to dance around the big questions: "Why do we live out here all alone?", "How did you learn magic?", "Why are you so concerned about me running into 'demons'?" The demons question in particular was a sticking point for Oliver, as while his parents went to great lengths to warn him about "demons", they seemed to not know too much about them to begin with, or at the very least, weren't telling him everything. Then again, it seemed that they weren't telling him everything in regards to a lot of things.

Even outside of that however, there was something else that seemed to bother him: this growing desire to get out there. As much as he liked his home and his parents, he began to yearn to see the various places and people so vividly detailed in his books. He wanted to see what else was out there, what new things he could learn, what people he could meet and what experiences he could revel in. These sentiments of wanderlust only grew as time went on, and by the time he reached adulthood, it was becoming almost unbearable.

Which is why it came as a welcome surprise to Oliver that the moment he turned 18, his parents seemed eager to see him out of the house, helping him pack for what was surely to be a long journey, his father even giving him his favorite magical tome and cape, and his mother giving him a brand new outfit meant to show off her "handsome little boy". With a kiss goodbye and some words of encouragement, Oliver was soon off on his journey, thrust out unto the world with no real direction, yet still excited to see what lay beyond the confines of his isolated abode.

However, once Oliver got out into the world, he found that reality didn't quite match what he saw in his books. While many people he's met have been kind and compassionate like he expected , just as many have been callous, ignorant, or even outright cruel, attempting to either harm or take advantage of the owl's kindness and naivete. To make matters worse, while some have appreciated his magical talents, what he wasn't prepared for was the amount of people who treat his magic with fear, disdain, disbelief, and on rare occasion, violence. His parents had warned him that such things could happen, but he didn't imagine it could get as bad as it did.

While he has had many pleasant experiences thus far, and has even gotten to explore some of the locales described in his books, these unfortunate experiences have left their mark on the owl, and even though he still maintains his compassionate nature and optimistic beliefs, there is still a part of him that is hurt by what he's been through.

With all the unanswered questions hanging over his head - a list that only seemed to grow with each passing day - Oliver began to question things, such as why his parents had seemed to be in such a hurry to get him out of the house when he came of age.

Adding to the mystery, strange dreams have begun to plague his slumber - a voice belonging to someone (or something?), urging him to go to specific locations, searching for something important.

Now more confused than ever before, Oliver has one burning question taking precedence over all else:

Just what the heck is the "Jeweled Scepter", and why is it so important that he seek it out?

#Oliver the Barn Owl #OC stuff #Sonic OC #Sonic FC #Sonic #Archie Sonic #I've been thinking about making an OC blog just so I have all of this in one place and organized #What do y'all think?#Would y'all be interested in that?

52 notes · View notes

taeguboi · 4 years

Text

BTS as... Rockers

Ngl, I panicked a little when I checked on the masterlist because an older post about BTS as rock band members was labelled as this title and I’d already written this one for like 3 members already. There’s various genres I mention, some of which are also metal and pop but I thought a simple general title would be best here.

Anyways, my second post coming back recently. Hope you enjoy.

Mainly a classics man

Loves to analyse lyrics

and loves writing his own lyrics based on his current favourites

It’s like a form of literature to him

Loves to chill out to prog and psychedelic rock

Accidentally had the same music tastes as that weird geography teacher in school

Probably has a pet named after a member of a power / symphonic metal band

sorry I’m a bit of a Nightwish nerd and now I can just imagine him calling for his dog “Floor!” and everyone getting confused because they think he’s just shouting at the ground

this is the kind of genre he likes the most other than classic rock; that’s where the most literature references are. It’s poetry about poetry

Has a journal of art and lyrics quotes for when he’s super into a song

Could be mistaken for a geek in school

because to a juvenile ear, his taste in music might be challenging to listen to

like no one else had the patience aged 12 to listen to a 9 minute song or an instrumental track

and then even at 15/16, how many people your age would listen to Dark Side Of The Moon?

Guess he would say music is all about sitting back and listening and taking it in

Would love to be a songwriter for the right kind of singer

unfortunately though, he’s a bit of a loner

likes his own company too much

it’s probably the solitude that motivates him to write

too many more friends than he already has would be too much of a distraction

It’s not a sad situation though

music is what Namjoon loves the most

and “nothing else matters”

Oh yes, let’s have a bit of Metallica in there too

It’s not until he finishes school that he becomes more in touch with what people in the current world of rock and metal like

discovered “Rollin’” by Limp Bizkit like WAY too many years after it came out

“Have you heard this ace song man?”

“yep... in 2004 dude”

“oh”

But he’s no ashamed or anything, no

He’s proud to be a fan of the bands he likes

even if they aren’t to everyone’s tastes

“Well, sorry if this isn’t some 3 minute long four chord song repeating the same 5 words”

If they don’t appreciate it, their loss

Jin

The old ones are the best ones

Think 50s rock n’ roll; Little Richard, Elvis, and so on

mixed with guilty pleasures of songs about ‘my baby girl’

Loves themed music nights

Whilst of course his favourites are the 50s themed ones

he also loves showing up to 60s nights to flaunt the flower power

or 80s nights in a fun wig as some member of a hair metal band

all the styles are very fun

but on a daily basis, he’s basically dresses like a teddy boy

tight trousers with white socks peaking out

jacket - sometimes a suit jacket, sometimes denim

as you can imagine, when a lot of this stuff comes back in fashion...

“Well, I did it first...”

you know, in this era he means he did it first

Loves a good finger clicker song

Once considered doing a tribute act around pubs and clubs

but he couldn’t decide who he wanted to be

Probably should take a role in some live production of Grease

he’s seen it enough times

and he can sing

He reckons he could never do theatre for long though

his fantasies are with playing instruments to perform

talented keyboard player

starting to get the hang of guitar too

but he does get carried away whilst trying to learn guitar

because he wants to add on all the cool moves NOW

He’s got some bangers he created on the keyboard though

he didn’t really intend to create original songs

it just happened one day after a break up

and he listened to Heartbreak Hotel

too many times

he just sat at his keyboard

and made something that really felt special

and then the day after that, he made a more upbeat song

and the week after that, he has 4 full songs in total

Open mic nights become something he enjoys

a bit of a local celebrity

“Would you play my grandma’s 80th party? Pleeeease?”

and aww bless him, he plays all the throwback songs at care homes

all free of charge

slips in some of his original music too

“Ooh, I’m afraid I don’t remember that one dear, must be my brain”

“Oh, no no no” explains Jin “I made it myself”

Old dears just love him basically

but so do the girls his age

Whilst some think the whole 50s get up is a bit lame

some go wild for it

because he dons all his outfits so well

and his songs feel so true to the era they were inspired by

you gain a love for the 50s just from watching Jin

Talented boy, keeping the 50s alive

Suga

A lot say Yoongi has an acquired taste

an electronic element to rock or metal always makes it more interesting to him

loves industrial music - NIN for days

Linkin Park made most of his jams

cried for half a day at the news of Chester no longer being with us

Likes a bit of new wave, synthpop, all that

emo songs just help you through the bad times okay

Can equally enjoy a dub festival as much as a rock concert

some people think his taste is actually naff

but then they realise he also listens to the likes Foo Fighters or Sum 41

Plays like the same 30 songs on repeat

but his collection has so much more

He has some rock and blues for the road trip

he’s got your 70s singalongs for the party

Was briefly a DJ at a rock bar

got fired for not playing enough popular songs in his set

“wtf I thought this was a bar where people could appreciate this” huffs Yoongi

“yes but people want to sing to ‘down with the sickness’ or something, not ‘down in the park’!”

“stuff you then, I’ll take Gary somewhere else with me”

guilty pleasure: Kate Bush

A somewhat gothic sense of style

but not overwhelmingly gothic

He likes bandannas and black clothes

not always in black clothes though

sometimes the merch he wants just isn’t available in black

but no worries

as long as he can happily flaunt the music that makes him who he is

J-Hope

Can listen to any rock genre

give him something and he probably already loves it

So yeah, the band members are pretty cool and all that

but what Hoseok has more interest in the backstage roles

he’d love to manage a rock band

be a tour manager

guitar tech

Much knowledge is stored in that brain of his

and he wants to put it to good use

He starts out as a promoter and organiser for the rock bar in town

which he eventually lives above

His events are ace

he can pick out fresh talent that everyone on that scene can enjoy

His showcase nights are the place to be

everyone can agree, he’s got amazing taste

no one can disagree with him

He’s a one man show and still managed to pull it off

he’s the promoter, the sound guy, the tech on all the instruments

way more professional than most other local music events

He takes pride in his work

did I mention he’s so good, it becomes a full time job?

As time goes by, he listens to less and less older music

but that’s okay

he’s happy with the time it takes to listen to all the up and coming bands

in the moment is where you should live

and he can still appreciate a band’s influences should they initiate conversation

“man, this dude really knows his stuff”

“will you manage our next tour?”

“can you do sound at our next gig? our guy’s rubbish”

and that one is like right in front of their current sound guy

The future is bright for Hoseok

his love for rock music could really earn him a solid living

Jimin

Some say he’s a bit of a poser in his leather jacket

but he really does love his rock music

Sometimes a bit behind on modern rock bands or releases

Low key wishes he was born in the 50s / 60s

just so he could live in his favourite eras

his heart really lies with the classics

60s, 70s, 80s.

90s at a push

not the later 90s where grunge bands did pop

actually any movie made in that time makes him cringe

like he’s all up for good clean fun

but christ it’s like they were trying to go back to the 50s or something

not everything is ‘swell’ you know

Don’t get him wrong though

he does also like some 50s music

He may or may not have spent that one time acting like Elvis in the mirror

it really hyped him up before a night out though

it may or may not have become a thing before going out in the evenings to boost his confidence

His all time favourite bands have to be The Rolling Stones and AC/DC

and no, he couldn’t pick between the two, ever

Doesn’t really have a desire to be in a band

but sort of accidentally picks up the bass to help out a mate in a band

and sort of accidentally becomes a permanent member

It’s just a cover band

but it’s so much fun

Sometimes, you can have a really bad day

and then listening to 23 people singing “I Love Rock n Roll”

kind of lifts your mood

“Play Wonderwall!”

gets a bit annoying to him

kind of wants to hit that one guy around the head with his bass

but he holds back

Because being aggressive wouldn’t be very rock of him

and whilst he does like punk music

he’s definitely not a punk

Screw all that political rubbish

music should be to enjoy yourself with

stop worrying about the world for one minute and

let’s sing about whiskey and cigarettes and just living life

“What do you MEAN you don’t know any Def Leppard songs?”

“For crying out loud!”

He tries to understand that not everyone will listen what the music he likes

“but... like seriously, how can you not though?”

Probably likes all the underrated bands

Loves vinyl

definitely collects vinyls

Likes to shop at vintage stores to fulfil his obscure taste

People are like “you paid £60 just for that?”

but to Tae, it’s worth every penny

He likes the classics too

he can sing along in a rock bar to all the well known tunes

old or modern

and there may be loads in his vinyl collection barely anyone recognises

but there’s some more familiar faces too

there’s The Beatles, Guns n’ Roses, Foo Fighters, anything like that

it’s just only like 20% of his huge collection

Whilst his style is inspired by those he idolises...

he can never copy them

that would be an insult to them and his originality

Plays guitar and writes songs

never anything soppy though

actually fairly hesitant to pick up an acoustic guitar

always plays electric

and the songs he makes are about having a good time, life experiences

but not about love

He can listen to a couple of cheesy tracks

he just won’t make any

“Who the heck is John Otway, Tae?”

“Oh, you know, Wild Willy Barrat”

“Willy who?”

“Cor baby, that’s really free!”

“....”

“Headbutts! da da da da da... Headbuttttsssss”

I feel like rocker V loves anything that feels slightly random

probably make his own secret songs that sound silly to others

Probably has a band that never gigs

it’s him singing and playing guitar

and a bassist and drummer that aren’t really sure why they’re here

but they kind of like the unique stuff he does

and the band is almost purposely bad

“It’s the imperfections that really give a song character”

Jungkook

Modern rock and metal

low key emo

Tears Don’t Fall by BFMV on repeat aged 14, his first break up

Lives for festivals

like when he goes to work, that is what he is earning money for

well, that and bills and food

has a jar for each festival he wants to go to this year

Also loves a bit of melodic punk

like when that one Australian band are finally coming to his country

he HAS to go

help me I’m really sad because this is me and The Decline were supposed to be coming to the UK and then this pandemic happened and now I might never see them criii

Has a playlist for every aspect of life

every feeling, every colour, every occasion

songs that remind him of a time, ones where he can visualise a colour...

many people don’t get it

“how many playlists?”

“how can a song be a colour?”

it just is

like come on, listen to this Red Jumpsuit Apparatus song

and tell him this doesn’t remind you of gold

Could be a journalist

knows everything and anything about his favourite bands

AVENGED SEVENFOLD

because it’s the perfect mixture of everything he loves about music

vests because M.Shadows

So badly wants to be in a band

tries every instrument you could find in a typical rock band

loves the drums

gets stuck on guitar though in his first band

well, he was just desperate to go gigging

he left after a year and a bit though

got boring

forms his own band instead around him being on the drums

Lives for this band

it’s like a rock band but with political lyrics

and they can perform at most events

they just fit any bill

gigs are booked almost every weekend

road trip with the lads

they travel like 50 miles just to be paid in beer only

Dreams of big time collaborations

that will probably never happen and he knows that

but it’s nice to dream, right?

puts on his own gigs a few years down the line

of course his own band are always on the bill

everyone thinks his gigs are a hoot

He even manages to book some lesser known punk bands

but they are a massive deal to him

“God, I love live music!”

“Do you always wear a black shirt guk?”

“Hey, I’m a drummer! It’s hard work; a lot of sweat involved... I’m sure no one wants to see my wet pits whilst trying to enjoy the show”

and then that person wishes they never asked...

but he’s right

he knows that a good band is all about the hard graft and work

and he is always so thankful for the great rock bands that influence him

16 notes · View notes