#but Jean's performance singing ''Young and Dumb''...holy jesus. I mean even WATCHING it is like...a religious experience

[musicrunsthroughmysoul]

I have every intention of making a Fanny gifset highlighting June Millington playing slide guitar, but I also have to go with my gut which tells me that more people need to see Jean Millington's power and effort that she puts into Fanny's versions of "Young and Dumb" in the hope that folks will eventually go and listen to it and be equally as blown away.

[something-tofightfor]

I want Ryan Brenner. Post R&J cause we all know that ain’t workin out long term. 🤷🏽‍♀️ 🎸Your lyrics are from “Traveling Riverside Blues” by the King of the Delta himself, Robert Johnson. 🎸 Please Please and many many thanks 😬

We all want Ryan Brenner for what he truly is - except Jackie, because she’s dumb. 

I won’t even tell you to enjoy this, because I know you will. It got so long, but I wanted my first time writing Ryan to be more than a drabble. THANK YOU, A MILLION TIMES OVER for requesting this.

For all readers that haven’t been to Vegas: The bridge referenced in this story is a way for people to safely cross the 6-8 lane roads  that are EVERYWHERE on the Strip. They’re above the roads, and they offer people some amazing views of the Strip in both directions, especially at night. The bridge in the picture is the one that I put Reader and Ryan on, and it’s one of my favorite places in Vegas, because it’s so close to the center of the Strip that you can see everything. They’re always filled with people performing or selling things, sitting or standing with their instruments, coolers filled with drinks, snacks, you name it, so Ryan in this scenario was PERFECT to me. 

Title: Neon Lights

Paring: Ryan Brenner x Reader

Word Count: 2600

Rating: M (language)

Las Vegas - no matter how many times you visited - always had a special place in your heart. The lights, the sounds, the booze, the people - all of it was special, was different from what you were used to, and so you hopped on a plane whenever you had the chance. The current trip was for your friend Amy’s bachelorette party, and you and six friends had a few rooms at the Flamingo - dead center in the Strip, which is how you preferred it. It was the middle of summer, and so even at 9 pm, just as the lights were beginning to come on, it was still above 90 degrees, meaning that while you and the girls had dressed lightly for the night, you’d chosen a simple black dress and comfortable sandals, not wanting to deal with stumbling around the Strip in heels.

Deciding to start the night with the Bellagio fountain show, you made your way up and over the bridges that spanned the wide roads, which were filled with people and performers. As you crossed the second bridge from Bally’s toward the Bellagio, the current fountain show playing in the background, you saw him. Dressed in a simple black t shirt and a pair of well worn jeans with heavy boots on his feet, the young man was sitting on an overturned crate, a beautiful acoustic guitar over one knee as he strummed it, singing along. “Hey, wait. Stop, guys.” You called out the request to your group, who had passed the man with disinterest, intent on getting to the fountains - prime selfie territory.

But you stopped, even before you registered what he was singing, because his voice was absolutely gorgeous. There was a small crowd watching him, and he had a bunch of coins and some bills in the guitar case next to him. Good. He deserves it. The first song ended, and the people around him clapped politely and nodded as the guy finally looked up, a sheepish smile on his face. “Thank you. Thanks, everyone. So much.” As people stepped forward, dropping more money into his case, the man nodded gratefully, offering smiles and a few handshakes before strumming a few more times and clearing his throat.

Your friends had finally stopped, and were watching you intently as you stared at the man, who was singing another song - this one just as old and bluesy as the first, his voice perfectly suited to it. You pushed through the other people, wanting to be closer to the man, to his voice, to the guitar. He sells it, he’s not just singing it, he feels it. The man’s eyes were closed as he played, and you focused first on his hands - the long fingers tattooed, plucking the strings with precision and confidence, and then they traveled up his arms, which were muscled and looked strong, a few smaller tattoos inked onto the skin. Your eyes made it to his chest, which, if the shirt he was wearing was telling you the truth, was also well defined, his shoulders broad - and then finally to his face, which was just as perfect up close as it was from ten feet away. Good lord, he belongs on a stage.

The song finished, and the man removed one hand from the body of the guitar, his fingers wrapping around the neck to hold it in place on his knee. You found yourself digging into your purse without thinking, fingers closing around the first bill you could pull from your wallet as you stepped forward, crouching down to tuck it safely into the case, even as the man looked down at his feet and caught his breath. “That’s too much, you don’t have to -” You looked up, locking eyes with him for the first time and froze. Your jaw dropped and your eyes widened as you got a good look at his face; surrounded by thick, dark hair, his pale skin made his eyes stand out - and they were the deepest shade of brown you’d ever seen. He’s gorgeous, he’s… The man licked his lips and shook his head, offering you a smile, his own eyes wide. “Please, that’s not -”

“You’re really good.” You shook your head, finally finding your words as you stood, zipping your bag back up. “Your voice is incredible.” He looked away from you as he thanked a few others, and you stepped back, looking over your shoulder at your friends, who were standing back and looking at you expectantly. Amy’s arms were crossed over her chest and she was frowning. Oh, fuck off, go without me. You sighed, waving your hand and mouthing “I’ll catch up” to them, and Josie nodded, throwing you a wink. You turned back to the man, who was drinking from a water bottle, talking to another young woman and a man standing next to her.

When he saw that you were paying attention again, he raised an eyebrow, running his free hand through his sweaty hair and grinning. “Tip that big gets you a request. Wanna hear something?” You smiled, biting down on the inside of your lip as you thought. “I’m gonna play something else, but if you’ve got the time to stick around, think about it, and you’re up next.” I’ll stand here all night if I have to. “This is an original. I wrote it with the help of a … friend about a year ago.” More blues. The song was good - catchy, and you found your foot tapping along with him as he played and sang, the others around you doing the same. As he repeated a line - “lord how they try” - you decided what you’d ask him to play.

The end of his third song brought the loudest cheers and heaviest applause from the gathered crowd, and he bowed his head, nodding gratefully again as people stepped forward, speaking to him. He doesn’t even know how good he is. Someone asked him what his name was and if he had a Facebook page, and you heard him respond quietly - Ryan Brenner, and no, he did not - before he looked back at you expectantly. “Do you know any Robert Johnson, Ryan?” His eyes lit up when you said his name, lips twitching into a smile that was more a smirk. “Your voice is perfect for it.”

“I do.” He nodded, winking at you and began strumming the guitar again. You’d expected something well known, like Cross Road Blues or even Sweet Home Chicago, but Ryan had chosen something even better suited to his voice. “If your man get personal, want to have your fun…” You were enraptured by him, by the way his voice and singing seemed effortless, fingers picking the notes, the little grimace on his face at the end of some of the lines, the way his nose wrinkled while he sang. He sat on his crate and played his heart out in sharp contrast to his surroundings, the blinding neon lights of Vegas looked almost dim, the sounds faded into a dull roar as you watched him. The Eiffel Tower and giant Paris balloon were visible behind him on the left, the fountains and bright lights of the Cosmopolitan to the right, and it was the perfect backdrop for him, the contrast between Ryan and the city that he was in astounding. I’ve never seen anything like him, not even on an actual stage. He didn’t need the lights, didn’t need a microphone, didn’t need a gimmick - his talent was the gimmick, on full display for a few dollars and minutes at a time for anyone that was willing to give him some time. 

Nearing the end of the song, Ryan opened his eyes, gaze moving over the crowd until he’d locked eyes with you, an earnest look in them that masked something deeper, something… raw. He wasn’t just singing because you’d asked him to, he was singing for you, to you, the words dripping from his mouth like he’d written them in the first place. “We can still barrelhouse baby, on the riverside. Now you can squeeze my lemon ‘til the juice run down my…‘Til the juice rune down my leg, baby…” You found yourself rubbing your tightening chest, fingertips digging into the sweat-glazed skin at your collarbone as you felt what he was singing, and as the song ended, you were the first to respond, a soft “holy shit” leaving your mouth and making him laugh.

He stood, leaning his guitar against the stand he had set up next to him and stretched out, shirt rising slightly to expose a thin strip of skin below his waist before he leaned forward, shaking a few more people’s hands and finally you shook your head, stepping forward toward him, hand going back to your bag. “Don’t even think about it.” He was speaking directly to you, and you realized that his full attention was on you, those dark eyes staring into you without difficulty or hesitation. “I haven’t played that in years, and it felt great. Thank you.” You waved a hand, and reached out, intending to shake his but he laughed instead, taking your hand in his and bringing it up to his lips, pressing them against the back of it without breaking eye contact. Years? That’s after years of… Jesus.

“Ryan, you’re really, really good. I mean it.” He shook his head, dropping your hand and ran his fingers through his hair again. “I’m glad I got to hear you play.” He looked over his shoulder at the fountains, which were playing again, the soft strains of Frank Sinatra reaching your ears. “I should go, though, my friends and I are here for a bachelorette party, and I’m sure they’re waiting on me.” You shrugged. “I’d rather stay and watch you play, but…” His cheeks turned red, but you meant it, honestly. “Thank you, for..”

“I’ll be here tomorrow night, too.” He spoke quickly, as if he wanted to say the words before he lost the nerve. “I’m in town for a few more days, staying with a friend, and I’ll be back here tomorrow night.” You nodded, feeling your chest tighten again. “Come see me then, yeah?” You were nodding, and without thinking, you reached out and hugged him tightly, arms around his neck. He didn’t respond immediately; in fact he froze for a moment and you swore at yourself for invading his personal space - hugging this stranger, someone that you didn’t even know on a Las Vegas pedestrian bridge - but then his arms were around you too, one large hand holding the back of your head, the other around your lower back. He held you tightly, like it was the first close contact he’d had with another person in weeks.

He smelled good - like a mixture of soap and clean sweat, a little bit of booze, too, something spicy, and too soon he’d dropped his hands and so had you, stepping back to look at him. You held your hand out again, and this time he took it. “It’s great to meet you, Ryan.” Tell him your name, dumbass. You did, introducing yourself and he repeated your name softly, the easy smile reappearing on his lips. “You should start playing again, they don’t know what they’re missing.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and nodded, sitting back down and pulling his guitar back onto his lap. “Guess I’ll go make sure none of my friends get themselves arrested, hmm?” He laughed, strumming the strings again. “See you tomorrow, Ryan.”

He looked up at you, a wide, honest smile on his face. “I look forward to it.”

You slipped back through the people and began walking toward the escalators that would take you down to the street level, and as you stepped onto the moving stairs, you looked back over your shoulder, the sounds of his guitar reaching your ears. Ryan was playing again, but this time he had his eyes wide open - and was staring in your direction.

—