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destiniesfic · 4 years

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A little dark!Alina for Tumblr user @darkalinas. Merry Christmas, Maven! I was your Secret “Sankta” for @darklinadaily’s Darklina Secret Santa. 👼 I had a blast writing this and I hope you like it. ♥

Fandom: Grishaverse (post-Ruin and Rising and King of Scars) Pairings: Darklina & Malina Word Count: 5,000 Rating: T+ Summary: Three years after the end of the Ravkan Civil War, the woman once known as Alina Starkov begins to dream.

Or: he can go anywhere he wants (just not home).

Read on AO3 or read below:

It would have been easy to think the mistress of Keramzin, who saw that the orphans straggling through her door were fed and cared for, little more than a girl herself. Boys of twelve seemed tall beside her, and the more daring among them would ask her to stand back to back with them so they could measure the difference in height and come away whooping at how they’d grown. She wore her hair unbraided and walked the halls with bare feet. Sometimes she would lose herself in a daydream and move to tackle a different section of her latest mural with her brush still wet in her hand, trailing little drips of paint like a line of kisses on the floorboards.

But appearances deceived, for the girl was a woman now, and married. She and her husband took their meals sitting among the teachers and staff, not their charges, although either of them could be tugged away from the table with the slightest excuse. Some of the youngest children, confused by her snow white hair, called her Baba like she was a grandmother. Though she was still a young woman, she sometimes moved stiffly, after she had sat too long or hunched her shoulders up to her ears while she painted, like whatever she had done before coming here siphoned some of her youth away.

When the woman slept at night, it was stretched out beside her husband under a warm duvet, safe. Neither of them dreamed often, and when they did they dreamt mainly of sunlight dancing over skin, of the woods’ silent call. But the other times, the few bad times, he was there when the nightmares reached for her with greedy fingers.

“It’s all right,” he would whisper, gathering her into his arms. “You don’t have to carry it all alone. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Although they were the right words, the things a person should say, her mouth always went dry before she could tell him that she knew.

When one night she arose from their bed in the very early hours, nothing seemed wrong. She had not woken from a nightmare, just suddenly, with no preamble and no cause. Her husband slept on beside her, his brown hair rumpled, one shoulder, sun-kissed from work outdoors, turned toward the ceiling. She thought about kissing it, but she didn’t want to wake him. She left her bed and went to the window, sitting on the bench in front of it and looking out at the pond.

The moon was strong tonight, a silver dish suspended in the sky. Everything she touched—the grass, the sliver of creek—seemed to glow. Her light spilled in through the window, washing the floor and the foot of the bed in desaturated hues, somehow making them both more and less. Where the light did not reach, shadows pooled on the floor like tar.

Most people thought that darkness was the absence of light, its opposite. She knew a different truth. Without light, there could be no shadow. Where one ventured, the other kept close.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw one of the shadows move.

She spun around, but her room was as she always knew it: sleeping husband, solid oakwood furniture, dead fire in the grate. Across the room, a ghost stared back at her, hollow-cheeked and bright-eyed. She startled, but it was only her reflection in the full-length mirror. Then, in her periphery, motion: darkness like smoke, sliding under the closed door and into the hall.

She followed.

The rebuilt Keramzin was completely dark this time of night, orphans and staff alike asleep, lost to their own dreams of tomorrow. Patches of moonlight glimmered at her feet, but the shadows between them seemed to grow darker, deeper, until she thought she might fall into them if she took a step forward. Yawning chasms, or hungry mouths.

This was like no dream she could remember. As far as she could see there was no one beside her, no one behind her. Yet she could feel a presence, she would swear to it. Something winding around her, working its way up her body. Something with a voice.

Alina, it murmured. A name only her husband called her now, when the fire was dying and they were alone, the children tucked safely in their beds.

“Alina is dead,” she said. “No one here has that name.”

A lie—Ravkans began naming their daughters for the Sun Summoner as soon as they learned of her. There were two little Alinas, both under four, in the nursery where the youngest children slept. But she didn’t think this phantom cared for technicalities.

The voice chuckled. Are you really so eager to forget yourself? She felt the brush of lips against her ear, but when she turned her head there was nothing. She was alone in the darkened hall, and she thought he had left, but then a whisper slithered into her other ear. Are you so eager to forget who you are?

“I am the mistress of Keramzin,” she told the voice. “I am the painter of these walls. I am the guardian of these children. I have made my home here, and if you won’t leave it, I will drive you out myself.”

There was silence. Then:

With what power?

“Darling?”

She turned. Her husband stood in the doorway of their room, his hair sticking up endearingly at odd angles, pajamas slung low on his hips. The shadows reverted to their normal shade, strangely innocent, keeping their secrets.

“What is it?” he asked. “I heard you talking.”

She blinked back to herself and reached for a plausible explanation. “I don’t know. Must have been sleepwalking.”

He nodded, distantly, then walked over and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Back to bed,” he said, a yawn stretching the last word wide.

“Back to bed,” she agreed, but not without a last glance over her shoulder.

---

“Have you heard from our friend in Os Alta?” the woman asked her husband over breakfast that morning.

That’s what they called the king, that or sometimes their friend in the palace. They had a handful of friends in Os Alta, of course, the lingering remnants of another life entirely. But those friends—the Grisha Triumvirate, the king’s bodyguards, and others—could be mentioned by name occasionally. Davids and Nadias were common enough. Nikolais were, too, but it was better to be cautious with him. Better to leave nothing to chance.

Her husband frowned. “No,” he said. “Were you expecting something?”

She shrugged. They had briefly housed the king’s escort a few weeks back, sans king; the orphans had crowded the windows to gawk at the gilded carriage. When the riders went on their way to the palace, she sent a letter with them. Nothing serious, for there was nothing serious to report from Keramzin, just well-wishes and a request for news from the court. The king was a lively correspondent and usually quick to reply, happy to unburden himself of gossip or fears which he could not, or would not, share with courtiers.

“I wrote to him,” she said, spooning sugar into her tea. “But I haven’t heard back. He’s probably busy.”

“Busy choosing a wife,” her husband replied, with a hint of a snort and a solemn undercurrent that said he did not envy the king one bit.

The woman looked into the glassy surface of her tea. “I forgot,” she murmured, though that news had reached them even in Keramzin and the staff had been buzzing about it for weeks. A royal betrothal was a rare event, and an important one.

Her husband bumped her knee with his, and teased, “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“Hardly,” she scoffed, and smiled at him. That ship had sailed long ago.

Still, it bothered her that she hadn’t heard from her friend. She knew that court obligations must be keeping him occupied, especially with eligible young women swarming the capital, but she wished she had a letter back so she could reply in kind. He was the only person who understood the way darkness had lodged itself between her ribs like a long thorn, reaching to pierce her heart. If she could just slip in a question about his demons, if she could just have reassurance that all was well with him, then maybe she would cease to worry about the impossible.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the earthy scent of her tea. It seemed silly to have those fears here. The air was bright with the chatter of children being herded into their first lessons of the day, with cooking smells, with autumn sun. Half the walls were covered in paintings of fantastical scenes, her own doing, and she wondered if she had been trying to create a ward to keep the darkness out.

“I heard there were earthquakes last night,” her husband said, changing the subject. “Maybe that’s what woke you.”

She frowned. “Earthquakes? Here?”

“All over Ravka. As far south as Dva Stolba.”

Dva Stolba. A shiver ran down her spine. “Why do they think it happened?”

“An act of nature,” said her husband, unbothered. “These things happen, beloved.”

The woman nodded and looked back into her tea. Strange things had been happening all year, it seemed—bridges of bone, statues sprouting flowers, forests falling in the night. It might mean nothing.

And yet when she tried to paint that day, her blues kept running into her blacks, and shadows marred her paintings like bruises. She retired to her room early, dreading her dreams.

---

She did not dream that night, nor the next, nor the one after that, and she breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that her husband was right, that things do happen. That sometimes earthquakes were only earthquakes, and dreams only dreams.

The next time she woke unexpectedly it was to the sound of a bright, sustained note, like ringing in her ears. Someone was playing the piano downstairs. One of the kids must have gotten up and decided to wander around in the night.

Her husband slept on next to her, bracketing her back, and she knew it would fall to her to handle this before the playing woke up the rest of the orphanage. She sighed, pushed her hair back from her face, and slipped out of bed, quietly pulling the door to behind her.

The child fooling around with the piano kept playing and holding the same note, as if not sure where to go from the single key they’d discovered. It was in one of the upper octaves, and although she’d begun to learn how to play the piano alongside some of her more gifted charges, she did not have the knack for knowing which note it was.

But when her feet found the cold tile of the foyer and she hurried to the drawing room where the piano stood, she saw the person sitting at the keys was not a child at all.

The phantom had shape now. He wore a long cloak of all black, with the hood pulled up to cast his face in shadow. She knew what he would look like if he drew it down, and it was that terrible knowledge which rooted her to the spot. He sat on the piano bench like there was real weight to him.

“You’re not here,” she said, as if the words alone were a revocation, a shield.

The phantom pressed the piano key again, and the note held, high and wavering, suspended in the air between them. She looked around, thinking it might wake the staff, or maybe some of the children would stumble bleary-eyed from their rooms, but in her heart she knew no one would come.

“You’re not real,” she insisted.

“Come and sit,” he said. His voice was cool like a poisoned spring at the height of summer, the last drink of the desperate.

She refused to slip into the well of him and stayed where she was, folding her arms over her chest. “You’re in my home.”

“Yes, and such work you’ve done, rebuilding it.” He didn’t need to remind her that he had once burnt Keramzin to the ground, slaughtered all those that had a hand in raising her. She could hear the smile in his voice, picture the way his lips curved under that hood. “Sit with me. I’ll be on my way soon enough.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Would you believe a dead man’s word?”

She shook her head. She wouldn’t have believed him when he was alive. “All you’ve ever done is lie, dead or not.”

“I bent the truth to my will, Alina. I omitted.” There it was again, the name that was hers and wasn’t. She hated the tenderness with which he said it, the same her husband’s voice held when he called her beloved, or my heart.

“A lie of omission is still a lie,” she said.

He made a small, skeptical sound, and then began to play in earnest, coaxing sad, strange music from a piano more accustomed to the clumsy fumblings of students. She had never heard a song like this, composed of discordant notes that didn’t quite fit together and made the hair on her arms stand on end. She found herself moving closer to the piano, watching his bone-white fingers move over the ivory keys, trying to figure out how he was doing it.

He softened his playing, gentled his touch, so that he could speak to her with his head still bowed. “How long has it been since you’ve seen my face at night?”

“Years,” she whispered. Another lie. She couldn’t keep him from entering her thoughts, the man she’d almost loved, the man she killed. She would go weeks at a time without thinking of him, and then he’d glide into her last thoughts before sleep, or she’d feel her husband’s callused hands on her skin and think of the one breathless night he’d gripped her thigh and nearly had her, all of the other evenings that weren’t.

“Would you like to see it again?”

“No.”

He chuckled and stopped playing, then reached up to draw back his hood.

At first she saw only what she expected: his familiar, beautiful face, with its high cheekbones, his thick, dark hair, his cruel mouth curving up at the corner. There were the faint scars that marked his survival of the time she stranded him on the Fold. But that was what she wanted to see. The other half of his face was a rotten mess. Mottled grey skin flaked away from bone, a dark hollow gaped where his eye should be. There were no lips to hide his straight white teeth, and no nose at all. How he would have rotted, if he hadn’t burned.

He smiled.

She screamed.

The cook, emerging from her room to set out breakfast, found her asleep at the keys, her forearm slung in front of the music rack, pillowing her forehead.

---

The woman was led to her bed, skin hot, buried in blankets as soft and heavy as the first snow of winter. A doctor from the nearby town was summoned to diagnose her with influenza, told her husband to see to it that she rested and drank her tea. She had always been prone to sickness when the weather changed–except for the one glorious, blazing year that her ill health could not touch her, when the light she wielded kept it at bay.

She gave that up. She was supposed to have her happily-ever-after.

“I saw him, Mal,” she said, clutching at her husband’s sleeve as he pressed a cool compress to her forehead. “I saw him.”

“Your temperature’s still high,” he replied, cupping her cheek in his work-roughened hand. She closed her eyes. “Fever dreams. He’s gone, love. You saw to that.”

Later, she saw her husband standing in the door, speaking in a low voice to the doctor, asking about paranoia, about delusions, about what it meant that his wife saw ghosts. The doctor shook his head, told him she needed to sweat it out, that after a few days she would be right as rain.

She told no one there was a weight on her chest that had nothing to do with her flu.

But her body won its fight eventually. After a few days her skin cooled, and instead of sipping clear broth from a bowl held carefully by one of the orphanage nurses, she was able to join the rest of Keramzin at dinner, seated at her husband’s side. The staff all greeted her warmly and told her how much better she looked, even though she knew they whispered about the circles under her eyes even when she was well.

Sitting there in the dining room, she was struck suddenly by a sense of profound dissatisfaction with her life. Why should she endure gossip and speculation? Why should she have her counsel so easily disregarded by the physician, by her husband, her words of warning dismissed as flights of fancy? She, who had been a saint. She, who was nearly queen. Why—

But then one of the little girls threw her arms around the woman’s legs and said, “Baba, I’m glad you’re better,” and the world righted itself. She let her hand rest on the back of the girl’s silken head, and breathed.

---

“Keep me awake tonight,” she told her husband later, as they turned down the gas lamps and climbed into bed. “I don’t want to dream.”

“You need your rest,” he replied, smoothing a lock of white hair back from her face.

She twined her arms around his shoulders. “I’m not glass,” she murmured. “I won’t break. Keep me up.”

He tried his best, and so did she, but sleep, ever the creditor, claimed its debts in the end. Although at first she did not realize she was asleep, having sild into it sideways; one moment she watched her husband’s chest rise and fall, and the next she blinked, and the waning moon had moved outside the window. The back of her neck prickled with the creeping certainty that she was being watched. There was someone else in the room with them.

She reached for her sleeping husband to wake him, to tell him, to show him, but her hand passed over his shoulder like rain running down a windowpane. She jerked it back, as if she had burned it. Her husband didn’t stir.

“He won’t wake,” said the soft, cool voice from behind her. “You’re in my domain now.”

The woman closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, steadying herself before speaking. “I thought it was ours,” she said after a moment. “Not yours. I could call to you, too.”

“But you haven’t, have you, Alina?”

“There’s no point calling on a dead man.”

“Am I so dead?”

The more fool her, expecting a nightmare to know he was deceased. The more fool her, for thinking him just a nightmare. She turned over, holding her blankets close to her chest, and found a figure standing at her bedside, nearly human, not a shadow, not half corpse.

She blinked up at him. “You’re whole now.”

“I only wanted to remind you of the damage you did,” he said.

How could she forget? She killed both him and her husband that day, so much heart’s blood gouting warm over her hands. If one had returned to her, it didn’t seem so unlikely that the other would as well, even though she’d watched him burn.

But she wondered if that was it, or if he simply had the strength now to appear as he liked. He had been formless at first, just a whisper in her ear. Now he stood at her bedside, lifelike. His hood was pushed back from his face, and the moonlight glimmered on his sharp, elegant cheekbones, haloed his dark hair. His scars, which had appeared after she stranded him on the Fold, were gone. He looked down at her with his pale grey eyes, and she very much wished she were clothed.

“What do you want?” she asked, smoothing her hand over the blankets.

“A word. A walk.”

“And what if I don’t want to give you those things?”

His mouth curved into a smile, but she read sadness in his eyes. “Then I will come again, Alina. The tracker may think he has you in the day, but your nights are mine.”

She closed her eyes again and imagined him eroding her dreams over and over, until he became the only thought left in her head. She imagined sitting up for days, trying to avoid him. It chilled her blood. If they had thought her paranoid before…

“No tricks,” she told him. “Look away. I need to dress.”

He scoffed, “You act as though we’re strangers.”

“Some things belong to me,” she reminded him. “Look away.”

He pursed his lips, but turned his head away from her. She slipped out of bed, careful not to touch him, and gathered up her discarded nightgown, her underwear, dressing as quickly as she could. She stepped into her slippers, determined to make him wait as long as possible, before asking, “Where are we walking?”

“Around your orphanage, to start.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms and tucked her hands under her armpits so he couldn’t take them.

The door to their room had a squeaky hinge, one her husband had been meaning to grease for a couple of weeks now. When the phantom opened it, it made no sound. She listened, hard, for his footfalls on the floor.

“Tell me, does this life suit you?” he asked, as they walked side by side through the darkened hall, the only two awake in a house, or perhaps a world, of sleepers. “Do you enjoy being painter and patroness?”

“I do,” she said. It did not taste like a lie.

He hummed. “Do you enjoy being a mere wife, when you might have been a queen?”

“Men wanted to make me their queen,” she reminded him. “That was never something I chose for myself.”

“All the more reason you would have been a good one,” he said. “Power is wasted by those who crave it. It’s twisted, perverted, misused. You would have made an excellent queen.”

“That’s a rare moment of self-awareness from you.”

An amused glint lit his eyes, a candle flame in a darkened window. “I never wanted power for power’s sake, Alina. I loved my country.”

“Did you?” She paused for a moment to consider a painted vine snaking around a bannister, which was already beginning to flake off. She scratched at a leaf with her index finger; green came away under her nail. “Then why couldn’t you stop destroying it?”

“Ah,” he said.

“Well?”

“So young, so wise, so married,” he mused, “and yet you know nothing of love.”

He took the stairs without waiting for her to follow. She did, of course, determined to chase him down and to explain all the ways that he was wrong, then realizing, partway down, that he would only take her arguments as defensiveness. So she reminded herself of what she knew. She loved her life. She loved the children in her care. She loved her husband. Her love would not destroy them. It would not destroy her.

But she had loved power, too, once. And now her power was dead.

He waited for her by the two grand double doors that stood at Keramzin’s main entrance. She tried to follow the lines of his cloak with her eyes, but it bled into the shadows at his feet. He watched her steadily.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Now we walk.” And he held out his hand.

She stared at him.

“You won’t get to where we’re going if you don’t take it.” He spread his fingers out a little, beckoning her. “Alina.”

She held his gaze as she slipped her hand into his. She half-expected to feel the surge of power, familiar and wild, that used to always manifest when she touched him. She didn’t feel that, but she didn’t feel nothing. Some dark thing fluttered just to the side of her heart, a fledgling raven not quite ready to leave the nest.

“Aleksander,” she said.

He pushed open the door.

They stepped together, and for a moment it was as if the shadows had swallowed them whole. She felt like she had stepped back into the nothingness of the Fold, an all-consuming, weightless darkness. But then it resolved itself, and she saw that she was in a grey, windowless room. She blinked and pressed her hand to one of the walls, feeling cool stone under her palm. With a surge of panic, she looked over her shoulder and saw the only door was metal and sealed tight.

“This is a cell,” she said, her heart sinking. Had she stepped into a trap without knowing? Would she be able to leave? “Why would you bring me here?”

“A glimpse of the future,” he said, ever inscrutable.

And then his mouth was hot and hard on hers, and her back collided with the wall. She was so surprised that for a moment she didn’t react, for a moment her lips parted and she let herself be kissed, and then she grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away.

“What are you doing?” she cried, as if someone might hear, someone outside. Someone who could intervene.

“What you want.”

That dark thing fluttered behind her ribcage again. “I have a husband.”

“Your husband,” he said, voice heavy with derision. “The tracker. Have you forgotten? You murdered your husband the day you murdered me.”

“Clearly it didn’t take.” She kept her hands firm on his shoulders. He certainly felt real, firm and strong, all lean muscle.

His laugh was low and dangerous. “Are you so deserving of good things? Are you so deserving of kindness? You put a dagger in both of us, Alina. Tell me why I shouldn’t repay you in kind.”

She felt one of his hands slip up her nightdress, settling on her thigh, a strange echo of the position they’d been in years ago, that very different night. Her blood pulsed hot in her ears, and she knew it was not a dagger he was planning to stick her with. “You’re dead,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. She refused to let him rattle her. “I think that would make it difficult. No blood to spare.”

He gave her a narrow, rueful grin. “If I’m truly dead, does it matter what we do?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

His other hand traced a half-circle over her collarbones, where Morozova’s antlers once sat, before gently tilting her chin up. She could not look away from him. In life, there was always such intensity in his gaze, and the gaze of this nightmare, this dream, was no different. “I’m going to kiss you again,” he said. “Tell me to stop, if that’s what you want.”

She didn’t tell him to stop. He was gentler this time, his lips ghosting over her cheek before finding hers, molding to her instead of forcing his way in. She shut her eyes tight, but her grip on his shoulders turned into something else, a near embrace, another battle in their war. She could even smell him, cool and crisp like the approach of winter. His hand was warm on her thigh.

“You have something of mine,” he murmured against her mouth. “Do you know how to use it?”

“What?” she asked breathily.

She felt him smile. “I’m not so far away, Alina,” he said. “Come and find me.”

---

When she opened her eyes, she found herself standing in the middle of Keramzin’s drive in her nightdress and slippers. Although it was late autumn and a breeze brushed her white hair back from her face like a lover’s fingers, she didn’t feel the cold.

Dawn was just beginning to break in the east, a pink tinge illuminating the dark branches of naked trees. She stood there, watching the morning sun rise, and held her hands up to it, hoping to catch the rays in her palms and hold them for a while. But they glided over her skin, indifferent to what she wanted. She tried not to let her disappointment swallow her. She had felt a tug when he touched her. She had hoped...

But maybe that wasn’t the answer.

“There you are,” said a voice from behind her. She turned and found her husband standing in the door, his feet bare. He had dressed in haste, and his shirt didn’t quite sit right on his shoulders. She saw the nurse peeking out behind him.

“Sleepwalking,” she called from the drive. “Don’t worry.”

“You should come in,” he said. “You’ll make yourself sick again.” She could hear his concern warring with his impulse not to frighten her off. If they could only pretend everything was fine, then everything would be.

“In a minute.” She looked toward the trees bordering the drive, their little patch of forest. “There’s something I want to try.”

“Ali—” he began, then stopped, remembered himself. “Just come in.”

She smiled at him like she couldn’t still feel the ghost of another man’s kiss on her lips. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Before he could say another word, she walked off into the trees, where the shadows grew thick like underbrush, even at midday. But it was dawn, with the sun’s light slanting at an angle, and the thick trunks of trees sprouted long, dark shadows that blanketed the leaf-covered ground. She walked until she was sure she could no longer be seen. Eventually, someone would come to bring her in. Better to be quick. Better to be sure.

Alina held out her hands.

The shadows greeted her like an old friend.

#darklina #alarkling #darklinadaily #darklina secret santa #grishaverse #alina starkov #aleksander morozova #the grisha trilogy #shadow and bone #mine: fic #darklinasecretsanta

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cozy-the-overlord · 4 years

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Dances and Daggers

Summary: The Summer Festival is upon Asgard, as is the tradition of the dagger ceremony, where each unmarried gentleman chooses a lady to bestow with the honor of carrying his dagger for the night. As Prince Thor’s betrothed, Teki’s only goal is to accept his dagger with grace and hope that her violent stepfather doesn’t find fault with her in the process. But Prince Thor is unpredictable, and when he ignores his engagement on a whim Teki finds herself in a desperate situation. Luckily, Thor isn’t the only prince in Asgard…

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 15: The Truth

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Word Count: 3,000

Chapter Summary: Teki finally gets answers.

A/N: The beginning of this chapter turned out decidedly more Mockingjay than I intended ... that wasn’t on purpose, but I guess it’s fine. Also, we’re nearing the end, guys! I can’t believe we’ve only got three chapters left :(

Thanks for reading!

TW: Mentions of violence, child abuse

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @moumouton4 @berriemalfoy @whatafuckingdumbass

if you want to be tagged, feel free to just send me an ask/message! :)

Read it on Ao3!

Teki had wings.

Big, beautiful wings, more ornate than any butterfly, sprouting from her back and extending high above her head, a kaleidoscope of different colors swirling around her as she soared higher and higher into the paint-splattered sky. She flew with the ease of one who had flown all her life, drifting down the air currents and landing to rest on a gossamer cloud, so high in the atmosphere that when she peered over the edge she couldn’t even see the ground.

It’s real! she thought as she floated so far above the world, I’ll have to tell Brant!

For a while, she was safe on her cloud, breathing in the crisp air of a world beyond concerns, her gorgeous wings basking in the glow of a billion little stars.

Until she wasn’t.

Without warning, the cloud dissipated from beneath her and she was tumbling head over heels down to the fast approaching terrain, nothing to grab on to, nothing to stop it. Her wings turned to dust at her side. Gravity cackled as her final scream ripped from her lungs.

Her eyes popped open. Her vision was awash with a burning orange light, but she didn’t need to see to feel the cold metal pressing around her neck. In a rush, she remembered Osvald’s hand at her throat, squeezing tighter and tighter. She clawed at the metallic piece, gasping in a frenzy, but it didn’t budge.

What did he do? What did he put on me?

A figure appeared in her periphery, hands reaching out towards her throat. Teki shrieked—or she tried to, at least. The sound that came from her mouth was rough and weak, more like a harsh gasp than a proper scream, but the effort of it seemed to tear her vocal chords to shreds. She coughed uncontrollably, even as she writhed away from the reaching hands.

“Lady Tekla, calm down, you’re safe.” The figure held her wrists down, pulling them away from her neck. “Don’t try to speak. Just breathe, my lady. You’re in the healing ward. You’re safe.”

Gulping, Teki laid back. She was in the healing ward, wasn’t she? She recognized the golden lights on the ceiling. The woman sitting next her was draped in blue robes, smiling reassuringly. But… why was she here? In all the times Teki had gone to the healers after something Osvald had done, she had never stayed longer than a few hours. Her hands returned to the metal thing at her neck.

“What—” she rasped before the healer hushed her once again.

“Don’t try to talk,” she said firmly. “Not for a little while. Not until your throat has been healed. Your injuries were severe enough that we were concerned about overwhelming your body if we attempted to heal them all at once. We decided to focus on your ribcage first.”

Teki’s hands flew to her abdomen. The burning pain that set her chest on fire was nowhere to be found. She heaved a sigh of relief.

“We’re going to give you a bit of time to recover from the exhaustion of the healing before we work on your neck,” the woman continued. “Until then, you’ll have to wear this brace, to keep things from getting worse. You understand that?”

Teki jerked her head, as much of a nod as she could manage. A part of her brain still felt as if it were floating in the clouds. Had that all been a dream? She couldn’t wait to tell Brant about—

Brant!

She shot up again, this time coughing out her brother’s name. Once more, the healer shushed her, pushing her back into the pillow.

“Brant is fine,” she assured. “He just had a bit of a bump on his head, but he recovered .” She pulled the covers back over Teki’s chest. “You’re very lucky your stepfather got there when he did.”

Teki froze. What?

The healer didn’t seem to notice her bewilderment. She only patted her knee. “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit,” she said. “Try to get some sleep.”

She watched the woman in blue walk away with a tightness wrapped around her heart. Of course her mother would never tell the truth about what happened inside their apartment. But Teki could only ponder what possible story she had told instead.

Luckily, this wasn’t a mystery for long. Her mother came to visit that afternoon, seemingly with the sole purpose of coaching her on what to say happened.

“You opened the apartment door to find an intruder,” she whispered huskily into Teki’s ear. “He demanded you bring him all the jewelry in the apartment. When you refused, he attacked. You screamed, Osvald ran in, and rescued you and Brant. The intruder fled. You understand that?”

Teki only stared blankly into the distance. It was just a lie, just another lie she had to tell to maintain her mother’s dream. Really, it was no different than what she had been doing her whole life. But there was a sour taste in her mouth that had nothing to do with her injuries. She wanted her to paint Osvald as the hero. She wanted her to be thankful for him, to praise him…

Her mother bristled at her silence.

“You realize how important this is?” she hissed, leaning in. “If the royal court thought there was something wrong with our family, they’d throw us out. Void your marriage contract, take our apartment, and abandon us. Do you know what I’ve had to do to get us to this point?”

Empty vials flashed through her mind.

I have an idea.

Áslaug huffed. “Are you truly so selfish that you’d destroy all of our lives—you’d destroy your brother’s life—just because you don’t want to do something?”

Teki turned away, as much as she could with the brace. Including Brant was low and her mother damn well knew it. Had she always been this manipulative, and Teki was only now seeing it?

With a sigh, her mother rose. “I have to go,” she said emotionlessly. “I hope you feel better tomorrow.”

Teki watched her glide from the room without a sound, the picture of dignity. There was something different in the air, something heavy. Even as Teki tried to relax into her pillow, it weighed on her chest, pulling her deeper and deeper away from the golden lights, until the glow of the healing ward had been replaced with something far more prismatic.

The Rainbow Bridge still gleamed at night, but it was a quieter sort of gleaming. There was no horseback riding this time, no princely arm wrapped around her waist, just Teki and her unhurried step, her shift fluttering around her knees in the spectral breeze.

The path to Himinbjorg was miles long, yet Teki crossed it barefoot in a heartbeat. A figure stood in the center of the golden dome, a horned silhouette that seemed not to have budged one bit since the last time she had walked through those doors.

You’re not asking the right question, he had said. She had stormed out in frustration. What question could he want? What question could possibly be more direct than “where is he?”

But now, she understood. When Heimdall turned, his armor glittering with the reflection of the moon-kissed night, she spoke before he could even open his mouth.

How did my father die?

The gatekeeper said nothing. He lifted the great sword and settled it into the mouth of the platform as the lightning crackled. Around them, the Bifrost whirred to life, burning brighter, brighter, brighter…

Teki blinked when the light holding her in place dissipated without warning, washing her surroundings away with it.

She was standing in the living room. Her living room, on the first story of her family’s apartment. And yet, it was different. The olive curtains hadn’t yet been changed to garnet, a decision that followed Teki’s engagement announcement. The couch hadn’t yet been reupholstered. Instead of her mother’s liquor cabinet, a piano lay nestled in the corner.

The dinner table was set for two. On one end, her mother fussed with the cutlery, her silky hair running down her back in an elegant braid. She ran her fingers across the rim of her goblet, expression distant and unreadable. She perked up when the stairs creaked, someone shuffling down from the upstairs bedrooms. The man turned the corner with a casual stride, pushing the hair out of his muddy brown eyes with hands that Teki had once covered with hers, long ago when she would curl up in his lap on the piano bench and breathe in his soft melodies. Her heart caught in her throat.

Daddy…

She tried to run to him, hug him, call to him, please, but she remained glued in her spot on the other side of the table, her voice frozen in her throat. The scene before her had already played out. Teki could only watch.

Still, her eyes burned with pinpricks of tears as he stood just beyond her reach. Daddy, her mind cried as her father surveyed the room, Daddy, I’m right here.

Steinn didn’t hear her. He stopped just before the table, eyebrows raised as he studied the display before him. Her mother beamed up at him with her angelic grin.

“Good evening,” she smiled.

He hesitated for a moment, searching her face for... something. Teki wasn’t sure what. Nor could she tell whether he found it there.

Still, he sank into his seat. “Good evening.”

Áslaug reached for the plate of bread without taking her eyes off her husband. “Is she in bed?” she asked conversationally.

He nodded. “Yes. Fast asleep already.” A smile ghosted at his lips as he cut his meat, mirrored on Teki’s face. Me! He’s talking about me! “It was a big day for her.”

Her mother shook her head. “You spend too much time in town with her.”

“At least I spend time with her.”

They lapsed into silence. Steinn fumbled around with his food, very pointedly avoiding his wife’s gaze. Áslaug didn’t move. She seemed to be waiting for something.

When that something never came, she inhaled with artificial cheeriness. “How’s your writing coming along?”

“Well enough.” He took a gulp of his wine, then with a sigh turned to look at her. “Áslaug, you’re wasting your time.”

She cocked her head, still smiling. “Am I?”

“I’m not signing off on that proposal.”

Teki’s mother huffed. “I don’t understand why not. You’re always so concerned with Tekla’s well-being. I can’t imagine anything that would better safeguard her future than a marriage to the future king.”

He groaned. “You want to force a lifelong role on to her before she can even write her own name—”

“You’re being dramatic!” she snapped, waving her hands above her head. Teki flinched. “What if she wants it? What if she wants to be queen? What if we’re depriving her of a dream?”

“She’s a child. Right now, her dreams consist of flower picking and extra slices of cake.” Steinn rolled his eyes, taking another sip of wine. “She’s not capable of making that decision yet, and I have no intention of making it for her.”

“You are making it for her! You’re taking away her chance at royalty—”

“And you’re taking away her ability to control her destiny. Are you truly so desperate to mother a queen that you’ll run the risk of forcing her into a position she doesn’t want, married to a man she doesn’t love, trapped for the rest of her life?” He laughed bitterly, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I thought you of all people would understand what that’s like.”

Áslaug glared at him. “My father worked hard to get this offer from Odin. Do you know how many strings he had to pull, how many favors he had to cash in to—”

“I couldn’t care less.” Her father’s cheeks were flushed. He wiped his brow again before continuing with conviction. “She’s my daughter. I won’t agree to it.”

“Very well.” The statement was resigned, but her mother stared at him with a sort of barely masked excitement. His hands were trembling.

“Are you feeling all right, Steinn?” she asked, leaning forward delicately on her knuckles.

Her father looked up abruptly. “What?”

“How are you feeling?” Áslaug leaned her head to the side. Her voice was still innocent, but her smile was quickly morphing into a smirk. Teki’s stomach gurgled with dread. “A tad warm, perhaps? Chills? A bit of a headache?”

Steinn’s eyes widened. He jerked away from the table. “What did you do?”

“Nothing much.” She pulled the empty vial from within her dress, rolling it between her fingers. “Just gave your wine a bit of flavoring. Embers of Frost. It’s all the rage, I’m told. The woman I got it from said it would be lethal in half an hour.”

It seemed to dawn at him all at once. In a panic, her father stumbled to his feet, knocking the chair over in his haste to reach the door. Teki whipped back to her mother, who seemed unbothered in her seat, a smug grin on her face.

The door swung open before Steinn had the chance to twist the knob. Teki’s blood ran cold as Osvald stepped into the room, calm as can be as he blocked the exist, his eyes glittering like volcanic rocks. Her father lurched backwards.

“Steinn,” Áslaug called out from the dinner table. Her voice dripped with false regard. “I’d like to introduce a dear friend of mine, Lord Osvald Audinson.”

Her father surveyed his successor with wild eyes, sweat dripping down his temples. “Which one are you?” he asked.

Osvald grabbed his shoulders. “The only one that matters.”

Teki nearly screamed when her stepfather jerked him to the side, but instead of tossing him into the wall, he simply steered him back into the table and plopped him into his seat like a rag doll. Osvald remained standing behind the chair, a villainous snake posed to strike. Steinn’s collar was soaked. He shook profusely as his wife stood.

“Now, my sweet husband, I do have the antidote right here”— Áslaug brought out the burgundy vial, shaking it between her fingers like a toy rattle. Teki’s father lunged for it, but Osvald yanked him back, holding him to the chair—“which I would be quite happy to share with you if you would just be so kind as to take my dictation for me.”

He was gulping air now. “What dictation?”

Áslaug pushed aside the dinner plates, sliding an inkwell and a sheet of blank paper before him. “We’re separating, darling. You’re dissolving this marriage right here and now so we can both move on with our lives.”

“All this for a queen?” he panted, leaning against the table for support. “You’ve gone mad!”

“And you’re going to be dead soon if you don’t do what I say.” She tapped the page. Reluctantly, Steinn took the pen in his shaking hand. “Now, write this: I, Steinn Kjellson…” She went on, reading from a folded page in her hand as he struggled to keep up with her words. When she got to the part addressed directly to Teki, he stiffened.

She rolled her eyes. “What’s wrong now?”

“You—” he choked on his words. “Áslaug, please. You think about her—Teki—you take care of her—”

He sounded so broken. Teki tried to reach out to him again, blinking the tears from her eyes. How many times had her mother tried to tell her that he left because he didn’t love her? Because he didn’t want to see her again? And here he was, even at the end, begging for her safety and her well-being.

I’m sorry Daddy, she sobbed in her silent prison. I love you so much. I’m sorry. She prayed that somehow, he could hear her.

But he only groaned when Osvald smacked the back of his head. “You’re running out of time, friend.”

Straining, Steinn finished the last few lines.

Teki’s mother scanned it, nodding approvingly. “Good. Now sign it.”

He did so, a scribbled signature that left him absolutely breathless.

“There.” His skin was slick with sweat, his chest heaving up and down as he collapsed into the chair. “The antidote. Please.”

She turned the vial between her fingertips, picking at the wax holding the cork in place. A horrible smile stretched across her cheeks.

Teki knew what was coming, but still she shook with silent sobs. Don’t do it. Mama, please don’t do it…

“I think not.”

Steinn shrieked in horror. “Áslaug!”

“You made your bed, darling.” Her mother turned to walk away. “Now sleep in it.”

Her father sat there for a moment, eyes bugging out of his head. One last gasp, he lunged for her mother across the table. He didn’t even make it out of his seat before Osvald had him in a chokehold.

Teki couldn’t look away fast enough.

She screamed at the sickening snap, at the thud that echoed through her bones as her father fell to floor. She was still screaming when the scene faded away into the night as she came to, thrashing in a knotted mess of bedsheets and nightclothes, her throat burning something horrible as the harsh sound ripped from within.

They killed him! They killed him!

Besides her, someone made a gentle shushing noise she barely heard over the sound of the blood rushing to her head. Cold hands hovered at her side, holding her flailing arms to the mattress.

“Teki,” a familiar voice whispered, tinged with fear. “Teki, it’s all right. It was only a dream. You’re safe.”

The sound cut through her panic like a silver knife. Teki turned to the right, wondering if she was still somehow trapped in her mind. But there was nothing imaginary about the emerald eyes that shone through the dark.

Her heart leapt.

Loki.

#loki marvel #loki fanfic #loki x ofc #dances and daggers #dances and daggers chapter 15 #the truth #cozy writes

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vannahfanfics · 3 years

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Piano Man

Category: Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Haikyuu!!

Characters: Hajime Iwaizumi, Tooru Oikawa

Hello, everyone! I’m happy to present my story for the Seijoh Exchange for my giftee, kamunamis! I hope you all enjoy a good dose of IwaOi AU fluff!

Hajime scrubbed the residue from the whiskey glass with a thin white rag, then lifted it over his head to inspect the surface, using the refraction of the fluorescent lights in the crystalline surface to illuminate any specks he might have missed. Once he was satisfied that the glass was indeed clean, he set it beside the rest of the clean glasses before picking up the next dirty one, cleaning the soap residue away. While he used his thumb to push the rag against the sleek glass, he lifted his brown eyes to sweep across the bar, making sure he hadn’t missed any new customers while attending to his other chores.

The old man who’d been throwing back beers like water for the last hour was still going strong, smacking his lips lazily while he watched the volleyball game on the television hanging above the bar. The college student who’d been flirting with a sorority girl had apparently failed in his attempts at courtship because he was now sitting alone and grumbling into his hard cider. The pair of young moms who’d come out for a girls’ night had abandoned their martinis to sip at their waters, sobering up to return home to their children. The alcoholic who’d come in for his daily dose of bourbon was now passed out asleep, filling the air with loud, obnoxious snores. Hajime tipped his head at the bouncer, Issei, indicating it was time to wake the man up and call him a cab.

Hajime liked his job, all things considered. Though it was hard, and sometimes he had to deal with the most blockheaded of society, it was well worth it for the things he overhead. Working in a job like this, he had really come to appreciate just how colorful people were.

For example, those two moms were actually single moms— both of their husbands had perished in active duty, and they’d bonded over their struggles. He’d learned today that one of them actually had a date in a few days, and he’d congratulated her by giving them their first two martinis on the house. The sleeping drunkard had squandered his life savings gambling, leading to a nasty divorce, and now he just nursed his sorrows with alcohol instead. The gang of sorority girls giggling over margaritas in the corner was celebrating their finals for the semester, all congratulating each other on earning top marks. Hajime saw the highs and the lows of society, a rainbow of colorful folks from all walks of life.

Yet his eyes always drifted to the door when the most colorful of the bunch to frequent the bar strode in.

Tooru Oikawa smiled prettily at the waitress as she passed by carrying a tray laden with drinks, making her flush and hurry away as fast as her wedges could carry her. A few of the men watching the volleyball game at a table covered in empty glasses and the remnants of bar snacks raised their drinks to him, and he paused to chat amicably with them about the state of the game before bidding them a pleasant night. As he strutted across the bar, he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over his shoulder, then rolled the sleeves of his button-up shirt to just below his elbows. Hajime couldn’t help the way he swallowed thickly at the way Tooru’s muscles gleamed in the lowlight of the bar— how did a pianist have such defined arm muscles, for crying out loud?

Tooru was the bar’s hired musician. He came in three nights a week— Ladies’ Night, their Friday Happy Hour, and Saturday Game Days— to provide live music via the large grand piano that sat on the small stage in the corner. His music was always a hit, and the regular customers liked his electric and charming personality— especially the waitresses, so Hajime always had to be extra vigilant in making sure they were actually delivering their orders instead of ogling at the pretty musician. Admittedly, Hajime was also a fair bit jealous and wanted to be the only one to stare at the handsome man, but like hell he would ever admit that aloud.

“You’re staring.”

Hajime nearly jumped out of his skin as Issei spoke. He shot a cold look at the taller man, making the bouncer tip back his head in laughter. Snorting, Hajime stomped over to the other end of the bar to tend to a customer, then walked back to begin mixing rum and various fruit juices into a glass. “You can’t blame me,” Issei purred as he leaned against the counter, his amused eyes watching the streams of alcohol and fruit juice cascade down into the glass. “Your pining over him is one of the few things that brings me entertainment.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not very entertaining to me,” Hajime gruffed back, shooting him a glare before carrying the rum punch over to the girl who’d ordered it. He snatched up another glass to begin cleaning it on the way back, still glaring at Issei. “Why do you always come over here to nag me about him?”

“Besides the fact that you look at him like you want to jump his bones?” Issei laughed, and Hajime threw his rag at him. Issei pulled it off his face and dropped it on the counter, and Hajime snatched it back up to resume cleaning the glass. “Come on, Hajime, it’s painful watching you pine over him. Just grow a pair and ask him out already!”

“Please,” Hajime snorted in derision, setting the clean cup down and picking up another. “A guy like that? You know he’s taken.” Someone at the bar called for another beer, so Hajime ignored the way that Issei’s eyes gleamed knowingly to grab one out of the freezer and carry it over to the man. When he came back, Issei was drumming his fingers against the wood of the counter, leaning his cheek in his hand while he gazed at Hajime like he knew something downright devilish.

“Come on, Hajime, you’re insulting my skill as a wingman,” Issei hummed. “I know for a fact that he’s single, and I know for a fact that he thinks you’re cute.”

Hajime’s face blazed bright pink, and he froze on the spot, struggling to process what Issei said. A girl came up to the bar pleasantly asking for a daiquiri, and it took Issei reaching forward to nudge his arm for him to snap out of his stupor. After hurriedly grabbing the ingredients and throwing him in the blender, he leaned over the counter to ask over the crunching ice and swirling fruit juice, “He thinks I’m cute?”

“Very,” Issei smirked with a meaningful wiggle of his eyebrows. Hajime’s gaze slowly drifted to Tooru, who was now sitting at the piano. Behind his glasses, his eyes were intensely focused, but a smile alit his lips as his fingers glided across the keys. Hajime had honestly never cared about the music; Tooru’s movements just seemed like magic every time he played, his body moving so languidly in rhythm with the sweet chimes of the keys. He forgot to blink, forgot to breathe even as he watched him, so he definitely forgot about the daiquiri. “Hajime, your drink,” the bouncer chuckled while snapping his fingers in front of Hajime’s face, making the ravenet jump slightly and hurry to finish making the drink before the girl’s pleasant attitude took a nosedive.

“Look, man,” Issei said when Hajime slumped back against the counter in front of him, pouting as he ruminated on whether or not to finally ask Tooru out. “If you don’t make a move soon, someone else will, and I shudder to think of how grumpy you’ll get watching him strut around with someone else.”

Hajime’s lips curled down into a frown just thinking about it. No, he would not enjoy that at all. Still, it was always a drag, asking someone out— even if Issei had given him a fair bit of confidence that Tooru wouldn’t refuse. He drummed his fingers on the table as he studied the wood grain of the counter in contemplation. Finally, he grumbled, “All right, all right, I’ll do it if it means getting you of my ass.”

“You wound me,” Issei huffed and splayed a hand over his heart in mock hurt. “I go to the trouble of wingmanning for you, and you treat me like this? You’re so cold.”

“Shut up and get back to the door,” Hajime said gruffly, shoving Issei lightly in the shoulder. Still, a smile danced on his lips, one that Issei didn’t miss. The tall man simply hummed “Good luck~” as he headed back to the door, leaving Hajime to figure out how in the hell he was supposed to ask a guy like Tooru Oikawa out on a date without looking stupid. Hajime was good at pretty much only one thing, and that was making drinks.

Wait. That might just be to his advantage, he thought, his gaze sliding to the bottles of liquor lining the back wall. He sidled up to the shelves, crossing his arms as he studied the various drinks; he then looked over his shoulder at Tooru, who was lost in the piano notes. Yeah… Yeah, I think that’ll do, he thought and looked back at the shelves, then leaned up to grab a bottle of vodka and some sour apple liqueur. I think this’ll do just fine.

Hajime approached Tooru as he was taking a break. The piano player straddled the bench, kicking his feet against the solid wood while he watched the volleyball game with interest. He saw Hajime approaching from the periphery, and when he turned to look at him, his eyes brightened with delight. It made Hajime’s heart stutter; half of him wanted to grin like mad, and half of him wanted to hurl the caramel apple martini in Tooru’s face for some inexplicable reason.

“Ooh? Is that for me?” Tooru crooned with delight when he saw the green drink in his hand. “I hope it isn’t a replacement for my paycheck,” he joked as he shifted on the bench, sliding over to allow room for Hajime to sit. Hajime gave Tooru the martini as he sat down, and he watched the brunet study the caramel swirls on the inside of the cup, the green liquid swirling within, and the apple slice garnishing the rim with more interest than he wanted to show. With a pointed look at Hajime, Tooru sipped at the martini, then pulled away while smacking his lips. “Wow. That’s a good drink, Mr. Bartender.”

“I thought you’d like it, Piano Man,” Hajime smirked. “You seem the type to enjoy fruity martinis.”

“Oh no, did the bouncer tell you?” Tooru said with a playful pout, leaning in a little close to Hajime’s face. He blushed on instinct, and looked at Issei to find him smothering a laugh with his hand. “That rascal,” Tooru continued with a rumble in his voice that made Hajime’s nerves sing. “I thought I could trust him.”

“Issei?” Hajime huffed. “You can’t trust him as far as you can throw him.” His blase humor could always help him keep his cool. Thankfully, Tooru laughed, his eyes glittering as he studied Hajime over the rim of the martini. His nervousness returning, Hajime’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips. Immediately, Tooru’s eyes flicked down to his mouth and then back up to his eyes, and Hajime swore his face was going to catch on fire.

“Do you enjoy fruity martinis, Hajime?” Tooru asked, the mischievousness gleaming in his eyes belying the innocent tone of his voice. Body heat rising to uncomfortable levels, Hajime began tugging at the collar of his uniform shirt.

“I might be so inclined, depending on the martini,” he grumbled, looking away for a second. Of course, he couldn’t help but glance back at Tooru out of the corners of his eyes, and he was relieved to find a gleeful expression lighting up his face. “I can’t drink on the clock,” he continued slowly, “but I get off in an hour, if you’re willing to stick around and hang out in this dive for a while.”

“I’d love to,” Tooru hummed. He then tossed back the rest of the martini, squinting his eyes at the sour liqueur. Hajime thought he would hand the glass back to him, but while maintaining direct eye contact, Tooru licked every single bit of the caramel swirls from inside the glassHajime's mouth fell open as he unabashedly watched Tooru’s tongue slowly lap up the thick caramel syrup, so stunned that he didn’t even have the sense to blush. Chortling in a low voice, Tooru tapped the martini glass against Hajime’s cheek to indicate that he was finished.

“Better get back to work, Mr. Bartender,” he winked. Robotically, Hajime rose from the piano bench and took the glass before walking back to his work station. He chanced a look at Issei, and nearly hurled the glass across the room as the bouncer stuck out his tongue and wiggled it at him. Red-faced, embarrassed, and admittedly excited, Hajime dunked the martini glass into the sink of soapy water for the resident dishwasher to attend to before looking back at Tooru. He was back to playing again, eyes lidded and a smile on his face as his body swayed to the beat.

Tooru looked at Hajime from across the room, his smile widening until his eyes crinkled up, and Hajime couldn’t help but melt a little. I suppose I’ll have to thank Issei later, he thought with a small sigh, picking up his rag and another glass to begin cleaning again. Though I might punch him in the face first, he thought with a slight grimace when he noticed the bouncer slinking over, looking like he was ready to give Hajime all the hell he could offer.

“So? Did my wingmanning bear fruit?” Issei hummed. Hajime just snorted, scrubbing a particularly troublesome speck from the glass before lifting it up to the light.

“Please. The caramel apple martini was a way better wingman than you,” Hajime huffed, but he couldn’t stop the smile from appearing on his face. “Though I suppose you helped a little, so thanks.” Issei just snorted and mumbled something about how Hajime was an asshole, but he had a smile on his face, too.

The piano tunes continued to echo through the bar, a colorful melody for the colorful people drawn to this little hole-in-the-wall. Here, Hajime saw the best and the worst of society, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world— because it was the best place to be, he thought with a smile, dropping the glass to look at Tooru again. It was the best place to be.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#iwaoi #hajime iwaizumi #iwaizumi hajime #tooru oikawa #oikawa tooru #haikyuu #haikyuu!!

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thesunlounge · 3 years

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Reviews 370: Coyote

I have been mostly absent as of late due to the pressures of completing my PhD studies, but now that the work there is finishing, I am trying to return to regular reviewing. And for months and months now, one of the records I’ve most wanted to discuss has been Coyote’s Buzzard Country, released last year on their home station Is it Balearic? Recordings. In fact, my delay has been so extreme that, not only has Coyote released an accompanying Buzzard Country Remixes 12”—which I will cover here as well—they have also dropped the incredible Return to Life 12”, and even announced a new 2xLP slated for the summer called The Mystery Light. But better late than never, and there is no way I can pass up the chance to at last write in depth about the music of Timm Sure and Ampo. I say “at last” because, despite the fact that I consider Coyote amongst my very favorite recording artists, you would be forgiven for not knowing that by scanning the Sun Lounge archives. Though I’ve had opportunity to discuss their work here and there via remixes (such as on Blank & Jones’ Relax: The Sunset Sessions 2 and Joe Morris’ Cloud Nine 12”), by some strange turn of fate, Coyote has released no vinyl of their own since this blog’s inception...something that only changed very recently. Indeed, prior to 2020, the last time the duo put out solo works on wax was their stunning 2016 run, which included the Song Dogs LP, the Fight the Future 12” on Clandestino, and the seventh EP in their long running self-titled series on Is It Balearic? Which is not to say they weren’t active, and in fact, Timm Sure and Ampo delivered a really great set of digital singles and EPs in collaboration with Music for Dreams, and additionally, they remained active with remix and DJ work. As well, Buzzard Country was due quite a bit earlier than 2020, but was unfortunately plagued by production delays. To at last get to the point, this is all a roundabout way of saying that I am really excited to have plenty of Coyote to write about now and in the future, so that I can finally pay proper tribute to this foundational duo of the modern balearic beat.

As I’ve explored the balearic soundworld, Ampo and Timm Sure have always been beacons of light guiding me on my path, whether through their eclectic productions as Coyote, through the curation of Is It Balearic?, Über, and the Magic Wand edit series, or through their mixes and DJ sets, which are typically loaded with unheard treasures that lean towards the trippier and dubbier ends of the chill out spectrum. And it is this tendency towards the psychoactive that most endears me to Coyote, for the duo have always championed an authentic balearic spirit, one that foregrounds the music’s connections to the hippie hedonist heydays of Ibiza, to the second summer of love, and to a spirit of ecstatic abandon, one that is equally imbued with a magical sense of melancholy…of a feeling of being in paradise, but knowing it can’t last…as if the moments of revelatory magic—of wild nights dancing and sunrise comedowns—are tempered in real-time with senses of longing and regret. Which brings me finally to Buzzard Country, Coyote’s fifth full-length LP and a pitch-perfect encapsulation of their signature mixture of wistful melodic nostalgia and daydream seaside grooving. Across the album, baggy beats morph between downbeat disco, stoner dub, and world exotica while bottom heavy basslines work the body. Echoing vocal samples thread around hand drums tapestries, emotional washes of synthesis flow over radiant piano chords, and at crucial moments, the exotica guitar flourishes of longtime collaborator Saro Tribastone carry the mind away to lands of faraway fantasy. As for the Buzzard Country Remixes 12”, the A-side is given over to the Hardway Brothers, who brilliantly transform the album’s “Sun Culture” into varying landscapes of ultra deep Chain Reaction style dub wizardry. Then on the B-side, Woolfy vs. Projections and Max Essa respectively flip album stand outs “Shimmer Dub” and “Ranura de Marihuana” into their own specific strains of equatorial dancefloor euphoria, with each remix pushing the mind, body, and spirit towards maximal beach boogie mania.

Coyote - Buzzard Country (Is It Balearic? Recordings, 2020) “Soaring” begins with buzzard calls and hovering breaths of synthesis evoking a new dawn. Ripples form in the ether via bubbling squarewave synth leads, and pulsating dub bass sits beneath a blanket of sighing strings. The carrion calls continue streaking through the mix and celestial pianos rain down while echoing playfully across the spectrum. Plucked bass electronics bounce in counterpoint and hesitate woodwind glimmers call to mind flashing laser lights beneath a beautiful sea surface…almost as if a flute has been transmuted into a rapid fire fractal vibration. At times the strings back away, leaving layers of rainbow colored ocean ambiance to flutter and dance, all before ending with white noise delay oscillations that mimic the swell of ocean waves. Then in “Soft Top Saab,” an echo-soaked voice muses on the sunrise, with chills running down the spine as the solar affirmations are increasingly surrounded by space age string synths, and by Sara Tribastone’s mystical guitar filigrees. Reversing melodies enter the spectrum and swell the heart while shakers and tambourines hold a gentle beat. Tribastone’s guitar serenades softly overhead, with plucked textures of synthetic wood and stone dancing in the background. Further delay-laced pianos fade into view, with the track ebbing and flowing…growing and receding…and sometimes backing down into understated back and forth between guitar and piano, wherein harmonious brass layers and swells of spectral space glitter moving at the periphery. The result is a conversational interchange between seaside melancholy and romantic nostalgia, one which is eventually superseded by cosmic flutters, soft six string dances, and the spoken spells of a reggae mystic, who gives thanks to the sun, and its bounty of restorative light.

Dusty acoustic guitars and sunrise vapors introduce “Shimmer Dub,” while dancing dub bass portends the first real taste of a groove. A rocking hypno-rhythm comes into focus and laid back snares guide the infectious glide, while tablas roll overhead and evocative vocal layers thread through the mix. Steel pan synths are seen through the titular shimmer and wavering wavefronts of blurred melody wash over everything, until the mix drops down into a haze of stoned exotica comprised of a minimalist pallet of tabla rhythms, bleary-eyed pads, and thrilling vocal incantations…the effect like awakening on the shores of some faraway ocean paradise, with visages of desert caravan rituals preceding in the distance. The dubbed out groove eventually resurges, with passages given over to extended echo percussion experiments and the fragile songs of tropical idiophones. Feminine vocals glow like some intoxicating gas of multi-hued magic, and springy basslines guide the body while hi-hats and snare work through a psychedelic skank. Smoldering currents of ether move through the stereo field and moments of subtle intensity erupt from the horizontal vibe out…with airy woodwinds shrouded in static, claps cracking, and hand drums creating webs of groove mesmerism. And as the beat starts to vaporize, echo oscillations set the air aflame amidst fantasy orchestrations.

“Ranura de Marihuana” bathes in echo acoustic guitars that seem beamed in from some distant past…these evocations of classical folk music futurized via layers of fx. An ecstatic scream washes the mix clean, and a four-to-the-floor kick drum emerges to pound in the void, while overhead, Flamenco-indebted guitars spin webs of magic and reverberating vocals call to the spirits of sea and sky….sometimes whispering, other times shrieking wildly into the night. Sub-earthen bass movements are felt more than head, with exotic dub lines moving far beneath the surface. Bongos and congas pop and nervous shaker patterns lead the downbeat disco strut, while guitars work through further Mediterranean hooks and Iberian flourishes. A moment is given over to heavy bass and kaleidoscopic hand percussion–with scatting vocals, reverberating snaps, and lost souls wailing in desperation–and when the groove snaps back, there are touches of tango kissing the preceding, which bring to mind a rose-in-mouth glide across some dark and mysterious dancefloor, wherein spindly psych folk guitar melodies work the mind and airy drum rhythmics entrance the body. The kick climbs back towards dancefloor strength, with desert mystic percussions moving all around the mix and vocals morphing though fever dream echo layers. Elements from across the track refract through oscillating delay machines, and touches of rave haunt the rhythms, especially as subsonic basslines and subdued breakbeats work together.

A single piano note brings light to the darkness in “Sun Culture” and layers of radiance rain down in the form of heart-melting piano chordscapes, with some of that Screamadelica soul bliss suffusing the progressions. Warming pads envelope everything and deep dub pulses walk down white sand beaches, with shakers and lysergic breaths giving shape to the groove. Hi-hats, snare taps, and beachside bongos enter and buzzing guitar notes give off waves of golden light while overhead, liquids drip from the roofs of ocean cliff caverns. The single piano note continues to glow while souflul chords hold the mind in a state of psychedelic rapture, and space age ethers blind all vision as they spread outwards, then recede. Coyote move the track progressively towards a state of horizontal bliss, with almost everything washing away except the summery piano incantations, which are so soaked in reverb as to generate billowing cloudforms with every single note. Hushed rhythms return and hand drums take on a slight sense of urgency while pads generate layers of oceanic warmth, resulting in an audial invitation to greet the rising sun, and a naturalistic tribute to crashing waves and drifting clouds.

Intergalactic pads breath in “Dos Canas,” with tones wispy and suffused with inner light. Palm-muting electric guitars dance like bubbles through the ocean blue, and a touch of kosmische ambiance is soon tempered by bulbous dub basslines and splayed out layers of percussion, wherein the mechanic and organic merge seamlessly. Electroid sketches and seed shakers move in time as a slow and low balearic skank emerges, with glorious tones of brass pulsing overhead before ascending to the heavens on currents of humid tropical air. Hand drums circle the mix as the heavy atmospheres recede, leaving vaporous rhythms and golden synth strands to intertwine. Heartwarming chords give off mirage shimmers as the dub bass works its way back in, bringing with it further layers of world drum delirium. Soft sirens pan before giving way to more of the ascendent brass synthesis, and hisses of white noise add layers of subtle psychotropia. Snares are blasted into bursts of desert sand and all throughout the mix, various strands of melody and harmony are caught within oscillating delay cycles…progressively distorting and roaring into the ether. Shakers and 16th note hi-hats lead the groove while bongos and idiophones dance playfully against the snare and kick, until it all breaks down into an ambient outro of serene static, sighing strings, and layers of phasing rainbow light.

“Feedback Valley” closes the show with synth incantations portending the glow of a glorious sunrise, while shakers generate an infectious shuffle. Tribastone and his acoustic guitar explore Flamenco landscapes and a four-four kick drums hits against the body while layers of synthesis radiate compelling colorations. Babbling voices ride a serpentine synth sequence and touches of acid bass move in support, with cut-off filters opening as the snare drops, creating a head-nodding and body bopping groove that lifts the spirit towards the sky. The sequential electronics are so effective as they bob and weave through the mix, creating an effortless vibe of beach dance perfection…of hands-in-the-air euphoria and the abandonment of all worry or fear. Additional touches of six string sunshine push the mind every towards the shores of Ibiza and during a breakdown into burning delay feedback, synthesizers filter into solar squelch and guitars drift towards psychedelic delirium. A slow yet anthemic snare roll calls to mind big room trance as it brings the groove back into focus, now with 3D synth snaps firing in the left ear as the ever-present sequence reduces to a calming purr. Tribastone continues letting loose threads of sunshine lysergia and points of synthetic light swell into magnificent globes of blinding incandenscence. And towards the end, an echo-shrouded choir of the sea sings beneath a brief guitar fantasia before it all washes away in a scream of oscillation.

Coyote - Buzzard Country Remixes (Is It Balearic? Recordings, 2021) The Hardway Brothers take “Sun Culture” into ultra-deep territory across two versions on the A-side, with the first being the very aptly named “Balearic Channel Remix”…which is of course a reference to the work of Mark Ernestus and Moritz von Oswald. Underground warehouse kick drums pound beneath hissing space fluids, as a low down Chain Reaction-style groove emerges, though with its eyes locked on a melting sunset panorama. Liquiform chords flow into cold industrial caverns and string synths suffuse the reverberating spaces with splashes of sunshine, while sub bass motions vibrate the soul. Shadowy tracers flit across the sky and DMT vibrato waves squiggle at hyperspeed, yet their effect is blunted and muted. Claustrophobic clouds fade in then out while melodic piano chordstrokes reflect in strange ways off of glowing walls of stone, their effect like gemstones glimmering underwater, yet with their luster sanded away by the march of time. Muted dub chords are caught in crackling delay chains and the deep kicks and jacking bass never relent in their heads down, hands-in-the-air stomp. Snares are reduced to a whisper and shaker patterns cause head-bobbing hypnotism as funky chords bring touches of liquid fusion grooving…only as if proceeding in the middle of a dub techno fever dream. Insectoid chitters move in from all corners of the mix, sawing sirens swirl into screams of feedback, and all the while, drum circle flourishes are shattered into a web echoing delirium.

Next comes Sun Culture “(Hardway Brothers Meet Monkton Uptown),” which sees the bass going even deeper somehow, as growling riddims menace the mind and rattle the ribcage. We soon find ourselves in another subaquatic dub techno dopamine dream, wherein kick, snare and hi-hat lock in for maximal hypnotic effect. Sometimes the bass guitar of Duncan Gray seems to take on a post-punk drug chug edge, and at some point, the rhythms pull away, leaving chopped up voices to decay into the void. Bassline and beats return and streaks of feedback sing softly over everything, while fogs of seafoam move at the outer edges of the stereo field. Clouds of solar static are seen from millions of miles away and traces of flamboyant fuzz guitar are submerged into a pooling vortex of deep dub delirium, emerging stretched out and mutated into currents of neon starshine. Gray's melodic basslines serenade through the underground club grooves, those funky chords return to sing their 70s fusion songs within layers of sighing feedback, and increasingly, the mix is overwhelmed by distorted blasts of drug-induced haze. Abstracted voices filter from one ear to the other…their unintelligible spells of esoteric mystery pushing the mind ever further towards astral activation. And towards the ends, the original tracks Primal Scream-style piano chord structures can just be heard amidst feedback fires, delay detritus, and morphing vocal abstractions.

In the Woolfy vs Projections mix of “Shimmer Dub,” the original track’s hand percussions intermingle with gurgling rhythmic fluids…the effect like wandering upon some tribal jungle ceremonial. Big blasts of downer synth bass are soaked in reverb, repetitive synth pulses tickle the mind, and pillowy arpeggios flow into view while those familiar synthetic steel drums shine in the sunlight. Fingers roll across myriad skins as the kick drum drops away, leaving the mind to swim in a world of equatorial energy. Then, as the bass drum resumes–with shakers never relenting–a new bassline emerges, bringing with it a heavy touch of wiggling squiggling Italo boogie. The vibe is hesitant…anxious even…with a persistent refusal to lock in, and as bass bursts grow in intensity, the rest of the mix begins reverberating into a balearic dreamscape. Following a delirious pause, the track explodes into flamboyant disco funk perfection, as sweltering chord hazes melt from the sky and bouncing basslines join an infectious and tropically tinged body groove. Chords scat, virtual marimbas dance, synthetic steel pans shimmer across the spectrum, and swells of white light synthesis overwhelm the mind...the whole thing as massive a groove as there could possibly be. Touches of electro kiss the rhythms and futuristic synth riffs fire as we back down into a swinging breakbeat, with rapid keyboard riffs locking into heady funk cycles and stadium-sized tom tom fills splaying out across the stereo field. Guitar licks are soaked in sunshine as they lead a dubwise swing, and as we explode once more into the block rocking groove, double time shakers and hats push the vibe towards dance party mania…all as coral-colored leads rush through star ocean fx clouds.

Max Essa’s take on “Ranura de Marihuana” sees a four-four kick smacking with infectious disco dance energy and hand percussion flowing all around. A snare crack introduces another groove indebted to Italo boogie, with big bottomed synth basslines accentuating the vibes of beach dance euphoria. Shakers spread into sandy clouds of atmosphere and heatwave pads sweat and squelch as starlight arppegios race across the sky. The vibe of Ibizan melancholia is here perfected, causing body and soul to merge in hedonistic ecstasy, and though the track resembles one of Essa’s characteristic blue ocean dancefloor cruisers, its a little slower and baggier than usual, which fits completely with Coyote’s zoner stoner vibe. Seascape pianos bring a peaktime fee and at certain moments, the groove momentarily recedes, only to rush back in on an infectious snare crack. Ivory melodies are increasingly strange and psychotropic as they flutter across the mix, with decaying vibration tails carried away on an aqueous breeze. The radiant piano chords and vocalizations from the original swim into the stereo field as Essa barrels down into a heavy bassline stomp, with every pulling away aside from smeared out voices and 70s prog rock pads that evoke a string orchestra tuning to the sounds of the stars. Further clap cracks bring back layers of equatorial euphoria and the vocals are used to incredible effect, with echoing snippets repurposed as anthemic hooks. Pianos continue their alien dance over relaxed disco rhythms and snapping funk basslines, and as we move towards the end, claps and basslines fire rapidly as vocals morph through slapback oscillations…all before dropping into one last expanse of seaside dancefloor magic, with dub disco beats, infectious world percussion rolls, and a pleading voices diffusing towards a gorgeous sunset horizon.

(images from my personal copies)

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henridorleans · 4 years

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@lucadansembourg

henri had sent the invitation expecting, wholeheartedly, for it to be declined or outright ignored. it had sent him into a slight panic, then, when luca agreed to meet him. he’d instructed luca to come in an hour, told him that the door would be open, and sent his staff off for the day. and then he’d sat down at his piano in a futile attempt to quell the churning in his gut. he felt horribly weak, texting luca of all people. and so soon after rome, no less. it wasn’t... they didn’t usually do this. their meetings were always held under the cover of night. but who else was he meant to text? what else was he meant to do?

henri was hoping that the sound of the piano would guide luca to the living space he’d sequestered himself in. it was a smaller, more private living room off the main portion of the villa. most of the space was taken up by the piano, in all honesty, with a couch crammed up against a far wall. and, sure enough, there was the other man appearing in henri’s periphery. he stopped playing, looked up, and flashed a smile that was far too poignant for his liking. he hated the relief that flooded his system at the sight of luca’s face, but he felt it nonetheless. “mon ange,” he said by way of a greeting, the first time he’d said the nickname completely sober. he moved over on the piano bench, gestured for luca to sit next to him. “have i ever played for you?”

#henri : threads #with : lucadansembourg #lucadansembourg : 003

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fireintheforest · 4 years

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Behind the Blue, chapter 22

Although he didn’t get the need for servant corridors (something about “servants aren’t to be seen” and “great houses work like a clock, with parts in the back for the face to be seen” and other crockshit sentences Aubry said when Toivon started), Toivon was certainly thankful for them. They allowed freedom of movement, anonymity, shortcuts and most importantly for him, the chance of eavesdropping without being seen. Hawkcroft’s house wasn’t big enough to have servant corridors in every corridor, just in four strategic places: the long stone corridor connecting the kitchen, laundry room and servants quarters to the dining room, the stairs on the far south end of the house that connected the top and bottom floors (we can’t have common servants going up and down the stairs the good people use, are you crazy?), the smaller stairs that went to the attic, which housed the once Hawkcroft’s nannies’ bedrooms (close to the children’s bedrooms for easy access in case of a night emergency) and the corridor that snaked around the west wings’ rooms and down to the first floor.

When Toivon had first arrived, Sorcise had shown him these architectural secrets, to be used for the daily work without being seen. Most of the maids and footmen used them. Sorcise had confided that the west wing had this longer corridor because Hawkcroft’s personal office and library were in it.

Thanks to these corridors, Toivon had heard the most mudane fucking conversations he’d ever heard (and never cared of hearing in the first place), trivial “troubles” Avelle had with her clothes and her friends, long business monologues between Hawkcroft, his secretary, and sometimes Armellon and Bertraug, and what (in his mind) was Louis’s and Katherine’s dangerously monotonous marriage. They needed help there. As soon as possible.

That morning, Toivon opened the passage, stepped inside and closed the entrance behind himself. Headed down the simple corridor that contrasted with the one he’d just left behind. Down he went, walking past walls that contained faint voices, muffled steps, and even one that had music coming out of it (probably the one where Avelle was at, getting piano lessons from her tutor).

A strong thud on his left caught his attention, as did the subsequent noise that came from the other side of the wall. He should listen to this.

“Maybe something just fell.” He wondered, a fleeting thought that fluttered through his mind.

A blunt, strong noise again, that sounded like a heavy object being pulled on the ground, came from the same place. He should listen to this.

He took a step to the wall, taking care to distribute his weight to avoid any sound from creaking floorboards of the servant corridor. He leaned and cupped the hand next to his ear to listen.

Due to the thickness of the walls, he couldn’t clearly hear what was being discussed on the other side, unlike what novels and theatres liked to pretend happened. Still, just the kind of movement that had happened had caught his attention. Which room was this? He had to find out as soon as possible. There was just some muffled low speech going on at the time, not high enough for him to listen. Let’s see, he’d entered this corridor next to one of the sitting rooms, the pink one. That was between Avelle’s room and the music room, and he’d walked past said music room since Avelle was now practicing. And down the corridor, the other rooms were…

“…asking too much!”

A voice, a sad one, was clear. Another familiar voice replied with just as much feeling, but Toivon couldn’t place who he was talking to. He hadn’t been there this morning to receive any guests; that had been Aubry. He’d been outside cutting logs and pulling the tanks of milk to the cool storage. Toivon silently pressed himself to the wall, straining to hear something, cheek against cool stone.

Footsteps. Someone was pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, while another set of steps travelled to the right (the same direction where Toivon was facing) and then came the sound of a scraping. Something heavy being dragged on the ground, the same noise as before. A chair? Too heavy to be a chair.

“…not the way I wanted it to go”, The sad voice said again

Toivon felt himself get surprised at the fact that he could hear conversations from the other side of this stone wall. Could it mean that there was a hole in the wall, an opening of some sort?

“Nothing is.” The familiar voice replied. Toivon would bet his fingers he’d heard this voice before, but the haughty tone eluded him as to where. It was only when the voice continued talking that it hit him that that was Emmanuel. The first voice said something in a low, pitiful way.

“And you think I don’t know that, Verloin? Do you think me stupid?” Emmanuel hissed, “Of course I am aware of foul play! Damned the gods, do you think I was born yesterday?”

“I didn’t mean that-”

“A dead thief, stolen jewels and the little high elf tramp giving Armellon doe eyes. All in less than a week.” Toivon felt a skipped heartbeat and a face flushed of anger.

“But, she hasn’t been out since Edwinne passed away. She’s kept safe. They bit the bait, this means you know who sent them?” A pause. Toivon held his breath.

“Avelle.” Emmanuel said, this time his voice had sourness that didn’t quite cover hurt, “My own daughter.”

“I could’ve never believed it.”

“I guess I could. I always gave her everything she wanted. EVERYTHING. Why not her mother’s sapphire? But to humiliate me in front of guests, on her party…I don’t see where the piece fits.” Another pause, “Suppose that what hurts me most is that she doesn’t have the decency to wait until I pass.”

“Now, Emmanuel.” The voice chided, “I’ve told you time and time again, you’re healthy as a horse. This obsession of yours with your death is not normal.”

“Told you…you’re healthy” could this be Bertraug, if he knew of Emmanuel’s health intimately?

“You call it obsession, I see it as being a cautious man. I spent years on the sea, battling scurvy, pirates, hunger, thirst and storms, fought the circus that is the Merchant’s Council and their every ridiculous request to amass my wealth and I won’t lose it to some impatient brat or, or…a bunch of dirty, lice-filled bastards and smooching whores.”

“Hmm.” The voice replied, then added in a low volume that Toivon had to strain to hear, “Orsen is very ill. I don’t think he’ll make it. Never again ask me to do that.”

Toivon frowned. Do what? What does Bertraug (assuming it’s him) have anything to do with this person?

“Oh, please. The lad is young, he’ll be fine. At his age- what, how old is he, 21?”

“24”

“They’re fit as a fiddle at that age. He’ll live.” A nonchalant answer for a topic that was setting off alarms in Toivon’s mind.

A shuffle from the men in the room.

“Anyhow-” Emmanuel began, but was interrupted by the visitor.

“I think, if you truly wish to protect your money, you should listen to Armellon’s advice.”

“Why would I listen to advice from an elf with his tendencies? You know I have a deep gratitude for him, you know how close we are, but his request…this request…is irrational to me.”

Heh, tendencies. Toivon nodded to himself. He knew that one.

“He believes that to be possible, just because of his, his Isles upbringing and how he did it. He just assumes it’ll be normal!”

“But that’s not just in the Isles, Emmanuel. People could talk. He wants-he wants, see, he’s your lawyer. He-that is, we- are looking to minimize risk…to avoid a scandal. Plenty of people would jump at the first chance to grab your bones if you fell from public favor. And you know how he prides himself on his discretion, in professional and personal matters. He kept the whole issue of the ba-”

“Shhh!” a pause of silence. Never before had Toivon wished houses be made of thinner material than at that moment, “Didn’t I tell you not to discuss that topic here?!” Emmanuel whispered angrily.

“You have, I’m sorry.” Again Toivon had to strain to hear.

“The less people know of this, the better for everybody. You saw what happened when Edwinne…” and the voice quieted until they were a murmur, despite Toivon’s best effort to listen. But slowly, the volume rose again.

“-been taking a fancy to him.”

“Do you think so? I never thought Armellon would go for someone so young.”

“While he talks about being discreet. He’s lucky nobody knows his expressions like we do.” Emmanuel laughed, “Armellon, you old fox.”

“He would-” whatever Bertraug was about to say was suddenly interrupted by a loud CLACK! of an object falling to the wooden floor of the servant’s hallway, mere meters away from Toivon. He felt his face turn cold and looked around himself. Had he dropped something?! His floor was clear. A dead silence got settled.

“What was that?” Bertraug asked

“It came from the servants’ passage.” Two sets of footsteps and the sound of a door opening. Quick, Toivon separated himself from the wall and looked around. Empty. He decided to go around the corner and see who had ruined the eavesdropping for everybody when he heard the passage’s door open and someone step in. The force of his steps made Toivon almost fall, but some comical arm-flailing kept his balance. He turned around and started down the dim hallway, as quick as possible in soft steps so as to not make much noise. Though the passage was dark, these were Bretons and it was a sure bet that they’d have a light spell. He had to get out of here. By the time the two Bretons came to the hallway he was in, he was a silhouette against the dark.

“Someone’s there!” Bertraug cried out, and now the footsteps ran after him. Toivon sped up.

“Stop!” Emmanuel ordered, but Toivon kept going. Left, right, jumped up the three steps in one part, left, left, now right.

“Stop there!” they kept up with him, he could tell. The blue light of a spell they produced by magic to guide them danced at the edge of Toivon’s periphery, behind him like a nagging ghost or a guilt that never goes away, no matter how hard Toivon ran.

“There he goes, left!”

Don’t turn around, no chance for them to get his face. Could they see his ears? His skin tone? The blue hue told him they were close but not enough to see him. Was he sure of that?

“STOP!”

The narrow, curved staircase with its 8 inches of tread and 9 inches of rise, was right ahead. Placing a hand on the wall and another on the banister, risking getting seen by the light and his pursuers, Toivon ran down them. Easy considering the shortness of the tread, hard in the event that a fall would break his hips, get him caught and ruin the mission.

Taptaptaptaptaptaptap, his feet ran down

Creakcreakcreakcreak, the wooden stairs replied under his feet

ToptoptopPORORORORMPOMPOM went, at first, the Bretons’ feet until th

ey, with a strangled gasp and an “Augh!”, fell down the stairs, rolling in themselves and each other, hitting step after step, a human boulder barreling to Toivon as it released cries and curses.

Toivon ran down the stairs to avoid joining the rolling boulder, his breath in gasps burning his throat, tempted to look back in a panic but also frozen into dashing down in the same feeling. The human boulder crashed behind himcursing and groaning and banging on every step, and Toivon could now hear it approach his ankles (and only hear, since the minute they lost their footing, the Bretons’ spells died down, leaving them in darkness). The lack of light seemed to amplify the speed of everyone involved, or so Toivon felt the chase. The boulder was coming closer, his thighs burned, he was getting dizzy, PROMPOROMPORMPOM faster coming to him, run Toivon run!

A landing straight ahead! And a wall! If he hit the wall, the boulder was sure to follow!

In a desperate move, Toivon turned to his right, in a movement he’d done a thousand times and had taught Marcello a thousand more, and separated his left hand from the wall to place it on the bannister. He jumped, pushed himself up and tucked his knees into his chest and his feet above the bannister. Then he stretched them forward to pass the other side, now releasing himself, as the boulder passed him and continued to the landing with a strong, dry hit. Meanwhile, Toivon landed on the narrow stairs, which didn’t provide him much of a proper landing space. Toivon felt his feet touch wood for a fraction of a second, then air, and then it was his body the one that touched the step.

Well, steps, since the fall caused Toivon to keep falling down in a vulgar speed, up until the next turn, where the Dunmer was able to get back up and keep running down, without looking back. He heard Emmanuel’s sharp tone of voice and Bertraug’s groans fade as he went on. He left the servants’ passages at the first chance he got, drenched in cold sweat.

#btb #behind the blue #altmer #breton #dunmer #round of applause to Ben for editing the awful awful grammar I wrote this on #and round of applause to Kris for reading this chapter a second time just because I wanted him to liveread it #you guys are the real mvps #no need to clarify that I haven't written SHIT because pandemic #here you go guys a thief almost gets caught for the second time #Toivon my dude hone your skills ppl are gonna think you're an amateur

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sleepanonymous · 3 months

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Information on this cover below the cut.

... WHAT?!

I... I've literally heard a sentence uttered by this man containing both the words "zebra" and "nipples," but somehow this is the strangest thing that's ever come from that head of his (that I've witnessed👀).

#lost media #circa 2012 #periphery passenger #song passenger #periphery piano cover #🐙🩸💉👁️#is that how sleep happened?#(i know it's not but that would be one heck of an origin story)

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bijoharvelle · 5 years

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find you a lover: a destiel ficlet

i spiraled about dean singing wildflowers to cas because of a “dean singing” headcanon i have so i figured i’d actually write the thing as a thing.

They’re winding up I-80 through Nebraska when Enter Sandman clips on the radio. A minute ago they had been talking over some farm report but it seems that they’re crossing through towers. As if by instinct, both Sam and Dean reach for the volume knob. Sam gets there first, hiking the volume up, and the brothers smile at one another. The solid drum base has already begun at this point in the song and they bob their heads in time. Sam’s face screws up in delight when the heavy guitar picks up too and Jack looks across the back seat to Castiel.

“What are they doing?”

Castiel looks from Jack to the Winchesters and smiles to himself. Sam likes to pretend that he’s too good for Dean’s taste in music, but every once in awhile a certain song will break through the facade. Dean usually ends up explaining to Castiel, later, that the song has some sentimental value -- something their father liked back when Sammy was still susceptible to such things.

“I believe Dean has called it ‘headbanging’,” Cas answers.

The boys are singing along then, looming drawls and extended vowels. Sam puts an extra rasp in his voice, Dean screwing up his top lip in some snarl.

The boys catch on quickly that they have an audience and ham things up further, rocking shoulders, drumming against the steering wheel, air-guitaring. Jack studies the whole production with careful attention while Castiel can’t help the fond smile that takes his face. Dean vocalizes the wail of a guitar along with the music and Cas watches as Jack mouths along, trying it out.

When the song finishes, Dean reaches across to jolt Sam, tells him to dig out one of the Metallica tapes. The switch onto route 26 and scream across the Wyoming border while teaching Jack the finer points of headbanging, air-guitaring and heavy metal.

Dean glances into the rearview as they cut through the mountain view of Missoula. Sam and Jack are asleep, listing toward one another. The seating arrangements had cycled a few hours back when Sam complained about being lodged up against the dashboard (the perils of bench-seats and shorter older brothers) and trying to catch some shuteye. Cas has been riding shotgun since then and curled against the window for the last twenty minutes or so. Before that, Dean had quietly asked him about where he had been, before, and Cas had taken a minute before describing the Empty.

Now, the car is quiet, all passengers asleep and the radio pulling up nothing but fuzz. Dean’s just about to reach and cut it off entirely when the static shifts. They must be coming on some signal -- he’s expecting weather and late-night call-ins. What else do you broadcast at half-past one in the morning, in the middle of Backass Montana?

The answer, apparently, is Tom Petty.

The song is almost the full way through, piano already dancing over a key change. Dean watches the two-lane pavement a long moment and then he slips his eyes over to Castiel.

The angel is shifting a little. His hair is shuffled, a mess, and Dean remembers a barn with sigils and a light show. He remembers Bobby’s kitchen, a fishing dock in a dream, a beautiful room in Van Nuys, a battlefield at the tongue-tip of the apocalypse. He remembers despair spilling through him, dropping to his knees in the sand. He remembers laying his palm over the char-mark of ragged feathers. He remembers a fast food prayer to God, curtains, a pyre, useless prayers as the flames rose: Cas, Cas, Cas, please, come back.

In his periphery, Dean can see that Cas is waking slow, straightening out his shoulders, but when Petty’s voice starts up, he can’t help but to sing along, “You deserve the deepest of cover. You belong in that home, by and by.” Petty had been singing about Heaven, about the Paradise of afterlife and Dean thinks that maybe Cas deserves that, but he belongs with them. With the home they’re carefully stitching together back in Lebanon. He keeps singing, even when he can see Cas look over.

It’s not like earlier, not like with Metallica and all the exaggeration and goofiness of keying it all up for the kid. It’s not headbangs and air guitars, it’s just him, singing to his angel. “You belong somewhere close to me, far away from your trouble and worry. You belong somewhere you feel free…”

The outro strums out between them and there haven’t been headlights for miles so Dean looks across and he finds Cas’s eyes already on his. He doesn’t clear his throat and make an excuse, doesn’t cut the radio off or give some stupid grin. He just drives on, further into the West.

It’s almost ten minutes past and halfway through some Dylan song before Dean says, rough but clear, “Real glad you’re back, Cas.”

Castiel smiles soft, eyes out the windshield, and answers, “Well, I didn’t belong there.”

He reaches out and at first Dean thinks he's going to change the station but then he feels the gentle weight of Cas's hand over his on the steering wheel. He lets his hand drop to the sprawl of the bench between them and the don't really link their fingers together but Cas's fingers are in the spaces between Dean's so it's close enough.

Leave some love on AO3

#destiel fanfic #destiel #deancas #deancas fanfic #supernatural fanfic #my stuff

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fmdxyoungjoo · 4 years

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Fmdosaudition -- Our Song Audition

Premise: youngjoo’s audition answers to the questions for the audition for our song, and the cover of Aloha (Aroha) by Cool that she did using just a piano for accompaniment, singing in her own singing style. original song: aloha by cool Word Count: 2377 words A/N: mentions of @fmdtaeyong and @fmdbyul cuz these two are great songwriters no matter what pple say

when she first hears about the fact that there’s going to be a show for music producers and lyricists, youngjoo almost jumps at the opportunity to showcase her talents, if not for the little bit of self doubt and tentative worry that she wasn’t as good as some of the others who were most probably or likely to sign up for the show itself. confidence has never been one of joo’s greatest facets when it came to reassuring herself with things--and so its with a strange sense of quiet resignation and yet soft determination that she’d hold onto the hope that she’d do well that she picks up the self cam and starts filming to audition in for the show.

the first thing the camera actually does see is a clumsy wavering around of the room, and a half of a face darting in and out of the camera’s periphery. “is it..like this?” ten years and counting, and youngjoo admits that she’s still not that all good at doing some things like a self cam. she doesn’t like showing herself off in the spotlight when she’s off work and on her own, partly because she really--just doesn’t have nothing much to show, and the other part is because--she really liked being all off and on her own. self cam was a sense of scrutiny, and she always felt conscious enough of it, despite her naturalness before it.

“hello!” her eyes crease, and a shy but abashed laughter bubbles from her lips. “sorry for the mishap there, but i’m pretty sure you can see my face now.” she huffs a little as she peers forward, crossing her legs as she pulls back slightly. she’s dressed comfortably in her mini little studio that she’s set up in her apartment--nothing too lavish or expensive, and just with the minimal but good systems that she needed to make her compositions, her hair pulled back slightly into a delicate ponytail as she reclined a little in her chair.

“so what inspires me to write songs.” she peered slightly at the list of question that had been given to her for the audition, careful thoughtfulness flickering into view upon her face as she seriously considered the question, looking into the self cam with thoughtful eyes as she paused for a moment before answering the question. “well, i was inspired to write songs to--in a way give myself a voice. i actually started learning how to write lyricisms for songs only about a year or so back, while i started writing compositions for multiple songs probably about the second year into silhouette or so?” she scrunched her nose slightly as she tried to think accurately of the date. “yeah, almost about there. i thought to myself that since i had a good music background, and the talent for piano composition, why not challenge myself and try out composition for songs? it actually worked, which was a great relief because i thought gold star wouldn’t--” she covered her mouth, trying to stop herself from laughing at the thought of complaining about her company.

“i thought gold star wouldn’t accept the songs because they weren’t that good. which in all honestly, they had every right to do so.” she paused for a moment, eyes creasing into delicate crescents as she smile happily. “but they did accept it, and for a couple of years, i’ve seen my songs pop up here and there in various soloists tracks, which made me really happy--and really greedy at the same time. if i’m good at composition, why couldn’t i try my hand at lyricism?” her eyes flickered as she cast her gaze down slightly. “so i started trying to write lyrics. it was hard--really difficult to find the right kind of words to songs, since i’m such a perfectionist, but eventually managed to, after all recently a lot of my songs have been written and composed by myself, as well as approved by gold star for further use.” happiness contoured her delicate features, brightening the room around her. “its a secret to what exactly its being used for, but you’ll be able to see the fruits of my labour in august! so what actually inspired me to write songs was the challenge of something different and something new, and surprisingly, in that process of finding something different and new, i found that i loved writing songs, and that i was good at it, which changed my original attitude of treating it as a challenge to one of attempting to make my own style of music and voice heard through my songs.”

what is your favourite song you’ve written?

she spends some time glancing at the question with mulling silence, wracking her mind slightly over which particular song that she had written that she had truly felt made an impact to her. it was difficult--because she loved all the songs that she had made with equal heart and equal soul.

“i think...” she trailed off slightly. “for compositions, it would be to my youth, in suji’s album &ND. it was a composition that i had written while trying to see from my wistful perspective as a young person how it was that i felt about youth?” her hands gestured slightly as she tried to find the right words to describe her thoughts. “i had left a note with the composition with the words “to my youth” in it, hoping that it would serve as a source of inspiration to whoever it came to.” she laughed sheepishly, hand slapping slightly upon the armrest next to her. “i just never thought that suji would have interpreted the song in its entirety so well, and that’s why its become one of my favourites for compositions. and if we were talking about lyricism, i think the portal song that i made last year--Grown Up, that was the most significant song to me.” she held off her words for a moment, letting the rage of emotions in her chest settle a little into something more manageable, the flicker of an uncontrollable excitement fluttering into the light of her eyes as she heave a soft but trembling sigh. “it was the first time that i wrote the lyrics of a song.” she admitted a little shyly, fingers twining over each other in nervousness as she glanced up for a moment at the self camera. “i honestly thought that i wouldn’t make it with that song--” she laughed a little self deprecatingly, before brightening. “but it held a lot of meaning for me, since i actually managed to succeed in writing something that i felt was worth a lot of my own experiences to me.”

are there any songwriters you look up to? if so, whom?

a faded but faraway look slowly overtook joo’s eyes as she fell back into her memory, jolting back into the present as she felt the self camera’s eyes upon her, a little embarrassed that she had been caught having her mind race elsewhere at the thought of the songwriter that she looked up to. “i actually do have a songwriter that i look up to.” she admitted. “its knight’s taeyong, actually.” she lets the corners of her lips jerk upwards into a small little smile. “we’ve worked together quite a bit when i first wanted to learn how to write the lyricism of a song, and i’ve always admired the way his music artistry and style that i found in his songs.” she chuckled, knowing that if this audition tape got leaked to a particular someone, they’d probably both end up being highly embarrassed. her cheeks flushed slightly at the thought. “he’s also a veteran at writing songs, and i find myself listening to a lot of his songs and byul’s songs as a whole when i’m stuck with something that i can’t get a hold of.” she grinned, a flash of pearly teeth, cheeky and yet adorable as she laughed openly about it. “so yes, if there are any songwriters that i look up to, they would be knight’s taeyong and byul. they really do make writing songs seem so effortless sometimes that i get frustrated, but every single song that’s come from them have been nothing but beautiful.”

What are your goals as a songwriter?

joo blinked for a moment, twisting the ring accessory that she had worn for the day in slight nervousness as she faintly mumbled, then sighed. “honestly, being able to hear my songs being used everywhere and anywhere is my ultimate goal as a songwriter. but not just that. i want the songs that i write to have meaning, to resonate with its listeners, that when they heard the songs they’re able to feel their tears, have their healing or feel better about whatever they’re not feeling better about. isn’t that what songs are meant for?” she asked softly. “music brings healing when used in the correct way, and that’s what i want as a goal for songwriter, and what i mean by giving myself a voice. i want to give a voice that tells people--” she hummed slightly as she thought of the right words that would encapsulate her idea fully. “a voice that tells people, hey its alright, i’ve heard you, and i’ve gone through what you did, so you aren’t alone.” she adds on haltingly. “its a big goal ultimately as a songwriter, but one that i want to see happen as a composer and a songwriter, because that gives me more inspiration and meaning to write as a whole.”

What do you hope to achieve by being on this show?

“one of the greatest opportunities that this show can give me, i think--is the fact that so many various songwriters and composers and producers are all gathered upon this show with one creative goal of writing a song that receives the acknowledgement from everyone eventually. having this slightly competitive space amongst people that are good at their work doesn’t just make for a better environment for those that want to learn, but also a better environment for everyone to actually sharpen their own skills. that’s--my goal to be on this show. to share my experience, as green as i may be, and to sharpen my own skills, something that i truly think won’t happen without another person to help give constructive feedback or collaboration experiences.”

...

rather than cutting the camera immediately after her interview questions, joo takes the camera with her towards the organ piano that she had and used in her studio, humming lightly to herself as she adjusted the keys and the sound of it from the regular classical piano to a special effect on the piano, fingers pressing on the keyboards to test out the song with a few lazy chords of the song that she was going to sing, fingers flying across the board as she played the first few bars of the piece that came to her mind. the piano hummed with a rounded sound, almost tinkling at the end as she pressed the notes on the keyboard--and with a satisfied nod, she turned towards the camera, beaming widely as she tucked the stray strands of her hair back and prepared to perform, stretching her shoulders and muscles to relax the nervousness that was bubbling up in the pit of her stomach and her body.

“so the song i selected is actually a rather old song. not sure if many of you have heard of the song aloha by cool? or aroha.” she took her phone, scrolling through her music playlist for the song that she wanted. “i’ll play the song for a few minutes.” she laughed as the old song started playing on the phone, the strums of the guitar and the cheerful vocals flowing through the speaker of her phone for barely a minute, before she shuts the music off.

“and now, i’ll be playing my own interpretation of this song, with just the piano for accompaniment.” she winked, laughing cheekily as she adjusted her seating on the piano, and the mike that was placed on a stand before her. there’s a sombre pause, fingers delicately curved prettily upon the keys of the organ as she counted to herself and begun the song, filling everyone’s ears with the soft tinkle of a beginning chord to what would seem like a ballad.

in contrast to the cheerful and upbeat tune of the original song, the way that youngjoo sang the song was ballad like--but yet still surprisingly cheerful and mischievous, never losing the edge of the song that set it apart from everyone else. ballad had always been the style that youngjoo was highly comfortable with doing, so it was of no absolute surprise that that was the style she was going for--rather, the surprise came with how light and delicate the piano accompaniment sounded. rather than the heavy but emotional chords that would usually accompany a ballad song to bring about the rise and fall of emotions, the chord was playful and lighthearted, the special effect and rounded tinkling that lay at the ends of the keys as she played a crucial effect into uplifting both her voice and the song.

as youngjoo got more absorbed and at ease with the song, the more the lightheartedness and playfulness showed. it was amazing that something as simple as a change in the piano tone for a ballad being able to bring about a different playfulness and flavour as a general whole to the entire song, and affect in a way how youngjoo sang. it was just that little something that youngjoo was clearly good at, being attuned towards tones and sounds as a composer herself as she sent a cheeky little smile towards the camera, happily ending her little cover of aloha with complete cheerfulness and utter satisfaction.

“and that brings me to the end of my audition! thank you, and wherever this goes, i hope that i’ll be given the opportunity to learn more from our songs soon!” she signed off with a happy smile, relaxing as she saved the audition and turned off the camera, uploading the audition video and sending the audition in for the new show as quickly as she could.

#fmdosaudition #||CAREER**❆ shining like diamonds in the skies #||SELFPARA**❆ the gentle queen and her thoughts #((+2 points))#((wc: 2377 words))#lmao this was long man i didn't expect that

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aion-rsa · 4 years

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Director Mike Figgis Talks Trading Licks with Ronnie Wood

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Before becoming a filmmaker, Leaving Las Vegas director Mike Figgis was a musician and performer in the experimental group called The People Show. Before that, he played trumpet and guitar in the experimental jazz ensemble The People Band, whose first record was produced by Rolling Stone drummer Charlie Watts. He is also the founding patron of an online community of independent filmmakers called Shooting People. You can say Figgis is a People person, which makes him the perfect director to capture Ronnie Wood in the documentary Somebody Up There Likes Me.

One of rock and roll’s most iconic guitarists, Wood is good with people. He plays well with others. He is the Stone who’s never alone. Before he began weaving guitar licks with Keith Richards in the Rolling Stones, Wood helped shape the British rock sound in bands like The Birds and the Creation. He was the bass player to the guitar maestro in The Jeff Beck Group, which featured the distinctive voice of Rod Stewart at the front. They put out two albums, 1968’s Truth and 1969’s Beck-Ola, before splintering just as they were to appear at Woodstock. Wood and Stewart inherited the Small Faces from Steve Marriott and dropped the album First Step in 1970. They realized they were too tall for the diminutive moniker and renamed the band The Faces. They released the albums Long Player and A Nod Is as Good as a Wink…to a Blind Horse in 1971, and Ooh La La (1973), before splitting up in 1975.

Wood guested on albums by David Bowie, Bob Dylan, Aretha Franklin, Eric Clapton, the Band, Donovan, B.B. King, and on Stewart’s solo albums. He spent so much time flavoring other performers’ works, he didn’t put out a solo album of his own until 1974 which he aptly titled I’ve Got My Own Album to Do. Wood also went solo for 1981’s 1234 and collaborated with Bo Diddley on Live at the Ritz in 1988, Wood’s seventh solo album, I Feel Like Playing (2010), featured guest spots from ex-Faces bandmate Ian McLagan, as well as The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Flea, Guns N’ Roses’ Slash, Billy Gibbons, Bobby Womack, and Jim Keltner.

Somebody Up There Likes Me isn’t structured like most music documentaries. It is primarily a conversation, and it veers from much of Wood’s vast output. The hard-partying musician beat lung cancer and candidly blames his excessive indulgences. He saw bandmates, contemporaries and friends, like Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and John Bonham push past the lethal limits of chemical reactions. Wood himself remembers telling Keith Moon to take pills, not bottles of them. Richards remarks in the documentary how the two Rolling Stones guitarists share strong constitutions. Wood began recording with the Rolling Stones when they were halfway through their 1976 album, Black and Blue, and has been steady even up to their recent pandemic live stream.

The documentary also captures Wood’s visual artistry. He was an artist before he was a musician. His drawings were featured on BBC TV’s Sketch Club when he was a child, and he studied at the Ealing Art College. Wood did the cover artwork to Eric Clapton’s 1988 box set Crossroads. The two-time Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inductee continues to capture visions like Mick Jagger’s dancing in a Picasso style, as well as the shots in Somebody Up There Likes Me of him capturing the grace of a ballerina on canvas.

Born in northern England, director Mike Figgis was raised on jazz and Jean-Luc Godard movies. The inventor of the “fig rig” knows when to experiment, such as he did in Timecode (2000) and Hotel (2001), how to get drama out of romance, as he did with One Night Stand, starring Wesley Snipes and Nastassja Kinski, and The Loss of Sexual Innocence. He is adept at crime dramas, directing the “Cold Cuts” episode of The Sopranos in 2004 and Internal Affairs, which starred Richard Gere. He also mines deep emotional schisms in films like Mr. North and Leaving Las Vegas (1995) for which he was nominated for Best Directing and Best Screenplay Oscars. Figgis spoke with Den of Geek about cinematic jams and studio sessions with Ronnie Wood.

Den of Geek: Over the course of the film, you produced a song using nothing but your backings and an orchestra of Ronnie Woods. How was he to produce?

Mike Figgis: He was a delight, actually. We did most of the interviews and everything where he was painting, he was in his own space for that. Then the dialog, he’s very very witty and so on. But at the end of the day, the man’s a musician. Quite later on in the process I said, “Let’s go into a studio and do something.” I think the minute we got into a studio it was different. For both of us because I’m a musician too. It’s just a different kind of reality and the language becomes much simpler between musicians and understanding the equipment, the whole vibe.

Originally Mark Ronson was going to do a soundtrack for us which would have been fantastic and then he just got very, very busy because we got late. I presented him with a kind of template of how maybe could make a nice soundtrack, which is basically what we did anyway. So we did it without Mark and Ronnie was very comfortable with that.

He very much left it to me. He added a lot, obviously. He said, “I’d like to do this as well,” and so on. So, we had a pretty full couple of days in studio time. But he was great to produce.

There are a lot of musicians working on this besides you and Ronnie. Rosey Chan did the score for a painting scene.

Rosey’s my wife by the way. She’s a phenomenal concert pianist and composer and musician in her own right. She’s releasing an album now. She’s an amazing pianist, I just needed something to take us into a different zone, so I asked her to compose some piano pieces for that. Then I did some score myself. Just when he’s talking about drugs. I put a little bit of a weird score on that one.

So is this film more of a cinematic jam that you just edited in the mixing room?

Yeah, I think so. I think that’s a good way of putting it, actually.

Ronnie also worked with Bob Dylan, Prince, David Bowie, Aretha Franklin. Did you allow the interviews to determine what parts of his career you were going to include?

I actually wanted to avoid anybody else. I said, “Let’s just make it about him painting and us talking.” I wanted to make it as simple as possible. That didn’t happen because as soon as you sort of uncover one little stone, you kind of say “Oh, well obviously we should interview the Rolling Stones.” Then he started thinking, “Well, Rod’s around, we can use Rod.” When I discovered about Damien Hirst, “Actually that would be an interesting, unexpected one. That would be good, yeah.” So yeah.

It was kind of organic, really. It was all sort of scheduled based in a sense that, “When are you available?” And, “When am I available? When are these people available?” So, getting the Stones was actually the trickiest thing. You had to go to Berlin and get them between gigs when they were watching the World Cup. In between World Cups actually. Very specific.

I know you’re in the People Band which had an album produced by Charlie Watts. So, were you in the same periphery of the Stones as Ronnie Wood back then?

No, the connection with Charlie was very interesting because the People Band was a free music ensemble. I mean really experimental. Really way out. The drummer was this phenomenal percussionist, still is, called Terry Day. Terry Day went to art college with Charlie’s wife and he knew Charlie because they were both drummers, so they got on really, really well. Charlie Watts has always been a huge jazz fan. Through Terry, it was one of those moments where Charlie says, “You know, we can record you. We got a mobile studio. We can either send the mobile to you wherever you’re playing.” I’m talking about in those days, in ’68 or whenever it was, the idea of a mobile multi-track was pretty amazing. “Or you can come to Olympic Studios,” which was where they recorded Beggars Banquet and everything. It was an amazing studio. And, “We’ll just give you the studio and the engineer, and you guys do what you want.” That’s how that came about and it was really lovely.

Over the years, once in a while I would see Charlie and just catch up, talk about drumming, really. And jazz. So it was really nice interviewing for this one again.

When you were asking Rod Stewart about Peter Grant, he sort of cut back and he became the young man that was bullied.

He did, didn’t he? When he said, “I’m protecting my hands and my face.”

The gangster aspect of that mid ’60’s period, especially with Peter Grant, how did that affect the musicians and the working? Do you think it actually in some ways was good for it?

Well, you know that comes about from a very strange coincidence which was sort of touched on in the film. But, quite a few years back, Malcolm McLaren was wanting to produce a film. A feature film about Led Zeppelin and as a result of that, he and I went and interviewed Peter Grant which is where that footage comes from. I did a huge amount of research into Led Zeppelin and Peter Grant at the time, and spoke to and interviewed a lot of the people who were involved with their success. I didn’t interview Johnny Bindon, but he was a key figure. Johnny Bindon was a kind of very violent criminal. In London. Very good looking. He became an actor for a while. Had amazing sexual legends built around him involving royalty and all kinds of things, and was part of a kind of fashionable gangster scene. The craze and all the rest of it. The London gangster scene.

Sort of became fashionable because people went to all their clubs, and hung out with them, and David Bailey photographed them and all that. So there was a kind of a zeitgeist about gangsterism. There’s an incredibly good book written about it called Jumping Jack Flash which came out two years ago. Bindon became one of the agents for Led Zeppelin and famously beat up somebody so badly on one of their tours that was hospitalized. He was a very mean individual.

The whole association with Led Zeppelin was very much gangsterish because of Peter Grant and his associates who had those stories and so on. So that was a kind of one aspect, and also a lot of the management were fairly crooked in London at that time. There’s a bit of a gay mafia and all the rest of it, so part of the folklore of that period of British rock and roll is very gangsterish, and very much part of the story.

Whenever I think about gangsters and British rock I think of the movie Performance. When you’re filming conversations in the moment, are you saying in your head “this is filmic?”

Not consciously, no. I accept it as being part of the fabric, actually. I try to make everything filmic anyway, so I’m always trying to get as far away from any kind of documentary feel. I like things to have a live element to it.

I loved Peter Grant’s Gene Vincent story. In the Beatles Anthology, George Harrison tells a similar one. What did Gene Vincent mean to young British rock and roller’s that everyone’s got a story about them?

Oh, because he was there, he was around. A little bit like the stories about everyone remembers Big Bill Broonzy and everyone remembers Sister Rosetta Thorpe. Main reason for that is they were a part of a very small group of musicians who were allowed to visit the UK during the Musician’s Union ban on touring. We were basically deprived of a lot of American musicians after the war, and the only reason Broonzy got in and Sister Rosetta Thorpe, was folk musicians were allowed in as opposed to, say, Louis Armstrong.

They all came in as folk singers even though they weren’t. I mean Broonzy was a fully-fledged Chicago blues musician and so was Sister Rosetta Thorpe. But everybody knows that. Anybody that was anybody around at that time would know those names. And Gene Vincent has become a kind of UK legend.

Do you see Ronnie as a very varied painter?

I wanted to capture a certain aspect of his art which was the line drawing. When we first started talking, I looked at all his art books. He does huge canvases with a lot of color, featuring the Rolling Stones, et cetera, et cetera. I was less interested in those. Those sell for a lot of money apparently and people really like them.

But when I saw his line drawing, his very quick drawings. Line drawing is very, very important. Sketching is very important in the same way that when you hear a very basic demo from a musician, there’s a certain truth about that. Then you can produce it and over produce it, and you can make it super sophisticated. I was interested in the bit that leads up to the way that he started producing. I wanted to set up situations where I would just see his line drawing. His ability to control lines, that was amazing.

Then physically watching him do that is fascinating. I love filming people playing their musical instruments. There’s a certain truth about that, they get into their thing. And watching him draw I thought was fascinating. His concentration, absolute. Even in the interview with Damian Hirst. He’s so focused on what he’s doing that he doesn’t really pay much attention to Damian Hirst. Sort of answers the question. He doesn’t pick up on any of the jokes. Because he’s really focused on what he’s doing.

Watching his live stuff, Wood is a different person. While he’s playing guitar, you see him and Keith joking around.

I think that has something to do with the eye. Because I think it’s about blues guitar. You can see the finger memory is really, really strong so I mean in that early footage he’s smoking at the same time, right? He’s smoking, joking around, getting to the microphone, late usually, for the backup vocals. And moving around and having a great time. He doesn’t have to look at the guitar to do that. However, if you are drawing something, either you make that contact with your eye, so creating the triangle between the subject, the canvas, and your eye. And you’re quite right. Radically different body language, and that’s interesting. There are two physical sides of him demonstrated on film, which you don’t really have to explain. There it is.

Is Somebody Up There Like Me a flip side to Leaving Las Vegas?

Maybe. You know, people have had a life, have had experience and come through darkness and coming to light and so on. For me, it just becomes 10 times more interesting than people who’ve just had a nice life and behaved well. Look a little puzzled that they’re not sort of 70 or something because it’s all been quite peaceful, you know? So there’s a kind of turbulence there which I think he says quite well when he says, “I see a fork in a road I take it.”

Like he says, “I would do it with my eyes more open now if I did it again.” I kind of admired that. It’s not like me. I’m much more protective. But I also loved the way he talked about the drugs. He talked about, “I would never get to the point of losing control because I always knew.” Because he’s very ambitious. “I always knew where I had to be next and I never wanted to be at the place where I couldn’t control where I wanted to be.” I’m sure there were a few exceptions to that, but in general, that was quite truthful.

You’re known as a very experimental filmmaker and I was wondering how you keep coming up with different ways to look through the camera?

I got sort of bored with 35mm and started going back to 16mm and then when video got more interesting, looking at video. Then as video got smaller and XLR happened, that radically changed the possibilities. Then as the world changes, like with at the beginning of this conversation we talked about the coronavirus effect. And how the Timecode principle, how that then ties in with what is possible in terms of filmmaking, really.

When you were making Timecode, did you know that you were predicting pandemic filmmaking?

No, although looking back I can think where it’d be really useful now.

The Rolling Stones streamed their performance early in the pandemic, is this the future of entertainment and is it an imposition?

I think in a way it is. Obviously at some point we will get coronavirus under some kind of control. But there are dire predictions about what’s coming next in terms of the unleashing of the demons that come through global warming, et cetera, et cetera.

On the one hand, maybe these variations of these conditions will continue well into the future. But I think even if it was just coronavirus, I’m talking about making films with various people right now, it’s almost like unless you actually acknowledge the world as it is today and has been for the last six months, any film that you make is going to have an air of unreality about it because this is quite definitely a global reality now. The way we’re communicating now and so forth.

I’m doing a masterclass in London at the film school next week and I’m going to be talking just about that to young filmmakers. The best ways to go about making films now.

As a jazz musician, what did you make of Jagger’s classification of jazz from back then?

It was pretty accurate, actually. I’d done the blues documentary with Martin Scorsese, the history of the British Blues, Red, White, and Blues. So, I covered that period and I was fascinated by that unique British period anyway, which is why in a way Marty and I got on so well too was because unlike America, the post war British music scene was heavily into traditional jazz and then bebop. Then folk music, and skiffle, and all those things. They all combined. If you talk to anybody, Eric Clapton, anybody, they’ll all make the same references. Big Bill Broonzy and Sister Rosetta Tharpe, and then Woody Guthrie, and so kind of everybody was listening to all those influences and people were coming out of traditional jazz and then making quite dynamic decisions about this, that, and the other.

But the Trad boom was, the commercial aspect of the British jazz movement was very commercial, and immediately commercialized. There are some great musicians, but not the hippest genre in the world, so Jagger’s commented quite rightly if you want to be a young, sexy, happening musician, you’re not going to base your style on your grandfather’s taste and the rest of it. It was a kind of nice point of view. I loved it when he said, “I like the MJQ because of the way they looked and the way they played. I’m not sure I was crazy about the music or something like that.”

And I loved that he said, “We can be like that or we can be something different.” I love that moment in the film where you actually suddenly see the Stones kind of go, “Yep.” That’s pretty different from those two choices. That was, you’re creating a new genre there. And I have to say, my respect for the Rolling Stones went very, very high in making this documentary. I always like the Stones. I preferred more basically a blues band and I was listening to a lot more complicated pop musicians and jazz musicians.

I read that you’re doing a K-drama about the #MeToo movement. Would that be in the K-pop industry?

Yeah, I became interested in Korean film of course like most filmmakers. And then on an impulse, two and a half years ago, I bought a ticket to Seoul and I went and stayed there for three or four weeks, and just went around meeting people and just trying to get a handle on their film scene, initially. Then, I kind of got hooked on K-dramas as well and started to meet the actors. That’s turned into a project that’s been in development for about a year now. It’s going really, really well, but coming up with this series of scenarios. Sort of loosely around the #MeToo movement, really but just to do with the Korean social pop entertainment scene. And that’s what that was there.

I didn’t know that the Stones had originally thought about asking Ron Wood to replace Brian Jones. As a musician, you said they stuck to their guns. Do you think that would have been more true had they skipped over Mick Taylor and gone straight to Ronnie Wood?

It was interesting because that period, because obviously Jagger comes from a very much blues background. But by that time he was a megastar and the Stones were very much “Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones.” He was making movies, he was hanging out at the clubs, he was the hip guy. So obviously his horizons were expanding and he said that having Mick Taylor in the band really expanded his horizons as a songwriter because the voicings that Mick Taylor used. Mick did incredibly lyrical runs as the guitarist. Not a straight down the line blues player by any stretch of the imagination. A great blues player, but that’s not all he did.

So, I can imagine at that period, it would have been totally understandable if they’d continued to go in a different direction. I think what happened when Mick Taylor walked out, there was a kind of obvious cause of action to go to Ronnie. That probably then put Keith in a more comfortable zone in terms of the two-guitar thing because I would imagine that with Mick Taylor in the band, Keith’s role must have been definitely not so much the two-guitar thing because they are functioning at different levels. Probably in a way, back to a kind of grassroots level by bringing Ronnie back in.

Also, he looks like them. They were like brothers at that point. There’s a kind of a, suddenly a cohesiveness to the band as a band in a different way. Mick had a wider range in terms of songwriting and performance. A different way to go, but I think he was more than happy to go back into the kind of grassroots journey that they’d been on.

It’s very interesting how one musician can radically alter the destiny of the band, the longest lasting band in rock and roll history basically now.

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Ronnie Wood: Somebody Up There Likes Me will be available as a Virtual Cinema release at www.ronniewoodmovie.com starting Sept. 18 running through October. It will be released on DVD, Blu-ray and deluxe hardback book release on October 9.

The post Director Mike Figgis Talks Trading Licks with Ronnie Wood appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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crimsondomingo · 5 years

Text

Whumptober Day 15: Scars

Because @a-redharlequin is the best muse and dared to tease the idea of a Savitar-scarred Phantom AU.

The song Barry and Len sing is HERE.

-----

Len had never met Mr. Allen. He was hired by proxy, though he’d been told the day of his audition that the owner of the club and purported star finder, had been sitting up in the balcony, watching, and had given the order to hire Len even before they performed a background check.

After discovering Len was an orphan with a juvi record a mile long, Allen hadn’t changed his mind.

At least Len got something from his mother—his singing voice—even if she’d done little more than birth him and leave him to a deadbeat father he eventually had to run away from.

There were plenty of ways for a kid to make do on the streets, and Len had done them all, nineteen now and already world-weary. Singing for his supper was far better than the other options.

Miss Frost had given him a room in the back of the club until he made enough money to get a real apartment. There was a shower, a lounge always stocked with food, and one of Len’s favorite buildings to bask in. He’d passed it many times as a kid, wishing he could be part of the magic of the beautiful music inside.

Lucky for him, Frost had caught him singing to himself while counting the cash in her wallet after pick-pocketing her. Her grip on his wrist when she found him said she’d been the wrong kind of target, but her cold eyes had turned contemplative.

“Can you sing like that in front of a crowd?”

Ramon, who everyone called Reverb because of his sound mixing prowess, had become Len’s manager, telling him how to dress and act and which styles of songs best suited him for success, but Allen was the one that owned him.

Len kept expecting that to have a catch, but the man was like a phantom, whispered about but never seen.

Except late at night, when Len was trying to sleep, and he’d hear trills of the piano on stage and a sweet, haunting voice.

Tonight, he hadn’t slept through it, and he wasn’t going to ignore it, not when the intro was a familiar one, and the vocals so beautiful as they broke the surface.

“Wrap me in a bolt of lightning Send me on my way still smiling Maybe that's the way I should go Straight into the mouth of the unknown.”

Len padded barefoot from his room in nothing but sleep pants with a fuzzy mind that wondered if he was dreaming, pulled toward the voice and the flow of the piano into the main room of the club with its high ceiling and simple stage.

All the lights were off save one spotlighting the performer. He had to be a ghost. He was too handsome, too talented to be real, only his left side visible, just his profile as he played.

Young, mid to late 20s, brunette, with pale skin, and the most haunted expression.

Either this was a ghost or Allen finally, and he should be the one on stage each night, not finding stars from Central City’s streets who he made famous and sent on their way.

“I left the spare key on the table Never really thought I'd be able To say that I'll visit on the weekend I lost my whole life and a dear friend

“I've said it so many times I would change my ways no never mind”

Len couldn’t help it. As Allen burst into the chorus, he had to join him, adding lower baritone to Allen’s lovely tenor.

“God knows I tried—”

Allen cut off with a mash of the keys. He didn’t turn, but his left eye followed Len in his periphery like he was frozen.

“What are you doing here?” Even his speaking voice at a mad hiss was lovely.

“Frost gave me a room—”

“At the back of the club. You’re not meant to wander.”

“I’m meant to be a prisoner?”

Allen didn’t say anything, so Len continued his trek, climbing the stairs at front center stage and moving toward the piano. Allen kept turned away from him, as Len sat on the piano bench at his side.

“Terminally shy? Is that why we haven’t met?”

“Your sleep pants are riding low.”

Len looked down. They were, almost enough to see the start of the dark trail that led between his legs. He adjusted them and took note of the flush of color that filled Allen’s cheeks.

Not disinterested then, but not the scumbag Len had once feared.

Allen himself was dressed in simple black slacks and a black button down.

“Why don’t you perform?”

“I can’t do that.”

Perpetually shy, Len thought again. “Will you keep singing for me at least? I love that song. I know the harmony.”

“I heard.” Allen hesitated but soon brought his fingers up to the keys again and started back a few bars.

“I've said it so many times I would change my ways no never mind”

And again, Len joined him with the harmony.

“God knows I tried!

“Call me a sinner, call me a saint Tell me it’s over, I'll still love you the same Call me your favorite Call me the worst Tell me it’s over I don't want you to hurt It’s all that I can say So I'll be on my way…”

Allen trailed like he might pull away, get up and walk away, but Len was so transfixed, he didn’t want to lose the moment.

He put his hand on Allen’s wrist and felt the man flinch. What was his story that he was so jumpy and afraid of connection?

His other hand, the right one that he tried to keep hidden when Len touched the left, looked…different. Red and marbled and…

Scarred, Len realized.

He’d heard this place burned down once with a few people in it killed.

“Leonard—”

“Call me Len.”

“You should go back to your room.”

“Gets lonely there. Here I have company.”

Allen’s head tilted slightly, and Len almost saw beyond his profile, enough to confirm his suspicions that there was more marbled scar tissue and an eye that didn’t look as green.

Len tried to peer around to get a better look, but Allen jerked away, knocking the piano bench back as he stood and nearly sending Len toppling to the floor with it.

“I’m sorry,” Allen said, staying in the shadows but turning enough to check on Len so that he still saw how much of him those scars covered.

They were all down the right side of his face and neck. Len wondered if they covered that whole side of him beneath his clothes.

“Mr. Allen—”

“Go back to your room, Len. Please?”

Len sighed. Now, he knew that Allen stayed here too, and he wasn’t going to let this be their only duet.

He picked up the piano bench and gently placed it back where it belonged. Before he walked away, he caught Allen’s eye, even if the other man pretended like he wasn’t looking.

“And here I thought you just had a beautiful voice,” he said and smiled when Allen looked at him with a start, turning his whole half-marred face toward him.

Len walked back down the center stage steps but felt Allen’s eyes on him the whole way.

#whumptober2019 #no.15 #coldflash #phantom of the opera au

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hotoffthepressfics · 5 years

Text

Broke But Not Broken: Chapter 12

MASTERLIST

Part XII

Previous | Next

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 3,298

Summary: Bucky attempts to make amends. You reveal parts of your past. You both take tentative steps forward.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of past abuse (physical & sexual)

Inspiration/Chapter Soundtrack:

“Sober Saturday Night” - Chris Young

“Little Do You Know” - Alex & Sierra

“At War” - Letters from the Fire

A/N: I’m so sorry for the unexpected hiatus I took in writing this. I’m not entirely sure it was worth the wait. But I hope you enjoy it all the same!

You jerk back, tripping on the top stair and bumping up against the glass door.

“Shit! Sorry – I’m sorry! I should have known better than to surprise you.” It takes a moment for you to register Bucky’s voice.

You glance up at him, his hands raised in the air trying to look as harmless as he can. You cover your chest, soothing your fingers over your heart trying to calm the palpitations. The door pushes into your back, and you struggle to get your feet under you to stand back. A disgruntled tenant shoots you a dirty look before bustling down the stairway, passed Bucky. He sidesteps to make room and in his preoccupation you take the opportunity to dart around the door into the building.

Bucky calls after you and you can hear his footfalls quickly approaching. Waiting on the elevator would take too long, so you decide to push your way into the stairwell and hustle up the stairs. You force your legs to move faster, the exertion causing your muscles and lungs to burn. An acrid scent of stale smoke makes you choke; someone had been sneaking cigarettes in the stairwell again.

“Y/N, please! I need to talk– to apologize to you!” Bucky begs, his voice getting closer in spite of your efforts to move further away.

“I’ve been getting help, I’m sorry I said those things at the hospital. I was just so afraid I thought I needed to push you out — I’ve been miserable. Please stop Y/N…”

“It’s… alright Bucky… I just got startled… that’s all. It’s fine.” You breathe out, attempting to hide the wavering in your voice.

“No! Not about that – well, yes I’m sorry for startling you, but I need to apologize about the other day. I – “

“You were right Bucky, I shouldn’t have butted in. Now please, let me go. An apology isn’t necessary.” You plead with him.

It was better this way, you’d reasoned the last few weeks he’d been gone. It was the best way to protect yourself, and you’d begun to convince yourself being alone would be safest. You couldn’t let him convince you otherwise, it would hurt too much to break again.

You can feel his presence just behind you, and you know you’re no match for his longer strides. Still, you press harder, using the sticky railing to pull yourself along. You feel the weight of the plastic bag in your left hand shift and before you can pull it back the plastic gives way. The flour bag topples to the stair below, in between you and Bucky. You watch in dismay as it lands with a heavy thunk and splits open, a plume of white powder shooting into the air.

You turn your face to avoid breathing in the white cloud. Bucky sputters and coughs, getting the full brunt of the spray. You shield your nose and peer down the steps. A fine layer of flour settles over every inch of him, dusting his hair, clothes, and face. He blinks a few times, the flour breaking apart at the creases of his eyes. The sight before you made for a very poor imitation of a ghost.

You slap your hand over your mouth, stifling the sudden laughter that bubbles up from your chest. Bucky swipes at his face , spreading the flour more than getting rid of it. The more he swipes the harder you laugh. Tears stream down your face as you sink to the stairs, the split bag dangling from your wrist.

“Oh my god, what a mess!” You wheeze, wiping the moisture gathered under your eyes.

Bucky lets out an embarrassed chuckle, sliding onto the stair just below you. He puts his head between his hands and shakes out his hair. It sends out another white dust cloud and your laughter renews. You lean against the wall.

“You’re a mess! I’m a mess! This place is a mess, we’re all just a big mess.” You babble, and for a moment you think you’ve really lost your mind this time.

With that burst of uncontrollable laughter if felt like everything you’d been holding in was forcing its way out. You were powerless to stop it. You just had to let it run its course.

As your fit dies down you feel the tentative pressure of Bucky’s fingers on top of your knee. Your muscles twitch but you don’t pull away. He moves to kneel in front of you, eyes big and pleading. His arms on either side of your legs should make you feel caged, but you don’t. You swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“I’m sorry… I’ve been a huge idiot.” Bucky laments.

“Yes… you were,” you surprise yourself with the retort. You swallow again, averting your eyes to your lap. “But you were right. I had no business delving into your past the way I did.”

You see Bucky’s hand move towards your face in your periphery. In subconscious panic you pull back, regretting it the moment you see his crestfallen face. He looks away, returning his hand to the step you were seated on. Bucky shakes his head.

“No. I was wrong. I should have let you all in when I knew I needed help but I — I didn’t know how to save you from… from me.” That same panic you saw after he’d hurt you enters his eyes.

“So… your friends helped you? Steve and… Nat?” Her name left a sour taste in your mouth, the question asking more than you intended to.

Bucky’s lips quirk slightly, “Yes, my friends helped me. Just friends.” he chuckles before he sobers once more.

“That night…You looked at me the same way you did the first day I met you. It broke my heart, rabbit. I — I thought if I left you alone, if distanced myself from you then you’d be safe. It killed me to stay away from you,” his hands flutter up to touch you but he drops them again, “but I didn’t want to hurt you again. I didn’t want you to be scared of me…” Bucky’s voice trailed off. He takes another deep breath, tapping his hand against the concrete at your thigh.

“I don’t know how to not be the monster they made me.” He whispers quietly, pulling back from you.

You watch him sit back on his heels, your heart aching for him. For the pain you barely knew he must have endured. Traces of flour still stuck to his cheek. You smile softly, reaching up to wipe at it gently. Bucky starts. He quickly recovers, clasping your hand to his face. Turning into your touch, his eyes close.

“It… wasn’t you, Bucky. I mean, yes, I was certainly scared, but not necessarily because of you.” You say quietly, casting your eyes down when he opened his to look at you.

“I’ve seen monsters, Bucky, and you’re not one of them. Monsters don’t turn and run when they have their victim right where they want them. They relish in their fear; they enjoy the pain. You did none of those things.” You offer him another smile as you glance up, running your thumb over his cheekbone.

“I — I want to tell you what happened to me,” you say, shaking your head as he protests. “I know I don’t have to tell you, but I want to. I need you to understand why I’m so… afraid all the time. I’m tired of running, and… I don’t want you to run from me because you think I’m frightened of you.” You finish.

Bucky squeezes you hand tightly before murmuring his compliance. You let go of the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. You look once more around the stairwell.

“First though, we should probably clean this place up… and you owe Tía another bag of flour. Don’t think I’m going to disappoint her by not delivering on what I promised.” You mock scold him.

He grins widely and pulls you up, “No, we can’t have that, can we?”

He pauses, holding tightly to your hand still but not bitingly so. You stare down at him, being a few steps higher than he.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks a little shyly.

The question surprises you. Never had anyone asked you before. You feel a shift in your heart as you shuffle closer to him and place a gentle kiss to his lips. Yes, Bucky was most definitely not like the other men you’d encountered before.

•••

After you two worked together to clean the stairwell and yourselves Bucky leads you back out onto the street. He keeps your fingers entwined with his, guiding you back to the store. No words are exchanged between you. Every few steps in the cold night air he brings your hand up to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles.

You marvel at this. He treated you as though you were to most precious thing to come back to him. Not for the first time you compare Colton to Bucky. Sure, Colton would apologize, but he would always turn it around on you; he’d make it seem like it was your fault he’d hurt you. Then he’d continue as though nothing happened. It was enough to make you wonder if it was your fault.

You’d resolved to tell Bucky part of your story, just as you’d done with CiCi, but when you returned to your apartment nerves began to set in. Bucky took a seat in his usual spot, the recliner next to the piano, and waited.

You stall and fidget, never imagining it would actually be this hard. You steal a look at Bucky, who merely gives you an encouraging smile. You take a steadying breath and perch on the edge of the piano bench closest to him. Bucky carefully takes your hand, smoothing his thumb over your skin. Your eyes fixate on the gesture as you dive into your story.

•••

Your mother’s death had left you feeling lost and displaced in the world. For as long as you could remember it had been just you and her, making your way through life. She’d gone through great lengths and made huge sacrifices to provide you with a good life.

When you’d gotten into Berklee your mother had sobbed. You’d known then you’d study hard to make her proud. A year into your schooling and she’d been diagnosed with cancer. You wanted to leave school and take care of her, but your mother refused.

“Don’t you dare throw away your gift. All the hard work we’ve done to get you there.” She’d scolded you when you broached the subject.

“We’ll make it through this as we’ve done with other things our whole lives: together.”

Another year and she was gone. After her funeral your studies and piano became your life, needing it to keep you grounded to the world. You didn’t have many friends or connections to people so it kept you steady. It helped you feel close to your mother.

You excelled in your classes, receiving high marks and equally high praise. It all landed you a spot in a very prestigious young performers recital. That’s when you’d met Colton.

He’d come up to you after the performance, dressed rather nicely in a tux. His coal black hair gelled back from his face.

“Hello,” He’d said with a charming smile, “I knew if I didn’t come up here to tell you that you play phenomenally I’d regret it the rest of the night.”

You flushed, not used to male attention. “T-thank you.”

After that you’d turned and walked away, but Colton had been persistent. You slowly relaxed as he joked and complimented the place and you. By the night’s end you’d agreed to a date with him.

That date night was the first of many warning signs that Colton was not as he seemed. Oh he’d been sweet and all smiles, complimenting you on your dress. When the waitress came to take your order, however, his domineering side began to appear.

“What can I get for you tonight ma’am?” She’d asked you politely with a smile.

You opened your mouth to reply but Colton cut you off. “She’ll have the green salad with the cranberry vinaigrette.” He’d responded with a snap of the menu.

The waitress paused, glancing at you uncertainly. You simply smiled and nodded your head, just assuming he was trying to impress you. How wrong you’d been.

As your dating progressed Colton showed up more and more around your classes, trying to monopolize your free time. The little group of friends you did have you saw less and less, leaving him to be your only companionship. He’d said he just couldn’t stand to be away from you, bringing you flowers and other sweet items.

You’d thought him considerate when it came to sex. He told you he didn’t want to pressure you if you weren’t ready and he’d wait as long as you needed. It’s all seemed perfectly normal to you. That is until he’d asked you to move in with him. Only then did the demons begin to slip past the façade.

It started off with little things. Colton would come home and find a dish you’d just used in the sink and throw a tantrum. He didn’t like the outfit you were wearing so he’d yell and carry on until you caved and changed. He’d ask you about your day, revealing he’d spied on you, trying to catch you in a lie. Then the violence started.

“Where have you been?” Colton demanded the second you walked through the door.

You stare at him wearily as you set down your bag and head to the kitchen. He followed you, hot on your trail.

“God, Colton, I went to a study group. I have a test in two days.” You explained.

“With that guy again?”

You sighed, taking a sip of water from the glass you’d gotten. “Yes, with that guy. He’s assigned to my group. I can’t just —“

Your ears rang as Colton backhanded you across the face. The glass in your hand shattering on the tile floor. You held your smarting cheek, staring back at Colton in bewilderment. The feral look in his eyes sent chills down your spine.

“Don’t you ever talk back to me.” He seethed, his right index finger shoved in your face.

You nod meekly, too frightened to say anything. His nostrils flared once and he turned, snagging your bag off the side table as he went and left the apartment. You’d wanted to run that day but you didn’t know where you would go. You had no friends or family to turn to. So you stayed.

Colton then began to pressure you more and more for sex. You gave in, too scared of what he’d do if you continued to say no. It hurt, having him rut into you before you were ready. Even giving him what he wanted he’d slap and choke you, making the ordeal ten times worse. He’d take you to parties, coaxing you to drink. You’d wake up the next morning next to him, knowing he’d used you but glad enough to not remember all the details.

There would be periods of time when he’d act repentant, begging you to forgive him. He would say he loved you so much it just drove him to do these crazy things. And for a time you’d live in peace, before the cycle began again. You lived in a constant state of panic, never certain what would set him off again. Nothing you did pleased him. His violence escalated, leaving you with too many bruises to count and, on more than one occasion, cracked ribs.

Your only solace was your piano. You relished in your practice time at school. It was your escape. Until Colton had taken that away from you too.

•••

Your throat closed off, making it hard to breathe. You push away from the piano, a strangled whimper slipping past your lips as you pace. Panic boils up to the surface and you are gasping. Your lungs suck in the air like you couldn’t get enough.

Dimly you’re aware of Bucky’s voice, his body close to you but not touching. Gently he grips your face between his hands, coaxing you to turn and look at him. The cool metal of his left hand helping to draw you out of the episode.

“Breathe, Y/N. You’re safe. He’s not here. He can’t hurt you. I will never let anyone hurt you like that again... Including me.” He adds ruefully.

You hold your breath to a count of ten, gazing in his deep blue eyes. When you release the breath you feel a little more stable. You give him a shaky smile.

“I know. That’s why I needed to tell you. To explain why I… get so skittish sometimes…” you finish.

There was certainly more to the story than that, but you couldn’t bring yourself to finish. At least not tonight.

“I’m glad you told me.” Bucky says quietly, his hands releasing their hold on your face. “I’m honored you trust me still to confide in me.” He casts his eyes downward, feeling vulnerable too.

You missed his touch. You wrapped your arms around yourself for comfort.

“You were never unworthy of my trust, Bucky. Even before I knew the details I knew you had baggage too.” You say.

Bucky smirks at that, canting his head in agreement. You stifle a sudden yawn.

“It’s getting late, I should let you rest.” Bucky says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

He turns to make his way to the door. Your heart flips. A sudden spike of fear that he’ll disappear again stirs. You stumble forward, reaching out for him.

“Bucky wait —“ he pauses at the door, metal hand resting on the knob. You lick your lips.

“Please, stay with me tonight? I — I don’t want to be alone…” you finish.

Your heart is lodged in you throat as Bucky studies you.

“You sure that’s what you want, little rabbit? You’re not afraid this ol’ wolf will attack you again?” He jokes.

You crack a smile, happy to see some of his humor return.

“There are no wolves here that will hurt me tonight. I’m sure of it.” You speak softly.

Bucky slowly releases the door knob, making his way carefully to you. You stare up into his face, reading the unspoken emotions there.

“Can I hold you?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

There was that asking for permission again. Your heart swelled. Your own feelings making you incapable of answering audibly, you simply nod.

Cautiously, Bucky tucks his flesh arm under your legs and carries you to the room. You both set about changing, readying yourselves for bed, without saying a word. Bucky switches off the light as you crawl up onto the bed, settling in the middle facing the wall. He carefully wraps himself around you, spooning you close to his chest.

His fingers find your own on the linens and he soothes the tips over your scarred knuckles. You entwine your hands, pulling his arm up to your chest. Bucky presses tender kisses to the back of your head. You both crave the reassuring touches. You listen as Bucky’s breathing deepens. You feel more centered and happy than you’d been in a long time. And it was all thanks to the kind people you’d found here. All thanks to him.

The broken pieces of yourself were gathering together and shifting back into place. It was still a long road, but it was a path you were willing to take.

EVERYTHING TAGLIST:

@booktvmoviefangirl @lowkeybuckyb @mrsdaamneron @xxashy999xx @c-ly-g @coal000 @rroguebones @ghostlyrose2 @part-time-patronus @emelielwh @peaceinourtime82 @buckysforeverprincess @geeksareunique @amnahs9695 @v-2bucky @scarlet-skywalkers @lokilvrr @thisismysecrethappyplace @sacre-bluhm @tatertot1097 @until-theend-oftheline @amoonagedaydreamer @marvelouspottering @thatfanficstuff @chuuulip @littlemarvelfics @averyrogers83 @ellaprime68 @shield-agent78 @jewels2876

BUCKY BARNES TAGLIST:

@bloodiedskirtts @igotkatiepowers @misplacedorphan @superwholockwannabe @moonstruckhargrove @ladysergeantbarnes

BBNB TAGLIST:

@imaginecrushes @that-bearshark @jademox @theraputicwritings @marvel-fanfiction @aubri1313 @xcriminalmastermindx @regulusirius @jacquelineisawkward @lostinspace33 @directionerfae @rainbowkisses31 @marie-is-in-the-dark @msgrungie @mrsbarneswillseeyounow @getmedeacon @owhatshername1 @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @mizzzpink @aveatquevale- @sweetlydecaf @absolukeyrh

#bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #marvel au #modern au #bucky series #bucky angst #bucky fluff #bucky smut #broke but not broken #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel series #fanfiction

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fiddleabout · 5 years

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Top 5 songs of the last artist you listened to that you'd recommend to someone who asked you what songs they should start out with. Or any artist of your choosing.

okay well the last song i listened to was julien baker’s cover of the modern leper, so:

rejoice: julien baker believes in god, but that doesn’t mean she gives god a pass. rejoice is less about rejoicing and more about holding god as accountable for human suffering as humans so often are, because if god has a plan then that plan involves people failing, and hurting, and losing the people they love. if god is listening-- and this song posits very much that god is-- then god has to listen to the suffering that’s happening in the world.

funeral pyre: call me a coward, but i'm too scared to leave / 'cause i want you to be the last thing I see. there’s a very honest resignation to weakness in this song, to circling the drain of a dying and unhealthy relationship.

televangelist: it’s fitting, really, that on tiny changes the song baker covered is the modern leper, what with the parallel imagery between that and televangelist, dealing heavily in the ways depression can be crippling, and isolating. baker’s also mastered the kicker of a last line and the outright vulnerability in how she sings do i turn into light if i burn alive-- the resignation, and acceptance, and humility, is heartbreaking.

go home and 5. claws in your back have to be talked about together: i go on julien baker spirals a lot-- the music is just so good, regardless of if it’s the stripped-down brutality on her first album, or the richer strings and piano on the second, or when she’s working with phoebe bridgers and lucy dacus in boygenius, or most recently when she’s started leaning towards much warmer and heavier instrumentation like with the conversation piece ep or her frightened rabbit cover-- but it can be hard, sometimes, to listen to such brutal honesty about depression and addiction. so i always finish by listening to go home and then claws in your back. go home is angry and rattling and so so tired, a complaint directed at god because for all of her addictions and depression, she’s still living while people she cares for have died and then, there, in that moment, she can’t figure out why she’s left alone and without them. claws in your back, though, is a few years on, a few years older, cleaner and healthier. it’s not happy by any stretch, but it’s a starkly honest assessment of what it is to live with the specter of mental illness and addiction* forever hovering on the peripheries of your life. it’s accepting that as hard as it is, as impossible at it seems sometimes, that living is worth it. it’s the last song of the album, just like go home is, but where go home ends with this ragged god i want to go home, it ends with this ringing, warm declaration of i wanted to stay. there’s so much to be said about the evolution of baker’s sound and lyrics from her first album to her second, but all of it can be summed up in listening to these two songs back to back.

*this is obviously not to say that addiction isn’t a mental illness or a medical issue in any way, just that it exists in a very particular way that affects its victims very differently

#Anonymous #honorable mention is hurt less bc i promise you #the strings will make you cry #and you'll keep listening to it over and over just to keep feeling that over and over #julien baker

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theloniousbach · 5 years

Text

50 Years of Going to Shows, Pt. 2: The Grateful Dead Universe

Part one of this series extrapolated from the conceit that the 9/4/19 Hot Tuna show here at the Sheldon Concert Hall also marked the anniversary of my Fall 1969 Johnny Winter concert that was my first rock show. 50 years!! That segment was about those early concerts in KC (well, a couple of Dylan shows in St. Louis and then Chicago).

The glaring omission from that note was the Grateful Dead (11/11-12/72; 6/16/74 Des Moines; and 10/28/77). I propose correcting that with this entry that can take up 7/26-27/94 and 7/5-6/95 (shows 4 and 3 from the end) plus visits with The Other Ones, The Dead, Furthur, Dead and Company, various Phil Lesh and Friends iterations (including the Q 3 times, the Campbell/Greene band twice, another time with Campbell, and this past summer with an Allison Krauss sit in); Ratdog maybe 5 times; Weir and Wolf Bros; and Joe Russo’s Almost Dead to whom I’ve passed the torch.

This is a quite modest Deadhead roll call, but it does include 1972, a Wall of Sound, and 1977. So I’ve been around long enough to have opinions.

And I do have opinions.

1972–The 11/11 show was all we thought we were going to get. A Sunday night show after them always missing us. There was a rumor then, pure fiction it turns out, that they opened (?!?) for Iron Butterfly (#@%!) in KC before I got on the bus (1969ish?). I was transfixed—the long unfolding two sets, pauses including for a cigarette puffs), the wide range of songs, the stacks of speakers and Macintosh amps even if it wasn’t quite officially a Wall of Sound show—but that’s all I remember. Set lists say there was a Box of Rain.

The second show got added and I was going to go no matter what—two school nights in a row. And that one is better fixed in memory because of an Owsley Stanley tape that captures a sprawling Playing in the Band to close the first set. I don’t need that tape to remember the Dark Star>Morning Dew, though being able to revisit it sure is a treat. It was in fact huge though I was beside myself from the opening notes announcing that the adventure was beginning. In the moment, I just knew it was happening and that was good enough then. It is a big big one though with lots of space travel before settling into the Dew. I turned grumpy about Dew but this one was magic then and now.

1974–I couldn’t get anybody to go to Des Moines to see them that June. My dad, actually, was up for the drive and camping (him staying in camp while I and the other Deadheads went to the afternoon outdoor show. He had a draft dissertation to read which he left somehow but we got it back). The key parts of this show (another Playing with a gnarly breakdown) were released officially as part of the Road Trips series honoring the Wall of Sound. That was a sight though I thought I’d seen a version of it inside in KC. Also a sight was Garcia’s chin and upper lip as he had reduced the beard to mutton chops for a very short while. The second set was where the meat of the show was culminating in the Playing. I experienced it at the time as meandering and anxious, without the tranquil spaciness of some of their explorations, but it’s just fine and part of the oeuvre as per repeated listening AND a much broader experience with their music.

1977–When Steal Your Face and then Blues for Allah came out, my enthusiasm was waning. To this day, I’m a pre-hiatus fan with a real focus on 71-74 when Kreutzmann was the only drummer. They were more lithe, exploratory, and dynamic. Still a good friend told me I was going back to Memorial Hall for a late 1977 show, so I got part of that magical year. And what stood out was 1977 slinkiness even though there wasn’t a Dancin’ in the Streets. But Lazy Lightning>Supplication, Samson and Delilah, and Passenger all caught my ear. It was fun, but I was not on the bus much.

The taping scene pulled me back in in the late 1980s, though I’d been intrigued by Lowell George of Little Feat producing Shakedown Street. I suppose in some ways I am a secondary Touch Head, though Without a Net too was welcome.

I was on the periphery of the Brent Mydland era and actually found Bruce Hornsby’s interlude a real boost to the creativity, particularly Garcia’s. That was spent really by 1994 and 1995. I went to both nights that they were in St. Louis on those summer tours. Still I was glad to see the break outs and covers (Here Comes Sunshine, Take Me to the River), but they were going through the motions, keeping Garcia in tow. It was fun, I'm glad, I'm went, they are memorable in a general sense, but I won't go play recordings. 1995 was the third and fourth shows from the end as they headed from here to Chicago. Within 5 weeks, Garcia was dead.

It was about the party or, ahem, the cultural experience. I'm glad I got that too with the originals (and subsequent Furthur Festival/The Other Ones/The Dead/Furthur/Dead and Company shows in big venues were as much about that as the music), but an advantage of the end of the big machine is that the shows got much smaller. The party was still there, but the music was closer. Also as I have aged, I've been willing to pay for better seats (to see Phil Lesh at Willie Nelson's Outlaw Festival this summer we even paid for premium parking. Sheesh.) so that helps put the music to the fore.

So has couch touring—and that is how my concert gang and I saw the first night of Fare The Well—GD 50 from Levi Stadium in the Bay Area as well as the Friday and Sunday from Chicago. We also saw a Phil Lesh Quintet reunion. Being in real time, I count those as shows which indicates that experiencing the music live is what counts for me.

The GD Meet Up at the Movies don’t, but they do remind me that I like to be in the presence of those songs and their creators. And that has pulled me along so far to shows that have included at least Phil Lesh and/or Bob Weir. I actually am a fan of Drums/Space and stay in my seat to watch the spontaneous magic happen, so having Kreutzmann and Mickey Hart along for The Other Ones, The Dead, and Dead and Company is just fine. But those operations felt a little bloated. They have to be in large spaces to accommodate the party, so the gestures are equally grand and the rituals are observed. Furthur (Lesh and Weir’s operation) was a bit more nimble—one drummer, Joe Russo, and more flexible set lists. But I saw them in a small arena (12 K) and The Fox Theater (almost 5 K), so those were big concert experiences.

Bob Weir is an indefatigable road warrior, sometimes when he shouldn’t. St. Louis was an early stop of a Fall 2004 tour that was aborted. But we got to see him and it was awfully good, one I return to. It jammed into Jack Straw into the opening of a Terrapin that would be concluded in the second set and the rest of the suite in the encore into Dark Star (my first since 1972 and the only one of two more I saw in person, both from Ratdog) that concluded at the end of the set before back into Jack Straw. The second set had Peggy O, The Winners, and Friend of the Devil for a can’t be beat acoustic interlude before firing up The Other One and Uncle John’s Band (its reprise after Terrapin proper closed the second set. With the exception of Playin’, he rehearsed all the big tunes and was energetic and in good voice. That one was a treat.

Ratdog was always fun, a solid band and a showcase for Weir’s quirkinesses which help make the GD experience. I like many of his songs more than Garcia’s, excuse the heresy, but I confess that I probably haven’t given up being angry at him not just for being dead but for dying, for giving up which probably started in the 1980s.

Ratdog shows were chances to hear the songs and Weir’s take on them, including Garcia’s at the heart of the canon were always good to hear. He brought most things into circulation. The bands were not the all star configurations that Lesh’s were, but they were effective. St. Louis shows reflected his connection with Johnny Johnson (a 2003 The Dead Show had Johnson and Willie Nelson jam on Little Red Rooster (overplayed over the years, but the way to do a 12 bar blues) and Lovelight that was historic). After Johnson’s death, it was his horn section sitting in, usually for one of the big jam tunes. A Dark Star stands out, but there must have been a Sailor>Saint or Eyes another year.

But it is Lesh who is the curator of the part of the universe that matters to me—the invention, the opportunity that any tune can unfold into a world of possibility. That was most clear with the Q—John Molo, Warren Haynes, Jimmy Herring, and Rob Barracco whom I got to see in their prime three times. They played the big barn with Weir’s Ratdog to open in July 2001, with a Weir sit in to open set one. The feature of that one was a Viola Lee Blues sandwich that wove out of that primal jam vehicle from the GD past four times with interludes of Lovelight, Tons of Steel, and Into the Mystic. Lesh would pull out tunes that had fallen out of the rotation—Alligator and Doin’ That Rag that night, Caution with Furthur at the Fox, Cosmic Charlie with the Q that November, and Viola itself. The Q revival Couch Tour show we saw had a Mountains of the Moon which suggested a potential (not developed) for that tune as a subtle jam vehicle just as it was the last night of Fare The Well. They did Beatles tunes, Brent Tunes, Van Morrison. The second show at the Fox for some reason doesn’t leap out as magical. But the third one, also at the Fox, on what would have been Garcia’s 60th birthday was. The first hour was Bird Song>Here Comes Sunshine>Not Fade Away and had me riveted. The second set had Sunshine of Your Love and a transcendent Low Spark of High Heeled Boys with Haynes somehow capturing the piano parts on guitar.

My only quasi bit of touring was to run over to Indianapolis to see Lesh in a hybrid band of Molo and Barraco with Larry Campbell, Barry Sless on pedal steel, Greg Osby on alto, and Joan Osborne on vocals. It was a hot hot day but good adventurous stuff. The Peggy O as a story with Lesh narrating, Osborne being the fair maid, Campbell as our captain was very cool. Bertha, Viola, and Shakedown stretched things out too.

With the Molo/Larry Campbell/Jackie Greene/Steve Molitz band, I got to see the premiere of the Ritter Eyes of Horus bass. A dark stage, the fretboard LED lights on, a solo into The Other One and then Truckin' made quite an impression. It didn't have the heft/power of the Modulus instruments he used before and after (a possibly smaller one) and it was more striking then pretty, but it was a moment of GD lore that happened on my watch. Those were two good shows with Campbell showing a range I hadn't expected. He could dig into the jams whereas I thought he would be more of a Robbie Robertson fills and one chorus solos player. It was also fun to watch Greene grow. It was like he went to grad school or maybe a post doc in that band.

I have seen Greene at least 5 subsequent times (Duck Room, Old Rock House twice (band and "acoustic," Delmar Hall, and as an opener for Gov't Mule). He has tasty covers including but not exclusively GD ones and some damn good tunes. It's good to see his efforts to extend the GD universe.

But I'm putting my money on Joe Russo's Almost Dead as where the legacy will reside.

I saw them earlier in the year and they strike me as not just a Dead cover band, but a PLQ cover band--anything can be jammed out, the tunes can be played in any order in any part of the set. Russo is a dynamo of energy on drums and his alter ego Marco Benevento is an inventive player. It's cool to see the varied opportunities the music presents.

My shows this year with Weir (the Wolf Bros trio) and Lesh at Willie Nelson’s Outlaw Festival felt valedictory. Weir was an interesting disappointment in that his wonderfully idiosyncratic guitar was at the fore, but too often through a too thin toned D’Angelico Bedford guitar. He had that jangled tone in Ratdog but it went away during Fare The Well and beyond when he used Fender Stratocasters. His voice too was thinner. So, while I wanted to see him in the spare setting, I don’t need to do it again.

And, though I’m likely to succumb to peer pressure if Dead and Company comes to town, I don’t need that party.

So, I’m content to go out on the Phil and Friends set at the barn with Willie Nelson as my last time seeing an original member. There was Molo once again, Jason Crosby and Stu Allen from the Terrapin scene, and a new other guitarist Cris Jacobs. The set had Jack Straw, Brown Eyed Women, Sugaree, and a Cumberland Blues (a favorite) as the closer. Eyes was the jamming tune, but so was Help>Slip>Morning Dew. And what a Dew it was as Alison Krauss sang it as she did on To Lay Me Down. Amazing and what a rare moment in the Dead universe.

Dead music is magical and so it has been for me right to this end.

But long live JRAD too.

#Grateful Dead #Phil Lesh #Bob Weir #JRAD #Ratdog #2019

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