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evertriedsoywithyourpopcorn · 3 years ago

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5 Reasons Roman Is Infuriating (And Why I DO NOT have a crush on him)

Chapter 4: A Date With Destiny

Read on AO3 Chapter 1

Word count: 2991

Tw: Food, Almost an innuendo, Fear of not being accepted for orientation

~~~

"I think I'm ready."

Logan looks at himself in the mirror, adjusting his bowtie. He hadn't gone super extra with his 'date' outfit, despite Roman's insistence to go big or go home. (Which wouldn't really matter, as Thomas is home right now, and therefore they wouldn't need to go very far.)

Just a few changes, to treat himself. The blue striped bowtie, obviously, some black dress pants, black socks and a black dress shirt instead of a polo. He also tried out a new shampoo, just for that extra self-care. That may sound like a fairly big change, but Roman looked uncomfortable when he presented the outfit.

Roman waves his hand about, diverting his eyes. "Ugh, whatever. You look great. I still think a full tux would've been a better choice."

"That would most likely be overdressing. I don't want to go into this date looking like a buffoon, now do I?" He retorted, slipping on his dress shoes. They're sleek and black, with a heel that gives him just that extra added height.

"Pfft, coming from the Nerdy Professor! You look like a buffoon all the time, I'm just doing you a favor."

"You don't think I'm ready like this?" Logan asks.

"You do. You're rocking it. No romo." Roman says, giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"No... Romo?" He asks.

"Uh, yeah. Like... Uh, romantic. I invented it. Just now." Roman says, nervously fiddling with his sash.

"Oh." And if that doesn't feel like a metaphorical stab to the gut, Logan's not sure what it is.

Roman stands for a few seconds in silence, before looking away, into the mirror. "Now, go get your Daisy, Loguigi."

"That was a stretch, but thank you." Logan takes Roman's hand, squeezes it (he's sure Roman won't mind. He may think of it as a reassurance to calm Logan's nerves. Logan thinks of it as he wants to hold Roman's hand), and walks to the door.

"Logan-" Roman says before he can leave, and Logan turns back to him. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and seems to realize that Logan's waiting for him to say something. His hand reaches towards him, then recedes.

"Yes?"

"Good luck." He slumps, giving what seems to be an encouraging smirk. Logan nods, adjusing his bowtie once more, and strutting out of the room. If he had a cape, it would be flowing behind him dramatically, due to the sheer energy of his determination. Tonight is going to be the start of a big change.

"Alright Patton, prepare yourself for the strangest date you'll ever go on." He says in full confidence.

~~~

Patton sat at the dining table, feeling certainly awkward. Things certainly looked... Different. It was dim, mostly because the only light sources were an array of candles and a strand of fairy lights. There was a silky tablecloth thrown over the table, and a lovely bouquet of red roses in a glass vase as the centerpiece. There were also two glasses, and a bottle of red wine. Soft violin music played from an unknown source.

Usually this was something Patton would coo at. He always loved romance between people. Whenever Thomas and his boyfriends over the years hung out, it would be all he'd talk about. How happy he is for them. He'd even help Roman out with helping Thomas in his gestures of romance. It's true, Patton loved romance.

However, not when it was directed at himself.

He didn't want to be rude and leave, obviously. Logan set this up, and the last thing Patton wanted to do was break his heart beyond repair. He loves Logan as a friend, and he cares about him, and the emotions he barely lets himself show.

Patton twiddles with his thumbs, sweating quite a bit. He wonders what Roman has to do with this. He's certainly not also going to be here, unless this is a three-way date. That is unlikely, as there are only two chairs. Perhaps he's the wing-man? That would make sense, as he's much better in the romance category than Logan. But wait a minute, why would he help? Doesn't Roman-

"This is atmospheric." Patton gets pulled out of his thoughts by Logan standing there, looking at the decor. He takes a seat. Pouring himself a glass of the wine, he takes a big sip, before setting it down. "Patton, I have something to tell you."

Oh no.

Patton's sweating buckets now. "B-before you do, I just want to tell you that I respect you Logan, and that you're a very good person, and that I cherish the time we spend together, but I guess I haven't told you some very important information about myself, and I hope this doesn't hurt you too bad, it's that-" He takes a deep breath, about to spill. He's always been scared of this moment. Didn't he already tell Logan? Does he not believe in his identity? Patton opens his mouth to speak.

"You're aromantic. I know that Patton, and I respect that. Your orientation is completely justified and valid. I was going to tell you that this was not my idea. I do not harbor any romantic feelings for you, and I certainly don't expect you to either." Logan says, taking another sip of wine.

"Oh."

Well, that makes Patton feel much better.

"Then... Why are we here?" He asks, the nervous feeling replaced by confusion.

"Well..." Logan blushes as red as the wine. "I happened to be... Discussing my 'lack' of romantic feelings for... a side, which I realised was in fact a falsehood, and then that side happened to swoop in right after I realized, and mistook my presentation for being about you. Therefore, he decided to set us up."

The cogs in Patton's brain start to turn. He's not exactly known to be the brightest of the bunch, but he thinks he can decipher this one.

"Nm...Teh... Oh, it's Roman." He looks at Logan, who lowers his head into his hands.

"Yes. Yes it is." He admits.

"So, he doesn't know." Patton concludes.

"No, no he doesn't."

The words finally settle in, and Patton's face brightens significantly in a matter of milliseconds. "Oh my god! Logan! You like him!" He stands up, and jumps for joy. He twirls around the room a few times, and then pulls up Logan and gives him a hug. "I'm so proud of you kiddo."

"Thank you Patton. It certainly felt strange admitting it." Sighs, hugging him back. They break off soon after.

"Why didn't you tell him?" Patton asks, a little bit worried.

"I don't think I'm quite ready yet." They both sit down. "That's actually why I'm here. I was wondering if we could keep up a sort of facade for a while, until I'm ready to tell Roman. Obviously, we won't make anything official, but I could use your help, as I am not very skilled in this romance business, and we could use fake dates as a sort of counseling session. I could.. Use your help." Logan admits.

Patton is surprised, but delighted. "Oh! Well, thank you for telling me kiddo. I wouldn't mind helping you out." He pats Logan' shoulder encouragingly. "Do you... have a plan?"

"Not yet. I didn't want to start without you, in case I would need to scrap the whole thing." Logan takes another sip of wine.

“That’s absolutely A-okay. I don’t know if I’d be much help today though, cause this roller-coaster ‘date’ has really tired me out!” Patton says. (He’s never quite been put on the spot, and then given a plot twist like that one before. Oh wait, haha, he has.) He needs a bit of a mental break before he does any of that adultery thinking.

Logan looks around the room. “We aren’t on a roller coaster.”

“It’s an expression.” Patton clarifies. He sighs, adjusting himself on the seat. “I forgot that I haven’t come out to Roman yet. Or the others, for that matter.”

“You don’t have to if you aren’t comfortable. There’s never a bad reason not to come out.” Logan assures him, finishing his glass of wine. “And if you ever need my help, I will be there to support you in whatever ways I can.”

“Alrighty kiddo.” He smiles, looking to the kitchen.

“Do we have any leftover cookies?”

Patton suddenly looks guilty. “Well… About that.”

“Patton.” Logan’s gaze snaps to him, surprised. “Last time I checked, there were at least five left.”

“It wasn’t just me! Janus had one too!” He pleads, stating his case.

“One? That leaves four.” Logan squints at him. “I wanted at least two more for myself.”

A light in Patton’s brain ignites, and he jumps up. “Oh! What do you say we turn this into a baking ‘date’ then??” He does over exaggerated quotations with his hands on ‘date’.

“Bake ‘date’ it is then.” Logan fixes his bowtie in steely determination, and they both make their way to the kitchen.

~~~

“How did the date go?” Roman asks when Logan returns to his room, a giant fluffy red robe draped over himself, face mask on, and nails in the process of being painted. He’s got some showtunes that Logan doesn’t know the name of playing from a vinyl record player, which is illogical, because he’s pretty sure the musical is modern and that they can’t play voices, but he doesn’t comment.

“It went surprisingly… Well. He told me he may need a few more dates to make a decision.” Logan lies, trying to put anything other than indifference in his voice.

“Oh.” Roman looks taken aback for a second. “That’s great Specs. I’m proud of you.” The shaky hand he was painting swerves off to the side, and nail polish gets all over his finger. He looks at it, sighs, and puts the brush back into the bottle.

“You know, it isn’t a good idea to paint your nails in bed.” Logan sits on the edge, (of his own bed. Strange how Roman didn't just go back to his own room. He’s quite the stark contrast, him and his items bright red in a sensible dull, midnight blue room.) and turns his torso to face him.

“But it’s so much more dramatiiic. Besides, you told me not to touch your desk, and I am a princ- uh, a man of my word.” He laughs a little nervous laugh. “Besides, I can just clean it up with the powers of magic.”

“That’s nice.” Logan says, distracted by Roman’s nails. He’s hiding the hand he messed up. On his non-dominant hand, he has masterfully done nails, red with golden designs, such as a crown on his middle finger, a flower pattern on his pointer, thumb and pinky, and on the ring finger there’s an ‘L’...

Logan gently extends his hand. “Can I see?”

“Oh, um, yeah.” Roman lets him take his hand. Up close he notices that the gold is sparkly. Certainly a touch that is in character.

“What does the ‘L’ stand for?” Logan asks, looking at him.

Roman seems to burst red in the face. “O-Ooh it means ‘Left’. I… Often forget which direction is which, so I put it on my nails to remember. There’s no second meaning behind it or anything. Not at all.” He smiles wide.

Now Logan suspects there may be a second meaning, but he does not comment. “Is it okay for me to see your other hand?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to, I mean, it’s not nearly as good and it isn’t at all finished and I just made a mistake-”

“I didn’t ask if I would want to see it. I asked if you were okay with me seeing it.” Logan cuts his self-deprecating ramble off, assuring him softly. “I won’t look for the imperfections if you don’t want me to.”

“I…” Roman sighs and nods. “Go ahead.”

Logan takes Roman’s right hand gently with his own, and brings it close enough to inspect. It retains the same colors, but even with just the base red layer it looks a little bit less neatly done. The color extends past the cuticle, and you can see little bumps and imprints of things that accidentally touched the nail before it could fully dry. It wasn’t bad, per se, because those things could easily be fixed without removing the entire coating, but it probably seemed pretty bad to Roman when comparing it to his other hand. And then there was the streak, which was unfortunate but can be arranged.

“I can help you with this hand, if you’d like.” He offers, much to Roman’s surprise.

“Sure… But you don’t have to-”

“Preposterous. I want to help, and although I am not a master in the arts and creating designs, I happen to be a master duplicator. I believe Virgil described it as ‘cloning but like without the technology part and shit’. I even remade an exact duplicate of a frankly disgusting and creepy doll for Remus from scratch.”

“Oh.” Roman laughs softly. “Talented.”

“Yes. I am.” Logan says, internally giddy from the compliment. He uncaps the nail polish remover from a very fancy tray, where all the supplies are stationed on. “We just need this for the stain.” He takes a cotton pad, letting go of Roman’s hands to wet it, and recaps the bottle. He retakes Roman’s right hand, and lightly swipes the pad across the smear.

“You smell like baking.” Roman notes, barely over a whisper.

“That makes sense. We did some baking. Mostly me, and he kind of watched until they were ready to decorate.” He places the cotton pad in a little glass junk bowl on the tray.

“Are you sure he’s not just going to use these dates to make him cookies?” He says lightheartedly, tapping his other hand along to the sound of the music.

“Perhaps” Logan laughs a little bit. “Actually, I set aside a bunch for you. They’re in a bag, wrapped in a ribbon. That usually wards off everyone else from eating what’s inside for a few days, but do get to them before the fourth day because that’s often when Remus loses his patience.” He doesn’t admit that it was a spur of the moment decision, and that he felt like a lovesick fool setting aside those for him. He did admit that to Patton though, who chuckled.

“Mmm, thank you. What kind?” Roman asks, as Logan uncaps the red nail polish bottle and starts applying a light coat on each nail to even things out.

“Cranberry and White Chocolate Chip.” Roman’s favorite. That may have also been on purpose.

“Oh.” He says, and that’s where that subject of conversation ends. Logan continues applying the coating, then recaps the bottle.

“Alright, this will need to dry.” Logan guides his hand to a solid resting place. They sit quietly for a moment, only the sound of what he recognizes as Razzle Dazzle playing. It’s quite strange to have music in here. The rows and rows of dark-wood bookshelves, kept neat and clean, seem much brighter like this. His planning cork-board, with strings run around and pictures and notes in a neat order (along with the depressing sight of his calendar), looks less dull. Maybe it’s his mood. Maybe it’s just Roman.

“Logan?”

“Yes?”

Roman scoots over, without moving his drying hand. He leans in closely, looking just above Logan’s eyeline.

“Y-yes?” He squirms as Roman reaches with his dry hand to the top of his head. He shakes Logan’s hair, and he presumes it looks like a mess now.

“Flour.”

“What?” Logan asks, as he returns to sitting like he did before.

“You had flour in your hair. It was bothering me.” Roman informs him, pointing to his head.

“Ah.” They return to their silence.

When Logan determines the perfect time for the polish to dry, he uncaps the glittery gold nail pen. Using the other hand as reference, he copies the designs finger by finger, putting all of his concentration into it.

“And… We’ll put an ‘R’ here... ” He tries his best to copy the font of the swirly ‘L’. It looks pretty good, if he does say so himself. Which he does say out loud.”

“Yeah, it does. Thank you Logan.” He looks up at Roman, who smiles a very shy smile. He suddenly brightens, and jumps up, rattling the tray and scaring Logan. “Aha! I’ve thought of a perfect nickname! Holm Office Photopy Machine! I need to write that down.” He fumbles around, and then summons himself a very used-looking sketchbook. He stays standing on the bed, flipping through pages and then scribbling it down.

“That certainly is long.” Logan adjusts his glasses in surprise.

“Long like my- Sorry that was a strange thought.” Roman makes his things disappear, checks his nails, and then flops back down onto the bed.

“I hate to bother you, but at one point I’m going to have to sleep on here.” He watches as Roman unsticks his face-masked face from the bed in disgust.

“Why did I do that- Oh, yeah, sorry.” Roman gets up, looking guilty, and certainly not as fancy as he did before, fibres from the blankets stuck to his face mask and some of the mask still attached to Logan’s bed. Still, he’s got his stupid smile on his face, and that power stance. He’s…

“Wonderful.” Logan says under his breath as Roman’s turning to leave.

Unfortunately, he heard, and he turns back, confused. “Huh?”

“One earful.”

“Alright.” Roman looks perhaps even more confused, but turns back and sinks out, with a “Buh-bye Specs.”

When he’s out of Logan’s room, he snaps his fingers to rid of the mess (He left the tray there too. The nerve. The gall. He sends it to Roman’s room, and prays that it lands somewhere incredibly inconvenient just for revenge sake. He also keeps the record player, because he could use some music in his life) and prepares for bed.

Step 1: Complete.

~~~

Taglist:

@crossiantgay

#logince #logince fic #ts logan #logan sanders #roman sanders #ts roman #patton sanders #ts patton #tw food #oliver writes #5 Reasons fic

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tsvestidiabolus · 3 years ago

Text

the melody never changes

commission for @snurps

➵ my COMMISSIONS are open!

SUMMARY: Robin's reflection on their newest crewmate, from Thriller Bark to Fishman Island, and Brook's growth from solitude to rockstar.

WORDCOUNT: 2529

CHARACTERS: Brook & Nico Robin

ALSO FOUND AT: ao3

Thank you for the commission! I had a blast writing for Brook and Robin. Theirs is a friendship that is immensely underrated.

To the charming skeleton gentleman,

First off, I’m afraid I must deny your inevitable request to see my panties. I have self-respect, and I don’t think they would suit you. Secondly, while we are not currently crewmates, our captain has declared you as part of the Straw Hats, and you’ll find him to be very persuasive. Doubtless we’ll be spending more time together in the future. In order to give you a warm welcome to the crew, I’ve decided to write a personal letter from me to you. Partly because I know how it feels coming into this ship as a newcomer, and partly because I’m frankly interested in you.

As an archaeologist, of course.

We’ve recovered the three strongest of our crew, and those who were in the crew all the way back in the East Blue seemed to recognise the whale you mentioned. It’s funny how life turns out that way - coincidences upon coincidences, friends meeting with friends again. He’s called Laboon, right? I certainly hope you’ll introduce me to him when we arrive at Twin Cape.

Nami is calling out to the crew - I believe she wants us to plan before we inevitably scrap any semblance of strategy and enter the main castle again - so I’ll have to cut this short. If we somehow don’t survive and our mangled corpses rot on the island, which would be a shame, I’d have to hope this letter finds its way to you.

From,

Nico Robin

---

“Yohoho!”

Even now, despite all the hardships and suffering the crew had gone through in the past day, Brook laughed. Such a melodic sound - one could almost mistake it for a song - yet it carried with it fifty years worth of promises.

The pirates were spread out across the castle of Thriller Bark, exhausted from their ordeal (yet at the moment that Luffy would shout it’s time for a party, they would be bouncing with energy) and taking their time to rest. Some of them had been tending to their wounds with the help of Chopper, while others decided to help out those who’d been lost for years. The Straw Hats in particular were fretting with worry over Zoro, even though they all were confident in his survival.

Brook practically danced past most of the Straw Hats, tipping his skull to those he passed by, before he settled right in front of the archaeologist of the crew, her nose stuck in a book. Robin flipped to the next page of her novel, making no indication that she had noticed his arrival.

“Ah, Miss Robin -”

“If you’re about to ask to see my panties, I’ll have to say no,” said Robin.

Brook laughed. “Well, it was worth a shot! But that’s not the reason I’m here.”

Her eyes never leaving the page, Robin arched a brow, the corners of her lips twitching upwards. “Oh?”

“I wanted to give my thanks. You’ve made me feel welcome to the ship already.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Robin said, smiling.

“Yohoho! I’ve never felt so honoured to call someone so beautiful a friend!”

With a tip of his hat, and a blank eyeless stare for a brief moment (which Robin later found out was Brook attempting to wink), Brook danced away from her, his skeletal legs skittling across the ground. It was almost inhumane, the amount of speed the man carried in his light body, but then again their crew was full of monsters. A living skeleton was far from the most terrifying thing in their crew.

As for the most terrifying thing?

Brook was bound to discover, sooner or later.

---

To Brook,

Music has no language; it cannot be misinterpreted. One strum of a guitar can tell a thousand stories and a thousand promises. One beat of the drum speaks of a hundred wars. One note of a violin can sing a song of sorrow in the drifting seas of time. It is the one universal truth.

I see you sometimes, when I’m on watch duty, humming a solo that sounds so… lonely, and so melancholic, that it takes all of my effort not to climb down the mast and join you. But I am a coward, so I leave you alone to your own devices. To that, I am sorry.

How lonely must you have been, drifting alone on those waters for fifty years. Only with your thoughts and determination to keep you going. I’m amazed you can still smile, despite that (at least, I assume you’re smiling. It would be pretty strange for you to laugh without smiling). In fact, I admire you. And while I’m sure my words would have a better effect for you if I said them aloud, as I said before - I’m a coward. It’s easier for me to write this down in ink.

But yet, you were on the cusp of madness, and you persevered. You lived. Sort of.

And to that, I want to know more.

Please, tell me your story.

From your crewmate,

Nico Robin.

---

Quietly, as the eve turned to night and the night to the dead hour, Robin slipped down the ladder from the mast. It was Zoro’s turn now to keep watch, and she knew the swordsman would be perceptive enough to protect them in the instance of danger, despite his injuries and constant napping. But it was not yet time to sleep, for as usual their newly appointed musician was out by his lonesome in the night, a gentle lul of the violin playing a song that reminded her of Ohara. The song was enough to drift the boys and Nami to sleep, and Robin would have dozed off to the melody had she not felt so lonely just from the strings alone. But it was not her loneliness that made her feel this way - she had long since accepted she was part of this crew. That she wasn’t alone anymore.

It was Brook’s.

So, once she was safely down on the lawn of the Sunny, she joined him by the railing, leaning against the wood while he continued his solo. His skeletal hands played the tune delicately, and in time she hummed along to it. The nostalgia washed over her like a wave. She closed her eyes and imagined Ohara again. She could only imagine what Brook was thinking of.

As the last notes of the melody rang out and the song stopped, Robin opened her eyes and smiled at Brook. He bowed his head back, setting the violin down the grass.

“Is that song known outside the West Blue?” she asked. “I’ve only ever heard it there.”

“It’s a West Blue classic!” Brook exclaimed. “Well, I say it’s a classic. It was written by yours truly!”

Robin blinked.

“I would’ve like to tweak it before I left, but sadly there was no time. The original music sheet must be lost as well! I must rely on my ears now to complete it - but alas, I have no ears! Yohoho! Skull jo-”

“You’re from the West Blue?”

It certainly came as a surprise - after all, a majority of their crew had come from the East or the Grand Line, and she had no idea there was someone else onboard the ship that hailed from the West. Even if he was the most recent addition. Robin felt her curiosity peak up the more Brook revealed about himself. His past was becoming more and more of a mystery to her, a clash between his demeanor and his tragedy.

Brook nodded his head in response, his afro bouncing as he did. “I served a royal kingdom there for sometime before I decided piracy was a better career. Of course, I was a musician as well!”

She imagined him flashing her a grin.

“But yes, West Blue, born and raised - ah! Miss Robin, if I recall correctly, you were from the West too, no?” he asked.

“That’s correct.”

“May I ask which is-”

“Ohara.”

She definitely said that too quickly, with too much of a snap in her tongue, that Brook paused and gave her enough time to regret it. Before she could utter an apology, Brook picked up the bow of his violin and held it out to her. Naturally, she was confused.

Brook bowed his head down.

“I understand if you do not wish to talk about it,” he says. “I can assume from personal experience a deep tragedy has occurred there.”

Still, he held out the bow.

“But know that Ohara is wonderful, and that its legacy - whatever that may be - is you.”

Curious, Robin took the bow and inspected it. It seemed ordinary enough. She couldn’t understand what Brook was -

Prof. Clover

Without realising, her hand had begun trembling from the overwhelming everything coming over her, and she looked up to Brook with glistening eyes. The musician panicked.

“Miss Robin, I - I’m dreadfully sorry!” he sputtered. “I didn’t mean to upset you! I merely - I wanted to explain that tragedies don’t have to - I’m sorry!”

“You knew the professor?” She was surprised she could manage to get even that out. “You knew Ohara?”

A relieved sigh passed through his nonexistent lips. “I stayed there for a couple years, back when I was a young man. This violin was a parting gift from my dear friend at the time. He’d just gotten his doctorate, and I think he wanted to show off. Yohoho!”

Robin chuckled, wiping away a tear.

“Ah! But of course, this explains why you know my song!” Brook exclaimed. “Miss Robin, I knew I felt a kinship for you when I boarded this ship. Us both being from the West Blue gives me a sense of familiarity in the crew. I’ve never been more grateful to be alive - ah! But I’m not alive! Yohoho, skull joke!”

Robin was amazed, not for the first time, that Brook could joke and even dare to imply that she was the one being welcoming, when here he was, passing on Robin wisdom that she took twenty years to even consider. It was often easy to forget that Brook had thirty years of experience out on the sea before the tragedy of the Rumbar Pirates occurred, but it was clear that those years were enough to sharpen the man’s mind and strengthen his heart. But his heart was not made of stone, nor iron - it was laid out bare to the world, soft and beating, and his gentle lullabies sung of sorrows from his past that he dare not speak of.

So, she leaned against the railing, a slight smile gracing her lips. “Please, tell me more stories.”

And so he did.

---

Be alive.

---

She’d written the message in the dirt of the prison, pleading with whatever divine powers existed to ensure that the rest of her crew had lived.

After all, Brook owed her a concert. One that would declare to the World that he was alright despite all the pain he’d been through. That humans were resilient.

He’d better keep that promise.\

---

To Brook,

I do not expect this message to reach you. The Government is constantly attempting to interfere with letters from the RA, and no doubt they’ll be trying to decipher any clues about their plans in this message (good luck, cowards).

It’s been almost two years already. No doubt we will meet each other again soon. I’ve been looking forward to this immensely, as no doubt you have too. I think - I understand you, a little more. Now that I’ve been infected with the Straw Hats’ boundless enthusiasm and joy, I can understand how you lived in isolation for all that time. Not just because of the promise you kept to Laboon, but because dying would be spitting on their smiles, right?

Can you hear the waves crash against the shore where you are? Do you hear seagulls, do you smell the salt?

Can you see the moon?

One day we’ll meet again. I look forward to that day.

From Robin.

P.S. I keep hearing about this new rockstar that some of the Revolutionaries are raving about. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?

---

It wasn’t a soft strum that the bony hand had passed over the strings, yet it was strangely nostalgic all the same. No, it was a thunderous sound, booming across the concert hall and somehow could be heard over the screams of adoring fans. It was unlike anything Robin had ever heard before. No - she never felt anything like this before. The vibrations shook her very body, making her suddenly aware of the blood rushing through her veins, of her heart pounding against her chest. The feeling was exhilarating.

She stared from the back of the concert hall to the star of the show. As always, his feathered boa and skeleton-figure was instantly recognisable, as was his laugh.

“Soul King Brook, hm?” she whispered under her breath. She couldn’t hear herself over the sound of the music.

There was something different about his music now. She would have to ask him if he changed his muse. Later, perhaps.

Now, it was time to find the Sunny.

---

It wasn’t hard to find Brook after the battle at Fishman Island. Where there were cheers and melodies, there was Brook. Robin waited by an alley, listening to the sound of Brook’s guitar as he sang a victory song for the pirates. The tune was new, unlike anything she had ever heard before. But there was a certain gentleness to it, despite the upbeat and heart-pounding vibrations it made. Like Brook was unleashing happiness to the world.

When the imprupto-concert was over, and Robin could finally approach Brook, he tipped his hat and stared blankly at her. She assumed he was grinning.

“Miss Robin! Did you enjoy the show?” he asked. “I wasn’t sure about this song, but it looks to be a hit with the crowd! Yohoho!”

Robin smiled back. “It was happy,” she noted.

“Mmhm!” he said. “It was inspired by our captain.”

“Luffy?”

Brook nodded. “I suppose that’s why you picked up on the feelings I was conveying. It’s an honour to sail under his flag, don’t you think?” His voice took on a melancholic tone. “I would’ve never expected to find such a crew years ago.”

Neither did she.

“Are you happy, Brook?” Robin asked. The question had just slipped out, but she was curious to know the answer.

Brook looked at her, tilting his head. “Of course I am, Miss Robin. How could I create such a song if I weren’t?”

Robin paused for a moment, before nodding her head slowly. It made sense. Brook’s music reflected his feelings at the time. And now, as part of the Straw Hats, his tune had become one much like their captain’s.

“Now, shall we return to the party?” Brook said. “I’m sure Luffy would want to hear this too.”

Not a thing could crush Brook’s spirit. Not being alone, not despair, not even death.

He was alive, and he was happy, and he would make sure the world knew.

Robin couldn’t be more proud to call him a crewmate.

#one piece #one piece fanfiction #brook #nico robin #one piece commission #writing commission #commission #;; ooc #my fics #nakamaship #writing commissions #commissions open

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lunariasilver · 4 years ago

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The Virtuoso - 4. Meteor City IV

Masterlist

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A/N I'm sorry guys, the ending of this chapter kicked my fucking ass. I've been sitting on it being almost done forever.

After the troupe left, I started composing a song for them. I wasn't sure why. It wasn't like I was going to be able to play it for them but...it provided me with some peace. It reminded me of them. It wasn't just them that playing my violin reminded me of, though.

Every time I looked at it I remembered my grandfather. My mother, my father...my brothers. It made me want to tear it apart.

I wouldn't, though. My father always told me I was a sentimental fool, and he was right.

The music it made was nice, at least.

Inspiration had struck me in the middle of the street and I was working on a random stanza. Eventually I was going to have to put all of these parts together, but for now I just kept coming up with more pieces. I couldn't help but wonder if they would ever fit together.

I was interrupted by a familiar face. I couldn't quite place it at first, though.

"Give me your violin!" She demanded, standing in a threatening manner.

I stared at her blankly.

"Now, or- or I'll kill you!" She continued.

Oh, that's right. Zara. The girl I made lead me into the part of the city that people actually lived in.

"Why?" I asked. I was still positioned to play as if her presence made no difference to me. It didn't really.

"I'm- I'm gonna sell it!" Zara yelled. The woman was practically shaking. How tedious.

I tilted my head to the side. "To who?"

"Um-"

"Nobody here would ever buy this. Nobody can play it." I paused. "Why do you want it?"

Zara faltered, lowering her fists and looking at the ground. "Y-your music is beautiful. I thought that...maybe I could make it."

It remained silent. She was still trembling. She probably thought I was going to kill her. I was considering it. She did threaten me, after all...

"Would you like me to teach you?" I offered, surprising even myself.

After that, more and more people began approaching me asking for lessons. They started trading with me for them.

It was almost like I was an actual musician holding classes. After a while, people started trading violins to people. I assumed they bought them with whatever money they made working for the mafia.

I saw the mafia often. Well, their runners. It was strange how many jobs they were doing recently. They'd come to me a few times to ask me to handle a job for them. I obviously could never complete them, but I could at least point them in the direction of somebody who could. After the fourth time of me doing that, they started to come to me first. They even payed me. Jenny was no good to me, so I gave them a list of things that would work as payment.

I couldn't wait to discuss my new books with Chr-

Oh.

Right.

I was in the middle of teaching a class when I felt a familiar presence. It had been two months since I had last felt it. I almost dropped my violin I whipped around so fast-

"Chrollo?"

"I hadn't even said hello yet." Chrollo said, seemingly amused by my quick response to his presence. "What's this?"

My class was unnerved, but seemed to trust me to protect them from the former resident. "I'm teaching them to play the violin."

"How domestic."

I pursed my lips, trying to hide how truly pleased I was to see him. "I have to do something while you're not here." I then turned to face my class. "An old friend of mine is visiting. Class is over for today. Your next lesson will be free. I apologize."

They grumbled a bit, but they knew better than to kick up a fuss. When they were gone I turned to face Chrollo.

He was still smiling. "I brought you some books and sheet music."

I wasn't quite sure what to say to him, and I think he could sense that.

"I also brought food."

And those were the magic words. "What food did you bring? Is it cake? Cookies? Pasta?" I asked, advancing on him quickly.

His smile seemed to grow warmer at this. "You'll have to find out."

I narrowed my eyes. "Let's eat now."

"So impatient."

"Come on!" I demanded, grabbing him by his free arm and dragging him with me. When we got to my "residence" I paused for a brief moment.

"I-" I started, staring at the ground for a moment.

"Yes?"

I shook my head before dragging him inside. "I'm gonna have to read the books before you leave. So we can discuss them."

I didn't think you'd come back.

I was less sad when Chrollo left again. After all, this time I knew he'd be back. All of them would be back. They had no reason to, but they would. Just to visit me.

How strange.

The song that I had been composing with them in mind was so much easier now. I could hear how the puzzle fit together. It all started making sense to me. It had to be perfect, though. I couldn't count the amount of times that I had scrapped an entire section. Chrollo had given me a notebook that I was using to write it all down. I couldn't risk losing any of what I had already come up with. Maybe one day I would play it for them all. I knew Paku at least would like to hear it.

Time kept passing me by. Members of the troupe visited from time to time, usually by themselves. Sometimes they visited in pairs, but never all at once. That was fine with me.

Any time they got a new member somebody came to introduce them to me. Apparently Chrollo wanted there to be a total of thirteen members. I wasn't really sure why. (I mean, I had an idea, but he had never actually told me.) It kind of stung that I couldn't be a member, but I understood why. What use could I be to them if I couldn't leave the city?

Still, they clearly cared about me, and that was all I really needed.

Meteor City was starting to feel more like home. My thoughts didn't turn to Zoldyck Manor nearly as often as they used to. The people here were all fond of me. Or at the very least they knew better than to outwardly express their distaste of me.

I didn't "take care of people's problems" as often as I used to, since I was so busy with my classes, but I was still willing. Not to mention I had begun to serve as a liaison for the mafia. Honestly, aside from the complete and utter lack of modern amenities, Meteor City was quite comfortable.

I did miss having a chef, though. I still couldn't quite grasp the concept of cooking. Nobody had ever explained it to me. And it wasn't like I had an abundance of seasoning here.

....I missed good food so much.

Apparently the Troupe had gotten pretty busy as of late, trying to establish themselves in the greater world. They didn't have the time to visit me like they used to. It was okay though, I knew they hadn't forgotten about me. They still sent me messages from time to time, so I at least knew that they were thinking of me.

I tried not to think about how much I wanted to join them in whatever it was they were up to. That line of thought was dangerous. It might make me do something reckless.

I was laying on my pathetic mattress staring at a scarf that Paku had gotten me. It wasn't the actual scarf, it was a copy that I had conjured up. It had been quite some time since she had visited me. I missed her. I really wanted to see her again.

I closed my eyes, sighing heavily. Suddenly, it felt like I was falling, which was impossible.

My eyes shot open and I was standing in an unfamiliar bedroom. It was opulently decorated.

"What the fuck?" I muttered, looking around before I spotted a familiar face.

"Paku?" I questioned. She didn't look at me. She was currently cooking.

"Paku!" I tried again. Still no answer. "Pukunoda!" I exclaimed. It seemed she finally heard me as she whipped around to face me. Her gun was already drawn. She lowered it upon recognizing me, a perplexed expression on her face.

"Ivela? How did you get here?" She asked.

I looked around. "I have no idea. I was just holding the scarf you gave me and thinking about seeing you and then I was here." I shrugged at her. I had no real explanation.

Paku paused before nodding. "Ah. It must be your specialist ability."

"I'm not a specialist." I stated, raising an eyebrow at her.

She furrowed her eyebrows at me. "But you are."

That is not what my parents told me. "I must have developed a specialist ability, I guess." I was a conjurer.

"...I suppose." She said, seemingly unconvinced. "You'll have to figure out its limitations yourself."

I nodded. "I wouldn't expect you to have any insight."

I stayed and talked with her for a long while, quickly discovering that it didn't seem to have any kind of time restraint. That was good to know.

I figured out that going back was done much the same way as getting here.

I spent a lot of time figuring out my ability, which I decided not to give a name to. It seemed to tie into my conjuration ability quite nicely. I figured I'd just call it a part of "Gift Box."

In my defense I named my ability when I was young.

I found that I had to have been given a gift from somebody in order to visit with them, and I had to have chosen to use that particular gift within my Gift Box ability.

All of my Gift Box restrictions applied. When I was visiting someone, they couldn't see or feel me until I said their name. Their first or last name would suffice, I discovered, but it couldn't be a nickname.

Only they could see or feel me when I was visiting them. And I couldn't attack them, just the same as they couldn't attack me. I hadn't quite tested the theory on how my ability differentiated between an attack and innocent touching. That required further experimentation.

It was nice, actually. I could still see everyone without ever having to leave.

I could even see Killua.

He thought I was an imaginary friend.

I even checked up on my parents and grandfather from time to time. They seemed to be doing well, but I wasn't expecting them to be suffering. I was always careful to never make them aware of my presence, however. They didn't need to know what I was capable of. My luck they'd forbid it.

The time between the visits from the troupe grew ever larger, but it didn't really matter since I could visit whenever I wanted! I saw them all the time! It wasn't quite the same as seeing them in person, though. Apparently I felt different to them. Every time I visited Uvo he would throw something at my head. It would always just sail harmlessly through me. It was usually a can of beer.

He always looked so disappointed that I hadn't caught it. I think he was upset because now he couldn't drink the beer. (Cause it was all shaken up.)

The last time he visited the city he brought a keg.

That was a good time.

I barely thought of returning to Zoldyck Manor anymore.

It was almost like no time at all had passed before it was the second anniversary of my arrival to Meteor City. It was strange. This place was supposed to be a punishment, but it felt like anything but.

Which, admittedly, didn't make me feel as good as it should.

It wasn't like I had been falsely accused. I deserved to be punished.

I shook those thoughts away. It was better not to focus on them. The present was so much more pleasant than the past.

I hadn't been expecting it, but...the entire troupe came to visit me. I couldn't quite figure out why. It seemed like a strange thing to do.

I appreciated it, though.

Everyone around me was talking and laughing. I didn't know what about. Try as I might, I couldn't pay attention. I was too busy wishing it could be like this all the time.

I was too busy wondering what it would be like to really be a part of the Phantom Troupe.

I was too caught up in the realization that sitting here with all of them felt right in a way being with my actually family had never.

"When is your birthday, Ivela?"

I blinked. Chrollo was looking at me expectantly. Actually, they all were. I assume they had been talking about birthdays before and I realized they had no idea when mine was.

I made a split second decision.

"Today, actually. July 8th." The day I came to Meteor City. I didn't know why, but the day I was born a Zoldyck didn't feel like the right answer anymore.

The troupe were immediately in an uproar.

"Why didn't you tell us?!"

That seemed to be a sentiment shared by them all.

"Sorry, sorry." I said sheepishly.

"It's just a good thing we had a gift for you anyway!" Uvo exclaimed.

I narrowed my eyes. "Gift?"

"Hey! You weren't supposed to tell her that yet!" Nobu yelled.

"Uvo!" Chrollo said harshly.

The others also admonished him.

"We were gonna give it to her anyway!" Uvo defended.

Paku sighed. "The plan was to give it to her when we left. But I suppose now we don't have a choice."

I was beginning to think they liked giving me gifts because they felt bad for me, being cooped up here. That didn't bother me as much as it should have, though. Maybe people should feel a little bad for me. I have to bathe in a dirty river.

"I'm waiting with bated breath." I said blankly.

"We're gonna wipe that look off your face." Machi vowed. "Close your eyes."

I did as requested. If it isn't food I'm gonna be pissed-

I almost snickered at my own joke.

A moment later, I was told to open my eyes. Chrollo was standing in front of me holding a violin. At first glance it was nothing special. I was confused. I already had a violin, I didn't need-

Wait.

My eyes widened as I carefully took the violin from him. It was a Strandivari Violin.

Back when the world was my oyster, (so long as I obeyed,) I had taken a particular interest in valuable violins, for obvious reasons. This one in particular was...

Insane.

I looked at Chrollo with my eyes wide, and turned my gaze to the other members. They were all staring at me.

This was literally the most valuable violin in the world. This violin was...perfection.

I couldn't believe they'd stolen this for me.

Whenever my family had given me gifts, they'd always been practical. Any gifts that weren't murder related weren't gifts at all. They were rewards.

A dagger. A bottle of poison. A blade hidden within a bracelet.

Nothing they ever gave me was to create. Every 'gift' I received from them was a tool meant to help me do whatever they wanted me to. Nothing was ever chosen just because I might like it.

In contrast, the troupe had always brought me things that made them think of me. They brought me books. They brought me food, sheet music, scarves, clothes. Things to make me more comfortable.

Things to make me happy.

Things to make me smile.

"Ivela?" I heard Chrollo ask.

I blinked, registering that my eyes had started to well up. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my eyes.

"Do you like it?" He asked softly.

I stepped back and regarded the whole troupe, as opposed to just Chrollo.

They were all staring at me.

I stared back blankly, before I smiled warmly. "I love it."

The uproar was immediate.

"What a pretty smile!" (I still hate Shalnark.)

"Ivela can smile?!?!"

"I DIDN'T THINK SHE COULD!!"

"You guys haven't seen her smile?" That one was Chrollo.

"You have??!?!?!"

I just kept smiling at the chaos I had caused, waiting for it to settle down. If anything, my smile was only growing wider.

I adored these people.

I snickered as the chaos only grew. They were being completely ridiculous. It was just a smile.

I pursed my lips and turned away from the Troupe. They quieted down immediately as I positioned my new violin on my shoulder.

"So. Do you guys want to hear a song?"

I didn't wait for a response, instead choosing to force them to listen to me play the song I'd written for them.

8 years passed mostly uneventfully.

After that first birthday celebration, the trend of me seeing the troupe in person less and less continued, although they all came for my birthday every year. Or...they did. Before my father came. Before he killed a member on my birthday.

(To be fair, he was unaware that it was my birthday. But still. To hell with him.)

I liked the girl he killed. She was kind.

He and Chrollo fought. My father didn't stick around to finish the fight. Of course he didn't. Chrollo wasn't his target.

I couldn't do anything. I couldn't even let my father see me.

After that, it was decided that the Troupe having a regular day where they're all in one place was a bad idea, even if it was only once a year.

I still saw them, but those get-togethers that I had so cherished were long gone. I started to get a little scrappy with everyone that I could. I had to be the strongest Zoldyck. At least for now. My training regimen was intense.

I met many people over the years, although only two of them were particularly memorable. They all inevitably left or died any way. Aside from those two, the only people I bothered to remember were my violin students.

I remembered a girl that I trained. She grew to be quite strong. So strong that when a butler from the Zoldyck estate came looking for a new apprentice, I sent her off with them.

Cruel, perhaps, but it was what she wanted. Besides, the family never did much to the butlers. They wouldn't treat her the way they'd treated me. She'd be fine.

The other....well. Ging was...well. Um. Hm.

He wasn't someone I liked to think about.

Some of my violin students managed to get out of Meteor City and make something of themselves.

Or at least I hoped they had. I only really knew that they had left to go join an orchestra or something. I try not to think about them either.

No, I have to stay focused. I have to keep running towards my goal.

I'm going to get out of Meteor City.

A/N

Okay guys once again I am so sorry. That birthday scene was something I had a very specific plan in mind for, and executing that was a struggle. (I'm pretty happy with it.) Plus I'm doing the school thing again, so...that isn't helping with writing time. But I'm not going on another insane hiatus! I promise.

Anyway, here we are! Next chapter we start the real story. Only took 5 chapters to get there, counting the prologue. Hope you guys liked the Meteor City Arc! IT WAS A LOT

Also, Ivela's violin is based (obviously) off of Stradivarius Violins. Her's in particular would be this world's equivalent of the Messiah Stradivarius. That's right guys the Troupe went all out.

They said "If we're stealing Ivela a violin, it's gonna be a VIOLIN."

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#Ivela Zoldyck #Chrollo x Reader #The Virtuoso #Hunter x Hunter #Chrollo x OC #Chrollo Lucilfer x OC #Chrollo Lucilfer

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aria-raven · 4 years ago

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OC-tober, Day 5: Beloved

A quick little story about a failed proposal attempt. Not rejection, it just doesn’t quite go according to plan. But he’ll get it right one day. @oc-growth-and-development

“My dearest wife...no, my darling wife-”

Geoff sighed, rubbing at his temples. Why did he think this was a good idea? He could’ve just proposed like a normal person, with a ring and getting down on one knee. But no, he just had to be all poetic about it. If only he’d known it would give him this much trouble.

“My...” Geoff frowned, tapping his pencil against the table. How did all of the famous poets of the world do it? How did they find the right words to properly get their meaning across? Merely saying “wife” wasn’t enough, he needed something else, but nothing sounded right. This wasn’t even a poem, not really, it was just a little speech, he’d just tried to make it sound like a poem.

“This is ridiculous,” Geoff muttered. “I should just play her a song, pull out the ring, and ask.”

At that moment, another word entered his mind, soft as a whisper. Beloved. He paused a moment, the smiled. “My beloved wife,” he said out loud, then immediately wrote it down. Yes, that was perfect. Okay, so maybe this wouldn’t turn into a huge disaster.

Geoff picked up the paper once he’d finished writing and began to read it out loud, just to see how it would sound. “We bonded over music, but our love is more beautiful than any song. Being with you has opened my eyes in so many ways, and I can see the future more clearly than ever. I’ve been fortunate to call you my love, and I hope that one day I might have the honor of calling you my beloved wife.”

Just as he’d finished saying the last word, a knock on the door startled him into nearly dropping the paper. He abruptly shoved it into his pocket and went to answer the door. There was only one person who would show up unannounced like this. Sure enough, there she was, her hair disarrayed from the wind, and grinning up at him.

“Is this a bad time?” Morgan asked, raising an eyebrow. “You look shocked.”

“Um...” Geoff gave his head a little shake to clear it. This was bad, he needed to focus. He put on the most charming smile he could muster up. “I’m not shocked, just stunned. Anyone would be, seeing your face when they open the door.”

That made her laugh, and Geoff allowed himself to relax. He led Morgan inside to the living room, where they both sat down on the piano bench. She gently ran a finger across the keys. “Have you been practicing for the Christmas concert?” she asked him. “I know it’s not for a while yet, but it sounds like you’ll be playing some pretty complicated songs.”

He nodded, rather grimly. “I’ve been trying to get some practice in. What about you?”

“Yeah, I’ve been trying too, but I definitely have my work cut out for me this year.” She shook her head. “And my mom is inviting some family over to watch the concert, which I don’t mind, but I’m not sure if my little cousins will appreciate it. Not to mention, I’ll have to make sure their sticky fingers don’t get anywhere near my violin.”

Geoff laughed, but his heart began to sink. The concert. Damn it, there was no way he could propose now, they both had too much on their minds. He cursed himself internally for not thinking ahead. This had been a bad idea from the start, anyway. Right there, he decided he would scrap the whole thing. Forget about the speech/poem, and whatever else he’d planned on. He would just buy a ring and propose the old-fashioned way, once they weren’t busy with other matters.

There was nothing wrong with waiting, after all. Geoff felt a warmth in his chest when Morgan leaned against his shoulder, and for now, that feeling alone was enough for him.

#My writing #OC-tober

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socialdistance · 5 years ago

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Lauren, Day 10

Moments

The UN cancels a big international event, which feels foreboding.

A woman brushes past me on Franklin Avenue, a little too close for comfort. I can smell her hand sanitizer.

While walking Basil, I realize that not only am I trying to create six feet of distance with anybody I see – I am avoiding all eye contact or interaction whatsoever. I resolve to stop doing that.

I go to the grocery store for bread. They don’t have any, and the checkout lines extend all the way back through the aisles.

A neighbor comes downstairs with the internet guy, who needs to be let into our apartment to get to the backyard to install her internet. I panic, terrified and near tears, and sanitize every surface he might have touched the second he leaves.

Debbie Allen hosts a dance class on Instagram, and I push the furniture out of the way and join, sweating and laughing in the dining room. I feel a little better.

While walking six feet away from a friend in Prospect Park, I catch myself looking for people I can be mad at for sharing a picnic blanket or riding Citi Bikes in a pack.

Marathons are canceled. The World Figure Skating Championships are canceled. I can’t imagine how it feels to have been training for something like that and then have it not happen.

Liz and I are taking turns sitting in the backyard, drinking coffee and huddling under a blanket, when our next door neighbor lets her dog out into her half of the yard, separated by a fence. Basil barks and Liz quickly hustles her back inside, but not before the neighbor slams her door and starts swearing and screaming threats at us. Liz and I tell each other everyone hits their breaking point sometime, and try to shake it off.

The Wisconsin Film Festival is canceled. For some reason this is the moment it all hits home, even though I don’t even live in Wisconsin anymore.

A childhood friend starts hosting a yoga class on Zoom. I don’t like yoga, but I join every day and find myself counting the minutes until her apartment fills the screen.

In the most Brooklyn debate ever, I poll friends on whether or not it’s still acceptable to drop off compost at the food scrap place on Tuesday morning. We decide that it is, as long as I don’t linger.

I FaceTime with Mom, Dad, Anna, and Derek. I FaceTime with my best friends from college. I FaceTime with the Hillary for America speech team. I FaceTime with the Hillary for America policy team. We have “dinner” with friends two nights in a row. We play online Pictionary with Lily and Robbie. I wonder if I’ll start to feel over-scheduled the same way I did before, when I made plans every night of the week.

Two dear friends who were getting married in Brooklyn in May postpone their wedding until next year.

Anna and I worry about Dad, who is still holding court (literally) but no jury trials. We discuss which articles are too scary to send him and which ones are just scary enough.

A friend starts a mutual aid Slack group for our old neighborhood in Brooklyn, and soon other friends who don’t know her are posting the link on social media.

I walk five miles one Saturday to swap coffee filters for art supplies. When I get home, I see that Lily has also included a handful of latex gloves, and get a little teary-eyed at the gesture.

Over Zoom, Anna, Liz, and I talk our college-age cousin through fixing her washer, which has gone off kilter. “Shake it side to side,” we say. “No, harder than that.” When she reports that it’s working, we all cheer.

Everyone I know who doesn’t have a dog is thinking about getting a dog. I give our dog a terrible DIY haircut in the bathroom one Sunday morning and feel guilty for making her look so silly.

There is a long discussion on our building WhatsApp chat about whether we should take the management company up on their offer to purchase hand sanitizer and disinfectant wipes for us at cost, and where we could even keep them so they wouldn’t be stolen by delivery guys. Finally, our upstairs neighbor says he is a research scientist, and can bring some kind of alcohol from the lab to clean the doorknobs twice a day.

I check my phone immediately whenever there is a message from Notify NYC or a breaking news alert, to see whether there’s something we should be doing that we’re not doing, or something we’re doing that we need to stop doing.

A friend decides to get some tennis rackets, since it’s a sport you can play from more than six feet apart. That feels like a pretty good idea. The next day, the Mayor forbids team sports in public parks, and we wonder whether tennis counts or not.

I order an electric violin so I can practice without making my neighbors (or my wife) crazy. I forget to order a battery. I order a battery from the Home Depot. When the delivery comes, there’s no battery. I feel defeated.

#But is tennis a team sport I don't even know anymore

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saddeniq · 5 years ago

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Inspired by @courier-sux because I'm incredibly bored

Nickname: I don't really have one. "Sarah" isn't very nicknameable. But my friend calls me Marinara Sauce sometimes.

Zodiac: Pisces!

Height: 5'1". I am short :(

House: I live in an apartment with my family. It's decently sized so we're not cramped.

Last Thing I Googled: "Veteran Legionnaire Armor". I'm playing New Vegas as Mortuus and I wanted to try and find a veteran armor set to make her look cool.

Song in My Head: One Man's Shame - William Elliot Whitmore

Followers and Following: 141 following and 31 followers

Amount of Sleep: With this quarantine it's an absolute mess. I usually get 4 or 6 hours of sleep.

Lucky Number: 5. I just decided to really like the number five when I was little, and I just stuck to it.

Dream job: Freelance writer/Author. I'm really insecure about my writing but I've been told its really good, so who knows? I'll definitely keep practicing anyway.

Wearing: Mismatched pajamas consisting of a long sleeved shirt and some random pants. And if you want to count it, a really thick furry carpet from IKEA. It's cold and I will not leave my room without wrapping myself in it.

Fav Song: It varies, but probably Mr Loverman by Ricky Montgomery. It's nice to listen to on bad days.

Instrument: Used to play violin in elementary, but my teacher bashed visual arts like there was no tomorrow so I left out of spite. She'd always tell me and other artistic students that art wasn't a real job and it was a waste of time. I don't think she realized music is a form of art too.

Random Fact: I collect random things to pinup on my wall. I have tickets, book pages, photos and other scraps just stuck up on my board.

Favorite Author: I dont read too much, but Micheal Crichton! I've only ever read Jurassic Park, but I about adore the way he writes. I definitely want to read more of his books.

Fav Animal Sounds: Probably the sounds dogs make when they yawn. It's just too adorable

Aesthetic: I have no idea what mine is called. I wear a lot of shorts, stripes and earrings.

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pengychan · 5 years ago

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[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 13

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

Art by Dara.

[All chapters are tagged as 'mind the gap’ on my blog.]

A/N: Not much smut, lots art. And also Dante. I hope you enjoyed things going smoothly in these past few chapter, because that’s not gonna last.

***

“You know it’s just for a few days, right?”

“Sure.”

“They’ll be back home by Sunday.”

“Mhhh,” Ernesto grumbles, looking away from him to fix his jacket, and Héctor rolls his eyes. Oh, of course he’s gonna be like that: he’s always like this when he’s denied something… or in this case told that no adult fun is going to be happening in his and Imelda’s apartment for a bit, due to Imelda’s brothers visiting.

It’s not like we can let them know of this arrangement, Imelda told him the previous day, practical as always, and Héctor agreed… though somewhere in the back of his mind he did wonder if they’d really take it so badly. They’re young, both much more open-minded than their parents would be, and would know better than babbling; still, he understands and shares her decision to keep it under wraps.

Part of him feels as though the arrangement works as long as it was kept in a bubble, only the three of them in it, no explanations needed or given. If asked to explain it to someone else, and put it into words… Héctor isn’t sure what he might find himself saying. Nor is Imelda, and Héctor suspects it worries her more than it worries him.

As long as no one else knows, they don’t need to explain a thing. Not even to themselves.

Héctor chases away the thought and glances over at Ernesto, who’s still frowning at the mirror. “Think you can stop pouting anytime soon?”

“I’m not pouting, I--”

“Héctor, Ernesto!” Armando’s voice rings out from behind the door, followed by a knock. He opens the door without even waiting to be told he could come in, a clipboard in his hand. “The room is almost set up. A few rehearsals, then we start recording.”

Ernesto makes a face. “Do we have to?”

Armando raises an eyebrow at him. He has unusual, dark green eyes, and Ernesto muttered once - thankfully out of his earshot - that there is no way he’s not into men and that, under different circumstances, he could get him in his bed within a week. Héctor laughed, but was very careful not to ask what he’d meant with that about circumstances.

That, too - Ernesto has slept with no one else other than them for several months now - is something he knows, but chooses not to dwell on. It’s for the best.

Entirely unaware of his thoughts, Armando is speaking to Ernesto. Slowly. “... Recording is generally an important step in putting together an album.”

“I mean the rehearsals.”

A sigh. “We’ve been over this. The answer is yes,” Armando says, and gives a light pat to the clipboard, like a judge slamming down the gavel after uttering a sentence. “Don’t pout like that, I’m certain you’ll enjoy yourselves. It’s our best recording studio. We start in fifteen minutes,” he adds.

As he leaves, Héctor is unable to hold back a grin. “You do pout.”

“Chingate.”

“Oh, you wish you could do that,” Héctor replies, gaining himself a shove - but by the time they start playing to warm up, the pout is gone. Then they start recording and Ernesto plays with so much energy, the kind he only has before huge crowds, and it’s enough to chase any lingering shadows away from Héctor’s mind as he follows suit.

***

“... Huh. What’s that cabrón doing in the courtyard?”

“You’ll need to be more specific,” Imelda mutters without looking up from her tablet. She’s having a look at potential places to rent for a proper shop - best to think ahead and look at the options, now that things are looking so good for Héctor and Ernesto’s venture - and has already bookmarked a few interesting ones, all pretty close to home. “What cabrón? Could be Chicharrón, Gustavo, the guy from the fifth floor with the sweaty hands--”

“Gustavo,” Ernesto replies, still peering out of the window.

As though summoned, Héctor peers in from the kitchen. He’s been cooking - he can cook very few dishes, but they always turn out amazing - and Ernesto’s chihuahuas are following him around, eyes huge and pleading for scraps. Imelda wonders when was it, exactly, that she lost the battle to keep them out of at least some rooms of the apartment.

“Cheech is not that bad,” he protests. “He’s a good guy, deep down.”

“He threatened to beat you with his prosthetic leg last Tuesday,” Imelda reminds him.

“Very deep down.”

“Couldn’t one say the same of Gustavo?”

“No,” Héctor and Ernesto say at the exact same moment.

“Gustavo is a jerk,” Héctor adds, and looks at Ernesto. “And you say he’s in the courtyard? Like he actually lives here? The horror!”

Ernesto rolls his eyes. “No, I mean, what is he doing-- he’s… setting up a cage?”

“... He’s what now?”

Within a moment they’re all at the window, pressed together to fit. It reminds Imelda, briefly, of one time they all perched on the same branch outside a window to listen to Padre Edmundo’s drunk-like singing after root canal treatment.

But back then, they had seen nothing other than the drawn curtains. Now they can see what Gustavo de la Jerk is doing, and he is… setting up a cage, just like Ernesto said. Before Imelda can even begin to wonder why, Héctor opens the window and leans out.

“Oye, Gustavo! Decided to camp out?” he yells. That causes Gustavo to turn up, and scowl.

“Oh, ha ha. You should thank me!”

“And why? For ruining the flower bed?” Imelda asks, raising an eyebrow. A few steps from him, the flower bed in question is a trampled mess.

“That wasn’t me, I’m trying to solve the problem here! Some stray Xolo dog keeps getting in somehow--”

“A Xolo dog?” Héctor repeats.

“Oh, of course you didn’t notice, señor Head Stuck In Clouds! It comes in, sniffs around, makes a mess of all the plants. It’s worse than the rats your amigo brought in! Yelping all the time!”

“They have to be loud, pendejo,” Ernesto snaps back. “Someone has got to be of service and cover the noises you strangle out of that violin.”

A furious glare, but as he and Héctor just so happen to be the ones with a record label contract under their belt, he clearly decides not to argue. Instead, he points at the cage. “Well, at least I am trying to solve the issue with that thing. I’m catching it and calling animal control. Which is something the administrator should be doing,” he adds with a scoff. For a moment, Imelda can almost sympathize: Chicharrón is the worst possible choice for an administrator, and to this day she has no idea how he ended up with the role. She doubts he remembers it, either.

Of course, her sympathy vanishes the next moment he speaks.

“And besides, I haven’t seen you trying to solve a problem. Remember when you nearly set everything on fire with fireworks?”

“It was just Roman candles,” Héctor mutters, but he does look slightly sheepish; to be absolutely fair, the celebrations for Ernesto’s birthday got out of hand. Mostly because they had to make up for having… completely forgotten about it.

It hadn’t been their fault, not really. Héctor was hopeless with dates, and Imelda… well, to be fair she had never really needed to memorize it. Ernesto would always start babbling about his upcoming birthday weeks in advance, bragging about the size of the party he was putting together and which would usually result in a lot of drunk people with very few memories of the previous night.

This year, however - before they got the call for an appointment with the representatives of a record label, when it had looked like their career in music might never take off the way Ernesto had dreamed and that he was about to turn thirty without knowing real success - he just… hadn’t brought it up. At all. And neither her nor Héctor had remembered it until they were on the other side of Mexico City to buy some supplies for her workshop; only then had Héctor realized, in a sudden burst of clarity, that it was Ernesto’s thirtieth birthday.

He’d felt so bad they had returned sooner than planned, with cake and some Roman candles, only to meet Ernesto at the gate looking absolutely distraught, with four cranky chihuahuas in their carriers who wouldn’t even look at him. He’d been about to have a chocolate cupcake, he’d admitted, when he’d left to get a lighter to light up the lone candle on it and the dogs got to it.

He didn’t know which one of them had actually eaten it, panicked, and taken them all of the vet where they were made to vomit it all out before it got into their system. Which had made for four healthy but angry Chihuahuas, and an even more depressed Ernesto.

Who, however, significantly perked up at both the cake and the Roman candles. Especially when Héctor held up the candles with a wide grin.

“Shootout?” he asked, causing Ernesto to finally grin back.

“You’ll regret asking.”

What followed was a full-blown fight, with fireballs flying everywhere, yells and protests - “not my hair!” - as well as grumbling from several people with windows facing the yard. Imelda wasn’t supposed to join it, but of course she had in the end and of course she had won.

They returned to Ernesto’s apartment laughing like idiots, clothes and hair just slightly singed, to finally have the damn cake. And a sandwich, later. An Ernesto sandwich specifically, a birthday present he seemed to appreciate very, very much.

And all along Imelda pretended not to have noticed, on the small table by his couch, the letter his mother had asked Héctor to give him - still sealed, but not destroyed as he’d said he would. Maybe at one point, when it wouldn’t be such a touchy subject--

“-- And anyway it’s not like anything caught fire!” Ernesto is yelling, bringing her back to the present and to the situation at hand, before he slams the window shut. “Cabrón,” he huffs.

Héctor, on the other hand, looks thoughtful. “A stray Xolo,” he mutters. “Maybe the one who followed me in the park?”

“Not impossible, I guess.”

“Maybe it’s looking for me.”

Both Imelda and Ernesto turn to look at him, taken aback, and Héctor seems to shrink a little, as though embarrassed by what he just said. “I swear it’s the one I saw in Santa Ceci-- ow!” he protests when Ernesto rolls his eyes and smacks the back of his neck.

“Come on, we talked about this. There’s no way a dog followed here from Santa Cecilia.”

“That’s it, pendejo, that’s the last you touch me this week,” Héctor grumbles. He glances at Imelda, clearly looking for support, but this time she can’t really give it.

“Lo siento, but he’s right. Santa Cecilia is much too far for any dog to have just followed you,” she says, and her husband sighs, deflating a little.

“True,” he says. “I guess it’s impossible.”

***

“Well, today didn’t go too badly.”

“You almost let them drive our car.”

“Almost being the key word.”

“Only because I was there to stop you,” Imelda points out, and Héctor grins, leaning in to kiss her nose before leaning his head down on the pillow.

“Story of our life,” he mutters, and pulls her in his arms. She rolls her eyes, but rests gladly against him, closing her eyes. A couple of doors away, in the guest room, there is a yelp and a loud thump. They both ignore it, because you learn to ignore a lot of things when Óscar and Felipe are involved.

“You’re not doing too bad at all,” she murmurs against his skin. “My brothers are a handful.”

“They’re fun.”

“They’re a health and safety risk.”

“But the fun kind.”

A chuckle. “You didn’t grow up with them. I have seen things.”

“I grew up alongside Ernesto, though.”

“Fair,” she mutters, and yawns. “Is he still pouting?”

“He didn’t pout, Imelda,” he protests, then sighs when she pulls back to raise an eyebrow at him. “... All right, he pouted a little. He probably got so used to spending the night here, I wonder when he last even changed his bedsheets downstairs.”

“A little too used to it. He could use a reminder that we are the married couple and he’s--” The third wheel, Héctor thinks, but Imelda doesn’t say it aloud. Still, there is something guarded about her tone now. “This was meant to be a one-time thing, and-- temporary.”

For a moment Héctor is sure she’s about today they went too far, that they must call it off, and it’s like a weight has been dropped on his stomach-- a sense of loss that is much like pain, and dread of what telling Ernesto will be like. But then she speaks again, and she… doesn’t say that.

“The arrangement is… unorthodox. However long it lasts, it must stay a secret.”

Well, no arguing there. “I know.”

“And my brothers are quite terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Like when they decided to dab into being magicians but couldn’t resist telling everyone what the trick was?”

Imelda laughs. “Sí,” she says, running her hand through Héctor’s hair. “Something like that.”

They say nothing more and lean down against each other, skin on skin, their breathing quiet. But Héctor doesn’t fall asleep for another while and, he can tell, neither does Imelda.

***

It isn’t that Ernesto is having trouble sleeping. It’s just that-- that-- fuck it, he’s having trouble sleeping.

He picked his bed king-sized for two main reasons: firstly he often had guests to entertain and, secondly, he just plainly liked having space in the occasions when he’d sleep there on his own. Now it feels… too big. He can stretch out his arm and meet nothing but the mattress, and it irks him in a way he can’t put into words.

This is stupid, Ernesto thinks, knowing full well keeping their arrangement from her brothers or… anyone else is simply the smart thing to do. I’m having a crappy night and I bet they are too. I bet they’re getting nothing done without me.

At least he hopes so, because if it turns out they took advantage of his absence for fun he’ll be distinctly annoyed.

His dogs being there with him - mostly on top of him truth be told, one of them sprawled across more mattress than he had any right to occupy - helps to some extent, he supposes, because Imelda doesn’t allow them in bed with them and you know what, her loss.

This isn’t too bad at all, he tells himself, and he finally falls asleep late at night. Only to be awakened, much too early for a Saturday morning, by screams.

“Mierd--”

Thud.

“Ow!” As he lands on the hard floor, his dogs starting to bark hysterically, he can tell that the screams are coming from outside and not, as it seemed, from right next to his ear. Trying to ignore the way his heart keeps beating somewhere in his throat, Ernesto throws his window open and looks out.

Inside the cage Gustavo left in the middle of the yard, there is a howling, hairless dog biting at the bars and bouncing around, rattling the metal. Well, look at that-- he managed to catch the stray. Problem solved, now it would be for animal control and… and… aaand apparently Héctor had some objections to it, because he was already running out of the block and into the yard, followed by two gangly teenagers who could only possibly be Imelda’s brothers.

“Ah-ha! I finally got you! I-- hey! HEY! What are you doing, Rivera??”

Oh, of course, he should have known this would happen. With a sigh, Ernesto looks up to see Gustavo’s head poking out of his own window, looking constipated as always. Before he can yell something at him, he disappears from the window-- only to reappear half a minute later in the yard, running up to the trap right as Héctor and the twins manage to set the dog free.

“Stop that! I have to call animal control!” Gustavo barks, only for Héctor to turn and glare at him. The dog is in his arms, tail wagging and ridiculously long tongue lolling.

“Well, good news!” one of the twins exclaims.

“We got this sorted!” the other continues.

“So no need for animal control! Isn’t that lucky?”

Gustavo looks moments away from a stroke. “You can’t--”

“Adopt a stray dog? I believe I can,” Héctor replies, and walks back to the block, dog in his arms and twins at his heels, leaving behind a fuming Gustavo. His triumphant smile, however, wavers when he gets beneath Ernesto’s window and meets his gaze.

Ernesto raises an eyebrow. “Looks like you got a dog,” he says, his own chihuahuas jumping up against his legs. “Congrats.”

“Er… thanks.”

“It’s not coming anywhere near mine, to be clear.”

“Look, I haven’t thought it that far. I haven’t thought a thing, really. And-- ay, Imelda. I have no idea how I’ll tell Imelda this,” he goans. The dog wriggles in his arms, licking his face, and Ernesto smiles.

“Hold on a minute, I’m coming,” he says.

A relieved smile. “Ah, thanks! I could use some help--”

“I’m not going to miss the scene.”

“... Cabrón,” Héctor mutters, and Ernesto laughs, getting back in to reach for his trousers. He can hear, faintly, the twins talking.

“Maybe if you tell her he saved you from that guy...”

“Or a pack of rabid coyotes…”

“Rabid coyotes, in the middle of Mexico City?”

“Oh! I know, he pulled you out of the way of a road accident!”

“If you tell her we were driving, she’ll believe it.”

“You could argue she has a cat, so you get a dog.”

“Would be fair!”

“If we wash it really well before she comes home and put a bow on him…”

“Didn’t work with the fox, though.”

“Well, it did eat her parrot.”

“But we’ll think of something!”

Ernesto can hear his best friend sighing as they moved to the entrance. “Thanks, muchachos,” he says, “but maybe it’s best if you don’t.”

***

“... Héctor.”

“Sí?”

“What have you got there?”

Héctor’s eyes shift to the plastic glass in his hand, the other still holding onto the makeshift collar to keep a very excited dog from jumping up to Imelda and cover her in slobber. Like he’s already done to everyone else in the room, Pepita included, leaving muddy pawprints on… everything. “Horchata,” he finally says.

Imelda says nothing, but her own eyes shift to the dog. Then to the pawprints. Then on the smashed vase by the window, the victim of an enthusiastic tail wag. To the door leading to the bathroom, where - she can guess - a very much unwanted bath resulted in some noteworthy devastation. Eventually, her gaze pauses on the three faces peering at her from the doorwary.

Two immediately disappear in a well-timed retreat. Ernesto stands his ground.

“I tried to stop him,” he declares.

“No,” Imelda says quietly, and with utmost certainty. “You did not.”

“I told him I don’t want that mangy thing anywhere near my pups. Counts as trying to stop him.”

“He’s not mangy,” Héctor’s protests. “He’s naturally hairless.”

“And very, very itchy,” Ernesto retorts. With the dog furiously scratching himself, and then starting to bite his own back leg, her husband knew better than to argue otherwise.

“Well-- we’ll take him to the vet and get him checked over,” Héctor mutters.

Imelda smiles, a sweet kind of smile that never fails to make Héctor’s blood run cold. “Good idea. And what’s the plan after that, mi amor?” Her voice is rotting honey. At the doorway, she can see Ernesto is shifting uncomfortably and shrugging his shoulders.

You’re on your own, amigo, that shrug says. Her brothers are, of course, still gone from sight. Smart boys.

Héctor tries to answer with a sheepish smile. He looks far too nervous for that to work. “Uh, well. I mean, he’s purebred. Maybe he has an owner, the vet can check if he’s chipped.”

That could be a good point, Imelda almost concedes, but she shakes her head. “If you believed that, you would have let animal control handle it.”

“Well-- I didn’t want to let Gustavo win this one!”

Another good one. Imelda has to give him that. “... All right. We will take him to the vet. If he’s chipped and missing, good. If he’s not, it’s out of our hands and this is final.”

***

“A fungal infection. Really.”

“It’s not his fault! And-- look, we only need to take a few pills. It’s not like he has rabies.”

“Could have fooled me, with all that drool.”

“You’ve never seen a rabid dog, have you?”

“And I don’t plan to. Hey, if my hair starts falling off--”

“It won’t. It’s not mange, Ernesto. Just annoyingly itchy.” Héctor scratches his arm. “Anyway-- no microchip. That means no owner.”

“And that means he has nowhere to go!”

“And that means the pound!”

“And then death, of course!”

“He could very well be adopted--”

“And he needs medication!”

“For the fungal thing.”

“Will they keep up with his medication at all?”

“I bet they won’t bother.”

“Other dogs will bully him!”

“And steal his food!”

“And he’ll starve!”

“But no pressure.”

“None whatsoever.”

“... Thank God the two of you are going back to Santa Cecilia tomorrow.”

No reply, just two identical smiles. Behind them, Ernesto is almost sticking a fist in his mouth not to laugh - good for him, because if he does laugh he’ll never get back in the same bed as her. Héctor is smiling at her as well, tilting his head to the spot where the dog is sleeping, skinny legs sticking out in all directions and, most puzzling of all, with a purring cat over his chest.

Traitor, Imelda thinks, but with no venom.

“Pepita likes him,” Héctor points out the obvious, delivering the lowest of low blows. Imelda draws in a deep breath.

“... A week at most,” she finally says. Héctor smiles even more brightly and ah, damn him, he knows how much she loves that toothy smile of his.

“A week,” he agrees.

“And in that week, you’ll find him a home.”

“I will.”

“A home that is not ours.”

“Of course.”

“And you will not name him.”

“Aw, but--”

“No buts. If you name a street dog, you never get rid of it.”

“All right,” Héctor agrees, placing a hand on the dog’s. “No name.”

***

“Paco.”

“What?”

“He looks like a Paco.”

“He does not.”

“Loco, then.”

“That’s marginally more fitting, but too similar to Lobo’s name.”

“Who’s Lobo?”

“One of my-- do you just forget their names?”

“I known them collectively as the Chihuahua Pack.”

“... Fair.”

“How about… Perro!”

“And here I thought songwriters need to be creative.”

“Pelón? Or Tonto.”

“Both fit.”

“How about--”

“Dante.”

“Huh?” Both Imelda and Ernesto turn to glance at Héctor, who has just wrestled something out of the Xolo’s jaws. He holds up a chewed-up case of some old videogame he’s been re-playing recently, the title - Devil May Cry - barely readable. He grins.

“I say we call him Dante.”

***

Officially, they never decide to adopt Dante. It just sort of happens. If asked, Imelda will say they are waiting for a good home to come up for him - never mind they’re actually doing nothing to find it. So Héctor makes sure no one asks.

The threat ‘if he eats one single shoe so help me’ remains a threat, because he never does go after shoes - the few times he got into her workshop, Pepita jumped on his head and led him into a chase, and he lost interest. He chews plenty of stuff - including a hair product Ernesto left at their place once - but never shoes. He never quite learns how to walk on a leash and pulls like a train, but Héctor can handle it without flying off after him. Most of the time.

The fungal infection clears up, he is allowed to play with Ernesto’s chihuahuas, and the empty box of the medication they all used is thrown away, along with the instruction booklet full of details they didn’t really read.

Because really - who bothers with those?

***

“I had an idea.”

Héctor’s voice is little more than a gasp as he lays on the mattress, still panting, Imelda’s head on his shoulder and Ernesto’s arm across his chest. It causes Imelda to lift her head to glance down at him - her hair tickles, making him squirm.

Ernesto, on the other hand, groans. “Whatever it is, I’m spent. So can we discuss it--”

“You two should sing together!”

“... Right now? We can barely talk and--”

“No, no, not now! For the album!” he protests. Ernesto lifts himself on his elbows, and exchanges a baffled glance with Imelda before looking back down at Héctor. He rolls his eyes.

“There still is that song-- we could still use a female voice for it? And Armando’s idea to do a cover of La Llorona to have among the songs, you and Imelda could do it!”

She blinks. “You’re joking, right?”

“I’m not! You sing well together. I’m sure Armando will agree!”

“Last time we tried, it didn’t work out,” Ernesto points out, like he wasn’t there to see it.

“Because you tried to sing over each other! Now you have--” he trails off before the words - come a long way - can leave his mouth. It is true, he knows that, but it would still feel like saying too much. Part of him fears what they have will be soured and lost if they speak of it, if they put too much thought in it.

The part of him that longs to turn everything beautiful in his life into music aches, but he knows it’s not to be. Best not to look for words.

“... You have a chance to try again,” he finally says. He runs a hand through Imelda’s hair, shifts a little in Ernesto’s grip. “Third time’s the charm.”

“This would be the second time.”

“So, one step closer to the third,” Héctor grins, gaining himself a roll of the eyes and a flick on the nose. “Come on, we’ll try here. Just the three of us. If you suck, no one else will find out.”

Imelda gives a small smile, then she glances at Ernesto, and it turns into a grin.

“If he can keep up,” she challenges, and of course it is the only push he needs.

***

“Ay de mí, Llorona, Llorona Llorona de azul celeste…”

Ernesto isn’t sure who between the three has moved to dance first - they were not supposed to dance, just to play and sing - but at the moment he finds it doesn’t really matter. They dance easily across the living room, he and Imelda singing and Héctor playing his guitar, dodging furniture, the dogs and cat and all their toys strewn about in Imelda’s once-pristine living room.

“Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona No dejaré de quererte No dejaré de quererte…”

Imelda steps forward, chin tilted and eyes ablaze; he meets her with a stride forward of his own, Héctor twirls with one last strum, and as they come to a standstill. As the last notes of the song fade, the words - no dejaré de quererte! - echo in his mind for a long, long moment.

Then Héctor lets out a grito, Imelda laughs, and Ernesto only joins her a moment later. He didn’t like Imelda getting involved with music last time - she’d been invading, he felt, what should have been something only he and Héctor shared. But now, he finds he doesn’t mind.

If things stay this way forever, he won’t mind. He won’t mind at all.

***

[On to Part 14]

[Back to Part 12]

***

Also by Dara: Doggie May Cry.

#ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #imelda rivera #pixar coco #coco #mind the gap

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prettylittlelyres · 6 years ago

Text

Violins and Violets - Complete!

Today (14th August 2018), at 10:15am, I completed the first draft of Violins and Violets, to the tune of 66,553 words written since 1st April 2018, alongside an exam season, more essay deadlines than I care to count, and a house move.

I’ve settled into my new home, finished my first year at university, and finally finished my first stab at this novel, after a fight with a nasty case of writer’s block, and I’m more pleased with it, even so early on, than I’ve ever been with anything else I’ve ever written. I’ve wanted to tell a story like this for three-and-a-bit years, and now it’s done!

Beta Readers Wanted

If anyone’s interested in a historical romance inspired by the life of musical prodigy Maria Anna “Nannerl” Mozart, please let me know, and I’ll send you a copy of the first draft as soon as possible. This is just the first draft, so please do point out anything that confuses you, or that could be improved.

Excerpts from each chapter below the cut:

Chapter One The day I turned twenty, he took everything from me. He took away my violin, locked the fallboard of the harpsichord in our drawing room, and hid the key. I could do nothing. Perhaps my hands knew what was happening, understood that the music they had created since my feet could walk was being torn away from me, shut away as if in a room I could never access. My fingers trembled, cowering against my palms.

Chapter Two As darkness fell, I lay on my side with my counterpane drawn up over my head. Every time Father's footsteps passed my door, I pressed my eyes shut, and slowed my breathing, in case he decided to open my bedroom door. But I was not facing the door, I was facing the window, and, in the moments where the house fell silent, I watched the moon rise and furrowed my brow with thought. The periods of quiet grew longer and longer, until Mother's footsteps passed, too.

Chapter Three In the middle of the quarter stood the Malá Strana Opera House, an ornate building with intricately-decorated pillars and a grand door. Handfuls of people wandered in and out every few minutes, and other people, who were simply milling through the city, walked more slowly as they passed, so that they might look more closely at the beautiful building, and its sculptures: Apollo, and hundreds of angels with harps and spreading wings. I wanted to smile. I would be able to spread my own wings here.

Chapter Four The next five years of my life passed so quickly I hardly had time to look around and see what was happening. I spent my nights hunched over my desk, frantically scribbling down the sea of music crashing in my head, and spent my days reaching for every note of every opera the house presented, leaning into every attack, and finding that my fingers soon knew dialogue cues even more closely than my ears did.

Chapter Five Four weeks later, we were ready to present the opera to an audience. On the morning of the day the show was due to open, I headed to the opera house before dawn, to make certain that I would be there before anyone else. I could not stand the idea of being late for the final rehearsal before the premier.

Chapter Six I returned to my office, and found policemen sorting through the disarray of my belongings. Far from looking torn-apart, as it had when I had found it that morning, the room now looked taken-apart, as if it were being dissected in an anatomy class. I shuddered. It wasn't better, simply a different manner of awful.

Chapter Seven For the rest of my opera, my music was muffled, as though I were conducting my orchestra from the bottom of the Vltava. I could only just hear Herr Benes, and he could barely have been closer to my podium if he had sat on my lectern. He had always brought to life in the most heart-wrenching detail the tortured melodies of the princess' tragic stories, and yet his playing was almost totally inaudible to me.

Chapter Eight After my second show, I hurried to Magdalena's dressing room, and knocked on the door. "I wanted to thank you yesterday evening," I said, as soon as she opened it, "For your support… and for your encouragement… and for the dress. Such a risk, you took, standing up to Herr Filipek and Herr Havelka for me. You could have ruined your own career in half a minute, and yet…"

Chapter Nine I laid the letter on the windowsill and looked out across the city's rooftops. He must have sent the letter several days ago at least, probably not long after mine had arrived. By now, he would be in England, probably tuning his violin ready for a concerto as I read.

Chapter Ten Herr Benes caught my arm during an entr'acte of my opera, six and a half weeks after Magdalena left. "Are you well, Fräulein Schmidt? You look dreadfully pale." I nodded, but then staggered so precariously on my podium that he helped me into his chair, and fanned my face with a score sheet. "Do you need to go home? I'm quite prepared to conduct the rest of this evening's performance on your behalf. It's all right. Nobody will mind, so long as you're at home, getting better. Do you feel ill?"

Chapter Eleven There were some words that I could not trust my voice to articulate. Instead of playing the harpsichord that day, I took a piece of paper from the desk in my bedroom. There, I sat down, and began to write what I could not say aloud.

Chapter Twelve The next morning, while Magdalena slept, with her hair splayed out across the pillows and spilling across her bare shoulders, I crept out of our bed, and settled into my armchair in the living room. There, I wrote a letter to Hans.

Chapter Thirteen I left the house as early and as quietly as I possibly could, tiptoeing down the stairs, just as I had done as a young woman, a number of hours before my parents were due to wake. I did not need to be in the city before they did, but I did need to leave the house.

Chapter Fourteen I did not wait, the next morning, for Herr Schneider to come and visit us at our home. As soon as I had dressed, I asked Father his address, and walked to his house. It was not so very far from our own, and I was there before I knew it, before I had had time to prepare myself to knock at his door.

Chapter Fifteen When I returned to our house that evening, Father and Mother were waiting for me in the drawing room. As I pushed open the front door and stepped into the hallway, Mother appeared in the doorway between the two rooms, and beckoned me in.

Chapter Sixteen We went to an estate sale nearby, and returned with a harpsichord of smooth light-brown wood. It was not as beautiful as the harpsichord Magdalena had found for me in Prague, but it had a kind of warmth to it that made it feel as if she were in the room.

Chapter Seventeen I left for Prague the next morning, after a long embrace with a tearful Wilhelm. "I will write to you," I promised, squeezing his hand through the open window of my carriage. "I will send you all my news, and my music, too. It shall be as though you are right there at my side, dear friend, and, of course, you must visit whenever you please. Soon! I shall miss you!"

Chapter Eighteen Magdalena pressed the door shut and slid the brass bolt into place. For a moment, silence hung in the scrap of air between us, and I caught myself staring at the fine wisps of hair at the nape of her neck. But then Magdalena turned around, and looked into my eyes.

If this sounds like the kind of story you’d like to read, let me know and I’ll send you a copy to beta!

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idolizerp · 6 years ago

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LOADING INFORMATION ON POIZN’S LEAD RAP, LEAD DANCE KANG CHANYEOL...

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: N/A CURRENT AGE: 26 DEBUT AGE: 19 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 16 COMPANY: 99 Ent. SECONDARY SKILL: Lyric writing

IDOL PROFILE

NICKNAME(S): N/A INSPIRATION: Pretty much everyone from the third generation onwards was influenced to some degree by POWer and Chaneol is no exception. Seeing their rappers perform on television first got him fascinated by the entertainment industry and has influenced the direction of the road he’s walked thus far. He also has an affinity for Midnight and in more recent times has found himself subtly influenced by the way that they conduct themselves in the public eye SPECIAL TALENTS:

Can play any song by ear on the piano after hearing it once through.

Able to perform an uncannily accurate impression of the 99 Entertainment founder as well as his members

Accomplished beatboxer

NOTABLE FACTS:

His parents own an extremely successful fashion company have major investments in several industries

Chanyeol is a graduate of SOPA’s (School of Performing Arts) Practical Music department

Was the guitarist in a three piece punk band (Along the lines of Vanmal, but far wilder and grittier) before joining 99 Entertainment. This has largely been scrubbed from his history.

Has a level two small drivers license making it legal for him to drive a motorcycle despite not currently owning one.

IDOL GOALS

SHORT-TERM GOALS:

With Love Scenario seemingly heralding a change in fortune for Poizn, Chanyeol fully intends to ride the crest of that wave for as long as physically possible. He hopes to take advantage of the surge of new fans oblivious to the groups history to further the groups success as well as cementing a solo career. There is also chatter of an appearance on another rap variety show later in the year, likely Unpretty Rapstar, in an attempt to redeem his first appearance, though he is vehemently against the idea.

LONG-TERM GOALS:

Long term, Chanyeol wants to put as much distance between himself and 99 Entertainment as possible. He still harbours a lot of resentment for the way that events and scandals in the past have been handled and largely blames them for the way he’s been perceived in the public eye. Secretly he hopes that when the time comes his contract will not be renewed and he will instead be poached by a rival company, though he knows how unlikely this is. And so, if it doesn’t, he’s perfectly content to leave the industry behind.

IDOL IMAGE

Most idols are forced to wear masks, completely fabricated personalities or at least heavily distorted versions of reality, to fit the image desired by their companies. Pushed into boxes without so much as the chance to protest and thrown onto the stage with their new colours. Some take to it well, some can’t acclimatise and fall flat on their faces. On some rare occasions there’s no need to adapt, the person already ticking every box on the checklist, personality perfectly synchronised with the concept. This is the case with Kang Chanyeol.

Poizn have always been defined by their mischievous bad boy image, and even before considering his future prospects as an idol this was how he decided to display himself to the world. A carefully curated exhibition of attitude and cock-sureness, delinquency and unpredictability, bluntness and raucousness. And so the transition from trainee is near seamless, and rather than toning him down, burying his cockiness and smoothing the rough edges, they instead focus a magnifying glass on them. Amplifying and exaggerating them instead, the faint fog of arrogance that surrounds him doesn’t always win fans and he’s grown to be a somewhat divisive figure, but it it keeps the group on everyone’s lips.

Time has gone some way to tempering this. These days he is no longer the cheeky upstart with delusions of grandeur and no qualms about stepping out of line or speaking out of turn. The fiery passion that had previously defined him has frozen over. Every year that passes, every scandal that plagues them, and every poorly judged choice from company higher ups serves only to sour him, chilling his demeanour further. He still knows to play along with the group, to do as he’s told and paint the picture they’ve commissioned, and when to shut his mouth but there are times when he can’t hide the disdain.

A rebellion against 99 as much as anything else, he is often deliberately contrarian. A few years back they attempted to re-brand him, to fold this colder edge into his image and much to his chagrin it was, for the most part at least, accepted. The fans see a tsundere nature and a devil may care attitude, but he doesn’t pull his punches anymore and most days barely veils his contempt.

IDOL HISTORY

Money is the root of all evil, but it’s also one hell of a motivator.

It’s something that Chanyeol learns at a young age. To most children money holds little value, just scraps of paper and lumps of metal, but to his parents it is the single most important thing in their lives. To say that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth would be a vast understatement. The spoon is at the very least golden, the handle encrusted with rubies and diamonds. He never wants for anything. Every need and desire, the finest foods, clothes, education (Up to and including SOPA) is catered for with just a click of his fingers, always someone to wait on him. It’s a lifestyle that so many crave, and in his early years it’s one he adores.

As the years roll by however, the novelty begins to wear thin. As the years roll by however, the novelty begins to wear thin. He’s lucky if he sees his parents more than once a week, and even then, only for a few hours, instead raised by a vastly underpaid minder. They are more interested in their business than in their son, building the empire that he is one day expected to inherit. A kingdom for an unwilling emperor. They ply him with gifts, buy his affection and attempt to plug the gap with material possessions.

He struggles connecting with people his own age, having next to nothing in common with his peers. Most deem him too snobbish, too elitist to bother with him despite all of his efforts to prove the contrary. A few try to draw close, but a the years pass it becomes clear that they are less interested in him, and more interested in the family coffers. He grows to be distrustful, assuming an ulterior motive in everyone and burning up any would-be Icarus when they stray too close to the sun.

He feels ostracised, like a piece from the wrong puzzle; he just wants to be normal. To be noticed by his family, and seen as something other than a walking cheque book by his peers. To be appreciated as a human being.

A lone wolf in almost every sense of the word, on a diet of haywire hormones and teenage angst Chanyeol’s attitude only sours. Attempts to purchase his affection become more and more extravagant in turn. He starts acting out to get some sort of reaction, to pull some response from the ivory tower, but one never comes. Instead it just drives him further into the wilderness, those around him becoming even more reluctant to interact. By age ten he’s buried under a mountain of toys, age eleven drowning in a sea of electronics, and age twelve suffocating under a mass of musical instruments. A guitar, a piano, a violin; he doesn’t even know why. He’s never expressed any interest in the arts. Perhaps they’ve simply run out of things to buy him, or perhaps they truly knew so little about their own son. Either way, most are discarded or forgotten about.

Landing himself in (yet another) schoolyard fight aged fourteen is a turning point. Looking back he can’t even remember what caused the conflict, only that blows were traded and bruises exchanged. The school punishes them, and it forges a strange bond. They clash, but they would go to the ends of the earth for one another. Two kids mad at the world, feeling forsaken by everyone around them. It’s the first time that a real connection is made, and over the months they draw close. The new companion is entrenched in western music, and introduces him to the sounds of 1970s London and 1980s New York. The sounds bring him in and the attitude makes him stay. Fiery rebellion. No one person better than any other. Anarchy. Punk rock.

When the bassist leaves his friend’s band, he steps up despite not having played a note in his life. “The Sex Pistols couldn’t play when they were recording albums, so it’ll be fine.” He reasoned, digging out one of the guitars tht had been buried in storage for years. It was here that he learned how quickly he could pick up instruments, and first fell in love with performance. The band ends rather suddenly a little over a year later, and his outlook sours once more.

Age sixteen he’s asked by his parents, or rather an employee of theirs, to model for a few lines scheduled for release later in the year by subsidiarys of their main brand. Modelling is not something that he’s particularly comfortable, or even familiar with, but he agrees regardless. It’s likely just another money saving measure, he realises, but if he shows willing enough he might finally earn their approval. Despite his hesitance he takes to it like a duck to water, and returns to shoot promos for a twice more over the following months. None of the photos from the second or third shoot ever see the light of day.

After the third shoot he’s caught off guard, a stranger thrusting a business card in his direction babbling about an audition and then scurrying into the crowds outside the studio. Chanyeol simply stares at him dumbfounded. What’s prompted it he isn’t sure (That revelation would come later), nor is he certain how genuine it was. Though his initial reaction is to toss the slip over his shoulder he instead tucks it into his wallet, eyeing it cautiously over the course of a few days before curiosity gets the better of him.

It’s not a path he’s ever paid much mind; in fact it’s one he’s been actively against. The Korean entertainment industry is the antithesis of punk values in his mind, a hive money hungry businessmen watching over a factory floor where teenagers are stripped of personality. Now that the offer’s been made though, he’s rethinking. It would give him direction that he was sorely lacking, free him from the shadow of the family name, fans to feed his ego, and he’d be able to perform for a living… worst case scenario, he can buy out the contract.

As it turns out the stranger had been serious, and what’s more when the time comes for his audition he sails through. Contracts are signed, and he’s in. Clean. Simple. Nowhere nearly as traumatic and stressful as he’d heard others make out.

Training is manageable. Grueling, but manageable. He has less experience than most, weaknesses obvious from the outset but over time he learns to hold his own. The early months are rough, Chanyeol growing frustrated at his shortcomings and barely scraping through the first few evaluations, and he’s often tempted to quit but still he soldiers on. During this time he falls in love with hip-hop, noticing the similarities with the subculture that he knows and loves. The same rebellion, the same danger, the same edge. When it becomes clear that his vocals are weak, he instead focuses on rap and only then finds his feet.

There’s always a feeling that he’s treated differently though. The instructors are firm, they seem to be less harsh towards him. His attitude persists and for whatever reason it isn’t crushed underfoot. This is not a world that he knows well, but even he knows better than to test the boundaries, and so never steps too far out of line, but little things seem to slip through the net. It’s never said aloud, but Chanyeol feels it, and so do his fellow trainees. Nobody dares outright call it out for what it is, but they treat him differently. Some shun him, seeing the treatment as unfair, and some scramble closer hoping that mere proximity will make their ride easier. It’s an all too familiar vision of the past that begins to push him back towards bitterness.

Three years pass before he debuts. Time sees him hone his rap skills and become a skilled dancer, and though his singing still sometimes borders on woeful he has enough stage presence and charisma to excuse them. Poizn are an ideal fit, the concept a near perfect match for Chanyeol.

It’s decided that before they debut, Poizn’s rappers will partake in a rap survival show. To say that is unsure of the idea is an understatement, but as always he goes along with it without asking questions or voicing his doubts. He’s grown to see his group, and the company as a whole, as family, and worries that doing so will rock the boat and throw his members overboard. He surpasses his own expectations, becoming a favourite to win during the early rounds. Eventually he plateaus though, but each week he still comes out close to the top, even when he knows that he’s bottom of the pile. It serves only to feed his ego, to convince him that he is genuinely better than his competitors. This ego would remain unchecked to this day. When he emerges victorious in the final episode he feels as though he can take on the world. He’ll have to be acknowledged now, to be recognised by the world at large.

They do recognise him, though it’s as a cheat rather than as a champion. The whispers start as soon as it airs. That his opponent was superior in near every way. It’s suggested online that the show is corrupt, that money has changed hands to secure a win. Though he outwardly refuses to believe it, unwilling to take that hit to his pride, as soon as he reads it he knows. The company privately confirms it to him, tells him to keep it secret and that they’re going to bury the story. Chanyeol is crushed. And furious. And bitter. And cold. He stays silent, bottles it up and leaves without a word.

That Christmas he returns home, and as is typical of the festive season things end in arguments. He confides in his parents, who have decided to make a rare appearance, about what 99 have done. About how torn up he is over it, how it’s almost destroyed him before he’s even begun. They simply shrug. “Don’t worry about it. Money is the best motivator.” His father says, barely looking up from his plate. It’s as though he genuinely doesn’t understand why people are up in arms. “We’ll write them another cheque, encourage them to dig a little faster. Or we just get lawyers involved.”

It’s said so flippantly that you’d miss it if you blinked. Slowly the cogs click into place. Another cheque. Through gritted teeth he asks the question, gets the answer he expects, and thus begins the shouting match. They didn’t outright buy his place in Poizn, but they paid enough to encourage a scout to wait outside the photoshoot and grant him an audition. He passed on his own merits, but the fact remains that the only reason they saw him was because their palms had been greased. On top of that, a few extra Won had ensured that the entire process was a painless as possible and though he’d had to train just as hard as everyone else for his spot in the lineup rumours of special treatment were not entirely unfounded.

He doesn’t bother to ask why they’d done it, or why they hadn’t thought it worth mentioning. He assumes it’s another misguided attempt to buy his loyalty, or to keep their brand relevant. Nothing would be better publicity than the prodigal son of the fashion moguls becoming a star, after all. Needless to say they now speak even less than before.

Everything that he has, he only has because it was paid for. Every opportunity he’s been granted, the result of a dirty deal. How much was down to him? And how much was down to his bank account? Everyone he chooses to trust believes in him so little that they see the only path to success as corruption and bribery.

The stigma lingers like a bad smell, melding with the countless other controversies of the members that emerge shortly after their debut. The whispers persist weighing heavy on Chanyeol, anytime it’s mentioned he physically stiffens up and looks as though he’s about to launch across the room and punch you. With his background it’s assumed that he was the one to purchase the victory personally rather than the company. The public see him as a joke. Other idols see him as a cheat. Both simply sneer.

And he sneers back. If they want a villain, he’ll give them a villain.

His attitude only spirals. On camera he becomes gradually frostier, but manages to maintain the image that they’ve built their career on. Off camera he stops caring about how he’s viewed. Stops even trying to be personable, teeth bared and ready to lash out at any given moment. Blunt as a rock, his words drip with venom and tongue cuts like a razor. If you do good by him, he’ll do good by you, but otherwise he has no problem cutting you down as so may others have done to him.

It peaks when word spreads about him losing his cool at a fansign, lashing out. A “fan” dares to mention the competition and he flies off the handle, forcing an early end. It’s not committed to film, thank god, but suddenly everyone shifts into damage control mode. He’s removed from public engagements and promotions until the furore dies down. Time cools his temper, and it’s taken years to earn the trust of those above him once more, but he’s finally reached that point.

Poizn have spent a long time drifting under the radar, moving at their own pace, but the success of Love Scenario has shifted the goalposts. Where in the past it had felt as though they’d been coasting, a conduit for scandal and little else, this is a second chance. A shot at redemption. It’s enough to wake something up inside of him.

Long term, he’s under no illusions about his future. The chances of his contract being renewed are negligible at best, and frankly he’s jumping for joy at the prospect of ditching 99. The only reason he hasn’t jumped overboard yet is fear of dragging his members down with him. Besides, it would be foolish to depart when they were riding such a high so for now he’ll just do as he’s told. He’s quietly begun the launch of his solo career, and if their next comeback is even a fraction as successful he plans to take full advantage. Consider it an audition tape for any other companies interested in taking him on after he’s unceremoniously dumped.

#id.bio #id.poizn #id.99 #id.shin hoseok #id.legacy

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sniperofmyheart · 7 years ago

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STORY STARTERS MEME

Rules: List the first lines of your last 15 stories. See if there are any patterns. Then tag 10 of your favourite authors! Do it if you are interested? @maychorian @danosphere91 Tagged by @justira

I don’t even know if I have 15 stories. I am going with the first paragraph or first indent not including dialogue if that makes sense. Starting from most recent. I am including different chapters as otherwise I won’t have 15. I feel like I am missing a WIP but I can’t find it found it!

1. Sad Fic (WIP no real title yet)

“Hey guys!! Look who we’ve got!’

They hadn’t even arrived at Wano, and Luffy was already screaming. He stood on the railing and pointed proudly at Sanji, who tried his best to hide behind Brook. So much for a silent approach. Having just escaped from one Emperor, Sanji couldn’t shake the feeling that any second Kaido would come barrelling down on them. Best not to tempt fate. The Sunny pulled into the hidden harbour with very little fanfare, besides the fanfare that Luffy self generated. There was a crowd to greet them but first glance he couldn’t spot any familiar faces. There wasn’t a smile among them. Luffy was smiling enough for them all as he danced along the railing and dove into the crowd, his arms swinging back and shit, Sanji and the rest was dragged down as well. One of these days he was going to figure out how far that his damn captain could stretch and stay a good foot beyond that near any high places.

2. Chopper’s Dream (WIP. Title to change)

The lights were off in the infirmary. Sanji had seen Chopper run in not too long ago, so just in case, he knocked as he entered. Chopper did take reindeernaps in here after all.

“Chopper? I brought some tea and cookies, the ladies didn’t want it all”

The small reindeer had his head on the desk, turned, eyes staring into the wall

Sanji carefully set the platter between Chopper and the wall, and waited.

Chopper continued to stare through the ever so delicious tea and cookies at the wall.

3. Raftel (WIP)

They had finally made it, Raftel. The imposing cliff face loomed over them. All those years of fighting, crying and laughing, suddenly felt very small before it. Even Usopp, brave warrior of the sea that he was, felt his knees shake a little. This was the end. The last island, X that marks the spot. What could possibly be up there that was worth all this? Even with everything they had seen, if he was really honest with himself, Usopp had no idea what the One Piece was. A mountain of gold? “Made you look” ponoglyphed into a wall? A doodle of sea gull with God D roger’s autograph at the bottom? Nothing could surprise him anymore. He looked over at Robin, she probably had a better idea. Even with the wind splashing the stinging seawater into the crew’s eyes, she kept looking forward, unblinkingly.

4. Reindeernapping Chapter 4 (WIP)

The Sunny was docked slightly away from the main harbour, tucked away half hidden. Apparently the locals (thanks Franky for the intel) were okay with pirates as long as they were seen and not heard. Zoro was on the deck trying to sleep as Luffy continued the Chopper hunt. Cause of course Chopper might of just fallen asleep in a barrel or climbed up into the crow’s nest. Zoro couldn’t wait to see the shit cook’s face when he saw his kitchen, Luffy had opened every single drawer and cabinet, on the off chance that Chopper had somehow managed to shrink down to 6 inches and decided to hid with the spoons. Once he had satisfied himself that Chopper hadn’t buried himself into any of the bags of flour Luffy stumbled from the kitchen, caked in white powder and launched himself to the figure head. He lay out and stared at the sea

“This is sooooo booooringg! I want to look for Chopper too!”

5. Emergency Food Supply (WIP)

It has been 19 days, three hours, fifteen minutes and 30 seconds since they had last eaten. Not that Chopper was keeping count. Counting required energy. Luffy’s stomach didn’t so much as growl anymore, it was just a dull constant roar against the ocean. Despite Thriller Bark being behind them, they still couldn’t find their way out of the fog that was the Florian Triangle.

6. Shut Up Kiss Chapter 3 Lusopp

They were sailing away. The cannonballs crashing into the ocean were so loud that Usopp could barely think straight, but the silence from the ship was deafening. They were going to leave him.

“If that’s what you want… let me say one last thing. You guys…” he tries to yell but it only comes out as a kind of whisper. What was the point, his throat was already sore from screaming and they were sailing away.

7. Physician Inquisition

“I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON THAT APPLE AND DIE YOU BASTARD!”

BZZZZZZ

“GOD DAMN CHARLEY HORSE!”

BZZZZZZ

“HEY I AM NOT A HORSE! I AM A REINDEER”

BZZZZZZ

Nami poked her head into the sick bay,

“Is everything all right in there?”

8. Don't Play With Your Food

Sanji stared at the freezer door and took a deep breath. He must have misread it, or it was mislabeled, or this was all some kind of fevered dream. If this was a fever dream, he expected some beautiful dancing ladies. He opened the freezer door and pulled out the parcel. Venison. So not dancing ladies then. In little black letters clear as day and beside it almost as an afterthought, reindeer. It sounded like a devil fruit, the venison venison fruit mode reindeer. A small slightly hysterical laugh escaped his mouth and he bit his lip but it still echoed through the kitchen. This wasn’t a devil fruit or some kind of joke, it was a slab of meat. Reindeer meat. In his freezer. Outside he could hear the tap-tap of hooves and a gentle high-pitched laugh. Their emergency food supply new crewmate, he really should stop those jokes, was fitting in well. He stared harder at the letters willing them to rearrange themselves. Fantastic.

9. Wedding Feast

“Welcome to my humble kitchen Lord Sanji” the head chef was groveling so hard his white chef hat scrapped on the ground. His hat seemed wrong, too small.

“Get up. I just wanted to have a look around, it is my wedding feast after all.”

The chef straightened himself.

“Why yes Lord Sanji, of course. I had heard rumours that our great Lord spent some time at a restaurant, so any comments or suggestions are more than welcome.”

The bustle of white smocks around him, the sizzling of pans and the smell of garlic filled the room. Throw in some swearing and a few half dozen tattooed men and you would almost have the Baratie. For the first time since he had arrived at Germa Kingdom, he almost felt at home. He had missed the bustle and the noise. The kitchen was never quiet even back on the Sunny. Someone was always whining for more meat, trying to sneak sake or sweets, and trying to drink all of his milk or cola in one go. Or just dropping by to talk and getting bullied into cutting veggies and washing dishes. He really should ask Franky to put a lock on the door, give him some peace and quiet for a change. But then the ladies wouldn't be able to drop by. Choices choices.

10. Man Overboard

“MAN OVER BOARD MAN OVER BOARD”

Sanji was already in the water looking around frantically so Usopp though it was safe to check who had fallen in. As Chopper and Luffy were the ones yelling their heads off a bit further down the ship with fishing rod in hand, or well hoof, it wasn’t them. Brook had come running over with his violin (how that would help a drowning person is anyone’s guess), and he could see one of Robin’s hand with an eye in the centre sprouted on the side of the ship scanning the water as well. So it wasn’t any of the devil fruit users, that was a relief. Nami had poked her head out of the girl’s room to see what the fuss was about her mapping pen still in hand and Franky had poked his head out of the bathroom. Which left Zoro. Had he somehow managed to wander off the ship into the sea, was that even possible? There weren’t any marine ships around so it wasn’t a surprise attack that had knocked him in. Maybe he fell asleep on the railing and tipped over? But just as Usopp had settled on this, he heard a loud voice behind him “What is taking that damn curly brow so long?”

11. The Question

There is a rare moment of silence, the Merry has burned and the Straw Hats are wiping their eyes and trying to catch their breath. The mighty Sogeking takes a deep breath and grabs Luffy’s hand, half dragging him away from everyone else. Or at least he tries to, but dragging a rubber man by the hand is surprisingly difficult and kind of awkward. You end up standing a few feet away with his stretched arm between the two of you as he picks his nose with the other. After some anxious head tilting and whispering what could be misunderstood to be the word meat, Luffy shuffles over. It is quiet and Luffy has to lean in a little to hear it properly but Sogeking manages to squeak it out

“Can I join the crew?”

no bravado no tall tales and Luffy just smiles.

“No way!”.

12. Reindeernapping Chapter 3

He had built the Shark Submerge III to carry up to three people so with only himself inside there was plenty of room, but the metallic echo of his own breathing and the itching sense that time was passing too fast was making Franky feel queasy. Being a dozen or so feet underwater and forced to wear unnatural pants wasn’t helping matters either. He would give anything for that squeaky little voice to start chirping away, dancing around the cabin asking silly questions about what each button did. Instead there was silence. Franky stared out the reinforced glass viewing window scanning the ocean view. If Little Bro was here, he wouldn’t miss him. One of the handy things about being a cyborg was that blinking was purely optional. With a few drops in his eyes every morning, he might blink once or twice a day, if at all. He had won a lot of money off Long Nose Bro that way, the poor kid couldn't say no to a staring contest. Franky usually wore his shades to avoid giving anyone the creeps but with an empty submarine, that wasn’t an issue.

13. Reindeernapping Chapter 2

The pink and purple smoke was still hanging in the air. Franky couldn’t help asking

“How do you guys usually go about finding lost people? This can’t be the first time this has happened, right?”

“ Chopper just tracks Zoro-I mean Chopper tends to sniff people out” Long Nose answered.

”Fantastic ”

He had seen a bit of their finding people attempts back at Water Seven, and been less than impressed. Franky sat down with a thud on the grass.

14. Reindeernapping Chapter 1

Grocery shopping was distinctly not super. Franky and Reindeer Gorilla had gotten stuck with last minute supplies duty as Cook Bro was too busy protecting the fresh meat and booze from Straw Hat and Sword Bro. Cook Bro had given them an extensive list and Reindeer Gorrilla had his own list of herbs and textbooks he wanted to get. It all added up to quite a haul so someone needed to order and pay while Reindeer Gorilla lugged everything around. Merchants didn’t take kindly to animals placing orders. So Franky volunteered to be Reindeer Gorilla’s designated human. He wanted to get to know his new crew mates outside the yelling and screaming that was Enies Lobby. The market place was jam packed, a lot of elbows to the stomach and competing smells that didn’t quite go together. Fresh flowers, half rotten cabbages and the body odour of the crowd (he was going to have to force Lil Bro to take a bath eventually, the smell was ridiculous) were enough to make his nose rust. It kind of reminded Franky of back home, he has barely left it 72 hours ago and he was definitely not crying. Rubbing his super dry eyes, he stared down at Cook Bro’s list. It seemed like he had everything. A note was scribbled on the bottom ‘Absolutely no cotton candy, that means you Chopper' Franky snorted.

“Reindeer Gorilla, look at this-”

But he was speaking to thin air. The parcel packed Reindeer Gorilla was gone.

15. Shut Up Kiss Chapter 2 Lusopp

“Thinking back, when I was about to sail out, you guys asked me to join you. That's all that's tying us together. We don't have to-”

Something slams into Usopp’s face and everything goes dark. Luffy had been across the room sulking in the wrecked table, right? Had Luffy punched him? Or Gum Gum belled him in the face? Usopp peeks his eyes open, he didn’t remember closing them, and finds himself staring into black circles. Luffy was close, too close. Close enough for Usopp to pluck out his stupid eyelashes one by one. The words won’t come out, he can’t breath. Something was blocking his mouth or rather someone was. Luffy. This wasn’t a surprise punch to the face or a head butt. This was something else.

#wordsdear writes #my fan fic #someone make me write my wips #like pick a wip any wip #long post #oops forgot to put under a read more

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resbang-bookclub · 8 years ago

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AMA Transcript: In The Silence I Hear You

Recently, @skadventuretime, @eerna (JoKay on Discord) and @amberlehcar stopped by to chat about their 2016 Resbang, In The Silence I Hear You! Here’s some of what went down:

Q: Okay, first of all thanks for single handedly getting me to finally watch YLIA lol! My question to madi is, what was the inspiration behind soul's nightmares? Because that was something I noticed was different from the source material! I mean, they were there but yours were way more nightmarish and horrifying lol! (That is absolutely a compliment by the way.) What made you go that route?

madi: ahahaha 1) You're very welcome, that anime Ruined me and one of the first things I did after watching it and Soul Eater around the same time was look for the AU, because surely it had to be a thing. When it wasn't, I was like welp, I know what I must do. As for the nightmare inspiration, it was part Soul having them in canon and part just what sort of came out of me as I wrote. It wasn't planned per se. I tended to sort of let what happened happen at those parts and just intuited nightmares there, though I did sort of intentionally have them stop as he began to open up to Maka more.

Q: I would like to know how Jo determines how many sparkles to put in an art piece for maximum heartbreak.

JoKay: Simply. I just really love sparkles and let them do whatever they want in my work.~~ BD

madi: OkAY. CAN I JUST FIRST SAY MY FAV THING ABOUT JO'S ART. Because the way she did the mirroring is incredible. Like, this is my desktop background. They go together so well:

Q: Favourite moment in the fic or about the art?

madi: I think my favorite moment was writing Soul beginning to get through his block. I ended up having a lot of fun with the over-the-top synesthetic music bits and that part was very heartfelt for me.

JoKay: Favourite moment in the fic: the hospital visiting. I wanted to illustrate it really badly and ranted to Madi like. For days. About all the ideas I've had. It was heartbreaking but colorful and vivid, and the way Madi writes the two is just.... ahhhhhIhhhHHHH

madi: And like, Jo paid attention to the little details?? ? ?? Like, his tie isnt tied there. I just threw in some little bit about how he thought his tie would be crooked since Maka wasnt there to help him and ladjglkdsfg. I forgot about it tho til I saw her art.

JoKay: You threw in so many little details that struck me and I thought "YES I WANNA MAKE THIS A PART OF THE PICTURE SOMEHOW"

Q: Care to talk a little about your process? What program do you use?

JoKay: Sure! I start off with rereading the text I want to illustrate about ten times. I die a bit and try to remember the feeling to capture it. I make a traditional pencil sketch. For the Maka picture I had to take some references of myself with a violin, which... took a long time to get right haha. Next I take a picture of the sketch and do lineart in an app called MediBang Paint on my Samsung. I choose a color palette, pick the bg color, and put down basic colors. I shade, then add multiply and overlay layers to add lighting, and this is where the final palette and overall feeling gets formed. And then, best for last, the sparkles! Which usually take 3-4 layers, depending on opacity I want.

Q: This was a difficult read (in the best way); what scene/scenes did you find most difficult to write?

madi: I ended up going back and rewriting a good chunk of the beginning third of the fic around November/December because it just wasnt getting at what I wanted, tone or writing quality-wise. I have a ~12k doc of dumped/scrapped stuff from this. /cries. But specific scene wise, hm. I agonized a bit over the hospital scene with Spirit a little, because I wanted that to hit a certain kind of helpless sadness where there is nothing you can do to fix anything.

Q: This had such emotional depth to it and lots of moving pieces of grief and accurate descriptions of guilt/grief that hit me hard. Was it hard to write something so emotional and was it as much of an emotional journey writing as it was reading?

madi: I guess, well. writing for me, and I think a lot of people, can be a very intimate look at who a person is, and I think that's where the guilt/grief came from. I tend to internalize a lot of that stuff, especially with the grief/regret/wistfulness, so I think that's where all that came from. And it's funny, it wasnt hard to write in the moment, as I was listening to a bunch of ridiculous music and yelling at/with Bones about her Resbang at the same time, but looking back I can definitely see a journey and it was as much because of the friends I made during this process as much as the act of writing. [For example], around the part where maka dusts off the piano, Bones came in with some Real Piano Experience and helped me understand what actually goes into that and how long it'd take for things to actually lose tone, etc. and I was like, heck, i didnt think about that, having not played a classical piano. Moral of the story is this is why betas are gr9. It's fucking sappy as shit, but it's true. I learned sO much about not just writing, but also life and irl shit from my betababes. Part of my Process turned out to be letting Bones throw me all sorts of cognitive dissonance shit and terrorize me with very emotional music, and then I'd mix a drink and get to it. I stg it felt like I was tripping balls when I wrote most of the music scenes, tipsy and listening to BT. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HyGf2mTP2_Y).

Q: That golden swoop in her dress on the right side is what really kills me. That exiting feeling.

madi: So fun story: Jo sent me her second piece a few days before posting and I legit teared up.

JoKay: Handkerchiefs all over the place.

madi: All. Over. I also tried to sort of avoid the awkward love triangle in the anime bc i didnt feel like it really fit SoMa. Also, this is what me and Jo's convos looked like a lot towards the end:

Q: Adverb gate time?

madi: To explain adverbgate, basically, Bones came in and 1) made me realize I overused adverbs 2) this led to me realizing oH by not using them and applying better characterization things, all is better than the first time. I told all my betas, and part of the reason I asked who I asked, [was for them] to not hold back and if they saw something they thought was off or whatever, to tell me and not worry about hurting my feelings because i was in this to improve and learn. I'd much rather have it done like this, because now I really feel like I learned a lot and got better. Bones went from the 98 edits in chap 1 or 2, to 4 [edits] in the last one. And one of them was this: http://imgur.com/R3L4S9b

Q: I wanna know Amber, what made you decide to do a VA project? It turned out so freakin well and you guys were so good T.T

JoKay: The VA was so perfect, I teared up a bit. Beautifully done.

AmberLehcar: I was an amateur voice actor on YouTube prior to joining tumblr (good luck finding anything I was in though. /cries) And I'm a competitve asshole so I was like "I'm gonna be different."

Q: Anything in particular that made you choose that specific scene to do?

AmberLehcar: I asked Madi right away what she wanted. And it wasn't even written yet when I asked lol.

madi: Like, okay, when she sent me the first clips, I was blown away because they sounded better than over half the English dubs I've seen. Yeahhh I uh, I could have been more on top of things. But I knew that scene was gonna be in there and it sounded like the kinda emotional moment that would be good for her project, so I wrote that scene out of order.

AmberLehcar: I love it, it's so good. Madi was there while Brian was recording. She's a director now :3 She heard all the ridiculousness.

madi: You guys were soooo gooood! And your puppy, ahhhh. I still have that laugh track, too.

AmberLehcar: My pup wanted to be a star. I was so nervous [that] the piano bit was so bad people would hate it. It dragged so long. In writing it works so well. Listening, though...

madi: Man, you captured the transition well tho, of him slowly finding his sound and no longer needing to hear it through her.

AmberLehcar: Playing badly and repeating playing badly is tough, dude, so I'm glad it worked nicely.

Q: Did you make a public playlist of the stuff you listened to?

madi: OhH yes, yes i did /slinks off. Not fully included on there is the copious amounts of BT and Stuntin Like Mufasa I chainsmoked: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLhw3nWRXdsh-jPe7SXHPy-NOT4-PtY1yt. I also feel obligated to note that Bones did play a p important role not only as beta, but as general conspirator/friend and writing mentor, and being free with her music trenchcoat.

Q: Jo, do you have any art/style/artist inspirations?

JoKay: Yeah! Artists that make my inspiration wander could be found on tumblr as viria, lukrecious, loish, mormoc, also IG mizymiyajima and cyarine. IRL I live for Alphonse Mucha's work.

Q: I feel like we should put an honorable mention for amanda's and zxanthe's contribution.

madi: YES, ZXANTHMANDA'S COVER OF HALLELUJAH WOUNDED ME SO PLS LET IT WOUND YOU: http://zxanthe.tumblr.com/post/157041732943/so-in-honor-of-skadventuretimes-resbang-in-the.

Q: How often do you draw, outta curiosity jo? I remember it being A Lot, but...

JoKay: Depends? If I'm not too busy with school I can make pages worth of sketches a day.

madi: Dark Jo, your sketch books are amazing.

JoKay: Madi, if you saw them, you'd change your mind. They're a hellhole of faint traces of suffering teens and stupid decisions.

Q: Are you working on anything else now Jo? What is on the Horizon?

JoKay: SfTF is the only fic in my opus! Idk I just don't feel confident to write anything else...

madi: (It is a Noragami MMA AU type deal >:))

JoKay: As for paintings... boy does The Lunar Chronicles' fandom have some stuff in store for them once I find the time. I will save up for a proper tablet soon, so that will be a new beginning for me.

madi: Man, the world isnt ready.

madi: I would also attribute this Resbang to teaching me that I apparently can't listen to tone-appropriate music while doing a scene, so that was a learning curve. I ended up with a bunch of upbeart mashups/disney rap during the sad scenes. Like this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YdSo1oY_GB4

JoKay: It was fun talking to all of you and listening to more behind-the-scenes discoveries of this great fic~

madi: I also wanna take a sec to be sappy again about everything I learned throughout this process from my partners and betas. Y'all are super swell.

Thanks to the creators for stopping by! That ends our AMA Transcripts for the Resbang season - thanks for reading and congrats to all of this year's Resbang participants :) We'll see you all in 2018!

#AMA transcripts #resbang #rbbc #In The Silence I Hear You

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house-for-musicians-blog · 8 years ago

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RAW HOUSE #1: Yamir - Willingness to Experiment

“Raw House” is a series of interviews exploring, discovering and presenting new and unknown artist on the Bandcamp platform. Each interview is an insight and deep-dive into one particular artist chosen randomly though the selection of members of the House for /Mu/sicians Facebook group. Consider joining if you’re an artist yourself!

At times you see new faces on the various forums which struck you as something else entirely. When I first saw a vague lamppost in between some trees breathing a heavy light onto a distorted image I was in a stage where post-rock was beginning to plan a new seed in me and experimental music was deep into my subconscious. I put the release on and I could precisely remember when all gone black while music still remained in my ears... It was „I Stole This Riff”, the first EP by Puerto Rico-based musician Yamir. Today in the first ever Raw House we'll discuss the matter of his newly released LP „Mullväd” as well as dig into some background on his musical project, his ethereal love to Keiji Haino and a fear of failure on a small island in the Atlantic.

Listen while reading to the newest Yamir release entitled „Mullväd”

Mullväd by Yamir

I. EFFECTS OF WAR

RAW HOUSE: Firstly, I wanted to congratulate you for releasing „Mullväd” which I find, in my honest opinion, a worthy successor to your self-titled LP way back when. Immediately when I've heard that title I had to check it out. However, much to my surprise, I couldn't really find a proper meaning to that title. Should a listener feel this sort of unknown behind your album names

YAMIR: Well, it doesn't really relate much at all to the album, mainly I picked it out because part of the inspiration for Mullväd and creating a five part track came from The Residents' album, Mark of the Mole. So I took the word mole and looked for a language it would look cool in, i.e. Swedish and I added the “ä” so it would look less plain. The Residents seem to be people I steal a lot of name ideas from, like Angakok and I Stole This Riff are both Residents songs as well.

RAW HOUSE: Would you say then that The Residents are one of these key artists that influenced you throughout your musical project?

YAMIR: Definitely, along with Branca and Haino, which are much more obvious influences.

RAW HOUSE: Your album starts with a very slow guitar-based „A Study In Noise” with a very bleak progression, slowly building up to become this sculpture of noise. That slowly build up track really reminds me of more experimental rock based bands; the first example out of the hat would be Swans. How much these experimental bands made you came to realization that you want to do music of that nature?

YAMIR: I'm not too big on Swans outside of their self titled EP, but they were one of the bands that drove me in this direction. There's a few tracks I scrapped from the album because halfway through making them I realized they sounded almost identical to Oxygen or some other track of theirs. What really convinced me to try this out was Sonic Youth and Glenn Branca. I was reading this SY biography a few months back, and it had a lot of interviews with Branca and his music, so I thought to myself: "Hey, there really hasn't been anyone that's done Branca's style of guitar composition that I know of, I should try it out myself!". And from there I made A Study in Noise.

RAW HOUSE: Now „For Keiji” seems quite obvious for me – as somebody who recognizes you on the various forums by the picture of Keiji Haino giving feedback to other's musicians. It feels like there is a deeper connection with this artist. Why did you decide to dedicate that particular track to Keiji? What is his overall influence on your musical perspective?

YAMIR: Well, obviously I am a huge fan of him, mainly because of his willingness to experiment with any instrument and genre from psych rock to noise to a capella to DJ mixes, and just this mysterious aura that surrounds him. I dedicated that track to him because it sounds pretty similar to something you'd hear on his collabs with O'Rourke and Ambarchi, plus that style of improvisation and the guitar tone come straight from him.

RAW HOUSE: Another thing which put me on guard immediately – drumming. Now Ryan Sinclair isn't a new name in your project, he has been there since the first releases on your Bandcamp. How does the collaborative work like your releases influences you as a solo musician? What do you feel Ryan puts on the record with his work that you wouldn't otherwise?

YAMIR: Well, actually Ryan didn't really change much in terms of collaborative work, I'd just asked him for some drumming for a song on my s/t and he delivered. He actually didn't exactly contribute to this, either. I've been trying to message him since July of past year but he's nowhere to be found. He'd left me a few drum solos I had asked him for to use in another project I ended up scrapping. While making For Keiji, I came across the solos in my files and I realized they were perfect for the song. Drums is something I've always had a problem finding, so I'm really glad he left me some extra things to work with, because otherwise I would've just used a drum machine like on other tracks.

RAW HOUSE: Another contributor to the release is Prikc who I haven't heard before and his acoustic elements adds a very nice space in the release. In general you were trying to give other people some space on your releases. I remember some violin elements from Dear Laika, for example. How do you view collaboration, in general?

YAMIR: Well, Prikc is one of my best friends, and I've been meaning to make some proper releases collaborating with him. He is way better at doing improvisation in guitar so I decided to give him a space on the album to exercise it. I think collaborating, especially at these levels, is very important since it helps both of you gain more popularity from each other's fans and can give a very interesting twist to your music. I wouldn't say any of the people that have been featured in my music were "collaborations", but more that I just commissioned them to do some work that I needed for a track. I do hope to make some proper collaborations in the future, though.

RAW HOUSE: Then we come to „Mullväd” - what a beast! This almost look like something taken out the progressive rock band's book. It is staggeringly different from the first tracks you've made on your first EP. What was the intention behind pulling these five tracks together?

YAMIR: Like I said before, it was mainly the idea of creating a sort of small story around the album, which kinda came to me when I realized that three of the tracks I was working on at the moment would fit perfectly one after the other, and had a certain mood behind them that i could form into a story. And from there, I fixed those tracks a bit so they'd transition into each other and made the missing tracks fit into the missing parts of the story. I'd say they're very very loosely based on the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings, but that's because I used those interview samples.

RAW HOUSE: So, should we say that this album is about war? Or the suffering of existence? What did you tried to do say though these interview samples

YAMIR: Well, I'd say that the Mullväd tracks are more about the after effects of war than war itself. The interview samples I feel just help add to the theme of the tracks and I guess shed a little light on what the songs are supposed to be about to the listener.

RAW HOUSE: „Mullväd”, in general, features an array of different genre mixes. Somehow it feels like a one cohesive release though. How do you find a way to combine what seems like a different songs formed with a very different mold in mind?

YAMIR: It usually wasn't easy to come up with ways combine the tracks, I rarely write down what I have in mind to make, so it's more just spontaneous ideas I get while working on them or just by trial and error.

RAW HOUSE: Was this spontaneous nature also present when you were making your music ever since the beginning of your project?

YAMIR: Yup, the only song I ever really "penned" would be A Study in Noise, and even then I would change the things I wrote and add new things as I made it.

RAW HOUSE: So it all comes from emotions of the current moment?

YAMIR: Exactly.

YAMIR: I don't think it's too hard to create a great atmosphere, as long as your song is really good and it has a lot of detail to it, you can make most people get really immersed in it.

II. MUSIC OF THE MOON

RAW HOUSE: Since we started talking about atmosphere, I want to track back to your beginnings. Yamir, as a name, refers to the moon which is featured on your profile picture and some glimpses of that moody, almost vague in my eyes, atmosphere is presented in your album covers. How did you decide to provide that art direction to your releases? Was it a conscious decision or more of the gut feeling inside yourself?

YAMIR: Okay, the moon profile picture was definitely a coincidence and not intentional at all, I never would've realized unless you'd told me! The art direction for my album covers is conscious, though. Up until this album, all the artwork were pictures I'd take and then play around with in whatever free editing program I could get my hands on. I always try to look for the best image that looks beautiful and at the same time lets you know what kind of music it's going to give you. I'm not as good with the latter, but I think it's very important, at least in my musical output.

RAW HOUSE: Has it been hard for you to start your music project?

YAMIR: At first, it was pretty easy, it was just me messing around with Audacity and having fun seeing what I could make. But as time went on, I started to get a bit more serious about it. I began to get very ambitious with the things I wanted to make, which has led to a lot of frustration. Making this album was pretty hard, especially with me now having pretty much only the weekends to record, but in the end, now matter how hard it is, it's definitely worth it just to see everyone's reaction to it, which is what's kept me going.

RAW HOUSE: Puerto Rico feels to me like a place which might be more open to experimentation than other countries. Yet you are placed next to Jamaica – a giant music juggernaut with it's reggae movement, and the US which, to be frank, was a culture pot producing a thousands and thousands hours of music daily. How one does find himself musically in the environment like this?

YAMIR: Here in Puerto Rico, the music scene is very similar to the US, since we were taken as bounty from Spain and then colonized. I think I'm stuck in between the two current underground scenes going on, one being the punk rock and metal scene, and the weird experimental electronic/noise scene. I don't exactly fit into either of those so it can be a bit hard to market myself to either side, plus I don't often get the chance to go to their events and get to know the scene, because everything's going on on the other side of the island and they like to do their events at odd times like 2AM on a Wednesday.

RAW HOUSE: So you think it is easy to cope with being an experimentalist there?

YAMIR: Yeah, there's definitely a market for experimental artists here, as small as it might be.

RAW HOUSE: What do you think about failure? Is this something which you conciser within the realms of your musical passion? How do you cope with it

RAW HOUSE: What do you think of live performances in general? Do you, in general, prefer them over the studio environment? Do you want to present your music live in the future?

YAMIR: Living in a tropical island in the Caribbean, I don't get to see a lot of live shows often, cause all that comes over here are huge pop stars and old 80’s metal bands looking for a quick vacation and some tour money. The few that I've been to were mediocre Latino rock bands (Maná and Los Enanitos Verdes, for example) and they were definitely way more enjoyable live than on a studio recording. I don't really think that's the case for all artists, though, depending on what they do live, if they play only new material or just their hits. I would love to do my music live, but I'd be stuck to a pretty limited song selection, plus I'd need to find someone to help me out with all the other electronic noises while I'm playing guitar.

RAW HOUSE: What are you listening to right now? What would you personally recommend?

YAMIR: Recently I've been getting into electronic music, mainly just techno and most of its more minimal or ambient subgenres. Jazz is also something I'm quite big on, I'm digging through the ECM label and they have so much fantastic stuff. The other thing I've started getting into is my people's music, reggaeton. Now while Americans just see it as some lame fad from the early 2000s, there's a lot of backstory to it and it's even had a renaissance in recent years. I'd hate to recommend a reggaeton album, so I'll just go with Ricardo Villalobos - Fizheuer Zieheuer. It's what got me into microhouse and techno stuff. Definitely not for people who don't like repetition, though.

RAW HOUSE: As an artist, overall, how would you say you have progressed so far?

YAMIR: I've definitely progressed so much in terms of mixing and production. Looking back at those first songs I made, they were so cluttered and muddy, which was one of the biggest critiques I'd be getting. In general I've just gotten better at songwriting, guitar playing, and being a lot more resourceful with the limited amount of instruments and programs I have to work with.

RAW HOUSE: Finally - what's in store for Yamir in the not too distant future

YAMIR: Right now, I don't have any big plans for a follow up to Mullväd. I want to focus on getting my music around, especially here on the island. I have a few ideas and some side projects to toy around with, though. I'm hoping to put out a collaboration or two with Prikc, whatever we make is probably going to be the next thing I put out. If all goes well, I might even try to do a live show.

Interview conducted on 18th March, 2017 For more Yamir go to: https://yamir.bandcamp.com/

#music #muscian #musicians #interview #bandcamp #BC #Yamir #experimental #house #houseofmusicians #ambient #dark ambient #drone #post-rock #puerto rico #noise #Raw House

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yamirbc-blog · 8 years ago

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RAW HOUSE #1: Yamir - Willingness to Experiment

Interview by Jakub Tabor, Saturday March 18th, 2017.

https://www.facebook.com/notes/house-for-musicians/raw-house-1-yamir-willingness-to-experiment/2212708738954864 [original article]

Listen while reading to the newest Yamir release entitled „Mullväd”: https://cbrcbr.bandcamp.com/album/mullv-d

I. EFFECTS OF WAR

RAW HOUSE: Would you say then that The Residents are one of these key artists that influenced you throughout your musical project?

YAMIR: Definitely, along with Branca and Haino, which are much more obvious influences.

RAW HOUSE: So, should we say that this album is about war? Or the suffering of existence? What did you tried to do say though these interview samples?

RAW HOUSE: Was this spontaneous nature also present when you were making your music ever since the beginning of your project?

YAMIR: Yup, the only song I ever really "penned" would be A Study in Noise, and even then I would change the things I wrote and add new things as I made it.

RAW HOUSE: So it all comes from emotions of the current moment?

YAMIR: Exactly.

RAW HOUSE: I really love the finale of your release. A blissful post-rock ambiance filled with some sort of „magic” behind it; that's probably my favorite track from you. The bleakness, the atmosphere of it all is really speaking to me. In addition, the words about Nagasaki in the interview provides no foot to really stand onto. What do you think gives a release a great atmosphere? YAMIR: I don't think it's too hard to create a great atmosphere, as long as your song is really good and it has a lot of detail to it, you can make most people get really immersed in it.

II. MUSIC OF THE MOON

RAW HOUSE: Has it been hard for you to start your music project?

RAW HOUSE: So you think it is easy to cope with being an experimentalist there?

YAMIR: Yeah, there's definitely a market for experimental artists here, as small as it might be.

RAW HOUSE: What do you think about failure? Is this something which you consider within the realms of your musical passion? How do you cope with it?

YAMIR: Oh yeah, I think about it a lot. It worries me that I'm wasting away months on end working on something only for nobody to listen to it. I don't really have a ways to cope with it, I just try to push the thought out of my head and just look at my stats for comfort haha. RAW HOUSE: What do you think of live performances in general? Do you, in general, prefer them over the studio environment? Do you want to present your music live in the future?

RAW HOUSE: What are you listening to right now? What would you personally recommend?

RAW HOUSE: As an artist, overall, how would you say you have progressed so far?

RAW HOUSE: Finally - what's in store for Yamir in the not too distant future?

RAW HOUSE: Thank you for your time!

Interview conducted on 18th March, 2017 For more Yamir go to: https://yamir.bandcamp.com/

#yamir #music #post-rock #bandcamp #/mu/#puerto rico #puerto rico music #indie music #ambient music #experimental music #2017 music

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