#he has. indeed. looked down on Blitz. many times | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

writefightandflightclub · 4 years ago

Text

Out from the cold (Llewyn Davis x reader)

Summary: Llewyn (precious baby) needs your comfort, and oddly, looking after him comforts you too. Fluff but a lil angst to get to the comfort.

Author’s note: I’m doing soft blurbs bc you all deserve a hug from one of our fave fictional husbands. Let’s all destress and be comforted one blurb at a time, okay? (Dunno how many I can do but gonna try and blitz a few requests out tonight. I’m doing these quickly so they’ll be a bit scrappy, please forgive!) ALSO THIS IS EXCITING I’VE NEVER WRITTEN LLEWYN BEFORE AND I’M KINDA HAPPY WITH IT! LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK? (I love this movie so much, one of my all-time favourites, and one of my fave Oscar performances.)

Warnings: just Llewyn swearing, as per. Alcohol and cigs. No drunkeness. Mentions of homeessness / couch-surfing. Mention of abortion.

GIF by @digginmovies

It’s late when he shows up at your door. Or rather, it’s late when you find him in your hallway. You don’t know how long he’s been standing there, because he didn’t even knock. Perhaps he was too afraid to, but by the time you eventually stopped pacing your floorboards and threw a scarf around you, you’d come to fear the worst; that he’d been beaten and left in a gutter or some doorway, or perhpas that he was just stubbornly wandering the streets, preferring to freeze to death rather than “bother” you. Or worse than that... perhaps he’d finally struck lucky and you’d never see him again. Now that he no longer needed your couch, maybe he no longer needed you.

Anyway, all of your fears were entirely unfounded, and it was a shock to find him there, leaning up against the wall. The shortest missing person recovery mission ever known.

“Llewyn?” you question, sighing in frustration and unwrapping your suddenly suffocating red scarf.

His whole body is an apology as he turns his head towards you. Eyes apologetic. Shoulders apologetic. That sorry cord jacket is very, very sorry indeed. Hell, even his curls slump over his forehead in a despondent way, as if they’ve given up too.

This precious man. Why doesn’t he know how special he is? Why does he always dwell in the shadows, rather than allowing himself to be welcomed into this warm, light-bathed apartment of yours. Why doesn’t he realise that he is a light himself, and not a burden? That his presence alone can furnish and illuminate any room. Can compel audiences and, certainly, can move you to train your eyes on him as if he is a star under a perpetual spotlight.

Well, you suppose you should just be thankful that he’s here at all, because he always seems an instant away from slipping into shadow and never coming out again. You are thankful. You are always thankful to find him on your doorstep.

“How did it go?” you ask him, and Llewyn pushes himself up from the wall, despondently shaking his head. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and simply stands there as if forgetting any purpose which might cause him to move. You have to shuffle forwards yourself to give him the hug you feel he so desperately needs, even if he doesn’t know he deserves it. You wrap you arms around him, and it’s a little awkward, and he’s stiff, and he feels of wool and cord beneath your fingertips. Smells of frost and cigarette smoke, and like he hasn’t managed to run his clothes through the laundry in a few days. You make a note to do that for him, if you can coax him into a warm bath later.

“Can I please stay with you?” Llewyn asks in a small voice.

You don’t let go of him, willing him to soften against you.

“Llewyn, you dont have to ask me that, you live here.” You say it like it’s obvious, yet this simple fact is something you are endlessly trying to convince him of.

“I sleep on your couch, because I have no fucking money. Because I’m a piece of shit musician who can’t book a gig except for the Gaslight. And that’s only because I knocked-up a chick who gets me a slot out of pity some nights because she aborted my baby.”

“Llewyn!” you say, heartbroken and disbelieving that he could talk about himself in such a way, and looking, in your shock, like you might come for a piece of him too for thinking so little of himself. But, the world keeps kicking this poor man when he’s down, and he’s running out of energy to keep getting back up, so there’s something in you which can’t blame him.

“I’m just tired. I’m just so fuckin’ tired.”

You bring your hands to the sides of his face, that thick, soft beard under your fingertips.

“Llewyn,” you say softly, searching his melancholy eyes. You want to tell him how talented he is, how important. How special, like you have a hundred times before, but he won’t beleive you. Never does. So, instead, you try something you never have before. At least, not while sober. You dip forward and press a chaste kiss to his lips.

You pull away before his lips have time to react, though even if you had lingered, you’re not sure he would have. You swear that man is so touch-starved that he can no longer recognise affection. That he can no longer remember how to move his lips against another’s. You swear he’s too down on himself that he doesn’t remember how to respond to being wanted.

“Come inside. Your lips are like ice,” you say, and it’s true. You only wish you could thaw him.

Llewyn picks up his guitar case and finally follows you inside, taking his familiar spot on the couch and folding his arms around himself, not even taking off his scarf or jacket. Sometimes you worry that his chill goes all the way down to his bones. Just incase it can help with that, you make him some warm tea and wordlessly pass the mug to him.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, leaning forward in his seat as you sit at the other end of the couch from him, watching him gripping the warm beverage in his fingerless gloves like he’s never known a warm touch like it.

You sit quietly next to him and allow him to thaw a little, watching the steam rising from the mug as he takes careful sips. It has begun to lash with rain outside, the percussive sound and howl of wind muffled against the window pane, and pleasantly soothing. At least, it sounds soothing to you; Llewyn probably thinks it’s that dark cloud following him around again.

“Have you eaten?”

“Waffles. Had some Gaslight money left,” he says in monotone, staring intently at a particular spot on your hardwood floor. He didn’t make nutritionally sound choices, it seems, but at least he’s had something.

“Good,” you nod. “And do you want to talk about the audition?”

“Nope,” Llewyn responds dejectedly, popping the “p” emphatically.

When he’s drained the cup he sets it down, eventually unwinding his scarf from around his neck and shuffling off his gloves and jacket. Without all his layers he looks a little like a lost baby bird without its nest, or like a winter tree without it’s covering of leaves.

You take a risk in an attempt to perk him up and head towards the vinyl player, dropping the needle on a record you know he likes. And then, you reseat yourself on the couch, a little closer to him this time.

Llewyn finally turns to you, elbows resting on his thighs, looking just a little less morose. “Got any wine? And cigarettes?”

Now, that you could do.

You oblige him, and before long you are sipping on a glass of red, and you let Llewyn rant freely about the audition he doesn’t want to talk about at his leisure, a cigarette bobbing in-between his lips as he talks, smoke wafting around his face and his hair like the ghost of his own curls. You let him rant about the cookie-cutter, soulless, talentless musicians who make it, and the blood-sucking label execs, and the tasteless consumers, and the whole damn thing, until his shoulders look a little less heavy. A little less apologetic. Until he forgets himself and picks up his guitar and begins to mindlessly pluck and strum away.

He starts to sing under his breath, because he can’t help but sing. Because it comes naturally to him, and suddenly he is the only light in your living room. He is under his own super trouper, against the backdrop of the rainy window pane. Light shining against melancholy.

As lovely as he is to look at, with the way his left cheek tugs up with his words and his brow creases with feeling, you close your eyes as his voice filters through into your bones, making you warm from within.

“I love it when you sing,” you say sincerely, and you don’t know it, but your simple, honest words are music to Llewyn’s ears. Those words are something he hears startingly seldom for a man with a talent like his.

Your eyes are still closed when you hear the chaotic thrum of strings as Llewyn sets the guitar down. Your eyes are still closed as Llewyn kneels before you and slides his hands along your thighs, palms down. Your eyes open just before he dips his head and presses a chaste, smoky kiss to your lips.

Your lips do not react. If Llewyn was too touch-starved to kiss you back earlier, you suppose you are too surprised that he might want you back. You want to kiss him, and apparently he wants to kiss you, but you are singing different bars of the same song. Your timing is all off. So, your lips do not meld with his, no matter how long you’ve waited for this. Wanted it. This time too, his mouth was even warm against yours. His hands warm against you. Thawing.

You smile at him, softly. Catiously. As if you might scare him off. As if he is a wild animal who has dropped to his knees for you.

Instead, he remains as you bring your hands back to either side of his face, and lose yourself in his dark, turbulent stare. It is you who suddenly feels catious, as if he is a storm which might swallow you. Might paint you in licks of grey if you don’t first heal his pain. His eyes are raw. Broken apart, and his beautiful soul so exposed beneath them. No wonder he is so guarded. Feels so vulnerable. His heart is so open and so wounded beneath the expletives and the apathy and the lucklessness, isn’t it? It would be so easy to break, like a lost bird far from its nest.

But this time, he stays. Llewyn simply looks right back into your eyes, for once. And when he undoubtedly notices your evident desire there, all he does is question why you are looking at him at all.

“Why do you want me?” he asks you, plainly, shaking his head softly. He doesn’t say more, but you swear you could guess his thought. You could have any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Or a Chad. Some rich, muscly dude with a centre part and a Corvette. I’m nothing. Nobody.

Your mouth forms a bashful, thin line, and you shrug your shoulders, placing your hands over his palms. You desperately want to show him he is somebody.

“I dunno. Why do you sing, Llewyn? Why do birds make music? I just do. I want you. My soul tells me I should, and I listen.”

He looks sad. So sad, So tired, and so you do the only thing your soul tells you to in this moment. You comfort him. You reach up and tangle your fingers into that mess of crotchet black curls on his head. You stroke him and soothe him, and he gives in to you, burying his head in your lap and letting you touch him. Letting you smooth your hands and your fingers and thumbs over his hair, his neck, his back, his shoulders. He wraps his arms around your lower legs and curls around them, still sat at your feet like a stray who refuses to be a house cat, despite how many times you try to coax him in from out of the cold.

“Llewyn, come lie with me a while?” you ask gently, and he looks up at you, unsure. Still, he clambers up from his position and is about to recline on the sofa when you grab his hand. “No, Llewyn. Come lie with me in my bed?”

He gulps, as if you might eat him alive, but he follows as you guide him as if it might be a relief to climb into your jaws anyway, and you lead him by the hand along the hallway and into your room.

He watches you with hesitant fascination as you shrug off your layers, down to your underwear. Then, he follows suit, letting his worn trousers and white t-shirt pool on to the floor at his feet, until he’s standing in only his patterned boxers.

You climb under the covers, shivering at the autumn chill in the room, and you hold the tented covers open for Llewyn to climb in after you.

“Y-You want me to... W-what do you wanna do?”

“Nothing you don’t want to, darling. But if you’ll let me, I just want to hold you.”

He hesitates, but he’s cold, and so, so alone, and he’s so tired of never having anything he wants. So tired that he’s willing to forget, just this once, that he can’t give you what you deserve. Or at least to stop consciously reminding himself of it.

He slots his soft, slim body under the covers, and you let the blanket fall over him. Then, you lie on your back and pull him on top of you, until his body covers yours and his head nestles on the cushion of your breasts.

It is quiet enough in the room that you hear him gulp again, but he doesn’t bolt. Once he’s settled, your wrap him in your arms, your fingers twining in his hair, carding through those thick, tangled curls. Your hands smooth up and down his back, until he is humming softly, his face entirely buried in your chest. “Sweet man,” you soothe, and listen to the sound of the rain outside, and the background noise of the record player filtering through. “I know it’s not much, but I love it when you sing. I wish I could give you riches for it, and record deals. But all I have to give in return is a little piece of my heart, and you steal a piece of it every time I hear your voice,” you whisper gently.

Llewyn is silent, and you wonder if you might have scared him off, but he seems quite content exactly where he is. You wish he would stay, but you know he has a cycle of houses, like a traitourous street cat with nowhere he feels deserving to call home.

For now though, he is here, and you begin to sing gently along to the song filtering through from the living room. It’s one of your favourites. One which Llewyn has sung for you many times before.

You look down at the side of his face, his eyes closed, his eyelashes fanned on his cheek, and his beard twitching as his full lips tug up into a faint smile. Finally.

“You have a pretty voice, dove,” he says, and your heart clenches at the pet name. At the fact you have finally found a way to make him happy. You should have realised it would be music.

“No, Llewyn. It’s nothing compared to you.”

“I dunno. You probably have more chance of making it than I do. Maybe you should have gone today instead.” You worry that he has been tugged back into a slump, but you see he is still smiling, and you recognise the humour in his tone, self-deprecating though it is.

By the next chorus, Llewyn begins to softly sing along too, and your heart flutters as his voice vibrates against your bosom.

You tug in a deep, happy breath, and exhale spring into the autumn room.

Llewyn props himself on to his elbows and shuffles up the bed, until his face is level with your own.

You regard him catiously, feeling suddenly as flighty as he usually is.

“What do you want to do?” you ask him, as his lips hover close to yours.

“Nothin’ you don’t want to,” he says, mirroring your words from moments ago.

This time, when your lips meet, softly, neither of you are surprised. This time, your mouths are both warm and moving together, like you sing the words to a shared song, both melding in time.

As Llewyn curls around your body and snuggles into you for warmth, you hope you can get him to stay. You hope you’ve showed him he doesn’t need to wander in the cold any longer.

He has your heart after all, and you need him to bring it indoors; out from the cold.

#llewyn x reader #llewyn davis x reader #inside llewyn davis #inside llewyn davis fanfiction #llewyn davis fic #llewyn angst #llewyn fluff #coen brothers #oscar isaac

210 notes · View notes

lailoken · 4 years ago

Text

“Sir Francis Drake:

The Elizabethan sea captain, privateer and navigator, temains of course a figure of global fame, particularly in connection with the 1588 defeat of the Spanish Armada His connection with Devon is also well known, but less well known is his legendary status as a powerful magician, witch, and leader of Devonshire covens.

In c. 1540, Sir Francis Drake was born in the west Devon town of Tavistock. In 1580 he purchased Buckland Abbey, a seven hundred near Yelverton on the south-western edge of Dartmoor. Anyone who was seen to have made great achievements and remarkable feats, in the days when witchcraft was widely believed in, was likely to have their successes put down to magic, and some form of pact with spirits. Such was certainly the case with Drake, who was said to have sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for victory and success, and there are numerous tales and traditions of his magical powers and his working relationship with the spirit world. One such tale concerns his alterations to Buckland Abbey.

During the building work, the workmen would down their tools at the end of the day, only to return in the morning to find the previous day's work undone and interference from the spirit world was suspected. Drake decided to find out for himself what was happening and that he would spy on the culprits. As night fell, he climbed a great old tree overlooking the house, and waited. When midnight came, out of the darkness emerged a horde of marauding demons, gleefully clambering about over the house and dismantling all the stonework put up during year old manor house the day.

Loudly, Drake called out 'Cock-a-doodle-do!" in the manner of a cockerel, crowing in the dawn. The mischievous spirits suddenly stopped their shenanigans in confusion, and Drake lit up his smoking pipe. As they spotted the glowing light in the tree, the spirits believed the sun was coming up and departed back into the shadows from whence they came. Presumably, they were so embarrassed at having been so easily fooled that they never returned, and the building work continued unhindered.

Traditionally housed in Buckland Abbey, is Drake's legendary drum. Beautifully painted and decorated with ornate stud-work, the drum is popularly said to have accompanied sir Francis Drake on his voyages around the world. As he lay on his deathbed on his final voyage, it is said Drake ordered that his drum be returned to England and kept at Buckland Abbey, his home. Here, the drum should be beaten in times of national threat, and it will call forth his spirit to aid the country. Indeed, there have been numerous occasions when people have claimed to have heard Drake's drum beating, including during the English Civil War and the outbreak of the Frist World War.

In 1918, a celebratory drum roll was reported to have been heard aboard the HMS Royal Oak following the surrender of the Imperial German Navy. An investigation was carried out with the ship being thoroughly searched twice by officers and again by the captain. As neither a drum nor a drummer could be found, the matter was put down to Drake's legendary drum.

During World War II, much weight was added to the drum's legendary protective influence, particularly over the city of Plymouth which, it was said, would fall if the drum was ever removed from its home at the Abbey. When fire broke out at Buckland Abbey in 1938, the drum was removed to the safety of Buckfast Abbey.

Bombs first fell on Plymouth 1940, and again in 1941 in five raids which reduced much of the city to rubble. In 1172 civilians lost their lives in the 'Plymouth Blitz’. Drake's drum was returned to Buckland Abbey, and the City remained safe for the remainder of the war.

Like many reputed witches and magicians, Sir Francis Drake was said to possess a familiar spirit to aid him in his work. The presence and influence of this spirit turns up in the stories surrounding his marriage in Like 1585 to Elizabeth Sydenham, daughter of Sir George Sydenham the Sheriff of Somerset. Some sources that Elizabeth's parents we disapproving of the union due to Drake's reputed involvement in the black artes and that the marriage took place shortly before he departed for a long voyage. After no news had been heard from Drake for a number of years, Elizabeth's parents took the opportunity to persuade her to declare herself a widow. Another account states that Drake's departure for his voyage took place before the wedding. In both versions however, The Sydenhams arranged for their only child to be married instead to a wealthy son of the Wyndham family.

It is said that Drake had left his familiar spirit to keep watch over his beloved while he was away, and that the spirit made him aware of her planned wedding to another man. On the day of the wedding, there was a loud clap of thunder, and a meteorite came crashing through the roof of the church. Some said that this had been a cannonball shot from Drake's ship to halt the wedding. In any case, it was taken as a bad omen against the wedding between Elizabeth Sydenham and the son of the Wyndham family.

The meteorite itself, known as ‘Drake's Cannonball' has been housed at Combe Sydenham ever since.

Another popular legend featuring Drake's reputed and remarkable magical abilities concerns the creation of the Plymouth Leat. As Plymouth had suffered problematic water shortages through dry summer months, it is said that Drake took his horse and rode out onto Dartmoor to search for a water source. Upon finding a small spring, he uttered a magical charm over it and it burst forth from the rocks as a flowing stream. Drake galloped o on his steed, commanding the flowing waters has he die so to follow him back to the city. Today, the Plymouth Leat has its beginning at Sheepstor on the western side of Dartmoor and ends in a reservoir just outside the city.

There are, of course, a number of traditions of magic and witchery surrounding Sir Francis Drake's defeat of the Spanish Armada. He is said to have presided as Man in Black' over a number of covens, and that during the threat of invasion, he and his covens assembled on the cliffs at Devil's Point to the south west of Plymouth. There they performed magical operations to conjure forth a terrible storm to destroy many of the Spanish ships. It is said that to this day that Devil's Point is haunted by Drake and his witches, still convening there in spirit form.

Another, more famous legend, tells of Sir Francis Drake playing a game of bowls on Plymouth Hoe when news was brought to him of the approach of the Spanish fleet. In one version he is said to have casually continued his game to its conclusion which, it has been suggested was a magical spell; with the bowls he was scattering with his drives representing the invading fleet. In another version, he stops his game to order a hatchet and a great log to be brought to the Hoe. He then proceeded to chop the wood into small wedges whilst uttering a magical charm over them as each one was thrown into the sea, and as each one hit the water they transformed into great fire ships; sailing out to burn the Armada.

The folklore surrounding Sir Francis Drake also includes his deep association with the Wild Hunt. Sometimes he is seen as leading the ghostly pack of Wisht Hounds', and at others he is the riding companion of the Hunt's more traditional leader; the Devil. In some Stories Drake rides in a spectral black coach, drawn by black, headless horses and followed by a great pack of black, otherworldly hounds with eyes burning red in the night. Sometimes his coach horses are seen with their heads, and have eyes blazing like hot coals.

One such story tells of a young maid, running desperately across the moors to escape an evil man on horseback she is being forced by her adoptive family to marry. Upon reaching a remote crossroads, and collapsing there in exhaustion, the ghostly pack of hounds and horse drawn coach approach from the darkness. Stopping at the crossroads, a man steps out of the coach, and the young woman recognises him to be the ghost of Sir Francis Drake.

He enquired of the young woman, why she was out on the moor alone and in a state of desperation and exhaustion, and she told him of her plight. Drake pulled from beneath his cloak a box and a cloth, and gave these to the young woman telling her to continue gently on her way, and not, under any circumstance, to look back.

The maid did as she was instructed, and when her pursuer reached the crossroads, he asked of the dark figure in the coach if he had seen a young maid passing by. Drake asked the man to step into his coach, and as he did, its door shut fast and the coach and hounds disappeared back into the darkness. The man was never to be seen again, and it is said that when morning came, his horse was found at the remote crossroads and had apparently died of fright.

According to research by the Devonshire cunning man Jack Daw, there is said to be a family line of Pellars, descended from the girl who encountered the spirit of Sir Francis Drake on the Moor. Their powers, it is claimed, are derived from the gift of the box and cloth he had given to her on that night.”

—

Silent as the Trees:

Devonshire Witchcract, Folklore & Magic

by Gemma Gary

#sir Francis drake #Gemma Gary #silent as the trees #Devonshire witchcraft #Devonshire magic #traditional withcraft #witchcraft #magic #quote

68 notes · View notes

wu-sisyphus-gang · 3 years ago

Text

Motion Sickness Chapter 41

Back to Jaune we go.

If you experience positive psychotic symptoms don't ever use marijuana.

pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq

"You think this will help?" I held the marijuana cigarette out in front of me and picked at a bug in my ear.

Greens for sure weren't likely to help with the paranoid thoughts, a goddess had her fingers in my mind, for real, or the suicidal thoughts, besides. But it just might take the edge off the bugs or the shadows.

Neo took it back from me and lit it. She took a long pull as though to say, 'see, safe.'

I took it back and inhaled the smoke in my lungs, it was still burning from where she lit it, and I took a drag. Almost immediately the bugs in my face eased. They weren't gone per se. They were muted. I could still feel them crawling around behind my eyes and in the tips of my extremities.

I coughed.

"Oh shit." I exhaled. "That's good." I chomped on the cigar and Neo beamed. "I'm going to need a box of these, just to keep it at bay." I'd brought up some of my hallucinations and Neo had picked this up for me.

She was looking up at me expectantly.

"Thank you, Neo."

She grinned up at me even though I was sitting on the bed and she was standing. We were in a different dingy motel than the one in which we'd tortured Nickel.

The greens were good. I inhaled them and leaned back on the bed. If Neo wanted to kill me this would be the best time to do it. Instead she plopped up on the bed beside me. "Well, I'm hooked." A shadow jumped out at me from the corner of my eye and I just didn't care. I was so relaxed.

I factory reset the Don's scroll. It wasn't quite as good as the military grade one I'd had before, but as far as civilian ones went it was top of the line.

"I need to go to this Merlot's lab. Cinder's boss, Salem, has some way of controlling me. All my psychotic symptoms started then. Or… well, maybe not. I need to learn about it if I want to fight it. You're welcome to come with. Cinder probably won't be there, but it's on the road to her for me. I have to go."

I brushed my new diamond studs. I'd gone all in on my new identity, Cloud, Cloud Strife. My hair was done up spikey, and I had a half cape around my waist. I still had Pyrrha's cape around my bicep on one arm but on the other I had a single long sleeve, on my pauldron side. The dark blues and blacks of my new clothes contrasted with the bronze of my armor nicely. My half cape billowed around my legs when I walked and my blonde hair shifted in any breeze. I still had a pair of long gloves on beneath my gauntlets. They ran elbow length.

I'd gotten my sword repaired, too. The warp wasn't bad to take out and I was only without the blade for a couple of hours yesterday. I'd just waited outside the smithy while they worked. What was I supposed to do and where was I going to go without my sword? Nowhere fast. And I wasn't Ruby to repair it myself. I might have been able to buff it out with a whetstone, but why take the risk when my pockets were overflowing with cash?

My weapons would still give me away, so would my face, but I'd done what I could in terms of disguising myself. Unless my friends saw me face to face or weapon to weapon they wouldn't be able to find me.

Neo made a stabbing gesture with her right hand.

"There will be people to kill and torture. At least one person. Probably. If not there will always be more in Atlas."

She made a show of considering it, one finger on her cheek. I knew how lonely she was, though. Plus I was sure she liked taking orders. It was weird but then not really. She liked having a boss. And just so long as she had people to maim, she was happy. I think she was happier working with me than she had been in a long time.

What? A girl's gotta heist.

It was a coin flip where Cinder was heading next, Atlas or Vacuo. So I'd flipped for it. It came up Atlas. I'd start digging around there in Solitas after I was done with the Merlot thing. Depending, of course, on what I learned from his lab. It was closer anyways. And it maintained my future availability of options by being closest to Vacuo over here and Vale. It was closest to all three of the other kingdoms, really, depending on how you looked at it. And the closed borders meant little to me if I had Neo with me.

I roached the joint and stared at the slightly spinning ceiling. The softly rotating fan was a pleasure to watch as I laid back. I rubbed at my chest, moving my hand in light circles over the deep scars there.

I missed Ruby and her soft touch in those moments.

Neo nodded at length. A single small gesture I felt through the bed. I sat up and held out a hand for her to shake on it. She did, a wide glittering grin on her face. Her eyes swapped colors at that.

She was wearing new clothes, too. She had a cape with some collar straps and her collar was done around inside out near her breasts. The fancy shirt ended at her midriff before a pair of nice white pants. She wore a pair of much shorter heels than before beneath that. She had a set of long white gloves on as well, much like myself.

"We'll take a train to the South to this city, Shumi." I pointed out on a map with my scroll, "From there we'll ride on horseback to Merlot's laboratory, here near a place called Wutai. A few weeks max. Then we'll be back on the hunt for Cinder. Who'll probably go to Atlas. She has unfinished business with Ironwood anyway."

She nodded along acceptingly. She pointed at where I'd thrown out the cigarette.

"Yep. We'll need a ration of those. They really help. I don't suppose you know where to find more?"

She gave me a coy nod. Hiding a smile behind her hands.

"Fantastic."

pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq

She did indeed know where to find more.

A beefy guard waited outside a small house on the outskirts of Mistral. He was wider than me at the shoulders and had a few inches on me. At a glance I didn't feel the low hum of aura coming off of him though. He could be just withdrawn, at any rate.

Neapolitan and I walked up together. He gave us both a once over and we stood in silence. Then some other folks walked out of the house and he motioned to let us in. Controlling how many people were inside at any given time. Smart.

He held up a hand. "Your weapons," He had a slight accent. Atlesian, not unlike Weiss's but deeper and richer. "Leave them out here."

I pulled my harness off my back. Staring him straight in the eye the whole time. I didn't need Limit to kill him. I put them on a rack behind the gentleman and he stepped aside of the entrance.

Neo was let inside without any hassle, giving me a superior smirk as she twisted her umbrella in the rain. "Sure, rub it in."

She did. And even if she didn't, being without Crocea Mors made me uncomfortable. I was glad she was armed, if nothing else. Somebody to watch my back in a run down place like this was nice. And I always had Limit, just a short charge away.

We walked in on a place lined with jars and labels on them. Inside were greens of all sorts of names. Lemon Drop Haze. Blueberry Blitz. Lilac Diesel. They were all arranged on neat little rows on high shelves.

"Well I've got to hand it to you Neo…"

I was whistled at by a lanky dude in a ‘t’ shirt.

I was coming from a place of ignorance and I couldn't exactly ask Neo how the place worked.

"You been in here before?"

"No sir." I answered with a smile. "How much am I allowed to buy." Not what sizes did they come in, not anything else. What was the maximum amount of drugs I was allowed to leave with? They must have a limit to prevent resale. A closely monitored tight ship like this.

"Two ounces." That didn't seem like much. "And you gotta pay in cash, that is if no one told you."

"Not a problem. What would the-uh…" I gestured at him.

"Budtender," the Budtender said.

"Right. What would the Budtender recommend."

"For what? You wanna get high or you wanna relax?"

"Something to relax me," I told him.

"You want an indica, then. A bit mellower and a bit richer in the CBD."

He picked across the shelves. Staying away from things that had names like 'blitz,' or 'shard,' or 'rush.' He strayed towards the mellower sounding ones and distinctly avoided one which had 'panic' in its name.

"Lemon drop haze." He put his hand on one. "And...sunshine sherbet." He put his hand on another jar.

"Sounds good. An ounce of both, please."

He named a steep price. A couple hundred Lien. I whistled lowly. But the stuff Neo had given me was already wearing thin. The bugs were starting to come back and I needed relief. I could hear a low whispering too. That needed to stop. Fast, if possible.

I paid him in the cash requested without too much hesitation. The only other place I'd see real relief would be antipsychotic drugs. I didn't have the time to get a psychiatrist and as a huntsman I'd be forcibly relieved of my gear for potentially months.

PTSD was common amongst hunters and they couldn't have crazy ones running around. There were procedures in place for this that I was specifically trying to avoid. I just didn't have the time to get set up with something like that.

"You gonna need pipe-ware?" He asked.

I looked down at Neo. She rolled her pink and brown eyes and nodded. I could feel her aura against mine. Something cool with undercurrents underneath. An edge of something cruel.

"Yeah I'll need a pipe."

"They never just stop at one," he said with a smirk. Like he was sharing a closely held secret with me.

"One'll be good for now," I instead insisted.

"It'll be thirty extra for a pipe and if you want a grinder that'll be even more."

It sounded like a good idea so I took him up on it.

I paid him anyways, knowing he was gouging me. It didn't matter a whole lot to me at the moment anyways. He handed over two tins, a pipe and a grinder.

"Come back soon." He called at my shoulder. I stuffed the tins and paraphernalia into my pockets.

I took my weapon back from the man outside and gave it a once over. My serrated combat-camping knife, sword and shield all looked fine, just as I left them.

"Let's get out of this fucking town." I told Neo. "I'm done with this city."

I freshly ground up some greens while we were walking and put it in my new pipe. I took a long drag, like it was the first breath of fresh air I'd gotten in months.

She skipped to keep up with me. Making it look natural.

pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq

"You assume there's nothing I can do to you, child. No torment I can bring upon you. You are mistaken."

I was hit with the sensation of making up but I couldn't turn my head. I rose from the train-car seat.

-then I was abruptly back in the train-car seat alone for all the world with the sensation of waking up again.

She hit me with that sensation. That feeling of waking up five more times and over what felt like subjective hours. My face crawled with bugs and I wanted to scream. I felt like I was falling for hours and hours.

-I jerked awake. There was Neo across from me in the train-car. I took a moment to get my bearings. It had been torturous. The sensation of waking up over and over again.

I breathed hard and Neo looked over at me, something like concern etched in her face.

"She's getting better at it," I said. "She's getting better at tormenting me. Cinder's boss."

I looked out the train-car window and watched the scenery pass us by. I watched a couple a few aisle's down. The man jumped and slapped his body like- well like he'd seen a bug on him. I was all too familiar with the sensation. The feeling of insects crawling across my skin and things jumping out at me from the corner of the eye. I recognized it.

I looked across from me and saw Neo's eyes narrowed in concentration. Her smile was wide in sheer delight.

"Neo," I whispered. "Neo!"

She looked at me and the man stopped his jumping-jacks. Her focus wanted on whatever illusion she had crafted. Pink and brown shifted in her hair as she changed focus.

"For gods' sake you're like a child. I'll get you people to torture for real. Knock it off."

She gave me a brooding look but nodded.

"Play some games on your scroll. For goodness sake. Don't torture just to torture. Do it with purpose."

She made a faux-angry face at me.

"Yeah I'm mad. Stop it. When we find Merlot you get to do all the torturing, sound fair? Even though he's my dad or whatever."

She gave me an odd look at that.

"I think… I think I was born in a tank. There are images of water. Muffled people talking. I think I was born pretty much full grown with whatever they had done to me already done to me."

"I don't know what they did to me. I don't know what I am. But when we find Merlot you get to be first in line for hurting him."

"They said he does experiments on Grimm, that might mean… it might mean that I'm part Grimm. That means I'm a monster. And you get to go first against the guy who did that to me. Sound even? We square?"

She didn't nod or give me any gesture. She just sat in her typical silence.

"Look… whatever. Just stop fucking with people who don't deserve it. If you're going to work for me then you only get to torment the people I say so. We clear?"

She still made no gesture.

"I said 'are we clear?'"

She gave me one firm nod. Her eyes were wary in part. Like she was anxious of making a deal she didn't want to keep. Like I was some fae of myth contracting her into bondage.

"Good. I promise it won't be all bad. And when we get to Atlas we'll have to make a name for ourselves. Make people scared of us. It's just an intermission on the torture and heists. They're not over."

Maybe I was a little antsy too. I wanted another pull of greens. The bugs were starting to become a bit of menace. And I couldn't exactly take a hit while in the slightly crowded train.

And Hell, I was bored, too.

"Plus there might be bandits out here. You can do whatever you want to them, I don't give a fuck."

"Heard there was a big tribe of bandits too. The Branwens you heard of them? Well I especially don't care what happens to them. Go nuts."

"With my luck I'm sure something will come up anyways. You'll get your kicks. Have I steered you wrong yet? That's what I thought. And I let you kill the Don even though I kinda wanted to. He threatened some disgusting stuff on my friends. I really wanted to snap his neck. Instead I let you cut him. That was grand, wasn't it?"

"So when I say you'll get your kicks in you better believe me. We just have to be patient for a bit. Play things smart and close to the chest."

"Otherwise Salem will get us," I exhaled. "Cinder and Salem both will get the two of us with impunity."

pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq pq

-WG

#jaune arc #cloud strife #cloud!jaune arc #sephiroth!Jaune arc #rwby #ff7 #ffvii #war of the roses #ruby rose x jaune arc x weiss schnee #neo #neapolitan #motion sickness #white rose #whiterose #lancaster #whiteknight #white knight

8 notes · View notes

passionate-reply · 4 years ago

Video

youtube

This week on Great Albums: a deeper dive into one of the most underrated early synth-pop acts. You’ve heard “Fade to Grey” by now, I’m sure, but this record is weirder and wilder than you might imagine! Find out more by watching the video or reading the transcript below the break.

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today, I’ll be discussing one of the first opening salvos of the New Romantic movement: the 1980 self-titled debut album by Visage. You could be forgiven for assuming that Visage was the alias of a single person, presumably the dapper fellow all over their brand, but Visage were, indeed, a group!

That “face of the band” figure was Steve Strange, who was less of a musician and more of a tastemaker and aesthete, and the club promoter for London’s famous nightclub, The Blitz. The Blitz’s DJ, Rusty Egan, was also a percussionist, and had previously played in the punk band Rich Kids, where he became acquainted with Midge Ure. Famous for his many connections and skill at leveraging them, Egan put together a sort of dream team out of the many musicians he knew at the time: Ure, who’d been orphaned by the dissolution of Rich Kids, Billy Currie, one-time synthesist of Ultravox before their group split apart, and several members of Buzzcocks alumnus Howard Devoto’s band Magazine. A bit of a motley crew, for sure...but one can’t argue with the success Visage would achieve.

Music: “Fade to Grey”

“Fade to Grey” is surely one of the most iconic songs of early 80s synth-pop, and its music video pushed forth a bold new aesthetic for the new decade: sophisticated, futuristic, androgynous. While Steve Strange would consistently reject the “New Romantic�� label for his own work, his influence on the scene was undeniable. “Fade to Grey” strikes a balance between being debonair and mysterious, with its ghostly vocal reverb, and being a straight-up club classic, with an absolutely massive synth riff. The inclusion of a French-language translation of the main lyrics gives it a lot of European panache, and may well have been one of the main factors propelling it to international success--“Fade to Grey” was actually an even bigger hit in markets like France and Germany than in Visage’s native UK. That aside, though, as is so often the case with these famous 80s songs, the rest of this album is not to be missed! If you’re looking for another song with a bit of a similar vibe to their famous hit, I think you can’t go wrong with its opening track and final single, also titled “Visage.”

Music: “Visage”

There’s something really satisfying about a track, artist, AND album all having the same name--the triple threat! Still, I think this album’s title track stands well enough on its own, with a soaring refrain that’s quite easy to sing along to. While this album doesn’t get quite as “baroque” as Ultravox would, on tracks like their famous hit “Vienna,” the dry piano used throughout this track really classes the place up. Thematically, the title track seems to assert the importance of fashion and style, as well as the importance of innovating in those fields--“New styles, new shapes, new modes.” While lots of electronic acts were fixated on the future, Visage were one of the first to center aesthetics to such a dramatic degree. Plenty of people, both at the time and more recently, would criticize New Romantic acts of the MTV era for being “style over substance,” as though their embrace of the parallel art form of fashion inherently made their music worse. I’ve never understood that criticism myself, since it’s perfectly possible to care about, or excel at, more than one creative pursuit at once. At any rate, the title track’s focus on novelty contrasts quite strikingly with the preceding single, “Mind of a Toy.”

Music: “Mind of a Toy”

“Mind of a Toy” is a surprisingly high-concept song in comparison to the album’s other singles, narrating the thoughts of a plaything that’s lost its lustre, and has been discarded in favour of newer and better diversions. It feels like a pointed criticism of the consumerist obsession with novelty, and a counterpoint to the apparent thesis of the title track. It’s perhaps also a sort of critique of the way popular music disposes of so many of its once-loved idols--who, like puppets, are often controlled by unseen outside forces. You’ll also find several tracks that push into more experimental territory on the album, to a degree that may be surprising if you’re only familiar with the big hit. The eerie, cinematic instrumental “The Steps” is perhaps the most striking example, and closing the album on this note is certainly a bold decision!

Music: “The Steps”

The album’s cover features Steve Strange dancing with a woman, in a starkly lit, greyscale composition that recalls early photography. In the background, we can see the shadows of several instrumental musicians--perhaps a nod to the composition of the band itself, in which the composers and instrumentalists happily hid behind the facade of Strange’s attention-grabbing persona. What’s perhaps most interesting about it is the fact that despite having a dance partner, Strange’s attention seems to be focused entirely on us, the viewers. He seems to meet our gaze, with a vigour and intensity that borders on confrontational.

Before “New Romantic” took such a strong hold as the term for this movement, one of the contenders for its name was “peacock punk.” I’ve always liked the way that alternative phrase communicates the brash, almost macho nature of its seemingly fey male frontmen, whose gender-bending style was often rooted in self-confidence that bordered on bravado. I think Steve Strange’s fixed gaze on the cover of this album embodies this principle of “peacocking,” and lavishing attention on one’s personal aesthetic in a daring, perhaps even aggressively counter-cultural manner. While a lot of this music, and its associated visual culture, has been dismissed as some sort of yuppie frippery, it takes some serious balls to transgress ideas about gender as much as the New Romantics did, and I’d say it’s pretty damn punk.

This album is, of course, self-titled, which I suppose could be seen as a sort of throwaway non-decision. But I think the use of “Visage” for the title calls attention to the idea their name represents. A “visage” is, literally, a face, but the connotation of the word is certainly a bit loftier and more refined than that. A visage is less likely to be an everyday face, and more likely to be a metaphorical or symbolic “face”--a front for something, a representation of some greater idea. While Strange and company couldn’t see the future, they of course ended up being the representative front for the coming wave of stylish, synthesiser-driven pop, even if they weren’t at the crest of it for too long.

After their debut, Visage would go on to release one more LP with their original line-up, 1982’s The Anvil. Less experimental, and more indebted to disco and dance music, The Anvil would produce two more charting singles, “Night Train” and “The Damned Don’t Cry,” though neither of them would reach the same heights of international success as “Fade to Grey.”

Music: “Night Train”

Later in the 1980s, Billy Currie and Midge Ure would become increasingly committed to their work with the re-formed Ultravox, and they left Steve Strange and Rusty Egan to continue the Visage project on their own. The two of them released one more album under the Visage name in 1984, but when that was panned, they went back to running the Blitz Club together.

In 2013, Steve Strange decided to return to making music, and revive the “Visage” name. While his untimely death in 2015 would cut this era short, Strange released one full album, and recorded enough material for a followup that it could be released posthumously. Though Strange is no longer with us, Rusty Egan has become quite keen on the idea of a Visage reunion of some sort in the past year or two, possibly involving Midge Ure, Billy Currie, and/or fellow New Romantic heartthrob Zaine Griff, who I think could fill Strange’s shoes better than just about anybody. It sounds quite promising, so we’ll have to stay tuned.

My favourite track from this album is “Tar,” which was actually released ahead of the album, in 1979, but failed to attract much notice. It was love at first listen for me, though--I love the way the chorus rises so triumphantly, only to fall back down into its screwy, glitchy synth hook. Besides that abrasive touch, the theme of the song is also a bit out there: it’s a somewhat patronizing number all about the repulsiveness of cigarette smoking. Perhaps now that fewer people are smokers, this premise will come across as less alienating than it did at the time! That’s all I’ve got for today, thanks for listening.

Outro: “Tar”

#music #visage #steve strange #album review #album reviews #great albums

9 notes · View notes

elizabeethan · 4 years ago

Text

My Hands, Your Hands- Part 2/2

Part 1

Read on AO3

Emma wakes up feeling grateful for Advil. She wonders what her head would feel like without it, considering the headache she’s sporting now.

Rolling over slowly and noisily, she smells bacon and considers whether she’s going to eat some or be sick. The smell effectively pulls her head from the pillow and she makes her way to being vertical, despite the throbbing pain that radiated from the base of her skull. She finds a sweatshirt while simultaneously barely opening her eyes and scurries to the bathroom where it was decided that she was indeed going to be sick. She could make some definitive statement about never drinking rum and coke again, but she knows that’s foolish, as she’ll be in the same state next weekend.

Problematic? Maybe. For a 29-year-old? Definitely.

Once her teeth are brushed, she’s able to shower the sweat and regret from her body, cranking the water as hot as it will go as memories from last night flood her mind. Most noteworthy would probably be the fact that she and Walsh broke up, although that was less than surprising and not at all upsetting. The more she thought about him, the more she knew that she was only with him because she felt like she had to be. She didn’t want to be his girlfriend because all of her relationships end badly.

So, when he came over expecting her to need him, and became upset when she didn’t, she knew it was time. She may not have gone at him the way that she did if she hadn’t been drunk and full of feelings of rejection, but what’s done is done.

More memories assault her as she thinks back to being rejected, how that felt, and the nature of why she was rejected. She and Killian were ordered behind the Iron Curtain, and while she suggested that they casually get the kiss over with, he felt entirely differently. I really don’t want to kiss you like this.

Of course, more memories come to her as she picks up her purple shampoo. Killian has always been sweet to her, and she’s always seen him as her brother’s best friend, but she has to face the fact that he is insanely good looking. He’s got those icy blue eyes that rival the color and depth of the ocean, contrasting with his dark hair and fair skin. The way he smirks, all the damn time, literally drives her insane, and whenever he does that stupid thing where he pinches his bottom lip between his right thumb and forefinger, she wonders what it would be like to bite down on it.

She may be attracted to Killian, but he’s always been her brother’s best friend. Sometimes she thinks of him as her friend, too. Like when he makes her coffee in the morning, exactly as she likes it. Or when he drives her to work when it’s raining so she doesn’t have to walk. Or when he goes on runs with her in the park, claiming that he wants to be there to keep her safe from killer waterfowl.

(That last one is a joke. He wants to be there to make fun of her in case another swan decides to attack her so that he can relive his favorite memory. He’s told her this several times.)

The truth is, he’s never been anything less than sweet to her, and to have him reject her drunken-self last night must’ve really done a number on her ego. And now, when she thinks back to what he said in the kitchen, she just feels as though he was taking pity on her because of how pathetic she was being. What I mean is, if I were to kiss you, I’d want it to be more special than it would have been behind the Iron Curtain.

Was he serious? Considering this was daring. Accepting that he was serious about this and genuinely wanted their first kiss to be special will be detrimental to Emma’s ability to pretend that she doesn’t find him insanely attractive. This takes her feelings beyond physical attraction and into crush territory. AKA, serious danger.

Imagine having a crush on your roommate? Yikes.

But a crush on your older brother’s best friend, who also happens to be your roommate? Double yikes.

As Emma makes her way back into her bedroom, the smell of bacon blitzes her again and she feels just how empty her stomach is now. Once she smells the cocoa and French toast, though, the grumbling coming from her can likely be heard throughout the loft.

“Swan?” Killian calls, confirming her theory that her hunger is evident to all. She hears his footsteps coming towards her as he calls to her again: “do you want some breakfast, love?”

Well, here we go. “Only if you’re making it right,” she grumbles with a roll to her eyes.

“Bacon extra crispy, French toast with cinnamon, but not too much, extra butter, cocoa with cinnamon and whipped cream. You think by now I don’t know your hangover food, Swan?”

She tightens her robe around her middle as she takes in the sight of him; black t-shirt and checked gray pajama pants hugging his muscles perfectly. She nods and offers him a small smile as she says, “so you know how to get me drunk and how to cure me the next day, huh?”

He smiles back at her, blue eyes twinkling impossibly. “Aye, that’s right, Swan. Now get dressed and get out here before this gets cold and all my hard work goes in the bin.”

“We don’t call it a bin here, Jones. Honestly, you’ve lived in American for how many hundreds of years now?”

He breathes out a scoff. “Just get dressed, woman. I won’t have you in a robe distracting me from my breakfast.”

She rolls her eyes but listens to him and steps back into her room. Her cheeks are hot and she knows she’s blushing, and hopefully she can blame it on the hot shower. She picks out a new pair of underwear and leggings and a clean sweatshirt, choosing not to utilize a boob prison today. Her boobs deserve the Sunday off.

When she gets out to the kitchen, the table is set and her plate is full of bacon and French toast, her favorite mug filled to the top with delicious, perfectly prepared cocoa. She grins, unable to stop the blush from hitting her cheeks again. “Looks great,” she says, not bothering to turn her attention to him as she makes her way to her usual seat across from hers.

“I hope so, it took me all damn morning. Honestly, you couldn’t have chosen a hangover food that’s easier to make? French toast has to be the most tedious breakfast.”

“And yet I seem to be eating it every Sunday now,” she says, finally looking in his direction and smirking.

“Aye, well, I figure it’s easier to fill you up with eggy bread now than it would be to listen to you complain for the rest of the day.”

Her face scrunches up as she takes a sip of her coffee. “Ugh, do you have to call it that? Again, you’ve lived here for centuries. Just call it French toast.”

He chuckles as he shoves a strip of crispy bacon in his mouth, choosing talking over manners as he says, “eight years, love. I’m really not that old, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says with a nod as she takes a bite of bacon herself. “But David’s an old man and you’re his friend. Also, the way you complain about your muscles being sore after you run just makes you sound like you’re 200.”

“Well, I can assure you I am not 200. I’m actually a few years younger than David, thank you very much.”

“Still older than me,” she says with a shrug. He breathes out a laugh and shakes his head, turning his attention back to his breakfast. Then, before she can stop him, she sees him scooping a spoon full of cubed watermelon onto her plate. “Hey, no healthy food allowed.”

“Healthy food is exactly what you need right now, Swan. What did you have for dinner besides the popcorn you threw all over the living room? You’re welcome, by the way, for vacuuming that up for you,” he says sarcastically and with a smirk playing at his lips.

“My hero,” she says with eyes rolling to the back of her head. She wonders briefly if rolling her eyes is a defense mechanism so that she doesn’t have to look at him when his face does that…

“It’s fresh, love. The best money can buy for my Swan. Eat up.” My Swan, she’s swooning.

“Where is everyone,” she wonders as she takes a bite of watermelon. And he’s right, it’s fresh as hell. Shit, it’s delicious.

“David went to church with Mary Margaret, Will hasn’t been home yet. I’m pretty sure Ruby slept on the couch, but she was gone when I woke up.”

“Where did Will go?”

“Home with Sabine.” His mouth is full, and it shouldn’t be hot, but it is.

“Whoa, really? I didn’t even notice they left last night.”

He smirks again, “I’d wager you didn’t notice much, love. You were completely obliterated. Five drinks was all it took, I suppose.”

“Hey,” she whines, “I’m pretty small! Five drinks is a lot, especially when you're the one making them. You put so much damn rum in them, I swear you were a pirate in a past life.”

He hums, “maybe I was. At any rate, you were absolutely smashed. Do you remember much?” Is he testing her memories? Does he wonder if she remembers everything that happened last night? Does he hope she doesn’t?

“Pretty sure I remember everything, although I suppose I wouldn’t know if I didn’t.”

“Ah, so you remember how desperately you wanted to kiss me then,” he says as she chokes on a sip of coffee.

She’s coughing so hard now that she can hardly respond. “I did not want to kiss you, I wanted to win the game.”

“Winning the game isn’t a real thing, Swan. The winner is the person who makes it to the end, who also happens to be the one to drink the most. I’d say based on how you seem to feel this morning, you don’t actually want to be the winner.”

“I’m very competitive,” she says. She wipes her mouth with her napkin and drops it to her now empty plate.

“Aye, love, I know,” he says with a chuckle as he does the same and stands, taking her plate from her and stacking it on top of his own.

“I guess I did kind of ruin the game, though, didn’t I? What with Walsh and everything,” she trails off, standing from the chair and making her way to where he was standing at the sink and lifting herself up onto the counter.

“The game didn’t matter at that point, Emma,” he surprises her again by using her name, which he really only does when he’s being serious. “I’m sorry.”

She draws her eyebrows together and says, “sorry? For what?”

“For everything,” he responds, tapping her legs out of the way so that he can open the dishwasher and place their dirty plates inside before he starts on the pans he used to make breakfast. “I shouldn’t have hit him. It was childish, but when he said that to you… I couldn’t stop myself. I could barely even see straight.”

Right. She knew Walsh had come over and embarrassed her, but she forgot all of the details until now. He called her a slut and before he could step out the door, David grabbed him and Killian swung his fist into Walsh’s jaw.

“It’s okay,” she nearly whispers. She allows herself to glace at his right hand and see the bruises that formed on his knuckles. “Did you ice it?”

“Aye,” he chuckles softly, “you practically forced me to. You were very adamant that I take care of my one good hand,” he says as he smirks up at her. She feels her chest and cheeks go red again.

“I did not say that.” Her voice comes out as weak and small as she feels.

“Oh, you did. Then you practically started crying,” he smirks again as she drops her head into her hands.

“No,” she groans. “This is mortifying. I’m so sorry, I’m sure I didn’t mean it.”

“You told me that you didn’t mean it in a bad way.” She lifts her head slightly and allows herself a glance at his left hand now. “I appreciate you looking out for me, Swan. I know you weren’t trying to be offensive. I didn’t mean to make you feel badly about it.”

“I wasn’t, I’m not. I’m sorry, Killian,” she raises her eyes to meet his, perhaps for the first time that morning.

He surprises her by meeting her gaze and smiling softly, his right hand coming up to pull hers away from her face and then touching her cheek so lightly that she thinks she may have made it up. Her breathing quickens as he says, “it’s alright, love. Thanks for looking out for me.”

Instead of choking over her own breath like she thinks she might, she says, “I don’t ever want to make you feel like I’m treating you differently, you know?”

“Aye,” he breathes out, his words barely over a whisper, his hand falling to hers atop her knee. “You never do.”

Just as she thinks he may close the gap between them and take her lips between his, the front door swings open and her older brother walks in, Mary Margaret following closely behind him.

Killian backs up so fast that Emma nearly loses her balance and falls off the counter, straight into the dishwasher. With a clang, Killian steps forward to steady her and hits his ankle against the door, hissing and cursing.

“Uh oh,” Emma says as she jumps down to his aid.

“Shit, I’m fine, it’s fine.” He groans lightly as he rubs his ankle, and it shouldn’t be hot, but it is. Dammit.

“Hey, you’re up. How was breakfa- are you okay?” David walks in to see Killian hunched over and Emma standing awkwardly, hands out as if she’s trying to will the pain away with magic or something.

“Fine mate. Just walked into the dishwasher.” Emma smiles lightly now, realizing how silly this whole situation was. Rather than focus on the fact that she was sure Killian was about to kiss her, she chooses to focus on how dumb they must look to David and Mary Margaret. She would much rather focus on that than on the fact that her crush, which she didn’t know she had until very recently, may actually be reciprocated.

~~~

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she groans into her pillow as she flops down face first into her bed.

“Me either, if I were you, I’d stop trying to fight it.” Emma lifts her head to glare at Ruby, who sits down on the other end of the bed and flops over as well.

“Of course, I’m fighting it. He’s David’s best friend! That’s insane. Not to mention the fact that he literally lives across the hall from me.”

“Definitely insane, but most likely worth it, girl. Honestly, I thought you guys were already… you know. I’m more surprised that you aren’t.”

“What could possibly make you think that?”

Ruby rolls her eyes and smirks, “Emma, come on. A blind man could see the way he looks at you. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s completely in love with you. And you’re not so good at hiding it either, my friend. I’ve never seen someone blush as hard as you did last night.”

Emma sits up, unable to remain still. “So, what do I do?”

Ruby smirks again and says, “Killian,” waggling her eyebrows up and down and giggling. Emma groans again.

“No way! Besides, he’s still getting over Milah.”

“Please! It’s been almost a year since that happened! You don’t seriously think he’s still hung up over her, do you?”

“Well, yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take a girl home, and he never sleeps out. Obviously, he still loves her and he isn’t over her. First heartbreak and all that.”

Ruby’s mouth is agape and her eyes bug out of her head. “Emma, seriously? Tell me you’re kidding right now. He hasn’t hooked up with anyone because he wants you, not because he can’t get over his ex!”

Emma ponders this briefly. It’s true, she hasn’t known him to be with anyone in months. She doesn’t think he has since she moved in nine months ago, but that couldn’t be right. Emma knew Killian as her brother’s friend before they became roommates, and she always thought of him as a lady’s man, even when he was with Milah. But Ruby’s theory, that he hasn’t been with anyone because he wants to be with her, is almost too much for her.

“Look, before last night, I had no idea I even felt this way. He’s always just been David’s hot friend. This is a lot.”

“Yeah,” she nods, “I know it is, but don’t you owe it to yourself? You’ve really been striking out lately.”

“Thank you so much for that reminder, friend.” She rolls her eyes again.

“I’m just saying, your first boyfriend died and that was tragic. Then it was Neal, and that was tragic in a completely different way. Now Walsh? The guy was a total douche!” She’s right. “Your track record is not good. I wanna see you happy, Emma. You’re my best friend and I want what’s best for you. And I just think… maybe that’s Killian.” Emma throws her head down into her pillow again and groans loudly. “Hey, come on. At least wait until I’m gone before you start picturing-” Emma hits her with a throw pillow. “I mean seriously, if you don’t I will. Even with one working hand I bet he could make a girl-”

“Ruby! Leave him alone!”

“Sorry, sorry! But seriously, how did that happen?”

“You're being insensitive,” Emma says accusatorily.

“I’m just curious, I know he told you. He’s barely told anyone what happened, but he told you, so there’s that.”

“There was an accident when he was in the Navy. Something to do with his Captain, I think. His arm and hand got tied up and crushed. Nerve damage.” Ruby cringes. It is a horrible story, and it must’ve been a horrible accident. Killian’s lucky to have a hand anymore, even it if it just for aesthetic purposes. His arm is so damaged it barely works, and Emma often finds herself wondering what his recovery process was like all those years ago- not that he ever talks about it. “Don’t let him know you know. I don’t even think he meant to tell me, I’m sure he wouldn’t want me going around telling people.”

“So, what you’re saying is, his love for you is so strong that-” Emma hits her with another throw pillow. “Alright, alright. I’m gonna go, okay? I’ve gotta get to work. I’m lucky I got out of the breakfast shift but now I have to do dinner.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks for the pep talk.”

“I expect a full report, got it?”

~~~

“Care for a movie tonight, Swan?”

Emma’s dragged from her thoughts as she pretends to scroll through her Instagram feed when she hears Killian’s voice from across the room. He’s standing near the curtain on the outside of the living room donning another black Henley and gray joggers. Of course the bastard was wearing gray sweatpants.

It’s absolutely pouring outside, and if she’s being honest with herself, there’s nothing she’d like more than to curl up on the couch and watch a good movie. Maybe have a good snuggle… She clears her throat and rolls her eyes. “Fine, as long as you make the popcorn.”

“Is that why you threw it all over the place last night? Because I didn’t make it? It must not have been very good.”

“I told you what happened, and it had nothing to do with you, Jones.”

“Actually, I don’t think you did say what happened,” he said as he made his way into the kitchen and took out his infamous air popper and some butter.

“Oh,” she stood from the couch and followed him, grabbing two glasses and filling them with ice. “Well, I was leaving Walsh a voicemail and the pipes made a sound, so I jumped. Not really that big of a deal. I didn’t even scream like he said I did,” she fibs.

He chuckles and says, “I suppose he was behaving rather dramatically, wasn’t he?”

“That’s for sure,” she grumbles with an eye roll. She fills the glasses with water and adds lime to hers, then makes for a lemon to add to his when he stops her.

“I’ll just take a lime as well, Swan.”

“You hate lime, what do you mean?”

“Well, as one of my good friends has been reminding me constantly, they're really not that different. I suppose lime has grown on me, over time.”

“I’m your friend?”

“I didn’t mean you, Swan,” he deadpans.

She narrows her eyes and draws her brows close together. “Okay, weirdo. What are we gonna watch?”

He smiles as he takes the popcorn bowl with him into the living room and plops down on the couch. She places the glasses down on the coffee table and sits next to him so that he’s sitting on her left side, just as he always is.

“Don’t you want to watch Dirty Dancing?”

She’s stunned into silence. Of course this man, this perfect specimen of a human, would offer to watch her breakup movie with her without prompting. Of course he would think of that, even when she didn’t.

“Oh, um, I don’t know, I don’t really know if I need to.”

“No? Not even after Walsh?” He seems even closer now, and she wonders how it’s even possible for someone to smell as good as he does right now.

“I mean, that wasn’t really a breakup. I guess it was, but… I guess I’m not that upset about it.”

His voice is so soft and gentle. His hand touches her left knee and he smiles at her before saying, “that’s great, Swan. It would be a pity to see you upset over such an animal of a man.”

She’s still stunned, still silent as she nods back at him. Before she can stop and think, she thinks she’s leaning in closer to him and she thinks she doesn’t mind it, not one bit.

After some time, once he’s put on an episode of The Office and they’ve settled themselves into the couch and eaten their fair share of popcorn, she speaks up. “I guess I’m more upset about what he said to me than anything,” she nearly whispers.

He hums softly and she can see his throat moving as he does, and shit it’s sexy. “That was rather upsetting, although I suppose we already know how I was feeling about it, don’t we,” he says with a soft grin, his eyes crinkling; she literally almost combusts as she nods, completely breathless.

“Yeah, I guess so,” she breathes. She nearly feels her lashes fluttering as he moves impossibly closer. She can practically feel her lips buzzing with how much she wants him to close the space between them and take hers between his. There’s a coil heating in her belly as she looks as his stubble covered face and feels his fingers delicately touching her knee.

“You know during the game, when I said I didn’t want to kiss you like that?”

She can’t breathe, so she nods in response. Before she can think, she sees his eyes fluttering so that they're almost closed as he moves so close to her that if she moved at all they would be touching. Then she watches as he grins beautifully, then his face closes the gap before hers and he presses his lips to hers so delicately that she could barely feel it.

Her eyes close effortlessly and within seconds as he kisses her softly then draws away far too quickly. Her eyes fly open again and she looks at him as if to say what the hell, come back. He listens as he presses himself to her more firmly, pursing his lips into hers and reaching his hand up from her knee to her cheek. She breathes into him and reaches her own hand into the back of his hair, feeling the softness between her fingers and the heat growing hotter in her belly. She can feel his tongue softly swiping between her top and bottom lips, as if asking permission to kiss her more deeply, so she parts her lips ever so slightly in invitation. She feels him suck on her top lip lightly before he licks it softly and she nearly loses it. His hand laces it's way behind her ear and into her hair as she tugs on his lightly before she hears him groan into her mouth, igniting her from the inside out.

She bites down lightly on his bottom lip and feels him stir in his seat as he leans closer to her, pushing softly until she’s laying down on the couch and he’s on top of her and kissing down her neck. She thinks she hears the popcorn bowl hit the floor, spilling whatever was left, but she can’t be assed to care. Her legs part as he fits himself between them, drawing their bodies even closer together, but somehow not close enough. She thinks he may have bruised her neck slightly, but she doesn’t care. She just keeps carding one hand through his soft hair as the other feels his muscles rippling through his shirt at his back, his chest, his triceps. He meets her mouth with his again and kisses her hard, as if he needs her like she needs him. She’s certain he does, based on the firmness she feels pressing against her upper thigh, and she’s tempted to rut her hips up towards his, but stops herself, reveling in his mouth on hers.

Moments later, they separate and their foreheads touch, his hand coming to her face and his thumb stroking her chin as he smiles breathlessly at her and she smiles breathlessly at him. His lashes flutter once more and he softly touches her cheek before drawing her to him once more, kissing her with a passion that she’s sure she’s never felt before.

When he finally pulls away, she’s gasping for breath, barely able to open her eyes. She thinks she may be dreaming, or dead, until he says, “I meant something more like that.”

She breathes out in a whoosh before saying, “holy shit,” embarrassment immediately taking over as she laughs lightly.

He laughs hard, and she can feel his chest vibrating against hers and she thinks it might be killing her. “Aye, my thoughts exactly.”

“I guess I can see why you rejected me, then,” she breathes out, reaching her hand to touch her own mouth, as if checking to see if it’s still there.

“I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings too much, love. I really wanted to kiss you, I have for a while, but I wanted you to remember it happening afterwards. I also didn’t really know if you were sober enough to actually consent last night,” he laughs. She pushes her forehead up to his and laughs with him some more.

“Probably not.” Who the hell thinks like that? Is that a symptom of adulthood? Emma thinks she should probably stop dating children if that’s the case.

He pecks her lips once more with his and she’s tempted to grab him and pull him back to her, but she doesn’t. Not this time.

“A while, huh?” she asks, and his brows raise as if he didn’t even realize he said that.

“Aye, I suppose so.” He lifts himself off of her and grabs a throw pillow before taking her hand in his and hoisting her back into a seated position herself. “I don’t really know if I should have done that. But I’ve wanted to kiss you basically since I met you and when you said you weren’t upset about Walsh… I guess I just…” He trails off and looks away from her, down at his hands.

“I wasn’t. I’m not. I was going to end it soon anyway.”

“Aye, you said that last night.”

“It’s true.” He looks back at her, finally, and smiles. It’s her favorite smile of his; the one where he grins with all of his teeth and his eyes scrunch up, but it softens after a second. It’s got to be the cutest and sexiest thing she’s ever seen. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Aye, of course,” he says, drawing his dark brows together as he does when he’s concerned, as if he’s worried about what she’s going to ask him.

“Why didn’t you bring anyone home last night? You said you wanted to, and that girl seemed more interested in you than in Will, but you didn’t go for it. How come?”

He’s quiet for a moment, glancing down from her eyes to the mess of popcorn on the floor, before he responds, “I didn’t really want to. I haven’t had a very keen interest in quite some time. I don’t know why I said that to you last night, honestly.”

She hums in response, then thinks back to what Ruby said. “So, when was the last time you… you know…” she trails off, realizing very quickly that this wasn’t really an appropriate line of questioning for her best friend whom she’s kissed one time.

“Such an interest in my sex life, aye Swan?” he smirks, finally looking at her again. She smiles back sheepishly, no doubt turning a very bright shade of pink. “It’s been a while, that’s for sure. One time with Milah just before you moved in, and then a drunken Halloween night with a girl dressed as Tinkerbell.”

She rolls her eyes at the thought of him hooking up with Tinkerbell and not knowing her actual name, then says, “you and Milah hooked up after she broke up with you?”

“Aye, a lapse in judgement, I suppose.”

She nods, understanding completely. There was a point after her breakup with Neal when she considered going back to him, although she luckily had a change of heart after a very loud conversation with Ruby.

“Can I tell you something, Emma,” he says so softly that it’s almost a whisper, but she can still hear the deep timbre of his voice.

“Yes,” she whispers back.

He’s breathing heavily, his forehead is close to hers and his hand is back on her knee. “I’ve had a massive crush on you since you moved in. Since we met, really, but I think when you moved in and I saw you crying on the couch while you sang along to the ending of Dirty Dancing, I was done for. And you're my best friend and I don’t wanna put any pressure on you, but I want you to know… how I feel.”

Emma hasn’t breathed for several moments, and this didn’t change anything. “I’ve had a crush on you since, like… last night, I think,” she says, smirking.

He laughs again and she sees an evil glint in his eyes before he wraps his right arm around her waist, pulling her up onto his lap and tickling her mercilessly as she laughs loudly, likely drawing attention from her roommates.

“You are absolutely wicked, Emma Nolan. Last night? Are you serious?” His fingers are still brushing lightly against her waist and she’s still giggling, actually giggling, for god’s sake. “Can I take you out for dinner, then?”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes and says, “you better,” before grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and kissing the holy hell out of him.

40 notes · View notes

tauruscookie · 4 years ago

Text

Day 16 Siegemas: An Unusual Concoction

Before we start, I would like to tell everyone that this is my first time writing for an event like this, and I absolutely suck at writing.

BUT!

I'm happy I got to participate in Siegemas! Now, this story took so many turns, both good and bad, and I scrapped so many ideas before finally writing something. And for once, I feel good about this one. Do enjoy it! I had way too much fun writing this one XD! Thank you mods @dualrainbow for giving me the chance to be able to write this. Now, on to the story!

Prompt: 'Wait, did you spike the eggnog?'

—

Listening to the endless carols that played one after the others through the speakers, Bandit stood alone from the others. Studying each face that passed by, he noticed the cheerful and pleasant smiles that grew wider and wider the more each operator socialized with one another. The room was full of a joyful liveliness that couldn't be explained.

Standing aloof from the others, Bandit silently drank from his mug in a sense of blissful peace. Drinking the creamy liquid that held traces of both cinnamon and nutmeg, he grimaced at the taste. It wasn't any normal Eggnog he had before. Normally, it was flavored with something strong as in alcohol but in this situation, something different would suffice. And so, Bandit was on the prowl. He carelessly made his way to one of the many dessert tables. And situated in the center of the mountain of sweets was the bowl of Eggnog.

So many ideas swam around in Bandit's mind as he tried to decipher which one was the best. Eventually, he smirked as he set his mug down before bringing out a small bag from his pocket. Then he stopped as he stared at the bag of cannabis. He wanted to make the day 'enjoyable', and ingesting cannabis will take quite a while.

Peeking over his shoulder to ensure no one was watching him, he brought out a silver flask bottle before unscrewing the top. Pouring the alcohol into the mixture, he held a devilish smirk. For starters, he was going to add it to his own drink so he could make the night more enjoyable for himself, but maybe he could get the others both drunk and high simultaneously. Oh, it would be fun to watch them slowly lose their mind.

Dumping the rest of his alcohol into the Eggnog, he poured every last drop of cannabis into the mixture before stirring it up. Once it was combined to the point only the creamy texture was noticeable, he snickered as he held his mug back to his lips. Happily moving away from the table, he made sure all evidence that could lead to the fact that he was 'possibly' there, was cleared.

And so, he waited at one of the high tables so he could watch his victims line up to take a drink of his peculiar creation. Snickering gleefully at the unfortunate souls who foolishly drank from the mixture, his eyes caught sight of one of the few unfortunate souls who approached the bowl.

Talking softly to both IQ and Finka, Blitz laughed at a cheeky joke before pouring himself a ladle of the concoction. As both IQ and Finka followed after him, he was close to sipping the liquid when a hand roughly grabbed his arm forcing him to stop midway.

"Excuse us ladies" Bandit spoke quickly as he pulled Blitz along.

The German was surprised at Bandit's sudden impulse. It was strange, but he didn't protest against his friend's behavior. Once far enough from the boisterous party, Bandit took his mug before pouring it out into the sink behind the bar counter.

"What the hell?!" Blitz cried in shock at Bandit's movement.

He didn't even hesitate to pour the liquid down the drain. But the music drowned out his elevated voice so no one knew what was happening between the two.

"Trust me, you didn't want to drink that" Bandit notified as he gave a cheeky smile before setting the mug down

"Oh? And how would you know?" Blitz inquired as he raised an eyebrow at his words. Both frustrated but truly intrigued at what got the German so worked up.

"Just trust me"

"I find that very hard to do"

"Well, today is one of those days where you'll just have to take my word for it" Bandit spoke nonchalantly as he turned around to browse through the choices of drinks behind him.

As much as he would've loved to watch Blitz act a complete fool IF he drank the concoction, something overcame him and without thinking, he stopped him. Grabbing some ice from one of the ice trays, he dumped some of them into Blitz's mug before pouring a bottle of Schierker Feuerstein. A reddish liquid that held a bitter taste.

"You were so quick to stop me from drinking the Eggnog, yet you're pouring me some alcohol. Why?" Blitz questioned scanning the drink before him as if searching for traces of poison

"Just trust me, Elias. You'll want this over what's in that" Bandit explained

"What's in it? What did you- Wait, Dominic...Did you spike the Eggnog?!" Blitz panicked as he connected the dots.

Bandit held a sly smirk as he drank the Eggnog before it was altered into something, unusual. And that alone answered Blitz's question. He didn't know whether to laugh or be genuinely scared. If Bandit was the one to spike it, that means it's life-threatening. But he had to have an assailant. There was no way he was working alone. Was he?

"Who are you working with?! Max? James?" Blitz questioned hoping he could pinpoint another criminal in this twisted prank

"Relax...I always work alone in my pranks...sometimes" Bandit smirked as he took another sip of his drink

"Well, in that case... are you fucking verrückt?! Do you plan on killing everyone here?!" Blitz shouted in a low voice, almost a violent whisper towards the snickering German

"Oh relax...it takes an hour for the Cannabis to kick in" Bandit notified waving him off

"CANNABIS?!" Blitz yelled.

Luckily, he was saved by the music as it drowned him out. Bandit nearly choked on his drink as he felt laughter bubbling in the pits of his throat.

"I can't believe you, Dominic, you seriously just spiked the one drink Gilles took forever to make! He's going to rip you to shreds if he finds out you poisoned it with one of your cheap tricks!" Blitz grumbled with a sigh. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Bandit only rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"Oh come on! Don't act like you wouldn't have done the same if the idea came to you" Bandit scoffed as his smile slowly began to disappear

"No, I wouldn't. Because unlike you, I care about people's emotions. And I would never poison the POLICE OFFICERS that work for Rainbow" Blitz explained emphasizing his words deliberately.

Of course, Bandit knew there were police officers amongst Rainbow. He wasn't naive. But he was an officer himself, and he knew how to fly underneath the radar. It's one of his many talents

"Oh please, neither Ryad nor Morowa would be able to tell the difference between cocaine or salt. And need I remind you that I too am 'an officer of the law'" Bandit scoffed

"A poor one at that. I'm too sober for this" Blitz grimaced as he brought the mug to his lips.

Drinking the alcohol, he sighed as he set the mug down before rubbing his temples.

"Geez, you're so stiff. No wonder people hate the police. You guys are so boring. Ugh, relax Mr. Esel, Cannabis won't kill them. I didn't even add that much. Just half the bag"

"Half the bag?! Du verdammter Idiot! I'm talking to a psychopath"

"And this psychopath just saved you from getting both drunk and high...well, saved you from getting high" Bandit explained gesturing to his drink.

Pouring more of the alcohol into Blitz's mug, Bandit popped himself a beer since he was finished drinking his Eggnog. Taking a small swig of his beer, he smirked as he began to see his 'cheap trick' unfolding before his very eyes.

"And the fun, begins" Bandit smirked gesturing towards the swaying Canadian.

He could tell the effects were kicking in as he saw most operators began to drift from certain conversations.

"You are indeed a handful" Blitz sighed turning back to look at his mug

"Who else is going to be the one who creates the excitement around here? Damn sure none of you nagging stiche. All of you are so boring. Always got a stick up your arsch" Bandit complained rolling his eyes as he took another sip from his beer

"If I always have a stick up my ass, why didn't you let me drink the Eggnog then?" Blitz questioned staring up at the German.

As he asked the question, Bandit stopped. Why didn't he? As before, it would be hilarious to watch him act deranged and slur his words. But something told him to spare the other German. Why? Bandit can't begin to answer that question.

"I-I don't know...guess you wouldn't be no fun high" Bandit answered shrugging his shoulders

"Oh? So you're saying I'm fun when I'm not high?"

"Don't push your luck. You're...tolerable"

"And how would you know? I could be loads of fun" Blitz smirked propping himself along the counter.

That sly smirk grew along Bandit's lips as he moved down along the counter. Positioning himself in front of Blitz, he stared into those blue orbs. Quite frankly, he couldn't help but become lost in them. Something about the faint tint of teal and cobalt mesmerized him.

"Judging by the way you reacted, you would be a stick in the arsch with or without the drugs" Bandit replied, not breaking eye contact

"Guess we'll have to find out" Blitz smiled

"Is this rebellion I sense?"

"Could be"

"Oh? And since when has the saint of all things righteous decided to suddenly turn bad? You know, drugs are a sin" Bandit joked as he took a final sip of his beer

"Who said I'm a saint?"

"Everyone you hang our around...' the brave and righteous Elias Kötz would never drink, let alone do drugs. He never lets anything harmful tamper with his body'" Bandit mimicked as he spoke in a voice rougher than his own.

Blitz snickered as a faint smile came to his lips as Bandit tried to mimic a few of their superiors as he explained how fair and virtuous Blitz was. Pulling out a carton of cigarettes, he brought out a lighter as he placed the brownish end of the material in his mouth. Lighting the other end, a small flame appeared as it charred away at the white section of the cigar.

"You know, Six did say no smoking inside the building" Blitz added

"There he is! Mr. Esel is back! Was waiting until you'll finally turn into that jackass of a mother again" Bandit joked before the cigarette was removed from his lips.

Shocked at the sudden action, he went to protest but Blitz's smirk silenced him. Turning it around, Blitz placed the cigarette against his lips before inhaling a gentle whiff of smoke. He blew a soft puff of the chemical into Bandit's direction with a prideful smirk.

Without coughing or choking on the lack of air, the German continued to hold that prideful smirk which told Bandit he wasn't naive to the idea of a cigarette. Placing it back into Bandit's lips, Blitz's smirk only grew wider as he stood up from the counter.

"How's that for a jackass?" Blitz whispered as he leaned against the counter so he was mere inches away from Bandit

"Who would've thought that Elias Kötz smokes. Never I" Bandit whispered swishing the cigarette around so he could inch closer

"I'm full of surprises"

"Indeed you are..."

"I hope you have an excuse for Six when she finds out you've done this to her Christmas party." Blitz giggled as he poured himself some more of the Schierker Feuerstein

"That's only if you tell"

"It's not me who's going to tell. People might put two and two together. Cause when things break, you're likely the cause of it. And I won't hesitate to 'persuade them in the right direction'" Blitz smirked as he took a sip from his mug while flashing a playful smirk towards him. One that sent Bandit's heart fluttering to the point he couldn’t stifle a laugh no longer. Sending a wink, he released the cigarette to blow a small puff towards his direction.

"By all means...please do so. I enjoy the danger" Bandit grinned

"Oh trust me, I know you do" Blitz smirked as stared at the German, "You are one crazy man" Blitz giggled

"And yet, you keep coming back for more” Bandit smiled to which made Blitz laugh softly.

Collecting his mug, he turned around before moving through the crowd to socialize with the sober ones. Some already lost it and began talking a feverish nonsense that no one could understand. Bandit didn't even realize he was blushing until he felt the warmth along his cheeks. Blitz was surely different. Removing his cigarette, he smiled as he stared at the end where Blitz's lips made contact.

"Maybe this princess has a fun side after all" Bandit snickered as he continued smoking as he watched his whole prank unfold before his very eyes. It was indeed an enjoyable night, and it got even better when karaoke came around. He has never laughed so hard before.

This wasn't supposed to be this long but somehow...it's longer than expected. Anyways! I hope you enjoyed it!

#rainbowsixsiege #party #r6 #rainbow6 #r6s #rainbow 6 siege #siegemas 2020 #Bandit/Blitz #drugs usage #spiked drinks #siegemas

7 notes · View notes

findingtalent · 3 years ago

Text

Meet Sarvadh Sathiaram – The Young Unassuming Kid That Is Taking the Chess World By Storm

Chess is a game of planning and strategy. It’s a popular indoor game worldwide and a lot of people, irrespective of their age, enjoy playing it. But only a handful of men have been able to master this amazing game and even lesser number of kids who have been able to shine. One such kid is Sarvadh and he is very unique in his own way.

There are two different kinds of kids that play chess today. Those that do so as a pastime while few others that have quit school, quit everything else and work towards becoming a chess master. Sarvadh however doesn’t come under either category and is indeed different. He swears by the game and believes in giving every bit of his time and effort to master the game. He believes in sincere hard work and the power of perseverance. However, he doesn’t believe in quitting school for pursuing his chess goals and wants to do both.

Sarvadh’s story is indeed unique. He has been performing exceptionally well at school including winning laurels on the global stage in economics and business but at the same time has been diligently working to become a Grand Master. He is currently a Candidate Master whose race to become a Grand Master has been slowed down only by the pandemic but not definitely by his efforts, attitude or actions.

Sarvadh even plays golf at the Club level and is a Grade 7 pianist. When asked how he manages time to pull-off an academically rigorous IB curriculum in school full-time while preparing for his chess grand master norms, he says it is all about time management. He quotes the great writer Henry David Thoreau who once said, “It is not enough being busy… the question is what are we busy about?”. Sarvadh believes in doing things that motivates him and the things that he cares about. He believes that with a structured approach coupled with prioritization and good time management he has been able to achieve equal success in both academics and chess at the highest level without compromise. For him it is not a race to be the first or the youngest, but he wants to do things that really interest him and those that he cares about. It is about doing better than what he is today. He says in golf parlance, “It is about playing old man par”.

It is not always that you get to see a young boy make experienced senior chess masters sweat and gasp as they begin to suddenly realize how the calculated set of moves that Sarvadh made has only set them up for the inevitable loss.

So how did all this begin?

Not wanting to waste time in video games and cartoons, Sarvadh at the age of 8 signed up for a chess summer camp at his school to “keep busy”. Little did anyone realize that the initial spark ignited at the summer camp would go on to create such a huge passion for the game that there has been no looking back. Ever since his Grade 3, for several years now, the 64 squares have become his alternate world. He loves the fact of how he can think through the consequences of every move and visualize how his plans materialize beautifully in front of his eyes as he leaves the opponent clueless and powerless.

“Breaking into the Top 25 in the world rankings in U-12 and U-14 categories was perhaps the proudest moment for me,” exclaims Sarvadh. Equally exciting for him was his first win over a Grand master. Until then he always thought it would be impossible to defeat a Grand Master and this win only reiterated to him the fact that he just needed to believe that he could in order to achieve the same.

Some of the laurels and recognitions that embellish Sarvadh’s crown include:

Silver Medal at the World Economics Cup 2020

Global 4th in International Business at the World Future Business Leaders Competition

Top 25 in the world in U-12 and U-14 categories

Top 15 in Asia in U-12 and U-14 categories

Best Junior Player – 5th International Bodensee Open Tournament, Bregenz - May 2019

Champion – 28th Eastern Class Championship, Boston (Expert section) - April 2019

Best Player U-14 – 2nd Internationales Sill Park Schach Open, Innsbruck - Sept 2018

Champion U-11 – 8th Kandy International Open Blitz Chess Festival, Sri Lanka

1st Place U-12 – 3rd International Bodensee Open Tournament, Bregenz - May 2017

1st Place U-10 – 9th Modern School International Fide Rated Chess Tournament, Chennai - July 2016

Best Rated Player – Rating 1201-1400 - 1st SCA Rated FiIDE Rated Tournament - Oct 2015

Champion U-9 – KCG State Level Chess Tournament, Chennai, Sept 2015

1st Place U-10 – 1st KCF International FIDE Rated Tournament - Aug 2015

Under the able guidance of his coach and mentor the Russian Grand Master Sergei Zablotskiy, Sarvadh continues to learn the various intricate nuances of the game and he continues to hone his knowledge, and technical skills to become a Grand Master. To him Sergey has not just been a coach and mentor but also a wonderful friend without whose support, guidance, and motivation, he couldn’t have come this far in this remarkable journey”

So what are his future plans?

“I will continue my pursuit for deep knowledge in my two areas of passion – chess and economics.” Sarvadh believes that with honest effort and by God’s grace he will surely achieve his goals.

One of his favorite movies is Kung Fu Panda and the famous lines by Master Oogway is “You just need to believe. You must believe” is what he goes by not just in chess but in life. Sarvadh says that to him success is doing his very best in whatever he chooses to do. He goes on the add “Some you win some you lose. You can do what is in your control – doing your best. That’s life”.

This is incredible maturity for a boy at such a young age and we wish Sarvadh clinches many more titles and recognitions in the years to come.

For latest updates about chess and Sarvadh, follow Sarvadh at Twitter, FB, LinkedIn, Instagram.

#Candidate Master #Grand Master #economics enthusiast #travellers #international chess player #chess player #chess winner

1 note · View note

wellthatwasaletdown · 3 years ago

Note

“It’s a fake article apparently.” The quotes from the parody account are fake, but there is real article about Harry Lambert in The Times.

https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/meet-harry-lambert-the-a-lists-secret-style-weapon-8ml3q06jl

Meet Harry Lambert, The A List’s Secret Style Weapon

Whether it’s Harry Styles’s internet‑breaking cardigan or Emma Corrin in head‑to‑toe Miu Miu, he’s the stylist responsible for the hottest celeb looks of the moment. So how did a former River Island shopboy become the man influencing the way we dress today?

In February 2020 Harry Lambert was helping Harry Styles get ready to perform on NBC’s Today show. Lambert, an affable, bright-eyed 34-year-old, had been Styles’s stylist for a good five years by then, helping the One Directioner develop a distinct visual brand — and yet Styles still wasn’t quite sure why Lambert was so insistent that he wear a bright, multicoloured patchwork cardigan by JW Anderson.“I remember him saying, ‘OK, I love it, I just don’t know why we’re wearing it for rehearsals,’” Lambert relays from his east London studio. But the stylist had “a weird feeling”, he says with a little smile. “I was like, ‘Wear it for rehearsal — I promise you.’”The choice of the garment, and the knowledge of when and where to wear it, sums up Lambert’s gifts neatly. Pictures of Styles promptly went viral, so much so that the cardigan became a TikTok craze, with fans trying to replicate the knit at home. By the end of the year the V&A had announced it was buying the original, since it said so much about fashion in 2020. “It makes me a bit giddy, I guess,” says Lambert, to think that this moment he concocted will sit in a national collection for ever.

Right now Lambert can lay claim to being one of the most influential stylists in the world. The Styles collaboration is of course his calling card: a parade of eye-raising and/or mouthwatering outfits that have progressed from a much-memed floral suit at the American Music awards in 2015 to a couple of feather boas at this year’s Grammys and a Gucci women’s handbag at the Brit awards last month. His few other celebrity clients (it’s an elite bunch) include Emma Corrin, who, in the absence of any awards ceremony red carpets to be seen on following her star turn as Princess Diana in The Crown last November, took to Instagram to showcase a series of exciting, adventurous looks; and also her Crown co-star Josh O’Connor. It’s no surprise that, along the way, Lambert has become a name in his own right: his Instagram account boasts more than half a million followers. And to think — the Topman in his hometown of Norwich turned him down for a job as a teenager because “I wasn’t cool enough”, he giggles. He got one instead at River Island, where he was occasionally allowed to style the mannequins in cardigans of a somewhat less avant-garde calibre.Lambert, dressed in shorts, T-shirt and a plaid shirt, is sitting in his whitewashed studio surrounded by clothes racks for each client and mementoes from friends. He was an up-and-coming stylist, with lots of edgy editorial work and a long stint working for Topman’s head office on his CV (the brand did eventually hire him), when industry insiders introduced him to Styles in 2014. The 1D megastar was setting out his solo stall (1D would officially split in 2015) and Lambert brought racks filled with pieces by JW Anderson, Saint Laurent and future long-term collaborator Gucci on the hangers. He got the job the next day.“Harry has always been interested in fashion essentially,” Lambert says. “You could kind of tell already from the way he was dressing and the decisions that he was making with brands. So there’s never been, like, a battle. Everything with Harry is super-collaborative and it’s always been, it sounds cheesy to say, heavenly, but … !”

The two are clearly mates — they call each other Susan and Sue (Lambert is Susan), and a poster from Styles, signed “To Lamby” (his other nickname), has pride of place on Lambert’s desk. From the way he tells it, neither has blinked when it comes to the sexy, campy, gender-twisting work that has made Styles stand out from his peers. Indeed, other boy band veterans — Robbie Williams or Justin Timberlake — never tried anything this visually brave. But Lambert is clear that this isn’t just him dressing a marionette: “I think it’s part of his, you know, part of his character — it’s part of him. I never want it to feel like he’s wearing a costume, I never want to feel like something is wearing him. We’re not doing it for lols — it should feel like part of the performance or part of the whole, you know?”Lambert admits to finding online critique culture overwhelming, but he points out, slightly apologetically, that most them, for him, have been good (no doubt partly thanks to the millions of Styles superfans). “I’m lucky that I have a lot of positive feedback. But when I see something that is negative, you remember that so much more than the positive things. I used to be like, ‘Social media doesn’t bother me,’ but it does kind of f*** with your head.” Still, he’s all for it: “What’s worse — being so boring that nobody talks about you?” As for Corrin, they actually met at a Styles gig and the two became friends before she asked him to work with her for the media blitz for The Crown. “There’s something about her energy that’s just so infectious,” he raves today. Many have loved her appearances in fashion-forward London brands such as Knwls (a stringy black sheer party number, showcased in a lift), or more eccentric insiders like new-era Schiaparelli and Miu Miu. For Lambert, who loves to champion up-and-coming British brands such as Maximilian, SS Daley or his good friend Harris Reed, it was a no-brainer. “There’s a tendency sometimes for young actresses or young talent to make them look older or more ‘mature’. People are trying to hurry them along.” Corrin may be a leading lady already, “but she’s young too, and cool”, he reasons. “We didn’t want it to feel stuffy.”

Being a stylist is a star turn in itself now. In the glory days of the Noughties Rachel Zoe styled the likes of Nicole Richie and Lindsay Lohan in a very Zoe way (big sunglasses, bigger bags, gladiator sandals and anything boho). She has been followed by the likes of Karla Welch, who has put clients such as Tracee Ellis Ross and Elisabeth Moss in considered yet still fashion-forward choices, and the other current hot favourite Law Roach, who earned the respect of the entire world for decking out Céline Dion in Vetements. Lambert’s contribution is to blur not only genders, a bit, but also the distinction between “editorial” (traditionally edgy, fashy) and “red carpet” (which is to say glossy, a bit staid).Lambert finds most red-carpet dressing fearsomely dull, to be clear: “I really cannot see another black tie! Just no. No, thank you.” The last “iconic” red-carpet moment was, he thinks, Rihanna’s omelette dress at the Met Ball, and that was 2015. In fact what has really got him buzzing is RiRi’s latest series of outfits papped as “she comes out of restaurants, goes up escalators … it looks so good”, he says. “It’s better than most of what’s on the red carpet!” Back in Norwich, Lambert had no clue what a stylist was when he was growing up. The child of a policeman dad and a nurse mum, he had an extensive interest in clothes but no knowledge of fashion per se. It was only when he went to study photography at the University for the Creative Arts Rochester, in Kent, that he was alerted to it. He interned at fashion magazines during his summer holidays, then started working for a senior menswear stylist, and then the position at Topman came up. He speaks fondly of home — he says his dad is quite a “flamboyant” dresser, actually — but admits it took everyone a minute to suss out what he does. “Even up until five years ago my parents would tell people, ‘He’s a stylist,’ and they’d say, ‘Oh, he does hair?’

1 note · View note

blackswaneuroparedux · 5 years ago

Text

The Queen and Aberfan

The tragedy at Aberfan was a dark moment in the history of the United Kingdom. On 21 Oct 1966, a coal waste tip collapsed and slid into a school in the mining village of Aberfan in Wales, claiming the lives of 144 people. A committee eventually determined the National Coal Board was responsible for what happened.

Queen Elizabeth II did not immediately visit the village, but she eventually decided to go eight days later, and ended up returning several times throughout her life.

“From the remaining children of Aberfan”, said one of the men as his surviving grandchild presented the Queen with a bouquet. This heart-breaking episode is all the more so for being true as 116 children and 28 adults were crushed and killed by an avalanche of water, mud and debris in the mining village of South Wales. The school had just all been singing the beautiful hymn ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’.

But Queen Elizabeth II had taken some persuading to visit. In an early prelude to her response when Diana died, The Queen held back – that caution that has so often made her a great monarch.

According to Sally Bechdel Smith's biography Elizabeth the Queen, the monarch's caution wasn't a decision made out of coldness, but rather practicality. "People will be looking after me, she said according to Smith. "Perhaps they'll miss some poor child that might have been found under the wreckage."

And despite numerous suggestions that she should make the trip, the Queen stayed resolute in her opinion.

"We kept presenting the arguments," an advisor of the Queen's told her biographer Robert Lacey, "but nothing we said could persuade her."

Instead, the Queen first sent her husband Prince Philip. The singing of the mourners at the mass funeral was so beautiful, it was unbearable. Even the usually tactiturn Philip was visibly moved.

Her brother-in-law Lord Snowdon, traveled there on his own as well. "When I heard the news of the disaster on the wireless I felt I should be there because I was Welsh and thought the Welsh should stick together. So I just got on a train and went straight down," Indeed Lord Snowdon, bursting with Welshness, rushed to Wales on an overnight train - he even had a shovel packed. He went to the morgue and the hospital and grieved with survivors. He wrote to Princess Margaret, "Darling, it was the most terrible thing I have ever seen." His finest hour.

Six days after the tragedy, The Queen went to Aberfan and visited the relatives. One man had lost 13 grandchildren. A Councillor whom she called on, had lost 7 members of his family. Sally Beddell Smith states that The Queen said to one of the bereaved, ‘As a mother, I’m trying to understand what your feelings must be.’ She said with tears in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry I can give you nothing at present except sympathy.’

Her best biographer, Ben Pimlott, said that Aberfan was a throwback to her parents ‘looking the East End in the face’ during the Blitz. And her uncle David visiting Wales in 1936, weeks from Abdication, ‘Something must be done’.

Of course, she did it differently, diffidently; being in touch with her people did not come easily to Queen Elizabeth II. The tragedies of Lockerbie in 1988 and Dunblane in 1996 were to prove equally challenging. It is said that The Queen’s delayed response to Aberfan weighed heavily on her for decades. ‘Ma’am, where are you? Your people need You’.

Despite the monarch's remorse over her initial reaction to to the tragedy, for many survivors, her eventual presence was a comfort.

"If the Queen does regret not coming here straight away, I think that is misplaced," Jeff Edwards, who survived the disaster when he was eight years old, told the South Wales Echo in 2002. "When she did arrive she was visibly upset and the people of Aberfan appreciated her being here...She came when she could and nobody would condemn her for not coming earlier, especially as everything was such a mess."

Marjorie Collins, an Aberfan woman who lost her son in the disaster, remembered the queen’s visit in a 2015 interview with ITV: “They were above the politics and the din and they proved to us that the world was with us, and that the world cared.” Another mother told ITV that no one judged the queen for her delayed response. “We were still in shock, I remember the Queen walking through the mud,” she said. “It felt like she was with us from the beginning.”

Generally speaking, the Queen is rarely emotional in public, instead maintaining a stereotypical British stiff upper lip. But in Aberfan, she let her guard down, even crying a little.

“The one thing I recall about the Aberfan disaster was the arrival of the Queen and how it made her cry,” Sir Mansel Aylward said in 2012.

Throughout her life, the Queen visited Aberfan another four times.

#queen #elizabeth II #aberfan #britain #disaster #history #tragedy #monarchy #wales

62 notes · View notes

kevkesblog · 4 years ago

Text

Translation: kicker magazine profile about Julian Brandt (July 27, 2020)

By Thomas Hennecke and Matthias Dersch

Had he made this artistic pass during the corona pandemic with empty stands in the stadium, it would have been a pity. A week before Christmas however, there is almost no free space in the Signal Iduna Park left. Everybody is ripped off their seats – except the RB Leipzig fans – the moment Julian Brandt marks the second goal. Brandt digs deep into his toolbox. Receiving the pass by Sancho, processing the ball, shot. Three actions in one fluent move, south American suppleness with ice-cold efficiency, a master class. Goal of the month December.

This cool blonde with the jersey number 19 – he is a man for the special moments. A player who makes a difference. And a gambler. A footballer having fun and who lets the difficult things look easy and made his relaxed demeanor a trademark. You can guess why he named Diego (the Bremer, not Maradona”, like Brandt said in BVB-TV) is his idol. The Brazilian used to have the blessings to do great things on the pitch. Diego also had a dream goal in his repertoire: 62,5 meter distance on April 20, 2007 against Alemannia Aachen. End score: 3:1.

The fact Brandt coolness also comes from a sometimes fatal way of risking things, relativizes his actions. You are torn a bit. People who appreciate show, spontaneity, art and creativity will love him more than people adding statistics and all mistakes and how they translate onto the pitch. The ‘Süddeutsche Zeitung’ looks beyond that and celebrated Brandt as a “Player with the Wow-Effect”. Brandt plays passes, so precise they will find almost every gap. As if they were managed by an electronic brain. He celebrates chop passes which look good and find their goals. But he also screws up counter chances with sloppy passes. He gives goals to his opponents with carless back passes. Or he shoots x-times against the goal, without a slightest danger to the goal keepers.

2019 is the second year with coach Lucien Favre and the so-called “restart”. BVB manager Zorc took a lot of money into his hands, in order to optimize the team. Looking back he wouldn’t be as passionate about some transfers as he was back then – but the 25 million euros for Brandt are still a good and useful investment, Zorc thinks: “Julian is a talented football player and has a lot of potential. He is very active on the pitch, demanding the ball, plays in a self-confidend way and doesn’t hide.”

Then follows the “but”. Zorc follows everything very closely from his box seat on the team bench. He sees mistakes by Brandt, unnecessary mistakes – calles “unforced errors” in tennis. “He still does a lot of them”, Zorc complains. “He has still work to do when it comes to working against the ball, Julian knows that best himself.” Indeed one doesn’t have to look far to find weaknesses. He himself is his biggest critic, the professional once claimed. Yet, he never lets that sort of self-reflection get out of his hands: “I always question myself, whenever I’m not performing well. But I never question the fact that I still can do it.”

It’s easy to spot: this Brandt-guy is not Mr. Perfect nor a football-playing robot. Rather he is an un-adjusted fine spirit on the pitch. Always in a good mood, with a fresh quote on his lips. During the USA-journey to Seattle last year, he was walking interested through the Museum of Pop Culture where Borussia was celebrating its “Black and Yellow night”. He had some small talk with journalists, he seems relaxed, approachable and cool. The opposite of the footballer clicheé of being arrogant. Brandt is “a fantastic guy” says Captian Marco Reus, “he’s a funny and open guy”.

As engaging, positive and uncomplicated his persona comes across: sometimes however Brandt appears to be less serious about stuff. It’s seems as if an extra scoop of ambition is missing, based on his body language. Unlike many other professionals. “I heard from many people before, about me looking like I’m sort of listlessness I embody”, Brandt said during an interview with the former BVB-player Patrick Owomoyela. Yet he assures: “My inner drive is always there.”

Brandt shows both faces during the game against Leipzig. Magical and faulty. He serves Timo Werner the 2:2-goal on a silver platter with his horrible wrong pass. “Perhaps someday there will be the award: wrong pass of the month”, says the 24 year-old. “I’m sure, I’ll get into the top 5.” BVB-boss Hans Joachim Watzke is face-palming on the stands in that moment. With some distance he likes Brandt’s way of playing. The BVB-boss says: “Julian makes extraordinary mistakes, because you can only play extraordinary if you take risky passes or have risky ideas.”

Five months later, both major teams in Germany play against each other on the evening of May 26. Borussia against Bayern; light house 2 against light house 1. Dortmund has to win, otherwise the Bundesliga title will be gone and Dortmund starts in a rush. Erling Haaland gets the ball in the midfield after 17 seconds, by winning a head ball against Joshua Kimmich. From the back Brandt storms in front like a speed train, captures the situation, speeds up the game and passes over to Thorgan Hazard with his left foot. The clock ticks – 19 seconds into the game – Manuel Neuer gets out of his goal and saves the situation for Bayern at the last moment. But he passes the ball into Haalands feet. His shot rushes through Neuers feet until Jerome Boating saves it for Bayern on the goal line. Brandt goal celebration dies on his lips. The blitz goal after just one minute – it would have been his act as well.

Same game, 43rd minute. Mats Hummels defending for Dortmund, the ball moves a few meters to the left. Kimmich gets the ball, looks up, sees Roman Bürki standing a bit too far away from the goal, shoots and scores. The guy standing the closest to Kimmich: Brandt. It would have been unfair to make him responsible for the goal alone, half of the team is responsible as well. Yet some people who’s heart is beating for black and yellow would have preferred Brandt at least trying to hinder Kimmich on making his genius shot. He does: nothing.

He's a day dreamer, Brandt once said. Day dreamers keep strolling through their thoughts. A study found out: day dreamers are capable finding time to dream because their brains have enough space left. In the past day dreaming was understood as a sign of lack of concentration and attention – today people see it as a sign of intelligence and creativity. Like a lost professor: brilliant, sharp mind, yet sunk into his own world.

It is however no explanation for him being passive in front of the goal in May that basically pre-decided the German championship. Brandt made his day dreamer confession in a different context – when asked about a career plan. He doesn’t have one, he said: “Everything that happens in my life, happens spontaneously. I don’t even know what I will be doing in three weeks from now.” Brandt lives his live as free and individual as possible and as disciplined as necessary. He likes to sleep long in the morning and only leave “shortly” in order to just barley making it on time at the training ground. “Every minute is sacred” he says with a wink of an eye. “I don’t know how often I had to pay a penalty for being too late.”

A year Brandt is employed in Dortmund. The statistics are showing respectable numbers. 42 games, seven goals, 13 assists, ten second-pass assists. The season prior in Leverkusen he had seven goals and 15 assists – just in the Bundesliga. He added six scorer points in the DFB Cup then and the Europa League. “I had to find my place during the first months. I played on many positions and didn’t know many of the boys yet. It’s why it was a bit un-harmonic”, says Brandt. “Nevertheless, now I’m “in”. I had a nice year with great moments. I have to say: I’m really satisfied. Everything can get much better. However its was fine for the first year.”

Brandt wanders through the BVB team, gets put into five different roles. The center midfield is the place where he can show his class the best – whenever he has the game in front of him. He can put his instincts and creativity into force and can create chances with his passes. He is basically a lost force when playing way in front. Except against Slavia Prag in the Champions League he confirmed with two assists, Favre decision putting him into the front as a striker. His abilities are also limited once he plays on the wings.

He never has a lack of commitment and engagement. Brandt is running on average 11,85 kilometers in 90 minutes. Nobody of the permanent Dortmund players is running more. He wins 52,4 % of his one-on-ones – more than Sancho (45,6%), Marco Reus (44,6%), Hazard (42,0%) or Haaland (41,4%). His passing with a 84 percent accuracy however still has room for improvement compared to the other specialists like Axel Witsel (94,1%), Dan-Axel Zagadou (91,1%) or Raphael Guerreiro (89,2%).

Brandt is brilliant in games like against Gladbach (DFB Cup, kicker-grade: 1,5), against Fortuna Düsseldorf or Schalke in the Bundesliga (both 1,5). He has personal low points in Freiburg (sub in and out of the same game; grade: 5), in Munich (grade: 6) and against Milan in the Champions League, where he basically loses the ball in almost every scene. Every game becomes a personal balancing act for the highly skilled national player: he dances on a high wire – here and there he loses his grip and crashes down.

His time in Dortmund started with a glitch. He makes a mistake and drives onto the parking lot of the youth time at 7.45am in the morning. A BVB employee has to show him the way. Brandt decided to leave the comfort zone Leverkusen on purpose. “Dortmund” – he says, “Dortmund is much bigger in terms of media interest, the stadium, the number of fans and in terms of pressure. It’s a different game here. It could make a mark on me and will serve me good.” And then there is the wish to win a title which made him to transfer to Dortmund. It’s about a basic attitude in sports, Brandt said a year ago, “everybody should have the drive to win every game.”

Because Dortmund only won 28 of their 46 games this past season (seven draws, eleven defeats) a lively debate about coach Favré heats up as well as a discussion about the mentality of the team. No fans will get together in Dortmund and celebrate the fifth second place finish of the team since 2013. Nobody will fill extra pages in historic club chronicles, some BVB players are now suspecting. “We are not satisfied to finish second”, Brandt confesses. “We aren’t angry, but also not satisfied. We want more.” He then sticks up for his colleagues who get criticized for some bad performances and whenever there are doubts about their mentality and the harsh criticism: “We want to the big price. The team is hungry, they are in for it to win titles. The team is capable of that. You have to always aim high.”

Children who are having their first day of school this year, have lived a life only knowing Bayern Munich as German football champions. In order for them to understand that other teams can be successful as well, Dortmund needs to win the “all-or-nothing”-games, Brandt thinks. The duels with the other Bundesliga havy weights: Bayern Munich, Leipzig, Mönchengladbach, Leverkusen. “You have to win those games, if you want to stay on top”, he says. “Yet you also have to take smaller teams seriously. Something like a 3-3 draw against Paderborn is fatal.”

Borussia Dortmund gave the players four weeks vacation. This Thursday the team will come back together well rested. The months during the corona crisis, the tough hygiene rules of the German Bundesliga, left a mark on Brandt. “It does something to you”, he confesses, “you don’t see many people. You see your family, perhaps a few friends. Otherwise: nobody. You are happy to be able to go out and have some freedoms again.” Now he can go out again – at least a bit.

#julianbrandt #julian brandt #bvb #BVB09 #borussiadortmund #borussia dortmund #Bundesliga #dfb #diemannschaft #German NT

11 notes · View notes

buckyfullerene · 4 years ago

Text

Jorden van Foreest Wins Tata Steel Chess Tournament 2021

GM Jorden van Foreest became the first Dutch player in 36 years to win the Tata Steel Chess Tournament. The 21-year-old grandmaster defeated his compatriot GM Anish Giri in a dramatic playoff after both had finished on 8.5/13.

"On top of the world," was Van Foreest's answer to the question of all questions—how he felt after winning the super-tournament in Wijk aan Zee.

The oldest brother from a large family of chess players won the "Wimbledon of chess," a tournament of 13 classical rounds over the course of 16 days by remaining undefeated, scoring plus four, and winning the blitz playoff in the armageddon game. He also broke 2700 for the first time as he won 30 rating points.

Meanwhile, it was a massive disappointment for Giri and his fans. The Dutch number-one seemed destined to finally win his first major tournament in which GM Magnus Carlsen participated, but instead he lost his second playoff in Wijk aan Zee, after the one in 2018 against Carlsen.

On the decisive moment, at the end of today's armageddon game, over 80,000 online viewers were watching the combined Chess.com broadcast streams (Twitch, YouTube, and international channels), and more than 700,000 watched over the course of the day. These are incredible numbers for over-the-board tournament play, normally only seen during world championships. The chess boom is real, and Wijk aan Zee profited from it.

The many online spectators witnessed a special moment in the history of Dutch chess. It has been mentioned many times, but van Foreest finally did what predecessors like Jeroen Piket and Loek van Wely couldn't: become the first Dutch winner since GM Jan Timman won it, 36 years ago, in 1985.

A big part of van Foreest's success was his final-round win against GM Nils Grandelius, and that win was largely based on his highly successful opening preparation.

"I have to give a big shoutout to my second, GM Max Warmerdam," said van Foreest. "We had this position on the board this morning. He said, '13...Bd7 is the human move.' We played around a bit, we got to this position with 16...Qb8, and he played 17.c4 and said it was slightly better for White according to the engines, but I didn't know the follow-up."

"In general, it's a very risky line for White," van Foreest added. "I believe Black is better if he knows it, but in this situation, the line is really very well-suited for this game."

Van Foreest continued playing the engine's preferred choices, including the wonderful 21.Nb5!. Grandelius initially defended well but got low on time and at one point collapsed. A nice final touch was van Foreest's king walking to h6, in the style of GM Nigel Short's win vs. 1985 winner Timman.

"It's crazy, it didn't really get through to me yet, I just finished the game. It was a really tough game, and I think happiness will come later," said van Foreest after this game, not realizing how prophetic these words would be.

By then, he knew that his win was going to be good for a tiebreak because it became clear that Giri was going to draw his game. Spanish GM David Anton was in control in this game but failed to convert his long-term advantage.

For a while, Giri's prospects did look rather grim. After two and a half hours, his wife IM Sopiko Guramishvili—on a short break from her own commentary—told an interviewer of the Dutch national broadcaster NOS: "I'm pretending not to be nervous!"

Giri himself was strolling confidently through the playing hall after almost every move he made and was out of trouble when he could play the thematic ...d5 pawn break.

GM Fabiano Caruana, who could still catch the leaders, had little chance for more than a draw against GM Aryan Tari, but that cannot be said about GM Alireza Firouzja. The Iranian teenager was doing rather well against GM Radoslaw Wojtaszek, and he had good chances to finish on the same number of points as Giri and van Foreest.

His Sonneborn-Berger (SB) tiebreak, however, was worse. During the round, it was already clear that a win wouldn't be enough for Firouzja to make it to a playoff, which according to the regulations would only be played by two players.

The all-Dutch playoff was scheduled to start at 18:10, two tables away from Firouzja-Wojtaszek, who were still playing. When these players reached the time control, the arbiters asked them to move to one of the tables farther away so that they would be less bothered by the moves of Giri and Van Foreest.

Firouzja was visibly disturbed (understandably so) and refused to leave the table. While the playoff was underway, he spoiled his promising position, and afterward, he was very angry at the arbiters and shouted at the main organizer. The whole affair was a stain on an otherwise wonderfully organized event in pandemic times.

The regular round saw two more decisive games. For starters, a win for the world champion, who at least managed to finish a bad tournament on a plus score as he outplayed GM Maxime Vachier-Lagrave in a Grunfeld.

"He went for a plan in the middlegame, which probably wasn't very good," explained Carlsen. "After he sac'ed the exchange, I think I was considerably better. 29.Nd2 was pretty nice, giving up another pawn but eventually winning based on domination."

"The overall performance was … shameful, to be honest," Carlsen reflected. "There were really very few moments of redemption in the tournament, it was really quite poor, and I have to do better in the future."

Besides van Foreest, another young grandmaster broke into the elite club of 2700 players for the first time in this tournament. GM Andrey Esipenko finished with a win against the luckless GM Alexander Donchenko.

The playoff consisted of two blitz games; the time control was 5|3. Giri missed a chance to take the lead.

Giri was also better in game two, where he won a pawn. However, too much had been traded by then, and van Foreest held it to a draw with accurate defense.

The match went down the wire with an all-decisive armageddon game. Van Foreest won the toss and chose to play with the black pieces.

Once again, it was Giri who took the upper hand, this time in a must-win game for him. He reached a winning position indeed but then blundered it all away in one move, missing an intermediate check, despite thinking for half a minute on that fateful 26.c6.

The Giri-Van Foreest armageddon game. Photo: Jurriaan Hoefsmit/Tata Steel Chess.

As the players got low on time, it was van Foreest's turn to blunder, first a pawn and then a full piece. Giri was winning again.

In a hectic final phase, the moves were made so fast that the digital chessboard stopped registering them after move 58. To the online viewers, it looked like Giri lost on time in a winning position.

In reality, four more moves were made, and Giri turned out to be the last to blunder. In the final position, he couldn't prevent his opponent from queening a pawn, and as he leaned back in disbelief, he resigned while letting his clock run down to zero.

"In these blitz games, it basically comes down to a lot of luck," said van Foreest. "He played the better chess, but maybe I played the faster chess in the end. Blitz is just a coin flip basically."

Some viewers must have felt uncomfortable with the fact that a 13-round classical tournament is decided in a time scramble like this—especially the ones who were rooting for Giri.

Van Foreest: "I felt bad for Anish, and I felt a bit bad about this game. There was a lot of throwing pieces around. You don't want to win this way but it happened like this, and I'm just really happy now."

The youngest of the two Dutchmen, who is a friend and has helped Giri as a second in the past, praised Giri: "Full credit to him, he played a really good tournament, really deserved to win it. I mean, he could have won both of his last games too, but that is just how it goes."

Giri (second), van Foreest (first), Esipenko (third). Photo: Jurriaan Hoefsmit/Tata Steel Chess.

Thank you all and have a nice day :)

#chess #tatasteelchess2021

1 note · View note