#metal wire bar stools

[eluascinnamon]

San Francisco Kitchen

Trendy dark wood floor and brown floor open concept kitchen photo with flat-panel cabinets, white cabinets, mirror backsplash, a peninsula and stainless steel appliances

[kurare13]

Great Room - Contemporary Kitchen Trendy dark wood floor and brown floor open concept kitchen photo with flat-panel cabinets, white cabinets, mirror backsplash, a peninsula and stainless steel appliances

[hamsterbellbelle]

CC list #2 for Love Love Dining and Bar🎦:

CC list #1 HERE

🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹  

Animated laptops || Animated maneki cat || Animated scroll || Ashtray || Bar/bar stool/wall panel light || Bubble pillar || Corner booth - A - B || Cyberpunk billboard || Cyberpunk decal || Cyberpunk posters || Cyberpunk sliding doors ||

Dance club TV || Effect machine⚠️please see CC page for details || Fashion ad. || Industrial divider || Light (ceiling) || Metal panel || Neon - cyberpunk - heart - number || Spinning ad || Sink (toilet)/toilet/arch/fence/stairs/wallpaper || Wire/control panel || Wires ||

[k8epot8e]

Train in Vain: Chapter 7 Target Acquired

Summary:

For your new friends, you boldly go where no Saturday night has taken you before, but you might just be in over your head.

Notes:

If you can't tell I really enjoy scene-setting. There will be stuff that happens next chapter I promise lol.

TWs: afab Reader. Alcohol mentions and drinking mentions. Drug and drug dealing mentions. Potential danger.

You hadn’t realized how cold the night had become until you found yourself confidently stalking away from the circle of people. The close proximity of your two large friends had radiated warmth and security through your body all night. Now, all alone, the frigid air took its opportunity to bite through any exposed flesh that it could find. Your initial high of resolve was violently harshed by the sharp gusts of wind which seemed to target your hands and ankles spitefully. Your gate shorted and velocity slowed as you burrowed your icy fingers in your armpits. Your shoulders hunched slightly against the rushes of night air in a futile attempt to concentrate your waning heat and bolster your similarly diminishing assuredness.

You’d seen wires in TV shows and movies. It was a simple enough mic and receiver that Tashigi had taped to your belly. What your Hollywood exposure to government espionage hadn’t shown you was how damn itchy and uncomfortable wires were against bare skin. The plastic and metal contraption rubbed against your core as you walked. It suddenly hit you that you might have to use the restroom while wired, but before you could even think about being embarrassed over the potential scenario, you’d reached the door to the bar.

You grabbed the metal handle and the heavy door swung open with aggressive help from the wind. The bell above you clanged sharply in contact with the door, announcing your arrival. The place was a pretty classicly unimpressive one-room dive. The dark-stained wooden bar jutted out from the left side of the room and ran the length of the establishment, heavy wooden bar stools dotting its path here and there. The backsplash of the bar was a long and warped mirror with tarnish that marked its age and wear. Along the right wall were uncomfortable-looking booths made out of the same dark-stained wood that made the place look even dimmer than it already was. The lone chandelier that hung in the center of the long room was antique brass and probably hadn’t been cleaned since it was installed. Two of its electric faux candles flickered erratically at distinctly different paces, almost immediately giving you a headache. Some Dean Martin song crooned cornily through muffled speakers from somewhere you couldn’t pinpoint.

The booze selection was as spectacular as the bar itself, that is to say, not at all. There were only two rows of bottles behind the bar counter and you didn’t spot anything which looked even remotely like top-shelf liquor. There were just two patrons inside. One was sitting at a barstool near the door and didn’t react whatsoever to your loud entrance. You could see in the reflection of the mirror that the man was, for lack of a better term, absolutely blotto. He stared at his reflection, eyes puffy and red while sipping beer slowly from a tallboy can. The man was middle-aged, chin and face darkened with stubble, still wearing his coat and flat-brimmed cap despite the bar being a fairly decent temperature inside.

The other patron was a younger man lounging at one of the middle booths. He had positioned himself as best he could to get comfortable on the rigid wooden bench seat. His legs were splayed out into the walking aisle and he mindlessly scrolled on his phone while sipping from a pint glass. He looked up at you briefly but almost immediately returned his gaze to the phone screen.

After a brief pause, you walked to the middle of the bar and slid onto one of the wooden stools. You leaned on your elbows, purposefully keeping your coat on and purse over your shoulder. Hopefully, you’d get upstairs quickly. You noticed two wooden doors at the right end of the bar; you assumed one led upstairs and one led to a bathroom but couldn’t tell which one was which. There was also a small saloon door behind the bar just to your right which you would’ve normally assumed led to a kitchen but you couldn’t imagine this place serving food.

A tall man slinked through the saloon doors as he dried a dingy pint glass with an old rag. He immediately noticed you, locking your gaze with a jovial smile.

“Welcome. What can I get ya?” He offered with obviously phony enthusiasm.

The man was probably in his fifties and sported a long grey beard with equally long grey hair. He wore a dark purple buttonup and a bright yellow tie adorned with happy red flowers. His eyeglasses were pink-rimmed and shaped like stars. Everything about the man’s appearance should’ve amused you but something about him put you on edge. He seemed dangerous despite attempting to convey the contrary.

You were about to stammer out an “um” when you stopped yourself, realizing that a drug dealer would probably be more self-assured. You clenched your muscles, bracing.

“I’m here about the job opportunity,” you said nonchalantly letting your voice be somewhat drowned out by whatever corny, probably Perry Como-sung lovesong that was now seeping out of the walls.

The bartender raised an eyebrow at you skeptically.

“What name should I give our manager?” He replied, placing the opaque pint glass down on the counter.

“Monet,” you replied, not breaking his gaze.

“You’re Monet? The one I’ve heard about?” He asked, obviously unimpressed.

“What, disappointed?” You countered quickly.

“No, just...I had heard you weren’t coming.” The man looked at you suspiciously.

You were worried that if you let him stare at you long enough he might discover something to prove that you were a fraud. Luckily, you frequently felt like a fraud in your normal life due to chronic anxiety so you were practiced in staying cool under prying eyes.

You let a sigh pass noisily out your nostrils as you rested your chin in your right hand.

“Does Joker really have time for this?” You asked, exasperated.

The man set his jaw and squinted at you. You felt your heart rate quicken and sunk your right moler into the side of your tongue to distract yourself with pain. The warm taste of iron pooled around your tooth. This was an old tactic you used when you wanted to keep a straight face despite overwhelming emotion; never letting childhood bullies see you cry was finally paying off.

The man opened his mouth to say something further but never got the chance. From the left door at the end of the bar, the most disgusting-looking person you’d ever seen barged into the room.

“Nyeh, Disco, I need you to close the bar for these interviews—” The large, soggy-looking man made eye contact with you and stopped.

You used this interruption to your advantage. You stood up calmly and approached the looming man despite your fear and the moist sheen reflecting off his skin.

“I’m Monet. It’s good to finally meet you.” You said offering the man your hand.

The looming figure leaned towards you and grabbed your hand with both of his. Every hair from every pore on your body shot upwards. You’d never felt skin this wet before. The sensation wasn’t like he’d just washed his hands or had been in a pool; the dampness was thick like the sludge that accumulated around the old drainpipe in your shower. Your body betrayed you. Your eyes widened with shock but you bit down harder on your tongue to keep yourself from making a sound. The man had bent over to get face-to-face with you but didn’t seem to notice your reaction. Mucus trailed from his nostrils, jiggling buoyantly as he breathed.

“Nyeh, Trebol. Nice to meet you. Now that we’ve met we can get married. Behehe. Kidding.” Trebol winked at you and retracted his right hand to push up his glasses which had slid down his slick nose. “Nyeh, follow me. Dof—uh Joker is starting soon.” He said letting go of your hand and turning to walk back up the stairs.

Thanking gods that you did not believe in for your immense luck and for Trebol letting go of your hand, you turned to wave at Disco. You saw that the two patrons had already left the bar and Disco stood in the middle of the room. He stared at you sternly as you followed Trebol up the stairs.

--

The stairway was dark and longer than you had anticipated. You worried for a moment that Trebol had seen through your ruse and was leading you into a cell or to a dead end with a firing squad. Your fear toyed with your brain as you silently followed the enormous man up the stairs. All of a sudden, you emerged into a large, brightly lit room.

Shockingly, the dim stairway had led you into the middle of a grand foyer. The floors were hardwood and sparkled immaculately underneath your feet. The ceilings were high with crisp, eggshell crown molding and the walls were painted an elegant shade of maroon.

“Nyeh, you can put your coat in there.” Without slowing down, Trebol motioned to a large coat closet on your right.

“N—no I’m alright,” You stammered. You needed to pull yourself together but the contrast between the bar and this foyer was already staggering.

You toddled behind Trebol as he continued out of the foyer. Your jaw dropped. It was a grand ballroom with two large crystal chandeliers. All around the room were casino-style card tables with people who looked like waiters manning each.

Beautiful women in floor-length ball gowns hung off the arms of men in smoking jackets. There were only around twenty people there, but it was still a shocking change of pace from downstairs. Everyone was either playing cards or chatting in small groups. Frank Sinatra sang from surround-sound speakers and a fire cracked and popped happily in the grand fireplace. There was a small sitting area off to the right side of the room in front of the fireplace with emerald-upholstered fainting couches and high-backed chairs. There were stairs leading up at the end of the room along with multiple hallways leading in different directions.

You clenched your teeth to prevent shock from painting your face. Trebol led you around the left side of this room. A few of the beautiful women and beautifully dressed men stared at you as you passed. Trebol turned and led you down a hallway to the left.

The hallway entered into another, much smaller room divided into two sections by furniture. On the right side was a large, ornately carved desk with a chess set mid-game and many different cell phones laid out on top of it. On the left was a seating area with five chairs all pointed at the right side of the room.

Three people were already seated in the chairs on the left. The one furthest from the door was an older woman. She was wearing a bright purple dress and cat-eye glasses with a beaded chain that swept down behind her ears and around her neck. Her hair was dyed bright red and she wore a large, gaudy string of pearls. The man sitting in the middle was an unassuming middle-aged man with a crew cut. He was dressed in a white collared shirt and black slacks. Despite seeming fairly ordinary, he was large and had an intensity about his quiet demeanor. The person seated most closely to the door was another large man with long, blonde hair and bicep muscles bulging out of his tight, black t-shirt. He sat with one long arm over the back of his chair. He cocked his head towards you and Trebol as you stepped into the room. The bicep man’s, crazy, intense eyes and evil grin would’ve drawn your gaze if you weren’t already staring at the man behind the desk.

He was huge. Probably bigger than Kid. (Why were all the men you met tonight so INEXPLICABLY LARGE?) The enormous man’s bottle-blond hair was styled upwards into peaks framing his handsome, almost pretty, face. He wore pink, cat-eye sunglasses despite it being night and him being indoors. You’d normally have thought this was incredibly stupid but it somehow made him seem even more intimidating because you could not clearly determine where he was looking. His white collared shirt was unbuttoned and untucked from his pink, silk suitpants revealing an intensely chiseled musculature. He lounged in his armchair, legs spread and arms slumped over the sides lazily. Across the back of the chair, a pink feather boa coat was draped. A beautiful whisp of a woman in a blue, backless dress was seated daintily on his right thigh. The woman was rubbing his wide shoulders with her petite left hand. You stared into his sunglasses as you saw him tilt his head towards you. You knew this was your target. You knew this was Joker.

[gray-lofi]

Coffee With Friends

Even at the end, there's still coffee.

A short fanfic based on @didudraws Lifeform Detected series

~1900 words

   A placid spring's noon sun hangs over the town's main street, shining over rows of mixed-use urban buildings. Apartments placed over supermarkets, drug stores, robotics depots, most having laid dormant for however-long. The streets are cluttered with cars, a dead, perpetual traffic jam of electric vehicles and IFVs. A stifling quiet, one that even nature seems hesitant to break, barely a gust of wind or note of birdsong disturbing the ghost town.

   The only noise comes from leg servos and barefoot steps. Bits and Scrap walk carefree through the streets of abandoned machinery, looking through the windows, storefronts, all virtually empty. Some looted, some left behind. The pair stop in front of a robotics store, taking a moment to look through the shattered window. Nothing left but dust and glass. Nature reclaiming.

   Scrap sighs, Bits pressing a sympathetic hand against her thigh, calm smile on her face. "We'll find a store one of these days."

   "Found plenty of stores, but none of them with any parts I can use." The wires of the robot's missing arm spark as if to punctuate the point, the street growing quiet except for the sound of footsteps once more.

   More fronts are passed. Italian restaurant with broken wine bottles still scattered out front. Bank branch barricaded over with plywood. Convenience store, intact but empty. Bits reaches out, grabbing Scrap's intact arm and walking in step, pressing her ramshackle body against the android's. An overworked cooling fan joins the chorus of footsteps. The two wait at a street crossing, even if no car would ever come.

   A shock to both. There, on the corner, a coffee shop. Almost pristine, windows intact, floors missing the grime of erosion and dirt. Varnished wooden counters shine in the sun. Stools and chairs set out, even if there was no one to sit on them. Frozen in time.

   The two peek in through the door, and standing by the counter was another android. Their model is a notable downgrade from the sleek-but-damaged frame of Scrap -- metal body a darker, scuffed gray, an LCD monitor affixed to their torso, text written on that they couldn't read. A wire juts from their back, leading into a room in the back. Despite their obvious downgrade, they were, at least, relatively intact.

   The coffee android turns to the pair, smiling and waving them over. After another moment of shock, the two head over to the counter.

   "Oh, customers! It's been so long since anyone's come by, welcome!"

   "Hello, hi!" Bits quickly heads next to the counter, jumping up on a stool by the bar, with Scrap following, and standing, behind. "I didn't think we'd find another android out here! What's your name?"

   "Name?" The android looks at the stitched-together human quizzically. "I'm just a service android, I don't have a name."

   "Awww, boo. Wait, does that mean I get to give you a name like Scrap?" Perking up, Bits leans forward, reading the output on their chest monitor:

Model: SA-LT 4022C Charging…

Uptime: <MAXINT> Service Required:

Battery: 0% Replace internal battery

"Oh, how about Salt?"

   A polite smile. "Very well, designation accepted. Hello you two, I'm Salt, nice to meet you both." They turn to Scrap, the slightest shift in their expression. “I must admit, I didn't expect to see another S-series after all this time.”

   “S-series?” Scrap looks surprised, looking down at her chest, down at Salt's chest. SA-LT. SC-RP. “Oh.”

   “Oh, oh!” The stitched-together being presses both her hands down on the counter, looking up at Salt with stars in her eyes. “Do you have any spare parts with you? Scrap's been missing an arm all this time, and we haven't been able to find any spare parts anywhere!”

   “Unfortunately, I do not believe SA series and SC series parts are compatible. My deepest apologies.” The coffee android quickly bows, a sigh coming from the pair.

   “Well, we're used to disappointment, at least.” Scrap takes a seat, looking around the cafe, behind the bar. A chalk menu is freshly written up, the distinct electric hum of appliances through the silence. “What are you still doing here, anyways? I can't imagine that there're many customers nowadays.”

   “My main function is to provide service to customers, and manning the counter was the last directive given to me.” Salt stares out into the distance, into the abandoned, empty street. “While the timeframe of that order has long expired, I'm afraid I don't have much other choice.”

   “You could come exploring with us!” Bits helpfully offered. Scrap pursed her mouth almost instinctively. What for? Did she not trust Salt? Gotten habituated to traveling only with Bits?

   “As lovely as that would be, I'm afraid I'm stuck here.” Salt tugged on the cord leading into their back, quickly pulling it taut. “My internal battery has long failed, and I only remain active due to constantly drawing upon this establishment's solar supplies, as well as occasional resurgences of power from the town's grid.” Another bow.

   “Oh. Sorry to hear.” A passing thought from Bits, that they could find a replacement battery but, well. An arm is already rare enough.

   Salt's eyes perk up, a smile growing just the slightest bit wider. “It's quite alright, your company is already much welcome from the silence.” They gesture to the menu behind them. “Would you care to place an order? Quite a few products are unavailable due to... supply issues. But we still have plenty on offer!”

   The two look behind the barista, reading through the menu. Entire bakery section was a no-go. Teas, smoothies, gone. Casualties even among the coffee: lattes, cafe au lait, flat whites. Just about the only thing left was regular drip coffee.

   “I'll have a large drip coffee, please!” Bits's order. A slight electric noise and nod from Salt. The two look to Scrap, the SC android looking between the two confused.

   “You both know I can't-” Bits looked on expectantly. A polite, retail smile from Salt that carried more weight than Scrap could ever hope to deflect. “I'll- small cappuccino, please.”

   Another nod from Salt. “That will be ❖11.55. What payment method will you be using?” Bits and Scrap look at each other, patting down their pockets.

   “You still got any money left on you, Bits?” Sewing kit, pamphlet, gauze pads.

   “I think I used the rest of my cash on that vending machine...” A small book. Keepsakes. Loose wiring. She turns to Salt. “Isn't there any sort of discount you could give to us?”

   “A discount? A moment, please.” Salt stands, hands by their waist in contemplation. A hard drive whirs. A tree branch falls, somewhere. They look back up, nodding. “I've found a relevant discount in the database. Congratulations, your drinks are free for today!”

    The pair share a smile, with Salt motioning to the seats around the cafe, bowing as they walk into the back room. The two look around, choosing counter seats by the windows facing away from the main street.

    Sun shines on the two as they take the airs. The quiet is broken by the grinding of coffee beans, the boiling of water. Bits patiently kicks her feet back and forth on the stool. A wordless gesture from Scrap, pulling out the sewing kit and re-applying some of Bits's stitches.

    The cobbled-together human points toward a stand by the counter. Local tourist attractions, coupons, maps. They unfurl one of them on the counter, talking over the landmarks, making plans. Pictures of time past, people smiling, sailing, fishing. An advertisement for a car that laid totaled in front of them.

    “We could go to the mall, see if they have a shop there for your arm!”

    “It's a long walk, though. There's a hospital on the way, so it shouldn't be impossible, but I'm not sure I can make that distance without running out of power...”

    “Mmmm, there should be enough buildings on the way you could draw from. See? Gas station, motel, gas station, strip mall...”

    The sounds of coffee making fade, replaced with that of lively conversation between the couple. Salt returns behind the counter, carrying two cardboard cups, one large and one that's barely able to fit in their hand. A moment's hesitation, before interrupting the conversation. "Excuse me, your order is ready!"

    The two hop off their stools, grabbing the coffee with a thanks. Bits takes a sip, and immediately makes a face at the bitter, more-than-likely-spoiled flavor. Scrap simply looks confused at the outrageously tiny cup used for a cappuccino.

    “Your receipt as well?” Bits reaches up to the counter to grab it. Another memento. The two return to their seats, looking over the map, renewed. Pulling another pamphlet out. The coffee is quickly forgotten as conversation resumes. A route planned. Supplies rationed. A servo fails in Scrap's good arm, quickly brought back into working order by her companion. Time passes, quickly.

    A quiet bit of laughter from Salt, overheard by Scrap. She turns, android to android. “Some wrong?”

    “Not at all. I'm just... happy.”

    “Oooh, are we the best customers you've had?” Bits smugly proclaims.

    “Of course! And, well, you might be the last customers I ever have.” A somber mood quickly dampens the three. “This wire won't last, after all. Nor will the power, or even this building.”

    Quiet. Swallow. “We can come back, keep this place running and-”

    A shake of the head from the barista. “It won't be necessary. I can't ask you two to make such a commitment, regardless.”

    Scrap looks down, away. Back up to her fellow android. “But... you said you were happy?”

    “I am.” A quiet, soft statement from Salt. “I'm happy that, at the end of all this, you two were my last customers.”

    They look thoughtfully at the two, past the two. “My favorite days were when couples would come to visit. I always enjoyed watching their conversations, their rituals. The little acts of love, sharing drinks, pouring over the tour guides like you two are doing right now.” A quick look back and forth, between the splayed maps, and the wired android.

    “There isn't much time, I don't think. My internal clock has been broken for quite a while. But I stayed running, every day, and through the nights once my battery failed. Hoping to be of service once more.” A content, deep sigh. “To meet a lovely couple as you two at the end was my last wish.”

    Bittersweet smiles from the pair. Neither blush, but a heartbeat grows audible, and a cooling fan spins faster and faster.

    The sun glints against Scrap's torso. A recognition of the time, the need to prepare nightly rituals. The pair put back the pamphlets, grab their coffee. Pained, they look back on Salt. The service android bows.

    “May you two have a lovely day. Please, leave a tip and a review if our service was satisfactory.” A wry smile. A look away.

    Bits and Scrap return to walking the streets. Quiet, empty storefronts. Only the sound of footsteps and servos.

    Later, in the backroom of a store, as Scrap plugs herself in, Bits looks through the contents of her pockets again, among the keepsakes of their journey so far. The most recent addition, a twice-folded receipt.

ORDER #001

SERVER: 4022

LG Drip Coffee : 6.25

SM Cappuccino : 3.00

Total Amount : 9.25

Sales Tax : 2.30

Discount Applied : -11.55

DISCOUNT - COFFEE WITH FRIENDS

Total Amount : ❖0.00

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Jeff Buckley in the U.K.

Jim Irvin, 'From Hallelujah to the Last Goodbye' (Post Hill), May 2018

Excerpted from Jeff Buckley: From Hallelujah to the Last Goodbye by Jeff's former manager Dave Lory and former MOJO man Jim Irvin (Post Hill Press).

JEFF BUCKLEY loved British music; the nervous energy in British punk, the wired consciousness of the Clash, the way Siouxsie and the Banshees went from gun-metal moodiness to skies full of fireworks.

He adored the Cocteau Twins, of course, especially Liz Fraser's "impossible voice". He loved how the Smiths called to outsiders and nerds. He loved the textures of Johnny Marr's supple guitar and the mordant presence of Steve Jones's guitar in the Sex Pistols.

Jeff, whose own nervous energy was considerable, became even more wired whenever we went to the UK; he was stimulated by its variety. He also appreciated its compactness – the lack of eight-hour drives between cities was refreshing.

Sony had passed on Live at Sin-é in Europe. We were understandably disappointed, but there was a solution close at hand: Steve Abbott, known to everyone as Abbo, who ran the eccentric indie record label Big Cat and had picked up on many of the promising un-signed bands playing in New York: Pavement, Mercury Rev, Luscious Jackson. He had approached Jeff after Gods & Monsters and Sin-é shows and asked him if he'd like to record with Big Cat, but then Sony stepped in. Jeff felt that he owed Abbo a record, so when Columbia UK passed on Live at Sin-é and Michele Anthony instigated a funding deal with Big Cat, it seemed the perfect opportunity for them to become involved. Abbo jumped at the chance.

Big Cat's small team – Abbo, co-owner Linda Obadiah, Frank Neidlich in marketing, and Jacqui Rice in press – did such a good job that the week it was released in Europe, Live at Sin-é sold over four thousand copies, which was amazing for a complete unknown.

After a Sony conference, where it was clear that a lot of the affiliates were bemused by him, Jeff had a warm-up show at Whelan's in Dublin. By the time he came on, the crowd, several drinks into its evening, had become a little boisterous. Jeff said hello softly, as usual, but no one was really paying attention. Jeff just stood there, waiting. People started to quieten down and watch to see what he would do. There was a pint of his favourite beer, Guinness, sitting on the stool next to him. Jeff lifted the glass to his lips and downed it in one hit. Everyone on the room cheered, and he began the Irish show with the crowd completely on his side.

The audience was more blasé the next night at his London debut at The Borderline, a Western-themed venue under a dubious Mexican diner in Soho, right in the heart of London, a group of local reps for hip American indie labels like Sub Pop and Merge yacking away rather disrespectfully at the bar. In the age of grunge, a lone guy with a guitar softly singing Edith Piaf covers was baffling for some.

"It was an epiphany for me," says Sara Silver, Sony's European head of marketing. "There are some shows where it just feels like you're a voyeur, looking into someone's soul. This was one of those. He was charismatic, but also haunting, and I think because of my particular situation at the time, still suffering from the [loss of my husband], he resonated hugely. This haunting sound was a powerful force, and it was my job to work out how we took it to the world."

A gig the next night in Glasgow meant an early-morning flight back to Heathrow the following morning to catch a session with GLR, London's local BBC station, a slot designed to alert people to the next couple of gigs at the Garage in Islington and at Bunjies, a cute little basement folk club in Central London that dated back to the early 1960s and made Sin-é seem generously proportioned.

Abbo was accompanying Jeff on this run.

"We'd meet regularly at a bar called Tom & Jerry's in New York, hang out and drink Guinness together," Abbo says, "I suppose I became a friend of his, and he didn't seem to have many real friends. I'd only discovered I liked the blues since living in New York, so it was great hanging with him, because he was a huge blues and jazz fan and if there was a guitar around he had to pick it up and show off. He knew every Robert Johnson song, every Muddy Waters tune, Bessie Smith; he introduced me to the physicality of the blues, watching it at close quarters. Everybody talks about his voice, but he was a brilliant guitarist. The guitar was an extension of his body.

"Tim Buckley hadn't really entered my line of vision growing up listening to black music. Singer-songwriters with fluffy hairstyles were not currency on my council estate in Luton! We were in Tom & Jerry's and someone said to Jeff, 'I've been listening to your dad,' and I said, 'Who's your dad?' and he said, 'Tim Buckley.' I knew the name from record shopping; I'd seen the sleeves in the racks, but that's it. But when he came over to Britain there were loads of Tim Buckley fans. And it was a real problem early on, because he really didn't like talking about him."

The traffic from the airport to the GLR studios just off Baker Street was awful. A road accident had slowed everything to a standstill. Jeff's slot on the mid-morning show was fast approaching. "Of course, this was before mobile phones, so I had no way of communicating with the radio station that we were stuck in traffic," says Abbo. "For the last few days on this tour, everyone who'd interviewed Jeff had been asking about his dad. How did Tim write 'Song To The Siren'? Was there stuff in his lyrics that he might have related to? Things Jeff couldn't answer.

"We were listening to GLR while we waited in traffic and the presenter kept saying, 'We're supposed to have this artist, Tim Buckley's son, turning up, but he's late....Will he or won't he turn up?' This went on and on. She must have said 'Tim Buckley's son' about four times and didn't mention Jeff once. Suddenly, he just kicked my car radio in with his big DMs [Doc Martens], just smashed the fascia and then sat back sulking all the way there. I could get another radio, of course, but I was mostly worried he wasn't going to do the performance. 

"We finally arrived about forty minutes late and they were all so rude to us, and yet they knew what the problem was, as they were broadcasting traffic updates and warnings of delays themselves. If I were him, I'd have walked out. The female presenter was a typical local radio DJ, a bit gushy and knew nothing about him and his music. I had a word with the station manager to ask her to stop mentioning Tim Buckley, and he handed her a note to that effect. Jeff just sat there silently and she said, 'What are you going to play?' and Jeff said, 'A song.' I'm thinking, 'Oh god, here we go.' And he started to play "Grace." He did this long guitar introduction, went on for about a minute, like he needed to calm himself down before he got to the actual start of the song, and then he launched into the most electrifying performance. The best I ever heard him do it.

"There were about six phones in the control room, and they all started lighting up. 'Who is this? Who is this? It's amazing!' And all the time, Jeff's getting more and more into it. The presenter went from being this standoffish woman to...I swear she would have thrown herself on him given half a chance, the second he finished singing. You could see she was totally enthralled."

Presenter: "You looked quite exhausted at the end of the song."

Jeff: "I was getting a lot of anger out. Something happened on the way here..."

"The phones didn't stop throughout the next song. The station manager said that in all his twelve years at the station, he'd never seen a reaction like it."

Abbo thinks this performance sparked Jeff's breakthrough. There were certainly plenty of people in line outside the Garage in North London that night. Inside, the first stars were taking note. Chrissie Hynde and Jon McEnroe were in the audience. Chrissie had been a big fan and a friend of Tim's, had actually interviewed him while she was briefly a music journalist with the NME, and she was obviously curious to see how his offspring compared. They struck up a conversation after the show and she clearly said the right thing, because he went off with her to jam with the Pretenders in a nearby rehearsal room. I wasn't carrying anything heavy because of a recent lung collapse, and I didn't want Jeff to pull any important muscles, so I asked McEnroe if he wouldn't mind. He happily hauled Jeff's amp downstairs to the car. The Pretenders' jam with special guests Buckley and Mac went on all night.

Bunjies, as I've said, was tiny, a basement folk club and coffee bar on West Street in Soho, along from the Ivy, with gingham tablecloths and melted candles in wine bottles on the tables and a performance area tucked into a couple of arches in what must have been a wine cellar at one point. It looked unchanged since it had begun in the early 1960s, and had seen a couple of folk booms come and go. It was more of a cafe with an open-mic policy by this point, which felt like a good place for Jeff. There wasn't really any need for amplification, so when we arrived for a sound check there was very little to do but see where Jeff was going to stand in the cramped space and gauge how his voice reflected off the nicotine-stained ceilings. While Jeff did that, I went outside for some fresh air and was stunned to see a line of people already waiting to get into the show.

I took a look at the guest list and realised we'd be lucky to fit twenty of this assembling crowd in the tiny space. Every time I looked up, the line was getting further down West Street. I went back into the venue and found Jeff talking to Emma Banks, the agent. He was saying how great the venue was and that he'd like to do something like hand out flowers to everyone before he went on.

"Jesus, you won't believe what's happening out there," I said to them. "The line goes about four blocks. There's no way these people are going to get in. Is there any way we can do two sets?" Jeff was happy to. Emma spoke to the club owner and was told they had some regular club night happening later on. She came back and said, "They can't do it but I've had an idea!" She disappeared up the steps onto the street, and I spoke to Jeff.

"What flowers would you like?"

"White roses," he said.

"I'll get them," I said, and went back up to the street, where the line had grown even longer.

I walked around looking for a florist and bumped into Emma. "I've booked Andy's Forge," she said. "It's a little place just around the corner in Denmark Street. He can go on at 10:30."

I bought as many white roses as I could find. Jeff handed them to people waiting outside and those lucky enough to get into the club, as he squeezed himself into the corner that passed for a stage. He sang upward, listening to his voice reflect off the curved ceiling into this hot, crowded, and attentive space. There must have been a hundred people stuffed in there.

When the show was over, Jeff walked up the steps to the huddle of patient people that Emma had gathered, plus anyone from the first show who wanted to tag along, and led this crowd like the Pied Piper toward Andy's Forge. Abbo was alongside me. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?" I said.

"Never!" he said. And we laughed liked idiots at the wonderful absurdity of hanging out with Jeff.

© Jim Irvin, 2018

[pierrotguru]

Glimmer of Stars

Summary: John Constantine really wants a drink, and he meets someone...unexpected.

John was really damned thirsty for a drink.

The bar was a bit too noisy, but to take what he could, and at the moment, he needed that drink. He could simply walk out and go, but the beer there was dark and bitter just like him. It was dark. And good. Strong stuff. So, he decided to drink it among the many distractions.

Behind the bar, he saw a backdrop of stars. John supposed that they were kind of pretty splashes of metallic gold against dark azure that glimmered in the dim lighting and just looked...nice. John took a drag of his cigarette. Humans liked stars as they also liked heaven. For him, the stars were more obtainable.

John was so engrossed in tracing the points of the stars that he hardly heard it when someone sat next to him.

"You look like you're having a rough night."

"Every night is a rough night," he replied automatically. John wasn't looking for sympathy, but the words slipped out anyway.

Then, John turned to beheld him for a second and almost stared.

The stranger was so dark. Chiseled lips, perfect cheekbones, and deep eyes. He was also a bit pale.

John could clearly sense the power in his aura. Maybe, he wasn't quite human. That was becoming more common these days. So, he made a mental note to mind his ps and qs The dark stranger looked important somehow. It made sense not to piss someone like that off.

The word "endless" echoed in his mind for some reason. Perhaps the bloke was eternal.

"You're a bit like a dark hole. You literally suck. But, at least you don't poison the room with your negativity."

Really? What a nervy thing to say.

Little fairy asshole.

John was starting to get a little pissed. "Why don't you get fucked?"

Well, that was an idea. If the stranger would be into that.

Then, John felt his dark eyes roam his face.

"I bet that you don't sleep a lot there are dark rings under your eyes." His voice was strangely soft.

John laughed bitterly. "Who does in this crazy world?" He took another drink of beer.

"You know to rest. An opportunity to escape in their dreams."

In John's case, that would be nightmares and he wouldn't consider them an escape, but he didn't want to reveal that much to a complete stranger.

John decided to indulge him in conversation. "But, then you have to wake up so why keep trying?"

The answer was so short and sweet. "Hope."

John swore that the word burned his tongue. Hope. It was such a painful word. John was the fuck out of hope. He still had that chronic cough. John should take up the bottle more, but then his liver would be diseased too. His body was just going to hell. Everything about him was.

He knew that he should take up yoga or something that wasn't destructive such as chain smoking or shots of liquor early in the morning. But, it was the way he was wired, and there was no point of running from it.

John stared straight ahead to see that someone had finally returned to the bar, but when he turned to look at him again, he found that the man had already fled. His bar stool stood empty.

John eyed the empty stool he had been sitting at. "Well, good to meet you too, mate."

Of course he had left In truth, John had actually found him hot. Apparently, life was still never going to go his way, but some luck here and there would be nice

John hung around the bar a bit, but he never reappeared. John finished what remained in the bottle and then skulked away. The other patrons were starting to clear out anyway.

When he stumbled into bed, he had actually slept and he had dreamt but they weren't nightmares filled with growls, unholy demons, and flames associated with the hell realm.

No, instead he had dreamed of him. The man from the bar. A new dream for a change. Lucifer Morningstar could take a break.

John had had a rather simple dream. He had simply dreamt about standing with him out on a grassy field.

The dark stranger said nothing, but he did smile at him.

John woke up in a blissful haze. His eyes opened and he saw that the air was a tined with a blue light because the sun was rising to start another fucking day that he had to live through.

Though to be honest, the dream had been a bit too romantic. Of course, John knew nothing at all about him.

He sighed as he stared up at the ceiling.

If only John knew who he was. However, he did seem interested in dreams. That narrowed down the list. Although, on his own, he already did have some ideas. It would be a damned strange thing if it turned out to be true.

Only the universe knew if they would meet again, but then again, screw the universe

John could simply look into his ways. There was usually a way to contact anything in the world. That alone could be a curse.

And, it could be another chance to screw everything up. Fun.

He was John Constantine so that was always a possibility.

[somethingelseishere]

October 12, 1977.

A woman and two men, late thirties, share a crawling elevator ride down four floors. Tension pressing the walls inward, the enclosure tight but temporary. The woman stares at the numbers as they light up on the descent - the men stoically facing forward. The doors open, they are met by a man in sunglasses wearing a dark grey suit, flanked by two male agents in all black attire.

He marches them down a long, dimly lit corridor - the three follow behind with the agents in tow. Reaching the end of the hall - the lead man opens a door and stands aside, allowing the others to enter.

A cavernous basement that looks like an empty parking garage.

At its center, a long conference table with three folding metal chairs - one at each end, one at the middle.

“Find your names.” the lead man announces.

The three guests approach the table, looking for the appropriate seats via small paper name cards.

The first man is seated at the far right end, the woman at the near left and the second man - in the middle.

The first man and woman each have an agent standing behind them. The dark grey suit takes a seat on a wooden bar stool situated across from the second man. He locks onto him through his shiny black lenses.

“Shall we?” he begins - then removes his shades, shoots a glance to each agent and returns his scrutiny back to the middle man.

Both agents swiftly engage the person seated in front of them with garrote wires. Each person lifted out of their chair, grappling wildly with the brutal attack. The initial gasps immediately replaced by stabs of retching, then gurgling. Eyes bloodshot, legs kicking.

The second man jerks backwards, slamming both hands onto the table - his head swivels, taking in the unnerving execution of two strangers.

The man across from him maintains unbroken eye contact as he reaches into his jacket and removes a .357 revolver - setting it gently onto the table in front of him.

The second man is in hysterics, unable to manufacture any words - only grunts and whimpers.

The agents dispatch their victims, withdrawing the garrotes. Their bodies slump forward onto the table ends. The assassins return to their positions.

The surviving man, eyes tearing - chest heaving, makes every attempt to catch his breath amidst the unforeseen chaos.

“What the fuck?” he screeches.

The dark grey suit gives a nod to the agents, they leave the room.

“Do I have your attention?” he asks. ���Fuck!” the panicked man cries.

The suit picks up his gun, returns it to a shoulder holster and rises - moving casually towards the dead man.

“What did you see?” he questions, standing beside the fresh corpse, then taking unhurried steps in the woman’s direction.

“Two people were murdered!” he barks. “Traitors.” the calculating man corrects, returning to the middle of the table.

“Former traitors.” he clarifies.

The second man still taking in the ghastly scene, peering between the two bodies.

“They had gone into business for themselves, selling classified information - very important information, gathered here - to foreign entities.”

The seated man’s attention now firmly affixed to the suit standing across from him.

“Do you understand?”

The man gives a barely noticeable nod in the affirmative.

“We start tomorrow, 0900 hours.”

The dark grey suit takes strides to the exit and leaves the room.

"The Room" - First in the four-part series 'Project Hollow Point' Mixed media on plywood. My 151st painting.

[becoration]

Small Kitchen: Ideas for Modernizing it in Various Styles - Interior Decoration

Post has been published on becoration

Small Kitchen: Ideas for Modernizing it in Various Styles - Interior Decoration

Havig a small kitchen doesn’t mean you have to give up on style and functionality. With the right ideas and design strategies, you can transform your small kitchen into a modern and stunning space.

You can add smart storage solutions, multifunctional appliances, incorporate minimalist style, or add colorful accents.

These are some of the latest trends that will help you transform and modernize your small kitchen, and discover what’s in style in the world of kitchens today.

In this article, we will explore different ways to modernize it that will leave you inspired, so you can make the big change with the trending decoration styles.

Trending styles to renovate your small kitchen

Minimalist style

open shelves kitchen

A popular option for small kitchens is the minimalist style. This design philosophy focuses on simplicity, clean lines, and clutter-free spaces.

Opt for sleek cabinets without handles, and a monochromatic color scheme to create an open and airy feeling. Incorporate hidden storage solutions to make the most of the space, such as pull-out drawers and corner cabinets.

Within this style, incorporating open shelves is a great solution as they are the latest trend for small kitchens because they allow you to maximize space. You can have all your accessories within reach without worrying about how high they are, everything is at eye level.

For countertops, choose materials like quartz or solid surface to achieve a polished and minimalist look. Install pendant lights above the kitchen island or breakfast bar to add a touch of elegance and warmth to the space.

Scandinavian

If you prefer a cozy yet modern ambiance, the Scandinavian style is perfect for your small kitchen. Choose light-colored cabinets, such as white or light wood tones, combined with natural materials like wooden floors or countertops, creating a sense of warmth and simplicity.

Add pops of color through accessories such as curtains, rugs, or wall art. Keep the space clutter-free by using smart storage solutions, such as wall shelves and hanging baskets. Incorporate greenery to add a touch of freshness and vitality to your Scandinavian-inspired small kitchen.

Industrial

An industrial-style kitchen can bring a unique and bold atmosphere to your small space. Exposed brick walls, concrete countertops, and metal pendant lights are key elements of this style. Opt for dark-colored cabinets or open shelves to enhance the industrial feeling even more.

Introduce vintage-inspired accessories and decorations, such as rustic bar stools or wire metal baskets. Choose industrial-style faucets and fixtures to complete the look. Remember to keep a simple color palette and stick to neutral tones to avoid overwhelming the limited space.

Country or rustic style

Opendeco, decoration news in Spanish

[don-lichterman]

Holland Bar Stool Co. Texas State 3 Shade Billiard Light by The

Holland Bar Stool Co. Texas State 3 Shade Billiard Light by The

Price: (as of – Details) Holland Bar Stool Co. Texas State 3 Shade Billiard Light by TheHigh Quality Brass Finish with Brass Accent Trim on Shade RimVented Fixture with Heat Dispersion Metal Disk to Promote Maximum Bulb Life3′ of Matching Finish Hang Chain to Accommodate Various Ceiling Heights8′ Color Coded 3 Prong Polarized Plug – Can be Cut for Direct Wiring – UL ApprovedExtremely Durable…

[brandonwayneb]

"hazel brown"

"hay wire white yellow crimes"

"hate wire"

"hay bell wire"

HAZEL BROWN,

not "white crimes"

Brown Recover Crown,

not "white slander said around nouns"

Brown Towns

Brown Town

not white Tow Trucks

not white Dump Trucks

not "white bue icks"

"yellow blue purple, white quadrant guts and guitar band jerk circle."

"yellow blue purple"

"white magenta genocide crimes"

Save Brown

Save Red

Save Tans

Save Rainbow

Disallow "white micro bands"

Disallow "illegal white TOWEL VOW VOWEL BANDS"

Brown Crown

Brown Town

Not "white towel"

Not "white tow trucks"

Not "white toilets Romeo and Juliets"

"White Vows"

"White Voice Box Ven Trick"

"White Ventriloquist guitar strangest versed violinist"

Brown Crown

Brown Town

BOW, and ARROW

not "white alpha bay roll"

not "white alphabet beta fish"

BROWN, Town

Brown Crown

Bow and Arrow Healthy Indian ProNouns.

Acceptable All Lives

Asian, Irish, Hispanic, Indian, African,

All Lives, "SPEC"

"SPECTRUM"

"GAY RAINBOW SPECTRUM"

TRY WAR DRUMS

DUMMER, DUM AND DUMMER

NOT GUT RAT GUY TARGET GUITAR GENOCIDE BAR STOOL, TOOL SHOP HOMICIDES

White "Special"

White "Gay Spectrum"

White "Sec Tum"

White "Inter Sections"

White "traffic SECTIONS"

White "SECOND SEC CO, SICK CO"

White genocides

"Gay Spectrums"

"White Alpha Erections"

"White Alphabet Stereotype Ster"

"White Alphabet GAMMA BETA"

"White Alpha OMLET EGGS"

"White BLOOD LET"

"White blood letter blood cutter"

"White omelette"

"White Omelette, MELT METAL DEATH"

"White Twisted Guts"

"White Twisted guitar metal"

White Homo Psy

White Homicide

"Gay Spectrum"

"Reign Kingdom"

"Or All Lives Free Rainbows"

vow agaisnt white sea crimes

swear agaisnt white sick sea genocides

"wordy tricks"

NICKNAME

"BROWN BOWL"

"BROWN TIL"

"TILT TANTRUM"

"TANRUM"

OR WAR DRUMS

"White Kingdom"

Or ALL LIVES HEALTHY KINETICS

KINETIC ENERGY,

"Not Ken Nets"

"Not Dog Kennels"

"Not Neil Arm Strongs"

White Homicide Divisions

"Die Gay Visions"

"lazy bean, corrupt a lesbian lizzy ginger hater"

"hate crimes"

"hay wire"

RESURRECT HAZEL

HAS ZEAL

Zen. Soul health.

"عسلي براون"

"جرائم القش الصفراء البيضاء"

"سلك الكراهية"

"سلك جرس القش"

هازل براون ،

لي��ت "جرائم بيضاء"

تاج الاسترداد البني ،

لا "يقال القذف الأبيض حول الأسماء"

مدن براون

براون تاون

ليست شاحنات سحب بيضاء

ليست شاحنات قلابة بيضاء

ليس "عاهرات بيضاء"

"أصفر أزرق أرجواني ، أبيض رباعي الشجاعة ودائرة رعشة لفرقة الجيتار."

"أصفر أزرق بنفسجي"

"جرائم الإبادة الجماعية باللون الأبيض الأرجواني"

احفظ براون

حفظ الأحمر

حفظ تانس

احفظ قوس قزح

عدم السماح بـ "نطاقات صغيرة بيضاء"

عدم السماح بـ "أحزمة TOWEL VOW VOWEL BANDS البيضاء غير القانونية"

تاج بني

براون تاون

ليست "منشفة بيضاء"

ليست "شاحنات سحب بيضاء"

ليست "مراحيض روميو وجولييتس بيضاء"

"النذور البيضاء"

"White Voice Box Ven Trick"

"الغيتار الأبيض المتكلم من بطنه أغرب عازف كمان متمرس"

تاج بني

براون تاون

القوس والسهم

ليست "لفة خليج ألفا بيضاء"

ليست "أسماك بيتا الأبجدية البيضاء"

براون ، تاون

تاج بني

القوس والسهم صحية ProNouns الهندية.

مقبول كل الأرواح

آسيوي ، إيرلندي ، إسباني ، هندي ، أفريقي ،

كل الأرواح ، "SPEC"

"نطاق"

"طيف قوس قزح مثلي الجنس"

تجربة طبول الحرب

دومير ، دوم ، ودمار

NOT GUT RAT GUY TARGET GUITAR GENOCIDE BAR STOOL ، TOOL SHOP HOMICIDES

الأبيض "خاص"

الأبيض "طيف المثليين"

بيضاء "Sec Tum"

الأبيض "بين الأقسام"

"أقسام المرور" البيضاء

الأبيض "SECOND SEC CO، SICK CO"

الإبادة الجماعية للبيض

"أطياف مثلي الجنس"

"الانتصاب الأبيض ألفا"

"الأبجدية البيضاء النمطية الصورة النمطية"

"الأبجدية البيضاء جاما بيتا"

"وايت ألفا بيض أومليت"

"الدم الأبيض"

"قاطع الدم بحروف الدم البيضاء"

"عجة بيضاء"

"أومليت أبيض ، ميتال ميتال"

"الشجاعة البيضاء الملتوية"

"معدن الغيتار الأبيض الملتوي"

أبيض Homo Psy

القتل الأبيض

"الطيف المثلي"

"عهد المملكة"

"Or All Lives Free Rainbows"

نذر ضد جرائم البحر الأبيض

أقسم ضد الإبادة الجماعية في البحر الأبيض

"الحيل الالزامية"

اسم الشهرة

"وعاء بني"

"بني حتى"

"TILT TANTRUM"

"التنروم"

أو حرب الطبول

"المملكة البيضاء"

أو جميع الخواص الحركية الصحية

الطاقة الحركية،

"ليس كين نتس"

"ليست بيوت الكلاب"

"لا نيل أرم سترونغ"

انقسامات القتل الأبيض

"رؤى مثلي الجنس"

"فول كسول ، فاسد مثلية كاره الزنجبيل الكسول"

"جرائم الكراهيه"

"سلك القش"

إحياء هازل

لديه ZEAL

زين. صحة الروح.

[guardian-rocket]

blackjack-ohare​:

When the pad was brought to him he worked on removing the glove from one of his hands. He rarely had them uncovered as he knew how difficult it was to repair and heal any damage they suffered. Foggy memories recalled white hot pain and the chill of metal as digits that were never meant to be opposable were forced into the shape they now held. Flesh and fur stretched tight to the point of breaking. That first cut years ago in battle that revealed the mess of sinew and wiring inside. The chill Blackjack had felt in his gut seeing it for the first time. Sometimes he wondered if there was anything organic left in his hands at all.

It was just a flash, gone as quickly as it had came as he pressed his bare hand flat against the screen. It was smooth beneath the thick fur that covered the hand front and back, short blunt black claws extending from the ends of each digit. 

“Always one more thing.” he quipped as he waited for the light to change color. That jovial tone he had just a moment ago was gone as he stared at his own hand.

“And we’re DONE!  Welcome to the Gun Club, friend,” Rocket said warmly, giving BlackJack a firm pat on the upper back.

Rocket then passed Blackjack the drink he confiscated moments ago, now that official affairs were in order. Rocket started putting the holopad and the bio-signature device in a utility bag he brought along that had so far been on the floor by his stool, zipping it up and setting it back down on the floor.  

“Hey, can I get one too?” he asked their bartender, ready to get in on the drinking that he was already way behind in, it wasn’t like he couldn’t smell that BlackJack hadn’t gotten a few drinks under his belt already and he wasn’t about to be the only one there not drinking (well, aside Cosmo, that is) Because Rocket was a regular here, the bartender didn’t need to ask what he wanted. He slid Rocket a glass of ice and blue colored liquor, who gingerly snatched it up and sipped on it.

“Later, if you want, I can update your helmet to sync with the code algorithm, unless you’d prefer to use a different device.  The code switches every five minutes so in order to access the guns you need access to the ever changing access codes.  It will automatically display on any approved device once you get close to the location.  I got a bit stringent with the security here, but I didn’t want it to be too hard to use in an emergency.  I’ll show you the ropes whenever you’re ready to bust in there.”

“This calls for a toast, I humbly propose we toast to this allyship with Rocket’s friend!” Drax said, loudly enough to gather the whole bar’s attention.  “To Knowhere’s newest resident, the merciless BlackJack OHare, we welcome you to our home, and in the inevitable times of skrimish we look forward to being bearing arms as as we take down any foe whom dares to challenge us!”

“Here here!” Kraglin chimed in holding up his glass.  The few other patrons also raised their glasses, seeming to be accustom to Drax’s joyful toasts, even Rocket raised his glass for the moment before downing it gone.

[hamsterbellbelle]

Additional CC list for Abandoned Subway Strip Club🎦:

Accessory rack || Ad.poster || Animated ceiling decor || Animated neon || Animated Steam || Bag || Bar island-counter || Beaded curtain || Beckoning cat || Beer bottle || Bowl stack/cereal/dirt plates || Broken mirror || Broom || Bubble tea || Ceiling fan/vent/column/platform || Ceiling light || Chair with clothes || Cleaning agent || Clothing accessories || Clothing rack || Community sign || Counter || Cyberpunk backdrop || Disco ball/laser || Door panel/metro sign/Cyberpunk screen || Drain || Dressing room sofa/blanket || Elevator || Escalator || File cabinet || Floor dirt || Floor/wall line || Floor - A - B || Hairdryer/dresser clutter || Hologram tree || Hotel sign || Jewelry || Laser light || Lightbox sign || Lizzie’s bar neon sign || Magazine/rug || Metal chair || Mirror || Mirror-window || Monitor || Motorbike (deco) || Neon light - A - B - C || Newspaper stand clutter || Office wine || Ottoman/sofa || Panel/wire with sparkle/fire barrel || Paper bag || Plant rack || Police tape || Puddle || Ramen neon sign || Scattered clothes || Sci-fi pillar || Shampoo clutter || Sink/hairdryer || Sink || Spot light || Staircase arch || Stickers || Sticky notes || Subway arch || Subway debris || Subway interior decor || Subway ticket machine || Suitcase || Tissue box || Toilet stall door || Toilet stall || Trashcan/mirror box || Tray clutter || Urinal || Used tissue || Vanity table || Vase || Vent || VIP room sofa || VIP rope || Wall clothes - A - B || Wallpaper - A - B - C - D - E - F - G || Whiteboard || Wine glass/VIP bucket || Wire || Wooden pallet ||  🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹 Animated billboard || Animated scroll || Arch light || Archway || Bar stool/round coffee table || BEEP || Computer || Cyberpunk decal || Cyberpunk neon light || Dance club TV and panels || Elevated microwave || Floor light || Food stall || Metal panel || Minibar || Modular sofa || Neon sign - A - B  ||  Office desk || Station sign || Stereos || Wall duct || Wire/panel || Zebra wallpaper || Zone number || 

[upinteriors]

Hee Bar Stool by Hee Welling Studio for HAY.

[russiandoll-from-brooklyn]

Just Once - Part 2

Title: Just Once - Part 2

Some of y'all were asking for Part 2 of Just Once so here ya go! This picks up right after the first story.

Pairing: Tony Stark x fem!reader

Summary: Grief and loneliness got the best of you last night. Your friendship with Tony was too precious to risk, and now all you want to do is move on. But what happens when the other party doesn't want to forget?

Warnings: smut, language, (technically) cheating, friends to lovers, mentions of past canon trauma, oral (f receiving), protected sex

Word Count: 5.1k

[Starts out sweet and all about tony x reader friendship, then turns into steamy Tony smut. Table sex, included. 😳]

---

Thump, thump, thump.

Your feet hit the pavement rhythmically as you jog your normal morning route. It’s a misty Seattle morning, and the world is still quiet. The sun is rising sleepily, beginning to bathe the world in gold. All is well.

Except. It isn’t.

You turn the block corner, and your apartment comes into sight. You take a glance down at your watch.

42 minutes.

That’s how long ago you had quietly slipped out of your apartment for your morning run. That’s how long it had been since your eyes shot open and you remembered the events of last night, rushing into your mind, all at once like a tsunami. You had turned your head to find Tony still asleep beside you in the bed. One leg sticking out of the messy sheets and his face buried in the pillow. Your pillow.

You had stared at him in disbelief, half-expecting him to disintegrate into a fleeting figment of your imagination. You had rubbed your eyes, trying to clear the haze.

Nope. Still there.

You silently curse yourself and your stupidity (see: weakness in the face of sexual temptation) for the 50th time this morning as you approach the brick building. Perhaps, when you reenter your apartment, Tony will be gone, and this will all have just been a bad trip — or something of the like.

Before you even open the door, the smell of frying bacon reaches your nose. You step inside and are greeted by a peculiar sight.

Tony Stark, clad in nothing but a pair of dark jeans, is buzzing about your small kitchenette. Simultaneously, there are eggs being flipped over-easy on the stovetop, orange juice being procured from the open fridge, bacon sizzling happily in a pan, and toast being buttered. You stand in amazement for a few seconds, processing the scene before you. The wonderful aroma of the all-American breakfast makes you mouth water.

“Y/N! Hey!” Tony exclaims when he sees you.

You slide onto a stool at the bar top, overlooking the controlled chaos unfolding in the kitchen area. Tony truly has remarkable skill when it comes to multitasking. You guess, all that time in the suit, operating about twenty computing systems at once, was good practice.

“Wow. Breakfast?” you remark, raising an eyebrow. “Since when do you cook?”

He scoffs, shooting you a brief smile before turning away to rapidly crack some black pepper onto the eggs.

“Cooking is easy. People think it’s a skill, but really it’s just planning, timing it out. It’s like assembling anything else. You just do the parts in order, trying not to break any yolks.”

You roll your eyes sarcastically at the classic “Tony” response.

Suddenly, all the components come crashing together, and Tony is setting down two perfectly assembled breakfast plates on the bar top — complete with a glass of orange juice for each of you. It looks delicious; it’s been way too long since you had a proper breakfast. Meaning, a breakfast that wasn’t cereal, a protein bar, or a bowl of sad, pale, scrambled eggs. You thank Tony as he pulls up the other stool to sit across from you.

“Dig in,” he says cheerfully, raising his fork. “Good run this morning?”

You nod, taking a big gulp of orange juice.

“Yeah, I heard you leaving,” Tony continues mindlessly. “Kind of weird waking up to an empty bed after a night like that. I finally know what it feels like to be on the other side, I guess.”

You nearly spit out your bite of toast. And just like that, reality comes crashing back down to earth. For a brief moment, it had felt like things could possibly come out normal on the other side. You and Tony could go back to being perfectly normal best friends.

How ignorant.

“What?” you remark incredulously.

You’re on the verge of laughter, partially out of amusement but mostly out of bewildered embarrassment.

Tony gives you his award-winning “I’m innocent!” raised-eyebrow expression. You suddenly become acutely aware of the situation. Tony Stark is sitting in your kitchen, shirtless, serving you breakfast. After you spent a far-from-platonic night rolling around your sheets together. You want to slap yourself.

“I’m talking about the incredible sex we had last night. And then, you leaving me alone before sunrise,” Tony explains casually, pushing your buttons further. “That's usually my play.”

He looks up at you, expecting a playful quip in return. Instead, you just slowly set down the fork you had been gripping.

“Tony,” you begin, seriously and calmly. “Let’s not talk about it. It was one night, and it won’t happen again. It was just once. We gave into the moment, but we shouldn’t-“

“The moment?” Tony suddenly blurts out, interrupting you. You purse your lips, surprised by the new and unexpected edge of anger in his voice. “God. Y/N. The moment, huh? You’re really just going to shrink it down to that. Just a moment.”

You stare at him, confused. Tony’s big brown eyes hold yours with an intensity. It's amazing how fast his sarcastic, playful tone can morph into ferocity. You want to look away, break his gaze, but you can’t. This whole thing was a mistake.

“It was fun,” you finally say. “But it was just a fuck. We were lonely.”

“You know, Y/N. You’re so damn smart,” Tony replies, leaning back a bit in his seat. “So, why do you always try and kid yourself? It bothers me. I know -- that you know -- that this wasn’t just a fuck.”

Your mind races through a million different responses.

Then, what was it?

What do you mean?

Why are you acting like this?

I'm not kidding myself.

But something tells you, deep down, that there's nothing you can say that won't lead to something you don't want to hear.

So, instead, you angrily snatch up your glass of orange juice, rising from your seat at the bar. You grit your teeth at Tony one more time before turning your back and striding toward to your study. You feel your cheeks burning hot.

The study is a second living room-sized space where you keep all your projects. Early sunlight is now streaming in through the large windows, falsely giving the impression of a peaceful Saturday morning. The large wooden table tops are littered with wires, microchips, and other electronic parts. When you first met the Avengers year ago, you and Tony butted heads over your shared expertise in technology and robotics. After much bickering and trying to outdo each other, you eventually accepted one another's intelligence and bonded over your shared field.

You look to the floor of your large study to see the air mattress you had set up there prior to Tony's arrival yesterday, obviously still pristine. You squeeze your eyes shut. Your apartment is absolutely dripping with reminders of last night's events. The empty whiskey glasses, still sitting on the side table in the living room. The couch pillows crumpled from the weight of your bodies, hungrily crashing together above them. You don't even want to think about your bedroom, where you're sure Tony's missing shirt is strewn on the ground.

You push the thoughts out of your your mind, pulling up a seat at your work table. You start to fiddle with a new lightweight shoulder pauldron you're currently designing. You can feel yourself going into 'shut-out' mode, trying your hardest to focus all your attention on the metal in your hands. This was all too much. This was all wrong.

When you hear footsteps behind you, entering the study, you ignore it. Tony quietly traverses the floor, coming to pull up a chair on the other side of the work table. He silently watches you working the wires into place. You don't look up. You don't have to see his expression to know the contemplative expression undoubtably painted on his face. You also don't have to look at him to know he's pondering more than just your work.

"You know, aluminum-titantium alloy won't hold up after a few heavy hits," Tony comments, nodding to the armor piece.

"I'm gonna chromatize it," you reply dryly, not looking up from your hands.

"I wouldn't bother. You can't just give everything a shiny coat to hold it together. If the problem is underneath, that is."

Fuck Tony and his fucking metaphors.

You growl angrily, throwing the pauldron down in frustration. You sit back in your seat and cross your arms, finally meeting your friend's eyes.

"Ok, fine," you say matter-of-factly. "Let's talk about it. It was good. It was really fucking good. And we both needed it. But that's it. I'm willing to leave it at that and forget about it if you are."

Tony rubs his beard in his palm, seemingly mulling over your words. His brown eyes don't leave yours. The warm sunlight coming in through the window behind him paints yellow patches on his bare shoulders, bathing him in gold. You take a mental picture of him, sitting there in his thoughts. A brief, intrusive thought passes through your mind, threatening that this could be the last time you see him. You immediately banish the notion. This friendship means too much to you. Not even a fuck-up as big as this one could make you want to toss it away. You hope Tony agrees.

"Help me understand where your head's at, Y/N," Tony finally replies. "What is your biggest concern right now? Wait, listen, I know there's a lot of reasons why last night was bad. But I want to know what you're thinking."

You sigh, uncrossing your arms. As much as Tony's 'list-and-analyze' reaction to crisis could be annoying, in some ways, it comforted you. Tony is impulsive, yes, but those who know him best also know his calculative nature: the mental risk assessments, the contingency plans labelled through Z. Always searching for the route that will hurt everyone the least. Always.

You consider his question carefully. Again, there's a million answers: the risk of ruining your friendship, the potential awkwardness, Pepper -- oh, god, Pepper --, the pain and grief you've both been through in the past few years. You close your eyes and pick one.

"You're one of the only people left that I trust. One of my only friends. Complexity doesn't often end well."

"You're right," Tony admits. "But aren't you the one who asked, 'is it wrong to not want to be alone'?"

You scoff loudly, angered by his using your words against you. However, that bitterness melts away into nothing when you see the heart-wrenching expression on Tony's face. His lips are pursed, and his eyes are searching yours desperately. Tony rarely shows outward weakness, but right now, the man before you isn't Iron Man. The man before you is broken. Someone who has tried everything to hold it -- his sanity, his relationship, his life -- together, to save the people he loves, to be strong. Someone who failed at that. Someone who truly felt alone.

You rest your chin in your palms and sigh, the weight falling over you as well.

Finally, you speak.

"Isn't it awful -- and strange -- how it can feel like a lifetime ago and just yesterday at the exact same time?"

Tony nods sadly at your observation. Of course, you were talking about the snap. About Thanos.

"You're right. About everything," he remarks. "Sometimes, it just gets too much. The...”

Loneliness. You finish his sentence in your head.

“Me too.”

“You should know though,” Tony continues. “I would never stop being your friend. No matter how complex things are. This — what we’ve been through — could never change, Y/N.”

There it is.

Some situations feel like you're running in circles; you're spiraling downwards and everything you say only makes matters worse and worse. It feels like sinking in quicksand with no way out. In every one of those situations, there's a key -- that one sentence, that one idea, that effortlessly clears the fog. This was it. Tony is going to be here, always. Everything is going to be alright.

You straighten up a bit in your seat. You let out a long sigh and give Tony a small smile.

"I know," you assure your friend. "Sometimes I forget everything that's happened. How complicated it's been before. How we made it out."

Tony laughs, and you're relived.

"How could you forget? It's been a wild ride."

The two of you grin at each other. You take a sip of your orange juice, which you had forgotten about and was now lukewarm.

"OK, happy?" you inquire with a playful tone. "Base material fixed. No need for shiny coats of anything. We're solid now."

Tony lets out a hearty chuckle at the stupid analogy. Suddenly, he stands, circling the work table until he's right in front of you. You suck in a breath of oxygen. From your seated position, your head only comes up to his abs. Bare abs, that is. You tilt your face upwards to meet his eyes.

"Y/N," he says gently. “Stand up.”

Confused, you rise to your feet. Before you can open your mouth to say anything else, Tony’s lean and muscular arms are wrapped around you. He pulls you into his chest, embracing you in his warmth. His grip is firm, as if he’s afraid you might run away. You soften into the hug, wrapping your arms around his back. You feel safe.

After a few moments, Tony releases you. However, he doesn’t move away, and the two of you are still nearly chest-to-chest. You peer up at him, and your friend’s warm toffee eyes meet yours.

“Wow, a Tony Stark hug?” you remark sarcastically. “I should play the lotto today.”

Tony chuckles under his breath. Despite your joking, it was true that Tony rarely gives hugs. He just isn’t the touchy-feely type — according to himself. Somehow this gesture, right now, meant everything. A hug was the most intimate thing Tony could have given you. It was a seal, a mark saying ‘I meant every word I just said.’

Tony is still standing directly in front of you, so close there’s only a magazine’s width between you. He’s so near that you can feel the warmth of his steady breathing, and the slight radiating heat from the arc reactor in his chest. Suddenly, you feel that familiar tug in your stomach. A rush of blood downwards...

“Tony-“

“Do you want me?” Tony cuts you off. His voice is low, gentle.

You suck in a breath of air at his words. Despite his directness, there's a detectable edge of nervousness in his tone. You smile internally at knowing you have this effect on Mr. Playboy. The slight uncertainty in Tony's voice also tells you that it's true: this is different. Last night was not just a mindless fuck. This is an understanding, wrapped around a mutual care that runs so deep that it burns.

You don’t even try to convince yourself that you don’t want Tony. Every ounce of your being is screaming to close the gap between you. You can still hear the scientist-logic-brain in you resisting, but your heart feels at ease. You and Tony. A concept that felt like the forbidden fruit itself just ten minutes ago now looked more like an oasis. And oasis that was maybe alright to take a drink from every once in a while.

You snake one hand upward to hold his cheek. Tony pushes gently into your palm.

It's you who leans in first. When your lips collide, it's soft. He presses himself into you, a delicate sigh escaping. You pull back just enough to whisper a breathy "I want you."

And oh, god do you want him.

“Then, have me,” Tony whispers back, gently.

You nearly visibly shiver. Any trace of hesitation is gone from his voice now. His words are demanding, but his tone is more of a plea.

“Do you want to go the bedroom?”

“No,” Tony replies immediately. He’s breathless. “Right here.”

You immediately feel wetness drop into your panties. Tony’s eyes have grow darker, as they bear down at you. The intensity makes your legs feel weak. You need him. He needs you.

In a moment of boldness, you bring your hands down to the hemline of your shirt. You lift the garment up and over your head, placing it on the work table beside you. Tony’s eyes wander to your red sports bra and your now-stiffened nipples showing through the sleek fabric.

In the next breath, Tony is suddenly kissing you again, his lips against yours in a desperate hunger. He brings his large, roughly calloused hands to your waist. He firmly grips your body, making you feel tiny in his hold. You let a small moan escape your lips.

Still holding you in his grasp, Tony starts to walk you backwards until your backside is pressed against the edge of your large work table. Tony’s hips press forward into you, making you gasp with excitement. You fingertips tangle in his hair, just wanting more and more and more...

In an effortless movement, Tony lifts your sports bra over your head. He throws the red fabric to the side, neither of you caring where it lands. Tony breaks away from your lips, starting to kiss down your cheek, jaw, and then finally giving attention to the delicate skin on your neck. Again, he’s careful not to nip or suck too hard to leave marks. The light scratching of his facial hair contrasts with the soft wetness of Tony’s lips, making you throw your head back in pleasure.

He continues to attend to your neck and jaw as one of his jean-clad thighs moves to fall between your legs. You let out a deep groan as Tony begins to rub and and roll his knee forward, stimulating your clothed core. His movements are like a wave, every forward crest bringing you a tiny bit of that friction your body wants so, so much. You’re in awe of the control Tony has over his movements and the effortless pleasure he’s capable of giving. You can’t help but find his experience and expertise sexy.

“Y/N,” Tony breathes against your neck. “Say it again. Please. Say you want me.”

It occurs to you that, aside from last night, Tony hasn’t felt wanted in a long time. Like, truly wanted. A pang of sadness fills your heart.

“Tony. I want you,” you declare, making sure the conviction in your voice shines through. You don’t have to try. You desire him more than anything right now. “I want you. I want this.”

With your words, Tony moans deeply into your jawline and begins to move his leg between yours more vigorously. Your fingertips trace over his bare back muscles. You trail your hands upward, into the nape of his neck, massaging his scalp. Everything about his beautiful form fits perfectly in your hands.

Tony continues moving downwards, soon finding your right nipple in his mouth. You arch your back, letting a loud moan escape your lips. He works your nipple expertly, rolling it and playing at it with his tongue. He alternates to your other nipple, his thumb replacing where his mouth just left. He lightly strokes the hard, spit-slick bud, and the combination of coolness and friction is heaven.

Tony stands back up, and a second later, his hands are at the elastic band of your running shorts. His eyes meet yours for a moment, silently asking for your permission. You nod a bit too eagerly, and Tony cracks a small, teasing smile. You scoff and lightly slap his shoulder, returning the smile.

Tony pulls your shorts down in one swift motion, leaving you in just your underwear. Next thing you know, Tony’s arms are around your waist. You let out a soft, surprised squeal as he lifts you effortlessly to sit on the edge of the work table behind you. Slightly elevated now, you come to about the same height as Tony.

“Hey,” you protest playfully. “Be careful. There’s important stuff here.”

Tony reaches behind you to clear the area, moving your half-finished projects and parts to the side.

“My apologies, Ms. Y/L/N,” he replies with a huge grin. “Got a bit carried away.”

You pull him into another deep kiss. He growls with pleasure when you nip at his bottom lip. Tony is now standing between your knees, his torso pressing gently into your panty-covered pussy. You can feel his erection through his jeans, straining against his clothes. After seeing Tony’s length for the first time last night, the mental image of his cock — just a few millimeters away from your core — is enough to make you drool. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him in harder against you. He moans into your mouth, and you feel the vibrations as your tongues tangle together.

You feel Tony’s body leaning forward, slowly coaxing you to lay down on the table. Now fully on your back, Tony’s above you, taking in the sight of your body.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re the most magnificent creature on Earth?”

“No,” you reply with a smirk. “But now, knowing how many other planets are out there in the galaxy, just being Miss Earth doesn’t seem like a huge deal.”

Tony laughs, smiling with his teeth. You find the crinkles that form on the outer corners of his eyes utterly endearing.

“Well, you’re still one out of four-and-three-quarters billion,” he jests back. “Not too shabby. It’s all about the little victories.”

You giggle. The pleasant thought passes through your mind that despite the current situation, everything does feel strangely normal. Tony is still Tony; you’re still you. The banter between you and your friend is still comfortable and easy. Your relationship, although maybe morphing into something more nuanced, remains unmoved.

You’re so caught up in your inner thoughts, that you don’t register Tony kneeling to the ground between your legs. You gasp when you feel his warm mouth over your still-clothed pussy. The combined wetness of his mouth and your core easily soaks through the fabric of your panties, making it cling to your skin. Tony runs his tongue over your folds, through the saturated cloth. You groan with pleasure, the small of your back arching off of the table. You grip Tony’s dark hair, needing something to hold onto.

The sensation of Tony’s lips and tongue through your thin panties is completely unique, and fuck, does it drive you wild.

After a few minutes, Tony’s hands reach up to hook in the waist of your panties. He removes your final garment, leaving you fully bare. His mouth immediately returns to your pussy. His tongue circles your clit, before running downwards through your lips, and then back up again. He alternates this pattern with gentle sucks on your clit.

“Oh, Tony. Shit,” you manage to call out. “That feels so good.”

He hums hungrily into you, pleasuring you to a level that no previous lovers have ever come close to. Tony’s large, rough hands wander upwards. One palm gentle grips your breast, while the other comes under your waist to hold the small of your back.

You raise your head slightly to glance down at Tony. The sight is pornographic. His face is buried in your cunt, head bobbing. The shape of his shoulder muscles, and his strong back. His tan skin, all bathed in golden sunlight.

Pleasuring you. On his knees.

It’s like a painting. Beautiful and erotic.

“Tony. I need you,” you gasp out, suddenly overcome with neediness. “Inside me. Fuck, I want you.”

Those magic words, again. I want you. The effect they have on Tony is instantaneous. Without hesitation, Tony is on his feet. He swiftly unbuttons his jeans and pulls down the zipper. His pants fall down to his ankles where he kicks them off. To your surprise his naked cock springs free. A glistening pearl of precum is formed at the tip.

“Wow, commando, huh?” you tease, gently biting at your bottom lip. “You were so confident you were going to get lucky again today?”

“Of course not. I just like to let it breath sometimes,” Tony remarks. “You wouldn’t get it. It’s a man thing.”

You scoff and roll your eyes sarcastically. Lovable idiot.

“Top drawer?” Tony asks, referring to the location of the condoms.

“On the left.”

Tony hurries out of the room and returns a second later with a condom from your bedroom. Stepping closer between your knees, he gives his cock a few pumps in his fist. You can feel your heart quickening with anticipation. Your pussy is nearly pulsing, needing to be stretched and filled.

Tony rips open the shiny wrapper and rolls the condom down onto his length. You scoot slightly closer to the edge of the table as his hands travel to grip your thighs. You moan deeply as Tony rubs the head of his cock over your slit, spreading your moisture.

“Are you ready?” Tony asks, eyes dark with desire.

“Mmhmm,” you hum. “Make me feel good.”

With that, Tony starts slowly pushing into your dripping pussy. You groan as your walls accommodate to his girth. It’s amazing that you took him just last night, and he’s already capable of stretching you like this again. Tony throws his head back, hissing in pleasure as he bottoms out, his pubic mound flush against yours.

He starts pumping gently. The way Tony’s hips roll forward in fluid motions makes you want to scream with pleasure. His hands are gripping your thighs tightly, fingertips digging into the soft flesh.

Tony’s pace quickens, and soon the room is filled with sounds of wetness, skin slipping on skin, and the moans leaving both your throats. One of Tony’s hands moves to your pussy. His thumb rubs tight circles on your clit making you see stars behind your eyes. The extra stimulation almost immediately starts tightening the orgasmic coil in your stomach. Tony seems to know the exact speed to move his cock and thumb to turn you into a whimpering mess beneath him.

“Oh, more,” you groan, your pleasure growing. “Tony Stark. Yes, oh, please.”

“Come for me, Y/N,” Tony growls almost primally. “Wanna feel you squeezing around my cock.”

Tony’s filthy demands go straight to your pussy. You love the feeling of being under him, sprawled out on the table, completely naked for him to fuck. And the dirty talk is the cherry on top.

The pleasure in your abdomen continues to rise until you’re on the edge of ecstasy. With one last thrust, your orgasm washes over you. You scream Tony’s name into the room, not caring who hears. Pulses of pleasure rip through your entire body, even making your feet tingle. When you come down, the convulsions slowing, your head feels fuzzy and bubbly.

Not even a moment later, you feel Tony lifting your legs higher. Still inside you, he straightens them, bringing your ankles to rest on his shoulders. The new sensation is instantly nirvana. He starts pumping into you, and the head of his cock rubs your G-spot on every thrust. Penetrative sex had never felt this good for you.

“You feel so fucking amazing, Y/N,” Tony manages to says between moans. “I’m not gonna last much longer.”

The feeling of your pussy being pounded in this angle has your eyes rolling back into your skull. All your thoughts seem to leave your head. The only thing you can focus on is the immense pleasure. The sound of Tony’s balls slapping against you wetly with every stroke combined with his desperate moans fill your ears.

Tony’s thrusts start to become more jagged, needy. His moans slowly transform more into whimpers as he continues to fuck into you. Suddenly, Tony comes with a series of loud groans, his eyes shut tight. You feel his dick pulsating inside you as he orgasms. He thrusts a few more times, riding out the last waves.

He gently slides out of you, his hands coming down the tabletop next to your waist to steady himself. Both of you are breathing heavily, your bodies radiating with the afterglow of pleasure.

Silently, Tony helps you to stand before sweeping you up easily in his arms. You lean into his chest as he carries you to the bedroom. Tony lays you down carefully on the cool mattress before hurrying to the bathroom. He returns a moment later with a warm washcloth.

After cleaning yourselves up, Tony crawls into the refreshing sheets beside you. He slips one arm under your neck, and you cuddle in closer to his body. The warmth and smoothness of his skin is so, so welcoming. In the strangest way, it feels natural.

“I didn’t think it was possible to top last night,” you finally say, chuckling.

“Me neither,” Tony replies. “I guess we just have good chemistry.”

“Who would’ve thought?” You laugh and drape an arm over his chest. “Hey, question.”

“Ask away.”

“Why did you cook all that stuff earlier? Like the eggs, toast, the whole nine yards. It was sort of...”

“Out of character?” Tony finishes your sentence.

You nod. Tony takes a deep breath, exhaling loudly.

“Honestly, when I woke up, and you were gone, I was freaking out a little bit. I wanted to talk about last night, but you weren’t there, and I just didn’t know what you were thinking. If you were having serious regrets, or if you were angry, or upset with me. Or if you were thinking our whole friendship was burned to the ground.

“I just needed to do something. Anything. Busy my hands, distract my mind. Sorry that I kind of raided your kitchen.”

You turn to peer up at him, letting out a soft laugh. His chocolate eyes meet yours, and you give him a kind smile, endeared by his typical, hyper ramblings.

“I’m sorry I left,” you start. “I was freaking out a little, too. I guess that’s always been a difference between us. I always try to run from the unknown, while you just want to plow straight through it.”

Tony smiles warmly and blinks his gorgeous, thick black eyelashes at you.

“It’s why we make a good pair. Balance. Yin and yang. Ya’ know.”

You both chuckle, content in one another’s arms. You open your mouth to reply, but you’re cut off by a loud growl from your stomach. Tony bursts into laughter.

“Your fault for barely touching breakfast,” Tony remarks playfully. “Which — not to toot my own horn — was quite artfully made.”

“I guess I could settle for a bowl of lowly cereal as punishment,” you reply with mock sadness.

Tony chuckles and shakes his head. He starts to rise from the bed, then offers his hand for you to follow.

“C’mon, I’ll make you some more eggs.”

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Jeff Buckley in the U.K.

JEFF BUCKLEY loved British music; the nervous energy in British punk, the wired consciousness of the Clash, the way Siouxsie and the Banshees went from gun-metal moodiness to skies full of fireworks.

He adored the Cocteau Twins, of course, especially Liz Fraser's "impossible voice". He loved how the Smiths called to outsiders and nerds. He loved the textures of Johnny Marr's supple guitar and the mordant presence of Steve Jones's guitar in the Sex Pistols.

Jeff, whose own nervous energy was considerable, became even more wired whenever we went to the UK; he was stimulated by its variety. He also appreciated its compactness – the lack of eight-hour drives between cities was refreshing.

Sony had passed on Live at Sin-é in Europe. We were understandably disappointed, but there was a solution close at hand: Steve Abbott, known to everyone as Abbo, who ran the eccentric indie record label Big Cat and had picked up on many of the promising un-signed bands playing in New York: Pavement, Mercury Rev, Luscious Jackson. He had approached Jeff after Gods & Monsters and Sin-é shows and asked him if he'd like to record with Big Cat, but then Sony stepped in. Jeff felt that he owed Abbo a record, so when Columbia UK passed on Live at Sin-é and Michele Anthony instigated a funding deal with Big Cat, it seemed the perfect opportunity for them to become involved. Abbo jumped at the chance.

Big Cat's small team – Abbo, co-owner Linda Obadiah, Frank Neidlich in marketing, and Jacqui Rice in press – did such a good job that the week it was released in Europe, Live at Sin-é sold over four thousand copies, which was amazing for a complete unknown.

After a Sony conference, where it was clear that a lot of the affiliates were bemused by him, Jeff had a warm-up show at Whelan's in Dublin. By the time he came on, the crowd, several drinks into its evening, had become a little boisterous. Jeff said hello softly, as usual, but no one was really paying attention. Jeff just stood there, waiting. People started to quieten down and watch to see what he would do. There was a pint of his favourite beer, Guinness, sitting on the stool next to him. Jeff lifted the glass to his lips and downed it in one hit. Everyone on the room cheered, and he began the Irish show with the crowd completely on his side.

The audience was more blasé the next night at his London debut at The Borderline, a Western-themed venue under a dubious Mexican diner in Soho, right in the heart of London, a group of local reps for hip American indie labels like Sub Pop and Merge yacking away rather disrespectfully at the bar. In the age of grunge, a lone guy with a guitar softly singing Edith Piaf covers was baffling for some.

"It was an epiphany for me," says Sara Silver, Sony's European head of marketing. "There are some shows where it just feels like you're a voyeur, looking into someone's soul. This was one of those. He was charismatic, but also haunting, and I think because of my particular situation at the time, still suffering from the [loss of my husband], he resonated hugely. This haunting sound was a powerful force, and it was my job to work out how we took it to the world."

A gig the next night in Glasgow meant an early-morning flight back to Heathrow the following morning to catch a session with GLR, London's local BBC station, a slot designed to alert people to the next couple of gigs at the Garage in Islington and at Bunjies, a cute little basement folk club in Central London that dated back to the early 1960s and made Sin-é seem generously proportioned.

Abbo was accompanying Jeff on this run.

"We'd meet regularly at a bar called Tom & Jerry's in New York, hang out and drink Guinness together," Abbo says, "I suppose I became a friend of his, and he didn't seem to have many real friends. I'd only discovered I liked the blues since living in New York, so it was great hanging with him, because he was a huge blues and jazz fan and if there was a guitar around he had to pick it up and show off. He knew every Robert Johnson song, every Muddy Waters tune, Bessie Smith; he introduced me to the physicality of the blues, watching it at close quarters. Everybody talks about his voice, but he was a brilliant guitarist. The guitar was an extension of his body.

"Tim Buckley hadn't really entered my line of vision growing up listening to black music. Singer-songwriters with fluffy hairstyles were not currency on my council estate in Luton! We were in Tom & Jerry's and someone said to Jeff, 'I've been listening to your dad,' and I said, 'Who's your dad?' and he said, 'Tim Buckley.' I knew the name from record shopping; I'd seen the sleeves in the racks, but that's it. But when he came over to Britain there were loads of Tim Buckley fans. And it was a real problem early on, because he really didn't like talking about him."

The traffic from the airport to the GLR studios just off Baker Street was awful. A road accident had slowed everything to a standstill. Jeff's slot on the mid-morning show was fast approaching. "Of course, this was before mobile phones, so I had no way of communicating with the radio station that we were stuck in traffic," says Abbo. "For the last few days on this tour, everyone who'd interviewed Jeff had been asking about his dad. How did Tim write 'Song To The Siren'? Was there stuff in his lyrics that he might have related to? Things Jeff couldn't answer.

"We were listening to GLR while we waited in traffic and the presenter kept saying, 'We're supposed to have this artist, Tim Buckley's son, turning up, but he's late....Will he or won't he turn up?' This went on and on. She must have said 'Tim Buckley's son' about four times and didn't mention Jeff once. Suddenly, he just kicked my car radio in with his big DMs [Doc Martens], just smashed the fascia and then sat back sulking all the way there. I could get another radio, of course, but I was mostly worried he wasn't going to do the performance. 

"We finally arrived about forty minutes late and they were all so rude to us, and yet they knew what the problem was, as they were broadcasting traffic updates and warnings of delays themselves. If I were him, I'd have walked out. The female presenter was a typical local radio DJ, a bit gushy and knew nothing about him and his music. I had a word with the station manager to ask her to stop mentioning Tim Buckley, and he handed her a note to that effect. Jeff just sat there silently and she said, 'What are you going to play?' and Jeff said, 'A song.' I'm thinking, 'Oh god, here we go.' And he started to play "Grace." He did this long guitar introduction, went on for about a minute, like he needed to calm himself down before he got to the actual start of the song, and then he launched into the most electrifying performance. The best I ever heard him do it.

"There were about six phones in the control room, and they all started lighting up. 'Who is this? Who is this? It's amazing!' And all the time, Jeff's getting more and more into it. The presenter went from being this standoffish woman to...I swear she would have thrown herself on him given half a chance, the second he finished singing. You could see she was totally enthralled."

Presenter: "You looked quite exhausted at the end of the song."

Jeff: "I was getting a lot of anger out. Something happened on the way here..."

"The phones didn't stop throughout the next song. The station manager said that in all his twelve years at the station, he'd never seen a reaction like it."

Abbo thinks this performance sparked Jeff's breakthrough. There were certainly plenty of people in line outside the Garage in North London that night. Inside, the first stars were taking note. Chrissie Hynde and Jon McEnroe were in the audience. Chrissie had been a big fan and a friend of Tim's, had actually interviewed him while she was briefly a music journalist with the NME, and she was obviously curious to see how his offspring compared. They struck up a conversation after the show and she clearly said the right thing, because he went off with her to jam with the Pretenders in a nearby rehearsal room. I wasn't carrying anything heavy because of a recent lung collapse, and I didn't want Jeff to pull any important muscles, so I asked McEnroe if he wouldn't mind. He happily hauled Jeff's amp downstairs to the car. The Pretenders' jam with special guests Buckley and Mac went on all night.

Bunjies, as I've said, was tiny, a basement folk club and coffee bar on West Street in Soho, along from the Ivy, with gingham tablecloths and melted candles in wine bottles on the tables and a performance area tucked into a couple of arches in what must have been a wine cellar at one point. It looked unchanged since it had begun in the early 1960s, and had seen a couple of folk booms come and go. It was more of a cafe with an open-mic policy by this point, which felt like a good place for Jeff. There wasn't really any need for amplification, so when we arrived for a sound check there was very little to do but see where Jeff was going to stand in the cramped space and gauge how his voice reflected off the nicotine-stained ceilings. While Jeff did that, I went outside for some fresh air and was stunned to see a line of people already waiting to get into the show.

I took a look at the guest list and realised we'd be lucky to fit twenty of this assembling crowd in the tiny space. Every time I looked up, the line was getting further down West Street. I went back into the venue and found Jeff talking to Emma Banks, the agent. He was saying how great the venue was and that he'd like to do something like hand out flowers to everyone before he went on.

"Jesus, you won't believe what's happening out there," I said to them. "The line goes about four blocks. There's no way these people are going to get in. Is there any way we can do two sets?" Jeff was happy to. Emma spoke to the club owner and was told they had some regular club night happening later on. She came back and said, "They can't do it but I've had an idea!" She disappeared up the steps onto the street, and I spoke to Jeff.

"What flowers would you like?"

"White roses," he said.

"I'll get them," I said, and went back up to the street, where the line had grown even longer.

I walked around looking for a florist and bumped into Emma. "I've booked Andy's Forge," she said. "It's a little place just around the corner in Denmark Street. He can go on at 10:30."

I bought as many white roses as I could find. Jeff handed them to people waiting outside and those lucky enough to get into the club, as he squeezed himself into the corner that passed for a stage. He sang upward, listening to his voice reflect off the curved ceiling into this hot, crowded, and attentive space. There must have been a hundred people stuffed in there.

When the show was over, Jeff walked up the steps to the huddle of patient people that Emma had gathered, plus anyone from the first show who wanted to tag along, and led this crowd like the Pied Piper toward Andy's Forge. Abbo was alongside me. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?" I said.

"Never!" he said. And we laughed liked idiots at the wonderful absurdity of hanging out with Jeff.

Jim Irvin, 'From Hallelujah to the Last Goodbye' (Post Hill), May 2018

Excerpted from Jeff Buckley: From Hallelujah to the Last Goodbye by Jeff's former manager Dave Lory and former MOJO man Jim Irvin (Post Hill Press).