#muted orchestra

[nostalgjc]

i’m so in love with the music in this specific part

[jaybateman]

Depeche Mode | “Walking In My Shoes (With The BBC Concert Orchestra) [Live BBC Radio 2]”

[burlveneer-music]

Will Gregory Moog Ensemble - The Sand Reckoner (Official Visualiser)

Will Gregory Moog Ensemble have announced details of their debut album release, Heat Ray, an album inspired by the work of Archimedes, the Greek mathematician who lived and worked in the third century BC. The album - recorded by the ensemble on analogue synthesisers, alongside the BBC National Orchestra of Wales - is set for release on vinyl, CD and download on 14 June 2024 via Mute: https://mute.ffm.to/wgme-heatray Artwork by Richard Andrews Animation by Shea McChrystal

[eternalstateofoctober]

— 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔦 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔞 𝔟𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖙 𝖔𝖓𝖈𝖊 | AMC’s IWTV

also known as ”local woman is roused to learn editing to deliver everyone this fandom classic” (the video's synced better on desktop)

transcription/video description under the cut:

[video description: a fan video/edit of amc’s ”interview with the vampire” by tumblr user @eternalstateofoctober (me!!) set to a shortened version of lenka’s ”everything at once”. the video clips are cut to the rhythm of the song and its changing lyrics. the song is catchy and upbeat with a light, bouncy rhythm and a whimsical but also slightly melancholic vibe at times. it has a steady beat with repeating piano notes and some xylophone. the video clips are muted so only the song is playing, save for a few voiceover lines and sound effects.

(instrumental intro, repeating piano notes)

the théâtre des vampires orchestra starts playing and another member checks the projector. a watermark with the username @eternalstateofoctober flashes on screen and disappears at the same time as a projector light flickers.

🎵 as sly as a fox 🎵

two clips of daniel after the trial script reveal. first he tosses the script to louis, then he pushes his glasses up and casts a hard look at an off-screen armand.

🎵 as strong as an ox 🎵

armand uses the mind gift to make the coven fall asleep at the dinner table in 2x04, voiceover of him yelling ”enough!” angrily and banging the table. table settings clattering. then lestat using the mind gift at the trial to manipulate louis’ sentence. his left ear starts bleeding. VO lestat: ”banishment...”

🎵 as fast as a hare 🎵

louis sprints at daniel in ’73, making him stumble back.

🎵 as brave as a bear 🎵

clips of young daniel being tortured by armand. first he lifts his gaze, then there’s two clips of him being slammed down by armands powers. last clip is him closing his eyes while armand holds his face. VO of daniel’s grunts and whimpers.

🎵 as free as a bird 🎵

claudia on stage as baby lu mimes opening a window made of projections happily.

🎵 as neat as a word 🎵

claudia writes in her diary in season 1, the clip has a double exposure effect with her pen moving on the page.

🎵 as quiet as a mouse 🎵

a wide shot of the sewers the children of darkness inhabit.

🎵 as big as a house 🎵

establishing shot of the théâtre des vampires building. suddenly the screen flashes black and there’s a quick flickering shot of the talamasca logo on daniel’s laptop screen and a glitching sound effect.

🎵 as mean as a wolf 🎵

close-up of santiago on stage in 2x02, he looks right at the audience seductively.

🎵 as sharp as a tooth 🎵

shots of the vamps baring their fangs. lestat ripping the priests throat out in 1x01, claudia in madeleine’s shop, louis in ’73 showing off to daniel, armand hissing at lestat in 2x03.

🎵 as deep as a bite 🎵

extreme close-up of lestat biting louis at the altar.

🎵 as dark as the night 🎵

madeleine lights a candle that illuminates her face during a power outage. she’s watched from outside her shop window by a curious claudia.

🎵 as sweet as a song 🎵

young daniel embraces armand after armand has manipulated him to accept death. armand strokes his hair and there’s armand’s calm whisper as a voiceover: ”i’ll hold you…”

🎵 as right as a wrong 🎵

claudia’s real turning. lestat looks up from an off-screen louis who’s begging on his knees. in the second clip he’s kneeling next to claudia on the floor and lifting her upper body while louis’ back is still turned to them.

🎵 as long as a road 🎵

louis’ finger taps a spot on a map in the warzone.

🎵 as ugly as a toad 🎵

the vampire bruce cocking his head.

🎵 as pretty as a picture, hanging from a fixture 🎵

lestat’s portrait hangs on the wall in the théâtre’s green room in 2x02, jumpcut to it in flames in 2x08.

🎵 strong like a family 🎵

the de pointe du lac and frenière families pose for a portrait at grace’s wedding. the clip changes to the next with the camera’s flash going off.

🎵 strong as i wanna be 🎵

VO Madeleine: ”mais j'ai survécu.” (”but i survived” in french). shots of madeleine’s past, the trial by mob. extreme close-up of her crying face, the angry crowd surrounding her, her screaming while her hair is shorn. the segment ends with her throwing an iron through her shop window where a group of locals has just painted a swastika. sound effect of glass shattering.

🎵 bright as day, as light as play 🎵

madeleine’s vision of claudia as she’s turned. claudia in a yellow dress in madeleine’s shop, smiling to the camera—at madeleine—and turning to the mirror. the whole scene basks in warm, bright afternoon light.

🎵 as hard as nails 🎵

grace looks up at a slightly off-screen louis in 1x05, a hard, difficult look. they are at louis’ fake grave at night and grace is holding a funeral bouquet.

🎵 as grand as a whale 🎵

two clips after one another. first is louis being buried alive in 2x07, a silent scream as the rocks rush to cover his face. second one is his feet stepping onto the rocks in the penthouse’s sundial room. VO old daniel: ”where’s your coffin?”

(the music quiets and slows down slightly for the next line.)

🎵 as warm as the sun 🎵

close-up of claudia burning in the sun at the trial. she is turning into ash but still looks at an off-screen lestat.

🎵 as silly as fun 🎵

several clips in rapid succession. murder family laughing at a movie theatre, them dancing together—holding hands, claudia cheering riding the sidecar of a motorcycle in paris during the théâtre’s group hunting, armand smirking wearing malek’s glasses, vamp daniel’s tv interview, him laughing at the host.

🎵 as cool as a tree 🎵

real rashid steps slightly forward, hands clasped behind his back with a neutral expression.

🎵 as scary as the sea 🎵

two clips of armand in ’73. first his eyes shake as he slams daniel down with his powers in the background, then him turning slowly—eyes wide—to face daniel that’s sitting in front of him.

🎵 as hot as fire 🎵

three clips showing fire in the show. first: daciana throwing herself into the flames, second: armand’s fire gift, him looking at a flame in his hand, third: the théâtre’s fire starting behind louis as he looks into claudia’s mirror backstage. the mirror reads ”tweedily deedily dead”.

🎵 cold as ice 🎵

louis cuts off santiago’s head, louis smirking, looking down. VO: louis’ satisfied chuckle.

🎵 sweet as sugar and everything nice 🎵

VO louis and old daniel: ”would you like a sample?” ”i’m a savory man most days.” with first a clip of armand-as-rashid’s blissful expression as louis drinks from him at the dinner table in 1x05, then three clips of sweet treats: the strawberry dessert from 1x02 being set in front of daniel, daniel taking a bite of it, then young daniel sipping his grasshopper at mary’s. the clip ends with old daniel’s hand pushing his coffee cup forward, requesting a refill.

🎵 as old as time 🎵

armand stares at a painting depicting him in the louvre, eyes wide, brows slightly furrowed, head slightly turned.

🎵 as straight as a line 🎵

the recording on daniel’s laptop flatlining, him looking at armand, armand smiling warmly at him.

🎵 as royal as a queen 🎵

lestat basks in all his king raj mardi gras costume glory, he smiles widely up at the camera positioned above his head.

🎵 as buzzed as a bee 🎵

lestat on stage in 2x03, wiggling his shoulders, smiling playfully, flipping his coat tails up and bending over for the audience.

🎵 as stealth as a tiger 🎵

estelle and celeste spying on louis and claudia in paris.

🎵 smooth as a glider 🎵

armand floats up the louvre floors as louis and dreamstat take the stairs.

🎵 pure as a melody, pure as i wanna be 🎵

first, a shot of louis and paul dancing at grace’s wedding, smiling at each other. then, a close-up of paul sitting of the roof, turning to look at an off-screen louis as the screen slowly fades to black and another watermark appears. the voiceover is paul and louis’: ”i love you, louis.” ”i love you too, baby brother.”

/end video description]

[lemoncrushh]

The Opera

Summary: You and Harry can't keep your hands off each other at the opera.

Warnings: Smut. 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 1399

A/N: A short sexy blurb from my 2016 collection.

Harry had the biggest grin on his face, his eyes dancing. You smiled back at him as you put on your earrings.

"What is it?" you finally inquired when he continued to grin at you.

"You're beautiful," he said as the color rose to your cheeks.

"You say that like you've never seen me before," you teased.

"Feels like it," he sighed. "It's been two months. I've missed you."

You turned away from the mirror then to face him. "Me too."

You looked down at your somewhat simple black dress, gripping your hands in front of you.

"Is it okay?" you asked sheepishly. "I've never been to the opera before."

Harry took a step closer to you, reaching to separate your hands and thread his fingers through yours.

"You look lovely," he declared, placing a soft kiss on your lips.

You wound your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, inviting his tongue into your mouth. He let out a low groan, his fingertips pressing into your hips. When he broke the kiss, his eyelids were heavy.

"We should probably get going," he muttered. You merely replied with a nod. This was going to be a long night.

You had box seats. Not only was this your first time at the opera, but you had freaking box seats. And not just any box seats, but private ones, meaning no one else was seated in the chairs behind you.

Harry's hand was on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd to find your seats. Stepping through a small alcove and then through a set of red curtains, you looked down to the massive stage, an orchestra pit below. You mouthed a "wow" as you sat down next to Harry.

When the lights went out, he took your hand, giving it a squeeze. You smiled up at him as he lifted your hand to his lips and gave it a kiss. You sat in the darkness, watching the actors on stage, though the dialogue was all sung and in Italian, so you had a hard time following the plot. But it didn't really matter. You were with Harry.

Not far along, well before it was time for intermission, you started to feel antsy in your seat. Even for having expensive box seats, there wasn't very much leg room. You adjusted yourself in your chair, stretching your legs the best you could. You had no idea how Harry's long legs could handle it, but he didn't seem to complain. Perhaps it was just the anticipation of the evening, finally being alone with Harry after two months of him being away.

When you let go of his hand because yours was starting to feel sweaty, Harry took the opportunity to put his on your leg. You bit your lip, the mildly erotic touch sending a jolt through your body. He rested it there for a while before moving it back and forth.

His palm slid up your thigh, pushing up the hem of your dress. You let out a gasp that thankfully was muted by the soprano's loud vocal. You covered Harry's hand with yours, prepared to push it down to your knee or remove it altogether, but instead, he gripped your fingers with his, sliding both of your hands up together, moving in circles.

"Harry," you whispered, not looking at him, but trying your best to focus on the stage below.

When he didn't say anything, you knew he wasn't planning on stopping. You licked your lips, starting to the feel the pounding in your veins that was your pulse. Deciding you could no longer protest, you lifted your hand and tickled a trail up the back of his to his arm. Sitting back just slightly, you opened your legs a bit to allow Harry more access. You heard a tiny low chuckle from him as he slid his hand even further up your thigh, his fingertips grazing the edge of your panties.

You swallowed hard, resting your elbow on the arm of your seat and your head on your hand. Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as Harry pushed your panties to the side, his fingers finding your clit. At that very moment, you weren't sure if you were more turned on or disappointed that you were alone in the box. Trying to pay attention to the act on stage now was futile. You still hadn't made any attempt to look at Harry, perhaps for fear that you'd crumble and lose all control when you saw his face.

When his fingers slid down and entered you, however, you let out a tiny moan, finally turning to capture his gaze. His brows were furrowed, his bottom lip between his teeth as he shook his head.

"Shit," he mouthed.

"What?" you breathed.

Harry leaned closer to whisper in your ear. "You're so fucking wet, baby."

"I know," you pouted.

Harry gave that low chuckle again before releasing his hand from you and rising from his seat.

"What are you doing?" you gasped.

"C'mere," he gestured with his head toward the curtain behind you.

You watched him disappear behind it before you pulled your dress down and stood. You could barely even stand, your legs were like jelly. Peeking through the curtain, you found him waiting on the other side in the small alcove. He immediately pulled you to him, crashing his mouth against yours.

"I've missed you so much," he groaned against your lips. "I can't wait any longer."

"But Harry, we're-"

"I don't care," he interrupted.

He surprised you by unbuttoning his trousers and pushing down his boxers, his erection springing free. If you weren't so turned on, you might have thought it ludicrous. But the warm wetness between your legs proved how badly you wanted him too.

Harry's hands pushed your dress up to your waist, his fingers hastily sliding underneath your panties again. You sucked in your lips as you tried to hold in a moan.

"Turn around," he instructed.

You obliged, turning to face the wall just as you felt his body press against yours, his hands on your hips. Pushing your panties to the side, he entered you so quickly it made your head spin. You let out a small cry, arching your back.

"You okay?" you heard him ask in your ear.

"Yes," you gulped.

"God, baby, I missed you. I missed feeling you."

"Me too."

You leaned forward, your hands pressed against the wall in front of you as Harry's thrusts quickened. The sound of singing was ringing in your ears, though it seemed far away. Harry had a tight grip on your hips, pulling you against him with each pump of his hips. It didn't take long before his breaths got louder, becoming moans of pleasure.

As he nibbled on your neck, you felt him hum against you, the vibration sending you closer to the edge.

"Oh!" you cried out.

"Yeah," Harry murmured in your hear. "Come with me, baby. I'm so close."

"Harry..."

"Fuck," he moaned. "You're so good. I'm gonna come."

His words never failed to push you closer to your peak. You cried out his name again as your orgasm ripped through you. With one more thrust, he buried himself deep, his body trembling as he released himself into you.

Your arms shook as you finally let go of the wall, reaching behind you to wrap them around Harry's neck after he pulled out. You slowly tried to catch your breath as you came down and Harry kissed your cheek.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his hands sliding down your sides before enveloping you in his arms. "I just couldn't wait til we got home."

You giggled softly. "No you're not."

"What?"

"You're not sorry," you playfully scoffed, dropping his arms from around your waist.

Harry chuckled. "Alright, I'm not. That was fucking amazing."

You smiled as your straightened your dress, turning to face him while he buttoned his pants.

"Gives a new meaning to the term 'ending on a high note'."

Harry glared at you before you both burst out laughing.

"Are we staying for the rest of this?" he asked.

You shrugged, turning toward the curtain before looking at him again. Neither of you had to say a word. Taking your hand, Harry led you out of the alcove and down the stairs to the exit.

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

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[stevebabey]

and on the final day on august (not where i am hehe) i bring you my fic for @thefreakandthehair summer fanwork challenge! my prompt was nightswimming, its steddie (duh) and she's a baby 2.2k piece <3 | ao3

— hold my hand and tread the water

The water ebbs around his ankles gently and the ripples move across the lake surface like black slicks of ink, twinkles of moonlight catching on crests of the small waves.

Steve swallows thickly.

Why did he think this was a good idea?

It's not Lover's Lake. He knows it's not— he knows that Hawkins and all its crawling rot, through roots and beneath lakes, is miles away from him.

Steve knows that even with the gate closed, if something slipped by- somehow, he can't think of how- but it doesn't matter, if it did, it surely wouldn't be able to reach him here.

It looks an awful lot like Lover's Lake in the shadow of night.

Steve blinks harshly and curls his toes in the sand, grounding himself by burrowing his feet into the soil. The sound of lapping water was once a sound of comfort, connected to a bout of nostalgia — the sort of comfort that can only come with a routine of familiarity.

Swimming used to mean... it was the exhilaration of the dive. It was the pleasant burn in his muscles and the blaze deep in his lungs as he held his breath as long as possible, pushing the limit every time.

It was the gasp, the relief of breaking the surface, a moment of loud noise before he submerged once again, muted rushing water the only sound. It was the long and solid strokes that he carved through water with. Swimming always used to to make him feel strong.

And now... there's this new fear rooted within him.

But, hell, there's lots of things that the years of fighting and surviving the Upside Down had taken from him. Steve will be damned if he adds swimming to the list.

"—Steve?"

Eddie's voice is suddenly beside him, right in his ear, and Steve flinches, dragged abruptly from his wandering thoughts. He tears his eyes from the swirling lake surface to find the other man beside him, brown eyes searching with that glaze of concern. There's a furrow in his brows. Steve feels the warmth of his hand before it lands on his shoulder, tentative and wary.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks quietly, like speaking any louder might spook Steve more. He has this tone to his voice, the one that Steve thinks might be reserved just for him. He hasn't heard Eddie use it on anyone else. His usual loud and raucous voice, so normally used for jeering and loud heckles, completely softened.

It softens Steve every time Eddie uses it.

"We don't gotta do this tonight, if you don't wanna."

"I want to."

The words rush up his throat and stick a little on the way out. Steve clears his throat and digs his feet further into the sand.

One of his hands creeps up his chest til his fingers brush against Eddie's own hand, still holding his shoulder. He meets Eddie's gaze for a moment before an intensity seizes his chest and that recognizable lurch in his heart forces his gaze away.

That lack of courage is new too. Though, that's one thing he can't seem to blame on the Upside Down.

"It's the last one." Steve murmurs, eyes back on the lake ahead of them. Faint crickets fill the orchestra of the night around them, an occasional frog tuning in with a ribbit! Something splashes in the distance.

It is the last one. The last fear to conquer to reclaim back that piece of himself. Through out their whole silly and impromptu road-trip, they've pushed that slimy fear further and further down in Steve. Burning it away, making it smaller, til Steve was feeling bigger and better. They started in a pool, in the daylight, Eddie's open palms and soothing eyes coaxing him back into the water.

Here is the end. The last one. A lake in the night time.

Steve can feel the fear curdling in his gut, the tenseness in his muscles, every single instinct that's kept him alive for the past five years screaming at him to not get in. He feels like a house of cards, ready to topple in the slightest breeze, just drinking in the sight before him. Eddie's hand on his shoulder might be the only thing keeping him steady.

He could leave, could avoid swimming during the nighttime, could retract into himself every time that sticky fear licked up his spine— bringing back memories of vines tight around his ankle, pulling, tugging, drowning him, and— Steve clears the memory with a violent twitch, muscles jumping in their tenseness.

He's so sick of being in survival mode.

Eddie's fingers on his shoulder flex, gifting a comforting squeeze. Steve can see the chipped black polish on them in his peripheral, bare of their usual rings, prepared to swim because Eddie always gets in with him. They always swim together. God, Steve's not sure what he'd do without him.

Steve swallows again, the stone is his throat budging this time as the want surges up deep in his chest; he wants to make some goddamn new memories too.

"Can you..." He murmurs, finally turning his head to peer at Eddie beside him.

"Of course," Eddie answers his unvoiced question easily, beginning to wade into the lake a little further.

The water sloshes around his ankles, climbing up his calves, and Steve's gaze drags up with it, lingering on Eddie's milky white thighs. There's another tattoo there, a sphinx-like character, curled up and stark in it's dark colour against his pale complexion.

Steve hadn't been able to hide his staring the first time they'd swum together — a tiny bright-tiled pool in a motel, one or two states back — completely entranced by the swirling ink and the bareness of Eddie's thighs.

Eddie had caught his gawking with a smug sort of grin and ribbed him for it, tugging the fabric of his swim shorts up higher to show off the full piece. Mercifully, he didn't point out the flush it brought onto Steve's cheeks. Steve had apologised, both for his staring and for doing it in one of the more improper places, but Eddie had only given that wicked beautiful smile.

"M'used to stares, Steve." He said, not nearly as bitter as Steve thinks he's entitled to be considering the man-hunt set on him. "You don't look at me like them."

Looking at the stretch of his thigh now, tattoo partially hidden away, Steve ponders Eddie's words to keep the itch of panic at the back of his neck away. What had Eddie meant? Just how he does look at him?

Some girls like long looks, like feeling eyes raking them up and down hungrily but most of them like skirting glances, always glancing away if they've caught Steve watching. Eager glances at thighs and down chests are certainly not encouraged. It's a game of back and forth. One can't be seen to be too eager, too ravenous.

Except for, Eddie seems the complete opposite. He catches Steve's keen gaze, he spots the staring and relishes in it — like Steve's attention is something is something divine and Eddie will drink in all he can get.

It doesn't feel like it's a prize the way it did in high school, girls vying for King Steve's attention. It feels... Eddie makes it feel like something to revere.

"C'mon, sweetheart." Eddie croons, beckoning Steve into the lake and away from his distracted thoughts. He's got his hand outstretched, palm up, calloused fingers relaxed and inviting Steve to hold them with his own.

He does. He's not sure when it became a thing, holding hands — probably sometime when they upgraded from pools to rivers and lakes — but Steve's grateful for it. Eddie's fingers blanch beneath the tight grip but if it pains Eddie, he makes no move to show it on his face.

Steve grips tighter. When Eddie drifts back a step, the dark water licking an inch higher on his legs, he lets himself be pulled along. Step by step. He keeps his eyes ahead, even as the other peers down into the dark water momentarily.

Eddie gasps and a jolt of fright fires off, deep in Steve's gut. He clutches Eddie's hand tighter and Eddie's head pops up, squeezing Steve's hand back.

"Fucking chilly, is all, okay? My balls are freezing, Jesus. H. Christ."

He does this silly little hop like it's going to help the chill of the night-time lake-water. It's a funny enough sight that Steve doesn't try to stifle his shaky laughter and some of his panic melts away with it. He still doesn't look down.

Eddie scrunches his nose up and then narrows his eyes at Steve. "You're laughing now."

Steve sticks out his tongue — and bites it harshly as the water sweeps up past his waist, submerging his swimming trunks and everything below. Fucking hell, it is cold. Eddie wasn't lying.

As far as each of their swims have been — there's been six altogether, or seven if you count the high bath they took together, which Steve doesn't — this one is going smoother than what he's come to expect. There's still that prickle down his spine, like ice ghosting atop his skin, but Steve can shake it in a shiver.

The water looms higher, swallowing the plains of his stomach and Steve can feel his neck craning up, trying to get taller. Still, he takes the next step. And the next.

Suddenly, there's a brush against his leg— scaly and mucky and he knows it's not what he imagines it to be but there's no clamping down the instinct built in. His heart slams in his chest and his practiced even slow breaths transform into rapid bursts, this dread clawing deep into his gut. Steve can feel his hackles rise, knows his hand must be twisting tighter and tighter in Eddie's grip.

It all shows as a minuscule reaction on his face. Steve knows because Robin told him once—regarded him with that crinkled look once when the panic attack had crept up on him during a shift, then uttered an oh shit! once she realised what was happening.

You're too good at that. She'd told once he'd managed to calm down, head between his knees in the employee room out the back.

What?

Good at hiding it. Robin said, nudging his shoulder. He can't tell from her tone it's a good or bad thing. Maybe, it's neither. You look so calm all the time, even when you're panicking.

Eddie's come to learn the signs too. The specific pinch in his eyebrows, the twitchiness of his lips.

"Woah, woah, hey, hey," He brings the two of them closer, no longer leading them out. Eddie's dark eyes dart across his face, a wrinkle in his brow as he tries to soothe. "Just a stupid fish, nothin' to worry about, you're good."

His hands travel as he speak, shaking off Steve's tight grip to slide up his tan arms. Steve's hands shoot out, desperate to hold something, to cling to something, his big hands enveloping Eddie's wrists as the other rubs gently at his biceps. Fingers curl around the tanned skin and beg Steve closer, beginning to sink down in the water as he does.

"C'mon, you're safe." He murmurs and Steve, hanging onto tight, sinks down with him. The water climbs higher, lapping at his collarbones. Steve clings tighter, clenching up in preparation. "S'just you, me, and the fishies."

"If you think that's all that's in here, you know even less about lakes than I thought," Steve grits out.

"Shit, really?" Eddie asks. Then after another moment, "You think there's crocs in here?"

"You didn't even check?"

Eddie's grin rivals the moonlight, cheeky and delighted. "Course I did," Then he scoffs dramatically, tossing his head back. Some of his hair hits the water with a splash. "Can't believe you don't trust me at all, after all this time together."

A sly smile fights to reach Steve's face; he lets it win. His panic isn't dissolved completely, just lingering in the back— but it's been beat out by his interest in conversation with Eddie, in the strange flirt they keep seeming to do.

"I don't have any trust in you at all since you picked Motel Evergreen and—"

His words get smushed beneath Eddie's palm, warm and soft against his mouth, as the other boy narrows his eyes. "Shut your pretty mouth, Steve. You promised you wouldn't bring that up again."

Even as he threatens, Eddie's eyes light with a mirth and there's that glorious grin on his face and oh god, Steve wants to kiss him.

Like a vacuum, the panic sucks out of him in a single moment as the tide turns and his nerves turn to that. Fuck. Eddie's hand slips from his face, nervous he's gotten too close, too touchy. And, well, Steve's always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, so he says;

"Make me."

Something glitters across Eddie's face, a bewilderment dipped with glee. For a moment, his expression shutters as he tries to comprehend what's been said. What's been offered.

He lands on an astute, "What?"

Steve sinks into the lake and kicks off the bottom, water swishing as he starts to tread water. His feet kick and he has half a mind to spray Eddie with a face full of icy lake water but he's got that doe-eyed exuberance that Steve adores, like he's daring to let himself believe what Steve's saying.

So, instead Steve holds his hand out. He treads the water and says, "I said, make me."

Eddie doesn't waste another second.

[superstarz9]

Ya’ll fw a couple MORE Mr. Puzzles hcs?

Cause I got them :}

He was gifted the hat by his mom. It’s a permanent part of him with how much he’s worn it.

He gets it, and won’t say anything about it, but he hates it when he regarded as just the scary “tv” head guy. He’s much more than a pretty screen, people!

The pants are custom made and he has like 20 pairs. He also has several pairs of his shirt and vest.

Will change the second there’s a spot on his clothes. He needs to remain as pristine as possible.

If he wasn’t a workoholic, he’d beat all the moms at candy crush. He’d try to be a literal god at candy crush, and would honestly buy extra lives if he was furious with how the match went and he ran out.

Plays computer solitaire to distract himself when the ratings aren’t good or he needs a mental reset.

Adding to these two, since he has computer elements in his brain (probably), he can probably predict where the game is going to go. The older the console, the easier it is.

He’d be a god at minesweeper.

Does not and will not swear no matter how bad it gets.

If he goes to a concert, he’ll just be doing the equivalent of maladaptive daydreaming the whole time, planning out shows and movies for the songs

Loves the orchestra. He loves movie scores and would totally go to those events where there’s an orchestra playing the soundtrack live as the movie plays.

He’ll whine about not having friends or being able to talk to people but he will refuse to talk to anyone in public, going so far as to mute anyone who tries speaking with him. If he’s at an event and someone tries sparking a conversation with him, he’ll look away awkwardly and reply with “uh huh, yep, oh wow,” and so on until they leave. In a relationship, you could introduce him to people but he’s still be the same unless you were apart of the conversation.

Loves movie/show trivia but it’s a double-edge sword. If you take him on a date to a bar for movie trivia night, he’ll have fun and get everything right (and infodump a lot) but a question will pop up and the official answer will be wrong and Mr. Puzzles will just go ballistic.

Canonically has hammer-space abilities in the shows and can pull out anything he needs. Need a first-aid kit? Got it right here. Emergency costume? Has your size in multiple colours to choose. Someone pissed you off? Just say when and he’ll have something ready.

He doesn’t have proper heating in the studio(since he doesn’t need it) and the place is freezing when there’s the slightest breeze outside.

He uses different colognes and even used febreze a few times to smell his best, but he perpetually smells like cigarettes

He kins spongebob.

Technically canon but he’s an entrepreneur, and has multiple businesses (a tech company based on the keyboard from it’s gotta be perfect, selling the showgrounds). He also phrases puzzlevision as his “latest business venture,” in the movie’s teaser. He bounced between different businessed to earn enough money to buy the studio and the equipment he’d need.

With that being said, he’s unintentionally a con artist. Though he tries to have a somewhat clean business, he cuts corners often to get the products out sooner or doesn’t perform proper safety protocol. He doesn’t really care, though, as his main goal was and is Puzzlevision. He pretty much stopped the second he found the smg4 crew.

Terrible at art. He tries, but not even you can hold back your laugh if you see his art.

If he hasn’t slept for a while his voice is warped and a little glitched.

I forgot if I already posted this but his underpants are so those heart boxers but instead of hearts they’re stars.

So real quick, I just wanted to say that ONE OF MY HEADCANONS HAS BE CONFIRMED LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! It is now confirmed that Mr. Puzzles CAN speak multiple languages, but still needs subtitles. God, I love being right /j

Fr tho, it’s really awesome having him back so soon. Maybe a little early, but I’m not complaining lol. From the sounds of it, he’ll be a reoccurring villain like SMG3 used to be, which I’m honestly relieved by. It’ll be rlly refreshing having a silly antagonist again honestly. I’m looking forward to seeing more of this fricken nerd lol

Also if you guys have any suggestions or requests please let me know! Questions and comments are also appreciated! Thanks and have a great day!

[syoddeye]

pursuit

poly 141 x reader ~1k words, lightly edited cw: chase/pursuit, human furniture continuation of spoils 2024/04/01 Update: This series is now Poly141! x transmasc!Reader.

The fireplace crackles, logs groaning in its flames. A mute servant slides narrow slats of kindling into the gaps and collects the ash. Reading in the privacy of his study after an indulgence is a languid ritual, and John leans in the seat of the tufted armchair like a lion sated. The servant continues their work in silence, with only the sound of turning pages cutting the quiet.

His eyes lift to the door seconds before the first knock falls, ending his peace abruptly. The grim face of a subordinate pokes through.

“Sir? You need to see this.”

John stares a moment before lifting his feet from the ottoman. The curled, nude man beneath his boots grunts quietly when he nudges him aside.

He allows the subordinate to bring up the security feed at his desk, one brow arched in intrigue rather than concern. He smirks as he watches a figure force themselves through a hedge. He summons his hounds with the press of a button, and one by one, they slink into his office, tails wagging at their own pace.

“Our little bird has flown the nest. Find ‘em, but do not engage lest they stray too close to the garden’s edge,” Reaching for his jacket, he pulls it on a sleeve at a time. “‘S preferable we allow them to believe they’ve slipped our grasp for now.”

With John’s instructions given, the three men race from the room. The Captain turns to the windows. If their plunder sought a game, he would indulge them.

~~

Over comms, John monitors the chase’s progress, tone detached as he saunters down the shallow steps leading from the manse to an exit of the maze. “Drive them towards the northwest corner.”

With precision timing and manipulation, John orchestrates the movements like a conductor guiding an orchestra, ensuring that every step their quarry takes is one he guides. The hollering and whooping voices of his men echo across the garden’s expanse, loud then soft—all to keep them uncertain and on edge. They’re far from being the first rabbit loose on the grounds, on the run from his dogs.

“Give them a little room,” He lopes along the outer path, then hooks into the exit, scratching at his beard. “Only tighten the lead on my command.”

He stops at a stone bench nestled within an alcove of tall brush and hedge and eases into it. A soft groan escapes him. Perhaps he overextended himself when welcoming their guest in his excitement. Clearly, next time, he’ll need to wear them out more. The fact they had the energy and strength to climb out of the window of their chambers was a miscalculation on his part. A distant shriek makes his lip curl.

He checks his watch. Any minute now.

~~

The ache of your knee and the warm track of blood are negligible, given current circumstances. The fabric is heavy, clutched in your fists, hoisted, and hitting against your calves with every step. You believe the head start will be enough. You must. You abandoned the bracelets and necklaces at the base of the wall beneath your window and tied shredded pillowcases around your bare feet.

Your heart hammers in your chest, lungs burning. After a few minutes, you skid to a halt and gulp down air. From the window, you estimated the maze was an acre and saw that it butted up against an iron fence, but it feels longer as if new paths spring up around each corner. Just as you catch your breath to continue, you hear it. Hear them.

Shouts.

Muttering a curse, you scramble onward. Although you try, it is impossible to keep quiet; whimpers and squeaks slip out as your poor makeshift feet coverings gradually rip away. The soles of your feet find every twig and pebble, and your scraped knee slows you further. Then there are the bruises that little your backside and thighs, thighs unhelpfully chafing and raw from John’s ministrations.

Your movements become more frantic as you weave through the garden, the voices—at once murmurs in your ear and distant howls beyond the shrubs—play tricks with your mind. Shadows await within the deadends and dark corners you find, morphing into figures, only to dissipate when you reel away.

A loud crunch of wood shocks you off your feet, and you hurtle into a wet patch of earth, biting your lip through. A burst of copper blooms in your mouth, but you gather your limbs up in a ball, tucking into recess on one of the living walls. Just as you retreat, the monstrous form of one of John’s men—Simon, the beast in black—stalks out from the gap you emerged from seconds before, sniffing the air like a dog. Heart in your throat, you watch him turn with a chuff, and disappear down a different passage.

You wait until his steps disappear. Cries erupt from a far corner of the grounds, and you shakily stand, trying to count the tones. One…two…

“Boo.”

A shriek rips out of you, and you stumble out of your hiding spot to take off. A deep laugh echoes behind you, and terror licks at your heels. It’s the mohawked one. The man with the teeth. MacTavish.

You must find a way out. No part of you can afford a second or third surrender. Your sides are in stitches, fisting the unwieldy drapes covering your body. Desperate, flawed math maps your footfalls, your panic-stricken mind trying to calculate not only your rough location within the maze but the routes least likely to land you in the clutches of one of John’s men.

Rounding a corner, every part of you aching, you glide clumsily to a halt. The cool mud on your feet and legs meets the warmth of your blood.

Seated upon a bench as if it is a throne, is John.

He smiles. Teeth tombstones in the dark.

“Did you have a nice run?” 

You wheel around to disappear into the garden and meet a wall of solid mass. You bounce back a step and look up. The third man grins and encloses your wrist in an ironclad fist.

What about Kyle? He usually keeps his hands to himself.

Kyle's companions loom over his shoulders. He gently turns you to face John, who’s still seated.

Steps to your left and right crunch. Surrounded on three sides.

“Let’s see if they can’t work that insolence out of your system, eh?”

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Sinfully Delicious - An EZ Reyes/Reader Smut Short.

I was feeling a certain way about EZ all day, so now you can, too! Especially since people say there isn't enough in the way of stories about him out there, yet he remains one of my least reacted with smut subjects?! Anyway, hot filth below, so go enjoy!

Words - 836

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

EZ Reyes. He’s the only man who has ever had such a profound effect upon you, that just looking at him ignites your arousal. You can feel your cunt fluttering with the longing for him, to feel him, your skin craving the heat of his against it.

When you find yourself falling into fantasies, your body responds, just the very thought of him inside you making you wet, your inner walls aching, needing to feel his cock pushing into you deep.  

When you finally get him, you almost don’t know how to react, though. With your fantasy right there before you, kisses of scorching heat landing upon your mouth and his hand gliding up your bare leg, your brain goes to static completely.  

“Fuck,” he grunts, reaching the drenched fabric of your underwear. “You’re absolutely soaking.” His words are delivered on a hungry grunt, gently biting your lower lip with a groan, his fingertips fighting past the sodden garment to stroke your folds. “God, that feels so good and It’s only my fingers."

His touch glides over your clit, and you buck into his hand, gasping, EZ smiling against your lips. “That feel nice, beautiful? Yeah, is that how you want me to touch you, play with this pretty little clit until you come hard for me, hmm? Or do you need something inside of you?” His words have you mindless, only capable of using sounds, and he knows it, knows he’s winding you tightly. “Maybe I should give you both, huh?”  

Pushing you back against the counter he has you sitting upon, he pulls off your undies, lowering his head to your heat, his fingers pushing inside you as his tongue begins to lay licks over your aching bud, his breaths hot and sharp against you. “God, you taste amazing. So fucking sweet.”  

It burns golden through you, each lick firming, his fingers rooting deep as your cunt streams over them, his lips wrapping to suck upon you.  

“Oh, please don’t stop! Fuck, that feels so good!”  

He looks up at you, eyes gleaming. “Finally found your voice, huh? That’s good, cuz’ I’m all set to hear you wail pretty for me, beautiful.” When he sucks on you again, you do, your voice breaking on a cry, the lewd sounds of him feasting on your clit filling the air, peppered by his grunts. The squelch of his fingers pounding into your pussy overtakes the other noises, the erotic orchestra loudening, your nails dug into his thick shoulders as you mewl, your hips shaking violently.

He’s better than you ever could have dreamed of. 

“Fuck, I'm so fucking hard, baby. Let me give you my dick, right now. I gotta be in you,” he pants, the desire in his eyes meeting yours as you pull your dress and bra off, EZ shedding the rest of his clothes. A cock of impressive size bobs free of his jeans, the bunched fabric kicked from his ankles along with his white boxers.  

“Yeah,” you gasp, reaching for him, steering him to your streaming opening. “I need to have you in me just as badly.” He pushes, and with one fluid thrust, he’s filling you, your cry muted by his mouth, his hands grasping your thighs as you draw your knees up, that hot, veiny hardness inching into you deeper. His eyes fall down, your gaze following, watching at how the liquid silk of your cunt bathes his cock, glossing the dark skin, glinting over each ridge before it vanishes within you again.  

“Like how that big dick feels all up in you deep, querida? Fuck, you feel so good.” Once again, he has you rendered mindless, his mouth claiming yours in kisses gilded in honey and embers, his rhythm exquisite, giving you exactly what you need.

He drags your walls slow and hard, sparks scraping, the fill of him mind-melting as you clutch at his muscles, the chiselled bulk of him hotter than you could ever imagine.  

Adding speed, he meets your need with keen thrusts, filling you wholly, glimmers shooting through you as his hips rut you with force, mouth moving to kiss a constellation over your neck. He hits you at every angle and depth, so deep you feel as if galaxies are collapsing and igniting again within you, pleasure bursting over your nerves as you cry out ferally.  

“Come on, baby,” he pants, tongue swirling with yours, his nails digging into your flesh. “Let me feel this pretty little cunt come around me. Yeah, that’s it. Come all over my dick.”  

He fucks you in brutal frenzy, his trailer beginning to shake with the force of it, your nails clawing at his back as frost chills your blood, only for the flames of your undoing to melt it as your orgasm races through you. He twitches, teeth clamping onto your neck, spilling hot and deep within your fluttering walls, his groan all smoke and grit.  

How sinfully delicious it is, when fantasy lives up to reality.  

[legally-allowed-to-slime]

It was damp.

The wind blew her stomach into a hollow carcass, rib cage like thin and lonely bones in the desert. A limp, dead glow from the anglerfish took the place of any twinkling stars, and two fish circled her lighthouse in a silent and eternal dance.

Gem shivered and allowed a fixed smile to materialise.

She could feel it, tingling in her bones every time she stepped on a dock or flicked out a rod, running through her in unsteady cracks that spread into flashes.

Electricity and water didn’t mix. Rather, they mixed too well, and she had a feeling she was the conductor of this jumbled orchestra.

Her skin felt numb, night air stinging her. Even Grian had advised her against staying up for nights on end, at least not to the point where her flesh felt like ice even in broad daylight. And the man himself had casted his rod thousands of times in just weeks.

She had to admit it was taking its toll on her.

Trembling, Gem grabbed her rod, moving methodically, like she was the dead left alive. Her heart rumbled around, refusing to give her relief. She felt suffocated. Need air.

Need water.

She gasped, and clung onto the railing to stabilise herself, lungs twisting in pain. Gem grabbed the canteen at her side and exhaled in frustration after finding it empty.

Something lurking inside, spurring her on made her lean over the side of the boat and scoop up the seawater, bringing the canteen to her mouth in one fluid motion, before gulping the whole thing down. It didn’t taste salty. Just refreshing.

Um. Okay.

The air was cold.

Gem forced herself to relax and began to pull up the net, the seawater that dampened the ropes warming her hands. The water sloshed and creaked around the hull.

There was a sudden splash a few feet away, and she startled, watching the spot carefully. A purposefully moving shade rippled in the waves and disappeared.

She’d been seeing more of those recently, though she wasn’t sure if it was just sleep deprivation-induced hallucinations, or a trick of the dark. Maybe it was both.

Gem gripped the sword at her waist, waiting for any signs of disturbance.

The clouds creeped across the horizon.

Silence. Nothing but the ocean glinting under the muted moonlight.

A minute passed, then another. She started to relax. Maybe the fishing really was just getting to her head—

—was what she was thinking, as something, some thing’s gaping jaw revealed too many teeth growing from slimy gums, grey and green and every other colour on the spectrum and beyond fading into an abyss that threatened to consume. She couldn’t see anything, blindness taking over her, erasing everything that ever existed.

Gem bit her tongue so hard she tasted iron. Hands shaking, she barely managed to fumble her sword out and blindly swung it, shutting her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see anything as she died.

The thing growled, and Gem’s feet were glued to the deck.

Silence hung in the air, time agonisingly ticking.

Then there was a low swish, a shake, a splash, and then nothing.

A soft drizzle started, pattering onto the water’s surface and settling on her shoulders.

Gem forced herself to pry her eyes open. The water crinkled innocently at her, and somehow, she had the feeling she’d been let go.

(For now.)

The ocean rocked beneath her, and not too far away, lightning struck.

[emp-t-man]

so my friend @delaneytalks-tostatues very kindly sent me a prompt for the ask reblog and of course i had to blow it out of proportion so here’s a long and ramble-y description of what musical instruments would represent the cast of wolf 359 in an instrumental score (by a music major)

minkowski would have trumpet motifs. they’re bold, and loud, and often the leaders of the brass section, but can also have a beautiful and even melancholy sound when played in the right situation. trumpets are often used to solo, and hardly play as much as other brass or woodwind instruments in an ensemble, the way minkowski often places upon herself the entire fate of the crew and the mission and is reluctant to accept help when it doesn’t come to aspects of the mission itself. i can just imagine the slow, emotional solo that would play in the background of her breakdown in pan-pan and it’s. ugh /pos

lovelace would be repped by a trombone— very close to a trumpet, but slightly deeper, with more of a dark timbre behind it, reminiscent of the people she’s lost and what she’s had to go through to be where she is. they’re also more friendly in terms of playing with the rest of the ensemble and more flexible in moving between notes, but just as strong.

eiffel has french horn motifs. is it because the french horn is my favorite of the non-string instruments? maybe. but also it has such emotional depth behind it. it’s so full, and hauntingly beautiful, and i think it’d be a good representation of how deeply eiffel strives to be a good person to try and forget his past.

now, these three all have something in common, and that’s having their instrument be a member of the brass section. brass just seems very fitting for the protagonists of the series— it’s hopeful, it’s strong, it’s driving. but i’m missing a couple members of the hephaestus crew who i think wouldn’t be represented by brass motifs for one reason or another.

starting with hera. i think hera’s motif would be played by a flute for a number of reasons. for one, she just gives me flutist vibes. for two, flutes aren’t a member of the brass family, just as hera isn’t seen as a true member of the hephaestus by a lot of people for a long time. while the flute is a beautiful instrument on its own, it can sound sort of lonely among a big, strong brass ensemble. however, a soft, lilting flute melody above a brass accompaniment could be just what the ensemble needs to achieve the mellow timbre a piece could call for, just as hera’s persistence and determination and intelligence is often what pulls the crew through when they’re stuck doing nothing but yelling at each other. i think it could especially be really pretty with a muted trumpet as a duet, in the same way hera and minkowski grow to be very close and work rather well with one another as they go through everything together.

there’s another we gotta talk about but i gotta bring up SI-5 first—

while the hephaestus crew is represented by the brass section, i think it’d be cool to have SI-5 represented by woodwinds. they aren’t as strong aurally, but add essential undertones and accompanying cues that could make or break an orchestra.

maxwell has english horn motifs for little reason other than it just— sounds like her to me. it can either sound like a sunrise of a new day or the creeping sensation of dread as lights dim depending on what mode you’re in and what the accompaniment is like, just like maxwell is seen by hera as both a friend and someone who doesn’t respect her in the slightest at different points in the series, and sometimes at the same time. it’s bright, and beautiful, but sneaky, and i think that kind of motif would go hard

jacobi would be played by a bassoon. again, this is a little bit because two of my closest friends are bassoonists and i love the instrument to death but ALSO because it’s deep and looming and intimidating but can also be extremely moving and emotional if you listen closely enough.

now kepler, he’s represented with saxophones. the instrument that looks to be a brass instrument but in reality is part of the woodwind family, just as kepler appears to have the crew’s safety in his best interest and to want to be their friend at first, but is rather quick to let them know his only interest lies with himself and his mission. it’s also a very charismatic instrument and is used to charm people a lot of the time, just as kepler relies on to pull in and trap other people in his “big picture” before they even know it.

all of this leaves hilbert. hilbert, to me, would be played by a cello. it’s a string instrument, and has no part in the band ensemble, just as hilbert has no alliance with any of the other crew members. he does his own thing, and the decima project means more to him than any individual. it’s deep, and full, and just like eiffel’s french horn motif, hauntingly beautiful.

i’m too tired to come up with what goddard’s motifs would be (cutter, pryce, and rachel), but i might do them another time if this gets enough traction—

[batesmotelofficial]

You already know who it is. But now that the rps changed slightly. What songs fit the characters now in your opinion. I'll answer it aswell

Sigh, you always give me such wide variety...

Norman: good old fashion lover-boy (queen), on a bicycle built for two (nat king cole), Norman Bates (bright light fever), the shower scene (INK), mary on a cross (ghost), tea errors (jack stauber), inch man (jack stauber), chloroform girl (polkadot cadaver), vermillion (slipknot), touch-tone telephone (lemon demon), mama (mcr), horror hotel (misfits), bates motel (mute), I know it's over (the smiths), don't sing love songs (the caravelles), mary (Alex g), I don't like my mind (mitski), brave as a noun (AJJ), alligator skin boots (mccafferty), psycho (Eddie noack), twenties (ghost), pizza boy (jack stauber), lime bean man (jack stauber), witch image (ghost).

Norma; living dead girl (Rob zombie), mad hatter (melenie martinez), the afterlife/daughter slaughterer 2 (Bambi baker), cigarette ahego (Penelope scott), i/me/myself (will wood), hate the living love the dead (misfits), I threw a rock off an overpass and killed somebody (sign crushes motorwrist), o superman (laurie anderson), laughing on the outside (Bernadette carroll), house-wife radio (ghost & pals), mood swings (human people), bag of bones (mitski), out of her head (from the film), ritual (ghost), mummy dust (ghost), death knell (ghost), prime mover (ghost).

Damien: devil in disguise (elvis), elenor Rigby (the beatles), hip to be square (huey lewis), child psychology (black box recorder), to the end (mcr), the lobotomy (maebi), nowhere to run (stegosaurus rex), hypnotize (SOAD), pyramid song (radiohead), romance is boring (Los campesinos!), call it fate call it karma (the strokes), love me more (mitski), Hansel (sodikken), hunters moon (ghost), he is (ghost), pro memoria (ghost), stand by him (ghost).

Hailey: possibly in Michigan (ivol), psycho (SOAD), who is she (I, monster), not allowed (tv girl), motorpsycho nightmare (Bob dylan), daughter slaughter (Bambi baker), you don't own me (Leslie gore), it almost worked (tv girl), I bet on losing dogs (mitski), traumatic livelihood (jazmin bean), over & over (Rio Romeo), Mr sandman (chordettes), last words of a shooting star (mitski), SIU (maretu), we will all go together when we go (Tom lehrer), spillways (ghost), dance macabre (ghost).

Carrie: hell in the hallways (INK), devil town (cavetown), home (cavetown), my alcoholic friends (the dredsen dolls), remember you omnichord (trillian), washing machine heart (mitski), Stockholm butterfly, P.U.N.K. girl (heavenly), seventeen (ladytron), hey bunny (baby bugs), dove (antihoney), amygadals rag-doll (ghost & pals), kids (current joys), too young to burn (sonny & the sunsets), the milk carton (Madelyn mei), bunny bunny bunny (golden Orchestra), square hammer (ghost), Elizabeth (ghost), circe (ghost), Bible (ghost).

Wendy: dumpster girl (jack stauber), you know what you've done (jazmin bean), my love mine all mine (mitski), NYMPHOLOGY (melenie martinez), duvet (bóa), duet (omori), dealer (Lana ray), you smell of dead flowers (wastelandpyro), fiesta love/late spring (mitski), stupid cupid (Connie francis), harness your hopes (pavement), sleepwalk (Santo and johnny), lonely eyes (the front bottoms), irrational (cavetown), the moon will sing (the crane wives), midnight the stars and you (al bowlly), life eternal (ghost), if you have ghosts (ghost).

Beetlejuice: one way or another (blondie), hybrid moments (misfits), training wheels (melenie martinez) a little piece of heaven (avenged sevenfold), Charlie's inferno (that handsome devil), twin sized mattress (the front bottoms), can't help falling in love (elvis presley), the saints of violence and innuendo (shinedown), squaring up (sir chloe), half-decade hangover (will wood), the satanic rites of blacula (Rob zombie), jesus he knows me (ghost), kiss the go-goat (ghost).

Abe: are you satisfied? (MARINA), wasted summers (juju<3), aline blues (vundabar), drunk walk home (mitski), best junkie you adore (jazmin bean), Bruno is orange (hop along), terrible things (AXIE), what are we gonna do now (indigo de souza), Adam's song (blink-182), gallowdance (Lebanon hanover), back to the old house (the smiths), literal legend (ayesha erotica), Texas rezinkoff (mitski), fool (bôa), absolution (ghost), nocturnal me (ghost), jigolo har megiddo (ghost).

Miriam: hell of a ride (bo burnham), Brutus (the buttress), anarchy (egg), home (three days grace), good looking (suki waterhouse), new flesh (current joys), just (radiohead), tree hugger (kimya dawson), Lotta true crime (Penelope scott), the chattering lack of common sense (ghost & pals), the loser (verzache), transgender (crystal castles), PSYCHO (HARDY), binomi (maretu), fallen down (undertale), fatal to the flesh (cho tokimeki sendenbu), call me little sunshine (ghost), faith (ghost), missionary man (ghost).

-Mod 1, this took an hour

[dangans-ur-ronpas]

Chapter 23

ohhh baby we back in it now

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

byakuya pov finally

bonus headcanon coming into play here: byakuya being Wasian

shoutout @digitaldollsworld for helping me conceptualize byakuya's mom! both of us are Sick about her

Content warning tags: wall-punching, grieving/mourning, unreality (dreaming)

< previous - from start - next >

There’s a woman standing in his office.

Byakuya stands behind the cracked-open doorway, peeking through - though, part of him does rile up with the indignity of having to spy into his own office - at the intruder, standing in front of his desk, back facing the door.

He can’t see her face. But he can see her flax-yellow hair, tied back with a wrinkled, silken scarf that’s probably the most expensive thing she’s wearing. Her cotton jumpsuit is so stained and faded that hardly any of the original blue is still there. Her canvas shoes are discolored with mud.

She would look more out of place, if the shabbiness of her hadn’t seeped into her surroundings. The carpet is splattered with crusted clay, and shards of stone stick out of the plush threads like thorns. The mahogany surface of his desk is creaking and bent under the weight of a large cube of fleshy, white marble, splintering under the lacquer.

As he watches, she lifts her bare hands - ugly, roughened, thickly muscled fingers, nails cracked and filthy - like a conductor before an orchestra. She pauses, head tilted like a bird, thinking, and Byakuya inexplicably finds himself holding his breath; and then, she places her palms against the stone.

The surface of it warps and distends beneath her touch, first like a swollen balloon, and then like clay, twisting and following her hands like a swimming fish. And he watches, fascinated despite himself, as she bends and shapes it, twisting pieces off, smoothing edges down. She pinches out a piece in the middle for a nose, smoothes down a sharp edge for a sloping curve of a cheek, flicks her nail sharply beneath the brow to pull out a crease for an eyelid.

It’s magic. In seemingly no time at all, there on his desk is a bust; the head of a man brought to life, caught in a soft, gentle expression. The sculptor pauses, and steps backwards to take in her work.

There’s something reverent about it, and Byakuya suddenly has the feeling that he’s witnessing something not meant for him to see.

But he creaks the door open slightly more to get a better look, finding it strange how he was more curious than angry, even despite the intrusion. As he approaches, the bust’s eyes suddenly flick towards him, and immediately the serenity is replaced by a solemn, pinched brow, the smile replaced by a severe slash of a frown. And Byaukuya realizes he recognizes this face.

The marble-wrought head of Kijo Togami is sitting on his desk, scowling at him.

“Byakuya?”

He turns to the woman. She’s facing him now, though she has no face to speak of - it is blurred and unfocused, like a distant background character of an impressionist oil painting, the features mere shifting smears against a flat plane - but he knows her. He knows her.

“Byakuya,” She repeats, the syllables awkward on her tongue. She’s speaking French, and she sounds distant. Muted, underwater. But her voice still has the same, oddly musical quality to it that he remembers, making everything she said sound like a lullaby. “Bijou. Did I not tell you to stay out of my studio?”

Her studio?

“This is my office.” He protests back. He can’t tell if he’s speaking Japanese or not; every word feels clumsy and foreign, like he’s just learned how to talk. “What are you doing here, Mother?”

She just sighs. Shakes her head, her featureless face. There’s no anger in it, no loving exasperation either; just a neutral disapproval of his presence. His unwanted existence in her space. “Bijou,” She says again, and the nickname irritates him. A sweet-sounding endearment that was ultimately empty, a placeholder for her to refer to him by, because his own name was too clumsy to speak with her accent. “When did you become so grown? When will you stop being so cold?”

The stone Kijo Togami is still frowning at him. In this instant, both the man he calls ‘Father’ and the woman who had birthed him - one painfully-detailed stone, the other indistinct flesh - stand before him. One silent and forever displeased, the other sweet but hollow-sounding and entirely uncaring that they shared any blood at all.

“How strange it is, that you look so much like me,” She sighs, raising a hand to his face. He flinches away from it, the sandpaper sharpness of her palms, the filth that stains the creases of her skin, the heat that comes off of it like a kiln. “And yet, you are so much like him.”

—

He wakes up with a gasp, eyes snapping open.

He’s greeted with the pitch darkness of his ceiling, cut through with a thin slash of white from his bathroom light, streaming through the cracked-open door. A reminder he had taken to preparing for himself before he went to bed, that his eyes were still there, and he sighs and presses a palm to his chest as he stares up at it. Feeling his heart pounding beneath his fingertips, then slowing, in time with his breaths.

A dream. He can’t remember the last time he dreamed so vividly, but he had been subjected to some unpleasantly…shocking events the last few days (he won’t call them traumatic, he’s witnessed far worse in his life). The details of the dream are already slipping away as he tries to recall it, like sand between his fingers. It’s hardly important.

He lies in bed a moment longer, trying to see if sleep will come, but even with the adrenaline fading he’s wide-awake. Annoying, but not surprising, considering how he had spent much of the day before napping in short, fitful bursts. He pushes himself upright, reaching under his pillow for his handbook; may as well make use of the time.

The clock on his handbook reads: three AM. His neglected stomach gurgles as he squints at the dim glow of the screen, and he sighs. He hasn’t eaten since Celeste’s little tea party the day before, and he might as well go to the kitchen now. There likely wouldn’t be anyone wandering around to disturb him. And with Ishimaru gone, there was no one left to seriously uphold the nightly curfew; he drags himself out of bed with a grunt, grabbing his bathrobe off the end of his bedpost as he goes.

He’s not expecting the trap that he finds when he opens the door, however. The first step he takes past the threshold is accompanied by a loud, startling crunch, and he jumps backwards, just barely stifling a shriek. He throws his hand against the light switch, digging it into his palm as he flicks in on, and at once the yellow glow streaming from his room illuminates the something round, brown, and somewhat deflated sitting in the hallway.

For a moment, he thinks it's some kind of rodent, dead and trodden under his foot. But closer inspection reveals it to be packaged bread, only slightly crushed in its plastic wrapper. There’s no note, but he can guess who the offering is from.

He sighs, picks it up by the corner, and tosses it behind him towards his trash can as he leaves.

The hallways are dim, and almost silent if not for the dull hum of the school’s inner machinery. The whoosh of air conditioning, the muffled clang of pipes. None of the construction that Hagakure had reported days ago, not even when he strains his ears.

But he does catch the quiet murmur of conversation as he passes the bathhouse, and he pauses, staring at the light that streams from behind the curtain, the quick-flicker of shadows moving from inside.

“It wasn’t your fault!”

He freezes, standing just outside. That was Chihiro’s - no, Alter Ego’s - voice. 

“I know Master wouldn’t resent you.” It continues, earnest and bright. “And based on my data…I don’t think Kiyotaka would blame you either!”

“But it was my fault,” Mondo’s voice is strained and hollow, grieving still. “If I hadn’t left them alone - if I’d tried to just talk to him -”

Byakuya shifts slightly. He doesn’t want to be here, to have to witness Mondo’s continued breakdown. He still hasn’t forgiven the other boy, but having to see him stuck in the depths of misery was…unpleasant. And he’s not so petty to want retribution while the target of his ire was in such a state.

He tiptoes past, giving the bathhouse entrance a wide berth. From inside, he hears more indistinct voices, one low and gravelly from crying, the other electronic and gentle. And then-

“Brother, what are you looking so down for?” This one was new, but chillingly familiar. Loud and overeager and belonging to someone who was supposed to be dead. “You-”

Crash.

The sound of crunching metal. In the quiet of the hallway, it’s as loud as an explosion, and it makes Byakuya jump. Before he can reconsider, he’s sprinting into the bathhouse, throwing aside the curtain.

It takes him a moment to process what he’s seeing. Owada is standing, partly-hunched, one hand punching against the wall of lockers hard enough to warp the thin metal door. Someone is standing beneath him hands raised in self-defense - it takes Byakuya a moment to recognize that it’s Makoto, dressed in the white and dark blue of his pajamas, lacking the signature green of his jacket - and from somewhere behind Makoto, there’s a dim, neon-green glow, and a confused, worried voice.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-!” 

“Don’t do that,” Owada snarls, drowning out Alter Ego’s stuttered apology. The locker door rattles where his fist is pressed into it. “Don’t just- wear his face, don’t you dare-”

“M-Mondo, it didn’t mean to! It was just trying-” Makoto breaks off, apparently noticing Byakuya. “B-Byakuya-?!”

Byakuya was immediately beginning to regret his decision to involve himself in the first place. “What is going on here?” He demands, crossing his arms and glaring imperiously.

Instead of replying, Owada pulls away, withdrawing his hand and retreating to slump over on the bench, despondent and unresponsive once more. Makoto twitches, turning between Owada, then Alter Ego, and back to Byakuya. “Um…”

“It’s not their fault!” Alter Ego pipes up hurriedly, its voice echoing tinnily from inside its locker, and Byakuya could feel a corresponding vibration from the handbook tucked in his shirt pocket. “It seems Mondo wanted to ask me a question, and Makoto was just helping to convey that-”

“I don’t care.” He snaps, and Alter Ego falls silent. “Neither of them are supposed to be here in the first place, and especially not after hours. Are the two of you trying to draw Monokuma’s suspicion? Endanger Alter Ego?” Makoto flinches a bit at that. Owada doesn’t even move. “Don’t you care about getting out of here at all?”

He’s not really expecting a reply, so he’s surprised when Owada speaks up. “ ‘Course not.” He rasps, so low and hollow that it was like he was speaking from the depths of a pit. Or maybe he was the pit, swelling with black-matter misery. “I…don’t care about anything anymore.”

Well. That’s to be expected. But even despite that, he finds himself a bit rattled. He’s been at the receiving end of anger, venom, screaming anguish and even vehement hate at this point. But this emptiness Owada is exhibiting was new; It seems like this school is insistent on teaching me new things, he thinks, and feels his lip curling up with the bitter irony.

“So you’re content to waste away? Throw away that anger that you were so proud of?” He raises a scathing eyebrow. “Go ahead and do that, then. I won’t stop you. But at the very least, spare the rest of us the dramatics of your little episode.”

“Byakuya!”

He twitches a bit, irritated. Makoto’s voice is shrill despite being hushed, and laced with anger; he’s standing stiffly next to Alter Ego’s open locker, hands trembling at his sides.

“What, Makoto.” He snaps, and only belatedly realizes that this was the first time he’s actually spoken to the other boy since the trial; in his irritation, he went and broke his own self-imposed vow of silence against him.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but doesn’t immediately shrink away either at the acidity of Byakuya’s tone. If anything he stands up a little straighter. “It’s only been a day since…you know.” He says, and his words are slow and careful, meticulously chosen. Like he’s in a trial again, trying to soothe skittish tempers - though Byakuya feels the exact opposite of ‘soothed’ by it - “Mondo asked to talk to Alter Ego. I went with him. It got a little heated-”

“A little? Is that what you call this?” He points at the locker next to his head; the one that Mondo had punched, the dent a clear, dark blotch of shadow in the middle of the flat green surface.

“That -” Makoto winces slightly. “We weren’t really expecting-”

“No, clearly not. And not thinking either, I imagine.”

“I-”

“I suppose safety and logic took second priority over trying to be helpful, hm? Since that’s all that’s important to you?” He’s not sure where these words are coming from, filled with acid. But it feels good to talk, to spit out every miserable thing that he’s feeling, that he’s felt because of Makoto. “You were so very kind to help me during that trial, after all.”

“Okay, that’s not-”

“That must be why you’re here now, I imagine. Sneaking out at this late hour past Kyoko, just so you could babysit this useless mess.” He sneers. “Did you decide to make Mondo your next pet project, trying to be his little assistant like you were mine?”

“Oh, for-” Makoto takes a deep breath, presses his hands to his eyes. “Can you shut the fuck up?! For one second?”

Whatever else Byakuya was about to say, dissipates like smoke out of his slack-jawed mouth. Even Owada seems to twitch up at this, the only sign of surprise he could give, compared to Byakuya’s shock.

Makoto is quiet for a few seconds, and the only sound is the quiet hum of pipes, and the sound of his breathing, shaky but slow. He pulls his hands away from his face after one more shuddering breath. “Okay. I’m okay now.” He says this part quietly, as if it were more for himself than anyone else. Then:

“It’s not fair,” He addresses Byakuya, and his voice is almost steady. “I’m trying my best, I’m trying to keep us all alive.”

“Yes, and you’re doing-”

“No! Shut up! Just listen!” He snaps, and Byakuya’s teeth click as he shuts his mouth, effectively cutting off the rest of his sarcastic remark. “Right now, the best thing we can do is to survive together. We’re just going to play into the mastermind’s hands if we can’t trust each other. Why doesn’t anyone get that?!”

His voice actually cracks on the last syllable, and he sounds close to hysterics. Byakuya simply stares, dumbfounded for a moment, before:

“...You’re going to say that? After what just happened?” It’s so ridiculous he could almost laugh. Trust? In this school, in this game? After everything that’s happened? “We all trusted Ishimaru. Where did that get us? Where did that get Chihiro?”

No sooner has that name left his mouth, does he try to bite it back. Feeling all at once mortified that he would stoop so low, that he would let himself be pushed to such a level. But it’s too late to take it back - at the sound of those names, Owada jerks again, and Makoto actually takes a step backwards, as if struck - so Byakuya keeps going. “This isn’t some-some fairy tale where everyone can learn to get along by talking about our feelings. None of us have any unity left - if even Ishimaru can snap, then there’s no telling who might strike next.”

“Stop,” Makoto grits out. “Taka - it was an accident. Just a stupid accident.” And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? That none of this was supposed to happen at all; if the coincidences hadn’t lined up terribly, horribly perfectly. “He didn’t mean for Chihiro to die!”

And Chihiro didn’t mean to get killed either. But he manages to swallow that thought, bitter and heavy in his throat. “His intentions didn’t change the outcome.” He says instead, cold and flat and utterly, completely empty.

Silence falls on the room. The lights buzz, the pipes hiss; the old, outdated screen of Alter Ego’s computer hums softly, contemplatively. There’s the muted, metallic thump of the water heater, somewhere inside the wall.

And then Owada speaks up.

“What should I do?” He asks hollowly. He’s looking up now, directly at him. His hair is limp, pompadour undone and falling over his face, obscuring it in streaks of dirty yellow. “I…they’re dead. I couldn’t-” He takes a slow, shuddering breath. “It was my fault. But I don’t know what to do.”

His words are pleading and genuine, as if Byakuya could give a proper answer; he hesitates, still uncertain of what to do with this…empty shell of a punk.

He glances towards Makoto, and then the dim green glow still emanating from the open locker. “Do you care what you do with your life at this point?”

“Byakuya…” Makoto starts warningly, but Owada interrupts him.

“No.”

“Then use it to protect Alter Ego.” If Owada has any sort of misgivings or protest about this, Byakuya ignores them. “That’s Chihiro’s last work, after all. It’s the least you can do to guard it.”

“Is…” Owada’s head turns towards the locker, then back. “Is that…okay?”

His hesitation is understandable. Even if Alter Ego was nothing more than a clever program, it did still wear the face of the boy who Owada’s friend inadvertently killed, and whose corpse Owada had tried to conceal. And that wasn’t even considering if Alter Ego would be cooperative in being protected by him, though there wasn’t much it could do about it.

But Alter Ego is the one who speaks up. “I hope we get along well, Mondo!” It chirps, a smile clear on its voice. And Mondo simply stares for a moment, before burying his face in his palms, and begins to cry.

__

“Are you going back to your room?”

He stops, and turns. They’ve left the bathhouse, Mondo departing first after sobbing his eyes out, and Makoto insisting he go rest in his room - though he probably would’ve ended up staying in the bathhouse all night if he could’ve gotten away with it - and Byakuya, having ended up spending an hour more than he wanted to dealing with it all, is tired once more..

“Where else would I be going?” He scoffs. Makoto is standing just in front of the bahthouse curtains, his face entirely concealed by shadow.

“I…” He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I noticed you didn’t really…eat a proper meal yesterday. I could go make you something?”

It’s tempting, for a moment. Byakuya clenches a hand in his robe, pressed against his stomach to stifle any unwarranted growls. “No.” He says firmly. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Oh…are you sure? Because-”

“Makoto.” He falls silent. “I told you that there’s no need for us to uphold the deal we made. Your assistance is no longer needed.”

“...But, this isn’t because of the deal, I just-”

“I’m not so low that I’d need charity from you.”

He goes quiet again. Quiet and still, and there’s something off-putting about how he looks. Outlined by the yellow lights of the bathhouse but otherwise completely in darkness, his silhouette sharpened without his jacket. “...Is it really that hard, trusting someone?”

For as angry as he’d been in the bathhouse, now he’s more like his usual self. Quieter, and unsure. The one person out of place in this school, designated unremarkable and then made remarkable because of that.

An unremarkable life. No wonder he couldn’t understand.

“You’ve never had to worry about it before,” He says. “I imagine your life is like a sheep’s. Completely oblivious to the danger around you, as long as you stay inside the fence.

“But the world isn’t as kind as you think it is. And people can always be swayed, no matter how much you trust them, or how much you think they trust you.” He’s seen it happen. He’s exploited it himself, even. “At this point, it would be safest to stop associating with anyone. If you had any brains at all, you would do the same.”

Makoto lets out a sigh that’s almost a laugh, though it’s bitter and mirthless. “Kyoko said the same thing,” He mutters, half to himself. “So you won’t feel safe unless you’re alone? Even though there’s only ten of us left?” He shakes his head, and the motion is a little dizzying, the messy shape of his hair blurring into a dark mass. “How many more people need to die for you to feel safe?”

He sounds angry again, but it’s a colder kind of anger. Resentful and resigned. When did you become so cold?

“...I won’t be safe until I’m out of here.” Byakuya replies steadily, though the hand clenched in his robe tightens slightly. “Even if I could keep everyone in my sight, it’s not like it’d be easy to tell if they were holding a weapon.”

Silently, he adds: And thanks to you, they know that as well.

Makoto doesn’t say anything in reply, so Byakuya leaves. Quickly, in case his stomach threatens to grumble again; his hand doesn’t leave his robe until he’s safely inside his room, door locked behind him.

He almost treads on the bread again, stepping on a corner of the packaging and jumping at the sharp, crinkling sound. It takes a little bit of fumbling in the dark until he finds it, squeezing it through the plastic.

He’s tempted, for a moment, his fingers already searching for the serrated edge to tear it open. But the image of Makoto standing at the bathhouse entrance jumps to his mind; still and shrouded in darkness. A strange, statuesque parody of his usual self.

He throws the bread across the room and climbs back into bed.

< previous - from start - next >

[crowpricorn]

Would you be willing to share some of your favorite wesper fics 🥺🥺🥺?

of course!! disclaimer: it's going to be.. mostly from two comfort authors + some other few works (I still have to read a lot of fics that are rotting in my bookmarks / mark for laters)

my fav works by @sunfl8wer

enchanted to meet you has to be my fav fic from her!! i'm waiting for the second chapter so very (im)patiently! toy maker jesper au with willy wonka slash klaus vibes but sillier and sweeter! (1/2 ch., rating T)

sour apple baby but you taste so sweet summer modern au with vet!wylan🥺 (one shot, rating T)

ocean blue eyes looking in mine super soft pwp with hidden gems like THIS line "There’s a cacophony of sounds hidden behind those beautiful blue eyes: cities burnt to ashes and risen again, stark shores against plush green hills. Being looked like that feels like flying, it feels like drowning" (one shot, rating E)

make it to christmas modern christmas au!! first meeting + first dates🥺 (one shot, rating T)

and all of her works really!!!! (shout out to "hypnotized by freckles and bright eyes")

my fav works by @jackwolfes

remember that summer this fic is SO soft one of my personal faves! childhood friends to lovers + a tree house!! (one shot, rating T)

blue waves crashing is special!!!! mermaid wylan au (10/10chapters, rating T)

late nights in the middle of june tattoo parlor au!!! the first ever wesper au I read, so it has a special place in my heart (3/3 chapters, rating M)

another lots of their fics (it's pointless to say that 70% of the fics I read is theirs!!) like "tied up with nowhere to go", "you know I talk too much", "without pity", "the bed we loved in", "chocolate strawberries and peppermint macarons", and many others

other personal faves:

symphony no.6 by @starklystar the jesper character study ever🙏🏻 (one shot, rating M)

A Brief and Eventful Internship by rainstormdragons, american elections au!! this is so fun to read! (one shot, rating E)

Love Song by thegoldenkneazle orchestra player wylan x theater boy jesper.. I love this!! (one shot, rating T)

Escapology by @oneofthewednesdays escape room au with lots of friendship and fun! (one shot, rating T)

can you fill the silence by annesbonny selectively mute wylan au!! truly beautiful (one shot, rating T)

[areyoudreaminof]

Future Rust and Future Dust

Chapter 3

The throne room of the Autumn Court was packed with guards blocking the main entrance. Beron Vanserra sat on a lacquered throne of oak that stretched into the floors and low ceiling. Male nobles from Autumn mingled with males from Valhallan. Deep laughter rang over the small orchestra that played a cache of monotonous tunes that had been played for  No females were ever allowed in the throne room, making the place stink of body odor and liquor. 

It was in this room that Eris Vanserra slipped on his mask of spoiled boredom and disdain and watched his father like a hawk. 

As he had since he was no more than a boy, Eris stood to the right of his father, watching. The male never seemed to move as he sat on the Autumn Throne. He did not adjust himself in his seat, nor did he cross his legs or lean back. Beron’s hands didn’t even twitch. No, Eris watched for the movement in his father’s eye. That small spark of cruelty and deception that would flash quickly while his jaw was set into a hard line. Eris knew his father’s tells, and now he could see it in Beron’s eyes as the emissary from Valhallan presented a cache of weapons at his feet. 

“Pure black steel, forged from stone found only in our volcanoes.” the brute of a male said, kicking his leather boot at the stone trunk. The blades on the axes and knives were indeed an oily shade of black. The steel reflected off the amber colored lights, muting the sharp edges. The blades looked dull to Eris. Tristian and Kaspar surely thought the same thing, as they snickered at the display on the farther end of the dais. 

The Valhallan emissary raised a flaxen brow. 

“Volcanic steel has truly been a gift for us.” the Emissary said, “I swear it is Cauldron forged. Tough in the rock face, but when you melt it, the metal becomes so flexible.” He picked up a small and curved knife, casually twirling it in his fingers. “One can make such incredible weapons.” He continued in a dreamy tone as he approached Kaspar on the bottom steps of the dais. 

“Here, let me show you just how sharp.” the Emissary said. His hand snaked behind Kaspar with quickness, a sharp sound of air piercing Eris’ ears. Kaspar brought a hand up to his own ears, checking for blood. 

“Do you see, now?” the Emissary said with a laugh as he held Kaspar’s elaborate auburn braid in his fist. “Such flexible and sharp metal to take someone by surprise. Cauldron forged, I tell you.” He bared his yellowed teeth in a smile from behind his trimmed and curled mustache. Kaspar gripped at the back of his head, fingers tracing the jagged remainder of his braid.

READ ON AO3

Taglist: @acourtofladydeath @asnowfern @born-to-riot @c-e-d-dreamer @corcracrow @damedechance @foundress0fnothing @hugeclearjellyfish @itsthedoodle @kataravimes-of-the-shire @krem-does-stuff @kingofsummer93 @fieldofdaisiies @lidiacervos @lucienarcheron @melting-houses-of-gold @octobers-veryown @ofduskanddreams @iftheshoef1tz @popjunkie42-blog @queercontrarian @reverie-tales @sassyhobbits @separatist-apologist @secret-third-thing @thesistersarcheron @thelovelymadone @the-lonelybarricade @vulpes-fennec @velidewrites @witch-and-her-witcher @wilde-knight @xtaketwox @mossytrashcan @labellefleur-sauvage @cursebrkr @temperedink @rosanna-writer

[mirrorsblogs]

𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜, 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞? 𝐥. 𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝙘𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙨𝙩, 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩!! 𝙮𝙚𝙖 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜

“Be nice,” her agent whispered on the elevator ride up. Vera glanced half-heartedly at the woman standing next to her, they both knew she would be anything but. She had a more rigid exterior than most of her female contemporaries who preferred to play into the fantasy of female composers. 

She respected their choices to do so as it resulted in their own surmountable success but her path differed, her nature would never allow for a hollow choice. Sure it gained her a reputation for being harsh but all that mattered was creating music that mattered, that could be shared.

The elevator dinged to indicate they reached the top floor of the conservatory, right above the theater where the house orchestra was practicing. They played well enough though not to her standards, those in the third and fourth seats slacked far too much for her liking.

“Ms. Shcherbatskaya, it is lovely to meet you.” Vera looked startled that someone without a present Eastern European accent had been able to pronounce her last name. He had thin-rimmed glasses that most young male composers wore to appeal to the masses, the same could be said of his style. This man though verbally different looked to be another nameless composer destined to be lost to time.

“Likewise, Mr…” She replied. The man smirked at her clear jab to his ego but had no look of annoyance or hurt.

“Ackerman. Levi Ackerman.”

“German?”

“Yes, Berlin specifically.” He paused and inspected her face closely. “Russian?”

“Petersburg,” she muttered, more focused on the mosaic painted on the ceiling. It depicted a scene all too familiar in High-Renaissance pieces, biblical iconography splattered all over. What a sight to behold.

“Your English is amazing,” Ackerman said, interrupting her daydreaming.

“So is yours. Did you learn in school?”

“Yes, along with Russian.”

“How good were your lessons?” She asked in her native tongue, the syllables easily rolling off her tongue as they had done for her forefathers for centuries. 

“Good enough.”

She smiled, it had been a long while since she had conversed with someone in her own language. Forever subjected to being held back by speaking a language she was only beginning to learn. 

“Could we converse in Russian then?”

“Da.” Levi stood there with his hands in his pockets, he was amused but respectful nonetheless.

“Our agents want us to meet so we can collaborate on a piece.”

“Yes, we should hold on to this because I will be in the countryside to help my Mother for a few weeks.”

“And what shall I do in the meantime? Stay here in this god-awful city waiting for you?”

Vera’s agent placed a warning hand on her shoulder signaling for her to dial back on her tone even though she knew none of their conversation. Levi laughed a little at her antics and walked a little closer to her, he rubbed his hands together before dropping them by his side. 

It had felt like years since he was this amused, the days seemed so gray before. He wondered at that moment how he had lived in that muteness for so long now that he was confronted with something starkly different.

“London is not that bad, you’ll be fine.”

“Say that to my lungs! This city will give me cancer I swear!” 

Her noticeably dark humor that turned away many potential partners made him laugh even harder. Though she remained noticeably neutral she was shocked internally at someone who had a sense of humor. Her face cracked a smile that Levi took to heart, her reputation had preceded her of course.

The man had expected an old hag rather than a lively young woman, he almost wished it was the former as it would have been easier to leave a hag. Now he was almost considering staying in London for a few weeks and put off visiting his mother. The thought of his mother wondering where he was only to be disappointed once again put him off. He had a duty as a son to care for his mother, a duty he would fulfill.

“I do not want to abandon my mother. You’ll have to wait here. Get to know the orchestra better in the meantime.”

“I could join you?” Both were slightly startled at the impulsivity of the statement but neither expressed rejection over it. 

“Forward, are you?”

“No. Dedicated.”

The ride to the Schweinfurt consisted of approximately four train rides with a short walk intermittently after the second. Levi talked little in English and mostly in Russian which greatly comforted Vera. She enjoyed the journey, using it to review some works they could base their piece on and things to do in the area. 

“It’s mostly new tech shit there but my mother likes the area.”

“There is a Church to visit.”

“Every town in Germany has a church with a niche significance, it isn’t worthwhile.”

“Then why does this brochure mention it?”

“A tourism scam.”

Vera laughs and closes the brochure, finding more comfort in conversing with Levi than reading. The subject shifted but the attention remained the same as words effortlessly flowed between the two. This is how talking should be, he thought.

The train abruptly stopped near Rottendorf, she gasped at the jolt and lurched forward. He grasped her hand without realizing it and caressed it. The feeling of a calloused thumb over her knuckles felt foreign but nice. She blushed at his gesture and chalked it up to fear.

It took him a few more moments to realize his actions, his hand quickly withdrew.

“Sorry.”

“Why do you apologize when I never raised an issue?”

He opened his mouth a few times to retort but each answer was worse than the last. She grasped his hand again to alleviate her own worries about the train, neither complained. It was only for anxiety, to help her anxiety.

“Apologies, we are experiencing technical issues. At the next station please exit shortly with your items whilst we repair the train.”

He cursed at being so close to his mother but far enough that they could not walk. He glanced down at Vera who took to holding his hand even tighter, she was not faring better than him. 

“It won’t be too much for a taxi,” Levi muttered.

“We can split the cost.”

She moved to take some money from her purse only for him to stop her with the hand she caressed.

“What kind of person am I if I let you pay?”

“A cheap one.”

“But not a considerate one.”

“Fine then, be considerate.” Vera waved her hand off in the distance, mocking anger at that moment. He caught on quickly and smirked.

“You are a funny woman, Vera.”

“You would be the first to say that.”

They unloaded their backpacks that held all of their items for the trips and began walking to the area for taxis. Some drivers smoked outside their vehicles and leaned against their cars, a clear sign to avoid them. Vera and Levi settled on a Russian man who sat inside his car patiently reading a Turgenev novel.

“How much to Schweinfurt?” Levi asked the man in Russian. 

“I will discount for you, my friend.”

She let Levi handle the haggling for a good fare and hopped into the backseat when they reached a happy mid-point. The driver set aside his novel on the passenger seat and turned the engine on. It was an average day in Germany with fairly normal weather.

“Do you like Turgenev?” Vera asked the driver.

“He is too obscure for my liking but his writing is good.”

“Are you a Tolstoy fan then?”

“Who isn’t?” The driver gestured wildly with one of his hands but kept his eyes on the road. “To be an enthusiast of literature is to be an enthusiast of Tolstoy!”

Levi sat back silently and watched how animatedly Vera talked of Russian authors, almost like she knew them personally. Instead of referring to them as Tolstoy or Dostoevsky, it was Leo and Fyodor. He commented on it as they waited for his mother to answer the door.

“I think of all creative Russians as my brothers and sisters. You don’t do the same with Germans?”

“I’m far too critical to act as though I am on a personal level with them.” Levi knocked once more, checking his watch to see how long they were waiting in the heat. “Besides it would be weird to call Nietzche, Friedrich.”

He blushed in embarrassment as his own native accent slipped out when saying the last part. 

“Your accent is cute.”

The door opened with Kutchel standing there, curious as to who the delightful woman her son had brought with him. 

“Mother, this is Vera. I told you about her over the phone, remember?”

“You didn’t tell me she was so pretty.” Kutchel took Vera by the arm inside to the dining table where food was already set out. “Are you a composer as well, dear?”

“Yes, I work more in Vienna though.”

“Oh, do tell me about life there.”

“It’s rich with history and the people are good enough…”  Vera stumbled over her words slightly when speaking in English, she felt like a five-year-old telling her mother about her school day.  “The conservatory is far nicer than any London has.”

“I heard that!” Levi yelled from the kitchen, he came into the room balancing three glasses of water. Vera held herself back from gulping the entire glass and instead sipped politely while Kutchel asked her son a thousand questions on his travels.

“How are your new pieces coming along?” The mother knew well enough of her son’s struggle to compose as of late. His motivation dried up just as he got comfortable in finally living in something other than impoverished.

“That’s what Vera is here for, we are meant to compose together.”

“The room upstairs still has everything where you left it. I’m sure music stores in town should have anything you need too.”

“Thanks, mom.” 

Vera thought she might feel like an unwelcome outsider in that moment but it was more akin to the feeling of a silent spectator. Neither shunned nor encouraged to participate, choosing instead to delve into the food in front of her. It was a simple dish of rice and a strange gravy substance but it tasted divine.

“Do you like it?” Kutchel asked when Vera had her mouth full. The girl could only smile until she finally got the food down.

“Yes, it’s fantastic.” Her Russian accent slipped slightly out on the last word.

“Where in Russia are you from?”

“Saint Petersburg.”

“You know Levi’s father, god rest his soul, was from there.”

“Mom-” Kutchel shut him up with a wave of her hand.

“How did he find it?”

“Cold. Said that once he learned of German summers he never wanted to return.”

“Understandable though not forgivable.” They all laughed together, it was clear where Levi got his humor from.

They began the attempt to compose a singular piece the next day, each taking a seat next to one another on the piano bench situated on the far side of the room. The window in front of them shined the sun brightly onto them.

Vera’s pinky hit the ‘b’ key, it felt off to her, not the key itself but its place in this piece. She scratched the blank sheet music which up until this point only held that one note.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect, only concert audiences are going to hear.”

“You don’t plan on distributing it?”

“Why would we?”

“Isn’t that what music is for?” Levi stopped his reply when he saw the pure vulnerability in Vera’s eyes, this was not a simple spew from her mouth but from the heart. “People learn how to play, then they improve and make it their own. Keeps it fresh and lively.”

“But it's more intimate when enjoyed by a few. A singular meaning holds far more value than thousands of different ones.”

“Why did you learn how to play music? Why did you learn how to compose?”

He sat there silent for a moment, trying to drudge the earliest memory of him behind the piano.

“I was good at it and it earned my mother enough money to focus on getting an education rather than sticking to life as a sex worker.”

“You did it out of necessity, yes?” The simplification, though accurate, felt ingenuine.

“It was more than that. Playing in front of crowds made me feel as though I was more than just a poor boy from the slums of Berlin. I kept composing for more people to understand the life I lived.”

Vera heard in passing stories of a young German prodigy coming from nowhere and was soon to be heard everywhere. His pieces were an experience, a mutual friend, Hange, shared. He never published his compositions and kept them close, collecting the sheet music from musicians after each performance. Forcing each to sign a non-disclosure agreement to never share his intellectual property. 

“I was similar in my reasoning then.” She splayed her fingers on the piano, playing the part to a familiar Spanish allegro. Levi pushed one of her hands aside and began to play the piece alongside her. “The only reason to learn music is…to share it with others.”

She stopped playing abruptly and walked away from the piano to fetch a glass of water. Levi continued where she had left off, the piece flawlessly transitioning into a somber part. Granados had always been a favorite of his, though the feelings of passion Granados tried to convey always fell short of him as a boy. Now, it was different.

His fingers strummed against the keys perfectly at poco andante, the thought of her forced his fingers to play at a faster pace. He moved to play at an allegro pace, the noise from the piano strengthened in volume. The man failed to see Vera leaning against the doorframe, taking big gulps of the water in her hand.

The last note played at fortississimo caused her to jump slightly, Levi panted in exhaustion from rushing the piece. He rested his fingers on the keys but not with enough pressure to push them, energy flowed out from him.

“We should end the piece in a fortississimo,” Vera said, walking up to sketch something in the last line of the sheet. 

fff

Levi glanced over her arms, he took the paper from her hands and sketched a couple more notes out for the end. He played it on the piano and she nodded.

“Work our way backwards, then?”

--

The next few days were spent either in the composing room or the dining table where Kutchel asked them profusely about their progress. She looked to be happier when hearing of their substantial progress in finishing. 

“When you do play the piece, could I come to listen?” Kutchel asked. “I know you don’t like to publish your pieces but I want to hear this one.”

“Of course, mom. I’ll save a seat for you in one of the boxes, and invite whoever you want.” Levi ate another piece of his food, Vera was somewhat shocked by how easy he made it all sound. Compared to the conservatories where she worked, trying to get a seat for family members was nearly impossible. Maybe it was different in London. 

“It’ll be nice to see you play Vera since I assume Levi will be playing next to you?”

“Yes, I look forward to it.” Her smile was stiff, he noticed the change in her posture as well. Levi asked about it right before she headed into her bedroom.

“You seemed uncomfortable at dinner. Everything alright?”

Vera contemplated for a moment, she jutted her head into her room, and he followed dutifully behind her. It seemed barely lived in despite them being here for more than three weeks. He saw her clothes in some drawers though no toiletries were even unpacked on the vanity or the sink.

“We still haven’t talked about distribution.” She sat on the windowsill, faintly illuminated by the moonlight.

“I prefer to keep it private.”

“Music is meant to be shared. It is meant for children to clamber over and for young adults to froth at. I think we have a masterpiece on our hands. I don't want it to rot somewhere on your shelves.”

“If we keep it private, it’ll be intimate, draw in more crowds.”

“You care too much about the money and not the people.”

“That’s all music has been about for me, appeal to the most and go from there.”

“But what do you want?”

Levi took the seat next to her on the window sill, his hand fell on top of hers. His mind felt clearer than it had in years.

“I want…” Vera perked up at his drawl. “I want to keep it private.”

“I don’t want to fight you right now.”

Her thumb caressed his knuckles in slow circles like it had on the train, it was more intimate now. They were alone, only the moon was a witness to their actions. 

“Then we don’t fight.” Levi tilted her chin away from the window and to his eyes, he neared closer to her face. She subconsciously leaned in closer.

“What should we do instead?”

The calloused fingers she had seen so often playing the piano pressed against her hips and effortlessly lifted her figure onto his lap. She let out a small moan when his lips kissed against her jaw and neck, sucking at her pulse point.

“Levi,” she muttered, angling her head down to finally kiss him. It was less consuming than her past lovers and intoxicating if anything. He knew her weak points and exploited them to the full extent, she almost wished he was bad at this. It would be easier to forget him once the night finished but with the way his lips pressed against her sternum, there would be no forgetting.

“You alright, liebling ?” The German accent strengthened the growing feeling between her legs, pelvis rutting against Levi.

“Da.” Forgetting nearly all of her prior knowledge of any other language she could only compute her one objective: Levi. “Take off my shift.”

“No bra?” If his fingers against her hands were enough then his fingers grazing along her bare body was to die for. He pressed kisses along her nude body that men prior had ignored. Sex was average, this was more.

“You complaining?”

Levi shook his head and bit lightly at the skin along her neck, making sure to leave as many marks as possible. She palmed at his shirt, he discarded it on the ground shortly thereafter. Levi brought her in for another kiss, not letting it go this time. The rutting from her hips stalled as his hands gripped her hips, forcing her to stay stationary. She whined against his lips, and he smirked.

“Something wrong?”

“Hurry up and fuck me already.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Instead of dignifying that with a response, Vera kissed him again. She took some control, resuming her stimulation against his thigh. Her head fell against his shoulder when he lifted his leg slightly to match the pace of her hips dragging.

“Feels good, liebling? ” he cooed, biting lightly at her earlobe.

“Levi, please,” she rasped.

His hands traveled down to the bottom of her backside, he gripped the skin he could.

“Jump.”

She followed his command, deepening the kiss in the process. He easily supported her weight and laid her across the bed, using the time to admire her and shed the last of his clothing. She was left in her panties which he happily took and threw to the ground. 

“Are you good so far?”

“Very good.” Vera let her fingernails graze his shoulders, light scratch marks left behind. He groaned at the intense feeling, hand grasping at her chest. The stimulation between both of them causes them to moan.  

Levi moved his hand to her slit, inserting one of his fingers. He was the first composer she had slept with, she supposes that this is the reason his fingers reach places no man ever has. Vera cries out at the feeling. 

“You’re so tight,” he grunted, adding one more finger to her slit. He worked his way into her for the next few moments, utterly entranced by the sounds she made. When he curled his fingers she whined, and a feeling in his own body grew.

Caught off guard, he barely noticed Vera nearing the edge and eventually climaxing with a loud moan. He tried to commit all the features of her orgasmic face to his mind, to him it was the best picture in the world. Something only a select few had seen.

“Still good?” He purred.

“Hurry up!” She pleaded, wishing that he finished already and became another regrettable one nightstand. Levi did not do that, he focused on his pleasure just as much as hers. He made sure that she would never forget that night. 

“There,” he whispered, in pure bliss. Together they were connected.

He took his time to start a slow and punishing pace which inevitably pissed Vera off more who resorted to begging him. 

“Please, please, I need more, give me more!”

He relented as his own human instincts took over. The pace was faster now, he leaned down and began pressing kisses around her breasts. She pressed her nails further into his back and dragged them down, Levi groaned from the mix of pleasure and pain.

“You’ll be the death of me. Won’t you?”

“Yes!” Vera gasped, too lost in the throes of passion. When her second climax arrived it came with a newfound force that she had never experienced, it was addicting. 

“Vera, fuck!” He moaned, pushing into her one last time. She moaned at the sensation and met him there. They panted in the afterglow, struggling to find their own breath. Levi collapsed next to her and made his way into the bathroom. 

She watched as he wiped down the excess cum working its way down her legs and then himself before discarding the rag in the hamper. He sat back down on the bed, pulling her close.

“Have a thing for cleanliness, do you?”

“It’s healthy to clean.”

She missed the way he stared at her sleeping figure, in love with the sight.

--

They finished the piece shortly thereafter, choosing to take a unique approach to playing. In the beginning, it was a battle for whose notes would make it through but they each had trust in one another to play. The time is used instead to understand the weaknesses of each player and hide them expertly. 

Vera left the next week back to London to prepare the conservatory for their event. Tickets had already sold out so now it was the waiting game. She practiced the piece in the upper room she met Levi in, failing to see Hange walk in.

“How was composing with shortie?”

“He’s easy to work with.”

“First time I’ve ever heard someone say that.”

“You’d be surprised.” She put the cover over the keys and turned around to face Hange. “How’s your mother?”

“Still dead.” A beat. “So good.”

They laughed together, Hange took the seat next to Vera.

“That’s lovely to hear.”

“Can I play it?” They asked, glancing over the sheet music and putting the piano cover-up.

“I don’t see an issue, as long as you don’t share it.”

“You relented then? Let Levi’s secrecy dominate?”

“One day he’ll see my side and then we’ll publish it. For now, we can keep it private.” 

“But doesn’t that go against your own teachings?” Hange played the first few notes, already loving the tempo and key. “You always tell people that music is meant for sharing.”

“We are sharing but to a smaller audience.”

“To an elite audience. Vera, you love to play your pieces in the streets so even beggars could hear. What changed?”

To play for the rich and poor was a novel concept. Children from all classes had their pick of contemporary pieces like Mozart but access to modern pieces were limited. Composers guarded their pieces in the confines of overpriced sheet music. Vera differed somewhat, maintaining a moral high ground, by posting her pieces publically. Allowing anybody to find and play it.

“If I publish it, then I betray Levi. I don’t want to do that.”

“But to not betray him compromises your values.”

She was left silent as Hange played what was meant to be a happier part in a different manner, it sounded more depressing if anything. Vera leaned her head against Hange’s shoulder, the wool was soft against her head.

“I love him, Hange.” The piano stopped abruptly. “I don’t want to see him hurt by my actions.”

“Levi’s my friend but he is too stubborn to realize his actions are hurting others,” Hange sighed.

Vera left the conservatory and emailed her agent the music, the publishing date was set the day after opening night.

The crowd gathered at the opening night hailed from across Europe, predominantly Eastern and Central. It was comforting to be among crowds who spoke the same language as her. A hand on her shoulder signaled that it was time to head backstage. She caught sight of Kutchel in the box but was only able to wave before being ushered away.

“You ready?” Levi asked, attempting to tie his bowtie in the mirror.

“Of course.” Vera walked over and began focusing on tying his bowtie for him, failing to see the look of admiration he shot her way.  “We go out there and prove you’re not washed up and I’m nice.”

“Who would ever believe that last part?” He joked.

“You have. At least I hope.” Vera finished his bowtie and stepped away, not letting her touch linger for even a second. It would risk it all if she did. 

“You’re right and if I can believe it then so can they.”  

He grasped her hands, sensing the invisible worry in her system. She was good at hiding her anxieties but not to him, never to him. It was Levi who knew when she was mentally exhausted, who knew when she needed a break, who knew when to simply hold her. He knew it all, it frightened her slightly.

“You’re too good for me.”

“No, I’m what you need.”

A stagehand knocked on the door and they both silently followed him to the stage, reveling in the applause from the audience. She heard some hushed whispers but they quieted down when they took their seats at the piano bench.

The piece was simple enough to play with one person but they added so many intricacies when played with two that it required perfect harmony. Complete trust for the other to play their part beautifully, to know when to hit the keys, to know when to reach, and to be patient. You had to truly know the other person to play this.

“Let’s play,” he muttered, starting his hands on the keys.

“Let’s.”

Kutchel had known her son for not much of his adult life, she was a passing face in his grand mission to be the best composer out there. She learned of how he prioritized his own success over others, always focused on his own progress over any other person. She worried for him as any mother would, she worried her son was one of those egotistical musicians they wrote about in the papers.

She was terrified at the possibility of her son being a rich snob. 

The man playing on that stage, however, was a different man entirely. She saw even from her seat him waiting patiently for Vera to play at a slower speed while he stormed through his parts. They were opposites but somehow managed to blend. It might have looked chaotic, it was anything but.

Levi did not play like a rich snob, he played like a man in love. 

When it ended she anticipated Levi ending on a loud note but his last note was soft, barely audible to those in the higher seats. Vera picked up where he left off and played in the manner Levi had previously, each switching roles effortlessly. She ended harshly, as most loves do.

The crowd roared with applause, it faded into the background. Levi’s hand on the small of her back guided her to the front of the stage. Flowers were thrown, shouts of appreciation. This is what she dreamed of. 

Levi bowed first like he had in practice, then she followed. What they had not planned was bowing together which he promptly forced her into. He brought her near after they bowed as most piano partners would.

“I love you.”

Vera recoiled at the suddenness, glancing at the crowd who stared at both of them.

“Not here.”

She left the stage with Levi in tow to the backroom, he pushed the door closed.

“You don’t feel the same?”

“Levi, I do.”

“Then say it.” He took a step closer. “Say it back to me.”

“I-” Vera gulped down a nervous exhale. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Levi, I did something unforgivable.”

“What did you do?” The coldness of his tone sent shivers throughout her body.

“They’re distributing the piece tomorrow across Europe.” Vera took a step back to the door. “We share the profits equally-”

“You think I care about that? You honestly think I care about my side of the profits when you went behind my back and published it?”

“Levi, people deserve to hear this, the music it’s incredible. I don't want it to be only heard in these four walls!”

“And I told you that it was for a reason!”

“A reason that wasn’t good enough!” Levi was shocked at this. “You want it to feel more intimate? What is that? With publishing more kids that grew up like you can experience it. Have you thought about that?”

“Do not bring up my childhood right now when all you are doing is spitting on my legacy!”

“Fine, then I’ll just head back to Vienna. Call me if you want to apologize!”

“What about the rest of the shows?”

“They were doomed anyway. Better no show than a mediocre one.”

She opened the door after already having collected her belongings and rushed out. Some backstage workers tried to stop her for interviews but she turned them away. Her rental car was down the street, she easily made it without looking back.

Vera always failed to see many things about Levi, seeing him rushing out of the conservatory after her would be one of them.

--

A New Era for Pianist Vera Shcherbatskaya amidst the publishing of her new piece: Friends of Youth

Levi Ackerman publishes his first piece with Vera Shcherbatskaya here’s what we think!

The headlines from small newspaper outlets from across Europe became larger than she anticipated. The two lived in their bubble together when composing and even before but in the aftermath they were exposed to the world.

“The sales on your music books are amazing!” Her agent yelled over the phone. Vera was sweeping her apartment, trying to get rid of the dust that had accumulated in less than a day.

“That’s good. Anything else?” Vera’s voice was as dull as her heart. 

“Anything else? Vera, you are the most popular pianist in Europe! This is what we dreamed of!”

“Let me know if Levi or his agent calls.”

She hung up the phone and threw it on the couch. Outside in Vienna was no longer a safe haven as fans swarmed her every move. The only sanctuary was her apartment but even that was a landmine, signs of Levi’s presence were everywhere. The lack of dust in cabinets, organized bookshelves by author's last name, and so much more.

Her next few performances held a significantly darker tone, people theorized it was about a heartbroken lover. Nevertheless, she played with a multitude of partners but each was less satisfying than the last. Nothing matched when they had played in London, critics even noticed.

“You were lovely, Antoine. Just not what I need.” She tried to let the man down gently but he stormed off, writing in the papers that her time with Levi had made her more heartless. 

Hange visited when the news started dying down.

“You followed my advice?”

“It was shit advice.” 

They shared a bottle of wine while watching old reruns of sitcoms. None of the jokes were remotely funny but it was good background noise.

“You’re still heartbroken that Levi left you.” It was harsh but accurate.

“He hasn’t even tried to call!”

“He talked to me.” Hange chuckled when Vera crawled over to them.

“What did he say?”

“Settle down, I’ll tell you.” They put their glass down and moved closer to the woman. “He said he was sad that he never considered your side but equally mad that you went behind his back.”

“That’s it? I already knew that! Come on, Hange, he had to have told you more!”

“Talk to him to figure it out!”

She did not in fact talk to Levi and instead chose to continue playing their shared music across Europe. His parts were stark silence, leaving it incomplete.

Concert Pianist Vera Shcherbatskaya entering a mournful period

That was spot on. Crowds across the continent noted the far-off look in her eyes in those loud moments of silence. When the last note was played they all clapped the same as that night but with more reproach. 

“Ms. Vera!” She turned and found a little girl waving with a marker and paper. “Could you sign this?”

The woman obliged, kneeling to the girl’s level.

“What’s your name?”

“Vera! Like yours!” 

“Then you’ll grow up to be a fine piano player, yes?”

“I want to play violin!”

“Then we’ll have to play together one time.”

She finished the message on the sheet and handed it back to the girl, her mother had a tired smile on her face.

“Thank you,” the mother whispered. “I saved up to take her to this concert, thank you for making it special!”

“If you want her career to grow, take her to a conservatory in Budapest. Tell them I sent you and they will give you room and board for free if you work there.” Vera pressed a warm hand into the mother’s shoulders.

“I can’t thank you enough!”

“Thank me when she gets to play on the big stage.”

Playing to massive audiences grew meaningless after a while, people blended together. None resembling who she actually wanted to see in a crowd. Vera left her concert after playing one night in Vienna, choosing to head to a local dive bar. It was packed to the brim for the open-mic night.

They had a piano, it looked out of tune and needed some work but it would do.

“Can I play?”

“You go on in five minutes.”

She stretched her hands out and followed a drunk man who sang a Mariah Carey song, he hit the high notes which surprised the crowd. Performers were meant to introduce themselves but she chose instead to test the keys out.

Most were fine, just the higher ones were a tinge too headache-inducing.

The first part was Levi’s, she never knew how to play it even if she tried. Vera strummed her own slow part in the quiet bar, not nearly drunk enough to not feel the nerves from playing in front of such a judgemental crowd. She paused again.

“Why are you stopping?”

“Keep playing!”

The shouts hurt her slightly but she continued through to the middle, tears fell down her face as feelings of heartbreak came rushing back. A hush fell over the crowd when someone from the audience made their way to the stage. He took the seat next to her, stretching his hands out.

“Let’s start over.” Levi’s familiar voice hummed. She smiled through her tears and leaned closer.

“Let's.”