#sandy pas band

[singeratlarge]

SUNDAY MATINEE MUSIC VIDEO: Davy Jones @ Front Street Station April 17, 1998 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vvwJrfb4Rmo  This video was edited from clips captured by a fan, featuring the rarely-performed "Today's the Day" and "Rainy Jane." I was guesting (on keyboards, guitar, & vocals) w/Davy's then-band line-up: Dave "Loafy" Alexander (keyboards, vocals), Wayne Avers (guitar, vocals), Jerry Renino (bass, vocals) and (subbing for Sandy Gennaro) John O'Riley (drums, on loan from Ritchie Blackmore). Davy recorded "Today's the Day," (a cover of a Sean Maguire song) for the 1998-99 Teen Idols tour w/Peter Noone & Bobby Sherman. Neil Sedaka penned “Rainy Jane,” a single from DJ’s 1971 Bell album (still an evergreen solo work). Located in Northumberland PA, Front Street Station is a restaurant/concert venue that DJ played at almost every year from the 1994 to 2011, and we always had a fine time https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vvwJrfb4Rmo

#davyjones #monkees #frontstreet #rainyjane #johnnyjblair #seanmcguire #wayneavers #jerryrenino #johnoriley #teenidols #peternoone #bobbysherman #neilsedaka #poprock

[notafraidofredyellowandblue]

Oh so Letz is Till's PA and drummer now? I was wondering why I haven't t seen him around Richard much this year, and he's stopped posting the messages he put on Richard's autograph cards. To me he's always been associated with Richard and his band more so than with Rammstein so it feels weird that he's suddenly part of Till's crew now.

Joe has said in an interviews he has been friends with both Till and Richard for years.

Recently indeed he is drummer in the new Till band, afaik from the first gigs the band did early 2022, and i assume it will still be the case for the upcoming tour of the band. In this band he is often credited as 'Sandy Beaches'.

Joe was Richard's PA in 2022 until somewhere halfway the European leg of the tour, then he wasn't there anymore. When the American leg started, Joe wasn't really part of the crew, but he was shown often in behind the scenes and party photos, in Till's circle. (Richard had another PA, a lady with ponytail, she's called Shelley i think, after Joe).

In 2023 Rammstein tour he was officially credited as 'personal assistant' from Till, one of our Tumblrers too the time to watch the end-credits at a live shiw they went to and noticed it. (Andrea Marino being Richard's PA during that tour)

Officially nothing is stated anout PA's from Rammstein side, rumor has it that Richarc yelled at Joe and dismissed him, and Till felt sorry for him and took him along instead. But i'm pretty sure there is no bad blood between Joe and Richard, because indeed once or twice Joe could be seen handing Richard his cards (Andrea did it most of the time afaik) 🌺

[estellaster]

Comments about Sandy West from Joni on Facebook

"One of the best friends I’ve ever had. I met Sandy in 82 and she became a true solid friend in my life. We took a road trip in my little orange Porsche up to my old home here in Lake Tahoe and had the best time. I lost touch with Sandy in the 90’s. I flew into LA to her memorial at the knitting factory and all I could think of were all the show cases with Paul Hohn that small crowds came to and how much Sandy would have reveled in the crowd at her memorial. For the seven years I was in Venice and Santa Monica she was steadfast and true in her friendship. I will always be ever grateful that she wanted to be my friend and shared her family with me.

I have Sandy stories I could tell for hours and bring you to tears laughing she was a goof and pretty funny as well as she was filled with a deep unrelenting need to get back in music. It was probably a year or more before she said anything to me about the Runaways and I’d never heard of them. We went to a big bar in Hollywood called Peanuts and after we’d gotten a space and a drink the DJ Rosie blasted over the PA “We have Sandy West in the house” I looked at Sandy like WTH? She grabbed my hand and said stick close don’t let go…I of course just stood there befuddled and betwixted. She had some esplainin to do on the way home at like dawn….I never got the whole Runaways thing until after she passed away. When Joan Jett blasted I love Rock n Roll I was sitting in Culver City at the Mie Wei bar and Sandy jumped up and started bopping around the dance floor fist pumping at 2 in the afternoon and we were the only ones there with the radio on. She tried desperately to get a place back in music and my heart breaks that she passed so young before this resurgence of oldies bands that absolutely rocked.

sandy always did the I’m an Italian thing. He dad might have been Italian, I never had any deep conversations about that but she used do some extremely funny impressions. When she told me her given name was Pesavento I told her I liked it better than West. I’m sure some of her other close good friends know the whole story. The first time I met her mom we went to the pool at her moms place and I challenged her to a race and she was crazy fast, her mom was laughing so hard when I flopped out sputtering and she said well you know Sandy was a champion swimmer in school and she just took advantage of you big time…..I remember them talking about the Pesavento history but I wasn’t paying too much attention. Sandy had such a vast diverse range of acquaintances and a smaller circle of good friends. She was so open to meeting anyone that came up to her. I heard her described as a big puppy and she did have a golden retriever named Oliver that she just never was settled down enough to keep full time and they were kind of alike!

Her mom worried so deeply about Sandy. Sandy didn’t have an easy life due to her choices but she had a huge heart and a Carpe Diem attitude that you couldn’t help but love her and keep giving her those second chances. Had she of been able to regain her previous status in a band I think her life would have taken a much different path. In the Movie when she’s in the abandoned warehouse everything she talked about is true, it broke my heart a bit listening to her voice and the stories she told about the drug dealing and the people she had fallen in with. At one point she entered the LA police academy, she was drug and alcohol free for three months, I watched her do 100 one armed pull ups and 100 one armed pushed ups clapping in between. She got washed out of the academy because she told the truth about using drugs in her oral test. The instructors loved her and she would have probably been a great officer. She was extremely depressed about failing and I think that event pushed even further down unhealthy paths.

Like I said I lost touch with Sandy around 95 and I’d hear from friends about her sporadically. When I found out she was in hospice care I was able to have our very good friend BC hold the phone and hear Sandy say Hey Beckerson and a couple other nick names but she couldn’t talk at that point. The 80’s were exciting and crazy, we all just went full blast into everything never giving any thoughts to a future without each other."

https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=652014666292072&set=a.287667112726831&__cft__%5B0%5D=AZUssyFSfOh55bToEgsaypxtSh_wZKzWLkjPhr1IEHL7XSoEb4RnP1PXGcumCWGqV0omSY0DLyzczeYAAj4X6H92PQhNEHOT7b2SGlwhoLP4sPKeOi_s4NHLGYOG5KRJetjNJXbyJ5IUIZk_oxLbsFnGPghtRjuw0ANEYvK74xLH0d-G9X3BDyOz0nQOFQpcRnw&__tn__=EH-R

[davidfakrikian]

DVDvision - La Collection Épisode 9

L'histoire de DVDvision vol.1 continue ! Et voici l'épisode 9 de la série, quand HK intègre DVDvision, et le magazine devient mensuel !

Numéro 9 - Mars 2001 - 

132 pages

Editeur : Seven Sept

Directrice de publication : Véronique Poirier 

Rédacteur en chef : David Fakrikian

Rédacteurs principaux : Yannick Dahan, Christophe Lemaire, Stéphane Lacombe, Benjamin Rozovas, Rafik Djoumi, David Martinez, Sandy Gillet, Nicolas Saada, Nicolas Rioult, Gael Golhen.

Sommaire : Kubrick, X-Men, Les Rivières Pourpres, Versions Longues.

DVD : Kubrick, Les Rivières Pourpres, Bandes-Annonces.

Notes : Un numéro très solide, le dernier bimestriel, et réalisé dans une ambiance cool à mon retour du Japon, où j'ai pu voir au cinéma "Bruce Lee in G.O.D." après un périple épique dans les rues de Shibuya raconté dans les pages du supplément HK.

Cette arrivée du cahier HK, dirigé par David Martinez (déjà rédacteur en chef du magazine culte de Christophe Gans), est la grande nouveauté de ce numéro. Il est vrai que la disparition de HK, juste au moment ou le cinéma asiatique explosait dans le "mainstream", avait laissé un grand vide, vide que Gans a proposé à l'éditeur de combler, en lui suggérant son intégration dans DVDvision, au cours d'une réunion concernant le lancement des premiers DVD HK.

Gans déboule quelque temps plus tard dans mon bureau les mains dans les poches, très embêté d'avoir proposé quand même un gros changement pour le magazine à notre éditeur en mon absence. J'accueille bien entendu sa proposition à bras ouverts. Ce fut même un honneur de continuer HK dans DVDvision. 

On nous a parfois accusé de copinage avec Christophe, mais si il fut la personne qui a permis à ce magazine d'exister, en me faisant rencontrer l'éditeur, il nous a ensuite laissé dans l'arène, sans jamais intervenir, et cette instance fut la seule où il influa sur un élément important du mag. Le reste du temps, ses interventions se résumaient à des discussions de geeks, autour de la machine à café. Son regard sur le magazine, dans lequel il ne pouvait forcément pas intervenir en profondeur au vu de ses occupations de cinéaste, était très acéré, souvent je pense affuté par le fait qu'il n'était que le spectateur de sa fabrication, et surtout qu'il était un fan absolu du format DVD. Malgré son passage "de l'autre côté", il est clair que le journalisme continuait toujours à le fasciner.

Avec HK intégrant DVDvision donc, nous solidifions la structure de la rédaction. David Martinez est seul responsable du cahier HK, tandis que Leonard Haddad devient provisoirement rédacteur en chef adjoint, le temps de faire la transition, puisque nous passons mensuel à partir de ce numéro.

Couverture alternative par Joel Casano.

Je pensais à l'époque, et encore aujourd'hui, que le passage au mensuel était une erreur. En l'espace de 3 numéros, nous sommes passés de 100 à 116 pages, puis ici, 132 pages. Nous nous sommes retrouvés à la merci de l'actualité du mois en cours, alors que le rythme bimestriel nous permettait de choisir les sujets à traiter, en faisant l'impasse sur les DVD ratés, et de maintenir un très haut niveau de qualité éditoriale. A partir de ce numéro, pour maintenir le niveau, il a fallu travailler double. C'était d'autant plus compliqué qu'il fallait en plus produire un DVD et ses bonus dans chaque numéro, chaque mois. On s'est retrouvé à être obligé de traiter les DVD ratés, ce qui a déclenché de nombreuses frictions avec les éditeurs puisque nous étions très critiques. En même temps, le DVD prenait son envol, et nous sommes devenus avec Les Années Laser les magazines de référence, les deux étant complémentaires.

La bonne relation que j'entretiens alors avec Gaumont nous permet de scooper Les Rivières Pourpres, premier DVD agréé THX en France, et j'interviewe Richard Dean, contrôleur en chef. Je vais cependant créer la sensation dans les locaux d'authoring, en découvrant 2 images pixelisées sur le master définitif du film, pourtant validé par THX, lors d'une projection test du produit final, après leur départ ! Un incident que je vais passer sous silence sur demande du dirigeant de la société (mais aujourd'hui, il y a prescription), qui montre que le sceau qualité du label commençait déjà à craqueler. Je me souviendrais toujours du silence de mort, quand j'ai demandé à faire repasser la scène de l'avalanche, devant l'équipe entière du studio, puis ralentir le master jusque au moment où mon œil avait décelé quelque chose de furtif, mais anormal. Et de l'étonnement dans la salle, quand le technicien en charge de la compression s'est aperçu que la pixelisation n'était que sur deux images ("comment tu as fais pour voir ça ?!"). Il est reparti tout penaud, pour refaire la compression du bloc en entier. Il faut dire que travailler sur le DVD de Crying Freeman m'avais mis dans une forme olympique sur le sujet.

Avec son point signé David Martinez sur les DVD Kubrick (nous sommes en 2001), le superbe article de Leonard Haddad sur les versions longues de films, le dossier sur le DVD de Terminator par Sandy Gillet, le DVD X-Men chroniqué par Yannick Dahan, la section HK et les news de Williams Fiovarenti, je pense que le mag prend vraiment à ce moment là sa vitesse de croisière.

La couverture en haut de ce billet est tirée de l'image originale signée Joel Casano, celle en dessous est une version que nous avons mise de côté, parce-que les tons ressemblaient trop à la couverture Gladiator, et que nous ne voulions pas que les acheteurs croient qu'il s'agit du même numéro, perdu au milieu des autres magazines dans les kiosques. C'est dommage, elle était très réussie. 

La citation de ce numéro : "Tu me colles une sale réputation, en disant dans ton édito que tous les DVD X disparaissent dans mon sac !"  (Benjamin Rozovas - mars 2001)

[highhcpess]

Basic info:

Full name: William Teddy (Bear) Hastings

Nickname(s): Bear, Willy

Age: 34

Date of birth: November 30th

Place of birth: Philadelphia, PA

Height: 6'0"

Weight: 185lbs

Hair: sandy brown

Eyes: cyan blue

Ethnicity: mixed (german, french, italian)

Sexuality: ace

Hobbies: sketching, gaming, cooking

Languages: english, spanish, french, very little german, gibberish

History:

- born in the Philadelphia area, his mother died when he was young. his father was an alcoholic and a drug addict.

- was diagnosed with dyslexia.

- left home and bounced around a lot, he eventually ended up in new york city.

- got his ged diploma

- found a job at a local bookstore.

- made friends with a lot of people in the community.

- got involved in a lot of local events in the neighborhood.

- his best friend, jason, is also his roomate.

Personality:

William is a very caring person. He has a strong sense of justice and is usually on the side of the underdog.

He has a strong sense of morals and values, and is willing to help those in need.

He is also very kind and affectionate towards his friends and family.

William has a very dry, sarcastic sense of humour, which is sometimes a little bit rude.

However, he is also very creative and has a good imagination.

He is also very loyal to his friends and will do anything to help them.

William is also a bit of a loner, and will often spend time alone.

William has a somewhat rough personality, but is overall a nice guy.

Other info:

He has a 93 mustang.

His favorite color is blue.

His favorite band is the beatles.

His favorite food is pizza.

His favorite type of tv shows is old school police shows.

His favorite sport is football and baseball.

William has an affinity for cars. He loves the classics the most.

His favorite type of music is the soul and country music.

His favorite animals are dogs, cats, and birds.

He likes the idea of learning about computers and programming.

William is a huge gamer, having a number of video games in his room. His favorites are the classics, such as super mario, nintendo 64 and gamecube.

[burnyanocs]

Oc skins March Madness

Days 4-10

Day 4 is Army Man Gemini. He's being drafted to the toy war. There are 2 variants to choose from, Green and Sandy. (Inspiration: Toy Soldier Day)

Day 5 is Legendary Chandler. Who battled and won the Legendary Arena becoming a Legend. He also has 2 variants to choose from, Warrior and Champion. (Inspiration: Legendary Skylanders, both sensei and original colors.)

Day 6 is Dentist Ram. She seems to now sell mouth wash but kinda suspicious of the fact she already sells soda.

Day 7 is Prank Call Vincent. Using multiple phones and the Mini being one, Vincent pranks en mass. (Inspiration: day when Alexander Graham Bell given patent for the Telephone).

Day 8 is workout Jan Jan. She seems to have set up a new workout routine for others to follow. Though she seems to take inspiration from older workout shows.

Day 9 is Galactic Tricks-E. Wether he got taken or went in on his own accord, Tricks-E became a member of the notorious Worst Bunch, ready to take over the galaxy... or something...

Day 10 are Punk Rock Ray and Sleepy Time Tox. Pa Ray joins a punk rock band, while Tox is sleep. Get your sleep, baby boy.💜

That's day 4-10 see you on day 17 for the next set.

[chorusfm]

The Decemberists – “Burial Ground”

The Decemberists have returned with “Burial Ground,” their first new song in six years. They’ve also announced some new tour dates. Tour Dates 04/30 – Kingston, NY @ Ulster Performing Arts Center 05/02 – Boston, MA @ Roadrunner 05/03 – Brooklyn, NY @ Brooklyn Paramount Theatre 05/06 – Toronto, ON @ Exhibition Place – Queen Elizabeth Theatre 05/07 – Pittsburgh, PA @ Stage AE 05/08 – Philadelphia, PA @ The Fillmore Philadelphia 05/10 – Washington DC @ The Anthem 05/11 – Durham, NC @ Durham Performing Arts Center 05/12 – Atlanta, GA @ The Eastern 05/14 – Dallas, TX @ Majestic Theater 05/15 – Austin, TX @ Bass Concert Hall 05/17 – St Louis, MO @ The Pageant 05/18 – Milwaukee, WI @ Riverside Theater 05/19 – St Paul, MN @ Palace Theatre 05/21 – Chicago, IL @ Salt Shed 05/22 – Detroit, MI @ Royal Oak Music Theater 05/24 – Nashville, TN @ Ryman Auditorium 07/12 – Bend, OR @ Hayden Homes Amphitheater ^ 07/13 – Oakland, CA @ Fox Theater 07/15 – Los Angeles, CA @ The Bellwether 07/18 – San Diego, CA @ Humphreys 07/19 – Tucson, AZ @ Rialto Theater 07/20 – Phoenix, AZ @ The Van Buren 07/22 – Santa Fe, NM @ The Bridge at Santa Fe Brewing 07/23 – Denver, CO @ The Mission Ballroom 07/24 – Sandy, UT @ Sandy Amphitheater 07/26 – Missoula, MT @ Kettlehouse Amphitheater 07/27 – Spokane, WA @ Spokane Pavilion 07/29 – Vancouver, BC @ Queen Elizabeth Theatre 08/03 – Troutdale, OR @ McMenamins Edgefield Press Release The Decemberists will head out on an expansive North American tour with both spring and summer legs. The tour kicks off on April 30th in Kingston, NY at the Ulster Performing Arts Center and wraps up in August on the West Coast. Highlights include the Brooklyn Paramount Theater on May 3rd, the Salt Shed in Chicago on May 21st and the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville on May 24th. The band will return to their home turf, wrapping the tour in Troutdale, OR on August 3rd at McMenamins Edgefield. VIP pre-sale begins tomorrow,  Wednesday, February 7th at 10AM Pacific. The tour will go on-sale to the public this Friday, February 9th at 10AM local time. Full tour dates listed below. For 20 years The Decemberists have been one of the most original, daring, and thrilling American rock bands. Founded in the year 2000 when singer, songwriter, and guitarist Colin Meloy moved from Montana to Portland, Oregon and met bassist Nate Query, keyboardist Jenny Conlee, and guitarist Chris Funk, The Decemberists’ distinctive brand of hyperliterate folk-rock set them apart from the start with the release of their debut EP 5 Songs in 2001. After making their full-length debut with Castaways and Cutouts in 2002, the band signed with Kill Rock Stars for the release of the acclaimed albums Her Majesty the Decemberists (2003) and Picaresque (2005), which was produced by Chris Walla. The 2004 EP The Tain – an 18-minute single-track epic – made the band’s grand creative ambitions clear.   Around this time the band’s permanent line-up fell into place with the arrival of drummer John Moen, and they made the unexpected leap to Capitol Records for their first major label album in 2006. Fans’ concerns of whether the band would alter their trademark sound quickly vanished when they delivered their most ambitious and audacious record to date in The Crane Wife, a song cycle produced by Walla and Tucker Martine (who would become a longtime creative partner) that added elements of ‘70s prog, hard rock and even quasi-disco to their palette. The album was met by wide acclaim from The New York Times, Rolling Stone, SPIN, Stereogum, and was named Best New Music by Pitchfork.   Three years later, The Hazards of Love – a full-length concept album based on Meloy’s idea for a stage musical - was a Top 20 hit. In 2011, they topped themselves yet again with their first #1 album, The King Is Dead, which featured the GRAMMY-nominated song “Down By The Water.” After their 2015 album What A Terrible World, What A Beautiful World, which included the #1 AAA radio hit “Make You Better,” The Decemberists changed up… https://chorus.fm/news/the-decemberists-burial-ground/

[valloninfo]

Photo: Yves Fivaz Les annonces ne cessent de tomber au CP Fleurier. Pour commencer, l'arrivée de Kenny Camarda suivie par l'annonce du nouveau gardien Sven Moritz et finalement l'annonce de la prolongation de Nigel Tissot, Sandy Dubois, Evan Colo et Valention Aeschlimann. Aujourd'hui, le CP Fleurier est heureux de vous annoncer la reconduction de 5 joueurs pour la saison à venir. Quentin Ruffieux #16 Le premier est jeune, rapide et travailleur. Quentin Ruffieux sera de nouveau Un Chat! Son profil représente à merveille le projet et l’avenir du club. Un gamin du coin, qui travaille dure, avec du caractère et qui aime son club ! Florent Marthaler #96 Deuxième et pas des moindres, notre Top Scorer de la saison passée Florent Marthaler va encore faire trembler les filets adverses ! Centre de caractère, « Flopy » sera une pièce importante du dispositif du trio Motreff/Pellet/Valentini. Yann Jeanneret #11 Le prochain fait rarement du bruit, mais fait son job à la perfection, toujours juste dans ses choix et capable de jouer à n’importe quel poste peu importe le moment. L’immense Yann Jeanneret apportera toute sa sagesse et son génie à la défensive et au vestiaire des Chats. Kilian Geiser #13 Il a fait son retour la saison passée, et quel retour ?! Auteur de 14 goals et 14 passes en 31 matchs. Kilian Geiser apportera toute sa puissance à l’équipe. Jayson Pipoz #71 Défenseur de caractère et d’expérience, Jayson Pipoz sera de nouveau un poison pour les attaquants adverses. Solide physiquement « Jay » excelle défensivement notamment dans les bandes et dans les duels. L’homme stable De la défensive! 🟡⚫️ Alerte prolongations ⚫️🟡 🐈‍⬛ Le CP Fleurier est heureux de vous annoncer la reconduction de 5 joueurs pour la...Publiée par CP Fleurier sur Mardi 18 avril 2023

[redspecial20]

Hello everyone, I'm Sandy/Dee Dee!

I love music (mostly 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s), reading, playing guitar, photography and retro/vintage stuff, old cars, dragons, etc.

Mostly here I will share my photos, things I created in Picsart, something with one of my favorite bands or my favorite quotes...

My DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/sandydeacon

Pinterest: https://cz.pinterest.com/RedSpecial462/

Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/kwm5zcjah6loq8qk54h0jutpz

Moji oblíbení fotografové: Mick Rock, Dežo Hoffmann, Jim Marshall, Daniel Angeli, Eric Kogan, Annie Leibowitz, Antonín Kratochvíl, Koh Hasebe, Andrea Lemos, Peter Simon, atd.

My Fave Bands/Singers: Queen, Rolling Stones, The Beatles, The Who, Ramones, Led Zeppelin, Metallica, Megadeth, Iron Maiden, Def Leppard, Nirvana, Foo Fighters, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, Pink Floyd, Bon Jovi, Mötley Crüe, GnR, BGs, Roxette, KISS, Meky Žbirka, LP, Scorpions, The Doors, Velvet Underground, Lou Reed, Sex Pistols, Janis Joplin, David Bowie, Green Day, Aerosmith, Bowie, Elton John, Phil Collins, Genesis, Van Halen, Sadeyes, JVKE, David Kushner, Harry Styles, etc.

My Fave Artists: Warhol, Lichtestein, Modigliani, Kahlo, Ronnie Wood, Banksy, Botticelli,...

Favourite Movies: Hair, Bohemian Rhapsody, Grease, Dirty Dancing, Help, Yellow Submarine, Amelie from Montmartre, Lion King, The Song Remains The Same, Piti piti pa, Labyrinth, Ghostbusters, Sgt. Pepper's lonely hearts club, Rocket man, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Singing in the rain, etc....

Favourite TV Shows: Stranger Things, Metal Family, Gilmore Girls, Daria, Randall and Hopkirk, Glee, etc.

Favourite Books: Love Story, Little Prince, On The Road, Breakfast at Tiffany's Just Kids from Patti Smith, Life from Keith Richards, etc

Favourite Writers: Antoine de Saint Exupéry, Erich Segal, Jacqueline Wilson, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, Arthur Rimbaud, Peter Orlovsky, Gregory Corso, Ivan Martin Jirous, Patti Smith, Colleen Hoover,...

[im-a-space-gay]

Hear Me Out,

Sanders Sides: Spongebob the Musical AU (has this done before? If it has, I'm sorry)

Like, seriously, hear me out on this one

Spongebob: Emile Picani (He's upbeat, but is able to know and understand feelings and is good about bringing people together)

Patrick: Patton (Best friend of the happy-go-lucky frycook, and has the insecurity he's not listened to enough, so he snatches up the opportunity for people to listen to him and take him seriously only to miss his best friend. Plus you cannot convince me the reason he's the brawn in the team is because of his strength as Lilypadton. You cannot.)

Sandy: A fusion of Virgil and Logan (I couldn't choose between the two because Logan had the smarts but Virgil would act like this, especially towards Patton and Emile. Plus I just always love the idea that these two would stay fused like Garnet because they love each other, platonic or otherwise)

Squidward: Critic (his name was Dice, right? I just feel like he would be a self-centered, glum fellow who wishes for his moment in the spotlight, only to get let down again and again)

Mr. Krabs: Remy (He's already addicted to coffee, might as well make him addicted to money! Plus he totally would give *ssh*le vibes without meaning to)

Pearl: Roman (He's emotional because he knows that he should be of a higher standard than money to his father, yet is always put below money. Wants to run away with his favorite band to finally be put in the limelight that his father never gave him)

Plankton: Remus (Just... Chaotic evil. Thinks his schemes will work but they inevitably fail.)

Karen: Janus (The overly-done-with-his-husband's-bs computer husbandTM. Loves Remus, but dear Jesus he is an absolute idiot. Why did he sign up for this? Oh wait, he didn't. He was built for this without throwing his nickel in.)

Mayor: Thomas (Besides the mean, "I have better stuff to do" aura, seems self-explanatory)

News Guy: Joan (...)

Like... Yeah.

Edit: Holy goodness, wait a darn minute

Patchy: Fander of your choice

Perfect.

[lastnightinsohostreamingvf]

Last Night in Soho Film Streaming HD VF Regarder Online

Last Night in Soho Regarder Film - https://last-night-in-soho-vf.blogspot.com/

Last Night in Soho a un excellent crochet et commence à donner l'impression qu'il va faire quelque chose de convaincant avec ce crochet. Malheureusement, comme c'est trop souvent le cas avec les films d'horreur prometteurs, celui-ci dégénère en un bordel décevant vers la fin.

Le film s'ouvre dans l'Angleterre d'aujourd'hui, où la future étudiante en mode Ellie (Thomasin McKenzie) apprend qu'elle a été acceptée dans une école londonienne branchée pour designers. Ellie a une douce disposition et une détermination inébranlable à se débrouiller seule. Sa grand-mère bien-aimée (Rita Tushingham) s'inquiète pour Ellie car la jeune femme a des tendances psychiques qui la rendent vulnérable aux mauvaises pensées et aux démons invisibles. (Elle voit parfois le fantôme de sa mère, qui s'est suicidée.)

Une fois à Londres, Ellie détermine qu'elle n'est pas un bon match pour sa garce, colocataire de type A, Jocasta (Synnove Karlsen). Elle quitte le dortoir et loue un studio à une femme âgée, Mme Collins (Diana Rigg), qui établit une série de règles que la giroflée Ellie pense qu'elle n'aura aucun mal à suivre. C'est alors que les visions commencent. Alors qu'Ellie se couche la nuit, elle est transportée au milieu des années 1960 (un chapiteau de cinéma voisin vantant Thunderball) - une époque qu'elle idolâtre - et découvre le monde scintillant à travers les yeux de la chanteuse en herbe Sandie (Anya Taylor-Joy ). Au début, Sandie semble avoir Londres à ses pieds et Ellie devient accro à aller dormir la nuit afin de pouvoir renouer avec l'autre femme branchée, sexy et sûre d'elle. Tout commence à s'effondrer, cependant, lorsque l'amant / manager de Sandie, Jack (Matt Smith) montre son côté cruel et lubrique et mène sa dernière "découverte" dans une ruelle moche. Pendant sa journée, Ellie devient obsédée par l'idée de découvrir ce qui est arrivé à Sandie 55 ans plus tôt, mais la piste s'est refroidie et personne ne croit à ses visions. Mais il y a un vieil homme mystérieux (Terence Stamp) avec un regard entendu et quelques manières familières qui peuvent connaître les réponses – si elle peut le convaincre de parler avant que les goules de ses cauchemars la rendent folle (ou pire). Les 25 premières minutes de Last Night in Soho se jouent comme une histoire de passage à l'âge adulte « Country Girl Goes to London », avec des rivaux snob et un petit ami potentiel (Michael Ajao). Les éléments surnaturels sont réduits au minimum et nous avons l'occasion de faire la connaissance d'Ellie, qui est interprétée par Thomasin McKenzie (Leave No Trace) avec un mélange parfait de ténacité, de sincérité et de naïveté. Le grand moment du film, quand Ellie tombe dans son rêve/vision et arrive au début de 1966, est présenté avec suffisamment de spectacle pour justifier une projection en salle. La bande-son stéréo explose en un son surround complet et les couleurs en sourdine éclatent. Nous traversons le miroir avec Alice.

Ces premières nuits de 1966 sont parfaites car la caméra aperçoit Ellie dans les miroirs. Nous ne sommes pas sûrs du lien entre les deux femmes qui sont séparées par un demi-siècle - si Ellie regarde simplement à travers les yeux de Sandie en tant qu'observatrice passive ou si elle devient Sandie dans un sens tangible. Il y a tellement de choses à absorber et à s'interroger et, au moins pendant un certain temps, Wright gère la complexité de la situation sans accroc, tout en nous offrant une excellente bande originale de chansons des années 60 (mises en évidence par "Downtown" de Petula Clark). Mais le film déraille lorsque l'ex-Doctor Who Matt Smith commence à grogner et à ricaner. Les 45 dernières minutes du film font ce qu'il a à faire, c'est-à-dire « expliquer » tout, même si une fois que l'explication est sortie du sac, elle est décevante. Wright se penche également un peu trop profondément sur les éléments d'horreur (goules/fantômes), ce qui n'est peut-être pas surprenant étant donné que sa première grande percée internationale était l'horreur/comédie Shaun of the Dead. La confrontation finale est peu satisfaisante à plusieurs niveaux et la facilité avec laquelle les choses s'enchaînent dans le dénouement met à rude épreuve la crédulité.

Les fans de Thomasin McKenzie n'auront rien à redire – Last Night in Soho montre l'actrice à son meilleur. Anya Taylor-Joy n'est pas aussi bien servie par le scénario, bien qu'elle ait donné quelques scènes où elle est autorisée à se détacher. Matt Smith n'a pas grand-chose à faire avec : un cad unidimensionnel dont les vêtements de mouton se détachent rapidement. Wright fait également de la place à quatre acteurs britanniques chevronnés : Terence Stamp, Rita Tushingham et les ex-Bond girls Margaret Nolan et Diana Rigg. Pour Nolan (Goldfinger) et Rigg (Au service secret de Sa Majesté), cela représente un dernier hourra. Les deux sont décédés pendant la période prolongée de COVID entre le tournage et la sortie et chacun reçoit un dévouement mérité.

Cela vaut presque la peine de voir Last Night in Soho pour les hauteurs glorieuses de la première heure alors que Wright manipule les visuels et agit comme un maître magicien pour développer son illusion. C'est lorsque l'illusion s'évapore que le film déçoit et, parce qu'il commence si fort, cela rend l'acte final terne d'autant plus décourageant.

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[ill-skillsgard]

Bred For Blood - Part 16 - Eye in the Sky

Title: Bred For Blood

Warning: 18+ - sex/mature language & themes/gun violence/substance abuse etc. *this part contains death, blood/injuries, drug use, mentions of sexual manipulation*

Characters: AU Axel Cluney, AU Ivar Lothbrok, AU Valter x OC

Description:  A bright, young survivor meets an acid-gun slinging headhunter with a knack for melting faces and connections to a prodigal Utopia embedded in the heart of a deadly forest. Violence and passion incite a battle of fealty while betrayal nips at Zed’s heels.

Note: Over the months and months I’ve developed this story, a lot of it has changed. I’ve adhered to the same general storyline I originally came up with, but it’s taken on a different life. I’m realizing I fall under the “discovery writer” category more than ever. So, thank you for taking this fun journey with me as it unfolds! I appreciate all the comments and kind words <3 Let me know your thoughts as we travel toward the end of this funky little series I started forever ago.  

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15

Axel gaped at his wounded palm. An uneven split forced his middle and ring finger apart at a nauseating angle. The longer he stared, the more his arms trembled from the sight of his bisected tendons. Blood cascaded down his arm in swaths, more blood than he had ever spilled, collecting in sandy globs. In his horror, he almost forgot about the man bemoaning his death several feet away. Axel tried clenching a fist, but blistering agony shot through his wrist and forearm, crackling along severed nerves and stiffening his stained fingers. Disotto had been right; he’d never use his trigger-finger again.

Acid boiled in Axel’s stomach, a mixture of anger and dread. He turned to Rex writhing on the ground, assessing his wound crusted with sand and coagulating plasma. The hunter keened over Rex’s worse condition. Again, the Zeronauts failed to kill him, though his vision grew cloudy. Axel found his knife and shifted his weight off the side of the Rover, toward the man whispering prayers through bubbles of blood. When Rex caught wind of Axel’s approach, the man cowered, shielding his face with his tarry hands.

“I’m only following orders,” the slashed man shouted. “Please! If you’re gonna kill me, just do it.”

“No, I won’t put you out of your misery. I want your death to be slow and painful. Like how you left Glott back there,” said Axel.

The hunter shimmied closer, flipping his knife in his right hand to carve off an unstained strip of Rex’s cotton jersey shirt. Rex quivered as Axel wrapped the cloth around his left hand tightly. The blue material blossomed with blood, turning a deathly shade of indigo in seconds. He went for another swath of the man’s clothing, ripping the sleeve off to fold over the hole in his hand. Axel glimpsed the open wound in Rex’s side, then looked up at his wild eyes, shifting around in their sockets like a dying animal searching for an escape.

“Tell me about this Dal guy you and your buddies were talking about. Is he your leader or something? He calls the shots?” Axel asked.

Rex spat a gob of blood, laughing as it rolled down his whiskered chin. “What do you think?”

Axel held the knife under Rex’s nose. “I think you’ll die with a few more nasty cuts on your body if you don’t tell me where I can find your leader. I’ll carve you like a turkey, my man.”

“That’s the thing about us... We don’t have leaders, just as the Unity intended. There are Brights, and there’s Uns, and it’s us against them. You kill one of us, and there’s a hundred more to take our place,” Rex claimed.

“No. It’s not you against them; It’s you against the planet. The Brights are the ones saving your sorry asses. You anarchists can’t seem to understand that we need them.”

Rex’s stone-grey eyes fluttered as he took in a trembling breath. “Why do you fucking care? The Unity wanted you dead, too.”

Axel looked down at his fake teardrop. If he hadn’t been fighting in the war, would they have considered him for immunization? It was a question Axel asked himself a thousand times, and the answer was always negative. He should have died in the storms, but he hadn’t. The spores didn’t reach the ocean, and therefore, never had the chance to infect him or the small crew of abandoned soldiers sailing home.

Axel grimaced at his stained forearm. “That doesn’t mean I want to kill every brightblood I find.”

“No. But you’ll use them to protect yourself. Just like we do,” Rex said with a sticky smile.

“Fuck you. Your little band of outlaws is exactly the people they tried to eradicate. People who only see others as slaves.”

“The Brightlings you care so much about are bred for blood. Blood that we need to survive—that you need to survive. The Unity branded them like cattle for easy picking.”

Axel rose to his knees, wincing from the slash above his ankle. “That’s the thinking that’s getting you and all your merry men killed. Rapists, slave-drivers, murderers... There's no room for you on this planet.”

“What does that make you, Mister Zee?”

“Yeah, I’m a killer. And I’ll die a killer if it means getting rid of scum like you,” Axel said, spitting on Rex’s dirtied face.

A low chuckle rumbled in Rex’s esophagus, tapering off as he shut his eyes, limbs turning limp where he lay sprawled over the sand.

Axel sat for a moment to catch his breath, then crawled from body to body, checking their pockets and patting down stiff torsos for anything useful. He found a few rounds of ammunition, a half-full pack of cigarettes, a glass pipe with a burnt and bulbous end, another butane lighter, a folded piece of paper bearing his likeness and several uncut rubies. He tossed the crack pipe and kept the rest, stuffing it all into his pockets with his left arm pressed to his side.

A dry wind swept in from the South, the direction he needed to go if he could only haul himself to a stand. He sat slumped over, unlacing his boot to get a better look at his wounded ankle. The cut was deep and gushing still. He bandaged his ankle in the same way he had his hand—with the jersey cotton stripped from Rex’s shirt. After winding the dressing around his foot, it was too bulky to stuff back into his boot, so he left it behind as he crawled toward the duffle bag of papers from Glott’s lab. He emptied his pockets into the bag, then grabbed his rifle. A grisly piece of meat from the other Zeronaut’s face still clung to the butt where Axel had cracked his mouth apart. Though he couldn’t shoot acid, the weapon doubled as a club if he encountered more bounty hunters.

Stretching his right arm behind his back, he found the mushrooms he’d tucked in his pocket. In the bright afternoon light, the brown fibres glistened, white spots speckling the meaty caps atop long, feathery stems. Axel licked his lips but refrained from ingesting the mysterious fungus he found growing inside Glott’s supply closet. The last thing he needed was to poison himself. He was already sure he would die in the desert, if not from blood-loss, then from dehydration. The mushrooms were a last resort. He pocketed them again.

Axel assessed his itinerary. Although he’d sustained severe mutilation and a punctured ankle, he came away with another gun, more cigarettes and a few hundred thousand dollars' worth of stones. Axel saw no use for the rubies, but some people still valued objects more than human blood, so he kept them. It seemed unlikely he’d cross anyone who only wanted to trade, but the stones gave him a sense of comfort in case he happened upon a post.

If he was to consider what Rex said about a hundred more Zeronauts taking his place, Axel had to assume everyone was now an enemy. How many Zeronauts were there? Had they recruited more survivors, swelling their ranks while he pissed away his time in Kinderfeld? He shook his head and wobbled from dizziness. There was no more time for contemplation. Axel had to remain present.

On foot, getting back to the domes would take days, but with two of his limbs decommissioned, it would take much longer. He took all he could carry from the Rover and packed it into the duffle bag, including his last inches of water and two mystery packs of army rations. Axel scanned the horizon, took a step and cried out from the bolt of pain in his leg. Limping without a crutch was impossible, so he lowered to his knees and crawled in the direction from which his three assailants had come. They must have had a camp or a vehicle he could raid somewhere.

In the desert heat, with the duffle bag more cumbersome than ever, Axel’s lag proved difficult. Pain blazed through his leg with every bend of his knee, and his elbows supported his entire weight plus the full bag pressing on his back. He army-crawled through the sand, stopping every few shuffles to rest.

Axel made it over a steep dune before the dryness entered his lungs and sucked the moisture from his mouth. He paused for a gulp of water and grieved over how little he had left.

When he found no traces of Zeronaut vehicles, he looked back and considered returning to the Rover. Even on deflated wheels, he might get farther than what his aching body could manage.

Turning back was suicidal. Axel couldn’t waste another hour retracing the trail he left behind. It was onward or nothing.

Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids after long. The agony of using his arms to pull himself along depleted what little energy he had. Axel retired his injured appendage and used his right arm and leg to shift himself over hills and rough patches of stone.

His muscles stretched and burned as the sun beat down on his skin. The strain on his body caught up with him quickly, and he had to rest before he passed out from weariness. Axel shifted the duffle bag over his head to shield from the sun, took another sip of water and laid in the dust with his eyes closed. Every few minutes, he snapped awake, unable to doze for more than a few minutes before panic shook him.

As the sun set, Axel ripped open a foil bag and devoured the tomatoes, slimy noodles, and bits of chewy sausage swimming inside. Any other day, Axel might complain about the meal, but in his weakened haze, it tasted better than anything he’d ever eaten. Washing down the food with his last bit of water, he tossed the package and crawled several yards before a dull pain in the back of his head dizzied him again.

Frequent breaks frustrated Axel, and the emerging fog disoriented his sense of direction. Soon the night took over, and Axel shivered from the icy touch on his inflamed skin. He was burnt and filthy, head pounding while his ankle and hand throbbed without end. Though he’d eaten and drank the last remnant of water he had, a persistent thirst scratched in his throat.

“Fuck, I’m gonna die,” Axel croaked. “This will be your fucking grave, Cluney. You’re done.”

When he imagined dying with the duffle bag full of invaluable information, Axel’s heart clattered in his chest. That discovery in the hands of those who wished slavery upon the brightbloods would be disastrous. If he couldn’t make it back to Kinderfeld, he had to make sure the secret died with him. Nobody would get their hands on Zed because of his negligence, he vowed.

He scaled the sands until his body gave out. Muscles screaming in pain, Axel rolled onto his back and looked up at the night sky through a thin veil of fog.

“I’m sorry, Lea. I’m a fucking failure. Valter... Fuck. I should have been there for you. I’m such a fuck-up. Such a selfish, stupid fuck-up.”

Axel closed his eyes and let the darkness take him under.

When the sun peeked over the hills, Axel awoke, spitting dirt from his mouth as he coughed and winced from the agony living in every atom of his body. He couldn’t believe he was still alive to see another powder blue sky. However, his shoulders had seized from over-exertion, and the only movement he made was the desperate intake of air. Anguish pinned him to the ground until he summoned the strength to unzip the duffle bag and rummage around, one-armed, for a cigarette and lighter.

Axel smoked while sprawled in the sand, watching puffy clouds sail overhead. There was only an hour of mild temperature before the sun climbed higher and burned away the moisture left from the misty night.

“Why am I not dead?” Axel asked himself.

A strong wind swept sheets of dust over his latent form, blinding him until his eyes watered. If he stayed where he was, by noon, he’d be half-buried. But he could barely move to stop this from happening. He saved his energy for rolling onto his stomach to fish the mushrooms from his pocket. It took half an hour to accomplish this, and by the time he had hold of the speckled caps, he did not argue against consuming them.

He gnashed the sponge and grainy strands to a pulp, swallowed, and hoped for the best. The woody flavour reminded him of old times taking dried psilocybin mushrooms as a teenager. What effects Glott’s fungi produced remained a mystery.

Axel sighed and tried not to think about Lea and Vee. He closed his eyes, picturing simpler times and places that brought him joy until he realized there were few scraps of memory that provided him with any relief. He had left home at a young age as his parents acknowledged his brother’s accelerated development and put their focus into nurturing his intelligence instead of disciplining a boy who laughed in the face of authority. While Axel set off to take drugs and contract sexually transmitted infections that required horse pills and multiple shots in the ass to cure, his family grew tighter without him. Vee grew into a man. Then came the army and quest for structure. But there was no structure in the military either. There were routines and discipline, but no sense of permanence. It only threw him into further chaos, showing him real horrors that made his small-time forays in local crime seem like a joke.

He remembered the boat ride home, the piercing silence of a desolate group of men who’d been long abandoned, forgotten by their superiors and the world. They were throwaways, disregarded by the country who first outfitted and weaponized them. Ivar was his only anchor to life without torment, and even he had changed from the war.

The only memory that didn’t haunt him was the recent times he’d spent with Azalea. She didn’t judge him harshly—only when he deserved it—for she didn’t understand the gravity of his past transgressions. Axel would give anything to be back in their conjoined apartment, drinking acidic wine with Vee, playing board games like they were kids again.

Behind his heavy lids, Axel saw the sun break without opening his eyes. A sliver of white light grew into a crescent, a half-moon, an eyeball with no iris. It blinked, staring at his feeble body with judgment.

What are you doing lying in the sand?

“I’m dying,” Axel answered the ominous voice overhead.

So soon?

“Maybe not soon enough,” said Axel.

How boring. Zeitgeist, the famous headhunter, reduced to dirt.

“It’s been a long time coming.”

The glowing orb sighed, giving off radiation Axel could feel. A red aura, wriggling like a crown of worms, throwing off golden hailstones that burst into a fine mist.

“When I was in the Middle East, I got the feeling I’d die like this. Maybe I’m some kind of low-level prophet.”

Predicting one’s own death is hardly a show of prophecy. You’ve spent your life doing things no regular person should survive. This death... This is a lifetime of poor decisions catching up with you.

“Am I talking to myself, or am I tripping?”

Perhaps a little of both.

“Hm... At least I’ll die high out of my mind. These scientists sure make great psychedelics.”

Axel opened his eyes and gasped at the sprawling panorama of white dollops convulsing over a roiling screen of blue. The clouds came closer, and he drew a breath in through his nose, tasting the thick air as he rose his good hand to the amoebic spectacle before him. The wind curled through, skewing the shapes into fresh forms, erasing and reforming them with every gust: flowers, sailboats, insects and gaping faces.

“Wow. That’s crazy,” Axel whispered, smirking.

The sand softened and welcomed his battered limbs into a cradle of warmth. A blissful smile unfurled on his face as the clouds continued their spastic dance across the never-ending sky, showing him dreamy visions of abstract figures.

“I wish I was home. I never took Lea out to ride dirt bikes.”

Then go home, Axel. Go back to your family. Tell them what you know. Be the hero, not just the man with the best gun and biggest balls.

“But I can’t move!” Axel whined.

The ground buzzed underneath him as though each grain sprouted legs to carry him through the desolation. Millions of tiny ants worked together to haul his body across the desert as if they understood the importance of his return to Kinderfeld. He longed to scratch the itch at his back, but his arms were leaden.

“What happens if I die and they never find out about Lea?”

Then you die, and they die not long after.

“No. Don’t say that.”

You’re the one saying it.

A sinking sensation opened in Axel’s chest as his nerves responded to the numbing effect of the mushrooms. Soon, Axel was floating on a cloud, the ants falling away as his pupils expanded, and his brain’s chemistry changed.

Take her to the Maw. That’s what Glott said. Get up and go home.

“She hates me.”

She trusts you.

“I’ll die before I get there. It’s pointless.”

If there’s no point, you might as well keep crawling.

“But I’m so comfortable. Is this what dying really feels like?”

I guess you’ll find out soon enough.

Axel sighed. “Maybe it’s not so bad... Dying.”

Sure, you can die on a cloud, smiling like an idiot, while your enemies are out there looking for a way into your home to kill your brother and rape the woman you promised to protect. Or you can keep crawling.

“Y’know, for the sun, you have a dark sense of humour.”

Better get going before someone else finds you and gets their hands on those papers.

Muddled and rash from the whiplash of the mind, Axel reached back into the duffle bag, feeling around for the hand-written documents. When his fingers skated over a smooth sheet, he crumpled it and brought the loose wad to his mouth. Axel stuffed the paper between his teeth and chewed.

Through a mouthful of paper and ink, Axel giggled and reached for another sheet but found his lighter instead.

He burned the rest, chuckling as tears poured down the sides of his head.

~*~

Zed watched Ivar’s chest expand and retract while they laid together in a nest of damp sheets. Silent, she bit down on her lip as the king turned to her, an elated smile revealing all of his teeth.

“Wow,” he whispered. “That was... Wow.”

Zed flushed from the silly look he gave her. “Stop it.”

“Lea...”

“Ivar?”

The King turned on his side and pulled her close, tucking his face under her jaw. She embraced him while staring up at the billowing ceiling. She wondered what the Chrysalis looked like stripped of all its livery. Was it still as beautiful without the ornate clothing? She shook her head and fluttered her eyes, pushing away irrelevant thoughts.

“Can I be honest with you?” Ivar asked.

“I hope so,” Zed whispered, shuffling her nose into his rose-scented hair.

“I’ve had a lot of—I mean, I’m no prude, but that was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.”

“Oh, be quiet,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Ivar drew back to peer into her in the eyes, his playful smile replaced with palpable seriousness. “I’m telling you the truth. Your body... It’s like you were made for me. You're so beautiful, I want to drape you over me forever and wear you like ear-muffs.”

“What would you know about ear-muffs, oh king of the desert?”

“Plenty.” Ivar’s smile returned. “I hale from the North. They don’t call me Viking for nothing.”

“Right,” she said.

Ivar put a little more distance between them, sensing her discomfort.

“What’s the matter? You’re okay with what happened, right?”

Zed snapped a smile over her lips. “Yes! I don’t know how many times you asked for my permission. It was only a matter of time before we...”

“Made love?”

The thermal rush of nerves returned to her cheeks. “Yes. Made love.”

“I don’t want you to regret it because I don’t. The moment you walked into this place, I swore off all other women. I only wanted you in my life. And I’m glad you pulled off whatever mischievous thing you had to get in here. Waking up to your face was heavenly.”

Zed welcomed him back into her arms. He laid his head on her chest. "I’m glad you’re not mad at me," she said. "I worried you’d send me away. But it was worth the risk."

Ivar stroked her bare skin, sighing. “It’s only for our protection.”

“But they can’t get in here. Not unless we allow them.”

Ivar stared across the room at the curtained entrance. “I don’t know anymore, Lea.”

“What do you mean?” She whispered.

“There are many hostiles out there now. More than I ever predicted.”

“How do you know this?”

“I've seen them.”

Zed’s heart plummeted, skipping a beat as a wave of dread squeezed her throat. Ivar rolled onto his back, ready to admit things to her he had told no one. Not even Axel.

“Do you remember that night I cancelled on you?”

“Yes, we were supposed to have dinner.”

I had dinner with Axel instead.

“It wasn’t because dwellers were looking for trade and shelter. It was a group of scavs looking for Zee.”

“The Zeronauts?” Zed gasped.

Ivar nodded grimly. “There’s a bounty on him—a big one. They came looking for Zee, threatening to blow up the compound if I didn’t turn him over. I said he wasn’t inside, that he’d left a while ago. At first, they didn’t believe me, but I guess I must have convinced them.”

Zed sat up in bed, clutching the sheet to her bare chest. “What did you do?”

“I suppose my acting skills paid off. They wanted to take me up on my word, search around the village, but I refused. By then, they realized the firepower we had and backed off. I didn’t expect them to return so soon.”

“But... Axel went out there. What if they found him? What if he’s dead?”

Ivar closed his eyes before tears emerged. “I know. But what can I do? He made his own choice. He didn’t want to stay, and to be honest, Lea, I didn’t want him here either. Not after what that filthy scav said.”

Zed’s nerves flared. “Now you listen to me. What Monk said was not true! I did not have sex with Axel in that camp. And if you refuse to believe me, then... Maybe I will end up regretting what we did.”

“It’s so hard to buy that, Lea,” Ivar said.

“Why? You don’t trust me?”

He gave a discourteous snicker and rolled his eyes. “Because I know Zee. A lot better than you do.”

“You’d take the word of a total stranger over mine?”

“I wanted to reject what the scav said. But he said something that struck me. Something I couldn’t discount.”

Zed glared at him. “And what’s that?”

He scoffed, unable to produce the words until he weighed the insult on Zed’s face.

“Wanna go boing-boing on Daddy’s dick?” Ivar mocked.

The heat fizzled from her face like a hot iron in cold water. Ivar shot her a knowing glance and nodded. “See? That look tells me everything. I’ve known Zee for years. We’ve shared enough that I know all his cheeky little lines.”

“We didn’t have sex! Yes, he pretended I was his slave to protect me. We didn’t know what we were walking into. He said it was a commune, but when we arrived, the Zeronauts had already taken over. They had a dozen guns pointed at us. It scared us, Ivar. You need to trust me. If you have feelings for me, you should believe when I say I never touched Axel like that.”

“What about the night you bugged out and leapt into his arms?”

Zed lowered her voice as her heart shuddered. “He was my only friend. You and I had just met, and the stories about you... I wasn’t ready. I spent a year in the desert by myself. I’d never done drugs, never met anyone like you guys. He helped me.”

“I want to believe you, Lea.”

“Then believe me!” Her voice rang through the room. “No one ever believes me! Not you, not them, not my friends when I was taken advantage of.”

Ivar cocked his head. “What are you talking about?”

Tears flowed over Zed’s cheeks as ghosts of her past breathed vexing reminders in her ear. What she read in Axel’s journal unearthed the memory she hated most and forced her to relive it in tainted colour. Now Ivar’s incredulity brought back the sting of betrayal she wished to forget.

“The first person I ever had sex with used me as a joke! He pretended to love me, and after I gave myself to him, he told everyone disgusting lies. He conned me out of my virginity. Someone who vowed I could trust him; that would protect me and make sure I was happy. I was nothing but a conquest. Bragging rights. And the worst part is... While I was being lied to, while he took my innocence, you and Axel were overseas fucking strippers! You behaved the same way that pig did! Then I finally trusted again—after you and Axel promised to keep me safe—and both of you fucked me over! Why do men only believe each other? Does what I say hold such little meaning to you?”

Ivar’s face froze.

“You are the only other person I have ever let inside me, and you’re making me regret it just like he did,” Zed cried.

“Lea—”

“Why would I lie to you? Why would Axel lie to you? He loves you like a brother, and I’ve seen how much he values his family.”

The king took her in his arms, and she rested her damp forehead on his shoulder.

“How do you know about that stuff?”

“I read Axel’s journals from the army. Vee gave them to me. He thought they might help me stop missing him.”

“Listen, I don’t know what you read in those journals, but I promise you, I’m not that man anymore, Lea. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you to him. Everyone loves Zee. Any girl I liked always wanted him because he’s famous. Handsome. Funny. My jealousy got in the way.”

“You’re all those things too, Ivar. Everyone here loves you. They made you a king, for Christ’s sake!”

“Only because Zee didn’t want to lead. But I get it, and I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I should have trusted you. Both of you.”

Lea sniffled, blinking against the remnants of tears, and hugged Ivar close. “We wouldn’t lie to you, Ivar.”

He smoothed his fingers down her spine, nuzzling into her braided hair and the closeness he’d almost chased away.

A quiet moment passed before Zed spoke up. “We have to search for him.”

Ivar shook his head. “No. We’re not leaving. Nobody is. Not while those scavengers are prowling. It’s too dangerous.”

“Ivar—”

“I’m serious, Lea. Nobody leaves. Zee can take care of himself.”

“It’s more than finding Axel. Everyone is scared, Ivar. We need medical equipment, doctors, something. People are dying here, too. Not just out there.”

A stubborn line appeared between Ivar’s brows. “We can hold out for a while. Supplies will come to us. There will be more dwellers at our door. We can start a trade with people who already know the outside. It’s too dangerous to send anyone, and we need all the men we can get to protect the village.”

Zed wanted to grab Ivar by the shoulders and shake and scream in his face, but they were both still too raw from the revelations they’d shared. She had to make calculated moves, one of them recognizing when to hold back. Ivar was bullheaded, but she had chipped away a layer of his mistrust. If she could convince Ivar to value her word as much as Axel’s, there was a chance of progress. Zed knew sleeping with him wouldn’t throw open the gates, but she made a bit of headway, and that was enough to settle her stomach for now.

"Fine. You're right. We should stay here and wait," Zed conceded.

The couple spent the rest of the morning tangled in the sheets. Zed did not suggest an excursion beyond the walls again, but maintained her resolve when Ivar let his feelings gush forth. He claimed to love her, but Zed suspected the king viewed his world through a romantic veil. Ivar couldn’t be in love. He didn’t know her well enough. But she let him revel in his fantasy.

She wondered if she was capable of love. With her trust in others injured and the state of the world in ruins, love seemed a burdensome child, hanging onto the ankles of a society struggling to recover. Fine to dabble in, like drink and drugs, but not a motto for advancement.

News of Axel’s bounty shocked her to the core. While Ivar pulsated between her legs, whispering words of praise and adoration against her neck, Zed stared at a distant spot on the wall, numb, hoping beyond hope her friend was still alive.

After breakfast, Ivar relinquished his grip on her, and she made her way to the lab to find Vee.

Zed entered the facility and found the gurneys empty. Confused, she searched the rest of the lab, turning up nothing, then made her way to Vee’s apartment. She rapped on the door, but nobody answered. She knocked harder, waited, then sighed and turned down the hall. The locked door to the incubation room opened, and Vee stepped out, looking surprised and relieved to see her.

“Lea! Finally. I was worrying.”

Zed noticed the whites of his eyes veined with red, the ditches beneath them dark and heavy. Light blond stubble lined his jaw and upper lip. It looked like he hadn’t slept since their last conversation.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

He shook his head, unsure of where to begin listing off the things that had gone wrong through the night.

“It’s a long, long story. And I’m starving. Do you have time to sit down?” He asked.

“Yes, of course,” Zed replied, worry rushing her tone.

Vee led the way to his apartment and held the door open for her. She took a seat on the sofa and waited for the scientist to return with a plate of dry-fried zucchini cakes. The scent wafted toward her, making her stomach growl.

“So, our patient died of his kidney failure last night. He never woke up,” Vee said before taking a bite of a cake. “I wish we had hot sauce in this place. Or salt.”

“What? Are you serious?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “We expected it. He knew it; we saw it coming. There was nothing we could do.”

Zed stared at Vee, awe-struck by his nonchalance. “What about Serena?”

“That I’m not sure. I think Sheraya took her back to the Hives to be alone.”

“What did you do with the body?” Zed asked.

“I didn’t do a thing. I was too busy dealing with the incubators we lost,” Vee supplied. “Lora had the guards remove him. She spent all night sterilizing the lab while I cleaned up after the lost specimens.”

She gasped. "What does this mean?"

"The experiments are gone—failed."

The sleep-deprived man finished a portion of his meal and offered the rest to Zed, who held her hand up in refusal.

“My work is truly lost, and the guards had to bury six children and one adult last night.”

“I don’t understand,” Zed shook her head. “How did the incubators fail?”

“Well, it’s not that they failed per se, rather we failed them. We don’t have the emulsions left to simulate amniotic fluid. Like I’ve been saying for weeks: our supplies are bone-dry. The people who built this place did not supply it with enough to bring a fetus to term, or they banked on traditional implantation, and I, for one, have no idea how to accomplish that. I studied advanced chemistry, not how to create humans from scratch. As much as I’d like to play God, I’m just a fucking scientist making do with what I have—which is nothing.”

Tragedy after tragedy, woe after woe, Zed buckled and fell against Vee, shaking and scrabbling for comfort. He set his half-empty plate aside to hold her close. The misfortune already had its chance to wrack his body, hence the dark blue crescents masking his eyes. By then, Vee was almost catatonic. The dread of telling Zed the news was part of the reason he hadn’t slept.

“I tested them though... The specimens. The mutation carries.”

Zed rolled her face on his shoulder, sopping the tears from her eyes as she pulled back with a sniffle.

“Really?”

“Yes. So, that’s some good news, right?” Vee said, lightening his expression for her comfort.

She nodded weakly. “What about the mixed-bloods?”

“One carried and one did not. Mine carried too,” he said with a lopsided smile.

Despite a positive report, Zed still couldn’t find it in herself to smile back.

“Vee, I’m so sorry about all of this. I wish there were something I could do, but I’m afraid my efforts last night yielded no results. Ivar is dead set on keeping the gates closed. And... He told me something else. Something terrible,” Zed said, picking at a cuticle as she avoided her friend’s stare.

“What now?”

“He said there’s a huge bounty out on Axel. He knew about it this whole time, and he just let him walk right into a trap.”

Vee leaned back, a flat expression on his face. He swallowed and closed his eyes, tilting his head back to rest on the sofa.

“Of course there’s a bounty on him,” he sighed.

Zed continued picking at a hangnail. There was nothing of comfort she could offer, so she shifted closer to Vee and laid her head against his shoulder. Vee brought his arm around her and rested his head on hers. They stayed that way for a while, unsure of how to progress. In all the bleakness of recent times, Zed was thankful to have someone who understood the gravity of their worsening situation. Vee was the only person buoying her above the most profound depression she’d felt since losing herself in the desert.

Despite the barbed strikes against them, Zed couldn’t hold back another sombre dirge. Every shred of hope slipped from her grasp. She wanted her mother and father—someone to hear and share her sorrows and offer her guidance.

“He’s going to die out there, isn’t he?” Zed asked.

Vee squeezed her shoulder. “I don’t know, Lea. That might not be comforting, but it’s the truth. Who knows what will happen now?”

“And sleeping with Ivar got me nowhere. I feel so foolish,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I was stupid to think I could change anything.”

Though she couldn’t see it, Vee frowned. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have allowed that to happen. You shouldn’t have had to resort to doing something you were uncomfortable with.”

“It was fine... Ivar was more than courteous. But I don’t think I love him. Maybe before all this, I could have, but now... He won’t open his eyes. He sees what he wants to see,” she said.

“Power can do that to men. They're blind to their surroundings. But I don’t want you thinking for that any of this is your fault or that you should have done more. You’ve done what you can. We all have. There’s nothing left to do but wait. Wait for life... Or death. It’s all the same.

“Please, I need you to at least pretend to be hopeful. I’m on the verge of a breakdown. You can’t go down with me.”

As the pair sat propped against each other, sighing and fretting in silence, the door swung open quietly, and a pair of bespectacled eyes peered into the apartment.

The thrum of Vee’s heartbeat lulled Zed’s weariness, and she placed her hand on the scientist’s chest. Locked in their embrace, Vee kissed the top of her head and rubbed her shoulder.

“If there’s one thing that’s brightened my horizons these last couple of months, it’s you, Lea. I’m glad Axel brought you here. It might have been the one moral decision he’s ever made,” Vee told her.

She lifted her head and nuzzled into his shoulder, smelling the remnants of cleaning solution clinging to the fabric of his shirt. “You’re so sweet, Valter. Even though I feel positively useless—”

“You are positively useless!” A voice cried out.

They snapped glances at the door, startled, and saw Lora standing there with her fists tight at her sides, shoulders hunched to her ears.

“Are you cheating on me with this brainless twit?” Lora continued.

Vee unhanded Zed and stood up, a stony expression wiping the calmness from his face. “What the hell are you doing in here, Lora?”

“I came to tell you I finished organizing all your files, but it looks like you’re too busy with the village bicycle to care!”

“First thing’s first, Lora, you and I are not together. And even if we were, Zed’s my friend, and I don’t appreciate you insulting her! This is my goddamn apartment. You can’t walk in here whenever you please!”

“Why? Because I’ll catch you sleeping with her?”

A fiery ball burst in Zed’s gut, igniting the anger that had been accumulating little by little until it shot up her throat. “What the hell is your problem, Lora? Ever since I got here, you’ve done nothing but spurn me! What did I ever do to you?”

“Are you stupid? Everyone here knows you’ve been sleeping with any man you can get your hands on. You’ve earned nothing, yet everyone treats you like you’re some kind of deity. You promised to help in the lab, but all you did was cause a rift and chase away the only person bringing in supplies. Now we’re screwed, and it’s all your fault!”

“Lora, stop!” Vee demanded.

“No! Someone has to say it! I’m tired of everyone giving her credit when I’ve done the grunt work and get zero thanks. You’re probably not even a real scientist!”

“Enough!”

Lora turned to Vee, malice puckering her lips. “I knew it’d only be a matter of time before she infected you, too. All you men are the same. An easy lay comes by, and you forget everything.”

“You’ve got a lot of shit to say for a lab assistant,” Zed hit back.

The ball of heat in her stomach threw off flares, awakening a fit of familiar anger that stiffened her muscles and set her jaw. When she stepped forward, Lora took a step back, and a heady rush of adrenaline caused her heart to pound and lips to curl into a sly smile. It was the same aggression she’d felt when the poachers attacked her in the desert, and while killing off Zeronauts after they’d forced her to strip at gunpoint. The sensation lent her fervency. She didn’t understand why the hostility fuelled her, but she embraced the burn, let it guide her actions.

“I’ve killed men three times your size. I suggest—if you like your bones intact—you shut your mouth and go back to doing what you do best: staying quiet and minding your own fucking business.”

Both Vee and Lora drew back from the heat of Zed’s threat. Scowling, Lora backed into the hallway, then turned and started away. When her footsteps faded down the hall, Vee went to Zed and placed his hand on her shoulder. She jumped from the sudden contact, then relaxed.

“Jesus, Zed,” he scoffed. “I know she deserved it but that was harsh.”

She stared up at him, eyes wide with remorse. “I’m not sure where that came from. I’m so tired of the accusations. Everyone thinks they know me, but they don’t!”

“It’s okay,” Vee said. “I know you. And you know you. Who cares what anyone else says? Lora’s been jealous of you since the second you walked through the lab doors. She sees every other female as a threat. Her ego is fragile.”

“Seems everyone's ego is paper-thin,” Zed muttered.

“Don’t worry about her, Zed. It’s done.”

Zed looked out into the empty hallway. Something told her the tension was only just taking form. There was a change in the air, a bitterness that permeated the domes, and she shivered, wondering what new troubles might fashion themselves in the coming days.

~*~

“Son... You alive, sonny?”

A man looked down at four sunburnt limbs—two of which crudely bandaged—jutting out from beneath a half-open duffle bag. Expecting to find a corpse under the heavy canvas, he kicked it aside and found the person alive, although for how long that life had left was a cause for concern. Though the person remained unresponsive, his blacked-out eyes roamed the sky, wide as sand dollars.

His camel sputtered as if to debate their investigative stop. He turned toward the animal, shrugged, then looked back at the gangly form upon which they stumbled.

The man aired out the flaps of his stained coat, making himself presentable as best he could.

“Can you hear me, son?”

Green-rimmed pupils dithered as a faint noise squeaked from his throat. The man in the long, thin coat retrieved a skin of water from the pack on his camel, then squatted next to the barely conscious person and poured a small measure of water between his dry, cracked lips. He swallowed, and the man in the coat smiled.

“Atta boy.”

He spied the teardrop scar on the man’s forearm, squinting at the mark to analyze its edges. It was a fake. Not unusual in these parts, but interesting to come across.

“Up for some more water?”

Another small sound drew his ear closer—something between a whimper and a syllable.  

“Ma... Ma.”

“Ma? Speak up, son.”

“Muh.”

The man in the sand-stained coat tapped his chin. “Not to worry, sonny. The good doctor is in! Say, how about we take a look at that hand there? See what we’re working with?”

“M-ma.”

“Plenty of time to look for your mama after we patch you up.”

The camel snorted and received a mildly threatening look from its owner.

“Enough out of you, Rudie. I’m the one with the oats, and I say we give this fellow a hand. You have nowhere to be anyhow, so cool it, you oversized donkey. Now, let’s get you up. Ol’ Rudie here will be your chariot, good sir. Assuming you don’t intend to use that rather vicious-looking gun on us when you come-to. But, judging by your state, I don’t think you’ll be doing much of anything for a while. You’re lucky we found you, son. Mighty lucky.”

@dreamtherapy @reinamysterio @skarswhat @mightbelindsey @sexual-rendezvous-blog @billskarsgardx @michaeliskindahot​ @tigers-pat​ @rainbowmoosie​ @tinygayfungi​ @pancake-blonde​ @bskarsgardlove92​ @sarah2057​ @ohcaptains​ @loveforbillskasgard​ @vikingsmania​ @billdreamy69​ @lordeofther1ngs​ @theredheadsbookcorner​ @1-800-imagines​ @readsalot73​ @nicolehoran-maybe​ @weirdlilwitch​ @enchantedreadersworld​ @allkundsofwrong​ @loey-bae​ @bill-istvan​ @army-crawl-andersen​ @sunshineandskarsgards​ @beyond-the-ashes​ @whoplansthese​ @evaolii​ @frappylou​ @alylanaeblack​ @billullabies​ @bohemianfortunes​ @moondustmemories​ @terry2227​ @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla​ @alltimesamantha​ @amelia-in-w0nderland​ @thestonerosas​ @skrsgvrd​ @sorryimviolet​ @tweakersqueaker​ @inforapound​ @eff1ngqueen​ @skrsgrd-my-boi​ @rekdreams-fandom​ @b-afterhours​ @anastasiaskarsgard​ @ainatirb-j​ @voodoo-queen​ @quiche-pocket​ @awkward-haux​ @thorins-queen-of-erebor​ @originalclodmakergarden​ @skrsgardspam​ @tumblingdwntherabbithole​ @xbuckxnastyx​ @skadithegoddess​ @whiskeyxinxaxteacup​ @calumculia0​ @bethskarsgard​ @ohhoneyaaaaaaa​ @ziamhathrisen​ @tgrrose​ @didiintheblog​ @bitchwelcometoparadise​ @maggiescarborough​ @anacerta​ @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol​ @spitch0​ @grandpa-sweaters​ @mamaloser1​ @mycrimsonsparrow​

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[thetuesdaytapes]

THE TUESDAY TAPES MARTEDÌ 10 AGOSTO 2021 ►► ESTATE 2021 MIXTAPE #02 1) CULTURE CLUB > Do You Really Want to Dub Me 2) SANDII & THE SUNSETZ > Drip Dry Eyes 3) LAFAYETTE AFRO ROCK BAND > Darkest Light 4) STELVIO CIPRIANI > Relax (SSR69 edit) 5) BECK > Pay No Mind 6) DEBRA DeJEAN > Goosebumps (NY edit) 7) BLACK IVORY > I Keep Asking You Questions 8) OS ABELHUDOS > Contos de escola 9) SANDY MARTON > Camel by Camel (SSR69 dub) 10) ALFIO SCANDURRA > Qu’est ce qui ne va pas 11) SWEET LIFE > I Get Lifted (Medlar dub) 12) IMAGINATION > State of Love 13) HORSE MEAT DISCO > Burn 14) WILFRED PERCUSSION > Papo Furado 15) JAGO > I’m Going to Go 16) FOX THE FOX > Precious Little Diamond 17) PÁULA, POVOA & JERGE > Primavera 18) PAUL JONES > Free Me Ascolta su MIXCLOUD Ascolta su SPREAKER Guarda su YOUTUBE

[brittsekland]

Interview with Topper Headon, February 1980.

Turn off your mind, lie back on the couch and relax. We're going to have an association test. What do you think of when I say the Clash? Running battles with the grey forces of government? Three cord supercharged thrashes vilifying unemployment and public housing vegetation? Seething hordes of punks dancing themselves into a frenzy? Wrong. Times have changed. Punk is now locked as firmly into the past as hippies were in the sixties. Safety pins and bondage trousers are as passe as headbands and peace signs. The bands that characterized an era have disappeared. The Sex Pistols destroyed themselves, the Damned are a self-parody, which leaves the Clash. After an impressive first album and a fair second effort, their third a double recaptures the drive and energy of the first. The Clash have esestablished them-selves as the most talented band to emerge from the much vaunted new wave.

Their lastest album, London Calling, displays considerable evolution since early days of the band. The songs are more reflective and melodic. Songwriters Joe Strummer and Mick Jones contribute heavily but to a large extent the dexterity and adaptbility of drummer Topper Headon has enabled the Clash to develop their musicality. Topper is, perhaps, the most accomplished musician of the four-man band. His early training with a variety of different music forms from traditional jazz to soul, has provided a firm foundation for Strummer and Jones. Topper provides the matrix from which the rest of the band work. Topper believes the Clash have survived because they have staying power, because they haven't been afraid of changing and because they weren't hesitant to branch out when they grew tired of playing frenetic chords. "We've remained true to what we originally believed in," declares Topper. " We still enjoy playing our own songs. We're not going through any set patterns. The basic idea has been to remain true to what we believe in and not allow ourselves to be dictated to by the industry and become CBS puppets." They've done a deft job of staying ahead of big business machines. "We refuse to do Top of the Pops for example, even when the single came in at 29. CBS started to put pressure on us to do it. They tell us we won't have a hit single, and we say, so what? Who needs it? We wanted our double album to go out for £5 when everybody else's albums go out for a lot more. We had to fight battles to get a cheap record out. Obviously that's not in record company interests. They told us it was impossible. Maybe that's why we've stayed together; we keep setting ourselves impossible tasks. It gives us drive. Even on tour, the Clash are determined to keep prices down which certainly affects the bands take home pay. But money isn't what they want most. "What we want is for the kids to be able to see us," Topper says. Their attitude to irrates businessmen. "If anybody does something like sneak a video of us on television, we'd split up. And CBS know we mean business. We owe them so much money they can't afford for that to happen." The Clash are a refreshing contrast to the kind of bands that do anything to get their name on the dotted line. From the beginning it's been a complete turnaround from the usual state of affairs that exist between band and record company. The companies have been chasing the Clash. Topper joined the Clash between their first and second albums. Previously he was playing with a soul band that regularly toured Germany and British airforce bases. Regularly earning £50 weekly, Headon took a cut in pay to work with the Clash. "I knew at once that it was the gig I'd been looking for. Everything came quite naturally. By the time Topper joined the Clash, he was beginning to think he'd never pass an audition. Not many bands were signed before the British punk explosion. "They'd form a band for somebody from out-of-work musicians who had been thrown out of other bands. They knew the ropes, so they wouldn't kick up a fuss because they knew they were dispensable. Every time I went along for an audition, I was constantly beaten by drummers who had played for name bands and had 'experience'. It just went on and on like that." Topper had been playing drums since he was 13. Drumming was a habit he picked up when he had a broken leg which halted a promising football career. His dad spotted a second-hand kit in the local paper and bought it. By 14 Headon was regularly playing with a traditional jazz band. "For some reason bands were always short of drummers..." As far as tutoring, Topper never got past the introduction in the books. Paradiddles and triple paradiddles were as far as he got. Eventually Headon bought a Premier kit: "At that time it was the cheapest pro kit you could get. You could go into any music store and get one. Everyone stocked spares and fittings. That was one of the reasons why I bought a Premier. I'm still sold on silver kits because they look great under the lights." A few days before his first tour with the Clash he took possession of a silver Pearl kit, which he still uses. After a bit of chopping and changing of toms, he's wound up with a 24" x 17" bass drum, 14" x 10" top tom tom, 16" x 10" and 18" x 10" floor toms, and a Ludwig Black Beauty snare drum. All the cymbals are Zildjian - two pairs of 15" Heavy Rock hi hats, a 16" crash, an 18" crash, a 21" Rock ride, a 19" Rock crash, and a 20" Rock crash, plus a little Zildjian splash cymbal attachted to the top of the bass drum which he claims is driving the rest of the band mad. All the stands are Premier Lokfast Trilok stands. "I go for a real solid kit," claims Topper, "that's why I chose Pearl and Premier. They're really solid and serviceable, no frills on them. You get a good feeling when you sit behind them because they're so workmanlike. You think, 'Great, I ain't gonna knock these over.' I use rubber mats to secure the kit on the riser." "Although I have the kit basically the same most of the time, I do like to change it around occasionally. If I started to use wooden blocks on the riser then I'd be stuck with one position, and that can be limiting." When it became evident that the Clash were here to stay, Topper got the chance of a new kit, which he tried but didn't rate as much. However, he did take Pearl up on the offer of a recover and recon. He expects to have his present kit for at least another five or six years, providing it dosen't get dropped or broken. Another complaint from Topper is lack of service and spares outside London: "We've got a flight case which is like a miniature drum shop, it carries everything down to cymbal felts and spare lugs for the bass drum. We always take it with us on the road and keep it stocked up. "I begin a tour with everything I conceivably need, and gradually I get rid of things I don't need, so the kit gets smaller as the tour goes on. Once the hi hat busted, the spring went right inside, and it was impossible to fix up. It was a Saturday night when we discovered it, and we had a show on Sunday. Luckily, we were able to borrow a high hat stand from the support band." Topper is a man dedicated to acoustic drums. He regards synthisized drums as irrelevant: "They were alright for two weeks, then the novelty wore off. Personally I'm exploring different areas, like percussion. I even use finger cymbals on one track of London Calling. But thats the way to go - into acoustic percussion. There's so much scope there that I don't know why synthisized drums were invented in the first place." Miking up for a gig is a lot similar to miking up for the studio. Topper uses two overhead cymbal mikes, and two mikes for the double hi hat set up he uses. The toms are all miked from the top, and the snare drum is miked from beneath. He keeps both heads on and never keeps anything inside the shells. Topper uses very little damping live. What damping there is, is usually on the bass drum, and always external. All damping is with gaffer tape. Topper prefers AKG mikes, but on tour they vary depending on which PA hire company is being used. "I can go into the studio and get a good drum sound in an hour," continues Topper. Listen to the latest LP London Calling and you'll hear what he means. "The first time I went into the studio I was pretty green but I learnt from it. For London Calling I went straight in and knew exactly what to do. Everybody goes into the studio much more relaxed now. I use AKG mikes and everything is miked from the top except for the snare. Again I use double heads to get the boom sound, and I use room mikes to pick up the spillage, to make it sound more live without going over the top. The set up is exactly the same as I have live, really, except I don't use a bit of damping." The biggest problem with putting out the new album were recording costs. The Clash figure that the longer they spent in the studio, the more it would cost, the more money CBS would have to put up, and consequently they'd have a greater hold over the band. The Clash even put up some of the money themselves. Eventually they had the tape and told CBS: "You can have it if you meet our conditions." Topper admits that there are some mistakes on the album, and more than a few drum errors. That's the price to pay for the energy captured on the vinyl. London Calling was recorded in a month, with Guy Stevens producing. That's how it's going to be in the future, Topper maintains. The second album, Give Em Enough Rope, was not as successful as either the first or the third records, and Topper blames producer Sandy Pearlman for this. "He made it quite dull," Topper says. "He was a dull person to work with. We wanted a producer, CBS gave us a list of producers and his name was on the top. We listened to stuff he'd done with heavy metal bands, and we thought it was rubbish, but it was the production we were interested in. We wanted to get a good sound, and one complaint against the first album was that it sounded too thin. So we wanted some production that would stand up to time. So we got Pearlman. But he took so long to do it, with his perfectionism, that the prevalent feeling in the studio by the time he'd finished was boredom. When I think about recording that album I cringe." Problems don't end in the recording studio for the Clash. For a good few years now they've had constant trouble with local councils who insist on banning their gigs for fear of trouble. The whole surge of reaction against punk bands from "The Establishment" began with the infamous Sex Pistols. The daily newspapers portrayed the Clash as wreckers of society. "We're still getting that sort of prejudice," explains Topper. "We've had 16 gigs booked at various Mecca places, and then about 12 pulled out. You have to completely re-route the tour." The Hammersmith Palais cancelled a concert there because they said there were too many mirrors in the place to safely allow Clash fans in. "But our fans don't smash things anymore. They do if they're told what to do, like sit down in this seat and be a good boy. That's why out of all the gigs on our British tour only have two seats in them." Harassment from local villages takes other forms. The obligatory visit from the fire inspector often results in strict demands being laid down: "He says take that backdrop down, so we take the backdrop down, and he says erect more crash barriers, so we put up more crash barriers, he says this stage has to be rebuilt here, and you need more security. We just laugh at him and do anything he wants. Nothing can stop us playing. But they make life difficult." As time progresses, however, the Clash are becoming more acceptable, though not more respectable, Topper hopes. He makes the point that the Clash have to pay for all the damage that's caused, so why should they promote vandalism? Surprisingly, Topper found that the audiences in America weren't so much different to the British fans. The punk thing is really only just beginning to happen across the pond: "They're still into safety pins," declares Topper. "It's the same as the White Riot tour here, when there were about 300 or 400 fans dancing down the front with the rest there out of curiosity. But we sold out 25 of our 28 gigs there, and that was in 3,000 and 4,000 seater auditoriums. The States is so big. LA was just a load of old hippies lazing around getting stoned in the sun. I liked Chicago best, with all the blues clubs. But we should do well over there because the USA has all the same problems as Britain except they're magnified. They have all the slums and the poverty and more of a racial problem too." Highlighting social problems is one of the bands strong points. They should have plenty to write about in America. The Clash are political, and very definitely anti-National Front. Topper's favourite drummers come from America, such as Harvey Mason and Steve Gadd. His favourite British drummer is Terry Williams, who plays for Rockpile. Musically, his tastes are strictly black; James Brown, Otis Redding and lots of reggae, particularly the Mighty Diamonds. America looks tripe for the Clash. They've toured there twice and soon they should start to take off now that punk has spread. The Americans have been fairly slow catching on to what the 76' British New Wave was all about - perhaps they've been too wealthy for too long. With a new recession biting home, maybe the Clash will take on new relevance to downtrodden, unemployed kids in America. Topper himself represents a new establishment of musicians in Britain that once would have been unthinkable. Two years ago the Clash were vilified as not being "real" musicians. Their drive, talent and staying power has proved the cynics wrong. In general, the Clash have proved themselves to be dedicated professonials with firm ideals at heart. In particular, Topper Headon spearheads the drumming new wave with a forceful and accomplished style that can't be dismissed.

[szlachtas]

1-25

Wasn’t sure if this meant 1 and 25 or just all of them! So I answered all of them. Long and ooc under the cut:

1. What’s their full name, how’s it pronounced, and what does it mean?

Ieuan Wyn Parry - Pron: YIGH-Unn (Rhymes with Ryan) - Win - Pa-ree

Ieuan is a welsh form of John, which just means 'God is gracious'. Wyn is a name variant of Gwyn, which means 'White'. Parry is a shortening of Ap Harry, which is an old Welsh patronym meaning 'Son of Harry'. None of this means much to their character, I just liked how it sounds.

2. What’s their date of birth? Do they follow the stereotypes of their zodiac?

Sixth of February. Is he stereo-typically Aquarius? Eccentric loner, awkward with emotions, independent to a fault, easily bored, intellectual but stupid, detests limitation. Yeah, I'd say so.

3. What type of drunk are they?

Giggly idiot. A bit more openly affectionate. Bad decision machine go brrr.

4. Give three of their strengths and three of their weaknesses.

Strengths: Imaginative problem solver, High INT, amiable. 

Weaknesses: Avoidant/independent and stubborn about it, Low WIS, selfish as shit. 

5. What’s their favourite food?

Aside from blood? They have a real sweet tooth, especially for berries.

6. If they were to be represented by a seven deadly sin, which would it be?

Pride. Idiot.

7. Do they have any living relatives? If they do, which one do they like the least and why?

They like to hope their mother offed herself, just so they wouldn't have to feel guilty about leaving her like that, but she is still alive. Everyone else in the immediate family is dead, so her by default. Maybe he has a cousin or something? 

8. Describe (or draw) their body type.

It changes, but can be defined as a very androgynous non-human. Their preference for height is around 5'7". They are very slight, their skin is thin on their bones as to maximise the appearance of their body modifications.

9. What’s their biggest fear?

They'd say mud and burial, but that’s mostly representative of being seconds away from wassail again. Frenzies they weren't expecting, or committing path sins will similarly drag this fear up. It's a fear of loss of control over their life, themself. Notice you barely see him angry?

10. Are they a dog or a cat person? Answered ic. ooc answer : 

They have a bit more experience with dogs, so that’s their preference. Their own energy is a bit kitten-ish, especially in warform. 

11. Describe them in 5 words.

Enthusiastic, curious, analytical, detached, reckless.

12. If your character was handed a puppy, how would they react?

"For me??????"

You didn't hope to get that back, did you? It's getting fleshcrafted now.

13. How would they react to suddenly being hugged? Answered ic. ooc answer:

Depends whose doing it. They recently found out they are quite cuddly, but only with their favourite people. If passing acquaintances or even not so close friends tried it, their reaction would range from awkward stiffness to yanking you off of them with a firm grip around the spine. Don’t touch a fleshcrafter without permission. 

14. What’s their biggest secret?

They don't like discussing the specifics of their time as a fledgling, so a lot of that maybe. They won't tell people where their dirt comes from and they won't discuss what they did to their family. Similarly he worries about certain people catching on that most of the people they kidnap for  'materials' are regular innocents who just went for a walk in the woods, with no kind of moral justification. Or all of their motivations being primarily suicidal in nature?

15. What are their pet peeves?

Out of clan people making comments on vicissitude or trying to define it. Being asked questions that edge into the 'You should not teach' sin, because they don't like conflict and saying no. Similarly, random arguments. Dick measuring contests between vampires who think they're cool. And uhhhh. Clingy people. Unfortunately.

16. What’s their opinion on pineapple on pizza?

How long has it been since they've been able to eat? They still haven't tried pizza at all. No opinion.

17. On average, how much sleep do they get at a time?

The full vampire 12 hours. Less in the winter.

18. If they were a superhero, what powers would they have? (if they have powers, what are they and under what conditions do they work?)

Fleshcrafting isn't a very superhero-esque power, but that's what he's working with! We all know how VTM powers work here, folks.

19. Does your character collect anything?

TEETH. VCRs, toxic plants, frogs, notepads. Bodies? Does that count?

20. What would your character’s favourite band(s) be?

Mostly 80s goth bands. Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Sisters of Mercy, Fields of the Nephilim, UK Decay, that kind of thing. They got into a few NU metal bands during the 2000s, and nowadays they sometimes listen to whatever the youtube algorithm shows them, usually random indie bands. The Doom soundtrack. 

21. How many languages do they speak, and what are they?

Their first language was Welsh. They also speak English, and can read old ass Romanian, which doesn't come up much.

22. When your character is sad, what do they do to cheer themselves up? Answered ic. ooc answer:

Just ignore it. Or at least try to. They’ll go about their day like regular, except moping, and pretending they’re not. If it’s really bad, they’ll try to sleep it off, or indulge in some particularly gorey work. Recently they’ve discovered the cure all solution of Taking-A-GD-Bath. 

23. Does your character snore?

No. Vampire death-sleep.  

24. Describe their voice.

Sandy? Slightly nasal. Young-ish, heavily accented. Imagine an excited, 17 year old lad from the welsh countryside, who hasn't spoken all day till now so it's a little soft, or like he just woke up.

25. How long would they last in a zombie apocalypse?

Wait, there was an apocalypse? They wouldn't realise for a good while. They're good at surviving, keeping to themself. It would all fall to pieces if they were pushed out of their domain though, panicky animal mode would be Engaged.

[harryandmolly]

The Emancipation of Ginny ~ 10

summary: shawn and ginny could’ve ruined everything six months ago, and sticking together despite their past could make or break them now as ginny stays on as his personal assistant. but what happens on tour doesn’t stay on tour.

warnings: Language, Gertler Karaoke (TM), Niall

WC: 7k (yowza)

“Could I just… would you mind terribly if I just…”

“Hmm?” Shawn murmurs, eyes closed, leaning into her as her lips explore his jaw.

“Would you mind much if I just chewed on your chin for a while?”

His eyes open. A bubble of surprised laughter bursts out of his chest. He quiets himself quickly, remembering he’s in her bed and he’s not supposed to be. He looks down at her curled up in his lap. He tightens the arm supporting her around her back.

“What?”

Ginny looks undeterred. She brushes the tip of her little nose against his cheek and leans back again to look at him.

“Your chin is beautiful. I’d like to make a snack of it.”

He closes his eyes again, chuckling, leaning back with her against the headboard. His smile is quiet and lazy. “Go right ahead. It’s all yours.”

The unspoken caveat sits between them uncomfortably, reminding her not to leave a mark if she doesn’t want her ass sent home to Heathrow on the next plane.

Ginny hums and teasingly nips at his chin. Her fingers skim up his chest to tangle in the chain that holds the medals around his neck. She kisses strategically, softly. She’ll be damned if this thing between them stops on someone’s account besides theirs.

Ginny feels his breathing even out. She’s about to climb off his lap and let him sleep when he holds her a little tighter.

“Where ya goin’?” he mumbles, blinking his bleary eyes open.

“Gonna let you nap, love,” she says, sweeping a hand through his curls.

He shakes his head. “Stay and watch a movie?”

She doesn’t need much persuading. She smiles and settles back into him. He flips through the hotel’s options until a big smile splits his face. He perks up a bit.

Ten minutes later, “A STAR IS BORN” comes across the screen in big red letters.

+

Ginny’s eyes nearly cross from staring at the multicolored pattern of the train’s seat fabric. And she almost misses her stop.

She scrambles around politely disgruntled London Underground riders with murmured “scuze me, pardon me”s and sneaks between the shutting doors before they snap around the Chanel backpack Shawn bought her for Christmas. She leaps out onto the platform at London Bridge station and curses herself for not sleeping through the flight back to London for her week off so she could get adjusted to the time difference. She trudges up the stairs and ascends close enough to the famous Borough Market to smell that perfect melange of paella, tikka masala, coffee and pastries that means she’s almost home.

Her dad’s flat was the “fun” home when she was growing up. Her parents split early, the result of a driven, career-oriented mum and a flighty musician dad. She lived with her mum pretty much full time but her dad would swing in and out of her life. The one steady thing about him was this flat on Maiden Lane with the yellow door and a series of Fiats parked out front.

Ginny’s dad, Bobby Dresden, has the name of a 50s swing singer, and the voice of one, too. He’s not a deadbeat, broke, ramen-noodles-for-every-meal kind of dad. He was always the calling-from-Boston-on-tour, sending-you-an-American-girl-doll kind of dad that just was never around. He tours with a band that plays American classics and they do pretty well. They spend a lot of time in Vegas and, oddly, Manila but he’s home this week too and she hasn’t seen him in almost a year.

She waits on the front step of the flat he’s lived in since she was two. He bought it with the signing bonus he got from his record company and hasn’t touched a single thing since. The consistency is comforting to Ginny, who feels like she has to reintroduce herself to her dad every time she sees him.

He arrives beside her with that sparkling, crooked grin and slings his arms around her. He always did give the best hugs.

“Hiya, Ginny Bunny.”

She smiles into his shoulder and has the strongest urge to sob into his familiarly unfamiliar scent of some random hotel soap and a new cologne.

It’s been a long year.

“Hi, daddy.”

With one final squeeze, he releases her, only as far as arm’s length so he can look her over. She takes the opportunity to do the same.

He has sandy blonde-brown hair that’s pasted stylishly, way more stylishly than a 55-year-old man driving a Fiat should have. But same goes for the rest of him. He’s incredibly tall and lanky, clad in a light Topman sweater pushed up chicly to the mid forearm. His jeans are brand name and inky dark, tailored to end at his ankle above his Ralph Lauren loafers. He looks wonderful, like he always does. She almost cries again.

He curls an arm around her shoulders and she feels dainty the way she does around almost no one on earth. He begins guiding her toward the market to walk and eat, their father-daughterly tradition.

“So, pumpkin,” he begins, his voice raspy from lack of sleep, “How’s the rockstar life?”

Ginny sniffs a laugh. It could be reasonably assumed that Bobby is asking about Shawn, but she knows him and she knows he’s actually just asking about her. He figures rockstar’s PA is basically rockstar, so that’s how he thinks of her. It’s sweet, actually.

“Completely exhausting and every minute of it perfect,” she answers breezily, gazing around the market. Though over a thousand years old, Borough Market’s transience is one of Ginny’s favorite things about it. It has always surprised her every time she comes in. Maybe it reminds her of her dad a little.

“And how’s our Hannah Banana?”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “She’s well, she got herself knocked up again. She barely had time to drink a margarita between kids. Think she’s getting a bit restless now, though. She never has known how to stop working.”

Bobby grins, squinting with a hand up over his face as he looks over the coffee options. The stall they’ve stopped at has a hanging chalkboard sign with the menu options scrawled in flirty, curly cursive.

“I’ve always liked that about Hannah. She and I are the same that way.”

Ginny blinks and finds herself staring at a canister of roasted beans with a furrow in her brow. She’s never really thought about it, but he has a point. All the people she’s loved the most are extraordinarily driven and can’t sit still for shit. It makes her quietly smile to herself. Her dad orders something outrageous sounding with two shots of whatever and a swirl of this or that. Ginny gets a flat white. He pays.

They walk around, catching up on their travels. He’s dating someone from his label, which is of no surprise or consequence to Ginny. She’s always known about his girlfriends but has never met one. It used to upset her more when she was a child but she understands now he would never dream of introducing her to someone he didn’t actively intend to marry. Another of his strange comforts to her. He asks about whether she gets to sing or play much, like he always does. Bobby thinks of her musical talent as a win for him in his parenting book. He’d tell anyone that would listen that it really is god-given, but that he helped foster it. She assures him she sings and plays often. She blinks quickly and studies a gargantuan pot of paella that smells incredible, willing herself not to think about her karaoke performance from last week.

“And how about your fella?”

Ginny looks up at him. Bobby is smiling, fine lines showing on his youthful face, and just for a second, he feels really and truly fatherly.

Ginny’s face warms. “Not my fella anymore, as you know.”

“He’s still holding out, huh? Poor sod.”

Bobby looks pensive, narrowing his eyes out over the layers of canopied food stalls. He’s trying very hard to be mysterious. Ginny sees through it but decides not to poke holes.

“He’s dating someone, actually. A New Yorker.”

Bobby looks down, still seemingly unruffled. “It won’t last, babygirl. Not when he’s got a girl like you.”

Ginny’s breath catches in her chest. It’s an innocent enough statement. Maybe it’s not very fair to Sara, but when are fathers ever fair when it comes to their daughters? That’s not what bothers her. That’s not what has her curling her fingers into her fists and half-listening for the rest of the afternoon. It’s not what has her rolling over sleepless in her bed at her mum’s house.

Her dad’s never offered her many nuggets of wisdom. He never really had to, he was fun dad. But a man of many half-hearted relationships, he does it now, unwittingly. Ginny feels like they stumbled upon treasure but her dad swept it away, claiming it as fool’s gold.

Not when he’s got a girl like you.

Maybe she loves him still. Maybe she always will. Hell, maybe a part of him even still loves her. But Ginny’s beginning to think none of it will matter, not them, not Sara, if they don’t get out of their own way.

+

Ginny knew something was up as soon as Hannah opened the door to her flat the next morning. Call it best friend intuition, or maybe Hannah’s just super obvious when she has something on her mind by the way her voice raises an octave and she’s even more scattered and flighty than usual.

She doesn’t open her mouth about it though until they’re camped under a tree in Regent’s Park. Ginny is holding Kingsley, snuggling her nose into the baby’s warm neck as he gazes curiously over her shoulder. Hannah watches them both, leaning back on sore wrists as her belly protrudes between them under her stretchy maxi dress.

“I want you back, Gin.”

Ginny looks up, startled, her hand pausing its rubbing motion on her godson’s back. She blinks, blankfaced.

Hannah pulls the corner of her lip into her mouth to chew on. She pushes off her hands and leans forward, eyes focused on Ginny.

“I’ve decided to go back on tour, Gin. Not soon, obviously,” she laughs, running her hand over her belly, “But I need it. I need to know it’s in the plan. It’s what I want most, to take my babies on the road. But if I’m going to tour, I need an album.”

Ginny swallows, waiting for the next shoe to drop.

“I want you to write it with me.”

Ginny’s lips part. She stares at Hannah, waiting for some kind of indication that she didn’t actually just say that.

“I know you’ve never tried writing before, but who better than with me, the one who knows you best? God, it’ll be fantastic. We’ll write it, we’ll record it, we’ll produce it, all together, Gin, just like we always wanted. It’s your shot. Your shot to get out of the situation you’re in. He’s between albums right now anyway, you wouldn’t be leaving him in the lurch or anything. It’s perfect. You and me, back on the road. What do you think? No, wait, don’t tell me now. Want you to really think about it. It’s a lot, I know. But I think it would be good! And--”

Hannah goes on rambling for a while like she does when she’s excited and just a little nervous. Ginny watches her talk without listening, restarting her circular massaging motion on Kingsley’s back, more to soothe herself than him.

She stares off into the distance, feeling the breeze blow her hair around. Logically, she knows it’s the summer wind, but it feels like a draft from a door being flung open. It’s the exit strategy, the one she’s been too stubborn to ask for.

Ginny hands the baby back when Marcus arrives to bring his family to Hannah’s doctor’s appointment. She watches them walk off, pulling her feet out of her Keds and sinking her white-painted toes into the patchy grass.

The thing about exit strategies, Ginny finds, is sometimes even when they’re presented to you like a gift falling into your lap, you don’t actually want it. It feels good when you’re thinking, planning, strategizing. You can pat yourself on the back -- good job, you’re working on it.

Now she’s faced with real opportunity, the move is hers to make. She’s faced with something else, too. She really doesn’t want to leave.

An unhelpful montage of every great moment with her team in the last year and change flits through her head, soft and vignetted, glossy and warm. It’s not all Shawn, either. The team is her family, her chosen family. She stays up for late nights talking strategy with Andrew -- she’s learned more from him as a manager than anyone in her professional life. She talks football with Cez and Mike. When she was so homesick that any mention of the word “London” brought Ginny to the brink of quiet tears, Josiah always noticed and kindly and gently distracted her.

Leaving the team is the right thing. As she lies in the dirt with tears sliding sideways into her temples and her toes pulling at the grass to ground herself, she doesn’t question this decision.

But she does need to mourn it.

+

Sara sits on her knees on the end of her bed, wrapped in a gauzy white sheet with soft morning light coming in the window. She swears she’s never felt more like a movie star.

He always makes her feel like a star.

She’s mashing her chapped lips together, watching him button and zip his jeans as he faces away from her. She has his shirt, that purple t-shirt she really likes, sitting beside her round thighs. His shoes are beside his bag, the one he brought to stay with her this weekend.

This weekend represented a shift she thinks neither of them really planned, or even thought about at all. He’s spent the night before, a few hours stolen between one engagement or another. He’s never spent a whole weekend. With her.

It was a blur of takeout, movies and great sex. She’ll be living off the high of the orgasms for as long as it takes him to come back to her. And as he packs up to head back to his real life, she’ll be going back to hers feeling just a little bit heavier.

When something shifts, it comes off balance and you have to find a way to recover. Sara knows how this works, she’s done it before, but never with someone who isn’t here.

“Do you… uhm, do you know when you’ll be back?” She fights meekness in her voice. She doesn’t want him thinking she’ll be only half here when he’s away. She doesn’t want herself thinking that either.

Shawn looks up from his belt. His eyes are a little wide. She’s never asked before. He feels the teeter-totter of the shift like it’s physically tangible.

He cracks a half-smile like he’s Mr. Casual. It feels wrong as soon as he does it. “Not too long, I think. I’m heading back to LA to meet up with the rest of the team. We have more recording to do. But if this movie moves forward, I’ll come back to New York for meetings. Probably a few weeks.”

There she goes with her lip mashing again. She nods thoughtfully and looks toward the window to look distracted, but the curtains kind of kill her effect.

She looks back when he lifts a knee up beside her on the bed. He cups her round face in both of his enormous hands and gently tilts it up to look at him.

“Gonna be thinking about you, though.”

She smiles. He tucks a strand of red behind her ear and lowers his lips to hers, one more for the road.

When he leaves, though, she feels the shift even more dramatically than before. There’s traces of him everywhere -- leftovers in her fridge, an empty travel can of shaving cream in her garbage, his scent in her sheets.

This shift is making her fucking dizzy.

+

Shawn’s flight to LAX is delayed an hour. He sits in the first class lounge, leg bouncing, trying not to think about the weird feeling he has, like he forgot something, or lost something in New York.

His phone is serving as an only barely passable distraction. He’s kind of afraid to go too deep into Twitter or Instagram right now -- he doesn’t want to find anything about him and Sara because then he’d feel the obligation to tell her about it. And he honestly doesn’t know what she’d do.

YouTube it is.

He scrolls through videos, still drumming anxious fingers, and before long he realizes something’s off. His suggested videos are not familiar -- clips of Arsenal games, Adele covers, British comedians he’s never heard of. It takes him only a few seconds to recognize Ginny logged into her account on his phone at some point, probably months ago when they were stuck somewhere in Europe bored in another airport lounge. In another life.

He goes to log out and thumbs through options, looking for the button. He doesn’t mean to find the videos. He doesn’t realize they’re her at first. They’re badly lit and don’t have her name on them anywhere, not even in the description. But the songs catch his eye. Just like her video suggestions, the content of her page is so… her.

Someone Like You by Adele

I Wanna Know by Whitney Houston

My Old Piano by Diana Ross

He doesn’t think for a second about not clicking. When he hears the first soft strokes of her voice, he lifts a hand to scrub at his cheek and wonders if anyone else can see the tears in his eyes. He looks up. No one’s watching him.

Her voice is a fix he didn’t know he was craving. The last time he heard her sing hurt so bad he actually physically ran away from it. Thinking about it now kicks up the shame that’s been lingering in his gut for days.

He’s never seen her sing like that. He’s seen her sing every kind of song in every kind of mood. He’s never seen her sing like that, like she was screaming secrets to anyone who would listen. When he got up to leave, he was feeling too many things to make sense of. Selfish -- he didn’t want to face her. Thoughtful -- he didn’t want her to have to face him. Instinctive -- he felt his anxiety pulling him toward the door. He could feel the eyes trying so hard not to watch him while she sang about him. He knew they could only keep away from him for so long. He knew they’d feel like battery acid on his skin when they gave in and looked. So he ran.

He regretted it from the moment he got out the door and knocked into a toxic wave of southern California summer heat, even in the dead of night.

He sits in the lounge ignoring the announcements of his flight boarding, deciding he can limp onto the plane once he’s drowned himself in all her videos. He watches them each back to back, bobbing his head with the beat, studying her, the choices she makes musically, the way he can see she feels every song like it’s radiating out of her bones.

He notes the time stamps. The first video was posted weeks ago. She’s been steadily building up a catalog of them -- different hotel rooms, different times of day, different instruments. He recognizes his acoustic in her arms in her guitar cover of “Gravity” by Sara Bareilles. He takes a scroll through the comments to see if any of his fans happened to catch it. He tamps down an edge of disappointment in his chest when he finds no one has noticed. He pushes it over next to his tinge of jealousy that his guitar has been held by her more recently than he has.

Final boarding call.

Shawn drops his phone beside him and lurches forward to hang his head in his hands. He closes his eyes and fights to breathe, but his chest feels swollen, like everything inside him is blocking up his lungs, starving him of oxygen. Everything he’s been fighting, all the feelings he’s been trying to reason away, even sell away to someone else -- someone wonderful, someone deserving of a whole heart made just for her.

They’re choking him.

He swallows once more, rough and papery. He shoves his phone in his pocket and meanders to the gate just before they’re closing the doors. On the plane, he listens to the original versions of the songs she’s covered. They don’t sound the same anymore. Everything Ginny has touched holds something more in it for him now.

The songs sound better when they’re hers.

+

Ginny is fresh off a redeye from Heathrow. Being back in LA amongst palm trees and cold-pressed juiceries is jarring after a week and change back home in blighty Britain. She enjoys being caught between the two worlds, her two homes. Appropriately, she buys herself a fancy juice, the strawberry-heavy one, and the pineapple one Shawn likes. She also pulls out the McVities Digestives she bought at duty free, an ode to London.

She’s perched on a ledge beside Shawn’s baggage claim carousel, waiting for him to deplane. She sees him first, tall and broad and in a red hoodie like he’s never thought about keeping a low profile in his life. When he spots her, she watches in confusion as his throat bobs and his steps grow longer and quicker so he can reach her.

Her pulse increases a little frantically as he power walks over. She lifts herself off the ledge to meet him. He drops his backpack at their feet and scoops her into a tight hug, turning his face so his nose is in her gently scented hair. Ginny gasps a ragged breath of surprise and wraps her arms around him, instinctively bringing her fingers up to smooth the little curls at the base of his neck.

“Love? Y’ok?” she nearly pants, her voice high and on the edge of panic.

He deflates against her chest, letting out a long stream of air from his nose. He closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself.

“I know about the videos.”

+

Ginny manages to get him out to the hired car where Jake is waiting with a driver. Shawn is stiff and awkward around Jake, who eyes Ginny curiously, but lets them tuck themselves into the backseat and tunes out their private conversation. He’s had practice at this, but not recently.

Ginny turns to Shawn as soon as they’re buckled in and pulling away from the curb. Her brows are pulled together slightly, her lips twitch as she decides where to begin. Shawn ducks his head, guilty.

“I… didn’t mean to, I swear. I know you probably would’ve told me if you wanted me to know.”

Shawn pauses in a way that tells Ginny that thought stung him as much as it did her. He shakes it off and tries to continue.

“You were logged into YouTube on my phone. I saw your uploads.”

Ginny tugs the corner of her full lips between her teeth, nodding. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… I should’ve just left them alone when I found them. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Ginny doesn’t know either. She’s still confused. His reaction to seeing her at the airport was so visceral, so emotional. She’s missing a piece somewhere, like a jigsaw corner lost in a carpet. It leaves her still tense.

“You watched them all?” she asks unsteadily.

He nods. “I watched them all. They’re… fuckin’ beautiful, Gin. I mean, I know you know that. You have to. You’re so… god, fuck, Ginny, you’re so talented. You’re… you’re incredible. I should tell you more often. I don’t tell you that enough.”

Ginny lifts her hands and tents them over her nose and mouth. Steadying her breath feels like a battle she wasn’t prepared for.

“I’m so sorry.”

She looks up at his words. They sound raw from his throat. His face is anguished.

“For what?”

“For making you feel like you couldn’t tell me. Or didn’t want to. I know… I know things are different now. We don’t know how to do… this.”

This. Translation: we don’t know how to be friends when I’m with someone else. It’s a scary fucking thought.

“I just wanted it for me for a while,” she whispers honestly, shrugging and looking past him out the window at the waves of cars on the freeway as they head for Beverly Hills, “I wanted to see how it felt to do something like this for myself, not involve anyone, not you, not Hannah, not Niall, not Teddy. I wanted to see what it was like when it was just for me.”

Shawn wets his lips. “And?”

Ginny’s quiet for a minute, considering. “And it’s lonely. I thought it would fuel me, to do something independent like this. But creating something and keeping it in a vacuum, not telling the people I love that I’ve done something I’m proud of, it… kind of fucking sucks.”

Shawn’s attention is led back to a memory of the first handful of videos he posted on YouTube, way, way back when, before he mentioned it to his friends and family. He remembers that feeling, too. Even though you’re sharing it with countless strangers, it doesn’t feel like it counts until you share it with the people that love you.

“I don’t…” Shawn pauses, scrunches his face and chuckles awkwardly. Ginny nods at him to continue.

“I don’t know… if I have any right to be. But I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Ginny’s gaze is leveling and heavy. Shawn’s eyes fall to her hands lying in her lap.

“I don’t know if you have any right either. But it’s nice to hear.”

+

“Wha’s the magic word?”

Ginny groans, shaking her head so her curls bounce. “Go Rams.”

The tall wrought iron gate buzzes. Ginny pushes it in and continues smirking on her walk up the driveway to the front door. Niall’s standing there waiting for her in gym shorts, a t-shirt and ankle socks. His hair is flat over his forehead. He’s holding two beers. He hands her one with a twinkle in his eye.

“Can’t believe you make me say that every time I come to your house,” she chides, swiping one of the brews from his hand and striding past him.

“You can take the boy out of Derby County, you can’t take Derby out of the boy.”

Ginny blinks. “You’re not from Derby County.”

He shrugs, like it’s never occurred to him to care about that. He locks the door and scampers behind her in his socked feet, letting her guide him back to his living room. The Leicester-Leeds game is muted and there’s a guitar on the couch. She collapses next to it with a groan.

“Welcome back, then,” he laughs, settling on the other side of the guitar, eyes on the game.

“How’ve you been?” she murmurs, smiling over at him sleepily.

He nods. “Good, love. Writing a lot. Bit of hiking. Staying far away from women and their wiles.”

“Good boy,” she chuckles.

“How was home?”

Ginny bobs her head. “Saw my dad. Always an experience.”

Niall knows the saga. He doesn’t much trust or like Ginny’s dad. He doesn’t understand why someone who Ginny loves so much could feel even the slightest disinterest in her. He decides not to press that.

Ginny looks over. Niall sees something in her eyes.

“What?” he hums.

She bites the inside of her lip and winces. “Hannah offered me a job.”

Niall’s eyebrows lift. He sips his beer, nodding for her to continue.

“She wants to plan a tour. Wants to start working on an album now, finish it after she takes a bit of time after the birth. She wants me to help her write it.”

Niall looks intrigued, but remains quiet. He cocks his head. “I think that sounds great, Gin.”

Ginny closes her eyes. “It does. It does sound great. So why am I being a priss about it?”

He snorts. “What d’you mean?”

She sighs, exasperated, “Like, why am I not bouncing off the walls to get out of where I am? Why don’t I want to get back on Hannah’s team for an obvious step up? Why is it not so easy for me to say yes?”

She looks up at Niall from her swollen cuticles, irritated from near-constant recent picking. He doesn’t look terribly surprised, but thoughtful.

“I think there’s no one easy answer to that, Gin. I think even if you won’t say it out, you’re still in love with him. And I don’t know how you get away from that other than time and space.”

Ginny remains curiously unemotional. “I think I’m worried time and space won’t work either. Just make it hurt more.”

Niall rolls a thumb around the rim of his bottle. “Would it hurt more than seeing him happy with someone else?”

“Can’t imagine anything hurting more than being away from my best friend.”

It’s strikingly honest, so much so it makes even Niall’s breath catch. “But can he stay your best friend if you work for him indefinitely?”

She groans and drops her head into her hands. “Probably not.”

Niall sighs. “Nothing you haven’t heard before, babe, from me and Hannah. And probably your mum. Something’s going to be the thing that pushes you, and it won’t be any of us. It’ll be you. It has to be.”

Ginny is quiet. She lifts Niall’s guitar and snuggles close to it like a lover. It makes him chuckle, watching her graze her fingertips over the strings. It stirs up another notion.

“And maybe…” he begins, trailing off. She looks up. He shrugs again like he always does before he says something deeply intuitive and intelligent, “Maybe it’s not enough, the opportunity you’d be leaving for.”

Ginny looks startled, maybe a little frightened. “What else is there?”

Niall looks up at the TV. “You tell me, Gin.”

+

“Andrew Gertler, you need a new hobby!” Ginny cries.

Andrew turns from his seat to grin at her wickedly. Ever the team’s karaoke enthusiast, he shakes Tom’s cap, making the slips of folded paper inside shake and crinkle temptingly.

“Your turn, Gin. Team bonding. Non-negotiable.”

Ginny grunts. She swallows a snarky comment along the lines of “yeah, because the last karaoke outing was such a ‘kumbaya’ experience” and takes her folded slip. Shawn a few seats down has been eerily quiet all night and trying not to connect eyes with her.

It makes her roll her own. He’s acting like he’s afraid she’ll get up and sing another heartbreaking power ballad in his honor. Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain” starts playing in her head, making her smirk.

She’s on last. A few months ago, she’d have been delighted. The final word on karaoke night is a high she’d live on for days. She’d pick from her choice of her beltiest songs, bringing down the house every time. Tonight she’s just not sure she has the energy.

Niall’s words have been swirling around her head all afternoon. She drank a few beers and napped beside him on the couch while Shawn and Andrew were in another meeting about the movie. She was awakened by Niall’s head tipped back, releasing snarling snores that shook the whole house. She left him with a kiss on the cheek and a head full of questions, wandering back to their hotel where she had calls and emails to return to keep her best friend’s life running smoothly.

She’s distracted and reinvigorated by her friends and their performances, if it’s fair to call them that. Andrew’s up to bat first. He chooses “The Reason” by Hoobastank, a truly bizarre opening number. Mike and Zubin team up for “I Got You Babe” by Sonny and Cher. Ziggy attempts “The Power of Love” by Celine Dion and gets lambasted by the rest of the team for butchering it. Ginny knows logically that her friends didn’t set out to make her feel better, that this wasn’t a well-designed intricate plot to distract her from her own crazed brain, but it makes her feel so much calmer, steadier, led away from the ledge she’s been teetering on for… weeks.

And then it’s Shawn’s turn.

The evening’s festivities haven’t had the same effect on him that they did on her. He remained mostly quiet, clapping politely and speaking only when spoken to. He was mostly left alone, the team figuring he was either tired from jetlag or moody from being away from Sara.

Ginny gets an odd twisting in her stomach when he takes the stage. Up to this point, he hasn’t been conspicuously recognized. But now that he’s up there, there’s no hiding him. He doesn’t look like he wants to hide. The anticipation feels like it’s rising water around Ginny’s waist, more threatening by the second.

His shoulders are slightly hunched. He cups the mic with one hand, staring off above the heads of his rapt audience. Ginny’s jaw feels sewn shut as she waits. The first chords of something come up over the speakers. Shawn’s reaction is immediate. He darts to the DJ and murmurs something urgently. The DJ, a twenty-something fuckboy who just looks amped to have Shawn Mendes on his stage, nods and cuts the track.

Shawn walks off the stage. Anyone who wasn’t paying attention definitely is now. He heads back toward their cluster of tables and drags his guitar case out from under it, having come straight from his movie meeting where he played them a few songs.

Ginny watches him retreat back to the stage, this time to some applause that he doesn’t acknowledge or even seem to hear. As he passes, she locks eyes with Andrew, who looks grave. Her eyes dart away, eagerly watching Shawn.

Shawn plugs his new Taylor acoustic into the speaker and starts plucking. In seconds, she recognizes it. Her face falls, and she didn’t even realize she was wearing any kind of expression until it snaps into an oddly blank knowingness.

He repeats the opening chords a few times. Ginny vaguely notices the crowd begin to catch on and recognize the tune, but she doesn’t think that’s why he’s doing it. She thinks it’s for him. He looks more nervous than she’s seen him on stage in ages -- shaky, sweaty, a little pale. Almost sickly. She rocks forward in her seat, fingers gripping her knees.

“I’m not fucking going up there.” She says it to herself, loud enough for anyone around her to hear. They’re not listening.

Tell me somethin’, girl

Are you happy in this modern world?

When his voice comes in, she half-expects it to sound as broken as he looks. She should’ve known better. It’s smooth and rich and well-practiced, like he’s been getting ready for this. The thought has her teeth on edge with the rest of her taut body.

Or do you need more?

Is there somethin’ else you’re searchin’ for?

He’s looking down straight at her. She thinks of Jack’s words, whispered in Ally’s ear as she quivers sidestage, terrified of her own fate.

“All you gotta do is trust me. That’s all you gotta do.”

Ginny hangs her head in his hands. She can’t watch him sing to her. Her knee bounces, shaking the hands that hold her up. Her body vibrates with the opposing forces of her choices.

I’m falling

In all the good times I find myself longin’

For change

And in the bad times I fear myself

He plucks at the chords again, waiting for her. He doesn’t take his eyes off her, not once. He doesn’t care about all the people staring curiously at her, following his gaze. He doesn’t care about the iPhones popping up, flashes going off, recording the scene. He will stand here playing these chords until his fingers bleed if it’s what it takes to get her on this stage.

She doesn’t wait that long.

Ginny lurches to stand. Instead of going around to take the stairs to the stage, she lifts her leg and steps up onto it, popping up to thunderous, curious applause. Andrew folds his hands over his nose and mouth, tensing from the shoulders down. The entire team watches in shocked silence as Ginny steps forward. As soon as she’s up there, their eyes don’t leave each other. Zubin swears under his breath. Jake sits forward eagerly.

Ginny takes the mic.

Tell me something, boy

Aren’t you tired tryin’ to fill that void?

The audience reacts even more strongly to Ginny’s voice. It’s nothing like Lady Gaga’s -- it’s softer somehow, warmer, more delicate.

Or do you need more?

Ain’t it hard keeping it so hardcore?

As they build to the chorus, Shawn continues watching her shine. He knows they have the audience. He can feel them, even if he can’t really hear them. He’s focused on the way her eyes are trained on him more steadily than they have been since Ibiza, maybe even before. He doesn’t want to blink. His Ally doesn’t need his coaching, doesn’t need him mouthing the words or nodding encouragingly. She’s got this.

I’m falling

In all the good times I find myself longing

For change

And in the bad times I fear myself

He watches her eyes slide shut and smiles for what feels like the first time all night.

I’m off the deep end, watch as I dive in

I’ll never meet the ground

Her voice is bold and huge, unapologetic. She lifts her hands, rising to the occasion as her voice soars.

Crash through the surface, where they can’t hurt us

We’re far from the shallow now

Shawn leans in, only inches from her face, to sing into the mic with her. Their eyes remain locked, their breath mingles, closer than they’ve ever been even with a guitar, a mic and a million miles between them.

In the shallow, shallow

In the shallow, shallow

In the shallow, shallow

We’re far from the shallow now

The DJ has movie timing. He starts playing the backtrack from the film just as Shawn backs away from the mic, wetting his lips. His Ally doesn’t need his prompting, she isn’t going to hold her hands over her mouth and cower from the mic. She’s going to fucking sing.

Ginny lets her eyes shut, disconnecting from him. This moment isn’t about them, it’s about her. She’s making it hers.

She invents her own lilting, crooning, bellowing vocal run, different from Lady Gaga’s but still so fitting that it’s breathtaking. She doesn’t ignore the eyes this time. She feels them, all of them, and lets herself believe she’s worthy of the attention. When their cheers rise, she grins through her final note and opens her eyes once more. He’s beside her, smiling just as wide and goofy.

In that moment, something settles in the pit of her stomach that’s been riled for too long, niggling at her, wrecking her calm, disturbing her sleep. As she takes the last chorus, she finally feels absolutely certain about the one thing that has been holding her back.

No matter what, she and Shawn are going to be ok.

She doesn’t know how much longer she’ll be on his team. She doesn’t know if they’ll ever get to be in love again. She doesn’t know what the next step is, but she knows he will always be there.

He steps into the mic with her, repeating the final refrain. Ginny feels a chill down her spine at the depth of the words hanging between them.

We’re far from the shallow now

The fading notes are lost in the barreling shouts of their audience and the polite, bewildered applause of their teammates (all except for Jake, who’s clapping and whistling louder than anyone in the room).

Shawn swings the guitar behind his back and opens his arms as Ginny steps into them. She fights the urge to bury her face in his neck and sob with relief. She knows the phones didn’t stop recording after the song ended. They’ll be watched like hawks for the rest of the night.

They separate. Shawn’s smile is warm and welcome, back in its place after a little too long away from home. She matches it, tucking some curls behind her ear as he starts to lead her back to their table. They’re greeted by hugs and high fives all around from their team who are still exhibiting signs of whiplash but are rolling with the punches.

Ginny meets Andrew’s eyes. His expression is difficult to read -- a mix of concern, fondness, anxiety. It’s how he’s always looked when Shawn and Ginny do anything that passes beyond the barrier of very basic working friendship.

She smiles back and sinks into her chair, unwilling to apologize, explain or backtrack. Shawn takes the chair beside her, slinging his heavy arm behind the back of it as he talks to Zubin around her head. She steals a sip of his beer, he pretends not to notice.

Absolutely nothing is what normal once was. Their old normal is unrecognizable. Whatever this is now, no matter how weird and loaded with history and inconvenient, it’s their new normal.

And it’s not gonna be easy.

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