#that kate bush song inspired this piece

[soleil-de-minuit]

[dreamlandreader]

Hounds of Love

Part One

Eris Vanserra x Fem!Reader

Summary: When Eris Vanserra storms through the woods in a rage, the last thing he expects to come across is a beautiful fae who is heading right into the path of his father. Eris knows he can’t just stand by and watch this oncoming storm, but in helping this gentle soul, he may have to sacrifice more than he bargained for.

Content Warning - Parental abuse, parental illness, off screen injury caused by a dog (very briefly mentioned).

A/N: Here it is - the piece that landed me with major writers block for weeks and weeks on end and then got stalled because life got in the way! Inspired by the song Hounds of Love by Kate Bush and Feyre’s encounter with the water wraith in ACOMAF✨

Part two will be out soon 💖 Hope you enjoy 💖

🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂��🍂🍂🍂🍂

The hounds of love are hunting, I’ve always been a coward, and I don’t know what’s good for me … 

In the limited light of the quickly setting sun a furious male and his hounds stalked through the trees. 

The bronze leaves shivered in the wake of the Autumn Court heir, who bustled past in a burning rage. Embers of fire flickered at his fingertips as he watched his hounds run wild and free with a glint of jealousy burning in his warm eyes. 

Eris Vanserra was sick. Sick of his court which became more and more suffocating by the century. Sick of his title which kept him tethered to this land. Sick of his father, at whose hands he now bled. 

It had become a regular routine over the years, the way his father would manipulate and berate and twist the knife until Eris could bear it no longer and his calm exterior would shatter. Beron, unimpressed by his son’s outburst, would then beat him back into submission, and Eris would take it until his father got bored. Then he would slip out into the woods with his hounds, using the space to breathe, and to prevent himself from burning the whole damn court to the ground. 

As Eris stormed, the yowls of his hounds swirled around him, twigs snapping beneath their heavy paws as they ran and ran. Eris was all consumed plotting his father’s demise. He knew it was only a matter of time before one of them destroyed the other, and he would be damned if he gave up without a fight.

Lost in his own thoughts it took a few seconds for Eris to notice the sudden silence. The excitement of his hounds tapered off, and the only noise left was the ringing anger reverberating through his skull. A knot formed in his stomach, as he began to run in the direction of his dogs. Eris had spent centuries training his hounds, and they had a rhythm. They never once went silent unless he ordered them to. Not unless something terrible had happened to them. 

Burning orange trees blurred in Eris’s peripheral vision as he ran into a dusty clearing, the fire at his fingertips warmed his hands as he prepared for a fight, but he faltered when he saw the largest hound of the pack lay flat on his back with his soft stomach bared to the skies, a slender hand scratching away at his furry tummy. Glancing up in shock, Eris was greeted with gentle laughter as a joyful fae female watched his two youngest hounds prance around her, play fighting for her undivided attention. Eyes gazing back down once more Eris tutted as he watched the usually stoic leader of the pack bury her large head into the female’s lap, snuffling into her skirts and drawing another delightful giggle from her. 

“What well trained dogs I seem to have bred,” Eris spoke sharply, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. 

His hounds stiffened and stood to attention immediately upon hearing their masters sarcastic growl. You jumped to your feet in surprise, wiping your dusty hands on your dress, meeting Eris’s hard stare with a sheepish smile, crimson flooding your cheeks.  

“Oh, hello. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise they were out here with anyone. Your dogs are beautiful,” 

“My lady, you are lucky you still have your hands. My hounds do not usually take so kindly to strangers,” It was the truth, a few months ago a wandering merchant lost three fingers when he reached out to stroke the dogs without their permission. The fact that you stood before Eris not only whole but covered in fur from their loving affection was baffling to the Autumn Court heir. 

“These dogs?” You ask skeptically, holding back a laugh, reminding Eris of the position in which he had found them. 

“It appears they must have taken a liking to you my lady, a rare thing indeed,”

“I am not a lady,” you state gingerly. He should have noticed the lack of jewels, the plain dress, the absence of guards - but something about your sheer presence was so captivating that all of that had faded into the background. 

“I do apologise, you will have to pardon my ignorance,” It was Eris’s turn to blush then. He prided himself on his intuition. His innate ability to size up his opponents had served him well over the centuries, allowing him to swiftly understand a person and their motives in order to stay five steps ahead of them at all times. In your enchanting presence however, Eris’s usual instincts evaded him completely. 

“What may I call you then?”

“Oh right, my name is Y/N,” you reply, bashful as Eris takes your delicate hand and places a kiss upon it. 

“Whilst it truly is a pleasure to meet you Y/N, I am curious to what you are doing alone in the forest so close to nightfall. You are aware of what lurks within the trees once the sun goes down, no?” 

“I’m here to see the High Lord,” 

Eris stiffened, so many questions flying around his mind as something thick and painful settled itself deep in his chest. Why would such a seemingly gentle being want to be anywhere near his beast of a father? 

“Th-the High Lord?” was all Eris could stutter out.

“My family, we have a farm to the south, just above the border. Only for the past few years my father has been sick, and the crops have suffered greatly due to the droughts we’ve been experiencing,” 

Eris’s heart cracked for you, for the pain that swam in your eyes. There was no reason he should care, he had met you a matter of moments ago, and yet a part of him ached to fix your situation.  

“I would like to ask our High Lord for a reprieve on our tithe - just for six months. By then I hope and pray to the Mother to have our little farm back to the flourishing haven it once was,”  

You were dead. If you got to his father and begged him for anything then you might as well sign your own death warrant. Eris had witnessed too many times the tithes that ended in bloodshed. Beron was too clever to kill anyone in a public forum, he knew it would lead to rebellion, but his spies would soon catch up with anyone who was lacking in funds and they would all mysteriously vanish. He had to do something, he couldn’t let you wander innocently to your death. 

Oblivious to Eris’s internal struggle, you suddenly perked up, eyes widening, 

“Oh how rude of me, here I am prattling on and I haven’t even asked how I should address you? You are dressed so finely you must be a Lord, please forgive me,” you stated, sinking into yourself as you took in his perfect appearance.

The Lord’s pristine shoes alone likely cost more than your family could scrape together in a whole year. Embarrassment tainted your good mood as you pulled your cloak tighter around your body to hide your shabby clothing. 

Eris could sense the shame dripping off you, and unable to stop himself he placed a finger under your chin, and made sure your eyes met his.

“My name is Eris, but you needn’t concern yourself about formalities’ he told you “I am of little importance”. 

It wasn’t exactly a lie. Whilst his position in the Autumn Court provided him with the finest luxuries money could buy and any outsider could easily assume the heir had unlimited power and freedom, behind closed doors, under Beron’s harsh regime, Eris was nobody. He was liked by few and truly understood by none. 

 “Eris,” you say dreamily, tilting your head to truly take in the beautiful male before you. 

Under your gentle gaze Eris feels a glittering warmth spread across his body, a primal rush to protect you, and then a life altering snap.

“You’re-,” he stumbles, unable to finish his sentence before you begin your own.

“Anyway I best be going,” you rush out, realising the passing time and lifting your skirts to turn. “It was terribly nice to meet you, but I really must be on my way,”

“Please don’t!” Eris blurts, gently grabbing your hand, sending a shiver down your spine. You turn to him, confusion taking over your face as he explains softly.

“The highlord, he isn’t a good male. He won’t hesitate to hurt you. If you approach him with any vulnerability he will do anything he can to manipulate you into making a deal you can’t keep, and if that doesn’t work he will just kill you,” he said, stroking a surprisingly calloused thumb down the back of your hand.

“But, maybe if I can just explain my situation to him then-”

 “He won’t care, Y/N. You will die,” Eris’s eyes go dark and you know in your very soul he is telling the truth. “I just- I need you to believe me,”

“I do, it’s just-,” You faulter, breathing deeply before you continue.

“I can’t go home without this six months reprieve. We have nothing more to give. Surely if I turn up to the tithe next week empty handed he’ll just kill me anyway?”

Eris looks down at the wealth that drips from his body, and suddenly recalled the scandal that Tamlin’s ex-human had caused at the last Spring tithe. Rumours swirled far and wide of the Cursebreaker’s controversial gift to a poor wraith, and without a second thought Eris followed suit, pulling off the gold rings which covered his fingers.

“Here,” he says, shoving the pieces into your hands before he began to unclasp his cuff links.

“What, no! Eris, I can’t take this,”

“Yes, you can,” Eris insisted, moving on to his many earrings. “I will not let that beast touch you. I’m not in a position to offer you safety, but please let me give you some help,”

You nodded, frozen in shock, and watched as Eris filled your hands with rubies, opals and orange sapphires all set in the finest metals money could buy. Finally he takes out a fine leather pouch filled with gold coins and helps you to gently stuff the rest of his riches inside. Once the pouch is fit for bursting he removes his fur lined cloak and tells you to swap it for your own threadbare one.

Looking you once over, Eris swallowed down his instinct to press his lips against yours, knowing his relentless father would never allow for his eldest child, his heir, to be mated to a peasant.

Collecting himself, Eris let out a sharp whistle, making you jump as the leader of his pack came to his heel.

“I want you to take Hallie,” he said, his throat thick with emotion as he took your shaking hand into his own.

“Eris, I’m not taking your dog!” You argued, giving him an incredulous look.

“These woods are unsafe at the best of times, if you walk them with gold lining your pockets it is asking for trouble. She is a good hound. She will keep your safe,”

“I- I have no way to repay you for your kindness,” you breathed, silver lining your eyes, unable to fully comprehend the events of the last half hour.

“Stay safe, my lady, that’s all I ask,” he said, before kissing your hand one final time, petting his beloved Hallie on the head and then bidding you both goodbye as he disappeared between the trees, the sad howling of his remaining hounds in tow.

The walk back to the manor passed quickly in a mess of emotions, and even as Eris dragged himself to bed, accompanied by a glass of strong whisky, he tossed and turned all night, unable to forget the beautiful fae he left in the woods and the piece of his soul she had taken with her.

🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂🍂

Hope you enjoyed reading!

✨Let me know if you would like to be added to my general taglist ✨

[sayyourprayers]

Why Will's resentment of El is not an in-show theme:

Diorama scene

Scene begins with El completely clueless about the school dynamics - eg. waving hi to someone who dgaf. She knows she isn't having a great time (hence lying to Mike) but at the same time she feels like THIS IS THE DAY when everything will change. Bruh if you haven't gotten the memo till a day before spring break maybe Hopper didn't call you stupid enough.

Talking about Hopper - presumed dead - presumed hawkins mall fire hero - subject of El's direyama, it wasn't Will's job to find a hero for El nor was it his responsibility to to suggest she make a projected presentation (his own project's a chart ffs). The shots of Will looking nervous and upset when El presents is for 2 reasons:

i) She followed Angela

ii) She followed Angela

It doesn't matter what your project is, your bullies aren't bullying you for quality control purposes. I guess people who think they can just intervene and stop bullying by their aura alone, truly have no idea how bullying works. Hopefully, for better understanding the material being analysed (to death), they do get to experience being at the receiving end of it, even if it's just a little.

As per El's own admission she chose the diorama as a visual aid - as she was allowed to. Idk if y'all expected Ms. My grammar's getting better also to do a verbose write-up or Ms. sheltered in the lab has got no one poor bby to just suddenly know and find heroic inspiration in famous personalities. What is it? Is she undersocialised and trapped or not? Analyse that.

2. Post presentation

Will tries to assuage El that her presentation wasn't that bad (not a lie that it was great but it truly wasn't the worst) But Ms. friends don't lie won't listen to him. (omg willel wonder twins friends). Sidenote: how was Will gonna tell her that her project was "not what she should have made"? I am guessing the lines would be similar to Angela's and El's response would be similar to El's. Anywho. I'm not spending more time analysing this scene that was clearly meant to establish that El's lying in her letter to Mike and she's not really having a great time in California - which isn't just about the school and bullying btw but also (moreso) about her father's death and the loss of her powers (shown by the scene of her walking away merging into a depressed max doing the emo walk to the chart topping kate bush song: nordic walking really fast up a cliff.) But let's forget all that on-screen text for fanfic hit pieces.

3. Die a rammer

Before El's homage to Hopper meets the wrath of Devila there's a small scene (bby scene tiny as hell uwu) of El receiving her maths tests results. And they were F-ing bad. Another scene to establish how much creative writing went into El's letters to Mike. Will should have tutored her though, I agree. The least he could have done for the girl that got him kidnapped and then saved him from the kidnapper - but was it really saving if he's forever changed? Not important: this is about establishing Will's guilt and El obviously has none.

Anyway, El is minding her business and California dreamin' but Angela and the minions trip her up and methodically destroy her diorama. It doesn't help that an enraged El tries to telekinekick Angela's ass, but as we all know (and now re-know) she has lost her powers and is sad and frustrated about it.

Now some brilliant scientific minds of our generation wanted Will to step into that shit show and (and what?) defend El? The guy that famously freezes? The guy who loaded up a gun in 3.5 seconds but froze up and didn't use it on a literal monster with a monsterface? The same guy who has NO POWERS (would be copying El) and has been bullied throughout his life, not only in school by his peers but even whole ass adults. They called him slurs, egged on by none other than his own Papa. So the great analysts with zero experience in bullying and less than basic level of empathy towards bullied people, wanted Will to shatter his little never seen before peaceful Cali existence to save El after the fact? Yes, Zombie boy go save your social pariah wonder woman channeling sister friend. The fact is, he NEVER abandoned her, but he also didn't have enough social standing at school to prevent El from getting bullied. (A point missed in all analyses.)

He was upset and worried and headed over to console El, not in secret no no, out in the open. He is not a fighter. He has never stood up to his own bullies. He's only "sassy" with his friends and family, people he's close to and feels safe with (a feeling he associates with El too, as seen in his "sassiness" with her, but that's for later.)

Poor El had to be rescued by the teacher herself. No other person in that entire school that was present did anything even remotely expressing sympathy - no they were all laughing at her. Only the teacher and Will were in her corner. So much for resentment.

4. Rink O Maniacs

Let's begin with the airport waiting area: Two happy Byers pookies (yes even I have to concede that El was a pookie here) waiting for their incelebrity crush/love - disappointed almost immediately by the scrotoid they fancy cuz they've not discovered feminism yet.

El has the whole day planned, Will is there around them cuz I guess he's too young to be hotboxing with (a concerned and all-knowing) Jonathan and my man Argyle. I mean they could've bonded over being stressed out over not their girlfriends.

Instead though, Angela and the aerobics class decided to eff up El's planned dayte. Angela on being called El--er--Jane's friend grabs her and heads over to the rink. Will knows El's lying, but was he supposed to idk just blurt it out with all that audience? What was he supposed to do? Was he supposed to pre-empt the attack (either) in a crowded place? He wasn't physically gonna stop anyone, let's be real. If Angela would have picked on him, he'd be the one on the rink dressed in milkshake. So let's not pretend it's a reaction unique to seeing El in distress. No that's his response to BEING DISTRESSED - which he was, seeing his sisterfriend whom he likes and doesn't resent (apart from her being the love of Mike's life) in trouble.

Mike goes "above and beyond" i.e. reacts the way y'all would've loved Will to react (but it's not his gene type). Will however is worried and the one that alerts Mike once he realises, things are no longer gonna go anywhere but down under. He finally, reluctantly, but for his sisterfriend El, tells Mike about her problems, or that she's having them. Mike also can hear what's being announced for all the rink (a dedication to Jane the snitch) and coupled with what Will's told him reacts fast and tries (the operative here, he failed too) to stop the show.

Acting prowess aside, Mike and Will are both shocked and worried by El's "wipeout" in a crowded rink where it seems nobody likes her. Mike calls out to El who runs away hurt and embarrassed n not in the mood to answer him.

Now, they BOTH look for El, and MIKE the cunt thinks it's a great time to have a one on one with Will, about him "sabotaging" the day. (I still don't know how he did that, since M11 were pretty much enjoying the date till Angela appeared). The stupid gay fight happens, whatever man, idgaf.

El straightening up in the staff closet hears Angela and the pussycats (and not stupid byler) laughing (most likely at her) and decides, powers or no powers, Angela's gonna feel it tonight. The iconic Angela facelift happens after El's appeals to salvage the day and protect her lies are dismissed. Mike and Will are both again there to give loud reactions and Mike manages to be a moid even in that situation and questions El's overreaction (he at least truly believes that, unlike Will who is ready to lie to the cops abt it being an accident, lol) (Also, a quick mention Mike doesn't remind her of Brenner, Mike's the final straw that takes her back to the lab, she's already feeling weirded out by the blood and the people surrounding her, but ya whatever.)

Commentary:

Will asking El about why she's lying to Mike, isn't just him caring about Mike being lied to over El's well-being. If one's to engage a third braincell, one would notice that Will, too, found out about El's lies that day itself. He realised cuz he lives with his sisterfriend and is with her at school and at not school and so knows whatever she's saying and Mike's recalling from the letters has more imagination put into it than his painting. Will is annoyed at El and Mike (El - cuz he says it, Mike - cuz Mike says it) for being made a third wheel and also being greeted awkwardly (let's not forget he literally didn't gift Mike the painting which he painstakingly made cuz of Mike's weirdo behaviour.) That's not resentment, that's plain annoyance - an emotion Will has shown multiple times over the course of 4 seasons. His emotions don't only exist in the context of El and Mike's existence - you may ask Jonathan and Joyce, if you don't believe me.

It's hard for some people to read Will's character as anything other than a lovesick fool or brother of the main character, and their analysis reeks of this. Let's not forget, unlike Mike Wheeler, Will actually has his OWN stake in the supernatural/sci-fi/horror/superhero plot. Mike is the romantic lead. Will and El have their own journeys and stories both including and completely independent of each other and Mike.

Will not showing El the painting, is more a testament to his enduring feelings for Mike and the post-puberty clarity of romantic/sexual attraction vs puppy love. El didn't show Will her letters to Mike either. (And I am not saying she should have.) Will is not in the text to serve El. In fact, Max herself got promoted from that job. Just slapping on Vecna preys on this juicy shit - doesn't make it true. I am not saying Will and El are perfect siblings, but they're close to it and the show wants us to believe that. (You may take this as a contribution to DBros/MissedOpporunities OTP fanwork)

Will's resentment of El is the jealousy from romantic (not even) rivalry, but it is a very small part of their relationship. He could and should have been more pissy about having the girl who (even accidentally) upended his life just being his new sister now (mike or no mike) but that's not what Will is as a person. Will's jealousy of El is also something he takes out on Mike and NEVER on El.

Maybe there's such a thing as re-watching the show too many times. Y'all jumbling up character names. Y'all need to be peer reviewed.

[heartsleevemag]

mk.gee brings an "emotional link" to durham's motorco music hall

Photo by Nicole Busch

Written by Liesl Miranda

As the lights dimmed in Durham’s Motorco Music Hall on a mid-May Friday night, the final line from Kate Bush’s “Pull Out the Pin” echoed its impassioned scream through the venue’s speakers - “I love life! I love life! I love life!” piercing through each member of the sold out crowd. Suddenly, the music cut off and Michael Gordon, also known as Mk.gee, took to the stage, accompanied by musicians Andrew Aged and Zack Sekoffand. They were eagerly welcomed by the audience whose excitement for the experience to come was palpable. Mk.gee opened up the show with “Dream Police,” the final song from his most recent album, Two Star and the Dream Police. Within the first few moments concert goers immediately recognized the piece, some audibly cheering while the whole room swayed along.

Although this was Mk.gee’s first solo tour, there was no sense of nervousness in his performance. Mk.gee performed his first two songs without saying a word to the audience, instead allowing his music to blanket the crowd with its own greeting.

After he finished his second song, Mk.gee addressed the crowd for the first time with a question – “How are y’all feeling?” In previous interviews, Gordon has stated that he’s just “looking to heal people” through his music. He tries to allow people to accept their own complexities and contradictions in the same way that creating music has allowed him to do for himself, granting a sense of inner peace and confidence. Within each song Gordon could shift from soft, melodic presentation of one lyrical line accompanied by glassy guitar plucking to frustrated chesty vocals in the next, paired with equally gritty and distorted guitar riffs. Scattered screams and feral instrumental releases were echoed or cheered on by the crowd. As the night went on, heads began to thrust back and forth towards the stage in unison and lyrics were fervently shouted as Mk.gee encouraged the crowd to “come on!” and keep the shared emotional link growing.

Truthfully, it’s hard to translate the sonic experience of Mk.gee’s concert into words. In previous interviews, Gordon himself noted that he doesn’t fit perfectly into a specific “lane” of music, and that most of his initial musical inspirations were people shifting musical trends, referencing the likes of Jimi Hendrix. Whether you listen to him live or through his records, it is evident that Gordon is on his own track to shake up the music scene. Mk.gee’s sold-out tour has since wrapped, but there will undoubtedly be more incredible music and concert experiences to come from this pioneering artist.

[buckybarnesfanfiction]

AUGUSTOFWHUMP DAY #2

Day 2: iv / shock / cry for help

Other prompts: BTHB: public torture/exucation

The title was inspired by the song 'Army Dreamers' by Kate Bush.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary:

Bucky's time at Azzano POW camp...

ao3 link:

Wattpad link:

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

AUGUSTOFWHUMP '24 prompt list: https://www.tumblr.com/augustofwhump/749218851036790784/day-1-here-we-come?source=share

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

WARNINGS‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️: Abuse, War, Violence, BLOOD, Hurt, WHUMP!!!, etc.

DON’T READ IF UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THESE TOPICS/TAGS!!!! ⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️

There is no sexual content in this btw….

Fanfic under cut:

Bucky stumbled, falling in the freezing mud. Rain poured down on his collapsed form, soaking him. He wished he was anywhere but here.

“Move,” shouted a soldier with a heavy German accent, ramming his metal-studded boot into Bucky’s side.

The sergeant scrambled up, falling back down twice before managing it. A rough hand in the middle of his back, shoving him forward. Stumbling again, Bucky attempted to follow the rest of the men around him.

The members of the 107th regiment were marched through the gates of Azzano by German HYDRA soldiers holding rifles to their back. 

Those going too slow, or the ones who were holding the Germans up were shot and kicked down the steep slopes of the mountains they were walking across.

And Bucky was just tired. He was sick of fighting. He was sick of everything.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Despite all the stories, the whispered horror stories told at night, and the twisted retellings of nightmares from the veterans back in the States, nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared Bucky for this. For what he would see sacrificing everything for his country.

The long, sleepless nights on the hard, freezing dirt, the long, horrid marches to places they’ve never heard of, being cooped up in those god awful trenches next to dying soldiers he didn’t know or care for, just praying desperately to the god- that he didn’t believe in anymore- that he wouldn’t have to be forced to die a slow and painful death.

But whoever was listening to his whispered, desperate prayers- if there even was someone- was laughing in his face.

He was sure of it.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gates of Azzano were forboarding, unforgiving. Hellish, dark. Evil. As Bucky and his men were marched through them, they looked around, only seeing hollow-eyed prisoners and their filthy clothes, their greasy hair, and skinny frames.

It would only be a matter of time before they looked just like them.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky was roughly shoved into a dirty cell, one of many in a long hallway filled with them. The cell was barely big enough for him, let alone him, Dum-Dum, Junior Juniper, and Jones. 

The air smelled like piss, vomit, blood, and pain.

So much pain.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Bucky knew that even if he somehow survived this, somehow got back home, somehow got away from this godforsaken place that smelled of piss and blood, there would always be some small, almost microscopic piece of him trapped back here among the corpses of his men and bloody mud. 

If he made it home, he couldn’t risk being around his family. His friends. He would bring unwanted pain into their lives. And ruin them.

That’s what happened to his father. A Romanian immigrant who was drafted to fight for America in the Great War. 

When he came back, he came back different. He became dangerous. Violent. One with the bottle. Bucky couldn’t let that happen to him.

He couldn’t.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bleak courtyard of the Azzano camp was a desolate field of mud and misery, framed by the ominous gates and barbed wire fences. Rain poured down, turning the ground into a treacherous quagmire, the chill seeping into the bones of every prisoner. The Nazis had called for a public assembly, and a sense of dread settled over the captured soldiers of the 107th regiment as they were herded into the open space.

Bucky stood in the front row, his uniform soaked and clinging to his emaciated frame. The rainwater mixed with mud on his skin, making him shiver uncontrollably. He tried to brace himself for what was to come, knowing that today would be another day of horror.

A HYDRA officer, tall and imposing in his dark coat and polished boots, stepped onto a makeshift platform. His eyes scanned the crowd with cold detachment before he began to speak in a heavy German accent.

"These men," he said, gesturing to a group of prisoners bound and kneeling at the foot of the platform, "have been caught attempting to escape. Let their punishment serve as a reminder to you all: resistance is futile, and defiance will be met with severe consequences."

The officer nodded to his subordinates, and the torture began. The air was filled with the sickening sound of flesh being struck and the agonized cries of the prisoners. Whips cracked, fists pounded, and boots stomped with brutal precision. Bucky's stomach churned as he watched his comrades being beaten mercilessly, their blood mixing with the mud at their feet.

The officer’s gaze fell on Bucky. With a sadistic smile, he pointed directly at him. "You,” he barked,  “Step forward."

Bucky hesitated for a fraction of a second, but the sharp prod of a rifle butt in his back forced him to comply. He stumbled forward, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Strip him," the officer commanded.

Two guards moved in, tearing Bucky's shirt from his body, exposing his pale, rain-slicked skin. The cold air bit into him, but it was nothing compared to the dread coursing through his veins.

"Hold him," the officer ordered.

The guards grabbed Bucky’s skinny, once muscular arms, holding him in place. The officer produced a thin, black rod from his coat- a cattle prod. He approached Bucky slowly, relishing in the sadistic pleasure of the moment.

"This is what happens to those who harbor thoughts of rebellion," he said, raising the prod.

Bucky clenched his teeth, bracing for the inevitable. The prod connected with his side, sending a jolt of excruciating pain through his body. He convulsed, unable to suppress a scream as the electricity coursed through him.

Again and again, the officer applied the prod, each time eliciting a fresh scream from Bucky. The other prisoners watched in horror, their spirits crushed by the display of cruelty. Bucky’s vision blurred, the edges of his consciousness fraying with each agonizing shock.

Finally, the officer stepped back, a satisfied look on his face. Bucky hung limply in the grip of the guards, his body trembling uncontrollably.

"Let this be a lesson," the officer declared to the assembled prisoners. "Obedience will be rewarded. Defiance will be punished."

With a dismissive gesture, he signaled for the guards to release Bucky. They let him drop into the mud, his body too weak to stand. As the assembly was dismissed and the prisoners were herded back to their barracks, Bucky lay there, rain washing over him, his mind a haze of pain and despair.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

There were a lot of things to hate about war. There were a lot more things people fighting in it could hate about war. 

Bucky hated many things, but he hated the trenches the most. Being trapped, confined, with absolutely nowhere to run. Nowhere. Forced to aim, pull the trigger, to kill, to watch as the men you started to consider friends, family were blown up, shot, or died of disease. Sometimes all of the above.

Or eating the shitty, moldy rations that were passed out, clinging to the small hope that they would last through the night. That you wouldn't die of hunger in the night.

Having little to no rest, forced to be constantly on alert in case of an attack that would always come. Even when he did manage a few meager hours of sleep, it was never long enough, as his dreams were constantly plagued with fear and paranoia. The need to be always ready. Always fighting.

He wished he didn’t, but he understood now.

He understood why the men who’d come home had shot themselves, woken up screaming, punching, pleaded with wild eyes not to go back. Begging to not be shipped back, shoved into uniforms too big, and guns forced into their hands.

He understood his father. His father who had come home and went straight for the liquor. Who hit his mom. Who hit him and his sisters. He understood.

Thinking of his family made him start to gag. Because he didn’t know if he had a family to come home to. Bucky didn’t even have anything to go back to. Both of his parents had died, and Becca had her new family with her husband and baby coming. Wait- Becca was pregnant when he was shipped out, so the baby has already been born- oh, no. He missed his nieces’ or nephew’s birth. Bucky started to tear up in this dingy, awful-smelling cell. 

Fuck.

Steve.

That’s all he had. Steve.

The best case scenario, sadly, was that he’d come home to Brooklyn and have maybe a couple more years with Steve before he died in the middle of winter because Bucky couldn’t afford anything and to choose- food for himself or medicine for Stevie. He always chose medicine. The ridiculous, barely-working, overpriced medicine.

Always.

It was so fucking stupid, amd it made Bucky want to yell, cry, and to just end it all. But he didn’t. He never did. He just soldiered on, and ignored his struggles and thoughts. They all did. 

It was something, he supposed. He had the other soldiers with him. They had some sense of camaraderie, a way to not be totally lost and alone. 

He hated seeing them die. Losing his friends, watching the light leave their eyes, seeing their corpses fall limp in the cold, disgusting mud… fucking hell, at this point, they were more than that, much, much more. After all the shit they experienced together, they were practically family. His only family.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The clanging of machinery filled the air as the prisoners of war were marched into the factory, their faces etched with exhaustion and defeat. The HYDRA guards, with slick, clean rifles slung across their shoulders, barked orders in German- which they didn’t understand- their voices sharp and unforgiving. The factory was a sprawling complex of warped iron and steel, filled with the acrid smell of burning metal and the hum of the machines at work.

Bucky, with his shoulders slumped and eyes hollow, shuffled forward with the rest of the prisoners. The guards herded them into different sections of the factory, each man assigned a grueling task meant to break their spirits and sap their strength. He was lead in the direction of a massive assembly line where he would be forced to produce ammunition for the enemy.

"Get to work!" a guard shouted, shoving Bucky towards a station where heavy metal sheets waited to be fed into a cutting machine.

Bucky's hands, calloused and trembling, grasped the cold steel. He fed the sheets into the machine, the blades slicing through the metal with a deafening screech. Each movement was a struggle, his body protesting the effort after weeks of malnutrition and abuse. The hours blurred together in a relentless cycle of labor, pain, and the oppressive presence of the guards.

Bucky saw Jim Morita struggling to lift a heavy crate a few feet from him. Jim's face was pale, his eyes sunken from lack of sleep and food. Bucky wanted to help him, but the ever-watchful eyes of the guards made it impossible. He had learned the hard way that any act of solidarity was met with quick and brutal punishment.

The factory was a painting of hell. The heat from the furnaces made the air almost unbearable to breathe, and the noise was a constant assault on their senses. They were being pushed to their limits, and those who faltered were met with the harsh end of a guard's rifle or the cruel lash of a whip.

During a brief ‘break’, Bucky managed to exchange a few words with Jim. They crouched in the shadow of a massive machine, their voices barely above a whisper.

"How are you holding up, Jim?" Bucky asked, his voice rough from disuse.

Jim shook his head, wiping sweat from his brow. "Barely, Buck. I don't know how much longer I can do this."

Bucky didn’t know how to respond to that. He felt the same way. It was too hard to be hopeful when you were starving and forced to work eighteen hour days, knowing your family back home had no one to care for them. Well, that was if you had a family back in the States.

Their conversation was cut short by a guard's shout. "Back to work, you dogs!"

Bucky and Jim scrambled to their feet, returning to their stations. The hours dragged on, each minute a test of endurance and willpower. Bucky's muscles burned, and his vision swam with exhaustion, but he forced himself to keep moving. He couldn't afford to stop. None of them could.

As the day finally drew to a close, the prisoners were lined up, counted,  and marched back to their barracks. Bucky's body ached with every step, but his mind was already focused on the next day, the next battle for survival. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the end, despite everything, despite all the effort, despite all the faith he’d had, it didn’t matter how hard he tried. It didn’t to the fading, delusional hopeful wish that he’d get to see the end of the war, get back home, that he’d get to be with Steve. Maybe even get to have something slightly resembling a messed-up, blurry picture of a family. It didn’t matter how many nights he’d barely slelpt, tossing, turning, curled up on the rock-hard dirt, under the sheet they called a blanket- the one that was barely enough to protect him from the cold or wind, god forbid rain or snow- in what he once dared called a tent. It didn’t fucking matter.

Nothing did.

It never did.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The factory's cacophony of machinery and the acrid smell of molten metal created an atmosphere of constant dread and exhaustion. Bucky, shoulders hunched and hands blistered, fed yet another sheet of cold steel into the cutting machine. Each second felt like an eternity in this industrial hell, where the guards’ eyes bore into them, ready to pounce on any sign of weakness.

Bucky's eyes strayed across the assembly line to the adjacent station. A young soldier, whom he only knew by the name "Pete," struggled with a massive crate of metal parts. Pete’s movements were slow, his strength clearly waning from weeks of grueling labor and starvation. The guard stationed near him, a burly man with a cruel smirk, watched with thinly veiled anticipation.

Suddenly, Pete's knees buckled, and he dropped the crate with a resounding crash. The guard's smirk vanished, replaced by a furious snarl. He strode over, yanking Pete to his feet by the collar of his tattered uniform.

"No, please!" Pete's voice was hoarse with desperation. "I can do it. Just give me another chance!"

The guard’s response was a swift, brutal blow to Pete's stomach. The young soldier doubled over, gasping for breath. The other prisoners, Bucky included, kept their eyes down, hands moving mechanically as they worked, too afraid to intervene.

The guard grabbed Pete by the arm and started dragging him towards the factory's exit. Pete's pleas echoed through the cavernous space, each one a dagger to the hearts of those who heard it.

"Help me! Please, someone, help me!" Pete's voice was a desperate wail now, his feet scraping against the grimy floor as he struggled against the guard's grip.

Bucky's heart clenched. He wanted to do something, anything, to help Pete, but he knew any attempt to interfere would only result in more suffering—for Pete and himself. He locked eyes with Dum-Dum’s, who was working a few stations down. His expression mirrored Bucky's own helplessness and guilt.

As Pete was dragged out of sight, his cries became muffled, then abruptly cut off. The factory seemed even more oppressive in the ensuing silence, the other prisoners' movements more mechanical, their faces more hollow.

When the day's labor finally ended and the prisoners were herded back to their barracks, Bucky's body ached with exhaustion, but his mind was worse.

It always was.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’d all say they’d be safe. They told Bucky that his men and himself would be fine. Safe. Happy. As if anyone could be safe and happy lying in muddy trenches, drowning in the blood of your brothers in arms while getting shot at.

The enemy had gotten them. Even though he had given everything he had. Everything. Even though they’d say he’d be fine. Happy, even, fighting this war no one wanted to.

When he first saw that President Roosevelt signed the Selective Training and Service Act in the daily paper in the stands in the street- the papers he could afford because all of his salary went to medicine for Steve or the rent for the overpriced apartment- he knew. 

He knew he would be chosen. He just knew. And he was. He had hidden the letter for weeks, not knowing how to break the news to Steve. He couldn’t just leave him. Not when he was always sick and couldn’t work.

So he picked up more hours at the dock, ran more errands for the shop keepers down the block. Did anything, and everything he could to scrap up enough money for a few months’ rent. He gave the money to Steve the night before he left, and oh god, Steve.

He thought he enlisted. He didn’t. He would never just leave Steve behind. But he thought he did. Stupid punk.

As Bucky had sat in the cramped, filthy cells with the other malnourished, broken men called soldiers, he knew he was done for. He’s never return to Steve. He’d never get to see his best friend again. 

The thought made him nauseous. Made him sick. All he wanted was to see Steve. But that was awful. To see Steve is to have him here, because Bucky his never getting out of this fucking disgusting cell, of of the hell. 

Seeing Steve meant subjecting his best friend to this nightmare. And he would never do that. Not now, not ever. 

Bucky would never see Steve again. He was sure of that. 

He’d heard all about the experiments HYDRA were doing on their prisoners. All of the men had.

And those fucking Nazis would take them, too. Take the strong, the weak. The defiant, the submissive. No one was safe. No one.

Not a single fucking one.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was going to die. He was sure of it. In some stupid, cold enemy country, far away from everything and everyone he ever knew and cared for. All alone. All fucking alone. For a cause he didn’t care for anymore. That he never did.

He hated everything. He hated this camp. He hated the guards. He hated the strachy army uniform he was allotted at the start of the war. He hated how he couldn’t shower. He hated the god that never showed up for him, even though he prayed, pleading. He hated the Nazis. He hated America. He hated the war. He hated everything.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky had been given a new job at the factory. Pushed a cart loaded with heavy metal parts. He kept his gaze down, trying to keep his exhaustion at bay. The others were just as bad. Dum-Dum was sick, Jim was getting weaker, and Junior, working a few stations down, appeared just as worn out as the rest, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his duties.

As they worked, the heavy iron door of the factory opened with a creak, and Zola strode in. His presence commanded immediate attention; even the noise of the factory seemed to diminish as he made his way through the maze of machinery. Zola’s eyes, sharp and calculating behind his round glasses, scanned the prisoners with clinical interest.

“Gentlemen,” Zola announced, his voice carrying an unsettling calm. “I am here to select new subjects for my research. We have made some very promising advancements, and I need fresh candidates.”

The guards fell in line behind Zola, their expressions unreadable. Bucky’s heart sank. Zola had a reputation for choosing the weakest or most vulnerable for his experiments, and the thought of one of them being taken for such a fate was terrifying.

The factory's oppressive noise and heat seemed to blur into a haze as Dr. Arnim Zola's cold eyes locked onto Junior Juniper. Bucky Barnes could only watch in despair as Zola's guards moved toward Junior, their intentions clear.

“No! Please!” Junior’s voice was raw with fear as he looked around, his pleas for help echoing off the factory walls. “Someone, help me!”

Despite his desperation, no one moved to intervene. The other prisoners, exhausted and terrified, could only watch as Zola approached. His gaze was clinical, devoid of empathy, as he assessed Junior with the precision of a scientist evaluating a specimen.

The guards grabbed Junior roughly, pulling him away from his work station. Zola’s hand rested on Junior’s shoulder with a firm, almost clinical grip.

“No, no, please,” Junior begged, trying to pull away. “I’m not strong enough! I—I can’t do this!”

Bucky's heart pounded in his chest. He had to do something. The sight of Junior being dragged away, his pleas falling on deaf ears, ignited a fierce resolve in Bucky. He had to save his friend, even if it meant risking his own life.

Spotting an unattended cart filled with metal parts nearby, Bucky seized the opportunity. Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, he lunged for the cart and shoved it with all his might. The cart, heavy with its load, careened across the floor toward Zola and the guards.

The crash of metal against metal was deafening. The cart collided with one of the guards, knocking him off balance and sending him crashing into a stack of crates. The sudden noise and chaos drew immediate attention, causing Zola to turn sharply toward the commotion.

“What is this madness?” Zola barked, his voice sharp with irritation. His eyes flared with anger as he saw the source of the disruption.

“Oops,” Bucky said, voice hoarse and rough, “it slipped.” 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zola had taken him. 

Not Junior.

And for that, Bucky was grateful.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!!!!!

@augustofwhump

@painonthebrain

@badthingshappenbingo

[ellanoirmusic]

Hello! I’m Eleanor! I’ve decided to make a tumblr to blog music progress for my upcoming EP and other music related things!

I make Medieval Pop Music! I’m really inspired by Kate Bush, early Grimes, Enya, and björk. I currently have 2 songs released but I am working on piecing together my debut EP!

⚔️✨🔮🌙

[imnotsillly]

What sort of music would your OCs listen to/do they represent ?

I actually have playlists for almost all of my ocs! You can find those here :] Spotify

The easy answers would be

Isabelle loves Metal music, anything from the 2000s has a soft spot in her heart and reminds her of her youth. She's also a huge fan of Mexican Huasteco, mainly because she's a dancer, but also enjoys Yolanda Del Rio when it comes to Mariachi <3 I associate the song La Hija De Nadie the most with her!

Lola loves orchestra and Piano, she's very fond of ballet pieces like the Nutcracker and Swan Lake because she grew up dancing Ballet. I do however heavily associate her with Kate Bush, and credit The Wedding List as her song!

Dalia loves alt rock and things of that nature. I've always imagined her being a big fan of The Smashing Pumpkins and Siouxsie and the Banshees! Her entire character was inspired by a song by Fever the Ghost :3

Kylie loves trashy 2000s Pop and is a VERY dedicated Kesha fan, she loves anything loud, fun, and danceable!

Viv is a fan of electronic alt, she really loves Tikkle Me and Grimes, she was heavily inspired by the song Blow My Brains out!

Florist love love LOVES New wave and 80s rock music. It makes her feel comfortable and nostalgic, and is strangely one of the few things she can remember. She's a huuuuge Talking Heads fan!!!

Miss Guijarro finds enjoyment in 80s rock and old New Wave like Japan, DEVO, and Oingo Boingo. She likes the slower paced songs and listens to music to calm her down from panic attacks :3

Elodia of course, loves V-Kei and goth music! She's super into Malice Mizer, Versailles, and Unlucky Morpheus! I'd imagine that she's also pretty fond of classical music as well :3

Belladonna LOOVES Latin Jazz and performs with her very own band all the time! She's also obsessed with old swing music, stuff from the 1940s and jazz from the 20s. Donna loves Bachata and Merengue as well, as any latina should!!

Feliz is a fan of rap music, such as SPM or ICP, but has a soft spot for Latin rock like Malo, and Tejano like Selena!

Leo is a classical music enjoyer all the way, and he owns tons of vinyl records with Waltzes on em. He also has a soft spot for Tom Lehrer, and loooves Mark Bernes, a Russian singer from the 1940s. Such old music reminds him of the music his parents would play, and he looks back fondly on him and Lola listening to the songs as kids.

Isaiah goes crazy for Mexican 90s Ska, as well as Boleros. He also has a bit of a soft spot for Mariachi, as he used to play as one. I think that the song "Pachuco" by Maldita fits him very well! :3

[iamaslutforcoffee]

It's You and Me

Inspired by the infamous Kate Bush song! Thank you to @raecortes for this one ♡

It started with the memories..

(Flashback)

"Hey, baby! Hey!! RAE!" He called out to her as she walked down the hallways of Hawkins High.

She whipped around, her hair smacking Nancy in the face.

"What do you want now, Hargrove?!" She replied snarkily.

During the entire week Billy was seemingly more annoying to Rae every single day.

"A date? To the winter formal?"

(End of flashback)

He really didn't know where the happiness ended and the irritation began. It just happened out of no where, he just randomly started missing the memories and not the girl.

(Flashback)

"Billy? Would you help me zip this fucking dress up? I can't get it no matter what I do" he heard her ask.

He got up and walked to her, smiling at the sight. His Rae was trying with all her might to not ruin her perfectly done hair by zipping up her dress. Not like she could get the zipper in the first place.

He grasped the zipper and pulled it up, closing the dress on her. She smiled and turned around, standing on her toes to kiss him quickly.

"Thank you, handsome." She whispered, returning back to her wardrobe to finish off the look.

Billy shook his head smiling, knowing that she could wear a garbage bag and it would make him happy to see her in it. But it was something about her, something about the way she tried to look so put together all the time. How she always was nice to everyone, how she spoke to him calmly when he was being an ass.. he knew he'd forever love his girl.

(End of flashback).

Billy got into his first love, his car, and turned her on. Pulling out of the driveway and turning the radio on instantly her favorite song (consicindently was Max's favorite song as well) played through the speakers and he simply shook his head smiling.

"It's you and me..." he started to sing along.

(Flashback)

"AND IF I ONLY COULD, ID MAKE A DEAL WITH GOD AND ID GET HIM TO SWAP OUR PLACES!" She was singing along loudly to that new Kate Bush song, Max joining in on her fun.

He was driving the trio to some beach out of Hawkins, close to one of the big lakes.

(End of flashback)

He simply shook his head, smiling.

When Billy finally got to her home, he pulled clear into the driveway. Her parents weren't home so he knew they finally went on that vacation she was talking about before everything happened.

Oh, how he wish it never did...

(Flashback)

"What are you talking about, Billy? I don't even bother you like you say I do" she spoke, looking at him confused.

"Yes you do! You purposely do this shit all the time knowing I'm already on edge!" He yelled, his face in his hands.

"I DONT FUCKING DO SHIT WILLIAM FUCKING HARGROVE!" She screamed, throwing her hands in the air.

Billy simply shook his head and got up from his spot on her bed, walking out the door.

"It's over" he spoke softly, shaking his head. He said it loud enough for her to hear and kept going, knowing that if he looked back he'd see her upset and sobbing.

(End of flashback)

He let himself in, setting his keys and sunglasses on the table and slowly made his way to her room, her favorite song playing lowly from the radio.

His lips curled into a meek smile, once again remembering all the funny little memories they held together listening to music, singing songs and goofing off. His heart began to hurt, he knew he fucked up and felt it break because he knew on the otherside of her door, she was there in pieces breaking as well.

He opened the door and his breath got stuck in his throat.

As expected, she was on the bed crying. Her hair tied into a messy bun and and wearing his shirt she took from him that she insisted on having "because it smelt like him and he wore it alot", but he didn't want to let on that he knew she had it in the first place.

"Hey baby.." he slowly spoke.

~~~

OOOOOOF.

This one was HEAVY, and while I do hate cliff hangers I think this one needed that cliffhanger bad.

Again thank you so much to @raecortes for being so patient and so understanding with the circumstances of me taking so long to put this out. I really appreciate it and I appreciate every one of you guys taking the time to stop by and read this one-shot for me!

[demidritch]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

repost and list five songs that inspire you to write your muse:

one. ptolemaea — ethel cain. two. metamorphosis — mastixa. three. get out of my house — kate bush. four. the magician — scarlet's remains. five. autoluminescent — rowland s. howard. bonus. dido's lament — john murphy.

list five quotes that inspire you to write your muse:

i. "i feel like something bad is going to happen to me. i feel like something bad has happened. it hasn't reached me yet but it's on its way." — alice palmer, lake mungo.

ii. "the thing laughed a laugh that sounded and smelled like drowning. YOU HAVE NOT A NAME FOR WHAT I AM, it purred, BUT SOME WOULD CALL ME ... and then the thing made a sound that might have been a word but felt more like a blow, and [i] flinched away from it." — old gods of appalachia, season 1 ep. 0.5: the witch queen.

iii. "i sleep more and more and in my dreams God says: you're done for and it only gets worse." — lynn crosbie, "no evil star," the corpses of the future.

iv. "you are a violent and irrepressible miracle. the vacuum of cosmos and the stars burning in it are afraid of you. given enough time you would wipe us all out and replace us with nothing— just by accident." — disco elysium.

v. "i am like a small creature swallowed whole by a monster, she thought, and the monster feels my tiny little movements inside." — shirley jackson, the haunting of hill house.

bonus. "the devil is still with you. once he's looked into your eyes, a piece of you will be tethered to him, and he will pull it like a thread and unravel you bit by bit. the devil has a plan for you." — the GREYLOCK archives, tape 002: to the mountain.

tagged by: yoinked from @talentforlying tagging: whoever sees this!! tag me so i can see too <33

[underachievers-please-try-harder]

Review // Birdy - EartH Theatre - 23 August 2023

Appeared in the Evening Standard. Read online.

A full 12 years on from her debut single, the prevailing narrative of Birdy as a folk-pop prodigy is in desperate need of an update. Now 27, the Hampshire singer-songwriter born Jasmine van den Bogaerde not only released her fifth studio album last week, but with it she stepped away from the stripped-back sound that has already earned her upwards of five billion streams.

Billed as a “liberated leap into the unknown”, Portraits sees Birdy swapping the intimate, Laurel Canyon-stylings of her last LP for 80s-inspired sophisti-pop, featuring some of the biggest choruses of her career. Indeed, at last night’s intimate launch party in Dalston she told fans, “The last album was emotionally intense and this time I just wanted to make something we could dance to.”

Set opener Ruins I proved a challenge in that respect, its stately rhythm eliciting a slow sway at best from the sell-out audience. Recent single Raincatchers was more successful, powered by staccato synth stabs eerily reminiscent of the strings propelling Cloudbusting. Kate Bush’s influence extended to the night’s visuals too, which largely foregrounded stark, black and white footage of Birdy in silhouette, swaying impressionistically.

Helping bring her dry-iced drenched musical vision to life was a four-piece band featuring three multi-instrumentalists. Birdy herself moved quietly between two banks of synths, seemingly oblivious to the evening’s oppressive heat in her black, rhinestone-studded catsuit. Her largely impassive performance suited the innate iciness of the Eighties aesthetic, while the walls of synths only served to emphasise the rich, deep timbre of her voice.

Unsurprisingly, it was that velvety coo that remained the focal point throughout. It proved particularly spellbinding on I Wish I Was A Shooting Star, a cello-embellished, Weyes Blood-esque epic that she introduced as her favourite track on the album. For Heartbreaker she used a loop pedal to layer live vocals, quickly conjuring a choir of exquisite vocal harmonies.

Concluding with a rapturously-received one-two of debut single Skinny Love and 2013-smash Wings, there was no question that fans still prize Birdy’s early output above Portrait’s more dramatic direction. But who knows, give them another decade and they may well have formed similarly unshakable emotional connections to songs from this era. By that point Birdy will have moved on, of course, because if performances like last night’s prove anything it’s that, artistically, this industry veteran is fully committed to forging forward.

[independentartistbuzz]

7 From the Women with Kristen Rae Bowden

Charlottesville-based singer/songwriter Kristen Rae Bowden's music exhibits a bold vulnerability. She’s a confessional storyteller with a theatrical flair who draws from a wide swath of influences, including Kate Bush, Phoebe Bridgers, Radiohead, and Madi Diaz.

Her latest song, "Fault Lines," is a powerful indie pop piece about a break up she experienced. She paints a captivating musical picture using vibrant lyrics and stunning melodies as she compares fault lines to relationships.

We got a chance to speak with Kristen about her music, career, and influences in this edition of 7 From the Women:

What have you been working to promote lately?

I just released a midsummer single called ‘Fault Lines’! It’s a road-trip-worthy indie pop song inspired by a breakup on the Highway 1 in California. In case you’re unfamiliar, the Highway 1/Pacific Coast Highway is an iconic, stunningly scenic road that winds along the Cali coastline. As it does so it crosses several fault lines, including the famous San Andreas Fault, which has been responsible for numerous earthquakes. 

In my song I used the cliff-side scenery to represent the feeling of a breakup… like you’re on the edge of a precipice and can’t see what’s next. And I used the first line, “It’s all your fault,” to word-play with ideas of blame and shaky ground. The whole song grew out of that first line… I’d always wanted to start a song that way. (I wonder what that says about me?)

‘Fault Lines’ came from a collection of my memories, as opposed to just one, so I’m proud of how cohesive I think it is. I never really had a breakup on the Highway 1, but somehow I’ve been in that incredibly vivid part of the world at times when various relationships were failing. The scenery there provides a sharp, poignant backdrop for end-of-the-world feelings.

Sonically I was inspired by 1990’s pop-rock… the stuff I heard on the radio when I was still riding around in my parents’ car.  I think the song reflects that, but with ethereal textures blended into it. Please have a listen! I’m very happy with this version of the tune.

Stream it:

Or listen on YouTube:

Please tell us about your favorite song written, recorded, or produced by another woman and why it’s meaningful to you.

The last time I stopped in for this interview I talked about Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You,” which is still and forever a classic favorite of mine. Today the first song that comes to mind is Ann Peebles’ “I Can’t Stand the Rain”. It has an undeniable groove that stops my over-thinking brain and lets me forget myself. I love the relatable simplicity of the lyrics. They make me think of every time a sound or a smell has attached itself to one of my memories - it’s fascinating how strong that association can be, where I basically time travel in my head when I smell jasmine or woodsmoke, or hear a song I sang with an old lover, etc. I often attempt to write songs with complicated ideas behind them, but there’s no denying that sometimes simplicity is just the greatest. I also love how they captured the sound of raindrops. And the vocal melody is soulfully ingenious.

What does it mean to you to be a woman making music/in the music business today and do you feel a responsibility to other women to create messages and themes in your music?

I think it’s safe to say that women are still vastly underrepresented in the music industry (even more so with women of color and minority communities). From what I’ve read, most of the studies on this underrepresentation often focus on highly successful artists, the Grammys, etc. But I can say that in my personal experience as an independent artist, my artistic interactions are overwhelmingly male dominated as well. When I’m the only woman in the room, I’m happy there’s a woman in the room!

When I create music I let my thoughts and feelings dictate what I write. I don’t feel a responsibility to other women to create messages and themes, no. Instead I feel a responsibility to myself as an artist to create work that is honest, and to continue pushing myself to express my most private and personal thoughts and feelings. Given that I am a woman and experience the world as such, this is inherently tied up in my artistic expressions. I would hope for a world where all women are and feel free to express themselves openly and with authenticity. We’re obviously not there yet. It’s crazy how many feminine experiences are still considered somehow taboo.

What female artists have inspired you and influenced you?

Too many to list! Lately I’ve been slowly working my way through Kate Bush’s song catalogue… I’m caught up in her Aerial double album at the moment. It’s incredible. I tend to write very narrative lyrics, and I’m inspired by her ability to flash from enigmatic, mythological imagery into real life details. It’s hallucinatory. Recently I’ve also been drawing inspiration from Japanese Breakfast, Aoife O'Donovan, Madi Diaz, Phoebe Bridgers, CMAT, and Birdy.

Who's Your Favorite Female Icon(dead or alive) and why?

The Mexican painter Frida Kahlo is a female icon I’ve delighted in learning more about in recent years. I’d previously admired her beautiful, raw, symbolic paintings, but two years ago I decided to read her biography after seeing an X-Ray of my own spine. I have scoliosis and finally decided to get some physical therapy when my back pain became overwhelming. Seeing the X-Ray of my spine was upsetting, and after I cried about it for a minute I thought, I bet reading Frida’s biography would change my perspective and stop me feeling sorry for myself. I knew she had polio as a child, and then as a young woman she suffered and broken back and many other terrible injuries in a bus/trolley crash, leaving her in pain for the rest of her life. She took up painting while bedridden after her accident, and channeled the pain into her art.

Reading her biography I learned about the origins of her instantly recognizable personal style: she used fashion and her outward appearance to express her Indigenous Mexican heritage, essentially becoming a work of art herself. She challenged traditional norms of gender and sexuality, defying conventional expectations of femininity. Her paintings address deeply personal women’s issues and pain, such as her sexuality and her inability to carry a pregnancy to term, with shocking openness at a time when nobody was doing that. They also address her political stances and cultural heritage. The way she lived her life and created art is incredibly touching and inspiring to me.

Last year I had the opportunity to visit her house in Coyoacan, Mexico City, which is now the Frida Kahlo museum. Seeing her paintings up close, along with her her belongings (her wheelchair, her easel, her back braces and incredible folk style clothing), and walking through the rooms where she walked, gave me goosebumps. If you have the chance to go, I highly recommend it.

Do you consider yourself a feminist? If so, why or why not?

I definitely consider myself a feminist, now more than ever, since a woman’s right to bodily autonomy has been decimated in the US. I am lucky enough to live in a state where my right to healthcare, including abortion, is still intact, for now. But we should not be voting on whether women and their doctors get to decide what healthcare a woman needs and when. Our basic rights should not be on the ballot. Women should not have to wait until they are at death’s door to get the help they need. It’s barbaric, disgusting, and devastating. No one is free without bodily autonomy. It’s really tragic that we have to work to undo the same bullshit that our grandmothers and mothers already fought to change, but we must, and we will.

What do you hope to share with other women in the industry with your music?

My songs often end up being related to self empowerment and the rejection of what I’d call fairy-tale romantic ideas. I hope my little story songs will be a drop in the ocean of music encouraging women to choose themselves and their own needs - to express themselves freely and put themselves first. 

Finally – Where can we find you online?

Website and Bandcamp

Stream:

Spotify, YouTube, Apple Music, Amazon, Pandora, Tidal

Follow:

Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, Facebook

[at-thezenith]

1, 7, 15 for the end of year writeblr asks!

1. what was your writing-highlight this year? what made it special and how will you reflect on it next year?

i published an article! this isn't really writeblr or fiction related, but i've always wanted to publish on substack like rayne fisher-quann, a personal inspiration and one of my favourite ever writers, and last month i decided to say fuck it and just did it. i'm sure i'll look back on this in a year and laugh about how basic the essay was, but it's also kick-started me into writing more and in different genres!

7. what are three songs you put on your WIP-playlist this year?

another 3!

hounds of love - kate bush

family tree - ethel cain

running with the wolves - AURORA

15. time for shameless self-promotion! answer with a piece of writing you want others to see/read! (if you have nothing posted/published this year, any other year is fine too ^^)

well, as i've already talked about my essay, here it is! i'll put a small extract below:

also full first name reveal lol

[mothpawbs]

here's the rough draft of the mcr vs lord huron compare/contrast essay i'm doing for a college class bc i can't be stopped

it's under the read more, also i'm tagging the people who said in the tags of my last post about this that they'd like to read it, thanks for encouraging my chaos. enjoy :)

               There are many bands and musicians in the world. Because of this, there is bound to be some overlap and similarities between artists eventually. But while this is usually confined to artists of similar genres, occasionally there will be two bands from completely different scenes who are remarkably similar. My Chemical Romance and Lord Huron are two such bands. Quite popular within their own circles, but scarcely heard of beyond pop culture references outside of their fanbases, both have somehow filled the same oddly specific musical and cultural niche while never once interacting.

               One similarity they share is their origins, specifically of their respective founders. My Chemical Romance was founded in 2001 by New Jersey native Gerard Way, and Lord Huron was founded nine years later in 2010 by the Michigan-born Ben Schneider. Both dabbled in music from a young age, and eventually moved on to be educated as visual artists, something both would use later in the creation of album art and supplemental media for their music. Eventually, both ended up following their dreams of creating bands, with Way creating My Chemical Romance in response to witnessing the 9/11 attacks and Schneider forming Lord Huron simply because it was something he felt he needed to do.

A major difference between the two is their genre of choice. My Chemical Romance is a star of the alternative rock scene, with their heavy instrumentals and dramatic vocals, and has a sound and aesthetic inspired by the works of bands such as Queen, Misfits, Black Flags, The Smiths, and Ramones (La Bella, 2008). Lord Huron brightly contrasts that, with their classic indie folk twang and layered acoustics influenced by the likes of Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, and Kate Bush (Orlando, 2022). The closest they ever come in music style is Lord Huron’s third studio album Vide Noir, a vivid departure from their previous folk sound for a heavier, distinctively eerie and distorted garage rock vibe.

Likely the most striking similarity for their fans, both bands are well-known for their extensively narrative-driven concept albums, something which by itself could warrant its own essay. Both bands use their music to tell stories, with each having a surface-level meaning along with a deeper purpose within the overarching plot of an album, as opaque and those plots can sometimes be. My Chemical Romance tells fairly explicit tales, with the doomed murderous duo in I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love, the revenge-fueled mission to save a lost lover (likely the same from Bullets) in Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge, a cancer patient’s life, death, and subsequent trip to Hell in The Black Parade, and the Killjoys’ resistance against Better Living Industries in Danger Days: The True Lives Of The Fabulous Killjoys. Lord Huron, while having equally rich narratives, are much more vague with their storytelling. Lonesome Dreams tells of a man wandering the world alone, Strange Trails starts with a fast-paced and jaunty gang tale before diving into supernatural themes bordering on cryptid horror, Vide Noir is a bleak and psychotic search for a lost love influenced by drugs and cosmic horrors, and Long Lost seems to be the songs of radio ghosts who maybe don’t quite realize they’re ghosts. Both artists also have companion material for at least one album each, with the story of Danger Days continued through Way’s comic series Killjoys, and Lord Huron recently revealing the full story of Vide Noir with a feature-length film by the same name. Fans of both artists revel in analyzing every video, lyric, and promo piece for details on these stories, and it is the double meanings in their songs that keep many fans coming back for more.

Speaking of these double meanings, another major similarity the bands show is the themes often used in their songs. While their approaches may differ, both bands have one overarching theme that permeates most of their songs: death. My Chemical Romance approaches death from several angles: as a terrifying thing to fight against, and as something to ultimately be embraced. The best example of this is the narrative of The Black Parade, with almost the entire album beingdedicated to the experience and processing of death by the main character, known as the Patient. This is most apparent in the songs The End, Dead!, Cancer, and Famous Last Words. Lord Huron approaches this topic in a similar fashion, with death, as well as one’s memory fading and disappearing, cast as a somber inevitability. This is something the POV of a song is either avoiding (The Man Who Lives Forever, The Yawning Grave, Ancient Names (Parts I and II), and Not Dead Yet) or actively accepting and/or anticipating (The Ghost On The Shore, The Birds Are Singing At Night, Until The Night Turns, Way Out There, Wait By The River, and What Do It Mean). Schneider also adds a third angle, the horror of dying and coming back. This is explored most in the albums Strange Trails and Vide Noir, with songs like The World Ender, Meet Me In The Woods, The Balancer’s Eye, and Back From The Edge detailing what might happen if one dies and returns, for reasons of revenge, rejection by the powers that be, or maybe no reason at all. Another facet of death that both bands explore is death or disappearance of a loved one, with songs like My Chemical Romance’s Helena, The Ghost Of You, and Welcome To The Black Parade, and Lord Huron’s In The Wind, The Night We Met, and Drops In The Lake. In total, both bands have the topic of death covered on almost all fronts possible.

Despite the differences in their genres, influences, presences, and even statuses (with Lord Huron currently still a band and My Chemical Romance only becoming active again recently after an almost ten-year breakup), these two groups share a truly remarkable number of similarities in both their origins and approaches to writing songs and albums. Both explore similar topics, albeit in different ways, and use their chosen medium to process similar themes and bring their stories to audiences that can resonate with them. There is a non-negligible overlap of people who would consider themselves fans of both bands, which, though surprising at first, becomes less shocking when these similarities are weighed against their differences.

@mynervoussystemdoes @smugglerofsass @thatmivy

[minayuri]

My new playlist!!!!!

This one is dedicated to my beloved Countess Told of Fritz Lang's 1922 film, Dr. Mabuse, der Spieler. The title of the playlist is inspired from part of a lyric to Faith And The Muse’s Sparks, the first song that made me think of her.

-On Spotify | YT

Countess Told ~shadows in my vision~ Tracklist

Drifting – Lycia

The Sensual World – Kate Bush

Beautiful – Apocalyptica

Strangeness and Charm – Florence + The Machine

Temptation – Diana Krall

The Countess – Moya Brennan & Cormac De Barra

Slow Like Honey – Fiona Apple

String Quartet No. 7 in E-flat Major: II. Quiet. Scherzando – Paul Hindemith & Amar Quartet

Dangerous Woman – Ariana Grande

Mondlich – Xmal Deutschland

Aegis – Mephisto Walz

Interlude No. 1 – Peter Sandberg

Sparks – Faith and the Muse

In the Darkness and the Rain – Inkubus Sukkubus

Turn Away – The Shroud

Sin In My Heart – Siouxsie and the Banshees

Human Frailty – Peter Gundry

The Game is Over – Evanescence

Madness – Ruelle

Shattered – Delain

Lament – Adam Hurst

Pieces – Claire Voyant

Light & Shade – This Ascension

[music-dmt]

The Emotional Power of Music Across Genres

Music is a universal language, capable of evoking profound emotions and creating lasting memories. Across genres and decades, artists have harnessed this power to connect with listeners on a deeply personal level. Whether it’s the heart-rending ballads of Tommy Page, the haunting melodies of Kate Bush, or the evocative lyrics of Taylor Swift, music continues to transcend boundaries and resonate with audiences worldwide. This emotional connection forms the essence of why certain songs and artists remain timeless, bridging gaps between generations and genres.

Moon Bin’s Captivating Charisma

In the world of K-pop, Moon Bin carved a unique space with his heartfelt performances and undeniable charisma. As a member of ASTRO, he was celebrated for his ability to convey raw emotion through his music and dance. Moon Bin’s artistry went beyond technical excellence; he had an innate ability to connect with fans through his stage presence and vulnerability. His performances remain etched in the hearts of fans, illustrating how music can serve as a bridge between the artist and the audience.

Kate Bush: The Epitome of Artistic Expression

The name Kate Bush is synonymous with musical innovation and emotional depth. With her debut single, "Wuthering Heights," Bush introduced the world to her ethereal sound and unparalleled storytelling. She effortlessly blends poetry with music, creating a unique auditory experience that delves into themes of love, longing, and introspection. Her ability to evoke such profound emotions has cemented her legacy as one of the most influential artists of all time. Bush’s work demonstrates that true artistry lies not only in technical skill but also in the ability to connect with listeners on a personal level.

The Universal Appeal of Tommy Page’s Ballads

Tommy Page mastered the art of capturing universal emotions in his music. Tracks like "A Shoulder to Cry On" and "I’ll Be Your Everything" continue to resonate with audiences, not because of their complexity, but because of their heartfelt sincerity. Page’s lyrics touch on themes of love, comfort, and companionship, themes that are universally understood and cherished. His songs remain a source of solace for those seeking emotional connection, proving that simplicity and authenticity can leave a lasting impact on listeners.

Taylor Swift’s Mastery of Emotional Storytelling

A modern-day lyrical genius, Taylor Swift Willow Lyrics showcase her remarkable ability to weave intricate stories through her music. "Willow" captures the essence of an enduring love story, blending delicate metaphors with evocative imagery. Swift’s ability to convey complex emotions with simplicity allows listeners to find pieces of their own lives in her songs. Her evolution as an artist is a testament to her deep understanding of human emotion and her ability to translate it into universally relatable music.

Bon Jovi: Rock That Inspires Resilience

Few bands have the ability to evoke raw energy and emotion like Bon Jovi. Their timeless anthem "Livin’ on a Prayer" is not just a song; it’s a rallying cry for resilience and hope. The band’s ability to capture the struggles and triumphs of ordinary people has made their music a source of motivation for generations. Bon Jovi’s knack for blending powerful lyrics with electrifying instrumentation creates a soundscape that resonates deeply, reminding listeners of their strength during tough times.

Conclusion

Music holds the power to evoke emotions that words alone often cannot express. From Moon Bin’s soul-stirring performances to Kate Bush’s poetic masterpieces, from Tommy Page’s heartfelt ballads to Taylor Swift’s enchanting storytelling, and Bon Jovi’s anthemic resilience, each artist demonstrates the boundless capacity of music to connect, heal, and inspire. Their works are a testament to the timeless nature of music as an emotional companion, reminding us that even across genres, the language of the heart remains universal.

[ninevoltheartmusic]

Kate Bush's "Breathing" still gives me the chills

One of the best sensations in the world to me is frisson, the chills you get when a piece of music hits you just right. I experience frisson often, whenever a song is particularly beautiful, dramatic, or chilling, but the feeling often fades as I listen to the song over time. With every listen, I know the song more intimately, so I get immune to the frisson even if my enjoyment of the song otherwise stays the same. I never get immune to some songs, though. Kate Bush's "Breathing" (off her 1980 album Never for Ever) is one that never fails to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

The lyrics are written from the perspective of an unborn baby living in a world where an atomic bomb has just gone off somewhere nearby. The baby tells us how the blast is taking away the ability to breathe from everyone – a bleak and chilling narrative of the aftermath. The song is impactful without being heavy-handed; the unique viewpoint of the unborn child keeps the lyrics rooted in beautiful details rather than recycled anti-war platitudes. In choosing the most vulnerable and innocent of perspectives, Bush bores the point straight into the listener's heart.

Choruses tell us that the unborn baby loves the security and protection of being inside their mother, breathing her in, "breathing her nicotine." The mother is a smoker, then – but where we'd typically think of the danger of smoking during pregnancy, here the nicotine represents comfort and safety. In the wake of an atomic bomb, every other threat is reduced to ash. The lyrics also imply that the baby has been reincarnated ("I've been out before but this time it's much safer in"), which perhaps explains the wisdom and awareness this narrator brings to the situation, the knowledge that "you and me knew life itself is breathing."

The middle section of the song is a spoken word description of the effects of an atomic bomb, written and narrated by Bush's brother, John Carder Bush. It takes the tone of an old-fashioned educational video; you can almost hear the TV static as the PSA plays into living rooms across the country. This middle section is layered with minimal instrumentals, soft whining sounds that leave room for reflection before asking the most important question – what are we going to do? How do we come back from a world, from a humanity that created this weapon?

In the music video for "Breathing", Bush is encapsulated in a womb-like plastic bubble, presumably slowly running out of air. The spoken word section plays over clips of Bush struggling to get out of her bubble, fighting against the confines before finally breaking free as the flash of an atomic bomb paints the screen white, revealing Bush and fellow dancers on the beach. Their dance is writhing, desperate, moving from the sand to the water where they wade in white jumpsuits.

As impactful as the single is, my favourite rendition of "Breathing" is the song's only live performance. Bush played the song for Comic Relief in 1986, a solo performance with just Kate, a piano, and her voice. In this rendition, the song goes in and out of time, speeding up then slowing down, almost feeling anxious, unsettled. Perhaps, in reality, it was Bush's own nerves kicking in as she grappled with her infamous stage fright, but the resulting effect is different. The changing tempo and uncertainty read not as stage fright, but as the anxiety of an innocent life unsure of whether the world they are about to be born into is a safe one.

Kate Bush is a songwriter who never fails to inspire me. Her ability to take on unique perspectives like the one in "Breathing" and write not only a sonically beautiful song, but such a deeply chilling and passionate one, is a skill that not many songwriters have. I still get goosebumps every time I listen to "Breathing" and I hope that never changes.