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thattiredtypewriter · 21 days

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Rat Problem

(This is my first short story I've written in a long while so apologies for any grammatical errors, I had the brain worms to start being creative again)

“Starting log. Probably not the smartest thing I could do with my time but I’ve picked up worse habits from my old job. So long as I don’t record anything important I won’t be breaking any taboos, won’t have anyone I don’t want knocking on the office door. Anyways I’m recording this and leaving this here in case things got way over my head. If you’re from the office just leave this job ain’t worth it, if you’re the person that killed me congratulations and enjoy your fancy new toys. I’m not explaining how they work to you. Anyways this is Grettir, signing off.”

With a click she sets the recorder on the chair in the entrance, idly chewing on the matchstick in her mouth. With a deep breath and a low sigh she began stepping through the hallway, heavy boot steps echoing through the hall alongside the faint sounds of a saxophone. She knew to enjoy this moment, the brief calm before the storm. Her dirty olive colored coat swaying behind her and brushing up against the large object braced on her back. If one wasn’t paying attention enough they could assume that it was the case to a cello or some other large instrument. Dirt, dried blood, and burn marks could be seen across her gray suit pants and shirt. Her grayish blue hair had been tied back into a long ponytail, dusty blue eyes glancing to the door in front of her.

Grettir’s footsteps had finally been drowned out by the jazz echoing out from the other side of the door. She repeated the instructions to herself as she stopped at the door. “Take a left from the back exit, through the backstage entrance, and make your way to the man beside the closet.” Pushing her way through the double doors she followed her instructions, a few idle glances landed on her but no one made an effort to stop her. A few feathers with an evening to burn through couldn’t care less about some band member who came in late. Oh if only they knew. The dressing rooms were mostly empty, all the band members were already on stage performing for the evening. The only people here were Grettir and a man propped up against a set of drawers next to a door tapping his foot in time with the music. She stepped up to the door and the man placed a hand on the door handle as if to block her and cleared his throat.

“Clearance?”

His tone was direct but aggressive, he was a tall man with a neatly cut suit. His black hair slicked back. He looked down at Grettir with a look of annoyance, he clearly wasn’t expecting this sudden disturbance.

She pulled a paper from her coat pocket and held it out to him. “This enough clearance?”

He unfolded the paper and scanned through it before unlocking and opening the door with an annoyed grumble. The door opened into an elevator, she stepped through and the man followed her in making sure to close the door behind them. There were two buttons on the elevator, one labeled E and the other labeled B. Below the buttons was a small black square. The man pulled out a badge and placed it against the black bar, waiting for a click before pressing the button labeled B.

The trip down was long and quiet, Grettir didn’t mind the quiet but it was clearly starting to annoy the man even more. He pats around in his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taking one out and holding it out to Grettir. She looks down and pushes his hand away.

“Sorry I don’t smoke.”

“Care to give me a light?” He looked at the matchstick she had in her mouth.

“Nah, this is the only one I got. I’m sure you can light it yourself like a big boy.”

With another grumble he pulls out a lighter. “You a part of the new band?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you play?”

“Drums.”

He shoots a confused look at the thing on her back. “Weird case for some drums.”

“What about it?”

“Don’t you usually keep drums in a box?”

“Yeah.”

Grettir’s short answers were eating away at the man’s patience, making this long elevator trip feel even longer. Grettir simply wanted to ride out this silence in peace and the man finally seemed to get that.

The sounds of the elevator took her back. Going down deeper and deeper, putting on her old uniform, picking up her clipboard and recorder before walking through the halls. She would pass by so many faces both familiar and new before reaching her department, reluctantly ready to meet the same old group of people she had grown so accustomed to. She’d do her work and then head back to her assigned room where she would repeat that process. Her moment of recollection was cut short by the quick crackle of a walkie talkie from the gentleman next to her.

“Alright the band’s all ready, go ahead and lock up and make your way down here.”

“The band’s ready? But I got the drummer right here?”

“The drummer? Look it's probably just some feather trying to sneak in. Shoo them away and-”

Whatever was left of the response was swiftly cut off by the loud crack of Grettir’s club connecting with the man’s head. He was on the floor in an instant, blood beginning to pool beneath him. A low sigh escaped the woman as she reached for the object on her back and took it out, unfolding the tower shield as she readied herself. With a light ding the elevator finally reached its stop, the set of doors sliding open. A new voice chimed in, another man.

“That was fast, guess they just decided it wasn’t worth it?”

His response was met by the sudden impact of Grettir’s shield pressing him tight against the wall, he strained against the shield but Grettir wasn’t budging. “This place got a map?”

“What? I- who are you?” Another quick shove dazed the man for a moment.

“Map. Does this place have a map?”

“Alright alright, you want me to draw it out for you or what?”

With an annoyed click of her tongue she backed off, she had her answer. The poor man only had a brief moment to recover before he met a similar fate to his friend in the elevator, her club cracking against the side of his head and his limp body slumping to the floor. She probably could have had the man draw her a map or forced him to be a guide but she knew from experience that was both a bad idea and unreliable. People forget things under stress or lead her around in circles to waste time for their friends to show up. After all it was the first thing she taught new fixers at her office; the enemy will do just about anything to get back an advantage, don’t give them that chance. With the heavy sounds of boots she walked down the halls of the underground facility, unlike the halls above these were much more cramped. Enough room for someone to walk by you but nothing more than that. She was used to it and preferred this type of environment for her jobs. Gave her an excuse to work alone.

As she made her way through the twists and turns of the facility she found herself occasionally scraping her club against the metal walls. It was a simple weapon, a smooth handle with a bit of cloth wrapped around it and at the top the club was lined with several bumps. It was small but in close spaces like this that was an advantage, less chances for her to hit the walls. For members of the Trench Office small weapons like this were practically mandatory, some of the more confident fixers would take larger weapons but most of them didn’t last long. With most jobs being taken alone you didn’t have anyone to cover your back in case your weapon got caught on the wall or even worse you had no room to pull the thing out. It’s like she always told new fixers that got lucky enough to accompany her “small things like this are easy to conceal and let you turn small spaces like this into your advantage.” Though she was sure she could count the amount of times she told someone that on one hand.

After following a couple arrows she turned the corner and was met with three more well dressed people gathered around some double doors, they were talking about something to each other but Grettir had tuned it out. Small talk usually wasn’t too important to whatever job she was doing. One of the three noticed the woman with the tower shield casually approaching them.

“Did you get lost girly?”

No response.

“You hear me? You ain’t supposed to be down here.”

She stopped, still no response.

The person angrily stepped towards Grettir, cracking his knuckles. “I said you’re not-”

Grettir didn’t let him finish, quickly stepping forward and jamming the tip of the club into his stomach before bringing it down on the back of their head as they doubled over in pain.

Snapping out of their confusion the other two stepped into action, one pulling out a machete while the other spoke into their walkie. “We have trouble, someone managed to get in here. Might need to send some folks over to help.”

The other person rushed her, stepping over the crumpled body of their comrade and attempting to bring the machete down on her. She took a step back and held her shield forward letting the blade bounce off of the hard metal shield. With her new found opening she rushed forward, slamming the tower shield against the person and knocking them off balance. Before they had a chance to regain their balance Grettir’s club had already connected with the person’s jaw, knocking them into the wall. As the second guard's body slid onto the ground Grettir walked towards the third.

“They’re not coming.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“No one’s coming to help you.”

Despite the blood stains across her body her tone was very casual, like it was simple small talk between herself and someone at a bar.

“You had the advantage here, you just fumbled it. Besides with halls like these not like they could send that many people to help.”

She looked down at the other two bodies, using her foot to open up their jackets and give them a quick look. “Got a key for this door?”

“What?”

“This door here.” She tapped the door with her club causing the person to flinch. “Got a key for it?”

“How did you-”

“Key?” She didn’t even give them a chance to ask their question, cutting them off.

“No, we were about to-”

All the guard heard was an annoyed grumble from Grettir before she swiftly struck them across the head with her club. “For how fast they took over the place you’d think they’d have a better handle on things, they really did just take over the first place that was mostly unprotected. Probably didn’t pay for any sort of office to protect them.”

She propped up her shield against the nearby wall and placed the tip of the club against the lock of the door. Grettir shielded her eyes and looked away as a small click was heard followed by the sound of metal piercing through metal. Another click and a quick moment later a small blast came out from the end of her club, pushing the door open with force. This was the other specialty of many Trench Office fixers, small combustion devices built within most of their weapons which could be used for both combat or breaching purposes. Most weren’t capable of producing continuous flames, but heated metal and the occasional sparks that the weapons generated could easily cause a chain reaction of fire in small spaces like this.

Grabbing her shield, Grettir stepped through the now unlocked door. The room was dark, a couple of desks with paper scattered around on them and some bookshelves placed along the walls. She walked up to one of the desks, parsing through the stray documents until she found what she needed to find. A file with some loose papers barely hanging out of it. Her face twisted into that of annoyance as she saw the logo on the file, if it were up to her she would just walk away now and tell the person that the file was gone but they were paying a good amount of money for this job and her office needed it. Stowing the file away in a compartment on her shield she turned to leave. Maybe it was the brief moment of distaste from seeing the file she was sent to retrieve or the small amount of overconfidence she had from taking out the previous guards but she wasn’t prepared for the sudden sharp pain she felt walking out of the door as someone’s fist connected with her head. In a daze she stumbled back a bit to try and get a clear view of her attacker. All she could make out was a robust figure as they tried to say something to her, probably something along the lines of “who sent you?” or “what office are you from?” Questions she had heard plenty of times before. She felt around her lip where she was punched and noticed the matchstick she had kept in her mouth must have been knocked out by the punch.

“Dammit.” She mumbled to herself, standing up a bit more straight before trying to rush down the man. She tried a quick overhead swing to the skull but this person was ready, lifting an arm so it took the brunt of the hit before he responded back with a swift left hook to her gut. In her fuzzy state she wasn’t going to be fast enough to try and stop this man’s blows, this was a losing fight and she needed a way to turn the tide. With a step forward she tried to drive the top of the club into the person’s stomach only for him to catch it with his right hand. Clicking the button on the handle the spike hidden in her club shot out, skewering through the man’s hand. She wedged the shield between the two and gave him a hard shove with all her weight, blood splashing against her and her shield as the weapon was dislodged from his hand. Taking this moment she ran off where she had originally come from, the person’s voice echoing through halls as he shouted. “She’s here! Cut her off at the elevator!” Turns out she was wrong about them sending help.

The good thing was that the blow from earlier hadn’t messed with her memory, the bad news was that she had a few new roadblocks in her way. She was hoping this would be a relatively quiet job but it’s never that easy, guess this will just be another mess she’ll have to clean up. Some well aimed thwacks with her club dealt with most of the people in her way and the ones that put up more of a fight became well aware of how heated metal felt. Her shield took most of the attacks aimed at her, some managed to get some lucky hits in but a few cuts and bruises were never enough to put her out of commission. Retracing her steps she knew she was just about to hit the home stretch, one last corner and it was a straight dash to the elevator. With the heavy sound of boots hitting the floor and another loud thwack of her club clearing away another goon she turned the corner. “Shit.” The man from earlier had made it ahead of her, bloodied hand wrapped tightly in his jacket while the other brandished a blade. He was positioned dead center in the hallway and Grettir could hear more people quickly approaching behind her, an extended one on one fight was a death sentence and the man knew it. There was only one idea she had and she hoped it would work.

Bracing her full weight behind her shield she charged forwards, gritting her teeth as she set herself on a straightforward course through the man in front of her. The man did his best to push back against her charge but he was losing ground, slowly getting pushed towards the elevator. Just as it looked like he was finally about to completely stop Grettir the sound of something piercing through metal could be heard followed by a click. A loud blast rang through both of their ears as Grettir’s club expelled its heat pushing him away with a rush of heat and flames. Once she had gained the upper hand she charged forward once more, making her way into the elevator and pinning him against the wall with her shield. One final swing with her club ended the man. She quickly pressed the button and watched as the doors behind her closed and she could feel the elevator slowly rising.

Slumped against the wall she slid down, letting go of her shield and letting it rest against the wall next her. She gave a cursory glance at the two corpses next to her before looking to her shield, a hole could be seen where her spike had pierced through. The area around it glowing with heat as it cooled off. A simple fix but one her companion wasn’t going to be too happy about. She rummaged around in her coat pocket and pulled out a book of matches, reaching to pull a match out only to find none left. “You really had to get that cheap shot at me, did you?” A few more deep breaths and she pulled herself up, folding up her shield and placing it on her back. Her club had cooled down enough that she could stow it away safely. The rest of the ride up was silent once more, another quiet moment alone with her thoughts. Grettir’s eyes closed for a moment, her chest slowly rising and falling with each steady breath. She once again found her mind drifting, thoughts going back to that moment. She could hear the sounds of panic once more, dimmed hallways flanking her, her radio crackling with the frantic conversations of several people. The noises steadily growing louder and louder until finally she shouted. “Shut up for a damn second and let me breathe!”

Silence once more.

As her eyes opened she finally noticed that the elevator was lit with the light of the backstage. That same silence hung in the air as she noticed the concerned eyes of several musicians. She pulled herself up and sighed. “You had a bit of a rat problem, consider it dealt with.” Swiping the badge from one of the bodies she sent the elevator back down as she stepped out, crushing it beneath her boot so that no one could think of using it to go back down. “If you have any complaints feel free to send them to the Trench Office, I’m sure they’ll love to hear them.” A statement she has uttered many times. Her footsteps echoed through the quiet backstage, the concerned gazes carefully watching her. She didn’t seem to pay them any mind, it was something she was used to by now. The rest of the walk home was as uneventful as things could get in the city, boots crunching in the snow as she walked towards her office tucked away in District 25. She pulled out her tape recorder once more.

“Starting log. Grettir once again speaking. The job’s done, got your damn file. Take them and leave the rest of the payment wherever you want and if I see you step into my office again I’ll make sure it’s the last office you’ll ever step in. I’m not doing your damn dirty work again.”

With one last click she walked off into the night, closing up her jacket as the snow fell on her shoulders.

#project moon #project moon oc #limbus company #short story #creative writing

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starswallowingsea · 1 year

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okay enstars instruments headcanons (this is not all of the characters just ones i felt like doing)

eichi: plays low-effort percussion. tried flute once and could not keep up with it. unfortunate truly. plays a mean xylophone on his good days though.

wataru: probably has basic knowledge in like. every instrument but specializes in flute because he can mimic his pigeons with it. bonus points that eichi loves it.

tori: wants so so bad to play flute but got stuck with the clarinet

yuzuru: learned clarinet so he could help tori, but i think it would be fun if he also did jazz clarinet in his spare time

subaru: this boy plays trumpet and is so annoying about it gdbless

mao: he's in bband right he plays guitar? probably also learned piano or something at some point but its very rusty

makoto: this guy really goes ham on the keyboard BUT cannot for the life of him play a normal piano

chiaki: touched a guitar once and the string broke and he has never been the same since

kanata: plays exclusively smooth jazz on a soprano sax

hiiro: one man band type of guy. little bit of everything going on there

aira: got jealous of hiiro being able to play instruments really well so soon after picking them up so he was determined to get better than him in one specific instrument and it was absolutely not one that he could handle (tuba/baritone) (hiiro has to help him with the sousaphone once and aira decides to just stick with baritone)

hiyori: flute and is one of those people who can beat-box with it

jun: puts up with hiyori's flute beat-boxing

shu: violin + viola and will get angry at you if you dont know the difference

mika: picked up violin because of shu but has a completely different style to him. also can fiddle like nobody's business

rinne: trumpet, sax, trombone, anything jazzy. probably recorded some of their backing tracks himself in their early days

himeru: classically trained on piano but never shows it off until rinne begs him to one day bc he overheard meru tapping away when he thought nobody was around

kaoru: was not playing that guitar in sustain memories we know this. koga does not let him near his guitars ever at all the one in sustain memories was on loan and at least two strings snapped on him. would love to have him learn like clarinet or something and incorporate that into their music because i think it would be neat

mitsuru: any wind instrument that lets him do those long runs of sixteenth notes. never gets his fingers tangled while doing them

keito: probably learned shamisen at some point but its like his temple duties and got put on the back burner

kuro: tenor saxophone

leo: also dabbles in a little of everything but is best on piano

izumi: flute or clarinet, but not both. flute because it matches the ethereal aesthetic and clarinet because it has a fuller sound

sora: he's the conductor of the es orchestra actually

#shay speaks #im not main tagging this or tagging all the characters so have fun #anyway i have many thoughts abt some of them being more involved in the creation of their backing tracks #leo is the obvious one u guys know now that i think rinne is also super involved in that #shu and mika probably do the violin and viola parts of their tracks themselves along with others doing the lower #cello and bass parts #i can imagine shu playing his violin or viola and like waltzing around his paris apartment to try and relieve stress and get him focused #i would love to hear thoughts on these though they are open to change if i hear convincing counter arguments #or arguments for smth different than what i have listed

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ohraicodoll · 2 years

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Interlude

Pairing: Morpheus x fem!reader x Hob Rating: Explicit, 18+ Minors DNI Word Count: 8.6K Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Threesome - F/M/M, Porn With Plot, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Threesome, Firsts, 1st POV, Fem!Reader not named (OFC named in other stories) Summary: She hadn't thought he'd bring it up, her fantasy involving all three of them, yet here they were. 3.5 of the Fragments | AO3 Writing Masterlist Previous in Series: Possession Next in Series: Interwoven

Since meeting the only other human Morpheus considered a friend, Hob and I had created an easy bond. We were interested in the same things, he was very easy to get along with, and being the only other person outside of the Dreaming I could talk about the dreamlord made us a little closer. It wasn’t too uncommon now to get a few texts from him or for Hob to meet me in the area for coffee during the week when he had time away from lectures and I was on my lunch break. Even better, Morpheus didn’t have any jealousy flare ups when I hung out with him, opposed to me being with any other man who seemed to take an interest in me. He was doing better, but he was countless years old and set in his ways. I could only expect so much effort and expectation of change. And so it wasn’t unusual for us to grab dinner at some hole-in-the-wall place the immortal swore up and down about as we did tonight. He wasn’t wrong, it had been good, but I hated telling him he was right as it only made his head even bigger. But after letting him know Dream was going to be by my place, he had wanted to stop in and at least say hi. Which is how I now had Hob rifling through my records, judging my musical tastes, while I lounged on the couch with my head in the dream king’s lap. We’d opened the one bottle of wine I had in my kitchen, a leftover from a few months back, and I was feeling utterly relaxed as Morpheus’ long fingers combed through my hair and traced my skin. It was nice, really nice, to simply be myself amongst the two and not worry for once. I could tell the dreamlord thought the same as he made easy commentary on different conversations, enjoying being around his friend and having me snuggled up. These times with both of us were like small breaks away from being Dream of the Endless as neither of us really respected or groveled at his rank or position. Hob had only recently even learned who he was and I hadn’t ever bothered. The weight of his mantle was gone for a few moments and he could be someone else and not the Lord of the Dreaming. Hob made a noise and pulled out a vinyl, the cover faded and worn but one I knew was an old one from the fifties, “Oh, what a beaut! I can’t believe you have this one! This was a favorite of mine back in the day.” “Can’t believe I have it because you think the rest are junk?” I grumbled back with a slight smile. He gave me a pointed look but didn’t answer, “I managed to catch them a few times when they played while I was traveling but it’s been ages!” Excitedly, he cut off the current music and with utmost care switched it to the new vinyl. I’d learned he had all sorts of interests and favorites, depending on the time period. At one point he had even gone into a whole spiel about the wine and alcohol industry and its progression over the ages. I sat up as the music kicked on, the room filled with a low saxophone playing before the rest of the band kicked in. I’d gotten the record while on a thrift store kick, grabbing whatever I happened to fancy on that day a few years back. I’d been trying to discover myself and my own personality after I’d escaped from an abusive relationship, not knowing even what music I was into on my own. Usually I would put the record on when the sky was cloudy and rain poured from the sky, the tunes lifting my spirits a bit, but it was just as nice listening to it now. Hob nodded his head along to the music, eyes closed and a smile on his face that was reminiscent. My own head was leaning against the Endless’ shoulder, letting the rhythm beat alongside my heart and the crackle of the record player soothe me.

I turned to Morpheus, seeing him watching his friend with his own soft smile and nudged him gently, “Dance with me.” Blue eyes found mine, not as icy as usual but warm with a tint of their usual stars, “I do not dance, little dreamer-” “You danced with me before,” I cut him off with a smirk, “So that’s now a lie. Besides, no one is here but us, your highness. You don’t have to be scared of embarrassing yourself.” His eyes flashed at the challenge, the implication that he wasn’t brave enough to do so. Yes, I had tricked him into dancing with me the first time rather than him outright agreeing and I doubt he had anything to be embarrassed about, but Morpheus was always tightly strung and hardly did things based on the concept of fun. He was an enjoyer of the arts, not a participant. Unless his pride was at stake. And so he rose, coat still on for once in the apartment and pitch black in the low light of the evening, and extended his hand to me. I couldn’t help the grin that spread onto my face, tongue in my teeth, and grabbed it with a giggle. The dreamlord pulled me close, one arm wrapped around my waist, hand twined with mine, and chests pressed together as we swayed in time to the music. It wasn’t anything fancy, less an actual dance and more just rocking but the fact he had given in was a win for me. His nose skimmed my bangs, breath ghosting along my cheeks as he whispered, “Satisfied?” My free hand found the edge of his collar and grazed the skin at the base of his neck as I tilted my head and laid a kiss underside his jaw, “Very, thank you.” My body was pleasantly relaxed in his hold, the wine warming me up and getting rid of any tension I had from the day. While I knew he was more than eager for us to go to the Dreaming earlier, this was a good delay to those plans. I liked being around both of them, seeing how colorful my life had gotten since meeting the Endless. Hob was charming, a massive flirt who could put anyone at ease, and brightened the day whenever I saw him. And Dream…

I’d never be able to get enough of him. He was intoxicating. The low steady thrum of power I constantly felt around him always put me at ease, the fact that someone as old and powerful as him eagerly wished for my presence. There was always something new to learn about him or the Dreaming or the world around me and he wished to share it all. I wasn’t quite sure how I had lucked out but I had. The beat of the music switched to something faster, more frenetic and fun. Morpheus pressed a kiss to my temple, a slow lingering of his lips, and before I could process had pulled me into a small spin. I twirled with a laugh and a different set of arms came around me as Hob caught me instead. Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see the dreamlord settle back onto the couch with an affectionate smile. One dance was his max apparently and now it was his friend’s turn. “Hello, darling,” Hob grinned, settling me in his arms, “You think you can keep up?” “No!” I shook my head with a giggle and then he was swinging me around while I cackled. I’d seen him dance before with my friend at a jazz club and he was very skilled, fluid in his movements. I was absolutely not, only able to do the barest minimum, but he didn’t care and took it in stride. I could only laugh and laugh as he moved me into a set of twirls and swings, hands navigating me through it and directing me where to go.

He turned me and pulled me against his chest with his arm around my waist and hands intertwined, both of us facing Morpheus who was watching with an amused tilt to his lips, “Old friend, how do you think she’s doing? Think she’s had enough?” I was breathing hard but smiling, my long hair sticking to the sweat on the back of my neck. I’d dressed casually, a loose shirt and jeans with no socks as I’d expected to relax in the apartment and not be thrown around. Everything felt like it clung to me from the exertion. But I could see the gleam in Dream’s eyes as he took us in, that challenge from earlier still there, “No, I think not.” Ass. As the next song kicked on, another fast paced one, I groaned and let out a quick shout as Hob spun me back into it. I was protesting but was having fun, finding myself laughing far more than I had in…years probably. It was getting easier to follow along though it felt just as I got the hang of things, Hob would switch it up. His hands pulled me this way and that, grabbing onto my waist and often finding the skin under my shirt at the small of my back. His own skin was hot and rough, calloused from years of work in his past and often his stubble would graze my cheek as he pulled me close. That old inkling of attraction bubbled up and I shoved it down and focused on dancing. Unexpectedly, Hob pulled me into him and then bent, dipping me low over his arm and I let out a startled laugh as the world turned upside down. His hands held me tightly, making sure I didn’t fall, fingers digging into my thigh. Inverted, I found Morpheus’ blue eyes and grinned as his friend pulled me up before I could get a head rush. My arms were around his neck as he hugged me to him, me struggling to catch my breath while he only chuckled with his cheek against my head. He attempted to comb down the wild tangle of my hair with his free hand while still holding me close around the waist, fingers tracing the curve there. Eyes barely able to peek over his shoulder, I met Morpheus’ gaze burning into us both. I shivered, not seeing anger there but something else and I couldn’t help the hitch in my throat. The music was slower and the history professor swayed us as I caught my breath, giving out teasing praise, “See, you mostly kept up! You didn’t step on any toes or trip at all.” “Jerk,” I muttered playful, eyes still meeting Morpheus’ while breathing in the cinnamon and smoke smell that always seemed to cling to the immortal, “You just wanted to show off.” Hob pulled back and gave me a wink, tapping my nose with his finger, “Someone has to appreciate all I learned over the years.” I laughed, smiling widely with my tongue between my teeth. His brown eyes were bright, dancing with shadows and honey, and I watched as they flickered over my face and then he pulled back. Using the one hand still entwined with mine, he gave me the laziest twirl and another pair of arms came around my waist and pulled me down until I was sitting across Morpheus’ lap. “Be right back,” Hob excused himself with another wink, headed down the hall where the bathrooms were. I watched him go and turned to the dreamlord who was still carefully reading my face, eyes sharp and the color of the midday sky. “What?” I asked, reaching up until I could weave my fingers through the black locks of hair at the base of his neck. He didn’t answer, only seemed to continue to scrutinize me as if I was a book in another language he needed to decipher. I went to open my mouth to repeat myself, starting to feel a little worried, and he cut me off, lips meeting mine fiercely like he could drink me down and drown in me. His fingers slid across my thigh, kneading the flesh there through my jeans and my other arm wound around his neck so I could cling to him. With how I was laying across him, he had entire control of my balance and weight, leaning me back in his arms to take advantage of that. I tried to pull back a bit, lips a centimeter apart and grazing his own, a question in my own eyes, “Morpheus?” The shadows of the room blocked part of his face and I could almost see the gleaming twin stars in his eyes, slightly mauve and burning into me as his thumb came to trace my bottom lip, “I wish to ask if you had further thought of the… scenario you discussed with me on your birthday.” I froze, feeling my throat tighten with anxiety and want.

The scenario. I wasn’t sure if he was ever going to bring it up again. We’d gone out with my friend Anissa, I had drank too much, and my mind had been far too overactive after having Hob flirt with both of us all night. Morpheus had seen my blush and pressed me until I had admitted to being attracted to him, imagining Hob and his friend together as well as me, but had tried to quickly wave it off. Morpheus didn’t have the best handle on jealousy and I didn’t want him mad at either of us, especially considering Hob was his one true friend. I didn’t want to wreck that. He hadn’t been opposed to the idea though, something that had surprised me. Had actually potentially seemed interested, but had said we would discuss it more when I was sober and ready. Time had passed and I had assumed it had been to placate me. I hadn’t considered that he would actually mention it again, least of all now. A threesome. The idea was exciting but had mostly stayed an idea, having never strayed into anything too crazy in my short sex life. But I’d be willing to do almost anything with Dream as long as he was involved and I couldn’t help being attracted to Hob, the way he smiled and made me laugh and was a light in the room. He was handsome and even though I didn’t feel anything romantic for him, it was hard not to feel anything. My breathing was heavy, chest pressed against him while his thumb continued to trail along my jaw and lips. Eyelashes fluttering, I swallowed, “I…I don’t want to mess anything up between you two. You’re friends and he’s important to you-” “You believe I am only interested in this for your sake?” he interrupted, power sliding along my skin and voice a deep rumble like distant thunder, “Little dreamer, you should know better that I rarely do anything I myself do not wish to. I promise you, this will not disrupt any relationships.” I chewed on my bottom lip, suddenly so hot and skin tight at his words, “This is something you want? Not only for me?” His eyes were blue flames and he pressed his forehead to mine, so close our breath mingled together, “Yes. The idea of you both with me intimately is… exciting. But I wish to know if this is an avenue you wish to continue down and are ready for?” My throat was dry. This had been a fantasy, something I thought would stay a fantasy, but now…it may become real. Was I ready for that? It felt slightly overwhelming, having both men with me in that way. But…

I nodded, subtle and wanting as my breath hitched. He didn’t move though, only continued to gaze at me, “I need you to say it out loud. Is this something you wish for?” “Yes,” I whispered quickly, getting the word out before my throat could close around it. My body was a tightly drawn bowstring held in his hands and I was holding onto him for dear life. Morpheus’ eyes flickered up over my head, that same intensity never wavering, “And you, Hob Gadling?” Slowly, I turned my head even as I clung to Dream, finding the man leaning on the wall and watching us from the hallway. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks and a lazy smile on his lips. But his eyes burned as well, taking in the way I was draped across the Endless’ lap and how my arms were tight around his neck. I didn’t know if they had discussed this before or if Hob had heard, but he seemed to know exactly what we were talking about as his gaze raked over us both. Pursing his lips in nonchalance, he gave a loose nod, head resting on the wall in faux relaxation, “If everyone is eager and willing and only then, that’ll be a yes from me. How could I say no to that?” I felt overwhelmed, skin sensitive to the touch at the idea and the fact both of them wanted to do this. I swallowed thickly, locked in meeting Hob’s gaze and the way his eyes darkened. I turned back to look at Morpheus and could see the want blazing there openly, my breath catching. He kissed me then, pressing hungrily into me and straightening me up until I was straddling him with knees on either side of him. Despite his need for control, it was a favorite position of his, having me on top and bearing down into him. I could taste the honey and mint on his lips, tongue tracing the seam of my lips until I opened readily for him, desperate for more. Even with the possibility of both of them, I would always want Dream, eagerly; would let him swallow me whole and thank him for it. My hands grasped the fabric of his shirt, thumbs tracing the bottom so I could touch the hard skin of his stomach while his hands pressed me against him, low on my hips and holding tightly. He was so thin and lean, but corded muscle rippled along every part of him and his kiss was almost bruising in its intensity. He was an inferno, contained by flesh and bone and blood, waiting to be unleashed at my command and I couldn’t help the moan at that thought. He slowed me, his own fingers cupping my cheek and brushing back my hair as he tried to contain himself. I would feel his want in the eagerness of his hands, the hardness of his length pressing against his pants under me, but he held back. Usually, when it was only us, we’d be half naked by now and tumbling into the abyss. I pulled his lip between my teeth and he groaned softly, lips pink as he pulled away. In the darkness, mauve stars twinkled deep in his irises, letting me know he was struggling to keep control of his appearances. Both our breaths came out in frantic uneven pants, liquid fire pooling deep within me and already so sensitive. “Go to him,” Dream whispered, breath coasting along my lips. The anxiety reared its head again, my lip between my teeth as butterflies caused chaos within me but he only smiled gently and placed the softest of kisses on my lips, encouraging further, “Go.”

This was happening. Like really happening and it felt all too much like jumping off the edge of a cliff. I looked over my shoulder as Hob pushed off the wall, taking his time to walk over to where we were, and reached a hand out to me. He said nothing, only smiled warmly and let me take that step. Eager and willing. Dream pressed another kiss to my temple as I reached out and took Hob’s hand, fingers skimming my body as I climbed off of him and went to the other man. I tried not to but couldn’t help glancing back at the dreamlord, finding that same intense stare not only on me but the immortal as well. Hand absolutely dwarfed by his, Hob gave me a slight smirk and yanked me into him playfully, a chuckle leaving him as I let out a squeak. My fingers were intertwined with his with the other bracing myself on his shoulder as he led us into a steady rocking, the music still playing out the last dregs of song in the background. He teasingly tickled the small of my back and I couldn’t help laughing, burying my face in his shoulder, “There you go. I like that laugh. You don’t have to be nervous, darling.” “Kinda hard not to be,” I mumbled into the fabric of his shirt, the cotton soft against my cheek. “Nah,” he chuckled, “You know him and you know me. No one’s changed and you’re safe with both of us. Absolutely nothing to get nervous about and if it ever gets to be too much for anyone, you say stop and we’ll stop. No hard feelings.” My heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could feel it and it was such an odd experience to be wrapped up in his embrace, different from Morpheus’ but also with said man sitting and watching not that far from us. I tried to calm the nerves, repeating what he said over and over again while taking in his scent. He was right. I knew them both and both had agreed. I didn’t have anything to worry about. Hob dragged his nose against my temple, hand at my back moving up to tangle in my hair as I relaxed further, “Atta girl. This will be a nice, fun evening and nothing to worry about. You’re good.” I nodded, fingers digging into his shoulder as I slowly turned my head to face him. His stubbled trailed deliciously over my sensitive skin and my heart ticked up a beat as his breath coasted along my cheeks and eyelashes, lips so close together. He didn’t push, showing me he was there but not pushing forward until I was ready and the thought danced in my head that maybe this wasn’t his first time in the situation. And at that, I lifted my head and fully kissed him, electricity shooting through my nerves as Dream’s eyes burned into me. Hob cupped my cheek, meeting me eagerly and pulling me even closer as a groan left him. The dam broke finally and I melted, my own hands scrambling up to tangle in his shirt collar and pull him down to me. His lips were soft and demanding, the texture of his stubble an entirely different experience than what I’d been used to but a welcome one as it only served to heighten it all. My mouth opened and I moaned as he took advantage, tongue sweeping in to explore every inch of me.

At no time was I not aware of the Endless only a couple feet away, his power a rushing current that ebbed and flowed with such intensity it was like a blanket of warmth. I wasn’t sure if only I could feel it, but it relaxed and excited me further to know he was watching and enjoying the interaction even if it wasn’t with him. I was learning new things about myself, finding myself already wet and wanting over being watched. Hob broke from me, lips moving along my chin and neck while leaving open kisses there, biting and sucking the skin while his fingers found whatever bare skin he could under my shirt. We had turned enough that I was able to meet Morpheus’ gaze over his shoulder, breathy gasps leaving my lips as Hob found the sensitive spot beneath my ear as I met the dreamlord's gaze. His eyes were black and filled with stars, the edges of his coat wispy and not entirely solid but I could see the way his chest rose and fell as he took shallow breaths. And even at a slight distance, I noted the way his jaw clenched and the straining of his pants as he continued to watch. I almost moaned out loud at the sight, him aroused and barely contained. Turning my head with gentle fingers to meet him, Hob kissed me again thoroughly, his long hair falling forward to tickle along my cheek. While Dream had always taken the lead, drinking me in as if I was nectar from the gods and he couldn’t get enough, the human was eager but softer, coaxing and teasing playfully. He had more experience than me but used that experience to guide me until I was panting. With a lingering kiss, he gave me a warm encouraging smile while turning us to face Dream, Hob settling behind me. He kissed the dip between my neck and my shoulder, tongue caressing the skin while fingers ran over the soft flesh of my stomach. He made eye contact with the King of Dreams all the while, able to easily read the man’s body and stare. “Just let him watch, love,” Hob whispered to me, having noticed as I had that the other wasn’t at all displeased with the sight. I swallowed and could tell I was blushing at the way Dream openly stared while the immortal’s hand slowly raised my shirt up and then palmed my breast over my bra. The rough texture of his hands was starling good, my skin absolutely on fire between his ministrations and the way Morpheus leaned forward to register every moan and gasp from my mouth. Hobs lips found my neck as he held me to him, one hand on my stomach and ever so slightly under the band of my jeans while the other slowly slid inside my bra and found my hardened nipple. I couldn’t help but let my eyes close and head fall back, everything so sensitive and need drenching my underwear. It was all so much, a moan tearing from my lips as he kneaded and teased my breast with the added stimulation of his mouth biting and sucking on my neck. Morpheus' power intensified tenfold, almost drawing another gasp, and my eyes flashed open as his voice reached me, “Keep your eyes on me.” His voice was low and dark and felt so much like it did in the Dreaming, when he could be everywhere and everything. Pure power coated it and I felt myself obeying, unable to take my eyes off him even as Hob pulled both my breasts free and my shirt entirely off, tossed to the floor. My nerves never kicked in even as I stood topless in another man’s arms, breasts entirely exposed while his hands touched and rolled my nipples between his fingers. His deft fingers managed to easily unbutton my jeans and Hob continued to kiss along my back and spine, tasting every inch of me. And when I thought I could come apart simply at the way his Hob’s lips trailed over my skin and hands worked me, Morpheus stood finally and walked forward. My breath was shaky and frantic, unable to swallow my pleasure as his blue eyes further unraveled me. He didn’t touch me, didn’t reach to pull me to him even as Hob straightened and met the other’s gaze. Something passed between them and I could only stare between them both until the latter’s fingers slid down my unbuttoned pants and found my soaking warmth. I gasped as Hob’s fingers slid over the drench cloth of my underwear, tracing up and down my slit as I shakily moaned, already so stimulated. Morpheus drank in the way one arm held me under my exposed breaths and his other hand down my pants while I writhed against him. But I didn’t shut my eyes, only continued to watch him as I followed his command. Hob whispered gentle encouragements in my ear, watching the Endless himself and his reactions, while his finger slowly slid the fabric aside and found the wetness of my folds. And when the moan left my lips, Dream stepped forward and kissed me, swallowing the sound in his mouth. I was pressed between them both, the silkiness of the coat cool against my breasts while Hob’s finger slid into my aching sex. I sobbed and Dream’s lips moved against mine hungrily, taking in my pleasure. I reached up and over my shoulder, twining my fingers into Hob’s hair while grabbing the back of the dreamlord’s neck, pulling them both tightly to me. I could die like this, one’s steadily fingering me while the other plunged my mouth with his tongue in a matching rhythm. It was intense but also almost not enough, like there wasn’t enough time or energy for all the ways I wanted them to take me. As if reading my thoughts, Hob withdrew his hand and I almost cried at the loss, thighs squirming with need. But he only fully unclasped my bra and when I broke free from Morpheus’ lips, Hob met them with his own eagerly, turning me. The dreamlord’s hands replaced his, holding my bare back against his chest as Hob flashed me a grin and knelt, dragging my jeans down my legs. My mouth almost went dry at the sight and before I could register fully, Dream’s finger snapped the string of fabric holding my underwear up. Hob’s grin only grew, “Well that’s one way to do it.” Like blinking through a haze, the small anecdote helping to draw me back into myself, I looked up at Morpheus over my shoulder, “You’re running up an underwear bill, sir. You can’t keep tearing all of mine.” The dream king only smirked, eyes like fire, “I told you, little dreamer, I would prefer you not have any to begin with. Consider this an incentive.” And even though I was dying from need, I was almost grateful for the dumb act. Because it reminded me that he was still the same as before, still the same as he was when it was only me, and Hob’s presence didn’t change anything. Like he said, I knew them and I trusted them and nothing had changed. That thought helped me to relax even as I was fully naked, Hob kneeling in front of me and smiling while tracing fingers up and down my bare calves. “Hold on, love,” he smirked, lifting one leg to rest on his shoulders. Then his tongue was on me and I couldn’t help but fall into Dream’s hold, head lolling back as lightning shot through me. His tongue licked up my folds, delving further to suck on my clit and I moaned loudly, shaking even more when one of Dream’s fingers plucked at my hardened nipple. The words, “holy shit,” left my mouth like a prayer over and over again and Hob’s fingers clenched into my thighs as the sound while lapping at me eagerly. My breath was frantic and the dual points of pleasure between my breasts and my clit was enough to steal my voice away. I wasn’t going to be able to last long with both of them, pleasure rocking through me and climbing further and further. Then Dream’s free hand reached down, tangling in Hob’s hair and keeping him pressed against me and I almost shattered at the sight. The image was so close to what I had unintentionally imagined a while back while drunk, pale skin against the darkness of the other’s hair while Dream’s lips pressed against my neck. His own breath was coming out faster and he was hard against my backside, rocking me forward into the other’s mouth. My orgasm tore from my lips, sudden and hard, and Hob continued to lick me through it as my arousal came on his tongue. My nails dug into Dream’s thigh as he held me up while my body turned completely boneless. I was sobbing, head falling back onto his shoulder as he panted alongside me. It was the hardest I had ever come and even as Hob pulled away, I could feel my sex dripping down my leg. He stood up in front of us both and leaned forward, not bothering to wipe his mouth before pulling Dream’s face to his and kissing him deeply. I could only watch, completely aroused and sandwiched between them as they both hungrily devoured each other with the taste of me on their tongues. I could have come apart at the sight all over again. Hob pulled back slowly with a smirk and looked down at me, dark eyes almost pitch black with lust, “We can take this to the other room if you wanna help me with him?” I licked my lips at the words and straightened, nodding and eager to follow whatever they wanted to do. Even with all we had done, the idea of going to the bedroom to continue sent fire through me. Of course, getting to the room would have been much easier if my legs weren’t jelly and if both of them didn’t take turns grabbing and touching me. The room was dark but bright enough from the light of the moon that we could still see easily. I turned and kissed Morpheus, finding my own arousal on his lips while my hands pushed the coat from his shoulders. It was frantic, teeth and tongue as our mouths hungrily met. Hob was behind me, helping to disrobe the Endless and alternating to kiss along my spine and squeeze my ass. I was sensitive but already throbbing, not wanting this to stop yet. Morpheus’ shirt went next to the ground beside the bed as I kneeled, working to undo the button of his pants. Hob tilted my head back and kissed me, fingers trailing up and down the long column of my throat as he coaxed my lips in the new position. Pulling back, his eyes met mine then swiveled up to meet the other’s before leaning forward and kissing Dream as well. I’m not sure I could ever get over the sight, watching Hob’s dark fingers spread over the pale skin of the otherworldly being, hands sliding up the slender length of Morpheus’ neck to pull him forward. The dreamlord’s fingers combed through my hair while the other worked to get Hob’s shirt off, undressing the other man as I was undressing him but never breaking the kiss. The shirt fell to the ground, both their chests bared, and his fingers went next to Hob’s jeans as my mouth kissed the dip of Dream’s hips and pulled his pants down entirely. Morpheus’ erection was already hard and pulsing, tip glistening and I couldn’t help myself. I leaned forward and licked along it, almost smiling in satisfaction as he hissed into Hob’s mouth and jerked. He’d always been well endowed, filling me up completely every time we had sex, and my mouth watered as put my lips around the tip of him. It was his turn to lose control as I sank deeper and deeper, mouth warm and throat open as I slowly bobbed on him as Hob swallowed his moans. He’d been as turned on by what had been happening, cock so hard in my hands and hips jerking forward slightly as he slid down my throat. The whole act felt incredibly intimate, Hob standing over me with his hand gripping, exploring, and pressed into me while Morpheus’ hand stayed in my hair and worked the other’s jeans down. Like a sixth sense, the immortal human pulled back and looked down at me, groaning at the sight of me on my knees. It took him a couple tries to get the words on, eyes locked on me, “Okay, not to be blunt but whose fucking who? Leaving that up to you both.” I let Dream go, the taste of him on my tongue and saliva coating him, looking up to meet the dark stars of his eyes. His jaw was clenched, muscle ticking and breath coming ragged from his chest. The want, need, was so blatant all over him instead of carefully hidden behind his usual mask that I bit my lip at the sight. “You and her,” the dreamlord whispered in a growl, fingers moving from my hair until his thumb traced my lower lip. Hob’s joined his, brushing my bangs back until I caught the brown of his eyes, “You okay with that, darling?” I nodded, zero hesitation this time, and watched that smirk slide back onto his face as he placed a quick kiss onto Dream’s neck, “Alright then. Condoms?” He pulled away as I pointed to the top drawer of my bedside table in a daze, dragging his hands along both our skin as he went. I stood, swallowing thickly as I met the Endless’ gaze and the electricity it shot through me. His power coated my skin, filling the room and almost taking my breath away. So I kissed him, pulled him tightly to me, and let myself sink into the familiarity and comfort of it. Without words it said all we needed to. You’re mine, I’m yours, I see you. Even with another person, I would always want him and that hadn’t changed. His power increased, as if that was possibly, sliding along me and touching parts inside me that couldn’t be reached. He slid back onto the bed and I crawled after him, lips biting and chasing and hands desperately touching now that we were both naked. It all seemed to be instinctual now, the rhythm of the whole scenario moving along like the beat of a heart. I pressed slow, languid kisses along his jaw and nice, gliding down his body as I worked to cover every inch of him with my tongue. My hair fell over my shoulder and onto his chest and he brushed it aside, bundling it in his hand so he could watch me undeterred.

The bed dipped behind me and calloused hands brushed along my spine, up and down from where I was crouched. Hob was wholly naked now, pants and underwear discarded and kneeling behind me. He was gorgeous, dark and muscular and even in the darkness I could see the small dotting of scars on his skin but it only endeared him more. He was human, like me, had experienced the best and worst of mankind yet remained kind and gentle and cared immensely. He met my eyes and gave me a soft smile that warmed me even in the midst of what was going on, “If this is too much for you, we can stop, sweetheart. No excuses necessary. Do you want to continue?” “Yes,” I answered emphatically, Dream’s previous command to say it out loud reverberating through me. Willing and eager, Hob had said earlier. I was definitely both. He chuckled and looked down, caressing and kneading the skin of my back and ass. I turned and blinked up at Morpheus, his eyes glued to where the other man stood while widening my stance. I found myself entranced, watching the subtle emotions at play on his face and didn’t even initially register Hob sliding himself along the entrance to my sex. I gasped as he rubbed himself along me, coating himself in the wet arousal there. And then Hob was sliding into me and I moaned as Dream tightened his fingers in my hair, the added sensation heightening everything. I was half crouched over the Endless’ body, fingers desperately clawing into the hard muscle of his thigh, while the other man slowly drew in and out in a torturous rhythm. My breaths were sharp and rapid and I slowly moved my hand until it wrapped firmly around Morpheus’ erection, the action drawing a deep groan from his throat. I leaned forward and took him in my mouth again, letting the motion of Hob pumping in and out of me rock me forward onto the dreamlord. I wasn’t sure how we all were going to last, one’s hands caressing the skin of my back and gripping my thigh to pull me onto him while the other’s tangled in my hair so I could sink down further.

Hob filled me in a different way, the angle hitting the perfect spot for him to go deliciously deep. His own moans filled me, soft encouragements at how good I felt causing each thrust to feel even better. I couldn’t help my own keens of pleasure while bobbing up and down on Morpheus, his own hips jerkily moving to push him further down my throat while I pumped him with my hands. He was always too big for me to take fully in my mouth but that had never stopped me really. The man behind me slightly shifted, the angle drawing a loud moan from my throat, and I managed to glance up to catch him pulling Dream forward, mouths meeting. Both had a hand on my skin, were filling me in different ways, but the sight of them kissing deeply destroyed me. The room was filled with the sounds of bodies moving against each other and moans and I was being wrecked beyond belief. Morpheus was pulsing in my hands, soft grunts echoing into Hob’s mouth as I worked him with my lips and fingers. I could tell he wasn’t going to last, was so close while my own orgasm was building and building. The hand in my hair gripped almost painfully and his nails were digging into Hob’s shoulder, everything pushing me to go down on him faster and deeper. His release came suddenly, warm and spilling down my throat as I drank it down and eased him fully through it, Hob cradled his face gently while continuing to move in me. His own rhythm was starting to become more erratic, faster and harder with my breathy whines drawing from my throat. I pulled my mouth off of Morpheus as the immortal drew back from him, licking my lips and the taste of him as he fell back into the pillows and watched us. He was relaxed, loose, thumb brushing my cheekbone. I could see the quiet encouragement in his eyes, the coaxing for me to tumble over the edge even as the fire had yet to subside for him at watching Hob go faster and faster into me. It was all I needed as my orgasm hit hard, cresting and cresting until it crashed and drowned me in it. A sob pulled from my lips and I shook, nails digging into Dream’s thighs and head falling forward into his chest as he stroked my hair. Hob didn’t last longer, feeling me pulse around him and clench, his hands pulling me tightly against his hips as he hugged me to him and his own release came. His forehead met my spine and laid soft kisses there, hot breath on my skin making me groan. We were all a panting mess, sweat slicking our skin as we struggled to catch our breath. Pulling out of me slowly, I groaned at the feel of him leaving my overly sensitive sex. My whole body was light and floating and with Morpheus’ help I managed to crawl onto the bed next to him, head on his shoulder and arm around his chest. Hob went and disposed of the used condom before easily sliding onto the bed behind me, his own arm wrapped around my waist. The silence was comfortable, warm, the steady sound of our breathing and the cooling air on our skin. I’m not sure I had ever been so relaxed and spent after having sex but it had been a lot. At times it was almost overwhelming but every time it almost hit the limit, the two men would manage to ease me back. It had been more than I could have imagined. Dream softly kissed the top of my head, Hob’s hair tickling my cheek as he drew swirls onto my stomach.

The latter male blew out a breath between his lips, the air causing a slight giggle to fall from me as it tickled me further, “Well, good job, you two. That was certainly memorable.” And at his jovial tone, after all we’d just done, I couldn’t help but crack up and laugh at the absurdity. His own laugh followed. The mood lightened considerably as he joked and teased both of us while I bickered with him back and Dream smiled in contentment. And just like that, we were back to normal even if all three of us were naked and tangled with each other. “At least you have sex better than you dance,” Hob winked, pinching my thigh. I swatted him, laughing with my tongue against my teeth and a wide grin. “You can wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your face, sir,” I rolled my eyes, “I wasn’t aware you were also a dancing judge sometime in the past six centuries.” Dream shook his head at us, fingers intertwined with mine, “You two may be far too alike for comfort. I will never know peace with both of you.” Hob propped his head on with an elbow, playfully glaring at the Endless, “Oh I’m sorry, old friend, are we disturbing your relaxation?” I grinned, snickering, “Your fault. You introduced us.” “As I am reminded and regret often,” Morpheus raised a brow, though I could tell he didn’t actually mean the words. Hob laughed, “Well, fortunately for you and unfortunately for me, I actually can’t stay. Got an early morning, as much as I wish I didn’t.” He started to sit up and I found myself pouting at the loss of his warmth at my back.

“You have to go? It’s late,” I argued, knowing how cold it would be and not quite sure I wanted this to end yet. “Yeah,” he said morosely with a frown while pulling on and buttoning his pants, “Sorry, darling. I wish I could cancel but I’ve already pushed back this appointment long enough and can’t miss it.” I watched as he snatched his shirt off the ground and slid it over his head, hiding once more the expanse of his chest and almost fully clothed, “But if you two ever feel up to doing this again…?” It was an open ended question, a poking to see what was on the table. I bit my lip and before I could answer, Morpheus replied, “Yes.” Blinking up at him, at the way he quickly replied, I smiled slightly and nodded. While probably not a regular thing, there was a lot to explore still in the scenario between all three of us. I definitely wouldn’t mind seeing what all there was to discover. Hob had been right. I knew and trusted both of them and even after the act, nothing had changed. I was with Morpheus, completely, but this was something…fun. I knew him and even Dream a little better now. Hob winked with a grin and came to the side of the bed, leaning forward to capture my lips. It wasn’t a quick peck but he also wasn’t chasing me for more, lest we were both left wanting. He pulled back and gave me another kiss on the forward, a sweet smile on his face, “Thank you, sweetheart.” I nodded, smiling back, and then he leaned over and drew Dream into his own kiss, fingers along the sharp edge of his chin to tilt his head up. It felt the same, a kiss to end the night, and Hob gave him a cheekier smile as he pulled back, “And thank you as well. It was a pleasure with both of you.” Morpheus’ lips tilted up and he silently watched the other man straighten up, grabbing the last of his things. “I’ll shut the door behind me, don’t worry about getting up,” Hob winked at us, heading for the bedroom door, “Until next time?” “Send me a text to make sure you get home okay,” I yelled as he headed down the hall. “Can’t die,” he reminded with a grin, “But I will, worry wart.” I could hear the front door slam as he left and fully sank onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was just the two of us now. Morpheus pulled me close to fully wrap me in his arms while drawing the covers over us. “How are you feeling, little dreamer?” he asked gently, holding me tightly to him. How did I feel? It felt like the whole night was a fever dream, no pun intended. It hadn’t been planned, had started innocently enough, and then… an endless cascade of pleasure that I probably would never get over. It’d been intoxicating, seeing both of them together and having Hob’s attention on me.

“Good,” I replied distractedly, mind going over all that had transpired, “I thought I would be more anxious or regretful but I’m not. I liked it, liked all of us together. I don’t know if that’s weird or not, I’ve never done anything like this.” He hummed, long fingers combing through my hair and along my back, “In truth, I have not either.” I blinked up at him, brow furrowed, “Really?” It was hard to believe considering he was eons old and had seen and done so much. Plus, there was something alluring about Dream that drew people to him even if he wasn’t the warmest. When I met him, I’d been so sure that he often had conquests if only to sate a need. But over the months, I’d actually discovered how different the truth was. I wasn’t even sure if firsts were possible for him at this point, but I was wrong. But he nodded, staring out distantly, “An act such as this tends to require trust and vulnerability with more than two people, little dreamer. It is hard for me to find such a connection with one, much less two.” I chewed my lip, understanding sinking in as well as something akin to pride that somehow, I fit in that category. It had been me and Hob and he’d not only been into the idea, but absolutely eager once we got into the thick of it. I didn’t miss the way he kissed the man back or how he touched him. My skin heated at the memory. Looking up and meeting his eyes, the shadows across most of his face turned the blue irises back into black and twin stars stared back at me. And as much as I loved what had happened, I liked having his full attention on me again, having only him next to me and looking at me that way. “Thank you,” I whispered, face tucked into his chest, “For being open to this.” His eyes burned into me, affection open and on full display, and instead of replying he leaned down and kissed me achingly softly. I realized fully that it hadn’t been an over exaggeration earlier. I would do anything as long as he was there with me, hand in mine. I trusted him completely and utterly and knew I was safe. And that left me all the more eager to explore things in the future.

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inkofamethyst · 1 year

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April 16, 2023

I can be described as a bit of a control freak. In the way that I like to have control over every bit of my life as humanly possible. I feel most stressed when I feel that I lack considerable amounts of control. I wonder what my personal intersection of control and insecurity is? Those two must derive from some specific fears, some specific formative moments.

Jennifer Morrison’s character in House is so different from Emma Swan in Once Upon A Time. Emma Swan had that toughness, that red leather jacket. Dr Carmody comes off as so much more bright-eyed (and she wears vests lol). Actors man. The thing is though, I straight-up dislike boss-subordinate romance thing in most cases, this one being no exception. Idk, it’s just weird to me.

Also as entertaining as it is to watch a doctor with no bedside manner who ends up being correct about everything and saving the day in the end, I would hate to have him as a doctor or mentor tbh. I am way too sensitive to go through that kind of nonsense. But it is interesting--something I learned in a writing workshop is that people will follow a character (I’d even stretch to say this applies to celebrities who almost seem like characters with the way “we” fictionalize them) who is good at what they do even if they are unlikeable. Don’t remember the reason though.

I got my grade back for stats and did significantly better than the first midterm which is wild because the content was a lot more difficult and I studied significantly less :/ I’m (obviously) not upset about the grade, I am learning things (and enjoying it a lot! I’m actually looking forward to graduate level stats), I just think it’s funny. Continues to validate my bad habits, though.

I once again feel compelled to complain about my status as an emotional booty call with my saxophone-... friend. Literally the relationships/friendships that I dislike the most have to be the ones where the other person only calls/texts me when they’re sad or upset. It’s not even that I don’t want to be there when my friends feel down. It’s not even that I expect “50-50″ in a friendship at all times. I fully recognize that friends will need more support through difficult times and that a person’s life has high and low points for varying lengths of time. But friends are there for each other. If someone doesn’t reciprocate an interest in my life, I check out. I lose interest when they only reach out to me to complain about their own lives and almost never when they just want to hang out, no story attached. And I feel bad for passively accepting the role of an emotional booty call wen I have minimized my investment in the person, but I also don’t put any effort to continue the relationship, so that person fully has an out if they ever decide that me not ever texting them first isn’t something they can put up with in a friend. But until then, I open my ears, reassure them that their feelings are valid, smiling the whole way through, then come here to huff and haw.

Anyway. I’ve gotta get back to “writing” (more like formatting (and finishing!!)) what is essentially an undergraduate thesis but due to the circumstances of my research it cannot be officially deemed to be such a thing. Good thing is, it’s a relatively simple project. Another good thing, after the two presentations I’ve got coming up for it in a week and a half, I should be completely done with it. Thankful for that. Lowkey wish I didn’t have to travel again this week. I feel extremely thankful for the opportunity, but I’m also incredibly exhausted. Much more than I thought I’d be toward the end of my “easy” last semester.

Today I’m thankful... that there’s only a month left. Less than a month, really.

Goal of being in bed by 2 am.

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hitchups · 1 year

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im just so crazy about the doctor’s theme right now i can’t stop thinking about it. like i could do a video essay.

s1&2 is just so charming and simple but ominous. like what’s up with this chap? vocals are slow and quiet…gentle…he is with rose and healing from a lifetime of loss and suffering. a minor key to indicate a sense of arcane and to harmonize rose’s major key theme. rose’s theme, so human and gentle and kind. generous. both are focusing on high pitches…the doctor’s theme using a flute…a vocal accompaniment with no lyrics.

then s3 (the doctor forever) starts sounding like magic. martha is joining him and thinks he is mysterious and flawless and wonderful, a book to be read, a story to be told. more brass. more woodwind brass like the saxophone and hints of french horn bringing out a sense of strength. he is resilient and, yes, still healing. but 2/3 of the way through, BAM, suddenly trumpets are staccato and punching through you. he’s angry, resentful, hiding beneath that feeling of wondrous exploration. he’s so hurt, so vengeful. he can’t hide it anymore, even for his best friend, who is now seeing a darker side and realizing she can’t go down with his ship. fades.

s4. starts gently. akin to s2, but somber, with low brass providing a base. we hear prominent strings. he’s tired, so tired, so sick of losing people, either by fate or by his own design. he’s pushed martha away by being so bent on distracting himself with pain. she loved him, perhaps too much to be able to watch him suffer while rejecting any kind of help. enter donna, his last ditch effort at finding a friend. the theme swells, this time with a driving pulse. moving him forward even when he doesn’t want to, donna pulling him along. dragging him along. his emotions have been so bottled, so trapped, and they overflow as the pulse fades away in the crescendo and tenor instruments take over. it culminates in that same haunting, otherworldly melody. vocals sound like words. singing his song.

VALE DECEM. vocals are now lyrics, drawing him closer to a farewell. motifs reminding him of what he’s lost and how much he didn’t gain. he’s leaving it unfinished. he’s being forcibly taken away from his comforting grief. he will never get over her if he doesn’t change. lyrics are akin to a gospel, worshiping him in a way that sounds like they’re burying him. he’s a god, but a tired god. what’s a god without a following? what’s a god without love? clinging to the buildup. he can’t stop the last moments of his theme, his life, exploding into a violent rejection of regeneration. much like ten it will not go down without a fight.

gold was absolutely a genius for this soundtrack and it only hits as hard as it can when you pay close attention

#dw #tenth doctor #Anyways. thanks murray gold

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rich4a1 · 7 months

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Michael Dease Swing Low

Michael Dease Swing Low Posi-Tone This writer was initially puzzled to see trombonist Altin Sencalar on a small combo album by the award-winning trombonist Michael Dease but when viewing the album cover that has Dease cradling a baritone saxophone, I began to better understand this latest effort, Swing Low. We call Dease lots of things – composer, bandleader, educator, prolific, creative .and…

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#cd review #jazz #jazz CD #Jazz Review #making a Scene

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whileiamdying · 1 year

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Jazz Festival; Nascimento and Shorter Play Host and Guest

By Jon Pareles June 28, 1990

Milton Nascimento was in extraordinary voice on Tuesday night at Avery Fisher Hall for a concert that was a full-blown occasion. In one of the jazz festival's best bookings, Mr. Nascimento had as a guest soloist the saxophonist Wayne Shorter, whose 1975 album ''Native Dancer'' introduced Mr. Nascimento to the audience outside his native Brazil. The audience was thrilled by the prospect, and clearly familiar with ''Native Dancer''; there was a wave of applause when the melody of the album's first song, ''Ponta de Areia,'' was tapped out on bells by Robertinho Silva.

Mr. Nascimento sings with warmth, tenderness and underlying strength that lend his songs a spiritual tone as he sings about yearning, loneliness, hope and love for nature. His low register is like liquid amber, and his falsetto has an unworldly purity; his long-breathed phrases float in the air. And the melodies he writes bring the naturalness of folk songs to what is actually carefully crafted pop.

Mr. Shorter, whose soprano saxophone can waft a melody line or streak in incandescent arcs, is a perfect match for Mr. Nascimento. But when he joined Mr. Nascimento's group halfway through the set, he got off to a shaky start, plagued by a faulty microphone. Eventually it was replaced, and Mr. Shorter's tentativeness dissolved; in ''Lilia,'' his saxophone solo darted in and around the melody like a luminescent eel as the band's three percussionists joyfully volleyed rhythms behind him.

Before Mr. Shorter joined him, Mr. Nascimento already held the audience rapt. In hymn-like ballads, he sounded both fervent and humble; in uptempo songs carried on carnival rhythms, his voice glided through the cross-rhythms with winning grace. Few performers make sheer musicality seem so beneficent.

Marlon Jordan, a trumpeter, opened the concert with his quintet. He is part of the surge of young musicians who have devoted themselves to the advanced hard-bop of the mid-1960's. The set included pieces with whiplash melodies and with brooding calm; Mr. Jordan's best trumpet-playing tempered his diligence with a touch of New Orleans insouciance. Tim Warfield on tenor saxophone, a Coltrane-influenced player who tempers the style's stentorian side, and the light-fingered on piano were promising soloists. But in Avery Fisher Hall, where the sound system scattered the sound of the quintet, the music never took off, and the effort was all that came through.

#Jazz #Milton Nascimento #Avery Fisher Hall #Wayne Shorter #Native Dancer #Ponta de Areia #Robertinho Silva #Lilia #Marlon Jordan #Peter Martin #The New York Times #Tim Warfield

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luuurien · 2 years

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Espen Eriksen Trio & Andy Sheppard - In the Mountains

(ECM Style Jazz, Post-Bop, Avant-Garde Jazz)

The beloved Norwegian jazz trio link up with Wiltshire saxophonist Andy Sheppard for a killer live album, one that shows off the chemistry between the trio over twelve years of performing together and how Sheppard throws a wrench into that, forcing their music to reshape in beautiful ways. In the Mountains compiles multiple live show recordings into one album, but the cohesion between the group over multiple performances shines here.

☆☆☆☆

The most interesting thing about musical groups is what happens when someone new finds their way in. Once a dynamic between people has been established, throwing someone new into the mix is always one of the most volatile and shaping things you can do to it, but with the right picks, in the right moment, things can be stunning. For the Espen Eriksen Trio, comprised of Eriksen himself on piano, Lars Tormod Jenset on bass, and Andreas Bye on drums, this is something that a group as tight-knit as them often refrains from doing, but the occasional guest they bring in can add so much to just a single piece. The only person they've let into their world is Wiltshire saxophonist Andy Sheppard, whose own work contains many of the same smooth and compositionally rich ideas that the trio has loved playing with since the early 2010s, their collaborative 2018 effort Perfectly Unhappy showing how interesting they act as a quartet. Sheppard's saxophone work felt like a natural extension of the warm, ECM-tinged compositional work of the trio that made soft, lounge-ready pieces like the title track of Suburban Folk Song feel just intricate enough to be more than pretty background music. Watching the four of them play together over the years since has been some of the most fun anyone invested in modern jazz can have, always making an impression while never forcing you to take in too much at one time. In the Mountains, their latest outing together, comprises performances at four separate live shows that could easily have fooled me as coming from the same event, three of which feature Sheppard and the rest feature the trio on their own. Running through these seven pieces, it's most interesting how the group's more minimalist approach to jazz instrumentation and harmony allows for a sound unlike most out there. When Shephard appears for the tracks 1979, Anthem and In the Mountains, the extra texture doesn't take away from how stripped-back and lowkey the trio's music is, able to accentuate harmonic layers and untangle winding melodic lines on 1974 through the direction given by Eriksen's piano progressions and the strong rhythmic backing Jenset and Bye provide. Sheppard, so far the only outsider let into the group, has a deep understanding of why the trio do things in such a particular way and consistently helps improve upon it as the ten-minute centerpiece and title track grows and grows with bigger piano chords, louder drum fills and an ever-swelling bass, Sheppard's saxophone lines that dig deep into the dirtier side of his low range and bounce right up into his woozy brighter side makes for one of the most electrifying jazz pieces to come out this year, engrossing you in some of the most fiery performances any of them have given before the soft, brush-drummed ballad Perfectly Unhappy makes for a sweet and sensual comedown from all that. It's not the most invigorating jazz album in recent years, In the Mountains' slow-unfolding nature forces you to put more effort into making sure you don't miss anything that's going on, but that's part of why the album works so well, willing to let you sink into the beauty of it all while simultaneously having enough under the hood for the most well-read jazz fans to dig into for hours at a time. It's the perfect mix of accessibility without sacrificing depth, and that's what makes the Espen Eriksen trio's music together so memorable. The sharp eye they all have for songs that are both thoughtfully composed and emotionally in the moment, following a path that their hearts can decorate in the free-form environment live music provides. On this album's rendition of Suburban Folk Song, you get all new piano parts and unique rhythm changes over the doubled runtime from the original track, using the base song like a light bridge that grows longer and longer as you change the angle at which the sun hits it. When Eriksen falls into a monsoon of tight, high-pitch chord voicings in the halfway mark or Bye throwing in a thumping drum breakdown past the seven minute mark, you can hear in the intensity of their playing that they're existing solely in this moment and getting all they possibly can out of it. Even when Sheppard's not around for pieces like Dancing Demons or Rosemary's Baby and that extra instrumental layer is lost, it's made up for by the trio by giving them the chance to return to the norm and let one another shine, be it in Epsen's anxious piano interplay with his right and left hand on the former track or the bass-heavy opening of Suburban Folk Song that brings out some of the warmest and thickest notes Jenset plays on the entire album. Considering that not all these tracks were recorded at the same performances, it's extra stunning just how cohesive the whole thing feels, the power behind the Epsen Eriksen Trio never letting up no matter where they are and making the results of In the Mountains that much more impressive with their chemistry and understanding of one another's playing. It's not a traditional live album, but it sure has the same sense of preciousness and exploration to it all that you can't find in any other kind of music. It's a bit of an odd way to do things, sure, but the multiple live shows compiled here on In the Mountains gives a taste of the Espen Eriksen Trio, plus Andy Sheppard, in different environments at different times, all the while keeping the music consistently charming and beautiful throughout. They know one another well, and the twelve years they've spent making music together speak for themselves as each new release continues to bring their minds and their art closer together. It's a joy getting this small chunk of their live sets here with In the Mountains, a drama and verve often absent from their more thoroughly laid-out albums spurred on by the high-stakes world of live music that forces them to take whatever path comes next, or risk it all falling apart. It's a perfect way for those unfamiliar with the group to get an introduction, seeing the best in them and how they work second-by-second with one another that makes diving into the depths of their discography that much more fun after. In the Mountains is the result of a group with nothing to prove, comfortable and confident in themselves and letting the music flow freely from their minds, without worry. It's the absolute best this kind of music can get.

#espen eriksen trio #andy sheppard #in the mountains #rune grammofon #avant-garde jazz #ecm style jazz #jazz #post-bop #2022 #8/10

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pedrito-friskito · 2 years

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a time for sinners and a time for saints - matt murdock x vigilante!reader

summary: there’s someone in your city, and it turns out to be more interesting than you bargained for.

warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, heavy petting, fingering, cursing, etc.

a/n: @saintmurd0ck sent me a request about matt x vigilante!reader and my brain went 👁👄👁 so here have some more

murdock tags: @moonlarking

(series masterlist) (main masterlist) (ao3)

Someone’s in your city.

On the streets below, taxis shuffle through the one-ways and intersections, horns honking at all hours, people yelling from corners, conversation lifting to the skies. Street vendors and black market dealers, musicians tapping on bucket drums and saxophones screeching old tunes. Smells of all sorts — hot dogs, sewage, spilled coffee, burnt-out fires in trash cans — swirl through the air. From your perch, a rooftop between West 48th and Broadway, you tilt your head to the side, listening. The speaker snug in your ear rattles off the police scanner monologue. You pick out a target, get to your feet, and take off.

You hook a knee around the fire escape, riding the ladder down to street level, and sprint down the alleyway, rounding the back of the building before darting up the next set of stairs and up to the next roof. You hear sirens in the opposite direction — not the one you’d picked — but as your fingers clench around the eavestrough, grunting with effort as you lift yourself up, there’s a firm grip on your shoulder, curling into the dark fabric of your stealth suit, lifting you to your feet.

Instantly, you flash your hand out to the person’s elbow, a low grunt reaching your ears, but the grip on you stays firm. “You really don’t want to do this,” you say, your voice low. You reach for the wrist next, your hold as tight as the one holding you. The arm is thick, rippled with muscle, tendons in the forearm dancing under your palm as you’re lifted to your feet, and you turn your eyes to see just what you’re up against.

Fuck. He’s hot.

Clothes as dark as your own, heavy boots, gloves, the works. A black mask covering half his face, but leaving a ridiculously sharp jawline bare, skin pebbled with stubble, the most sinful mouth you’ve ever laid eyes on, and it opens slightly as you stare, his head tilting to the side, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip.

“Who are you,” he says, and even his voice is delicious, rough and gravelly and sending a shock down your spine. It’s not really a question, more of a demand.

“I could ask you the same question,” you say, still gripping the masked man’s wrist. You’ve managed to inch yourself back a bit, turning your body away from the ledge. “I thought I was the only emo-dressed vigilante running around New York right now.”

He cracks a smile. Something in you tightens. “Guess not.”

“Guess not,” you repeat, and you feel the grip loosen ever so slightly. It’s not much, but it’s enough to bat his hand away, stepping out of his grip entirely. The smile widens. “Don’t worry, I’ll play nice.”

“What are you chasing?” he asks, and you slide backwards, towards the centre of the roof, circling him slowly like a lioness stalking its prey. He does look delicious, after all.

“Why should I tell you?”

The smile shrinks to a half smirk, and he raises one hand, placing the other over his heart. “I can guarantee you we’re on the same side, scout’s honour. Or, emo-dressed vigilante’s honour, as it were.”

It puts a grin on your face and you just shake your head. “Give me a name and I’ll think about it.”

“My name?” he asks. “Sort of defeats the whole masked man thing if I tell you who I am, doesn’t it?”

“If you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine,” you sing, and as you step around him further, completing the circle, you can’t help but reach out, dragging a gloved finger across his broad shoulders. “Maybe we could be of use to each other.”

He turns his head to the side, silhouetted by the bright lights of the street below, and heaven above, you could cut glass with that jaw. “What do they call you?”

“I asked you first, handsome,” you purr, and he turns, smirking as your finger moves from it’s place on his shoulder and across his chest, up under his chin. “I can keep a secret. C’mon, I don’t bite. Unless you ask me to.”

“You’re trouble,” he says, chin lifting as you walk your fingers back down his chest, stopping at his sternum.

You scoff. “Maybe so. But the cells full of delinquents and assholes at my favourite precinct says otherwise.”

“You have a favourite precinct?”

You lift a shoulder. “They’re nice to me, and they don’t ask questions when I show up unannounced with criminals. Sure, I’m no Iron Man, but the Avengers have bigger things to worry about than thieves and vandals, right?”

“So you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?” he asks.

“And you’re not?” His smile drops completely, and you can’t help but laugh. “I almost died, in the battle of New York. Buried under a pile of rubble for three days before they pulled me out. I should have died, but I didn’t. So now…”

“You help those who aren’t as lucky as you.”

“Something like that. Grandma used to say I had nine lives. Guess I’m down to eight.”

“Grandma know you’re running around rooftops at night and talking to strangers?”

You actually bark a laugh at that. “She’d have a heart attack if she knew.”

More sirens sound from the street below, and both your heads turn towards it. “Time to go.”

“Guess so. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“Maybe. Take care of yourself, kitten; I’d hate to see you knocked down to seven lives.”

He’s halfway across the roof before you can remember your own voice, the pet name making every part of you heat for a second. “You didn’t tell me your name!”

“Don’t you know?” he says over his shoulder, the grin returning. “I’m the Devil.”

It’s a few weeks, before you catch a glimpse of the Devil again. Even then, it’s only a fleeting thing, a shadow on the rooftop across the alleyway from the one you’re sprinting across. But even in the dark, in the strange backlight New York has to offer, you know that jaw, that smug grin, that black getup.

He doesn’t wave, but puts his fingers to his brow, a subtle salute.

You shake your head and keep running.

There’s blood everywhere.

Everywhere, and it’s gotten to the point where you don’t know what’s yours and what belongs to the annoying fuck trying to punch your lights out. You do know, however, that it’s mostly yours. He’s already sliced you in the side a few times and managed to stab you in the shoulder, you’re eighty percent sure your nose is broken, and you’re definitely going to have a concussion with how many times your head has been slammed into the bricks. Your vision is already a little blurry.

You landed a few good hits, but you’d picked a bad target. The guy is bigger than you, sure, but you’d definitely underestimated how strong he is. He manages to toss you down the alley, your back slamming into the edge of a dumpster, and your whole body lights up with pain. Fuck.

Your eye are clouded, from the headshots and the amount of blood that’s now caught in your mask. You feel like you can’t breathe, and you’re trying to power through, planting your gloved hand on the asphalt, but you can’t pull yourself up. The man’s shadow looms over you, and you open your mouth to say something snarky, but the shadow is joined by another before you can.

You can’t see it, but you hear the sound of a fist connecting with the man’s face. He lets out a pained grunt, and there’s a bang of metal. The man shouts, there’s another bang, and then the alley goes quiet.

“Hey, kitten,�� a familiar voice says, and your heart leaps in your chest. Oh, for the love of god. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You open your mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a tight moan, pain rippling through your body as thick arms slide underneath you. The movement makes your whole body ache, and you use what little strength you have left to rest your head on his shoulder when he lifts you up and against his chest. He starts to head further into the alleyway, and your body sings in pain with every step.

“It’s okay,” the Devil murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

You come to sometime later. It’s hard to say how long. The bed beneath you is definitely not your own, but it’s warm and it’s soft and your sore body is grateful. The sheets have a decidedly male scent to them, and ever so slowly, you push yourself up on your elbows. Your wounds have been tended to, your shoulder and side wrapped in bandages; your outfit is gone, replaced with an old Columbia University t-shirt. You can feel tape over the bridge of your nose, and while your head is groggy as anything, you spy a glass of water and a few ibuprofen on the nightstand.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up,” a voice calls, and you turn your head in it’s direction. “You sort of yelled when I tried to leave you at the hospital.”

Standing in the doorway, is the Devil.

“How long was I out?”

“A few days,” he replies, and you balk. Fuck. And then you realize…you’re looking at his face. His actual face.

You know it’s him, judging by the all too familiar voice (a little higher-pitched than the voice he uses when he has the mask on, but it’s still familiar) and the sharp as hell jawline. There’s no mask now, and you find ruffled dark hair, bright brown eyes, and those broad shoulders stretched beneath a dark t-shirt, legs covered by grey sweats, and oh my god, he’s tucked the cuffs into his socks.

“The Devil has a face,” you say. “I must be a lucky girl.”

“Well, I had to take your mask off to clean up the blood,” he answers, leaning against the doorway. God, you’re really not sure what you like better, the Devil, or the man he is in the daylight. “It only seemed fair. Plus, we’re on the same side.” He smirks. “Although, you do have a leg up on me now.”

“Oh?”

“May I?” he asks, inclining his head into the room. It must be his bedroom, you realize. You’re in his bed. When you answer yes, he steps inside, walking towards the bed and settling onto the edge of it. “Let’s just say, I wouldn’t be able to pick you out in a lineup. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Your head cocks to the side, and you blink hard at the rush of pain that slides through your skull with the movement. That’s when you realize. His eyes aren’t actually on your face, not really. They’re not focused, a beautiful shade of brown that flits across your features but doesn’t actually land, doesn’t stay in one spot.

He’s blind.

“You’re…?” you trail off, not sure the best way to say it. Is it polite to just say it outright?

“Blind,” he says, finishing the sentence for you. Well, that answers that. “Mostly.”

“Mostly? You’re mostly blind and you moonlight as a masked vigilante?”

“A story for another time,” he says, and reaches out to cover your hand with his own. His hands are big and you can feel your cheeks heat when his fingers curl around yours. He smiles. “How are you feeling?”

You sigh, sinking into the pillows a little more. “Like I got my ass beat.”

“Sounds about right.” He reaches a hand out, and his fingers rest lightly on your cheek. “Your nose wasn’t broken, by the way.”

“Oh, thank god,” you whisper out, relieved. “I’m sure my face is a mess.”

The corner of his mouth quirks. “You’re beautiful.”

The words make your face heat. “Said the blind man.”

“Mostly blind,” he reiterates, and his hand moves from your cheek to your jaw, fingers firm beneath your chin. “I’m glad you’re all right, kitten.”

“Thanks to you,” you say. “Thank you, by the way, for stepping in.”

“Happy to,” he grins. “Can’t have you losing any more of those lives, right? Besides, like you said: maybe we can be of use to each other.”

“I’ll have to return the favour,” you scoff, realizing that his fingers haven’t left your chin. “So, you’ve shown me your face, am I overstepping if I ask for your name?”

“Oof, now you’re just crossing the line,” he says, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s joking. He’s also leaning towards you. Oh my god. “It’s Matt. Matt Murdock.”

You breathe out your own name, lifting up on your hands again, closing the distance between you. His hand drags down your chin, skimming over your collarbone before the flat of his palm rests against your chest, right over your heart.

“Excited, kitten?”

You’re not ashamed to admit there’s a fire between your legs, and every move he makes is stoking it, making your breath catch in your throat. He inhales sharply, planting his other hand beside your hip.

“Can I kiss you?”

You barely nod, breathing out a yes please before his lips come crashing down onto yours. It’s soft but hard at the same time, his palm moving back up until it’s resting against your throat, fingers curling around your neck lightly. It makes you gasp, and while your movements are slow, his are careful. He groans into you, pushing his forehead against yours after a moment, pulling his mouth from yours to suck down a breath.

“Is it strange for me to say I’ve wanted to do that since that night on the rooftop?”

You shake your head, letting your eyes flutter shut. “Kiss me again.”

He cracks a smile again, and obliges, tilting his head to the side so he can kiss you from a different angle this time. His tongue slides across the seam of your lips this time, and you drop your jaw, letting him in, moaning at the taste of coffee on his tongue. You lift your own hand to his shoulder, curling your fingers in the fabric of his t-shirt, trying to pull him closer. Your body aches, but you don’t care, pushing through the pain because he feels so good.

“Matt,” you start, wincing when you move too fast and your side sparks with pain.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, his voice lower and huskier. He sounds more like the Devil now, and it sends a thrill through you. “I’ll be careful.” His mouth moves to your forehead, kissing you once, twice, three times. “I just wanna make you feel good.”

You nod again and he moves himself further onto the bed, tilting you back to lay against the pillows again and fitting himself at your side. His mouth moves back to yours, kissing your bottom lip and then your top one, the corner of your mouth and your cupid’s bow. And all the time, his hand roves down your front, careful as anything over the bandages before his knuckles skim your hip and trace over the hem of your underwear. You’re twitching, reaching one hand up to thread in his hair while he drinks down the moans that slip out of you.

He rubs a perfect circle over your clit and your jaw drops open. He uses it to his advantage, licking into your mouth, smiling against your lips as he draws another circle. “You’re wet,” he murmurs, cursing under his breath.

The hand not in his hair reaches for his wrist and you curl your fingers around it, lifting your hips up to chase his touch, gasping when his fingers slip lower, one finger dipping in to his first knuckle before he draws back. “Oh god, Matt, more please,” you whisper, and he kisses you deeper, swallowing your noises as he slides one finger all the way in, dragging along the deepest parts of you before pulling out completely. You whine at the loss, but then there’s two thick fingers breaching you instead, and you relax into the feeling, sighing into his mouth.

He sets a perfect rhythm, the pads of his fingers finding that devastating part of you all too easily. It’s like he’s trained for this. It doesn’t take much for you to cum, everything in you clamping down on his fingers as he fucks you through it, kissing the gasps from your mouth and mumbling encouragements. “Good girl, kitten,” he whispers, and it’s a miracle you don’t cum again right there on the spot. Every bit of pain in you recedes for one blissful moment, your back arching until your chest is flush with his.

He kisses you a little while longer, hand still between your legs, both of you unwilling to move for a moment.

Now this is going to be interesting.

#murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock smut #daredevil #daredevil x reader #daredevil x you #daredevil smut #my fics #matt murdock x vigilante!reader #a time for sinners and a time for saints #the kitten and the devil

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awhiskeyriver · 3 years

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le cirque monstre

This is the prologue to an old but newly updated story I idea I’ve had for years, sort of forgot about and recently remembered and became interested in again. I honestly don’t know when I will transfer this over to ao3 (probably at least the prologue, soon) or when I will add more. My inspiration for things is very fleeting right now, but I wanted to get your thoughts here in tumblrland on whether or not I should bother continuing!

Unedited and some things might end up changing in the future, but enjoy!

+++

Prologue: 1918, Coney Island

She used to think the cotton-spun candy that tasted like melted sugar was just like a dream; too good to be true. She was younger then, and everything about life was shiny and vibrant. Her nose crinkled with distaste as her boney knee stuck to the floor of the bleachers. Not anymore, though. Now, the popular fair treats were only a nuisance, making her job of cleaning between shows all the more difficult.

“Applesauce,” she muttered, twisting to sit on her butt as she peeled a piece of gum from her skin.

“What are you complaining about now, Katniss?” Gale asked, poking up from the row behind her with a devilish grin. Katniss rolled her eyes when he reached out to poke her nose, wondering how someone three years older than her could still be so immature. Gale and her had been best friends since the time she was small, bonded through unfortunate circumstances of life.

“I’m tired of cleaning these seats,” she pouted, sweating and absolutely exhausted. It had been their fourth show of the day, with five more to get through before calling it an evening. Katniss felt the sharp pangs of hunger vibrate through her stomach and moaned.

“If you quit being such a dewdropper this could’ve been done by now and we’d be off eating lu—“ he cut off, ears perking at the sound of distant voices growing closer. Katniss turned to face Gale before he pushed the top of her head in signal to crouch, doing the same for himself.

Female voices billowed through the auditorium, followed by that of her father, whose voice was authoritative and all business. He cleared his throat loudly a couple of times before joining in their quiet laughter with a hardy one of his own that reverberated off the bleachers. Katniss shrunk further into the ground with the sound. Father had always been a vocal man. Vocal when he was happy, even more so when he was angry. He talked, and Katniss listened. Katniss was always listening.

“The children all loved the performance today.”

“Simply loved it!” another high-pitched voice agreed. Katniss twisted her head uncomfortably in hopes of seeing beneath the bleachers and caught sight of two women dressed in long black robes with matching white-lined headdresses.

Nuns from the orphanage.

Gale had sold them tickets earlier before the last showing, and Katniss had hoped she would’ve finished her chores in time to see the children. Because despite living within her father’s circus (what he advertised to be the happiest place in America) there was a surprisingly low number of people who were willing to keep her boredom occupied.

“Children, what must you say now to Mr. Snow?” A chorus of cheerful thank you’s sounded, and underfed children whose clothing didn’t exactly fit wore bright grins. Perhaps the advertising hadn’t been entirely false. They all sure seemed to think so.

The children lined up behind the tallest sister like toy soldiers, marching towards the opening flap of the tent. All, except for one.

“Not you, young man.”

Katniss had practically turned herself upside down in effort to keep the woman in her line of sight, and caught the faintest glimpse of the child. He wasn’t facing her, but his hair was ash-blonde and unattended. Although he wore the same uniform as the other boys, it was sloppy with his shirt un-tucked and it’s color slightly off-white.

“You are not going anywhere,” she spoke dismissively as the other sister came to stand beside her.

“…But, have I done something wrong?”

His voice surprised her. Strong for a child, despite the same unavoidable squeakiness Gale experienced sometimes, being almost fourteen.

“Part of becoming a man,” he’d said proudly when her and her baby sister Prim giggled. “It’s called puberty.”

“Puber-what?” Prim asked, nose wrinkled.

“Awe, forget it.”

“Peeta...” The one reached out, as if to touch him but recoiled before her hand could land on his shoulder, and drew back. “Our home has no place for you, anymore. There is nothing we can do for you.”

He remained quiet as the softer one peered up at her stone-faced sister, who only nodded with agreement.

“You belong here. There is simply nowhere else for you to go.”

“There is not a soul in New York who cares to take in a crippled boy.”

Father took a step in closer to the nuns, who stood a fair distance from the wilting boy. Katniss watched on, her heart beating explosively inside of her chest in a way that made her breaths almost ragged. She’d witnessed cruelty tenfold and was not blind to its existence. But the reality of what the young man was crashed down on her heavily, and she realized perhaps they were not being heartless afterall.

The boy was grotesque. Evidence of the fact made clear as he turned on a crutch made of wood and exposed his profile. It took a hand covering her mouth to keep from making any audible sound.

So, they were simply right, then. There wasn’t a soul in New York, or most likely any state, that would willingly take him into their care. Nobody but a circus.

He resisted as her father’s thick hand clutched his arm, but surprisingly enough did not scream. He did not say a single word as he finally spun around fully into Katniss’s view. Watching with a mixture of fear and dread as the two nuns who had escorted him in left without him.

+++

“Quit trying to bug him, Kat,” Gale snapped, catching her arm outside of the tent where all of the circus freaks were busy preparing for their shows.

Three weeks had passed since the boy joined her father’s circus, parading around with clowns on stilts and the small people that waddled around in shoes five times too big and circular red noses. Three weeks and any time she tried to catch a glimpse of him outside of the show, Gale caught her.

“Aren’t you at all curious?” she huffed, twisting out of his embrace with a thoughtful rub to her elbow. “Haymitch says he is only thirteen. The youngest carnie we’ve ever had.”

“Then going in there will only make him feel like more of a freak,” he scolded and Katniss wilted, realizing the truth to his words. They both jumped as father’s booming voice sounded from a distance, calling Gale’s name.

“I need to go start selling tickets,” he sighed, turning to leave with suspicion in his eye. “Promise me, Kat.”

“…Oh, alright.”

“Promise me.”

Katniss sighed, smoothing out the fluffy material of her dress as something to keep her hands busy. “Yes Gale, I promise to stay out of trouble. Now go, or you’ll have to answer to the whip.”

He left and Katniss paced the length of the carnie tent. There was music playing inside, the soft blare of a saxophone and some sticks against metal pots. Katniss enjoyed spending time with the performers when allowed. Chaff, the deep-skinned muscle man that could lift four hundred pounds despite missing a hand, made her laugh. And Haymitch, a magician, let her play with some of his props when he was drunk enough.

So, really, her going inside of the tent wasn’t completely for the new boy. She had been keeping her fingers crossed during the promise to Gale, anyways.

Katniss glanced around the abandoned backlot, where dark puddles of mud created divots in the green grass she was forced to hop over to keep her shoes clean. Then, she slipped past the thin curtain, which closed off the strange world of fantasy from harsh reality.

Katniss went unnoticed, weaving her way through lounging performers and billowing clouds of smoke. It was always louder in the back tents – deep laughter and saxophone practices, occasional drunken arguments and the escaped moans from two closer carnies. She winced when the volume grew unexpectedly, and bowed her head as if to provide a thin veil of privacy to a group of outlandish people who didn’t know the meaning of it.

She waved at Haymitch, who only raised up his eyebrows in her direction before blowing up a shining red balloon and twisting it with his skilled hands. The other clowns seemed to be hanging close by; some sleeping, others smoking. The new boy most likely wasn’t far. She bit the inside of her cheek, silently debating with herself whether or not to ask of his whereabouts before she caught a glimpse of something that captured her attention.

There it is again, she thought, following the thin trail of light that bounced off the draped edge of the tent, which was otherwise dark. She bent over in half, silently pushing past it with curiosity in her expression. The corners of her mouth lifted when she saw him, sitting perched on the clear opposite end near one of the long poles, which held the tent in place. With a thin, melting candle for light, he kept a novel perched in his one bent knee, his eyes scrolling the pages like a typewriter.

“Hello,” she offered, jumping in surprise when the boy dropped the book and shot up on one wobbly leg.

“Oh…” she bit the corner of her bottom lip to keep from giggling at his startled expression. His overgrown hair fell haphazardly into his eyes despite his best efforts to push it back.

“Did I scare you?” She asked, reaching out to hand him his cane. He didn’t reply, but accepted the crutch quickly before bending over for the book, which he tucked behind his back away from her view.

“It’s alright, I’m not gonna take it,” she promised. He glanced down at her, bright blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I was just curious.”

He huffed in silence, falling back to the ground silently as he dusted the dirty pages. Katniss frowned, shifting on her feet as she watched the boy flip through his story. She hadn’t thought past the initial finding him, and now that she had, the silence was deafening.

“Can you speak?”

The tips of his ears turned red as he kept his gaze focused at the ground, running his hands over the dirty cloth of his pants.

“Of course.”

“I know,” she smiled slyly, inching closer to him the way one might approach a nervous animal. “I just wanted to hear you say something.”

She sat down, pushing her butt closer when he didn’t protest and leaned over his shoulder to glance down at his lap. She’d never seen a book so close in real life, only in the hands of strangers or in pictures. Father had never bothered teaching her how to read more than a few simple words, claiming it was pointless for girls to fill their heads with nonsense like knowledge. Certainly, as a circus girl, it wasn’t Katniss’s place to argue. But, it hadn’t helped her curiosity. She sat in silence, wondering if the boy could actually read the words on the pages, or if he was pretending. It was just as ridiculous for the time to be spent teaching him such a skill as it would be for herself.

“What is your novel about?”

“You can borrow it, if you would like,” he offered, dog-earing one of the pages before handing it over to her waiting hands. Her lips pursed sourly as her eyebrows furrowed, pushing the book back into his hands with a sting of betrayal in her chest.

“Well, you don’t need to make fun of me.” she mumbled, rising up to her feet. How humiliating, to be made fun of by this boy she’d only hoped to make feel more comfortable.

“Wait.” He grabbed hold of her arm, the first physical contact he’d offered to her since she’d approached. Her body stiffened and the warmth of his fingertips was gone in a flash as his hand twitched back down to his side. He pushed a long lock of hair back behind his ear, eyes boring into her despite her back being turned.

And it was then, under the candlelight that she saw the gnashes and hideous scarring that ripped apart more than half of his face up close. Quickly, she looked away.

“I wasn’t making fun of you,” he promised lowly, sounding almost sincere. “I wouldn’t.”

“I can’t read. You should know that,” she sniffed, chin tilted up in the air as her eyes shifted back to his forlorn face. “I’m a lady.”

“My apologies. Someone I kne—” he stopped himself short with a shake of his head before cocking his chin back in the direction of the book. He ghosted a hand over its impressive script before opening it back up to the page he’d previously closed. “Perhaps, I could teach you. If you wanted to learn, then you could borrow it sometime.”

Katniss took a moment to truly ponder the idea. Plenty of carnie’s had taught her things over the years. Octavia, the lady with facial hair as long as that which grew on Katniss’s head, had taught her how to properly buckle her shoes when she was younger. And to that day, Haymitch took credit for teaching the girl her first words. She didn’t suppose accepting such a proposition from this boy was much different.

“What would you like in return?” she wondered aloud, confused by the boys humorless laughter, sounding through the dark space.

“Your company shall be payment enough.”

She imagined the boy, all by himself in the dark confines of the carnie tent with only the book as company, and pitied him. She knew well that it took more than being surrounded by a sea of people to not feel alone. Gale and Prim would like her new friend though, she was sure of it, and together they would all keep him fine company until he found a solid place within the odd circus family.

“Alright,” Katniss agreed, dusting the dirt from the bottom of her old dress. She needed to be going soon, or Gale would grow suspicious. The last thing she needed was father out searching for her when he had a show to run. “Friends, then.”

“Sure,” he agreed slowly, as if mulling over the word. “Friends.”

“But we can hardly be friends if I don’t know your name,” she argued, waiting patiently with her hands twisted together. Her tightly spun sausage curls bounced with every step she took in the direction of the main tent before stopping just outside of it. “Mine is Katniss.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Katniss,” he spoke, so eloquently for someone of his status. “I’m Peeta.”

#fanfic #writing #circus!everlark #this will definitely be on the darker side...lol #probably the darkest thing ive written #very different #but i hope interesting??#let me know if its worth continuing or aborting LOL #writing is hard #everlark #everlark fanfic #thg #why is putting something out into the universe so hard?? lol

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dustedmagazine · 3 years

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Dust Volume 7, Number 9

Les Filles de Illighadad

Another collection of short reviews closes out this week at Dusted, with selections ranging from avant garde classical to free jazz to whacko punk to an unusually gender-inclusive guitar band from Niger. Writers this time included the usual stalwarts, Bill Meyer, Ray Garraty, Jennifer Kelly, Jonathan Shaw, Bryon Hayes, Tim Clarke, Andrew Forell and Chris Liberato. Enjoy.

All Set — All Set (RogueArt)

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In 1957, serialist composer Milton Babbitt’s All Set applied his language-transforming compositional tool kit to the sonic resources of a jazz orchestra. Six decades and change down the road, such ideas haven’t exactly infiltrated the mainstream of either jazz or orchestral music, but they’ve become as handy for some music makers as hammers and nails are for carpenters. So, when saxophonic colleagues Ingrid Laubrock (who sticks to tenor here) and Stéphane Payen (playing the straight alto) needed to come up with a framework to make music together, out came Babbitt’s notion, which they did not play straight, but used as a suggestions for writing their own tunes, and for good measure named their band after the Babbitt’s piece The formative influence manifests in zig-zagging intervallic leaps, but instead of treating these of ends in themselves, the saxophonists carry on constant overlapping dialogues. The rhythm section of Chris Tordini (bass) and Tom Rainey (drums) can’t help but swing, but they do so in a shifting, discontinuous fashion that occasionally leaves it to the saxophonists to play the gaps as well as the horns they use the fill them.

Bill Meyer

Rodrigo Amado Motion Trio & Alexander Von Schlippenbach — The Field (No Business)

The Field by Rodrigo Amado Motion Trio & Alexander von Schlippenbach

Motion Trio is one of tenor saxophonist Rodrigo Amado’s more enduring combos. But it’s not one that has played often in the years preceding this concert, a consequence of the growth and success of its members; Amado, cellist Miguel Mira and drummer Gabriel Ferrandini all keep busy with other projects. So, this encounter with pianist Alexander von Schlippenbach, which took place in Vilnius, Lithuania in 2019, was not just a reenactment of the trio’s favorite tactic of improvising with a strong fourth musician, but a reunion of the trio itself. This means that the process-oriented can listen for three comrades finding reviving a common language at the same time that they confront with an outsider’s efforts to deal with it. Schlippenbach’s playing brings an unusual harmonic density to Motion Trio’s music, which seems to coax an especially dynamic and at times reflective response from the saxophonist. Ferandini, on the other hand, proposes shapes and timbres that seem to build out from Schlippenbach’s intricate constructions, while Mira keeps up a steady, almost subliminal stream of contrapuntal commentary that is simultaneously assertive and nearly subliminal. But some of the concert’s most exciting moments come when the pianist lays out for a second, and you can hear Motion Trio’s members responding to each other.

Bill Meyer

BangGang Lonnie Bands — H2K On the Way (TF Entertainment \ Anti Media)

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Lots of artists have watched small projects intended only as appetizers grow to surpass their grander efforts. BangGang Lonnie Bands’ recent work, especially his King of Detroit albums, contained a few gems but were bloated in length. There was an ironic twist, as Lonnie’s claimed the throne to the city where he no longer resides. While it remains to be seen what the rapper brings after H2K On the Way, this 15 minutes long EP is his leanest work in years, leaving a long list of LPs behind. Lonnie no longer flirts with scam rap and returns to murder music, fusing gutsiest Michigan-style punchlines with no hostage Californian approach to verse spitting. He’s the naughtiest when he’s trolling the music industry: “Copped a 100 pounds of crank \ should have bought a verse from Drake.”

Ray Garraty

Buffalo Daughter — We Are the Times (Anniversary)

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Buffalo Daughter always caught in the cracks between mainstream and experimental, layering vocal sweetness over chopped up blippy beats, not as wildly original as OOIOO, but not exactly girl pop either. This latest album comes after a long break and a slightly less lengthy COVID lockdown, and it’s got some prickly, dreamy jams, part dance, part pop, part funk, part inscrutable. “ET (Densha)” is the mad, moody single, full of low-end synth blasts and thundering drums, but leavened by high whispery vocals. It’s like Shackleton sound-tracking a Hello Kitty movie. “Global Warming Will Kill Us All” is similarly ominous, with vocoder chants and trippy pop choruses and blown out by phosphorescent blots of synth, but I like “Don’t Punk Out” the best, because it struts like an animatronic James Brown, the funk percolating through gleaming futuristic swells of sounds. If disco’s going to come back, can it be this weird and disorienting?

Jennifer Kelly

Fashion Pimps and the Glamazons — Jazz 4 Johnny (Feel It Records)

Jazz 4 Johnny by Fashion Pimps And The Glamazons

This new EP from Fashion Pimps and the Glamazons manages to fit into the tradition of whacko punk records from Cleveland (and what a tradition that is…) and to comment on the problematic nature of tradition itself. There’s a decided No Wave vibe to Jazz 4 Johnny: listen to it, and you’ll flash on Buy Contortions and on Robert Quine’s attempts to channel Miles Davis and Pharoah Sanders through his guitar. At points you’ll swear there’s a sax somewhere in the buzz and thunder that the Fashion Pimps create — but that’s just Richard Glamazon’s skronky guitar tone, which does Quine one better by not only aping the cadences of a free jazz solo but also the sound of a brassy axe. That’s fun, but we should also recall No Wave’s sharp antipathies for concepts like “tradition” or “perpetuity.” A lot of those bands wanted to neutralize their own existence and thus evade the ultimately conservative action of canonization. Other tunes on Jazz 4 Johnny are more engaged with the later Downtown noise rock scene. The guitar on “Dream Police” gestures toward early Sonic Youth—but even there, the band can’t quite help themselves. Vocalist Steve Chainsaw shouts, “Show me your DNA!” Most of those references are based in Manhattan, so what about Cleveland? The city often recedes into the background when conversations turn to rock-n-roll history, which is too bad. Fashion Pimps and the Glamazons don’t sound all that much like electric eels or Pere Ubu, but the band is tuned into a similarly feral, post-industrial ethos and an avant-garde sensibility that makes anti-art into art you can dance to. Or break things to. Or both. Which may be the best response to the wild and smart tunes on this record.

Jonathan Shaw

Les Filles de Illighadad — At Pioneer Works (Sahel Sounds)

At Pioneer Works by Les Filles de Illighadad

The entrancing At Pioneer Works documents the American touring debut of Niger-based Tuareg ensemble Les Filles de Illighadad, specifically a pair of shows at the eponymous Brooklyn venue. Travelling as a four-piece ensemble, the band created a swirling three-guitar maelstrom, as captured on this pristine-sounding recording. Founder Fatou Seidi Ghali — the first known woman Tuareg guitarist — and her cousin Alamnou Akrouni were joined by Fatimata Ahmadelher, the only other known woman Tuareg guitarist, with Ghali’s brother accompanying on rhythm guitar. Blending the traditional calabash drum and call-and-response vocals of the tende song form with the electric guitar, Ghali and company steep the communal origins of their sound with a gentle clangor. The music is simultaneously hypnotic and driving, the four performers acting as one multi-limbed, multi-throated being. For the most part, Ghali is content setting the pace and playing along with the melody. One exception is the trio of deftly executed solos during “Chakalan,” where she demonstrates her prowess with six strings. Reports from those Brooklyn shows indicate that the band completely enraptured their audience, and if At Pioneer Works represents only a fraction of how powerful Les Filles de Illighadad are live, this writer doesn’t doubt that at all.

Bryon Hayes

Henri Guédon — Karma (Outre National)

Karma by Henri Guédon

You don’t have to be a big fan of R.E.M. to feel overly familiar with “It’s The End of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine).” In dire times, it’s such an easy go-to tune that even adherence to lockdown prescriptions won’t keep it out of your ears. So, deejays, we’ve done your research for you, and found a new tune to soundtrack defiant frugging in the face of disaster. It’s called “Fin Di Mond,” by Martinique-based singer/percussionist/sculptor Henri Guédon. It, and eight more similarly motion-motivating tunes, can be found on Karma, a predominantly celebratory set of retro-futuristic, Franco-Caribbean grooves. Mind you, this music wasn’t retro when Guédon recorded it 46 years ago; the synth lines that swoop through its massed percussion were probably the height of modernity back in the day. Heard now, this music is just the thing to put time itself on pause.

Bill Meyer

HTRK — Rhinestones (Heavy Machinery)

Rhinestones by HTRK

Rhinestones is a sneaky one from Melbourne’s HTRK, a slight but incisive release that seems minor compared to their previous albums but cuts just as deep. Running to a brutally economical 26 minutes, most of the album is built around delayed guitar, drum machine and Jonnine Standish’s ghostly, dejected voice. To a world laid low by the pandemic, Standish sounds startlingly apposite for these times, and track titles like “Sunlight Feels Like Bee Stings,” “Real Headfuck” and “Straight to Hell” signpost the vibe clearly. This is sad, skeletal music, sure to offer a degree of solace if you’re weary, wrung out or wasted — 2021 in a nutshell.

Tim Clarke

Matt Jencik — Matt & Lyra (Trouble In Mind)

Matt & Lyra by matt jencik

Matt Jencik is a member of doomy, spacey Chicago band Implodes, plus he’s released two solo guitar albums: 2017’s Weird Times and 2019’s Dream Character. For his latest, Matt & Lyra, part of Trouble In Mind’s Explorers Series, Jencik focuses on the thick, fuzzy tones of the Russian-built Lyra-8 synthesizer (hence the album title). Having said that, he does pull out his guitars to add some acoustic strumming to “Cmellow Ayellow,” and builds 16-minute closer “Clandestine Half Pipe” around electric guitar drones before the Lyra begins to dominate the frame. Jencik apparently made this music to help him sleep, and while this music is suited to nocturnal listening, with an all-enveloping warmth, there’s also the sense of something looming in the darkness. Whether this presence is reassuring or threatening probably depends on the frame of mind with which you approach this immersive 35-minute release.

Tim Clarke

Joakim — Second Nature (Tiger Sushi)

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French producer and Tiger Sushi founder Joakim’s Second Nature is a reflection on the state of the world. It combines samples of whales, elephants, toads and other wildlife with the kind of pop facing ambient techno from aughts chillout compilations. It is testament to his skill as a producer that the record doesn’t wear out its welcome despite the occasional lapse into the anodyne and the associations this kind of gentle background music evokes. When Joakim disturbs the tranquility on tracks like “Sferics & Whistlers” with its crackles of static and breakdown of discordant notes, Angel Bat Dawid’s klezmatic clarinet on “Waves Ahead” and the komische roll of “Kepler-39” that one is jolts from reverie and pays close attention, but at 16 tracks it feels like Second Nature needs more such moments.

Andrew Forell

The Killing Popes — Ego Kills (Shhpuma)

Ego Kills by The Killing Popes

Thank god this unfortunately named combo isn’t someone’s absurd scheme to crossbreed the sounds of Killing Joke and Smoking Popes. Instead, the Berlin-based project exists at the crossroads of jazz and electronics. I know what you’re thinking, and no this isn’t a modern take on acid jazz; this crew makes a jazz-on-acid sort of racket. The core Popes are drummer-percussionist Oli Steidle and multi-instrumentalist Dan Nicholls, who together conjure up a brew with a myriad of ingredients. Their genre-defying fusion of disciplines does have a center, however. Steidle’s dextrous drumming and the elastic band bass proffered by Phil Donkin serve as an anchor point for the other elements — both melodic and bizarre — to revolve around. The addition of vocals inserts the sense of narrative, creating a gravity that tugs at the sounds and prevent them from spiralling out of orbit. As zany as Ego Kills may be, it’s jazz-like enough for afficionados to appreciate. On their own, each of the instrumentalists demonstrates a mastery of their craft; together, they create an uncanny sort of magic.

Bryon Hayes

Norman W. Long — BLACK BROWN GRAY GREEN (Hausu Mountain)

BLACK BROWN GRAY GREEN by Norman W. Long

Chicago soundscapist Norman W. Long walks his southeast Chicago neighborhood, listens deeply and records the ambient sounds of nature, the echoes of railyards, wasteland and industrial sites both working and abandoned. Adding subtle electronics and treatments to his field recordings, Long conjures atmospheres that speak to space, atrophy and the delicate symbiosis between nature and humanity. On BLACK BROWN GRAY GREEN he immerses listeners in the often unnoticed aural richness at the intersection of the built, neglected and the natural. His choices about when to augment or to present his sources as are forms a narrative of associations, displacements and tensions. Long’s is also a story of reclamation and recognition, a rumination on the situation of the largely minority and migrant populations who live in the neighborhood, many of whom toil as essential workers across the city in the face of ongoing prejudice and hostility. Site specificity is integral to Long’s art but his themes are universal.

Andrew Forell

Andy Moor — Music For Safe Piece (Unsounds)

Music For Safe Piece by Andy Moor

Music For Safe Piece is the antidote for every piece of children’s music that’s ever made you want to not hear another played or sung note, ever again. Electric guitarist Andy Moor (the Ex, Dog Faced Hermans) and dancer Valentina Campora have included their sons, Elio and Milo, in onstage performance ever since they were so young, they had to be swaddled and strapped to one of their parents in order to participate. The recorded results of this shared adventure are raw, unpredictable and exhilarating. Moor’s guitar, occasionally augmented by a child’s vocalization, a foot pounding the floor or some choice tune fragments on a cassette tape, blazes a trail of reverberations, scrapes and wobbles. In performance, the boys are known to get in on the act, helping pop to make his sounds while mom handles the movement. This music isn’t particularly pacific, but it’s pretty close to the way kids actually play when no one’s stopping them. The technologically adept will find a QR code inside the CD’s gatefold, which unlocks the short film, “Safe Piece.”

Bill Meyer

RXM Reality — Advent (Orange Milk)

Advent by RXM REALITY

Long-time Hausu Mountain dweller Mike Meegan has relocated to the Orange Milk abode, taming his frenetic brand of electronic mayhem in the process. The blown-out, off-the-grid beats are still plentiful, but with Advent Meegan injects his tunes with melody. He’s also allowed himself to slow down and relax. The vast expanse of “Character Limit” literally breathes deeply as Meegan allows it to swirl around. He drinks up the pleasant melodic aromas of the track before switching gears and unloading burst after burst of explosive beats. “These Days” comes off as an electro-shoegaze hybrid, with gauzy synth pads that float effortlessly among bouncy percussion clusters. Of course, the signature RXM Reality sound — a hybrid of 1990s video game and blockbuster movie — is present and accounted for in tracks like “Allure,” “Screaming,” and “Grip of Evil.” Yet even these balls of energy are tempered with shades of consonance. Having blunted some of the jagged edges of his frantic brand of electronic music, Meegan fits in nicely among the kooky ranks of the Orange Milk imprint.

Bryon Hayes

Macie Stewart — Mouth Full of Glass (Orindal)

Mouth Full of Glass by Macie Stewart

You might already know Macie Stewart as one-half of the complicated indie rock duo Ohmme or for her regular appearances as violinist of choice in Chicago jazz and experimental music scenes, but this solo LP shows another side. These eight songs are lushly, intricately arranged with strings, orchestral instruments and brass, recorded with precision and clarity, but nonetheless personal and introspective. “Garter Snake” sheathes flaying honesty with baroque instrumental flourishes. Stewart’s voice is bare and unaffected as she confides, “I am addicted…to indecision,” but she makes riveting choices in framing the melody. Old-fashioned movie strings swell in the spaces between talking-right-to-you verses; agile guitar chords mark time. “Finally” begins in bare, Bahian guitar play, as Stewart’s voice flutters and floats an unpredictable but fetching tune. Strings swoop in at the end of the phrase, lavish and lucid. The title track unlooses massed, harmonized vocals on the spare architecture of picked guitar, a shock of extravagant sung beauty in an otherwise restrained palette. Like Wendy Eisenberg, but with different instruments, Stewart weaves post-modern complexity into the delicate fabric of pop songs. The difficulty — combined with the beauty — makes this music memorable.

Jennifer Kelly

Stingray — Feeding Time (La Vida es un Mus)

Feeding Time by Stingray

In places where heavy music is played and endlessly debated, 1982 might be most strongly associated with English street punk — see the ersatz “genre” of UK82, which enshrines the year and ties it to acid green liberty spikes and scuffed Doc Martens. Fair enough. But street punk was thoroughly informed by the dirty working-class metal being made by bands like Motörhead and Venom, and this new EP by Stingray celebrates those noisy intersections of influence. Of course, Stingray’s version of celebration likely involves several cases of Bass Ale, an eightball of something white and a fistfight or two. Or five. The English band features members of other current hard-driving acts, including Subdued, the Chisel and Chain of Flowers, but Stingray doesn’t prize currency. The songs are short, hard and nasty, landing their punches like a “Bomber” and also like a bunch of “Death Dealers.” The guys in Stingray understand the past they’re drawing on, but does music like this have a future? Fuck knows. Do any of us have a future? Does the earthball? The tunes are less interested in such flights of existential angst, and more intent on their rapacious appetites for speed, sweat and raunch. It’s Feeding Time. Get it while you can.

Jonathan Shaw

Nick Storring — Newfoundout (Mappa)

Newfoundout by Nick Storring

You’ll miss some towns if you blink. The ones that have given their names to the compositions on Newfoundout might confound both eyesight and your GPS, since they are all ghost towns in Ontario, Canada. The music that Nick Storring has made to go with these titles is correspondingly elusive. Performed entirely by the composer, using strings, percussion and whatever bric-a-brac happened to be at hand, it is by turns lush, staccato and propulsive. “The sounds are never particularly difficult, but they rarely telegraph where they’re going, so if you listen passively, sooner or later you’ll look up in dismay, wondering how things got from where they were to where they are now. “Khartum,” for example, starts out sounding a lot like “In A Silent Way,” and finishes up sounding like a respectfully paced conference of grandfather clock chimes. So, put your head back and your ears forward, and let Mr. Storring do the driving.

Bill Meyer

Ten Ka — Sonic Geometry: Structures, Patterns And Forms (Jersika)

sonic geometry: structures, patterns and forms by TEN KA

Ten Ka is experimental side project of Deniss Pashkevich, a Latvian woodwinds player. The album title’s invocation of mathematics is apt, since this music is produced by dissimilar musical values acting upon each other. Pashkevich’s sound on tenor sax is full and soft around the edges, which is probably what it takes to be a working musician in a part of the world that doesn’t have much of a jazz tradition; on flutes, and especially the Bansuri, he hints at a far Eastern vibe. He also plays Fender Rhodes and prepared acoustic piano, bringing in further elements of user-friendly jazz, but also some sharp, Cage-y edges. But most of the nine tracks on Sonic Geometry: Structures, Patterns And Forms feature modular synths, which provide a foundation of pulsing bass patterns and some intriguing disruptive, acidic sizzles. It all adds up to something simultaneously familiar and out of the ordinary.

Bill Meyer

Luis Vicente / Vasco Trilla — Made Of Dust (577 Records)

Made of Mist by Luis Vicente & Vasco Trilla

Not many improvisational settings are more exposed that the drums and trumpet duet. The two instruments are sufficiently different in timbre and frequency range that you can’t help but hear everything each player does, and also how those actions fit together. Trumpeter Luis Vicente and percussionist Vasco Trilla approach this situation with a combination of relaxed consideration and wholly earned confidence. Vicente can power-play when necessary, but for this session, he exercises restraint, using mutes to extract the most lyrical and vocal sounds he can muster. Trilla likewise seeks out the extremities of his kit, drawing continuous ribbons of widely differing characters, such as the alarm clock-like clatter and low-scrubbed drumskin heard on “Swirling Mist.” Their interactions are not just sonically novel, but trusting and deeply intimate.

Bill Meyer

Simon Waldram — So It Goes (Self-released)

So It Goes by Simon Waldram

Simon Waldram’s refrain-heavy eighth solo album, So It Goes, is a song cycle on love, loss and acceptance influenced by classic indie pop bands like The Field Mice, The Fat Tulips and The Go-Betweens. Indeed, it was the Grant McLennan-channelling “Don’t Worry,” a plaintive reassurance to a past lover, that initially caught my attention. But “I Miss The Sun” betters it, really laying on the Hammond, and squeezing in something noticeably absent from the other songs: a bridge. “When will we see the lull again/Feels like these dark days will never end,” Waldram sings, reestablishing buoyancy as it winds down repeating the title phrase. There’s promise elsewhere, like on the 1960’s-flavored psych strummer “Boats In The Sky,” before it lifts its bow in harmonic repetition a few too many times without checking its fuel gauge first, stranding itself in the firmament. “The Wild Wanderings of Wildebeests” is another one with potential, but its flawless first verse’s worth of strum and fuzz just recurs instead of building towards something of greater impact. The record hits its lowest point on the nearly nine-minute “Windswept,'' a “Primitive Painters'' rip that goes nowhere productive. When Waldram starts repeating ad infinitum “I miss you so much/ I can’t let go of this dream of ours,” you wish you could step in and save him from himself. A pleasant enough acoustic instrumental with birdsong follows in the form of “One May Afternoon,” serving as a much-needed palate cleanser and bridging the gap to the album’s closer. However, “Shimmer” is another moaner that never quite rounds into shape and instead fades out and then, unremarkably, back in. There’s an EP’s worth of good material on So It Goes, but as an album it only ends up burning itself with the flame its carrying, leaving the listener wondering, “Who hurt you, Simon?”

Chris Liberato

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