The bizarre thing to me is Swift trying to capitalize on the Lana Del Rey The 1975 The Neighborhood 2014 Tumblr black and white aesthetic, now, 10 years after the fact

“Over the Realms and Through the Woods, to Arendelle We Go”

A @cssecretsanta2k19​ gift for @xhookswenchx​

“Over the Realms and Through the Woods, to Arendelle We Go”

By: @snowbellewells​

This is my belated @cssecretsanta2k19​ gift for @xhookswenchx​ ~ and I truly am sorry for making you wait extra days, Lovely. It was such a busy December, then I traveled home, had family engagements, and so on.  But talking with you and learning different things about the show and the holidays that you enjoyed, put this idea in my head early. I just needed the time to write it down.  I have very much enjoyed being your Secret Santa.  I hope that your Christmas was Merry, that you will have a Happy and Blessed New Year. Please enjoy this story gift just for you!

Summary: Emma and Killian take their crew on a holiday road trip to visit old friends and make new Christmas memories…   A CS canon divergent in which the realms have been joined as they were in Season 7’s finale, but Henry has not left the Land Without Magic as he did in Season 7.  I always imagined him going out into the non-magical world for college, to write books, and so on (at least once it became clear they weren’t all going to make a permanent move back to the Enchanted Forest).  So for the purposes of this fic, he is home for the holidays from college, and Emma and Killian also have two little ones of their own. I used the daughter of my fictional invention, Morgan Ruth Jones, rather than Hope.  She’s appeared in some of my other fics, and I’m kinda attached to her.  I’ve gathered you enjoy original CS kids in your writing and reading as well, so I hope you won’t mind that liberty taken. I know that Westley Graham is not as completely original as I thought it was when I dreamed it up, but I love it too (especially since the show gave us so many Liams to keep track of already without naming a son of Emma and Killian’s Liam David as I once would have done).  Westley for the character in “Princess Bride” (‘As you wish’ makes that seem appropriate) and Graham for the hero they should have been naming baby boys after in canon.  You also said you really enjoyed the “Frozen” characters in 4a, so I have tried to incorporate them - and found it to be a fun new character writing stretch.  I truly do hope you will find this fun to read!

*************

“Papa, how much longer?” a tiny voice piped up from the backseat over Killian and Emma Jones’ shoulders with the wheedling tone only a four-year-old’s impatience could muster. “Are we almost there?”

Emma glanced over at her husband with bland exasperation and humor mixed together before swiveling in her seat as much as possible to look back at their daughter Morgan where she sat in her car seat behind Killian, idly alternating between swinging her feet and singing little nonsense songs she made up for herself, staring out the window at the changing scenery as they traveled from one united realm to another, heading ever steadily north toward Arendelle to visit Elsa, Anna, Kristoff, and Morgan’s best friend Sonja, Princess Anna and her husband’s little girl.

Henry, comfortably on his long winter break from his senior year at Boudoin College, had his nose buried in a detective whodunit, and though he was usually quite patient with his much-younger sister, he seemed to be craving some reading time to himself that Emma was willing to humor. She would like to keep them both fairly quiet so that Westley Graham, their youngest at just barely five months, didn’t wake up quite yet from where he was peacefully sleeping in his own backward-facing car seat between his two siblings and where Emma could reach him if needed.

Killian, for his part, chuckled indulgently, his sparkling blue gaze sliding back over to return Emma’s look before answering his little girl, seeming infinitely patient and making Emma love him even more all over again “We are getting closer, little Love,” he assured calmly. “You’ve been very good - and we should be there within the hour now.”

For a moment, Morgan merely nodded and hummed to herself in satisfaction as she watched the scenery pass by out the window. Once they had left Storybrooke behind, the buildings had given way to the forest, thicker and more wild as they had passed through the land of Emma’s birthright rule - the Enchanted Forest. Since then, the forest had thinned out, and slowly the flatter land became foothills, which then turned into snow capped mountains - something which really did seem to almost sparkle before their eyes - not to mention the imaginative view of a toddler. But it wasn’t long before she piped up again, still obviously a bit impatient and unable to hold it in. “Papa? Can you sing a song? … Please?”

Emma snort-laughed at the way her husband’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, not expecting that particular request if his expression could be any indication. Shaking his head, he admitted defeat rather easily for a once-fearsome pirate of the Seven Seas, especially when she playfully jostled his shoulder, egging Morgan on and adding the she would like to hear him as well.

It wasn’t long before Killian’s clear, strong voice was ringing out within the walls of their newer smallish SUV, having left the Bug at home in favorite of more passenger leg room and space for the wealth of presents they were bringing along, both from their immediate family and her parents and other Storybrooke folks who had come to know the Arendellian visitors when they were in the Land Without Magic some years back. The tune her pirate had selected was a rollicking sea shanty - one of their daughter’s favorites - that he and his crew had once sung on the Jolly Roger many years ago as they circled the waters of Neverland endlessly. His song and its playful, raucous melody seemed practically bouncing around the interior of the vehicle, swaying with the rolling buoyancy of its rhythm and pulling Henry from his reading to grin at the song he had heard countless times before. Thankfully Westley didn’t seem in the least disturbed, sleeping right through the impromptu serenade, and Morgan was giggling and clapping her little hands along with her papa’s song. Emma soon found herself singing along as well, watching her family in their joyous uproar, and marveling at the reality that this was the sort of cozy Christmas journey she could have now.

Killian seemed so into his song, and his children’s entertainment, that Emma couldn’t help checking to be certain he was still paying attention to the road ahead. It hadn’t really been until the last couple of years that Killian had begun to take over some driving duties for them on longer trips; having learned to drive capably well before that, but never fully becoming comfortable with - or trusting - their “horseless death traps”, as he often called them. Modern automobiles still seemed smoky, loud, and entirely too unpredictable to a person long used to ships on the sea or riding horseback and in carriages - not to mention one whose first experience with them had been being run down on the road and seriously injured.

All the same, he shot her a look of exaggerated affront as he finished singing, waggling those wildly expressive eyebrows of his at her and pressing his hooked arm to his chest in further drama. “Honestly, Wife? Don’t you trust me more than that by now?” Taking his hook from where it covered his heart, he gestured out the window to indicate the lane beside them. “I may not be as old a hand at driving as most, but I won’t drive us under a semi trailer like that Griswold fellow on the magic box.”

It was Henry who snorted his laughter then, at the reference to National Lampoon’s which they had watched the night before, prior to setting off on their journey. Shaking his head at his stepdad’s odd way of reassuring him, and humored in spite of himself, Henry placed a marker in his book and more fully joined their antics, now that they were drawing nearer to their friend’s kingdom anyway. Danger and adventure, or just taking a family trip; be it Christmas or some random everyday in between, there was never a dull moment with their little crew.

~~~~~***~~~~~***~~~~~

When they entered the Arendelle borders and pulled up to the palace’s front gates, within 45 minutes’ time just as Killian had promised Morgan, the sense of awed anticipation settled over all of them, the air inside the car going quiet at the stunning beauty that met their eyes. Somewhere within the last half hour or so, light flurries of snow had begun to fall around them, looping and twirling through the slowly purpling sky as afternoon inched closer to evening. The ground had already been covered in a picturesque light dusting of white, but it was growing deeper as the additional fluffy flakes continued.

Thankfully, ice didn’t seem to be a part of this particular snowy scene; the roads had remained safely passable and they had made good time. Four uniformed guards two on either side of the wide, silvery sparkling arch and gates of the front entrance to the Queen’s castle and grounds, bowed respectfully as the passageway opened for them. Emma had spoken to her dear friend via magic mirror that morning before they set out, and their arrival had clearly been anticipated.

Despite having been there several times before by that point, all over them sat in openmouthed adoration that overcame them for a few breathless instants. The setting sun hit the gate and front of the castle, sending glitter and sparks of light out to dazzle their eyes. It was as if the whole structure were indeed beautifully coated in ice - and yet there was none of the frigid austerity one might once have feared. Queen Elsa of Arendelle has long since found her equilibrium, allowing her the self-acceptance and open understanding to balance the cold with genuine warmth. She learned to love every part of herself - including her powers - just as she had once helped Emma to do, and as Killian had reminded her ever since.

Their vehicle had barely parked, and they were just stepping out and stretching their tired limbs when they heard familiar voices calling their names, a childish squeal of delight yelping Morgan’s in particular, the sound of several pairs of feet hurrying over freshly fallen snow (well, feet and one set of reindeer hooves) and then they were engulfed in a flurry of hugs and handshakes by the royal family themselves. Anna was predictably firing questions at them as quickly as she could voice them, about their trips, the rest of their family, Belle and the library, without even allowing them time to answer. Kristoff was shaking Killian’s hand and accepting baggage and gift wrapped boxes to lead them inside. Sven snuffled around Henry’s pockets and Morgan’s hair seeking out carrots and other treats as well as providing his own animal greeting. But through the melee, Elsa pressed through to wrap Emma in a fiercely tight hug for several long moments. When she did pull back, it was with a watery smile and unshed tears in her eyes to match those which started in Emma’s.

“I’m so glad all of you have come,” she stated fervently, that sweet, melodious voice trembling with sincerity beyond its usual poise. “Come in, come in.  We’ll get you warm and settled, then we can get caught up.”

Emma nodded, pressing the queen’s hand tightly in her own, before turning to grab more luggage and unfasten Westley from his car seat to do as Elsa suggested.

“Let me help you,” her friend offered, holding out her arms to take the still-sleepy child so Emma could reach the suitcase behind. “May I?”

Emma didn’t hesitate for even a second, easily passing her just-barely-stirring-to-wakefulness infant into her friend’s arms, moving her hand gently so Elsa could cradle Westley’s head and crooning lowly to him until he settled again, rooting deeper into the young queen’s arms as a pleased and rosy smile pinked her cheeks.

Throwing a surreptitious glance over to Killian, only to find him watching her with a comforting smile that already knew where her mind had gone and wished he could undo the old hurt, Emma shook her head to clear the memory as best she could and send her husband a small grin as reassurance that she would be fine. As much as she had tried to banish the moment from her mind, and as much as the sharpest stinging slap of betrayal had faded, Emma still saw her own mother pulling little Neal away from her, protectively fearing her magic and not letting Emma hold her younger brother. Intellectually, Emma knew her mother loved her, magic or no, realized that the knee-jerk reaction had not been aimed to hurt her… and yet… it had.

Watching Elsa as various emotions flitted across her face while cradling her friend’s youngest in her arms, gazing down at the drowsy babe adoringly, Emma knew Elsa had felt that same fear and suspicion she had, and that perhaps Elsa had almost resignedly expected her request to be denied, knew that parental protectiveness all too well, and had been thrilled when she was granted trust instead.

Little Westley Graham did nothing more than flutter his eyelids briefly without fully rousing and gave a slight coo of contentment as the Queen bowed her head to press a light kiss to the top of his downy, sandy-colored hair. “Come on then everyone,” she suggested cheerfully, looking as merry and confident as they had ever seen her and leaving Emma blessedly assured of her friend’s happiness.  “There’s hot chocolate with plenty of marshmallows in the large sitting room.”

She led the way, with Killian, Henry, and Kristoff bringing up the rear to make sure no overexcited little girls, snowmen, or reindeer were left behind. It didn’t take long to find their luggage placed in their rooms, their coats and snow boots shucked off, and all of them seated comfortably scattered around the large open room full of soft chairs and sofas, a roaring fire in the hearth at one end, and plates of toast and jam, cookies, doughnuts, scones and a whole pot of rich hot chocolate with marshmallows set out for the taking.

Conversation hummed warmly throughout the room as the kids played; Henry showing Olaf, Sonja, and his little sister how to make a chain of snow angels for the tree while the four adults caught up on all that had happened since they were last together. Westley had woken up, but to everyone’s surprise, the little boy had not cried or fussed for his mother, and so Elsa still held him gladly. His guileless blue eyes, the mirrored hue of his pirate father’s, blinked up at her curiously, looked more enthralled that concerned by the less familiar person holding him. One pudgy little hand unclenched to reach up toward her almost startlingly white braid and wrapped around the end of it, tugging gently with his tiny fist, and burbling happily as he did.

Elsa practically giggled, a musical, enchanting sound that the rest of them had rarely heard, and a light carefree look graced her face beautifully. “You really are quite a sweetheart, aren’t you?” she whispered to the little one softly.

She did eventually hand Westley back to Emma when he began to wiggle and wanted to eat. Once Emma returned with him after his feeding, she found the Queen of Arendelle seated cross-legged on the floor with Morgan and her niece watching wide-eyed beside her as Elsa effortlessly shaped and reshaped whorls and twists of ice into glittering ornaments she handed them to place on a tree they had left bare for that very entertainment. The girls let out little ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of excitement and surprise with each shape that seemed to bloom from Elsa’s hands into thin air. Each new creation brough exclamations of delight, and the two children then ran to their papas at the tree to lift them up to place them high on the branches, then hurried back to see what ‘Auntie Elsa’ would create next.

As the decorating eventually wound down, the two little whirlwinds huffing and puffing from all their trips back and forth over the length of the room, and Elsa lightly chuckling at their theatrics, Killian came to sit near them as well, gathering Morgan into his lap and nodding encouraging at Sonja until she scooted up close to his side as well. Soon he was telling them a story of the first time he saw snow fall at sea as a young lad. He remembered how it looked trailing down to rest on nearly frozen arctic water, where their captain had unwisely taken them too far north for the season.

He was relating how his older brother Liam had distracted him by encouraging his wonder at the beauty of the sight. Killian himself had not realized until much later - a similar instance on his own ship facing the very real danger of ice floes in the water and the precarious travel a ship must make in the depths of winter driving the memory home - just how much danger they had been in that night as he had simply marveled at what seemed to his young mind cold falling stars of sparkling light. “He said each one was unique - no other could exactly take the place of the one before. Like people, Liam said they were…” Killian nearly whispered this last over the sudden lump in his throat, seemingly lost in another time and place. Emma reached out a hand to rest upon his knee, and he came back to them with a bit of a start, the faroff gaze clearing from his eyes.  “Like us even,” he added. “We might have been expendable slaves to most - but we mattered, at least to each other, and he always made sure I knew that.”

Both of their daughters had drifted off to sleep by then; the excitement of the day overtaking them once they had settled in to listen to Killian’s quiet, lilting voice. Kristoff came to lift Sonja from Killian’s side to carry her to her room, wishing the rest of them goodnight. Anna followed with a contented wave as Sven trailed behind, headed outside to his barn to bed down for the night.

Queen Elsa’s gaze remained on Killian, though the story had finished. There was a melancholy, almost wistful, look within her light eyes as she seemed to consider the story yet.  “He sounds like the best sort of big brother,” she finally said to Killian softly, and gentle and a bit sad smile curving her lips. “I wish I could have met him….” This last was said almost hesitantly, as if she herself did not quite know why it had slipped out, and yet she nodded determinedly after, as if confirming the sentiment.

“I wish you could have met him too, Milady,” Killian answered fervently, his voice a bit hoarse and husky with the regret and pain of still missing his elder sibling, even after ages had passed. “Maybe it’s just something about the way a younger sibling sees a beloved older one, but at times I can see  something of Liam in you.”

Elsa smiled once more, gratefully accepting what for Killian must be the highest compliment he could give someone. The three of them settled into a sort of peaceful remembrance of those no longer with them - bittersweet but not unpleasant, as they were reminiscing of good times and not just their loss - before she rose as well to retire for the night.

Her exit left Emma and Killian seated cozily before the fire together, one last mug of hot chocolate in each of their hands and the silent beauty of the room around them, still decked out for Christmas, and snow still falling outside, weaving a lovely spell.  Tilting her head up, Emma found Killian’s lips waiting to capture hers tenderly, sipping from them as if they were even more delicious than the chocolate and twice as precious. “I love you, my Darling,” he murmured against her cheek as his kisses trailed back to the spot behind her ear that made her melt on the spot. 

Practically keening back that she loved him too, Emma held her husband even tighter, wanting nothing else she could possibly imagine in that moment. As she gazed into Killian’s blue, blue eyes she could see the future of them, and their family, together, and she knew the coming year would be their best one yet.

Tagging: @cssecretsanta2k19​ @xhookswenchx​ @searchingwardrobes​ @kmomof4​ @jennjenn615​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @thisonesatellite​ @profdanglaisstuff​ @resident-of-storybrooke​ @revanmeetra87​ @teamhook​ @hollyethecurious​@winterbaby89​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @hollyethecurious​ @gingerchangeling​ @spartanguard​ @lfh1226-linda​

secret violinist [min yoongi]

requested

word count: 1960

genre: mainly fluff (or all fluff)

author’s note: firstly, i’m sorry this took so long. and that it ended up being so short. for some reason i had trouble writing it. and it didn’t help that i started writing this weeks ago and then am just finishing it now. i’m deeply sorry that this isn’t my best work. i’m trying to get back into writing. also, please ignore any mistakes or inconsistencies. 

please do not copy my work. but please like and reblog it. thank you!!!!

perhaps it was the smoothness of when the hairs of the bow glides against the strings, producing the most beautiful melodies. perhaps it was the music itself, the notes and sounds that could be produced from this instrument. perhaps it was the feeling of the cool wood underneath your chin, or the feeling of its neck in your hand as your fingers pressed down on its strings.

the violin had also been a huge part of your life. it all began when your father and mother took your to a nearby thrift shop. it was more of a garage sale only without the garage. it was an old store that had been around for ages. they always carried a series of knickknacks and clothes and other necessities. it was there that you first came across a violin. 

the instrument was very old them. though you were too young to notice then, the wood had been very run down, and a string was broken. you had released your father’s hand to go towards it. you were fascinated by it. you had never seen it before. once you stood in front of it, out of curiosity, you gently plucked a string. a very dull sound emitted from it, because of an untuned string, and it scared you. but after the sound faded, you did it again, and again, until you were playing a random song that had no rhythm or melody. you were laughing, until your mother took your hand off it, scolding you for running off and then apologizing to the shop owner. she was an old lady, and she simply smiled, and told you that you could have it for free.

you father got it tuned somehow and from then on, years later, you played that violin. you played all throughout your school years, all the way to college. over those years, you’ve bought two new ones, have to upgrade sizes until they couldn’t get any bigger. now, you were in college, studying music and violin. you used the ones at school to practice because they were far newer and far more beautiful than your own. 

you spent a lot of your time after school practicing alone in the music room. no one ever came since typically people practiced in the mornings, that was also when classes were. you enjoyed being alone, all by yourself, just you and the violin.

you always played with a smile on your face, eyes concentrating on your fingers and then the music sheets in front of you.

tonight, however, your phone interrupted your practice session. you nearly didn’t hear its ring over the sound of mozart. you gently set down the instrument and its bow before picking your phone up. it was your boyfriend, min yoongi.

you cleared your throat, your cheeks already blushing after seeing his caller id. “hello?”

“babe, do you realize how late it is?” he asked.

his voice wavered slightly, as if he was trying to make the worryness in his tone. you don’t know why he tried to hide it, although it was slightly amusing.

your eyebrows furrowed. you tried to glance around, but there weren’t any windows in this particular music room, which you found unusual. so, you didn’t know. “no.” you replied hesitantly.

you heard him sigh. “where are you? i’ll come pick you up.”

“i’m still at school.”

“at school? what have you been doing all this time?”

“studying, doing homework, what else would i be doing?” you replied, laughing quietly. it was a lie, but it also made sense.

the truth was, you haven’t told yoongi about your hobby. you were insecure about it, which you knew was silly. but, just the thought of him knowing that you liked to play the violin and even wanted to possibly make a career from it, scared you. he was one of the greatest musicians, one of the most talented people in the world. you felt that you didn’t compare. 

“well, i’ll be there soon.”

“i’ll wait outside.” you said and then hung out.

you sighed. you needed a break anyway. your fingers were sore already for the extensive amount of time that you’ve spent playing. and you already had hard, red bumps on your fingers.

you packed up the violin and its bow and returned the case to its rightful spot in the instrument room. then you cleaned up your area, putting away the sheet music and the stand and stacking your chair, and then turned off the lights.

walking through the school, you noticed that it was dark. it was late, and that explained why yoongi had sounded worried. he didn’t know where you were. you were supposed to be home. you were reassured, though, that you weren’t alone. there were a few other students you passed by in the hallways or saw in the library and classrooms. they all seemed just as tired as you felt. they should go home too.

as you walked outside, you noticed yoongi’s car pull up to the curb. you hurried over to it, already shaking from the chilling coldness of december. your teeth were chattering as you slid into the passenger seat. “hey.” you greeted.

“hurry and close the door.” he said with a laugh, watching you drag your backpack over your lap while trying to close the door. “you’re letting all the warm air out.”

you made a face at him, you were trying your best after all. “i’m trying.”

finally, you and your backpack were in the car and the door was safely shut. yoongi drove away from your college, heading in the direction of the apartment that you and him both shared. 

----

the bell rang rather irritatingly in your ears. everyone began to pack up their instruments and head to their next class. you took your time, you didn’t want to go to your next class as it wasn’t anything related to music. it was just a required class.

as you were putting the violin away, your professor approached you. she had a smile on her face. “mrs. yung?” you asked, tugging your bag over your shoulder. you were confused to say the least.

she held out a piece of paper to you. it was information about an upcoming competition for all musicians. you gulped, hesitantly taking it from her. she stared at you in eagerness. “y/n,” she began, “i think you have a lot of potential. i can see great things in you, the way you play, how you sound, all of it. i think you could really get somewhere with your talent.”

your cheeks heated up. you fought against the wide grin on your face, causing your cheeks to ache. “really?” you asked, she nodded. “thank you!”

she nodded once more. “now, get to class. i expect to see you in here after school. you have a lot of preparing to do.” her eyes remained hard, but she was fighting a teasing smile on her face.

“of course, of course.”

you went about your day with the competition on your mind the entire time. what piece should you play? that was the real question.

as you walked home, since you had a few hours of free time before you would go to the music room, you tried to think. you didn’t know which song would be the one that would win you the contest. it had to be one that you could play. it couldn’t be too much of a challenge, unless you practiced it a lot. you couldn’t make any mistakes.

yoongi was home. he looked up from his laptop as he sat on the couch, something playing on the tv. you almost told him about the competition, and how excited you were. and how surprised and overwhelmed you felt that your teacher felt that you had the ability to do it. but then you remembered that he didn’t know about your hobby. you felt conflicted.

“hey, are you okay?” yoongi asked, sitting up in the couch.

you looked at him, almost forgetting that he had been there, watching you as you had a mental conflict and internal monologue in your head. “yeah. what are you watching?” you quickly changed the subject.

——

a week has gone by, and you felt like you had a million tons of stress on your shoulders. you had been practicing as much as you could, but it didn’t feel like a enough. it didn’t help that no matter which song you found and wanted to play, it never came out sounding beautiful, as a song typically would all the other times you’ve played.

suddenly, there was a click from the music room door. quickly you pulled out your phone and checked the time. you hadn’t realized how late it was. but still, why was someone here (other than you) so late? 

you turned just as someone entered the room, the door shutting softly behind them. it was none other than your boyfriend. he was holding a few papers in his hand.

your eyes widened. “y-yoongi?” you gasped. “what are you doing here?”

he chuckled or himself, pulling down the mask that was converting part of his face. it seemed to amuse him that he managed to catch you off guard. 

he walked up to you, a proud, cheeky smile on his face as he handed you a few sheets of music, ones that you had printed out a while ago, but thought that you had thrown them out. instead they must have just slipped or fallen from your bag. 

“so,” your boyfriend began. “you play the violin.”

your cheeks began to burn. you felt so small, being in a tiny room. but the happy glint in yoongi’s eyes reassured you. he looked...happy.

you nodded, taking the sheets of music out of his hands.

“why did you hide this from me?” he asked, looking at you. “we've only been dating for, what, seven months?”

you felt silly. “i’m sorry, yoongi. i didn’t mean to. but, it’s just playing the violin has always been something that i felt insecure about, i guess, especially since i started dating you. you’re like, the most talented musical genius ever.”

he laughed again. “i believe you mean mozart or beethoven.”

you laughed alongside him, feeling some weight lift off your shoulders. “so, is this how you figured it all out?” you asked him, gesturing to the sheet music in your hand.

yoongi shrugged. “that and how you’ve hardly been at home this past week.”

your cheeks flushed again. “sorry about that. my teacher recommended that i should play in a competition. it’s in a few weeks, but it’s been quite a challenge.”

yoongi stepped closer to you. “i wish you had just told me, but at least i know now. i can help you if you like.”

you quirked an eyebrow. “but you’re more of a pianist than anything.”

“but i know music. i can still help.” he defended cutely.

you grinned. “your help would be very much appreciated, min yoongi.”

you leaned forward a pressed a kiss on the tip of his nose. he blushed, before speaking, “but we’re not starting tonight. i need to sleep.”

you laughed, but felt tired yourself. so you quickly hurried back over and put away your bow and violin. you felt a lot lighter, relieved. yoongi was going to help you, he was the best help anyone could have. you idolized him as many others did, and you loved him. he was going to help you win this competition, which would be a large step into your future. as much as you were excited, you were also nervous, but you know yoongi was going to be by your side every step of the way.

Black Sun Tale | A Mother

honestly i feel like i don’t appreciate this chapter enough, but this is where the storm dies down a lil

remember that this is a first draft with only minor edits and enjoy! comments and reception are heavily appreciated 

-

Leaves being damp didn’t help when Oliver tried breaking those in his path. 

The scent of those around him weakened as he paced his way back home. The day started to dim with the sunset. The rays hitting against the tall buildings once the rain clouds began to disappear. 

Oliver bit his healed lip, gnawing at it with his own frustration. 

Ayu’s final reaction would happen sooner or later. And the ideas of what could come made Oliver’s head spin. His attempts to draw attention elsewhere were futile.

“It’s not like they’ll kill me, right?” He questioned himself under his breath. Yeah, yeah, no kid would do that to a human-like thing. 

The future was unsettled for Oliver then. It twisted up more than he expected in the matter of a single two hours. 

He groaned. I’m gonna have to get close with him now, don’t I? He face-palmed himself. “I didn’t even realize that he’s actually almost in the exact same boat as me… Fuck… Fuck.”

He eyed down to his bloody hands. The scent wasn’t all as strong as before, started drying out and got messed up by dirt already. However, it was still enough for him to take a small lick. 

His memories of when he became unconscious grew on him as he cleaned off some of his mess –he figured whatever magic there was would keep him covered-. Though, after reading through the foggy visions, he only took a breath. 

“I’m gonna have more things to deal with.” 

***

“… Just what was that?” 

Oliver threw a ball up and down from one hand as a replacement of destroying his apartment furniture. On his other hand was a squeezed-up stress ball. 

He dabbled around Ayu’s initial reaction, studying what he could from memory. Overall, the black-haired boy was reasonable. Though Oliver admitted to himself that if it weren’t for Ayu chasing after him, he would’ve cut ties immediately after running. 

However, one image stuck with him. Despite it being so recent, the memory was disappearing as he tried deciphering. Perhaps it was because he was in such a shock, but Oliver doubted that idea. If fear could make his recollection worse, he wouldn’t have remembered anything from his first ever meal. 

The vision itself wasn’t so terrible, simply questionable in Oliver’s eyes. Ayu’s appearance has always been strange to him, from his nimble structure to his dry skin and alien eyes. However, it was a first to see both of his eyes glow a vibrant vermillion. 

Oliver clenched on the ball he threw. “He’s never mentioned that before to me, hasn’t he?” Then again, there isn’t much I know about him either. 

“How’re you doing after all that?”

Oliver cocked his head to the corner of the living room, finding Vittorino standing right then and there. “You saw all of it, didn’t you?”

Vittorino nodded with a grin. “You panic way too much.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed, dumbfounded from his comment. “…Really?”

“It was entertaining to watch at least,” he shrugged. 

Oliver took a moment to process just how ignorant Vittorino really was. He only scoffed at the end, “You’re more of an ass than I expected.” 

After Vittorino’s short chuckling, Oliver remembered he needed something of confirmation. “This is probably obvious,” he started, “but before that, you already knew, right?”

“Of course, I did,” Vittorino rose a hand. “Almost every- I already knew for a while.” 

Every- body? The slip-up was there but Oliver pushed it aside. “Did Faustus know too, then?”

“What makes you think that?” Oliver noted Vittorino’s eyes drifted off at the question. 

“He left right before my seventh birthday, it’s been leaving me suspicious for four years. Anybody would.”

Vittorino didn’t reply immediately. Oliver waited but only for a satisfying answer. 

“Well, I’m not exactly allowed to say.”

What the hell. “But why? Why would he leave before all of it?” He squeezed up the stress ball with all he had. “Why is this even happening in the first place? Why- … Who’s Alice?”

“Oh,” Vittorino leaned towards the wall behind him, “So you’ve met her already.” 

“Who is she?”

“First off, what did she tell you?” 

“She-.” He won’t answer until I do first. He sighed, “She was crying, hugged me out of nowhere and just kept saying she was sorry, for ‘all of this’. I asked and she just told me she was my mom… It didn’t make any sense so I kept asking. But I woke up before she could answer.”

“Ah, well she tried as much as she could for the time being.” Vittorino moved over to a seat.

Oliver’s brows furrowed. “Of course, you know her…”

Vittorino shrugged, “She’s high up in reputation, and second in charge. I always saw her as depressing though, boring for the most part.” He leaned over his chair, keeping his elbows on his knees. 

“But what does she mean that she’s my mom?”

“Simple enough,” he answered, “she’s your mother.” 

Oliver took a gulp, doubt ridden in his head. 

Vittorino added, “I hadn’t heard much about what went down. That was like, what, three centuries ago?”

“Three centuries ago?”

“Oh yeah- we never mentioned that,” he blinked. “I’m older than you’d expect, Oliver.” 

“Just how old?” Oliver asked in disbelief. 

Vittorino hummed, “About three centuries, yeah. Alice’s about four-hundred more or less but that doesn’t really matter right now.”

“But… how-”

“Alice is your mother, that’s a fact.” He crossed his arms, resting his back upon the chair cushions. “From what I can tell, you’ll have to figure the rest out by yourself.” 

Oliver groaned. He threw both of the balls he held across the room, making loud thuds. “That’s helpful, isn’t it?”

He dragged his steps back to his room. His exhaustion didn’t come from his lack of a meal for once. Instead, pure stress and vex loomed over him as he prayed for a day where he could just clear his mind. 

He passed through the narrow hallway between each room. Above his head laid arrays of framed photos staggering from throughout his life. He dawned upon them, each carried photos of him and his mother together. They all held bright smiles from both of them. His face went blank once the newer pictures came around. His eyes were dull and tired in each one, while his mother stayed the same as ever. 

She was the only mother he knew, even if they weren’t related by blood. Oliver himself had no recollection of an original family or parent, no real father to teach him how to be a man, or whatever they showed on television. Though, someone like Alice wouldn’t be his guess on who his birth mother would be. 

Her peachy skin and neat, blonde hair was nothing near his light brown and burgundy. Nothing of her was similar aside from her speckles of freckles. She was just an average white woman. If she were his mother than everything should have come from his father, but then the question would be about where he was. 

Oliver gave up thinking about it all, taking a sigh and leaving the photos to shine like always. He entered back to his own room, walking and leaning over to the corner of his nightstand’s legs. Grabbing and setting up his ukulele, he plucked tabs and rhythms in silence. 

Vittorino appeared again in short time. He sat on the ground along with Oliver beside the bookshelf. However, he didn’t say a word, only watched from afar. Oliver took no mind of it, focusing solely on the music he played. 

His breathing calmed down as the chill melodies rung throughout the room. He mumbled the lyrics of the song he played, they didn’t matter much to him at the moment, he only wanted the rhythm. 

Music was the only thing that could clear his mind almost completely, yet something he detached from through the years. It was something his mother raised him with, playing songs for him when he wasn’t thinking so much. He grew up only a year after she gave him his own uke to play with. 

He continued to play with whatever he came up with, only for Vittorino to interrupt by asking, “Do you know any hymns?”

“Hymns?” Oliver stopped playing. He raised a brow by the question. “I don’t know any. Caeli Desuper is bound to be easy… but why hymns?”

Vittorino rolled his eyes over. “I remember learning lots of ‘em as a kid. Forgot most of them though. Barely remembered Caeli existing…” He shrugged it off quickly, “So, how’re you feeling now?”

Oliver eyed him at the suddenness of the topic, though didn’t ask. “Eh, still wondering about stuff. ‘Least things are going somewhere for once.” 

“That’s good then.” Vittorino sat up from his slouched state. He grabbed a book from behind him, opening it up and staring at a middle section of a fairy-tale book. He only muttered after seconds of not moving, “I forgot I can’t read in this language.”

They both sat, Oliver playing on his ukulele again and Vittorino sitting around. The quiet relaxed Oliver’s body for once. He was replenished with barely any pain, no headache with the music, and no Vittorino annoying him at every waking second. However, there was one more thing he had to question before any resolve for the day. “Hey Vittorino,” 

“Yeah?” He looked up from looking at a picture book. 

“Do you know why Faustus gave me a switchblade in the first place?”

Vittorino’s face softened, to Oliver’s surprise. “He knew you would want it for the future, I believe.”

Oliver bit his lip. He then crawled over to his ukulele case, opening the small pocket inside and grabbed the blade. He stared at it in his hands. The handle was carved with a beautiful silver, showing patterns of roses and other items he couldn’t tell as easily. 

He fisted the switchblade handle in his hand. “I want to see him again, just so I could know what the hell he was doing.”

With no words, he put the switchblade back in place. “… Ayu’s gonna ask about my mark again, isn’t he?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Vittorino suggested. “Depends on how he thinks the privacy is.”

Oliver listened to Vittorino in the back of his head, spacing out with ideas swirling. He pulled down his left sleeve barely. What encased was a sliver of a black sun mark like beforehand. He refused to pull the sleeve down more, shameful of what was underneath. 

The idea of blood was already craving his mind. 

“… It was a mistake for Faustus to give me that thing.” 

-

Ten Dollars | Bread and Water | Red Eye | Crimson Capture | November 1st | Next >>>

Music Review: Erin Rae - Putting on Airs

Erin Rae Putting on Airs [Single Lock; 2018] Rating: 4/5 Like so many people born in the 1990s, Erin Rae McKaskle is infatuated with anachronisms. Her music drips with the influence of a bygone era of folk and country singers, one that revels in the resonance of deep vocal reverb and the intimacy of closely-mic’d acoustic guitars. This adoration of folk music’s halcyon days certainly belies her age; at 28 years, Erin Rae is hardly a fledgling in the music scene of her hometown of Nashville, but her kinship to the bucolic/melancholic sounds of 1960s and 70s country and western contradicts the expectations of a singer not even 30 years old. And that’s where so much of the charm of Putting on Airs, her latest album, emanates. As a throwback to the emotional candor and straightforward arrangements of folk, country, and even indie rock’s days of yore, Airs resists the cheap gratification of the indie genre’s tendency of plundering from rock & roll’s rich past with only a passing fancy. Rae’s commitment to serving the dignity and stateliness of those genres is the record’s greatest asset, and with it comes the authenticity of a younger artist who’s keenly aware of her modest place in Nashville’s wide musical tapestry, but nonetheless confident enough to prove her salt time and again. Beginning with “Grand Scheme,” it immediately becomes clear that Rae, along with producers Dan Knobler and Jerry Bernhardt, have a specific window of time in mind for the album’s sonic aesthetic. By the middle of the song, cannonading kettle drums overtake McKaskle’s vocals and guitar in a Wrecking Crew-like fashion. Elsewhere, there are nods to other hallmarks of this era, like the gruff, Sticky Fingers rhythm guitar on “Like the First Time” or the Joni Mitchell staidness of Erin’s performance on “Can’t Cut Loose.” As with any newer artist borrowing from the oft-appropriated sound of mid-1960s/early-70s rock and pop, the question of originality rears its head. But Rae’s dutiful abidance of the tropes of that era, when coupled with her singular, shaded lyrics, dispels any concerns about fraudulence. Erin Rae’s gentle coo and unassuming melodies sound pacifying upon first listen, but she often proves herself more vindictive than this honeyed voice lets on. On “Mississippi Queen,” she admonishes her prodigal subject, singing, “Don’t you wish you were still green?/ Like when you could get high off a little hit?” But even still, Rae isn’t entirely devoid of empathy here: recalling her own brush with addiction, she adds, “I know what you’re saying, I’ve been there.” By other turns, though, Erin is forthrightly simple, like on “Bad Mind,” in which she proclaims, plainly, “I can’t own my fears/ I don’t wanna have a bad mind.” The same is true of the unpretentious final lines in “Grand Scheme”: “How small we are in the grand scheme/ How great.” However, that axiom can be understood as a great relief or a greater burden, depending on how seriously you take yourself. While her generation’s overindulgence in nostalgia has often (and maybe rightfully) been denigrated as frivolous and facile, Rae’s insistence on hearkening back to her favorite genres’ heydays never sounds like a put on. Rather, it feels like escapism in the most sincere sense; a search for comfort in a distant epoch, far removed from this current one. And as if her voice were afflicted with progeria, Erin Rae sounds wizened and contemplative beyond her years. She’s using Putting on Airs as a platform to confront her inner demons. As she puts it, “this album was born out of a need to do some healing work in my personal life[.]” McKaskle, like any good artist, is making music for herself first and foremost, as a panacea to her own woes. For the rest of us, it’s just a privilege to listen to. http://j.mp/2Jz9VLO

GOOD CHEER RECORDS HOLIDAY SHOWCASE

I've expressed before my affection for Good Cheer Records, a local label that emerged from the DIY all ages indie rock scene in Portland, but whose personnel have connections and influence in the mainstream of local and national indie music. Geek rockerMo Troper, also a writer for the Portland Mercury (cleverly disguised as Morgan Troper), even scored the coveted Pitchfork review, something which has eluded many of the best bands in town at the moment. Troper, the label's co-founder with Blake Hickman, has vanished to Los Angeles, replaced by Maya Stoner, a performer in several GC bands. Kyle Bates' project Drowse has seen praise from Vice's Noisey blog and SPIN Magazine, while another one of the label's star acts, Little Star, have gotten great reviews all over the place, including here on ROCK AND ROLL PORTLAND, OR. My favorite Good Cheer band, Mr. Bones, is sadly over, but the label, with so many other good acts, has hardly been damaged by these shifts--or a scandal that saw Jackson Walker, a member of Good Cheer band Naked Hour, excommunicated in the wake of his much younger ex-girlfriend's allegations of physical/emotional abuse. Good Cheer's bands are each unique, but broadly speaking they traffic in a hyper-sincere, heart-on-sleeve, guitar-based pop/rock that seems to trace its roots back to the 90's and early 00's, a time before MP3s--or at least a time when a single MP3 took a whole morning to download. It's the art-damaged cool and guitar abuse of bands like Pavement and Sonic Youth injected with the bloodletting melodicism of emo and the sweetness of twee-pop. It's a reminder of the truth in that old quote about Pavement being "the band that launched a thousand Weezers." These tendencies make the label's roster a refreshing departure, perhaps even a necessary counter-reaction, to the various fusions of psychedelic rock, dream pop, and blissed-out oddball party music so often seems to dominate Portlandian "pop". The earnestness of Good Cheer's bands, which the label proudly declares free of "mercenary ambition", makes a lot of what was represented by 2016's now-tainted "Mt. Portland" compilation seem positively decadent. On the other side of the coin, that comp's hip groups, often resented across the music scene for their perceived complacence and supposedly undeserved "fame", offer a sense of easy fun and trippy euphoria that the Good Cheer bands often lack--the label's name is pretty ironic, since good cheer is just about the last thing you'll get from most of these bands. Rather, they provide what Kurt Cobain ambivalently called "the comfort in being sad," the paradoxical sense of suffering as painful but life-affirming. At best that means a strangely joyous catharsis on the other side of the pain, at worst it might be written off as wallowing, navel gazing, and irksome preciousness. It's not for everybody, but it's way up my moody emo kid alley. These bands' music is about intimate feelings--even at its most bombastic, it's introverted almost as a rule, and perhaps that's how they create the feeling that they're Your Special Band, even when you're, as I was on this December Wednesday night, surrounded by a bunch of other people watching them. Good Cheer maintains the sense that their acts are the best band in your shitty hometown, who you see in some basement when you're 17, and finally, you've found a place where you fit in, finally, some people who speak for you. Perhaps the ideal place to see these bands is indeed someone's basement, but it was also fitting to see them in a major mid-sized venue like the Holocene--it was a sign that Good Cheer have emerged from a scrappy underground operation to become a major force in that vague genre known as "Portland pop". I didn't catch the entire show, which crammed six acts, successfully, into three hours, but the first group I caught was ALIEN BOY, one of the moodier bands on this moody label. Frontwoman Sonia Weber sings with the lovelorn yearning of Morrissey, but without the sass--unlike with the Moz, we never wonder if she's just milking it. The guitars hiss like TV static and twinkle like stars seen out a car window in the vanishing autumn, the rhythm section sprinting with teenage energy, paradoxically despondent and enthusiastic. At the Holocene, Weber's vocals seemed pretty off key a lot of the time, but it didn't really matter. The melody's largely in the guitars, and even the melody isn't that important. It's the mood the band creates with all of these elements that makes them such a powerful emotive unit. Even off-key, Weber's vocals are the definite not-so-secret weapon here, her contralto timber pitched perfectly in the dead center of the human vocal spectrum, neither male nor female, and therefore unusually universal in a social order still cleaved traumatically in two by a gender binary inherited from a religious order no one even believes in anymore. The group's latest EP, "Stay Alive", is a fantastic piece of gothic power pop, the fury of the instruments on tracks like "Burning II" contrasted to heart-rending effect with the vulnerability of Weber's vocals. These guys are one of my favorite acts Good Cheer has in its corner for 2017. Next up were a pair of musical twin bands, both involving Kyle Bates: DROWSE and FLOATING ROOM. Drowse is the more ambient of two, creating a storm of darkly psychedelic mood energy, as if Bates were some mad scientist attempting to isolate The Feels in their pure plasma form. Bates has been admirably candid about his struggle with clinical depression, even in his press releases, and some of his music is meant to be a literal translation of these horrifying experiences in musical form. As a person who's visited similar hells, I can definitely relate, and if you haven't, Drowse can give you a taste. It's the kind of music you bathe in almost more than listen to. I find it pretty hard to articulate with a vocabulary developed for pop songs--do yourself a favor and just listen. Undergirding the pure emotional whirlpool is a theoretical edge, at least according to Drowse's bio, which references Roland Barthes and Sarah Manguso alongside Mt. Erie and Unwound. I'm pretty sure those are uncommon influences for an indie music bio. Floating Room is the more conventional indie rock side of Bates' muse, but he still hangs in the background, and Maya Stoner writes lyrics and sings lead, while he continues his role as a sound-sculptor. Under this moniker he deals in his version of the Good Cheer house sound, described on the group's Bandcamp page as "the type of sadness felt at 4 in the morning, reserved for the heartbroken and the nervous." The guitar squalls of Drowse, almost more like weather patterns than music, wash over the structure of the songs like photo filters, providing a depth and texture that the more purely rock n roll acts on Good Cheer can't touch. Eschewing the crunchier "alt rock" guitar tones and punk rock enthusiasms of Alien Boy, Mr. Bones, or Cool American for a generously reverberated, fuzz-soaked, more plodding sound, Floating Room crosses definitively into shoegaze territory. It's gloriously eerie and ice-cold in temperature. It's the perfect soundtrack for walking through the woods in the snow, when all sounds are muffled by the falling flakes a the beautiful deathly calm seems to pervade the landscape--and it is a landscape, one you can seemingly gaze far into. On some tracks, the band is almost too delicate for this world, and the sounds seem made of glass, or icicles, ready to crash and fall the moment the temperature gets back above freezing. It's music for winter, for the low-hanging winter sun, gone as soon as it comes up, peering over the leafless treetops, secretly gathering power again once the solstice has passed. TURTLENECKED, the stage name of Harrison Smith, came up next, playing a very short set. Lanky and nervous, he paced the stage, singing R&B songs about being neurotic and narcissistic and romantic, all from electronic backing tracks played from his laptop. It was a very amusing break from all the intensity--even as he sang about heartbreak or unrequited love, Smith was funny, unlike anyone else who I saw perform that night. The stuff on his Bandcamp is mostly minimal indie pop, just electric guitar and drums, very dressed down and sparse, focused on Smith's deadpan vocals, both snarky and pathetic, but always charismatic. An older album, "Pure Plush Bone Cage", was fuzzier and noisier, but Smith's newer style, clean and clear, works better, matching the music's emotional exhibitionism. This presumably even newer R&B stuff is another pretty much genius leap forward. Turtlenecked captures the fine line between self-pity and self-aggrandizement, or rather signals its non-existence, refusing to apologize for anything--or else apologizing for everything--it doesn't really matter which--who ever believes an apology anyway? Good Cheer's brand can, as I said above, come off as overly precious, but Turtlenecked is an exception--one gets the wonderful sense that he barely even believes himself, but it's only the same sincerity of his labelmates doubling back on itself. Morrissey knows this trick well--it's basically his bread and butter. While most of the Good Cheer bands seem to work as band entities, Harrison Smith of one of the few who doesn't really need a band, or for whom any backing band would only be a backing band. He's just an entertaining and engaging enough figure in his own right--perhaps only Mo Troper, among his labelmates, rivals him for sheer personal charisma. Finally was the band I was most keen on seeing, COOL AMERICAN, named for a brand of Doritos. It's the project of singer-guitarist Nathan Tucker, a serious-looking dude who blew through the set with apparently great anxiety, often failing to sing directly into the microphone, seemingly wound tighter than a human can be wound. The band's tall bass player, Tim Howe, with his goofy grin and a santa hat borrowed from Maya Stoner, provided the necessary humorous counterpoint. Cool American's style is a pleasantly loose but melancholy power pop, filled with breezy riffs, mid-tempo grooves and smoothy shifting tempos and beats. But there's also a punk edge in it--at some point in every song, Tucker upshifts into a cathartic yelp, from which I felt sympathy pangs in my own vocal chords, before this explosion of his nervous energy receded, and he began to recharge again. Tucker's vocal range is limited, but the melody's in the guitars, spinning circles around each other, swirling and looping when they aren't exploding. Probably the most direct example of my Pavement-meets-emo description above, Cool American's unusual combination of mellowness and tension feels very much like West Coast life as I've come to know it, the cycle of putting up a veneer of "no worries" chillness and having it break down in the face of un-chill reality, only to put it up again, because fuck life, life should be better than it is. Better to try and fail to be chill and hopeful than live in cynical detachment. And for all their moodiness, the Good Cheer bands are never cynical. They don't just express heavy feelings, they believe in them, affirming their value and meaning in a society that usually runs scared from them. Unlike so much of the buzzy music in Portland, these bands never come off as careerist--you get the sense that any day one of them might break up because so-and-so had to move away for school or whatever. One could be cynical in response and argue that this sincerity is just another brand, but if so, I'll take it over the glassy-eyed smugness and empty glitz of so much of what passes for indie music these days. Long live Good Cheer.