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roquebr · 5 days

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The Fury

Barcelona femeni x reader

Aitana Bonmáti x reader

Summary: When all seems lost, a turnaround can be more impressive.

The rocking of the bus gives me a slight feeling of relaxation, my headphones placed carelessly in my ears, with the sound at the highest volume, hoping to hide the prevailing noise of the place.

The youngest girls on the team are very excited about today's game, it's no surprise that we are heading towards the first leg of the Champions League semi-final, simply the biggest European championship. So it's not surprising when some of them are sitting on their benches with greater concentration than the other side, which is a mess.

Everyone has their own way of preparing, mine being to ignore everyone around me as much as possible until we get to the changing rooms, music being my escape point, I always turn to Brazilian music to be my company during these moments, it's a way of feel close to home.

— Meto o chapéu na cabeça ela perde a cabeça e me fala assim... – When the song approaches the chorus, I feel a nudge on my shoulders, I pause the song and look at the intruder who disturbed me and then I relax, yeah Alexia, she knows about my pre-game ritual and I know she wouldn't disturb me for nothing.

—Hey Ale, allright?

— Yes, sorry to bother you, but we've already arrived at the stadium and the girls are already coming down.

— I lost track, I'm going too, I'm just going to get my things — I give a small smile, thanking him for his kindness.

— I see you're a little out of tune, is everything okay? – He places one of his free hands on my shoulder, with the other holding his belongings. I don't know how she manages to balance everything like that, if it were me, my cell phone would definitely be broken on the floor by now.

— Yes, I'm just concentrating on the game, you know how it is, right?

— I understand, but if you need anything you can talk to me. – I don't answer, stopping myself from just returning a kind look.

We continued walking towards the changing rooms, greeting the workers as I passed.

I know that this nervousness is not just because of the game, but because of the desire to show more than my best on the field, having arrived at the club just under a year ago, coming straight as a standout on the Ferroviária, I knew that from the beginning I had to show more than I expected.

I've had a strong presence in many of the 37 unbeaten games played so far, I've been a regular starter, but apparently I'm not good enough to start today.

As soon as Jona announced who would start before we got on the bus, my spirits immediately dropped, I know he decided the lineup thinking about preserving some prominent athletes for possible future changes of keys, but that doesn't negate my feeling of incompetence to start on the bench.

We arrive at the locker room and I immediately head to my cubicle, my headphones that have been stored for a long time no longer deprive me of Rosalía's loud voice that emanates from the absurdly loud speaker in my ears.

I change calmly, but I decide not to wear socks or football boots for now, I'm going to interpret this as a protest for being on the bench today, a bit childish I know.

I sigh and lean my head against the wall, where my game t-shirt used to hang, I watch my happy teammates as they transform and sway to the beat of the music.

I saw my girlfriend of 1 year, we met in October 2022 at Ballon D'or, I went to the event as Marta's guest after telling her in a free conversation that I would like to have the experience of going.

We talked for just over a month and soon we were dating, excited, right, but the feeling was intense and it happened, at first it was difficult because of the distance because I was in Brazil and she was in Spain, but we got through it together, whenever I could I went to visit her. there. Unfortunately, she never managed to go to Brazil, but I will resolve that during our next “vacation”.

Jona arrives in the locker room and starts his usual motivational talk, honestly I don't feel like listening to anything, with my mind confused I just focus on going to the bench.

Sit next to Alexia with Lucy on the other side, the traditional song of the champions plays bringing a smile to my face, regardless of my wounded pride, every time this anthem plays I can't help but get emotional, it's a dream that becomes childhood reality.

The first half of the game was somewhat disappointing, Barça put pressure on Chelsea's marking but unfortunately the defense did not give in, in the 39th minute came the beginning of our fall, taking advantage of a passing error from Irene that gave Chelsea close possession of the ball. to the area, making a respectable exchange of passes until he found a partner in the area, he deceived Keira's marking and passed to Cuthbert who wasted no time in scoring. We came out at half-time with 1-0 to Chelsea.

The atmosphere in the dressing room is very different to when we arrived, the totally dead Barcelona vibe contradicts the emotion I normally feel, word after word, motivation after motivation, all falling on my deaf ears as each teammate seemed focused on acquiring each lyric. said by him.

With a wave of his hand, Jona takes me aside to talk.

— YN, where are your boots?

— It's in the bank, Jona.

He sighs lightly in annoyance, the stress in his shoulders is visible.

— Look, I know you're disappointed that I didn't start today, but please put your boots on, I'll be with you on the field in about 10 minutes.

— Great Jona, I'll put it on.

Returning to the second half, a little more excited, I ask one of the physiotherapists there to put a bandage on my ankle, Sophia is her name, as I injured my ankle during the game I always put a bandage on it to avoid future injuries.

After Sophia finishes, I put on my socks and football boots, I kiss each shin guard before putting them on.

The second half began, Barça had difficulty getting into the game, then a penalty was awarded in our favor, we celebrated along with the cheers of the fans, this would be our chance to continue in the game.

The referee goes to the Var and immediately cancels the penalty, apparently the referee interprets that Salma's offside hinders the defender, nonsense if I may say so.

At 63 minutes Jona makes 2 substitutions, bringing Alexia and Lucy. Ingrid and Ona sit next to me, respectively tired and disappointed with their performances, I give both thighs a comforting squeeze.

I wait anxiously at the edge of my bench for a while, waiting for the moment when Jona replaces me. In the 74th minute, when Ramirez, Chelsea's striker, missed the chance to expand, my heart almost exploded. Patri managed to disrupt her position well, although he still let her to finish the shot.

— Jonas!! – He doesn’t even turn around in recognition.

— Que saco mano. – I go down towards him who was on the side of the field. — Jona, am I going in now?

— Be patient, YN, go to warm up.

A frown appears on my face, but I do as I'm told, not before kicking the water bottle nearby. My companions give me sympathetic looks, which makes me more stressed.

At 78 minutes, the assistant coach says I'm ready and Jona calls me to the sidelines next to him.

— Listen to me, we need you now in this field, are you ready for this challenge. – She pauses only to give the numbers to the fourth referee who is preparing the replacement panel. — We need to decide this game at home, with our fans who came here to watch us play, with courage and love when we enter the field. I know you are ready for this challenge, show who you are and what you came for.

I can't find words, so I just listen, shaking my head with a determined look. I take the place of Mariona, who wishes me good luck, running to my position, passing my girlfriend, blinking and returning to focus on the game.

Time: 80m

In a quick run down the wing, Frido sends it to Caro who tries to finish, the goalkeeper saves but the rebound goes straight to my side, I don't miss the opportunity and send it into the goal. I see Salma grab the ball so we can restart the game, I run back to position, jumping and calling the fans to play together.

Time: 83m

Patri intercepts the ball in midfield, passes it to Aitana who dribbles the opponent, leaving her mistaken, I ask for the ball and soon receive it. I notice that the goalkeeper's left corner is free, I prepare my leg and take a strong low shot, I see the ball roll quickly as the goalkeeper tries to launch himself too late, then you see the net ripple. We changed the course of the game, but it's still not enough.

Time: 85m

Aitana is having an impressive run taking advantage of Chelsea's neglect, a defender in front of her, with options like me on the left and Caro on the right, with Salma right behind. Aita rolls the ball to me, I take a slight touch to the right and shoot with confidence, the ball takes a threatening curve and soon falls into the net, surprising the goalkeeper.

Now I allow myself to celebrate, I run close to the flag post and slide down on my knees, my teammates hugging me and pulling me everywhere, the euphoria was so much that it felt like we had won the Champions League right there. I felt like crying, I scored my first hat-trick in the Champions League

Time: 88m

We receive a free kick after the Chelsea player almost grabbed Aitana trying to take the ball away from her, Salma takes the free kick which hits Lucy's head, who aims the ball towards the goalkeeper's box. She came spinning through the air, landing perfectly at my feet, I beautifully pushed her towards the goal and fell into the hug. With every second that passed the crowd became louder and louder, if possible.

Time: 90m

The gas had not passed, it was getting stronger and stronger, now with a considerable advantage, we preferred to send the team back. Keeping score is crucial for the second leg in England. Although we are currently more focused on defense, that doesn't stop us from also attacking at every opportunity. The team's confidence increased and we played calmer, making more passes and remaining calm when under pressure.

Caro has the ball on the right wing, looks up and sees the perfect opportunity to cross.

Caro's always necessary crossing makes things easier for me, I wait for her to reach the right height before jumping and sending the bike, when I fall backwards onto the grass my pain is numbed by a very loud vibration coming from the stadium.

Barely having time for anything else, I run towards the small Chelsea fans present in the stadium, stop in front of them and place both hands on my waist, with an arrogant posture, soon my teammates come to me in pure euphoria. Many compliments reach my ears, I allow myself to embrace them as much as possible before we have to return to the starting position.

9 minutes of extra time were allowed, nothing else impressive happened during this period, the 3 characteristic whistles were heard. There were many celebrations after we greeted the rival team. I head towards the referee team who hands me the ball.

Jona hugs me congratulating me on a successful game, the team soon arrives and gives me the idea of throwing myself into the air, I try to run away but I'm not fast enough, after the desperate seconds pass I run to the fans, my spirits were high today.

I ask a member of the coaching staff to hold my ball for me, while I jump into the arms of the crowd, doing my best to sign and take as many photos with everyone as possible, the only limit being the barrier.

I feel an arm go around my waist as I sign a Mapí fan t-shirt. I look to the side and see that it is Aitana, who is already looking at me with her beautiful smile on her face, her bright eyes remind me of the constellations.

I can't help but smile with her, our passionate looks betrayed our enormous passion for each other, which doesn't go unnoticed by the public, to everyone's euphoria and my poor heart, she stands on tiptoe and gives a long kiss to the my lips. , fireworks light up in my belly.

Soon the photo of that moment would be published on many pages, one of them was the official Barça account, and certainly on many fan pages that would blow up my cell phone with notifications.

But I couldn't care less, I played an impressive game and had my girl in my arms, could I ask for more than that?.

!!The inspiration for the character to score 5 goals in 10 minutes came from Lewa, when he played for Bayern he did this feat, so I thought “why not put that in the fic?”!" ... sorry for any mistakes, english is not my main language

#barcelona femeni x reader #aitana bonmati x reader #barca femini x reader #woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woman champions league #football #soccer

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libertyybellls · 4 months

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ONE FOR THE ROAD !

pairing; mentor!finnick x victor!reader

summary; you’ve been finnicks since the moment you met, after your interviews you break- who can fix you better than him?

contains; ANGST/FLUFF, two idiots in love, typical thg themes- i’m sure by now you know what i mean ;(

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩

finnick watched you from behind the curtains of the stage, somewhere in a hallway with your face on the screen infront of you. watching you with your hand over your heart as you gushed about your faux-greatfulness to the capitol.

he watched your face drop as all of your kills were flashed onto the large screen, he watched the squint in your eyes, the way your brows furrowed, the way your jaw clenched. he pleaded now to you, through his mind- bury the hatchet sweet girl, don’t fall apart, you’ve made it this far.

his fingers were crossed his foot tapping anxiously until the milisecond your interview concluded.

your stylists crowded around the hallway, waiting to applaud you on how good you were- but finnick knew you better than anyone, he kept his distance.

your presence came with fury, tearing off your ridiculous headpiece- it falling to the ground in pieces with seconds. each step you took seemed to get angrier. your stylists behind you with a hand on their chest. something their dull minds couldn’t understand, how could she be so angry when it’s over with?

when you turned the corner and he saw you, when he saw the darkness in your eyes clouding your every move. desperate to be alone, to rot away- he twisted you around and into him.

you fought against him- struggling to release yourself from his hold. finnick only pulled you closer to him, with a tighter hold. “it’s okay, you’re okay.” he hushed into your ear, your arms softened. they found a home around his neck while your head hid away in his neck.

“no,” you only shook your head. how could he lie to you when you’re like this? “it’s not, it’s not fucking fair.”

he understand, if anyone- he understands. “i’m still me, you’re still you.” he said that and he wanted to believe it, wanted it to be true. thought maybe the cards would fall into the right lineup for him- to all be in his favor, but when had they ever been?

“no im not.” you didn’t believe him, and he couldn’t believe himself- maybe the two of you could build a city of lies in your heads.

you wanted to tell him what a monster you were, how awful you were-but he had to have already known .

he’d watched you be the most deceitful creature in the game, the most twisted, two fast creature. you’re sure he knew.

“yes you are princess, i know it’s bad but you’re safe, you’re with me.” finnicks voice always had this perfect serene pitch, even when you didn’t mean to- in a world of voices it would be the only thing you could focus on.

the tears cascaded down your face, black mascara indefinetly staining his white sweater.

he would never admit this out loud, it almost ate him up inside thinking it- and he would beat himself up for it for as long as he lived, but you were not the same- you never would be. but he could love you in any way you came.

you weren’t the same girl who would collect the seashells that reminded you of him and run up to his door with a basket full of them- you would never be the same girl who’s eyes would sparkle at the smallest conversation between you, him, and mags in her living room on a summer night. the same girl who’d laugh so hard that your stomach ached and you’d slap his shoulder.

you weren’t the same girl. and he knew that the moment your knife went for your allies neck, the way you screamed when the last cannon went off.

and you’d never say it, but you thought of him. every time someone would charge at you- desperate to hear the cannon. you thought about how all you needed to do was run home into his arm and scream at him for not letting you love him sooner.

and now, now he needed to think of you. think of your loving touch- your pure heart and the sound of your overjoyed laugh when he’d hug you too tight- or catch you off guard with a joke. he needed to think about brining all this anger- this hate, this disgust and guilt out of you- for he’d rather take it all on himself than watch it eat at you.

so he would hold you close when you woke up screaming, bathe you when your body was too tired to hold itself up, whisper sweetheart nothings into your ear as he cradles you back into a deep slumber.

a/n; very short, just wanted to get a lil angst out for u guys ;))

masterlist

INBOX OPEN!!

#finnick odair #finnick angst #finnick fanfic #finnick fluff #finnick imagine #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair smut #finnick odair x reader #finnick oneshot #finnick smut #finnick #finnick x oc #thg finnick #hunger games finnick #finnick x reader #finnick x you #finnick x y/n #finnic

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risuola · 4 months

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AFTERCARE — GN. READER x SUKUNA RYOMEN

Sukuna would never say out loud that he enjoys taking care of you but he cannot deny it before himself.

cw: suggestive, mostly Sukuna being confused with his own feelings, smut... happened, but is not described, Sukuna has his own body, reader discretion is advised — 1,1k words

a/n: this one is a part of my kinktober prototype that didn't make a cut into the final lineup, but I thought I'll share it anyway :3

Ryomen Sukuna was never a man of excessive affection. Things such as love and care made for the foreign concept for the majority of his existence and it’s no wonder why when his heart, that he was certain was frozen for the last millennium, discovered the warmth of your existence right next to him, he was confused, to say the least. Unable to fully comprehend the reason standing behind his will to stay by your side after getting his own release.

“It could’ve hurt more,” he mumbled, smoothing his fingers over the aching muscles of your shoulder. In his head, it sounded reassuring – he wasn’t intending to hurt you, but his sheer power over your human body always caused some damage and it honestly made him wonder why he would even agree to be with you.

You were drained, completely exhausted, half-conscious and panting over his chest where your head rested. It was one of those nights that from the very beginning foreshadowed some violence. That day Sukuna got home possessed by burning fury. It wasn’t often, he usually was good at managing his anger, at least to the point of not causing any damage to you, but sometimes, on the days like this, he was too gone for any kind of self-control. To his defense, first he declined your suggestion to take this to the bed where you wanted to make sure he’s going to let the steam off. He pushed you away saying that he will hurt you if he fucks you in that state, but you insisted that he’s not going to harm you.

And of course, he did. After many long and rough hours of the ruthless, punishing pace of his thrusts, after every harsh slap and strong grip, after all of the bites, sucks and scratches, your body was aching. It gave up under the sheer pressure of his demonic stamina and strength, and by no means you ever considered yourself weak physically. You were not some fragile human, but in the grasp of the king of curses, you were not much more than a mere mortal.

That night, Sukuna fucked a hole through your soul, with ease turning your brain into a boiling flurry, pushing your edges further and further until they snapped like a rubber band that’s been stretched a little too much. It hurt, but at the same time, there was a pleasure impossible to describe with words. Your body never failed to react to Ryomen, almost sadistically seeking lust where others would see malice and even in the state of absolute distress, he’s instinctively forcing those mind-numbing gestures all over the act. He knew how to angle his hips to hit the right spots inside of you, he knew how to operate along the sensitive places all over your skin to drive you crazy. Even while in the middle of releasing his anger, he unknowingly cared for you.

That care always become more vibrant when everything’s done. When you fall over his strong, toned frame breathless and sore, his mind immediately switches into the aftercare mode, which got installed into his software forcefully, violating every rule of being a heartless monster.

“It could have hurt more,” he cooed softly, failing to recognize his own voice, but it was alright. He accepted it long time ago. Somehow, to pamper you after he nearly broke you to pieces added up in his head and the absolute pliability of your body in his hands, the control he had tickled his ego. For Sukuna, it felt like a duty, like an inseparable part of the whole act of sex. When you two first started hooking up, he felt incomplete leaving you in the bed after he sucked out all of your life energy.

“That’s reassuring, ‘kuna,” you croaked out, your voice bearing a little bit of rasp from all the sounds he forced out of your mouth, and all the length that you took down your throat.

“I warned you,” he sighed, pulling you even closer before wrapping his hands around you in a way that allowed him to scoop you up from the bed. “Let me clean you up and you’ll rest, how’s that sound?”

“Will you stay with me?”

“Of course I will,” he reassured, turning on the water, somehow keeping you up in his embrace with just one of his arms. The strength his form held was unmatched, really. “I live here, after all.” Sukuna added, matter-of-factly, but truth was it wasn’t as obvious as it sounded. Even though your apartment was now a permanently shared space with the curse, he had no muscle memory to lay down every night to sleep. He was still learning how to act like a human, after a thousand years of living as a curse.

“Then, it sounds perfect,” you smiled softly and exhaled deeper feeling the hot water hitting your aching muscles. Relaxation began filling your system, the knots all over your body began to untie themselves and you wondered sometimes, how much of that relief was caused by the warm shower and how much of it was due to strong, manly hands that kept you up. You knew his abilities to heal and also, you knew that often he was using them to repair some damages you took during fights or due to your clumsiness – usually though, he would act like he didn’t do anything, brushing any questions off because admitting to willingly helping a human, even the one he loves, was still a little too much for him to settle for. So, you learned to ask no questions, only sometimes feeling a little playful to tease him about it, but overall, you chose not to bring up the topic.

Although Sukuna would never say out loud that he enjoys taking care of you, he couldn’t deny it before himself. It felt new to him to carry you so delicately and yet he was feeling the little contented sparks lighting up in his mind when he did that. He found it prideful to know you put your life entirely in his hands, that even though he’s a curse, you trust him with yourself when you’re vulnerable.

Washed and dried, the king laid you back down onto the bed as the procedure of aftercare continued. He allowed you to cuddle to his warm body, skin in full contact to skin and only then you began to fully relax, breathing in his presence and feeling the love he would probably never word right inside your veins. His calloused fingertips were painting shapes over the delicate skin of your body as he listened to your steady breath and the softest purrs, barely hearable through the sound of your exhales. He slowly circled around every bruise and bitemark he’s left on you that he had now access to and as he brushed over them, he made sure to heal them just enough for you to not feel any pain.

Sukuna’s aftercare isn’t all vibrant and flashy. He’s not the one to jump around you with blankets and hot chocolate, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

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amywritesthings · 10 months

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silver underground. / chapter 11.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F!Reader (Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin)

Word Count: 3.2K

Summary: flashback one - day one, eighteen years ago

Warnings: graphic violence and mentions of death involving minors, implied child abuse, depictions of poverty and corruption, alcohol, starvation

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 11 - FLASHBACK: ONE

note: the next couple of chapters will be heavily influenced by the ova 'no regrets'. if you have yet to watch those episodes, i highly encourage to check them out. otherwise you will get spoiled on elements revolving around levi's backstory. i will also preface if you are sensitive to violence involving children fighting each other, then you may want to skip this flashback.

“Another!”

Thwack.

EIGHTEEN YEARS EARLIER

There are two of everything right in front of your eyes.

The world splits in half, meshing and morphing into shapes and spaces you can’t quite comprehend.

Your fingers seek to cling to a nearby lamp post and miss — but a two-step stumble helps you grab onto the cool metal on your second reach.

Stability. You need some kind of stability.

Especially if you’re going to win against him.

You’re only nine years of age when Mother tosses you into the world of illegal street fighting. Starting kids young means the return investment can provide longevity — for her and her wallet. Surviving and winning are ideal, but betting against a wounded horse can also turn a profit.

No matter what, she cannot lose.

This woman is not your mother, not really — your biological mother is long gone, trapped somewhere lost in the spices or selling the night to strangers.

Perhaps she’s even dead. You almost prefer that narrative. It sounds peaceful.

(Mother says you have that woman’s eyes. You’re not sure if she’s lying.)

Calling her Mother evades wandering questions from Military Police that patrol the streets of the Underground City from time to time, looking to issue fines or arrests. According to her, they leave unassuming parents alone — the police pity the mouths they have to feed yet turn the other cheek without a solution.

Mother is vicious. Mother is cutthroat. Yet Mother is hailed for her ingenious operations by her circle of drunks and degenerates.

Mother spends too much money at her favorite pub, Roxy's, where you’ve spent countless nights falling asleep on benches waiting for table scraps.

And Mother has made it very clear that she sees one trajectory for your miserable life:

To utilize all of your fury in the name of the almighty coin.

You are not her first child, nor will you be her last. There used to be six of you, but she’s now waning down to four. Unfortunate accidents — kids never last long in the Underground; a sector full of orphans with sullen faces, hungry bellies, and hungrier fists.

Most families down here cannot afford children. Hustlers, however, can. From trafficking to spice mules to fates far worse than your own, you’re considered lucky.

(According to Mother, parentless brats are easy targets and even bigger wins.)

Eventually you’ll die somewhere in a sewage drain like the others before you.

Just not today.

Fighting is hard — of course it is, you’re just a kid — but now, at twelve years old, you refuse to lay down and die.

You intend to win. You intend to live.

So you endure and you punch your way out of death’s cold fingers day after day after day.

Sort of like him.

Your opponent in question waits for you to find your footing at the dismay of the wails and shouts of onlookers creating the circle around you. He stands on the other side of the rowdy circle with practiced fists held high at his defense.

Like he’s done this as long as you, if not longer.

(He could very well be the reason you’re sent to an early grave if you’re not smart about your next lineup of attacks.)

The child across from you — possibly the same age, give or take a year or two — has the coldest stare you’ve ever witnessed. He’s small in stature; the tattered hand-me-downs hang off of his boney frame, the fabric too baggy for his malnourished body.

This boy, however, is fierce. The way he carries himself through this entire street brawl screams trained — as if he came out of the womb kicking and screaming, ready to fight.

He isn’t one of the barrack brats sent for easy slaughter nor is he a stolen kid like you.

At the edge of the circle, a tall and lanky man with a tan fedora watches intently. He’s the one who asked the boy to throw another punch a few minutes earlier. His eyes never leave the boy’s movements for a second.

A cigarette dangles between his fingers like he’s not the least bit worried about the boy’s safety, not even when you finally charge him with a punch.

The boy dodges, swiftly swinging his own. You duck before it can connect with your face.

Over and over, you meet like this. Swing and a miss. Kick and a block.

You’re evenly matched.

People are getting bored. They want bloodshed, not skill.

If you win? It could win her a lot of money.

If you lose? It’s one less mouth to feed and a new opportunity to find fresh meat.

A clean punch from your fist finally connects with the boy’s eye, earning a chorus of boo’s. Once more you flop back against the street lamp in exhaustion, holding onto its metal body to ground you.

The boy grunts, holding his face. The man on the sidelines merely laughs, amused at the surprise shot.

You wonder if this man is the kid’s father.

(You can only hope not all parents, adopted or otherwise, are like this.)

Yet the boy does what is asked of him: another. He stalks towards your shaking body at the street lamp and swings, but you manage to duck to the ground with a sweep of your leg before he can land the blow.

He falls to the floor, offering an opportunity for you to scramble on top of him to get the upper hand. You roll together in the dirt-ladened cobblestone street, ripping at each other's hair and yelping with a ferocity of wild animals.

People shout and toss their coins into the makeshift ring, throwing obscenities and swears in an effort to finish the bitch already!

You’ve learned quickly that the bitch is a crude name for you.

And he does try. The boy bites, kicks, grabs what he can while you defend your face and neck, forcibly rolling yourselves over to get a few cheap shots in. You’re pretty sure you hit him in the eye again. He hits your jaw and draws blood.

In a blink his hands fly to your throat, squeezing but without intent. You gasp under him, kicking and flailing your limbs to find something nearby to stop him.

Then a gun fires overhead.

The fight — once hopeful to the brink of death — is over.

“MPs inbound, seven o’clock!” shouts an older woman from the sidelines.

The carnage scatters into the darkened alleyways of the Underground.

The man coaching the boy on the sidelines now enters the invisible ring to grab him, effectively pulling him from you. The boy lets go of your throat instantly, disinterested in finishing the job. Unlike so many others before him, he doesn't care about the kill. It's unusual.

A surge of air hits your windpipe and you choke on it, still seeing double of the gray-eyed child as he disappears out of view.

“Get up, James.”

You recognize the voice.

"James!"

The name she gave you.

“Hurry, they’re coming.”

You move, but it's not fast enough. Mother drags you by the hair to help you onto your feet, scowling at the interruption of a fight she was so damn sure you had.

(You don’t think you would have won.)

“Mother, who was that?” you ask softly, finding that your voice is hoarse from all the shouting and strangulation. “The boy, who was that?”

She ignores you, grappling with your wrist to drag you into an alleyway.

Your eyes stay transfixed on the billowing trench coat of the cigarette man until he, too, disappears from the watchful eye of the military police.

Once you're out of sight, Mother drops to a crouch, assessing surface-level bruising and scrapes with her eyes.

Nothing about it is loving.

“You have to train to be as good as him,” she finally tells you.

Your eyes meet for just a second.

She was probably beautiful when she was a teenager, but her soul made her ugly. Harsh lines cut into her face from years of smoking. Her voice is bumpy like gravel, but there is a sickeningly sweet tune to her tone even when dealing with her children.

It can be terrifying sometimes; how soft she can sound with such angry, unforgiving words.

“Answer me, James,” Mother demands as she tugs your bruised wrist closer.

You don’t move your face, even if your entire body hurts.

“I know.”

“He could have killed you.”

“I know.”

“But you would have won.”

(You don’t think you would have won.)

You keep your gaze to your scuffed shoes as she harshly wipes the blood from your face with a handkerchief.

“Say you would have won,” Mother insists. “You can be easily replaced by another sibling if you don’t think you can win next time.”

“Next time?” you accidentally ask, and those lines on her face sink deeper. Your eyes widen. “Yes, Mother, I would have won. You know I’m your best child.”

The lines on her forehead gradually smooth out. Her red lips curl into that sick, sweet smile.

“That’s right. You are my best child.”

If it were any other situation, then perhaps this statement would bring you some comfort. It doesn’t.

Being her best means you’re taking the brunt of the worst fights. Being her best means you have to fight harder with the same consequences if you fail.

You say nothing, do nothing, and wait for her to stop wiping at your sore face. It takes a few more seconds, but once she’s satisfied, Mother stands at full height and resumes her descent into the alleyway.

Her hand fishes an unassuming cloth coin purse from her jacket pocket and you immediately know where you’re heading.

If you love the prospect of pissing money away, then Roxy’s pub in the southern quadrant of the Underground City is the place to be.

It’s Mother’s favorite place — where the downtrodden meet to pretend things aren’t so dire in the Underground City. It’s routine for the same group of people to end up here every other night, if not every night.

Because of the frequent patronage, the staff are willing to give you under-the-table food scraps for free so Mother can use her money for other things.

Like gambling.

According to one of the regulars named Bill, it was you who took the brunt of the street brawl wounds: busted lip, sprained ankle and wrist, potential concussion to the head. Under a makeshift bandage placed by one of the whiskey-soaked corner dwellers of the pub, the congealed blood on your forehead intermittently tickles your brow.

He implies your opponent didn’t end up much better. Bill won’t go into the specifics, but he says it's impressive you’ve held your own against that little devil.

Most people at the event bet against you. A draw was your best chance at survival.

You take Bill’s word for it.

Despite the lack of win, Mother celebrates with her favorite bar-goers. They’ve been drunk for well over three hours now, sloshing ale and whiskey across the bar top with little consideration. They cheer her name — not yours — and fill her glass as a cigarette dangles between her fingertips.

Payment after payment, money pours in front of her ashtray from regular betters.

People who have no excuse to gamble their money away but live for the thrill of it.

You, however, hide in the shadows of the pub — out of sight and out of mind.

God, you're exhausted.

Finishing your roll of bread given to you by the barmaid takes effort. Even the act of eating leaves you spent.

Halfway down you stop trying, staring at your food with a grimace. You wonder if there’s water to wash it down. Maybe if it’s mushy, it won’t be so bad.

Yet when you raise your attention from your lap, you’re surprised at what your eyes catch. The sight rushes the air rushes from your lungs.

Although the small person's head is bowed, you recognize the mop of wild black hair instantly.

(It's him.)

In the opposite corner of the pub, the boy from today’s street brawl sits quietly on a bench. Splotches of bruises peek out at the apple of his cheek. His reddened hands rest idly in his lap while his feet dangle, too short to reach the floor beneath his hole-ridden shoes.

(He's really here.)

And his guardian — his father? — is the man whooping and hollering over copious amounts of liquor beside Mother. You make the connection with a wandering gaze, noting the very same trench coat from the street now spilling over a bar stool in Mother’s proximity.

How long have the two of them been here? This entire time?

Without thinking, you slowly stand from your bench and take a breath.

You’re not sure what possesses you to hobble towards him.

Maybe it’s because he looks so sad.

Maybe it’s because you’re projecting your own wayward confusions and sadness onto him.

Maybe it’s because there aren’t many kids left that understand what it means to put your fist to someone’s face with the intention of breaking it.

And just like that, he notices you, too.

There is a sharpness in the way his chin tilts to acknowledge your growing presence, quick to detect and assess the danger.

You pause in your next step, on your bad ankle, and wince.

Gradually the boy raises his attention, sockets sullen and as gray as the iris of his eye. His left eye is purple from where you socked him twice at the tail end of the fight.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

Wordlessly, you limp closer towards his bench. He doesn’t move. You lean back and start to fish for the food burrowed in your tattered coat pocket, but he tenses.

Glares.

As if you’re going to bring out something that will finish the job that street brawl only started.

Instead you hold out your free hand — wait, I'm no threat — and produce the half-eaten roll of bread given to you by the barkeep in the other.

“Have you eaten?” Your voice is still hoarse from shouting.

The boy continues to glare, briefly dropping his attention to the bread now outstretched for him to take.

He remains silent, immobile, while the party rages in the other room.

Maybe it’s a lost cause.

Maybe this was a stupid idea.

Maybe—

“No.”

Small but audible; the boy answers in a murmur. For a kid so agile in a fight, he sure looks scrawny up close.

Breakable.

“Would you like some?” you ask instead, gesturing once more with your outstretched arm for him to take the bread you have left.

He doesn’t react beyond blinking down to the food again.

“I already ate half of it,” you add, like it’ll make taking the free handout easier for him.

Fraction by fraction, the small boy removes a cracked and bruised hand from his lap and raises his slender fingers to take the bread from you.

You let go once there is weight to its end, mindful of your distance.

The boy studies the food as if it’s a rare specimen, looking it over for mold or poison, before heading the already bitten half to his mouth.

He swallows thickly, coating a dry throat.

“Thanks.”

The gratitude sinks your shoulders down, lessening the stress pinched in your back. You sigh softly once he’s taken a bird-sized bite, chewing slowly to savor the taste.

You want to tell him that you ate just as slow so he doesn’t feel self conscious but decide against it.

“Can I… sit?” you ask as he starts on his second bite, causing him to pause. Contemplate.

He nods once, so you nestle into the empty spot beside him.

For what feels like hours you sit beside this strange quiet boy in silence, happy not to be alone.

He eats in a mild-mannered way, careful not to spill crumbs on his worn clothes.

He finishes his half of the bread eventually but never tries to speak to you.

You don’t mind.

Here on this bench, two children of the Underground City can rest — if only for a short while.

You both tense at the sound of a loud howl from the bar, but it is only you who looks. Some of the patrons have begun a slurred rendition of a surface hymn. A man shouting louder than the rest, belligerent and shitfaced, catches your attention.

It’s him: the boy’s keeper. Long, unkempt hair flies out from the bottom of the hat like wires as ale sloshes high over his head.

Others join his singing with grating enthusiasm.

“Is… that your dad?” you gently ask.

The boy continues to pick apart what’s left of the little roll, ignoring your question.

You turn your chin to watch the drunk tirade, assuming he won’t respond.

Until—

“Is that your mom?” he retorts, and you whip your attention back to him.

The boy watches you instead of the rowdy pub patrons.

You suck in a sharp breath, uncomfortable with the sight of how badly his eye has been blackened thanks to your attack.

Are you sorry, for bashing his face the way you did? Is he?

Mother’s told you it’s nothing personal. It’s just business.

(No one stuck in the Underground City can afford to feel remorse — or worse: regret.)

“No,” you answer, and he takes another bite. “I call her Mother, but… she found me.”

He doesn’t react — only chews, like every bite may be his last, and swallows. His tongue darts out to lick the crumbs from his busted lip.

You lean in closer to whisper again.

“Do you have a na—”

“Levi!”

A name.

The shout erupts from a familiar gruff voice. The drunken trench coat man hangs over the bar, squinting to find somebody in an alcoholic haze.

Your question dies on your lips when the man's attention lands on the two of you.

“Oh! Levi! There you are. Ready to head out, boy? You’re supposed to be training in a few hours.”

He turns widely to the crowd of drinkers, belligerent and wasted.

“Not that he needs to. Kid’ll kill just about anyone you ask him to. Gotta keep a runt busy, am I right?”

The bench creaks.

The boy — Levi — stands obediently. His hands are empty, bread devoured and gone, but he continues to regard you from his peripheral vision.

You stay put, lips parted with a sentiment, a feeling, you cannot put into words.

For whatever feels like forever, you both stare at each other.

Then he leaves without another word.

You stay and fall fast asleep on the bench, bruised cheek pressed to the warmth of where a scrawny boy named Levi sat, until Mother is ready to stumble home at sunrise.

author's note: i know this update a rough one, but i promise the next is that levi/james banter we know and love. i've planned this structure from the original outline, so i hope the next installments are as exciting to you as they are to me. the original concept of silver underground was to build a memory loss fic starting at the middle of the story as it's technically your perceived beginning. now we're witnessing the real beginning.

if people are interested, i may write levi's pov of the flashbacks as additional content.

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan

#levi ackerman #levi ackerman x you #attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin #levi ackerman x female reader #levi ackerman x reader #aot fanfiction #aot #aot fanfic #snk spoilers #snk #snk fanfiction #wip series #fic: silver underground #silver underground #amywritesthings

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giggly-argent · 2 years

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Dreadful Reunion

woaag new story after two years :00

Warning: its 100% tk torture whoops-

Izzy’s heart sank, the horror of his situation slowly setting in. It was getting late, and the young wolf hadn’t eaten yet. He could feel his body growing weaker and weaker- never mind the massive lunch he’d had several hours prior, he needed another nightly snack or he was sure he’d perish right there on the couch. If only he could muster up enough energy to get up and run to the fridge…

“Ughh…” a quiet sigh came from the dramatic young wolf, and he slowly sat up with as much grace as an anemic giraffe. Standing up with a loud yawn and long stretch, he mulled over what he could whip up in a short amount of time.

“Es n’ Rhyme are still out, so we still don’t have any eggs… They’re pickin’ up some more bread too, I think..?” Izzy paced in slow circles around the living room, one by one eliminating different meals from his lineup. Before too long, he’d almost settled on eating a pack of dry noodles when the air in the room suddenly went cold. The man froze in his tracks, confusion setting in only for a second before he saw a foreign, shadowy portal materialize a couple of feet away from him. Izzy’s meal-centric train of thought was instantly derailed, and in a few seconds, the wolf had hopped behind the couch, peering out just an inch.

Asayesa Village was practically a safe haven: crimes were rare including break-ins, and outsiders seldom tried to enter the village so Izzy’s panic was mounting with each second. Was he really gonna be a victim of the first town burglary this year?

What he didn’t know was that this intruder was no stranger to the village.

Before long, a tall figure emerged from the portal, with it fading away behind him soon after. He was a head taller than Izzy with a similar, slightly more toned build. His hair was waist-length, and a cream-white hue that matched his ears and tail. He wore studded, fingerless gloves that rose to his bicep, along with black leather pants and boots, both adorned with spikes. To Izzy, his most striking features were his unfamiliar red eyes and the scar that stretched up his cheek. The stranger’s glare lolled over to the partially hidden wolf, who started to recognize him more with every passing second.

“...Shura?” Izzy whispered, rising up from his hiding spot with wonder evident on his face. His lips gradually curled into an excited smile. One of his closest friends who he’d long feared to be dead had finally returned, and he looked… Kinda busted?

“Holy shiiiit dude, when’d you get red eyes?” The smaller wolf asked with a startled laugh. Shura kept his silence, but he started to approach his old friend with a listless gaze. Izzy backed up while Shura advanced, but he was too overcome with joy to truly be scared. “And how the hell’d you get so big? Dude, we were like the same height when y- ah fuck whatever, I’m just real glad you’re-”

“Where is he?” The cheerful rambling was cut short by Shura’s low, gravelly voice. Izzy tilted his head, thrown off by the question.

“Bro?” His ear flickered as he wracked his brain for any context, but once the larger male’s hand shoved him against the wall, it all flooded back to him.

“I… I dunno, ain’t seen him in years, honest!” Izzy sounded out of breath, a nervous pit growing in his stomach as he parsed the tranquil fury in Shura’s eyes upon hearing the obvious lie.

Years prior, Izzy’s friend group was twice as big. Estelle, Rhyme, Shura, Zero, and Zatani- a scrappy group of four refugees, and the two young brothers who helped them adjust to their new home. They had all bonded so quickly, with Zero and Shura growing closer by the day. Izzy wasn’t sure what happened, but something quietly brewed between the two former lovers for a great deal of time, and it lead up to a brawl large enough to drive a wedge through the entire group. The Rubeda’s kept to themselves afterward, and Shura disappeared from the village without any caution.

“You’re wearing his shawl.” Shura spoke bluntly, looming over the shorter male with clenched fists. Izzy swallowed, scrambling for another lie as he pressed his back against the wall. His contact with the wall behind him was starting to hurt a bit from how much he was tensing up, but as he went to shift away, he found a shadowy tendril wrapped around his neck.

“Shura?!” He gasped, reaching up to frantically tug at the tentacle. The other wolf leaned in closer, gripping one of Izzy’s wrists.

“You know I could kill you right now.” Izzy’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t believe the man he once considered his closest friend was now threatening to off him without a second thought. He had to drop all sentimentality and worry about his own survival- this wasn’t his Shura anymore.

“...You could, but uh… W-What’re you gonna gain from it?” His voice was almost inaudible yet saturated with terror, but fortunately for him, the other wolf seemed to back off some, letting go of his arm. His red eyes pierced through Izzy’s hidden gaze in silence, staying that way for almost a minute before he moved again. In one swift motion, he yanked the other’s shawl off and tossed it aside, though he was strangely careful not to tear it. The dark tendril released Izzy’s neck, but at the same time, several more rose from the wall, coiling around his wrists to yank them high above his head. His legs were restrained in a similar manner below him, keeping his bare body stretched taut.

“Right, your death would be pointless,” Shura muttered, cracking his knuckles as his soulless eyes scanned over his trembling captive. “I’ll take my time wringing it out of you instead.”

Fuck. This was gonna be worse than death, Izzy was sure of it. He didn’t know what the unhinged wolf had planned for him, but the threat of it had him ready to babble out all kinds of excuses. His words had to breach Shura’s frozen exterior; a daunting task, but Izzy was willing to do anything to keep himself uninjured.

“Nononono wait ya don’t hafta-aaaAAHAHA?” Was all he managed to get out before ten sharp nails experimentally clawed down his smooth underarms. Shura nodded slightly, confirming his own thoughts. The larger male remembered a certain weakness of Izzy’s from their childhood. He exploited it quite frequently, mainly to coax the other into behaving- now he got to use it for his own personal gain. Once his fingertips reached right above Izzy’s upper ribs, they glided back up with the same light pressure.

By now, Izzy knew exactly what was going on. On one hand, he was glad Shura hadn’t opted for tearing him apart, but on the other hand, he absolutely hated the alternative. He didn’t even know he was still ticklish, but he remembered how much he couldn’t stand it when they were younger. This new, mature and vindictive Shura didn’t strike him as the type to immediately jump to tickling him, but apparently, his methods of persuasion were one of the few things that didn’t change over time. Izzy clamped down on his bottom lip, his cheeks puffing up with stifled laughter. The light, fluttery touches were enough to draw giggles from him if he’d allow it. Loose strands of bluish-silver hair strayed over his face as he shook his head, trying to distract himself from the unexpected sensations.

Shura remained emotionless throughout his testing. He knew exactly how much this was getting to Izzy already, and he knew just where to go to make the man lose it, but he didn't want to rush there just yet. Taking his time to break Izzy down would weaken his victim into fessing up after a while, he was certain. The man’s nails continue their trip all over his captive’s underarms, gliding across the outsides and erratically scribbling away at his hollows.

“Mmmph-! D-DoOoon’t-!!” The bound wolf croaked out through his restrained laughter, accidentally letting some higher-pitched giggles slip out. He felt like he was about to break if Shura kept this up any longer. There wasn't any point in him holding back to begin with, but it was all he could do to show defiance.

"Where. Is. He?" Shura's fingers curled in over the man's pits with every word, making him yelp and jolt in his restraints. The only answer he got was Izzy shaking his head again, signaling that it was time to pick up the pace.

Izzy’s body was decorated with simple, light blue tattoos- most visibly on his forearms and his sides. The bright markings on his sides practically begged for attention, which Shura was more than happy to give up. Soon, a sharp squeal was ripped from Izzy’s throat as soon as he felt a pair of hands kneading at his waist, alternating between his hips and sides inconsistently.

Loud, panicked laughter poured out of the wolf now. The new spot startled him into tossing his head back, but Shura had planned ahead, manifesting a coiled-up tendril behind his head to serve as a cushion- how sweet! His sluggish victim’s laughter was just how he remembered; silly, endearing, and peppered with little snorts and whines here and there. It was truthfully rather cute, but not to Shura, of course. Well, just a bit…

“Talk.” Shura prompted his victim again, letting the tips of his nails skim right over the markings now. His fingers managed to stay right on the tats, yet his eyes were locked onto the cackling face in front of him.

Izzy took a few seconds to both weigh his options and try to shake his captor’s hands away. His sides were such a strong spot, but his devotion to his estranged friend may have been even stronger. It only took a few more moments filled with helpless laughter before he gave his answer.

“I cahAHAahan’t!! I cahan’t tell you-!!”

Ah, now Shura was getting somewhere. It went from “I don't know where he is” to “I can’t tell you where he is”. Admittedly, Shura felt the faintest hint of pride towards Izzy- this type of loyalty was admirable, but still aggravating to his true cause. The weak pride he felt quickly morphed into stronger determination, and he decided to push his captive even further.

The tendrils that coiled around Izzy’s legs started to branch off, creating four thinner tentacles that stretched up to meet Shura’s hands. They didn’t look like they’d cause much of a reaction, but the magic coursing through them only helped to enhance sensitivity; something that poor Izzy found out pretty fast. Shura’s hands briefly recoiled, allowing the tentacles to have full reign over the other’s stomach. They poked, prodded, and flickered all over the tender skin, with the two lower branches wiggling dangerously close to his navel.

“OH FUCK-?! GODEHEHEHESS PLEASE NOHOHOHOHO~!” The bound pup howled, thrashing against the bonds even harder. Tears were budding in his obscured eyes, and he couldn’t even muster enough focus to shake his head anymore. Silver sparks flew from his fingertips for a few seconds before he gave up faster than he intended to. He hoped he could use his own magic to power through Shura’s, but wherever the strange man had disappeared off to for all those years had helped make his powers incomparable to a regular shifter’s.

“This won’t stop until you tell me,” Shura’s low, chilling tone pierces the laughter-filled air, fueling Izzy’s anxiety even more. Not once in his life had he ever been tickled THIS bad before! Shura adding his nails back into the mix to gently grace over his sides made him want to jump out of his own skin. The other man was so precise and relentless with each and every stroke, putting just enough pressure into his fingertips and tendrils to light Izzy’s nerves all the way up.

For a moment, his tickle-addled mind screamed for him to just tell the truth and get it over with, but what kind of friend would that make him? One that still had two working lungs and hadn’t been tickled to death by a vengeful ex- nonono. It’d make him a horrible one. He HAD to hold it in for Zero’s sake- wait where the hell was he going now?!

“I remember your worst spot.” The slightest teasing undertone wormed its way through the stoic wolf’s voice as he leaned in to whisper his threat into Izzy’s ear. Before the smaller male had the chance to plead, he felt Shura’s dextrous fingertips curling around the mall of his back. Immediately he was thrown into a couple of seconds of silent laughter, his body going rigid with the combination of his two most sensitive areas being targeted.

Tears streamed down the pup’s cheeks, and his brain was on high alert trying any and every little blend of actions to get away from the sensations. The tendrils continued their stroking of his trembling tummy, with one now swirling around in his navel. However, Shura’s own touch remained light and fluttery above the hem of Izzy’s pants. The delicate touches slowly moved up his back before drifting back down, which had the poor thing crying out for mercy.

“IHIHIT’S TOO MUHUHUHCH!! I CAHA-HAAAN’T~!!” was all he could gasp out before falling into silent laughter again. It was still unbearable even when one of Shura’s hands left his back alone, instead pressing against the wall to prop himself up. The teasing scratches over his back made him arch forward, only to reel back from the incessant prodding of the tentacles- it was a horrid cycle that just drew more hysterics. “You know exactly how to make me stop,” he growled softly closer to his target’s ear, spidering over the squealing wolf’s back with a little bit more pressure this time. There was no way this could get any worse for Izzy- not until the next threat.

“You should talk now before I gag you. After that, you won’t get another chance until ten minutes from now.” Ten minutes of this? Shura definitely knew how to be cruel, and Izzy was sure his captor could find ways to make this torture so much worse so he didn’t grow used to it. By now, he was seriously considering defeat- Zero would forgive him, right?

All of a sudden it stops. The tendrils, the fingers, everything. The tentacles retreated, and Shura’s hand rests flat against Izzy’s back. The taller male’s expression barely shifts- Izzy was too busy cooling down to see it, but the other’s brows furrowed and one of his ears twitched several times. Only two more seconds passed before all of the restraints fully faded, leaving Izzy to slump to the ground and collect his breath. Shura let out a soft huff, turning away to open another shadowy portal with a snap. As he prepared to cross through, he gave Izzy a languid glare along with some alarming parting words.

“I’ll find him myself.”

“Oh thank fuck he's finally gone,” At last, Izzy was by himself again, but he couldn’t understand why. He was sprawled out on the floor, gulping in breaths for what felt like hours. Eventually, his fluffy ears picked up on a familiar, more welcome voice.

“Hey blockhead, what were you yowlin’ about? I could hear ya’ a mile away!” He weakly tilts his head up to see his youngest friend Rhyme standing over him with her arms crossed. As always, an annoyed pout graced her foxy little face, but this time there was a visible tinge of worry. Not far behind her, her older sister Estelle was still at the door locking up with both arms full of grocery bags. Unlike Rhyme, she was more concerned with the boxes of snacks spilling out than all the noise she’d heard from outside.

Instead of answering right away, Izzy kept quiet, which only made Rhyme bitterly nudge his hip with her foot. His mind was swirling with all kinds of ways to summarize how he had spent the last twenty minutes. Yes, it was nothing short of torture, and he’d told himself several times throughout it that Shura wasn’t the same anymore, but he just couldn’t shake the euphoria that came with knowing the other man was alive, albeit not fully well. Izzy even didn’t bother sitting up, and a crooked grin came to his face.

“Y’all are never gonna guess who I just saw…”

#tickle fic #tickle #ocs #//Izzy #//Shura #//Estelle #//Rhyme #the puppiessss #one good one evil :'

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brandonsandlerphotography · 3 months

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Metal Mayhem Unleased

A Night of Artistic Aggression at Empire Control Room & Garage

(top left & top middle: Alluvial / top right & bottom left: Left To Suffer / bottom right: Reflections)

Welcome! Get ready to witness the ultimate sonic onslaught as Alluvial, Reflections, and Left To Suffer brought their unbridled fury to Empire Control Room & Garage on 2/2/24! In this post, we'll delve into the electrifying experience that was present at this metal show, exploring the venue, lineup, and the raw energy that defined this show’s personality.

As you step into the Empire Control Room & Garage in the heart of Austin, you are immediately enveloped in an electric atmosphere pulsating with the heartbeat of the city's live music scene. The venue seamlessly blends an industrial aesthetic with a hint of retro charm, creating a space that feels both edgy and inviting. All of these aspects combined with an amped crowd and a positively metal line-up made for a truly fantastic night.

Alluvial, the metal deathcore juggernaut and first performance of the night, stands at the forefront of the genre. Delivering an auditory assault that combines technical prowess with unbridled intensity, the group was formed as a collaborative project between guitarist Keith Merrow and guitarist/producer Wes Hauch. Alluvial has carved its niche in the metal landscape with a distinctive sonic identity. With the combined talents of Kevin Muller, Wes Hauch, Tim Walker, and Zach Dean they provided a sinister sound filled to the brim with unrelenting aggression and melodic resonance that added a haunting beauty to their set that did not disappoint.

Reflections, the metal deathcore architects, and the night's second performance constructed a signature sound that transcends the boundaries of the genre. Blending technical precision, emotional intensity, and commitment to breaking new ground in their genre, Reflections has earned a spot amongst some of the biggest players in the metal landscape. The visceral journey Reflections set brought the audience through was one of lyrical profoundness and sonic innovation that showcased the group's signature evolving discography and commitment to growth and exploration.

Left To Suffer, masterminds of sonic brutality and the night's third performance, strived to and delivered a deathcore experience that left concertgoers wanting more. Characterized by authentically raw performances and intense, guttural vocals, Left To Suffer stands tall in the genre ready to pummel their listeners into submission. Taylor Barber’s primal screams conveyed a sense of intensity adding to the night’s already brutal nature. Still, the band's vocal prowess served as a powerful instrument in amplifying the emotional impact of their set.

Unfortunately, due to inclement weather conditions and with the venue that was utilized being partially outdoors the show was delayed. Because of this, I was unable to capture the headlining act Veil of Maya as they played much later after the delay was lifted.

Overall, the combination of these three powerhouse bands, the energetic crowd, and the unique atmosphere of the Empire Control Room & Garage made for a truly fantastic metal show experience.

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fruitbatfanclub · 1 year

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if i don’t get the sound and fury lineup soon i just might have a temper tantrum 🥲

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daggerzine · 1 year

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Hammered Hulls- Careening (Dischord)

New-ish Washington, DC band featuring Alec MacKaye on vocals and if that guy has a new band i will always stand up and take notice. The single from 2019 got my ears perked up and they promised a full length and here ‘tis! The band features Mark Cisneros (Kid Congo and the Pink Monkeybirds, etc) on guitar, Mary Timony (Ex Hex, etc) on bass and Chris Wilson (Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, etc) on drums, so the lineup is more than solid (if i said supergroup you guys would all stop reading).

The songs are terrific……at times wild and unpredictable, like all the best (punk) bands have been over the years. When Mackaye unleashes his vocal fury it sounds as vital and urgent as his days in Faith (one of my old Dischord faves) while Cisneros’ guitar is jagged and melodic at the same time and the rhythm section is powerful and inventive. There is definitely chemistry at work here.

Did i mention how great the songs are??!! First cut “Boilermaker’s Notch” kicks from the get go while “Bog People” is a jet engine and “Not Gone” just may be my favorite cut on here, changing tempos and swerving all over the road. Also, don’t miss the emotional rollercoaster that is “Needlepoint Tiger” or the spit and roar of “Staggering Genius” either.

RE: the chemistry thing, just because four excellent musicians who’ve been in other highly-regarded bands come together it doesn’t always work, but with Hammered Hulls it definitely works. In spades. Produced by Ian MacKaye at the legendary Inner Ear Studios (which I believe, sadly, is now closed, I think this was the last record recorded there). Not sure what else to say, Careening is highly recommended and then some.

www.dischord.com

www.hammeredhulls.bandcamp.com

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screamingforyears · 1 year

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ALBUM_of_the_MONTH 11/22:

The future ain't my friend…

SOFT KILL have triumphantly returned w/ their latest album titled ‘CANARY YELLOW’ (Cercle Social) & it finds the venerable group showing no signs of slowing down while further pushing their sonic sensibilities & proving that they’ll never succumb to weak ass pigeonholing.

The PDX-based fam, consisting of Tobias Grave, Conrad Vollmer, Danny Deleon, Shaun Durkan & Nicole Colbath have (& stop me if you’ve heard this one before) once again defied expectations while blowing minds, facing down demons & mending hearts on these latest strummed up & Mats-esque offerings.

There’s no half-measures when it comes to SK, everything the lauded unit produces carries a weight, purpose & an attention to detail that separates them from their modern peers. From production choices to curated merch to touring lineups & new sonic directions… nothing is left to happenstance or succumbs to outside influence or coercion.

Straight up, Soft Kill are thee band of our (& their) era… that’s not hyperbole nor influenced by personal moments I’ve spent with them, it’s simply a proper fact. SK are simply on another level as they find themselves in a constant state of evolution, growth & maturity in both their sound & business practices.

One cannot speak of Soft Kill without recognizing just what they’ve accomplished as a unit. They’ve reshaped an entire eco system while sticking around long enough to see their influence come to fruition in real time. In a modern world/scene of clout chasing, content producing & overall ladder climbing they’ve manage to be an honest to god fatherly influence, passing down knowledge to their younger peers while showcasing the fact that band merch could be more than a black shirt laid on a plastic table.

The lives/personalities that make up Soft Kill are all too human… & oh boy do they have the stories & scars to prove it. But that’s what we love, adore & admire about them… their ability to neatly wrap life’s messes in a guitar-driven pop song.

‘Canary Yellow’ is Soft Kill’s nod to the midwest, from the Chicagoan detail to the richly specific sound that pulls from those top-tier legends like The Replacements & Husker Du who bestowed a never ending impression on the American guitar rock scene. And one cannot speak of ‘Canary Yellow’ w/out mentioning how crisp these 10 tracks sound thanks to Rob Schnapf’s production.

After Joey welcomes us to SK’s latest opus, “Cracked Candles” gets things off to a proper start, but at what cost as the proceeding 3 1/2 mins unfurl in strummy fashion before kicking into gear while “Magic Garden” bursts outta the gate w/ a fury of twanged six-strings & driving low-ends before settling into a idyllic groove that creates an ideal bed for Tobias Grave’s pristine vocal.

“Rocks & Blows” is a beautiful piece of power_popped goodness that packs plenty of giddy-up & neat little flourishes while album highlight “Dibs” is a somber slice of dourly jangled GloomPop that bristles under the weight of Graves’ beautifully brittle vocal take.

The fact that Soft Kill could turn over a whole ass song to another artist, as they’ve done on “The Line,” further shows their meticulous nature & unbridled prowess as Ruth Radelet knocks it outta the (Comiskey) park on this tenderly somber ode while “Congratulations Text” finds PDX-based group forever proving they’ll always be there to push the emotional envelope as vocalist Tobias hits one of his finest performances to date as he rides a full bodied arrangement that swings from rangy indie, w/ a pinch of well placed twang, to a lively rocker before melding into the best of both worlds which sits comfortably as a moody Midwest blast of Gloom.

“Domino” is a piano tickled piece of Cure-esque DreamPop & ofc SK would give us a whole new take on “Cicero” because that’s what they do, they never shortchange us while closer “Lake Shore Drive” is not something a modern “post_punk” band would even dare attempt w/ its slowly unfolding saga built around groggy spoken word passages.

‘Canary Yellow’ once again finds Soft Kill leaving their mark on whatever modern scene you subscribe to & doing so their way.

The future ruined me...

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Rolling Stone #1155, April 26th 2012

Radiohead Reconnect

How the most experimental band in music learned to rock again

by David Fricke

Thom Yorke walks into the catering room backstage at the American Airlines Arena in Miami wearing a dark T-shirt, tight red jeans and a crooked smile. "I'm feeling quietly excited – and quietly nervous," Radiohead's frontman says as he pours himself a cup of coffee. Yorke flew in from Britain late yesterday – his eyelids are still heavy with jet lag – and he is due onstage shortly for Radiohead's final rehearsal before the launch of their most extensive tour since 2008: 58 shows over 10 months in North America, Europe, Asia and Australia. They open here tomorrow night.

"Everything – the production, the new lights, the set list – is still a work in progress," Yorke says. "But it's finally getting started." Soon he can be heard warming up his voice behind a closed door, practicing scales in a high, precise warble, holding notes in long, clean aaaahs.

Radiohead are not only beginning a tour; they are unveiling a rebirth. The band is ending one of the most challenging and confounding eras in its career: nearly three years of public silence and private chaos during which Radiohead struggled with reinvention and their future. They made some of their most beautiful music on their least popular album, last year's The King of Limbs, but didn't promote it and stayed off the road, uncertain how or if they could be a performing band again.

"We're still flailing around," Yorke admits, sitting in one of the band's dressing rooms. He recalls the early practice sessions for this tour. "I was freaking out, going, 'Oh, no, it's not enough time. I want to do all these new things.'"

But onstage, a little while later, he and the rest of Radiohead – bassist Colin Greenwood; guitarists Ed O'Brien and Colin's younger brother Jonny; drummer Phil Selway and new second drummer Clive Deamer, who has played with the group for the past year – sound exuberant and confident as they push through "Bloom," from The King of Limbs. What sounded on that record like a glassy enigma of loops and ghostly incantation is now rushing water, arranged by the new six-man lineup as a fury of rhythms and murky-treble guitars. "Morning Mr. Magpie" is also harder and faster than the version on Limbs, while "Meeting in the Aisle" – an instrumental from the sessions for 1997's OK Computer – is played with fresh pepper, like Turkish surf music with a trip-hop step.

Radiohead have worked up more than 75 songs for the 2012 shows, including material written during rehearsals this winter at their studio in Oxford. The band will run through a pair of newborns tonight, "Identikit" and "Cut a Hole." Yorke, 43, describes the former as "joyful, slow but with a wonky hip-hop beat." He beams. "That one wormed its way to the head of the class." Colin, who is 42, is excited about another new one, "Full Stop," particularly the part "where Thorn's voice jacks up into this amazing falsetto. The song just takes off."

20 Songs You Can't Believe Are 20 Years Old

In an interview before practice, Yorke credits the addition of Deamer, who came from the British band Portishead, with Radiohead's live renewal. "Having another musician to go back over old stuff was as important as coming up with new songs," says Yorke. He's slumped on a couch, but his voice crackles with restless energy. "Along the way," he says, "you discard songs, because you can only do them in a certain way. To breathe new life into them is a good feeling. You don't have to ask, 'Oh, how does it go again?' It's 'How can we do this properly now?'"

The best example at this rehearsal is the title song from 2000's Kid A. Recorded at the height of Yorke's loathing of guitar-band convention, "Kid A" was barely a song at all – a cloud of whoosh with Yorke singing through a vocoder like a child robot. Tonight, it sounds huge and metallic, a bolt of argumentative double drumming with a striking, classical temper in the piano chords, played by Jonny.

"It was an anti-song," says O'Brien the next day, in an ocean-view lounge at Radiohead's hotel. "Now it's something warmer, particularly the end. Suddenly, it has this sunrise." For a long time, in a lot of the band's music, he admits, "nothing was allowed to be genuinely beautiful. Jonny was always so brilliant about throwing that slashing guitar through things.

"This is very much where we are – and Clive has brought this," says O'Brien, who turns 44 this month. "Didn't they say when the Beatles got Billy Preston everybody was on best behavior?" He laughs. "Having someone break up the energy – that's good. It got people out of old habits.

"You hear it all the time," says O'Brien. "These bands say, 'We're in the best phase of our lives,' and they don't make very good music. I'm reluctant to say that. It's not our best phase. It's another one – and it's a good one. It doesn't feel like a new band. It feels like a band that knows itself."

Yorke isn't so sure – yet. "It's weird not to have any definitive versions recorded," he says of the new songs, "because that's where you make the final decisions. To be rehearsing new stuff, not have it recorded, with a sixth member in the band . . ." He rolls his eyes in mock terror. "It's all very fluid. I'm not really sure what it is."

Jonny, 40, sitting on the sofa next to Yorke, remembers the singer arriving for the first day of practice in Oxford: "He came in and said, 'I had a dream that we had an extra month for rehearsing.' I thought, 'Wouldn't that be great?'"

"We haven't played in front of people yet, so we don't know if it's any good," says Yorke. "We might not even find out tomorrow." He flashes that crooked smile. "Maybe it will take a while."

Radiohead have been a recording band for two decades. This year marks the 20th anniversary of their debut EP, Drill, and the initial release of their seething Top 40 hit "Creep." Since then, Radiohead have enjoyed the weirdest forward motion of any major rock band. Their hit albums, including two American Number Ones, Kid A and 2007's In Rainbows, are slippery and jarring: blends and collisions of violent guitar dynamics, cryptic dance-floor electronics and barbed, elliptical balladry. Radiohead's last "conventional" album, according to their longtime co-producer Nigel Godrich, was their art-rock classic OK Computer. "Essentially, that was a guitar record dabbling in other dimensions," Godrich says. Radiohead have begun every subsequent album the same way. "We start," O'Brien says, "with what we don't want to do next."

There has been substantial outside work in recent years. Selway's first solo effort, Familial, came out in 2010. Yorke is almost done with the first studio album by his band Atoms for Peace. Jonny, a prolific writer for soundtracks and orchestras, just issued an album with Polish composer Krzystof Penderecki. An independent act since the end of their EMI contract in 2003, Radiohead also explore alternative ways of releasing music. In Rainbows was first available as a pay-what-you-choose download. A gorgeous 2009 track, "These Are My Twisted Words," was free.

The King of Limbs arrived as a complete shock: a download with a week's notice and no publicity by the band. A CD followed a month later. But the surprise attack, combined with the music's vexing restraint, backfired. "There were clearly people who were interested in the band's music, but they didn't know Radiohead had released a record," says Bryce Edge, one of the group's managers. To date, The King of Limbs has sold 307,000 copies in the U.S. – Radiohead's first album to fail to go gold here.

But that tally, Edge points out, "doesn't include all of the digital stuff we sold" – an estimated 300,000 to 400,000 copies purchased via Radiohead's website. "The majority of the sales were band-to-fan," says co-manager Chris Hufford. "Financially, it was probably the most successful record they've ever made, or pretty close. In a traditional deal, the record company takes the majority of the money."

Radiohead played only three concerts in 2011, after recruiting Deamer to help re-create the overdubbed tangle of drum loops on The King of Limbs: a surprise set at Britain's Glastonbury Festival and two hot-ticket gigs at New York's Roseland Ballroom. So now the band is going overboard: Its long U.S. itinerary includes festival dates, two at Coachella and one at Bonnaroo. O'Brien says the group has already "talked about the way the gigs might evolve, maybe doing them in three sections – three movements, if you like." Colin is excited about the prospect of studio time along the way. "Maybe we'll do some hit-and-runs," he says, "go in over a weekend somewhere and play."

The band is touring mostly in three-week legs with substantial breaks, in part for family matters. All the group members still reside in the Oxford area except for O'Brien, who lives in London, and all are married except for Yorke, who has been with his partner, Rachel Owen, since they were students at the University of Exeter. The five are busy fathers. Colin, Jonny and Selway have three children each; Yorke and O'Brien have two apiece. "My kids are changing schools in September," Selway, 44, notes. "I wanted to be around for that."

But there is a strong sense in the interviews conducted for this story over the past year – in Oxford, London, New York and finally Miami – of a band anxious to engage the world again after spending too much time too close to home. The first night at Roseland last September was, O'Brien claims, "a great lesson. The sound-check was a fucking nightmare. The monitors were rubbish – we couldn't hear ourselves. We felt underprepared. But you know what? It was all good. Our managers were like, 'Top-five gig!'"

"It was a fucking trip – the best adrenaline buzz I've had in absolutely years," Yorke crows. "It didn't feel like we were treading the old ground, walking over our graves. We were still wandering around in the darkness, stumbling. That was nice."

"It made us feel like a rock band again," Colin says, more thoughtfully, backstage in Miami. "It's fine to be in a band in a nine-to-five way: Get up with the kids, take them to school, do some work, come home. But I see my friends in Oxford who have jobs they work hard at that they don't enjoy, and it frustrates me. We have a job that is a passion. Roseland made us remember how great it could and should be."

Radiohead speak about The King of Limbs like it is unfinished business, an album with a future and an audience still waiting for it. The group is not touring this year "specifically to push that record," Selway says. But, he adds, "people hopefully will connect with it through that."

"It was amazing to just put the record out like that," Yorke says. "But then it didn't feel like it really existed." He mentions a chat he had about the album, a few months after its release, with Phil Costello, a friend of the band and a former executive at their old label, Capitol. "He was like, 'It's gone, just gone.' Really? Fuck.

"But that was the consequence of what we chose to do," Yorke concedes. "You can either get upset about it, or say, 'Well, that's not good enough.'"

It is a warm afternoon in New York, the day before the first Roseland concert, and Yorke – between sips of tea in a downtown hotel lobby – is recalling his Friday nights in college, working as a DJ while he was going for his bachelor's degree in art at Exeter. Radiohead were a part-time operation, writing songs and making demos under their original name, On a Friday, during the members' school breaks.

"I wasn't particularly good," Yorke says of his spinning, "because people were buying me drinks to get me to play what they wanted to hear. At the end of the night, I couldn't see the records." Yorke remembers mixing electro-dance tracks by a Belgian duo, Cubic 22, and the English trio 808 State with early Seattle grunge. He was especially keen on the way Manchester bands such as Happy Mondays and the Stone Roses were fusing Sixties psychedelia and British rave culture. "Which then stopped," Yorke complains. "Suddenly, guitars were the authentic way to go. We were a part of that."

Since OK Computer, Yorke has persistently fought to increase the distance between his band and customary rock instrumentation and record-making. "I talked about it endlessly while we were doing In Rainbows," he says. "It was a constant frustration that we were actually going the opposite way."

The King of Limbs is Yorke's student-DJ dream come true: rock fundamentals wholly transformed by electronics. The drum, bass and guitar parts are all samples, individually played by the members of Radiohead, then manipulated, looped and layered into tracks shaped by Yorke's reverie-like melodies and haiku-style lyrics. "Lotus Flower," "Codex" and "Give Up the Ghost" hover and throb more like suggestions than songs, exotic murmurs in no hurry to become declarative statements. "I can see why it's alienated people," Yorke says now of the album. "I didn't realize it was its own planet."

"We didn't want to pick up guitars and write chord sequences," Jonny says, sitting in a London cafe near Abbey Road Studios, where Radiohead made part of their second album, 1995's The Bends. "We didn't want to sit in front of a computer either. We wanted a third thing, which involved playing and programming." It was a long hunt: Radiohead worked on The King of Limbs in bursts from May 2009 to January 2011.

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Tall and shy, constantly sweeping a long curtain of black hair from his face, Jonny is the only member of Radiohead without a college degree; he left his studies in psychology and music at Oxford Polytechnic College when the group got its record deal in 1991. But he is arguably Radiohead's most gifted musician: a classically trained violist who also plays violin, cello and keyboards. Jonny also created the software program used to sample the instruments on The King of Limbs. "I was never happier," he says, "than when I was in my bedroom as a kid, working on rubbishy computer games.

"The brick walls we tended to hit," he adds, going back to the album, "were when we knew something was great, like 'Bloom,' but not finished. We knew the song was nearly something. Then Colin had that bass line, and Thom started singing. Those things suddenly made it a hundred times better. The other stuff was just waiting for the right thing."

"They are unlike any other band in the studio," says Godrich, who has worked on every album since OK Computer. "They could not record 'Bohemian Rhapsody,' because they don't have the attention span. If it's not happening straightaway, Thom gets confused. That's not his way."

Godrich cites one classic Radiohead song that was never finished in the studio, "True Love Waits," a popular concert ballad: "We tried to record it countless times, but it never worked. The irony is you have that shitty live version [on the 2001 mini-album, I Might Be Wrong]. To Thom's credit, he needs to feel a song has validation, that it has a reason to exist as a recording. We could do 'True Love Waits' and make it sound like John Mayer. Nobody wants to do that."

Radiohead did not support Limbs with an extensive tour last year for two reasons. One: "We thought it might not be playable," Jonny says. The other "was partly my fault," Yorke acknowledges. The album "released such a load of weird possibilities." He wanted to go right back into the studio, then decided against "carrying on in the same vein. We couldn't do that, we couldn't play live: 'Aw, shit, now what?'"

Deamer, 51, a veteran jazz and dance-music drummer who has also worked with Robert Plant, was the answer. "I've loved his drumming for ages," Selway says. "He seemed like the natural person to go to." In early 2011, the two started dissecting the new songs and deciding which of the many drum parts they could feasibly perform live. A year later, Selway is on the phone from Oxford after Radiohead's final day of tour rehearsals there: "Everything is wide open," the drummer declares in an ecstatic version of his soft, gentlemanly voice. "Seeing that dynamic between the six of us bearing fruit – we have started something. A lot of bands at this stage don't get that opportunity. Or they miss it when it's there."

But, Yorke says, "There is no way in hell we could have come up with what we're doing now, live, if we hadn't been sitting in front of turntables and samplers, piecing the record together in this method. There is no way it would have turned into this dynamic thing."

Asked which songs on The King of Limbs have changed most in performance, Yorke mentions "Lotus Flower." "With the two drummers it suddenly got nasty," he says. "I quite like it." And he agrees that "Give Up the Ghost" – a spare, repetitive ballad on the record – became something else at Roseland: a booming, circular prayer as Jonny sampled and manipulated Yorke's live vocal.

"You're sampling what the mic is taking from the room too," the singer explains. "It's getting the room back, again and again and again. What it's going to sound like in an arena. . ." Yorke's eyes go wide with delight. "I'd forgotten about that. It could be something."

On a cool midsummer evening in Oxford, Colin is strolling briskly to a pub in the old center of the city, noting historic sites along the way. He gestures at a narrow door leading into Modern Art Oxford, a prominent gallery. When they weren't playing together or in school, the young members of Radiohead hung out in the basement lounge, "talking forever, each of us over a single cup of coffee for five hours," Colin says.

Around the corner, he points to a store – part of Cult, a clothing chain – and notes with a bemused smile that Yorke worked in another local branch as a salesman. It is an improbable image: Yorke, a compact man of impatient energy and lethal irony, closing a deal on designer jeans.

Passing a phone booth, Colin remembers Radiohead's first, stumbling attempts to make records, before they got their EMI deal. "There was no e-mail or cellphones," the bassist says. "We'd find a call box, put money in it and call a studio." Once, when they asked how much a session cost, "the guy said, 'Nine hundred pounds.' We said, 'Thank you!' and hung up." Radiohead ultimately cut most of their first album, 1993's Pablo Honey, at a studio co-run by a producer who had worked with the Sixties-blues version of Fleetwood Mac.

Then there is the Bear Inn, a truly ancient pub (established 1242) with perilously low ceilings. Colin, an Oxford native, and Yorke – born in a small East Midlands town, Wellingborough, and raised for a time in Scotland – first met in their preteens. They were both taking classical-guitar lessons at Abingdon School, outside Oxford. At the Bear, the two managed to buy drinks even though they were underage and talked about their role models for the band they planned to form: New Order, Talking Heads and Yorke's favorite, R.E.M.

Over a pint of ale at a picnic table outside the Bear, Colin fondly recalls "that excitement of noise" at Radiohead's first local gigs, "when you play in a pub, borrowing some older guy's Fender bass cabinet and you've had four cans of lager to get your courage up. We did that for the first show we ever did. It was a 20-minute walk that way." He points down the street running behind the Bear, toward the Jericho Tavern. Radiohead made their concert debut there in 1986 under the name On a Friday, after their usual rehearsal day, when the members were all at Abingdon School. Selway, the oldest member, was 19; Jonny was not yet 15.

Later, standing outside a restaurant in a residential neighborhood, Colin notes another Radiohead shrine: the house near the corner of Magdalen Road and Ridgefield Road that Colin, Selway and O'Brien rented in the summer of 1991. The band stored its equipment there, and all five members lived there, in varying combinations, for about a year. "Good times," Colin says with a sigh, "although Jonny never did any of the washing up."

Selway characterizes that period as "good training for tour buses. There were piles of pizza boxes in the corner. It would get so unbearable that someone would have to do the cleaning. I was coming and going for most of the year. I seem to remember Colin moving into my room after I'd decorated it quite nicely."

Yorke arrived after he graduated from Exeter. "We would come back from gigs," he says, "and listen to the answering machine. There would be messages from 10 A&R men."

The Ridgefield Road house was the end of Radiohead's adolescence – the point at which they became a full-time band obsessed with their work and progression. Jonny describes one Christmas when he was still in high school and the others were home from college: "We rehearsed in some hall in town every day, including Christmas Eve. It was insane. There was no concept. We were working on songs for some nebulous future reason we had not clearly thought through.

"That's the kind of intense time we spend together," he says. "That's how it's always been. Our gang principally revolved around playing musical instruments, songs to talk about."

"I think that was when we wrote 'Creep,'" Yorke says when asked about that Christmas. "There are these periods when you get energized. You can't force yourself to hang out. But when we're working, when it's happening and it's all good, all that shit just occurs."

Yorke's aversion to the road surfaced early. So did his distaste for the play-the-game decorum expected of a major-label band. Manager Edge recounts "a famous gig" in Las Vegas "when we'd done some ridiculous routing because of the seeming lack of knowledge American promotion guys have of geography. We were doing a radio show, supporting Tears for Fears, and everyone was grumpy." During the show, "in a fit of pique," Yorke smashed half of the stage lights. Edge maintains that "the idea of him doing anything like that now is long gone."

But Yorke looks back on his not-much-younger self – particularly the tormented anti-star preserved in Meeting People Is Easy, the 1999 documentary of the OK Computer tour – without excuses. "I was bored," he states flatly, backstage in Miami, of his aggro-zombie aura in that film. "I loved that record. But the idea of being stuck with those songs for a year and a half, in the same form, no change, no nothing – I struggled with it. We'd finish a song, and I'd stand there, frozen.

"I understand now why we did all of those shows," Yorke confesses. "If we hadn't, we wouldn't be where we are. But I lost my nerve. We've been through different stages – that was a bad one."

"What's different about us," Jonny chimes in, "was that right from the beginning, our obsession was songs. As a byproduct, we tour now."

"It wasn't a bunch of mates" on Ridgefield Road, O'Brien observes, "more like a bunch of co-conspirators. We had this common goal. That's what it was all about, dreaming it up. All this stuff we have now – there was never any doubt it was going to happen. And it did, because the material world caught up.

"But I would say this – they are my brothers. Some of the others don't realize that. But we'll be at one another's funerals. We've been through this. We're family."

That is "a strength we don't really acknowledge to ourselves," Colin says. "We're far too English."

There is a physical side to it that I find interesting – the breath," Yorke says. He is trying to explain where he goes in his head and what he feels when he sings. "It's a meditative state, like standing in the tube station when the train is coming through. Things go past you – trains, people.

"It took me a few years to learn how to do it," he says of performing, during a breakfast interview in London last July. "Seeing people like Michael Stipe and Jeff Buckley – I realized it's a good place to go. It's OK to shut your eyes."

Later that day, Radiohead convene with Edge and Hufford to discuss touring in 2012. Afterward, O'Brien describes the meeting as "fraught." Yorke already sounds uneasy over his egg-white omelet: "The level of machinery freaks me out sometimes. You walk backstage, and there's people and stuff everywhere.

"We never wanted to be big," he says. "I don't want to be loved in that way. You can say it is selfish. You can also say this is someone who gets a kick out of what they do: trying to fuck with your head." Yorke enunciates the last phrase with relish.

"Because that's what it's all about," he continues, "casting the net wide, creating chaos and trusting something will come of it – not panicking, just going with the blind faith and all of these moving parts. This idea – where will the band be in five years? Fuck that. I'm just looking for little diamonds in the dust."

"Thom has the most acute bullshit detector in the band," O'Brien says, with awe, in Miami. "It's that balance – an intensely critical life, with an ability to feel, to have great intuition. We're not necessarily making the smartest business decisions. But we are following our intuition. It's about the art."

"This is a work in progress – that's the bit I like," Yorke confirms, just before that last practice. Then he says something else. "I was thinking, when I was on holiday recently – I've been doing this more than half my life." He pauses. "That's bonkers!" Yorke proclaims with an astonished laugh. "And it's cool. It's a job – and a good job.

"We actually need to get on a stage now and see where we're at," he declares, ready to play. "It's a large stage, and there will be a lot of people." There's more laughter. "But I've been told that's OK."

#radiohead #fitter hapier #rolling stone #2012 #1155 #how the most experimental band in music learned to rock again #david fricke #rolling stone magazine #magazine #april 26 2012 #april 26

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