#the piano refrain in this song is so moving... it's simple but it really plucks at your heartstrings | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

infinity-and-luck · 3 years

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Pluck the Heartstrings || Day 3: Pressure

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After dinner, they had gathered in the drawing-room to talk. Mostly they surrounded Niccolò and asked him questions about his experiences and life. About his skills on the violin and his performances, about his time spent in the Baciocchi court , and about his general self. The stories told about him were many and greatly exaggerated: most of them were false; he didn’t say which ones were true.

Several things about the great Paganini had drawn Jonah to seek him out. They had gotten on quite well, and the more Jonah learned about him, the more he knew his other acquaintances would like him just as much.

So now they were in Jonah’s house in London, all conversing and getting to know the violinist who has been the talk of Europe, and especially England now that he was here.

“Perhaps a performance is in order,” Smirke had declared, clapping his hands together, and everyone nodded their heads excitedly, eager for a private performance from a famous prodigy.

His violin was sitting in the corner of the room, seemingly ready for such a moment. So Niccolò had acquiesced and went to grab it.

“I need accompaniment if our gracious host would care to join me. I am told you have some skill on the piano?”

Barnabas had been gushing about Jonah and how talented he was at so many things, piano among them. True, Jonah had learned as a child, but he would never claim himself to be skilled enough to play with the likes of Paganini. Never mind, he didn’t really care to play at all in front of others, given the circumstances of his learning the instrument.

But his request was more a command—polite and open to rejection, yes, but a command nonetheless.

“But of course,” Jonah nodded his head in thanks and went to sit at the piano in the corner of the room. Since meeting the violinist, he had been practising more frequently, partially wanting and expecting something like this to happen.

The others—Lukas, Smirke, Barnabas, and Albrecht, who was visiting London at the moment—gathered in chairs around them. With a flourish, Niccolò brought the bow to the strings. Giving Jonah a look that said, “you know what to do,” he started to play.

A newer composition, Jonah had been quite interested in La Campanella and had tried to play it once or twice in his own time. He barely knew the accompaniment.

But the others were watching, and Jonah would not allow himself to be perceived as anything less than perfect. The violin played the impressive parts, yes, and while the piano part was simple, he did not want to falter, so while he easily fell into playing it, even losing himself in the music at one point, he stayed focused. He had to be perfect.

Mostly, everyone watched Niccolò play, astounded by his speed and accuracy. But Jonah could feel Barnabas’ eyes on him, watching him with an air of fascination, watching Paganini with an air of jealousy. His eyes on him were, not uncomfortable, but noticeable.

His dear Barnabas played the flute—not terribly well though—and often, Jonah knew, he longed to play a duet with him. It had yet to happen, and Jonah honestly couldn’t say if it ever would. He had no interest in wind instruments; they were too shrill and squeaked and hurt Jonah’s ears.

Strings instruments though? Lovely.

No, he mentally berated himself, he’d been lost in thought, fingers and mind moving along different tracks, up until the point where the piano took the melody and the violin had a moment to rest. He opened his eyes and glanced down at the keys. Willing himself to focus despite the thrill of the others watching him.

Niccolò stayed facing their little audience, but Jonah could see his head inclined towards him, a faint smile on his face. Without thinking, he returned it, and, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Barnabas frown.

A pause then the next part of the song began, and he once again was joined by the violin. The two parts coming together and making one perfect song.

When it was finished and the last note was played and the beginnings of applause from their small audience was heard, Jonah stood behind the violinist and locked eyes with Barnabas.

For a brief moment, Jonah considered going to talk to him, but Mordechai walked over, putting himself between him and Barnabas.

“You play wonderfully,” Mordechai said, “I should have known you were so good with your hands.”

Good lord. Now of all times? He blushed slightly at the compliment and the implications, but he does have things he needs to do.

“Thank you, Mr Lukas. Perhaps one day you would be interested in knowing the full use of my hands.” He’s learned the tone he needs to use when dismissing Mordechai, who simply nodded, pleased by the proposal and always content to be alone.

Barnabas was still standing in the same spot where he had been, and he looked displeased.

“Did you not enjoy it?” Jonah asked, even though he knew the answer. He simply liked the way Barnabas seemed to hesitate between speaking his mind or being polite. The former always won with him.

“I dislike Paganini.”

He played at being shocked. “You do? I believe him to be quite charming.”

Barnabas’ cheeks were red. “You told me you wouldn’t play with anyone.”

Now was not the time for either of them to cause a scene, so Jonah refrained from saying that he had said he wouldn’t play with Barnabas in specific. Rather, he reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “I was just simply trying to get better… for you.”

He always knew what to say to soothe Barnabas, and that was enough for now. His angered flush turned into a subtle blush, and, were they not with others, he felt Barnabas might’ve even tried to kiss him at that moment.

“You have always been good enough, Jonah.” Funny, he recalled Niccolò saying something similar to him the night before.

#jonah magnus #jonahmagnusweek #barnabas bennett #mordechai lukas #niccolo paganini #tma

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years

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A love that never leaves (3)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader; Winter Soldier x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Heavy SMUT, so 18+ please.

A/N: The story of the last time they met arrives and it wasn’t exactly pretty, because that’s how life goes when the Soldier is involved. If you’re uncomfortable with smut or are under 18, feel free to stop by my inbox and I’ll give you a summary!

Tags are open, if you want on the list please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!

MASTERLIST ALTNL MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

She takes the armchair across from him, as far away as she can get in the small living room, and tucks her hands under her legs. Bucky knows he’s unlikely to enjoy whatever she has to say, but he folds his fingers together and waits. She stares down at her feet, appearing to gather her courage before meeting his grim stare head on.

Her voice is steady, as she starts to speak.

“Paris was cold that December and it snowed early. It was New Year’s Eve in 1969.”

*****

31 December 1969 Paris, France

The deluge of snow pauses for a few minutes, long enough for her to hail a taxi from the steps of her apartment. Time, normally inconsequential and meaningless, seemed to blur that year. Cool wet spring and hot baking summer. Warm sunny autumn and now cold snowy winter. Through it all, a single thread loops around, knotting the months together. She feels the sting of bitter despair when she contemplates the fact.

After all these years, of running and hiding and starting from scratch again and again – here she remains.

Forgotten. Alone.

It feels exceptionally poignant tonight, as the end of another decade arrives. Clawing her way up from the self-loathing pit of her past feels utterly impossible. Why should she move on? The memories caged in her heart are more vital to her survival than anything else she owns.

Right there, that’s the key word - survival. This is not living; she knows that. The simple truth is that she’s forgotten and alone, because she chose this life. Self-imposed regression, isolation in the purest form. To live, feels insurmountable because she has no clue how the hell she’s supposed to simply let go.

She knows though. She knows she should. For him.

This is not the life he wanted for her.

She owes him more than the hollow shell she’s become.

Maybe this is it, she tells herself. Maybe this will be the year she rediscovers what it means to live. Maybe this year she can exorcise the ghosts of her past and finally move on.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. A fool’s mantra.

Lifting the hem of a black satin evening gown away from the grey slush, she steps carefully through the shoveled path to meet the driver. Sliding into the backseat, she adjusts her long, billowy black coat, tucking it under her knees.

“Moulin Rouge,” she requests and her voice is resigned.

How she allowed herself to be roped into a party tonight, she’s not sure. New friends, still bursting with sheltered optimism, insisting on making the most of their youth.

Youth. What a funny idea. Her youth disappeared long ago, but the hallmarks of age refuse to visit - no grey hair, no wrinkles around her eyes. Nothing to mark the passage of time, other than the ancient ache fused to her bones. She appears much the same as she did back in 1943, which is soul destroying all on its own.

The world keeps moving forward, but nothing about her wants to follow that same trajectory.

Foggy car windows obscure the lights of Paris as the taxi navigates the crowded streets. From inside, the world resembles a watercolor painting, dabs of muted yellow, smears of soft black.

Rolling down the window, she tips her face into the night, letting clean, cold air fill the car. The world returns in sharp relief, the smell of the city filling her nose, bringing a sting of wistfulness; chestnuts roasting in buckets, the heady scent of champagne from the tippling glasses toasting on the sidewalks, the piney smell of decaying needles from Christmas trees piled on street corners. The noise is deafening, as the whole of Paris flocks to the streets, celebrating the end of the 1960s.

Even now, 25 years after the Nazi occupation, the city remains hell bent on squeezing every last bit of living from the hours in their grasp.

Part of her wants to encourage them to calm down, to take a breath – it won’t happen again, it can’t happen again, the world won’t let it. But that’s what they said in 1918.

Instead, she smiles at the excitement, at the unwavering lust for life. Although she doesn’t partake, she still understands the desire. She just wishes she could feel the same.

The ride takes longer than usual, but that’s okay. She’s in no hurry to arrive and feign excited smiles through the long night. When the lights of the Moulin Rouge appear, the giant windmill flashing white and red and gold lights, she tries a pep talk, psyching herself up.

You can do this, she tells herself. It’s only one night. You can do this.

The driver pulls up and the attendant rushes for her door, offering a white gloved hand to help her exit. Stepping from the car, she adjusts her coat, lifts her chin and curves her lips into a reasonable replica of a smile.

Glancing to the attendant, she offers her thanks.

The words die on her tongue.

Above the sea of people clogging the sidewalk, she sees the back of a tall man striding away, shoulder length hair brushing broad shoulders. The shade is so perfectly familiar, a glossy chestnut hue she can see wrapped around her fingers, her breath stops.

Hope stabs her, so viciously consuming, she staggers and grips the car door tight.

Was that -

But in the next heartbeat, he turns the corner and disappears, and reality crashes down. She saw nothing, because there was nothing to see. Nothing more than her traitorous brain playing tricks, because that part of her life no longer exists. Sometimes there are just so many memories crowded inside, they have no where to go but back into the world. Some days she sees ghosts everywhere, their shadowy footprints stomping through her heart.

Stop. Please stop. Let him go, she pleads with herself. You have to let him go.

The impossibility of the request weighs her down, but she vows in that moment that she will at least try. Perhaps this will be the year she turns over a new leaf. The year she finally lets him go.

Resolve vibrating through her, she lifts her chin once again and marches into the club.

*****

Just a few more hours.

The refrain plays on repeat in her head. Louder and louder, the words throbbing in time with the headache she feels brewing.

In all fairness, she’s trying. The room overflows with bodies, stuffy and hot, and she swears to herself that she’s trying, she really is, but she can’t stop peeking at the gigantic clock situated in the middle of the ballroom. Just a few more hours until she can take off this gown and ditch these heels and crawl under her covers with a bottle of wine.

And contemplate how the hell she plans to survive another decade like this.

Plucking a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray, she gulps down the delicate fizz. Touching the cold crystal to her damp forehead, she closes her eyes and she smiles wryly when she considers one very important point.

If she has nothing else in this world - at least there will always be bubbles.

Minutes creep by, the crowd getting drunker and more exuberant as the clock ticks closer to midnight. She makes small talk, keeps the smile glued to her face, laughs at jokes that are thoroughly unfunny. All the while, counting down the minutes until she can make her escape.

Beside her, a group of Americans are telling a story, full of imitations and boisterous laughter. Leaning away, she tries to tune them out, focusing instead on the one highlight to the evening.

There, from across the room she hears lush, beautifully complex melodies floating from ivory keys. Piano music dances above the melee and the sounds of big band classics are nostalgic and comforting. The pianist is exquisite, rotating easily through a medley of old favorites, and she lets herself relax.

Contentment steals over her for the first time the entire evening. Maybe it’s not so bad here, she admits to herself.

But she really should realize - the world is not on her side. A jarringly familiar chord rings out.

And she freezes.

Oh god. No, she thinks. No. Move. Get out of here.

It strikes something broken deep inside and she wonders if the ghosts of her past are really, truly intent on wrecking her tonight. Whipping around, she searches desperately for an escape, but the ballroom is filling further, a veritable barricade of merrymakers preventing her from fleeing.

Like musical ivy, the mocking notes float around her, winding and twisting and tangling inside her head, wrapping tight around her throat. Around her heart. Although no words accompany the song, she fills the blanks perfectly fine by herself.

We’ll meet again…don’t know where…don’t know when…

For all her earlier promises to move on and forget the past, this party’s not doing a god damn thing to help. The song slices apart her tenuous resolution, opening up that place in her brain where she keeps them all, those priceless memories from her past.

On and on it plays, and she feels the hysteria begin to choke her.

Keep smiling through…Just like you always do…'Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away…

There are no smiles for her. No blue skies. Only black clouds and black dreams and black death, waiting to consume her.

Get out, get out, get out, her heart screams. She shoves harder, fighting to break from the crowd and panic descends.

“Only sixty seconds until midnight!”

Climbing to a pedestal on the bar, a garishly dressed performer in a black top hat and high heeled boots screams and the waiting crowd roars in return. In the next moment, the music comes to an abrupt halt. The memories are still hot electricity crackling over her skin, but the harsh reality of the present floods back in and she breathes a shaky sigh of relief.

Party horns and streamers and bags of confetti are passed around and she accepts one distractedly.

Too much, she thinks. This is too much.

And from nowhere, too much, becomes something far worse.

Like the undulations of the sea, the crowd shifts and from afar, she glimpses the piano player who fired the bullet into her heart. Even seated, she can see he’s tall and broad shouldered. She feels a strange twist in her stomach and a shiver goes down her back.

Because from behind, she recognizes him from earlier this evening. When the light from above shines down on shoulder length, chestnut brown hair, her teeth begin to chatter.

He stands from the piano then, stepping around the seat. As he moves, she feels her body follow, as though he’s a puppeteer and she’s the marionette on his strings. The rapid flutter of her pulse hammers a staccato beat in her ears and she tries to push forward, her eyes trained on him. When a waiter stops next to him, offering a glass of champagne, he accepts it and takes a long drink.

She notices he wears black gloves. A peculiar accessory in the swelteringly hot room.

Sweat drips down her temples and she wipes it away, ignoring the light smear of make-up transplanting onto her fingers. The words are dancing in her head, rising from the surface, as she feels herself saying it out loud, although she cannot hear the sound of her own voice.

“Turn around, please, turn around.”

In the next moment, her wish is granted.

The man turns to the side. Perfectly straight nose. Plush lips lifted in a disdainful curve. There in the ballroom of the Moulin Rouge, while 1969 takes its dying breaths, she sees the profile of a man who has haunted her dreams for as long as she can remember.

Her entire world goes silent.

The last moments of the countdown begin.

10…he steps to the side of the piano…

9…carefully sets his drink on the shiny black lacquer and buttons his tuxedo jacket…

8…and picks up his glass to drain the remaining champagne…

7…he hands the empty glass to a passing waiter…

6…and she sees a woman reaching for him, vying for his attention…

5…but he moves his arm away, ignoring the insistent appeal…

4…he glances up to the massive clock on the wall…

3…and his cold eyes fixate on her…

2…he remains utterly still, eyes narrowing as he holds her shocked stare…

1…then sharp elbows are jostling her from every angle and suddenly she stumbles…

Happy New Year!

When she regains her balances, she pivots wildly, searching the blurry sea of faces, hoping, praying, shouting for him. The crowd swells and parts again and again, but it’s no use.

He’s gone.

Black and silver confetti rains from the ceiling and gold balloons bounce around the laughing guests. People are kissing, hugging, laughing, welcoming 1970 with open arms. In the middle of it all, she stands frozen. Confused tears slide down her cheeks and in the thunderous roar of happiness, she hears nothing but the familiar shatter of her heart.

*****

In her apartment, there is a juliette balcony in the small living room. The home is basic and utilitarian, nothing special, except for the view. It overlooks the city and the sparkling lights of Paris satisfy her desire for beauty like nothing else.

Curled in a worn armchair in front of the balcony window, she shivers against the icy night air, drinking a glass of gin.

You’re insane, she thinks, gulping down the burning liquid. It was the song, nothing else. It’s not possible. It wasn’t him.

No, it’s not possible. It can’t be possible.

But still – she waits.

And in that dark hour before dawn, someone does arrive.

Nothing more than a soft footfall, alerts her to his presence. She sets the glass carefully on the floor and rises slowly to her feet.

Behind her stands a dark shadow, holding a rumpled tuxedo jacket by the tips of his fingers. A beam of light strikes his chest and through the crisp white shirt, she sees hints of silver glowing luminously, a tinge of blood red at his shoulder, silver plated fingers balled in a loose fist. The top few buttons at his collar are undone, and through the gap she sees streaks of red marring pale skin.

Somehow, there is a metal arm bolted to the man’s body.

Blinking slowly, she looks him up and down.

“Is this a dream?” she whispers, searching for clues. “Are you real?”

He simply stares back, regarding her dispassionately.

“Jimmy?” she asks softly and he twitches at the word.

“No,” he growls, his voice pitched deep. Where she expected a lazy Brooklyn twang, she hears nothing but clipped consonants.

“Okay,” she agrees softly, while her heart splinters. “What do I call you?”

“My name is Soldier. That’s all you need to know.”

He looks like him. God dammit, he looks exactly like him.

With two steps, he closes the space between. A mocking smile plays across his face as she stands her ground. When she reaches a hesitant hand to touch him, he catches her wrist, twisting it in a cruel grip, not allowing her fingers to find his skin. Jerking her roughly to him, he turns her around, her back flush against his chest and shoves her forward until she hits the wall. Wrenching her other wrist up, he pins both above her head and leans into her. The metal fingers pinch her skin and his breath is hot in her ear. She feels every hard inch of his body pressed against her, and he smells like dust and sweat and something tangy she doesn’t want to know.

“I saw you watching me earlier,” he rasps in her ear. “I could see it in your face. Tell me yes. Tell me I can have you.”

She tries to turn, but he won’t permit it. The sinister edge in his voice stirs something wanton buried inside and when she whispers her answer against the wall, there’s no hesitation.

“Yes. You can have me. You can have everything.”

At her submission, his lips trail greedily down her neck to fasten on the skin over her pulse. He sucks hard, drinking up the heartbeat he finds thrumming against his lips. A faint, purely unconscious purr leaves his throat as he remains there, his tongue occasionally massaging the flesh he seems determined to ruin.

Dragging a warm, calloused palm down her chest, he tugs insistently at the sheer lace covering her breasts. Baring them to the freezing air swirling through the room, her nipples tighten as rough fingers skim over them.

Sucking hard at her skin, brushing gently over her breasts. Softly licking the tender spot at her neck, cruelly pinching her nipples. Each feeling elicits a sharp gasp of confusion, a strange contradiction of sensations.

The languid pace confuses her. He could take everything if he wanted, she’d accept it without question. But for some reason, he doesn’t. Instead, he seems content to stay there, tasting her skin, teasing her breasts, until she begins to beg.

“Please.”

Something snaps when he hears the word. It lights up something feral inside him and a low snarl rips from his throat.

“Good. I like that,” he grits out. “I like begging. Say it again.”

The blistering heat of his touch brands her skin when he grabs her hip, impatiently rucking up the flimsy nightgown. The patent leather of his dress shoes feels cool against her skin when she feels him nudge her calves, spreading her open and the metal grip on her wrists tightens as he slips his hand between her legs.

She stutters out a moan at the feel and he gives a growl of approval at the discovery, how wet she feels. He strokes back and forth, maddeningly slow, until she’s bucking her hips, chasing his hand. Hot breath fills her ear and the sound of his voice sends chills racing up her spine.

“I said, say it again.”

With no warning, he shoves two fingers inside her and sinks his teeth into her shoulder.

Tears sting her eyes and she cries out. It’s been so god damn long since she’s been with anyone, the harsh treatment does nothing to temper the need coiling in her belly. Just the simple feel of him, his thick fingers, blunt and rough, sends her instantly close to the edge. The moment his teeth release her, he licks over the deep indentions and starts fucking her with his fingers.

“Oh god,” she chokes out. “Please. Please, please, please.”

His heavy body keeps her captive against the wall, her cheek pressed to the cold plaster, allowing her to do nothing more than take what he gives. Faster, harder, he fucks his fingers into her, stroking his thumb over her clit and she relishes the way each sharp thrust forces her up onto her toes. It comes quickly and suddenly she’s close, so close, so precariously close, her body clenching around his fingers and she closes her eyes, holding her breath.

He stops.

Thick fingers buried inside her, the Soldier waits, curious for her reaction. She pants harshly against the wall, a brief rush of shame rolling through her, but heavy want grips her and she can’t help herself.

Pushing back against him, she wordlessly begs him to continue. Casting a heavy-lidded glance behind, she sees him peering down between them. Remaining motionless, he watches as she circles her hips, mesmerized by the way her body swallows his fingers as she rocks herself back and forth. He allows her to continue, taking her pleasure from him, until he looks up and meets her eyes.

Abruptly, he removes his fingers and her body jolts at the loss.

Mouth curling into a sardonic smile, he drops his hand to the front of his suit pants and she feels him fumbling with the button on his trousers, hears the ting of his zipper when he yanks it down. Her entire body shivers, waiting. He tugs the suit pants just low enough to free himself, his hand gripping his cock, the velvet softness brushing against her skin, an intense contrast to the unbreakable steel of his body.

The heat is immense, his skin feels like fire against her and she basks in it.

She’s been so cold, for so damn long.

Releasing her hands, he turns her roughly to face him and his mouth finally slants over hers in a bruising kiss. She feels his tongue tangle with hers, his lips manic. Grabbing the front of his shirt, she clings to him, meeting the punishing kiss with everything in her. He rubs his hand between her legs once more, strokes himself with the slickness he finds dripping down her thighs and lifts her up against the wall, settling her legs around his waist. Forcing himself impossibly close, his entire body touching hers, he buries himself inside her with a fierce snap of his hips.

Her head knocks back against the wall, but he chases it, fighting to keep her kiss. Metal fingers grind into the wall above them, pieces of pale green plaster showering down and she hears a soft whirring, a series of synchronized clicks rippling down his arm. The flame hot touch of his right hand clutches her waist and each pull out is a slow drag, letting him savor the wet heat. Each thrust into her is hard, driving himself to the hilt.

It hits her then, with his hips pressed flush against hers. Pleasure bursts through her and she comes hard, groaning into his mouth, unraveling against him.

The Soldier drinks up her soft cries, grinding himself into her. Slipping his hand between them, he thumbs over her clit and the sweet friction sends electric sparks sweeping over her skin, prolonging her orgasm. Without thinking, her teeth clamp down and she bites his lip so hard she draws blood.

He jerks back with a hiss.

Baring his teeth in a furious scowl, he stops moving, glaring at her. She stares back, wide-eyed in the face of his fury and waits for the axe to fall.

Part of him knows a desire to punish her for it, to make her hurt - she can see it warring behind his eyes. But another part, some hidden desire, tamps him down. Licking over his lip, the familiar taste of his own blood and the feel of her soft mouth creates a potent cocktail. He slams himself back into her, brutal, terrifying hard, and her back scratches painfully against the wall while he wildly chases his own end.

Clutching him close, in her blissed-out haze, she hears him panting in time with the slap of his hips. Whispered words flow from his mouth, broken syllables in unknown languages, but she thrills at the rough sounds. He drives into her harder, again, again, again, and one final time, before he goes still. The sound of his groan is nearly silent in her ear, and she feels the rush of warmth between her legs.

She closes her eyes and tucks her face into his neck.

This is not him, not the same man she remembers. But it doesn’t matter.

They remain locked together for a spell, until the Soldier’s breathing evens and he lets himself slip from her, lowering her feet to the floor. He steps away, tucking himself back in the trousers. She leans against the wall, goosebumps blooming up her shaking legs, the sheen of cold sweat drying on her skin. The lace nightgown ruffles up with a gust of fresh January air, clearing the heavy scent of sex from the air.

No words are spoken and he seems mildly reluctant to leave. She takes that as a sign then. Perhaps his business here is unfinished, because business is certainly what brought him to Paris tonight. She sees it now. The speckles of red, splattered lines across his shirt, and she asks the only thing she can conceive.

“Why did you come here? Are you going to kill me?”

The Soldier cocks his head. Cold blue eyes roam over her body and he answers her questions with one of his own.

“Do you deserve to die?”

She stares back at him. Watches him tuck dark hair behind his ear. Notices his silver arm catching the light from the streetlamps below. Sees the final remnants of emotion fade from the bright blue eyes.

Her answer is honest.

“Maybe. I don’t know anymore.”

The Soldier doesn’t respond. He picks up the tuxedo jacket lying on her bed and shrugs into it.

“I’m only authorized to kill those on my list. You’re not included.”

Bitter disappointment floods her features. Fat tears fall silently into the hollow between her breasts and then he clucks his tongue softly.

And there, right beneath the iron exterior, she finds it. The faded imprint of the ghost from earlier and it spurs her forward. Gathering her courage, she asks her question again.

“Then why did you come here?”

The Soldier smooths the sleeves of his jacket, hiding the blood-soaked cuffs of his white shirt. She can almost see his brain flipping through the answers he keeps on file, searching for the appropriate response.

His answer is honest.

“I saw you earlier tonight. I wanted you. I never get what I want,” he says, anger apparent in his voice. “There are always people available. Willing women. Willing men. I didn’t want them. I wanted you. I have no reason why.”

Hope surges through her. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe a man exists beneath the murderous exterior, something she can save. Someone she can save. Stepping toward him, she reaches for his hand.

“Then stay. You can have me, just – just stay.”

He frowns. Pushes her hand away. And then he tears her heart in two.

“You misunderstand. I’m not interested in staying. I don’t need comfort. I finished a job before I came here, and I wanted to relieve the stress. I needed someone to fuck and I wanted to fuck you.”

The words are a savage slap in her face and she recoils at his robotic response. Behind the murky veils in his mind, the Soldier hears a faint echo, a voice shouting. But like smoke on the wind, it fades before he can ascertain the meaning.

Grief emanates from her in waves and it triggers something in him. An excuse rises up before he can bite it back. There is no reason he needs to offer it; the Soldier does not receive comfort, nor does he offer it.

Until now.

“Besides, they would find me. They always find me. It’s better for you if they don’t.”

The callous statement is momentarily softened, but she knows better. Still, even with the coldness in his voice, she knows she’ll never forgive herself if she doesn’t try one more time. So, she reaches for him again.

And one more time, he catches her wrist, stopping her.

But now, he brings her hand to his mouth. Eyes drift closed, beautifully long lashes spiky black against his pale face, and he presses his nose to her skin.

Perhaps somewhere in his head, it could all be stored away - the feel, the taste, the scent of her skin. Something sweet, when the bleakness of his life becomes too much to bear. But like everything else in his mind, it will be scrubbed away. Memories do not exist for the Soldier. Hydra will steal them, hoard them, crush them. Every single time.

“Don’t go. Please, don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Blue eyes blink in confusion at her request and for one glorious moment, she believes he’ll listen.

Instead, he lets her go. Like the ghost he is, he moves so swiftly she barely sees it happen, but the door closes, and he’s gone.

And here she remains. Alone again.

Rubbing the soreness circling her wrists, she sinks to the floor. The delicate nightgown twists uncomfortably around her hips, but she ignores it. Silent sobs wrack her body as she curls into a tight ball, wrapping her arms around herself.

Cold. Always so god damn cold.

The sticky feel of him drying on her thighs is the only indication he was ever more than a dream. Hopeless tears fill her throat and after all this time, she wonders how there are still any left in her body.

It doesn’t matter.

They arrive like a tidal wave, breaking over her, destroying everything in their path and dragging her under.

*****

Next Chapter

*****

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thekonnection82 · 5 years

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As promised, Mamamoo completes their year long project ‘Four Seasons Four Colors’ with the release of their ninth mini album ‘White Wind’ on March 14. ‘Four Seasons Four Colors’ had goals of building up Mamamoo’s artistic repertoire by exploring new sounds that are unexpected of the group. Using seasons and colors for the concept gives the quartet wide range to accomplish these goals. Reviewing the last two mini albums (‘Red Moon’ and ‘Blue;s’) have been awesome, and I felt obliged to post about the final piece of the project.

The concept for this album treats white as the blank canvas for Mamamoo to freely create an array of colors by using the colors they had showcased in the past, conceptually both primary and neon colors. Mamamoo pays homage to their start as they use their bright colors in a modernized way parallel to their jazzy, retro-pop concept of debut. The way they are bolder and cooler with the pop of neon gave me the essence of their previous releases under the primary colors. Even the album cover design used a gradient accent of blue and purple that reminded me of their mini album cover for ‘Purple’ that was released prior to this project, which they first expressed the concept of mixing colors to symbolize a new sound. With all this said and seeing the teasers, I wondered if they were in any way revisiting their old sound.

I’ll be quoting Mamamoo as they gave descriptions of each song in their highlight medley video.

Let’s get to it!

‘White Wind’ Album Art

‘Where R U’

R&B song that expresses the heart fluttering feelings of waiting for a destined lover, as if they’re playing hide-and-seek.

This track took me by surprise by how airy and light the production was. The plucked chords reminded me of strings from the violin family, and the flute synth notes created a refreshing, dreamy sound. If you listen closely during the pre-chorus you can hear xylophones chiming in and it plays as a cute little accent. These parts gave me the feeling that I was probably going to transcend into heaven, but the guitar and the main beat helped balance out the mentioned parts as if to keep listeners grounded. The vocals expressed well about wondering where their future lover is. Although Mamamoo sang lightly, they didn’t sound weak or broken but rather firm. The way the song ended felt abrupt and awkward, only to realize it emphasized the wonder that surrounded the repeated question.

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‘Gogobebe’ (Title Track)

The song uses the ‘jijibee (…)’ from Kim Gunmo‘s ‘Jjanga‘ as a motif for the lyrics and melody. You will be able to see Mamamoo having fun and enjoying themselves without clinging to past loves or things that have happened.

Mamamoo embodies a liberating dance track here. Solar and Hwasa have entrancing control of the refrain as it draws you in and encourages you to continue partying with the group. Wheein delivers her lines in a sassy and chic way that you can forget her soft side. Moonbyul, raps her self-written lines coolly and with ease, and I appreciate her parts had two differing tones. The chorus’ melody reminded me of R&B girl groups of the 1990’s, which gave a different kind of retro vibe (compared to their rookie funky-pop releases). Within the chorus, the line where the members sang in unison gives emphasis to the theme of letting everything go. Yet, I find the theme ironic when the arrangement and production of this song sounded like it was crafted carefully and intricately. I never would have thought the combination of reggaeton and this latin guitar riff would be tasteful. So this is a fun, colorful track that will make you move in any way as you please.

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Check out ‘Jjanga‘ by Kim Gun Mo, who co-composed this track.

‘Waggy‘

Bossanova-style song that tickles your heart like a spring wind, and has witty lyrics. It’s a song that’s like listening to a friend who has fallen in love and can’t hide their heart fluttering excitement.

When the simple instrumentals started playing, I already had good feelings towards this song as it sounded upbeat and sweet. ‘Waggy’ really oozes fluttering affection, perfect for the spring season. The vocals are charming as they sing like a fresh breeze, and bounced to the rhythm like animated springing flowers. Mamamoo’s “beagle” humor could not be avoided as they added cute but subtle animal sounds throughout the song. The trumpet solo was a nice, classy touch that rides along the track’s wholesomeness. This quaint song was a little reminiscent to their similar, but more relaxing bossa nova track called ‘My Hometown’ (2016). It was nice to hear Mamamoo do this style of song again as it reminded listeners of their strength in making something a little old sound new while maintaining their boisterous group personality. You can definitely see this come to life as they performed ‘Waggy’ on music shows as they dressed up in various costumes and finding amusement out of Hwasa’s tsundere attitude.

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‘25‘

…still clumsy at 25, missing her natural, pure younger days while still loving her own self now, a step closer to her dream by maturing strongly.

Since Wheein holds the color and wind symbol for this project, ‘25’ is the album’s obligatory solo track. Knowing her discography, Wheein is usually the one being featured, or has had a rapper feature on her tracks. It was nice to hear Wheein sound relaxed yet her serious effort was still prevalent. Even co-writing this song, ‘25’ gives listeners a chance to hear a personal, introspective side of Wheein. Besides the lyrics, the smoothness and steady groove of this song gives a sense of nostalgia, especially for those who grew up with ‘90s-early 2000s R&B. The simple arrangement of guitar and snap beats didn’t overshadow Wheein’s varying vocals as it expressed genuine gratitude. Mamamoo’s fanbase, or Moomoos, would find this track so obvious in style as they are familiar with her leaning towards R&B and soul. It’s a down-to-earth, chill song which acted as a nice break between the livelier songs throughout the album.

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On the set of ‘You Hee-yeol’s Sketchbook’ .

Backstage at M Countdown.

‘Bad Bye‘

Pop slash R&B track that ardently expresses the painful feelings of not being able to accept an approaching breakup. As the farewell is too painful and bad, a ‘good bye’ is expressed as ‘bad bye’.

This song started off with sad piano notes and I assumed it would be Mamamoo’s classic pop-ballad like the way they performed on music show “Immortal Songs 2” or their diva-esque ‘I Miss You’ (2016). But the thought was immediately denied when the mid-tempo beat with brief pulsating synth high hats, rain drops as snaps, and deep basses came in. The vocals are strong throughout the song, even at their lowest, softest parts. The melody sounded distressing and reminiscent (again) of old-school pop slash R&B tracks of the early millennium. The arrangement briefly alters during Moonbyu’s first rap part, and I thought it was interesting how dark it felt. Overall, listeners can belt out their heartache with some rhythm and soul.

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‘My star‘

It expresses ‘You are my star’ to someone who can’t be compared to anyone else. The heavy bass and trendy beat hit you powerfully.

A few seconds of the intro created a dramatic mood. Mamamoo is definitely right when they say that this song hits you hard, especially since the heavy bass drives the song. To match the heavy bass’ booming energy, the vocals had to sound mighty and confident as well. Solar’s tone fits perfectly for this, and Hwasa’s raspiness added some texture as it stands out more when reaching for those loud, high notes. The rap sounded gritty and flowed rhythmically well even though it was so brief. I kind of expected the bridge to be totally toned down, but there were spurts of the resonant notes (in the background) that tells me the energy was not going to be halted at any time. Kudos to Wheein who sprinkles the ending chorus with her falsettos. This song was very enjoyable and can uplift one’s mood.

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‘4season (Outro)‘

It’s a song that brings Mamamoo’s ‘Four Seasons Four Color’ project into one. It has lyrics about each of the album themes, ‘moon, wind, flower, and sun’

This definitely ties up the ‘Four Seasons Four Colors’ project nicely. The arrangement felt warm and laid back, and it had me reminiscing of what Mamamoo tried to prove with this project for the past year. It’s parallel to their song ‘Paint Me’, but instead of talking about the colors they mention each season. Like how Mamamoo has described in their highlight medley, the outro encourages listeners and fans alike to continue on making memories with the group, which implied that just because the project is over, does not mean their musical ventures end.

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Promoting to vote on M Countdown.

Promoting on Music Bank.

‘White Wind’ for the majority of the album reached the retro vibes in a way I did not expect. Rather than the funk and blues similar in their debut, Mamamoo took elements of 90s-2000s R&B pop and showed a more modernized confidence. It is a unique take of fusing old trends with the current trends of programmed music. I mostly enjoyed the diverse beats and production of this album, thanks to the magic provided by Cosmic Girl, and Rainbow Bridge World’s Cosmic Sound, Park Soo Wang, and hit maker CEO Kim Do Hoon. They were able to provide clean, vibrant backdrops while keeping Mamamoo’s vocals shining upfront. This EP also compiled the gists of previous albums: the freshness of spring like ‘Yellow Flower’, the bold and daring like ‘Red Moon’, and the chicness like ‘Blue;s’. Mixing these sounds gave Mamamoo more to paint with and it has produced vivid and entertaining tunes for any kind of listeners.

What do you think of ‘White Wind’? Comment your thoughts down below!

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Written by: Eliana L.

Sources: Mamamoo Facebook | Mamamoo Twitter | Mamamoo Youtube | TV-People Youtube | Mnet K-POP

Check out Mamamoo's newest album 'White Wind' ! As promised, Mamamoo completes their year long project ‘Four Seasons Four Colors’ with the release of their ninth mini album ‘

#four_season_four_color #girl group #girlgroup #gogobebe #kmusic #KPOP #mamamoo #mini album review #mini-album #music #news #RBW #The KONNECTION 82 #whitewind #white_wind

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jefferyryanlong · 7 years

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Fresh Listen - Antonio Carlos Jobim, Wave (A&M Records, 1967)

(Some pieces of recorded music operate more like organisms than records. They live, they breathe, they reproduce. Fresh Listen is a periodic review of recently and not so recently released albums that crawl among us like radioactive spiders, gifting us with superpowers from their stingers.)

Elevators. Supermarkets.

In a popular culture that distorts and deforms every aesthetic absorbed into its parasitic and ever-decaying life cycle, bossa nova has long been a joke, drained of its musical significance through juxtaposition with the most banal of circumstances. Elevators. Supermarkets. But how many of us has really ever heard bossa nova in the elevator, or lowly emitting through hidden speakers in the grocery store, as soulless muzak? The last song I remember hearing at my neighborhood market was “Emotional Rescue” by the Rolling Stones. And I ride a section of the best elevators everyday, and the only recurring sound is the synthesized likeness of a clacking keyboard while my fellow riders type things into their phones.

The myth of elevator music, specifically, bossa nova, is, for me, akin to an implanted replicant memory–I assume that it has happened to me, that at one point I sprinted to that monumental job interview, and when I slipped between the closing doors and pressed the button for the thirtieth floor, the gentle strains from “The Girl from Ipanema” with its maddening rhythmic syllables magnified my anxiety to something unbearable, and the ride was a never-ending ascent toward failure. Or I stepped into the elevator with the beautiful girl from a floor above in the dormitory, and bossa nova made a fool of both of us, robbing us of our ability to speak. For what could elevate the banality of bossa nova? Sometimes I feel that these things must have happened to me, else I would have no opinion of bossa nova at all. But no, these made up situations were simply collected, copied, and transferred from the weak imagination of someone else’s consciousness.

These memories don’t belong to me. They are the result of years of compounded gags in movies and television. I believed in the joke, and when I felt compelled to truly come to grips with the form, when I was mature enough to treat it as a sincere expression of composers and musicians from a country lousy with genius composers and musicians, I couldn’t take bossa nova seriously. In my mind I was playing out the fiction that had been programmed into me, that bossa nova’s cultural meaning is defined as a punchline in American popular culture.

It was in an auditorium on the University of Hawai’i campus that bossa nova grabbed me by the collar, shook me up, slapped me in the face a couple of times, and threw me down the stairs. Who was I, some twenty-something fuck who believed rock’n’roll to be the epitome of artistic expression to cast dispersion on this internationally beloved music genre’s meaning or intent? Bossa Nova: The Sound That Seduced the World was not a definitive documentary, but it made me realized how stereotypical my thoughts on this form were. (A later documentary I saw in the same auditorium had a similar effect on me: I’d never been all that impressed by the records of Chet Baker until Let’s Get Lost showed how age and personal devastation had transformed him into a broken yet exceedingly eloquent instrument). An early insight I received from the documentary had to do with the form’s characteristic mellowness–as one musician explained, in the crowded apartments of Corcovado, the practitioner of the emerging sound of bossa nova had to pick on his or her guitar gently, lest the neighbors on the other side of thin walls become enraged. In those subdued living rooms and bedrooms of urban Brazil, the insistence of samba evolved into a kind of melancholic eroticism, its rhythms designed to inspire smaller movements in the body, a slight sway of the hip instead of a complicated step, a lingering good-bye kiss instead of a twirl or a spin.

Though I had a slight familiarity with Astrud and Joao Gilberto, as well as some of the work they recorded with Stan Getz, the artist I felt could truly expose me to the meditative soul of bossa nova was Antonio Carlos Jobim, composer of the most celebrated works of the genre, a maximalist arranger and minimalist musician. I had been dissatisfied with his 1963 album The Composer of Desafinado, Plays, with its sentimental string sections sapping the melodies of any real emotional weight, but was drawn to his 1967 record, Wave, by its striking cover. The dark image of a solitary giraffe, its spindly legs gathered under its body as if captured in mid-run, bisected by a horizon splitting the sky dyed green and a desiccated landscape dyed blue. The image was significant to me because I needed it to be significant. It spoke to me, and I believed Jobim’s interior music would explain the giraffe’s lonely trek through a freak environment. Before I played Wave, I expected psychedelic dissonance (if psychedelic dissonance could be achieved in the mode of bossa nova). I expected earth pleas, the rumblings and complaint of a ravaged world. What would be the meaning of a rejuvenating wave to the depopulated world of the cover?

The music turned out to be, well, bossa nova. Not avant-garde explorations of tone and harmony. The music was conventional, but it was immaculately constructed and luxuriant in its unhurried sweep through the air it occupied. Although Jobim’s songs, as it turned out, had nothing to do with the giraffe on the cover image (maybe it was just the art director’s take on those trippy times), they did, as a collection, show how melancholy can shade the surrounding world into alien colors–the inherent sadness that seeps through much of the music on Jobim’s Wave filters the perceptions of the listener with blue and green.

The first thing prospective listeners should understand in experiencing Wave is that it is, above all else, a guitar record. Though the music has the same symphonic imagination found in The Composer of Desafinado, Plays, and incorporates piano, flute, piccolo, harpsichord, and strings (thankfully, more tastefully so), the focal point of Jobim’s album, rhythmically and harmonically, is the plucked, picked, and occasionally strummed acoustic guitar, played with such precision that it almost seems mechanized. Jobim’s style is hardly hair-on-fire axe wizardry, though its surprising nuances, the significant press or release of a finger here and there, establish the guitar as the instrument around which every element of Jobim’s songs are based. The guitar sets and maintains the the tempo for the percussion, and it establishes the chords melodies are birthed from. Though his guitar, Jobim is given access to the blueprint of an aural architectural scheme that both reinforces and transcends bossa nova. Even the bass and drums are subordinated to the percussive framework laid out by Jobim’s complicated guitar patterns.

The album’s title track, “Wave,” is put together like a breezy twelve-bar blues, Jobim’s single-handed piano lines messing around with ad-libs of the melody line. This isn’t of the waves along the coast of Big Sur that drove Jack Kerouac into the throes of death depression. This wave rolls up around your ankles easy-like, taking nothing from you as it slides away, coolly and obligingly. Throughout the record, Jobim makes interesting moves with woodwinds, directing the flutes to ride low, fortifying notes ai for a lighter, higher pitched piccolo to step lightly upon.

“The Red Blouse’s” seemingly chill groove is subverted by a brisk rhythm that pulses in the bloodstream, sugars from the alcohol of a brunch-time mimosa as you’re awakened from a nap in the sun. It’s melodic refrain, maybe less a melody than an insistent riff, is taken up by a variety of instruments, each progressively grating as the song reaches for its climax.

Though in the classification system favored by records stores bossa nova is generally shelved in the jazz section, its forms, as well as its harmonic interests, are perhaps too premeditated, in opposition to the obligatory improvisational freedom offered through jazz musicianship. “Look to the Sky” is the most “jazz-like” song on Wave, though the lead horn is less about spontaneous composition around harmonic possibilities than about playing straightforward variations of the melody.

The calculated and clean “Batindha” is, essentially, a guitar exercise, Jobim subtly altering chord expressions toward an understated display of the beauty of a broken heart. “Triste” could be an extension of “Wave,” except Jobim cleverly inserts the lofty blown notes of a Fench horn between the simple piano runs. The melody of “Mojave” is a conversation between the piano and the other instruments, each player’s sentence ending in a definitive period. “Dialogo” emphasizes the romanticism of expressing art through a gauze of sadness, while “Lamento” with its sole vocal performance of Wave, attacks depression with a quick beat. “Antigua” allows the bass, for the most part overshadowed by the more prominent rhythmic operations of the guitar, to move around, to reach for the kind of fluidity that the previous songs have inhibited. Bass legend Ron Carter takes the opportunity to display his presence without drawing away from the totality of Jobim’s vision. The album’s final track, “Captain Bacardi,” disposed of the accumulated melancholy and infuses the atmosphere with the feverish motions of a party, and the song’s Brazilian percussion at last moves the thesis of Wave away from leisurely reflection to a physical self-actualization, in which dancing is free and open.

We plod through this world alone, mostly. Even to closest friends and loved ones we only reveal those aspects of ourselves we feel will be understood. The dark stuff, the fear and sadness, we may even hide from ourselves, until that darkness comes to perch on the headboards of our beds, keeping watch over an interminable insomnia. Wave washes over the unspeakable sadness of its author with brief, pretty tunes, and those notes that resonate within our darkness are relieved by the possibility of also being brief, easy-going, and pretty.

#freshlisten #wave #antonio carlos jobim

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