Ὀρφεύς - Orpheus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
golden_lyre) wrote2018-08-07 05:39 pm
golden_lyre) wrote2018-08-07 05:39 pm
Entry tags:
The Drowning Fiddler
The Drowning Fiddler is a little pub in Earl's Court that Orpheus has been visiting, on and off, for about two hundred years now. In more recent decades, the basement has been remodeled to double as a concert venue, and a number of bands who went on to be famous got their start on its cramped stage. Having spent a good deal of time and a good deal of coin at the bar, Orpheus has come to know the owner, Martin, well enough that he's occasionally asked to fill in for any musicians who back out at the last minute or on any nights when the stage isn't booked.
(Orpheus suspects that Martin keeps nights open when business isn't going well, so Orpheus can help him pick up the slack. Orpheus doesn't mind. He always puts a little encouragement to drink in his music when he plays. Martin deserves it.)
It's a Wednesday night, and though that's the Fiddler's least busy night in general, the room is packed. There wasn't a lot of time for advertising, but since the advent of social media (something Orpheus still can't quite get his head around), a few hours is all the notice needed to fill a room when he plays.
There's no amplification system because Orpheus never needs one, and there's no one to introduce him. He just sidles onto the stage, whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other, and takes a seat on a wooden stool. As he settles himself (whiskey on an unused amplifier, guitar in his lap, still lit cigarette tucked between two strings), the room gradually quiets, but anyone still speaking comes to a hush when Orpheus starts to play.
He starts off with something quiet, something that feels like a Wednesday night, a needed breath of fresh air and freedom in the middle of the week. The room relaxes in the wake of it, as if communally exhaling in relief, and Orpheus smiles, loving the moment he knows he has the audience in the palm of his hand.
A quick sip of whiskey, a couple of drags on his cigarette as he retunes his guitar, and then he plays what they all came here to hear.
Something to dance to.
(Orpheus suspects that Martin keeps nights open when business isn't going well, so Orpheus can help him pick up the slack. Orpheus doesn't mind. He always puts a little encouragement to drink in his music when he plays. Martin deserves it.)
It's a Wednesday night, and though that's the Fiddler's least busy night in general, the room is packed. There wasn't a lot of time for advertising, but since the advent of social media (something Orpheus still can't quite get his head around), a few hours is all the notice needed to fill a room when he plays.
There's no amplification system because Orpheus never needs one, and there's no one to introduce him. He just sidles onto the stage, whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other, and takes a seat on a wooden stool. As he settles himself (whiskey on an unused amplifier, guitar in his lap, still lit cigarette tucked between two strings), the room gradually quiets, but anyone still speaking comes to a hush when Orpheus starts to play.
He starts off with something quiet, something that feels like a Wednesday night, a needed breath of fresh air and freedom in the middle of the week. The room relaxes in the wake of it, as if communally exhaling in relief, and Orpheus smiles, loving the moment he knows he has the audience in the palm of his hand.
A quick sip of whiskey, a couple of drags on his cigarette as he retunes his guitar, and then he plays what they all came here to hear.
Something to dance to.
no subject
The path of his tongue is tantalising, and her nipple peaks in aching need, the delicate skin puckered and hard as he tastes her breast. A tiny whimper falls from her lips when she thinks he's going to take it in his mouth, but then doesn't, and she rocks a little more urgently against the bulge of his cock trapped behind denim.
"I'm of two minds about denim," she sighs, curling her back so she can reach to kiss his jaw.
no subject
Tilting his head toward her lips, he laughs, a sound tinged with desire. "Only two?" He's been wearing denim practically since jeans were invented, though not for any practical reasons. Not for at least a century.
no subject
"Mmm, it's probably seven?" she muses, catching his bottom lip with her teeth for a moment. "Maybe more. But mostly it's that I like it, except that I can't get to you through it."
The grinding is lovely, but there are actual layers and a metal zip in the way of where she once used to simply reach down and gently grasp.
no subject
"Shall I start wearing kilts? Sarongs? Then your friends will tease you even more." He doesn't mind if she doesn't. He'll wear anything she asks him to. He misses the ease of access for both of them, the way he could untie a cord and have her bared for him.
no subject
“I think you’ll be cold in a sarong,” she points out, rolling her hips against his denim-guarded erection. The cotton of her panties catches slightly on the tougher fabric. “A kilt has merit.”
She grins wickedly at the thought, knowing he’s likely to wear it traditionally.
“Anyway, if they laugh it’s because neither of us changed our names.”
no subject
To wear traditionally, of course.
Bending over her, he drops kisses along her collarbone. "I would take your name, my love. I would take anything you asked of me."
no subject
The name thing is mostly why she only uses Eurydice professionally... and with him. Too many mangle it, and too many know what they think is myth, especially when they meet him. So Ree is easier. Dee would be better, but language is messy. Technically, they both have made up surnames.
"Mama would be happy if you took my name," she sighs, and nuzzles his hair. "But since you gave permission and said anything, I really think you should take me. Now. Here. On the floor, in honour of your tuba."