Prussia is the lead singer of his own heavy metal band. They're doing pretty well but lately it seems like their sound is lacking, especially when one band member splits off after a nasty argument.
They need someone new and fast to bring life back into the band and their manager finds fem!England, the former singer of a female punk band who broke up a couple years back and has been languishing ever since.
On the stage they hate each other, the sort of rivalry the fans pick up on and love for all it's violent sexual tension but behind the scenes they're hatefucking like rabbits after an explosive few sessions together.
Bonus: - Doing it on the tour bus - Television/radio interview scene - Unexpected lovey doviness in a quiet moment
She’s got fine little hands and she can barely reach some chords but somehow she makes it works because she’s a stubborn perverse minded bitch. She’s got calluses in the right and the wrong places because she’s still a violinist.
Anyone can look up her bio and see her former enrollment in a conservatory, her promising future as a soloist. But it doesn’t fit, not when her hair is bleached to near white now and she has a row of silver rings going up her left ear and one piercing her dark eyebrow. Hell, it’s odd enough when he walks in on her wearing not much and playing something pretty and intricate and a little too high-pitched.
He doesn’t wonder if she misses that world. She doesn’t, even if she would look good cleaned up and wearing something plain and tight and somehow stuffy because it’s just black, not with frayed edges or safety pins or studs. No, she’s happier screeching into a microphone with her nails covered in cracked purple and silver lacquer. She’s somehow alive then, when she fucking hip bumps him out of the way in between lyrics.
She’s still alive when he walks in on her when she’s playing the violin, but it’s different. She’s not wide-eyed and grinning like a maniac and sweat and tears and blood and absolutely glorious. She’s soft and vulnerable and dreamy, even as she picks out “Angel” on that handsome (even he has to admit it) instrument she guards with her life.
But the violin is a private thing for her and she usually ends up throwing something at him when she catches him leering at her. Well, if she didn’t insist on practicing when she was wearing not much more than a very loose singlet and a pair of panties…
The outfit lets him see that tattoo all across her back, the one no magazine had ever gotten a full shot off, no matter the dogged attempts of papparazos or the frenzied masses with their camera phones. Sure, there are claims, there are photomanips but none of them get the whole damn glorious thing. The fantastically shaded curling scroll of a cello or violin or upright bass centered between her shoulder blades, the rounded tuning pegs, a long shadow of a neck and six long black ink strings, the twin black f-holes in delicate curves parallel to her spine and the crescent shaped soundboard just above the cleft of her arse.
He at least lets her put the violin away before slamming her against the wall, careful not to crush her fingers. Those fingers are holding them up and he’d be damned if he’d throw his own damn future to hell with her. But he kisses her roughly and never mind that she’s a biter and is happiest when drawing blood on some part of his person. Their kisses are almost always bloody and sticky. Those kisses leave them both a little sick but sated.
He bites her throat and along the narrow curve of her shoulder. She uses some special milk soap and it makes her skin smell like sweet rosemary and something used to store clothing underneath the smell of leather and polish that always seems to be around here. Her fingers scrape along his back, raising angry red welts. He’s feeling just gracious enough to go to his knees in front of her but it’s to bite the inside of her thighs until they will bruise to near black. He worries skin between his teeth as she hisses from the pain. His fingers dig into that strangely fascinating minute curve of her arse, just enough to fill out her low slung jeans or her current pair of black and gray striped panties. She’s wet enough that he could smell her as he exhales against her now damp skin.
Her fingers curl in his short cropped hair, almost gently, before twisting in what strands could be grabbed and pulling. He yelps in protest, his nose hitting her stomach. Out of spite, he bites what he can and she pulls only harder. Next will be her thumb meeting that soft spot of his jaw if he doesn’t get on with things.
So with grudging slowness, he pulls down her panties with his teeth, looking up at her through hooded eyes to see her reaction. She too has hooded eyes and a smile that is not quite a smile on her bruised lips.
Her cunt is dripping and he doesn’t do shit like toying around with her. He latches onto her clit with lips and tongue to hear her gasp. He laps at her in fluttering strokes though maybe it’s not quite the same since he took out his tongue stud not too long ago. She arches upwards, fingers still in his hair.
He thrusts two fingers without ceremony or warning into her cunt, curling them. All the while, he’s still sucking at her clit. She tightens around his fingers as she curses in a low, incoherent stream. He curls and twists his fingers, his nose filled with the smell of her. She pants and shudders and comes, fluid coating his entire hand and dripping down her thighs.
He runs his sticky hand along her leg, slapping her thigh along one of the deepest bites with a wetly obscene sound. She hisses but doesn’t otherwise slap him or kick him. He pulls down her panties the rest of the way. He undoes the front of his jeans, pulls his now hard cock out, stroking it with his still wet hand. He stands up, and of course he’s not bit shaky, and lifts her up to fuck her.
No waiting for her to catch her breath properly. No, he lifts her enough, her back against the wall and his arms already trembling, and thrusts into her. He fucks her, his fingertips digging into her arse. Her legs lock around his hips and her fingernails gouge his shoulders. She’s tight and impossibly wet still. Every time they do this, he wonders if he’s going to break her at last and if he would care if he did. But not when her fingernails are leaving welts on him, not when her teeth are tearing at his lips.
This is no different from concerts when it’s about hate and fucking and fluids and losing yourself. But they don’t fuck on stage no matter how frenzied the crowds are and how frenzied they get because there’s that music to play and it’s a stronger mistress than anything else and that’s where they funnel that heat and hate.
So they do it when there are no lights and screams. They do it when away from the crowds and when she especially is stripped of the paint and wax and leather jackets with missing studs. When she dares bring out a beautifully polished violin to play “Angel” in one moment and something pretty during another.
There’s no music to distract them right now from the fucking and he’s glad of it, though he’ll never admit it. He thrusts into her and kisses her right before he comes. She doesn’t bite him but she does kiss him back for once and she wraps her arms around him proper, like they actually care about each other.
He leans against her, not wanting to pull out just yet. Her legs shakily unwind from his hips. She leans on him too and it’s a fragile structure they have, both shaky and both about ready to collapse from long-tensed muscles.
But they do unwind. He pulls out and the air smells of sex and sweat. She picks up her panties and not caring about cum dripping down her thighs, she heads to the shower. He follows and she pauses, one hand on the doorway. Then she silently lets him join her.
Later, they’re in her bed and she lets him trace his fingers on her back. She lies boneless on her side, not looking at him as he plays silent chords on the black ink strings. Eventually, something in her shoulders relaxes and he realizes that she’s finally asleep.
He wonders at this momentarily. Then he shrugs and lies next to her, his forehead against her back and his arm draped over her hip. If she won’t say anything in the morning, he won’t either.
-My imagining of fem!England in this setting is inspired by Rooney Mara in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo – a bit bug-eyed with thin, straight hair and high hairline. Of course, reverse the hair coloring – white-blonde hair and pitch black eyebrows. Impression: Fragile-looking, the tiniest bit off-putting yet somehow intriguing. -She’s playing the violin-classical version of “Angel” by Judas Priest, for the record. It’s one of her favorite songs, though not for the lyrics so much as the melody. And yes, it would sound very weird. -“f-holes” – the scroll marks that are on violins, violas, cellos, upright basses, etc. As a former music geek with a gentlemen friend who dabbles in violin music, I am seriously contemplating a pair of f-hole tattoos on my back, whether temporary or permanent (most likely the former than the latter). I do find them rather attractive, given the parallels between a cello’s shape and a woman’s body. -If you were taking note, musicians, the instrument on fem!England’s back is NOT a violin or a cello but a very peculiar hybrid of a cello, a violin and a six-string guitar.
He never expected her to be fucking him exclusively. He doesn’t call himself faithful but he finds himself less than pleased about bringing some hot little thing from the club to his room, less sated when it’s done and makeup is smeared across his chest and hip and groin. And it’s not as though she’s the best he’s ever had (but there’s no accounting for quality). They have an arrangement, something that neither of them have talked about but let build between them, around them, without really thinking about it (well, she’s probably done a full analysis on it in that clockwork brain of hers).
(And neither of them had screaming arguments about the sex yet so at least the other band members aren’t likely to give a shit.)
But he can’t help but feel insulted when she’s caught as dark-clad, diamond and lace wearing eye candy at a charity event. Snark from the fashion bloggers, of course, with that “Goth-punk identity crisis” high necked dress with a ruffled front and a high-low skirt of shiny satin that shows off knee high stiletto boots with zippers and buckles and studs.
“An acoustic singer?” he says in disgust.
She’s making her mid-morning teapot as she looks over the rim of her glasses at him. “He’s from a dossier, if you had to know,” she says.
“And how’s it going to help us?”
“Salacious rumor. He’s a Berklee graduate too.”
“Carnegie Hall?”
“Maybe.”
“Thought you were trying to get away from it.”
There it was, a slight freeze. He doesn’t pride himself on being able to do one sweep and list off your breakfast and your bad night, but he could read her at least. At least one person’s commented that if Elizabeth’s a book, she is one written in Old English with extra curlicues: hard to translate and head-ache inducing but not impossible to crack. Of course, this would be out of her hearing.
“It’s public knowledge. Hiding it makes things worse,” she replies neutrally. Her hand had wrapped around the little hourglass she used as a timer and her fingers slowly relax as he watches her.
“Is he a good lay at least?”
“He’s attentive.”
He snorts in disgust. Damn. She already knew he was wrangling for a reaction. More often than not, she didn’t give a shit about that and still raged on him anyways but she caught on quick this time.
But it isn’t just that. Not when he feels a curl of something unpleasant in his stomach and maybe in his throat. She had a self-satisfied air to her at the moment. Something in how she handled her cup and stirred in sugar. And maybe it is also the bangle that now adorned her skinny right wrist – something in rose gold and silver that gleamed almost mockingly at him.
(She has a thing for jewelry; she has boxes and boxes of it – from diamonds to studded leather to half a dozen pairs of shiny earrings that look like roses or bleeding broken hearts.)
“If you forget the lyrics again, I’ll break your fingers,” Elizabeth says almost conversationally as they reset for recording.
She’ll be rebleaching her hair soon; he can see darker roots – a mousy blonde. Gilbert grins mercilessly at her.
“Or I’ll do that first if you don’t get that chord progression right,” he replies.
Mathias calls from the drums, “Okay, sweethearts, you can fuck up against the hotel room wall later. Or I’ll be breaking both your kneecaps if we’re stuck here past seven, ‘kay?” He’s taken out his eyebrow piercing after nearly losing it to an ATV blowout this past weekend; the road rash is still scabbing along his cheek and he won’t be having half of his left eyebrow anytime soon. The jury is out on if he was keeping up on the pain meds for just a little too long.
Gilbert snorts and pretends to check on his strings yet again (they’re just fine – he tunes his guitar every morning, rain or shine or zombie hordes attacking). As per usual, Antonio shakes his head at the lot of them while shaking out his hand – the baseline is really stretched for this album, even for Antonio, who’s got magic fingers on an acoustic, even faster in his progressions than Elizabeth sometimes if his carpal doesn’t act up too badly.
They’ve been experimenting a bit – she’s drawn on some folk songs for the theme and had gotten Mathias’s approval because the lyrics are about a mermaid and tits and Copenhagen. Gilbert finds it too sentimental and is half tempted to leave Mathias at it – the hulking blonde has a decent tenor though he’s never cared to do anything else but backing vocals.
But he sees Elizabeth’s eyes, sharp and cold and focused and derisive, challenging him, daring him. He grits his teeth, puts his headset back on and sings the second line again. Perfectly. On key.
She doesn’t punch him when he stalks towards her and shoves her shoulder against the wall (he could have gotten her throat but he decided not to risk it for once). She looks at him frostily and wraps her own hand around his wrist, her fingertips at a spot that would make his entire hand go numb if she applies just a little more pressure.
“Save it for the live performance,” she says.
He glares at her because she’s stupid and too prim and too damn- this isn’t the same as his flings with Lizzy before Lizzy was with Roddy, when Lizzy laughed and punched his arm and threw him onto the sofa to take him. Lizzy is hot tempered and easy to annoy. So is Elizabeth but she is ice, not fire.
“Is he still just a dossier?” he asks. “Mr. Berklee grad?”
“No. I knew him before. Are you jealous?”
Of course he is. He knows and she knows now. “Only if he’s going to steal my guitarist to be eyecandy for him,” he scoffs. “You’re my pain in the ass. I’m doing the world a favor with it.”
Her nostrils flare and her eyes narrow. “Of course. Now go get bent.” She twists out from under him and heads out the door.
He’d gotten to her but she’d gotten to him too. Maybe even worse.
He makes a point of looking very slowly up from Lizzy’s tits. Round bouncy full tits behind dark green lace. Lizzy really could be a girly girl when she put her mind to it and he thinks back on the scrawny brat with too long hair but an impressive right cross.
She grinds her boot heel into his instep. Pretty impressive because they’re in a pub and both balanced on barstools.
But Lizzy’s been something of an impressive chit – and it’s taken Gilbert a long time to admit it. She looks even more impressive with her new tan – not sprayed on at all but courtesy of an extended stay in Bali that had went from fashion tour to disaster journalism – and her bare arm that’s still bandaged up (she tells him that it’s a right mess and he takes her word for it – a right mess for Lizzy could mean practical amputation).
It’s given her more cred in this town – especially when someone had gotten photos of her with blood running down her right arm and onto her massive Nikon while her other arm held a screaming toddler from being washed away in waist-high muddy water.
“So, how’s that violinist stringing you along?” Lizzy asks with an evil grin.
Gilbert sneers at her. “Hah.” He calls for his second pint.
“Oh, she’s got you good then,” Lizzy says with a mix of a giggle and a snort. She’s drinking something dark and sweet and bitter in her glass. He thinks unexpectedly of Elizabeth and her teas and hot chocolate.
“No one’s got me,” Gilbert snarls.
“Sure thing, Mr. Emotionally Constipated.”
“That’s Roddy. You like leaving that stick up his ass?”
Her heel meets his shin this time. “And I’ll introduce this boot to yours if you keep that up.” She still has a smile that makes her almost green eyes glitter like glass. They’re bluer than Elizabeth’s true emerald and with a hint of gray too.
“You women are all trouble,” he says finally over their fourth pint. She doesn’t even bother kicking him. She snorts into her ale.
“And you men only say that when you got yourselves into the trouble in the first place,” she says, but not unkindly. “It’s because she’s dating that singer, isn’t it?” She sips at her glass as Gilbert glares.
“I missed you when you weren’t this sharp,” he grumbles, slamming down his glass onto the coaster.
She grins at him. “Aw, he’s in love and all awkward about it.”
“Shaddup.”
Lizzy shakes her head. “You like forbidden fruit too much, Gil,” she says, her tone purposely light for the sake of the bartender. She smiles at the girl and slides over her glass for a refill. As the brunette turns away to refill, Lizzy eyes the thin fingers and tattooed arm appreciatively and says to Gilbert, “You do. It takes someone making a claim to make you realize what you want, that you even wanted it in the first place.”
“Who should I care she fucks, as long as she doesn’t go off with him to have kids with overgrown eyebrows?”
Lizzy looks almost pitying. “And you do this shit-” she smiles at the bartender in that way that makes the girl blush and hurry off. “-and you start snapping at people who point out that you’re sulking.” She takes a sip of the dark ale. “You’re fucked, Beilschmidt.”
Gilbert doesn’t participate in the conversation anymore but orders another round for himself. He doesn’t try to swing at Lizzy because A) she could kick his ass at the drop of a hat, B) he’d get kicked almost immediately after and C) there’s no point in swinging at her right now when she’s not doing it to be mean. Instead, he drinks and drinks and has dim memories of Lizzy taking him out with one arm draped over her shoulders.
He wakes up half naked on Lizzy’s couch. Roddy’s there too, not saying anything but radiating genteel disapproval as he makes coffee. And because Gilbert is just the good childhood friend, ex-boyfriend-fuckbuddy-currently-in the drawer called “misc.” – he kisses Roddy in full sight of Lizzy.
He’s never fucked in the throes of a hangover before and while it’s not something he regrets, it won’t be anything he will be doing anytime soon.
Elizabeth sees the hickies on his throat and shoulders when he gets back to the studio that afternoon and doesn’t say anything to him. She’s reading Paradise Lost – probably as source material, she has a notebook open in front of her half filled with her annotations in spidery, flowing fountain pen script. He wonders again if she’s heard some of the demo tapes floating around of the band earlier – he’s saved a copy of each one for himself out of both pride and shame (and he’s absurdly pleased that those still floating around are highly sought after).
She’s wearing a beaded bracelet this time, made of muddy red brown stone beads. The color clashes horribly against her skin but she occasionally brushes a thumb over them like they’re prayer beads.
“You checked the discography again, didn’t you?” he asks idly. “We already have ‘Lucifer Lost.’”
“Listened to it too. You should revive it,” she says and it makes him freeze. She’s still in her book as her other hand scratches out another line, pausing to scribble out a clause in a swoop of glistening black ink. “Not a full resurrection but use the bridge as a starting point. ‘Lucifer II’ maybe?” She then looks up at him and she’s wearing her red-rimmed reading glasses, the ones that make her look like a demented schoolgirl, especially because she’s wearing red plaid right now.
“I have a better copy,” he finally says. “Better than whatever shit you downloaded.”
“I am not surprised,” she replies with a short, wry chuckle. She closes her book and scratches another line across her notepad before closing that one too, not caring about the ink smearing.
They stare at each other and it’s somehow worse than when they first met. When they first met, they had antagonism and sharp, biting insults and pejoratives to fill the space between them. But at this moment, there’s not much, only stuff they’d rather not talk about. She’s inscrutable but her fingers are tracing over the mud colored beads on her left wrist still, as if she’s just as lost for words as he is.
She gets up and tucks both notepad and book under her arm. “I’ll be practicing. If we don’t get things wrapped up by eight, there very well may be a massacre.”
She passes him and she smells like someone else’s soap and deodorant (spicy, not floral). He has a compulsion to grab her upper arms and slam her against the wall or the table and-
“Button up that shirt, will you?” she says by way of idle comment. “No need to subject us all to that.” Or not so idle. Her lips are twisted in something like a sneer and something like disdain personified (something Roderich-like).
The tabloids talk about engagement rumors and planned vacations to Greece. Elizabeth snorts when she sees the articles but the pictures aren’t ‘shopped. Coming out of restaurants and spas and music shops – at ease yet utterly posed for the benefit of the cameras, her in studs and black and acid green to best set off his plain worn corduroy blazers and simple white shirts. Icy and stoic as always but he thinks he knows enough of her to recognize a slight softening to her eyes in those shots she’s looking at her date.
And then, it ends and he only gets it when he gets approached to consider having a brief fling with a sweet young actress who needs an edgier eye candy to shrug off her sugar sweet rep properly.
He considers shoving Antonio or Mathias to the worthy cause when he looks over the file.
“What about Kirkland?” he asks.
Their publicist rolls his eyes heavenward. “Split. We’ve headed off the story for a bit but give it a week or so and it’s going to be all about a screaming match and how he’s off to Greece to recuperate and soothe to his tender broken heart.”
“Was it really a screaming match?”
“No. But he is flying off to Greece.”
Gilbert rarely went to Elizabeth’s flat but he knew where it was. He has enough thought to have a six pack and some Indian takeaway with him when he goes to her realm. She comes to the door and narrows her eyes at him. He holds up the still cold bottled beer as a sacrifice, rattling the bottles a little.
Silently, she lets him in. Her flat is filled with odd little things everywhere but few photographs (all of them prints, not personal). It’s the place of a woman much older than her, filled with stuff that fights back the bland white and beige and maple pale wood veneer of an expensive, exclusive apartment. There are porcelain shepherdesses and crystal flowers and an actual china cabinet filled with blue and white and pink teacups. In a concession to modern luxury, there’s a television and a DVD player and a catalogued library right next to it (he knows it’s perfectly catalogued without having to actually check).
It’s more frilly and fussy than he’s comfortable with but he can’t bring himself to be completely off-put by it. It’s her dominion and he’s in it and she hasn’t chased him out yet with a cleaver. There’s a certain pleasure to that.
She pulls out a bottle and opens it with the opener that’s on her dining room table. He has the feeling that the table is very rarely used for what it’s for – she probably eats at her desk or in the kitchen. He’s heard that she keeps a personal chef around too though he’s never met the man.
“Shouldn’t you be in Greece?” he asks as she opens another one for him.
She freezes, just for a moment. Then she grumbles inaudibly. “It’s horrible this time of year. Scorching.” She takes a long swallow of beer.
“Good eye candy then?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she says, taking another swallow.
“He asked you?”
She pauses and stares at him over the rim of her bottle. “And what business is it of yours?” she inquires.
“Fucking inconsiderate of you if you go off to Greece when we have a single release in less than a month.”
“Surely I can be spared for a weekend.” But they both knew that she wouldn’t do that. She stuck to her contracts.
He shrugs with one shoulder. “Then do what you want – especially if it’s running away.”
She stares at him again. “I don’t run-” she begins.
He waves a derisive hand at her. “Sure. Strategic retreat.” He shrugs at the takeaway. “And are we going to eat this or not? That’s thirty fucking dollars out of my pocket for you, you know.”
She undoes the bag because he’s given her an out. The top package has samosas and pakora and she gives up on propriety and bites into one of the deep fried fritters. “After how much I’ve covered for your damn account, this is the least you can do for me then,” she retorts.
And somehow, they end up with the Styrofoam containers balanced on their laps watching the latest of Euro Cup qualifiers and yelling at the TV. She breaks out her own bottles of pale ale and he nurses that one with caution as she nibbles on the last naan.
There’s something mellower about her with two drinks in her.
“You know, I couldn’t do this with him,” she says contemplatively as she leans back at the final play ticking down (in her favor, damn her).
“What?”
“Argue,” she says. She stares into her bottle. “He’s not the arguing type. You know how he looks as combative as a Labrador? It’s not an act. He’s just be beside me and nod and smile and maybe have a little remark but he wouldn’t be yelling.”
“He sounds like a total bore,” Gilbert retorts.
She huffs. “He was- refreshing to be around,” she says by way of answer and there’s a hint of melancholy in her voice.
“So,” he says.
“It’s going to play out as me as the heartbreaker. I can take the hit.”
“You’re going to get more shit in the fanmail,” Gilbert can’t help but remark.
Elizabeth smiles thinly. “No different from what I usually get. I’m their Ice Bitch after all.”
She almost likes being hated, Gilbert realizes, seeing a glimmer of grim satisfaction in her eyes. It’s something she cherishes as much as her grudges. It gives her some kind of reason, doesn’t it? But he can’t bring it up to her.
Instead, he puts his head on her shoulder, turning his eyes away from the screen. “Go on, cheer you evil bitch,” he grumbles as the scores are set and the match is done.
He feels the weight of her gaze on him. She doesn’t shove him off. But she presses the cool glass of her bottle against his temple. “We’ll see when the actual Cup starts,” she says almost charitably.
They finish the last of the beer throughout the night. She ends up sleeping on the couch next to him, and he almost dares to tease his fingers through her pale hair, somehow at ease for the first time in months, despite the prickling in his chest.
(ooc: -In the end, who was that mysterious singer? Greece. And I’m telling you that I had a hell of time trying to figure who would actually get along with Elizabeth, at least initially. I settled on Greece because he’s generally very laid back (very much, water washing over a stone type) and because of the former historical tie when England supported Greece in the 1800s. In the end, their relationship really doesn’t work out in this particular universe because A) Elizabeth sabotages her own relationships and B) they are good together but it will never change past a quietly cozily comfortable existence (which doesn’t suit Elizabeth, despite her inner old lady tendencies – namely her ever-growing collection of bric-a-brac, grudges and regrets). -Berklee – Berklee College of Music in Boston, MA, with a notable alumnus – the Korean singer PSY (who actually never finished his degree there) – in this universe, Elizabeth ended up spending some time there for graduate studies after her classical background. -Mentions of the massive jewelry collection that makes even Gilbert give pause - I can’t help it, I will almost invariably make England have a jewelry fetish, regardless of fic universe. -So before Elizabeth joined, the band was a little closer to Iron Maiden – a lot of Catholic and macabre imagery courtesy of Gilbert – who’s a halfway decent songwriter but has a tendency to flub lyrics – and with helpful input by Antonio. There was some Rammstein tossed in there too. Upon her joining, it has more tones of Dropkick Murphys/The Young Dubliners/Flogging Molly – less wailing and more violin, which she doesn’t play on stage so they have to hire another violinist, who they finally settled on Mathias’s Norwegian second cousin, Lukas, who doesn’t care about being in the spotlight on stage or not. Elizabeth plays the violin version in the studio recording (in fact, she insists on it); she just refuses to play live (to everyone else’s profound irritation, except for possibly Lukas’s since he gets a paycheck out of the deal). -Yes, Antonio is the bassist – he used to be second guitar and at his best, even better than Elizabeth, but developed peculiar problem in his wrist that makes it difficult for him to produce consistent work on a guitar. He’s been less than pleased but won’t give up music while continuing to look into medical treatments to restore his dexterity. -Lizzy (Erzsebet/Elizabeth) and Roderich have a- unique relationship. They’re not married officially but they are three quarters of the way there despite having separate flats. When you toss Gilbert in there, it gets even more twisted, especially considering that Gilbert is Roderich’s cousin (adopted but still). Let’s just say that the worst has not come to pass with this unholy trio – they have a status quo that’s just barely supporting itself that they refuse to acknowledge. -If there’s one thing that Elizabeth bonds with Gilbert on, it’s soccer. That’s the best time if you want to see Elizabeth close to unguarded. For all that Gilbert’s horrible with his own love life, he understands a lot more about Elizabeth than she realizes.)
Really loved the characterization in this! Everything felt very real, and we really got inside Gilbert's head. Also the band sounds really cool xD I gotta say that Greece/England isn't a pairing I've considered before, but it seemed to work, so I liked that. Overall, great fic!
Getting into Gilbert's head is a task and a half for me (I'm more of an Elizabeth type, you see -or rather, I build Elizabeth based on myself). So I'm glad you think so well of my version of him!
Have to admit that Elizabeth and Lizzie confused me to start with but Elizabeth is such a perfect name for fem!England I can understand it. I love love this series and this pairing, I hope you'll write more, these characters are fascinating :D
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Prussia/fem!England - Rock star AU
(Anonymous) 2013-02-09 02:19 am (UTC)(link)They need someone new and fast to bring life back into the band and their manager finds fem!England, the former singer of a female punk band who broke up a couple years back and has been languishing ever since.
On the stage they hate each other, the sort of rivalry the fans pick up on and love for all it's violent sexual tension but behind the scenes they're
hatefucking like rabbits after an explosive few sessions together.Bonus:
- Doing it on the tour bus
- Television/radio interview scene
- Unexpected lovey doviness in a quiet moment
Re: Prussia/fem!England - Rock star AU
(Anonymous) 2013-02-26 05:17 pm (UTC)(link)String Me Tight [1a/1]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-04 07:11 am (UTC)(link)Anyone can look up her bio and see her former enrollment in a conservatory, her promising future as a soloist. But it doesn’t fit, not when her hair is bleached to near white now and she has a row of silver rings going up her left ear and one piercing her dark eyebrow. Hell, it’s odd enough when he walks in on her wearing not much and playing something pretty and intricate and a little too high-pitched.
He doesn’t wonder if she misses that world. She doesn’t, even if she would look good cleaned up and wearing something plain and tight and somehow stuffy because it’s just black, not with frayed edges or safety pins or studs. No, she’s happier screeching into a microphone with her nails covered in cracked purple and silver lacquer. She’s somehow alive then, when she fucking hip bumps him out of the way in between lyrics.
She’s still alive when he walks in on her when she’s playing the violin, but it’s different. She’s not wide-eyed and grinning like a maniac and sweat and tears and blood and absolutely glorious. She’s soft and vulnerable and dreamy, even as she picks out “Angel” on that handsome (even he has to admit it) instrument she guards with her life.
But the violin is a private thing for her and she usually ends up throwing something at him when she catches him leering at her. Well, if she didn’t insist on practicing when she was wearing not much more than a very loose singlet and a pair of panties…
The outfit lets him see that tattoo all across her back, the one no magazine had ever gotten a full shot off, no matter the dogged attempts of papparazos or the frenzied masses with their camera phones. Sure, there are claims, there are photomanips but none of them get the whole damn glorious thing. The fantastically shaded curling scroll of a cello or violin or upright bass centered between her shoulder blades, the rounded tuning pegs, a long shadow of a neck and six long black ink strings, the twin black f-holes in delicate curves parallel to her spine and the crescent shaped soundboard just above the cleft of her arse.
He at least lets her put the violin away before slamming her against the wall, careful not to crush her fingers. Those fingers are holding them up and he’d be damned if he’d throw his own damn future to hell with her. But he kisses her roughly and never mind that she’s a biter and is happiest when drawing blood on some part of his person. Their kisses are almost always bloody and sticky. Those kisses leave them both a little sick but sated.
He bites her throat and along the narrow curve of her shoulder. She uses some special milk soap and it makes her skin smell like sweet rosemary and something used to store clothing underneath the smell of leather and polish that always seems to be around here. Her fingers scrape along his back, raising angry red welts. He’s feeling just gracious enough to go to his knees in front of her but it’s to bite the inside of her thighs until they will bruise to near black. He worries skin between his teeth as she hisses from the pain. His fingers dig into that strangely fascinating minute curve of her arse, just enough to fill out her low slung jeans or her current pair of black and gray striped panties. She’s wet enough that he could smell her as he exhales against her now damp skin.
Her fingers curl in his short cropped hair, almost gently, before twisting in what strands could be grabbed and pulling. He yelps in protest, his nose hitting her stomach. Out of spite, he bites what he can and she pulls only harder. Next will be her thumb meeting that soft spot of his jaw if he doesn’t get on with things.
String Me Tight [1b/1]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-04 07:11 am (UTC)(link)Her cunt is dripping and he doesn’t do shit like toying around with her. He latches onto her clit with lips and tongue to hear her gasp. He laps at her in fluttering strokes though maybe it’s not quite the same since he took out his tongue stud not too long ago. She arches upwards, fingers still in his hair.
He thrusts two fingers without ceremony or warning into her cunt, curling them. All the while, he’s still sucking at her clit. She tightens around his fingers as she curses in a low, incoherent stream. He curls and twists his fingers, his nose filled with the smell of her. She pants and shudders and comes, fluid coating his entire hand and dripping down her thighs.
He runs his sticky hand along her leg, slapping her thigh along one of the deepest bites with a wetly obscene sound. She hisses but doesn’t otherwise slap him or kick him. He pulls down her panties the rest of the way. He undoes the front of his jeans, pulls his now hard cock out, stroking it with his still wet hand. He stands up, and of course he’s not bit shaky, and lifts her up to fuck her.
No waiting for her to catch her breath properly. No, he lifts her enough, her back against the wall and his arms already trembling, and thrusts into her. He fucks her, his fingertips digging into her arse. Her legs lock around his hips and her fingernails gouge his shoulders. She’s tight and impossibly wet still. Every time they do this, he wonders if he’s going to break her at last and if he would care if he did. But not when her fingernails are leaving welts on him, not when her teeth are tearing at his lips.
This is no different from concerts when it’s about hate and fucking and fluids and losing yourself. But they don’t fuck on stage no matter how frenzied the crowds are and how frenzied they get because there’s that music to play and it’s a stronger mistress than anything else and that’s where they funnel that heat and hate.
So they do it when there are no lights and screams. They do it when away from the crowds and when she especially is stripped of the paint and wax and leather jackets with missing studs. When she dares bring out a beautifully polished violin to play “Angel” in one moment and something pretty during another.
There’s no music to distract them right now from the fucking and he’s glad of it, though he’ll never admit it. He thrusts into her and kisses her right before he comes. She doesn’t bite him but she does kiss him back for once and she wraps her arms around him proper, like they actually care about each other.
He leans against her, not wanting to pull out just yet. Her legs shakily unwind from his hips. She leans on him too and it’s a fragile structure they have, both shaky and both about ready to collapse from long-tensed muscles.
But they do unwind. He pulls out and the air smells of sex and sweat. She picks up her panties and not caring about cum dripping down her thighs, she heads to the shower. He follows and she pauses, one hand on the doorway. Then she silently lets him join her.
Later, they’re in her bed and she lets him trace his fingers on her back. She lies boneless on her side, not looking at him as he plays silent chords on the black ink strings. Eventually, something in her shoulders relaxes and he realizes that she’s finally asleep.
He wonders at this momentarily. Then he shrugs and lies next to her, his forehead against her back and his arm draped over her hip. If she won’t say anything in the morning, he won’t either.
String Me Tight [ooc]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-04 07:12 am (UTC)(link)-She’s playing the violin-classical version of “Angel” by Judas Priest, for the record. It’s one of her favorite songs, though not for the lyrics so much as the melody. And yes, it would sound very weird.
-“f-holes” – the scroll marks that are on violins, violas, cellos, upright basses, etc. As a former music geek with a gentlemen friend who dabbles in violin music, I am seriously contemplating a pair of f-hole tattoos on my back, whether temporary or permanent (most likely the former than the latter). I do find them rather attractive, given the parallels between a cello’s shape and a woman’s body.
-If you were taking note, musicians, the instrument on fem!England’s back is NOT a violin or a cello but a very peculiar hybrid of a cello, a violin and a six-string guitar.
Re: String Me Tight [ooc]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-04 04:18 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
(Anonymous) 2013-03-04 07:39 pm (UTC)(link)OP
(Anonymous) 2013-03-05 12:54 am (UTC)(link)String Me Up [1a/1]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 05:23 am (UTC)(link)(And neither of them had screaming arguments about the sex yet so at least the other band members aren’t likely to give a shit.)
But he can’t help but feel insulted when she’s caught as dark-clad, diamond and lace wearing eye candy at a charity event. Snark from the fashion bloggers, of course, with that “Goth-punk identity crisis” high necked dress with a ruffled front and a high-low skirt of shiny satin that shows off knee high stiletto boots with zippers and buckles and studs.
“An acoustic singer?” he says in disgust.
She’s making her mid-morning teapot as she looks over the rim of her glasses at him. “He’s from a dossier, if you had to know,” she says.
“And how’s it going to help us?”
“Salacious rumor. He’s a Berklee graduate too.”
“Carnegie Hall?”
“Maybe.”
“Thought you were trying to get away from it.”
There it was, a slight freeze. He doesn’t pride himself on being able to do one sweep and list off your breakfast and your bad night, but he could read her at least. At least one person’s commented that if Elizabeth’s a book, she is one written in Old English with extra curlicues: hard to translate and head-ache inducing but not impossible to crack. Of course, this would be out of her hearing.
“It’s public knowledge. Hiding it makes things worse,” she replies neutrally. Her hand had wrapped around the little hourglass she used as a timer and her fingers slowly relax as he watches her.
“Is he a good lay at least?”
“He’s attentive.”
He snorts in disgust. Damn. She already knew he was wrangling for a reaction. More often than not, she didn’t give a shit about that and still raged on him anyways but she caught on quick this time.
But it isn’t just that. Not when he feels a curl of something unpleasant in his stomach and maybe in his throat. She had a self-satisfied air to her at the moment. Something in how she handled her cup and stirred in sugar. And maybe it is also the bangle that now adorned her skinny right wrist – something in rose gold and silver that gleamed almost mockingly at him.
(She has a thing for jewelry; she has boxes and boxes of it – from diamonds to studded leather to half a dozen pairs of shiny earrings that look like roses or bleeding broken hearts.)
String Me Up [1b/1]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 05:24 am (UTC)(link)She’ll be rebleaching her hair soon; he can see darker roots – a mousy blonde. Gilbert grins mercilessly at her.
“Or I’ll do that first if you don’t get that chord progression right,” he replies.
Mathias calls from the drums, “Okay, sweethearts, you can fuck up against the hotel room wall later. Or I’ll be breaking both your kneecaps if we’re stuck here past seven, ‘kay?” He’s taken out his eyebrow piercing after nearly losing it to an ATV blowout this past weekend; the road rash is still scabbing along his cheek and he won’t be having half of his left eyebrow anytime soon. The jury is out on if he was keeping up on the pain meds for just a little too long.
Gilbert snorts and pretends to check on his strings yet again (they’re just fine – he tunes his guitar every morning, rain or shine or zombie hordes attacking). As per usual, Antonio shakes his head at the lot of them while shaking out his hand – the baseline is really stretched for this album, even for Antonio, who’s got magic fingers on an acoustic, even faster in his progressions than Elizabeth sometimes if his carpal doesn’t act up too badly.
They’ve been experimenting a bit – she’s drawn on some folk songs for the theme and had gotten Mathias’s approval because the lyrics are about a mermaid and tits and Copenhagen. Gilbert finds it too sentimental and is half tempted to leave Mathias at it – the hulking blonde has a decent tenor though he’s never cared to do anything else but backing vocals.
But he sees Elizabeth’s eyes, sharp and cold and focused and derisive, challenging him, daring him. He grits his teeth, puts his headset back on and sings the second line again. Perfectly. On key.
She doesn’t punch him when he stalks towards her and shoves her shoulder against the wall (he could have gotten her throat but he decided not to risk it for once). She looks at him frostily and wraps her own hand around his wrist, her fingertips at a spot that would make his entire hand go numb if she applies just a little more pressure.
“Save it for the live performance,” she says.
He glares at her because she’s stupid and too prim and too damn- this isn’t the same as his flings with Lizzy before Lizzy was with Roddy, when Lizzy laughed and punched his arm and threw him onto the sofa to take him. Lizzy is hot tempered and easy to annoy. So is Elizabeth but she is ice, not fire.
“Is he still just a dossier?” he asks. “Mr. Berklee grad?”
“No. I knew him before. Are you jealous?”
Of course he is. He knows and she knows now. “Only if he’s going to steal my guitarist to be eyecandy for him,” he scoffs. “You’re my pain in the ass. I’m doing the world a favor with it.”
Her nostrils flare and her eyes narrow. “Of course. Now go get bent.” She twists out from under him and heads out the door.
He’d gotten to her but she’d gotten to him too. Maybe even worse.
String Me Up [1c/1]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 05:24 am (UTC)(link)He makes a point of looking very slowly up from Lizzy’s tits. Round bouncy full tits behind dark green lace. Lizzy really could be a girly girl when she put her mind to it and he thinks back on the scrawny brat with too long hair but an impressive right cross.
She grinds her boot heel into his instep. Pretty impressive because they’re in a pub and both balanced on barstools.
But Lizzy’s been something of an impressive chit – and it’s taken Gilbert a long time to admit it. She looks even more impressive with her new tan – not sprayed on at all but courtesy of an extended stay in Bali that had went from fashion tour to disaster journalism – and her bare arm that’s still bandaged up (she tells him that it’s a right mess and he takes her word for it – a right mess for Lizzy could mean practical amputation).
It’s given her more cred in this town – especially when someone had gotten photos of her with blood running down her right arm and onto her massive Nikon while her other arm held a screaming toddler from being washed away in waist-high muddy water.
“So, how’s that violinist stringing you along?” Lizzy asks with an evil grin.
Gilbert sneers at her. “Hah.” He calls for his second pint.
“Oh, she’s got you good then,” Lizzy says with a mix of a giggle and a snort. She’s drinking something dark and sweet and bitter in her glass. He thinks unexpectedly of Elizabeth and her teas and hot chocolate.
“No one’s got me,” Gilbert snarls.
“Sure thing, Mr. Emotionally Constipated.”
“That’s Roddy. You like leaving that stick up his ass?”
Her heel meets his shin this time. “And I’ll introduce this boot to yours if you keep that up.” She still has a smile that makes her almost green eyes glitter like glass. They’re bluer than Elizabeth’s true emerald and with a hint of gray too.
“You women are all trouble,” he says finally over their fourth pint. She doesn’t even bother kicking him. She snorts into her ale.
“And you men only say that when you got yourselves into the trouble in the first place,” she says, but not unkindly. “It’s because she’s dating that singer, isn’t it?” She sips at her glass as Gilbert glares.
“I missed you when you weren’t this sharp,” he grumbles, slamming down his glass onto the coaster.
She grins at him. “Aw, he’s in love and all awkward about it.”
“Shaddup.”
Lizzy shakes her head. “You like forbidden fruit too much, Gil,” she says, her tone purposely light for the sake of the bartender. She smiles at the girl and slides over her glass for a refill. As the brunette turns away to refill, Lizzy eyes the thin fingers and tattooed arm appreciatively and says to Gilbert, “You do. It takes someone making a claim to make you realize what you want, that you even wanted it in the first place.”
“Who should I care she fucks, as long as she doesn’t go off with him to have kids with overgrown eyebrows?”
Lizzy looks almost pitying. “And you do this shit-” she smiles at the bartender in that way that makes the girl blush and hurry off. “-and you start snapping at people who point out that you’re sulking.” She takes a sip of the dark ale. “You’re fucked, Beilschmidt.”
Gilbert doesn’t participate in the conversation anymore but orders another round for himself. He doesn’t try to swing at Lizzy because A) she could kick his ass at the drop of a hat, B) he’d get kicked almost immediately after and C) there’s no point in swinging at her right now when she’s not doing it to be mean. Instead, he drinks and drinks and has dim memories of Lizzy taking him out with one arm draped over her shoulders.
He wakes up half naked on Lizzy’s couch. Roddy’s there too, not saying anything but radiating genteel disapproval as he makes coffee. And because Gilbert is just the good childhood friend, ex-boyfriend-fuckbuddy-currently-in the drawer called “misc.” – he kisses Roddy in full sight of Lizzy.
He’s never fucked in the throes of a hangover before and while it’s not something he regrets, it won’t be anything he will be doing anytime soon.
String Me Up [1d/1]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 05:25 am (UTC)(link)She’s wearing a beaded bracelet this time, made of muddy red brown stone beads. The color clashes horribly against her skin but she occasionally brushes a thumb over them like they’re prayer beads.
“You checked the discography again, didn’t you?” he asks idly. “We already have ‘Lucifer Lost.’”
“Listened to it too. You should revive it,” she says and it makes him freeze. She’s still in her book as her other hand scratches out another line, pausing to scribble out a clause in a swoop of glistening black ink. “Not a full resurrection but use the bridge as a starting point. ‘Lucifer II’ maybe?” She then looks up at him and she’s wearing her red-rimmed reading glasses, the ones that make her look like a demented schoolgirl, especially because she’s wearing red plaid right now.
“I have a better copy,” he finally says. “Better than whatever shit you downloaded.”
“I am not surprised,” she replies with a short, wry chuckle. She closes her book and scratches another line across her notepad before closing that one too, not caring about the ink smearing.
They stare at each other and it’s somehow worse than when they first met. When they first met, they had antagonism and sharp, biting insults and pejoratives to fill the space between them. But at this moment, there’s not much, only stuff they’d rather not talk about. She’s inscrutable but her fingers are tracing over the mud colored beads on her left wrist still, as if she’s just as lost for words as he is.
She gets up and tucks both notepad and book under her arm. “I’ll be practicing. If we don’t get things wrapped up by eight, there very well may be a massacre.”
She passes him and she smells like someone else’s soap and deodorant (spicy, not floral). He has a compulsion to grab her upper arms and slam her against the wall or the table and-
“Button up that shirt, will you?” she says by way of idle comment. “No need to subject us all to that.” Or not so idle. Her lips are twisted in something like a sneer and something like disdain personified (something Roderich-like).
String Me Up [1e/1]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 05:25 am (UTC)(link)And then, it ends and he only gets it when he gets approached to consider having a brief fling with a sweet young actress who needs an edgier eye candy to shrug off her sugar sweet rep properly.
He considers shoving Antonio or Mathias to the worthy cause when he looks over the file.
“What about Kirkland?” he asks.
Their publicist rolls his eyes heavenward. “Split. We’ve headed off the story for a bit but give it a week or so and it’s going to be all about a screaming match and how he’s off to Greece to recuperate and soothe to his tender broken heart.”
“Was it really a screaming match?”
“No. But he is flying off to Greece.”
Gilbert rarely went to Elizabeth’s flat but he knew where it was. He has enough thought to have a six pack and some Indian takeaway with him when he goes to her realm. She comes to the door and narrows her eyes at him. He holds up the still cold bottled beer as a sacrifice, rattling the bottles a little.
Silently, she lets him in. Her flat is filled with odd little things everywhere but few photographs (all of them prints, not personal). It’s the place of a woman much older than her, filled with stuff that fights back the bland white and beige and maple pale wood veneer of an expensive, exclusive apartment. There are porcelain shepherdesses and crystal flowers and an actual china cabinet filled with blue and white and pink teacups. In a concession to modern luxury, there’s a television and a DVD player and a catalogued library right next to it (he knows it’s perfectly catalogued without having to actually check).
It’s more frilly and fussy than he’s comfortable with but he can’t bring himself to be completely off-put by it. It’s her dominion and he’s in it and she hasn’t chased him out yet with a cleaver. There’s a certain pleasure to that.
She pulls out a bottle and opens it with the opener that’s on her dining room table. He has the feeling that the table is very rarely used for what it’s for – she probably eats at her desk or in the kitchen. He’s heard that she keeps a personal chef around too though he’s never met the man.
“Shouldn’t you be in Greece?” he asks as she opens another one for him.
She freezes, just for a moment. Then she grumbles inaudibly. “It’s horrible this time of year. Scorching.” She takes a long swallow of beer.
“Good eye candy then?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she says, taking another swallow.
“He asked you?”
She pauses and stares at him over the rim of her bottle. “And what business is it of yours?” she inquires.
“Fucking inconsiderate of you if you go off to Greece when we have a single release in less than a month.”
“Surely I can be spared for a weekend.” But they both knew that she wouldn’t do that. She stuck to her contracts.
He shrugs with one shoulder. “Then do what you want – especially if it’s running away.”
She stares at him again. “I don’t run-” she begins.
He waves a derisive hand at her. “Sure. Strategic retreat.” He shrugs at the takeaway. “And are we going to eat this or not? That’s thirty fucking dollars out of my pocket for you, you know.”
She undoes the bag because he’s given her an out. The top package has samosas and pakora and she gives up on propriety and bites into one of the deep fried fritters. “After how much I’ve covered for your damn account, this is the least you can do for me then,” she retorts.
String Me Up [1f/1]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 05:26 am (UTC)(link)There’s something mellower about her with two drinks in her.
“You know, I couldn’t do this with him,” she says contemplatively as she leans back at the final play ticking down (in her favor, damn her).
“What?”
“Argue,” she says. She stares into her bottle. “He’s not the arguing type. You know how he looks as combative as a Labrador? It’s not an act. He’s just be beside me and nod and smile and maybe have a little remark but he wouldn’t be yelling.”
“He sounds like a total bore,” Gilbert retorts.
She huffs. “He was- refreshing to be around,” she says by way of answer and there’s a hint of melancholy in her voice.
“So,” he says.
“It’s going to play out as me as the heartbreaker. I can take the hit.”
“You’re going to get more shit in the fanmail,” Gilbert can’t help but remark.
Elizabeth smiles thinly. “No different from what I usually get. I’m their Ice Bitch after all.”
She almost likes being hated, Gilbert realizes, seeing a glimmer of grim satisfaction in her eyes. It’s something she cherishes as much as her grudges. It gives her some kind of reason, doesn’t it? But he can’t bring it up to her.
Instead, he puts his head on her shoulder, turning his eyes away from the screen. “Go on, cheer you evil bitch,” he grumbles as the scores are set and the match is done.
He feels the weight of her gaze on him. She doesn’t shove him off. But she presses the cool glass of her bottle against his temple. “We’ll see when the actual Cup starts,” she says almost charitably.
They finish the last of the beer throughout the night. She ends up sleeping on the couch next to him, and he almost dares to tease his fingers through her pale hair, somehow at ease for the first time in months, despite the prickling in his chest.
String Me Up [ooc]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 05:26 am (UTC)(link)-In the end, who was that mysterious singer? Greece. And I’m telling you that I had a hell of time trying to figure who would actually get along with Elizabeth, at least initially. I settled on Greece because he’s generally very laid back (very much, water washing over a stone type) and because of the former historical tie when England supported Greece in the 1800s. In the end, their relationship really doesn’t work out in this particular universe because A) Elizabeth sabotages her own relationships and B) they are good together but it will never change past a quietly cozily comfortable existence (which doesn’t suit Elizabeth, despite her inner old lady tendencies – namely her ever-growing collection of bric-a-brac, grudges and regrets).
-Berklee – Berklee College of Music in Boston, MA, with a notable alumnus – the Korean singer PSY (who actually never finished his degree there) – in this universe, Elizabeth ended up spending some time there for graduate studies after her classical background.
-Mentions of the massive jewelry collection that makes even Gilbert give pause - I can’t help it, I will almost invariably make England have a jewelry fetish, regardless of fic universe.
-So before Elizabeth joined, the band was a little closer to Iron Maiden – a lot of Catholic and macabre imagery courtesy of Gilbert – who’s a halfway decent songwriter but has a tendency to flub lyrics – and with helpful input by Antonio. There was some Rammstein tossed in there too. Upon her joining, it has more tones of Dropkick Murphys/The Young Dubliners/Flogging Molly – less wailing and more violin, which she doesn’t play on stage so they have to hire another violinist, who they finally settled on Mathias’s Norwegian second cousin, Lukas, who doesn’t care about being in the spotlight on stage or not. Elizabeth plays the violin version in the studio recording (in fact, she insists on it); she just refuses to play live (to everyone else’s profound irritation, except for possibly Lukas’s since he gets a paycheck out of the deal).
-Yes, Antonio is the bassist – he used to be second guitar and at his best, even better than Elizabeth, but developed peculiar problem in his wrist that makes it difficult for him to produce consistent work on a guitar. He’s been less than pleased but won’t give up music while continuing to look into medical treatments to restore his dexterity.
-Lizzy (Erzsebet/Elizabeth) and Roderich have a- unique relationship. They’re not married officially but they are three quarters of the way there despite having separate flats. When you toss Gilbert in there, it gets even more twisted, especially considering that Gilbert is Roderich’s cousin (adopted but still). Let’s just say that the worst has not come to pass with this unholy trio – they have a status quo that’s just barely supporting itself that they refuse to acknowledge.
-If there’s one thing that Elizabeth bonds with Gilbert on, it’s soccer. That’s the best time if you want to see Elizabeth close to unguarded. For all that Gilbert’s horrible with his own love life, he understands a lot more about Elizabeth than she realizes.)
Re: String Me Up [ooc]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 02:25 pm (UTC)(link)Re: String Me Up [ooc]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-12 02:50 am (UTC)(link)Re: String Me Up [ooc]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 05:33 pm (UTC)(link)