#Large event venues London

[lotusevents]

Discover the Best Large Event Venues in London for Unforgettable Gatherings

London, a city rich in history and culture, offers an impressive array of venues for hosting large events. Whether you're planning a corporate conference, a grand wedding, or a major exhibition, London's diverse and versatile spaces can accommodate your needs with style and sophistication. Here, we explore some of the top large event venues London that promise to make your gathering truly unforgettable.

Alexandra Palace: Historic Grandeur

Known affectionately as "Ally Pally," Alexandra Palace is a historic venue that boasts a variety of event spaces. Its iconic Great Hall can accommodate up to 10,000 guests, making it ideal for concerts, exhibitions, and large-scale conferences. With stunning views over London, ample parking, and excellent transport links, Alexandra Palace combines historic grandeur with modern amenities to create a memorable event experience.

ExCeL London: Versatile Exhibition Space

Located in the Docklands, ExCeL London is one of the city's premier exhibition and convention centers. With over 100,000 square meters of flexible event space, it can host everything from international trade shows to large corporate events and public exhibitions. The venue is equipped with state-of-the-art facilities, including multiple conference rooms, catering services, and advanced AV technology, ensuring a seamless event experience.

The O2: Iconic and Dynamic

The O2 is not only a world-famous entertainment venue but also a versatile event space. Its vast arena can seat up to 20,000 guests, making it perfect for concerts, sporting events, and large conferences. Additionally, The O2 offers smaller, adaptable spaces like the Indigo at The O2 and the InterContinental London – The O2, which can host banquets, receptions, and business meetings. With its distinctive architecture and prime location, The O2 adds a touch of excitement to any event.

Olympia London: Victorian Elegance

Olympia London is a stunning Victorian venue that has been hosting events for over 130 years. Its Grand Hall, one of the largest covered spaces in the city, can accommodate up to 10,000 guests. Olympia also offers several smaller halls and conference rooms, providing flexibility for various event formats. The venue's blend of historic charm and modern facilities makes it a popular choice for trade shows, conferences, and large social gatherings.

Old Billingsgate: Unique Riverside Venue

Situated on the banks of the River Thames, Old Billingsgate is a distinctive and versatile venue perfect for large events. The Grand Hall, with its stunning triple-height ceiling and ornate architecture, can host up to 1,200 seated guests or 2,500 standing. The venue also features The Vault and The Gallery, offering additional space for breakout sessions or smaller gatherings. Its central location and picturesque views make Old Billingsgate an exceptional choice for corporate events, gala dinners, and weddings.

Royal Lancaster London: Luxurious and Central

For those seeking a touch of luxury, the Royal Lancaster London offers an array of elegant event spaces. The Nine Kings Suite and Westbourne Suite can each accommodate up to 1,500 guests, making them ideal for large conferences, banquets, and exhibitions. Located near Hyde Park, the hotel combines opulent interiors with state-of-the-art facilities and exceptional service, ensuring a sophisticated and seamless event.

Conclusion

Large event venues London cater to a wide range of needs and preferences, from historic and iconic locations to modern and versatile spaces. Whether you're hosting a massive conference, an elegant gala, or a grand exhibition, these venues offer the perfect backdrop for your event. By choosing one of these top-tier venues, you can ensure an unforgettable experience for your guests, making your event stand out in the vibrant and dynamic city of London.

[gloomwitchwrites]

The 141 boys and the TikTok trend “everybody knows that I’m a good girl officer”

Firstly, I want to say that in this house, we say "fuck the police (derogatory)" every single day. However, I will indulge in this instance because it's our 141 boys and I think the trend with them would be absolutely smoldering. But I will change it up slightly, and pull from my Bodyguard!141 AU Post as well as lean into a security detail aspect for this one.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, dirty thoughts, flirting, secret relationship

Word Count: 1.5k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

Price adjusts the ear piece in his right ear.

The blasted thing doesn’t fit right. It keeps slipping. It’s irritating but it’s manageable. Not like Price is running anywhere. At least, he doesn’t plan on moving too quickly. His job is to stand and observe. To make look after a certain MP’s daughter, and to take her back to the hotel when she tells you she’s ready to leave.

You are no stranger. Far from it.

And it goes far beyond the grounds of appropriate behavior.

Price has completely stuck his foot in it, bedding you when he isn’t supposed to. Stealing kisses in dark corners, and fucking you behind closed doors. He was hired by your father to look after you, and instead, John has taken it much further than that.

But he doesn’t fucking regret it.

Not at all.

John adjusts his ear piece and scans the room from left to right. You’re not in sight but that doesn’t bother him. This ballroom is packed full of rich schmucks who couldn’t give a shit about him.

He scans the room again, and this time he finds you.

You’re walking toward him, hips moving in a sultry sway that steals John’s resolve. You’re gorgeous. Perfect. And he can’t stop staring.

The corner of your mouth quirks with amusement, and John straightens his shoulders, making himself appear bigger. He needs to look professional. He needs to look like he’s not thinking about all the ways he wants to fuck you.

But it’s hard to focus, and when you approach, you glance over your shoulder at him, words leaving your mouth that John doesn’t entirely catch at first. Your foot pops in the air, and the friend you’re walking with giggles, her hand pressed to her painted lips.

Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.

A good girl.

Yes. You are.

You’re John’s good girl.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

High-stakes missions have always been part of Kyle’s life. It is what he knows. What he thrives on. But between the missions, Kyle keeps working, and not with SAS.

Kyle mostly signs up for security detail at different places around London. Sometimes he might work as a bouncer for a club, or be monitoring people entering a music venue. Sometimes the gigs are swanky, and sometimes they’re not. Kyle doesn’t really mind as long as he’s paid.

That’s the whole point.

He’s saving. Wants to buy a house. Maybe find someone to settle down with. Life is going by fast. He needs some stability amongst all the violence.

And tonight? Tonight, he’s nothing more than a glorified security guard.

He looks the part in all-black tactical gear, and he isn’t the only one. There is an entire group of them all lined up in front of large windows, creating a bit of barrier. The event coordinator expected protests. All there is are a handful of people across the street with signs. They’re harmless.

Kyle doesn’t pay them any mind.

He does watch the regular people walking by on his side of the road. Some people are here for the event and others are just passing through.

Standing on the corner nearby is a small group of young women. They’re all dressed up like they’re heading to the clubs. Kyle pretends he’s not looking, but that would be a lie. There is one he keeps glancing at.

You’re fucking stunning. A beauty.

But Kyle has to remain calm. Aloof. He’s not here for you or anyone except the job at hand.

“Go over there.”

“I can’t!”

“Girl. He is so cute. Do it.”

Kyle casually turns his head, only to find you striding toward him. His throat drops into his stomach, and you waltz past him, pausing just to his right, flipping your hair, and batting your eyelashes at him and then your friends.

“Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.”

Your friends scream, and then you hurriedly run back to them as if you’ve done something you shouldn’t.

A good girl? Sure you are, love.

Kyle smirks and looks away, doing his best to hide a growing smile.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon sits in the driver seat of a large, black SUV. His fingers are itching for a cigarette. He needs the smoke—to feel the burn. To rid himself of some of this agitation.

It’s not annoyance. It’s not frustration. And it sure as shit isn’t anger.

No. Simon has a fucking rager in his pants, and his thoughts are filled with images of you. You—who he’s supposed to be protecting. Escorting you to and from events, pushing back the crowd, and keeping a firm lock on where you are at all times.

The black dress you’re wearing tonight is made of flimsy material. It clings to every curve and swell. Simon is hungry—a feral animal that couldn’t stop stalking you throughout the event.

Now, he’s about to take you back to your hotel. And he knows you’ll invite him in. He knows that the little black dress you wear will be nothing but a pile on the floor in due time.

But this need in his bones isn’t just Simon’s fault. You were a fucking tease all evening. You were bad. Openly flirting with other men in front of him, drinking more than you should have, and genuinely being a little terror to his sanity. All this behavior will only get you punishment. A punishment he’s happy to deal out once he has you behind a closed door.

A car door clicks, and Simon glances up, expecting to see you slide into the backseat. You’re not there. You’re next to him. In the front passenger seat.

“What the fuck are you doing?” asks Simon, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel.

You shrug and settle in. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, leaning on the middle armrest.

Simon can smell your perfume. “Buckle up,” he growls, and you do so casually, as if you don’t hear his irritation.

He pulls out into traffic, and the moment the two of you are clear of the building, Simon feels your hand on his thigh moving dangerously close to his dick.

“This bad behavior needs to stop.”

Your body shifts and you sing-song the next words out of your mouth. “Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.”

The words are bit slurred. You’re completely pissed, and Simon cannot help but laugh. No punishment then. Not tonight at least.

But tomorrow?

Absolutely.

John "Soap" MacTavish

This isn’t Johnny’s usual job, but it’s easy work.

Usually, hired security and local police take care of concerts and sporting events, but the military has been called in for this one, and Johnny is fine with that. Again, it’s easy work, and they’re paying him more for it.

He stands in one spot, scans the crowd, and acts casual while looking downright intimidating. The intimidation isn’t hard. They have him completely decked out in all-black tactical and balaclava included. All you can see of Johnny are his eyes.

It’s fun, actually. When he put it all on, he pretended to be Simon, only to receive a swat upside the head for it from the man himself.

Johnny has his hands casually resting on his bulletproof vest. No one is really looking at him, and those that do quickly look away. But there is one he can’t stop looking at.

You’re so damn cute, and you can’t stop glancing at him either. You’re with friends, and you keep smiling in his direction. If this were any other night, Johnny would approach you, flirt a bit, maybe even ask for your number. Might even take you home with him if you were open to it.

But Johnny is on the job, and he can’t afford to do that.

As you move closer to him through the crowd, one of your friends keeps saying something to you, moving their hands as if urging you to do something. Johnny isn’t sure what, but he’s curious. You don’t look like danger, and there is nothing about your demeanor that says that you’re looking to cause trouble.

Maybe it’s the balaclava. That seems to be a thing now.

As you approach, there is a pop of your foot, a quick flip of your hair, and a stunning smile. Your friend holds up her phone and you turn away from Johnny briefly to say “Everybody knows that I’m a good girl, officer.”

I bet you fucking are, love.

Your friends giggle with pleasure, and you quickly move away from him but not before you glance over your shoulder one last time, mouthing a silent “thank you.”

taglist:

@km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@enarien @saoirse06 @ferns-fics @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett

@ravenpoe67 @tulipsun-flower @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat @ninman82

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@haven-1307 @voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @spicyspicyliving @keiva1000

@littlemisscriesherselftosleep @statixx-x @umno-yeah @blackhawkfanatic @talooolaaloolla

@sadlonelybagel @kadeeesworld @iloveslasher @sammysinger04 @dakotakazansky

@suhmie @jaggersinclair @jackrabbitem @lxblm @beebeechaos

@no-oneelsebutnsu @kidd3ath @certainlygay @thewulf @lovely-ateez

@arrozyfrijoles23 @gingergirl06 @eternallyvenus @smileykiddie08 @vrb8im

[leah-lover]

Crossover. Leah Williamson x reader.

Based off this request. Thank you.

Exiting, that's how you would describe your life as a model. Yes there were the occasional hiccups but you mostly got to do very cool stuff and hang out with cool people. Your work took you everywhere but your home base was London. You started your career there and a large number of your followers come from there too.

The thing you loved the most about your job was the parties. They allow you to meet very interesting people, pick their brain and develop interesting g friendships.

Today was no different. Nike had a pretty high budget launch party for their new show line and you were invited. These parties were a little less formal than what you were used to going to, so you decided against a suit or a dress and settled for a black strapless and backless jumpsuit, a pair of black heels and some gold accessories. Your make up was elegant and your signature red lip was at its center.

Nike as always sent you a car to your house and you headed to the location of the event on time.

Upon arriving there you said hi to some people, talked to others, took some pictures at the event with some guests and drank champagne. The night was as regular as most of most launch parties were. Suddenly you were approached by one of the managers of the event.

“ Hey, so I wanted to introduce you to one of the faces of this launch. Miss Leah Williamson.” he says.

“ hi, nice to meet you, Miss williamson.” you say offering her your hand.

“ Hey, just Leah please.” she answers, shaking your hand

.” a fellow Brit I see. I haven't seen many of those tonight.”

“ glad i was among the few.” she answers. You two talked for a little while over a small table, each one of you nursing a drink. You both were making jokes trying to get one another to laugh or at least smile. There was definitely tension in the air and you both were flirtatious with one another.

“So Leah this has been one of the best nights I have had for a while. Thank you “ you say, squeezing her hand gently.

“Yeah it was fun for me too.” she responds with a disappointed tone. “Let me walk you to your car.”

While leaving the venue you hear a photographer say “ Miss Williamson would you like a picture?”. She looks over to you and you get into your usual pose instantly. While getting ready her hand slips perfectly on the small of your back applying the right amount of pressure.

While the photographer's flash was blinding you, you looked over to Leah and she did the same to you. You stood there getting your picture taken with a hot blonde after flirting with her all night. She made you feel safe with her hand on your back which you appreciated.She then walls you too you car.

“Tonight was fun.” You say leaning on the door.

“We should do this again sometime soon.” She replies with a small smile on her face.

“House about you come to one of our games. We will play in the Emirates soon. I think it would be a good experience.” She added.

“ Maybe.” You respond before getting in your car.

This night was gonna be unforgettable.

—----------------

Fact forward a few weeks you were back in England after being in Milan, Paris, and Japan for work. Well there first two were work , the last one was for fun since the F1 Japan grand prix was one of your favorites on the race calendar. You could say that that weekend was well spent. You hung out on the Ferrari paddock and did a lot of social media work. This work backfired on you because all people were talking about the whole weekend we're done moment that happened between you and a driver. Romers never bothered you, now it was different. Leah had followed you on Instagram after the event and you worried that she would believe them. As a result you decided to go to the arsenal game she talked about. Getting tickets was a Hassle because they were all sold out. But you managed to find a seat right next to the bench, very close to the field.

You showed up to the Stadium early. You hair was down, your makeup was simple, you wore jeans, a black button down and a Jersey over it, one that says Leah Williamson on the back, and you added a few gold accessories again.

Like Leah said the atmosphere was electric. You went to the VIP section first, got some food and a drink then you headed down to your seat. Leah didn't know you were coming; you wanted it to stay a surprise.

As soon as the players appeared on the pitch the whole strain erupted into cheers and chants. Those cheers only got louder when Arsenal scored 3 goals in 20 minutes which you were told was impressive.

After the half time break some players were running up and down the field. That's when she saw you. She held eye contact with you for a long time, a wide smile planted across her face. She had a look of pride, joy, and reassurance. You smiled back at her, clapped as she came on and sang and chanted loudly.

After the game was done the players were doing a lap around the pitch and when she saw you again. Another wide smile was painted on her face. She looked happy to be there and happy that you were there too.

She was then signing autographs, taking pictures and genuinely talking to people. She grew immensely in your eyes because of her thankful and humble demeanor. She then asked for you to follow her inside the stadium which you did.

“You clean up nice. I like your shirt “ she said with a cocky expression on her face.

“Well I saw a charming young lady at an event a few weeks ago and she hadn't left my mind ever since. I missed her and I thought I would come and see her. Turns out she is the best person in the world.” You respond.

“ Well I hope this girl gets to go have dinner with you because you two sound formidable.” She added

“ Maybe.” You respond

You wait for her to get ready and get out of the locker room. When she gets out, a few girls follow her and appear to be teasing her.

“ I swear if I hear from anyone you shit heads you won't like practice anymore.” She said to them. You simply wave to them as you two walk by then to Leah's car too which she opens the door.

“ Such a gentleman.” You exclaim.

“Well I have competition. That girl you were talking about is a catch.” She joked.

Leah was fun. She made you feel at ease and safe.

This was going to be a fun adventure.

[hayleythesugarbowl]

hiii ive read all your spencer x reader fics and love them sm!! your writing is amazing, you’re so talented 🫶

if you’re up for a request, i was wondering if you could maybe do one with a british reader or an actress/starkid member reader? (or even both in one!! maybe they meet starkid through a show they do in london or something? idk haha)

American Smile || Spencer Agnew x british!reader

⋆ ��｡⋆୨୧˚ masterlist • smosh masterlist  ⋆˚｡⋆୨୧⋆

summary: when smosh comes to london to to do a show you also happen to be a part of, you and spencer hit it off

word count: 1.4k

warnings: mild langauge, i’m american so probably inaccurately depicted london/british, shameless taylor swift references i’m just a girl 💌

a/n: OH WE ARE SO BACK ‼️ it’s been a hot minute since i’ve written for smosh (or at all) and i’m happy to be back. i’m so so sorry this request took me so so long to get to love but i hope you enjoy nonetheless! i am not familiar with starkid at all so i just made this british!actress!reader. this was such a perfect little meet-cute idea. enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     “Sorry!”

     You were bumped hard from behind and you turned around to find a very apologetic-looking woman pushing a large cart. 

     “It’s alright, love,” you assured her.

     As she continued past you, you took a moment to look around you. It was a lot to take in. People bustling about, equipment being moved, other people just arriving.

     They had already begun to set up for the event taking place the next day. You had just gotten here yourself. You took a deep breath, feeling the lanyard around your neck between your fingers. 

     Every year, London held a huge comedy event and you were lucky enough to be invited this year. You were staying in a hotel room above the place but you hadn’t seen it yet. 

     The man at the window had told you to come straight backstage of venue so you could be given a tour before you settled in. Truthfully you just wanted to rest after the day or travel you’d had—you didn’t live to far from the city, but still. You felt for the performers who were coming from out of the country. 

      “When do you think they’ll start this bloody tour?” You mumbled to yourself “I’m starving.”

     You looked around you. It looked like many of the performers were already here. It was quite crowded. You saw many people standing together—group acts—and a couple of solo ones—like yourself.

     You were a pretty big local actor—The Times’ words, not yours—and you had dabbled in comedy for the past few years. You were excited to finally show off that side of your skill set here. 

     Finally, a woman a few yards away from you called out, “Alright, if I could get all of the performers in tomorrow’s show over here. We’re going to go ahead and get started.”

     You walked to where she had pointed and joined the rest of the people waiting. 

     “If everyone could follow me—” The woman started, but she was interrupted by the double doors at the back of the room bursting open.

     A large group of people came rushing in to a chorus of “Were here! We’re not late! Don’t start without us! I told Ian we shouldn’t have taken the Underground!”

     You covered your mouth to suppress a laugh. The woman in charge, however, didn’t look as pleased. She walked over to meet them slowly, fixing them with a glare. 

     “I’m assuming you’re Smosh?” She asked the group.

     A few murmurs went trough the room. Smosh? You heard people mutter. 

     “What’s Smosh?” You asked a woman next to you. She couldn’t have been younger than 75. 

     “Oh they’re a hoot, darling, you’ll see,” was all she said. 

     From listening to the people around you, you gathered that they were an American YouTube comedy group that was also participating in this event.

     You watched as they got checked in and as you scanned over them, your eye caught on a man standing towards the back. He was leaning towards the person next to him, hands in his pockets, presumably making a joke based off of the reaction by the other. 

     Then all of a sudden he looked your way and your eyes snapped back to your hands in front of you. You felt your cheeks warm at getting caught staring. But blimey he was bloody gorgeous! 

      Eventually Smosh made their way over to where you were standing and the woman, looking more stressed and disgruntled than ever, addressed the group. 

    “Right,” she’d said, looking pointedly at the late-arrivers. “Now that we’re all here, let’s get this done with, alright?”

     She began leading you on her tour. You were glad to finally get started. 

     “How about all these British people?” A voice to your left said.

     You turned to find the man you’d been watching earlier, leaning towards you conspiratorially. When you didn’t say anything, he continued.

     “They’ve all got their knickers in a twist, eh?” He said in a mock-English accent.

     You raised an eyebrow at him.

     “Oh god, you’re one of the British people aren’t you?” He said, eyes wide.

     You smiled, amused. “I’m afraid so. Although my knickers are perfectly fine, thank you.”

     His eyes widened even more when he heard your accent. “Well then, I think I must’ve set some record because I’ve only been in your country for two hours and I’ve already insulted three locals.”

     “Three?” You questioned.

     “Tried this same bit at airport security,” he confessed. “They were less pleased. Remind me never to show them our Gentleman’s videos. Called me a wanker, which I’m assuming is not good.”

     You giggled. “Not quite. So I hear you’re a comedian?”

     “Can you write my next resume?” He joked. “But yeah, I do comedy stuff. And other stuff. We’re on YouTube—all of us at Smosh.”

     He gestured to the dozen or so other people with him. None of them looked your way though. 

     “And I'm assuming you’re not just here to cater?” He asked you.

     “No, I’m one of the performers,” you answered. “But a pastry does sound lovely right about now.”

     A moment of silence passed and you listened to the woman at the front talk about the history of the building. 

     “I’m Spencer, by the way,” the man said. “Spencer Agnew.”

     You shook his hand. “(Y/n). (Y/n) (Y/l/n).”

     “That’s so normal,” Spencer acknowledged. “I was expecting something more British.”

     “More British?” You repeated.

     “Yeah, I don’t know, like something from Downton Abbey. Dowager Countess Maryanne whatever.”

     “I don’t think you’ve ever seen that show,” you teased. “And you are aware that it’s the 21st century?”

     “Already? How long have I been in this building?”

     You laughed again. He was charming, Spencer. You were so engrossed in talking to him that you were hardly paying attention to the tour. 

     “Hey, what are you doing after this?” Spencer whispered, glancing at the woman giving the tour, probably hoping she didn’t notice him not paying attention.

     Going back to my hotel room, getting some rest and ordering room service, was what you meant to say. What came out was—

     “Nothing. I’m not doing anything.”

     You didn’t know what made you say it. You just knew you wanted to spend more time with Spencer.

     “Me neither,” Spencer said flippantly and you felt your cheeks flame at assuming he wanted to do something with you. Then he cracked a smile. “I’m just kidding. You wanna grab a bite to eat? I’d go myself but I don’t know any of the good spots.”

     “That sounds brilliant, I’m starving.” You nodded.

     “Great. And maybe afterwards you can show me around the city, make sure I don’t offend anyone else.”

     “It’s a date,” you said. “Anything to stop you ruffling more feathers.”

     Spencer smiled brightly at you and you couldn’t help but beam back. You couldn’t wait for your date with Spencer. Even though you had just met him, you were already more excited about an afternoon with him than the actual comedy event. 

     “Hey, I can’t be doing that bad,” Spencer joked. “I did convince the most attractive person in here to go out with me.”

     “Stop it,” you teased, batting his arm. He looked down at where you had touched him.

      “It’s true,” he said, looking shy all of a sudden. “If this is what all British people look like, I’m staying in this country forever.”

     “You’re not half bad yourself,” you told him, hoping he didn’t see your cheeks flush.

     “Very encouraging,” Spencer said. “But I better join my people before they think they lost me. Again. I’ll tell you that story tonight. At eight?”  

     You nodded. “Perfect. I’m looking forward to it.”

     Spencer winked, kissing you lightly on the cheek before backing up. “Later Countess Cute Accent.”

     You giggled, watching him turn around and head back to his friends and coworkers. 

     “Dude,” you heard him say to one of his friends. “I just had a real life, reverse London Boy moment. Taylor said ‘God I love the English’ and I felt that.”

     You smiled. You were only thinking of Spencer as you turned back towards the front of the still-moving group. You still felt the ghost of his kiss on your face, and your heart still pounded inside your chest. You couldn’t wait to get to know him better.

     “And if you look to your left you’ll see the flying buttresses deigned by the late…”

     The guide kept speaking but you weren’t paying attention. 

     Reverse London Boy huh? You thought. Well then, boy I fancy you. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~°~❦~°~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ˋ°•*⁀➷ hope you enjoyed!! this was so much fun to write 💋

[mariacallous]

Usually held in the two weeks after the Olympic Games in the same host city, the Paralympics showcase the best athletes with physical disabilities from around the world competing for their home countries. (The Paralympics are not to be confused with the Special Olympics, which feature athletes with intellectual disabilities.) This year, the Summer Paralympics will take place from August 28 to September 8 in Paris, France.

Quick history lesson: The origins of the Paralympics began shortly after World War II, during the 1948 London Olympics, where 16 wheelchair-using veterans participated. The first official Paralympic Games took place in Rome in 1960 and featured 400 athletes from 23 countries. Since then, the Games have taken place every four years and now feature 4,400 athletes in 22 sports (the Olympics have 32), with 549 gold medals up for grabs.

There are athletes competing from 177 countries (this year’s Olympics had athletes from 184 countries), including 10 countries that have never been represented in the Paralympic Games before, along with representation from the Neutral and Refugee teams. In case you missed it, at the last Paralympics in Tokyo, China earned the most medals, with Great Britain behind it and the US in third.

Since the 1988 Summer Games and the 1992 Winter Games, the Olympic and Paralympic Games have been held in the same cities and venues. Although Paralympians still strive for equal treatment as Olympic athletes without disabilities, there is a large gap in funding between the Olympics and Paralympics.

Where to Watch

This year’s Games will make history as the first Paralympic Games to offer live coverage of every one of the 22 sports played. Like the Olympics, every event at the Paralympics will be available to stream on Peacock if you’re in the US.

If you prefer going old school and watching on basic cable, a select number of events will be airing on the NBC channels NBC, CNBC, and USA Network, along with E!, Golf Channel, and Telemundo, which offers coverage in Spanish. In an effort to make the Games more accessible, closed captioning will be available for every Paralympic event (regardless of the platform). You can also watch highlights and athlete interviews on Paralympic.org.

In the UK, Channel 4 has more than 1,300 hours of live coverage scheduled. Folks can also watch through their streaming service or Channel 4 Sport’s YouTube channel, which will show the entirety of the Games for the first time. BBC, BBC Radio 5 Live, and the BBC Sport website will also air highlights and select coverage. The Paralympics website also has a complete list of where to watch by country.

Opening Ceremony

The Opening Ceremony will begin August 28 at 8 pm Paris time, 7 pm BST, 2 pm EDT, and 11 am PDT. Similar to the Olympics opening ceremony, the Paralympics opening ceremony will be held outside of a stadium at one of the major squares in Paris, Place de la Concorde, and the iconic avenue Champs-Élysées will be transformed into the opening ceremony stage.

The competition starts the following day, on August 29, at 11 am EDT (8 am PDT). Like with the Paris Olympics, the start times will be similarly early and continue throughout the day. The specific timing of some of the events might change, so check the schedule of events on the Olympics' Paralympics schedule webpage.

Blind Football (Soccer)

Blind football is an adaptation of football (or soccer, if you’re American) for athletes with vision impairment played with an audible ball. This men’s competition starts early on September 1 and continues on September 2, 3 and 5, with the gold medal match on Saturday, September 7.

Boccia

Boccia is one of only two sports with no Olympic equivalent. It was originally created for athletes in wheelchairs who have impaired motor function or coordination. To win, each team must get the most balls closest to the white ball called the jack, with athletes allowed to make modifications according to their needs. Men’s and women’s individual games start August 29 and go through September 1, with the gold medal individual matches on September 1 and 2. Mixed pairs and teams start September 3, with gold mixed pairs and teams matches on September 5.

Goalball

The other sport of the Paralympic Games without an Olympic equivalent, goalball is a team sport for the visually impaired and blind, in which players wear special black eye-covering-type glasses so they fully can’t see and are thus more equitable (and honestly, look cool as hell). If there’s anything that the Olympic Games have taught us, it’s that the people go crazy for some out-of-the-norm eyewear. The audience needs to stay as quiet as possible because the ball has bells inside. Thus, the athletes have to rely solely on sound, while they use their whole body to try to block the ball from making it inside the goal. (Lets see Neymar try to do that.) Men’s and women’s games start August 29 with the gold medal games for both on September 5.

Para Archery

The first game played at the early iteration of the Paralympics in 1948, para archery now has men and women’s individual and mixed teams, with wheelchair or standing, and with recurve and compound bows used. Men’s and women’s individual events begin August 29 and continue through September 5, with gold medal matches in individual, teams and with different bows across multiple days.

Para Athletics

One of the most beloved sports in the Paralympics is para athletics, which has been a popular fixture in the games since the inaugural Rome Games in 1960. Today, it spans a wide range of track, jumping, and throwing events, as well as marathons. Because of the wide range of men’s and women’s events, competition begins on August 30 and happens daily with gold medal matches until the Games end on September 8. Check the full para athletics schedule for more specific events’ times.

Para Badminton

Para badminton debuted at Tokyo 2020, although it has been hugely popular for decades. Like badminton, players compete as singles and pairs, as well as standing and in wheelchairs. Group play begins on August 29, with men’s, women’s, and mixed doubles beginning August 31. Gold medal matches take place September 1 and 2.

Para Canoe

The Paralympic Canoe competition features two types of boats: the kayak and va’a (traditionally used in Oceania for travel between islands). Para canoes are basically the same as those used in the Olympic Games, but just have a wider bottom for greater stability. The races begin September 6 with gold medal games on September 7 and 8.

Para Road Cycling

Throughout the years, like many other events, Paralympic cycling has grown to adapt to many disabilities, and uses standard bicycles, handcycles, tricycles, and tandems. In road cycling, there are road races, time trials, and relay events. Both the men and women’s individual and relay events and gold medal races take place daily September 4 through 7.

Para Track Cycling

Para  track cycling is similar to road cycling but takes place on a velodrome track (as the name suggests). Competition is divided into time trials, individual, and tandem or team sprints, using standard bicycles and tandems (all of which can be adapted for the specific athlete). The various track cycling events and gold medal races take place simultaneously August 29 to September 1.

Para Equestrian

Unlike the three equestrian events at the Olympic Games, the Paralympic equestrian program only includes the dressage competition. Para dressage essentially focuses on how well the rider and horse gel, with riders judged on their riding and performance with the horse. All the events are individual mixed, and each competition has gold medal rounds, taking place August 3, 4, 6 and 7.

Para Judo

Para judo is one of two martial arts competitions at the Games. The Paralympics judo follows the same rules as its Olympic equivalent, except it’s practiced exclusively by athletes with vision impairments—and is way more badass, in my humble opinion. (I think I’m allowed to make that assertion since I’m also disabled, don’t come for me.) With the athletes unable to see their opponent, they must use their sense of touch and careful listening—including slight differences in breathing and movement—to sense what their rival may do next. Men’s and women’s matches take place September 5, 6, and 7 and have gold medal matches at the end of each day.

Para Powerlifting

Para powerlifting is a men’s and women’s bench press competition that tests upper body strength where the athletes compete in different weight categories. All of the events are individual and there are gold medal rounds for each competition (which varies by gender and weight class) taking place September 4 to 8.

Para Rowing

A relatively new sport, rowing debuted at the Paralympic Games in 2008. Now, there are five rowing events, including three mixed events. Para rowing rules are nearly identical to those at the Olympics and rowers are eligible for different events according to their gender and impairment categories. The races begin across all categories on August 30, continue to August 31, with final gold medal rounds on September 1.

Para Swimming

Para swimming has remained one of the most enduring sports in the Paralympics since its debut at the Rome Games in 1960. Its popularity is due in part because athletes with all kinds of physical and mental disabilities can participate and doesn’t require any specific equipment. (Prosthetics aren’t allowed either.) Featuring different swims at different distances, athletes compete in breaststroke, backstroke, butterfly, freestyle, and medley. As one of the most popular sports, there are men’s, women’s, and mixed events virtually nonstop with gold medal races near the end of every day, August 29 until September 7.

Para Table Tennis

One of the OG Paralympian games, table tennis actually has a longer history in the Paralympic Games than its Olympic counterpart. When it began, it was only open to wheelchair users, although today athletes are placed into 11 different classes based on their physical and intellectual impairments. Men’s and women’s doubles, singles and mixed games take place August 29 to September 7, with gold medal games every day except September 2.

Para Taekwondo

Para taekwondo is a new competition that made its Paralympic debut at the Tokyo Games. Focused on athletes with upper limb impairments, they are split into two sports classes and divided into weight categories. Men and women compete August 29 to 31, with gold medal matches at the end of each day.

Para Triathlon

A relatively new sport introduced at the 2016 Rio Games, the para triathlon is held over the “sprint” distance, which is half the Olympic distance for individual competitions, where athletes swim 750 meters, cycle 20 kilometers, and run 5 kilometers. The competition is divided by men’s and women’s, with medals being awarded for each race September 1 and 2.

Shooting Para Sport

Shooters compete in rifle and pistol events from distances of 10-meter, 25-meter, and 50-meter in men’s, women’s, and mixed fields. Depending on needs, athletes compete in a kneeling position, prone, or standing (or in a wheelchair or shooting seat). The games take place August 30 to September 5, with medals awarded each day.

Sitting Volleyball

Sitting volleyball is pretty much the exact same as the volleyball we know and love, except as the name suggests, is a sitting variation of the sport. It’s played by two teams of six players who move around the court using the power of their arms, along with a lowered net that’s 3 feet high. The games start on August 29 and continue until the men’s gold medal game on September 6 and the women’s on September 7.

Wheelchair Basketball

Originally used for rehabilitation and exercise for World War II veterans—wheelchair basketball is quintessential Paralympics. Now, it’s one of the most popular and beloved sports for wheelchair users around the world. Games start August 29 and go until the men’s gold medal match September 7, with the women’s September 8.

Wheelchair Fencing

What’s more badass than fencing? Wheelchair fencing. In this sport that requires discipline (and ability to not flinch when a sword is coming at you), athletes compete in a special wheelchair frame designed for the sport which is fastened to the floor—meaning the fencers cannot move and are always close to their opponent. Just like the Olympic equivalent, wheelchair fencing consists of three disciplines: foil, épée, and saber. The men’s and women’s matches take place September 3 to 7, with gold medal rounds at the end of every day.

Wheelchair Rugby

Wheelchair rugby is a four-person team sport played in specially designed wheelchairs. It combines elements of rugby, basketball, and handball, with players using a round ball. Because it’s such an aggressive sport, it’s often referred to as “murderball.” Need I say more? You’re gonna wanna watch this one. Mixed games start August 29, with the gold medal games September 2.

Wheelchair Tennis

Wheelchair tennis pretty much follows the same rules of able-bodied tennis, except here the ball can bounce twice before the player hits it back. Athletes are divided into open and quad classes, along with men’s, women’s, singles, and doubles. Games start August 30, with gold medal matches September 4 to 7.

[koffeesfancy]

2. "it's been a long time" | Letitia Wright x Reader

Summary: Will a familiar face reignite the spark you thought was lost?

Rating: PG

Genre: Romance, slow-burn

Word Count: 1911

A/N: So I’m back for day 2 of fictober! As always, feedback is appreciated. Enjoy!

Taglist: @lyfeofbilly @prettymrswright @onyxstones-world

The evening sky over London was in that strange twilight zone between “charmingly moody” and “probably going to rain on you at the worst possible time.” The kind of night that made you grateful for indoor events, even if that event happened to be your high school reunion.

You stood just outside the venue—a modest hotel ballroom near the Thames—mentally bracing yourself. Who even goes to these things willingly? Most people would rather delete all evidence of their teenage years, not voluntarily relive them with people who last saw them in braces and questionable fashion choices. But here you were, about to step back into a room full of people who probably remembered you as that awkward girl who tripped over a bench on Sports Day.

“Just get through it,” you muttered to yourself, taking a deep breath and pushing open the door.

Immediately, you were hit with a wave of nostalgia—both good and bad. The venue had tried for elegance, but it felt more like someone had half-heartedly Googled “classy” and ran with the first result. Large printouts of yearbook pictures, of all things, lined the entryway, and there was a photo booth where people were already cramming themselves for awkward snapshots.

You hadn’t taken more than a few steps before Jamie Winters—the man who looked like he was still mentally stuck in Year 11—bounded over to you with a wide grin.

“Hey! You made it!” he exclaimed, already launching into some story about football and glory days.

You nodded along, sipping the cheap wine you picked up near the door, though your mind was elsewhere. You hadn’t come here for Jamie Winters and his incessant recounting of a single goal he made during a game none of you remembered. No. There was only one reason you were here tonight.

And then you saw her.

Letitia stood on the far side of the room, her warm brown skin glowing under the lights and her long, toned legs appearing out of a sleek skirt suit. She was in conversation with a few other classmates, though it was clear she wasn’t paying much attention to them. Her eyes scanned the room, and when they found you, they lit up with unmistakable recognition.

A jolt of nerves hit your stomach. This wasn’t like seeing an old friend; it was more like facing an unresolved chapter of your life. In high school, the two of you had hovered around each other, never quite breaking into that next level, despite a connection you couldn’t explain. You hadn’t spoken to her since graduation. No texts, no social media, nothing.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed her until right now.

Letitia’s smile widened, and without breaking her gaze, she excused herself from the group and started walking toward you. The crowd seemed to part for her effortlessly, like she commanded the room with just her presence. She always had that quiet, easy confidence—the kind that made you simultaneously want to be around her and feel totally inadequate in her orbit.

When she reached you, she grinned and said, “Well, well. If it isn’t the bookworm. How’ve you been?”

Your throat went dry, but you managed a casual smirk. “It’s been a long time.”

Letitia let out a laugh, one of those soft, genuine ones that made your heart skip. “Yeah, too long. Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“I could say the same thing,” you replied, trying to keep your cool despite the fact that your pulse was doing its best to sabotage you. “I figured you’d be too busy, you know, taking over the world.”

“Hardly,” she said, leaning in a little as if sharing a secret. “But I did come back to London, and apparently this reunion was calling my name. You?”

You shrugged. “Same. Still here. I’m a glutton for punishment, I guess.”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “You always were. Remember Mr. Thompson’s history class? I swear you were the only one who actually cared about that ridiculous essay on the Tudors.”

You groaned, covering your face. “Don’t remind me. I had a lot of misplaced academic ambition.”

She tilted her head, still smiling, though now there was something softer in her expression. “It suited you. You always knew where you were going, even if the rest of us were just trying to survive.”

That caught you off guard. You hadn’t realized she’d noticed you at all, not in the way you noticed her. “Yeah, well, I don’t think anyone really knows where they’re going at sixteen.”

Letitia raised an eyebrow. “Maybe. But you were always different. Still are.”

The compliment landed square in your chest, and suddenly, it felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room. You could sense the shift in the conversation, the same subtle tension that had always hovered between you two.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Letitia said abruptly, glancing toward the dance floor, where a few people were trying and failing to get some kind of party started. “I don’t think we really belong at this cringe fest, do you?”

“God, no.” You laughed, relieved and intrigued by the sudden suggestion. “Where should we go?”

“I know a place,” she said, winking as she turned and headed toward the door.

You followed her out into the night, the cool air a welcome change from the stuffy ballroom. She led you down a few winding streets, the sounds of the city wrapping around you like a familiar melody. Eventually, you found yourselves at a quiet, little pub—warm lights spilling out onto the pavement, the hum of conversation just loud enough to feel lively but not overwhelming.

As soon as you stepped inside, you felt more at ease. Letitia slid into a booth near the back, her low-cut hair appearing to dazzle under the dim light. You sat across from her, the table between you suddenly feeling like both a barrier and a bridge.

She took a sip of her drink and looked at you thoughtfully. “You know,” she said slowly, “I always thought we’d stay in touch after school.”

Your breath hitched. “Yeah…same.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Then why didn’t we?”

You didn’t have a good answer. Or maybe you did, but it wasn’t something you were ready to admit. “Life, I guess. Things just…got in the way.”

Letitia watched you for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah. But maybe we can change that now.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, smiling that slow, knowing smile that made your heart do flips, “maybe it’s not too late to pick up where we left off.”

You stared at her, trying to read the depth in her gaze. The tension between you was thick, almost tangible, and yet there was an ease to it too—like the two of you were finally stepping into a moment that had been years in the making.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Letitia beat you to it, her voice low and full of promise.

“Besides,” she said with a playful smirk, “we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

[labuenosairesfrancaise]

Prestwald Hall

Hi guys!!

I'm sharing Prestwald Hall . This is the 9th building for my English Manors Collection, and I will add many more!

House History: Prestwold Hall was, for many years, the seat of the Packe family. Before that time, it was the home of the Skipwith family. After the death of Major Robert Christopher Packe (born c.1783) - one time Aide-de-camp to King George III - who was killed during the Battle of Waterloo, the hall passed to his nephew George Hussey Packe who held the hall and estate until his death in 1874.

The Hall was remodelled by architect William Burn in 1842–1844, incorporating the fabric of a mid-18th-century H-plan house. It was Grade I listed in 1951.

One of the finest rooms inside the house is the Entrance Hall with its richly coloured marbled plaster work in the Italian style. The painted ceiling was inspired by Raphael’s Vatican grotesques and incorporates miniature landscapes, showing the house before and after its remodelling between 1842 and 1844. Below the ceiling, wreathing the room, are small medallion busts of the poets from Chaucer to Scott, positioned in the spandrels and are likely inspired by Alberti's external arcade at the Tempio Malatestiano in Rimini. An arcade opens on to a vaulted corridor leading to a top lit inner hall: these spaces also marbled. Off the corridor, the cantilevered stone staircase survives from the eighteenth century house, and was given its bracketed brass balusters by William Wilkins (1751-1815) in 1805.

The Dining Room, added by Wilkins in 1805, was incorporated into the remodelling undertaken by the Scottish architect William Burn in 1842. The room is overlooked by two dramatic full length portraits of Sir Edward Hussey Packe, KBE (1878 – 1946) and the Hon. Lady Mary Sydney Packe (née Colebrooke, 1890 – 1973) by the painter Glyn Philpot RA (1844 – 1947). The portrait of Lady Packe, painted in 1911, was described by the art historian Robin Gibson OBE as an ‘amazing feat of virtuosity’. Its elongated elegance and introspective characterisation is totally without the fashion-plate vulgarity of much Edwardian portraiture. Other portraits hang in this room of the Packe family including a painting of Sir Christopher Packe (1595 – 1682) who purchased the house in the 17th century painted by Cornelis Janssens van Ceulen (1593 –1661).

The library extends nearly the entire length of the house when the large doors that separate it from the drawing room are opened, connecting the two rooms. With clever use of constructional steel, William Burn was able to create these long adjoining rooms. The windows rise from floor level and open onto the garden which enhances the notion that Prestwold was designed in the style of an Italian classical villa. The doors and bookcases in library were made for George Hussey Packe (1846–1908) by Gillows of Lancaster and London in 1875.

A conservatory fills the recessed central bay at the front of the house, and projects out towards the garden. Behind the glass and elegant Doric pilasters, are well planted raised beds with a number of exotic plants and flowers

More history: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prestwold_Hall

Virtual tour: https://www.prestwold-hall.com/virtual-tour/

Night pics

Floorplans

This house fits a 50x40 lot and features the following:

great hall

long Library

formal dinning room

family room

playroom

formal gallery

a winter garden

14 rooms for family/guests + 3 service rooms

several bathrooms

This time I decorated most of the rooms in the main floor for picture purposes, but as allways, you can make it your own!

The second and third floor (bedrooms) are not decorated, but finished.

Hope you like it.

You will need the usual CC I use:

all Felixandre cc

all The Jim,

SYB

Anachrosims

Regal Sims

King Falcon railing

The Golden Sanctuary

Cliffou

Dndr recolors

Harrie cc

Tuds

Lili's palace cc

Please enjoy, comment if you like it and share pictures with me if you use my creations!

Early Access: August 15

Download: https://www.patreon.com/posts/prestwald-hall-104505183

[389]

Jamaican Sound Clash Culture

Jamaican sound clash culture has its roots in the 1950s and 1960s, when sound systems first began to emerge in Jamaica. These sound systems were essentially mobile DJ setups that would play music at outdoor parties, dances, and other events. They were an important part of the local music scene, and helped to popularize a variety of different genres, including ska, rocksteady, and reggae.

As the popularity of sound systems grew, so too did their competitiveness. DJs and sound system operators began to engage in battles or "clashes" where they would compete against one another to see who had the best music selection, sound quality, and overall performance. These clashes often took place in outdoor venues and were attended by large crowds of people who would dance and cheer on their favorite sound systems.

In the 1970s, sound clash culture really took off in Jamaica, as a new generation of sound system operators emerged, including some of the most famous names in the business, such as King Tubby, Duke Reid, and Coxsone Dodd. These sound systems were known for their powerful sound systems, huge music collections, and their ability to engage in quick-witted banter and insults, known as "dubplate specials."

During this time, sound clash battles became more intense and competitive, with sound system operators often spending large sums of money on rare and exclusive records and dubplates in order to gain an edge over their rivals. These battles became a major part of Jamaican culture, with fans and enthusiasts following their favorite sound systems and DJs around the country to attend clashes and other events.

In the 1980s, sound clash culture began to spread beyond Jamaica and into other parts of the world, as Jamaican immigrants brought the tradition with them to cities like New York, London, and Toronto. Today, sound clash culture continues to thrive in Jamaica and around the world, with new generations of sound system operators and DJs carrying on the tradition and keeping the spirit of competition and creativity alive.

The rivalry between sound systems is intense and the rules dictate that only exclusive dubplates are played, which are usually rare or specifically cut for the clash. These dubplates are unique cuts of certain popular tunes or other material. Watching a sound clash is good fun and the audience decides who is better by cheering the most, and the energy is usually insane. In this case, Rodigan acts as both his own DJ and MC, but sometimes other MCs are present and the selecta (DJ) is separate. In Jamaica, the MCs are called deejays and the DJs are called selectas. Sometimes there are even special dancers on stage to make the show even more energetic. Sound systems in Jamaica were popular because people couldn't afford to buy records or speakers, so they would play music in the streets for everyday people. Then, they began to develop a rivalry and a following. It got crazy in the 80s when dancehall became harder and more violent in its lyrics. The sound clash is all about who has the best records, rarest collection, and most unique dubplates cut by artists. The artists usually voice a special message into the dubplates, hyping up the selecta/sound system. Hip hop may have also copied some of this culture, but it's not clear whether it developed on its own or was copied from Jamaica.

[oillydiya]

Things Between Us | Cillian Murphy x OC

Chapter 14 : Accepting the Truth

Warnings: The following content may be disturbing.

On Sunday in London,

it was a day for Sansa to clear out her workspace and return the area to the gallery representatives. It was another busy day that left her feeling dizzy with all the tasks at hand. But amidst the chaos, she found herself missing Cillian deeply!

After their argument on Friday night, Cillian had asked her to fly to New York with him. However, due to her commitments to clearing her exhibition space, she was unable to accompany him. The distance made her heart grow fonder, as it had been almost a month since Sansa and Cillian had a relationship. Driven by her longing for him, Sansa decided to surprise Cillian by flying to New York. She thought it would be good for their relationship.

After making up her mind, Sansa hurriedly cleared the space by Sunday night so she could catch a flight to New York first thing in the morning. The film promotion event that Cillian was attending would start on Monday evening. Given the seven to eight-hour flight from London to New York, she would arrive just in time for his promotional event.

‘It’s going to be such a surprise for him,’ Sansa thought happily about her plan.

Excited for their first date outside London, Sansa quickly booked her flight and finished her work that night.

On Monday,

Sansa arrived in New York around 4 pm. She hurried from the airport to the venue where Cillian’s film was being promoted, located in front of a cinema in Times Square. She and Cillian hadn’t spoken since he left for New York, so if he saw her at the event without knowing in advance, it would certainly surprise and delight him.

As she arrived at the event venue, Sansa noticed the red carpet laid out for the actors and crew for interviews and fan interactions. Cillian, in particular, seemed to have a large female fanbase eagerly waiting for him.

‘He really is popular,’ she mused.

Sansa had brought along a Scarecrow poster and a Batman Begins scarecrow mask for Cillian to sign, hoping to bring a smile to his face. As people began to fill the event more and more, Sansa was glad she arrived early to secure a good spot near the barriers set up for fans.

Fifteen minutes into the event, celebrities began to arrive. Sansa saw many celebrities but didn’t recognize most of them since she wasn’t a huge movie fan.

And then...the crowd’s screams intensified, painfully echoing in her ears. She looked around with her bright green eyes, following the noise. There was Cillian, looking great in a black suit, styled just how Sansa liked.

But suddenly, everything felt dark and heavy for Sansa. It was like her heart sank when she saw Cillian walking into the event with his wife. The excitement turned into a shock, as if a shadow had fallen over her happiness.

Frozen in shock, Sansa stood there long enough to feel as if her breath had been taken away. She believed Cillian saw her too, as he was interacting with fans not too far from her. Their eyes met, and they both froze, shocked by each other's presence.

Cillian hadn’t expected to see Sansa in New York, especially since she had declined his invitation to come together. His participation with his wife matched the film representative's desire to have actors accompanied by their family members, reflecting the movie's family themes.

In that moment, Cillian felt paralyzed, overwhelmed by guilt and a heart racing with panic upon seeing Sansa’s tear-filled Green eyes. He wanted to say ... sorry, They stared into each other’s souls, an unspoken sorrow hanging between them as Sansa’s tears falling down her cheeks, a river of pain that nothing could hold back.

‘This is so painful’ Sansa cursed inwardly. She had known their relationship might end someday, but she hadn’t expected it to be so soon, and she was utterly unprepared for this moment.

‘I need to wake up from this dream and accept reality’ Sansa told herself, deciding then and there to end everything. Dropping her scarecrow mask, she walked away from the event, leaving a piece of her heart behind.

"The happiness I received from him was temporary, but the pain and suffering will stay with me forever."

Thank you for reading!

[thisisnotmeta]

Million Dollar Man

Chapter 2

-

The train journey to London unfolded with a continuous hum, a rhythmic repetition of tracks beneath its carriage wheels. I leaned against the window, gazing into the passing landscape that morphed into its own mosaic of fleeting images. The city sprawling out before me, a canvas painted with the subtle hues of the afternoon.

Ben messaged me a couple of days ago inviting me to Jack Hatton’s (lead of streaming at Dirty Hit) leaving party in London - I made a mental note of the fact that he was leaving to move to Australia with his girlfriend - incase I needed a conversation topic… just for my socially anxious brain. As much as I was excited to meet more of the team and potentially the artists, my enthusiasm mingled with a thick layer of apprehension.

The city lights flickered in the distance, casting shadows on my skin as I considered the people I could potentially encounter there - industry insiders, artists of the label, potentially new… friends? The invitation felt like a pass into a realm where my burgeoning career could intertwine with the established echelons of the music industry and it made me feel slightly sick, especially since I was going in alone.

Stepping onto London’s turf, I deliberately chose a hotel in Canary Wharf, paid for by yours truly - this choice being highlighted by my newfound but still modest monthly income courtesy of Dirty Hit. With a sense of fiscal responsibility guiding me, I made a conscious decision to specifically allocate these earnings towards my career and music in general (ie. Travel, hotels, instruments) - the frivolous expenditures can be done by my part time job at home, I thought.

Unpacking with ease, I had some time to kill before needing to get ready. The hotel, strategically positioned just a 15-minute walk from the venue, became my new hub. The TV emitted a soft glow, casting an ephemeral light on the hotel room. Mindless reruns of “Victorious” played in the background, their laughter and scripted drama a distant hum. Perched on the edge of the bed, I idly observed the characters on the screen. At just 23, I couldn’t shake the subtle unease about the most definite generation gap I would be encountering at the party.

What am I getting into? I mused, scrutinising my own reflection in the TV’s muted light.

The likely attendees loomed in my mind. I always strive to never care about how I will be perceived in times like this but it gets the better of me here. Would they see me as a songwriter? Or just another one trying to get by as an amateur artist like every other angsty young adult. Am I truly just crashing a party beyond my years? Do I sound like an absolute idiot right now?

My apprehension found a bit of refuge in the idea that there’s a few youthful signings to Dirty Hit in the recent years - hopefully they don’t cancel like I was contemplating to do a few minutes ago.

In the lingering hours leading up to the event, I settle into a quiet rhythm, my fingers dancing across the strings of my guitar. Quietly strumming to not upset anyone next door, the melodies echoed through the room. Jotting down anything that resonated with me on my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles notebook, I sought solace in the familiar embrace of my instrument, using it as my own vessel to get out the jumble of nerves and excitement within me.

My upcoming encounter with Matty Healy on the ‘songwriting getaway’ loomed large in my mind. He has a profound reputation for his creative mind, occasionally flirting with pretentiousness, but an intricate and enviable mind nonetheless. Would he see the potential in my songwriting?

The weight of his potential judgement fuelled my determination to impress him with the depth of my ideas. A fangirl moment interrupted my thoughts as the realisation struck - Matty might be at the party. It wasn’t even an outlandish notion either; after all, he was apart of the label, a big part at that. The mere possibility that the entirely of The 1975 might grace the event sent a shiver down my spine. Amid the brief reverie, I needed to refocus.

I want to show him good work.

A few more minutes of brainstorming and writing down ideas pass. “We all look for heaven, and we put love first,” was a phrase born from the introspective haze of my disassociation. I wrote down a few more ideas to pair with it - I liked it, it was earnest and real… hopefully others would think the same.

Glancing at my phone, the numbers told me there were still two and a half hours left. I nudged myself off of the bed and started the practical task of getting ready for the night. The shower became a sanctuary, the hot water cascading over me, it was a welcoming embrace after the lingering residue of travelling. As steam filled the bathroom, I closed my eyes, letting the warmth wash away not just the physical grime but the lingering nerves that clung to my skin.

Turning off the shower, I stood before the mirror, my damp hair awaiting transformation - fingers crossed. After drying, I curled and weaved strands into pin curls, a skill passed down from my mum. The familiarity of the routine was comforting. Makeup followed, the unfamiliar intensity of liner, mascara and slightly over-lined lips were a subtle nod at my newfound insecurity in my maturity. It made me look a little more mature, I guess. My hold-all offered a few choices of different outfits. I selected an off-the-shoulder black lace top, low-waisted jeans that hugged my hips and point-heeled boots to complete the ensemble. I surveyed myself in the mirror, definitely passable for the evening. With fourty-five precious minutes ticking down, I unraveled the pin curls, each strand dropping down into place showing a nice ‘blowout’ style. The air filled with the sweet embrace of my perfume, a final touch to my persona tonight.

Turning to my phone, I couldn’t resist the urge to take a couple selfies before heading out - I’m Gen Z, give me a break. Downstairs, the bar beckoned with the confident offering of liquid courage. I approached, I definitely need something strong. Ordering a double vodka, lemonade and a splash of blackcurrant, I winced as the contactless reader slapped me with a hefty £12.00 charge. Ah, London prices. The glass in my hand became my talisman, my elixir to bolster my resolve. As I sipped the time away, nerves tingled beneath my skin.

The party was likely in full swing by now, but my strategic calculations told me that arriving 30 minutes later meant most would be deep into their second drink, too dizzy to give me more than a fleeting thought. I nursed my drink, eyeing the clock, unwilling to dish out another £12 when a free bar awaited me at the venue. As I contemplated moving to a more comfortable spot a few feet away from the bar, my phone lit up with a message from Ben.

Eta?

Pre drinking alone at the bar haha. My university student brain is fried at London prices.

Nice lol, thought you weren’t coming for a sec. See you later.

Finishing the remnants of my drink, I relished the familiar burn as the liquid slid down. The hum of conversation and clinking glasses around me formed an antithetical soundtrack to the city’s docile pulse outside, excluding the occasional taxi driving past. I found a comfortable refuge in the short time i’d sat here, not really finding it in my feet to leave yet. The dim lighting cast a warm glow, creating their own little pockets of intimacy. A plush, but old-fashioned patterned carpet absorbed people’s footsteps, and the scent of aged wood and polished brass lingered in the air.

Pulling up the venue’s address on my phone, I looked at the walking journey on my screen. Google maps being my sacred guide through the labyrinth that is London streets - and oh, what I would do without it. And I know what you’re thinking: Camille, why the fuck are you planning on walking the streets of London at night alone? That is, my angels, because I am a cheap bitch and I refuse to spend £5 for a 3 minute car journey - I will just take my chances.

With a final glance at my phone, I examined the reflection staring back at me - not bad. I absolutely didn’t look like I was overcompensating for being an absolute nobody/foetus at this party.

Popping off the high bar chair, I smoothed down my top, my fingers brushing against the lace. As I reached the exit, the city’s climate bared itself to me, pinchingly cold air wafted onto me. The initial opening of the door was bad, but once I was outside, I was able to absorb most of the coolness. The glow of the streetlights guiding my way, casting a golden hue on the pavement.

At the end of my very safe -actually- walk, I was greeted by the bright LED sign that boldly announced the bar venue - ‘Pergola On The Wharf’. The glowing letters ambient against the night sky, like a beacon to draw people in. I could hear the muffled laughter and music through the refined brick walls. Stepping underneath the halo of the sign, I took a moment to myself, letting the good vibes and energy seep onto me. I made a mental commitment to let go of any lingering anxiety and embrace what could be a really fun night ahead. Maybe I’ll find Ben or I could introduce myself to other producers, or maybe even talk to Holly or Jamie.

Putting everything behind me, I stepped through the door of the bustling nexus of a bar. Unfolding everything before me, it was flooded with an array of unfamiliar faces, each one adorned with a concoction of some type of alcohol in their hand, laughter bubbling from every corner.

Groups of people, all talking together to make a harmonious cacophony, were scattered across the contemporary styled and what looked like plant-filled botanical bar. Lush ferns, vines, and vibrant flora adorned every corner and ceiling pane, creating a natural abundance of decoration. The vast glass window at the back offered a panoramic view of the dock outside, hinting that this bar probably had an inundation of bright, natural light during the daytime - which was a stark contrast to the glowing, candle-lit evening tonight. The aroma through the air was an intoxicating blend of florals and oud. A faint hint of cigarettes clung to people’s knitwear and thick clothing, adding a touch of ease to the ambiance.

Navigating through the basically sea of people, I looked around for any familiar faces. Some people danced energetically on the makeshift dance floor, lost in the rhythmic allure of the older club classics spun by the DJ in the corner, whilst others gathered in clusters, sat and stood all around. Amidst the crowd, I saw someone at the bar that caught my eye - a girl, roughly my age, who I knew just recently signed a deal with Dirty Hit, just a couple of months before me. She was engaged in a conversation with an unfamiliar face as they were paying for their drinks.

Seizing the opportunity to make some new friends, I made my way over, introducing myself with a smile. “Hey, hope I’m not interrupting, but I don’t really know anyone here. I’m Camille, I just signed with Dirty Hit a couple of months ago.”

“Hey! No, you’re totally fine,” her thick Scottish accent welcomed me warmly, the girl next to her turning also with a friendly grin. “I’m Isla and this is Sorcha. I was signed a few months ago as well so I don’t really know anyone here, so I thought I’d bring a plus one.”

“I didn’t even realise you could bring someone,” I laughed. “I wish I brought someone from home because honestly, an hour ago I was debating not even coming.”

“Oh, there was no plus ones allowed,” Isla replied in a hush, leaning in closer. “I just hope they think Sorcha’s one of the interns!”

Isla, a girl with unmistakable Scottish charm, stood out with her gorgeous, curly, ginger hair that tumbled in a cascade of vibrant, thick waves. Her fair skin bore the artistry of delicately placed freckles, and a bright smile that creased her eyes. Next to her, Sorcha was a striking contrast with her tanned complexion. Her long straight black hair flowed with a sleek elegance, framing her face and adding a touch of shine. Sorcha’s features were chiseled, embodying a blend of modernity but classic allure at the same time. They both were gorgeous and looked like a dynamic duo only seen in movies.

We found a comfortable spot at the bar, and talked about what we were working on in our early days being signed at our label. Sorcha was still in University, studying media and radio in hopes to have her own radio show one day. Isla was found via TikTok and had amassed an impressive following of 70k for her covers before she was scouted. She had been working with one of Dirty Hit’s partner producers in Scotland to save the constant trips, and is looking at releasing her first single in the next few weeks, which is so exciting.

“It’s called ‘Do I Have Your Attention?’, it’s basically a slow, acoustic song about my relationship with my family. I’m really proud of it,” she beams, circling her finger around the glass top of her cocktail.

“Honestly, that’s so exciting,” I smile at her. “I’ll keep an eye out for it when it’s out!”

“Aw, yeah, you should give me a text and let me know what you think about it!” Isla replies as she grabs her phone out of her pocket and slides it over to me. “Put your number in, always good to stay in touch with each other!”

Whilst putting my number in her phone, it seemed like a perfect time to grab a drink. I perused the menu, green circular stickers next to certain drinks indicated what was and wasn’t apart of the included drinks tab tonight. Opting for a French martini, I joined the conversation again, mentally wiping the sweat off my forehead for finding people I could talk to.

“What are you working on right now?” Sorcha shifted the spotlight onto me.

“I’ve had a few sessions with a few producers to establish what sound I want to make, I think I’ve found my voice with one of them, so I’m excited to work with him again,” I say, thanking the bartender as he brought over my freshly made French Martini. “I actually got a call a week or so ago about if I was interested in going on a work getaway for a few days to make new music, so all I’m doing right now is just writing down anything I like or anything I think I could use in a song. The idea of showing off my ideas to them is so nerve wracking.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Isla chimed in with understanding, acknowledging the pressure in the industry. “Everyone has so much experience and is so creative, that it’s actually really anxiety inducing to show them what you’ve been working on, honestly I’m completely in the same boat. But everyone here is just so lovely.”

Her reassurance carried the weight of our shared anxiety, and I found comfort in her words. As we moved away from the bustling bar, standing amidst the lively crowd, Isla's curiosity veered toward the details of my upcoming musical getaway. I shared the scant information I had – a countryside location, collaboration with Ben, and the unexpected mention of Matty from The 1975 expressing interest in working with me, for some unknown reason.

"Matty Healy?" Sorcha's eyes widened, leaning in with genuine awe. Isla, equally surprised, exchanged glances with her friend. "Are you friends with him?"

I chuckled at Sorcha's enthusiasm and Isla's teasing nudges into her friend’s arm. The playful banter lightened the mood as I clarified that I wasn't friends with Matty, but rather, the prospect of collaborating with him was a part of the upcoming getaway.

Sorcha, in her unabashed love for Matty Healy, couldn't help but gush over the luck tied to the opportunity. Her cheeky question, a typical Love Island-esque move, drew an amused look from Isla. I navigated the topic, acknowledging Matty's attractiveness and creative prowess while trying to gracefully sidestep the "do you fancy him?" inquiry.

"I mean, he's definitely attractive," I replied with a hint of laughter, unsure how to navigate the question diplomatically. Admitting my admiration while surrounded by his friends and colleagues required a delicate balance of honesty and discretion. "I saw him at Leeds once, and, well, he was quite a sight."

Sorcha’s unabashed admiration for Matty echoed through the buzzing atmosphere of the party, her eyes scanning the room as if expecting the man of the hour to materialise. She turned back to face me, a mix of awe and envy painted on her face.

“I think he’s fucking stunning,” she declared, her gaze still darting around the venue in search of, to her, the elusive rock god. “I’m gonna be honest; I am so, so jealous of you right now. I’m absolutely in love with that man.”

“I know, it’s so surrea-“ I begin to share my thoughts with her, only to be abruptly cut off by Sorcha’s relentless proclamation of undying love for Matty Healy. Isla, seated beside her, sank slightly into her wooden chair, glancing between the two of us with a mixture of amusement, embarrassment and concern.

“The fact that he could even be in this room right now is driving me insane,” Sorcha continued, fervently expressing her infatuation and getting her point across (very much so) to me.

“I know it’s—“ I attempted to respond, but Sorcha’s enthusiasm overpowered any chance of a cohesive conversation.

“When you’re on your ‘getaway’ with him, you need to FaceTime me or something, she exclaimed, her excitement escalating as she fumbled for something in her purse. Suddenly, her phone emerged in her hand like a prized possession, and the conversation took a turn that left me feeling a bit uncomfortable, if I wasn’t already. “Then you can be like, ‘oh, this is my friend; I think you guys would get on well’ - something like that. Here, let me get your number!”

With the commotion, Isla sprang from her seat, nearly toppling over a woman in a black fur coat trying to navigate past her. The two exchanged hurried apologies before Isla seized Sorcha’s hand, pulling her away from the table.

“One sec, come with me to the toilet really quickly,” Isla instructed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sorcha replied, following Isla’s lead. Before disappearing into the crowd, she turned back, flashing a wide smile my way. “I’ll find you later, okay?”

“Yeah, of course!” I shoot her a polite closed mouth smile back at her, my attention then shifting to Isla. She mouthed a guilt-ridden ‘sorry’ before vanishing into the sea of people. Well, that was interesting. I couldn’t help but think that maybe avoiding Sorcha for the rest of the night might be a good idea, as endearing as her enthusiasm was.

Amidst that wild chaos of an interaction, I rose from my seat, scanning the crowded room for any familiar faces. At least I already filled an hour or so of being here.

Before I began walking around aimlessly, a familiar voice cut through the hum of the crowd, and I turned to see Ben waving from the back of the bar near the windows.

“Camille!” he called out, his thick curly hair falling just before his shoulders. His tanned skin was complimented by wearing a white button up and fitted dress trousers. I weaved through the pulsating mass of people, relieved to have found a familiar anchor in this place.

“How’s things?” Ben asked, taking me in a brief hug, careful not to spill his pint of cider in his hand. “Thought you were gonna bail.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “No, no, couldn’t miss out on a free bar, don’t be silly.”

“I know, think I’ve saved sixty pound already tonight,” he chucked, bringing his glass into the air, causing some of it to spill over the top. For someone who’s probably had 8/9 pints of cider now, he wasn’t overly drunk, just on a good wavelength I would say.

We caught up for a while, talking about what we’ve been doing since we last saw each other, which wasn’t long at all. Ben talked about the new audio interface that he’s just bought for the studio and how he’s excited to try it out with me. A lot of our conversation was about our upcoming getaway, touching on topics like our favourite takeaways and how we are actually going to the Cotswolds for a week to write, which was exciting as I’d heard that that place was one of the most beautiful places in the country!

“Do you smoke weed?” Ben asked casually, his gaze fixed on his now-empty pint of cider with a frown. “Totally fine if not, just I know Matty and I probably will be bringing some down with us… if you’re fine with it?”

“God, don’t even be silly, of course you can,” I reply with a laugh, fanning away his slight concern with my hand. I didn’t smoke a lot, but when I did, it would usually make my throat hurt the morning after, so I tend to stay away from it but edibles are another story. The amount of times me and my flatmates at university used up the last of our change in our pockets to buy laced Haribos after a long week of studying, I couldn’t count on my fingers. Those were the best times. “I’m not much into smoking, but I’ll fetch some gummies or brownies down as well, what do you think?”

“Honestly, that’s perfect,” he smiled at my offer, and we sealed our agreement with the clink of our empty glasses. “Think it really gets your mind going to places you can’t explore otherwise, great for writing, plus it just gets you chilled out, doesn’t it?”

I was about to reply when a hand was firmly placed on Ben’s shoulder, a black nicely fitting long sleeve and washed out blue jeans was the first glance I got of him. He excluded the smell of thick smoke and some sort of expensive alluring fragrance, he must’ve been outside for a cigarette and then reapplied his cologne just a couple minutes ago - that or the cologne was just that strong.

“Going to the bar, mate. You wanting the same again?” Matty asked raising his eyebrows, holding his empty glass and pointing at Ben’s with the same hand. His eyes briefly flickered to mine before doing a very obviously double take at me. “Oh hi, Darling, I should’ve introduced myself sooner. I’m Matty.”

“No, you’re fine!” I say quickly before I’m engulfed in a hug from him, his smell being even more intoxicating this close. Yeah, I get what Sorcha was saying now. “I’m Camille, how are you?”

“I know exactly who you are, I’ve been listening to your work with Ben for a bit,” he says, beaming between the two of us in front of him, clearly a lot more gone than Ben. “I’m great though, what are you drinking? I’ll fetch you back something.”

Before I could reply, Ben intervened by taking both mine and Matty’s glasses from our hands. “You’ve went and got my last two, Matty. I’ll get this next one. Same again?”

“Yeah, please, mate. Love you, mate, thank you,” he replied slightly slurring his words as he had both hands on Ben’s shoulders giving him an affectionate shake.

As Ben made his way towards the bar, it left us momentarily alone together in this hectic room of a party. I found myself just stood beside Matty, a subtle tension lingering in the air as if waiting for each other to speak first.

A sly grin crept across Matty’s face and I couldn’t help but return it.

[lotusevents]

Top Large Event Venues in London for Unforgettable Gatherings

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ExCeL London

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Alexandra Palace

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Olympia London

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Wembley Stadium

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Choosing the Right Venue for Your Event

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London’s diverse array of Large Event Venues London ensures that every gathering, regardless of its size or nature, can find the perfect setting. By carefully considering your event’s specific requirements and the unique attributes of each venue, you can create a memorable and impactful experience for all attendees. Whether you're hosting a grand gala, a major conference, or a large exhibition, London's event venues provide the ideal backdrop for success.

[kijosakka]

dramaturgy; celebrity manhunt, pre-london -- im going to make it easy on myself and skim through pre-london first, as the most divergence in this AU happens during and after the fact. part of pre-london is the pre-season itself, the celebrity manhunt special.

so action comes and goes, noah gets out of the season and remains as chris’ PA for the year break. in that time, months before it actually happens, chris finds out about the new season (with producer word both pushing for ‘more drama/engagement’ or smth along those lines, and *noahs actual involvement this time).

while something something contracts might prevent him from just outright telling noah, i’d imagine that he’d all but say there’s going to be a new season and heavily imply that noah wont be able to get out of it this time. not only that but he also implies that maybe noah should give opening up to people on the show a chance,, cause, yk, hes about to be stuck on a jet with them,, for weeks,,

of course, noah is pissed at first. but in so many weeks or whatever he begrudgingly accepts it and just resolves to throw it like usual. as for the ‘opening up to people’, he lands on owen.

owen was nice enough, genuine to a fault and the person least likely to use any of noahs bare slivers of vulnerability against him. hes safe.

[*noahs involvement within the show as something that the viewers are very interested in. he could be ratings gold and they know it.]

now im a little bit torn over the whole ‘chris’ assistant’ bit; similar to the awakeathon i would imagine it might just be missing entirely and he would be fired before the fact. or it could happen, as a way to give his on-screen character some information. as a ‘look everyone, i have Depth. stop prying into my life please’

either way, whatever. *total drama dirtbags show up, chris locks them out of the venue, they dont win any awards, bus chase etc.

^ note here, per usual noah comes off as his usual uncanny self around the cast. sierra is there as well, im sure thats Something for her. however he does take notice of one (1) alejandro burromuerto, recognizing him and focusing on him. < this comes back during introductions, where he notes his behavior towards the cast.

[*total drama dirtbags existed as the original ‘new TD season’ that noah found out about and worked on for a little bit before he finds out that it was not in fact a real show and a coverup for something else (a grab for an extra contestant for WT) < hence, he knows josé from interviews/auditions he helped with, but doesn’t know alejandro since he decided one brother was Enough]

^ and just for extra clarity on the TDD thing bc ive kind of muddled it, say noah finds out about dirtbags, helps out whatever. and then the news breaks that its a fake phish for a new contestant for an actual show — fine enough, he’s already behind the cameras, so he can just stay there, right?

no, actually. its kinda just slung at him that he has to be part of the cast (smth smth his job is threatened under ‘contractual obligation’ like its not wildly unconscionable). and he is soooo pissed off, so incredibly angry at the circumstances he’s landed himself in somehow.

< but he is aware that he cant just bottle everything up because it will spill over; chris said he needs something to his character, so maybe he can funnel his anger into playing the game a little more. as the most outlet he’ll get before he can throw it and just be done with the show entirely.

^ and then,,, alejandro.

while the actual events of pre-london remain largely unchanged, his dynamics are changed with the presence of four different variables: alejandro, izzy, owen, and sierra.

alejandro i’ll get into more later with a longer post detailing what they think of each other mutually, but im gna touch on alejandro a little; with picking off team victory and believing heather is the only person who’s noticed his facade, he just,, doesnt really distinguish noah as a threat worthy of focusing on.

^ throughout the game and the events of, he does single noah out as the most tolerable of all his teammates but doesnt offer much intrigue beyond that until *new york. (to note, he’s a lot more comfortable with [oblivious to??] noahs detachedness than the rest of the cast since that empty demeanor is p common among whatever diplomatic events hes been a part of)

izzy is someone who’s character i established mostly in the long post i had about her?? but it is worth mentioning now though that she does stick very close by to noah throughout her time on the show, and routinely interacts with him where most of the cast had given up trying altogether.

^ it builds,, a kind of rapport between her and noah?? in some way after the fact he’d recognize it as a nice, ‘i-want-to-know-more-about-you-and-also-befriend-you’ thing, but during he reacts more like a yowling cat tbh. he’s built up this reputation and facade that make people stay away from him, and now izzy wants to stick around him and threaten his defense mechanism? no thanks. (< further reasoning for why he belays insults towards her during WT under the guise of his own facade)

owen is a special case — in the bus chase before the season, noah took the time to sit by him and build up the proper beginnings of a friendship, which owen is thrilled about < during his time on island, owen was really fond of noahs quips and ‘just wished he would open up a bit more!!’,, he thinks some friends would b good for him and hes right

^ and again, owen is noahs safest option to 'endear' himself to the audience with a friend. hes so genuine and understanding of where noahs projected character falls flat, and like izzy keeps interacting and wants to interact with him where the rest of the cast gave up (and noah the person becomes very fond of owen and the reprieve their friendship offers him very quickly)

and finally,,, sierra. i actually want to talk more about the Audience as an entity in this AU in a later post and sierra ties into that heavily. as established, noah is the one cast member she just doesn't know anything about. of each blog she runs dedicated to each member of the show, his is the emptiest; the most baseless. being in proximity with the man of mystery is exciting!

^ noah still comes off as very uncanny valley to sierra and his detachedness is immediately clear. but the key difference to her and and cast is that she has the Audience perspective --- he's intriguing moreso than offputting. (and also theres definitely Something there about the meta-analysis of panopticon as an in-universe topic and how sierra would relate/connect that once it becomes clear to the cast why noah acts as he does)

[*new york (same time space as the aftermath?) as the moment when sierra prattles off information about the cast but comes up with nothing on noah that his own interest is piqued just a liitle bit, and he starts building a proper relationship up with noah as the straightmen to the cast. < also come after london is something he looks back on as a Hmm. moment wondering what noah knows about himself.

^ alejandro does believe their rapport is one-sided bc of his own facade, which i want to mention simply bc he's wrong. it is no-sided. both of them r faking.]

now getting to the episodes themselves -- minor changes/additions:

in the yukon, he doesn't try to cuddle bridgette

^ also in the yukon, he shivers less visibly than the cast (think when in cold weather you get those microtremors that really fucking hurt after a few seconds). this is only because it feeds into the android joke-turned-conspiracy for the folks watching on the aftermath set

in new york, he was not actually asleep in the carriage nor did he explicitly pretend to be. he just Kept Quiet when heather did her thing

in germany, he doesn't go up to alejandro when he falls off the platform, but he does prompt owen to ask something along a similar line [to his canon ones]

in the amazon, he's the one to point out owens absence

in paris, the line of 'this totally works on my dog' he changes to smth like 'totally works on dogs',, for his own exercise of privacy really

in the space of the jamaica aftermath, he again disappears from the rest of the cast à la playa des losers save for owen. owen gets a hello during mealtimes and hes the only one.

and finally, the episodes of 'significant' development with noahs intrigue in alejandro:

beginning before any real events of the show during introductions

^ kicked off in germany similarly to canon, emphasized by newfoundland and the grab for DJ's alliance

and cemented completely [his interest in unmasking him] in jamaica, continuing onward with london around when he discovers that alejandro is acting skittery towards him because of his own suspicions

[dyrewrites]

Before Deluca -- Danse en rouge

Historians will be coming for my head with this, but bear in mind I had absolutely no idea where we were at almost any given moment. I rarely even stood on deck while we sailed because of how the crew groaned and, on especially disquieting mornings, chittered—this would change when we hired a living one, but that was some time from the event in question.

What I knew about the venue going in was an Englishman owned it, it was outside London, and Lucient had spent enough time there to know the entire layout better than he knew the Royal Moon. I have searched for the place since, but it appears it now serves as a museum to the era and, ironically, there are no records of what it was prior to that. As with most unusual occurrences in my centuries with Lucient, I am blaming this one on magic.

Pertinent to our tale is that we arrived in the evening, the night after he told me we were going, exactly at sundown. And Lucient had warnings as we left the impressive carriage that brought us from the docks.

There will be others like us here, he pressed, holding my gloved hand in his, our masks tied firm against our faces, speak this way as often as possible to keep yourself hidden.

As I had not met other vampires, his concerned tone confused me, and I said so, keeping to thoughts as instructed, why do you seem worried?

Moving his hand to hold my arm, he led me through a growing crowd of similarly dressed people and I marveled at their decadent attire and intricate masks—all gold and white, but most notable were the red shapes painted on their cheeks, like ours…but not all had them and not all were hearts.

As he explained, Predators, treasure, that is what we are. Perhaps not at the top of the food chain, but close to it, and though many of us find partners, even groups, to combat the ages of loneliness...by and large we are solitary. But they do enjoy testing the freshly made and have no issue attacking their own to get them.

So it is I my dream worries of? No eyes bothered us, none followed our closeness—and he held me so close—but I noticed theirs.

Men and women were partnered and attached to whomever they pleased, giggling loud and proud, there were even groups so closely entwined there could be no guess as to their intentions or relationship. The freedom of it sang to me, in a heady rhythm through the throng of them, and I couldn’t help the smile or the arm I wrapped around my own partner. He gasped at my tighter hold but leaned into it and I hated the cat face he wore for depriving me of his smile.

Yes, treasure, he continued, you are in danger so long as we’re here.

But we cannot die, I reminded with playful hope of a laugh, or some ease in his tense muscles.

I earned a chuckle, tight and short, we do not stay dead, there is a difference. Just keep close and try not to talk to anyone without me near.

Watching the crowds file into the immense building I was awed again, the size of it, the glow of it, all the chatter and mixed scent and heat from the sheer number of bodies around me. The parties I had gone to were never so luxurious, the crowds kept intimate, with many turned away. I had never been near so many people and I wondered then, plain for his mind to catch, how did you get us invited to this...ball?

That laugh was worse than the chuckle, cold, hollow it chilled me, it is an annual affair, lasting roughly three nights, and I have a standing invitation so long as I’m wearing this face.

So long as you’re ‘kitty’, too cute, too innocent a name for the implications that filled it, the muddled fear it shook me with, and he didn’t answer me with thoughts or speech. He laid his head on me instead, and allowed me to lead us the rest of the way to the door.

As we navigated a lavish garden path, lit with lamps that made no sense to me—they glowed but not with the scent of burning animal fat or oils I was accustomed to—I lost myself a bit. Those lamps swirled with warm yellow light, popping and soft enough not to bother my eyes when I leaned closer. And inside they sang, with gentle whizzing and tinkling—as tiny bells—they performed an impossible song.

I would learn later, of course, that it was wisplight, and not near as pleasant or inviting as its light suggested but in that moment it was novel and beautiful.

And Lucient had to urge me onward lest I make a fool of myself gawking.

He allowed me again to lead after, until we reached the door...when eyes did notice us, or rather, they noticed him. Then he stood protectively in front of me, hands perfectly cool in mine.

“There’s Kitty, but where’s Fox,” A lilting feminine voice asked as a woman in a wolf mask approached, with a young man in a pig mask on her arm—and a bright red heart on her cheek. Taller than Lucient, and near to me, her presence demanded obedience, fealty.

And Lucient gave it, shrinking in her gaze. But I would not. Tight against the man with her, possessive of him, the Wolf-masked woman wanted Lucient. She aimed a thin, gloved hand for his mask—his face—and he flinched but did not move to avoid it...so I moved him.

She scoffed, turning hot green eyes on me, “Kitty has a guard, does he?”

“He does,” I said, ignoring the pinch of Lucient’s hands on my arm, but he said nothing and I had no need to say more.

“My, my, aren’t we brazen. Perhaps I’ll find you later, Sir Bull, break in those horns of yours,” She all but purred the words and as she turned I caught the neck of the man who turned with her, and the bite mark just above his collar—colorless, scarred. I imagined then that hers hid beneath the gold ribbon around her neck.

One of ours, I asked Lucient, as the scar of my own itched against the soft silk breeches that hid it.

Retaking my arm, nuzzling close, Lucient’s too-smooth cat face stared at me as his voice puffed sweet and confused into my thoughts, yes, she is.

And the ‘fox’, there was no need to ask, but I had to, and I pulled him beside the door as I did—keeping us against the cool stone walls, hidden between decorative bushes as others laughed and cooed past us on their way inside.

He nodded, accepting my arms around him, my late Mistress.

Is that why she felt so hostile, assumption, of course, but a fair one—I knew nothing of vampire kind, it was possible they’d retaliate.

No, he assured my worry, laying his face on my chest as best he could with the mask, they don’t care about one another, treasure, as I said. Solitary, on the whole, they will only care for you—should they learn of you—as well as the same thing all the marked humans here will.

And what is that, my dream? Even in thought his voice was quiet, near a whisper, and it worried...driving my hand to his hair, to pet, to soothe.

Me, he answered, before that quiet drowned in chill, hollow anger, or what they were promised of me.

Holding him tighter, warming him as best I could through all my layers, I asked more than I should have, and what of you have they been promised? I knew the answer, somewhere I knew, in the mangled flashes of memories I’d caught from my time with him...but still, I needed to be told.

He sighed, chill breath ever-sweet to the burning in me, all of me there is to take.

Shaking my head, I took his hand and led him—smiling at the soft whimper he gave to parting—through the doors, certain to meet eyes with every face that watched.

How unfortunate for them, I told him, waiting until he looked up at me again before finishing the thought, as all of you is already taken.

He chuckled, nuzzling into me, but said nothing.

Bravado though I showed, tried my best to exude; I had no real idea why we were there and was quite honestly unsure I could live up to the confidence. He told me only that we were going, not that there was an agenda, and there had to be for how unsettled the mask made him—how small he felt in that grand building.

And while I do know, of course, what it was—as I’m writing this centuries off—I also know there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. I wouldn’t have wanted to either, not then and, if I’m honest—and this is the sort of story that demands such—not now...

If I noticed a few watching us in the entryway, I noticed everyone watching as we wandered deeper into the manor—mansion, perhaps, maybe even palace, it was enormous and I had no gauge. But I did not notice near as sharply as Lucient did, with how often he flinched in my arm.

How often they called to him.

“Look, it’s the pretty kitty,” they sang, too many of them, from too many shadows to match voices to masks.

“Where’s Fox, pretty kitty?”

“Who’s the bull, a new toy?”

“Don’t tire him out now, Mr. Bull...he’s mine tonight.”

Their thoughts sang worse, far worse, dripping with salacious intent as we passed each shadowed alcove they hid in. Why are we here, my dream, I asked, hoping if nothing else to distract him with my own thoughts, my concern, if these people are a danger, and expect so much of you, why come at all?

Eyes on the shadows, he didn’t answer me as something caught his attention that didn’t catch mine. Dropping the fearful demeanor, he dragged me down a cream-colored corridor lit too brightly with those same strange lights from the garden. Another corridor and another were rushed through before at last he stopped in front of a deep red door with a pouting cherub carved into the upper middle of it—heart-tipped arrow in hands, mourning its broken wings.

The sight of that cherub itched, just beneath my skin it itched, but I couldn’t understand why. It was an angelic thing, wasn’t it? Innocent and sweet, yet something in it sang of horror. The stench of tobacco smoke leaking from its base only served to mar it further.

“L,” I began to question but not another sound escaped his finger on my lips.

No names, you are Bull and I am Kitty, anything more and we will be known, and able to be found, He warned, but his eyes weren’t on me, they were on the door. There is a man in this room, Panther as his mask marks him, he told my confused thoughts, and I need him dead.

That’s why we’re here, I grabbed his hand as it made for the door handle and forced him to look at me, that’s why you’re enduring questi cazzoni, for revenge?

You and your filthy mouth, even with the cat mask stealing most of his face I could see his eyes narrow at me, Yes, I came for revenge; one longer in the making than what gave me the chance to take it. He took my other hand then, eyes looking up at me too cold, too hard. This place, the masks, why the witch spoke of me as he did, why I slip so quickly to touch...how I tamed you so easily, it was my turn to glare, but I said nothing and could see the smile in his eyes, which withered as he continued, all of it is because of those like the man behind that door; pathetic, keening cretins hiding behind masks like ours, masks marked by a predator far worse than the bloodthirsty things hiding among them. Many of them are here, now, weakened by their degenerate lusts and I intend to taste their final breaths before they see another sunrise.

Lifting his hands, I kissed each and, gloved as they were his chill pierced and I had to fight not to set them on my cheeks, to soothe us both. Then you will, my dream, I offered, wary of the way his thoughts popped in mine, ragged and sharp, and how it flared the burning in my veins. Though ready, willing, near to hungry with the rage of those thoughts…I would not open that door.

The movement behind it distracted me, heard too clearly in my ears, but not as clear as the voices behind us and farther ahead. I heard everyone when I stopped listening only for Lucient, and it was a cacophony of languages, with only handfuls I understood. But while he refocused on the door, vibrating in my hands with what he desired, I focused on a bell. A simple bell it was, it heralded a voice and an announcement that could not be ignored.

Though Lucient did anyway, pulling me closer, searching my eyes as eagerly as he searched my mind, will you embrace what you are, my treasure, stay with me and bleed my villains dry...or will you leave me to do it alone?

I wondered why he bothered asking—still do, honestly—but I answered, sogno mio, your wrath is mine, my teeth yours, how could I say anything else with the fear soaking every thought he shared, the pain and rage battling in those eyes—his claim of me. But now is not the time, I added, motioning behind us, you heard, didn’t you? Everyone is gathering. They would notice one missing, yes, especially one so popular as to catch every eye on the way in?

He hesitated before he tore his hands away, forcing fists to his side and growled, “Fine, we’ll play our parts a little longer...”

Glad for the sound of his voice, even in irritation, I smiled as I took his arm, leading him to the bell I’d heard—stepping quicker as the door creaked open behind us, “Maybe others will be there?”

“They always are,” he muttered.

~*~

In fact, by the time we reached the ballroom, it seemed everyone was there—but few bore our heart shapes on their masks.

And though it elicited more quiet growls from Lucient, the sight of the room we entered delighted me. As did the chandelier lighting everything in colors I did not know artificial light could create. They danced, those lights, and in spite of so many eyes latching onto us as our boots clicked across the hard floors...far more were focused on one another, on hands and feet whirling about the room.

“They’re dancing,” I whispered and the giddy tone of my voice teased Lucient’s eyes to mine, and I scoffed at them, “What, I like dancing.”

“Do you now,” he cooed, all his irritation melting to something too close to lust for so public a venue—granted, a glance around to those not dancing told me otherwise. Pulling away from me, he bowed, extending a hand and announced—just loud enough to be heard by everyone, “Eh bien, monsieur le taureau, puis-je avoir cette danse?”

“Sì, è possibile, signore gattino,” I answered, bowing in return and accepting his hand.

The question of why use our native tongues to ask if ‘mister bull’ and ‘mister kitty’ wanted to dance was asked, eventually. But neither of us had a reason beyond the flourish of it. Those watching certainly appreciated it, however, as did many others who hadn’t been but began to after.

And what are we dancing, sogno mio? I asked as we walked to the center of the dance floor, where many were gathered—though they allowed us room.

You’re the one that likes to dance, treasure, He winked beneath his mask and laughed when I released his hand and backed away, taking a position better left to bull-fighters than bulls.

“Give ‘em something jaunty, Lop!” A woman in an owl mask shouted, and the conductor—in a rabbit mask—nodded before signaling the band to switch from the dreary tune they had been playing to something jaunty.

I was unaccustomed to full bands as well and it took a moment of obvious staring before Lucient cleared his throat, causing a small wave of giggling through our ‘audience’.

Sighing, I turned back at him, gawking instead at the lithe curve of his pose too far away from my hands, well, my dream, it appears we’re to be the entertainment.

He bowed again before approaching, aren’t we always?

Strings chose our dance for us, though I doubt any in the room expected us to actually perform it—despite the debauchery occurring in the corners, most did not expect such an overt display on the dance floor.

I took his hand and he took mine and we stepped lively little steps side-by-side—closer than the dance required—to the beat of hand drums. Midway across the dance floor, the flute began the melody and I lifted him, turning with him held tight to my chest—his legs swinging—to the sounds of gasps and excited murmurs before returning his feet to the floor only to lift and turn him again in the other direction.

We pranced to the other side of the space cleared for us after another two lifts and turns, bowing to the sounds of all those giggles before doing it again back the other way; prance, lift, turn, prance, and bow. However, we earned a few extra gasps as we switched places on that second go. He lifted me—which was a decidedly more impressive feat to anyone unaware of his strength.

It took a great deal longer than one might expect, the back and forth, for jaunty as the music sang it was still quite slow and we did need to keep to its rhythm.

But on the third go, I earned a gasp from Lucient as well as the crowd, by catching him in my other arm when I lifted him. Cradling him close while he laughed, I twirled once around, did a simple left-right step and danced back to the entry before lifting my mask enough to feed his surprised smile my tongue.

We exited to the sounds of raucous laughter and a few drunken cheers.

They will be far too busy talking about that to look for you now, I told him, after hiding us behind an especially pale statue that stood far too tall for how naked it was.

Still in my arms, Lucient slipped his mask up and pulled close enough to lift mine before returning my taste of him. Soft that kiss, soft, sweet and painfully quick as footsteps forced our masks back down.

They were stuttered and mixed with slurred giggling.

“Did you see them,” a woman was telling another, “so pretty, and that dance, you think, you think,” she hiccuped and I shuffled to avoid them as they wobbled around the statue, “we could do that?”

“The dance,” the other woman asked, “or the pretty, because you’re already pretty, so pretty.”

Adorable, Lucient’s thoughts all but swooned, young, drunken love. We may want another place to hide, treasure, this tends to lead to masks and corsets on the floor.

He was proven right in mere seconds as masks hit the floor and the second woman’s lips latched to the first while drink-softened fingers attempted to remove the many layers of their gowns.

Swallowing my laughter, I ran with Lucient in my arms back to the room he had so ached to enter. When he noticed, he shook his head, he won’t be in there now, but if you’re willing...I saw one of the others sneak off during our performance.

“Or we could follow suit,” I nodded toward the corridor behind us, the statue beyond, which sang then with the moans of drunken love.

“Later,” he promised, hand teasing my mask, “my warm...perfect treasure.”

Those damnable eyes, shining in the dark holes of that too-innocent mask, eyes he knew I cherished, would follow into anything. Or he should have, but if he did, truly did, there wouldn’t have been a claim on me. It gnawed, that claim, but its teeth were dull with his use of it and so I set him down and took his hand, allowing him to lead me to life deserving of the rage he fed me.

~*~

We found that life on the second floor, dodging the giggling bodies of more drunken love as we followed something I could neither smell nor hear. But Lucient could, it drove him, whatever it was and the grip of his gloved hand grew tighter the closer to it we came.

Far from any laughter, or salacious whispers and coos from lovers, we stopped.

Broad the door, broad and red and embellished with intricate figures of cherubs. Far more than the last and in poses that made my stomach turn; too innocent those faces, those bodies, to be arranged so lewd. And all around them, framing them, were reliefs of simple shapes...one of which held my eyes, the same on my mask, on Lucient’s; a heart.

Lucient froze at that door, hand ever in mine, shaking as he too took in each tiny shape carved into it. While silent he remained, memories burst in his mind. Memories I could not help but hear, and see...and feel.

In cold, angry flashes they slammed into me.

Beginning with a smiling woman paying off a scowling one who had Lucient's honey hair and soft complexion.

Ain’t much use but as a sleeve, the scowling woman told the other, though she did so in French, in a dialect I didn’t recognize that felt grating and embarrassing through Lucient’s ears, makes a cute girl though, if you got funds to dress him right.

I will make do, the smiling woman promised and her voice stabbed; purring as it did it shook me through him.

That same smiling woman sat before him a flash later, presumably he was kneeling—for how else could she tower—but a glance up to a mirror in the ceiling said otherwise. His wide eyes were powder blue, honeyed curls fanning his face, but that pale complexion was pink with life and round with youth—like the cherubs in the door.

Come, kitten, she cooed to him, I hear you are eager to please whoever pets you. So show me, make me purr.

Too young his face for the intention in her words, the view she forced, the pull towards her spread knees. And the pain and revulsion in his stomach spoke of knowing, of experience, fanning the burn in my veins.

Mirrors were not found in the memories that chased it, that jittered after in jagged shapes, leaving me to guess his age among the adults that ravaged him. Those he was rented to, many masked but not all.

All their words were muddled by moaning, screaming lust. Yet I felt all as if it were my flesh taking it, tasting it.

Leather cut into the corners of sore, pleading lips. Too many hot tongues and hands licked and scraped along hotter skin as flesh was forced again and again into a choking throat. While worse, so much worse, was forced elsewhere.

He screamed and screamed in those memories, between instructions to coo instead, to purr as the pretty kitty they continued to call him. He rasped my own throat with the force of his agony—his shame—but it didn't stop it, any of it, it wouldn’t.

Worse than all of it, to his memory, to mine, after every horrid encounter waited the smiling woman. Dove, the memories spat, as they played her over and over again; hand on his head, brushing all his curls with tender care before turning him to face her and pulling him into her legs, cooing praise with hunger burning in amber eyes. Until at last it flashed to another and I watched, as he watched, money change hands—another purchase, another trade of his life, his flesh, his self.

The smiling woman warned, money in hand, if you want your mask to mean anything, he best keep his; every client retained or you’re out, left to tend to yourself.

The new woman was darker, in presence if not complexion, eyes black as pitch but there was hope in her sight—in what he saw of her. She didn’t speak in the memory, blotted as it became by the icy rage of the present.

Of the smiling woman, who waited then before him, before us.

She stood at the door—opened, sometime during the mad flashes we shared—crookedly with her hip out and arm on the frame, her sheer gown demanding attention neither of us would give. The long cigarette in one of her hands, however, did attract with its smoke spiraling too wispy and whimsical for the horrors she wrought. Human, by the scent of her, the heat, the soft rhythm of her heart, she did not hold herself as one. Nor did her thoughts flood my own, they remained locked and silent.

Tossing hair back, which matched the eyes under her dainty dove mask too closely, she smiled with blood red lips—that same proud smile.

Shorter than either of us, there was power in her, a confidence and certainty that she were in no danger. That, if there were prey present, it was us.

Dove, Dove, all Lucient’s mind screamed was, Dove.

“You come to me without your owner and a stranger on your arm,” She drawled, the slime of her gaze coating me, “You know he’s not as fresh as that sweet little face suggests,” receiving only narrow eyes from me, she set that slime on Lucient and smiled, “One of yours, I’m guessing. A monster like the one that bought you, like she made you. Awfully big though, isn’t he...but not so big you can’t bend him, right, kitten?”

“You're not allowed to speak anymore,” he managed, the words trembling with his steps forward, “Only scream.”

Fool as she was, she laughed at his rage, even as she turned her back and sauntered to the bed—the same her smile welcomed him to so many times before, “Mm, bring those fangs over here then, kitten, and make me scream.”

Not a hint of fear colored her voice or stuttered her steps, weak as any human she was no less a predator. But Lucient was no human, nor the helpless child she’d broken…

You are new to this, treasure, his thoughts rushed through mine, shaking with the rage in his limbs, unaccustomed to taking life, and that is fine, you don’t have to, not yet, not this one…but I ask you not stop me, this woman—

“Has earned it,” I said aloud, eyes on the ambers that smoldered at me, despite how she tried to force my view elsewhere—reclining on the bed, hand exploring herself beneath the sheer gown she wore.

Lucient turned to gape up at me, “Quoi?”

Your memories, my dream, too bright and sharp in mine, I explained, in a manner she couldn’t hear before backing up, eyes still on hers, making certain she heard the rest, “Bleed her dry.”

She laughed, at him, at me, but Lucient removed his mask and smiled. Wide and sharp he smiled at me before turning on her and, as I left the room, he made her scream.

Now, I understand that those reading this tale might wish to know just how she died. After all I shared of her you may yearn for all the gory details. A fair desire, for who in that situation was the monster; the one renting a child out to depraved aristocrats, or the one come to bite out her throat for it? But I didn’t see her death, or the aftermath, and so I cannot relay it. Her life, deserving as it was, did not meet with my teeth that night. Her last breath was Lucient’s to take and, while I can say now that all the rest were his too, in the heady rage of those memories...it felt shared.

I yearned to see each and every face that tormented him bloodied and screaming. I hungered for the taste of their life, their ragged, choking breaths dying on my tongue. And I would taste them. Before the night ended, before those with life yet to live shuffled out of that manor, I would taste all of them.

~*~

Not a drop of blood followed Lucient out of that unsettling door, no more than what he licked from his lips. But he was smiling, just beneath the mask he’d refitted I could see a wide grin—and eyes a bit too hungry.

“Merci, mon tresor, merci,” he whispered into the collar of my jacket, wrapping his arms around me in a hug that burned with the life he’d devoured.

“Prego, sogno mio,” I whispered back, hugging him as tight, aching for his chill.

Door closed, and no sign anything was amiss, we stayed outside it for what felt more than it likely was. I longed to stay there, or end it there and return to the comfort of the ship...but she was only one, the most important surely, but only one.

While Lucient had a list, and I’d agreed to follow him through it.

“Where to now,” I asked his hair, marveling again at how clean he was, wondering more than a little how the deed was done—her screams too loud, too ragged to have been from bite alone. But he would never tell, and I would never ask, or dig.

Pulling from me slowly, allowing my arms to slide off him, he paused to pet my chest, lids heavy, stance crooked, hip out—in a way he did not stand. Then he sniffed the air and, with the confidence of one certain they were the most terrifying thing in the room, he announced, “This way.”

Down the hall I was led, thoughts racing too fast for me to parse of the odd manner he took. If she had done something to him before he could end her. I heard screaming, but all from her, so assumed it something else, something troubling him.

I’m just perfect, treasure, he whispered into my worries, blood-drunk is all.

It soothed nothing, but I tried to keep the worry quiet.

When at last he stopped it was in front of massive white and gold curtains. Glass doors waited behind them, open and spilling soft moans and whispers reminiscent of our own private moments. But while I smiled with them, enjoying the heady sounds of pleasure...Lucient growled. Audible, his growl, clear and sharp in my ears and I reached for him before he stepped through the doors.

Another target of your revenge, my dream, I asked those growls.

And they settled with my touch, with my thoughts, Lucient turning to me as he answered, yes, treasure, he may be hidden from view but he’s there...the Panther.

Judging by the sounds, I doubt we’ll need to be subtle in our approach, I suggested, smiling as he shook his head at me, but maybe we don’t go in biting?

Your suggestion then, he asked, and there was a hopeful quality in it, a tinge of pride even.

A peek first, I returned, slipping ahead of him and through the wide doors, out into crisp night and the scent of...well, acrid tobacco smoke mostly, but there were sweet roses in there somewhere and a hint of saltwater from that stretch of blue the balcony offered us a breathtaking view of. A view only I noticed, as Lucient scoffed the moment we were free of the hot interior air.

He had a reason, though to me it felt like intruding on a private moment. A broad man—more so than I—in a panther mask with a small red heart on its cheek, and as tall as me from what I could see of him, was reclining on the railing with arms spread. He clutched the stone with a burning pipe held loose between his fingers. And, just in front of him, on his knees with his back to us, was a far smaller man wearing a leopard mask—with a diamond on its cheek—pushed back on his head. A head rather animated, busy drawing heady sounds from the other.

Intruding, as I said.

Lucient thought differently, the one on his knees is no one to me but what was your plan, treasure, before I shove the putain he’s sucking on off the balcony?

A thought occurred with the realization Lucient was angry enough to be crass, and neither man noticed us, what of that trick you do, with your voice, do I have that?

He caught my meaning quick and nodded, you should, and I adore where you're heading, but you need practice before something like this. So let me.

Not moving from his spot, Lucient whispered to the man in the leopard mask, and he was terribly unkind about it—showing more ability than I knew that voice capable, “Choke, choke and flee.”

The man in the leopard mask began coughing, worrying the one he was attached to, a worry that swelled to confused shouting as coughing turned to choking and he was left alone against the railing. Fleeing, with his head down, choking still the leopard ran by us—without once catching sight of more than our jackets.

But the man in the panther mask saw far more, “I was prepared to yell at whatever little shit interrupted,” he said as he walked toward us—leaving his pants low enough that it took effort not to laugh at his wiggling approach, until he kicked them off. “But seeing as I was just stalling until my pretty Kitty showed, you can just pick up where he left off.”

Towering over Lucient, ignoring me entirely, the man’s half-mask did nothing to hide the grin as he held himself in one hand and reached for Lucient with the other.

I caught the hand as Lucient spoke, “No, I will not. Not ever again.”

“That so,” the Panther asked, turning his salacious smile on me, “and this the one s’posed to stop me if I decide to make you?”

My growl spread his disgusting smile, but it did nothing to stop the chuckle that chased it, even as I tightened my grip—relishing the easy give of his wrist.

There’s no one around, treasure, Lucient kept his steps subtle as he moved closer to the doors, quieter still as he closed them, if you want this one.

Eyes firm on the man, aware he could see the hint of my teeth beneath the wide nose and dangling ring of my mask, I spoke to Lucient alone, Are you sure, my dream, after this stronzo asked so nicely for you teeth?

Oh, he’s asked for more than that, but you need to break yours in, and you clearly want to, Lucient remained by the doors, and though we had kept so quiet, the man only stared at me—smiling—as Lucient continued in my mind, and I would so like to watch...

Tilting my head slowly, smiling wider at how his eyes grew with the motion, as images of Lucient bent before him filled his thoughts, I did want that neck in my teeth. Wanted to feel his sickly white skin crunch, hear the gasp of it, perhaps the scream, before all that burned in him—all that kept him warm, and wet and breathing—became mine.

As you wish, my dream, I told Lucient, adding with a salacious lick of my lips, I will devour this filth...for you.

“You going to answer me, asshole,” The ‘Panther’ asked, wriggling his hand with my silence, my hunger, and faster as he realized he couldn’t pull it free, “Or are you going to let me walk over there and take what I’m owed out of my kitty’s pretty mouth?”

Clicking my tongue and shaking my head, I yet held my voice as I took his other wrist, chuckling with his gasp before pinning his wrists to his sides and walking him back to the railing.

And he began to panic through his salacious tone, “H—hey, big guy, if, if you wanted to take his place, all you had to do was say so.”

Still smiling, and not speaking, I lifted and set his hands on the railing before stomping my feet onto his. Savoring the crackle of those thin bones, the ragged yelp of his pain, I kept him pinned.

“You can’t do this to me,” He demanded, shouting, “Do you know who I am?”

Jerking my head up to shift my mask, I offered a view of all the teeth yearning for his neck, and nearly swooned as he gasped again.

I spoke after, leaning in to whisper, “You’re dinner.”

His mouth opened, perhaps to speak—I hoped to scream—but no sound escaped beyond the gurgling of his life pouring into my throat.

It was different, from Lucient’s, from the witch’s; not as icy sweet or intoxicating. Yet heady, dizzying in its heat, salt-licked and strangely bitter his blood sparked inside me, pounding through me as theirs did. And with swelling desire it sang in me. I wanted more, not only more of the blood but touch, taste, sound, sensations all, more.

He jerked his hands in mine, tried to free his wrists and I snapped them. With swift, mirrored motion I twisted until they fell limp in my grasp. Coughed his cries, deliciously ragged through my bite before he sunk into numbing agonies, into the ecstasy of my teeth. Releasing those wrists to hang I hugged him tight to force more of his neck, more of his life into me—bitter as it spoiled on my tongue.

Even as he choked, as spasms took him, vibrating us both against the stones I drank and I drank. His body relaxed—limp, dead—and still I kept on him...drawing all I could, starving for more. As it spiked, as that heady throb turned to violent raking through my veins I drank.

Against the railing we appeared to anyone behind us—or below—as two lovers enjoying the night. But Lucient knew better.

Aware of what I’d fallen to he rushed to me, cold hands holding my cheeks. “Treasure,” he whispered, pleading, “the dead have only agony to offer. You must stop.”

He had to yank my shoulders, my arms, but I pulled back, hot blood dripping from my lips, still pounding, still singing.

“Mm,” voice wet as my throat, my lips, my chin; words refused to form.

Lucient held me, trapping my arms as they twitched to grab the panther again, allowing him to slip further onto the railing than I’d left him...to fall. But there were none down there to notice, so I was led back into the mansion without any consideration given to the thud of him on the grass below.

“You were beautiful,” Lucient told me in the hall, licking all the blood from my lips before yanking me closer to take more from my tongue.

The death did not worry me—nor did the giggles rushing by us—nothing bothered as much as the bottomless hunger growling in my veins, and I aimed to devour the tongue exploring my mouth as I asked its owner, why do I want more, everything?

Everyone’s blood is different, he explained, pulling me tighter, hands grabbing for the back of my head and shoving my mask high with his to keep his lips on me, his tongue drenched in the blood on mine, we taste all they are, all they desire, and it seems he was a glutton.

It pounded still, the blood, driving my hands to Lucient’s back, lower, shoving harder into his lips, his face, as I lifted him up. And he hopped with it, wrapping his legs around me, gasping into me as I slammed him into a wall.

I want you, obvious the thought, but it came anyway, now, here.

He did pull from me then, with lips if not all else, gasping between kisses on my neck, “It’s the blood, you took so much. All his desires swim in you. But you can’t give in, not now, and not here, anywhere but here.”

Fighting the strange pulse of that blood, the hunger in it, the desire without end, I bit my lip not to bite him...but it didn’t help. He pushed at my chest and the flash of fear in his eyes burned me hotter. Snatching his arms I shoved tighter against him to pin them above his head and set my lips too rough on his neck.

“Please, not here,” he breathed but I pressed in tighter, devouring the sweet gasp he gave me before he begged, “Stop...”

“Make me,” I cooed in his ear, aware he could, hoping he would, unable to stop on my own. All of me ached to tear his clothes off, to force what I knew he didn’t want, to take and take until he had nothing but pain left to give. I knew he wouldn’t be able to stop me if I tried—that I enjoyed the thought frightened me most.

But he didn’t do it. Lucient could hear my want, I know he could, how desperately I fought a losing battle with ravenous blood and still he didn’t do it. He stared, eyes frozen wide as his legs fell from my side, heels clicking against the wall, dangling just above the floor without will to move them—to kick, to shove.

Lips never leaving his neck, I held him by his wrists in one hand, keeping him pinned as I slipped my other hand under his jacket, tugging at the breeches beneath.

Stop me, I pleaded, with a voice easier to control, you see what I want, what I’ll do, my dream...Lucient. Please. Stop me.

My hand was in that silk fabric, tight around what I wanted, before Lucient pulled one of his own free. Holding my face, his chill sweetly distracting through those thin gloves, I swooned with the touch but my hand kept in those silks, gripping and rubbing him as I leaned in to force a kiss.

“Stop,” he said, mournful, echoed, and I froze before I reached his lips, “let me go,” he continued, and I did as told, “breathe, calm and hear only me.”

Slow, steady breaths calmed me, slowed the pounding of the blood in my veins, the horrible want that filled it. And the rush of it in me, the heady lull of its pulse, faded. All else faded with, until only Lucient’s breaths were heard.

He waited, and waited, breathing in steady rhythm. I wanted him still, but it was the usual amount...not an obsessive desire to take—no, that drowned in shame. But I struggled, in the quiet, with realization of the claim he had on me, the leash he held. Its power, how much of me it could twist, force—as I forced through strength alone.

“I,” I had no words to offer, and he would feel my shame anyhow, but I wanted—needed—to, so I tried, “am a weak, wretched man to have fallen so easily to—”

“It wasn’t you, it was the blood,” He said simply, but there was more chill to him than usual, and a sorrow I didn’t care to see in his eyes, “But don’t ask me to do that again,” he added, “never ask me to do that again.”

“Why make the claim on me if not to control?” A terrible question, that, one I still wish I hadn’t asked.

He answered it though, with a tight voice and jittering eyes, “I have no desire to control you, only keep you.”

“Earlier then, making me forget?” Full of questions I was, and all the worst—I could blame the blood, the shame, the confusion of it all, but those would be lies, as I honestly had no clue why I pressed then.

Still he answered, quick, sharp, “You forgot nothing. That was a suggestion, not a command, to soften you, to assure you’d stay. And if you’re looking for an apology, you won’t find one; I will never regret keeping you with me. But this, what you asked of me, this was control. This was damage, this was pain, yet still temporary, which means that desire you fear, that terrible lust you couldn’t fight will be back,” he turned from me, facing down the hall, “You’ll need someone else in your veins to get rid of it. That is, if you intend to stay...”

You may notice, dear reader, not once, from the moment the blood overtook my will, did he refer to me by the endearing name he so often did.

So did I.

There weren’t enough words to properly describe all of the emotions I felt, not to him then and not you now.

So why bother.

I grabbed him, turned him, lifted that awful little mask he wore and kissed him.

And I won’t lie that the shock in his eyes wasn’t delicious.

He fell back with my kiss, held up by my arm alone until I steadied him, but though I ended it, I didn’t let go, I waited until he saw me before I said, “No matter what you’ve done, or what you intend to; you are my dream, and I never want to wake.”

A terribly cheesy line, but he found it amusing, and so I stand by it.

Laughing into my chest, he hugged me and teased, “Imbécile.”

It was heaven to hear him laugh, to feel all of him loose and comfortable in my arms—not tense, not shaking, not coolly limp—and I breathed easier with him.

“So, who’s next on the menu,” I asked, attempting as best I could to make light of a situation that should have been horrifying. Not only what I had done, but what we had, and planned to do more of.

It should have been frightening.

And it was, in a way. I was afraid through most of it, but only just. Beyond the issue of a soul, which he had insisted did not exist, there were mortal worries to cling to—to scream into me of all I did. Yet, so long as he was with me, so long as there was a reason for what we did...it felt righteous.

I stand by that too, in case you’re curious.

All we did I stand by, even the worse things we would do, while he was on his mission of vengeance we had purpose. I had purpose, and I didn’t have that before him. I didn’t have much before him, in fact. Content in mediocrity, I knew nothing of the world outside Calabria, let alone Italy but with him I would see it all.

So, in the grand scheme of things, it might serve you to know I regret nothing. What you think of me by the end of this tale because of that confession...well, it doesn’t much matter to me now, does it? I don’t know you.

Unless your name is Oriana Beaumont, in which case you shouldn’t be reading this. Put this book down immediately, young lady and go to your room; you are grounded for a month.

~*~

We had remained unstained through our first two encounters, relying primarily on our teeth as we had, but it took one—perhaps two—to fill us. So the next we devoured were necessary only to wash out that gluttonous blood.

They were behind one of those horrid doors. Three cherubs adorned it, crouched over a bird with vicious grins carved in their sweet faces.

The door alone filled Lucient’s mind with memories of chains, burning flesh, gaping wounds and goblets overflowing with his life. Laughing women held him, purred in his ears and cooed of all the pieces they would take and take and take. Stronger as he became after his death, teeth long and sharp, skin cold and thick, harder to split; the women still did not fear him. They took more, and more, flaying skin from muscle and delighting as his wounds closed. More so in how much warmer he burned after an angry bite of their flesh, a bite they begged for again and again—forced with strange words and throaty chants—even as they tore into him with sharp knives and sharper smiles.

Yet, much to my confused elation, while violent and horrid all...none of what they did was sexual. It was, perhaps, wrong of me to take comfort in that.

I went into the room first, certain to hold him behind me, and found all three on a large bed, entirely naked—which created more confusion. They held daggers, with blades and skin covered in red. All three were identical in every way I could see and all three set fiery eyes on me as I entered. And the scent of that room, of them, it sang familiar...sparking with the same mesmerizing stench as the Sea Witch.

But there would be no time to ask of it, as they addressed me.

“Wrong room, oaf,” The one sitting in the center of their half circle growled, eyes shining through her bat mask.

Beside her sat one in a mouse mask, tilting her head left and right, studying me as she spoke, “You are too big to play with us.”

The last wore a rat mask, and only giggled into her blood-soaked hands.

Hearts were painted on their cheeks, clear even through the messes they’d made of them, and by then I’d figured what those meant. They marked Lucient’s clients, and it dawned on me that if it were an annual affair and they all attended…

Yes, treasure, he confirmed my mulling, I tended to the desires of all of them, throughout the weekend this party lasts, every year.

I, I don’t, and I really didn’t, understand, that is. I never did finish the thought, however, as he hugged me from behind.

Don’t try, he asked, nuzzling his head into my back, please.

But these women, the horrors in your mind, screaming even now into mine, I held his hands, keeping them tight around me, that is nothing like the others, I don’t understand why—

They aren’t human, they’re witches, he explained, but only just, as too quiet in my mind his voice pleaded, and please, treasure, don’t search in those memories. There are no answers you want. Just get the bat, she’s the real threat, I’ll take the others and you must carve out their hearts after you drain them...or they will return.

Before I could ask, could question the chill in his tone, he had the mouse in his teeth and her dagger at the rat’s throat.

“Kitty,” the bat tittered, without a hint of emotion for what I imagined were her sisters, “you came back. Are you here to sing for us again?” I had her then, moving far quicker than I expected to—we had not run through the halls, I didn’t know my own speed—and took her dagger as she twisted it at me. “And you brought a friend,” she sneered.

Lucient dropped the mouse, limp and spasming as she was, but kept her dagger on the rat, “Partner, dear.” The rat swiped with her dagger and Lucient smiled, that sharp mesmerizing smile I hadn’t seen all night, “Now, now, precious, you know better than that.” He twisted the dagger out of her hand, and still she kept silent, “It’s not even silver, what were you hoping to accomplish?”

“Kitty’s in a mood,” the bat cooed, wriggling with my hands on her wrists, “We do so love when Kitty gets mad. You going to hurt us, Kitty, bite us and drink us dry? We ache for your teeth.”

He laughed, chill, humorless as he spoke to me, “Do you hear that, treasure? They want to be bled. Isn’t it delicious?”

While no genuine emotion came through in his voice, his mind popped and jittered with chaotic rage; red, red, red, all of them, redder than they were already, gasping and screaming under his teeth and nails.

I had no time to address it, however, as the bat gaped at me, her brown eyes yet tinted orange by the light of the room, “You’re a dead thing too?” She elicited another cold, mirthless laugh from Lucient before she begged, “Then bite me, dead thing. Drink me, empty me of all this hot, wretched life. I want to see it smeared thick and red all over you.”

I stared at her, then at Lucient, and my confusion burst a bit more aggressively than intended, “Chi è questa puttana pazza?”

“The crazy bitch is dessert, treasure,” Lucient repeated my aggression through his cold smile and, shaking his head at another attempt of the rat’s to swipe at him, he took her by the hair and bit into her throat. She swooned, but it didn’t last, and the glint in his eyes when he stopped, when he eyed the dagger, smiled at it…

I would like to take a moment to say that I was filled with many emotions at that moment, terribly conflicting emotions, so when I tell you that his murderous grin excited me...I just want you to have proper context.

But it did excite, as did her gurgling cries as Lucient set to carving her heart out.

The bat giggled, hysterically she giggled, eyes and lips pulled far too wide at the sight of her sister’s demise. But her giggles snapped to gasps as I gave her the gift she begged for.

“Yes,” she swooned beneath my teeth, “oh, and hot you are, dead thing...so hot that bite...burning, burning all inside me. More, yes, take more! Take it all!”

Her blood screamed. Brutal and ravenous, thick as syrup without a hint of sweetness but still it sparked as the sea witch’s sparked—a taste I would forever associate with magic. But it was sour fruit on my tongue, burning acid down my throat, and she moaned louder the more I drank it, all but screaming her lust for the agony of my teeth—the death they promised. Were it not for my hands on her wrist, I am certain she’d have held me through it, pulled me closer.

It swelled in me, her blood, with fresh desires no less monstrous than the last. I wanted to hurt, to cut, to watch something living suffer and bleed. Not for sustenance, not for a primal need, but for pleasure. It wasn’t difficult to take the dagger to her after, to stab and slice and dig.

The crack of her ribs delighted, as delicious on my blood-soaked fingers as their sweet melody was to my ears...

Yet I caught myself, with her heart in my hand—pumping, however slight—and gaped at Lucient, “My dream...I—I’m not sure this blood is any better than that fottuta pantera.”

With a giddy, blood-soaked grin, he presented the heart he’d cut and it occurred to me that, perhaps, we should have been more careful about who we ate.

I cut the mouse’s heart out next. Fighting bubbling giggles, I sawed through muscles and snapped ribs with Lucient leaning on my back, not fighting the glee that spilled from his lips.

We each took a dagger with us when we left the room, soaked in all the thick red life those witches sprayed. Our eyes and ears kept alert for any notice of their screams—pleasurable as they were—but none hunted, none chased. We again went unnoticed, and I didn’t have time to wonder before Lucient answered it.

Spelled, all the pretty rooms are spelled, even his thoughts were drenched in giggling glee.

Giggling together we went for the others on his list.

Ones we took less care to remain subtle with, playing with the shiny daggers we’d stolen until their gurgling whimpers grew too sweet not to bite them away. It became far too easy to see pulsing life as a meal instead of a person and, thanks to influence of those murderous witches, I delighted in far more than the meal.

More than the blood on my tongue. I wanted to bathe in it.

I cut, I tore, I rent limbs from sockets and heads from necks, with Lucient praising me all the while—his blood as tainted.

We ran full speed through the halls, a blur to all but others like us—and none of them seemed to know, or care, what we were doing. Reveling in the freedom of bubbling glee as a salve to the torturous memories each new target inflicted, we drained no others after the sisters. A bite alone, Lucient insisted.

To make it clear something with fangs was responsible.

~*~

By the time we found the last we’d take that evening, our glee was running out. All we’d done swirling hot and sharp in our shared minds, all of what they’d done blending to sour what joy we’d scraped and clawed and bitten.

Yet we weren’t done with our task, and the past wasn’t done with Lucient.

We found them in a broad, empty hall, tucked away in a corner that offered meager privacy for what they were engaged in, lined as it was with tall windows—a sight for any outside to see were it not for the curtains.

There were three in all; a man of generous height and build in a gorilla mask, a man of meager height and build in a pigeon mask, and a tall rubenesque woman attached to each and squished between them in a bear mask.

The hearts on their cheeks unnerved more than the shape they’d arranged themselves in, and the grunting song they sang—though both were certainly unnerving.

Watching them mesmerized, the three in perfect sync, so fit in rhythm I could not imagine them in any other configuration.

But Lucient, of course, could.

He was part of their set and through sharp flashes of moaning, sweat-soaked memory I saw precisely how he fit into their lustful puzzle. The heat of their hands, the wet of their tongues, the cruelty of the devices they employed to torment him in every flash ignited me.

I was ravenous for their death and with murderous blood yet popping, my thoughts giggled with all the ways I could inflict it.

Lucient shook beside me, stepping away from the sight of them, the memories, and flattened against a wall. Breathing too quickly, too short, I would not touch him—much as my fingers begged—or soothe with kisses as my lips ached to. Familiar that breath, his fear, and I knelt before it, before him, and laid my head on his stomach.

Unusual the gesture perhaps, but one my mother once employed for me after an especially harrowing encounter at one of her parties—resulting in a socialite banned from future soirees as well as our business. It surprised me, my mother's face, but not in fear and I had grasped for her hair, for something soft and safe.

Just as Lucient did then.

After the initial shock and flinch, he touched my hair, petting it—blood-soaked as it was—until his breathing steadied. With his touch, he steadied mine, the red thinner in my thoughts, cooling as he sunk drying fingers down to my scalp.

“My treasure,”he breathed, quiet but clear,“I fear I don't deserve you…”

I stood, lifting his mask and smoothing bloody curls from his cheeks, to hold his face and lay my forehead on his, whispering, “Then you clearly have no sense.”

I hoped for a smile, but he only sniffled as the memories throbbed, joining all others he’d suffered that evening in tangled flashes. “Perhaps,” he whispered back, looking down, trying to keep wet eyes from me, “I lost it in all their flesh.”

Wiping his tears, smearing all the red coating him, I kissed a perfect pout and smiled, “Well, we should go dig it out then, shouldn't we?”

He managed to keep the giggle quiet as he replaced his mask and returned to the corner, their song yet playing loud enough not to worry of detection.

We took the men first, quick as we’d become—connected so thoroughly through thought—it was instant. Teeth in neck, dagger in chest, they choked and oozed bright and red but we didn’t dawdle, didn’t play as we had been.

The woman, however, we drained, shared. Catching her as she fell—without the men to keep her stable—we took the space of her lovers, if not their positions. Our arms wrapped so close around her, to keep her trapped should she run, I couldn’t stop her lips from stealing my fingers, or the face Lucient made as he tried not to laugh at me. But with how caught in her lusts she was...our teeth digging into her neck and shoulder hardly registered beyond louder moans.

And her blood. Oh, her blood. As heady syrup it flowed; sweet, decadent, warm as fresh pastries it was—it was home.

I was a child again in that bite, indulging in home-baked sweets. Dough crunched, ever so, in my teeth, jelly coated my tongue in warm fruity sweetness. Lucient swayed with me, with her, lost to the same sensation, the same memories but I knew—from enough small peeks—he’d never had it in truth. But with all that blood filling me, washing away the lust for death and destruction, I wanted to give it to him.

Yes, in the midst of our killing spree I was thinking about where I could find my dream a warm, freshly baked pastry. That was the power of the blood, why it mattered who one ate—and how much of them. Because a taste wouldn’t do much, but we weren’t tasting, we were devouring and that bear was a meal.

Leaving her, and her paramours, seated by the window we went after the next target with contented grins, filled with a warm, numbing bliss. Both concluding, in said bliss, that aside from her blood being positively scrumptious, the woman in the bear mask had been drunk out of her mind.

The final targets on Lucient’s list—and worst, I would learn later—were outside, in the back of the manor, sitting by a poorly lit fountain.

We were happy when we found them. A warm, fuzzy happy. The sort which steals ones inhibitions and sense. Had anyone seen us they would have, correctly, assumed we were inebriated. But there weren’t any others in the garden. Nor anywhere near the fountain, which I found strange, but it did seem all of Lucient’s targets were removed from other partygoers.

And, before he could hear how loud I was wondering, I asked, My dream?

“Yes, treasure,” he slurred, giggled, right, no talking, they might hear...

Why are they alone? I kept to my point, and to thought—mostly because I couldn’t feel my tongue.

Tiger and Dog, He asked, leaning on me as I leaned on a wall, both of us hiding beneath a balcony—and I giggled with the thought of what I’d see had we been in the front of the manor.

All of them, I tried to focus, but it was growing more and more difficult, on your list. All we’ve...eated? Aten? Divorato. They were all alone.

My...clients...are special, His thoughts were slowing, his weight heavier on me, Ones no one else would take, no matter what they paid; the dangerous and, uh, dégénérer.

I mostri, he had referred to them as ‘degenerates’, but I named them monsters and realized none of the memories I’d seen of his showed his fangs save those with the witches, so I had to ask, because you’re a vampire?

He giggled, slapping at my chest, No, silly treasure, I’ve only been this for a couple years.

I grabbed his shoulders and stared at him until he looked at me—wobbling as he was, narrow his eyes—and said, “What?”

His eyes widened and he checked the couple by the fountain, but they weren’t there, so he sighed and looked back at me, “We’re done here, treasure. I can’t...do like this. I’ll get them at their home. Later.”

“This does not answer my question of ‘what’?” I held him steady, the swooning blood fading in the revelation of how recent his fangs were.

“I know,” he patted me again, “but I’m pretty sure I just heard a scream, a scared scream,” he giggled, shook his head and tried to speak clearly, “I will explain whatever you want later. Now...ship.”

--

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[ginandoldlace]

As vast housing estates went up all around London in the 1930s, creating what most of us now think as London’s suburbs, all of the community buildings were going up too. The Church of England for example built about 45 new churches in London in the mid 30s with this one, the John Keble Church being one of them. What is unusual about this place though is the architecture. Whilst a lot of synagogues were designed in a modernist style (perhaps because of the amount of leading Jewish architects that had fled to England from Europe at the time) most churches were built in a more conservative and familiar way. Not so the John Keble, which was designed by D F Martin-Smith in what must have been a very daring style back then. John Keble himself was a 19th Century church reformer so perhaps it’s appropriate that 100 years later a radical new type of church was built in his name?

Although this building was officially opened in 1936 there was a temporary wooden shed on the site for about four years serving the growing new estate’s ecclesiastical needs as the permanent building went up next to it. After four years waiting and with great anticipation, on the cold December night of its consecration, 800 local people packed the building waiting for the Bishop of London to turn up and do his bishopy things to make things official. Unfortunately that night there was a full on London pea souper of a smog covering the area making the Bishop quite late and the large crowd were left waiting wondering if he was going to text his ETA at any point or just leave them hanging. He did eventually turn up and went straight to the church hall next door and casually donned his robes and bishop stuff and then eventually made a grand entrance into the main venue and started the show as if nothing had happened. It is believed by some that the events at the John Keble that night and the Bishop’s very late arrival on stage went on to influence almost every Guns n Roses concert some 50 years later. History is amazing eh?

[celticcrossanon]

Astrology of the Coronation Day

This is the astrological chart for 11.00am in London on May 6th, the start of the Coronation Service.

Very Amateur astrology comments below the cut:

The first thing I look at is the angles.

The midheaven, the MC angle, shows how things appear to the general public, casual acquaintances etc. In this chart Chiron, the asteroid of wounding, is conjunct the MC. This means that the Coronation Service will display some or all of the wounds of the King and it may be his attempt at healing some of those wounds (which we have seen already with the behaviour of Charles and Camilla).

The MC and IC angle, at 15.02 Aries and 15.02 Libra, is conjunct Charles's MC-IC angle at 13.15 Aries and 13.13 Libra. The Ascendant and Descendant angle at 6.32 Leo and 6.32 Aquarius is conjunct Charles's Ascendant-Descendant at 5.23 Leo and 5.23 Aquarius. This means that the ceremony is a good fit for Charles. When your angles match with another person, the way that person approaches the world and how they are seen or want to be seen by the world feels familiar, as it is the same as what you experience. It is a similarity of outlook that gives harmony between the two individuals. Similarly, with this event, having the angles conjunct means that this event is a reflection of how Charles wants to be seen and perceived, his approach to the world, etc. The image of the vent matches the image that Charles gives out to the world. The Coronation will fit him; he is not being forced into a way of thinking or expressing himself that is unfamiliar to him.

The Coronation Nodes at 4.03 Taurus and 4.03 Scorpio are conjunct Charles's natal nodes at 4.55 Taurus and 4.55 Scorpio. The Nodes of the Moon show your path in life. With the North Node in the 10th house, the House of Public position, conjunct Charles North Node which is also in the 10th house in his natal chart, this ceremony is a strong declaration of the culmination of Charles's destiny to be the holder of a prominent position in his public life.

The Coronation Sun is at 15.38 Taurus, the degree of astrological Beltane. As the service progresses, the MC is going to move across all the planets in Taurus - Jupiter, the North Node, Mercury, the Sun, and Uranus. It will be very interesting to see what planet is on the MC as Charles is anointed, and then as he is crowned. I am wondering if the actual crowning has been timed for when either Jupiter, the planet of the chief god, is on the MC or for when the Sun, the symbol of the King, is on the MC. If Charles is crowned when the Sun, in the degree of astrological Beltane, is on the MC, then he will truly be a Beltane King as per the Green Man on his invitation.

The Coronation Sun is conjunct Uranus, the planet of unexpected events, so I expect Charles's reign to be rather unsettled and/or to have some large unexpected events marking it. It could also be very modern and forward thinking, as Uranus is also the planet of innovation and progress - as well as being a free spirit. We can see this progressive thinking in such things as the inclusion of the leaders and representatives of different faiths in the Coronation Service.

The Coronation Moon at 24 Scorpio in the 4th house shows that family, roots, ancestors are important emotionally in this event (e.g. following the traditions is important). The Moon is also closely conjunct Charles's natal Sun at 22 Scorpio in the 4th house. When you have the Sun and the Moon together like this, the dynamic is that the Moon supports the Sun, especially with emotional support, so this ceremony (the chart with the Moon) is going to be emotionally supportive to Charles (the chart with the Sun).

Coronation Venus is in the 11th house, the house of groups, friends, the collective, working together etc. Venus, the planet of love, relationships, and values in the 11th house says to me that this is a person who cares for the values of the collective group and who wants to be liked or loved by the collective group.

The Coronation Venus indicates a reign where the relationship focus of the reign will be building a relationship with the collective group, being part of a group, working together with others and so on. (As a comparison, Queen Elizabeth's coronation chart had Venus in the 9th house, the house of foreign lands and foreign travel, and the relationship focus of her reign was building relationships with other nations, as seen in the Commonwealth of Nations).

Coronation Venus is in the sign of Gemini, a sign that generally likes to communicate their ideas to other people. There could be a lot of communication with the general public and adapting ideas to fit the mood and values of the general public in this reign, although the adaptation may be only on the surface (Gemini has a silver tongue and can adapt to fit in to almost any group, but doesn't necessarily believe the values that it proclaims to fit in with others).

Coronation Mars is in Cancer in the 12th house. Mars is the planet of drive, energy, willpower, anger, and this combination is not a good fit. Mars is in fall in Cancer, which means that it is weakened in Cancer, so it is easier to express the negative aspects of this combination - such as whining, being passive-aggressive, avoiding confrontations , behaving like a child when thwarted - than it is to express the positive aspects.

Planets in the 12th house are usually unconscious, meaning that the person with that planet is unaware of how they express that energy, although everyone around then can see it perfectly clearly, and they will not recognise that behaviour in themselves when someone else talks about it. So with Mars in Cancer in the 12th house, this ceremony and/or Charles's reign may see a lot of passive aggressive behaviour when it comes to desires and having to modify those desires, with the King being completely unaware of how he is behaving, and not believing it when someone points said behaviour out to him.

Two other planets are in fall in this chart: Uranus is in fall in Taurus and the Moon is in fall in Scorpio. This means that for both these planets it will be harder to express the positive energies of the planet/sign. It can be done, but it will take work. The Moon is boosted by being in its natural house, the 4th house, so it may be easier to overcome the Scorpio Moon's tendency to hold grudged and exact revenge for past slights. Uranus has no such support from its house, the 10th house, and so Charles will have to watch the tendency to embrace 'progress for the sake of progress' rather than 'progress for the good of all'. Not all traditions need to be thrown out to make way for the new.

Finally, both the Sun and Jupiter are in the 10th house in this chart. This is an excellent sign for a coronation, uniting the planet of the self, the Sun, and the planet of good fortune/excellent luck, Jupiter, in the 10th house, the house of public life and public position.

[ilovecupcakesandtea]

Chapter one Chapter nine My master list

Title: Chapter eight

Word Count: 1027

Archive Warnings: Smut in future chapters. Slight angst. Alcohol misuse.

Rating: E

Pairing(s): Eddie Munson/Steve Harrington Robin Buckley/Chrissy Cunningham

Character(s): Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, Chrissy Cunningham, Benny, Uncle Wayne & The Party

Tags: Smut. Angst. Steddie. Buckingham. Steve Harrington. Eddie Munson. Robin Buckley. Chrissy Cunningham. Band AU. TW Alcohol use.

Summary (optional): Two different styles of music, two boys that really don't like each other. What could possibly go wrong?

Beta Reader: Thank you so much to my beautiful beta readers @slippy-slip @ladydarklord & @dontwasteyourchances

Art link and credit: Art is by the wonderfully talented @pink-luna-moth (as is the banner)

Fic link and credit: Ao3 Link

AN: First off thank you to Alex for the art and being just amazing to work alongside. Thank you to Slip for dragging me back from the edge so many times over this. I really am so excited to have this out here!!

I wrote this for the @strangerthingsreversebigbang event and had a lot of fun doing so!!

Divider links: reblog and music notes

July 2006 saw The Spitfires doing a 7-date tour in the UK. Chrisy’s mom had taken even more of a role as their manager now with them getting bigger and had made all of their travel arrangements, making sure that they had somewhere to stay in each city. The party had also decided they were going to join as it was the summer holidays. Dustin, Max, El, Lucas, Will, and Mike all joined the band as they flew into London Heathrow ready for their first gig at the O2 Academy in Brixton 3 days later. 

They spent time seeing as many sights as they could whilst they were in London and had free time. The first full afternoon they were all in there, they headed to the London Eye. The sun was high in the sky and they were all full of energy. They went around the London Dungeons where Eddie spent the whole time trying to scare the others, successfully making both El and Max scream, earning him a punch in the stomach from Max. Worth it, he’d grunted at the time.

After the Dungeons, the group went onto the London Eye. Looking out over the city from the top of the Eye as the sun was setting was beautiful. Everyone was excited to look out and point at different things such as the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, St Paul's Cathedral, The Tate Museum, Tower Bridge, and The Shard.

The show that night afterward in Brixton was amazing. The crowd was loud and the band was on fire. The party loved being backstage and then mixing with the crowd. 

“Thank you Brixton, you’ve been amazing tonight! And you know what, I reckon we have too!” Eddie shouted into the mic at the end of their set, laughing. “Thank you and good night!” 

“Good night, we love you” Chrissy shouted as the band walked off stage.

As the band left the stage, the party ran at them, shouting about how amazing their performance had been and how awesome it had been to see them on stage doing ‘their thing’. To say it had been a great start to the tour was an understatement. The venue cleared out and the band packed their things up before loading it all into the large car they had hired. 

The best part of the night came totally unexpectedly as they were finishing putting their instruments into the car. As they were closing the trunk up, Steve noticed a group walking towards them, clearly excited. 

“Hi! We’ve just been to your gig and we all absolutely loved it! Can we grab a few pictures and autographs before you head off?” One of the girls in the group asked. 

“Sure! That’s fine by me if it’s fine by everyone else.” Steve answered, turning to the rest of the band who all nodded. 

Lots of pictures were taken on various different digital cameras and autographs were signed by the whole band. 

“Do you want to grab a drink at the pub around the corner?” one of the girls asked Steve. 

“Sorry to butt in but we really need to hit the road if we want to make check-in at the next hotel” Eddie interrupted before Steve could answer. 

“Sorry, guess that’s my cueto go.” Steve laughed. 

The band waved to everyone and said their goodbyes to the group before getting into the car to join the party, Eddie and Steve up front, with Robin and Chrissy in the back.

“You’re so hot when you’re jealous, baby,” Steve whispered into his boyfriend’s ear as they were setting off before settling back and resting his hand on the inside of his thigh. 

“ ‘m not jealous” Eddie responded, hands tightening further on the steering wheel. 

“Sure, whatever you say” Steve chuckled. He couldn’t push Eddie's buttons like he was itching to do whilst they were in the car with the party. 

“Stop trying to fuck the driver whilst he’s driving please, I’d like to get to the hotel in one pieceplease, we have a while to go still” Robin interrupted Steve’s thoughts of how far he could push things whilst he could. It had been a few days since they hadn’t shared a room with someone and Steve was determined to make the most of it. 

The rest of the drive went smoothly. Music turned down low and everyone else asleep gave Steve and Eddie a moment together. Robin and Chrissy were as curled up together as they could safely be and the rest of the party was curled up under blankets.

The following day, after a late breakfast, the group went and had a look around Oxford, sightseeing on the river and exploring Oxford castle and prison at Eddie’s request. He walked around with his campaign notebook and wrote many details of the castle and prison down, much to the excitement of a lot of the party. 

The rest of the tour followed a very similar pattern, typically driving to the next city in the morning before having some time to sightsee before the gig. Each gig was just as electric as the last; it seemed as though each night there were fans waiting for them as they packed up and sometimes even before the gig as they arrived at the venue a couple of hours before doors opened. 

They played the O2 Institute in Birmingham, the O2 Academy in Liverpool, the O2 Apollo in Manchester, the O2 Academy in Leeds, and finally the O2 Academy in Edinburgh. Taking in as much of each city as they could in the packed schedule they had. 

A couple of days after the final show they returned the car and flew back home. They had a couple of weeks free from shows and didn’t plan on having any band practice or writing sessions during most of that time either. Some real time to relax, which naturally meant that, according to Steve, this was the perfect time to house hunt. He and Eddie had decided to buy a place together as they both still lived at home and they wanted more privacy than that allowed.