#the White City for the next half century

[edennill-archived]

The Eagle's song in the Return of the King is so crazy when you look at it from the perspective of the people of Minas Tirith because -- that's an Eagle of Manwë right there, and this is decidedly not a common happening, and they're Gondorians, the know what it is. Like.

If Minas Tirith was my city and I wasn't there at the time I would be so very mad.

[ghouldump]

Just read your Armand fic and it was SO good, I was wondering if we could get a prequel or separate piece on vamp reader in the theatre?

Masquerade | Lestat x Reader

ෆ even with your horrific background, he fell deeply for your heart.

thank you, i enjoyed this very much. the fact that this is a month old is embarrassing. someone else requested loustat + Claudia w/ vamp reader and theater but i accidentally deleted it. also in this Lestat hasn't had Akasha’s blood yet.

“Mr. De Lioncourt, you’re on in five,” the stage director said nervously, peaking into the dressing room.

Staring into the mirror, he couldn’t stop the heavy weight on his lifeless core. Perhaps it was due to the homage he had been contemplating.

Fixing his soft hair, he stood, adjusting the half-buttoned top. Taking large steps, his walk emitted confidence, his head held high, in his mind, a recessed warfare.

The piercing screaming became louder as he moved closer to the stage. After months of traveling and backlash from other vampires, as well as the media, he was finally at his last show of the world tour.

“Lestat! I love you,” he could hear his fans screaming.

Smirking, he chuckled, while his thoughts drifted to the ancient days, enjoying the sight of mortals marveling at his presence. In Paris, the city adored him with a love so great, while also managing to shred his heart into pieces. Stopping next to the backstage staff, one of them held the box, protecting the precious relic of his. Opening the lock, he carefully placed the delicate mask on his face.

Holding his head elevated, he closed his eyes, it all seemed like only a little while ago when he met the one who would make him fall deeply in love, through music.

“Y/n, do you have any new songs written? We will be having a special guest joining us tomorrow,” Armand asked, as you slowly met his eyes.

“Yes, I’ve made a few ideas,” you nodded, timidly.

“May I see them?” He asked you, smiling as you hopped out of your seat, handing him the papers with haste.

“Thank you, my love,” he told you, leaning to place a soft kiss onto your lips.

“You’re welcome,” you nodded.

“The others will be hunting later, you are free to join them,” he said, reaching for your veil, and covering your face, before walking away.

Once Armand was out of sight, you slowly sat back down, your fingertips lightly brushing against the piano keys. Humming the melody, you smiled, knowing he would be satisfied with the song that went beautifully in his play.

He was a few decades away from being two centuries old when you first met. In a sideshow, you were the most popular act of the next night. The circus was traveling throughout Europe when they finally arrived in Paris. ‘Come and see the Devil’s Mark’, they called out, catching the interest of people passing. Inside the large tint, they'd gasp at the sight, confused by the sight.

“Why does she have that on her head?”

“She was kissed by the devil himself, and it left her with the face of a monster, Y/n, entertain your guest,” hearing the sound of the whip cracking, your fingers moved on their own, against the stringed instrument.

A few left out of boredom, some through peanuts at you, while others through coins. You were seen as nothing more than a show, no more than the animals kept. Although you knew better than to act against them, this place, these people, they were all you'd ever known.

Suddenly, a scream broke out, filled with agony, others rushed out, wanting to either get away or find out what was happening. You could see the shadow of people, running further away, some of them getting tackled, screeching for help. When the man came into the tint, your trainer, backed away, turning to run, before the man quickly killed him.

Your eyes widened, seeing the man move quicker than the blink of an eye. Lifting his head, he looked your way, and instantly, he was in front of the cage, tearing the door off. Staring at him, you watched his milky white teeth, dark red blood covering his mouth, and icy blue eyes.

Slowly moving to the ground, he tilted his head at you, before ripping the sack from your head. Immediately, you turned your face, but he grabbed your chin, forcing you to face him.

“This face is something else,” he laughed. Moving his hand, covering the left side of your face, his grin widened.

“You aren't so bad on the eyes, as long as this side is covered, maybe I should keep you, how old are you?” he asked, you struggled to understand him, through his thick broken English.

“18”

“Beautiful and you want to die?” he smiled, listening to your thoughts, the entire time you had been bracing yourself, waiting for the final blow to take you out of this life and into the next.

“Yes,” you admitted. Stiffening as he caressed your cheek with his glass-like nail.

“Those who love their life will lose it, and those who hate this life gain anew, your greatness will make up for the misery this face has brought you,” he told you before his fangs sank into your neck. Draining every ounce, you could hear your heartbeat escaping your body, as you weakened. Pulling away, he cut his wrist, pressing it against your mouth for you to drink.

“Do you have a name, child?” he asked you, as he pulled his arm away.

“Y/n,” you mumbled, lying on the ground, your stomach was beginning to churn.

“My name is Nicolas, and I am your maker,” he smiled at you, as you began groaning.

“Nicolas, is there a reason you're hunting in territory that isn't yours?” hearing the voice, he turned around, facing the brown man, or boy, he couldn't tell from the youthful face.

“What are you talking about?” Nicolas asked, frowning.

“My coven resides here and you have been wreaking havoc, never once making your presence known, it is punishable by death,” the man explained, meanwhile, you began puking up your insides.

“My apologies, I could sense others nearby, but it didn't cross my mind that it could be a coven-

“You are careless, to kill by the hundreds out in the open and thoughtlessly create a fledgling, you are unworthy of the gift, and a threat,” he said, fire appearing in his hand, before Nicolas was set ablaze.

Dropping to his knees, you watched as he turned into ash before he could completely hit the ground. Wiping the vomit from your mouth, your maker, whoever he was, was now gone. Armand’s gaze went to you, and lifting from the ground, he floated to you.

While his face held no emotion, he thought of himself, and his past, feeling a bit of compassion for you.

“Would you like to join our coven?” he asked you. Nodding, you didn't know what you had become, whatever Nicolas was, but you knew you didn't want the same fate from this man.

“Then come along, we will find a place for you in the theater,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows as you grabbed the sack, placing it onto your head. Slowly standing, you felt like a new creation, your head lowered under the man’s gaze.

“You will feel very hungry, but I will show you how to hunt adequately, what is your name?” he asked.

“Y/n,” you whispered.

“I am Armand, come now, the others are waiting,” he said, turning as you attempted to keep up with his steps.

Armand was not only the coven’s leader, but the director of a popular theater. Humans came nearly every night to them all, everyone having specific roles. The others weren't the nicest to you, but they also weren't mean. You stayed to yourself, and they let you be.

It wasn't until one night, the theater was closed, and you were supposed to be cleaning, everyone had left for hunting. Cleaning each seat, you scrubbed any dried food under the chairs. Humming lowly, you couldn't get a certain tune from an earlier play from your mind. Making up your own lyrics, you continued humming the melody. Standing from your knees, you jumped, seeing Armand standing on the stage.

“That was you singing?” he asked, surprised.

“I-I’m sorry,” you cowered.

“I never asked, why you wear this?” he motioned at the sack.

“I was born different, no real reason, my old trainer, Agnes, said I was probably kissed by the devil,” you said.

“May I see your face?”

“I don't kn-

“Please?” he asked. It was the first time I heard the word, someone saying it to you or even coming from Armand’s mouth.

Sighing, you pulled it off, shutting your eyes, bracing for the nefarious critiques. However, he didn't say anything, his hand softly holding your jaw. The entire left side of your face was in short observations, scarily scarred. Briefly after birth, you had been in a terrible incident, leaving the left side of your face comparable to a healed fourth-degree burn.

“This isn't as horrible as you make it out to be, and to be wearing this old sack on your head,” he told you, grinning.

“I don't want to scare anyone,” you told him.

“I think that is scarier than your face, you obviously didn't hear it enough, but you are beautiful with an angelic voice, would you like to be in the play?” he asked.

“I don't feel comfortable-

“If we found a way around that, would you be willing?” he asked, smiling as you, hesitantly nodded.

And so, he stuck to his word, surprising you with your very own custom masquerade mask. Fitting perfectly against the side of your face, while leaving the other side free. You felt more confident with the mask, as it hid that side of you. Soon after, Armand introduced the veil to you, along with the equally theatrical dress.

His reasoning, he said he would make you the star of the stage, without anyone pointing out the mask or having questions about your face underneath. You went along with his words, trusting him, and onward with practicing the lines.

The show was a captivating success, with roses being thrown at you, along with whistles and claps. Bowing, you thanked everyone, waving your gloved hands. Later that night, when you were helping clean up, Armand scared you.

Sneaking up on you, he congratulated you, while you blushed, your face burning profusely. Praising his judgment, you thanked him, before he kissed you. Ending your night in Armand’s coffin wasn't a part of your plans, but it seemed right.

Your relationship, despite blossoming, was unconventional. You acknowledged it, overhearing a few coven members gossip about you. In your eyes, Armand became your idol, he taught you new abilities, helped learn new instruments, and provided intimacy. You eventually recognized that he wasn't as serious about you, as you were about him, but rather possessive.

He forbade you to form any other companionships, persuading you to wear your stage costume continuously. While a piece of you was hurt by these actions, you had no experience before him, and were sure you would have none after, so naturally you accepted his terms.

Now over a century since then, you remained at Armand’s side, being the lead vocalist in nearly all the the plays. If only you knew, how much things would change in a matter of months.

Standing from the piano, you went to your coffin, the others would be returning soon, and the sun would be rising. You were interested in seeing the special guest Armand spoke of, but you would have to wait and see.

“What are you doing? Use your fucking brain?” you could hear Armand yelling at the coven members. They were setting up the stage, as he stood in front of the chairs.

You sat alone in a booth, far off, a small xylophone in your lap. Tapping each key, you hummed the tune of your song. Opening your mouth, you began to sing lowly, your eyes widening as you felt a gust of wind behind you.

“Is this an original piece? It sounds lovely,” the voice said, making you turn around, revealing the handsome man. Lofty, blonde, sharp jawline, full lips, you had never seen him before.

“I-yes,” you said, moving your eyes to floor, as he squinted trying to catch a glimpse of your face.

“Lestat,” Armand called out, turning to face the two of you.

“I told you I’d come,” The man named Lestat said, a smirk in place, as he bowed.

“And you are?” he asked you.

“Busy, Y/n, go read over your lines,” Armand said, watching as you nodded, appearing in front of him, accepting the papers from his hand, and disappearing into his office.

“Keeping her to yourself?” Lestat asked, tilting his head.

“Y/n is a century older than you, she isn't interested in a newborn like yourself,” Armand grinned at him.

“But you are,” he said, making the older vampire roll his eyes, walking to continue making preparations.

You could feel the eyes of Lestat on you, as it was time for you to come from Armand’s office. You never had actual words for the play, rather allowing your singing to move the audience. The others complained and muttered that it was Armand’s way of not forcing you into reciting with everyone.

Sitting on the prop, you looked towards Armand, as the curtains opened. Singing to him, for the people, is how you always looked at it. He smirked in pride, satisfied with how everything played out. Your role, the grim reaper, serenading your victims as they pleaded with the audience to save them. Finally, death came to collect, the coven members attacked their prey, while the crowd cheered loudly for you.

Bowing your head, you waved at everyone, as the curtain closed. The show was now over, and it was time to hunt. You didn't exactly hunt with the coven, despite everyone sticking together like a pack. Even after over a hundred years, you didn't feel confident to lift your veil around anyone, except your targets. Armand was a bit lenient, letting you stray away from the others.

Watching the young man leave the bar, you followed him, leaving a bit of distance between the two of you. He was beautiful, doll-like, with youthful features on his glowy skin. The further he walked, the more empty the area became. Slowly lifting your veil, as he approached a nearby alley, you attacked, dragging him into the darkness. As his body went limp, the flames appeared in your hand, before you burned his body.

“Did Armand teach you how to do that? Is he your maker?” you heard as you covered your face, turning to face Lestat.

“Yes and No,” you said, going to past him, when he blocked your way.

“Why do you cover your face? Like…a bride,” he smirked.

“Armand will be expecting me back”

“With a voice as beautiful as yours, you shouldn't hide your face, everyone should see the countenance behind the magnificent voice-

“Y/n,” Armand stood behind Lestat, slowly walking around him.

“Oh, I think he's jealous Y/n, he wants to keep you locked away for himself,” Lestat told you, as you approached Armand.

“Meet with the others, straight to your coffins,” he instructed, reaching for your cheek. Nodding, you kept your head down, leaving as quickly as possible.

As you closed your coffin, comfortable, mask off, you smiled, thinking of Lestat. He was carefree, he didn't care about rules, and wasn't scared of anyone, or anything. If only you could be like him, maybe one day.

“Everyone get in your positions,” Sam ordered, as everyone ran around.

Armand was away for business, meaning you had the night off until he returned. You never complained, accepting the rare days, and watching the plays from Armand’s booth. Sitting comfortably, you smiled as the lights dimmed.

“Hello, ma chérie,” you heard, a hand pressing against the veil to stop you from gasping.

“You frightened me,” you mumbled.

“Shall we go out for a walk?”

“I'm watching the play,” you whispered.

“The same play that ends the same way every single night, it won't do you any harm to miss one,” he said, sounding persuasive before you took his hand, allowing him to take you away.

“Now that we're alone, will you tell me why you wear this veil?” Lestat asked as he walked in the direction of the park, your hand still in his own.

“If you knew the reason, then you wouldn't be so nice to me,” you told him.

“How will I know, until I see,” he said.

“You have no reason to see it,” you put your head down, taking your hand back, and speed-walking away.

“I yearn to see the face behind the beautiful voice?” he smirked, as he was instantly in front of you.

“Armand said you are a newborn, when were you turned?” you asked him.

“A year or two ago, I lose count,” he shrugged.

“You sing too? Why not travel outside of France?” you asked him.

“I could ask you the same thing”

“I am a part of a coven, I couldn't just up and leave” you shook your head.

“Armand wouldn't approve”

“Is Armand your maker?”

“…No, but he is dear to me”

“But are you to him? I've heard a few things about your…situation, you're not even his companion, but he keeps you to himself, why?”

“He has had compassion for me”

“And so you feel you owe him everything?”

“I do”

“Even denying yourself more, more than simply being his doll, that he can play with and toss the side whenever he wishes,” he said, as he moved closer to you, his body centimeters from pressing against your own.

“Just a peak, ma chérie, I won’t utter a word after,” he said, as you slowly stared at him, unmoving as he lifted the veil.

He gazed at the mask but didn't say anything, as his cool fingers touched your cheek.

“You exceeded my expectations,” he said, as he took in your facial features, your skin texture, marks, moles, freckles.

“No need to lie,” you said, a bit harsher than you intended.

“I have seen men and women of all kinds, and I have no reason to lie when I say, you are beautiful,” he said, as he grabbed your hand, pulling you back.

“I need to get back to the others, it is best that we stay away from each other,” you told him, turning back to the theater.

“I can't promise I will be as obedient to your leader's commands,” he said, watching as you walked away.

Lestat kept his distance for a while until you received the sudden news he'd be joining you in a play. It was a renowned success, something the theatre hadn't experienced in years, bringing humans to tears at the heavenly duet, before punishing your victim of the night.

He became a recurring guest, who refused the idea of joining the coven. Everyone was surprised Santiago wasn't jealous of him, but he admired him too much to be bothered by him taking the position of leading actor.

You steered clear of him, outside of your performances, to avoid upsetting Armand. Yes, he was jealous, and no, you may not have been companions, but you didn't blame him. He was extremely traumatized from his past and for that became controlling and untrusting to most, but once you gained his trust - he was a godsend, and you didn't want to ruin that for a newborn vampire you'd just met.

Then it happened, after the usual set, you found yourself sitting on the roof, watching as the others left to hunt. Holding the small music box, you humming the melody, your heart aching. You'd overheard a few members gossiping about you, questioning your secretive nature.

Masquerade, Paper faces on parade

Masquerade, Hide your face so the world will never find you

Masquer-

“You don't think sitting up here alone is a bit gloomy,” Lestat spoke.

“It will sound different once it is performed,” you mumbled.

“Then I hope you don't mind me joining, perhaps I can add my touch,” he said, moving to sit next to you before you could answer.

“Lestat, Armand won't be pleased,” you shook your head.

“It is ridiculous how much you care for his feelings, considering he isn't your companion”

“He has been more than generous to me”

“By making you wear a masquerade mask, along with a gown as if you are a widow, I trust your judgment,” he said, sarcastically.

“He spared me, he could have killed me, as he had done to my maker, but he helped means taught me how to even live as a vampire,” you confessed.

“But he did not give you your talent”

“No,” you shook your head.

“Then I see no reason for this appearance, you have a voice unlike any other I’ve ever met, your eyes-

“My voice has nothing to do with my eyes, my face, he saved me and in return it is his”

“What could have happened to you for you to willingly settle for so little?”

“Excuse-

“Take off the mask,” he said, catching you off guard.

“No,” you said, awkwardly.

“We won't be able to fix this deep-rooted insecurity, whatever it is until you remove all of the layers that hide you,” he said, standing up, and hovering over you.

“Or you could mind your own business,” you said, seconds before screaming. Lestat had quickly taken the mask off, watching as your hand covered your face, nearly clawing in disgust to cover up.

“Please, I beg of you, give it back,” you cried, holding out your other hand, your head down.

“Y/n, look at me,” his eyes softened, it was one thing to see you quiet and standoffish - that was normal. However, seeing you bitterly weeping, your nails almost piercing into your face, he was concerned.

“Please, I’m sorry, just-give it back, please,” you said.

“Look at me first,” he said sternly, inaudibly gasping as lifted your head.

“Are you satisfied? Am I still the beautiful star you thought me to be, or do you finally see the monster hidden under the veil,” you spat, the blood-stained on your cheek.

“Is this what he has told you? This is nothing comparable to a monster, if anything, it makes you stand out. A beautiful voice, with an equally beautiful face, you just HAPPEN to be unique,” he told you, reaching to hold your chin, making you look at him.

“That isn't true, I don't want pity-” You were caught off guard as he pressed his lips against your own.

“You are very beautiful Y/n, you haven't been reminded of it, but you are. I haven't been able to get you out of my head since that night, you lifted your veil for me. You tug at my heart, with the simplest glances, don't ever think I am saying anything about you for pity,” he said, pulling you into another kiss.

“Come with me, to my place, we wouldn't want your leader interrupting,” he said, in between kisses, as he kissed along your neck.

The last thing you expected was for his place to be a dark abandoned dungeon, but his attentive skills made you indifferent to the environment. Finally, the passionate tango, you straddled his lap, your head on his chest, as he sat up leaning against the wall. Reaching for your mask, he stopped you.

“You don't have to be so quick to put it back on, I enjoy seeing you this way,” he said, kissing your scarred skin.

“I have to get back soon,” you told him.

“I want you to leave with me, be my companion, and we can travel the world, you can be the star I know you are,” he said, wrapping his arms around your body.

“You want to be my companion?” you asked, confused.

“I want nothing more than to be your companion, to love you for an eternity”

“What about Armand?”

“How he feels is irrelevant to me, he has kept you around as his toy, but I will lick your wounds if you accept me,” he said, wiping your tears. Nodding, you mumbled, ‘Yes’, as he kissed your lips.

“I have to get back now, we can start planning after tomorrow night,” you said, as he nodded in agreement, kissing your lips, before you look the mask, pressing it to your face.

By the time you were in the basement of the theatre, everyone was in their coffin, but Armand. He sat in his office, the light dim, looking up at you, as you came down the stairs. In an instant, he was in front of you, going to speak, you stared confusedly, as he lifted the veil, smashing his lips against your own.

“I missed you,” he said.

“Sorry, I changed my mind and ended up going hunting,” you lied.

“It is alright, will you join me tonight?” he asked.

“I’m too tired to do anything,” you put your head down, but he quickly lifted it, pecking your lips.

“And that is fine, I will hold you, come,” he said, grabbing your hand, and leading you to his coffin.

“I don't tell you too often, but I am proud of what you've become,” he wrapped his arms around you, as he shut the top.

“Thank you”

“No, thank you”

Watching from behind the curtain, you peered at Santiago as he recited his typical lines. Suddenly, you felt a hand on your lower back, making you turn around, your eyes widened, seeing Lestat.

“Why are you all the way over here?” you asked, but he ignored the question, pecking your lips.

“You look perfect, it will only be a short while before we are together away from this place,” he said reassuringly, lowering your veil, moving to the side, as the curtain opened, closing behind you. Looking towards the crowd, before setting your eyes upon Armand, you began to sing. However, mid-song, a commotion could be heard backstage, as the music sped up.

Glancing at Santiago, you noticed the unusually dark gleam in his eyes. The curtains opened again, revealing coven members, dressed as judges. Your heart immediately sank, as others brought Lestat onto the stage.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the true show of the night has begun,” Santiago chuckled. Going to rush to Lestat, you fell to your knees as pain shot through your body.

“This, my dear friends, is Y/n, our grim reaper, she takes hold of souls that face judgment, but who judges her, you will,” he said, making the audience cheer.

“What are you talking about? Armand, what is he talking about?” you asked, but they both ignored you.

“The gracious vampire Armand has done nothing but save her, she was in a freak show, her maker, she didn't even know, and instead of killing her, he took her in as his own, kept her secret,” he smirked, as you realized this was real.

“Armand-

“The ancient vampiric laws, she has broken number two, and while it wasn't her fault, she chose to leave with this secret,” he continued, watching as the audience cheered in anticipation.

“Y/n, be a doll and take off your veil,” he said. Frozen in your mind was all over the place, trying to understand why this was happening, how you could save Lestat, how you could save yourself.

Taking too long for the judges, with a simple glance, you began screaming, pulling the veil from your hair.

“Stop it,” Lestat screamed, trying to get up, but they seemed to have had him stuck in his seat.

“The dark gift, it shall never be given to children, the crippled, OR THE MAIMED,” he screamed, ripping the mask from your face, cutting your cheek in the process.

Lestat grunted and growled, trying to get up, but the more he fought, the more pain he felt.

“I’m okay,” you tried to reassure him, yelping as Santiago picked you up by your hair.

“See this hideous face, a face, not even a mother loved, yet Armand cared about this abomination, and in return, she went behind his back, planning to leave with a newborn,” he spat.

“Armand, I’m sorry,” you cried, but he kept a straight face, watching from his book.

“And Lestat de Lioncourt, from the moment he has stepped into this theatre, he has been puffed up with arrogance, and while that isn't a sin, he was willing to be an accomplice to help Y/n escape, despite seeing her monstrous face, so we will begin with him, guilty or not guilty?” he asked.

Using all of your strength, you controlled every human in the room, blood leaking from your eyes.

“Not guilty,” you muttered.

“g…NOT GUILTY,” everyone screamed, catching Santiago by surprise, but Armand saw you, and it only infuriated him, even more, to see you protect Lestat.

“And Y/n, her pathetic excuse of a maker is thankfully dead, but she is nothing more than an abomination that should have never been created, so I ask you, guilty or not guilty?”

“GUILTY”

“and her punishment?”

“DEATH”

“The jury has spoken,” he said, tossing your mask onto the floor.

“I am sorry Armand, that I didn't leave you sooner, I’ve allowed myself to be used for far too long for your benefit. I am grateful for your compassion, but only because through it, I was able to meet my companion. I love Lestat and I have no regrets, all I ask is, for you to do it the same way you did to my maker,” you said, smiling, as Amrand clenched his jaw.

His thoughts were loud and clear, you were his, and he could do whatever he wanted with you, sure, this ideology partially came from his own maker, but you knew this already. You could never leave him, your loyalty was owed to him alone, he hadn't made you his companion but he cared about you, in an unhealthy way, and for you to want to up and leave him for some guy you only known for a few months, he would rather see you dead than for you to leave Lestat.

Facing Lestat, you kept the sad smile on your face, taking in his face one last time.

“I love you, mon chér,” you said, before Armand set you ablaze. Your screams of agony flooded Lestat’s mind, as he cried, trying to come to you, but you quickly turned to ash, leaving nothing more than the remains of your gown and your mask.

Releasing him from their hold, he grabbed your mask, before rushing out of the building. Due to his judgment being not guilty, none of them could stop him, as he went to the dungeon. Your lingering scent only made him cry harder, as he clutched the mask. He would keep this mask, as an heirloom, as remembrance, as a promise. He’d love you always, and never forget the feelings you brought upon him.

As the song ended, Lestat opened his eyes, the fans screaming loudly for him. Reaching to remove the mask, he bowed, but seeing the figure in his peripheral, his eyes began to sting. Rising, he fought the urge to cry, seeing you standing next to him, bowing alongside him.

“I couldn't be more proud of you, mon chér,” you told him.

“I’m sorry, my love, I-

“No, you are seeing the entire world, and they love you, that is all that matters to me,” you smiled.

“I love you,” he said, reaching out for you, as you faded away.

The once heavy feeling has left his body, now replaced with sweet memories, you looked just as beautiful as the first time he'd laid eyes on you. He could go on, knowing that maybe, just maybe, you had been with him all along.

[somewhere-south-of-neutral]

Senior year of high school, a classmate and I both received the STAR award, which is given to the student or students who get the highest SAT scores in their graduating class each year. The award ceremony was held at the clubhouse of an old wealthy social club, the kind that, in Atlanta at least, probably doesn't want you digging into its past. I am Jewish, and the other recipient from my school was Black. Most of the honorees, students from high schools all over the city, were members of one minority or another. A large number (though I don't remember if it was more, less, or equal to half) were also women. I remember thinking that there was a good chance that almost none of us would have been allowed into that room before the 1980s. And then I remember thinking, as one student after another who didn't fit the white, Christian, male mold these clubs were built to cater to went on stage to accept their award, that our presence in that room was a victory in more ways than one.

I have been to Masada, from which you can still see the outlines of the Roman warcamps that besieged a doomed band of Jewish rebels and where, nearly two thousand years later, an Orthodox rabbi tearfully looked up from the ruin he was investigating to inform the watching archaeologists that the ancient mikveh they had found, the oldest we know of, was kosher.

I have stood in the ruined Jewish quarters in Lisbon and Madrid, where there are very few Jews anymore. But I was there, and I did not need to hide. I have been to the former headquarters of the Spanish Inquisition, where, in buildings made of bricks hewn from the graves of my forebears, they orchestrated my nonexistence. But I was there, and I existed, and the inquisition did not.

I have been to Savannah, GA, where the descendants of those who fled the inquisition founded a synagogue. The Inquisition headquarters were in ruin, but that synagogue still stands strong, and people still pray there. It is beautiful.

I have been to Berlin, where less than a century ago a plot to ensure that I could never exist, along with the descendants of many other minorities, was hatched and came frighteningly close to succeeding. But I was there, and I walked the streets visibly Jewish, made so not by a badge of shame but by my kippah, which I wore, and still wear, proudly wherever I go.

I have been to Prague, where centuries ago, according to myth, the rabbis created the golem, a magical protector built out of necessity to shield the community from harm. The golem is not there, but the community still stands. The Great Synagogue is one of the most beautiful and ornate buildings I have ever been to.

In every generation they have tried to destroy us, but we are still here and they are not. These next four years, and likely many after, will be hard. They will be steered by those who want us dead, and when I say us I mean all of us, any who do not fit their very narrow mold, but we will survive. And, one day, our (literal or figurative) descendants will stand in the places where they plotted to destroy us, and they will be free, and they will work to undo the damage, and their presence in those places will be a victory in more ways than one.

Good luck. Stay safe. We will get through this together. I love you.

[y3ager]

MATERIAL GIRL.

— and what do you give the girl who has everything? two rich boyfriends!

jean k. x eren y. x black!fem!reader

tags: modern au, fluff, polyamorous relationship. socialite!reader. lovergirldeepdown!reader. 4k word count. inspired by this blurb.

HAILING FROM OLD money— your father the CEO of a century old automobile brand and your mother the third generation runway model—you have seen all there is to see, worn what there is to wear, had every priceless stone dangle from your neck and fingers, and tasted the most decadent of foods. the belief that just superficial things would be enough to sway you offends you greatly. if you don’t have it, you will have it as if it’s your right at this point. it takes much more than dinner and a yacht ride to make you squeal.

and that’s what’s so tiring about the whole dating scene. the pool is filled to the brim with arrogant nepotism babies in khaki shorts and sweaters around their shoulders. they’ll never worry about a thing because daddy kisses the ass of this man and mommy grins in the face of that woman, and by god, do they make it known. if another man brags about owning original modigliani pieces over dinner, he’ll be met with an oyster shell to the eye. who are you supposed to be, some bright-eyed influencer? please. check the pedigree.

things changed when you met them, however. one in the summer, and one in the winter.

you were on the jet back home from italy when hitch, a girl you’ve known since you were a tyke, bombarded your phone with messages about christening her new penthouse with a pool party you just had to come to, lest she’d drag you there. after confirming your attendance, you rolled back over in the white leather reclining seat and pulled your silk eye mask back down, making a mental note to get your braids refreshed and place an order for a new bikini.

you’re reborn as a literal doll, the braids on the left side of your head coaxed into an intricate butterfly while the others lay flat against your scalp in faultless rows and hang low to your hipbones. white, white, white everywhere, from the nails, the strappy swimsuit, the miu miu sandals; a beautiful contrasts against your glistening ebon skin dusted with body shimmer for good measure. perfect, as usual.

hitch’s new high rise penthouse is something out of a multimillion dollar budget drama, with its dozens of crystal clear windows and modern interior. sitting far away enough from the city to avoid the hustle and bustle, but close enough to gaze at the twinkling lights, it’s practically a palace for the dreyse corporation heir.

champagne flute filled with 1820 juglar cuvée, you mingle amongst the next generation of the one percent. hitch’s friends, and your friends by proxy you assume, are a breath of fresh air. human.

but there’s one person amongst the gaggle you don’t recognize. from your spot next to the slightly tispy miss dreyse, your dark eyes glance over the rim of your ivory framed sunnies, glass rim tapping absentmindedly against lined, glossed lips. light brown mullet, slightly tanned skin, dark brown eyes...

“hitchie...” your elbow gently bumps into the blonde’s sides, snatching her out of her mild stupor. “who’s that?” you ask innocently, gesturing with your half full flute. it’s casual, inquisitive.

hitch squints a little bit, pure concentration written all over her features as she tries to put a name to the face. “oh!” when the name comes to her, her hand meets the back of your shoulder in a kinda hard slap, totally unintentional, of course. “jean, kirschtein! you know, from-” a hiccup interrupts her introduction, making her burst into a quick giggle. “-the oil company.”

the pieces begin to come together, you know the names all of the elite; the braun’s, the leonhart’s, the ackerman’s, names listed amongst yours and names you close deals with. clans with power, influence, wealth, distinction.

he, jean, is walking over now; casual with an easy stride that shows he’s in no rush, he’s confident. he pays his respects to the girl of the hour, congratulating her on her new playhouse before her attention is diverted by another guest calling her name to get her to come over there. hitch slips off, but not before discreetly tapping your lower back in excitement; an unspoken ‘get him.’

“jean,” he introduces himself, extending his hand in a polite greeting. “i wanted to speak to hitch, but i wanted to talk to you, too. you are breathtaking.” his eyes drink you in, from head to toe, even though they’ve been roaming your frame since you first caught his attention. the heir simply cannot get enough. “but you get told that a lot, yes?”

“thank you.” your lips spread into a small smile, one hand slipping into his larger one as the other pulls off your sunnies, sticking one of the arms down into your top. “i’m ___” jean bore a lean swimmer’s build, dark navy beach shorts hung low on his hips, and his tanned skin decorated with a dusting of faint, brown freckles over his body. years of private villas and yachts, no doubt. he was impossibly tall, too, you find yourself having to gently tilt your head back to see his face fully. it was cute from afar, maturely handsome up close. was that a faint hint of a mustache? it was hot.

jean repeats your name slowly, enjoying the feeling of that line of syllables rolling off his tongue. “i’d love to get to know you more. ___, you’re so beautiful. i have to impress you somehow. name it,” his other hand comes up to rest of top of yours, successfully encasing it in a gentle hold. an excuse to touch you just a little bit more. “i’ll make it happen.”

your smile becomes a grin, and your dark eyes glint mischievously under your delicate lashes. one quick test, because where’s the fun in not initiating one? you just want to see what he’d say, pick at his brain. what sweet words will he spin from his golden cords now? “but jean,” you begin softly, “what if i was the type of girl that liked a man that took control? told me we were doing this, at this time, on this day, and in my prettiest red dress?”

“it’d be rude, ___, at least in my eyes, to so quickly assume i had a right to your time, and drag you around this way and that. allow me the privilege of occupying your time, and space.”

before you can catch it, one of your expertly threaded and sculpted eyebrows quirks up in mild surprise. you beckon him a bit closer to your face with a wave of your acrylics. “good answer,” you tease, honeyed voice playful and whispery. “phone? i can put my number in, and we can talk about how you can try to romance me when i have my schedules laid out in front of me.” you watch as he fishes the device out of his shorts pocket.

you were captivating afar, but up close with your tawny skin soft, glittery, and emanating an intoxicating vanilla scent, your dark eyes glistening with mirth and playfulness… it makes jean’s body go into some type of shock, his heart plummeting to his feet and his blood running cold but racing through his veins at the same time.

“well then,” you chime as you save your digits into the millionaire’s phone, the contact simply your name with no bells or whistles to adorn it. “i hope we can get to know each soon, mr. kirschtein.”

jean thinks that pearly white smile will be the death of him.

…

every year, no matter what, your father throws his annual christmas party. you long assumed that it brings him a special type of happiness because your normally humble father goes all out for them, each year being better than the last. he flies out the best chefs in the world to cook for hours, orders the tallest, greenest tree for the foyer, and has the house cleaned til someone could check their reflection in the perfect marble floors. when it comes to this, the man skimps on nothing.

you take it upon yourself to make the most of it, requesting custom design dresses from the most exclusive sewing tables over in Europe, shoes fresh from the runway. only the very best for you, the heiress, the crème de la crème, the girl who has never known the word no.

“dance with me?”

you had been absentmindedly swirling your wine glass by its delicate stem, attempting to place its origin (red, tart-like with its cranberry flavor and a strange orange bite near the end), when you’re approached. once you turn your head, you’re meet with striking green eyes and a sharp little smile.

“you looked bored, and that’s what these parties are for, right?”

eren yeager, the german-american son of grisha and carla yeager, 2nd generation genius neurosurgeon with a net worth in the 7 figures, and the just-as-talented, third generation wedding gown designer. according to the rumor mill, after graduating in the top of class in one of those ivy’s upstate, he gallivanted across the country (no, the world) as the not-so-favorable yeager son. of course, there are entirely too many eyes on the yeager clan for grisha to do too much of anything and a son can do no wrong in a doting mother’s eyes; so eren is left free to his disagreeable desires. everyone wonders how long that will last.

steely dark eyes and your naturally neutral face does nothing to deter him. you decide to indulge him, slipping your hand into his and raising up, allowing him the luxury of whisking you to the dance floor. “i guess i don’t see why not.”

“great.” his hand is soft and a little cool against your own, the woody, cedar notes of penhaligon the inimitable gently wafting off his skin and pressed shirt. unbeknownst to you, a few pairs of eyes bore into yeager’s back. the arrogance he has to whisk you away so early into the party, especially with it being his first one. if eren was the wiser, he’d revel in their envy.

there’s a handful of other couples waltzing across the floor when you two arrive. your fingers thread through his as his free hand finds a respectful place on your waist, blessed with the feeling of the smooth skin exposed by the opening in your dress.

no matter how much money your father makes, he’s an old black man at heart. old r&b plays from the expensive sound system he had installed, tevin campbell’s can we talk playing through the speakers. the irony of the situation isn’t lost on you. nonetheless, you hum nonchalantly to the tune and glide around the floor with your partner.

“i gotta ask, do you enjoy these things? or does your dad put you up to it?” your arm is held above your head and you’re spun around in a quick circle before being guided back to eren’s chest. face still impartial, you nod your head towards your five o clock, the wavy blonde strands dangling from your delicate updo tickling your face. a table teems with gifts for you and you only, bachelors from afar vying for a wisp of your attention with shiny, expensive gifts. they fail to realize that a girl like yourself isn’t so easily bought. but, it’s their money not yours, and few things in life bring you greater joy than pulling ribbon and wrapping paper from luxury brand boxes.

“of course i do. i’m not ‘put up’ to anything. i dress up, i get my presents. what isn’t there to love?” manicured hand splayed across the man’s back, you’re dipped towards the floor. you’re one to give credit where credit is due, yeager is a good dancer; the confidence in his movements isn’t a lame front and he maintains the delicate balance between taking the lead and dragging his poor partner around. since this is suddenly an interview, you have questions of your own. “when i have time to go through them, will i find your name on anything?”

“of course you will. be pretty damn rude to show up to a party empty handed. especially when it might be my only chance to get a gift for the princess.” a name your normally cringe and scrunch your nose at sounds surprisingly nice passing by his lips. he grinned boyishly. “no hints.”

“i can wait. for your sake, i hope it’s no ring. it’s going straight into the garbage.” just the thought of such a “present” makes your blood want to boil. who raised these “men”? i mean honestly, what brain dead fool buys a ring for a girl who didn’t even know his face? and expected her to wear it? you would sooner die and go to hell first.

“no way someone is that dumb. you’re fucking with me.”

“what do i have to lie for?”

"well, taking a look at these guests, i take it back. some of these bastards look dumb enough to pull a stunt like that." eren scans the array of guests over your shoulder, and you can't even feign offense for your father's sake. scanning over a guestlist for former flames and explaining why you didn't want them in attendance would take too much time, and you really didn't feel like explaining "relationship troubles" to your dad of all people. loved him as much as you did that really wasn't his business. besides, watching them shiver and skulk away from your disinterested and annoyed glance made up for everything. "are you a betting woman?"

"did you waste grisha's money on a degree in journalism?" your eyebrows furrow and eren laughs again.

"you're funny, ___. most of our peers aren't so witty. and if it so pleases her majesty, i want to bet on the odds of one of these dumbasses putting a ring under your tree." eren's green eyes stare down into yours, gleaming with playfulness, mirth, and confidence. "what do you say? someone does, and we can go on a date, just us two, and you can smile and laugh a little bit."

"and if there's no ring?"

"i'll leave you alone and fall in place in your long string of broken hearts."

luck has always been on your side. look at the family you were in born in, the riches that are your birthright! the universe has never dealt you a bad hand and surely wouldn’t start now. and worse case scenario, you hang out with one of the few men that can mark your plump lips twitch in the shadow of a giggle. “fine.” your brown eyes meet his green, and neither of the waver. “deal.”

several days later, gifts from around the globe surround you. handbags, shoes, dresses, envelopes bursting with cash; you’ll have to tell your dad you need some walls knocked down in your already spacious closet to make room for more. amidst all this, though, a godforsaken ring is gripped between your fingers. if looks could kill, it would melting and dripping from your grasp. holding it like it’s contaminated, you snap a picture to send to yeager:

‘i’m free the 3rd weekend and tuesdays.’

…

as temperatures rise again, you spend the next few months allowing jean kirstein and eren yeager the luxury of whisking you away when your schedule permits.

the former is a bit... old fashioned, in a good way! you're led off to slow paced, cozy dates; the two of you roaming italian streets, attending shows in their original opera houses, he never strayed you out of the bubble you two were born in. it was casual, soft, predictable in a good way.

eren on the other hand, spent money like it would burn through his pocket if it sat there too long. he spent money like a man who just felt its crispness in his palms and was addicted to the feeling, knowing deep down it'd never stop flowing for him. you're frequenting the night scene in your tight, revealing dress, his firm hands on your hips as you two grind to the pounding beats. shopping spree dates that lasted all day, if your hand so much as brushed it, it was bought, packaged up, and in the car. spontaneous flights abroad, stealing you away for weekends. it was exhilarating.

they both provide the things you're looking for. jean is the type of man you imagine yourself settling down with one day, when the whole young and turnt shtick melts away into something more domestic and slow paced. he has gentle hands and treats you so delicately, softly. his reliability will be something you can learn to lean on and need.

eren could possibly be that type of man too, but for now he has a fire, impulses that keep you oh so entertained. having everything in the world gets boring, and eren brings that spark that you crave.

you ruminate at your vanity. hair tied down and tucked away under a silky soft bonnet, you run your gua sha across your moisturized face, long sweeping strokes that end with a gentle tug. eye masks rest on your face, your feet clothed by a exfoliating mask, and a fluffy robe envelopes your body. you stare at your reflection, you're the only one who gets you.

you're really at a crossroads. you choosing between something is unheard of. you're ___, you get everything you deserve and want tenfold. you like jean, you like eren. the way they look at you with such adoration, how their hands and lips caress your body, the sweets words they declare, and how every promise they've made to you remains unbroken, oh how they must certainly feel the same for you.

as greedy as it may make you sound, you want both. your cake and to eat it too. two of your richest peers fawning over you day in and day out, them caring for you and you caring for them. them loving you, and you loving them. it’s a dream that will be your reality.

…

after a long day at sea on one of many jean’s yachts, the sun beaming down on not only the beautiful blue water but the two of you, entangled in each other’s arms, docks at the private harbor.

you’re running your fingers through your french curl braids as jean talks to one of the dock’s attendees, slightly sleepy from your sunbathing session. the gentle breeze of the day brings the smell of saltwater up to your nostrils and you hear seagulls squawking from spots on the wooden posts. obviously, a day at the water leaves you craving seafood, juicy lobster tails with a decadent pasta on the side. your daydreams of the soon to be dinner are interrupted by an extremely familiar “yo!”

heads turn, and it’s none other than eren striding across the dock’s walkway towards where you and jean are standing. his green eyes shine at the sight of you, the hot pink of your two piece bikini a perfect contrast to your skin and showing curves and bends he’d worship for the rest of his life. oh, and jean’s here too.

another woman might falter, her heart catching in her throat and sweat beading up on her flesh as her suitors stand before her, but you’re the epitome of calm, brown eyes smoothly meeting eren’s. there’s no ring on your finger, and besides, you know what you’re after right now.

“haven’t seen you in a while, yeager.” knowing it’d be cliche, jean fights against the urge to wrap a protective arm around your waist. “done gallivanting the world?”

“seen all there is to see kirschtein, and you say that like it’s insult. what use is money if it just sits in accounts collecting dust.” eren looks at you again, god you’re a sight for sore eyes. “especially when there’s a woman like her to spend it on.”

jean’s eyes can’t help but to roll. what a cornball. “well, good chat, but ___ and i are on a little time crunch. i’m taking her to niccolo’s, especially after being on the water.” his hand slips into yours, taking charge but not tugging you along. you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this side of him.

“well, now that you mention it, i could go for some niccolo’s too.” eren’s grin is shit-eating. what a cute dynamic these too have, one you know has a bit more bite to it when a lady isn’t in their presence. “how about i join? matter of fact, my treat.”

“that won’t be necessary.”

“i insist.”

“you two would argue all day if i let you,” you interrupt this small tussle, and now their attention is back on you. a manicured hand raises up to cover your small yawn. “like an old married couple.”

“it’s all in good fun,” eren’s shoulder nudges jean, and if jean had lasers for eyes, the youngest heir to yeager fortune would be a pile of dust before your feet. “we go way back.”

jean ignores him entirely, but eren finds it hilarious. “what he’s suggesting is insane, ___.”

you give a gentle shrug of your shoulder, coyness at the ready. “it’s nothing serious, it’s a lunch date between friends, and i bet you’d like to catch up.”

jean’s jaw tenses. he turns to you completely as eren looks on curiously. “i think it’s a sign that you say that, ___. i’ve been meaning to have this conversation with you for a while. yes, we are friends, but i want to be more with you.”

this moment, with the waves crashing across the dock, the sun illuminating the two of you, jean clasping your hands tight, would’ve been a soft, tender, picturesque one had it not been for eren’s booming laughter.

“oh, so now this is a pissing contest, huh, jean? well, since we’re confessing feelings, i have my own to speak for you.” his outburst breaks your gaze, and you and jean both turn in unison. “___, i want you to be my girlfriend, and i’ve felt this way for a while. i’ve been waiting for just the perfect moment, but i can’t let this jack-off take this one for himself right?” comically, you’re put between them, each of your hands in theirs.

“i…” this takes tact, a delicate way of stringing together words and honestly, with their eyes boring into yours, you find yourself falling just a touch short.

“i respect any decision you make,” jean assures.

“___, i will do anything for you,” eren promises.

any decision. anything.

you bit your bottom lip, hands minutely twitching in their clasp. you lean in neither direction, at the center of them. “any?”

and then there’s a beat of silence. and everyone’s looking at each other. this feels like a scene in a sitcom, something that should be accompanied with a laugh-track, but there’s no closed mouth that’s been fed.

“because in the time i’ve gotten to know both of you, i’ve begin to care for both of you. and i’ve made great memories with the two of you. i know i could make even more. i don’t value any time spent with you over each other’s.” your voice shakes just a tiny, tiny bit, vulnerability creeping in. “you too make me… so happy.”

eren cuts the silence first, ever the impulsive one. “i’ll do it.”

“you cut me off,” jean quickly interjects. eren really puts him on his toes, ignites an aggressive fire deep within, steps on just the right nerves. “i’m doing it too.”

“i said i’d do anything.”

“and i said i’d respect any decision.”

“okay!” you voice crashes down like a gavel. “okay. i’m glad that you two are hearing me out,” a smile tugs at your glossed lips, this feels so easy and lighthearted, a stark contrast from the seriousness you impose upon yourself. already, you feel yourself loosening up, because the two of them bring out the true, relaxed you like nothing else can. “but for our sanity the bickering needs to come down a notch before we all kill each other, yeah?”

two strong pairs of arms envelop you. it takes some effort, but you wrap your own around the two of them. three heads together, you find yourselves laughing. a weight eases of your shoulders, but not because you got your way, but because you know this is the death of a mask created by the circle you were born in. a mask that hides the love you can feel in an attempt to guard it.

“well, we won’t kill you.”

nov 13. 2021. nov 9. 2023. i nearly gave up. i almost threw in the towel. but goddammit she’s done. praise god.

[gluttons-for-punishment]

MY LIFE WITH QUEEN

One day in 1974 I was reading the paper and it said that "the Queen" was going to be on Top Of The Pops. Obviously this was a bit of typical puerile stupidity on their part. The Queen wasn't appearing on Top Of The Pops.

Queen were.

And they did. Seven Seas Of Rhye was their first hit, and I quite liked it partly because of the fun outro. Music had joy in it, back in the day.

The likes of Slade and Wizzard and Gary Glitter didn't take it all too seriously. They were all regulars on TOTP and it was a lot of fun.

Queen were on again a little while later with their follow-up, Killer Queen. Everyone liked that. Their lead singer was weird, exotic, almost Oriental-looking with big white teeth. He fitted into the now jaded Glam Rock aesthetic but with an edge, and more class than all the others.

I was listening to the radio the following year and I heard this strange record going "Mama Mia! Mama Mia!" and I thought what the fuck? That ain't Abba!

Then I heard the whole thing, Bohemian Rhapsody in its entirety, all five minutes and fifty-five seconds of it, and I was hooked for life. Queen were like a breath of fresh air, a sparkling gem amid all the Osmonds / Bay City Rollers / David Essex dross that was stinking up the airwaves. I set about investigating their back catalogue.

Someone taped their latest album A Night At The Opera for me. My mate Bernie had Sheer Heart Attack, so I got a copy of that too. Once I'd saved up enough pocket money I went out and bought Queen II. From this album, The March Of The Black Queen has consistently remained in my top three for nearly half a century.

That Christmas Eve, Queen's concert at Hammersmith Odeon was transmitted live on The Old Grey Whistle Test. I took an audio recording of the show on my little portable cassette recorder. The quality was pretty dismal but I played that tape to death and learned it all by heart. In the intervening years it's been repeated over and over again by the BBC, always in a savagely truncated form. It was finally given an official full-length deluxe box set release in 2015 under the title A Night At The Odeon, forty years after the initial live broadcast.

In the scorching endless summer of 1976 Queen announced that they were going to play a free concert in Hyde Park. I wasn't going to miss that. So I set off early in the morning of 18th September with a mate from school (whose name escapes me) after a fry-up made by my sister. We got to Hyde Park and sat on the grass with 150,000 other fans and stared at the empty stage. There was a middle-aged couple sitting behind us who may or may not have been Brian May's parents. A young hippy who looked like Jesus wandered through the crowd giving out cherries.

The first band of the day was Supercharge. Their lead singer was a big fat guy who came on stage wearing a leotard like the one Freddie wore. Next was Steve Hillage, whose endless noodling bored me to tears. Then it was Kiki Dee, who was in the charts at the time with her duet with Elton John, Don't Go Breaking My Heart. She performed the song with a cardboard cut-out of Elton, with the audience singing Elton's lines (Elton was actually present backstage at the time, but didn't appear on stage as he didn't want to steal Queen's thunder).

Then at dusk Queen finally came on with a blinding flash and blew me away. They opened with Procession and a clip from Bohemian Rhapsody and went straight into Ogre Battle.

"Welcome to our picnic by the Serpentine!"

By now, everyone had got to their feet and moved closer to the stage. I got separated from my mate. I didn't care. All my attention was focussed on the band.

The best bit was Freddie, solo at the piano, performing the as yet unreleased You Take My Breath Away. That was amazing. A flawless performance that's included for posterity on the 2011 re-release of A Day At The Races.

They finished with In The Lap Of The Gods... Revisited but didn't play an encore: apparently the show was running late and the band had been threatened with arrest if they went back on stage, due to the huge numbers of people out there in the dark.

My first ever concert experience was absolutely euphoric. It was like losing my virginity. I was still on a high as I drifted away in the dark to get the tube home.

Their next album, the first new one to come out after I became a fan, was A Day At The Races. I got the LP for Christmas, some two weeks after its release, but by some careful snooping I'd found it hidden in my mum's bedroom and played it a couple of times beforehand. When I finally got my hands on it, I played it to death.

By now I was a member of the fan club, and used to ring them now and again to see if there was any news about forthcoming releases (the music press were always a few days behind). I'd sometimes pop into their offices at South Audley Street if I happened to be in the West End, always hoping there'd be one or two band members present. There never were. One day I was up there with my mate Mark and we casually asked the fan club secretary if there were any plans to re-release I Can Hear Music, the pre-Queen single Freddie had recorded with the engineer Robin Cable and released under the name Larry Lurex in 1973. She said no, but she had a few copies for sale. Were we interested?

Hell, yeah! It was a one-sided white label seven-inch single, a test pressing as it later turned out. I was disappointed that the far superior B-side Going Back wasn't included, but it was the elusive and rare Larry Lurex so I had to have it. We got one for our mate Andy too. 75p each. Bargain!

My copy disappeared into the ether decades ago, but Andy still has his. And apparently it's one of the most collectible Queen items (second only to the 1977 Bo Rhap blue vinyl single) and sells for an absolute fortune.

[Whilst visiting and working in the West End in the late Seventies I went past Trident Studios in St Anne's Court, off Wardour Street, many times without really realising its significance. Standing opposite Dark They Were And Golden-Eyed, a fantastic science fiction bookshop (where I acquired loads of quirky unofficial Tolkien stuff when Tolkien fandom was an underground movement rather than a multi-million-dollar industry), this was where Queen recorded their first three albums. Elton, Bowie and The Beatles had recorded there, too. Further on from the studio, towards the Dean Street end, was a tenement brothel where the ladies would sit by the open windows and call out to you as you walked past.

Of course, it's all gone now. Dark They Were closed in 1981 and there are shops and offices where the ladies of the night used to ply their trade. Trident is now a post-production facility.]

My second experience of Queen live was at Earls Court with Mark and Andy, high up in the balcony, miles from the stage. I snuck my little Kodak 126 camera in with me and succeeded in getting a series of very muddy, very distant images of the massive crown-shaped lighting rig. At one point Freddie was performing You Take My Breath Away at the piano when, at a particularly quiet part of the song, someone knocked over the drum kit (at least, that was what it sounded like). Freddie looked startled for a moment then, like the total professional he was, continued as if nothing had happened. This was followed by a performance of White Man that was powerful enough to blow your bollocks off. Freddie: "This is a real bitch of a song that's really fucked up my voice."

For the encore, Freddie strutted on stage in a shimmering silver leotard that sparkled like a glitterball. A brief but brilliant segment of Saturday Night's All Right For Fighting was included in the rock'n'roll medley.

Later that year I went on holiday to Italy with my family. When I returned home on Saturday 8th October there was a postcard waiting for me from the fan club.

My postcard is long gone. This is someone else's that I found online.

I read the first couple of sentences and thought "oh! fantastic! I'm gonna be in a Queen video!" but then as I continued I realised that the event had come and gone and I'd missed it by two days.

Mark and Andy were there. They said the band ran through the new song - We Are The Champions - a few times so the audience would be familiar with it for the recording, and after three takes played a surprise fifty-minute concert. What a unique experience, that I missed out on by two fucking days.

Empire Pool, Wembley was a much nicer venue than Earls Court. I got to see Queen there three nights running in May 1978. On this tour they opened with the fast full band version of We Will Rock You and included the brilliant It's Late, which for many years was my all-time favourite Queen track, in the set. The low point was probably Get Down, Make Love, but the gigs were brilliant. Electrifying.

Following this tour they released the Jazz album, which was a bit disappointing. For the first time, there were more duds than gems on a Queen album. The only track I really liked was Jealousy.

I was in the HMV shop in Oxford Street one day in 1979 and there were three or four copies of Live Killers for sale, autographed in gold ink by all four members of Queen. I didn't buy one because I'd already got a copy of this (disappointing and lacklustre) album. I wish I had. They go for between five hundred quid and a grand these days.

Later that year they released Crazy Little Thing Called Love. I gave it a listen. "That's fucking crap," I spat. "The worst thing they've ever done. The final nail in their coffin."

You could say it grew on me after a while.

Queen went on tour at the end of the year. It was called the "Crazy Tour", as they were playing small venues. I got to see them three times that year, first at the Lyceum in central London on 13th December - fantastic, me and Kate were right at the front! The following day I was so hoarse from cheering and singing my lungs out that I was sent home from work by a manager who thought I was suffering from a bad throat infection.

The following evening it was the Rainbow in Finsbury Park. But the best was yet to come: their gig at the Tottenham Mayfair (formerly the Royal nightclub) five days later remains the best concert I've ever been to. A full account of this concert is elsewhere on this blog.

A year later, another tour, to promote the albums Flash Gordon and The Game. Two nights at Wembley Arena (formerly the Empire Pool) this time, 9th and 10th December. I woke up on the morning of the 9th to the devastating news that John Lennon had been murdered. That took the shine off the prospect of going to see Queen.

I still went. I was in the balcony, with a side view of the stage. At one point in the concert, with no announcement or fanfare, they played Imagine. Just Freddie and Brian. Freddie had the lyrics on a sheet of paper. It was the best moment of the whole evening.

My enthusiasm for Queen nosedived in the early Eighties after the release of Under Pressure. I didn't bother buying Hot Space until a few weeks after its release, and then only after I'd heard Back Chat. Bowie had replaced Queen as my favourite, and I just wasn't interested any more. Consequently I didn't bother to see them on the 1982 tour: the closest venue was Milton Keynes Bowl, and it just wasn't worth the effort.

Next time around, for the tour promoting The Works in 1984, they played Wembley Arena again so I grabbed a couple of tickets. Me and my friend Claire were in the balcony again for this show. At one point I mentioned how brilliant it would be if Bowie would appear with them to perform Under Pressure, but Claire pointed out that as the date was 4th September, it would more likely happen the following evening, on Freddie's birthday (it didn't).

Queen's "show-stopping" appearance at Live Aid (13th July 1985) has gone down in history as one of the greatest rock performances of all time, but at the time it was hard to figure out why: to an experienced fan like me, it wasn't really anything out of the ordinary. They were always that good. Usually they were better. But it was a revelation for the general public who'd seen them as some kind of novelty act or bunch of glam-rock throwbacks, and as a result they gained millions of new fans. I watched it live on the BBC that Saturday, recording it on VHS and - in stereo!!! - on cassette from Radio 1.

I missed the Magic tour, their final tour with Freddie as it happened. Following their Live Aid appearance, everyone wanted to experience them in concert so the shows got bigger and bigger. Wembley Stadium and ultimately, Knebworth Park. It was essentially a greatest hits show, with the band playing mostly their hit singles with little room for the deep cuts which were much more appealing for veteran fans like me.

I watched the Wembley Stadium concert on TV though, and they were on top form. The broadcast and subsequent home media release successfully capture the essence of the atmosphere you'd feel at a Queen concert.

As the Eighties faded away the AIDS crisis became more and more prevalent. The vindictive gutter press gleefully jumped on the bandwagon and harrassed any gay celebrity they could think of, including Freddie. Following his gaunt and frail-looking appearance at the Brit Awards in February 1990, they quite literally hounded him to the grave. For over a year these vultures were camped outside his home, hoping for a scoop and a hysterical headline, and every time he emerged into the outside world there were intrusive and sensationalised pictures of him all over the papers.

Not surprisingly, the vile S*n was the biggest culprit.

I thought: "you fucking wankers." - Roger Taylor on the British press

Like most fans, I was in denial. I didn't believe he was ill. I couldn't bear to believe it. There were repeated rebuffs from the Queen camp - "Freddie's fine, he's as fit as a fiddle" - that we latched on to. This became harder when the videos for I'm Going Slightly Mad and Headlong were released. Freddie did look ill.

Sunday, 24th November 1991, the headlines screamed: FREDDIE: "I'VE GOT AIDS". Just after 7:00 the following morning, Monday 25th, I was woken by my girlfriend rushing into the bedroom declaring "Gary! Freddie Mercury's died!"

They make his life a misery and hound him to his death, then pretend they care. Fucking wankers.

Monday morning. That was a very hard day to get through. At work, there was wall-to-wall Queen on the radio. The jokes started up already: rotten seamen, etc. I was so stunned that I could hardly concentrate on anything else. Queen had been a more or less constant presence in my life from adolescence through to my thirties, and now that was suddenly wrenched away.

That evening, the other half was out so I had the flat to myself. I got a few beers in to toast Freddie and settled down to watch the tribute shows on TV. I was able to keep it together until the premiere showing of Freddie's final video, These Are The Days Of Our Lives. He looked so ill, so thin and frail, so sad. What he must have been through, how he must have suffered. It was hard to believe that was actually the same man on the screen. I sat there and cried my eyes out.

Bohemian Rhapsody got a re-release and became Christmas number one again. John and Roger and Brian announced a tribute concert that would take place the following Easter. A plethora of cash-grab tribute books and magazines were rush-released; I bought them all.

The tribute concert took place at Wembley Stadium in April 1992. I went with a mate from work, Allan Harvey, but we got split up in the 72,000-strong crowd before the concert began (echoes of Hyde Park). The concert itself was a mixed bag: some genuinely emotional moments, and a hell of a lot of shite. Roger Daltrey and Robert Plant were just fucking terrible. Paul Young was OK. Bowie's performance wasn't exactly inspiring: he seemed to be making an appearance for the publicity, rather than to pay tribute to Freddie. And his "Lord's Prayer" moment made me (and the rest of the world) lose the will to live.

Elizabeth Taylor made an appearance, giving a speech about the AIDS crisis (man in crowd: "Get 'em off!" Liz: "I'll get off when I'm finished!"). Elton John gave a solid performance of The Show Must Go On and duetted with the notoriously homophobic Axl Rose on Bohemian Rhapsody. The climax of the show, featuring Liza Minelli (one of Freddie's favourite performers) trying to sing We Are The Champions was just plain embarassing.

The highlight of the show was, without a doubt, George Michael. He gave a fantastic performance of Somebody To Love, '39 and, with Lisa Stansfield, These Are The Days Of Our Lives; as live performers go (those that I've seen, anyway) he's second only to Freddie. I still think this was the only part of the concert that stands up to repeated viewing.

Three years later Made In Heaven, Queen's posthumous fifteenth and final album, was released. This was ingeniously cobbled together from bits and pieces Freddie had recorded before he got too ill, outtakes from previous albums, and a couple of re-worked Queen versions of Freddie solo tracks. Despite a couple of crappy fillers (My Life Has Been Saved, indeed) it was their best album for years. I bought it on the day of release and sat there that afternoon getting hammered on Tungsten lager and listening to these precious sounds.

These days "Queen" (minus John) are still touring with American Idol contestant Adam Lambert as their frontman. I'm not really interested. I'm not a fan of Lambert, I don't like the Broadway-style approach the band take these days, though a few people I've spoken to have said it's a good show. I'm content with the eleven Queen concerts I attended in the Seventies and Eighties with Freddie Mercury at the front of the stage (even though the last one was over forty years ago).

It's fairly safe to say Queen have stood the test of time. They're still immensely popular some fifty years after their first release, even though increasingly these days their fanbase weren't even born when Queen were in their heyday. Those of us who experienced Freddie Mercury on stage are beginning to die off now. But Queen still keep bringing joy to new ears, and I'm quite confident that their body of work will still be appreciated in another fifty years.

QUEEN

My experiences

Hyde Park: 18th September 1976

Earls Court: 1st July 1977

Empire Pool, Wembley: 11th / 12th / 13th May 1978

The Lyceum: 13th December 1979

Rainbow Theatre: 14th December 1979

Tottenham Mayfair: 19th December 1979

Wembley Arena: 9th / 10th December 1980

Wembley Arena: 4th September 1984

Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert, Wembley Stadium: 20th April 1992

[bremser]

Robert Frank on Ocean Boulevard

The late afternoon light, palm trees, their shadows and a covered car are elements so classic to LA and Southern California that Robert Frank's "Covered car -- Long Beach, California" could have been taken anywhere from San Diego to Santa Barbara.

I’ve been living in Long Beach for a handful of years and the photograph lives in my head rent free, in a good way, considering how much the prints can hammer for. I was out doing errands recently, stuck behind a delivery truck on Ximeno Ave, saw a covered car next to a palm tree for the 100th time and decided to find out where this was. The actual location is not obvious, Long Beach isn't a small city, without a street sign or house number, you can spend a lot of hours on Google maps.

In 1955 Frank was awarded a Guggenheim grant to document America through a road trip. He drove 10,000 miles, took 767 rolls off film, made 1,000 work prints from those selections. And edited those down to the 83 photographs of "The Americans," which became one of most influential photo books of the 20th century. (A signed, first edition can sell for $10-25,000.)

In the final edit of "The Americans," Frank pairs the covered car in a devastating way with a covered body ("Car accident—U.S. 66, between Winslow and Flagstaff, Arizona") on the following page. The sequence is a classic example of the art of photography in book form.  

work print for "Covered car -- Long Beach, California" with related contact sheet number in red pencil

A big 2009 exhibit about "The Americans" displayed many of Frank's work prints, contact sheets, along with prints for every page in “The Americans.” The exhaustively researched catalog included each contact sheet for those 83 final prints. The Frank archive is at the National Gallery of Art and they have over 600 contact sheets from the project online. In the contact sheets, you can see frames Frank shot before and after the frame that ended up in the book. The Long Beach visit occurs in contact sheets 537-540.

10 Frames from Contact Sheet 537 related to Ocean Blvd, Long Beach

Contact sheet 537 has the sequence with “Covered Car -- Long Beach.” It combines two different rolls of film, ten frames are from Ocean Boulevard in Long Beach (made famous by LBC’s 2023 poet laureate, Lana del Rey). The other twenty frames are from a roll of film shot at a recreation center or school auditorium, of a marionette show for children.

Robert Frank, frame 5 on contact sheet 537, facing south, 13th Place, Long Beach

Seven of the ten frames feature the covered car. Frame 1 is missing, possibly a throwaway while loading film. In the first five frames, Frank shoots the covered car at the end of the street, you can tell he's interested in the scene. He could have parked his car and got out, or shot these frames from his car window. The photos show a dead end, leading to … white sky. Living here, I immediately had an idea of where this might be. 

On the west side of Long Beach along the bluff overlooking the beach, there's a series of half block streets named "place" that jut south from Ocean Boulevard. Each dead-ends at the bluff, allowing beach access and real estate with water views. Some still have the “end” signs you can see in Frank’s frames. So, which one was it? In 68 years the bluff has experienced a lot of development, large towers built, original Craftsman-era homes torn down.

The details help identify the location: low slung garages (frames 2-6), the space carved out in the sidewalk for the palms, the glimpse of a two story building in the frame (frame 7), with a vent in a particular location. When you overexpose the MOMA jpeg, you can see a number: 20. 

(left) 13th Place, Long Beach 1956, (right) December, 2024

Frank’s covered car was located at 20 13th Place. The garages there still have the number 20, though some have been rebuilt. The two-story building, built 1917, still has the vent in the same location. Interestingly, after taking five shots of the dead end, he only takes one frame of the covered car framed by the palm trees.

The next frames were taken further down Ocean Boulevard, about a half mile. A man, woman and child walk towards Frank, while on the right side of the frame the beach is visible. A woman is on a bench facing the beach.

Robert Frank contact sheet 537: Ocean Boulevard, Long Beach, (left) facing east, (right) facing north

He stops and takes a portrait of her. She’s near the corner of Ocean and Lindero - a house and bus stop are visible in the background, that (infrequently arriving) bus stop is still in that location. The angle of the shadows from the palms indicates very late afternoon.

(left): Woman seated on bench--Los Angeles [sic], 1956, (right) Ocean & Lindero, 2024

In between “Covered Car” and “Woman seated on a Bench” is the Municipal Art Center (now called Long Beach Museum of Art). If Frank had stopped there, the 1955 Long Beach Juried Art Show was up, a show of mostly local painters. The museum was housed in a distinctive historic mansion on the bluff that would have been impossible for Frank to miss on foot or even if he had driven the half mile.

Robert Frank contact sheet 537: the marionette show

The remaining question about contact sheet 537 is: where is the location of the marionette show? There's a park one block north of Ocean Boulevard that had a recreation center with a stage. It's possible Frank skipped the art museum for the rec center.

Besides identifying the location of the covered car, the other question I had: What was Robert Frank doing in Long Beach? He didn’t just drive down to look for cars and palm trees. The other contact sheets (538-540) and work prints answer this. In a follow-up post we'll look at the rest of Frank's day in Long Beach and give it an exact date.

Related to the topic of locating places and people in "The Americans":

"Robert Frank Goes to Bunker Hill" - a 2021 investigation to find the location of Frank's photo of a building on Bunker Hill, downtown Los Angeles. Deliciously deep dive that involves building permits for the neon sign in the photo and a tour of Bunker Hill via the contact sheet.

In Search of the Places in Robert Frank's "The Americans" - Nicholas Dawidoff, 2022, locates a handful of photos

"Elevators, Americans, Missed Connections" at the SFMOMA version of the 2009 exhibit, a woman (the elevator operator) recognized herself in one of the photos!

Alamo Square, San Francisco - my 2008 photo of the spot Frank's portrait of the couple was taken (he said this was his favorite photo in the book). He was probably using a wider 28 or 35mm lens to take the portrait.

[eustasskiddsprosthetic]

I have this Lawlu fic idea called "The City of Light" in my drafts. I'm most excited about writing Law here. He's a pirate who disappeared a century ago and no one knows where he is. That is...

In the present day, Luffy stumbles upon an island that's seemingly abandoned. Usopp refuses to go, claiming he has 'fear of new islands diseases'. At their campsite, Usopp suddenly disappears. Whatever, Usopp probably got cowardly—nothing new. He and Zoro push on!

They end up on a city made of white gold. It's shiny, it's brilliant and sparkling. They're greeted by a handsome man who's older than them both but speaks kindly and warmly. He shows them around, feeds them whatever they want and gives them nice clothes. He promises to keep a look out for Usopp, but there's a weird look in his eye Zoro could not ignore. It gets worse when Luffy looks positively smitten.

One night, Zoro turns to Luffy and says, "Hey, this is nice but I think we should go back. I don't like the way he looks at you." Luffy just blinks, "Why?" Zoro explains, "Usopp's gone and I think he did it." Luffy never saw Zoro this nervous before but he agrees to be careful. The next day, Zoro's gone too. Whatever, maybe Zoro got lost. Zoro will come back. He always does!

(TW: Cannibalism.)

The next morning, Luffy sees his host under a waterfall while exploring the forest. That's when Luffy really sees him as a man, a gorgeous, sexy, irresistible one. He turns to Luffy and smiles. He invites Luffy to come bathe with him, which is an excuse for him to feel up Luffy approvingly while stripping him. He touches Luffy everywhere. His chest, his abs, his hips. He is just about to come closer until...

A plant nearly bites off the man's head. Then some sleeping gas.

Amidst the confusion, Usopp grabs Luffy and runs away into the forest, runs as far as he can back to their ship. Usopp tells Luffy that this guy's really fucking dangerous. He 'disappeared' because he got chased by this huge white bear demon (Bepo's sulong form) with shining blue eyes while collecting firewood. With enough effort, Usopp finally defeated the bear. That's not all. Usopp saw him try to lure Zoro into a cave by conjuring phantoms of Kuina demanding a rematch. The guy eats people in said cave. For a brief moment, Usopp swore he looked ancient, all wrinkly like a raisin as he devours them and only when he's had enough does he revert back to his youthful appearance. Just before Luffy can process this information, the man catches up to them and he is FURIOUS. He drew his sword to kill Usopp but Luffy pushes him off and punches him back. Luffy tells Usopp to run away and take care of Zoro and the others.

Luffy's unsure of what to make of this, but he decides to stick around just in case. By this point, Luffy's half in love. He did not want to think his first love could do anything bad...

The next day, Luffy stumbles upon a cave. When he looks inside, that's when he finally understood Usopp's urgency. The man was eating someone and was half-way through eating his arm that he looked up and saw Luffy. Luffy just walks up to him, finds the locket that accidentally dropped on the floor. He opens it and recognises the people inside. Luffy said he would leave the island to return the locket to the proper owner no matter what. The man's livid now.

They get into a heated argument about the world being dangerous or whatever but that doesn't matter. Right after Luffy says that he has his crew to protect him, the man knocked him out unconscious...

[maria-of-the-waves]

The Kingdom of Life

This is an idea that has been brewing in my mind for a while and was confirmed in my head when I looked at the map of the western continent (o_ _)ﾉ彡

You see this, the desert of death and the Kingdom of Askosan are the same size, that means that there is nothing stopping the City of Life from becoming the Kingdom of Life ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ

It has already been confirmed to us in history that attempts have been made to create new cities in the Desert of Death, so it is not crazy to think that if more had been created, it would end up becoming a Kingdom with its own culture.

What's more, in chapter 316 we are told that only a necromancer will be the new king/queen of death because they are the ones who know the most about the pain that darkness can cause and still handle it ╰(▔∀▔)╯

Not only that, the Night's Exultation is a gem that belonged to the Queen of Death and gives us a great clue about what could be the main jewel of a crown or jewel that marks royalty ヽ(；▽；)ノ

Now that I've explained the reason why I came up with this AU, here are my ideas for it:

The divergence began when the Queen of Death founded the City of Life and appointed a family of dark elves to run it when she I couldn't do it anymore.

She designated this family with a magical huadian that would mark who is worthy to rule, so if one day the family were corrupted their right to rule would be eliminated and assigned to some other family that was worthy.

After the final battle againts the Queen of Death and the Church of the God of Sun it became common knowledge that the next King/Queen of Death would only be a necromancer and the most loyal dark elves built a palace in the capital which was sealed only to be opened when their next King arrived.

The ruling family began to rule and was recognized as an archduchy (The highest rank of nobility below royalty) and a branch of the royal family.

With the construction of more underground cities and towns, an aristocracy began to be created that will govern their respective territories, making sure to remain firm in the principles of always being faithful to their people and helping them in every way possible.

When humans began to escape from Dubori territory to the Desert of Death they were welcomed as citizens of the Kingdom of Life.

With each generation the population continued to increase in both humans, half-breeds and dark elves which caused the kingdom to grow and prosper while the culture developed obtaining things such as harem pants, the wearing of veils on the face and hair and hena tattoos

The archducal family remained faithful to the first queen and for generations humans and dark elves mixed, causing that although the most recent generation (Obante and his offspring) were mostly dark elves the percentage will vary.

At some point, Alberu's mother decided to travel the Continent and ended up as King Zed Crossman's concubine, but since they both fell in love, she did not care much about her new position.

Tasha didn't like this very much but accepted it until she found out that her sister was pregnant and immediately went to help her by disguising herself as a maid.

From here everything goes as canon until during a return visit to her native home Tasha ends up rescuing Mary who became a necromancer, the first in centuries.

During Mary's recovery in the capital's hospital someone leaked the information that the future Queen of Death had been born, and the entire Kingdom began to celebrate the arrival of the future Queen.

Due to the social pressure of taking the throne in the future when she is only 10 years old Mary felt overwhelmed and asked Tasha to stay with her.

Tasha accepted and during the time she took a break she and Mary formed a mother-daughter bond which was solidified when Tasha asked Mary if she could adopt her by blood.

Mary accepted and once the ritual was completed she became a dark elf half-blood, maintaining her status as a necromancer.

His web scars turned white due to the concentration of dead mana and he obtained the huadian of the archducal family in the same color.

I imagine that from here things would go as in canon with the exception that Mary would get lessons in etiquette and politics while she travels throughout the Kingdom of Life to meet her future subjects.

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Hugh

Masterlist

Late-19th century whump. A little backstory that popped into my head. This is probably a year and a half before Hugh helps hold August down for first aid.

The first time Wyatt lays eyes on him, he almost dismisses it as a trick of the light. 

It’s pissing down. A rainfall so unrelenting, it hits the ground twice. He’s only lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the boy because Theo’s word has sent him looking down every alley and around every corner. A week and no sightings have him questioning Theo’s reason but not the continued search. 

“This one looks like he’s never known warmth.” 

Theo’s words have been running through his mind since he heard them. Some misguided hope pushing him to prove Theo was laying it on too thick. 

Between a stack of crates and sacks of rubbish, a flash of pale skin and a sharp elbow. An even sharper chin when the boy turns, sensing himself observed, and he’s gone. 

Wyatt rushes down the alley after him, cobblestones slick underfoot. He bursts onto the street, skidding to a halt to squint through the rain but there’s no sign of the boy. 

It’s another fortnight before Wyatt sees him again. 

He starts to wonder if the boy caught his death, coatless on the streets in a late-October rain that fell without pause into November. The thought doesn’t stop him checking all the nooks and crannies everywhere he goes. 

The boy has his back pressed against a shed in the alley beside a bakery. A lamp illuminates the mouth of the alley. One step closer and his shadow will be the alarm that sends the boy running. With a few yard’s head start, there’s no hope of catching him this time either. Wyatt stays where he is. A full five minutes he waits, afraid to even reach up to ash his cigarette, the boy just as still. Hiding but to what end? He’s looking away so there’s no telling where his focus is. Still wearing the same short-sleeved undershirt, no jacket or coat to speak of. He’s rail thin and visibly shivering.  

When the boy finally turns, he stiffens immediately, tension visible in the wiry muscles of his forearm. His unkempt hair is a dark curtain over his profile but as he pauses, a short huff of breath is visible in the winter air. The vapour hasn’t even dissipated before he slips down the throat of the alley and lets the city swallow him.  

Wyatt doesn’t stop the third time. 

The boy is tucked behind a stack of empty barrels behind a pub, legs folded up against his chest. In the few strides it takes Wyatt to walk by, the boy passes something between his thin fingers, carefully setting it down with a few other objects collected at his feet. He doesn’t look up and Wyatt lets himself get too optimistic. 

Needless to say, he’s gone an hour later.

Wyatt sighs, hand carrying a small jug of milk and a pasty falling to his side. Perhaps it would have been better to try to speak to him, empty words or not. 

He gives the closest barrel a half-hearted kick of frustration and something clinks against the cobblestones. Wyatt stoops, ducking into the alcove and marveling at how the boy managed to fit in such a space. He finds a pristine-white seashell and a tiny bell the size of his fingertip. It’s a cheap thing, crudely hammered into the small shape, gold paint on the tin scratched and chipped. Twisting his arm at angles he would not normally volunteer, Wyatt discovers the rest of the hidden cache. 

He leaves it undisturbed, replacing the felled treasures and his optimism with them. Wyatt tucks the bottle of milk and the wrapped pie in the niche. He hurries off, lest the boy find him lurking and stay away all the longer.   

The next day, Wyatt returns to a bottle full and the food uneaten. Untouched would be a better term, as though the boy has marked it forbidden even to the vermin. Wyatt already knows the collection will be gone but he checks anyway. He could laugh, save the fact that the task of finding the boy has been stalking him as much as the other way around. Every time he steps out, any time he can’t sleep. Just another loop around the block, a quick check down a quiet lane, a diversion down the East side of the river. 

Theo tells him to throw the towel in. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.” 

He doubles down. 

Now he’s looking for something in particular. He catches sight of him a handful of times in the coming weeks. Never in the same place twice, never for longer than flash. 

It takes weeks. 

But the city isn’t as infinite as it seems. The perfect stage is inevitable. 

In the quietest hour before dawn, Wyatt does his usual rounds. He makes a habit of checking in on the boys who work the night shift before their replacements arrive. After a smoke with Tom on the bridge, Wyatt weaves his way behind a block of riverside houses, moss-covered garden walls stretching along one side. The smoke rises from the chimneys in thin whisps, hearths waiting to be reawakened after the home’s inhabitants. He passes the same hound as always, sleeping on the back step of the last house. 

He’s about to turn left at a dead end when he sees him. Sitting up on the wall, one foot swinging and the other knee pulled to his chest. The boy’s head snaps up, leg lifting in the same motion like he’s on a marionette string, moving to drop to the other side of the wall. 

“Wait,” Wyatt calls, gentling his voice. 

Even in the soft light, Wyatt can see his eyes narrow, but for some reason he pauses. 

Wyatt pulls one of Midge’s hand pies out of his pocket, wrapped in paper and tied with kitchen twine, something he’s never without these days. The boy can surely see it but Wyatt lifts it to show him anyway, then places it on the ground and takes a few steps away. 

The boy is not impressed. 

But the dog from the last house is. It rises from the ground, lifting its nose to smell the air. Not quite brave or hungry enough to skirt in front of Wyatt for the prize, but locked onto the scent. 

Wyatt takes another step away, in the direction of his turn, leaving a straight path between the dog and the pie, the boy watching scrupulously from the wall. 

The hound takes a hesitant step forward. 

Seeing Wyatt’s end, the boy curls his hands into fists. He glares daggers at Wyatt, not even bothering to watch the dog continue its advance. 

Wyatt is hard-pressed to hide his smirk, wondering if the huffed growl came from the hound or the boy. He scarcely breathes as he watches the standoff, thrilled with his gamble. No matter the end, he’ll learn something about this scrappy street shadow. Whether he likes it or not.

At the last second, the boy springs off the wall, snatching the little parcel from close enough to be bitten. But the hound only sits, hopeful for a morsel as he watches the boy bound over the wall, pausing only to throw a last bitter look at Wyatt before he disappears. 

@whumpy-writings @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @painsandconfusion

@wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash

@poeticagony-blog @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @melancholy-in-the-morning @crystalquartzwhump

@magziemakeswhatever @neverthelass @cakeinthevoid @inkstainsonmyhands12 @morning-star-whump

[halfmoonshines]

I'll Always Know You

summary; a series of events following bucky barnes and the reader

hurt/comfort, fluff

You had decided about fifteen minutes ago that this was probably your dumbest idea to date; now you were just miserable. The thunder boomed loudly overhead, the sky bucketing rain down on you like a small monsoon. You'd long abandoned the newspaper you'd fruitlessly held overhead to stay dry.

Why didn't you accept the ride from your work partner? You knew the storm was rolling in but you were so hellbent on being self sufficient.

You didn't hear the car roll to a stop on the empty street next to you, the rain putting a quiet blanket on everything but itself. But the voice that broke through definitely scared the shit out of you.

"Miss?"

You jumped, turning to the dark haired man standing opposite you. You probably would've thought his broad shoulders and defined muscles you could see beneath his quickly soaking wet shirt were attractive if you weren't immediately afraid of being murdered.

"Yes?" You replied with a subconscious step back.

His smile was tentative, hands half raising in a surrender. "I was driving by and noticed you fighting for your life against the wind. Could I offer you a ride?"

Every cell in your 21st century body said that you should turn around and start running. Never accept rides from strangers, even handsome ones. But it was truly storming now and you were still a twenty minute walk through the city home.

Sensing your hesitance, he tacked on. "You could either risk me being a murderer or almost definitely die to mother nature or pneumonia."

"Fair point." You followed him to his car.

--

Turns out, that would just be the first time you saw Bucky Barnes.

He showed up at your door three days after the rain incident, and you were almost freaked out if you hadn't been kicking yourself for not giving him your number.

"Sorry for just showing up, but I was wondering if you'd be interested in grabbing some coffee?" The arm positioned awkwardly scratching his head and the nervous smile on his face was enough to make your suspicions melt fully. Ted Bundy be damned.

"Let me grab my coat."

--

Turns out Bucky likes warm mochas, and also holding hands. You learned a lot about him over the next few weeks; his likes and dislikes. You fit together like the last pieces of a puzzle, you barely noticed the months passing and when you started leaving clothes at his apartment.

"You're kidding me, you've never seen Pitch Perfect? It's like quintessential 2010's cinema."

Bucky's laugh never failed to warm you inside. "I was a bit busy during that decade."

Your eyebrows scrunched, those little comments only confusing you. "The whole decade? What are you, 80?"

"Not quite."

---

"Would you still love me if I was a cat?"

"Yes." His reply was instant, warm arms wrapped around you while he leaned down for a kiss.

You dodged his lips, a playful smile on your own. "How would you know it's me?"

His hand found your cheek, pulling you in for a demanding kiss. The feeling of his mouth on yours always electrified you.

"I'll always know you."

---

The first time you felt he ever truly lied to you was a year in, which is a considerable span, as you tried to rationalize.

But there was no rationalizing the photo in your hand. A black and white snapped picture of your long term boyfriend, James Barnes, in a WW11 military uniform. Same boyish smile, same stance. The only difference was the haunted look that seemed to plague your Bucky.

There had to be an explanation, right? I mean vampires weren't real. This wasn't Twilight. A distant relative maybe?

A voice in the back of your head was insistent that this was him.

"Bucky?" You called him to the room before you could lose your nerve.

His smile was easy when he entered the room, but you couldn't help but notice the tenseness that filled him when he noticed the box you'd be rifling through.

"What's up, Doll?"

You lifted the picture along with an eyebrow, nervousness trickling into your stomach. "Who's this?"

He paused for only a second before it was like a switch flipped in him, and his smile eased back. "That's my grandpa. I don't really display his pictures for the sake of my sanity. We could be twins." He snatched the picture from you, depositing it back in the box.

"I'll say. You look the exact same." Your head was cocked to the side, a question still sitting on your lips.

"Strong genes."

---

He should've told her. No, he should've never gone back to her apartment. Never pulled his car over in that fucking downpour. All he ever brought with him was death and tragedy, and Bucky was terrified that she was about to make that list.

"We're five out." Sam's voice was carefully guarded, knowing his partner was on edge.

It was just a normal day a few hours ago when Bucky had come home to the door of their apartment hanging off it's hinges.

His panic was instant and only mounted when he searched the home and found nothing but signs of struggle and you missing. It was always a fear gnawing at the back of his mind. He had plenty of enemies, people he'd ruined the lives of. It was negligent to keep you in the dark, to even keep contact with you. But James Barnes was a selfish man.

When the jet landed and his boots hit the wet concrete, he wasn't Bucky. He was the soldier. And he would bring you home.

---

The sight of you, broken on the examination table was almost enough to take his knees out from under him. He put a steadying hand on the door frame to your room while Bruce gave him a diagnosis he had feared.

"It seems like they experimented on her. Traces of nodes connected to her neck and head. Until she wakes up I won't be able to tell the extent of damage, if there even is any. Worse case... she doesn't remember you."

Fuck. Bucky's breathing was shallow. If he could go back and rip every single man in that facility apart slowly, he would. Even then it wouldn't be enough to punish them.

Maybe you not remembering him was a blessing. Maybe you'd be safer.

--

The lights over you were like the blazing sun, and the only thing you could assume was that you had an insane hangover. Your brows pulled together, eyes squinting to recognize your surroundings. Vaguely clocking the IV attached to your arm, your vision started to clear and so did your thoughts.

Being at home, the bang of the door coming open, men swarming you.

And then nothing.

Your heart rate quickened, panicking now to inspect what was around you. You'd been taken, like some cliche movie. But by who? Why?

Just as your panic was mounting to a full blown freak out, your eyes found a familiar figure to your left. Head hanging off the back of the chair he was passed out in, your boyfriend was a more than welcome sight.

"James." Your voice was hoarse, scratchy, but he awoke instantly.

He was wordless, flying out of his chair and onto his knees beside you. Your handsome man was haggard, dark bags under his eyes and mussed hair. His warm hands roving your face distracted you from his gaunt appearance.

"Do you know who I am?"

His question confused you, as did the worry in his eyes. You brought your hand up to the one sitting on your cheek and gave him your best, exhausted smile. "I'll always know you."

--

a/n: have requests? submit here

[whisperinggbreeze]

Eight hundred years ago, there was a prosperous kingdom known as Xianle.

They were famous for their riches and extravagance, but most of all, they were known for their crown prince.

The Crown Prince of Xianle was pure and beautiful beyond comprehension, and skilled in both cultivation and the arts. By the way he was described and even worshipped, one even could have believed he was a god.

And then, at only seventeen years old, he ascended to heaven and really did become a martial god. The Heavenly Emperor himself even showed an interest in him. Many believed he was the luckiest boy in the three realms.

Three years later, the kingdom of Xianle fell into ruin.

An epidemic raged through the kingdom, leaving untouched only soldiers. On top of that, a part of Xianle known as Yong'An was also locked in a civil war with the capital. Soldiers from Yong'An overpowered the weakened Xianle and took over.

The remaining residents of Xianle blamed their god, their crown prince. If he couldn't cure them or save their kingdom, was he any better than a god of misfortune?

In reality, the Crown Prince of Xianle attempted to save his kingdom and failed. He was banished for descending from heaven to help mortals, and his efforts were for naught.

Soon after his banishment, the Crown Prince of Xianle turned his back on the world. He attempted to summon the disease that had plagued his kingdom, killing his last and most devoted believer in the process.

For hundreds of years, cities and kingdoms were laid to waste by his hand. He taught the crown prince of the new Yong'An kingdom, and then brutally killed the prince's family, wiping out half of the kingdom. Many believe he also orchestrated the downfall of the kingdom of Banyue. He became one of the four heavenly calamities, becoming known as White Flower Collecting Souls as his old name was erased by time. His eerie but docile title led many to underestimate his wrath and evil until it was too late.

For the past century or two, barely anything has been heard of White Flower Collecting Souls, leaving the three realms asking two questions: where has he gone, and when and where will he strike next?

---

part of the prologue of my hualian swapped role fic! gonna do a part for hc next 👀 I am slowly but surely working out the lore and plot, and I think this fic will probably mostly follow the plot of tgcf with a couple of alterations (still unsure what to do about lang qianqiu and his backstory, but I don't want to spoil whatever I decide to do in case the fic ever gets to that point)

i had a lot of fun writing this part! ive kind of forgotten exactly how the tgcf prologue goes but I tried to base the format loosely on that (the prologue is supposed to be told from an outsider point of view; this is basically XL's legend/myth/established or popular "story")

[rwbyconversations]

The Faunus/White Fang plotline was NEVER inspired by the Irish Troubles/IRA

A few years ago, someone posted a "theory" about how the White Fang plotline was based, not on the American Civil Rights movements of the 1960s such as the Black Panthers and Martin Luther King's protests, but on a similar conflict in Europe that ran for much of the 20th century in the British occupation of Northern Ireland, known in short as "The Troubles."

Recently, I saw it again as someone stole the post so they could feel smart, so I want to put this to bed definitively as an Irish person:

The Faunus and White Fang plotline were never based on the Irish Troubles or the Irish Republican Army. To be frank I don't think Miles and Kerry know anything about Ireland outside of making drunk Paddy jokes in their off-hours. (wouldn't be the first nationality they've made fun of)

Barring that they were both Civil Rights Movements that happened in the general post-World War 2 wave of the 1960s alongside other countries like India and South Africa, the Troubles and Americian Civil Rights movements have little in common. The big dividing point is religion. The Troubles were a conflict that at its core was as much a sectarian divide as it was fighting against British oppression. The Protestant/Catholic divide is still active in Northern Ireland to this day, with people getting assaulted for wearing the wrong clothes or having the wrong names. The city still has dozens of "Peace walls" scattered around as remnants of the conflict. The religious/sectarian divide is at the heart of the Troubles; you cannot do a depiction of it without at least acknowleding that divide. Even Captain Planet managed this, for Christ's sake.

RWBY does not do this. There is no religious element to the White Fang unless you blink and squint at Fennic and Corsac- and they don't matter to the story at large outside of being minibosses in Volume 5 and they are the only White Fang agents who are vaugely religious. There's no religious element to the Faunus at large unless you look up supplementary material and read about the Faunus creation myths in the Fairy Tales of Remnant series. Trying to be inspired by The Troubles without referencing the sectarian part of it, is like trying to write an two-question essay when you only read the first half of the first question- i.e., you're going to fail miserably. Yeah, there was a conflict, and a question can be raised of how appropriate the use of violence was. And that's it. There's not even an Irish character in the show or anyone who uses an accent, so safe to 100% say, no. The Troubles were never on Miles and Kerry's mind when designing the Faunus racism.

Additionally, there is a silver bullet debunking the entire theory. All the way back in Volume 1 on the commentary track, Barbara Dunklemann said this:

"If anybody needs a comparison for what the Faunus are in this world, it's kind of like if you're in the 1930s/1940s and it's the way African American people were treated and viewed."

After someone else asks for clarification, Dunklemann then confirms they meant the 1960s and the Civil Rights Movement by name. No attempt is made to correct Dunklemann or say the White Fang was inspired by other Civil Rights movements- it is firmly, 100%, solely about the American movement.

There you have it- a quote from the crew itself confirming without a doubt that the Faunus and White Fang were always based on the Americian Civil Rights movement, with no mention of the Troubles or the Irish sectarian divisions. Attempting to say otherwise goes directly against stated intent from the beginning of the show.

Now please, don't let this stupid, asinine theory come back a third time, the next time a white RWBY fan gets uncomfortable at the racism in the White Fang plot, and reaches to a different civil rights conflict as a deflection tactic.

tldr- keep my country's history out of your mouth if you only care about using it to deflect blame on the catgirl racism subplot.

[monstercampus]

WHAT. 😱 He’s cursed?!? ELLIE PLEASE, I AM BEGGING. 🙏 Lore on Plauge Doctor???? A snippet of his deep dark backstory perhaps? Pretty please? A cherry on top? 🍒?

Oh, it's nothing special! Just the story of an average young man with an insatiable lust for death flying a bit too close to the sun </3

(cws: death, active plague, sickness, mentions of rot, body horror)

In life, "Doctor" Symon Knox was as average as anyone else you might meet in that tiny village on the outskirts of Ordomia--a kingdom-turned-capital city as the world knows it now, far, far away across the seas from the campus he now finds himself employed. Being such a talkative, curious boy in his youth, it was no surprise to his elders that he dreamed of becoming a doctor, and perhaps one with impeccable bedside manner since he found it so easy to make people laugh their pains away.

But this was an era before cellphones and sterilization, and upon reaching his tender adulthood Symon found himself in the throes of an unimaginable plague spreading across the continent, wild and uncontrolled as it killed indiscriminately. Still in the service of his mentor at the time, Symon was given the role of scribe during the last moments of each patient's life. Chivalrous or wicked, senile or sane, he penned each word to save and keep on record for many months, and grew quieter and quieter as the job worked him past his own limits. In time, it felt as though the mask he donned was a feature of his own face, the leather and cloth part of his skin that stuck fast to his bones. Not long after that did his mentor fall from the illness, as did the people he knew and loved from his village as sickness swept over each poor, kindred soul.

Upon returning home to such a sight, Symon began penning his own last words. Page after page of nothingness slung into fire, ink spilled over half-spelled curses, quill-tip pierced through the tough parchment into his father's writing desk. Days passed into weeks and months, the sickly-sweet stench of rot invading the bed of crumbling lavender protecting the beak of his mask. Having adored the man so much in his early years of doctorhood, Symon wouldn't realize that his descent into madness was caused by his mentor's wicked desires--even if he had at the time, there would be no stopping his transformation. The Lich that had masqueraded as a well-to-do doctor, had taken a dirt-poor youth under his wing to teach him the practice of medicine, had crafted that same disease that would kill his corporeal body and take his protégé's life next.

And while Symon Knox unknowingly wrote out his last rites in his own hand, his body was changing to fit the mold he'd been given--the shape that the Lich had deemed worthy to house the fount of his unimaginable necrotic power. Four hundred years prior to present day, Symon Knox died at his writing desk, quill perched deftly in his left hand. Less than four days later he awoke, quill pierced through his gloved palm, with nothing writhing beneath his robes but the curse of rot and death. Blood drained to a pale-skinned touch he rose as a phantom of his true self, his blue eyes no longer clear but cloudy, his hair bleached to a cowardly white from the strawberry blond strands he inherited from his loving mother. Neither living nor a corpse, black vines twisted themselves into neat array over his skin like the fibres of muscle beneath it, only patches of pallour visible and even less with several centuries of rot between them. He may as well be nothing but a lich himself if not for that distinct craving for the true depth of his power, his knowledge lost but the presence of his master violently cramming itself into his brain--for four hundred years he must keep it out, keep it away, lest it overcome him in the absence of his psyche and steal away the last part of Symon he so desperately clings to.

Memories, emotions, senses, and functions trickle out over time, falling limp and blank and drawing to a close, but never quite reaching the point of dying. The body wants to die but Symon Knox rather wants to live, to see more out the polished glasses of his plague mask than he ever would as a young man dying of an incurable sickness. He may have died at twenty, but he lives to twenty-one every day--and although he never quite shakes the feeling of need, need to kill, need to die, need to watch the light leave their eyes, he's gotten quite good at shaking that voice loose and shoving it to the back of his mind. To find something else to fill it, that would do the job quite well....if only he had something to occupy every waking thought, someone so endearing he can't help but run them through his head every waking moment of every living day.

[freyasilverbough]

The Cave Bear and the White Wolf - Waking the Flaming Fist

Cw for blood, mentions of suicide/self sacrifice. Freya being a prickly bitch like normal. Don’t worry she gets better soonish.

Freya handed Halsin a small bag of gold to restock their supplies with the quartermaster - Talli, he learned - while she went inside to speak with Jaheira. He couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of hope, this small pocket of safety in a land he was sure had been all but lost.

As Halsin hoisted his pack over his shoulder - now brimming with bandages, food, fresh water, and herbs to make potions - he tried not to think about the Selûnite who’d captured his attention. She was beautiful, to be sure, the picture of elven grace beneath all the dirt and grime. Her beauty was almost matched by her strength, both mental and physical, and her wit was as sharp as the blade she wielded with that unwavering ferocity. Most soldiers found themselves encumbered by their heavy armor, but Freya danced across each battlefield with the elegance of a noble lady.

He admired her, this woman who was half his size and a hundred years his junior, yet mightier than any he’d ever met. He’d gotten the tiniest of peeks into her mind, and he wanted more than anything to tear down the wall of stone erected around her heart. He wanted to know everything there was to know about her.

As if his thoughts summoned her, Freya came barreling out of the inn, searching the square until her gaze landed on him. He was immediately on alert at the sight of her urgency, and dropped his pack to hurry to her.

“What is it?” He asked, searching her face. Her expression, normally a stoic mask, was excited and swimming with hope.

“There’s a Flaming Fist in the inn. He’s insensible and unconscious, but he keeps singing about Thaniel.”

————

Halsin and Freya stood over the Fist’s bedside as he mumbled his song in his sleep. Over and over, the sleeping man mentioned Thaniel. Freya had not misheard, it was true. They needed to rouse him, to find out what he knew, but how?

“It’s true, then. He’s met Thaniel. We need to wake him.” Halsin repeated his thoughts aloud to Freya as she studied the man.

“Look at his hands,” she said. “His callouses, those aren’t from wielding a sword. He’s a musician, probably played some stringed instrument or another.”

“His name is Art Cullagh. He had this letter on him when we found him,” one of Counselor Florrick’s guards said, handing an old piece of parchment to Freya. She took it, and her brow furrowed as she read it to herself.

“Duke Eltan…he’s long dead,” she whispered. Halsin racked his brain to remember where he’d heard that name, but in truth, the city’s politicians were ever changing and Halsin paid them next to no mind. Freya’s eyes flicked upward to meet Halsin’s. “He was the duke in Baldur’s Gate a century ago,” she explained. “The timeline matches. This letter is an order to investigate a ‘House of Healing.’ I’ll go get the others, and gather a party. We’ll head there tomorrow.”

Halsin wrapped a hand around her bicep as she moved to leave. “You shouldn’t go out in the shadows alone,” he whispered, earning him an icy glare from the paladin.

“I need you here, to watch him. Make sure he doesn’t succumb to whatever this is that ails him. He’s our best lead - our only lead. I’m trusting you with his life, and I’m asking that you trust me with mine.” She sighed when Halsin did not let go. “On my oath, I will return. You have my word.” He loathed the idea of sending her out into the darkness alone, and hated even more that she was right. Art looked like he was on the brink of death, and he was the key to finding Thaniel. If there was anyone who could traverse the shadows on their own, he knew that it was Freya. She would go, retrieve their friends, and return to him intact - or so he prayed.

“Be swift, be brave, and be safe,” he commanded her. She nodded once, her resolve hardening her features, and Halsin released his grip on her arm. He watched as she turned and strode out of the room with her easy swagger. Shoulders back and head high, the picture of confidence and strength.

He prayed to the Oak Father, to Selûne if she would listen, that his soldier would be true to her word and return to him.

————

The Flaming Fist in the room were visibly annoyed by Halsin’s incessant pacing. Freya had left close to two hours before, and there were no signs of her return.

She was probably slowed down by all the gear they had to lug from campsite to campsite. That, or she was a shadow-cursed corpse somewhere…

Halsin growled in frustration at his own thoughts. She probably was slowed down by the larger group and all of their supplies. She had given him no reason to doubt her capabilities, but even the most skilled of warriors could be overwhelmed.

So, he paced. He worried. He watched Art Cullagh as he’d been directed. He worried some more.

After what felt like an eternity, Freya came sauntering through the door. Halsin quickly closed the distance between them and checked her over, but there wasn’t a drop of blood in sight. She removed her gauntlets and flexed her slender hands, the calluses of her palms glinting in the inn’s soft light.

“Not a peep from the shadows, if you can believe it. The others are setting up camp near the lakeshore. Apparently, Shar is protecting Shadowheart from the curse. As much as I despise it, we might be wise to keep her close. Shar’s protection may be an asset. The rest of us will have to figure something else out, if we’re all to reach Moonrise, I heard the shadows are deeper there and our torches won’t keep them at bay.”

“You are not our only secret weapon, paladin. Isobel, a faithful cleric of Selûne, casts the spell that protects this inn. She might be able to aid you, too. She’s upstairs in her room.” Halsin turned to find Jaheira in the doorframe. Secret weapon? He had no idea what she was talking about, and Freya refused to meet his questioning gaze.

“Thank you, High Harper,” Freya nodded at the half elf in gratitude. She finally turned to Halsin, but rather than explain what they had talked about before she left, she simply inquired about Art’s condition.

“He’s restless, but stable. I can come and assist you in settling the camp, but I’ll stay here tonight.” Freya nodded, then motioned for him to follow. Before they could leave the tavern, she spun on her heel and nearly smacked into Halsin’s chest.

“Oh, by the way, there’s an extra wizard. I don’t know what he wants, but it seems Elminster Aumar decided to pay us a visit.”

There was never a boring day with this group. Halsin chuckled as Freya led the way, and noticed it was getting harder not to stare at the sway of her ass as she walked.

————

“By the fucking gods, Gale, are you touched in the godsdamned head?!” Halsin heard Freya shriek at the wizard as he helped Shadowheart erect her tent. “I mean, honestly, you’re meant to be the smart one among us, and this has to be the dumbest fucking shit I’ve ever heard.”

For one so devout, the paladin had a mouth that could make a devil blush. He’d always thought of them as being the pinnacle of righteousness, almost above typical mortals, but Freya seemed bound and determined to prove him wrong at every turn.

“The Absolute is a threat to all of Faerûn, and if I can destroy it and earn Mystra’s forgive - ”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about Mystra. She can rot in the Outer Planes for all I care, or better yet, she can come demand your suicide herself so I can smite her where she stands.”

“What, so you’re the only one allowed to make sacrifices in the name of this mission we’ve all been thrust on? The orb is powerful enough to rid the world of this cult, and you know that. What good is a sword against - well, not a god, but close enough.”

“You doubt my blade, wizard?” Freya’s eyes narrowed as she hurled the accusation.

“Never. But even you must understand that what we’re up against is beyond our mortal capabilities.”

“Your mortal capabilities. Last I checked, my goddess and I are still on very good terms. She’s at least not commanding me to kill myself.”

“And if she did, would you? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. We both know that if Selûne asked you to sacrifice your life to save others, you would throw yourself on your sword without question.”

Freya sucked in a deep breath, then turned on her heel and stormed away from Gale towards the tavern up the hill. Their shouting had drawn the attention of everyone in the party, and a tense silence settled over the camp like a cold blanket. Halsin approached the wizard, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the tremble in his lip. He’d lost weight, enough that it was obvious under his thick amethyst robes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The druid asked carefully. While he was typically the camp healer, the role of mediator often fell to Freya. Resolving disputes was something he had much practice in thanks to his time as an Archdruid, and while he despised it in the grove, he found that he wanted to help his new friends overcome their differences and come to an accord.

“She thinks she knows what’s best for everyone, but this isn’t up to her. It’s my life, my orb, my goddess.” Gale shook his head and ran a hand through his hair.

“She cares about you.”

“Funny way of showing it,” Gale mumbled.

“She’s angry because she cares about you. About all of you. Her goal is to see everyone here make it out of this in one piece.” He glanced in the direction that Freya had gone when she stormed off. She had a short fuse on her best days, but something seemed…off. She was wound tighter than normal, and Halsin suspected the curse wasn’t the whole of her troubles.

“Go,” Gale said, interrupting his thoughts. “Check on Freya. I will get over it.”

Halsin nodded at the human before clapping him on the shoulder and heading in search of their paladin.

————

He found her drowning her feelings with the tiefling wizard, Rolan, at the bar in Last Light. As he got closer, he heard Rolan snapping at her as she nursed her drink.

“If you hadn’t convinced us to stay, Cal and Lia would still be here. This is on you,” he seethed, causing a hot fury to boil in Halsin’s stomach. After all she’d done for the grove, for the refugees, he dared to speak to her this way? They would all be dead if she hadn’t come along.

Freya didn’t so much as flinch. “Then it’s my responsibility to bring them back.” Her voice was calm, factual, and ever so slightly slurred.

“They’re my responsibility!”

“Rolan, that’s enough,” the bard, Alfira, scolded quietly in an attempt to calm the other tiefling.

“Go. Save the world, or your own arse, or whatever it is you do.”

“Enough.” Halsin raised his voice as he towered over the red mage in warning. Rolan backed away with a final glower at the paladin, and Halsin took his seat next to her.

“If you’re here to tell me to apologize to Gale, you’re in for a hell of a fight, druid.” She finished what was left in her glass and reached for a bottle half full of amber liquid to fill another. Whiskey, he’d observed these past weeks, was her favorite. Good ale was a close second.

“I’m not. Something is bothering you, and I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Look around us and tell me you’re not bothered.”

“Ever since you talked to Jaheira earlier, you’ve been acting strange.”

She slammed her glass on the bar and gripped it until her knuckles turned white. “I’m not in the fucking mood, Halsin.”

“What happened?”

“Ketheric fucking Thorm happened,” she snapped. “Ketheric Thorm, not just risen from the dead, but invulnerable. I’ve been tasked with infiltrating his stronghold, and now I have to kill an invulnerable man and pray that he doesn’t fucking recognize me. That’s what happened. Are you happy now?” Freya grabbed the whiskey bottle by its neck and stormed away once more, leaving Halsin reeling in her revelation.

Ketheric Thorm. The man who unleashed the curse on this land, the man that he and his comrades had fought so hard to destroy a hundred years before, alive. Memories of that horrid day crashed into him like a tidal wave, and he found himself wishing for his own drink to push them away.

Instead of smothering his growing misery with alcohol, he returned to Art Cullagh’s bedside. He decided he would stay with the man until they woke him, or he eventually succumbed.

————

“Look alive, druid.” Halsin barely had time to catch the lute as it came flying at his face. Freya strode into the room with Shadowheart, Astarion, and Lae’zel in tow, the githyanki and the paladin soaked in black blood. It was a similar sight to the aftermath of Marcus’ failed abduction of Isobel, the Selûnite cleric who protected this patch of land and extended that protection to those who would need to travel outside of the shield’s boundaries.

“Found this on a surgeon in the House of Healing,” Freya explained gruffly.

“Are you hurt?” His eyes trailed up and down her form in search of injury, but unless she felt inclined to strip the black armor that covered her from neck to toe, there wasn’t much to be seen. Given her mood towards him lately, he found that particular scenario unlikely.

“The surgeon was some creepy follower of Shar. Wanted to take my eyes. I took his head instead.” Shadowheart huffed at Freya’s explanation. “Found the lute in a chest, look at the neck.” Halsin did as she wished, spinning the instrument until he found the letters A.C. carved into the wood.

“This is what we needed,” he whispered. “Well done, indeed.” His chest swelled with pride as he held the lute out to her, this day was her victory. She should be the one to break the man’s trance. “Go on, then. Maybe its music will restore him.”

“Or perhaps my horrid musical skills will finally put the poor man to rest,” she quipped as she removed her bloodsoaked gauntlets. Freya rolled her black sleeves up to her elbows, lithe muscles flexing with the movement. She took the lute from Halsin with a roll of her pretty blue eyes, and began to play.

With her prior comment, he was not expecting the easy notes that floated from the strings in a haunting melody that floated effortlessly through the air like a ghostly whisper. Her fingers danced across the strings with grace, each note carrying the weight of centuries past, filling the room with a sense of mystery and longing. A northern tune, to be sure. Perhaps a clue to her homeland, Halsin had guessed that she hailed from the frigid tundras of the north, but where specifically he could not say. Her playing brought tears to his eyes, until Art startled awake and he was once more brought back to earth.

Halsin laid a calming hand on the Fist’s shoulder and knelt as he jolted upright. “Calm,” he murmured, the bedside manner of an Archdruid taking over. “Breathe. You’ve been trapped in the Shadowfell for a century. Take a moment to clear your mind.” Freya set the instrument down carefully next to Art’s bed and knelt on one knee, nodding at Halsin to take the lead.

“You-you’re Halsin. Thaniel said to find you. He’s in danger, you have to save him.”

“I will. But I must know where to look. If I venture into the Shadowfell blind, I will never find him.” He met Freya’s piercing blue gaze. Perhaps he should have told her the whole of his plan before they got to this point, but she wasn’t exactly forthcoming with her own schemes.

“The landscape shifts and changes…lavender. Whenever I saw Thaniel, I always smelled lavender.” Halsin nodded and helped the man to lay back down before turning to Freya.

“Meet me by the lakeshore. I have what we need, but I’ll need your help to see this through. Be ready, this may prove…perilous.”

Freya’s eyes narrowed at Halsin’s direction. “What is it you’re planning to do here, druid?” she demanded.

“I’ll explain everything, after you’ve gathered your supplies. I suggest bringing anyone along that wields radiant magic. Fire, light, the works. Your own magic will be needed more than your blade, I’ll wager. Meet me there, and we’ll discuss what comes next.”

Freya studied him for a long moment, then turned on her heel and headed in the direction of their camp. A ball of anxiety took root and began to grow in his stomach. He knew the shadows would not be banished without a fight, and he was asking even more of this woman who had already done so much to aid him. A paladin of Selûne was perhaps the most well equipped to handle the threat that was about to come her way, but he’d seen enough great warriors fall to a well placed blow that he worried for her. He knew she would protect her friends - and him - no matter the cost, even at the cost of her own life.

Halsin took a steadying breath and retrieved a lit torch from the wall, making his way in long strides either to his doom, or their salvation.

[illusivesoulgaming]

"Directions"

Yesterday I saw an re music video on Youtube and one of the comments said "The alternate reality where the Raccoon City outbreak never happened". That was my inspiration for writing this short little thing.

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Summary: "In a world where the Raccoon City outbreak never happened, a cop in the subway gets asked for directions"

Relationships: Leon/Claire

Word Count: 699

Read on AO3

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The subway never had many people at this hour. All the better for him, he thought as he rubbed his eyes. The hangover from last night’s party with Jim was killing him. Downing half a vodka bottle after losing a coin toss didn’t seem like a good idea today, but it had certainly seemed good enough for him last night.

“Train arriving soon”

The computerized voice and the short jingle made him rub the sides of his head. Everyday he spent posted to the subway, the more he wished to get out of there. But rookies went wherever they were sent, not where they wanted to be.

“Just a few weeks and then we’ll have you in the streets. You’ll like the subway, Leon. Not a lot goes on there” Marvin had said to him. 

“ “Not a lot goes on there” Understatement of the century” the cop said as he stretched his arms, barely containing a yawn as he did. Still had to keep the appearance of professionalism.

“Why does a city of a hundred thousand even have a subway?” Leon said to himself as he watched the few people that went in and out of the arriving trains. There were a lot more around rush hour, but still, he didn’t think it justified the number of trains or even the existence of the system in the city. “And Warren said they’re going to expand it even more next year. Must be laundering money or something. I should look into it”

“Give it up, mayor Warren! You’re under arrest” Leon said with his gun drawn as the door from the mayor’s office fell to the floor after he kicked it, a squad of police officers and the S.T.A.R.S unit behind him backing him up as he entered the office “You’re nothing but Umbrella’s puppet, taking their dirty money in exchange for letting them do as they please with this town, but it ends now!”

And just as he was exiting the building with the mayor in cuffs, ready to give his statement to the waiting reporters and their flashing cameras, a strong pull in his shoulder snapped him back to reality and out from his daydreaming.  

“Hello? Civilian contacting planet cop. Anyone in there receiving me?” 

Leon shook his head as he turned to see a redheaded woman in a leather jacket that left her toned arms exposed, black fingerless gloves and long brown boots staring into his soul with a very annoyed expression set on her face.

“Yes, ma’am, how can I help you?”

“Glad to see the city officers being so aware of their surroundings. Only had to stand here for a minute before you noticed. Do you know what station goes to the police department? I’m going to see my brother?”

“Take the train to Redstone Street Station. Once you exit, it’s only a short walk to the department”

“Good. Thanks” the woman replied “By any chance, do you happen to know if Chris Redfield is currently there?”

“Sure is. At least was when I left 2 hours ago” Mentioning the time made him remember all the hours he still had ahead of him before his shift ended. He complained mentally as usual. "Huh, did Chris ever mention he had a sister? Can't remember"

A bright white light began filling the tunnel, and shortly after the big red train arrived and stopped at the station.

The woman stepped into the train, and shortly before it closed, Leon spoke.

“Hey, tell Chris he still owes me 5 bucks”

The woman chuckled “Will do. He owes me money too. What’s your name?”

But before he could answer, the doors slid close and the train moved away from the station.

“Meh, whatever. I’ll tell Chris the daydreaming blondie cop at the subway station told me that you owe him money” Claire said to herself as she watched Leon slowly fading away into the distance as the train entered the tunnel.

“He’s cute. In that dorky way kind of cute” she thought as she sat down and turned on her walkman, put on her headphones and lost herself in the music as the train took her to her destination.

[keepsmagnetoaway]

X-Men 50 (November 1968)

Arnold Drake/Jim Steranko

For its half-century, X-Men goes all out with an absolutely groundbreaking, balls-out crazy issue with easily the finest art the series has yet seen, starting right off with the cover.

That cover is by Jim Steranko, who also drew the interiors of this issue, and my god is he good at it. Steranko drew extensively for Marvel in the 60s, especially Nick Fury/SHIELD stories, and almost always wote as well: this and the next issue are rare instances of him drawing someone else's script. Steranko was amazing - he brought a level of creativity that verged on surrealism to the medium. He also, as you can see, designed a new logo for X-Men, which became iconic in its own right. That cover is followed immediately by the deeply atmospheric, radically composed first page.

And then that is immediately followed by a two-page splash of an impossibly strange vista, including the issue's title in monumental stone. We're not past the scene setting and this is probably the most exciting issue of X-Men ever.

Steranko clearly owed a debt to Jack Kirby too, and he brings back some of Kirby's high weirdness, including the characteristic energy dots and the bizarre machinery - but he pairs it with a stronger sense of human form and a radical use of colour. This, again, is the very next page. Plot-wise - oh, right, there's a plot - this is Lorna Dane being mysteriously techno-crucified by Mesmero.

Unfortunately there are also some normie X-Men in this issue, trying to break into Mesmero's San Francisco home - but after a fight they too are spirited away to the city in the desert as things like storytelling logic begin to break down in the face of the art.

Look at this! Just look at it!

The machine does indeed turn Dane - now revealed to be Magneto's lost daughter - into a villain queen, arriving in another splash page of massive daring and wild perspective.

It's almost embarrassing to see the regular X-Men in their dorky costumes and leaden wisecracking interfering here.

Fuck! Look at this!

That panel was Lorna Dane revealing that in fact she's not evil: she has simply been massively empowered and was playing along, and then saves the day in a single burst of blue-white force. But it's a double-twist, because machine's true purpose...

...was bringing Magneto back. Incredible. Masterpiece. Indisputably the best issue of this series so far. Steranko also drew the next issue and then never drew X-Men again and I'm so mad about it.