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#1920s au
bixels · 8 months
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Everyone in Ponyville knows these two have a thing going on, except for these two.
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antlergrave · 11 months
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1920s Masky ref
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irenetheeadler · 9 months
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Lady Iris Holmes
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Rewriting history in the 1920's
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Been listening to Alice Francis' - St James Ballroom, Shoot him down and The Correspondents' - Fear & Delight on repeat and my gosh, I've been wanting to draw 1920's inspired Drakgo for along time now! I intended for this to be a joker card of a full set of Kim Possible playing cards (@creatorping pointed out that Kim would make a great King, Monique a Queen, Ron the Jack (of all trades) and I think Wade as an Ace) but it's a bit too ambitious to fully shade all those cards as well, maybe I do it in the future but for now nope. Special thanks to my BF for knowing a shit-ton about weaponry and telling me what would suit the best. Got an entire list but I went in the end with Tommy gun. I'm not that good at drawing them tho :')
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The Loneliest (1/2) • Aemond Targaryen x reader
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Summary: 1925. They say that the Sunfyre Cinema is haunted. Floris, your best friend and neighbor, warns you not to spend all your time there, claiming that a ghost operates the movie projector. Still, The Sunfyre is your home, as you seek comfort to escape the loneliness that marks your days. CW: 1920's au, mixes fictional & historical elements. I envision Westeros as a stand in for the U.K here. The idea of movie projectionist!Aemond came from watching the movie Pearl, although this isn't 100% based on that. Smut will come in part 2. Words: 3k.
1
1925
They say the movie theater in the town of Dorne is haunted. 
They say it belongs to the heirs of one the wealthiest families in the European country of Westeros; four siblings who didn’t quite know what to do with their inheritance, so they spent their money importing pictures from the other side of the Atlantic. Regardless of whoever runs it, some said the movie business, despite its novelty, had no chance of lifting off after the war. Who could’ve had time for such banalities? 
Only lost souls, apparently. 
Lonely people seeking comfort in the dusty silver light that carries stories within it – desperately seeking a bit of magic in dark rooms to escape their isolated days. 
And you? You might be the loneliest of all. No family, no prospects, and a job at a sleazy pub that will run you to an early grave.
The Sunfyre Cinema still stands, for people like you, with its yellowish lights shining like a beacon of hope in the cold winter nights. 
Floris, your best friend and neighbor, warns you not to walk by yourself at night all the way to The Sunfyre. She’s often stayed with you when the midnight wind sounds too much like the cries of wounded soldiers she’s tended to. Those nights, bundled up by the fire with a warm cup of tea, she tells you stories of a ghost operating the film projector. 
"The ghost that haunts The Sunfyre", Floris calls it. "A creature like The Phantom from your favorite novel by Gaston Leroux." She’s recounted her tale so many times that she’s even started to spice up its details here and there.
Sometimes, the ghost was once a prince who had his eye taken out by his own nephews; others, the prince took his own eye as a gift for his grieving mother after having lost her husband to the Spanish Flu. Knowing your taste for spooks, she’s told you that he was the suitor of a witch, who asked him for his left eye as a proof of his devotion. 
You’re endlessly entertained, but in the end you can’t help but shake your head. You practically live in The Sunfyre and have never seen such an apparition. If there was truly a monster living in the projection room, you’d be the first to know. 
Almost every night after your work shifts, you either walk or ride your bike to the deserted town of Dorne to watch a picture. Rarely are there people there with you – mostly rows of empty dark velvet seats as your companions. Often, you’ve turned around towards the spear of light that emanates from the little booth at the very top of the room, trying to catch the shadow of the mysterious being your friend has told you about, but you see nothing. 
When the picture ends, you stay for a moment, fixing your hearing to detect a huff or a growl to indicate that there’s someone cooped up in there indeed, but nothing. There’s only the grainy static as the movie comes to an end, and the slide-and-click sound of the film roll being ejected. 
It’s as if the projector operates itself. 
Could there really be a ghost in there, after all? 
2
You really shouldn’t be out in the rain like this. Shouldn’t be spending your last coins on a movie ticket, but as you rush through the downpour, holding on to your raincoat for dear life, you cannot contain the excitement bubbling up inside you. 
You had this day marked on your calendar for weeks. The Sunfyre was going to project an adaptation of the Phantom of the Opera with Lon Chaney. The fact that the theater even bothered to import new releases despite you practically being their sole customer – at least the only constant one – amazed you. So you really, really, really couldn’t miss it for the world. 
Floris had insisted that it was irresponsible. That you weren’t going to have enough money left for your month’s rent, that you were gonna catch a cold if you went out on a stormy night. Yet, as reckless as it is, you don’t care. You had been looking forward to this from the moment you’d read in the newspapers that Carl Laemmle was producing an adaptation of the novel – and even more thrilled when you saw the poster for it at The Sunfyre. 
Floris was certainly right, but you were desperate for anything that would make your gray days seem a little brighter – desperate for any novelty to the lonesome routine that sucked the life out of you, morning by morning. Desperate for a way out of the countryside. Only the pictures could offer that escape. 
So you scurry out of the rain to shield yourself under the marquee of The Sunfyre, giddily paying for your ticket before making your way to the hall that has now become a second home to you. As in most nights, you’re alone despite it being a premiere, but this was to be expected for a monday night. 
The lights go down, and the ghoulish text of the opening credits immediately envelops you into an eerie atmosphere; a score of dramatic strings carries you to the first scene of the picture, showing a man dwelling along catacombs, unknowingly followed by a cloaked figure that hides in the shadows. 
You’re on the edge of your seat the entire time – biting your fingernails and grinning as you read each subtitle slide, following along the action and suspense all doubled over yourself on your seat. As if you’ll get any closer to the screen and be pulled right into the story. Especially when the character of Christine looms closer to the phantom as he plays the piano; she curiously eyes him from the back, hesitating on calling for him to turn. 
The camera shot changes quickly, just as she’s about to unmask him! And then! 
– the film jams, cutting the action, engulfing the hall in darkness. 
The spectral vibe of the film taints the room; the longer you spend in darkness as you wait for the projection to come back on, the more you tremble. The silence is so dense it could be cut with a knife; the distant sound of the storm being of no aid to your shivering. You hug yourself tight and repeat to yourself in your head – it’s just a movie, it’s just a movie, it’s just a movie. 
But an odd sound jabs at your mental spiral. 
A grunt. 
Followed by muffled curses and clanks – as if someone was struggling with the machinery in the booth upstairs. 
Tentatively, you turn in your seat, and your heart drops to the floor when you see a silhouette from a distance. 
Gulping down your courage, you rise from your seat and walk up the stairs, aiming to reach the top row seats that are inches below the projection booth. 
You rise to your tiptoes to peek inside the booth but a sudden flash of light blinds you. 
You recoil from the stab of light only to be met with the monstrous face of the Phantom after being unmasked. The frightful sight makes you plop back down onto the seats immediately, covering your eyes while you try to steady your breathing. 
From the space between your fingers you check for the scene to be over, and once you’re calm, curiosity stirs you to look up once more.  
What makes your breathing come up in quick pants is not the fear of the movie. 
It's the brief image of a man in the projection booth. 
Floris hadn’t believed you when you said you’d seen the supposed ghost. Not after she’d asked for you to describe him, and you found yourself at a loss for words. 
Alright, so you hadn’t really seen the man, merely his shadow. 
For all you know, it could've been an actual spirit in there. But it sparked a sense of determination, to see what the projectionist at the cinema looked like. 
You didn’t know why it compelled you so much. Maybe it was the deeply rooted ache in you to find a friend? To know more about the man who handled all the motion pictures you lived for? In your mind, he had the luckiest job in the world, and you wished to learn more about him. Floris, after all, didn’t share your interests. Found them odd, even though she always listened to you with great care 
“You’re always yearning for worlds that don’t exist,” she would tell you. “You’re so busy daydreaming about pictures that you’re going to miss what’s happening in the present. Embrace the real world, deary. It’s the only one we’ve got.” 
Two mornings later, you bike your way to Dorne, right before your evening shift at the pub. 
A silver-blonde woman in denim overalls, dirt-stained boots and a heavy wool coat was hiked up a wooden ladder, changing the names of the next features on the marquee. You recognize her as Helaena, for she normally worked in the ticket booth and greeted you with a kind smile every time – so pleased to see a regular, that she gifted you the pamphlets of the pictures you’d seen twice or thrice. 
You let her work, and instead wander around to the alleyway, until you stumble upon the door in the back of the cinema that had a sign hung up that read, ‘do not enter’. 
With fidgety fingers, you linger for a few moments, merely eyeing the door. 
What are you expecting to find anyway?, you ponder while chewing on your lips, over and over. Whoever lurked behind it most definitely wouldn’t want their privacy being intruded.  
Besides, what if you were banned from The Sunfyre for sticking your nose in places it didn’t belong? You’d rather be shot dead than risk not being welcomed in the one place that had become your sanctuary. 
But right as you’re about to turn the other way, the door opens. 
Both you and the man at the door freeze. 
The first thing you notice is a head of silver hair, before seeing the eyepatch over his left eye and a luminous violet-blue eye on the right – which looked big and hopeful until a frown cast a shadow over his elegant face.   
“You’re not supposed to be here!” he grunts, “Can’t you read the sign?” 
You flinch and recoil from his harsh tone, heart dropping to your stomach. “I - I’m sorry! I was just – I was just leaving.” 
You shake your head and make a run for it, but before you know it he grasps your hand and pulls you back. “Wait! I’m sorry. I know who you are.” 
“You do!?”
He’s just as flustered as you, with a pretty pink blush spreading over his cheeks and neck. Despite his height, he seemed to be trying to make himself smaller, with one foot inside the projection room and the left side of his face leaning sideways, extra conscious of the eyepatch, wanting to hide it from you. 
“Of course I do,” the man continues. He looks tough and hardened by life which makes his tone of voice an utter contradiction – all soft spoken and eloquent, with an accent that betrayed his upper class upbringing.
 “You’re our best customer. Hells, you’re the reason why we haven’t even closed in the first place.” 
“I am!?” 
“Hmm.” He hums in affirmation and continues to stare. The lack of an eye didn’t make his gaze any less penetrating. 
“I’m Aemond,” he breaks the awkward silence, offering his hand back to shake, which makes you smile, and heat to spread from within. 
“Aemond Targaryen. Me and my three siblings own this place. Were you looking for something today? We don’t have a matinee scheduled – I should know, I’m the projectionist.” 
So the legends were true – it was the Targaryens who owned the theater. No wonder he didn’t sound like he was from the countryside. You’re so struck untangling his words that it doesn’t even faze you that you were standing right in front of the subject of Floris’ nightmares and your own wonder – the ghost. 
And, well, despite his pale skin he’s certainly no phantom. In fact, he’s rather handsome and regal-looking, even if he’s wearing nothing but a simple white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, and black wool pants fitted around his waist with black suspenders. You shake your head once more, laughing to yourself as you search for a coherent reply from all the excitement you’re feeling. 
“No, not specifically. I…”
Should you confess that he was the reason you were here? Under any other circumstance, this probably would’ve been an idiotic thing to admit, but you figured, if you wanted to make a friend out of Aemond, you might as well be transparent from the start. 
“Well, I actually came by to see if I could speak to the projectionist.” You smile kindly at him, and delight in the way his eye widens in surprise, the way his stern lips tilt ever so slightly. “I wanted to thank him for the wonderful job he does. I…”
You look down with a little bit of embarrassment, but he leans a little bit to be on your eye level and nods, encouraging you to continue. 
“You see, I come here all the time, as you know,” you chuckle, “I suppose I wanted someone to chat about films with. I’m very passionate about them, and I’ve no one else to talk to.” 
It’s as if the gray clouds parted, bringing in a beam of sunshine shining right down on Aemond’s entire face, making his silver hair gleam and his crystalline eye twinkle as he grins at you – so wide, you can see a hidden dimple appearing on his cheeks. 
“You wanted to talk about films? With me?” 
You nod, finally offering your name – as you’d been too caught up admiring the man before you, you’d completely forgotten to introduce yourself. It makes him huff out a timid laugh that you instantly count as a win, as he steps to the side to let you into his little room. 
You soon note that the little projection room is far smaller than you had anticipated, though the size didn’t make for a messy space in the least. Every corner is neatly arranged; the walls are plastered with movie posters shelves full of film stock in their circular, metal encasing. 
When you turn, you sigh in awe, as if you were witnessing one of the wonders of the world: the film projector, mounted right before a tiny square from which the light filtered through and expanded onto the screen. You gravitate towards it, peaking through the window to look at the empty rows of seats below you. Of course Aemond would’ve noticed you, when he had this kind of panoramic view of the cinema hall. 
“It’s something to behold, isn’t it?” he murmurs from behind you. 
“It certainly is. You’re so lucky to do this for a living. I’m on my feet wiping tables and serving cuppas back and forth until my feet can’t take it.” 
He hums again – in what you’re quickly learning is a trademark of his – before you turn. You hadn’t expected to see a slight slouch to his demeanor, and that handsome smirk to have turned down, as if a cloud had passed through his face. A look to his left and you see it:  an individual bed with fuzzy looking blankets is pushed to one wall, 
“Wait, you live here? I thought –” 
“My father disinherited me and my siblings. Gave it all to my half-sister, his eldest from his first marriage. At first we didn’t know what to do with the money he gave us to keep us tamed, so we built this.  This is all we have now.” 
You can tell there’s more storming underneath his facade, but you refrain from asking. Instead, you murmur a simple, “I’m sorry. The war has been tough for everyone.” 
The last bit has you wincing mentally, feeling so lost as to what could be appropriate to say, weary of coming out too innocent and childish, when truthfully due to the isolation everyone endured during The Great War you feel like you’ve lost the touch for communication. Often at work you find yourself stuttering, unable to complete your sentences fluidly. Maybe it’s yet another reason why you preferred the movies. Anyone can understand images. 
Aemond seems to read you thoroughly, shaking his head with a half-smile before looking down. 
You wonder then if he had lost his eye because of the Great War. 
Wonder if he’ll tell you all his stories eventually. 
Aemond finally interjects your spiral of thoughts. “So what did you think of our newest feature?” 
“The Phantom!? I loved it! Thought it was terrifying actually, but so great.” 
Aemond shrugs, leaning against his movie shelf with his hands in the pockets of his suit pants. “It was alright. They definitely strayed from the novel to make some bits scarier. I found the make-up on Lon Chaney quite excellent, however.” 
Your chest warms, all self-consciousness from before vanishing, having found someone that speaks your language. 
Nearly all noon is spent with Aemond in the projection room, exchanging views about film and literature, and he even gives you a couple of pamphlets and flyers, after assuring him that it would be your absolute delight and pleasure to promote The Sunfyre at your workplace. You even tell him he’s welcomed there anytime he feels like it. It’s a bit of a trek from Dorne, and not an elegant place in the least –  much less for a Targaryen –  but at least the drinks were decent, and every now and again you were in charge of preparing the soup of the day, which, not to toot your own horn, was a favorite amongst patrons. 
After you’ve said your goodbyes, Aemond halts as you walk away, “Wait!” 
He turns inside the projection room and comes back to hand a little celluloid square to you. “Here.” 
You bring it up against the sunlight and feel giddy realizing it’s a still from the movie.  
“I cut this little bit when the film jammed.” Aemond confesses, making your heart swoon. 
“Won’t someone notice the missing scene?” 
He just shakes his head and smiles, “It must be only a second. No one will notice."
“Thank you.” You bring the delicate still to your heart and go on your way, completely missing the way Aemond was left gazing longingly at your figure for a moment before retreating to the confine of the cinema. 
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loserharrington · 7 months
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here’s some (sorta inaccurate) 1920s ronance
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and an alt version cuz i wasn’t sure i really liked the backgrounds 🤕
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happy-orc · 23 days
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bvttoneyes · 1 month
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❝ Down In New Orleans ❞
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Chapter Two; Down In New Orleans Summary; New day, more work. Just a slice of life with Donatella. Wait, who's that?
The sunbeams shone through the curtains, hitting Donnie's eyes like a laser. She stirred awake, groaning as she stretched her limbs out—making a small crack at her joints.
“Yeesh.. Shitty sleep. Nothin' coffee can't fix.” She smiled to herself, before spotting her kitten's judgemental look. “Don't give me that look, Vivi.”
Vivi was the only cat Donnie knew could roll her eyes at her owner. “Okay, rude.”
Sliding on her slippers, she walked through her halls, opening up the white blinds with a lazy smile. The soft hums of a tune came from Donnie, echoing through the small house.
Pouring the hot coffee into her mug, she heard the music from the street down the block start to play, indicating it was nearly work time.
It was always like that, they played at the exact same time everyday, and it was always 30 minutes before work. Donnie sighed with a smile.
“Good morning, New Orleans.”
And with that, she swigged down her coffee and headed up stairs to get dressed.
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Walking down the rocky paths, with a skip in her step, Donnie walked down the streets of Louisiana. The occasional young lady saying hello to Donatella as she walked past.
“Morning Dona!”
“Morning Betty!”
“Good mornin' Donnie, how's Vivi?”
“Healthy as always, Veronica.”
“'Tella, my dear, you okay?”
“Stop worrying about me, Maggie, never been better.”
The "flapper" women in town always took a liking to Donnie, whether it was because she sometimes slipped them an extra sugar for their coffees or just because they found her interesting.
They saw her as a friend, and vice versa with Donnie to them.
The Bell rung throughout the small café, people were already sitting down in the booths, the chef already whipping up a few breakfasts. Donnie hung up her coat and got to work.
Rush hour came quicker than intended. As soon as Donnie put on her apron—customers flew in. The echos of coffee and pastry orders filled her ear drums.
This was her speciality.
Flicking on the kettle and calling out the names of customers for their drinks, Donnie was quick paced today, never in the same spot, hopping from table to table—placing down meals from waffles to hot tea.
“Flapjacks for Mr O'Crowley?”
“Thank you, Don.” The man called back as his food was placed.
“Coffee for Molls.”
“Cheers, sweet.” Miss Molly smiled, taking the mug off Donnie's hands. Donnie placed down a small cup to Molly's daughter.
“And, last but not least—Hot chocolate for Lil' Tia here.” The small girl giggled a thank you. Placing down a napkin for the girl, since Donatella knew Molly's baby was a messy one with her food.
Going back to the counter, Donnie kept up her soft smile. She brushed off her skirt and looked up to talk to the new customer. “Mornin'! What can I getcha today—Huh. Mimz...?”
Looking over the counter, the short flapper glanced back up at Donnie—with a hint of alcohol on her tongue. “Donniiiiee! Baby cakes! Hiiiii!”
Cocking an eyebrow at Mimzy, Donnie poured her a cup of water. “Hey, Mimzy... Can I getcha somethin'? Or you just come 'ere for a chat?” She eyed the flapper suspiciously.
Mimzy was never just over for a chat. Especially after ghosting Donnie for 2 months. She wanted something out of Donnie. She could feel it in her waters.
“What? Can't a gal like moi talk with her best friend?” Mimzy smiled, with one of those salesmen smiles; y'know the ones that try and sell you everything.
“Mimzy, we haven't spoken in months. You gotta whole lotta nerve callin' me your 'best friend'.” The Creole scoffed at Mimzy's excuse.
The flapper chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck with a nervous smile. “Yea.. I got no excuse.”
Donatella passed her customer their strawberry shortcake before turning back to Mimzy. “So... Mimzy. Why are you really here?”
“...” Mimzy was silent with a guilty expression on her face. “Look, I know you don't like usin' that voodoo shit on people, buuutt—”
Mimzy quickly shut up at the sight of Donnie's cold and icy glare. “You need to shut up about that. Last thing I need is to get fired, okay?”
The short woman nodded, before asking again. “Can I get a refill on my water?” Donnie nodded, pouring more cold liquid in the glass.
Donnie turned away from Mimzy, looking at the menu to get her mind away from her hobby Mimzy mentioned just a second before.
“...Are you gonna order something?”
“What can fix a hangover?” Mimzy asked sheepishly. Donnie picked out a slice of cake from the glass sill.
“Fudge always helps me.”
The flapper nodded with a weak smile, before taking a bite. Covering her mouth as she chewed, Mimzy continued speaking.
“'Tella, I really need your help.”
Donatella rolled her eyes, glancing back at Mimzy. “With what?”
“Do you think your... Hobby... Can get someone out of debt?” Curiousity dripped in her tone, Mimzy must've gotten in deep shit to come to Don.
“What did you do.” It came out as a command rather than a question.
“Look. I borrowed some money from a guy a few months ago—and now he wants it back. But he's... Annoying, let's put it like that.” Rambling in, Mimzy took a sip of her water. “He really wants his cash. And I don't have it. I don't wanna get Alastor involved either—”
“Who the fuck is Alastor?” Donatella looked back with a puzzled expression upon her brown complexion. Was this the same Alastor she saw not long ago? Abigail's son?
“Y'know, guy who works at radio. He's a sweet guy, but I don't want to break his trust—”
Yep, mostly likely the same bloke.
Donatella rolled her eyes. “So you can break mine? What's in it for me, Mimz?” Spotting her annoyed face, Mimzy sighed.
Her Boston accent coming out thicker than usual. “You know I didn't mean to... That was months ago. And I said sorry!”
“Well sorry ain't good enough. You nearly got me caught by the police, Mimzy. And I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't even know you were committing a crime until the cops told me!”
“We're getting off topic. But I just want someone to help... deal with him. I have two months to get the money, but y'know me—I can't do that. I'm useless when it comes to any work that isn't clubbing.”
Donnie knew Mimzy wouldn't try and steal her money, especially when she was in a financial situation that not many want to be in. “What could I even do? Like to help ya?”
“...Well, we could—” Mimzy mimicked a slice on the neck with her finger. Making Donnie step back and furrow her brows.
“Don't even think 'bout it, Mimzy. Not doing that shit again.” She let out a hiss, making the blonde frown.
“I've kept your secret to myself this entire time, can't you do this one thing for me?” Knitting her brows together in annoyance.
Donnie paused for a minute. Flashbacks of what happened last time echoed throughout her skull. She shook her head, glancing back at Mimzy.
“I'll think about it. But for now, you don't say anything about this.”
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odd-g0ul · 9 months
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Hi yall :)
I wanted a new fnaf au like the pirate one and I couldn't think of one and then it hit me:
1920's mafia/mod AU
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And Foxy too cause y not
He's already in the pirate au
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I might be posting about this for a bit now but I'll still also post for the pirate au!
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bixels · 7 months
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More Rarijacks.
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antlergrave · 1 year
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1920s Alex Kralie ref
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littlebeesart · 1 year
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1920s au thus far!
on twitter I asked if people would be more interested in the 1920s (somewhat Speakeasy)AU or the 1940s (Noire)AU
And 1920s took the win! I am going to be working with my partner as they are the creator of this story and I'll be sharing loads more!
Totally hit me up with any questions you have!💛
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bradshawsbaby · 1 year
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The year is 1927 and you’re finally off to fulfill your childhood dream of exploring the hidden mysteries of Egypt.
There’s only one catch—you’re to be accompanied by the surly, brooding, impossibly handsome adventurer, Rhett Abbott.
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youregunnabemine · 3 months
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CHAPTER THREE; "Awkward is an understatement."
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{Y/N} flinched back slightly, eyes widening. Mr. Larkson was staring straight at her now. The two made eye contact, interest on his scarred face. She kept her eyes trained on him, furrowing her eyebrows slightly. After a minute or two of intense eye contact, {Y/N} looked away, swallowing thickly. 'It.. doesn't matter. Not gonna talk to him if I have any say in it.' she thought to herself firmly, stalking off to one of the other patrons. Almost half an hour had passed, and {Y/N} had forgotten all about the mobster sitting a few tables away, busying herself with preparing drinks. That was until she looked over slightly, and saw him sitting at a bar stool. She swore her heart stopped. When did he even get there? Soon though, she felt annoyance bubble to the surface. One thing. She wanted one thing - to avoid him. And now he was somewhere she couldn't ignore him. Begrudgingly, {Y/N} made her way slowly to him. She didn't want to, but she'd never hear the end of it from her boss if she ignored a patron. So, once she had found herself in front of the man, she offered her best smile. "What'll it be?" She asked in an almost chipper tone, though all she wanted to do was get the fuck out of there.
The man took one last drag on his cigar, before snuffing it out on the pub table in front of him. When he finally spoke, {Y/N} wished he had kept his mouth shut. His voice was rasped, gruff. It sounded almost guttural. She assumed the reason for his disturbing voice was all the scars - made her wonder how he had gotten such a bad injury. "You got Aquavit?" He had asked, leaning forward across the counter slightly. ..Aquavit? Okay, now that was something {Y/N} was sure they didn't have. {Y/N} shook her head, "Eh.. no, I don't think so." For a moment or two, his face went sour, "Well.. whatever." A small grin spread on his face, "Y'know, you're quite the sight," he mused, raising his eyebrows, "Got a name?" In that moment, every red-flag went off in {Y/n}'s mind. She didn't want this murderer knowing her name! But she wasn't stupid, and knew it was much easier to answer his question. "..{Y/N}, I'm {Y/N} {L/N}." He whistled appreciatorily, "{Y/N} {L/N}, eyh? Gorgeous." He chuckled. Truth be told; {Y/N} wanted to get the fuck out of here. Perhaps to Tord, he was having the time of his life, finally able to talk to his little lady. But {Y/N}? This was horrifying. She didn't want to be associated with some murderer
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skzsauce01 · 6 months
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Over the Moonshine
Synopsis: Although you enjoy dancing during your outings to 44th House, you are far more interested in one of the bartenders working there. Your siblings will never let you live it down, but their teasing is a small price to pay if you can spend time with Chan. 1920s/Prohibition AU.
Warning: alcohol
Word Count: 3.5k
Pairing: f!reader x bartender!Bang Chan
Other Notable Characters: Yeji and Hyunjin as your siblings
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Prohibition was meant to be a boon for the country, but it has been more of a nuisance than anything. Father has the doctor coming to the house nearly every week to write him prescriptions of whiskey, and Mother awaits new shipments of grape bricks from California to turn into wine. Lest one think that only your parents defying the law, your brother knows runners for rum, and you and your sister have successfully made moonshine multiple times.
Really, if you think about it, it’s the government’s fault for foolishly believing they could force temperance onto its citizens. Prohibition. What a seductive word. It practically encouraged misconduct.
As you step out of the car, the autumn chill sending shivers down your spine, a familiar thrill envelops you. Speakeasies are nothing new, and though this is your fifth time visiting 44th House, you feel as if lightning is coursing through your blood. Inside your beaded bag hides a sample of your latest moonshine batch. Yeji has secured her own silver flask to her garter for her to sip on throughout the night, but you intend to share your portion with someone special.
“I should have worn my cape,” Yeji says as she links her arm through yours. The beads of her dress clack against yours, and her fur stole tickles your bare arms. “You were smart.”
“You’ll dance and drink the cold away,” you assure her, eliciting a laugh from her. “Hyunjin, what’s taking you so long? Your hair’s fine.”
He gives his reflection one last check in Yeji’s compact mirror before handing it back to her. You were deliberate with your appearance tonight as well, yet you itch to tease him for his vanity. The temptation grows even stronger when he pauses his walk down the pavement to adjust his tie.
“The wind mussed everything up on the drive,” he complains. 
“Should’ve taken the coupe like I suggested,” Yeji replies. She glances over at you, and a familiar mischievous expression crosses her face. “Unless you’re trying to impress someone with the Rolls Royce? Finally got a girl, have you?”
Before Hyunjin can retort, you archly add, “Who’s the lucky lady? Should we start planning the wedding, or will you break her heart like you did with the last one? She still calls the house, you know.”
“You’re both awful.”
While you and Yeji titter over your brother’s missteps in love, he knocks on the front door of the building. Above the golden “44TH STREET ANTIQUES,” the small window at eye level slides open. A set of dark brown eyes peer out, and a disembodied voice asks what they can assist you with. Changbin, you realize, which means that someone else is working the bar in his place, most likely Chan.
“I’m looking for a silver pocket watch engraved with the name ‘Paris Singer,’” Hyunjin says. 
The door unlocks and swings open, revealing the interior of an antique shop. Mahogany dressers and wing chairs line the walls of the establishment, and silver tea sets sit behind locked cabinets. Though the items themselves are pristine, the faint smell of dust hints at the amount of history the shop holds. Whatever many secrets these pieces hold, the only secret you wish to uncover is hidden behind a silk screen printed with birds: the staircase leading to where the true 44th House is. With only flickering light fixtures for guidance, you descend.
“Excited to see your beau, Miss Railroad Heiress?” Hyunjin says. The jazz music grows increasingly loud as you near the basement. “You think he’ll give me the good gin if I ask him nicely this time?”
How Chan managed to pick you out amongst the crowd is still a mystery to you, especially since you were nowhere near Hyunjin and Yeji at the time. The Hwang sibling trio is instantly recognizable together but separate? Just ordinary, albeit beautiful, faces.
“He’s not my beau.” Yet. “And how do you even know about that name?”
Yeji hops down the last step with grace, landing onto the stone floor with a satisfying clack. “Because we’re not deaf, Miss Railroad Heiress. Now come back with something good for us, please and thank you.” 
She smiles innocently at your exasperation, takes your arm, and guides you to the final door. When Hyunjin pushes it open, the whole world erupts with jazz and laughter, bringing an instant grin to your face. Men in pastel striped shirts and women in gold embroidered dresses swing and sway together, arms and legs snapping back and forth. The live band and flapper girls on stage encourage onlookers to join the rest of the party.
As expected, Yeji and Hyunjin forget about teasing you in favor of the dance floor. Meanwhile, you stick to the sides, weaving between the tables to make your way to the bar. A tipsy woman runs her hand through your fur cape and compliments you, and another woman trills with glee when she notices the number of beads you have on your person. 
A man drinking with his friends calls, “Find me for a dance later!”
“Oh, I will!” you shout back. You blow him a kiss, to the amusement of the table, before disappearing into the crowds once more.
Even from a distance, you spy Chan chatting up a patron as he pours him a drink. Minho is on the other end of the bar, showing off his skills with a tin shaker. Neither of them have a jacket on, only a black vest, so they must be exceptionally busy. Saturday evenings always are. Well, that has never stopped you from flirting with Chan before. You’d rather dance with him rather than a stranger, but a dance is a dance, no matter who it’s with. 
After Chan finishes someone else’s cocktail, you take their place, prop your arms on the wooden counter, and flash him a coy smile. “Hey, bartender. Can I get two bee’s knees and two of something made with this?”  
You pull out your flask of moonshine and slide it across the bar. Your initials are monogrammed on the front in curling letters, and your heart jumps when he brushes his thumb over the grooves. “You can give it a try if you like. Made it myself.”
“Did you really, Miss Railroad Heiress? You didn’t strike me as the sort to mess with a distiller,” he remarks. Nevertheless, he unscrews the top and takes a sip. “Not half bad. Be better in a ward eight though. Two, you said?”
“Yes. One of them’s for you.”
His arm hangs in mid-air, the bottle of lemon juice forgotten. “For me? How come?”
“I brought my moonshine because I wanted you to have a taste, so why not? Besides, you just said it would taste better in a ward eight. Let’s put it to the test.”
He laughs and starts again. You watch him pour and mix with fascination, and a childish delight washes over you when he drops two maraschino cherries into one of the glasses. You’ve asked for at least one cherry in every one of your cocktails at the 44th House. Changbin rarely obliges if the recipe book doesn’t call for it, but Chan never forgets.
He hands you back your flask and taps his glass against yours. “Here’s to you, Miss Moonshine.” 
The drink is perfect—sweet with a hint of lemon. You pluck out a cherry floating at the top, pull off the stem, and thoughtfully chew on the fruit. “Is that my new name?”
“There are two Miss Railroad Heiresses running around, after all. I need some way to tell them apart.”
You don’t have the heart to tell him that Yeji also knows her way around a distiller. But as far as you know, Chan has never spoken to Yeji before and likely never will since she sends you to the bar in her stead, so your skin tingles with fire as you hear the words “Miss Moonshine” roll off his tongue. It’s just as alluring as “prohibition.” Maybe it’s the whiskey talking.
(It’s definitely not.)
“Let me get your other drinks,” he says. Then he leans in conspiratorially close, his eyes glimmering under the honey-colored lights. “Stay until closing? I’ll do my best to sneak a dance with you.”
Before you can reply, a man in a herringbone suit saunters up to the counter and asks for a Chicago fizz. He glances over at you with practiced nonchalance, and you realize that it’s the same person who you blew a kiss to. He’s quite handsome up close, even if his airs are rehearsed. 
“Hello again,” he greets. His smile is dangerous, reminiscent of a serpentine path you drove on once in the countryside. “Are you free, by any chance? If I remember right, you promised me a dance.”
Chan has reverted to being a bartender, measuring syrup with a careful eye while eavesdropping on the conversation occurring in front of him. You’re a flirt but only with Chan; he has nothing to worry about. Unfortunately, he can’t read minds, so he sets down two bee’s knees in question: Will you stay until closing?
You consider pretending that the music is loud enough to drown out the stranger’s voice, but he seems to be the persistent sort. Reluctantly, you pop the remaining cherry in your mouth and tug the stem out from between your teeth. “What was your name again?”
“Seungmin.”
“One dance,” you agree. “But before and after that, I’m busy until the night ends. Thank you again, Mister Bartender.”
Chan relaxes and nods in acknowledgement. While Seungmin waits for his Chicago fizz, you take the drinks and roam around the speakeasy, looking for Yeji and Hyunjin. The room has grown more crowded, and a thin layer of perspiration graces your back. You press one of the sweating glasses to your cheek as you scan the groups that have formed. Yeji was the smart one, not you. 
You eventually find Hyunjin surrounded by a gaggle of women. His hair and button-down are more disheveled than they were after the drive, yet he doesn’t seem to care a whit now that he has admirers. He may deny it, but he thrives off of attention.
“Whose heart are you breaking tonight?” you ask as you slink up to the table. With two out of the trio present, a few of the more timid ladies make way for you. “Should I prepare apology flowers in the morning? And where’s Yeji?”
To his credit, he doesn’t blush at your comments. He’s more enamored by the cocktails in your hand. “Somewhere. What are these?”
“Gin. I still have some of my whiskey, if you want. We’re staying until they close tonight, by the way.”
After being subjected to tasting your previous moonshine experiments, he no longer enjoys whiskey, so he accepts the gin. “Sure. Did your friend make this?”
A wave of giggles courses through Hyunjin’s flock, and an image of your name in the society papers appears behind your eyelids. If you are to land in the papers again, it will be of your own volition, not Hyunjin’s mouth. “Any one who can make a good drink is a friend of mine. I’ll call the florist later.”
Before he can retaliate, you scurry off to find Yeji who is “somewhere.” After mistaking a woman with a similar stole for her and dodging a gallery of swinging limbs, you spy her in the middle of the floor, doing the Charleston while spectators observe her. With a blood orange drink in hand, Seungmin is among them, watching Yeji with curiosity. When she finally spots you, she dances her way over to you, onlookers cheering her on, and snatches the refreshment from your hand.
“Send Chan my thanks,” she says in between breaths. She leans against your shoulder and tries to pass off her stole to you. “Please? You’re not doing anything.”
As if he can sense your exasperation, Seungmin emerges from the sea of people and extends his arm out to you. “How about it?” 
You shoot your sister a pointed look. “I’d love to.”
You’re not as nimble as Yeji or as limber as Hyunjin—few people are—but your footwork is on par with theirs after years of practicing with them, and your passion makes up for the rest of your lacking skills. Seungmin is a decent partner, in spite of his attempts to chat with you throughout. 
“You sure you’re not free later?” he asks after the song ends. Flushed with exertion, he loosens his tie. “Not even for a drink? I’ll buy.”
“I can buy my own, thank you.”
You say your goodbyes to Seungmin and collapse against Yeji, who has sweet-talked a departing party into giving up their table for her. As she helps you shrug off your cape, you open your bag for your flask. The whiskey pleasantly stings as it goes down.
“Have you given up on Chan already? Your new guy is a looker, but I like Chan more.”
You explain to her the details of your arrangement, fully anticipating her to tease you throughout.  And she does. The wedding invitations will read “Miss Railroad Heiress and Mister Bartender,” and the wedding itself will take place at 44th House in honor of your first meeting. As she continues, you shut your eyes and do your best to concentrate on the surrounding conversations. You don’t care about the latest stove innovation, but it’s far less maddening than Yeji. 
In the midst of it all, having missed the company of his sisters, Hyunjin joins the table. No one trails after him, no one comes up to drag him away, which would have been favorable. What a disappointment; no hearts will be broken tonight. Worst of all, he, too, gives you grief for being enamored by Chan.
“Should I let you drive the car home, so you can impress him?” he says, earning a sigh from you. “Now that I think about it, you did insist on taking the convertible.”
“And you took an awful long time fixing your hair before we left!” adds Yeji. “Really, you and Hyunjin are more alike than you think.”
“Hey!”
How else will you pass the time if not for your bothersome brother and sister? You let Hyunjin argue for you and permit your eyes to wander to where Chan is still working. Dozens of patrons surround the bar, so you can only catch glimpses of him through the gaps between heads. You doubt he saw it, but what did he think of you and Seungmin? While some people get easily jealous, others recognize that sometimes fun is fun, no ulterior motives.
After enduring another five minutes of Hyunjin and Yeji’s bickering, you decide it’s time for a change of scenery.
“What do you want to drink?” 
“Mojito, extra lime. Make sure he knows about the Rolls Royce.”
“And don’t forget to tell him the wedding date. Jack Rose for me.”
The crowd hasn’t thinned out in the short time it took for you to arrive, so you patiently wait by studying Chan’s bartending skills. How long has he done this for? From handling a large bottle of vodka to garnishing drinks with mint leaves, all of his motions are deft. During the fifth cocktail, he notices your presence out of the corner of his eye and begins adding flairs to his process—a little twirl of the stick, an extra tall pour. When it’s finally your turn, he leans against the counter and meets you halfway. His eyes flicker with golden light.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he says before you can get out a word. “Miss Moonshine, can I be the next to dance the Charleston with you? I promise I’m a better dancer than the last guy.”
Astonished, you blurt out, “You saw it!”
“Of course I did.” Almost sheepishly, he adds, “You’re all I see.”
Your skin prickles as if you’re standing outside in the cold, but your cheeks are aflame. “The speakeasy doesn’t need you?”
“Minho’s got it handled. Come on now.”
You highly doubt Minho can man the bar by himself, but you nonetheless take Chan’s hand and lead him to the center of the building. You hear Yeji’s giggles and Hyunjin’s smug remarks as you pass by, but your annoyance is soon drowned out by the merriment of the other patrons. Soles slap against the floor in quick succession, and you nearly lose an eye to a flying string of pearls. 
Chan places his other hand on your arm. “You’re pretty good, but do you think you can keep up with me?”
His teasing rouses you further, so you put more energy into your steps. A little more bounce and a little more snap, just as he did when he was mixing drinks. The people surrounding you slowly inch away when you grow more excited, and you gladly use all of the space around. 
“Show-off,” Chan laughs when you momentarily let go of his hands to perform a series of kicks. 
You finish with a flourish and playfully bow when he starts clapping.  “It’s what I do best. How long do I have you for?”
“Not that long,” he admits, taking your hands again, “but come back tomorrow? I’m off then, so you’ll have me all to yourself.”
He winks, leaving you in a stupor as he guides you back to Yeji and Hyunjin. This is not how it’s supposed to be; you’re the one who does the flustering around here. You’re certain you have a silly smile on your face because as soon as he leaves, Yeji pounces for answers.
“What happened?” she questions. “Did he kiss you?”
“More like she kissed him,” Hyunjin drawls as he snaps his fingers in front of your eyes. “Have you died or what?”
You push his hand away, glaring at him when he pretends to have been injured. “No one kissed anyone. Just a dance. Geez, it’s like you two are trying to get me in trouble. Let’s go before someone actually hears you.”
Hyunjin grabs your cape for you, not in a gesture of kindness, but so he can toss it at you and laugh as you struggle to catch it. “You could’ve at least gotten us our drinks before you decided he wasn’t worth it. Where are we heading now? Bellamy’s?”
“I’d rather go home,” you answer.
Yeji links one arm through yours and the other through her brother’s, effectively creating a human fence that others have to walk around. “So you can sleep and dream of him?”
“One day,” you declare, “you’ll get a crush, and I will never let you breathe again without mentioning their name. Hyunjin will join in, and you’ll get a taste of your own medicine.”
As expected, the drive home is riddled with poor jokes and pointless retellings of the night. It is the same when you head back to 44th House the following night. You’d rather Yeji and Hyunjin not be in the establishment at all, but reassurance is always welcome, even if it does come with a side dish of pestering.
Minho is the gatekeeper this time, and he regards you with some contempt for last night’s endeavor. Your half-hearted apology is responded with a grunt and a reluctant opening of the door. 
You inhale the scent of the antique store, run a finger across the back of a velvet chair for luck. Your whole body hums with energy as you descend, and the trumpet horns on the other side of the walls only increase the tension. Why are you nervous? You have no reason to be.
At the bottom of the steps, you say with gravity, “Both of you, stay away from me tonight.” 
Then you run into the crowd before they can follow. As the uproar rings in your ears, you scan the interior as you cut across the room, wincing when the overzealous tuba player blasts a note in your direction. Someone spills part of their drink onto the tops of your heels, and though you feel the liquid seeping between your toes, your main concern is finding Chan. You pause whenever you see a man in a black vest. Would he wear a similar outfit to his uniform on his night off? Likely, no, but you have no other basis for his attire.
“You’re here! Finally.”
You turn around to see Chan that has found you first. His grin shines like a crescent moon against his dark pinstriped suit, but there is nothing sinister about his expression.
“How do you do it?” you ask, slipping your arm through his. His face colors with a faint shade of pink. “You always seem to know where I am.”
“To be honest, I’ve been watching the door all night. Should we get something to drink first?”
As it turns out, you are correct to tell your siblings to stay far away from you because after sharing some potent moonshine, you kiss Chan by the bar. Everyone in the vicinity witnesses it, so you’re bound to end up in the papers tomorrow, but you don’t care. It’s Yeji and Hyunjin’s fault for putting the thought into your head. Most importantly though, this is the happiest you’ve been.
Prohibition. What a lovely era.
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pinkflipphonez · 1 year
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alexa, play 'playboy of the western world' by connie converse pls
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