#Take Me To the River: New Orleans

[krispyweiss]

Hey Now: Dr. John and Davell Crawford Perform “Joc-A-Mo”

- Live-in-studio clip culled from “Take Me to the River: New Orleans”

The magic of video gives us a final house call from Dr. John, who brings with him a number of many names.

Call it “Joc-A-Mo,” call it “Iko Iko” or call it something else, the song in question is characterized by its infectious, Hey now! calls and responses.

Opting for the former title, John - who died in 2019 - and Davell Crawford played a loose, keyboard-centric version in a sound studio that’s been culled from “Take Me to the River: New Orleans” for stand-alone release.

Playing acoustic and electric pianos, respectively, John and Crawford swap verses and take turns leading and following as their instruments are smooshed together in the small performance space.

The result is a fly-on-the-wall moment as the New Orleans legends play for themselves in a jam session for two, just for fun, that happened to be filmed for a movie - and posterity.

10/26/22

[humansofnewyork]

“Picture it, okay? Mardi Gras. New Orleans. Bourbon Street. I’m on college break with my three best childhood friends. Zak is there with his parents. He’s got his mom and dad with him. So it’s two different vibes, but somehow we all end up on the balcony of the same bar. Everyone’s got beads in their hands. We’re all yelling to see boobs. Well, I’m yelling to see boobs. That was just me. But Zak had a perfect mustache. He used to grow it much longer and curl it with wax. And I normally don’t approach people, I’m not that person. But his whole family seemed cute. They didn’t seem like normal New Orleans vacation people. So I was like: ‘Can I take a picture with you?’ Then we ended up adding each other on Snapchat, because that was the thing back then. And we agreed to meet up the next day after his family was done with their gator cruise and I was finished visiting the strip club. That night we walked along the river until the sun came up. I remember doing handstands on the levees. Then at the end we kissed. It was just a kiss because I was leaving early the next morning, and honestly I thought that would be the end of it. I thought for sure I was never going to see this kid again. But we kept talking, and two weeks later I’m taking his virginity in a Las Vegas hotel room. There was something going on with his stomach that day. Right when we finished he went to the bathroom and started throwing up. I called my girlfriend and said: ‘I don’t think he likes me.’ But it’s been love ever since.”

[kayhi808]

They Met in Delacroix

Masterlist

You had followed a man down to New Orleans, thinking he'd be the love of your life and you'd have a future together, only to have him break up with you. You didn't have family to turn to, so now you're by yourself trying to make someplace feel like home.

You met Sarah through the restaurant you worked at. Sarah owned a commercial fishing boat, so she'd sell fresh seafood to the restaurant. You didn't have many friends. Your ex was very possessive & controlling. He kept you isolated, so when he dumped you, you were really set adrift with nothing & no one.

Stopping off at the table you were folding napkins at, "Are you working this Saturday?"

Shaking your head, "No, I'm on Sunday this week."

"Good, my big brother will be in town for a couple weeks and I'm having a cookout. Come by the house."

"Oh, I don't kn..."

"I'm not taking 'no' for an answer. What else do you have planned?" Standing there with her hands on her hips but with the sweetest & most understanding smile. "Come early & spend the day. The boys miss you." She squeezes your arm on the way out.

And that is how you find yourself in Delacroix, driving down the road to a house by the river. The wind blowing through your hair from the open window of your truck that has seen better days. You really need to get your air condition fixed, but that's another expense you can't afford right now. As you pull up to the house, your nerves get the better of you. You wipe your sweaty palms on your skirt. You didn't quite know what to wear. You picked a long boho dress. You felt cute in it. You grab your dessert and slam the door to the truck.

"Y/N!!" Sarah's youngest, AJ, runs towards you, wrapping his arms around your waist. Quickly followed by Cass, the oldest. You wrap your free arm around the both of them the best you can, dropping kisses on them. Her boys were the sweetest. "What did you bring us?"

"AJ, where are your manners?" Sarah materializes, taking the box from your hands, giving it to AJ to put it the house. "I told you to just bring yourself," wrapping you in a big hug.

"I made cheesecake. It's needs the fridge." Sarah tells AJ to put it in the fridge & he nods while running back to the house. Returning her hug, "Thank you so much for inviting me."

"Of course! Come, let me introduce you to my brother." You turn the corner of the house, "Sam, this is Y/N. My brother Sam & his friend, Bucky over there." You give a small wave.

"So you're the one I've heard so much about lately," before engulfing you in a warm hug that makes you blush. This was such an affectionate family. "I think my nephews are fighting over who gets to marry you."

"Uncle Sam! Stop! Don't...God!" Cass & AJ scream immediately. Cass tries to bean him with a football which Sam easily catches, but that didn't stop Bucky from going to your side with his hand out protecting in case the ball came your way. He looks down at you with eyes as blue as the Louisiana sky, "I'm Bucky."

"Hi, Y/N." The tall handsome brunette leaves you breathless. "I...I'm going to see if Sarah needs my help." You walk towards Sarah who's trying to stop a fight between the boys & their Uncle. You look over your shoulder at Bucky & he gives you a smile when he catches you.

******

The morning flew by in a whirlwind of activity. By the looks of it, the entire town of Delacroix will be there. All 116 townspeople. I mean, Captain America & the Winter Soldier are HERE. Who wouldn't want to meet them?

When people started to arrive it got overwhelming. Not in a bad way. Everyone was having a great time. People were so warm & welcoming towards you. It was a lot though. The loud music, laughter, kids yelling & chasing each other around. It was a great party. It just left you out of sorts.

Thinking to escape for a bit, you went to your truck only to find it blocked in by a couple dozen other vehicles. You end up dropping the tailgate to sit on. You needed a little bit of solitude to recharge your social battery. You lay back in the truck bed, legs swinging over the side, listening to the music from a distance.

"Are you alright?" You hear his soft baritone & you prop yourself up on your elbows. It's Bucky.

"I'm fine. Just needed a lil break."

"Mind if I join you? It gets to be...A LOT, " nodding back at the house. You shake your head and shrug as he hops up onto the tailgate & lays back on the other side of the truck, closing his eyes. You go back to doing the same. "This is nice." There's a peaceful silence. You were in the in-between of falling asleep and being awake. "When should we be heading back?"

You turn to him, "When we feel recharged or when we smell food."

He opens his eyes and smiles at you, "Food?"

"I'm hungry. They've got such good food there. I'm still not used to the amazing food down here."

"You're not Louisiana, born & raised?"

"No sir, I'm from all the way out West, California."

"How'd you end up here?"

You turn away & close your eyes, "Bad life choices."

"We've all made a few of those."

You look at him, "I'm sorry."

He gives you a sad smile, 'I'm sorry, too."

"I think I smell ribs." Bucky chuckles. "I'm positive I smell ribs." You sit up & hop off the truck. "Ready to head back?" You hold out your hand to help pull him up. He groans but hops off the truck & closes the tailgate for you. You run around to the front to grab a sweater from the front seat.

You head back to the party when you hear, "And where have you two been??" You gasp as Sam walks over frowning, looking all parental.

"Shut up, man."

"I...Bucky just walked me back to the truck so I could get my sweater." Holding up your cardigan.

"You don't need to explain yourself to him." Sam starts laughing as you hurry yourself away. "Why do you have to be such a jackass?"

"AJ & Cass are going to beat you up! You got some stiff competition for her."

"All I did was walk her to her truck."

"MmmHmmm"

******

After dinner, the guys moved the tables to make way for dancing. You had a blanket spread out on the side where you sat and watched everyone. Even the little kids paired up and we're dancing. They were so entertaining. You haven't laughed this hard in a long time.

A slower song started up and you see Bucky headed your way. Butterflies started circling your belly. He has such a sweet smile on his face.

"Hey, Y/N?" Cass comes running up to you, cutting Bucky off. "Would you dance with me?" Your eyes quickly dart to Bucky and you see his glare which makes you giggle. "Cass, I'd love to dance with you." You take his hand and he practically jerks you off the blanket which makes you laugh harder. With your hand in his Cass runs you out onto the dance floor. You hurry past Bucky and you swear you heard him growl.

Since you danced with Cass you had to dance with AJ next, but he got distracted and left you on the dancefloor to run off with his friends. "The nerve of some people." You spin around at the sound of Bucky's voice. You look up at his smiling face. He steps up to you, taking your hand in his, his other hand, lightly at the small of your back. "Finally, my dance." And every dance after that was his.

[aheathen-conceivably]

In the first weeks of 1930, a slow passenger train rode through the desert hills of New Mexico. It had begun its journey in the city of New Orleans before heading north alongside the snaking brown waters of the Mississippi River.

From there it had stopped in St. Louis, Missouri before it turned back south, following old pioneer trails as it cut through the American Southwest on the way to its final destination in Los Angeles, California.

In one of the cars, the light, determined click of a woman's heels fell in line with the rhythm of the rails below her feet. The sound had defined her life for weeks, yet she found it just as droning now as the day she had first boarded the train. She made her way from her own cabin, where her niece and brother were spending the final hour of their journey, to the room where her soon to be sister-in-law was readying herself. 

As she approached the door a rail attendant appeared in the car to alert the passengers, “Next stop Strangerville, New Mexico! All passengers ready your luggage! I repeat all passengers ready your luggage!”

Josephine increased her pace and rapped loudly on the door, wanting to ensure that her arrival could be heard above the railway attendant's call in the next car. A small voice told her to enter, barely audible alongside the thundering sound from below.

Josephine entered Zelda and Antoine's suite, which was larger than the one she had shared with Violette during the journey. Half smoked cigarettes and thrice-read books clattered against opulently carved woodwork bolted to the walls. Amidst it all stood Zelda in a white silk wedding dress, preoccupied with her reflection as she pinned a final curl in a perfect curve.

For a moment Josephine forgot the rail’s droning sound or the conductor’s hurried call, “Zelda, you….you look marvelous.”

Zelda turned briefly to acknowledge Jo’s presence, self consciously smoothing down the silk of her dress before she turned back to the mirror to fiddle with the clasp of her pearls, “Do I, truly? I’m afraid it’s quite old fashioned now, isn’t it? I suppose I should have gotten something new rather than just dyeing this old dress…”

Josephine walked over to her, taking the pearls from her shaking hands. As the car rattled on, she couldn’t tell if it was from the constant movement or her friend’s nerves. She spoke to her as she fastened the necklace, “It’s perfect, ma sœur, absolutely perfect. Are you ready? It’s time to put the luggage near the door; we’re the next stop.”

When Zelda didn’t answer Josephine turned her around, softening her face and her voice, “Zelda, you can talk to me, if you need to. Whatever it is. If you aren’t ready I’ll speak with Antoine. Whatever you need.”

Zelda looked at her curiously before an immense happiness overtook her face. She grabbed Josephine’s hands and smiled, “Jo, I’m only nervous because I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life. I’ve waited so long; we’ve waiting so long, it simply feels surreal. Like it’s impossible to feel so much happiness all at once without something going wrong.”

Josephine’s heart soared for her, and then sank as she realized that Zelda had learned to expect misfortune so much that she couldn’t even truly give herself over to excitement in that moment. “Zelda, everything will be wonderful, I promise you. You’ve been through enough, okay? Both of you. Today will be perfect.”

(A very special thank you to @simtleman for creating this gorgeous train build and then sharing it with me as well as all the CC creators you used to make it so stunning ♥️)

[bullet-prooflove]

Forgot that I was supposed to send you a prompt for Hamilton. How do you feel about this one?

“The first night you saw me”

Tagging: @kmc1989 @yourfellowmarzipan @toheavenwmydrms @lemmons1998 @mimi-8793

The first night Douglas meets you is at a charity event at the New Orleans Museum of Art during the unveiling of a new exhibition called Double Space: Women Photography and Surrealism. It’s part of his press officer’s drive to showcase his support of the arts.

Events like this are a chore, he spends the evening being spoken at, not spoken to by people trying to illicit funding for all sorts of things, it can get a little much sometimes, all these people wanting something from him. There’s only so much that he can give and every cause is seems so important.

When you stand to take the stage and discuss the collection, Douglas is seated on the front row. He’s enamoured almost immediately. You explain how the work by these women challenges the masculine ideals of what it is to be a muse and how they took back surrealism from André Breton after being ignored by the movement. The topic is clearly something your passionate about, he can tell from the pitch of your voice as you command the room.  

When he’s introduced to you as the curator of the museum, you’re more stunning than he realised. He expects you to be like all the others, to try to sell him on some new program or another exhibit that requires funding but you don’t. Instead you ask him what he thinks about the showcase and despite everything his PR person advises he tells you the truth.

“I don’t get it.”

You laugh then because you find his honesty refreshing.

“I could explain it to you if you like.” You offer and he takes you up on that because the alternative is him being drawn into another conversation about budgets within the parish and you are far more interesting.

Your arm loops through his and he finds himself being guided not towards the exhibition but away from it and through a door out into the sculpture garden. He inclines his head towards you in question as you lead him onto the Mississippi Meanders, a bright, colourful bridge made of tempered glass and steel. It’s gorgeous piece of art, it feels both solid and light underneath his feet as you stroll together, like lovers into the depths of the night.

“You looked like you needed a breather.” You say by way of explanation. “I know I certainly did.”

“You mean you aren’t going to explain the complexities of feminism in the surrealist era to me?” He smiles and you smile back shrugging your shoulders.

“If it’s not your thing, then it’s not your thing.” You say before you release his arm and stare out across the river instead. “I expect you’re more into expressionism, a Van Gogh fan although you would never admit it.”

His cheeks colour then because you aren’t wrong, in fact you have him pegged entirely. He’s always told people he prefers Degas because of the sobriety of the work but his true love is Van Gogh’s complexity and use of color.  

“It means you’re a dreamer.” You tell him as he joins you at the railing to study the water. “You enjoy things that evoke an emotional response, that you find creative and challenging.”

Douglas doesn’t speak, he’s too surprised because people don’t talk to him this way, they beat around the bush, they amble but you, you’re real and Douglas, he likes that, he likes that alot.

“I’m sorry.” You say mistaking his silence for offense. “I can be an acquired taste sometimes.”

“No.” He says, his voice a little rough. “You were right about all of it, it’s just…”

He struggles to find the words.

“…people don’t see those things about me. They see the mayor and that’s all. They forget that I’m a person, one that lives and breathes, who has thoughts and feelings of his own. It’s invigorating actually meeting someone that sees beyond all of that…”

He’s interrupted by the appearance of his PR rep Martha at the edge of the bridge, she taps her watch and he sighs because he wishes his time really was his own, that he could spend all night, just the two of you talking on the Mississippi Meanders.

“I have to go.” He says regretfully.

“I understand.” You say and he thinks that maybe you do, you’re jobs are similar in that respect, there’s always something that requires your attention, someone who needs your advice. You reach into your purse, pulling out your card before handing it to him. “Call me, if you want to take another walk, talk about Van Gogh.”

“I will.” He promises you as he tucks it inside the interior pocket of his suit, the one closest to his heart. “Trust me I will.”

Love Douglas? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[selmasemlan]

Be Mine

Summary: In the enchanting summer air of New Orleans, Marcel and Luna's deepening friendship blossoms into a romantic relationship when Marcel asks Luna to be his girlfriend

Pairing: Marcel Gerard x Luna Salvatore (OFC)

Author note: I'm back with another part of this fic. I just can't stop

Warning: cute shish, none

Word count: 821

Series Masterlist

Be Mine

The summer air in New Orleans was thick with the scent of magnolias and the distant sound of jazz drifting through the streets. Luna and Marcel found themselves strolling along the banks of the Mississippi River, the setting sun casting a golden hue over the city. It had been a summer of adventures and unexpected moments, each day weaving them closer together.

As they walked hand in hand, Luna couldn't help but feel a flutter of anticipation in her chest. Their friendship had blossomed into something deeper during their time together in New Orleans, and she wondered if Marcel felt the same way.

Marcel, ever perceptive, sensed Luna's quiet contemplation. He stopped by a wrought-iron bench overlooking the river, gently guiding her to sit beside him. Luna nestled close, the warmth of his presence comforting and familiar.

"You know," Marcel began softly, his voice carrying a hint of hesitation, "this summer has been... extraordinary."

Luna looked up at him, her heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his eyes. "It really has," she agreed softly, a smile tugging at her lips.

Marcel reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from Luna's face. "I've enjoyed every moment we've spent together," he confessed, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek.

Luna's breath caught in her throat, her pulse quickening with anticipation. She searched his eyes, finding warmth and affection mirrored in their depths.

"I've been meaning to ask you something," Marcel continued, his voice steady but tinged with nervousness. "Luna, would you... would you like to be my girlfriend?"

The question hung in the air, filled with hope and vulnerability. Luna felt a rush of emotions—joy, excitement, and a deepening affection for the man before her. She leaned in, pressing her forehead against his, their breaths mingling in the warm evening air.

"Yes, Marcel," Luna whispered, her voice barely above a murmur but filled with certainty. "I would love that."

Marcel's face broke into a wide, radiant smile, his relief evident. Without hesitation, he pulled Luna into his arms, holding her close as they savored the moment. Luna melted into his embrace, feeling the weight of unspoken words and uncharted promises between them.

They sat there, wrapped in each other's arms, the soft murmur of the river and the distant jazz music providing a gentle backdrop to their newfound happiness. Marcel twirled Luna playfully around, causing her to giggle uncontrollably, their laughter mingling with the music of the night.

Their laughter filled the air, and Marcel pulled Luna closer, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "You have no idea how happy you just made me," he murmured against her skin, his voice full of emotion.

Luna smiled, her heart swelling with love. "I think I might have an idea," she teased gently, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.

Marcel chuckled, leaning in to capture her lips in a tender kiss. The world seemed to fade away as they lost themselves in the sweetness of the moment, the warmth of his lips a perfect match to the summer evening.

As they pulled back, Luna rested her head on Marcel's shoulder, sighing contentedly. "This feels like a dream," she said softly, her eyes closing as she relished the feeling of being so close to him.

Marcel kissed the top of her head, his arms tightening around her. "If it is, I never want to wake up," he replied, his voice a low, comforting rumble.

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, the gentle sounds of the city around them. Eventually, Marcel stood, taking Luna's hand in his and leading her to a quiet spot by the water. The city lights reflected off the surface of the river, creating a magical, shimmering scene.

Marcel pulled Luna into another dance, their movements slow and intimate. "Dance with me," he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear.

Luna nodded, her heart full as they swayed together under the stars. Each step felt like a promise, a silent vow of the love they were just beginning to explore.

When the night grew darker, they finally made their way back to the bench, sitting close together as they watched the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the horizon. Marcel draped his arm around Luna's shoulders, pulling her into his side.

"I can't wait to see where this takes us," he said softly, his fingers tracing patterns on her arm.

Luna looked up at him, her eyes shining with affection. "Me neither," she replied, her voice filled with hope and excitement.

In that moment, surrounded by the beauty of New Orleans and the warmth of each other's embrace, Luna and Marcel knew they were embarking on a journey that would be filled with love, laughter, and endless possibilities. The summer had brought them together, and now, their hearts were intertwined, ready to face whatever the future held.

[radiaurapple]

Lucid Dreams of New Orleans: Chapter 13

CHAPTER SUMMARY: IN WHICH Alastor attends an important meeting.

FIC SUMMARY: Lucifer has always kept his distance from sinners. It’s what keeps him (relatively) sane — if he gets too close, he is haunted by visions of the tragic mortal lives that landed them in Hell. But in his new life at the Hotel, it is more difficult than ever to stay away — and when it comes to light that his daughter’s insufferable facilities manager is gravely wounded, it falls to Lucifer to deliver his soul from Death. In so doing, he falls headfirst into the sins, past lives, and heartbreaks of the one human whose contradictions he is powerless to resist.

[AO3 LINK]

New chapter!! we are almost at the end now! 📻🍎 thanks to those who have been reading along, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

chapter preview below!

On the sixth sleepless night, Alastor finally tries to go home on his own.

Lucifer had told him it was possible, but offered no guidance. Alastor begins by calling up sensory details, the same way he would steer when Lucifer touched him. The rocking chair on the porch of his home. The clicking of knitting needles. The sizzle of diced onion dropped into a hot pan. 

Imagining gets him nowhere. His trip to Heaven is tomorrow, and he needs to — he must —

He curls in on himself and repeats the words in his head, like a melody:

Show me my mother — show me my mother — show me my mother —

But the fabric of his own soul is unyielding. 

Hours later, sleep finally finds him. He dreams once more of falling. 

The morning begins like any other. Alastor dons the new suit he procured for this occasion — a more minimalist version of his typical attire, closer to black than maroon. Clean, neat, and crisply starched. He buttons the jacket, pulls his hair back into a neat bun, and regards his reflection in his bathroom mirror. His new suit is certainly more befitting for a representative of the Hotel than his typical attire — which, though beloved and well-maintained, is tatty from years of use and the frequent magical removal of bloodstains. 

He is certain the new suit is the appropriate choice. Yet the deviation from his typical appearance makes him feel exposed, somehow — vulnerable. He considers abandoning the idea, but he has already missed his self-imposed deadline to head downstairs. The portal to Heaven is opening soon — the others will already be waiting for him.

He masks his apprehension behind a wide smile and leaves his room.

Everyone is indeed already milling about the seating area in the entry hall. 

Charlie is seated on a stool, scribbling in a notepad propped in her lap. When she spots Alastor, she waves him over with a smile on her face — no doubt to discuss strategy for their approaching trip. 

Alastor hesitates — Lucifer is standing behind Charlie, braiding her hair.

He recovers after a moment and takes the armchair across from Charlie. Lucifer is working intently, dividing and weaving her hair with deft, confident movements. It is like watching him do scales — rhythmic and effortless as a river. His eyes are intently focused on his hands, and he holds a hair tie between his teeth. 

Across the room, Husk laughs at Angel’s joke; Lucifer glances up, and his eyes flit past Alastor like he isn’t even there. 

The domestic scene makes Alastor’s stomach twist. He —

“—Alastor?”

Alastor viciously reins in his emotions with practiced efficiency. “Good morning, Charlie,” Alastor says, his smile pleasant, his voice even. “Lucifer.”

Lucifer nods in greeting without looking up.

They haven’t spoken since Alastor walked away nearly a week ago. When they’re in the same room, it is like this — both of them trying, to the best of their ability, to ignore one another’s existence. 

Lucifer takes the hair tie from his mouth, stretches it around his fingers, and winds it around the end of Charlie’s braid with a practiced movement. Charlie smiles and turns so the group can see her hair. It is a French braid with a few smaller braids woven in. 

Angel gasps. “It’s so pretty!”

“Very elegant,” Alastor says. 

“Thank you!” Charlie says. “Dad used to do this for me all the time as a kid, but this has to be the first time in years that —”

She is interrupted by the sound of a portal splitting open in front of the central staircase. 

Adrenaline surges through Alastor’s veins. He’s about to step through that portal. The Heaven on the other side of it is not a dream. 

“I guess it’s time,” Charlie says, her own voice tinged with nerves. She collects a thin binder from the coffee table — it contains the policy proposals she has carefully curated for this occasion. She clutches it tightly to her chest. 

Alastor widens his smile — more determined than ever to affect confidence for her sake. He stands and approaches the portal with a steady, calm posture. 

He stops next to the portal and gestures with his hand. “After you.”

“See you guys tonight,” Charlie says, and steps through. 

Alastor takes a step forward. 

“Al — Alastor,” Lucifer says. 

Alastor turns. Lucifer is watching him with wide, concerned eyes. Alastor’s anxiety multiplies — only Lucifer has any clue how Alastor might really feel about this visit to Heaven, and he has no appreciation for subtlety. Can’t Lucifer see that Alastor is only keeping control by a single fraying thread? One more word and Lucifer will give the game away. 

“What?” Alastor says flatly — in his rising panic, the word comes out a little sharper than he intends.

Lucifer stiffens, studies the floor. Then he glances back up at Alastor, his gaze steady. “Nothing,” he says lightly. “Just take care.” 

An echo of the words Alastor had spoken to Hollis a week ago, when he and Lucifer still enjoyed their simple routine. Before the tangled complexity of their friendship had exceeded Alastor’s capacity to comprehend. 

Alastor nods, turns on his heel, and steps through the portal. 

[AO3 LINK]

[artemis1214]

MEET ESME ROSE LUCIANO!

Hello! 👋🏼

These are some headcanons for my Hazbin Hotel OC, Esme! If you would like to read more about Esme's story, you can check out my Wattpad story "A Siren's Spell".

HELLA SPOILERS AHEAD!

Human Life (1900-1932) 

As a child, Esme was very friendly and bubbly. She was everyone's best friend and the little major of Manhattan. 

Would love to pet the horses leading the carriages in front of her father’s bar. 

Esme’s mother would always try to keep her away from the family ‘business’, but little Esme always found herself listening in on the men's conversations and meetings. 

Natural flirt as a teenager, but only had one boyfriend in New York.

Natural mother figure to Anthony from their connected families.

Cool aunt vibe for Molly and Anthony. (Would buy them ice cream on the regular when their parents weren't around).

Would float in a raft in the Hudson River, smoking a cigarette in the summer. 

Very protective of her younger sister, would stand up to bullies, and get in trouble with the nuns at school. 

Raised Catholic. 

Libra.

Used by her father to lure men to his work and steal their money. 

Gets "too involved" in the business and gets sent to New Orleans to basically hide away.

Has a very seductive luxurious transatlantic accent, but alone drops to a casual crisp New York tone. 

Accent drops completely when upset or cursing.

Always smells like vanilla and strawberries.

Lots of chocolate martinis, vodka cranberries, and red wine. 

Long hair because she hates thinking about fitting into societal beauty standards (no flapper hair here!).

Heavy sweet tooth. 

Big bookworm.

Theme Songs: 

“You don’t own me” 

"My Days" - The Notebook on Broadway

"Roxie" - Chicago

"Gangsta" - Kehlani

"So, this is love?"

Always carries a silent pistol in her purse.

Very charming, seductive, playful, and secretive. 

Steals Mimzy's spot as the head girl at the speakeasy.

Singer, burlesque performer.

Also plays piano.

Alastor watches her from the back of the parlor, tapping his finger on his whiskey glass.

Meets Alastor immediately but senses something ‘off’ about him. 

Hella sexual tension right off the bat. 

Threatens him with her pistol when she discovers who he is. 

Not phased by many of Al’s doings as she watched her father kill men all the time. 

“You don’t scare me." 

Has a smart mouth that often gets her in trouble when men. 

Has spit in men’s faces before.

“Fuck you.” These are her two favorite words for them.

Is disgusted by men. 

“Men are dogs, I like my dogs on four legs.” 

Very possessive, protective, and jealous. 

When the two get married she becomes similar to a New York mob wife. 

“No Alasta, you’re not killin’ on a Sunday! Sunday is a holy day - plus I made meatballs!” 

Goes for the eyes when she kills people, “You really do have pretty eyes, wonder how long they’ll take to cut out.”

Will ship the remains to their parents as a “warning.” 

Going to the water when she is stressed out, usually the dock near her house.

Alastor will drive fast down empty roads so she can hang out of the car and let her hair flow.

ALWAYS has a record on the spinner and espresso brewing.

Their house smells like coffee 24/7.

Angelic, alluring voice with a natural jazzy ring to it if she so pleases when she sings.

BIG flirt and entertainer when drunk or high.

Very strong siren eyes when she is singing, performing, or talking to someone. 

HATES spicy food (Alastor’s cooking nearly kills her every time)

Will request a seafood broil every single time he cooks for her.  

If Alastor’s mother were to be alive, these two would be BEST FRIENDS! 

She’d probably make plans to hang out with just her - not Alastor (lol!). 

Date nights of just cooking their respective recipes. 

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T LIKE MY LASAGNA?!” 

Their song is “It’s Been a Long, Long, Time” by Kitty Kallen.

COUPLE THEME SONG: ACROSS THE STARS FROM STAR WARS.

Hella foreshadowing (Padme/Anakin vibes)

Speaks Italian when upset 

Che Cazzo?!

Che palle?!

Figlio di puttana!

Affectionate pet names for those she cares for 

“Lovey” - Her sister Margo 

“My Dove” - Her daughter, Genevieve 

“Sweetheart” - Alastor 

NEVER shows up to an event empty-handed. She’ll feed everyone there. 

Love language is def quality time and cooking.

Flirts with Alastor around his secretary to make her jealous 

Basically the second in command when she's at Alastor's office.

You better do whatever Esme asks or he will kill you (no joke).

“Let that bitch hear.” Vibes. 

Brat 

Submissive/Switch

Masochist

Big softie as a mother, complete domestic. 

Loves children and animals. 

No longer works at the speakeasy.

Becomes a housewife.

Can have hella anxiety/depression.

Doesn't cope with things properly and will shut herself out from everyone if upset.

Emotionally numb from losing so many people in her life.

At the end of her story, she realizes it's going to be him or her...

"Veronica, open the door please!" Vibes.

"Where is Padme, is she safe? Is she alright?" 

“It seems in your anger, you killed her…”

BIG THANKS TO @hoomandoescosplay FOR HELPING WITH THESE HEADCANONS! LOVE YOU GIRLYPOP! 💗

[literary-motif]

Audric… write him dead. I need xanthus to kill him.. BUT ALL OF THEM SURVIVED… SO NO ANGST PLS I HAD ENOUGH ANGST… !!!

This is mostly fluff, I promise. Mostly. Maybe more hurt/comfort.

The Red River

Xanthus Claiborne X Reader

The origin of Xanthus' name.

Xanthus sighed contently, settling onto the sofa you had moved in front of the large window. He handed you a steaming cup of tea which you took with a smile, kissing his cheek in thanks as he leaned into your side. “The stars really are the most beautiful thing in existence,” you said into the silence of the night. 

Dontis’ residence in New Orleans, although close to the city center, had a peculiar position that minimized the light pollution so drastically that you could see the multitude of stars twinkling happily in the sky as if you had been in the country, far away from civilization and alone with infinity stretching out before your eyes. 

The blackness of the night sky was not truly darkness. If the light of the stars were stronger, you would be able to see all of them and most of the devouring darkness would disappear, instead filled with little points of burning white that would light up nearly the entire sky. There might be an unfathomable, empty distance between you and the sources of that light, but you were still overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of matter in the universe — the stars and planets and comets and who knew what else. 

“I know a very cliché answer to that,” Xanthus smirked. 

It took you a moment to realize what he was referring to, your thoughts still on the infinitely expanding universe. “The most beautiful thing, right after you, of course,” you said, beating him to the compliment. 

He laughed, leaning in slowly to kiss your lips. Xanthus’ lips were always soft against yours, his kisses tender and calm as if he wanted to pour as much of his affection for you into them as he could. He always took his time, cherishing the moment shared between you. 

Only once had he kissed you in desperation, terror and relief cursing through him as he held you in his arms after the disastrous mission to take down the Trimedian. You were still recovering from that. Dontis was gone on vacation with his hunter friend, the others had dispersed to live their lives, free from looking over their shoulders quite as much as before.

Xanthus was struggling, to put it mildly. What had happened had left a deep scar in his heart that could only heal with time. Sometimes when you awoke during the night, you saw him scrub at his hands compulsively as if trying to wash away Audric’s blood that he could still feel clinging to him. 

“I can’t—” he had choked after waking from a nightmare, your arms firmly wrung around him, holding him together, “I can’t escape it. I can’t get it off of me. I can’t forget how he felt under me as I— as I—” You had never heard anyone sob as brokenly as Xanthus had that night.

His laugh was a welcome change to the sorrow clinging to him. You beamed at him as he broke the kiss, and placed your head on his shoulder to stare at the sky alongside him. 

Taking a sip of your tea, you hummed in appreciation as you tasted the sweetness of honey Xanthus had taken care to add. “You remembered,” you laughed fondly, placing another kiss against his neck. 

“Of course I did, my love,” he answered, moving his arm to stroke along your side. “You told me you preferred your tea with honey only yesterday. Did you expect me to forget?”

“I mentioned it in passing.”

“So? It is important to me all the same,” he said, tilting his head to rest his cheek at the top of your head. “It really is breathtaking,” he whispered after a while of gazing at the stars. 

You hummed, taking another sip of your tea. “Why ‘Xanthus’?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence beginning to settle over you again.

“Why what?” he wondered.

“Your name, I mean,” you clarified, “Why did you choose ‘Xanthus’?”

“Oh,” he chuckled, “I— no one’s asked me that before.” He paused as if contemplating something.

“You don’t need to answer if you don’t want to.”

“It’s not that, love,“ Xanthus reassured you, moving his hand to hold yours, “It’s just very poetic in a way, and I never thought I would get to reveal that part of myself to anyone.”

The stars had lost their sway over you, and you glanced at Xanthus, seeing him blush. It was an adorable sight, but you did not dare tell him, choosing instead to kiss his lips. “I’d like to hear it, if you’re willing to share.” The look of pure adoration in his eyes made your breath hitch for a moment. 

“I’d love to,” he said, clearing his throat nervously. You moved to rest your head on his shoulder again, absentmindedly tracing small circles into the back of his hand with your thumb. “Have you read the Iliad?”

Despite yourself, the question made you laugh. “‘Rage — Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles.’ Only in translation.”

“Well, there is a river flowing outside the city of Troy, the one who tried drowning Achilles in book twenty-one it was, I think. The river-god was angry at him because all the Trojans he killed were clogging up the river, tainting the water red with blood. It was called Scamander by the mortals and Xanthus by the gods, according to Homer. And I believe it was Seneca—”

“The stoic philosopher?” you asked.

“Exactly. He said in his Troades something like ‘He — Achilles — choked rivers with corpses, and Xanthus, seeking his way, wandered slowly along with bloody stream.’ I always thought the name was fitting,” Xanthus concluded, his faraway gaze remaining fixed on the stars that had stopped being of interest to you long ago. 

You squeezed his hand, raising it to your lips in a small gesture of comfort.

“I have done horrible things,” he whispered, clenching his jaw and blinking away tears that started to gather in his eyes, “and although I try to leave the past behind with every new name and identity I take, I never quite succeed to wash the blood off of my hands. I think it’s fitting. My past has never stopped tainting me, but opposed to Achilles’ Xanthus, I filled the river with corpses myself.”

You set down your cup on the windowsill in front of you, gathering Xanthus into your arms. “My love,” you began, running your fingers through his hair and peppering soft kisses on his face until he broke into a small smile, “my beautiful, kind, adorable love.” 

Xanthus blushed, trying to hide his face in your shoulder, but you tilted his chin up instead, making him look into your eyes.

“You’re everything to me,” you said earnestly, “the kindest being I have ever encountered, the most relentlessly hard-working to assure the people you care about are safe, the most inexhaustibly generous, the most loving, my love. I have never felt so adored, Xanthus, and I love you with all my heart — every part of you, present, past, and future — no matter what was and will be.”

“Thank you,” he said quietly, pulling you into a crushing embrace before the two of you got comfortable on the couch once more, stargazing until the morning sun hid their twinkling light from view again.

[brunettecosette]

Untitled Song for New Orleans

Language is supposed to have an apex

Words well met illuming what’s unclear

Most would say it only takes four letters

For me it’s really more about your name, dear

Now I’ve moved on

And they’re all gone

How was I supposed to guess what was going on

And I remember

How to sever

Cut and run, pack up and carry on

I walk the streets of NOLA drunk and barefoot

They’re everywhere around and I can’t breathe

The air is cold; my beer is warm

The city rooftops shine like chrome

Magick city, why don’t you believe

So I go home

And I grow old

And I learn the things You swore I’d never know

New ways of living

Borne of endings

The things we do outlive us on their own

I trace the streets their feet have often traveled

Moon above me now I’m really free

Mind and body occupied

Relieve the ache inside

Tragedy is farce in memory

So it goes on

And nothing’s wrong

Just another night, another song

And the river

Will tide me over

Til the walls fall down to make a home

S.M.C.W. 2019

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

"Down By The River" - Neil Young & The International Harvesters, Pier 84, New York City, September 10, 1985

As I'm sure you've heard, Neil Young will release the third volume of his Archives project in just over a month. Weighing in at 17 discs (plus five blu-rays), it's a ridiculously large collection, with dozens of unreleased tracks. I've heard the whole dang thing via a promo stream and Vol. III will make Neil fanatics very very happy. And yet! It wouldn't be a Neil Young situation if there weren't some very questionable choices made ... As always, I've got quibbles! Quibbles, I say!

For one thing, the International Harvesters era ... Most of what shows up on Vol. III has already been released on A Treasure, well over a decade ago. The additions are great — a gorgeous live version of "Interstate" with a fiery electric solo from Neil and a sweet rendition of "Misfits." But Neil should've added this legendary "Down By The River" to the mix (in fact, he seemed to be considering it). It's a truly insane performance, with Old Black moving unexpectedly into almost Sonic Youth-y zones during the long instrumental sections. Neil duels magnificently with Nashville session pianist Hargus "Pig" Robbins (who you know from classic recordings with Dylan, Lightfoot, Parton and countless others), taking things to unreal heights. Over the rainbow, indeed.

And hey, one good "Down By The River" from the 1980s deserves another, right? Here's Neil and the International Harvesters doing it about a year before Pier 84 down in New Orleans — notable not only for its awesomeness, but also for its rare spoken intro, wherein Neil evocatively sets the scene:

I'd like to sing you a song about a guy who had a lot of trouble controlling himself. He let the dark side come through a little too bright. One afternoon he took a little stroll down through a field and through a forest, till he could hear the water runnin' along there. And he met his woman down there. And he told her she'd been cheatin' on him one time too many. And he reached down in his pocket and he pulled a little revolver out. Said "Honey, I hate to do this but you pushed me too far."

By the time he got back to town he knew he had to answer to somebody pretty quick. He went back to his house, he sat down on the front porch. About two hours later the sheriff's car pulled up out front. It started sinking in on him just what he'd done. The sheriff walked up the sidewalk. He said "Come with me son, I want to ask you a few questions." As he heard the jail door shut behind him he sat down on a little wooden bench — and he looked out of the door through those bars at this kind of wimpy looking sheriff out there. He started getting mad again and he realized what he'd done. There wasn't nothing he could do about it now though. He just sat down and put his head down and started thinking to himself — I'm all by myself here, there's nobody on my side...

Because I care deeply about you, there's another little bonus in the above download, too — a very early "Razor Love," also recorded live with the International Harvesters in 1984. Just wait 'til you hear the synth-pop version included on Vol. III!

[hekateinhell]

Vamptember, Day 7: Reverse AU

adult vampire!Claudia and little mortal!Lestat | M | 1.3k | tags: abuse and SA mentions/references, gore, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

New Orleans, 1808

Winter in New Orleans makes the evenings draw on longer. 

Meaning that Claudia has to create her own entertainment lest she go mad with boredom; she takes what she wants and does as she pleases. 

How many other women can say that? 

Sitting in front of the vanity, turning her head from side-to-side, pondering which role best suits her temperament tonight.

Pity she had been a poor white’s daughter at her death, malnourished to the point of missing her menses at the mature age of twenty. Oh, how utterly brutal the beatings were when her father and brothers caught on and arrived at the wrong conclusion! 

Whore. Slut. Witch. 

Such a rabid pleasure to crush each of their skulls between her hands the night she’d returned to the dingy little shack by the river. A giggle escaping her at each agonizingly slow crack of bone, delighting in their futile struggles. Dark torrents of blood igniting the demonic thirst inside her, and finally, the gelatinous messes — more fun than mud pies — gushing as she digs her thumbs into their eye sockets. 

Eyes that had violated her long before their ever hands did. 

“Witch!” 

“And yet it’s you that shall burn at the stake tonight, father dearest! Fancy that!” 

She beams at her reflection at the memory, the blonde ringlets that cascade over her small breasts bouncing as she trembles with poorly suppressed anticipation. Not a wasteful eater, no, but she does enjoy playing with her food. 

Finishing touches, a robin’s blue ribbon in her hair, her corset cinched tight to create the hourglass figure she most certainly did not possess. 

Childbearing hips that would never bear onto her a child, the son that the Lord she once prayed to for deliverance had sent to her in her dreams. A promise that one day she would have final dominion over the male sex. 

Flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood. 

Holy Mary, mother of God.

It’s humid when she sets out, but then again, it’s always humid in New Orleans: a sinner’s city, a gambler’s paradise. Fragrant roses combine with the stench of urine and decay as she makes her way down the cobblestone streets, taking in the sounds of the night. A child cries, a man yells to his wife: You stupid bitch!; a horse and carriage trot by, the mud almost reaching her shoes; a drunkard’s piercing laugh. 

“Hey, pretty lady, what are you doing all by your lonesome? Don’t you know what happens to dainty little things like you in places like these?”

Sounds like a tramp but means well. He has two sisters at home; one older and one younger. Claudia reminds him of the youngest. 

“Oh, I didn’t know! I’m new to the area, you see, and terribly disoriented! I don’t mean to trouble you Sir, but it is awfully late and now I am awfully frightened… If you could please escort me to my home, I have been trying to find my way back for hours to no avail!” She knows what men like to hear.

She can be demure.

Helpless. 

“Of course, darling,” he proffers her his arm which she graciously accepts, “I know this city like the back of my own hand.” 

Perfect. 

A quick, satisfying break of his elbow and his knees soon follow before she takes her first drink of the night, the gambler’s luck running dry as his sweet blood runs down her throat. His heart pounding on her tongue, the glorious resistance she craves gradually fading. No, no! Fight me more, handsome. Fight me just as hard as I fought them! Alas, it is finished and Claudia pulls back, wiping her mouth on her lace glove. 

She stands in the shadows, still clutching the body, savoring the aftertaste. Not an evil soul, merely one made unfortunate by virtue of his sex, as she had once been.  

A hunter as shrewd as she, a woman who’d been raised to have the survival instincts of a prey animal in the jungle, shouldn’t have been caught off guard by sudden wailing so high-pitched, Claudia cringes into herself. Relentlessly loud and surely bound to attract attention!

The body hits the ground with a wet thud as another, much smaller body barrels into her skirts, clinging to her legs. 

Images flash through the child’s mind; he can���t be older than five. A brute of a father raising his fists. A mother cold and impassive, her nose in a book as her children wept for her affections, even her scolding lacked interest. “Quiet down, Lestat.” Blonde and beautiful yet gaunt — Claudia had she lived another ten years, perhaps. Lived the wretched life she was destined to have, like her mother before her and her mother before her. 

This woman doesn’t want her child, and the decision is made. 

“There, there,” she drops to her knees to embrace the boy. His hair tangled unkempt, a shade strikingly similar to hers. His face covered in dirt, the scrapes along his arms and legs still oozing blood. Delirious from terror, hunger, and exhaustion, and in the darkness, he thinks she is his mother.

Claudia swallows back her thirst. 

“I didn’t mean it!” he sobs as he presses himself flush to her chest, burrowing into her sharp collarbone. Tears, dirt, and mucus smear all over the cotton of her dress, her hardened skin. “I didn’t mean to run! I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I want to go home! I’ll be good! I’ll listen, I promise!”

Yes, Claudia's decision has been made, but not here. 

“I know, dearest,” she lifts him off the ground and he settles momentarily, soft and warm. Pulls back to stare at her face, large grey eyes blinking at her. 

He touches her cheek, curious and gentle. Frowns. 

“Mama, you’re so cold.” 

There’s a second where she can feel his hummingbird heart quicken, little rosebud mouth pinching as he sniffles loudly, the tears gathered on his long lashes suspended as he holds her stare with intensity. But then it passes, and he rests his head on her shoulder.

“You need a blanket, Mama,” he sighs and drops his sticky fingers from her cheek, bringing his thumb to his mouth instead. She, too, had suckled her thumb until far too old an age. 

Back home, she cleanses his face.

He whines in his sleep, whimpering into her palm. Fragile and pitiful as the newborn kittens her brother Edgar had drowned to punish her. 

Her clothes are too big, and the doll’s clothes are too small. She cuts a nightgown three-quarters of the way short. The candle flickers and so does her confidence, but it’s too late now. His lifeblood flowing over her tongue, his little heart going and going, refusing to give up! Burst after vibrant burst, innocence devoured. 

Mama, Mama… I love you, Mama.

Claudia groans with it, the flavor of unrivaled purity unlike anything she's ever sampled before. She's never had to catch herself at the very edge of the precipice before; the shadow of a thought passes through her mind that perhaps she doesn't have to — she'll gorge herself on this one and find another to suit the same purpose: make for herself a son sculpted in her unholy image alone. 

But this precious heart! It still won't surrender! How can she trust that she will ever find another with not only the looks to match hers, but one that reflects back to her her own unbroken tenacity? 

“Mama’s here,” she tears open her bodice, exposing her breast, the dark blue vein at the underside. Makes the incision, guiding the child’s mouth to it. She will be Thetis reimagined in the spirit of the new age, submerging the baby Achilles in the River Styx to grant him immortal life, this time careful to fully saturate the heel.

The greedy thing latches quickly, reflexes of an infant still nestled in his subconscious as he takes all that Claudia has to offer.

It must be the male in him. 

“Mama’s here,” she repeats, stroking his hair, humming a long-forgotten lullaby.

Once, a poor woman’s only comfort to her daughter. Now, a little boy’s dirge.

“And you’ll be good for your Mama, won’t you, Lestat?”

[aheathen-conceivably]

🎶 So I close my eyes and the tears will clear 🎶

The sound of the whistle permeated the air, cutting through the steam and fog on the docks of New Orleans. Zelda held Violette’s hand tightly so that she wouldn’t get lost amidst the sea of luggage and people greeting one another or waiting to be taken far from this place.

The moment that she stepped foot on the dock, Zelda's eyes were drawn up to the church, which looked exactly the same as it did when she had first arrived nine years ago. She was staring at it, distinctly recalling the dizzying feeling of the first time she had seen it rising above the river banks, when a figure rushed toward her.

Before she could say a word Antoine’s arms were around her, suffocating out everyone else on the dock and any of her reservations about being back there. He brushed back her hair and kissed every inch of her face, seemingly making no effort to hide the tears of happiness flowing from his eyes and unaware of the stares raining down on them.

He continually looked at Zelda, attempting to formulate the words to express how grateful he was simply to touch her and see her again, before he would lose his thoughts to a small sob or a quick touch of her gloved hand. He could feel the apology caught in his throat, begging to be let out, when a small hand began to tug at the pant leg of his pink suit.

He looked down to see a pair of olive green eyes besieging him for acknowledgment, her need for attention only heightened by her parent’s momentary forgetfulness of her. Antoine bent down to pull her into his arms, “Ma petite cherie! I am so very sorry. Tell me, how was England? Was it as grand as a storybook? Did you see any castles?”

“I did! I did! On a hill in the clouds just like in the stories. Momma told me my Aunt Rosella used to work there. Aunt Rosella was momma’s sister. She said she was pretty just like me and that she told lots of stories and…”

As Violette rambled on, Antoine pulled Zelda close to the two of them, unspeakably happy that they were back here with him. All of the noise around them seemed to fall into a pleasant drone as he stared as Zelda, still yet to speak to one another even as Violette continued to recount her entire journey across the Atlantic.

Sensing her parent’s emotions, Violette ceased her diatribe and tugged at her father’s collar, “Poppa? Poppa? Put me down. I’m big enough to walk on my own.”

The moment her small feet hit the wooden docks she began to confidently walk ahead of them, as if she knew every step to take to get back to the home she had been asking about for months. Her parents trailed behind, watching her steps lovingly and veering ever closer to one another.

When they reached the planked sidewalk above the dock, Antoine stopped and looked toward Zelda. It was quiet here, the murmur from the crowd below only reaching them in snippets. Suddenly the words he had been waiting months to say finally spilled from his mouth. He had accepted that she wasn’t coming home, that perhaps he couldn’t blame her in the slightest if she stayed in England.

Yet he wanted nothing more than for her to choose to come back, but couldn’t ask her to do so knowing that the future he offered here would never be as secure as the one she had in England. Even still he apologized in every way he could: for his absence, for allowing her to go without him at all, and for leaving her to face her ghosts alone while she had stood beside him through so many.

His eyes beseeched her as they bridged the small gap between them, “Zelda, if you can forgive me, I promise all you have to do is tell me you need me and I’ll never leave you alone again, okay?”

Zelda returned his gaze, knowing that his words were only part of what she needed. She had come back so that Violette wouldn’t grow up without him, but also simply because she wanted to be with him. Although her absence seemed to have drawn out what she craved from him, she still didn’t know if he could continue this vulnerability or face the difficult realty of their lives when mundanity returned.

But his eyes were so familiar, so earnest in their questioning and love, that she couldn’t deny why she had come back, and that she herself would turn a blind eye if it meant she could ever be this happy. She leaned onto him and lifted her eyes to meet his own, letting her face tell him that yes, she could forgive him.

“Momma? Poppa? What are you doing? Let’s go home!”

Zelda took Antoine’s hand in her own and began to follow after Violette, “Yes, my little love. Let’s go home.”

[bullet-prooflove]

Photo Finish: Douglas Hamilton x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @lucymalfoy18 @ashrionest @mimi-8793 @glamourous-eloquence

Companion piece:

Mississippi Meanders - Douglas doesn't expect to meet the love of his life.

Pedestal - Douglas puts you on a pedestal, much to his detriment.

The Prettiest Damn Thing - Douglas regrets having to leave the morning after.

Something Special - You decide to give Douglas something special after you notice how stressed he is.

Games - You decide to distract Douglas.

Martha’s looking for a pen in Douglas’s desk when she finds the photographs in his top drawer. They’re glossy, black  and white pictures of him at home in situ.

Sitting pensively by the fire, a notepad on his lap.

Chopping vegetables with that handsome smile on his features.

Standing in the mirror, watching his reflection as he ties his tie.

All of them are Douglas Hamilton captured in the moment, completely unguarded.

She knows it’s you that has taken them. She’s seen your work before, studied it diligently ever since the image of the Mississippi Meanders appeared on his desk in a matching black photo frame. You’re an exceptional photographer, she can’t fault that and the level of intimacy and vulnerability in these images…

You can’t get from staged scenes.

It’s exactly what she needs for the People’s Mayor segment running in The New Orleans Tribune supplement later this week. A way to show the masses that their mayor is a person, just like the rest of them.

When the article is released you smile when get the notification on your phone. You’ve set up a Google alert because you like to read the positive ones out to him to remind him of all the excellent work he’s doing when he’s having a shitty day.  

It’s when you see the pictures that your heart sinks. You scroll through every single one of them and the ache in your chest, it just grows because these images they’re meant to be private, a gift you gave to Douglas so he could see himself the way that you do.

You pause as you study the final one. Douglas’s tousled hair from the night you’d spent together, his sensual smile as he looked up at you, his back against the headboard. A minute after this picture was taken he’d tugged at the shirt you were wearing, drawing you back into his lap.

Noone was meant to see this side of him, it was meant to be yours and yours only. That’s why it’s hurts so badly, to know that he’s taken something so important to you and used it as part of his campaign.

You don’t respond to Douglas’s texts for the rest of the day because you can’t stand the sight of his name when it appears on your phone.

He comes to find you when you don’t turn up at his place that night. The two of you have a longstanding arrangement, you come over on a Thursday and he cooks for you. By nine o’clock he's concerned he’s not heard from you so he grabs his coat and drives to the museum.

He finds you standing on the bridge where the two of you first met, looking over the river as the lights from the city twinkle over the water. You don’t ask him how he got into the sculpture garden, you know being the mayor has it’s perks, that your head of security is a big fan.

“I’ve missed you today.” He says as he takes up residence beside you, his elbows coming it rest on the railing. “You haven’t been returning my texts, you didn’t show up at the house for dinner…”

“You used the pictures I gave you.” You say, your tone practically glacial.

He’s never heard you sound like that, so cold, so distant.

“Martha found them.” He tells you as he clasps his hands together. “She thought they’d make me seem more personable so she submitted them to the magazine.”

“Did you know?” You ask him, tilting your head so that you can study his features. “Did you know that she was going to use them?”

“Not until the article ran this morning.” He tells you rubbing one palm over the other. “They did the job they were supposed to…”

You jaw clenches and your swallow hard against the emotion that raises up in your throat because that’s what your relationship have been reduced to. A marketing tool, a way of making Douglas seem more likeable.

“Nothing is really ours is it?” You say, your knuckles turning white as you grip the railing of the bridge. “All of it is just one big marketing campaign, a way of making you seem more personable to your constituents. ”

Douglas sighs as he stares down at his hands.

“You knew what you were getting into.” He says, his voice pained.

“I can’t live like this.” You tell him resolutely. “I can’t have a relationship where the things I say or do can be leaked to the press by your publicist everytime she feels like your ratings need a boost. I’d ask you to fire her but…”

You trail off then and Douglas refuses to meet your gaze, confirming what you’ve always suspected. He needs Martha, her connections, her ingenuity, her ruthlessness. After all she was the reason that he got elected, that he wields all this power.

“I need to go lock up.” You say, pushing away from the railing.

“I’ll wait.” He says and you shake your head.

“No, you won’t.” You say as you tuck your hands into the pockets of your overcoat and begin to walk away. “We’re done Douglas, I don’t want to see you anymore.”

Love Douglas? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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[selmasemlan]

Moonlight in New Orleans

Summary: Marcel and Luna share a tender, moonlit dance in his New Orleans loft, finding solace and reaffirming their love amidst the city's vibrant energy and their own recent turmoil.

Pairing: Marcel Gerard x Luna Salvatore (OFC)

Author note: I needed something cute

Warning: cutie patootie

Word count: 618

Series Masterlist

Moonlight in New Orleans

The city of New Orleans was alive with its usual charm, the air filled with the distant sounds of jazz and the occasional laughter from the streets below. Marcel's loft, perched high above the vibrant city, offered a sanctuary away from the bustle. The room was bathed in a soft, golden glow from the antique chandeliers, and the large windows allowed the moonlight to stream in, casting enchanting shadows on the walls.

Luna stood by one of the windows, gazing out at the city she had come to love. The view was breathtaking, the Mississippi River reflecting the shimmering lights of the French Quarter. She took a deep breath, letting the peaceful atmosphere wash over her. Despite the recent turmoil, this moment felt serene.

"Moonlight," Marcel's voice broke through her reverie, a soft and comforting presence in the quiet room.

She turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, his smile warm and inviting. He was dressed casually, but his presence was anything but ordinary. The way he looked at her made her feel like the most important person in the world.

"Hey," she replied, her voice filled with affection.

Marcel walked over to her, his movements fluid and graceful. He reached out, gently taking her hand in his. "What are you doing out here all by yourself?"

"Just thinking," Luna said, her eyes drifting back to the cityscape. "It's been a lot to process."

Marcel nodded, understanding. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close so she could rest her head against his chest. "Yeah, it has. But you made it through. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for, Moonlight."

She smiled against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and reassuring. "I couldn't have done it without you," she murmured. "You've always been my rock, Marcel."

He tilted her chin up, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "And I always will be. You light up my life, Luna. You're my moonlight."

Her heart swelled with love, and she rose on her tiptoes to kiss him. The kiss was tender and filled with the promise of forever. Marcel's arms tightened around her, and for a moment, everything else faded away.

When they pulled apart, both breathless and smiling, Marcel took her hand and led her to the center of the room. "Dance with me?" he asked softly.

Luna laughed, a light, musical sound that filled the loft. "There's no music," she teased.

Marcel grinned, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "We don't need music. Just trust me."

He began to sway gently, guiding her in a slow, intimate dance. The moonlight and the warm glow from the chandeliers created a magical ambiance, and they moved together as if they were the only two people in the world. The rhythm of their hearts became the only music they needed.

As they danced, Marcel leaned in to whisper in her ear, "I love you, Moonlight. Always."

Luna's heart fluttered, and she squeezed his hand, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I love you too, Marcel. Forever."

They continued to dance, the outside world forgotten as they held each other close. The soft glow of the room, the gentle sway of their dance, and the warmth of their love created a perfect moment. In Marcel's arms, Luna felt safe, cherished, and ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

With every step and turn, they wove their love into the fabric of the night, creating a tapestry of memories that would shine as brightly as the moonlight. As the city of New Orleans thrummed with life below them, Luna and Marcel found their own rhythm, their own song, and for that night, everything was perfect.

[sheepkebby]

I hope you don’t mind my rambles, but I’m avoiding doing my homework, so I’m gonna analyze potential future plot of KVTW :3

So, in ch. 7, we find out that the survivors are at a military base is a desert somewhere. Since it’s a military base, we can guess they’re still in the US, so that narrows down where they could be.

For the sake of keeping this short since it’s pretty late for me, let’s say they’re in the Chihuahuan Desert. To be nice to Keith (and me), I’ll guess that the survivors’ military base is also in Texas, so I’m going to approximate them somewhere in far west Texas.

We know Virgil is taking Keith to Texas, but he didn’t say where. Some of the closest port towns to where they’re approaching from is Galveston and Houston, so for my measurements, I’m going to guess that’s where they land. If they don’t boat up any rivers, that leaves Keith somehow having to find his way from southeast Texas to west Texas.

Now lovelies, for some context Texas is pretty fuckin’ big. Let me put in a little perspective:

Here’s a great map I found detailing the survivors journey, and the blue line is our group. Through their campaigns, they travel from Savannah, Georgia to New Orleans, Louisiana. According to google maps, the straightest route from their start to finish is over 600 miles.

If Keith ends up in southeastern Texas and has to find his way to west Texas, to cross the whole state, his route is going to be ~600-800 miles, depending on his actual starting and end point. And that’s only if he takes the best path by roads. He doesn’t know Ellis is alive, so he doesn’t have a goal to even travel this far. A road trip through Texas could last days, and that’s if he finds a car, the roads aren’t blocked, and he has a motivation to head that way. This all also with the assumption that their base is even in Texas; it could always be further.

Keith has a long road ahead of him.

(I sleep now. Love KVTW sm!!!!)

MY JAW LITERALLY DROPPED WHEN I SAW THIS !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OH MY GOODNESS I'M. I'M GOING TO DROP MY JACKET INTO A PUDDLE FOR YOU SO YOUR SHOES DON'T GET MUDDY.

I'm absolutely astonished, like, I never ever thought that people would get so invested in my writing. I dunno if it's weird of me to say but thank you so so much for this. Really you've made my whole night

You're right on the money with "Keith has a long road ahead of him." too! I planned on chapter 7 marking the midway point in the fic, which is half the reason why I decided to turn it into a comic. In my eyes, it was a big milestone. (That, and the jarring switch to Ellis' POV made it special). But yeah, like I said, we're practically halfway through! Poor Keith hopped on that boat praying he'd see his loved ones in a day or two, mm-mm! Oh baby boy, I'm so sorry.

You'll havta wait a little while longer, my beloved bumpkin.

As for you, stranger, sleep well :3 and thanks again !!!