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from-memphis-with-love · 1 month

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Songbird - Ch. 1 - The Handsome Stranger

Summary: The year is 1969. The place is the International Hotel. Valerie Pedretti, an aspiring singer, has a chance encounter with one Elvis Presley in an elevator that will change her life forever. Notes: To me, 1967-1971 EP is kind of peak Elvis, and so I wanted to write a fic with him smack dab in that time period. In the 1969-1970 period, especially, Elvis was probably the most handsome and alluring man in the galaxy. Lots of anachronisms and historical inaccuracies in this one, but just roll with it because it's fun! I based Valerie, in a sense, off of a mixture of Kathy Westmoreland, Joyce Bova, and Linda Thompson. Kathy met the real Elvis for the first time in an elevator, and that really inspired this work. Priscilla exists in this universe but she and Elvis get a divorce far earlier than in real life. Theirs, in some ways like real life, is a marriage of convenience and an "arrangement." Lisa Marie does not exist in this universe.

Las Vegas, Nevada, 1969

Vegas was shimmering mirage of bad decisions just waiting to snare me—a sucker-punch I never saw coming. The lights, the noise, the impossible promise of it all crashed over me in kaleidoscopic waves as my cab cruised down the strip towards the International Hotel. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching slack-jawed as sequined showgirls and vacationers blurred by in streaks of neon and rhinestone.

The cabbie swerved to the curb with a jolt, snapping me out of my daze. "International Hotel," he barked, his voice an ice bath to my face. I shoved a crumbled wad of bills into his hand and stumbled out and into a swarm of hairspray and cigar smoke congregating under the hotel's blazing marquee. Blinking in confusion, I took in the frenzied scene unfolding—beefy security shoving their way through the sea of pompadours, vendors hawking glossy headshots, teddy bears and "I 🖤 ELVIS" pins. The realization hit me like a freight train. This wasn't just any weekend at the International. It was the kickoff of Elvis Presley's residency. Ground zero for absolute Elvis mania.

The irritation set in, simmering beneath my skin. "Shit," I muttered, suddenly feeling foolish for forgetting. Of all the rotten luck. Out of all the times to visit Las Vegas, I had unwittingly chosen the kickoff of Elvis's shows—an event drawing crowds I had no desire to mingle with.

I wove through the throng, lugging my cumbersome suitcases behind me. Inside the lobby was even more chaotic—a swirling kaleidoscope of big-haired fans and cigarette smoke lingering over shag carpet. Elvis was everywhere, his angelic face beaming down from posters, gold records, life-sized cardboard cutouts. A veritable religious shrine. Groaning internally, I caught my bedraggled reflection in a mirrored column. Of course I would show up to the Presley Promised Land looking like something the cat dragged in. Normally I'd at least try to pull myself together for check-in, maybe swipe on some lipstick or fluff my chocolate curls into place. After all, I didn't want to look terrible in front of people dressed to the nines. But after the day I'd had, I couldn't muster the effort.

My flight from Chicago had been delayed six excruciating hours due to "mechanical issues," which apparently was airline-speak for "sit tight while we screw you over." By the time we finally took off, I'd already stress-eaten two sleeves of Oreos and read the in-flight magazine three mind-numbing times. To top it off, I'd spilled coffee all over my only nice blouse right before landing. Clearly, some divine power had it out for me today.

Feeling sweaty and vaguely nauseous, I trudged to the front desk. The angular blonde behind the counter, Brenda, barely glanced up from her well-thumbed issue of Variety as I approached.

"Welcome to the International Hotel. Checking in?" She smacked her gum, eyes never leaving her magazine.

"Yes, uh, reservation should be under Deena Lovelace."

That finally got her attention. Her penciled brows shot up as she inspected me, taking in the coffee stains and rumpled slacks. "Wait, you're Deena? The Deena who told me she booked for the Sinatra audition tomorrow?" The doubt was palpable.

I gritted my teeth into a tight smile. "No, actually. I'm her friend Valerie. Deena got sick at the last minute, some kind of exotic flu, so I'm filling in for her."

Suspicion clouded Brenda's face, but after a long beat she shrugged. "Huh. Well, takes all kinds, I guess." She signaled to a bellhop in a red monkey suit and thrust a key into my hand. "Room 2806, elevators are that way. If you need anything, ask for Hector."

Hector the bellhop scurried over and hoisted up my bags with surprising ease for such a slight guy. I made a weak attempt to protest, but he just grinned and ushered me through the cacophonous lobby to the first hallway. The doors slid open and I thanked him, pressing a few crumpled bills into his white-gloved hand.

“I can take it from here, Hector.”

As I walked along, I looked at my reflection in the mirrored wall and exhaled slowly. My nerves buzzed like an exposed wire as I thought about tomorrow's audition. Landing a spot in the Sinatra chorus line seemed about as likely as shooting the moon at this point. I barely knew the song Deena had been rehearsing for weeks, my go-go boots had a broken heel, and my voice was ragged from practicing the whole weekend.

But damn it, this was the first real shot I'd had in ages to claw my way out of the chambermaid grind and actually make something of myself. To prove Ma right for always saying I had stardust in my veins, even when it landed me more trouble than applause growing up. I had to at least try. For all those thankless nights warbling in dim lounges, waiting for my big break. For Deena, who I knew would kill for this chance.

I'd barely begun my little pep talk when someone brushed by me, sloshing their vodka tonic onto my sleeve and snapping me back to the present moment. I weaved through the crowd towards another inner hallway, clearing my throat.

I turned on my heel and started hoofing it towards my room. The hotel's layout was an absolute dizzying mess of twists and turns in every direction. My thudding, ungainly footsteps were muffled by the shag carpet and the dulled roar of fans congregating throughout the hotel.

As I trudged on, the ambiance shifted gradually. The hum of voices faded away, replaced by an overwhelming silence that signaled I was getting farther away from the bustling core. Exhaustion tugged at my bones while I navigated the maze of hallways. My room was somewhere in this labyrinth, but my bed felt worlds away at this point.

My steps sank into the plush carpet as I drifted into a quieter, dimly-lit corridor that seemed less traveled. Finally, I found myself alone in front of a bank of elevator doors. I stabbed the call button and waited impatiently, my arms aching from the weight of my overstuffed suitcases. God, why did I pack so much useless junk?

"Must be close now," I muttered out loud, my voice barely audible.

With barely a thought, I slipped out of my heels and bent my toes backwards and forwards, allowing my sore feet to relish the heavenly softness underfoot. It was soft, springy, and absolute relief for my aching soles. Automatically, I began humming a familiar, nameless tune under my breath - just a few sweet, absentminded notes I always turned to for comfort when I needed it. The thought of finally washing this endless day off my face and jumping into a crisp hotel bed was the only thing on my mind as the gilded doors opened with a tinny ding.

The cab was empty. Relieved to finally have a moment to myself, I dragged my heavy bags inside and slumped against the mirrored wall. As the doors started to slide closed, a large, ring-adorned hand suddenly shot out, halting them.

I straightened up with a jolt, my exhaustion replaced by a flash of irritation. Great, just what I needed, another overzealous Elvis fan trying to cram into my personal space bubble.

But as the interloper stepped into the elevator, my breath caught in my throat. Standing before me, in all his smoldering, technicolor glory, was the man himself. Elvis fucking Presley. The aura he gave off was undeniable, that much was sure. And I recognized his face immediately, the same one splashed all over the posters and knick knacks in the lobby. There he was, outshining the garishly glitzy elevator cab like a supernova eclipsing neon. And next to him, a well-built redheaded man, his hand resting at something shiny on his hip. Bodyguard, most likely. Quickly, I shoved my feet back into my heels, silently cursing myself for having taken them off in the first place.

I blinked hard, convinced I must be hallucinating from sheer fatigue. But no, he was unquestionably real, from the polished black shoes to the perfectly coiffed onyx hair that shone like quicksilver in the light. His lean, powerful frame was draped in an immaculately tailored black suit, a shock of pink peeking out from the silk scarf knotted at his throat. But it was the penetrating, electric blue gaze behind tinted shades that truly unraveled me.

I'd never considered myself much of an Elvis fan. Sure, I could appreciate a catchy tune like "Don't Be Cruel" or "Teddy Bear," but I'd always been immune to the mass hysteria he incited in his besotted admirers. Yet here, in such close proximity to his cosmic charisma and undeniable sex appeal, I finally understood. This man was a force of nature.

The redhead caught my awestruck stare and chuckled knowingly. "I see you've met my friend Jon Burrows here," he said with a wink.

But this was no "Jon Burrows." I knew who it was, plain as day. And his affect on me was immediate. Was I dreaming? My pulse started racing. Should I say something? And just how the hell did this happen? I opened my mouth, then closed it, swallowing hard. Play it cool, Valerie.

Any lingering self-consciousness about my frazzled appearance just evaporated in the sheer force of his presence. Though judging by the unmistakably mischievous curl of his lip, my travel-battered state didn't seem to faze him one bit. His perceptive eyes met mine, always accustomed to the spotlight but now studying me with curiosity. He took in my slumped posture and visible fatigue without a hint of judgment.

"You've had yourself a long day, haven't you, honey?" That voice, richer than a Mississippi smokehouse, sliced right through me.

I could only nod dumbly, a lump forming in my throat. "I—uh, yeah. No. I mean... yes, you could say that," I stammered like an idiot. Get it together!

His smile was pure bewitchment. "Well, you'll be tucked in in no time, I reckon. I hear the beds are mighty comfortable here."

I looked up at the ceiling in silence, tracing the swirling pattern with my mind's eye and trying to give off a vibe of cool indifference. But my stomach was actually rolling.

To my surprise, he kept talking. "Pardon my manners. My name's Elvis, and this is my pal Red. Who might you be?"

My throat locked tighter than a cowboy's bullwhip. "Valer—?"

"Valerie." He drew the name out, savoring each note and curve as if testing its ring. Each single syllable seemed to undergo some mystical transformation, alchemized to pure liquid amber from his lips. "A pretty name for a pretty little songbird." A ringed hand discreetly adjusted the bejeweled cups shielding his gaze, maybe hoping to make out my sides better.

Elvis was still steadily playing the blue suede shoes off me, from his elegant bent stance to the teasing half-smirk barely shadowing those indolently hungover features—the whole routine daring me to go chasing his bait. But I was far too busy trying not to spontaneously combust. I screwed my eyes tightly shut for a half-moment, desperately grasping to regain some sense of composure with an oxygen-deprived brain.

How did he know...?

Dumb question, Sherlock. The very notion conjured images of me, sweat-glazed and punchy-tired, mindlessly vocalizing sweet lullabies straight from my Off-Off-Broadway chambermaid days while I waited for the elevator. Of course he would've overhead that.

I cinched my mouth into what I hoped was a blasé half-smile, refusing to come completely uncorked by his pet name. I replayed the embarrassing moment in my head, wishing I could dissolve into the elevator shaft. Every breath I pulled in seemed to crackle with electricity. First I randomly share an elevator with The Elvis Presley, and now he'd overheard my nervous vocalizing and was complimenting me on it?

"Baby." A rich, salt-cured chuckle melted off his tongue, resining deep in my nerve center. "I got ears like a well-tuned radar dish. You in town for a show?"

I shook my head slowly. "Technically yes, but no. Just an audition," I replied, my heart thundering in my ears. I hoped he couldn't hear it pounding.

"Who for, if you don't mind me asking?" he inquired with that laser gaze.

I sucked in a steadying breath. Might as well take the bait since I'd already been barb-hooked but good. "I'm here for an audition, actually. Tomorrow. For Sinatra. I'm a singer. I mean, not like you, but hopefully one day..." I paused, unsure of how much backstory was worth burdening Elvis with. "Just got a last minute sub-in for a friend who's under the weather."

Something flickered across Elvis' handsome features before the mask of idle curiosity slid back into place. "Is that right?" His gaze raked over me again, slower this time, more deliberate. "And what will you be singing for Ol' Blue Eyes?"

Shit. Why was he asking me so many questions? My palms started to sweat as I racked my brain for a suitable answer. It wasn't like I could admit that I barely knew the material, that I was flying by the seat of my pants on a far-fetched favor for a friend. So I settled for a half-truth instead.

"Oh, you know. Just a little medley of standards. 'To Keep My Love Alive,' 'I Can Cook, Too,' that kind of thing."

Elvis nodded slowly, a shadow of a smirk still playing on his lips. "A classic set list. I'm sure you'll knock 'em dead, honey."

I started to stammer out a thanks, but Elvis was already moving past me towards the door as the elevator finally shuddered to a stop. He paused, throwing a glance back over his shoulder. There was a new intensity in his eyes when they met mine, a dark promise that made my toes curl involuntarily in my heels.

"I'll be rooting for you, songbird. Break a leg."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me weak-kneed and dizzy in a cloud of his smoky-spicy cologne. I sagged against the wall, trying to collect myself. What in the ever-loving hell had just happened? Had I honestly just been shamelessly eye-fucked by Elvis Presley in an elevator?

More importantly, why had I liked it so much?

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the treacherous thoughts as I finally stumbled out into the harshly lit hallway. It was late, I was tired, and I had an audition to rest up for. The last thing I needed was to dwell on smoldering looks from a celebrity Casanova that I had no business panting over in the first place.

But even as I went through the motions of unlocking my room and sinking face-first into the marshmallowy duvet, I couldn't stop my mind from wandering back to the electric encounter in the elevator. The way Elvis had stared at me, equal parts scorching and inscrutable, as if he was trying to crack some tantalizing code. There was no way I could have imagined that. The effortless command he'd exuded, the sheer magnetism rolling off of him in waves. How ridiculously, unexpectedly good he still looked, hips swiveling in slow-motion in my mind's eye...

I punched a pillow in frustration, annoyed with my traitorous libido. This was so far beyond the scope of anything I'd anticipated when I'd agreed to sub in for Deena's audition. But one thing was certain—my time in Vegas was shaping up to be a hell of a lot more interesting than I'd bargained for. And something told me that a chance run-in on a hotel elevator was only the beginning.

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis fanfiction #elvis fanfic #elvis fic #elvis x oc #elvis presley fic #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley fanfiction #songbird #elvis fans

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spiritmander13 · 6 months

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Some evidence as to why I think Silver now has an inner flame.

So... that latest episode. Spoilers ahead.

Alright, let me just say it-

In III10, after Cabby won the rejoin, Candle was given a cookie. Using her flame, she transformed the cookie into the immunity cookie, which has a golden glow.

And in the latest episode-

SILVER GLOWS GOLD.

Also, in the EXIT interview with Candle, she states that the Inner Flame is a separate soul, possibly more powerful, and without making good terms with it it could make you become beast-like or smth.

And in the latest episode-

Silver says this line. ESPECIALLY THE PART THAT GOES "LIKE I HAD LOST CONTROL".

Coincidence? I think NOT.

#inanimate insanity #ii #ii silver spoon #ii candle #inanimate insanity invitational #iii16 #iii spoilers

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jigsaw173 · 1 year

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I feel like a few of you might appreciate these few panels from the CHoPs storyboard

their expressions are gold. I like the idea that dipper would have been as big as wind and cabbie

#planes 2 #planes fire and rescue

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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 1 year

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Congrats on 100 followers! Fluff prompt #9 with Baby on board please💖

Hi! Thanks so much for your congratulations! I hope you like this one! It's Bob with the prompt, “I love you doesn’t begin to express what I feel for you”. I hope you like it! 💖💖💖

Long Distance Lover

You’ve only been married for a year, and much of your marriage has been long-distance. It hasn’t exactly been the most conventional of relationships, but you wouldn’t trade your relationship or your husband for anything in the world. In truth, you would have happily traveled around the world with him if you’d been able to. You’d met Bob in Virginia one autumn night and had been absolutely blown away. It hadn’t been hard at all to fall for the mild-mannered man with a heart of gold. You’d dated Bob for three months while he’d been stationed in Virginia, making weekend trips down to the base to spend as much time with him as possible. He’d proposed to you two weeks before he’d been deployed on an aircraft carrier for six months. You hadn’t been dating for very long, but you knew even after such a short time that he was the man for you. It had surprised him the most when you’d accepted the proposal and the simple ring he’d bought from a shop near the base. You’d had a simple civil wedding ceremony and kissed him goodbye when he shipped out for his mission.

Bob had called recently from Lemoore, where he’d been stationed after leaving the ship. He’d been selected for a special detachment, and something about it had sent a shiver of unease down your spine. In truth, all you wanted to do was kiss him and hold him. But Bob had refused your offer to fly to San Diego, stating that your work was just as important as his. He’d called you every day and every night during the detachment, but there was only so much his words could do to assuage your worries. The last time you’d spoken to him, Bob told you when he’d return after the mission. Immediately after that call, you’d spontaneously cashed in all your vacation days and bought a ticket to San Diego.

Your flight landed at 3 pm PST. After collecting your luggage at the airport, you grabbed a taxi and had the driver drop you off at the Hard Deck. Sometime in the hours when your phone had been in Airplane Mode, Bob had called and texted. He was safe, thankfully. But a part of you can’t believe that until you can see him with your own eyes. The Hard Deck is just as Bob had described it to you. And when your cab pulls into the lot, you’re thankful that you only packed a single duffle bag because it’s packed. You pay the cabbie with a smile and step out into the humid San Diego air. You’re not dressed up by any means, just wearing a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, and you immediately feel out of place when you step into the premises. You’re one of the few people inside not wearing a uniform and one of the few people not celebrating.

Add to your look the duffle bag clutched securely under your shoulder, and you stick out like a sore thumb. You don’t even bother stopping by the bar to grab a drink, singlemindedly scanning the celebrating groups for the one face you desperately want to see. You have to stand on tiptoes, ignoring how you’re bumped and jostled and how people step all over your toes, but you finally spot the glint of his glasses in a corner by the pool tables. Your sigh is unheard by all, but seeing his face sends relief sinking warmly through your chest. You fight your way through the crowd, avoiding flailing limbs and dancing bodies in your journey across the bar. Bob’s sitting on one of the barstools in the corner, watching two of his squad mates play pool. He’s smiling, and you can see the exhaustion lining his face even through his smile.

Your appearance next to the pool tables attracts attention, as you’d expected. The assembled aviators fall silent, and you wave sheepishly at the assembled men and women. One of the aviators, a blonde with the biggest shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen, sidles up to you. He’s not got a single hair out of place, and you have a feeling you know what will pour out of his mouth even before he speaks.

“Hello, darlin’. You look a little lost there. Can a Navy man help you find your way around San Diego?” He’s flipping a toothpick in his mouth while waiting for your response. But frankly, you’ve only got eyes for one man in the assembled company.

“Thanks for the offer, Bagman. But I’m married, and I want to kiss my husband now if you please.” Your smile is sweet as you push past him and stand in front of Bob after so long.

“Hey, Bobby.” He’s looking at you in shock, and this close, you can see a nasty bruise just turning yellow and green on his cheek.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing here? What about work?” You cup his cheek gently, trailing your fingers across the bruise gently. “I had a bad feeling about this special detachment. And I haven’t seen you in a year, Bob. I missed you. I cashed in all my vacation days when you told me you hoped to be stateside this week. I just flew into San Diego today.”

There’s something wondering in his eyes as you kiss his cheek. It’s like he still doesn’t believe you’re right in front of him until his hands land on your waist and drag you close. His embrace is nearly too tight, but you don’t complain when you’re squeezing him just as tightly back.

“I still can’t believe you’re here, sweetheart. I love you doesn’t even begin to express what I feel for you. This mission was nearly too close, darling.” You can still hear the fear in his tone as he drags you in until your head is against his chest.

“I’m here, Bob. And so are you. I’m here when you’re ready to talk about what happened. But above all, I’m here to love you. I really missed you, Robert Floyd.” When you step away from him to see his face, you see a hunger you’ve only seen before on your honeymoon night. You card your fingers through his soft hair and smile as Bob kisses you, soft and sweet. It’s a kiss that takes your breath away. When you finally pull away, the roar of the bar filters back into your ears. His squadron is looking at Bob in shock, and you can’t help your smile as he tugs you into his side.

“Dagger Squadron, this is my wife.” You smile at the pride in his tone and kiss his cheek one more time before stealing his soda as you start to socialize with his squadron. You’re going to have fun in San Diego, if only because you’re spending time with the love of your life.

Want to request something for my 100 Follower Celebration? The guidelines are here! Please leave me a request in my inbox with your ask!

- XOXO Star

#star writes #100 follower celebration #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun imagine #top gun fluff #robert floyd x reader #bob x reader #robert bob floyd x reader #bob imagine #bob fluff

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notyour-valentine · 2 years

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A Thousand Reasons and One ~Tommy Shelby x Reader (Fluff)

Summary: After more than a decade since her parents had decided to leave Birmingham for a better life across the sea, she wasn’t sure just what she would return to

Note: @dandelionprints Thank you so much for requesting.

Here is my [Masterlist].

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other. This hasn't been beta'd so I apologise for typos or mistakes

Warning: As I am an adult, all my writing I share is unless explicitly stated for adults (18/21+). Expect canon confirming tone, language and depiction of violence. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.

Request: yes, by @dandelionprints I hope you enjoy it!

Wordcount: 3701

She had read a story once, about a girl who had woken up in a dreamworld so lifelike and similar to the one she came from, it took a while before she realised it.

And as she heard the crunching under her tightly laced brown leather boots, she couldn’t help but think this was a dream too.

She could no longer tell how many night she had closed her eyes so that in the darkness, she could walk these streets again, balancing on the edge of the pavement on the outskirts of Small Heath, sneaking through the back streets and alleyways for the quickest way to the canal or even climbing up to the roofs so that she alone would tower over the city. Only she hadn’t been alone.

Back then, she had never been alone.

Even now, after a decade that had shaken the foundation of the world, it still felt familiar, even if the paint on the shop sign was a little more chipped, the facade of the houses a little darker and the smell a little harsher.

But somehow it all was smaller than in the memories of the streets of her childhood. Even the towering stretched necks of the factory chimneys that still loomed over the city no longer seemed the giants they once were.

And yet that calming sense of coming home never came.

Instead, her heart thundered in her chest. If it were anyone else, they could have pretended that it was due to the bad company and the rough streets that were safer to walk as a child than a young woman, but that wasn’t it.

She was too foolish and too brave to be scared in a place like this. In her place, or at least what it had once been.

Despite all the time, her feet knew the way all on their own from where the cabbie had dropped her off with a polite warning.

“It’s not safe, ‘specially for foreigners.”

But she wasn’t a foreigner. She had been born in this place, taking in the smoke with her first breath and feeling the dirt under her feet with her very first steps.

All the other changes had been little, so much so that a slightly less interested glance wouldn’t have noticed them at all, just enough to cause a little unease the same way the perceived stillness on the deck of a boat had made her stomach flutter during the passage over.

She noticed though, but even someone blind, deaf and stupid would notice the glaring difference presenting itself to her now.

She had to blink, pinch herself and look again at this glimmering glittering hideous mess of gold paint that awaited her where the Garrison once stood.

Gone was the old dark brown wood, replaced by gilded paint and white without a single stain upon it. It looked as if it had been plucked from a different place of the earth and set down here by mistake.

Inside, it was hardly better. The last time she had been, there had not yet been electric lights, but these looked to be of the newest generation, just like the telephone behind the bar.

The countertops had no scratchmarks, no bullets stuck in them.

The legs of the chairs had not been cracked and broken and the old wooden benches had been softened by upholstery, which she could see a thousand times over in the reflection of the many mirrors.

The old faces of her childhood were no more, the regular’s table sporting new patrons.

And somehow, even if she had only ever cared about few of them, it filled her with sadness.

Mr Barrow had been a gruff old man who had smelled so sour it sometimes made her eyes water, but he had belonged here, right up at there on the furthest place of the counter.

And Mr. Mintley with his nose the shape of a potato looked so mean it would scare a stranger, but his voice had almost been that of a mouse.

Fannington was another who wasn’t there, with his long beard and bushy moustache.

She remembered blue-nosed Galling who sometimes, when he was particularly drunk, would pay them for matches they never gave them and squinty eyed Mr Pickett who could drink like a cow and yet still walk a straight line.

They were all gone, but she could see some lingering trace of them in the other people- the colour of familiar eyes, the shape of noses she recalled and the sound of laughter that had etched itself in her memory.

“What can I get ya’ love?”, a booming voice roared, sending her head snapping from where sometimes that old greyhound had laid under the table to the man behind the bar.

Old Mr. Fenton had been the one behind it, with the help of his boy Haggard Harry, but even though the lines in the face she saw were frighteningly familiar, they bore no resemblance to either one of the Fentons.

She know those small eyes, knew the line between the brows, the shape of the jaw - even the moustache. It was like looking at a ghost, because he had to be a ghost.

He looked just like he had done when she had last seen him, all those years ago.

“Didn’t mean to startle ya!”, he said in that booming voice she remembered in the depth of her bones as he braced himself on the counter. “Go on!”

“J-just a gin please.”, she croaked out, staring at him with wide eyes.

Surely not.

“Finn, make yourself useful and get the American some good old gin, eh?”, he instructed as he continued to draw a few pints.

“I’m not ‘ere for work!”, a young man who was sitting on the customer’s side argued. He had short blond hair, with the edges cut in the way the soldiers did it, and piercing blue eyes. He too looked frighteningly familiar.

“You do as you’re told!”, the man insisted and rolling his eyes, the youngster put out his cigarette and began to obey.

“Here.”, he finally said, pushing the glass over to her as she paid.

“Heard you talking about Americans.”, a sneer came from the direction of the snug.

“Ah, don’t worry John!”, the man waved off, making her head snap around.

“We don’t mind foreigners when they look like that, eh?”

Yes, it was John - undoubtedly so with his boyish face and bright eyes.

Her own travelled back to the boy who had served her, while John mustered her from top to bottom.

“C’mon Arthur.”, John said, nodding inside.

Arthur, yes of course it was Arthur, but the younger not the older.

Pull yourself together!, she scolded herself, reaching for the biting liquid to steady her shaking heart.

She hadn’t expected any of it to be easy, but she hadn’t expected it to be this confusing…this difficult. And now she couldn’t even think straight.

Everything around her was familiar, but not the same, similar but slightly different, all things she had remembered but all things that had changed.

It made her head spin to the point where she felt ill.

Downing the drink, she grabbed her purse and pushed out of the new shiny glass door into the cold air in an attempt to steady her racing heart and restless thoughts.

On their own accord, and with far more sense of direction than her spinning head and racing heart, her feet took her down to the cut.

The water was even darker and fouler smelling than she had recalled it on the most boiling of summer days.

She wondered how many secrets had disappeared into it’s darkness, which too many times had been witness to hidden truths of her own - words she had only told the sky, the canal and the boy by her side.

In it she could see the reflection of the moon play tricks on the water. Unlike a river, it did not run, but it wasn’t still either. There was always some movement in the cut, even if she didn’t know where it came from.

It contorted her image, so unlike the one it had been the last time she had looked into it’s depth.

But just like back then, all these years ago, a second reflection came up beside her.

She spun and took a few steps back as precaution only to be met by unimpressed eyes with an eyebrow raised.

Her mouth dropped open as she stared at him.

He had grown, of course he had grown, and his cheeks and jaw had gotten sharper with age. A few small lines had been added to the corners of his eyes.

And even though his cap threw a shadow deep into his face, they shone so brightly just like they had always down.

A breathless gasp escaped her lips as she stared at him, trying to take in all of him while her mind attempted to sort it all, every similarity, every difference.

Gone were the wide shirts of his brother that were far too broad for him, the trousers that never would have held without the suspenders, and in their place was a well tailored suit. Those long dark lashes still caressed his cheeks and his eyes had lost none of their shine or sharpness, rivalling only the shining gold chain of his pocket watch.

If she had thought her head was spinning earlier in the Garrison, she had another thing coming as her stomach began to rebel like the time she had been ten years old and tried stolen (and probably spoiled) beer for the very first time.

He’d held her braids back then, as she threw up all over the cobblestones.

Now he just watched at her, smoke escaping his lips.

“So,”, he said, not a trace of emotion in his voice or in his eyes, “you talk funny now.”

Every word was accompanied by their own shape of white which disappeared as quickly as it had come.

But she didn’t mind in the slightest. Even though his voice had changed in more ways than she could list, they confirmed what she had known as soon as his reflection had appeared beside hers and within the bat of an eyelash she had her arms wrapped around his neck, forgetting all sense of propriety and of dignity that society and their age demanded.

She hugged him the way she had hugged him when she had been a child, the way she had hugged him for the very last time, fiercely and tightly and wishing she’d never have to let go.

But unlike then he didn’t mirror the desperation of her embrace.

He smelled of smoke, soap and whisky and a little bit of horse, which brought a smile to her face, as that was how he had smelled since she could remember.

“I’m so glad.”, she whispered, her breath hot against his neck as tears began to run down her cheeks. “Oh I’m so glad that you’re alright.”

That you’re alive.

It wasn’t easy to get information about the casualty lists back home. For that, the war was simply too far away, and what little she got was entirely unreliable. The memory of all the hours she had spent reading the lists, all those names.

It had shamed her to feel as glad as she did for every single name her eyes glossed over, because she felt nothing but relief that it wasn’t his.

“I always looked for you, for all your names. I couldn’t be sure, Tom. I couldn’t be sure.”

With that she pulled back to look at him, her own vision blurred by tears. She cupped his face, letting her thumb stroke over his cheek as he just looked at her unflinchingly.

Still, she couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh thank heaven!”, she whispered.

Slowly, he shook his head.

“No.”, he whispered under his breath. “Just hell.”

His words were like a string closing up her throat, not only their meaning but also the cold way he had said them.

And suddenly she wasn’t so sure anymore, about coming here, about embracing him - about anything, really.

The ice in his voice had wiped all the confidence from her, leaving her helpless and confused.

What if he no longer cared for her? What if he hated her? What if he hadn’t forgiven her for being too scared to run away with him?

The only thing worse than his anger would have been his indifference - after she had spent every day and every night for the last decade thinking about him, praying for him, worrying about him.

Wordlessly he reached out, took her hand and began to walk, pulling her after him as his long strides led them down the length of the cut, away from those parts that led into the city.

At first she was confused as to what he was doing, but when the old storage units came into sight, the realisation came.

They had spent countless hours playing hide and seek there, or just hiding, when the rest became to loud or too much to bear.

“You smoke?”, he asked once he had slowed his steps, leaning against some of the stacked boxes.

Shelby, the lable read.

She nodded and so he handed her one of his cigarettes before placing another between his lips.

Beckoning her forward with a gloved hand, he lit hers first, creating a golden gimmer for less than a second.

“How’s America?”, he asked, tilting his head as his eyes looked her up and down.

“Alright, I suppose.”, she said. “We didn’t stay in New York for long. Instead we went further south, all the way to Mississippi. I took a job in a house as a housemaid and later I moved to New Orleans to work in a hotel to make some money.”

To make some money to come back.

To come back to you.

Only then the war had happened and changed everything. But as soon as it had finally ended, she had scratched together all savings she had collected from the money that didn’t go to her family and bought a passage over.

It seemed strange to sum up nearly half of her life in so few words, but when she elaborated, it felt wrong. What did it matter if the people she worked for were kind or that New Orleans was a bright wild city?

Tommy had listened without making a sound apart from the crinkling of his cigarette paper.

She shifted uncomfortably, her feet pushing the dirt back and forth as she didn’t know what to do now.

Even after her own voice had died down, he kept his silence until he was finished with it.

“Mum’s dead.”

He said it so bluntly, it made her mouth drop open.

“Oh Tom!”, she whimpered as her mind was flooded of the dark-haired beauty that was - that had been his mother.

“I am so, so sorry!”

Tommy only shrugged as he tossed the end of his cigarette into the darkness where it’s light died but a moment later.

“It’s been a long while.”

"How?", she finally managed to ask, her tongue feeling thick and useless in her mouth.

“A bit after you left she got pregnant again. It worked this time, right to the end and she had another boy. Finn. A few months after he was born, she died.”

Finn, the boy who had given her the gin. He had seemed familiar, but he was so tall now. Had it really been so much time that a baby could have grown up in her absence?

“Yep.”, Tommy Shelby said, clearing his throat and glancing out into the darkness.

“Mum’s dead. Dad left. Ada’s married and had a kid. John’s got five by now. Just us, us and Aunt Pol.”

He nodded as if to confirm his story to himself and even in the dim silver light of the moon she could see him swallow hard.

“I am so sorry, Tom!”, she whispered, reaching out to touch him again.

Her hand found his arm and gave it a squeeze, as his head snapped around.

“Yeah, so am I.”, he admitted, averting his eyes.

The moon tinted his pale cheeks silver and for a moment it wiped the marks of years from his face.

The hair was different, the man was different, but he was still her Tom.

Lacing her arm with his, she leaned her head against his shoulder and allowed herself to weep in silence, for him and for her, for Mrs. Shelby and the way she had been so good at braiding all the girl’s hair, for all the years that had passed and all the pain they couldn’t share.

She could not tell how long they stayed like that, her leaning into him and him staring off into the distance.

“Are you back or just passing?”, Tommy finally wanted to know.

“I don’t know.”, she admitted, almost ashamed at her lack of planning. “I…I didn’t really think things through.”

“Will you leave again?”, he asked.

“Why?”

He only shrugged.

“Remembered you leaving the last time ‘round.”

She couldn’t answer that, but as her mind went to that time, a cold shudder came over her.

“I don’t remember the journey over at all.”, she admitted, “just the days before leaving.”

It was unlikely he would have forgotten either.

It had happened so quickly - her parents had already had everything planned, sold and booked by the time they told their children. She had been frightened and distraught. Tommy had been angry and desperate.

“I remember you and my father fighting. You even punched him.”

Tommy only shrugged as cleary the years hadn’t added a mere iota of regret to him.

“Wouldn’t have had to if he hadn’t said no.”

Even now she could hear the repressed anger in his voice.

“Tom, we were kids back then. He never would have said yes!”

His jaw clenched in anger as if preparing to fight a man who was hundreds of miles away.

He couldn’t possibly still be enraged about that?

“Tommy, you were fifteen. No parent in their right mind would have agreed to let you marry me. We didn’t even knew what marriage was!”

She had barely figured out kissing, but only to the point that it wasn't much fun with anyone, well anyone apart from Tommy and then it had been shy pecks and imitations of what they saw Arthur and the other older kids do, fumbling and foolish ending in red faced laughter and the realisation that it was so completely embarrassing they'd never dare to do it with anyone else.

“Knew it would’ve let you stay.”, he mumbled under his breath, bringing her back to other, far less happy memories.

“Husband comes before the father in the eye of the law. Not even the coppers could ‘ave done something about it.”

She didn’t know where to start on that- Tommy Shelby referencing the law, or relying on the coppers, or perhaps being angry that her father hadn’t allowed his thirteen year old daughter to marry a fifteen year old boy.

Or that he was still angry about it.

Crossing her arms over her chest she looked at him in disbelief.

“Tom-,”, she sighed, “Putting your hurt pride aside, you have to admit you are at least a little bit glad he said no.”

They had known nothing then and if his looks were anything to judge on, he’d have women and girls fawning over him all the way from Bristol to Liverpool.

“No.”, he merely said with a shrug, “I said what I said and I meant what I said. Nothing’s changed.”

She shook her head in disbelief.

“Nothing’s changed? You only expect me to believe that? It’s been over a decade!”

He gave no response apart from digging his eyes into her with such intensity it made her stomach coil.

“Tommy, you don’t even know me anymore. I am a different person now. So are you.”

It wouldn’t do to hold on such old grudges and so she reached out and cupped his cheek.

“So much has changed since then. The world has changed since then.”

Nations had changed, proud kingdoms had fallen and century old empires that had shone like mythical gods had crashed and crumbled into dusts. Emperors had been deposed, shot, or banished, kings had been deposed and their family members chased through the streets and orders which had shaped the world for as long as anyone could remember were reduced to nothing.

“That was all in the past.”, she told her.

He huffed almost in amusement and shifted, burying his hands into his pockets.

“And yet you’re not married.”

It wasn’t a question but rather a statement of fact.

“How’d you know?”

“No half decent man would’ve let his woman walk these streets on her own.”, he said, “and there’s no ring on your finger.”

She glanced down and saw her gloves, but before she could ask, he remembered how he had taken her hand to lead her away, thereby getting his answer without having to ask.

Sneaky bastard.

“New Orleans, eh?”, he continued, looking at her again and trapping her with his gaze. “That’s a long fucking way to come for something that’s in the past.”

His words made her cheeks burn.

“Yeah thought so.”, he said more to himself than to her when he realised she couldn’t find an adequate response.

“Still, Tom.”, she argued, “we were children back then, who knew nothing and understood even less.”

And now we’ve seen too much, you probably more than me.

It would be foolish to pretend otherwise.

“Did you come with a suitcase?”, he asked, catching her off guard once more.

“I…I did, but why?”

“Got any trousers in that suitcase of yours?”

“No, why?”, she asked, a frown ever growing on her forehead.

“‘s alright. We’ll find some of Finn’s.”, he said softly.

“For what?”

There was a glint in his eyes that came from more than just the skies and she even imagined the faintest hint of a smile.

She knew that glint. It had gotten her into a fair share of trouble and not a small amount of beatings when they had been caught doing whatever mischief that mind of his came up with.

Of course, he'd always tried to take the blame, but that rarely swayed the hands of the adults.

“Because we’ll go to Charlie’s yard and get you sorted and then we’ll take the horses and go out into the country like we used to and only come back once we’ve figured everything out.”

Her mouth dropped open at his suggestion.

It was ludicrous. Back then they had been children hiding under trees and among meadows, but two adults?

It would never work, not truly. It would be cold and uncomfortable. They’d have to get food from somewhere and find or build shelter.

There were a thousand reasons to call his idea madness, to throw it into the winds as soon as he had spoken it.

Seeing her hesitation she saw a glimmer of worry in his eyes.

As he closing the distance between them, he pulled off his gloves and shoved them into his coat pocket.

She felt the warmth radiating from his skin as he cupped her face.

“Please come with me this time around, (Y/N/N).”, he whispered. “Come with me so I don’t have to see you leave again.”

End

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Taglist

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @watercolorskyy @books-livre @chlorrox @quarterpastmidnight @lilyevanswhore @polishcrazyone @zablife @just-a-harmless-patato

Taglist Tommy

@knowledgefulbutterfly @babayaga67 @signorellisantichrist @lespendy

#valentineswritings #A thousand reasons and one #Tommy Shelby #Peaky Blinders #Thomas Shelby #Tommy Shelby x reader #Thomas Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby imagine #Thomas Shelby imagine #Tommy Shelby fanfic #Thomas Shelby fanfic #Tommy Shelby fluff #Thomas Shelby fluff #valentinesrequests

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qualitystart · 8 months

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so you have any crash course information on them so I'm not totally lost please? if not it's ok!

okay so. the starting point, if you have the time, is the utterly phenomenal Dorktown History of the Seattle Mariners. that'll take you through 2020. the extremely excellent mariners blog Lookout Landing also has some great history posts.

but you don't just want history, I assume - you want to know about the Mariners now. I'll try to cover as many of them as I can below the cut.

there's Julio, who took the world by storm as a rookie last year. here's a great piece on him from last fall - spoiler alert, they did end the drought. he also vlogs!

J.P. - heart and soul, o captain my captain. here's a great LL piece on him.

and his parter in crime, Ty, golden retriever in human form. you gotta see their dynamic in action: In-N-Out Burger trip, Starbucks adventure

Geno (of Casey's url fame) - "good vibes only," making Gold Glove plays every day, and an important leader

Jarred - in the words of @eugeniosuarez, "gifted child syndrome and a mood disorder but he loves his friends." currently on the IL because he kicked a water cooler after a frustrating strikeout. (he was gutted, and crying in his media availability. he cares about this team so fucking much.) his face when he's happy lights up the world.

Cal (a.k.a Big Dumper) - our incredible, talented, big-assed young catcher who rakes and works SO hard every day

Logan - very good pitcher, shaped like an inflatable tube man, undrafted out of high school and made himself a first-rounder anyway

Logan and Cal came up together and are rich with narratives, which I have detailed here.

Cabby - will annoy the SHIT out of the other team. uses the pitch clock to his advantage like no one else. in the words of the poet:

our other catcher is Murph - got a bit of the crazy eyes, we love him, he even can cartwheel!

the bullpen! here's a great LL piece - Gott has since been traded to the Mets, but he lives on in our hearts and Sauce pours one out for him before every game

and our de facto closers:

Matt Brash, who's got some nasty stuff, and Andrés Muñoz, who is very baby and throws gas

(previously we had Paul Sewald, who was traded at the deadline - good baseball move, but tough to see him go)

I am gettin sleepy and I haven't even covered most of the rotation - 2023 All Stars George Kirby and Luis Castillo, rookies Bryce Miller and Bryan Woo, plus we've got Robbie Ray and Marco on the IL (both out for the year) - so I may come back to edit this later, I'll rb it if I do.

feel free to hit me up with more questions any time, and I'm sure @eugeniosuarez and @jockcoded would be happy to answer some too - we all love telling people about the Mariners

#asks #Anonymous #mariners #*baseball

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youdeservethemoon · 2 years

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Layla becomes a superhero. Marc's got Steven back. Lockley's gone loco in full view now. Khonshu wears a suit. Harrow got shot- cabbie style. Marc's got two gold fish now. And yeah, Marc asks how can Steven live in a trashcan for an apartment. Welcome to the finale.

#marc spector #moon knight series #moon knight spoilers #moon knight super hero #moon knight tv #steven grant #steven marc #khonshu #moon knight tv show #moon knight #marc layla #layla el faouly #layla marc steven #tawaret #arthur harrow #ammit #oscar issac #may calamawy #ethan hawke

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maxphilippa · 4 months

Note

For the character thing:

Can you do Suitcase, please? (She’s my favorite!)

Favorite thing about her: Genuinely, she's one of the characters that I really like the most on S2, although thanks to the fandom treatment I have to watch s2 in order to remember the things I liked about her as well, but in general I just think that Suitcase is a very kind hearted character. I usually talk about how Mic has an heart of gold, but Suitcase genuinely does as well. She has done no wrong in the whole s2, except for laughing at Knife's doll, but she's also just. Very mature emotionally, which makes sense. The thing that I like about her the most is how she's still full of love but knows when to put her boundaries first after what happened too. I can relate to her- well, could, since I felt like that once.

Least favorite thing about her: The same thing I said about Nickel. It's not a bad thing since it also makes it work out on canon, but I think that one of the main factors as to why their relationship gets misinterpretated the most is because from how one-sided Nickel's and Suitcase's relationship is. But that's not quite true at all. Suitcase did care about Nickel/saw him as a friend of sorts, or mutual friend because of Baseball. She genuinely had a sort of appreciation for Nickel, but the way Nickel saw things was very different (but Suitcase is aware that Nickel "tried to" protect her, but he just kept pushing her away), and this is explicitly said by Knife.

Suitcase tends to see the good in others so of course she would hope that Nickel genuinely means it when it comes to giving Balloon a chance, and yet... I just think that I would want to. Rework the way they were written on early s2, since that has an effect as to how they ended up being. To make stuff more emotional on Suitcase's part.

Favorite line: "Baseball, you can't just... fix it. It simply just won't go away. But you're here. You're listening. You're trying. So... thanks."

BrOTP: Mic, Knife, Pickle, Cabby, mostly everyone else.

OTP: World's Worst Polycule + Trophy's Big Ass Polycule.

NOTP: Taco. I. I genuinely don't get why people ship her with Taco.

Random Headcanon: More than a headcanon it's kind of based on canon, but making art of any sorts makes her feel relaxed and process her feelings well. She likes doing paintings, yes, but she also enjoys doing crochet and making sculptures. Maybe even got into photography too, or writing. It really helps. And meanwhile I do think that Suitcase doesn't know how to cook, she can really do good stuff if she follows the recipe with time and with someone else too.

Unpopular opinion: SHE'S AWESOMELY PANSEXUAL 💥💥💥💥💥💥, I think that Suitcase suffers as well, one of the worst treatments in the fandom, and that would be her infantilization on fandom terms. I know that it is a thing on fandoms for people to pick on sweet/well intentionated characters to dumb-ify and/or infantilize, but Suitcase's is one of the worstvcases I've seen, ESPECIALLY regarding fanon Nickel. People treat her as this hopeless, naive and weak character when she's not.

She struggles with mental health a lot, sure, and she really sees the good parts of people and tends to hold onto things she thinks about eother, but she's not a "kid" just because of that, neither should be treated like one either. Suitcase is one of the most mature characters in the series (not surpassing Knife of course), and she knows a lot about those troubles on general. Nickel hurted her, yes. But she cared about Nickel enough to believe that he could still change. She hoped that he would get her input as in finally realizing what he did wrong. I genuinely just hope that once Nickel and Suitcase get reunited, people can actually realize how emotionally mature she is. Y'all treated her so poorly.

Song that I associate with her: Never Love An Anchor, Me And My Husband, Washing Machine Heart, Misery Meat, Maybe I Was Boring, Around The Pomegranate, Slow Dance With You, Tears Over Beers, and I'm Sorry, Boris.

Favorite pictures of her:

#inanimate insanity #ii #inanimate insanity invitational #ii 2 #ii 3 #inanimate insanity suitcase #ii suitcase #suitcase ii #max answers

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cabyang · 9 months

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god i hope no one on the face of the earth sees this and at the same time im hoping someone does. cabyang is such an interesting ship to me because of cabby and yinyangs past,present and future you would think after the first betrayals animation epic would've stuck them together. like cold unwavering person who in it to win it and nothing else meets two people who can't be bothered with winning, just seeming to have fun and go with the flow no matter the consequences, allowing for yinyang to realize that although a lot of people are cruel, not everyone is and allowing cabby to realize that you can't truly win something if you had no positive experiences except the winning part, and yet with this huge missed opportunity early on i still feel like their relationship now is super satisfying and is going to be instrumental into helping yinyang with those obvious insecurities, not searching to fix him once and for all like candle, but looking too uplift him when he needs it and take little steps. But even if you take all this serious stuff out of it they are still a TREAT onscreen, like just knowledgeable but awkward person and silly goofy guy(s) where one is also kinda awkward and definitely chaotic but the other is more rational and level headed is just an inherently great concept with lots of comedy potential, but also they have great potential for angst and also fluff and really they seem like the perfect fit for eachother. Like two (technically three but you know what I mean) symbiotic species so intertwined with eachother despite just growing close to one another. Truly despite not having much screentime together they are the friendship equivalent to striking gold, or hell even diamonds. They also work great romantically, with the eternal awkward tug of war of "just confess already but don't because this is super entertaining watching you both miss the others bad flirting like this" leading into just a flat out healthy and entertaining relationship, wether you use it for angst, fluff or whatever! I will rep this ship until the day I die.

#fuck it this is going in main tags #ii yinyang #ii cabby #ii moral archives #ii cabyang #feeding the two other moral archives shippers out there #stay strong 💪

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drifting-pieces-blog-blog · 7 months

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Breaking down the comics: Taking the hit (Issue #26)

Moon Knight Issue #26: Hit it! / The Cabbie Killer

Two in one! What a wonderful time to be alive!

Also this cover really gives me modern comic feels and I have no idea why. I feel like I've seen a variant of this cover before or perhaps another comic did a similar theme. Hmmm.

We start with an editor's note from Denny O'Neil! That's either a good thing or a bad thing when it comes to a newer comic that is experiencing its first big few years and establishing characters and villains.

It reads:

Falling on our noses?

In tai chi chaun, a gentle and wonderful combination of martial arts and exercise, there is a concept called "exploring the limits." This means testing how close you can let an opponent come before he hits you and how far you can extend yourself towards him before you lose your balance and fall on your nose. What you learn is where your body is, its boundaries, and the distance it can be extended and yet retain wholeness and identity.

In Moon Knight we're exploring the limits.

We're asking: What kind of adventures can our hero have and still be his own unique self. (Can we do fantasy? Science fiction? Humor?) How long should stories be? (One per issue? Two? Three? Or should a story extend over a number of issues?) How many liberties can we take with the traditional comic book format? (Our black-and-white covers are a solid success. but we're not sure about our other experiments --putting the title on the inside cover, next issue ads on the back cover, text features, cover galleries and whatever we come up with next.)

Lots of questions. Very few answers.

But that's okay. In fact, that's fine. That's what makes working on Moon Knight just about the most exciting job in comics. I've always liked journeys and everyone likes surpirses and Moon Knight is both. The magazine--and character--are fluid, not fully defined and we're busy exploring the limits.

Of course, we may fall on our noses. You'll let us know if we do.

-Denny O'Neil.

Okay! So this is a big thing for early comics! Many of you are only familiar with newer age comics and have graced Golden Age comics with a peak or two. But we’re sitting firm in the early 80s and Moon Knight is indeed a character that is unlike any other that was sitting firm in Marvel’s top tier. Born from a supernatural/horror type portion of Marvel that saw the birth of Man-Thing, Werewolf by Night, and others of the likes, Moon Knight bordered on classic Super-hero and supernatural horror.

The note about Tai Chi and extension is actually really beautiful and a perfect metaphor for Moon Knight. I’ll have to remember that one!

Now, to have a clear call to arms in where to take Moon Knight means that they have had this conversation in the writing room. They don’t know what to do with the comic. They have classic stories and ideas, but they don’t want to start repeating themselves this early int he game, but they also don’t want to jump the shark.

It also means that this particular comic that we are about to read might be an experiment on where to take the comic. So let’s see what the story of the week is!

We open with some utterly outstanding art. I mean, this stuff is GOLD. We got TWO spreads people!

The first page describes the colors of sound. The beat of jazz and how it affects the senses.

"First there is black. Then tehre is light, and all the colors of Jazz. And there is sound in these colos. A wailing trumpet drips cool violet, threaded with smoke. Heavy blue lumbers from the bass... While the clarinet tempts and tantalizes in hot pink counterpoint. But the drum... The drum beats Blood Red."

We move from jazz to images of various uses of the phrase "Hit it!" Hit it to be starting the jazz band swinging. To fix a malfunctioing TV, to encourage a baseball player to hit the ball out of hte park to a child's drawing....

"Double meanings sometimes multiply."

An abusive father and a crying child.

"But even as a trumpet screams through the night...The drum still beats Blood Red.”

"Hit it, Moon Knight. The night is here, the moon is full, and caught between one and the other dark deeds will prowl. Hit it, Moon Knight. Hit it.

Cats in windows, cries from the alley, shadows mixing, and mysteries cloaked for the kill. Hit it, Moon Knight, Hit it.

Fear in lurking, money itching to change hands, twitching and always, always blood to be spilled.

It's hot, Moon Knight, and it's dark and it's now--Don't be late, Moon Knight, Not for your time to howl...

It might be in rage or it might be in pain...But never fear, Moon Knight, it's always the same.

Just hit it, Moon Knight... Hit it!"

Sometimes I think Moench just shows off. And then Sienkiewicz just FLEXES.

We see Moon Knight on patrol. He passes by a building and we hear some men talking.

One complains about the graveyard shift to Joe.

But Joe isn't paying attention. He's having a flashback.

He's reading the newspaper. Specifically the Obituaries. We see a children's drawing of the angry father. Joe throws the paper and runs away.

He runs to a jazz club where the crowd flows out onto the sidewalk.

Joe runs into the crowd and comes across a man in the way.

Moon Knight notices the commotion and heads on over.

"Just down the street the colors are wilder --Neon shrieks without mercy...And the beat is younger, faster, harder... Pounding, driving, relentlessly slamming... Everybody is doing it these days, getting great satisfaction..."

They move past the jazz club to a rock house.

Along the way we see people beaten, bloodied, and terribly wounded.

"By hitting...hitting...hitting it!"

Joe makes it to his destination at last: The funeral parlor.

"I'm coming old man! Coming to pay my respects!"

The blood red drum beats and he bursts into the parlor.

There he finds the coffin of his father.

A priest tries to speak to him.

Joe beats the man down.

Joe is ready to fight. To fight anyone that tries to stop him. That stands between him and his father. Him and his past.

"Did you come to hit me too? Well, come on then--Hit me! Hit me till your arms fall off! You might as well...

He did it often enough! He hit me till I couldn't sleep at night--Any night!

And then he hit me some more! And then he ran away--Left my mother alone! Finally he wouldn't hit me anymore! Finally he wouldn't even give me that!"

Narration: "Blood red... The beat never ends... Pain, catharsis, rage--They shriek through nights lost to time..."

Narration: "Turn away, Moon Knight--You were wrong--It's not your time to howl. There are others with stronger voice, greater cause..."

The priest interrupts demanding that Moon Knight stop him.

Moon Knight: "No... There's been enough hitting tonight... I won't add to it."

While Moon Knight talks to the priest, Joe stands up and punches Moon Knight.

Here we remember that Marc Spector was a boxer. His violence settling from the school yard to the ring until his father turned him out. Marc moved from the ring to the battle field to the mercenary role. Marc runs hot with rage and fire. Who is he here? The raging child fighting back or the monster with nowhere else to put his fire than into those around him?

A Rabbi once told him to stop. A Rabbi that tried to lead him down a path of passive peace when the world around him was violence and pain. A father that could not stand the sight of his son fighting back.

Now we see a priest telling him to fight and him standing up and saying there is enough violence in the world that perhaps just this once there can be peace.

And when violence falls on him, he does not take the passive path. He can’t. Everything Marc is and has been is refusing to look the other way while he is hurt.

Narration: The crowning madness... Long live the king. And so, Moon Knight, the night was yours after all... And once started, the drum beats blood red...Forever."

He is angry with himself. Angry at his loss of control. Angry that he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t stop the violence. He couldn’t stop his own rage. His own need to hit back. To hit it.

What an opener. This one has me feeling a lot here. The direction of past trauma on those around us. The need to get resolution only to have it taken away from us. How it leads to more pain. More hurt. More trauma.

Does this remind anyone of anything?

Yeah. I went there.

PART TWO: Cabbie Killer!

This story is written by Denny O'Neil with artist Keith Pollard and editor Ralph Macchio.

I know what you’re thinking. “Oh no, Jake!”

We open on Jake sitting in his cab late at night.

"This is Lockley. I'm headin' for the garage after I drop my fare."

In the buses waits a man with a bazooka.

Narration: It is quiet in Brooklyn, this cool autumn evening, as Jake Lockley ends a day of driving around New York City--Quiet for exactly four more seconds...Then, two events occur simultaneously. Lockley stamps on the breake to avoid "STUPID DOG" --and the car parked a few feet away erupts in eye stinging flame...

Jake's fare asks if it was an accident or a bomb.

Jake sits stunned. "Neither. Just before the fireworks, I glimpsed a muzzle flash from the bushes. Weird as it seems, somebody shot off an old fashioned Bazooka! The thing that bugs me is, it looked like we were the target.... You got any enemies, mister?"

Jake's fare decides it's probably safer to walk and departs the cab. Probably for the best.

We cut to an hour or so later on a pier somewhere. We see a man in fancy military garb talking to another guy.

He explains that because of the dog, he missed his target and the target got away. He explains that he will try again with success next time.

The other guy tells him he doesn't give second chances and to 'take a hike'.

Military guy isn't happy.

"You have hired me to destroy a taxi cab and so I shall--whether you like it or not. I gave my word--And Commodore Donny Planet always keeps his word. Understood?"

Let me just say: WHAT A NAME.

Oh no. I didn't think it was this issue. I suppose I take solace in knowing now that it isn’t Bill that gave us Speeden. It always seems wrong to see old Moon Knight drawn by someone else. They just don’t get the face right.

But they sure do get the dialogue right. And the name. Steven. Because we all know who the vain one of the group is. Someone has to take care of the body and we all know it isn’t going to be Marc or Jake.

Ladies and Gents and all of the others, I give you Speedo Steven.

The pool scene wasn’t even needed. He literally came home after being shot at by a bazooka, changed into Steven, took a dip into a pool, then ran off to Brooklyn as Moon Knight. There was absolutely ZERO need for Steven to get into the smallest speedo he could find and take a swim. He even demanded that Marlene and Frenchie….wait. He demanded that Marlene meet him by the pool. She showed up in a bikini, expecting lovely pool time. Frenchie just showed up! In full attire. He was just there for the show. He takes it where he can get it, I suppose.

Moon Knight, now flying over the city, spots something burning. On closer look, he finds a cab on fire.

It seems the Bazooka man found a cab to hit.

Saddened by the loss of a cab, he is at least relieved to know that Jake Lockley is not the primary target.

Moon Knight tells Frenchie to take them to the Queens Cemetery.

"For months, I've known that a lot of our local criminal types play poker there every Friday night...They figure they won't be disturbed. Maybe one of them will have some answers for us."

Once there, he directs Frenchie to grab his cab and park it near the north gate.

I just gotta say... I have always loved the idea that all the bad guys get together to play poker and complain about their foes. Takes me back to the Batman Animated Series "Almost got him" episode.

I also gotta say that no one draws Moon Knight's face right in classic outfit with little emotive eyes like Bill. This one is just...lacking. They also over buffed him out in muscles.

Just a small criticism.

I do appreciate that Frenchie does still have his moon hat though. I love that stupid hat.

Moon Knight takes out the guards and interrupts the poker party.

One of the guys at the party knows something and spills it.

"One of my boys was runnin' from the law...Ducked into a garage and hid a certain tape cassette the cops want in a cab. He told us that much before he died from a slug in the chest. Problem was he didn't say which cab or where in the cab he hid it."

Turns out three cabs were in the garage that night. They hired Commando man to track the three cabs down.

The boss man at the table laughs that Moon Knight isn't going anywhere and calls over a hired goon with a gun.

Crawley!

Now Crawley is a sort of undercover informant for Moon Knight and all the baddies at the poker table trust him.

So Moon Knight has a problem. He can't fight Crawley like he was a regular thug. But if Crawley doesn't shoot him then they will know he's working for Moon Knight and lose all trust.

Crawley takes a wide shot and Moon Knight uses the chance and kicks Crawley in the face.

The choices he makes sometimes...

Crawley is knocked out and the thugs all scatter. He takes a moment to make sure Crawley is alright then runs after the main guy.

The boss spots a nearby parked cab and jumps in.

Moon Knight calmly sits at the wheel.

He informs the boss that this is one of the cabs from the garage and that he suspects the Bazooka man is waiting at the garage for a shot.

"You've got a choice: Either tell me where to find your assassin or we cruise 'round and 'round till HE finds US! Might take all night, but I'm in no hurry."

The boss is more than ready to give up the goods and tells Moon Knight where Commodore Donny Planet is.

He finds the Commodore in a boat. They fight and Moon Knight finds the Commodore to be freakishly strong.

Moon Knight strikes at normally vulnerable spots only to get tossed around like nothing.

It's near invulnerable vs. Moon Knight's ability to take the most brutal beating and keep going.

Moon Knight switches tactics and tosses some Judo in, keeping the large man off balance.

He knocks the man off the boat into a fishing net.

"The safe thing-The smart thing- would be to just let him drown." He contemplates for but a moment. "No."

He jumps in and saves the large brute then leaves him for the cops.

And that’s the end of the cabbie killer.

I must say, this one ended on a let down. I feel that if Moench had written it, we’d have ended on Jake finding the tape in his cab or something to indicate that he was the mark all along. Maybe that’s just me.

Especially after the first half with “HIT IT”. That one was really amazing. Fantastic art, a very heavy subject, and only took a few pages to cover it. Even though it didn’t end with a distinct note, it still felt like an end. A story that needed to be told that still somehow painted a picture of Moon Knight despite it being a one off that didn’t give any sort of moral or definitive point. The man still was angry over a past pain that will never be resolved. He’ll end up in prison because of all the people he hurt, and his mental health will never be addressed.

And that editorial at the start! What a piece! Learning to reach only as far as our body can go and learning not to get hit. I'm going to be thinking about that one for a while. Wow.

But that’s the story of Moon Knight, isn’t it? A story of underlining pain and trauma that affects his everyday life but that is never resolved, addressed, or healed. How it radiates out to affect everyone around him and the way he struggles to make the right choice and do the right thing…even though everything around him forces him back into that corner that forces him to fight for his life over and over again.

#Moon Knight #Moon Knight Comics #Analyzing the comics #Marc Spector #Jake Lockley #Steven Grant #Why do I only post this at midnight where no one is ever going to read this?#Is it because I took suffer from a terrible sleep condition? Probably #This one left me emotional for so many reasons #I could wax on about Marc Spector's pain for ages #You have no idea #HE MAKES ME FEEL THINGS #Mostly sad things #Marc no #Not me sitting here at midnight crying about Marc Spector

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