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autisticlancemcclain · 1 year

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Keith kind of feels like he’s breaking the law when he steps on the marina.

He’s not, of course. The docks are open to the public, and he is The Public. Well, one of them, anyway. But looking at the myriad of speedboats and yachts parked (parked? Is parked the right word? God, Keith doesn’t know shit about boats), Keith is getting a little nervous. He feels like his shitty credit score is tattooed on his forehead, like a honing beam of judgement for the various rich people he can see drinking on their luxury boats at eleven in the morning because none of them have jobs. What the hell is Lance doing inviting them all on a ‘boat trip’, anyway? Lance sure as shit can’t afford a boat. He probably can’t afford to rent one, either. Keith once witnessed him pay for a single pack of ramen with a ziploc bag of pennies.

Keith stops at the parking spot (??) Lance texted him, glancing down at his phone, squinting, then back up at the boat at spot 93. It’s a decently large boat, but not equipped to live on. It doesn’t necessarily look like a party boat, but not like it’s for fishing, either. It looks, to Keith, like a decently nice boat. Probably a few ten thousand dollars.

Did Lance steal this fucking boat?

No, right? Lance isn’t good at stealing. Well, he’s not good at not getting caught. He’s shit at lying and usually just bats his eyelashes until he gets his way. He’s not even that successful at it. Certainly not successful enough to flirt his way into boat ownership. Probably. There was that time he flirted his way out of a speeding ticket, but still, a boat? That’s —

“Keith! Keith! Hi! Over here!” Keith startles at Lance’s voice, craning his neck over to try and see over the bow of the boat. He knows that tone of Lance’s voice — he’s definitely leaning over something and waving like a lunatic, beaming brightly, brown eyes squinted in his enthusiasm.

“Lance?” Keith calls, smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Where are you?”

“Behind you, dummy! Turn around! You got the wrong boat!”

Keith whirls around, yelping as he slips in a puddle and his stupid flipflops — he knew he should have ignored Shiro and worn his boots — slide out from under him. He windmills his arms to no avail, landing flat on his ass.

Lance hyena laughs, because he is a horrible jackass who thinks Keith’s pain is funny.

Resisting the urge to roll off the dock and drown himself in the marina (if only because he can see some really long seaweed growing in the water and the idea of it touching his legs or something makes him want to throw up) Keith pulls himself to his feet.

“Let me up,” he grouches.

Lance wipes a fake tear from his eye, tossing down an honest-to-god rope ladder. “Oh, that was the good stuff. Hey, buddy, do you maybe want to trip again? I could use the laugh.”

“I’m gonna strangle you with this rope the second I get up there.”

“Mhm. Sure, Mullet. Mutiny your captain.”

“Ha!” Keith swings his legs over the side of the boat, pulling it up after him. “You’re no captain, you dork.”

Lance sticks his tongue out at him. “Am so! My boat, after all.”

Keith accepts Lance’s hug, squeezing back just as tightly. Lance’s hugs are always tight. He hugs like he’s seeing you for the first time in months, like he won’t see you again for ages, like he’s saying it’s-good-to-see-you and hello-goodbye and I’m-going-to-miss-you all in one. It’s intoxicating. It makes Keith want to hold him for eternity.

“Having a boat does not make you a captain,” Keith teases, forcing himself to pull away and act like a normal person. “How’d you get this piece of shit, anyway? No offense.”

Because this boat is kind of a piece of shit, especially compared to the one he was mistakenly in front of earlier. It’s not, like, falling apart or anything, but it’s a little rusty in some parts, and a whole heap smaller. He can stand at one end of the boat and walk maybe fifteen steps to the other end, straight across. The end he’s on has a cooler — filled with booze if he knows Lance, and he’d like to think he does — and some crates of what Keith can only assume is boat equipment (again, Keith doesn’t know shit about boats). The other end has the steering wheel, and dozens and dozens of pillows and blankets at the base of it. The inner walls of the boat have several cute paintings, ranging from silly doodles that are painted with the confident hand of a child and beautifully intricate landscapes.

Lance smiles again when he sees where Keith is looking, running gentle fingertips over a blocky drawing of some imagined creature.

“Veronica got this project boat with her ex girlfriend forever ago,” he explains. “It didn’t work when they got it. It didn’t even have an engine. She’s been rebuilding it forever, and I’ve been helping!”

Keith grins. “You mean you’ve been handing her tools and running errands?”

Lance glares. “I — did other things! I painted it!”

“That’s true,” Keith admits. He glances at the many paintings again, colourful and bright and dorky. “They’re nice.”

“Nice,” Lance scoffs, but there’s no hurt in his voice. “This boat could be in the Louvre!”

Keith has to physically shove down the gooey shit he wants to say to that. It’s not easy. His brain is annoying.

“Where’s everyone else?” he says instead. “I’m never the first person to these things.”

For the first time since Keith arrived, Lance starts to look a little troubled. “I was going to ask you that, actually. Hunk said he and Pidge were going to meet up at your’s and Shiro’s house? And Allura and Shiro have barely spent a day apart since they started that project at work, so I figured she was coming with you guys.”

“I thought the team was meeting up with you,” Keith says slowly. “Shiro left before me.”

For the briefest of seconds, Lance’s face collapses into something absolutely crestfallen. Just as quickly it shutters, and his eyes dull as he physically forces a pleasant look on his face.

“I’m sure they’re on their way,” he says. “I’ll call them, maybe they —”

Something uncomfortable begins to churn in Keith’s stomach. “Lance —”

“—hopefully they’re all okay —”

“Lance, maybe —”

“Hey, Lance!”

Pidge sounds downright giggly, which is beyond unusual. Keith can’t remember the last time he described Pidge as giggly. Maniacal, sure, sweet even — occasionally, Keith might add — but never giggly.

Immediately he’s suspicious.

“Hey, Pidge,” Lance says. There’s so much hope in his voice that it’s painful to hear. “You on your way over?”

There’s rustling over the phone, and a muffled hey, no pushing!, then some more rustling.

“We actually can’t make it,” someone says apologetically.

The crestfallen look is back on Lance’s face, and this time he can’t quite fight it off.

Hunk continues, totally oblivious. “This huge thing came up at work, so me and Pidge are swamped, and we figured if we couldn’t make it then it wouldn’t be a whole crew thing, so Shiro and Allura figured it would be best to finish their project too —”

“That’s fine,” Lance says. His voice is reedy. He hangs up in the middle of Hunk promising to reschedule sometime soon. The muffled bang of his phone hitting the wooden floorboards is deafening, a million times louder than the waves beating softly up against the side of the boat. Keith is completely frozen where he stands, looking at Lance with wide eyes.

What the fuck was that? Never in the time that he has known them has any one of his friends been so…callous. He’s spent his whole life measuring himself to Shiro’s example, for fuck’s sake. He’s always been proud to have friends as good as his, because they are good: good friends, good people. Sure, they’re all a little weird and scatterbrained and all over the place, but they’ve never blatantly blown someone off before. Especially not Lance; not when he’s been planning something for them for weeks. He’s hardly talked about anything else, even if he wouldn’t tell them any details so as not to spoil the surprise. He practically glowed every time he had the chance to bring it up, and that’s not just Keith’s opinion.

“Lance,” Keith tries, walking over to where he stands, motionless at the helm. He doesn’t so much as twitch at Keith’s voice, as if he doesn’t hear him. “Lance?” Keith tries again, hesitantly putting a hand on his arm. Lance startles at the touch. He looks lost for a moment, then he plasters that same plasticly pleasant look on his face.

“Lance,” Keith says again, for the third time in a row. It’s pleading, this time. Please don’t pull that with me.

But Keith doesn’t have the words for that, so Lance doesn’t hear it.

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind taking this trip with just you,” Lance says, puffing out his chest in that bravado way of his he does when he’s trying his hardest to be obnoxious. “I mean, the stink of your mullet is a little suffocating, but I think I’ll manage.”

Beginning to feel like a broken record, Keith says his name again. He can’t quite keep the hurt out of his voice, for Lance and for him, really. It feels almost like a betrayal, like everyone would let then down like this, without so much as a word of apology. He can’t imagine how upset Lance must truly be.

“Unless you have somewhere to be, too?” Lance says loudly, cutting him off. His expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something almost pleading in his eyes, like he’s begging Keith to drop it, to take the bait, to change to subject.

Keith is most definitely reading into things. But he changes the subject anyway.

He raises an eyebrow, decking Lance in the shoulder. “I’m not the stinky one, Mr Axe Body Spray.”

“I have never used Axe in my life!” Lance shrieks, incensed. Some genuine incredulousness bleeds into his voice, which is both relieving and gratifying — it’s good to know that Keith can rely on his ability to rile Lance up in one sentence. “It’s a tasteful designer cologne that Rachel gets me for Christmas every year because she has no idea how to buy presents for people!”

“Yeah, that you fuckin’ bathe in.”

“I put a little bit on my wrists and neck, you jackass —”

“— and your arms and legs and face and hair and —”

“I am going to shove you overboard to be eaten by orcas, you shithead.”

“Yeah, yeah. You gonna take me on this boat ride you promised, or are you gonna keep stalling?”

Rolling his eyes and grumbling, Lance starts the engine, clumsily guiding the boat out of its parking spot (?????) and starting out to open sea. After sailing them far enough that they nearly lose sight of shore, Lance kills the engine, dragging the cooler over to the nest of pillows.

“I bought half the liquor store,” he says, voice muffled as he ruffles through it. “You see, the original intent was to get all six of us plastered, and getting Hunk plastered is both difficult and expensive.” He sounds a strange mix of bitter and amused, which Keith feels is understandable. He finally finds what he’s looking for, bottles clinking as he yanks two out. “I hate vodka, and since Pidge isn’t here to clown me for it, I’m drinking this entire bottle of bellini instead. I brought you scotch, since you are the soul of an angsty cowboy trapped in the body of an annoying nerd.”

Keith takes the offered bottle. He recognises the brand — it’s cheap, it’s gross, and it’s fucking concentrated. He takes a swig and gags.

“Lance, this shit tastes like gasoline.”

He bottle of something hits him in the chest, hard.

“Ow!”

“Gatorade! I thought ahead!”

Sure enough, Lance has thrown — rudely — to him a half litre bottle of red Gatorade, Keith’s favourite.

“It’s double smart, because not only does it make alcohol taste less shit, but it’s got electrolytes so you won’t get a hangover.”

Keith tilts his head questioningly. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“Works for me,” Lance says, shrugging.

“Yeah, but you get drunk off two shots, twig boy. Fuck, you’re already tipsy and you’ve only had a third of that bottle.”

“And this bottle was only eight dollars! Hell yeah to me!”

Keith snorts, clinking his bottle with Lance’s and taking a swig, chasing it down with the Gatorade.

He makes a face. Unfortunately instead of making the scotch taste better, the scotch is making the Gatorade taste worst. Ugh.

“Oh, hey, I almost forgot the music! I brought your favourite album too, emo boy.”

Lance scrambles to his feet, tripping immediately on one of the many pillows. Keith surges forward, thrusting his arm around Lance’s chest, barely keeping him from faceplanting on the floor.

“Jesus, Lance. You’re the worst lightweight I’ve ever met.”

Lance giggles. The tension that had strung his shoulders after the call as melted away, at least a little. Keith doesn’t even feel the buzz of the alcohol yet, but he’s definitely feeling a little looser.

“How about you sit down, huh? You’re gonna fall on your face. Did you eat today? You don’t usually get this tipsy so easy.”

Lance squints, thinking for a minute. “Fuck, no. I made myself eggs this morning but then Sylvio was late to ballet and Lisa had already left to take Nadia to football so I had to take him and by the time I got back I barely had enough time to pack everything and get to the boat and —”

“Lance,” Keith interrupts, amused. “Get some of the food from the cooler. I’ll get the music. Where’s all the stuff?”

“Second crate,” Lance says, mouth full. Gross. “The one with the Moana stickers.”

Keith takes another swig of scotch, makes a face, and then sets it down, ambling over to the box. Between the waves gently rocking the boat and the slight heaviness of his limbs that he’s starting to feel, he barely makes it without tripping just as much as Lance would have, but hey. He successfully conned Lance out of picking the music, so who’s the real winner here?

“Lance, you pretentious indie dweeb!” Keith exclaims, laughing. In the box is a bright pink Bratz CD player that he no doubt stole from the back of one of his sister’s closets, and a stack of maybe forty CDs.

“Physical media rules!” Lance cheers. “Fuck subscriptions!”

Rolling his eyes fondly, Keith locates the album Lance was talking about, loading it into the disc drive and pressing play.

The future is bulletproof, the aftermath is secondary…

He carefully nudges up the handle, trying carefully to walk with the waves so he doesn’t drop Lance’s player as he brings it back to the pillow nest.

“I think you’re actually just too broke to afford Spotify, dude.”

Lance shrugs. “Eh, that’s part of it.” He tosses the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth, washing it down with another gulp of bubbling peach wine right from the bottle. Keith follows his example, making a face again, because Lord above the Gatorade does not help at all.

“Yeah? What’s the other part?”

“You sure you want to know?” Lance asks, setting down his wine and scooching closer to Keith. He crosses his legs and puts his hands in his lap, leaning forward, dark eyes wide and expression serious.

Keith nods, intrigued.

Lance’s eyes turn mischievous. “Well, you see, my favourite music is garbage pop music.”

Keith has been in the car with Lance before. He’s well aware. He’s heard more Kesha and Justin Bieber than any one person should ever have to, and he even likes their music well enough. Lance is just insane.

“Believe me, I’m aware.”

“And as you may also be aware, I am contractually obligated to be the most annoying person in any room.”

Keith snorts. “Okay?”

“Think about it, doofus. When I pull out the CDs, all the pop lovers roll their eyes, because they think I’m a pretentious indie asshole.” He gestures to Keith, referencing his earlier comment. “Exhibit A.”

“…Fair. Carry on.”

“But when whatever badly dubbed party music I’m in the mood for starts blaring from my speakers, all the indie people think I’m a poser! It’s a win-win.”

Keith laughs outright. He knows the exact kind of indie people Lance is talking about, and just imagining their scandalized faces is funny.

“No one pisses people off quite like you, Lance McClain. I’ll give you that.”

Lance preens. “Thank you. It’s a gift.”

They work their way through their respective bottles, and then they split a cooler, both of them well past tipsy by the time the album ends. Lance wobbles over to his CD selection and ruffles through for what feels like ages, whooping when he finds what he’s looking for. He flashes to case at Keith, showing ‘KARAOKE TUNEZ’ written in Lance’s loopy handwriting.

“No way,” Keith protests, although not very hard.

“Yes way!” Lance insists. He grips onto the steering wheel, heaving himself up. The boat lunches slightly, making them both laugh, but finally he’s steady on his feet — or at least as steady as you can be while drunk — just as Taylor Swift’s Love Story starts blaring. He grabs Keith’s hands and pulls him up, and both of them almost go tumbling again, but they manage to stay upright, leaning on each other and laughing themselves stupid.

“We don’t need them!” Lance yells as the banjos go off. Keith is so plastered that he barely remembers who Lance is talking about. It takes him a solid thirty seconds to remember that there were supposed to be four other people on this boat, drinking all this booze, and Keith and Lance have plowed their way through a good half of it on their own. Oops. “Sing louder, country boy!”

Keith does. He sings himself hoarse, actually, as Lance’s mixtape clicks through every great song from the last forty years, dancing around and shaking his head and revelling in the fact that there’s no one there to watch him. No one but Lance, who’s pretending to throw dollar bills at him.

It’s the most fun he’s had in ages.

He stops drinking at some point — not by choice, but something bumps the side of the boat and his bottle goes flying — but by then it doesn’t matter. He’s so plastered that everything is glowing and warm and fantastic and he’s dancing with Lance and he can’t remember what feeling bad looks like, or why he’d even bother in the first place. All he cares about is watching the sun go down, cheering with Lance as it does, then dancing around with him in drunken circles until one of them trips, dragging them both on top of the pillow next in a giggling mess.

“Let’s just stay here for a while,” Lance suggests. His voice is so slurred that it sounds more like Lez jussay ere for whi’, but Keith thinks he’s got it. “The stars are nice.”

Keith snorts. “Sure. Stars. Not because you can’t stand, or anything.”

“I can so stand!” Lance protests, but he’s laughing too much for any true argument to come through. “Lemme — I’ll show you!”

“Sit down, dumbass,” Keith says, grabbing his shirt and yanking him back down. “You’re gonna go overboard and drown. Just — lay back with me a while.”

Lance looks at him a while, squinted look fading into something more open and relaxed the longer he stares. The lights on the boat are dim, but the darkness around them is so deep that they get swallowed up. Under the stars, Lance’s eyes are so brown and glossy they’re black, blacker than the ocean. Keith feels there’s a bigger danger drowning in them than in the sea.

“Okay,” Lance says softly. There’s a flash of his teeth as he smiles. Keith watches as his silhouette flops backwards on the pillows, arms resting in a heap around his head, beat-up pink converse slapping the ground as he relaxes his legs.

Keith takes a few more seconds to look at him. There’s not much to see, illuminated by the tiny lights in the boat, but Keith takes a moment anyway.

A hand shoots up, very narrowly missing smacking him straight in his nose. Long fingers curl tightly around the collar of his loosely-buttoned shirt and the next thing he knows he’s being yanked down, yelping.

“I’m not lying here alone, Mullet-head. This is a party.”

“Yeesh, okay, I’m coming.”

Lance doesn’t say anything more, bar a quiet huff of amusement, as Keith settles next to him. They lie in silence next to each other, their earlier energy slowly cooling down, just watching the stars, rocked by the gentle waves.

Keith is out like a light in twenty minutes.

———

When Keith wakes, three horrible things hit him at once: his head pounds, his mouth tastes like rotten fish marinating in dog shit, and everything around him is so, so goddamn bright it honestly feels kind of targeted. Fuck the sun.

“Lance, I hate you,” Keith mumbles, because he feels like blaming Lance is a safe bet. He squints until he locates the asshole in question, who is curled up with all of the pillows — which explains why Keith is currently laying on the cold hard floor — and still sleeping peacefully.

Ugh. How dare he.

Cursing, Keith drags himself to his feet, having to pause for a while on his knees to orient himself and fight down the nausea. When he’s finally upright, he stumbles over to the cooler, thankfully still cold, and gulps down the first water bottle he gets his hands on in three seconds. His next bottle he drinks a little more carefully, swishing the water around his mouth to substitute for brushing his teeth until they can get back to shore.

Once he actually starts to feel like a person again, complete with rational, semi-linear thought process, he looks around himself with fresh eyes. They’re a lot… farther out than he thought they were, but he figures everyone feels like that once the shore is out of eyesight. They can’t be too far, the boat’s gas tank isn’t all that big. They don’t seem to have lost anything overboard while drunk and dumb, which is good. He sees all three crates from before they left, and the cooler is obviously still here. Lance is still actively hogging every single one of the pillows, a couple blankets as well, totally dead to the world. Keith checks his phone, noting with a sigh of relief that he still has about half battery life, and it’s not even that late in the day — ten o’clock; plenty of time to ride home and recalibrate before work tomorrow. All is well.

He finishes his second water bottle, tossing the empty plastic back into the cooler for lack of other places to put it, and stumbles back over to the helm and the pillow pile.

“Lance,” he tries, poking him half-heartedly. “Time to wake up.”

Lance groans, grabbing one of the numerous pillows and shoving it over his head.

“Oh, come on. It’s ten in the morning. You’ve had a ton of time to sleep. Time to go home.”

“Keith, fuck off.”

Keith will deny the automatic quirk of his lips at Lance’s gravelly, sleep-heavy voice, along with the immediate and reflective satisfaction that bubbles up when Lance is annoyed.

It’s his own brain. He’s allowed to think and feel whatever the hell he wants in his own brain, and it doesn’t have to mean anything.

“If you get up now, I promise to let you have first pick of the leftover sandwiches.”

There’s a pause, considering, and then a long, drawn-out groan as Lance bitchily unburies himself from the pillow pile and crawls over to the cooler.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Keith mutters, grinning.

It takes Lance’s zombie ass twice as long as it took Keith to wake up, because Lance is the most vampiric person Keith knows. The only time he ever sees the sunrise is when he just decides not to sleep through the night. Keith doesn’t think he’s woken up before eleven in years.

“Ready to head back?” Keith asks, once some of the life has returned to Lance’s eyes. He only grunts in reply, but that’s not a huge surprise. It’ll be another forty minutes until Lance can make himself speak again.

Keith settles against the side of the boat, rearranging the pillows so he can sit comfortably and dick around on his phone while Lance steers them back to shore. There’s no signal this far out, so he just ends up switching between cleaning out his camera roll and playing Temple Run as discreetly as he can, because he and Lance have a lowkey competition going on for this game for the past three years now, and Keith will not lose. Lance may currently have the upper hand but not for long, baby, because Keith has —

“Shit,” Lance says, very very quietly, and Keith feels dread pool in his stomach like a rock.

“Lance?” he questions, and inconspicuously as possible. “All good?”

“Fine,” Lance says, only his voice sounds very high-pitched and not fine, because Lance is a garbage liar. “Everything is manageable. No need to worry.”

Keith abandons his game, looking up to give Lance his full attention. He’s got one hand white-knuckling the steering wheel, despite the calmness of the waves, and the other jamming a bunch of buttons on a little device. His face is grey in panic.

“Lance, tell me what’s wrong.” He tries his best to keep his tone even and calm, but it doesn’t go well. The panic wells up in him and it wells up fast, because he can see nothing but blue skies and sea and the captain of the goddamn boat he’s on is looking like he’s on death row.

“Well, it’s all fine, really, but the thing is that the GPS is doing its level best to tell us where we are and it’s having a bit of a moment. A struggle, if you will. Honestly not that big of —”

“Lance,” Keith interrupts, sealing back the bile in his throat, “please tell me we’re not fucking lost.”

Lance laughs, high-pitched and humourless and scared. “Sure,” he says, once he’s gotten ahold of himself. “I won’t tell you.”

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breedaboyd · 4 months

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93 + 6 TY SHAW BABY

(Gif by me. Please credit if you use.)

Prompt: "I love you." / "I'll take care of you."

Pairing: Ty Shaw × GN!Reader.

Word Count: 0.4k

A/N: QUINNY!! A lil Ty love to get you through the day. 💛💛

The weight of the world presses down on you, a force that finally becomes too much to bear. Tears well up and you can't hold them back anymore. The dam breaks and the emotions flood over you in a torrent. You find yourself breaking down in front of Ty, the one person you thought would understand.

Ty's eyes widen with concern as he watches.

"Hey, hey, hey, what's wrong?" He asks, voice laced with worry. But the words catch in your throat and all you can manage is a choked sob. It's as if the weight of your troubles has taken up residence in your chest, making it hard to breathe, smothering you.

For a moment, Ty looks lost, unsure of what to do. Panic flickers in his eyes, a reflection of his own helplessness in the face of your pain. Then, as if by instinct, he steps forward, gathering you into his arms.

He holds you tight, a solid and reassuring presence. Ty doesn't say anything at first, just lets you release the pent-up emotions. His warmth envelops you, providing a sanctuary in the storm of your feelings.

"Don't worry." He whispers softly, his words a gentle reassurance. "I'll take care'a you, baby, okay?"

Ty's arms form a protective barrier, shielding you from the world outside. Against his chest, you feel a sense of safety and warmth wash over you. It's a simple act yet profoundly comforting.

As the storm of emotions begins to subside, Ty continues to hold you, not rushing to fill the silence with words. Sometimes, the mere presence of someone who cares is enough.

Eventually, your breathing steadies and the tears slow. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with genuine concern. "You're not alone, okay? Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together. You're stronger than you think." Somehow, without you even realising it, he's given you the strength to move forward, one step at a time. While the pain sticks with you, it's not overwhelming anymore. Instead, it's accompanied by a sense of renewed hope and purpose.

"Thank you, Ty." You manage as he noses into your hair, pressing kisses to the top of your head.

"You'll be just fine, baby. Just take a few deep breaths for me, there we go. I got you, it's gonna be okay. I love you." And that's all he needs to say.

As Ty wraps his arms around you, an overwhelming feeling of gratitude swells within you. It's at times like these, when everything seems to be crashing down around you, that his kindness and support mean the most. Somehow, despite his own demons, he always finds a way to make you smile. And for that, you love him. You love him so, so much.

#character: ty shaw #source: vengeance #misc: ask #type: reader #misc: chariot writes

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streamafterlaughter · 1 year

Text

Fundamental Differing

gif credit

masterlist | playlist | chapter IV

Chapter V: Why Are You So Far Away?

rating: 18+ MDNI

summary: The tour family decides to celebrate a successful opening night, attempting to accept their fate as being stuck with each other for the next few months. You grow acutely aware of yourself, as well as of Eddie’s newfound pessimistic attitude.

tags/warnings: rockstar!eddie x rockstar!reader, gnc!reader, 90s AU, excessive alcohol consumption, (hard) drug use, eddie is an asshole, bff!steve, angst, hurt, mutual pining, brief smut

a/n: (for the sake of this fic let’s pretend the viper room opened in ‘92 instead of ‘93 yeah?) Hi everyone! Last chapter didn’t do so hot, im hoping i kicked up the Angst Level enough for this one to get y’all interested. i’m pretty proud of how this is turning out so far, and i’m finding i’m coming up with so many more ideas. sorry for typos, my fingers have been so cold all day. Disclaimer: I do not give permission to have my work reposted on other sites. Reblogs are more than welcome, but please inform me if you find my work elsewhere unless otherwise stated. Reblog to support the author!

——

September 1988

New York City, New York

“Eddie, I can smell her on your fucking clothes!” You slam the car door, intending on hailing a cab just to get away from him.

“Y/n, I swear, nothing happened. She’s just a groupie! She comes to all of our shows, we’re friends. We danced, that’s it! I don’t get why this is such a big deal.”

“Seriously? What’s not to get? You let these girls think they have a shot with you, you play with them until you get bored, and you come home to me smelling like cheap perfume, and you don’t see why that bothers me?! I swear, you’d let anything with half a brain ride you, and I’m tired of it.” You keep walking down 54th, unsure where you’re going at this point.

“What do you want me to do, Y/n? I can’t help how they act around me.”

“You can help how you act around them, and you don’t! Fuck off, I’ll get a hotel for the night. Don’t call me.”

“Don’t be stupid, come back with me. We can fix this.”

“There’s nothing to fix. I need space from you.”

“We leave tomorrow!”

“So give me until tomorrow!”

—

Present Day

Eddie’s POV

“We should celebrate!” Gareth passes him the joint they’re sharing, and Eddie rolls his eyes as he inhales.

“Celebrate what, exactly?”

“C’mon, man! Our first night of tour!” He backhands Eddie’s arm, and is met with a glare. He doesn’t retreat, though. “You don’t have to come, but I think you should. Could be fun.”

Eddie passes the joint to Jeff. “Maybe, I really need to shower first.” His shirt, damp with sweat, is tucked into his back pocket. Before he can escape, though, you and your bandmates enter the green room. Jeff passes you the joint, and you accept gratefully. Eddie can’t bring himself to look at you, but your presence looms over him like a cloud.

“You guys coming out tonight?” You ask, passing the joint to your drummer. Eddie doesn’t know her name, not having made the effort to meet the rest of your band after splitting up. “Heard the Viper had some room tonight, might be able to get in with you guys there.” You giggle, and Eddie can’t help but lock his eyes on you then. He catches yours, and watches as your smile falters only slightly. “No pressure, of course.” You speak directly to him, in front of everyone, and no one seems to notice the shift in your tone. Eddie does though.

“No, I think it’ll be fun.” He responds, more bitterly than he intends. He has no desire to party, not with you there, where he’s able to watch as guys, girls, and gender non conforming people alike attach themselves to you, begging to hook up. He knows he can have whoever he wants, so the thought of you getting picked up shouldn’t bother him, but he can’t wrap his mind around watching you with someone else.

“Great!” You clap your hands together. “It’s settled. I’ll call us a few cabs.” You pluck the joint from Eddie’s fingers, as casually as ever, and look right at him as you take another hit. He can’t bring himself to break eye contact, watching you push the smoke into your nose with your tongue. You hand the roach back to him, still lit. “See you later.”

Your POV

“What the fuck was that?!” Robin exclaims as you change out of your sweatpants and into a pair of shredded jeans.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Your voice is an octave above normal, and you sing your words with a tremble in your voice.

“You were flirting. Heavily!” Sylvie speaks up, brushing their hair back before tying it in a bun. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to get Munson all riled up!”

“As if.” You roll your eyes, but your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You’d known what you were doing, talking to Eddie like that. “I was testing the waters. Being civil.” You argue, earning groans from your friends. “Anyway, it’s not like he wants anything to do with me! And I want nothing to do with him. We’re just coworkers.”

Robin snorts. “Right, coworkers.”

“Cabs are here!” Steve peeks his head into your room, causing a commotion of shrieks from your half dressed bandmates.

“Knock much?!” Robin throws a rolled up pair of socks at Steve, nailing him right in the nose.

“Sorry! I’ll meet you outside!” The door clicks shut.

The Viper Room is packed, both with celebrities and those trying to become them. You exit your taxi shortly before the second pulls up, hauling Corroded Coffin’s members. As you climb out of the back seat, you’re met with the stench of booze and piss, the combination of fluids you’ve gotten used to in just the last few days.

Steve throws his arm over your shoulder, and does the same with Robin on his left side. “Ready to party?” He asks, dragging you both with him as the bouncer lets you inside. You feel Eddie shove past you, into the darkness, watching as he’s immediately swarmed by young, pretty girls in fishnets and tight dresses. Steve must notice your shift in demeanor, because he tightens his grip on you as you approach the bar.

“You were insane tonight! I’m so proud of you guys.” Steve sips his beer while you wait for your drink, a whiskey neat, and slams the bar with his free hand. He’s clearly already tipsy, having spent the whole night drinking while you performed.

“Thanks, Stevie. It really means a lot.” You thank the bartender as she hands you your glass, and watch as she does a double take.

“Oh my god, you’re Y/n! And you’re Robin!” She hands Robin her vodka soda with a now shaky hand.

“Yeah, hey!” Robin greets enthusiastically. “Nice to meet ya!”

“I caught your show tonight. Had to leave before CC to make my shift, but you guys rock. These are on me.” She waves Steve’s hand away as he tries to pay for the drinks.

“That’s so sweet, thank you!” You gulp your drink down. “Another?”

“Coming right up!” She scurries away to retrieve your drink.

“You’re practically celebrities!” Steve nudges you, and you let the alcohol in your bloodstream lighten your mood. Over Steve’s shoulder, you see Eddie and Garett, sitting in the middle of a gaggle of young women, one of which is sitting in his lap. Eddie catches your stare, but looks away quickly to the girl on top of him, whispering something in her ear. Her reaction suggests he’s said something naughty, covering her giggle with a dainty painted hand. You roll your eyes, and grab Steve’s wrist. “Come dance, big boy!”

Steve groans as you and Robin each pull him to the dance floor as Rhythm Is A Dancer blares through the club speakers. Steve twirls you around, then Robin, as Sylvia and Lilith find you in the sea of sweaty bodies. You laugh at Robin’s horrendous dance moves, letting the strobe lights and loud music take over your brain. You barely notice Eddie and the girl attached to him enter the floor. She grinds on him heavily, and he’s got his hands on her hips as she gyrates to the beat. You roll your eyes, annoyed by how easy he’s let himself be with his groupies. But it’s none of your business now, who he chooses to spend his time with. You wrap your arms around Steve’s neck, closing the gap between the two of you as Robin migrates to dancing with Lilith and Sylvia.

“You okay up there?” Steve taps your temple with his finger, his other hand resting gently on your waist. “Don’t think I can’t see what’s going on.”

You groan, resting your forehead on his shoulder. “Enlighten me then, what is going on?”

“You’re trying to make Eddie jealous, right? I mean, that’s why you’re dancing with me like this?”

“I'm that transparent, huh?”

Steve only chuckles. “Only because I’ve known you for six years. You don’t have to pretend you’re into me, Y/n, don’t worry. My feelings won’t be hurt. On top of that, you’ve been denying free drinks all night, and from decent looking people.”

You push a small laugh from your throat. “Please, I know that. Plus, I wouldn’t do that to Harley.” She’d been severely into Steve since meeting him years ago, and she’s been desperate for you to set her up with him. Steve is clueless, though, so you’re taking your time. “I’m not in the mood to entertain right now, I’d rather drink with you guys.”

The song ends, and you watch Eddie take the pretty girl off the floor, his arm linked with hers, and you book it to the bar for a third glass of hard liquor.

Eddie’s POV

He snorts the key bump she gives him as Just Like Heaven begins, a song he knows you love, blinking rapidly as he wipes the white powder from his nostrils. Coke isn’t his go to, but it gets the job of forgetting you done much faster. He tries to be subtle, watching as you dance with Steve, your arms clasped around his neck the way you used to dance with him, to nothing, in the living room of his uncle’s trailer. Now, though, he’s in the back of the club, surrounded by girls whose names he didn’t bother to ask, cutting lines as bottles of expensive liquor are brought over to him.

“Slow down, Ed, doesn’t look like Steve’s gonna be around to yank you into bed tonight.” Gareth nods his head toward your group, where you are whispering something into Steve’s ear, something that causes him to chuckle.

“Who needs him?” Eddie grumbles, taking the rolled up dollar bill from a girl clad in latex, and snorting two more lines from the table in front of him. Garett rolls his eyes, and shoves himself from the plush couch.

“You need to collect yourself,” Gareth checks his watch. “Bus leaves in two hours.” And he leaves the group. Eddie watches as Gareth greets you and Steve, and seemingly asks to speak to you alone. He averts his eyes when you glance over to him, a sad look in your eyes.

Your POV

“Gareth, it’s none of my business.” You pinch the bridge of your nose as Gareth relays the night's events to you, explaining that he’s worried for Eddie’s well-being. “What he does with his little friends is not my problem anymore. It’s not really yours, either.” You look at Gareth, whose eyes are filled with fear and sadness for his friend. “I can’t do anything about it.”

“I’m not asking you to, not at all. I just don’t understand what’s gotten into him. He’s meaner, he’s less enthusiastic about performing. I feel like we’re losing him.”

You shrug, taking a sip of what you believe to be your fifth drink. “I lost him years ago. Surprised it took you all this long to catch up.”

Gareth sighs. “Well, you guys were great tonight. Killer show.”

You smile sadly at who was once your boyfriend’s best friend. You feel his pain, watching the person he cares about lose himself to the toxicity of fame. It’s not fair, having to stand by while Eddie destroys himself, but you learned a long time ago there’s only so much you or anyone else can do to stop it. “You wanna hang with us? Get away from the bad energy for a while?”

Gareth nods and you call the bartender over. “What’s your poison?”

“I’ll just have a beer, whatever you got.” He tells the pretty bartender, and she nods.

“Coming right up, Gareth!” She winks and grabs a glass.

Eddie’s POV

He stumbles into the bathroom, closely behind a woman in a tight red dress. Once she’s locked the stall behind them, she busies herself with his belt. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment since I saw you guys perform a few years ago. You look so good on stage, I can’t believe you’re not with anyone.” She babbles, much to Eddie’s annoyance. She drops to her knees, and Eddie screws his eyes shut, resting his head against the wall, trying to relax as she takes him into her mouth. He can't help but picture you below him, back at The Hideout, in a different dingy bathroom. Whoever this girl is, she knows what she’s doing, and she’s probably blown a fair few rockers and movie stars in this very bathroom.

He finishes quickly, grunting as she moans around his cock before swallowing him down. She pops back up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You taste good, pretty boy.” The nickname hits him like a bullet, and he has to shove by her to unlock the stall. “Did I say something wrong?” But Eddie doesn’t answer, just throws the bathroom door open, and lets himself be consumed by the busy room of crowded bodies, the room spinning around him.

Your POV

“We should get going,” Steve shouts over the music, and you nod. “Gareth, get your boys, we gotta get on the road if we want any time to recuperate before your show tomorrow.”

Gareth nods, and runs off to find his band mates. You spot Eddie, standing against the bar, resting his head in his hand. You go to approach him, but Robin grabs your arm before you can. “He’s not your problem. Don’t make him one.” She’s stern, but you’re extremely drunk, and you don’t really care what happens. You pull yourself from her grip, and she lets you walk away.

“Hey!” You shout, loud enough for him to hear you over the blaring guitars of Head Like A Hole. “Time to go.”

When Eddie looks up at you, you take a step back. Even in the dim club lights, you can see the darkness in his eyes. His face falls as he recognizes you, and turns toward the bar. “Hey, can I get another?” He shakes his empty glass, and the bartender nods.

You interject, throwing your arm over his. “Actually, we’re leaving, and I’m cutting you off.” You grab Eddie’s arm, but he pulls away roughly.

“Leave me alone.”

“Eddie, we have to go.” You yank him again, and he shoves you off, causing you to stumble in your intoxicated state. “We have to be in San Francisco by noon, we have to get on the road!”

Eddie groans, and the bartender interrupts. “Your lover’s right, honey, you don’t look good. Go get some sleep.”

“They’re not my lover, and it’s none of your business.” He spits, and you decide that’s enough.

“Get up.” Your voice is cold, your expression made of stone, and he realizes you mean business. He pushes out of the stool, stumbling slightly as he walks away, pushing past you as he does. You sigh, and turn to the bartender to thank her, apologizing for Eddie’s behavior.

“Don’t worry, hun. I’ve gotten worse, from people way more famous than him. Just hope y’all make it home okay.”

“We’ll try. It’s gonna be a long ride, though.” You slap a twenty on the bar, and go to find your friends.

You barely make it out of the club, tripping on the curb as you dig for your cigarettes. Before you find them, someone holds one out in front of you, wrapped between two ringed fingers. You meet Eddie’s eyes, still blown out from the drugs, and take his offer with lips pursed. “Thanks.”

He nods once, and lights the cigarette for you. You inhale deeply, letting the smoke do its job of increasing your heart rate, even though Eddie’s proximity to you is doing enough of that.

“Why’d you do that?” You barely hear him, and only realize he’s speaking to you when you look at his face, eyes locked onto you. “You embarrassed me.”

You can't help but roll your eyes at him, taking another drag of your cigarette. “You were embarrassing yourself, Eddie. I had nothing to do with it.” You don’t apologize, you don’t try to make nice, regardless of how much your heart hurts. You don’t like watching Eddie fall apart, no matter what your relationship with him is. It still stings, how cold he is to you, and you’ve come to the realization there’s only so much you can do to save him from himself. “I don’t care what you do, how much you drink, or who you fuck in the club bathrooms, but we have shit to do on top of it. And I won’t let you ruin this for me.” You stand your ground, even when Eddie’s eyes flicker from anger to sadness. “I’m not responsible for you. But you need to start at least pretending to care about yourself again, or someone’s gonna hand your ass to you before you can clock it.” You flick your butt onto the ground, stomping it out with the toe of your boot. “Get your shit together.” Before Eddie can respond, the buses have pulled up behind the club, and you walk away from him, linking your arm with Robin’s.

Eddie’s POV

“C’mon, up you go.” Steve heaves Eddie up the stairs of the bus, and down the aisle to the bed in the back. “Sleep it off.” He’s pissed, Eddie realizes, and dares to push him further.

“What is your problem?” Eddie asks pointedly, lighting another cigarette before offering one to Steve. Steve takes one, lights it, and sucks harshly. “Never seen ole Stevie so wound up.”

“You’re such an asshole.” Steve turns to face Eddie, who’s crammed into the corner between the bed and the wall of the bus, rubbing his temples. “You got the Rockstar Douchebag act down, though, I’ll give you that.”

“Glad you finally caught on, too bad it doesn’t change anything.”

“Fine, be that way, but don’t fucking take it out on Y/n like that.”

Eddie sits up, suddenly fully awake. “What are you talking about?”

“They’ve been so fucking nervous out about touring with you, about seeing you again, and you’re walking off with the first skank to bat her eyelashes at you. On top of that, the way you talk to them, to me, even to your fucking bandmates, is unacceptable. What happened to you, Ed?”

Eddie sighs, taking in his former best friend’s harsh criticisms. “Well, Steve,” He spits, “I almost fucking died, I lost the love of my life, I got thrown into this almost instantly after graduating high school. There’s only so much I can control.”

“Your attitude should be one of those things.” Steve’s tone is even, stern. “And for your information, I almost died that day, too. You don’t see me treating my friends like they’re the ones that tried to kill me.” Before Eddie can argue, Steve slides the door shut, and stomps toward his bunk, leaving Eddie in the dark alone. He shoves his face into his pillow, letting out a long, angry groan, before flipping onto his stomach, and falling into another fitful sleep.

Your POV

You rise from your bunk, dazed, as the bus pulls into the club’s back lot. You’ve never been to San Francisco, but you can’t even bring yourself to enjoy the nice weather before security greets you, hustling past the crowd of fans that have camped out for your show. You wave to a few of them, earning excited squeals in response, and it’s then that you become acutely aware of the pouring in your head.

Once inside, you begin setting up for sound check as CC makes their way to their room. While you’re figuring out your pedals, a short, round man with a luscious beard, greets your band. “Hey, DDA, welcome. I’m Rich, I own the Chameleon Club. We’re so excited to have you guys tonight, please make yourselves at home. Your riders have been fulfilled, everything is in your dressing room! Let us know if you need anything else.” You wave your hand in thanks, and he walks off to introduce himself to the headliner.

Eddie’s POV

When the club owner leaves their dressing room, he lays down on the tiny couch in the room, trying to nurse his hangover. His bandmates babble, cracking open beers and lighting joints, enthusiastic about the show tonight. Someone taps him on the shoulder, and he opens his eyes to Steve standing over him, offering a bottle of water. He takes it, thanking him wordlessly, and gulps it down to soothe his headache. “You guys need anything?” Steve asks, addressing the room.

“Nah, thanks man.” Jeff offers him a joint, and he accepts, turning to Eddie. “How you feelin’?”

“I feel like someone ran me over, then backed up to run me over again.”

Steve snorts. “Good, you deserve it.” He offers Eddie his hand, and Eddie uses it to pull himself off the couch. “You gonna survive?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Because you’ve been acting like you’re on the verge of death since tour started. I’m right to worry.”

“I’m fine, I always rally.” Eddie gives Steve an unconvincing smile, and Steve huffs in response.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Eddie announces, earning the attention of the room. “I’m sorry for my behavior these last few days, I promise I’ll do better. Starting now. Let’s go check some fucking sound, yeah?!”

Gareth humors him, clapping more with the relief that Eddie’s acting human again. Jeff joins in, whooping his approval. The three of them charge out of the room, cheering like they’ve just won a long DnD campaign.

Eddie’s hollering dies down as they reach the stage, just in time to catch your band soundchecking. Jeff and Gareth stand behind him, each resting a comforting hand on his shoulders. “You alright?” Jeff whispers, examining Eddie’s expression, bracing for the dam to break.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He’s hypnotized, captivated by you. You’re soundchecking his song, still in the sweats and extra long t-shirt you’d probably slept in, singing to the empty floor of the club. You pluck the strings of your guitar, stopping every few seconds to adjust a string or tap a pedal.

“Ed?” Gareth snaps him out of his daze. “You good?”

Eddie nods, blinking rapidly, suddenly unable to focus his eyes. “I’m good. I’m so good.” He’s trying to be, at least. He refocuses his attention on you as the lights adjust, giving you that glow again. When you finish the song, you start packing up, and you glance in his direction. He realizes you’re wearing one of his old shirts, a worn out Black Sabbath tee he thought he’d just lost. Eddie doesn’t look away from you this time, holding your gaze in his for as long as he can manage. You look away first, and he bites back a smile when you tuck your hair behind your ear.

Your POV

“Hey,” Sylvie bends down to help unplug your wires. “You doin’ alright? I saw that,” they nod toward the curtain, where Corroded Coffin have been lurking for the last five minutes.

“Yeah, I’m okay. How’d we sound?”

“Pitch perfect, just hope the light guy knows what he’s doing during Choke.” Sylvie rolls their eyes, and you chuckle. You hear footsteps behind you, and turn to see Eddie, Jeff, and Gareth lugging their own instruments on stage. Behind them, a few guys on the crew follow with more instruments and amps. The four of you gather your things, and more guys on your crew come to help you. You feel Eddie’s eyes on you as you exit the stage, refusing to return his gaze. You stop behind the curtain, daring to eavesdrop on their private practice.

“You comin?” Robin whispers at you, and you shake your head.

“Okay,” she comes back to stand next to you, and you shake your head again.

“You go ahead, I’ll be right there. I’m fine, I promise.” You’re not sure just yet if that’s true, but you want to believe it. Robin squeezes your hand in understanding, then jogs back to the rest of your band.

You set your guitar down gently in the spare stand next to you, and take a seat amongst the curtains out of Eddie’s eyeline.

“Right, what are we opening with?” Eddie plugs his guitar in, and begins fiddling with the knobs. He still uses his Warlock, something you find charming. Even after all the money he’s made, the offers he’s had to play plenty of expensive guitars, he still cherishes the one he bought himself in high school.

“We open with The Crawl.” Gareth says, twirling his drumstick. You know the song, you remember when Eddie was struggling to write it, sitting in his bedroom at the trailer, asking your opinions on chord progressions.

“Right, yeah,” Eddie begins strumming the intro. You sway as they run through the song once, stopping every so often to adjust a guitar or an amp.

You know Eddie’s voice is beautiful, but it sends chills through you when you hear it in the empty room. His voice is smooth and low, much unlike the loud rasps of other bands in the genre. He begins to sing as the others adjust their instruments, testing his in-ear and microphone.

Deep underground, somewhere I shouldn’t be / I’m stuck in a hell built only for me / But you’re down here too / and you’re making it worse / ‘cause I've got a blessing / and gave you the curse.

I tried going alone, accepting my fate / I let myself believe I had what it takes / But watching you follow, I started to fall / And now I’m stuck down here, and I start to crawl.

Eddie paints the picture of the scary, dark place you know all too well, twisting his words around the loud, angry instruments, sending a shock down your spine. His voice is hopeless, angry, frightened even as the song builds to a chaotic climax, where Eddie seems to growl the final chorus.

You sing along quietly, remembering every word from the months you spent listening to it as Eddie recorded. Regardless of your feelings toward him, you can’t deny Eddie’s raw talent when it comes to lyricism and songwriting.

When they finish, you heave yourself from your spot on the floor, when Eddie says, “Feel free to watch the rest of the show.” You freeze, your back turned to the stage, feeling his eyes on you. You turn slowly, arms raised in surrender.

“I come in peace.” You state, begging your voice not to break.

Eddie shrugs. “‘Kay guys, shall we?”

Gareth hesitates, turning to you with worried eyes. You return a confused look, and he sighs with defeat. You don’t realize what he’s trying to communicate until it’s too late.

The drums kick in, and you vaguely recognize the song. When Eddie utters the first words, your blood runs cold.

We were everything I ever wanted / All I could ask for / But you walked out last night, and now I’m sleeping on the floor / I haven’t seen you in years now, i hope you’re doin’ well / but if you aren’t, i couldn’t care, i’ll see you soon in hell.

I begged the skies to give you back / asked what I had to do / but that phone kept ringin off the hook and i left myself undo.

You can’t listen anymore, feeling each line dig the hole in your chest deeper and deeper. You snatch your guitar, and sneak away as the chorus fades from your earshot.

I lost myself when I lost you, / and now I let myself undo, / You broke my heart when you left, too / and I’ve got scars to fuckin’ prove.

You hold back tears as you enter the green room, biting your lip to keep it from quivering. Deep breaths, it’s an old song, you try to reassure yourself, but Eddie’s smug face as he started the song suggests he still feels that way. You decide there, he’s not worth fighting for anymore, and you’re done trying to be anything more than coworkers. No more inviting him out just for him to hang out with groupies five years his junior.

“Hey, Y/n! We’re discussing outfits, help me pick something out!” Lilith holds out two skirts, a black pleated mini and a long floral.

You point to the mini skirt. “This one’s sexy.” You state, matter-of-factly, and she nods. You dig through your tour bag, packed with plenty of different garments, but nothing speaks to you. “What about me?” You ask your friends, and Robin digs through her own duffel.

“What about this?” She holds up a cropped black t shirt with Eat The Rich plastered across it. You chuckle, remembering the shirt from high school. “I think it’s yours anyway.”

You take the shirt from her, and match it with a pair of black tripp pants, clattering as you slide them over each leg. You look good, and you feel better as your friends send compliments your way. “Wanna go get some lunch? I’m so bored hanging out in back rooms all day. Let’s go explore!” Robin offers you her hand, and you take it, off to adventure the city.

——

chapter vi

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scotianostra · 1 year

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Happy Birthday veteran Scottish actress Phyllida Law, born on May 8th 1932 in Glasgow.

There is very little about her early life except she was born in Glasgow, the daughter of Megsie “Meg” and William Law, a journalist. She said once of he Glasgow upbringing “When you grow up in Glasgow with a Glaswegian granny, you’re taught that pride is a wicked thing. I still feel a bit like that.“ Phyllida grew up in Glasgow’s west end, just off Great Western Road, but war broke out when she was just seven and she found herself evacuated to places such as Lenzie, in Dunbartonshire, and Skelmorlie, Ayrshire.

That gave her a love for the Scots countryside which means she now splits her life between her home in London and a family cottage in Argyll. Phyllida would fit in well with the Scottish & Proud ethos, in an interview she says:

“I’m passionate about my Scots heritage. How could I not be? I can’t live without it. There’s no way I could live without those hills and it’s got to be the west coast. “I sometimes travel to Edinburgh then go up to Pittenweem or somewhere and I think to myself, ‘This isn’t Scotland.’ It’s a wonderful coastline but it’s not Scotland for me.

“When my parents lived in Glasgow they were always looking for a cottage to which they could retire. They found one in Ardentinney, so I visit that a lot.

She joined the Bristol Old Vic in 1952, from what I can gather she was first in the wardrobe department, the first pic shows her standing, from a 1952 photo. Heron screen acting credits start in 1958 and are very extensive, the pick of them are Dixon of Dock Green and a stint as the storyteller in the great children’s show Jackanory in the 60’s. It must have been during her time in the BBC’s children’s TV department she met her husband to be The Magic Roundabout narrator Eric Thompson, She has previously stated that the character of Ermintrude the cow was modelled on her.

Angels in the 70’s and of course Taggart in the 80’s as well Thomson, the variety series hosted by actress Emma Thompson in 1988, Emma just happens to be her daughter. Heartbeat, Hamish Macbeth and Dangerfield in the 90’s, Waking the dead and Doctors in the noughties has kept her busy, now in her 86th year she has still been appearing on the small screen, in The Other Wife and New Tricks during the past 8 years. Film roles include She is known for her work on Much Ado About Nothing , The Time Machine and The Winter Guest.

Phyllida spends most of her time in Argyll in a house she shares with her daughter Emma. who is spending more time looking after her mother, as she was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease in 2915.

Phyllida constantly needs the support of a wheelchair and even assistance when washing due to the effect the condition is having on her.

Due to the progressive nature of the condition, symptoms tend to gradually worsen over time. It is common for individuals to struggle both with walking and talking at the height of the condition.

Phyllida herself spoke about the burdens of looking after an infirm parent, she looked after her mother, Meg who suffered with Alzheimer’s disease. Mego died in 1994 aged 93 after almost 20 years of being cared for by Ms Law at her mother's home in the village of Ardentinny on the west coast, near Dunoon.

#scotland #scottish #actress.#history #theate #films #television #happy birhtday

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girlactionfigure · 2 years

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He told his wife, "I love you," then left for work that morning. He never returned. It was September 11, 2001.

He was a husband. He was a veteran. He was an immigrant. And, he was a hero.

According to the Homeland Security web site, Rick Rescorla is credited with saving 2,700 lives that morning, when he defied official instructions to stay in the building and instead evacuated employees at his company on the 44th floor of the South Tower.

Another hero was Betty Ong, who was one of the flight attendants aboard American Airlines Flight 11, who gave vital information to the ground crew that eventually led to the closing of airspace by the FAA for the first time in United States history.

Flight 93 passengers Todd Beamer, Mark Bingham, Tom Burnett and Jeremy Glick fought their hijackers, preventing the plane from reaching its intended target, possibly the White House or the U.S. Capitol Building.

There were also 412 First Responders who died in the line of duty - 343 firefighters (including a chaplain and two paramedics) of the New York City Fire Department, 37 police officers of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey Police Department, 23 police officers of the New York City Police Department, and 8 emergency medical technicians and paramedics from private emergency medical services and 1 patrolman from the New York Fire Patrol.

There were also smaller acts of bravery, such as Michael Benfante and John Cerqueira carrying a woman in a wheelchair down 68 floors of the north tower of the World Trade Center to safety and Frank De Martini and Pablo Ortiz of the Port Authority who saved at least 50 lives in the North Tower.

They and many others were the heroes of 9/11.

In all, there were 2,977 people who lost their lives on Sept. 11, 2001. The victims were mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, sisters and brothers who belonged to many faiths, races, and cultures, from more than 90 countries.

Of the Americans - they were white, they were black, they were brown, they were red, they represented all the different colors that built this nation. They were LGBTQ, they were straight, they were men, they were women, they were liberal, they were conservative, they were young, they were old . . . they were ALL Americans.

No one questioned whether they stood for the national anthem or put their hand over their heart, no one demanded they show their citizenship papers, no one questioned their love for their country.

I remember 9/11. I remember the names of the victims being read. I remember the heroes who bled. I remember the families who cried. I also remember that for one day, the entire world cried with us, marched in candlelight vigils in support of "America," whether it was in England or Iran -- for one moment the world was one.

I post this each year not just to remember the victims, the heroes, all the people who were directly touched in some way that day, but I also want to post this for those who are still suffering today, the families who had no choice but to continue without their loved ones, the veterans of the wars who were not supported upon their return and represent a majority of the suicides in this nation (on this World Suicide Prevention Day), the first responders who sacrificed their lives and their health and are still suffering today and their brothers and sisters fighting fires this very moment, and, most importantly, all the people of the world still hoping for, still seeking, still dreaming of a world without HATE, a world without fear, a world without greed.

A world instead focused with Love, a world with Hope, a world with . . .

Peace ~

The Jon S. Randal Peace Page

#911 #September 11

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opera-ghosts · 20 days

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Lily Pons’ light soprano dances intricate vocal feats

THE SONGBIRD: Lily Pons (1898 - 1976) was born Alice Josephine Pons near Cannes, and after piano and voice lessons, made her debut in 1928 as Lakmé in Mulhouse, France. She made her debut at The Met as Lucia in 1931 and soon became a cultural sensation, appearing frequently on the radio, on television, in lifestyle and fashion magazines, on concert and recital tours, in three Hollywood musical films, and making dozens of commercial recordings. Pons was a principal soprano at the Met for 30 years, appearing 300 times in ten roles, most frequently as Lucia (93 performances), Lakmé (50 performances), and Gilda (49 performances).

THE MUSIC: "Sylvia" is a full-length ballet with music composed by Leo Delibes in 1876. A well-known pizzicati section in the third act is traditionally played in a halting, hesitant style and was so catchy that it was transcribed into a vocal showpiece for soprano. This arrangement is by Frank La Forge (1879 - 1953) who coached a number of singers including Marian Anderson, Lawrence Tibbett, Marie Powers, and Richard Crooks, and accompanied many vocal stars including Johanna Gadski, Ernestine Schumann-Heink, and Margaret Matzenauer. He was a longstanding collaborator with Lily Pons, with many credits arranging coloratura concert and encore pieces.

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perilunepierrot · 1 year

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Jan Rabson passed away October 14th of this year, at 68. He voiced Leisure Suit Larry in every game the character had appeared in that featured voice acting, starting all the way back in '93, and up until his final role as Larry in 2020. His voice acting credits before Larry included a lot of older anime, probably most notable being the original English VA for Tetsuo Shima in the 1988 dub of Akira.

I don't really have the words to express how shaken up I was by the news when I first heard it. Voice acting is a big passion of mine, and Larry's a character I really hold dear, no matter how silly that might sound.

I love this little guy, and its owed in no small part to Jan's portrayal of him. I'm gonna miss hearing him, but he left on a high note. Rest in peace. ❤

#leisure suit larry #larry laffer #sierra on-line #jan rabson

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mzannthropy · 8 months

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Sam Claflin on Rotten Tomatoes

I thought I'd do a post on Sam's RT ratings. He has FOUR films rated at 90% or over: Journey's End and Enola Holmes both have 91%, and Their Finest and Hunger Games Catching Fire have 90%.

Also certified fresh are The Nightingale (86%) and My Cousin Rachel (76%).

The highest rated thing he was in is Peaky Blinders at 93%. As a guest star, he can hardly claim credit for that, but it's not like any amateur can be cast in such a prestigious show! (Plus it's one of his best performances. At least according to me. And I'm right.)

Riot Club, Adrift, the two Mockingjays and Charlotte are all fresh.

The lowest rated are Huntsman the Winter's War (it used to be 19%, now showing as 20%), in which he only has a short appearance, and Every Breath You Take (also 20%). The rest are 30% and above.

Sam's very first acting job, Pillars of the Earth has 77%, so not a bad start. Daisy Jones and the Six has 70%.

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#sam claflin #samblogging #rotten tomatoes #films #i actually agree with most of them #hence why i discard imdb ratings #also imdb ratings are wrong. at least in sam's case #i wish my cousin rachel was higher and i don't get enola's high score but whatever #i like snow white & huntsman and book of love but i wouldn't expect them to get critically acclaimed #tho snow white could have done better but it was a bit clumsy #also the corrupted was a wasted opportunity but i'll always like sam in it #same for potc4. not a good film but sam & mermaid have my heart!#mypost

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weaversweek · 7 months

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Taylor Swift, the "Anti-hero"

This is an extended write up for a 10-pointer in the #FearOfMu21c project, crowdsourcing the greatest singles of the 21st century. Here’s an index post.

The act with most singles sales hits during the 21st century is the Glee cast. The television show featured one-minute bursts of favourite pop songs, just right for viewers to download once, listen to a handful of times, and then forget. They amassed 148 hits in four years, perhaps they revived "Don't stop believing" for a new generation. Glee never crossed my mind, they went for quantity not quality.

Ed Sheeran is second on the list of most hits, he's appeared on 97 hit singles up to the end of September. His music has an audience, but that rarely includes me: "The a-team" was a striking debut statement, I cannot deny he has some very long-lived hits. "Sing" and "Castle on the hill" were the two on my very long list, and he doesn't make the top 50.

Third on the list of most hits is Taylor Swift, with 93 hit singles. A decade and a half into her career, we might expect Taylor to be resting on her laurels, touring a greatest hits album, or putting her feet up and drinking cocoa with her girlfriend. Not likely! Swift is a prolific musician - "Anti-hero" is from "Midnights", her fourth new studio album in three years, and it was released during a project to re-record five of her earlier albums.

"Anti-hero" is all about the insecurities that keep Taylor up, and the nightmares that wake her. She wants to be a good person, but has become convinced that her flaws will keep her from ever being one. A self-directed video extends the metaphor.

The song summarises Taylor's career in four minutes - the synthpop from "1989", coupled with the dense lyrics from "Folklore" / "Evermore", and the dark introspection from "Reputation", all presented with the effortless breeze of the early years.

youtube

Right now, everything Taylor Swift does turns to gold. A worldwide sellout tour, credited with kickstarting the hotels industry. Reclaiming her back catalogue from an abusive manager. Writing honest songs about crushes, exes, and everything in between.

This weekend, Swift released a documentary movie, which will go into the box office top ten at number 1, something Glee never managed. She's also turned her hand to acting - who can forget the "Cats" film, and she made a cameo in "Hannah Montana The Movie"...

#taylor swift #anti-hero #midnights #2022 #world's biggest pop star #kween of pop #swifties #Youtube #fear of mu21c #fear of music #FearOfMu21c #fearofmu21c #pop music #21st century

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incorrect-cp9-quotes · 1 year

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I posted 42 times in 2022

39 posts created (93%)

3 posts reblogged (7%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@incorrect-cp9-quotes

@just-a-well-wisher

@noswordstyle

I tagged 41 of my posts in 2022

Only 2% of my posts had no tags

#cp9 - 39 posts

#one piece - 39 posts

#one piece incorrect quotes - 38 posts

#incorrect quotes - 38 posts

#incorrect cp9 quotes - 37 posts

#incorrect one piece quotes - 37 posts

#cipher pol - 36 posts

#kaku - 17 posts

#rob lucci - 14 posts

#jabra - 13 posts

Longest Tag: 56 characters

#he was like yeah this is totally reasonable for my cover

My Top Posts in 2022:

*after CP9 left*

Paulie: *bursting into iceburg office* PLEASE hire more hot men

Iceburg: ರ_ರ

Credits to @as-i-watch for this quote

134 notes - Posted March 20, 2022

Franky: So when a crow remembers who wronged them and hold grudges, it's "intelligent" and "really cool" but when I do it, I'm "petty" and "need to let it go"

Kaku: You need to shut up-

135 notes - Posted January 28, 2022

Iceburg: There are three ways to resolve conflict

Kaku: Knife

Luffy: Fist

Lucci: Blackmail

Iceburg: Why do I even bother?

203 notes - Posted January 27, 2022

Robin: I really like this whole "good cop, bad cop" thing you guys have going on

Lucci: It's not an act, I'm just mean and Kaku isn't

264 notes - Posted March 20, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Lucci: It's too late to turn back now! There is no escape for any of you!

Luffy: We don't know the meaning of the word!

Lucci: ...

Lucci: Which word?

Luffy: Take your pick

310 notes - Posted January 28, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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notwiselybuttoowell · 2 years

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Petr Fiala, the Czech prime minister – whose Civic Democrat (ODS) party has long been considered climate-sceptic – told the Prima TV channel after visiting the scene that he would “have to wear blinkers and not think rationally … if I did not see that the climate is changing in a certain way and that the whole of Europe is facing fires caused by unusually high temperatures”.

That view was a far cry from the hardline climate change denialism of the former Czech prime minister and president Václav Klaus – a co-founder of Fiala’s party – who branded global warming “bogus” and called campaigners against it “a threat to freedom and economic growth”.

Other weather-related encounters in the Czech Republic have fuelled a shift in sentiment – particularly a deadly tornado that struck several villages in the south Moravia region last summer, killing six and injuring hundreds more.

Even before that, a survey conducted for Czech Radio found that 93% of Czechs accepted that climate change existed, with 86% expecting it to change the world. But in a striking contradiction, only 39% expected it to affect them personally.

Such lingering scepticism raises questions over the political will to embrace mitigating policies – doubts crystallised last month when the Czech environment minister, Anna Hubáčková, declared that cars with internal combustion engines would continue to be sold after 2035, despite an EU directive banning them in line with the bloc’s Green Deal climate package.

“The current cabinet has upheld some of the key legislation that in the long-term favours the Czech energy conglomerates benefiting from the current energy mix,” said Albin Sybera, a Czech political analyst. “There’s a reluctance to clash with the powerful lobby that has kept that mix together – and which could be undone by a greater share of renewables, for example. That’s why the main parties in the ruling coalition are reluctant to recognise the urgency to act – even in the face of a devastating fire that has destroyed swathes of the country’s most remarkable national park.”

This caution has a historical irony. Officially tolerated environmental activism under the communist dictatorship of the former Czechoslovakia is credited with having helped trigger the 1989 velvet revolution. The regime was swept from power amid a rising outcry over pollution and acid rain produced by state-run heavy industriy, which in turn destroyed much of the country’s forests.

“The visible damage to the environment disappeared in the 1990s thanks to those state industries going bankrupt, to new technology, and also to EU regulation,” said Kutilek. “The country has been busy since then trying to catch up economically with western Europe and the environment felt fine – right up until the past couple of years, when the effects of climate change began to feel obvious.”

#wildfires #czech republic #czechoslovakia #europe #european politics #european union #climate change #civic democrat

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biglisbonnews · 1 year

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The Year Lesbians Were Chic On any given Sunday in 1993, fresh from releasing her explosive "SEX" tome and the equally explicit album "Erotica," Madonna could be found at the chicest lesbian party at the hottest of restaurant-bars in the East Village. Flanked by gay it-girls like CK One model Jenny Shimizu or OG nepo baby socialite Ingrid Caseras, the pop star, in her prime, would ascend the winding stairs to the VIPs-only second floor and walk the runway between tables full of New York City's most beautiful women, who wouldn’t even pretend to hide their stares. Any given Sunday, Queen Latifah might be in the adjoining room, playing a round on the pink felt pool table and buying drinks for all the players, part-time model-DJ Sharee Nash playing a sensual mix of imported Euro acid-jazz and neo-soul; women buy cassettes to take home with them at the end of the night.A salon that ran from 1993 to 1995 at the model-owned celebrity hot spot, Café Tabac’s "No Day Like Sunday" — known colloquially as "Sundays at Café Tabac" — has been credited with being the birthplace of “lesbian chic.” A cultural moment christened by the media, lesbians' 15 minutes had to do with a convergence of social and political elements, but perhaps no physical space embodied it more than Sharee Nash and Wanda Acosta's famed fashion-forward party in the East Village. Owned by a male model with regulars like Naomi Campbell, Bono and Fran Lebowitz, Café Tabac was already a chic place to see and be seen for the fashion set, but Sundays were for the girls like designers and stylists (and ex-girlfriends) like Patricia Field and Rebecca Weinberg and rapper MC Lyte. A 1994 New Yorker profile of indie filmmakers Guinevere Turner and Rose Troche (also ex-girlfriends) fresh off their Sundance Jury win for their dyke film Go Fish were profiled "drinking Scotch and smoking Rothmans" one Sunday at Tabac, wherein Troche says, "you don't have to look straight or act straight." A New York Magazine item praised Tabac's crowd for being glamorous and "ethnically and sartorially diverse." The party was intended to be something private but different from the dyke dive bars Acosta had been accustomed to. At 28, the Nuyorican party girl divorced her husband and wanted to meet women but was struggling to find a place where she felt comfortable. "I was already feeling like I had been hiding this part of myself for so long," Acosta tells PAPER, "so to have to go down to this dark basement in the back of some space to meet women felt really claustrophobic. I wanted to see a place that was a more elevated, visible [space] that I could explore, getting dressed up and going out and seeing beautiful women."Acosta happened upon Nash at Alexander Smalls' hip Village soul food restaurant where models worked as hosts, among them some of Nash's girlfriends. One night in '93, Nash (a writer herself) sat reading Virginia Woolf's Orlando. "I guess that was her cue to think 'Maybe she's gay,'" Nash says. The two struck up a conversation and found themselves discussing lesbian nightlife, craving something "different.""Just for diversity — different energy, different music, different food, different looks and different people," Nash says. Having recently moved back to New York from Germany, Nash was DJing small spots and was tired of big clubs. There were some great options like The Clit Club at Bar Room 432 on Fridays, but New York was shifting into a dinner-and-drinks era where patrons would commandeer an event all night and let the party circulate around them. The idea of dinner was appealing for Nash, who says that, growing up in St. Louis, her family was big on Sunday meals. She describes the ideal Tabac night as dinner followed by "cocktails, running around, dancing, dessert, then dessert." The party started out as private – word-of-mouth and invite-only — which was part of the appeal. Some of the potentially closeted attendees appreciated the clandestine affair; rarely were photos taken in the pre-cell phone era. "We didn't invite the celebrities," Nash says. "They just found out and they just started showing up."With New York fashion and celebrity comes New York media, and the party started to pick up bits in the press, including the aforementioned New Yorker piece. Designer friends would create looks for Nash to wear as she worked the party, enabling her to connect adoring fans to the creator in the very same room. The salon only ran for two years, but the stories and symbolism of No Day Like Sundays has been so enduring that co-creator Wanda and filmmaker Karen B. Song have been working on a film documenting the women and time of Tabac, touching on what made it so special. "There was that performative aspect of it," Song says. "You would walk in that space and see what it was like to see the confidence in front of you, what that translates to." Acosta says Sundays at Tabac "allowed women to be able to come in and express themselves in a different way than they had been able to before.""I think before we were dressing and signifying each other through our dress codes," Acosta says. "In the early '90s, we started to be able to express ourselves as individuals."Several of the aforementioned women like Patricia Field, Jenny Shimizu and Guinevere Turner are interviewed for the Sundays at Café Tabac documentary, as well as other attendees such as award-winning author Jacqueline Woodson, gay critics Michael Musto and Hilton Als and butch icon Lea DeLaria, all reflecting on the weekly gathering set amongst a highly visible moment for lesbians and, more generally, queer women."We all loved just watching to see who was gonna come up the stairs — what they were wearing and who they were with, " Acosta says. "It was really a bit of voyeurism as well." Voyeurism looms large in lesbian chic, as lesbian visibility has always been a Xena-sized double-edged sword. Although lesbian chic has certainly achieved more visibility and acceptance for some lesbians, lesbians themselves weren't always in charge of the messaging. "Lesbian chic" was a tangible trend co-opted by the media looking for a sexy new flavor of the month, and, post-AIDS, gay women were finally on the menu.Madonna, for one, thrust sexual experimentation into the zeitgeist in the late '80s, first with a flirtatious and rumored relationship with Sandra Bernhard in tabloids and then late-night television. Together, they appeared on "The Late Show with David Letterman" in matching ACT Up uniforms (white T-shirts, denim jean shorts and Doc Martens), dropping New York lesbian dive The Cubbyhole into salacious conversation."She was an enfant terrible sometimes, but for the most part, I think everyone was like, 'Whoa – what's, what is she gonna do next?'" Song says of Madonna. "She was so at the prime – she was in the media eye and every time she was photographed or at a party or at a fashion show or whatever, shooting a music video, she always had a lesbian with her." After falling out with Bernhard (reportedly over Caseras), Madonna set her sights on k.d. lang, feigning a romantic or sexual relationship with the androgynous country-punk crooner and likening her handsome swagger to both her ex-husband Sean Penn and Elvis. (Later, lang would admit they shared a publicist and that the lesbian chic thing "probably benefitted" the both of them.)More than Madonna, lang played an integral role in the visibility of lesbians because, for one, she is one. lang's coming out on the cover of The Advocate in May 1992 followed the success of her sex bomb of a pop crossover album Ingenue, a Grammy-winning turn that was due, in part, to her hit devouring single "Constant Craving." Both the pop cultural and political landscapes were primed for lang to confirm that the seductive love songs on Ingenue were written about women, and she seemed to be rewarded for her outsiderness as opposed to being shunned by it, as she had in the country music realm. She was tired of staying in the closet and playing by as many rules as she could abide, and so her move into contemporary pop came with self-acceptance, a laissez-faire attitude and confident seduction in suits on stage and in interviews. Lang stirred something in people of all genders and sexual orientations. People were fascinated by her, unclear where or how to place her in their desires, but, well, craving more. Lang's effect was so palpable that she won a 1993 MTV Video Music Award for Best Female Pop Performance despite, as she remarked, "never getting played on MTV."Lang's coming out happened in the Clinton era, when the President and First Lady counted a few well-placed lesbians as friends and third-wave feminists were turning political actions into protests for lesbian visibility. The singer rode along the pop cultural push for lesbians to be recognized and represented and became a de facto poster girl. A now-famous New York Magazine cover from 1993 has the square-jawed singer gazing into the lens, brow angled in a saucy dare; all capital letters, all-white font: "LESBIAN CHIC" emblazoned across her velvet-clad cross-body arm, the subhead "The Bold Brave New World of Gay Women" literally resting on her shoulder. It wasn't just k.d., of course. In 1993, Melissa Etheridge came out and released her Grammy-winning Yes I Am, Lea DeLaria made dyke jokes on The Arsenio Hall Show and, by then, openly queer Sandra Bernhard had both a Playboy cover and a regular bisexual role on Roseanne. Tennis star Martina Navratilova had her dyke drama splashed all over The Washington Post. It was primarily white women being celebrated for their chicness, and that there were at least a handful of them being so visible meant only one thing to the media — lesbianism was a cool new trend that could be exploited for a hot minute.In August of '93, lang was being shaven and straddled by supermodel Cindy Crawford on the cover and in the pages of what is now an iconic issue of Vanity Fair. “I don’t know how to use femininity as a powerful tool. I use my sexuality, but I eliminate the gender from it," lang told Vanity Fair, saying that she's long felt a "social pressure to be beautiful, thin, stylish."Never before had a butch lesbian been celebrated, despite a long lineage, and while her Vanity Fair issue remains one of the most iconic covers ever, it wasn't long before butches were erased from the lesbian chic narrative in favor of something more desirable by men.At least the Vanity Fair piece was all about lang; the New York piece mentioned her briefly but primarily reported on the trend of openly gay women who have "transformed the lesbian image." Author Jeanie Russell Kasindorf reported that "the short-haired 'bulldyke' is still many Americans' idea of what a gay woman looks like. Now 'lipstick lesbians' and 'designer dykes' share the bar with the 'butch/femme' group; the downtown black leather crowd and women in Jones New York suits wander among them.'" In other words, anyone could be a lesbian, which made lesbians both visible and invisible at the same time.This new attention spawned skewed speculation from places like Playboy ("the secret to the craze is that Nineties-style lesbianism requires no commitment"), 20/20 and Geraldo Rivera; coffee table how-to guides on lesbian hair, dress and sex (primarily addressing a straight, curious audience) and fashion editorials posing glamorous women together in suggestive photos ripe with Sapphic subtext. It seemed there was a proliferation of lesbians out of nowhere — lesbian comedian Kate Clinton joked in a 1993 LA Times piece that lesbian chic is "in a lot of ways what lesbian separatism was, but with better PR."For women like Clinton who had been performing publicly out as a lesbian since the early ‘80s, the new fad of “lipstick lesbians” and “designer dykes” was alienating to the larger community. Some found it hypersexualizing while others found it neutering, forcing a recycled conversation about respectability politics and feminist principles that has and will continue to plague lesbians for as long as we live in a hetero-patriarchal, capitalist society. If we don't own our own narratives, then how can any of us know or agree upon what a lesbian is or should be? Mairead Sullivan, Associate Professor of Women's and Gender Studies at Loyola Marymount University and author of Lesbian Death, says 1993 was significant in that it "was the year 'lesbian' lost its political bite," at least to the consuming public."This is a moment when 'lesbian' is no longer politically associated with a militant radical feminism," Sullivan tells PAPER. "Lesbian chic arrives as a disidentification of feminism."The early '90s was removed enough from the '70s that lesbians were no longer associated with the militant radical feminism of their foremothers, instead acting in response to it. No longer operating out of separatism, women came to work with gay men and trans people during the AIDS epidemic, a new generation of lesbians and bisexual women developing and honing demonstration tactics, bringing newfound ways of being seen and heard into a new future of sex positivity.Media spectacle was one way to get attention. Sullivan points to the political work and televising of the 1993 March on Washington (where the action group the Lesbian Avengers held the first-ever Dyke March with 20,000 lesbians marching together) as part of what led heteronormative stalwarts like Newsweek to run cover stories on lesbians and "the limits of tolerance.""Some people are panicking about [lesbians] and the Newsweek article is doing this identification of it: 'Lesbians are all good trying to raise children, not fringe topless lesbians with their fists in the air,'" Sullivan says. No longer were lesbians seen as men-hating threats to the nuclear family if all they wanted was to be part of their own. The irony is that lesbian visibility could not have happened without the topless lesbians or their fists. It was these activists who forced the lavender menace conversation with NOW, seeking to be part of resourced feminism post-women's liberation, and in the '80s, despite feminist backlash, were huge parts of national AIDS organizations like Act UP and Queer Nation. Within these factions, lesbians were finding themselves, creating connections and empowering each other. Sullivan points out that 1993 was also the first year lesbians were ever counted in any official way as a demographic. When the FDA finally gave AIDS activists a seat the proverbial table in 1991, they brought lesbian breast cancer advocates with them, leading to an NIH-sponsored study on lesbian health and breast cancer. The results went across the AP Newswire and were published widely. "So it's across the national news, this declaration that there's a lesbian breast cancer epidemic, and that becomes a real way in which lesbian then becomes this very clear demarcated like demographic category, in which now there's like an impetus or maybe put differently like a structure to count lesbians that didn't really exist before," Sullivan says.Those numbers reflected a market for those courting untapped markets, and “lesbian” was now an identity that could be advertised to and capitalized on. After close to two decades as a music label for women's music, Olivia Records switched to a lesbian travel company for women in 1990, placing full-page ads in the newly launched glossy Deneuve (later Curve) magazine for trips like its historic, media-hyped sail to Lesbos in 1993. Alcohol companies and brands like Subaru took bets on catering to an untapped subculture with pink dollars to spend, affording gay and lesbian magazines spots on special interest shelves in big box bookstores.Joining Curve in 1992 was OUT magazine, the first glossy gay and lesbian lifestyle magazine that positioned itself as less political than The Advocate or similar news-centric LGBT publications. Spokesman Michael Kaminer told The New York Times that the magazine would "redefine what gay fashion is," adding, "Some people think that lesbian women wear only jeans and Birkenstocks." The pervasive dowdy lesbian stereotype was born out of 1970s separatist lesbians who eschewed capitalism and patriarchal beauty standards. But lesbians weren't an invention of the '70s any more than were the '90s. Pre-dating what is often considered the birth of modern lesbianism are several Sapphic heydays, including the 1920s Harlem Renaissance performers like Gladys Bentley and Ma Rainey and the Lost Generation of Gertrude Stein, Natalie Barney and Djuna Barnes. (In fact, the first use of the phrase "lesbian chic" was made by historian Lillian Faderman in her 1991 book Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers, in a chapter called "Lesbian Chic: Experimentation and Repression in the 1920s," borrowing a phrase from Djuna Barnes' 1928 Ladies Alamack.) One hundred years ago, lesbians were thriving in their own private artistic circles but still had to maintain a cloak of passing heterosexuality in the interest of their own safety. Every decade following had its own lesbian subcultures (from butch/femme in the 1950s to the respectability politics of the Daughters of Bilitis into the Gay Liberation of the late-'60s), but the proliferation of lesbian visibility that the '70s brought exploded notions of a monolithic sameness when the Sex Wars divided lesbians over things like porn, sex work and S&M into the '80s. When award-winning writer, publisher and sexpert Susie Bright went to work at the hotly contested lesbian erotic magazine On Our Backs in San Francisco in the '80s, she tells PAPER "being in the closet was still de rigor for lesbians and seemed to be just the province of a few well-placed gay men."Facing "real denigration exclusion and persecution by the conservative mainstream feminist movement," Bright and the sex workers who both posed for and published On Our Backs were told they were ruining the progress feminists had made by celebrating their bodies, their desires and their sex positivity in editorial spreads and articles as their answer to Playboy (they even had a butch pin-up of the month).On Our Backs published from 1984 to 2006, long outlasting lesbian chic's 15 minutes, which Bright credits "not just because of our sex appeal but because the charisma and the political vision of 'what if women's sexuality had nothing to do with virtue or decoration or her fertility?'""We strutted our stuff and we voiced our political point of view, and then years later in the nineties, this lesbian chic thing comes splashing across the mainstream press, and my first reaction was, without us, this wouldn't have happened, but I already hate it because it is a new kind of packaging of titillation for men and an accentuation of the femme to the exclusion of the butch," Bright said. (Radical Desire, a retrospective of On Our Backs and its historic women and trans photographers is available virtually from Cornell.)Part of the problem was not just that the idea of lesbians being cool for a moment was not just that it commodified lesbians as a consumable lifestyle, but it suggested lesbianism was something to put on temporarily, like a costume for a theme party. "Lesbian sexual power is not because you're skinny or petite or rich or have the perfect complexion or have a Gucci bag or friends in high places. It's not about 'Ha ha, I was a lesbian at a party for five minutes — it was incredible!'" She adds wryly: "If it stops them from killing us and taking our children and refusing to hire us and chasing us out of our homes and refusing to let us attend our family death beds — if that's what this is about, great, have your little lesbian chic moment."The reality of representation was not all positive: 1993 was the first year hate crimes against gays surpassed racially motivated attacks. The '90s in particular were record-breaking for lesbian murders — Talana Kreeger in 1990, Susan Pittmann and Christine Puckett in 1992, Sylvia Lugo in 1995, Roxanne Ellis and Michelle Abdill in 1995, Julie Williams and Lollie Winans in 1996 and Martha Oleman in 1997. Although not a lesbian, trans man Brandon Teena's murder also sent reverberations through the community. Simply seeing more depictions of gay women wasn't necessarily translating into acceptance or a promise of safety. In fact, it seemed being more visible made them more of a target, which has always been a conundrum for gender-nonconforming people. A media-sanctioned celebration of cisgender, able-bodied, middle-to-upper-class lesbians wasn't helpful to all lesbians, which begs the continual question: If that's the case, how could "lesbian chic" be good at all? What started as a celebration of k.d. lang as a masc-of-center cover model from Alberta, Canada was swiftly reconfigured into a fashion moment that inevitably leaned away from female masculinity and into the edgy but non-threatening "lipstick lesbian." Today, there seems to be a discrepancy on what lesbian chic is – A look? A red lip? A swagger? An identity? – and that adds to the confusion. Fashion expert Chelsea Fairless, co-creator of the popular Instagram account and podcast Every Outfit on Sex and the City, defines lesbian chic as a style that women have always and still wear today."It was kind of like the '90s version of Marlene Dietrich," Fairless tells PAPER. "It was about the men's wear, but with full lipstick heels, in many instances, gelled hair."Fairless designed a T-shirt for (ex-girlfriend) butch comic-actor and Tabac regular Lea DeLaria that bemoaned the moment that she sold at public appearances, reading: "I survived lesbian chic," with 'lesbian chic' written in red lipstick. "Lea is a butch woman of a certain age, and that shirt is speaking to her fans that had a similar experience or a similar reaction to lesbian chic at the time that it was happening," Fairless said. She points to an OUT cover DeLaria shot in 1998 that DeLaria posted for a throwback Thursday not long ago, with DeLaria writing in the caption, "Why the fuck am I wearing lipstick? And grabbing my tit?!" That it was a gay magazine and six years after lesbian chic was au courant suggested that something had been lost in translation.DeLaria was not the lone butch at Tabac, and Nash is quick to point out that the party was not solely catering to high-femme fashion models and their famous friends. "There were celebrities in there, but we had friends who were construction workers who build skyscrapers. I think those women are equally badass," Nash says. "There we had school teachers, professors. We wanted to make it women from all walks of life. It wasn't just exclusive to just pretty models."Nationally, the publicity offered helped to establish lesbians as a demographic to be counted and catered to, but in many ways clung to the preferred idea of an acceptable type of lesbian. (DeLaria, for one, played a lecherous butch coming onto Goldie Hawn in the 1996 film "The First Wives Club" in an otherwise comical scene at a hip lesbian bar. She's played several more stereotypical roles of the same ilk since.) But there's no question Ellen DeGeneres couldn't have come out on primetime television without kd lang and, arguably, lesbian chic having given networks enough proof that there could be a monetary benefit from teasing something so taboo. (Lang, of course, appeared in the episode.)The best-selling musical tour of the late-'90s, the all-women's Lilith Fair, had what Sullivan can attest to from personal experience, "lesbian feminist aesthetics." It's when the 'chic' replaces feminism that things get cloudy. "As the mainstream media picks up and tries to narrate lesbian chic, it has this way of basically being like 'Don't worry, lesbians aren't as threatening as they seem because they're like all just good girls!'" Sullivan says."Before there was lesbian chic there was lesbian invisibility," Bright said in a 1997 interview. "I'd rather be visible. I know how much I felt like I suffered when the media only discussed the gay community in terms of gay men. But lesbian chic is just another signal of exploitation, like when feminists were portrayed only as bra-burners."New York Magazine, the very publication that had deemed lesbians chic in the first place, declared it past its expiration date by 1995 in a piece about Sundays at Café Tabac. Things were coming to an end. The piece quoted a "sardonic regular" quipping, "There's nothing to do but gawk at all the beautiful people."In 1995, lang's Ingenue follow-up All You Can Eat didn't replicate the former's success, and Madonna was looking to soften her image with her post-Erotica album, Bedtime Stories, and seemed to have tired of lesbians as an accessory. Tabac had become so big that Acosta and Nash (ex-girlfriends) had both floors and lines out the door on four-day weekends. The venue's vibe was changing, following the new New York City trend for lounges, thrift store couches replacing tables and doing away with dinner altogether."It totally changed the space," Acosta said. "It totally changed the party." Nash said she knew that Sundays at Café Tabac were over when one night, Kate Moss came up the steps, followed by Johnny Depp instead of a gang of supermodels. "People were like 'Johnny Depp is here,'" Nash recalls. "I'm like 'Yeah, pretty much a wrap for us. It's over.'"Nash and Acosta both went on to throw other successful parties, but their Sundays at Café Tabac have remained a particularly positive experience for many women who found it a place to see and be seen. Nothing has resonated quite like those nights of lesbian du jour. The struggle now is, like most independent lesbian efforts, the documentary about Sundays is underfunded and the filmmakers are looking for support to bring the project to fruition. (Donations can be made directly to Café Tabac on their website.) Lesbians continue to have their chic fashion moments – brands like The Row, Celine and Louis Vuitton have borrowed from OGs like openly lesbian designer Jil Sander, putting models in boxy baggy suits. "Dressing like a lesbian" is still in or out depending largely on what celebrities are wearing anything akin to menswear. Without stylist Patricia Field, Sex and the City would not have been the fashion inspiration that it was, with every single character on the show having lesbian chic moments of their own. (Fairless points to the 1997 episode where Charlotte befriends a group of art world power lesbians who want her to commit, not just play the part. When Charlotte says she loves female energy but prefers men, one power lesbian tells her, "Sweetheart, that's all very nice. But if you're not going to eat pussy, you're not a dyke.") Without the success of Sex and the City, there wouldn't be The L Word, a show that was essentially lesbian chic in aspiration and action. (Its new iteration Generation Q is as much a reaction to the original as lesbian chic was to second-wave lesbians of the '70s.)Nowadays, Brandi Carlile struts in k.d. lang's heeled boots and designer and creative director Jenna Lyons is joining Martina Navritova's wife as an openly gay Real Housewife as she joins the New York cast this coming season. Some of the most famous and well-regarded lesbians are anchoring Good Morning America, hosting the Oscars and being named "Couture Week's Best Dressed Couple" by Vogue. Lesbian bars may be in flux, but queer nightlife and the intentional creation of inclusive spaces is consistently evolving. And despite clickbait proclamations that 30 years after being chic, lesbians are so over, that's just not the reality. Are lesbians ever really done processing?Sullivan says a lot of the conversations happening at the time of lesbian chic in lesbian and queer communities but also nationally are very mirrored right now. "There are attempts from mainstream media to soften 'lesbian,'" Sullivan says, "but I actually think that the response from the lesbian community was a very strong engagement with lesbian politics and dyke politics – and I think we see that coming back in full force right now." Just like Madonna.Photos courtesy of Wanda Acosta and Karen Song https://www.papermag.com/cafe-tabac-lesbian-chic-2659588433.html

#Lesbians #Lesbian chic #Nyc #New york city #Nightlife #Cafe tabac #Trish Bendix #PAPER

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“It is worth keeping in mind that an army of 10,000 or 20,000 men was, by ancient or medieval standards, a mid-sized town or city moving across the landscape. Just as towns and cities created demand for goods that shaped life around them, so did armies (although they’d have to stay put to create new patterns of agriculture, though armies that did stay put did create new patterns of agriculture, e.g. the Roman limes).

Thousands of soldiers demand all sorts of services and often have the money to pay for them and that’s in addition to what the army as an army needs. That in turn is going to mean that the army is followed by a host of non-combatants, be they attached to the soldiers, looking to turn a profit, or compelled to be there.

We can start with sutlers, merchants buying or selling from the soldiers themselves (the Romans called these fellows lixae, but also called other non-soldiers in the camp lixae as well, see Roth (2012), 93-4; they also call them mercatores or negotiatores, merchants). Sutlers could be dealing in a wide array of goods. Even for armies where ration distribution was regular (e.g. the Roman army), sutlers might offer for sale tastier and fancier rations: meat, better alcohol and so on.

They might also sell clothing and other goods to soldiers, even military equipment: finding ‘custom’ weapons and armor in the archaeology of military forts and camps is not uncommon. For less regularly rationed armies, sutlers might act as a supplement to irregular systems of food and pay, providing credit to soldiers who purchased rations to make up for logistics shortfalls, to collect when those soldiers were paid.

By way of example, the regulations of the Army of Flanders issued in 1596 allowed for three sutlers per 200-man company of troops (Parker, op. cit.), but the actual number was often much higher and of course those sutlers might also have their own assistants, porters, wagons and so on which moved with the army’s camp. Women who performed this role in the modern period are often referred to by the French vivandière.

For some armies there would have been an additional class of sutlers: slave dealers. Enslaved captives were a major component of loot in ancient warfare and Mediterranean military operations into and through the Middle Ages. Armies would abduct locals caught in hostile lands they moved through or enemies captured in battles or sieges; naturally generals did not want to have to manage these poor folks in the long term and so it was convenient if slave-dealer ‘wholesalers’ were present with the army to quickly buy the large numbers of enslaved persons the army might generate (and then handle their transport – which is to say traffic them – to market).

In Roman armies this was a regularized process, overseen by the quaestor (an elected treasury official who handled the army’s finances) assigned to each army, who conducted regular auctions in the camp. That of course means that these slave dealers are not only following the army, but are doing so with the necessary apparatus to transport hundreds or even thousands of captives (guards, wagons, porters, etc.).

And then there is the general category of ‘camp follower,’ which covers a wide range of individuals (mostly women) who might move with the camp. The same 1596 regulations that provided for just three sutlers per 200-man Spanish company also provided that there could be three femmes publiques (prostitutes), another ‘maximum’ which must often have been exceeded.

But prostitutes were not the only women who might be with an army as it moved; indeed the very same regulations specify that, for propriety’s sake, the femmes publiques would have to work under the ‘disguise of being washerwomen or something similar’ which of course implies a population of actual washerwomen and such who also moved with the army.

Depending on training and social norms, soldiers may or may not have been expected to mend their own clothes or cook their own food. Soldiers might also have wives or girlfriends with them (who might in turn have those soldier’s children with them); this was more common with professional long-service armies where the army was home, but must have happened with all armies to one degree or another.

Roman soldiers in the imperial period were formally, legally forbidden from marrying, but the evidence for ‘soldier’s families’ in the permanent forts and camps of the Roman Empire is overwhelming.

The tasks women attached to these armies have have performed varied by gender norms and the organization of the logistics system. Early modern gunpowder armies represent some of the broadest range of activities and some of the armies that most relied on women in the camp to do the essential work of maintaining the camp; John Lynn (op. cit., 118-163) refers to the soldiers and their women (a mix of wives, girlfriends and unattached women) collectively as ‘the campaign community’ and it is an apt label when thinking about the army on the march.

As Lynn documents, women in the camp washed and mended clothes, nursed the sick and cooked meals, all tasks that were considered at the time inappropriate for men. Those same women might also be engaged in small crafts or in small-scale trade (that is, they might also be sutlers).

Finally, as Lynn notes, women who were managing food and clothing seem often to have become logistics managers for their soldiers, guarding moveable property during battles and participating in pillaging in order to scrounge enough food and loot for they and their men to survive. I want to stress that for armies that had large numbers of women in the camp, it was because they were essential to the continued function of the army.

And finally, you have the general category of ‘servants.’ The range of individuals captured by this label is vast. Officers and high status figures often brought either their hired servants or enslaved workers with them. Captains in the aforementioned Army of Flanders seem generally to have had at least four or five servants (called mozos) with them, for instance; higher officers more.

But it wasn’t just officers who did this. Indeed, the average company in the Army of Flanders, Parker notes, would have had 20-30 individual soldiers who also had mozos with them; one force of 5,300 Spanish veterans leaving Flanders brought 2,000 such mozos as they left (Parker, op. cit. 151).

Looking at the ancient world, many – possibly most – Greek hoplites in citizen armies seem to have very often brought enslaved servants with them to carry their arms and armor; such enslaved servants are a regular feature of their armies in the sources. The Romans called these enslaved servants in their armies calones; it was a common trope of good generalship to sharply restrict their number, often with limited success.”

- Bret Devereaux, “Logistics, How Did They Do It, Part I: The Problem.”

#bret devereaux #warfare #military #ancient #medieval #renaissance

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