#disarray! hail (blue) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sentientcave · 4 months ago

Text

Heavy Weighs the Crown

Chapter 6 - Marriage of Inconvenience

< Prev Chapter - Chapter Index - Next Chapter >

Read on AO3

Contains: Generic fantasy setting, Princess Reader/OC, OC: Sweetpea, Politicking, Hail Kastovia!, We are (still) learning to communicate, Soap is a good boy, Oops the Kastovian Ambassador is hot, wedding nonsense (fantasy Catholicism because I'm not inventing a whole new religion for this lmao), John Heavy Chapter (I miss the boys)

~4.2k words - MDNI

Soap is still a wolf when you wake, although he’s staring at you unnervingly, blue eyes fixed on your face. You reach out and scruff his ears. “Good morning,” you greet him. “I guess today’s the big day.”

He wuffs and jumps down, trotting to the door. You snag John’s dressing gown and tie it around yourself before following, although he goes off down the hallway, and you cross to your room. The doors are open, airing out the strong smell of soap and disinfectant, the broken remains of the shelf cleared away, the books stacked up neatly and set to the side. Tiphanie stands in the middle of the room, looking confused by the disarray.

“Good morning, Tiphanie,” you say, smoothly taking the tray of breakfast out of her hands when she startles. “I suppose no one told you about the fuss last night.”

“No, my lady. What happened?”

You explain while you fix yourself a cup of tea and wash your face, readying yourself for cosmetics. “It was all very exciting, in all the wrong ways.”

“It’s a good thing Ser John was here, then,” she says. It takes a moment for you to realize that she means Soap. It’s easy to forget that he’s a knight sometimes. “I’m glad you’re alright, my lady. It would have been just awful to have to postpone the wedding.”

You have to press your fingers to your mouth to keep from laughing. “Oh yes. That would have been just terrible.”

“A lot goes into weddings!” she says, misreading your stifled laughter. “All the cookin’ and decoratin’ and flowers shipped in from hothouses all over the country. And the people who’ve come to see you! Our princess, finally takin’ her proper place as queen, marryin’ the love of her life at long last. It’s all terribly romantic.”

Romantic is not the word you’d use for the situation you’ve found yourself in, but the broader story that John has been telling clearly is. A princess in hiding, the king courting her in secret. The wedding had obviously been in the works for much longer than you’d realized, known to seemingly everyone but you. “Yes, it is,” you say mildly. As far as she knows, it really is. “I rather look forward to the occasion.”

When Farah arrives, you have her follow you to Nikolai’s rooms so you can speak to him, belting the robe tighter over your petticoats and corset as you walk. There’s no sense getting dressed and then undressed just to get dressed again. Nikolai will have to forgive your state— You have no doubt that he will.

“My lady, you can’t go in there alone,” the guard outside Nikolai’s door protests. He very wisely does not mention the fact that you’re only half dressed.“I have orders.”

“Farah will accompany me. Besides, you will have to let the ambassador out fr the wedding. It’s rather important he witnesses the affair.” You smile at the guard tightly. “Now, please move aside.”

He moves. You enter the room without knocking.

“Malyshka, you have come to see me,” Nikolai greets you warmly. “I am not dressed to recieve such a distinguished guest, but it is good for you to see some of what you will miss out on.” He gestures to himself, wearing nothing but a robe tied around his hips, his chest almost entirely exposed in a deep v, dark hair over a barrel chest and plush stomach, power and indulgence in one. He’s a fat tom cat, purring voice disguising the danger he inherently poses. “Of course, you are not dressed either, hm? Perhaps you have changed your mind.”

“As desirable a specimen you are, no,” you say dryly. “I’m afraid I’m dedicated to the course now, but I’ll try not to judge John too unfairly when we retire to our marital bed.”

Farah makes a funny sound, a choked back laugh. Nikolai makes no effort to hold back his own laughter, delighted by your flattery. “Very good of you, malyshka. But I suspect you did not come simply to tell me how handsome I am.”

“No. I wanted to ask you about the assassin.”

“I’m afraid I can tell you little more than I told your husband to be. He was my brother’s man— The second eldest, if you’re curious which one. I do not necessarily trust my brother, of course.” His dark eyes gleam with mischief. “Funnily enough, your cousin looks a great deal like my brother. Coincidence, I’m sure.”

Interesting. It makes sense— You had wondered why the Kastovian crown was so eager to help Phillip, and this little tidbit of information tells you a great deal. Your uncle, the man Phillip laid claim to your crown through, had died long before you were born, and only shortly after the birth of his son. Funny indeed.

“Perhaps your brother— Ivan, I believe? Perhaps he saw an opportunity to aid his son and gain power and influence of his own as well.”

“Oh, malyshka, I would never accuse my brother of foul play. Surely this is not what you are implying.” Nikolai smiles, however, indicating that he thinks you’re correct.

“I hate to levy unfounded accusations,” you agree. “It’s only that it could have been a very profitable move, had the assassin won out. If I were killed, Phillip would have an uncontested claim to the throne here. And if something happened to me, John would have killed you outright by now. Does Ivan begrudge his handsome younger brother his popularity? Or his wealth, perhaps? You inherited your lands from your mother, but you have no heirs. Your brother might try to seize those lands, in he unfortunate circumstance of your demise. You might have been killed last night, if I hadn’t spoken to John.”

“Did you defend me, your grace? How good of you.” The flicker of real surprise on his face is fleeting, quickly hidden away behind an easy smile. He must have thought that he had been spared only because you had not been harmed.

There is a grain of truth in that. If you had been killed, or even seriously injured, John would have stormed down to demand answers before he calmed down, and the chances of him killing Nikolai were high.

“You’re undoubtedly my favourite Kastovian, Nikolai. I would miss you terribly if they had to send a new ambassador.”

“You are too kind, majesty.”

“Now, you’d better finish getting ready, or you’ll miss the whole ceremony. I know how you Kastovians like to preen. I need to make sure everyone in your homeland hears about the happy occaision, and I know that no one else has your talent for talk.” You smile brightly. “And of course, once you have made your report, we would be happy to have you return.” You turn to leave, and glance over your shoulder. “Only, please vet your own guards next time. For John’s sake. You know he worries so.”

Kate runs into you and Farah out in the hall, and joins you while you get ready. It’s all simple, almost familiar, pinning your braids into a heavy knot at the back of your head, cosmetics applied neatly, just enough to make you glow. Jewels are brought up from a safe somewhere, and they sit, glittering and beautiful, on your vanity while Tiphanie buttons you into the wedding gown.

When you clip the gold earrings and heavy necklace into place, you see how well the diamonds and sapphires will set off John’s eyes when he stands next to you, and how pretty the gold looks against your own warm brown skin. For a long time, you’ve been a princess only in name, in memory, and expect to see that memory in the flesh when you look at yourself in the mirror.

You witness something new, instead. You see a queen.

The tiara is the last thing to set in place, holding a finely woven veil in place. It’s so sheer it hardly even blurs your features.

“Are you certain you wish to go through with this?” Farah asks one last time before you head down to the courtyard to climb into the waiting carriage.

“I think I have to. John hasn’t left me with much choice.” If you backed out now, if you ran away rather than marry John and support his claim, you could destabilize the entire nation and give your cousin all the justification that he needed to march in. If John had just listened to you, let you make a speech of support… Well. That might not have been enough.

“If he continues to be intolerable, we can always kill him later,” she says thoughtfully. “There are many ways to ensure it looks like an accident.”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Kate says wryly. “There are plenty of other ways to bring him to heel. You’re the Queen now. He’s decided to cement his claim through you, and therefore he has no power without your say so.”

You laugh. Kate’s right about that. You don’t intend to let him get away with much.

People line the streets, slowing up the carriage as it carts you along the short distance to the church. You smile and wave, arm and cheeks aching by the time you reach the church. The noise seems to triple when Ghost helps you out of the open carriage, the people cheering and throwing flowers onto the stairs. You maintain your bright smile as Ghost leads the way up the stairs, quiet behind the skull mask.

The church doors swallow you, and everything launches into motion. The music changes, the buzz of conversation dies, and you step forward from the entry to the church, taking your first step down the aisle.

The cathedral is beautiful, the white stone arching far above you, the stained glass glows brighter than the many thousands of light crystals that hover above like a sea of stars. Flowers decorate the end of every pew, soft pink and white flowers wrapped with blue ribbon, lending the air a soft, floral scent. The guests in attendance turn to look at you at once, and stand, the rustle of fabric almost loud enough to drown out the musicians in the alcove above for a moment.

Your eyes lock onto the man standing at the alter alongside the priest. John looks handsome as ever, dressed finely in blue and white, his muttonchops trimmed neatly. He stands ready, his blue eyes sharp, focused on you. He starts to smile when you reach the halfway point, and is beaming by the time you let go of Ghost’s arm.

He kneels, and extends a hand to help you do the same. He squeezes your fingers when you kneel, your skirt billowing out around you.

The priest begins his blessing, his voice droning, the words blending into each other. Your eyes linger on John’s face, studying the man that has so thoroughly tied you destiny to his. The emotion that blazes from his eyes is powerful enough to make your heart race. He thinks he’s won, and he’s not sorry about the trickery, but there’s softness there too, desire for your love. He speaks the vows clearly, his deep voice sinking through the dreamlike haze, bringing you back to reality. You repeat your own vows, and the two of you exchange rings before he stands and draws you up again, gently folding the veil back, out of your face.

He kisses you, and the reverent atmosphere of the church shatters. Claiming, telling the world that you are his, that he’s yours, until the grave claims you both. Married. Husband and wife.

King and Queen.

He says nothing else until you’re alone, tucked into the carriage together to head back to the castle. “I am sorry for the deception,” he says, although there is no guilt in his eyes, just triumph. He’s gotten his way, has everything just how he wants it. “I didn’t see a way to convince you.”

Liar. “You mean that you couldn’t risk my saying no.”

“I’ll be a good husband.”

“I don’t doubt it.” You give him a wry smile. “There will be time to talk later.”

“You aren’t angry?” He seems surprised by your placid resignation, even if you’ve always kept a tight leash on your temper. “I thought for sure this would be the thing that would make you shout at me.”

“I don’t think that would do us any good. We’ll talk when all the obligations have been met.” There is anger, bubbling away under everything else you feel, but you need it to stay buried for now so you can remain calm. There’s hours yet of socializing and smiling, and you don’t have the patience to swallow anger and sharp words while smiling at your guests. “There’s a long day ahead before we’ll get any true time alone.”

John nods, but something is still gnawing at him. He shifts on the bench across from you, touching his wedding ring with the thumb on his opposite hand. Putting things off unsettles him— He doesn’t like the idea of waiting all day to find out if you’re covering fury. It’s almost laughable how easily you’ll be able to use that against him, already so used to putting your feelings to the side and getting on with things until the moment is right. His need for control will not serve him now.

“John,” you say, reaching across o place your hand over his. “For what it’s worth, I do understand.”

“Are you certain?” he asks. “I’m not sure you do.”

“We will have time to speak about it later.” You withdraw. “It’s done. Your intentions don’t matter now.”

“I disagree.”

Of course he does. And he won’t stop trying to talk to you about it until you’ve heard him out. Maybe not even until you agree with him, but you have no intention of backing down. “Later, husband. We will talk.”

Husband seems to mollify him for the moment. You tuck that away for later too. He hands you the tools for his own destruction and doesn’t even notice.

You spend the rest of the afternoon receiving well wishes and pledges of fealty in the throne room. Someone in the staff has taken it upon themselves to bring a second throne out to the dais, so that you won’t be seated below John. You suspect Kate, although it could easily have been a senior member of the staff— John doesn’t say anything, but you don’t miss the surprise that flickers across his face. Perhaps he didn’t realize that in cementing his claim to the throne, he was giving up some of the power. You are the one with a true claim, and just as Nikolai had done to needle John, some of the well-wishers, especially the nobles, defer to you first, call you Majesty and him Highness, or even Lord, which does rattle him a little. Clearly he had expected nothing to change. You pretend not to notice.

Formal pledges done, there are still so many people that come to talk to you during the rather extravagant dinner that you hardly get a chance to eat, and it’s certainly not enough to counter the wine you’ve been drinking. You’re warm and a little tipsy by the time John stands up and leads you out for a dance.

It’s the first proper dance you’ve had in years, but luckily your feet haven’t forgotten how to move. The dances in town weren’t so formal, the music livlier and the steps less intimate. John holds you close, blue eyes never leaving yours as he sweeps you along. For a few moments, you are the only two people in the room, everyone else fading away into the sea of bight colours that surround you.

When the music stops, he bows, and escorts you back to the side of the dance floor, where Kyle takes your hand and leads you back out as other couples line up for a quadrille.

You dance until your feet ache, with a rotation of familiar and half familiar faces. Johnny and Kyle dance the most, but Nikolai manages to snag you for a waltz, and makes such a display of it that John practically snatches you away from him at the end of the song.

“It’s getting late,” he says quietly. “Are you ready?”

Ready to talk, certainly, but you know that’s not the only thing that’s expected of you tonight, and that makes you want to melt away into the floor. You have no experience with lovers, and there is no doubt that John has had plenty. Despite your nerves, you nod. These things can only be postponed for so long.

He is your husband now. All you can really do is try not to let anxiety spoil the good bits.

The door closing behind the two of you makes your heart jump in your chest. Away from the buoyancy of the party, you realize that you’re still angry, but it’s subsided to a low simmer now. You felt more and more like a stupid, silly little girl as you walked back to John’s room, and not just for falling for the trick— For thinking you were ever living on anything more than borrowed time. That you were ever living on your own by anything but his allowance.

“Sweetpea,” John says carefully, steering you toward the low couch rather than directly to the bed, like you half expected him to. “I think it’s time to talk.”

“Oh, yes, I rather think it is,” you say, voice coming out sharper than you intended. “You couldn’t spare me a moment before all this— I had to find out from Johnny. But of course we can talk after you’ve already gotten your way, hm?”

He sits, and pulls you into his lap, arms looping around you to hold you, keeping you anchored to him. “You understand why it was necessary. You must, or you wouldn’t have been so sweet all evening.”

As if all it took to be sweet was to swallow your tongue and smile. “I understand just fine. But you should have told me. I have every right to be angry with you.”

He doesn’t look contrite, only solemn. He cups your face with his big hand, thumb brushing across your cheek. “I suppose you do. But I waited a long time for you, Sweetpea. I wasn’t about to let you run off again. I was a fool to leave you out there as long as I did. I did all this for you. Never wanted the throne, just wanted you.”

You snort. A man doesn’t raise an army to win a woman, no matter who she is. A man doesn’t claim a throne with out wanting it. “Is that the comforting lie you’ve been telling yourself? That you were a noble hero, saving a helpless little thing from her father?”

He smiles, but there’s no warmth there. He hates being held to account. “You don’t have to believe me, love, but it’s no lie. I wanted you.”

“You didn’t know me, John. You hardly know me now. What did we ever have? A dance when I was seventeen? A few shared glances across a room? Whatever romantic notions you had, they were about a dream wearing my face.” You sit stiffly against him, cold despite the warm touch against your face. You wrap both of your hands around his wrist to pull him away, twining your fingers through his as consolation, fingers on your other hand tracing patterns on the back of his hand. “You can’t claim that you did any of this for anyone but yourself.”

The frown that furrows between his heavy brows is evidence that he had meant to control the course of this conversation, and you had set your own path, washing away all his pre-planned words. He underestimates you even now, the way a mountain underestimates the flow of a river, unaware of how water shapes it’s face and wears down it’s sharp edges, beholden to the sea, and never the land it travels over. This mountain will have to accept the truth, even if he resists you all the way down to the very bedrock.

Even if he resists you to the core of the earth itself.

Predictably, he tries to force a redirection. Ever the general, hoping to battle on favourable grounds. “That’s in the past, Sweetpea. Can we start again? There’s no undoing what’s done now.”

“There isn’t,” you agree. You know that there’s no going back. Your time to run expired the moment you stepped out and allowed Ghost to escort you up to the alter. John has irrevocably tied your destiny to his, for better or for worse, selfish and covetous as it is. Yet, there is a little shameful part of you that preens at his attention, at the effort he’s gone to rig the game against you, ensuring that in the end, you would be here, right where he wants you.

There’s no sense delaying the inevitable. He already believes he’s won.

“I swear I’ll make you happy,” he promises. He’s earnest about this, at least, those impossible blue eyes clear and guileless for once. “I’ll give you everything you could ever want.”

You’ll make him regret that promise later, just as he used your promise to support his claim to the crown against you. The war isn’t over— it’s only just begun, as far as you’re concerned. He’s ready to set down his sword, and you’re only now picking yours up.

You lean into him, tip your face up to his. Halcyon now, cloaking the tempest to come. “Take me to bed then.”

Your commandment is an easy one for him to obey— It’s exactly what he wants. His lips press to yours, soft and insistent, and you yield to him, parting your lips and letting him take what he wants, letting him sip the taste of sweet wine from your lips and sweep his tongue into your mouth.

He trails kisses down your throat, his beard scraping lightly over your skin, sending little shivers down your spine, the pulses of energy collecting in your lower belly rather than dissipating, mixing with the heat of your anger as you lean into him, putting your arms around his neck, threading your fingers through his thick, dark hair. He groans at your touch, as though he'd been waiting for you for eons, and pulls back to look at you, eyes like wine-dark seas. "You're so beautiful," he says, voice hushed. "My perfect girl. My queen." Lines fan out from the corners of his eyes when he means his smile. You can't help but find that charming, almost disarmingly so.

Almost. "John," you return, no titles, just his name. If it weren't for the titles, if you had met him in town, as a tradesman or a merchant, you wouldn't be able to stop yourself from falling for that boyish, cheeky smile, or that low, gravel and smoke voice that curls around you. If it weren't for the games, and the tricks, you would want him as badly as he seems to want you.

"You look so serious," he chides. As though he hasn't twisted what should be a joyous day into a steel-jawed trap. "What can I do, Sweetpea?"

You offer up a wan smile, and a half-truth that will soothe his ego. "I'm only nervous," you say. "You may have experience with these matters, but I do not."

"None at all?" he asks, surprised. "I would have thought, in that little town of yours, you'd have met a young man or two."

"I suspect your watchers had a hand in that," you say dryly.

"Jealous bastards."

"It doesn't matter now, John."

"Suppose not. We'll rectify that in time, my sweet girl. Can't say I'm all that upset to be your first lover."

"We're married," you remind him, shaking your head. "I expect you'll be my only lover."

He pulls you in closer, his grip around your waist tightening possessively, his other hand hitching up your knees so he can find the lacy hem of your wedding gown, rough fingertips catching on your silky stockings as his touch slides up your leg. "Is that right, Sweetpea? You're all mine?" He noses along your jaw to your ear and nips at your earlobe. "That virgin cunt just for me?"

"Yes," you say, your voice coming out as a breathy whisper. It's unfair what this man does to you, how easily the fire in his eyes sets something boiling over in your chest. You tip your head to catch his lips again, hoping to vent the unbearable pressure of heat, but he growls against you, an animalistic sound that only multiplies it, his hungry mouth offering exquisite cataclysm and nothing else.

You quake.

He parts your thighs, and you feel a shift as he reaches for the molten core of you. He cups your sex with his broad hand, and finds you wet and wanting, arousal soaked through the fine cotton of your undergarments. He grinds his palm against you, swallows down the helpless sound that tears from your throat, hums in satisfaction when you rock your hips against him, seeking friction from far too clever fingers. For all his faults (tectonic, foundational), it’s easy to want him like this, easy to slip back into that girlish fantasy from when you were young, a princess and a handsome, blue-eyed knight, exchanging heated glances from a distance, finally allowed to crash together.

Image credits: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 -

Divider by CafeKitsune - Flower Divider by Saradika-Graphics

#Cave writing #Heavy Weighs the Crown #Poly 141 x OC #X OC #OC: Sweetpea #x Reader #Hoo boy John you have no idea what you've gotten yourself into #Sorry this took forever I had most of it written in *checks notes* October???#OH WELL

61 notes · View notes

filmnoirfoundation · 2 months ago

Text

#TCMFF Day 4

Sunday, April 27

Eddie Muller's schedule:

9:15 AM

TCL Chinese Theatres, House 1

Eddie will be introducing THE BIG COMBO (1955) with filmmaker Ernest Dickerson.

With Joseph H. Lewis directing and John Alton in charge of cinematography, this guarantees one of the most vividly shot of all film noirs, a symphony in chiaroscuro in this world premiere restoration.

1:15

Egyptian Theatre

Eddie will be introducing Francis Ford Coppola’s APOCALYPSE NOW (1979) in 70mm with filmmaker Antoine Fuqua. Hailed by many as one of the greatest war films ever made and a landmark film about the Vietnam War, Coppola’s film combines an epic vision of war and its consequences with deep philosophical questions. It earned Oscars for Vittorio Storaro’s evocative cinematography and its sound design by it earned Oscars for Vittorio Storaro’s evocative cinematography and its sound design by Walter Murch, Mark Berger, Richard Beggs, and Nat Boxer.

2:30 PM

TCL Chinese Theatres, House 6

Eddie is thrilled to be introducing TCMFF’s tribute screening of David Lynch’s Blue Velvet (1986) with the film’s star Kyle MacLachlan. Lynch’s breakthrough film establishes one of his trademarks: exposing the seedy underbelly of a seemingly idyllic small town. Digging into the mystery behind his discovery of a severed ear, college student Jefery (MacLachlan) falls into the twisted world of criminal Frank Booth (Dennis Hopper) and singer Dorothy Vallens (Isabella Rossellini). The film established Lynch as one of the screen’s most visionary and controversial directors.

3:00 PM

Club TCM, The Hollywood Roosevelt

Eddie will be moderating JUST GETTING STARTED: A CONVERSATION WITH TITLE DESIGNER DAN PERRI.

4:15 PM

Club TCM, The Hollywood Roosevelt

Eddie will be signing copies of the revised and expanded edition of his essential volume Dark City Dames for passholders

8:15

TCL Chinese Theatres, House 1

Eddie will introduce TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALLGAME (1949) with his fellow TCM hosts Alicia Malone and Dave Karge. Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra play members of the fictional Wolves baseball team whose lives are thrown into disarray when the team’s new owner turns out to be a woman (Esther Williams). Directed by Busby Berkeley.

#eddie muller #tcmff #tcmff 2025 #chinese multiplex #egyptian theatre #american cinematheque #film noir #dark city dames #the big combo #dan perri #apocalypse now #blue velvet #take me out to the ball game

20 notes · View notes

eustasscapitankid · 6 months ago

Text

Leaving Kutsukku Kid, Killer, Heat, Wire Challenge: Kid Pirates Month "Leaving Kutsukku" Rating: General Warnings: None Tags: Leaving Home Summary: Four Towns, Four Kings, Forsaken. Four kids rise from the rubble of a forsaken island to bring order to its chaos. Unconventional peace for an unruly town, until it unravels. Word Count: 751

One island, four towns. Tossed aside, forgotten by the World Government. Grateful as they were for the lack of involvement, it certainly comes with drawbacks. Perhaps another island might have had better luck of things, a collective that worked together to find their own peace. That was not the case here. Orphans, drunks, widowers...living in disarray in town that, from a distant eye, looks like an uninhabited trash heap. No leaders, no friendly neighbors. Just broken homes sheltering broken people.

Among the vagrants, four kids. Sure, these kids, like any others, proved rambunctious little hellions. Particularly true for the fiery red-head that seemed to lead the small group. Yet, they found themselves hated. Shunned by the same people who should know how cruel it was to be alone. After all, many of them were themselves. Survival of the fittest. A place where people of the South Blue go to waste away.

An isle for the damned and forgotten. Yet they let the misplaced hate toward these four children fester.

If these kids would just stop running around terrorizing everyone things would be peaceful—at least, that’s what they told themselves. It’s easier to deal with a miserable life, when you have something to blame. Much easier, when you have somewhere to focus your rage on something that isn’t yourself. So the children became scapegoats in this desolate place. Something to hate...to blame for the way things were. Of course, deep down, everyone already knew that wasn’t true.

So all these years later who would think it was these four, who would bring the island into some semblance of order? Kid, Killer, Heat, and Wire. Four different personalities, four different towns, four kings. That’s what they had become to the people of Kutsukku. Kings. Though the islanders would never admit to this. Not to each other, nor to themselves. Neither did they dream that this odd taste of order, this peculiar flavor of peace so unique to their forsaken slice of the South blue, would unravel so quickly. A particular group of individuals, hailing themselves as a rivals to the four kings started causing chaos around the islands. At first they were largely ignored by all—the island’s brand of peace didn’t mean they were entirely absolved of chaos. When things started to escalate they were taken care of. This only made them desperate. Desperate to cultivate their own power, to try to hold fear over anyone who they thought might be of use...desperate enough to take a life to make their point. And so, it all ended. Their peace.

Residents from all four towns gathered at the port, crowding around each other to see if the rumors were true—that the Four Kings were leaving. As soon as the fiery red-head and masked blonde stepped out of one of the ships, obscenities flew freely. Though their words carried the same message as it always had, the venom came from a very different place. What were they going to do if these four left? What would become of their town? It was too late to be honest.

“Good riddance!”

“About time!”

Killer’s face grimaced under his usual mask, grip tightening on the cargo he hoisted into his grip. He wasn’t one to loose his cool, but it didn’t make the vitriol the townspeople harbored any less irritating or misplaced. This backwater island never knew how to appreciate a single thing.

“Let it go,” Kid said, “They’re not worth it.”

“So unlike you,” Killer nudged his shoulder against Kid’s. “Aren’t you supposed to be the angry one?”

“Aye,” a wolfish grin contorted over his face, “but I know they’ll eat their words. This island was nothing before us, and it will be nothing without us.”

Noticing the ever so slight lull in the voices, Kid looked back. The sea of people parted, creating a slim walkway. Heat and Wire approached from the market, carrying the last provisions. They both ignored the cruel words and under-handed jeers as Heat laughed at something Wire said. Joining their new Captain, they boarded their new home.

“It’s time.” The words lifted like their anchor, a promise bubbling to the surface. As the boat drifted from the docks the voices faded, mingling with the sound of lapping waves. Killer looked off into the distance, at the only home he had ever known.

It was only then, he swore he could hear a change in tone. Unified, but still muffled...one last phrase, carried further on the wind. “Thank you!”

ao3 | masterlist | kid pirates month masterlist

#kid pirates month 2025 #kid pirates #eustass captain kid #massacre soldier killer #op heat #op wire #eustass kid

31 notes · View notes

abiiors · 2 years ago

Text

corruption ❤️‍🔥 // matty healy x reader

a/n: not entirely happy with this idk why. had to edit the original snippet to fit better into the context?? but ugh yeah hope you enjoy. there's a very real possibility that this might be deleted later cw: overstimulation, ass play if you squint really really hard, fingering, slight cumplay, mean matty and degradation, oral, gets a bit sweet in the end because it is me afterall wc: 3.5k

the office is in disarray. people running around, files and folders stacked tall in their hands as a nervous hush settles over the entire building. when your phone dings with his message that night, you know you’re in for it. well, you’ve known that since you watched the live debate really.

matty is livid.

it’s not that he lost, it’s that he managed to scrape through barely and he is not a man who does things barely.

you could see it so clearly even through the large plasma tv screen in the party offices—the way his mouth was pressed in a tight line. and how when he did smile, it never reached his eyes. instead all you could see in them was cold anger.

tomorrow your boss might get fired for this but tonight it’s you and your sanity that’s on the line.

the message glares at you through your phone screen – 8 pm. 1205. the grand.

you don’t type a response to it because it doesn’t need one. he’s not asking, he’s ordering. involuntarily, you clench your thighs together in anticipation of what’s to come. tonight is going to be rough, you don’t need to anger him more by being late. so you quickly pack your bag and run out of the offices to hail a cab.

7:57. that’s when you find yourself outside of his hotel room, your heart thudding in your chest, panties soaked through from all the scenarios you couldn’t stop repeating in your head—his hands gripping the mic, the podium, knuckles so white. maybe you could ask him to grip your throat like that tonight.

you lift your hand up, shaky and fidgety, about to knock just as someone grabs you by the waist, pushing you against the door. you open your mouth to yelp but matty’s already turning you around, capturing your mouth in a hungry kiss.

sharp teeth clashing against soft lips—his fingers dig into your waist, wrinkling the cotton shirt tucked into your figure-hugging skirt. it takes him only a second a untuck it. another to push his hands inside and rub his thumb over your peaked nipples.

his hair is askew—not so neatly combed as it was on tv—as if he’s been running his hand through it in frustration. his suit jacket has already been discarded somewhere, white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing veins and a few scattered tattoos.

“my obidient little slut,” he grunts against your neck, mouth already sucking on your sweet spot. you squirm against his touch, nervous that someone might walk in on you. and oh, what a scandal that would be…

“relax…” he breathes. behind you the door clicks open. “we have the whole floor to ourselves. need to hear you scream my name tonight.”

you get lost in his words and forget to breathe, to nod. he’s pushing you back against the wall, fumbling against your shirt buttons until he gets so frustrated, he rips it off you. the buttons go flying everywhere, clinking a few times before the room is filled with your gasps once again.

“be my good little pet tonight, won’t you?” his words are murmured against your clevage. you nod on autopilot. his good little pet. yes.

“words…” he warns.

“yes, s–sir,” you gasp out, somehow managing to two little coherent words. and it’s good enough for him.

matty pulls away, almost making you stumble and lose your balance but the wall holds you up. “on the bed,” he commands. his hands are at his throat, loosening his dark blue tie. the soft silk looks inviting, promising. so you walk up to the bed on shaky legs, watching his every move and how he slowly takes the tie off, taking his time to smoothen every little crease on it.

“on your stomach, pet,” he commands again, less patient this time. “ass up.”

the two words are enough to make you whimper. you know what’s about to come. the man in front of you has a penchant for ruthlessness. especially when things don’t go his way. and yet the fear in your body feels more like excitement, the ache between your legs superseding every other need, as you lie there for him exactly how he’s asked—face smushed the soft pillows, ass up and your still-clothed pussy in his view, for him to use and abuse as he pleases.

you know your skirt has ridden up enough that he can see the red thong you’re wearing, perhaps even the damp spot on it.

“you know why we’re here, sweetheart?” his voice comes from somewhere in the room. perhaps he’s moving, walking around and looking at you from all angles. you wouldn’t know, your eyes are already closed tight, bracing yourself.

“because the debate—”

“didn’t go so well,” he finishes. suddenly, there’s a hand on your back, undoing the buckles on your bra with deft fingers until it falls off you and onto the bed. cool air brushes against warm skin and goosebumps erupt all over your body. but matty doesn’t stop there.

next him hand moves down to your ass, stroking it. and just when you think he’s about to spank, a tearing sound rips through the room—your tights, now on the floor in tatters.

“and why didn’t it go well, pet?” he asks, a ghost of a touch against your inner thigh, moving up and up and making it difficult to focus on anything. “cat got your tongue?”

“because—” you whimper, unable to finish because his fingers slide your thong aside at that exact moment, collecting the wetness, brushing against your clit.

“yes?”

“bec–fuck! um—”

“dumb little slut, aren’t you?” his voice carries a dangerous edge, matty is not to be trifled with tonight and yet you struggle to form a coherent sentence, stuttering the words like a bumbling idiot. “but i didn’t think you were a dumb little slut at work…”

“m’not!” you whine. this little secret aside, both you and he knows that when it comes to work, you’re diligent and focused as a shark, your ruthlessness rivaling that of his. except he’s the shining star. the sun around which everything else revolves.

matty’s hand is back on your thigh, tracing dizzying circles. “i told you i wanted your ideas, didn’t i?”

you swallow.

that he did. explicitly. not once but twice.

“and yet you disobeyed me, pet.”

another muffled sound of protest tears out of you but you know there’s no point in arguing with him. telling him that your boss rejected your ideas. you should have been more assertive, more dominating. but you weren’t. and now it’s time to face the music.

“what should i do first, hmm?” his fingers are back at your entrance, neglecting your clit entirely and spreading your folds for him to see.

reflexively you try to clench your thighs together, too embarrassed that you’re already so excited, practically dripping onto your thighs but matty is quicker. a sting blooms onto your ass cheek.

“what did i warn you before, hmm?” you gasp into your pillow, still reeling from the spank, trying to remember his words. “be–be a good pet.”

“and what do good pets do?” you struggle to keep up with his words, too wrapped up with how animalistic his voice sounds, how it reverberates through your entire body. the air whooshes as his hand cuts through it. another spank. another yelp from you.

“th–they listen.”

“good girl…” his hand caresses the spot again, soothing some of the sting before matty climbs onto the bed. the mattress dips, his fingers are back at your entrance, back to parting your folds and swiping through them lazily as if he has nowhere else to be. as if he has all the time in the world.

this time you let him, desperately trying to hold yourself up on shaky limbs.

without warning matty plunges two fingers in.

“fuck!” it’s more a hiss than an actual word. your entire body zings from the sharpness of it, trying to adjust to the sudden thickness between your legs. matty let’s you breathe through it, gives you a reprieve of just a few seconds, before he’s moving them deeper.

“colour?”

“green. green!”

he chuckles condescendingly, moving his hand and pumping his fingers faster. “so eager for me, such a slut.”

the ring on his middle finger touches your clit over and over again, the cold gem brushing against your heated core, making you hiss and cry. the orgasmic feeling builds deep inside you, slowly spreading through your entire body, taking you higher and higher with each pump for his fingers, each brush against your clit.

“please mat–sir! please,” you cry out, sobbing almost a damp spot grown on the pillow. you want to cum, want to feel that euphoric high.

“please what, pet?” he tsks.

“let me cum, please…”

you expect him to deny it, expect him to turn this into a power play and watch you squirm under him and beg for a release. to your surprise, matty presses a thumb against your clit, uttering just one word—cum. it’s the shock that pushed you over the edge, legs spasming as you gush onto his hand, relishing the way he keeps fucking you through the orgasm, through your chants of oh my god…

and his fingers don’t stop moving.

instead matty settles behind you, your ass raised up right in his face and presses his tongue against your core, sticking it inide and lapping up your release that has you squirming in place and crying out as the heat bubbles up inside you again.

the tip of his nose presses between your asscheeks, making you yelp. it’s a new sensation… not one you’ve experienced before. matty only laughs at your reaction.

“did i startle you, sweetheart?” he speaks right near your entrance, the vibrations from his words building up the familiar feeling once again.

“matty…” you whimper, not even caring that he wouldn’t like that. and his displeasure becomes evident a moment later when you feel a nip at the soft skin of you ass, teeth sinking into your flesh.

“what are you good for, huh?” he growls, “need me to fuck you into being a good girl?”

“yes…fuck—” whatever you were about to say is cut of by his tongue sliding inside you again, thumb flicking roughly against your clit. with his other arm, matty holds you up, stops you from sinking onto the mattress entirely.

his tongue and his thumb create a dizzying rhythm, altering pressure against your insides and on your clit until you’re cumming all over his tongue, practically on his face with his lips still attached to your entrace. matty takes it all, lapping up every last drop and holding you by your waist to keep you upright until you’re panting and sobbing, unable to handle the euphoria.

you get a few moments to breathe in between, just a few seconds to pull yourself back together before his fingers are plunged inside you. the rhythm repeats, cold metal, wam skin, rough thumb, your body that jolts from his electric touches, matty who coaxes another orgasm out of you in minutes. this time his fingers form a v inside you, stretching you out more.

it hurts at first as your body desperately tries to adjust to it. the sound of his fingers pumping in and out of your wet cunt is too much, the filthy, obscene squelching sounds, that he seems to get off on.

you bite onto the pillow so hard that it rips. seconds later, matty’s laughter rings out in the room as he realises what you’ve done.

“look at you, sweetheart,” he taunts, “so feral.” his fingers part inside you again until you are capable of nothing else but screaming his name over and over again, begging for just one more orgasm. another one and the you’ll be satisfied. just one.

“please, sir,” matty mocks in a high pitched voice, an exaggerated pout on his face. it borders on cruelty. it’s a shame your body confuses humiliation for more pleasure. “made you cum multiple times, wasn’t it enough? greedy cockslut,” he spits.

you know you’re close to cumming again, waiting for his permission. your body strains from the effort feeling too full. until his fingers slide in deeper and something clicks.

“go on then,” he grunts again but you already are…

wet hot liquid gushes all over his hand, practically drenching his face that’s so close to your cunt right as you cum—no, right as you squirt all over him.

his arm’s not enough to hold you up this time. not that he tries to as you finally fall onto the mattress, trembling and breathing hard. a sharp intake of breath behind you tells you how astonished matty is.

he recovers quickly, though, flipping you onto your back and then matty’s pulling you up and into his arms…

this is a first. not just the squirting but being held in his arms while you tremble from the aftershocks of the intense orgasm.

“that was…” he is speechless, you realise. in all your time knowing him, he’s never been speechless. certainly never while stroking your hair after an orgam.

“such a good little pet,” he mumbles into your hair. “what’s your colour, sweetheart?”

through the haze you try to make sense of what he’s saying. somewhere behind a fog, your mind knows the concept of colours, you know it and yet it takes you a full thirty seconds before you can answer him in a hoarse voice that you barely recognise as your own.

“green.”

shakily, you try to fumble with his shirt buttons, wanting nothing more than to feel his skin on yours. you need to feel closer to him, to look at him while he’s buried deep inside you. even as you feel like you might float away if he lets go of you, you need him. more that before.

“hey, hey, hey,” his big hand wraps around your wrist, still wet and sticky from your release but you don’t care. “what are you doing?”

“need you,” you whine. it’s desperate and pathetic. “please, just… need you—”

“fuck, sweetheart,” he curses against your hair, finally letting you undo all his shirt buttons with shaky and unsure hands. matty sits still, letting you take your time. “do you even know what you do to me?”

you?? to him?? you want to ask if he knows what he does to you. how he has you thinking about him day and night, has you desperately seeking out your pillow on lonely nights, imagining it’s his hand between your thighs, his body weighing heavy on top of yours.

“let me fuck you, baby.” for the first time, matty’s voice is gentle… the edge of it doesn’t go away though, it’s still there, even if it’s barely noticeable. “been so good for me today. just lie back down and let me make you feel good, sweetheart.”

the words do something funny to your chest, make tingles spread all over your body and you wait for him, lying on your back and desperately clenching around nothing.

“come back,” you whine, even when he’s hurrying to shed his clothes, to pull your skirt off of you. all in all it takes him a minute to be back between your legs, his hard cock pressed against you and making your hiss, but your body feels cold from the absence of his body heat.

“my needy little thing,” he murmurs. even when he seems tender, his particular desire to torture you stays.

matty doesn’t enter you just yet, still keeping his fingers on your clit, drawing figures of eight on it until your mind is floating, your body loose and completely malleable in his hands. you barely even have the energy to open your eyes and look at him, at his curls plastered to his forehead.

“i ne–need you,” you cry out again, getting squirmy and desperate, writhing beneath his touch. he doesn’t oblige, he just keeps building up another orgasm in you. even when you’re getting too sensitive to his touch.

“you’re my little toy, aren’t you?” his words keep falling onto your ears from all sides, nothing compared to the haze of ecstasy you’re in. “cum for me again, baby. just one more time and then i’m yours. then i’ll do whatever you want.”

you know better than to trust his promises.

outside of this bedroom, his entire job hinges on his ability to get people to believe in his promises. to fall for his sweet words.

and what had he called you before? a dumb little slut? because he might as well be right.

within minutes you’re falling apart around his fingers again. you have no control of your body anymore, no control over your orgasms. all you can to is cling onto him, wrap your legs around his waist to keep him close. to keep holding onto the last thread of your sanity.

“there you go,” he breathing onto your skin before you’re even done coming down from your high, sliding inside you before you can catch your breath.

it’s maddening in the best of ways—to be so full of him that you forget about your own existence.

“matty…”

“sound so sweet when you say my name like that, baby.” his voice comes from somewhere on top of you. he’s bottomed out now, hard and thick and filling you in so much more than his fingers did.

the soft sheets of the bed rustle against your skin as he moves—slow at first and only ramping up at the pace when you nod at him and squeeze him between your legs.

your long nails dig deep into his shoulders, sinking into his skin and leaving scratches all over his unmarred skin but you need to hold onto something. his cock hitting that spot deep inside you feels too good. his hips ramming into yours has you on the edge so much quicker that you can ever imagine. you aren’t going to last much longer and matty’s only just getting started.

“look at you,” he tuts, “fucked dumb and practically drooling onto your chin. is that what my cock does to you, hmm?”

you nod like a puppet on a string. a whine builds deep in your chest and each of his movements has you clawing his back. matty takes it all—the pain from your sharp nails, you clenching tightly around him over and over again, squeezing his body between your thighs.

his hips ram against yours, body tensing the more he moves, stomach muscles pulled taut.

“fuck,” he grunts, “‘m close, sweetheart, gonna cum inside you, okay? gonna pump you full of my cum.”

“ye–yes, ‘m close too, shit, so–so—”

matty shushes, sparing you the effort of constructing an entire sentence. he’s twitching inside you, moving in an erratic rhythm. sweat drips off him and onto your chest. and it’s the one particularly hard thrust that gets you before you’re clenching around him tightly, cumming with everything left in you, dizzy and disoriented.

that must have pushed him over the edge too because you feel something warm and thick filling you up, dripping down your thighs. his arms shake with the effort of holding him up on top of you but you’re too far gone to care. too far gone to even relish in the groans that echo around you. all you can do is quietly whimper his name and hold onto him tightly, to keep him inside you, close to you for as long as possible.

exhaustion weighs on you like a tonne of bricks. if only you could close your eyes for a second…

“hey!” matty sharp voice jerks you out of your thought.

“tired…” is all you manage to say. but a moment later he’s pulling out of you. the emptiness you feel has you whining softly, barely even paying attention as matty dips his mouth between your legs again.

“lemme clean you up, pet,” he whispers, tongue already on your thigh, “been so good to me today, let me clean you up. then you can sleep.”

you’re fairly certain you give him a nod, writhing under him as matty proceeds to clean between your legs with his mouth, both yours and his release now coating his tongue. but you hiss in pain when his tongue makes contact with your clit again. your eyes well up. this time, they’re not tears of pleasure.

you gather up all your strength or whatever’s left of it to clench your thighs shut. “yellow, matty, please… please.”

in an instant, he moves away, shushing you while stroking your head. “it’s done, baby, no more. i promise.”

his voice sounds firm and you have a vague memory of the feeling of a wet cloth between your legs some time later. all you know is he’s there, pressing a glass of cold water to your lips, urging you to drink from it. all you remember is him ringing up room service to order some food. and then the feeling of being pulled into someone’s arms.

lemme know what you think <33

taglist: @scooby-doodoo, @partoftheairforce, @justgoatsbreakinghearts0855 @beachesgetpeaches, @you-muppet, @mcabister, @alexmarie29, @at-her-very-foreign, @hfkait, @squishysoupy @sierraeslaprincesa @harrie-fic-center @alien-girl-violet @thereisaplaceintheheart @kennedy-brooke @lolidontknowanymore @theoriginalwhatsername @celestcies @sugarkane1001

add yourself to the taglist

#matty healy x reader #matty healy x you #mean politician matty #matty x reader #matty x you #minors do not interact

338 notes · View notes

ronaldparlato · 6 months ago

Text

The Inauguration of Donald J Trump is but a few days away, and the Left is still in disarray, disbelief, and incredulous fluster over it. How could this have happened? How could this insurrectionist, racist devil possibly be seated once again in the Oval Office?

#trump #politics #inauguration

1 note · View note

bllsbailey · 11 months ago

Text

JD Vance to Newsmax: Dems 'Trying to Throw Their Nominee Under the Bus'

youtube

In mere hours this weekend, President Joe Biden went from having to talk Democrats into not abandoning him to having to explain his administration's failure to protect his political opponent from a would-be assassin.

But now the contrast between Democrats in "disarray" and a Republican Party "really united" could not be more stark and driving more "momentum" for the Trump-Vance ticket, J.D. Vance told Newsmax in a live on-set interview Night 2 of the GOP convention in Milwaukee on Tuesday.

"President [Donald] Trump's, I think, roundhouse kick in the first debate is part of the reason why you have Democrats in total disarray right now," Vance said, referring to the June 27 debate between Biden and the former president. "It is really the contrast between Republicans and Democrats.

"Democrats are actively trying to throw their nominee under the bus. This party out here is really united behind President Trump. It's a really good feeling.

"And I think that that momentum is something you can almost reach out and touch. It's so, so powerful. It's so cool."

The GOP unity was on full display at the convention Tuesday night, as GOP primary vitriol gave way to full-throated support for Trump as the nominee.

Former South Carolina GOP Gov. Nikki Haley not only delivered her delegates for Trump on Monday in the nominating vote, but she delivered her full endorsement for Trump in her speech. She spoke to the hearts, minds, and potential votes of former Trump critics, noting how you can "disgree at times" with Trump, but still vote for him against Democrat President Joe Biden.

Also, Florida GOP Gov. Ron DeSantis came out firing thereafter noting how the Republican Party must send Biden "back to his basement" and Trump "back to the White House."

But those speeches came after a one-time Trump critic himself, Vance – saying in 2015 the billionaire is at times difficult to "stomach" – is now Trump's leading supporter as his vice presidential running, long coming to the conclusion Trump is the best president for America.

Trump himself has hailed Vance as one that proves he can turn unconvinced minds around as a presidential candidate.

That is where Vance comes in with the key battleground states that have pockets of tepid support for Trump.

Vance noted having the rally Saturday rally in Butler, Pennsylvania; nominating an Ohio running mate; and holding the GOP convention in the key battleground state of Wisconsin show just how important the Rust Belt is for Trump to break the Democrats' proverbial "blue wall" — despite Democrats' tepid support for their 81-year-old candidate.

"Absolutely, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Wisconsin — obviously, we're here in Milwaukee — are a major, major focus of President Trump's campaign," Vance told Schmitt and Van Susteren. "And, look, it's very simple: Why does Joe Biden want to buy oil from Iran and from [Russian President] Vladimir Putin instead of from Pennsylvania energy workers?

"Why does he want to further weaken the American manufacturing economy that allows us to project power overseas? Why does he constantly pursue the interests of foreign despots over the interests of the American citizen and the American worker?

"That is a case that I think works all over the country. I really think it's an argument that works in Pennsylvania and Michigan, because they have felt the neglect of the consensus in Washington that leaves American workers behind.

"President Trump's going to change that."

Tesla, SpaceX, and X owner Elon Musk sees that, too, Vance added.

"Elon and I know each other a little bit, but Elon is actually a great example of an American entrepreneur who's built a company, but also a company that's employed a lot of good American workers," Vance said, when asked if Musk was a voice pushing for him to be the running mate. "If you think about, you know, Elon Musk is in some ways a throwback to an older generation of American entrepreneur. He builds real things, he builds cars, he builds rockets.

"And that's, I think, the kind of economy that President Trump wants to create."

#Youtube

0 notes

tsarisfanfiction · 4 years ago

Text

Judder

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort Characters: Scott, Grandma

The worst nightmares are the ones that are real.

A little more angst than physical whump for today’s @whumptober-archive “it’s not just in your head”, using the prompt nightmares and maybe a little hit of panic in here, too. It took me a while to figure out who the caretaker for today would be - as it’s John’s (second) birthday, I kinda wanted to write him into this, but it didn’t quite work, and none of the rest of the bros worked, either, so I cast the net a little wider, and this is what we got.

“DAD!”

It was stupid, it was reckless, but conscious thought was completely bypassed as he threw Thunderbird One forwards, into the smoke that had appeared out of nowhere. Over the comms, Casey was yelling herself, cries for Colonel Tracy to respond, but Scott couldn’t sit and wait for the answer. He had to move, had to fish Dad out from wherever he was, because he had to be there.

Somewhere.

Anywhere.

Please.

Nothing. Smoke obscuring his vision, his sensors, his everything until Thunderbird One juddered under his hands, threatening a stall because she wasn’t supposed to be treated like this. He knew that; he’d piloted her before, several times, although this was the first time he’d been at the helm alone.

“DAD!” he screamed again, loud enough to rattle his throat and come out a little hoarse. “Dad, where are you?”

Still nothing. Thunderbird One’s sensors were in so much disarray they couldn’t even pick up the debris from the explosion. Life signs were completely null and void.

His face felt hot, eyes stinging and wet salt dripping into his mouth. Around him, the Thunderbird kept shuddering, barely keeping herself in the air as he dragged her back and forth and back and forth the area, passing closer to the GDF jets in the area than perhaps he should have done.

They were patrolling too, hails across the radio again and again, interspersed and occasionally overlapping with his own desperate cries.

Nothing. No sign of the Zero-X. No sign of Dad.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, and Scott took the next desperate turn too hard, too much for the technological marvel he was demanding things beyond the capabilities of. The engines screamed, juddered and trembled, throwing him around in his seat as they spluttered, spluttered.

And died.

Scott’s eyes snapped open as he hit the water in his own explosion, jerking upright and chest heaving for air that it wasn’t getting.

Smoke and debris scattered across his vision, emitting from the wall in solid-looking apparitions before fading away in his periphery. On his lap, the bunched blue comforter was dark and sodden with sweat; a hand to his forehead came away equally damp, and the taste of salt still stung his lips.

More damp fabric clung to his chest, but it didn’t occur to him to peel it away, leaving the uncomfortable sensation to persist as he buried his face in his hands, trying to shut out the ghost of the Zero-X.

The smoke and debris imprinted itself on the back of his eyelids instead.

If only it was just a nightmare. Just, as though nightmares were things to shrug off and push through when they dredged up deep-seated trauma and forced a front-seat viewing of it all over again. Scott was no stranger to that, but it had been some time since this one had last raised its ugly head.

Then again, the Hood was back. Eight years and they were once again being assaulted by the dark, reaching, shadow of the man that had caused the disaster that tore Dad away from them.

Scott didn’t need nightmares to remind him of that day; the events were imprinted into his brain, seared into his vision from the thousands of times he’d watched the GDF’s recordings. It had taken a good hundred viewings or so before it twigged that he’d never lifted One’s stealth mode during his desperate search – not that he’d bothered to ever use that again, not since the world had realised the identity of International Rescue – and was completely absent from all of the footage. No wonder they hadn’t been moving out of his way.

Someone, probably their godmother but maybe John, had also edited his own frantic cries out of it. Scott didn’t mind; their little brothers didn’t need to hear how he’d fallen apart. He didn’t need to hear how he’d fallen apart, although the nightmare was quite content to throw it back at him anyway.

The only embellishment the thing made was shocking him into consciousness via a crash that didn’t happen. His memories got a little hazy over the time period, but he knew he’d all but emptied One’s fuel reserves before being forced to go home or risk crashing himself.

No-one else had been home; John had been on Thunderbird Five – his first solo stint, just like it had been Scott’s first solo flight in Thunderbird One – while the youngest three plus Kayo were away at school with Grandma holding down the fort in their old home in Kansas to look after them. Kyrano and Brains should have been there, but they’d already left to do their own investigations by the time he got back.

Scott had been alone to scream and cry and trash the villa as he waited for One to refuel for another search. And another, and another, between pulling on façades to tell the rest of his family what had happened.

The façade had never quite receded again, except for hollow moments like this one, when his bedclothes were damp with sweat and his head and heart ached with grief he’d never quite finished working through.

There was no time for his own grief when he had a family to hold together.

Sometimes grief had a different opinion. Times like now, when his chest was still heaving and his breathing came out in shuddering gasps that rattled around his lungs and left him floating somewhere that wasn’t quite his bed.

His brothers didn’t see him like this. He didn’t let them, slamming a façade up at the first hint that one of them was looking. John might be the exception – Scott never knew for certain when he was watching silently – but John had seen him in the aftermath of Mom, and again in the aftermath of Dad once he’d stormed Thunderbird Five to drag his brother home.

However, there was one person who always seemed to know when his mind was being ravaged by the demons of his past. Someone with a sixth sense for his nightmares like he had one for his little brothers’, someone who refused to let him go through it all alone.

Someone who pushed his door open slowly and quietly, the barest brush of knuckles against wood to announce entry before slipper-clad feet padded across his faded carpet, complete with stains from pranks gone wrong over the years, and a small, slender body settled at the foot of his bed.

“Hey, Scotty,” Grandma said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Are you with me?”

It wasn’t an idle question; not all of Scott’s nightmares left him waking in such a passive state, and she’d seen it all.

He nodded, swallowing back a lump in his throat he hadn’t registered, and continued his shuddering, rasping, breaths as she shifted closer.

Papery skin enfolded him, pulling his head down onto a slender and bony yet strong shoulder and fingers running through his hair.

She didn’t ask what this one was about. She never did; Scott would talk if he needed to, but more often than not, all he needed was a shoulder he could lean on without the residual guilt that it should be the other way around. Grandma, as she had told him many times, was not someone he should be worrying about staying strong in front of.

She’d seen him as a squalling newborn, changed his diapers, cleaned him up before he was old enough to do it for himself, and performed various other grandmotherly duties across the years, she’d reminded him more than once. There was no need for any ‘nonsense bravado’, as she put it, when it was just the two of them.

So Scott let the old yet strong woman hold him up as he shuddered against her, trying desperately to get himself back under control again and being comforted by the fingers teasing through his sweaty bedhead and rubbing his equally sweaty back softly.

It didn’t make the nightmares stop, nor did it change the fact that it was mostly a true recounting of events, but it did help him feel just a little better.

#whumptober2021 #no.28 #nightmares #panic #thunderbirds are go #fic #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #grandma tracy #thunderangst

39 notes · View notes

pinkmirth · 4 years ago

Text

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ (ch.1 | feenin')

—𝑶𝑵𝑬.

SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER | WK: 2.8K

Frenzied cheers buzzed throughout the raving auditorium, the basketball’s reverberating bounces against the slick court floor adding onto the thrill. This match was nothing but hyped, but in a good way so.

The sports chants of the college goers sounded rather foreign to you, since it wasn’t like you attended Stohess University anyway. The fellow audience around you were at the edge of their seats, hailing their team’s basketball players as the raving shouts began to sound borderline intoxicating. So much so that you couldn’t help but clap along to another school’s anthem.

“Havin’ fun?” Marco questions, the corners of his mouth upturned into a smile that showcased his quirky dimples. You beamed right back at the freckled male, plush lips curved into a grin of your own.

It all seemed trivial, just a friendly collegiate basketball match that your friends Jean and Marco had invited you to free of charge, but it was all the break you needed from your own studies and more.

“Hell yeah I am,” you chuckled in reply, “but you know what’d make it better?”

His doe brown eyes flitted between you and the vibrant box of candy in hand, which was seemingly low in supply after you and him dipped your hands in for a bite a countless number of times.

“A refill on these, yeah?” His claims were just as what you were thinking, earning your brief nod of agreement. Marco subtly shook the snackbox within his hold, the spare pieces left beginning to rattle around with the motion.

“You read my mind, Coco,” you grinned, rising up from your reserved seat with spare cash stuffed into your back pocket. “I’ll be right back, ‘aight?” He sends you a brief smile in compliance.

“Get the sour patch this time!”

“You got sour patch money..?”

He pursed his lips momentarily, unsure as to whether you had been joking or not. “M’just messing ‘round with you, Coco,” you snickered with a teasing grin, slipping a hand into your pocket to retrieve the few bucks. “It’s on me.” Was all you said before making your way through the crowded stands, descending down stair after stair.

“It’s only the first game of the season, and our pride and joy, the Stohess Scouts, are already dominating tonight’s guest competitors!” the commentator boomed through the mic, their voice adding onto the various noises that filled the gymnasium. “We’re calling for a halftime, but let’s keep our fingers crossed that Kirschtein can pull through with a fair amount of two-pointers by the upcoming final quarter—“

The mentioned name of your close friend makes you beam with pride, content that your Jeanie was the star of the show. You set eyes on the brunette from where you stood, who was now making his way to the sidelines for a desperately needed and duly earned swig of water, his light brown hair in a disarray of stray strands fraying out from underneath the simple hairband you’d given him a while back.

You eagerly began to flit down the stands to reach him, striding past the poor row of benched players, from the injured to the water boy.

Jean eventually takes notice of your arrival and instantly beams, subtle puffs of air leaving his agape lips after all the running and dribbling and such that came with game day.

The first thing you do is taunt upon your arrival,“Y’all had better win, Jeanie.”

As always, Jean only smirks. “You doubting that I won’t bring that trophy home, Pookie?” you playfully grimaced and let out a stifled laugh over the somewhat embarrassing nickname— one that you made up when the pair of you were seven, and it's the same one that he’s been holding onto for all these years, even at nineteen.

“Well, I’d be lying if I said you aren’t lookin’ pretty damn promising out there,” your reply is genuine, the soft grin that you display causing Jean to display one of his own. It was an affable, never ending cycle— you’d tease and he’d do it right back, until the both of you would laugh over it and depart with a brief smile.

“M’getting snacks, I’ll be back before the breaktime ends, okay?” Kirschtein briefly nods in compliance, sending a few adjusting tugs to the white basketball sleeve hugging his bicep before departing with the sharp squeak of his shoes sprinting against the court floor.

Once again, you find yourself strolling past every individual seated on the benches. You’re speed-walking alongside them, anticipating to retrieve a couple snacks for you and Marco, until something— Someone catches your eye.

It was brisk and almost too sudden, but flashes of green meet your line of vision. You managed to make out the blur of thick brows, long dark hair having been thrown into the messiest attempted bun, a modest, charming smile, and a pair of turquoise irises that seemingly peered into your own with an intensity that made you take it personal. Yet, you hardly even caught a good glimpse of their face, whoever they were.

You passed by said person a good thirty seconds ago, already pushing your way past the double doors and over to the vending machines stationed along the semi-populated hallway, but that striking gaze was still heavily implanted within your mind.

Hazy green-grey eyes, you recalled, accompanied with them shooting you the briefest grin just as you whisked by. Though, as recent as it was, that was all in the past now.

You glance around to see a decent handful of people here to buy food of their own, being perched at other vending machines. The snack-wielding contrivance before you isn't drawing much attention and doesn’t have an awaiting crowd standing around for a bag of potato chips, so you withdraw the dollars from your back pocket and attempt to straighten them out a bit before inserting them into the slot.

“Wow,”

This sudden breathy gasp from a “random whoever” is something that you take notice of, but it isn’t enough to rip your attention away from your scavenge for Marco’s sour patch. To their dismay, you do nothing but continue with what you came to do. In your opinion, whoever that was had been getting a bit too close for comfort..

Albeit the evident way you choose to ignore, another whistle resounds, along with an unpleasantly suggestive hum. It sounds somewhat louder, and it seems much closer than before. You can’t help but tear your gaze away from slot E7 and look up, since it seems so directed towards you.

You've hardly turned around before being met with the abrupt presence of a stranger uninvitingly looming beside you, the man’s beaming grin seeming sickeningly sweet. Almost too approachable.

“Oh, I’m sorry to pop up out of the blue,” his apologies come out within a chuckle, and as inviting as he attempts to seem, your brows only furrow. “—but you really caught my attention!” He was greatly unfamiliar to you, some white male around your age with shaggy auburn hair and chestnut colored eyes in contrast. Despite his subtle charm, you weren't growing a liking to him and his stupid little smile.

“Oh,” You muse with a dull hum, pursing your glossed lips before releasing them with a slight pop, “Did I really?” His nod is too enthusiastic, and you hardly try to cover up the mug-like expression that overtook your features, eyes grazing across his plain face uninterestedly. You promptly slide the dollars right back into your pocket, “Nice to know. Can you mind your own now?”

“Wait! I'm not meaning to be a bother, but.. I don’t see girls like you around much..” You're instantly encased with a shiver of deep cringe, one that annoyingly scurries up your spine and makes your lip twitch into a vexed glower.

You emitted the most exaggerated huff, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, all the while glancing at the sheen glass of the vending machine to see your own reflection. It was plastered all across your face, yet this dense-ass man still couldn't get it; you were pissed-off.

Great. You internally groan, Another snow roach who thinks I’m exotic.

“I really appreciate how different you look,” Was he really still rambling on, despite knowing damn well that you were growing uncomfortable? Or maybe, he was just an utter dumbass and couldn't take the painfully obvious hints.

“You wanna know what I’d appreciate, hm?” You say sharply, taking a swift inhale through your nose, “If you left me alone.”

Your smooth, placid voice was the first thing that Eren heard when he trotted into the hallway, that of which sounded dulcet and intriguingly accentuated, but more annoyed than anything else. He turns the corner and is met with the sight of a bastard that looked too smug for his own good, and a girl, such a pretty girl, whose melanated skin even found a way to gleam under the shitty fluorescent school lights.

It then clicks in Eren’s mind, briefly but distinctively. You were the person who'd strolled by the bench that he was sitting on earlier. You were also the same one who did a double take upon seeing him, glancing once— No, twice, with those captivating eyes of yours. He remembered the way his leg started to bop along the floor with a newfound excitement that he just couldn't place. Though, more than anything else, Eren recalled that he did the exact same; hold his gaze and grin at the sight of you.

“Ah, but you can spare me a minute more, can’t you?” You respond with the swift roll of your eyes, eliciting an exasperated groan, “Nigga, I said bye.” Eren’s thick, neat brows falter into a furrowed position, looking upon the scenario that was being splayed out before him, which everyone else in that hall was seemingly content with ignoring. It couldn't have only been him that saw that this bastard was relentlessly bothering you, could it?

“Woah, no need to get aggressive,” Eren’s expression contorts into a grimace upon hearing every little word, the tips of his ears red with brewing rage. Despite his matured will to control his daily outburst of emotions, it was safe to say that he'd never exactly gotten past his trial of anger issues since he was a kid.

“Listen, this is my nice way of tellin’ you to fuck off, but I can get aggressive if you want.” Your offer sounds downright threatening, “Do you really want that?”

You’re snappy and direct, and Eren can't deny that he likes that. Though, as much as he's growing fond of your strong will and defensiveness, he knows he can't stand idly by all day, he just can't. Besides, everyone knew well— It was practically Eren Jaeger’s forte to intervene.

The green eyed male eventually begins to make his way towards the scene in the form of subtle limps, being cautious of his ankle sprain as he grows closer, which was the reasoning behind him being benched in the first place.

You were much too preoccupied with that cheeky, unrelenting bastard to notice the way that Eren was gradually coming over, anyway. What could he say? He was a fan of the element of surprise.

You halt in the middle of your opposing rant, growing aware of another’s emerging presence. You're yet again bombarded with somebody else making their way beside you with an act of stealth that you were unknowingly soon to be thankful of.

Before you get the chance to merely peer in their direction, tall, a long haired male clad in the black and grey Stohess basketball uniform is towering alongside you, his toned, burly arm slinking around your shoulder.

This sudden proximity leaves your head spinning in the best way possible, and how could it not? You don’t know a single thing about this alluring stranger, but he’s close, so close, and it gets your heart and mind racing miles in a minute. You were subtly, but instantly enraptured once the weight of his arm rests comfortably upon you.

Eren doesn’t pay the confused male not one glance, but instead tends to you and your own state of delighted shock. “Play it cool, alright? I wanna help.” Your breath instinctively hitches once he leans down to ease out his whispered plan into your ear, flashing you a consoling half smile.

You return a brief nod before dragging your eyes along the male’s face, which looks so much better up close. Your interpretation of his image was more literal and precise than you thought to be; The dark, long tresses that had been pulled back with the aid of a thin elastic scrunchie, his expressively thick brows, pink lips that upturned into a supportive smirk, and those sea-green eyes that left you feeling weak right in the knees.

Albeit Eren’s prior grin, he eventually turns his attention towards the unrelenting man for a second or two. In that moment, his expression speedily grew all the more intense, practically sharper than before, and contorted into something of a scowl. Although, you can tell he’s trying so hard to channel his temper and mask away his revulsion.

“I’ve been, ah.. waiting for you to come back to your seat!” Eren begins to improvise, flashing you a subtle gleam that made it seem as though the pair of you were familiar with each other. “S’been a while since then."

He purses his lips within a pause, nimble fingers draping along your shoulder before shooting you a reassuring squeeze, "Is it ‘cause this bastard is keeping you occupied? He’s bothering you, isn't he?”

You're damn near close to stammering over the words that were bound to leave your mouth. Though, it doesn't take much for you to regain yourself. Your lips fall slightly agape all the while you briskly dragged your line of vision along his charming features, but your response follows after in a quick manner. It was just that you couldn't help how his unnerving gaze left you mesmerized.

“—Yes. Yes he is.” You hum, accompanying the claim with your hands crossing over your chest as you leaned into his grasp, in an attempt to appear convincing. Your confession sounded assured and stern, which was the complete opposite of how girls would act around him.

Eren knew well of the doting effect that he had on females— It was hard to forget when he’d merely ask for a spare pencil and wind up with an unasked phone number in return. Though, he admired the way you saw him as any other person and played along so well.

The brown-haired male scornfully laughs, and just the sound of him leaves you feeling uncomfy, “Whaddya' mean? We were just having a small chat, isn't that right?” Your contorted expression is full-fledged disrespectful, and Eren has to stifle his chuckle over your unsmiling glare and scrunched up nose. Damn, were you entertaining.

“Small chat, huh? Well, it was real one sided..” You voice out an irked murmur, “You're over exaggerating, you just haven’t warmed up to me yet—”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Eren makes a very much intended interruption, “I’d say that she doesn’t want to mingle with a sorry bastard that should leave her alone already.” You note at the subtle flex of Eren’s clenching jaw, signifying the way his already weary patience was running rather thin.

“Bastard—? Wait, who even are you?”

“Who am I, huh?” scoffs the green eyed male alongside you, a twinge of drawled hesitance in his voice. Eren pauses momentarily, only now beginning to realize that his little hero act wasn’t as planned out as he thought to be.

What could he say that would be persuasive enough to get this sorry fucker to leave you alone other than throwing fists unnecessarily? Jaeger’s emerald-hued eyes eventually light up in the dawn of an idea. One that he’s somewhat unsure of, but it’s much better than nothing.

Besides, this plan of his had been set in stone by the very moment he had draped his bare arm around you and shot you that all-too-suggestive smile, so he might as well finish what he started.

Eren’s touch trails downwards swiftly, spreading riveting tingles from your shoulder down to your forearm, then along your wrist, and even past there. His hand is now encasing the left side of your hip as his lithe fingers press into the curve of your supple waist. He takes a light inhale, giving you a light squeeze with his large palm, as though signaling for you to brace yourself over what he was bound to say.

“—I'm her boyfriend.”

—𝑭𝑰𝑵.

276 notes · View notes

levenxa · 1 year ago

Note

I'm confused- you said the NM sees hail as a enemy but then also there's a post saying that hail gets invited to the castle and has secret meetings with dream and stuff soooo what's going on there 🤨

Also love ur character designs sm!!!!!!

Sorrryyy,,, some of the lore changed last minute when I was doing Moritz’s information! :,)

Null may dislike Hail, but Moritz is completely neutral about Hail’s existence. He finds the entire ‘battle’ between them entertaining. They don’t meet up unless they’re in battle, or come across each other in public!

#dreamswap #ds: the disarray #dstd au #disarray! null (nightmare)#disarray! moritz (dream)#disarray! hail (blue)#lev answers

8 notes · View notes

skyfcx · 3 years ago

Text

Yet again was another long-distance plane ride spawned by the ever-alluring concept of curiosity. For the fox had only once before found himself out as far as Casino Park Zone, and that was for a semi-quick jaunt through bingo boards big enough to house an entire city on the way to stop Eggman’s three-day plot to conquer the world. This visit, though? It stood to be similar yet different in so many ways.

Over the arid desert of Sand Shower Zone and the rough-hewn homesteads of Mirage Saloon rested New Oasis City. And while suspiciously Eggman-coded activity within the third-most location had hit the ears of Tails, it seemed like the entirety of the region was beginning to fall to some dubious dealings with the doctor. Thus, it was time to call in the cavalry, as it were! Or... allow the cavalry to come on in and see if they were worth calling in the first place, really... No expressed distress signals had been picked up this time, but scene-scoping was to take place before figuring out just where the Eggman’s influences had been inlaid.

Although... there were a distinct lack of signals in general around here. Sky-blue eyes looked over the side of the Tornado, spotting... well, nothing. Sandstorms as far as sights could see for the time being, both vision and radars jammed with nothing but superheated sand. There was nothing dangerous enough on the surface to worry the sky-flung kit, but it did bring a decent sense of comfort to, at the very least, know where he was going.

Or... such would be what the fox would have loved to had said before an air-pierced rending of metal hadn’t made him jump half from his skin. It made ears ring before the unseen shot even made connection. So when the projectile proper had a puncture in the Tornado’s fuselage... Wh what?! What in Gaia’s name was that!? Though aggressive fire was far from something the kit was unfamiliar with, the armor-piercing kind had some fair rates of rarity when going on what was considered a casual fly through the sky! If he knew there would be offensive fire, he would’ve brought the Tornado 2!

“ Augh!!” A voice can’t help but shout as head ducks deeper into the cockpit, a fresh volley of shots made a smattering of connections with the biplane’s body! He... he can’t see where they’re coming from! Eyes dart about his downed mapping systems, ears listen in for the cacophony of clattering machinery sinking into disfunction and disarray with each hail of electroplasmic ammunition that found purchase. He couldn’t dodge! Evasive maneuvers were akin to swinging a rubber chicken around by its neck! No all he could do is hit the thrusters and hope nothing else hits him! He had to get out of here! He’s still flying blind!

The throttle is throttled, engines sputter as a boost in speed taps into a leaking fuel system, a--

A catastrophic shot rips all functions from the fox in an instant as an engine goes dead, turning the Tornado into a metallic husk drifting with nothing but half-functioning rudders allowing the careening aircraft to make like Knuckles and glide for dear life!

“C’mon... c’mon! This i-isn’t our f-first rodeo, a-and it won’t.. be... our last!” Pilot goggles are fastened even tighter over the face as the brunt of a skyward-bound sandstorm was forced to be taken on the chin, passing through its mid-air mass and breaking through the below-ground skyline. Engines roared, anyone who was anyone taking a front-row seat to the spectacle that was the Tornado skimming the blasted sand and skipping across the desert like a rock across a pond!

There! Close enough! Speed was blistering, but they were level with the ground! Nicole’s handheld device was scooped in one hand, a deactivated T-Pup was hoisted under the arm of the off-hand, and shoes kicked from the cockpit with one final push! From there, namesakes acted as a makeshift parachute as flight engage, twin-tailed turbines fighting against the egregious amount of momentum gained during the fall.

A yellow missile then curls into a ball and rolls its furred way across the dunes, his ruckus ride finally stopping hard behind the protective cover of a rocky cliffside. Sights, they stayed clamped shut. Namesakes, they bristled to countless uneven points and waved anxiously, brain needing a moment to truly process just what in the world had happened.

And once eyes opened, two salvaged items clutched to either side of the young fox, breaths heavy and heaving, head thrown back in a daze... They glanced up to an unfamiliar face, tall-standing ears pressed down and back against the head. A rabbit? A cybernetic rabbit? Partial enhancements... Huh.

“...You’re not gonna shoot at me too, are you? Because I don’t know if you heard the plane crash, but my day’s very suddenly not goin’ too great, and I could really do without anymore added stress.”

@nobettcr

#(IC.) ''Just call me Tails!''#nobettcr #;long post

5 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 5 years ago

Text

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 12: The Mirror]

A/N: Hi y’all!! Please enjoy, this is a long one. We’re getting into the exciting stuff now, so I’ll be putting all my creative energy into BYCNL and will hopefully finish up the series within the next month. Thank you so much for your love and support! Each and every reblog/message/comment makes me smile and means the absolute world to me! 💜

Chapter summary: John gets a rap sheet, Roger gets defensive, Y/N gets suspicious, News Of The World gets a headline.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, drugs, babies, drama, angst.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @killer-queen-xo @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

You’re not late. You’re never late.

And at first that’s okay, it’s more than okay, it’s a relief; because it was too soon to have a baby anyway, less than a year into a supposedly meaningless marriage, a marriage you and Roger never even speak of, a marriage that might have never happened at all—might only exist as a particularly vivid and pleasant dream—if it wasn’t for your freshly-minted British citizenship. At first you greeted each dark, fruitless stain of blood with a casual ruefulness—oh well, one more month of freedom, you would think, smiling a little, worrying not very much at all—content to let that milestone trophy of womanhood, of life, lay undusted and unclaimed in the cluttered pit of your mental oak trunk with a tarnished gold latch shaped like a lion’s jaw.

After four months, you start to notice things. You notice the way Chrissie’s twins have small willow-green eyes that turn down in the corners, just like Brian does; you notice how John’s children have his downy hair and that innate sort of reticence that some people mistake for banality; you notice all those pretty, anonymous young women pushing strollers through the blossoming summer foliage of Hyde Park. You notice the way Roger grins and waves at babies when you see them in airports or hotel lobbies, dazzles them like he dazzles very nearly everybody, like he still dazzles you. You notice a longing buried in your bones that you hadn’t known existed.

After six months, you are no longer casually rueful. You start ignoring the calendar, as if not noticing you’re due could stop the bleeding from coming at all, like how you’re not supposed to stare at the clock if you want time to pass faster. You start watching what you’re eating, trying to get more sleep, opening all the windows when Roger smokes as he flips through fashion and music magazines with crafty little snickers, flashing those pointy canine teeth you once assumed your children would have.

And now, after nine months—as the world hurtles towards the conclusion of the brisk October of 1977—you have begun to worry; because maybe this thing, this thing that everyone accepts as a guaranteed feature of the all-inclusive package of the human experience, isn’t something you get to have at all. Roger doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask you about it. He is as he always is: sunlight and joy and heat and raw kinetic energy. But sometimes Roger’s huge blue eyes—those eyes you fell in love with, those eyes that convinced you to follow Queen to London, to stardom, to thunderous stadiums all over the world—go vacant as he gazes out into the horizon, as the sun sets over the garden of the Surrey house, as his face is lit up in gold and amber and celestial fury like the wildfire his soul is made of.

And you’ve begun to worry about him, too.

~~~~~~~~~~

The phone rings from the nightstand. The shrill clanging, like hail on glass, makes you wince beneath the tangle of blankets. Your hand fumbles out into cool night air, which pours in from the open bedroom window.

Where’s Roger?

Then you remember his hushed voice, his bleached hair tickling your cheek, his lips pressed to your temple: Hey baby. I gotta go jam with some people. Grab a drink or two. You sleep, I’ll be back by morning.

Sure, okay, fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. One of those infinite casualties of fame.

You haul the phone to your ear. “Hello...?”

“Hello darling, are you busy?”

“Well, it’s 2:39 a.m., Fred. So not very.”

“Perfect. I need you to go post bail for John.”

You wrench yourself upright, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. “What?!”

“He was drunk driving and backed into a cop car, pure genius. I’m rather indisposed myself at the moment, and of course Veronica can’t know. And you’re so good with him, dear.”

Your feet have already swung off the bed and onto the plush white carpet. You wonder what Freddie is ‘indisposed’ with; there are so many possibilities these days. “And you know about this...because...?”

“He used his phone call on me, darling. I don’t think he wanted to bother you. I suspect he’s a bit mortified.”

“Yeah, well, he should be.” You sigh and start pawing through the safe in the bedroom closet, the spiraled phone cord pulled taunt. Hundred-pound notes shuffle weightlessly between your fingers. You remember when Queen had no money at all, when you and Roger shared a pitiful—dodgy, you amend—one-bedroom flat, when you had to assemble each bouquet and tie each ribbon for John’s wedding by hand; and you’re shocked by the nostalgia that hits you in the gut like brass knuckles. “Sure, I’ll go get him. Just tell me where he is and how much he’ll owe me.”

John is slumped on the floor of the jail cell, alone and sweated and miserable. His hair is in complete disarray. He peers up at you through the iron bars with red, swollen, unfocused eyes.

“Hey,” you say quietly, smiling although you know you shouldn’t be.

He covers his face with both hands and moans. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Too late. Freddie asked me to come get you, he was drunk or high or in the middle of an orgy or something. You are the worst drunk driver in the world, just so you’re aware. You are obviously not cut out for a life of crime.”

“So I’ve gathered.” He swipes at the strands of hair stuck to his forehead with the back of his hand, bites his lower lip, shakes his head with that thousand-yard stare that says: How the fuck did I get here?

You drop down to your knees to meet him at his level. The concrete floor is filthy, spotted with grime and dust and crushed insects and smears of what might be blood. “What’s going on, John?” you ask gently.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he murmurs. “It’s okay when we’re on tour. When we’re on tour I’m preoccupied and exhausted and too high on the rush to think about it too much. I’m numb. Mostly. But then I come home and it’s...” He glowers, balls his hands into fists, beats them clumsily against his thighs. “It’s this relentless fucking cycle of feeling dissatisfied and guilty and inadequate. A disappointment of a husband. A failure of a father. And it’s inescapable.”

“Well, the constant pregnancy situation probably doesn’t help.” Veronica is expecting their third child in February.

He waves a hand dismissively, rolls his eyes. “It’s part of the thing. The ‘being a good husband’ thing. I can’t fix that. Birth control is a sin or whatever. Jesus is too busy pissing himself over that to care about starving kids in the Soviet Union, I guess.”

“That’s a cheerful prospect.”

“Sorry.”

“No, please, by all means. Throw off all your baggage, I can take it.”

Now he smirks, just faintly. “That’s what we’ve always done for each other, right?”

“We’ll be back on tour in a few weeks, John.” And that was true; the News Of The World Tour was scheduled to begin on November 11th in Portland, Maine. The band would spend the 12th in Boston and join your parents for dinner at the Queen Anne-style house at the intersection of Apple and Arcadia that you grew up in.

He whispers forlornly: “I can’t run from this forever.”

“You might have to. I’d love to know what Slavic Jesus has to say about divorce.”

John coughs out a surprised laugh. “Thank you. I needed that.”

“Come on. I posted your bail. I won’t tell Roger if you won’t. You can put the extra five thousand pounds in your ‘fake my own death and go live on a tropical island’ fund instead of paying us back.” You’re not serious, and John knows that; he would never abandon his children, even if they weren’t old enough to really remember him yet. But it has the desired effect, which of course is lifting the mood, making John divulge that rare and beautiful smile.

“I’m a wreck. I can’t go home like this. It’d be worse than not coming home at all.”

“I’m happy to offer you one of our five superfluous bedrooms.”

“Okay,” John sighs, clutching the bars of his jail cell and dragging himself to his feet. “I’m so sorry. I owe you for this, I really do.”

“No,” you reply, grinning. “Just find a way to send me the coordinates so I can visit you on your secret tropical island once in a while.”

You drive John home to the Surrey house, get him set up in the spare bedroom with the blue-grey wallpaper and blankets patterned with seahorses, give him a stack of Roger’s clean clothes, lay out fresh towels and a tray of water and cookies—biscuits, you reprimand yourself—for him. He’s mostly sober now, which makes you feel somewhat better; still, you are aware that you hate the thought of leaving him alone, even if he’s only a few walls away.

“Thank you,” he says as you stand in the doorway, his face meditative, his hands in the pockets of his leather coat.

“Of course.”

“You’re a good friend. The best, actually.”

“You’re a good man. You don’t always know it, but you are.”

John just stares at you with an expression you can’t read. Like the ocean: always mysterious, always profound. “Goodnight,” he says after a while.

“Goodnight, John.”

As you pull the bedroom door shut, you hear erratic thumps coming up the staircase. Roger stumbles into the upstairs hallway, singing under his breath and drumming the air with invisible drumsticks, and holds out his arms when he sees you. He’s wearing his dark green suit, an unraveling tie, one sparkling pink Converse, his prescription sunglasses tangled in his hair and forgotten. His eyes are effervescent, flighty, almost manic.

“Hey, love of my life!” he cries, comically loud. “What are you doing up?!”

“Shhhhh! Your bassist partied a little too hard and needed a place to crash that wasn’t overrun with kids. He’s in the blue room.”

“Deaks? Deaks is sleeping over?!” Roger exclaims, beaming. “All my favorite people are here!”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t bother him. He’s pretty messed up, he needs the rest. I’ll make everyone pancakes in the morning or something. Come over here, let’s get you—” But the words die in your throat as you try to tug off Roger’s suit jacket. Fine white powder sheds off the emerald velvet fabric and onto your palm. You blink at it, at the residue like crushed aspirin, like the salt they scatter on Boston roads the night before a snowfall. “What is this?”

He rips his sleeve away, conjures up a smile to throw you off the trail. To dazzle his way out of this. “Nothing.” But he knows. And he knows you know too.

“You were...snorting coke...?”

“Come on, baby, don’t be like that...” He tries to embrace you; you shove him back.

“Roger, no, this is...this is...” You shake your head, shrugging off the shock, searching for the words. You’re confused, you’re exhausted, your mind is whirling. “We’re home, Roger,” you plead, like it means something.

Has he done this before? When? How often? With who?

You should know the answers. It’s not a good sign that you don’t.

“So?” Now he’s indignant.

“So it’s not like being on tour, you’re supposed to take it easy at home, you’re supposed to be, I don’t know, relaxed and recovering and, and, and content...”

You’re not supposed to have an excuse to do all those things that destroy people.

He laughs bitterly. “What, ‘happy at home’?! When has that ever been me?”

“Rog, please, I’m not saying you can’t work all the time or drink or smoke, I’m not even saying you can’t get wasted, I’m just drawing the line at cocaine and I don’t think that’s a terribly despotic place to draw a line.”

“Oh I’m sorry, I must have missed it, when did you become too moralistic for drugs?”

“Acid is different than coke and you know it. Acid doesn’t kill people.”

He glares at you, savage, almost hateful. “You don’t get to put me in a cage.”

“I’m not being controlling or self-righteous, I’m being concerned—”

“You’re being a fucking cop, that’s what you’re being,” Roger snaps.

“What do you want me to say?! I’m a registered nurse, Roger, I’m a medical professional, it’s literally my job to keep you alive—”

“No, it’s your job to make sure we can record and tour and I need it, I can’t play without it, don’t you get that?! I fucking need it!”

Instantly, John is between you, still fully dressed and sweating Manhattans out of his pores and seething. He’s taller than Roger; surely you must have noticed that before. But if you had, you’ve since forgotten. “Roger,” he threatens in a low, unyielding voice. “Go to bed.”

Roger recoils, disoriented, then opens his mouth to protest.

“Go!” John roars, pointing towards the main bedroom. He wants to say more, you can tell, he has rage burning in him like dragonfire; and if it had been Brian or even Freddie, John would have said it. But this is Roger. And you can’t remember a time John has ever raised his voice to Roger before now.

Roger can’t wrap his brain around it either, particularly in his present condition. His eyelids flutter a few times, then he scoffs—a dismissive, derisive sound, a sound that says I don’t know what to do with this information—and staggers away. He slams the bedroom door behind him as he disappears inside.

You collapse against the nearest wall and hiss in ragged breaths through your teeth, your eyes wet and stinging, your hands trembling as you press your knuckles to your lips.

“I-I-I’m so sorry about that,” you whisper, avoiding John’s eyes.

He’s going to say something, something harsh and terrible but true. He’s finally going to tell me how stupid I was for ever thinking this could work, just like Chrissie and Freddie and Brian. He’s going to tell me I deserve it.

Instead, John offers only this, his words flat and hollow: ��Yeah. I’m sorry everyone is disappointing you tonight.”

And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning—early afternoon, really—Roger doesn’t remember; or at least he feigns convincingly that he doesn’t. He props his feet up on the kitchen table and shovels down six pancakes and theatrically relays to you all the scandalous celebrity gossip in the News Of The World magazine with his prescription sunglasses perched bookishly on his nose. He asks you three times if you’re alright, trying to read the hesitance in your eyes, to unearth all those questions that are taking up a permanent residence there. You smile and nod, sip your tea, watch the sharp autumn sunshine as it streams in through the windows and bathes Roger in luminescence that seems so benignly interminable in the light of day. And when you peer into the bedroom with seahorse-patterned blankets and walls the color of cold rain, John has vanished; but the air is heavy with the scent of a litany of cigarettes and there’s a handwritten note left on one pillow.

Thanks for everything. Hang tough, as the Yanks say. An island getaway awaits you.

~ World’s Worst Drunk Driver

At 3 p.m., John calls and asks if the Taylors would be interested in an outing to the park while he gives Veronica a few hours alone to catch up on housework without the kids. His tone is light, casual, harmless; but you suspect he’s checking in on you.

“Of course we’re interested!” Roger says, snatching his ostentatious fur coat off the back of his chair. “Baby, love of my life, go get some cash from the safe so we can buy the kids ice cream.”

Incidentally, there’s not much cash left in the safe; but you find a ten-pound note in your wallet for the ice cream man and make a mental note to run to the bank on Monday.

Hyde Park in October isn’t so different than Boston. The leaves above are a kaleidoscope of sunstone and rubies and jasper and jade, crisping and curling around their serrated edges, drifting listlessly onto pavement paths to be crushed beneath rushing feet; the roots of the trees are centuries deep. Chrissie is walking laps around the pond as she pushes the twins’ stroller; Evelyn is a fairly good sleeper, but Theodore—Teddy to his closest confidants, of which you are one—is an anxious baby and prone to whining. He’s definitely Brian’s son, you often find yourself thinking with an affectionate smirk. John’s ten-month-old daughter Anna is nestled in your arms in a semi-conscious state, having thoroughly exhausted herself by painting her face with chocolate ice cream and thereafter enduring an impromptu bath and wardrobe change in a public restroom.

Laszlo, two years old and with a mop of auburn curls, trots by the edge of the pond as Roger grips his tiny hand, periodically crouches down beside him, grins hugely and points out swans and fish darting through the dark rippling water. Laszlo shrieks with laughter and tries to steal Roger’s sunglasses, which glint in the sunlight like black mirrors.

“So your kid’s a convict too,” you say to John.

“Gotta train them when they’re still small and good for shimmying through dog doors and such.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Extremely hungover, but I’m trying not to show it.”

“You’re doing a good job, I wouldn’t have known.”

“Excellent. I don’t think Veronica noticed. She was very curious about how I ended up in a pair of Roger’s skintight leopard-print pants, though.”

You chuckle, glimpsing down at Anna, rocking her a little as her eyes flitter open and then close again. You and John are on opposite ends of a wooden park bench, your ankles crossed and resting in his lap, your hair rustling in the breeze. John peers over at you periodically, studies you like an ancient statue of Aphrodite or Perseus under a spotlight in an echoing museum, then resumes his sketching. Your smile dies as you watch Roger giggle with Laszlo, lift him high into the cool autumn air, trumpet mock airplane noises in that high, raspy voice.

“Come on,” John prompts, nudging your boots. “I’ll take the baggage if you’ll let me.”

No, I think I’ll keep this one to myself. But you don’t. “It’s my fault,” you say softly. It’s my fault we can’t have children.

John lifts his pencil from the page, his greyish eyes gentle. “You don’t know that.”

“Statistically, it is most likely my fault.”

“It hasn’t been that long, has it? Definitely less than a year. Sometimes these things take time.”

“They didn’t for you and Veronica.”

“Yes, well...” John frowns uneasily. “That’s not always such a blessing.”

“How helpful. You should write newspaper columns for depressed housewives. ‘Don’t worry about that infertility dear, you could have it worse, you could have a life sentence with someone you can’t fucking stand.’”

That was unkind, you think, immediately regretting it. That might have been too far.

But John doesn’t seem offended. His pencil flies over the paper as he glances over at you again. “Is that all? Please continue. I’m riveted to learn more about my alternative career path.”

“No, I think I’m done.”

“Okay. What’s your favorite flower?”

You consider that. “Roger always gets me carnations or roses...and I like them, don’t get me wrong...but I don’t know if I’d call either of those my favorite.”

“It’s not that deep a question, Miss Nightingale.”

“I’ll defer to the artist’s expertise. Surprise me.”

“I’m no artist,” John warns, but he returns to his sketching nonetheless. “I’m really sorry about last night, by the way. I was being stupid and dramatic and immature and self-pitying. ‘Midway on our life's journey, I found myself in dark woods, the right road lost,’ etcetera etcetera.”

You’re no great connoisseur of Italian literature, but you recognize those famous opening lines of the Inferno. “Can I ask you something?”

“Please do.”

“What is this fascination you have with Dante?”

“Truly?”

“Yeah.”

He smiles pensively with his eyes cast out over the pond. “I like that his story has a happy ending. That someone can start in hell and sweat out all their sins in purgatory and end up among the stars.”

You raise your eyebrows, taken back, impressed. “That’s awfully poetic.”

“It’s strange, probably,” John says, scrutinizing his drawing.

“No, really. I love it.”

“Yeah?” He’s doubtful, but he’ll allow himself to believe you if you insist.

“Yeah. And no more drunk driving or other acts of self-destruction, okay? Queen would crumble without you, John. And so would I.”

In reply, he rips the page out of his notebook and hands it over. The image is of you: so infinitely more lovely and at peace than you feel, eyes wise and contented and reflecting halos of sunlight, John’s daughter dozing in your arms.

Tucked behind your ear, etched in graphite shadows, is a calla lily.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Darling, what do I look like?” Freddie bats his eyelashes flirtatiously.

“A raccoon.”

His face screws into a grimace. “I’m supposed to be a cat.”

“Yes, I’m cognizant of that. But you look like a raccoon. Which is why people keep assuming you’re a raccoon, which is why you’re asking me now if you look like one.”

“Bloody hell,” he groans, puffs on a cigarette, fluffs his hair irritably, slurps a drink that is fizzy and sapphire blue.

“The problem is that you went with black and white. You should have dressed as a calico or something. Or a grey cat, oh, I love the chubby grey ones!”

“I’m a musician, darling, not a fucking zoologist.” He exhales a ring of smoke and meanders away.

Queen, the band’s associates, and various music industry figures are all milling around the night-draped mansion. It’s half a Halloween celebration and half a launch party for News Of The World, an album named for the tabloid that Roger both loathes and yet refuses to stop having delivered to the Surrey house. He can’t stand the thought of not being clued into the latest gossip, trends, fashion, awards, of missing any piece of what stardom has to offer. In the spirit of Halloween, Roger is dressed as a tiger, his sleeveless sequined shirt striped with orange and black. You are a veterinarian (not so far a cry from a nurse that you can’t repurpose your old uniform), John a shark (he’s taped a cardboard triangle to his back like a fin), Veronica a sea turtle in a teal dress and with a shell painted over her sizable baby bump, Brian and Chrissie both bright green aliens with antennae bobbing from their headbands. Mary is here as well—outfitted (quite appropriately) like an Enlightenment-era queen—but so is Freddie’s new boyfriend, a shy man named Anthony who is young and handsome and compliant and dressed as a mouse. Mary beams dutifully whenever Freddie is speaking to her, but her expression clouds over when he turns away. She no longer has a gold ring gleaming on her wedding finger, although she did gain an athletic blond date whom she seems largely indifferent to.

As Roger wanders through the crowd shaking hands and howling at jokes, you sip champagne by the snack table and devour an obscene amount of crab puffs. John and Veronica are chatting—unenthusiastically, from what you can tell—nearby with lamb kabobs in their grasps. John passes you a smirk every once in a while, an I’m so over this party and I know you are too smirk of commiseration, and nurses a Manhattan. Chrissie nibbles on disks of cucumber and baby carrots and not much else, which is very unlike her.

“You alright?” you ask worriedly. “You aren’t sick, are you? These crab puff things are incredible, I can’t stop eating them. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve had three dinners so far tonight, I’ve become a monster.”

Chrissie’s lips are a tight, humorless line. “I’m perfectly healthy, I’m just a cow.”

“Chris, honey, don’t!” You pat her shoulder reassuringly with one hand, pop another crab puff into your mouth with the other. “You’re gorgeous, and most women’s bodies change once they have babies, it’s natural!”

“Yeah, well most women aren’t married to men with infinite opportunities to upgrade.”

“Chrissie, no,” you murmur, pained; but you aren’t sure what else to say. She’s not wrong. I wish she was, but she isn’t. And she already knows that.

Dreams by Fleetwood Mac is playing from the reverberating stereo, Stevie Nicks’ sensuous, nasally voice climbing through air choked with strangers and cigarette smoke.

“Now here you go again

You say you want your freedom

Well, who am I to keep you down?”

Brian bids farewell to some record company executive he was talking to across the room and slips out onto the back porch of the house, and after a moment Chrissie follows him. You resist the temptation to eavesdrop until you can clearly hear their voices, raised and combative, through the sliding glass door. You glance to John, apprehensive.

You better go out there, he mouths, and so you do.

“Thunder only happens when it's rainin'

Players only love you when they're playin'

Say women, they will come and they will go

When the rain washes you clean, you'll know...”

Under cold October stars, Chrissie has trapped her horrified-looking husband, backed him into a fountain of a dolphin spewing an endless stream of water from its snout. “Did you think I wouldn’t listen to your own fucking album, Brian?!” She shrieks. “Who is she, huh? Who the fuck is she?!”

You grip her arm and try to lead her away. “Chrissie, babe, not here—”

“It’s Late, Brian? Yeah, it’s real fucking late in your life to still be chasing whores over in America while I’m building your family here, isn’t it?!”

“Love, please, it’s not true,” Brian attempts anemically, reaching for her.

“It is!” Chrissie rages. “It is and it always has been and I was too busy being some blind stupid idiot who loved you to see it!”

She breaks down in tears and you shove Brian away, shoo him back inside. You pitch him a fierce glare as he leaves, retreating like a kicked dog. There’s nothing you can do to fix this, you coward. Because everything she’s saying is true. Chrissie clings to you like a life raft, sobbing into your shoulder, asking what she did wrong.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her, over and over again; because that’s all there is to say.

Eventually Chrissie quiets, goes still and resigned and numb, and you help her fix her makeup and lead her back inside. You stand with her beside the snack table and swear not to leave her side until the party’s over, until the men are done celebrating yet another triumph that will take them further and further from home. Brian is nowhere to be found.

“That goddamn broodmare,” Chrissie hisses, gulping straight vodka, staring venomously at Veronica.

“Why do you hate her so much? I mean she can be dull, yeah. She’s sanctimonious and naïve and dresses like a freaking Mennonite. But she’s not horrible or anything.” And her life isn’t so perfect either.

“It’s not obvious?” Chrissie asks, her voice like a blade.

“No...?”

Chrissie’s eyes are scorching, although you’re not the person she’s furious with. You just happen to be standing in the path of the storm. “Because she’s the only one of us who’s never going to have to find out what this feels like.”

Oh, I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all.

You try to spot Roger in the teeming room. He’s over by a crackling fireplace, telling stories with dramatic sweeps of his hands, bleeding charisma like sweat, and none of that is unusual at all. One of the people he’s talking to is Dominique Beyrand, and that’s not so unusual either; Richard Branson ends up at a lot of industry events, and Dom trails him around like a shadow, nodding politely and contributing little chirps of conversation in that posh French accent.

But here’s the strange part; here’s the part you’ve never seen before.

When Roger flashes that dazzling smile of his, Dominique smiles back.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later, you’re steeping in a sweltering bubble bath as the phone rings downstairs. You ignore it at first, because the hot water is unraveling all the tension in your muscles and the lurking shadows in your mind, and also because the calendar is hanging right beside the phone in the kitchen and you’re quite committed to ignoring it this morning. But the phone rings again, and again, and you’re aware that it could be something serious; Roger is working on some non-Queen collaboration at a studio in downtown London, and something could have happened to him.

Especially considering his recreational preferences lately.

You scramble out of the tub, pull on a robe that sticks uncomfortably to your dripping skin, leave a path of bathwater footprints down the hallway and steps—slipping twice and clinging to the banister for dear life—before finally careening into the kitchen to snatch the phone off the wall.

“Hello?” you gasp, winded.

It’s not Roger, nor someone calling to inform you that Roger has overdosed or disappeared or vaulted down a staircase or been hit by a bus. It’s Chrissie.

“Have you seen the News Of The World yet?” she demands.

“Ummm, the album...?” Of course I’ve listened to the album. About a million times. You have a particular affinity for Spread Your Wings.

“No, not the album,” she snaps impatiently, although she kindly leaves out the you idiot addition that her tone implicates. “The magazine. Have you seen it today?”

“I was mid-bubble bath and almost broke my neck sprinting for the phone. So no.”

“Good. Don’t read a word. Don’t talk to anyone. I’m coming over. I’m gonna grab John and come right over.”

“Chris, what—?”

“Do not touch that fucking magazine!” she screams, and hangs up.

Naturally, you don’t listen.

You go to the main door of the Surrey mansion and open it. Sure enough, the new issue of News Of The World is waiting on the porch for you. You pluck it up with damp hands; the whirlpools of your fingerprints stick to the parchment.

On the front page is a photo of Roger, but he’s not alone. He’s scowling at the paparazzo snapping the picture, his face lit up by the flash, painfully and unmistakably stunning. He’s in some sort of alley or side entrance to a restaurant or club. He’s somewhere he’s trying not to be seen, which anyone could tell you is remarkable for Roger Taylor. Beside him is a woman you recognize; and although she’s looking down and trying to hide behind her shock of lustrous black hair, you can see her lips are smiling.

The headline reads: “Queen Drummer Spends Royally on London Love Nest for French Mistress.”

95 notes · View notes

desdemonafictional · 5 years ago

Text

Guess WHAT I’m doing hxh fic again, we’ll see if it goes anywhere, but here’s a bit of action/adventure

Gon had left his home island in the eastern sea and arrived on the mainland just in time to catch a ride on a caravan headed west, towards the capital of the Seaside Empire. The last letter his aunt had received from his father was marked with the seal of the Capital, sent almost twelve years before, and attached to a dagger that Mito had presented to Gon, reluctantly, on his birthday.

“So what did the letter say?” Kurapika had asked him, as they sat around the campfire that first night with the caravan.

“Well…” Gon had shrugged with some embarrassment. “It said I should take the dagger for an inheritance and not chase after him, since he’s as good as dead to me now that he left me behind for someone else to raise.”

Kurapika’s eyebrows went up. “And yet here you are, chasing after him.”

Gon wrinkled his nose. “I just don’t think it’s a very good trade! I’m going to find him, and give him the dagger back, and make him show me how to be a treasure hunter like he is. And then it’ll be fair.”

“Suppose he doesn’t want to teach you?” Kurapika asked.

“He will,” Gon said, with perfect confidence. “I’m his son! When he sees how serious I am, he’ll have to do it.”

On Kurapika’s right, Leorio was slumped back against a stump and examining the dagger in question, holding it up against the firelight. “Sure doesn’t seem like anything special,” he remarked. “Maybe it’s just some junk he picked up. Maybe he isn’t even a real treasure hunter.”

“He is!” Gon said. “Everyone says he was an amazing treasure hunter, even before he left! He killed a dragon when he was only fifteen years old! That’s amazing, isn’t it?”

Since that first night, on the coast, their caravan had come many days travel deeper into the mainland. The passed through the swamplands, through a great rushing river that had carried away a dozen less cautious of their fellow travelers , and was passing now through the Ruined Lands, a wilderness spotted at every turn with the wreckage of some ancient stone empire.

About a day’s journey into the Ruined Lands, the poplars and willows and birds gave way to a standing stone circle straight in the middle of their path.

“At this point,” the head of the caravan—a seasoned merchant from the north—announced to the group at large, “we’ll have to go around! It’s bad luck to travel through the circle, and the road ahead is rife with all kinds of danger. They say a dragon lives inside one of the burial mounds that way, and the last thing we want is to be noticed by a dragon.”

There was a ragged shout of boos from the crowd. With their many pack animals and unwieldy wooden cartwheels, none of the travelers relished the idea of lugging their possessions through the narrow foot trails and underbrush of the forest. While they were embroiled in argument with the head of the caravan, Gon and his friends hung back from the mess and surveyed the hill with the standing circle with some interest.

“I suppose the road must lead through it for a reason,” Kurapika said, considering the deeply worn ruts in the turf at his foot. “Maybe there was originally a pilgrimage that ran this way.”

“Pretty impressive it’s still standing,” Leorio said. “But I’m more interested in those burial mounds he mentioned. I wonder if they’ve already been looted, or if there’s still any treasure left in there.”

“Did you miss the part where he mentioned a dragon?” Kurapika asked dryly. “Or can’t you hear anything past the sound of cash registers?”

While Leorio scoffed, Gon scaled the side of a vardo wagon. From its curved wooden roof, he was able to see past the circle and into the countryside ahead, where the heather gave way to woods again.

There was sudden shouting and banging from the other side of the wagon, and Gon slid across the roof just in time to see a trio of travelers shove the caravan head down onto the turf.

“Listen here,” one of them said, while the other two bore down on the more experienced traveler, “we’ve got an appointment to make in the capital, and we’re not about to lose a day mucking around in the shrubs with all these donkeys and chicken coops. You’re gonna take us through the straightway, and you’re gonna do it now.”

Gon climbed to his feet. “Hey!” he shouted down. “Leave him alone, he’s just doing his job!”

In a moment, Kurapika and Leorio had rushed around the side of the vardo to see what the fuss was about. Leorio stiffened; Kurapika reached for his batons. Immediately a handful of random travelers reached for their own weapons, short swords and hooks and hammers, and closed ranks around the belligerent trio.

“Everyone, please,” the caravan head said, one elbow planted in the dirt. He lifted the other hand in a plea for peace. “A caravan should never quarrel within itself. We are all we have out here in this wilderness.”

The skinnier one of the trio planted his boot in the man’s back and ground down. “Fine by us, we don’t want a fight. We just wanna get going. You gonna do the smart thing, old man?”

There was a tightness in the air, as Leorio and Kurapika both drew themselves down into a coiled stance, ready to spring. The share of travelers who had sided with the trio, more than a third of the whole group, also tensed.

“Yes,” the headman said, at last, “fine, we will go on with the straightway. If that’s what the group wants, that’s what we’ll do. Let me up.”

The tension remained, as the trio let the headman up and the man brushed himself off. Gon jumped down between Kurapika and Leorio, who were putting away their own weapons with some reluctance.

“That isn’t right,” Gon said. “He’s the most experienced traveler, if he says the road is dangerous, we should be listening to him.”

“I agree,” Kurapika said. “All the same, there’s strength in numbers. I would be hesitant to break off from the caravan, even if I knew the way to the capital perfectly myself.”

“We’re at the mercy of the whole stupid mob of ‘em,” Leorio agreed, his eyes narrowing.

And it was on that grim note that they set off again, amongst the rolling coops and covered wagons, and passed beneath the wide stone lintel of the standing circle.

Kurapika, as he had eventually revealed, was on his way to the capital to become an enforcer; that was to say, a warrant officer, a hound of the empire. Leorio was traveling to find a doctor willing to teach him medicine, and hopefully apprentice himself to the craft. Neither could afford to delay their travel another season, even if the caravan they found themselves attached to was in conflict with their own principles.

In the woods deep beyond the standing circle, beneath the canopy of seasonless beeches, Gon paused mid-step and turned his head north.

“What?” Leorio said, bending down. “You hear something?”

“What could he possibly hear over this racket,” Kurapika murmured, as the coop of squawking chickens rolled along behind him.

Gon shook his head. “I smell…” He frowned. “I smell sweat. And old blood.”

Leorio and Kurapika met each other’s worried gazes at the same time. “Let’s get the headman,” Kurapika said, just as the first arrow flew out of the treeline and embedded itself in the post of the chicken coop.

In the same moment, the three of them grabbed hands and threw themselves through the gap in the train of wagons, taking shelter behind the wall of the next vardo as a hail of arrows punched into the whole north facing side of the wagon train.

“Bandits!” Kurapika shouted, his voice almost lost in the eruption of chaos.

“We need to get out of the open,” Leorio said. The checkered brocade of his carpet bag swung as he gestured to the southern treeline. “We’re sitting ducks out here.”

“The headman,” Gon said, suddenly. “We have to get him.”

“Gon, we don’t have—” Kurapika looked down just soon enough to realize Gon was no longer there, “—time. Oh.”

He looked at Leorio. Leorio let out a sharp breath and then straightened up. “Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t feel right leaving the guy either. He tried to warn us.”

“Yes,” Kurapika said, turning to the front end of the caravan. “Yes, I suppose so.”

The whooping, mounted shapes of bandits were pouring out of the woods—probably not more than a dozen, but in their staggered chaos they had the feeling of being an endless flood to the unprepared travelers. It was pandemonium as Gon and his friends raced to reach the headman; animals in disarray, humans shouting and scrambling for control of them. A mule tore free of his leadline and broke for the southern woods, scattering wax-wrapped packets across the ground as he went.

They found the headman slumped and clutching an arrow embedded in his upper arm, blood blooming through his blue wool sleeve. He looked up as Gon reached him, confusion and pain in a mixture across his features.

“Let us help you, sir,” Gon said, and braced the man so that he could get to his feet again.

“Do you know anything about these bandits?” Kurapika asked. “How they operate?”

“I don’t know this band,” the headman told them, his voice tight. “I don’t know if they kill travelers or leave them alive.”

“Well let’s not stick around to find out,” Leorio said, and tossed his carpetbag against his back.

Kurapika hooked the headman’s uninjured arm over his own shoulder and then they were off, darting across the ditch and over the shoulder of the road. There was a shout from somewhere behind them; a twang, and the dire whistle of fletching passing through air. Kurapika was caught with dread—what could he do but keep going, even with the weight of the headman dragging him down? They had rescued the man, it would be the height of dishonor to abandon him now.

The whistle broke suddenly into a gruesome thock as it hit human flesh, but it was neither Kurapika nor the headman who cried out. Leorio let out a pained grunt, from much closer behind Kurapika than he had been before.

They hit the treeline. Another arrow embedded itself in the trunk of a tree, and then they were safe among the old growth of the forest, beyond the reach of arrows. Kurapika could finally turn his head and see what had become of Leorio.

White faced, grimacing, Leorio was only a few steps behind. At first there was no sign of the arrow, but then it dawned on Kurapika that the shaft of the arrow had passed through the carpetbag over Leorio’s shoulder and buried itself in his shoulder blade.

“Oh,” Kurapika said. “You’re…”

Leorio’s grimace twisted into something echoing a smile. “Don’t sweat it,” he said. “It’s not that deep. Better me than you guys, anyway.”

“Leorio…” Kurapika said.

Gon appeared at his elbow, making a thoughtful circle around his back. “We need to get that loose. Normally it’s better to leave them in, but the shaft is pinning your bag to your back, and you won’t be able to let go of the handle or the weight will snap it.”

“We can’t do it out here,” Leorio retorted. “Who knows if they’ll send someone after us. We need shelter, somewhere defensible.”

Gon tapped his boot a couple times, and then he said, “I’ll scout ahead, I’m faster and uninjured. You guys just keep moving south, and I’ll find you again once I’ve found a place.”

“Very well,” Kurapika said. “Go on ahead. I’m sure with your experience you can find something suitable for all of us.”

“You sure?” Leorio said. “That just leaves the two of us.”

Kurapika smiled at him, just past the bend of the headman’s elbow. “I think we’ll do just fine together.”

Leorio went red. Kurapika started moving forward again, leaving him where he stood.

#leopika #Hunter X Hunter

17 notes · View notes

crusherthedoctor · 5 years ago

Text

When taking Lutrudis as a concept into account, it could be argued that the decision to have her live in a big, fairytale-like castle would be an unwise idea, maybe even counterintuitive, since a place so extravagant might undermine her intended loneliness and yearning for a more fulfilling life, adventure, and all that jazz before Sonic and company entered the picture. The last thing I’d want with Trudy would be to remind people of Chris “woe is me” Thorndyke and his rich kid mansion lifestyle. Not to mention that since some of the townspeople in Lime Shores can act rather ignorant (and in some cases, antagonistic) towards her, a lavish castle might also undermine the underdog nature of that particular setup.

Despite these concerns however, I felt confident with my plan, and I figured that as long as I knew what I was doing, readers would understand what I had in mind. I’ve explained in the past that a castle would better accommodate someone with her EDS, so right off the bat, you already have a practical justification for it. It also helps that whereas the accursed Thorndyke had his parents, friends, grandad, butler, etc etc etc etc... Trudy genuinely had no one to turn to before the heroes arrived for their intended vacation. So with that said, let’s examine this particular building for a bit, complete with pics for comparison’s sake, as well as a certain cavern full of Ethereal goodness that happens to be nearby...

Creating the Residence: Trudy’s Castle

Let’s get the obvious out of the way: The outside environment is not too subtly inspired by Autumn Plains from Spyro 2, better known to non-Spyro fans as my blog background.

A serene yet lonely autumnal forest backdrop, with a big stone castle smack dab in the center. It’s not one-to-one the same of course - instead of a pool, the front area boasts a lovely garden full of different flowers, and there’s also a lake nearby - but the mood is more or less what you see here.

However, this partly serves to contrast with what’s behind closed doors. As acknowledged in Beyond the Stars proper, the interior of the castle instead goes for a different and grander, yet equally inviting atmosphere when you take that first step inside. Instead of stone, you see marble and wood, and instead of grey and green, you have reds, creams, maroons, and golds (with a few complimentary blues and purples thanks to the flags hovering above).

As the lady herself mentions, Trudy discovered that the interior was in a state of disarray when she obtained it, and she was of the belief that a castle as beautiful and rich in history as this one deserved better than to be forgotten and wither away in the coming generations. The least she felt she could do was give it a modern, yet respectful redecoration, and give the old building a second, loving life in the process.

Yes, that means every spot of detail inside this castle was done single-handedly. Entirely on her lonesome. It took ages to complete, especially when taking her EDS into account, but she was determined to give the place its due, and lo and behold, the effort more than paid off. (You know, such levels of determination bring a blue hedgehog to mind...)

And that’s just the intended vision for the main hallway! We haven’t touched the other rooms yet! (Since a castle would have quite a lot of rooms, it goes without saying that for the sake of keeping this post from going even longer, we won’t be covering literally every single room... just the most important and/or most noteworthy ones. :o)

The bathroom can be described as a mix between the two examples below, combining the semi-medieval build of the former with the sky blue palette and general relaxing style of the latter.

Though that said, while the bath remains there for any guests to use, Trudy personally uses a shower since it’s more convenient for someone with her condition.

The kitchen (or as Sonic likes to call it, “the palace of chili dog magic”) mostly comes in cool browns and blacks, and its intended appearance is probably one of the more obvious combinations of old-timey and modern. It also has a slightly country aesthetic compared to the other rooms, because ha ha, horses, geddit.

The greenhouse at the back brings back the heavy amounts of green (well duh, the clue’s in the name, isn’t it?), while also providing contrast with the whiteness of the structure and architecture. Complete with giant arched windows, because of course.

And the segue point between the greenhouse and the rest of the castle looks something along these lines, at least with the way the building itself connects.

Even the chambers underneath the castle manage to look classy and clean. And just as well, since it’s where Tails parks the Tornado for the remainder of his time in Viridonia, once he FINALLY remembers to get it off the Lime Shore beach...

You know another benefit of such a spacious area? You get to turn it into a makeshift workshop for all your gadget needs, Tornado-related or otherwise. I’m sure that won’t come in handy at some point...

The guest bedroom is one of the most curious rooms of the lot, because even though it’s as nice and tidy as you’d expect, it’s also rather... muted compared to everywhere else. Perhaps Trudy felt no need to modify it further in any specific way, since no one had ever bothered to stop by anyway... until you-know-who and the gang.

And we can’t forget to mention our fair equine’s OWN bedroom now, can we? Her bedroom opts for darker colours, yet no less therapeutic, which includes the canopy bed that she rests in. You can actually see the general idea with the bedroom (and the outside of the castle for that matter) for yourself, in the Dame of the Daisy mini-comic, courtesy of my awesome friend @benignmilitancy.

Likewise, although this shot is currently incomplete (don’t worry, Benign is fine with me using it :P), meaning some details haven’t been added yet, you can also get a basic idea of how the balcony is supposed to look here, along with the complimentary view of Viridonia’s oceans.

So what kind of music would befit Trudy’s castle, you may ask? Well, taking every detail into account, we would need something that goes for that perfect mix of adventure, wonder, warmth... and a faint hint of sadness lurking beneath. Something that gets all four across, but not in a generic, run-of-the-mill orchestra sort of way. Something a little more ambient and down-to-earth, with a more unique and specific kind of intimacy. Something like...

youtube

This would apply for when you’re inside, mind you. Outside the castle, the surrounding forest would have a theme of its own, though it would share that similar combination of melancholic friendliness. So for the outside, we would go with something more like...

youtube

Overall, the idea behind Trudy’s castle - aside from being her residence and looking enviously pretty - is to add to Trudy’s own character. It’s said that one’s home can say a lot about a person, and I made sure that every room shared a consistent narrative when reading between the lines. They may differ in shape, and they may even differ in colour, but the story is kept consistent at all times. We know that our girl is elegant, we know that our girl has slightly antiquated tastes... and we know that until the arrival of Sonic and Co, our girl was extremely lonely, and isolated by her peers, to the point of staving off said loneliness and isolation by making the place as lavishly detailed as it is in the first place. And just as the stony exterior hides the more fanciful interior, so too is there more to Trudy herself than at first glance.

Besides, not counting Eggman’s endless list of tributes to himself, we don’t often see the characters’ homes in the games, do we? We’ve seen Angel Island for Knuckles, the Space Colony A.R.K. for Shadow, that shack belonging to the Chaotix in Heroes, a few pads of varying consistency depending on the game (Tails’ workship in SA1 VS his house in Battle)... but not much more than that. And what better contrast to Sonic being something of a nomad, than by Trudy living a place like this?

But we’re not done just yet. Last but not least, we can’t forget that mysterious cave hiding down below, where countless amounts of Ethereal Crystals can be found undisturbed... You can bet that such a place would be suitably attention grabbing.

Since the crystals themselves come in practically every shade of the rainbow and then some, the resulting combination - specifically their reflecting shine - ends up painting the cavern walls with just as much colour.

It may feel a tad surreal and almost alien, to the point of being a little intimidating for some, arguably. But you know in your heart of hearts that as long as Eggman isn’t in the equation, there is no need to be fearful. After all, Trudy knows it better than anyone else, and although the crystals and their properties may hail from unknown, possibly uncomfortable origins, the horse herself continues to use them for wholly benevolent purposes.

Such a cavern would deserve a theme of its own, no? We’ll need something that drives home the point that the power within has no inherent morality, and can only be as good or as evil as the person using them. So although Trudy’s own intentions are firmly on the side of good, we’ll also need an added touch of minor eeriness lingering in the background, to represent the overarching threat and subsequent implications of Eggman dipping his own hands into the metaphorical Ethereal well, on top of its already unexplained otherworldliness...

youtube

So yes, it’s quite a pleasant castle that Trudy has, eh?

But this isn’t the only castle that can be found in Viridonia...

Well, it used to be the only one of its kind on the island... until a certain doctor stopped by, decided to beat the horse at her own game, and create his own, darker counterpart in response... But we’ll get to that when we get to that, ho ho ho.

#Creating Viridonia #Sonic the Hedgehog #Fanfiction

16 notes · View notes

twin-dynasty-lords · 4 years ago

Text

Great Awakening

The flourish of color slowly faded from Bataldir’s mind receptors as the world of blacks, greens, and muted greys returned him to reality, the scarlet and cerulean Lychguard dutifully remained immobile by the sides of the twin thrones, each one scanning carefully for any intruders or assassins that may yet arrive. Bataldir gently placed his hand against his head as he strove to separate memories from the delusions that had overcame him, internally hoping that an intruder or assassin would make itself known, simply to distract him, if only for a moment. He remained in this position, sorting himself out for several moments before the room’s Eternity Gate powered up, and a familiar figure strode forth.

“It is as suspected,” it began, climbing the steps towards the twin thrones, “The war had left our fleets all but decimated, and those that survived had since been crushed beneath the turning of stone,” it continued, finally at the top of the steps, looking Bataldir eye-to-eye, “We have but Sekhem Cruisers left, and less than can be counted on but half of a hand. We are marooned, brother.”

“Effectively marooned, brother,” Bataldir corrected, leaning forward in his seat, “Far from completely, though I have doubts that the two Cruisers will be sufficient,” before he could continue, however, Binajiin bidded the Lychguard to leave them; the loyal bodyguards wordlessly marching out from the room an into the hall. With the room now empty, save for the brothers, Binajiin strode over to the empty throne and sat down.

“Something concerns you, brother. Even in life you failed to hide your worry.”

Were it possible for the mechanical chassis to breathe, Bataldir would have let out a breath as he looked over, “How could you tell.”

“There are many tells that I have learned to detect. Even Necrodermis can only hide them so well. I bid you, speak, I shall listen.”

Bataldir considered this, leaning back in his throne and clasping his hands together as he thought, debating the consequences of committing to either path. Once more, were it possible to breathe, he might have sighed, “Very well, brother. I have… memories, that are not my own. Dreams perhaps, or delusions, symptoms of the Great Sleep, I fear. Memories of a creature that bore a resemblance to how we were in life, but they were not us, they were Alien, much like the Aeldari, yet… still different in a way I cannot truly explain. I felt the sun upon my skin, and it did not burn, it was not unpleasant, simply that it was warm. Memories of this creature… owning miniature figurines depicting our own kind, battling other miniature figurines, large, blue-armored creatures armed simply with primitive weaponry, those of the Aeldari, and even smaller, cruder forms of even the Krorks. I feel… enjoyment, as I experienced this creature’s memories, much as if they were yet my own,” there was a moment of silence between the two as Bataldir considered what he would say next, “Tell me, brother, have your thoughts been slowed, recently? Perhaps your mind receptors not functioning with the same swiftness as they had during the war?”

The same pause that had held the air earlier had returned as Binajiin simply looked on, “They have indeed. I had attributed this solely as time having taken its toll on this body. You fear it is something more?”

“I do,” Bataldir confirmed with a small nod, “The Old Ones were but proof that there are many things our kind still do not yet understand.”

Binajiin simply turned his gaze out into the room, his head slowly nodding, “Am I correct in the assumption that I am the only one you have told?”

“Indeed…” Bataldir replied simply, focusing his gaze on Binajiin and preparing his Phase Shifter, his mind receptors slowly filtering in but a small taste of fear at the thought of his own twin striking him down.

But all his worry was eased as Binajiin got up and began to make his way down the stairs, offering a simple look back, “You must keep it as such, brother. I much prefer you in this form to that of a Destroyer Chassis.”

“I am insane, not stupid,” came Bataldir indignate reply, returning to his calmed state.

“And I called you neither,” Binajiin responded, tersely, “I will oversee construction and repairs to our tomb. Will you not join me?”

After a moment of consideration, Bataldir rose from his throne and descended the stairs to join his brother, “I was not hailed as the greatest constructor of cities simply because the Silent King was feeling generous. Come, the material production facilities are the most important,” and he began to stride out of the hall, Binajiin at his side as always; the scarlet and cerulean Lychguard quickly following in step behind the twin Phaerons as they made their way down the blackened halls. Along the walls were the various Glyphs, both telling the story of their own shared Dynasty, and that of the War in Heaven, dozens of Scarabs scurrying along the walls, repairing any damaged items that they might find before scurrying off to do the same elsewhere, “I wish to hear it from your own vocal modulator, brother, what is the state of our infrastructure?”

Binajiin made to answer, but fell silent as a strut came crashing to the ground ahead of them, and simply wordlessly walked over it, looking back to Bataldir, “Does that answer your question?”

“I… do believe our Scarabs are malfunctioning. And I do believe our Tomb’s Primary Sentinel Computer is… glitching,” came his response, stepping over the crashed strut and offering it but a glance before the two resumed their walk, “It appears I have… much to do. How goes the reawakening of our forces?”

Without missing a beat, Binajiin stepped to the side as a Canoptek Spyder crawled past the group and towards the collapsed strut, “I have yet to receive word from the surface scanner arrays, and as such we are currently blind as to the world above us. With this in mind, I have chosen to prepare for the worst, and invoked the Rapid Rise Protocols. Our current awakening is already at 18.37% complete. Should the Aeldari be waiting for us, it will not be sufficient.”

“Am I correct in assuming our Anti-Orbital weapons are defunct?”

As if bad news was personified, Binajiin wordlessly took out a sliver of flattened Necrodermis and placed it in Bataldir’s hand, “You tell me.”

“This… is supposed to be bent,” He recognized the piece instantly, holding it up to the light and slowly rotating the piece, “Peculiar… it is not repairing itself. If this is a sign of what is to come in our inspection… this entire Tomb may yet need to be completely rebuilt”

Binajiin turned sharply to face his twin, “Let us not jump to extremes, Bataldir. Tombs are large, costly, and time-consuming to construct, let alone tearing one down just to rebuild it. Tend to the Spyders, see if you may be able to see why this tomb is in such disarray. I shall see to the Lords and have them do the same with the other Tombs. We shall have our answer then”

Bataldir wasted no time by stopping and continued forward, “We shall see in time. I will call for a meeting when I have completed my own investigations. I wish you luck in your endeavor. Let us hope the Lords have not been affected by the Great Sleep.”

The only sound that followed was the marching of the cerulean Lychguard as they followed Bataldir, Binajiin’s own scarlet Lychguard remaining paused in wait as the Phaeron simply watched his twin, “Very well, brother. Let us hope,” and with that, he turned and strode back to the Throne Room and the Eternity Gate within it, the scarlet Lychguard following dutifully.

#first post #warhammer #warhammer 40k

2 notes · View notes