#a symphony of disgusted noises and raised eyebrows

[ndostairlyrium]

WIP whenever

...wherever, we're meant to be together 🎶

Tagged by precious @melisusthewee who really had the best timing, because I was totally plotting stuff featuring a character you don't see often u-u

I'm totally not digging around to find inspo for nevarran fashion, no no

His majesty Microsoft Excel, Shaan if you're friends <3

He's one that conjures stuff and then banishes them, because he cares for the environment u-u the soil has to be moved from time to time, right? Being a secretary is boring. Also he's quite wary around Cassandra because he was a ""servant"" to a famous Mortalitasi, along with his grandfather; her family name keeps him from getting too close. The fact she's a Seeker is a plus.

She has some gorgeous scary eyes tho, I very much get it <<

[appleflavoredkitkats]

stagnant;

author’s note: been a while! this isn't as long as my other fics, but i wanted to write this because i just like the concept of fundy in las nevadas, okay? and smoke breaks. i love writing smoke breaks. and of course, i will be writing about fundy because i am biased and he deserves better lmao. this is all written before the las nevadas arc ever occurs, so if there are any discrepancies by the time las nevadas finishes, that ain't my fault.

also! all of this is platonic! i view schlatt as fundy's other father figure. for quackity, i don't necessarily view him as 100% manipulative towards fundy and schlatt, but you're free to interpret him in any way you want. and yes, i know the situation about schlatt, and i don't support the actions of the cc, but i do enjoy his dsmp character nonetheless.

DO NOT SEND THIS FIC TO ANY CONTENT CREATOR!! be nice!!

laslty, special thanks to my good friend dany from the dsmpanalysis discord server for beta-ing my fic!

relationships: platonic fundy & schlatt (father-son relationship)

warnings: trauma, smoking, gambling, drinking, alcoholism, substance abuse, self-harm (accidentally burning oneself), slight mentions of fire, parental neglect (from wilbur), unhealthy coping mechanisms, implied depression or mental illness, mental health struggles, addiction, references to past violence, death idealization, underaged gambling, arguments (in the background), and general angst!

word count: 1878

summary: fundy closes his eyes, taps on the quartz again, and leans forward on the metal bars of his balcony. he lets out another puff of smoke as he sinks into the lax atmosphere. he gives into the fantasy, the delusion.

a second pair of footsteps are then heard behind fundy, but even then, fundy doesn’t move from his position. he knows who it is anyway— there are only two or three people who had access to the five-star suites on the last floor, and only one of them frequents his room often.

“you know, smoking’s bad for your health,” schlatt tells him with a half-smirk.

or, it's midnight in las nevadas, and fundy has a smoke break with schlatt. he reflects on the state of the server, and he reflects on himself.

( ao3 link )

a click of a lighter, the tapping of dress shoes against chiseled quartz, the rummaging of pockets to fetch another fresh pack of cigs. his paws work automatically: slicing the plastic cover with his claws, fumbling the top open, and finally selecting a cigarette from the batch, twirling it between his fingers to the sound of muffled, jazzy tunes in the background.

with the smoke in between his sharp fangs, he guides the lighter to the end of the stick. there’s a deep inhale, letting the smoke fizzle into his lungs, latching onto every feeling of remorse, regret, guilt, sadness, pain, hurt, trauma, everything— 

and fundy exhales, all of those icky sensations evaporating into misty smoke.

this cycle of mindless smoking continues as fundy stands idly on his hotel room’s balcony. up ten stories high, fundy looms over almost everything in las nevadas. despite it being midnight, las nevadas’ visitors never relent. from above, staring with droopy eyes, fundy sees all four casinos lit up brighter than a neighbourhood during the holidays. no bulbs malfunction, thankfully; all of them flicker and twinkle as if there was something to celebrate about in this place full of deceit and temporary bliss. the bars, while more mellow, have the calmest of tunes blasting from their jukeboxes. when fundy first started working here, he remembers being fond of upbeat tunes like these, but they’ve quickly grown stale, or maybe fundy’s just grown tone deaf overtime. who knows?

everything about this place grows on fundy like a terrible rash. sometimes, he does enjoy the outgoing crowds and customers, but sometimes, the noise overwhelms him— ear-piercing, annoying, inharmonious. so, he ends up in places like his dishevelled room, unkempt from all the alcohol and exhaustion and the fact that he just doesn’t  want to give a fuck anymore. but as much as his room is reminiscent of the rubble he left in his original base, he at least feels at ease with the sounds he hears from above. there is the same jazz music, the same victorious yelling at jackpots, the same rolling from the slot machines, but it’s in diminuendo. 

it’s a symphony fundy will willingly listen to because he feels like he can separate himself from the chaos present downstairs. when he is with the others, when he serves tequila shots and shuffled decks, he feels like he is at the center of his own friends’ descent but from his own bedroom, he can pretend that he is fine, that everything is fine. he can live in the delusion that his friends are shouting from a well-deserved victory when deep in the back of his head, he knows that they’ve gotten inexplicably attached to machinery that he knows is programmed to bring about their demise.

fundy closes his eyes, taps on the quartz again, and leans forward on the metal bars of his balcony. he lets out another puff of smoke as he sinks into the lax atmosphere. he gives into the fantasy, the delusion.

a second pair of footsteps is then heard behind fundy, but even then, he doesn’t move from his position. he knows who it is anyway— there are only two or three people who had access to the five-star suites on the last floor, and only one of them frequents his room often.

the guy who enters pats his back twice gently as a greeting, settling himself next to fundy. fundy averts his gaze from the saturated lights to look at the goat hybrid. with a newly tailored suit and freshly manicured horns, schlatt has never looked more dapper, but his skin was still heavily scarred and immensely graying. 

“you know, smoking’s bad for your health,” schlatt tells him with a half-smirk. fundy lowers the smoke, coughing a little before raising an incredulous eyebrow at schlatt.

“i learned from the worst,” fundy replies as his free hand shuffles through his pockets, holding out the box of smokes for schlatt to get one for himself. fundy doesn’t need to ask schlatt if he has his own lighter; he somehow always does. he’s been used to his mannerisms ever since a darkened flag with glowing, orange lace loomed over a dying country.

schlatt easily raises the smoke to his chapped lips and lights it easily. he falls into the rhythm of the scenery, slouching against the metal railings as he watches the same fluorescent bulbs fundy had been watching. 

moments like these, no matter how incredibly fucked they are, are the closest fundy can get to tasting peace. his father once described peace as a taste of freedom. it is the image of bright-eyed soldiers under swathes of redwood trees, free from the shackles of tyranny and violence their oppressors have imposed on them.

but fundy knows, as always, that his father is a liar, because at this very moment, fundy connects the concept of peace with the disgusting taste of smoke.

it is a habit he’s picked up from a man he’d once considered perfect. back when the server first hit its grayest of days, sometimes fundy’s claws had itched to strike a match, to spark stones. the scorching blaze igniting was the most colorful thing  he’d had in that wasteland of grey. he’d kept doing it more and more and more, until his own fur and skin burned and he realized that he too is graying like the place he called home. when schlatt had first discovered it, fundy remembers a lot of talking—all kind, kind words that have tarnished his perception on what a caring guardian, or a father, may be—and then, out of the blue, fundy asks for a smoke. while a confused eyebrow quirks, schlatt gives him one to try out, saying that there is a first time for everything, especially since their lives have been as mundane as they possibly can be.

and here fundy is now, able to finish an entire pack in the span of a few days as if it is a part of his diet. 

but if all this substance abuse and addiction and self-sabotage and self-deprecation have become so widespread in the server, so normalized, would one even consider it awful? if everyone is traumatized or hurt, does the concept of trauma even exist in the first place?

“you know, i— don’t take this the wrong way, but i thought that you would be much happier to see all your friends reunited,” schlatt speaks, fingers gesturing to tiny specks on the ground that move in sync with the jazz. fundy hums non-committedly as a reply, not really knowing what to say. 

“well, sucks to be you, i guess. mopey ass,” schlatt jokes with the same half-smirk he uses whenever fundy is notably graying like he did in the past. fundy chuckles at it, at least, but his shoulders droop immediately after. the smallest bouts of happiness and joy make him unbelievably tired nowadays.

fundy attempts to lift his smoke again to his lips, but surprisingly, schlatt interrupts, forcing fundy to lower his arm. fundy stares at him acutely with furrowed brows. “fundy, i—” schlatt begins, and his lighthearted expression dwindles into something much more anxious and apprehensive. schlatt clears his throat and continues, “fundy, kid, i know i’m not the type to get all grossly emotional and whatnot—that’s more of tubbo’s thing—but you have to listen to me when i say that you need to leave.” schlatt grips fundy’s forearm now, firm yet slightly shaking. “kid, you’re not healthy here. it’s— you— this—” schlatt gestures towards the buildings, the lights, the entire shithole that they are stuck in, “this is not somewhere you need to be. you need to leave when you can.”

fundy blinks, and then he blinks once more before his free hand shrugs off schlatt’s grip. he returns to his original position of leaning against the railing, and through the reflection of the cold metal, fundy can see the unpleasant surprise on schlatt’s face transform into something more defeated. a pregnant silence precedes a long, exasperated sigh from schlatt. the edges of fundy’s lips slightly curve downwards.

“well, it would be easier if it weren’t for the fact that i literally have nowhere else to go,” fundy replies monotonously, as if this statement is something he’s rehearsed several times before. “i’ve hit rock bottom, schlatt. i have nothing else to lose,” fundy continues, huffing out a melancholic chuckle. he doesn’t think this situation he’s stuck in is anything comedic, but it sure is amusing how his life has continuously spiralled further and further for the past five years. he’s amused by the fact that he is still very much alive and breathing by this point despite the—fundy looks at his half-finished cigarette, the livid circles under his eyes, his furrowing ears as being exposed to multiple explosions has caused a permanent, high-pitched sound to ring in them sporadically—small, little missteps. 

it’s quiet again as schlatt stares at fundy uncomfortably. “you’re really out here wishing for god to strike you dead in front of a dead man— how very respectful of you,” schlatt replies sarcastically. fundy knows schlatt only wants to lighten up the mood. schlatt has been very persistent in helping fundy find the brighter side of things for a while, but lately, they’ve fallen flat. is schlatt’s eloquence gradually deteriorating, or is it fundy who’s only gotten more numb towards schlatt?

fundy doesn’t know, and both possibilities are undesirable, really, so fundy decides to speak. “i’m sorry,” fundy says, and he doesn’t know if it is for himself or for schlatt. maybe it’s for the both of them.

schlatt’s look softens, and he raises his free palm to grip fundy’s shoulder, thumbing it for comfort. a part of fundy wants to sob, to cry, but he chokes all his tears back with an inhale of smoke. “i’m sorry too,” schlatt murmurs, his voice the softest and the most caring it has ever been. when fundy exhales, he can feel tears prick the corners of his eyes as schlatt continues, “you deserve better.”

fundy hums and his eyes trail downwards to gaze at las nevadas’ visitors once more. he spots ranboo, possibly exhausted judging by his sloppy movements, forcefully pulling a crazed tubbo from a slot machine. fundy remembers that inside, he has seen purpled, foolish, and puffy shout over a simple card, a two of clubs, arguing on whether they should split the fifteen stacks of diamonds or not. he remembers finding sam outside the bar next to the trash bins downing his own personal bottles of alcohol, gripping tightly on a withered rose as he sobs uncontrollably. at the side, he can now see a distressed bad and ant incessantly begging the blackjack booths to accept their territory offers as they’ve lost all their possessions to far too many rounds of roulette wheels and texas hold’ems. he also spots a jovial yet sly quackity skipping through the streets energetically as a stern techno and phil trail behind him, ready to smite anyone who dares terrorize the place. 

and lastly, he stares away from the crowds and returns to gaze at schlatt—tired eyes, frayed hair, drying skin—with a bittersweet smile. fundy replies, “i think we all do.”

[eyeofthedrgn]

A Heavy Battle Symphony Chapter 8

Catch up here >> AHBS Masterlist

TW: language, mental abuse, verbal abuse, physical abuse, violence, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, self harm, self-esteem issues, sexual abuse (only alluded to briefly in future chapters), drinking (comes up late in the story) just a lot of trauma, angst, smut - lots of lovely gay smut

Word count: 1739

Notes: This chapter is slightly graphic on the physical abuse. It's only like two lines, but I wanted to make it known.

Chapter 8 - Sorry for Now

After a while you may forget

But just in case the memories cross your mind

You couldn't know this when I left

Under the fire of your angry eyes

I never wanted to say goodbye

Four months, thirteen days, and ten hours, not that he was counting, since he left. Since the dark haired boy had walked away, leaving Rowan standing on the sidewalk. Since his mind spiraled out of control, and it felt like part of him died.

Rowan had been seeing a therapist for the last three months. It had helped, somewhat. At least he could function as a relatively normal human being again, when he was around people anyway. Most of the time. He almost didn't graduate. Thankfully, his mom, his friend group, and his therapist had helped him get through it.

But all in all, Rowan felt empty. Somehow his heart was broken. He hadn't realized someone could get so attached to someone so fast even though they never really talked or hung out. Maybe it was because they shared such vulnerabilities with each other that day in the park or there really was such a thing as a soulmate and his just left him. Either way, he was broken inside. Yet, he still went to parties with his friends, hung out, but he wasn't always present. Everyone noticed the vacant stares, but they usually left it alone. They all knew the general gist of what happened that day, but they could never understand the emotional gravity well that that day had caused. No one knew that Rowan had fallen for the other boy.

Except the ever observant Elide. She noticed everything. The way Rowan spoke about Lorcan, the way his eyes lit up when he saw the other boy walking down the hall, and the small looks they both shared on cast signing day.

But nobody had seen Lorcan after he had walked away. He never came back to school. No one knew what to think. Most assumed they moved again and they left it at that. Rowan assumed the worst after seeing Lorcan's bruises and him basically saying this was a usual occurrence.

Rowan was brought back to the present when a beach ball hit him in the head. He was sitting on the edge of Aelin's pool, sulking, feet dangling in the water. Aelin was throwing one of her parties, it was nearly the end of summer and soon most of them would head off to college. The noises from his friends finally filtering back into his head, it was suddenly too loud, too bright, and too hot. He ran a hand down his face.

Fenrys had been the beach ball throwing culprit, Rowan just glared at him.

"Come on, Ro. Try and have some fun?" Fen had swam over to Rowan and crossed his arms over the edge of the pool. The roguish blond just wanted him to be happy.

“I’m sorry.” He said that a lot now. Fenrys just raised an eyebrow at the boy… man.

He was eighteen now and he wasn't that scrawny, nerdy looking boy anymore. Rowan supposed that was one good thing that came out of Lorcan leaving, he got addicted to working out. There was a punching bag set up in the garage with some weights. He was fit now, muscles defined, but not bulky.

Elide walked up and mussed up his hair. "Come help me get some drinks." She didn't leave any room for argument.

In the kitchen, Elide just leaned forward on the island and looked at Rowan.

"I thought we were getting drinks."

"Yeah, we will. But-"

"But what?" He really didn't mean to say that with such an attitude, but he was hot and emotionally exhausted. Honestly, he just wanted to go home.

Elide was on her phone, waiting for him to chill. Taking a deep breath he said, "I'm sorry. What did you want to talk about?" Rowan was trying, he really was. She just slid her phone over the counter towards him. He furrowed his brows as he looked at the article on the screen.

Consultants for Erawan Enterprises arrested on counts of fraud, child abuse, human trafficking, and other illicit activities

"What's this?" He had no idea what this was about. Why would he care about Erawan Enterprises?

He picked up the phone and kept reading since Elide clearly wasn’t going to answer. It was short and there was a photo of a devastatingly beautiful woman with dark as night hair, that reminded him of Lorcan, and alabaster skin in handcuffs being pushed into a cop car and a very angry man shoved against the hood of the same car.

Maeve Valgerian and James Perrington were arrested Wednesday night. After some anonymous tips to the Morath Police.

"Who are these people?" Rowan didn't understand.

"Pretty sure she's Lorcan's aunt."

Oh.

Rowan had searched for Lorcan online after he disappeared, but there was literally nothing. Absolutely zero results. It was like he was a ghost.

They were consultants for Erawan Enterprises and moved all over the world for the very powerful man. Erawan Enterprises is under investigation for fraud, money laundering, and human trafficking.

After Valgerian and Perrington were arrested, MPD searched their residence and found incriminating evidence against them.

There was also a teenager held captive in the basement. They were taken to the nearest hospital with severely critical injuries. The name and gender of this individual will not be released for their safety.

The article was published nearly two months ago.

Human trafficking…

Held captive...

Severely critical injuries...

"Please, don't break my phone." He was squeezing the device and didn't realize it. Quickly handing it back to her, his hand went straight to his hair.

“Are you sure this is his aunt?”

“Well, not 100%, but they have physical similarities and their hair…” she trailed off. “And Lorcan had mentioned his aunt’s boyfriend living with them one day in class.”

"Fuck!" He felt like he wanted to rip his hair out.

"Ro." Elide's voice was quiet.

"FUCK!"

After a couple deep breaths, he ran his hands down his face, and then turned to face his friend. "Is he dead?" His voice cracked.

"I don't know. All of the other articles I could find are just about them and Erawan Enterprises. No mentions of Lorcan. Anywhere. It's like he doesn't exist."

Elide pulled him into a hug and he broke.

---

Lorcan had been through shit show after shit show since he left the Whitethorn house. As soon as he returned to the apartment, it was packed up into a moving van and they were gone.

They were in Fenharrow for a couple months. Maeve didn't enroll him in school. He was locked in the basement of the small house they rented, it felt like he had gone crazy. He hadn't seen the sun until they moved again. His skin turned a sickly gray. By the time they moved again, he could feel every one of his ribs, and his hips stuck out, his fingers overlapping when wrapped around his wrist.

Next move was to Morath. Lorcan didn't know if he would survive. He didn’t have a good feeling about this place. The basement became his home yet again. It was filthy. There were thick iron hooks in opposite walls and chains hanging from them. This was where he was going to die. He closed his eyes as Perrington latched the shackles around his wrists.

---

One day, Lorcan heard sirens intermittently. He kept passing out. He wasn't even sure he was hearing sirens or if it was just a ringing in his ears. They were always ringing nowadays. A punch to his face made his vision flicker. Blood and saliva leaked from his mouth as his head rolled down to his chest.

The ringing in his ears got louder. There definitely weren't sirens. No one was going to save him. He was going to die here. He knew it. It was what he deserved. The bastard born half-breed that no one cared about, left to die in his own filth in a disgusting basement. The world slowly faded to black.

---

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

He was in Hel. He had to be.

Beep.

The incessant beeping was there to drive him insane. And the smell of bleach was there to make him sick.

Beep.

---

Lorcan startled awake. How could he be awake? He was supposed to be dead. Right?

The nightmare he was having felt so real. Probably because he had lived it before. He assumed that was just what Hel was supposed to be, reliving the worst parts of your life.

But instead, he was in a bed, a hospital bed. Why did they save him? Lorcan wasn't worth saving. Yet, here he was covered in wires, tubes, a needle stuck in his hand, a device on his finger. It was dark outside and the lights were dim in the room.

Deciding he wasn’t actually dead, he took stock of his body, he was certain he had some broken ribs, but nothing else seemed to be broken which was surprising. He was definitely sore and stiff. And exhausted. So exhausted.

---

After… Lorcan didn't know how long he was discharged. He had put on some weight, though not a lot. The staff made sure he ate. They were all nice and cared for him. But now, he stood outside the main entrance of the hospital in some scrubs they gave him. Now, he had nothing. Nobody. He may as well have been lost at sea.

Why had they saved him? He still couldn’t figure that out.

Somehow, he managed to find the small house that he had been stuck in for who knows how long. There was police tape over the door. The door was open.

He pushed through the tape. The house was a mess. It seemed the cops had ransacked the place. But he finally found his things, they were strewn about the floor. Thank Hellas, his journal was still there. After changing, he packed up his books and journal, some clothes, and a few other other necessities.

He needed money or something he could sell. Maeve's jewelry would help. He could pawn it.

Lorcan asked the pawnshop owner for directions to the bus station, and then he set out to see if there was still one person who cared about him. Hopefully this wasn’t a bad idea.

____

Thanks for reading. Things will get better, I promise! Let me know if you'd like to be tagged.

Edit- oops! I forgot to actually put in tags... My bad. Sorry!

@thenerdandfandoms @starlightorstarfire

[starfirelove]

Remember That

Regulus stumbled as he felt his feet hit solid ground. No matter how many times he'd done it, he'd never get used to the feeling of apparition. It was like the feeling of the drop on a rollercoaster. Except with all the stomach uphending nausea and none of the thrill. He stumbled towards a tree, and leaned against it for support. Closing his eyes and taking long, slow breaths. 

He stayed there for a while catching his breath and forcing himself to fend off a panic attack. He didn't do well with small spaces, and apparition was all about small spaces.

The telltale CRACK of someone apparating forced him into a standing position. As sick as he felt, he'd rather rather kiss a dementor than be caught showing weakness. 

"Having trouble, are we?"

Regulus stifled a groan. Even with a mask on there was no mistaking the cold drawl of Lucius Malfoy's voice. The man was worse than Voldemort, and Regulus currently had no use for Malfoy's holier-than-thou bullshit. The man didn't seem to realize that he was just a pawn in a much, much bigger chess game. 

He gave Malfoy a cold once over. Eternally grateful to his mask which concealed his look of utter disdain. A small smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth and he couldn't suppress a snort of laughter when Malfoy tripped, and nearly fell into the dirt while walking. 

"Not as much as you, evidently." 

He could still feel the magic singing through his blood. Sparking and fading out as it reeled from the effects of his spell. Regulus silently thanked his teachers for their emphasis on nonverbal magic. 

Lucius quickly righted himself. Regulus could feel his glare from the tree he stood near. Lucius' eyes flashed dangerously; cold and hard as steel. Another loud CRACK split the air as the rest of their party arrived. Interrupting Regulus' small moment of triumph. 

Regulus moved past Malfoy and joined the others. All clad in the same dark robes and metal masks. They looked a bit like vigilantes, he thought. A group of villains pretending to be heroes. In their own twisted minds they probably thought that they were. 

"What, now?" Came Lucius' voice. Apparently he'd caught up to them. 

A derisive snort came from opposite them. The shrill, mocking laugh of his cousin's voice made his skin crawl. 

"We wait for Dumbledore's  lackies to show up," Bellatrix giggled. "And then - well, we'll see what we do to them when they get here." 

Regulus repressed a shudder. He hated how ominous that statement was, and how happy she sounded when she'd said it. He'd never particularly liked any of his cousin's - except for Andromeda - but out of all of them, Bellatrix was the worst. Dozens of memories of Bellatrix tormenting him swam to the front of his mind. Each one, more horrid than the last. Her high, cold laughter was always present in each memory. 

Another CRACK cut across the night. Pulling him out of past memories of Bellatrix and forcing him to deal with her in the present. 

The rest of their group had arrived. Regulus didn't even need to see their faces to figure out who they were. The Lestrange brothers, Rabastan and Rodolphous, both walked with the same quiet, loping grace of lions, and the watchful eyes of hawks. Then there was Yaxley, whose only purpose seemed to be brute force. 

Snape had a rather distinct way he carried himself. It was an odd mix between a dejected slouch of his skinny frame, and a confident stroll. Two things that should never be able to mix. Regulus could see why his brother hated him so much. Whenever he saw him without the mask on, Snape had a curiously haunted look in his eyes that reminded him too much of himself. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Severus' childhood hadn't been any better than his own. Although Regulus got the distinct feeling that Snape had joined the Death Eaters for much different reasons than he had. 

The last addition to their group Regulus hated the most. He honestly couldn't begin to imagine why they let Greyback tag along. Was it a scare tactic? If so, they were doing a mighty fine job of it. He would never admit it but, Regulus was scared of Greyback. Screw that he was terrified. Regulus had met plenty of werewolves in his life but none gave him the same dark, disgusted feeling as Fenrir Greyback. He was the literal physical embodiment of a wolf. From the way that he carried himself all the way to the way he dressed. It seemed as though at some point the line between man and wolf had merged and become one. His clothing was ragged and dirty and his teeth were sharpened into points. His eyes gleamed with a feral, almost hungry light.  Regulus wasn't one for religion and he had no spiritual beliefes; but even he could tell this man had no soul. 

Regulus released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Just thinking about Fenrir set his nerves on edge. 

Bellatrix smirked. "Now this is a party." 

Greyback smiled back at her. His expression laced with malice. 

From behind his mask Rabastan said, "Indeed it is." 

Rodolphous surveyed the surrounding area and then turned back to their group. 

"Are we sure this is the right spot? It seems awfully...quiet," his voice faded to a quiet hiss at the end. Regulus could practically see his raised eyebrows through his mask. 

Lucius bristled. "I'm pretty damn sure Rodolphous, seeing as I'm the who procured the information that lead us to this location." Luciud paused for a moment, as if trying to size the other man up. "Or are you calling me a liar," he sneered. 

"Not directly," Rodolphous drawled. 

Lucius started towards Rodolphous, hand already buried in his robes, reaching for his wand. Regulus swiftly blocked his path, positioning himself between the two men. Silently begging Lucius not to do anything rash while he turned to Rodolphous and said, "We're in the right place." 

Rodolphous cocked his head to the side, inquisitive. 

"I checked with the Dark Lord himself," he said firmly. 

Rodolphous did somewhat of a double-take, and stepped back. 

"Well if our Lord says so…" he murmured, trailing off. 

A fourth CRACK split the air. The sound - although it was still loud - was muted with distance. 

"Right on time," Rabastan remarked. 

The group of Death Eaters crept towards the noise. It was a rare time where they weren't rushing head on at the situation, instead they were going for a surprise attack. Regulus wasn't sure which was worse. Giving the people some warning before he murdered them, or none at all. 

The closer they got the more Regulus could pick up voices. 

"I'm telling you, nothing every goes on during these things," said one. 

"Isn't that a good thing?," asked another incredulously. 

"I guess so," yet another mused. "But I want some action, Moony. I wouldn't mind killing some of those bastards." 

Moony? Why did that sound so familiar? Regulus wracked his brain but only came up with blanks. The answer seemed so obvious but at the same time so unattainable. Leaving him with the irritating feeling that he'd remember sometime next week or at some rt inconvenient time. 

They had come within seeing range of the Order members. Regulus caught a glimpse of tawny curls bouncing as one of the Order members shook their head. 

"You and James scare me sometimes." 

Regulus' blood ran cold. Too late he realized why the name had seemed so familiar. Before he even had time to hope that none of the others had heard Remus speak, Snape snarled, "Potter," and fired a curse towards them. 

The effect was immediate. With a surprising amount of speed and accuracy - part of which had to be credited to his canine senses - Remus spun around and sent up a shield spell. Snape's spell narrowly missing James and rebounding somewhere into the forest around them. 

Furious, James launched into full battle with Snape. The world around them seeming to disappear as the two fought out a nearly decade old rivalry with high level spells meant to kill. 

A jet of red light barreled towards Regulus, forcing him to drop to the ground and roll out of the way. The stunning spell just barely missed Lucius, who turned took off in the direction of the perpetrator. The battle was tremendously unfair. Six against three. 

Despite this, Remus, James, and Sirius seemed to be holding off just fine. Sending spell after spell and curse after curse at their assailents. Regulus wasn't excluded from the battle. Currently deflecting spells that James was launching at him. At some point he had taken out Severus, who was now lying in a head against a tree. A slight trickle of blood slowly making its way down the side of his face. 

A poorly aimed killing curse flew by him. Just a couple inches to the left and he would've been dead. He turned towards the source, which admittedly wasn't the best idea while dueling. The spell had come from Sirius' direction. Last he'd seen Lucius had charged head on into battle with him. Fucking idiot's trying to get me killed, Regulus thought. 

Out of the corner of his eye Regulus caught sight of Remus slicing his wand through the air. Managing to keep two Death Eaters bay while sidestepping a third who'd aimed a spell at him. The thing of it all was that Remus didn't even seem to be trying. The casual, almost lazy way that he flicked his wand towards the advancing Death Eaters was memorising. Each move its own calculated symphony, as if he were conducting an orchestra instead of evading fending off attack manuvers. Clearly, Regulus had underestimated Remus. 

His attention was drawn back to his own fight when James flung a curse at him. He barely avoided it, cursing the mask for his restricted peripheral vision and wondering vaguely if James would be less agressive if he knew who was under the mask. 

Regulus felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze wash over him and the hairs on the back of his neck raise. His gaze was torn back to Remus. Two of the three Death Eaters were down for the count and the last one was swinging cursed wildly in his direction. In the shadows of the tall trees Fenrir Greyback watched Remus. The source of the chill suddenly dawning on him. Greyback looked ready to pounce on Remus, whose back was turned. An inexplicable urge to help him overtook Regulus, and he sent a spell in James's direction with renewed aggression. 

The force of the spell sending the older man backwards a few feet, but that was all Regulus needed to slip away. 

He made his way across the grass ducking and dodging spells that were being thrown by the remaining Death Eaters and Marauders alike. 

He reached the area where Remus and Bellatrix were in a matter of seconds. 

"If you're so loyal to Voldemort, then why do you wear masks?" Remus called in Bellatrix's direction. 

She hissed furiously at the taunt. "You dare speak the Dark Lord's name." 

Remus' grin seemed out of place in the midst of battle. "It's just a name," he countered. 

Bellatrix's resulting scream of anger only made Remus' grin grow larger. 

Meanwhile Regulus was positioning himself in such a way where he could hit Greyback but not be seen by his "colleagues". Greyback seemed to grow impatient, and before he could find his angle, the werewolf pounced. He flew at Remus knocking him to the ground. Remus twisted around only to have the air leave his lungs and his whole body tense. 

Regulus had never seen someone look so utterly terrified as Remus did at that moment. He was completely frozen in place, both in shock and fear. It only took a moment for Regulus to realize that Greyback was the one who turned him. The same feeling of revulsion he'd felt earlier came back twice as hard. Without another thought he aimed the first curse that came to mind at Greyback. He flew backwards off of Remus and landed hard against a rock, crumpling against the ground. 

Bellatrix looked sharply around for the source of the curse but before her eyes could settle on Regulus she crumpled to the ground. Regulus jolted in surprise. Whatever had hit her was not from him. Crossfire maybe? He looked around wildly until his eyes settled on Sirius. Panting, bruised, clutching his side and staring directly at him. Sirius had always been intelligent and it didn't take a genius to figure out who was behind the mask. He continued to look a Regulus, almost daring him to make a move. 

"Sirius!" Came a yelp. 

Startled Sirius turned around. For the second time that night Regulus was too late to notice something. Snape had gotten up at some point and was aiming his wand at Sirius. 

"Sectumsempra!" He roared. 

Regulus had never heard that spell before. Neither apparently had Remus or Sirius. A crimson stain began to blossom on his chest. Sirius reached tenatively for his chest. His mouth forming a surprised "Oh". Before he collapsed in a heap on the ground. 

Remus let out a cry of anguish that cut Regulus to his core. The cry was echoed by James who proceeded to launch a spell at Snape who ducked. 

Regulus staggered back against a tree, breathing harshly. He watched Remus pick himself up and examine Sirius. 

The world dissolved into white noise. Punctuated by pained yells and the distant sound of firecrackers. 

Suddenly, someone was shaking his arm. 

"We have to leave," Rabastan said roughly. "They called for reinforcements."

Regulus looked around. Several more Order members had indeed joined the scene. He could distantly see Marlene, Dorcas, and the Prewett twins fighting their way forward. His head still felt fuzzy and his ears had started to ring. 

"Regulus," Rabastan said, this time more harshly. 

Regulus cast another glance in his brothers direction. Sirius still wasn't moving, and Remus was bent over him frantically trying to revive him. 

With much difficulty Regulus said, "Yes, let's go." 

Rodolphous and Snape appeared. Bellatrix being carried by her husband and Snape and helping Lucius. 

"What about Greyback?" Snape asked. 

"Leave him," Rabastan said. Snape nodded, then he disappeared with a loud CRACK. 

Rodolphous and Bellatrix vanished as well. Only Rabastan and Regulus remained. 

"He chose his side and you chose yours," Rabastan said his eyes falling over Sirius. "Remember that." 

Then he too, apparated away. Regulus cast one last look at his brother before apparating away. His vision twisting just as Marlene and Fabian came into his view. 

[neotrinitythinker]

prompt for dr whomst've'yain't've: ryan, yasmin, graham and 13 + late night dinners and bonding

Surprisingly, the cure for escaping the clutches of galactic evil on their own planet; a thousand glares from the embrace of their own time, Ryan finds, is rubbish, unhealthy amounts of fast food.

When he was younger; and back when his mum was still around, and his dad was more reliable, and his nan was... well... -

Whatever Nando's had was always good. Even when Nan had taken him in after everything, she always stopped somewhere for him when she was running errands.

Comfort food seemed to transcend countless timelines. And he wasn't sure what they were eating, but it had come from what looked to be the space version of a bad idea for food.

Compared to other trips with the woman, the day had been tame for them. Having traveled back to somewhere in the 19th century, by Graham's request, having a soft spot it seemed for Victorian England. Or; at least the clothing. Ryan took every chance to half heartedly restrain his chuckles at the ridiculous hat the older man had worn when they found the wardrobe of the TARDIS; taking the piss whenever he could - though, his outfit wasn't any better.

The Doctor hadn't been sure of the exact time they had gone to - Yaz had a few choice words to say to the box that apparently had a mind of its own, and for whatever reason the big blue time machine had, was angry at its - her? - Occupants. But the alien was sure that it was in, as she had called it, a "very cross, and unhelpful mood." With little more explanation.

Though, if he had to wager a guess for the reason behind it - he did drink something, and spill some of it (very small amounts!) onto the console. Ryan mused sheepishly.

But he had cleaned it up!

Wherever and whoever the thing was bought from, he thinks, should give her a refund for the moody machine. Even if The Doctor sometimes stared at it with some kind of timeless devotion.

It could think now. It thinks. It was annoyed. According to The Doctor, it always thought. How bonkers.

What he did know, was, that when each of them had left the (sentient, apparently. how wicked.) TARDIS, the four of them dressed to the nines in dark, period fitting clothing, it hadn't materialized somewhere discreet, not that it ever did, he reckoned.

It hadn't landed in some back alleyway; nor in grassy fields - nor empty plains.

It landed in bloody Kensington Palace.

As they stumbled out of the TARDIS, they also so happened to bump into a freckled, full mooned face girl with clothing that made Ryan think she was some kind of servant.

He's never been in a palace before.

Whoever the startled girl had been, they don't really find out, as she scatters away with urgency in her features. But Graham is already in shambles over their circumstance to begin with.

("Oh - I don't even think the TARDIS is worth as much as that painting - Doctor, will you look at that!")

Despite the worry that they might be considered trespassing - which Ryan hasn't properly expressed yet, mainly due to how in awe he is that he was in Kensington Palace in the 19th century to begin with, The Doctor had taken them on a stroll, avoiding any guards - there weren't that many to begin with; hardly any, and it had not been lost on her.

It had been odd - he certainly noticed her piqued interest over it - heard her think out loud over it, and asked a few wandering people about it in her cheery casualness. But it hadn't been cause for concern.

And then, had come trouble. Because of course, there was always that.

When they had turned the fourth consecutive hallway - the forth one that had zero people in it, (though Ryan had personally thought, that maybe - and this was perfectly reasonable to think when you were in the home of fancy privileged white people - that they were all off, somewhere, in a meeting or crowning or something to that degree) they had managed to finally be greeted by another soul.

More specifically; the soul in question had been Queen Bloody Victoria.

He thinks its her. He's definitely googled her before for enough school projects. Even if she looked older than what normally came up. Maybe a decade older than Graham.

Even more specifically; her full on sprinting form, careful to pick up her flowing silk dress, as she ran from something with green tentacles.

Naturally; even though this is definitely something to book it over - The Doctor springs headfirst into the fire.

The thing - he's never seen it before, he's seen plenty of aliens, plenty of monsters, and he's never seen this, was a creature in between a circular shape; and a square - if that was possible. It was an awkward, kind of horrifying, mix of shapes. It was green - snot kind of green, almost translucent - there was definitely an outline of a crumpled body in it.

Its eyes - entirely and completely plural - there were three dozen from its head (he thinks its a head?) down to its waist (again, probably one) dark, like unforgiving coal that had been broken into harsh bits to where all that it really was, was simply just... color. And like a terror beyond comprehension, it had tentacles screaming out and spread out on its body - it didn't have legs; it seemed to get by on them alone.

Its mouth - he was certain it was a mouth, was unhinged - near a trio of eyes on its now probable face. It looked... like a fog. A ghost of something. There was sharpness - pointy, very pointy - but it was almost hidden.

"Uh - Doc..." Graham had walked backwards - standing his ground but very clearly ready to hear the word "run" from anyone. There was apprehension on his face - like Ryan's and Yaz's, but masked by nervousness and wonder at whatever the hell they were looking at. His hat had inexplicably fallen off his head and sunk pathetically to the lavish spiral carpet.

"Doctor - what's the plan?!" Yasmin had bellowed through the inhuman noise - the thing was making noises now - darting her gaze to the sponge color haired traveler next to her - whose gaze was equally taken aback by the scene - but with an awe.

By now Victoria - should he call her something else? She was - is? in this moment - rich and a product of the 19th century, his morals say no - Victoria has gotten closer to them - enough to bolt past them with a survival instinct he didn't think he'd see from someone who seems to be quite old. The Doctor had instinctively made herself seem bigger; using the hand that didn't have her sonic in it, to shield the five against... the alien, (?) and stare down the creature.

"OI! Oh no you don't Flubber! Get back!" Yelled The Doctor, eyeing the thing. She had briefly glanced back at the four; who hadn't made any new reaction at her statement. She frowned.

"Oh come on fam!" She tried. "Flubber? I'm an alien, I can't be the only one who understands it."

From behind Yaz, Graham had hesitantly raised his hand. "I understood it." He admitted, still watching the steadily approaching creature.

The Doctor's face lit up. "Wasn't it a laugh then? Flubber?" It fell again. "Get it, cause it's green and..." She trailed off at their expressions. "You didn't laugh."

"God Almighty!" The Queen had made herself known again, hysterical in tone, but still firmly with them. "Cease your babbling, you failed jester! Destroy the monster! Get rid of it now!"

The Doctor turned back. "Right! No worries, just my wounded hearts - anyways -"

The Doctor once more lifted her sonic, the other alien having only gotten worrying closer - by now, its jaw had lowered, to where it obscured several of its facial eyes. It let out a screech - distorted, almost electrical, like a bad game in a console; and a pulsing noise filled the air as she pointed it in its direction.

For a second, it seemed like the result was nothing. The pulsing continued and continued. The thing crept closer.

And then it stopped - right in its tracks.

There was a noise; a scream, almost. But it was too distorted to really tell.

And then - whatever it was - had combusted. Totally - and utterly; a symphony of destruction, all at once showering the palace with waves of unknown emerald green goo - splattering against the pristine walls, the portraits and furniture. All of its eyes had not suffered the same fate; they simply vanished. A lone tentacle had landed at Ryan's feet, and he had jumped backwards in shocked disgust.

Despite this it didn't connect with them - all of them; that this had ended right then. Yaz still stared at nothingness - eyebrows furrowed and breaths heard and heavy. Graham was still backing away, and The Doctor still clutched firmly to her screwdriver - as if, waiting. And Ryan kept looking at the intact tentacle.

And, Then.

"Good Lord!" Victoria had stirred beside them. "What in the world was that... that... that thing?!"

This thawed the rest of them. The Doctor swirled on her feet - her bewildered - yet eager expression was present as she kneeled beside Ryan's left foot. Wordlessly, she grabbed the tentacle, keeping it distant as she used her sonic and waved it around every inch of it. She brought it back to her face, and had observed whatever the sonic had said. Afterwards, she retraced her steps, bending down to stuff a finger into one of the piles of goo.

And then she... she licked it.

"Ugh! Doctor!" He groaned, eyes squinting. "That's going to get you the alien equivalent of food poisoning."

"Alien?!" Victoria squealed.

"Huh. Can't tell what this is - or was." The Doctor rose again, the goo still on her finger, dripping. "It's not anything i've seen before. Doesn't taste familiar." Mused The Doctor.

"Lick a lot of aliens then, have you Doc?" Remarked Graham, tired.

"Would someone please tell me what is happening - who are you people - where are my guards, and what is that thing!" Yelled Victoria, again.

The Doctor glanced at her, suddenly beaming as she walked over. "Hi! It beats me!" She said cheerfully. "But you're safe now - I think that thing got to your men, and was looking at you for a nice appetizer. Also, hello! You can't recognize me, but we've met! I think? Depends on what year it is. I don't want to assume, you have just been chased down fearing for your saftey. Are you a werewolf yet?" She finished, not stopping for breath as she smiled pleasantly, stretching her hand out for a shake.

Victoria looked like she swallowed a toad.

"A... wolf..." She began. Her eyes looked to the screwdriver. "Did you say your name... was The Doctor?" Victoria finished slowly.

"Nope! But my friends did." Said The Doctor, who looked suddenly sheepish. "I know I look a bit different since we last met; I got an upgrade! But..."

It all felt surreal after that, Although he couldn't understand why, and even though they had just saved her life, Victoria had threatened, with some bad blood directed mysteriously towards the blonde, to get whatever remaining guards she could find and had, and send the four of them to the Tower of London permanently.

It was after this, that, with Graham staring at her with his mouth open, that The Doctor felt it was best to leave. Quickly. Surprisingly; it was only then that they ran.

[count-sudoku]

PLUSH FOLLY

https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/47069947

Illustration by @timeisamanysplendoredthing

Kanaya Maryam was a weaver of threads, a maker of finements. She could craft anything and give it form, spinning materials with the grace given to her by years of perfecting her craft. Anything she made could be molded to spec based on any measurement given to her, and she had never failed in making a garment. Kanaya prided herself on being a "maker."

But she couldn't make her wife not be sick any more.

That task was outsourced to one Dirk Strider, who, after a strange dream involving a meal of meat and/or candy, was inspired to help the Lalonde-Maryams with their problem, a problem involving one half of the wifely pair outgrowing silly childish things such as... Corporeality.

Kanaya sat a the kitchen table, her eyebrows knitted into a look of worry. Her hands were clasped together, fidgeting, filling the room with nervous energy. Dirk seemed immune to Kanaya's nerves, but he looked no less dire. He was leaned faux-nonchalantly against the wall, trying his best not to seem like he was freaking out, but his tense shoulders gave him away.

Next to him, a door led into Kanaya and Rose's shared bedroom, where the sick Lalonde snoozed. Through the cracks in the door, light filtered, but it was not from any lamp. The silence was like a thick quilt. Finally, Kanaya broke it.

KANAYA: How Is She

The question was simple enough, but Dirk didn't have a concrete answer. He figured it didn't matter, Kanaya wouldn't be made any less nervous by anything he had to say.

DIRK: It's hard to say. She definitely still exists, that's for sure, and that's kind of the end goal.

He offered the dry report with as much optimism as he could. He continued, feeling her wait for him to say more.

DIRK: But she's stopped talking, now.

KANAYA: Oh God

KANAYA: That Does Not Sound Ideal

DIRK: Not so much. She's casting these wicked shadows and her eyes are glowing. Normally that would be pretty sick.

DIRK: Like our girl's the new avatar or some shit.

KANAYA: I Would Ask What That Is But I Am Frankly Somewhat Distraught Dirk

Kanaya's hand-wringing was audible, the sound of troll skin sliding against itself was the white noise symphony to the room just outside Rose's, where Dirk was treating her.

KANAYA: I Will Cut To The Chase

KANAYA: What Do We Have To Do To Save My Wife

DIRK: ...

Countenances didn't come more taciturn than Dirk's. His shades obfuscated two orange, tired eyes, but his exhaustion was palpable in every other facet of his visage. He sighed slowly, blowing air through his cheeks. Kanaya bristled. It didn't take much for nerves to twist into annoyance.

KANAYA: Dirk Please My Nerves Are Shot Enough Without Enigmatic Silences

DIRK: It's not easy to say.

KANAYA: Can We Not Build Her A Robotic Frame? Like In The Dream You Were Discussing With Us

DIRK: Not quite. The robot dampened her brains, which, while cute, doesn't sound like the ideal solution. Plus, the way she's developing, it's not even permanent, necessarily. We can't just siphon her consciousness into a robot, that's kiddie shit.

DIRK: We need something more... Lasting. We need a vessel that's more...

Dirk gesticulated vaguely as though trying to find the words to a sensitive topic.

DIRK: Paradoxically sound?

All of this went over Kanaya's head. She felt so useless. It was unfair that something so important to her was seemingly so out of her hands. She was used to fixing things, solving problems, she raised an entire mother grub for crying out loud!

KANAYA: I Do Not Follow

DIRK: We need to put her soul into something that isn't going to fall apart as soon as we stick her in it.

KANAYA: I Am Not Positive I Like Bandying About The Phrase "Sticking Her In It" With Regards To My Wifes Very Being, Dirk

DIRK: That's just it, though. It's her whole being, expanded into the Ultimate Self framework. Putting her into a robot isn't going to cut it. We need...

Dirk took a deep breath. His next words were not easy.

DIRK: A puppet.

Kanaya blinked. She squinted. Dirk had a penchant for stoic jokesterism at inopportune moments, sharing Kanaya's wife's habit for disingenuity, so Kanaya expected Dirk's face to crack at any moment. When it did not, she reiterated.

KANAYA: A "Puppet"

DIRK: A fucking puppet.

It didn't appear to Kanaya that Dirk was joking, and Dirk didn't look too pleased, either.

DIRK: Puppets are notoriously excellent vessels for holding essences. Remember Cal?

KANAYA: I Struggle Daily Not To

The thought of Lil Cal's little grinning face made Kanaya shudder. Dirk ignored her disgust and pressed on.

DIRK: He was a juju, but he was also a puppet, perfect for storing all manner of wicked bullshit inside, souls included. Rose should fit inside a puppet easy. Kanaya swiveled in her seat, glaring at Dirk.

KANAYA: My Wife Is NOT Going To Be Stored In Your Awful Little Grinning Miniature Man Dirk Strider

Dirk held up his hands defensively.

DIRK: I'm not talking about Cal, I'm talking about a new puppet. I'll need some help making it, too.

That was... Sort of a relief? God, Kanaya was going to have nightmares about having to kiss Lil Cal, now...

KANAYA: I...

KANAYA: I Will Be Honest Dirk This Sounds Incredibly Stupid

KANAYA: But

KANAYA: I Want My Wife To Be Able To Live

Dirk chuckled, cracking the tiniest smile.

Kanaya crossed her arms. She didn't know what to think. Her wife's very existence was becoming fundamentally different, it had been in small ways for a long time, and on top of learning that the only solution for containing Rose's new powers was evidently a puppet, Dirk was chuckling at her.

KANAYA: Dirk Please We Discussed The Gravitas Here

DIRK: Sorry. I just get a kick whenever you say "my wife."

KANAYA: That Is What She Is

DIRK: I know.

Dirk had seen other timelines, of course, seen what became of Kanaya and her "wife." He had observed their love last even through unbelieveable adversity and he had seen it torn apart like wax paper with simple words. The desperation with which Kanaya said "My Wife" as though the two syllables were a life raft keeping Kanaya's sanity afloat was not lost on Dirk. In this timeline, things were different. He could see cracks forming between Kanaya and Rose, and he knew Kanya could feel them too. It probably didn't help that one of those cracks was now "being a puppet."

DIRK: We'll get your wife back, Kanaya.

Dirk spoke with a confidence he didn't know if he could back up. It didn't matter. He needed Kanaya in her best shape for this task, and he was willing to seem overconfident to make her feel better.

It was hard to keep herself from not breaking down a little, but Kanaya managed to only sniffle. She nodded as Dirk gave her the only encouraging gesture he knew: A solid fist-bunp, legendary, connecting their knuckles in unblemished tesselation.

DIRK: We need to work fast. Get your sewing kit and get the knitting needles. Basically just dump out your crotchety grandma basket. Upend that shit, Kanaya, you're going to sew your fucking wife a god damned body.

DIRK: Also fuck off, Cal is the man.

Kanaya indeed "upended her grandma basket," arranging the supplies in an orderly pile on the kitchen table. She made it her desk, her bastion against Rose's illness. Dirk dove back into Rose's room to deal with her expanding consciousness while Kanaya grappled with the task at hand. Rose could not inhabit just any puppet. It had to be perfect, it had to be hand-crafted. If she was going to complete this ludicrous task, she had to take it seriously. Kanaya could not merely go to the store to purchase some meaningless felt vessel for her immaculate wife, she was going to make it herself, from scratch, no matter how dire the timing was.

Kanaya began to furiously sketch into the night, staving off sleep with the age-old stimulant: Determination.

Dirk's voice rang in her mind. "We'll get your wife back."

There was a note of relief in Kanya's efforts. She wasn't useless any longer, no longer some hand-wringing wife. Finally, Kanaya had a hand in Rose's recovery. She was a "maker," and she would do what she did best: Make. She would make her Rose her very own body.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Can we please have more of HRH, pretty please??🙇‍♀️

Previously:

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations| Part VII: Magnolias

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part VIII: Schoolmates

Frank had called for her.  Fraser had walked away.  Claire had steeled herself, attempting to assemble her face into as neutral of an expression as she could manage under the circumstances. Shoulders straightened and teeth gritted together, fingers clenching intofists before relaxing, she was doing the best she could.

Claire saw him round the corner of the palace, jogging down thesloping green hill in athletic shorts and a polo. He was almost breathless when he reached her, grinning.

“Just grabbed a quick game of tennis withsome friends over on the –– Claire…” his voice trailed off just as he kissed her cheek, his lips coming away salty. “What is it?”

“Nothing you shouldworry yourself over,” she said a little too quickly, accepting thehandkerchief that he removed from his back pocket.

While she had notexpected him to wipe tears from her eyes (it was just not his style), but something about the impersonalityof the gesture made her breath catch. Her heart was still breaking a few dozen meters behindher in the stables, but she was trying to grab onto it and pull it back intoher body. With a little internal coaching, she reminded herself that she had no right to criticize any of this man’sgestures.

“Are you okay?”

She heard the grindingroar of a motorcycle start behind her and concentrated on dabbing the innercorners of her eyes. It was the truth when she spluttered out: “Just sayinggoodbye.”

“Ah, the horse.”

She reached for Frank’shand, swallowing back the urge to lie. “Why don’t we get cleaned up for ourmeal?”

His thumb traveled over the back of her hand. She was sure he meant as a reassuring gesture, “Let’s.”

____________________________________

“I knew your sister,” the man said by way of introduction, hishand warm in hers. Claire’s heart hammered.

“How?”

“Schoolmates. She was a lovely, warm child.” Inspecting his facefor even a trace of insincerity and finding none, her posture relaxed only infinitesimally.“It was devastating. Her loss. Your parents’ loss, too, of course.”

“Of course,” she echoed, mind reeling.

At night, when she closed her eyes, she could see Ann’s face.She could smell the floral-sweet scent of Ann’s sheet of blonde hair. It fellpin-straight to the middle of her back. Their mother used to fuss over Ann’s hairin a way that tinted Claire’s vision green with jealousy. Teasing Claire hadbeen one of Ann’s favorite pastimes –– her hair, her teeth, her soft pudge her elbows. Claire remembered little else of her sister and it disgusted herto recall only the superficial (the look of her) and the darkness (thesuperiority, the way she laughed at Claire’s expense).

Her memory of Ann was pathetic and ill-formed. Claire regularlycombed her memory looking for fragments to piece into a narrative about their sibling relationship. Shelonged for someone else to be in front of her in the line of succession. A long lost sister or brother or cousin (someone to surface who could assert a colorable claim that Lamb had an uncharacteristic indiscretion). She knew neither of these things would happen.

So Ann dwelled, cast in shadows, in her subconscious. Continuing to tease Claire.

The man sounded fairly abashed when he said, “I am terribly sorry, ma’am. I should not have raised it.”

Closing her eyes, Claire consciously set the thought of Ann ona shelf in one of the far-flung parts of her mind that she rarely touched. Collected, shesmiled.  “It is fine, Mister….”

He bowed but did not take his eyes off of her. “Captain FrankRandall, your majesty.”  

The unusual intensity of the look pulled something tight in herbelly. 

Captain Frank Randall was a man on a mission. She was not so naive as not to know that the mission had something to do with her.

Later that night, Lamb pulled her aside. “It is not anaccident that Captain Randall is here, love.” Breath hitching, she had nodded. She had figured as much. “Nothingwould give me more comfort than to know that you are cared for.”

“But what if I don’t want to be cared for?”

Lamb took his niece’s elbow, almost so gentle that she could not feelit. “When I die, the wolves will descend upon you. Do you understand? Ahusband, a family. The promise of those things will protect you, insulate youfrom scrutiny like what I faced.”

“I don’t understand how to do this,” she had whispered, pullingher elbow away from Lamb as she looked to Frank. “I mean, to do this to accomplish someend and to be…”

Lamb gave her a sympathetic look. “Happy?”

She nodded, knowing that he did not know either.

____________________________________

Claire swallowed away thetang of the memory with a sip from her glass. The red wine tasted almostdirty on her tongue –– too earthy and almost stale.

Dining with Frank thatnight was a quiet affair.

The dining room’sstillness was undisturbed but for a well-mannered symphony of forks, spoons,and knives. The sound of cutlery scraping across plates and tapping on the lipsof soup bowls made the hairs on the backs of Claire’s hands stand at attention.

Looking at Frank fromacross the table, his disgust only thinly veiled he cut fat away from his meat,Claire thought and thought about the word to best describe the atmosphere.  All she was able tocome up with was “mausoleum.”

Seemingly out ofnowhere, Frank commented, “You would like Egypt.”

His voice was a littletoo loud for their tomb and it echoed, making her feel as though she could jumpout of her own skin.

“I have been to Egypt.” She stared at him. Itwas something that even Jamie Fraserknew about her. He had marveled as they rode one night, asking her about thepyramids and making soft, impressed noises that had made her smile.

“Have you really?” Frank asked, taking a long drawfrom a glass of wine and motioning with his hand that he would likeanother.  The bottle was barely out ofhis reach and she shook her head as one of the dining room staff approachedhim.

‘Just get it yourself!’ she wanted to shriek.  Instead, she said, “Leave us.”

Frank snorted. Herdirective had been a little shorter than intended and the attendant visibly shifted inside of his jacket.

Steadying her breath,she smiled just a little before averting her glance to the dining room attendant. She raised her eyebrows and added, “Please.”

“Of course, ma’am,” theman mumbled under his breath, casting his eyes down as he shuffled out of theroom. She could tell that he was moving with alacrity and attemptingto keep his footsteps light. She hated this–– people watching her at all times. She hated herself for it.

Claire rose from herchair, wiping at her mouth with a linen napkin as she strode towardsFrank.  Picking up his wine glass andswirling it meaninglessly in the air by the stem, Frank smirked. “You havescared the dickens out of that poor man.”

“I did not intend to,”Claire said blandly, filling his glass with a generous hand. “Doyou not ever wish for things to be just normal?”

“Darling,” he drawled,drawing the glass to his nose and inhaling deeply. His eyes closed with thekind of pretension she found utterly distasteful. “I have lived normal. An entire lifetime of it. Then nine monthsof it in a prison camp in what seemed to me to be an endless winter. No. I do not wish for normal.”

“Would you say that youare chronically disinterested in normal?” she asked, narrowing her eyes andresting her weight on the table.

Raising an eyebrow,Frank looked down at where her linen dress was dangerously close to his soilednapkin. “I would say that one can garner a lot of insight into her majesty’sstate of mind from the mere fact of her asking the question.”

Huffing a little and rolling her eyes, Claire took the wine glass from his hand. “I am going to ask youa question. With all sincerity.”

“Oh goodie.” He leaned back into his chair,crossing his ankle over his knee.

He was playing a game with her.

“Why are you going toScotland with me?”

Licking his lips, hehad a long look at her. “You really are an enigma to me, Claire. We have beentogether for a while and yet, I find you a difficult riddle to solve.”

“As an initial matter,I am not someone’s puzzle to solve. Not yours, not anybody’s.”

“Come now, I think weboth know that is not true.” 

Clicking his tongue, he leaned forward and grabbedthe small, monogramed silver cigarette case that he carried everywhere. It was one she bought for him afterhe proposed to her –– a public affair where he looked over his shoulder at acamera before he looked at her. He turned it over and over in his hand. 

“Ihear that you have been having a dalliance with the strapping Scottish stable lad.”

She lost herself for amoment –– hand fluttering to the collar of her dress, the apples of her cheekswarming, her tongue darting out to wet suddenly-parched lips. Judging from thesmirk on Frank’s face, it was enough of a moment for him to see right through her.

“Well, so it is true,then.”

“I would not call it adalliance.”

“How interesting,”Frank mused, opening the cigarette case and drawing a single hand-rolledcigarette out. “There was a time when I would have killed a man to see thatlook on your face. What has he done?”

She did not believe him.  She did not believe for a second that he had ever had it in his sights to make her truly happy, to create a life. She had been a challenge to be won and he had. 

“You did not answer myquestion.”

“You, my dear, did notanswer mine.” Sighing, she finished the glass of wine in a single pull. “Yourposture. It is atrocious, Claire.”

She suddenly needed an answer more than she needed air.  “Scotland. Why?” 

From the curve of a smile ghosting on his lips, she knew she would be forced to ask again and again.  “Did you know that theyare printing calendars with our photograph on it?”  

Frank placed a cautious hand on her shin, justat the hemline of her skirt. His fingers were warm as they moved up, brushingover the curve of her knee. 

“Were you aware that the preparations for our honeymoon areunderway? Touring the far reaches of your kingdom and such. Imagine the jobs that have been created just so you can go on a little trip.”

Cold sweat broke outalong her sternum –– collecting along the curve of her breasts and in the cupsof her bra. Her tongue was dry when she said, “I had heard about the calendars.”

“Kings. Queens.  Princes. Princesses. Nobility. All to come see the big show in a few shortmonths. State dinners are planned with any number of foreign dignitaries after we marry. Of course yours truly is expected by your side.”

It was all true. Sheswallowed the realization of it over the  –– the things to be undone if she were to sayshe was finished, that this relationshipshe was in was not going to work. His hand crawled up her inner thigh.

“How in the world do we undo all of that?”

“I did not say anything about undoing it.”  The idea of undoing it was new to her, though her distaste for it had been a long-standing, niggling feeling at the back of her mind.

“You asked aboutScotland. Well, there are appearances to keep up, which you know as well as Ido. Whisky. Golf. Cigars. Parties. Imagine the spectacle of canceling all of it”

“Right,” shesaid, pursing her lips and studying his face. “Beyond the work… theCrown’s duties… why are you coming to Scotland?”

“It is what we areexpected to do.”

Hesitating, she wonderedif she had to tell him about Fraser as a matter of transactional fairness. It was a strangefeeling. To have a heart so full of business that she found herself consideringwhether it was part of her duty to disclose material facts to the man she wasto marry.  As if he were buying a property where the basement had a habit of flooding during a hard rain or a car where the second gear stuck.

She passed the winebottle under the nose, shrugged, and emptied more than a few gulps intoFrank’s wine glass. Flavorless now, it drained down her throat easily, but did nothing toquench the thirst that was closing her throat.

“Your dalliance.  Your Scot. I truly do not care, Claire. Provided our children do not have red hair, I could not give a single fuck less who you let into your bed.”

The tips of his fingers tented her dress as they crept up over her knickers, drawing a meandering line. His thumb hooked in the waistband before pressing into the soft, fleshy part of her lower belly.

“And something tells me that you, my dear, are going to look the other way if I let other women into mine.”

The world blurred, the stillness of the mausoleum threatened only by the pounding of her own heart (in her ears, her throat, her chest, her stomach, between her legs). The part socialized to love one person, to make a life wanted to vomit, to hit him, to cry, to scream. Another part of her found itself considering his statement.

Well into the night, Claire tiptoed out of her bedroom and stole into Uncle Lamb’s library –– the one area of the palace that she had demanded not be disturbed after his death. It smelled of him –– over-sweet like pipe tobacco, clean. She dug until she found a copy of the book that had been open on Fraser’sdesk earlier that week. Tolstoy. 

She read until dawn, her fingers troubling one page and her lipsmoving soundlessly over the words she read over and over again:

I wanted movement andnot a calm course of existence. I wanted excitement and danger and the chanceto sacrifice myself for my love. I felt in myself a superabundance of energywhich found no outlet in our quiet life.

The ink of the words rosefrom the paper and melted into her, becoming a tattoo on her softest parts.

There was no outlet.

[indecent-lemon]

“Can you come out now?”

Featuring Kit and Ty

Based on this post by @themortalfckup

Guess who’s writing again? Thank you to everyone who stuck by me || Sorry if it’s a bit rusty || also this kinda took forever because there was a ton of re-editing

Ty pandered his family asking for Christopher’s whereabouts. The Lost Herondale seemed to disappear from Tiberius’ sight the second he took his slate-gray eyes off of him. And then return hours later, peachy, not mentioning what he did. This was the third time Kit had done this and Ty had to admit—he was pissed.

He pondered whether this was just some social tell he didn’t grasp. He thought of asking Julian for help but What does it mean when a person leaves you for three hours only to come back for Netflix and attention? didn’t sound right.

He came to Dru’s door. The last person he’d ask before retreating to his dull and Kit-less room to mess with a rubik’s cube. Everyone else had given him answers ranging from “No” to “No”. They were already sick of it. But Dru, she still gave replies that were longer than one syllable. He knocked.

“Before you say anything, I haven’t seen where the blonde brat went! But I do know that Kit is a jerk”, she yelled from the other side of the door.

Ty felt a spark of protectiveness in the midst of his irritability. For all Kit had done, he deserved to be called a brat and a jerk but Ty couldn’t help but to feel bad.

He backed away from her room. He thought of getting his throwing arm ready to chuck the Rubik’s cube at Kit’s head when he heard a muffled, whiny noise from downstairs.

“Shut up, Dru. I’m going through some things right now. Let me live.”

Ty couldn’t believe it. It was Kit’s voice.

Ty hopped the stairs, two steps at a time. Then, he crept up to where he believed the boy was hiding. He flung open the cupboard. His nose wrinkled at what he was beholding.

There was Kit Herondale, hair unkempt, eyes puffy and glistening, cookie crumbs across his mouth and shirt. He held a family pack of Chips Ahoy close to his chest.

Ty stared for a a good minute then said, “What the hell?”

Kit turned in shame, “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Ty rolled his eyes and gingerly grabbed the cookies from Kit. He held out a hand yet the other boy wasn’t looking.

Ty sighed, “Can you come out now?”

Kit peeked at Ty through his crumby hands. “I’m gay.”

“I meant out of the cupboard. You’ve been in there crying for two days.”

With a mixed expression of shock and disgust, Kit clutched Ty’s hand. Sending electricity through their fingertips as Kit’s feet hit the floor.

Ty went off, “Why would you do something like this? I thought we were friends! Best friends.”

Kit’s eyes were like wet saucers and his his lip quivered frightfully. Suddenly, Kit burst outside, wiping at his eyes, sprinting on the beach.

In that instant, Ty’s anger began to disappitate and what Kit had just said soaked in. A wave of remorse hit him. Kit must’ve thought that Ty hated him! Pressured him to reveal who he was and hated him for being who he was.

He too dashed out. Hoping to catch up with The Lost Herondale before he went too far. Soon Tiberius skid in front of him. Kit tried to escape but he was blocked.

“What do you want? I know you think I’m scum and not just because I’m gay”, he cried. He added in a whisper, “And it’s mostly my fault.”

Ty shook his head vigourosly. “No, no, no. I don’t think you’re scum. I think you’re far from it. Earlier, when I was yelling, I was mad at the fact that you’ve been ignoring me. I didn’t hear the part pertaining to your sexuality. I mean, I heard but I wasn’t listening. I mean, I listened but…”

Kit interrupted and Ty was grateful. “So you don’t hate me. And back in the house, you were talking about something else. I get that but do you accept me?”

There was a longing in his eyes. “Of course I do”, Ty declared without pause.

The boys found themselves strolling along the beach. Gulls screeched to the symphony of waves crashing against shore and the little excited noise Kit made in the back of his throat when salt water sprayed his face.

Ty asked, “Why were you avoiding me?”

Kit pouted, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his gaze at his feet. “A couple days ago, I started to think about Magnus and Alec, Helen and Aline. Gay couples in the shadow world who’ve been through hell at the hands of the Clave. And…I like girls but what if I don’t end up loving one? What if I end up loving a boy? It reminded me of Livvy. We…”

Ty nodded, “I know.”

Frown lines were etched into both of their faces. Kit continued, “And now she’s dead and I couldn’t bring myself to look at you very long.”

Something tugged at Ty’s heart. It pulled so hard as if it wanted his aorta would split like licorice.

Tears built up and choked Christopher. “Because I liked Livvy but I love you. What am I supposed to do with that love? Suffer?”

Ty was aghast. He had just witnessed a boy have a breakdown. Ty was never good at handling emotions, especially his own. He rubbed his own hands for confidence. He used to be able to wind his fingers in sandy blonde hair and gaze into sky-blue irises for reassurance but he wasn’t the one in need at that moment.

Slowly and steadily, he approached Christopher. The Herondale inched away from him with every step as if he were too undignified to be near him. But Ty spoke softly of a one-sided conversation. About everything he admired about the most mundane shadowhunter he’d ever met.

Soon, Kit found himself backed onto the wall of a boulder but there was no self-loathing in his expression. Just want, a tender mellow. Both of them examined the other with clear vision. Sand, grit, and crumbs were in unusual places, Kit had a tiny seashell stuck on his face, Ty had an lash in his eye. They had never been so close.

Ty cupped the sides of Kit’s flushed cheeks and for a moment their gazes met. Then Ty’s lips were pressed to Kit’s. He could feel his breath hitch in the back of his throat as opened his mouth just a bit more. Enough for Ty to taste the salt from his tears, the sugar from his cookies. Enough for Ty to understand how truly soft and pink his lips were. Enough for Ty to understand that his heart was beating the speed of sound, the roar of the heartbeat thrummed in his ears along with the crash of the waves.

When Ty pulled away he realized that Kit was still spilling tears, except a tentative smile accommodated it.

Kit held Ty’s hand like it was the world. He inquired, “That wasn’t a pity kiss, right?”

Ty shook his head. “Kit, to answer your earlier question, you won’t suffer. We won’t suffer if we don’t let them torture us.”

Kit pecked Ty’s hand. “I am ever grateful for your friendship, Sir Blackthorn. I love you.” He bowed.

Ty raised an eyebrow, “You should work on your Middle English”, nonetheless he settled that it was simply a sweet gesture. He replayed the “I love you” in his head, trying hard not to blush or awkwardly throw his arms around Christopher.

Kit announced loudly, “Thou shan’t insult a Herondale! We are known to smite thee.”

Ty snorted. “By eating thou’s entire stash of sweets?”

“Rude. It’s an affliction. My chocoholic nature is kind of hereditary.”

They boys decided to spend the rest of the afternoon at the beach, something Ty had never really done before. Wading in the water, playing tag, Kit getting in an altercation with a crab until the sky set a tangerine tone.

Watching sundown, something tendered in them. Some unstoppable force brought them hand in hand with a mutual understanding that “best friend” was no longer a suitable title.

They came home to Dru was watching a horror movie on the couch. She looked them over once and said, “You’re welcome.”

Ty asked, “For what?“

“I brought you two together.”

Kit added, “By insulting me.”

Dru showed no sign of guilt. She just smirked and Kit felt an entirely new respect for her…and fear. Who knew what she was capable of?

tl;dr — Dru’s awesome, Kit and Ty are in lOvE, Kit’s out of the closet and into the cupboard

I love ma babes but you should read the whole thing ;)

[itfandomsecretsanta]

A Gift For You

Reddie/Platonic Steddie (2017 Version) for Bailey, @reddie-to-rock from @legen-waitforit-derry

Happy Holidays, Bailey! I hope you enjoy this small fic I wrote for you and I apologise for any mistakes I made and didn’t notice in advance! Enjoy!

Derry really wasn’t a beautiful place by any means. Sure it had its perks with the Quarry or the green hills behind the Uris house, but Eddie Kaspbrak was sure no one would call Derry of all places wonderful or even breathtaking. He himself begged to differ when wintertime came. Especially with everything covered by a white duvet of snow. Even the muddy grounds of the Barrens appeared to be straight out of a painting. Yes, in this time of the year even he appreciated this wretched town that had done him so many wrongs already. A-aachoo! Wearing a miserable expression Eddie grabbed another tissue from his nightstand. Why did he have to get sick just now? Wistfully, he glanced out of the window, where the swirling snowflakes reminded him of what he’d miss. 

Of course Stan had promised to visit sometimes, but due to his Dad being the Rabbi the Uris family, including their son, were pretty much occupied in this stressful time of the year. Hanukkah had to be perfect. Just like everything had to be perfect for Rabbi Uris. Sometimes Eddie thought he was the reason behind Stan being so keen on having everything structured and neat, but he knew that this was a topic his friend was prone to avoid. So he opted for silent support, by structuring their movie nights together to the point. At first their evenings together had been more of convenience. Funnily enough Stan was the only one of his friends his mother somewhat approved of. Richie with his dirty jokes and passes on her was deemed the worst. Though Bill with his blooming phantasy -“that would certainly mean danger one day, Eddie you know that!”-was even more of a threat to her fragile little boy.

But soon enough it became a tradition and he’d never expected to see the quieter boy so outgoing -he had been Richie’s best friend of course he had to be snarky- still he was surprised at how much Stan came out of his shell when it was just the two of them. Their relationship was different than to the other boys, Bill was wordlessly deemed their impeccable leader and Richie would never admit any weakness. Just joke about it and the problem would vanish. 

Everybody seemed to be rushing anywhere in this time of the year. Not that Eddie couldn’t relate to this. He’d secretly looked forward to certain activities with his friends too. The four of them always spent winter holidays together. Despite Richie’s bragging that he’d not be available in the future. Even thinking back he rolled his eyes, his muscles tensing slightly. Last year Richie had claimed he’d just be taking a mistletoe with him and get the one he liked to make out with him. Stan and Bill had mocked him for it. Eddie had remained quiet. A strange feeling building up in the pit of his stomach.

Anyways, despite that feeling he had been certain that the four of them would be doing their usual activities this year too. And really looked forward to them. Not particularly the Snowball Fights, truthfully he despised them. Partly, because he never really got the hang out of forming stabile ones like Richie could. - The bespectacled boy had of course offered to teach him, but he hated being always seen as the weak one, the small child who needed help and couldn’t do anything on his own. And partly because getting hit in the face with a snowball was just so disgusting, unsanatary, not nice. The activity he’d miss the most this year however, would be sleighriding.

The boys, Bill, Stan, Richie and himself, had started this tradition when they were eight on the hills behind Stan’s house. All four of them had squeezed on the big sleigh Mrs. Denbrough gave them with a smile and the order to have fun. And boy, did they. So much that they begged Mrs. Denbrough to let them borrow the sleigh almost every day until the remains of snow had drastically decreased and they struggled to slide down with the grass underneath the runner. But they had taken up that  new activity the year after that, and the year after that and… it had obviously become a nice tradition. Though with all the boys growing, especially Richie and Bill who were towering over him now, they couldn’t fit on one sleigh anymore. Not without countless bruises and people falling off during the ride. So last year, they had agreed to team up for  sleighriding.

When Stan asked Eddie to be his partner, Richie had cheekily cut in, using his favourite voice at the time, a poor attempt of an Irish police officer: “Notch so fast, Staneyboy. Ya’re not a man yet like Bill and I are. So it’s only logical dat it’s always a small'one”, he gestured to Eddie and Stan, “and a big man together.”

Stan had snorted, “My name literally rhymes with man and that’s closer to being one than you’ll ever be.” - “Oh is Stan the Man pissed off? I’ll prove you how much of a man I am. I can just show you my wa-”, Richie promptly retorted. Oh no. When Stanley and Richie had really started bickering they were hard to break up. Sometimes Eddie wondered how they had become such close friends despite their clashing personalities, but then again maybe that’s what friendship was all about. Being able to put up with each others shit. Stan and Richie were the prime example of that.

Fortunately, Bill had recognized the problem before it escalated and interrupted Richie: “Wanna join my team, Stan?”, he suggested, shooting an apologising look to Eddie who was stuck with Richie now, “first team at the sleigh gets the first ride”

And really Bill’s nonverbal apology was expendable. Pressed against Richie’s chest, the taller boy holding him close, he felt as safe as he never did before, all the while enjoying the sentiment of freedom with the wind blowing in their reddened faces. Bliss. From them on Eddie voluntarily rode with Richie. Not that anybody else minded. Still a certain shift in their friendship had occurred that day, something that none of them could exactly pinpoint, it was simply just there. And so Eddie saw Richie less as the annoying Trashmouth he’d occasionally complain about to Stanley and more as somebody who he’d be free with and still feel protected. Someone who didn’t treat him like a fragile doll, but honestly cared for him nonetheless.

For sure, things hadn’t changed that much. It was just Richie and he’d never admit the way his heartbeat accelerated when he leaned against his chest. Only due to the adrenaline he told himself. But the feeling stayed the same when their hands brushed in the movies, reaching for popcorn or when the taller boy wrestled him down in a play fight -always carefully though.

And overall, Eddie just really longed for another sleighride with Richie where it wouldn’t be weird or weak to snuggle up to the other boy. Miserably, he coughed. Well, he could forget about that now. Outside of his window the snowflakes were still dancing to a symphony he was forbidden from perceiving inside. He sighed. His Mum would be home soon. Which meant more medicine. And she had already alluded that the bitter liquid whose name he couldn’t pronounce would be one of those. 

He briefly considered not taking any of that. But that just wouldn’t do. “You need your medicine, my boy” His mother constantly reminded him of that. He was ripped out of his thoughts by a loud tapping noise. For a second he thought it must have been his mother and chuckled at the imagination of her climbing up to his window. The laughing soon enough turned into a coughing fit though. He really hated being sick. He thought while standing up to open the window.

“Stan?” He called, but realised his mistake before he even finished  the name. “Oh Richie.” A quick look of hurt flashed over his friend’s face, but Richie quickly masked it with a big smile and a joke:“ Were you expecting someone else, Eds? Now I’m always glad to see you get some, but you could do much better than Stan the Man.” He propped himself down on Eddie’s bed, ditching his wet shoes at the window.

Before, Eddie could even open his mouth for a retort, Richie had impulsively layed his hand onto his forehead. A concerned expression evident on his face: “Damn, Eds. You’re so hot!” Eddie winked despite himself: “I know, thanks”, he couldn’t help but making the inevitable joke, though he find a certain irony in being the one to make it. Instead of laughing like Eddie expected him to, Richie just went beet red. “Yeah..right…as if”, he stammered awkwardly.

Just as Eddie was about to make some remark to deter the strange awkwardness. Richie, who was never at loss for words, for once speechless astonished him. The weird pause didn’t last that long however. And soon enough his taller friend snapped back to his usual bubbly self. Though his cheeks were still slightly flushed, but Eddie didn’t doubt that his own face was tinged in a pink tone too.

“Here”, Richie said more quietly than usual, while handing him a golden box. At Eddie’s raised eyebrows, he impatiently motioned for him to look inside: “I swear there’ nothing in there that jumps out at you, though that’d be fun, I should try it with Stan…”, he started muttering to himself. His focus was on Eddie again, when the smaller boy carefully lifted the lid. “Uhh…biscuits?” The confusion on his face was clearly evident.

In his excitement Richie completely overlooked it though. “Yeah! And here’s also another present, but it’ll melt so it doesn’t really count. I’m bringing you something for every day of pre-X-mas fun you’ll miss while staying inside!”, he announced with a proud smile, “But you see… I was baking these myself with an old recipe from grandma…her handwriting was really sloppy, so I might have had it in for a bit too long.”, unhappily he glanced down at the partly burnt treats. “I brought you some snow too though. So you can exercise making snowballs.”, he piped up quickly with a wink. “You’ll need it if you want to have a chance at beating me next year.”

Eddie coughed. Overwhelmed with the wave of information. “Just shut up, Richie and let me thank you for the biscuits.” The smaller boy rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help feeling giddy at the sweet gesture. “And what are you gonna bring me in the next few days?”, he pondered aloud, “I can’t think of that many things Christmas related.”

Richie winked at him once again. “Maybe I’ll get your Mum to let you out earlier. I’m sure if I gave her a kiss…” He grimaced at Richie’s sorry  attempt of a joke. “Alright well, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, Eds! In fact, I’ve already gotten your object for tomorrow with me right now, but you’ll only get it after you’ve had a good nice rest today.”

Eddie tried. He really tried his best at glaring at the other boy, he knew how impatient Eddie could be, especially with surprises and still he had to tease him like that. But he found himself unable to. Richie Tozier just looked so mischievious and joyful and pretty. Pretty? Yes, somehow in just this particular lighting with that familiar expression on his face he was allowed to consider his friend pretty. He was sick after all.

“Is that supposed to be your angry face?”, Richie promptly laughed, “Cause it’s not working. You’re way too cute, Eds.” He reached over to ruffle his hair, only for the smaller boy to groan. “Don’t call me Eds! Richie how often…”

He interrupted his own sentence, when Richie stood up. “As much as I’d love to hear your rant, I’ve got to go now. Church calls for its best sinner”, he rolled his eyes, “Hope you enjoy your presents though” Richie had already moved to the window during his explanations. “Wait!”, Eddie called out, too loud seeing as the irritating scratch in his throat made its presence known once more. Expectatantly, Richie walked back towards Eddie’s bed. With a small gesture Eddie beckoned him to come closer. And he surprised both of them when he spread out his arms to pull the bespectacled boy into a hug. “Thank you”, he softly spoke in Richie’s ear. Their chests pressed against each other in the tight embrace. It should have been somewhat uncomfortable, but Eddie who was focussing on Richie’s bodies against his didn’t want to let go nonetheless. Against all expectations it was Richie who pulled back, after first relaxing into the hug. “Eddie, no! The germs!”

Utterly caught off guard by that explanation the sick boy was quick to pull back. His hands sweaty. Not from the fever. And his face equally as pink as Richie’s. “I’m sorry. Hope you don’t get sick ‘cause of me.”, he apologized guiltily.

Richie stared at him in confusion. He had leaned over him on his bed as a result of his more quiet voice. “What-? No! I mean my germs. You really must be sick! Otherwise you wouldn’t let me anywhere near you like that!” At this Eddie let out a relieved chuckle. Richie really was much more considerate than he would have assumed before.

With a smirk on his lips he replied: “I’m pretty sure there are no germs left on your body, with all the trash in your mouth.” Strangely enough all the talk of bacteria didn’t get him as anxious as usual, but maybe that was also because of Richie being so close to him. His eyes piercing into his skull. “Good one”, his friend gratulated him. “I know”, Eddie piped up, feeling confident with their usual banter. Still he calmly breathed in before daring to ask the next question: “So are you going to accept your thank you hug, or not?”

With a brightly flushed head, Richie nodded fast. And so they found themselves in a long-lasting embrace again. Truly, something he couldn’t have hoped for this Christmas. Maybe this year it wouldn’t be that bad despite his illness.

What ensured him in that was a small but meaningful discovery he had made, shortly after Richie had left for church with a considerable lateness. A small green twig under the blanket of his bed, adorned with a nice ribbon. A mistletoe. And the small paper bound to it saying “Merry X-mas, Eds”. It made him sure of what was to come. Oh Tozier. Don’t think I don’t know what you had planned. Strangely, enough he didn’t even mind the imagination that much. Somehow a warmth had spread in his body that didn’t stem from his illness at all. Save to say he was definitely looking forward to Richie’s next  visit. Maybe, just maybe he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t suppress the urge to to smile whenever he did as much as think about the other boy.

[jacewilliams1]

A glider with no tail? I flew one

My search for a flying wing sailplane ended with the purchase of N86TX and its relocation to Hangar 115 in New Braunfels, Texas (my brother’s three-car garage). For the next several months he, with help from my cousin Rayford and my father Tom, did the remaining 30% of the work to get the sailplane to a finished state and ready for inspection.

I called the FAA and they sent an inspector over. For four hours, I answered questions from Mr. John Irwin on just about everything you could think of. “Where is the engine? Where is the fuel tank? Where is the nav system? Where is the EGT? Where is the rubber band to launch it?” Not really; he was nice and very professional and I appreciated every nut and bolt he checked. My brother Buddy passed and this is his recollection of N86TX. In his memory, I post his version of “Our Wing.”

Buddy’s Story

I have known my only older brother all my life—TV producer, private pilot, sailplane pilot, Hobie Cat owner, AMX owner (a rare sport vehicle), and recently a flying wing owner. He lives about fours hours away by ground transport so he contacted me on a 30-minute communiqué via satellite. I got this excited and almost unintelligible conversation that conveyed the following, where I did manage to pick out the basics:

He wanted me to travel about 50 miles to look at a “Mar-ski” flying wing. Yeah, right! I was thinking, “Not another radio controlled project!”

Check it out to see if it is capable of being finished. (Now I knew the real reason for the call: I get to finish it).

Send pictures so he can consider the purchase of same. This could be a profit center for me if I could just bill him travel time. I had all the mechanical aptitude and inventiveness, the workshop to support the project, and a massive Snap-On roll-a-round with all the required tools. I also had four years in the Air Force as a weapons system technician and a year in AC-130 Gunships—and big brother has a really big selective service number and the time and resources to fly. Ain’t it always the case!

I grabbed my favorite traveling buddy, Ray Silkwood, fired up the weekend road warrior (a 1972 Blazer with a more than stock power plant), and took to the road on the first free morning for all involved.

The backup reason for the excursion was a stop at several of my favorite pawn shops and secondhand tool stores, just in case this was another Piper Cub in need of several years’ worth of annuals, lots of navel jelly, and a whole lot of rat poison.

Now what???

We located the correct driveway and rumbled in… There it was… .

There was this little bitty cockpit and these massively long wings and it was all supposed to be stuffed in this crafty little trailer.

My first thought was, “how am I going to get the entire 50-foot wing into that itty-bitty trailer?”

My second thought was, “if there is just a little bit left to do to make this bird flight-worthy, how come my brother said it was only 70 percent complete?”

My third thought was, “how come it was not complete and not flying?”

Ray and I tore through the inspection covers like a “Tim Allen modified Binford ten horse shop vac” and found almost nothing wrong with the interior of this really unique looking, stubby little flying wing. It did not have a motor or a visible means of pitch control but it did have a conventional stick and rudder.

I was thinking, “Maybe I can put in a Rotax and gear it to push a prop through the hand crafted gear reduction linear inter-digitized rectabular extrusion three-to-one… nah, maybe not!”

Paint was not great but adequate—basic white with a really poor red stripe job.

Again I was thinking, “Maybe some ghosted flames in neon green with a false flying tigers shark teeth in matching yellow along the canopy … nah, maybe not!”

The instruments needed a little TLC. The panel was really basic and the interior was pretty functional except for the bicycle handle grips on the spoiler and stick–maybe a porcelain gearshift knob would fit.

One thing had to go, though: those stupid looking trailer wheels. (Maybe a Boyd’s inverted-finger wing-three spoker with center covers… Yeah, that will do it!)

Sure as there is ridge lift in the Rockies, I didn’t get to stop off and see any of my favorite pawn shops.

I ended up with this little sweetie in my workshop and a promise from my brother to come down on the weekends to “help me a little” with the process of getting this bird flight-certified.

So with Ray, my dad Thomas M., and my only older brother and this Mar-Ski flying wing in my front yard, we started off what was to be a great part of life for me and my only older brother.

Next day was a wash job, complete inspection of every moving part, and an agreement that the PVC pipe bushings in the wing ribs (installed to ease the friction on the push tubes) had got to go. The noise of aluminum tubes and PVC rubbing when aileron was actuated was like a fingernail on chalkboard symphony!

Nine weeks later and with just a few hundred drops of red and white corpuscles on the shop floor, the FAA inspector was in my workshop and spending time with my older brother to determine if all of Irwin’s and my work was government-approved or not.

I watched with amazement as document after document and photograph after photograph were detailed with more conflagration of verbiage than the control tower at O’Hare has ever heard.

Needs a little TLC, as they say.

Sure enough, after an hour or so the inspector had to 10-100 and the pow-wow between me, my Dad, and my only older brother centered on how we were going to have to deal with this inspector to get the ticket we needed.

Back he came and he wanted to see the wing disconnected. Mind you, we had spent several hours in the early morning sweating the process of getting the wings all aligned perfectly and this guy wanted me to remove a wing!

So with a little banter about the time this might take and a raised eyebrow of disgust on my part, I agreed to allow this government inspector to view the ballet of professionalism required to dismantle a single wing.

I found out that when he spoke to me he was a pretty nice guy who really liked my workmanship and was fully satisfied with the inspection process – and signed on the dotted line and it was all over!

My little sweetie had official governmental approval for N86TX to be stenciled on my… my only older brother’s bird.

Lloyd’s Story

One early Saturday morning in mid-April of that year, I rolled over and asked my wife to attend the test flight of my flying wing. She was up and was ready almost as fast as I was. What a blessing to have such a cool and supportive wife!

We could read the thoughts in their eyes: “You’re not going to get me in that thing!” Several walked around to the rear of The Wing and one said, ” Where’s the rest of the tail? This thing can’t fly!”

I asked if I had any volunteers for testing. Immediately there was a mass exodus to the coffee lounge. With the parachute, we did another weight and balance check and all was well. As I walked to the FBO at 9am to use the facilities, I overheard one instructor telling another that planes without engines don’t fly very well. He continued, “You are too busy worrying about where to land to enjoy the flying.” Boy, is he wrong.

I have to admit that for many nights prior to the flight I had gone through the checklist over and over. I imagined every possible scenario and even wrote a detailed test program with emergency procedures that my brother and helpers could put into action if needed.

The day came and much of that got stored away to be retrieved only if really necessary. My brother Buddy had checked the wing over a thousand times. He had butterflies.

My dad handed me the canopy. The time had come to set her free! Butterflies were there, but I had explained to myself, “Self, it is a sailplane with many hours of hard work to build, a very, very good designer, Jim Marske, working out all the problems, and she’s just waiting for you to say, ‘Let’s go!'”

“OK, let’s go!”

Silently I said, “Now, Lloyd, shut your mouth! Go into the restroom and ponder.” So I pondered.

Ralph Thompson, a member of the airport board of directors, was going to fly chase with his 115 hp Citabria. He was also there to allay fears of the airport manager. Ralph found himself caught in a political squabble about my testing my flying wing glider at their airport. Thank you, Ralph, for all the Unicom and traffic advisories.

Time to test the new bird.

The airport manager had given me a really hard time prior to flight, including some guff about not letting me do my auto test tow on the airport. I did those at another airport. I wanted the runway length here for safety. Finally, he came around.

I had thought several times about letting someone else do the initial test flights. After getting my commercial glider pilot ticket and thinking about the wing and studying every article I could get my hands on and with the support of Jim Marske by phone over several discussions… I decided to go for it.

I wanted to take my time with these flights, but things quickly changed. The tow plane landed 30 minutes late. As he rolled up, the pilot told me he had a flat tailwheel and bad battery. We needed to go ASAP! Across the taxi way we went—crew, wife and Wing.

I had chosen the runway into the three knot wind. As I strapped on the parachute, out of the clear blue it hit me: “I am going to test fly this Wing?”

I stopped momentarily and had a quick conversation with my Heavenly Father to say, “Thank you. Please find the time to assign a few more angels to me today. And bless my family if anything goes wrong.”

I stepped into the cockpit and for some reason felt calm and warm.

Everything slowed down. Radio check… release check… control check… seatbelt check… kiss from wife… thumbs up from my brother on the wing after attaching the tow rope. He checked it twice and then once again. I was not sure the Super Cub pilot was sure what to expect towing this white custom sailplane down the runway.

The radio crackled, “N86TX on runway 17 New Braunfels for glider tow and test flight.”

With that the rope came taut and we rolled down the open runway. In the first 200 feet, I was focused on deciding if it was going to be stable. Jim Marske and Mike Hostage, who design and build wings, had given me all their words of confidence, but this was the true test. Lift off and in ground effect.

The Cub accelerated to 70 mph and we started to climb. The airport has three runways in a triangle so we turned left to always have a place to land if needed.

At 300 feet it was calm and The Wing was just beginning to relax. Me, I was sucking about 40 cubic feet of air so there was no way the canopy was coming off. “Fly the plane Lloyd!” I just kept telling myself that it is just like the test auto tows.

“Ah, right! It really is flying just like Jim said it would!”

Check roll carefully. OK, check airspeed. 70 mph, now at 1000 feet. If all went well, I had planned to go to 2000 ft. on the first tow to give me 100 ft. to just fly smoothly. The air was dead calm and very smooth. One circle of the airport and we were now at 2000 ft., northeast of the airport. I reached to pull the release and everything stopped for a second. I had done the dozen ground tows but now we were at 2000 ft.

Flying free!

A nice calm voice said, “I want to be free!” So, with a smile I pulled the release. For the next 20 to 30 seconds we flew without a single input. I slowed to about 55-60 mph and just flew.

I said to myself, “Lloyd, this is what it’s all about!” I just let her spread her wings without a single touch; she was stable and flew effortlessly at 60 kts with not a single hiccup. I opened up the NASA scoop more and what little noise there was disappeared and we just floated. The air was very calm and I just gave her time to breathe as well. What a rush. What a great time to be alive.

Slowly I turned to the left to overfly the airport and head south. It was as though The Wing was stretching its wings after a long, long sleep. No surprises, just very smooth. We did some slow turns, 45 degrees then 90 degrees at about 10 degrees of bank and no more. I was always talking on Unicom to ensure ground and chase knew my intentions. I took The Wing down to 1500 ft. and decided to slow down.

At this height, my mind turned to the pattern and landing. The tow plane was down and the chase plane was clear and advising traffic of the test flight.

I turned downwind and found myself at 1200 ft. for runway 17. Without even thinking “full spoilers” The Wing said, “OK!”

At this point I realized my toes were starting to hurt; I was trying to push the rudder pedals out the front of the plane.

Down we came, going crosswind at 600 ft. I had full spoilers while turning to base at 400 ft. so I retained full spoilers with plenty of room.

A small voice said,”Just watch this squeaky clean touch down. 
Coming in for a landing!”

I did not even have a second thought and I said “OK.”

We rolled to a stop about 300 ft. down the runway from the numbers and a wing touched the ground.

I had a few seconds after stopping to thank the Great Designer of Life for everything, to thank him for my wife and my family and the dream he gave me and also to tell my Wing, “Thank you!” before all the crew arrived.

Time to celebrate.

The next tows were each to 4000 ft. We found a heavy mush to occur at 40 mph but we still had some nose weight to remove. The first 4000 ft. tow was quiet and peaceful. We did some 90 degree turns with the bank angle at 45 degrees and then 75 degrees with good response. The Wing had a tendency to slowly lift the left wing (we adjusted that later).

The Wing and I tried some stability tests on pitch. We increased speed to 85 mph, released, and did two cycles of pitch until The Wing stabilized at 60mph, maybe 58mph, in level flight. Then we tried several 360s left and right. The Wing wanted to turn better to the right but we would see after adjustment. We did some more stall approaches and there was no tendency to fall off.

The Wing was heavy with nose weight, parachute, and an overweight pilot! The landing was pleasant and very comfortable. My wife and the crew and the rest of my family rushed over to tell me how good it looked.

The joy of the successful test flights! Thanks to my wife, Denise who gave me the support needed to complete and fly the Pioneer!

The post A glider with no tail? I flew one appeared first on Air Facts Journal.

from Engineering Blog https://airfactsjournal.com/2019/05/a-glider-with-no-tail-i-flew-one/