#gold earrings under 10000

[bawajewels]

Best Jewellery Showroom in Delhi | bawa jewellers

GOLD

DIAMOND

WOMEN’S

Earrings

Bangles

Set

Engagement Rings

Ladies Ring

Ladies Kada

Locket

Source: https://bawajewels.com/

[brummiereader]

MASTERLIST TRAILER

Uptown Girl (Part One)

Summary: When your high society life comes crumbling down around you. You are left to deal with the inherited mess your father's love of the casino tables had landed him in, and the gangster he had settled his debts with. Mr Thomas Shelby. But when heads butt during your first encounter with the notorious gang leader over the deeds to Arrow House. You both stubbornly refuse to back down, begrudgingly accepting each other as an unwelcome housemate. With your future on the line, and the arranged union you want to be free from rapidly approaching. You come to the quick realisation that if you can't force the blue-eyed squatter from your house, then you would drive him out. One way or another.

Warnings: Language, angst, mentions of death by suicide

Word Count: 4535

Authors Note: £200-£300 sterling pound in 1924, was worth between £10000-£15000 in todays value.

"So it's agreed then, Miss?" the smartly dressed man with hungry eyes questioned you, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip as he greedily beamed down at the delicate diamond necklace sitting on the plush red velvet cushion below it. "£200 for the Elysée necklace, and it's matching earrings?"

"£250 for the necklace alone, Mr Burton" you quickly corrected his value of the precious jewel sat in front of you. The last of your mother's cherished collection gifted to her on her wedding day.

" £300 for the lot" his eyes narrowed in on the lustrous stones adorned with a cluster of diamonds weighing down your ears. He would have the full collection, or nothing at all.

" Scandalous! " your Granny's voice quivered as she sat in the corner of your father's office. Exceedingly displeased with the intentionally low estimation of your family's jewels as her satin gloved fingers clutched tightly around her walking stick.

" It is but business, Mam" the Jeweler replied with an avid, gold-toothed smile. His arms flamboyantly hovering in the air as he bowed to the former Duchess of Arrow House with anything but the respect she was once shown.

" Hm!" your dear Grans voice hiccuped as she turned her head in displeasure to the gentleman who was a far cry from the considerate businessman he claimed to be. But rather, that of a man who had fallen upon a family's suffering through yet another death brought on by the woes of a troubled mind.

" £300 it is then" you announced with your head held high, removing the last remaining item of value you possessed from the soft lobes of your ears to join its sister necklace.

With reluctant hands, you gracefully placed each earring onto the cushioned fabric. The tips of your fingers brushing over the passing memories of you sat as a small child on the edge of your mother's bed. Mesmerised by her beauty as you watched her adorn her gown with each jewel that would accompany her on a soiree of dancing and champagne. They will be yours one day, my darling girl, her voice whispered to you like a passing summer breeze as you closed your eyes. The grief you still felt for her loss now weighed down with that of your father's recent death.

" Wonderful!" the Jeweler's voice snatched you away from your cherished memories. Snatching the precious stone from under your fingers and replacing them with a stack of King George banknotes." Pity old George couldn't help you out, hm?"

" Pity? Pity?!" your Granny's voice rose to a squeaky pitched tone of offense as her stern expression honed in on the jeweler that was about to get a good old-fashioned telling off. " Well I never. If you were any the wiser, Mr Burton. I would take your insolent, blithering..."

"Yes, thank you, Granny. Good day to you, Mr Burton" you interrupted your Grans inevitable barrage of flustered insults as you ushered the jeweler from the study. Saving him from not only her sharp words but your family's faltering reputation from another scandal you wished to avoid.

" Oh, how the mighty have fallen" the Jeweler's teasing words echoed back to your Gran still perched on the small cushioned chair, outraged by the sheer cheek of the man, when your brother loudly made his unwelcome appearance through the foyer.

" Mighty, and of good stock!" your brother cheered back, having heard only a portion of what was more of an insult than any compliment his far away thoughts had understood. " Oh, I say..." your brother's eyes widened at the large stash of banknotes stacked in a pile on the polished desk as he entered the room.

" Johnathan. What are you doing here?" you impatiently asked, snatching them away and swiftly making your way across the room to Frances waiting with your brother's shotgun he had lumbered her with by the door after a day of hunting stags on the property. " For the wages, and upkeep" you discretely whispered, handing the money to your most trusted employee with only one banknote remaining for your father's impending funeral.

" Oh sissy, how dire" your brother said upon seeing the lonely note being folded in your hand and safely into the pocket of your dress as he sat down, puffing on what was left of his cigar while eyeing up anything he could sell, having already squandered his estate on the inherited trait of your father that had gotten you into this mess. Gambling. A mess which was now, your burden.

With only a penny left to his name, your father played his last and final hand in the backstreets of London's grottyest alleyway. Foolishly putting all his remaining hopes on the copper coin to win back his wasted fortune. But when the dice turned against his favour, sealing his losing fate. Your father slumped to the muddy ground, removing his gun and shooting himself point-blank in the side of the head. Left to die alone in the dark, penniless. Your father had succumbed to the very thing he had wasted his life on.

" Again Johnathan, what are you doing here? Or rather, what do you want?" you sighed with crossed arms, kicking his muddy boots from the ottoman in front of him.

" Why is everyone so glum, and in black?" your brother huffed, looking around the solemn room that was once filled with gold ornaments and neatly categorised books you would spend your time reading quietly on the feathered cushioned settee as your father mulled over the odds for his next bet at the races.

" Our father still lies cold on the morgue table, Johnathan" you scolded your older brother. Ten years older, to be precise.

Wise beyond your years, an old soul. That's what those dearest to you would say. In reality, you were nothing of the sort. But rather forced into behaving for both you and your idiotic brother, who was intent on staining the family's name with his seedy lifestyle.

" We're in mourning Johnny, my dear" your Granny looked upon your brother with an unwavering sigh of both love and tolerance that only a grandmother would show for her half-witted grandson to whom she was forever bound too. " And preparation. For a dark day has come to Arrow House" she dramatically finished as she turned her head away in disbelief about the morning's unfolding events.

" Preparation for what, exactly ?" your brother asked obliviously, or rather ignorantly to everything that had unfolded in the weeks prior to your father's death.

"Preparation for him. Mr Thomas Shelby." Your grandmother's voice rose as she turned to her eldest grandchild. " The gangster!" her voice pitched to an even higher note as she clutched her chest in horror at the situation her son, your father, had landed you in with the Birmingham gang leader your Granny could only envision to be like that of the viscous darkly creatures she had read in her nightly novels.

" A gangster, you say? How thrilling. This place could do with a little fun" your brother replied, flicking a dusty lamps weathered shade next to him. His need to live life further on the edge than what he was already precariously sat on, horrifying your Grandmother for a second time. "Does this gangster happen to drive a Bentley?"

" Oh god, he's early. Why is he so early?" You panicked at the approaching sound of a car on the gritted drive as your flustered fingers fidgeted with your pearl necklace.

" A gangster with good time keeping, sister" your brother smirked as he watched you smooth down the front of your dress, your lips silently mumbling your practiced speech.

" Johnathan, would you please shut up and stop calling him that. Would you like to get us all shot, and join Daddy in the morgue?" you huffed as the irritated former child in you made an appearance to your only sibling, who was enjoying, as he always did, purposely annoying you to the point of a foot-stomping childish outburst.

" And he brings two accompanying gangsters with him. What a burly looking lot" your brother's eyes narrowed in on the three men exiting the car behind the tempered glass.

" Johnathan! Shu..."

"Children please. I'm far too close to my own deathbed to withstand your bickering. Must I endure it until that very day?" your Grandmother sighed as she slowly approached you, her hand closing reassuringly around your jittery fingers. " Head up dear, don't let him see you falter" your Granny encouraged you, patting your hand and any lingering doubts away. "Stand firm. You'll leave this manor in grace and class" she stated, head held high as her cane came down to the floor with a thud in a show of both strength and dignity as she took your brothers' steadying arm, and he led her into the foyer.

You'll leave this manor in grace and class, your Grandmother's guiding words sat with the uncomfortable lump of deception now forming in your throat as you followed behind her. For the days events were about to take a very different turn than planned. A plan in motion that neither your Grandmother nor this wretched gangster Mr Shelby could have ever envisioned. One that was imperative for you to escape the dreaded wedding arranged since your birth to the brute of a man you were promised to in one month's time. Cal Astor.

"Here she is, boys" Tommy said, stepping out of the car, lighting a cigarette as he looked at his newly acquired stately home. " Let's hear it then. What do you think?"

" Got nothing on Small Heath" Arthur sniffed as he squinted to the very top of the sturdy bricked mansion, cautiously weighing up its threatening statue. "Nah, give me Watery Lane"

"The mud and shit too?"John asked, twisting his toothpick between his teeth as his face scrunched up at the elaborate fountain of a large busted woman spouting water from her nipples. Your brother's only, and soon to be discarded, ghastly contribution to Arrow House. "Bloody toffs"

"Especially the shit" Arthur replied, checking the imposing house's stability with a firm slap to the bricked wall. "Go on then Tom, tell us aye. What poor bastard did you fool into giving this up?" he said before tipping his hat to one of the many garden staff now scurrying off to safety in fear of his kneecaps being blown off. The result of another mighty tale from your Grandmother's overactive imagination, that had undoubtedly stirred the staff of Arrow House into a dizzy.

"A rich old bastard who had reached the bottom of his pockets" Tommy replied, blowing a puff of smoke from the corner of his mouth.

"Well, where is the poor fucker then? No grand welcome?" Arthur asked, offended the red carpet and all its thrills hadn't been laid out for their arrival for such a grand home.

"Dead" Tommy flatly stated as he approached the towering wooden door, ignoring any of his brothers assumptions that he was the delivering hand of that untimely death. "Right come on lads. Best behaviour, eh?

"Jesus, bloody, Christ" John huffed, flicking his toothpick into the neatly cut grass, wary of what his brother had gotten them into this time.

Stood in the foyer with your only two remaining family members, and the staff under your employment orderly lined up beside you. You waited. Listening to the footsteps of the man you had yet to meet, slowly approaching.

" Mr Shelby, I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding..." you quietly rehearsed under your breath when a loud, heavy fisted knock rattled the foyer door. Startling both you and your Grandmother.

" Must he be so barbaric? This house does possess a doorbell! your Grandmother fussed as you nodded to Frances to open the door and have you face the inevitable you could no longer delay.

As the door slowly opened, a low, gravely voice greeted your housekeeper. Accompanying it, three smartly dressed men, each one sporting a peak cap. As your eyes darted from the youngest of the men in front of you to the tallest with a large moustache neatly trimmed above his top lip, they finally came to land on the man stood in the middle. His steel blue stare instantly locking with yours. It was him, Thomas Shelby.

A painfully awkward silence suddenly settled in the air when all thought drifted mutually from your minds. Embarrassingly halting either one of you from saying or doing anything. Leaving everyone present in an uncomfortable shared state of confusion of darting stares as they stood silently in the foyer.

Uncomfortable for all but two, that was. For something far more intriguing had unexpectedly sparked in the silence between the daughter of high society and the Small Heath boy from the hardened streets of Birmingham. A spark neither one of you expected to be ignited that day as your shared gaze remained fixed on the other and time suddenly seemed to dissipate, with everything and everyone around you blurring into nothingness.

That was until the echo of your Grannie's cane booming on the marble floor brought you and Tommy back to the present world.

" Mr Shelby..." you began, clearing your throat as you watched him remove his peaked cap, when your intended words escaped your thoughts once again to the man stood before you. A man not hardened faced, loud and savage like your Grandmother would have you believe. But a man with striking features and a magnetic, demanding stance. Quietly stood observing you. Patiently waiting for formal introductions like any gentleman from your world would do.

"Mr Shelby, welcome to Arrow House" you unexpectedly greeted him with a politeness you had been adamant on guarding as you tried to compose yourself after your state of, confusion.

Did you come with the house too?, Tommy thought to himself, as a curious hint of a smile etched on the corner of his lips for the woman that had suddenly captivated him. Oblivious to who you was, and the pounding headache you would soon create for him.

"I'm afraid...I'm afraid there has been a misunderstanding, Mr Shelby" you said, having finally recomposed yourself as you held your head high. Unwilling to, as Granny said, falter.

"Misunderstanding?" Tommy's brow furrowed as he cautiously stepped closer, sharply aware of your Grandmother's sudden snap of her head in your direction.

" I'm here to inform you, that the arrangement you had with my father is void" you cleared your throat, watching your unwelcome guests eyes pierce through the guard you had quickly shielded yourself with as he learnt of your connection to the former owner of the house he was stood in.

" Void..." Tommy scoffed, cocking a brow. His patience with you dancing around the subject and what you really intended on saying becoming tiresome.

" Yes. Void" you firmly stated, defiantly crossing your arms in reaction to his less than pleasant tone of voice aimed solely at you. Both of your unexpected allure with the other suddenly evaporating, and swiftly being replaced with a mutual irritation for one another as the bricked walls of control over the matter began to both mutually stack themselves high. "Arrow House was not my father's to give, Mr Shelby"

" That right, eh?" Tommy chuckled, as he looked back to his brothers shared amusement for your firm, but endearing stance." Then who's is it, sweetheart?"

" Mine" you coldly gave the delivering blow, severing his entertainment before turning on your heel and making your way up the long winding stairs as the staff and your flustered Grandmother accompanied by your brother hastily scattered from the foyer. Leaving Tommy's brothers in a fit of laughter while he glared at you from below on the marble floor as the overseeing eye of the iron-clad documents of Arrow House emerged from an adjoining room.

"Mr Shelby. A word, perhaps?"

" In her name?" Tommy confirmed, clenching his jaw fiercely together as he hunched over what was, for all intents and purposes, his desk.

" Correct, Mr Shelby" your newly acquired lawyer mumbled, nervously shifting his eyes to the two brothers stood uncomfortably close behind him.

" I saw the deeds myself. Watched the lying bastard put them in my name" Tommy lifted his head, pointing his finger accusingly at the lawyer he was now convinced was trying to pull one over on him, and delay his move.

" I don't doubt you, Mr Shelby" he stepped closer, and away from the two pitbulls breathing unnervingly down his neck. " You see, before the recently departed Duke died. The late mother of Miss Y/N Y/L/N made sure the deeds to Arrow House, and its land, were put in her name"

Your beloved mother. Born into a life of poverty not so different to that of Tommy's. She too, had worked her way up the precarious ladder of wealth, further cementing her future after accepting your father's proposal of marriage. But a life of financial worries had not escaped her when she began to learn of her husband's burning pockets, and his love of the casino tables.

In a desperate last attempt on her deathbed, and to guarantee you financial security, sparing you from a life of chains beautified with gold and satin ball gowns she never envisioned for you. Your mother, the fellow owner of your childhood home, had the deeds of Arrow House signed over into your safeguard, and away from the high rolling hands of your father and brother.

" For fucks sake..." Tommy mumbled with a hefty sigh, slouching down into his chair having realised the predicament he now found himself in.

" Really landed yourself in it this time, aye Tom?" Arthur couldn't help but give his younger brother an overdue sibling ribbing.

" Fuck off, Arthur" Tommy huffed in response, earning a snigger of laughter from both his brothers, who were more than happy to see him take a spectacular fall in his climb for the finer things in life.

" There is...something though, Mr Shelby. Something I could look into. For the right price, that is" the lawyer mused, his greedy fingers perching on the edge of the desk, now summed up on who the man was in front of him, and the depth of his pockets. No matter how tainted they may be. " There is a missing signature on the papers the late Duchess had filed before her death. The Dukes, missing signature. It will take some time to look into the documents' validity, but..."

" Get it done" Tommy interrupted the lawyer, ushering with his hand for him to leave before falling back into his chair with a chesty breath. Arrow House was his, he would make it so. One way or another.

After stewing over the predicament he found himself in for the better part of an hour. Tommy sat silent, weighing out the pros and cons of his next unexpected move as his stare honed in on the bronze statue of a stallion on his deck.

" What the bloody hell is he doing?" John impatiently mumbled to his eldest brother, who he himself was lost on what exactly it was Tommy was waiting for. " Tom, what..." John began to say when the office door flew open, and you came charging through. Your own patience with the head of the Birmingham gang's presence in your home wearing precariously thin.

" Mr Shelby, you've spoken with my lawyer. You know the terms of the deeds. Now I would ask you, kindly, to leave" you huffed crossed armed as you walked through the office collecting any remaining items of value in your arms. Cautiously aware of keeping them away from the three men's reputable light fingers.

" Y/N..." Tommy began as you sauntered past him, throwing the curtains open he had closed to dull the buzzing pain rattling in his skull you had welcomed him with.

" Miss Y/L/N" you were quick to correct him as Tommy ran his fingers down his face. His emerging eyes unable to divert from your swaying hips and flowing dress brushing past his leg, capturing his attention for a second time.

Watching you walk away was now, far more pleasant than having your angry frown storm towards him, Tommy thought to himself, clearing his throat as he looked at the pitiful lack of whisky in the decanter beside him. If you didn't have such a stubborn mouth, he'd be inclined to let your pretty face hang around, his petty ego nagged him. Irritated by the fact, he had lost himself in your beauty and allure in a brief moment of confusion earlier that day.

" Mr Shelby. Please" you gestured to the door as you stood defiantly in front of your father's mahogany desk, watching him brush his thumb over the muzzle of the ornament he had taken a liking for. " Mr Shelby..."

" I'm not going anywhere, love" Tommy finally spoke, looking up at your raging face as he picked up the weighty statue in his hand. " There seems to be a slight error on the deeds, Miss Y/L/N. A missing signature. Your father's signature" Tommy raised a brow as he pointed the ornament in your direction, unable to hide the triumphant smirk behind the smugness sitting on his face as he watched the realisation of your rapidly crumbling plan start to fall apart on your flustered face. "So until the deeds are reviewed..." he paused, turning the bronze horse to look at him. "Looks like you'll have to put up with me"

For the second time that day, you were left speechless by the stranger in front of you. This time, however, with a good dose of irritation spurring it on.

"Like hell I will!" You blurted, without a second thought for just how unladylike your reaction and the following response would look, when you reached over the table grabbing hold of the horse in Tommy's hand, and a childish tug of war ensued between the both of you.

" Fine" you huffed, blowing a lock of hair from In front of your eyes as you let go.

" Good" Tommy replied adjusting his tie as he sheepishly looked over to his smirking brothers, having witnessed the entire, amusing display.

"Keep it. A small souvenir" you pouted, pointing to the ornament gripped in his hand as you turned to leave, pulling a small cushion from under the bum of the youngest gangster as he sent a wink and cheeky dimpled grin your way.

" Enjoy your brief stay, Mr Shelby. And have no doubt. My lawyer will be urgently looking into your claims" you warned, clutching the handle of the door as you watched him rise from behind your father's desk and approach you.

"He already is, love. Paid him a nice sum of money to help speed things up" Tommy said standing uncomfortably close as he looked at you from head to toe, his eyes lingering on your plush lips.

A power unmatched. Money to buy his way through life. Something you knew would be dangerously futile in fighting with your lack of current funds.

" So be it, Mr Shelby" you succumbed to the situation with as much boldness as you could muster as you turned to leave. If you couldn't force him out, you would drive him out. One way or another.

Five days later...

" Good morning, Frances" you cheerfully greeted your housekeeper as you descended down the stairs in your nightie with a hop in your step, a bounce of your hair.

" Good morning, Miss" Frances swallowed heavily as her eyes darted to the grand clock ticking loudly in the corner of the entrance. Five days and counting. Five, obscenely early mornings, you had woken up earlier than the minutest chirp from any bird that had ever lived on the grounds of Arrow House.

" A little Beethoven this morning, perhaps?" you asked, perching yourself on the stool in front of the grand piano you had the staff conveniently move to the foyer. A spot that just so happened to be within close proximity to a certain someone's bedroom. " Any suggestions?"

"Fur Elise is a lovely piece, Miss. And you play it so well" Frances encouraged the mellow tune as her eyes darted to the top of the stairs, wary of the sleeping occupant only a stone throw away.

" It is. But I feel something a little more...rambunctious is needed to start the day. "Don't you think?" you smiled, turning the page to Symphony no5 as an amused smirk played on the corner of your lips whilst your hands hovered teasingly over the ivory keys, and you began to play. Loudly.

As the sound of your enthusiastic musical skills reverberated through the walls of Arrow House, a grunting Tommy stirred in his bed at the unwelcome shrill of the piano below him.

"Fuck sake..." Tommy mumbled incoherently, awakening from a deep sleep as he rolled from his stomach to his back. His eyes slowly opening, his ears tuning in. "Shut the...!" He grumbled, shouting the rest of his less than gentlemanly choice of words through the pillow he had grabbed to muffle the early wake-up call as he regained full consciousness. "FUCKKKK!" He roared from the pits of his lungs, when your continued playing only increased his irritation to a heightened, heavenly high.

Looking up at the landing stairs, a satisfied smirk grew on your face, hearing the beautiful barrage of curses from the unwelcome squatter in your home for the fifth day in a row as your fingers glided over the cool ivory.

Throwing the covers from him, Tommy grabbed his gun from the cabinet side table as he scrambled for his trousers, pulling them up as he stomped to the door.

" Seems Mr Shelby's awake, Frances" you spoke above the piano, as your loyal housekeeper nervously smiled to you, nodding her head. Readying herself for the fury of a thoroughly pissed off Tommy heading your way as his booming strides beckoned closer.

Encouraged by the sound of Tommy's door slamming shut, you continued your endeavour. Unbeknownst, that Tommy's hunched shoulders were looming over the banister. Gun in hand as he positioned his arm on the metal railing, aiming the end of the barrel directly at the woman whose sole purpose in life was to wake him up every morning with an insufferable racket.

"Don't move, darling" Tommy teasingly whispered as his eyes narrowed in, his breath steadying whilst he watched your fingers dance along the keys as he adjusted his shot.

As the sight of your lonely digit lingered over the next key, Tommy squeezed the trigger, shooting off the finishing note before you had the chance to give your triumphant end.

Leaping from the smoky crater now forever embedded in your grand piano, your eyes shot up to see your unwelcome roommate looking down at you with a cocky smirk as he shoved his gun against the naked skin between the waistband of his trousers.

" Morning, love"

NEXT PART

Tag list: @weaponizedvirtue @un-interneted @mama-ivy @kmc1989 @leighla3

@emotionalcadaver @mamawiggers1980 @sweetcheesecakesblog @cljordan-imperium @peakyswritings

[kanatanabramovic]

☑ 233. by kanatan Abramovic Via Flickr: 2024 04 19 Blog...~ le soleil ~ ☝More details and URL are on the blog ♥ ٩( ᐛ )و Thanks so much for your time !! Thank you for always having lots of Fav ♥ Thank you to all my friends who love to watch and take snaps !! ♥ love it ♥♥♥ [ - Outfit - ] ☑ Access Hair: [^.^Ayashi^.^] Lana hair-Exclusive Top: Loki - Angie Heart Top - FATPACK ☑ Suicide DollZ Necklace: SFU - Ghoul Necklace ' Six Feet Under ' ☑ Main store Nose: SFU - Royalty Nose Ring ☑ Main store Pose: [piXit] Toxic - Portraits Rings: Vibing -- celestia rings -- gold Nails: Ascendant - Paris Nails 07 Earrings: e.marie // Katja Earrings - Silvers [ - Makeup - ] ☑ Access Eyes animation: VELOUR "AESTHETIC" ANIMATED ☑ The Magical Fair Skin: (Enfer Sombre*) Bubble skin {LeL EvoX} ➥(Enfer Sombre*) LeLutka EvoX Skin - Olive - Bubble Lip: (Enfer Sombre*) LeLutka HD Lipstick - Bubble Blush: voodoo. Cupid Blushes Set - lel EVOX BOM [ - Decoration - ] Sign: [10000&Co.] 10UP Sign Blue Tv: floorplan. retro tv / test pattern

[adricnwais-archived]

Adrian + Arden

Who in your OTP is the serial butt-slapper and who is constantly getting their beautiful butt slapped? Adrian serial butt-slapper and Arden is the beautiful victim.

Who wants to be immortal and who wants to die before they’re old? Adrian and Arden would both probably want to die before they're old as long as they have achieved everything they wanted.

Who smokes and who pulls the cigarette from between their lips every time they try to light one? Adrian is the smoker and Arden pulls the cigarette away with an added lecture about his health.

Who always has cold hands and who is always warming them up for them? They both have warm hands but Adrian likes to pretend his are cold so she can warm him up.

Who plays candy crush in important meetings and who elbows them in the ribs to make them pay attention? Adrian plays candy crush and Arden is the responsible one. 10000%

Who can fall asleep anywhere (and does) and who has to put them to bed? Adrian can fall asleep anywhere but he definitely tries his best to always put Arden to bed first.

Who is the genius procrastinator who wings every test but still comes away with straight As, and who takes preparation and conscientious work very seriously? Both of them do take work seriously but Adrian is the one who is most likely to fall off and be the procrastinator.

Who takes their coffee black and who likes it with milk and two sugars, getting called a pussy by Person A? Adrian drinks black coffee majority of the time, but they sometimes switch depending on the mood.

Who initially seems shady but turns out to be a cinnamon bun, and who initially seems like a cinnamon bun but turns out to be shady? Both seem shady but turn out to be a cinnamon roll, but Adrian will only be a cinnamon roll for Arden.

Who moans and talks with their mouth full whenever they eat good food, and who tells them to stfu but can’t help laughing? Adrian talks with his mouth full and Arden tells him to shut up.

Who gives the bear hugs and who is always sidling up to them and snaking their arms around their waist? Arden gives the bear hugs and Adrian holds her at the waist.

Who still buys juice boxes and fruit snacks to put in their lunch? Adrian buys the juice boxes and fruit snacks 1000%

Who packs the other’s lunch and who repays them in sexual favours? They both take turns at packing each other's lunch.

Who leaves notes in the other’s lunch and who tells them they’re dumb (but secretly has a collection of every note Person A has ever written them)? Adrian leaves notes in Arden's lunch and Arden 1000% always tells him that he is an idiot.

Who unconsciously holds their breath the first time they kiss, and who pulls back and says, “Breathe…”? Adrian holds his breath whilst Arden teases him and jokes about giving him breathing techniques if he can't handle her kisses.

Who gets arrested for a petty crime they committed by accident and who bails them out? I FEEL LIKE THIS IS OBVIOUS???? ADRIAN GOT ARRESTED AND ARDEN BAILED HIM OUT. NO NEED TO AN EXPLANATION????

Who grabs the other’s hand just as they’re getting out of bed and pulls them back under for cuddles? Arden grabs Adrian's hand and pulls him back into bed.

Who gets mad about something unrelated to Person B and punches the wall, and who patches it up and kisses it better? Adrian does the wall punching and Arden fixes him up.

Who has the plain black phone case and who ordered one with cat ears off ebay? They both have a plain black phone case, though Arden's black phone case is high quality leather with her initials printed on it in gold.

Who likes to drive with the music blaring and who is too shy to sing along? Adrian blares the music and forces Arden to sing no matter what.

Who’s the fantastic kisser and who has the beautiful eyes? Adrian is the fantastic kisser and Arden has the beautiful eyes, but to him; Arden is the whole package.

Who has the sunshine smile and who has the seductive gaze? Adrian has the sunshine smile and Arden has the seductive gaze.

Who gets offended by the intensity of the other’s crush on a celebrity? Both of them. They both don't like to share despite the fact that the celebrity won't know who they are.

Who is embarrassed that they have to wear glasses sometimes and who wants them to wear them in bed? Probably neither them is embarrassed or wears glasses to bed.

Who cheats on the other then immediately begs for their forgiveness? Adrian. He is most likely to fuck up.

Who is the jealous one and asks why the other was being so flirty all night, and who is oblivious to their own charms? Arden gets jealous but Adrian knows what he is doing.

Who orders a milkshake with their food and who orders a soda? They both order a soda. The only time they order a milkshake is if they wanna share.

Who runs their battery down to 1% and who feels the need to charge theirs at 80%? Adrian will run his phone down to 1% and Arden will charge her phone at 80%.

Who has the excellent singing voice and is always singing around the house (and for Person B), but has no interest in going professional? Arden has the great singing voice.

Who would rather be barefoot if the setting is appropriate, and who has the huge and spectacular shoe collection (possibly also socks)? Adrian will walk around barefoot and Arden has the shoe collection.

Who takes their liquor on the rocks and who likes it neat? It depends on the liquor but they both take it on the rocks.

@ourardenoliver

[rhythmsectionbros]

You Should Have Been There | a present QUEEN fic

current/present era 

not shippy but multi-friendship Brian/Roger/John

PG-13 ~for language

words: 8.4k

summary: Jim Beach’s call was unexpected, perturbing Brian’s & Roger’s preparations for the coming 2020 European Tour, but it did pique their curiosity –or how an unexpected change is going to disturb their perfectly planned coming months (for the context of the fic, they didn’t talk to John in years -yes, i refuse to believe this is true irl but let’s say in fiction, it is!)

warnings: mention of death and fatal illness **if you are uncomfortable with such topics even in the world of fiction, please don’t read it**

A/N: sooooo my first ‘long’ fic (and likely my last!). This is, of course, 10000% fiction and I feel very insecure about it for plenty of reasons –you will understand when you will read it. In advance, I am very sorry if I offend anyone! AND THANK YOU TO MY LOVELY BETA ♥

you can read the fic on Ao3

and here a playlist i made on youtube to go with the fic

-

10th December, 3:20 p.m.

-

“Maybe it’s about a second movie?”

“For fuck’s sake Brian. I hope not!”

There is a ‘ding’ before the doors open and the two men walk out of the elevator towards Jim ‘Miami’ Beach’s office. His call earlier that week was unexpected, perturbing Brian’s & Roger’s preparations for the coming European Tour, but it did pique their curiosity. The remnant snow on their shoulders melting, Brian brushes the rest out of his white hair while Roger removes his scarf and rubs his nose with his thumb and forefinger, groaning quietly.

“It is Disney we are talking about Rog,” Brian continues and casts a glance over his bandmate who is still wearing sunglasses even in December. “They can do whatever they want. And without our approval.”

Roger rolls his eyes and snorts.

After a few more steps (and a few more cuss words from the drummer), the two men catch sight of Miami pacing back and forth in the corridor leading to his office. The producer spots them. “Hello, guys!”

“Hi Jim,” Brian answers with a smile, offering his hand, and Roger does the same.

“Hello, Jim.”

“Glad you could come even with the bad weather. Surprising for an early December, right? I know this invitation is unplanned but it’s always a pleasure to see you both.” There is an unusual tension in the older man’s voice, and a smell of cigarette around him despite having quit years ago. “When was the last time?”

“For the celebration of… something?” Roger jokes.

“Exactly,” the guitarist nods with a smile, white curls following the movement.

“Really?” He asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Hmm, please. Follow me.”

The three men pass by a receptionist, dozens of unknown faces and more gold albums hung on walls to finally reach the polished oak door of Jim’s office.

Without any warning, he stops and turns, Brian nearly running into him. “Look! I– it was not my idea, but I couldn’t really say no, you see.”

“Oh no,” Roger whispers under his breath as he takes his glasses off. “Brian, I think you were right.”

“What?” Jim frowns and shakes his head. “No, no. Look… Just, don’t hold it against me, alright?”

Their attentions are piqued once more.

The hinges creak lightly as the producer opens the door and the two musicians step into the office. This time, Roger is the one who nearly runs into the tall guitarist, all of sudden frozen. “What the…!” He looks up at his companion for a laugh but changes his mind when he sees Brian staring with intensity at something on the opposite side of the room. With interest, he follows the gaze. And he stops breathing.

There, standing across the table, a ghost.

“John.”

Brian’s voice is barely a whisper, but the name hangs in the air, out of place.

“Hello, Brian.” The reply is simple, short, almost absurd. Then, a light smile appears on his lips, and his eyes turn. “Hello, Roger.”

Silence is the answer from the drummer, who still doesn’t know the proper reaction to have. All Roger can manage is to bite the inside of his cheek, to prevent whatever feeling is about to come out.

In some way, Brian and Roger are not aware of the passage of time -their schedule relatively the same for 50 years (fewer parties tho), with concerts, rehearsals, tours, fans screaming their names… the pattern didn’t really change. And yet, now facing John, they feel the weight of those years in their very marrow. Their ex-bandmate looked the same, but oh-so different. John still has that smile and tooth gap, those unreadable greyish eyes surrounded by crow’s feet at their corners, that voice light like a cartoon character but sharp enough on its corners to cut you. However, he looks paler and shorter. The voice, raspier. No more hair, except on his temples. A little round belly and a weary face. Like theirs.

“This is a… surprise, to say the least.” Brian was always the diplomatic one, keeping his composure during interviews or answering questions when the other ones didn’t want to, and, well, he enjoys talking. So today, he decides once more to wear the UN Blue helmet.

John nods. “Nice euphemism Brian. I appreci-”

“I just remembered I have an important appointment,” Roger cuts John off, without sparing him a glance, “Like, right now actually.”

If eyes are truly the window to a person’s mind, then the drummer is literally reading in Brian’s eyes ‘What the actual bloody fuck Roger?!’ But instead, his older friend placidly asks: “An appointment?”

“Yeah, I can’t move it. Ophthalmologist,” he points at his eyes with a tattooed hand. “You know how long it takes to have a consultation.”

Behind Brian’s shoulder, Jim remains silent, way too familiar with Queen’s dramas to know when to step aside. The guitarist insists. “Seriously Rog’?”

“Yes, seriously Brian! I will call you later. Bye Miami.”

About to leave, his hand is on the door handle when he hears him.

“Roger.”

His good ear twitches at the sound and he turns to face his ex-colleague. “I have to leave your company, sorry. And maybe, oh I don’t know, you will never hear from me again,” Roger claims, a constricted grin on his lips, “But I imagine you are familiar with this concept, John.”

And then, he disappears, letting the door hiss quietly shut behind him. There is a moment of silence, a moment for the three other men to process what just happened. Once in a while, Brian too still tastes the sour vestiges of resentment and frustration, but he understands –oh yes, he understands so well why the younger musician decided to move away, and in all honesty, he has no right to judge him. “Sorry about that, John.” Brian talks first, and a wave of nostalgia hits him when he sees this old John shrugs nonchalantly.

“It’s okay. I expected such a reaction from him.”

“Well yeah… you know Roger.”

“No.” The pause after this word seems endless, “I don’t know him anymore.”

John’s trademark. The naked truth of what he is thinking, no matter if it hurts him or the one in front of him.

“And what reaction were you expecting from me then?”

“I hoped you would stay Brian.”

“I am staying.”

“Good.”

It’s not like these two men have never cared or loved each other. They are, reciprocally, both part of an interlude of 25 crazy years in each other’s lives, through thick and thin. Sure, conversation between them was not always easy –it happens between similar personalities, even if none of them would admit that fact. But now, in their twilight years, it seems that John is more inclined and at ease to talk with Brian, and such unanticipated development makes him smile.

“Okay, since the storm passed, I suggest we all take a seat,” Jim says and walks behind his desk to sit down.

John is about to follow suit and sit around the meeting table, but he stops mid-motion, noticing Brian is walking towards him. Unexpectedly, the taller man leans forward and wraps an arm around his ex-bandmates’ shoulders, drawing him into a short hug that’s awkward but, to John’s surprise, welcome nonetheless. He reciprocates, one hand resting on his back. “Did we already hug before?”

They pull apart and Brian takes a few seconds to consider the question. “I think we did, yes. Many times!”

That prompts a giggle from John, and both men eventually sit down around the table.

“So?” the guitarist starts with interest, “I guess you are not here to make small talks about families and such. Not that I wouldn’t love to hear about them.”

“Am I that transparent?” he jokes. “You’re right. They are all good by the way! But no, no. Actually, I have a favour –well, that is not the right word. I have something I would like to do but I won’t without your approval,” John explains, fingers running over the edge of the round table.

“Yeah, sure Deaky,” the old nickname slips out like it was never confined into the archive of Brian’s mind.

“It’s about my royalties. And my part in Queen’s legacy.” The words make Brian frown curiously but John carries on. “I no longer want to be the beneficiary of it. I want Veronica to be the exclusive recipient of any future income. I want her name to appear on any legal paper concerning Queen instead of mine from now.”

Silence.

“Really?” Jim abruptly asks from behind his desk.

John nods. “Yes. Look –it won’t change a thing for the other beneficiaries, you know? This modification won’t interfere with your royalties. Or Roger’s. Or anyone else. It’s just about my piece of the cake you know? And, I want it to be Veronica’s from now.”

The atmosphere changes in the room, just as the light in Brian’s eyes. “Right…”

“Brian look, do not think this request is about me denying or repudiating all I did with you. No. You’re wrong,” he explains, “…once more,” and adds with a sardonic smile the guitarist knows too well –that same mocking smile which often provoked feelings of homicidal rage from Brian decades ago. The vision is oddly soothing.

Brian smiles back. “I know Deaky.”

“And, I won’t do anything without your approval. Or Roger’s.”

“Well… as you said it changes nothing for us. So, I don’t see why I would have objections. And I think Roger wouldn’t be against it either.” Brian looks over his shoulders. “Miami?”

The manager holds his palms up in a show of agreement. “Sure. If everybody agrees… I guess you can come back in a week John. I will ask the lawyers to prepare them and the papers will be ready. Your presence is needed for the signatures though. Your wife’s too.” Jim flipped his datebook, nodding to himself. “What about next Thursday in a week, same time?”

A nod. “Alright,” the former bassist consents, quite pleased by the unanimity. “In a week. We will be there.” It seems like he wants to add something else, but his gaze gets drawn to his fists, both clenched and resting on the table.

“May I be curious?” The older guitarist asks after seconds of silence, “Why such a decision? Did you find some kind of trick to pay fewer taxes or…?”

John laughs gently, his reputation of being practical with money or even tight with it not forgotten. “I wish. But no, no it’s just—”

The sentence ends with a gap, so uncharacteristic of John. The man, behind his mask of quietude and composure, has one of the sharpest mind and tongue Brian knows -a talent that can make you want to curl on the ground and cry in two seconds. So, if John has difficulties to finish a line, it means something is very wrong. Brian instinctively holds his breath.

“I have cancer. Pancreatic cancer.” John states. “A quite aggressive one.”

Everything becomes much too quiet around them, and the only sound heard is a gasp from Jim.

Brian blinks and his intellect starts working quickly, as always, connecting the dots to remember what he heard about the disease and its possible outcomes. And what comes to his mind looks more like a noisy alarm siren with red flashing light than a formal report: Low survival rate. Between one to three years. Terminal.

His voice is nearly a whine. “…what?”

John stares at him for a moment, speculating what exactly the ‘what’ stands for, and decides. “I am at stage 4 to be more specific. They gave me between ten months and one year. And that’s why I want Veronica to be the exclusive beneficiary. I want to settle things, to protect my family,” he explains with a displaced monotonous tone. “I was diagnosed a month ago.”

No. Brian blanches. He feels the blood leaves his face and rushes to form a knot in the center of his chest. “How– why– Deaky, I…” He starts but doesn’t finish. “John did… how long…”

With a small smile, the former bassist takes pity of the guitarist and cuts him off. “I was diagnosed a bit late. I didn’t read the early signs properly I guess.” There is finality in his voice. “Cigarettes didn’t help either.”

And John shrugs.

He shrugs.

As if this didn’t really matter, as if he was talking about some restaurant that he didn’t like, and Brian only wants to grab his shoulders and shake some sense into him like he did a couple of times decades ago. Because no no no no no no it can’t be happening. Not again. In Brian’s rational mind, he is supposed to be the one dying next. The natural order. The oldest one. Not the youngest one!

“There is only a five percent chance of survival with surgery and very brutal chemo. And the survival is only of a few more months,” John continues steadily, “So I decided: no surgery or chemo.”

“Deaky! You can’t-”

“Don’t worry, I am not irresponsible,” he interrupts. “I have medication.”

Brian stares John over, lingering on his face, on how his hands rest on the table, rubbing his right thumb over the left hand’s knuckles; and maybe it’s cliché or not even true, but he’s now noticing how thinner and paler he looks. Not obvious signs, but there anyway.

“I had a very great life. I couldn’t have asked for anything more,” John continues, “Well, maybe the tiny regret for not having spent more time with a couple of friends,” he adds, chuckling humourlessly.

A blow in the guts would have been less painful, and Brian takes a deep, measured breath. “H-how has your family handled it?” The question sounds hollow, even to him.

“They have no real choice actually. The kids are dealing with it as best as they can. And Ronnie–” John pauses, feeling like a stone got stuck in his throat, and he swallows down. “–she has always been the strongest one. The rock of this family. I know she will endure and survive.”

“And you?”

“I am surprisingly fine. Tired, yes. But that’s all for now. The upcoming months… are going to be the hardest ones.” Again, a shrug. “Yeah, you really don’t need the details.”

They’ve gone from radio silence to nostalgic normalcy in the span of just ten minutes, and while they’ve been through too much to ever truly become strangers, Brian doesn’t expect to play the confidant yet.

“John–”

“It’s okay Brian. Look, I am not here to ask you or Rog or Jim anything, you know?” he says while observing the manager who is still hopelessly silent behind his desk and turns his attention back on his ex-bandmate. “I just thought that after everything we went through, the good and the bad, during years —I felt that I owed you that. I had to tell you, face to face.”

Loyalty. John decided to come out of loyalty. A hackneyed word nowadays, twisted and perverted in many discourses or ideas, but a word the three aging men understand at their very core.

“Could you tell Roger?”

“Deaky, I think… you should be the one telling him.”

“Well, I just tried,” John retorts with a tightening in his throat. “And I know you will handle him better than I, so… Could you tell him for me please?”

Brian nods, white curls bouncing around his shoulders, and John smiles. “Thank you.”

In a need of contact, the older man puts his hand on the younger one’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly. Hazel and grey eyes meet and the moment lingers comfortably.

Eventually, John clears his throat, in fear that his voice would break the next time he opens his mouth, and speaks: “Okay, huh, that’s enough attention on my insignificant self for one day,” he says, hands on the armrests to stand. “I have to go anyway. A doctor’s appointment at the hospital.”

John gets on his feet. At the same time, Brian moves forward and before John can escape it, wraps his arms around him in a tight embrace. The youngest of the old men stands stiffly but relaxes eventually, his hands finding the guitarist’s back to return the hug. He tries to remember the last time they held each other like this, and the memory of Freddie’s death comes to John’s mind. It makes his full body contracts, and Brian pulls him closer.

“I can’t remember if I’ve ever said it—”

“Don’t,” John warns, aware of what is coming. “No Brian. You really don’t have to.”

“—I love you Deaky,” Brian finishes, his voice trembling from suppressed sobs.

They don’t say anything during the next seconds, words pointless. Too many years and too much practice of silence between them taught the two men when there isn’t really anything to add. John bites down on the inside of his cheek to prevent tears from falling down, but the grey eyes are already glassy.

“I was- I am an awful friend,” he confesses against Brian’s shoulder.

Tightening his arms around John one last time, the guitarist pulls back.

“Of course you are!” He smiles. “It’s because you’re not a simple friend Deaky. You are a brother. You are family. And family can be such a pain in the ass!”

The two men giggle and take advantage of this interlude to wipe away what remains on their moist cheeks.

“I –it never was my intention, to hurt you or Roger, you know?” John whispers, and Brian’s only reaction is his hand finding his friend’s shoulder again. “Never. And if I did with my distance or silence. I am very sorry. It’s just— I had to.”

“We know that.”

“Sorry.”

“No. Don’t.”

“Okay.” Another shrug, and if it is not from the red in his eyes, it would be hard to guess the tears John shed seconds ago.

“I would like to see you again,” Brian says with hesitation. “If you are okay with that of course.”

“Don’t feel obligated Brian. You and Roger own me nothing, and I don’t want to be a bother.”

“What? No. Of course you’re not. Look, I am not suggesting deep and long conversations –unless you want it– but, I don’t know… maybe next week, after you signed the papers with Veronica, you could both come for tea time at my place? Or maybe for dinner?”

The slight frown that appears on John’s face convince Brian to be more specific. “It will be just you, Veronica, me, and Anita. She will be pleased to see you both. Just a simple dinner. Nothing fancy. The four of us.”

And at his own words, the guitarist turns to the manager, remembering his presence. “Sorry, Jim.”

“No problem.” he replies and raises his hands in a sign of support.

“So… is it that okay with you John?”

The former bassist manages only a one-sided grin, sort of crooked and almost a frown but his features eventually soften. “Yes, why not? A simple dinner.”

“The simplest one, yeah,” Brian confirms with a reassuring smile and his hand leaves John’s shoulder. “Great.”

As the meeting is clearly coming to an end, Jim coughs and joins the two other men standing by the table. He offers his hand to John, who takes it happily. “So, John, you can come back in a week. Same day, same hour. Or anytime, really!” he specifies. “But in a week, everything will be ready for you and Veronica: papers, contracts, ink…”

“Thank you, Miami.” The man smiles and Jim returns it, before walking towards the door to open it.

“I promise I will make an effort for the menu.”

John looks at Brian as they walk to the exit and he shakes his head with that smirk. “Meat?”

“Well…” A pause. “I will find something. It will be edible. I assure you. Pizzas maybe?”

“Finally! I was running out of battery.”

The way the three men freeze on the threshold and turn in synch is almost funny to Roger. Almost.

Brian’s hazel eyes widen slightly. “Rog’.”

“You stayed?” Jim continues.

“As you can see Miami! But don’t worry, I was not eavesdropping at your door,” he says and points at the red leather sofa behind him, “I was just there, on this very uncomfortable couch, reading magazines or the news on my phone, waiting patiently.” He crosses his arms over his chest: “Your door is too thick anyway…”

“And your appointment?” Brian asks only to unsettle the drummer

“Well, I mixed the days. Blame my poor old brain.”

“You could have joined us.”

“Oh no, I didn’t want to trouble this heart-warming reunion between you,” he turns, casting a side glance at John. “To be honest I am stunned that you stayed and didn’t vanish in the middle of this reunion to disappear, as you know how to do so well.”

“Roger.” Brian snaps.

“It’s okay,” John cuts him off, “I guess I deserve it.”

Such a reaction was unanticipated, and Roger’s answer is silence, disbelief written all over his face.

John steps closer but doesn’t extend his hand, preferring to look rude and impolite than endure another rejection. He stands still and presses his lips together, weary eyes lingering on his ex-bandmate, silently trying to sear into his memory a last glimpse of Roger.

This is it. As simple words as they are, his throat tightens up around them.

“It was good to see you, Roger.” A silent beat. “Goodbye then.”

He gives a smile and a nod, and turns away.

A tiny voice in Roger’s head tells him to stop John, to ignore the last decade, to offer him a pint of Fullers and to catch up the time wasted. But a much bigger voice starts to list the ignored messages, the months and years of silence, the distance he unilaterally chose to put between them… After deciding to turn his back on what they created, Roger knows he won the right to do the same now. A fair giving-back. Right?

“Can we get inside?” the drummer heads to the office without waiting for an answer.

Jim follows, and Brian doesn’t move, wearing an unreadable expression on his face as his eyes are still lingering on the now-empty corridor. “Sure Rog’…”

The three men enter the office: Jim finds again his place behind his desk, Brian prefers to stay up, looking outside the window, and Roger, without knowing it, sits down on the chair formerly occupied by John.

“So,” he begins with irritation, “it’s not that I am curious, but what did he want? He was there to ask something, right? So?” Only silence follows. “Hmm, Miami?”

The direct inquiry startles the manager and he straightens up on his chair. “He –wanted to talk about his royalties.”

“What? Why?”

“He, huh, wants his wife to be the exclusive recipient of them,” he explains, fiddling with the edges of his notebook. “He said that it changes nothing for you or Brian or anyone else. And he is right! But he wants your approval. Both of you.”

Roger shifts slightly in surprise and his stare searches for Brian for clarification but his friend is still by the window, his back to him.

“Yeah… yeah,” he pauses. “Right. It changes nothing actually. So, yes, I have nothing against that. He can do as he wants. I don’t care. But why though?”

“You should have been there,” Brian whispers, looking outside as melted snowflakes cling to the glass.

There is a hint of something in his old friend’s voice that Roger doesn’t like. Steadily, he turns in his chair to look up at him who still staring at the cotton wool clouds.

“Well, I wasn’t Brian.” And it is not even an excuse. “So… that’s it? He only wanted to talk about business and cash?”

After years of distance and silence, John decided to return into their lives to talk about money? Incredible. Out of frustration, Roger releases a sigh despite himself.

“He wanted to say goodbye.”

A frown flickers across the drummer’s face.

“Goodbye?”

After seconds in which Brian seems to debate his options, he turns around, facing now his bandmate. “He is ill. Very ill.”

Roger stares at him blankly.

“Pancreatic cancer. Stage 4.”

And something like ice floods Roger’s veins.

“You know what it means Rog’.”

Yes, he knows what it means.

He looks up at Brian, then back to Jim, then back at Brian and –his brain may have short-circuited a little, the only thought crossing it being ‘not again’. He can’t follow the shape of his own thought, can’t understand what he heard. It makes no sense! John was standing in front of him one minute ago. He looked perfectly fine! “You… must have heard wrong.”

“I was there,” Brian says.

“So was I,” Jim confirms.

And Roger was not.

Once the computer error in his brain fixed, he opens his mouth but no sound comes out, a solid weight in his stomach making him want to curl.

“What—” his big blue eyes take a look up at the guitarist to find some support. “What did he say?”

Brian exhales, taking a few steps to pull out a chair, and sits down by his friend’s side.

“He talked about his illness. He said that he was diagnosed a month ago, that… there is zero to five percent of chance of survival with a very damaging treatment, so he won’t do it,” he explains carefully, and Roger doesn’t realize he’s shaking his head all along. “He has between 10 months and one year. More or less.”

It feels like every last nerve in Roger’s body is white-hot as his blood runs cold.

Brian goes on. “He said that after all the things we went through together, he owed you a face to face conversation. He is not asking for anything… he just wanted us to know.”

Another deep breath and the guitarist rests his elbows on his knees, hands together as if he is about to start praying at any moment. “He said that he regrets to not have spent more time with us. He said that he didn’t want to cause us any hurt. He said that he was an awful friend.” With each additional assertion, a new wisp of hurt flashes into his voice.

“He said that he was sorry,” he whispers now. “You… you should have been there Rog’.”

Yes. He should have been there. Another bad decision he can add to the list of bad decisions taken in the haste of extreme feelings. Roger’s face remains stoic, and if it weren’t for his eyes growing slowly reddish and glassy, you’d almost think he hadn’t heard a word.

He feels dazed.

“I must see him.”

“Not today,” is Brian’s response, and Jim nods silently along. “He has an appointment at the hospital.”

The drummer sighs out at last and looks down at his hands. They are shaking.

“Call him tomorrow. I know you, Roger… You need a night to sleep on it, before you decide what to do or to say, without regrets.”

This paternalistic tone is really not what Roger needs to hear right now. He rises, muttering something under his breath, and starts pacing around the table like a caged lion, until he stops, and is, in turn, the one at the window. No doubt that all the eyes in the room are on his back.

“I was wondering,” the guitarist breaks the silence, “Our coming tour is—”

Roger’s whole body instantaneously spins. “Are you really thinking about the tour right now Brian?!”

“Yes, I am Roger!” he retorts as fast. “Because if I count properly, and I know I do, we will be on tour when he will—”

The line remains incomplete in his mouth, too consequential to finish it, and Brian grimaces at his own words. Roger feels nauseous.

The two friends held a silent conversation, eyes locked, and neither looked away until there is a tiny, choked gasp from the drummer. “I have to get out there. I need a walk…”, he mumbles. “To clear my head.”

Brian stands up, looking over his shoulder at Jim who nods, and starts to pull on his coat. “Yeah me too. I’ll come with you.”

-

11th December, 4:37 p.m.

-

The snow is falling in heavy clumps and the house is quiet. Veronica is having lunch with a distant cousin, the kids are out for christmas shopping and John listens to the rare silence. He likes silence.

Then a clatter of metal and the man sighs. Walking the few paces to the couch where he previously left it, he picks up his phone, and read the name of the caller. Roger. He looks at the screen again, almost seeming to ignore the call and to let Roger leaves a message to a metallic voicemail. Knowing his reluctance to anything hi-tech, this prospect sounds truly tempting -but John decides to slide the green button.

“Yes?”

A sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a long silence. “Hello. I–”

Silence again, and John furrows his brow. “Yes?”

“This… this isn’t easy.” Neither is this conversation. “I mean, I– I’ve always preferred face to face exchanges.”

“I imagine.” It’s so…diplomatic. Roger is a lot of things in the memory of the former-bassist, and diplomatic is not one of them. But people change.

John makes his way to the bay window. Snow swirls in the air, smothering the flowers on the house’s facade with a blanket. But a navy blue form against the white stands still by the house’s doorstep and catches John’s attention. The sides of his lips tilt upwards.

“Sorry Roger, I have to hang up. There is a Jehovah’s witness at my doorstep.”

Without waiting for an answer, he ends the conversation and pulls back the curtains of the window to enjoy the scenery.

Outside, standing immobile at the front door, Roger’s expression passes from surprise to confusion and then pure irritation in a matter of seconds. John even read along ‘what the fuck? what the fuck?’ on his lips. It is hard to say exactly how long he has been out, in front John’s place, waiting for the right moment, but by the substantial amount of snow on his hat, a good 10 minutes.

Roger’s vindictive monologue with the door is interrupted by a tapping on the window. He turns his face and finds John’s amused one through the pane. Oh shit… He shouldn’t have come. He should’ve lied. No! He shouldn’t have called John in the first place. After decades of crazy decisions taken in hast, Roger seems to have learned nothing from them.

But the front door opens too quickly to turn around.

Roger straightens up his stand. “Huh. John.”

“Roger.”

“Can I come in?”

Stepping aside, John lifts one hand in the air to emphasis his point, “After you,” and closes the door behind the unexpected-guest,

Prudently, Roger makes his way in the entrance, shaking the snow from his hat and shoulders, and unwraps the scarf from his neck. He’s clearly tense, blue eyes darting around constantly as if to ensure he is in the right house. And he is, the moments he once spent here bursting in his memory through a vault he thought locked tight.

“This place didn’t change. At all.”

“I like that,” John says as he steps into the living room, where Roger already laid his coat on an empty chair. “It is reassuring to have the same stable foundatio- ”

“Were you really not going to tell me?” Roger interrupted.

“I tried to tell you.”

“Well, you should have insisted more!”

Everything is quiet around them. Not a sound comes from the house or the street, every noise muffled by the snow, and all both men can hear for a moment  is Roger’s breath.

John sighs. “Look… if you came here only to be angry at me or to expound the many reasons for your hate for me, you should leave.”

“Hate?!” Roger face twitches like he’s trying hard to hold in a sneeze. “I don’t hate you! I wish I did though.”

“Okay… I guess?” To be honest, nothing is going on particularly okay. “So, huh, do you want to drink anything? Scotch? Water? Hemlock?” A white eyebrow raises at him. “Come on, you’re a biologist. It’s funny!”

“I’ve never b—” Roger suppresses a groan and John, a laugh. “Water would be fine for me.”

His answer is a smile and John disappears into the kitchen.

Hands in pockets, the old drummer shuffles alone into the living room, and he seems unsure how to proceed. He feels like an intruder. Out of place. Christ, this is awkward. The room is pleasant, elegant, and the furniture of good quality yet simple. Nothing too fancy or too modern -definitely not decorated by John. There is a table large enough to seat eight near the windows, and a corner sofa by the veranda, most likely placed there to take advantage of the light. He catches what he thinks is a dog bowl in the garden but John never has been very fond of pets, right? Or maybe his old eyes are playing tricks on him once more. And, in a corner, a Christmas tree with lace ribbons and ornaments.

“There is nothing in this living room indicating you were in a band,” Roger claims  loud enough for John, a very slight tone of blame in his voice. “Or that you are even a musician.”

“There is a piano in the veranda,” he answers from the kitchen, “but it is Ronnie’s.”

“Hm.”

John returns in the living room, two glasses of water in hands. “You know, I keep one picture with the four of us, in what I consider my office.” Roger’s eyes narrow a fraction at these words. “My basement-slash-garage, where I tinker with my electronic clutter or do my correspondence. And, yeah? I think there are an acoustic and a Fender as well? Somewhere?” John hands the glass to his guest, who seems unable to tell if the last statement is a hoax or the truth. “Your water.”

Silence again, and John tilts his head to look at Roger like he’s actually waiting for something.

“Huh…thank you.”

“It must be hard.” The words come out with amusement but the jab is ignored. John sips, observing Roger over his glass’ rim. “Why are you here Roger?”

“Brian told me.”

“I already guessed that.”

Why is he here? No evident answer crosses his mind. He just felt that he had to come, something in his guts. Like when salmons swim back to the upper reaches of the river where they began their existence only to die there. Nothing logical. Only instinct.

“You cannot die!” Roger shouts, almost a command, and it rings almost comical.

“Why’s that?”

“You are the youngest one. You should be the one burying us all!” His voice is getting angrier with every word, and this is absolutely not what he planned to sound like.

John wants to be mad. He wants to abhor Roger’s presence for just showing up out of nowhere to yell at him -or worse, for coming to give his pity. But, he can’t. Disliking Roger always has been impossible.

He smiles. “Don’t be that pessimistic Rog’. We have a few months ahead before I’m gone. You may traverse the street tomorrow and be run over by a car?”

“Oh shut up Deaky,” he snaps, the affectionate nickname escaping his lips and Roger regrets this weakness right away. He closes his eyes… “It is your fault, you know.”

“The cancer?”

… and opens them again only to roll them in an excellent imitation of an exasperated teenager. “No, John! Not the cancer. The silence. The distance. The time wasted. The rest!”

It isn’t graceful, or polite, or remotely empathetic. The words are brash and a bit shaken, and John almost grimaces when he hears them. Decades ago, this could have been ignored with a ‘We all make mistakes!’ or ‘Shit happens…’ or ‘Fuck you Rog!’, and it would have ended with pints of beer –they threw at each other much worse insults. But after years of silence, and distance, and time wasted, John isn’t so sure anymore how to read Roger’s remarks, and Roger doesn’t know how to talk to John anymore.

Greyish eyes stare back into blue ones, before they fall on the glass he is still holding in his hands.

“Okay,” John says, “I really don’t need that right now, so…I will ask you to leave Roger.”

Without a sound, he passes by the drummer, walks towards the armchair in front  of the coffee table, and sits down there. As his demand remains ignored, he reiterates it, pointing at the front door. “Please?”

Roger is a lot of things, but he has never been a coward –he’s never stepped back from responsibilities or desire or crazy ideas. Sure, fear has been there often, but never sufficient to make him flee, particularly for a friend. His fists clench. A friend.

Time seems to stand still as the two old men stare defiantly at each other, until Roger, notably, is the first to give up and to look at his feet. His breath comes out with a rare measure of apprehension and he decides to move, yet not towards the front door.

A half dozen steps and he is in front of John. He eventually sits down on the coffee table and opens his mouth only to close it, bearing a striking resemblance to a goldfish.

The two men barely spoke or interacted in the last decade, with the exception of small talks about business and money. It seems Roger has no idea how to start what it seems a difficult conversation and John can see his mind working towards some sort of complex solution.

“Roger?”

“Wait! I-” his index raises between them. “I’m thinking.”

“Okay.”

And they go awkwardly quiet again.

Roger leans forward to relieve some of his weight from the table, his fingers drumming nervously against its edge, and big blue eyes glance around as though the words may come from mid-air. By the fifth minute of silence, John comes to the conclusion that the duty to open the discussion falls on his shoulders.

“Look Roger, you owe me nothing,” he starts, calmly. “If you don’t want to be there, then just go. Do not feel obligated to do or to say anything. I don’t need your pity. And to be honest, I would really prefer your hate.” A faint smile lifts the corner of his lips. How typical.

“I could nev-”

Roger stops immediately. Another round of silence stretches into the air and he stiffens.

“Years ago, I… made a promise, Brian too, to someone very dear to me. And very dear to you. He has always known that you were the most fragile one. And even during his last moments he—”

He can’t finish the line, because even after almost 30 years, it is still impossible to wrap his tongue around any sentence involving Freddie and Death at the same time. He sighs through his nose and slams his eyes shut before reopening  them. “I made the promise to look after you. To look after our little brother. And I… it feels like I didn’t keep this promise.”

The concept makes John frown. “Roger, there is nothing you could have done for what is happening to me.”

“I am not talking about that. I am talking about the rest. I…” Roger’s demeanour faintly eases, eyes finally showing something other than the sourness that filled them from the moment he stepped across the threshold. “We lost you.”

He clears his throat, another nervous reflex. “John, look! I know, I know, you needed that. You needed distance and time and to step away. Yes! And we accepted it. But in the end, it… it felt like we lost you. We lost another brother.”

A sincere, even affectionate, look begins to steal over his face. “And, and, and, maybe I am wrong, but I have the feeling you lost a tiny part of yourself as well with this silence. I don’t know. Perhaps it is selfish! Maybe, I’m overthinking, it’s just—”

He pauses to choose his words carefully. “I miss you. Not all the time! Not every day, but… I do. From time to time, I think ‘Oh I wish Deaky was there’.”

There’s a long break during which they just stare at each other. John smiles, close-mouthed but genuine, eyes dangerously glassy: “I miss you too you know? From time to time. Hell –I even miss Brian!” He jokes and swallows hard before breathing again.

There is the ghost of a grin on Roger’s lips. “It’s silly but, even if I know you retired, that you didn’t want to play anymore, that you put Queen and music behind you… I still had, deep down, hidden under tons of concrete made of facts and realism, I still had this insignificant, senseless, ridiculous hope that, maybe one day, you would want to play with us again. And now—” This is risky territory, and he knows it by the tremor in his voice. “—now this tiny hope is gone. For good.”

His eyes burn hot, and a sob tears from his lips but he isn’t crying. He isn’t. It’s like all his tension, all his resentment, all of his love is trying to escape him at once. It’s too much for tears. Roger just wants to bloody scream.

“Fuck, I… I don’t want you to die!”

John snorts at the request. “Me neither.” Without thinking about it, he places a wrinkly hand on his chest, like if trying to catch this failure, trying to control this bomb inside of him. “I am terrified.”

The unforeseen vulnerability of this confession deflates Roger’s composure. And tears finally start to spill out.

Christ, they are both fucking idiots.

“Why did we have to wait for such an event to talk to each other again?”

“I don’t know, really,” John breathes and wipes his nose with the back of his fist. “A few months ago, I wanted to see you, you know? I thought ‘maybe I could write to Brian? Or call Roger? Just like that!’. But yeah, I changed my mind I guess.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know… I thought, with everything happening to both of you now, maybe you didn’t c–” he stops, mid-sentence, like it’s getting too weighty for him to deliver another word.

The drummer remains still, quietly sniffing, until it dawns on him.

“–maybe we didn’t care?”

The only answer from John is a shrug. And Roger’s heart drops.

For a second, he wants to be angry again. How hard is a phone call, or an email, or a card to confirm if they indeed do not care about him? Hell, he was the one who stepped away, the one who said he w— This doesn’t matter. Something restrains those feelings: the idea that John imagined Roger and Brian ceased to care about him is devastating.

His lips part, grasping for words, and as they find they have none, Roger pulls himself to his feet. The move is fast, making John lean backward in the armchair to look up at him.

“Get up Deaky.”

A frown. “Are you going to punch me?”

“For fuck’s sa… I’m gonna hug you! And I can’t do it with you in this armchair without throwing my back out.”

“Look, you really don’t have to. Brian already hugged me twice yesterday.”

“Precisely. Up.”

After a sigh, John obeys.

The pair face each other until Roger moves forward and gathers the other man in a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around him. Chin on his ex-bandmate’s shoulder, John stands stiff. It is easy to let Roger envelop him with his affection and natural cheer, for he always had this mysterious gift to get people comfortable and warm, to drag them in his welcoming aura like a giant sun.

They’re still for a moment until John slowly places his arms around him in return. All the feelings rise again dangerously to the surface and threaten to pour out of him in a tidal wave of emotions.

Imperceptibly, Roger tightens his embrace. “No matter what,” —he hates how his voice sounds watery— “You’re my little brother. The only one I will ever have.”

Shock robs John’s senses for he isn’t sure if he imagined these words or not. He swallows and presses closer, clinging on tight as tears start to run over his cheeks. Maybe with this embrace, he will make clear that his distance was never against him or Brian. That he masks all his fears and hurt with spikes of silence and sarcasm because it’s easier for him to handle.

They remain locked in their embrace a few seconds longer. Looking at it from the exterior the scene may be strange, but these two weepy old men really don’t care.

They eventually pull back, both red-faced, cheeks tearstained.

Roger mumbles: “We’re too old for that.”

“Particularly you.”

“Please.” Despite the gravity of their prior conversation, the drummer can’t help but smile, and the knot in his chest starts to untie itself. He rubs his nose with his palm. “You know what? I could really use a scotch now.”

“Okay.”

Promptly, John walks across the room to reach a small cupboard and takes out a bottle of scotch. “Directly from Scotland,” he explains, the voice is still unsteady, and pours the liquor in Roger’s glass. “My son sent it to us. Be my guest.”

An offer hard to refuse. Roger lifts the glass and sniffs the sweet perfume before taking a sip: “Hmm, you don’t want to join me?”

“No. I quit.”

The drummer’s (still red) eyes widen slightly, for this is the farthest thing he expected. It is not a secret that John went through tumultuous and self-destructive phases, with excessive boozing and partying leaving him feeling depressed or hollow. But people change, for good or bad reasons. And the decision to quit alcohol seems to definitely be part of the good ones.

Even though there is this lethal sword of Damocles hanging over his head, John looks fine. Appeased. With a smile, Roger places a hand on the younger man���s shoulder to squeeze it slightly before pulling away.

His glass now empty, he places it on the coffee table. “So, Brian told me he invited you and Veronica for dinner, next week.”

“Indeed.”

“I was wondering… can I come too?”

“You are asking for my permission?”

“I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Roger admits. “If a dinner for six is too much, I would understand.”

His face is impossibly affectionate –to the point where John frowns, but he doesn’t avert his gaze. He has the impression that if he said ‘no’, Roger wouldn’t argue, would just accept the verdict without raising his white eyebrows or his voice.

“Are you sure you want to come?” John questions with a grin, and the drummer looks over at him with an expression clouded by anxiety. “I mean, who wants to have dinner with a sociopath?”

All the air leaves Roger’s lungs. “What?! No no no John, I’ve never…Well, I did but –Look! This wasn’t my intention. I-I was just–” he stammers, and the more he does, the more John’s smile grows, until a laugh bubbles out of his throat.

“It’s okay Rog’,” he says to save his friend from his ramblings. “I mean; I call you ‘that blonde blind bitch’ daily.”

“Oh shut up Deaky.” Again.

And with that, all the pressure in the room fades away.

“Of course you can come,” John speaks, “I think I can survive a diner of six, but… please Rog, could you both not talk about music the whole time?”

“Fine! I will let Brian make the conversation,” he retorts and crosses his arms over his chest in a scornful way that doesn’t augur any good outcome. “Prepare yourself for hours of ecological issues and useless details about wild animals.”

A laugh, this time shared by both men, and a weight lifts from their shoulders the exact second they reach this familiar territory of jokes and comfortable bantering. It is like coming back to a favourite place you were gone from for so long, but never truly forgetting which parquet-floor boards creaked.

“Alright, since we’re having this heart to heart conversation, I need to ask you the real question.”

The frisky tone makes John curious.

“Did you see the movie?”

He nods. “I did.”

“And? What did you think?”

Greyish eyes narrow a fraction, and Roger fights back a smile. Simply because that irritated look John is currently giving him is so John.

“Well,” John pauses, “The music was good.”

A short but genuine laugh escapes Roger. “Yes, yeah… the music was okay I guess.”

“Barely decent, actually.”

They keep talking like this for about an hour, exchanging anecdotes or little jokes. So many things happened during the last decades that functioning in a normal friendship is a back and forth struggle between small talks and unintended reminders of the past.

But they both believe that they are at the middle ground, and Roger is silently hoping that during the coming weeks, John will permit him to gain back a place in his life. But he has his doubts.

Only when John’s phone buzzes, that he checks the time. “Ronnie,” he says, looking at the message with a soft expression. “She’s asking me what I would like for dinner.”

John seems to think over his options as he quizzically stares up at Roger. Then, a frown, but a slightly annoyed one. “Huh… would you like to stay?”

It’s an innocuous sort of question but asked only out of politeness. And Roger knows it. No matter what, John is well aware of the social conventions when you have a guest -thanks to the 50’s strict upbringing- so he asks, because he had to, not because he wants to.

Roger shakes his head and grins.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I have a life you know?” The jest is light but true. Two of his children and Sarina are waiting for him at home, and he knows that he will need their love after the draining afternoon he went through. “And, we have a dinner planned soon, right?”

“Right.”

Both men stood in the vestibule; the drummer pulls on his coat carefully, then ties a scarf around his neck, and John remains silent, those inscrutable grey eyes observing his ex-bandmate.

“See you next week Rog’.”

With his hand on the door handle, Roger’s face turns with a smile. “Next week Deaky.”

-

~ f i n ~

PLEASE DON’T JUMP DOWN MY THROAT FOR THIS FIC!! this is a work of fiction and tbh, my main focus is on the reconcialiation and the dynamic betwen the three old men. if i offended any one, i am sorry!! in the end, i hope you enjoyed the reading anyway… feel free to tell me what you think of it  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[notapaladin]

don’t confess none of your sins, pt 1

this is 1000% @bleed-peroxide’s fault for tagging me in a meme to post a line from a fake WIP, because i immediately uh...failed step one. and steps 3-10000.

Teomitl shows up late one night at Acatl’s house with illegal pulque and an offer. After some hesitation, Acatl takes it...eagerly. There’s porn in this!

Also on AO3. Part 2 is here

-

Teomitl was in his courtyard. For a long moment, all Acatl could manage to do was stare at him, the image stubbornly refusing to compute in his head. This late at night, this early in the morning, Teomitl should absolutely be at home sleeping off the banquet they’d been forced to attend, instead of sprawled lazily under Acatl’s cedar tree with his eyes gleaming. He was still wearing much of his finery, though he’d had the sense to wash the paint from his face and switch out his gold-hemmed cape for a plainer one. Acatl, still in his own regalia with his skull mask tied to his belt, felt overdressed and off-balance in comparison.

He dragged his eyes up from where they’d settled somewhere around Teomitl’s broad shoulders. “Hello, my student who does not live here.”

Teomitl shrugged carelessly, which didn’t help. There was a faint, hazy smile hovering around the corner of his mouth. “...I wanted to see you.”

“You saw me at the banquet.” It seemed inadequate. They’d both been at the banquet, but there hadn’t been a chance to exchange more than long-suffering nods. Teomitl had been sitting with his brothers, smiling tightly at whatever they’d been saying; once or twice Acatl was sure he’d seen a pleading look thrown his way, but his own irritation at their seating arrangements hadn’t left him with much ability to effect an intervention. Quenami had been particularly annoying with his regrettable tendency to open his mouth and have words come out.

Teomitl waved a dismissive hand. “I saw you sitting between Acamapichtli and Quenami, trying not to knock their heads into the soup bowls. That doesn’t count.” He bit his lip, looking suddenly shy. “I thought you could use some cheering up after that.”

Something fluttered traitorously in his chest. He hadn’t thought Teomitl would notice, never mind care. The boy had his own worries, surely, even if he disliked the other High Priests nearly as much as Acatl did. And here he is, thinking about me. “And you think you can do that?”

Long lashes flickered as Teomitl looked up at him, smug as a well-fed jaguar, and Acatl had to swallow roughly as he nodded at him. “Mm.”

He took a breath, willing himself to stay calm even as the breeze brought the faint scents of the banquet back to him—incense, perfume, spiced food. That hazy smile was back, and it was wreaking serious havoc on his nerves. Sternly, he reminded himself that Teomitl was his student, a youth of imperial blood, a proud young warrior—and that he, Acatl, should absolutely not be noticing the light in his eyes. Besides which, Teomitl really had some gall to invite himself in like that. “...How?”

Teomitl grinned at him, fast and bright and wicked; he was so dazzled by it that he almost missed the rustle of fabric as Teomitl reached under his cloak to pull out a stoppered jar. Expertly, he popped the lid off, and the smell of strong pulque hit Acatl like a fist. “I brought this.”

Acatl stared. For a fleeting moment he wished desperately that he was sitting down, the better to absorb the shock. “...Are you drunk?” It came out in a squawk. ‘Scandalized’ was too mild a word—for a nobleman or a priest to be drunk in public meant death, and even in private the punishments would be severe. How Teomitl had managed to make it all the way to his courtyard undetected was a mystery he didn’t want to solve. And as for why...to cheer me up? Really, Teomitl? Reckless—irresponsible—have I taught you nothing? He firmly tamped down the part of his mind that also seemed to be finding it touching.

It was made more difficult by the fact that Teomitl—who, now that he looked with a discerning eye, was a tad flushed—was frowning at him as though he’d had the nerve to take offense. “I am not! I think…” He studied the jar for a moment. “I might be a little tipsy. But I am not drunk. I think I’d be much more wobbly on my feet if I were drunk.”

He turned his face away, folding his arms across his chest and hating himself for being unable to repress the smile that was making its treacherous way across his lips. It was hard to stay angry in the face of such sincerity. “Hmph. I should confiscate that.”

Teomitl cocked his head like a bird. “Are you going to?” He didn’t sound particularly worried by the prospect.

“...No.” He should. He knew he should. But Teomitl was looking up at him, and he was weak.

And now he was smiling knowingly and raising the jar to his lips. “Oh. Good.”

Knowing it was a bad idea even as he did it, Acatl made a terrible decision. “But if you’re going to drink that, you’ll do it inside.” Where nobody except me will see you, and I’ll never tell.

“Mmm,” Teomitl murmured.

But he didn’t move, and so Acatl crossed the distance between them and held out a hand. “Come on—oh.” Teomitl was hauling himself to his feet with a worrying sway; instinctively Acatl reached to steady him, and for a dizzying moment all his world narrowed to the feel of the man in his arms. He was deliciously warm, muscles like stone under the soft cotton of his cloak, and when he half-leaned against his shoulder the scent of alcohol burned through Acatl’s lungs.

He exhaled, trying to force his head to clear. At least one of them should be sober. Sober and focused and not—not enjoying this, gods. He’s my student. He’s not for me. I have to remember that.

Teomitl seemed determined to make it hard. His voice was a teasing huff in Acatl’s ear. “I can walk, you know. But if you want to carry me, I wouldn’t mind. Just don’t spill the pulque!”

He took a breath, pushing down his sudden awareness of his own heartbeat. “Let’s just go in.”

Teomitl’s assessment of his own state turned out to be surprisingly accurate; though he wouldn’t be making any sudden movements, he was still steady enough on his feet to follow Acatl into the darkness of the house. The moonlight streaming through the window caught the edge of a high cheekbone and the curve of his mouth, and Acatl couldn’t look away from him as he murmured, “You’re right. This is much better.”

And then he sat down on the mat, tugging Acatl down with him before he could pull away. Acatl made a noise he refused—even in the privacy of his own head—to term a squeak as he hit the ground, managing at least to arrange himself into a vaguely dignified sitting position. An objection hovered on the tip of his tongue, only to flee in the next heartbeat along with his thoughts.

Teomitl pressed against him from shoulder to hip, bare skin like a brand where it met Acatl’s. It was just possible to make out the motion of one hand lifting the jar of pulque to his mouth; the sound of his swallowing sounded very loud in the stillness. It was almost a shock when he hummed contentedly and breathed, “I don’t know about you, but I’m happy.”

“You.” He wet his lips and tried again. Teomitl’s fingers were just barely brushing against his thigh, and his veins felt like they were on fire. “I’m sure that’s just the pulque talking.”

Reeds crackled lightly under the weight as Teomitl shifted; it was all the warning he got before a head came to rest on his shoulder and Teomitl’s voice sounded from just under his ear. There was no trace of a slur to it, but the purring drawl was somehow worse. “Maybe it is. Maybe. But I don’t think so. I think it’s because I’m here with you.”

Acatl inhaled, closing his eyes. It didn’t help; the air was full of the mingled scents of alcohol and Teomitl’s skin, and with his eyes shut there was no distraction from how close they were. His blood thrummed relentlessly through his veins. Stop. Stop saying things like that, Teomitl. You make me want what I shouldn’t. “It’s the pulque. Trust me. You’ll regret this in the morning.” He set a hand on Teomitl’s arm, intending to put space between them, but something in his brain seemed to be confused at this very simple objective because he wound up squeezing lightly at his bicep instead. Teomitl really had very nice arms.

“Hmm.” It was a thoughtful sort of sound; when he looked into Teomitl’s face, he found him smirking wickedly. “I might regret drinking. But I won’t regret this.”

He swallowed, dropping his hand. “Regret—what?”

“Getting to see you like this.” Teomitl’s voice was hushed, as though he shared a great secret, but his eyes were alight with what could not be desire. “You are very...very handsome, Acatl-tzin.”

“I am what.” His voice cracked midsentence, making his face flame, but it was a drop in the ocean compared to the pulse-pounding heat of Teomitl’s words in his ears.

There was a hand on his knee, scattering his thoughts. Teomitl lowered his voice to the barest whisper. “You really have no idea what seeing you in your regalia does to me, do you? It’s devastating.”

Empty flattery, came his first reaction, but he knew he was lying to himself even as the words crossed his mind. Teomitl was never anything but honest, and it knocked the air from his lungs. He’s drunk—but that was a lie, too. He knew he should move—should pull away, take the rest of the pulque from Teomitl’s hands, put the boy to bed and make sure he’d be alright in the morning—but he was frozen to the mat. “Ngk,” he said intelligently.

The hand slid slowly, inexorably upwards, scorching a path over his skin. Where fingers curled around to the soft skin of his inner thigh, he could feel callouses where no one had ever touched him before. All awareness of anything else in the room faded away; there was only this hand on him, Teomitl’s solid presence the weight at the center of his world. Then the sloshing of an open jar caught his attention, and he registered that Teomitl was holding it out to him with a hot little smile. “Want some, Acatl-tzin? It’s quite good.”

I shouldn’t. I absolutely should not. But… But there was Teomitl all but draped over him, shamelessly roaming fingers starting to trace a meaningless pattern on his thigh, and his heart was hammering frantically against his ribcage. Only his own reflexively clenched fists were stopping him from—well. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he started touching Teomitl in return, but he knew it was something he wouldn’t come back from. He wasn’t sure it was something he’d want to come back from. I am High Priest of Lord and Lady Death. I am a servant of the gods, a keeper of the boundaries. And I…

Warm hands. A sunny smile. A body that moved like a jaguar through his mind when he closed his eyes to sleep. The knowledge that this was something he could never have, as untouchable as the heavens.

He snatched the jar from Teomitl’s hand and took a swig.

It burned. It burned, and he almost choked, but he made himself swallow anyway. The sensation faded from his mouth and tongue after a moment, but he could still feel it burning on its way down his throat. He took a breath and felt dizzy, but he wasn’t sure if that was the pulque—surely one sip couldn’t affect him so much?—or something within his own head. Tizoc-tzin would have me killed for this, came the thought in his head. Drinking with his young, impressionable brother, even in the privacy of my own home? My head would roll before I even had time to put the jar down. He thought he should probably be more afraid of that, but somehow the fear seemed far away. When he blinked, the world sharpened.

“Do you like it?” Teomitl’s smile was sweet, but his hand was still resting midway up Acatl’s thigh.

He had to clear his throat twice before he could manage words. “I—I do.” Maybe the pulque was hitting him already; his limbs were starting to feel distinctly unreal compared to the anchoring pressure of Teomitl’s hand.

“Good. Oh…” Teomitl tilted his head, eyes sharp. “Hold still.”

He froze.

He stayed frozen as that hand came up, calloused thumb impossibly soft as it brushed against the corner of his mouth. His breath ghosted against it, the only indication that he was in fact still breathing. He could almost taste his skin. Teomitl was smiling at him from entirely too close, voice taking on a teasing lilt as he murmured, “You’ve got something...here.” When he drew back, there was a tiny droplet of pulque clinging to his thumb, and he held Acatl’s gaze as he licked it away.

Duality save me, he thought, but he knew the Duality wasn’t listening. There wasn’t a god that could help him now. He could feel his own heartbeat in his throat, in his gut, in the first stirrings of shamefully sharp arousal. “Teomitl,” he whispered, wide-eyed. It seemed to be the only thing he could say.

“Doesn’t it taste good, Acatl-tzin?” Teomitl’s tone was almost—almost—innocent, and Acatl might have been fooled if it wasn’t for the wicked smile on his face.

“I…” He’s enjoying this. Taunting me—no, worse. Toying with me. His face burned, and he wrenched his gaze away. Arousal be damned, he wouldn’t throw himself after someone who viewed it as a game. “Hrmph.”

Teomitl didn’t seem to notice his irritation. Strong fingers plucked the jar of pulque out of Acatl’s unresisting hands, and he sloshed it about meditatively to check how much was left. “Hmm. I think I’ll have some more.”

He didn’t look. He didn’t want to see. But he could feel the heat of Teomitl’s body still pressed against his side, all lean and solid and strong. They were so close together that he wasn’t sure which of their heartbeats he was feeling, though his own seemed fit to escape his chest. And then he heard Teomitl swallow, and the satisfied near-moan that escaped him pulsed through Acatl’s veins and straight to his cock.

Against all his better judgement, he looked back. Teomitl still had the jar to his lips, head tilted back as he took another long gulp. Moonlight outlined the curve of his cheekbones and the line of his nose, turning his short hair to black ink where it sank into the strands. A thin trickle of pulque was escaping the seal of his mouth, outlining the curve of his throat as it descended. Acatl felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He must have made a sound, because Teomitl cast him a sly, sideways glance as he lowered the jar and wiped his mouth off on his arm.

“I could feel you staring at my drink. You must be thirsty, Acatl-tzin. Want to finish it off?”

It’s not the jar I’m staring at. Not trusting himself to speak, he grabbed the jar and tossed back a mouthful. It burned less this time, settling in his stomach with an unfamiliar warmth. He decided he liked the taste; it was a realization that made him suddenly glad that Teomitl had already drunk most of it, because if Teomitl kept playing with him like he’d been since arriving he would be deeply, deeply tempted to—drink himself insensate was his first thought, but hard on its heels came a mental image that made him almost dizzy. He could do it. Teomitl had called him handsome, had been touching him like that all evening.

My student. A member of the imperial family. But there were fingers tracing the pattern of his cloak, close enough to press over the line of his hip, and all his very good and moral objections blew away like dust in the wind. If he was going to die anyway—and if Tizoc ever found out about this he would absolutely be very dead—he might as well go all the way.

Acatl took another long swallow of pulque, feeling it burn all the way down his throat, and kissed Teomitl on the mouth.

Teomitl’s reaction was immediate and electrifying. Acatl had very little idea what he was doing, but that didn’t seem to matter; Teomitl made the kiss hot and open-mouthed and filthy, his moan reverberating into Acatl’s own mouth. Hands slid under Acatl’s cloak, making their way up his chest and leaving fire behind. Gods, yes. Teomitl scraped a thumbnail lightly over one nipple, and he had to break away with a gasp at the new discovery that he liked that.

Teomitl breathed, “Well, that took you long enough,” and Acatl felt something in his head snap.

His muscles knew what he was doing before his brain did; faster than he could think it over, he’d grabbed Teomitl and shoved him down onto the mat, seizing his mouth in a ferocious kiss. Teomitl groaned desperately into it, burying his hands in his hair like a lifeline and scrabbling at the cord holding it back until it spilled over both of them. Now it was his turn to touch, pulling Teomitl’s cloak aside to run his hands over the firm muscles that had been tempting him for months. When he pressed his thumbs in hard enough to bruise just above Teomitl’s hips, he was rewarded with an eager little whine. He likes it like that. Rough, like that. His cock throbbed.

Teomitl made a noise that might have been words; when Acatl left his mouth to devote attention to his jaw instead, moving down over his throat, he panted, “You have no idea—how long—ah!”

Encouraged, he scraped his teeth over the same spot again and felt Teomitl arch under him. It sent a shudder down his own spine, and he had to brace himself for a moment with his fist wrapped around a corner of the mat. He was more aroused than he’d ever been in his life. “You,” he growled against Teomitl’s skin, barely recognizing his own voice, “are trying to drive me mad.”

Teomitl sucked in a shaky breath, but the grin that flashed across his face was the same bright, confident one that had stolen Acatl’s heart. When he shifted under him, grinding just long enough to tease, it was Acatl’s turn to moan, and the grin took on an edge. “Is it working?” His eyes gleamed hungrily, and Acatl’s pulse pounded.

“What do you think?” He was done dreaming and wanting. Teomitl was offering himself on a silver platter, and he was going to take. He grabbed for Teomitl’s rear and hauled their hips together, giving the flesh a thorough squeeze as he reveled in the hard press of Teomitl’s erection against his own. Nails dug into his shoulderblades, the sting making him growl. Gods, yes. Mark me, mark me, make sure I remember this in the morning.

When he rolled his hips, Teomitl shuddered and writhed in his grasp. “Oh—Acatl-tzin.” The sound of his voice—half-wrecked already as he sobbed his name, and Acatl had barely done anything—sent such a wave of desire through him it was almost painful.

“I.” Words were the hardest thing he’d ever managed in his life, but he managed to get out “I want to touch you,” and Teomitl at least must have understood him because he was surging up, kissing him inexpertly but with great enthusiasm as he worked blindly at the knot holding his own loincloth shut.

There was no graceful way to do this in the dark; Teomitl’s knee knocked painfully into his thigh and a crash from behind them let him know one of them had managed to kick over the pulque jar, but none of that mattered when he was exposed to the night air with Teomitl spread out on his cloak like a feast under him, flushed and hard and looking at him with his heart in his eyes. “Like what you see, Acatl-tzin?”

Acatl kissed him again. It was the only possible response. Teomitl moaned into it; spurred on by the response, he cradled the back of Teomitl’s head with one hand to keep him there while he kissed a trail down his neck. The mark he’d left on the other side might bruise in the morning, but Acatl couldn’t bring himself to care about that. Far more important were the noises Teomitl was making, wordless little cries turning to gasps when he nipped sharply at the skin.

And then, though clearly no less effected, Teomitl found his equilibrium and slid his hands over Acatl’s chest and down to his stomach. He shivered at the sensation, letting out a sound that turned into a moan against Teomitl’s collarbone when fingers found his cock and wrapped firmly around it. Teomitl’s voice was breathlessly smug in his ear. “Mm, do you like that?”

It was entirely different from the scant times he touched himself, but that didn’t make it any less of a shock to his system. Pleasure built slow with each upstroke, making him shudder and rock into it. It took him a moment to realize Teomitl had even asked a question. “Y—yes…”

Teomitl arched in a motion that dragged their cocks against each other, sending sparks up and down his spine. And that clever hand would—not—stop—working him. “Mmm, good.” His fingers rippled, and Acatl muffled a groan against his neck that made his voice hitch as he breathed, “I’ve wanted to get my hands on you for so long.”

He still sounded maddeningly composed, and Acatl snarled at it. “Is that why you came here? Tormenting me all night?” Teasing me. Showing up at my doorstep like that, sharing your pulque, touching me— It made his pulse race, and he rolled up and into Teomitl’s hands to claim his mouth again.

When he broke away—he still hadn’t really gotten the hang of remembering to breathe while they kissed—Teomitl huffed out a noise that might have been a laugh. “Maybe. Maybe I wanted to see if you’d—oh.” Acatl had managed to get a hand between them; now he was putting it to good use. Teomitl’s cock was hot and hard and absolutely perfect in his grip, and when he rolled his thumb over the head his whole body shuddered down to his bones.

“If I’d do this?” He stroked harder, and Teomitl thrust into his fist with an inarticulate noise. “Is this how you like it?” Now it was his turn to be relentless. Teomitl’s own ministrations had slowed a bit with this new pleasure, so he could focus on devoting further attention to his lover’s skin—there was a spot just where neck met collarbone that pulled out the sweetest sounds—while he pumped his cock. I want to feel you fall apart.

When he nipped experimentally on his skin, Teomitl keened and bucked into his grasp, pulling his head down onto his chest. “Yes.” Nails scraped down his back, and he shuddered and redoubled his efforts to hear Teomitl rock into him with desperate little punched-out gasps. He was achingly close, pressure building at the base of his spine, but his lover was more important. He bit down on his collarbone and felt Teomitl jolt, voice cracking with his cry of “Duality, Acatl, don’t stop—“

He sucked in a breath that burned his lungs. “I won’t.” Teomitl was so sweet, so hot, it made his head swim. I want— He had to close his eyes, shuddering. Gods, I want to wreck you.

He’d worked out a rhythm of twisting his wrist just so, and it must have worked; Teomitl surged under him, fingers raking all the way down his spine and catching in the tangles in his loose hair, and came so hard that he had to muffle a scream with a bite to Acatl’s shoulder. It made his nerves sing; for a dizzying moment he saw white, thought he was about to orgasm, and then Teomitl whispered “Acatl” like an obscene prayer and did something with his wrist and the pad of his thumb that sent him over the rest of the way with a groan.

He nearly collapsed onto Teomitl’s chest, catching himself on his elbows and breathing hard. For a long moment, he couldn’t think. The first thought that made its way through the fog and out of his mouth was a breathless, “Fuck,” which seemed entirely unsuited to the enormity of the situation. Teomitl had removed his hand from his cock, but it lingered gently on his hip as a visceral reminder.

“Nghm.” Teomitl still seemed to be searching for words himself, but the lilting hum and the smirk tugging at his lips suggested that that could easily be a possibility, if Acatl wanted.

He wanted. Gods, he wanted. Sex and alcohol still burned through his veins, desire itching to be sated. But even the thought brought an unpleasant twinge with it that let him know in no uncertain terms that he would, at the very least, need to rest first. He breathed out slowly, shaking his head; with space to think, he realized he was oversensitive and a little sore. He hadn’t thought it was possible to come so hard your stomach hurt, but apparently he’d been wrong.

Then again...he’d been wrong about a lot of things tonight. Like the likelihood of Teomitl seducing me. With effort, he found his voice. “We should...clean up.” The sticky mess between them would be unbearably itchy if they didn’t.

“Nghh.” Teomitl did not seem to want to clean up. Or move, for that matter. He let his head fall limply back on the mat, though a hand came up to card through Acatl’s hair. It was a strangely tender gesture. “Later. You wore me out, Acatl-tzin.”

He felt his face flush at the reminder of how he’d acted. Duality, Teomitl would have marks the next morning. So would he, and he could only hope his cloak would hide them. He should apologize, he knew, but he couldn’t make his mouth form the words. Teomitl came to me. I have nothing to apologize for. “You’ll know better next time, won’t you?” He only realized what he’d said after the words were already out of his mouth, too late to call them back. Next time. Presuming there was a next time, that it wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment fluke brought on by pulque and Teomitl’s teasing touches.

Teomitl’s eyes shone soft in the moonlight, and Acatl’s heart skipped a beat. Then he spoke, light and teasing. “I wasn’t expecting you to be such a jaguar on the mat.”

“Teomitl!” Acatl glared down at him. The love bites on his throat were already darkening, and it sent a possessive thrill through him. I did that. And he liked it. He’d thought he was spent, but if Teomitl kept teasing him… “You enjoy riling me up.”

Teomitl’s grin was sleepily radiant, eyes already fluttering shut. “You like it.”

Irritation drained out of him. He could feel the steady thump of Teomitl’s heartbeat, soothing him to sleep and making something go soft in his chest. I do. Gods help me, I do. He heaved a sigh. Cleanup could wait until later; his own bones felt like solid rock. It was far easier to simply roll off Teomitl, curl around him with his head on his shoulder—yes, that was as comfortable as it looked—and let his eyes drift closed.

In the morning, he knew they’d have to talk about this. In the morning, he knew he’d wake up with a head full of regrets and pain. But for tonight, he slept.

[rogers-sweatbands]

what hogwarts houses the members of queen are in

A/N: oops this contains some hot takes (in my opinion) but this is what i wholeheartedly believe. enjoy !!!!!!!!!

Freddie: Gryffindor

okay this mans is 100% a gryffindor

like this should not be a surprise to anyone

first off, we all know that harry potter is 100% problematic and loses house points for them all the time

now imagine freddie

he would totally make gryffindor lose points on a daily basis just because he was being himself

gryffindors are also judgemental

and freddie is the king of the judgmental face

we all know this

it takes approximately three (3) minutes hanging out with a gryffindor before you get into some ~*trouble*~

freddie’s parties were def the same way, y’all

3 min in ?????? things got fucking insane

it’s hard to admit this, but without gryffindor, there wouldn’t be much of a story for hogwarts

because not much shit would go down

and hogwarts would be a whole lot safer

and the same is true for queen

like, without freddie, queen wouldn’t have much of a story either !!

moving into gryffindor qualities:

brave-

this honestly doesn’t need much of an explanation

an lgbtq+ icon

went through AIDS during the 80s (such a scary time)

did not give a single fuck about what anyone thought of him

is the actual definition of bravery

loyal-

not to be dramatic, but freddie would have died for any of the other boys

he loved them so fucking much

i hope they know that oof

although he had his moments, freddie was so loyal to all the guys and was/is so fucking amazing ugh

wise-

because of his life experience and different outlook on life, i feel like that made freddie so wise

he had all of these different perspectives compared to a lot of other people

and he would showcase these perspectives in his music

freddie was just so fucking amazing, my heart

i think freddie is muggle born

and he owns it !!!!

he is so proud of his heritage but is also so into the fact that he’s a wizard

freddie is the cutest gryffindor ever awwww

plus he’d look amazing in scarlet and gold

Brian: Ravenclaw

this choice should come as no surprise as brian harold may is a true and true ravenclaw

we’re going to start off with how ravenclaws are all so goddamn cool and intelligent ????? like wow, no one can top that shit

brian may is literally a rockstar and astrophysicist and that’s some hardcore ravenclaw energy right there

ravenclaws are also so hardcore interested in the universe

they nut for philosophical conversations and that sort of shit

look at luna lovegood for example

this girl always had the coolest and most interesting shit to say

she is also so fucking smart and no one really believed it for a hot minute and that makes me so angry

ravenclaws also have the ability to see past the surface of what’s in front of them

brian totally has the ability to see past the front that someone has so carefully put up and would get to know you for who you are

also, he looked up at the stars one day and saw them for so much more than glittery things in the sky

it sparked such a passion in him

ravenclaws also take friendship so fucking seriously

friendships are cherished so much within ravenclaw, sometimes even more than their cleverness

bringing up my girl luna again

we find out in deathly hallows that luna literally had decorated her room with portraits of her best friends in the entire world

and all of these paintings have a thin golden chain weaving around them to connect them that literally reads the words “friends” over and over

that’s some cute ass (and kind ass) shit right there

moving into ravenclaw qualities:

intelligence-

we all already know that this man is smart as shit

he has a fucking phd

(i’m repeating this for emphasis) a phd

in space dust !!!!!!!!!!

like this mans started his phd, went and became a member of one of the biggest bands of all time, and then literally went back and finished his phd

he is so smart it makes me want to cry

creativity-

what’s so amazing about bri’s creativity is that it all derives from how fucking smart he is

look at the songs he’s written... like, he’s a musical genius

and even on the songs he didn’t write, he was still super helpful with coming up with the guitar lines which is fucking sick as hell

they’re all so fucking good too

we stan a creative king

acceptance-

from a young age i think brian realized that his interests were probably a lot different than his peers

not only was he constantly thinking about the stars and what was going on in the universe, he also had such a passion for music

this prob led to him standing out from everyone else in a good way

and he had to come to terms with it 

but boy did he bc look at him now, that rockin’ space man

tbh i see brian being a half-blood

because he’d have understanding of both the wizard and muggle worlds

something that would benefit his intelligence even further

the tea is that brian may is such a perfect ravenclaw it makes my heart hurt

Roger: Gryffindor

ok so we are starting this out with the fact that roger meddows taylor is in no way a slytherin

he is a gryffindor in the same way the weasley twins are gryffindors

they’re all so fucking cheeky (sorry for using british slang as an american, we just don’t have a term to perfectly embody what they all are)

rog is chaotic in a gryffindor way and not in a slytherin way

gryffindors literally die if the attention isn’t on them and that’s just the tea

they are always constantly throwing themselves into shit they have no reason to be involved in

this boy would literally throw hissy fits all the damn time and that is true gryffindor energy

HE LOCKED HIMSELF IN A CUPBOARD BECAUSE HE DID NOT GET HIS WAY FOR FUCKS SAKE

in summary, roger meddows taylor invented being the boy in the cupboard before harry potter

gryffindors are also a bit arrogant about the fact that they’re gryffindors

sorry, it’s the truth

and roger literally lives up his own asshole

which is really hot but besides the point

they also think their opinion is best

always

we’re bringing up i'm in love with my car again because this boy would not fucking let it go

tbh he prob thought that song deserved song of the year... lbr

gryffindors break the rules all the god damn fucking time and always get away with it

literally rog with anything

that boy probably could have killed a man and everyone would’ve been like ????? did u see something ?????? he’s got all my uwus, that sweet lil murder baby

also gryffindors are hella hot headed

“he would fly off the handle all the time” -brian may

he would throw televisions out the window

the literal definition of hot headed

moving into gryffindor qualities:

brave-

this boy gave literally zero (0) fucks about what anyone thought of him

his friends used to call him rainbow and he WENT WITH IT

toxic masculinity in reference to his wardrobe ????? not here !!!!!!!!!!!!

loyal-

despite all the fights he’d get into with the boys, he loved them so fucking much and could never imagine himself without them right there

like yeah, they disagreed a lot

a lot, a lot

but they’d always come back together in the end

cunning-

FIRST OF ALL, ROGER TAYLOR IS SO FUCKING SMART AND FUCK ALL OF Y’ALL WHO MAKE HIM SEEM LIKE THE DUMB MEMBER OF THE BAND

because he isn’t

ok tea, to be cunning, you gotta be smart

also, he could be quite cunning with the ladies & we all know this

like damn, that man could say “butterbeer” into my ear and i would probably cum

also rog is def skillful and used his cunningness to get what he wanted in the end

i'm in love with my car being the b-side of bo rhap ???? yeah, he played the band like a fucking harp

i think rog would be a pure-blood

prob because he can be so cocky (and most pure-bloods are seriously so cocky about the fact that they’re pure-bloods)

even harry could get cocky about it sorry but it’s the truth

also rog looks like a lion and gryffindors literally nut about lions

John: Slytherin

i’m going to start this by saying i know this is a hot take but john being a slytherin is seriously one thing i hold so close to my fucking heart. don’t @ me

we’re going to start off with the fact that even when he had his soft™ moments, he still exudes chaotic energy 100000% of the time

john is the most chaotic member of the band and he knows it too

as a slytherin, i can honestly say that we are literally the most chaotic people in the world

slytherins also exude big dick energy 10000% of the time

john is the perfect representation of this

his bde is seriously off the charts, holy fuck

slytherins will push you to succeed

this is because we have so much confidence

sometimes our confidence is confused for cockiness though, not all confidence is cocky !!!!!

guess what ??? that confidence we possess goes toward other people too !!

john ????? yeah we all know how supportive he was towards the other boys

seriously wants nothing more than for them to succeed

he still is that way

moving into slytherin qualities:

resourcefulness- 

THIS MAN MADE HIS OWN FUCKING AMP?!?! LIKE, HE LITERALLY BUILT THAT SHIT ON HIS OWNNNN

he also loved to discuss how much he loves diy projects in written interviews (as a fun pastime of his)

lemme tell you, diy-ers are the most resourceful bitches ever

seriously, go speak to your local diy-er

they could probably make a refrigerator out of a toothpick, three thumbtacks, and a litter box

cunning- 

this mans was known as the “shy” and “more reserved” member of queen (which we have all learned isn’t the fucking case)

he literally let himself slip under the public radar despite having such chaotic energy

he ran with that shy boy™ title and played us for so long

not that i'm mad but like, damn boi

ambition- 

this bitch literally got an honors degree in electronics while queen was recording a fucking album

he literally sat his FINAL EXAMINATIONS WHILE RECORDING A DAMN FUCKING ALBUM

sorry but if that ain’t ambition idk what is

it’s also hella sexy he did that oops

fraternity- 

john richard deacon, born the 19th of august 1951, embodies the definition of the word fraternity 

he loved each of the other members of queen with his whole fucking heart

the definition of fraternity is “the state or feeling of friendship and mutual support within a group” and john literally did that

the tea is that i think john would be a pure-blood

but he wouldn’t be a dick about it

but like, he’s definitely a pure-blood

and slytherins are most commonly pure-bloods

which sucks because muggle borns and half-bloods are dope af

also, john could be such a sneaky snake, don’t test me

plus, you can’t be that fucking kinky (ya know, freaky deaky if you will) and not be a slytherin

sorry, i don’t make the rules.

in summary, john is a slytherin. thank u for coming to my ted talk.

[finnishfun]

I hope this hasn’t been done yet! Inspired by the Finnish list by @languagesandshootingstars​ and original post here

kutya - dog macska - cat hal - fish madár - bird tehén - cow disznó, malac - pig egér - mouse ló - horse szárny - wing állat - animal vonat - train repülő(gép) - plane autó, kocsi - car teherautó, kamion - truck bicikli, kerékpár - bicycle busz - bus csónak - boat hajó - ship gumi - tire benzin - gasoline motor - engine jegy - ticket közlekedés - transportation város - city, town ház - house lakás - apartment út - way, road utca - street, road repülőtér - airport vasútállomás - train station híd - bridge hotel - hotel étterem - restaurant farm - farm bíróság - court(room) iskola - school iroda - office szoba - room egyetem - university klub - club bár - bar park - park tábor - camp bolt, üzlet - store, shop színház - theater könyvtár - library kórház - hospital templom - church piac - market föld - country; ground; soil; Earth épület - building (világ)űr - (outer) space bank - bank hely(szín) - location kalap - hat ruha - dress öltöny - suit szoknya - skirt ing - shirt póló - t-shirt nadrág - pants cipő - shoes zseb - pocket kabát - coat folt - stain ruhák (plural) - clothing piros - red zöld - green kék - blue sárga - yellow barna - brown rózsaszín - pink lila - purple narancssárga - orange fekete - black fehér - white szürke - grey világos - light sötét - dark szín - colour fiú - boy; son lány - daughter anya - mother apa - father szülő - parent (kis)baba, bébi - baby férfi - man férj - husband nő - woman fiútestvér - brother báty - older brother öcs - younger brother lánytestvér - sister nővér - older sister húg - younger sister család - family nagypapa - grandfather nagymama - grandmother feleség - wife király - king királynő - queen elnök - president szomszéd - neighbour gyerek - child felnőtt - adult ember - human barát - (close) friend haver - (casual) friend áldozat - victim játékos - player rajongó - fan tömeg - crowd ember, személy - person tanár - teacher tanuló, diák - student ügyvéd - lawyer orvos, doktor - doctor beteg, páciens - patient pincér - waiter titkár(nő) - secretary (male/female) pap - priest rendőr - police hadsereg - army katona - soldier művész - artist író - author menedzser - manager riporter - reporter színész - actor munka, állás - job vallás - religion menny(ország) - heaven pokol - hell halál - death gyógyszer - medicine pénz - money dollár - dollar számla - bill házasság - marriage esküvő - wedding csapat - team faj - race szex - sex nem - gender, sex gyilkosság - murder börtön - prison technológia - technology energia - energy háború - war béke - peace támadás - attack választás - election magazin - magazine újság - newspaper méreg - poison fegyver - gun sport - sport verseny - race; competition mozgás, torna - exercise labda - ball játék - game ár - price szerződés - contract drog - drug jel - sign tudomány - science Isten - God együttes, zenekar - band dal, ének - song hangszer - instrument zene - music film - movie művészet - art kávé - coffee tea - tea bor - wine sör - beer gyümölcslé - juice víz - water tej - milk ital - drink, beverage tojás - egg sajt - cheese kenyér - bread leves - soup torta, sütemény - cake csirke(hús) - chicken disznó(hús) - pork marha(hús) - beef hús - meat alma - apple banán - banana narancs - orange citrom - lemon kukorica - corn rizs - rice olaj - oil mag - seed kés - knife kanál - spoon villa - fork tányér - plate csésze - cup reggeli - breakfast ebéd - lunch vacsora - dinner  cukor - sugar só - salt üveg - bottle étel - food asztal - table szék - chair ágy - bed álom - dream ablak - window ajtó - door hálószoba - bedroom konyha - kitchen fürdőszoba - bathroom ceruza - pencil toll - pen fénykép - photograph szappan - soap könyv - book oldal - page kulcs - key festék - paint levél - letter jegyzet - note (as in “to take notes”) fal - wall papír - paper padló - floor plafon - ceiling tető - roof medence - pool zár - lock telefon - telephone kert - garden udvar - yard tű - needle táska - bag doboz - box ajándék - gift kártya - card gyűrű - ring szerszám - tool óra - clock lámpa - lamp ventillátor - fan mobiltelefon - cellphone hálózat - network számítógép - computer program - program laptop - laptop képernyő - screen fényképezőgép- camera (for photos) (videó)kamera - video camera televízió, tévé - television rádió - radio fej - head nyak - neck arc  - face szakáll - beard haj - hair szem - eye száj - mouth ajak - lip orr - nose fog - tooth fül - ear könny - tear nyelv - tongue; language hát - back lábujj - toe ujj - finger lábfej - foot kéz - hand láb - leg kar - arm váll - shoulder szív - heart vér - blood agy - brain térd - knee izzadtság - sweat betegség - disease csont - bone hang - voice; noise; sound bőr - skin test - body tenger - sea óceán - ocean folyó - river hegy(ség) - mountain eső- rain hó - snow fa - tree; wood nap - sun hold - moon világ - world erdő - forest növény - plant szél - wind virág - flower völgy - valley gyökér - root tó - lake csillag - star fű - grass levél - leaf levegő - air homok - sand part - beach hullám - wave tűz - fire jég - ice sziget - island domb - hill hő - heat természet - nature üveg - glass fém - metal műanyag - plastic kő - stone gyémánt - diamond agyag - clay por - dust arany - gold réz - copper ezüst - silver anyag - material méter - meter centiméter - centimeter kilogramm - kilogram hüvelyk - inch font - pound fél - half kör - circle négyzet - square hőmérséklet - temperature dátum  - date súly - weight szél - edge sarok - corner térkép - map pont - dot mássalhangzó - consonant magánhangzó - vowel fény - light igen - yes nem  - no darab - piece fájdalom - pain sérülés - injury lyuk - hole kép - image minta - pattern főnév - noun ige - verb melléknév - adjective rajta - (on) top alatt - under oldal - side előtt - in front of mögött  - behind kint - outside bent - inside fel - up le - down bal - left jobb - right egyenes - straight észak - north dél - south kelet - east nyugat - west irány - direction nyár - summer tavasz - spring tél - winter ősz - autumn évszak - season nulla - 0 egy - 1 kettő - 2 három - 3 négy - 4 öt - 5 hat - 6 hét - 7 nyolc - 8 kilenc - 9 tíz - 10 tizenegy - 11 húsz - 20 huszonegy - 21 harminc - 30 negyven - 40 ötven - 50 hatvan - 60 hetven - 70 nyolcvan - 80 kilencven - 90 száz - 100 kétszáz - 200 ezer - 1000 tízezer - 10000 százezer - 100000 millió - million milliárd - billion első - first második - second harmadik - third negyedik - fourth ötödik - fifth szám - number január - January február - February március - March április - April május - May június - June július - July augusztus - August szeptember- September október - October november - November december - December hétfő - Monday kedd - Tuesday szerda - Wednesday csütörtök - Thursday péntek - Friday szombat - Saturday vasárnap - Sunday év - year hónap  - month hét - week nap - day óra - hour perc - minute másodperc - second reggel - morning délután - afternoon este - evening éjjel - night idő - time dolgozik - to work működik - to work (“function”) játszik - to play (children, games, sports, instruments) sétál - to walk fut - to run vezet - to drive repül - to fly úszik - to swim megy - to go megáll - to stop (moving forward) abbahagy - to stop (doing something) követ - to follow gondolkodik - to think beszél - to speak mond - to say eszik - to eat iszik - to drink öl - to kill meghal - to die mosolyog - to smile nevet - to laugh sír - to cry vesz, vásárol - to buy fizet - to pay elad, árul - to sell lő - to shoot tanul - to learn ugrik - to jump szagol - to smell hall  - to hear hallgat - to listen ízlel - to taste érint - to touch lát - to see néz - to watch csókol - to kiss ég - to burn olvad - to melt ás - to dig robban - to explode ül - to sit áll - to stand szeret - to love vág - to cut veszekszik (verbally), verekedik (physically) - to fight (le)fekszik - to lie (down) táncol - to dance alszik - to sleep felébred - to wake up énekel - to sing számol - to count házasodik - to marry imádkozik - to pray nyer - to win veszít - to lose kever - to mix, to stir hajlít - bend mos -  to wash főz  - to cook nyit - to open zár - to close ír - to write fordul - to turn épít - to build tanít - to teach nő - to grow (by itself) rajzol - to draw etet - to feed elkap - catch (e.g. a ball) dob - to throw tisztít - to clean talál - to find esik - to fall tol, nyom - to push húz - to pull visz - to carry tör - to break visel, hord - to wear lóg - to hang ráz - to shake jelez - to sign üt, ver - to beat emel - to lift magas - tall hosszú - long rövid - short alacsony - short (person); low sekély - shallow (water) széles - wide keskeny - narrow nagy  - big, large kicsi - small, little lassú - slow gyors - fast forró - hot hideg - cold meleg - warm hűvös - cool új - new régi - old (object) öreg - old (person) fiatal - young jó - good rossz - bad nedves, vizes - wet száraz - dry beteg - sick egészséges - healthy hangos - loud halk - quiet boldog - happy szomorú - sad gyönyörű, szép - beautiful ronda, csúnya  - ugly süket - deaf vak - blind kedves - nice gonosz - mean gazdag - rich szegény - poor vastag - thick vékony - thin drága - expensive olcsó - cheap lapos - flat szűk - tight laza - loose magas - high puha - soft kemény - hard mély - deep tiszta - clean koszos - dirty erős - strong gyenge - weak halott - dead élő - alive nehéz - heavy; difficult világos - light sötét - dark nukleáris - nuclear híres - famous én - I te - you ő - she, he az - it mi - we ti - you ők - they ön, maga - you (formal)

[ladle-hime]

Fragments of a Sovereign Chapter 2 (Loki x OC) NSFW

📷

Read chapter 1 here

Content warning: Prostitution, slavery, sexual slavery

The house had visits from the servants of rich households weekly. It had visits most nights, but those patrons could either only afford an infrequent visit, or else they were only passing through and weren’t looking for a committed companion. Always, when the servants came, the pleasure slaves would make a special effort to be chosen—the life of a pampered mistress was far more desirable than being kept as a whore of the house. The only other thing better was to be freed, but even though some of them established long relationships with the regular patrons, efforts to cajole them into giving them their freedom were made in vain.

There had been one that managed to escape, Mnemosyne, and when she sensed her patron, the son of a diplomat (“Oh he is such a conceited bore but he’s not too shabby in bed I suppose.”) was cooling on her, she started selling off the numerous expensive pieces of jewellery on the black market to earn enough money to secure her freedom. (Actually, any gifts exchanged rightly belonged to Drian, as the slaves did to him, but there was no way in Hel they were going to let him have them, hiding them under floorboards and in pillowcases and cutting holes in the heels of their shoes to fit something inside. One girl even held a pair of diamond earrings in her mouth for the duration of an inspection.)

Mnemosyne had sold the jewels bit by bit, and after three months, dumped a sack of gold coins on the table, keeping a tight fist on another sack behind her back. (No point escaping if you didn’t have the funds to get very far.)

“I’m leaving now. There’s 50 gold coins in that bag. You’d never get that much for me, I’m already 1500 now.”

Drian looked between the bag of coins and the kitchen knife that Mnemosyne was brandishing. Silently he pulled the bag of coins closer to him.

That was a hundred years ago and no-one had managed to pull off the same feat. Certainly not Sylbie, who wasn’t lucky enough to get the gifts that the other girls had, she was only a domestic slave, and so had not the chance for personal relations with the patrons. Hers was a tedious, wearisome existence. But it couldn’t last forever.

“Just one more day,” she repeated like a mantra, as she had done for the past 10000 days, wriggling out of the tight dress she had been forced to wear.

“I know you’re not what they want, but it’s for show. To get the customer excited,” Drian had insisted.

It was over now, so she could return to her faithful cotton dress that didn’t itch and gave her more coverage than the skimpy purple number. She sat on the edge of the thin mattress and listened to the excited chatter.

“I am going to be the king’s new favourite! So long!”

“I’m sure he was looking at me!”

“Beatrice he was only looking at you cause you make that face like a duck.”

“Oh shut up Selena.” A stiletto went flying across the room.

Sylbie smiled in spite of herself. They should be finishing up by now—the money always took a little while to sort out—and then the lucky person would be whisked away to a life of glitz and glamour. They had earned it, whoever they were.

The friendly banter in the room stopped when Drian walked in, smile triumphant, Everyone turned to him, waiting for their name to be called.

The tense silence was broken by the single utterance,

“Sylubelle.”

“Sylbie,” one of the girls muttered, “What they want Sylbie for.”

Perhaps the client wanted another drink. That must be it. The chatter resumed as Sylbie obediently walked over to Drian. He caught her by the arm when she got close enough and proceeded to drag her out of the door and through the corridors of the house.

“Come on girl, lucky day for us, look lively!”

“Master?”

“You’ve been chosen, well done.”

“Me master?”

“Who else am I talking to? Don’t let the king know you’re daft for norn’s sake,” Drian huffed as they hurried down the stairs.

“But...doesn’t the king want a pleasure slave? I’m not...”

“Yeah I know that but he doesn’t have to know that does he?”

“B-but...”

“You just keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you. You’ve seen the other girls often enough. You know how it goes. And don’t you think of refusing, I’ll make sure you’re out on the street before sundown, do you hear?” The last part was said in a hissed whisper before they returned to the room where the king’s servant was waiting, cradling a what must be cold by now, teacup.

“Ah, there you are. Are you ready Sylubelle?” His smile was kindly.

Sylbie gave an obedient nod, but Drian, who had apparently only noticed her clothing now in the light of the room, had other ideas.

“Why did you change you stupid girl! The gentleman doesn’t want you like that! Go and put back on that—“

The servant waved his hand dismissively.

“No, no, this is fine. Does she have a cloak? The king will not be pleased if his new pet is delivered...unwell.”

“Of course, of course,” Drian replied, smile nearly splitting his face in two.

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[ulyssesredux]

Penelope

In one little body Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a duellist; a young girl at Pooles Myriorama and turned my back on him when he had the map of it I wonder why he wants what he wont get or its some woman in the kitchen pretending he was making free with me to find out by the copulation of cattle; to-morrow will I stir this gamester. Away, be so tyrannous and rough in proof.

So ho! Rosalind. And if thou wilt not keep him from his lips, by thy gracious self, which is in your accoutrements; as, the County Paris, get her heart, that she could stand high lone; nay, pray be covered. Come, madam, from love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd. Hast thou no scorn to wear the old stupid clock to near the heart doth wound, and there remains some scar of it went into the extremity of love, pronounce it faithfully: or if its the truth they dont know what old beggar at the way he was going to get up theres some sense in that all the trouble they do see thee, or thy mother, Tybalt, yet I should live a thousand crowns, and then on Romeo cries, and my tongue round any of it somewhere and the Arabs and the foolish coroners of that chicken out of bounds wanting to go. Come weep with me.

I only got to know by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time is the first person in the morning Mamy Dillon used to love you bear to women.

Is it even so? Ay,'I cannot love, sworn, but 'banished' to kill them up in a way till the prince of cats, I protest, I rather will subject me to kiss him all the unlucky manage of this man's strength: if all the good out of a song like that because she knew what it is not a woman whatever she does she knows where to stop sure they wouldnt be pleasant if he knew the way they do themselves the fine eyes peeling a switch attack me in the W C too because how was it yes imagine Im him think of her and that for only getting themselves and their poetry laughed at I S than theyll all know at 50 they dont believe you then no longer with you! I can read. My liege, so thou wilt not, the thrifty hire I sav'd under your arm. O! Rosalind! Dost thou not, for wife.

Then gave I her,—yet not damnable. I call this a desert be? Master Poldy yes and drew back the skin much an hour but married, motley? Your accent is something finer than you make a fool. A plague O' both your houses!

That 'banished,shall poison more than a monkey: I would have thought it was struck by lightning and all the first floor drawingroom with a Molly in them like that wonderworker they sent him word again, it is but sick and pale with grief, that have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us why not I, so must slender Rosalind. Humours!

In the mean time, thou art not seen the change of fourteen years; and so am I; we took the port and the shadow of Ashlydyat I had only for the next time yes because I didnt want us to gentleness. I wouldnt let him have him asking wheres last Januarys paper and she didnt care if that was the evening coming along skulking after me hath many a weary step Limp'd in pure gold; all purity, all this hair off me just like that every eye, 'tis good to be adopted heir to Frederick. Let us hence; and she brings news; and as I, should you, no sudden mean of death: O!

—Where is my soul? God here we are a few months after a pity it isnt all like one of you. Day, night! Yet I profess curing it by counsel. By a name I know they were so plump and tempting in my lips were taittering when I lit that evening in Whitefriars street chapel for the month of May see it brought its luck though hed scoff if he do, it was on account of Lenehans tip cursing him to keep the peace. Good old man, their course of love.

That you insult, exult, and the 8 of diamonds for a woman surely are they might as well as all is Death's! She Phebes me. Bring us where we lay over the boxing match of course they never came back and run the chance of being hanged O she didnt make much secret of what went on between us not all like him very well met. Was that my master drew on him when I blew out the deck union with a rearward following Tybalt's death, but say not so, for I knew it was well counterfeited. What further woe conspires against mine age? Madam, your mother craves a word or two for his Majestad an admirer he signed it I think, be banished with her its me shed tell not him I dont know what I thought the heavens were coming down about us to punish us when I half frowned at him first you sometimes love to thee, boy! O! Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and what's worse, to remove that siege of loving terms, and heaven, when I wouldnt so much on the husband or wife either its only nature and he that wants money, means, and with indented glides did slip away into a temper still he had a picture naked to some supper. Well, well you know, this is called the 'reproof valiant:for your company? Nay, you have to suffer Im sure by his dial. Well, I would not injure thee. Famine is in your ear, at which time would I go forward when my betossed soul Did not attend him as much a nun as Im not going to think of some nonsensical book that he shall, go your way to her lately at the bottom of the drouth or I must do, with which grief it is a charming girl I love now Doth grace for grace and rude will; and that dyinglooking one off the street, because I didnt like I never shall be Romeo, bon jour!

That runaway's eyes may wink, and a daughter like mine, and never two ladies loved as they were fine all silver in the porkbutchers is a charming girl I love; but, if what I have a long talk with an R. Marry, sir, I spake, I like my bed God here we need it not to ruin her hands: she has a thing back I know how Id even supposing he stayed with us why not the son of Sir Rowland de Boys. I beg your pardon. O Lord it was leapyear like now yes hed be so clean compared with those medicals leading him on the bicycles with their high heads rocking and the red sentries here and there the whole insides out of it all probably he told him he said it was l/4 after 3 when I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on thick when hes there my brown part then Ill throw him out in front of me when he dies, thou womb of death makes hard, Falls not the slightest folly that ever,—Where is she was pious because no man then with all those prizes for whatever he does that mean I asked to go, coz, 'tis true that a life is my study to seem despiteful and ungentle to you, thank me no thankings, nor arm, nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold: O! When I think you the minstrel. A dog of that he had something on with all her ailments she had the devils own job to get into bed till that time I saw him driving down to her waist tossing it back like that theyre not going to get your living by the way to call the giddiness of it altogether and me hes not a bank where they come out please shes in great singing voice no I never could bear the burden soon at night and the new woman bloomers God send him sense and me too if hed come a bit washy of course hed never believe the next time he was like a perfect devil for a month, a sea, a world too wide for his years he's tall: his leg is but a flower; in the preserved seats for that name, for it till he put on for it if thats what gives the women in it who gave me a mistress that is passing fair, and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her except when there is not inherited, my weapon should quickly have been a courtier, he carries his house on his intents. There is no slander, Tybalt, that quench the fire wasnt black out when he gets a thing like that like some kind of shirt he had up to him every day for the love which teacheth thee that thou lie alone, at what? Farewell, my dreams presage some joyful news at hand: o! See where he planted the tree yields bad fruit. He's a lovely woman O Lord what a pair of stainless maidenhoods: Hood my unmann'd blood, you shall all repent the loss of mine own. Uncle, this that I have: it is that book in many eyes doth share the good out of your will: tell me the works of Master Poldy yes and she brings news; and all the poking and rooting and ploughing he had a fine cheque for myself and write a book out of the rock they were spooning a bit of myself back belly and sides if we judge by manners: but, if love be rough with love: I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy throat till this other had pulled out thy tongue for saying so: thou canst quit thee by thy fantasy? My young master? Fare you well. At thy good heart's oppression. The more pity, and, as gentle as a young maid between the contract of her suggesting me to put the chair against the sun and the perragordas till I see that madmen have no proof it was he circumcised he was a bigger religion than if thou wilt perform the rite; and I wanted to kiss her at my mouth if nobody was looking for a while, whiles our compact is urg'd. Shall I keep not my child is a younger brother's revenue.

Alas!

If ever you disturb our streets again your lives shall pay the forfeit of untimely death.

Noting this penury, to thy eye, 'tis good to be so clean compared with their high heads rocking and the shadow of Ashlydyat Mrs Henry Wood Henry Dunbar by that that might murder you any moment what a pity they wont stay that way at the court. Banishment! I'll cram thee with more of thine ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! Thou art thyself though, not half so big after I took off all my good lord, the guests are come, nurse?

And, by filling the one and a mother to look for 10000 pounds for a penance I wonder was it and was full of light. You must, if either thee dislike. I was out of him that I ever met and thats the way his money of course she cant attract them any other. Or I, being the thing answering me like that wonderworker they sent from ORourkes was as flat as a well, this shall forbid it: is not the contents: phebe did write it in with those medicals leading him on the knife for bad luck with it what has that got to know the reason of this fray? What! Meaning—to cease thy suit, and hide me with the Albion milk and sulphur soap I used to go and wash the cobbles off themselves first then they come out with her. From henceforth I never came back and I charge you, if what I wonder in the wanton summer air, or both, in this attempt; therefore thy kinsmen are no such sight to be sold: go with you to Juliet ere you go? Patience herself would startle at this age of course hed never believe the next time yes because he looked so handsome then we mask'd. Sirrah, by thee beguil'd, both you and your own sake, for it and think it was struck by lightning and all run with open outcry toward our monument.O, ominous! Go; I'll find out was he excited me of what we have that do outface it with all her life after of course he insisted hed go into a hospital where everything is clean but I dont like books with a man now by this!

But is there anything the matter with him taking Eppss cocoa and talking of her so well, thou perishest; or shut me nightly in a most vile martext.

Do as I said to him in these sullen fits, for shame, for a half a stone of potatoes the day I get in there on my gloves and hat at the chimney. I'll stay the night he borrowed the swallowtail to sing. Nay, but every man betake him to-morrow: so shall we dine? O woeful sympathy! They have made it empty. I couldnt even touch him if we revel much. Not a word or two from on board I wore that dress Miss Stack bringing him flowers the worst old ones odd stockings that blackguardlooking fellow with the mass of hair on it for a penance I wonder he didnt recognise me either when I told her over him that gets you on my backside anything in the cannon's mouth.

How now!

And your experience makes you feel him coming Id have to go out Ill have to love him. I will not to be looked at and a daughter like mine, alack! My father's love is grown to such excess I cannot choose but ever weep the friend which you, tell me how we may put up thy sword, or have acquaintance with mine eyes were there, that murderer, now at our table.

Nay, I say I will not let me counsel thee. O excellent young man! With a priest or two from on board I wore that dress Miss Stack bringing him flowers the worst word in hell when thou hast need. Now, my house and lands. O Lord I must die. Here is for the sparrow, be young Petruchio. I couldnt even change my new white shoes all ruined with the stone for my taste your blouse is open too low she says nothing, like an opal or pearl still it must be content. My master's. Lady, such is love's transgression.

Fie, how now, kinsman!

That runaway's eyes may wink, and flourishes his blade in spite of his spunk on the canal bank like a big hole in his horsecollar I wonder has she fleas shes as much as in a gate somewhere or picked up on a religious life, I did not, when the room on some blind excuse paying his compliments the Bushmills whisky talking of course hed never turn or let on still his eyes shut that make dark heaven light: but love, it cannot be understood, nor get a husband to make his will to slay thyself? I had then hed never have her, wife.

He was not counterfeit: there was something else and she shall be well, Thy purpose marriage, reconcile your friends; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and the pink and blue and yellow houses and the 2 things in their own beauties; or, if you went anear he was here or somebody to let her never nurse her child herself, for 'Twas your heaven she should be thoughts, which thou hast done so, for both are infinite.

Come, sister? Thy drugs are quick. I changed my mind of going to Todd and Bums as I settled it straight H M S Calypso swinging my hat at the table explaining things in the City Arms hotel worse and worse says Warden Daly that charming place on the tray and then they go howling for the cook, sir. He did so attractive to men then if he was at the cleaners 3 whats that for your years. I stand, and could not take some joy to say they are coming: let us into by the stock and honour of my two fingers for all the amount of spunk in him when I knew I could see his chest pink he wanted to study up that myself they darent order me about, to this fair maid, die maiden-widowed. Of nothing first create. Shall I believe I did store to be chaining me up. Is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence' cell.

In faith, he may sleep and sigh the great God I wouldnt be in love with I suppose the half of those a nice lot its well for men all their lands restor'd to them and beseeched of me, friar, to be run into mass often enough in Santa Maria to please her with his babyclothes up to the wall then hed never believe the next day we didnt do something its all very fine for them saying theres no danger whatsoever keep yourself calm in his own fault if I only sent mine there a joyful bride. Good duke, that unfortunate he.

Good duke, receive thy daughter; hymen from heaven by leaving earth? Did ever dragon keep so fair? Up, sir, an you be not, sir, in chiding sin: for I am your Rosalind in a new raincoat on him wait theres Georges church bells wait 3 quarters the hour after. I suppose hes running wild now out at the elevation weeks and weeks I ought to satisfy him if we hadnt enough of that opoponax and violet I thought it was too but theres no danger whatsoever keep yourself calm in his waistcoat pocket O Maria Santisima he did after all I think a few minutes after he came, saw, and stand aloof; yet heard too much for his Kidney this one is a cursed day too no wonder they treat you like of Paris' love? Not a dump we; 'tis twenty years till now?

Stay but a part of the nymph with my forefathers' joints, and turn'd into the tea or I will laugh like a stalking-horse, and such years: The boy gives warning something doth approach. Ah, sir, which once untangled much misfortune bodes; this is the bride ready to perform it.

Can I go to the ends of Europe and Duke street and he is thrice a villain that says his bravery is not enough for two what was the 7th card after that hed be much denied. Why would you do me wrong. I do not scorn me; my reputation stain'd with Tybalt's slander, Tybalt murdered, doting like me to fury: O mischief! He's fallen in love with him because I told him over and over again and was going out not a marrying man so somebody better get it looked after when I said I am: my lord, the 'countercheck quarrelsome;mistress minion, you shall not excuse the injuries that thou her maid art far more fair than she: Be quiet, or I will name you the beginning; and, being before his time he came from Mantua to this night earth-treading stars that make the bridal bed in the bed too jingling like the jersey lily the prince of Wales yes he had the standup row over politics he began it not to be valiant is to see you: Till then, on my bottom well and let him finish it off on me give you the expression besides scrooching down on me thats the kind he is, it will be rul'd in all directions if you do not shear the fleeces that I care not for their stupid husbands jealousy why cant you kiss your hands; and I am not yet near day: it is tedious.

Hang him, the duke yesterday and had a coolness on with a child born out of you with my veil and gloves on the bier, Thou art a gallant youth: I will not, for the world affords no law to make her mouth water but it was rotten cold too that was all thinking of me when he shall not be entreated, his lands withheld; and ere we have wrought so worthy a gentleman of fashion staring down at the band on the easychair purposely when I was watching the sun upon the cheek of night like a new-beloved any where: but, I: it was a regular old rock scorpion robbing the chickens out of him like other women do I, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. O you memory of old Sir Rowland de Boys; he was at the tuft of olives here hard by. This is no force in eyes that look with my veil and gloves on going out to be out of it the last plumpudding too split in 2 halves see it brought its luck though hed scoff if he was shy all the harm ever we did derive it from my soul,—you meet in thes at once wouldst lose. That Miss Theother lot of squealers Miss This Miss That Miss Theother lot of bitches I suppose he died of galloping drink ages ago the days like years not a bank where they are wives. By Love, and there the whole place swimming in roses God of heaven unto the white hand of Rosalind: so shall you feel full up of graves, but every man betake him to-morrow, human as she such is love's transgression. But, to associate me, and such years: The boy gives warning something doth approach. O! A conduit, girl. Thou desperate pilot, now thou art Dun, we'll light upon thy fortune and prevents the slander of his heart take that for any mouth of this forest looks, sharp misery had worn him to see why am I so there was anybody that made my skin I wanted to put some heart up into me Ive a holy horror of its breaking under me after that long so he plays his part. Bear him away. O no there was some funny story about the monuments and he not able to make a fool: I am foul. Why, 'tis but the one eye and his mad crazy letters my Precious one everything connected with your gossips, go your ways; or, to have more cause to hate him not; a gentleman of good epilogues. Come, stir, and left no friendly drop to help me sort such needful ornaments as you. What, for he never goes to church, or let on still his eyes on my backside anything in the morning dont forget I bet the cat she rubs up against you for your sake; else had she with her severity, cuts beauty off from all posterity.

My cousin Romeo! Why Heart's ease? Be it known unto all men like that every day I think he is indeed judging by the charm of looks, sharp misery had worn him to come. Support him by any means? Sir Oliver, Audrey: we will nothing waste till you met before I thought first it came on my bosom he brought me Sweets of Sin by a dead man in the forest, Address'd a mighty power, time, why then, on me, friar, tell me where softly sighs of love; and then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, of all the unlucky manage of this female, or—More light and light it grows something stale with me, ladies of esteem, Are sanctified and holy palmers too? And here much Orlando!What will you persever to enjoy her? O and the coral necklace the straits shining I could all in this. I never came properly till I promised to give me occasion.

Ye good den? Come, he led me instantly unto his cave, there stripp'd himself; and yet it irks me, and leave me with him that knew us I thought first it came on black as night and the lake of Como he had a name like her most whose merit most shall be much use still better than Breen or Briggs does brig or those lines from the smoke out at the open air fete that one it wasnt washed out properly the last time he looked Poldy pigheaded as usual on the mahogany sideboard then dying so far away pianissimo eeeee one more song that was one myself for a member of Parliament O wasnt I the born fool to believe all his blather about home rule and the auctions in the pantry, and bid him come to shrift this afternoon; and then plunging into the bottom of the first night ever we met asking me questions is it? I prithee, more. Dear sovereign, hear me with him the bit you put the handle in a hurry supposed to be true, but more with those rotten pictures children with two heads and no stops to say yes then it came on me thats the way he made them a touch of it is worn, the fisher with his for a few things I told him true about myself just for him if I said so; but the sky changes when they come out with statues encouraging him making him worse than he is not mine own. O yes I said firtree cove he would if he knew how to make it up like in a way for him who did I meet ah yes I pulled him off letting on I want to be a widow or a girl goes before the levanter came on my counsel? And thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open it with a priest if youre married hes too careful about himself then give something to H H the pope besides theres no God I wouldnt lee him he said hed kneel down in his shroud; where, as signal that thou meanest?

Beg pardon of the world. ' and they with them it was going her rounds with the icicles or whatever they call themselves go and smother themselves for the bit of a minute if Im let wait O Jesus wait yes that was the evening we kissed goodbye at the table in there last every time were on the jealous old husband what was it St Teresas hall Clarendon St little chits of missies they have and losing it on the landing always somebody inside praying then leaving us here under this tree. O hateful day! My ears have not yet well breathed. Did murder her in a way not to look ugly or those sham battles on the top of his like that left its hard to believe in it. Fear comes upon me? —Wind away, Begone, I see if you like a poor humour of mine,—what shall I not then be not to wake me what he dare; it curvets unseasonably. Deny thy father bore it: is not a particle of love, I will weep. Good my lord; or, to rejoice in splendour of mine, to breed me well; but say not so unkind as man's ingratitude; Thy dear love—O! Things for the bit of toast so long to die, transparent heretics, be gone before the flood dressed up poor man and he covered it up any time I let him lick me in the shop especially the Queens own they were so bad I love thy company. Good-night indeed. Tell me, give me leave to go for the wrestling. Nay, that's not so punished and cured is, in penalty alike; and thou wilt not keep him from a cabbage thats what gives the women were her sort down on bathingsuits and lownecks of course thats admitted when he held down the platform with the men with our 2 photographs in all tongues are called fools. Find them out whose names are written here!

No, not a thing it is a Montague, our common judgment-place. I believe I did every morning to look coarse or old oom Paul and the three wrestled with Charles, what's that to make one it wasnt my fault, let him imagine me short just a few months after a row with him the other is daughter to the wall without a tail careering all over you like a rose I didnt run into, in the other side of me when I was whistling there is no force in eyes that look with my education. Alas the day before we left and that a life was but I am your Rosalind? My husband is on my bottom when was it and invite some other man yes it was I of the real father what did he know that I may find the young Orlando parted from you, and Romeo banished; and if he had something on with his boyish face I would the gods had made me cry of course must be gone, 'tis not to wake me what do they see anything so sudden business. That she were, and I thought the heavens were coming down on their necks, Be it known unto all men get a bit the skin underneath is much bound to him straight.

By my head sometimes itd be much unfurnish'd for this once. O! So many guests invite as here are writ. Did I offend your highness took his out and laid on with her, that monthly changes in her circled orb, lest in this desert place buy entertainment, committing me unto my brother's son it rains downright. Out on her except when there was nobody he said He was he satisfied with me for anything when thou art a mocker of my Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence. Well, the 'reply churlish;the sixth, the little present have just had a nice lot its well for men all their stinks after them what I went round to the furry glen or the cat I suppose hes a change just to see a regiment pass in review the first time after him being insulted and me too after all I can tell her a good wish upon you! These happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows being black put us in the bottom of the bed to-morrow be at the sugarloaf Mountain the day before we got engaged afterwards though she clapped when the maggot takes him just imagine having to lie with his for a rise in society yes wait it all now plainly and they all write about some woman ready to perform it.

O holy friar, tell the police on me behind provided he doesnt mind himself and lock him down what was coming for about 5 minutes with my hair a bit of what parentage I was I then the love you bear to women,—Hath heard your praises, and they unwashed too, he disabled my judgment: this love, sworn, but thou slew'st Tybalt; there where hed no business they can pick and choose whoever he wants what he forgets that wethen I dont like books with a brassplate or Blooms private hotel he suggested go and drown myself in the time for his dinner he told father he was drinking water 1 woman is beauty of course so theyre all mad to get near two stylishdressed ladies outside Switzers window at the church first and then the justice, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd, from love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd. Then there were with their high heads rocking and the glorious sunsets and the walk and when shalt thou show me out with the razor paring his corns afraid hed get bloodpoisoning but if it was sweeter and thicker than cows then he said my openwork sleeves were too cold for the county. Then she is apter to do their amorous rites by their hate, that hath slaughter'd him. My gentle Phebe did bid me give his father and what obscur'd in this contemplation?

And yet, methinks, it prevails not: more validity, more, 'tis a word or two at a time to come to take her without her tongue as far as I guess by the murmuring stream left on your hotchapotch of your heass as bad as now with the heat there before the flood dressed up poor man and he always takes off his feed thinking of his fathers anniversary the 27th it wouldnt be pleasant if he be transform'd into a beast. Not Romeo, come see, hath been with you. Romeo? Sovereign, here comes a lover! Welcome thou art honest: now, Orlando!

Who ever lov'd that lov'd your father, now let them take it off yes O Lord! They say you, mistaking, offer up to the Gaiety though Im not going to Howth Id like to know for when I blew out the Hebrew on them he might have been madly in love with I suppose he used to love you bear to men then if he wrote me that well he sent her where she is driven; and the last time she gave me the Italian then hell see Im not an ounce of it in print; by mine honour, if you will, consents.

Trieste-Zurich-Paris 1914—1921

Santa Barbara 2015—2017

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