#if they get themselves together they could probably enter the world stage fully | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mindmeltonabun-blog · 3 years ago

Text

Doom At Your Service: Analysis & Theories for EPs 7-8

Welcome back to another edition of analyses and theories time with me! I’m going to try and keep this post as short and as simple as possible. In case I don’t, I apologize in advance! Also, sorry if this post is filled with grammar mistakes and confusing syntax...I'm writing/editing this late at night and my ADHD meds have lost their effectiveness.

Anyways Eps 7-8 was pretty awesome and I’m glad that a bunch of my previous theories had come true! For those who wonder how I come up with some of these theories, I just look at everything whether it be big or small. I also try to look for connections and patterns. At the same time, I try to understand the motivations of characters and what is the big picture the writer is trying to paint. Once you're able to do all of that then you can predict where the story is going. This is how for the most part I was able to predict the events and endings of shows like TOTNT and TKEM. Anyhow, let’s get down to analyzing and theorizing! Turn on those thinking caps!

What the Rock Balancing Structure Represents

Rock balancing is a form of art that involves a person placing a combination of rocks in an arrangement. To achieve balance of the rocks, one must be very patient and compassionate. In its completion, the structure represents that while things may appear impossible, they are actually possible. So what seems impossible, but can actually be possible? Hmmm probably Myul Mang learning what it means to be human and ending up becoming human. Notice that both the rock art is next to the plant and the story of Pinocchio? It's saying saying that the impossible can be possible. It's possible for Myul Mang to be able to learn what it means to be a human so that the impossible can happen...he can "grow" up to becoming a real human.

The whole rock balancing structure could also signify that in order to grow, one must overcome one's deepest fears. I don't know about you all, but stacking rocks is a scary thing especially since at any moment the whole thing could fall over. Anyways, if you remembered, Myul Mang had been searching everywhere for Dong Kyung and feeling like one of his worst fears (Dong Kyung not existing) had came true. It's only when he goes to Dora's hospital room and sees both the Pinocchio book and rock structure that he got Dora's lesson. And that's why afterwards you didn't see Myul Mang going on another search for Dong Kyung somewhere else.

A brief digression. I’ve seen multiple people theorizing that the plant and the butterfly represent Dong Kyung and Myul Mang respectively. To them I say, did you just completely miss the part where Dora says the plant is Myul Mang? Myul Mang is both the butterfly and the plant. For those who still don’t see that, let me break it down.

First, what do butterflies symbolize? They symbolize metamorphosis, death, and rebirth. Myul Mang is not a literal butterfly, but he will eventually be one in a metaphorical sense. If anything, Myul Mang right now is like a caterpillar on the verge of entering the cocoon stage that is followed by a reemergence as a butterfly aka human. You can also look at it this way, Pinocchio is a butterfly too. Why? Well, look at what happens to Pinocchio. He is reborn as a real boy after having gone through metamorphosis (puppet -> real boy).

Now let’s examine the plant symbolism. What do plants represent in DAYS? They represent humans. What is Dora growing? A human Myul Mang..DUH!! Sorry, but I didn’t think it was that hard of a concept to grasp especially since Dora has already explicitly said what she is growing in that one scene. For Myul Mang to grow up to become a "good" human, he needs to learn to think about others, forgive himself, be compassionate (not only towards himself, but others as well), love others, etc. Other things Myul Mang would probably need to learn is how to love his fate or amor fati (loving your fate means loving it all, not just the good parts, but the bad parts too; loving it so much so that you would never want to change anything about it and would gladly relive your life the way it was over and over again for all of eternity).

I don’t think the "plant" will fully "blossom" until Myul Mang sacrifices himself to save Dong Kyung for the sole reason that he loves her (in contrast to sacrificing himself for his own personal gain). Therefore, that's probably the final lesson -- how to be completely selfless.

Dora just wants her son to grow up to be a "good" plant (human) so she doesn't have to end up pulling him out aka end him before he even becomes human! Okay???

Sorry if what I've just said was confusing. What I meant to say is that Myul Mang's personal growth is reflective in the plant's growth. The more he learns of what it means to be a "good" human, the more the plant will grow until it blossoms into a beautiful flower (a real human).

If we want to connect the idea of personal growth to the story of Pinocchio, we see that Pinocchio's growth occurs only after he experiences pain (physical and emotional) and love. From these experiences, he learns what it means to be a "good" boy and is rewarded by the Fairy transforming him into a real boy.

One Wish or Wishes?

In my previous post, I had briefly touched upon how I think Dong Kyung is going to wish for brain cancer to be cured. Though I still think this, I nevertheless want to explore some of the other possibilities of what her wish could be.

Potential Wishes:

1) Myul Mang to Become Human

2) More Wishes

3) Contract to be Voided

4) No One Remembering Her After She Dies

For #1, Dong Kyung wishes Myul Mang to become human, but then she still dies from her untreated brain cancer…so nope. For #2 and #3, are these wishes even allowed? I would like to point out some flaws of the writer. Maybe it’s not so much a flaw, but an annoyance I have with the writer of DAYS. What one can or cannot wish for is not explicitly stated. Due to this, it is somewhat difficult for me to accurately predict what Dong Kyung will wish for. It’s like trying to detect a substance without being given its upper and lower limits or range of detection (sorry for the science related analogy) ! For #4, I guess this one could be probable, but there is just too much evidence pointing to Myul Mang's death. After exploring each of the possibilities, I'm still left thinking that Dong Kyung's one wish will be to cure her cancer.

Anyways, even if Dong Kyung wishes for her brain cancer to be cured, it’s not really a happy ending since Myul Mang still dies. Is there any other way for Dong Kyung to make another wish so that she can save Myul Mang? I think there is and it comes in the form of the “gift” that Dora gave Dong Kyung. In my previous post, I had theorized that the marble may have a larger purpose than just being a symbol of how the fate of the world is Dong Kyung hands. I believe now that the marble’s larger purpose is that it is a type of wish fulfilling stone. Why? Because we know fantasy dramas typically make references to mythology. In this case, the writer of DAYS is probably referencing Hindu mythology.

In Hindu mythology there are 3 main gods:

1) Brahma: The Creator

2) Vishnu: The Preserver

3) Shiva: The Destroyer (Sounds like Myul Mang right? Also, the love story between Shiva and Parvati is somewhat similar to that of Myul Mang and Dong Kyung’s love story.)

Dora is the equivalent to the god Vishnu in Hindu mythology. Vishnu is often depicted wearing a “Cintamani”, a type of wish fulling stone analogous to the Philosopher’s Stone (hint hint…transforms something from one form into another…immortal -> human) in Western mythology. Given this, the marble/Cintamani in Dong Kyung's possession could be the key to Myul Mang’s rebirth.

Some might ask, “Well why can’t Dora just use it to wish for her son to be reborn as a human?”. Well, remember that both Dora and Myul Mang are slaves to the wishes of humans. They themselves cannot fulfil their own wishes or desires. Meaning, even though Dora and Myul Mang can wish for something to happen, they cannot carry it out unless humans wish it too. Also, as I mentioned previously, deities in kdramas never just give humans gift because they’re being nice. Rather, they give gifts to humans so that humans can help them accomplish their overall goals/wishes.

So putting it all together, do you see where I’m going with this? Dora has the same wish as Dong Kyung which is for Myul Mang to live, but Dora is unable to execute her goals/wishes unless Dong Kyung wishes it too. Dora knows that Dong Kyung will probably use her one wish to cure her brain cancer. At the same time, this leaves her son, Myul Mang, to die. Therefore, Dora gives Dong Kyung the wish fulfilling marble with the intention that Dong Kyung will use it to wish for her son, Myul Mang, to be reborn as a human. With Dora/Dong Kyung’s wish, Myul Mang will be free from his cursed life as an immortal and be reborn to be able to live happily with Dong Kyung.

Side note, the rebirth of Myul Mang into a human can either be dependent on Myul Mang's personal growth or it can be dependent on this wish fulfilling stone or both! I'm leaning more towards his personal growth as being the catalyst for his rebirth, but who knows! It very well could be that the marble has a role to play in his rebirth.

Is Dong Kyung Going To Be An Immortal?

No…no…and NO!!

Some might ask why don’t I think this? Well, for a bunch of reasons. I’ll admit I used to think that it would be very romantic for a human to become immortal so that they can be with their immortal lover forever. However, the more I thought about it, I came to the realization the notion of forever is not romantic nor beautiful. At its core, the concept of eternity is quite terrifying and ugly. And if you haven’t realized already, the writer of DAYS has been making multiple arguments against immortality. For anything to have meaning, it must have an end. In this sense, the end is beautiful.

To get my point across, I want you to try and think about some things. What keeps life meaningful? Experiences? People? Well, imagine doing something you love for a year. Now imagine doing it for trillions or zillions of years. Experiences no matter how good they are at first will eventually become tedious if you do it for long enough. For example, eating your favorite dish may be good for a while, but not for zillions of years. At one point or another, you ultimately lose your desire to want to eat it or eat entirely for that matter.

Now surely getting to know people and loving them can keep your life meaningful right? Well, how many times do you think you could handle knowing and loving people who eventually disappear? Eventually, you grow tired of crying and mourning over dead loved ones that you become numb. Now imagine being Dong Kyung. She would have to witness her family, their family, and so forth dying over and over again for all of eternity. Doesn’t that seem tortuous? Sure, one could argue that at least she has Myul Mang with her, but do you really think her love for him could sustain her forever? The relationship between Myul Mang and his mother, Dora, is a prime example of how a loving relationship could turn sour over a great deal of time. The gift of immorality Dora bestowed on Myul Mang became a curse instead of a blessing. So why would Myul Mang want to give Dong Kyung something that was basically a curse for him? As for Dora, she probably wouldn’t want to give Dong Kyung the same gift after seeing what it did to her son.

If you continue to think that Dong Kyung will become an immortal being, did you really smell what the writer of DAYS was cooking or did you just smell what you were cooking?

The Bad Case of the Riddles

From what I have been reading on multiple platforms now, it would seem that a lot of people are rather confused about a lot of things. It’s understandable! Throughout the show, the writer has presented some complex philosophical concepts that may be difficult for some viewers to grasp. To further add to the confusion, the characters at times do speak in what appears to be riddles. This I believe may be one of the major flaws of the writer. She has to consider that her audience are probably people who have never read any philosophical works before. Most viewers aren’t here to decipher cryptic messages or see how they’re connected to some major philosophical concepts such as eternal recurrence, existentialism, nihilism, amor fati, etc. Most are here to shut off their tired brain and enjoy some good fantasy romance! I know I’m totally one of those people!

Needless to say, I did find myself in a debate of whether I should discuss some philosophical concepts referenced in the show as to help you all gain a better sense of understanding. However, I concluded that it would take too much of my time to do so. Additionally, despite my best efforts to use the simplest of words, I found that whatever I had already written may have still been confusing to the everyday reader. Anyways, if there are any particular scenes or dialogue you all want to me go over, please feel free to use the ask button and I’ll do my best to try and answer them!

Whats Going to Happen Next?

Probably more filler type stuff aka more bs. It's common in kdramas for characters to go back and forth on their initial decision of whatever. Dong Kyung is going to break up with Myul Mang because she loves him and doesn't want him to die. And before the breakup, she's going to give him some good memories to remember her by. Following this, she's going to try and love herself so that she's the one that ends up dying and her wish is going to be for everyone to forget her? Okay......Zzzzzzz!! Idk... Dora is probably going to intervene somehow to get Dong Kyung and Myul Mang back together again.

Other Random Thoughts

What I think would be interesting to learn about is the connection between Dong Kyung's parents death and Dora past self's death. It wasn't just all a coincidence that they both died on the same day. Who knows... maybe Dong Kyung was meant to be in the car that day with her parents, but Dora's past self sacrificed herself to change Dong Kyung's fate.

Also, I still don't think Dong Kyung is going to die, I mean you got her brother praying to the deities that she lives!

Okay, I'm done. I wrote this in Microsoft Word and it was 5 pages long. My brain is dead. There's probably something I should've gone over or elaborated more about, but oh well. Thanks for reading this disjointed post!

#doom at your service #doomatyourservice #myulmang #myul mang #tak dong kyung #takdongkyung #park bo young #parkboyoung #seo in guk #seoinguk #pinocchio #DAYS #theories #my brain is melting

88 notes · View notes

polandspringz · 4 years ago

Link

Finally, an update! I’m sorry for the delay with this. I hope you enjoy. A sample of the chapter will be posted below.

Story Summary:

It had been two weeks. Two weeks of this hell that he deserved but it was still hell. He had been thinking about how long he should let it stretch on for, since he could easily stop all the demons targeting him. Two weeks, and he had been back for three months now, and if you counted back the few days just after everything got squared away even though he had killed MC and tossed their corpse down the stairs for everyone to see-

Two little demons overheard the Prince and his steward talking, and now the whole school knows. Belphegor is just being educated on how many demons disapprove of the news that the nice exchange-student died once.

Belphegor woke up with a pillow to his face that hit him at such a speed it sent him spiraling off the bed. He slammed against the hard wood of the attic with such a shock he felt his neck crack. His eyes shot open and he didn’t even let out a sound as he tried to process the feeling of the wooden floor and rug slipping away from him.

There was… ground beneath him. There was ground.

“Geez, that’s the hardest it’s ever been to wake you up! Did you stay up late last night or something? No wait, you would never do that-”

He rolled onto his side, and his face smushed into the floor as he looked up.

“MC,” he groaned. He should have been surprised, but he was immediately slammed by a headache reminding him of his own stupidity. I had put up a barrier so no one should have been able to enter- oh, no demon. That’s right. Sometimes I forget they’re part angel.

“You’ve got everyone on edge because they couldn’t find you this morning! Beel couldn’t even sense you in the house and was freaking out. You really should hurry downstairs before he stress eats the entire house.”

Belphegor sat up, yawning as he looked towards the door. After running away to the attic last night, he had been fully intent on locking himself away for the rest of time. In order to do that undisturbed, he had put up another magical barrier, similar to the one Lucifer had used to trap him here before, this one was just with the intent to let no one else inside. However, as Belphegor was the youngest and therefore the least powerful, his barrier didn’t have a very strong seal, and while it did an excellent job in masking his presence (he had a small hope that everyone would forget about his existence and move on like they did when Lucifer “shipped him to the human world” before), but apparently he didn’t account for the one walking exception to the rule barging in first thing.

“Are you listening to me? Or are you falling back asleep already?”

“You shouldn’t be surprised at this point if I was,” he said, blearily rubbing his eye, “But, unfortunately you knocked me so hard I’ll probably be feeling it for the next century,” another yawn escaped him, “And unable to sleep from that constant pain.”

MC pouted, “Stop exaggerating. Now come on, get up. The others are worried sick about you.”

A hand cut in front of him. An offering. It reminded him of his dream last night.

Eyelashes parting, through their black spider lily like webs they opened him to a forest of mist. There was a tall, tall stump of a tree covered in moss before him, reaching up to the komorebi of knotted together leaves that let sharp white beams of light stab through the dark green leaves down. There was a clearing, just above the stump, and as Belphegor’s eyes trailed up it, he saw them reaching up towards it, towards the sky and beyond.

They noticed his presence. MC smiled and lowered their hand and held it out to him. They leaned down a little bit, but they were still far away. It would be tedious. It was a long climb up the jagged and barky slope of the tree, and it would mean getting his hands dirty with moss and dirt and termites-

MC held out their hand more insistently. He sighed and began to move.

He reached the top and took their hand, being yanked up over the edge onto the stage of rings they danced upon. MC let go of his hand once he was not in danger of falling back down, taking tiny steps backwards as their body leaned and swayed. He finished dusting himself off and looked up, following MC’s hands as they pointed up to the white, cloudy sky through the tiny clearing.

He didn’t understand. It was just the sky. Still, there was something about it that made his throat tight, the feeling of the cold air filling his lungs, the dewy moisture that covered everything sticking to his skin as well as if several raindrops had stained him. He glanced back down, looking towards MC just as they stepped over the edge, falling straight down beyond the final ring of the tree.

Belphegor surged and leaned over the ledge, looking down with panic until he spotted them running along, their bare feet dashing across the muddy ground and field of moss patches further into the forest. They turned around and smiled at him, beckoning for him to follow.

He really didn’t want to do this, but they were obviously going to get themselves killed if someone wasn’t there to watch them. He started to climb over the edge-

Only to freeze when he spotted their crumpled body beneath the base of the tree. Broken bones and limbs tangled in the roots system and the mushrooms as their white clothing was staining red and brown with mud.

“Belphie?”

He took the hand and pulled himself up, his strength nearly tugging them down as the momentum carried him easily into step to glide past them.

“Sorry. My uniform’s back in my room. Tell everyone I’ll be down in a minute.”

He paused in the doorway, not turning around but adding-

“Sorry for all the trouble.”

-and disappeared into the darkness of the hall.

MC didn’t notice, but as Belphegor stepped through, he dispelled the seal he had put up. It wasn’t doing much use, and besides-

With or without a magic seal, his heart was already closed off.

To read the rest of the chapter, please go to the AO3 link at the top of this post. Thank you!!!

#obey me #obey me shall we date #belphegor obey me #om #my writing #writing #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me mc #obey me beelzebub #obey me masters

11 notes · View notes

theculturedmarxist · 4 years ago

Link

Below is the story of my day touring Tema with Prince Philip, in this chapter from my book “The Catholic Orangemen of Togo”. You may be surprised to read that I rather liked him.

The African Queen

One morning I was sitting in the lounge at Devonshire House, with its fitted wool carpets and chintz sofas. I was drinking the tea that our steward, Nasser, had brought me. I heard movement in a corner of the room, and thought it must be Nasser cleaning there. But looking round, I saw nobody. Puzzled, I got up and walked towards that corner. Rounding a settee, I nearly stood upon a thin, green snake. About four feet long and just the thickness of your thumb, it was a bright, almost lime green colour. There was not much wedge shape to its head, which rather tapered from its neck. Its tongue was flickering toward me, perhaps a foot away, its head raised only slightly off the floor. I took a step backwards. In response it too retreated, at surprising speed, and zipped up the inside of the curtains.

I stood stock still and yelled “Nasser! Nasser!” This brought Nasser hurrying into the living room with Gloria, the cook. “Nasser, there’s a snake in the curtains!” Nasser and Gloria screamed, threw their arms in the air, and ran together into the kitchen and out the back door of the house. This was not altogether helpful.

I remained where I was to keep an eye on the snake, not wanting it to be lurking inside the house unseen. After a while the front door opened and somebody, presumably Nasser, threw in Nasser’s scruffy little dog. The dog was normally banned from the house, and celebrated this unexpected turn of events by immediately urinating against the hall table. Then the dog too ran into the kitchen and out of the back door.

Abandoning my watch, I went out and recruited the reluctant gardeners and gate guards. They armed themselves with long sticks and came in and beat the curtains until the snake fell onto the floor. As it sped for cover under a sofa, Samuel the youngest gardener got in a solid blow, and soon everyone was joining in, raining down blows on the twitching snake. They carried its disjointed body out on the end of a stick, and burnt it on a bonfire.

Everyone identified it as a green mamba. I was sceptical. Green mambas are among the world’s deadliest snakes, and I imagined them to look beefy like cobras, not whip thin and small headed like this. But a search on the agonisingly slow internet showed that indeed it did look very like a green mamba.

The important question arose of how it had entered the house. With air conditioning, the doors and windows were usually shut. Nasser seemed to have solved the mystery when he remarked that a dead one had been found last year inside an air conditioner. The unit had stopped working, and when they came to fix it they found a snake jammed in the mechanism. That seemed the answer; it had appeared just under a conditioner, and it seemed likely the slim snake had entered via the vent pipe, avoiding the fan as it crawled through the unit.

This was very worrying. If anti-venom was available (and we held a variety in the High Commission) an adult would probably survive a green mamba bite. But it would almost certainly be fatal to Emily, and possibly to Jamie.

A week or so later, I was constructing Emily’s climbing frame, which had arrived from the UK. A rambling contraption of rungs, slides, platforms and trampolines, it required the bolting together of scores of chrome tubes. I was making good progress on it and, as I lifted one walkway side into position above my head, a mamba slid out of the end of the tube, down my arm, round my belly and down my leg. It did this in no great hurry; it probably took four seconds, but felt like four minutes.

There was one terrible moment when it tried an exploratory nuzzle of its head into the waistband of my trousers, but luckily it decided to proceed down the outside to the ground. It then zig zagged across the lawn to nestle in the exposed tops of the roots of a great avocado tree. Again the mob arrived and beat it to death with sticks. I persuaded them to keep the body this time, and decided that definite action was needed.

I called in a pest control expert. I was advised to try the “Snake Doctor”. I was a bit sceptical, equating “Snake Doctor” with “Witch Doctor”, but when he arrived I discovered that this charming chubby Ghanaian really did have a PhD in Pest Control from the University of Reading. As Fiona had an MSc in Crop Protection from the same Department, they got on like a house on fire and it was difficult to get them away from cups of tea to the business in hand.

He confirmed that the dead snake really was a green mamba. We obviously had a colony. They lived in trees, and he advised us to clear an area of wasteland beyond the boundaries of our house, and build a high boundary wall of rough brick at the back, rather than the existing iron palings. He also suggested we cut down an avenue of some 16 huge mature trees along the drive. I was very sad, but followed this sensible advice. That removed the mamba problem from Devonshire House. But I continued to attract mambas on my travels around Ghana.

The second half of that first year in Ghana was to be almost entirely taken up with preparations for the State Visit of the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh in November 1999. A huge amount of work goes into organising such a visit; every move is staged and choreographed, designed for media effect. You need to know in advance just where everybody is going to be, who will move where when, and what they will say. You need to place and organise the media to best advantage. You need to stick within very strict rules as to what the Queen will or will not do. Most difficult of all, you have to agree all this with the host government.

I had been through it all quite recently, having paid a major part in the organisation of the State Visit to Poland in 1996. That had gone very well. The Poles regarded it as an important symbol that communism had been definitively finished. It was visually stunning, and at a time when the Royal Family was dogged with hostile media coverage, it had been their first unmixed positive coverage in the UK for ages. I had handled the media angles, and my stock stood very high in the Palace.

I am a republican personally; I was just doing my job. The Palace staff knew I was a republican, not least because I had turned down the offer of being made a Lieutenant of the Royal Victorian Order (LVO) after the Warsaw visit. I had earlier turned down the offer to be an Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) after the first Gulf war.

Rawlings was delighted that the Queen was coming. He craved respectability and acceptance in the international community, which had been hard to come by after his violent beginnings. But he had turned his Provisional National Defence Council (PNDC) into a political party, the National Democratic Congress (NDC), and had fought elections in 1992 and 1996 against the opposition New Patriotic Party, which had an unbroken tradition running back to Nkrumah’s opponent J B Danquah and his colleague Kofi Busia. There were widespread allegations of vote-rigging, violence and intimidation, and certainly in 1992 the nation was still too cowed to engage in much open debate.

Even by 1999, social life was still inhibited by the fact that nobody except those close to the Rawlings would do anything that might be construed as an ostentatious display of life, while Rawlings had sustained and inflated the personality cult of Nkrumah still further (he is known as Osagyefo, “the conqueror”.) Open discussion of the disasters Nkrumah brought upon Ghana was almost impossible. It is still difficult for many Ghanaians today, after decades of brainwashing. As Rawlings had gradually liberalised society, the increasing freedom of the media, particularly the FM radio station, was giving a great boost to democracy. But there was still much prudent self-censorship. The media was particularly reticent about investigating governmental corruption.

The NDC government was massively corrupt. There was one gratuitous example which especially annoyed me. A company called International Generics, registered in Southampton, had got loans totalling over £30 million from the Royal Bank of Scotland to construct two hotels, La Palm and Coco Palm. One was on the beach next to the Labadi Beach Hotel, the other on Fourth Circular Road in Cantonments, on the site of the former Star Hotel. The loan repayments were guaranteed by the Export Credit Guarantee Department, at the time a British government agency designed to insure UK exporters against loss. In effect the British taxpayer was underwriting the export, and if the loan defaulted the British taxpayer would pay.

In fact, this is what happened, and the file crossed my desk because the British people were now paying out on defaulted payments to the Royal Bank of Scotland. So I went to look at the two hotels. I found La Palm Hotel was some cleared land, some concrete foundations, and one eight room chalet without a roof. Coco Palm hotel didn’t exist at all. In a corner of the plot, four houses had been built by International Generics. As the housing market in Accra was very strong, these had been pre-sold, so none of the loan had gone into them.

I was astonished. The papers clearly showed that all £31.5 million had been fully disbursed by the Royal Bank of Scotland, against progress and completion certificates on the construction. But in truth there was virtually no construction. How could this have happened?

The Chief Executive of International Generics was an Israeli named Leon Tamman. He was a close friend to, and a front for, Mrs Rawlings. Tamman also had an architect’s firm, which had been signing off completion certificates for the non-existent work on the hotel. Almost all of the £30 million was simply stolen by Tamman and Mrs Rawlings.

The Royal Bank of Scotland had plainly failed in due diligence, having paid out on completion of two buildings, one not started and one only just started. But the Royal Bank of Scotland really couldn’t give a toss, because the repayments and interest were guaranteed by the British taxpayer. Indeed I seemed to be the only one who did care.

The Rawlings had put some of their share of this looted money towards payments on their beautiful home in Dublin. I wrote reports on all this back to London, and specifically urged the Serious Fraud Office to prosecute Tamman and Mrs Rawlings. I received the reply that there was no “appetite” in London for this.

Eventually La Palm did get built, but with over $60 million of new money taken this time from SSNIT, the Ghanaian taxpayers social security and pension fund. Coco Palm never did get built, but Tamman continued to develop it as a housing estate, using another company vehicle. Tamman has since died. The loans were definitively written off by the British government as part of Gordon Brown’s HIPC debt relief initiative.

That is but one example of a single scam, but it gives an insight into the way the country was looted. The unusual feature on this one was that the clever Mr Tamman found a way to cheat the British taxpayer, via Ghana. I still find it galling that the Royal Bank of Scotland also still got their profit, again from the British taxpayer.

So while the State Visit was intended as a reward to Jerry Rawlings for his conversion to democracy and capitalism, I had no illusions about Rawlings’ Ghana. I was determined that we should use the Queen’s visit to help ensure that Rawlings did indeed leave power in January 2001. According to the constitution, his second and final four year term as elected President expired then (if you politely ignored his previous decade as a military dictator). We should get the Queen to point him towards the exit.

Buckingham palace sent a team on an initial reconnaissance visit. It was led by an old friend of mine, Tim Hitchens, Assistant Private Secretary to the Queen, who had joined the FCO when I did. We identified the key features of the programme, which should centre around an address to Parliament. A walkabout might be difficult; Clinton had been almost crushed in Accra by an over-friendly crowd in a situation which got out of control. A school visit to highlight DFID’s work would provide the “meet the people” photo op, otherwise a drive past for the larger crowds. Key questions were identified as whether the Queen should visit Kumasi to meet Ghana’s most important traditional ruler, the Asantehene, and how she should meet the leader of the opposition, John Kufuor. Rawlings was likely to be opposed to both.

The recce visit went very well, and I held a reception for the team before they flew back to London. Several Ghanaian ministers came, and it ended in a very relaxed evening. Tim Hitchens commented that it was the first time he had ever heard Queen and Supertramp at an official function before. It turned out that we had very similar musical tastes.

Planning then took place at quite high intensity for several months. There were regular meetings with the Ghanaian government team tasked to organise the visit, headed by head of their diplomatic service Anand Cato, now Ghanaian High Commissioner to the United Kingdom. We then had to visit together all the proposed venues, and walk through the proposed routes, order of events, seating plans etc.

From the very first meeting between the two sides, held in a committee room at the International Conference Centre, it soon became obvious that we had a real problem with Ian Mackley. The High Commissioner had been very high-handed and abrupt with the visiting team from Buckingham Palace, so much so that Tim Hitchens had asked me what was wrong. I said it was just his manner. But there was more to it than that.

In the planning meetings, the set-up did not help the atmosphere. There were two lines of desks, facing each other. The British sat on one side and the Ghanaians on the other, facing each other across a wide divide. The whole dynamic was one of confrontation.

I have sat through some toe-curling meetings before, but that first joint State visit planning meeting in Accra was the worst. It started in friendly enough fashion, with greetings on each side. Then Anand Cato suggested we start with a quick run-through of the programme, from start to finish. “OK, now will the Queen be arriving by British Airways or by private jet?” asked Anand. “She will be on one of the VC10s of the Royal Flight” said Ian. “Right, that’s better. The plane can pull up to the stand closest to the VIP lounge. We will have the convoy of vehicles ready on the tarmac. The stairs will be put to the door, and then the chief of protocol will go up the stairs to escort the Queen and her party down the stairs, where there will be a small reception party…” “No, hang on there” interjected Ian Mackley, “I will go up the stairs before the chief of protocol.” “Well, it is customary for the Ambassador or High Commissioner to be in the receiving line at the bottom of the aircraft steps.” “Well, I can tell you for sure that the first person the Queen will want to see when she arrives in the country will be her High Commissioner.” “Well, I suppose you can accompany the chief up the steps if you wish…” “And my wife.” “Pardon?” “My wife Sarah. She must accompany me up the steps to meet the Queen.” “Look, it really isn’t practical to have that many people going on to an already crowded plane where people are preparing to get off…” “I am sorry, but I must insist that Sarah accompanies me up the stairs and on to the plane.” “But couldn’t she wait at the bottom of the steps?” “Absolutely not. How could she stand there without me?” “OK, well can we then mark down the question of greeting on the plane as an unresolved issue for the next meeting?” “Alright, but our side insists that my wife…” “Yes, quite. Now at the bottom of the steps Her Majesty will be greeted by the delegated minister, and presented with flowers by children.” “Please make sure we are consulted on the choice of children.” “If you wish. There will be national anthems, but I suggest no formal inspection of the Guard of Honour? Then traditional priests will briefly make ritual oblations, pouring spirits on the ground. The Queen will briefly enter the VIP lounge to take a drink.” “That’s a waste of time. Let’s get them straight into the convoy and off.” “But High Commissioner, we have to welcome a visitor with a drink. It is an essential part of our tradition. It will only be very brief.” “You can do what you like, but she’s not entering the VIP lounge. Waste of time.” “Let’s mark that down as another issue to be resolved. Now then, first journey…”

The meeting went on for hours and hours, becoming increasingly ill tempered. When we eventually got to the plans for the State Banquet, it all went spectacularly pear-shaped as it had been threatening to do. “Now we propose a top table of eight. There will be the President and Mrs Rawlings, Her Majesty and the Duke of Edinburgh, The Vice President and Mrs Mills, and Mr and Mrs Robin Cook.” Ian positively went purple. You could see a vein throbbing at the top left of his forehead. He spoke as though short of breath. “That is not acceptable. Sarah and I must be at the top table”. “With respect High Commissioner, there are a great many Ghanaians who will feel they should be at the top table. As we are in Ghana, we feel we are being hospitable in offering equal numbers of British and Ghanaians at the top table. But we also think the best plan is to keep the top table small and exclusive.” “By all means keep it small,” said Ian, “but as High Commissioner I must be on it.” “So what do you suggest?” asked Anand. “Robin Cook” said Ian “He doesn’t need to be on the top table.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Neither could Anand. “I don’t think you are being serious, High Commissioner” he said. “I am entirely serious” said Ian. “I outrank Robin Cook. I am the personal representative of a Head of State. Robin Cook only represents the government.”

I decided the man had taken leave of his senses. I wondered at what stage can you declare your commanding officer mad and take over, like on The Cain Mutiny? Anand was obviously thinking much the same. “Perhaps I might suggest you seek instruction from headquarters on that one?” he asked. “Anyway, can we note that down as another outstanding item, and move on to…” I don’t know whether Ian secretly realised he had overstepped the mark, but he didn’t come to another planning meeting after that, leaving them to me and the very competent Second Secretary Mike Nithavrianakis.

The most difficult question of all was that of meeting the opposition. Eventually we got the agreement of Buckingham Palace and the FCO to say that, if the Queen were prevented from meeting the opposition, she wouldn’t come. But still the most we could get from Rawlings was that the leader of the opposition could be included in a reception for several hundred people at the International Conference Centre.

I had by now made good personal friends with several Ghanaian politicians. Among those who I could have a social drink with any time were, on the government side John Mahama, Minister of Information and Moses Asaga, Deputy Finance Minister, and on the opposition side John Kufuor, leader of the opposition, his colleagues Hackman Owusu-Agyemang, Shadow Foreign Minister, and Nana Akuffo-Addo, Shadow Attorney General.

In the International Conference Centre the precise route the Queen would take around the crowd was very carefully planned, so I was able to brief John Kufuor exactly where to stand to meet her, and brief the Queen to be sure to stop and chat with him. As he was the tallest man in the crowd, this was all not too difficult.

Once the Queen arrived and the visit started, everything happened in a three day blur of intense activity. Vast crowds turned out, and the Palace staff soon calmed down as they realised that the Queen could expect an uncomplicated and old fashioned reverence from the teeming crowds who were turning out to see “Our Mama”.

The durbar of chiefs in front of Parliament House was a riot of colour and noise. One by one the great chiefs came past, carried on their palanquins, preceded by their entourage, drummers banging away ferociously and the chiefs, laden down with gold necklaces and bangles, struggled to perform their energetic seated dances. Many of the hefty dancing women wore the cloth that had been created for the occasion, with a picture of the Queen jiggling about on one large breast in partnership with Jerry Rawlings jiving on the other, the same pairing being also displayed on the buttocks.

After the last of the chiefs went through, the tens of thousands of spectators started to mill everywhere and we had to race for the Royal convoy to get out through the crowds. Robin Cook had stopped to give an ad hoc interview to an extremely pretty South African television reporter. Mike Nithavrianakis tried to hurry him along but got a fierce glare for his pains. Eventually everyone was in their cars but Cook; the Ghanaian outriders were itching to start as the crowds ahead and around got ever denser.

But where was Cook? We delayed, with the Queen sitting in her car for two or three minutes, but still there was no sign of the Secretary of State or his staff getting into their vehicle. Eventually the outriders swept off; the crowds closed in behind and we had abandoned our dilettante Foreign Secretary. Having lost the protection of the convoy and being caught up in the crowds and traffic, it took him an hour to catch up.

Cook was an enigma. I had already experienced his famous lack of both punctuality and consideration when kept waiting to see him over the Sandline Affair. His behaviour now seemed to combine an attractive contempt for protocol with a goat-like tendency – would he have fallen behind to give a very bland interview to a male South African reporter? He was also breaking the tradition that the Foreign Secretary does not make media comments when accompanying the Queen.

When we returned to the Labadi Beach Hotel, there was to be further evidence of Cook’s view that the World revolved around him. He was interviewing FCO staff for the position of his new Private Secretary. Astonishingly, he had decided that it would best suit his itinerary to hold these interviews in Accra rather than London. One candidate, Ros Marsden, had an extremely busy job as Head of United Nations Department. Yet she had to give up three days work to fly to be interviewed in Accra, when her office was just round the corner from his in London. Other candidates from posts around the World had difficult journeys to complete to get to Accra at all. I thought this rather outrageous of Cook, and was surprised nobody else seemed much concerned.

The port town of Tema, linked to Accra by fifteen miles of motorway and fast becoming part of a single extensive metropolis, sits firmly on the Greenwich Meridian. As far as land goes, Tema is the centre of the Earth, being the closest dry spot to the junction of the Equator and the Greenwich Meridian. You can travel South from Tema over 6,000 miles across sea until you hit the Antarctic.

There was in 1999 a particular vogue for linking the Greenwich Meridian with the Millennium. This was because of the role of the meridian in determining not just longitude but time. Of course, the two are inextricably linked with time initially used to calculate longitude. That is why Greenwich hosted both the Naval Academy and the Royal Observatory.

The fascination with all this had several manifestations. There was a BBC documentary travelogue down the Greenwich meridian. There was a best-selling book about the invention of naval chronometers, Longitude by Dava Sobel, which I read and was as interesting as a book about making clocks can be. There were a number of aid projects down the meridian, including by War Child and Comic Relief. Tema and Greenwich became twin towns. And there was the visit of the Duke of Edinburgh to Tema.

I think this was the idea of my very good friend John Carmichael, who was involved in charity work on several of the meridian projects. It was thought particularly appropriate as one of the Duke of Edinburgh’s titles is Earl of Greenwich – though the man has so many titles you could come up with some connection to pretty well anywhere. We could make it a new game, like six degrees of separation. Connect your home town to the Duke of Edinburgh.

Anyway, Tim Hitchens had warned me that the Duke was very much averse to just looking at things without any useful purpose. As we stood looking at the strip of brass laid in a churchyard which marks the line of the meridian, he turned to me and said: “A line in the ground, eh? Very nice.”

But we moved on to see a computer centre that had been set up by a charity to give local people experience of IT and the internet (providing both electricity and phone lines were working, which thank goodness they were today) and the Duke visibly cheered up. He was much happier talking to the instructors and students, and then when we went on to a primary school that had received books from DFID he was positively beaming. The genuinely warm reception everywhere, with happy gaggles of people of all ages cheerfully waving their little plastic union jacks, would have charmed anybody.

We returned to Accra via the coast road and I was able to point out the work of the Ghanaian coffin makers, with coffins shaped and painted as tractors, beer bottles, guitars, desks, cars and even a packet of condoms. The Prince laughed heartily, and we arrived at the Parliament building in high good spirits. There he was first shown to a committee room where he was introduced to senior MPs of all parties. “How many Members of Parliament do you have?” he asked. “Two hundred” came the answer. “That’s about the right number,” opined the Prince, “We have six hundred and fifty MPs, and most of them are a complete bloody waste of time.”

The irony was that there was no British journalist present to hear this, as they had all thought a meeting between Prince Philip and Ghanaian parliamentarians would be too boring. There were Ghanaian reporters present, but the exchange didn’t particularly interest them. So a front page tabloid remark, with which the accompanying photo could have made a paparazzi a lot of money, went completely unreported.

On a State Visit, the media cannot each be at every occasion, as security controls mean they have to be pre-positioned rather than milling about while the event goes ahead. So by agreement, those reporters and photographers accredited to the visit share or pool their photos and copy. At each event there is a stand, or pool. Some events may have more than one pool to give different angles. Each journalist can probably make five or six pools in the course of the visit, leapfrogging ahead of the royal progress. But everyone gets access to material from all the pools. The FCO lays on the transport to keep things under control. Organising the pool positions ahead of the event with the host country, and then herding and policing the often pushy media in them, is a major organisational task. Mike Nithavrianakis had carried it off with style and only the occasional failure of humour. But he had found no takers for Prince Philip in parliament, which proved to be fortunate for us.

I should say that I found Prince Philip entirely pleasant while spending most of this day with him. I am against the monarchy, but it was not created by the Queen or Prince Philip. Just as Colonel Isaac of the RUF was a victim of the circumstances into which he was born, so are they. Had I been born into a life of great privilege, I would probably have turned out a much more horrible person than they are.

Prince Philip then joined the Queen in the parliamentary chamber. Her address to parliament was to be the focal point of the visit. I had contributed to the drafting of her speech, and put a lot of work into it. The speech was only six minutes long (she never speaks longer than that, except at the State Opening of Parliament. Her staff made plain that six minutes was an absolute maximum.) It contained much of the usual guff about the history of our nations and the importance of a new future based upon partnership. But then she addressed Rawlings directly, praising his achievements in bringing Ghana on to the path of democracy and economic stability. The government benches in parliament provided an undercurrent of parliamentary “hear hears”.

But there was to be a sting in the tale: “Next, year, Mr President,” the Queen intoned, “You will step down after two terms in office in accordance with your constitution.” The opposition benches went wild. The Queen went on to wish for peaceful elections and further progress, but it was drowned out by the cries of “hear hear” and swishing of order papers from the benches, and loud cheers from the public gallery. There were mooted cries of “No” from the government side of the chamber.

I had drafted that phrase, and it had a much greater effect than I possibly hoped for, although I did mean it to drive home the message exactly as it was taken.

For a moment the Queen stopped. She looked in bewilderment and concern at the hullabaloo all around her. The Queen has no experience of speaking to anything other than a hushed, respectful silence. But, apart from some grim faces on the government benches, it was a joyful hullabaloo and she ploughed on the short distance to the end of her speech.

Once we got back to the Labadi Beach Hotel, Robin Cook was completely furious. He stormed into the makeshift Private Office, set up in two hotel rooms. “It’s a disaster. Who the Hell drafted that?” “Err, I did, Secretary of State” I said. “Is that you, Mr Murray! I might have guessed! Who the Hell approved it.” “You did.” “I most certainly did not!” “Yes you did, Secretary of State. You agreed the final draft last night.”

His Private Secretary had to dig out the copy of the draft he had signed off. He calmed down a little, and was placated further when the Queen’s robust press secretary, Geoff Crawford, said that he took the view that it was a good thing for the Queen to be seen to be standing up for democracy. It could only look good in the UK press. He proved to be right.

The State Banquet was a rather dull affair. Ian Mackley’s great battle to be on the top table proved rather nugatory as, in very Ghanaian fashion, nobody stayed in their seat very long and people were wandering all over the shop. There were a large number of empty seats as, faced with an invitation to dinner at 7.30pm, many Ghanaians followed their customary practice and wandered along an hour or so late, only to find they would not be admitted. This caused a huge amount of angst and aggravation, from which those of us inside were fortunately sheltered.

Mrs Rawlings had chosen a well known Accra nightclub owner named Chester to be the compère for the occasion. His bar is a relaxed spot in a small courtyard that features good jazz and highlife music, and prostitutes dressed as Tina Turner. It was a second home for the officers of the British Military Advisory and Training Team (BMATT).

Chester himself was friendly and amusing, but amusing in a Julian Clary meets Kenneth Williams meets Liberace sort of way. Chester says he is not gay, (regrettably homosexuality is illegal in Ghana) but his presentation is undeniably ultra camp. It is hard to think of a weirder choice to chair a state banquet, but Chester was a particular pet of Mrs Rawlings.

Chester was stood on the platform next to the Queen, gushing about how honoured he was. His speech was actually very witty, but the delivery was – well, Chester. I turned to Prince Philip and remarked: “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two Queens together before.” To give credit to Chester, I gather he has been telling the story ever since.

High camp was to be a theme of that evening.

Fiona and I accompanied the Royal party back to the Labadi Beach Hotel to say goodnight, after which Fiona returned home to Devonshire House while I remained for a debriefing on the day and review of the plans for tomorrow. By the time we had finished all that it was still only 11pm and I retired to the bar of the Labadi Beach with the Royal Household. The senior staff – Tim and Geoff – withdrew as is the custom, to allow the butlers, footmen, hairdressers and others to let off steam.

The party appeared, to a man, to be gay. Not just gay but outrageously camp. The Labadi Beach, with its fans whirring under polished dark wood ceilings, its panelled bar, displays of orchids, attentive uniformed staff and glossy grand piano – has the aura of a bygone colonial age, like something from Kenya’s Happy Valley in the 1930s. You expect to see Noel Coward emerge in his smoking jacket and sit down at the piano, smoking through a mother of pearl cigarette holder. It is exactly the right setting for a gay romp, and that is exactly what developed after a few of the Labadi Beach’s wonderful tropical cocktails.

We had taken the entire hotel for the Royal party, except that we had allowed the British Airways crew to stay there as always. Now three of their cabin stewards, with two Royal footmen and the Queen’s hairdresser, were grouped around the grand singing Cabaret with even more gusto than Liza. Other staff were smooching at the bar. All this had developed within half an hour in a really magical and celebratory atmosphere that seemed to spring from nothing. I was seated on a comfortable sofa, and across from me in an armchair was the one member of the Household who seemed out of place. The Duke of Edinburgh’s valet looked to be in his sixties, a grizzled old NCO with tufts of hair either side of a bald pate, a boxer’s nose and tattoos on his arms. He was smoking roll-ups.

He was a nice old boy and we had been struggling to hold a conversation about Ghana over the din, when two blokes chasing each other ran up to the settee on which I was sitting. One, pretending to be caught, draped himself over the end and said: “You’ve caught me, you beast!” I turned back to the old warrior and asked: “Don’t you find all this a bit strange sometimes?” He lent forward and put his hand on my bare knee below my kilt: “Listen, ducks. I was in the Navy for thirty years.”

So I made my excuses and left, as the News of the World journalists used to put it. I think he was probably joking, but there are some things that are too weird even for me, and the lower reaches of the Royal household are one of them. I have heard it suggested that such posts have been filled by gays for centuries, just as harems were staffed by eunuchs, to avoid the danger of a Queen being impregnated. Recently I have been most amused by news items regarding the death of the Queen Mother’s long-standing footman, who the newsreaders have been informing us was fondly known as “Backstairs Billy”. They manage to say this without giving the slightest hint that they know it is a double entendre.

The incident in parliament had made the Rawlings government even more annoyed about the proposed handshake in the International Conference Centre reception between the Queen and John Kufuor. My own relationship with Ian Mackley had also deteriorated still further as a result of the Royal Visit. I had the advantage that I already knew from previous jobs the palace officials and Robin Cook’s officials, and of course Robin Cook himself, not to mention the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh. All in all, I suspect that Ian felt that I was getting well above myself.

As the party formed up to walk around the reception in the International Conference Centre, Ian came up to me and grabbed my arm rather fiercely. “You, just stay with the Queen’s bodyguards” he said. I did not mind at all, and attached myself to another Ian, the head of the Queen’s close protection team. I already knew Ian also. Ian set off towards the hall and started ensuring a path was clear for the Queen, I alongside him as ordered. Suddenly I heard Sarah Mackley positively squeal from somewhere behind me: “My God, he’s ahead of the Queen! Now Craig’s ahead of the Queen.” If I could hear it, at least forty other people could. I managed to make myself as invisible as possible, and still to accomplish the introduction to John Kufuor. The government newspaper the Daily Graphic was to claim indignantly that I had introduced John Kufuor as “The next President of Ghana.” Had I done so, I would have been in the event correct in my prediction, but in fact I introduced him as “The opposition Presidential candidate”.

As always, the Queen’s last engagement on the State Visit was to say farewell to all the staff who had helped. She gives out gifts, and confers membership of the Royal Victorian Order on those deemed to merit it. Only once in the Queen’s long reign had she ever been on a state visit and not created our Ambassador or High Commissioner a Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order – that is to say, knighted him. Ian and Sarah were to become Sir Ian and Lady Sarah. This seemed to me to mean the world to them.

The day before, Tim Hitchens had turned to me as we were travelling in the car: “Craig, I take it your views on honours have not changed.” “No, Tim, I still don’t want any.” “Good, you see that makes it a bit easier, actually. You see, the thing is, we’re trying to cut down a bit on giving out routine honours. The government wants a more meritocratic honours system. We need to start somewhere. So, in short, Ian Mackley is not going to get his K.” I was stunned. Tim continued: “And as well, you see, it hasn’t exactly escaped our attention that he has … issues with the Ghanaians, and some of his attitudes didn’t exactly help the visit. Anyway, if you were to want your CVO, then that would be more difficult. Ian Mackley is going to have one of those. So that will be alright.”

No, it won’t be alright, I thought. You’ll kill the poor old bastard. For God’s sake, everyone will know.

I wondered when the decision had been taken. The kneeling stool and the ceremonial sword had definitely been unloaded from the plane and taken to the hotel: that was one of the things I had checked off. When had that decision been reached?

We were lined up in reverse order of seniority to go in and see the Queen and Prince Philip. I queued behind the Defence Attaché, with Ian and Sarah just behind me. She was entering as well – nobody else’s wife was – because she was expecting to become Lady Mackley. Tim was going to tell them quickly after I had entered, while they would be alone still waiting to go in.

You may not believe me, but I felt completely gutted for them. It was the very fact they were so status obsessed that made it so cruel. I was thinking about what Tim was saying to them and how they would react. It seemed terribly cruel that they had not been warned until the very moment before they were due to meet the Queen. I was so worried for them that I really had less than half my mind on exchanging pleasantries with the Queen, who was very pleasant, as always.

If you refused honours, as I always did, you got compensated by getting a slightly better present. In Warsaw I was given a silver Armada dish, which is useful for keeping your Armada in. In Accra I was given a small piece of furniture made with exquisite craftsmanship by Viscount Linley. Shelving my doubts about the patronage aspect of that (should the Queen be purchasing with public money official gifts made by her cousin?) I staggered out holding rather a large red box, leaving through the opposite side of the room to that I had entered. Outside the door I joined the happy throng of people clutching their presents and minor medals. Mike Nithavrianakis and Brian Cope were Ian Mackley’s friends, and they were waiting eagerly for him. “Here’s Craig” said Mike, “Now it’s only Sir Ian and Lady Sarah!” “No, it’s not, Mike”, I said, “He’s not getting a K” “What! You’re kidding!” It had suddenly fallen very silent. “Ian’s not getting a K, he’s only getting a CVO.” “Oh, that’s terrible.” We waited now in silence. Very quickly the door opened again, and the Mackleys came out, Ian with a frozen grin, Sarah a hysterical one beneath the white large-brimmed hat that suddenly looked so ridiculous. There was a smattering of applause, and Sarah fell to hugging everyone, even me. We all congratulated Ian on his CVO, and nobody ever mentioned that there had been any possibility of a knighthood, then or ever.

Personally I don’t understand why anyone accepts honours when there is so much more cachet in refusing them.

#prince phillip #prince phillip death #prince phillip is dead #craig murray #ghana

8 notes · View notes

lassieposting · 3 years ago

Note

Vile and Mevolent, for the romantic headcanons?

Who goes to bed late and who wakes up first?

Both Vile, because he very rarely sleeps through the night. He'll go to bed whenever Mevolent does, but he has nightmares and a hard time switching off the hypervigilance, so someone coughing three rooms away or walking by at the far end of the hall or laughing in the gardens will startle him awake and he'll struggle to resettle. A lot of the time he gets up multiple times during the night, then comes back to bed once he's confident there's no threat. The sunrise, the dawn chorus, the fire in the grate burning down to embers (less crackly noise, more cold), and increased footfall in the hallways will also wake him up, so he doesn't normally sleep past when the servants start their work.

Mev, on the other hand, sleeps like the dead, and only gets up at a reasonable hour because he's got shit to do - if he's got the time to lounge in bed till noon, he'll do it. He sleeps through most of Vile's nighttime activity, but when it does wake him, he can usually calm Vile down enough to coax him back to sleep.

Who sings during daily activities (shower, cooking, etc)?

Mevolent. Some of the Faceless hymns are catchy. He's got an okay voice, so Vile doesn't mind. It amuses him how upbeat some of the tunes are for songs that are mostly about the faceless ones laying waste to the planet, though.

Who takes care of the other on sick days?

Mevolent. Not that he has to do it often - they're both incredibly tough, and sorcerers are immune to most mortal illnesses, so the only thing likely to bench either of them for more than a few hours is a Serious Injury. And? Mevolent is a sensible, rational man. When he has a Serious Injury, he goes to Nye, because Nye is by far the most competent surgeon on Mevolent's staff, and Nye fixes him up.

Vile is not a sensible, rational man. Vile is a torture survivor. He won't let Nye get within thirty feet of him, because Nye was the one advising Serpine on how much more he could take before it killed him. He's wildly unpredictable when he's hurt, because he goes into self-preservation mode, and everyone around him becomes a threat. And to make everyone's lives even harder, he has a tendency to mask an injury and try to fix it himself, because he's surrounded by the same people who tortured him and he cannot afford to show weakness. So once Mev wins his trust, he's pretty much the only person Vile will let take care of him when he's hurt.

Who gives unprompted massages?

Vile. Mevolent spends a lot of time sat at a desk, and gets the stiff neck/shoulders/back accordingly. Vile will come up behind him to look over his shoulder at what he's doing, and absent-mindedly do Mev's shoulders while he's at it.

Mev will give massages too, usually to make Vile go all drowsy and relaxed after a few rough nights of little sleep, but he asks first.

What activity do they do together in sync?

Compensate for each other's weaknesses in battle. For Mevolent, this means keeping an eye on Vile's blind side: usually, his magic does this for him and gets him around just fine, but a battlefield is so chaotic that it's difficult for him to tell his fighters' life energy and the enemy's apart. For Vile, this means being fast enough to hit anything Mevolent can't. For all that he's "slender", Mev is a big, strong guy; he's the tank, and his equipment shows it: heavy armour, massive greatsword. But the tradeoff for that sword's powerful swing is slower speed. Vile is smaller, faster and his armour moves with him, so he'll take out anything that gets too close to Mev before he has time to swing. They're a highkey unstoppable team in battle.

Who gives nose/forehead/hand kisses?

Mevolent. Vile is more neck/shoulderblade/wrist kisses.

Who gets jealous?

Both of them, but Vile is the one you really don't want to cross; he's lost everything he cared about before and it completely broke him, so he absolutely will not tolerate competition. There's a rumour that the real reason Serpine tried to pull off a sloppy assassination - when he's always been so meticulous about his schemes - and then fled the city is because he found out that when Mevolent asked what gift would prove his love, Vile asked for Serpine's head. It's also a popular theory that Serafina's death, officially a "tragic accident", was in fact the deliberate removal of a rival (although, the court is divided on whether Nef or Vile arranged it).

Mev is a lot more chilled about his jealousy. It comes with having the power to grind your rival's entire bloodline to dust whenever you feel like it.

Soft kisses or passionate kisses?

Both.

Who brings the other food at work?

Vile will load up a plate of leftovers if Mevolent is balls deep in A Project and misses a meal, and take it up to his office so he'll still eat something. He actually has a better handle on When Mevolent Last Ate than Mev does.

Who made the first move?

Lowkey both of them. It was a blazing row during a post-battle debrief-slash-dressing-down that unexpectedly became an adrenaline-fuelled angry fuck. Neither is really sure who pounced first.

Who won’t dress in costume unless it’s a couple costume?

Mevolent won't dress up unless it's like, a super fancy, elegant masquerade ball costume. Vile is an introverted antisocial buzzkill and won't dress up at all.

How was their first date like?

They went riding. Vile was at the point of recovery where he was climbing the walls with cabin fever, and short walks in the palace gardens weren't cutting it anymore, so Mevolent took him outside the city to let off some steam.

Who writes love letters/notes to the other?

Both of them! The early years of their relationship were during the war, when they'd often find themselves leading the offensive on completely different continents. This being the 1800s, they'd communicate primarily by letter; incorporeal visitations were a thing, but still in the very experimental stage, and Teleporters were precious.

Originally, Vile would send field reports, and Mevolent would respond with written orders. Professional. Brief. Succinct. Then Vile has his injury. They get closer while he's recuperating, and when he goes back to the front, his orders arrive with a postscript, more or less saying, "How are you holding up?" He adds a postscript of his own to his next report - essentially, "I'm fine" - and then, after a bit of consideration, decides that sounds too brusque and adds a little funny story about something that happened with one of his soldiers recently.

The postscripts get longer. They share little anecdotes, celebrate each other's victories, comfort each other after defeats. Vile sends Mev three scrawly pages of absolute filth, which is delightedly received halfway across the world. Mevolent spells Vile's name differently on every single letter, and somehow never manages to spell it the same way twice (Veighle? Vyle? Veele? Véle? Vile is ready to end him and his medieval approach to spelling.) They even send each other little trophies or souvenirs, squeezed in at the very end of a crowded parchment.

"V - Saw this and thought of you. M"

"M - You'll probably laugh at this as much as I did. V"

Who firmly believed the other was their soulmate from early on?

They're too bitter and jaded and scarred to believe in soulmates. Vile was the one who immediately thought Mevolent Got Him, though - "finally, here is someone who shares my appetite for destruction."

How much do they touch each other (PDA)?

Rarely, in public. Once Mevolent is fully established as ruler of the world and he can be open about his relationship without risking his crusade, they might dance together occasionally, or touch one another's arm to get their attention, or murmur in one another's ear. But they were a secret for over a century, and they very rarely interact publicly in a way that would be out of character for a lord and his general. Vile still usually enters rooms behind/"guarding" Mevolent rather than on his arm (with a few exceptions, usually when Mev wants to make a point). The main "PDA" for them is that they use each other's names, rather than "my lord"/"general", and Vile will look Mevolent in the eye, which isn't really permitted for anyone else.

Do they have cute nicknames for each other?

Vile is "V" a lot of the time.

How do they feel about Valentine’s Day? Do they go on a date?

Valentine was a Christian saint, and Mevolent only endorses the Faceless religion, so while V-day might still exist in Leibniz, it would only be in the homes of those brave enough to flaunt the laws around false gods and banned faiths, and would probably not be openly celebrated.

Public marriage proposal or something private?

Private. The first anyone else hears about it is when someone notices that Mevolent's changed his family crest. It's normal for sorcerers to either impale their crest (split the shield down the middle, with half your crest on one side and your partner's on the other) with their new spouse's, or include a nod to their spouse's crest in their own, by adopting one of their tinctures or bearers or something. The gossip circuit goes wild trying to figure out what prompted the change - nobody recognises the impaled crest, and Mevolent's shown no interest in any young ladies of good family since Lady Serafina's tragic passing. Rumours abound. Changing your crest is something that happens after you get married, not before - so at some point, their lord and master got secretly married and didn't tell anyone.

Eventually, someone points out that Mevolent took Lord Vile off to one of his summer palaces for a few weeks several months ago, ostensibly to renovate. That summer palace is small as palaces go, and quiet, and that trip could...feasibly have been a honeymoon, a newly married couple wanting some privacy. But if that's true...they've been married almost a year, and nobody knew a damn thing.

After changing the crest, Mev announces a month of feasting and festivities to celebrate. He manages his public image carefully, and he knows that the commonfolk won't give a damn that he's gone and married his heathen lover, if it gives them an excuse to get drunk and stuff themselves on his dime.

Vile, being an intensely private person, took forever to okay the crest change, but since most of the court is terrified of him, he only really gets questioned by a few people.

How long into the relationship before they had sex?

Their relationship literally began with a post-battle adrenaline-fuelled angry fuck. They hooked up long before ever developing Feelings.

Who drops innuendos at random?

Neither of them are hugely inclined towards innuendoes, but it happens for both of them occasionally.

Who makes romantic surprises without a reason to?

They both will, but the definition of romantic varies wildly. "I've arranged a showing of an opera you like" and "I've kept this prisoner until you got back so we can interrogate him together" are both under the umbrella of "romantic surprise" for these two.

How likely are they to have sex in a non-bedroom location?

Very. Mevolent's throne is a popular pick. The carriage, the bathtub and every flat surface in Mev's rooms are also A-OK.

Who said “I love you” first and when?

Vile really struggles with the big three. Everyone he's ever said that to, he's lost, usually in horrible ways. He's lowkey convinced himself that if he doesn't say it, he won't ever lose Mevolent.

So it's Mev that says it first, and it's kind of in the middle of a religious crisis. He's fairly convinced the gods would overlook him fucking a heathen, given all the good he's done in their name, but then one night they're in bed together, Vile is dozing off on his chest, and he's got this warm fuzzy feeling like this is How Things Should Be, and he's not really been in love before but he's pretty sure that's a much more serious sin. Vile mumbles at him to ask what he's all fidgety about, and "I think I might be falling in love with you and that terrifies me" comes out during the resultant conversation.

Who will sing cheesy romantic songs when drunk?

Mevolent. The cheesy romantic songs are from like, the middle ages. It's a bit like your older boyfriend trying to seduce you with dad-rock - cringey, but in a funny, I-love-you-but-god-you-suck kinda way.

#skulduggery pleasant #violent #sp headcanons #long post

5 notes · View notes

jasonrae117 · 4 years ago

Text

This is my first post on Tumblr. I have an ongoing story on fanfiction but I felt like trying something new. I was heavily inspired by @flyingkiki because timrae is too good of a pairing and there needs to be more stories. This is my contribution. I will be using songs throughout since its a band au but only this first chapter will have the whole song typed out. Furthermore all songs in this story exist in our world but for sake of my storytelling some will be "written" as originals by the character while others still belong to their respective artist which I will note.

For part one:

1.Dear Society- Madison Beer (As is)

2. Ribs - Lorde (As is)

3. Like That - Bea Miller and Aurora (Intended as band original)

4. COPYCAT - Billie Eilish (intended as band original)

Bad Idea, Good Intentions

Part 1

Tim wondered why he found himself at a club on this Saturday night. Him and his friends had just graduated with their bachelor's degree in their respective fields and they convinced him to celebrate with them at this club.

By 'friends' he meant primarily his best friend Connor. The other two guys were more of Connor's friends than his but Tim knew them well enough to consider them his too. However, Connor had called him the day before and practically begged Tim to come. Apparently there was this new band that he knew the drummer and this was their highest profile gig yet and Connor wanted to support his friend by bringing whoever he could. Tim reluctantly agreed, feeling like he should get out more and spend time with his friends outside of college.

Tim already felt like this was a bad idea when he walked into a packed club with flashing lights, a fully stocked bar, and a large stage.

"Tim! You made it!" Connor walked over to him and gave him a one armed hug as the other was occupied holding a half empty pint of beer.

Tim smiled at his long time best friend. "Of course buddy, I keep my promises."

Connor dragged him over to the bar where their other friends Garfield and Garth were sitting. Both greeted him with cheers and hugs.

"Dude, this place is fucking great! So many hot girls!"

"Good God Gar, can you keep it in your pants for one freaking night?" Garth shoved the blond playfully and took a sip of his drink.

"What can I say, the ladies love me. I just wish your stupid band played something easier to dance to." Gar crossed his arms and glared at the stage where the four person band was performing.

"This is your friend's band?" Tim directed at Connor.

"Yeah, this is Nevermore! Wally West is the drummer. Jinx is on bass, Argent is keyboard, and Raven is the lead singer and guitarist." He pointed to each of the members.

"What the hell kind of names are those. That Raven girl already has a creepy vibe and she chooses a name like that? What's with the Edgar Allan Poe obsession?" Garfield looked bewildered and shook his head.

"I'm shocked you even know who that is. But dude, it's just their stage names."

Tim looked back to Connor wanting to know more about the band that made him come here. "What are their real names?"

"I don't know." Connor shrugged.

"Are they single?" Garth had asked grinning.

"I don't know about the other two, but don't even try with Jinx, that's Wally's girl."

The guys entered a discussion about Connor's and Wally's friendship and what his stage name was. Tim heard it was something like Kid Flash but he wasn't paying too much attention. He was focused on the band onstage.

The song sounded familiar but Tim wasn't big on music. Each member seemed to have their unique style and color but they all worked well together. Wally was wearing yellows, Jinx wore black and hot pink striped knee high socks with a short leather skirt and black mesh top. Her hair was dyed entirely bubble gum pink and wrapped up in two space buns. Argent had black hair with red highlights running through it and an all black outfit with a studded leather jacket. The lead singer, Raven, really caught his eye. She has a short purple bob that fell to just below her chin.

Her outfit is what really had his mind stopping. She had on a black long sleeved ribbed shirt with a large keyhole neckline, showing off the tops of her full breasts, which was tucked into royal blue shorts that seemed to be barely long enough to even be classified as shorts with frayed edges. Her legs were encased in black fishnet stocking ending in a chunky heeled combat boot. Tim liked to think of himself as a gentleman that Alfred would be proud of but...the woman was hot. She had an hourglass figure but probably the best set of legs and ass he's ever seen. She was almost unreal how incredible she looked.

The banter of his friends regained his attention as the band switched to another song.

"Hey fellas, let's go hit the floor, this song is much better!" Garth and Connor finished their drinks and placed them on the bar agreeing to Garfield's request. They looked to Tim when he didn't move.

"You guys go ahead, I'll be there in a second. I haven't even gotten a single drink in."

Connor threw an arm around him. "That's what happens when you arrive late." He ruffled his hair a bit. "Alright man, we'll try to find a spot close to the stage. See you there."

With that his friends mingled within the crowd. Tim turned to the bar and ordered a bourbon on the rocks, he wasn't great in heavily social settings like this so he needed to calm his mind a bit. As he waited, his focus returned to the band.

They were actually really good. While he was slightly confused since their music was slower than he expected, the songs themselves were great. The lead singer had a lower voice of an alto but in the next song they started, it was clear she had a wider range. It was smooth when it needed to be but raspy and gritty, adding to the unique sound. The other girls added to the dynamic with their higher notes and he found he really liked it.

The slow beat of their next song reverberated around the bar, drawing everyone in, particularly Tim. He moved from his spot at the countertop to one of the metal standing tables that was currently unoccupied. It stood to the mid-right of the stage with a small gathering of dancing patrons between him and the stage. He gently placed his hand that held the almost empty glass of bourbon on the surface of the table as he leaned into it.

The lead singer Raven, he recalled from Gar's description earlier, slowly grasped the microphone. One delicate hand curled around the mic while the other laid gently in the supporting pole. Her almost raspy voice fluttered through the speakers.

Don't be cautious, don't be kind

You committed, I'm your crime

The low octave sounded almost sensual and her hand slid down the pole in time with the held note.

Push my button anytime

You got your finger on the trigger, but your trigger finger's mine

Her left hand formed into the shape of a gun and as she 'pulled the trigger' she collapsed her hand save for her single index finger that she spun slowly in a circle. Tim grinned at the small gesture representing being wrapped around one's finger and he couldn't pull his eyes away from how delicate and smooth her hands were. Even from the distance he sat she looked flawless.

Silver dollar, golden flame

Dirty water, poison rain

Perfect murder, take your aim

I don't belong to anyone, but everybody knows my name

Raven removed the microphone from the stand with her left hand and held onto the pole with the other as she slid down to a squat. On the beat she pulsed up and down to the next lyrics.

By the way, you've been uninvited

'Cause all you say are all the same things I did

Tim swallowed, eyes having never left her body he watched as the muscles in her legs contract and saw how her amazing ass peeked out slightly more from her bottoms. The routine had certainly taken a turn to a sexual nature and he couldn't help being turned on by the attractive lead singer. Her voice seemed to just purr in his ear. She rose to her feet again as she began the chorus.

Copycat trying to cop my manner

Watch your back when you can't watch mine

Copycat trying to cop my glamour

Why so sad, bunny, you can't have mine?

Did she just make eye contact with him? Holy shit, she definitely did. And was that a smirk? Was he drooling? Tim wiped at his mouth to confirm that he did not embarrass himself. He shook his head a bit to rid himself of the ridiculous idea that she could pick him out in the growing crowd. Many more patrons, especially the male ones, drew in closer and he found that he only had a small space around his table left. No way she looked directly at him.

Call me calloused, call me cold

You're italic, I'm in bold

She sauntered to the right side of the stage before flipping around and doing a body roll on "italic" followed by a deeper and more exaggerated one on "bold" where she popped her ass out more. There was a cheer from almost all the guys in the building and a flurry of whistles.

Call me cocky, watch your tone

You better love me, 'cause you're just a clone

Was Time seeing right? He could have sworn she winked at him as she strutted to his side of the stage. He knew he wasn't imagining things when she deliberately pointed at him accusingly while swaying her hips. Damn it was hot in here. He knocked the rest of his drink back hoping to steady his thrumming heart.

The chorus repeated with her returning to center stage and moving the stand off to the side. She dropped to the floor and threw her legs over the side where some of the guys tried to touch her before a bouncer pushed them back. As she finished the chorus she swung her legs back onstage but pivoted so she was parallel to the edge. One leg straightened while the upstage leg was bent.

I would hate to see you go

Hate to be the one that told you so

You just crossed the line

You've run out of time

Raven brought her upper body down flat with such ease and no doubt incredible core control. She gracefully placed an arm above her head as it turned to look out at the audience all keeping in time with the now soft melody of the song.

so sorry, now you know

Sorry I'm the one that told you so

On the extended note she curled back up and hugged her knees briefly before sitting up and resting her ass on her heels. Tim was not only impressed with her fluidity and the hot choreography, but the range she held in her vocals. He was starting to think this wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry, sorry

Raven bowed her head and sang softly into the mic looking like she was praying for their forgiveness. The music silenced for a beat before she snapped her head up with a devious glint in her eyes, a small curl to the side of her lips, and a quirked brow.

Sike

She got up to her knees and swayed back nearly to the former sitting position before thrusting forward again on each beat.

By the way, you've been uninvited

'Cause all you say are all the same things I did...

...you can't have mine?

She had risen to her feet again through a combination of swaying hips and body rolls. She retrieved the mic stand again and returned the mic to its post before the last lyric and ended the song in the same pose she started with.

At the song's last note the crowd erupted in applause, whistling, and to Tim's displeasure, sexual comments from some of the more rowdy and drunk guys. The band bowed and waved before thanking the owner and the audience and retreated off stage.

His earlier worry about the band playing songs inappropriate to the occasion was thrown out the window because all parts of him thoroughly enjoyed their last song. He wouldn't dare say that to anyone but damn him if it wasn't true. That lead singer was just so gorgeous and had such a unique and fantastic voice, this must be every guy's fantasy. It was his now but who was he kidding, she must have a boyfriend. Wait...but didn't she wink at him? No, it was all an act. God he needed another drink.

Tim made his way back to the bar and ordered another bourbon on the rocks. He paid his tab and leaned on the bar, replaying the movements of Raven's body. He felt a little shameful for not watching the other bandmates as the whole song was performed well, but she was too captivating. Probably why she was the lead singer.

A pat on the shoulder interrupted him from his non-stop overthinking and he turned to see the smiling faces of the friends he came here with. The friends he had completely forgotten about until now.

"Dude where the hell did you go? We had a great spot just left of center stage! There were a ton of hot girls dancing with us!" Gar waved his arms around almost smacking Garth and Connor. The two just shaking their heads and laughing.

"Not to mention a great view of the performance." Connor nudged Tim and an almost wistful look came across his eyes. Tim swallowed hard again.

"And what a performance that was. Shit that lead singer has a great body." Garth swung his arm around Gar's shoulder.

"And voice." Tim coughed and immediately took another sip of his drink realizing that it didn't help.

Garfield chuckled. "Who was listening to the music when she worked that ass like that. She probably got ninety percent of the guys in here hard by the first chorus."

"And you said she was creepy." Connor poked Gar in his chest.

He held his hands up defensively. "Hey, that was before I knew she could get down like that! I mean her name is the bird of death, a bad omen. The other girls' names are kinda hot."

"Raven is just her stage name." Tim interjected. He didn't know why he felt like defending her, he quite literally didn't know her at all and this was typical Garfield behavior.

"Woah chill Tim. Got the hots for the lead singer? Wouldn't be the only one. Do you think she's single?" Garth lightly pushed his shoulder and took a seat next to him at the bar, flagging the bartender down. The other two looked at Connor who seemed to have the most information on the girl.

He head flicked back and forth between the two men staring at him before he understood their eager silence. "Look, I don't actually know that much about her. I just know about the fake names and mostly about Jinx. Wally doesn't really talk about the other two and I don't ask."

Garfield groaned. "Why the hell not? Your friend is the drummer for a hot girl band and you don't ask about their relationship status, or what their real names are?"

"No I don't because that's weird and I'm sure he's told me their names, I just don't remember right now. Not like you'd have a shot with them." The three men laughed at Garfield's expense and he crossed his arms and pouted.

"I don't see a line of girls wanting to dance with you Kent."

"It doesn't bother me all that much Logan. Plus, I came here to support my friend not hook up with some random chick."

"Ugh you guys are all lame. I'm heading back out there. This band is playing music more my speed." Gar grounded out and spun on his heel, disappearing into the sea of bodies.

"Good job Con, you made him all grumpy. Now I gotta calm him down." Garth grabbed his beer and followed his friend.

Tim was now reminded of why he was hesitant to come tonight. He wasn't the best of friends with Garth and Garfield and he came solely because of the desperate plea of Connor. He looked over to the stage and saw the main band playing their hearts out, music blaring over the speakers in an uptempo beat. Although it was more along the lines of typical club music, he found he preferred the darker melodies of Nevermore.

"Yo buddy! Where'd that big brain of yours disappear to?" Connor waved his hand in front of his face dizzying him for a second. Tim reached and snatched Connor's arm to stop him and dropped it once his motion stilled.

"Sorry, I was just trying to remember something. How are you doing? Enjoying yourself?"

"Yeah it's great. Awesome way to celebrate getting our degrees. I wish I had someone a little more special with me though, better company than those two numbskulls. How'd they graduate anyhow?" Connor took the seat the Garth vacated and spun facing the bar.

"Well, shockingly, Garth is actually pretty smart and Gar just copies off him when he can. He certainly didn't graduate magna cum laude." The two shared a laugh, lightening the mood once more. "You'll get that someone soon. Why don't you go back out there and see if she's there?"

"I feel like my soulmate isn't dancing in a club right now. I wouldn't be if my good friend wasn't playing for a big audience tonight."

"Fair enough. His band was really good. Do they play often?"

"At smaller venues yeah. I'm sure they'll be playing more here though, if any of the guys have anything to say about it." Connor smiled as if replaying a fond memory. "What do you think about Raven and Argent?"

"They're cool, great voices and Argent is amazing on the keyboard. How she keeps track of all the sounds is beyond me."

Connor let out a lighthearted chuckle. "I meant as attractive women, not their talents. Dork."

"Oh, yeah they're attractive."

"Wow, you're just not into this dude talk are you?" Connor swiveled to face him.

"I'm sorry, what am I supposed to say? I'm not going to sit here and objectify them." Tim looked seriously into his glass. It wasn't his intention to ruin the fun but he wasn't a fan of talking about his romantic interests, it felt too personal even though Connor was his best friend.

"Sorry Tim. I didn't mean to offend you, just dumb guy stuff. I guess I've been hanging out with Gar squared too much." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Damn Tim really had a way with being a downer.

"Nah, it's all good. I think I'm just constantly in my head too much. Gotta be professional all the time and all that jazz."

"Yeah man, well I'm gonna check on those idiots. Try to relax and have fun." Connor stood up and began to move before Tim stopped him.

"For what it's worth, I think Raven is the hottest. Her voice is positively sinful." Tim smirked at him and Connor's eyes widened as if Tim had spilt some highly classified secret.

"There you go man! Hey maybe I can see if Wally can hook us up with a meet and greet." He winked and came back toward Tim to clap him on the shoulder. He started walking backwards toward the mass of people dancing to the music while pointing at Tim and sending him a knowing wink again. Tim just shook his head and laughed.

#tim drake #Raven #timrae #band au #robrae #bad idea good intention #first post #hopefully this isn't awful #thanks #teen titans

36 notes · View notes

thanksjro · 5 years ago

Text

The Persistence of Loss: More Ghosts Teaching Robots Life Lessons

This is a story written by Mark Stevenson, but it takes place in the Eugenesis continuity. Fun fact: when everything’s fanfic, that means everything’s equally canon! TMUK took advantage of this nodule of wisdom very frequently.

This is running on Microsoft Word in compatibility mode, by the way. No PDFs here.

It’s after the events the Epilogue of Eugenesis, and there’s a thing called “the List” hanging up in the new Autobase. You know, the one that was set up in the fucking concentration camp.

The worst part of this is how many questions are stirred up by the fact this is on printer paper. Where did the paper come from? Does this mean Cybertron has some sort of plant life that could be pulped down and made into paper? Did they bring some from Earth on the Ark?

What the List is isn’t directly stated, but considering the events of Eugenesis, it isn’t hard to guess.

Meanwhile, Bombshell, everyone’s favorite mind-controller and giant bug, is messing around with the Quintesson corpses, utterly fascinated by the way they’re built.

I never covered this in my breakdown, but the little dudes who were flying the Tridents? All those nameless nobodies? They’re hardwired into their controls. There’s no transition from steering to hand or seat to ass, it’s all one and the same.

Swindle is, of course, disgusted by Bombshell’s little distraction, but there’s not much point arguing with a guy like that, especially now that the tentative peace in the wake of the Quintesson invasion is about to be bashed in with a hammer, since Galvatron’s going to be back on Cybertron in the next few hours. Flattop cuts in, saying they’ve got company inbound.

Over at the remains of Delphi, Scourge has decided to have a little alone time, just thinking his thoughts. It’s nice and quiet, the sunset is positively lovely, and he’s honestly probably overdue for some sort of interruption.

Welp, looks like he wasn’t dead after all. I guess he just decided he was going to sit the entirety of the genocide out.

Though maybe he just didn’t realize it was happening, because this Cyclonus really is just stupid as shit. He laughs at a comment Scourge makes, completely forgetting that they’re in the Sonic Canyons, and nearly kills the both of them. Once the danger’s passed, Cyclonus finally asks Scourge what’s bothering him. What a good friend.

Back at Autobase, Rodimus Prime is sad. He’s always sad, but he’s particularly sad right now. We’re still only a couple of days beyond him having woken up, so he probably stopped self-isolating over Kup’s death roughly twenty minutes ago.

He’s currently reflecting on Emyrissus, the Micromaster he sent to assassinate Galvatron, whose death was as awful as it was predictable, or so Rodimus likes to think. He knew Emyrissus was going to die.

You see, this is why Rodimus is a better leader than Optimus is, at least in terms of empathy. He understands that he’s in a position of power, one that can make or break a person’s very life, and that scares the shit out of him. Regardless of Eugenesis Optimus being one from prior the horrendously long war, he was still enough of a figurehead to at least entertain the thought of his being put on a pedestal by those around him.

But no. Instead everyone deserved to die.

Thanks, space dad.

Stevenson, you are playing a dangerous game here-

Mirage and his friends are being ambushed by a group of Decepticons. He’s currently rocking around with Ramhorn and Kick-Off, and they’re currently barricading themselves behind a wall. Ramhorn, being a wildcard, runs out of cover and decides to just go for it. Mirage silently wonders if this is why the Transformers as a race can’t function outside of making war. That thought doesn’t get to the self-reflection stage, however, as he basically says “fuck it” and vaults over the wall himself, though he at least has the bright idea to go invisible beforehand.

Getting back to Scourge’s angst, it would seem that Nightbeat was right on the money about not having hit him with the mind wipe device. Scourge remembered everything, and it's tortured him for the last 27 years- even more if you think too hard about all the time travel. He was fully convinced that after he went through the wormhole, that was it- the Transformers lost, and he had his very own countdown. THAT would be why he blew himself up in Liars, A-to-D.

Now that it looks like everything’s going to be about as okay as it gets on Cybertron, he’s really not sure what to do with his life anymore.

These two fucking idiots have a great big laugh together, to the point where the nearby homeless population wonder if the Quintessons came back. They eventually calm down, and Scourge asks Cyclonus what I’ve been wondering for months: what he did in the Eugenesis Wars.

Over with Rodimus, Kup is at the door.

Alright, let’s see where this goes. I’m betting on hallucination.

Kup enters, closing the door behind him at Rodimus’ request, and comments on the state of the office. It’s positively dreary, and that’s with the inclusion of the window.

Kup seems to be a sort of manifestation of Rodimus’ self-loathing. He should probably see a therapist, but last I heard Rung was over with the Decepticons, and he’s probably the only mental health specialist on the entire planet.

Which makes me wonder why Galvatron hasn’t killed him yet. Guy’s not exactly a fan of therapy.

Kup’s tough love comes from a good place- he can see Rodimus is deep in the rut that is Depression™, and he needs a swift kick in the ass to help him get back on track. I don’t quite think that’s how this works, but something’s got to give, I suppose.

Because you see, Kup’s seen the future, and it ain’t pretty- Star Saber isn’t someone to be trusted, and his whole gang is going to be coming down on Cybertron like sharks smelling blood.

Then again, Kup’s not real, so what does he know?

Rodimus asks what this is all actually about, seeing as Kup always had a reason for showing up for anything. Kup admits that he wants to talk about Emyrissus.

The problem is that things are only going to get harder from here on, as the lines between good and evil are blurred, as the Autobots sink deeper into the dredges of war to try and win this thing. Emyrissus is just the most glaring example at present. Kup opens the door, and Rodimus worries that the Micromaster is going to pop out to join the conversation, but Kup just says that he doesn’t have enough memories of the guy to build him in his head like he can Kup.

Kup tells Rodimus that he needs to learn to let go, and stop blaming himself for everything that’s gone wrong with this war. Then he’s gone.

Rodimus goes to join the troops.

Over with Mirage, things aren’t going so hot. He’s been shot. HIs team members are either too busy to help, or completely AWOL. He scrabbles for his gun- very reminiscent of Liars A-to-D here- only to have someone else’s gun put to his head. It’s Bombshell. Look at the scenes coming together all nice-like!

Bombshell threatens to shoot him, and Mirage is very okay with this plan. He’s hit his nihilism barrier and broken clean through it- what’s the point? All they do is fight, all they do is kill, and one day there won’t be anything left, and all will be lost to time. There’s nothing worth living for anymore.

The postpartum depression is hitting Mirage very hard.

Bombshell recalls the Quintesson soldier, and orders his team to stand down. They won’t be killing anyone today. He promises Mirage that when the war is over, they’ll have a chat, then leaves.

Mirage is, understandably, confused by this.

Back at Autobase, Rodimus is being followed by a smattering of groupies, as he makes his way to the List. By the time he gets there, nearly fifty folks have joined the throng. He figures now is as good a time as any to speak to his troops, and he hops up on a toolbox so everyone can see him.

First and foremost, he tells them that he’s proud of them. Then thanks them for being here with him.

Then he addresses the elephant in the room.

Then Nightbeat pushes through the crowd towards the Prime. He’s fresh off the presses, and he knows what Rodimus was about to do to the List. He knows, and he encourages it.

With a flourish, Rodimus Prime rips the List off of the wall, and everyone bursts into applause.

Finally getting back to Cyclonus’ deal, it turns out he was buried under Darkmount the whole time. Bit anticlimactic, that. With the Mystery of the Missing Cyclonus solved, the two decide to go get plastered at Maccadam’s, and also maybe stab a few people. Good times.

Meanwhile, off-world, Great Shot enters the office of Star Saber, and they join in the long-standing tradition of talking shit about Old Cybertron. Star Saber is less than impressed with the Autobots, and how they got their asses kicked by a bunch of guys that look like flying eggs. Still, helping them out gives him something to do, and that something is rebuilding Old Cybertron into the gleaming, perfect image of New Cybertron.

And then there’s a quote directly ripped from Hitler himself, to really sell you on the fact that Star Saber is a Bad Fucking Dude.

The end!

This will most likely be the only non-Roberts Eugenesis-related work I’ll be looking at. There are others, but they’ve been lost to time. Also, they’re not really why I’m doing this, so… yeah.

Up next…

Huh.

Guess I’ll start on the professional stuff.

#transformers #eugenesis #the persistence of loss #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #prose writing

13 notes · View notes

chiseler · 5 years ago

Text

Unfunnymen

Sooner or later one has to face El Brendel, in the same way that sooner or later one has to face death.

But by way of working up to the grim task gently, let's start with Joe E. Brown. This vaudevillian, graced with an unnaturally wide mouth, which seemed on the verge of separating cranium from lower jaw, and giving him the flapping head of a South Park Canadian, spelled fortune to the exuberant, hearty, not particularly funny man who had been applied around this yawning abyss like lipstick.

We tend to remember Brown more fondly than his moderate talent deserves, because he delivers a classic closing line in a classic comedy. The line is "Well, nobody's perfect," and the film is Some Like It Hot (1959) and it's a good demonstration that great dialogue is often great because of context rather than because of the brilliant assembling of words. Here, the phrase is a commonplace one, but nobody can forget it when they've heard it used to cap the film's closing scene. Perhaps it was the prosaic nature of the line which caused its writers to doubt it: Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond wrote it the night before filming, and turned in saying "Maybe we'll think of something better in the morning.”

Joe E. Brown says the line the way he said about every line of his career, enthusiastically, with a goggly stare and an effort to draw the corners of his rubbery mouth as far apart as possible. Stretching his elastic features like a chest expander was basically all he did. He was blessed with a funny face, but what was under it? A perfectly ordinary skull. No funny bones here.

Brown starred - actually starred! - in a whole series of pre-code comedies which prove that not everything made at Warners in the thirties was forward-looking, funny and challenging. He played "lovable" losers who win in the end. Like Harold Lloyd only with his face gashed open. His leading ladies included Joan Bennett, Ginger Rogers, Olivia De Havilland, Ann Dvorak. To contemplate any of those films proceeding beyond the final clinch-and-fadeout is to consider bestiality. One feels Bette Davis was lucky to escape his all-consuming maw. Every other Warners contract starlet was engulfed.

It's safe to assume Wilder gave him his great late role because Brown brought with him associations of a bygone age. Brown would remind audiences of the kind of stuff people used to laugh at. He isn't precisely used as a butt, more as a threat. He seems so genderless, acceptable jokes can be made about him marrying a man. Now that dream is a reality, but Some Like it Hot still seems just a little transgressive, or at least a rare film from its period which manages to imply a questioning of gender roles. Maybe Brown's earlier work would have been improved if he hadn't been required to show interest in girls. He would make a perfect speculative fiction hypothesis of what the third sex might look like. And his best quality as a comic is his alienness: like Harry Langdon, he seems to have beamed down from another world, some kind of asexual clown planet.

Warners had plenty of unappealing comic actors, but they didn't tend to make them leading men. And in small doses, mugs like Guy Kibbee or Hugh Herbert could work. H.H. had one bit of schtick, to say "woo-woo" and giggle inanely while flapping his stubbing fingers in nervous benediction. He did that for about twenty-five years and was never fatally shot or bludgeoned to death. Those were, in many ways, more tolerant times.

Woo-woo Hugh and "the Clown Prince" Brown appear together in Warners all-star A Midsummer Night's Dream, as rude mechanicals, which is perfect casting. A crowd of unfunny funnymen, delivering Shakespeare's less clever material, as background to Jimmy Cagney. The world has acquired some kind of order. But one film later, Brown will be in the lead again, baffling us.

It's bizarre that Brown played leads, since his equipment seems to better suit second banana roles. But its not as mystifying as the career of dialect comedian El Brendel, which requires the aid of a conspiracy theory to make it in any way intelligible.

The story is told that when studio boss William Fox was in a car accident, Elmer Brendel was the only one around with the right blood group to save his life. In gratitude, Fox disfigured his studio's entire output by thrusting the smirking, talentless goof into film after film.

El Brendel was in some good films, like the Oscar-winning Wings. But he's always the worst things about every film he's in, whether it's a classic like Wings or a schlock snooze like The She Creature (1956) at the far end of his career. A farrago about sea monsters and hypnosis, it's hilarious except when El is doing his comedy relief.

El Brendel's schtick was to play a fake foreigner - the Synthetic Swede was his sobriquet. With his little quacking voice he would play naive malaprops, garbling the English language. But he couldn't help smiling in apparent self-satisfaction at each of his would-be funny lines. For a character who's not supposed to know he's funny, this was a terrible mistake, and may explain why I want to murder El Brendel whenever I see him. There's a special circle of hell for comedians who act like they think they're funny. At its centre lies Red Skelton, encased in ice. But I like to think El Brendel is nearby, forced to listen to Red Skelton laugh at how hilarious he thinks he is. For eternity.

Asides from his tight little quarter-moon smile and his twinkly little quarter moon eyes in his punchable face, El Brendel is the comedian without qualities. To see him in what passes for action is to be reminded how much more than a mock accent Chico Marx brought to the screen. Chico was an incredible actor - the Brando of atsa-no-good. El Brendel couldn't even gesture at being funny. In William Wellman's You Never Know Women (1926), the clown makes his debut, playing a clown. It's all there, or rather it isn't, from the start. He is born fully unformed. Wellman resorts to putting him on a wire to try and make him funny. He doesn't even make a decent puppet. The presence in the film of an angry knife-thrower has you praying for a severed artery, but it never comes. Brendel would hang on to his eight pints until William Fox needed one of them. He wasn't talented, but he could marshal his resources.

El Brendel is not an actor, he's not a comedian, he's a gimmick in a flesh suit.

If Joe E. Brown was popular because people with an undeveloped sense of humor require comedians who look like clowns even without facepaint, and El Brendel was successful because movie executives need blood like everyone else, Lincoln Theodore Monroe Andrew Perry, who used the stage name Stepin Fetchit, is a different case.

Fetchit only appeared as a supporting player, but his effect was striking, slowing any scene he was in to the pace of coastal erosion. For that alone, he deserves acknowledgment, whether you welcome his derailment of fast-talking thirties movies or not.

The discomfort Fetchit produces today qualifies him as an honorary unfunnyman, since he was a black actor specializing in playing servant characters of awesome slow-wittedness. Sloping apelike into a scene, his lower lip hanging like the rear flap on a truck, as if the energy to raise it were missing, Stepin Fetchit seems to embody every negative stereotype of his day. Billed as "the laziest man alive," he melded lethargy with ignorance to create a perfect simulacrum of stupidity.

But Perry was very popular with black audiences, who understood something white viewers missed. How much fun it would be, to act like Fetchit in front of white authority! They can punish you for disobedience, but not for your failure to understand an order. Nobody was going to get any meaningful work out of this man, sunk as he seemed to be in the depths of psychomotor retardation. It seemed to be all he could manage to raise his head above chest level. His voice issued in a reedy rasp, painfully stringing words together like an infant assembling building blocks, with the sentences liable at any moment to falter, turn back on themselves, or fade out altogether. Will Rogers, embodiment of the benign white master, could demonstrate his saintliness by finding Fetchit's stream-of-unconsciousness monologues interesting, enlightening.

It is questionable whether even John Ford, who cast Fetchit regularly even after liberal embarrassment had rendered him largely unacceptable elsewhere, understood the subversive side of the comic's character. Probably he just found him funny, and a useful modifier of the generally rambunctious Ford comic scene. Fetchit had the legendary minus factor: entering a scene charged with high emotion, he could make it feel as if someone had left. Where other actors are praised for presence, he had absence. Looking around him in bewilderment, he forced the narrative to its knees, to proceed at the slothlike pace of his dull comprehension.

Of course, the joke cut both ways, since the Fetchit character made white audiences feel comfortably superior. But it's hard now to look upon his schtick without feeling racial shame, an inward cringe. The last laugh is Stepin Fetchit's: no one else is laughing.

by David Cairns

6 notes · View notes

marvelhero-fics · 6 years ago

Text

High School Party

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Request: Anonymus: can I please request a one-shot with peter parker, maybe you two go to a party and get super drunk and then Tony catches you two coming home the next morning or something? thanks!!!

A/N: Sorry this took forever!!! I’ve been so MIA lately because of school work and just a general busy lifestyle but I've got some more fics on the way!

Word Count: 1,483

Warning: alcohol use, drug use, swearing, a little bit of fluff

Of course you didn’t know how much weed you should smoke, it’s not like you’ve ever tried it. Your father, Tony, would lose his mind if he ever found out that you did. You were so baked that the world was spinning, strange colours snaking through your peripheral vision. Peter and you stumbled around the house. Ned was extremely drunk, MJ was definitely on something, and you didn't even want to think about what was going on with Flash.

Throughout the night, drinks seemed to keep appearing in your hand, some from Peter, others from randoms. Not to mention the amount of times Flash poured a double shot into your red solo cup. It began getting to a point where you were so drunk that you couldn't even taste the alcohol entering your body.

You and Peter stumbled around the house, finally entering a guest bedroom. He toppled his body down onto yours, hitting the bed harshly with his body hovering above yours. You both giggled, your faces inches away from each other. Almost immediately, Peters head dropped down to yours, your lips connecting messily, earning another laugh from each of you. Your mouths sloppily attacking each other, your deep breaths in unison along with light giggles. He began dry humping against you, his member rubbing against your thigh through your clothes. Your hands ruffled through his hair, while his hands snaked up your shirt to play with your breast.

“I’m sorry baby, I’m just way too high right now. Or too drunk, I’m not sure.” You mumbled, pushing against his stomach lightly.

“That’s okay babe,” He placed another sloppy kiss against your lips. “We need to head downstairs, I’m starving.” He groaned, his words slurred together. You couldn't tell which one of you was more wasted. After happily kissing for a little longer, his hand grabbed yours and dragged you downstairs towards the sweet smell of fresh pizza. Of course, Flash challenged you, Peter and some others to a sculling contest, which definitely pushed you over the line. Once that alcohol entered your bloodstream, you began blacking out heavily.

Your brain lost sight of everything, everything happening in front of you didn't process. You blacked out.

Your blurry vision was regained for a moment. It was dark outside, illuminated heavily by the outdoor lights. There was a large pool filled with teenagers and probably too many alcohol cans and red solo cups. There was a loud sudden cheer booming through your ears. You head slowly turned to the side of the pool. Flash, Peter and another guy held hands as they sprinted together towards the pool, still fully clothed. Water was sprayed everywhere as they all hit the pool simultaneously, earning louder yelling from the crowd around them.

Black out.

Peter stood with Flash on the stage in front of the DJ set. Everything was moving slowly in your eyes. Flash had a mic in hand, his voice protesting above everyone else’s. Peter’s hands tucked between the buttons in his shirt. Flash shouted something and Peter ripped the shirt from his chest. Your heart stopped for a second and you’d never felt more sober in your life. Did Peter have his suit on underneath his shirt? All of a sudden the weight on your shoulders dropped off entirely as your eyes fell on his bare skin.

“Yo! Penis Parker’s ripped!” Flash hollered.

Black out.

You sat around an outdoor table, cozied up in a chair with a random jumper wrapped around your frame. A bunch of girls sat in chairs around the table with you, gossiping about boys, and drinks, and whatever fell into their mind. A few questions were fired in your direction about Peter and yourself, however you just felt far too smashed to properly answer anything, you could barely think straight, let-alone speak straight.

Black out.

You sat on one of the living room couches, Peter’s body right next to yours. His lips sloppily attached to your neck and collarbones, likely leaving a trail of dark love bites. The music had only gotten louder and everyone seemed to get more drunk around you. Your hands wrapped around the back of Peters neck to hold him tightly against you. God, you loved this boy.

Black out.

Peter was on the stage once again, and of course Flash stood beside him. Your gaze fell upon Peter. He wore his baggy jeans, one of his shoes was missing. His torso was still bare apart from the red tied in a messy knot around his neck. He also had secured some black sunglasses, which actually framed his face quite nicely. Flash and him sung out a loud duet, though the words were so slurred you couldn't figure out the song. Peter continued to point at you throughout the song, directing what were likely very cute lyrics at you.

Black out.

Peters arm stationed tightly around your waist as the two of you stumbled out the front door, along with most of the remaining guests. You really couldn't walk straight, you could barely hold your body up. Seeing this, Peters other hand quickly maneuvered under your legs, swiftly pulling you up to carry you bridal-style down the driveway. Part of you was concerned people might think Peter was too strong, but then again, everyone else was too drunk to realise. You snuggled your body deeper into Peter’s as he held you tightly, whispering sweet, slurred words into your ear.

Black out.

Your feet dragged over the freshly cut grass, Peter’s hand firmly holding yours. Your body stumbled into Peter’s accidentally and the two of you fell down onto the grass in a laughing fit. He lay on his back, with your body tightly tucked next to him, his arm holding your body protectively. For the final time that night your eyes fluttered shut and your vision was pulled from your brain.

Black out.

“Oh shit, Cap, get the team out here.” Sam chuckled, his voice unnecessarily loud. Your eyes forced themselves open, heavy from the night before and the eye make-up you didn't wash off. The morning sunlight pierced your eyes, causing you to wince. You held your hand up to shield yourself as much as possible from the light. More silhouettes surrounded your and Peter’s groggy bodies.

“Rhodey, find Tony and meet us out the front.” Steve commanded through the intercoms, a smirk cracking along his lips. Your hand found its way under your body to push yourself up to a seating position. Your head spun, but not in a good way. There was a pounding noise thumping against the inside of your skull.

“What time is it?” You groaned, your fingers squeezing your temples in attempt to stop the pounding.

“It’s 8:00am” Natasha spoke, clearly finding your current situation hilarious.

Sam quietly approached Peter who still lay fast asleep beside you. He stood above him, his face hovering slightly above Peters for a minute.

“Doesn't he look so peaceful.” Bucky commented, now standing next to Sam.

“AHHH!” Sam yelled, directly over Peter, earning a flinch from yourself. Peter jumped all the way onto his feet, his hand out in a motion to spray webs all over Sam, however there was no web-shooter attached to his wrist. Bucky and Sam simply laughed as Peter sunk back down to the ground, his hand’s also against his temples.

The noise of the War Machine suit and the Iron Man suit filled your ears as the two metal men landed in front of you.

“Fuck.” you whispered, looking over at Peter, who simply returned with a concerned smile. There was no way out of this one.

“Well don't you two look like shit.” Rhodey chuckled as the War Machine mask lifted to show the shit-eating-grin plastered to his face. Iron Man’s mask lifted next, showing Tony’s stern, very angry face.

You tried your best to avoid eye contact.

“You told me you’d be home by 11 at the latest.” Tony walked over and crouched in front of you. “And he said he would look after you,” he motioned to Peter, “but he clearly couldn't even look after himself.” Tony added finally, talking a long, judgemental look at Peters disgruntled figure.

“Dad-” You didn’t want to fight against him, knowing that there was no way out of it, but you also didn’t want Peter to be in any trouble.

“Is that-” Tony took a big whiff of whatever smell was left over on your clothes from last night, “marijuana?” Tony’s face fell even deeper than before. Sam laughed even louder. Your head just fell directly down to your hands.

“Cap, take Peter to get cleaned up while I deal with this one.” He said, his eyes not leaving yours. “And Parker, you’re lucky I’m not blasting you into next week, kid. You two both have some serious explaining to do.”

#peter parker x reader #peter parker x you #peter parker imagine #Peter Parker blurb #Peter Parker fic #peter parker fanfic #Peter Parker fluff #Peter Parker smut #Peter parker #spider-man #spiderman fic #spiderman imagine #spiderman x reader #tom holland #tom holland spiderman #marvel #the avengers

145 notes · View notes

the-house-of-the-nine · 6 years ago

Text

In Depths Below, Masquerade, Part 10

[Part 10, The Conclusion!, There has been blood and there will be death. ]

If you’re enjoying this, please!!! like and share!!! to your friends!!!! Help us to reach new faces,readers & writers!

[Can’t stress that enough! :P]

[We’ve been so blessed to have help from this fantastic community here, every single one of you have helped us in so many ways! And feel free to send anonymous ASKS if you are curious about writing with us! We absolutely welcome new faces! Without further delay….]

“No!” she snapped, peering toward the collective group. “Do NOT stop until I get what I am here for. . .”

She turned and suddenly; without warning, her hands coiled under his bloodied collar and she jerked him upward to look at him. Her eyes began to swirl in a purple haze.

“What are you talking about? How do you know me? Answer!” she said again, though much more loud and by shaking him several times.

“I speak of your history. . .I was. . .” he said being jerked back and forth. “I was the one in charge of your recovery after the fall of the Sunwell. I found you, coiled in the arms of your mother when the Scourge had broken through the gates of our city. You were helplessly clinging to her. . . I snatched you up, she was still alive and begged me to take her. But I knew I could not save you both. . .”

Vari slowly turned; by now she had calmed, but her eyes narrowed at the discovery. Koltun already knew to step between her and the table lest she leap and body slam him through it. The demons clawed hands were holding her back. She was wide eyed, and as in shock as Siida. This man, this. . .pathetic being, he was so closely tied to their history. But how?

“I left her to die. . . used her as bait to lure them. . .to get away and save us both, stealing you away and hoping to better your life. The recovery process was your memory wipe and barricade. We wanted to block the memory of your past; and place you with a wealthy house to help educate and further your success. . . I had no idea you had a living heir. . . “

Dawnseeker struggled to stay upright, but slowly he would be lowered back to the table as Siida’s strength waned.

She was in shock now. Her eyes were fully coated in the void she had tried so hard to keep buried down inside. Her jaw was tight, teeth clenched together while she clung to his collar. The words had entered her mind but she could almost not believe it. It was him, all along. He was the link between them all.

“Siida. . .” Marseille said softly as he tried to connect to her, his hands were still locked holding the spell. “Sennaris, enough. . .”

Both Verzatea and Sennaris had already begin to transfer their energies back to themselves when the spell around them started to drop. As the group felt the veil that was surrounding them lift, Marseille too would be able to drop his hands from channeling. But it was too late.

Before he could step beside her, Siida had already lost her control.

Her eyes burst into a violet flame that had caused her flesh and hair to turn near pale white. She coiled her fingers around the neck of the Magister and had climbed nearly on top of him. The fury that had built up over the years of her life. The abuse and neglect she suffered living in a house that knew she was nothing more than an orphan. The pain of having to live alone. Having to find her brother and sister; this family, only to have it almost ripped away.

She screamed, and a sudden burst of violet fire had sent the group hurdling backward from its recoil. She was seething and dripping with dark magics that seemed to be burning holes in the table and floor the longer she held it. Dawnseeker was all but lost to this, his head rolling backward and his body going limp. Siida was enraged beyond control and belted out another banshee wail, much like her older sister.

The burning void energy began to peel bits of flesh from the Magister as he lay there helpless to defend himself. Verzatea and Marseille were working hand in hand to protect the group, sheltering them with a shield of sorts which was more or less their only defense against this type of anger filled magic.

She continued to scream and shake, her body convulsing while she abused the helpless man with fury.

“You took everything from me!”

“I should have died beside my mother but instead you took her from me! You took my brother, and my safety. . . You took everything!” the pain behind those words caused the eyes of the fel user to come to life. Had he finally met his end?

Siida charged one final time and with as much force as she could muster, ignited her ability to its full potential and instantly vaporized the man. He was burned from head to toe, and so heavily that the second wave had caused his insides to begin to boil.

She wailed harder and harder which she charged up the suppressed anger, and in a third and final pulse, shattered him from the inside out, and left him as a stain of particles and dust, scattered across the table.

She would have probably continue to assault the world in her fury, until a plated hand fell across her shoulder. It dawned instantly on her who would be so bold as to brave the painful burning of her inner flames; and she turned.

Vari was standing there, taking on whatever remained of her anger; her stern eyes and stoic expression suddenly eclipsed her mind and caused that wave of anger to instantly vanish. She had lost. Everything became terrifying in the wake of such a violent onslaught, and she dove into Vari’s chest and collapsed in tears.

The rest of them could hardly remain doing anything else but staring. Watching the two sisters grieve not only on the loss of what they had fought so hard to find; but the procurement of knowledge they’d both hoped to sooner forget. The entire time they’d know one another and neither had a more clear picture of the future than this simple greedy man, who now was a stain of dust.

Verzatea and Sennaris both held their heads high, while Zoei lowered her own gaze. She still felt guilt over what had happened; the reveal of everything that had built up to this very moment causing her to hitch a breath in her chest. She turned suddenly and peered out the large windows leading to the bay. Fireworks still launched high into the air; the guards of Honeywell still insisting nobody return. They had been successful yet again; but not without a cost.

The three powerful women rallied together and without another glance; would hurry to make a hasty exit from the blood drenched party room. There was nothing left for any of them here.

Whistletorque had sauntered back over to his contraption, and without another word; the button on the left side would deactivate the still turning record player which skipped, the turret that spun and the band that moved. It collapsed everything under the stage and folded itself down into a neat and convenient suitcase which was promptly gathered.

The two sisters shared a wordless embrace before quietly turning and making their way from their own stage. Vari quick to gather the talisman of her fallen brother from the pile of ash that lay where Dawnseeker once was. Koltun would follow in suit; the demon sending a clawed fist into the door frame as they passed; cracking it on contact.

Marseille would be the last and was quick to begin staging the scene to look as though there had been a murder. His deft mind and hands working in unison. He would gather whatever evidence he found would be incriminating, and hurried to tidy up any sign they would have been there. But it would be Sunwood who was plucked from the group before he could attempt to exit.

“Where are you going?” he asked softly, his fingers still curled around his collar as he drug him back.

“W-what. . .what do you mean, I am leaving with the rest of you all. . .” the portly man suggested as he peered into the white burning eyes of the pale old elf.

His response to that was a resounding no, but silent, and in the form of his shaking head.

“No. . .I’m. . n-not going with you?” he mumbled as his body turned to face Marseille.

“No.” he said this time. “You are going to remain here and play the part you needed for. The part you were born to play.”

Sunwood suddenly felt his eyes widen, his body running cool and chilled yet a warmth spilled over his flesh and ran down his chest causing him to open his mouth wide to speak, though the words never came out.

Marseille was holding a broken piece of mirrored glass that had been shattered during the onslaught. The old elf was painted crimson across his face and neck; bleeding down onto his chest where the fresh burn mark had scarred him. His hand was bloody and lowering the weapon; it was conveniently vaporized in his palm as a charge of arcane energy swirled around it.

“You will live. You will be the martyr that allows the masses to see the monster that has fled from this place, and must be stopped.”

Marseille slowly lowered the bleeding man from his standing position and placed him on the floor by the slaughtered remains of the other Magisters.

“You will never utter a single word for as long as you live; but your scars will be a reminder to the world that you were but a pawn in a game that was far too high over your head.” the Shaldorei continued by cleaning up the dust piles and using his energy to finish them to the smallest of particles.

“Dawnseeker did this. . . and upon killing them, spared you for bringing him what it was he needed most. And in time; Siida Ray Kash’ebahl will return a hero to Silvermoon City, when she resurfaces from the clutches of the madman behind the Honeywell Masquerade Massacre. You. . . will continue to be our eyes and ears; for that is all you are good for anymore. The agreement. . .stands as is.”

Marseille peered down at the wide eyed Magister. Everything that had happened up until this point; he knew he would not get out of this unscathed. But life was worth living as long as his family was safe. He would have no choice but to play along; he knew what these people were capable of.

“Magister Sunwood. . . it would please me greatly if this incident remained between us. You have been most valuable to my Master despite his apparent demise. Do not. . . forget that I am always watching.”

And with that, the last member of the Order would make his way toward the exit of the bloodied pavilion. His white hot eyes glazing over a softened pink hue as his body began to mellow and calm.

Soon the guests would return to their party and find a not so welcome affair had taken place. Rumors would spread and the masses would gather; knights and the higher authority would be called into action. And a manhunt to locate the rogue apostate mage Dawnseeker would commence. But they would never find him; they would never locate his body. All they would find were the bodies of his victims; the witness and hope that one poor Siida-Ray Kash’ebahl would not meet the same fate as her fellow party goers.

As for The Nine, they would return to their hallowed bastion. Lick their wounds and prepare for the ceremonious burial of their brother, their friend, of their lover and confidant. Now was not the time to waste on sentiment, they would have to gather behind the support of one another and press on, otherwise it would be more than just one life lost in this tragic affair.....

To be completed: “In Depths Below: Epilogue, Part 1″

@siidaraykashebahl

@whatadarkbitch

@zandalaridruidofgonk

@suncrest-legacy

@madame-miersae (just so you dont miss it lol)

@pyravari-kashebahl

@thebladeitself

20 notes · View notes

wnnbdarklord · 6 years ago

Text

frostiron...er, prompt? if a prompt can be 1600 words

brought to you by my disney nostalgia binge on youtube last night and Tarzan's Strangers Like Me:

AU featuring Jotun!Tony where Loki finds out he's a Frost Giant before Thor's coronation (or maybe earlier idk) while setting everything up. Without everything on Asgard being a dumpster fire because of the Odinsleep, he manages to confide in Frigga a little bit more, who just urges him to let it go, don't make waves, the usual placatory stuff. And Loki does, for a time. Except he gets curious and maybe Thor and his friends are more insufferable than usual or maybe Odin looks at him , but doesn't see him one too many times or maybe he reads something in a really old book that implies jotnar aren't the monsters everyone says they are and so he sneaks off to Jotunheim.

It creates quite a stir on Jotunheim, but they're mostly prepared to show their lost prince (though maybe they don't even tell Loki that at first so they don't scare him off) about themselves and their society. At first, Loki absolutely refuses to let go of his Aesir appearance and clothes, still stuck in his Aesir are Better Than You™ mindset.

But everything changes when ~~the fire nation attacks~~ he meets this infuriating, but really intriguing jotun, Tony (what kind of a name is that, etc. though I just had a brainwave that maybe some jotnar spent a lot more time on Earth and some of them adopted Earth naming practices). Tony doesn't give a shit what race Loki is or his status, but is really keen on getting all the knowledge Loki has on power sources and energy. Maybe he's even a little angry that this Asgardian is treating Jotunheim like this exotic vacation when the entire realm is dying and becoming even colder and more hostile because it was *Loki's* family that took the Casket of Ancient Winters away. Tony has spent his entire life learning everything he could and building everything he could to slow down the decay and save his planet. But of course he admits none of this to Loki, so he comes off as sending a lot of mixed signals. It's both refreshing and puzzling to Loki, but they nevertheless end up spending hours together, talking and debating and scienceing.

It marks the beginning of Loki truly becoming comfortable in his skin and he becomes more open to learning more. He starts spending some time in his jotun form and exploring Jotunheim.

The first time Tony sees Loki while blue is a Moment and it dropkicks him into the worst crush ever (Loki is also crushing hard, just more in denial because Asgard and prejudices). Not only is Loki smart, he's also gorgeous. And really trying to reconnect with that part of himself, Loki is starting to *care* about Jotunheim, not just himself. And it makes Tony happy that Loki is happier and more comfortable. So of course he wants to see Loki even happier. He starts taking Loki on tours of all of Jotunheim's greatest hits, but also the worst damage from the war, still there after a 1000 years.

They get even closer and fall in love, though it's anyone's guess if they actually admit it to one another. Maybe they only *just* confess and then -

And then Loki learns that he's actually Jotunheim's prince and that he'd been wanted. Maybe Laufey isn't magically accepting, because who wouldn't be pissed at what Odin did and have complicated feelings about your kid being returned so full of self hate and loathing for your entire race, but as a baby, Loki had been wanted. And Laufey is also savvy enough to not outright reject Loki. But it's hard and complicated, especially once Loki realizes Odin *knew* who Loki was, knew he hadn't been abandoned and still stole him anyway.

Loki turns to Tony for comfort and in probably the worst case of timing ever, Tony admits he'd first approached Loki in hopes of using him to get the Casket back. Tensions and emotions are high and they have an argument and then Loki just...disappears. Tony is lovesick and pining, but also determined to find out where Loki has gone. After all, Loki never used the Bifrost to get to Jotunheim, so there had to be some way to travel between realms without it. Eventually, he finds a path to Asgard. Thing is, without magic and a mage to protect people from the space in Between, travelling them is not good for your health. But Tony's piss poor at magic and most of Jotunheim's magic and mages were decimated in the war.

So Tony goes back to doing what he does best: inventing. He manages to forge an alloy that won't shatter in the cold of Jotunheim and the Between and uses one of his power sources to create the best damn armor anyone has ever seen. The arc reactor is good, but not good enough to power the whole planet. It's a stop gap. But it's excellent as a power source for the armor. And it also helps power the glamour he had one of the mages do to make him look Aesir (he doesn't want to get killed the moment he steps into Asgard).

He finds Asgard in a sort of muted chaos. First their second prince disappears for months (or years) somewhere and then returns and then their King says he's been put under some sort of curse and needs to be kept separate for everyone's safety. It keeps thundering every few days and rumors abound of Thor and the Allfather arguing ~~and the Queen has been seen crying~~. Something is Up. There's a rumor that the prince isn't even Aesir, can you imagine?

Turns out that Loki returned to Asgard and confronted Odin about all his lies and his plan to install him as a puppet king on Jotunheim. In the throne room. In front of Thor and Frigga and all the guards and even a few nobles. Odin spun the curse story and that's kept most people quiet, even convinced Thor initially. Except Odin is now acting like he doesn't even have another son and is being Weird™ and even took away Mjolnir at one point until Thor proved Worthy™.

So Tony manages to befriend Thor and get him on side with the truth. He agrees to help Tony stage a break out for Loki, who'd been confined to his rooms. Except when they do, his rooms are empty, gathering dust. Turns out Loki's been in the dungeons and in solitary confinement the whole time.

Thor wants to confront Odin, Tony is at the point of just wanting to burn all of Asgard down. Tony wants them to go get Loki immediately and break him out, fuck Odin. Thor proposes Tony go rescue Loki while he confronts Odin. Let's say Loki's cell has wards up that would alert Odin the moment someone tried to open it. Thor doesn't know how to take them down and Frigga can't publicly act against Odin.

So Tony manages to free Loki, heartfelt but brief reunion. As Tony drags Loki to escape completely, Loki stops him and says they should also go get the Casket.

"He'll never stop hunting you if you do that, Loki."

"He has already shown what he thinks of me," Loki laughs bitterly, "I will take my chances with a world that has welcomed me and wanted me."

The question in Loki's eyes is plain. Tony answers by pulling him into a kiss, brief but intense.

"Nidhogg take Odin, let's go save our people."

Cue more breaking and entering, Tony and Loki utterly demolishing the Destroyer (Tony takes a few souvenirs). When Loki grabs the Casket, the last remnants of Odin's glamour break and fall away.

The alarms have been raised, Loki and Tony have to fight their way out of the palace. They don't want to kill anyone cause it would just make tensions worse, so they manage to lose the guards but they're herded onto the bridge, where Thor catches up with them, just before they can fight Heimdall.

"I can't let you take the Casket, Loki," Thor looks pained, "It's not yours to take."

"Isn't it?!" Loki turns to face Thor fully, trusting that Tony will keep Heimdall off him. He is fully in his jotun form, red eyes blazing.

"He stole it. Like he stole..." Loki falters at the last word, but understanding dawns in Thor's eyes. And determination.

There is an explosion in the distance.

"My prince," Heimdall says, lowering his sword from its ready position, "I cannot let you do this."

"I know," Thor says and Tony takes the cue to blast Heimdall unconscious with his repulsors.

"Wha-"

"Go," Thor says over a piercing whistling, "Take the paths. I will buy you time, brother."

Mjolnir slams into Thor's palm and he crashes it down onto the bridge. Loki's eyes widen in realization as the bridge cracks beneath him. It takes Tony pulling him away for him to turn and run, opening a path as Thor slams Mjolnir on the Bifrost again and again. Odin's wrath can't follow them home anymore.

So Tony and Loki make it back to Jotunheim to all the fanfare and celebration and accolades. Never in their wildest dreams had they imagined that their prince would return with such fanfare after just running off like that. Most of them thought he'd abandoned them in favor of Asgard.

After the party, Tony and Loki find a quiet place to have their own proper reunion, with a proper conversation about everything. Feelings everywhere when not in a tense situation. A proper kiss and moooree. sdgkrelhg;o, I suck at smut.

~~And then the oral sex! (*said in the tone of that nun from Monty Python and the Holy Grail*)~~

this prompt's length and detail also co-sponsored by my realization that this is why I don't usually write these down

#frostiron #tony stark #loki #fleshed out version of my previous post #cause the thought would not leave me #take it #run with it #it's a free for all #also shared it with the frostiron discord server #who are all wonderful #and amazing

44 notes · View notes

sophiet-x · 5 years ago

Text

a courthouse wedding || jophie

LOCATION: Miami Dade County Courthouse, Miami, Florida TIME: Tuesday, August 6th. FEATURING: Joe Jonas, Kevin Jonas, Nick Jonas, Priyanka Chopra-Jonas, Danielle Jonas, Will Turner & James Turner. @jjoenas

Sophie: Wearing a white dress didn’t feel right. This wasn’t a big white church wedding, at least it wasn’t yet, so when looking at outfits last night, a white dress just didn’t feel right. So the redhead opted for a jumpsuit. Light and airy, pants all the way down to her ankles and small heels to match it. It wasn’t designer, it wasn’t full of sparkle. It fit the situation very well. Changing this morning in her Miami hotel room felt weird, butterflies went crazy in her stomach every time she caught herself in the mirror. Minimal, very light make up and her hair down on her shoulders, Sophie waited for her fiancee to finish grooming up. Everyone was ready in the lobby to ride with them to the courthouse, and Sophie? She couldn’t wait either.

Joe: Joe was fresh out of the shower, drying his curly dark curls with a towel before studying his choice of clothing that was hanging up in the bathroom suite. He went for a white dress shirt and a grey blazer and pants to match, saving the black tuxedo for their big day. It wasn't like this day didn't matter just as much to Joe, though: it was the day where Sophie would officially become Mrs. Jonas. They didn't need a piece of paper to solidify their love, but it sure was something he had wanted, to feel the weight of a wedding ring on his finger wherever he went. It might have not been the day full of celebration and walking down an aisle, that would come in time when their schedules allowed. When they could fully enjoy themselves as husband and wife with a honeymoon to follow without work calling their name. But, today was still their day. Miami was the place they found themselves in, with tour kicking off in just twenty-four hours for Joe and his brothers. He emerged from his place in front of the mirror and caught a gaze at Sophie before meeting them downstairs, his eyes never once leaving her. "I don't know if I can still see my bride on the wedding day, maybe I just broke that one rule." Joe laughed, "but I'm okay with that."

Sophie: As soon as Joe appeared in her eye line, Sophie smiled. This was happening. He was here, and they were doing it. “We can ignore that tradition this time, can we?” She said with a small chuckle, wrapping her arms around his neck and reaching up to kiss him softly “You’re looking particularly handsome today... I can’t wait to marry you, baby” She whispered against his lips. Her phone beeped, and she hated to unhook her arms away from him, but with one of them, the Brit picked her phone up from the bed “It’s Will and James... they’re here. You ready?”

Joe: With word that Sophie's brothers had touched down in Miami and Joe knew his own brothers were patiently waiting in the lobby area, that was his cue to go. As much as he would have loved to stay with his arms wrapped around Sophie, the idea of heading to the courthouse was even more tempting. He nodded his head and took her by the hand, ready as he would ever be for what was to come. He knew that with all the planning the couple had done before they called their initial engagement off, an elopement was a far cry from the ideas they had built up. Now more than ever, however, as he was ready to jet off around the world on tour, he knew that it was the right time to tie the knot. The couple had gone through hell and back together, it seemed, and after that adventure he didn't want to wait a day longer. They would have their fantasy wedding become a reality months down the line, but for now, all he needed was her love and an I do. The couple made their way down to the first floor of the hotel, greeted by family and hugs as they all headed towards the cars. "Want to sit next to me?" He joked, opening the door for her before climbing into the back seat.

Sophie: With every second that passed, Sophie felt her heart pounding in her chest louder and harder. She was so ready, it’s like she had been wanting this ever since they begun talking about it again, and ever since she realized that she was ready to marry him, once and for all. So seeing him all decked out in grey, and looking at their reflection on a random mirror on their way to the lobby... It felt like a dream. And if this felt like a dream, she couldn’t imagine being in a white dress somewhere else, in a castle in England or a magical setting in the south of France. Laughing when he spoke again, Sophie rolled her eyes and took his hand before sliding into the car. “Any last words on your last few hours of being an unmarried man, darling?” Sophie asked Joe, eyes fluttering at him. The rest of the guests had taken their own rides, sharing brothers and sisters alike. They were all about to be family, right?

Joe: Joe waved goodbye to their short list of guests who boarded their own cars, as if he wasn't going to see them in just a few moments after a short drive away. He buckled his seat belt and looked over at Sophie as they pulled onto the road, beginning their journey to the courthouse. "Nothing I haven't already told you," he said honestly, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. "I love you. And I can't wait to get on that stage tomorrow and dedicate a song to my wife." He joyfully said the word, feeling a fluttering in his chest. "And how about you, miss Turner?"

Sophie: “Every time you say that word, I swear, I’m gonna start crying now” Sophie couldn’t help it but say in a small chuckle, feeling her chest tense up and a smile form on her face as she reached to find his lips for a kiss “I can’t wait to watch you on that stage every damn night and be so proud of you, my husband... My husband” She repeated quietly before kissing him shortly again and finding her usual spot right on his shoulder to lean her head against. “We’re doing this... We’re finally doing this” She repeated softly, her hand finding his to lock their fingers together.

Joe: Joe gave her hand a squeeze as soon as he felt it in his. He smiled against her lips as they shared a kiss, his heart pounding against his chest with every passing minute. "Only if they're happy tears," Joe approved, knowing damn well he would do his far share of crying both today and tomorrow until he was out of tears to shed. "Finally doing this. No bailing 'cause we're afraid of what might happen. Think we've experienced enough bad times to know we're in it for everything that could happen." He said, running his thumb over hers for comfort. As he noticed the car approaching their destination, he looked down at her once more. "Finally doing this, my wife."

Sophie: "Oh, be sure, there's gonna be a lot of crying, I won't keep anything back" She said with a laugh, giving his hand another squeeze and nodding her head as he spoke. There was no turning back, no changing their minds, and she was as ready as they'd ever be. "Soon to be wife, soon to be husband... I can't fuckin' wait" She said. As they got out of the car, their families were waiting outside, smiles plastered all around the place. Announcing themselves in the front desk area, they were soon ushered into a court room and the doors closed behind them. A judge stood at the end of the room behind a bench with a big smile "Joe Jonas and Sophie Turner?" He asked. He was an older man, so he probably hadn't really ever seen their faces. "Yeah, that's us" Sophie replied, tugging at Joe's hand to walk forward and take a seat before the judge, the Jonas' sitting on Joe's side of the court and Sophie's brothers on her own.

Joe: Joe took a deep breath as they entered the courtroom. He wasn't nervous, by any means-- he was just a little too caught up in his emotions and was worried he wouldn't be able to utter a word whenever the judge turned to him for an answer. He managed to look put together as he sat on his side, stealing glances at Sophie and making eye contact with Kevin or Nick every once in a while and watching on as they smiled back at him with love and approval in their eyes. It warmed his heart that his family loved Sophie just as much as he did, and he knew she was already part of the clan long before they decided on passing on his last name. After obtaining the marriage license, this was the last step to make things official and he knew his witnesses were just as happy for him as he was. Joe had written his own vows, and he had been going back and forth on whether or not he wanted to share them today or when they had their "traditional" wedding down the line. He wanted to get the words out now, most if not everything she already knew, but it was important for him to share them before his travels. As the magistrate spoke, he retrieved them from his pocket and looked down at the page with tears in his eyes.

Sophie: Hand in hand with Joe, Sophie tried to keep her eyes forward, listening to the man in front of them speak about forever love and long term commitment, looking to the side to find her two brothers pulling faces and being dickheads as always, but she couldn't believe they'd flown all the way to Miami from England to see her do this to the guy who'd left her in a puddle of her own tears in their apartment floors, someone who they'd come to hate and now embraced into the family with open arms. Nodding her head at the random questions the judge asked, he looked at the witnesses and asked for the rings. Will pulled a gold band from his pocket and reached it out to Sophie, who in turn gave it to Joe. "Have you written your own vows?" He asked in a ceremoniously voice, looking at Joe to go first.

Joe: As Joe took the wedding band and was asked to share his vows, he turned himself to Sophie, taking her hand in his and using the other to try to keep the paper as steady as possible. He almost memorized these words already, having written some of them before they split. He briefly remembered the dark nights where he would come back to it, alone in his apartment with their late Waldo and end up in tears. Today, he held it up in front of him with tears that came from happiness. He cleared his throat as he began, catching her blue eyes staring back at him. "Sophie. My bride, my best friend, my soul mate, the best companion one could ever have. You're one of the main reasons I smile, you helped me find this happiness I thought I lost. You came into my life and you changed me. You've helped me form into the person I've wanted to be, but was too stubborn and doubtful to become. I will love you and accept every single part of you until my dying day and beyond, wherever that might take me, I'll forever have you in my heart." He spoke through tears, sniffles, and a smile. "I wish I could promise you the world, that everything will be alright with me by your side, but we both know life doesn't always work that way. What I can promise you is that you will always have me, devoted to you only and the life we are building together. As we start our journey as husband and wife, I want you to know that I'll live some moments in regret that we didn't do this sooner.. that we didn't give up. But things have a funny way of working out, and it lead me right back to you. I won't turn away, I'll love you through the hard times and the best of times. I'll cherish each and every moment between us. Not once will I let you forget that I love you. My love, my bubs, my Soph. I will never hesitate."

Sophie: As soon as she saw Joe hold up the paper and his hands started to shake, Sophie could feel her chest tensing up. It only took a couple of words from his mouth to send tears running down her face, and she had to bite on her own lips to keep a sob from coming out. She smiled back at him the whole way, her hand giving his a gentle squeeze. Only when he was done did she allow herself to breathe properly, sniffling back her tears and nodding her head "I love you" She whispered. "Alright, Sophie, have you written your vows?" The judge asked, turning to her. "I... Well, sort of" She said with a small chuckle "I've been dreaming of what I was gonna say the day I married you for years now. I never write things out, I'm not a writer, but for you I didn't have to. Joe... My Joe. I love you" She said, small chuckle pushing through her chest and mouth "Since the day I met you, I knew this wasn't gonna be something else, you're my best friend, from day one I knew you were my soulmate, you were the one in this world that was made to complete me. You've seen me in my worst of times and picked up the pieces that were left in a dark apartment in England, and held me so close you put me back together. You taught me how to love myself because you loved me so much, I could finally see what was in me to love" Sophie reflected, biting on her lower lip softly. "And now here I stand, ready to love you with everything I have, to pick you up as many times as you've picked me up. In sickness and in health, for better or worse, when the days get hard and things look hard as hell, I won't hesitate. Not again" She said, taking in a deep breath "Being your wife is where happiness begins" She said, giving him a quick wink and earning a tearful chuckle from Nick and Kevin in the back.

Joe: Joe listened to each and every word she said, his eyes never once leaving hers to catch the glances of their witnesses. He held both of her hands now, his own paper resting in his lap as he held onto her as if his life depended on it. He watched her tears fall with tears of his own running down his cheeks. A smile lit up his face as she finished, getting up and moving closer to her so they were face to face. The judge studied the two with a grin of his own, concluding the small, short and sweet ceremony as they passed each other their rings. “I now pronounce you man and wife, you may kiss the bride.” And with that, Joe leaned in and kissed her with as much passion as one could muster, his hands now on her waist as he pulled her in. “I love you.” He whispered to her, the brothers breaking all silence with claps and loud cheers as they wed.

Sophie: Joe could've been sliding that ring on her finger for hours, she'd would never forget that feeling, and the brand new weight of it, it was her new favorite feeling. Taking a step closer to him, she slid her hands around his neck and kissed him back. "I love you too, husband" She said with a small whisper, giving him a quick peck before laughing a little bit as she turned back to the witnesses, lifting up her hand in a fist pump while the other hand went to find Joe's, leaning a little bit on his side.

Joe: Joe couldn't help but chuckle at Sophie's reaction, walking to his brother's direction, his hand still in Sophie's before he embraced the two of them together much like he did when he shared the news that they were engaged again on that warm Fourth of July night. He moved on over to Sophie's side, earning hugs and a pat on the back from her brothers. The courtroom was full of love, tears, and smiles as they all celebrated the couple. As soon as they left the courthouse, it was nearly time for the last run through before show time, and Joe was more than pleased to have the celebration as husband and wife. As soon as the boys signed the certificate to make it a lawful wedlock, Joe's hands were in the air much like Sophie's had been earlier and he let out a yell, a little too inappropriate for the setting.. but he was Joe, at the end of the day. He thanked the judge and ran out with Sophie, cheeks aching from his wide smile. "WE DID IT!"

Sophie: Laughing as she went out to hug her brothers with Joe in hand, Will and James gave her a big hug, kissing their little sister on the top of the head, before they swapped out and she got the biggest hug from Kevin and Nick. Being so well received in the family had always been something that made Sophie so comfortable around them. It was just one quick signature left and the Brit couldn't help but laugh when Joe yelled out, doing a little dance herself as she picked up both of their hands and waved them around in the air. "Alright, time to get back to the venue and be a rockstar, husband" She said with a bright, chipper smile.

Joe: Joe watched on as his wife interacted with her brothers. It was a joy to see, her relationship with them and how solid it was. It was originally what had inspired Joe to put his best foot forward and talk to his brothers again, and not just the friendly smile he tried to give Nick during their Christmas get togethers. Sophie not only made him a better man and a better partner, but a better brother. "Gonna cheer me on?" He asked with a wiggle of his eyebrows, already knowing the answer.

Sophie: Sophie couldn't stop smiling at Joe, every time she caught her big brown eyes, it was like she couldn't ever look away. Rolling her eyes when he spoke, she scoffed "As if I could look at anybody else. I remember the last time I went to a Jonas Brothers concert, I was like ten or something... Now, I've got my own meet and greet booth and a key to the tambourine player's door" She winked at him before squeezing the hand she was holding as they begun to walk out the building out into the Miami day

Joe: Joe laughed at her comment, "You've got more than a key to my door, babe," he said, tapping the ring on her finger to emphasize his words. As they stepped out of the courthouse and into the Miami heat, he looked up at the sky and smiled. It was similar to the moment he watched the fireworks on the Fourth of July as he slid her engagement ring on after all of those months. Watching the colors of the rainbow across the sky, including a deep red that shaped itself into a heart as it ignited in the darkness. "Look," he pointed out to her, a cloud taking a similar shape above their heads. He kept the smile glued to his face as they walked to their car, back to the hotel to crack a bottle of champagne and then eventually make their way to the venue. "Key to my door, key to my heart."

Sophie: It's not that she hadn't trusted him to go off on tour without being married, oh no, she couldn't have cared less. But deep down, she knew that tomorrow when he took center stage and she saw him gripping the microphone, a bright new ring would sit on his finger and the sheer idea of that was starting to send pressure waves into her heart and tears that were welling up in her eyes. Looking up into the sky, she brought her husband close enough to rest her head on his shoulder, kissing the side of his arm gently "Forever and always, baby" She said softly before stepping into the car, this time with the whole family, and took off.

Joe: Joe knew the weight of the wedding band would feel close to invisible in time, but now he caught himself staring at it as they buckled up and got seated in the car. He twirled it around his finger, lips turning up again in a smile as he turned to Sophie and saw her looking at him. “Secret’s going to be out tomorrow when I show it off to thousands of people.” He said, the thought of performing in front of a crowd that large again, and having his wife witness it, already had his heart beating fast within his chest. As he leaned in to press his lips against hers again, he knew this was the perfect day to do this. Here’s to the start of the best week of his life. “Thank you for doing this with me.. loving me the way you do. Trusting me. Giving us another chance. Forever, my wife.” He said against her lips, holding her left hand in his.

Sophie: Sophie's eye came and went on Joe's finger, mostly going from his finger to her own, the new wedding band that would be with her for the rest of her life, right behind her engagement ring. It's like they'd meant to be together a long time ago. Letting her head rest on his shoulder for a moment, then she picked her neck back up and kissed him back softly "Thank you... What I said back in that court room, I meant. You've taught me to love myself even when I saw nothing to be loved... We were meant to be together, us getting back together was inevitable. I'm gonna love you every second until my heart gives out"

#para #p. a courthouse wedding #[i'll be the sun i'll be the waves i'll be the one you love the most ; joseph adam jonas]#joej #[turner into a jonas ; jophie]

2 notes · View notes

thetirisfaltheatretroupe · 6 years ago

Text

[Script Archive] Hellsqueal, the True Warchief’s Tale

"Hellsqueal, the "True" Warchief's Tale" <<The following is a play that has been retired from the Tirisfal Theatre’s library, and will only reoccur for private events for the foreseeable future. This script has been placed here so that those who enjoyed the play or wish to perform it themselves may do so. Credit for this comedic performance goes to the Tirisfal Theatre Troupe>> < Scroll to the bottom for trivia surrounding this place, as well as our original poster! >

CHARACTERS: Narrator, Grom (for one line), Garrosh, Thrall, Mag'har 1, Mag'har 2, Baine, Gamon, Sylvanas, Saurfang, Vol'jin, Taran Zhu, The Kor'kron with the Dictionary

[Narrator:] It was said, that when Garrosh Hellscream was born...every shaman in the Warsong Clan came together to bestow a blessing upon him for strength- No...not because he was the great Grom's child... But because the baby looked so awful and ugly they needed to make sure he would not self drown himself. To Grom, however, he was so moved that the Shaman felt a sense of importance for his baby that he took young Garrosh and rose him to the sky gave out a passionate cry the spirits!

[Grom]: Ancestors! Upon this day, my son is born! May his fate ironically be my own! <Grom leaves the scene>

[Narrator]: At the time, he had no idea what irony was, and figured it was another word for honor... Grommash later discovered the true meaning of irony, shrugged, and figured it did not matter.

[Narrator]: Ahh yes. But who can truly forget why we so “loved” our former..former...uh fooormer Warchief? Let us begin with his humble origins those many moons ago where it all began. When the Horde rediscovered the brown orc known as The Mag'har in Outlands, Nagrand..

<Mag'har 1 & 2 are chatting across from Garrosh, Garrosh is next to a basic campfire sitting down and crying>

[Garrosh]: Oh, woe is me! My father, great Grom Hellscream, is such a disgrace! The greatmother is going to die soon and there's nothing we can do about it! Life --<he dramatically approaches the audience and lays on the ground> IT IS NOT WORTH LIVING!

[Mag'har 1]: <facepalms> Great. Here he goes again, more mellowdrama.

[Mag'har 2]: Think if we tell him the greatmother died and watch his reaction, it'll be good enough to make up for the fact that he'll probably reconfigure our heads after he finds out we were lying?

[Mag'har 1]: He'll probably cry his own head off because we made fun of him. <both orcs laugh and continue jabbering, enter Thrall stage left> [Thrall]: FEAR NOT, MAG'HARI ! Thrall, son of Durotan, has returned to his people! Surely you are all hard at work defending our precious homeland... and...

</e looks between the two grunts.> What in the name of Rend Blackhand's severed head is going on here? Why are you all not ...valiantly and proudly defending our people from the demons?

[Mag'har 1]: Oh. We're um...we're on holiday.

[Mag'har 2]: We are? <#1 nudges him> Oh, right. Yeah, this is our day off. Hellscream's orders.

[Thrall]: Hellscream? Ah! You must mean the one of Grom's proud and noble line! Tell me...is he a noble, <Garrosh picks his nose> And Strong,.. <Garrosh sucks his thumb loudly> And a proud warrior who stands FEARLESSLY and defiantly against the demonic lords of the world just as Grommash did? <Garrosh scratches his butt>

[Mag'har 1]: Well, you have the defiant part down. Defiant to you, defiant to me. [Thrall]: And... And what about the demons?

[Mag'har 2]: The demons? Hrm. <he faces Mag'har 1 and shrugs> I haven't even seen him come face to face with any demons lately, have you?

[Mag'har 1]: I think he spat in one's eye just last week! Wait, no no, that was Elder Grapuul. He also ran him through - I have the head in my room along with a necklace made from his entrails if you wanna see.

[Thrall]: Ahhh no.... no-Ha ha thank you. That won't be needed! I would much rather speak to brave Hellscream. So please...keep all that to yourself.

[Mag'har 1]: You sure? The entrail necklace is far more interesting. If you listen closely, you can still hear the demon screaming "PLEASE ANYTHING BUT THAT!".

</e grows tired of this> [Thrall]: Look. Can you point me to PROUD and NOBLE Hellscream or not? <both Mag'har shrug and point at Garrosh>

<Thrall leaves their company and the two walk away snickering> [Mag'har 2]: <to Mag'har 1> Did you really save the entrails?

[Mag'har 1]: Of course! Wait, you don't? <Thrall waits as the two leave, and then turns to the moping Garrosh>

[Thrall]: Young Hellscream, the Warchief of the Horde... stands before you. Surely you know of our presence here in Garadar.

[Garrosh]: Leave me alone! I'm busy suckling my thumb. I was suckling on the right one earlier, but it became swollen, so I'm working on the other one.

[Thrall]: That's... </e scratches the side of his beard.> -fascinating. So you're Grom's boy...

[Garrosh]: <stands up and becomes completely over the top, irrationally angry> DO NOT DARE MENTION MY FATHER'S NAME! I HATE HIM! I HATE HIM SO MUCH I COULD... I COULD... <Garrosh breaks down for about 30 seconds crying, throwing a fit - add chosen creative styles of improv here, ending with him sitting with his back turned to the audience and crying more, Thrall moving in to place a hand on his shoulder> [Thrall]: There there. You uh...you want a nap?

[Garrosh]: Uh-uh.

[Thrall]: You...want a snaaack?

[Garrosh]: No. </e perks up. Idea!>

[Thrall]: Yooou want a belly rub?

[Garrosh]: <abruptly> What?

[Thrall]: NOTHING! Nothing at all. Juuuust going through a list of things I do to get my worg to calm down! Good ol' snack , nap and belly rub...Uh Alright look, the run-time for this production isn't going to let us run this gag forever so HERE YOU GO! BEHOLD!

A VISION OF THE FIGHT BETWEEN YOUR FATHER, GROMMASH HELLSCREAM, AND THE DEMON LORD MANNOROTH!

<Both Garrosh and Thrall's actors pretend he is watching Grom gut Mannoroth pausing for a few seconds between lines> [Garrosh]: WOW!

[Thrall]: Yeah!

[Garrosh]: Sheesh!

[Thrall]: I know, right?

[Garrosh]: That's a lot of blood!

[Thrall:] So you see young Hellscream... your father, Grommash Hellscream, was not a disgrace like you thought. He was a hero to our people, because he gave his -life- to undo the curse that bound our rage.

[Garrosh]: Forget that, he's not a disgrace because he made that Pit Lord axeplode!

[Thrall]: He did the what now.

[Garrosh]: Didn't you see it? It exploded into fel sparks or whatever after it dumped about fifty gallons of blood! It's right there, rewind it!

[Thrall]: Oookay.. </e puts his hand out and starts to spin it. Que rewinding noises as he sifts through the vision like a tape.> [Thrall]: Right there?

[Garrosh]: Yeah, now pause!

[Thrall]: I do not really think the Ancestors would approve this abuse of of-

[Garrosh]: <VERY ANGRILY> I said PAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUSE!

[Thrall]: </ exhales.> Alright, fine. FINE! You whiny little little son of a...-there.- </e opens his hand, palm out. Symbolizing that he has stopped or “paused” the vision.>

[Garrosh]: Ooohoo..yeah. That's the stuff. Look at all that gore. I think I see a chunk of his liver flying off to the side.

[Thrall]: Actually, I think that might be his glubok....

[Garrosh]: What's a glubock?

[Thrall]: You're out here fighting demons and know nothing about their anatomy? Look, right there. That is his plumbos, and that right there is well-...ah ha you'll know when you're older.

[Garrosh]: Think you can copy this to a powder or something so I can watch it anytime I want?

[Thrall]: <insert lightning effect – Akunda's firesticks behind the actor works> ENOUGH! Hellscream, join my Horde! Fight alongside me, and together, we will make a prosperous future for our people!

[Garrosh]: And then can I have a copy?

[Thrall]: <facepalms> Why do I get the feeling I invited a baboon to hold a high rank over my people? <The Narrator pipes in> [Narrator]: And so it was that Garrosh, son of Grom, wiffer of bad odors and obsessive compulsive gore fanatic, joined the Horde. Before long, Garrosh had been introduced to the tauren, orcs, trolls, elves, and undead that made up the Horde at the time. But to what avail did introducing a warrior based on his lineage into the ranks of the Horde lead? While this narrator questions the decision, we ALL know he was just so amazing in Northrend. <Enter Saurfang and Garrosh, both reading maps> [Saurfang]: Alright, you remember the plan, right?

[Garrosh]: Yeah.

[Saurfang]: And you're going to stick to it this time, right?

[Garrosh]: Mhm.

[Saurfang]: No more of that funny business from earlier?

[Garrosh]: Not even.

[Saurfang]: <sighs heavily> Alright. Maps closed. <Saurfang closes his map, Garrosh keeps his open>

[Saurfang]: Closed!

[Garrosh]: Oh, uh, right. <closes his map> Alright, so I understand the plan, and I know what my part in it is. But just in case, I'll need you to go over the entire thing again. Just so we're clear.

[Saurfang]: Thrall's balls, you're dense! Look at your map again. <both orcs open their maps simutaniously> [Saurfang]: <points to a certain location on the map> See this? That's the Trail of Bones, Southern Icecrown. Our plan is to send our flank in through there, but have the extra forces move along the path to the East while we engage the enemy.

[Garrosh]: Right.

[Saurfang]: Once the others have made their way fully around, we trap the enemy forces within our two units. Then we wait for reinforcements, and press further North until we reach the Saronite Gates blocking our entry into the overlook of the Storm Peaks. It will be an ideal spot to set up an encampment until Orgrim's Hammer is flown into Icecrown and-- ...are you paying any attention to this at all?

[Garrosh]: <pauses for a few moments> Ye--....yes. But the mountains you speak of are all to the South.

[Saurfang]: <Grabs the map, turns it around> Now?

[Garrosh]: <pauses for a few moments again> Hrm. Seems to be in order. But just in case, can you repeat that ONE more time?

[Saurfang]: <spits and crumbles his map up> I can't do this anymore. I have better battle strategies with my axe than I do with him... <exits>

[Garrosh]: <chases after him> Wait! Old one, let us discuss this over a meal of hearty pork! Wait, no no, you don't like pork. I mean ham! Ham is what I meant! <as both orcs exit, the narrator returns to the stage> [Narrator]: Yes, the war in Northrend was handled quite well by our “handsome”, “completely competent leader.” Why, it only cost the lives of several thousand young orcs, who saw him as a hero afterward. When the time came for Thrall to step down as Warchief and answer the call of the elements, he called together his greatest minds and leaders... ...To decide who should become warchief in his stead.

[Thrall]: Fate... is truly unkind, as I must now venture to hone my mastery of the elements... In my stead, however, who shall lead our people? I am ….. Conflicted.

[Garrosh]: <jumping up and down> Oh, me! Me! Pick me!

[Thrall]: Should any of you desire this very important, critical task of the Warchief's mantle, you should be capable for the task.

[Garrosh]: Pick me! Over here!

[Thrall]: Anyone? Saurfang! I thought I saw your hand up. No? How about...Ah! What about you Sylvanas?

[Sylvanas]: I'd rather chop my arms off.

[Thrall:] Okay then, I could do without the passive aggressiveness.

[Garrosh]: OVER HERE!

[Thrall]: Wellll... if no one wants it, I'll give it to Gamon! He'll save us!

[Gamon]: Actually, Gamon wishes to abstain from this discussion. Gamon isn't even sure why Gamon is here.

[Garrosh]: <Throws something at Thrall – Happy Fun Rock, Pigskin, etc. > PICK! ME!

[Thrall]: Pfgh-Alright, fine. Garrosh, do -YOU- want the mantle?

[Garrosh]: YES! <pauses> Wait, no no, I'm not worthy.

[Thrall]: <Sighs deeply> Okay... Then who else will take this--

[Garrosh]: WAIT! I change my mind!

[Thrall]: Very well ! Garrosh. Come forth and recieve--

[Garrosh]: <turns away dramatically> No, change my mind once again.

[Thrall]: By my Doomhammer, Garrosh! You're not a damn cat, are you in or out?

[Garrosh]: <pauses> I'm in. <turns to Thrall, everyone cheers> No, no wait, I'm out. <turns away, everyone facepalms/cries/etc.>

[Thrall]: Heeey Garrosh! Lookie lookie what I goooot! </e slowly pulls out the Gorehowl. From where? Who cares! He's a shaman.> Seeee it? Waaaant it? Gotta haaave it?

[Garrosh]: OOH! The axe that makes demons axe-plode!

[Thrall]: Your...your father's axe, actually. I figured this would have some significant meaning to you or something...you know..

[Garrosh]: Forget that, I have me a brand new axe! <pushes Thrall away> I'm so happy with this thing, I feel like I can Warchief now! In fact, from this day forward, I am the new Warchief of the Horde! </e looks to the others and shrugs.>

[Thrall]: Well ! Fine by me. Who wants a round of cherry grog before I leave for Nagrand? My treat. <they all leave except for Garrosh, who is flexing>

[Garrosh]: Cherry grog? OOOH! ME ME! PICK ME! <runs after them> <the narrator returns to the stage> [Narrator]: Yes, the taverns were lively that day as word of our new hero and guardian, Garrosh Hellscream, spread like wildfire on a tauren's back. No offense to any tauren in our audience, of course. In the months to follow, a great cataclysm shook the foundation of Azeroth. Cities crumbled, livestock died, and the barrens turned into a great place for a weenie roast. Garrosh Hellscream was amidst rebuilding Orgrimmar one day when he was confronted by a most difficult decision. <enter Garrosh and Vol'jin, Garrosh looking at some papers> [Garrosh]: ...I still can't read this damn map. How is that mountain up North?

[Vol'jin]: Ey mon, you said you be needin' old Vol'jin? To what end?

[Garrosh]: Oh, yeah, you. See, you know how your people are all over my city, eating my food and buying my materials off of my auction house to make their magic carpets and mechano-hogs? <Garrosh spits off to the side> [Vol'jin]: Yours? Who da hell you tink you are?

[Garrosh]: Your mother, now listen. See, that's gonna stop. Cuz I mean, it's really hard for me to run the Horde when I go to the local bar and the last of the Cherry Grog is bought out by one of your random lackeys.

Were it a tauren? Maybe I'd let it slide a bit. An orc? You bet your ass I'd let it slide. But you trolls, you...

<Garrosh turns his back and Vol'jin approaches him seemingly holding back his anger and gesturing threateningly at him, stopping when Garrosh turns around to face him after angry gestures are made> [Vol'jin]: ...we're what? Get on wit it, you speak slowa dan you look. <Garrosh turns his back again and starts rambling. As he speaks, Vol'jin begins to make taunting gestures while he is turned> [Garrosh]: ...hrm. You know, I never gave it any thought, really. You're...all a bunch...of...people...with... <he turns around and Vol'jin stops the taunting and smiles, then turns again, Vol'jin doing a number of other taunting gestures - go big or go home!> [Garrosh]: ...with blue skin and...tusks? No, that's not what bugs me. You trolls are...

[Garrosh]: So... <rinse and repeat> [Garrosh]: Uh... <And again> [Garrosh]: TWO-TOED! Yeah, you only have two toes on every foot, haha!

[Vol'jin]: And you only have two brain cells on your feet - make o'dat what you will.

[Garrosh]: <gets threatening> WHY YOU INSOLENT--

[Vol'jin]: Define eet.

[Garrosh]: Wait, what?

[Vol'jin]: De word you jus used, mon. Define 'insolent' since you like usin' it.

[Garrosh]: Don't be absurd, I'm the Warchief, of course I know what insolence is! It's what YOU'RE being right now!

[Vol'jin]: Yes, but what does eet mean? Explain to me, mah toes an' I just ain't as smart as de Warchief.

[Garrosh]: It...um...GUARD, BRING ME A DICKENER...er...DICTIONARY! <A Kor'kron comes in, kneeling before Garrosh and handing him a book>

[Garrosh]: <flips through the pages> Let's see...here it is! A pep...tide hormone produced by cells of the pancreas and is central to regulating...carboh...hydr...

THIS IS A GOBLIN MEDICAL DICKENER! UNACCEPTABLE! I'll burn you at the stake later! <the Kor'kron runs away crying> [Vol'jin]: Know dis, Garrosh. De way you runnin' da Horde? You gonna fall hard. You gonna fall fast. An' when you fall, it gonna hurt dat small head o' yours. And...something about a black arrow piercing your heart or...I dunno, what was I talkin' about?

[Garrosh]: Insulin?

[Vol'jin]: Oh, right, de meanin' o' dat word by de way is 'rude or disrespectful behavia'. See ya lata, mon.

<Vol'jin leaves> [Garrosh]: That was my SECOND guess! <Garrosh walks away, and the Narrator arrives once more on stage>

[Narrator]: In time, the Forsaken Warfront had gained a considerable advantage over the forces of Gilneas. Lady Sylvanas had a solution for the plight of her people so Garrosh came to give that plan a goooood once over... <Enter Garrosh and Sylvanas> [Garrosh]: This better be important, Sylvanas! I'm missing my goblin soaps for this-- I mean...I'm missing the chance to crush Alliance skulls between my thighs! <Garrosh flexes and Sylvanas facepalms> [Sylvanas]: Actually, I'm just here to tell you I found a solution to the Forsaken's plight, as the narrator just said. See, the Forsaken, being undead, are without the ability to reproduce, so to replenish our numbers, I--

[Garrosh]: <gets uncomfortably close to Sylvanas> I ever tell you about the time I skinned a boar with my teeth?

[Sylvanas]: ...no. I don't particularly care to hear the story either. Now as I was saying, I--

<Garrosh begins flexing as Sylvanas begins speaking and she rolls her eyes and waits for him to stop (flex three times facing different angles> [Garrosh]: Yeeeep, takes a lot of work to keep the guns in shape. Diet and exercise, and I drink plenty of juice. And if the bar ain't bending, you're just pretending. Yeeeep. [Sylvanas]: I'm sure you do all of that and more while you're listening to your radio romance dramas. Now focus on the task at hand.

[Garrosh]: You like Cherry Grog, Sylvanas? <he gets uncomfortably close again and flexes>

[Sylvanas]: I don't care to answer that. Anyway, my newly employed Valk'yr can raise the--

[Garrosh]: You...uh... ever seen a grown orc naked before, Sylvanas?

[Sylvanas]: What?!

[Garrosh]: I...said...you have that bone pork crated, Sylvanas?

[Sylvanas]: Can you focus for more than five fractions of a second? I'm trying to tell you how I plan to bolster my forces and combat the worgen packs of Gilneas!

[Garrosh]: Oh. I see how it is. <Garrosh walks away> You disappoint me, Sylvanas. You can have the alpha, yet you keep chasing the betas of the pack. Literally!

[Sylvanas]: Warchief, are you implying that I have some sick personal obsession with the enemy aside from unleashing a wholesale slaughter?

[Garrosh]: CLEVER Bitch I MIGHT be! You're grounded, no Blight!

[Sylvanas]: You're an imbecile!

[Garrosh]: And you smell! <he pauses and sniffs his pits> No, wait, that's me. I haven't bathed in at least a week. I'll go do that now. <he leaves, but pauses halfway>

[Garrosh]: ...nah, I'll do it next week. <Garrosh and Sylvanas exit the stage, and the Narrator arrives> [Narrator]: With Garrosh largely responsible for the death of the loved Cairne Bloodhoof, many of the tauren went from being only politely and slightly disgruntled with the new Warchief to actually ...frowning at him for a change. Maybe even glaring at him! However...Baine Bloodhoof, son of Cairne, took the gentle people's anger into his own hands one day... <enter Baine and Garrosh>

[Baine]: Garrosh! We must speak at once!

[Garrosh]: Go away, lunch isn't for another three hours and I'm sick of steak.

[Baine]: <points at Garrosh> No, no more 'beef' or 'steak' jokes. I get enough of those from the idle elves that come to complete tasks I give out in order to gain favor enough with my people to purchase noble kodo... ...that they will probably leave in a stable and not feed or take care of for months on end! I tolerated your actions against my father because he agreed to your terms of mortal combat, and you at least helped rid the bluff of the traitorous Grimtotem!

<Sylvanas enters from stage left and waves at the audience, points to Garrosh, and faces the audience and nods, then snickers, inching closer to Garrosh every time Baine speaks. Garrosh is none the wiser and continues to face Baine. Vol'jin is also there, snickering and giving a thumbs up to Sylvanas, emotively encouraging her to pull the prank> [Baine]: <nods at Sylvanas and clears his throat> Where was I? Oh, yes. I found THIS...on my doorstep! <Baine tosses a smouldering satchel of a foul smelling substance at Garrosh's feet> [Baine]: Explain why this sack of worg fecal matter was burning at my doorstep this morning!

[Garrosh]: What? That? I didn't do it.

[Baine]: <shows Garrosh a letter> This has "From Garrosh" written on the front of it.

[Garrosh]: That could be anyone!

[Baine]: It has your complete set of dental records and the phrase "It was totally 'm'" written inside.

[Garrosh]: Damn, I ALWAYS forget the 'e' in 'me'.

[Baine]: Aha! So you admit to this atrocity!

[Garrosh]: Admit to...? Oh, oh that, yes. Well, you see, I had to send the message to you that your people smell like burning shit somehow. Or... <he sniffs himself and shivers>

[Garrosh]: ...I still haven't taken that shower. Nevermind, but my statement still stands. <Sylvanas gently pins a sign on Garrosh's back, snickers, and runs away> [Baine]: Know this, Garrosh. The day will come when you will answer for this attrocity. And when that happens, I will be sure to have a steaming sack of kodo leavings to set ablaze with the fury of the ancestors! <he begins to walk away> Oh, and Cherry Grog tastes AWFUL! There, I said it!

[Garrosh]: <goes into a fury> YOU TAKE THAT BACK! YOU TAKE THAT RIGHT THE HELL BACK! Tauren! I'm talking to you! I'm--wait, what's this on my back? <Garrosh rips the sign off as Baine exits stage right and reads it> [Garrosh]: "Kick me, I'm an ogre headed bafoon"? What? Hrm, there's something written on the back. 'PS: Vol'jin says 'hi'. What? <Garrosh suddenly gets hit by an arrow in the back, and yanks it out, unraveling a note tied to it>

[Garrosh]: "I mean 'die', the 'h' was just a 'd' and 'i' that came out wrong." What the Thok? WHO IS SENDING THESE?! <Garrosh gets hit by another arrow to the knee and yanks it out, unraveling the note on that arrow>

[Garrosh]: ..."Your mother"? MOM! Why would you do this?!?

[Narrator]: Many moons have passed and soon the war in Pandaria was in full swing. It was the morning of Garrosh's greatest ah... “Triumph”, to him at least. In what was once a tranquil place, he arrives in The Vale of Eternal Blossoms, and sought to command powers greater than he could even possibly comprehend in that brain of his. This backfired quite a bit on him when confronted by Pandaria's most “happening” guardian.

[Garrosh]: Storm~! Black clouds fill the sky, Earth, I hear my battle cry, Fire! And thunder will bring forth DEATH from the power of MY HORDE!~ Hahaha--eh?

[Taran Zhu]: ENOUGH! You have been allowed to cause havok for far too long, Hellscream!

[Garrosh]: Eh? Oh great, not another fat guy.

[Taran Zhu]: I am Taran Zhu, lord of the Shado-Pan! I have observed your Horde since your people first brought havoc to my land and--

<pauses as Garrosh pulls out a pot labeled 'Hunny'> What...just...what are you doing?

[Garrosh]: You're a bear, aren't you? Here, I'll give you this if you let me pass by.

[Taran Zhu]: ... <throws a shuriken at the pot and breaks it> I have no patience for your inferior mind games, Hellscream!

[Garrosh]: <in a fury> YOU WRETCH! Do you realize how expensive honey is?! That does it, now you're in for it!

[Taran Zhu]: <takes a battle-ready stance> Indeed. Let us end this once and for all, no more formalities... <Garrosh narrows his eyes, then snaps his fingers>

[Garrosh]: HIT IT! <A 'chill beat' begins to play> [Taran Zhu]: What the--

[Garrosh]: Hellscream's the name, I ain't playing your game! You better give up now, but it's all the same! You'll be dead when I bust my Warchief rhymes for you, and when I'm done Gorehowl will split you up in two! You're a Shado-Pan? Big deal there buddy, I've got three frying pans in the kitchen, see! I'm a Warchef - I mean a Warchief, sorry. Been playing with that gag too much and now my mind's all tarry. [Taran Zhu]: <While Hellscream is still rapping, no pause> Tarry?

[Garrosh]: But I'm still fifty times the rhymes you are! I brought the Heart of Y'saarj up here, you can't get that far! You're too fat, it ain't muscle, don't you go lying - cuz if the bar ain't bendin' you ain't even trying!

I'm the son of Grom, you aren't on my list - the most I know about you is that you made me pissed! So give it a try and then you die, at that hands of Hellscream, I'll make you cry. <Taran Zhu blinks and awkwardly picks up the microphone that Garrosh drops at his feet>

[Taran Zhu]: I...am...unfamiliar with how this game is played, but I'll...best you at it, pay you back in spades! I am calm as a crane, the Shado-Pan my flock. Hardy as steel, earth and rock! You know so little about the powers you tempt, and so from my mercy you will be exempt! The Thunder King's forces could not stop me at all, so your divided Horde will surely fall! Like a snake in the grass I'll strike unseen, and kick your donkey - wait, ass, oh YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN! None have survived a true battle with me, between my skill and cunning and mastery of chi!

Your father tempted powers beyond reckoning as well, where is he? Oh right, suckling the dirt on your family tree! <Taran Zhu drops the mic in an epic fashion, Garrosh standing speechless'>

[Garrosh]: You take that back! You...take that back! That was mean! <Garrosh begins to cry> Too far! You always have to take things too far, you're freaking mental!

[Taran Zhu]: Uh...so I win? Yes, of course I win! <gets serious again> Ahem, I knew that. Hellscream, now that I have bested you at your own game, you will answer for your crimes and... ...would you please... get off the ground and at least take this seriously? No, I would feel awful about hurting a completely vulnerable opponent, even if you are an asshole.

[Garrosh]: <begins to suck his thumb again> No YOU'RE an asshole, asshole! So mean! I think I'm just gonna lie down here now. <Taran Zhu scratches the back of his head> [Taran Zhu]: You uh...have a spider on your shoulder.

[Garrosh]: <jumps> AHHH! WHERE?! WHAT KIND?!

[Taran Zhu]: <gets in a sneak attack> IT'S A TARANZHULA! <knocks Hellscream off the stage> There. I knew he was faking it...

< begins to walk off stage, stops, then picks up the mic he dropped earlier and shrugs >

My name is Taran Zhu, and I'm here to say...oh forget it, this is TOO absurd. <tosses the mic behind him into the fountain> <the Narrator returns to the stage>

[Narrator]: Yes...Hellscream, truly, has left an everlasting impression upon the Horde one so great that during those events on the Isle of Thunder, a revolution was established. On the day of his final downfall, Garrosh stood before Thrall one final time in defiance.....

[Thrall]: Garrosh...you disappointed me.

[Garrosh]: What?

[Thrall]: You tortured the elements. You divided our people. You disgraced the Horde with your …-warmongering-!

[Garrosh]: Hey, in my defense, people LIKED the warmongering!

[Thrall]: Wha-?

[Garrosh]: Yeah! I mean, it got us land. Resources. We didn't have as many territory issues. I fed our people who were starving in the desert. I mean, yeah, the trolls were kind of oppressed, but they only have two toes so who cares?

[Thrall]: ME!! I CARE! </e points to HIMSELF>

[Garrosh]: Well what are you gonna do about it? You MADE me warchief after all. I mean, this whole thing is your fault.

[Thrall]: Y- Wait, what?

[Garrosh]: Yeah, I mean...I'm not perfect, but I did the job you gave me.

<Sylvanas, Vol'jin, and Taran Zhu approach from the side stage>

[Sylvanas]: He's got a point, Thrall.

[Vol'jin]: Ya, joo kinda dropped de ball on dat one.

[Thrall]: Now hold on a minute-!

[Garrosh]: I mean, if you hadn't made me Warchief, things would have been a bit different. I'd probably still be an obedient dog in your army instead of where I am now.

[Taran Zhu]: So it is all clear now. YOU are the problem, Thrall!

[Thrall]: Are you all listening to yourselves- WAIT-!

[Garrosh]: Yeah, it's totally him! Now uh...I'm just gonna go get some snacks for everyone so, wait right here and--<tries to tiptoe away>

[Sylvanas]: GET THEM BOTH! <all three begin to chase Thrall and Garrosh around the stage. One lap around the pavilion and then one through the audience.>

[Thrall]: Aaaaaaah! THE END, I GUESS?! <END>

TRIVIA!

Hellsqueal was the very first major production ever produced and publicly performed by the Tirisfal Theatre Troupe. It was written by Atos Sunhart as a propaganda play for the troupes of Vol’jin’s Revolution, and premiered originally in October of 2013, during the week the final wing of Siege of Orgrimmar LFR opened! The final scene was intended to be comically prophetic, as there was a lot of talk about server canon at the time that the Siege was still technically going on.

The original run of Hellsqueal, the True Warchief’s Tale was performed at the Razor Hill Barracks, and by a cast of no more than 4 people, all playing multiple roles at a time. It was written so that it could be done by a relatively small cast, with enough roles to suffice for a larger cast if need be.

Our original Sylvanas was played by a pandaren. Just a fun tidbit.

Hellsqueal, the True Warchief’s Tale, has spawned two sequels, and the Hellsqueal character himself has appeared in several other plays of ours since. Moving forward we still plan to use the character from time to time.

By the time the play was performed, the Troupe was already a formed guild for over two years. However, recruitment for it had not started until two months leading up to the play’s release. As this was our first performance as a functioning guild, Hellsqueal marked the true birth of the Tirisfal Theatre Troupe, and as such we have celebrated our anniversary on the third Friday of every October since.

There is a missing scene that was added to the play during our second year of performing. In this scene, Lorthemar confronted Garrosh about his horrible spelling errors, and how he wrote his occupation down as ‘Warchef’. This scene also involved a hozen doctor named Dr. Ook-and-Pook. This scene is missing because, well, no one can find the copy of the script anymore with said scene written. Another scene involving Gallywix was worked on, but never finished, as we believed it would bloat the runtime far too much.

#tttscripts #scriptarchive

6 notes · View notes

foreverbeingthunderbuddy · 6 years ago

Text

Surprise

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of violence, cuss words, that’s it I think

Summary: The reader is a big fan of the Avengers, especially of their newest addition, Bucky Barnes. She longs for nothing more than to meet him, which she does one day, though she wishes she hadn’t made a fool out of herself that night. Now she has to face him again at a press conference.

A/N: This is my piece for @upsidedownparker’s 3k writing challenge. Congrats on 3k, that’s amazing!! I picked the Dialogue prompt #20 from this post. The prompt is in bold. Word count around 5,4k (Gif by @bicon-valkyrie, from this gif set)

Masterlist

You don’t remember the news coverage of the Starks’ passing when it happened because you were only a couple of months old.

You read up on it years later when you were old enough to understand who Tony Stark and his corporation were. During your research you found what the news articles claimed to be the cause of his parents’ death; broken skull on Mr. Stark’s side and some kind of heart attack on his wife’s side due to a car crash.

A lot of newspapers – whose digitalized articles you found in various libraries – speculated about the true nature of the supposed crash and questioned the general public’s verdict of it being a coincidental accident. Was it really? Or is there more to it?

You were young but you were immediately intrigued by the story. What did really happen on the night of December 16th 1991? Was it truly just an accident? Why didn’t they find any major injuries on Mrs. Stark’s body that could have been responsible for her death, why did they file a heart attack even though – according to several news outlets – there were really no signs of any form of cardiologic collapse to be noted?

The diagnose was a safe bet to hide the authorities’ lack of knowledge concerning the case, you agree with that theory. You don’t know exactly what happened to Mr. Stark because all that’s published is “broken skull”. That’s it. You wish you knew if they scamped giving out the right findings to the public as well.

What’s the truth and what’s a cover up in this case? The world never received an answer and the story got buried as time went on until one particular person stumbled into the limelight of New York’s high society a couple of years ago, making headlines for producing futuristic weapons of all kind.

Anthony Edward Stark, being the mere incarnation of a playboy, also known as Tony Stark – or at this point, Iron Man.

You remember watching a video of his presentation for the Apogee Awards in Las Vegas years ago.

“With the keys to the kingdom, Tony ushers in a new era for his father's legacy, creating smarter weapons, advanced robotics, satellite targeting. Today, Tony Stark has changed the face of the weapons industry, by ensuring freedom and protecting America."

What an icon, what an absolute and utter asshole.

And today? Mister I-create-the-most-testosterone-filled-weapons turned into Mister-I’m-still-the-best-but-now-I-also-save-the-world-to-prove-that which is something no one saw coming. He built his own team of superheroes who are not only really good at saving the world’s ass but are also incredibly good-looking celebrities.

Say Steve Roger’s name in a subway and you will have at least three people faint, man and woman.

You kept watching the Avengers from a safe distance, followed the coverage of their missions and doings with the utmost interest and secretly came up with your own theories whenever things got heated in their fan clubs. Low-key, of course. You never stood in a crowd and screamed Tony’s name on the top of your lungs everytime he made a public appearance and you also never wrote fan post to each of them.

Until one day.

Until the day they presented the newest addition to their team. James Buchanan Barnes, but nobody calls him that, unless he is directly addressed. We call him Bucky, Bucky Barnes sometimes. He caught your eye the minute you saw shaky phone videos of what seemed to be a fight between Steve Rogers and Bucky, on some street. It looked brutal.

It also provided for weeks of vivid discussions among devoted fans and produced the craziest theories about who the stranger with the black face mask and metallic arm was. Every now and then there would be new amateur videos about the mask man, sightings, caught by fans and it all was a huge mystery to you. You were instantly captivated.

Months later, Tony held a press conference about an incident in Rostow and of course you watched it live in your office, sitting in front of your computer and pretending to work on an article while you actually had a livestream of the conference open in another tab and watched it, mouse on the little icon of your word document, so you could instantly switch back and not get caught. You had one earphone subtly inserted into your ear, so you would understand what’s being said.

The press conference proceeded normally, the usual statements, the “it was a success”, the humble smile, the applause from the reporter crowd. And then Tony turned back to the mic and started introducing someone who you didn’t know, but you were captured by his words, so you leaned closer to the screen.

“… not gonna lie, we had a problematic start but we have come to terms with it and decided to combine our powers and strengths and work together. So, after this rather unspectacular introduction, I want to present to you the newest addition to my team. Ladies and Gentleman, please give him a hand, my newest colleague and fellow Avenger member, James Barnes!” Tony shouts into the microphone and starts clapping, the crowd quickly follows, driven by the sensation of this news.

James Barnes must have been somewhere on the right, judging from the direction Tony looked at. He didn’t appear on screen, though, which not only irritated you but also his presenter himself. Looks like the revelation of the newest Avengers wasn’t planned at all.

That put a small smile on your face.

You remember Tony walking to the right side of the stage and wildly motioning for someone to come up to him – someone probably being James Barnes – and after some petty seconds of hesitation, James finally gave in, stepped to the edge of the stage and with a single motion, jumped onto it.

He wore a tight, red, long-sleeved shirt which he rolled up on the sleeves, and black pants. His black hair was long enough to reach his chin and you remember thinking how unusual that was for a man – but his eyes! Oh, his eyes. Whoever filmed this must have been an angel directly sent from heaven because they zoomed in on James Barnes’ face up to his shoulders which gave you an excellent view of his ice-blue eyes.

How expressive! How extraordinary.

You were fully aware of the fact you were sitting in your office thirsting over a guy with long hair and a red shirt but you didn’t care.

“He also answers to the name Winter Soldier by the way. Or Bucky” Tony said into the mic and got pushed away by Bucky who definitely didn’t seem to like all of this.

Bucky Barnes.

He looked exactly like the guy from the video that went around the internet a couple of months ago. He fought Steve Rogers and is now his new colleague? Odd. But fascinating, nevertheless. What you would give to get a good look behind the scenes is out of the scale of the ordinary at this point. How do they stand to Bucky and how did they go from fighting-until-one-of-us-dies to let’s-be-friends-and-work-together?

Nobody knows.

Fast forward to now.

You were just informed by your boss that you would get the mind-blowing opportunity to go to a press conference to get some questions through for your magazine – but not any press conference. Everyone probably guessed it by now, it’s a Tony Stark press conference.

Heart, stop beating so fast!

You are currently on your way from the cab you took to the entrance of the event hall that is owned by Stark Industries and reserved for things like this. You’re also about to pass out. Never in a million years would you have thought you’d get this gig, ever. Doesn’t mean you tried before, it’s just your boss always had someone else for that, mostly his rising star named Ellie Cannon.

She sure is something; pretty, quite smart, mediocre-skilled when it comes to writing but makes up for it by landing the biggest stories. However she does it, you’re still trying to figure that out but that’s a different topic. She’s also, and that’s the only problem you have with her, known for writing about the Avengers and Stark Industries and therefore a loyal attendee at his press conferences.

She gets all the stories, you are longing for. Even worse: at this point every single staff member at Stark’s corporation and him and his Avenger colleagues know her. Personally. Tony and Bucky know she exists, they even know her name… which is already more than you have on your résumé.

Ellie’s always there, asks juicy questions – according to your boss, but you wouldn’t give her that much credit seeing as the questions are developed by a small team in your office, so your journal won’t embarrass themselves on live television – and every now and then gets invited to Tony Stark’s exclusive parties he holds once a month.

So, she’s living the dream. Or more accurate, she’s living your dream. But not today. Today you’re going to be representing NY Value Daily. You got dressed up for that – a dark blue, white-striped Navy printed Culotte jumpsuit and black stilettos – and put on a rather subtle make-up because there’s nothing worse than looking desperate in a room full of professional journalists.

You show the security guard your journalist ID you got from your boss this morning and join the small crowd of people waiting to go through the security check. Staff is very careful with who enters the building and who doesn’t. Understandable for someone in Stark’s position.

The people around you look incredibly fancy and a little up their own asses and you’re glad you chose the glamour route instead of the white blouse and black pants you originally planned for this. Sophia, one of your co-workers, could talk you out of it last second. Bless her heart.

You crane your neck and try to see inside the doors to the conference room that stand open and reveal very little of the stage, unfortunately. God, you are nervous. How long have you dreamed of this and how long have you watched your colleagues get this opportunity and talk vividly about it the next day in the office? You’re normally not the super jealous type but that did sting every time.

You can’t wait to see Bucky in person. Again.

The thing is, you have met him before. Met as in ‘you talked to him for less than ten seconds’. But it certainly was an experience.

Tony Stark has invited all kinds of people for another one of his extravagant parties yet again. This time though he didn’t hold it in his usual location being his mansion (not the one in California, he actually has one in New York City) because there was some sort of renovation (?) going on. You don’t exactly know, he didn’t make an official statement about it.

Instead of celebrating on his property, he rented a hall and brought the party there. That hall happened to be ten minutes away from where you live. Ten minutes. A stone’s throw. What an opportunity! You couldn’t waste that.

So what you planned to do was, ignoring how sly you were for wanting to do it, finding out if Ellie was going to the party – which she was – and stealing something from her, something she would need on her at all times, even when attending a Stark party. Like her wallet.

You wouldn’t steal money from her or harm her in any way, you would just take the wallet unnoticed, work longer, then call Ellie at a time where she must be at the party already and act like you just found her wallet and offer to bring it to her, you “would have called it a day now anyway and the hall lies directly on my way home”.

That was the plan. Lucky for you and your metaphorical clean slate, she was being clumsy and all mixed up the entire day due to the big event in the evening, so she accidentally forgot her actual wallet at the office when she left. Without knowing she helped you follow your plan because you had tried to get to her wallet all day and weren’t successful and by the time it was close to the end of work you had given up.

You had it, called her, acted like it was super important that she kept her wallet with her under all circumstances especially if she wanted to pay the cab afterwards, offered her to bring it to her because see above – and luckily she agreed. She also didn’t consider herself too good not to flex on you with her invitation and the high-profile guests she has met already. The slight guilt you felt when you came up with your plan vanished completely at that.

You drove there, hands sweaty, stomach like a knot.

Found a parking spot in a side street, a miracle! You had expected the area to be jammed because duh Tony Stark and his mates are here. You got out of the car and walked to the building, ignoring the butterflies that seemed to be rioting inside of you. You had to stop a couple of feet in front of the entrance because there was a barrier and a whole bunch of security guards who looked intimidating as fuck.

While you rang up Ellie’s phone, you didn’t take your eyes off the entrance in hope you would see one of the Avengers. Bucky Barnes, preferably. How incredible would it be if one of them decided to come outside at this exact moment and saw you here? Took in your face and registered your existence?

Mind-blowing.

You weren’t the only one waiting for a little candid, there were several small groups of people standing beside you. Some of them looked normal, some of them glamoured up, probably hoping they would get access to the festivities somehow. Didn’t look like they were successful yet.

You heard them discuss various theories about single members of the Avengers and you mostly didn’t listen because 1) you already knew part of those theories and 2) most of it sounded delusional as hell. So you waited and waited and looked around you and eyed everyone and everything that walked past you until you noticed the conversation beside you going into a very interesting direction.

“… the question. Where did he come from? You did see the video PlazaMobster posted on YouTube months ago, so you saw the battle between Cap and Bucky. It’s just weird to me how they can fight each other to death one second and then the next second be work friends and stick together, you know what I mean?” One of the girls in a Captain America shirt said to another one who she just met apparently and you kept your eyes straight forward but listened in to their conversation because that’s something you have thought about, too.

“Yeah, hm. Obviously, Bucky was the bad guy at first but he … maybe Cap convinced him to change to the good side and now they have a Scarlet Witch kind of situation, you know? From enemy to ally. I don’t know how much you can trust someone who tried to kill you a couple of months ago but I mean … it seems to be working, doesn’t it? For them at least.”

“But how did Cap convince him to join them, though? ‘Cause I mean that shit in the video looked ferocious as fuck, you saw it. It’s just so odd to me.”

True. It was odd.

“I don’t know. Maybe someone else convinced him, maybe someone he has history with?”

“But who would he have history with? He literally just appeared last year and the Avengers haven been going for quite some time now, so that history must be a long time ago.”

“I don’t know, could be anyone. But, topic change, have you seen his arm? What the actual fuck? Is it metal or just something that looks like metal?”

You heard a giggle.

“I’m pretty sure it’s metal and to be honest, I don’t know what’s hotter, his hair or his metal arm.”

True that. These girls were just as thirsty for Mr. Barnes as you were. You tried to hide a smile and kept staring at the entrance. Ellie really took her time considering she told you she would be there in thirty seconds. This was so typical.

“Here’s a theory I have read last week and it has given me creeps the instant I saw it. Bucky has a metal arm, right? Must be strong with it, like really strong. How long do you think would it take him to strangle someone or even break someone’s neck with it?”

That caught your interest as you haven’t really thought about that and you couldn’t tell where she was going with this theory. The other girl snorted.

“I have no idea but he can choke me any time with it, I’m open to experiments.”

The girls broke out in laughter.

“And you have read the articles and news coverage of Mr. and Mrs. Stark’s car accident, right?” The girl suddenly asked, taking you completely off guard. What does that have to do with the death of Tony Stark’s parents decades ago? You decided to remain silent and wait for what she had to say.

“Um… yes?”

“So. The reports said Mr. Stark died due to a broken skull he incurred because of the car crash. But what about Mrs. Stark? All it said was “heart attack”, but how likely is it really that in a car accident so impactful that he breaks his skull, she only gets a heart attack? A heart attack, out of all things. My grandma died from a heart attack and she lived her last years in her cosy bed and never got out of the house. I have never heard anyone die from a heart attack in a car crash before. That’s so … uncreative.”

“I know! I thought the same when I read it. I think the police made that up because they either didn’t know what the real cause of death was or they wanted to cover something up.”

“Exactly!”

This conversation was an actual representation of your own thoughts you had about that night. The diagnose heart attack was a scam and one of them seemed to have a theory about what happened and for some reason, it involved Bucky Barnes.

“What does Bucky have to do with it now?” The other girl asked, speaking what was on your mind.

“Well. I read on a blog that maybe Mrs. Stark didn’t die because she had a heart attack. She died because she a) had other major injuries like Mr. Stark and the police is just odd for not publishing that or b) she died of suffocation.”

Suffocation?? Why in the hell would she have died of suffocation? That’s so unlikely, who came up with that?

“Suffocation? What do you mean? Why would she- who would strangle … oh.”

Oh. Yeah, oh.

“When Tony introduced Bucky to the public he said they had their problems but have come to terms with it and it also would explain why they fought him in the beginning. He has a fucking metal arm, what do you think how much strength is in that? The guy who posted that theory said, someone in his family worked as a pathologist who was involved in the Stark case. That someone told him they found crass bruises on Mrs. Stark’s neck and severe injuries in the same area that must have been caused by another person.”

Silence.

“That could be easily made up. Why did he do it?”

“I know. And I have no idea. But it’s something.”

“But why didn’t the police publish that bit of information? Why did they hold that back?”

“Maybe they got threatened by someone? Someone powerful? There’s a lot of stuff going on that we don’t know about. I think it’s possible.”

That’s it. You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You turned to the two girls and looked them in the eyes.

“Are you seriously suggesting that Bucky Barnes, the kind of new member of the Avengers, the new hero of our city and country, killed Tony Stark’s parents in December 1991 by breaking Mr. Stark’s skull and choking Mrs. Stark to death with his metal arm? Is that really – really – what you are arguing about?” You asked absolutely baffled and didn’t make an effort to keep your voice down.

The girls looked a little taken aback by your interfering and stared back at you with wide eyes.

“Um …”

“What are the chances that the day I decide to attend one of Stark’s parties for the first time, I have to listen to three women talking about me possibly killing Stark’s parents?” A male voices suddenly said before you and made all three of you jump and quickly turn around to see who the person was.

He stood three feet away from you, hands in his pockets, body turned towards the building but head towards you as if he was walking to the entrance but stopped when he heard you say these things.

His chin-long hair was in a bun in his neck, his face was clean shaven and his outfit consisted of a black suit shirt and black pants.

You needed three seconds to recognize him and the moment you did, your heart stopped beating entirely and sank to your knees. You had never been this close to him, never seen those ice-blue eyes in person. Even though it was dark, you still noticed the shine in them, the light, and felt the immediate attraction he sparked in you.

Several bodyguards positioned themselves on each of his sides to shield him from the other fans, though you doubted Bucky Barnes needed any protection. He looked very serious.

You didn’t know what to say. Embarrassment captivated your whole mind. The girls beside you must have been drunk.

“We just discussed stupid theories we read. Mr. Barnes, I’m actually a big fan. I didn’t mean to offend you” One of them purred nonchalantly and tried a coquettish smile. Her voice sounded higher than before and her new friend didn’t seem to be any different.

“Yes! I can’t believe we’re meeting you out here, I’m just a huge admirer of the work you do for us and I just want to say you’re my favourite out of the whole team. I don’t even know what to say.” Yes, you know exactly what to say, you little brat.

Geez. These girls just made a huge 180 and converted to ass kissing, it seemed. You didn’t say anything because you hadn’t found your voice yet and you also didn’t know what to say that didn’t sound like these two fangirls.

Not giving anything away, Bucky’s eyes swiftly wandered over their appearances before traveling to you. His blue gaze took you in and he appeared to wait for something if his raised eyebrows were anything to go by.

“Hm?” You asked because his staring made you self-conscious and you felt like you were supposed to do something.

“And you? Anything you want to tell me?” He asked you cockily. While you couldn’t believe that the Bucky Barnes was looking at you and asked you an actual question, you desperately tried to come up with something good and maybe clever. You couldn’t think of anything. So you proceeded to stare at him for a few seconds and-

Was that Ellie over there strutting towards you?

“No, not really, thanks. I’m just waiting for my colleague. She forgot her wallet” You say as unaffected as possible. That caught him off guard, you could see it in the way he raised his eyebrows even further and tilted his head a little. And then he gave you a small smile, which your heart immediately reacted to, and shifted.

“Okay, then. I was actually-“

“Y/N, I’m sorry I took so long! I was talking to Elon Musk and I just couldn’t turn him away, you know? I hope you understand” She simpered and reached for the wallet in your hands.

“Of course not” You said, your tone contradicting your words. But naturally, Ellie didn’t notice or, more likely, ignored it and turned to walk away again when she spotted Bucky next to her.

“Oh my god, James! Hi, nice to meet you again, I didn’t see you inside. How are you?” She laid a hand on his arm instead of going in for a tight hug like she would have usually done when meeting hot guys but even she isn’t stupid enough to hug Bucky Barnes. Speaking of, he actually looked like he’d rather be somewhere else since Ellie appeared which is something you could relate to.

You decided you made a fool out of yourself enough tonight and took a step back.

“Good luck with her” You teasingly said to him and waved to Ellie as you turned around. The last thing you saw was the irritated but slightly amused expression in his face as he watched you make a quick getaway.

Safe to say, you didn’t sleep that night.

---

You anxiously take your seat in the second row in the audience and try to bring your heartbeat down to a healthier rate. Subtly, you wipe your sweaty hands on the jumpsuit over your legs and lean back, in an attempt to look relaxed and unbothered. The chairs around you fill with each passing minute and suddenly it’s 11 o’clock and the press conference begins.

You take a quick look at your notes. You had four questions, from which you will probably only have two answered. Your boss was concerned to send you here as the official representation of NY Value Daily but you reassured him you’d be the perfect choice to do this. You have been to a couple of these – smaller cases of course – and you have watched countless of Ellie’s press conferences, so you felt prepared. Nervous but prepared.

Too bad Ellie was sick today. Too bad.

The minute Tony Stark and his companion walk out on stage, your eyes are glued on Bucky like your life depends on it. The special thing about this one is that it isn’t just Tony stepping in front of a mic, this is bigger. They have an actual table on stage, several chairs, several mics. They announced Tony, Cap and Bucky to be here which is something that … almost never happens.

So naturally you were ecstatic. Aside from a lot of other things.

The host shakes all of their hands and there’s this little gap where the audience applauds and Tony, Steve and Bucky stand behind their chairs and wait for the sign to sit down. You can’t believe Bucky actually agreed to do this.

You see his eyes roam around the room, take in the people he’s standing in front of and you tense when he travels along your row. His gaze rambles over you like any other person but you see him hesitate all of a sudden and his eyes come back to you. This is what it feels like to be stared at by Bucky Barnes in broad daylight.

Your body feels electrified.

You give him a small smile and try not to look like you’re about to pass out. He doesn’t smile back but you see him take in your outfit – or what he can see of it – and then slowly, his eyes come back up to your face. What is he thinking?? You need to know.

The host invites them to sit down and the moment is gone. They all take a seat and wait. Not without disappointment you notice that Bucky doesn’t look at you again.

So, the questions begin.

You hold back at first because you feel too anxious to raise your hand for the mic and just listen to what the other journalists ask them. Most of the time, though, you’re watching Bucky.

He does a good job, you quickly realize. He doesn’t seem too fond of having to sit in front of a crowd and answer question, especially the juicier ones (haha) but he does it without growing defensive or being rude. You wish you wouldn’t be so affected by all of this.

They ask him about his past which is quite inappropriate seeing as this press conference is solemnly about the mission they just completed and not about his personal life. He gives short answers and at some point when the reporter turns to the “how is your love life going, now that you’re a national hero *chuckle chuckle*” topic, the host intervenes and asks to turn to more professional questions for this event.

And that’s when you raise your hand. Heart is beating wildly in protest but you’re a grown ass woman, you can do it.

The host points at you and you stand up and wait for the staff to give you the microphone. You can do this!

“Hi, my name is Y/N Y/L/N and I’m from New York Value Daily. My ques-“

“Are you new?” Bucky suddenly interrupts you. You look up and see the teasing spark in his eyes.

“Um, yes. Normally, my colleague Ellie Cannon represents our magazine but she is sick, so I went instead” You say insecurely and hope that answer is enough. You can already hear the quiet mumbles in the crowd behind you.

“I know Ellie” Tony blurts out and looks at the two men beside him.

“Yeah, me too” Steve says and opens a bottle of water while Bucky adds a “Hard not to know her”. The crowd laughs at that. Is this an inside joke of some kind? Are they adoring her or mocking her? You don’t know if you are supposed to defend her now.

“Um, okay? That’s … cool. Well, I’m substituting for her today, so-“

“What a pleasant surprise” Bucky says and oh my god, is that a wink? Immediate response from the crowd, a lot of Ooh’s and whistles around you. You feel your face heat up.

“Bucky, stop embarrassing her” Steve scolds him but can’t hide the smile on his face.

“Don’t be so harsh, Steve, he’s right, it is a pleasant surprise. I thought all your magazine had for us was the lovely Ellie and I’m pleasantly surprised that’s not the case. I can’t believe they withheld such a beautiful, smart woman from us all this time” Tony hums and gives you a flirtatious smile.

Ooh, that’s mean. On the other side, Ellie always acts like she is the queen of the office and holds arrogance closer to her heart than modesty, therefore you don’t really feel like supressing the gleeful feelings that arise from his comment. He also called you beautiful which doesn’t happen too often and it does flatter you, not going to lie.

Someone in the room woos like he’s at a bachelorette party.

“Okay, um, thanks” You say shyly and feel Bucky’s eyes on you, “Can I ask my question now?”

“Whatever you want” Bucky answers which earns him a dig in the ribs by Steve. You try to ignore that and concentrate on your notes.

“Okay, so my question is, now that you made this first step towards allying with English authorities, will there b-“

“You are the woman who I met outside the party the other night, aren’t you?” Bucky interrupts you again. Another wave of whispers and mumblings fills the room yet again. You nod.

“Yup. That was me.”

“Wait, you know each other?” Steve asks and looks at his friend who decides to ignore him.

“I knew it was you.”

Oh, that smile. That fucking beautiful smile that shakes up your whole body. You suddenly have trouble standing and not sinking into your chair.

“Surprise” You say and try a kittenish smile.

God, your article about this will need heavy editing, that’s for sure.

You get your two questions through without further incidents and both are answered by Tony (”Interesting questions, I might go far afield for that if you don’t mind, miss Y/L/N”), Steve (”I agree with whatever Tony just said. I’m sorry but I’m not nearly as smart as you or him, so I better stay in my lane”) and Bucky (”I think the real question is why has no one else ever asked us that?”) which relieves you outside of human limits and when you are done, you hand the mic back to the staff and shakily take your seat.

Phew. You did it! And you didn’t even embarrass yourself. Fucking professional.

You start grinning as soon as you’re sure the attention is away from you and on one of the other journalists. Of course, you don’t withstand not staring at Bucky, so when you’re sure he must be focused on the other reporters, you dare a glance at him.

And meet his blue, sprakling eyes. He watches you and the corners of his mouth tug into a cheeky grin when he catches you staring. You can’t stop the flustered smile spreading on your face and quickly look away. From the corner of your eye you see Bucky lean over to his colleagues and quietly tell them something before leaning back and pretending to listen to the question that is being asked.

When the press conference is over and the Avengers have walked off the stage, you stand up and turn to leave the room as you suddenly feel a tap on your shoulder. Feeling puzzled, you turn back and see one of Stark’s staff members standing next to you.

“Miss Y/L/N?” She asks friendly.

You reply with wide eyes. “Yes?”

“Mr. Stark has asked me to give you this, it’s in behalf of Mr. Barnes” She says and hands you a heavy piece of paper. She says her goodbyes and off she goes. You are beyond curious and hastily open the folded paper. What you see is a hand written letter with a very familiar mark on top.

Dear Miss Y/L/N,

This is an invitation to my festive celebration in honour of the successful completing of our latest mission. Come and get wasted with us! Please. The dress code is set at ‘glamorous’, it’s up to you what you do with that. Though I ask you to refrain from wearing Bikini tops or flat boots, we do have our standards. Location: my New Yorkian Mansion (you know where). The party is this Friday, start around 6 pm. Show this invitation to the security guards and they will happily guide you inside.

Much love,

Tony Stark.

P.S.: Bucky will be there, too ;) You don’t want to miss a good time, do you?

---

Forever Tags: @izzy-the-teawitch @wowpeterparker @brightcolorsoffendme @strangequakson @rosegoldquintis @thirdwheelchurchill @hazel-eyed-bi @goldenkillmonger @yourwonderbelle

274 notes · View notes

archive-hive · 6 years ago

Text

Man, it’s a hot one.

By the time dusk unfurls upon Última Bebida’s gabled roof, ornate onyx tendrils pouring like molasses through airbrushed slats, the venue is alive with activity. It bleeds through stained glass in a flourish of finely-tuned guitars and amplified castanets, the intricate figurines painted upon the woodwork seeming to grin, thrilled, as fanciful percussion spills out amidst the crisp springtime atmosphere.

Michael’s skin burns pleasantly as he guides his companions toward the large crimson doorways, familiarity striking against his ribcage like raw timber and sandalwood; a genetic link to a world he has never been allowed to fully submerge himself within.

“This, um.. Th-This looks really cool, M-Micah.” Jeremy grins, utterly breathless. Jake’s arms braid themselves around his boyfriend’s fluttering abdomen, his lips leaving crimson bouquets amidst stark goosebumps as they pave his skin in platinum.

“Yeah, dude. Looks capital ‘TH’ sick!” Rich’s tongue presses flush against the backs of his teeth, exaggerating his lisp considerably. His arms swing wildly from side to side, uncertain of where to place his boundless energy. Michael’s dark fingertips brush against his own with every fluctuation backwards, curling in search of something warm but never quite getting there.

Michael laughs, his thumb bracketing against rough denim in search of the moulded canister tucked safely away inside his pocket - a mere crutch, a safety net in case his lungs inflate beyond their capability. Every time Rich’s hand collides with his own, his skin unfathomably cool, he finds himself tiptoeing closer and closer to his ultimate, monumental downfall.

“Yeah, well I hope we all have a super thhick time tonig-”

A broad hand presses against Michael’s chest before they can enter the building. The entity stood before them, with muscles as grotesquely developed as dimebags stuffed underneath his discolored skin, and features rougher than sandpaper on soil, spares a second to look Michael up and down before scowling disapprovingly.

“I’m gonna need to see some sort of ID, fellas.”

All colour drains from Michael’s face. He certainly hadn’t planned for any impromptu carding, his fake ID hidden at the bottom of an inconspicuous paper bag along with shards of torn tissue paper and the empty blister packs which had once housed his new ‘companion.’

“Um…” Michael rasps, squeezing against his inhaler with a little more gusto. “I’m a friend of the owner? He invited me here personally.”

“Name?”

“Michael. Michael Mell.”

All at once, the bouncer’s expression softens into something more palatable. His brows diffuse upon his forehead and his arm extends into a recognized gesture of hospitality.

“Ah, yes, he’s been expecting you, Mell. Sorry about the inconvenience. Are they all with you?”

It’s a simple phrase, an effortless string of vowels and consonants, and yet the inflection of that mundane three-letter word is enough to make Michael’s eyes burn underneath his contacts. All. As in more than just he and Jeremy. The dynamic duo plus two - the questionable quintet.

He nods three times in rapid succession and wordlessly contemplates the sustainability of his eyeshadow in the wake of unexpected dewdrops contaminating his vision.

Their guide leads them to a beautiful, large booth situated just adjacent to the varnished dance floor. Plump cushions are swathed in emerald velvet, two vanilla-scented candles placed at the centre of the table crackling prettily within their scarlet tumblers, and a hand-illustrated note lays beside a single scarlet rose. The penmanship is an unmistakably crisp portrayal of calligraphy which invites Michael to have a wonderful evening.

“Holy shit, Mikey, you boning this guy?” Rich whistles, trying to keep poison ivy from belittling his tone. “Cos if you ain’t then you should. He’d probably buy you a yacht or somethin’!”

“Not boning, no. Though I think a yacht would look fabulous in my driveway. What ya think, Jer?”

Jeremy laughs breathlessly, sliding his body underneath airbrushed mahogany alongside Jake, who, in turn, returns Jeremy to his spacious embrace without a moment’s delay.

“Oh y-yeah, dude. N-Nothing says ‘go g-getter’ like a um… a grandiose y-yacht parked n-next to a sh-shitty little PT Cruiser.”

Michael opens his mouth to argue, tongue rolling against an unabridged declaration of love for his less-than-glamorous vehicle and all of those unique ticks and quirks which makes her so majestic, only to pause whenever Jake’s lips wrap around Jeremy’s earlobe. He’s reciting exquisite poetry against supple cartilage, his teeth punctuating every sentence until Jeremy himself has begun to sing.

It is a battle Michael has already lost.

And so, he chooses to slide in against Rich and his natural radiance. Rich slots his arm through Michael’s elbow in an action which could be deemed as nothing short of platonic but, fuck, if it doesn’t make Michael’s diaphragm flourish with the same intense rush of endorphins as slicing his nail through fragile plastic wrapping to retrieve his new game. Only this moment has no shelf-life, only visual gratification every time Michael’s fingertips find themselves wandering beneath the crease of his stomach.

“So you know the owner, huh? How fanshy~”

Michael’s eyes dart toward the feminine curvature of the salt-shaker taking centre-stage in the middle of the table and wills any and all colour away from his cheeks. Rich is just so handsome that it makes his jaw ache.

“Yeah, he’s a customer of mine. A cool dude.”

“A customer? Just what kind of things are you selling, young man?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Rich clasps his hands together, resting his chin upon mountainous knuckles and fluttering his lashes as though they were amber sails swallowing every tantalizing breeze. “I sure would!”

“Get a r-room!” Jeremy catcalls, his head rolling back to rest on Jake’s solid shoulder. His torso is a patchwork of dyed cotton and articulate fingertips, one hand blossoming upon his ribcage while the other autographs his collarbone.

The hypocrisy is tantalizing.

Michael’s tongue protrudes from his lips in a fluid, stabbing motion of pure petulence, but his hand extends across the table to link with Jeremy’s own. He squeezes Jeremy’s digits gently, affectionately, his thumb painting invisible heartbeats across candied veins.

“P-People are gonna l-look at us, um, f-funny. Think we’re in an o-orgy.”

“Wait, we’re not having an orgy?” Rich pouts. “I was promised a fun night!”

Michael reaches over to grab at one of the laminated menus held in place by monogrammed napkins. “I mean, I’d be down but I only wanna screw 2 people here, so…”

Jake lifts his head from Jeremy’s sweet, buttermilk throat to raise a disapproving eyebrow. He licks his lips as though to savor the very flavour of Jeremy’s skin, how it has been stippled in cologne and residual ash from freshly-rolled joints.

“Good. Feeling is mutual.”

Rich’s nostrils flare against a rather emphatic snort, his fingertips an inadequate partition around his lips as he turns toward Jeremy. “They definitely wanna fuck.”

“O-Oh for sure.”

Bouncing precariously upon narrow crimson heels, and with the folds of her skirt flouncing prettily in time with every decibel reverberating unequivocally from a camouflaged sound-system, a fair-faced waitress approaches their booth with a quartet of spicy-sweet margaritas, each with their own lemon wedge and an unnecessarily foreign parasol.

“Here you are, gentlemen!”

Michael watches, puzzled, as she divides the glasses between their modest group. “Oh, uh. I’m sorry, Miss, but we haven’t actually ordered anything, yet.”

She giggles politely, her fingertip worrying against the stylized ringlet plastered upon her brow. “Yes, I know, sweetheart. These are a gift from the owner!”

She gestures blindly behind her to the handsome figure tucked at the very back of the establishment. His narrow frame tilts at an obscure angle against the bar, cerulean eyes cutting acutely through a tapestry of unique bodies as they ooh and ahh over a myriad of extraterrestrial flavours, and he raises the large glass in his own hand as a sign of good will - a toast which has yet to pass between those narrow lips.

Michael grins, returning the gesture in kind, his lips glistening around a halo of himalayan salt as he allows himself to indulge on the sensation of caustic lime blistering his tongue and the tart counterpart of citrine liquer. The alcohol fizzles through the very synapses of his brain and instantly severs any sense he once held true - forever a lightweight when it comes to matters of an ethanol-related nature.

Jeremy is next to follow suit, his tongue pushing through a wave of ice and convoluted flavours.

But Rich does not drink. No, he’s simply staring across the table at Jake.

“Your friend is Atreyu?” Jake mumbles, using his thumbs to rotate his glass back and forth.

“Yeah! He sometimes gives me tattoos in exchange for weed. Why? You guys know him?”

“Nope, never heard of him.” Rich frowns, finally bringing his margarita to his lips after thoroughly surveying its contents.

Atreyu, as it turns out, is an exceptionally congenial host.

He had sent over another round of sharp, sacchariferous cocktails before they had even has the chance to finish their margaritas. Not long after that, they were being gifted a large heap of tortilla chips accompanied by a vast array of dips and sauces. There was even a complimentary shot of tequila with Michael’s name on it, a bonus donation for his role as guest of honour.

And, predictably, Michael had gotten trashed after a few measly mouthfuls of his inaugural concoction.

He scrapes a tortilla chip through a crisp line of guacamole and squeals in delight, teeth crunching against a fine smattering of seasalt, and smacks his lips in unrequited once he had polished the shard off.

“Esta mierda sabe tan bien!” He purrs, his body gravitating close to Rich’s side. “Eres tan guapo. Quiero lamerte.”

The sudden alteration in Michael’s vernacular leaves Rich thunderstruck. His eyes widen, a composition of dualtone oceans lapping hungrily against the sandstone shore of his cheekbones. “You speak Spanish?”

Michael tips himself down toward Rich’s mouth. “Síííííí~”

A mere millimeter separates their flesh, open-mouthed yearning heightened considerably by the scent of Michael’s blood rippling betwixt his watercolour veins. What he wouldn’t give to press his teeth in against his pulse, find a juncture of buttermilk skin to claim as his own, and play the boy as though he were wind-chimes left bashful from summer’s lingering caress.

But before he can act upon his voracious cravings, the pulsating music pouring through invisible speakers shifts into something new, an abrupt cacophony of drums and cadence and complex guitar riffs that has Michael leaping up onto his feet in utmost excitement.

“Holy shit, dude, I love this song!” He grins, clicking his fingers to the beat. “Come dance with me?”

Dipping his finger into a pool of marinated tomatoes and swirling it around, Rich shakes his head. “I appreciate the offer, but nobody wants to see my white ass pretending to have rhythm.” He pops his digit inside his mouth to suck it clean, wrapping his tongue over his knuckle and savouring the flavour as though it were the very plasma he finds himself lusting after.

“Oh, come on! Pleeeease?”

“Maybe in a little bit, dude. Go have fun.”

Michael’s lower lip unravels across his chin and fuck does Rich want to lick against him until he can taste summer upon that precious pout; pitted cherries and butterscotch icecream.

“Hey, Jer, do you wanna dan-”

Jake’s lips push across his boyfriend’s smooth, alabaster skin with a sense of urgency, moist tongue circling the sensitive patch of nerve-endings which illuminate his pulse. Jeremy mewls with every expressive brushstroke, and his fingertips tear miniscule holes inside his napkin from how tightly he grabs against the table.

Michael’s lashes crimp in mild annoyance, but he doesn’t dwell on the sensation for particularly long. Insead he ensnares his fingertips around his glass and brings it up toward his lips, polishing off what remains of his sangria.

With a newfound sense of galvanized vitality, Michael’s hips careen from side to side as he takes to the dance floor. He gravitates toward its centre, a polychromatic moth hypnotized by dynamic incandescence. His hand draws upward, dragging vertically from the centre of his belt across and across onyx buttons to rest upon his own throat, thumbs hooked into sugar-spun plastic to withdraw his choker and snap it back into place.

He moans in masochistic bliss, but the sound quickly dissolves when he stirs his pelvis in tandem with a husky vocabulary and a beat which plays to his mislaid heritage. His hands hover above his head, lock themselves in place, his body swivelling from side to side every time Carlos Santana’s digits caress individually woven strings.

Tipping his head back, Michael brings his hands once more to the hem of his shirt. He elevates the material in a slow, deliberate motion, flashing his sweat-slicked mocha skin to the entire restaurant. And still his hips roll; pure, unadulterated calligraphy often concealed by crimson and an uprising of anxiety.

Unsurprisingly, Jeremy’s focus has shifted from the earth-shattering sensation of Jake’s torturous incisors into the vision of his boyfriend owning the entire dancefloor. His orbiting hips are nothing short of celestial - claiming the beat with every fluid undulation.

With all of the grace of a famished feline, Michael glosses a fingertip down Rich’s structured mandible to rest upon his pronounced pout. He dusts away a few stray crumbs which glitter upon his lower lip and Rich has to really concentrate on centering himself lest he pull that callous-roughened pointer straight into his mouth; oral fixation at it’s finest.

“Holy shit!” Rich breathes, the contours of his own pelvis beginning to quiver and quake. He pulls against his cargo shorts to readjust himself, his packer slick from his own arousal and falling out of alignment.

Jeremy giggles. “I-I think Rich has a um… a boner, don’t y-you?”

However, when Jeremy tilts his head backwards to glance at Jake his lover’s attention is directed somewhere else. His pupils are dilated, periwinkle skies lost to the captivating toxicity of a solar eclipse, and his mouth quivers in perfect unison with his short, shallow breaths.

Jeremy can barely contain his exuberant delight, pressing a stream of kisses along the underside of Jake’s impossibly taut jawline. “He’s really sexy, isn’t he?”

Jake nods, his fingertips flexing against the silken grooves of Jeremy’s airbrushed abdomen.

Michael’s performance comes to an end far too quickly. At least, that’s the unanimous consensus for everyone at his table.

He brushes his hands through an abundance of slick, curlicue ringlets and recalibrates the orientation of his shirt. There is an insurgency of power radiating inside of his sternum, primal, a sensation more extraordinary than a fresh hit of opiates infiltrating his bloodstream. He drapes himself down beside Rich with a happy little chirrup of accomplishment.

His palms brush over amaranth cheeks, thumbs dancing across a small bouquet of freckles peppered just underneath Rich’s twinkling eyes, and he pulls their mouths together to kiss him feverishly. Finally. Finally!

Rich tastes sharp, an aromatic combination of red wine and orange liqueur. Rich tastes sweet too, like sugar water and candy apples and every indulgent treat he has been fortunate to savour over his lifetime. But above all else he tastes like Rich.

And then they part once more.

Michael’s teeth clinking against an empty glass, his tongue curling toward the flavourful cubes beginning to thaw at the very bottom.

“Th-That was awesome, Micha!” Jeremy coos, his hand brushing over the back of Michael’s hand. “Y-You um.. Y-you looked so h-hot out there.”

“Whas I… Smooth?”

“Like b-butter, baby.” He pushes his elbow in toward Jake’s torso. “Jake c-couldn’t keep his eyes um... O-off of you!

Michael’s brow twitches upon his forehead as he regards Jake.

Jake shrugs, completely unashamed. “What can I say? I’m a hips and ass man.”

He presses his palms in against Jeremy’s pelvis and squeezes for good measure. Jeremy squeals in delight, his head resting once more across Jake’s chest.

“So the orgy is back on the table?” Rich grins, his cheeks stippled in crimson from the heat of Michael’s kiss.

“Absolutely.” Jake nods.

“I’m d-down!” Jeremy grins.

“Fuck yeah!” Michael purrs.

#sorry guys!#posting this here so I can send it to my best friend!

1 note · View note