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irishseeeker · 10 months

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frozen.

their first and last dance.

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This fic contains spoilers for Francesca Bridgerton's story in Bridgerton and her book When He Was Wicked and upsetting non-graphic themes. Please be cautious when reading ahead.

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Aubrey Hall is the first place they dance, not the first place they meet.

Fran knew she loved him here.

It is cruel that she ends up here, alone, after all this time.

She is not alone, really. A Bridgerton is never truly alone, not in a family like hers. Her siblings, in-laws, mother and nieces and nephews are asleep a few hallways away. Even in Scotland when she had missed them terribly, there was always a letter or a reminder of her family.

But she is alone, in every other way.

In this empty ballroom.

In every part of her.

He is gone and Francesca is alone.

John had always loved it here at Aubrey Hall, it was the perfect middle between London and Scotland. Despite it being the countryside, it tended to drag their entire family and London with it.

He relaxed at Aubrey Hall. He loved the orangery, she could always taste the zest on his lips and the juice on his tongue. He loved to swim in the lake with her family and her after hours when everyone had gone to bed.

Francesca had grown up in London, their family didn’t return to Aubrey Hall for a long time after their father’s death. She had always preferred the countryside but Aubrey Hall had been too painful for a long time.

It had been Kate’s first time hosting at Aubrey Hall as Viscountess. .

They had been dancing circles around each other that season - they had spoken on multiple occasions, danced with others just never each other.

She met Michael before John, who was always front and centre. John was the Earl of Kilmartin, not Michael. The disappointment on ladies was evident, when the handsome and charming Kilmartin wasn’t the one with the title.

Not for Francesca.

Not at all.

She had grown fond of Michael, knowing he was quickly not husband material which he made evidently clear with his drinking, gambling and flirting. He would actually speak to her as a person and not a prospect. He still danced with her at every ball and flirted just slightly.

He also introduced her to his cousin, John.

John was the slow trickle of raindrops down a window pane, the warmth of a heating stone in her bed. He was her best friend. He was her entire world.

Fran had never expected him.

John snuck up on her.

He was elusive and extremely captivating. Yet, he was quiet. He didn��t dance much to the annoyance of his mother. He would observe and as they became more acquainted, usually due to Michael dragging him into their conversations, he would make dry, witty remarks that made Fran often choke on whatever she was drinking at the time.

Her eyes would widen and catch his, which were wide with amusement followed by a cheeky, small smile he was trying to hide.

He had caught her attention and it had bothered her to no end, at the beginning.

It had been their first time in London for the season and later she understood all he wanted to do was go home.

Anthony seemed to know which annoyed Fran to no end. Anthony always knew, as she knew him, in a way none of their other siblings knew them. They had always been a pair, even when he became her father when she was just five years old.

They understood each other. They were each other.

She liked to believe she was the best parts of him, the parts she loved dearly.

It killed her just a bit, what all of this had done to Anthony.

He constantly would watch her, talk to her, sit with her. He needed to make sure she was still there. He was scared to take his eyes off her and in all honesty, so was she. She would insist for him to go to do anything else but without him there, she was scared she would wilt away.

If he wasn’t there, someone else always was. Eloise would read to her. Colin would talk to her. Benedict would try to make her laugh. Kate would take her for walks with Newton. Daphne would talk to her about everything. Hyacinth would play with her hair. Gregory wouldn’t say much, he would just hold her hand. Mama would hold her while she cried.

There were mornings where her duvet was too heavy to lift off, everything was too dark even with the windows wide open and every ounce of energy drained out of her body.

She tries so hard but the gloom consumes her sometimes and thirty minutes goes past without her noticing she had just been staring into nothing.

She had always wanted to be like her mother but not like this.

Except, she wasn’t truly.

Her mother had children when their father died.

Fran did not.

Fran lost her child.

She had no one.

Her siblings had lives ahead of them with their spouses or they were still finding them. They had lives full of joy and hope, full of light.

She tried to stay afloat for them. She really did.

So she tried. She would let Eloise read to her and comment on the chapter or the plot. She would try to paint when Ben tried to teach her. She would sew with her mother. She would listen to Colin’s latest tales of his adventures.

She is back at Aubrey Hall now.

Her family said it would be good for her, the fresh air and a new setting. Away from London, away from Scotland. Not that she had been brave enough to go back yet.

It is the summer after, the one year anniversary is slowly creeping up.

Aubrey Hall used to be a sad place. Ever since their father. They could not return for years.

They had slowly healed and repaired, filling it with more Bridgertons and more laughter and joy. Kate had truly ignited it all, giving Anthony peace and happiness in a place he desperately needed it.

Kate had been so good to her. During her first debut, Kate had been by her side as the new Viscountess as she walked towards the Queen to be crowned the Diamond of the season.

They had their first dance here.

Right in this room.

It had been Kate’s first ball at Aubrey Hall as Viscountess Bridgerton. Her mother, Daphne and Kate were running around for days prepping everything. It was also Fran’s first season and Eloise’s second. Every eligible gentleman was invited for Fran and much to her dismay, Eloise.

Including the Stirlings.

After they were married, she would play the piano until he would coax her up to dance with him. He would always listen to her first. Listen to a full song. Then, they would sway softly to no music.

Just them.

Sometimes they would dance their first dance together, their first one here a few years ago. A simple quadrille so full of life and new beginnings, how her fingers trembled slightly and her heart hammered against her chest because dancing with John Stirling felt like she was dancing at the beginning of her life.

He would twirl her around and make her laugh like he did those three years ago, in a carefree way that members of the ton definitely stared at and frowned upon.

Anthony mentioned it to her in his study the night John asked for his permission for her hand in marriage. She, of course, knew it was coming. He did it over a Brandy, which they both pretended was her first. He had never seen her look so happy, he told her a few days before her wedding.

It had made him so happy.

Her courtship was a breath of fresh air compared to the scandals involved in Anthonys, Daphne's and Ben’s. Anthony is relieved at the simplicity of it all, despite his cautious front.

He liked John. He liked him a lot. Everyone did. He gave him a slightly hard time, as did her other brothers but it was nothing John couldn’t handle. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

He would just catch her eye from across the room and curl his mouth upwards slightly, a small smile he reserved just for her. Just like when he would brush a finger across her palm, a silent I love you.

He would tell Fran later having Michael as a cousin and more importantly, as a best friend, prepared one for many sticky situations.

John would look at her in a way she knew she could doubt so many things but she could never doubt she was loved.

If she could be loved by someone as wonderful as John Stirling, she was doing something right.

Even when the ache and longing hit every time her monthly bleed came and a child did not. Or when it didn’t come but eventually did a few weeks later.

Loss, loss, loss.

It seems it was made for Francesca.

It surrounded her and embodied her. It was what peoppe saw when they looked at her, what they whispered about her. Even her family, the pity and sadness in their eyes when they looked at her.

She hadn’t played the piano since he died. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.

She had always played for herself and others but now she didn’t know herself.

She had no one to play for.

Not anymore.

Francesca is no longer a Bridgerton and is now a Stirling but she lost her Stirling.

She is simply Francesca now.

Whatever that means.

She didn’t know anymore.

Someone will marry Michael and they will replace her and John. Michael left for India without a second thought.

He gets to escape and she is stuck.

Stuck, stuck, stuck.

She spends her time in her mother’s new home and her childhood home, places that should have never been her home again.

She slept with Eloise and Hyacinth for weeks, she couldn’t bear to be alone.

She had never worn black until his funeral.

Now, it is all she wears.

Her grief is her only companion that never leaves her.

Everyone she has lost clinging to her.

There is no moving on from this.

She ends up in Aubrey Hall’s ballroom, standing in the middle of the dance floor. It is past three in the morning. She is, as she always is, alone.

She is stuck.

She is in the ballroom.

She is Francesca.

She is alone.

#bridgerton #bridgerton fic #my fics #francesca bridgerton #john stirling #francesca x john #michael stirling #anthony bridgerton #kate sharma #eloise bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #ao3 #sad girl hour #when he was wicked #love fran sm

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 7 months

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Damage Gets Done - SAS: Rogue Heroes x OC - Chapter 5

Summary: Still reeling from Eoin McGonigal's death, Diana prepares for L Detachment's raid on Tamet Airfield

Relationships: L Detachment x Platonic!OC, eventual Reg Seekings x OC

Warnings: Language, violence, very brief gore, alcohol consumption

Word Count: 3.8k

Tags: @20th-centu-fairy-girl

A/N: Sorry this chapter took a while! I moved for university recently, so I had to take some time to adjust to a lot of changes, but I'm settled now and back to writing again!

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The road to Jalo - if it could even be called that - was uneven and inhospitable, their jeeps swaying precariously side to side as they travelled dunes and rocky trails, the wind disguising their tracks as they filed through the barren wasteland to god-knows-where. Diana sat silently in the passenger seat beside Paddy as they followed behind Sadler, sunglasses shielding her eyes from the glaring sun, curls piled atop her head in a failing attempt to cool herself down, the desert breeze succeeding at nothing save for blowing more hot air directly at her, carrying sand with it, and it sometimes seemed as if the group had accidentally swallowed half the desert already.

Paddy had somehow become even colder since Eoin's death, regarding her with little more than an even stare. She could not - would not - tell him the whole story of that night - how it had been her job to check McGonigal's parachute was safe and secure, how she had found his battered body down in the bushes and dragged him for hours, how she could not help but blame herself for the soldier's death. Mayne was hot-headed at the best of times. If he thought Diana was responsible for the death of his best friend, she wasn't entirely certain he wouldn't kill her. No. It was her burden to shoulder alone, at least for now.

Jalo protruded, stout and square, from the blanket of dunes ahead, its walls of sand and dirt disguising it against the monotone landscape, its facade unassuming, with a few gaping holes in its perimeter wall to testify to its state of abandonment. It didn't look like much of a base as they pulled up beside it, Diana craning her head to peer at the wide, empty yard inside, but it certainly had potential. As they clambered out of the jeeps, Kershaw wordlessly tossed her his flask, the water stale but good enough to wash the dirt out of her mouth as Stirling emerged at the head of the group, hands on his hips as he surveyed the place.

"This is good," She assured him, standing at his side. "They won't find us out here in the middle of fuck-knows."

David nodded in agreement with this assessment, glancing sideways at the woman. He had not missed the ever-present scowl that had been creasing her expression since their failed parachute jump. Stirling knew the loss of McGonigal had shaken the team, but he had never thought him and Diana to be particularly close, so her state of seemingly constant misery struck him as strange. It would not do.

Clapping a hand over her shoulder, Stirling turned to address Sadler, the newest addition to their group. "How far to the nearest German airfield?"

"Sirte is 350 miles north-west."

"And the Allied front line?" Diana added, taking another sip of Kershaw's foul-tasting water as she suppressed a grimace.

"The first position we'd come to is East - 80 miles to the New Zealand Reserve troop. Although, they've been sent north, so the camp is empty."

Stirling had an idea. His hand still on Diana's shoulder, he looked to her, brow raised. In the months they had spent together, they had come to know each other well, and in times like this, they scarcely even needed to speak to one another to convey their thoughts. Their natures were similar, their thirst for chaos and danger one and the same. Diana arched her brow, as if to say 'Seriously?', and David shrugged a 'Why not?'. A smirk had begun to creep its way across her expression by the time David turned to the others, who had witnessed this wordless conversation with varying looks of confusion.

It was Paddy who first caught on. "...The New Zealand camp is empty, eh?"

"They may have left some trucks behind," Stirling suggested.

"Some guns - ammunition," She added, her smirk spreading into a mischievous grin. Among the small crowd, the others seemed to realise what they were implying, an air of excitement settling over them. Sadler was frowning intently, the realisation of what he suddenly found himself involved in one that unsettled him. Diana shrugged as she walked past him, heading back to the truck. "We're all on the same side. It's just... re-distribution of resources," She assured him with a smile, clambering up into one of the jeeps. The thought did not seem to bring him comfort.

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It was a free-for-all the moment L Detachment arrived at the New Zealand camp, splitting off all over the place as they pilfered tents and loaded crates of ammunition and alcohol onto the trucks. In one of the officers' tents, Diana had found a stack of books, many of which her father had shelved in their library back home, and these had been unceremoniously shoved into her bag, the weight nothing compared to her parachute pack days earlier.

At one point, she and Johnny Cooper had attempted to smuggle out a large crate of bullets, which they proceeded to almost drop with a loud clatter. The men around them froze, the air filled with a tense silence as they waited to see if any of the remaining men in the infirmary tent had awoken and raised the alarm. When it appeared they had not been disturbed, Diana and Johnny struggled to suppress the fits of laughter that threatened to spill, delighted at their own success as they finished loading the truck, Sadler watching on with an ever-disappointed glare. She sent him a thumbs-up, but his scowl only seemed to deepen.

By the time they made it back to Jalo, it was already broad daylight the next day, the brief respite from the scorching desert sun already over, sweat dripping down their brows as they began to unload the trucks. Diana had been given the task of pitching the tents as some much-needed shelter from the elements, and Kershaw had taken it upon himself to help, holding up the poles for her as she attempted to drive tent pegs into the loose sand below.

"Don't think I haven't noticed you ain't said a word to Paddy since he came back after the storm," Dave said, driving another tent pole into the dirt. She looked up at him, stilling the movement of the mallet in her hand.

"We've been busy, if it escaped your notice."

He frowned at her. "I'm not thick, Di. I was there when you checked Eoin's parachute, I've pieced it together even if no one else has."

Diana sighed, throwing up her hands in surrender. "And if it was my fault he's dead, then what?"

"Then it was an innocent mistake. But I don't think it was - we all made the same checks, I didn't kill you, Reg didn't kill me. You didn't kill McGonigal."

"Paddy wouldn't see it that way," She shook her head, driving another peg into the sand with a mighty whack.

"No one knows what Paddy thinks of anything. But he'll notice you've gone all fucking weird, I'll tell ya that."

"... Let's just go blow some shit up, eh? Give us something else to think about."

The frown did not leave Kershaw's face, but he did not press the matter further. Diana was his best friend - that was true enough - and he would follow her lead in this, even if he did not agree. It was her burden to bear, but he would defend her against Paddy should the need arise. With a silent nod, he watched her hammer in the last peg, the tent now standing alone, and followed as they returned to the jeeps.

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Grease paint streaked her face, the smell of it lingering in the air, her coat collar turned up against the desert wind, which grew ever colder as the night rolled on. Her rifle sat comfortably in her palms, so familiar it felt like an extension of her own arm, but there was one key difference that set Diana apart from the men around her - she had never seen combat before. She had trained longer and harder than any of them, but she had never seen enemy territory, never fought without the supervision of her father. Never killed a man. She had hurt people - so many that the guilt no longer weighed on her conscience, but those men were paid for their troubles, offered leave to heal up. These men would not have that. When Diana hurt these men, they would stay down.

Her back was pressed up against the side of an Italian jeep, the sounds of chattering seeping from a large building across Tamet Airstrip. Reg was crouched beside her, their shoulders pressed against each other for balance as they prepared their weapons.

"You ready?" He spoke, voice scarcely more than a whisper.

Diana nodded, a stray curl bobbing up and down in front of her face. "Always," She smirked. Reg looked over at her, quickly returning the smile. In a single, swift movement, he raised his hand, flicking the curl out of her face before returning to his gun, loading it with a fresh magazine. Glancing over at Dave, it became clear he had witnessed the entire interaction, intrigued expression barely visible beneath the grime that coated his face. But she could always tell.

Wordlessly, Paddy reached out, passing her a couple of Lewes' bombs, gesturing for them to be handed to Sadler. As she passed them on, the navigator peered at them curiously, the objects foreign in his hands.

"The famous Lewes bomb, that is," Mayne nodded.

"Never heard of them," Mike frowned.

"They're only famous amongst us, in fairness," Diana shrugged. "Jock invented them."

"Have you used them before?"

Paddy and Diana glanced at each other, the lingering silence the only answer Sadler needed. Letting out a sigh of exasperation, he stuffed the bombs in his pocket as Mayne handed Diana another pair of explosives.

"These are primed to go off in ten minutes," He explained, passing the rest out to the other members of the group.

"From now?" Sadler asked cautiously.

"Aye."

She looked down at the bombs in her hands, her mind suddenly plagued by images of her own hands being blown off in a mighty explosion. "Right, so we should fucking get on with it then, eh?" Reg's voice came from beside her, his breath fanning across her face as he leaned forward to speak to Paddy.

"We have plenty of time," He spoke dismissively.

"For what?" Dave asked.

Their small group watched as Paddy turned, craning his neck to look beyond the jeep they crouched behind and at the building across the strip - lights glowed golden inside, the gentle din of laughter and music emitting from within. In a moment of sudden clarity, Diana realised his intentions.

"They're drunk, Paddy," She tutted, "They-"

"They are low-hanging fruit. They are pilots and engineers when they sober up. If you don't like that, take Mikey over there and plant the bombs while we deal with the rats."

Her jaw was set tight, teeth grinding uncomfortably, fingers drumming irritably against the hilt of her rifle. They stared back at each other in silence for a moment, the others fidgeting with both discomfort at the apparent tension and fear for the ever-shortening timers on the bombs in their hands. Reg opened his mouth to speak up again, but before he could find the words, Diana was on her feet, the jeep's shadow still shrouding her from the view of their enemy. Stuffing a pair of bombs in each of her coat pockets, she gestured for Sadler to stand. "Let's move."

Scrambling to his feet, Mike was swiftly at her side as they made their way around the rear of the jeep, the shadows at the edge of the airfield camouflaging them as they headed for the rows of aeroplanes lined up at the other end of the strip. In the edge of her vision, she could see the silhouettes of their comrades, creeping into the light as they approached the building opposite, weapons bared.

Sadler watched them make a beeline for the pilots' mess, glancing occasionally at Diana, whose gaze remained focused and firmly ahead, never wandering to the others. He crept up alongside her, the primed bombs in his bag a constant source of tension for the man.

"So... what, you don't kill?" Mike whispered, eyeing her sideways.

Diana scoffed, surprisingly jovial in response. "Oh, I'll cut, maim and butcher if the occasion calls for it - but I find no enjoyment in a turkey shoot."

"... I see," He nodded. The man appeared overall unnerved by the company he had found himself in, but it did not stop him from planting the explosives as ordered once they reached the planes, tucking the bombs below wings and into open cockpits.

"My father is General Hannigan - I don't know if you're familiar - but he's trained me in combat since I was a girl," Diana chatted as Sadler clambered up onto the wing of the next plane, and he noted her almost eerie sense of calm as she passed him up another bomb, not even flinching as the sound of gunfire erupted behind them, a sure sign that Paddy had hit the jackpot. "I've broken just as many arms and legs as bloody Paddy Mayne, if not more, but Stirling was the first willing to take me on."

Sadler clambered down from the plane, eyeing the chaos that had erupted at the other end of the strip. Their men stood silhouetted against the light of the doorway, firing bullet after bullet into the mess hall. Diana's back remained turned to the scene, entirely nonchalant as she tossed another explosive into an open cockpit.

"Sounds like a strange childhood," He pointed out. "Training for... this."

She shrugged. "Well, to be honest, I specialise in - hang on-" Turning towards the chaos, she raised her rifle, eyeing the minuscule figure of a stray enemy soldier as he ran up behind Seekings and Kershaw in the dark. Within a moment, Diana had taken aim and pulled the trigger, a single shot echoing from their end of the airstrip before the figure toppled to the group in a lifeless heap. "I've mostly been trained in sharpshooting, but it's all good experience," She smiled.

"Blimey," Mike breathed. "Good shot."

A few minutes later, the pair were accompanied by the rest of their group, the others sporting fairly dazed expressions as they emerged from the mess hall to finish the job, planting the remaining bombs. "How long have we got?" Diana called, digging into her pocket for the last of the explosives she had been given.

"Two minutes!" Kershaw barked, working in a frenzy to get rid of the devices whilst they still had time. She nodded, gesturing for Mike as they began to jog back towards their original rendezvous point, the others close behind as they returned to the shelter of the jeep.

Pausing a moment to catch their breath, it became suddenly evident that their numbers were short. "Where the fuck's Paddy?" Reg huffed. Looking up, Diana surveyed the dimly lit airstrip, catching sight of a figure still climbing on the planes, clothed in one of their large, leather coats.

"There," She nodded, the others quickly catching sight of him. Letting out a loud whistler, Kershaw barked for him to follow, the fuses on their explosives only seconds away from detonating. They needed to get away, and they needed to do it fast. Suddenly she recalled that day out in the desert - how resistant Paddy had been to finding higher ground, to evading the oncoming storm that would've surely killed what was left of their group had they gone through with Mayne's plan. The man seemed entirely averse to any notion of self-preservation, something she could oh-so-clearly see now, as he persisted to smash a cockpit's controls with the butt of his rifle.

"Fucking hell," Diana muttered irritably, stepping forward as Paddy finally began to jog towards the group. Dave reached out, seizing her arm to prevent her from going any further, but she shrugged him off before he managed to get a firm grip. The others had not seemed to notice the lone survivor of their rampage, barreling full force towards Mayne from across the strip. Lifting her rifle, she took aim, the flash of the first explosion through the viewfinder momentarily blinding her. Blinking away the spots in her vision, she found the figure once again, now only metres away from Paddy's back, and pulled the trigger.

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"Almost there, go again," her father had ordered sharply, staring at the spot where a dark bullet hole marred the brick wall across from them, mere centimetres from the desired target - a green glass bottle, propped up across the courtyard.

"How long will we do this for?" Diana sighed, tearing her eye away from the viewfinder, which had begun to leave a pink ridge upon her cheek from the hours she had spent pressed against it. "We've been at it all day - I've hit most of the targets already."

"We will do this until you hit all of the targets," Hannigan instructed, re-opening his newspaper as he reclined in one of the garden chairs. "There is no room for mediocrity, Diana, and I will not tolerate failure. We go until you can take out the whole row without a single miss, even if we have to go into the night," He paused for a moment, then hummed to himself. "That may be a good idea - we will practice shooting in the dark tomorrow night."

Diana suppressed a sigh, wiping sweat from her forehead as she peered up at the sky above. The midday sun hung high overhead, the cloudless sky offering no reprieve from the miserable heat. She was thirteen years old, her knees aching from hours spent kneeling upon the tiled ground of the courtyard as she practised with the rifle her father had gifted her the previous Christmas. At the time, he had called it a present, but the hours she spent working on her skills were no gift.

Christmas had been the only time Hannigan ever gave her anything at all. There had been no birthdays - she had no birth certificate, nothing to dictate when her birthday actually was. To remedy this, her father would simply declare her a year older come the first of January each year, and the occasion would go unmarked - it was not a real birthday, so why should they celebrate? Besides, Christmas had been mere days before, and Hannigan had always used this as a time of change in her training regiment - a milestone for which he would introduce some new skill or weapon he expected her to master.

This Christmas had been no different. In the months since, she had spent hours each day crouching in the courtyard, aiming at bottles and jars and all manner of targets, her father's watchful eye always urging her on. If he had a prior engagement that day, he would simply hire someone else to oversee her training, and these men did not always have the... soft touch her father did. She had been shouted at, bullied and belittled, had her ears and hair tugged at in punishment for her moments of incompetence - so much so that she came to long for her father's unflinching discipline, his commitment to their hours of drill, no matter how much she ached afterwards.

But it had paid off. The first time she had taken out a whole row of targets without a single missed shot, Hannigan had let out a celebratory cheer, pouring the child a glass of straight whiskey as a reward. It had burnt her throat, but she had drank it anyway. It made him smile.

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In the bright orange glow of the fiery explosions, they could see the way the soldier's face was torn apart, his skull shattering as the bullet made contact, ripping a hole through his nose and cheek as he was knocked backwards by the impact, landing on his back in a pool of blood. He had been mere metres behind Paddy when she took the shot - a dodgy aim could have meant killing Mayne himself. But Diana did not miss. Not anymore.

Reg let out a guffaw, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they staggered back a few paces, distancing themselves from the explosions as they grew ever-closing, the planes erupting into flame one by one, lighting up the barren desert all around them. "Hell of a fucking shot!" He laughed, and Diana began to grin too, whooping along with the others, their faces bathed in the flames' warm glow. There was an air of celebration amongst them as they retreated from the airstrip and back into the wasteland, cheering and chattering noisily about their accomplishments. Reg's arm remained slung around her the entire way back to the jeeps, drooping against her neck as he vowed to get her a drink upon their return. The unease that had filled her seemed to ebb away as he chuckled, breath fanning the side of her face as they reached the jeeps, the cars shrouded in the shadow of a sand dune, patiently awaiting their return.

Piled into the vehicle, swaying side to side against the uneven terrain, Kershaw let out a cry of elation as he produced a bottle of gin from under his seat, a remnant of their spoils from the New Zealand camp. Reg had stolen gallons of the stuff the previous night, but they had gotten through a concerning amount already, and what was left was now scattered in strange places in an attempt a preservation.

"Well, well, well," Dave grinned, cracking the seal. Lifting the bottle to his lips, he took a long sip, a line of gin trickling down his chin as the jeep hit a bump in the road, spilling some in his lap.

"Careful!" Seekings barked.

Letting out a satisfied exhale, Kershaw bulled the bottle away from his mouth and peered at the label in approval. "Oh, yeah. Good shit."

Diana gratefully received the bottle as it was passed to her, taking a swig and passing it on to Reg, slumping backwards in her seat. The exhaustion of the night's pursuits had suddenly caught up with her, eyes drooping slightly. It had been more than twenty-four hours since any of them had slept, and once the adrenaline wore off they would surely turn comatose, desperate for their sleeping bags once they made it back to Jalo.

"Wonder how Stirling's boys did," Reg grumbled, passing the bottle across her back to Dave.

"What if they didn't get any?" She joked, voice turning bleary with tiredness. "God, that'd piss him off." The others laughed, amused by such an unlikely prospect.

It was not unfounded.

#sas rogue heroes fic #sas rogue heroes #sas rogue heroes oc #sas: rogue heroes #david stirling #mike sadler #dave kershaw #reg seekings #paddy mayne #johnny cooper #sas: rogue heroes fic #sas: rogue heroes oc #oc: diana

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timetraveltodystopia · 11 months

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WayV current energies - June edition 2023

♡ Shufflemancy reading - 05/06/22

Disclaimer: I’m a beginner with tarot and my readings could be correct and could be not. I am still learning so please take everything with a grain of salt. These readings are for fun and for entertainment purposes only <3

This is all alleged. I don’t want to hurt any idol or send them hate.

Kun

Out The Window - Lo Village

Kun feels lonely, he is in a period of time he thinks he can do everything by himself but he feels surrounded by emptiness. It feels like he is surrounded by people but he feels lonely with those people. Also, he could be going through heartbreak, like the vibes he gives me is that his partner possibly could have cheated on him and he regretted on trusted on them.

Xiaojun

Troll - IU, DEAN

Xiaojun is in a toxic relationship/situationship. He needs to let this person go even though he loves them. This person is manipulative and they will do everything to stay with Xiaojun.

Ten

SloMo - Chanel

He is in his hoe era, playboy era. He feels sexy and enjoys life how it is.

Hendery

Dirty Work - Welshly Arms

Hendery feels like a slave for SM, he feels like he isn't paid enough for everything he has to do.

Lucas

Need Somebody - Xuitcasecity

Lucas is in need of love. He feels like all his relationships were fake because he was an idol and he wants true love, he wants genuine love and doesn't feel happy surrounded by all materialistic things. He wants companionship.

Winwin

Heartless - The Weeknd

Winwin's main goal is luxury life, love is discarded. He feels he wouldn't give the same love to a person as the same love he gives to all the materialistic things he buys. He is desensitized to love, he only wants to live a rich life.

Yangyang

What you made me of - Lindsey Stirling, Kiesza

Yangyang is recognizing his self-worth, he is improving and he is being more assured of himself. He knows he can do greater things and when things are down he has to get up and try again.

This changes over time. Everyone has free will and vibrations change. Hope you like this reading <3

#shufflemancy reading #shuffle #shufflemancy #reading #nct tarot #nct wavy #kun tarot #xiaojun tarot #ten tarot #lucas tarot #winwin tarot #yangyang tarot #kpop tarot #kpop blog

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fire-but-ashes-too · 7 months

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HI YOU LOOK COOL also i saw your froggy hat drawing and aasifods its so cute

also as someone who literally exclusively listens to like one thing which songs would you associate with your characters ? i'm curious

HIIII U LOOK VERY COOL TOO

okokokok I was LITERALLY thinks Ng about this yeaterdayyyyy aghghh why didn't I write it down nn

Alex: FAMILY LINE BY CONAN GRAY. ABSOLUTELY. also another song I can't remember now but it's probably in the same topic/style

OHHH YES I KNOW DADDY ISSUES BY THE NEIGHBOURHOOD

Anne: Runaway by AURORA for obv reasons and I am not a robot by MARINA cause she had her left arm removed so she has the.. the.. HOW IS IT CALLEDDDDDD THE THING. THAT THING. like the robotic arm?? that one

Indigo: Shatter me by Lindsey Stirling (that song is so good istg the vibessss) Oh No! by MARINA(lots of marina in here hehehe) Right there where you left me by Taylor Swift aaaaand ...what are we by Lizzy McAlpine!

Lee: literally anything from PORTALS by Melanie Martinezzzzzzzz

The-nameless-protagonist: My little dark age by 505 by Arctic Monkeys and My tears ricochet by Taylor Swift

Claire(new oc I drew yesterday hehe): Gods and Monsters by Lana del Rey, Angel of Small Death & the Codeine Scene by Hozier aand uhh definetly something by Florence + the Machine, i just cant remember what

TADAAAAAA

now ill definetly start doing playlists for ocs cause it helps me sm to associate them with songs, AND NOW I HAVE ACTUALLY TIMEEEEEE AAAHHHH

#my ocsssss #and their music #but the music i associate with them osmetimes its different from the one theyd listen to #like #lee would deffo listen to melanie #but tnp would never listen to his songs #alex is absolutely a neighbourhood #indie #kinda vibe #cavetown #clairo #cigarettes after sex #tv girl #yes #.#indigo..#maybe classical music?#and taylor swift #wait im gonna do another post in the tags haha

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sauntervaguelydown · 10 months

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I think the order of “media with queer characters” I consumed as a kid would be something like

“Keeping You a Secret” a novel about teenage lesbian struggles. Within a year or two I had also read the other queer books by the same author “Far From Xanadu” & “Luna”

One of the later books in the shapeshifter fantasy series by Amelia Atwater Rhodes (surprise lesbian end game)

“Tips on Having a Gay Ex Boyfriend” another ya novel. This concludes the entire list of YA novels with gay characters available in 2008

Brokeback Mountain existed but I was too young to watch it… Will & Grace, but I was also too young for that…

There were some secondary gay characters in the SM Stirling Change series (almost all lesbians), I read those around 9th grade…

There was yaoi manga of course—FAKE made a huge impression on me, but there were several other more forgettable comics, and then the odd Depraved Gay Villain in a shonen manga

Then we all watched Kiss Kiss Bang Bang which has Gay Perry, and we loved him of course

Around that time we discovered Reefer Madness the Movie Musical (weird bisexual stuff), Latter Days (indie gay drama about Mormons), and a few other obscure indie gay films all of which were tragic and sad

Jack Harkness existed but as an American I didn’t get to see him in any of his appearances until I was a senior in high school and finally got the BBC america

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kom-poetry-channel · 4 months

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Conans Kongesang

This poem comes from the two first-published Conan stories, The Phoenix on the Sword and The Scarlet Citadel, both of which feature chapter epigraphs some of which are attributed to "The Road of Kings". (Possibly a work by the mad poet Rinaldo whom Conan so admires? But if so, it must be from very early in his kingship, before Rinaldo was corrupted by Thoth-Amon’s Lovecraftian horrors, as it seemingly takes Conan’s perspective.) The stanzas beginning "When I was a fighting-man" and "What do I know of cultured ways" head chapters 2 and 5 of "Phoenix"; "Gleaming shell" down to "Halls of Hell" is in chapter 2 of "Citadel". Thus the poem as presented here reverses the, as it were, conanical order; but as they are chapter epigraphs Howard may well have presented them out of order. In any case it works best this way with the intellectual critique of inherited kingship at the start, and the snarling defiance of "Rush in and die, dogs" at the end to remind the reader of what Conan would have in place of inheritance.

Read enough science fiction, or even Internet, and you'll come across Howard's epigraphs in any number of places - SM Stirling has William Walker quote the "fighting man / mighty king" stanza just before he dies of poisoned wine - but I only recently came across the three extracts put together as a single poem, and was sufficiently struck that I had a rhyming first-draft translation a few hours later. The most difficult couplet was "Right Divine / price of mine", and "mins pris" is accordingly the most awkward phrasing in the Norwegian; moreover, "blod fikk råde" is really not quite the same as "blood was the price", and could just as easily describe the inheritance that Conan is railing against. But no matter, all translation is to some extent re-writing and the essential idea does get across, I think. I'm especially pleased with the alliteration (one-upping Howard just a bit) of "forgylling, fusk og fornuft" and "snedig tunge ... sverdets sang". All those sibilants make a very good defiant hiss for the cornered king's last stand, allowing of course that talking is a free action.

The images are all taken from the Truman adaptation of these Conan stories (along with "Hour of the Dragon", which contains many of the same plot points), published by Dark Horse Comics. I'm quite impressed with the adaptation to the comic format, even the addition of the framing story wherein an elderly Conan narrates these events to the scribe Pramis. The switch from omniscient third-party narration to Conan's retrospective is sometimes a little awkward, as when we see Thoth-Amon quarrel with Ascalante and recover his ring from Dion - events which Conan could not well have witnessed. His voiceover wisely makes one short reference to how he managed to "piece together the details of their plans" from confessions and from Rinaldo's journals, and then ignores the issue entirely. A worse problem is when Howard's narration makes some outside observation of Conan's state of mind, which the adaptation is then forced to have Conan speak as his own insight, as for example "I suppose the instinct of sovereign responsibility might, at times, enter even a red-handed plunderer such as me, eh?" This is not quite verbatim from Howard's "Thus subtly does the instinct of sovereign responsibility enter even a red-handed plunderer sometimes.", but sits much more awkwardly in the mouth of the red-handed plunderer himself. And the awkwardness becomes actively funny when Conan is made to say "the superstitions of my people once again assailed me". I suppose it's possible that the elderly king no longer believes what the middle-aged adventurer did, but even so, most people don't refer to their supernatural beliefs (even former ones) as "superstitions"! But no matter, these are quibbles. Withal it is quite good both as comic and Conan.

Norwegian text:

Det glitrer hult i eldgammel løgn, om konger av guders nåde; som kroner fikk i odel og arv, mins pris, at blod fikk råde! Tronen jeg vant med svette og blod - selge den? Aldri jeg vil! Ikke for løfte om hauger av gull, eller trussel om helvetes ild!

En gang var jeg hærmann, det drønnet i trommer for meg; folket strødde gullstøv foran hvor jeg rei. Men nå, når jeg er konge, lusker de bak min rygg, med dolker rundt hvert hjørne og gift i alle brygg.

Hva vet jeg om det dannede liv, dets forgylling, fusk, og fornuft? Jeg som er født i et nakent land og oppvokst i renkefri luft? Snedig tunge, spissfindige ord, de segner for sverdets sang. Kom, bikkjer, og dø - jeg var en mann, før jeg vant konges rang!

English text:

Gleaming shell of an outworn lie, fable of Right Divine You gained your crowns by heritage, but Blood was the price of mine. The throne I won by blood and sweat, by Crom I will not sell For promise of valleys filled with gold, or threat of the Halls of Hell!

When I was a fighting man, the kettle-drums they beat The people scattered gold dust before my horse's feet. But now I am a mighty king; the people hound my track With poison in my wine cup and daggers at my back.

What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie? I who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky? The subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they fail when the broadswords sing. Rush in and die, dogs — I was a man before I was a king!

#poem #poetry translation #english to norwegian #robert e howard #conans kongesang #the road of kings

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