st. bastard

Drag queen Daniel

Sir Phillip Michael Lester sat in the smoky lounge. Such a filthy place. Smoke cloaked the air with the scent of a cheap tobacco and whiskey. The musk of hundreds of sweaty, unwashed bodies, packed into a small club filled his nose, and revolted him slightly. He would have excused himself from the scandalous scene hours ago, but he was here for one reason and one reason only. A burlesque show was in town. He had never seen one, but his usual nightly theatre had become too stuffy for his liking. Plus he loved the taboo nature of the whole thing. A man dressed as a woman? He didn’t find it strange at all but he knew his “friends” would. Those snobbish bastards st the club would absolutely die if they knew he was at a burlesque show. How outrightly rougue he had gone in that awfully stiff world of ‘how do you do’ and 'you look stunning madame’. There was one queen in particular he had attended the show for. What was that name? He racked every shelf of his brain for the information. Who was h-she? It rhymed with something. Like…Spaniel Towell? Ugh. Mr. Lester knew that he would remember the name as soon as she stepped on stage, because apparently this woman was unforgettable. He had heard so many things abut her through cut chat in pubs and on the streets while he walked home late in the night. The apparent grace. The supposed beauty. The way she (possibly) moved so seamlessly. He simply could not wait. He had been building this up in his mind ever since he had heard about the show. He had never heard of something so unmentionably illusive. His thoughts were interrupted by the thick red curtain parting to either side of the old wooden stage, and a booming voice. A tall man in white face paint, a red suit jacket and pinstriped pants appeared on stage.
“Welcome one and all to the traveling burlesque stage show!!!” His voice easliy projected throught the small room, with no microphone.
The first queen stepped out. Clad in emerald from head to toe, wearing a bright red wig, and caked cosmetics. A comedian. She was very loud and got in people’s face. Most of the guests enjoyed the rowdy demeanor of the woman, but phil found it undignified. She noticed the subtle disdain on his face, and released a slew of slurs and swears. Phil merely behaved himself and took the insults with a grin. What a superb start to the evening. The next queen stepped on stage. She was short, and sported a little bo peep look. Bright pink lips, a bleached blonde wig, and electric blue eyeshadow. She was very quiet and didn’t really have a lot of sass. She was painfully boring to Phil. She was far too basic. She performed a breathy song, and swooned off stage. The next queen stepped up. Black long wig, black boots, smokey eyeshadow and an ill fitting black leather mini dress. The woman began swaggering about the small platform. She then proceeded to come into the audience and dance on the members. Phil found this to be a bit excessive and lacking in class. She stalked backstage, her dress full of bills. The announcer made an appearance on the stage
“And now, the moment many of you have been awaiting, welcome to the stage, the classiest and badassiest, of our queens tonight.” He paused for an overwhelming applause. Phil felt his hopes raise slightly. “Welcome DANIEL HOWELL!” That was the name he had tried to remember earlier in the evening. All the lights went out and the audience silenced. A melodic voice began singing a tune which swam through Mr lester ears, like musical honey. It was a song like no other.
“Its these substandard motels on the, lalalalala, corner of fourth and Fremont street” the voice cooed. A string quartet joined. This was more his speed. Then a large spotlight illuminated an angel in the center of the stage
“Appealing only because they’re just that unappealing, any practiced catholic would cross themselves upon entering”
This queen had inhuman beauty. He studied her in rapt fascination. He was enamored.
Not wearing a wig like the others. Natural chocolate curls sat atop her head. She rocked a short curly style with shaved sides. The fairly masculine style threw Phil off, but then he looked at her face. Her makeup was so light, but well done and natural. The magenta eye makeup complimented her mocha eyes in a splendor like no other. She rocked a red satin gown. He could not believe his eyes. There was no way in hell that this was a man. Phil felt himself falling back into questioning if he was fully straight.
“ the rooms have a hint of asbestos and just a dash of formaldehyde, and the habit of decomposing right before your very eyes”
Th music picked up slightly
“Along with the people inside! What a wonderful, charicature of intimacy”
She belted out the notes with the same beautiful tone she had earlier, but with more power as the music crescendoed. The song continued. Each note gave the noble a spark of euphoria. He was caught in a trance. She had him in a trance of sirens song and didnt plan to let him go. They locked eyes. She stepped off the stage and began sauntering towards him, avoiding the grubby, groping hands at any side. She maintained the eye contact as she stepped through the sea of filth to the diamond in the rough. The more she neared to the the noble, the more anxiety he felt in his chest. He was a bumbling fool in her presence. She kneeled slightly to get level with his eyes. She sang more passionately now than she had before. Placing a silk gloved hand on his freshly shaven cheek, she began moving closer. Phil was afraid that she would hear his heart racing. He did his best to keep still and play things cool. She slowly, and seemingly begrudgingly distanced herself from his face. She returned to the stage and bowed. The rest of the show passed by like seconds. He couldn’t get his mind to focus on anything but her. His eyes refused to pay attention to any other girl. After the show he left the venue slightly shell shocked. His eyes were a bit glazed over. He walked briskly home, as the time of night caused the streets to get dicey. He suddenly felt something pull his shoulder to turn him around. All he saw next was a fist getting larger and larger. He blacked out. He woke to see a feminine figure walking away. Before he could get his wits about him she was gone. He looked around. He was surrounded by beaten men. All that was left behind, other than limp bodies, was a bloody heel and bag. What happenned? Was all he could think. He hadn’t the energy to play Sherlock, so he simply picked himself up and continued walking back to his flat. The next morning he arose with a splitting headache. Getting himself dressed, he realized he was missing his wallet. He panicked, knowing that if he didnt find it those thugs or that woman had it. He looked through all his drawers. He turned the well furnished flat upside down looking for that stupid wallet. Then he remembered. His jacket. He ran to his front door where it was lying on the ground, crumpled. He must have forgotten to hang it up in his sleepy haze last night. He picked it up and began rifling through the pockets. AH! There it was, his precious wallet. But he felt something else in the pocket. A piece of paper? He didn’t remember putting this in his pocket. He pulled it out and read it.
“Daniel Howell 823-776-8902
You were the only tasteful gentleman in the crowd. Let’s meet up sometime. Ps: I saved your arse and broke a nail in the process. You owe me a drink. ”
Sir Lester simply couldn’t believe his luck


—–
Might do a sequel if requested ;)

Also this isn’t meant to be disrespectful to dnp’s sexualities. Just made this for fun, pls don’t attack me or take this too seriously. Have a nice day lovelies

soon I’m gonna have a second job and be working constantly but like, I love money and that’s less time for me to be depressed

I hate when people try to claim they’re Irish when they’ve never been to Ireland, don’t have any family there, haven’t had any ancestors there since the 1600s, don’t celebrate any Irish traditions, and couldn’t name off 5 different towns in Ireland without using Google.

The same goes for people claiming to be German, Native American, etc etc but I feel like claiming to be Irish is the most common.

“Oh yeah my family is Irish!”

“Cool, where are you from?”

“New York.”

….. y'all have to be kidding me. I’ve had many discussions about this with my friend who actually came here from Dublin, and he doesn’t understand Americans and their bastardization of St. Patrick’s day and many other “Irish” things we celebrate. 

The Dark Horizon: Chapter I

summary:  AU. The Caribbean, 1715: Royal Navy Lieutenant Killian Jones and his brother, Captain Liam Jones, have just arrived to help pacify the notorious “pirate’s republic” of New Providence. But they have dangerous allies, deadly enemies, and no idea what they’re getting into when they agree to hunt the pirate ship Blackbird and the mysterious Captain Swan. (OUAT/Black Sails.)
rating: M
status: WIP
available: FF.net and AO3
notes: You don’t need to have watched Black Sails to read this fic, although those characters will make appearances in supporting roles; it also won’t strictly follow the story of the show.  I’m rating this one M at the outset, and  there also will be violence, foul language, and etc., so you have been duly warned.  Captain Swan/Jewel Queen, Killian & Liam BROTP, Miranda/Flint. (I started a fic about the Jones brothers a long time ago with this title, but it got abandoned, so I’m reusing it.) This first chapter is for the Jones brothers sisterhood, @lenfaz, @prairiepirate, and @queen-mabs-revenge.


A great wall of dark blue cloud lay across the horizon as far as the eye could see, lit underneath with spurs of rose and gold, as if it was a gateway that would roll aside to reveal the path to paradise. The sea was as still as glass and the air nearly so, as yet retaining the lingering coolness of the night that would quickly turn into a tropical inferno. It was June, they having shipped out in April as soon as the spring weather turned favorable for the six-week Atlantic crossing, and if nothing else, Killian Jones had had a formidable respect for the Caribbean sun, and the Caribbean weather in general, quite literally beaten into him. It was perfect and calm now; in an hour there might be a tempest fit to wreck them; an hour more, and doldrums. They had been helped by the westerly trade winds in making their crossing ahead of schedule, due to arrive on the fifteenth of June and it being presently the thirteenth, but not without a hair-raising adventure or two. Thus, as opportune as things looked now for a triumphal landing, he’d just as soon wager on a torrential downpour right when they were trying to get the Governor off the ship. And that, knowing the Governor, would get them bloody blamed for it. No sailor and no man could control the weather, but damn if Lord Robert Gold didn’t think they should.

“Bosun reckons the depth at thirty fathoms,” the quartermaster said, startling him. “Fifteen miles offshore. Assuming a fair day and a bit of wind, we’ll be at St. John’s by noontime, sir.”

“Thank you, Roberts.” Killian turned away from the railing, nodding for the man to retire. He couldn’t stop himself from conducting one last inspection from bowsprit to stern chasers, just to be sure every line, shroud, spar, block, and beam was punctiliously in place and scrubbed to within an inch of its life. He couldn’t wait until this bloody voyage was over. Being elected to transport the new Governor of the Leeward Islands to the Royal Navy’s Caribbean base and home port in Antigua might look like an honor, but Killian was well aware of why they had been selected for the task. The previous governor had been murdered by rebel colonists less than five years ago, the provincial administration was run by corrupt embezzlers out to line their own pockets and barely able to defend from the constant French attempts to steal the islands back, piracy was running rampant from New Providence Island to the north, they had been at declared or undeclared war with Spain for most of the century and the peace was fragile, the exiled Catholic Stuarts were trying a rebellion against the newly crowned Elector of Hanover back in England, and the whole future of newly-minted Great Britain’s lucrative interests in the West Indies, if not possibly Great Britain itself, was at stake. Lord Robert Gold was exactly the sort of man, in Westminster’s thinking, to get a very firm grip on the situation, and it started at home. The Admiralty had suspected for a while that the HMS Imperator was failing to enforce proper codes of conduct and respect for the law, and if Gold detected any hint of laxity, he would trip over himself to file a damning report. Which would result in one, or both, of them being removed from the ship in disgrace to face court-martial and prison. Or worse.

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