#blrpstarters

📩  SOS || ALL ROYALS

This wasn’t the first time Tyree had woken up in a hospital bed, but it was certainly the first time he had woken up with no idea of what day of the week it was, or why he was in so much pain. Sure, he’d been under heavy medication to help his body heal, but the pain from the inevitable stitches was still very real to him. He’d asked Shona to leave the room for a bit–begging her to actually go feed herself, promising he would be alright in the time she was gone–and after a good five minutes of trying to convince her through a rough, raspy voice, she finally left begrudgingly. Letting out a shaky breath, he wanted to roll his eyes as the oxygen tube in his nose got in the way. He knew it was mandatory, though. He knew that the pain in his chest, this heaviness, it was not going to go away quickly. But he had done a good thing, an incredible thing, by saving Whitney. And as he laid there in the hospital bed, dark brown eyes staring up at the ceiling, he couldn’t help but think that it was worth it. He’d been able to fight for his own life. It might have been a struggle, but after a week of being unconscious he was finally awake. In pain, yes. With a hoarse voice, yes. But he wasn’t dying, and that was what mattered the most. Hearing someone enter his room he glanced up, a dazed look on his face. “Hey.” He whispered, trying to sit up properly to greet the person, only to find that he couldn’t quite gather the strength to do that.

The music was playing, the girls were dancing, the alcohol was served in spades and various substances were being passed freely around. Sitting there amidst a posse of people, various friends from old schools, girls who wanted to sleep with him, others who had slept with him and, somewhat impressively to him, was still interested. Some just wanted to bask in the spotlight he drew wherever he went. Paparazzi whores, groupies, out for their ten minutes of fame. Art didn’t much mind, they were free to throw themselves at him, laugh at his tame jokes, offer to rub his shoulders or fetch him drinks or even better, give him a BJ. If he played the ‘heavy week at the office’ card, they would happily put their pretty lips wherever he told them to in order to give him some ‘well deserved’ stress release. Some girls were just too easy. There was no challenge, no thrill, no resistance. It was all very tedious. And right now, Art was bored out of his mind. Deciding he was over it, the whole thing, he shoved the girl currently on his lap off, not even hearing her grunt as she fell into someone else and yelled out. No his mind was already on the smoke he was going to have on his way home, wether or not to call his driver Carrick to come pick him up or just walk the five blocks to his penthouse apartment. He reached the door, pushing it open with force, stepping into the cold air. He had only taken a few steps when a voice called out from behind. Annoyance flashed as the male slowly turned on his heels. “Yes? What is it?” he demanded, somewhat impatiently. 

WIth her ankle wrapped in a binding to help with stability, Olivia sat comfortably on a bench in Hyde Park. It was one of the first times she was able to be out and about after her ankle had been broken at the bombing. After several weeks of a cast and even a brace for a short time, she finally looked like a normal person in public again. Taking in the warm rays of the sun, Olivia sat comfortably with her phone in hand listening to a political podcast. Woolf lay at her feet content after just having fetched the same tennis ball at least 100 times in a row. Olivia was stunned to see her hop to attention and bolt towards the person closest to her. “Woolf! Arrêtez!” she commanded, but Woolf continued until she was at the feet of the by standard happily wagging her fluffy golden tail. Olivia stood and walked over to them, “I’m so sorry, she is harmless. She usually follows directions so well,” Olivia attempted to explain as she reattached Woolf’s leash to her harness.

During the course of the evening, Cate had reached exactly two conclusions: 1) deciding to be on best behaviour was all well and good, until you suddenly found yourself jammed into a room with all your bad influences and everyone who knew only the worst side of you, and 2) as far as mysterious, anonymous events went, masquerades did an exceptionally poor job of making people difficult to identity.

“If you think I have not noticed you standing right there gawking for the last 39,” she paused to glace at her Rolex before continuing, “...40 seconds, you are wrong.” After finishing her sentence, Lucia slowly lifted her gaze from the book in front of her and up to the person she was speaking to. “If I were you, I’d say what you want right now. So, what is it do you need? Unless you are press, then you can sod the hell off because I have no comments in regards to the protests aimed at the Prime Minister."

Hospital