beingalive1

[beingalive1]

𝐀𝐧 𝐀𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐏𝐭. 𝟑

Rupert Campbell Black x oc (Lady Francesca Wellington)

Summary: Francesca Wellington was everything Rupert Campbell Black was and more. A successful show jumper with a title and an estate, she had it all. She was a constant reminder of the man he once was. He couldn't help but hate her for it and yet, he loved her for it just the same.

Part two: Here

Part Three: Blindsided by a rival

Author's note: This is a bit of a long one - I got carried away! Hope you all enjoy. Comment if you'd like to be added to this series's taglist x

Francesca only had twenty-four hours before she accepted her ill fate and allowed Freddie Jones to drag her, only mildly kicking and screaming, to Tony Baddingham's painful garden party. She knew her time spent socialising amongst Colchester's most frightfully posh and equally as annoying was inevitable and thus, decided to spend her last few moments of freedom riding across the delectable greens of her surrounding neighbourhood. 

She really was growing to love Colchester. 

In spite of her prying neighbours. 

As part of her position within the English aristocracy, Francesca possessed land and a manor house in Norfolk. It had belonged to her family for centuries and dutifully acted as the backdrop to her adolescent years. It was a large manor house: with red brick walls and green lawns that stretched as far as the eye could see. As a child Francesca would spend her days running across the lawns as fast as her little legs could carry her. Her father would always be there to chase after her. A large smile spread across his kind face as his strong arms enveloped her from behind as she laughed in glee. Their bodies used to stretch in relaxation across the green grass. Even now she could still remember the pricks of the grass blades sending small inconceivable shivers across her skin. They would lie there for hours, only moving when Francesca's mother would coax them inside with dinner and a laugh.

It had been a very long time since she had played without care on a lawn and basked in the sun.

Francesca had been seven when she lost both of her parents to a car crash, her childish mind unaware of and unprepared for the burden that would be placed upon her small shoulders. She used to just be Frannie: a happy child who played on green lawns with her father and ate her mother's food with a smile. When they passed she became Lady Francesca Wellington and with the title came those who preyed upon a grieving girl for money and status. Her extended family, who had once been caring uncles and aunts, became predators who tried everything in their power to revoke Francesca of her home and her title. She was shipped off to boarding school at eight and was continuously told what to do every waking moment of her life until she turned eighteen. 

The only thing that ever brought her comfort was her horses. 

It was the only thing boarding school ever allowed her to have. A successful horse rider in their midst made the school look good. Her headmaster even accompanied Frank to her competitions; not that his presence ever provided any comfort or joy. The only part of her family that enjoyed horses were her parents. The rest never rode or competed in riding competitions. Riding was the only thing that solely belonged to her. It was the only thing that couldn't ever be taken from her. 

It was hers and only hers. 

When Francesca finally turned eighteen and assumed her position as Lady of the Manor, she happily accepted the title of the black sheep of the family. She ceased all contact with her extended family, left school early, and turned all of her focus towards her goal of becoming an olympic show jumper. She would rather be an outcast and spend the rest of her days with horses than with those who felt it fit to send away a grieving child. It was then she hired Marty as her coach and riding instructor. He was a portly man with a mildly balding head and a large black beard but he was also the only man who looked at her as a person instead of a means to an end. He reminded her of Freddie in that way: their inexplicable kindness. 

She moved out of the manor pretty soon after her eighteenth birthday. 

She briefly lived with Marty, his wife and their five children. Their small farm just outside of Colchester was much more cosier and full of life than the manor would ever be without her parents. It was here that she continued to prepare for the Los Angeles Olympics; winning her gold medal at eighteen. The first woman and youngest person to ever achieve gold for individual show jumping. 

Francesca finally moved out after winning the gold medal. She felt as if she had overstayed her welcome and created a permanent dent in Marty's living room couch. 

She moved into an old rundown manor in Penscombe. She had purchased it when she was nineteen and spent the last few years refurbishing it. Unlike most her age, Francesca did not spend her twenty-first birthday drinking or celebrating with friends. She spent it hanging pictures of her dogs and horses all along the manor's walls. The new manor, a stately house with a warm feel, was just left of the Vereker's Lake House and adjacent to a thick luscious wood where she often rode. It had clearly been decorated by a twenty-year old: its walls were splashed with wild colours and its rooms were furnished with outlandish furniture that would only be purchased by a young woman with too much money and absolutely no care for interior design. However, the manor felt like home and was free of the painful memories of a child forced to grow up too soon. 

Presently, at the ripe age of twenty-two, Francesca found herself cantering through her woods at a brisk pace. Bruno, short for Brutus Maximus, her friesian and favourite dressage horse wound his way through the beaten path of the woods with dexterity. His breath escaped into the woodland air in gleeful snorts as they enjoyed their afternoon together. Bruno, true to his breed, had a nasty habit of being scared of everything that moved. His large black body was seen normally as a small spot in the distance as he galloped away in fear; most likely taking Francesca along with him as an unwilling passenger. After one too many times spent galloping powerlessly around Colchester, Francesca had made taking him out for a ride through the woods once a week a habit in order to expose him to the horrors of the English countryside. She learnt he rather enjoyed the woods in favour of their usual routine of time spent practicing dressage in the manor's arena. 

She couldn't blame him, the woods were euphoric at this time of year. 

They carried on, slowing down to a trot as they passed Penscombe Court. Francesca had heard from her staff that a retired horse rider lived in the large house that sat regally on top of green grass. She had yet to meet them. Her schedule continuously filled with time spent traveling the world with her horses; each championship tournament strangely coinciding with the few and far between weeks her mysterious neighbour was home. 

Her and Bruno had just turned the corner when they were assaulted by the shocking sight of a young woman running at them at full speed with her dog not far behind. 

Bruno, like any rational horse who had been consistently trained to deal with the unexpected, immediately reared up onto his hind legs and knocked the poor woman flat on her back in fright. Francesca held on, her feet still in the stirrups with the ease of an experienced rider. She rode Bruno back down onto all four of his feet and calmly petted his neck as she slipped off his side and walked over to the poor girl he had nearly scared to death. "You alright?" Frank asked.

"I'm so sorry." The woman exclaimed as she pulled herself to her feet. "I wasn't looking where I was going and-"

"It's no problem." Francesca cut her off, her hands still grasping Bruno's reins as the horse began to calmly munch on some grass next to his owner as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. "He's just quite melodramatic really," Francesca said, her eyes glancing briefly at Bruno before rolling back into her head with a smile, "we've been working on dealing with his frights for quite a while now. Clearly not working hard enough. I'm Francesca." 

The woman looked at her with wide eyes. She had red hair, its tresses a slight wave in comparison to Francesca's wild curl. "I-I-I'm Taggie." She uttered out, her voice chipped with exertion. "Agatha."

Francesca smiled, "It's nice to meet you Taggie, you can call me Frank if you'd like." Taggie smiled back, she found Frank's smile bright and infectious. Frank was the first person she had met that was not over the age of forty or under the age of sixteen. Frank was also the first person who had acknowledged Taggie as a singular entity rather than a small part of the O'hara pack. Taggie hoped they could be friends, she was so delighted she nearly forgot about the fire. 

Oh yes. The fire. 

Taggie's eyes widened further, her face whipping towards Penscombe court. "There's a fire!" 

It was only then that Frank even noticed the smoke billowing from behind the large house of Penscombe court, it did make a rather alarming sight. It's grey clouds instantly polluting the once blue sky. Frank knew the fire was only part of the harvest process and couldn't help but grin at Taggie's alarmed face. "It's a controlled fire," Frank began slowly, her tone the same octave she used to calm her horses when they were frightened. Taggie did vaguely resemble Frank's chestnut appaloosa Quickstep in this very moment. "It's for the harvest." 

Though Frank thought it was impossible, in some inconceivable way Taggie's eyes widened even further. "But what about the animals that live in the fields? The rabbits, the foxes, they all just die?" 

Frank looked at Taggie, her hazel eyes gazing at Tag's blue ones in wonder. It was the first time she had ever met someone who was as sensitive as her when it came to the lives of animals. Most of the people in Colchester didn't care one bit for the wellbeing of the small creatures who lived within the fields. Taggie was a welcomed change in pace. Frank thought her and Taggie would make brilliant friends. "I know," Frank began with a small shake to her head, "it's absolute bollocks but it's not my property. Can't tell them what to do with their own land."

Taggie didn't even bat an eyelid at Frank's use of language. Frank liked her even more now. "Oh no." Tag sighed out, her hand moving to rest against her forehead as she closed her eyes in despair. "I called the fire brigade." 

Frank couldn't help herself, a large bellowing laugh escaping her chest as she gazed at Taggie's exasperated face. "You didn't!" Frank exclaimed.

"I did." Tag stated, unable to contain the small giggle that escaped her chest. Like her smile, Frank's laugh was also infectious. 

"Well we must go tell the person who lives there." Frank said, her head nodding towards Penscombe Court. 

"Yeah....we must." Tag stated in reluctant agreement, embarrassment flowing through her veins. 

The two women made their way through the fields towards Penscombe court, Bruno and Taggie's dog Gertrude trailing behind them. They began talking. Frank learning that Taggie was part of the O'hara family who had just moved into the Priory. Tag learned that Frank lived alone yet had multiple horses and spent most of her days riding. They bonded over their similar ages and the lack of young people in Colchester. Taggie silently wondered how her new friend could afford a luscious Manor House in Colchester at the age of twenty-two. Frank never mentioned her profession or her fame. 

They quickly made their way to Penscombe Court. 

In the same moment, Rupert served a cheeky shot towards Sarah Stratton. He watched her with a sly smile, gazing at her breasts as she bounced across the court. They bantered as they played: talking about Rupert's scandalous reputation and Sarah's even more scandalous rise to fame as Paul Stratton's wife. 

Sarah attempted to hit a shot back, the green ball flying wildly above the court and landing in a bush about three metres away from the boundary fence. They laughed. 

"So," Rupert began, bending down towards another ball sat upon the surface of the court. He could feel Sarah's eyes upon his backside and smirked wickedly as he served the next shot. "do you know who moved into the old manor near the Verekers?" Rupert had heard someone young and famous had completely refurbished the old home and its grounds. He had yet to meet them but secretly hoped it would be a woman. Preferably beautiful and without too many morals. 

Sarah failed to return this ball as well. They laughed once more.

He bent down to pick up another one. "Some famous horse rider, Paul was talking about her non-stop last night at dinner." Sarah began. Rupert served once more. "Francis Williams or something." 

Sarah missed the ball again. She was the only one to laugh this time. 

"Francesca Wellington?" Rupert asked stoically, all of his former thoughts and movements grinding to a halt. 

Sarah nodded, completely unaware of her tennis partner's sudden seriousness. "Yes that's it! Paul told me she is preparing for some championship in Spain soon. I wasn't listening." 

It was the European show jumping championships. They happened every year. This time they were in Mallorca, Spain. A small town with a world class riding centre. Rupert had been trying to avoid thinking about it much. He was failing miserably. It was all he had thought about in the last few days. The wish to ride in that championship again felt like an itch under his skin that he would never be able to scratch. He had won the championship seven times by the time he had retired. Francesca had already won it four times and had only entered the professional riding circuit officially six years ago. She won it the first time she competed in the championship, age sixteen, accompanied by her school headmaster to the prize giving ceremony. He couldn't believe she was less than two kilometres away from him at this very moment. 

A ball rolled past his foot. He didn't notice. 

Francesca Wellington was similar to him in many ways: a member of the English aristocracy, a winner of an olympic gold medal for individual show jumping and now a member of the Colchester community. 

But she was also everything he was not. 

She was still a rider. She kept her life very private and was hardly ever seen by the press or present in the papers. Her sexual exploits were never painted across The Scorpion and unlike him, she was never known to drink heavily at garden parties. Unlike him, she had no need to fill a void in her chest caused by retiring from riding with women and drinks. Unlike him, there was no void in her chest. She was still a rider. She still competed. 

She had it all. 

Compared to Francesca Wellington he had nothing. 

"Rupert!" Sarah called out from the other side of the court, a second ball rolling past his foot as he shook himself out of his stupor. "Wake Up! I can't hit a bloody thing I need help!" 

Rupert grinned, willing his mind away from Francesca Wellington and back to Sarah Stratton's tan skin as he finally returned a shot. He would just have to avoid Francesca Wellington; avoid her and all the memories of his past that she represented. His estate was massive. Wellington's home was far from his own. It couldn't be too difficult. 

Every single delusion Rupert Campbell Black had just formed within his mind to sway his thoughts from Francesca Wellington were promptly destroyed by an auburn haired woman running onto the court. 

Frank had told Taggie to go ahead of her as she tied Bruno's rains to Penscombe Court's boundary picket fence. The red head had immediately disappeared into the confines of the large estate. Frank's new friend marched through the garden of Penscombe Court with the enthusiasm of a military general, Taggie was vaguely terrifying. Frank patted Bruno on his neck, his nose buried halfway into one of the garden's bushes. "Be back in a moment boy," She said, walking in the same direction as to where Taggie disappeared. "Do try not to miss me too much." Bruno didn't even acknowledge her departure. 

Frank calmly meandered through Penscombe Court's gardens, her eyes admiring the beauty of the grounds. She paused every few moments to smell a particular fragrant rose or to gaze at a voluptuous daffodil. She assumed Taggie was more than able to speak to the owner of the house alone. Her eyes caught the sight of some luscious Hydrangeas. Her mind immediately thought back to her own garden where the same plant had been reduced to a shrivelled mess. She had to speak to her gardener Dennis about new potting soil, it was a dire situation. 

A naked woman ran through the garden at the speed of light. 

Frank glanced up at her in shock, her eyes blinking multiple times to ensure she was not hallucinating. Sure enough, a blonde woman with tan skin was hightailing it out of the estate's garden with merely a green towel held to her chest. Frank figured it was only proper to investigate where the woman came from. 

She entered a tennis court.

Francesca found Taggie, situated on the other side of the court, shouting at a similarly naked man to whom she assumed was the owner of the estate. She surveyed the situation, the tennis balls strung around the court and the man standing proudly with only a towel covering his nether regions. It felt vaguely as if Frank and Taggie had stumbled across the set of an old sports themed pornography. 

"Sorry for the delay," Frank began, Taggie and the man seizing their argument as they turned to stare at her. "I stopped to the smell the roses." 

Rupert felt his breath seize within his chest. His lips parting as he gazed at her. 

Francesca recognised him as Rupert Campbell Black. The nudity somehow now felt less alarming. She vaguely remembered him from her medal ceremony at the Olympics but her mind back then was too focussed on the shiny hardware within his hand to really notice him. She did occasionally watch the telly though, and thus was aware of his many sexual exploits. 

Never in a million years would she had thought Rupert to be her neighbour: he seemed too restless to live in Colchester. And yet here he was, stark naked on a tennis court. 

Taggie shook her head at Rupert, her face full of fury as she stomped towards Francesca and exited the tennis courts. Rupert continued to gaze at Frank in a stupor. 

Frank smiled awkwardly. "Mr Campbell Black." She said, acknowledging him with a slight nod to her head. "Sorry to spoil your tennis." She turned and began to exit after Taggie, her steps halting as she glanced back at the man for a moment. He still had yet to move. "lovely gardens by the way." 

He watched her go. His plan to avoid her at all costs immediately thrown out of the window. 

So much for his delusions.

[beingalive1]

𝐀𝐧 𝐀𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐏𝐭. 𝟐

Rupert Campbell Black x Oc (Lady Francesca Wellington)

Summary: Francesca Wellington was everything Rupert Campbell Black was and more. A successful show jumper with a title and an estate, she had it all. She was a constant reminder of the man he once was. He couldn't help but hate her for it and yet, he loved her for it just the same.

Part one : Here

Part two: Coerced by a friend

As the tyres of the O'hara's family vehicle graced the gravel of the Priory's driveway, Francesca Wellington was doing what she considered a valuable part of her daily regiment: 

dancing in her underwear to Donna Summer's 'Bad Girls.' 

The athlete sighed blissfully as cigarette smoke wafted from her pink lips, her feet shifting rapidly along the fluffy carpet set upon one of her home's many living room floors. Her tan skin glimmered in the sunlight that poured through large bay windows overlooking her estate. Green grass and flowers hypnotic with scent played a delightful background to her mildly risqué dancing. Her body moved along to the beat of the music, her curtain of dark curls swayed in time with each of Donna Summer's lyrics. 

She was in absolute bliss. Nothing could spoil her mood. 

Not even Freddie Jones, who, for the last ten minutes had been knocking loudly on the door of her home. The portly man wiped his forehead in annoyance, his moustache twitching. He knocked once more. No response. 

He huffed as he pushed the door open. It was unlocked, as always. His ears were promptly assaulted by loud music wafting from the large home's second lounge. He minced forward, his eyes taking in the many familiar pictures of horses and other animals displayed proudly upon the tall walls of the entrance hall. The dogs greeted him at the door: two Saint Bernards, a golden retriever and a basset hound. Their tales wagged in sink as they hounded Fred, a usual guest. He stumbled forward, his mildly ill-fitting suit now covered in copious amounts of hair. He wandered towards the living room, catching sight of Francesca in her state of undress. 

"Jesus Christ!" The man spouted out, his hand jumping to cover his eyes from the sight in front of him: Francesca dressed in only a pair of red panties and a silk cami. 

"Freddie." Francesca greeted calmly as she moved towards the stereo to pause the music, her tan legs slowly stepping across the carpet with grace only possessed by swans and athletes. "No Valerie today?"

Freddie sighed, his eyes now fixating on the rug below his feet. His eyes staring deeply at the blue pattern of the carpet as he slowly made his way to the couch. "No Frank, not today." he replied. Thank god. He could only imagine his wife's face if she too had walked in on the antics of one of his closest friends; he figured he'd swiftly be banned from ever seeing Frank again.

Francesca, or Frank as Freddie referred to her as, disposed of her now finished cigarette into an ashtray before wrapping herself up in a silk gown and placing herself next to her dear friend. She had met Freddie Jones the week she moved to Rutshire. She had been on a run, training for the next riding world championships when Freddie had very nearly ran her over with his bright red sports car. He apologised and offered her a ride home; she told him that she'd only accept his apology if he could secretly bum her a pack of cigarettes behind the back of her riding instructor, Marty.

They became good friends swiftly after that.  

"So Fred-Fred," Frank mocked gently, "not that I don't enjoy your visits but why exactly are you here  disturbing my afternoon cigarette and session of dancing in the nude?" Due to the strict regiment of an olympic athlete assigned to her by her multiple trainers; coaches; and Marty (who she more feared then respected): Frank was only allowed one cigarette a day. To disturb her whilst she smoked was either a considerably brave act or, considerably stupid. Freddie Jones was definitely not a stupid man. She couldn't help but wonder why exactly he was so desperate to speak to her at this hour. 

Freddie shifted uncomfortably, his back leaning against the copious amounts of pillows set upon Frank's couch. He tried his level best to avoid her eyes. He knew, with one look into that sharp stare of hers he would be instantly coerced into talking. Freddie swallowed deeply, his hands finding comfort in stroking the hair of Barnaby: Frank's Basset hound who too had found himself on the couch. The basset  lying blissfully asleep between Frank and Freddie's laps, acting almost as a protective barrier between Freddie and the spitfire he affectionately called his friend. "...Tony Baddingham is having a garden party at his estate in the next two days. Valerie is desperate for us to go and I was wondering if you could maybe come with? I know you must have been invited and-" He was swiftly cut off by Frank jumping off the couch and walking towards the other side of the living room. He watched her worriedly, his hand still stroking Barnaby who now appeared frustrated at his owner for disturbing his slumber. 

"Absolutely not I don't do press Fred." Francesca shook her head, her curls flapping ferociously along with the movement. Freddie often thought, despite her gracious and humble disposition in front of the cameras and the Olympic committee, that his friend resembled a  fire. Just as warm and as comforting  as the flames but also just as dangerous. She looked like every other Lady: with aristocratic features and a slim athletic body, but her hair was as wild as her soul. 

Freddie continued to pet Barnaby slowly, his eyes watching Frank as she looked outside towards the fields containing her horses. Fred knew Frank only looked towards her horses or her dogs when she felt uncomfortable. The confident and strong-minded woman only ever felt true peace within the company of her many animals. "Frank," he started gently, "it's only one party and you could avoid the photographers at the front gate by sneaking inside within the boot of my car?"

Francesca smiled slightly, the mental image of her body draped in some ridiculously expensive dress being stuffed within the confines of Freddie's car boot made her want to giggle. "You couldn't fit me in that ridiculous sports car of yours."

"No," Freddie chuckled slightly "I couldn't. But I doubt Val would mind you being stuffed in her boot beside her party gift for the Baddinghams."

Frank outwardly laughed this time, her thoughts drifting towards lying in a boot parallel to some ridiculous gift basket Valerie would purchase for Tony and Monica Baddingham. "Fine," she conceded. She could never say no to the sweet smile of Freddie Jones. "But I'm not buying them a bloody gift."

"Darling." Freddie began, walking from the couch towards her and placing his hand upon her shoulders. "Your presence is more than an appropriate gift." 

She snorted, lightly slapping the lapel of his suit. Her feet stepped away from Freddie and walked across the blue carpet towards her pack of cigarettes. She lit another one, smoke puffing its way from her lips and swirling around the large room. Freddie opened his mouth to protest but was swiftly stopped by Frank's manicured hand lifting up into the air. "Uh-uh, I deserve this if I'm going to be spending my weekend conversing with Tony Baddingham and all of his entitled friends." 

Freddie nodded in begrudging agreement, a smile perched upon his lips as he gazed at her in thanks. "Thank you Frank." He said genuinely. 

"It's alright. Better you and I face those sharks together than you alone." She said, shrugging off his thanks as she often did. "Besides, how bad could one afternoon listening to Tony Baddingham beg me to join Corinium's board be?"  

If only she knew. 

[beingalive1]

𝐀𝐧 𝐀𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐏𝐭. 𝟏

Rupert Campbell Black x Oc (Francesca Wellington)

Summary: Francesca Wellington was everything Rupert Campbell Black was and more. A successful show jumper with a title and an estate, she had it all. She was a constant reminder of the man he once was. He couldn't help but hate her for it and yet, he loved her for it just the same.

Part One: The making of a rivalry.

Part Two: here

July 1984: Los Angeles Summer Olympics

The day Lady Francesca Wellington met Rupert Campbell Black he could've been stark naked dancing around in circles and she still wouldn't have noticed him. 

Standing upon a podium in the middle of the prestigious arena belonging to the Santa Anita Racetrack, Francesca felt her skin burn under the heat of the sun. Unlike in England, the sky of Los Angeles was clear. The Californian heat bared down upon her without mercy. She felt the collar of her blazer rub uncomfortably against her neck; the red material becoming damp with sweat as time continued on. Her riding hat shifted slightly as she looked upon the cheering crowd above her. 

The crowd that was cheering for her. 

The uncomfortable heat did nothing to subdue her feelings of utter euphoria. Her body felt like it had been set alight. Her veins were filled with fire. Sweat beaded down her forehead; its salty path flowed from the tip of her head and settled on the edge of her upper lip.  Her mind was chaos: her thoughts bounced between her ears.

She couldn't think; she couldn't breathe. She didn't care one bit. 

She was given the  gold medal by a man. His tan fingers graced the side of her face as he placed it around her neck. It was heavy, heavy with the weight of accomplishment. She didn't look at the man, her eyes were fixated upon the medal as he briskly stepped away. 

She lifted the medal from her chest and placed a cheeky kiss upon its golden side. The cameras flashed excitedly as Lady Francesca Wellington's lips grazed the cool surface of the medal in glee. 

Every eye in that arena watched in admiration as Lady Francesca Wellington claimed her title as the first woman to win an Olympic gold in individual showjumping. 

Every eye except Rupert Campbell Black. 

The day Rupert Campbell Black met Lady Francesca Wellington she could've been Mother Theresa reincarnated and he still wouldn't have liked her. 

Being given the "honour" of handing out the gold medal for show jumping in the first Olympics since he had retired felt like a knife jabbed directly into his stomach. He had been coerced into it by his old riding friends, the Tori party and a few members of the Olympic sports committee. They told him it would be good for his image as an MP to remain present in the riding community. He felt as if it was all a cruel joke reminding him of his failures. 

His failure as a rider forced to retire. His failure as a husband, a father,  a politician. 

His failure as a man. 

Rupert stood in the sand of the blistering hot arena. His ears rang at the sound of the adoring crowd as he was faced with the man he used to be. A rider, a star, a man who dominated show jumping with ease. He was greeted by memories: memories of him as a boy riding ponies around his estate to days spent galloping with his friends.  

He watched her with a diplomatic smile as she claimed the first place position on the podium.

It felt as if he was bearing witness to the erasure of his legacy. 

The British anthem sounded on the loud speakers as he picked up the gold medal from its designated case; the very same anthem they played for him four years prior. The soft skin of her cheek grazed the side of his hand as he placed the medal around her neck. She looked down towards her medal with glee. He looked at her with jealousy. 

Only a few selected riders in the world could understand the high of winning a gold medal for showjumping. A high he would do anything to feel again. He stepped away from the podium in haste and marched out the arena, his assistant running behind frantically. 

All eyes were on Lady Francesca Wellington as she reached the epitome of her riding career. 

No one noticed Rupert Campbell Black walk away from his. 

[beingalive1]

Hey! Can I request a Clark x reader where they're dating but reader doesn't know Clark is superman. And then superman interacts with them for whatever reason and is flirty bc that's his person!!! But reader is like ☝️ hey buddy back off. I'm HAPPILY taken

this is such a cute request!!!! Argh!!!!

clark kent/superman x gn!reader. fluff, brief danger but r is okay. superman flirting with you but he's dating you? he's just a goober. i lub him <3 PLEASE feel free to imagine maws!clark. I feel like this is very himcore 🥰

****

Being a florist in Metropolis is good work. Lots of people still buy flowers, which is great. Many actually buy bouquets for Superman and leave them on display as support. Poppies, yellow tulips, and cornflowers. They're one of your favorite arrangements.

The downside to being a florist in Metropolis, however, is that on occasion, your flower display ends up the target of a killer robot.

You're not sure why that is. Mostly, you wish people would stop building killer robots.

You've gone outside to see what the commotion is about when you're grabbed by a metal claw. It squeezes hard, almost cutting off your air. You squirm in terror as the robot stomps down Main Street, crushing cars and asphalt in its wake.

"Help!" you scream when you catch your breath, and the robot squeezes you harder.

A dizzying blur of red, yellow, and blue zips past you. You think of your flowers.

The blur cuts through the metal like nothing. The robot begins to collapse, twitching and groaning. Its metal creaks, grip loosening on your body.

You hardly fall before Superman is there, cradling you to his chest.

"I've got you," he says, tucking you close.

You look up at him, and he beams at you, like saving you from a killer robot has been the best part of his day.

Come to think of it, Superman came to your aid surprisingly fast, even for him.

And he holds you... intimately. Like you've known him for years. Your heart picks up.

"Uh," he says, cheeks flushed. "Are–are you okay?"

You smile politely, arms around his neck. "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, Superman."

He nods, flying down the street. "Good. I'll get you back to your shop and clean up the flowers."

You tilt your head. "How do you know I'm a florist?"

Superman looks at you, blue eyes wide.

"Oh! I... uh, I've seen your arrangements all over the city. They're beautiful. I'd never forget that they belong to an equally beautiful face."

Goodness. If Superman is this forward with everyone he rescues, it's no wonder your flower arrangements are in high demand.

"I'm flattered," you begin, and Superman once again aims that grin with the power of a thousand suns at you. "But, respectfully, I'm very happily taken, so I would appreciate it if you'd keep this rescue professional."

Superman raises an eyebrow. To your surprise, he smiles wider.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't realize you were taken. My sincerest apologies. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable."

"No, it's alright. I'm honored, but you couldn't pull me away from my boyfriend even with your super strength."

Superman's cheeks turn pinker. He sets you down in front of your store with the utmost care, not letting go until you have your bearings. He takes a step back, rubbing his neck. The gesture makes your brain itch. You don't know why.

"Well, uh, he must've done something right if he's lucky enough to be with you."

"Luck has nothing to do with it," you say fiercely. You don't know why you're so indignant about defending Clark's reputation to Superman. It's not like Clark will ever hear about it.

"No?"

"Not at all. He's an incredible person, kind and smart and loving, and if anyone's lucky, it's me."

Superman makes an aborted gesture to take your hand, then redirects and awkwardly pats your arm instead. You squint at him. He quickly moves away.

"Ah. Sorry. Well, I doubt that. I bet you're equally spectacular."

"Oh. Thank you."

You primly take his hand and give it a good shake. Superman bows his head and laughs.

He takes a step back, eyes bright like you've just made his day.

"Well, I wish you the best with your boyfriend. I'm sorry for being so forward. I've seen your Superman bouquets; your reputation precedes you. I make it a point to know reputed people in Metropolis."

"I can't imagine I'm very high on that list," you say.

"Ah, you'd be surprised. Besides, I never forget a face."

Superman darts behind you and moves at neckbreaking speed to clean up your partially maimed flowers. In three seconds, it's returned to its former glory.

"Well, uh, I'll be seeing you," Superman says, hands clasped behind his back. "I mean, I hope not in a circumstance like this! Th-then again, when else would we see each other? Scratch that, I hope there's no reason for us to cross paths because that would mean you're in danger. Uh, but I don't mean that in a bad way! I just—"

You snort and reach over to take a yellow tulip from your display. You give it to Superman, who takes it like you've just handed him a newborn baby.

"I'm still taken," you say. "But you're very sweet, Superman. Take care, alright?"

"Yeah," he says, tucking the tulip into the strap of his cape. "Yes, you too. Goodbye!"

He soars away, the tulip like a star on his cape.

Superman is handsome and kind, no doubt. But he's certainly no Clark Kent.

[beingalive1]

Bibi And Her Blue-Eyed Baby ⎯ Pt. 2

Rosie Rosenthal x Oc [Batya Bernstein]

Part 1: Here

Summary: Coerced by Harry Crosby to sing at Captain Dye's 25th mission celebration, Batya spends her evening crooning on stage. Her dulcet tones enchanting everyone around her. Finally calling it a night Batya runs into someone unexpected as she breaks for the door, her toe almost breaking in the process...At least her attacker sounds rather guilty.

Author's Note: Ok so I sad a couple of days - I lied. I'm a woman obsessed so here is another chapter! Hope you enjoy x

September 20th, 1943

The evening had come too quickly. Frozen fingers gripping the singular telephone belonging to the entirety of the female officer dorms – manicured red fingernails shining as she gripped the cord with a newfound sense of cold. Even inside the confines of her dorm she couldn’t feel her ears, the scarf tightly wrapped around her face doing nothing to quell the icy breeze of the English air. Nights like these made her miss New York and her apartment’s central heating.

Her father’s voice transcended through the earpiece; it was too late to be listening to such loud exclamations. How stupid she was for leaving home and joining the war effort. How disappointed he was. How the Rabbi was no longer joining them for breaking of the fast on Yom Kippur due to her terrible behaviour. How he would most definitely have to build a second structural addition to the synagogue in order to make up for such a blunder. He briefly had mentioned her mother: how her mama had not stopped crying in multiple rooms of their apartment staining his new white fringe carpets. Batya assumed she had about ten more minutes of him shouting about shame and the rabbi before he eventually gave up trying to convince her to jump on the next boat back home and ask her what she was having for dinner. She’d tell him she was having whatever the cooks at the mess hall were making, he’d get upset again and rant for another ten minutes.

She’d been dealing with the same scenario for the last year. 

Holding the telephone in her left hand and a cigarette in her right, Batya balanced the earpiece of the phone precariously between her ear and the dirty white dorm room wall. Her eyes drifted around the metal tin box she had called home since she had been shipped over to Thorpe Abbots in the winter months of early 1942. It was unnaturally quiet without the poignant rush of the other girls. Her fellow officers most likely dancing the evening away in their sensible heels down at the officer’s club. She longed to be there. Her father’s speech of shame continued on in her ear. 

Abandoning her park avenue apartment and condemning her parents to a never-ending cycle of shame within the community, Batya had joined the war effort with a smile upon her red-rimmed lips. She was an Air-traffic operator and a damn good one at that. Her dulcet tones no longer crooning across a jazz club in downtown New York, but guiding her many pilots through take-offs and landings onto the cold tarmac of Thorpe Abbots air base. She leaned on the dorm room wall; hair tucked up into what her mother would surely dub as an “unflattering” bun. Her khaki dress uniform tight upon her figure. Thanks to good old President Roosevelt she had finally been granted a rank along with a pretty little badge upon the lapel of her uniform jacket. Second Lieutenant Bernstein. She thought it sounded pretentious, but it gave her first dibs on the red-cross donuts ahead of the other girls every morning, so she didn’t mind it too much. Helen, one of the red cross girls, had told Batya she looked professional with her bronze badge. Batya figured Helen just wanted a friend with a higher ranking than most of the male officers. 

Perks of the job.  

Her father’s time spent raving about her choices in life had finally come to an end. Batya had briefly said goodbye with horribly pathetic kissing noises and a poignant slam of the telephone onto its hook. She had places to be. A crowd to impress. Stepping out of the freezing interior of her dorm and into the even cooler exterior of Thorpe Abbots air base, Batya made her way to the officer’s club with a brisk pace. Her hands stuffed so deeply within her pockets she could feel the rough stitching of her dress jacket. She silently cursed whoever had made it compulsory for female officers to wear a sensible skirt and stockings with their dress jackets in favour of her comfortable tweed work trousers.  It must have been a man, only a man would think woman would prefer to freeze their assess off in the icy tundra that is the English Countryside. 

She heard him before she saw him.

The faint sound of his atrocious voice paired with the crushing noise of gravel under rubber tyres echoed through her ears. She continued on walking. Maybe if she pretended to ignore him, he’d drive past her. She heard the sound of the vehicle coming to a halt. Her eyes meeting his cheeky grin with a slight turn of her head. She was never so lucky. ‘Songbird.’ He greeted cheerfully, his tone dripping with excitement. She briefly wondered what he would do if she stopped and lay down in the path of his jeep’s tyres. Hopefully drive. 

Deciding that taking a ride in his jeep would get her to the officer’s club and out of the cold much quicker than walking in her uncomfortable heels, she climbed carefully into the passenger’s seat. He took off without haste. A cloud of dust formed in their wake. They drove swiftly across base, headlights illuminating the greenery of the surrounding English farmland. He lent across from his seat and reached towards the console placed in front of her person: two cigarettes. He held his face towards her as she lit the one placed within his mouth. ‘So,’ he began, his eyes stilling upon her figure before drifting back to the road. ‘heard you singing tonight.’

Her fingers found their place wrapped around her cigarette. The warm smoke emulating from her mouth a small aid in her fight against the cold. Her scarf blowing in the breeze behind her. If she were with anyone else it would seem almost romantic, an evening drive around the countryside, but she was with him. He wouldn’t know romance if it hit him in the face. ‘Yeah,’ she replied coyly, ‘you jealous?’ 

He laughed, a rough sound breaking through the stillness of their surroundings. ‘No’ he exclaimed, his chuckle still resounding through his words, ‘excited to hear you is all. Crosby’s been raving about you for a week now.’ 

Harry Crosby. The unlucky navigator had been in charge of the decorating committee for the little soiree they were on their way to. Celebrating Captain Glenn Dye completing his 25th mission. Hearing rumours about her enchanting voice from the red cross girls: Crosby had asked her to sing. She would have been ecstatic to preform again if it was for anyone else; but Captain Dye had given her dormmate Susan the clap and she was secretly hoping he’d be medically prevented from flying for weeks now. No such luck. The bastard came back unscathed. ‘Well,’ She sighed her eyes drifting to the officer’s club as it flew into view, ‘hope it lives up to your expectations Major.’ 

They screeched to a halt, her feet already on the ground by the time he had ran around the jeep to help her out. Major John Egan shook his head at her with a smile. ‘You, Bernie, never fail to make a gentleman feel small.’ It was said as a compliment, but the use of her nickname made her roll her eyes in frustration. She grabbed his arm roughly, he chuckled. Bernie. A new nickname given to her by one of her many pilots. They had been rather shocked at the realisation that their flight operator was a woman, but had quickly warmed up to her brash and sarcastic commentary. She had a sneaky suspicion it had to do with the pilot whose arm she held at this very moment. He had always seemed rather forward thinking. She might’ve even had found him chivalrous - if he wasn’t so downright annoying.  

Her red fingernails tapped his cheek in farewell, ‘See you later Johnny boy.’  A smile breaking out upon her face as she entered the warmth of the club. Removing her scarf, she placed it on the overrun hatstand by the club’s entrance door. The stand tilting slightly due to the sheer number of coats upon its hooks. He hated being called Johnny, but she figured it was a fair trade for the hideous name he and his crewmates had given her. Colonel Harding had been extremely confused as to why they were calling her by a man’s name; it had taken two meetings and five cups of coffee to reassure the Colonel that it was merely a nickname and that no man named Bernie was helping her in the radio tower. 

She almost killed Egan.

Her eyes caught the group of women she had been looking for: khaki uniforms of her fellow officers and the blue tint of red cross badges shining brightly in the warm light of the club. They cheered as she caught their eye; her girls welcoming her with a pat on her back and a cold iced martini thrusted into the palm of her hand. She sipped it slowly, the bitter taste bright upon her tongue. 

‘So’ began Helen, her face flushed due to the heat of the room and most definitely a few gin and tonics, ‘How was your talk with your dad?’ Helen’s voice, tinted with warmth and interest, was loud throughout the rush of the room. The small woman definitely succeeding in being heard despite the chaos of the club. 

Batya sighed as she swirled her drink. Ice tinkling against the sides of her glass as she thought back to her previous conversation. ‘Same old same old.’ She started, her finger immediately cooled as it entered her drink and fished out its olive garnish. ‘My mother is moments away from a self-inflicted stroke. The rabbi still hasn’t forgiven them. I’m a disappointment to my family. Normal father-daughter conversation.’ She popped the garnish into her mouth, the bitterness of her drink mixed with the tarte of the olive set her tastebuds alight.

Helen nodded in recognition. She was far from unaware of Batya’s status as the black sheep of the Bernstein family. Her eyes drifted around the room. ‘Well you didn’t miss much.’ She sighed airily, her hand gesturing vaguely to a group of men across the room. Batya didn’t bother turning to look. ‘We were only scoping out the new replacements that arrived this morning. There was this dancer guy that we thought you might’ve liked. Absolute twinkle toes. He looked Jewish, think his name was Ros-‘ Her sentence was cut off by a new arrival at their table. 

He looked flushed. His hair in disarray as he smiled widely at them. ‘Ladies,’ he greeted, his eyes jumping immediately towards Batya’s figure. ‘Bat.’ His head tilted awkwardly towards the stage. She briefly thought he resembled a cartoon character, his face screwed up into an expression she could only describe as mild guilt. She nodded in defeat. The blaring melody of the band tittering to a close as they made their way towards the wooden stage. The palm of his hand wrapped around hers as he led her up the stairs, her red lips drifting towards his ear. ‘You owe me for this Cros.’ He only nodded in resignation, his eyes easily conveying his day-old promise of buying her a drink after her performance.

She’d force him to buy her multiple. 

He swiftly made his way back down the stairs resembling that of a man fleeing a burning building. Her hand wrapped around the base of the microphone. A few of her pilots whistled, she smirked wildly as her eyes met Captain Dye’s across the room. ‘Before I begin, I just want to say congratulations to Captain Dye for achieving his 25th successful mission.’ Her voice echoed over the cheers. ‘Hope everyone clapped when your plane landed safely.’ Clapped. Even from across the hall she could see the burning of the Captain’s ears. Only a few people in this room would understand her peculiar choice of diction. Somewhere within the crowd Major Egan laughed loudly. She adjusted herself on stage, clearing her throat, ‘this one goes out to all of you lover boys out there searching for someone to spend your Saturday nights with. It’s a little song I wrote myself called "Bibi and her blue-eyed baby". Hope you all enjoy.’ The sound of trumpets burst through the air. The crowd roared with a fury.

She sang five songs before calling it a night. The incessant whines of the crowd only increasing when she happily told them that Major Egan would be taking her place on stage. It had made her laugh, a rare smile perched upon her lips as the sound of Blue Skies began to swirl through the room. She minced her way to the bar, the grin remaining upon her face as Crosby handed her a martini. He seemed relieved, the apparent stress of organising such a party and entertainment seemingly melting off of him as he leaned against the wooden counter.  

They spoke for about an hour, her eyes eventually drifting away from the bar and onto the now almost deserted dance floor. Helen seemed to be dancing with a handsome soldier whom Batya had not seen before; must have been a replacement. The smile upon the red cross woman’s face enough for Batya to decide against asking Helen to join her on her walk home. Batya instead headed towards the club’s entrance on her lonesome. Crosby’s promise of buying her another drink tomorrow evening wafting over her ears as she reached for the club’s brass doorhandles. The cool metal of the handle felt icy against the palm of her hand. 

The door opened from the outside swiftly, the wooden frame colliding briefly with her left toe as she stumbled backwards to avoid it. She cursed under her breath. Her head faced downwards towards her now most definitely blackened toe. Pain radiating up her shin as she willed herself not to hop on one foot like a child. ‘Oh god! I am so so sorry!’ A hand reached out and gently perched upon her elbow. The voice of her attacker rambling on as he helped her into the nearest chair he could find. ‘I don’t know why I was in such a rush. First night on base and I’m already injuring pretty officers. These doors should never open both ways I mean that’s just dangerous. You could sue. I would know I’m a lawyer, or I was one before the war –‘ She looked up at him, his ramblings coming to a swift halt at the sight of her face. 

 Through the haze of martinis and aching pain her mind vaguely registered a khaki uniform and a pilot’s badge upon his jacket. Her gaze drifting up and up until she met a pair of eyes. Her entire body froze. 

Two years later. 

Thousands of miles away from New York. 

Here he was, wearing a uniform of a pilot and slamming a door into her toe. 

Her Blue-eyed baby. 

Hashem help her. 

Yiddish/Jewish terms dictionary: • 'Yom Kippur' - incredibly high holy day. The day of fasting and asking G-d for repentance and forgiveness for any wrongdoings you have committed in the past year. Breaking of the fast is a huge deal - inviting the rabbi and him showing up is basically the jewish equivalent of winning an Oscar. • 'Hashem' - word for G-d meaning 'the name.' [If there are any parts of yiddish/jewish diction you are ever mildly confused about - never be afraid to ask! Happy to explain x ]

Authors note: thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! This is also posted on my AO3 if any of you prefer reading there: username is All_the_small_things. Link is here. [If you would like to be tagged in any future chapters - drop a note in the comments xx]

[beingalive1]

Bibi And Her Blue-Eyed Baby ⎯ Pt. 1

Rosie Rosenthal x Oc [Batya Bernstein]

Summary: In an attempt to escape his office and the mutterings of the war occurring an ocean away, Rosie Rosenthal hails a cab and finds himself in a dingy jazz club in downtown New York. Never did he think he'd find himself hopelessly enchanted by the jazz singer with the curly hair and white fur coat but he here he is following her outside, his legs moving on their own accord. Maybe he would see her again? Maybe he would ask her for a dance? Maybe she'd write a song for him?

Part two: Here

Author's Note: I've been hooked line and sinker with all these MOTA men and have felt the need to join the fray and write my own fic so here it is - hope ya'll enjoy x

September 5th, 1941

The dull purple glow of the club made the red lipstick placed carefully on her lips shine as she crooned into the microphone.  Many blocks away from her silver spooned upper east side apartment she knew if anyone saw her stood upon that stage swaying her hips to the music, she would never escape the judgemental gazes of the Jewish community. Batya Bernstein, twenty-one, unmarried and swaying precariously in a tight little black dress as she sang through a haze of cigarette smoke. The vague taste of a vodka soda still remained on her tongue; the drink adding to the delightful haze of her evening. 

This was downtown New York – nobody knew who she was here. 

Walking on a tightrope between never ending shame and the thrill of anonymity, Batya continued her swan song. The warmth of admiration caressed her skin like a summers ray; here she was loved and cherished for the gifts she possessed. Here she was merely a woman with an enchanting voice, not the daughter of the famous jeweller Harvey Bernstein. 

Harvey Bernstein. The prized and beloved chairman of the Park Avenue synagogue. The famed owner of Bernstein Jewels. Her father. She often wondered how a man like him could have a daughter like her. It must’ve felt rather shameful. His lack of a son and his only daughter being what many in the community dubbed as ‘wild.’ The park-avenue princess had refused every proposal he had sent her way. The only reason she had not been completely dismissed within the community was due to her quick wit, the love the rabbi had for her and the fact that her father had been the one to finance the new children’s school adjacent to the synagogue. For all her faults he did love her so, his secret Shanda singer of a daughter. 

She could imagine her papa’s face if he caught here tonight: his already greying hair would surely turn completely white at the sight of many men enthusiastically clapping along to the tune of her passionate lyrics. Her songs of melancholy and sadness set to a happy tune subdued her silent feelings of shame. Here, she was not Batya rather Bibi: the jazz singer who would frequent this club every second Saturday Night. As soon as Shabbos had come and gone, she’d greet her beloved audience with a flutter of her fingers, sing for twenty -five minutes, polish off two vodka sodas and leave before she became too memorable. 

But this night was different. 

This night she was going to be remembered. 

He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The way her lips graced the metal expanse of her microphone. How her hair began to fall out of its silken scarf prison as she sang, a rich brown curl falling in front of her face. It was if he was cast under a spell, the dulcet tones of her voice dragging him under the surface and into the smoken depths of her influence. He wasn’t meant to be here. His need to escape the overpowering mutterings of his office had caused him to lose all rational thought, call a cab, and to command the driver to take him to the best jazz club he knew. 

That’s how he ended up here.

Watching her.

He knew her from somewhere. Couldn’t tell if she resembled a girl on a war-bond poster or in a movie he had watched at some point but somehow and somewhere he had seen her before. The familiar shape of her nose, her deep brown eyes, the way she smiled as the audience applauded. He didn’t know what overcame him, a force coercing him to stand from the rickety chair at the back of the room and to follow her bewitching figure out of the club’s back door. A fur coat had been placed on her shoulders; the white material glistened in the evening moonlight. He rushed out towards her, his feet splashing against the puddled gravel of the club’s back alley. 

Her figure froze, her fur-draped shoulders tensing as she turned to face him. Her dark eyes almost glowed as she gazed upon him, a perfectly shaped eyebrow moving upwards as she took him in. His feet shifted from side to side, a nervous grin on his lips as he looked upon her. He was a never a nervous man. He had no idea why he was acting so strange; he blamed the scotch he had sipped as he watched her sing, and the empty stomach he possessed due to his rush here from work. She smirked at him. “Can I help you?” Her voice echoed through the darkened alley, the same rich tone gracing his ears as she spoke. He coughed awkwardly. A futile attempt to pull himself together with a rough hand combed through his curls does nothing to cool the slight burning of his ears. She watched the movement with a curious look upon her face: as if she was waiting for him to scare and run off like a deer in headlights. She looked amused. He coughed once more. He wasn’t the running type.

‘I..’ He began, silently cursing himself for stammering so foolishly. He was a lawyer. His mother’s pride and joy. His ma’s favourite topic over the Shabbos dinner table: boasting to her friends about how his eloquent way of speaking could convince any judge. Why he was struck silent in the presence of this woman he knew not, his lips dry as he tried to throw a sentence together. ‘I enjoyed your show.’ The eyebrow remained raised. A grin broke out upon her face, he didn’t think he had ever seen something so bright. 

Her gaze drank him in like a cool drink on a hot summer’s day. Heat flushing upon his ears as he waited for her to reply. Her mouth opened as she attempted to speak, her dark curls fluttering slightly in the breeze. He couldn’t hear what she had said in reply, the rich tone of her voice drowned out in favour of the sound of a yellow cab screeching to a halt on the pavement next to them. Her hands tightened across her coat; he spotted red nail polish painted carefully upon her fingers. It reminded him of her lipstick. Red suited her. She smiled once more, her body gliding past his own as she entered the back seat of the cab. His eyes followed her powerlessly, his hand itching to reach out and stop her. To touch her red-nailed fingers and ask for a dance.

His eyes remained on her until the cab drove away, the white coat dazzling through the rear end window of the vehicle. He never heard her reply, but he had an inkling he’d see her again. 

She refused to look back as she drove away. The urge to gaze upon him once more burned through her like an inferno as she sat comfortably on the cab’s black leather seats. His eyes had been so blue. A crystalline colour that made her skin flush when he stared at her, his full attention on her figure. She didn’t get his name, but Batya had a feeling she’d see him again.

And even if she didn’t all would not be lost. 

After all, ‘Bibi and her blue-eyed baby’ sounded like a perfect addition to her Saturday Night set list. 

Word count: 1231

Yiddish dictionary: • 'Shanda' - shame, can be used in reference to a person who makes their family feel shame • 'Shabbos' - the sabbath.

Author's Note part 2: Thank you for reading! I'm really excited to share this with you guys - been a while since I've written something so I hope you liked it, next part I think will be out in the next few days x [if you would like to be tagged in any future chapters - drop a note in the comments]

[beingalive1]

the kids are alright.

[beingalive1]

one of the best f1 edits of all time... 

#f1 #formula1 

-Smells like F1 Spirit-

I am new to F1 but I have quickly noticed the weird mentality around a lot of people believing that these drivers need to recklessly risk their lives for our entertainment as well as the hypermasculinization of not being allowed to have friends or forced into rivalry with each other. This took me a while but enjoy!

Song: “Smells like Teen Spirit” (Nirvana)

Cover: Malia J

[beingalive1]

why the hell not lmao 

[beingalive1]

So helpful omg

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[beingalive1]

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Find the right place to write your novel… 

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Futuristic rooftop garden 

Steampunk balcony rain

Post-apocalyptic

Harbor with rain

City with rain

City ruins turned swamp

Rusty sewers

Train station

Lighthouse

Horror

Haunted mansion

Haunted road to tavern

Halloween

Stormy night

Asylum

Creepy forest

Cornfield

World

New York

Paris

Paris bistro

Tokyo street

Chinese hotel lobby

Asian street at nightfall

Asian night market

Cantonese restaurant

Coffee shop in Japan

Coffee shop in Paris

Coffee shop in Korea

British library

Trips, rides and walkings

Trondheim - Bodø

Amsterdam - Brussels

Glasgow - Edinburgh

Oxford - Marylebone

Seoul - Busan

Gangneung - Yeongju

Hiroshima

Tokyo metro

Osaka - Kyoto

Osaka - Kobe

London

São Paulo

Seoul

Tokyo

Bangkok

Ho Chi Minh (Saigon)

Alps

New York

Hong Kong

Taipei

[beingalive1]

I’m literally wheezing oh my god this is gold

26/?

[beingalive1]

Confessions On Drugs - Finn Shelby

Pairing: Finn Shelby x reader

Requested: Yes.

Prompts: None. 

Warnings/notes: Not proofread so I’m sorry in advance for any possible mistakes. I may have changed your request up a bit but I hope you like it xx

Wordcount: 3216

Summary: After being shot, you’re high on pain relief medication and accidentally confess your love for Finn in the presence of the entire Shelby family. 

Being shot was not fun. In fact, it hurt like hell. Well, at least you thought it did. You were currently so high on pain relief medication that you could barely remember your own name, but you guessed that it had hurt, or else you wouldn’t have been where you currently were, lying in the hospital bed surrounded by the very family that had raised and taken care of you your entire life.

Keep reading

[beingalive1]

oh my gdO CAN YOU DRAW GODZILLA MOMMA CARRYING LIKE A HUNDRED LIZARD BABIES ON HER BACK FOR TAKE YOUR CHILD (lizard) TO WORK DAY

oh SHOOT well i cant swing 100 but how bout

[beingalive1]

thi is too fücking cute :)

Trapped in Legends — Part 2

PART 1 

THE EPILOGUE

Tommy Shelby struggles with the fact that he can’t really control his daughter. Then again, why is he so surprised since there never was one person alive who could fully control Tommy Shelby himself?

I also posted this on AO3 if someone prefers to read there.

OR Read here in third person with Tommy’s Daughter as Original Character if Reader isn’t your thing

————————————————-

“I really don’t like this, Tommy,” your Aunt Polly said for the hundredth time today, as she stubbed out her hundredth cigarette. “That man is not to be trusted.”

“We all know that, Pol,” your father said as he fixed the lapels of your coat. “But we have a deal.”

“Well, now… that’s different then,” she huffed. “I’m sure he’ll be bloody honorable this time — it’s not like he double crossed you before or something.”

Keep reading

[beingalive1]

This is bloody adorable omg I’m obsessed. 

Crowns of London — Alfie Solomons/OFC

Chapter 1 — King of Camden Town

Alfie Solomons sends his regards. Well, not exactly — Alfie Solomons sends his goons with big guns, as one does, because he requires an audience with his former lover.

Also on AO3.

-------------------------------------------------------------

It’s been quite some time since Jane Moore last set her foot in London. Not that she counted the minutes or anything. She prided herself in having better things to occupy her mind with, thanks very much, but if one were to be extremely thorough — it has been something along the lines of six months, seven days, twelve hours and...

“Shit!”

As soon as she left the train station, she stepped in a puddle that could have been mud, but could very well turn out to be something else entirely. Blessed fucking London.

“Welcome to the city!” a drunkard sitting on the nearby bench exclaimed, then followed that with a loud burp and a giggle.

“Fuck off,” Jane hissed, then promptly stomped on the hat he had laid down on the pavement to beg for change.

“Oi!” he bellowed behind her, but she paid him no mind.

Glorious London — just as smelly and busy as she remembered. Jane was almost glad she took some time off, since that made the reunion that much sweeter.

After Jane finally managed to find her way and arrive at her destination more or less in one piece, she knocked on her friend’s door and was greeted with ungodly sounds coming from the other side. Some reunions were apparently meant to be sweeter than others, since the first words that came out of said friend’s mouth were:

“You daft cow!”

After that delightful exclamation, the door to the flat swung open and in it stood none other than Agnes Fletcher — the first and oldest friend Jane had ever made in this godforsaken city. Agnes pulled her into a tight embrace before Jane even got the chance to speak.

“Come ‘ere, you twat! Give us a kiss!”

“Hello, Agnes,” Jane groaned. “Jesus Christ, you’re trying to kill me!” she wheezed and Agnes cackled at the sound.

She finally moved aside to let Jane in, then promptly shut the door behind them. Jane noticed that the door had only one lock on the inside and quickly made a mental note to fix that first thing. With all the strange relationships she had abruptly ended the last time she was here, including one particularly complicated, she should actually think of getting a gun, too.

“Long time no see, Jane!”

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Jane said as she took a quick look around the flat. It was small but tidy, aside from the sewing project that had taken over most of the kitchen table. Agnes followed Jane’s eyes and scoffed at the scrutiny.

“Well, aintcha glad I didn’t!” Agnes exclaimed, then moved towards the table to clean it up.

“Still the same old kitten, eh?”

Agnes rolled her eyes at that, but Jane could see she was smiling.

“Well? So how have you been, really?” Agnes asked, then moved to the tiny kitchenette to prepare tea. “Your letters were so formal, bloody hell, might as well look for a job as a censor next time we’re at war!”

“Come now, there’s not going to be another war,” Jane sighed, then took off her coat and gloves and sat at the table to have a cigarette.

“We’ll see,” Agnes said mysteriously and turned around, gesturing towards her updo. “How’s my new hair, then?”

“Gorgeous, as always,” Jane said with a cheeky grin and Agnes scoffed at that, but returned the smile nonetheless.

They met years ago in a workhouse. Agnes had been there nearly all her life and Jane was placed there after she became an orphan. Some time after, a nasty case of typhus decimated the inhabitants and the place had to be shut down. Thankfully, both women found work in the textile manufactory and somehow landed on their feet. After the medieval treatments performed by the “doctors” at the workhouse, it took some time for Jane’s hair to finally grow back. Agnes’s never really did. Since then, she was forced to wear it short and this season she was overjoyed to see the style was finally in fashion.

“I was thinking we could go to a club on Friday?” Agnes poured the tea and took one cigarette from Jane when she offered. “You know, celebrate your homecoming?”

“I don’t know,” Jane smirked mischievously, “got any dresses?”

“Bitch!” Agnes laughed and took a long drag on the cigarette. “You know I do. Best designs this hellhole has ever seen, I’ll tell you that.”

“And I believe you.” Jane put out her cigarette and took a sip of her tea. It was weak but entirely acceptable. “So, how is the apprenticeship going?”

“Well, could be worse,” Agnes shrugged, “after the factories nothing really surprises you anymore.”

“Very true.”

“These cunts honestly don’t know how good they have it at the shop,” Agnes scoffed and drank her tea, “I’m obviously the best one there.”

“Obviously.” Jane grinned at her.

“And you? Still yearning for your numbers and books?”

Jane rolled her eyes at the sentiment, but did not deny it.

“Eh, I’m glad you’re back,” Agnes waved her hand dismissively, “it was boring without you.”

“Thanks.” Jane smiled at her and took another look around the place. “This is cosy.”

“Yeah.” Agnes shrugged and followed Jane’s eyes. “‘S decent. But the old hag is tryin’ to cheat me on the rent. Would be great if you could look at my books later, I mean…You, I trust.”

“Who’s the landlady?”

“Some wop.”

“Agnes!” Jane giggled and shook her head.

“What?” Agnes smirked. “Aintcha supposed to hate them? You kept books for your Jew, he didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Well, you were probably too… tied up.”

“Agnes!”

“They’re at war again or something.” Agnes grinned. “Apparently, your man’s been busy.”

“Not my man. He never was.”

“Well, have it as you like, then,” Agnes smirked and poured them more tea, “but this is all what I heard, at least. I’m staying out of Camden these days, you know… Safer that way. Doubt I’d have any luck pretendin’ to be Jewish.”

Jane giggled and lit another cigarette. “Maybe with some paint and gold.”

“Well, I’d say that’s half the appeal.”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing, I—”

“Like you’re going to sit in my kitchen, pretending that the man didn’t go bloody feral over these damn red locks!” Agnes clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Nah, sister. We both know the truth.”

Jane smirked at the notion and licked her lips, unable to look her friend in the eye with a straight face. “He liked it even better when I helped him dodge these pesky taxes,” she said and Agnes cried out triumphantly.

“Knew it!”

It was true, Jane was exceptionally good with numbers. Even better at manipulating them. A year after the factory, Agnes managed to get a job as a seamstress apprentice, and meanwhile Jane, having shadowed the factory forewoman for months, started to look for a placement as an accountant. Obviously, becoming a seamstress would mean infinitely more job opportunities for a woman, but Jane was hopeless with sewing. She could barely fix a hole in her sock.

“Plenty of accountin’ jobs, don’t worry,” Agnes said, seeing how Jane suddenly went quiet. “You’re goin’ to look for another?”

“You know, not really,” Jane lied smoothly and lit another cigarette, “I was actually thinking of becoming a governess, full-time.”

Agnes roared with laughter and nearly knocked over both their cups. The walls in the building must have been thin because soon after that, someone started to bang their broomhandle against the ceiling. Both women giggled at that even more.

“You? You hate children!” Agnes exclaimed.

“Well, maybe. But I’m not trying accounting again.”

“And why not?”

“You know why not,” Jane said sharply and finished her tea.

“Oh, God. Jane…”

“Stop it. It’s a done deal. It’s not even about him anymore.”

“Jane.”

“I mean it! It’s not about the bloody bakery, I honestly tried to look for another employment, they all refused as soon as they saw my name.”

Agnes rolled her eyes and stood up to pour them more tea. “Christ almighty.”

“Just… No.”

“Wait! You don’t even know what I wanted to say.”

“I know what you wanted to say, I’ve known you for twenty bloody years. The answer is no.”

“Fine.” Agnes rolled her eyes again, then poured them more tea. “I just meant, are you sure it wasn’t his doing?”

“Whose doing?”

“Well, your little gangster fella. You sure he didn’t… sway the market?”

“Agnes!” Jane hissed and covered her friend’s mouth with her hand, then looked around as if expecting spies to jump out from under the table.

“Oh, fuck off!” Agnes swatted her hand away and sat back down, her floral robe whooshing behind her dramatically. It was beautifully made and Jane had a strong suspicion that Agnes designed it herself. “I mean, you never introduced us, me, your dearest, most cherished friend—”

“And oldest.”

“Honestly, the cheek on ya!” Agnes scoffed and pretended to be annoyed. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted… You never introduced us—”

“And for a damn good reason!”

“Right, but from what I heard he was a stubborn fucker.”

“So?”

“So maybe he made sure you wouldn’t find any other accounting jobs? I mean, he’s a man. And a bloody gangster. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

“True, but he was the one who ended things.” Jane shrugged, but honestly started to think about it a little bit more. “And then I left… Why would he want to make my life harder?”

“Hm, that complicates my theory…”

“Yes, well. Scotland Yard would be lucky to have you.”

They smoked and drank the tea, and after that they opened a bottle of gin. Then, Jane finally shared the full story on the events that followed her hasty departure from London:

“The house was gorgeous. Four stories, fireplace in every room, the biggest windows I have ever fucking seen.” Jane poured herself and Agnes another drink, then continued:

“I shared the room with the other maids, there were six of us all together. Even in the attic, you could see the gardens and the canal, it was heaven. But,” Jane arched an eyebrow and smirked, “the rich have their secrets. And the lady of the house was a madwoman, honestly, a fucking madwoman,” she shook her head and lit another cigarette.

“So… is that why you suddenly try to act so posh now?”

“Shut it, I’m not posh! Six months in Bath, even a pro skirt would get an accent.”

“Whatever you say, doll.”

“Oh, bugger off!” Jane chuckled and poured them another round. “Well, so the lady of the house, right, she checked every letter that came out. Nosy fuckin’ broad. I found out because she commented on my penmanship once, that’s why I couldn’t really tell you anything interesting. But, she paid us handsomely, I have to give her that. She was fair and most of the time she just complained of the migraines, so she was out of our hair. It’s the eldest son that was the real fuckin’ nightmare.”

“Knew it,” Agnes muttered, then emptied her glass. “Tried to stick his cock where it didn’t belong?”

“Well, he certainly tried.”

“Oh, God…”

“I know,” Jane shuddered at the memory, “so, I don’t think they’ll be sending any references.”

“Why?”

“I packed in the middle of the night and spent half my wages on the train ticket back.”

“Right… so you could say you also need a place to stay, then?”

“Well, yes. You could definitely say that.”

“Glad I asked.”

“Glad you offered.”

“Oh, you bitch…”

-------------------------------------------------------------

For the first two weeks, being back in London was almost fun. This was home, after all, and Jane felt infinitely more confident now that she was living in the familiar territory. Having Agnes close proved to make life more enjoyable, too. They went out almost every other evening and cruised any pub or club that would serve two single chicks. Thankfully, both didn’t really have to stay single or buy their own drinks for long — courtesy of the dresses by one Agnes Fletcher. All the bar crawling and harmless attention served its purpose. Jane finally managed to forget what a disaster the past months have been.

But that was, of course, when the first letter came.

It wasn’t a letter, per se, it was almost a note, but it served its purpose nonetheless — she got scared. Jane knew exactly where it came from; she would know that hand anywhere. She used to spend her days trying to read that handwriting, after all. Said hand, and the man it belonged to, still sent shivers down her spine whenever Jane would let her mind venture in that direction. Deciding it was no use to open back that door, Jane tore the note up and threw the pieces out the window.

Of course, she should have known better than to trust it would end there. Another note came two days later, then another one just a day after that. All were pushed under the door just as soon as Agnes left the flat to go to work. That thought unnerved Jane more than anything else — he knew she was back in London and he knew where she stayed.

Jane never managed to buy a proper lock for the door, but she did get that gun from some crook in an alley. A shady business deal like that honestly filled Jane with less anxiety than having to face her former lover without any weapon. And he would come for her — this much was certain. She ignored him three times now, and if there was one thing Alfie Solomons hated most of all, it was to be ignored.

Jane expected new threats after Sabbath, but it never came. Another thing she was very much aware of when it came to Alfie, though, is that he would sooner die than be predictable. It was time to play the waiting game. By another week, Jane almost let herself believe this would all be over as soon as it began, had it not been for her first shift at work and the events that followed.

Thanks to all the bar crawling with Agnes, Jane had found employment as a barmaid. As she walked to the pub to pick up her shift, out the corner of her eye she noticed a man following her. She ignored him at first, but he was walking behind her nearly the entire way from the flat to her workplace, so she definitely wasn’t mistaken in thinking he was suspicious. Then, of course, there were the clothes he was wearing — the long black coat and the black hat. The beard was a clue in itself.

Jane left the pub close to eleven in the evening. As she walked back home, she noticed another man following her. It was a different one than before, but this here was quite obvious in everything he did, too, what with the nervous glances and a notepad in his hand. He was making notes as he followed her and he didn’t even try to hide it. Jane was honestly beginning to get annoyed rather than scared.

“He’s having men follow me around,” Jane announced to Agnes as soon as she entered the flat.

“Who?” Agnes asked dreamily, looking up from the dress sketches she was currently busy perfecting.

“The… man.” Jane locked the door and hung her coat on the hook.

“The man?” Agnes scoffed and pointed towards the kitchen cabinet. “Christ. There’s gin, pour us a nightcap, eh?”

“Gladly.”

As Jane sat down at the table and put two glasses before them, she glanced at the drawings and nodded, visibly impressed.

“That’s very good.”

“Why, thank you… My creatively challenged friend.”

“Oh, bugger off!”

Both smiled and clinked their glasses.

“Oh, speaking of gin,” Jane stood up to get her purse, “as the new gal, I got me some handsome—”

“Fellas?”

“Tips!” Jane rolled her eyes and placed a bill and a pack of cigarettes in front of Agnes. “Here. My part of the rent. I wanna be fair.”

“Oh, that’s more than fair.” Agnes pocketed the money and poured them another round. “Have I told ya already how much I missed you?”

“Well, you better!”

They smoked and drank, then got to bed together and talked some more. The flat had only one room with a kitchenette, but it did have a bathroom, so in the end Jane could definitely see the appeal, despite there being only one bed.

“Do you really think it’s him?” Agnes asked, as she shifted to her side to look at Jane.

“Who else?” Jane closed her eyes. “First the letters, now this? He’s obviously trying to scare me.”

“Why would he do that?” Agnes scoffed. “Your Gangster Boss Man…”

Jane chuckled at that and let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to find out what he’s up to, either.”

The following week, each time Jane had a shift at the bar, a new man would be following her from and to her building. She was honestly getting fed up with the attention, as each next spy proved to be even less discreet than the former. Finally, by Wednesday, Jane had had enough.

“Stop!” She promptly turned around and pointed her finger at an oblivious young man in a dusty black jacket. He had the audacity to look behind his shoulder, but she knew the type too well to have been fooled by his act. He had that sort of look in his eyes that was meant to be charming, but really said, “I’m wearing a gun holster under that pathetic shirt.” Jane was almost certain she had seen him once or twice at the bakery.

“Stop! Following me!” She walked to the man briskly and snatched the notepad from his hands. “What is that? What the fuck are you bloody writing in that fucking thing?!” She flipped the pages back before he could stop her and noticed it was all mostly dates, names of the streets, and time. “Oh, motherfucker,” Jane hissed, then tore up a page from the notepad, satisfied to hear the man gasp. “Give me that!” She took the pencil from him and wrote a quick, but thoroughly passionate message. “Give this to him and fuck off!” She turned around then and marched straight ahead, not even trying to keep it cool.

She was still shaken a bit when she got to the pub. Sure, in the moment that outburst felt bloody great, but now, as she calmed down, Jane wasn’t so sure it was worth it. To her utter dismay, that feeling would prove entirely correct — as soon as she finished her shift and stepped out of the pub, she was greeted by three goons who didn’t even bother to try and pretend they weren’t there for her. These three were big, in every sense of the word. They wore all black and didn’t even try to cover up the fact they were carrying guns.

“Mr. Solomons would like a word,” the middle one said, then moved aside to gesture towards the car parked nearby. It was one of Alfie’s, she had seen it before.

Jane looked at the car, then at the three gangsters before her. There was no way she could escape them. That little stunt with the note must have seriously pissed Alfie off.

“Fine.”

The men looked almost relieved as all four walked towards the car. One of them sat in front, while the other two sat in the back with Jane, on each side. It was a short drive to Camden Town. To the surprise of no one, they drove her straight to the bakery. Deciding it was as good a place to die as any, Jane followed the men inside. It was close to midnight and the main warehouse was eerily quiet and empty. Only one light was still on and that would be of course the one in Alfie’s office. Memories flooded Jane and she scolded herself for the sudden impatience that settled in her stomach. They didn’t exactly part ways in a peaceful manner and still... She was ashamed to admit, her heart simply did not care. She was still excited to see him; curious to see how he fared, curious to see if he still looked the same.

Jane desperately needed a cigarette, but knew better than to smoke in a distillery. She settled for the sobering feeling of the anxiety that consumed her and nearly jumped when one of the men knocked on the office door.

The gruff voice on the other end barked:

“In!”

One of the goons opened the door for Jane, then promptly shut it behind her as soon as she stepped inside. Trying to remain calm, she took in the familiar surroundings, doing everything in her power not to look at the man sitting behind the desk.

Alfie wasn’t really looking at her, either — not at first. He was reading by the desk lamp, squinting his eyes as he tended to do when he couldn’t find his glasses. The room was dimly lit and Jane was seconds away from remarking he would ruin his eyes if he kept it up. “Already ruined, sweetheart,” Alfie would probably say then, and she would scoff at the pet name. At least… That’s how it used to go. Back in the day. Before he told her to go to hell and broke her heart.

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong, yeah,” Alfie finally said, his low voice resounding in the small room like thunder, “but I never took ya for the vindictive type, darlin’.” He looked up from behind whatever the hell he was reading and their eyes finally met. Jane tried to stay composed, despite the circumstances, but she couldn’t help but feel a little dizzy at the words. What the hell did he mean by that?

Alfie outstretched his hand then and, to her utter dismay, Jane noticed it was the page from the notepad — with her delightful little message written in pencil.

“Right, so,” Alfie obviously must have noticed her nerves, because Jane could swear there was a little smirk there that he tried very hard to hide underneath all that beard, “the sheer logistics of it, mate, right, it’s bloody outstanding, that… How exactly would I need to position myself to do what you ordered me here, now, sweetheart, I ain’t a young man anymore, I ‘ave my limits, bloody hell.” Alfie clicked his tongue, then put the note down and looked at Jane intently. “Please,” he gestured towards the chair in front of him.

She moved towards it like in a trance and sat down stiffly, back straight as a pole. She glanced to her left, to where she knew was the drawer Alfie kept his gun in. He followed her eyes, she noticed he did, but before she could even begin to formulate any coherent thoughts on the matter, Alfie spoke again:

“Now, why would I do that?”

“What?” Her eyes darted towards him and this time she definitely noticed the smirk.

“Shoot ya.” His tone was considerably softer and Jane wanted to slap him for it.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, then opened her purse and looked at the gun inside it. “Out of sentiment?”

Having decided against threatening him directly, she took out one cigarette from the pack and lit it. That offended him all right, she knew it would, but she didn’t care. He hated people smoking in his personal space, hated the smell and the audacity of it, but since she could very well be dead before sunrise, Jane decided to piss him off before that, at least.

“Right,” Alfie drummed his fingers against the desk, then leaned back in his chair, “so lemme get this straight—”

“By all means, Alfie, we got all night.” That came out a tad more snarky that she wanted it to, but Jane decided to just roll with it.

“Don’t fuckin’ interrupt me,” he barked.

She let the smoke out through her nose and shrugged. “Fine.”

“That’s an interruption, Jane, if I ever fuckin’ heard one.”

She shrugged again, but this time said nothing. Somehow, hearing him say her name made it all the more real.

“Right,” Alfie frowned and traced the long scar on the side of his jaw, “as I was fuckin’ saying, lemme get this right, so I understand… Y’ think I had you brought here just to shoot ya and paint my own walls with yer brains?”

She said nothing to it and neither did Alfie. He was just looking at her, letting the words sink in. The entire thing didn’t have the desired effect, though. He was still the most unpredictable man Jane had ever known. Alfie’s style has always been to confuse the opponent as much as humanly possible. She was prepared for a scheme and was sure this was exactly what it seemed.

Jane wouldn’t put it past him to orchestrate the entire thing just to get her good and scared and then have her dramatically offed in the very place they had first met. It would be calculated, manipulative… poetic, even. Most importantly — very Alfie Solomons. So no, Jane wouldn’t be surprised if he did pull out that gun on her right this second and shot her in the exact same chair she had once sat when he interviewed her for the accountant position.

“Something to remember me by, I’m sure. Like a little painting,” Jane said finally, then stubbed out the cigarette in the large ashtray placed in the very corner of the cluttered desk.

She was surprised to see that little addition to the office. It didn’t used to be here, not during her time, but if it was here, that could only mean that Alfie needed it for business. He was doing business with someone who smoked and, more importantly, someone whom Alfie would allow to smoke in his office on a regular basis. Her curiosity piqued, Jane wondered who it was, exactly. She really hoped it wasn’t a woman.

Alfie noticed her eying the ashtray and he smirked again.

“Yeah, alright,” he stood up and this time Jane didn’t hesitate. She reached into her purse and pointed the gun at him, then engaged the safety with her other hand, trembling slightly.

Alfie froze for a split of a second, she knew he did. For that fleeting moment, Jane had the upper hand. As it happens, of course, this wasn’t the first time that someone pointed a gun at Alfie fucking Solomons, so all it did really was to surprise him for exactly that long — a split of a second.

“You sure about that, sweetheart?” he asked smoothly.

“Sit,” she said quietly, then pointed the gun down to his groin, “please.” She smiled sweetly and he scoffed at that, but he did sit back down. “Now,” Jane said slowly, “either tell me why I’m here or let me go, or preferably... just let me go, Alfie, alright? Because as far as I remember, some months ago you had me sitting in that very fucking chair when you accused me of stealing from you, then told me to go to hell and get out of your fucking city. So. If I’m here to die, at least tell me the bloody reason.”

Alfie chuckled at that, then shook his head. “Yeah, alright.” His low baritone was all soft again and Jane hated herself for liking it so damn much. “You weren’t stealin’.”

“I know I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, I know that! Now.”

“Shut up,” she hissed, “I wasn’t stealing from you and you didn’t believe me. My books were fucking impeccable, Alfie! Well, your books, as a matter of fucking fact, were fucking impeccable, with my invaluable bloody supervision, as the only person in that establishment that could actually count the correct percentage of—”

“Will you shut up, woman!” Alfie exclaimed again, but this time he was really smiling. “I was gonna say that, alright? ‘S all true.” He shook his head, then threw her the note. “Read it.”

“I know what it bloody says.”

“Nah, the other side. Read it.” Alfie waved his hand dismissively, completely unfazed by Jane still insisting on holding him at gunpoint.

She quickly grabbed the note and looked at the dates scribbled on the side. Her eyes darted to Alfie as she read, daring him to do something stupid and make her shoot him in the balls.

“It’s nonsense,” she decided finally, then leaned back in the chair.

“Bloody illegible, is what it is.”

“Most of it. Why should I care?”

“Yeah, you might not ‘ave recognized him, right, but Abe used to go through the books after you.”

“What?!” Jane hissed, now properly mad. “No! You had him double-check me?!”

“Now, don’t get angry again, love, let me—”

“No, you will not bloody finish!” she shouted and moved closer, this time aiming for his head. “You had me double-checked, accused me of stealing, fired me — publicly, if I may add — and then you have the bloody nerve...! Why the fuck are you smiling?!”

“Yeah, no reason.”

“Are you enjoying this?!”

“Maybe, but the gun part… not especially, sweetheart, if I’m bein’ bloody honest.”

“Go to hell, Alfie.”

Alfie let out a low grunt, watching Jane closely as she put the gun down. She lit another cigarette. Alfie didn’t even flinch, the bastard. Jane snatched the note from his desk and looked at it once again. As she read the childish scribbles, she frowned more and more.

“Yeah, he writes his sevens like his ones,” Alfie said finally. “That’s… why I thought we were missin’ some merchandise.”

Jane looked at him, fuming. “You bastard,” she spat, then crumpled the note into a ball and let it fall to the floor. She stood up then and Alfie watched as she paced around the office. “Alfie, I have no fucking words for this, don’t… Just how in the fuck! How the fuck would I be prancin’ around your offices, carrying out boxes of your bloody rum?! Where would I take them? How in the hell? When have you ever seen me do any heavy lifting?!”

“Darlin’...”

“Don’t fucking call me that! And now, when I am trying to move on and trying to find some honest employment, I am being dismissed left and right through all bloody London, I swear to fuck, Alfie, if you had something to do with this—”

“Right, sweetheart, sit back down, let’s talk about this like people.”

“I swear to God, Alfie, I’m going to fuckin’ shoot you, then feed you to the fucking orphans, they will never find your body!”

“Right, well.” He had the audacity to smile at the idea. “You, uh... left your gun here.”

“I said I was going to do it, I’m getting to it!” Jane marched towards the desk and put out her cigarette, then sat back down.

“Want your gun back then, darlin’?”

She outstretched her hand and Alfie smirked at the gesture.

“Yeah, alright.”

He gave her back the gun and genuinely laughed again when she pointed it back at his head. Jane arched an eyebrow and cocked back the hammer.

“Something funny, Alfie?”

“Nah.” He leaned on his elbows and looked her straight in the eye, still smirking.

“Are you fucking sorry?” she asked, this time in a hushed voice.

Alfie clicked his tongue and broke the eye contact first.

“You’re not,” Jane sighed and lowered the gun. “Well, in this case, I got nothing more to say.”

“So can I fuckin’ speak, then? In my own bloody office? Seems I should be allowed.”

Jane rolled her eyes and waved the gun around, which was a dumb thing to do as she accidentally pulled the trigger and shot straight at the ceiling. She screeched, startled, and Alfie surged forward to take the gun away from her. Jane let out a yelp when he snatched it and grabbed her wrist, hard.

“FUCK!” he roared.

They looked at each other a little longer than strictly necessary, before Alfie let her go and then promptly emptied the chamber, letting all the other bullets fall to the floor. He put the gun in the drawer where he kept the other one and rubbed his face with his hand, huffing and snarling like an angry animal. “You could’ve fuckin’ shot me!”

“That was kind of the idea,” Jane said, suddenly amused for no reason other than the stress in her entire body reaching some downright ridiculous levels.

“Fuck!” Alfie waved his hands about and paced in front of the desk, then finally sat back down and opened another drawer.

With a loud thud, he dropped three ledgers on the desk. Jane rolled her eyes at the theatrics and pointed at them.

“What the fuck is this now?”

“Fuck off. I’m gonna need ya to check the past eleven months.”

Jane snorted at that and shook her head. “No way in hell I’m touching your books again, Alfie Solomons.”

“Fuck you, like hell you won’t.”

“You wish.”

“What?”

“I said what I said.” She stood up and took her purse.

“Sit the fuck down!” This time, he was entirely serious. Jane rolled her eyes but did as she was told. “Fuck’s sake, woman, nobody taught you how to shoot these things proper?!”

She shrugged and looked to the side, avoiding the answer.

“Bloody hell,” Alfie got up to get two glasses from the nearby shelf, then poured them a generous drink each, “as I was fuckin’ saying, before getting interrupted by a fuckin’ bullet in my own, private ceiling!”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic!” Jane took one glass, then downed it in one go. She didn’t even check for poison, but then again... She didn’t think him mad enough to poison his own damn product. Alfie sighed like an exasperated parent, then refilled her glass.

“Ya drink too much, Jane.”

“You don’t drink at all. I even it out.”

“Yeah, right, ‘s ‘cause I’m a polite fuckin’ company.” Alfie looked at the contents of his glass, then swirled it around and took a tentative sip. Jane was surprised, but said nothing. “I need ya to look at the books, Jane.”

“Why?” she sneered. “Scared you fucked up your statements? They're gonna put ya in the slammer for the bloody taxes?”

Alfie shot her a quick look and said nothing, which told her exactly what she needed to know.

“Bloody hell.” She shook her head and emptied the glass. “Fine.”

Alfie nodded at that curtly, but Jane could clearly see he was a bit relieved.

“But first, you apologize,” she demanded. “For calling me a liar and a thief. You apologize right fucking now. You know I cared for you, I bloody did, I would never steal from you, Alfie.”

Alfie looked at her angrily, then took another sip. He was thinking about it, she could tell.

“No.”

Jane shrugged. “Then we’re done here. Have fun in prison, Alfie. Hope your cellmate is handsome.”

“It had to be done,” he said dryly, avoiding her eyes again.

“What had to be done?”

Alfie shook his head and put the glass back down. He gestured towards Jane.

“Had to send ya away.”

“I’m not a fucking dog, Alfie, you can’t just send me away.”

“Yeah, well, when I thought you were stealin’, it seemed like the perfect occasion, didn’t it?”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

Alfie huffed, completely ignoring the tone that he would never in a million years allow from most.

“It was the fuckin’ war, alright?”

“War.” Jane frowned, wondering if she should call him a doctor. “What war?”

“The Italians. Sabini.” Alfie leaned against the wall and this time fixed his gaze on Jane. He crossed his arms over his chest and Jane couldn’t resist looking at the familiar crown tattoos. “Had to send you away. Everybody knew, alright?”

“Knew what?”

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me say it?” He bit his lower lip and Jane really wished he wouldn’t. It made him look almost boyish and she couldn’t take it.

“Well, I don’t know, Alfie, what exactly—”

“You were my girl. Alright? You were bloody impressive with the books, fuckin’ smart, got a pistol for a mouth, so,” his tone got low and dangerous again, “they’d kill ya. Just to show me they could.”

“Really?” Jane leaned forward against the desk.

“Very bloody likely.”

“You didn’t even call me pretty.” Jane smirked and Alfie looked at her the way he used to, like she had just exceeded every single expectation he might have had for a person. Jane tried to pretend it didn’t matter.

“Nobody in London would ever believe you were dating a goy girl, Alfie.” Jane pointed at the ledgers. “Now, if I told you to go fuck yourself about the books… Hypothetically, of course.”

“Yeah, I’d ‘ave ya shot. Hypothetically.”

“But you still wouldn’t apologize.”

“Nah.”

Jane nodded at that, weighing the options. Alfie watched her like a hawk, obviously feeling bloody clever about the entire thing. In the end, Jane had only one option left and she knew she had to use that particular strategy wisely.

“Fine. I’ll come check them in the morning. Since you asked so nicely. Now,” she finished her drink and got up, “I’ll have my gun back, Alfie, and thanks very much for the…” she gestured around the office, “evening. Nice to know you’re still great fun.”

He said nothing, just watched her with a smirk. Jane sighed and decided to use her secret weapon, since it was either now or never. She had to check if his sentiment was genuine. If he still cared, if only just a little.

She took out the two hairpins that held her updo together. Rich, red curls cascaded all the way down to her waist, as she rolled her shoulders back, pretending she didn’t just orchestrate that entire performance just to leave the man bloody stupid.

“My gun, Alfie.” She outstretched her hand.

Alfie was on her in seconds. He moved entirely too swiftly for a guy who spent half his adult life trying to seem as broad and heavy as possible. He pinned her to the wall and looked her up and down, letting out a guttural hum that could have either meant approval or the sudden urge to slit her throat ear to ear. Jane still wasn’t entirely sure if teasing a man like Alfie Solomons was such a great idea, until he let go of one of her arms to gently run his hand through her hair. She knew she had won.

Alfie paused to admire one loose strand in the light, watching as the dim flame of the lamp enhanced the fiery shades even more. Alfie liked pretty, shiny things and Jane was very much aware of that fact. Her hair, looking like a halo around her head, had Alfie transfixed. Jane parted her lips just slightly, letting out a gentle sigh. She knew exactly what she was trying to do here and she was surprised to find it working so well.

“It’s late.” She arched her back, trying to wiggle out of Alfie’s hold, but not really as strongly as she could have.

Alfie grunted at the statement, or perhaps at that sudden closeness, and didn’t budge an inch. He could make himself immovable like a mountain if he really put his back to it. Jane knew that trick well and she would be lying if she said it had no effect on her.

“Tomorrow,” she said again, a bit harsher this time.

He let go of her hair then and looked her in the eye, brow furrowed in annoyance. He reminded Jane of a frustrated dog and she did everything in her power not to smile at the comparison. Alfie finally stepped aside and walked back to his chair behind the desk.

“Pick ‘em up,” he commanded, pointing to where the bullets were scattered on the floor.

“I’ll buy some new ones, thanks,” Jane scoffed, but then one look at Alfie’s face told her it was not really a request.

“Fuck almighty, you’re impossible,” she said through gritted teeth and bent over to do as she was told.

He didn’t move to do anything this time, just watched her do it. Then, with a shit-eating grin she was ready to slap him for, Alfie handed her the gun.

“Now, be careful with that, sweetheart,” he murmured.

“Oh, don’t worry, I can still practice on your bloody goons,” Jane barked, then promptly turned her back to him, mane of red curls flowing behind her as she stormed out.

[beingalive1]

Proof that Tommy Shelby is the one true edgelord / a 19th century poet / an absolute drama queen:

is a goth

shaved sides

“already broken”

cheekbones

always has a bleeding face

romanticised Grace to the point that he couldn’t tell she was a spy even though it was so fucking obvious

had a communist phase

“and that’s why you should never pretend to be me”

Believes in magic & plans crime around the phases of the moon

cute date idea: take her into a dimly lit church and expose all her LIES”

has to say “…there is a very important reason why i am employing you” before he kisses her and then looks really fuckin sad when she says “you disappoint me”

“I think so you don’t have to”

signs his letters with stuff like “I have always learned to hate my enemies, but I have never loved one before”

likes animals more than people

has “in the bleak midwinter” as a catch phrase

lurks in alleyways so that he can mock people

calls his horse fuckinn “GRACES SECRET” omg

consciously participates in acting mysterious “I rarely answer questions is what I do.”

finds out that he might die so goes around hinting that he might die to all his family

sick death speech in which he announces his love for Grace in front of total strangers -he probably wrote it out before hand

probably has thoughts like “hark! there is bloodeth on my hand!”

poetic torture threats 

kills his friends on windy beaches

an actual thing he said “and idc cus i’m already dead”

did the whole stayed by her side until she dies routine

existential crisises all the time

always putting his head down on the table / in his hands

stares at fire

- probably Arsonist’s Lullaby is his favourite song

gets offended when people insult his fashion

recreated A Nightmare Before Christmas in his kitchen

what more can i give you his gin label literally says “Distilled for the eradication of seemingly incurable sadness”