#(perhaps a bit of stage fright? or worse)

[savagewildnerness]

(1)

And the same for this. What a rubbish morning & I was just unsatisfied over & over, so I share when I fail like this too. I can’t be bothered to listen to the scale of awful so I just post the lot. Usually I just go with whatever the improvisation is. But I was too dissatisfied. There are FOUR 😭😭😭.

Sorry, I’ve become a bit addicted to Nicolas improvisations at the moment. It’s because I’ve been rereading The Vampire Lestat in a more analytical way than I normally would, for book club & I guess Nicolas is really digging in my SELF like he did when I first The Vampire Lestat. Like he always dig. But I guess he’s carving in yet another trench & I don’t want to extract him… but I cannot steer clear of Nicolas improvisations for too long at the moment.

“Nicki was there.

I went to the side of the stage. The velvet curtain was drawn back to both sides and I could see his dark figure plainly in the orchestra pit. He was sitting in his old place, his hands folded in his lap. He was facing me but he didn't notice me. He was staring off as he had done all along.

And the memory came back to me of Gabrielle's strange words the night after I had made her, that she could not get over the sensation that she had died and could affect nothing in the mortal world.

He appeared that lifeless and that translucent. He was the still, expressionless spectre one almost stumbles over in the shadows of the haunted house, all but melded with the dusty furnishings -- the fright that is worse perhaps than any other kind.”

[pressplay-if]

if we're permitted to ramble about our MCs.......

Harper Bishop is the lead singer for the band 'Fawn.' their music is very chill and upbeat, but had an overall cynical tone to most of their works, which matches Harper pretty well! raised by distant parents, Harper always tried to be a good kid, in the hopes that her parents might give her approval, but it never came (she couldn't even imagine having a rebellious/lashing out phase, she made being the perfect child a part of her identity).

s college went on, i think she sort of...gave up on her parents, and started forging connections that gave her love/validation elsewhere. but, that good girl image stuck, and Harper definitely gives "girl next door" in terms of her stage persona. she is generally a sweet, caring person, if not a bit shy/reserved (bit of stage fright, but she's doing okay). i believe she does have a mean streak that can be easy to miss with how she acts the majority of the time that may come out more as she changes over the course of her career.

this combination of shyness vs need for approval has her pretty conflicted about fame and about Lincoln. if she gets more confident as her career goes on, she will start chasing more attention and fame. her goals at the beginning of the band were just having fun, not really expecting them to get anywhere, and yearning for a simpler life, but we'll see how fame changes her! (hopefully a lot i want her to be a fundamentally different and perhaps a worse person by the end of the story)

Stevie has a crush on her and Harper has no idea because she's absolutely the type to mistake romantic interest as just "being nice" so we'll see if she ever figures it out. also interested to see how her relationship with Stevie evolves as Harper potentially becomes a crueler, more selfish person because i believe Stevie would still try and keep defending and excusing her behavior and i think Stevie enabling increasingly terrible behavior would be super interesting to play through! i love character conflict!!

I love into how much detail you went here, especially considering what music Harper's band actually makes. Thanks so much, I love long asks, even though my answers always fall out shorter. Don't worry, Harper can, depending on your actions, definitely come out much, much worse by the end of the game. That kind of development is particularly tragic with Stevie's crush route...

[kevinsreviewcatalogue]

Review: Jennifer's Body (2009)

Jennifer's Body (2009)

Rated R for sexuality, bloody violence, language and brief drug use (unrated version reviewed)

<Originally posted at https://kevinsreviewcatalogue.blogspot.com/2024/01/review-jennifers-body-2009.html>

Score: 4 out of 5

At this stage, pointing out that critics and moviegoers in 2009 were completely wrong about Jennifer's Body is about as much of a hot take as saying that they were completely wrong about The Thing back in 1982. The story of how 20th Century Fox's short-lived youth-focused genre label Fox Atomic screwed over this movie's marketing because they had no idea what to do with it, and how their strategy of selling a very queer, very feminist horror-comedy as trashy softcore erotica aimed at the Spike TV fratbro set (as seen with the poster above) predictably backfired, is a long and sordid one that doesn't bear much repeating at this point. It's a movie that bombed badly when it came out and did lasting damage to the careers of both its lead actress Megan Fox and its screenwriter Diablo Cody, but went on to build its reputation on home video and streaming such that it's now talked about as one of the greatest horror movies of its time, and one of the greatest teen horror movies ever made. Lisa Frankenstein, a new horror-comedy written by Cody that comes out next month, is currently being explicitly marketed as "from Diablo Cody, acclaimed writer of Jennifer's Body," whereas if it had been made ten years ago, the trailers would not have even dared to mention her name.

I was one of the people who did see it when it came out, and even back then, I recall enjoying it and wondering why so much hatred was being hurled at a movie that was, at worst, pretty decent. Watching it again now, in 2024? It's a movie that it feels like it predicted every anxiety of young Americans, and especially teenage girls and young women, in the fifteen years to come, an incredibly smart, dark, gothic, stylish, and twisted movie whose comedic streak does little to take away from its scares and which is buoyed by a standout performance from Amanda Seyfried. Yes, it has its flaws. The jokes about Cody's too-cool-for-school dialogue at times becoming downright cringeworthy have been long since run into the ground (even if I think the problem is a bit overstated), and Fox was always a fairly limited actress even if this movie plays to her strengths. But on the whole, its problems, while real, are minor and not debilitating, and I had a blast watching it as both a straightforward teen fright flick and as a movie with more on its mind.

The plot is broadly similar to Ginger Snaps, a film with which this makes a great double feature, on a bigger Hollywood budget. Two teenage girls, Jennifer Check and Anita "Needy" Lesnicki, in the small podunk town of Devil's Kettle, Minnesota have been best friends since childhood, but while Jennifer has grown up into a beautiful cheerleader and the most popular girl in school, Needy has grown up into a dorky outsider who it seems is only still friends with Jennifer because they've always been friends (and perhaps... something more). One night, while heading down to a local bar to see an emo band called Low Shoulder, a fire breaks out and kills scores of people, with Needy and Jennifer escaping and Jennifer accepting an offer from the band to head home in their totally sweet, not-at-all-creepy van. Later that night, Jennifer comes to Needy's house looking like a bloody mess, eating rotisserie chicken straight out of her fridge, vomiting up black bile, and attacking her... only for her to suddenly come to school the next day looking no worse for wear and, if anything, both more beautiful than ever and an even bigger asshole than she was before. Needy suspects that something is up, and as it turns out, she's right: that night after the concert fire, Low Shoulder took the classic route to rock & roll superstardom and sacrificed Jennifer to Satan. Unfortunately, their victim wasn't a virgin like they believed she was, and so Jennifer came back from the dead possessed by a succubus who seduces her male classmates before eating them.

Both then and now, most of the discourse around this film has concerned its literal poster girl, Megan Fox. Having seen her in quite a few movies over the years, I've come to have a mixed opinion of Fox's acting. Hollywood did do her dirty for bluntly calling out the problems she encountered working in the film industry as an "it girl", but at the same time, she doesn't have much range, and even without the backlash, her career trajectory likely would've been less Margot Robbie or Scarlett Johansson than Jessica Alba (minus the business career that made her far more money than she ever did as an actress) or Bo Derek: a sex symbol whose roles would've slowly but surely dried up once she turned 30. However, while she is a fairly limited instrument as an actor, she isn't wholly untalented, and this film makes the absolute best use of those talents. It doesn't really ask much of her except to play a villainous version of her stock screen persona, a gorgeous, kinda haughty young woman who uses her body to get ahead in (un)life, and occasionally mug for the camera, and she absolutely nails it. Jennifer is a creative twist on the standard possession movie plot, one where the demonic shift in the possession victim's personality manifests in the form of her turning into a grotesque caricature of a high school "queen bee" like Regina George in Mean Girls, an utter shitheel who laughs at the suffering of her classmates even as they grieve the deaths of their friends. She may literally eat teenage boys alive, but the actions of hers that best reveal the depths of her monstrosity are those that feel all too human. Fox owns the part and makes it her own, such that I'm not surprised at how many of her scenes in this have been immortalized as gifs on Tumblr and clips on TikTok.

And it was watching the effects of that monstrosity flow through the lives of the people who knew Jennifer's victims that something clicked. One of the big things that retrospective analyses of this movie have focused on is its treatment of rape culture, especially as represented in Nikolai Wolf, the frontman of Low Shoulder. But watching the film again in 2024, I noticed something else. It's the feeling of helplessness that slowly but surely comes over the school, with everybody growing numb and fatigued to tragedy as the "cannibal serial killer" claims more victims right on the heels of the massive concert disaster while the adults are unable to stop any of it -- everyone, that is, except the one who treats it as one big joke and relishes in it like a troll. This may have been a movie made in 2009 about children of the 2000s, but even with its extremely MySpace-era emo aesthetics, it felt like a movie about children of the 2010s raised in a world of rampant mass shootings, religious extremism, resurgent bigotry, raging sexism, shrinking economic opportunity, and countless other social ills while nobody seemed to know how to fix it. Jennifer may be an iconic, catty, and sexy villain who gets many (though not all) of the best lines and scenes, but if you ask me, it's Needy, the one who finally says "no" and resolves to do what nobody else will no matter what it costs her, who's the reason this movie endures. Watching her fight Jennifer was like watching somebody throw down with every wiseass troll who thinks that school shootings, beheading videos, and tiki torch rallies are awesome as their sick way of telling the world that it's "cringe" to care about anything. Yes, it's clear watching this that Cody doesn't really know how teenagers speak, but she managed to capture how they think remarkably well.

When it came to Needy, this movie needed a world-class actress, and fortunately, it found one in Amanda Seyfried. The film practically acknowledges the ridiculousness of trying to frame her as "unattractive", but she manages to pull it off anyway. Watching the intro flashing forward to her locked up in a psychiatric hospital (letting us know early on that this is not going to end well), then jumping back to two months prior when we see her as a meek, bespectacled nerd looking longingly at a still-living Jennifer during a pep rally to the point that one of her classmates thinks she's a closeted lesbian (which, as we later see, may very well be the case), it's hard to believe that they're the same person, but Seyfried manages to make Needy's transformation from a cute girl next door who looks awkward in "alternative" clothes when heading to the concert to a hardened, shell-shocked survivor feel genuine. With Jennifer serving mainly as a monster and a symbol more than a character after she dies and comes back, it's largely on Needy to carry the film's emotional core, her heartbreak at watching one of her closest friendships turn toxic, and I bought every minute of it. This, as much as Mamma Mia!, was the movie that should've indicated that Seyfried was going places as a gifted and genuinely fearless actress, and I'm not surprised that her career would ultimately outlast the hype she first received in her youth.

Most of this film's comedy comes from its supporting cast, a who's who of both contemporary teen stars and older comedy actors. J. K. Simmons plays the science teacher Mr. Wroblewski about as far from his iconic J. Jonah Jameson performance as he can but still managed to make his dry, stern authority figure amusing. The clique of goth kids led by Kyle Gallner's Colin is a hilarious parody of the "edgy" youth counterculture of the era, a group of kids whose obsession with the aesthetics of death and misery seemingly makes them better suited than anyone else to live in the hostile world Jennifer creates with her murders, only for it to create some serious blind spots not just in their interactions with Jennifer but also in their sense of good taste. In the unrated cut that I watched, Bill Fagerbakke steals the show playing the father of one of Jennifer's victims, utterly devouring the one scene he's in where he mourns his son's death and swears vengeance on his killer in one of the most creatively graphic ways I've ever heard -- all while using the same voice he uses when playing Patrick Star on SpongeBob SquarePants. Johnny Simmons (no relation to J. K.) makes for a likable romantic partner to Needy as her boyfriend Chip, enough to make up for a fairly underwritten part, less like a character and more like a gender-flipped version of the stock "girlfriend" characters you see in movies with male heroes. Chip and Needy get what may just be the cutest and most awkward sex scene I've ever watched, one where neither of them really knows what they're doing but each of them wants to make sure that the other is having as much fun doing it as they are. There's definitely a sense of idealization in his character, like Cody was writing the kind of boyfriend she wished she had in high school.

Finally, we come to Adam Brody as Nikolai, the film's secondary villain and the man responsible for everything that goes wrong. In hindsight, the idea of a sappy emo musician who, behind the scenes, is as much a depraved rock star as any classic metal god, which originally came off as a joke, is one that turned out to be shockingly prescient of what a lot of Warped Tour emo, pop-punk, and scene bands were actually like behind the scenes. Not only do he and his band kill Jennifer after they're initially presented as "merely" rapists (and even after, the metaphors aren't exactly subtle), he ruthlessly exploits the aftermath of the concert fire to ever-greater heights of fame and fortune, implicitly the work of the Devil holding up his end of the bargain, all while casually insulting the town where it happened and, by extension, the memories of the victims. Low Shoulder's hit song "Through the Trees" is heard throughout the film to the point where it feels like it's taunting Needy, the one person who knows the truth about their "heroism" during the fire, how they in fact left dozens of people to die instead of trying to save them and how it's implied that the fire was, in fact, their fault (whether it was negligence or malice, it's never stated). Jennifer may have been evil, but the things that had been done to her to turn her into a monster made her a tragic villain nonetheless. I felt no such pity for Nikolai, with Brody playing him as a swaggering and spiteful bastard who I wanted to see suffer.

Karyn Kusama's direction, when paired with the visual design and the 2000s aesthetics dripping off this film, gives it a tone that I could perhaps best describe as gothic. Not just in the fashion sense of certain characters, but also in the heightened, old-school approach it takes to staging many of its scenes. It felt like she had been very informed by classic horror in a manner almost akin to Tim Burton at times, albeit with his brand of whimsy swapped out for black comedy. This is an incredibly moody film even in its funnier moments, serving to underline the grim nature of a lot of the humor here and lend it a dark edge. It feels sexy without feeling sleazy, perhaps best evidenced by the famous lesbian kiss scene, which puts the focus squarely on the characters' faces and plays the situation as something disturbing. Yes, you're watching Megan Fox and Amanda Seyfried passionately making out for a good solid minute or so, but you're also watching Jennifer manipulate Needy and exploit the feelings she has for her in order to torment her that much further. At every step of the way, this is a film that knows what it's doing, and it does it well.

The Bottom Line

It does have its minor annoyances, but this is still a movie that deserved the reevaluation it's received, and one that stands the test of time as a classic of teen horror, queer horror, and feminist horror even if its fashions and soundtrack are carbon-dated to 2009.

[the-valianter-valkyriest]

nightmare meme - wigfried

you wander out at night, and come across the rose-woven stage of the constant, surrounded by wilderness. two familiar birds sit atop either side of the arch. their smiles seem to grow as your torch dims, and they laugh, laugh, laugh when your torch goes out. the darkness dances around you, whispers and chants proclaiming "fight for us, fight for us, fight for us"; a spotlight suddenly shines on you. the stage is larger than it was, and there's seats - rows 'pon rows of seats with faceless people. shadowy hands lurch down from above and wrap around your arms and form, and before you know it you're engaged in battle with a nightmarebeak. it's not a match for your spear, and tumbles to the ground. the crowd cheers. that thump seems more solid then it should be, and the form of the beast lingers; but you're turned towards the next opponent before you can get a better look. a spider hurls at your face. easy pickings, the shadow hands whisper as they make your arms lift to impale the arachnid on your spear. the thing falls down with another thump befitting of a form much heavier. a crawling horror opens its maw to swallow you whole, but it falls before your might. the shadow hands are happy and make you wave to the audience. they're cheering, "valkyrie, valkyrie, valkyrie!"

the moose-goose appears on the stage. a bit more of a challenge, but it perishes easily enough; the body in your peripheral seems much smaller when you've killed it. then, deerclops herself emerges from the dark with a low bellow. it's only you and her - and you're the victor.

"wigfried, wigfried, wigfried," the audience cheers. you notice that some of the bodies suddenly look familiar. are those...

"wigfried, wigfried, wigfried," the audience cheers.

where the monsters were, fellow survivors lay about you, dead.

"augustine, augustine, augustine," the audience cheers.

the shadow hands make you bow, then retreat as the spotlight dims 'till you're in deep blackness.

"augustine, augustine, augustine," the audience cheers. the mockingbirds laugh. the audience calls out. you're alone.

Wigfrid! Wigfrid! Wigfrid! Elated, delighted! Lost in the splendor of her performance. Spellbound by the puppet on it's strings...

Wigfrid... Wigfrid...! Wigfrid!

And then, it changed... Faltered- as excitement turned to wariness. As joy turned to fright.

Wigfrid-! Damned Valkyrie, what on earth has gotten into you-?!

Just c- Wigfrid! Just calm down-! Not here to hurt you!

Wigfrid- what are you doing?! Stop!

Stop! Stop it- please stop! STOP.

"STOP-"

It fell from her mouth with a choking rasp... Their voices. Their bodies... God, no- no... She never would have done this. This wasn't her! It wasn't her!

But no one knew that. Her audience hadn't known that, cheering and giggling and shouting into the haunting emptiness of the night. Ravenously clamoring for more- more. How much more did they want?! When would their bloodlust be sated? Had they known what they'd made her do?! Did they understand?!

Maybe they did... Maybe they did know- perhaps it was exactly what they'd wanted. The thought made her sick. Sick.

She fell limp as she lowered her head, forced to soak up those malicious praises, feet brushing lifelessly against the floor... Her clothing felt horrid- sticky and suffocating, damp with the blood of her kills.

And as darkness consumed her at last, that familiar prickling sensation returned to her at once. The feeling of being watched. Stalked.

Wigfrid awoke with a start, practically tearing herself from sleep with a mangled gasp. She wrestled a bit with her array of furs- swathed so tightly within them that it took quite a while to wriggle loose.

... She'd been soaked to the bone in sweat... That in itself would have been unpleasant enough, but of course the Winter chill needed to make everything so much worse, didn't it...?

Her jaw felt as though it'd been in a vice. And rubbing a hand up against it had only revealed how badly they'd been shaking... How foolish. To be scared of dreams. Imaginary visions. Valkyries didn't do that, did they?

There hadn't been anything to been anything to be scared of, of course. She wouldn't have done such a thing... Wouldn't have let herself do such a thing... Even had her own life depended on it.

But, even so... she poked her head from her tent a bit, anyways... Just for a moment. Just to look around at the others that littered the campgrounds beside her...

... The silhouettes cast by the dim firelight revealed familiar shapes. Chests rising and falling... Tired bodies shifting, stuck in that ethereal space between consciousness and slumber.

Good... Good. Of course. Nothing to fear. A foolish notion to think anything but.

9.5/10

[ask-freakshow-feli-blog]

Ooo what about A4 for our good boi Feli?

Bright lights sure are irritating

[whump-a-la-mode]

Magician’s Assistant

No one asked for this, but I decided to continue this cause I love some good villain whump, and I love some good pet whump, so why not mix them together?

Summary: Villain puts on a show for Hero’s friends, and takes a risk that they regret.

I’m open to continuing this if anyone wants ^^ I know it’s a little weird though.

CW//Pet whump, forced to perform, power suppressors, collars, cones of shame, muzzles, bit gags, mitt cuffs, threatened punishment, failed escape, scopophobia, stage fright, dehumanization

“Now, I wouldn’t have to do this if you would behave. I hate doing this, you know. You’re going to make my friends think you’re some kind of wild animal.”

A low growl rumbled in Villain’s throat as their head was jerked around by Hero’s forceful hands. A trio of plastic buttons sounded with a rhythmic pop pop pop as they were undone, allowing the plastic cone attached to their collar to be slipped free and tossed to the ground.

The removal of the opaque blinders sent Villain for a loop, suddenly regaining access to their peripheral vision. Yet, they were given no chance to stumble, or even to ease their dizziness. The fingers gripping their chin like a vice would not allow such a thing. 

Hero must have known that the muzzle was too small. The sheer amount of force it took to force the damned piece of metal over Villain’s jaw should have at least told them that. Even as the device was placed on their face, they could not help but whimper in discomfort, unyielding leather and metal already digging into their tender flesh. As their jaw was forced closed, they could feel the bit already within their mouth dig painfully into their gums. Their whimpers soon turned to muffled cries.

“Now, I’m only doing this because you forced my hand.” Their tormentor sighed. “You wear your mitts because you can’t stop picking. You wear your cone because you kept chewing on the mitts. But you can’t wear your cone on stage, and I can’t trust you not to chew. I swear, it’s like Whack-a-Mole, trying to keep up with your habits.”

The muzzle was pulled taut against their face as its straps were pulled back and fastened. Villain whined, the motion of the metal bars on their face forcing their teeth closed over their tongue, washing their taste buds with the bitter taste of blood.

“Now, if you’ll behave.” There was an exasperated overtone to Hero’s voice, as though they were the one leashed and collared like a dog. “The muzzle can come off after the show.”

Villain wanted to maul that expression straight off Hero’s face. Or, maybe just take the whole face off. Their limbs trembled with barely-contained rage, but they had no time to act on it.

“Be good. I’ll be back in a little bit.” They finished, handing off the leash they carried to a guard standing a few feet away. And, with that, they pushed away the heavy curtain and disappeared onto the stage.

A thousand screaming, primal things within Villain screeched at them, howled for them to do something, to fight back. The guard was terribly distracted, leash looped lazily around a wrist while their hands were occupied with a smartphone. It would be so, so easy, so simple to knock them over, knock them out, tear them to pieces and be free and be normal and-

And Villain lowered themself to the floor, laying down on their side.

No. Their wounds still stung from last time. They had learned better than to attempt to flee with so many eyes on them. They just had to sit. Sit and wait. Wait until they were finally left alone again.

The stage lights turned on, filtering through the backstage curtain with their sheer strength. They could hear Hero’s words clearly, but they knew the speech so well, it simply filtered from their ears.

How many times had they done this show, now? They couldn’t bring themself to care. It was better, not to think about what they had become.

A circus animal. A magician’s assistant.

They wanted to escape. Of course they did. They hated this, hated every second of it. They just wanted to go home. For so long they had desired revenge, but that desire had been extinguished alongside their willpower. Now, they just wanted to go home. To be able to use their hands. To be able to drink out of a cup rather than a bowl. To be able to eat something that couldn’t be described as brown slop.

But they couldn’t. All because of a stupid pair of mittens. Dejectedly, they looked down, where there hands were supposed to be. Where now sat only padded paws of black leather, secured around the wrist with taut straps. That was all it took to disable them.

They wanted to scream.

Villain couldn’t count how many times they’d tried to escape. How many guards they’d jumped, how many wounds inflicted.

And, every time, they were thwarted by something so simple. A doorknob. A window latch. A buckle. All because of a stupid pair of mittens.

That, and the power suppressor. They could feel the cold metal against the back of their neck, firmly secured by their collar.

Theoretically, it would be so easy to get out. If they could reach the buckles on their mitts with their mouth, they could get them off, easy. Then, it was just a matter of finding a window and making a run for it.

Simple in theory. Impossible in reality. That didn’t mean they couldn’t try, though. That they couldn’t act in at least a shadow of defiance.

Villain wasn’t broken yet. They would never break, never. No matter what. It may have been too dangerous to attempt to flee with so many heroes around, but once they were back to their cell? Their next attempt would begin. And this time, they’d be faster. Smarter. Better. And one day, they would get out.

The thought sent a long-lost burst of warmth through their chest. Just to make a point, they snarled as best as they could around the muzzle.

Maybe they would knock the guard over. Just for fun. To show Hero that they weren’t going to sit back here like a good little puppy, just because one of their escape attempts had been thwarted.

They didn’t get the chance.

“And now, for my final act, I have a very special guest.” The words boomed out through the speakers as the stage lights dimmed.

It was time for their act.

Still hardly paying attention, the guard leaned down, unclipping the leash from Villain’s collar. Freeing them.

They could run. The door to the rest of the facility was right there. They couldn’t help from turning their head towards it, red-hot adrenaline filling their veins and overriding the taste of iron in their mouth.

The guard’s boot struck their side with practiced swiftness.

“Go.” They grunted.

They had to be patient. Had to do the smart thing. Had to be a good dog, until the moment was right. Once they were back to their cell, then they could stop pretending to be ‘trained.’

But, for now...

They would just have to “behave.”

Villain raised themself to their hands and knees, then, slowly, to their feet. Their taut muscles made their gait terribly tense as they pushed through the curtain and moved onto the stage.

They wanted to go back they wanted to go back they wanted to go back.

Every time they came on stage, they forgot just how horrible it was. Or, perhaps, it simply got worse every time. The stage lights were hot enough to make them feel as though they were laying on asphalt in the dead middle of summer. And, even with the lights obscuring their forms, they swore they could still see every member of the audience. See their eyes, staring, transfixed.

As soon as Villain emerged from the wings, the laughter was overwhelming. It seemed to echo off every wall, resound from every speaker. They swore that their heart and stomach switched places.

Still, they kept moving, even as they shook worse than a nervous chihuahua. It was just an act. An act they knew how to perform, even as they wished more than anything to bleach the memory from their mind.

In the center of the stage, a sort of pyramid had been constructed of wooden chairs, built in such a way that, at the pyramid’s peak, a single chair was balanced. A platform.

Climbing the pyramid, they were unsure if the chairs shook because of their own unsteady placement or because of Villain’s trembling. An eternity of stage lights and staring eyes and chortling audience members later, they were at the top, balanced precariously atop the peak.

They hated the view that the position gave them. There must have been a hundred people out there, a hundred pairs of eyes, a hundred mouths pealing in laughter.

Villain swallowed down a mouthful of bile.

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you all of who my assistant used to be.” Hero smiled.

More laughter.

“But now, they’re here to show you just what they can do, when they’re not trying to destroy our city!”

This time, the audience’s chortling nearly drowned out the subtle, mechanical click that sounded from the leather loop about Villain’s throat.

Their power flooded their chest, warmer than the strongest alcohol.

Was it even their power, anymore, when they were only allowed access to it when it pleased their captors? They tried not to think on that for too long.

With measured steps, Hero approached the pyramid of chairs on which their prisoner was precariously perched.

A moment of silence, and Villain was falling.

Hero’s boot struck a leg on one of the chairs forming the structure’s foundation, snapping it effortlessly. At once, the pyramid collapsed.

No matter how many times they performed the act, the way their heart leapt to their throat was always painfully, horribly real.

But it was all an act, and they were the tiger jumping through the hoop.

Villain’s powers tore from their body, swirling about their limbs, their back, their feet, until they were floating, bobbing up and down in the air.

From the audience, applause and amusement resounded in equal number.

“Go!” Hero’s shout cut through the air, a whip striking a performing lion.

Just an act. They could do this, they had done it so many times.

Still allotting plenty of strength to keep themself afloat, Villain sent their power out in every which direction-- a swarm of flies, searching and grabbing whatever they could find.

Gasps echoed from the audience members below as, from the tables before them, their very plates and forks were whisked away. Spiraling dishware formed a series of rings about the floating villain’s body, as though they were a nucleus, circled by energy in pure form.

The chairs were next, legs ripped from seats and seats torn from backs, until sticks of wood formed yet more rings. There were a dozen, now, and hundreds of objects making them up. Villain felt sweat dribble down their forehead, trying to keep track of it all.

But Hero was not yet satisfied. They could see it on their face.

The next batch of dishware came from the kitchens, accompanied by a flood of flying office supplies. New rings formed, staplers and cutlery and serving plates, all spiraling, twisting, until Villain could no longer be seen beneath the sphere they had formed around them.

“Give it up for this former villain!” Hero cried out, and the audience did not protest. Their clapping was interspersed by only a few spots of giggling.

When the applause had reached its crescendo, it was time for the finale. Sweat poured from their forehead in liters, now, dribbling down their sides, a thousand swirling things around them, concealing them from the-

The world beyond.

No one could see them. And with so many things under their control, what was one more?

Undoing the buckle on their muzzle was like spinning plates, while balancing on a ball, which was atop an elephant. While underwater. Every neuron in their mind was pulled in a separate direction, yet, a tiny ounce of residual willpower gave them the strength they needed.

The buckle was undone, the strap pulled free.

This was it. But not yet. No, not yet. They used their powers, holding the muzzle to their face, ensuring that it looked to not have been disturbed at all.

The applause was deafening.

Around them, the rings of dishware and wood scraps and staplers and staples began to grow-- a ball of plasma, writhing as a living thing, breathing, until it took up nearly the whole stage.

All at once, it broke. Each and every of the thousand pieces, the million atoms, stopped spinning. Plates swirled through the air, returning to their original tables without a single chip in their porcelain, cutlery neatly stacked beside them. Office supplies were returned with the same perfection, chairs twisted back into their proper forms, and once again stacked in their pyramidal form.

Villain gasped for breath as they lowered themself to the floor. The resounding applause did not help, not in the slightest. Instead, it made them feel as though garotte wires had been pulled taught about their lungs, their throat. Why did everything have to be so loud?

They hoped that their tears mixed convincingly with their sweat.

When the clapping quieted to nothing, Hero again took center stage.

“Thank you, everyone, for being here tonight!”

More applause. Didn’t their hands hurt?

“That’s all I have for you this time around. Dinner will be out in a moment, and I’ll be joining you all in a moment!”

The noise from the audience continued as Hero turned, moving off the stage. Like an obedient puppy dog, Villain kept on their heels. When, at last, they pushed through the backstage curtain, they felt about to collapse. After a few moments, the horrid cacophony finally, finally stopped.

They were done. They’d done it. They’d pleased Hero, they’d performed, and now, they would be alone, all the way up until the next show.

Hero stopped once the two were firmly backstage, away from the blaring stage lights and the chattering people outside, signalling for Villain to do the same.

“You did good.” A hand in their hair. They wanted to throw up. Or, better, bite Hero’s hand off. “See, if you just behaved like that all the time, you wouldn’t have to wear any of this crap.”

Hero drew their hand from their head.

“Damn are you sweaty. Takes a lot out of you, huh? You can have a rest, then.”

From the guard, they took the leather leash, reattaching it to the collar’s D-ring. And-

A click. The power suppressor.

Then, a clatter. Their muzzle striking the floor. They’d forgotten that they’d removed it.

Oh god oh god oh god.

Any cheer that Hero had been emanating was gone in an instant. This time, the hand in their hair was a restraint, yanking and forcing  their head to the floor.

“I swear.” The fury in their tone was barely contained. “I’m done with this! I’m done. I can see that I can’t trust you.”

Villain could hear their heartbeat, banging against the concrete floor below.

“Clearly, you need that lock on the collar. The mitts, too. But that’s going to take some time.”

Some time. Some time to rest.

“If you can’t be trusted on your own, then you’re going to have to go back to your trainer.”

If Villain had any water still left within their body, in that instant, every drop turned to ice.

“They’ll supervise you until your new collar is ready. Come on, now. I can’t wait to explain this to them.”

[hazzabeeforlou]

Really long ramble about music. If anyone wants inside my brain right now :) 

I kept dreaming of flying, after the surgery. I would get these beautiful wings and I’d fly out my back door and across the field and forest, and it was a beautiful world, like a little garden, myriad colors and flowers, pastel yet brilliant in a way only dreams can be. But then I’d soar near the blue sky and realize it was solid, a dome, a ceiling, and I couldn’t break through. 

I’ve been struggling recently not only with the question of where I fit in the classical music world (that’s been an ongoing issue) but the very nature of my career in general. The classism and elitism have always marked me as an outsider, and I’ve suffered my fair share of imposter syndrome, but I’ve also studied at the most elite schools and with the most elite teachers and played with one of the most elite orchestras, and seen just how my career is funded; namely, by very wealthy (endowment wealthy) white people. We say eat the rich all the time, and often I think those that are offended by that don’t quite realize how the rich get their money, the blood and genocide and slavery that are the base of all capitalistic gains. If only the richest of the rich fund the arts with their (excuse the overused term) blood money, then perhaps this is why I’ve always felt such a disconnect with the outreach efforts that so many symphonies and organizations do with minority groups, why that has always felt so icky, so like trying to foist the ‘right culture’ upon them as if the music of the colonizer was so much better than their own. 

Of course music, like the art produced by shitty artists, can also be universal, and can’t wholly bear the responsibility of its makers or producers. I still don’t know why I begged my mom to play my instrument at age three, but I do know that, like in my fic Flawless, there’s something magical that has always happened to me while performing, something that is musical, not cultural, not performative, but raw and real, and as the harp is one of the most ancient instruments in the world, that magic resonates with the part of me searching for meaning in classical music beyond what its gatekeepers have preordained.  Right now I find myself in the middle of a competition. It’s been years since I’ve competed, and as I got older, contrary to what everyone told me, my stage fright just increased. After my surgery it was nearly unbearable, as was the pain I dealt with while playing. The anti-anxiety drugs helped a bit. And five years later, acupuncture has helped with my pain. Yet there’s a doubt within my bones, and I know where it comes from, from the last recital I did before my surgery when my brain couldn’t breathe, when my organs were falling asleep, crushed to death like that lady-in-waiting of Queen Victoria’s. I just found this quote by Dr. Mariel Buque today: 

At the root of trauma is the belief that you can’t trust again. That belief serves a purpose: to protect your wounded soul from any future pain. But it also keeps you from every experiencing the fullness of joy. 

In my case, trauma makes me not trust myself. It’s an odd thing to mistrust your body, or to hate it, or constantly tell it to stop, to work better, to quit being in pain. As I work on trying to practice radical self love, I’m forced to realize the abuse that I shower on my body and brain constantly. While accepting that I’ll likely always deal with chronic pain, I’ve failed to forgive myself for being in pain. The guilt is compounded by the demands of capitalism, of personal pride, of status; it was expected that I would be successful, and look at me now. If I had enemies in the music world, they would gloat.

My brain has split into two, and on one side I tell myself that life could be so much worse, I am privileged and educated, I have security and food and a job; on the other I compare myself to my elite friends and their careers and houses and status, their runnings within the circles of power players, their posts posing with the famous and rich. Do I want that? Am I so shallow? So petty, so proud? Why did I even do this to start with. Why am I competing? Why am I driving my mental sanity and strength to its limits to impress a jury and win a prize in a world where nothing I could ever do in this career would ever actually MATTER?

I don’t think I could accurately describe it to you, but playing the harp can feel like flying. There’s a euphoria that takes you over at certain points in a piece, and you can fall into it like diving off a cliff, and sometimes it pulls you down, but god, when your fingers hit the right strings and your brain keeps up with your feet, you fucking soar. And this thing, this magic washes from your chest down your arms and up to your cheeks and it’s like kicking off from the pavement and finding you’re no longer bound by gravity. I’m standing under a cold shower tonight and I thought, it really is the closest I’ll ever get to being able to fly. 

It hit me then, one of those realizations that makes your eyes water for no apparent reason; perhaps that’s why I do this, why I still want to, need to, perhaps it’s not to break through that ceiling/sky, perhaps it’s just to fly. Maybe I was never meant to leave that dome, and maybe that shouldn’t be my focus or goal. After all, it is beautiful there, and I can fly, and how many people can say that? What a gift, after all. A gift that no one owns, that no one culture or class can claim from me, a gift that is so magical and so mine. 

Fear of failure holds us back from so many things. But why should I be beholden to their judgements when the seas are rising and they don’t give a shit? The future pain I would experience from failure is quite literally my own wounded pride, the idea of who I am in the eyes of my peers. But what if I forgave my body for imperfection? What would it look like to compete and not beat myself up over an outcome? What would it look like to not give a damn. 

I know it’s a famous quote, and I can’t even think of what it’s from, but this evening it’s been echoing around in my brain: what if I fall? Oh but darling, what if you fly. 

[ko-fanatic]

Blood, Guts and Chocolate Cake (Part 3)

Rating: Mature

Fandom: Danganronpa

Pairings: IshiMondo

Summary: Breakfast before the show, and Mondo realising he loves Taka's music if it's live. Still, there's something too close to a disturbing premonition burning under Mondo's skin, and the idol's comments, actions and frame just make it worse. Something's going on with him...

TW: Alcohol, and eating disorders (both restrictive behaviours and B/P), mentions of disability, underage sex/sexualisation, drugs

Other parts: Part one | Part two

Kiyotaka did not, in fact, get to finish his allotted miles. 

Mondo, in his defense, had attempted to continue, but after another mile his lungs had given up on him. Taka was so concerned, hearing his wheezing breaths, that he’d gotten him to spill about being asthmatic. The idol then promptly freaked out, calling a taxi to take them back to the hotel and insisting that he’ll keep his workouts to a gym setting in future.

He could tell Taka was upset - he might be callous, but he wasn’t stupid. Still, the kid said he was just antsy, nothing to worry about. Excess energy he hadn’t had the chance to burn off.

After a while of sitting on the couch, watching the TV that was way bigger than it had any right to be, he wasn’t actively dying anymore. Therefore, Taka saw it fit to leave him for a bit as he pottered around, doing idol things. He could hear Taka practising one of his songs in the bathroom as he performed his ludicrously long skin care routine. 

Honestly, he was more focussed on Taka’s singing than the shitty sitcom on TV. He’d heard the polished, studio versions - who hadn’t? - but this was something else. Fuck autotune, for sure; Taka’s voice was beautiful, crisp as a bell and perfectly trained. But rather than the polished version, Taka added more vocal tricks and a generally interesting style to the song that he’d never heard before. 

If there was more of that in his official audios, Mondo would’ve been an avid fan by now. 

“And if you got a little more time, baby let me hold your hand in mine,” The idol sang as he strolled into the kitchenette, opening the fridge and retrieving an apple, “Drink you up like the finest wine, lick you off my lips before showtime -”

“Whoa,” He whistled lowly, unable to help himself, “Those lyrics aren’t very ‘sweet boy next door’.”

“Oh,” Taka blinked, seemingly just remembering he wasn’t the only one in the room, “That was actually my original version, before it was reviewed. Too lewd for the image, I guess.”

“Or they didn’t want a bunch of tweens bustin’ their first nut in public,” He chuckled, Taka’s nose scrunching in disgust. 

“Ew,” He huffed, retrieving an apple from the fridge and starting to cut it up, “I’d rather not think about that.”

He just smirked, not bothering to turn back to the mindless crap on TV, just watching as Taka prepared his breakfast. He was about as meticulous about cutting up that apple as he was his choreography; while anyone would cut an apple into segments (barring bento making), Taka halved and cored it before cubing the frankly pathetic slivers of fruit he was left with. 

The cubes were small, almost diced, and quickly scraped into a bowl like they'd burn Taka if they so much as brushed the pale, thin skin of his hands. Then, a bottle of lemon juice was procured, sprinkled on the un-diced half of the apple before it was wrapped in cellophane and sealed in a Tupperware box. Just watching the methodical, practiced actions had Mondo raising an eyebrow; Taka sealed that half apple away like some corny Hollywood curse. Like it would come back for one final scare if he didn't get rid of it.

He expected another fruit to be taken from the fridge, making up a small fruit salad, or for bread to be put in the toaster. Hell, he'd be cool with the promise of Starbucks or McDonald's on the way to the venue, but no. 

Taka sat next to him on the sofa, chopsticks in hand as he daintily picked at the meagre portion he'd given himself. His frown only deepened when he saw just how little it amounted to, barely obstructing the bottom of the bowl from view. It hardly counted as an apple, looking far more like peelings you’d throw in the garbage than an actual meal. 

“That it?” He asked, gesturing to the ‘meal’ as Taka placed a particularly small cube into his mouth. 

“What do you mean?” The idol asked, raising an eyebrow, “It’s my breakfast.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock,” He grumbled, “I mean, ‘wow, kid, you eat less than a fuckin’ bird, go get some more’.”

“Half an apple is perfectly fine,” Taka defended, putting down his chopsticks to properly argue with him. It made a pang go off in Mondo’s chest, especially as his eye was drawn to the small bowl, resting on Taka’s thin thigh. 

Most people’s thighs pool when sitting; flesh, whether be muscle or fat, generally molds under pressure. However, there was still that oh-so-lauded gap between the boy’s thighs, hardly more than bone. It made him… uncomfortable. Like seeing a cancer patient on their final days; only Taka wasn’t dying, ashen complexion notwithstanding. 

“Yeah, no, it’s not,” He spoke bluntly, no preamble, “You did a three mile run, and you’ll be in rehearsals all day. Half an apple’s not going to keep you going.”

The idol rolled his eyes, muttering something about how his run should have been five miles, and picked up the chopsticks once more. He seemed to just push the fruit around his plate, however, instead of bringing piece after piece to his lips like he had before. 

“What -?”

“Lost my appetite,” Taka shrugged, standing on those tiny, boney legs once more, “I’ll have something later.”

Mondo didn’t comment, not wanting to upset Taka more than he, apparently, already had. He simply watched as the peelings got scraped into the bin with the rest of the apple, hardly eaten. Maybe the equivalent of a couple bites. 

He didn’t say anything, considering he’d already put the kid off his food. He’d make a note of it, but he mainly put it up to nerves for tonight; big venue, and didn’t they say that stage fright was an important part of this shit? 

“Looking forward to the show?” Taka asked as he washed up his bowl, chopsticks and knife. 

“Honestly, yeah,” He nodded, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table, lounging around like he owned the place, “I’m not a huge fan of pop, but what you were singing now was cool. Guess I like live music better than studio versions.”

“Honestly, that’s completely valid,” Taka smiled, “I prefer doing my own thing, with no editing to slow me down…”

---

Mondo was having the time of his fucking life! Taka wasn’t kidding about editing slowing him down, the guy was a beast on stage. 

The stage lighting pounded down on the idol, refracting off the metallic accents of his costume and catching the beads of sweat at his temple. Two hours of jumping around, dancing, singing, and playing his guitar, and he showed no signs of slowing. The adrenalin was high, and it vibrated through Taka, the crowds, the stadium itself and straight through Mondo himself. 

If he was a cheesier person, he’d say it was like he could feel Taka’s own heartbeat through the music, resting in his chest next to his own. But he wasn’t that sappy. Nope. Not at all.

He certainly wasn’t prepared for Taka to remove the prince-like, white jacket to reveal the costume underneath. A crisp button-up was par for the course, but the leather harness buckled around his torso made the simple look jaw dropping. Finale outfit, he’d heard one of the costumers mention, but he hadn’t been paying attention at the time. 

The leather looked so perfect wrapped around his thin body, and Mondo was screaming. Internally, thankfully, but this was going to be his end. 

The song wasn’t long at all, maybe a couple minutes. Like a vast majority of Taka’s “approved” songs, it was about love; albeit darker. A couple heavily veiled allusions to bondage, both in the fun and not-so-fun senses, a feeling of wanting to pull away but being far too in love to do what was healthy. 

The crowd just ate it up, even if it gave Mondo an odd feeling… Foreboding, perhaps? Some sort of anxious buzzing under his skin, like a premonition, but no basis in anything he could actually pinpoint. It wasn’t like he could see Taka’s eyes, or anything like that. Maybe a slight tremor in the voice, but fuck, the kid had literally been singing for hours. 

After the final guitar riff, and a couple breaths, Taka grabbed one of his water bottles off the front of the stage, not even hesitating to dump it all over his head. The screaming from the crowd managed to increase tenfold, and he was pretty sure the whole stadium was enjoying the view of that white shirt turning translucent and clinging so enticingly.

“Thank you and goodnight!” He cheered, stage lights going out and allowing Taka to walk off stage with minimal awkwardness. 

“That…” Mondo began, Taka holding up a finger as they disconnected his mic, making sure none of the sounds backstage got broadcasted and ruined any spell the audience was under. 

“Sorry I had to interrupt you,” Taka apologised, so sweetly sincere, “You were saying?”

“Just… That was incredible…” He breathed, still slack jawed from the rush of the concert, “You… I…”

“Articulate,” Taka smirked, hand on hip as he sauntered off to get changed, before he would exit and be swarmed with both eager fans and paparazzi alike. 

Mondo was smiling, heart still hammering, until his attention was brought to what was visible beneath the sodden fabric. 

Ribs.

[erekiosuncreativeideas]

The Part-Time Puppeteer - Chapter 07

<= Chapter 6

Summary : It is time for Lukas to show his acting skills... But of course, nothing can stick to the plan, can it? Also available on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/23828971/chapters/81199699

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New chapter, woohooo ! This one was fun to write, I hope you'll like it ! Happy reading !

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Chapter 7 - “But what if I fail?”

Eventually, Lukas’ anger slowly disappeared, only to be replaced by a growing stage fright. The more seconds passed, the more his stomach hurt, and he felt like a weight was settling on his shoulders. As time went on, he was starting to regret agreeing to this whole thing- fuck, fuck, he should have said no, he should have insisted, why in the hell did he even agree to this…!

The student jumped as he heard a knock on the door and, for a small moment, he thought it was MJ coming back. However, he quickly pushed that idea away- there was no way that jerk would be polite enough to knock- he hadn’t the first time. But as the young man wondered who could be behind the door, it opened slightly. Through the small opening, Lukas’ eyes fell on Grooves. Instantly, his face paled up- oh gosh, it was time, already?

-“Ah, Mike told me you’d be in here,” the director’s suave voice brought him back to reality, and the student swallowed nervously.

-“Is… Is it time?” he asked, his voice trembling and full of anxiety.

The other didn’t respond right away, and entered the room instead, quietly closing the door behind him.

-“No, you still have a few more minutes,” his boss replied, though that didn’t reassure Lukas, on the contrary. If the director was there, then it meant something, right? He couldn’t think of any possible reason on why DJ Grooves would come into Mike’s workshop- and even then, from the other’s words, it was like he had been looking for him.

This… Didn’t sound so good, suddenly. And apparently, his fear must have been quite visible on his features, as the director seemed to notice it:

-“Okay, listen, darling,” he started, clasping his hands: “The Conductor and I were talking with our investor, the person funding this whole project.”

-“Oh, yeah, Mike told me something like that,” the young man nodded, still feeling anxious: “Is… Is something wrong?”

Perhaps the other was there to tell him they were going to take MJ back? It seemed like this conversation was important enough, and honestly it sounded like DJ Grooves was trying to bring up a sensitive subject. But maybe it was for the best? Lukas was not an actor, and they did promote him out of the blue, without really thinking about it- Although, why would they tell him to learn the lines all for nothing? Before he even got the chance to display his “acting skills”? He had used his own free time to learn them, it was a bit frustrating to have memorized them if he weren’t even going to get his chance.

His internal monologue was interrupted by DJ Grooves’ low voice:

-“Listen, I’ll be honest with you. MJ isn’t a great person to be around, but he is famous. When we announced to our investor we had pushed him out of the project, he… Wasn’t exactly pleased.”

The young man lowered his eyes and nodded- yeah, that made sense. Sure, MJ was a jerk, but he would have attracted more attention on the show.

-“So, you’ll take him back on the team?” guessed Lukas, who wasn’t so surprised, though perhaps disappointed. Of course, it was less stress on his shoulders, but… Yeah, he would be lying if he said it hadn’t brought him some excitement, or some change in his anxious routine. But it was certainly the best choice to make- however, that meant MJ would have the time of his life humiliating him about this, especially after their argument.

-“What? No,” the director frowned, his expression turning confused for a moment: “I mean… That is why I’m here, actually.”

It was Lukas’ time to be perplexed now, and he couldn’t help but tilt his head, not really sure to understand what the other was trying to say.

-“Look, darling, you did a good job yesterday. However, our investor is very insistent on keeping MJ on the team, because all he’s seeing is a celebrity who’s going to attract attention. And don’t get me wrong, it’s true,” he raised his hands, like he was defending himself: “But that means you need to prove your worth to him more than anything.”

Oh no. No, no, no, he could see where this was going.

-“Wait, wait…” he interrupted the other, his face paling up: “Are you implying this is some kind of… Exam?”

The man in front of him readjusted his glasses while raising his eyebrows, an unimpressed expression on his face:

-“Oh, I’m not implying anything, darling,” he answered simply: “I’m stating it, this is exactly what it’s going to be.”

It was like a cold shower for the young man, who was having a very tight knot in his stomach. His breathing increased in pace, and so did his heartbeat. Oh, fuck, fuck, he was going to hyperventilate, shit, this couldn’t be happening- he couldn’t do this! Playing a role was one thing, but having the future of a show depending on his sole performance was too much, way too much- okay, yeah, they’d probably get MJ back if he failed, but that still meant his performance would be examined.

This was too much stress for him to handle, he couldn’t, he just couldn’t-!

-“Woah, there, hey,” the director’s suave voice wasn’t enough to calm him down, but it did distract him slightly from his new panic attack. He felt something brushing his back hesitantly, and it didn’t take him long to understand DJ Grooves was trying to comfort him- but it only made it worse. Lukas didn’t like being touched when his anxiety was at its peak. He stepped away, and the director didn’t insist.

-“I… Suppose I did good to tell you in advance,” the other added, visibly uncomfortable by the current situation.

-“I can’t,” Lukas breathed out, really doing his best to calm himself down, in vain: “I didn’t even apply for this, I can’t, I just…”

His head was starting to spin from the stress, and he quickly sat down, not wanting to collapse on his second day at his job. He leaned against the wall and took deep breaths, bringing his hands up to rub his eyes. God, being so tired really wasn’t helping his mental state… Sounds of muffled fabric next to him caught his attention, and when he looked at his side, he was surprised to see DJ Grooves sitting next to him.

-“It’s okay to be scared, darling,” he spoke again, his voice sounding more reassuring than before: “It’s your first time acting, it’s normal. But you have something, you have potential.”

The student scoffed and rolled his eyes with an ironic smile:

-“Yeah, right. The only reason I’m replacing MJ is to teach him a lesson. I’m not stupid.”

The director shot him yet another unimpressed look:

-“You really think we’d lose production time just to punish a full-grown adult? You think it’s worth wasting a day of work?”

That made Lukas wince, and he looked away, falling silent. Yeah, okay, that was fair, but that didn’t mean it was the right decision to make!

-“I’m not going to lie, you do need some training, but there’s a spark in there,” he pointed to the young man: “You might not be able to play any character, sure, but you have a thing with villains. It’d be stupid to let that go to waste.”

A long sigh left Lukas’ lips, and he buried his face into his hands. His panic attack was slowly dying down, but God, did he feel terrible right now… His stomach still hurt like hell, as if someone were playing with his guts and twisting them around. Fuck, the last time he had felt so stressed was for his finals the year before… And back then, he had an idea of what awaited him! Today, however? He had no fucking idea.

That terrified him.

-“I can’t do this,” he weakly mumbled through his hands: “I’m not an actor, I’m just…”

-“A part-time stagehand?” the other guessed the rest of his sentence: “Yeah, that’s what you’re going to become again if you fail. But, darling, imagine if you do impress our investor! I know you had fun yesterday,” the director nudged him, with a teasing tone.

-“N-no, I didn’t,” denied the young man, though it was a lie. He had had a blast the day before… That is, when he had managed to throw his anxiety through the window, if just for a moment. But this was different, this was… Official! Yesterday, he had thought he was helping that little girl to get that role, now… Now he was doing that for himsel f, and fuck, he was not ready for it.

-“Oooh, don’t you lie to me. Sure, you were all shy at the beginning, but then… It was like you had flipped a switch, and then, there was the spark I was speaking about.”

The student remained silent. Yeah, it was true… Somewhat. Without knowing how, he had been able to put his fear aside.

-“I just…” he spoke again after a moment, shrugging: “I thought that since I didn’t have a choice, well… I told myself ‘ why the fuck not ’, you know?”

Next to him, his interlocutor smiled, as he got to prove his point.

-“So what’s so different here, then?” the latter retorted, his voice amused: “Why don’t you flip that switch again?”

-“But what if I fail?” Lukas brought his head back up and gave his boss a distressed look.

-“Then you’ll go back to being a stagehand, which is what you applied for in the first place. You’re not losing anything, darling, we’re not going to fire you if it doesn’t work out. Acting isn’t always about success, it’s about… Passion! Doing what you love, being yourself!”

He paused for a moment, his smile widening:

-“And for you, darling, it’s about having fun.”

The words had a bigger effect on Lukas than what he had first expected. Oh, he wasn’t convinced, his anxiety was still eating him from the inside, but at least… He was reassured on the fact that his promotion wasn’t just to piss MJ off. Sure, that asshole entirely deserved it, but it was good to hear he wasn’t being used.

He was genuinely wanted on the team. Obviously, he would never be as talented as the other actor, Grooves had even been honest about that, but… At least it was motivating, knowing people thought he had potential. And if it was the case, then… Why wouldn’t he give his best? His boss was right, he had nothing to lose, so… He might as well try and see where it would take him.

Plus, he had learned all those lines, it would be stupid to give up when he tried so hard to memorize them… Especially when it had cost him two hours of sleep.

Eventually, after what felt like centuries, he let out yet another sigh, as a small smile grew on his lips:

-“Alright,” he snorted: “You win.”

It was the director’s turn to sigh in relief at the student’s approval.

-“I knew I could count on you, darling,” his face was showing clear victory, and he moved his left hand to tap the young man’s shoulder: “Let’s show them what a great performance looks like!”

An embarrassed giggle left Lukas’ mouth as he looked away:

-“Ahaha, yeah…”

The two men stood up, careful not to damage any in-progress costumes. DJ Grooves dusted himself before doing the same to Lukas, who was taken aback by the attention. But he supposed that it was part of giving this investor a good first impression… Oh fuck, he was really doing this, wasn’t he?

He shook his head, and took a deep breath. Yes, he was going to do this, he could do this!

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

No, he was not going to do this, he couldn’t do this.

Now that the young man was on the scene, puppet in hand and a tensed smile plastered on his face, his motivation had been beaten to a pulp by his raging anxiety. Contrary to when he had acted in front of his bosses, this time the room was full of people.

People who had stopped working on their task just to watch him. Mike was one of them, perhaps one of the few people sending him thumb ups as encouragement. Great friend, really, but too bad this was far from enough to make Lukas more comfortable.

-“So… Your name is… Lukas Pryce, is that it?” asked a voice who sent shivers down the student’s spine. In front of him were both the directors and the investor he had been told about. It was an old man, around the same age as the Conductor. While the latter seemed like a person not to fuck with… That other person looked like a cold blooded murderer- as if a single word would be enough to make him snap. And with the clothes he was wearing- a dark green tartan suit and black loafers… Yeah, Lukas felt he was facing the boss of a criminal organization or something.

This wasn’t reassuring him in the least .

-“Is that it?” the voice called out to him again, and he jumped, his smile faltering for a short moment.

-“Y-yes, that’s me… Sir,” he quickly added, his voice trembling. Behind the man, the young student saw the Conductor facepalming, and DJ Grooves looking away, probably feeling second-hand embarrassment.

Yeah, no, there was no fucking way he was going to do this. How was he supposed to say his lines without stammering or without even messing this whole thing up?! He had not prepared for this- not like it would have helped a lot, but it would have been much better than learning that only fifteen minutes before rehearsing!

The investor shot him an unimpressed and annoyed look, rolling his eyes. He then looked back to a copy of a script he had been given by the two directors, flipping the pages as he was searching for a scene- oh, crap, this was going to be one of the scenes Lukas had the most trouble remembering, wasn’t it? With his luck, he couldn’t see any other scenario, this was going to be the worst day of his life all the way until midnight!

The man opened his mouth after flipping through the script, only to be cut short by a door opening loudly in the back of the room. Most of the crew, including the investor, turned to see who had interrupted the rehearsal. But of fucking course it had to be him .

The biggest douche in the universe had decided to grant them all of his presence- in other words, MJ was here now, bearing the widest grin ever. He was wearing what seemed to be a very expensive fur coat, as well as sunglasses preventing people from seeing his eyes at all. In his right hands, the bastard was holding a peanut bowl, casually eating some with his left hand.

Oh, obviously, that asshole wanted to see him fail. Why else would he be here when he had no other reason to be here, without any role in this show anymore?

-“Don’t mind me,” he sang with that insufferable voice of his, loud enough for everyone to hear him: “I’m just here to watch the show,” he smiled more, and Lukas just knew there were mockery, sure, but also bitterness. Wasn’t surprising, to be fair, given the other’s personality.

The latter found himself a chair and sat down, crossing his legs and, oh, how Lukas wanted to punch that arrogant face. But he wouldn’t. He was a civilized person, after all… And a coward too, but this wasn’t the topic of the day.

A long sigh came from the investor, who turned his head back to the student with a tired look, one that clearly said “I’m tired of everyone’s bullshit right now”. It wasn’t like Lukas could blame him… Though he was too preoccupied by his own situation to care.

-“Alright… So, as I was about to say… What about the scene from the act’s finale?” the older man suggested, even if it didn’t sound like an offer.

Lukas was about to say something, but when he noticed that the investor wasn’t asking him but the directors instead, he decided to shut his mouth. Apparently, he was not being consulted in the choice of the scene… Well, at least, he was lucky enough it was one of those he knew the best. It was one of the most interesting and, perhaps it was the future lawyer talking here, but it was intense . Like all these trials he had studied, with those passionate lawyers defending their clients, guilty or not!

The kind of lawyer he wanted to become.

-“Heh, if you say so,” the Conductor shrugged, before giving Grooves a reluctant look, as if he were acknowledging his colleague’s presence, for once. DJ Grooves was taken aback by the sudden politeness, but quickly glanced at Lukas, silently asking if the scene was one the student knew well enough.

This was… A really kind attention. Quickly, the young man nodded imperceptibly, and his focus went to his script soon afterwards. Searching for the scene he was going to perform, one of his ears was still listening to the discussion in front of him.

-“I think it’s a very good choice,” replied the eccentric director, his tone then shifting to a pensive one: “but we need someone to play Hat Kid… And Hailey isn’t here today.”

DJ Grooves looked around in the room, searching for anyone who could fit the role- until he and Lukas spotted a raised hand among the crowd. Their eyes moved in its direction and- oh for fuck’s sake, why couldn’t he have one (1) good day of work here?

Of fucking course MJ would be the one to raise his hand, his face beaming with that asshole attitude. In the other side of the room, Mike was trying to catch his attention, most likely to tell him to drop it, but the actor royally ignored his twin. Now, Grooves and the Conductor were very aware of MJ’s hatred towards the student- hell, the entire crew had seen that diva throw a tantrum the previous day! So it made sense that the two directors refused his oh so kind offer.

-“I don’t think it’s a good idea, darling ,” DJ Grooves was the first to answer, frowning, and it didn’t take long for the Conductor to add his own spiky comment:

-“Yeah, laddie, why are you still in the studio?” the old man put his hands over his hips, furrowing his brows at MJ, whose face darkened at the refusal. It didn’t last too long, however, as he rapidly put on his nice, innocent mask on.

-“Oh, I just thought that, since I used to have this role before and everything… I’m probably the only one knowing these lines by heart, aren’t I?” The mask fell for a few seconds as he smiled victoriously: “Even Hailey’s lines. I don’t need the script.”

Lukas tightened his fist- God, he wanted to punch that jerk’s face so much! What was he trying to do? Prove how much of a better actor he was? Hell, this most likely was it. What a brat- how could a grown ass adult act like a child so much?!

The Conductor was about to refuse once more, and DJ Grooves certainly would have too… If it weren’t for the investor, who interrupted them both with just a gesture of his hand. For the first time since he had entered the room, the older man’s lips were curling up in an intrigued smile.

Oh, this couldn’t be good.

-“Why not,” he agreed, gesturing at MJ to stand up and come closer: “This could be interesting, don’t you think, gentlemen?” the man continued, turning his head to the two directors, who were visibly wincing. Soon after getting the go-ahead, the actor’s face lightened up with arrogance, giving off a “I told you so!” kind of vibe. He quickly took off his sunglasses and his fur coat, showing the clothes he was wearing underneath: a fancy red shirt with psychedelic patterns, a black denim jacket, dark blue skinny jeans as well as black, shiny shoes.

What a show-off. That guy had changed clothes in the small amount of time they had gotten since their argument. Was he trying to impress the investor? Seriously?

The diva walked quickly to the scene, taking the stairs two by two. From afar, Mike was watching with an aghast expression, glancing nervously at Lukas and his brother, probably fearing for a fight. And that concern was more than justified, given how much the student wanted to strangle the jerk in front of him. However, the latter knew very well the ex-stagehand couldn’t do anything, and smirked widely in consequence.

That bitch-!

-“So, here’s what we’re going to do,” the investor announced, joining his hands together, all while the Conductor and Grooves could do nothing but watch with a grimace: “You will both play your roles, MJ as Hat Kid and… Uh…”

-“L-Lukas, sir,” the student reminded him, with a nervous voice, earning a mocking look from the diva at his shyness. The student glared at him in response, though not for long, as he had to focus on the older man’s words.

-“Yes, Lukas. You will play the Moonjumper’s role. Whoever plays their role the best get to keep the job,” he then turned to the two directors, shooting them a serious glance: “And I will be the judge of that, being the one funding this whole project. Do we have a mutual understanding, here?”

The duo frowned and gritted their teeth- but they couldn’t say anything. Not only the other was right, he had a power of decision on the show given his financing, but it was also a fair deal. Whoever had the best act would get the role- but in hindsight, was it, really?

MJ was a skilled actor, who had started his show-biz career when he was still a kid. He had a dozen of blockbusters in his resume, and even more regular movies and TV shows. With years of acting and practice in that field, living the celebrity life to its fullest… He was more than capable of getting a role in a children’s show!

In comparison… Lukas was a nobody, just like MJ had told him earlier. He had no experience in acting other than what he had done the previous day. Sure, Grooves had been nice enough to say he had “”potential“”, but next to a fully accomplished actor? He was never going to win, that was obvious. And yet…

Yet, Lukas wanted to win. Not only because he wanted to piss the diva off (’cause, frankly, he deserved it), but also because he felt like… If he had to try, and if he had been forced to learn all those lines on his sleep schedule, then, why shouldn’t he give his all? After all, this was probably going to be his last time on stage. Why not enjoy it while he still could? Furthermore, if he had to bear with MJ’s mockeries after losing, it was far better to have given his all rather than just… Giving up without even trying.

His glance went back on the celebrity, giving him a determined and serious look… Before dropping the script to his feet. MJ wanted to fight like this? Then he was going to get it. That asshole wasn’t the only one who had memorized all the lines- at least, this scene.

Lukas was not going to back down.

-“Ready? And… Action!” the investor yelled in the Conductor’s loud hailer, momentarily taking the director’s role.

The student felt his stage fright disappearing. Instead, his mind was soon filled with anger, determination and energy. And so, since he had the first line… He opened his mouth, and began what was perhaps one of the silliest thing he had ever done before.

Acting.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Heeeeey, looks like we're going to have an acting battle in the next chapter ! ... I sure wonder who's going to win :)c

=> Chapter 08

[chilling-seavey]

Passchendaele WW2 Extension - Pre-War Training

A/N This is unedited and I hate it anyway but I needed to get some blurb out and I’ve been doing research for the continuation of the Passchendaele universe when WW2 comes around. I’m set for this extension timeline now I think!

Mum, Dad, and Evelyn,

Four months have gone by quickly but as my previous letters have expressed, it’s still not any easier. Training is fair and I can feel myself getting stronger with each passing day but it’s strange circumstances we find ourselves in. I can’t speak much to the status of the country, as if I could even speak to it at all since us boys know just about what you lot back home do. Oh well. Richie and I are just holding onto the few weeks we have left. Holding you to that nice roast beef dinner for when I return, Mum. Evening are still calm here; a few of the boys from our platoon have started a bit of a band in the evenings and I play piano with them once or twice – but usually only when they get a beer or two in me first, you know how my stage fright is. Anyway, I must go now as lunch is soon and then we have more training. I think today is climbing courses. All my love to you three.

Charlie

August 23, 1939

Richard set his tray on the wood table and sat down beside Charlie with a sigh, adjusting his trousers that were a size too small but he was too shy to bother alerting the higher ups that he needed a new uniform. After four months at the training camp, Richard and Charles same to see how tight military rules were and the younger of the two would be damned if he had to speak up against the officers. There was no room for error.

“The longer you wait, the worse your ridicule is going to be when you finally ask for new trousers.” Charlie said.

“I’m fine.” Richard grumbled and picked up his fork.

“You might be, but how are your future children?” Charlie teased, earning a punch on his arm from his best friend.

“Just eat your bloody lunch and mind your business.” Richard said through his small laugh himself too.

Small groups seemed to have formed throughout the countryside training camp but Charlie and Richard were enough company for each other. The young men were all around the same age and they were civil enough but the two boys just liked to keep to themselves a bit more. A few of the officers noticed and complimented them on this; stating that keeping distance was the best way to prevent it hurting more in the case of losing one of them. The new recruits didn’t want to necessarily think about that concept…arguing silently that there still wasn’t a war and that they were still going to be going home.

Corbyn was right in the sense that food was absolute rubbish and both of them had become so accustomed to their mothers’ cooking in the last twenty years of their lives, meaning they both lost a few good pounds within the first few weeks at the camp from not eating as much. They made sure to write home plenty and share their wishes for good food and comfortable beds, still counting down their six-month deployment to training before they could return home. Only two to go.

“Climbing at 13:00 today?” Richard confirmed after a few moments of silence.

Charles nodded through his bite of lukewarm peas, “Climbing range at 13:00 and if it goes well, we’ll get an extra ration so you better put your ass into it. I don’t want to sneak extras under the table to you again. I’d get my ass kicked for that if they found out.”

“I know, I know.” Richard grumbled. “I’m just not very good at climbing.”

“You never have been.” Charles chuckled.

“Maybe if I’m so shitty at this then they’ll send me go home.” Richard huffed, pushing his peas around his plate with his fork.

“We’re gong home anyway so who really cares.” Charles shrugged. He stood up from the table, pausing to lean down and steal a scoop of his best friend’s peas, and then returned his mess tray to the proper spot by the dish pit. Richard followed after him, having only finished half of his lunch, but they headed out to their barracks before they had to report for afternoon training exercises.

They shared a bunk bed in one of the single-story buildings, sharing the space with the other 24 men in their platoon, all in pairs on metal framed bunks with a trunk each for personal belongings. They were required to keep their space spotless and if even one man let his bunk become a mess, the entire platoon had to run laps around the camp no matter the weather. They learned that the hard way, but they learned it early on.

A few men were already in the bunks getting ready for their climbing exercises that afternoon and the young twenty-somethings all greeted each other casually. Richard bent down to grab his boots, grunting lightly in his tight trousers and Charlie chuckled under his breath at him.

“Mate…you’re really putting yourself through it.”

“Just two more months.” Richard said strongly.

“I dunno about that.” one of the other men said from the bunk across the aisle from theirs. “I’ve heard that Germany’s planning to invade Poland.”

“Shit luck for Poland then, ain’t it?” another man from farther down retorted.

“Shit luck for us too, mate. Britain’s got a defence pact with Poland.” the first man said. “If Germany doesn’t back the hell off, we’re going to be actually using our training.”

Richard and Charlie glanced at each other before turning back to getting their equipment together, listening into the conversations.

“Hitler’s been in discussion with the Prime Minister about negotiations.”

“Chamberlain is gonna fold under him.”

“Hitler certainly won’t. That bloke is a bloody machine.”

“I say war by Christmas. Hitler won’t listen to a measly island saying ‘no’ and we’ll have no choice by to declare war.”

“It’s more honourable to declare war rather than being invaded however.”

“Christ…I don’t want to get bloody invaded.”

“And certainly not by the Germans.”

“I wouldn’t mind taking up arms against them.”

One of the men jumped up on his trunk and clicked his tongue to imitate cocking his rifle as he held the firearm in his hands, “Show ‘em that England doesn’t give up as fast as the French did.”

The young men chipped into eager conversation about the war that seemed to be incoming but yet not phasing them and even Charlie and Richie join into their joking. The naivety of the nineteen to twenty-three year olds was obvious but perhaps that the only thing keeping them someone sane under the fact that they were being trained how to kill and survive.

On the way towards the climbing course, one of the other men rushed up beside Charles and Richard, “Do you know what branch you wanna join if war breaks out?”

“Branch of what?” Charles asked.

“Military. Army, navy, air force?”

“I didn’t know we had a choice.” Charles said.

“We do. I’m thinking navy. On the water and nice and far away from everything.” the young man smiled to himself as they trekked across camp.

“Air force sounds fun.” Richard spoke after a moment. “I’ve always wanted to fly.”

“Me too. I remember we had toy planes as boys.” Charlie smiles at the memories of them running around each other’s backyards with their small plastic planes in hand and making up all sorts of stories and games.

“That was fun until you didn’t look where you were running and crashed into a tree and got a bloody nose.” Richard teased, making their comrade laugh.

“Well hopefully you’d be a better fighter pilot than a recreational one, Seavey.” he said, slapping Charles on the arm before rushing off after their group to the course.

Richard and Charles fell into momentary silence in their memories as they joined up with he group and fell into formation in front of their commanding officer. He scowled at them for being the latest arrivals, “Gossip on your own time, gentlemen.”

“Sorry, sir.” they said at the same time, shifting to feet should width apart and hands behind their backs at attention. The roar of fighter jets streaked across the sky above them and they both looked up discreetly to watch the few planes fly over the camp, twisting right up into the clouds, unbothered in the last few weeks without war. No one knew what was to come.

[samayla]

An Utterly Impractical Magician

Chapter 10

A Jane Eyre/Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell fusion fic.

Also on AO3

Summary: When John Reed burnt Thomas Godbless’ book of magic to spite his cousin, he had no idea how drastically he would alter both her fate and that of English magic.

@majorxmaggiexboy @shygaladriel @bookhobbit @wolfinthethorns @kaethe-nicole @warsawmouse @cassandravision @mythopoeticreality @jmlascar @seriouslythoughguys @isawatreetoday @rude-are-food @the-stars-above28 @the-candor-shadowhunter

Let me know if any of you would like to be added/removed in the tags list. I know updates have been super sparse, so if any of you want to be removed, I'll totally understand.

10

A Child at Hurtfew

Hurtfew Abbey, July 1805

Jane could smell Lowood School. Its muddy, sickly stink clung to her clothes and skin and closely-cropped hair. It had gotten all over the mossy-green bed linens in the night, and the damp cloud of it surrounded her and marred the clean, soapy freshness of the servants’ hall and the warm, exotic spice of the cinnamon Mrs Porter had just sprinkled over Jane’s porridge.

“Eat up, dear,” said the cook, adding a handful of raisins to her bowl for sweetness. “I daresay you’ve missed quite enough meals already.”

Jane obeyed, though the stench of mold was making her ill, and her fingers were stiff and sore around the handle of the spoon. Mrs Porter stayed to watch her eat several bites, then returned to her work in the kitchen as Childermass lurched into the hall, looking nearly as haggard as Jane felt. He took a seat across from Jane and bid her a good morning. “I hope you slept well, Little Miss, or at least better than you did in the carriage last night.

“I did, sir. Thank you,” was her quiet reply, though in truth she had slept very ill indeed. All night she had been plagued by disturbing dreams of Mr Norrell storming into her room in a fit of rage. In some dreams, he transformed into Mr Brocklehurst, red-faced and spitting sparks, lording over her as the damp smell of that rotting chapel clogged her nostrils. In other dreams, he became Childermass, his hair a churning thunderstorm, come to say that his cards had been mistaken, and he’d have to take her back now. Then he’d become Norrell again, lamenting time and effort wasted, and he’d open the door to a library, but instead of bookshelves, it was the yellow-white lambs on peeling green plaster. They grew jagged teeth as she watched, and he’d shove her through to be consumed, starting with her hands.

Childermass appeared skeptical of her polite lie, so Jane made herself eat another bite of porridge, hoping that would appease him. He watched the clumsy way she managed the spoon, then swapped his plate of buttered toast for her bowl and spoon. At her clear bewilderment, he made a pinching motion with his free hand. “The toast’ll go easier for now, until the swelling’s gone down some. Tuck in.”

He took his own advice and made short work of the porridge, leaving Jane to nibble nervously on the toast. As he’d predicted, the toast was indeed far easier to manage than the spoon, and she quickly discovered that it settled her churning stomach as well.

“Good morning, dears,” Hannah chirped as she bustled into the servants’ hall with a tray of used breakfast things from upstairs.

Jane and Childermass chorused their greetings in return.

“Mr Norrell is in the library, Mr Childermass,” the housemaid said. “He expects you and Miss Jane presently.” She offered Jane a warm smile, but Jane found she could scarcely return it. Her last bite of toast sat like lead on her tongue. She tried to keep her sudden anxiety off her face, but Childermass caught it.

“Easy, Little Miss,” he said soothingly, pushing her cup of water closer. “I know he gave you something of a fright last night, but you’ll learn soon enough not to put too much credence to Mr Norrell’s moods. My master is the sort of fellow who likes nothing better than a good, righteous vexation — and me disappearing on him for nigh on a fortnight, then turning up —”

“— at the wrong door —” Hannah put in with a sly smile.

Childermass smirked but continued earnestly, “— with a stray child in tow… Let us just say I gave him enough cause to be well and truly vexed, and it should have put him in fine spirits this morning.”

“He’s a bit quarrelsome yet,” Hannah offered, setting her tray down beside Jane’s place at the table, “but that’s just his nature. You make it through this morning, and I expect he’ll mostly forget you’re even here, unless we march you through the library once a month to remind him.”

Jane giggled at the mental image of the short-sighted bogeyman of last night’s dreams peering dazedly up at her over a heap of books. Her hands flew to her mouth in horror, but Childermass was smiling as if he could see it too. “That’s the spirit, love.”

Hannah gave Jane’s shoulder a squeeze. “Would you like me to come along, dear?” she asked in a conspiratorial stage-whisper. “We can’t count on these foolish menfolk to think of everything that will need doing now that you’re here.”

Jane smiled in earnest, even as she glanced up to make sure Childermass still hadn’t taken offense. He caught her looking, and she blushed. “That’s a fine idea, Hannah,” he declared.

They made an awkward procession as they made their way through the big, empty house. Childermass took the lead, and Jane followed with Hannah, her arm laced through the maid’s, leaving her attention free to wander and take in her new home. The whole place had a strange air about it. Not quite neglect — it was far too clean for that — but disused, Jane decided. Like a pressed flower, it was perfectly beautiful, but at the same time brittle and somehow faded in something other than color. Like the memory of a place.

“This is the way to the library,” Childermass said, drawing Jane out of her musings to find herself standing in front of a heavy oak door in a richly appointed parlor. “Mr Norrell is quite particular about his library, Little Miss, and he will not take kindly to anyone venturing into this hall without his permission.”

“I understand, sir,” Jane said, her voice choked by both nerves and anticipation. This was where her books had gone! She remembered Childermass’s words about his master’s collection, back at Gateshead. If she were very good indeed, perhaps she might even be permitted to choose a book to read. She hadn’t had a book in her hands since leaving Gateshead all those months ago, and she felt the loss like that of a limb. Its ache grew even sharper as Childermass led the way through a long hall that meandered around far more corners than should have been possible.

Jane’s skin began to prickle like the air before a lightning storm, and she drew in a shuddering breath at the thought of having one of her fits here and now. Images of the fire in her dormitory at Lowood sprang to mind unbidden. She’d be thrown out. She’d have nowhere to go. She’d —

“We’re nearly there, Little Miss,” Childermass said suddenly over his shoulder. He looked pale and unsteady in the dim hall, and it occurred to Jane that he was nervous. The realization was terrifying, but she resolved to do him proud. He had come halfway across the county to claim her; she would be brave enough for a walk to the library. She pictured her books, held the image of them steady in her mind as a talisman against the sparks she could feel gathering at the edges of her vision, more than ready to erupt into chaos.

A dull crash sounded somewhere up ahead, and then, so suddenly that Jane nearly ran right into him, Childermass brought them up short at another door. He glanced once at Jane, seemingly as startled as she and Hannah were at the door’s sudden appearance, but then he pulled it open, and they leapt back as a great pile of books cascaded into the hall. Mr Norrell stood on the other side of the heap, looking quite startled and more than a little alarmed.

Jane bent to retrieve the nearest book — Tott’s English Magic — but Mr Norrell’s voice rang out like a slap. “No, no, no! Can you not smell the mold? The damp? I will not have it so close to the books, Childermass! I cannot! Out! Out to the parlor, if you please!” And whether they pleased or not, they were herded out of the library, back down the strange hallway — which seemed somehow much shorter and strangely lacking in corners in this direction — and out in to the parlor beyond. Mr Norrell slammed the heavy door behind himself. He stood, wig askew, handkerchief over his nose, and glared at his servants.

And quite unexpectedly, Jane found herself crying.

“Do-do not cry, child,” Mr Norrell said softly, his voice almost that of a different man entirely. If Jane hadn’t known any better, she might have thought she’d imagined his outburst in the hall. He lowered the handkerchief with clear reluctance, and Jane felt even worse. The air in the parlor felt too close, the rotten stink of Lowood consuming all the air in the room.

“I did not mean to distress you.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jane choked, trying and failing to get her emotions under control. She knew she ought to dry her eyes and behave as a respectable young lady, but she found she could not move. Her hands were wound so tightly into the back of her skirt that her palms stung and her fingers throbbed in time with her runaway pulse.

“Oh, sweetling…” Hannah pulled her close, and Jane buried her face in the fabric at her hip. Hannah’s clothes smelled of lavender soap, and Jane drew in great, heaving lungfuls of the scent, releasing them on high, thin cries she could not control. She was horrified. They would send her away, surely, cast her aside like a broken doll.

But Hannah’s fingers were gentle in her hair, stroking through the uneven stubble over and over again as she murmured soft reassurances. Slowly, Jane came to realize that Hannah was not angry with her. And if Hannah was not yet out of patience, then there was yet hope for the gentlemen, if Jane could calm herself and do something to repair this ghastly first impression. With a monumental effort, she stepped away from Hannah’s side. She clasped her shaking hands in front of her, though her every instinct was screaming at her to hide them safely away.

If anything, Mr Norrell appeared to be even more discomfited by her efforts. He shook his head when she opened her mouth to repeat her apology. He offered his handkerchief, which she accepted at once, pathetically grateful for the excuse to look away for a few moments.

“I only…” he began, sounding even more unsteady than Jane felt. “I only meant that mold is a pervasive beast. Your clothing and things from that… place… are already compromised. They will have to go.” He began to sound more sure of himself as he continued. “I would not tolerate such an abominable lack of care for my books, let alone a child. Such environments breed illness like a dung heap breeds flies. It is a wonder you have not succumbed to such conditions long before now.” At Jane’s stricken look, he caught himself and withdrew at once from such dire pronouncements. “B-but fear not, child: we shall order you new things. Fresh, clean dresses. And a new bonnet free of vermin, so you might have lovely, long hair — i-if you wished it, of course…” Mr Norrell trailed off uncertainly, and Hannah took pity on him.

“You shall be pretty as a doll, sweetling,” she said, laying her warm hand on Jane’s shoulder and offering another squeeze. Tears flowed anew. She wanted her doll. Sad, crumbling thing that it was, she missed it fiercely. Sparks crackled at the edges of her vision, and Jane rubbed her eyes in an effort ot make them go away. Hannah knelt and pushed Jane’s hands away, instead using Mr Norrell’s handkerchief to dry her eyes. “For now, though, I think perhaps it would be best if you came back upstairs for a bit more rest, hmm?” She smiled encouragingly, and Jane nodded.

“Yes, yes, an excellent notion, Hannah,” Mr Norrell said, looking quite relieved. “Childermass had you out inexcusably late, Miss Eyre. It is no wonder you are overwrought this morning. I myself have something of a headache after all the excitement, though it is nothing a warm cup of mint tea will not cure.”

“I’ll send Lucy along with a pot of tea presently, sir,” Hannah offered.

“Yes, Hannah. Thank you. A cup would do Miss Eyre wonders too, I should think.” He looked quite pleased with this pronouncement. “Childermass, I’ll have your help in the library. I’ve half a shelf’s-worth of books on the floor. It was the strangest thing —”

But Childermass, who had been fiddling with something in his pocket while the other adults dealt with Jane, cut him off. “I’ve one more matter to attend to with Miss Eyre, sir. I’ll join you in the library after you’ve finished your tea.”

Jane cringed. If any of her Aunt Reed’s servants had spoken so impertinently, the would have been let go on the spot, without references. But however irritated Mr Norrell might have felt at the interruption and proposed delay, he did not argue. He merely nodded and retreated back through the door that led to the library, muttering to himself about dresses and shoes “and bed linens, no doubt.”

A cup of tea and rest in her own room. Not a switch. Not even a reprimand for toppling the books — for she had little doubt that it had been her fault somehow. She could scarcely believe it.

Jane started and nearly fell as Childermass appeared at her side and tucked her free arm around his own. “I’ll deliver her to the kitchen for her tea shortly, love,” he told Hannah as they all left the parlor. Though she was confused and more than a little frightened — for she was keenly aware that Childermass had come off worst in their encounter with Mr Norrell, even if it hand only amounted to an indirect scolding over the lateness of their arrival — and she would much rather go downstairs for some tea with Hannah, Jane held her tongue. She had been quite childish enough already, she decided, and it was time to prove how well-mannered and mature she could be, even if she was still struggling not to cry.

Childermass led her through the smaller, more intimate rooms along the back of the house — all well-preserved, but just as forlorn as those they’d passed through at the front — and out into the back garden. “I owe you an apology,” he said conversationally as they walked down a manicured gravel path between some low hedges.

“You cannot be held responsible for the speed of the carriage, sir,” Jane said quickly. “And you did warn me to sleep along the way.”

Childermass blinked, then chuckled a little sadly and drew to a stop. He knelt in front of Jane, who was growing more alarmed by the moment. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the crumbling ruin of Jane’s doll. “I’m afraid I stepped on her back in the chapel, love.” He laid the little bundle in Jane’s outstretched hands. “I’m sorry. I don't know how she got to be in my pocket this morning, but I thought you should know what had become of her."

Jane just nodded and sagged down to the gravel as it began to rain out of the clear, blue sky. She had known Helen’s sad little doll wouldn’t last forever. The leaves had been dry and fragile when she had died, but now they were mostly jagged stems, and the acorn face was split nearly in two.

“What’s her name?”

“Derwen,” Jane whispered. Helen had told her it meant oak.

“Well, Little Miss,” Childermass said, standing and ignoring the rain that was steadily soaking them both, “let’s you and me and Miss Derwen take a walk, shall we? Up you get.” He helped her to her feet and led the way in among the low, carefully trimmed hedges. He soon abandoned the path entirely and lifted Jane over those hedges that they could not walk around, until they stood in the very center of the garden, in a near-perfect circle of neatly cut grass.

To Jane’s utter bewilderment, Childermass knelt in the center of the circle and plunged his pocket knife into the ground. The rain slowed to a drizzle as he dug, first with the knife, then with his hands. The mud caked itself beneath his nails and around the cuffs of his jacket, but Childermass continued to dig with complete unconcern. “Got to be deep enough to keep the squirrels from smelling it,” he said when Jane leaned closer to get a better look.

“Smelling what?”

“Miss Derwen.”

Jane lurched back, shoving the doll behind her back, and the skies opened wide once more.

“Easy, Little Miss,” Childermass said with perfect composure. He sat back on his heels. “I mean you no harm, but your doll is broken and quite beyond help. But —” He extended a hand for the doll, and Jane, who had been at Lowood far too long to ignore such a clear command, handed her over. Childermass took her gently and tipped her to the side, his filthy fingernails prizing gently at the split in the acorn. “Look just here.”

Jane looked, and she saw to her amazement that inside the ruin of the acorn was a tiny shoot of pale pink and white.

“She’s trying to put down roots,” Childermass explained. “She may be done being your doll, love, but we can plant her out here, water her, and see that she gets plenty of sun, and one day, she’ll be a great big oak.”

“But Mr Norrell does not like me,” Jane blurted. “After the way I’ve behaved today…” She gestured helplessly at the steady, soaking rain that stopped abruptly three feet in every direction. Part of her was glad for the rain, for it hid her continued tears. “He does not mean to keep me. I know he does not, and so I will never see the tree grown.”

Childermass reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew one of his cards, careful to shield it from the rain. Two pairs of wands crossed at the center of the card. He glanced at the card for a moment, then smiled to himself. “This tells me you are to be with us a good, long time. Plenty of time to see Miss Derwen grow.”

He tucked the card away and then just waited, hand outstretched in offering, as if it was up to Jane to make the decision. Jane stared at him, kneeling there in the muddy grass as if he had all the time in the world, Jane realized it really was up to her. She had a choice, and suddenly, all she wanted in the world was to see her sad little doll grown into a great, towering oak. She nodded silently, unable to speak the words for fear of jinxing them.

Childermass asked if she’d like to keep the lace, imagining quite rightly that it was important. “I daresay Hannah could find a place for it on your new bonnet, or one of the dresses, and she’d have it looking good as new. She’s a wonder at such things.”

Jane hiccuped and shook her head. She took back the doll and ran her fingers over the sodden lace, the last piece of Helen she had. She kissed Derwen’s acorn face, then laid her gently in the bottom of the hole, careful to arrange the precious lace just so. “It is Derwen’t dress, and Derwen shall keep it.”

Childermass helped Jane fill the hole, and by the time they had finished and patted the little piece of sod back into place, the rain had stopped for good.

“Come along, Little Miss,” Childermass said, climbing back to his feet and helping Jane to do the same. “A cup of tea and a seat by the fire are calling your name.”

[vanessakirbyfans]

Vanessa Kirby remembers the exact moment she realized what acting might actually be. That it occurred during a performance of a “probably terrible” all-girls’ production of “Hamlet” is beside the point.

“I was playing Gertrude, probably in my mom’s clothes—complete crap,” she says with a laugh. “I remember being in a scene and then walking out into the school. I was walking up and down the corridor before going back on for another scene, and it was the first time it ever happened where I suddenly was thinking [Gertrude’s] thoughts. I was thinking, in the present moment, her actual thoughts about what was really happening. And then it made the scene coming next so much easier, because there was a blurred moment where this idea of [a] character being outside of you or someone that you have to become disappeared in a way.

“I just realized,” she continues, “Oh, it’s inside me.” Kirby has been chasing that lucid high ever since.

You may get it for just two seconds in the entire production of a film, she concedes, and longer only if you’re lucky. But she believes that its attainment should always be the actor’s primary objective: reaching that liminal space where you no longer have to think of yourself as the character and you can instead—speaking of “Hamlet”—just be. Kirby describes getting “into that zone” where you are inside the character as much as they are inside of you.

“I always think about it as this really strange process of finding the person, because the person kind of exists in the abstract space, I guess, between you and the words on the page,” she says, “which also have come through a writer and their own experience. And so there’s this third space in the middle that you have to sort of get inside, and it takes a lot of time.”

For her new film, Kornél Mundruczó’s “Pieces of a Woman,” which earned her the Venice Film Festival’s Volpi Cup for best actress earlier this year, Kirby, by her account, had to “get inside” three separate elements. The first two, being pregnant and giving birth, are experiences shared by women the world over. But the third required her to tap into something more hushed, a sort of sad sisterhood that she thinks isn’t spoken about enough: “what it actually feels like to lose a baby just after it’s born.”

“That involved finding and spending so much time with the women who had been through that, which was a massive privilege, actually,” she says, noting their bravery. “They pretty much all said it’s so difficult, because society doesn’t want to hear about it. These women haven’t had a voice, really, in their experience of that level of grief or loss, because society doesn’t want them to talk about it.”

She cites model-entrepreneur Chrissy Teigen, who recently shared her experience of pregnancy loss online and was immediately subjected to charged responses across the spectrum, from adulation and gratitude to utter vitriol. “It just goes to show that a loss like that is really hard for people to hear about,” Kirby says. “I felt really honored to be part of this film in that way, because I think it speaks to grief universally.”

As she chats via Zoom just before Thanksgiving (though that likely doesn’t matter much to Kirby, who’s British), it’s fitting—and appropriately disarming—that the conversation begins with subject matter as heavy as infant and pregnancy loss, since the film does, too. Written by Kata Wéber, the Netflix feature (which will stream starting Jan. 7, 2021) almost immediately showcases a 25-minute labor and delivery sequence unlike any you’ve seen on film before—an intimidating prospect that was also part of the appeal for Kirby. She confesses, however, that her initial response to reading it was a more visceral “Oh, God.”  

“We see death so many times onscreen, and we don’t really see birth in this way. I also can’t remember seeing a film that dealt with losing a baby so head-on,” she says. “Doing the film has really set a kind of benchmark for me of wanting to find things that haven’t been seen or expressed onscreen before that need to be [seen in order] to generate conversation around them, to represent a side of being female that we haven’t seen. Those two things really struck me—and scared me a lot.”

In discussing her work, fear comes up quite a bit for Kirby—or rather, how to cope with it. At the age of 32, she has already had more success than many actors ever do. Most notably, she earned an Emmy nomination in 2018 for her work on “The Crown,” playing Princess Margaret on the series’ first two seasons before handing the tiara off to Helena Bonham Carter. She also starred in “Mission: Impossible – Fallout,” has secured a role in the franchise’s coming seventh and eighth installments, and boasts numerous prestigious theater credits.  

But an unmistakable angst hums beneath everything Kirby does. Making peace with that feeling continues to be the lifeblood of her career. “One of my friends said something like, ‘It’s always best to tell your fear [that] you can join me in the passenger seat. You’re not going to be driving the car, but you’re welcome to be here,’ ” she says. “It’s inevitable that you feel anxious or nervous, I think. I can’t just switch off my stage fright or my anxiety before going onstage, and the more I try and fight it, the worse it gets. I have to welcome it and be like, ‘It’s OK; you can be here. You’re not going to ruin the show.’ ”

The most useful tool Kirby has found to combat anxiety, nerves, fear—whatever word you want to use for that prohibitive lurking—is old-fashioned preparation. Knowing her lines inside and out, front to back, sideways and in proverbial heels, gives her the freedom to show up and be present.

t’s an odd sort of reconciliation to have prepped so thoroughly that you can act from a place of impulse, but one she considers crucial. “I learned that the hard way,” she says with a chuckle. “Sometimes I would approach jobs like, I’m just going to see what happens if I don’t learn my lines—just wing it on the day. Maybe it will be more spontaneous and impulsive, and it’ll be more flippant. And it wasn’t. Oh, my God, no, it wasn’t.”

While that trial and error informs her now-scrupulous prep work, Kirby gives credit where it’s due and admits she borrowed the approach in part from someone who knows just a bit about getting inside a character. Of course, if you worked with Anthony Hopkins, you’d do the same.    

“I just had a few little scenes in this brilliant thing he was doing,” Kirby says of the 2015 television film “The Dresser.” “He has a method that he’s always used where he says his lines out loud to himself a thousand times before doing any film. He’ll mark it on his script [and] tally it up, because he said you can’t be truly free unless it’s really in your body. You won’t be able to take the risk and go, ‘OK, I’m feeling the feeling of the state of mind this person’s in’ so that the lines can come out however which way they want to [because they’re] coming from that feeling, as opposed to, ‘I made a decision, I’ve learned my lines, I kind of know how I’m going to say them, and I’m going to turn up and just say them in a prepared manner.’ ”

In other words, you reach a state in which you no longer have to be conscious of your “choices,” because they will be externalized actions made by the internalized character. To actually achieve that symbiosis, Kirby explains, you have to practice an almost relentless empathy in order to “absolve all your judgments” of the person you’re playing.

“Acting’s such a funny job, isn’t it? How you think informs how you feel. And then how you feel, as a consequence, informs how you think,” she posits. “There’s a conversation between your feelings and thoughts all the time. And so it’s almost like trying to get inside someone else’s thoughts—so then you don’t have to worry about how the person is coming across or the mannerisms or whatever else, because you’ve built it from the inside, and that’s what happens naturally. The best acting experience, really, is when you’re thinking as that person without being conscious of yourself.”

The Catch-22, particularly for Kirby, is that fear, or even self-consciousness, will block the receptacles of empathy. If you as the actor at any point aim to shield yourself from the experiences of your character, you could be tossing out a crucial piece of their puzzle.

“As an actor, you don’t want to protect yourself. I think it’s almost the opposite,” she says. “I find I’m less shy, for example, when I’m playing someone, when I’m trying to understand someone else or some other part of humanity. You take more risks, and you sort of push into parts of yourself that you might not every day know existed, because you have to feel the things that they feel.”

That is one reason why Kirby creates playlists for her characters. In addition to drowning out literal noise on set between setups, delving into what a character’s taste in music might be—or why they’d listen to a given song at a given moment—opens a window into their psychology. In a pinch, the music can build an impromptu bridge between herself and the person within. It can also help ease her gently into a particularly formidable role, fear be damned.

“This idea of being daunted by something—I look for it. I go, ‘Oh, my God. I have no idea about this. I don’t know what it feels like to give birth, and I would love to learn about that,’ ” she says. “Of course, my dad is a cancer surgeon, so I grew up with him saving people’s lives. I always felt like acting is such a public thing, but it’s really not nearly as important as what a lot of people are doing in the world. But when you’re in a group of people who want to explore or understand something that perhaps we don’t yet know from our lived experiences, it does feel, sometimes, like such an honor.”

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Lost and Found

Summary: After years of searching, Belle finally finds what she’s looking for in the window of Mr Gold’s shop. And perhaps, she finds a friend as well.

Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling moodboard prompt, available here.

Rated: G

--

Lost and Found

Belle had always wondered about the phrase ‘it’s always in the last place you look’. Of course it was always in the last place you looked. You didn’t keep looking for something after you’d found it. 

She knew that wasn’t the intent of the phrase and she knew that she was being pedantic, but it had always kept her attention and been a source of amusement to her in the back of her mind. 

Now she knew exactly what it meant.

A small sob escaped her lips as she pressed her hand up against the pawn shop window, wishing that she could just reach through the glass and grab that which her heart had yearned after for so long. They were so shiny and bright, as perfect and beautiful as the day she had last seen them all those years ago. Just when she had given up hope, just when she had decided that this was the last town that she would visit and that this was the last shop she would try.

Belle would know her mother’s vanity set anywhere, even after ten years without laying eyes on it. 

She was vaguely aware of the rain splattering down on her head and plastering her hair down as the umbrella fell from her limp hand and she sank down onto her knees, her tears adding to the puddle of rainwater on the ground around her. She had finally found it. 

It was too late to go in and negotiate a price now, as much as she wanted to fling the pawn shop door open and demand the vanity set in the window like someone out of a melodrama. The shop was closed; she had seen the sign on the door. Still, she knew where it was, and she could come back first thing in the morning. Right now, she was so overwhelmingly relieved that everything else paled into insignificance. 

“Are you all right?”

The voice sounded slightly alarmed but mostly confused, and Belle was shocked back into cold and rather wet reality.

“Oh. Yes. Erm.”

The man who had spoken was standing at the corner of the building under a large black umbrella, looking wary and suspicious. 

“I’m fine.” Belle scrambled up onto her feet again, now very aware that she was soaked to the skin and she must look a complete fright. At least the rain hid the fact that she probably had snot dripping down her face. She had never been able to cry prettily like they did on the TV. 

She was also very aware that she probably didn’t look at all fine, and the man with the umbrella wasn’t moving. Belle wasn’t sure if she was expecting him to just tip his proverbial hat to her and go about his evening as if they’d not encountered each other, but it was unnerving to be watched like that. She grabbed her fallen umbrella, perhaps to use as a weapon if nothing else; she couldn’t exactly get much wetter, so it was useless against the rain. 

“I’ll, erm, I’ll be off then.”

This statement wasn’t helped by the fact that she had no idea where she was going, but away from this place before she could embarrass herself any further was probably a good idea. 

“It’s the vanity set, isn’t it?”

Belle stopped in her tracks in the act of turning away, and she spun slowly back on her heel to face the man again. 

“Pardon?” she asked, wishing that she didn’t sound as if she was being strangled. 

“The vanity set.” He nodded towards the window that Belle had been pressed against so longingly. “I know the position of every item in that shop window and I know that’s what you’re standing in front of.”

“This is your shop?” Belle’s heart was beating hard in her mouth. 

The man nodded and pointed to the sign above the door. “Mr Gold. Pawnbroker and antiquities dealer. I must say, I’ve never had anyone have quite such an emotional reaction to my wares before.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Why don’t you come in out of the rain and tell it to me whilst you dry out a bit?” Mr Gold suggested. “I have tea.”

Belle hesitated. On the one hand, she was a horror movie connoisseur, and she knew that the single young woman on her own in an unfamiliar town taking up a strange man she’d never met before on his offer of tea and warmth was a sure-fire way for her never to be seen again. On the other hand, this was real life and not a horror film. On yet another hand, real life could be even worse than horror films sometimes. 

Mr Gold walked past her as she stayed rooted to the spot with indecision, and on seeing the cane and the limp, Belle calculated that she could probably run faster than him if the occasion called for it. He unlocked the door and went inside, turning on the lights and switching the sign to open. Belle watched through the window as he went through the back room, putting the lights on there as well.

That didn’t seem so bad. She decided to take a chance and she pushed the door open, slipping into the veritable Aladdin’s cave of treasures within. It was good to be out of the rain, but now, as she wiped her face, she had the added worry of dripping on the pristine polished floor. From the back room, she could hear the hiss of an electric kettle coming to the boil. 

“Earl Grey or Darjeeling?” Mr Gold called. 

“Erm, Earl Grey, please.”

Belle rested her umbrella in the doorway and took a couple of steps further into the shop. There was so much stuff in there, but it was all meticulously and delicately curated; she could tell that Mr Gold certainly took good care of his wares. It was amazing that it all managed to fit in the shop. 

Presently Mr Gold came out of the back room again, giving her a polite smile as he passed her in the middle of the floor and making no mention of the fact she was standing there staring like a lemon. He went over to the window, hooking his cane over his arm as he unlocked the display cabinet and carefully manoeuvred the faded pink velvet cushion that held the vanity set out of the glass. 

“The tea’s ready,” he said as he crossed the floor again, and this time Belle decided it would probably be a good idea to follow him. She passed through the curtain into the back room to find Mr Gold pouring out two cups from the teapot, the vanity set placed neatly on the workbench between the two chairs. 

“Please, take a seat.” He indicated the chair nearest to the space heater. “The weather isn’t showing any signs of letting up, but you should be able to warm up a little.” 

Belle sat down gratefully and reached out towards the vanity set, her fingers pausing over the handle of the hairbrush. 

“It’s all right, you can touch,” Mr Gold said. “Is it yours?”

Belle shook her head, brushing her fingers over the familiar gold handle. 

“It was my mother’s.” She couldn’t believe that she was actually here, touching it. She’d been separated from it for so long that it felt surreal. “May I ask how it came to be here?”

“I picked it up at a contents auction,” Mr Gold said. “One of the residents here in town died intestate with no next of kin, so everything was sold. It seemed like a good piece, once I’d polished it up a bit.” He paused. “May I ask how you came to be parted from it? It’s obvious that it means a lot to you.”

Belle sighed. “It’s all I have left of her. Well, all I had. My father pawned it for drinking money years ago; I’ve been trying to track it down ever since. I swear I’ve been into every pawn shop and antiques store in New England looking for it. And now it’s here, in the last place I looked.” She took a sip of the tea; it was perfectly brewed, just the way she liked it. 

Mr Gold smiled. “I’m glad that you could be reunited with it.”

They didn’t speak again for a long while. Belle couldn’t stop running her fingers over the pieces, almost as if she was afraid that they would vanish into thin air if she couldn’t touch them all the time to reassure herself that they were really there. 

“How much?” she asked eventually. She dreaded to think how much money she’d already blown on this ongoing trip in search of the set, but she couldn’t be put off at this late stage, not when it was quite literally within her grasp. The shop door was still unlocked. If necessary she could just grab the goods and make a run for it, although she didn’t really want to do that to Mr Gold when he had been so kind to her, taking her in and giving her tea and a warm seat. 

He shook his head. “It’s yours.”

“Really, Mr Gold, I couldn’t… You bought it legitimately after all…”

“That may be, but it’s still yours. I can see how much it means to you. You shouldn’t have to pay for something so priceless.”

“I…” Belle was lost for words. “Can I at least make it up to you in another way? I’ll buy you dinner; I think I passed a diner on my way here.”

Mr Gold gave a soft chuckle. “All right. Dinner it is. I must warn you against the lasagne, but the hamburgers are good.” 

He got up and went over to the precariously stacked shelves at the back of the room, finding a cardboard box and wrapping the set delicately in tissue paper before packing it neatly and wrapping the box in plastic to keep it safe from the rain. “Here you go. May we all be reunited with our loved ones one day.”

There was something slightly haunted in his face as he spoke, and Belle wondered what his own loss was. At least it explained his philanthropy in her situation. 

“I think the rain might be easing a little,” he said presently, looking out of the window. A sliver of evening sun could be seen peeping through the storm clouds. “Shall we?”

Belle nodded with a smile, tucking the precious box under her arm. She was incredibly glad to have made the acquaintance of Mr Gold, pawnbroker and antiquities dealer.

[mybbyacademia]

Snowed In 🌨

A/N: hello! thanks for reading! have a fantastic day :)

word count: 1523

todoroki x reader

———

Why was it snowing in fall?

The leaves had just begun to turn their gorgeous shades of orange, red, and yellow. However, they were now covered in a thick layer of white. You had been driving to meet your mother for lunch in a town 15 minutes away from your home when the snowstorm began. Cars were sliding and crashing into each other as the roads became slick with ice. Not feeling comfortable driving in dangerous conditions, you carefully pulled off into the nearest parking lot in the shopping district you were currently in. A coat was thrown on your shoulders, and out the car you ran, frantically rushing to the nearest store.

You briefly heard a bell chime as you yanked the wooden door open, quickly slamming it shut behind you.

“Welcome!” a voice from the nearby counter said.

The shop was small, with shelves of books lining every wall. Soft music drifted throughout the store, with a pleasant smell of nutmeg emanating from the few candles glowing throughout the heaps of books. You shrugged off your coat, and the click of your boots against the floor followed as you made your way to the voice you had previously heard.

“It’s like a blizzard out there!” the person behind the counter exclaimed. She was a petite woman of maybe 70, glasses perched on her sharp nose.

“Ya, I had to pull over the roads were so slick. Do you mind if I stay here for a while to wait out the storm?”

A warm, friendly smile appeared on the lady’s face before she politely shook her head.

“Not at all. Make yourself comfortable, dear; I wouldn’t want my child driving out in that mess.”

You returned the smile, gesturing behind you to the shelves of books.

“Do you own the bookstore?”

“Why yes! I opened up this shop about...40 years ago? Has it been that long? Hmm, yes, going on 40 years now.”

“You’ve done a great job! This shop is amazing.”

“Why thank y-,”

The bell chimed once more, and a gust of snow rushed through the front, a figure rushing in as the door shut again.

“Welcome! Oh no, it seems to be getting worse outside!” the owner greeted the new arrival kindly.

The stranger pushed down their coat hood, revealing a head of red and white hair, which they ran a hand through to brush it from their face. The person in question was a handsome looking boy around your age it seemed. He took a quick glance around before, like you had, removing his coat and walking towards the counter where you and the kind lady were standing.

“The city can’t ship out snow plowers fast enough. Sheets of ice and snow are almost completely covering the roads around here now,” the boy calmly said in a polite manner.

“Well feel free to stay here until the storm lets up, dear. This young lady right here is sticking around as well; I’m sure she would appreciate the company.”

With that, she left the two of you alone in the front as she headed to the backroom to check up on some of her new arrivals. The room was quiet for a moment before you broke the silence.

“You got caught up in the storm too?”

The boy nodded before replying, “I was on my way to the grocery store, but the roads were too icy.”

“Well, luckily this isn’t too bad a place to be snowed in.”

“Not at all. It’s very cozy.”

He extended a hand in your direction.

“I’m Todoroki Shouto.”

“Pleased to meet you Todoroki-san. I’m L/N Y/N.”

You quickly shook his hand before you let out a gasp.

“Oh no! I need to call my mom and let her know that I’m not going to make it to lunch today!”

You quietly excused yourself and made your way towards the back of the shop. Your call with your mother was fairly quick, as she worriedly asked you if you’d be okay and not to worry about lunch. You assured her you were safe and would call her as soon as the roads were cleared up. With that, you hung up and and walked back towards your previous spot near the front desk. However, Todoroki was nowhere in sight. You scanned through the aisles around you before you saw a small pile of books lying near the front of one of the pair of shelves. There you found your new acquaintance sitting in the middle of the aisle, a book held close to his face.

You giggled before asking him, “Do you like to read, Todoroki-san?”

He hummed before patting the space next to him. You accepted his silent invitation, sitting next to him before hugging your legs to your chest. Todoroki set his book down and turned to look at you.

“What about you?”

“I like to read, I just don’t have as much time on my hands anymore to do it as much as I’d like.”

He nodded before smiling and saying, “Well, you’ve got plenty of time today.”

And that’s how you found the two of you laying on the floor, laughing as the both of you took turns dramatically reading lines of whatever books were on the surrounding shelves.

“Y/N, you should go into acting,” the kind boy suggested as he tried to hide a laugh.

“Oh no, I get such bad stage fright! I would freeze up immediately.”

“You don’t seem nervous right now...what’s the difference?”

“You’re not that indimitating.”

“I’m not?”

“Nope.”

“How about now?” he said as he poked you lightly on the arm.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“Apparently I’m not intimidating.”

“You’re still not.”

He poked you again.

You poked him back.

He jumped up and started chasing you throughout the bookstore, weaving in and out of the isle as the both of you were laughing. You snuck a quick look over your shoulder to see how far behind you the red and white haired boy was, not realizing you were approaching the pile of books you and Todoroki had piled up. You foot caught on one of the used hardbacks, and you yelped as the ground appeared to rush up. You hit the floor with a harsh thud, groaning at the impact.

“Y/N-san!”

You felt a pair of hands grip your shoulders to lift you up into a sitting position. Todoroki was kneeling in front of you, a look of concern on his features as his heterochromatic eyes scanned for injuries.

“Are you okay?”

You rubbed your arm you fell on and grinned, shifting your eyes away from the worried glare of the boy in front of you.

“I’m fine! Just a bit embarrassed…,” you said, mumbling the last part.

There was a beat of silence before Todoroki stood up and took a few steps back. You met his eyes again, questioning his actions.

“What are you do-,”

Todoroki jogged towards the pile of books, catching his foot on one of the same hardbacks, and caused himself to trip and fall the same way you had before, but perhaps with a little bit of theatrics on his part.

“Ow that hurt!” The boy said as he sat up next to you while rubbing his head.

You stared at him with a blank expression before he added: “Now you don’t have to be embarrassed anymore because I just made a fool of myself.”

You continued to quietly stare at him, when finally a small giggle left your lips. You held a fist up to your mouth, attempting to keep your laughter in.

“T-Todoroki-san, you’re a very k-kind person,” you said between snickers.

Now it was his turn to stare at you with wide eyes. You jumped up and held your hand out for the bewildered boy, in which he grabbed after he shook off his daze. You were now standing closely together, face-to-face. Silently, you two examined each other’s features, taking in as much of the other as possible.

“Good news, kids! I just got a call, and it seems like the city has finally cleared off most of the roads!”

You two jumped slightly apart, startled at the reappearance of the kind older lady. Quickly thanking her, both Todoroki and yourself cleaned up your mess, found your coats (which were sprawled on the ground), and made your way towards the door.

“It was nice meeting you, Todorki-san.”

“You as well, Y/N-san.”

You stood on the doormat for a few moments before reaching towards the doorknob, only to have your new friend’s hand gently grabbed your arm to stop you. You turned to look at him, and he quickly removed his touch as his cheeks turned pink at his sudden action.

“Um, since you missed your lunch with your mother, would you like to, um, go with me to grab food somewhere?”

He avoided eye contact as he said this, slipping on his coat.

You smiled once again, putting on your own coat, and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I would love to, Todorki-san.”

“Please, call me Shouto.”

—

REQUESTS ARE OPEN! DROP A REQUEST IN MY INBOX :))

[johns-prince]

u know whats not discussed much? The FACT Paul is also insecure,always was. Behind the confident attitude, that was his mask,he needed to be liked, he needed to please, he had stage fright, he was also dependent of John's opinion, wanted so hard for John to like his songs. John's insecurity was more lesive because of his childhood,then the drugs abuse,yoko... butPaul had a level of insecurity that reflected on his need to control things that he only admitted John to question, and its fascinating

Okay, so, the reason why I haven’t really touched on it is because I’m not comfortable enough to touch on it, not like John’s-- mainly because, again, I get John a lot more than I get Paul. I can read John a lot easier than I can read Paul. That and I’m also a bit nervous of misreading Paul and his insecurities, and thus having a bunch of people coming at me going “Actually no--” 

But, I guess, I shouldn’t come off as if I only think John was insecure, when, obviously, that isn’t true. John and Paul were insecure, differently in some areas, and more obvious than not. 

Paul is human, so of course he also had insecurities. I just think, along with most of his feelings, he could keep them hidden and out of public eyes. Now, the thing is, both John and Paul wanted to be liked, wanted to be accepted-- they just, were different about it all though. I mean-- John grew up believing he’d never fit in to begin with, he believed he wasn’t very likable because of how he was always seen as a troublemaker, someone who wasn’t going to make it very far in life; unwanted, weird, an outsider. Paul, I think Paul grew up more so accepted by his peers than John, and I mean-- I think that’s true. Paul had the charm and character, he also had the ‘proper’ family life that John didn’t, which caused issues for him growing up in amongst his own peers, something to mock and judge. 

Okay so this is where I’m trying to go with this-- John, while he hated not being accepted by the greater public and, like all of us, wanted to be liked, he could deal with not being. He had already accepted he was ‘’weird,’’ and unusual, that he was a bit of a rebel-rouser; he was quick to tell people to fuck off if they didn’t like him, especially for stupid reasons. In the end, John really only cared about his music and being able to make his music-- to do what he loved, and hopefully, be around the people who actually mattered and loved. Deep down, yeah, John wanted to be loved by everyone and have everyone like what he put out there [which I think we can all relate to on some level or another] which was a reason he got out on stage and played and did tours and all that-- but in the end, John didn’t really need to please people, be liked by everyone, because John only cared about those who he believed were special and worthy of his time and effort. He could live with pissing off the world, really-- he just wanted to please, and have the people he loved and cherished, like him. 

Now-- Paul, Paul on the other hand, was a bit more of a people-pleaser, and had a bit more desire to be liked by everyone. Perhaps that’s due to the fact Paul was much more a diplomatic individual than John was, mixed with the fact he didn’t really grow up treated or labeled the same way John had been. That, and considering he had a bit of stage-fright, would cause someone to really want people to like what they did and hope to God they’re pleasing them because what’s the fucking point of doing this if they aren’t? What’s the pay off? Now I do agree and have pointed out that John was really the only one who could bring out Paul’s insecurities, or make Paul feel insecure in some areas when Paul was rather confident or indifferent about them; be that Paul’s musical abilities/talent, probably even Paul’s looks [taking a jab at him about only being a pretty face in How Do You Sleep at Night?] and even Paul feeling insecure and doubtful of John’s love for him. The biggest being Paul’s musical abilities/talent, and John’s love for him. Actually, I think Paul felt a bit insecure about his own looks when compared to john, and I say this because Paul always talks about how he was this “chubby/fat baby-faced thing” and John was, “this really cool, suave, confident looking guy.” I assume this changed with time, but, but I dunno.

And I think Paul’s need to control things might have derived from losing his mother, and having zero control over the whole traumatic event-- and the only thing he could control, was himself, his music. And John was one of the very few who could get Paul to compromise a bit of that control, because that’s how they were going to work, they had to compromise. John compromised by swallowing a bit of his pride, while Paul compromised by sharing control over his music with John. 

So yes, Paul was also insecure, because Paul was human. I just think John struggled a bit worse with his insecurities, his fears, and he certainly didn’t cope with them very well either. 

[zefyre]

Excuse me? How could I miss any of your updates xD?!? Cheking in regulary and the new pfk one s just so swoon worthy! I love how you wrote the whole thing, And you are ofc right, the jelly thing would be more like James (maybe at first just teasing her how he is jelly, then really becoming jelly and last stage would be scared that she does leave dumb him? lol now I want a fic with james becoming jelly! *pretty pls?*). Ugh I loved how you wrote it so much! Cant wait for raising the stakes tbh

aksjhdfd i’m!! so sorry!!! / cries/ this has been sitting in my inbox for almost a year and i started it back when you sent this but couldn’t manage to finish until today when i stumbled onto it in my docs and decided to try again. thank you for your sweet words btw haha, i hope you see this and enjoy~

.

It started when James found Kagome muttering almost furiously one day, a letter in hand and a flush across her face. 

She hadn’t noticed his approach, so distracted by her letter she was, and he felt his curiosity grow to a point where he couldn’t help himself. He casually strode past her, a growing smile on his face when he did so undetected, before he backtracked to sneak up on her. 

Once close enough, James hooked his chin over her shoulder as he simultaneously grabbed onto her hips to hold her steady, so he didn’t get clipped in the chin if she jolted. 

A chuckle escaped him when not only did Kagome jump as he predicted, but she also let out the most adorable squeak, slapping the letter against her chest – an act that piqued his curiosity even more, as if she had something to hide.

“Wotcha reading?” he drawled, resting his head against the side of her own, only to draw back when he saw the flush on her face darken out of the corner of his eyes. His grin grew, a trickle of giddiness trickling up his spine at the sight of it spreading all the way down her neck. “Oh ho ho,” he said with a breathy laugh, “This wouldn’t be from a secret admirer now, would it?

He laughed in earnest when her face twisted in an expression of mortification, a whine escaping her throat. “Well that’s a yes,” he sniggered. He raised a hand, wiggling his fingers pleading. “Are you gonna let me see it?”

With a long-suffering sigh and a reluctance that one would think she was signing over her life, Kagome surrendered the letter, holding it out for James to read. Unable to witness the deed with her own eyes, she shut them and leaned her head back against James’ shoulder to save herself from the grief.

James eagerly scoured the letter and soon realized with a bubble of delight that Kagome’s reaction wasn’t an overreaction – the bloke actually opened the letter with some of the cheesiest poetry he’d ever laid his eyes upon. 

“To my dearest angel, with eyes so faire, even the stars cannot match the luster of your stare,” James tried reciting with somber flair – he managed up until the word “luster", breaking out into pained wheezes trying to hold back his mirth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, no more reading aloud,” he choked out when he saw the tell-tale twitch of her eyebrow and the tightening grip she held the letter,  and knew if he kept it up she would looked ball up the parchment without hesitation. “Okay, okay, phew.” As he read on, his smile diminished once he got past the cheesy poetry and the letter took a more earnest turn. “You know him well?” he wondered absently as he continued to read, not knowing why that surprised him so much, and not wanting to know why that idea..  niggled at him, either.

He thought it was just some anonymous, star-struck underclassman writing her, to be honest, but the letter was now talking about a meeting they had in the summer. 

Kagome let out a sound that was a cross between a sigh and a hum. “For a few years now, yeah… He’s a good friend of Inuyasha’s brother. We met over… the summer after fourth year, I think it was, when we happened visit them at the same time.”

He glanced at her, blinking owlishly. “I didn’t even realize Inuyasha had a brother.”

Kagome snorted. “Half brother,” she explained,  “He’s a couple years older and they get on like cats and dogs. He also went to Durmstrang, where he met Kouga.”

“And he’s been sending you these things ever since?” James asked, taking her hand and waving the letter in the air before stopping short, mouth dropping open as realization hit him. He sputtered, laughter bubbling in his chest, “No, no, no, this isn’t the same guy that sent you that singing howler on Valentine’s day in fifth year, is it?

James all but exploded in laughter when Kagome groaned and buried her face in her hands. “You got detention for a week for setting that thing on fire in the middle of the hall!” he crowed, hugging her tightly to his chest in lieu of clutching his stomach, his head folding over her shoulder.

Kagome began to bang her head back against his chest, repeatedly. “That was so embarrassing,” she groaned, sinking against him. “The detention was worth it to get it to stop.”

“Merlin,” he muttered, still laughing, “I think I might be a little jealous,” he teased, pouting his lips at her.

“Don’t be.” Kagome said it so bluntly that it made him laugh again. “I tried telling him I’m not interested but he never really listened. I think he was hanging on in the hopes that I’ll give in one day.”

Now that made him frown. “Not bloody likely,” he muttered, unconsciously pulling her snugger against his chest. 

Kagome grinned and reached up to give him a little pat on his cheek in reassurance. “He’s harmless, if a little pushy maybe,  but I think he does it mostly to get on Inuyasha’s nerves. Now they really hate each other.“ Instead of pulling her hand away, she used it to cup his cheek, sweeping her thumb along the curve of his cheekbone. “Since he found out about you, it’s now like a jokey tradition kind of thing,” she explained, rolling her eyes to add, “Still bloody embarrassing though.”

James felt something in his chest settle then. “Oh,” he said a a small laugh, perhaps a little too relieved, and his chest puffed out a bit. “You told him about me?” he cheesed, feeling smug.

Kagome burst out into a bout of snickering. “More like Inuyasha gloated in Kouga’s face first thing that he lost his chance when we both visited this past summer.”

James was pleasantly surprised Inuyasha did that for him – after all, they got off on the wrong foot last year and things had been awkward around each other ever since, which made the moment’s they crossed paths in the tower uncomfortable to be sure. “He did that?” The ‘For me?’ unspoken, only to have his spirits dampened when Kagome snorted and shot him a look of pity. 

Not for him then.

“They really, really don’t get along,” Kagome explained, laughing once more.

.

.

Kagome continued to receive the letters, but after some time she began to keep the correspondence to herself. They weren’t cheesy love letters, she’d tell him, but more personal in nature and as such it didn’t feel right to share with others. 

James completely understood of course, didn’t mind, but he would be lying if he said there wasn’t a… discomfiting feeling that took to stirring inside his chest whenever he witnessed a certain owl delivering letters to Kagome, one that only grew over time when the letters increased in frequency – when he’d spied the soft smile blossoming along her lips upon reading said letters. 

It got worse when Valentine’s came and she received a package – a gift, more sincere than the obnoxious ones of the singing variety she’d gotten in the past: her favorite flowers and special chocolate truffles imported from France along with another letter that made her smile bright and laugh a flattered sort of laugh and even blush the faintest shade of pink.

The burning in his chest only eased slightly when a Howler came three days later and Kagome immediately panicked, arm whipping out, wand in hand, and lighting it up into flame before the owl could even properly take off from the table – causing a chain reaction of the owl shitting in fright on a fifth year, the tablecloth catching fire, and three sixth years getting drenched with pumpkin juice in a failed attempt to put it out.

Fifty points were deducted that night from Hufflepuff, and Kagome earned herself two weeks worth of detention for the spectacular display.

.

.

It all eventually came to a head one day in the middle of Hogsmeade when James stopped short at the sight of a handsome man with long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and striking blue eyes down on one knee in front of Kagome, one hand cradling her left while his other held out something that glinted bright in the rare sunlight.

“Holy shite, is that guy proposing to Kagome?” Sirius choked out from beside him, equally rendered stunned at the scene, but James could barely hear him over the roar in his head, over the heavy, rapid beat of his heart in his ears, over the monster that grew in his chest at the sight of someone proposing to Kagome.

Over the deafening thought that he wanted to be the one to propose to her, and the… the anger he was taken aback to find simmering hot and foul at the bottom his belly at the simple, and yet mind-blowing fact that he wasn’t the one do it first.

He was just about to turn on his heel and run away, afraid of the scene before him and even more terrified of the turn his thoughts had taken, when a sharp smack echoed out loud the street. His head snapped up to stare wide-eyed at Kagome’s hand still raised and the man’s head turned at an exact ninety degree angle.

“This is not funny!” James heard her shout, her voice strangled and frantic, tinged with disgust as she went on to say, “Put that thing away!”

And to his utmost shock, the man threw his head back in laughter and did as she asked, snapping the velvet box shut and shoving it back into his trouser pockets as he clambered back up onto his feet. 

And, to his ever mounting surprise, pull Kagome into a bear hug that while she didn’t completely accept, she didn’t exactly fight him off like he thought she would either.

Now, James found himself striding closer to the pair, unable to ignore the growing, curiosity gnawing his chest. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, old habits die hard,” James overheard the man say, still laughing. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“You’re as bad as Miroku proposing to Sango every weekend.”

“Hey, she gave in eventually didn’t she?”

Kagome refused to deign that remark with an answer. “Now get off me you big oaf, you know I have a boyfriend. He’s gonna have a heart attack if he hears about some strange bloke proposing to me in the middle of Hogsmeade!”

Striking blue eyes caught James’s and he was startled to see a hint of fang in the smirk the other man flashed.  “Oh,” he chortled, not even bothering to keep his voice quiet. In fact, he projected it so James could clearly hear him. “I don’t think you have to worry about the rumors getting to him first – he wouldn’t happen to be the tall bloke with the glasses coming just now would he? Cause he’s giving me quite the evil eye.”

Instantly, Kagome’s hand snapped out to start wrapping him against the arms to release her, which he did a chuckle, arms steering wide.

Once free, Kagome whipped around, the familiar look of mortification whenever it came to a certain Durmstrang graduate clear on her face, and he already knew what she was going to say.

“James!” she said, a little breathless and on a nervous laugh. “This is, haha, this is Kouga. I’ve told you about him.” She sounded honest-to-Merlin at her wit’s end at that last part.

James crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Am I going to have to duel him for your hand in marriage?” He looked over Kagome’s head to lock stares with Kouga as she suddenly choked. Despite his snarking tone, his gaze was uncharacteristically serious. “Cause I will.”

“What is this, the dark ages?” she sputtered, before waving her hands hastily between them, “And there will be no dueling because that was just his idea of. Of a Joke.” She turned to give Kouga a filthy glare when he shifted a little uneasily behind her, adding in a much darker tone, “A bad one.”

James broke out in an easy smile that still held a bit of edge. “Oh I know,” he said pleasantly, sounding all light-hearted now, even as he smile turned a little smug. “I could tell by the slap. I think even kids in Hogwarts could hear it, it was a beautiful one, love.”

Kagome’s head tipped to the side to study him, and it was the uncertain look that crossed her face that had him inwardly sighing and backing down. He strode over, dropping a reassuring kiss on her temple as he passed her before offering his hand to the older man. “James Potter,” he introduced himself. He also offered a half grin, “I’d say nice to meet you, but, I just saw you propose to my girlfriend.”

“Kouga,” he introduced himself laughing a little, a little nervous. “It, uh, it really was a joke,” he said, taking James’s hand and shaking it. “The ring’s actually for my girlfriend. Fiancé. Hopefully, if she accepts that is.”

“And she will,” Kagome chimed in, giving Kouga another stink eye, “So long as she doesn’t murder us both if she ever hears of this.”

Kouga waved her off with a robust laugh. “She’s in Japan visiting family, she won’t know a thing!”

“She always knows,” he heard Kagome mutter, watching as Kouga suddenly gave a deep wince when she continued to say, “She knew about Valentine’s,” which was when James realized the Howler from back then must’ve been from his girlfriend instead of Kouga and… and that Kouga must have been dating her even that far back. 

Louder, Kagome went on to say something about how Kouga started writing to her about this Ayame, his hopeful fiancé to be, asking for advice and sharing about his ideas to propose, all which James heard but didn’t quite take in completely as he was slipping back into his thoughts.

This meant, that this whole time, the growing… growing jealousy that he’d felt – he couldn’t deny what it was now that he knew – seeing Kagome with the letters… all that worry had been for nothing…

Merlin, he felt like a bloody idiot. 

.

.

It wasn’t until after Kouga left, treating them all to lunch – Sirius included, who had hung back, fists at the ready for the moment James needed him to jump in to help kick the arse of the bloke trying to propose to his best mate’s girl – for his self-admitted “dumbarse stunt” before taking the Floo back to his flat, that Kagome confronted him. 

“James?” he heard her quietly prod, felt her nudge him gently against his side. He turned to see her looking up at her, “Everything alright?”

James sighed, managed a small smile to reassure her, before turning to Sirius to ask for a moment alone with Kagome. He caught on quick, clapping him on the shoulder before getting up and making his way to the bar. 

When he turned back to face Kagome again, he found her worrying her bottom lip. With another sigh, this one fond, he reached up with his thumb to gently tug her lip away from her teeth to save it from further abuse. “It’s not your fault,” he told her with genuine honesty, taking her hand and intertwining their fingers, “I’ve just been a bit thick lately and hadn’t realize it until today.”

“Kouga,” Kagome guessed, and correctly at that. James nodded, squeezing her hand. “I never realized the letters upset you, I’m sorry, James, if I did…”

She trailed off when he shook his head, squeezing her hand more insistently this time. “No, no, this was all me, getting into my own head, seeing things that wasn’t there and never… speaking up about it. I’d thought…” he trailed off, with a rueful, self-deprecating laugh as he confessed, “I’d thought the letters were working on you, I guess. I saw you get them, and how you’d… laugh, or even blush, and built it up to something it clearly wasn’t.” 

James reached up with his free hand to tuck a fallen curl out of Kagome’s face and behind her ear, pressing a kiss against her furrowed brow to smooth it out  smiling when it worked and Kagome leaned into his touch. “Never once realized I was jealous until I saw the bloke today, down on one knee in front of you and a pretty impressive rock in his hand,” he said with a wry laugh.

“Gods,” Kagome breathed out, laughing along with him. “All this time I was helping him with Ayame, it scared the shite out of me when he did it.” Quietly, more hesitantly, she added to say, a pretty flush rising to her cheeks, “Definitely, uh, definitely not the one I thought about… about proposing to me.”

James was not ashamed to admit how breathless her admission made him, the sight of Kagome shyly averting her gaze, her blush darkening further, as he whispered, “Yeah?” and she nodded, biting her lip once again to hide her flustered smile. 

Nor was he ashamed at how eagerly he quietly confessed in return, “I think what upset me the most was the fact that I wasn’t the one to propose to you first, joke or not.” 

Stunned, Kagome steered a wide eyed gaze back up at him, silently mouthing “Really?” and he laughed, a little giddy, and pressed his forehead against hers. 

“Trust me on this, Kagome, I was not kidding about dueling that prat for your hand. And I’d’ve kicked his arse, you know I would.” At her breathless, snorting laugh, James grinned a foolish grin, before he sobered and slipped his hand free of hers to cup the sides of her face instead. 

“One day, I’m gonna propose,” he promised, and watched with rapt attention how her blush returned in full force, mingling with the freckles smattered across her cheeks, and the roundness, the misty sheen her gorgeous blue eyes took on in response.

James felt his heart flutter, so incredibly entranced right then and there, and swallowed down the nerves that was building up in his throat. 

“Not now,” he ruefully muttered, “And certainly not in middle of The Three Broomsticks where all you can smell is the butterbeer and stale fish and chips, but…” 

James trailed off and gazed warmly at Kagome with gentle grin. “But one day it’s gonna be me getting down on one knee, offering you up a ring, riding on the hope you’d grant me the incredible honor of becoming your husband, because as sure as I knew it the day you threatened me with your bat that you were something special,” and James paused, grinning wider as Kagome burst out in a watery chuckle, her eyes way past misty now and almost spilling with tears, before he told her so solemn, so empathetically, with as much emotion and confidence that he could summon, “I know you’re it for me, and there’s not a chance I’ll let you slip away, not if I can help it.”