#but it’s been ten years with loveless affairs

[phantom-does-a-thing]

Kian claims to be so confident and cool and collected and is such a flirty person. He sits down on Rand or Rolan’s laps, leans in super close to fix their hair n stuff or constantly gives them compliments because he loves them and thinks it’s a little silly to make them flustered. And he pretends to be soooooooo confident about it.

Anyway the moment that any of them flirt back, he’s a mess. Rolan compliments him and he absolutely forgets how to function. He’s trying to be funny silly and flirt w them forgetting that they also can flirt back (bc they love him back just as much) and he immediately blue screens face completely red.

[roseghoul26]

Chapter 3: I Can't Stop You Putting Roots In My Dreamland

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Synopsis: A fic based off the song “ivy” by Taylor Swift. After a startling introduction to the man, Arthur Morgan became the most important part of your life. Married at a young age to an older, wealthy man to help your family, you were trapped in a loveless marriage, your only sense of escape with the rugged cowboy. Will you be able to keep your affair hidden, or will your husband find out, and destroy the last thing that made you happy? Tags: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Strangers To Lovers, Infidelity, Fem!Reader, She/Her Pronouns Used For Reader, Period Typical Misogyny, Emotional Manipulative Relationship (not with Arthur), Mostly Follows Timeline of Game, High Honor Arthur Morgan Author's Note: this chapter does talk about sex with the husband, which isn’t non consensual, but it also isn’t something the reader actually wants, doing it more out of obligation than anything. also chapters will probably start to be longer and therefore take longer to write <3 Taglist: @lokiofasgard12 @ultraporcelainpig @that-one-beannnn @morethantheycansay Chapter List

You rarely smoked. 

The only time you did was after you and Hans were intimate. He would roll over onto his side, asleep, and you would get up from the bed, wrapping your robe around you and heading outside to the front porch, sitting right on the top stair. 

It was comforting to you, because you imagined the flame and smoke from the cigarette would burn the remnants of him from your body. 

You felt them in your pocket, the promise of temporary relief calling to you like a siren. You ignored them, choosing to listen to the sounds of the woods around you. The crickets sang, the frogs croaked, and you heard the chattering of nocturnal animals as they found food for the night. Everything was so peaceful, so why couldn’t you stop yourself from feeling so tense?

It had been two days since the trip into Rhodes. Hans had stayed in his office for most of that time, only coming out to eat and sleep. But as was typical before leaving on trips, Hans wanted you, so you obliged him. 

Sex with Hans felt like a task, no passion between the two of you. He treated it like he treated his business: efficiently. There was no foreplay, no lingering touches, nothing. It was just straight to the point, and done as soon as it started, which came as a relief to you. The less time you had to spend doing it with him, the better. 

However, as much as it shamed you to admit it, your thoughts had not been of Hans during the moment. Instead of cold gray eyes traveling down your body, you imagined they were a certain shade of blue. Instead of pallid skin, you imagined it was tanned, roughened from years in the suns. And when Hans’ hands did touch you, you imagined they were strong and broad, calloused yet gentle. You’d be a liar if you said it didn’t make it easier. 

Disgusted with yourself, you ran a hand down your face, slumping forward where you sat on the stair. Cold air dug into your skin, and you tightened your robe further around your body. The silk felt nice against your skin, but it did nothing to protect against the elements. 

You were about to fish the pack out of your pocket, but the sound of hoofbeats had you perking your head up, eyes focusing on the small path in front of you. Emerging from the shadows was a man on horseback, lantern in one hand that lit up the side of his face. It took you a second to register who it was, not quite believing your eyes at first. 

“Arthur?” You called out. Not only could you not escape from him in your thoughts, but here he was in reality. Not that you minded, but of course the timing had to be terrible. 

He responded with a noise of affirmation, and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “What’re you doin’ here? It’s very late.” You knew it was somewhere between nine and ten at night, which is a little late for visitors. “Don’t tell me you’re here to try and rob me again.”

Arthur audibly sighed, shaking his head as he dismounted his horse. “You ain’t ever gonna let that go, are you?” You watched as he secured the reins around a nearby tree before making his way over to you.

“Never,” you laughed, and despite your better judgment, you scooted over to the side to give Arthur room to sit. You patted the stair when he got to the porch, and he sat down next to you. The scent of tobacco and gunpowder wafted over you, and you felt his jacket covered arm brush yours, causing you to shiver.

It was at that point you remembered you were only wearing your undergarments underneath, and you tightened the robe even more around your body, both because of self awareness and the temperature. 

Wordlessly, you felt Arthur shift, taking his jacket and draping it across your shoulders. The outside material of the jacket had been rough, but the inside was lined with a soft pelt, warmed by Arthur’s body. The addicting scent was even stronger now, causing your head to spin, and you resisted the urge to bury your face into it. “You’ll catch your death out here,” he said disapprovingly. You just chuckled in response. 

“What’re you doin’ out here, anyway?” You heard him ask, and you shrugged. 

“I could ask you the same question.” You watched him out of the corner of your eye, and he sighed. 

“Leigh was worried ‘bout the ‘issue’ you’d been having, with the break-ins. He wanted me to come out ‘ere and make sure everythin’ is good.” He laughed lightly, and you felt his eyes on you. “Now will you answer me?”

Finally, you pulled out the pack, holding it gently in your hands. Glancing up at Arthur, he seemed surprised. “Didn’t strike me as the type who smoked,” he commented.

“I rarely do.” You pulled out one of the cigarettes from the pack, placing it gently between your lips. Pulling out your lighter, it took a few too many tries before the spark caught, and you lit the end of it. Taking a long drag, you wordlessly offered Arthur one from the pack.

He accepted it, placing it between his own plush lips, and you shifted closer to light it. Except this time, no matter how many times you tried, the spark wouldn’t catch, and you could hear Arthur chuckle as you grew more and more frustrated. “Piece of shit,” you grumbled, “I keep forgettin’ to buy a new one.”

You tried it a few more times before giving up, shoving it angrily back into your robe. “Sorry,” you grumbled, guilty eying the unlit cigarette that hung from his mouth.

“Can I try somethin’?” Arthur asked, and it piqued your curiosity, so you nodded. “C’mere.” Arthur gestured for you to move closer to him, which you did. The man practically radiated heat, you noticed, and your cold body wanted nothing more than to wrap around him. 

Your brain stopped functioning when you felt him gently grasp your chin with gloved fingers, keeping your head still, but not tight enough to keep you locked there. He leaned forward like he was going to kiss you, but he instead pressed the end of his cigarette against yours. “Inhale,” he instructed, and you watched the end of yours glow with red embers as you did, which ignited his.

He pulled away then, his touch lingering a little longer than necessary, and you were certain he could feel the way your heart hammered. “Resourceful,” you muttered, and Athur laughed, smoke spilling from his open mouth. You couldn’t tell if it was a trick of the light, but his cheeks were a shade darker than they were moments ago.

“Somethin’ like that. I think ‘desperate’ is the right word, though.” Arthur leaned back on one of his arms, the other moving the cigarette to and from his lips. “Haven’t had a good cigarette in a while.” 

Without even thinking about it, you extended the pack of them for him to take, and you watched him switch his attention from the pack to you. “Take it,” you demanded, shaking it gently when he didn’t budge. “I got plenty of them.”

“I appreciate it, but-”

“Just take the damn thing!” You giggled, practically pressing it against his chest, yet he still made no move to grab it. With a quirk of your brow that said really?, you tucked the pack into one of the various pockets of the coat around your shoulders. 

Arthur shook his head with a mix of defeat and amusement, and even in the low light you could see that smile that made you weak. “You’re stubborn.”

“First I’m strange, and now I’m stubborn. Got any other s words you wanna call me?” 

“I can think of a few.” Arthur had begun to lean near you as you spoke, but you watched his eyes flick down to where a ring sat on your hand and he pulled away. “But none of which I should say to a married woman.”

Right. Holding back a sigh of disappointment, you felt the jacket begin to slip from your shoulders, and you swore you saw Arthur’s arm move to fix it before stopping himself. Securing it back around, you took a final drag from your cigarette before stomping it out with your shoe, then kicking the butt under the porch once it had cooled some.

“Are you busy the next couple of weeks?” You asked, not really knowing what you were saying. 

“I’ve got some things. Why?”

“Oh, nevermind.” You immediately felt silly for even bringing it up.

“You sure?”

“Well…” you took a breath. “Hans is gonna be gone for the next week or two, and you especially know how easy it is to get in here,” you gestured to the house, and Arthur shook his head again. “I guess what I’m tryin’ to ask is if you’d swing by every couple of days? Just to make sure nothin’ has happened? I’ll sleep better knowing there's someone out there who keepin’ an eye on things. And I’ll pay,” you tagged on, and Arthur brought the cigarette back up to his lips, almost contemplative. 

You totally weren’t trying to come up with a reason to see him more. 

“Just every couple of days?”

You nodded. “You don’t even gotta talk to me or anythin’. I’ll leave the money somewhere secure and you can just grab it.”

“And if I wanna talk to you?” Arthur’s voice was surprisingly faint, like someone would if they didn’t have complete confidence in what they were saying. 

Cherishing the knowledge that he didn’t dislike your presence, you couldn’t help the small smile as you responded. “Well, I’ll be around.”

Arthur hummed in response, and he took one final drag until he was stomping it out, kicking it under the porch like you did. The two of you sat in silence after that, simply taking in the serenity of the nighttime forest. Arthur titled his head back, eyes locked on to the forest, and the moonlight graced his features. Why did he look even more gorgeous at night? Pale white light highlighted the angles of his face, his high cheeks, the crook of his nose. You were able to make out a scar along the bridge of his nose, and another on his chin. You wondered if the rest of his body was marked that way.

You hadn’t realized you’d been staring at him until he turned his attention on you, and you couldn’t tell if he was amused or concerned. “You alright there?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” you quickly responded. “Just tired.” Whether Arthur believed you, you’d never know. 

“Let’s get you inside, then,” Arthur replied, slowly standing up from the step. You almost wanted to grab his hand and pull him back down, not wanting this little moment to end. But that familiar feeling of guilt returned, and so you let the moment go, dissipating in the air like the smoke of your cigarettes. 

Arthur helped you up, escorting you to your front door with a hand barely not touching your back. You slid the jacket off your body, giving it back to him with a soft thank you. After draping it around one of his arms, he held the door open for you. You were about to step in when you heard him murmur your name. “Have a good night, darlin’.”

“Because of you, it is.” You beamed at him, before ducking into the dimly-lit house. A few seconds later, you heard the door latch shut, and the sound of receding hoofbeats a few minutes after. 

You gave yourself a moment to calm your racing heart, fanning your face to try and alleviate the heat in your cheeks. You were giddy and felt lighter than a feather. Like the last time, you felt like your real self had broken free, if not for a moment. That taste of freedom was delicious, and it was addicting. 

But with that freedom came guilt, and you were screaming at yourself in your head, every nasty word under the sun aimed directly at you in your mind. Married or not, you shouldn’t be letting an almost stranger sit that close to you, let him drape his jacket over you, let him hold your face so gently.

You shouldn’t be reacting this way. 

You shouldn’t be torturing yourself by getting close to him. 

You shouldn’t be getting close to him.

There were so many things you shouldn’t be doing, but you knew you couldn’t stop now. You needed more.

Sighing, you slowly began to make your way upstairs, the stairs creaking with each step. You headed into the washroom that wasn’t attached to your bedroom, this one located across the hall a ways down from where Hans was currently asleep. Washing the remnants of smoke from your body, you dared to glance at yourself in the mirror.

Sure, nothing has changed too drastically since you got married, your face still practically the same. But a deep weariness had made itself at home in your eyes. Your eyes, once filled with wonder and joy at the world, had turned dull, much like Hans’. They seemed to have sunken in more, like the life from your body was being sucked from your body. 

Anger boiled your blood, tears threatening to flow as you stared at the husk of yourself in the mirror. You were angry at your family for marrying you off. You were angry at Hans for agreeing to marry you. You were angry at the world for thinking it was okay.

And you were angry at Arthur for breaking into your house and setting off this chain of events in your mind. 

Taking a deep breath, you composed yourself. This marriage needed to happen, you told yourself, and it provided some small comfort, but it didn’t ease the sense of betrayal. And you shouldn’t be mad at Arthur, because it wasn’t his fault. You just wanted someone to blame for your treachery. Wiping down your hands, you were sure to avoid looking at yourself in the mirror again as you left.

Before you knew it, you were back in the bedroom, the familiar sight of Hans’ form beneath the covers causing a lump to form in your throat. Quickly slipping off the robe, you replaced it with a nightgown before joining him under the covers. 

The comforting smell of Arthur still clung to your skin, lulling you to sleep, your dreams interrupted with visions of him. It was the best sleep you’d gotten in a long time.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

The sunlight woke you up, beams interrupting your slumber instead of the voice of your husband. 

Sitting up, you placed your hand on the other side of your bed, and you felt it was cold. A smile grew across your face, an almost child-like giddiness bubbling inside of you. He was gone.

You quickly got out of bed, immediately heading to the closet to get dressed, not wanting to waste any of the precious time you had alone. You had no idea what you were going to do, but you were going to savor every moment. You had glanced at the clock on the way over, and you were surprised to see that you’d slept in until ten.

You decided on a thin, flowy skirt and a light blouse, something that would let you move with ease. As you got dressed, a familiar piece of paper caught your eye, tucked in the drawer containing your socks hastily. You picked up the little thank you note that Arthur had given to you, looking over it fondly. It was such a small gesture, but it meant everything to you. 

Tucking it back, you left your closet, heading down the stairs. Even the house seemed happier, sunlight streaming into the windows, and you opened some of them, letting wind clear away the stagnant air. You made yourself a quick breakfast, an assortment of fruits and some bread, cleaning the dishes once you were done. 

You now sat at the dining table, contemplating what you were going to do. Your options were quite limited, as the only way to travel from the house was the carriage, but that was gone. Hans didn’t keep horses, finding the creatures disgusting, leaving you stranded at the house. 

That wasn’t to say you didn't have a way of getting to places. If you really needed to, the main road wasn’t far, about a five minute walk on foot. If you waited long enough, someone would come by with a carriage, and you could ask to hop on. More often than not, they would accept, and you were always sure to hand them a couple of bills for their troubles. It was dangerous, and probably quite stupid, but you enjoyed the thrill of it all. 

But you weren’t in the mood to travel in the city, especially this early, where everyone would be able to clearly see who you were. You slumped back in the chair. Now that the novelty of being alone had worn off, the persistent loneliness was no longer covered up, making you slump even further into your chair.

It was then you finally remembered your little project you’d been working on for some time: your garden. You quickly left the house, a newfound energy in your step as you traveled along the makeshift path you’d made with your steps.Your skirts caught on various plants and sticks, but it didn’t deter you, and you made it to your garden in no time. 

It wasn’t much of a garden, to be completely honest with yourself. Fallen trees stacked up against one side, blocking it from view from the house. You hadn't tended to it for some time, and it showed. All six of your planters were handmade, made from various sticks and planks you’d found scattered about, and you noticed that they were all spilling out their precious dirt, the wood long since rotted. Also, weeds and vines and overgrowth covered over the delicate plants you’d raised, and you made a sad noise. You hoped they weren’t all dead. 

Digging through the thick growth, your fears were confirmed when instead of bright green, you were met with wilted brown. They weren’t anything special, just a few herbs and small vegetables that you’d grown from the remnants of produce you’d used for supper. Still, it was something you’d poured yourself into, and you couldn’t help the way your shoulders sagged, energy wilted just like the plants. 

You were about to move the weeds back over, when from the pile of dead plants, a sliver of fresh green caught your eye. Investigating further, you found a cluster of small growth of thyme and mint, baby sprouts, but still able to become something greater. A victorious laugh left you, and you eagerly began tearing away the invasive greenery, your energy returned.

It took a while, but eventually you’d uncovered everything, the dead plants pulled out, leaving the few remaining live ones in the unstable dirt. Before you could move them, though. you’d have to make new planters. The rest of the day you spent gathering various sticks, planks, and pieces of bark, creating a substantial pile in the garden.

By the time night came around, you were exhausted, covered in dirt and sweat, but surprisingly content. You bathed and, no matter how much you wanted to stay up and wait to see if Arthur would stop by, you went to bed. You said every couple of days, not every night, for God’s sake. 

The next day was spent working on the planters, taking many breaks inside. It took too many tires for you to make one that would stay together, but by the end of the night you’d made one. 

The third day arrived, and you worked again on the planters. It was the end of the third night when you heard hoofbeats come down your road, and you felt your heart beat excitedly. You were still close to the house, so you were able to hear Arthur call out your name. “Over here!” You responded, but you doubted he could see you because your back was pressed against the stack of fallen logs, blocking you from view from the house. “In the woods!”

It took a few moments, but you eventually heard branches crack and leaves rustle, as well as the light noise of his spurs. “Hello, Arthur,” you turned your head back to greet the man as he approached your side. “I’ll get your payment in a moment, just let me finish this.”

You turned back to the planter in your lap, and you saw out of the corner of your eye as Arthur crouched down next to you, watching what you were doing with an unreadable expression. “What’s all this?” He asked as you tied a knot of the rope, testing the stability of the planter with a tug. When it held, you smiled proudly. Another one done. 

“This,” you gestured around you, “is my garden. And this,” you pointed to the now finished planter, “is one of the last planters I need to make before I replace all the old ones.”

“Odd place for a garden,” Arthur noted, standing up again. Again, he helped you up, and you smiled gratefully at him. He wasn’t wearing gloves this time, and you were able to feel the rough skin on yours. 

“I know,” you replied, wiping dirt from your hands on your skirt. “But it ain’t like I got any other place for it.”

“Whaddya mean? You’ve got a whole empty lawn,” he said with disbelief, and you shook your head.

“I guess I mean I can’t. I ain’t even supposed to have this.”

“You… can’t?”

“It ain’t ‘ladylike or proper’ to keep a garden, apparently,” you scoffed, and began to make your way back to the house. “C’mon, let’s get you your money.”

A part of you hoped that he wouldn’t just take the money and leave as you walked back toward the house, but you wouldn’t blame him if he did. The two of you idly chatted, you leading the way back, Arthur not far behind. 

Looking back as you talked, you were able to appreciate him visually as you kept eye contact. He had the same red button up on  from earlier in the week, sleeves rolled up at the elbow, and the top two buttons undone. He had forgone the bandana around his neck entirely today, and you were thankful for it. He kept his hands on his gunbelt as he walked, the act far more enticing than it should be. You had to move your eyes before you could begin to stare. 

Reaching the house, Arthur held the door open for you, hesitantly following in after you. It was strange, seeing Arthur in your house properly. He looked very out of place, the antiquated decorations of high society a harsh contrast of the rugged outdoorsman. 

“I’m gonna go grab the money, so make yourself at home. And,” you pointed to his boots, “take those off. You tracked mud in my kitchen last time.”

He held his hands up defensively. “My apologies,” he chuckled, but he complied, setting his boots next to your shoes. It was almost familiar, seeing your shoes next to his, and a pang of longing for a life you’d never had or will have tore through your chest. 

Heading upstairs, you pushed those feelings away as you entered your bedroom. Reaching under the bed, you grabbed the lockbox you kept stashed, hidden between the mattress and the frame, setting it on your bed. Opening it, you grabbed a few bills from it, totalling to about five dollars. You pulled from your own personal money, not wanting Hans to question why he was suddenly down a bit of money when he returned. Tucking it back under, you hurriedly made your way back downstairs to Arthur.  

He hadn’t sat down yet. Instead, you watched as he traveled around the living room, examining the various photographs that decorated the shelves and the mantle of the fireplace. He was frowning as he looked over your and Hans’ wedding photo, but he broke his gaze from them as you stood next to him. “Here,” you handed him the money. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he murmured, taking the bills gently, putting them away in one of his pockets. 

The two of you stood in silence after that. You weren’t quite sure what to say. A part of you wanted to invite him to stay for a drink, but that was risky, pushing to something less than proper. He took the framed wedding photo into his hands, and the both of you observed it.

You looked like a spooked deer in the photo, your eyes wide and staring into the camera. Hans had his arm linked in yours, and it was the only time you’d seen him smile, even though it was forced. The dress you were wearing was a poofy mess of fabric and ribbon, and you remembered how much it itched your skin.

“The dress is ugly, I know,” you joke, getting a chuckle from the man. “I’d never choose to wear somethin’ like that.”

“It seems like you don’t got a choice in a lot of things,” you heard him mutter, more to himself than anything. You couldn’t bring yourself to disagree with him; it was obvious you’d be lying. 

Arthur set the frame back on the fireplace mantle, and when his hand returned to his side, you felt it brush against yours, but a little too hard to be accidental. It was a simple yet comforting touch, and for a moment that loneliness tormenting you eased. 

But just as it came, it left, Arthur taking a few steps away from you. Turning your head to watch him, you felt disappointment overwhelm you. “I-” he cleared his throat. “I have to go.” 

“Okay,” you whispered as he got his boots back on. 

His mouth opened and shut as he struggled to formulate words, and he ended up just sighing. “I’ll see you later, darlin’.”

Nodding, you turned your attention back to the photo, not wanting him to see the sadness in your eyes. You heard the door latch shut, and like your shoes by the door, you were now alone.

You stayed inside for the rest of the night.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

The next day arrived, and with it came rain. Lots of it.

It pounded against the roof of your house, and you found the sound of it comforting, distracting you from your miserable thoughts. Because of that, you spent most of the day in the attic cleaning, where you could feel the rain if you pressed your hand against the roof.

The following day was a clear one, not a single cloud in the sky. You finished up the planters, arranging them how you liked. You rewarded yourself with a long soak in the bath, spending nearly an hour in the tub. 

For both of those days, your mind kept wandering to Arthur, but not on the reason you thought it would. You kept going back to his comment about how you didn’t have a choice in a lot of things. In the back of your mind, you always knew that, but to hear it out loud, it had been staggering. 

You didn’t let yourself think about it for too long, however. The sacrifice of your own choice in life was a necessary one, you told yourself, and itIt was selfish of you to want otherwise. Your family would be out on the street if it wasn’t for you, and besides, you should be grateful for the life Hans has provided for you.

So why was it so hard to convince yourself to believe your thoughts?

You dreamed that night, for the first time in a while. It wasn’t anything crazy, but it still had you gasping when you woke. It was a domestic scene, and you were in the kitchen making breakfast. A sleep-laden Arthur came into the scene, brown hair tousled and in his face. He wrapped his arms around your body, bare chest pressing into your back, and he burrowed his face into the crook of your neck. It felt so real, and you swore you could feel the scratch of his beard on your neck when you woke. 

Getting out of bed the next day had been a struggle. You angrily grumbled at the birds as they taunted you with their lighthearted music, and you debated rolling over a smashing a pillow over your head and going back to sleep. 

Eventually, you managed to leave the bed, getting dressed and eating breakfast like you’d done in all the previous days. The monotony was getting boring, but there wasn’t anything you could do about that. 

Today you worked on filling the planters with dirt, and it took a surprising amount of time to find some that wasn’t too rocky or too muddy, and of course it had to be a significant walk from the planters. All you had to transport the dirt was a small shovel that you stored in a hollow trunk nearby, and you spent the day carrying each precious shovelful across the forest

By the time early evening rolled around, you were exhausted, your hands cramping and shoulders aching from the shovel, but you now had six planters filled with dirt, and the baby sprouts placed in each one. The dirt was still damp enough from the rainfall earlier, so you didn’t have to worry about watering today.

Leaning your back against the fallen trunks, you closed your eyes, savoring the feeling of the warm sun rays against your skin. The birds sounded less taunting than they did in the morning, and you let yourself get lost in their songs.

So lost, in fact, that you failed to notice when they stopped, spooked by the sound of a voice and footfalls. You jumped when your name was said rather loudly beside you, your eyes snapping open and staring at the creator of the sound. 

A concerned Arthur stood above you, hand extended like he was about to shake your shoulder. “Oh, hello Arthur,” you grinned up at him.

“You scared me there,” he half-laughed, pulling you to your feet. “I’ve been callin’ your name for a while now.”

“Well, as you can see,” you brushed your hands on your skirt, “I’m still very much alive.” You were afraid that the tense ending of your last interaction would’ve carried over to today, but you’re glad it didn’t. “So, whaddya think?” You gestured to your garden. 

“It’s… cute.”

“Cute?” You scoffed. “You mean to tell me I’ve been working all day for the last week just for it to be cute? You insult me, Arthur.”

Arthur laughed, and that damn smile adorned his lips. Looking away, you felt your cheeks warm.

“I left the money at the house again. C’mon.” 

The walk back to the house was short, like always, and Arthur asked you about the plants you were growing. You explained to him the way you’d found them earlier in the week, recalling the small little sprouts you’d found. 

“Plants are incredible in that way. No matter what the world throws at them, no matter what conditions they’re met with, they always seem to just… come back. Their resilience is incredible!” Looking back at Arthur, he was watching you with an indiscernible expression. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get all poetic there.”

“Don’t apologize,” Arthur shook his head. “I like that, though. Reminds me of someone I know.”

“Oh? Who?” You were genuinely curious, wanting to know more about Arthur and the people he associated with. 

“There’s this amazin’ woman, who, no matter what anyone tells her or what society deems is right, does what she wants, does what makes her happy. And when she gets dragged down, I’ve seen her bounce right back up, ready to take on the world.”

“Maybe you’re the poetic one,” you teased. “She sounds like someone I want to meet.”

You missed the look that Arthur gave you, like he couldn’t believe you weren’t catching on. “I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

Eventually the two of you came into the house, and Arthur lingered in the doorway. “I’ll be right back, then you’ll be good to go.” You turned to head up the stairs, but you halted. “Unless…” Don’t you dare. “Unless you want to stay for dinner?” 

When he didn’t respond, you panicked a little. “You don’t have to, I just figured cause it’s almost dinnertime, you’d like somethin’ to eat.” Silence. “You know what, forget I said anythin’,” you looked away, embarrassed, and resumed entering the house. 

“You’re spoilin’ me, darlin’,” Arthur laughed breathlessly with a smile. 

“Is that a yes?”

He nodded, and a relieved but genuine smile fell on your lips. “You know where the living room is,” you laughed, toeing off your shoes. Arthur did the same, setting his boot next to yours again, and he made his way to the living room as you went upstairs. 

The process of grabbing the money was no different this time, and you were about to head back downstairs when you caught a glimpse of yourself in one of the mirrors in the bedroom.

Dirt streaked across your face from where you had wiped away sweat, and your clothes were in no better shape. Embarrassment once again overcame you, the ideals that had been ingrained into your brain for years making you feel so. No woman of your standing should be playing in the dirt, then inviting people into her home while covered in it. 

You quickly changed clothes, then headed into the en suite bathroom to wash down your face and body, even go so far as to fix up your hair, pulling out any debris that got caught in it. Satisfied, you headed back downstairs to Arthur, who sat on one of the various couches. He had taken his hat off, setting it next to him, and you watched him run his hands through it. 

“It wasn’t very nice of you to not tell me I was covered in dirt,” was what you said as you approached him, holding out the bills for him. “Sorry that it took so long.”

Arthur just chuckled, standing up in front of you, leaving his hat behind. He took the bills from you with a thankful nod of his head, tucking them into his pocket. “You missed a spot,” he said as he tucked the money away.

“Really?” You began to wipe at your face, frowning when Arthur began to laugh. “Where?”

“Here,” he muttered, and you felt two hands gently wrap around your wrists, tugging them away from your face. Releasing one, he used the pad of his thumb to wipe at your cheek, the rest of his hand resting on your jaw. His cerulean eyes flicked across your face, like he was trying to memorize the details of it, the curve of your cheek, the slope of your nose, the shape of your lips. “There,” he whispered, running the thumb across again for good measure before dropping his hand. 

Arthur stared at you for a moment, like even he couldn’t quite believe what he’d done. All thoughts went out the window, your mind and legs jelly. He took a step back, giving an appropriate amount of room between the two of you. Don’t leave, you were pleading in your head. “I-I’ll get started on dinner,” you stammer out. “If you’d like to get washed up, the bathroom’s upstairs, first door on the left.”

He nodded, taking a few more steps back. “I’ll be right back, then.” And with that, he turned up the stairs, leaving you stunned, alone, in the living room. You ran your fingers over where his hand had just been, and you laughed with shock and delight. You expected to feel guilt, and you did, but it was heavily muffled by the sheer joy radiating in your chest. 

The sound of water rushing through the pipes of the house broke you out of your daze, your hand returning to your side. Right. Dinner. 

Despite the tiredness you felt from hauling dirt everywhere the entire day, you felt energized as you entered the kitchen. You weren’t going to make anything elaborate, mainly because you were starting to run low on supplies. You’d have to run to Rhodes sometime during the next week, using your own money, of course. 

Dinner was going to be two small steaks, with diced potatoes and grilled green beans. The smell of the food quickly permeated the kitchen, making your stomach grumble hungrily. Arthur emerged from the bathroom when dinner was over halfway done, startling you because you had your back to him, and because your mind was constantly distracted with thoughts of him. 

“That smells amazin’,” he commented, causing you to nearly drop the utensil you were using to flip the food. Turning, he held up his hands apologetically. 

“I should’ve had you keep your boots on. Your spurs are loud,” you grumbled lightheartedly. “How are you so quiet?” You kept having to turn your head to talk to him, so he walked up next to you at the stove.

“Years of practice,” Arthur responded, which didn’t clear anything up.

“Practice for what?” 

Arthur hesitated to speak, and you rolled your eyes. “Arthur, I caught you breakin’ into my house. If you’re a thief, just say it.”

“I ain’t a thief.” He replied defensively. 

“Sure, whatever you say. I just sure as hell know you ain’t a deputy.”

Arthur laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“So why are you pretendin’ to be one?”

The man beside you sighed. “It’s a long story… and one I ain’t so sure I can tell yet.”

Silence fell over the two of you, the only sound the sizzling of food as it cooked. It was you who spoke first. “So who are you then, Arthur Morgan?”

Arthur didn’t respond at first, and you watched his struggle to come up with an answer. “I ain’t quite sure,” he finally said, uncertainty lacing his voice.

“You’re… not sure?”

He shrugged. “I’m a lot of things, I suppose. I guess I can’t just put it into one word."

“Alright, how ‘bout this then. Whenever you’re not here, what’re you doin’?”

“I… I’m workin’. Odd jobs and stuff like that.”

“Do those odd jobs include thievin’?”

Exasperated, Arthur  made a noise between a scoff and a chuckle. “I suppose it does. Houses, banks, trains. Whatever gets me money, I guess.”

Grinning at your small victory at his admission, you poked him lightly in the chest. “So you’re an outlaw then.”

“And if I am?”

It was your turn to shrug. “Doesn’t change anythin’, really.”

Arthur noticeably relaxed at your answer. “Good.”

“I’m assumin’ Dutch and Bill are outlaws too, then.”

“Jesus, woman, is this an interrogation?” You heard Arthur mutter, and you laughed. 

“Sorry, sorry, just curious.” Your gaze went back to the food, and you noticed that everything was almost done cooking. “Was I right though?”

“I… Yes.”

You hummed in response. Bill you were expecting, but the other man you weren’t. He looked like he belonged in high society with you, not living a life from the reaches of the law. Maybe appearances aren't always to be believed, then. “Thank you.”

Arthur raised a brow. “For?”

“Answering my questions. And not just brushing them off. Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Arthur responded, not expecting thanks for such a simple thing. “You need any help with this?” He gestured to the food on the stove. “I ain’t much of a cook, but if you need help…”

Never once in your marriage had Hans offered to help you as you cooked, even when you had to make large amounts for dinner parties or guests. A warm smile found its way on your face, and you shook your head. “I think I got it. It’s almost done, anyway. You wanna grab some plates for me?” You pointed to a nearby cupboard. 

“‘Course.” Arthur stepped away from you, fulfilling your request, and your eyes followed him as he moved across the kitchen. Just like the shoes by the door, something about this just felt right, even though everything in your brain was screaming that this was wrong. This domesticity, this familiarity, everything was wrong.

But damn if it didn’t feel good, like something you didn't know was missing inside of you had been returned. 

Arthur returned a few moments later with two plates in his hand, setting them on the counter beside you. You spoke as you began to lead the food onto it. “Go ahead and take a seat. I’ll bring the plates out shortly. Utensils are in the drawer there” You ended with a point. 

“You sure?”

You nodded. “Want anythin’ to drink?”

“Whatever you’re havin’.” Arthur’s voice was distant as he moved away toward the dining room. 

Wine, then. The plates were hot in your hands as you brought them out. Arthur sat at one end of the table, where Hans would sit, and you set it down in front of him. You faltered for a second as you debated where to set yours. Normally, you’d sit on the other end of the table, with four chairs of space between you and Hans, but you figured it would be rude to do that right now. Besides, the selfish part of you wanted to be as close to Arthur as you could.

Leaving a chair’s space, you set your plate down before returning to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of wine, which you opened, and two glasses. Arthur stood when you returned, pulling your chair out, pushing you in when you sat. “You sure you’re an outlaw?” You joked, pouring out two glasses of the red liquid.

“I’m certain.” He took the glass of wine from you once you offered it. “Thank you, darlin’.”

“Of course.” Picking up the utensils that Arthur had grabbed for the both of you, you both dug in. You kept an eye on Arthur as he took the first bite, feeling self conscious of your cooking. He stilled, mid-chew, and you immediately thought the worst. 

“Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath. You took a bite, and you thought it didn’t taste bad, but you were partial to your own cooking. “That’s really good.”

Oh. “I’m glad.” You tried to not sound overly relieved. 

Arthur took another bite, groaning appreciatively. You really did try not to memorize the sound of it. “This is the best thing I’ve tasted in a while.”

“Do I even want to know what you possibly could’ve been eating that makes this taste incredible.”

“Probably not,” Arthur admitted. 

The rest of dinner was filled with idle chat, until Arthur asked a question that had you stopping mid-bite, fork handing in the air. “This ain’t poisoned, right?” He asked it as a joke, but there was a hint of genuine worry in his eyes.

“I sure hope not,” you responded, finishing the bite. Arthur didn’t elaborate further, only responding with a small noise. “Well, you can’t just ask that and then not explain. Is… is that something that’s happened before?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Arthur chuckled humorlessly. “There’s a pig farm north of here I stopped by two weeks ago. Friendly couple invited me in, we shared a drink, and before I knew it I was wakin’ up in a muddy pit with my money gone.” 

You had stared at him, shocked, as he recounted his story. “You’re kiddin’?”

“I wish I was. Wasn’t the first person they’d done it to, either. You wanna know the worst thing?” Arthur asked, leaning into you. You nodded, leaning in as well. “The couple? They were brother and sister, and their mother was their first victim.”

You were horrified and intrigued all at the same time. “Brother and sister? Oh my God,” you shuddered. “Did you get your money back?” Arthur nodded. “There are some weird folks out there.”

“You meet plenty of ‘em when you’re on the road. I don’t think there’s enough time in the world to tell you ‘bout them.” 

At the mention of time, you glanced out one of the nearby windows, finding it nearly pitch black outside. Arthur glanced outside as well, an apologetic look on his face when his eyes went back on you. “You have to go, don’t you?”

“I’m ‘fraid so,” Arthur sighed. You were happy to see that his plate had been entirely cleared, and he finished off the last of the wine in his glass. Standing, you cleared the table, bringing the items over and setting them in the sink. Arthur followed in behind you, carrying the half-full bottle of wine.

“Thank you, again,” you heard Arthur say, and you waved him off.

“You don’t gotta keep thankin’ me, Arthur. It was truly my pleasure.”

“Do you need help cleain’-”

“Arthur! Go!” You laughed, shooing him away. “I got this.”

Conceding, he headed to the doorway, putting his shoes on. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his hat on the couch, about to be left behind. Quickly grabbing it, you set it on his head as he was leaning forward, securing his shoes. He let out a confused noise, but he smiled when he realized what you’d done. Standing up back at full height, he secured it on, flashing you a smile. “How’d I look?” He jested, a playful glint in his eye.

Like the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. “Like an outlaw,” you responded. “You just need a cigar or somethin’ and you’d really look like one.”

“That reminds me…” Arthur dug into a sachet strapped across his body. Once he found what he was looking for he presented it to you. It was a small silver lighter, which looked hilariously small in his hands. “Since your last one was a ‘piece of shit’, I figured you’d want a new one.”

“For me?” You asked and Arthur responded with a look that read uh, yeah?

“It ain’t much, I know-”

“Thank you!” You cut him off, beaming brightly at him. “It means a lot that you remembered.”

“Alright, well…” you watched as he rubbed the back of neck, not knowing how to respond to the praise, “have a good night, darlin’.”

“Stay safe, Arthur.”

With a final nod, Arthur left. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to laugh or cry, so you did neither, simply heading upstairs to your bedroom. Dishes could be done in the morning, you decided. 

Your mind raced as you got ready for the night. You knew he didn’t mean anything besides being nice with getting you the lighter, but it left your heart happy that someone not only listened to your grievances, small or large, and did something to fix them. 

Slipping under the sheets, you fiddled with it in your hands. You struck it, the spark catching almost immediately, creating a steady flame. Setting in on the nightstand beside you, you held on to the happiness you’d felt the entire night, and you fell asleep with a smile on your face.

You pretended to not feel a new sensation growing in your heart, something you wouldn’t dare name.

[altocat]

Crisis Core but Crisis Core doesn't happen and it's also ten years later.

Shinra forces Sephiroth into a loveless marriage for publicity, shoving him into "retirement" so they can create the image of a happy (and marketable!) family man. Sephiroth is completely miserable, longing for the battlefield, completely unable to perform his "duties" to his potted plant of a wife, and having a midlife crisis and what might be a (non-lethal) mental breakdown in his early 30's.

Angeal sustained a permanent leg injury from a scouting mission gone bad and now walks with a limp. Thankfully, he's peacefully retired and managed to ask out the cute girl at the front desk. They are now married with seven kids and Angeal is honestly pretty chill with how things turned out for him.

Genesis grows incredibly bored with Shinra after being the only big-name First left on duty. While being number 1 was initially all he'd ever wanted, the loneliness of the job begins to get to him. He breaks off on his own, briefly siding with the rogue terrorist group Avalanche, though he eventually grows bored with that as well. Rumors have circulated for a long time that he and Sephiroth have been covertly having a passionate affair behind closed doors. And when Genesis eventually leaves Midgar to seek new adventure and heroics elsewhere, people are surprised to discover that Sephiroth turns up permanently missing around the exact same time as his departure...

[twittercomfrnklin2001-blog]

That Forsyte Woman

To borrow a line from TO BE OR NOT TO BE (1942), what MGM did to John Galsworthy’s THE MAN OF PROPERTY (and bits of IN CHANCERY), Hitler did to Poland. It starts with a ridiculous title, THAT FORSYTE WOMAN (1949, TCM), which sounds like an SCTV parody starring Edith Prickly (“Gang Way for That Forsyte Woman”). Cramming even one and a fraction of the six novels from THE FORSTYE SAGA into just under two hours would be a desecration under any circumstances. But Galsworthy’s study of Victorian materialism and hypocrisy is reduced to just another women’s picture. Noble Irene Forsyte, stuck in a loveless marriage to the straitlaced Soames (Errol Flynn), fights her passion for her niece’s (Janet Leigh) fiancé (Robert Young, goddess help us) while her cousin-in-law (Walter Pidgeon) waits in the wings for everything to work itself out.

I suppose I should reveal that the 1967 BBC adaptation of THE FORSYTE SAGA is my favorite TV series ever. Of course, they had the time to tell the story in full and include plot details that couldn’t get into a Hollywood film almost two decades earlier. One simple change, having the family black sheep (Pidgeon) run off with his daughter’s governess after his wife died, rather than before, renders the rest of the family, even kindhearted old Harry Davenport as his father, a bunch of judgmental twits. Irene never gets to consummate her love for the fiancé, so the scandal becomes so much dishwater. And Soames’ attack on her when he finds out about the non-affair is reduced to a slap. But there are also MGM changes, like having Young remind Garson of a lost love in her youth, as if anybody could be tortured by memories of him.

Surprisingly, there are things that work. Director Compton Bennett stages some funny business for the three ancient Forsyte aunts, who consistently have their tea in unison, as if in a Gilbert and Sullivan chorus. And the dancing at Leigh’s engagement party is so charmingly staged it almost makes the film feel like one of those great old period romances Hollywood used to do well. The lush production values make it all lovely to look at, and Bronislau Kaper contributed a solid psychological score. Within the role MGM created for her, which isn’t much like Galsworthy’s Irene (a role Deborah Kerr could have played beautifully), Garson does a good job. She’s witty when she needs to be and doesn’t overdo the suffering. Leigh has nice moments when she’s not delivering her lines in pure California. She has a silent scene learning about the non-affair that’s quite touching. Flynn, playing against type, is very effective, as is Davenport. And the wonderful character actress Marjorie Eaton creates a character out of very little as Aunt Hester. But then there’s Robert Young. What were they smoking when they cast him? He’s ten years too old for the role, not in the least British and about as romantic as a cold dish of stewed prunes. To their credit, MGM tried to get Michael Wilding, who would have been much better, but he wasn’t available. How does Young become a second choice? Five minutes into his performance, I was convinced Phil Silvers could have played the role better. Or maybe the Ritz Brothers, doing some lines in unison and alternating others.

[pennyserenade]

i remember you well 

pairing: javier peña x you , javier peña x female oc rating: e ( explicit ) warnings: language, allusions to sexual encounters, a dash of angst, yearning word count: 2.5k summary: There are memories that haunt and there are memories that merely linger; what they were that one summer is the latter to Javier. notes: based off of leonard cohen’s chelsea hotel #2. i made a little playlist for this if you want something to listen to while you read

There had been a string of words used against him when he was younger - attributes that had belonged to him, but that weren’t very favorable. It was some grand list of flaws that made him less of a suitable partner, descriptive words meant to pierce through what they believed to be his too-tough exterior. There had been words such stubborn, independent, and passive; there had been sentences like ‘capable only of having one-sided, loveless affairs. Not a dedicated bachelor, but a destined one.’ Some he took at face value and others, he still carried with him even now, decades later. The worst insult of them all, however, had not come in the form of these angry words and scorned sentences. It had come in the shape of silence.

Before Colombia and after Laredo, there was a stretch of time in which Javier had found himself aimless and lost, with nowhere to go and no one to see. He’d been exiled from home and he’d been too young to conceive that there was more of the world to be found just yet. Maybe he’d even been nursing a broken heart, despite that it had been he who had not made it to the altar that one hot Sunday afternoon. Even in the best circumstances, he’d come to find that breaking it off with anyone wasn’t a painless act, especially with someone you thought you would and could marry.  

He’d met her in this half-forgotten time of his life, in a shitty little bar by a motel he was staying at for a few weeks while he figured out a plan. She was beautiful and vibrant, and a local in that little town he can’t even remember the name of now. It was just a stopping place for most, some spot between a place you needed to leave and a place you needed to go. She had no business being there, either, and she moved like she knew it. He’d later come to find that she carried a lot less confidence in her than she presented to the general public, but at that moment all she had was a swing to her hips and smile that warranted a mirrored grin from him.

She had been the first woman to ever suggest to him that they have sex, without any work or suggestion on his own part. He’d only bought her a beer or two, and hadn’t said anything about her beauty (even though he’d been thinking it the entire time). She leaned close, smelling wonderful the way all women do, and said, ‘Honey, I liked to warm the other half of your bed tonight.’

They were around the same age - maybe he’d even been a year or two older than her - but she knew so much more than he did, about everything. Twice married and once divorced, with the second pending, her life story already played out like a Tennessee Williams play when she met him.  When she was only seventeen, she married her first husband to get away from home. He had been ten years older than her and a veteran of the Vietnam war. They had little in common, and she never felt that she loved him half as much as she should’ve, but then, she knew she couldn’t be picky if she wanted to leave. He had asked for her hand in marriage and she had said yes, thinking how nice it would be to have a little home of her own. Up until she married him, and he got them that promised house on the outskirts of town, she’d never even had her own room. Given he was older and all, he had the footing in the world that she didn’t. She decided that she could love him, if she tried. Maybe she might have once, too, but by the time they divorced two years later, she half wished he’d drop off the face of the fucking planet. For all she knew, he had.

From the moment she had spotted the second husband, she had loved him. Tall, dark-haired and undeniably handsome, this one was three years her junior. He spoke out the side of his mouth with an attractive country drawl and his entire wardobe seemed to be made up only of worn jeans, button up shirts, and a cowboy hat that had seen better days. She said - and Javi remembers this well, even now - that ‘he could wear anything and make it look just right. I suppose I was stupid to think I’d ever be the only girl he’d ever want, what with the way he looks and all.’

Javier was always most curious about this man, because he felt that maybe he still occupied some part of her heart. He’d had been too young to be sensible about that sort of thing, and he had this foolish notion that her having sex with him meant she should be most taken by him. It was only pure jealousy he felt about her talking of that husband, so he didn’t know why he drove her to do it.

She never seemed to mind, though, or notice the way Javi would tense as she answered his stupid questions. She talked of this second husband wistfully whenever he’d ask, like they had lived a whole life together and not a mere eight months. Whereas he didn’t even know the name of the first, Javi knew the name of the second, and he knew it well, half afraid some nights when he rutted his hips into hers, it’d be the one she said instead.

At the age of twenty-two, all Javi could recognize was her experience against his and little else more. Young with two ex-husbands and a world of knowledge is still young, no matter how you chalk it.

It pains him to think of any trouble he might have caused in light of that jealousy but for the most part, he thinks it went largely unnoticed. They talked about her life, sure, but what they did most was sleep together and pretend that they knew more than they did about life. What they lacked in their separate knowledge, they helped one another make up for. For example, Javi had thought he knew an awful lot about the female body before her.

‘Maybe in Laredo, sure, but not in any other corner of the world, you don’t,’ she had told him plainly, bringing a terrible red hue to his face. After assuring she hadn’t meant any real harm by it (because God, he was young and stupid and had thought he meant more than he did, the fool he was), she taught him all the ways he could learn. She taught him how to touch, how to lick, how to finger, and even in the positions that weren’t solely stimulating for her, she taught him that he could still see to it that they were. She never faked an orgasm, so when he began to draw them out of her after a few weeks of careful tutoring, he felt like something of a young God. Sometimes they found themselves having sex up to three times a day, just for the pure satisfaction of knowing they could do it well together.

Eventually she had even let him stay, rent free, in her home, under no conditions whatsoever. Technically it had been the home of the second husband, but he was off somewhere in California, with another girl. He told her he didn’t care what she did with the place - that she could have it and make it up, or sell it and move on. Before Javi, she’d thought about renting rooms out, not for the money, but for the company. She hated being alone. She’d given Javi the spare room, which had a sizable twin bed with a quilt that looked inherited. He hadn’t ever slept there, though; he stayed in the main bedroom, with her.

For a whole summer, it had been just like that. Aside from calling his father every week just to let him know he was alive, Javier had all but forgotten he’d once belonged to a town called Laredo or that he was the runaway groom bride of yesterday. Living had never been easier - and it never would be again.

When summer had passed and autumn began to creep in, she had told Javier he might want to think about his future. She had said he was made for better than her little town, and that even if he wasn’t, she was in no position to do anything sensible about him. She couldn’t marry him because she still was legally. He even remembers the joke she had made - the one about him not having such a good track record with that himself, and how she was simply too young and pretty to be left at the altar.

It was the only time that he had ever confessed to her that he hadn’t a single clue where to go or what to do. He became another one of the characters in her Tennessee Williams life in that moment, tragic and washed up, with no direction or aim. She liked him though, liked him a lot, because he wasn’t like the burly, brutal men or the heinous, backstabbing women who needed to be taught a lesson. He, like her, was one of those figures that made you ache, because you knew they deserved a lot better than life had given them. If they had any faults, they were excused because you sort of suspected that life had already dealt them their cards. Amongst the male gigolos, the unloved housewives, the distraught sisters, and the many other repressed characters dreamed up in Williams’ mind, he and her fit beautifully that autumn morning.

The following weeks, she helped him get signed up for the DEA. He had half an idea to go there the day he didn’t go to the wedding, because before Lorraine, that’s what he thought might serve him best. He wanted to leave Laredo badly, even then, and he’d heard that was the perfect way to do it. Javi didn’t know how she knew how to do that sort of thing - how to get those applications and those phone numbers - but she did. She’d even bought him a map and helped him figure out a route when it was all set up.

A part of him hated that she was so willing to help, because he felt that maybe she wanted him gone, despite her assurances that she didn’t. He’d waited so long to feel at home again and he’d found that feeling with her; he didn’t want her to not want him back. He liked that big house and that little town, and maybe he wasn’t intent on marrying her just yet, but he figured that he would.

He waited every day until the very one he left, hanging onto the hope that she’d tell him not to leave. Sometimes he’d go out for a little longer during the day just hoping she’d realize how lonely her big home was without him.

If she did come to that realization, it was never knowledge she told him. The only thing that kept him from feeling outright depressed was that the week leading up to his departure, she hung onto him like she was afraid to lose him. They spent longer hours in bed, with none of that quick-to-come sex, and they really admired each other. She let him hold her close; let him kiss her eyelids and her cheeks, let him kiss the back of her knees, and the place at her ankle where she had a scar from falling on rocks. They’d often just lie there, fingers loosely entwined, speaking of nothing and everything.

The last day she told him how fun he was, and that some day some girl would be really lucky to stumble upon him. When he asked her, half-joking and half-serious, to talk about him like she did her second husband, she smiled like she had the very first day. ‘Oh, Jav, I’ll say better things about you. You’re too good to keep and I’ve always known it. That’s what I’ll say,’ she had said, half muffled into the hollow of his shoulder.

As she stands behind the man who’s ringing him up at the counter, wearing a waitress uniform and packaging his food into a plastic sack, Javier wonders how many people she’s told about him. He doesn’t bother about the non-important details, like why she’s in this restaurant, or if she’s with the man ringing him up, or whether he should pretend to know her or not. Javi doesn’t even really try to consider if, in the few moments he’s allowing himself to look, he can see some sense of happiness in her recognizable and beautifully aged features. He just wants to know, selfishly, like he is twenty-two again, whether she has told this man who’s taking his money about him.

Nothing explicit, just that he was too good to keep, like she said she would. Or, maybe, if she felt like it, that she wished she had told him to stay; that all along, that whole summer, the words, ‘I need you,’ stayed in her throat and tried to escape many times, but that she was too good of a woman to let them. Javi decides he’d like that one even better. After all, he’d told a version of that story about her to a few women who didn’t mind listening in Colombia when he’d first got there. About ten of them, to be exact, just to get it out of his system.

She looks up to hand him the food and he sees it happen in an instant; the way her eyebrows knit together in recognition and her mouth falls open to say something on instinct, but never does. She fixes herself quickly, correcting her features and giving him the very best customer service smile anyone could, but in her eyes, he sees it: the remnants of a life once lived playing over. He feels it move in him too as she takes the food from her hands.

Javier wishes he knew her just a little better, or that the man wasn’t standing there, watching them, unaware, just so he could say her name fondly. He needn’t give any more information than that to her - only that he knows it is her and will always know her, no matter what; that no matter how many years pass, he knows that she is herself, and that he remembers one summer, she taught him an awful lot. Javi likes to think, as the man asks him what sort of sauce he’d like - if he’d like any at all, that is - maybe just by looking at her, she understands that.

It is a tortuous exercise of self-restraint, just parting his eyes from hers in that moment, but he does it. He looks at the man behind the register and says kindly that he doesn’t want any sauce.

“Thank you,” he says to them both, with no personality behind his words. He looks back at her though. He hopes with everything in him that she knows how personal it is - that really those words are just for her.

“De nada,” she answers sweetly, like she might.

She looks away from him then, heading back to her work, and he slips out the door, back into the warm Texas air.

Back to life.

[thelarriefics]

ROYAL FIC REC, Part III: Below you’ll find more regal fics. (Part I, Part II)

📖 Nothing But You On My Mind by @absoloutenonsense (83k)

Louis Tomlinson is a PR manager hired to improve the image of royal bad-boy Prince Harry Styles. Unfortunately for him, that means being faced with the Prince's constant innuendos, incessant dirty jokes, and relentless flirting. Louis just wants to make it to Princess Gemma's coronation; once she's crowned Queen, his contract is up and he never has to see the Prince again.

📖 adjudication by @bottomlinsons (75k)

Harry's been engaged to Princess Charlotte of Ryde for as long as he can remember. He's come to know her, to love her, through the letters she's sent him over the past three years.

But when the wedding finally arrives, Harry quickly learns that nothing is as it seems. With his crown and country at stake, Harry must decide who to trust in this strange new land. And the sly Crown Prince of Ryde doesn't seem inclined to make things easy.

📖 i kiss you (across hundreds of separating years) by @inlockets (44k)

the stars and two amused boys are playing cupid, and there are one too many coded love letters and a duck plushie that smells like home

📖 Just for Tonight (I can be yours) by @sadaveniren (42k)

Harry, prince of Cestrescir, has been betrothed to Ludvic, prince of Yorvik, since birth. He'd accepted a loveless marriage as his duty to his country, until an accident threw him in the path of a gentle alpha

📖 crown me with your heart (your love is king) by @perfectdagger (41k)

A The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Wedding au in which Harry is the Crown Prince of the small island of Eroda and Louis’ uncle is trying to take the throne from him, with a slight a/b/o twist and some more.

📖 take my hand, wreck my plans by @daggerandrose (38k)

a cinderella abo au with a twist

📖 Under your skin, Over the moon by @softfonds (35k)

If there was one thing Harry didn’t expect the day before his uni graduation, it was for his long lost grandmother to show up and tell him he’s actually a prince thats next in line to rule Genovia. He also didn’t expect to fall for his royal advisor, who happens to hate his guts. A Princess Diaries AU.

📖 with no way out and a long way down by @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed (31k)

Prince Harry is ten when he receives his soulmark.

📖 the sanctity of patience by @scrunchyharry (22k)

When young Lord Harry was chosen by King Louis of Bavaria to become his husband and prince consort, Harry thought all of his dreams had come through. His illusions came crashing down when he understood it meant living in isolation in the alpine castle of Neuschwanstein with a husband who turned out to be far from what he had hoped for.

His illusions vanished, Harry will have learn to appreciate what has and even, perhaps, fall in love with his imperfect husband and his castle.

📖 But Now Together, We're Alone by @becomeawendybird (22k)

It's a stroke of good luck when Harry Styles, a man who grew up on the small island of Martinique, is offered the position of tutor to the Dauphin and his sister.

When he arrives at the palace, he is dragged into a world of opulence, courtiers, whispers in the shadows, and illicit affairs. But he is also introduced to the king, the most intriguing man he's ever met.

📖 The Golden Prince by @behappyhl (19k)

When He arrives in London, he’s speechless.

It’s so different from his little hometown, he can’t help the feeling that it is an unknown planet. Everything is bigger; The streets, the buildings, the stores. The people are always running somewhere, always in a hurry. Harry instantly feels out of place.

Or, Harry lives a perfectly normal life until he gets a life changing job opportunity.

📖 i hope that you won't slip away in the night by @adoredontour (13k)

the one where louis is a prince and harry is a popstar

📖 The Prince and The YouTuber by @haztobegood (12k)

The Annual Rosendal Spring Gala hosted by the Royal Family is the most prestigious fundraiser in the country. When a problem with the honorary foundation arises, Crown Prince Louis Tomlinson must pick a new worthy foundation on short notice. He discovers the perfect replacement in an unlikely place, while watching his favorite YouTuber, Harrysparkles.

📖 Trust Me Tonight by @vintageumbroshirt (10k)

After Harry’s eighteenth birthday, his father calls him into a meeting to say that he is to be married to Prince Louis of France in just over a week.

Harry is excited, of course. The arrangement is better than any he could’ve hoped for, with such a young, handsome and kind husband.

There is just one issue: Harry doesn’t know what happens on his nuptials, or how to get pregnant to give Louis the heir that he needs.

📖 Your secret's safe with me by @lightwoodsmagic (7k)

when Louis' favourite singer comes back and announces he's performing again, him and the rest of his group chat decide to go. When Haz, the man Louis' fallen in love with without meeting him, says that he can't, Louis tries his best to convince him with a drunken phone call, hearing his voice for the first time. It's not until he's at Royal Variety that he swears he can hear it again.

📖 been lost for too long by @lookslikefairytale (6k)

Nothing much interesting happens in Harry's life, ever. Sure, some would – literally – kill to trade places with him at the palace. But being seventh in line for the throne comes with a set of annoying and boring responsibilities and none of the fun that the actual royal princes, Harry's cousins, get to have. Except, maybe, for the fact that people seem to want to kill Harry on a daily basis.

or, the one where Harry gets kidnapped and Louis rescues him. Kind of.

[onewithnomightypowers]

clandestine (chapter 1)

PAIRING: Tom Holland x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Y/N is an up and coming actress, married to a once hotshot actor, Harrison (Haz). What happens when her co-star, Tom, makes her realise that she is stuck in a loveless marriage. A marriage starts crumbling and a new romance stars brewing.

Chapter 1: too wise to trust

A/N: y/n is bisexual but not paired with a women. the characters have been aged up. the characters in no way portray how these ppl are in real life. i do not encourage cheating. i hope you guys like it as much is i do. if you want to be tagged them pls tell me. also comments are appreciated as they motivate me to write more and i love to know how you guys feel about the story.  

warning: cursing, mention of miscarriage, mention of sex, mention of cat calling, angst. fluff? 

word count: 1.4k

important: character thoughts are bold and italic, flashback is in italic

masterlist   series masterlist   chapter 2

She picked up her makeup bag from her vanity and started walking towards her empty suitcase which was wide open on her bed. “What time is your flight?” Haz asked while walking into their bedroom. “I think it’s at 6:30 in the evening but the car will be here to pick me up at 4”, she replied whilst folding her clothes.

“So we have at least an hour to us”; he pulled her by the waist and started kissing her neck. She tried pushing his chest away but failed miserably. “Haz, I’m not in the mood, please stop”

“Fine. But you have been saying that for months now”, he was frustrated.

She ignored his words like always. 

He was right. They hadn’t had sex for at least five months now and it was starting to gain on Harrison. Their marriage, which had been ‘couple goals’ according to the internet, was now slowly falling apart. It was clear that Y/N was falling out of love but she couldn’t find grounds for it. She couldn’t reason it by making him the villain because he was a good man who, in theory, had done nothing wrong. Though, to her, it felt like he had. Maybe he didn’t love her enough or maybe all had gone astray when they had lost their baby last year.

“Will Tom be there?” his words felt like venom, entering her bloodstream.

She placed her hand on her forehead, trying to indicate that she did not want to have this conversation or the inevitable fight, again.

“Of course he will be there, he is my co-star. You should get off the internet, it’s feeding you poison”, she said in an almost nonchalant way. Trying her best not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction to his name. His name, which did not mean anything to her. Tom was her colleague whom the internet liked to ship her with, but he was just a friend. Haz found it hard to believe this because the internet told him so. Their relationship was so far gone that he had no other way of knowing what was going on in her life. 

His wife was so far gone. She was as distant as the sun is from the moon. The distance left coldness between them. The kind of cold that you feel when you pass a stranger. She was a stranger to him and the only reason he could think of was that she and Tom were having an affair. This was not true, but the ache in his soul found comfort in painting Tom as the villain. 

“I don’t believe you”, Haz spat out.

She threw her heels inside the suitcase in anger. “What do you not believe? That Tom is my co-star? Is that what you don’t believe?” her voice was louder than before.

“I don’t trust him.” Haz matched her voice.

“Do you trust me?”

Trust? Her? How can I trust a stranger?

It was his turn to ignore her.

She zipped her bag, put on her shoes, and left the room. “Fuck you”, she cried before slamming their apartment door and leaving for London.

--

Y/N had first met Tom at a cast and crew dinner in New York, six months ago. Greta, the director, had invited both her and Haz but he had decided to opt-out of the ‘fancy’ dinner. Y/N was excited to meet her new co-stars and mark the starting of a new project, a new phase in her life.

It was cold in New York, she figured she shouldn’t wear a dress. She put on black stockings underneath blue bell-bottoms to keep her warm. She wore a dark grey American Eagles t-shirt and over that, a tan leather trench coat. She liked commuting via subway because she believed ‘nobody gives two shits about who is sitting next to them on the train’; and a town car was much slower, especially when it had been snowing. She stuffed her heels in her purse and wore her commuting shoes.

Tribeca to West Village was a good ten minutes train. Her travel was mostly uninterrupted except for the catcalls which felt like the usual to a native. Just before ringing Greta’s doorbell, she got out of her Converse and wore her heels.

Y/N entered a packed house. Almost everyone was there and she was late. But someone was to arrive even later than her. She examined the room, everyone was mingling with each other. She didn’t know anybody there except Noah Baumbach from the time she auditioned for ‘marriage story’. She didn’t get the part but still loved the movie. She realized Tom was missing.  

Greta pulled her into a conversation about when the production of the movie would start or something like that. She wasn’t really paying attention. She was so eager to meet Tom that her eyes couldn’t stop roaming around the room, trying to find him, and just when she thought he wouldn’t show up, he did. 

Everybody’s head turned towards him when he entered the living room. It was as if every person in the room wanted him, including her. His dark brown hair, falling into place like a domino, had snowflakes in them.

“Excuse me”, Greta gave a small smile to Y/N and walked over to Tom. She greeted him and politely touched his back. “Now that everyone is here we should take the party to the dining hall”, she said in a loud and cheerful tone.

Following Greta, everyone started moving towards the dining hall. Tom sat right across Y/N on the grand dining table. “Hi, I’m Tom”, he introduced himself in his thick British accent. “And he’s English”, Y/N said, adding to her list of things she found captivating about Tom.  

“And?” Tom gave her a confused look.

Shit. I said it out loud.

“I-I mean hi, I’m Y/N”, she tried to cover up her mistake.

His dark brown eyes on her, made her thoughts run wild. It was wrong enough to feel right. The dinner was served and small groups of conversations were taking place. Somehow the whole table took on the topic of bisexuality. Y/N felt obligated to take part in the conversation, being part of the community herself. 

“I think bisexuality is a gateway to being gay”, Tom said to the whole table.

“You’re being bi-phobic, Tom”, Y/N called him out. All eyes were on her now.

“And how do you know that?” Tom asked Y/N.

“Because I am bisexual, and any decent human being would know that”

“Are you calling me indecent?”

“No, I’m calling you bi-phobic”

“But aren’t you married to a guy?”

“That doesn’t change my sexual orientation, and you’re being bi-phobic. Again.” There was silence, everyone was listening carefully. 

“Okay, so please explain to me how I’m being bi-phobic?”

“Just the fact that you believe bisexuality is a gateway to being gay and me being married to a guy, means my bisexual card has been revoked, portray your biphobia”

“I am a little confused”, Tom said while reaching for his wine glass. 

“Someone who is bisexual is attracted to both men as well as women. It isn’t a gateway to being gay, it is a legit sexuality of its own”, 

“Hmm, I suppose I stand corrected. I’m sorry if I offended you or anyone. I will go home, do the research and try to be more open-minded”, said Tom, smiling.

“Good”, Y/N said, feeling accomplished and impressed by Tom’s ability to accept his mistake.

Haz would have never accepted that he was wrong.

Y/N felt wonderstruck. Blushing all the way home. She hoped Tom knew how enchanting it was for her to meet him. She wondered if someone was waiting for him at home, like someone was waiting for her. She wasn’t quite sure whether Haz was waiting for her to reach home or not.

She reached home to an empty bed. Not knowing what to make of it, she got ready to sleep. 2 AM and Haz was still not home. She didn’t try to reach him because she knew all phone calls would go straight to voice message and all messages would go unreplied. She closed her eyes, feeling indifferent towards Haz. Even in her sleep, her mind echoed Tom’s name. She was unaware of the treacherous road ahead of her. And that gave her comfort. His thought gave her comfort.

[white-gold-tower]

Raigho:

-Title: The Vestige

-Alliance: Aldmeri Dominion

-Class: Dragonknight

-Age: 29

-Height: 6’4

Personality:

Nonchalant, level-headed, cocky, and somewhat cynical, Raigho is a very goal oriented individual who is very well aware of the skills he possesses and how to use them most efficiently. He frequently finds himself doing whatever it takes to achieve victory, through noble actions or not.

In addition to his typical demeanor, Raigho does possess a slightly flirtatious side. However, he often finds himself burdened with heavy fears of abandonment.

Backstory:

Raigho was born as the result of an affair between his father, a wealthy exporter in the moon sugar agricultural industry in Elsweyr and his mother an extremely mysterious yet ruthless individual. He lived the early part of his life with his mother, never meeting his father who was aware of his birth but had no contact with him. The circumstances in which he was initially raised were less than ideal as his mother, Kava, never wanted children and often distanced herself to the point of neglect from her son.

This continued until Kava seemingly had enough and brought Raigho to his father in Reaper’s March. While the young Raigho was initially eager and nervous to meet his father the moment quickly soured as his mother simply wanted to discard him on his other parent. When Raigho’s parents saw each other again for the first time in years, his mother was straight to the point and told his father she had no interest in this child and he could either look after him from now own or abandon him as well. She really didn’t care. Raigho’s father was unwilling to simply abandon his child so he agreed to look after him. As Kava walked away Raigho ran to her looking up at her with tears in his eyes and when she looked down all he saw was an expression of distain and without saying a word Raigho’s mother walked away.

In addition to meeting his father for the first time Raigho was also introduced to his step-mother and half-brother, and after that day his new life began and unfortunately it wasn’t a drastic improvement. Raigho’s father was incredibly wealthy and truthfully Raigho had everything he needed provided for him but was ultimately emotionally neglected. Raigho’s father was a business man who lived a rather hedonistic life and did not focus too heavily on his duties as a father. Raigho’s step mother was a rather miserable woman trapped in a loveless marriage with an unfaithful husband and often tried to escape he troubles through excessive drinking. While she was aware of her husbands adultery, the arrival of a child resulting from on of his affairs was a particularly bitter note and she often treated Raigho with contempt.

Despite being the same age and growing up alongside each other Raigho and his half-brother, Qa’ara, were never particularly close not only stemming from their stark contrast in personality but also from that fact that Qa’ara was aware of the disaster his family was and viewed Raigho as a walking symbol of their father’s infidelity and in some ways blamed him for the dysfunction of his family.

Raigho was essentially left to do what ever he wanted as a child and teenager and became a bit of a problem child especially in his teenage years. He often found himself in trouble and even occasionally being brought home by the guards. Fortunately for him his father’s wealth often allowed him to escape any lasting punishment. However his luck didn’t last forever did last forever. Once night Raigho found himself in over his head running from the guards in a situation he knew he couldn’t get out of. While trying to escape he suddenly found himself pulled into an alley way and face to face with Speaker Terenus. Terenus informed him that the dark brotherhood had been watching him for some time and knew that he held remarkable potential and that Raigho had a choice he could choose to come with Terenus and escape a life that brought him no satisfaction and learn what he was truly capable of or he could leave this alley, face the guards chasing him, and hope for the best.

Ultimately, Raigho chose to follow Terenus, leaving what family he had without so much as a goodbye. Raigho and Terenus left Reaper’s March and traveled for several days until they reached the Gold Coast and it was there Raigho became an initiate of the Dark Brotherhood at the age of 16. Raigho’s first night in the sanctuary was something he’d never forget as he lay awake unable to sleep and crushed by a fear of the life and future he had just set for himself. Curiously, he did not think of the friends and family he had left behind in Reaper’s March, all he could think of was his mother.

Raigho’s training began immediately the following morning and the process was harsh. He often found himself training alone under the watch of some other assassin as he was the only initiate in the sanctuary until after several months another initiate arrived. A young Khajiit girl, named Mavari. The two were now expected to train alongside one another, but Mavari was rather timid at first and had difficulty adapting to the training, something Raigho noticed. In an effort to reach out to his new comrade he offered to show her how to hold her sword and from that moment on, the two became close friends.

Raigho and Mavari remained in the dark brotherhood for the next ten years and becoming two of the organizations most proficient assassins. However, despite Raigho’s skill as an assassin he came to find himself doubting his convictions and often felt a strong sense of guilt as he fulfilled his contracts. This feeling was often repressed but his doubts of the organization he served continued.

However, this service was not meant to last as was directed towards a mysterious hooded figure who prepositioned him with a contract. Unexpectedly, Raigho found himself ambushed and incapacitated by several worm cult operatives. Moving in and out of consciousness, Raigho found himself in being dragged along in chains before laying on an altar looking up at a high elf necormancer, Mannimarco. Before he could fully process what was happening Raigho felt the pain of a knife stabbed into his heart and suddenly woke up under an ominous blue sky, Coldharbour.

Raigho was well trained but no amount of training can prepare someone for the horrors that await mortals in Coldharbour. Raigho was skilled enough to occasionally escape whatever facilities held him but he often found himself in shackles or on a tortures rack yet again. Over the course of the next three years, Raigho suffered a seemingly endless amount of torment and each time he suffered yet another mortal wound he prayed for the release of aetherius but found himself revived in Coldharbour.

During the course of his three years in Coldharbour, Raigho met several other damned souls and made several allies but overtime many of them either succumbed to the horrors of oblivion or found themselves transforming into feral soul shriven. However, out of all the temporary allies he made in Oblivion the most notable was none other than Lyris Titanborn, who would eventually helped lead him to his freedom. During the eventual prison break Raigho found himself jumping into a dark anchor mooring and being transported to the coast of Kenarthi’s Roost. Laying down on the sand and letting the waves wash over him, all Raigho could do was look up at the calm blue sky and a warm sun and laugh.

[deathmaycome]

TASK: SUPPORTING CAST

Name: Mona Feulner (née Reichenau) DOB: August 1st, 1964 Nationality: German FC: Gillian Anderson

In 2008, her fifth year of travelling, May turned her attention on Berlin following a tip from an old contact about a potential bribery scandal unfolding at Deutsche Bank. Upon her arrival in the city, she spent much of her time harassing the Chief Financial Officer, a man named Eric Feulner, in her awkward German. As was common with May, what began through the official channels of requesting interviews via his secretary, quickly descended into her appearing at inconvenient times to thrust her dictaphone in his face. It was at a charity ball hosted by the bank (which, of course, she did not have an official invite to) that she met his wife.

At first glance, Mona was the stereotypical bored housewife with more time and money than she knew what to do with. May watched her standing by her husband’s side all night, sipping champagne and glittering with diamonds that cost more than her parents earned in ten years. It was only out of necessity that she struck up a conversation with the woman, intent on prodding her to see what she knew about any illegal dealings her husband or his colleagues had made. But instead of the vapid ramblings she had expected, May found herself talking to someone razor-sharp, observant, and surprisingly witty. Though her infiltration of the charity ball had largely been unsuccessful, she came away with a new friend and a coffee date for the next morning.

Mona was an artist, it turned out, not just a housewife. She had met Eric at university - him studying Business and her studying Theology - and they had married quickly because his mother had insisted upon it. She had just wanted the security that came with marriage, and now found herself trapped in a house with a boring man whose only appeal was that he funded her art. Loneliness was whittling her away to nothing.

It took less than a week for them to begin an affair. It was like something from a cheap novel, the way they were drawn to each other, the sheer heat between them. Though there was an age gap, neither one felt it. Mona taught her how to speak German like a native, explained with righteous anger why she hated all male artists, whispered her husband’s secrets into her ear as a form of pillow talk. May told her all the stories she had from travelling, forced her to become less apolitical, posed for some of her paintings. They each told the other they were in love, and it was the first time either had meant it. 

What she had originally intended to be a month long visit to Berlin slowly stretched out into six months. Six months of sex and paint and wine and sex and books and food and politics and sex. They burned hot - too hot, at times. Mona craved drama and excitement, and May wasn’t always willing to provide it when her own preference was stability. Their romance came to an abrupt end when May got a lead on a story in Moscow that she couldn’t ignore. Her lover’s pleas of take me with you, take me with you haunted her for months afterwards.

In retrospect, May can see that the love she had for Mona is not even remotely comparable to the love she has for Gwen, but it was love all the same. She thinks of her occasionally, and has even googled her once or twice to see how she’s doing. Mona is still in her loveless marriage, though Eric was forced out of his job several years ago and forced to take one at a smaller bank. Her art has much improved, however, having shown exhibitions in all of Berlin’s most reputable galleries. It was a series of abstract female nudes that first caused her to rise to prominence. Each piece features a different figure, but there is one of a heavily tattooed woman of which May is particularly fond.

[peakascum]

The Room Where It Happens

Request for: @slither-in-a-half I know this is a bit different than what you asked for and it’s way different than what I originally intended to write, but I really do hope you enjoy it!

Two politicians stand on opposites sides of each other for a Charity event, something to do with children or painting the Parliment’s ceiling. Thomas Shelby sips a chilled Merlot as he eyes the posh MP’s that mingle alongside him, noses turned up and head in their ass. In front of him lurks another MP, a much snobbier one at that, whom galavants his wife like a bloody medal. You don’t mind, at least not publicly. Always playing the trophy wife, always sporting a smile, always curtsying a ‘What a lovely evening’. Thomas knows he’s playing a dangerous game as he eyes your cherry red lips gulp down yet another glass. It’s the urgency in which you consume the devil’s drink that always catches his attention. He knows how soft your hands are and how delicately you maneuver them from the countless times you've touched his.

The condition of being stuck in a loveless marriage would drive anyone mad. Add a little bit of brute force and a make-believe smile, and that would be enough to send cries for help. Which you had done so on several occasions, but no one took them seriously; instead, they deemed you as a bored housewife. You had heard the tales, everyone had, of the countless wives of esteemed families that suddenly had public outbursts which were deemed as hysterical. You were familiar with the stories, about Mrs. Dormer’s dull complexion and Mrs. Hastings’ scarred wrists, all whispers of misfortune were now your reality. 

Tommy and your husband had never seen eye to eye on any particular topic. Both were stubborn men who belonged to different political parties and lived completely different realities. Your husband was born with a silver spoon in hand while Tommy built his kingdom out of wooden sticks and cut stones. But those eyes, those adoring blue eyes wrapped you in from the first time they met. It started with stolen glances and escalated to a passionate night shared in his office as you delivered some papers on behalf of your husband. He decided you had the loveliest broken smile he had ever seen. The most delicate laugh and the wittiest humor, one he would not mind hearing time and time again. 

‘Did you listen to a word I said Mr. Shelby?’

‘I- I don’t believe I did, no.’ He remarked, clearing his throat.

She smirked. ‘I-I-I’ She mocked. ‘Stuttering is for children and tight-lipped fools. Are you a fool Mr. Shelby?’

You exhaled words of pleasure in each others ears. Bodies molding together like clay and fingertips eager to explore. Exhaustion came after and a simple kiss was placed upon his lover’s lips as if it were already a routine. Both clinging to the affection you so desperately craved.

Months of passion were spent in secrecy up until the moment your husband caught on, almost crushing your wind pipe and blinding you out of rage. Not because he loved you, oh no, but because he craved power and dominance. A poor little rich boy does not share. So when the venue and seating were arranged for the gala he made sure to have Thomas Shelby in front of him, to taunt you, to dangle his prized possession in his  opponent's face. To give you a glimpse into the life you wanted, yet gripping your thigh beneath the table as if saying ‘Don’t you dare’. 

The torrid affair you shared with the Shelby man had ended a few weeks prior with a handwritten letter, but your absence from such events told him what he couldn't decipher from your words. 

‘Dear sir, 

It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter. I hope you understand my reason for ending this relationship. I love my husband, you see, and the idea of breaking this marriage is enough to make my heart weep. My whorish ways have brought misery to my house, but be not alarmed by this, for my husband is very generous and will gladly offer you a sum of money for your silence. You must excuse my behavior these past few months and, therefore, understand the severity of the situation. 

Best wishes, Y/N.’

The letter sat in his pocket weighing heavily against the floor. He rejected the money, of course, but it didn't save his heart from breaking any further, and his mind from wandering to the atrocious acts your husband performed out of hatred. Thomas was a dangerous man, but your husband was worse, and his wrath would treble his political career, crease his business, and ruin his family. Polly had warned him many times about the dangers of thinking with his cock, but it was more than that. Arthur had payed for other whores to keep him company, but he could bed no other. It was the way you said his name in wonder whenever you saw each other after weeks apart. You were a wondrous creature shrouded in a mysterious, yet inviting, aura. One who sported a smile, such a sweet smile on those cherry red lips that made his own twitch and heart clench. 

It was the way you grimaced as your husband squeezed your arm that made his feet have a life of their own. He marched confidently up to you both, eyeing him with brutality, but switching to you with softness. Your eyes widened pleadingly at him to stop, to stop at once, to turn around and save himself from trouble. 

“Ah Mr. Shelby, what a pleasant surprise.” Your husband said, sporting a tight smile and a poised stance. Tommy nodded, “Mr. Crooke, Mr.s- Crooke”. Your eyes bore daggers into his. Your husband shook his hand firmly in a weak attempt to exhume further dominance, when, in truth, all of them knew who really owned the room. 

“Excuse my wife’s appearance, say. She’s not been her best these past few weeks, isn't that right darling?” Your husband said as he ran the back of his index finger gently over your cheek. Your once shimmering eyes appeared lifeless under the yellowish glare of the chandelier- a shell of the woman you had been, the woman you should be. “Wonder why that is sir,” Tommy bit back. Your husband chuckled, “You’re a bold man Mr. Shelby.” The men stared down at each other down as men tend to do.

“So they say.” Tommy replied.

“You've caught my attention, Mr. Shelby,” your husband started, “and in a most ill-manner may I add.” Tommy quirked a brow and urged him to go on. “Mr. Shelby I do not think it is in anyone’s best interest for me to comment on my wife’s extra curricular, is it not?” Your posture remained stoic, eyes trained to the expensive champagne in your hand praying that somehow you could shrink ten sizes and bathe in it. Stretch your arms and do laps on the clear glasses that British aristocracy drank in sighs and content giggles. You had silly daydreams like these. Some not so silly. Ones drenched in crimson liquid as if you were a butcher at the end of your shift, only to look around and see your husband’s body displayed in all his fat glory. 

You sucked in a breath and uttered, “Gentlemen you must excuse me, I need to use the powder room.” Your husbands hand stopped gripped your forearm as you made your exit, “Don’t be long dear.” He uttered menacingly. 

You leaned up against the green wall that lead to a long corridor, away from prying eyes and the clink of heels against expensive tiles. Lungs heavy, hands trembling, and mouth parting like a fish out of water. You felt foolish. You had lived years below your husband’s scrutinizing thumb, surrounded by words of empty headed strangers on how lucky you were to have married such a bright and clever man. A man who rejoiced at the sight of her trembling figure and got off on her agonizing screams that left her feeling like a vegetable for days. A man who curiously spit false facts with such emotion that caught the ears of the rich and the weak. And then she met him. And then life ripped that away. 

As if on cue, Tommy hurried towards her with that ever prominent scowl on his face, “Y/N, love-“

“No! No Tommy we cannot speak!” She pushed his hands away, further encouraging the scowl to become two tattooed lines in between his eyes. “Listen to me Y/N, stop fighting and fuckin’ listen ey?” He grabbed her trembling hands in his careful not to hurt her further. “What? What could possibly be so important to tell me right now that would make tonight’s punishment worth it?” You growled in contempt. 

“In about three minutes I will go into a room with your husband to bargain your freedom.” He grabbed your plum face in his hands, urging for your eyes to meet, for a reassurance, a peace of mind, a promise.

“He won’t give me up Tommy, he won’t.” You noticed his eyes waiver in a way that only a heartbreak could cause. They were filled with urgency, a sense of dread, because how could you not trust him? How could you not see that everything he is and everything he does is for you? 

“The greatest grief in my life will come if I leave you in the hands of that monster. All of this,” he said gesturing around him, “all of this is collateral, Y/N. I’ve accepted that risk of dying, I do it every day for stupid shit Y/N, for really stupid shit.”

“Oh God! Oh God!” You moaned, crying in despair. You shook your head as tears coated your frosted cheeks, unable to comprehend the thought of freedom and actual love. 

The orchestra started playing in the dining hall soliciting the guest’s attention to a melodic grace. The violins struck their cords in an unruly manner, insisting on being heard. Your husband whistled as he came toward you both making you separate. “Mr. Shelby, I believe we have pressing matters to attend?” He said. In his shifty brown eyes lied an expression you could not read. And so both men entered the room with the big fireplace and oak chairs. The mahogany door closed with a thud that coincidentally resonated beautifully with the melodic sound of the band. 

The doors opened just as quickly as they had closed. Or had the hours flown by? You couldn't tell. In the torturous time you had been left outside, a small crowd had gathered around you. Whispers of ‘mistress’ and ‘foes’ and ‘ruins’ had been said, but most just repeated the few phrases that could be heard from inside the room. The two politicians stepped out having reached a mutual decision. One having lost a sum of money that would leave him in financial ruin for the rest of his life. The other with promised assets that would change his family’s fortune and the value of his name. 

Your eyes met the Shelby’s blue ones, a smirk adorning his features as he stared at you. His woman. “Now, what’s this I hear about you doubting me love?” He murmured. You shook your head in disbelief, a small smile itching to be seen as your eyes darted over to your husband. “I don’t- I don’t get it Tommy, what did you do?” You asked grasping the lapels of his evening suit. Your hands tugging and caressing them ceremoniously as anxious tears pooled in your eyes. 

“Don’t concern yourself with business Y/N-“

“No! No, I will most certainly concern myself with business. Business that involves me. Business that has a means to freedom and life- a life Tommy, a-a life without fear.” She insisted, but he only smiled and kissed her lips gently, ignoring the ever growing fight that surrounded them. Your husband had drawn a gun in contempt, only to be tackled by Tommy’s men. He never was quick on his feet. 

*

It happened months later in the middle of an uncertain spring, when his face popped in your mind again. You had seen him in the shadows and in every drunk that passed you in the street. You saw him beneath the knife of the butcher, when rain fell from parted skies, and in the ominous sound violins made when played. But worst of all, you had seen his face in Arthur Shelby’s as he screamed at you yet again for getting in his way. Most of the family had accepted your relationship, as they pitied your cold sweats and silent demeanor, but mostly because the deal didn't ruin the Shelby empire. 

Once home, you stared aimlessly at the crackling fire, allowing the warmth to envelope you like a protective hug. Tommy made his way towards your figure and sat cross legged, whisky in hand. “Where’s your mind today, bird?” He whispered, tenderly stroking your pinned hair. 

“Thinking about the night my husband sold me like cattle.” Tommy side eyed you, clearly tense about the topic. “Did he?” you pressed again, “no one’s ever told me anything about it. I know we technically won, b- but Arthur’s been up my arse again and I can’t, not for the life of me, continue to be a prisoner of utterly worthless and untrue remarks!” She grew agitated withe very word, but all were true, and he knew this. His hand continued rubbing circles in the back of her neck and chuckle, a small one, escaped his lips. 

“Do you take me for a fool Tommy? Because I assure-“

“I don’t.” He cut her off. “You're no fool. I think you've proven that a few times now, right? You weren't a fool when you were with him and you're not one now.” 

“Then what, Tommy? What could have possibly been said that guaranteed my freedom and his ruin?”

He sighed sensing her desperation, but he couldn't possibly tell her. In fact, he hadn't even told his family. Arthur’s distaste for Y/N was shrouded in mystery itself, more so a rendition of the protective older brother, a one man play. Any other man would have disclosed the information to a close confidant, but not Tommy- never Tommy. It is why under the fire’s glow and the tenderness of your flesh beneath his fingers, he promised himself yet again to never speak a word of it to anyone, not even you. It would remain an active memory buried in the inner, darkest corners of his mind. Each time he visited Mr. Crooke, in a most disclosed location, he would remember to discard the clothing used and have an alibi prepared. A pesky little thing he was, a washed up creature that would receive every punishment he gave;  but no one should know, least of all her, because just like that night, no one else was in the room where it happened. No one knew the words that were spoken or how the deal was made. 

Only assumptions were made. And with one last stroke of the cheek and a light kiss to the lips, Thomas Shelby and Y/N stood up in silent agreement and retired to their newly marital bed. 

[nonbinaryeye]

Wedding in the misty moors

Written for @jonahmagnusweek​

Day 6 - Celebration

The easiest way to assure Jonah Magnus will show up somewhere is to not invite him.

Read on AO3

...

If someone wandered here on accident they would be more likely to assume they crushed someone’s funeral than a wedding. That said it would be hard to just accidentally wander to the mansion surrounded by moors in the middle of nowhere.

And yet it is exactly something that happened to one particular gentleman in a green tailcoat - or at least that is what Jonah Magnus plans to claim if anyone asks him what he is doing here since his wedding invitation must have gotten lost by the postal service. Or simply it has never been written and send. Something tells him it is the latter option. (That something is Eye. As per usual offering him mostly useless information, never the thing he truly wishes to know.)

It has been a few years since he has visited Moorland house. He has been here only twice and both times he had to basically invite himself. The house itself looked exactly the same as he remembered. Maybe even a bit more dark and gloomy but it is probably because it is quite foggy this morning…

However there is one new thing. Next to the house is standing a newly built chapel where the ceremony is about to be held. Of course, even for his own wedding Mordechai apparently cannot get out of his current state of isolation and leave his estate. He hasn’t visited any gentleman gathering in London for quite a while and even most of his business he handles by correspondence these days.

Since no one is still paying him any attention he decides to approach the new building and carefully lurk inside. Few of Mordechai’s relatives are already sitting in the benches few of them are even engaged in quiet conversation. Right next to the altar is nervously standing Mordechai’s future wife. They very likely haven’t given her any instruction where to wait or whether she can sit or when will her to-be-husband arrive.

Even though her dress is completely new, it looked like someone was wearing them for years. It was mostly because of their color – that shade of blue which, unless under direct light, looked much more like gray. The whole design is also quite simplistic which must be intentional choice and not issue of money. The Bride herself looks rather plain. She started the day with a bright smile which turned to a nervous one then a polite one and now she is not smiling at all. (He would not really need a power of the Beholding to guess that.)

Jonah slips back out. Mordechai must be still in the Moorland house then. He surely won’t mind if he just lets himself inside will he? He enters the large empty halls of the house and he shivers. The weather outside isn’t exactly warm yet it seems to be even colder inside the building. He makes only few steps in when a servant blocks his way.

“I am sorry, sir, guests are not supposed to be here yet.” He tells him with monotone soulless voice. (Of course, now the Eye stays silent. It could not warn him someone is approaching, could it?)

“Apologies I must have gotten lost. I will let myself out.” Jonah puts on a charming smile. He hoped to stay unnoticed a bit longer but that has probably been a quite unrealistic ambition on his part he musts admit considering there is maybe ten people in total including the parson from nearest church which is here to perform the ceremony.

“It’s… wait, may I see your invitation, sir?” the servant gives him suspecting look. What has given him off? The smile, or the fact that he is, unlike rest of the guests, dressed in more than one color?

“Ah yes about that…”

“It is quite long way from Edinburgh to just get lost in the moors of Kent, Mr. Magnus.”

As if he materialized out of nowhere Mordechai Lukas appears and for once he seems to be almost in a good mood. He doesn’t have to say anything for the servant to disappear as quickly as possible head shamefully down. He will still probably be in trouble later – Mordechai hates seeing servants and being in any way reminded about their existence.

Jonah lets the smile from his face disappear and put on a more serious one. “I wish you good morning as well, Mr. Lukas. Have you not expected to see me here today?” As he is facing him of course he cannot help himself but look at his clothes of choice. If Jonah hasn’t known he would not suspect him to be a groom as his attire is almost identical to his every day wear. Though the dark gray is truly a shocking change from his usual a bit lighter shade of gray or blue.

“On the contrary. I knew you wouldn’t show up if I did invite you therefore I chose not to.” The thing about Mordechai is that he never smiles. However sometimes corners of his mouth rise into a mean grin. Usually when he beats someone in cards, makes fool out of someone or catches Jonah of guard.

“Why do you even want me present?”

“Why do you think so?” Mordechai makes a step forward and leans towards him almost as if he wanted to kiss him. “Just to enjoy the loneliness reeking of you, of course. Tell me Jonah don’t you feel a bit rejected right now? Abandoned? Lonely?”

Jonah scoffs. “Those are all quite bold accusations which all come from a false assumption that I care about you or your marital status.”

“You are here Mr. Magnus. That is enough of a proof for me”

“Have you built this chapel just to have more privacy for the wedding?”

Mordechai shrugs. “It will be good for funerals too.”

“Your future wife is already waiting for you inside. How do you like her? ”

“I don’t know. I haven’t met her nor seen her yet.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Jonah has done his research naturally. She was almost three times younger. An orphan with a good family name but no relatives to take care of her and very little money. The offer from such a well-off gentleman must have seen like a lucky miracle to her. Naïve girl. Jonah feels almost sorry for her for he is certain she would have bigger chance to find happiness living as a beggar on the street than being married to Mordechai. “She is actually quite pretty. For a woman I mean,” Jonah decides to inform him, “Though I don’t think she is your type”

“I don’t care about her looks. All that is important is that she will be able to bear a child.”

“You intend to have children?” Jonah asks surprised. Yes one usually gets married to start a family but in Mordechai’s case… He would hate to sound like the world is spinning around him but he would not be surprised if he learnt Mordechai has done this just to spite him.  In any case he thought he plans to isolate the girl in loveless marriage without any kind of affection or even marital action from her husband. “I hate to criticize your plans, dear friend, but starting a family doesn’t sound very lonely.”

Mordechai is still smiling as if Jonah was missing some hidden joke. “I reconsidered my approach but worry not it is all to serve the Forsaken“

“As you say… In that I cannot wait to get better acquainted with your spouse and even with your future offsprings.”

“I will make sure to keep them far away from you. I do not wish for you to attempt meeting them in any way.” There is threat in tone of his voice. As if it could really intimidate Jonah. But no need to dwell on this topic too much right now.

“As long as I am getting funding for my institute I have no reason to intervene with your affairs any closer.”

“I have a good reason for my mistrust. As for example I remember there has been no issue with the founding lately and yet you are here right now.”

“You are contradicting yourself haven’t you said you expected me to arrive? In any way I think I’ve seen all that I needed to.”

“Since you traveled all the way here do you really wish not to stay for the wedding itself? There will be a cake afterwards.”

Eye decides to provide him with further details. (Why? Why does the Beholding consider this information of all necessary?) The cake has been soaked in brandy and covered with almond icing. It sounds delicious. If Jonah didn’t know any better it might really persuade him to stay. But he didn’t come all the way just so Mordechai could mock him with his marriage. He came here only to gain more information. Because he wanted to See and Know more about future plan of his acquaintance. That is all.

“As delightful as your ceremony will certainly be; I already have different plans. So please do not let me hold you and keep your bride waiting.”

“In that case goodbye, Mr. Magnus,” Mordechai gives him a one more cold smile and there is sense of finality in his farewell. Does he think this is how their ways will part? That is rather silly of him. And so Jonah returns the smile.

“May your marriage be filled with joy and happiness. See you soon, Mr. Lukas.”

[wordacrosstime]

Shakespeare and the Goddess of Complete Being

[Shakespeare and the Goddess of Complete Being. Ted Hughes. 1992. Faber & Faber Ltd, London. 504 pages]

I do not think it an accident that Ted Hughes was brave enough to tackle this subject.  An award-winning poet himself, Hughes was husband to the poet Sylvia Plath, and seems equally at home in drama and mythology. Plath’s artistry and suffering must have informed and influenced Hughes, whose book tracing about a dozen Shakespearean works focuses on the tragic hero’s terrible relationship to women. This deeply disturbing and yet mythological theme in these plays, Hughes reduces to a Tragic Equation and compares this Tragic Equation in terms of psychology and even psychobiology, a term new to me. It is interesting that Hughes does not describe his Goddess Of Complete Being as a Supreme Being, but rather more like the Mother Earth, or Mother Nature Herself, or even Plath’s White Goddess, all of which Hughes mentions as examples of female divinity. For Hughes the ultimate truth is bound up not with spirits hovering magically in the forest air, but to be found in the bosom of women. Not that Hughes’s equation is formulated from a woman’s point of view; no, rather from the point of view of the boys who become men, that is warriors, monarchs, poets, and playwrights. Hughes draws our attention to the one thing the tragic heroes have in common in the Shakespearean tragedies, behaviour towards women that is brutish, if not violent. This is a brave thesis, and probably not one that would have been published if proposed by a woman. He calls this theory the Tragic Equation.

The Tragic Equation begins, according to Hughes, when the adolescent who is precariously independent from the Mother Goddess and the paralysing force of her love, as a aavaictime of new and uncontrollable sexual energy searching for union with an unknown female, and in Elizabethan society that female is bound to be fairly unknown. Hughes declares the origin of this Tragic Equation is the severing of the emotional bonds with the mother. This emotional recoil which coincides with the first sexual urgings, he believes results, for the man of leisure and intelligence, in a ‘madness’. He convinced me that this ‘madness’ is substantiated throughout the oeuvre. We cannot deny the fact that the infant male, for many years, is in the powerful kingdom of the female, who has miraculous powers to give birth to a human being, must be affected in his search for his male identity. For Hughes this is an adequate reason to explain distrust and hatred of women that Shakespeare’s tragic heroes experience before their final downfall. So it is a kind of revenge Tragic Equation, where the female ends up banished, abandoned or dead, which brings the hero to his knees.

Hughes begins his thesis with the two poems,Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece.  Hughes feels that these two poems are the beginning of the tragic hero who features in the rest of Shakespeare’s works. These heroes, according to Hughes, are tortured by their blind lust, either unconsciously or consciously, and are really seeking a kind of divine love. He makes a good case for his thesis as he convincingly traces the love affairs from the bestial in Venus and Adonis, right through to The Tempest. Interestingly, the process begins with the lust of a woman, the Goddess Venus, who is blamed for lust in general. This lust is transferred, as it must be for the Tragic Equation, to the rapist Taquin. In the male, bestial lust quickly becomes violent. I think Hughes convincingly traces, through the works, the fate of love from its source in confused bestiality to the pursuit of a woman who ideally embodies divine love.

I think contemporary psychology theory agrees with him, and that at the mercy the natural surging of his hormones, the young man is in an unstable emotion state and can reject the object of his desire who is always a young virtuous woman. This is the woman who our tragic hero desperately wants, but can easily hate. Hughes quotes a number of tragic heroes as victims of this ‘irrational madness’, the foremost being Hamlet, and the most irrational being Leontes in A Winter’s Tale, but there are many instances of the hero abusing his most loved woman. Hughes thinks this is purely a psychobiological trait, mythologized through the centuries. He does not relate it to being an English subject in the reign of a powerful queen.

For all lovers of Shakespeare Hughes’s book is delightful reading except for the number of folkloric references which are confusing. Hughes desire is clear; to trace a path from bestial to divine love in the entire Shakespearean oeuvre and he begins this journey with the boar as symbolic of male desire. The book cover is a drawing of a boar. In Hughes’s Tragic Equation, the hero who chases the chaste woman, invariably comes to a sad end himself, and I find this supported by at least ten of the plays in the Shakespearean oeuvre. Hughes also insists that the plays portray a penitent hero who can transcend his madness and trade in his lust in order to reach a more spiritual love. Unfortunately, while this may be neat and psychologically sound, Hughes then goes on to confuse the boar with the Queen of Hell. This particular myth, or effigy I found difficult to accept since there’s only one character who could rightly be called that, Lady Macbeth. What is easier to accept is the raw youth at the mercy of his hormones in All’s Well That Ends Well, evolving into the wise old man, Prospero, at the end of the cycle who cares for his daughter so lovingly.

While agreeing in general with Hughes’s thesis, that the plays represent a growth towards spirituality, I think Hughes relies on psychology more than sociology or political impetus. Sociologically there is a very potent reason for the overbearing mother and her frustrated sexuality, namely, the oppression of women in the sixteenth century, especially aristocratic and landed-gentry women. They were inevitably bartered away and invariably ended up with an arranged and loveless marriage. Thus the problem of imposed ‘madness’ but Hughes does not credit this new interest in the relationship between men and women with the powerful rulers who are women. This very emphasis and criticism of male behaviour must have been inspired by the very powerful female monarchs of that era. There was the first ever queen of England, Queen Mary, a hated first English Queen, Mary Queen of Scots, who claimed to be queen of Scotland, England and France, and of course the omnipotent Elizabeth the First. Subjected to such powerful women must have been the source of much internal and external conflict. All three women must have ushered in a new sensibility, not necessarily in the portrayal of women but in the portrayal of men’s behaviour towards women who, for the first time had political clout. Hughes makes no reference to the possible influence of these monarchs. He also omits to note that these inner conflicts about the opposite sex, however common they are among the commoners and even aristocracy, are never described as the fatal flaw of the reigning monarch, or the  paternal Dukes that pepper the plays. Perhaps Elizabeth would have more than frowned on portraying royalty with this fatal flaw. The most insidious male monarch who subdues a woman is, of course, Richard the Third, who is deliberately being maligned. Prince Hamlet is a great example, of someone who cannot become a monarch after his ‘madness’. The Winter’s Tale proves to be the exception, but that is because he becomes a penitent and is forgiven by the statue of his victim wife. Towards the end of the cycle, King Lear’s aggression is relatively mild against Cordelia, and he too repents.

Hughes does, however, make some historical explanation for the sudden emergence of scholarship of such profound depth and meaning. He credits the conflict between the Papal Church, personified perhaps by the Virgin Mary, and the rapacious Henry VIII. Hughes neglects to mention the protestations of Luther which made the intelligentsia (not the monarchs) question the Divine Right of Kings. These are powerfully conflicting elements which reach right down through every strata of society, and were represented in the person of Elizabeth the First; a rebel female and ‘unnaturally’ a scholar, who used the divine right of kings to rule. Hughes does mention that Queen Elizabeth had a keen interest in what was being dramatised because she was aware of the support she needed and appreciated the theatre as an instrument of propaganda.  She headed an aristocratic class with leisure to reflect on the nature of women, and to believe that it was patriotic to do so. England was finally emerging from the brutality of the Roman Empire although English scholars had no desire to avoid the civilizing influence of Italian thought, language and painting. Dante and Boccaccio were influential. Elizabeth the First spoke Italian fluently and probably read Castiglione’s prescription for the perfect courtier and Machiavelli in the original. Even Mary Queen of Scots had her Florio.

When Hughes drew my attention to the Tragic Equation and even to his theories of psychobiology, it made me realize that the aristocratic, and characters who feature as leaders and celebrities in the plays, were probably always raised in dysfunctional family circumstances. Interestingly, they have this in common with the aristocrats of the day who supported the theatre and followed the Shakespearean oeuvre and argument on behalf of the conflicted tragic heroes. At the mercy of suppressed mothers, they must have felt like tragic heroes themselves.

Hughes does not need to mention the fact that Shakespeare is very popular today, but I think it is pertinent. Violence towards women is still with us and the reason why is still a subject of contention and endless theorizing. Jonathan Fast explores this violence in young males in his two books, Ceremonial Violence, A Psychological Explanation of School Shootings, and Beyond Bullying, Breaking the Cycle of Shame, Bullying and Violence.  Interestingly this shame is not racial, or even competitively nurtured, no, it is learned in the heart of the dysfunctional (to a nth degree) family. Apparently Jeffrey Dahmer’s mother made him eat all the food she cooked, rotten or not. .  Feminists may run from facts like these, by pointing out to the use and abuse of women which is responsible for such dysfunctional families. I agree with this position. Family dysfunction can easily be socially approved, such as in the suppression of women’s sexuality and ambition. I’m sure women’s liberation and the respect women are now acquiring in the public and private sector, will go a long way to reducing the effect of this trauma.

Hughes’s analysis of the tragic hero was long-winded but still left me wanting more, and a little sceptical of his need for formulas and theories. He focuses on the dramatic characters’ violence, rather than their passion for words and joy of life, notably absent from this didactical tome. But I want to thank Hughes for pointing out the ‘scurvy’ males in the Shakespearean oeuvre, and tracing the cycle of plays where the hero evolves towards some veneration, it not worship, of a divine being that is female in nature like the goddesses in The Tempest’s marriage ceremony.

[images copyright to publisher & photographer]

Eliza Wyatt

Words Across Time

17 March 2020

wordsacrosstime

[parabellum-rpg-archive]

Congratulations, Marie! You’ve been accepted to play Sofia Costello. Your request to change her FC to Zoey Deutch, has also been accepted. Please make your page and send it in within 24 hours.

Admin note: This audition was incredible, and it was so hard to pick from because we had three different Sofia auditions. You were so detailed, even just in describing Sofia’s names. You’re an incredible writer - welcome to the group! - Admin V

CHARACTER DESIRED.

I will be applying for the lovely Sofia Costello.

SOFIA ( soh - fee - uh ) — “wisdom, skill” :

Not many people see it, the intelligence that hides in Sofia Costello’s eyes. When they hear that she’s a socialite, and aside from that, uninvolved in the family business, frivolous to a fault and with a dramatic streak to boost, it’s not exactly something they look for. But there’s a reason Sofia practically breezed through private school, there’s a reason she does live up to her first name, even without her parents knowing when they picked it out what she’d turn out to be like. When she applies herself to something Sofia can be a whirlwind of ambition and determination, pushing herself until she masters whatever her goal is.

GUINEVERE ( gwin - iv - eer ) — “white enchantress” :

There was no surprise that her middle name became a tribute to her recently deceased mother. The terrible accident, the twins’ first few weeks of life spent in the NICU, Sofia still believes there must have been some higher power, someone watching over them, to make sure they actually made it out of that hospital alive. In her heart, she believes it was Guinevere herself, who couldn’t pass on to the afterlife until she knew her babies were safe. Not one typically for religion, this is the one belief she clings onto tightly, with both her hands and one that has made her carry the middle name with nothing but absolute pride.

COSTELLO ( cos - tell - oh ) — “little castle” :

Despite her never caring much about the family business, Sofia would do anything, absolutely anything, for the other Costellos. Much like her middle name, she wears the surname with pride, not for the power it’s associated with ( though, despite her disregard for the business, she still quite liked that part ) but for the people. Her parents, her siblings, her cousin — she loves them dearly, which is quite possibly also why she’s so against her darling brother, her twin, her Luca marrying Paisley Sinclair, not when Juliet already brought him so much heartache. Not when he deserved so much better than that.

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN WORDS.

There are so many things Sofia Costello is to me. From reading her biography, I immediately got the sense that she is not the type of girl that can be described with a single trope, that she is probably a lot more than people give her credit for, too. Then I started reading through the other biographies related to her own, saw that Marcel saw her as assertive & unafraid of a challenge and that Luca’s noted that the twins could get away with almost anything, especially when Sofia flashed the doe eyes her parents adored. I kind of fell in love with her even more, and I also started to understand just how broad this character is.

I think the first thing that came to mind for me when looking at Sofia was mafia princess, though mostly focussing on the latter part. A socialite, who basically ignored her family’s business, but enjoyed the luxuries of it anyway. Taking after the mother that raised her, being good at getting what she wanted, and throwing a fit when she didn’t. I think I’d build on this by saying that Sofia is probably very dramatic and overindulged, but also that she is very confident and charismatic. That there is a regal air around her, and that it makes it easy for people to have a skewed perception of who she really is, for people to underestimate her, but never test out of she is really naive, in fear of her family’s rage. I also think that it makes her powerful in social situations, knowing she can snag the attention of a room with just a few quick gestures, knowing she can play the game of power struggles as well as anyone.

The second thing I really thought about was her being a bit of a trouble maker. Sure, she focussed on her studies and goals enough to make sure she was the best, but when she could talk herself out of almost anything — how does it not become tempting to try and indulge. I think she kind of embodies that ( I hate myself for making a Gossip Girl reference in the year of our lord 2019 but it’s been burned into my head and I can not get it out ) Serena van der Woodsen feel, where she is legendary for partying and getting into trouble, but still beloved enough for none of it to really matter. I also think that like Luca, she probably held the Costello name over her peers, letting them know that she could do anything, get away with anything, because of the family she hails from.

Finally, I think that currently, at this moment in time, Sofia is changing. I think she realized that with her twin brothers’ marriage to their enemy, she could no longer remain uninvolved. After never really having any interest in the family business, she suddenly wishes to push herself right into the middle of things, for her brothers’ sake, to keep him out of a loveless marriage, especially when Juliet Carmichael had already dragged him down a hole of addiction and obsession. I think her interest in their family affairs is also growing, and I think that once all of this is done, there is no way for her to go back to her regular life.

WRITING SAMPLE.

writing sample one.

So. Getting involved in underage drinking and then mistaking a police officer for a stripper, Sofia could admit it to herself, this was not exactly one of her finest moments. She had done worse things, of course, but those her parents did not find out about. Yet. This one, unfortunately for her, they had. In her defense, the police officer looked exactly like that new stripper at the Venetian, and she’d thought he’d definitely recognize his owners’ daughter. Also in her defense, the drinks at Sapphire were not to be messed with. She’d only had a few glasses, but was already swaying on her feet — and considering someone had tried to champagne shower her, she now reeked of alcohol too. “Please officer — I’m so sorry”, Sofia had looked at him with those pleading eyes that only very rarely were denied. Apparently, the cop was a little too insulted at how she’d tried to use his handcuffs in ways they definitely weren’t meant for because he wasn’t buying it. Not even the slightest bit.

She’d considered calling Luca, or even Mia when she reached the station, hoping they could just come get her out without much hassle, but as soon as she entered the building, one of the officers’ superiors recognized her, and after berating the man for picking up Marcel Costello’s daughter, he placed her at his desk, a blanket to keep her warm wrapped tightly around her shoulders and a mug of hot chocolate in her hands as he called a secure contact to connect him to her parents. “Damn it”, she swore under her breath, knowing that all she wanted to do was fall into her bed and sleep for the next ten hours — not being forced to work her magic on both her parents in the middle of the night.

Luckily for her, it was not her parents that came to pick her up, but one of their underlings, so she had time to prepare the speech. I just went out for a little celebratory drink, I promise. My friend Nadine got engaged yesterday, and us girls had to take her out for the night, of course! She’s absolutely ecstatic about it, I’ll make sure to get some extra invitations to the wedding, her father is the CEO of some large, Fortune 500 company, so you know the nuptials will be lavish. Sorry, I’ll get back to the story. So, Christie — you know her right, with the nose job? She ordered the drinks, and I guess there was alcohol in them, I didn’t even taste any, I swear! And then we get outside, and Nadine thinks that lovely police officer was a stripper we hired just for her, and when we realized he wasn’t, it was already too late. At that point, she’d let those beautiful doe eyes of hers fill with tears, and a regretful expression would fall over her face. She’d apologize at least twice more, come up with some more excuses, and eventually, they’d tell her to just go get some rest, that it was all okay.

And Sofia would never hear about it again.

writing sample two.

Her rage was like a burning, living thing. It was fire, coursing down her veins, into every single cell of her being, taking over, turning her into pure, undiluted anger. It had been building from the moment the family discussion about this betrothal had started. She’d seen some slivers of feelings about this whole situation in her family’s eyes, some of her own feelings reflected in those, too, but she didn’t think any of them were as powerful as hers. Sofia had retreated into herself, the rage building up as she sat there, silently, barely being able to hear what anyone was saying over those feelings. When finally the attention shifted to her, to the way she seemed to glow red hot, she’d looked up at her father, her words almost like the hiss of a viper, so sharp. “You are not whoring out my brother to some enemy bitch,” The last word had been spat out, and it was like her self control snapped. She’d raged and cried and yes, even begged, but there was no budging, not this time. So she’d stormed out, telling them they’d all rot in hell for this and didn’t let anyone near her for weeks.

It had been hell — absolute torture for her to refuse contact with her family. She did not want to see any of their faces, did not want to hear any of their pleas to just come back, to just talk to them, at least. She flinched every time she saw Luca’s name pop up on her phone screen, and wanted to smash her phone against the wall every time she pressed the deny call button. Sofia learned a surprising lot about her own power of self-restraint during those weeks, how long she could hold out, how to hide her hurt and anger behind a blank, emotionless face. Let them see her empty space at the table and realize what they’d done. Just like her father, she refused to budge on this, and only when she realized it herself, by her own intelligence and being let alone with her thoughts for so long, did she return to them.

When she barged in after weeks of no contact, Sofia strutted towards her father with that sense of confidence she had always possessed, showing absolutely no sign of anger or how upset she was, she just looked him into the eyes and told him that if this was happening, she wanted to be more involved in the business. She only offered a brief ‘family duty’ as an explanation of why. To be fair, it was true. But it was her loyalty towards Luca, specifically, that was the reason behind it. During her self-imposed exile, Sofia had realized that they all probably just saw this as the only solution to their troubles with the Sinclairs, and if she wanted to get her brother out of it, she’d have to know all the pieces involved in the game they’ve been playing since the Medici’s were chased out of Chicago.

After all, you can’t win in chess unless you have a proper view of the entire gameboard.

[vicstoriies]

2009.

"So, I had to change my phone number this week." "Why's that?" Dr. Larkin asked, though she was a smart enough woman... Victoria thought she could easily figure it out on her own. "Because he kept calling, nearly every single day, and I told you last week about the fact that my daughter kept accepting his calls and it put my phone bill through the roof. I didn't really have a choice but to change it." She felt guilty. If the circumstances had been any different, she would be his rock through this entire thing. But no, she had to force herself out of that habit and put her own well-being first. She felt like an asshole, though. Kicking him when he's down. "He got ten years, you know? What the hell am I gonna do with all that time?" "I think healing is a step in the right direction." Victoria laughs. "Healing? Right." "Victoria, you told me last week that Declan was disappointed when your son was born because he wanted a daughter. Why don't you tell me about his reaction to your daughter being born and how it affected your relationship." "Ah, she was daddy's little girl from the very start." When Dorothea was born, I thought things would improve for us. He finally had his daughter. They did, for a limited time. I guess it was temporary fulfillment on his part. In truth, I was at a loss for how to keep him happy and in trying to keep him satisfied, I lost all sense of joy in my own life. My own happiness always came second to his and my childrens'. I slipped into a bit of depression when Dottie was about two years old. The fighting had progressively gotten worst and I felt like the worst wife and other. Nothing I ever did was right and everything was cause for an argument. He spent less and less time at home during the night and while I did my best not to let my mind wander, I knew that he was seeing someone else. Or multiple people. This is something that was never confirmed, but one of the affairs had been. Ransom was eight and Dottie was four years old. I tried my best to keep high spirits for the sake of them. I didn't want them to catch on to the fact that mommy was not happy. It wasn't their burden. I wanted things to be as normal for them as possible. I started the tradition of movie nights. Sometimes Declan was there... but he'd leave in the middle of the movie or as soon as the kid fell asleep. Other times, it was just us three. Admittedly, those were my favorite. Being with my children did bring me a sense of comfort and peace and cutting Declan out of the picture also cut the tension that filled the room whenever we were together. I could be myself and I didn't have to walk on eggshells. It pained me to feel that way, but I couldn't exactly help it. We had been watching ET and naturally, the kids had fallen asleep towards the end of the movie. I heard a knock at the door and carefully got up to answer it. On the other side stood a younger woman. She was blonde, beautiful, and carried herself like royalty. I remember, vividly, the sickening feel I got in the pit of my stomach. You see, Limbo is a small town and everyone knew everyone. I had never met her before, but I heard about her plenty. Her name was Desdemona Loveless and she was the madam of a brothel in town. I knew what her being there meant and it took everything in me not to rip her hair right out of her head before she even spoke two words. I could tell she was nervous, which didn't make me feel any sort of pity, because I knew what she was about to tell me. I felt nauseated thinking about all the times I'd slept with him, unknowingly, after he'd likely slept with her. A woman who slept with hundreds of men to make her living. I knew Declan well enough to know that he often opted out of using a condom because he didn't like the way they felt. I think that is a Deschaine trait, but I don't know. Anyway, she went on to tell me about her affair with Declan and that she was pregnant with his child. And how she wanted her child to know her family and that's why she was here telling me this. If I had been someone else, someone not directly connected to the situation, I might have been able to understand her side a little more. She claimed that she didn't know until after the fact that Declan was married, but of course, I could easily argue that she likely slept with many married men given her line of work ━ knowingly. I almost did, but I refrained. I wasn't very kind to her, which I think I can be excused for, right? I told her that if she wanted to do what was best for her child, the best thing she could do was never tell Declan the truth about who the father was. Saving her child, ultimately meant saving herself. Was there a bit of me that was being selfish? I don't know, but my intentions... at the time, were truly to warn her against getting further involved. I suffered everyday at the hands of his anger, I was isolated from the outside world because I was afraid that if I did one wrong thing, it would set him off. All I had were my kids and I was only judging by my own experience that being the mother of his child meant that Declan owned you. I'm sure the ring on my finger didn't help the situation any, but having his child meant dealing with him for the rest of your life. I tried to save her from that and I lived with that choice. Part of me felt relieved when she followed through, while the other part of me felt extreme guilt about knowing and never breathing a word of that truth. I did confront him that night about the affair, though. I was angry, sad,and humiliated. I mean, what am I supposed to feel when my husband... would rather pay for sex than just come home to be with me? Nothing had ever felt more humiliating and damaging to my self-worth than knowing he preferred her over me. He blew it off like it was nothing and turned it around on me. Made me feel like it was my fault that he was looking elsewhere. I believed him because he was convincing. I wasn't doing enough, I wasn't fun anymore. Motherhood made me soft and more responsible. I was boring and she was fun and exciting and an adrenaline junkie just like him. That's what he said to me and somehow, through all of that, I felt like I'd been the one to let him down. I had been thinking about it all night before he got home... I was going to leave him. The affair had been the last straw but his words and placing the blame on me... I would be some kind of asshole to fail as his wife then leaving him because he sought what I lacked elsewhere. He was unhappy because of me and once again, I put him before myself. "You realize now that, that's not the case?" "I mean, sometimes, I still wonder if I could've done something more to keep him happy. To make him love me the way I thought he did in the beginning. I made excuses for him because I didn't wanna see the truth of what I was up against. Even through the hardships we were facing, I still wholeheartedly believed that he was my soulmate. And then... then, he laid hands on me for the first time and I was suddenly up against a monster completely different than what I thought originally." "Can you tell me about that? The first time he hit you?" "That might take another session, Dr. Larkin." "You're right, we're running low on time. Same time next week?"

[bvtterflyeffectxx-a]

♡ ━ THE AFFAIR.

━ 2009 ; VICTORIA'S THIRD THERAPY SESSION. "So, I had to change my phone number this week." "Why's that?" Dr. Larkin asked, though she was a smart enough woman... Victoria thought she could easily figure it out on her own. "Because he kept calling, nearly every single day, and I told you last week about the fact that my daughter kept accepting his calls and it put my phone bill through the roof. I didn't really have a choice but to change it." She felt guilty. If the circumstances had been any different, she would be his rock through this entire thing. But no, she had to force herself out of that habit and put her own well-being first. She felt like an asshole, though. Kicking him when he's down. "He got ten years, you know? What the hell am I gonna do with all that time?" "I think healing is a step in the right direction." Victoria laughs. "Healing? Right." "Victoria, you told me last week that Declan was disappointed when your son was born because he wanted a daughter. Why don't you tell me about his reaction to your daughter being born and how it affected your relationship." "Ah, she was daddy's little girl from the very start." When Dorothea was born, I thought things would improve for us. He finally had his daughter. They did, for a limited time. I guess it was temporary fulfillment on his part. In truth, I was at a loss for how to keep him happy and in trying to keep him satisfied, I lost all sense of joy in my own life. My own happiness always came second to his and my childrens'. I slipped into a bit of depression when Dottie was about two years old. The fighting had progressively gotten worse and I felt like the worst wife and mother. Nothing I ever did was right and everything was cause for an argument. He spent less and less time at home during the night and while I did my best not to let my mind wander, I knew that he was seeing someone else. Or multiple people. This is something that was never confirmed, but one of the affairs had been. Ransom was eight and Dottie was four years old. I tried my best to keep high spirits for the sake of them. I didn't want them to catch on to the fact that mommy was not happy. It wasn't their burden. I wanted things to be as normal for them as possible. I started the tradition of movie nights. Sometimes Declan was there... but he'd leave in the middle of the movie or as soon as the kid fell asleep. Other times, it was just us three. Admittedly, those were my favorite. Being with my children did bring me a sense of comfort and peace and cutting Declan out of the picture also cut the tension that filled the room whenever we were together. I could be myself and I didn't have to walk on eggshells. It pained me to feel that way, but I couldn't exactly help it. We had been watching ET and naturally, the kids had fallen asleep towards the end of the movie. I heard a knock at the door and carefully got up to answer it. On the other side stood a younger woman. She was blonde, beautiful, and carried herself like royalty. I remember, vividly, the sickening feel I got in the pit of my stomach. You see, Limbo is a small town and everyone knew everyone. I had never met her before, but I heard about her plenty. Her name was Desdemona Loveless and she was the madam of a brothel in town. I knew what her being there meant and it took everything in me not to rip her hair right out of her head before she even spoke two words. I could tell she was nervous, which didn't make me feel any sort of pity, because I knew what she was about to tell me. I felt nauseated thinking about all the times I'd slept with him, unknowingly, after he'd likely slept with her. A woman who slept with hundreds of men to make her living. I knew Declan well enough to know that he often opted out of using a condom because he didn't like the way they felt. I think that is a Deschaine trait, but I don't know. Anyway, she went on to tell me about her affair with Declan and that she was pregnant with his child. And how she wanted her child to know her family and that's why she was here telling me this. If I had been someone else, someone not directly connected to the situation, I might have been able to understand her side a little more. She claimed that she didn't know until after the fact that Declan was married, but of course, I could easily argue that she likely slept with many married men given her line of work ━ knowingly. I almost did, but I refrained. I wasn't very kind to her, which I think I can be excused for, right? I told her that if she wanted to do what was best for her child, the best thing she could do was never tell Declan the truth about who the father was. Saving her child, ultimately meant saving herself. Was there a bit of me that was being selfish? I don't know, but my intentions... at the time, were truly to warn her against getting further involved. I suffered everyday at the hands of his anger, I was isolated from the outside world because I was afraid that if I did one wrong thing, it would set him off. All I had were my kids and I was only judging by my own experience that being the mother of his child meant that Declan owned you. I'm sure the ring on my finger didn't help the situation any, but having his child meant dealing with him for the rest of your life. I tried to save her from that and I lived with that choice. Part of me felt relieved when she followed through, while the other part of me felt extreme guilt about knowing and never breathing a word of that truth. I did confront him that night about the affair, though. I was angry, sad,and humiliated. I mean, what am I supposed to feel when my husband... would rather pay for sex than just come home to be with me? Nothing had ever felt more humiliating and damaging to my self-worth than knowing he preferred her over me. He blew it off like it was nothing and turned it around on me. Made me feel like it was my fault that he was looking elsewhere. I believed him because he was convincing. I wasn't doing enough, I wasn't fun anymore. Motherhood made me soft and more responsible. I was boring and she was fun and exciting and an adrenaline junkie just like him. That's what he said to me and somehow, through all of that, I felt like I'd been the one to let him down. I had been thinking about it all night before he got home... I was going to leave him. The affair had been the last straw but his words and placing the blame on me... I would be some kind of asshole to fail as his wife then leaving him because he sought what I lacked elsewhere. He was unhappy because of me and once again, I put him before myself. "You realize now that, that's not the case?" "I mean, sometimes, I still wonder if I could've done something more to keep him happy. To make him love me the way I thought he did in the beginning. I made excuses for him because I didn't wanna see the truth of what I was up against. Even through the hardships we were facing, I still wholeheartedly believed that he was my soulmate. And then... then, he laid hands on me for the first time and I was suddenly up against a monster completely different than what I thought originally." "Can you tell me about that? The first time he hit you?" "That might take another session, Dr. Larkin." "You're right, we're running low on time. Same time next week?"

[fcrgcttn]

@elysiumrps

Though the place wasn’t new, ( technically it was her home ), her life was meant to be starting afresh. The troublesome past, the deceitful marriage, and the loveless house behind her, Hye Sung was turning over a new leaf. There were few things in life that had made her happy for the past decade, the ten years she had been wed to a man of her parents’ choosing. Her attempts had been valiant. She tried her hardest to make it work with him, to dedicate herself to the union, mind and body. Yet it seemed she had failed somewhere along the way, something had been lacking. Hye Sung was far the type to take the blame on herself for her ex husband’s extramarital affair though. Had their been something lacking, she had been cooped up at home most of the days of the week. There were plenty of  opportunities. The only mercy she afforded him was not revealing precisely why she was divorcing him to the world, not wanting to make a greater spectacle of their parting than it already would be. 

Jin Hee sent to school, she was left with time on her hands and well, though most in her family were unwelcome to her at this point, she still attempted to maintain a good relationship with them. It wasn’t their fault her life had fallen the way it had and her marriage hadn’t been all bad, even if its ending was hardly pleasant. She still had Jin Hee. Fingers dancing along the fabrics of various dress shirts, she pointed to a few when the sales rep asked if she needed help. “He’s about this tall and...” after all, how was she to know men’s sizes. Looking around at the otherwise abandoned store, she caught sight of a man whose form appeared to roughly match that of her brother. “Like that man.” She motioned, noting the shirt was also quite a nice selection.