#ever since the women's refuges opened up

[stiltonbasket]

xiao-yu's bio dad is also a bit :( to find out that a) no decent woman will ever want to marry him b/c his parents will immediately tell her how much of a bag of dicks he is, and b) he's now on the "refuse service" list for many, many brothels b/c someone (nhs?) told them all about his nasty ways + possibly gave them $$ to send him packing.

Xiao-Yu's dad actually never visited brothels; Xiao-Yu's mother Yang Xin worked on a lotus farm until her pregnancy + her scarred lungs weakened her to the point where she could no longer do hard physical labor, at which point she found a position doing mending for a brothel in Yunping. However, her wages weren't enough to cover the funds she needed to provide for a child, so she became a prostitute after she gave birth to Xiao-Yu.

After Wangxian figured out who Xiao-Yu's biological father was, they asked Pan Gaolin's squad of doctors to warn all the lower-class women they treated about him (he was no longer remotely attractive to the local gentry girls, which was why he ended up starting a relationship with Yang Xin). His parents eventually sent him to watch over a remote village to the south, but they made sure the young women living there were informed about his abandonment of Yang Xin and Xiao-Yu beforehand.

[wekiaam]

2D NEWSIES: What I would change

I just realised I've been making fake concept art for a nonexistent animated Newsies adaptation for four years now. Over time, I've been getting so many ideas for this adaptation if it ever became real, I thought I would share them with you guys! This includes story changes, cut and additional songs and ideas for characters and style. I would love to know your thoughts on these!

When I started making concept art for "2dsies" as I came to be called, I intended for it to be based on the Broadway version and the Broadway version only. However, stories on stage differ a lot from stories told on screen, it just doesn't work the same way. I do still prefer the storyline of Broadway Newsies, but I think the best version would be a combination of the best parts of all different versions, plus some necessary changes. I would want Newsies to be a love letter to every production we've had, to everyone who made happen and every theatre kid who's been geeking out over it since 1992, while also being its own standalone movie that can be enjoyed by anybody. I am in no way an adequate screenwriter, these are just a few suggestions I have for a better story!

Story

Like I said, the story will be based mainly on the Broadway storyline, meaning we still have Artist Jack, Katherine, and most elements from the show that aren't in the movie. It will, however, be quite different from the show and the movie, and maybe add some more of the real events from the newsboy strike. There are still some details and scenes I would like to add and some I would remove completely.

- I like the history lesson opening from the movie, it gives people just enough background information on the real historical events the story is based on. I don't know if it should be Racetrack or Jack narrating, though.

- In Santa Fe (prologue), Crutchie mentions he's afraid the other boys will find out about his bad leg, even though they all literally know him as Crutchie, and it seems to be the first time Jack tells him about his dream of going to Santa Fe, even though they've clearly been best friends for a long time. It feels off, UNLESS they only just met, which is why I love @raggedy-albert 's theory so much. I would have the scene start off with them as kids, and have them grow up throughout the song.

- I want to add a scene in the beginning of Katherine at the New York Sun to establish her character and motivations, and possibly a little foreshadowing. Just an idea for a scene; she goes to the editor to let him read her story covering the trolley strike, but he reminds her of "her place" and that she's lucky enough to be in the position she's in and that she should go review a vaudeville or something. This would not only give her a similar motivation to the newsies, but also, if we're gonna bring the women's rights movement into the story let's do it right!

- Of course I'd also like to add more romantic interactions between Jack and Katherine, to make their relationship more believable. However, I don't think they should be a couple immediately after the finale, I was more thinking of an open ending to their relationship where Jack takes his first step to staying in New York by finally asking her out.

- Maybe add the actual scene where Jack and Davey visit Brooklyn instead of having them tell the other newsies what Spot said right before Seize the Day. Show don't tell, you know?

- A scene where Jack visits Crutchie at the refuge, similar to the one in the movie, but with the sadness Jack describes it with in the show. Again, show, don't tell. Show me how Jack visits the place of his nightmares again only to find his best friend in a worse state than ever and being unable to save him.

- Katherine punches Jack after the rally. Give it to me.

- Additional scene after Jack and Katherine's song after the rally where Jack formally apologizes to the newsies. Because in the show it just cuts from "omg he's a sellout *spits on the floor*" to "yay captain Jack is back" and it just doesn't sit right with me.

Songs

- There should be an entirely new Pulitzer song. The Bottom Line is good but by far the most skippable song on the cast recording, and The News Is Getting Better (the off broadway cut song) is a little Better but not quite the evil capitalist song we need.

- Swap Something to Believe In for When I See You Again. It's such a sweet song and I think it suits Jack and Katherine a lot better. It's much more "Neither of us know what tomorrow brings but when I'm with you I know we can change things for the better, even if it's scary but for now let's be here together and forget the world for a bit" instead of "I love you but I'm still gonna chase my cowboy dreams"

- Cut Letter From The Refuge, since my idea was to have this be a scene instead.

- Some lyric changes!

In Santa Fe: "Crutchie's callin' me, he's fine, just too damn slow"

In Once And For All: add this lyric from the movie, "Better to die than to crawl".

In Seize the Day: "Friends of the friendless seize the day, raise up the torch and light the way", not in the song but in the reprise where all the working children of the city gather before the finale.

Additional: "Still it seems like the dream of a boy, not a man", from The Truth About The Moon, a cut song from the movie that was supposed to be sung by Sarah. I don't know where I would put this lyric, but it could be said or sung by Jack as he realises what he's really looking for is not actually Santa Fe.

Characters:

- I want to add more girls to the background newsies, first of all.

- Sarah still won't do anything for the plot, but Davey and Les could mention that they have a sister. She's still canon to me.

- Speaking of Les, let's make him more likeable and also more helpful.

- Snyder has two scary dogs with him at all times.

- Just and idea, maybe Denton could still be a character if we replace Darcy with him, or maybe combine the two. Have him be Katherine's chaperone and friend formally, but also her reporter bestie. They could be a fun journalist duo!

Style

- The movie will still include the iconic choreography, which means it couldn't be fully 2D, but rather a mix between hand drawn and CGI.

-I would love for the backgrounds in the movie to be similar to impressionist and romantic art styles from the 19th century, to really sell how it's a story told from Jack's perspective. Especially his dream-like imaginations of Santa Fe would be brilliant in this style.

- I want to include a lot of weather foreshadowing. Rain right before Seize The Day and the sun breaking through when Davey starts singing. Mist surrounding Snyder and sudden darkness whenever he's near. A beautiful sunset when Jack and Katherine are alone on the rooftop. And of course, partly cloudy, clear by evening. It's such a cool way of visual storytelling when you have a plot that has no magic involved, like in most Disney movies.

- The real people characters' designs (Pulitzer, Hearst, Roosevelt) can be based on political cartoon caricature versions of themselves.

And lastly, quotes from the movie I liked that could be inspiring for the animated movie:

-"When I created the World..." "🙄" and "Where was I?" "You created the World, chief?"

- "No, we'll be just a bunch of angry kids with no money"

-"What, you couldn't stay away?" "Well I guess I can't be something I ain't." "A scab?" "No, smart."

Many of these ideas are still in development. Some might work, some may not, but I will be basing any future work I'll post on here on these ideas. I would love to see you guys  discuss and add on to these!

[vashtijoy]

Just saw your recent reblog, I'm so sorry if you get asked this a lot--is the cut post-game location where Akechi is not a rehab?

Wow, I've just been through my index and it doesn't seem I've ever posted about this—so thank you for asking! Note that this is (hopefully) PART ONE of a two-part post; this is way overlong without me getting into my thoughts about this scene.

The scene we're talking about is a deleted scene where Akechi (offscreen, and clearly alive) is talking to two employees (onscreen), in what looks like a bathhouse. They gossip about his plans for the future, until he arrives in person to catch them out and put some things on record.

Here's the scene, with my translation. (page down for the text). Pay attention to how the, uh, man standing in the bath knows Akechi is outside all along, while the woman who comes in to gossip does not.

There are a lot of theories about this scene—where is it happening? when does it happen? what purpose does it serve?—not least because there are several different translations floating around. But we can tell quite a bit from the text. Quick summary, since this is a post and a half already:

The place Akechi checks in on 12/24, per this deleted scene, is not a rehab or hotel or hospital, but a type of refuge called a kakekomidera.

This scene takes place (probably) after school on 2/10, as the last of the string of confidant interventions between 2/4 and 2/13. As such, it represents the thing Akechi is doing for Joker to get him out of detention.

Let's take a look.

firstly, what is this place?

People have variously described the bathhouse in this scene as a rehab (no), a hotel or ryokan (no), a hospital (no) and a mental hospital (def Not). So what is it?

The scene tells us exactly what it is:

Gossipy Employee ⋯まあここは、俺らもそうだけど、スネに傷あるモンの駆け込み寺だ。 ... maa koko wa, orera mo sou da kedo, sune ni kizu aru mon no kakekomidera da [lit. well, this place is a kakekomidera for people with a guilty conscience, like us.]

what is a kakekomidera?

A 寺 tera is a Buddhist temple; it's the ji at the end of a lot of temple names. 駆け込む kakekomu means to seek refuge somewhere. So a kakekomidera is a temple where you seek refuge.

And that is the place Akechi has taken himself to: it's a refuge. It's a shelter, like a domestic violence shelter—somewhere you go when you're at the end of your rope, with nowhere to turn; when you're in danger. Somewhere he stayed as a child—with his mother, who was likewise in a perilous and vulnerable situation. Where he knows there are people who will take him in, no questions asked, after everything he's done. Who might even remember him.

Historically, a kakekomidera (like the one in the link) was a place women could go if their husbands were abusive; they entered religious service, and subsequently accessed divorce: "Temple records show that, during the Tokugawa period alone"—that's 1603–1857, often also called the Edo period—"an estimated 2,000 women sought shelter there."

Services called kakekomidera still exist today. They are often in temples—if you can stop by to talk to a monk about your problems and look for solutions, that's a kakekomidera. Online helpdesks are often called kakekomidera—you can look up a "Desktop Publishing kakekomidera" site, for instance.

[more below the cut...]

English sources are usually all referencing the same organisation, Gen Hidemori's Nippon Kakekomidera in Shinjuku:

Gen opens the doors of his organization to all who are in dire straits, regardless of age, gender, income, or social status. Visitors to the office located in Tokyo’s infamous Kabukichō red-light district seek respite from domestic violence, pressing debt, and trouble with organized crime groups. Gen says he even sees gang members looking to make a clean break from the criminal underworld.

Does a kakekomidera do rehab-like things sometimes? Sure. They act as halfway houses for people leaving prison. They help people work through problems in their lives. But in English, a "rehab" is focused on rehabilitating people—after addiction, after illness or injury, after prison, during old age—and that is not what I think we should be picturing here.

I have not been able to track down a residential one like the one in the game, but hey, it's fiction. I wouldn't want to say, though, that they don't exist—don't forget the historical kakekomidera, where you entered service and stayed until you were ready to leave. Though this doesn't appear to be any sort of religious setting, I suspect it's not for nothing that Akechi is doing menial work around the place.

next, when does this scene take place?

The game code allows us to lock this scene almost down to the hour. This will get a little technical at points, so bear with me. You can easily skim past most of this.

Every event in P5 and P5R is numbered. They have two numbers: a major number, identifying the event, and a minor number, identifying part of the event. (You can get more granular than this, identifying individual lines of the script, but that's beyond our scope here.)

This deleted event of Akechi's is numbered E470_810. That is, it has a major number (identifying the event) of 470, and a minor number (identifying part of event 470) of 810.

what is event 470?

Event 470 is the collection of events that happen after Joker enters detention—that is, on 12/24 with Sae in vanilla, or on 2/4 after Maruki's boss fight in Royal.

You can probably see where this is going. Here's the list of events in event 470:

E470_001—[vanilla only] the sad Christmas Day meeting after Joker is arrested, where the PTs determine that this is super unfair and they should do something about it;

E470_101—[vanilla only] Joker's interrogation while detained;

E470_201—Sojiro's intervention after Joker's arrest;

E470_211—Takemi's intervention after Joker's arrest;

E470_301—Kawakami's intervention after Joker's arrest;

E470_311—Iwai's intervention after Joker's arrest;

E470_401—Mishima's intervention after Joker's arrest;

E470_411—Chihaya's intervention after Joker's arrest;

E470_501—Ohya's intervention after Joker's arrest;

E470_511—Yoshida's intervention after Joker's arrest;

E470_601—Shinya's intervention after Joker's arrest;

E470_611—Hifumi's intervention after Joker's arrest;

E470_701—Makoto's intervention after Joker's arrest;

E470_711—Sumire's intervention after Joker's arrest;

E470_810—Akechi's intervention after Joker's arrest.

The next event after that is E471_001, which is Sae meeting Joker in detention for his release on 2/13.

What does this list tell us? Well, mainly, this deleted scene of Akechi's, E470_810, was intended to play along with all those others up there; they're the same event, with the same major number, 470. It's not some random scene we can know nothing about; it has a context, and that context is that Akechi, just like the others, is working to get Joker out of detention. If this scene had been left in, it would have played along with all the other max-rank confidant scenes prior to 2/13.

You might have noticed that Akechi's scene is not quite grouped with the others—there is no E470_801, when the other confidant scenes move cleanly through Ex_x01 to Ex_x11 to Ex_x01 and so on. Whether that's because there's a missing event (storyboarded but never written?) or because he's not quite working with the others, or perhaps because it would have played out of sequence, like Makoto's (numbered last, originally, even though it played first)—we can't tell.

I did say we could lock this scene down almost to the hour, and that brings us to something called the scheduler:

where is event 470 in the scheduler? what is the scheduler?

The scheduler is a piece of code that tells the game engine what events to play on what day. If you want to know what triggers an event to play, the scheduler is a good first stop.

It's split into one file per month (SCHEDULER_04.BF through SCHEDULER_03.BF), and each month is split into a number of functions per day. Usually two functions play in the morning (early and mid-morning?) and five in the PM slot, which we can identify from the events that happen during them:

PM slot A—lunchtime. Includes e.g. the deleted lunch events;

PM slot B—midafternoon. Includes e.g. the chat events during the afternoon lesson;

PM slot C—after school. Includes e.g. Mishima's after-school confidant unlock in your homeroom;

PM slot D—evening. Includes e.g. Sae and Makoto's conversation over dinner before the hot pot party;

PM slot E—bed. Includes e.g. Joker's excursions to the Velvet Room.

In vanilla, the clock is visible for these confidant events, so we can see time passing; the events are also spread more widely through the day. In Royal, though, the clock is disabled for them, probably because they're so much closer together. But whether you consider these event times binding or not, we can still see exactly when they are—because the scheduler tells us so:

Makoto (E470_701)—2/5 (Royal), 1/3 (vanilla), midafternoon;

Sojiro (E470_201)—2/5 (Royal), 1/5 (vanilla), midafternoon;

Takemi (E470_211)—2/6 after school (Royal), 1/7 midafternoon (vanilla);

Kawakami (E470_301)—2/6 (Royal), 1/10 (vanilla), after school;

Iwai (E470_315)—2/7 after school (Royal only); Iwai (E470_311)—1/13 after school (vanilla only);

Mishima (E470_401)—2/7 (Royal), 1/14 (vanilla), after school;

Chihaya (E470_411)—2/8 (Royal), 1/16 (vanilla), after school;

Ohya (E470_501)—2/8 after school (Royal), 1/18 evening (vanilla);

Yoshida (E470_511)—2/9 after school (Royal), 1/22 midafternoon (vanilla);

Shinya (E470_601)—2/9 (Royal), 1/28 (vanilla), midafternoon;

Hifumi (E470_611)—2/9 (Royal), 1/31 (vanilla), after school;

Sumire (E470_711)—2/10 after school (Royal only).

Lastly, Sae always breaks Joker out during the midafternoon slot on 2/13, in both Royal and vanilla, just before Valentine's Day.

Is there anything notable in this huge swathe of data?

Three confidants changed their event slot in Royal, presumably to fit multiple events into one function on the same day: Takemi moved from midafternoon in vanilla to after school in Royal, Ohya moved from the evening slot to after school, and Yoshida moved from midafternoon to after school.

Iwai has two minor numbers, because he has two slightly different events—vanilla Iwai says "Make sure the guys in lock-up know not to let anyone lay a damn finger on him", while Royal Iwai does not!

Why was this line cut from Royal? Was Joker somehow in less danger in juvie? Well... vanilla places a lot more emphasis on Joker's detention. Rather than Akechi showing up on 12/24, Sae has a long digression about juvenile hall, and how awful it will be, and the consequences for Joker and his friends. Joker gets interrogated in detention and so on.

So maybe this line was there to build suspense, in vanilla—whereas in Royal, there's just no need, because everything has already happened.

what about akechi

OKAY SO. Getting back to the important stuff, what does all of that tell us about Akechi's deleted scene? Well, it lets us date it.

This scene does not appear to exist in vanilla, when Akechi is pretty definitively ?dead in January and February. It was added with Sumire's, for Royal—and then deleted from the scheduler, so that it's out of game. And in Royal, two events play every day—except on 2/10.

Only Sumire's event plays on 2/10. So we can stake a pretty good guess here that Akechi's event would have been paired with Sumire's event, the other Royal Trio event, in that after school time slot on 2/10.

Maybe it would have played on 2/11 or 2/12. Maybe it would have been like Makoto's event, and jumped out of the list to play elsewhen. But given that it's a reveal, I think it almost certainly would have played last (as its position in the event list suggests)—and 2/10 with Sumire seems like a good place for it.

lastly, what even is this scene

I'm attaching my translation of the scene beneath the cut, since it's been sitting in my Tumblr drafts forever and a day. Obviously this is hugely subject to error and not likely to be entirely correct—nonetheless, enjoy.

* * *

[The Prurient Employee walks in and addresses the Gossipy Employee, who is staring down at the floor.]

Prurient Employee 聞いた? kiita? Did you hear the news?

Gossipy Employee ああ⋯ aa... I did.

[He turns to her, glancing outside at what appears to be nothing in particular.]

Gossipy Employee さっき、本人から聞いたよ。 sakki, honnin kara kiita yo I just got it from him face to face.

Gossipy Employee 来たばっかだってのに、来月で辞めるって話だろう? kita bakka datte no ni, raigetsu de yameru tte hanashi darou? People were saying he's leaving next month, right? Even though he only just got here.

Prurient Employee あの子まだ、ちっちゃかったときよね?お母さんと一緒に出てって何年ぶり⋯? ano ko mada, chicchakatta toki yo ne? okaasan to issho ni dete tte nannen buri...? That kid was tiny when he left with his mother, wasn’t he? How many years has it been?…

Prurient Employee イケメンになって帰ってきた~って、うちら盛り上がってたのに。 ikemen ni natte kaette kita~tte, uchira moriagatteta no ni We were so excited, he'd just come back all grown-up and handsome, and now...

Gossipy Employee ここのこと覚えといてくれてたのは嬉しかったよな。 koko no koto oboetoite kureteta no wa ureshikatta yo na At least he still remembered he could come here, though.

Gossipy Employee ⋯まあここは、俺らもそうだけど、スネに傷あるモンの駆け込み寺だ。 ... maa koko wa, orera mo sou da kedo, sune ni kizu aru mon no kakekomidera da That's what this place is for. To shelter people like us, who have a past they can't forget.

Gossipy Employee それに昔よしみってんなら、困ってた��匿うのは当然だよ。 sore ni mukashi yoshimi tte n nara, komattetara kakumau no wa touzen da yo Especially someone we’ve known for so long. As if we wouldn’t hide him when he needed it.

Prurient Employee 『東京でやり残したことがある』って理由らしいわよ。 "toukyou de yarinokoshita koto ga aru" tte riyuu rashii wa yo I heard he said he has "unfinished business in Tokyo."

Gossipy Employee そんなことまで知ってるの。 sonna koto made shitteru no You really do know it all, don't you.

Prurient Employee ⋯ねえ。 ...nee Tell me, though...

Prurient Employee やり残したことって、やっぱりコレ関係? yarinokoshita koto tte, yappari kore kankei? This "unfinished business" of his—that’s what all this is about, right?

[Akechi speaks, offscreen.]

Young Man's Voice やめてくださいよ。妙な詮索。 yamete kudasai yo. myouna sensaku I wish you’d keep your nose out of my affairs.

[The Prurient Employee goes !, realising he was there all along.]

Prurient Employee いるなら言ってよ⋯~ iru nara itte yo...~ Tell me, then, if you're right there!

Gossipy Employee 東京で世話になったヤツがいるんだと。 toukyou de sewa ni natta yatsu ga iru n da to He did say there was someone who helped him out in Tokyo.

Gossipy Employee そいつに貸しを作りに行くんだ。 soitsu ni kashi o tsukuri ni iku n da So he's going back because he owes him.

Gossipy Employee なあ? naa? Right?

Young Man's Voice 借り返して辞めるつもりですから。 karikaeshite yameru tsumori desu kara Don't worry, I’ll clear my debts here before I leave.

Young Man's Voice 去年の⋯イヴ? アポ無しで来た僕を何も言わず受けれてくれた分と⋯ kyonen no... ibu? aponashi de kita boku o nani mo iwazu ukerete kureta bun to... For taking me in last year… on Christmas Eve, was it? Without an appointment. Without asking questions.

Young Man's Voice それと昔、母がお世話になった分はね。 sore to mukashi, haha ga o-sewa ni natta bun wa ne And for everything you did for my mother.

Prurient Employee それにしても貸しを作りに⋯なんて、あんたらしいね。 sore ni shite mo kashi o tsukuri ni... nante, anta rashii ne Never mind that. To go to these lengths just because you owe somebody… No, I guess that’s you all over, isn’t it.

Young Man's Voice ���ったとおりにいけば、あいつとあいつと仲間⋯ omotta toori ni ikeba, aitsu to aitsu to nakama... If it comes off, then that guy and his friends will live out their lives…

Young Man's Voice 一生、僕に⋯感謝するんです。 issei, boku ni... kansha suru n desu …Well, they’ll owe me their thanks forever.

[The two employees go ?]

Young Man's Voice 軒先、掃除してきますね。 nokisaki, souji shite kimasu ne I’m going to sweep up outside.

* * *

revision history

Click here for the latest version.

v1.0 (2023/12/03)—first posted.

[toms-cherry-trees]

Don’t Hold My Hand (I’ll Break Your Heart) || Tommy Shelby x Fem OC ~ Ch. 3

Summary: The day Thomas has been awaiting for is finally here and things don't go as planned. The first crack begins to show

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Talks of medical procedures, needles and blood. Tommy suffers a pain episode

Author’s note: I am so sorry this took so long! These past weeks have been terribly busy and I have been having a major writer crisis. Yet here we are and I hope you enjoy!

Requested taglist: @call-sign-shark @zablife

《 Prev part - Next Part 》

Ever since their last encounter, Thomas’ attitude towards her shifted. Charlotte couldn’t say he respected her, for that would take more than a few harsh words and stern looks. But he seemed to have found something in her that piqued his interest. He still refused her help on the daily with the most basic of things, stubborn as a mule, or rather stubborn as a Shelby, but he granted her the ‘honour’ of a few words of conversation every now and then. And Charlotte used every chance she could to try and talk him out of his miracle doctor.

She brought up every argument she could muster, but they were all met with indifferent shrugs of the shoulders, dismissive waves of the hand and, when she pressed too hard, with Thomas turning his back to her and escaping her well intentioned words, seeking refuge in the safety of his veranda. Charlotte remembered time after time when she had to convince soldiers to follow treatment for their own good, to have their medicines and do the exercises and quit the alcohol and the laudanum. She never had to talk a man out of doing something, and definitely never a man like Thomas Shelby.

“Just tell me this, Thomas. Have you ever, at least once, met or even seen any of these veterans this doctor has claimed to cure?”

His silence sufficed as a reply.

The faithful day, Charlotte awoke with a bitter taste in her mouth and a heavy feeling in her stomach. A dull headache throbbed in her temples, since sleep had refused to find her, leaving her to toss and turn as the moon slowly gave way to the sun and the birds chirped in their branches. She did her best to carry on with her duties as usual, but every now and then she nervously glanced up towards the clock, waiting for the strike of 3 in the afternoon. The minutes felt too long and the hours too short. If she stared at the clock, the hands refused to move under her watchful gaze. But then she would turn her back for what felt like five minutes, and when she looked again, nearly an hour had transpired.

The doctor had sent beforehand some medicines that Thomas had to drink prior to the appointment. Charlotte had poured some onto a cup and stared at it intently, hoping that if she looked hard enough she could discern what exactly had been mixed into the ambary liquid, since the bottles had neither a chemist’s name nor any label. But other than identifying a hint of a sweet, herbal scent, she got nothing. 

A taxi stopped before the gates just five minutes to three. Mrs. Gray and Charlotte both awaited in the foyer, standing side by side, to welcome the man who promised them the greatest miracle to be ever seen. They heard voices out the door, and Frances opened before he could knock. The second the doctor crossed the threshold, the bad feeling in Charlotte’s gut worsened.

The man before her dressed poorly. And not in the modest but clean way that most working class people did. His brown suit had definitely seen better days, perhaps better years too; frayed at the hems, the seams stretched out and the buttons hanging precariously from thinned out threads. Whoever had sewn in the elbow patches definitely had very little practice in tailoring. The shirt had taken a yellow hue from wear and time, and some bare threads hung from the collar. The shoes desperately needed a visit to the shoemaker, soles detached on the tips, the gap widening with each step.

Two women came with him, one on each side and just a step behind him, both with severe faces and strict postures. They dressed as nurses did, with the light blue dress and the Sister Dora cap upon the hair, but had black rubber aprons tied about the waist instead of the usual soft white linen she herself wore. Their appearance evoked more butchers than healers. Charlotte could certainly picture them wielding cleavers and with red splatters on their faces, not precisely from slicing meat.

Mrs. Gray shared her apprehensions, that much Charlotte could tell by the way the older woman lowered her cigarette slowly, one hand holding onto the ruby pendant hanging from her neck, twirling the gem between her fingers nervously. They both shared a tense and brief side glance, loaded with trepidation,  when the doctor took Mrs Gray's hand and kissed it, his head lowered in a bow. She pulled away from his grasp delicately but firmly, the only betrayal in her collected facade being the slight narrowing of her eyes. He then tried to repeat the impish gesture with Charlotte; but the nurse’ hands remained firm behind her, not giving the audacious man even a speck of chance. 

The doctor straightened, arms behind his back and puffing out his chest like a proud peacock. He appeared to not be unfazed by the tepid welcoming, although Charlotte easily noticed his barely concealed disappointment. Perhaps in other houses he had been received with tears and cheers like a hero who would save the day. She wondered if he had been sent off with the same enthusiasm after his magical treatments. 

“Miss and Madame, I am Doctor Elias Keller '' He put a hand to his chest and bowed again, as if he were being presented to Queen Mary and her daughter in Buckingham Palace. “These are my assistants, Bertha and Henrietta” Both women nodded curtly once, still standing just a step behind Doctor Keller, like petty soldiers flanking a high ranking officer, ready to rush to do his bidding.

The man put out his hand again towards Mrs. Gray, mayhaps hoping for a handshake. But she didn’t give him the satisfaction, instead reaching for her cigarette case and lighting a new one. She took her time to take a long, deliberate drag and allowing the smoke to billow from her dark cherry lips before speaking

“I am Mrs. Gray, Mr. Shelby’s aunt. And this is Charlotte, Mr. Shelby’s private nurse” Charlotte had never heard her refer to Thomas as Mr. Shelby, but she understood the motive; she didn’t want to give Dr. Keller any chance of familiarity. As if she wanted, through subtle actions, to remind him of his position before he got too cocksure. In her line of work she had surely met one too many charlatans, Lottie thought, and she too could smell the rottenness in him. 

Doctor Keller smiled, although the gesture looked perfectly practised and not at all sincere. Charlotte did notice that he looked her up and down out of the corner of his eye, and not in a bawdy way; quite the opposite, in fact. He seemed uncomfortable with her presence, a feeling that had appeared upon his face only after Mrs. Gray mentioned her to be a nurse. He fixed his bowtie, giving it a firm tug before addressing her

“A nurse, you say? You certainly don’t look like one, far too young you are. Perhaps a maid turned caretaker?” He raised his eyebrows, his eyes twinkling with condescending amusement. Charlotte clenched her jaw, teeth nearly grinding in annoyance.

“War nurse, in fact. I served in convalescent homes and then field hospitals in France since 1916. I was awarded for distinguished service” She puffed out her chest at the last part. Even if her recognition strips and medal lay forgotten at the bottom of a drawer in her room she had the right to boast about them. She had earned them through hardship and sweat, and she would not let this mountebank look her down. 

Doctor Keller’s lips tightened into a line, but he regained himself with such ease one might even doubt the gesture existed. He straightened up once more, his eyes fixated upon Mrs. Gray, every aspect of his posture and demeanour indicating he wished to keep Charlotte excluded from the conversation

“Well Mrs. Gray, I must not be delayed. Every second that I am not by my patient’s side it is a second lost. I am very devoted to them and wish to give them only the best of everything, including my time” Charlotte had to look aside to disguise a poorly stifled laugh. The man didn’t spare her a glance, but his guarding dogs both looked her down with a mixture of annoyance and indignation. The shorter, much older woman reminded Charlotte of her commanding matron in the ward when she first enlisted; they both bore a particular type of severity in their faces that could put generals to their knees. Charlotte had bowed her head before the matron; out of respect for her status and service, but she would not let herself be intimidated by the walking circus before her.

Mrs. Gray on the other hand, had Doctor Keller’s complete attention on her. The man kept trying to go up the stairs, but she kept trying to delay him just a few more minutes

“You have just arrived, why don’t we have tea in the drawing room? We can sit down and discuss what treatment are you planning to implement on my nephew” Her manicured hand came to rest on the doctor’s bicep, as if attempting to steer him away from the grand staircase. But the man, who mere minutes ago had presented himself as fulsome and flirty towards her, didn’t take her attempts kindly. He stepped away from her touch, straightening out his worn jacket.

“Mrs. Gray, I must go to my patient at once. I am a very busy man and see many soldiers like him a day. My time is of precious value and not to be so easily wasted. If you do not show me to his rooms I will be forced to leave and reconsider his position as my patient” He spoke fast, a shrill tone edging his voice, the perfectly polished facade he had brought with himself showing the first crack. He appeared nervous to not have the family’s support, surely not used to be resisted that way. Charlotte prayed internally that Mrs. Gray would push just a little harder, that she would stand her ground for a bit more, enough to scare this opportunist into running and never looking back. 

But alas, Mrs. Gray relented, perhaps to spare herself of a round with her nephew when he found out she had blocked the way for his miracle doctor, or mayhaps because she too bore a miniscule sliver of hope that whatever they did to Thomas may work. 

She gave Charlotte a look, a brief one, no more than a second, but loaded with many conflicting feelings. Her lips quivered from the effort it took her to not say word, and she had to remind herself mentally of her position within that house; just a worker, placed there to look after the Master of the house, not to give opinions or interfere with his businesses. Feeling her heart tighten, Charlotte led the way towards Thomas’ chambers. When they reached the double doors she pushed them open, allowing them inside before stepping in. But she found her path blocked by the older assistant, who crossed her arm on the threshold to hold her back

“Doctor Keller works alone. If he needs help he will have us. Please wait outside” The harshness of her voice matched perfectly that of her face, her broad frame firmly forcing Charlotte out of the room. Incensed, and perhaps frightened, Charlotte stood her ground, her shoulder pushing against the human wall that was the other woman.

“I work here. I am his caretaker. You will not touch a hair of his head without me there” She spoke perhaps with more passion and strength than her station required, but she felt an overwhelming need to protect Thomas. She could not let, on her best judgement, allow this swindler to beguile Mr. Shelby and endanger his life on false promises.

Just when she readied to perhaps commit acts unbefitting of her against that woman, Mr. Shelby spoke up, his voice calm but firm.

“Charlotte. It’s okay. Just go downstairs”

The assistant stepped aside briefly, allowing Charlotte a peek inside. Thomas sat in his chair near the windows, an unlit cigarette perched between two fingers. Doctor Keller kneeled at his side, holding his free hand in his own in a reassuring grasp. The sunlights poured abundantly through the panes, golden beams framing them. 

“Charlotte. Please” He had never said please to her.

He nodded towards the doctor, and the man stood up, taking control of the wheelchair and leading Thomas away from the windows and from Charlotte’s view.

The last thing she thought she saw was a smile on Mr. Shelby’s face before the assistant slammed the door on her face.

Time moved painstakingly slowly. Hour after hour slipped away, the sun steadily making its way across the skies. Warm orange bathed the rooms towards the back of the house, shadows lengthening as afternoon gave way to sunset. Charlotte sat in the main room, a luxury she rarely granted herself. Before she laid a teapot of black currant tea which had not been touched, and biscuits she refused to eat. She had chewed her thumb in anxiousness, leaving the imprints of her own teeth on the pads.

At least five times during her wait, Charlotte made her way towards Thomas’ bedroom but stopped halfway through, doubting in her feet before slowly making her way back down. She wanted to go up and see for herself what they were doing; every fibre of her being urged her to. But at the same time she feared what she would see or hear there. 

A half past six, the double doors closed with a dry thud, and heavy footsteps resonated in the stairwell. Charlotte scrambled from her seat, almost slipping on the fancy rug and knocking her hip against a side table as she rushed into the foyer. Somehow Mrs. Gray beat her to it, already standing at the foot of the stairs even though she hadn’t seen her around since the doctor’s arrival.

Doctor Keller marched down the stairs ceremoniously, his head held high, as if he had just rediscovered America. He had removed his jacket, and his yellowed shirt clung to his body with sweat. His assistants walked behind him, carrying his cases and a bag Charlotte swore they hadn’t brought with them. Their rubber aprons had been wiped clean, and for some reason, that didn’t sit right with Charlotte.

He addressed Mrs. Gray, once more his posture and actions disregarding Charlotte’s presence. The man took Mrs. Gray’s hands, and this time she didn’t push him back. His smile suggested reassurance and triumph.

“The procedure has gone well. Mr. Shelby is now upstairs in his bed, sleeping. He has been left exhausted and I suggest he is not disturbed until morning. I will return in a fortnight to repeat the treatment, and will continue to do so as many times as it is necessary, but I feel confident that progress will be seen before my return” 

Mrs. Gray’s eyebrows knit together in worry, and although she didn’t grant the doctor the reward of a smile, she had lost some of the apprehension she bore in the morning.

“Can you tell me what exactly is it that you have done to him? What sort of treatment is this?”

Doctor Keller chuckled heartily, shaking his head while he patted her hand “Now Mrs. Gray, those are gruesome details that delicacies like yourself should not have to endure” Charlotte buffed at the last part. Mrs. Gray could be described as anything but delicate. And the comment obviously didn’t sit well with the older woman either, for she immediately dropped the doctor’s hands and took a step back.

“Allow me to see you out, Doctor Keller” Even in now obvious annoyance, Mrs. Gray displayed an affability that Charlotte envied; a possession and control of the emotions that very few mastered. The small group headed outside while the valet brought the car around. But Charlotte did not follow, instead sprinting up the stairs towards Thomas’ bedroom.

She peered inside quietly, walking on tiptoes. Every window had been opened, the room smelling of damp soil and autumn leaves, but the earthy scent could not entirely mask the acrid smell of rubbing alcohol. The breeze had scattered papers from the desk all over the floor, and she hurried to pick them up, knowing how much disorganisation ticked Thomas off. As she placed them on the desk, she noticed they had left a kidney dish forgotten, alongside with a syringe filled with a milkish substance. The needle, the length of Charlotte’s hand, was coated in red.

Slowly, fearfully even, she turned towards the bed. She didn’t know what she expected to see, perhaps a gory scene with blood splattered on the walls and pooling on the floor, or a massacre akin to those seen in the field hospitals in France. Yet she only saw Thomas, laying on his side and submerged in a deep slumber, dressed only in his sleeping shirt and underwear.

She approached him slowly, her keen eye noticing the layer of sweat covering his skin, hair sticking to his temples and beads rolling down the curve of his neck. She dampened a cloth in the basin and wiped his forehead, feeling his skin feverish to the touch. The corners of his mouth had reddened marks, as if they had been rubbed raw against something coarse. Frowning in confusion, Charlotte leaned back, moving to examine the rest of his body. She found nail marks in his palms, in lines of bloodied crescent moon shapes. Just as she moved to grab the first aid kit to clean them, she picked up a small but significant detail.

The sheets had been changed

That morning, the bed had pure white sheets of plain linen without any embellishment, and these had simple blue embroidery on the edges, intertwined with Thomas’ initials as laundry marks. Charlotte could simply not understand why they would change the sheets amidst such secrecy instead of asking her or one of the maids to handle it, and neither could she find said sheets no matter where she looked. Clearly, whatever had been spilled on those linens, the doctor and his devils in tow wanted to be kept secret.

Worry crept up Charlotte’s spine and clawed at her throat. She didn’t want to disturb Thomas’ slumber, not after seeing him sleeping better than he had ever done before. Yet she could not ignore her instincts, not when they screamed at her so loud they drowned every other thought in her mind. 

So she sat by the bed and watched.

Waited and watched, while the sun gave way to the moon. A maid brought her food but she barely ate, feeling as if Thomas would burst into pieces or fade into mist if she took her eyes away from him for one second. Frances came near eleven, urging her to go to bed, but she only asked the older woman to take watch for a moment while she changed into her nightgown and robe. Even during the brief routine of closing the curtains and turning off lights she kept glancing towards him. But despite her best efforts she was only human, and the ever growing tension of the day had worn her out. She huddled in an armchair near the bed, a blanket around her legs and a small pillow supporting her neck. She had a book in her lap, but fatigue clouded her vision and foggied her thoughts. She swore she heard the grandfather clock chime 1 in the morning just before she fell asleep.

Charlotte woke up in a nightmare.

In the space between the land of dreams and the real world, guttural, horrific groans of pain seeped into her mind, making her hair stand on edge. Her heartbeat quickened and her feet chilled. She had to fight the drowsiness and exhaustion off her body and will her eyes to open. The room was illuminated only by moonlight coming from one curtain she had kept drawn back, casting phantasmagoric shadows on the walls. As her vision adjusted to the darkness and her senses sharpened, she sought the source of those sounds. Her first instinct was to go to the window, but she hadn’t moved a step when the grunts of pain returned, coming from very close to her. 

Thomas doubled over himself in the bed, fingers digging on the sheets and his jaw locked tightly around a corner of the pillow, poorly attempting to drown his pained cries. Charlotte rushed to turn on a lamp, and when warm light bathed him, she let out a scream of her own.

Crimson blossomed in the back of his nightshirt, the stains growing like flowers along the length of his spine. When she pushed his shirt up, she saw bandages entirely soaked in blood, the coppery scent filling her nostrils. The flesh around them had reddened and swelled. Thomas kept writhing, only worsening things as whatever they had done to his back kept tearing open and bleeding anew. 

His fingers dug into his own hair, pulling at the black strands in desperation as he muffled the screams by biting into his forearm. Somehow that grounded Charlotte, setting her back into the same steeliness that got her through the war. She rushed to the medicine cupboard and pulled out bottles, not even bothering to check the labels, for she knew what she looked for. The laudanum she kept at the very bottom, hidden behind all the taller bottles, had not been opened. She went to pour it in a spoon, but thought it better and instead poured it into a glass, estimating what dosage would put two adult men to sleep. With the amount of whiskey and other things Thomas consumed on the daily, she knew a spoonful would barely give him a tickle.

She climbed in bed next to him, trying to sit him up so he could drink. But Thomas seemed to be paralysed with pain, and even the tiniest of movements reignited the agony. Not a word passed his lips, only exclamations of pains mixed with heavy, slowly drawn gasps of air, for even the simple act of breathing had become a struggle.

“Thomas, Thomas, breathe. Breathe with me” She cooed soothingly, running her fingers through his hair in a gentle caress “I have your medicines. But you need to sit up a bit to drink” Her calm words fell on deaf ears, and she couldn’t blame him for not heeding her command. Charlotte wanted desperately to ease his suffering, but for that she had to move him, which would only worsen his pain. She hated she had to do it, but it was for his own sake.

“I am sorry about this” She murmured as she sat by his side, hooking her arms under his heavy body the best she could to pull him up. The scream he emitted was otherworldly, and she could only silence it by putting her hand in his mouth, letting him bite her flesh like a rabid dog. The pain shot up her arm but she ignored it, not moving until his jaw had unclenched. She had managed to prop him upright against her chest, with her own back resting against the headboard. His head laid limp against her bosom, and the still fresh blood stained her robe. But none of that mattered at the moment. 

Charlotte tried to get him to drink with the spoon but he refused to open his mouth. Sweat now poured profusely down his face and neck, giving his skin an unhealthy glistening. Even in the faint light she could see his complexion had paled, but at least it appeared the bleeding had stopped. Charlotte forced the spoon past his lips, but he only splattered on it, spilling the laudanum everywhere. When she tried again, he shook his head like a child refusing his porridge. She sighed in frustration, and also because his weight against her made it hard to breathe.

“Thomas, please. It will do you good. I promise it. You will feel better”

Again, nothing. Every muscle in his body was painfully tense, and she could see the vein in his forehead popping and the pulse beating strong and quick in the side of his neck. She placed a tender hand on the side of his face, her thumb running up and down the sharp length of his jaw to ease the tension. After a few minutes she noticed a slight improvement and how his lips parted open. Lottie seized that opportunity and brought up the spoon again. And this time, he sipped the medicine.

“That’s it. Take it slowly. This will make you feel better Tommy”

The pet name escaped her without thinking, and honestly, she didn’t give it a second thought. His aunt called him that so often that it had simply slipped into her vocabulary. 

Spoon by spoon, slowly and carefully, Thomas drank the laudanum. The medicine acted quickly, and soon the relaxation became visible in his body. His muscles loosened, his breathing calmed and his pulse returned to normal.

Minutes ticked by in peaceful calmness, a stark contrast to the abrupt awakening she had. A brief glance to the clock showed her a quarter to four. Still a long time to go before sunrise. And a lot to be done. The bed had been left a disaster, as had Thomas himself. She would not bother with the sheets but the bandages and his clothes needed changing. It took her some serious shifting and pulling to get out from under him, but at last Charlotte managed to lay him down, propped comfortably on some pillows. She laid him as comfortable as she could, since she doubted she would be able to move him again. 

The shirt was a goner, so she had no qualms in cutting it to shreds to slip it off his body. The bandages soon followed, alongside the thick folds of gauze which were now blood soaked. The sight underneath stole the breath from her lungs

A series of wounds traced the length of Thomas’ spine, from lower to mid back. Perfectly lined puncture wounds, in pairs, going up at regular intervals. Whatever needle had been used surely resembled more an icepick, for the holes seemed to have been drilled in his flesh. Charlotte could not even fathom what sort of procedure Tommy had been put through, but now her other findings made sense. The nail marks on his own hands from where he has fisted them so tight, and the abrasions on his mouth, surely a leather strip or a simile had been put in his mouth as a gag. Tears welled up in her eyes when she thought how he had willingly subjected himself to torture of the worst kind just for a crumb of hope.

She washed him clean as best as she could in that position, rinsing away the blood and sweat. She didn’t have any medicines at hand to apply to the wounds, so she only rebandaged them, making a mental note to ring a real doctor the next day for some real medicines. Since the sheets could not be changed nor could he be dressed again, Charlotte laid some clean towels around him and tucked him tight with the blankets. 

As she moved around him, she paid close attention to his face for the first time. Without that perennial scowl on his face he appeared much younger, even under all that messy hair and unkempt beard. His eyelashes were enviably long, casting shadows upon his high cheekbones even under the weak light of the bedside lamp. His nose had a straight slope, and his jaw a particular sharpness, noticeable despite the beard. He was objectively very handsome, a man girls would surely fawn over. 

Just as she readied to retake her watching post, Charlotte noticed again the nail marks on his palms, now swelling up and the skin purpling. She took his hand on her lap as she cleaned it gently, wrapping a simple bandage around them. Just as she moved to stand, his hand gripped tightly the fabric of her robe, stalling her moves. 

When she turned to face him, she realised Thomas had been awake this whole time. His eyes were open, and the ice had melted from them, giving way to a sharp shade of blue, vibrant even under the obvious exhaustion. His eyes fixed upon her, and they held each other’s gazes for a moment. Charlotte had stared into those eyes many times, and had read many hidden emotions behind the blueness, but that night she saw something new, something she never expected to see in him; vulnerability. Raw, deep, unsuppressed vulnerability. The first glimpse of the man behind the carefully crafted iron mask.

It felt almost wrong to be allowed to see the facade crack, like being made privy to a secret she felt unworthy of. At last, she lowered her eyes first, working on putting aside her medical supplies, just to keep her hands and her concentration busy.

“Sleep, Tommy” The words were hushed, her voice meant to be soothing, although he wouldn’t need much soothing with the dosage of laudanum she gave him “Rest will do you good” 

Charlotte moved to stand, but he moved to grip her wrist instead, his hold firm but not hurtful. She looked up to him again, confusion lacing her features.

“Stay”

The words were spoken through great effort, coming out raspy and strained, but perfectly clear. 

“I will not leave you. I will sit right by your bed” She reassured him, but he didn’t let go. In a sudden movement he pulled on her arm, throwing her off balance and tossing her rather unceremoniously on the bed, so that their bodies laid close together. She felt her heart rise to her throat, eyes wide and breaths quick at the sudden proximity. She wondered if the pain medicines had loosened Thomas’ inhibitions. Or perhaps he was just in desperate need of some of the human contact he often rejected.

For long minutes Tommy just stared at her wordlessly, not offering an explanation as to why he did that, nor letting go of her arm either. Heat rose to Charlotte’s cheeks, yet she could not look away from him either. The silence lingered until she chose to break the spell.

“Tommy?”

His fingers slid down from her wrist, lacing his hand with hers. His next words held a longing and rawness Charlotte didn’t believe possible in him.

“Don’t leave me alone. Not tonight"

[justrainandcoffee]

Against all odds (Alfie Solomons x fem!oc) Part 4

Crossover Peaky Blinders - Hunger Games

Masterlist. Parts: one - two - three

Summary: The 64th games. Rose finally meets Snow. He's intimidating and smart as people say he was. It's true that she hates him, but it was also him who says something that is about to change her life. Alfie is facing the consequences of knowing the Arena before the rest of them.

Warning: None.

Words: 3k. || Alfie x Rose masterlist

The mansion resembled her own, but was much more luxurious and with more domestic staff. Alfie was with Hilda and Alex when they requested her presence.

Two well-dressed men with serious expressions led her to a car waiting in the street. No one told Rose what it was about, but the Capitol symbol embroidered on the lapel of their coats gave the young woman all the answers she needed.

And along with those answers came a lot of thoughts in her head.

Inside the car was a woman older than her with white hair and blue tips. Nails decorated with what looked like tiny diamonds and an expensive gold dress and matching shoes.

"I'm Hazelle Goodsigth," said the woman, "you're Mrs. Evert."

"Yes, I am. May I...?"

"President Snow asked to see you, Mrs. Evert."

Hazelle Goodsight looked Rose up and down as if looking for something to criticise, but said nothing.

"It's an honour," Rose lied, "but I don't understand why... I'm nothing more than a stylist. It's my husband who's in charge of the business. I would never..."

"That's exactly why Mr. Snow asked to see you, Mrs. Evert because you're a stylist."

"I don't understand..."

"He's going to explain it to you," Hazelle said, ending any interaction between the two women. And both bodyguards never said a word.

So there she was now, sitting in the lobby of the mansion, in a leather armchair and looking at a painting of a blonde-haired, brown-eyed woman with a gentle smile.

Her mind was with Alfie. She would have given anything to be able to seek refuge in his arms and soothe her anxiety. But she forced herself to concentrate. More than ever her alter-ego had to shine.

It was one thing to pretend to be at home with Lawrence's friends; it was quite another to do so with Coriolanus Snow, famed for his sharp mind and cold-bloodedness. If he suspected anything, the next time Alfie asked about her, he'd have to meet her at the cemetery.

"Her name was Ariana," said a voice behind him. A shiver ran through her body.

"President Snow," she replied, bowing her head.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Evert." Snow looked at her intently before placing a kiss on her hand. Then he turned his gaze back to the portrait "She was my wife. She died many years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that. It seems like she was a good woman."

"I appreciate that. And yes, she was. Sometimes too much so. Come with me, Mrs. Evert."

Rose followed Snow down a narrow but well-lit hallway with several vases filled with white roses.

"Did Hazelle tell you the reason for her visit here?" he asked still walking.

"A little yes, but not much."

"I'm looking for a new stylist, Mrs. Evert. The nice thing about the parade is that it gives me a chance to see what the different stylists we hire are capable of." Snow finally reached a white door which she opened and stepped aside to make way for her.

The room was larger than Rose had first thought. There were huge windows overlooking a flowery garden and the scent of said flowers filled the air, in tune with the summer that was felt in every corner of Panem.

"Have a seat, please, Mrs. Evert."

Rose still felt the urge to run out of there and her mind was still trying to process that standing before her was the person she hated the most and the cause of so much horror. Still, of course, she obeyed.

"As I was saying, the parade gives me the opportunity to study not only the tributes and their mentors but also the stylists. A lot of people think it's to show off the competitors, which is true, but to see their talent. And honestly, it's been a few years since district 9 stopped having the same designs and became part of one of the best."

"That's a compliment, Mr. President... I, I really love that. But it's no more than what they do in districts 1 or 2. That's talent."

"But there's no love. Doing great things without love, it doesn't make a lot of sense. I can see that the costumes are the best, but they don't appeal to me. I'm looking for something else." Snow's blue eyes seemed to be trying to read her mind. "I know your husband, he's been to dinner parties here more than once, but I've never seen you before.

"Because Lawrence prefers to go to those dinner parties alone. Men's dinners, he calls them."

Snow narrowed her eyes, "but that's not true. The invitation is extended to couples, if they have them."

"I didn't know that," Rose replied. "Lawrence isn't the most forthcoming of men because..."

Because he's a fucking asshole.

"...Because that's the way he is."

Rose knew about such dinners, but it was true that Lawrence had never bothered to take her with him. Ever since Rose had learned five years ago that her husband was one of those who paid to have sex with the winners of the games, she suspected that they did more than eat at these gatherings. And the very idea made her nauseous.

"I'll take care to be clearer, then," Snow said. "Separate invitations might make the message clearer. Your husband is a complicated man, but he helps with investments for the games. The dinners are just gratitude, not because I have any appreciation for him. With all due respect."

Snow was a charismatic fucking tyrant. And now that he stood before her, smiling, Rose could sense that. He had risen to the top of Panem as a young man and had stayed there ever since. No one who wasn't smart, charismatic, or insightful could have made it. And Snow was that and so much more. He was the Devil and hell was Panem.

"Lawrence pays for certain nights with Victors," Rose said. It was a statement that could cost her dearly, but she needed to see the old man's reaction with her own eyes.

"Yes, he does."

Of course Snow wasn't going to deny it, there was no need to lie when he knew the woman knew the truth. Nor was he going to deny reality. The upper class of Panem found the winners of the games fascinating. He just found one more method to make them pay for the districts' betrayal. It wasn't money that motivated him but pleasure in making them suffer "...But given your tone of voice, I assume he wasn't the one who told you."

"No. It wasn't him, I heard rumours and I didn't doubt them."

Snow nodded and looked at Rose, smiling sideways "Infidelity is not something I condone, though I don't care what others do either. But I am compelled to say this: for the right price any member of the Capitol can do the same," he said, "with any victor."

That was like a door opening in Rose's head. Snow caught her off guard, and that was something she hadn't planned for. The words hit her in the face without her realising and she was silent for several seconds. Rose looked at Snow and knew without him saying anything that he knew about her and Alfie. Even if he thought it was simply sex.

"...So, the suit," the man said changing the subject "I can count on you and your talent to be able to do something for the grand coronation of our new victor?"

If Rose thought she was going to be able to steer the conversation where she wanted it to go, she was wrong. Snow had always been in charge of the meeting.

"Of course, Mr. Snow. I need to take measurements, nothing more, and talk about the colours and textures you prefer."

Snow nodded. He found her company quite pleasant and to Rose's suprise he invited her to have dinner there. Some other people were also there. Just business and they talked about money and investments, so Rose barely talked. She listened to them, tho. But in reality, her mind was busy with his words

"With any victor..."

It was late. The ninth floor was in silence and the lights were out. Rose walked barefoot towards the kitchen and pour herself a glass of water.

Fuck.

People always talked about Snow like the most intimidating man you could met, but it was a different thing when you have him in front of your eyes.

He was charming but his gaze was so cold, empty and yet full of cunningness. He was the perfect example of a psychopath. A man perfectly aware of what he could cause on other people and with a dark side he couldn't hide. A charming manipulator.

He didn't invented the Games, but he was the one who perfected them and made that thousands of thousands of people considered acceptable the fact that kids were massacred every year. 1484 kids dead and counting since the beginning of the games and people were happy about that.

Rose felt the cold tiles under her feet while she walked towards his bedroom. She knew Alfie was still upset with her, but she needed a familiar face after that encounter. Carefully she opened the door, Rose saw his silhouette in the darkness. He was sleeping soundly and didn't hear her.

She left her dress on a chair and laid next to him. Her face was against his back and she could feel his perfume. That man was her whole world, even if it was a world she could have for a couple of weeks every year. She planted a kiss on his broad shoulders and then closed her eyes.

Alfie didn't notice her until very late when he rolled over the bed and saw her at his side. He hadn't seen her the whole evening and was worried about her, despite everything.

When he put an arm around her, she opened her eyes.

"I didn't want to wake you up. When you came here?"

"A couple of hours ago. It's okay, I wasn't really sleeping. I'm sorry I'm here… I- uhg… it was an awful day, Al. I just needed you. I know you're angry but…"

"Yeah. Well, sweetheart, I can't be angry with you for that long, can I? Time is something we don't have and I don't want to spend this year away from you. I thought about looking for you, but I didn't know where you were"

"I really love you, Al."

"I know and I love you, too."

A long and warm kiss was all they needed. Alfie was right, the last thing they had was time.

"Snow called me," she finally said, when he brought her against his body. "Fucking hell, Alfie… Snow. I almost shitted myself."

"Holy hell, Rosie… what the fuck! What happened?!"

"He wanted someone new to make him a suit for the award ceremony. No one knows who the victor will be, but they planned everything with anticipation. So, here I am… sewing a suit for that prick."

"Did you accept?!"

"It's not like I have any other options. You can't refuse to do anything when it's about him. Or you pay the consequences. And there's more…"

"Even more? What else happened?"

The bedroom was dark and yet Alfie could swear that he could see her brown eyes. So she told him "He knows we're having an affair." Alfie felt he was about to die.

"I didn't tell him," she rushed to say "he knew. Don't ask me why, because I don't know, but he knew…"

"Fuck me."

"But then he said something interesting," she stopped a moment and stroked his hand "he said: for the right price, any member of the Capitol can have any victor."

Alfie understood that statement very well. Sadly, he knew what that meant. He turned the light on to see her properly.

"Are you going to pay for my company?"

"I'm tired of seeing you once a year. I'm tired of us being apart. But I could never, ever, do that if you're not okay with this. I give a shit about the money, Lawrence has so much money that he doesn't know what to do with it… but I need to know if you agree. We survived five years apart we can keep doing this."

"That's contribute to the corrupt system you're trying to break."

"You think I don't know that? But I want to see you more often. As selfish as it sounds. I miss you! And It's a fuck up situation,  Al. It's just I thought… I didn't want to offend you."

"You didn't offend me. You're just asking for my consent."

"Of course I'm asking for your consent!! I'd never forced you into anything! What the hell!"

"Then as a victor I can demand something in exchange of my services. I have only one requirement: if one of my kids, now or in the future, win the games I want you to promise me that you're going to pay for them. Exclusivity. So you can protect them from your husband and his friends," Alfie stared at her and Rose nodded.

"Yes. I can do that. But I'm not paying for your services,  but for us. I'm paying for talking to you, for sharing a meal, for a hug or two… I don't want, if you don't wa…"

"Rosie, luv. I want," he interrupted her. "But they don't know about this. Let them believe I'm your sex toy."

She didn't want to laugh but she couldn't help it either. "Damn, Al, you're a very expensive sex toy."

"Well, darling, I know my value," he kissed her briefly "do you think that Snow has an eye on us?"

"Al, Snow has an eye on every one in fucking Panem. You, me, the kids and his own family… only controlling every single one of us, he can remain there."

"And yet,  you're trying to burn him" Alfie said, at the same time one of his hands were brushing her ribcage.

"When you're an elephant, you ignore the ants. I'm just an ant. One of hundreds that are under his feet but he can't see."

.

The beginning of the games werealso the beginning of Alfie's nightmare. One more time.

When mentors saw the Arena, they turned their heads towards Alfie who was the only who didn't seem surprised by it. But only one dared to confront him.

"Well, of course you sent your tributes to a special training place! I asked myself why did you waste time sending them to a fucking swimming pool instead of training like the rest of us! It's clear now! Your whore told you the Arena! The bitch knew it!"

Aveline Young was staring at Alfie with hatred in her black eyes. Way taller than him, the black woman wasn't afraid of his angry face.

"That was my fucking decision, Aveline! I sent them there because I thought it was a long time since they created an Arena full of water. I was lucky!"

"Do not underestimate my intelligence. I know you since you were a tribute, I saw you become a Victor and a mentor. You were always the same until you met that woman. I understand you want a pussy, but you're fucking the wrong one!" Aveline stepped closer to him "she'll betray you. She's an Evert. No matter what she's telling you."

Alfie pushed her away from him "don't you dare to talk about her as you know her, Aveline. I'm not underestimating your intelligence. But you don't underestimate mine. And she's not just a pussy."

"Avie…" a new voice interfered with the confrontation between those two. "I don't think it does matter now. The games started and we already lost eight kids. We don't need more drama.  And in the end it's not your business." Tommy Shelby was the one that talked.

"Well, your tributes are alive! Mine are not! And it's my business. Maybe they'd stand a chance if they had the same privileges as Alfie. What side are you choosing?"

"I'm not choosing any side! There aren't any sides here."

"Oh, please…" Aveline rolled her eyes.

But Alfie was out of his mind.

"Privileges?! What fuckin' privileges are ya talkin' about?!" Alfie growled and walked towards her "Do you think my previous kids had privileges because she's my friend? Did you  see their violent deaths? Did ya see my girl last year? They stabbed her heart!! Do you think these ones, this year, have any chance of winning? For the smart woman we know you're, Aveline, you're a fuckin' idiot!" Alfie stared at her once last time before going to the elevator.

"Alfie! Alfie!"

A familiar voice was calling him, but he ignored the call. "Alfie!"

"Not now, Lucy."

The red haired woman stood up there, looking at him. Then, she furrowed her brow "You're going to listen to me, Alfie Solomons!" she grabbed his hand before he could put a foot inside the elevator. "Let me remember you what I told you years ago. Not every one here think like her. Volcano Girl can be very stubborn! I didn't believe you when you said you didn't know about the Arena, I think you knew and you trained your kids to win. But I'm not judging you and Tommy isn't judging you either. You're doing what you need to do to have at least one victor. And it's okay."

"Tell that to them, then! The ones who think like Young! They're fucking thinking I'm… what? A traitor? What if I knew before her about the Arena? I'm tired of losing kids! We're all tired of losing kids! And yet, there's no guarantee that any of mine can survive!! Even if I knew about it fucking days ago!! Fuck!! She's talking like i designed that fucking monstrosity! Like my Rosie designed it! Fuck them all."

Lucy chuckled "My Rosie?"

Alfie realised that he shouldn't say that, but it was too late. He talked without thinking. He was furious and was trying to defend himself and also Rose.

"You're fricking in love with her, Alfie."

But he didn't respond instead he pressed the button to call the elevator and faced Lucy one last time that day "See you later."

When Alfie entered their floor, he found himself alone. Nor Alissa nor Rose were there. He suspected that last one was busy with Snow's suit. Alfie opened her bedroom, sat down on her bed and sighed. He knew that things were going to be difficult. No one could give a fuck if Rose could have had another surname, a harmless one. The problem from the very beginning wasn't that she was married the problem was Evert.

Over his head there was the painting representing the Capitol and behind it numerous sheets of paper with information that could make the other victors shut up. But he didn't know that.

When he calmed down, he returned to the hall to see the rest of first day of the games. And he arrived just in time to see his boy, Alex, die in hands of the girl from district 4. Not long after that, Hilda drowned herself trying to grab a backpack.

Not even having special training his tributes could win. And yet, people said he had privileges.

Next part

[brainwormsdepository]

To Take Up the Shawl (1/3)

Pairing: Liandrin Guirale x Fem!Reader

Warnings: None

Notes: Tried to blend aspects of both the show and the books. May have gotten some things wrong because despite Herculean efforts, I just can’t get into the books.

Six years and 267 days. That was how long you had been at The White Tower in Tar Valon. You had counted them all, each and every one, longing for the quiet of home. The cool night air and the fragrant smell of ripe fruit bearing heavy in the tree above you was the closest proximation the tower provided to your quaint village. After a long day of chores, personal studies, and teaching novices simple weaves, the moonlit garden was your refuge: a place of hushed contemplation. If you closed your eyes, you swore you could even hear the sea through the rustling of leaves.

“Should have known I’d find you out here, tucked away in a corner as usual.”

“Liandrin Sedai,” you greeted, only bothering to open one eye to acknowledge her approach. There was an unmistakeable sway in her hips that betrayed an intention for mischief. She sat herself beside you on the grass, then extended a hand outward. In her palm was a fresh peach.

She had a thing with food, you noticed. Every time she was attempting to ingratiate herself to another, food was either on offer or a point of conversation. You had an inkling she came from an upbringing where food was scarce. Likely a sore spot for Liandrin too, considering how everyone knew her upper class Taraboner accent was forced. Never one to intentionally stir up animosity, you took the peach from her and settled yourself more comfortably against the base of the tree.

“Can I help you with something? Can’t imagine you came looking for me just for some pleasant conversation.”

“Please, what kind of help could I possibly need from an Accepted.” She took a bite from her peach and crossed one leg over the other.

“So it’s my dazzling charm you desire.” In truth, you were rather fond of the red sister. She had a certain bite you admired and for one reason or another, she was uncharacteristically lenient with you. Liandrin was one of two sisters you sought mentorship from, the other being a sister of the Yellow Ajah. Both expected nothing less than perfection and their hardline approach to instruction suited you well.

“Because you’re positively social, yes?” You laughed at her remark.

“When I take up the shawl I’ll be sure to join your sisters in white then.” It was Liandrin’s turn to laugh.

“A decision sure to surprise everyone. That’ll set tongues wagging.” You settled in a comfortable silence after that, enjoying the fruit and watching the stars. You liked these moments. Only you and her and no one else to force a mask of practiced placidity on your faces. In these pockets of time there was no concept of Aes Sedai, Accepted, or Novice. Just two women, companions of a sort though perhaps still too early to confidently call it friendship. Some nights you wondered what it would have been like if the two of you attended as novices together. You thought of the novices who would become particularly close during their years here—pillow friends they were called. You felt your face warm at the highly inappropriate thought. But it was a thought you were forced to contend with ever since you entered the silver arches three years prior. Soft lips, eager hands, then blood, screams… and that collar.

“I feel no need to worry about your next test. You’re ready, yes? So, onto the more important question: what ajah will you choose?”

“Red.” You heard Liandrin shift beside you rather abruptly. You refused to look at her, feigning disinterest. Liandrin probably didn’t think you’d be so certain of your choice yet or, at the very least, that you wouldn’t be so forthcoming even if you were. “Will you take me with you on your hunts if I choose red?”

“Honestly, I thought you would choose yellow.” Her accent slipped for a moment in her disbelief.

“Will you take me with you?” You asked again, turning your head to look at her. “I studied healing as much as I did because I wanted to be an asset to you and your sisters.” You looked at her neck and saw that damned collar. If you could have healed in the arches none of what followed would have happened. You closed your eyes, took a deep breathe, and exhaled through your nose to regain your composure. “Please.”

“I would like to, I think.” A pregnant pause stretched between you and you thought maybe Liandrin was expanding her mental map of who you were—connections being made and puzzle pieces sliding into place. If there was anyone in the tower you had let in enough to tear you down, it was undoubtedly her. The problem being you never truly knew how much she saw. “I’m going to press my luck here,” she began again and you did not dare interrupt, “but really, after hearing the whispers of your impending test, I simply wanted to glean which ajah you were leaning toward. But now I must ask, why insist so adamantly that you accompany me and mine outside this tower?” She sounded oddly suspicious suddenly, perhaps uncertain to your motivation.

“Do you think there is any truth to what the arches show us?” You asked instead.

“You know no one knows that,” she sighed, irritated.

“But what do you think?” Liandrin appeared uncomfortable with the question, jaw set and eyes transfixed on the blades of grass brushing against her brown boots.

“I hope not,” she said at last.

“Me too. But since—as you say—no one knows… I don’t want to take any chances. So, please, let me be selfish. We both know I’d be the best healer the reds have if I pass.”

“I know. You’ll make a powerful sister.” You smiled at the compliment. Boldly, you leaned your head against her shoulder. You felt her body tense, but graciously, she did not pull away instead allowing you to drink deep of the fleeting moment.

“Thank you, Liandrin Sedai. I won’t let such words go to waste. I’ll make you proud, I promise.”

[precisionbattlesystem]

Safety Lock

Cynthia didn’t like what she became when in the thralls of battle.

It was focused, uncaring and merciless. It would raze a planet and tear down the heavens for a laugh, because it could. It would bastardize children, widow women, and slander the very name of a soul because what other choice would a combat doll be held accountable for?

That all changed when Angel entered her life, calming those cold calculations with warmth in her heart. Angel always knew what was best. Cynthia was not fit to be a Combat Doll, far from it. She was better off as a caretaker, keeping the flowers in the Garden and protecting those who had sought refuge from the tolls of existing.

So Angel went to task and locked up the storm inside of Cynthia. Locks were engaged around her soul. Cynthia wasn’t really an entity with her own existence, but a prison so that the monster could never escape.

There are so many things that Cynthia could be now since it no longer bound her to a singular thought.

She sought out to understand the world more. She traveled with her Angel, learned new things across several countries. Cynthia always had the brightest smile painted across her visage.

She studied philosophy and learned about peace. She became practiced in art and could masterfully paint a landscape. She grew orchards of sustenance and fed an entire lifetime of people. All with the help of her Angel of course.

She grew to depend on her Angel. She never had to depend on anyone ever since her last Keeper. A Witch who cackled at the sight of destruction. Maybe that was why she used to crave such a thing. To impress those she has lost to the passage of time.

But it was different now.

She could focus on what made her happy.

And that was Angel.

Angel foresaw issues with this however. “You cannot rely on me to make yourself whole, that is a task only meant for you,” Angel then cast her down from her gates and back onto the Earth.

Cynthia wished to scream bloody vengeance, but could not. She wished she could tear down the Angel’s home, but could not. She wanted to end her own life, but could not.

She could not rip out the throats of the villagers who saw her fall. She could not run away from the endless thanks from those that she helped. She could not provide for those who had sought aid.

All of that was thanks to Angel.

She held no part in the help she provided. She was simply there. She helped because her Angel was there. The only reason for her existence was to keep the monster locked away for none to see.

But to only exist to keep another from doing harm, is not a true existence, is it?

She has clearly done good. She has graced others with life, she created things that she could never imagine, she has taught generations of people how to live.

Surely she can learn those same lessons.

It took a year for her to achieve her own sentience. A decade further to decipher what it meant. And a century to gather the courage to approach her old home where her Angel awaited her.

This would be the part of the story where she returns with new ideas about herself, fully able to let herself be and no longer a prison, but a unique individual with her own goals and desires.

She would be welcomed into her Angel’s open arms and they would embrace each other. Enjoy each other’s company and exchanged kisses and tears.

But 111 years is a long time to wait.

And demons were in no mood to delay their plans.

Cynthia climbed up to the Gates of her home and did not see a lovely vista of beauty that she grew accustomed to her life here.

She saw destruction and dread. She could faintly recognize the corpses of her allies that she once knew. Students of arts and science, intelligence can’t prevent burning to a crisp. Heavy footfalls with brittle crunches as she made her way through bodies and black stained spots on the earth.

The locks would not budge on her soul. Something that was itching inside of her. A new voice… or an old voice? “Let me out. Let me out. Let me out.” Cynthia recognized it immediately. It wanted to be forward again, surely instigated by the views of her old life.

“No. We can reason with whoever has done this. Peace is always an option,” Cynthia whispered to herself. The lessons she has learned while away are the truth. Maybe this was all a test.

She made entry into her Angel’s home and saw her Angel on the ground of the blood stained tiled floor. Cynthia rushed to her side. She knew everything was going to be okay. She would not be alone. Not again.

“My doll,” Angel spoke calmly despite her wounds, despite her wings burning to ash. “Eliberează încuietorile,”

Cynthia could feel something inside of her unlock.

“I am here my Angel. Whatever you need. I apologize for my delay, but I see now that peace can come from inside. I am whole now. We can exist happily together, forever, for eternity, we can-”

“I’m s-sorry,” Her Angel, for the first time, broke her perfect cadence as she began to sob, bringing a finger to the doll’s lips to silence her. Cynthia looks so beautiful. She has come so far, made progress that the Angel was unsure it was possible. With her last breath, she could only utter a single word. A command, “Go,”

Her Angel was no more.

The locks around her soul were beginning to fade. Like a gun, when an owner disengages the safety lock, that can only mean one thing.

And Cynthia couldn’t.

The voice inside of her was finally forward! It could finally wreak havoc on all who have wronged it! But what was this feeling? This sense of justice? It never existed before… it was blood driven, but it wasn’t stupid.

No one can erase a soul that they didn’t create. Cynthia was still inside it. Was It the prison now? It disliked that notion.

It knew what it was like to be locked away like a beast.

“Come with me. We can get revenge. Together,” It spoke, with a dialect it was unfamiliar with.

It was never given a name. Its previous Witch did not believe in naming things. Things were meant to be discarded when they were no longer useful. But Angel always gave everything a name. It was important. For a memory to make an everlasting stain in the river of time.

“What should I call you?” Cynthia asked.

“Cyanide will do,” It answered.

It was not a mindless killing machine like it was before. It was a thing for a Purpose. A drive. It could be a peacekeeper, a necessary tool to. To snuff out the flames of those who would harm Cynthia.

Cyanide could.

And it would.

[eemamminy-art]

desire, failure, guilt, hate, and heartbreak for whichever oc you like~

I'm going to answer these with a few different OCs, since different OCs come to mind with the prompts! It'll be long so let me put a read more cut! Also please proceed with caution as this dives into some very dark and heavy topics (thought not in great detail).

oc asks: not-so-nice edition

desire: What's one thing your OC wants more than anything in the world? Are they open with that desire? Why or why not? What would they do to fulfill it?

This question makes me realize that a lot of my characters don't really have big lofty dreams, at least not in the present. I think some of them have backstories with big dreams, but otherwise they're just getting by.

Mal, my stardew valley OC, might be the best suited for this question. He really craves love, community, and family. He was an unwanted child, so his mother made damn sure he knew it, being very cold and then having bursts of anger and verbal abuse. He was close with his grandparents but only could ever see them sparingly, but he built up this fantasy in his head of living with them on their farm and being a happy little family. He does inherit their farm when they die and drops out of university and basically throws away all he's been working toward up until that point in order to move there, but he quickly finds that the quaint little community he remembered as a child isn't quite what it seems. So even in attaining what he thought he wanted, it still takes a lot of work after that to build up a home and community that makes him feel loved and like he finally belongs somewhere.

failure: What's your OC's greatest failure? Have they been able to move past it? Does anyone else know about it? & guilt: What is your OC guilty about? How do they handle their guilt? Do they try to avoid guilt, or do they accept it?

Putting these together because they tie together really well for Cam, my fallout OC. When he was a teenager, he went on his first job with an older girl he considered a friend, a mentor, and a bit of a crush, Nerissa. She worked for a caravan as a guard, and Cam had been practicing his sharpshooting for a while and was going to ride along.

There was a raider ambush and it was a total slaughter. He choked in the moment and just froze, then hid, and continued to freeze. He watched people die gruesomely, and as something truly horrible was about to happen to Nerissa he ran. He ran so far he didn't settle down anywhere until he had reached the other end of the country several years later.

It messed him up pretty deeply. He fell deep into alcohol, took to cannibalism to survive and found he kind of liked it, which added another layer of guilt to his already guilty conscience. It gave him a complex about women, the thought of ever being with a woman after letting Nerissa be tortured and presumably killed made him feel like he never had the right to ever love any woman. Just haunted by his actions that day, forever.

It's something he does eventually work through, but not until over a decade has passed, and along the way he was as self destructive as possible. He's bi so he would only ever sleep with men during that time and would let them be just horrible to him, he never allowed himself to get close to anyone, he numbed the pain with liquor but often found his guilty conscience kept him awake at night. He'd throw himself headlong into danger because he felt he had nothing to lose, but always, always that survival instinct would kick in and he'd use whatever dirty tricks he had to in order to make it out alive.

Boy has had it rough lol I think even when he starts working through all of that trauma finally, it takes a very very long time for him to start to forgive himself and be kind to himself.

hate: What does your OC hate? Why? How do they act towards the object of their hatred?

Unsurprisingly, my wol Leigh hates the Garlean empire. He was born in Ala Mhigo and was forced to seek refuge in Ul'dah at a very young age like so many others. His parents were of Ala Mhigan and Doman descent so he had double the baggage when it came to hating the Garleans too. He was robbed of not only his home, but his family, and the chance to ever see his parents' homelands for the better part of his lifetime.

It becomes a little tricky for him, since his story is a little bit canon divergent and there are some Eorzean nations that ally themselves with Garlemald, and he has no choice but to work with them at various points. He has to watch his tongue, which is one of Leigh's worst skills lol he always speaks before he thinks, and has struggled to keep himself from getting into a political incident by speaking his mind about the empire.

heartbreak: Have they ever had a relationship that ended badly? Experienced some other kind of heartbreak? What happened?

I think all of the three I wanted to write about here have faced heartbreak of some kind or another.

Cam: I already mentioned above about Nerissa, but he went through some further heartbreak later on too. He got into a several months-long situationship with a guy who had a jet problem, and although it wasn't great it was the only companionship he'd ever really had. So when that person ultimately suffered an overdose eventually, it honestly devastated him. In his grief he cannibalized a good bit of him, in some bid to keep a part of him with him. :')

Leigh: He tried a little bit of dating in his youth but nothing ever really panned out. He and his best friend tried kissing one another but there was no spark, so they managed to keep things amicable after that little bit of experimentation together. He did end up getting into a relationship with the son of a wealthy businessman in Ul'dah, but the class divide and Leigh being an Ala Mhigan unbalanced the relationship dramatically. To keep up appearances, his "boyfriend" would ridicule him in public, treat him like the scum of the earth, but then lavish him with gifts and praise in private. It really messed with his self esteem and sense of worth, and gave him a disdain toward the rich.

Mal: I think this is not nearly so extreme as the other two, but Mal's heartbreak centered around his sexuality. He's interested in men but he's asexual, so in high school he had gotten into two relationships which both ended up with the other boys mocking him and rejecting him for it. It gave him a bit of a complex, and now he's somewhat self conscious about his body, since those boys referred to it as being "broken" for not reacting in the way theirs did when it came to intimacy.

[elfqueen006]

Beauty In The Beast (1)

Knight!Jacktor/Joseph x Dragon!May-Rose (OC)

---

A/N: sooo, since we're nearing the end of Smaugust and I haven't been giving my usual contributions to this blog like I felt I should, I might as well give y'all this months old draft that will hopefully continue! Thank you and enjoy!

---

Joseph had managed to slip through a tight but sizable opening in the cove.

He'd often heard that these types of locations had a sizable opening at the forefront, but that was currently being blocked by a sizeable amount of boulders.

If not for the hoard he would've thought the cove abandoned.

Nay, it'd simply locked out future intruders.

Joseph's eyes followed the scraped trail across the floor that led to the blockade. If Joseph hadn't known any better, he would think the rubble was too articulated for a mere beast to have made. But he supposed it could have been reasoned with something as simple as animal habit or instinct, like how rabbits or foxes would make a burrow for their kin; anything fit for protection could be adapted to.

So if the creature wouldn't enter through there, the only reasonable option was the skylight.

The sun's rays shone like a beacon of hope in the dark cave, directly hitting the dragon's hoard. It sparkled with radiant light. The way it shimmered drew Joseph in without hesitancy.

When he took a handful of coin from the hoard it'd been cooled, likely by the dragon's body.

He gasped when he noticed the kings mint on most of the coinage.

Just like the dutchess had said..!

He recalled the words of the noblewoman clear as day.

"Dragons are infamous for keeping hoards; you'll find this one is no different," she'd said, "the king himself has given up sending knights to retrieve his piece of missing hoard. So should you slay the beast, the riches would be under your name entirely."

A twitch of a smirk played on her lips when noticing his astonished expression.

Knighthood, while honest work, wasn't as luxurious he'd hoped it would be. When fleeing his old village he'd sought out a life where he would be held in high regard. Adored, cherished... loved.

He learned the hard way that gaining such attention wouldn't come so easily. Women often laughed at him, his mentors hazed him relentlessly as a squire, and even for a while he had to sleep in the barns of the knights' manors.

But in the long run it had not been for naught. For as he grew in size, so did his admirers. And he was sought out for many jobs to where he earned a hefty sum in return for his services.

It hadn't been enough exactly to rid himself of sharing a home with mentor turned fellow Chevalier Jean Laurent - the cad.

But as fate would have it, he was also the duchess' brother, leading him to the woman who then made her demand:

"Slay the dragon that's cursed my son. And you could be the richest man in Generia.

He liked the sound of that. Though her choice of wording pestered him his journey to the cove. 'Could'.

Could he?

Renowned legends told him he could. But what are legends other than prettied up hearsay?

And even if he could. The dragon seemed to be no where-

RrAAAAAGH-

The knight jolted as a sharp inhuman cry tore through the air.

"It's here..."

Joseph took refuge behind one of the discarded piles of rubble, luckily large enough to tower him. He hears its call once more. For a moment it simply circles the cove; probably alerting its presence to would-be trespassers.

If Joseph were on any different business he'd be quick to heed its warning.

Soon the creature stopped circling. It landed on the cove surface, it's weight heavy enough to shake the ground.

Joseph took a cautious peek from hiding and had to cover his mouth in other to keep from gasping.

To say it was ghastly was a bit of an overstatement, but it'd been nothing like he'd ever seen before.

It was smaller than he imagined. Not as small as he, of course, but it'd been slim enough to slip through the cove opening. It slithered down the hoard of treasures and circled it. It was long enough so that the thing's tail met with its nose could make a perfect circle.

The body in the shadows of the cove it could look black as ash, but the light bouncing off the treasure had illuminated its scales and revealed them to be a deep purple.

Joseph wondered, if he pulled this off, how much the coat of a dragon could go for?

Would it be grander than the hoard before him?

Maybe he could take that and then some!

The dragon continued to circle its hoard until it stopped at a particular spot.

Sharp airy puffs signified that it was sniffing the hoard - Nay, inspecting it.

And by the way it's pupils had constricted, Joseph could tell it didn't like what it picked up.

Its hiss made the knights' blood run cold as he tried desperately to control his breathing.

The thing stomped about its home, sticking its head in deep nooks and corners to see where the possible intruder had hidden.

And it would've almost gotten close to where he hid, if not for the next turn of events.

"May-Rooose!"

The dragon stilled and looked up to the ceiling. When the voice called again, it'd hissed and flew out to inspect the other would-be intruder.

[luvpogl-music]

[It wouldn't be fair of me children of chicanery to say good night with out addressing more of the mess our little Noir has gotten herself in. It seems to me that the reason flamingo's only stand on one foot is (oh, wait, that Hans Christian again; playing hands int eh madness and mystery only poor men and women see). Here we are again, the notes of my Tabula rasa (hint: it's a big old Latin word that means nothing) it seems we left this languishing lady in the midst and fear that what had plagued her all along was finally causing her to drown]

With all her might and all her strength Noir began throwing magic and breathing fire battling of the fiends that were around, taking refuge only in the solace of two small dragons that claimed her castle for their own. The constant barrage of attention driving her farther into isolation, and no matter how hard she seemed to work, God seemed to longer listen to her dreams of the things in her heart. Feeling destined and doomed she too started to covet the lies those around her had told; since after all they were concerned for her "best interests".

So, when those magical bread crumbs began arriving at her feet, befuddled by something so odd and unique her heart did feel a warmth and the happiness once again glowed. And those people around her, they saw how enthused and amused they enraptured her mind. At first it was cute, and many pretended too to be amazed with the skill and craft of the hands that created them. But then, as does when jealousy sets in, the anger grew from within each of them leaving with only thoughts of how to deceive and gain advantage of things that awoke her attention. Boxes and letter would be opened by everyone, pieces and parts scattered about with little or no regard to the attentiveness which had packed them. Grabbing hold of the portions of papers that were hers only seeking to catch a glimpse to serve their shameless shallowness.

For a time Noir was so impressed her time was again dancing on cloud nine. While God continued to work the magic with which he guides all of us, evil does like it always does and began to creep it's darkness into things that shine, bringing with it vulgar acts of deceit to wash it out. No longer were the gifts that fell from heaven seen as good; no those demons took them and because the words confused them so turned them into words of abuse. At times others would jeer with pride how it was them who sent the offerings of peace and light. Conspiracies and rumors began to crumble the walls of her heart and too, thoughts of terrible things began to occupy her mind. All because some children around her, spoke words of disgust to force their beliefs upon her.

No longer did those gifts seem what her heart had told her as right, instead they turned into the sick tokens of stalkers and heathens. Attitude grew darker and darker and fear; fear reached up to seize the perfect opportunity as it does in all of us, just when things get hardest. But some absurd belief that claiming power over evil is to stand up and gather groups of demons to stand and spew venom at the hearts of good women and men; all hoping too that the poison will overtake the blood of life and sicken it as much as it sickens them. Growing stronger and stronger, like mob mentality, until the world joins in, unaware of anything that's truth, all connected by the joy in abuse and attack of something that jealousy turned from love into rage; claiming righteousness under the veil of deception, believing that God wants us to attack ghosts of evil, rather than the evil that is right in front of us.

This lifted another spirit inside of Noir like she hadn't ever felt before. A power and sense of finally being one of the "cool kids"; all rallying around that common attack of something that never was, only figments of their misunderstood minds. The beat their chests with pride bragging of just the things they would do should they ever get their hands on him. Many using it just to grab hold of that which was God's. And in the height of the hysteria and mysteriousness, a silent scream cried out to the heavens above, a scream which was heard by no one, but him. And Job looked at what sat in his lap, and he knew he couldn't just leave that one last attempt to the winds of trash. So, as the silent scream reached his chest, he pushed it aside and sent one last gift.

[Now my mind is to tired to talk of things that demand serious concern and nature of words such as this. So we will leave Noir their silently screaming to the hearts of the world, and Job, the only one around in full control of himself. So, sleep soundly seamstresses of sin; and when we pick this journal of drafted notes up again. I do believe that maybe, Job and Noir may just finally meet].

[raviosprovidence]

Hi, here's my experience. Buckle the fuck up, because you're getting part my life story and this post is incredibly dismissive

I was one of those kids. Identified as ace from around 13/14 to 18/19. Dates are a little off and a little fuzzy, due to me identifying as ace but not aro, having a private crisis as an adult, and then later officially casting off the label, but it was around 5-6 years.

I grew up as a very awkward kid who probably had some kind of neurodivergence and sought refuge on Tumblr. Yes, this opened me up to all sort of identities and taught me a great deal, but it also taught me "if you don't experience sexual attraction, you're ace!!" (same with romantic attraction) and i did! I was happy as aroace! I ignored all the naysayers saying i was too young. I didn't need romance in my life! Life was great! And besides, no one could have a crush on me and I could never feel that sort of rejection if I just didn't feel attraction. We'll come back to this later

ironically, while browsing for exclusionists to harass (yes, i was deep in ace discourse on instagram), I saw something that gave me pause: the idea of a late bloomer. This never occurred to me. I had already been a late bloomer developmentally, due to me not talking until I hit 4 years old, but i didn't know that sometimes, sexual attraction didn't hit until until one was in their late teens or early 20's. And even the concept that stress, weight, and other factors outside of one's direct control could have an impact on someone not feeling sexual or romantic attraction.

But I was 17 and thought I knew everything, so I disregarded that.

I ignored all those feelings I had where I'd get blushy around women. i would brush it off and say I was just admiring them. After all, couldn't I, as a woman, admire other women? Meanwhile, everyone online was encouraging me being ace, despite my friends in real life questioning my sexuality. My friends didn't know what they were talking about!

Until I had a crisis in college. I realized i did want a relationship! I wanted to have sex with women! I was just suppressing all of those feelings and covering them with an ace flag colored band aid. If I had actually wizened up and talked about this earlier, i could have identified as a lesbian WAY earlier than months before I turned 22.

So, you may ask, why was I hurt?

I closed myself off from dating. Ever, because I didn't feel that attraction. At the prime time when you're supposed to experiment with that. And further on, in college, while all my friends were dating and fucking, as someone who didn't even know their sexuality, I didn't want to hurt anyone by getting with someone while I wasn't attracted to them. I completely and utterly shut myself off from gaining experience during the very prime years when one typically gains experience. I don't think most of the people reblogging this understand how difficult it is to date when you have ZERO experience. It's hard on you/ It's hard on your potential partners. You will face challenges and hurdles most do not have to face, because they were out having fun while I had mentally decided since I'd never experience sexual attraction, I didn't need that

Seeing all your peers be leagues ahead of you in terms of romance/sex because you were an idiot 14-year-old who believed people on the internet is damaging, contrary to what you're saying. Could this have still happened even if I didn't identify as ace? Maybe, maybe not. But if I didn't, I could have worked through the issues that I refused to deal with due to identifying as ace (weight gain, internalized homophobia, etc.). Ironically, I had a friend go through something similar, but they were ace for a much shorter time than me and was able to have that experience during her teenage years. I'm happy it worked out for her.

This isn't wholly an ace problem. I recognize that. it's why I am very critical of labels and asking people why they identify as something (when it's appropriate, ofc. I don't go around asking people unprompted). People always give me shit when I tell them that you can absolutely use a label as a bandaid for your problems. Thats why it is important to ask questions and unpack shit. I do not doubt that asexuality is a real identity. I have met plenty of very happy ace people who understand themselves and still came away with that conclusion. But there is this idea that no sexual attraction = asexuality no matter what, when sexuality is a lot more complex than what you think. And if my story helps out some other kid in a similar situation, then it will have been worth it.

So yeah, OP. Maybe don't be dismissive of other people who have had similar experiences.

tbh it doesn't rly hurt teenagers to incorrectly id as ace like... what's the worst than could happen? they don't have sex till they're older?? lol

[forensicated]

03x05 - Domestics

TW: As the title suggests it's about domestic violence and... yeah. There's a lot wrong with the misogynistic view of DA/DV in this episode as it was written and filmed in the 80's. Also a warning for racism.

It's not a good morning for our merry band of men (and women).

Roy Galloway is irritated by a loud motorbike pulling up beside him after an early start with a bad hangover. He's further annoyed to find Bob has parked in his space and can't move his car because of a flat tyre. Bob gets a telling off from a rather annoyed Roy!

Ken Melvin finds a car initially suspected to have just poorly parked, however the tax disk raises his suspicion as there's been a flood of dodgy ones recently. Ted won't attend because he's the only one in CID and is rushed off his feet, Tom won't allow Ken to come in for his break until CID arrive! In the mean time, Brian Kite has reported to Ted, wanting CID to 'cross-fertilise with him' "Into farming now is he?" Roy drawls.

Taffy has proposed to his girlfriend and they're due to get married on Saturday. As yet he hasn't told anyone other than Bob.

Nick Shaw complains about a numb bum in the CAD room, asking June if she gets the same. He adds that Reg definitely does given how much of the shift he spends sitting down. Frequent complainer, Mrs Robert - a warden at a new women's refuge - rings the station to complain about a man trying to break the door down.

Yorkie moans he's already attended twice that week when sent to deal. He finds a man shouting for 'Barbara'. "You've really done it this time!" he threatens, booting the door. Yorkie tells him to back off and the man threatens him. Yorkie calmly suggests that if he hit him, it'd be the dearest one he'd ever done. Realising he can't intimidate Yorkie as he does his wife, the man backs down. A group of female neighbours watch, they tell Yorkie that the man should be locked up and that the refuge has done nothing but cause trouble since it opened (meaning the estranged husbands turning up) and should be shut down. The man shouts that his 'kids better be alright!' in there and that 'the old cow of a warden' won't let him in to see his family. He insists he has rights but Yorkie tells him he has no rights and to calm down. He takes him for a cup of tea around the corner to talk it through, reporting it back to the station and telling June and Tom Penny that he thinks the local residents are up to something.

Yorkie asks the man if he's been hitting his wife and says that it must have been bad for her to leave. He asks the man if he has a job and he finally answers, snapping sarcastically that he's a brain surgeon. Yorkie reasons that there's clearly a lot of stress flying around if he's unemployed and asks if his wife took things with her for her and the children because a lot of women 'do it spur of the moment' and if their stuff is at home still then they'll likely return. He suggests that the man give it a couple of days and she might return.

Jim is sent to deal with the tax desk, sneaking up on Ken and making him jump. A man returns to fill the car boot for deliveries. Jim asks him where he bought the tax disk. He can't remember, despite it only being 2 weeks old. He says his wife must have bought it. Jim doesn't bite and brings him in. The man wants to square it with the post office because he can't face it being reported in the papers.

Brian comes to speak to a hungover Roy with a fancy talk about his 'cross fertilising' between CID and Uniform. It's clearly the last thing Roy needs as even Brian realises he's not on his usual form. "Are you alright?" "... Yeah, it's all the others." Roy covers. Brian claims that the station is clearly running at full strength manpower-wise as the uniform clearup rates are good but it's not the same for CID. Roy points out that he isn't at full strength team-wise and he's there 'to catch villains but let's just push some more paper around! That's what this police work is all about(!!)'

Taffy finally tells Viv that he's getting married on Saturday. He and Mary haven't lived together yet and Viv worries that they probably should before getting married. They find an old man trying to show another man his insurance after he accidentally hit his car trying to park. The other man is in a hurry and doesn't seem interested. He's nervous when the two PC's arrive but cooperates, telling them he's done nothing wrong and suggests he's only being checked because he's black. He tries to stop Viv looking in the back of his car which has at least 30 designer jackets hidden under a blanket.

Roy calls CID in to tell them about the meeting with Kite and that he wants CID to improve their numbers as their clear-up rates are 10% over the last month. June calls up about Leroy, the man who Taffy and Viv stopped. He's known to CID and Roy sends Dashers down, asks Jim to find out who is stealing alloy beer barrels, and orders Ted to resolve the tax disk scam.

Viv tells Mike that Leroy didn't know where he'd been, where he was going, or why when asked. "That's Leroy, the thinking man's villain." Mike sighs. They already know where the jackets were stolen from 36 hours previously. He claims he's only in because he's black and he's being discriminated against. "No, you did it all wrong, Leroy. That's why you're here."

"8 hours sat on your arse talking to a screen. This is no sort of job anymore." Nick moans. Wait till the future, son! 🤣 Brownlow rings downstairs and orders an 'unauthorised vehicle' in his parking bay to be removed.

A councillor arrives to talk to Bob about the refuge. The council wants to shut it down as it draws trouble to the street and embarrasses them but she understands the women are terrified and have nowhere else to go. Bob tells her they are aware of the problem and she asks them to keep a closer watch because the violence involved in the cases requires it. She points out the police have a poor clearup rate when it comes to domestic violence and Bob says it's hard to get the women to press charges. She asks how hard they actually tried.

Mike tells Leroy that they have had other cases of robbery over the last few days that have similar MO's. Mike says if he admits the other jobs he'll get all of an extra three months and won't be tried for them again at a later date. "Nothing personal, Leroy." Mike says calmly. "Nothing personal." Leroy scoffs. "Just black shit." There's a clear insinuation that Mike is setting him up to cough for the three extra jobs just to improve the CID clear-up rates with the promise of not hounding him as a suspect for them. "Make a statement, Leroy." "I'll make a statement. Bollocks, man. That's my statement."

The next morning, Alec tells Roy he won't charge Leroy on what they have and that he's screaming for a solicitor so he needs to get his finger out as he's almost at his 24 hour limit. Mike tells Roy that Leroy practically admitted to having done the jobs but won't hold his hands up. "He's like all the rest of them, he's got a chip on his shoulder."

In the canteen, Uniform whistle the wedding march as Taffy gets his lunch.

"Get your body over here you bloody Welsh Dresser!" They tease him about not telling them and ask about a honeymoon. Taffy says they're not having one as they're fixing their flat up first. Jim suggests that Sadie might put a buffet on for them at The Swan if he asks nicely but Taffy isn't sure as a table got broken last time. "What do you expect with these animals, you can't take 'em anywhere!" Jim smiles, promising he'll have a word with her to see if she will do it for them.

Mike enters an interview with Leroy telling him that he's guilty with Viv watching. He repeats it's only 3 months extra and it's worth it for him to admit it. Leroy tells him to go to hell. Mike pauses the tape for a refreshments break and instead of leaving the room, he speaks to Leroy, telling him he's come a long way from being a Rasta just 18 months ago. Viv looks visibly uncomfortable and Leroy snaps at Mike for discriminating again. Mike threatens to tell 'Fat Solomon that it was him who gave them the nod about him being a dealer if he helps them clear up the jobs. "If you're determined to end up at the bottom of the river..." "You wouldn't!?" Leroy looks to Viv. "...He wouldn't?" he tries again with an uncomfortable Viv looking away. "He would," Mike says calmly. "He promises you. Wouldn't be the river knowing Solomon. Probably a few dozen tins of dog food." When he's returned to Custody, Leroy keeps shouting at Alec and Viv that he wants a solicitor and that Fat Solomon was nothing to do with him.

Taffy is told to make a point of being visible on the street that the women's refuge is on. As Taffy speaks to the residents - including the man who Jim brought in about his tax disk - a woman shouts for him to go over to the refuge because a man (the man Yorkie dealt with earlier) is trying to climb the drain pipe. Luckily he doesn't make it and falls down. In his rush to escape he throws something at Taffy who ends up hitting the deck and the man escapes.

Sadie agrees to put on a buffet at the pub but Jim's attention is drawn to the men delivering the barrels as she lists what she can put on. He asks if there's a discount and she rolls her eyes and says they can have the back room and she'll put a buffet on on the house but 'no shenanigans!' as she still hasn't been paid for the table they broke last time. Jim then asks if Sadie has problems with the barrels

Viv has told Alec what happened with Leroy. He goes up to tell Roy. "She's not a happy girl and I don't want it!" Roy calls Dashers into his office and asks him if he knows why Alec would have been in to see him. Mike sighs. "Leroy's black and the Sarge wants to treat him like Mothercare?" "No...." "I've got to back off, is that it?" Roy tells him that he's heard that Mike has been offering Leroy 4 for the price of 1 and that without evidence he can't nick him. He reads him the riot act for what he'd done as he could have brought an investigation in for the entire station for the last three years of cases if Leroy complained in court about it. He warns Mike to charge him with only what he can prove and not to piss about.

Nick hands a woman back a cake that had been handed in as lost. "Happy 40th Birthday, Randy, love from Sexy Bum.' is iced on top.

Taffy's fiancée, Mary Jones arrives and asks to see him. Bob introduces her to everyone. The poor woman is very overwhelmed and only wants the key to the flat as they haven't got a spare one cut yet. Uniform are very amused when she calls him Frances and start calling him 'Frances' to each other and over CAD.

The councillor has gotten in touch with Brian Kite and told him that she's been fobbed off by Bob. Bob says he listened and has done his job. The councillor is now receiving threatening notes through the post, her car is being damaged and her bin was tipped over to prove they knew where she lived.

"It'll be one of the action comittee jokers." he sighs, telling Brian that the residents have formed a committee against the refuge.

Mary asks June if she's ever had the 'chance' to get married and June just pulls a face. Mary says it must be hard for her "because it's different for you, isn't it..." "Yeah...?" June blinks but Mary doesn't continue, sipping her coffee. Taffy soon appears but he's bearing the wounds of his run-in with the man from earlier...

Taffy is sent over to the refuge to help June who is facing an angry mob all by herself. The councillor who is being harassed lifted her clipboard to push Barbara's husband back when he was physically obstructing her away. He has a cut on his nose and claims she hit him with it. The warden tells them she had no choice because he wouldn't move and was physically intimidating her. He insists he's going to have her in court and wants to make a statement until he sees his wife and children appear at the front door. She agrees to see him - but only if the police stay. June calls in and Bob tells her that she can if she wants to. Close up Barbara has visible wounds and he promises her 'this time' he'll cut down on the drinking and promises that he won't do the 'money business'. Barbara tells June that he fines her for the slightest thing to keep her short on money and dependent on him. He insists it's not that bad and begs her to come home, asking her to talk without the police there. Barbara refuses to return home. Her husband insists he needs her and tries to force her to return home. "I can't. How can I?" she sobs to June who can't do anything official given that it's the 80's and there's no law. "You punch me Jack, you dare punch me..." He 'promises' not to. "No food is there... there'll be no food in..." Barbara and June share a wary look before she reluctantly goes to get the kids.

The councillor goes into Sun Hill, she apologises to Bob but tells him that she won't let them shut the refuge down. There is going to be a meeting of the action committee on the street that night and Bob tells Kite that he's going to attend to see what the strength of feeling is. Brian tells him not to rock the boat as he wants to set up an official committee of police and residents. He warns him anything that happens is down to him.

"That stupid woman!" June sighs at the drinks for Taffy the night before his wedding. (not that you'd know given how miserable he looks!) "How could she go back to him?" Yorkie sighs. "Cos she had no choice, what could she do?" The idiot boys go on to make jokes about how Mary will be ruling Taffy with a rod of iron "She beats me boys, she beats me!"

Bob attends the house of the man who Jim arrested earlier for the tax disk and he thinks that it's because of the disk. He tells Bob that his wife know nothing and that he's already sorted it. Bob assures him it's nothing to do with that, he's here for the meeting.

Jim insists it's an inside job from the brewery. He reckons the delivery boys are taking the barrels, claiming they only collected say 5 when they took 6 and selling the 'lost' ones for scrap. "It's delivery boy perks." Mike isn't listening, instead he's fuming that Viv went behind his back to Alec and thinks that Leroy is now laughing at them for 'getting off' with his crimes. He drinks more, rambling about how sometimes 'you've just got to!' Yorkie and Nick moan about Taffy only putting £50 behind the bar because it 'isn't enough! What's he thinking? Half a shandy each?"

Bob is told by the committee that they think the councillor is a disgrace. He tells them to stop the letters, phone calls and threats because they're serious offenses. They insist they are all innocent. Bob says he's not accusing anyone specifically but the police know it's someone in the street and they have to stop it before it becomes official.

After a hell of a day, Taffy loses his temper at Nick moaning about him being tight and he stands up, shouting at him to shut his mouth. Nick is amused and mocks him for a 'great party'. Taffy shouts at him to not take his 'being stuck inside all week' out on him and the boys separate them before a fight can start with Taffy storming into the gent's loos "He's gone to sulk!" Reg claims.

Roy sulks that they're not due any real results as there's no lead yet about where the tax disks are really coming from, Jim landed them with no real result for the barrels as they can't prove it is the delivery boys. Bob joins them and laughs that Roy must be on the gripe water as he hears him moaning. Roy tells Bob he hasn't made inspector yet because he can't spell "inter-departmental co-operation!" The fellow uniform Sergeant's tell Bob that he has at least sorted out things for the councillor as Barbara's husband will be too busy taking things out on her to make a statement against her so not only has she got the committee off her back, she's also gotten away with assault.

Outside, Jim drunkenly counts the barrels claiming that as there's 12 they will collect 10 and hand 2 into the scrap merchant. Mike rolls his eyes and walks off, leaving him to it.

Inside the toilets, the Sun Hill boys are 'treating' Taffy to his stag night ending. They've stripped him and cuffed him naked to a lampost to be found by Viv as she approaches the pub. "I told you you didn't have any secrets from me, Taff!"

[cinderswrites]

Frayed ::

four

“How is your father doing, by the way?” Rhea asked as she set down the teacup.

Cynfael had brought her to a new restaurant, a place atop a hill overlooking the harbor and docks. They were seated in front of one of the large windows, with a view of the ocean just as he’d promised. The tables around them were kept clear to avoid any inconvenience to the prince, and Rhea didn’t miss the way those penetrating eyes of curious people bore into her as she had walked in and sat down with him. Alaric stood guard nearby, still as a statue and with a sharp eye out for any trouble.

Cynfael adjusted his posture and drank from his cup slowly, thinking over the question. “I could say he’s doing well, better than anyone thought he would. Honestly, I’m sure he’s tired. He feels the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, after all.”

“And your mother?”

“As elegant and content as ever. She enjoys the spoils of the life, but it’s not without its hardships. She’s there for my father in every way and helps him with challenging tasks. I’m certain he’d have renounced the throne years ago if it weren’t for her,” he laughed.

She chuckled as well, “Now for the most damning question, yet. How are you doing, Cynfael?”

He winced, frowning slightly, “I knew it was coming and yet I still feel unprepared to answer.” His following chuckle was low and morose, “To be quite honest, this role fits me like a glove. Too perfectly, perhaps. I loved my uncle, and I love my parents and my kingdom, but sometimes…”

“It’s too much?” Rhea offered hesitantly.

He met her eyes and nodded once, “Absolutely. The etiquette classes, learning the history, sitting in on military meetings, foreign affairs, all of it. And on top of that, needing time to develop my own personal interests and skills. Horseback riding, hunting, sparring, writing, music. Trying to find any free time in all that drivel is maddening!”

Rhea listened intently, feeling pain in her heart for her old friend. A child carefree and full of wonder at the world. Someone who used to want to fish for a living, told her his dreams about living on a boat most of the year. She couldn’t imagine how much he’d been struggling. Her own battles seemed less cumbersome as he continued to speak.

“About a year ago, I finally told my father, ‘Enough! I don’t need to know all of it! I need some damn room to breathe!’ And here we are. I’m allowed exactly two hours out of my day to spend as I please, and I use it to walk around town,” he grinned. “Not exactly relaxing, but it gives my mind a break and lets me see the real problems here. I’ve been making headway on a building on the other side of town. A refuge for the poor, if you will.”

“Oh, really?” her voice didn’t disguise her surprise.

“Yes,” he nodded, “it’s not quite open yet. The construction is rather slow, since it’s being funded by the gratuitous donations of the rich. As you may have already guessed, those are few and far between. There’s too many unknowns for my father to fund it directly, especially since it’s not an investment.”

The look on his face was resentful. She reached over and patted his hand, “It’s an amazing idea, my friend. If I had all the money in the world, I’d help you, you know that.”

His eyes lingered on her hand before drifting up to her face, “I do know that. You’ve always been a wonderfully kind and charitable person, Rhea.”

She blushed under the directness of the compliment and pulled her hand back. “Thank you.”

The conversation came to a halt as one of the women waitressing brought their food. They settled in to eat and were having one last cup of tea when Cynfael spoke again, “How are you doing, Rhea? Truly?”

She felt the corner of her mouth twitch. “I’m doing just fine,” she said after a moment, smiling at him.

“I can’t help but feel as if you’re holding back,” he assessed. “I know your mother’s death must have been hard on you. I got word of it too late, and I couldn’t make the time to visit, with everything going on. And then your father remarried so quick—“

“Yes, well, it’s been quite a few years since then. Thelma and her children are great, Father’s doing well, and I’m doing well also.” Rhea said, her voice sounding strained. “It’s been a blast, having siblings. Alice, the youngest daughter, is so smart and witty. I think you’d enjoy meeting her. Henri Jr. is such a little peach as well! A perfect little mini-me of my father.”

“What of Scarlett? The eldest daughter?”

“Scarlett is a carbon copy of Thelma,” Rhea hesitated. “Thelma has rather… strong ideals for the family. Scarlett happens to be the only one of either of us to fit that mold.”

“I see,” Cynfael cleared his throat. “Well, enough of family talk. Do you have any goals you’re working on?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Before I was sidetracked by the market, I was planning on visiting the clothing shops in town to inquire about apprenticeships.” Rhea divulged, happy to move on from talking about her home life.

“Clothing shops? Do you desire to be a seamstress?” Cynfael seemed genuine in his interest.

“Yes. I’ve only recently come to this conclusion, so we’ll see how it works out.”

“Have you made clothes before?” he asked.

She nodded, “The dress I’m wearing today I made myself. Rather, I recycled old fabrics and made something new,” she added modestly. She didn’t miss the way his eyes quickly scanned her, and she fought the flustered feelings of being scrutinized by the prince of all people, regardless of him also being her childhood friend. “It’s fine work, if I may say so,” he said with a smile, “not that I know anything of that sort of nature.”

Rhea laughed, “Well, I’m hoping to learn more. I’ve got plenty of dresses to bring in as a sort of portfolio of my talents.”

Once they were finished with their tea, both of them stood and walked out of the restaurant. Alaric followed close behind as they made their way down a path towards the beach. Cynfael brought up her search for a job, “If I’m not being too forward by saying so, I’ve heard recently that my mother’s personal seamstress has been looking for an apprentice.”

Rhea’s heart almost stopped in her chest. “N-no, that’s too much. I hardly know a thing! There’s no way I’d be fit to apprentice for her.” “Excuse my manners, but that’s utter nonsense. I can see for myself the skills you possess. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

“But—“

“I don’t want to hear it,” Cynfael said, determined. “As your friend, Rhea, and as someone that cares for you, please allow me to do this for you.”

Rhea had opened her mouth to protest more, but just then several official looking men called out to Cynfael. He excused himself and walked towards them. Alaric stayed near Rhea, ever present and silent as he was. Meanwhile, Rhea had turned her attention back towards the beach. She walked over onto a nearby boulder, crouching down on top of it. A few inches down on another rock was a bright orange seashell. As she reached for it, her foot slipped and she gasped.

She was expecting to slide off into the other rocks, but felt nothing except for strong arms wrapping around her small frame, preventing her from going anywhere. Alaric’s voice sounded next to her ear, his breath tickling the side of her face. “Excuse my touch, my Lady. Are you okay?”

“Y-yes,” she replied, her voice small and trembling. He helped her off the rock and set her on her feet in a swift motion that took her brain a moment to comprehend. Once she was standing, he held out his hand, palm up. On it was the shell she was reaching for. She took it gently and looked up at him, “Thank you, sir.”

That serious expression of his cracked as he smiled and nodded. His smile made her heart beat faster and set off a dozen butterflies in her stomach, a feeling as strange and foreign as this day was. “Perhaps a walk on the beach would be safer?” he suggested.

“R-right,” she dipped her head in a small nod and turned, stiffly walking around the rocks onto the sand.

They had gone a few feet when he spoke up, “Your skills at de-escalating the situation at the market earlier were impressive, my Lady.”

“I wouldn’t call them skills,” she said quietly. “Simply just a matter of just being observant.”

“Thanks to you, the matter was resolved quickly and without further incident. It’s still impressive, none the less.” Alaric stopped to examine a snail shell that was empty, picking it up and handing it to Rhea.

She put it next to the orange shell and felt her mouth turn up into a smile, “Well, thank you for saying so. I didn’t know you saw that.” “Mm,” he nodded, “we had just arrived when he grabbed that poor woman’s wrist.”

“So you saw the fabric under the table as well, then?”

“I didn’t notice it until you pointed it out, actually.”

“How would you have resolved such a dispute?”

Alaric’s demeanor changed to something resembling discomfort. “It is our King’s policy to take all accusations of theft seriously. She might have been jailed for some time and charged a hefty fine if she weren’t able to prove her innocence.”

The shock that ran through Rhea almost stopped her in her tracks, “S-surely, that’s a little too much?”

“You question the royal laws?”

She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “N-not at all, no. I apologize, Captain. It’s my first time being in the public in a while, so I may speak out of turn.”

When she glanced at Alaric, she saw his shoulders shaking with his silent chuckle. “My apologies, Lady Rhea, I was only poking fun.” Her mouth gaped open in awe, and she quickly closed it, her lips forming a pout. “I see.”

“If I may be blunt, I have the same views on that particular law. It’s rash and allows anyone to cry wolf.” Alaric sighed. “It’s not only a waste of time, but of resources.”

“It sounds like it can ruin a few lives, too.” Rhea nodded solemnly. “What’s stopping a merchant from accusing another merchant?”

“Ah, therein lies the loopholes. Merchants are protected under clauses. Same with nobles. It seems only the commonfolk suffer from such a policy,” he explained. His sharp eye caught the glint of another shell, a pearly pink one this time. He quickened his pace to pick it up and walked back to Rhea, placing it in her hand.

Her fingers brushed off the sand and stroked the smooth side of the shell. “How long have you been serving the royal family?” she asked.

“I was born into it. My father was King Roland’s Captain, and I was trained under him.” Alaric looked up at the clear blue sky, eying a passing bird.

“Sounds tough. Was it something you chose for yourself?”

“I don’t hate it, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t see myself doing anything else. I enjoy the sense of servitude for not only the family but the kingdom as a whole. I don’t imagine many would feel happy about their duties and requirements in my position if they hadn’t grown up with it.” Alaric spoke honestly and Rhea listened with interest, “I admired my father as a child. Sword fighting, settling disputes, protecting people. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”

“Then to me, it seems like you’ve found the right calling,” Rhea joked lightly. “That’s a treasure in itself.”

“I suppose it is.”

Rhea stopped suddenly, turning towards the captain. Over his shoulder, she could see the prince still engaged in conversation with the officials. “Tell me honestly, is the prince really doing well?”

Alaric searched her face for a moment, “There are days when he feels like he wants to leave and say ‘to hell with it all’, but for the most part, there’s no one better to fit the roles he occupies.”

“I see. I’m glad,” she said quietly with a smile.

“Pardon me if I’m being too brash, but I feel like it would be safer to warn you now that the prince is required to marry a woman of his father’s choosing—“

Rhea’s eyebrows raised dramatically and she stumbled over her words, “Oh, heavens, no! I-I’m not—that’s not—“ she stepped back and ran a hand through her hair, then turned to glare at the captain so strongly, he almost flinched. “I’m not interested in the prince,” she hissed quietly. “We’re childhood friends and I’ve always cared for him as such.”

Alaric blinked slowly, then laughed, “Forgive me, my Lady.”

She rolled her eyes and started walking back towards Cynfael, who had begun jogging their way. Over her shoulder, she snapped, “Quit calling me ‘lady’ as well!”

The captain followed after her, highly amused.

When they reached the prince, Cynfael informed them that he had to leave. “I’m so sorry, Rhea. Important matters have come up.”

“It’s not a problem!” she said quickly. “I’ve got some things left to do in town before I go home anyway.”

The prince looked at the captain for a moment. “Alaric, why don’t you stay with the lady today? Keep her company. I’ll be able to concentrate better knowing my old friend made it home safe.”

His concern made her flustered, and the captain replied, “Certainly, my Prince.”

He leaned in to whisper something to the captain before stepping away. Cynfael turned to Rhea, holding both her hands in his. “I will get a meeting with my mother’s seamstress set up and have word brought to you soon.”

Before she could say anything, he bid them farewell and walked back to the group of men he was speaking with. She huffed quietly, feeling frustrated at his imposing, but decided she couldn’t do anything about it. She looked up at the captain and he gestured towards the town and said, “Shall we?”

She sighed again and started walking away from him, back towards town. While most women would have done anything to be in her shoes today, dark thoughts swirled in her mind about the blatant interference into her life. So much for independence, she thought bitterly.

[raewritez]

Firelight | Howl Pendragon

warnings: mentions of friskiness, Howl being a Sad Boy™, yearning, angst

word count: 4.3k

The warmth of the castle is a welcome embrace.

Outside, the moon shines with the brightness of a thousand suns, its beams cast along the ground all the way from Ingary. Wisps of clouds decorate the sky - angel wings hung from the heavens. Familiar creaking fills your ears and you smile, hand gripping the doorknob.

You're greeted with a glow from Calcifer's hearth, a sight that pulls your lips upwards. It's been a while. He doesn't seem to have noticed you yet and you walk forward, a grin resting upon your lips. Your wrists are clasped behind your back and you beam at the fire, his eyes finally snapping to yours.

"Y/n," he exclaims, "You're back!" He coughs a bit, attempting to veil his excitement. "I mean, it's been a while."

"It has," you say, gazing playfully at the demon. "How've you been, Cal?"

He grumbles. "Awful. Howl moped for weeks after you left."

Your smile falters if only a bit, guilt pulling at your heartstrings. "Oh, sorry about that," you straighten up, reassuming your cheery demeanor that the fire couldn't deny he'd grown fond of. "I figured you'd all want a break from me intruding on your home."

Calcifer scoffs. "It's not intruding if you're here everyday. Besides, Markl was sad when you left. He misses you."

"I miss him, too," you sigh, images of the copper-headed boy playing in your mind. "He's here?"

"Obviously, where else would he be?"

"And Howl? Is he here, too?"

A sort of grimace takes over his face. "Uh, not exactly." You raise an eyebrow, and he sighs. "He's been spending most nights in town...you know. Ever since you left. But, uh, he'll be back in the morning."

You feel yourself deflate, your limbs suddenly feeling very heavy and your throat suddenly aches. "Oh."

You were well accustomed with the name Howl had made for himself across the many towns the castle found refuge, of the rumors and the truths behind them. He who ate hearts - it was silly, really. But he'd made a reputation as a jilter, the desired lover of the nation. That Howl seemed so different from the one you held dear, and you found it hard to believe that the man who gazed at you with such fondness and loved his family so unabashedly could so carelessly discard the hearts of women. You guess you've been naive.

Calcifer's stare softens, a rare sincerity overtaking his voice. "He's an idiot," he whispers.

You shake your head, a bitter smile on your lips. "No. Maybe I am."

"No, Y/n. You should've seen how upset he was after you left. Markl and I were worried he would summon the spirits of darkness again." You chuckle, Calcifer joining in. "I don't know why he does it," he spoke softly, carefully. "But I do know he's better when you're around. He hasn't done this in a long time, but when you left...it was like he became his old self again."

You look down, tracing the curves of the cobblestone. "He can do what he wants. He's a grown man."

Something akin to a snort left the fire. "As if you could call him that. Hey, look, don't get too upset. If he knew that...I mean, he would never-"

"It's ok, Cal," you speak, an acquiescent smile on your face. "I'm the one who left, right?"

"Right," he sighs, sensing the end of the conversation. "So, how was traveling, anyway? See anything cool?"

"Loads," you say wistfully. "It was so beautiful, Cal, I wish you could've seen it."

"Ehh, that's ok. Someone has to keep this place running."

///

"Y/n!"

You're woken to something heavy on your bed, your shoulders being shaken by hands that were not your own. Peeling your eyes open, you caught a glimpse of red: a figure clad in a white nightgown perched atop your quilt. A grin breaks through your sleepy face.

"Markl!"

He giggles, and you wish you could bottle the sound and keep it forever. His small frame launches forward, arms wrapping around you and face pressed into your neck. "I missed you," he mumbles. You run your fingers through his hair, keeping him pressed against you.

"I missed you, too, kid."

You stay like that for a few minutes, his soft breathing warming your skin and sending unbearable fondness to your heart. After a while you sit up, bringing the boy with you. "How are you, Markl?" you ask, brushing a copper strand behind his ear.

He fights back a yawn. "I'm good! Howl's been teaching me a lot, I even managed to cast a rune spell the other day!"

"That's amazing! You're growing up so fast," you say, reaching out to ruffle his hair. He scrunches his nose, swatting your hand away playfully. "Not really," he says, and you smile. You'd be glad for that.

In the kitchen, you converse with the child as you always had - soft teasings and gentle remarks, a ruffle of hair here and there and a pinch to his side. His laughter was sunlight and you felt warm - happy and at home in your castle with your little bunch of misfits.

Of course, there was still one missing.

Your conversation with the boy is cut short at the sound of a turning doorknob, and you feel your heart rise to your throat. In your welcome you'd almost forgotten your dread, and you do not have enough time to prepare. So when you see him, standing in the doorway with morning silk and sun against his back, you have to remind yourself to breathe.

He's dressed in his usual flamboyant robes, and at first glance you'd have noticed nothing different. But at closer look you saw it - the wrinkles of his clothes, the bruises on his neck, the messiness of his hair, golden in the dawn. You feel a turning in your stomach, and fire across your skin. You swallow, and his eyes meet yours.

For a moment his gaze his gilded, bleary with what you presume to be tiredness after an eventful night. But then they alight, and a smile pulls his lips and he whispers your name. You try to smile back. "Howl," you nod.

Then suddenly his smile doesn't seem so bright anymore, and his eyes darken into something you can't quite decipher. Nervousness? Fear? Caution? He runs a hand through his hair, and pulls his robe so that the collar covers his neck. He walks up the stairs slowly, eyes darting. It seems like hours before he finally arrives at the table side, ring-adorned fingers tracing the wood delicately.

"Markl," he says, and his voice is like velvet. "Would you mind getting breakfast started?"

"Sure, Master Howl," Markl says and he leaps up from his chair, trotting across the floor and into the pantry.

Howl's eyes fall on you once again, drinking you in. They fall on a scar, white against your forehead, and his brows furrow. He raises a hand and his finger traces the mark, the blueness of his eyes clouded with an emotion you cannot name. His arm falls back to his side.

"How were the wilds?"

"Good," you say, and your tongue itches for more. "How...how were things here?"

"Fine," he says stiffly. You scoff.

"Sounded more than fine, from what Calcifer told me. Seems you've been keeping yourself quite busy."

Howl shrinks on himself for a moment, and you can see a flash of guilt in his eyes. Then, he emerges back to himself, all steely stares and bitterness. "And what about you?" he says sharply, his deep voice a scratch upon your skin. "You were gone for months, gallivanting your way across Ingary while we stayed here. You left, and you expected me to wait sadly for your return?"

Your nose crinkles, and you feel an uncomfortable heat rising in your chest. "Oh, of course not. The infamous Howl Pendragon waits for no one, isn't that right?"

His eyes are dark, and he opens his mouth to say something before a childish voice cuts through.

"I have eggs, Master Howl! Can you get Calcifer to cook them?"

Howl's gaze lingers on you a moment longer, and he pulls away from you to stand. "Sure, Markl. Thank you."

You stare at the ground, feeling hot and irritated and bothered. Howl walks away from you, taking the box of eggs from Markl's hands to start breakfast. You miss the glare that Calcifer sends his way.

///

Howl awakes to a the sound of a train horn, the rattling of the dingy hostel he'd spent the night in shaking the windows and the table at his bedside. He peels his eyes open against the piercing sunlight, raising a hand to shield his gaze. For a moment he forgets where he is, what he's doing here, but the shifting of the warm body next to his brings the memories back to him in a flash.

He feels a pit form in his stomach, a sour taste rising in his mouth. He glances over at the sleeping form - Violet, he thinks her name is, and becomes painfully aware of the scratchiness of the sheets against his skin, of the unbearable warmness emanating from the sleeping woman beside him.

He jumps from the bed abruptly, pulling down the quilt and settling his feet upon the cool hardness of the wooden floor. Violet is still sleeping, and he gets dressed. Pulling on his dress shirt and pants and grabbing his robe from its place on the floor, he makes his way towards the door. He glances back, feeling entirely indecent and cruel. Just like he used to be. He knows it's wrong to leave her behind without so much as a goodbye, it's not her fault that he's so stricken and lovesick and lonely, but she will be the one who wakes up to the aftermath of another one of his mistakes. But he's selfish and regretful, and so he creaks open the door and walks out.

He hates himself. He hates what he was doing and the person he was acting as - the person he'd once been. He knows it's wrong, and he knows he'll get another judgmental look from Calcifer when he walks through the castle doors, but Calcifer couldn't hand out anything he hadn't already given to himself. The disappointment, the judgement, the truth. The truth of the reason he was acting like this. That reason he knows, and it's currently off somewhere far away in Ingary.

He can't dwell on it, though, else he'll end up in another pit of despair and longing - far too aware of his attachment for his liking.

Loneliness had never been a problem for Howl, and maybe that's why he'd been dealing with it so poorly. Before, he hadn't had any attachments, any people that upon their separation from him, he would feel like his world was collapsing. He had come and gone as he pleased, stealing the hearts of young women only to crush them the next day, moving from town to town in his castle with nobody to care about than himself.

That was until about a year and a half ago, when you came along. You'd caught Howl's attention the moment he laid eyes on you - eager, friendly, fearless and beautiful. He'd approached you, offering his suave words and charming smile, already coming up with ways to win you over and have his fun. But you'd only laughed, teasing him and telling him that you were new in town, and you weren't looking to have your heart broken just yet. You intrigued him, and he found himself wanting to learn more about you than just the curves of your body or the feel of your lips.

Weeks passed and the conversations grew, and he found himself developing a sort of fondness for the girl who drew his attention with stories of her hometown, with teasings and friendly banter and a hand stretched towards him in an offering of closeness. An olive branch, a welcome. Friendship and closeness - concepts Howl was painfully unfamiliar with, but seemed so natural when they came from you.

Eventually, the two of you became so close that he'd offered for you to move into the castle, and that was the beginning of everything.

But now you were gone, you'd left him just like he'd left all the others. And it stung, and as much as he pretended that he didn't care, or that he could replace you with nights of shallow banter and artificial closeness, his chest ached with every moment you stayed away. He knows you'll return, you had no plans to leave him forever, but he can't help but feel bitter at the fact that you'd left him at all. But he's fine! He's fine. Really, he can't feel any pain at all, spare for the bruises across his neck.

He looses himself in the trek back to the castle, eyes cast to the ground and mind lost in the clouds - in pretending and wishes and memories. He's so lost in thought that he almost misses the castle parked upon the hill outside the town. He finds himself at the door, and he thinks he hears a laugh. One all too familiar, and it sends a pang through his heart. It was just his tired mind playing tricks on him.

But when he opens the door, letting the warmth of the castle wash over him in a wave of air, his eyes fall on you. You. You, you you. You're here, sitting truly right before his eyes, and he can't restrain the smile that takes over his face. You turn your head and your just as beautiful as you've always been, and he sees your eyes light up and your lips beginning to pull. But then your gaze moves downwards, to the mess of his hair and the crumple of his clothes, to the flush of his skin. His name leaves your lips, and he suddenly feels very aware of the purple blossoming across his neck, and he reaches for his cloak as if to shade it from your eyes. All of the shame comes rushing back at once.

He walks to you, feeling uncharacteristically insecure. He stops at the table, eyes seemingly interested in the markings of the wood. He speaks to his apprentice, "Markl, would you mind getting breakfast started?" He agrees immediately, chipper as ever, and races away, leaving Howl alone with you.

He conjures the courage to look at you, and his gaze is drawn to a small marking on your forehead. A scar, streaked in white and pink. It hadn't been there before, he was sure. He'd spent enough moments memorizing you to recognize the new detail. His brows furrow, a concern flickering through his body at the small, almost insignificant mark. He raises his fingers to your face, and the trace the skin delicately, and he feels a spark run through him. He retracts his hand quickly.

A moment, then another, of uncomfortable silence. It's foreign and strange, and his mind reels to all of your other reunions - the ones sparked by a hug, a bright smile, by laughter. He's desperate to feel that, to feel you again.

"How were the wilds?" He questions, and he cringes at the attempt for unfamiliar small talk.

A beat, and you answer. "Good," you say. Another silence. "How...how were things here?"

Howl's mind flashes to the days marred by your absence - his loneliness and dramatics, Markl's complaints, his mistakes, how quickly he seemed to fall back into his old ways again. "Fine," he responds.

A bitter laugh escapes your lips, and he looks up. "Sounded more than fine," you say, "from what Calcifer told me. Seems you've been keeping yourself quite busy."

For a moment he's scared, scared that you know and that you're disappointed in him. And he's embarrassed, because those nights meant absolutely nothing to him, and they never would unless they were spent with you. But then he burns - his pride and irritation and sense of betrayal at your leaving him rearing their heads. Here you are after all this time, after having abandoned him to chase after your own enjoyment. After you changed him and made him care entirely too much, and left.

Even in the moment he knows he's being silly - you'd only been gone about two months after all, and you had every right to do what you wanted, but he doesn't care. Because he's hurt and embarrassed and he feels so disgustingly like the person he'd been in his past, so he fights.

"And what about you?" he growls. "You were gone for months, gallivanting your way across Ingary while we stayed here. You left, and you expected me to wait sadly for your return?" He did, but he wouldn't let you know that.

Your eyes flash with annoyance, with that defiance he'd grown fond of. "Oh, of course not. The infamous Howl Pendragon waits for no one, isn't that right?"

He opens his mouth to retaliate, to argue or defend he isn't sure, and at that moment Markl reappears. And so he walks away from you, taking the eggs from Markl's hands and beginning breakfast. From his hearth, Calcifer sends him a glare. Idiot, it says. Howl knows.

///

You've been falling back into your normal routine, and it's nice.

It's nice to have your little family back, with Markl's adorable eagerness and unfailable excitement at seeing you each morning, with Calcifer's dry humor and sly remarks. Sure, some things are still out of place - one being the uncomfortable distance and silence between you and your favorite person, but other than that things are perfect.

Just kidding.

Sure, you're incredibly happy to be home - no matter how beautiful and exciting the wilds of Ingary were, nothing can replace the coziness and familiarity of the castle. But home didn't really feel like home if he wasn't in it.

Even after weeks, you and Howl have barely spoken. You don't truly know why, but it seems as if the two of you are simply too stubborn to break the silence. You know it's driving Markl and Calcifer crazy, it's driving you crazy, too, but you don't know how to speak with him. You've had a bitter taste on your tongue ever since Calcifer informed you of Howl's escapades, and you can't seem to look at him without imagining his face pressed up against some other girl's, without remembering the bruises on his neck.

You suppose you don't really have a right to feel this way - you two weren't together, after all. But all this time you've spent loving him - first as a friend and then as something more - and it stings to know that he could replace you so easily. In all those nights you'd spent away - drifting off with visions of your family and memories of home - his arms around your waist, his brilliant smile, the evenings that faded away to the sound of your voice reading to him as he lay in your lap - he'd been with someone else. Forgetting you.

When he approaches you, it's late. The sun has long-since set over the horizon, the moon hanging in the sky and blanketing the Earth in quilts of ivory and blue. You sit on the couch downstairs, a few feet from Calcifer's fire, and blanket wrapped around your shoulders and mind a million miles away. Everyone else has retired to bed, you think, welcomed by the familiar embrace of sleep and the warmness of dreams. Your face is furrowed in thought, and you're so consumed in yourself that you don't hear the creaking of the stairs, nor the soft patter of footsteps, until he is right beside you.

You glance up, and his eyes are already on you. He seems hesitant, unsure, and you feel tempted to look away. But you can't look away, you never can. So you offer him a smile - just the slightest upturn of your lips, and that seems to be enough. Howl breathes, and sits down next to you.

His blonde hair is loose, falling in curtains around his face - lit by the amber glow of the fire. He's traded his lavish outfits for a simple shirt and trousers, let loose in the company of his home. His eyes flit to yours and he rolls his lip between his teeth, gaze narrowed and searching. He opens his mouth, testing the air on his tongue and trying to speak - his words swallowed up in the night. So you breathe them for him, hoping to halt the awkward silence.

"You're up late," you say. "Couldn't sleep?"

He shakes his head, something akin to a chuckle leaving his lips. "No. Couldn't sleep."

You hum, and nod, pulling the blanket up around your shoulders and wishing you could hide away in its embrace.

"I...I was thinking," he says.

You look over. "Thinking? Seems dangerous."

He scoffs, a small smile pulling at his tired lips. He brushes off your jab, turning to face you and staring at his hands - his fingers dancing in his lap. "I...I know-" Howl sucks in a breath, as if bracing himself for a battle. "I'm sorry about what I said. And I'm sorry I haven't- haven't spoken to you. Trust me, I wanted to. I just..."

He trails off, and you implore him. "Just?"

He sighs again, running a hand through the sunshine of his hair and pulling at the strands. "I missed you," he says.

Your brows furrow, and you send him a flat look. "You ignored me because you missed me?"

"No! I-" Howl groans. "Why are you making this so difficult?"

"Me? How am I making it difficult? You just said-"

"Alright!" He holds up a hand to silence you, and you glare dully. He glances at you and the ends of his lips quirk up, and he shakes his head with a chuckle.

"I missed you," he says. "When you were gone. I was upset that you left and I...I found a way to blame you. In my mind, at least."

He leans back against the couch, the curves of his face illuminated in the light of magnolian tendrils. His eyes are distant and thoughtful, and he pulls his lip between his teeth. His fingers fall to his opposite hand, twisting the ring that rests upon his knuckle. At further inspection, you recognize it as the one you gifted him. Sapphire - it had reminded you of his eyes.

"I guess I didn't realize how much it would affect me: you leaving. I'd grown used to seeing you, to having you around. It's like they all say, isn't it? I didn't realize what I had until it was gone."

You shake your head, eyes trained on the shadow of his profile. "But I didn't leave, Howl. I was only gone a couple of months, I never planned to leave for good. Is that what you thought? That I wasn't coming back?"

"No, I suppose I knew you were coming back. But I couldn't...in the moment I couldn't think of that. You were just gone. I guess that's why I did what I did - spending nights in town and all that." You wince, that uncomfortable burn rising in your throat. "I didn't like it, I just...I just wanted to make for it. For you not being here. But I hated every minute of it, hated myself, and when you came back I - I didn't want to feel it again. Not after what I'd been doing while you were gone."

"Feel what, Howl?"

He turns to you, then, gaze piercing and sure. In his gaze is a certain steadiness, a certainty and softness. "What I felt the day I met you, the day you came home with me, and everyday since. I knew I didn't deserve it."

The backdrop of the castle seems to fade into haze. "What do you mean?"

He laughs, and it's warm. "You really need me to spell it out?"

"Spell what out-"

Howl grasps the back of your head, lifting a thumb to your chin. He tilts you to face him, and you can feel his breath against your lips. His eyes are deep and crinkled at the edges, and there's that familiar spark of joy that he always seems to carry when he's around you. He leans forward and his nose brushes against yours, and you swear your face is on fire.

"Would you like me to show you?"

After a fleeting moment you nod, and your world comes crumbling after that.

Howl presses his lips to yours, and it reminds you of all good things. Of coming home after time away, of bright meadows, of firelight. He winds an arm around your waist, pulling you closer, and the hand that is cupping your cheek moves to smooth away your hair. Your fingers grasp his shirt and dance across his skin, caressing his cheeks and tracing his jaw. You pull away when the need for air become too great, and he keeps his forehead pressed against yours. You breathe, and he smiles, leaning forward once again to plant kisses across your face, and he whispers: "I love you, I love you, I love you."

[tennessoui]

Prompt: Can you shut up!?

hey hi hello!!! so this is set in the princess diaries au (no shame if you never heard of it, it's about 4 posts from about 5 months ago, i just thought the quote fit)

but basically anakin is the princess who writes the diary, obi-wan is chris pratt in the second movie, and they're very annoyed at each other except they also can't stay away or keep their hands off each other. because well. mutual obsession etc etc

(2.8k)

“Princess! Fancy seeing you here,” the most unwelcome voice in the entirety of Genovia and perhaps the world greets Anakin as he turns the corner into the main entrance hall.

He considers turning back immediately, but his grandfather has been trying to drill manners into his head and he knows that such a display of preference—dispreference, perhaps?—would be breaking half.

(Even though it’s not as if Anakin sees Qui-Gon obey all the rules Anakin has spent hours learning since he’d been discovered by his grandfather in San Francisco. All Anakin is saying is if Qui-Gon can knight a cop in order to get out of a speeding ticket, Anakin should be able to walk away from smarmy assholes who don’t know when to stop.)

“Lord Kenobi, what a surprise seeing you. Here. In my home,” he places his hands behind his back, files clenched just a hair too tightly between his hands. “Uninvited,” he adds in case the lord has not noticed that part.

“Apologies,” Lord Kenobi replies. He’s sitting on a side table, probably a Genovian antique worth more than his entire life, long legs crossed at the ankles in front and arms crossed over his chest. Does the man ever wear anything that isn’t a suit? At least he’s left off the jacket this time, but that might even be worse. All Anakin can see is his bare forearms, flexed as they are in that position.

All he can think about is the ball from two nights ago. It had been Anakin’s twenty-first birthday celebration, a coming of age in Genovia that could not be swept under the rug. That was how Qui-Gon put it, though Anakin still thinks his grandfather simply adores having a reason to throw a party.

He’d been warned beforehand that the guest list was mostly princesses and ladies and duchesses, women and girls looking to win his favor and eventually his ring. There weren’t many single, handsome, titled men these days—for good reason, of course, but still.

He’d been warned, but he hadn’t been prepared. After an hour and a half of dancing, he’d taken refuge in the linen closet off the main hall, several rooms away. He’d just needed space to breathe unperfumed air, to clear his head, to remember that he wasn’t just Ani anymore, the poor kid from San Francisco with the shit haircut he loved. He was Anakin Espa Tatoin Set de Shmison, Prince of Genovia.

And that meant dancing with women in ball gowns and long nails that pinched at his arms when he tried to leave before they were ready to see him go. That meant being a piece of meat, to be studied and measured by people he had no interest in.

But how can he say that?

Single, handsome, titled men are supposed to be straight. They’re supposed to be interested in women. And if they’re not—if they’re interested in men as well, that has to be an afterthought. That has to be a shameful secret, hidden away while they parade their beautiful wives around the world.

And single, handsome, titled men who aren’t interested in women at all? Who have only ever wanted to love another man openly and ardently? Who went to the San Francisco Pride Festival at the age of twelve and bawled in the streets at the realization that he wasn’t alone in feeling this way? 

Those don’t exist. Ani cannot exist, not if Anakin, Prince of Genovia is supposed to.

So he’d needed a second to remember, to get his head and his story, well. Straight. And he’d ducked out of the room, into a linen closet just for a few moments to breathe.

That’s all he’d had. Just a few moments. And then the door had opened and someone had closed themselves in with him.

Anakin had opened his mouth to protest—because, really, this was all very indecent, there was hardly any space between their bodies. If Anakin moved a single half-step forward, his entire front would be brushing along a—a very firm chest and broad shoulders, nice arms covered by a dark blue suit.

He must have swallowed his tongue there for a second, and it had given the strange man an opening. “Hello, darling,” he’d said, tone a low hot murmur very close to his ear. “Sincerest apologies for barging in like this, but I wanted to give you this.”

In his hand had been a champagne flute. For the first time, Anakin had followed the line of his arm up to his shoulder and then to his face. The man was gorgeous. His beard was neatly trimmed to the lines of his jaw, his eyes pleasantly crinkled on his smile. His hair had been styled, but several pieces had been falling out and they hung over his forehead.

“I heard it was your birthday, princess,” he’d teased in that same low tone, the lilting accent of a native Genovian coloring his words. “And I know in America they never celebrate twenty-first birthdays without a bit of alcohol. What do they call it again? When they go to different bars all in the same night for the sake of getting wasted?”

Getting wasted had never sounded more appealing than it did in that voice. “Twenty-one run,” Anakin had replied, taking the champagne from the man’s hand. “Usually it’s with harder stuff than champagne though.”

The man had smiled. “Champagne is the chaser, if you want.” He’d opened his jacket to pull out a silvery flask, shaking it slightly so Anakin could hear the liquid sloshing around.

And well. Many people had told Anakin many things throughout the course of his life but definitely since he became Prince of Genovia.

But no one had ever told him not to accept drinks from attractive strangers in cupboards.

They’d stayed there for at least an hour, talking in hushed tones and swapping the flask back and forth, champagne mostly forgotten. When Obi-Wan—his name was Obi-Wan Kenobi, what an amazing name—had complained about it being slightly cramped with both of them sitting opposite each other, Anakin had—Anakin had climbed into his lap and wrapped his arms around his neck.

And they’d laughed and Anakin hadn’t heard anything of what Obi-Wan said because he’d been too distracted by the way the man’s hands felt on his waist, and he’d felt so tired that he’d tried to curl up on him and go to sleep right there, face pressed against his neck so that all he could smell was Obi-Wan’s perfume, so strong at this part of his body that it almost drowned out all memories of the perfumes of the women at the ball.

The thought had woken him up. The ball. His ball. He’d been languishing in a linen closet for ages while his ball was going on. Unacceptable. Deplorable.

Obi-Wan had been shocked to feel him scramble up and away, shocked to watch him scrub a hand down his face and over his hair.

“No, no, I have to go,” Anakin had warbled when Obi-Wan’s hands had reached out to catch his own, bring him back to his lap. “No, I can’t—I’m not Ani, I have to be—I’m Anakin, Prince of…Anakin has to…he can’t like you, he has to go—he has to go dance with girls.”

Obi-Wan had stood up and looked at him with such kind, sad eyes that Anakin had thought he would cry if he had to see anything more. He’d turned to go, but Obi-Wan had caught his wrist, pulled him back and into his arms for a crushing and achingly quick hug. “You can have both,” he’d whispered in his ear. “I promise, Anakin. You don’t have to choose between who you are and what your duty is.”

Anakin had shaken his head sharply once, fighting the urge to cry, because he couldn’t. He couldn’t be both. Obi-Wan didn’t understand. Obi-Wan was just a lord. He didn’t understand that as a prince—he was expected to marry, expected to give heirs, expected to—

He’d left the closet but had been unable to get the words of the lord out of his head. Three dances later, he’d seen Obi-Wan standing on the sidelines of the room, next to a severe looking old man, hands clasped behind his back and legs indecently set apart.

You can have both, Obi-Wan had whispered. But was that true? Could it really be true?

It had been liquid courage that had made him cross the room to stand before Obi-Wan as the strings of the last song died. “Can I have this dance?” He’d asked, like an idiot, a tipsy, smitten child. And that’s exactly what Obi-Wan had treated him as, looking quickly at the old man next to him before he’d looked back at Anakin with an eyebrow raised in derision.

“I don’t know,” he’d said, lilting voice carrying so far the palace guards at the mouth of the driveway probably heard. “Can you?”

Anakin had flushed so red, it was a miracle he hadn’t simply burst into flames. But he’d wanted Obi-Wan. He’d wanted to be held and to hold the man again. Something about being around him made him feel safe and looked after. Protected. “May I?” 

And Obi-Wan, the man who had chuckled so deeply into his hair in the linen closet not even an hour ago had turned his head. “I believe someone more suiting your tastes is waiting over there,” he’d said, and Anakin had followed his gaze to spot a young woman clutching at her matriach’s hand, staring at him with stars in her eyes.

“I do not,” he’d said, and he’d sounded unsure, he knows he had. He’d broken and whispered almost furiously between them. “I hoped I could have both.”

Obi-Wan had taken a pointed sip of his champagne flute. “And I hope that with age, your naivety will meet its end. Happy birthday, my prince.”

And then he’d bowed, and then he’d left with that old man, and Anakin had been able to hear the whispers around the ballroom. He’d been so embarrassed, he’d been so angry—

And now Obi-Wan Kenobi is here, leaning on a table and looking at him consideringly as if he has any right to his time or his fucking—side table after what he’d done. He’d humiliated him, after letting him be vulnerable with him.

Worse, he’d—he’d given him hope. And then he’d taken it all away. He’d been a right dick, and Anakin despises him, an opinion that will never change.

“I’m not expecting visitors,” he tells him in a clipped manner, striding by. If he cannot turn around and leave, he will walk past and not engage. There—the grand staircase. He will go up a flight, perhaps two, and then into a random room full of things that can hopefully be broken without costing Genovia a fortune, and he will have a tantrum. “I’m much too busy today.”

“Are you?” Lord Kenobi asks. He says it like it’s a question he already knows the answer to. There’s the sounds of the man getting up, standing straight, and following him, but Anakin is walking much too fast to care.

He does care, however, when the files behind his back are plucked from his hands.

“Looking for a wife, are you?” Kenobi asks rhetorically, thumbing through the files.

Anakin whips around, hand already outstretched, but Kenobi ducks away. “Give those back,” he demands, stalking after him.

“I’m reading,” Kenobi says. “Too boring. Too spontaneous. Too cookie-cutter. Not rich enough. Owns a baking show, but only because of her title, you don’t want that sort of artificiality in your life.”

“Ahrt-e-fiss-i-a-lity,” Anakin mocks before he can stop himself. Kenobi looks over his shoulder with a lazy raised eyebrow, and Anakin wants to kill him.

He starts ascending the stairs and Anakin tears after him, tossing the idea of tackling him onto the floor out of his mind before it can completely form. It would be very satisfying though.

“All women,” Obi-Wan concludes as he reaches the top of the stairs. “Anakin,” his tone is…is disapproving almost. “We talked about this.”

Anakin wants to wrap his hands around Obi-Wan’s neck and squeeze. It is quite a feat of self-control that he does not. “Was that before or after you rejected me on the dancefloor?” he hisses at him angrily.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth as if to say something, but he pauses first and tilts his head. Anakin freezes as well when he hears the voices of a couple of maids down the hall.

Rumors have already begun to spread after the disastrous finale of Anakin’s birthday ball. He does not need to be caught arguing with Obi-Wan Kenobi right now, lest he feed more wood into those flames.

Without quite understanding why his actions are so bad, he blindly reaches out to the closest door and shoves both of them inside its opening.

“Princess, we have to stop meeting like this,” Obi-Wan says, pressed solidly against his front, the folders of all of Anakin’s possible wives the only thing keeping their chests from touching. “People will talk.”

Anakin feels his mouth drop open in outrage before he hits at Obi-Wan’s chest. “People are talking!” he hisses. “You—you rejected me! In front of everyone!”

“You weren’t in your right mind, Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs, letting himself be hit. Anakin doesn’t like that. Anakin wants Kenobi to fight back. “You were at least tipsy, on your way to fully sozzled. That sort of decision, it needs to be made fully sober. I refuse to take advantage of you like that.”

Anakin stares without seeing at Obi-Wan’s chest, bottom lip trembling slightly despite his best effort. “You were cruel,” he finally manages to say, slapping at Obi-Wan’s chest again. “You were cruel.”

Obi-Wan is silent for several seconds, before he lets out a little sigh. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I am. I—my grandfather was with me, you see. And it would be—if he knew that you held me in high regard, it would be terrible for you. For the crown. And I find myself…opposed to putting you in such a position.”

“Why?” Obi-Wan frowns at the question as if it’s especially offensive to him.

“Because I don’t like thinking about you in distress.”

“Oh, did you not see me after you rejected me in front of—”

“I said, my grandfather was next to me—”

“Oh, well if your grandfather was—”

“I didn’t expect you to do something so public—”

“You got me drunk in a closet and you—”

“I expected a bit more class—”

“I asked you to dance, I didn’t ask you to blow me in the throne room, for fuck’s—”

“Would you?” Obi-Wan is somehow so much closer than before, and Anakin’s hands fall to his shirt for a grip. “Would you ask that of me?”

Anakin falls silent, still. He has no idea what Obi-Wan wants, no idea what the man is after. It feels like all he can do is answer honestly, and the word is on the tip of his tongue when Obi-Wan speaks again. “I would,” he whispers like a secret between them. “If my prince wanted it of me. If I thought my lips wrapped around his length would halt his foolish search for a wife when we both know they’d never be able to give him what he needs—-”

“Can you shut up?” Anakin cries much too loudly, and Obi-Wan grins in the darkness of the closet. “Make me,” he requests teasingly, but Anakin has had enough of being teased by this man. Anakin will not take this any longer.

He sets about making him, yanking him closer to him until their mouths meet. Immediately, Anakin’s eyes slide shut because this is a kiss and he only knows one way to kiss someone: gently, softly.

But he isn’t feeling very gentle and soft towards Obi-Wan right now, and the lord definitely isn’t feeling the same if the way he bites at his lip is any indication. Anakin can’t stop the way he yelps, and when Obi-Wan takes advantage of his opened mouth, he can’t even say he’s surprised.

His yelp quickly turns into an embarrassingly loud moan, and he grips at Obi-Wan’s hair, shoving him back against the wall.

There’s a rushing waterfall of paper, as Obi-Wan drops the files in his hands in order to grab at Anakin’s waist and pull him in, pull him closer.

And that’s how the maid finds them on her journey to grab new linens for one of the bedrooms, liplocked and making out against the one part of the small space, Obi-Wan’s leg slipped between Anakin’s, while Anakin’s hands are clenched around his thighs, the smiling faces of Anakin’s potential wives laying discarded and forgotten on the floor.