#god what i wouldn’t give to be in a shakespeare tragedy

[eucalyptgem]

some notes about the production of macbeth i saw tonight, because it was wonderful!

- The performance was set in the early 1920s, and whilst this didn’t seem to have any effect on the story interpretation, it made for some wonderful costumes and set pieces (I was particularly fond of Lady Macbeth’s pantsuit)

- Banquo was played by a non-binary person, who absolutely killed it! They brought such a tenderness to Banquo’s relationship with Fleance and a genuine, joyful care for Macbeth that was slowly tainted by concern as time went on.

- Speaking of performances, Lady Macbeth was incredible. Also, Lady Macbeth top rights for the win. Straddled Macbeth and pinned him down as soon as he got home and then when he got excited, slapped him in the face (“Your face, my Thane, is a book where men / may read strange matters”) and then just got up and left him on the floor lmaoooo

- Jumping ahead a little but after the Macbeths’ argument post-murder, Macbeth flinching away from Lady Macbeth when she goes to hold his blood covered hands.

- For almost the entire show, the entire cast was on stage. Instead of leaving they would all stand at the edges facing away from the audience. Instead of having the audio cues like screams and knocking in some of the scenes, the cast would simultaneous make these jerky movements to draw the attention. This also made the few times the stage was genuinely empty stand out.

- The whole banquet sequence was incredible, but particularly Macbeth’s manic giggles upon seeing Banquo. Banquo standing stock still for the first half before rushing to grab Macbeth’s face, and then standing right up against him in his second appearance. Macbeth’s actor was absolutely fantastic and when he started scuttling around the stage backwards on all fours whilst yelling like the girl from The Ring i was Very Unnerved.

- Macbeth just… curled in the foetal position for a solid 5 minutes. Same.

- Lady Macbeth KILLED it with the sleepwalking sequence. Love love loved that on the last “come, come, come, come, give me your hand” bit she became considerably gentler and crouched down, beckoning as though to a toddler learning to walk.

- Macduffs gasps and sobs when hearing his family was killed :( really made the “I will feel it like a man” line hit harder

- Macbeth just became entirely, manically insane for the last section. His whole breakdown, including wearing his jacket incredibly weirdly and crawling all over a chair like gollum, was emphasised through the very stark lighting casting his face in shadows.

- When brought the news of the moving forest he FULLY tackled the messenger to the ground and just sort of… enveloped the poor dude? Lying right on top of him

- Also at this point all of the chairs and tables from around the stage were haphazardly stacked in a mess in the corner. Something something the stage physically representing the breakdown of Macbeth’s mind.

- The final duel being with bayonets was a nice touch

overall i had a great time! while i think there could’ve been more done re: interpretation of some of the character dynamics (macbeth and banquo, macduff and malcolm), and some of the musical scoring and fight choreography came off as a bit cheesy, the actors pulled off a wonderful performance

[allegra-j-joann]

The Agency of women in Shakespeares Tragedies and Comedies

Women have more agency in Shakespeare's tragedies than in his comedies. Are large aspect of the Puritan/protestant revolution, particularly around the 1590s was the foregrounding of marriage as the most appropriate lifestyle, the puritans encouraged their clergy to lead by example and be married with children, as opposed to the catholic clergy who prized virginity above all else. In his comedies, Shakespeare promoted this new way of life that didn’t vilify women as sexual villains and temptresses and in fact, we get a glimpse of their idea of a world where women and marriage were the key to salvation. The difference between tragedies, which follow a downward arc often with cynical moments of levity, and comedies, which follow an upward curve without being the light silliness that we know comedies to be today, is reconciliation. In a comedy, the conflict ends in marriage, the communal spirit of the characters is regenerated, and they have a path to salvation, meanwhile, in tragedies, the promise of regeneration and reconciliation dies, often alongside the women.

In Hamlet, Ophelia is a disempowered character, but if Hamlet had listened to her, and not mistreated her, and if her father hadn’t controlled every aspect of her life, then perhaps she wouldn’t have had to die. The final scene of carnage is prompted by Laertes and Hamlet furiously grappling over her corpse. When Ophelia dies, any chance of reconciliation dies with her. The world collapses in on itself. Peter Brooke’s production of Hamlet physically places Ophelia lower than other characters, staging her to be constantly throwing her at the ground in front of male characters while trying to make them listen to her, Much Ado About Nothing alternatively pivots around a woman’s anger over the abuse of her innocent cousin. If the men were left in charge in this play, no one would be married at the end, and it would certainly end in tragedy. But Beatrice stands up and rails against men for their cruel conduct towards women and says that famous line - oh God, that I was a man! I would eat his heart in the marketplace. Robert Delamere’s production gives Beatrice even more power through Catherine Tate, staging her standing front and centre whenever she speaks, standing taller and speaking louder, making it impossible for the characters or the audience to ignore what she says. And Benedick, her suitor, listens to her. He realises that his misogynistic view of the world is wrong and he takes steps to change it. He challenges his male friends for their conduct, and parts company with the prince, and by doing this he wins his lady’s hand. The entire happy ending is dependent on the men realising that they must trust, love and respect women. Ending in a society that is worthy of being perpetuated.

[blackspoon99]

A Night at the Theater

Sherlock x Female! Reader

Halloween Special 

TW: Fighting, Near-Death Experience, Mentions of Murder 

Masterlist

A/N: This fic heavily references Macbeth, so if you are unfamiliar, here’s a link if you want a brief plot summary: https://www.shakespeare.org.uk/explore-shakespeare/shakespedia/shakespeares-plays/macbeth/?gclid=CjwKCAjw2vOLBhBPEiwAjEeK9iW79c8ZMqs_KOz0bCq1tipDrKUrHcdEree1tJ1jj42S-BJEC7k6HBoCMWsQAvD_BwE

Hands down, Halloween was your favorite holiday. You especially loved Halloween in London. The cool air, the warm drinks, and the spooky history. The moment you felt a chill in the air at the end of the blistering heat of summer, you were your truest self. Not everyone felt the way you did. Your boyfriend, Sherlock for one. Imagine trying to get Sherlock Holmes to dress up in a Halloween costume.

You walked through the door of Sherlock’s Baker Street flat, grocery bags in hand. Sherlock and his flatmate John usually couldn’t be bothered to buy food. Despite your constant reminders, Sherlock often let the fridge go empty without even noticing. Eventually, you just took it upon yourself to shop for them once a week. Struggling with the bags, you walked up the stairs and eased the door open with your shoulder.

“Hello Sherlock,” you called, walking into the kitchen. Sherlock was seated by the windows, staring intently at his laptop. His posture was slightly hunched over, and he was still wearing his pajamas. His hair was disheveled, and he had deep purple under eye circles and bloodshot eyes. Those were clear signs he’d been sitting in that exact spot for a while. You weren’t even surprised when he gave no response. You placed the heavy paper bags onto the kitchen table and moved to hang up your coat by the door.

Sherlock made no indication that he even recognized your presence. You calmly walked behind him and leaned down to kiss him gently on the cheek. He flinched slightly, startled, and looked at you over his shoulder.

“I said, hello, darling,” you repeated softly into his ear. You leaned back and smiled at him.

“Not now, I’m working,” he said, giving you a look that made your knees weak.

“When aren’t you?” you said, fake pouting. “Have you thought about what I asked you?”

“I didn’t need to think about it. I’m not going to Lestrade’s Halloween party.”

“Come on, Sherlock, he invites us every year, and besides, now that we’re… together I thought you might want to come with me this time.”

“Oh god—” he stood up from his chair, walked to the kitchen, and started going through the grocery bags. You followed him.

“Oh, but I’ve already bought our costumes,” you teased. “And you’d look so great in the policeman’s costume I found. It’s got a little hat and everything.” Sherlock side-eyed you, horrified, trying to tell if you were serious. You immediately started laughing when you saw his face. “Relax, I’m only joking. However, it wouldn’t kill you to stop in and say hello.”

Sherlock snatched an apple from the brown paper bag. “Darling, I’m afraid I disagree,” he said, inspecting it. He tossed it up in the air and caught it before taking a bite. “Besides, I already have plans for us that night.” He turned on his heel and walked straight back to his chair.

You sighed and walked back into the living room behind him. “Okay, I’m intrigued. Tell me more.” You sat yourself down across from him at the table by the window. Sherlock took another bite of his apple and tossed you a newspaper. The headline read “A Shakespearean Tragedy Come to Life: Actor Slain Mid-performance”

“Actor Harry Wells was stabbed to death with what was supposed to be a fake dagger during the assassination scene of Caesar. Several actors on stage, no one saw a thing. Killer disguised himself as a cast member and no one seemed to notice.”

“Now that’s what I call method acting.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at your wordplay. “It’s going to happen again, and I think I know where and when. In short: we’ve got a date at the theater.”

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

7:00 pm, Halloween night

Sherlock had predicted the next murder would happen during the annual masquerade performance of Macbeth on Halloween night. It was a long-held tradition at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, London’s most haunted theater and opera house. You’d always wanted to go to this event, and you were inappropriately excited about sneaking backstage.

You met Sherlock at his flat and the two of you headed over to the theater. Once you arrived in the cover of darkness, people were beginning to enter the theater through the front entrance. All of them were dressed in costume, as was tradition for the event. It sort of made you wish Sherlock would dress up with you one Halloween. Well, there was always next year. You’d wear him down eventually. Sherlock approached the ticket box.

“Two tickets listed under Holmes, please”

“Ah, yes, there you are. Holmes, party of two. Enjoy the performance.”

“Oh, we will,” he said with a smirk. You nudged him.

“Could you be any more suspicious?” You asked with a smile. He winked at you and offered his arm to escort you inside. As you walked into the main hall, you were in complete awe. Marble columns and dramatic arches lined the hallway. The lights were dimmed, and the room was filled with lit floor candelabras. You looked up towards the high ceiling and saw three-dimensional projected silver specters drifting across. “Wow,” you said in amazement. Sherlock pulled you back to reality with a gentle tug on your wrist.

“Come on, it's time,” he said and gestured towards the theater. Amongst all the activity, you and Sherlock easily slipped into a side door and made your way backstage. You crept through the labyrinth of hallways until you could hear the distant noise of the actors getting ready to perform. You leaned your head around the corner to see actors rushing around dressed in medieval costumes, each with a mask obscuring most or all of their faces. You turned back to Sherlock, and he pointed to a room across the hall labeled “Costume Storage”.

You nodded at him and quietly rushed towards the door, hoping no one would catch you. You swiftly threw open the door and Sherlock hastily shut it behind you once he’d made it in. You looked across the room and saw racks of clothing, trunks of accessories, and old stage sets all clustered together in a small, cluttered room.

“Now what?” You asked Sherlock.

“We blend in.”

You nodded, still unsure of what his plan actually could be. You browsed through the costume racks, looking for anything appropriate for a masked performance of Macbeth. You found a scarlet off-the-shoulder chemise dress and an un-boned corset belt. You threw the loose-fitting chemise over your head and secured the corset around your waist to fit the garment to your body. Now you just needed a mask. You turned to rummage through a small trunk of accessories and finally spotted a red mask to complete your costume.

You peeked over the clothing rack. Sherlock had removed his wool coat and blazer and he just wore his purple dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and his black dress pants. He wore a black mask with gold trim that obscured the top half of his face. He stood, looking in a floor-length mirror, securing a prop rapier to his right hip.

“So, this is what it takes for you to wear a Halloween costume?” you asked, emerging from behind the clothing rack.

“It’s not a costume, it’s a disguise—” He stopped abruptly when he turned to look at you. You immediately fell silent as your tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of your mouth. Even from behind the mask, you still felt the full impact of the way he was looking at you. You blushed and lifted your mask to your face. “Allow me,” Sherlock said as he moved behind you. You held the mask to your face. He slowly secured the black ribbon of the mask behind your head.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

“You’re welcome,” he said, his low voice echoing in the quiet room. He finished tying the knot and slowly dropped his hand. He lingered for a moment at the nape of your neck. He then abruptly removed his hand, as if he had just become aware of what he was doing, and awkwardly cleared his throat.

You finally broke the silence “What’s the plan? This is Macbeth. There are about six murders. The killer could strike during any of them.”

“I’ve determined that the only way to catch the murderer is to watch the actors closely. I’ll be able to spot which one has the real sword and catch him before he makes it on stage.”

“So do we just wait in the wings and keep an eye out when the murder scenes are coming up?”

“More or less.”

“Well, I appreciate the honesty.”

“We shouldn’t stick together; we would draw more attention to ourselves that way. You stay to the left wings, find a corner, and watch the actors closely. I’ll be on the right wing. Tell me if you see anything out of order. If you think you spot our man, do not engage with him. Text me immediately. When it comes down to it, let me handle it.” He had genuine concern in his voice, so you reluctantly agreed.

“Okay, I will. Be careful, Sherlock.”

“You as well.”

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

You and Sherlock silently left the storage room and went your separate ways. As you made your way to the left wing, an actor raced past you, trying to make it to opening places. Much to your surprise, in all the chaos before a play, no one even noticed an unfamiliar masked woman wandering around backstage. As you walked, you felt the buzzing energy of the moment before the performance. Three women dressed as the witches walked past you, going over their lines for the iconic Act IV scene

“Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.”  

“Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

You weaved through frantic actors, crew members dressed in all black, and a very flustered woman with a headset and a clipboard. You even saw the two actors playing Macbeth and Macduff blocking out the stage combat for the final duel where Macbeth meets his end.

You finally made it to the wings and found a dark corner where you were unlikely to be noticed. You could see the entire stage across. The sound of audience chatter was audible even through the closed thick velvet curtain. You looked over to the right wing, hoping to spot Sherlock backstage. Through the shadows, you could barely make out his silhouette, watching intently and waiting.

As if on cue, the lights backstage and onstage immediately switched off and the curtain began to rise slowly. You felt a jolt of nervous energy as the audience cheered and applauded. With all the excitement, you’d almost forgotten you were there to prevent a murder.

The lights gradually went back up as the three witches walked onto the stage. They wore floor-length scarlet hoods that completely obscured their faces. Once they reached the cauldron at the center of the stage, they lifted their hoods and began the first scene.

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

You watched intently all the way through acts one through four, communicating discretely with Sherlock. Nothing had happened yet, and the tension was slowly building. You got the creeping feeling the murder would happen at the very end, at Macbeth’s end. You watched as the actors began to play out the storming of Macbeth’s castle. You watched anxiously as prop weapons clashed in a hurricane of stage fighting. You received a text from Sherlock, almost as if he sensed your nerves.

Not yet. You’ll know when it’s time.

Why was it that he never just gave you the whole explanation? Eventually, the play moved into the eighth scene of the fifth act. The moment you’d been anxiously anticipating.

MACBETH:

With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed. Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born.

MACDUFF

Despair thy charm, And let the angel whom thou still hast served Tell thee — Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripped.

The man playing Macduff raised his rapier to initiate the final duel scene. This had to be it. Why hadn’t Sherlock said anything?

Suddenly, from the right wing, Sherlock raced onto the stage and pulled the actor playing Macbeth by the back of his shirt and threw him off the stage. The actor playing Macduff cried out in a rage and attempted to strike Sherlock. He reached up and blocked it, using his prop rapier. Suddenly, Sherlock was using a prop in a real sword fight.

Sherlock blocked the man’s attacks with expertise. Among many other things, your boyfriend just happened to be a master fencer. Although everything seemed to be heading in Sherlock’s favor, your whole body was screaming at you to move, to intervene. The only thing holding you back was your promise to Sherlock not to get involved.

Your heart dropped as you watched Sherlock lose his footing as the actor threw him to the ground. You watched the masked man playing Macduff raise his rapier above his head, aiming to strike Sherlock.

Without thinking, you ran onstage towards the man and threw yourself at his back. You leapt on top of him and tried to wrestle the rapier from his hand. The man spun to the left, his arms flailing, trying to throw you off. The audience members laughed, assuming it to be a part of the production somehow.

Suddenly, he threw his upper body forward and flipped you over his head and onto the stage floor. The air left your lungs as your back made impact with the hard wood. You let out an inaudible groan of pain. You looked up and saw the man standing over you menacingly, his eyes seemingly glowing behind his mask. He once again raised his rapier over his head to strike.

Before he could follow through, Sherlock struck him over the head with the hilt of his prop. The man collapsed to the ground, his weapon landing beside you with a clang. Your chest heaved up and down as you tried to get your breathing under control. You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked up at Sherlock.

He extended his hand down to you. You took it and he pulled you to your feet and held you tightly to him. Your head spun slightly as you got your bearings. The audience cheered in amusement. You spotted who you assumed was the director shoving past audience members trying to yell over the crowd. You looked up at Sherlock with pure relief, thankful he was alright. The stage manager emerged from the wings and barked “Close the damn curtain!”. The curtain dropped abruptly from the ceiling and landed with a thud.

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

In the aftermath, it was quite difficult to explain to the theater staff why the two of you had stormed the stage mid-performance and assaulted one of the actors. Once the police had arrived and confiscated the weapon, you and Sherlock finally were relieved from answering questions.

The man had used the masked performance as an opportunity to knock out the original actor playing Macduff and take his place before the duel without anyone noticing. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock noticed. Once he came to in handcuffs, Sherlock approached him, snatched off his mask, and addressed him by name.

“James Hughes. Thrown out of the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art for dealing and using illegal drugs five years ago.” He turned to the officers “Since the end of his short prison sentence, James has been making the rounds and getting revenge on the man who reported him, and a few other classmates he chose to blame. He made his first hit last week. Harry Wells: the student who reported him to the dean.”

Hughes scowled and looked away. “They deserved it. They ruined my career and now they get to play the leading roles? The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.”

“Thespians,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“I believe you have your man, detectives.” He turned to you. “Shall we?”

You nodded him and followed him off the stage and back through the hallways. As soon as you were out of sight, he grabbed your hand to stop you. He then immediately leaned down and kissed you. After he eventually pulled away, you stood there stunned. Sherlock never opted for public displays of affection. Emphasis on the public aspect. To your confusion, he looked upset with you.

“I thought I told you not to intervene under any circumstances. You could have been killed.”

“I wasn’t going to stand idly by when you’re in trouble. I understand you’re concerned, but you can’t expect me to just sit and watch.” Sherlock frowned. “You were there to save me, and I was there to save you. That’s what we do. I’m safe as long as I’m with you.”

“In that case, I suppose the only logical way to ensure your safety is to always be by your side.”

“I can live with that.”

You strolled through the hallways and into the main hall.

“This was fun,” you started. “I will say, this was a really great date. Good luck topping this one.”

He chuckled. “It doesn’t have to be over.”

You tilted your head in confusion. Sherlock looked down to check his watch then looked back at you. “Look at that. You know, if we head over now, we could still make it to Lestrade’s party.”

You looked up at him in shock. “Did you hit your head when he knocked you over?”

“Come on, let’s make his night. Besides, we’re already in costume.” He pulled his mask out of his pocket and put it back over his face.

A huge smile stretched across your face as you reached down to hold his hand. Sherlock Holmes did have his moments.

“Really? You mean it?” you asked.

“I will admit,” he said with a smile, “This costume is really growing on me.”

“You do look quite handsome,” you agreed.

“Actually, I was talking about yours.”

Your eyes widened and you playfully pushed him away.

A/N: Hello! So sorry for the extended absence. This fic was partially inspired by my new favorite book: If We Were Villains. DW there’s no spoilers in here. Also fun fact, Benedict Cumberbatch went to the London Academy for Music and Dramatic Art so I had to put that in here. Anyways, I wish you a very spooky Halloween!

[multiplefandomsblog]

Kazuichi, Byakuya, Gundham, Rantaro, Gonta, Leon, and Toko with an ultimate Broadway actress s/o

Desc; headcanons of kazuichi, byakuya, gundham, rantaro, gonta, leon, toko with an ultimate broadway actress s/o

Warnings; i tried to make this spoiler free, fem!reader, reader uses female pronouns, i guess this takes place at hope’s peak academy? pre-tragedy?? i dont really know about the v3 boys, haven’t finished the game lmao-

Gundham:

◊ He already knows a bunch about Musicals; especially the darker ones.

◊ He thinks your Ultimate is amazing, he loves all your plays.

◊ Neither of you know which between the two of you is more dramatic.

◊ Your dramatic personalities often intertwined, merging the two of you and making you both into one huge drama queen.

◊ It gives everyone a headache as you both scream, “My toe hurts!-” “My king’s toe hurts! Someone bring an ambulance, stat!”

◊ “Someone get the fucking chlorofoam-” “Hiyoko no-”

◊ This is a bad example, but you get my point-

◊ He enjoys Shakespeare and dark love story plays/musicals.

◊ So he would definitely enjoy acting one with you on stage, if you let him.

◊ He’ll somehow incorporate his Dark Devas into the play just for an excuse to bring them with him on-stage.

◊ Once he was playing Romeo and abandoned Juliet to save Cham-P after he ran offstage to eat a sunflower seed someone dropped on the floor.

◊ Fuck Juliet, mans knows his priorities.

◊ He’s kind of a musical theatre nerd, he enjoys discussing the message behind musicals you’ve played.

◊ Throwing in some compliments about how well you perceived the character, and how pretty you looked.

◊ He is always extremely proud and amazed at your ability to sing, dance and act so well all at the same time.

◊ He believes you don’t get enough credit for doing what you do, so he makes sure you know how proud he is of you.

◊ He sometimes quotes Shakespeare or some other dark musical while you two hung out, it was kinda cute seeing him geek out like that.

◊ “As said in ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor’, Better three hours too soon than a minute too late." Gundham quoted, pride laced in his words as he was proud of remembering that. “Gundham... it’s literally 5 am in the morning, the party starts at 12 pm. Go back to sleep.” Gundham blinks and nearly falls asleep where he stood. “Mmkay.”

◊ If he saw you dress up as the witch in Wicked, he would be whipped.

◊ His evil queen? In an evil costume? A dream come true!

◊ He thinks you look absolutely fabulous and praises you a bunch after the show, telling you how pretty you looked while you acted.

Kazuichi

◊ He wouldn’t know much about musical theatre, since he’s more into machines.

◊ But when you told him to come to a play you were going to star in, he jumped at the offer.

◊ 90 minutes of you? He must be the luckiest guy in the world!(Nagito would be proud)

◊ After watching his first play, he decides he is obsessed with musical theatre now, going to all your shows.

◊ He loves all the romance based musicals, he’s a sucker for romance what can he say?

◊ He’d obsess over all your plays, going into a lot of detail about his favourtite parts.

◊ He’s kinda like, your #1 fan.

◊ He has posters of musicals you’ve starred posted around his dorm room, just a bunch of merch of you and all the musicals you starred in.

◊ When you tell him he has a backstage pass because he’s your boyfriend, he is overjoyed. 

◊ He actually trained a bit to be one of the backstage crew members.

◊ He learned how to fix your make up during intermissions, fix a loose stitch on your costume, all that good stuff.

◊ Though every time he sees your face up close for make up, he goes speechless.

◊ He wonders every time, how the hell did he get someone like you?

◊ Though his hands are shaking from how nervous he was, he still managed to make you look absolutely amazing.

◊ He’d blast a bunch of musical soundtracks while he works on his machines, screwing on and unscrewing things with a bop.

◊ I can imagine Kazuichi jamming with you in the car. The car moving violently as you two bounced to the rhythm like mad men.

◊ I think he’d get pretty insecure if he saw you with a love interest, he would think that when you two shared a staged kiss or scene, that it was actually full of love and not fake

◊ But when you cheer him up and tell him how much you love him, he realizes he was being silly over nothing.

◊ After watching many many romance musicals, you notice he gets more romantic; most likely mimicking the love interests.

◊ He is still a bit insecure, but if he does more romantic things, you’ll love him right?

◊ You enjoy the silly grand gestures of love, but you try and assure him constantly that you don’t need any of it.

◊ You only need him <3

Rantaro:

◊ w o a h

◊ He’d love the fact that you’re an actress

◊ He thinks it’s so cool like-

◊ constant fanboying after shows

◊ He’s always bringing you flowers once you’re off the stage, showering you with praises and affections

◊ He’s literally so proud of you wtf??

◊ i think he’d be the type to show you off a lot

◊ “Hey you!” He points at a naked passerby(this is an inside joke, i am so sorry), “Guess what? My girlfriend’s a Broadway actress!” “Rantaro stop, people are staring-” “Are they? hEY YOU! YEAH, YOU STARING!! MY GIR-”

◊ if you ever started spitting out hamilton raps, he’d be the one beatboxing in the back ground for you.

◊  “Pshh, packow, psshh psshh, packow!” “How does a bastard, orphan, son of a-” 

◊ you two would jam out to musical soundtracks in your dorm, dancing dramatically as you did.

◊ you two kinda become like a duo of musical theatre kids.

◊ if you stood on a table and started belting lyrics, he would hop on and join you

◊ unless it was a solo, he would never steal your thunder.

◊ if you ever felt a bit nervous before a big show, he would assure you that’d you’d do great and tell you how much he believed in you until you felt better.

◊ he’s your charger before and after a big show.

◊ if you felt exhausted from acting and dancing around the stage, he’s always there to give you what you need most.

◊ whether it’s water, food, flowers, or just him and his cuddles, he always has it ready for you.

◊ the most recent musical soundtrack that you’ve played will be stuck in his head.

◊ For example, if you recently played in Hairspray, ‘Mama, I’m a big girl now!’ will be stuck in his head until the next play he watches.

◊ you’d catch him humming it during everything he does, 

◊ and it’s actually so fricking adorable.

◊ if you heard him sing a familiar tune, you would hum along with him.

◊ “Hmm, mmwhen I was, just a kid ♪” 

◊ Your ears perked up at the familiar tune, slowly you turned around to face him.

◊ “♪....You never let me do just what the older kids did…♪” You joined in quietly, Rantaro whipped his head towards you, a rising smile on his face.

◊ “♪ But lose that laundry list of what you won't allow ♪,” His voice rose slowly in excitement, pointing at you with a big grin across his face.

◊ And at the same time, you both sang obnoxiously loud, as if it was rehearsed, “♪ 'Cause mama, I'm a big girl now! ♪” Running to each other with excitement, 

◊ You let out a fit of giggles as Rantaro picked you up, “MY WIFE, PLEASE BE MY WIFE!” 

◊ This is how you two met and you can’t tell me otherwise-

Gonta:

◊ Gonta wouldn’t know much about Broadway musicals- which to you, a broadway actress, was unacceptable!

◊ so you made it your mission to get him to watch as many musicals as he possibly can.

◊ You’d tell him to come to all your plays, him excitedly agreeing despite not knowing what a play is.

◊ You’d do extra good knowing that Gonta was in the crowd watching you, wanting to give him the best first experience with musicals.

◊ He’d applaud at the end of every scene, trying to show his support the best he can.

◊ for his first play he watches, he ends up clapping a bit too early.

◊ he cheered and applauded super loud when he saw you on stage, but stopped when he realized everyone was staring at him.

◊ Though it was a bit embarrassing for both you and him, you felt your heart flutter at how his first instinct was to clap for you when you walked in stage.

◊ You’d introduce him to various musicals, beauty and the beast being his favourite.

◊ He definitely starts to obsess over the more ‘gentlemanly’ characters.

◊ his first impressions of the beast were bad; Denying that old lady shelter? How ungentlemanly!!

◊ so when the dude got cursed, he cheered lmao

◊ but as he kept watching, he could see the beast wasn’t too bad. 

◊ The beast had some flaws, but he obviously cared for belle, he thought.

◊ Oh but he hated Gaston, he really really hated him.

◊ If you acted with someone who played Gaston(and you as belle), he would have to hold back and not rip his face off every time Gaston said something idiotic or sexist.

◊ He had to keep reminding himself that, that Gaston wasn’t real(and thank god for that, real gaston would’ve been torn to shreds.)

◊ the dancing scene was his favourite part for sure.

◊ He’s sad he doesn’t get to play beast with you, but he still enjoys the scene nonetheless.

◊ something cute I can imagine him doing is surprising you by dressing up in a prince costume from the musical and asking you for a dance. 

◊ It’s the cutest thing ever oml-

◊ It’s such a beautiful moment, you two just dancing together in a random room with no care in the world.

◊ Your arms wrapped his extravagant costume and his arms wrapped around your pj’s.

◊ He’s a bit shy to be so close to you, but he tries his best to be confident and as princely as he could so he pushes his anxiety aside.

◊ As his stomach fills with butterflies, he becomes slightly confused and concerned, ‘Did Gonta eat butterflies??’ He slightly panics-

◊ ‘Those poor butterflies!!’

◊ He’d watch a lot of videos on how to ballroom dance in advance for this moment.

◊ He’s actually not that bad!

◊ Well- as long as you dance with your feet on his, so he doesn’t crush your toes.

◊ If you ever did some beauty and the beast scenes for him, he would be so happy. 

◊ He’d be even happier if you let him play the beast with you.

◊ He’d be smiling the entire time during a fight/sad/serious practice scene.

◊ *almost gets stabbed* “Haha oh no!” 

◊ When you sing during one of the scenes, he kinda just-

◊ becomes a puddle of a gentleman.

◊ his heart melts and disintegrates(haha what) of love for you. 

◊ he absolutely loves your voice, and would beg for you to sing him one of the soundtracks from beauty and the beast before bed.

◊ He’s really proud of all your plays, and is extremely happy that you–of all people–are his girlfriend.

Byakuya Togami

◊ In all honesty, he thinks your ultimate isn’t all that great.

◊ But as he watches one of your plays, his mind ultimately(see what i did there?) changes.

◊ He becomes impressed and dazzled from how passionate you look when you act, not noticing how you had him sitting on the edge of his seat.

◊ After watching you act, he literally cannot watch another play unless you are in it, finding it unworthy of his time and money.

◊^^this is before you two got together,

◊ you two got together after you found him in your crowd, applauding like the rest of them with the same bewildered expression on his face.

◊ You confronted him and he attempted to compliment your acting, but he accidentally let his feelings for you slip out instead, “I find you truly captivating- Wait no, I-I meant your plays. Your plays, they are truly captivating.” You watched in amusement as he stumbled with his words, eventually interrupting him with an, “Are you available right now?”

◊ So yeah, eventually you two get together, and good for Togami! Because now he doesn’t have to secretly applaud you as a fan, he can applaud you whenever and as your lover.

◊ After shows, he’d give you a single rose as a congrats or applause (so romantic!)

◊ If you ever decided to be chaotic and start belting out lyrics, he would just sigh and let you finish.

◊ Very rarely, you would catch him humming a small tune of a musical song you sang.

◊ But very very rarely. If you ever catch him and confront him about it, he will deny it completely.

◊ I think he’d probably like the more serious plays, he enjoys the meanings and emotions of them more than the sillier and playful ones.

◊ If he ever watched Mean Girls, he would start to slightly mimic Regina George.

◊ “Byakuya wha-” “Get in peasant, we’re going shopping.” 

◊ It’d be lowkey hot when you hear him sass you like Regina George tho-

◊ He’d have more big dick energy after watching Mean Girls, emitting his dominance to everyone.

◊ Makoto during a class trial: “So we know that she was at the scene of the crime, right?” “Shut up.” Byakuya flipped his imaginary long hair as Makoto stares at him in confusion, silence filling the room. “Shut up!” “I didn’t even say anything-”

◊ “The new motive is going to be-!” “Whatever, I’m getting cheese fries a book.” Byakuya sighed, turning on his heels and catwalking away.

◊ ...

◊ “IT’S PUNISHMENT TIME-!” “MONOKUMA WAIT NO-”

Leon

◊ Would go to every one of your shows.

◊ Would act like an absolute mom in the crowd.

◊*holding a video camera* You’re doing great sweetie!.

◊”That’s my girl!”

◊ You’d get embarrassed every time he does that.

◊ Hypes you up when you get nervous before going on stage.

◊ In back stage, he’d praise you and give you a bouquet of flowers.

◊ Where did they come from? When did he have time to get flowers when he was yelling in the crowed??

◊ Helps you rehearse lines even if he has no idea what they’re about.

◊ Will fight anyone that makes mean comments towards you.

◊ Even if it’s just constructive criticism, he will take it as an insult.

◊ “Hey s/o! You did great! Maybe next time you could-”

◊ Leon: “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY PUNK!? DO YOU KNOW WHO SHE IS?! I HAVE FRICKING ARMS OF STEEL, I WILL-”

◊ Will take every chance to pick you up and call you a queen.

◊ When you guys watch other plays together, he always says how you’d play a better role or that you’d do so much better.

◊ He is pretty jealous of your talent, he has always wanted to be a singer instead of a baseball star, but his ultimate wouldn’t allow that.

◊ So if you let him sing some musical song duets with you, his heart will be so full.

◊ You make him so happy, he almost breaks into cries.

◊ You two of weekly karoake nights, always singing some Heather’s duet together.

◊ One time, you, Sayaka and Leon sang the Candy Store song, Leon being Heather Chandler, Sayaka as Heather Duke, and you as Heather McNamara.

◊ It was... amazing.

◊ Everyone was cheering, clapping and it praising all of you.

◊ You made Leon feel alive, and he really, really loves you for that.

Toko

◊ She loves your ultimate, and fangirls over you a bunch.

◊ She’s amazed at your confidence to go up in stage, knowing she could never do that.

◊ She thinks your confidence is kinda hot, and decides she is in love.

◊ Likes to add a character in her books that are a lot like you, maybe making them a broadway actress-

◊ She thinks about you a lot, sometimes accidentally blurting out how pretty you were in your last performance in front of everybody.

◊ You confronted her for it, and she almost passed out.

◊ “W-w-why d-do you think t-t-that? D-d-do you th-think you’re b-better than m-me or so-something?” 

◊ You already know her and her inferiority complex, so you don’t take offence to what she said, simply replying with, “I think you’re really cute.”

◊ Toko goes silent, except for a few “!??!??” noises that came out of her.

◊ “... U-uh, a-are you j-joking, be-because that isn’t f-funny!” She flushes, denying that you complimented her.

◊ “I’m not joking, here’s my number! Call me, kay?” You grinned before turning on your heel.

◊ She’s kinda dumbfounded, did her crush just ask her out??

◊ She denies it hard at first, not believing that you asked her out.

◊ Thus, not calling you.

◊ Well, I mean, she kinda did.

◊ She dialed your number one day, feeling a bit lonely.

◊ But as she heard your morning voice, she squeaked and hung up quickly.

◊ She felt her face turn into a fireball, her thoughts going into overdrive from how attractive your voice sounded.

◊ Your voice, she was attracted to your voice.

◊ The next day, when you ask her about what that call was about, she denies it and calls you stupid.

◊ Sprinting away while she screamed, “I-i-idiot!!”

◊ Acts like an absolute tsundere around you.

◊ You constantly flirt with her, trying to get her to accept a date with you.

◊ Being the dramatic hoe you are, you try and give her a declaration of your love.

◊ Knowing she is the Ultimate Writer, and into poems, you write one for her.

◊ You declared your love during one of your plays, knowing she sat in the crowd somewhere.

◊ You interrupted a scene and jumped off stage, “Toko Fukawa!”

◊ Her head perked up in surprise, eyes widening as she saw you on one knee for her.

◊ “W-what are you d-doing!?” She yelped, moving her legs away from you. 

◊ “I am in love with you. Completely and utterly in love with you, everyday when I see you so immersed in writing a book, I believe I am looking at an angel.”

◊ The crowd stared at the both of you, gasps and aws filling the air.

◊ Toko flushed, you watched her while she wrote?

◊ “For every time you’ve told me I was a fool, an idiot, you weren’t wrong. Because I am a fool, a fool in love with you.” You had one had on your chest, looking into her eyes sincerely.

◊ Her eyes glossed over so slightly you couldn’t see, looking around at the crowd before uttering out, “Y-y-you r-really love m-me, h-huh?” Her face contorting into a lopsided smirk, watching as you giggled.

◊ You laughed out, “Absolutely.” 

◊ WHY DID THIS TURN INTO A ONESHOT WHAT WHY WHAT WHYYY

note; thank you so much for reading and sorry for the wait!! we tried our best to finish these together, thank you so much for your patience.

[thespamman24]

I’m usual an easy going guy. However, I have limits, and when they are broken I can get very, very mad. Thankfully, these limits very rarely get broken. However, I start to lose my cool when I decide to order a nice, box of pizza for dinner and then twenty minutes later the pizza man shows up with a copy of Shakespeares unpublished masterpiece; it follows a young Vinetian  prince named Selvitico and Mardico, the son of an aristocrat of a neighboring kingdom. The play is notable not just in that it is neither comedy nor tragedy, but in the way that he strays from all other Shakespearean comedies in it’s craft and story telling. 

                            Act One. Scene One, a Crowded City Street.

Watchman: Hark! What stranger from the night goes here!

Levidico: No need to beware, for even though thy am a stranger to the night, I am a friend to the day.

Watchman: Hark! I said stranger from the night, not to the night.

Levidico: Well, it’s very hard to come up with these witty wordings on the spot!

Watchman: Hark! Excuses are for tired old men, and tired old dogs, and people that make excuses.

Levidico: Why you barnacle bouting son of a breaking borfins! 

{He stabs him}

Watchman: Now it is time to reveal my true form!

{He turns into a watch}

Watchman: I am the watchman!!!!

Levidico: Aah, beans.

Watchman: It is time for you to catch these hands!

Levidico: Oh god, my worst weakness, clock puns!

{he dies}

Watchman: Yes! I am the watchman!!!!

Watchwoman: Honey, please come home!

Watchman: No!

Watchboy: Daddy! My bush has been stolen!

Watchman: I care not!

Ibradigigiooo: Shut up!

[he punches the watchman]

Watchman: Oh, I am slain! Oh tempora! Oh moores! Thou hast been punched, punched like a thief in the night, or a crook in the night, or a day in the night, or a night in the day! Oh! Thou shall breathe thy last breath and then thy shall breathe no more breaths! Though has used up all thy breaths! Though went to the breath bank for a loan but they said I was overdue on my payments from my last loan and now I’m in breathe debt! 

[He dies]

Ibradigigiooo: Well, my work here is done.

[He dies]

[Levidico re-appears]

Levidico: Thee has becometh a zombie! Thee crave thy sweetnees of thous brains!!!! Thou brains!!!!

[Everyone screams, and then dies]

[Selvitico walks on stage with Astrastia, Rosylin, Haryambodius, two attendents, and Tim]

Selvitico: Why are there so many dead bodies here?

Haryambodius: Idk man, probably the plauque or something.

Selvitico: My god the white stuff on teeth?

Haryambodius: No. The disease

Selvitico: Aw. My god the disease?

Selviticos god: You called?

Selivitco: Yes, give me the disease!

Selviticos god: Whatever you say, boss.

[selviticos god gives him the disease]

Selivitco: Behold! The disease!

Astrastia: Isn’t that dangerous?

Selivitco: Silence, wench!

Astrastia: Why ist thou like this?

Selivitco: Thy sun is dumb and ugly, and thy is but a drop of ice! 

Astrasia: Surely though jest!

Rosylin: [to astrasia] Oh sister, can you not see that Selivitco is in a fowl wind, to fowl to jest? He jests not.

Selivitco: Shut up! I jest! I jest so hard, thou wouldn’t believe it!

Rosylin: See? Thou has caught win of some fowl manner as of late,  and for no other reason except maybe that your father turned into ten thousand rats!

Astrasia: Ah! But the sun!

Haryambodius: The sun! Dost it not peek through the blinds of the clouds?

Selivitco: Tis be true, but thou has not seen the last of storms and other such diseases wrought upon the skin of the sky. Boils and parasites, of which no leeches can conquer wrought even the highest of heavens, so that even the stars themselves are ill with fevers and maggots!

Astrasia: Ah! Why what blasphemy dost thou speak of!

Selivitco: Blasphemy? Thy hath no blasphemy but thy undergarments! Thy bones are paved with purity, it is the road that it paved with sin! However, your feet can not smell, and so you can not detect the stench of the street! But, thy can because thy dost have noses on thy feet.

[Everyone looks down to see that Selivitco indeed, has noses on his feet]

Haryambodius: It is a fool of a man who doth wear his noses like bracelets.

Selivitco: Why, but if noses were golden then we would all wear them bracelets!

[hauntedhikingsociety]

God i’m having thoughts now i got so blindsided by that goddamn merlin post

merlin could have been a well written tragedy. it could have been cathartic instead of rushed or unsatisfying, the elements were there.

my top most tragic ending for merlin is like, midway through season 5, merlin’s magic gets revealed. and arthur’s pissed, he’s angry, he banishes merlin (even though deep down he doesn’t want to he’s just reeling and upset about not knowing before) and then the knights and gaius and gwen all come to their own conclusions and convince arthur that he was wrong to banish him and magic isn’t evil. and arthur goes “>:( okay, i guess you’re right let’s get merlin back”

but merlin has been on his own adventure, possibly been picked up by morgana who doesn’t know he’s emrys and is willing to forgive and forget if merlin joins her side and somehow, he discovers the latest plot to take down arthur and camelot. and he stops it just like usual, but this time, he dies in the process. arthur gets there just in time to see merlin die for him.

naturally this changes everything for arthur knowing that merlin risked his life for him after being so poorly treated. in a dramatic gesture he goes back on all the laws against magic and the last few episodes involve a few battles that create albion and it’s all great and happy ever after.

if you are thinking “hey well that’s not very tragic” you know what breaks the immersion and makes the ending of merlin a lot less hard hitting? the fact that the prophecy of arthur uniting the land doesn’t come true. arthur uniting the land to become the greatest king that camelot has ever known was a hard fact for the whole first four seasons and the fact that it doesn’t come to fruition in any kind of satisfying way is what makes the ending of merlin frustrating instead of sad. look at fucking macbeth. all the prophecies in that believably come true even through loopholes. the merlin writers really said fuck the conventions of tragedy we can do worse.

the prophecy had to come true for the ending to feel complete. the tragedy had to come from another angle so in this angle the tragedy is that merlin is dead. no prophecy ever said that merlin would be alive to see albion. and merlin has spent five seasons fighting tooth and nail for this kingdom where he would finally be safe, only to die believing arthur had forsaken him, thinking that he’d failed. how would you emotionally recover from that?? you simply wouldn’t.

i also like this idea more because merlin spends five seasons going “oh well if arthur knew. if he knew all i’d done” and this offers the opportunity for arthur to say “if merlin knew.” it gives us a bit of long awaited role reversal which the canon ending did not give us.

at this point i’m just spitballing things i would have liked to see but the tl;dr—

s5 of bbc merlin is a poorly written tragedy and maybe if the writers had a little more appreciation for shakespeare and/or the tragic conventions they would have been able to write a better finale.

[tenderloincherub]

Red, White and Royal Blue (Casey McQuiston)

My thoughts on rwrb, a thread (I do know this doesn’t work by threads but it’s such an opening quote)

It’s been a bit more than a week since I finished this book, and it gave me * feelings * but if I let more time pass I’ll forget what I want to say about it. So this is a sort of review/opinion/basically-my-thoughts-on-it

I love how dreamy it can be. I know it may not be realistic but that’s somehow the point of it -to picture a world where Alex and Henry us queer people could be together and accepted and happy and carry on with our lives. I read it along with a friend, and she told me she disliked the ending because things solved too easily -I disagree, we have the right to see such world. I mean, from the beginning it was obvious it wouldn’t be a tragedy, you know?, like it’s that dreamy-happy from the beginning. We human beings have the right to read to daydream and feel hope, just as much as we read to learn and reflect upon the world and upon ourselves. It’s valid, and it’s always bee: that’s why we have Shakespeare’s both tragedies AND comedies, that’s why we have The Count of Monte Cristo (sorry, that one’s not happy for me) AND Jane Austen’s novels too. Literature’s point is also to give hope, to turn on lights. Like Dickinson said: “ The Poets light but Lamps — [...]”

The beginning didn’t really get me, that part did feel like a Wattpad-enemies-to-lovers-trope. I am sorry. I mean the part of the Cake-Gate and how they’re suddenly forced to fake to be friends. BUT I read Casey’s annotations and she wrote: 

“One thing I loved doing with this book is taking tried & true romcom tropes – like forcing two people who “hate” each other and trapping them in a small enclosed space – and making it gay.” (So she convinced me.)

Alex’s sexual orientation crisis just hit me when I was having a crisis on my own. I loved his growth (as a person, in his relation with his bisexuality, his feelings, his relationship with Henry, as a to-be-politican), and it was quite honestly portrayed.

Ok, but Henry. Henry, oh, my. Oh, sweet, poetic, tender, beautiful, strong, brave-hearted, (hot), breathtaking Henry. He’s the one who made me wish to be a gay poet prince. His character is the most beautiful one that could have been written. I’m sorry, I just love him so much. He was so soft all the way in his love for Alex, he was so self-less but had also his growth to take the reins of his life and the way he wrote. Sorry, I sort of fell in love with him but also projected myself in his interests and some stuff. This friend with whom I read the book actually told me: if you were a character form the book, you’d be Henry. And that was * flattering *.

Well, all the characters. There was such diversity but all (most) of them lovable. And the dynamics between them. *chef’s kiss*

Rafael Luna was the portion of reality this book needed. His story was unfair, but his character was so strong, I could picture him in real life, actually. I loved his character as well, all the way long, I hurt for him but I admired him more.

There is this one thing that I didn’t like. Before saying it, I’ll make clear that I’m not into politics, not in the way that they don’t interest me or anything, but that I don’t know about the topic. Now, I feel the way it portrays American and English government is a complete polarization. Okay, I get monarchy is outdated and that democracy is actualized, but you can’t tell me one is black and the other white. I feel Casey portrayed American government flaws being on the people that run it, and English government flaws being on the system (so that, no matter the people, everything is wrong with the crown). *I’m not deffending England, just feeling it gives a sesgated idea.

Back to stuff I love: I am mexican, and Alex’s mexican side was satisfying. I mean, I’ve seen tons of latin characters in books, movies, and tv shows, and they rarely step out of some stereotypes. Alex’s sudden bursts of Spanish, appearance and cultural traits were so natural and meaningful and real. I really loved it.

Besides that, the way Alex’s religion and bisexuality converged was also beautiful. The passages where he compares holding Henry’s face with holding the Bible, and the mail where he talks about sacred places, and the prayer he remembers... Just beautfiul and meaningful. 

“Henry lets Alex take him apart with painstaking patience and precision, moans the name of God so many times that the room feels consecrated.”

Alex’s narration is so deeply Catholic, which I think all Catholics can relate to. (Another annotation from Casey)

Their letter-like mails, the excerpts from historical characters letters were so romantic, poetic, heartachingly beautiful. This really was my favorite thing from the book. It’s a complete new way of communication, that goes so profound into their hearts and feelings, and gives a whole new perspective, exploring Henry and Alex’s relationship so deeply. [Also, I really hated when they were outed and their letters became public :( my babies deserved better). I’ve been searching for Michelangelo’s letters since and because of them. 

So, wow, this why I never write on goodreads, but I feel more liberty and just comfortable here on Tumblr. I won’t extend into my favorite quotes and my playlist and stuff that reminds me of this -there’ll be more entries for that.

Thanks for reading this, and feel free to share your thoughts on my thoughts.

Sending love.

[iwriteforthetincanman]

Undetected

TRIGGER WARNING: THERE IS MENTION OF ATTEMPTED SUICIDE (no direct or detailed description), MENTION OF DEPRESSION, ANXIETY, SELF HATRED.

PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

Requested by: @robin-the-enby​

Abe admired you for many different reasons. One of them being that you were a talented witch. Another being that you didn’t fall into any particular category of witch, you could do all kinds of magic and more if you wanted. 

But lately...you seemed a bit off. You’d lost that spark in your eye, you took less care of yourself, you threw yourself into your work effectively cutting yourself off from the rest of the team and...more sadly, you barely paid any attention to your boyfriend anymore.

Being the only significant other Abe had ever had, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. Sure, he was well read in the romantic era of writing but that didn’t mean they had all the answers. He couldn’t just ask around, especially since the only ‘healthy’ relationship he could think of was HB and Liz. 

No, asking Red for advice about relationships, especially in this context, might be a bit too embarrassing for the poor fish man. He had tried talking to you directly, that’s what Liz had told him to do. But you were always busy, dashing about with ingredients or some sort of sacrifice to the spirits on your lips.

Gods above...when was the last time Abe even got to kiss you? 

Maybe work was getting to you...maybe he wasn’t the one at fault here. Perhaps...you were thinking about ending things? All the signs pointed to a breakup...oh no, Abe couldn’t handle that. Not only did you live in the same place but it would be awkward and just...heartbreaking. 

Ever since you started going out with him, you’d both gotten into a rhythm of what a real relationship was like. You’d both never been in one before so of course HB warned his blue friend that he had to be careful, calling it ‘puppy love’. Abraham felt like it was more than that. If the relationship could be properly nurturing and taken care of then maybe...just maybe he could see spending the rest of his life with you. 

Or at least the rest of your life…

That got him thinking. He had been busy overthinking all the signs and fretting over your relationship he hadn’t realised they were also a sign for something else...a cry for help. Standing up suddenly, Abe raced out of the library. He needed to see you immediately. He needed to take care of you, whether you liked it or not. 

He forgot the most important part of your relationship.

You look out for each other no matter what’s going on. 

Ever since he met you, he had felt a connection, some sort of force driving him to impress you and become his friend. A few years went by...and that relationship blossomed into something more. Something infinitely more beautiful than Abe could ever describe. 

Austen, Brontë, Hawthorne…

Shakespeare. 

All these romantic tragedies came crashing down in Abe’s imagination of your future together as he slammed his finned fists into your door. 

No response. 

“Y/N! Please love, I really need to talk to you, it's urgent!” 

Still no response. 

He contemplated knocking the damn thing down...but what if he was overthinking and you were okay? That would give you a reason to break up with him, coming up with an outrageous excuse for infringing your privacy…

But was he going to risk it all just because he’s worried about you? Because he, someone who has walked the earth longer than the average man, someone who has been considered to be the missing link, someone who had fallen deeply in…

“Y/N...please open the door, I’m worried about you and I was losing my mind over it. If I’m reading too much into this then I’m sorry, but I’m not leaving here until I at least get to see your beautiful face, your smile that puts the stars to shame...I’m only worried because I care for you and I-I’ve fallen deeply and passionately in love with you Y/N Y/L/N.” 

Quiet filled the air...embarrassment began to prickle underneath Abe’s scales as he realised he’d just confessed how he truly felt to a door of all things... 

Then the door started to creak. 

Your room was in total darkness, Abe could see that much, but what really scared him was how red your eyes were, how sullen and frail you had become...you had lost some weight he noted. He hadn’t held you in so long he couldn’t begin to tell when you started to wear more baggy clothing and refused physical contact so subtly. 

These were all warning signs and Abe had completely bypassed them.

The thing that scared him the most was the small blade you held in your hand. Sure, the BPRD allowed weapons to its agents. But this one hadn’t been issued by the BPRD…

“Y/N? My love...please put the knife down.” If Abe had tear ducts...he knew he would be crying by now. The love of his life had just been about to...gods, he couldn’t begin to imagine what would’ve happened if he had been just a moment too late. 

“Oh...Blue.” Everyone called him blue all the time. But the way you said it just then...no happiness or joy in your tone. It broke him. 

Throwing his arms around you, he didn’t care about the blade as it dropped carelessly to the floor, the further away you were from that thing the better. 

“My stardust, why didn’t you say anything? I...I would’ve helped you in any way that I could’ve...you know that right?” Abe’s soft tone came across as caring, helpful, loving. 

But the way the monsters in your head twisted and barbed the meanings of his words forced you to think that he was blaming you for what just occurred. 

“I...I didn’t think anyone wanted to help me...these voices in my head kept screaming all these horrible things. It hurt Abe. It hurt so bad. I didn’t even notice when I stopped feeling altogether.” You got the words out, but the way Abe heard them felt like pin pricks. How long had this been going on for? How long had you been suffering in silence while he just stood there? Focusing on missions and dates and what he was going to eat that night?

How dare he not realise you hadn’t been eating at all. 

“Y/N, listen to me, I’m only being strict with you now because I care and if you heard a single word I said before it’s because I love you. But you need help. If not from me then...a professional...don’t you want to feel better?” Abe attempted to bargain. 

“I...did for a while. Then it felt like things were getting worse no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many medications I started taking, or counselors and psychiatrists I saw. I felt like this dark place was just...growing inside of me. Trying to take everything I cared about away...away from me.” Your tone was watery, even though Abe was a literal fish out of water, he wanted to find some sort of way to stop you from sounding like that. 

He needed to see you smile again. No matter how long it took. 

“I wanted to end it all…”

These words broke him down even further. 

“Y/N...if you did that I don’t even know how I would recover. You, you’re so special and I love everything about you. Liz, Red...Professor Broom. They all love you...if Broom were here now, what do you think he would say?” Just the mention of the loving old professor caused a familiar, faded kind of pain to bloom in Abraham’s chest. 

“...He wouldn’t be happy with me that’s for sure.” The sulk on your face convinced Abe he wasn’t convincing you. 

“...Please Y/N. I know you’ve been trying for a long time now, but could you please just try one more time? If not for anything or anyone else then...for me?”

As you looked up into your loving, doting, blue, scaly, handsome boyfriend. All the memories of you two came rushing back. It was a very small dose of serotonin, but it pulled you towards the light all the same. Perhaps it was only a subtle grab of the hand, guiding you to a different kind of door. 

But you knew exactly who was guiding you back into the world.

“...For you? Of course Abe.”

[bellasweetwriting]

Fix His Broken Heart

Jess Mariano x f.reader

(not my gif)

masterlist

request: Hiii, i want a jess fic🥺 theres not enough jess mariano fics here, how about after rory goes to visit him at truncheon he meets the reader and she helps him move on from rory and he falls in love with reader. 💞💞

requested by: @beautiful-thinking

note: I’m a big literati shipper so this was hard but also fun to write I really love this

warnings: movie references, drinking, gilmore girls s2,s3 and s6 spoilers, some fancy vocabulary, Logan hate

word count: 1,7k

reading time: 7 min

And he saw her walk away to his arms. She found comfort in another guy. She moved one.

He hated himself for realizing that after all these years of knowing this person, still, it isn't enough. He and Rory evolved separately, they don't have the same goals or the same resources. As much as they try, it seemed like destiny didn't want their paths to cross one another.

He realized that he lost her as soon as she walked out of that door. She was gone. What now?

He'll probably see her again at Luke and Lorelai's wedding; hell, he'll even see Logan there also. The way he despited that guy. He cheated on her, and still, there she was, madly in love with him.

Logan is better than him in Rory's eyes, and he couldn't do anything to change that. He was a forgotten part of her story, an item locked inside a box that she opens when she feels lost. She probably doesn' think of him anymore like she used to.

But he thinks of her at least once a day. When he walks through the bookstore and notices the new edition of Dawn Powell's My Home Is Far Away, or when his friends bring coffee and offer to him, reminding him of her slight coffee addiction. Who's he kidding? There's nothing "slight" about Rory Gilmore's coffee addiction, it's concerning.

Any little thing reminded him of her and the fact that now he's sure she doesn't think of him anymore... saddens him.

Everyone was celebrating the success of the event that day, while Jess drowned his sorrows in a cold beer, also glancing over the girls that walked past him.

"I should warn you that if you are planning to Kurt Cobain on my bar, don't." That expression provoked an immediate reaction on Jess's face. "Not a fan of dark humor?"

"Not when it comes from the mouth of a stranger, not," he replied, making the girl chuckle. "Do you always attend your costumers like that, Rick Blaine?" Asked Jess naming the main character of Casablanca, who happened to owned a bar/restaurant in the 1940s.

"Rick Blaine? Don't tell me you are one of those guys who listen to The Clash on repeat and think they are better than the rest of the world because they know references from black and white movies and have read at least one book by Bukowski in the last three months." Jess drank from his beer, making the girl opened her mouth widely. "Oh, God, you are! A living Danielle Steel novel main character drinking alone in my bar." He laughed.

"I used to be that guy," Jess corrected her. "I've changed."

"A girl?"

"A breakup with a girl, to be fairer. I work at a little bookstore called Truncheon. We are all independent writers, and to give you some credit, some of us do look like Danielle Steel's characters. Not that I have read anything by her, though."

Jess wasn't like that. He didn't tell people he doesn't know about himself or his personal life, but for some reason, probably the effects of the alcohol in that beer were making him loosen up a bit with this complete stranger. Yeah, a significant event has happened in his life. The girl he thought he was going to be with forever decided to be with someone else rather than him, and he hasn't thought of anyone else romantically. He's so used to being alone, so used to not having anyone to actually talk to, that, maybe, liberating his internal thoughts and regrets with someone he isn't going to see again is probably for the best.

Not a therapist or a friend, just, someone external who isn't going to dig dipper in his subconscious to understand his situation and actions or someone who is involved in the story; someone who just―listens.

"You read one, you read them all." She commented. "Independent writers, huh? Have you published anything I have written?"

"Probably not," he said with that typical modesty he has earned through the pass of the years. "I just have one book out, is a self-published, so..." She nodded. "I actually did a little road trip, trying to make independent bookstores like mine to put them in the store. Probably, by the end of the month, I'll have twenty bucks and a sticker that says: «keep trying, champ.»"

"How poetic," the barista murmured, and both chuckle.

"Do you have a copy of your book?" She asked, and he nodded, giving it to her. "The Subsect, by Jess Mariano. Truncheon Books," she read before turning it around and reading the back cover. "«A self-published, prominent and dark-humored coming of age short novel following the unique life of J., a seventeen-year-old with no place to call home.» That's dark. How much for it?"

"Twenty bucks and a sticker," she chuckled, "or, a free beer."

"Sounds like a fair deal, Jess Mariano." He smiled at the mention of his name. "I'm Y/N."

"Nice to meet you, Y/N." She placed the book inside her apron with a tiny smile. "So you work here."

"Oh, you said that because of the apron and the fact that I'm behind the counter? No, I'm just a big fan of... college bars in Philadelphia." The sarcasm in Y/N's voice made Jess grin. "My brother owns the place. He lets me live upstairs while I go to college, and I pay rent by working here. The books you see behind me are mine. I study on my break."

"What are you studying?"

"English. I want to be a screenplay writer." He sighed before shaking his head. "What?"

"A film writer? Why?"

"I love films. I love watching them, reviewing them, analyzing them. I want to write masterpieces. What's wrong with that? At least I'm not writing coming of age short novels."

"It's not a coming of age novel, that's just the hideous synopsis that my poet friends come up with for the book. It's actually a lot deeper than that."

"The only way of finding that out is reading it, right?"

"Right."

Both looked at each other for a few seconds before she asked for his glass to refill that free beer she offered him.

"How about... if I come tomorrow, take you out, and you buy me that beer? How about that?" Y/N chuckle before agreeing.  He didn't believe it actually worked. He had tried to ask girls out in the last two years, but they've always said that they weren't interested. But there was something different and intriguing about Y/N that had caught the young writer's attention. "At what time do you finish class?"

"Pick me up at eight here, I'll wait."

"Cool."

"Cool."

...............................................................................................................................

He was nervous.

A date. Jess has never even been on one before. Not even with Rory. He never took Rory on a date like a dinner or a movie before they started going out. He used to tease her, and she fell for him, God knows why.

He took Rory on dates when they were dating, although if you count the car ride as a date. No, it wasn't a date. She was Dean's girlfriend at the time, and he crashed her car.

Why did she even like him? He crashed her car for God's sake. If he was Rory, he would have hated himself.

He hated himself already.

It wasn't like in books. Girls are complicated, and the male writers he is so used to reading about usually don't talk about dates and how to get a girl; the girl is already in love with the main character.

She did mention Danielle Steel. Did she read that kind of dramas, like Nicholas Sparks and John Green, where the characters just die in each other's arms like a shoddy Shakespeare tragedy imitation? Did she like that? He didn't know how to be a "romance" kind of guy. He still used the "bully her because you like her" technique, and maybe that's the only part of him that hasn't changed with the years.

He still didn't know how to communicate and express himself. He still wasn't used to talking about his emotions or being in a healthy relationship where there's no such thing as privacy. He wasn't born to assist to cotillions and balls, wear tuxes like James Bond and use fancy words gentleman-like, such as "Farewell," "Luxury," "Eloquent," and "Hope you had a marvelous evening, thanks for joining us in our humble and splendid gathering."

But that was Rory's world. Probably Logan used words like that without even knowing the meaning of them.

He quickly noticed that thinking about his ex-girlfriend before a date wasn't a good sign.

Maybe he should stand her up? No, that is an old Jess move. He is a changed man, he doesn't treat girls like that anymore. He is better, he is more mature, he wants to achieve something, actually becoming a better and selfless person who thinks about the consequences before acting. He wasn't going to stand Y/N up.

By a quarter past eight, he was standing on the bar's entrance, making eye contact with the barista from the previous day. Y/N smiled at him before saying goodbye to the guy next to her, grabbing her purse and walking towards Jess.

"Thought you wouldn't show up, Romeo."

"Can't believe you took me for a coward."

"In my defense, I saw you drinking your problems away yesterday." He nodded before putting her coat on her shoulders for her, making Y/N smile. "What a gentleman."

"There are so many things you don't know about me. You would surprise yourself."

"Oh, let me guess: you've never been on a date before."

"What? Why would you say that?"

"Well, because we are walking instead of driving."

"I have a dark past with cars and girls. You wouldn't want me to be behind the wheel while you are inside the car after you hear it, believe me."

"Good to know." Both laughed as they walked under the streetlights of Philadelphia. "I've never been on a date either," she admitted, taking him by surprise, but not as much to make a comment about it.

Jess has never felt more comfortable. Next to her, he felt like he was free of judgments. Starting a new story, blank page, blank notebook. He felt safe, and he hasn't felt safe in another person's arms in such a long time.

This was good for him. To finally... move on.

And who better than her to fix his broken heart.

[juurensha]

tag game: fic writer interview

Tagged by @bittermoonswrites​

Name(s): juurensha

Fandom(s): Ahahahaha, honestly too many to count, but the ones I’m writing for right now I guess are JJK, BNHA, Scum Villain, TGCF, Tianbao, and Fear Street.

Where you post: Ao3, and I have a very old ff.net account under a different penname (wouldn’t advise reading that one, that was stuff from middle school when I was just starting out)

Most popular one-shot (by kudos):  whether or not we’re fated, we’re meant to be (BNHA), my soulmate mark TodoDeku AU, which was really created because I thought it’d be interesting to explore a world where soulmate marks were tied to quirks and what that would mean for Deku and Deku’s soulmate given that Deku was quirkless and then wasn’t.

Most popular multi-chap (also by kudos): darling, thank god it’s this universe we’re in (and you can annoy me as much as you please) (BNHA)

Somewhat hilariously when I first wrote this, I was actually worried, because most DabiHawks fic back then was angsty canon-compliant pieces, while what I wanted was a fluffy childhood friends AU that basically made sure most of the tragedies in their lives didn’t happen and then making them get together. It was also a pretty self-indulgent piece in many ways because I just added OC’s willy-nilly everywhere (in my defense, BNHA does not have many canon characters who aren’t pro-heroes, and I needed to flesh out the world a bit) with their own side plots, but people actually really seemed to enjoy it!

Personally, I think it came down to the timing of the fic in many ways, but I am glad so many people enjoyed my fluffy childhood friends AU! (And that since it’s AU, I don’t have to worry too much about canon ruining anything about it)

Favorite story you’ve written so far: Hm, so that’s a pretty difficult question since I change my mind about which fics I love best all the time, but let’s see--Divorce AU holds a special place in my heart obviously, but I think my three favorites today are: be all my sins remembered and more (GOTG), a pretty personal fic exploring Mantis and her relationship towards Ego’s other children and the GOTG crew, and was also the fic that really got me back into the writing grind. my heart goes doki-doki for you (and other fucking annoying things) (BNHA) as my very first BNHA fic that of course I did rarepair ShinIida for, and Knock me off my pedestal (and entangle with me on the ground) (TGCF) because it’s the QuanYin fic that I wrote to completely satisfy my own QuanYin tastes, and I’m happy every time I reread it. Oh and Dead Devotion (Hannibal) because I tried to make it as purple-prosey as the show, and I thought it was one of my more beautiful pieces.       

Fics you were nervous to post: I mentioned that I was a bit nervous before posting darling, thank god it’s this universe, but other standout times were Merry Christmas Gege (GHFOD) since that was the first smut fic I’d written, and Running Home to You (DCU) because it was my first time writing from a African-American man’s perspective.

I actually do have a few drafts/ideas that I haven’t finished just because I’m kind of nervous about posting them, including a Critical Role BeauJester piece and a Captain Marvel Yon-Rogg piece.

How do you choose your titles: Depending on the fic, sometimes I go for themes, like with my MCU pieces, I tried to riff off of famous Shakespeare lines, Hades and Wonder Woman I sort of tried to go for lines from the Iliad, and my FMA piece is a Bible quote. But as you can sort of tell, a lot of fics are just song lyricy type titles that I come up with by trying to think about how the character who the fic focuses on would maybe title it. But sometimes, I also just go for more jokey titles if the piece is lighter.

Do you outline?: I generally have a bunch of dialogue snippets in the rough order that I think they’ll go in, and I usually have a very general outline in my head of certain scenes that I want to happen.

Complete: A couple of zine fics that I can’t post yet.

In-progress: Actually somewhat in progress: last chapter of FMA fic, a Shiniida vampire/werewolf AU, a Fear Street Cindy/Alice fic. On hold with half a draft and hopes that I’ll finish eventually: JJK ItaFushi bookstore AU, Scum Villain/TGCF 79 actor AU, a BNHA ShigaNatsu gamer AU, and a Critical Role BeauJester piece

Coming soon: Maybe hopefully the last chapter of FMA fic and the Shiniida vampire/werewolf AU???? Or maybe the Fear Street Cindy/Alice fic will win out first, who knows, not me.

Not started: DabiHawks Asian Idol AU (I know, I know, once the FMA multichap is done, I hope to start on it), vague ideas for a Hawks rebirth fic, or a transmigration fic where Touya ends up in a game where Hawks starts off as a hero but ends up as a villain, and Touya wants to stop that from happening.

Prompts?: Very rarely, mostly for server events

Upcoming work you’re most excited about: Fear Street Cindy/Alice fic because they have no fic at all, and that’s a travesty! I’m going to let them live and give them all the realizing comphet-ness and bi panic they deserved!

Tagging: @mistystarshine @ohmoka @draphrawrites if you feel like doing this!

[harry-hook-me]

Notes

Writer - @harry-hook-me (myself)

Request - @addictofsupernatural

Disclaimer - I do not own any of the Descendants characters or scenes from the movies, all credits goes to the creators and producers of Disneys descendants.

Summary – Harry Hook is the new VK arriving at Auradon, after meeting the reader in his English literature class and receiving help from her to catch up he begins leaving small gifts for her at her dorm room door. The reader catches him out and two are able to admit their feelings for each other.

Warnings – None

Prompts – “It was you the whole time”

AN- I forgot to proof read (couldn’t really be bothered) so please excuse any spelling or grammer mistakes - Lou x

Word count - 1802

Being invisible isn’t all bad, I mean the lack of friends is a bit boring but it’s not completely terrible. I’m the daughter of Princess Anna, my only two friends are the daughter of princess Jasmin, Jessie, and the Son of Tiana, Travis. The three of us have been best friends for years, ever since we were very young, we’ve all always felt as though we don’t belong here, none of us are the preppy, pastel, princess or prince type, were more… well, us.

Jessie, Travis and I all walk down the long corridors of Auradon prep, “well, I’m off. See you guys at lunch” Travis says turning the corner to get to his geometry class. “see ya”, “bye” Jessie and I say in sync as we continue walking to out spate classes. “so have you heard the news?” Jessie asked me “what news?” I asked looking puzzled “y/n, as if you didn’t know. There are two new VKs joining the school today!” she says excitedly. Jessie has always had a fascination with the villains over on the isle and says she’d love to cross the barrier to see what life is like over there. “which kids?” I questioned. “nobody knows, guess we’ll see when they arrive. Anyway, I’ll see you a lunch” Jessie says before going into her history classroom. “see ya then” I say while continuing to walk down the corridor to my English literature class.

English lit has always been one of my favourite subjects, the poetry and the novels, love, tragedy, misery, it’s all just so appealing. I walked in, quite early as I was the first one in. former Queen Bell was our lecture, since her son and mal took over the crown, she takes up her spare time teaching English due to her love of books. “Good morning your majesty” I say before taking my seat at my desk and getting out my note book, pen and copy of Romeo and Juliet, the book were currently studying. “Good morning y/n” Bell replied, soon after people began to enter the classroom, nobody really paying attention to me, as usual. Yet another day in class sat alone, at the back.

Around half way through the lesson, Fairy God Mother walked in. “sorry to interrupt, but I have someone to introduce you all to.” She said to us all before guiding a tall boy into the class room. “Everybody, this is Harry Hook, he’ll be joining us here at Auradon Prep and will be attending this class. I’m sure you all will welcome him with open arms”. Harry Hook, must be the son of Captain Hook. I observed the boy stood in the doorway, tall, dark messy hair, beautiful eyes, dressed in pirate get up complete with a long red leather jacket and a silver hook in hand.

I was pulled from my thoughts by a Scottish accent “may I sit here”, I looked up to see harry stood by the empty chare next to me. “er- sure” I stuttered, the pirate sat beside me and smiled. “Harry Hook” he said, holding out a hand for me to shake, “y/n, captain hooks son I’m guessing?” I ask. “Your guess is correct, and you?” harry asked smiling and looking into my eyes “daughter of Princess Anna.” I replied, “ah, a princess, well I must say, you don’t look like the princess type” Harry chucked, I looked down at my lap, “I like it” he added with a cute grin applied on his face, I looked up to meet his gaze blushing slightly.

“Mr Hook, I’m afraid I don’t have a spare copy of the book so if you wouldn’t mind sharing with y/n” bell asked from the front of the class, Harry and I nodded. I opened up the book the page we were at and showed Harry. “I’m guessing you’ve never read Romeo and Juliet before?” I asked Harry. “Who?” Harry questioned, I chuckled, “Romeo and Juliet, it’s a play written by someone called William Shakespeare, it’s about two people from two different families that have been feuding for centuries but they fall in love, but end up dying right at the end. It’s one of my favourites” I explained to him. Throughout the lesson, Harry and I chatted and got to know each other a bit better, I could tell he wasn’t understanding hardly any if the lesson so I offered to give him some help with catching up with the play so far. I also invited Harry to join me, Jessie and Travis at lunch to give him the opportunity to make some new friends, to this he agreed.

I showed Harry to the area outside where Jessie, Travis and I would always go to a lunch and free periods, it’s under a great willow tree right at the back or the school grounds where no one ever really goes. “Hey guys, this is Harry Hook, Harry this is Jessie, daughter of Princess Jasmin, Travis, son of Tiana, and… oh who’s this?” I asked as there seemed to be a new boy sat with the two, “Gil!” Harry shouted, hugging the tall blond boy with a bandana over his long hair. “I never knew you’d been invited here as well” Harry said to him. “Well I’m here” Gil giggled back. “y/n, this is Gil, hes new here, he’s in my history class, son of Gaston” Jessie explained to me, I nodded back. “Gil and I were a part of the same crew back on the isle, we go way back” Harry explained to me, “Well its nice to meet you Gil, I’m y/n, Welcome to Auradon.”

Its been three weeks since Harry and Gil arrived at Auradon and I’ve been getting to know harry more and more, we sit together at the back of every English Literature class and I’m still giving him some extra help with catching up with the play. Through all the time I’m getting to know him better though, I’m beginning to develop feelings for him. So what that he’s from the isle, he’s sweet and funny and we get along so well, but there’s no way a great guy like him would ever be interested in  a loner like me.

Jessie and I walk back to our dorm rooms after a long day of classes. Stood before the door was a bunch of beautiful Sun flowers, my favourite, and an envelope with my name written on it. I picked up the flowers and envelope and turned to Jessie. “who’re they from?” she asked, “I have no clue” I replied looking down at the bright yellow flowers and opening the door before walking in. I place the flowers down on my desk by the window, and walk over to sit on my bed before opening the little envelope still in my hand. Inside was a little note. The note read ‘I am drowning in a sea of desire, and the only one who can save me is you.’ No name was left, just the short poem. “well, who’s it form?” Jessie asked from her bed on the other side of the room. “no name” I replied eyes locked on the hand written poem. “oooo, looks like someone’s got a secret admirer” Jess cooed while winking and shaking her shoulders at me. “Shut up” I laughed back, throwing a pillow in her direction.

As the days went on, I continued to receive more small gifts and poems. On the Wednesday I received a small teddy along with another poem reading, ‘it’s as if every atom in my body gravitates towards you’ once again without a name. Thursday, I received a small beaded red and black bracelet along with yet another poem reading, ‘You. You are my good days.’. I received about six more poems that I pinned to my cork bored in my room, all made me smile.

“I have an idea” Jessie said to me after I had finished reading my sixth poem I had been sent. “whats that” I asked, turning towards her. “let’s go on a stake out. We’ll wait in the room until we here whoever it is at the door, and then open in. simple” she explained, “I love it” I replied all excited. I’ll finally be able to discover who this person, who uses words so beautifully, really is.

We’d been stuck in the room for four hours waiting when we heard it. “No Gil, shh. Shut up.” ‘harry?’ I thought. “Why are you doing all of this anyway harry” Gils voic rang from outside the door as jess and I pressed our ears against it to get a better listen. “because I really like her, and she deserves something to make her smile everyday. I, I just hope I’m able to do that.”. “open the door” Jessie mouthed to me. I stared blankly at her, “or I will” she added. “okay, okay” I replied before grabbing  the door handle. With a deep breath I turned the nob to come face to face with Harry. His cheeks flushed red as he stepped back, looking down and rubbing the back of his neck. “Harry, it was you the whole time” I asked smiling at him. He looked me in the eyes for a split second, “uh yeah, um, how much did you hear” he asked looking nervous. “all of it” I replied.

Bending down, I picked up the note and small box that Harry had placed in front of my dorm room door. I opened the little white box to find the most beautiful silver neckless with a small wave charm on it and a ‘H’ charm next to it. “Oh Harry, it’s beautiful” I said in awe of the gorgeous accessory Harry had given me. I looked up to him, a smile lay perfectly on his face, with a sweet dimple popping put on his cheek. Next I unfolded the note, it read, ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ My favourite line from Romeo and Juliet. He remembered.

I took a step closer to him. “Could you help me?” I asked passing him the neckless, he took the piece of jewellery from my hands and I turned around, moving my hair out the way. Harry put the neckless on, I turned back to face him, my hand clutching the neckless. Looking him deeply in his ocean blue eyes. “I – I like you too Harry”, with this, Harry’s face lit up, “you do?” he asked, almost as if he was in disbelief. “I do.” I smiled at him. Slowly rising up into my tippy toes to reach harry, as he bent down, somewhere in the middle our lips touched in our first of a lifetime of kisses.

[fuckofffuckofffuckoffloveme]

Runaway - Part Four

~Masterlist~

Concept: Hazel Richards is a twenty-year-old woman living in London. When she meets a mysterious time-travelling alien known only as the Hunter, she’s thrust into a world of wonder she could only have imagined.

Warnings: swearing, follows S1 of Doctor Who.

The girls had decided to have some rest before embarking on another trip, but the next morning, they were at it again. "Hold that one down!" the Hunter ordered as she and Hazel flew the TARDIS.

"I'm holding this one down!" Hazel protested. The other button was halfway across the console.

"Well, hold both of them down!" the Hunter retorted, giving her a grin.

Hazel rolled her eyes, holding the other button down with her foot. "You asked for it."

"Oi!" the Hunter exclaimed, readjusting her foot to better hold down the button. "I promised you a time machine and that's what you're getting. We've done the future, now let's have a look in the past." She thought for a second. "1860. How does 1860 sound?"

"What happened in 1860?" Hazel wondered, having to shout over the time rotor.

The Hunter grinned. "Haven't the slightest! Let's find out! Hold on, here we go!" The TARDIS hit its bumpiest part of the ride, and the two girls were thrown to the floor side by side when it finally calmed down.

"Blimey!" Hazel laughed.

"You're telling me!" the Hunter agreed, still smiling from her adrenaline high. "Are you all right?" she asked, standing up and holding out a hand to help Hazel do so to.

The younger girl accepted. "Yeah, I think so. Nothing broken. Did we make it? Where are we?"

"We did it," the Hunter confirmed, checking the view outside on a monitor. "Earth, Naples, December 24th, 1860."

"That's so weird," Hazel breathed. "It's Christmas."

The Hunter smiled. "All yours, Haze."

"But it's like... Think about it. Christmas, 1860. Happens once, just one, and then it's gone, it's finished, it'll never happen again. Except for you. You can go back and see days that are dead and gone a hundred thousand sunsets ago," Hazel sighed. "No wonder you never stay still."

"Not a bad life," the Hunter shrugged.

"Better with two," Hazel smirked, turning to walk to the doors. "Come on, then."

"Hey, hey, hey, where are you going?"

She frowned. "1860."

The Hunter looked her up and down and raised her eyebrows. "Go out there dressed like that, you'll start a riot, Barbarella. There's a wardrobe through there. First left, second right, third on the left, go straight ahead, under the stairs, past the bins, fifth door on your left." At Hazel's bewildered look, she grinned. "Off you pop!"

***

While Hazel made her way through the TARDIS to the wardrobe, the Hunter took a different corridor to her bedroom. There, she changed into a simple black button up and grey trousers, with a tan trenchcoat and a grey beanie for warmth. Then, after smiling at a framed picture of the Doctor, she went back to the console room to start fiddling with the circuits for the light bulb on top of the TARDIS. She made to get up when she heard footsteps, but banged her head on the underside of the console.

"Ow!" Hazel laughed as the Time Lady got up, rubbing her forehead. "Blimey," the Hunter admired, looking over Hazel's nineteenth century attire.

"Don't laugh," Hazel said shyly, still smirking.

"No, you look beautiful, considering," the Hunter assured her.

Hazel raised her eyebrows. "Considering what?"

The Hunter shrugged, winking. "That you're human."

"I think that's a compliment," Hazel muttered, rolling her eyes. "Aren't you going to cause a riot, wearing trousers, and a hat like that?"

"Well, a bit of chaos never harmed anyone. Besides, I said you'd start a riot, not me." The Hunter brushed her coat down, stepping forwards. "Come on."

Hazel held up a hand to stop her. "You stay there. You've done this before. This is mine." She opened the door, stepping out into the snow gingerly.

The Time Lady followed, locking the door and putting her hands in her pockets. "Brr. Ready for this?" she asked, looking around. "History."

***

Hazel was listening to the carol singers happily while the Hunter bought a newspaper. The woman walked over to her, wincing a bit. "I got the flight a bit wrong," she admitted.

"I don't care," Hazel shrugged, enjoying the Christmas vibes.

"It's not 1860, it's 1869," the Hunter reported.

"I don't care."

"And it's not Naples."

"I don't care."

The Hunter eyed Hazel's expression as she spoke. "How do we feel about Cardiff?"

The girl's smile dropped, before she raised her eyebrows. "Right," she sighed.

Both of them looked round when they heard screams coming from a nearby theatre. The Hunter's face split into an excited grin. "That's more like it!" She ran off, and Hazel followed, holding her skirts up so she wouldn't trip.

***

"Fantastic," the Hunter nodded as she saw a blue gas-like creature floating around the ceiling in the theatre. A lone woman was standing with her mouth wide open while the rest of the crowd fled, but she soon collapsed as the Time Lady made her way up to the man on stage. "Did you see where it came from?"

"Ah, the wag reveals herself, does she? I trust you're satisfied, miss!" the man snapped. The Hunter blinked, affronted.

Hazel gasped as a man and his serving-girl picked up the woman's body, carrying her out. "Oi! Leave her alone!" she yelled, to no avail. "Art, I'll get them."

The Hunter nodded. "Be careful!" She watched the girl run out before turning back to the man. "Did it say anything? Can it speak? I'm the Hunter, by the way."

The man looked her over. "Hunter? You look more like a navvie."

"What's wrong with this hat?" the Hunter frowned.

***

"What are you doing?!" Hazel demanded as she caught up with the serving-girl as she was about to close the doors on a carriage with the woman lying inside.

"Oh, it's a tragedy, miss," the girl made up. "Don't worry yourself. Me and the master will deal with it. The fact is, this poor lady's been taken with the brain fever, and we have to get her to the infirmary."

Hazel touched the woman's wrist, and flinched. "She's bloody freezing. She's dead! Oh my God, what'd you do to her?" She yelped as the man snuck up behind her and put a cloth over her mouth, holding it there until she passed out.

***

The Hunter watched as the blue entity disappeared into a gas light. "Gas!" she realised. "It's made of gas." She ran outside, closely followed by the stage man, and was shocked to find no sign of her companion. "Hazel!"

"You're not escaping me, miss!" the man stated, tapping her on the shoulder. "What do you know about that hobgoblin, hmm? Projection on glass, I suppose. Who put you up to it?"

"Yeah, mate, not now, thanks," the Hunter dismissed, seeing a hearse being driven away from the theatre. She jumped into a nearby carriage "Oi, you! Follow that hearse!"

"I can't do that, ma'am," the driver said apologetically.

"Why not?" she frowned, narrowing her eyes.

"I'll tell you why not," the man from the stage fumed. "I'll give you a very good reason why not. because this is my coach."

The Hunter rolled her eyes, pulling him in. "Well, get in, then! Move!" The driver cracked the whip, and the carriage started moving. "Come on, you're losing them."

"Everything in order, Mr Dickens?" the driver called down. The Hunter froze, her eyes widening.

"No! It is not!" Dickens snapped.

"What did he say?" the Hunter asked.

"Let me say this first," Dickens requested. "I'm not without a sense of humour."

"Dickens?" the Hunter interrupted.

"Yes."

"Charles Dickens?"

"Yes," the man himself confirmed.

"The Charles Dickens?"

"Should I remove the lady, sir?" the driver called.

The Hunter smiled in awe. "Charles Dickens? You're brilliant. Completely one hundred percent brilliant. I've read them all. Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, and what's that other one, the one with the ghost?"

"A Christmas Carol?" Dickens guessed.

"No, no, no, the one with the trains. The Signal Man, that's it. Terrifying!" the Hunter enthused. "The best short story ever written. You're a genius!"

"You want me to get rid of her, sir?"

Dickens eyed the Hunter's excited face. "Er, no, I think she can stay."

"Honestly, Charles. Can I call you Charles? I'm such a big fan."

"A what? A big what?" Dickens asked, frowning.

"Fan. Number one fan, that's me," the Hunter repeated

"How exactly are you a fan?" Dickens questioned. "In what way do you resemble a means of keeping oneself cool?"

The Hunter shook her head. "No, it means fanatic, devoted to, but forget about that." She banged on the roof. "Come on, faster!"

"Who exactly is in that hearse?" Dickens wondered.

"My friend. She's only twenty," the Hunter stated, looking down. "It's my fault. She's in my care, and now she's in danger."

Dickens' eyes widened. "Why are we wasting time talking about dry old books? This is much more important. Driver, be swift! The chase is on!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Attaboy, Charlie," the Hunter patted his shoulder anxiously.

He frowned. "Nobody calls me Charlie."

She winked. "All the other ladies do."

***

Hazel woke up, sitting up groggily to find she had been lying in a coffin. She yelped, jumping out, and saw a young man sitting on the next table. "Are  you all right?" she asked. he looked up at her, and she realised he was dead.

***

The Hunter hammered on the door to the undertaker's, standing on the porch with Charles. A young serving-girl answered the door. "I'm sorry, ma'am, sir. We're closed."

"Nonsense," Dickens declared. "Since when did an undertaker keep office hours? The dead don't die on schedule. I demand to see your master."

"He's not in, sir," the girl tried.

"Don't lie to me, child. Summon him at once," Dickens ordered.

"I'm awfully sorry, Mr Dickens, but the master's indisposed." Behind her, a gas lamp flared, not going unnoticed by the pair at the door.

"Having trouble with your gas?" the Hunter asked, before pushing past the maid.

"What the Shakespeare is going on?" Dickens wondered.

***

"You have got to be kidding," Hazel muttered, as the corpse climbed out of its coffin and started shuffling towards her. "Okay, that'll be a no." She ran for the door. "Let me out! Open the door!"

***

"You're not allowed inside, ma'am," the maid tried, to no avail.

"There's something inside the walls," the Hunter mused, pressing her ear up against the plaster. "In the gas pipes. Something's living inside the gas." She looked up as she heard a familiar shout. "That's her!"

"Please, please, let me out!" Hazel cried. The Hunter followed her voice, running into the undertaker, Mr Sneed, as she went.

"How dare you!" Sneed gasped. "This is my house!"

"Shut up," Dickens told him shortly.

Sneed turned to his maid. "Gwyneth, I told you!"

The Hunter kicked the right door in just as the corpse grabbed Hazel, flanked by the old woman's body. "Actually, I think this is my dance," she decided, pulling Hazel out to hold her outside the door, not taking her eyes off the corpses.

"It's a prank," Dickens reasoned. "It must be. We're under some mesmeric influence."

"No, we're not. The dead are walking," the Hunter told him brusquely. She glanced over at Hazel, who was clutching onto her, breathing heavily, and flashed a small smile, rubbing her arm a little. "Hi."

"Hi," Hazel smiled. "Who's your friend?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder at the writer.

"Charles Dickens," the Hunter stated.

Hazel's eyes widened. "Okay."

The Hunter turned back to the corpses. "My name is the Hunter. Who are you? What do you want?"

The pair replied with multiple child-like voices at once. "Failing. Open the rift. We're dying. Trapped in this form. Cannot sustain. Help us." They then screamed, the gas leaving the bodies to return to a gas lamp as the corpses collapsed.

***

Awhile later, the Hunter was watching with amusement as Hazel chewed out Mr Sneed in front of Charles Dickens, Gwyneth pouring out some refreshments for them all. "First of all you drug me, then you kidnap me, and don't think I didn't feel your hands having a quick wander, you dirty old man."

"I won't be spoken to like this!" Sneed protested.

The Hunter rolled her eyes. "Oh, shut it!"

"Then you stick me in a room full of zombies!" Hazel continued. "And as if that ain't enough, you swan off and leave me to die! So come on, talk!"

"It's not my fault," Sneed sighed. "It's always had a reputation. Haunted. But I never had much bother until a few months back, and then the stiffs -" Dickens glared at him. "The, er, the dear departed started getting restless."

"Tommyrot," Dickens snorted.

Sneed shook his head. "You witnessed it. Can't keep the beggars down, sir. They walk. And it's the queerest thing, but they hang on to scraps."

Gwyneth handed the Hunter her cup. "White coffee, ma'am, just how you like it." The Hunter smiled politely, then frowned as Gwyneth moved away. How had the maid known she didn't have sugar? And how had she known to do coffee when she gave everyone else tea?

"One old fellow who used to be a sexton almost walked into his own memorial service," Sneed continued. "Just like the old lady going to your performance, sir, just as she planned."

"Morbid fancy," Dickens scoffed.

The Hunter rolled her eyes. "Oh, Charles, you were there."

"I saw nothing but an illusion," Dickens maintained.

"If you're going to deny it, don't waste my time, just shut up," the Hunter cut him off bluntly, before turning to Sneed. "What about the gas?"

"That's new, miss. Never seen anything like that," Sneed told her.

"That means it's getting stronger," the Hunter realised. "The rift's getting wider and something's sneaking through."

Hazel frowned. "What's the rift?"

"A weak point in time and space. A connection between this place and another," the Hunter explained. "That'll be the cause of ghost stories, most of the time."

Sneed nodded. "That's how I got the house so cheap. Stories going back generations." Dickens slammed the door as he left, and the Hunter rolled her eyes again. "Echoes in the dark, queer songs in the air, and this feeling like a shadow passing over your soul. Mind you, truth be told, it's been good for business. Just what people expect from a gloomy old trade like mine."

***

The Hunter watched from the doorway of the Chapel of Rest as Dickens searched the dead man's coffin. "Checking for strings?" she asked, walking closer.

Dickens jumped. "Wires, perhaps. There must be some mechanism behind this fraud."

"Come on, Charles." The Hunter sighed. "All right, so I shouldn't have told you to shut up. I'm sorry. But you've got one of the best minds in the world. You saw those gas creatures."

"I cannot accept that," the writer shook his head.

The Hunter arched an eyebrow, nodding at the corpse they stood next to. "And what does the human body do when it decomposes? It breaks down and produces gas. It's the perfect home for these gas things. They can slip inside and use it as a vehicle, just like your driver and his coach."

"Stop it!" Dickens pleaded, then sighed, replacing the coffin lid. "Can it be that I have the world entirely wrong?"

"Not wrong," the Hunter assured him. "There's just more to learn."

Dickens shook his head. "I've always railed against the fantasists. Oh, I loved an illusion as much as the next man, revelled in them but that's exactly what they were: illusions. The real world is something else. I dedicated myself to that. Injustices, the great social causes. I hoped that I was a force for good. Now you tell me that the real world is a realm of spectres and jack-o'-lanterns. In which case, have I wasted my brief span here, Hunter? Has it all been for nothing?"

The Hunter regarded him with a small, but genuine smile. "I don't think anyone could call what you've done a waste."

***

Gwyneth gasped as Hazel stated washing up in the pantry. "Please, miss, you shouldn't be helping. It's not right."

Hazel scoffed. "Don't be daft. Sneed works you to death. How much do you get paid?"

"Eight pound a year, ma'am," Gwyneth replied dutifully.

"How much?" Hazel gaped.

"I know," Gwyneth smiled. "I would've been happy with six."

"So, did you go to school or what?" Hazel asked, unsure of how things worked in the nineteenth century.

Gwyneth looked shocked. "Of course I did! What do you think I am, an urchin? I went every Sunday, nice and proper."

"What, once a week?" Hazel frowned.

"We did sums and everything," Gwyneth nodded, before looking left and right furtively. "To be honest, I hated every second."

Hazel snorted. "Oh, me too."

"Don't tell anyone, but one week, I didn't go, and ran on the heath all on my own," Gwyneth confessed, giggling.

"I did plenty of that," Hazel smiled. "I used to go down the shops with my mates. We used to go and check out the goods, if you know what I mean." She winked.

Apparently she did, because Gwyneth blushed. "Well, I don't know much about that, miss."

Hazel raised her eyebrows expectantly. "Come on, times haven't changed that much. I bet you've done the same."

"I don't think so, miss."

"Gwyneth, you can tell me," Hazel grinned. "I bet you've got your eye on someone."

Gwyneth allowed herself a small smile. "I suppose there is one lad. The butcher's boy. He comes by every Tuesday. Such a lovely smile on him."

"I like a nice smile. Good smile, nice bum," Hazel nodded.

"Well, I have never heard the like."

"Ask him out," Hazel suggested. "Give him a cup of tea or something, that's a start."

The maid looked at her oddly. "I swear it is the strangest thing, miss. You've got all the clothes and the breeding, but you talk like some sort of wild thing."

"Well, maybe I am," Hazel shrugged. "Maybe that's a good thing. You need a bit more in your life than Mr Sneed."

Gwyneth frowned. "Oh, now that's not fair. He's not so bad, old Sneed. He was very kind to me to take me in because I lost my mum and dad to the flu when I was twelve."

Hazel blanched, her breath catching in her throat. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Thank you, miss," Gwyneth nodded. "But I'll be with them again, one day, sitting with them in paradise. I shall be so blessed. They're waiting for me. Maybe your mum and dad are up there waiting for you too, miss."

"Who told you they were dead?" Hazel asked quietly, looking haunted.

"I don't know," Gwyneth lied. "Must have been the Hunter."

"My parents died years back," Hazel sighed, shaking her head.

"But you've been thinking about them lately more than ever," Gwyneth stated, not making eye contact.

"I guess." Hazel frowned. "How do you know all this?"

"Mr Sneed says I think too much," Gwyneth said quickly. "I'm all alone down here. I bet you've got dozens of servants, haven't you, miss?"

Hazel was somewhat dazed, half caught up in memories of her parents, back when they were still parents. "No, no servants where I'm from."

"And you've come such a long way," Gwyneth said, looking at her strangely.

"What makes you think so?" Hazel wondered.

"You're from London," Gwyneth murmured. "I've seen London in drawings, but never like that. All those people rushing about half naked, for shame. And the noise, and the metal boxes racing past, and the birds in the sky - no, they're metal as well. Metal birds with people in them. People are flying." She fixed her gaze on Hazel, whose eyes widened. "And you, you've flown so far. Further than anyone. The things you've seen. The darkness, the big Bad Wolf." Gwyneth caught herself. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, miss!"

Hazel hushed her, thinking over what she'd said. "It's all right."

"I can't help it," Gwyneth cried. "Ever since I was a little girl, my mam said I had the sight. She told me to hide it."

"But it's getting stronger, more powerful, is that right?" Both girls turned to see the Hunter leaning in the doorway, frowning a little.

"All the time, miss," Gwyneth nodded. "Every night, voices in my head."

"You grew up on top of the rift. You're part of it," the Hunter realised. "You're the key."

"I've tried to make sense of it, miss. Consulted with spiritualists, table rappers, all sorts," Gwyneth assured her.

The Hunter nodded appraisingly. "Well, that should help. You can show us what to do."

Gwyneth frowned, glancing at Hazel nervously. "What to do where, miss?"

"We're going to have a séance," the Hunter announced. "Off you pop to the living room." Once Gwyneth had left, she looked over Hazel with concern. "Are you all right? You're very pale."

Hazel nodded, taking a deep breath, before joining her at the door. "I'm fine."

***

Everyone had gathered around a circular table in the dining room, and mostly everyone was seated. "This is how Madam Mortlock summons those from the Land of Mists, down in big town," Gwyneth declared. "Come, we must all join hands." She took the Hunter and Sneed's hands, while Hazel took the Hunter's right hand.

Dickens, on the other hand, was refusing to sit down. "I can't take part in this," he shook his head defiantly.

The Hunter rolled her eyes impatiently. "Humbug?" she asked, mocking him. "Come on, open mind."

"This is precisely the sort of cheap mummery I strive to unmask. Séances? Nothing but luminous tambourines and a squeeze box concealed between the knees," Dickens stressed. "This girl knows nothing."

"Charles," the Hunter raised an eyebrow sternly. "Sit. We might need you." The man did as ordered, joining hands with Hazel and Sneed. "Good man." She turned to the maid. "Now, Gwyneth, reach out."

Gwyneth closed her eyes. "Speak to us. Are you there? Spirits, come. Speak to us that we may relieve your burden."

Hazel looked around, her eyes wide, as a whispering filled the room. "Can you hear that?"

"Nothing can happen," Dickens maintained. "This is sheer folly."

"Look at her!" Hazel was watching Gwyneth as gas tendrils floated around behind her, rising to circle around above their heads.

"I see them. I feel them," she murmured.

"What's it saying?" Hazel asked, looking to the Hunter, who was watching the gas with narrowed eyes - the way she usually looked when she was concentrating on something.

"They can't get through the rift," the Time Lady translated, glancing back to the maid. "Gwyneth, it's not controlling you, you're controlling it. Look deep. Allow them through."

"I can't!" Gwyneth protested.

The Hunter squeezed her hand. "Yes, you can. Just believe it. Make the link. I have faith in you, Gwyneth."

"Yes," Gwyneth whispered as bluish outlines of people appeared behind her.

"Great God!" Sneed exclaimed. "Spirits from the other side."

"The other side of the universe," the Hunter corrected, raising an eyebrow coolly.

The figures spoke with child-like voices again, and this time, Gwyneth spoke with them. "Pity us. Pity the Gelth. There is so little time. Help us."

"What do you want us to do?" the Hunter demanded, eyeing them carefully.

"The rift," the Gelth replied. "Take the girl to the rift. Make the bridge."

The Hunter narrowed her eyes even further. "What for?"

"We are so very few. The last of our kind. We face extinction."

"Why?" the Time Lady questioned. "What happened?"

"Once we had a physical form like you, but then the war came." The Hunter blanched, and Hazel squeezed her hand tight, brushing her thumb over it the way Jason had used to do when she was younger.

"War?" Dickens repeated. "What war?"  

"The Time War. The whole universe convulsed. The Time War raged. Invisible to smaller species but devastating to higher forms. Our bodies wasted away. We're trapped in this gaseous state."

When the Hunter spoke, it was with a harder voice than usual. "So that's why you need the corpses."

"We want to stand tall, to feel the sunlight, to live again. We need a physical form, and your dead are abandoned. They're going to waste. Give them to us."

"But we can't," Hazel protested. "It's not right."

The Hunter winced. "It could save their lives."

"Open the rift. Let the Gelth through. We're dying. Help us. Pity the Gelth." The apparitions flew back into the gas lamps, and Gwyneth fell face down on the table.

Hazel ran round to check on her as the Hunter helped her sit back up. "Gwyneth? Are you okay?"

"All true," Dickens muttered, shaking his head. "It's all true."

***

A little later, Gwyneth woke up from where she had been laid on the chaise longue. Hazel smiled down at her. "It's all right. You just sleep."

"But my angels, miss. They came, didn't they?" Gwyneth asked. "They need me?"

The Hunter tilted her head, standing next to them. "Well, you're their only chance of survival."

Hazel shot her a look. "I've told you, leave her alone. She's exhausted." The Hunter raised her hands in surrender and backed away, smirking. "Drink this." Gwyneth sat up to drink the glass of water Hazel handed her.

Sitting in his armchair across the room, Sneed frowned. "Well, what did you say, Hunter? Explain it again. What are they?"

"Aliens," the Hunter replied shortly, taking a seat and crossing her legs.

"Like foreigners, you mean?" Sneed assumed.

"Pretty foreign, yeah," the Hunter allowed, pointing to the ceiling. "From up there."

"Brecon?" Sneed guessed.

The Hunter raised her eyebrows at Hazel before looking back to the man. "Close. And they've been trying to get through from Brecon to Cardiff, but the road's blocked. Only a few can get through, and even then they're weak. They can only test drive the bodies for so long, then they have to revert to gas form and hide in the pipes," she explained.

Dickens nodded. "Which is why they need the girl."

Hazel scowled at him. "They're not having her."

"She can help," the Hunter sighed, making a face. "Living on the rift, she's become part of it. She can open it up, make a bridge, and let them through."

"Incredible," Dickens breathed. "Ghosts that are not ghosts but beings from another world, who can only exist in our world by inhabiting cadavers."

"It's a solid system, I'll give them that," the Hunter evaluated.

"You can't let them run around inside of dead people," Hazel exclaimed, gaping at her.

"I wasn't planning on it," the Hunter assured her. "I couldn't give up a corpse if it were that of one of my own people. I can't ask you to do so either." Hazel's gaze softened.

"Don't I get a say, miss?" Gwyneth piped up.

Hazel glanced at her impatiently. "Look, you don't understand what's going on."

Gwyneth sighed. "You would say that, miss, because that's very clear inside your head, that you think I'm stupid."

"That's not true!" Hazel protested.

"Things might be very different where you're from, but here and now, I know my own mind, and the angels need me," Gwyneth told her, before looking to the ginger. "Hunter, what do I have to do?"

"You don't have to do anything," the Hunter told her.

"They've been singing to me since I was a child, sent by my mam on a holy mission," Gwyneth snapped. "So tell me."

The Hunter closed her eyes for a second, rubbing her forehead, before opening them and sighing. "We need to find the rift. This house is on a weak spot, but there must be a spot that's weaker than any other. Mr Sneed, what's the weakest part of this house? The place where most of the ghosts have been seen?"

"That would be the morgue," Sneed replied dutifully.

Hazel rolled her eyes. "Couldn't you have said gazebo?"

***

The Hunter pulled her coat tighter around her as she looked at the corpses under sheets in the morgue. "Brr. Talk about Bleak House."

Hazel frowned, keeping close to her. "The thing is, Hunter, the Gelth don't succeed, cause I know for a fact there weren't corpses walking around in 1869."

"Time's in flux, changing every second. Your cosy little world can be rewritten like that." The Hunter snapped her fingers. "Nothing is safe. Remember that. Nothing."

Dickens shivered. "Hunter, I think the room is getting colder."

"Here they come," Hazel muttered.

The Gelth's blue form slipped out of a gas lamp by the door and flew over to hover under a stone archway. "You've come to help. Praise the Hunter. Praise her."

"Promise you won't hurt her," Hazel said as Gwyneth stepped forwards a little.

"Hurry! Please, so little time. Pity the Gelth."

The Hunter narrowed her eyes at the apparition. "I'll take you somewhere else after the transfer. Somewhere you can build proper bodies. This isn't a permanent solution, all right?"

Gwyneth sighed happily. "My angels. I can help them live."

"Okay, where's the weak point?" the Hunter questioned.

"Here, beneath the arch," the Gelth replied.

"Beneath the arch," Gwyneth repeated, going and standing where the apparition hovered.

"You don't have to do this," Hazel reminded her.

"My angels."

"Establish the bridge. Reach out to the void. Let us through!"

"Yes, I can see you!" Gwyneth smiled. "I can see you. Come!"

"Bridgehead establishing."

"Come to me," Gwyneth called. "Come to this world, poor lost souls!"

"It is begun. The bridge is made." Gwyneth opened her mouth, and blue gas tendrils floated out. "She has given herself to the Gelth. The bridge is open. We descend." The calm, blue apparition morphed, turning into a fiery red thing with teeth as sharp as knives. It's voice deepened and hardened, sounding much more forceful. "The Gelth will come through in force."

"You said that you were few in number," Dickens spluttered.

"A few billion," the Gelth corrected. "And all of us in need of corpses."

The bodies stood up, their white sheets falling to the ground, and they started moving towards the humans and the Hunter.

"Gwyneth, stop this. Listen to your master. This has gone far enough. Stop dabbling, child, and leave these things alone, I beg of you -!"

"Mr Sneed, get back!" Hazel yelled, her eyes wide as a corpse snapped his neck from behind. A Gelth zoomed into his mouth, and he turned to face them.

The Hunter cursed, grabbing Hazel's arm and pulling her back with her. "I have joined the legions of the Gelth," Sneed hissed. "Come, march with us."

"No," Dickens declined politely, backing away towards the entrance to the morgue.

"We need bodies. All of you, dead. The human race, dead."

"Gwyneth, stop them!" the Hunter ordered. "Send them back now!"

"Three more bodies. Convert them. Make them vessels for the Gelth."

Sneed back the Hunter and Hazel up against a metal gate, pressing ever closer. "Hunter, I can't!" Dickens exclaimed apologetically. "I'm sorry. This new world of yours is too much for me. I'm so-"

The Hunter ignored him, opening the gate and pushing Hazel through, closing it when she herself had gone through too. She locked it with her sonic screwdriver, so the corpses couldn't reach them.

"Give yourself to glory. Sacrifice your lives for the Gelth."

"I trusted you," the Hunter shouted. "I pitied you!"

"We don't want your pity. We want this world and all its flesh."

"Not while I'm alive," the Hunter declared bravely, glaring at the corpses.

One of them seemed to smile. "Then live no more."

"But I can't die!" Hazel protested. "Tell me I can't. I haven't even been born yet. It's impossible for me to die. Isn't it?"

The Hunter refused to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"But it's 1869," Hazel reasoned. "How can I die now?"

"Time isn't a straight line," the Hunter replied quickly. "It can twist into any shape. You can be born in the twentieth century and die in the nineteenth, and it's all my fault! I brought you here!"

Hazel shook her head. "It's not your fault. I wanted to come."

"What about me? I saw the fall of Troy, World War Five, I pushed boxes at the Boston Tea Party. My brother and I inspired an entire civilisation, and now I'm going to die in a dungeon. In Cardiff." The Hunter looked disgusted.

"It's not just dying," Hazel reminded her. "We'll become one of them." She sighed. "We'll go down fighting, yeah?"

"Yeah," the Hunter agreed.

"Together?"

"Yes." She took Hazel's hand, and the girl squeezed tight. "I'm so glad I met you."

"Me too," Hazel admitted.

They were interrupted when Dickens ran in, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. "Hunter! Hunter! Turn off the flame, turn up the gas! now, fill the room, all of it, now!"

"What're you doing?" the Time Lady demanded.

"Turn it all on," Dickens repeated. "Flood the place!"

The Hunter's eyes widened. "Brilliant. Gas."

Hazel looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Are you crazy? We'll choke to death!"

"Am I correct, Hunter? These creatures are gaseous," Dickens stated.

"Fill the room with gas, it'll draw them out of the host. Suck them into the air like poison from a wound!" the Hunter agreed.

Dickens blanched as the corpses gave up on the Hunter and Rose and started shambling towards him. "I hope, oh Lord, I hope that this theory will be validated soon, if not immediately."

"Plenty more!" The Hunter made a swiping motion with her left hand, and a gas pipe ripped itself from the wall, causing the Gelth to leave the corpses, floating around the ceiling angrily.

"It's working," Dickens realised.

The Hunter opened the gate, and she and Hazel walked towards Dickens and Gwyneth. "Gwyneth, send them back. They lied. They're not angels."

"Liars?" Gwyneth inquired.

"Look at me. If your mother and father could look down and see this, they'd tell you the same. they'd give you the strength. Now send them back!" the Hunter ordered.

"I can't breathe," Hazel muttered, holding a hand to her chest.

"Charles, get her out," the Hunter requested immediately.

"I'm not leaving her," Hazel protested.

"They're too strong," Gwyneth whispered, sounding strained.

The Hunter looked at her imploringly. "Remember that world you saw? Hazel's world? All those people. None of it will exist unless you send them back through the rift."

Gwyneth shook her head. "I can't send them back. But I can hold them. Hold them in this place, hold them here. Get out." She pulled a matchbox from her apron pocket.

"You can't!" Hazel cried, her eyes widening.

"Leave this place!" Gwyneth cried.

"Hazel, get out," the Hunter ordered, squeezing the girl's hand before letting go. "Go no. I won't leave her while she's still in danger. Now go!" Hazel nodded shakily, before leaving with Dickens. "Come on, leave that to me," she told Gwyneth. When the girl didn't move, she frowned, feeling for a pulse in the human's neck. "I'm sorry," the Hunter sighed, kissing Gwyneth's forehead. "Thank you." Then the Hunter ran for her life, just about managing to reach the street before the house exploded. The force of it sent her flying into the snow, and she groaned, before getting to her feet and walking over to Dickens and Hazel.

"She didn't make it," Hazel sighed.  

"I'm sorry," the Hunter muttered, rubbing her ribs. "She closed the rift."

"At such a cost. The poor child," Dickens frowned.

The Hunter put her arm round Hazel's shoulders as they started walking. "I did try, Haze, but Gwyneth was already dead. She had been for at least five minutes."

Hazel frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I think she was dead from the minute she stood in that arch," the Hunter told her.

"But she can't have," Hazel reasoned. "She spoke to us. She helped us. She saved us. How could she have done that?"

"There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy," Dickens mused. "Even for you, Hunter."

Hazel glanced back over her shoulder at the ruins of the house. "She saved the world. A servant girl. No one will ever know."

***

The Hunter sighed as they reached the TARDIS and she grabbed her key out of her pocket. "Right then, Charlie boy, I've just got to go into my, uh, shed. Won't be long."

"What are you going to do now?" Hazel inquired.

"I shall take the mail coach back to London, quite literally post-haste. This is no time for me to be on my own. I shall spend Christmas with my family and make amends to them," Dickens smiled. "After all I've learned tonight, there can be nothing more vital."

"You've cheered up," the Hunter noticed.

"Exceedingly," Dickens agreed. "This morning, I thought I knew everything in the world. Now I know I've only just started. All these huge and wonderful notions, Hunter. I'm inspired. I must write about them."

"Do you think that's wise?" Hazel asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I shall be subtle at first," Dickens assured her. "The Mystery of Edwin Drood still lacks a ending. Perhaps the killer was not the boy's uncle. Perhaps he was not of this Earth. The Mystery of Edwin Drood and the Blue Elementals. I can spread the word, tell the truth."

"Good luck with it," the Hunter smiled. "Nice to meet you. Fantastic."

"Bye then, and thanks." Hazel shook his hand, then kissed his cheek.

"Oh my dear. How modern." Dickens frowned. "Thank you, but, I don't understand. In what way is this goodbye? Where are you going?"

The Hunter smirked. "You'll see. In the shed."

Dickens sighed. "Upon my soul, Hunter, it's one riddle after another with you. But after all these revelations, there's one mystery you still haven't explained. Answer me this. Who are you?"

"Just a friend passing through."

"But you have such knowledge of future times. I don't wish to impose on you, but I must ask. My books, Hunter, do they last?" Dickens wondered.

"Oh yes!" the Hunter assured him.

"For how long?"

The Hunter smiled. "Forever. Right, shed. Come on, Haze."

"In the box?" Dickens asked. "Both of you?"

"Down boy," the Hunter winked. "See you." The girls entered the TARDIS.

Hazel frowned, closing the door behind her. "Doesn't that change history if he writes about blue ghosts?"

"In a week's time it's 1870, and that's the year he dies. Sorry," the Hunter stated, draping her trenchcoat over one of the weirdly shaped coral columns. "He'll never get to tell his story."

"Oh no. He was so nice," Hazel mourned.

The Hunter smiled at her. "But in your time, he was already dead. We've brought him back to life, and right now, he's more alive than he's ever been, old Charlie boy. Let's give him one last surprise." She threw the lever for dematerialisation, and the girls watched on the monitor as Charles Dickens' face split into an ecstatic grin.

Hazel threw her arms around the Time Lady. "Merry Christmas, Art.

"Merry Christmas, Haze," the Hunter returned, smiling happily. "And may we have many, many more."

~~~

If you enjoyed, please like and/or reblog, and consider helping me out by donating to my Kofi! Thanks for reading :)

[presumenothing]

living, fast and slow

OK SO who remembers marvel au? no? well you’re getting it anyway because i went spelunking in my eternal wips today and found this sitting around basically done. so there

(AO3)

Shinichi doesn’t bother looking up when Hattori flops down beside him on the park bench, two cans of cold milk tea balanced precariously in one hand. “So, neechan seems ta think that you’ve been all broody over something lately.”

“Which one?”

Hattori frowns as he passes one of the cans over. “Which what?”

Shinichi gives him the most unimpressed look he can muster – what did Kazuha see in this man, honestly. “You call almost all of the women ‘neechan’, Hattori. Real specific of you.”

“Well, it works just fine, doesn’t it?” Hattori says with a shrug. “And it pretty much is all of them this time, anyway. Stop stalling, Kudo, unless you actually want your neechan going all Murder Soldier on ya.”

And that, well – aye, there’s the rub, Shinichi’s mother would’ve said.

At least Shakespeare’s still a thing in the future, he thinks.

Shinichi toys absently with the ring tab before pulling it up carefully (they’ve lost track of how many cans he’s ruined by yanking too hard). He doesn’t need any enhanced senses to feel Hattori staring a hole through his head, but he ignores it and takes a long drink.

It’s not fair at all, really, getting asked things like this when he can’t even get drunk.

“...damn,” Hattori says, eventually. “It is bad, isn’t it.”

Shinichi doesn’t answer, doesn’t trust his voice to, only reaches into his pocket to pull out a small wooden box that weighs heavy on his palm.

Hattori’s hesitant at first, but takes the box at Shinichi’s slight nod, turning it over in his hands. “A puzzlebox, Kudo? You really like your mysteries, don’t ya.”

Shinichi shrugs, this time, and leans back on the bench, eyes drifting closed.

It’s almost pleasant, listening to Hattori sliding the patterned panels this way and that, muttering to himself under his breath as he tries to figure out the sequence that Shinichi could’ve remembered in his sleep. To pretend, just for a while, that there’s nothing more to this than a puzzle, rather than the most important mystery of his life.

“That’s – ”

He’s managed to render Hattori Heiji, patron saint of banter, completely speechless. Kazuha would probably call that an achievement.

“...wow, um. That’s one hell of a thing, Kudo.”

Shinichi manages to quirk a smile at that – Hattori’s literally incapable of beating around a bush if his life depended on it, but apparently understatement is at least on the menu.

“They found it in my personal effects, after we – ” his voice cracks. “After. Either they didn’t realise what it was, or they never managed to figure out how to open it. Maybe they assumed that the mechanism had gotten damaged during a fight or something.”

Shinichi doesn’t bother entertaining any illusion that whoever had the box wouldn’t have at least tried opening it. The headlines of history didn’t allow for such things – The last tragedy: War hero planning to marry made for better news than Cap’s final secret remains unsolved.

(If it’d been anything else, anyone else, Shinichi might’ve been mad at that implication, that a bunch of strangers had looked at this and seen only another piece of history to be decoded, the last problem of his life on display.

This once, though – he’s just. Numb.)

“I was gonna propose to her once the war was over.” Shinichi laughs, bitter, and swipes one hand impatiently across his eyes. “Look where we are now.”

Hattori’s quiet for a long while – they both are.

Shinichi finishes his milk tea in the silence.

“Did she know?” Hattori asks.

“Only about the box, not what was inside.” Shinichi lifts the ring out of its hiding place, running a finger over the inscription, but leaves the box where it is. “Most of the people in my unit knew, probably – I kept it in my pocket every time we got sent out.”

Though he wouldn’t be surprised if some of the Howling Commandos had guessed – it was unsurprising, the amount of things you learnt about people when you regularly fought Nazis with less plans than grenades.

But they’d kept the knowledge to themselves if they had. Shinichi’s read the opinions from various sources – the speculation is wild, to say the least, but it means something that there are guesses about the box containing the last of the supersoldier serum but nothing even close to hitting the truth.

“Not that it ever blocked a bullet or anything, I had the shield for that, but it still felt like – ”

(Shinichi’s clenched his hand around the empty can without quite realising it, and he forces himself to let go, to uncurl his fingers from the metal.

He’s broken too many things already.)

“ – like a good luck charm, y’know? Like everything would be fine as long as I had it. And don’t laugh, I know you carry that omamori from Kazuha with you everywhere we go.”

“Do you see me smiling, Kudo?” Hattori retorts, and it’s true; he looks serious, more than Shinichi’s ever seen him. “I don’t – jeez, man, how long have ya been keepin‘ a lid on this?”

Shinichi bites his lip, and locks the box again with a soft snick.

“Oh my god,” Hattori mutters under his breath, and Shinichi smiles despite himself at how incredulous he sounds. “For the record, I’m deeply offended on all of our behalfs – behalves? Is that even a word? – our collective behalf that you actually thought we wouldn’t take you seriously. Even the robot neechan, and you know she doesn’t believe in this stuff unless she’s got another super lucky fortune from the shrine again.”

“Yeah, well. Didn’t work out so well in the end, did it.” Shinichi hasn’t thought about the train in a while, what with all the ruckus that’s happened – it both hurts more and less, knowing everything he does now.

He hadn’t even been able to look at the box without flinching, after the train. Almost been tempted to leave it in that bombed-out shell of a bar, though he’d settled for hiding it amongst his belongings instead. Regretted both choices when first the arctic ice then the twenty-first century had rushed up to meet him in turn.

He’s not sure which would’ve been the better option, even now.

(Sometimes, it feels like his entire life has been a catenary chain of afters: after the serum, after Azzano, after the train. After the ice. After the people they’d once been and could never be again.

He wonders what this will be, after.)

“And to think, this only happened ’cause someone gave ya infinite money and orders to get out of her sight.”

“Or a team of lawyers and free reign to bully every single memorabilia collector into submission, more like.” Shinichi snorts. “If Miyano wants to keep me out of her lab, she ought to invest in better locks. Most of the Tower’s made careers out of spy work – hell, the Commandos invented stealth missions, for goodness sakes’.”

“Like you don’t just bash locks with your shield until they break, Cap,” Hattori says between snickers.

Shinichi kicks him in the shin. “Say what, birdman?”

“Better me than Hawkeye. And no kicking with supersoldier strength, ow!”

“Right, no kicking,” Shinichi says, and shoves him bodily off the bench.

Hattori falls onto the grass with a loud yelp. “Who’s on your left now, you – ”

“I thought you could fly, Falcon!” Shinichi hollers back.

(The box is a familiar weight in his pocket as they walk back together; Shinichi can still remember the hot-cold flash of shock when he’d seen it listed among the inventory of his possessions that’d survived the end of days only to end up in some private collection. “Did you know, I’d almost forgotten about it until Miyano’s mafia of lawyers made me that list?”

“No,” Hattori says with conviction, looking directly at him, “you didn’t.”

And Shinichi’s too tired to laugh, only swallows back a sigh and says, “no. No, I didn’t.”)

[98prilla]

Abductions, Past and Present

Next

Previous 

AO3

...

He wakes slowly, this time, like drifting upwards, through soft clouds, and he yawns, stretching, barely wincing at the pull in his right side as he blinks his eyes open, rolling over onto his side. He smiles softly, meeting Remus’s eyes, who is sitting by his bedside, eyes widening as he sees what’s in his hands.

 “Rem… Rem is that… is that a book?” He whispers, almost awestruck. Remus nods, smile wide and brighter than it’s ever been.

 “yeah. It’s a collection of Shakespeare plays. Patton brought it to me, a gift from Logan.” Remus frowns at that name, unconsciously rubbing up and down the spine, the feel soft and so distantly familiar beneath his fingers.

 “Logan… Logan’s the one who saved me.” Remus frowns a bit harder at that, sighing.

 “I am aware. He’s also the one who kept us apart for nearly three days and let me believe you had died.” His mouth drops open in a silent ‘oh’, shifting so he’s sitting up in bed.

 “is that what it was? Right before they brought you in here I… panicked. I could feel something was wrong, with you.” Remus snorts, leaning back in his chair.

 “Yeah, me having a complete breakdown and listing all the ways I could kill myself would probably trigger that for ya.”

 “WHAT?!”

 “I thought you were dead, ok!? I don’t… you’re the only thing I have, Ro. And I thought you were gone.” He softens, reaching out a hand, Remus instantly intertwining their fingers, squeezing tight.

 “I’m not. You can’t get rid of me that easily, Rem. I promise.” Remus smiles, a sad, small smile, as he presses their foreheads together.

 “good. You’re a fighter, Ro. You always have been. You’re so much stronger than me, brobro. So much better than me.” Remus pulls back after a long moment, setting the book aside on a small bedside stand.

“If you’re feeling up for it, we can take a little walk. Patton’s been showing me around, and I almost know where I’m going, now.” He laughs, relishing the soft grin across his brother’s face, hand pressing against his injury as he sits up, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. For a moment, the world spins at the change of elevation.

 “Ro? You good?” He nods, letting Remus sling an arm around his shoulders for support as he stands, legs a bit wobbly, but he balances out after a moment, his wound barely protesting as they head out the door and down the hall.

 The ship is made of smooth, softly luminescent metal, that must mimic the day/night cycle automatically. There’s a soft electric hum in the air, a faint hint of static making the hair on his arms stand up.

 “Ro. It’s ok.” He hadn’t realized his breath was speeding up, his hand fisting the fabric of his shirt, and he forces himself to take a few deep breaths in and out. Still, he feels like the corridor is too small, the walls pressing in on him, and he’s endlessly relieved when they reach the end, and the hall widens out into a large communal living space.

 There’s couches, two deep sofa chairs, a few small tables, arranged around the far end of the room. Against the other wall is cabinets and cooking utensils, storage units, obviously the kitchen, an island with a few stools arranged around it. Softly glowing globes sit in alcoves along the walls, lighting the space soothingly, and he gathers from their dimness it must be early evening.  

 “Hey kiddo. It’s good to see you up and about!” He stumbles at the peppy voice, Remus’s arm keeping him steady. “Oh, sorry, bud, didn’t mean to startle you.” The winged man apologizes from the kitchen, where he’s cutting up some kind of fruit.  

 “I-it’s ok.” He mumbles, suddenly shy and nervous, in front of this new person. When was the last time he met an actual new person? What does he say? What is he supposed to say? God, the silence has gone on too long now, anyway.

 “Easy there, I can feel your stress from way over here.” Remus stiffens slightly at that voice, barely repressing a hiss as he glares daggers at the person sitting in the corner of the room, barely visible from the shadows.

 “Play nice, Virgil, or I will make you.” He relaxes a tad at that voice, coming down the hall behind them, as Janus sweeps into the room, giving him a small smile as he passes, draping himself across one of the chairs.

 “I wasn’t doing anything!” Virgil protests, Janus scoffing.

 “Stop it, both of you. Or no dessert.” Both of them sigh dramatically, sinking back in their seats with muttered ‘fines’ or ‘whatevers’, and Roman finds himself smiling again, because this he knows, this bickering back and forth, this instant shutting down of debates, he understands those dynamics.

 “Roman, you already know Janus,” Remus says, and Janus gives a lazy wave and a small smirk, “that pile of shadow in the corner is Virgil, he’s a Wraith.” Remus continues, Virgil giving a small two finger salute. “And that is Feathers! He’s a Seraph.”

 “My actual name is Patton, but you can call me feathers if you like. Or Pat. Or any other nick name you can think of, really!” Patton chirps, wings fluffing happily.  

 “Oh. Okay. Um. Nice to meet you all.” He mumbles, gaze flitting from person to person, before settling on the ground in front of him.  He lets Remus guide him to one of the couches, laughing as he pulls away from his brother’s fussing, wrapping him in a blanket and cushioning him with pillows until he bats his hands away.

 “I’m fine, Rem, I swear. If I’m not comfy I’ll tell you!” Remus laughs as he stops, ruffling Roman’s hair, who splutters indignantly. Remus smiles, leaning back against the soft cushions of the couch, taking a moment to bask in the softness, the warmth, the comfort. Roman leans against him, resting his head on his shoulder, as he reverently picks up the book from Logan.

 “Where should we start, Ro? Romeo and Juliet? Macbeth? Othello?” He inhales the smell of paper and ink, remembering when they would watch performances online, analyze the costumes, the production, they had always loved theater.  

 “No. none of the tragedies, Rem. Something funny.” His eyes light up, as he flips through the book, nearly gasping at the feel of parchment against his fingertips. “There we are. Twelfth Night.”

 “Ah. Good one, Ro. So, shall we pick our characters?”

 “I call Viola/Cesario!”

 “Aw, she’s the best one!” Remus whines, and Roman nudges him.

 “Shut up, you can have Orsino and Olivia.” He placates, Remus sighing dramatically.

 “Fiiine. Let’s go, then!” Remus agrees, excitement lighting up his eyes as they divvy up the rest of the characters.

 It starts off as just reading the lines, but both of them have always been dramatic, and soon they’re creating different voices for the different characters, Remus ends up jumping off the couch, so caught up he starts acting out his scenes, Roman doing the same as best he can from his seat, laughing at Remus’s antics so hard his stomach was aching before they even made it to act two, Remus’s smile and laughter feeding his own.

 Remus is positively aglow, watching Roman laugh, and act, and read, when was the last time he looked so happy, actually laughed, a full bodied, belly aching, laugh? It sounds sweet, so sweet and light and… and carefree, it’s everything he’s ever wanted for his brother, and it makes the knot in his stomach loosen a bit more, because if he’s laughing like this, he really is going to be okay.

 “Don’t mean to break up the party, kiddos, but I’ve got some supper ready, if you feel up to eating.” Patton says, breaking the spell they’ve been weaving of comedic misunderstandings and misplaced crushes, the cobble streets and arcing castles fading away into the metal walls and dim lights of the ship.

 Virgil is looking at the two of them, faint amusement tracing itself across his lips. Janus is still languid in his chair, but his head is tilted ever so slightly towards them, clearly having been watching their performance. And Patton is grinning from the kitchen, six plates sitting on the counter.

 “That was actually… pretty good.” Virgil comments, surprise in his voice.

 “Of course it was! I may be rusty, but once an actor, always an actor! It’s like riding a bike!” Roman blurts out, striking a pose, the bravado of his characters giving him a bit of courage. He’s rewarded by Remus’s snort, gently bumping him with his shoulder.

 “More like drama nerd than actor.” Roman gasps, mock offense on his face.

 “You’re lucky I’m injured, Remus, or I would be challenging you to a duel right now!”

 “You’re lucky you’re my brother, otherwise I wouldn’t go easy on you and let you win.” Remus bites back, rolling his eyes.

 “um, am the only one caught up on the ‘bike’ thing? The hell is that?” Virgil mumbles.

 “It is a human form of transportation, consisting of a metal frame, which two wheels are attatched to. It is powered by the human peddling, and steered by handles attatched to the wheels, upon which pressure breaks are also mounted to allow for an easy stop to the kinetic motion.” Remus freezes at that voice, stiffening instantly, eyes turning cold and hard, and Roman knows instantly it must be Logan, as he peers over the top of the couch.

 “Oh, that’s neat!” Patton comments, oblivious to the tension in the room, or just ignoring it. “Suppers done, if you want some! I just made mac ‘n cheese.”

 “holy shit.” Roman whispers, eyes wide. “that’s… I can… can I have some?” He asks, hesitantly, immediately wincing at his question, waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting for the pain.

 “of course, Roman! I made plenty for everyone.”

 “I’ll go get you a plate, yeah? You wanna stay out here, or go back to our room?” Remus asks softly.

 “Out here. It’s… nice.” Roman answers, smiling smally as Remus ruffles his hair again, kissing the top of his head.

 Remus instantly hardens as he turns away from Roman, making a wide berth around the hallway entryway, where Logan is standing, unable to help glancing at him every few seconds.

 It wasn’t only that Logan had been the one to make the decision to keep them apart. He didn’t like that decision, but he did appreciate the obvious attempt at keeping Roman safe, the care for his injury. He’d been harsh in his words, in the moment, cruel in them, but he’d been hurt and not thinking clearly, and though it was the cruelest thing that had ever been done to him, it hadn’t been intentional.

 But there was something about him that reminded Remus much too much of The Scientist, as they called him, the way he stood, the formality of his speaking, the… the aura, he gave off. He doesn’t trust the way he moves, the way his gaze seems to see through him, the way he seems to analyze and take mental notes of every movement, every word, everything about him sets Remus’s instincts ablaze, screaming at him fight or flight, and it takes everything in him not to do either, just to steadily scoop some of the gooey, delicious smelling food onto two plates and walk back to Roman, settling stiffly onto the couch beside him, every muscle tense and breath hissing in and out.

 “I should… retire back to my chambers. Apologies, I didn’t know the two of you were out here.”

 “It’s fine-“

“You should go-“

 Remus exchanges a look with Roman, who’s frowning at him, head tilted slightly, as he always does when he’s serious.

 “You should stay.” Roman says firmly, voice brooking no argument, and Remus scowls, looking away, but not disagreeing.

 “I appreciate the sentiment, but I would rather avoid causing either of you distress. I had noticed several times in the past, that my presence caused a stress reaction in Remus, and I would not want to intrude. I… will continue doing my best to not be nusaince, to either of you.” Logan states, quickly grabbing a plate and leaving the room. Several moments later, they hear the click of his door shutting, and Roman huffs, glaring at Remus.

 “What? I didn’t say anything?!” He protests, and Roman’s eyes narrow.

 “You didn’t have to! You looked like you were gonna jump him at any second! He saved my life, Ree, you have to give him something for that.” Remus sighed and looked away, idly pushing the food around on his plate.

 “I know. I know I’m not being fair, Ro.” Roman softened, bumping Remus’s leg with his.

 “So what is it that’s really upsetting you?”

 “he scares me. The way he speaks, moves, talks, acts… it’s all… it’s Him. And I can’t not see Him, when I see Logan. I keep waiting for… for His voice, for Him to announce this experiment over, for Him to… to take you away again, and I know it’s not Him, and I know this is real, but how do I even know what real is anymore?” His voice cracks, and he realizes he’s crying again, and he shakes his head. “It’s all… it’s so fucked, Ro.”

 “I know. I… I’m sorry.” Remus frowns, looking at Roman, who’s pushing around the food on his plate, still too pale, and far too thin, and he nearly laughs.

 “you’re sorry? What the hell for? None of this is your fault! Definitely not the getting kidnapped and dragged to space thing, and certainly not the almost dying part, and definitely nothing in between!”

 “I should have been braver. They… they split us up, and I know you were so afraid, I was too, but they used that against you, and I should have stood up to them, like you always did, I should have fought, since you couldn’t anymore, I shouldn’t have let them keep taking you, I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have been relieved every time they took you instead of me! I hate it Ree, I hate that, that, I was such a coward! I was glad it was you and not me! How… how selfish is that?” Roman laughs, but it’s a pained, broken sound, and Remus instantly wraps his brother in a hug, slotting his head against Roman’s shoulder as he shakes.

 “it’s not. It’s not selfish, Roman, you don’t need to be ashamed of that, you were plenty brave, brobro, you were plenty strong. They never broke your smile, they never stole your laugh, and that defiance made them angrier than anything, Ro. You kept me going, every day, you’re the only reason I never just gave up, and I would never have let you fight them, Roman, no matter how badly you wanted to, I would never have let you take that chance. Don’t be guilty because you were happy not to get hurt, that’s just self preservation, Ro. I would never fault you for that. All of it is their fault. All of it.” He feels Roman shaking harder, can feel the tears dripping onto his shirt, and he just squeezes Roman tighter, wishing he could absorb all of Roman’s pain, wishing he could take it all, even if it would kill him, he would take it all.

 “I think I wanna go back to bed.” Roman mumbles, voice trembling, and Remus pulls back, nodding.

 “ok. Can you eat a bit, for me, first? You’re still healing, and we don’t want you getting sick on top of that.”

 “yeah.” Roman whispers, the life and spirit from the play reading nearly completely gone, and it breaks Patton’s heart a little more, seeing that glimpse of who Roman could be, should have been, would have been if their lives hadn’t been ripped out from under them. He exchanges a glance with Virgil, whom is frowning as well, likely feeling whatever sadness or hopelessness is radiating off the two humans. It must be strong, his eyes are darker than normal, his form flickering black at the edges. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he knows Janus can, he has better hearing than the rest of them, and from the focused tilt of his head, subtly leaning towards them from his chair, he’s listening to every word.

 Eventually they pull apart from their hug, and Roman eats some of the food, his eyes widening, delight lighting up his face, some of the life sparking back to his eyes as he digs in, absolutely devouring the mac ‘n cheese. Remus rolls his eyes, eating his own a bit slower, though the taste of actual, real, true food still nearly sends him to tears.  

 “You want more?” Remus asks softly, but Roman shakes his head, already fighting to keep his eyes open. He’s warm and full and can almost believe he’s safe. He blinks open his eyes at Remus’s soft chuckle, brushing back his hair. “it’s alright, ro. You can go to sleep.” He murmurs, careful as he scoops Roman into his arms, who immediately lets his eyes drift closed, nestling his head against Remus’s chest.

[likesomekindofcheese]

Lady Gloucester Chapter Two: The Berries

Fandom: Shakespeare’s tragedy King Lear

Pairing: Edgar Gloucester and Fem! Reader

Word Count: 7K

Summary: Your parents have arranged a match for you. You are brought to the high court of England to marry the king’s godson, shy, naive Edgar of Gloucester. Though you have caught the eye of his haf-brother, Edmund as well. As you come to know each other, you learn more of the truth of each brother and the reality of the families of the nobility of England. But disaster is soon on it’s way...

Warnings: mentions of sex, brief mention of rape (no actual attack, just a character being a butt), mean fathers, unrequited love, some fighting, arranged marriages, and so much self-indulgence you could put whip cream on it. Some friends to lovers. 

Chapter One is here

“Where in god’s name is the fire, is this the way to treat your king?!” Lear vented as he waddled into the main room. All of you were poised. Dressed well and garbed for his entrance. Hours were spent waiting for the night or finding and preparing your best clothes as servants scrambled to prepare food and clean. You were ready to meet your lord and sovereign. Ready to make a good impression, to be seen as worthy for his godson. The man who walked in could have any fussy old grandfather just in grander clothes and rings with a thin crown on his white head. You thought a king would have a presence that would be more…kingly. He would greet people, gesture his hands to move them like game pieces. But he looked around, only concerned about the fire and his own comfort. He tossed his soaked cloak to a servant, jumping back from its weight. Any head who turned to him bowed lightly and he only snarled in return. “Your majesty….” Lord Gloucester began, he bowed and then walked with open arms close to the king as if to embrace him. Lear’s beard matched the whiteness of his hair, and his eyes were sharp as a hawk. His ears stuck out like a child’s and though he was of average height and slouched in his posture, he carried himself with pride as if he were seven feet tall. Edgar glanced over at you for a moment, he leaned over to whisper in your ear quickly. “Make him feel good, he likes that. Say nice things to him.”

Nodding, trying to understand something simple and yet complex at the moment, you bit down hard and watched the king. “Well-hello! Welcome! Welcome my dear lord!” he greeted; he took out his hand as Gloucestor plied to take. “I am honored by the first step you took in my humble home!” he praised to him. Edgar stood behind his father, his hands planted behind him. Every now and then he glanced at you, over in the corner to watch. “Well, thank you!” Lear relaxed and smiled more at Gloucestor’s words. Lord Gloucester gestured to Edgar and he patted the back of the young man with strength. “Your majesty…” he said dutifully. “How fares my godson?” “Well, your most royal highness” Edgar replied politely. “He’s especially happy since we…since we now have the young lady who is his wife here-remember?” Gloucester reminded him. His eyes went to you and you sucked in a breath. You felt your own parents tense up with nervousness and excitement. Even though the king was a fussy old man, he was the king. “Oh, yes! The lady…where is she?” “Y/N, Y/N, sweetling, come here…” Breathing in deep, you stepped forward, Edgar gave you his arm and catching it, you went before the king. “Your highness, I present to you, the future Lady Gloucester!” he announced. With every bit of grace, you could muster, you dipped into a clean curtsy. Keeping your eyes down, you only took note of the dark blue ends of Lear’s robes. “Isn’t she a pretty thing, your grace?” “There are hundreds of pretty girls, pretty is common. What we need are decent ones, ones with good heads on their shoulders.” “Y/N is a true gentlewoman, I assure you. I wouldn’t give my son away to any run-of-the-mill girl!” “Yes, yes, Lady Y/N….what do you have to say for yourself? Your king asks you to speak!” Edgar turned to you and nodded, he placed a hand on your arm and made it tight as if for safety. His advice resurfaced. “I was just…struck by the presence of your majesty. I am not worthy even to dine with you, but yet as good and just as you are, I feel honored to be here in this room, much less to marry your godson.” You praised, eyes still down. “Ha! Well, a nice girl! A decent girl, Gloucestor, indeed!” You saw his long hand gesture up and you looked at him in his sharp eyes, the color of a sapphire. His bejeweled hand touched your cheek, tapping it lightly. You remind me of my daughters-where are they? Where the devil did they go?” “It was raining, father, the carriage got stuck!” a low, smooth voice echoed from the door. The three young women glided in like birds with their fine silk dresses. One had red hair and a high nose in a bun, the next one blonde hair in a similar bun with a simpler dress and dark, sharp eyes like her father. The third was small with dark hair and wore a genuine smile, unlike the serious faces of the other two. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Fie that cook, where is our bread?!” the king yelled, slamming his fist on the table. Jumping at the sound, you sipped your water quietly. Feet shuffled as servants ran up to serve bread before the meat could be brought in. You were placed next to the middle sister, the blonde one. She was tearing off bits of bread methodically. What was her name again? That was right… “How are you, Princess Reagan? I heard of your marriage upcoming next week-are you excited?” you asked. She turned to examine you. “Yes, very. Do you plan on attending,” she replied. “I do,” you responded politely. As you turned to drink again, she added on more. “Then you better wear something better than that,” she insulted. Confused and shocked, you glance down at your dress. You hear Goneril, the red-haired oldest, cracking back a suppressed laugh. Looking down, you eat dinner quietly until you hear Edgar across from you. “But I think… no one should outshine the bride on her wedding day, princess”, Edgar reasoned, gesturing at you. Lear pointed his knife in his daughter's direction, oblivious to the food being finally poured onto his plate. “Reagan! Don’t be so horrid! Why are you always like this? If only you could hold your tongue, stupid girl!” Lear cursed. He dug into the chicken a servant was handing him, heaping on a generous amount. Blinking fast, you saw her lips purse as she replied quietly “y-yes, father.” The small, dark-haired princess looked around, eyes wide. She then noticed the king. “Father, have you eaten today?” “Why, I’m eating now!” “All day, you weren’t here at breakfast. Did you have breakfast?” “Why no I…I didn’t.” “Oh, father! Go ahead and enjoy the food…” “For you, darling, I will!” Nodding, you continued to eat. Though you noticed there was an empty chair. No one acknowledged it or commented on it. You turned to Gloucester on your other side, cutting his potatoes into large chunks. “My lord, where is Edmund?” you asked. “He’s in his chambers. Now is not appropriate to introduce him to the king. He has to prove himself worthy first.” He commented plainly. It made you think of the moment when he took off your glove and kissed your hand. You decided to tell no one about it. Perhaps he was just playfully flirting since that was just what he did with all women. He hardly spoke to you since. Only bobbed his head when you passed by him. You saw him chatting with a few maids and how they giggled a fury after he left. But you noticed how often he would keep to himself. Hardly speak. Even servants seemed to eye him carefully, or the male ones, anyway. Besides, there was a sadness in his speech that struck your heart once you thought it over. And being a bastard in a house where that was flaunted in his face could not have been easy. You eyed one servant passing by. “Excuse me, has Edmund dined yet?” you asked the boy. “No, he has not.” “Are there any other plates?” you questioned. “Plenty, my lady.” “Could you please bring up some food to him?” “He refuses to eat!” “Tell him it’s a gift from me. Give him some decent cuts of the food, Sirrah.” You ordered. Later, they sat sewing. Skipping past your own mother at her needle, you went to Goneril. She sewed with a straight back and her eyes right onto her work. In the corner, the fire roared away to keep off the misty chill of the night. “Your highness…” you greeted. “Lady Y/N, what brings you here?” she asked. There was not a friendliness in her voice and it made your smile frozen on your face. “I just wanted to ask…ask…how fares your lord? ” “Another cold. Again. He cannot travel and has to lay in bed.” She reported. She settled it down over her dark grey dress and glared at you in the face. “Oh, I’m sorry.” You replied, inching away. “Y/N, do you always speak of husbands and marriages?” she criticized sharply. “No-no I do not! I only wanted-” “Pfft, if you have nothing more interesting than that to say, I am not interested,” she snapped. Her hands went back to her needlework as if nothing happened. Crushed, you went over to the corner. You wondered where your own sewing went to, and without anything to do with your hands, you folded them on your lap with your head down. The dark-haired daughter turned to you. Glancing over to see they were distracted, talking about things such as the weather or any gossip, she leaned to you to speak. “I am so sorry…they should not have said that.” She said kindly. “And of course they were guests, you couldn’t have fought back.” “Thank you…thank you for your apology, your highness. You’re very kind.” “You just don’t know anyone!” “I…I don’t! Your name, your highness? I forgot…” “My name’s Cordelia! And you don’t have to call me your highness…it just feels good to meet a woman who isn’t a lady in waiting!” Feeling yourself smile back, you relaxed as you looked into her brown eyes. “But enough about me- What about you, how do you fare, Y/N? This isn’t your home! How do you feel about your betrothal?” “I’m…nervous, that’s all. So much is changing. I’m far from home, from most people I know…” you answered. “I can’t imagine how hard it can be, but...Edgar and the Earl are lovely people. You will be fine.” Cordelia assured. A page came by to rekindle the fire. You heard your mother try and make polite conversation with the other two princesses with hushed, restrained voices. “May I ask, if I may be bold, your heigh-Cordelia…I’ve been wondering something. Your father loves Gloucester so much. Why aren’t you married to Edgar by now? Or your sisters? As the king’s daughters, shouldn’t it make sense that you’d be Gloucester’s first choice?” you asked “Our parents pushed us together for a while. My sisters both laughed at the idea. They’d rather marry with a Dukedom at least rather than some earl. So, they decided to see if I would go with Edgar. They made us court for a little bit.” She recalled. “Oh.” Lurching away, you examined her face for nay envy or bitterness. There was none. “But anyway, we tried but…nothing happened. I saw him no more as a friend. I was scared to tell him and his father, but he thought the same! He just didn’t think he’d make me happy as a husband and I don’t think I’d be a good wife for him! So he brought it up easily and they consented. And so it did not happen besides… there are these other men I like more…and they're visiting! Weekly!” she squealed. I’m now finally having suitors!” “Suitors!? How romantic!” “Yes, I…I can’t believe I only get to marry but…it’s thrilling! The king of France is lovely, though the duke of Burgandy is the most handsome man I've ever seen! He even wanted to duel some other fellow for writing some verses for me-“ “Does it scare you?” “I confess I enjoy it a lot! I have all sorts of outings with them-chaperoned, of course- isn't that silly!” “It’s not, it’s exciting!” You both laugh lightly. “We don’t get to choose a lot but…we have this one choice where it matters…and I’m glad it is one of the crucial ones.” She said. The rain pattered and there was thunder in the distance. You heard feet scuttle as if the servants were giant mice. A maid as big as your pinky scurried up to the room to announce to the princesses that it was getting time to retire. The storm was going to force the king and his daughters to stay overnight. But somehow, the thought didn’t make you nervous. Cordelia was gracious, hardly leaving your side. Eating together and sewing, telling stories. You found she loved history and was able to explain things to where you understood them plainly like a good teacher. She made you smile. She cheered up even the gloomiest hall and she even had a knack for playing all sorts of games, mature and childish. Once the mud had cleared and the rain was light, you felt sad to see her go. “Here, there are some books from the library, you might enjoy them…” you offered, as a small parting gift before she boarded her carriage two mornings later. “Wait, may I invite you, y/n?” she asked, her fur gloves holding onto the books. Her father was being helped into the carriage. “Me? No, I couldn’t!” “I think you need to have another woman around who isn’t your mother! And you need to come over and see me!” “Well…yes, I guess so.” “I promise, no one will bother you! You may visit our palace, or I’ll visit yours! Do you not mind? I’m not being a bother, am I?” “No, Cordelia, you aren’t!” “Time to get in the carriage, dear, Burgandy wants to dine with us tonight!” Lear reminded, sticking his white head out. “Burgandy-then I must go!” she cheered before hopping into her seat. As the door closed, you saw Lear lean over and kiss her cheek before it took off. Even he seemed to melt around her. Sighing, you watched the carriage vanish over the horizon. “If only I could be like Cordelia-a princess, adored and worshipped with beautiful men fighting over me. My choice of the litter, and not chosen for me…” you sighed. It must be nice to be as lovely and as desired as Cordelia.

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It was nerve-wracking at first to be on a horse. It was a strong, moving animal that could knock you out or kick you if you gave it a reason. But as long as Edgar was there to help you, lesson by lesson, it made you braver about riding. “Come on, come on!” Edgar said, leading the horse on its reigns. You held it gingerly. He picked up the pace, walking in a wide circle in the back courtyard. Gloucester walked by with another earl, Kent, discussing something passionately when he turned and saw you. His dark red robes flapped with the breeze and his bright eyes glittered when he saw you two. “Well! A young man leads a sweet betrothed on a steed-if it wasn’t a horse I would have mistaken you for the Nazarite couple that brought our Lord!” he commented. “Father, we have no grand, divine matters as a holy child- I am just teaching Y/N how to ride…” he explained. The wind made his cheeks pink and his hair tossed. From your high advantage, you couldn’t help but admire him. “With Joseph! He’s the gentlest one-he already likes her!” Edgar continued, patting the horse's muzzle gently. There was a small laugh from Gloucester. From the back, your mother smiled as she read her book. She usually sat in the corner as you and Edgar did things together. Just to make sure everything was kept appropriate. “Is that why we have no apple tarts for dessert this month?” he asked. Edgar shook his head but grinning, you bobbed your head up and down. He turned around, saw you, and then added. “Yes…my lord father, it is!” Gloucester went to the horse and then looked up at you. See, he’s a gentle soul…all you have to do is give him apples and he’ll be like your dog…” “He’s a lovely horse,” you cooed, gently patting his speckled face. “And he’s every bit as arrogant as his namesake without some colorful coat!” The horse had the sweetest brown eyes too. Beautiful and fierce, but he carried himself with lightness. And that lightness came across in his speed and the strength you felt.

”Let me help you down, Y/N...”

Edgar placed his hands right over your body. With an odd, warm feeling all over you, you accepted the touch as he helped you off. Lingering in the light hold for a bit, you stepped off and wiped your hands on your skirt. “Thank you, thank you for teaching me…” you said. “It was a joy to, my lady. I’m glad you’re able to ride a little.” Edgar added. From the window, there was a pair of eyes watching you both, Looking up, you glimpsed them before they flashed away. But you decided to ignore it. Maybe it was your father. Walking inside the castle through the stables, Edgar squeezed your hand to wish goodbye before he left off to the library. Behind you, you heard slow footsteps. “Did you heed my warning?” Edmund asked. “About what?” you asked, hands folded before you. “I told you, he left a maid pregnant and she died bearing a babe…any woman he has is bound to die, do you want that to happen to you?” he asked, looking you over. “Who are you speaking of?” you questioned, stepping forward. The stable had sunlight pouring through from the door. It was musty and smelly with animal dung. “Your ‘lord’, Edgar of course!” he said. Crossing your hands, you walked up to him, you glared daggers into Edmund. “The first time we spoke, you told me you were a half-brother. And yes, you mentioned a maid becoming pregnant, but you never specified who the father was. Then that means you’re speaking of Gloucester. Everyone knows what you are-you can’t fool me with that. That maid wasn’t Edgar’s maid, wasn’t it?” He paused, his head bowing down and then huffing deeply. “Yes. That maid was my mother.” A horse brushed his lips before he bit onto some hay. You heard another clopping by as it was led to its stable. “Y…did you enjoy the food?” you asked, trying to lighten the subject. “Yes, yes I did. I can’t fool you, Y/N, but I can make you hate him.” “My lord, what do you want of me now?” “I want your safety, isn't that obvious?” “How kind,” you sarcastically remarked. “Observe Edgar, observe him, and soon you’ll see he is…a horrid, spoiled man. He never earned anything-it was all handed to him. He’s a baby. How could you have a baby with a father who is a baby himself?” he dared, pointing his finger at the door his brother left through. Standing your ground, your eyes never left his. “I will observe him, and give a few months’ time, give you my answer. I’ll break off the betrothal myself if I don’t think it’s fit.” You reasoned. He blinked in surprise. He smiled “really?” “Really.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Later, you found where Edgar would be. He spent long hours of his free time in the library. Creeping over, you knocked on the door. “Oh-Y/N! What a surprise!” he greeted. His brown head popped from a table piled with books. “Why are you here?” If you were going to figure out if these warnings were true, you had to be proactive. Which means you had to be unaccompanied in one room with Edgar to see who or what he really was. “I just wanted to…to see you…to see what you were up to…” you said. Swallowing the other reason, doubt began to creep in. What if Edmund was right? Maybe he was reading something nefarious. “I just found this collection of plays and it’s fascinating!” “Plays?” “Yes! See!?” Looking inside, you saw it was a large book filled with all sorts of thin lines and names. Stage directions in brackets. “I’ve been lost in it all day!” he confessed. “What plays have you read?” you asked. “Histories, tragedies, pastorals, comedies, comic-pastoral, tragic-historic, historic-pastoral, comic-tragical…every kind!” he said. The smell of the old pages lured you in. And besides, you needed to stay with him per Edmund’s dare. “Could I…could I look at it too?” “I have an even better idea…let’s read one! Aloud! It’s how it should be!” he encouraged, his eyes wide. “But you have to read it with emotion, not monotone-alright?” “Alright!” He sat you down on a chair next to him. You selected a light comedy to read. Soon you were switching characters. Edgar was extremely talented. He altered his voice and moved his hands to make each of his own characters different. You found you were watching him read to the point you forgot your own place and had to catch yourself. In one scene you played a beggar encountering a shepherd. You had to read the beggar. “Oh, please sir! Sweet swain! But for a penny…” you attempted a decent tone. He shook his head a little, but with a smile. “Y/N, try and make your voice raspy and jumpy-“he advised. “That’s how the beggars on the streets talk if you notice them…” “Alright…” You tried the line again with a raspy quality and he laughed and applauded. “I just have trouble with the beggar’s lines, I promise! And the farmer-he just speaks oddly!” “Just do that one, and for the farmer…have you heard the way they talk? Their accent?” he asked. Turning the page over, you recalled the odd farmer visiting the palace to discuss something with Gloucester. “Yes, with the lilt and their r’s? Let me try that…” you said, trying to get the flavor of the sound. As you found a line of the farmers, you realized it wasn’t as hard as you initially thought. And he was smiling in encouragement. The door creaked as it opened. “Quite comfortable, are you two?” Gloucester asked, poking his head in boldly. Standing up, you blubbered out “m-my lord, we were reading, was all! I promise you nothing-” “I see, I see! Edgar’s a clever lad-well read lad, he is! I’m glad you both could enjoy it! But lady, your father has been calling you and would like to speak with you.” He announced. Checking around, you didn’t see your father nearby. Perhaps he was with your mother in their chambers. “I’ll leave at once…” you said. But you felt Edgar take a step near you, you turned around. “Y/N, could you come again, you think? Read another one?” he asked, his eyes bright. “I…I will. Thank you!” As you left, Gloucester closed the door and turned to his son. “Nothing happened?” Edgar shook his head, walking forward and gesturing in a slight panic. “I swear on my right arm, nothing inappropriate happened. She didn’t say anything too forward and I was chaste as ice with her…we’ve only touched hands and that’s all! We didn’t even touch hands as we were reading!” His father let out a sigh. “I was worried…I was hoping for a kiss!” “Father?!” He relaxed and smiled, letting out a half-laugh in disbelief. “I want to know my son will be happy! At least, have a wife he likes kissing!” “I have to confess…you’ve told me ladies love it but…at the thought of kissing her I…I shake! Besides, how will I know she wants it? Then she really will hate me!” “Have you considered asking her?” he asked with a grin. Edgar shoved his hands in his pockets and exhaled deeply. “Well, it’s too early for any kissing anyways…” Gloucester walked closer, his voice a little sharper. “You’ve always been shy around women. Polite. Formal. But now you’re being too formal. But it seems like this lady will be your wife at this rate. And you understand the laws about annulment-how easily your marriage could be denied like it never happened. And leave all your lands and title heirless, too!? You will make sure the marriage is consummated…” “Father!” he gasped, his ears turning pink. “You’re a young man and she’s a lovely woman! It shouldn’t be a challenge! I have to make sure the marriage is solid and …besides, I want to see my own grandchildren!” “I can’t think of…of that without a heart attack…it’s not that I don’t like touching her or I don’t want to kiss her I just…I get nervous when I’m with her! Why are we even talking about this now!? but…Father, I just want to…I want to make sure she’s…she’s happy…” he said. Gloucester patted his shoulder lovingly. “You don’t have to touch her now! Not at all! We’ll think of something” ------------------------------------------------ The physician felt your head. “Humph, she’ll be fine. It won’t be pleasant, but she’ll be fine…” Head spinning, you laid down further and coughed into your fist. Your parents looked at you worriedly. Sitting down, your father reached over to hold your hand. The illness arrived right at Goneril’s wedding, rendering you unable to go. For a few days, you laid burning of sickness in your bed. “It will be alright, it’s just a little fever…” he assured. He felt warm. Everything was freezing. Freezing cold. You remained in bed with blankets piled over you. At a knock at the door, you hear a familiar voice, his voice. “How is she?” Edgar asked. “Nearing the end, she’ll be better in a bit after some rest. And she’s taking medicine.” “Thank God.” Edgar walked forward, holding a large bowl with a spoon in his hands. “My lord? What are you doing here?” you asked worriedly. He was seeing you as you were sick, your face lost of its color, your hair horrid, and your voice hoarse, far far from “loveliness itself.” Part of you wanted to just bury yourself in the blankets before he could see you. But he looked at you kindly. “I have this. I heard Y/N was sick and I…I wanted to bring it here.” He brought a bowl of brother and a spoon. “Eat all of this broth, there’s a special tea I’ll give you later. My mother insisted on these when I was sick, it will make you strong, Y/N.” Nodding, you sipped the broth, delicious to you. The tea was bitter and full of herbs. But your taste buds were weak. You didn’t mind. It felt good on your stomach. “I’m sorry I… I look like this…” “But Y/N, you’re sick!” “You don’t think-“ “You don’t have to feel like you have to be pretty all the time for me, or my father or anyone…just rest!” Soon enough, you were sleeping soundly. Edgar even came by to talk, telling you stories about his childhood, things he heard of some old king named Arthur, and his companions, and adventures. Reading from books his mother would read him. You hardly noticed the hours passing and your sickbed became pleasant with his company. You were lying asleep. Edgar sat by on the chair, watching you rest soundly. A smile pressed on his face. The color on your face was returning and you had a small smile on your face as you dreamed. “So…a little peck on the head?” Gloucester asked. Excitedly. “No! She’s asleep-and she was just sick too!” “I’ll never understand a man who wishes to be so formal with his bride-to-be!” he muttered, shaking his head. “Alright, I won’t kiss her yet. I’ll give her something…what do women like? What does she like?” “I know she likes books, like me. She seems to like animals well enough. And she likes these foods because she smiles when we serve these at dinner…” Gloucestor recalled, listing various treats off of his fingers. ------------------------------- “Checkmate, I win.” “Again, Cordelia? I can’t believe you.” You gasped, blinking at how her white pieces in one turn overtook your own black ones. “See for yourself, plainly I’ve won!” she reasoned, though there was a mischievous light in her eye. “We should switch to cards-You always win the strategy games!” you teased, taking in a deep sigh. “You just need help with coming up with better strategies!” she laughed merrily. “I can help you with that!” As you began to pick up the pieces to stand again, the floor creaked with the weight of a new pair of shoes on it. Looking up, you saw it was Edgar. Dressed in a nice jacket, his shoes shined, and his hair combed. He held his hands behind his back. “I’d like to speak with Y/N, for just a minute, princess.” “Speak away,” she consented, eyes wide in curiosity. “I have this, a gift….” In his hand was a small bowl of your favorite berries. “What?! You found them in season?” you cried. “A sweet thing, for my sweet mistress. To make sure she is fed and has something to taste she loves…” “Edgar, I…thank you!” You sat this time with Edgar’s added presence as you played cards. He joined sometimes, other times he contented himself to read. But the berries did taste wonderful as you popped them in your mouth. As the week passed on and became the next month, he went over with his father behind him. You sat in the hall with your mother finishing your breakfast. “Here, open this box.” He said, nudging a wooden box in his hands. “I had to ask my father, but he gave his blessing…” Inside was a beautiful necklace. The gems sparkled with the yellow morning light. “Could I…could I put it on you?” he asked. “Yes.” Taking the necklace from his box, you turned around, moving your hair out of the way. His arms reached over you and you could feel his breath, Aware of his closeness, of his hands around you. The cold metal gave the sensitive skin on your neck and shoulders goosebumps. When he clasped it, you felt the contract with his hands. Suddenly vulnerable for no reason other than you were very physically close. Heart fluttering a little more, you turned around slowly. “My lor-Edgar, I…thank you…” you replied. It felt light and cold on you, but you loved the color and how it looked against your skin. “That was my mother’s necklace. My father gave it to her, and now it will be always yours,” he informed. “I will take good care of it,” ------------------------------------------------- Every month you stayed, there was another gift. The next month brought you a special new skirt to wear which you did for him. The next month it was a rich springtime, so you had arrangements of flowers. The next month you had your own little collection of books like his. With each gift, he became less quiet. You talked more. Of your memories. What you dreamt of last night. Your childhood friends. Your own fathers and mothers. The more you thought of it, late at night. You wondered what you would tell Edmund. Awaking in the middle of the night it struck you- the six months were running up already. He was pitiful. He was charismatic. He was charming. He was clever. And he looked at you with a slight smile and sometimes a wink that made your stomach drop. Perhaps this was to get you to fall for him… Tossing in your bed, you wondered about what being married to Edmund would be like… He tried to trick you with his words and outright lie to you. He tried to persuade you that a generous, gentle young man was a bad person. If you could throw away Edgar and marry his brother, what kind of marriage would that be? Even if Edmund inherited anything at all, he was making a fuss of nothing. Was it because of…jealousy? The thought made you wish you could shrink away and hide. Getting up, you paced your chambers in the dark of night, turning it over. Technically, you could refuse the older and leave unscathed. Marry the younger even. But you didn’t want to do that. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ “Edmund, I have observed him closely enough. I see no real fault in your brother.” “You aren’t looking closely enough,” he quipped. He leaned against the wall, eyes peeled for anyone listening or watching. “Closely?! The other day I saw him as he was sitting peacefully at the window, observing how the rain fell down. A fly came by and landed on his leg. I have seen many people attempt to swat at the creature and kill it, but he…he let it be. When it stirred, he would only glace at it, moving his clothes so it would go somewhere else, but was content to live with it in peace. Why should I be repulsed by a man who would not hurt a fly?” you asked. “He barely even has his sword with him!” He huffed, then crossed his arms again. “You haven’t known him long, you’ve only known him for a few months, I for years…” he reasoned. “Edmund, do you think I am foolish?” you asked angrily. “I…what, no. Not at all, my lady.” He walked over to you and looked you back into your eyes. Taking in a deep breath, you squeezed your fists and spoke as calmly as you could. “Edmund, I don’t want to marry you.” He paused. His frown was stubborn. He put his hand to his mouth, thinking before he continued. “It’s my status. I was born of lechery and you mistake me for lecherous.” “No, I don’t…” “If I had a claim to that title. If I was called a real son, if I could have a few acres of that land, just a few more rooms of the castle, be called ‘earl’ or ‘lord’ or what have you and spoil you with all of those trinkets…would you take me?” Giving it careful thought, you shook your head firmly. “No, Edmund. I don’t love you like a wife. I will love you like a sister, a friend. When I become countess, I will make sure you are every bit as equal. You’ll have some land, plenty of money-Edgar will be earl then. I’m sure I can persuade him. We’ll take you to court. I’ll make you dine with the king and his daughters too! But…I cannot force my heart to love what it cannot…” “Do you love my brother then?” Freezing, you gave it a bit of thought. “I…I don’t know. I’m not sure. But I…I like him. And we are already engaged, he will be a good husband to me, I know it.” “Oh, because of all of those silly things he spoils you with! If I had his money, I’d give you a hundred of those necklaces and ten horses!” he boasted, gesturing away. Taking in another breath, you dared not lose your ground now. “Why do you even like me? You’ve known me less than you know my brother and you don’t like him yet you’re fond of me?” He swallowed. You saw him tear up a little. “I still remember the night you sent me food, I thought I…I had hope that maybe, maybe you could see me…” he cursed. He then went to the wall and punched it with his fists in frustration. Taking a step forward, you softened your voice. “I do see you, but not as a lover… There will be a maid for you, someday. A wonderful, sweet, beautiful maid who will make you happy. But I cannot make you happy and you cannot make me happy either. That is all, I must leave.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It was solacing to walk about the gardens. The late spring was arriving and with it the blooms. There was heat and you could smell the hotness on the dirt and feel it on your sweat as you walked continuously on the ground. Often your father stayed in, dozing away the afternoons but your mother joined you. You discussed everything and nothing. Often on those walks, she was more candid about marriage. What to do with quarrels and conflicts. She told you everything about what happened with lovers and spouses in a bed together and what to expect on your wedding night and on nights after. Where men wanted to place it on you and what you could do, how it could be painful or enjoyable. Your ears burned and you were glad that only some flock of sheep could hear these words. But you returned, discussing everyone at home. How badly you missed them, funny stories, and how odd it was that this was now your reality. How this strange, large castle was now even called “home.” “Do you have any questions?” “No, not anymore…” you answered. As you both returned to the castle, you heard a clanging noise and the sound of harsh grunts. “What…what on earth is it?” your mother asked. You thought you recognized Edgar’s voice. Following her, she curiously turned the corner, going to the stable where horses were kept. There was Edgar with a sword fighting away with a tall, thin man with curly black hair and a thin mustache. “Good, my lord! Now parry-there!” he spoke with a thick accent you could not place. He parried but lost his footing, only to get a tap on the leg. “Oh-there!” “I can’t believe I missed that!” Edgar cursed. Turning, he saw both of you, his eyes widening. “Oh! Lady Y/L/N! And Y/N!” A few chickens scurried out of the way, past your petticoats. “Are we stopping some needless fight?” your mother asked. Edgar shook his head, face flushed from the movement. ‘No, this is my swordsmanship instructor-I’m sorry, I’m not that good.” “My lord only needs some practice, is all! Head too much in books and no real action!” the instructor joked. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his younger brother watching from the shadows. He looked at you, but he did not wink. “Any good gentleman should know how to fight properly! Like my brother-Edmund! Oh, he’s good!” he bragged, gesturing to him. The instructor applauded. “Will Sir Edmund like to try?” Edmund was quiet. “Unless you fear upsetting the ladies, brother.” “We can stomach a fight for practice-your respect means well, but we can handle it!” your mother shrugs. “Gladly,” Edmund said. Though there was a slight twinkle in his eye that made your stomach drop. He unleashed his false sword, swinging it high in the air before he landed it. Eyes wide in panic, Edgar threw his sword up to stop it. It hit with a loud, wooden clang. Edmund was aggressive, furiously attacking him. Backing him into corners, Edgar ducked, the sword barely missing him. Your mother pursed her lips though the instructor practically glowed with excitement. But you had a feeling that it had nothing to do with just practicing. Watching worriedly, you decided enough was enough. “Stop! Stop! Both of you-stop!” you walked forward, hands-on hips. Edgar turned, glancing his head up at you, Edmund swung, knocking the side of his body. With an “oof” he fell on his bum to the ground, Edmund’s sword at his face. “Well played, gentlemen! My lord Edmund- practically born with a sword!” the instructor praised, clapping. “That’s your problem, you’re not a born fighter, brother. If only you could thrust properly” he added with something in his tone that made you feel cold. Marching up, you took his hand and pulled Edgar to his feet. He was surprised, first at the feel of your hand on his own hands, eyes wide with embarrassment. “Are you alright?” you asked, brushing off some hay from his shirt. “Perfectly fine!” he assured his face blank. Turning around your skirts, you suggested that your mother and you go inside and sew. The less you saw of Edmund today after that, the better. ---------------------------------------------------------- “Today we celebrate, for now, am I a year older, with two lovely sons, a daughter-in-law to be, a wedding in two months, lands, a king for a friend, and all the luck of the world!” Gloucester announced, drinking deep his goblet. Drinks followed in his honor. You were getting used to standing by Edgar more. Both of you held your goblet in both hands and drank deeply. You caught a slight cough, holding in the beverage and he laughed at that. Wiping up your lips with your sleeves, you smiled. “Everyone, go! Dance!” Gloucester wished. “Musicians, play! Dancers, dance! Fools, go fooling! Just be merry tonight!” “Dance with me!” you insisted. You took his hand and pulled him down. “What! I’m not that good…” he denied. “Doesn’t matter! Just dance with me Edgar, once!” you pleaded. “Well, alright! You wound up dancing four whole dances together. He laughed and you realized he was good. He caught on quickly. Even when he messed up steps you both burst into laughter. As the music faded, you both went to a corner, catching your breaths and drinking water after all that excitement. Edgar tapped at a small crack on the brick wall. “Here, this spot near the walls…do you hear the wind?” “I do!” “It’s the best spot…makes you cool down at once!” “Ah! I feel it!” you say, waving your hand over it. It was further away from the crowd. The music and chatter were dimmer and you could hear each other clearly. Both of you put a hand to feel the blast of cool wind. Refreshing despite the sweaty heat of movement. “You are a good person, er dancer!” you corrected, looking down in embarrassment. “What?!” “You’re a good dancer!” “So I am not a good person, then?” Eyes up, you set your drink down. Inside your dress, your legs shook a little. “Edgar I…months ago, I didn’t even know who you were. Only that you were to be my husband. I was so worried that…that you would be a monster. But you’re not that…you’re…you’re kind and intelligent, and you make me smile and I…I’m just…I’m glad you’re, well, you!” He beamed, his hands taking yours. You felt his own pulse race as he asked. “Can I kiss you, Y/N!?” Nodding, you leaned forward, tilting your head forward. Edgar kissed you. He tasted like the wine they served and it was quiet. But it was far from bad. Away in the middle of the crowd, Gloucestor noticed. He lifted his cup, drinking it deeply with merry mischief in his eyes. His second son, noting the intimate moment as well among a feast bit down on his teeth. You held it for a while and then leaned away. Both of you sucked in a bit of air through your nose. Almost giddy, you sputtered out a comment. “That was…that was nice…” He nodded. His face was bright pink and his grin was the biggest you had seen it. “I don’t think it will be a bad thing at all to be married to you,” he said. “I don’t think so either.” There was a pause, he then took your hand. “Would you like to eat with me? They served some pastries-you have to try the gooseberry one.” ---------------------------------------- Those memories stung in your head now. Happy moments. Ones made miserable in an hour. You thought Cordelia would be enough, you thought it would stop there. But that night, Edmund’s cries of “torches! Torches! Yield! Father!” rang through the halls. You and Gloucester rushed to the stables, his hands pulling up his robes. Walking outside, he looked around the stables only to see Edmund. It was night, and thunder lolled with a warning of a coming storm. “What is it?” “Look-I bleed!” He opened his hand to show a cut on his palm. “What, why were you fighting!” “Where is Y/N? Where is she?” he asked, his head swishing as he found you behind the Earl. “Oh, Y/N, my poor y/n! Thank heavens you’re safe! I fought, I fought him, for your honor.” “My honor?!?” you cried. Gloucester glanced at you with fear. “Father, didn’t I tell you! I should have warned her too, I never thought….you must know, Tonight, Edgar was plotting to kill you to have his inheritance, he turned me over to boast to me-he’d have Y/N too, he…he was planning…” He pulled up the key to your room. “He planned to creep into the girl’s chambers as that poor maid slept and ravish her there in her bed-she’d be forced to marry him after! And no one left to protect her, poor soul!” “What-oh! You poor thing!” Gloucester went over and held you tight. “I would never let that girl within a mile of that demon had I known, I swear on it!” “As if his plot for you wasn’t enough! I couldn’t stand him to speak so crudely-to commit something unthinkable to that innocent maid, so I drew my sword to stop him. He only cut me, then ran away.” “Villain! Where are my men-get them! Search everywhere for him! If Edgar is found here, he is dead!” Head shaking, you could hardly believe it. You broke from Gloucestor’s arms. “See! Even she is in such shock that such a sin could even be thought of!” Edmund accused. You escaped back to the castle. Up, up, up you ran, skirts flying. Not caring that guests were over. Not caring for anything, your head spinning and your throat dry. You opened a window out to the open. It was dark and rain pelted on your face and hands. Lightning crashed, with brief light all over. You could hardly make out the wilderness in the night. But what you could make out were the sounds of hoofbeats and the dim flame of torches. You scoured everyone for one figure, one body, one hint that he was out there, somewhere. “Edgar!!!” you cried, your voice barely echoing out. Thunder rolled again. “Edgar! EDGAR!” you screamed. Hoping, praying, somehow, he would hear you. That you would make out one small figure in that dark. That you would see him turn back. But the men with torches advanced. Their swords were drawn, and they were drawn for your betrothed. They rode off into the night with a whinny of their stallions. You had sunk down on your knees. Thinking of that first kiss briefly, on the night you danced together, of your gifts, of your sickness thinking of everything that just happened, how it all seemed like a nightmare and yet it was all real, you finally sobbed. Sobbed and heaved until you had no voice, and your face was soaked with tears. You lost your friend. And now you lost him too. To think it all began with a letter. That stupid, stupid letter. To think you never saw any of this coming. All because of a letter that arrived that first morning. You wished you could have burned it away instead of letting it sit burned in your pocket, mocking you with its innocent words.

“His highness, King Lear, will be dividing his lands between his daughters. We would like for you to be present.”

Taglist: @rhapsodyrecs @queenlover05

[chandlerrosen]

the hollow crown and dagger of the mind

when: auditions

where: the alderidge auditorium

who: chandler rosen, center stage, all alone

ooc: chandler is auditioning for macbeth! i don’t expect her to get the role, though i do think she’d be a strong contender! additionally, i think it’d be interesting if she played lady macbeth, as she never played a female role before and heidi seems to like to shake things up, plus the guilt tears lady macbeth apart, and though chandler didn’t kill anyone, she still feels incredibly guilty for a number of reasons. also, i think it’d be saucy if she was macduff, whose morality and thirst for justice could translate well to the plot, considering chandler wants to find out who kills orson! extra spicy if macbeth/lady macbeth killed orson, though that is up to heidi of course.

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, / Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,” 

the infamous words from the equally infamous play rang through chandler’s head as she anticipated her call to action, the beginning of the end. well acquainted with the ceremony of the audition, chandler held in her hand an iced coffee the size of her head, the condensation dripping down her thigh as she silently buzzed with adrenaline and caffeine. soon she would be called into the auditorium, prepared to bare her heart, her soul, the very blood in her veins, and leave it on the stage. just as orson taught her. of course, he wouldn’t be there, beaming up at her performance that she created for his eyes only. god, those eyes. how she missed the way they sparkled and glinted, their familiar warmth soothing her nerves as she uttered her first word, thus beginning her descent, spiralling deeper and deeper into the character she sculpted with the hands of her passion. 

and then she was called, by a voice unfamiliar though not unkind. nerves before an audition are normal - though some may disagree, they are liars. but her nerves were compounded with the fear that heidi knew, and would judge her for her fleshly sins - though sweet, they stung. the sun was beginning to sink as she took one last look out the window and entered the auditorium, the blinding stage lights a familiar comfort amidst the chaos. 

“hello, my name is chandler rosen and i’m auditioning for the role of macbeth,” she said confidently. a bold choice, but this would be her final time gracing the stage at alderidge, and such a tremendous goodbye must go out with an equally devastating bang. could she do it, though? before her audition she considered not auditioning, or simply doing an overdone speech from macbeth. but she couldn’t afford to be cast in a small role, quite literally. as well, it would simply prove everyone right when they swear she only got the lead in henry viii because of who she chose to give her heart to. rumors flew around chandler, beating her over and over again with words that stained and burned into her core. she chose to embrace those scars with her performance. if it is a murderer they want, it will be a murderer she will give. 

but could she do it? could she show, 

                                                         show,

                                                                    SHOW!

as the three witches demand? could she unfurl the scrolls inside her veins that contained her deepest fears of cowardice and regret, confront the monstrous creature that lived inside of her, that was capable of hurting those she loved? capable of becoming her mother? could she show the world the most depraved parts of her she tries so desperately to hide? she must, she simply has no other choice.

“i will be performing richard ii’s monologue from act three, scene three.” heidi nodded as she jotted down notes on her pad, and met chandler with friendly eyes. perhaps heidi wasn’t so bad after all. she was no orson, that was for certain, but no one could match up to him. and if she turned out to be the villain in this tragedy, so be it. more fuel for her fire. 

her body sunk with despair as she prepared her descent. voice lowered effortlessly as she did, she began, “what must the king do now? must he submit? the king shall do it: must he be deposed? the king shall be contented: must he lose the name of king?” she paused, a pained expression on her face as she imagined herself, a despot at his prime, seeing the fruits of his labor and body slipping before his eyes as he was faced with mutiny. “o' God's name, let it go:” moaning on go, they, chandler and richard intertwined, begged for release from their suffering. the words she spake became a river that flowed out from her lips as she became that tired egoist. “i'll give my jewels for a set of beads, my gorgeous palace for a hermitage, my gay apparel for an almsman's gown, my figured goblets for a dish of wood, my sceptre for a palmer's walking staff, my subjects for a pair of carved saints,” they pleaded with their audience, envisioned a world of simplicity, where outside pressures and pleasures were eliminated, their self effaced and transformed into a small cog in a divined machine. “and my large kingdom for a little grave,” pausing, a look of ecstasy and pain, of the utmost catharsis, spread across her face, she waited a beat for the words to sink in and resound across the space. a little grave, the same one orson was lying in, alone. the same one she would call eternity one day. 

the thought of orson in his grave made her heart sink deeper. her eyes glazed over as her voice turned bitter and dreamlike, “a little little grave, an obscure grave; or i'll be buried in the king's highway, some way of common trade, where subjects' feet may hourly trample on their sovereign's head; for on my heart they tread now whilst I live; and buried once, why not upon my head?” voice filled with spite and heartbreak, chandler couldn’t tell who she was more mad at - those who betrayed her, or she, who betrayed herself. betrayal - the thought never crossed her mind until that minute as she reveled in the pitiful richard, who saw his subjects as his children, and their committing patricide on their divinely anointed king. chandler didn’t see herself as the king of alderidge - far from it, honestly. though she understood his words, his desire with every fiber of his being to be anonymous, the burden of others and their bitter betrayal eased off his shoulders. their shoulders. the disappointment she saw in the eyes of those she once called friends, the sadness in the eyes of the one she called my love. breaking grace’s heart destroyed her own, and chandler would give anything to feel that sorrow and anger and betrayal that grace must feel. if only that could mean grace was happy. 

tears began to prick her eyes at the most opportune time as she turns to the fabricated cousin of richard and continues, “aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted cousin! we'll make foul weather with despised tears; our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn, and make a dearth in this revolting land.” weeping joy fills her voice as she, as richard, gives a rousing speech to his woebegone cousin. misery loves company, after all, though chandler felt herself entirely alone lately. she had helen, but her best friend’s light was too bright to be dulled by the darkness of her own depravity. and thus she questioned who her own aumerle would be. who would be alongside her as she brought the storm down upon herself and her peers, who she digs her grave alongside? who would be brought down with her as she plummeted to the rocky bottom of her metaphorical grave? until finally she realized the answer. no one. 

alas, no time to dwell on her own misery upon the sordid stage! for it was richard who required her undivided attention! she quickened the pace, asking her next question with morbid, restrained glee, pontificating on their shared sorrow, “or shall we play the wantons with our woes, and make some pretty match with shedding tears? as thus, to drop them still upon one place, till they have fretted us a pair of graves within the earth; and, therein laid,—there lies two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes.” and oh, how her eyes wept. her stream of tears slowed and stilled, her voice traversing the terrain from woe to bitterness, and dropping into melancholic anguish, popping the p’s like orson taught her, stressing the beauty of shakespeare’s words. all emotions dulled by the composure that dignified a king who had naught but his own dignity left. 

she turns to face heidi, her lone audience member. perhaps her new director was just as alone as she was. perhaps they could find common ground, perhaps she could soften the blow of orson’s death. the foolish thoughts of a child filled her head before she realized the obvious - nothing, and no one, could soften this lethal blow. and again, anger bubbled in her - anger at herself, at her own helplessness. a helplessness that she felt within richard, who could do nothing but stand there and talk, concede his kingdom and pray for his life. she spoke with a self-righteous flair, eager to hold onto the scraps of richard’s pride, “would not this ill do well? well, well, i see i talk but idly, and you laugh at me. most mighty prince, my lord northumberland, what says king bolingbroke? will his majesty give richard leave to live till richard die?” they laughed at him. all of them, laughing at a man on the brink of losing his lifeblood, faced with an impossble choice, and one completely out of his hands: to die a king, to live forever in infamy? or to die shrouded in anonymity, to live in peace? to be or not to be, though that question found its home in a different play far from chandler’s mind. 

contempt filled her voice as she straightened up, her final stand against those who dare deny her her love, her friends, her passion, who dare denied richard his hollow crown. she snarled her lip and began her solitary revolution, “you make a leg, and bolingbroke says ay.” 

it was the cowardice in those who deposed richard - they flatter him, only to mindlessly follow the next man with victory written in his blood. they praise him as they once praised richard. as they once praised orson. perhaps, at the denouement of her descent, she realized that she was not richard; orson was. or perhaps it was an amalgam of the two of them - three of them? after the time they spent together, chandler couldn’t help but wonder how much of orson’s soul intertwined with hers, how much blood he left stained on her fingertips, her throat, her heart. she once thought that she would be lucky to have an ounce of orson’s passion and intelligence, but now she worries - for a brief second before she violently effaces it from her mind’s eye - that he left too much of his own darkness. how selfish of him, to break her life and leave her to pick up the pieces. and yet, when they were together, she felt as though the cracks she accumulated throughout her life were plastered with solid gold. beauty cannot exist without terror, after all. 

she took a second to decompress from the emotions of her monologue. taking a breath, she perked up, smiling at heidi who, surprisingly, returned the gesture. “thank you, chandler.” she says before returning to her notepad. “thank you,” chandler said with a sincerity that startled her. adrenaline pumping through her veins, she floated out of the door, confronted by the hazy darkness of dusk. the thoughts and emotions that came up during her monologue, those unexplored territories that chandler feared venturing, were simply something she would have to ponder tomorrow.