#i saw these lime green pumps that could be such a serve with this but it's risky bc they might actually look Awful

[scare-ard--sleigh]

unaltered, this dress goes past the knee but i think she needs to be shorter

[alexandriawilliams]

☌ - Is your muse famous or infamous in their world for a battle or fight? Do they embrace or shy away from it?

Truthkeeper

KC 628

The winding terrain of the Broken Shore was never easily-traversed, let alone in heavy armor, but Alexandria managed as she made her way deeper into the foothold that the Legion had made for itself on the island. It was difficult to say where, exactly, she was -- the jagged landscape's crags or sulfuric, fel-green ash heaps were too similar to make much of a mental picture of the island outside of the occasional vague landmark, but now, the paladin was... utterly lost.

Sort of.

She was certain that she had gone where she had been directed, but the labyrinthine terrain seemed to twist and fade like a mirage; the path that had existed before seemed to not quite be there anymore. Alexandria was sure she must've made a wrong turn until she noticed the sky changing. Like the fade of an illusion, the paladin watched as the dark gray of the Broken Isles' skyline shifted into an otherworldly violet hue, and chaotic streaks of the Twisting Nether's latent magic ran across the void above.

Her grip on her broadsword and the kite shield strapped to her arm tightened. They were well-made and heavily blessed, having served the knight well since the Third War when she was inducted into the Order of the Silver Hand, and they both gleamed in a sort of protest as the stench of fel became unbearable.

As her eyes returned from the endless abyss above, the environment around her had changed yet again. Alien rock sat at her feet, floating freely in the Nether's expanse... a fact which might have caused the knight panic, if she had time to feel it for anything except for the enormous creature before her.

She had seen and fought typical doomguards before. Formidable creatures to be sure, but nothing that an experienced Templar of the Silver Hand would struggle to put down.

This, however, was not a typical doomguard.

As the creature lifted itself up to its full height from its rested position, it towered over Alexandria two... three... four times over. It must have been ten meters tall, with jagged horns the length of the knight's arms and twin blades nearly the length of its own body. The edges hummed a quiet tone as they were drawn up -- Light, the beast was so large that Alexandria could barely see it all at once. Her heart felt as though it had stopped entirely.

Alexandria was certain that this was how she was going to die.

With a flap of its towering wings and not a moment’s hesitation, the doomguard lifted itself into a hover and immediately screamed forth towards the knight that had been drawn out into the Nether. They were both especially vulnerable here; of course, the demon had run a risk by inviting her into its home plane where it would die a final death, but it was also at its peak strength in the Twisting Nether. This was its own domain, and its quarry was trapped and isolated, ready to be easily picked off.

The knight had only a split-second to bring her shield up at the demon’s advance. With a great flash of the holy energy within her and her blessed bulwark and a deafening clang of the dueling metals, Alexandria felt her arm splinter and fracture simply from the blunt force of the strike. With a pain-wracked grunt of effort, she barely kept her stance composed despite the shooting pain that screamed through her shoulder and elbow. As the demon passed by and lifted itself back up into the air, Alexandria turned herself on her heels to face it once more. In a single strike, she could feel the dent that had been made in her shield, not to mention the toll on her endurance.

The greater doomguard lingered only a moment, appraising its opponent with an indifferent sneer before lunging forth again. In another swoop, it passed by as the knight brought herself low, barely avoiding the razor’s edge of the twisted felsteel that made up her assailant’s blades. Her spine shivered as she felt her grip weaken with fear, but resolve only took a moment longer to come over her as she thought of home, of those she cared for, her fellow knights -- the woman she had just come to know and love dearly.

She had survived Lordaeron. She had survived Northrend. She had survived the Shattering, and Pandaria, and the Iron Horde. She could survive this, too.

As she came up onto a knee from her evasive roll to the side, she extended her blade forth and focused the latent holy energy within her with the blessed broadsword as a focus. It rang out as the golden beam struck true, matched with a dissonant harmony in the doomguard’s scream of rage as the web of its left wing burned through. It crashed to the rock below, grounded as it howled in pain.

Alexandria could feel the ground below her tremble as the beast rose up to its feet, filled with an unquenchable lust for blood as it barreled towards her. This bout was to be longer, a truer duel as metal met. Again and again it sang as the demon’s enormous, heavy weaponry met Alexandria’s shield or a well-timed parry, but the knight simply could not manage to advance... and she could feel herself waning. Even with the Light bolstering her, she was no match for the physical prowess of the monster before her, and the gleam in its eyes told her that it knew.

As another swing came for her, she brought her shield up... and broke. Alexandria could hear the earsplitting cry of her shield being shattered and her own scream of agony. She felt her shoulder torn from its socket as her arm shattered in absorption of the blow, and her feet left the ground as she was thrown several feet back. The alien dirt below was kicked up into a cloud as she scraped along the ground. Not even the strap of her shield was left when she looked for it, and her arm was all but destroyed. What little movement she could manage only intensified her suffering, but she had no time to think -- let alone recover.

It was upon her again in moments, lumbering over to her and lifting one of its blades to end her. The knight made another close call as she managed to leap out of the way only to hear the crash of earth behind her. A single precious moment bought by the evasion saw Alexandria’s blade come down and strike with perfection, slicing all the way through the demon’s wrist and severing its hand -- and one of those enormous blades -- from its body. It earned her another scream in rage and a wild swing from its remaining blade as that lime-green felblood poured freely from the open wound.

Alex brought her sword up to parry and made some effort to brace herself, but with her right arm broken there was nothing she could do to truly stop the strike. It tore through her blade with another screech of shattering steel, scattering fragments across the battlefield as that felsteel blade sank deep into her breastplate. It tore through her with little resistance, cracking ribs and sending the paladin to the ground, disarmed and bleeding out. Even with the Light constantly working to restore her body, Alexandria could feel her consciousness waning as every pump of her heart emptied blood onto her ruined tabard.

In that dire moment, her training left her; she was operating purely on the most primal survival instinct that existed within her. She wobbled to her feet as the injured greater demon struggled in similar fashion, losing both blood and focus from its severed, gushing stump of a wrist. That stumbling delirium granted Alexandria a moment to claim its relinquished sword. Despite its weight, the knight managed to heft it up like an oversized zweihander, resting it upon her shoulder; the shattered arm hanging uselessly at her side made it impossible to wield properly.

Alexandria murmured a prayer beneath her breath as the creature advanced to finish her. The fuzzy edges of her vision began to wane to darkness and her view of her opponent became blurred, but to relent meant certain death. As the creature brought its blade back to prepare a strike that no block from a mere human would stop from rending her in twain, Alexandria lurched forth and brought the commandeered felsteel around towards its exposed shin. Another crack of bone split the air as the beast howled, dropping its weapon and slumping to the ground as its second limb was severed from its body. That vile green blood pooled quickly as the beast flailed in tormented death throes, searching for any spiteful strike that it might land to inflict whatever damage it could.

Still, the paladin would take no risks. Even sure she would bleed to death before help arrived, she advanced again once the enormous blade was hefted over her shoulder once more. Bringing it up and over her head with her one working hand, she brought it down towards the prone beast’s neck... but not before those claws sank deep into her abdomen.

Alexandria spat blood in her helm as those spikes shredded organs, but she followed through. The blade fell like a guillotine, and the doomguard’s howling stopped in an instant. The paladin stumbled back and hit the ground, and her eyes went skyward as she felt herself succumb. The magic holding her to the Twisting Nether faded as the demon’s soul faced its final rest. The ground beneath her began to crumble, and she was sure that her very last moments would be spent eternally falling towards nowhere in the void below.

If this was how it ends, she figured, I think that’s okay. The knight’s eyes finally fluttered shut, and she fell to slumber that she was sure would be eternal.

* * * * *

The unfamiliar ceiling of one of Dalaran’s inns greeted Alexandria as her eyes opened, though she immediately regretted having woken up. The pain in her body was immeasurable; she would surely be in bed for weeks.

Consciousness drifted in and out for several days, though by the third time she awoke there was something new in the room. Leaned against the wall was a shield, a crest of holy fire with a note tied to it with a glittering band of string.

To Dame Alexandria Williams Champion of the Silver Hand

The greatest truth of the Light’s doctrine is that with its blessings, anything is possible. Word of your victory has reached us, and we see fit to name you a Champion of the Silver Hand. We have also heard that you are in need of a new shield.

Truthkeeper is rumored to be unbreakable, passed to those knights of a similar reputation. We trust it will serve you well. Congratulations are in order for your promotion - when you are well, return to the Sanctum of Light.

[weshallc]

Happy St. Andrew’s Day. 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading Bonfire Night! I haven’t put it on the usual fic sites as I knew I would mess about, and Tumblr folk are a patient bunch. I am going to rejig it so it stretches from Bonfire Night to Christmas (probably New Year at this rate) looking back over 2020.

Thank you for the lovely comments and support from @h4t08 @fourteen-teacups @thatginchygal  @bbcshipper @roguesnitch @lovetheturners and new regular @aimee-jessica and @olafur-neal

I really don’t know what I have been doing with my time apart from washing my hands, measuring distances of 2 metres, sewing masks, swearing at the news, collecting Scotch egg and pasty recipes and building a pantry to hoard all my Brexshit preparation supplies.

Enough about me, so as it’s St. Andrew’s Day I thought I might give this another spin. 

BERNS NIGHT (Revisited, just for fun)

Call the Midwife AU (Crown Jewels/Paddy and Bernie/Poplar-on-Tweaven)

CHAPTER ONE: FAIR FA’ YOUR HONEST, SONSIE FACE

“Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm : Weel are ye wordy o'a grace As lang's my arm.”  Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns 1786.

“Will You Reconize me? Call My Name or Walk On By.” Don’t You (Forget About Me). Simple Minds 1985.

Monday 25th January 2016

“His knife see rustic Labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich!”

The room was swept in darkness apart from the light of the wolf moon and the north star penetrating the cold window panes. All eyes were facing towards a wooden table and the elderly man stood behind it. He was in his 60s and wiry, small for a man, but with a silver mess of what once must have been a bonnie head of fire red hair. The body may have looked weak, but the intensity in his bright blue eyes cut through the dimly lit surroundings.

As he spoke again, his voice filled the room, cutting through the anticipating silence. It was a voice that could take a knife and slice right through a soul. The knife in his hand in turn sliced through the offering in front of its high priest. Years of performing the same action with such a passion resulted in precision. The faithful entranced by the spectacle all gasped as one as the incision was violently made. No one daring to speak. Suddenly the trance was lost as artificial light rudely brought everyone back to the present with a blast of the pipes.

“All done then, Reverend Mannion? Can I serve the Haggis now? Don’t want it getting cold now, do we, not at £15 a head.”

“Aye, Violet, the ceremony is over. It’s time for eating and drinking, something the bard would have approved of, rightly so.”

The kilted clergyman winked at an auburn-haired girl in the crowd and tipped his whisky tumbler toward her. She raised her own glass and winked back. Her companion at her table was much taller with dark hair styled in a tidy no-nonsense bob.

The tall one leaned toward the small one and asked, “If it’s already dead, why does he have to kill it?”

“What?”

“The Haggis if it’s already dead, why does he have to kill it?”

Her friend opened her mouth to speak, but she saw a tender hand take hold of Chummy’s arm and explain it was all just ceremony, it was tradition.

“Like all that malarkey at our passing out parade, the day we got our badge. That wasn’t about police work, was it? It’s just tradition.  It’s what the English do well.”

He had been doing really well up until then, but a golden raised eyebrow made him alter his stance. “It is what us Brits do best.”

The raised eyebrow whispered to the police constable. ”Peter, Chummy really doesn’t think a haggis is a real animal, does she?”

He was not the sort of man that would turn heads, but he had a kindness in his eyes and an openness in his face she thought some would see as attractive. If only Camilla wasn’t his superior, and they didn’t work such long hours together, what might have been?

She knew her friend well and sensed more queries would follow. Not sure as a Scot brought up on Tweavenside and now living in London she could provide satisfying answers. Picking up their empty glasses and heading to the bar was a strange sort of refuge for a vicar's daughter and inner-city missionary.

There was a queue, well sort of a queue. In London a queue was made up of people standing in an orderly line and the person who had been stood the longest getting served first. In Poplar-on-Tweaven it resembled more of a rugby scrum and the person who shouted the loudest being ignored, Anyone who called the barmaid by name was bunked up the order. She wasn’t familiar with busy bars, but she was bright enough to work out the system.

“Val, when yer ready hen.” The request came from someone not sure that was their own voice they had just heard yelling those words.

All her life she had been immersed in the wonders of the Bible and was still amazed at how so many miracles had been performed. She had heard all the CPR arguments regarding resurrections and all that, and was still not convinced. But, she now knew how Moses had parted the Red Sea, he had known the barmaid’s name was Valerie.

“What can I get you, chick?”

“Here! I was first.” A grumpy voice struck up.

“Oh Al, you are always first. Let me serve this lass and then I will sort you out”

“Promises, promises.”

“Yeah in your dreams, pal.”

She was starting to feel uncomfortable she hadn’t meant to jump the queue. Maybe she should go back to the table and let Peter get the drinks. A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts, it was quieter than Al’s but held an authority. It wasn’t a Tweavenside accent, but it had a northern softness.

“You serve our impatient friend Valerie, I will see to this young lady.” Then turning to his new customer, “What can I get you, pet”

“Erm a whisky and lemonade and erm a pint, please.”

“Which whisky and a pint of?”

She wasn’t sure; she nudged her bottom onto a vacant stool for security.

“Are you with the law?” The tall bartender nodded towards Chummy and Peter,

“Yes, yes, I am.”

“OK, so that’s a Grouse and diet lemonade, just a dash and a pint of Buckles Best and for you?”

He stepped back a minute. “Your Reverend Wilf’s daughter?”

“Yes, I am.” Bernie suddenly felt more sure of herself. She was never completely certain of who she was when back in Poplar.

“Bernadette?” The stranger was grinning now, his brown eyes glinting under the harsh bar spotlights, or were they green?

“Well, that’s my Sunday name most people call me Bernie, even Dad.”

“Well, since I’ve never seen you in here on a Sunday or any other day. I will call you Bernie. I am Patrick Turner, most people call me Paddy, a few Doc.”

“Oh no, you won’t have seen me here on a Sunday or any other day. I live in London now and before that, well, I am not a big drinker.”

“What can I get you then?” asked Paddy loitering near the coke and lemonade pumps.

“A gin and tonic please, better make it a double it’s quite busy, save me coming back.”

Paddy smiled. “Premium gin?”

“Yes.”

While the optic was emptying into the glass, he asked, “You must have known this old place when Evie ran it?”

“Yes, I know Evie and J..Jenny”

“Oh yes. Jen was here when the wife and I took over she was a great help. We get a text every now and again, doing well for herself now, all loved up.” He winked at her as he ended the sentence, causing her to panic slightly.

“I was sorry to hear about your loss.” She wished she hadn’t said it.

Val had seemed to deal with ten customers to Paddy’s one, and now there was just the two of them alone at the bar. He looked at her in a sort of a non-direct, sort of direct way. Under that infuriating fringe she wanted to reach out and push back.

“Loss is as much a part of love as is healing,” he replied with a hint of melancholy, but without irony.

She was stunned and tried to find a corresponding Bible verse, but she drew a blank.

She focused on what was real and what was present. Her dad had taught her to do that. What was in front of her at this precise moment was a glass of gin and ice and a twist of lime. He was now unscrewing a bottle of Mediterranean slimline tonic.

She yelped, “No!” as he lay the bottle alongside the glass.

“Sorry most people add the tonic to the gin and I cannae bear it drowned.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, surely that would be very presumptuous of me.”

“Aye well, most people I've met are very presumptuous.”

“Maybe you have spent too much time in London. if you don't mind me saying, Bernie.”

“Well, to be fair, we don’t spend a lot of time sitting on stools and propping up bars in my part of London.”

“More's the pity.”

“Can I bother you for a...”

Paddy popped a black straw into her tumbler.

“I will make sure when you come home next time none of my staff will be presumptuous.”

“Oh, I doubt you will remember me, Paddy. I only come up to see my Da. I can't imagine you will be seeing much of me in the future, hardly likely that I would ever be considered a regular.”

“Now who is being presumptuous?”

Bernie went to put the straw between her lips but paused, realizing the stranger was still watching her. She suddenly felt uncomfortable. As heat rose in her cheeks. She suddenly felt awkward on the stool, squirming to find some sort of comfortable position. The stranger smiled in a way she could not understand; it wasn’t smug or suggestive, but as if there were sharing a joke, but she wasn’t sure what the joke was.

She hopped off her seat, for a brief moment realizing her arse was in the air and prayed he had altered his gaze. Focusing anywhere but behind the bar, she grabbed her glass and bottle in one hand, put the whisky against her elbow and waist, the pint in her other hand, turned and swiftly moved toward her thirsty friends.

Shelagh Bernadette Mannion don’t you dare look back and see if he is watching you he is recently widowed with a son, Da said. He is, what do they call them now, a bloomer or something like that. God has shown you his path for you and it certainly does not include the Crown Inn, Poplar-on-Tweaven.

He is still watching me, I can feel it.

[hornsandthings]

headcanons: aquarium date w/ connor

connor had always been prone to distraction – by cases, by little details in human interaction, by you. but lately, you’ve noticed that animals have caught his attention. when you two were out in the city, connor’s eyes would follow the path of an arcing bird; sometimes he’d stop right in the middle of a sentence, or even physically halt to watch the bird fly by. usually arm in arm with him, this behaviour could earn him a sidelong glare from you, but all traces of your irritation would be wiped away whenever that look of calm wonder crossed his features.

after stormy nights, he took care to not step on any snails who had decided to come out of hiding. he’d watch his footing, a small smile on his face when they didn’t retreat into their shells, even as his big shadow stretched across them. he’d urge you to be careful, too; one time, he’d pulled you back so urgently that you and he nearly toppled backward. “they breathe just as humans do,” he merely voiced, watching the small, lone land snail glide across the pavement inch by inch. before you could tease him about how dramatic that was, the hint of an unknowable sadness on his face made you bite your tongue. cupping a hand to his jaw, you made him look at you before offering a kind smile. “connor: defender of the snails,” you mused, and he only shook his head with a small smile as he pulled you against him again to continue your way downtown.

while running an errand in the mall, you had just walked out of a shop to greet the waiting connor when you had caught him staring across the concourse. behind the window of a restaurant sat a small tank, blobs of oranges moving within the blue. you knew connor’s android vision could see the fish much more clearly than you, and his processors would’ve probably already analysed their species by the time you gently pulled him out of his stock-still stance. there was a strange look on his face, but he didn’t say anything about it. led swirling and brows furrowed, he was quiet on the whole way home, as if an unexpected memory wouldn’t let him go.

you surprised him on a day off with the preposition to go to the aquarium – his eyebrows lifted in response, mouth agape before it lifted into a smile. you knew he was still insecure about his smiles; he tended to opt for small grins and smirks as opposed to teeth-baring beams. but no matter – you could still see the kindness, the humour, the love he wanted to display through the gestures. so when he pulled you close, whispering “okay” in your ear before he moved to change, you couldn’t help the blush rising in your cheeks.

detroit’s aquarium was wonderfully big, hosting all kinds of aquatic marvels: small seahorses and thick eels, vibrant crabs and starfish, sleek sharks and sleepy turtles. inside it was kept dark, only dim floor lights serving as a guide through all the tanks. it felt intimate, despite the presence of others, for in the darkness, it was only you, connor, and the fish.

connor moved slowly, taking his time with the displays. his face always wavered close to the glass, eyes wide with wonder. in a low voice, he’d rattle off facts and statistics to you; fish do not generate new scales, rather increasing the size of existing ones and like humans, fish can actually drown in water if there’s not enough oxygen. optimal levels have proven to be between–

you were only half-listening, for you’ve been here before, had read all the information plaques in your youth. while some fish caught your attention – the delicate little krill trilling in the water, for instance – your gaze mainly stayed on connor. his voice was bright and lilting as he spoke, even through the hushed tones. he was utterly enraptured; sometimes he’d even stumble over his words, surely a sign that he was trying to process too many things at once. you could only smile at his childlike curiosity, never letting go of his hand.

the big cylindrical tank in the middle of a dark room was where you two spent most of your visit. inside, jellyfish floated on invisible currents, drifting, rootless. its dark blue light fell over the two of you, bathing you in the enigma of a contained piece of deep ocean. connor was silent now, nose practically pressed against the glass – somehow, you managed to supress a giggle. you wondered what he saw in all those colourful fish, these transparent tentacled creatures.

“what are you thinking about?” you whispered, snaking an arm around his waist and leaning into his shoulder. never taking his eyes off the floating jellyfish in front him, which seemed to be uncannily watching him back, he accommodated your form against him, vaguely registering the notion of how well you two fit together. his expression was contemplative; awe having been subdued to a kind of wistful consideration. “there are more than two thousand types of jellyfish,” he murmured, lifting a hand to touch the glass. “and they are one of the few species of aquatic life able to adapt to the increasing amount of ocean dead zones. they are colonising while other species are withering.” you turned your gaze to the floating specimens, subconsciously mimicking connor’s signature head tilt. you had gotten better at reading connor, and knew that whatever was on his mind was well beyond such two-dimensional facts. but you didn’t pry; sometimes he needed time to figure out how to articulate his emotions, his thoughts; thoughts that were now limitless and unhindered by programmed boundaries, thus requiring more time to be fully realised.

you did not know why the jellyfish had fascinated him so, but you stayed with him for however long he remained standing there, hand pressed to the glass in a manner which struck you as longing. you decided to leave him to his own devices for a while, visiting the crustaceans again to laugh at their amusing shifts and squabbles.

when you returned, it looked like he hadn’t even moved. gently, you hugged him from behind, entwining your hands with his own while pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “come on,” you cooed, feeling him coming alive again at your touch, “you once told me you liked gourami fish. they’re next.” connor looked back at you over his shoulder, face softening.

the last exhibit indeed hosted dwarf gouramis, and discus, and guppies. the small, colourful fish were so endearing that you couldn’t stop smiling, one even trailed your finger as you lazily hovered it over the glass. when connor heard your soft laugh, a rush of affection flooded his vision with all kinds of warnings, but he quickly dismissed them all. the temperature rise, the thirium pump’s extra strain, the software instability – he knew by now that it was simply love. when you looked at him, about to call his attention to this peculiar fish seemingly trying to nibble at your finger through the glass, he graced you with one of those rare, dimple-cheeked smiles. it almost brought you to your knees, and it definitely brought you to his lips – your kiss was gentle yet searing, and connor was smiling into it, holding you by your elbows as you grasped both sides of his face.  

it was in the shadowy twilight of the ocean blue hue and darkness that connor kissed you again and again, basking in the wonder of life, in the compassion of your being and in the curiosity of the surrounding fish. he was so, so happy, unable to wipe the smile off his face even if he were to issue a command to his processing centre. emotions were not governed by his software – they were governed by his heart, by this soul he had somehow managed to find along the way.

“i really enjoyed today,” he whispered into your hair as he held you, both watching the slow movements of a round, lime-green fish overturning pebbles in search of food. “thank you,” he said, pulling you just a little closer. he let his eyes close, if only for a moment, to bask in pure contentedness. “i love you.”

[boneandfur]

Restless Farewell [N*FW][1/3]

Summary: Veronique goes to The City That Never Sleeps to recruit a thief, instead she meets a man with whom she can be ordinary with for just one night. But is he really who he seems? // Pairing: Niles Edison (Thief) x THM F!MC // Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ LEMON. By clicking on "read more", you are verifying that you are old enough to be reading this fic. // Words: 2935 // Notes: this is the precursor to the sneak peek I posted. It is canon-divergent in some places, although it sticks to the canon story-line as much as possible The first fic in this series takes place in NYC, the night before MC and Rye meet with Niles Edison aka Eddie Quick in Washington Square Park. I HC the MC to be in their 30s and Edison to be late 40s. It’s full of angst and smut. If you like those two things, proceed! Lyrics are from the song Restless Farewell by Bob Dylan.

Chapter One

New York City is full of ghosts. 

The first time Veronique, once known as Alaïs Dègas Lionheart, came to the City That Never Sleeps, she was just five years old. She dreams of it, sometimes: Times Square in winter, ice skates and hot chocolate, her mother dripping with rubies and diamonds, a sheik's ransom. The Nutcracker Ballet, sugar plums and chocolate mice, her father carrying her on his shoulders to the castle in Central Park, a fairy tale of turrets and stained glass windows.  

And there are other memories too, darker ones, the kind a child doesn't understand, the kind an adult pushes away. Suitcases of gold bouillon, walking in on her father throwing handfuls of cash in the air as her mother lies on the bed, her mother's bruised eyes and bloody mouth. I walked into a door, ma petit. It was very silly of me. 

Yes, the city is full of ghosts tonight. 

Veronique walks down the city streets without really looking around, yet somehow her feet seem to know where they are going. She passes Times Square in a blur of color and light, Chinatown, with joss paper in the shop windows, botanicas in the Bronx full of colored saint's candles and Santa Muerte, until she is somewhere near Central Park, standing on the path to the castle.

The leaves whisper in the night, their music borne by the wind. Shhh, shhh. She can hear the song in her head that her father used to whistle as he counted stacks of cash, his blazing head bent in concentration. 

"Oh, all the money that in my whole life I did spend / Be it mine right or wrongfully / I let it slip gladly to friends / To tie up the time most forcefully..." 

"Daddy?" Veronique whispers, and only the leaves whisper back. Shhh, shhhh. 

She forgets she is a criminal mastermind, she forgets she is a thief. She forgets about heists in Monaco, and men with cold, flat eyes who stare at you as they kiss the mouths of their guns. She forgets about Rye, the man she loves like a brother, sleeping like a blameless man back at the hotel before their flight in the morning. There is only Alaïs, the Little Robber Princess, and a man's scratchy voice, singing a poet's song. 

"But the bottles are done / We've killed each one / And the table's full and overflowed / And the corner sign / Says it's closing time / So I'll bid farewell and be down the road... "

In the lamplight, the hair is fox-red, and Veronique runs. The man continues down the path, still singing softly. Her hand skims his shoulder, and he turns around. "Daddy?" But it is a stranger's face, craggy and rough and wrong, one eye sewn shut, the other blue as river glass. There is something cunning and strangely hungry in the man's eyes, under the lamplight they flicker for a moment, and Veronique realizes how far she is from the crowds, unable to disappear in plain sight. 

Veronique spins on her heel, and runs. Down the path, into the dark forest ramble, branches scraping her arms. She comes out on a well-lit path of cobblestones, with no sign of the man behind her. Despite her sigh of relief, she stills. She can feel someone, watching her from the dark. Waiting. A beat, and Veronique spins around, whipping her fists up, but the inky shadows remain still, seething with the secrets of the night. 

•••

Three city blocks later, she hasn't lost her tail. She wonders, for a moment, if it's one of the Rooks following her, but brushes the thought away almost as instantly as it comes. They wouldn't be so amateur. 

"Lionheart." That name, the name no one living should know. 

Veronique bolts down the nearest alleyway, and bursts out the other side, her lungs burning, just in time to see a black Lincoln with its lights turned off pull up to the curb. The window rolls down, and the long muzzle of a Berretta points straight at her. 

Time stills, and her mind goes blank. Lionheart. The last time she saw the two of them, it was snowing in the mountains, the sky a dusky purple from the ambient glow of the city. Her father had promised her a golden nightingale that would sing down the moon, and when her mother's lips brushed across her forehead, the little robber princess pretended to be fast asleep. 

"Get back!" Someone yanks Veronique by the wrist right back into the alleyway, hands braced on the brick wall over her head, body pressed up against hers, shielding her from harm. She is afraid to breathe, and all she can feel is his heart thundering against hers, under the cover of darkness. The Barretta aims, and fires, and Veronique bites back a scream as the bullet's impact rains down red brick dust on the pair of them. He grabs her hand, and whispers hoarsely, "Now!" 

Veronique doesn't look back, or up at the man pulling her through the shadows, until they are back in the well-lit streets of Times Square. She is shivering, she cannot seem to stop. Lionheart. That name. How could someone know it, after all these long lonely years? 

"Alright, luv?" The man turns around, looking down at her, and drops her hand in surprise. "Bloody hell, you're not who -- " he corrects himself "-- you're not what I was expecting." 

But who did you expect? Veronique finds herself staring up into the face of a handsome, distinguished older man with dark brown hair gone nearly gray and a trim beard, wearing a brown trench coat and a long dark red scarf. He whips off his glasses, rubbing them with his sleeve, and shoots her a charming smile. His eyes are malachite green behind his glasses, like the pendant she wears around her neck. 

There is something dangerous about this man, she thinks -- Something that could make or break an ordinary woman. He holds out his hand to shake. 

"The name's Eddie." 

She pushes a swath of golden hair behind one ear, and smiles. "Hey." 

•••

"You look as though you could use a proper drink. I know I could." Eddie shakes his head in disbelief. "You almost gave me a heart attack back there. Christ! I thought --" but he bites back whatever it is he was about to say. 

She's still shaking from adrenaline, her skin buzzing, and she realizes they are so close that they could touch, if they wanted. She wants him to touch her, she realizes. To just feel like an ordinary woman for one night, instead of one who can make or break a man. But she doesn't move away. "A drink sounds fantastic. I'm --" Alaïs. It's on the tip of her tongue, and she wonders, for a brief, unguarded moment, what it would be like to be herself with a stranger, just for one night. "Alaïs." 

He raises his brows, giving her an obvious once-over, eyes lingering in appreciation on her legs and breasts. "That's a lovely name -- Alaïs. She was the mistress of Henry the Second." He clears his throat, the distance between them fixed, neither making any move to go off and search for the promised drinks. And then his lips are on hers, the sound of the city falling away in his searing kiss. Her heart rate speeds up, adrenaline pumping through her veins as the kiss deepens, his tongue hot in her mouth as his hands encircle her hips, pulling her flush up against his broad chest. 

When they pull apart, Eddie smiles down at her, so softly that Veronique feels her insides fall apart. "How about that drink, then? I know a place..." 

•••

The hotel bar is well-appointed, with dark, heavy pre-war furnishings, a relic of a time gone by. They sit at the bar, their knees not quite touching, the air between them heady, thick with desire. Eddie levels a wink at her, and catches the eye of the bartender. 

"What'll you have?" Carter, his name tag reads, gold leaf on black plastic. He's blonde, good looking in that slick, clean cut way, and his smile is practiced, white and fake. 

"I'll take an Old Fashioned. And for the lady, a gin and tonic, I think. Make sure it's top shelf, proper gin, none of that shoddy Bombay." Eddie pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, dark green gaze locked on hers for a moment. "Did I get it right, then?" 

Veronique drops her eyes, then looks up at him from under her lashes. "Make it a gin fizzy." 

Eddie hums in approval. "A bird of refined tastes, you are." 

"Citrus Pay, sir, if you'd like to open a tab?" Carter returns with the drinks, bringing out a tablet, and Eddie recoils, a look of disgust crossing his features. 

"I don't go in for none of that bloody newfangled garbage. Cold hard cash, that's what we paid with back in my --" 

Carter rolls his eyes. "Very well, sir. Some of our older guests prefer to pay the old fashioned way, if that's what you prefer." He slides the Old Fashioned towards Eddie, mouth trembling as he tries to hide his amusement. "And for the lady, a Tanqueray gin fizzy, garnished with a fair-trade organic lime wedge, raw unrefined pink turbindo sugar on the rim, hand ground and imported from --" 

Eddie rolls his eyes. "You're not on the pull, mate, you're just serving the lady a drink. No need to slather it on." 

Carter rolls his eyes. "Very well, sir. Signal me if you need another, Old Fashioned." 

Veronique plucks at Eddie's sleeve before he can give the bartender a piece of his mind. She nods to a low-lit booth with a chessboard. "Care to place a wager?" 

Eddie's eyes light up in appreciation at the swing in her hips as she brushes past him, his eyes raking her up and down. "As long as it doesn't involve any of that bloody modern claptrap, I'm all in, luv." 

•••

"Lady's choice." Eddie sets up the board so fast that her head spins. His knees brush hers under the table, and her pulse speeds up erratically, craving each seemingly innocuous touch. "Black or white?" 

His hand lifts the hem of her skirt, caressing her just above the knee. Not so innocent after all. "Black." 

He raises a brow, sipping his drink thoughtfully. "A lady who likes to live dangerously, I see." Surveying the chess board, he moves a white pawn two spaces. "And I suppose this wager of yours is dangerous too?" 

Veronique takes a slow sip of her gin fizzy, seductively licking the foam off her lips, and watches as his pupils enlarge. "You'll have to play the game to find out." 

Eddie inhales sharply as she scoots to the very edge of the seat, parting her legs and moving his hand further up her thigh. "Oh, I intend to." His eyes are locked on hers as she mirrors his move, pawn before the king going two spaces forward. He moves another pawn two spaces forward. "So what brings you to New York, Alaïs -- business or pleasure?" His hand slides up her thigh. 

Alaïs. The name gives her heart a funny little twist, and she realizes she hasn't heard it spoken aloud by another person for almost thirty years. "I could ask you the same thing." Veronique plays with the malachite pendant around her neck, drawing his eyes to her cleavage. "But tonight... It's pleasure." 

Eddie is fighting back a smile. "Are all American birds these days as cheeky as you?" 

Veronique leans forward, long blonde hair brushing the chessboard, and asks in a husky whisper, "And just how long has it been since you've been in New York City?" 

He leans forward, their faces mere inches apart, his lips brushing against her ear, the sound of his English accent making her throb between the legs, like the beat of her heart, aching, wanting. "Too goddamned long enough." 

She turns her cheek, and his lips ghost across hers, the sensation of his stubble on her flesh causing her to inhale sharply, a tiny, yearning moan escaping her. "Eddie." 

He leans back, but his gaze never leaves hers. "You're not bloody cheeky, luv, you're downright dangerous." 

That I am. She thinks of the malachite pendant around her neck, sharpened to a point. 

All thieves live by a code of honor, my little robber princess, her father's voice whispers down the years. Never kill a man just to kill him, for it will always come back to haunt you. But if you need a friend, this stone is your best bet. Lick it and stick it, it'll work like a charm. Keep it close, and it may save your life. But I hope to hell that day never comes. 

Instead of answering, Veronique pulls Eddie's hand right to the apex of her thighs, hot and slick, craving his touch; and with her other hand, makes a move on the board, leaving her queen open. 

His fingers brush the thin strip of fabric, feeling how wet she is. He growls, his voice dark and rough. "What's the wager? We never said."

"That we both win tonight." She slides backwards in the booth, away from his hand, her heart hammering like mad. She must be crazy, she must be foolish, but she doesn't care, she wants -- "Eddie." 

"Right, then." He drains his drink and then throws some cash on the table, holding out a hand. "Shall we?" 

•••

They've barely stepped into the elevator when Eddie spins her around, pressing her up against the wall in a hard kiss. His hands glide up her thighs, cupping her ass, and she rocks against him, moaning as his fingers skim over the damp fabric of her underwear with the lightest pressure, teasing her clit. 

Eddie grunts as Veronique bites his shoulder, and all of a sudden the elevator dings. They break apart, disheveled and erect in all the wrong places. Eddie adjusts his trousers as a dark-haired man with an arrogant look steps into the elevator, followed by a pixie-haired blonde girl who looks as though she's smelled something bad. 

"The ground floor, bellhop," the dark haired man says to Eddie with a peevish air, and turns to the girl. "I didn't know the Waldorf-Astoria was hiring riff-raff these days. I'll have to have a talk with the owner." 

"Oh, Uncle Antoine, don't be such a snob," the girl says. "Like... Oh. Em. Gee!"

"This is your stop, mate," Eddie says with a grimace, slamming the emergency stop button. "'Fraid the elevator's closed for maintenance." He shoulder checks Antoine on his way out, and pushes him and his niece from the elevator into the hall, the pair of them spluttering with indignation. "Stairs are that way, guv." 

"I'm leaving a one star review on Yel--" Antoine is cut off as the elevator door slides shut, and Eddie turns back to Veronique, a smug grin on his face. "Now, where were we?" 

She can't be sure, but when she's sure, she's sure. Eddie has just picked both their pockets. A dangerous man, indeed. 

"Right... here." She tugs on his hand, and notices that there's a slight indent on one of his fingers, where a ring used to be. He can't be married, she frets in her head. But she can't be bothered to worry about it for long, because when Eddie kisses her, firmer than the first time, it feels more meaningful, more right. Like calls to like. It only makes sense that it would take a thief to make her come tonight. 

Eddie's mouth on hers is hot, her nipples are aching for his touch and as he begins rolling one nipple between his fingers, her brain short-circuits and goes blank. There is only this -- his slow, measured kiss, stretching out the pleasurable sensations happening elsewhere in her body. There's the way he tastes, like brandy and citron, and the sound of his deep growl as his hand slides between her legs again. 

It takes her nearly a full minute to realize she's no longer wearing underwear. He must have stolen them. A rush of heat throbs between her thighs, and the sound of his fingers slipping in and out of her slick, wet folds causes the coil of heat to tighten inside of her, harder and harder, biting her bottom lip as his mouth moves down her neck, sucking and nibbling a path to her nipples. The door starts to open, and Eddie slams on the floor button with his free hand. 

"I can't tell you how goddamned beautiful you are," he whispers into her ear. "Because words can't express it." 

Veronique is panting now, unable to catch her breath, and when he swirls his fingers rapidly over her clit, she comes hard and fierce, right then and there. 

"Eddie! Oh, fuck!" Veronique's hips buck uncontrollably, riding the intense wave of her orgasm. He sucks one nipple into his mouth and she screams his name, her legs nearly giving way as she collapses against him, his mouth claiming hers in a hard, possessive kiss. 

"Let's get you to bed, luv." Eddie strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. "Because I plan to shag you until you can't walk for a week." 

"Hurry," she moans.

She's never seen a man slam the elevator buttons so fast in her life. 

•••

Tag list will be in comments section since they seem to only work half the time.

[wsmith215]

On Behind The Racquet, Noah Rubin brings tennis players’ mental, emotional struggles into focus

“This sport has a way of making you feel irrelevant while at the same time giving you this sense of entitlement … Chances are if you were once ‘talk of the town,’ that will quickly diminish over time.” — Noah Rubin, Behind The Racquet

AS THE CLOCK crept toward midnight and the winds blew off the Mediterranean and into the Puente Romano Tennis Club, Noah Rubin hunted for an escape. It was March 2018. Rubin had just lost his fifth straight professional tennis match, a disappointing two-and-a-half-hour roller-coaster ride that was a microcosm of his career.

The grounds of the chic club, founded by Bjorn Borg on the Spanish Riviera in 1979, had long ago emptied. Groundskeepers had switched off all the lights except for the ones for the court where Rubin had just lost. Security closed and locked up the café. Rubin, more than 3,500 miles from his New York home, gathered his belongings and headed into the darkness. Four courts away, he found a set of empty cement stairs. He sat down. And began to cry.

Fifteen months earlier, there had been another walk, onto the famous blue court of Melbourne’s Rod Laver Arena for a second-round Australian Open match against Roger Federer. Rubin threw everything he had at Federer that sweltering January afternoon. After breaking Federer’s serve in the third set, he instinctively pumped his fist and screamed “Come on!” The outburst irked the tennis great, and Federer stared through Rubin during the subsequent break.

2 Related

“I was like, ‘I pissed off Roger Federer,'” Rubin said. “How amazing is that?”

Rubin lost in three sets that day but won the belief he belonged. A little more than a year later, after this first-round qualifying loss on the ATP Challenger Tour, tennis’ version of the minor leagues, the swagger was gone, replaced by anger, embarrassment and a plummeting sense of self-worth.

“I just didn’t feel I was worth anyone’s time,” Rubin said.

The story is a common one in tennis. Young star tastes the big time but struggles to escape the clutches of the game’s proving grounds. It’s a grueling climb, one athletes rarely discuss publicly until it’s over. Their competitive shield is too thick, the fear of vulnerability too strong. Rubin believed he had the talent — and work ethic — to be a top-50 player and build a comfortable life playing the game he loved. But he couldn’t crack the top 150 and was barely breaking even.

“I could just sort of feel my soul slipping away,” he said of that night in Spain. “I just sat there thinking, ‘What am I doing that I’m so upset and so miserable on the tennis court?’ It was my lowest point. It was also a beginning.”

“People forget we aren’t robots. People see this fantasy world and guess that everything is kind of perfect. There are true struggles that each and every player deal with that are far more important than winning or losing.” — James Blake, Behind The Racquet

NINE MONTHS AFTER the disappointment in Spain, Rubin sat in his childhood bedroom in Long Island, jet-lagged from his most recent trip to the Australian Open. It had been another up-and-down stretch for Rubin. He temporarily numbed the pain of six straight losses with an August 2018 upset of fellow American and then-No. 9 John Isner. But he then began 2019 with a second-round qualifying loss in Melbourne.

“He was down on himself and struggling, big-time,” said Tallen Todorovich, Rubin’s agent. “He was this blue-chip recruit who thought he would show up and have immediate success.”

Noah Rubin defeated Frances Tiafoe and Taylor Fritz, among others, on his way to the 2014 boys title at Wimbledon. Kevin C. Cox/Getty Images

As the clock pushed past 3 a.m., Rubin scrolled through Instagram while watching “Inst@famous,” a Netflix documentary about social media influencers. He thought about “Humans of New York,” the social media project turned New York Times bestselling book profiling random New Yorkers blurred in the shuffle of the largest city in America. He wondered about applying a similar concept to tennis players lost in the pursuit of their on-court dreams.

The idea was simple, combining his passion for tennis, photography and journalism. Athletes would pose for a picture hiding their faces behind the strings of their racket. Then, in their own words, they would reveal the human struggles behind chasing greatness. Within an hour he had a name, “Behind The Racquet.” He quickly registered Instagram and Gmail accounts and purchased the URL https://bit.ly/2LKyq8l for $750.

On Jan. 19, 2019, Rubin posted the first picture for the project. It was a shot of himself, his face slightly blurred by the lime green strings of his racket. Below the photo, he revealed his greatest fear: letting down the people closest to him. It was an emotion he felt from an early age in a tennis-loving family. Rubin’s grandfather, a self-taught tennis star, passed the game on to Noah’s father, who put a racket in Noah’s crib when he was 1.

Noah’s dad was his coach early on, and Noah saw him lose work after his boss would give him an ultimatum about choosing the boy’s tennis tournaments over his work commitments. He saw his mom, who worked in education, sacrifice her summers to work at a local sports facility so Noah and his sister could receive free lessons. Then he saw his parents’ marriage fall apart. They divorced when he was 12.

“I always felt this yearning to pay my parents back,” said Rubin, now 24. “I would ask myself, ‘Am I doing enough for all their time and effort? Is all this worth it for them?’ Tennis is one of the most financially grueling sports. We were not wealthy. We were fine. But they used basically hundreds of thousands of dollars to pay for this. That’s tough.”

To the outside world, it all seemed worth it. By the age of 7, Rubin was beating kids five years older. By 12 he was competing internationally as one of the top-ranked players his age. Then at 18, with his dad watching from the stands, Rubin won the Wimbledon boys’ championship. Lawrence Kleger, the director of the John McEnroe Tennis Academy, tagged Rubin the best player to come out of New York since McEnroe himself.

It all led to a young man growing up fast. A young man sitting in his childhood bedroom on that January night in 2019 still trying to process it all. His place. His purpose. An understanding of what happiness and contentment actually looked like. Why was the game he loved making him so miserable? He’d begin to find answers through sharing the struggles of others.

“Throughout my life, I was always the youngest to do things, which added hype that I didn’t want. … I was just lost. I was confused and overthinking if this was what I wanted or what others did. It took many moments sitting, thinking and crying.” — Coco Gauff, Behind The Racquet

IN THE 16 months since launching Behind The Racquet, Rubin has shared more than 135 stories while building a following of more than 40,000 people on social media. The posts have shown the human side of sport, shining a spotlight on everything from eating disorders and speech impediments to the death of a parent and battles with depression and anxiety.

“These are humans. They have pitfalls,” says retired American tennis star James Blake, who has contributed to the site. “It’s great for young players to get that perspective. In the past, it was all kept secret. But this will help so many realize they’re not alone. It’s OK. And it’s a positive to get help.” Blake believes the pressure in tennis and other individual sports is unlike any other.

“That’s why some of the best talent isn’t always the best performer,” he said. “Every tennis player can tell you about a guy who beat them in practice but couldn’t put together the results when it came time to perform.”

Rubin does the interviews for most of the posts, then paraphrases those conversations into the subject’s voice. In one of his early interviews with his friend Darian King from Barbados, Rubin discovered that King had lost his mom in 2010 to pancreatic cancer, which he did not previously know.

“I stopped the interview,” Rubin said. “I just felt so sorry. I felt like an awful friend. But it wasn’t on him or me. It was on everybody. There just isn’t a platform to feel comfortable talking about things like that.”

Noah Rubin has featured Coco Gauff, Madison Keys, Petra Kvitova and other stars on Behind The Racquet. Cameron Spencer/Getty Images

In early 2019, Rubin connected with Jolene Watanabe, who upset Jennifer Capriati in the 1997 Australian Open. Watanabe was fighting appendix cancer and wanted to spread a message of hope and resilience. Rubin planned to run the post a few weeks later. But then he received a message from Watanabe’s husband, Sylvain Elie. The couple had just returned from the Mayo Clinic, and the news was not good. Doctors told Watanabe she had two weeks to live. She was saying her final goodbyes. Elie asked Rubin whether he could put her on Behind The Racquet before she died.

“She was basically bedridden,” Elie said. “She wasn’t using her phone that much. I told her you might want to check Behind The Racquet. She was emotional about it. It meant a lot to her.”

Added Rubin: “Here’s this dumb idea I had jet-lagged, and it becomes one of someone’s final wishes. I can’t even compute and articulate what that means. If anything, it just shows I have to keep doing this.”

In April, L’Equipe, the daily French sports newspaper, included Rubin as one of six active players in its list of the 20 most influential people in tennis. The other five: Federer, Novak Djokovic, Andy Murray, Rafael Nadal and Serena Williams. The paper referred to Rubin as a “lanceur d’alerte,” a whistleblower.

There’s now a Behind The Racquet podcast, merchandise and long-term talks of a docuseries and a tabletop book. Rubin hopes to share the stories of athletes in other sports while also connecting with Talkspace, an online therapy platform, and developing mental health camps through the National Alliance on Mental Illness.

“It’s grown into something far bigger than I could have imagined,” Rubin said.

“It always affects me when people judge without any thought. It is one thing to argue but to think your opinion is the best never makes sense.” — Daniil Medvedev, Behind The Racquet

IF THERE’S ONE thing all professional athletes know, it’s that everyone has an opinion. For Rubin, it started with the passive-aggressive comments of neighborhood parents when he would miss a birthday or bar mitzvah for a tennis tournament. As a professional, it’s become the gamblers, who Rubin says reach out on social media with everything from “Your mom should die in hell” to “Hitler should have killed your people.” “The most racist, homophobic, sexist, anti-Semitic comments you can imagine,” he says. “It’s incredible.” Now the topic is Behind The Racquet. There are those who insist Rubin is complaining because he is not good at tennis, others who suggest Behind The Racquet is a distraction getting in the way of his tennis potential, and still others who insist just the opposite, that tennis is getting in the way of Behind The Racquet and his mental health work.

“Everything changes depending how I played that day,” he said. “I’m always like, ‘Just pick one, people.'”

Ignoring some fans’ wishes, Rubin intends to continue pursuing both his tennis passion and his work in mental health awareness. Barrington Coombs/Getty Images

For now, Rubin’s plan is to pursue both lanes. It’s become normal for Rubin to compete at a tournament and have a competitor tell him that he appreciates the site or that he’s thought about how he would share his own story.

“On the most basic of levels, it’s gotten people to think about these things, maybe even speak to others about them,” he said.

Rubin has spent the coronavirus pandemic back in New York with his girlfriend, practicing on the streets while using his free time to focus even more on Behind The Racquet. He says he has more than 30 interviews in his queue.

On a personal level, he has finally found a balance of happiness and contentment. His game is as strong as it’s been, he insists. And even when he does inevitably struggle, he has learned how to handle it better.

“It’s become an extreme form of therapy,” he said. “You have these deep conversations and begin to understand there is more to life than tennis. There’s more to tennis than tennis. And you can’t give up your happiness to get to the top.”

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Title: Application Day  Prologue

September, 2016   The beaten doors of the greyhound creaked open with a hiss of well worn hydraulics. They idled on a hill as the bus driver hand-cranked the brakes. The sodium overhead lights flickered to life as people began to stiffly shift in their seats. The driver announced that they had arrived at the final rest stop before their long journey toward their terminus in the Province of Manitoba.  "Take the chance to stretch your legs." He suggested before taking leave of the bus himself with a package of cigarettes. A quiet murmur broke the late night silence, waking a lone young woman curled in the back most seat. She massaged her cramped thighs as she surveyed her surroundings. There was nothing but empty asphalt and hills crested by a darkly foreboding pine forest. 'Finally,' Relief washed through her as she crawled up from her seat. She wound her way through the aisle and disembarking passengers with a firm hand on her leather messenger bag. The other trying to stifle a jaw-aching yawn. 'Jesus Christ, who knew sitting could be so exhausting...' She stepped off the bus into the barely lit road, side-stepping the driver as he returned. She was left coughing on the cloud of dust left in it's wake as it departed. She watched it go until the red tail lights disappeared around the forested bend. Alone in the middle of the abandoned highway, she couldn't fight the beginnings of dread that had started to settle in her chest.  "This is insane." She ran her hands through her chestnut hair, displacing the dust that had settled there in. "No, this'll be good for us." She patted her bag affectionately, steeling herself against her own anxiety. Her cellphone pinged loudly in the forest's late night din, it's screen the only source of light to be found in the misty dark.The GPS guided her down a barely used path beaten into the side of a dried creek bed. The moon was high, but the pale light barely pierced the dense autumn canopy. Unprepared for a long hike through the wilderness, the girl struggled through the dim light. Thick bracken masked arthritic boughs on either side of her path as she picked her way carefully past. Distracted by her screen, she tripped on a root, and promptly lost her balance. She let out a startled cry as she stumbled off the path and into the riverbed. She swore several oaths into the night air, her bag began to throw a fit. The leather bulged and rumbled, a shock of colorful feathers erupted from behind the clip before she could urgently close the flap. "It's okay," she soothed, righting herself in the muck. "We're good. Almost there, promise." It was a hollow promise, one she had been repeating for the past day and a half. A disgruntled expulsion of air forced the flap up and smacked her in the face. She wrinkled her nose at it. "C'mon, don't be a dick, this sucks for me too." She managed to crawl out of the ravine before she spotted a distant light over the top of a hill.  Her eyes narrowed, relieved, and sprinted into the clearing. She doubled over once free of the tree line, laughing at herself in between desperate puffs of air. "Thought I got over my fear of the dark," she giggled, half hysteric, "guess not, huh?" A low growl erupted from her bag, announcing that she was no longer alone. Her hands constricted around the strap of her satchel, white-knuckled. She snapped straight, eyes frantically searching the meadow. "Anyone there? -  The moon was bright enough that cloudless night to cast the shadow of a young man walking down an abandoned road. He was somewhat frightened and more than a little lost, his GPS having perished hours ago with the battery of his phone. He looked to the sky, mindful of the tall, dry grass that bordered the sides of the cracked asphalt; he'd just passed through one of his hometown's poorer neighborhoods, and the dense vegetation served as an invitation for a late-night mugging. He squinted at the stars. Three years of scouts and I still can't figure out which one is supposed to be 'North'... The boy took a deep breath and continued tentatively, following faint sounds in the distance that he'd assumed (hoped) were sounds of life, civilization. Another fifteen minutes of walking astride the cool night's breeze revealed a dilapidated gas station at the end of a road that nature had reclaimed. A set of wind chimes sang forlornly, hung and left to rust on a metal hook above the pumps, long drained of fuel. The road's lone inhabitant shrugged his backpack from his shoulders and reached inside to produce a bottle of Fountain Dew, and drank heavily. He screwed the cap back on when he was done whilst he eyed the forest that broke the road with utter disdain. ‘I'm starting to think this may have been an elaborate prank... A school out in the middle of nowhere is one thing. This is... This is just wrong. I'll take seeing things and the rare exploding candy bar over lime disease and a butt full of blackberry thorns any day...’ The boy swung his bag back over his shoulder and weighed his options. After several minutes of fighting with himself, he let out a guttural sigh and trudged forward, bidding the gas station a sarcastic good-bye and breaking through the first layer of bug-strewn foliage. "Ah-... Dammit!" The boy swore and spat as he stumbled into yet another spider web, complete with spider, frantically waving his hands at the air in front of his face. He spun in a vague circle, paused, then promptly saw stars as he smashed the bridge of his nose with the base of his palm. He didn't draw blood, but had he known that he completely missed the spider and merely knocked it onto his leg, he may have given up on his trek right then and there. The boy continued to wade through the waist-deep weeds and grass, checking his bare arms constantly for ticks until he could see moonlight through the trees. He smiled earnestly and quickened his pace, only to launch face-first into yet another web, and consequently lose his mind. He thrashed about violently, blind with rage and spider silk before accidentally tumbling out the other side of the forest onto crisp, cool grass. He looked up, surprised at the treeline's abrupt ending. As he stood back up, he could see a diffused, bluish light hovering above a tree-less hill. ‘Oh my God, finally,’ he thought, relieved. ‘Must be the school building up there. Thought I was gonna be out here forever...’ He retrieved a piece of watermelon bubblegum from his pocket and popped it in his mouth. When the silence was broken but a wary call, he looked around startled. “H-Hello?”  He squinted in the dark, finding the vaguely human shape cautiously approaching him from the treeline. He was able to tell she was a girl, but the dark stripped her features from her. He began to wander toward her. “Hi, uh, are you from around here? Is this where the uh... ‘School’, is?”  The girl hovered an arm’s length from him, her brow pinched. “Damn, I was kinda hoping you might be...” At the mention of the school, she perked up albeit confused. “Why... would you think the schools is up there?” She pointed towards the knoll.  He shrugged as he came closer. “Iunno.’ Something is making light up there.”  From what little could be seen of the boy in the dark, one could make out his over-sized novelty t-shirt stamped proud on the front with an Everlasting Gobstopper. His jeans, ripped at the knees and at the hems, were stuck with brambles. Above a set of thing eyebrows and a distinct, beak-like nose sat a man of wavy, platinum blonde hair.  “I’d check to see how close we are to the address but...” He pulled out his cellphone from his back pocket. “Dead as heck,” he chuckled halfheartedly.  “Mine’s still going, thank-god. I’d die without this thing.” She turned the screen toward him, tapping her forefinger against the green arrow that denoted the address and it’s location. “I guess this is it - I’m Bailey, by the way.” She introduced.  Bailey brushed her dark chestnut hair behind her ear, show casing the multitude of piercings that ringed the curve. A feather was braided into her curls. It was decorated with what looked to be Aztec inspired beads and metal rings. Her wrists chimed with metal bangles that clashed together as she tucked her cell away in her sweater pocket.  “Samu-... Sam.” He returned.  “Nice to meet you, Sam.” She greeted amicably. After eighteen hours on a cramped bus, she was glad for company. Bailey wrapped her hand around the strap of her bag, pulling the coarse material away from her neck to show it had worn a red welt into her shoulder.  “I guess we’re gonna be schoolmates,” he said, attempting kindness and began up the hill. “Gum?” He offered her the end of a stick of green packaging labeled. ‘Bubba Hubba.’  “Hopefully we might be,” Bailey started up the slow after him, graciously taking the block of gum. “I’m scheduled for my ‘application assessment’ today. Er well, tonight. What about you?”  “Oh, that’s right,” he scratched his neck, “we’re not actually in yet, heh...”  There was a awkward pause as they walked. “Um, so uh... This might sound weird, but uh... have you been seeing, strange things? Like... Where there used to be nothing, or something else?”  His eyes darted between Bailey and her bag, which he could swear was periodically moving.  “Strange things?” Bailey contemplated. “Well, yeah, of course. For awhile now -- that’s how I found out about the school. Fireflies in the park were advertising it.” She explained conversationally. “Did you just start or something?” She trailed off, uncertain. “Er, sorry if that is rude. Besides the recruiting agent I spoke to on the phone - I haven’t really met anyone else that could see the weird stuff too.”  Bailey felt her bag wriggle impatiently against her thigh. She none-too-gently urged it with her knee, praying Sam hadn’t caught sight of it.  Sam exhaled through his nose. “No, you’re not being rude. I’m just glad there’s someone else seeing stuff. I didn’t even get to speak to an agent. I was flipping through channels late one night, came across a channel that said something like... ‘If you can see this, we can help. Come to such and such address..’ Some letters, then it was gone. Like nothing happened.” He fixed his bag on his shoulder. “I figured I needed answers so... I just left.”  In the wake of his confession, Same muttered. “So... What was the first thing you saw? Mine was a dog with three heads.” He admitted playfully.  “You just up and left?!” Bailey asked incredulously, visibly taken back. “Like, legit - you didn’t look it up or anything!?”  She had spent months researching before she even conceived the notion of leaving home.  He opened his mouth, at first to tell her off, but then thought better of it. “Look, anything was better than where I was.” He snorted. “My so called ‘guardians’ probably don’t even know I’m gone yet. Like they’d even care.” He sneered at nothing before giving a light shake of his head. “S-sorry, TMI. Basically, I wanted to know what’s wrong with my head. I already know what’s wrong with everything else.” He threw another block of chewing gum in his mouth, his current piece already growing stale.  “Sorry... I didn’t.” She muttered apologetically. “My own parents are on vacation in Cuba. They don’t know I’m here either. I, uh, never traveled this far on my own before.” Bailey clutched self-consciously at her messenger bag, her hand barely having left it since she had gotten on the greyhound hours ago.  “This far? Where are you from?” He asked, thin brow raised.  “Vancouver,” she supplied, “you?”  “Med Hat,” he said, suddenly distracted by the light ahead of them. “Well, here we are. Watch it just be some shack run by a hobo --”  As the two crested the hill, Sam's eyes flew wide open. What was once a snarky leer of doubt was now a bewildered stare of disbelief. A group of people, all shapes and sizes - many beyond the normal scope of the phrase - stood illuminated by the bright, bluish-white light emanating from the open hatch of a titanic flying saucer. Seemingly a tin plate run amok from an old black-and-white horror movie, it - somehow - propped itself up upon four wire-thin legs made of the same silvery-blue material that composed the majority of the craft. Pulsating lights encircled the rim and a faint hum filled the area. The air smelled like lightning. Sam beheld the ground the saucer had landed on. It was etched with intricate designs that folded out into a grander image that couldn't be seen from the ground, seemingly burned into the earth by concentrated heat. His bag slipped from his shoulders and onto the ground. "... E-excuse my French but... What the... Fourchette!?" Bailey had expected a lot of things when she left home on a dilapidated bus bound for the middle of nowhere. This was not one of them. "It... It's so...," she breathed, taking in the incredible sight before them both in the hollow of the hill. "Stereo-typical." Sam looked to her. Then back to the craft. Then back to her. "St-... STEREOTYPICAL!?," he cried. "Stereo-... Lady, there is an honest to Christ space ship sitting right over there and... Stereoty- HOW, how many space ships have you seen!? Why is there a space ship!?" Sam's uncontrolled blathering turned a few heads in their direction. A shorter gentleman with a large, almond-shaped head beckoned them over. "Hey! If you're with the school you better hurry! We're leaving early!" "Whuh... Seriously?" He grabbed his head on both sides. "S-seriously...?" The corners of Bailey's mouth turned up in a  thrilled smile. Her hand tightened around her strap as she braced her free hand against the bag to hold it fast to her thigh. "Look, Sam, I don't know what you got going on - but you coming, or not? Because man - That is a spaceship and it's leaving." "I... Hold on... I, I need to be sure this is what I want..." Visions of his life in foster care flicked by like a slideshow in his head, seven arduous years of boredom, lies and neglect. Five homes later, they were still telling him the next one would be better. No more. "Heh... What am I talking about, of course it is. Come on!" He picked up his bag and ran for it, subconsciously taking Bailey's hand and dragging her along. Those under the saucer boarded it via the opening in the bottom, walking single file into the light below and vanishing in a vertical column of light. The man with the big head - as well as grey skin and enormous black eyes on closer inspection - beckoned with a large, three-fingered hand. "Come on, one at a time. HURRY UP OVER THERE!" “Coming! We’re coming!” Bailey hollered over the engine with an exhilarated laugh. She let herself be dragged after Sam as they bolted across the field together. She couldn't stop smiling, clutching her bag to her chest as she ran harder than she had ever run in her life. ‘I’m really doing this.’ After three months of planning, agonizing over it, the hours spent researching, and far too many close calls – she was here. And, as Sam disappeared into the beam, Bailey didn't look back. #Welcome to Application Day   

[weshallc]

Berns Night.

So we’ve had a lot of birthdays @thatginchygal @rahleeyah @wednesdaygilfillian (sorry I missed that one) @roguesnitch coming up and @ilovemushystuff is celebrating too! and @h4t08 finally joined Tumblr and @clonethemidwife has returned and there are lots of new folk. Sooo I felt like throwing a party and there ain’t nothing like a Crown Inn party!!!!

This was supposed to be a Crown Stoppy Back but had other ideas so I will post the first chapter tonight as people are still recovering from Burns Night. Don’t worry if you are not familiar with the Burns Night traditions they will be explained more in chapter two. Probably 3 in all. We shall see as they say!

As always, I would be lost without @lovetheturners endless patience and thanks to @roguesnitch for encoraging me. This is dedicated to the most bonniest of lads I hope you had a great birthday and Burns Night with the Bard himself this year😉😘🤗 

CHAPTER ONE: FAIR FA’ YOUR HONEST, SONSIE FACE

“Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm : Weel are ye wordy o'a grace As lang's my arm.”  Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns 1786.

Monday 25th January 2016

“His knife see rustic Labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich!”

The room was swept in darkness apart from the light of the wolf moon and the north star penetrating the cold window panes. All eyes were facing towards a wooden table and the elderly man stood behind it. He was in his 60s and wiry, small for a man, but with a silver mess of what once must have been a bonnie head of fire red hair. The body may have looked weak, but the intensity in his bright blue eyes cut through the dimly lit surroundings.

As he spoke again, his voice filled the room, cut through the anticipating silence. It was a voice that could take a knife and slice right through a soul. The knife in his hand in turn sliced through the offering in front of its high priest. Years of performing the same action with such a passion resulted in precision. The faithful entranced by the spectacle all gasped as one as the incision was violently made. No one daring to speak. Suddenly the trance was lost as artificial light rudely brought everyone back to the present with a blast of the pipes.

“All done then Reverend Mannion? Can I serve the Haggis now? Don’t want it getting cold now do we, not at £15 a head.”

“Aye, Violet the ceremony is over, it’s time for eating and drinking something the bard would have approved of, rightly so.”

The kilted clergyman winked at an auburn-haired girl in the crowd and tipped his whisky tumbler toward her. She raised her own glass and winked back. Her companion at her table was much taller with dark hair styled in a tidy no-nonsense bob.

The tall one leaned toward the small one and asked, “If it’s already dead, why does he have to kill it?”

“What?”

“The Haggis if it’s already dead why does he have to kill it?”

Her friend opened her mouth to speak, but she saw a tender hand take hold of Chummy’s arm and explain it was all just ceremony, it was tradition.

“Like all that malarkey at our passing out parade, the day we got our badge. That wasn’t about police work, was it? It’s just tradition.  It’s what the English do well.”

He had been doing really well up until then, but a golden raised eyebrow made him alter his stance. “It is what us Brits do best.”

The raised eyebrow whispered to the police constable. ”Peter, Chummy really doesn’t think a haggis is a real animal, does she?”

He was not the kind of man that would turn heads, but he had a kindness in his eyes and an openness in his face that she thought some would see as attractive. If only Camilla wasn’t his superior, and they didn’t work such long hours together, what might have been?

She knew her friend well and sensed more queries would follow. Not sure as a Scot brought up on Tweavenside and now living in London she could provide satisfying answers. Picking up their empty glasses and heading to the bar was a strange sort of refuge for a vicar's daughter and inner-city missionary.

There was a queue well sort of a queue. In London a queue was made up of people standing in an orderly line and the person who had been stood the longest getting served first. In Poplar-on-Tweaven it resembled more of a rugby scrum and the person who shouted the loudest being ignored and anyone who called the barmaid by name being bunked up the order. She wasn’t familiar with busy bars but she was bright enough to work out the system.

“Val, when yer ready hen.” The request came from someone not sure that was their own voice they had just heard yelling those words.

All her life she had been immersed in the wonders of the Bible and was still amazed at how so many miracles had been performed. She had heard all the CPR arguments regarding resurrections and all that, and was still not convinced. But she now knew how Moses had parted the Red Sea, he had known the barmaid’s name was Valerie.

“What can I get you, chick?”

“Here! I was first.” A grumpy voice struck up.

“Oh Al, you are always first. Let me serve this lass and then I will sort you out”

“Promises, promises.”

“Yeah in your dreams, pal.”

She was starting to feel uncomfortable she hadn’t meant to jump the queue. Maybe she should go back to the table and let Peter get the drinks. A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts, it was quieter than Al’s but held an authority. It wasn’t a Tweavenside accent, but it had a northern softness.

“You serve our impatient friend Valerie, I will see to this young lady.” Then turning to his new customer, “What can I get you, pet”

“Erm a whisky and lemonade and erm a pint, please.”

“Which whisky and a pint of?”

She wasn’t sure; she nudged her bottom onto a vacant stool for security.

“Are you with the law?” The tall bartender nodded towards Chummy and Peter,

“Yes, yes I am.”

“OK, so that’s a Grouse and diet lemonade, just a dash and a pint of Buckles Best

and for you?”

He stepped back a minute. “Your Reverend Wilf’s daughter?”

“Yes, I am.” Bernie suddenly felt more sure of herself. She was never completely certain of who she was when back in Poplar

“Bernadette?” The stranger was grinning now, his brown eyes glinting under the harsh bar spotlights, or were they green?

“Well, that’s my Sunday name most people call me Bernie, even Dad.”

“Well, since I’ve never seen you in here on a Sunday or any other day. I will call you Bernie. I am Patrick Turner, most people call me Paddy, a few Doc.”

“Oh no, you won’t have seen me here on a Sunday or any other day. I live in London now and before that, well I am not a big drinker.”

“What can I get you then?” asked Paddy loitering near the coke and lemonade pumps.

“A gin and tonic please, better make it a double it’s quite busy, save me coming back.”

Paddy smiled. “Premium gin?”

“Yes.”

While the optic was emptying into the glass, he asked, “You must have known this old place when Evie ran it?”

“Yes, I know Evie and J..Jenny”

“Oh yes. Jen was here when me and the wife took over she was a great help. We get a text every now and again, doing well for herself now all loved up.” He winked at her as he ended the sentence causing her to panic slightly.

“I was sorry to hear about your loss.” She wished she hadn’t said it.

Val had seemed to deal with ten customers to Paddy’s one and now there was just the two of them alone at the bar. He looked at her in a sort of a non-direct, sort of direct way, under that infuriating fringe she wanted to reach out and push back.

“Loss is as much a part of love as is healing,” he replied with a hint of melancholy but without irony.

She was stunned and tried to find a corresponding Bible verse, but she drew a blank.

She focused on what was real and what was present, her dad had taught her to do that. What was in front of her at this precise moment was a glass of gin and ice and a twist of lime. He was now unscrewing a bottle of Mediterranean slimline tonic.

She yelped, “No!” as he lay the bottle alongside the glass.

“Sorry most people add the tonic to the gin and I cannae bear it drowned.”

“Wouldn't dream of it surely that would be very presumptuous of me.”

“Aye well, most people I've met are very presumptuous.”

“Maybe you have spent too much time in London. if you don't mind me saying, Bernie.”

“Well, to be fair we don’t spend a lot of time sitting on stools and propping up bars in my part of London.”

“More's the pity.”

“Can I bother you for a...”

Paddy popped a black straw into her tumbler.

“I will make sure when you come home next time none of my staff will be presumptuous.”

“Oh, I doubt you will remember me, Paddy. I only come up to see my Da. I can't imagine you will be seeing much of me in the future, hardly likely that I would ever be considered a regular.”

“Now who is being presumptuous?”

Bernie went to put the straw between her lips but paused, realizing the stranger was still watching her. She suddenly felt uncomfortable. As heat rose in her cheeks and she suddenly felt awkward on the stool, squirming to find some sort of comfortable position. The stranger smiled in a way she could not understand; it wasn’t smug or suggestive, but as if there were sharing a joke, but she wasn’t sure what the joke was.

She hopped off her seat, for a brief moment realizing her arse was in the air and prayed he had altered his gaze. Focusing anywhere but behind the bar she grabbed her glass and bottle in one hand, put the whisky against her elbow and waist, the pint in her other hand, turned and swiftly moved toward her thirsty friends.

Shelagh Bernadette Mannion don’t you dare look back and see if he is watching you he is recently widowed with a son, Da said. He is, what do they call them now, a bloomer or something like that. God has shown you his path for you and it certainly does not include the Crown Inn, Poplar-on-Tweaven.

He is still watching me, I can feel it.