#she's very popular in our country so there's no way for me to escape her lol

[tisslesu]

Art I made for my sssk/tbiz playlist (it's still not sorted and constantly getting updated)

(July 2021)

[pruneunfair]

My feelings on villains are destined to die and how it writes a toxic family, what lead them to where they were and if they chose to end the cycle or repeat it.

For one I can see why it's so popular, the plot is unique for its time since it was one of the first villainess centered manhwas and there characters are 3 dimensional. VADTD has its fair share of flaws as all media do but my problem is with the fanbase who seem to get the idea that liking something or someone means you must support it at all times otherwise it means you support the opposing party.

This will be mostly centered around our FL that you've probably seen somewhere before even if you haven't read VADTD, Penelope Eckart

If you think I'm here to dog on Penelope don't worry, I think she's a beautifully made protagonist that is actually morally gray and not a bitch with morally gray excuse. So despite how much the fandom says she's a perfect girlboss, Penelope isn't a good person. She sees everyone as just a video game character in the beginning so she doesn't care if characters like Emily would get hurt or how Eckles felt, that isn't too unreasonable since she did get transmigrated into a video game but there are lines that she crosses, she knows the horrors of abuse very well from her past life which is why she's so attached to the og Penelope, but it's clear she is willing to repeat the cycle for her own needs.

Introducing one of the most controversial characters: Eckles (or Eclis/eclipse)

Eckles as a character was designed to make you feel uncomfortable. He's a slave bought by Penelope at an auction and trust me, she isn't very nice about it. He's always wearing a collar with a spell that causes him to be paralyzed and unable to speak if Penelope touches the Ruby ring given to her by the auctioneers, (Because there's no way that could be abused) and everything about him just seems to miserable, his life depends on Penelopes love and care for him and he's willing to keep the collar just so he can be useful..everything about him seems to be the embodiment of Stockholm syndrome and a lack of identity. The saddest part? He knows why Penelope wants him around and he despises her for it (reasonable) yet he still "loves" her

Word for Word, this is what Penelope said to him when she bought him + a few more she says that are concerning to say the least

"Look at me Eckles. This is the face of your master who paid 100 million gold for you. I didn't pay such an extravagant price for you because I'm rotting in money, not even an insane noble would the equivalent of castle for a slave from a fallen kingdom, what is left for you even if you were able to resist and escape from here? You don't even have a country to run to. I despise those who don't know their place. I saw potential in you and that is why I invested in you, that is all our relationship is. Prove your worth so that I have no regrets about the price I paid for you, otherwise I'll send you back here with no hesitation. Do you understand?"

"A dog should act like a dog Eckles! What use is a son of a bitch who bites his master!?"

"You dare bite your master?"

That is NOT good person behavior, Penelope is desperate to live yes but that was one of her lowest moments. Buying a man, contributes to the buisness of slavery with 100 million gold, straight up threatening him to sell him back to slavery if he doesn't obey, and manipulates him for means of an end. But that's the point. Penelope is a gray character so naturally on top of all the good she can do, she still is capable of repeating the cycle of abuse on another person.

They have a sort of co-dependent relationship later on, Penelope views him as a beast and her way of keeping him on her side is buying him a bunch of gifts and then leaving him for long periods of time, forgetting that all he asked of her was to visit him. Of course Penelope is in no way obligated to do so just because Eckles loves her, and by love, I mean obsession to the point where Eckles starts to commit extreme acts all in the name of his obsession for her. He's no longer a person, he's just Penelopes worshipper who also "betrays" her.

Thats another thing people hate him for, for betraying the woman who bought him and treated him more like an animal than a person. And yeah, bringing Leila back to the mansion was a dick move not to mention betraying his own people but when it came to betraying Penelope.. you can't really owe your slave master loyalty, I saw this more as a consequence of Penelopes actions rather than a "poor pene" moment because im just gonna say it: Penelope had no right to be that upset when the slave she treated as an animal wound up betraying her. There was no right in that situation just two wrongs and yet there's a ton of people who solely blame Eckles for not being grateful that Penelope didn't do anything extremely egregious when she owned him (wtf!?)

Yes Eckles isnt a great person either, as i said he put all of his country to death when he snitched on them so he could stay by Penelopes side but just because Penelope is the protagonist with a tragic backstory, that doesnt mean shes an innocent lamb and while fans will glorify the toxic relationship, the way the narrative portrays it is too uncomfortable to be a romantic path, it's meant an abusive past where Penelope can choose to stay at her worst and that would honestly be depressing if she did get with him, itd be a twisted master-slave relationship where Penelope can do whatever she wants to Eckles and he can't say nor will he want to, and I think she knew to some degree that she wouldnt want to be that monster and what she was doing was inhumane which is probably she stays far away from him since she's beginning to see these people as humans and not code. It's both a mix of desperation for her own life and a desire to not repeat an abusive cycle just with extra steps.

A slave and their master isn't a forbidden romance, it's just Stockholm syndrome covered in glitter.

Now on to the other characters, the love interests/ brothers.

Theres a lot of love for Callisto and I can see why, he's not a cardboard cutout and has a personality that didn't revolve around Penelopes goals. I'll admit I didn't like him at first but he's grown on me

But I have a feeling there's another reason fans adore him outside of his character and goals. He's the only love interest that isn't an abusive one. Unlike Eckles, Callisto is closer in equality to Penelope and he's you know, not her fricking step brother. After all when the other options are lava and toxic chemicals, you would much rather stick your hand in a mysterious substance that could benefit you even if it could also kill you. That's what Callisto was when we met him, he's the one who killed OG Penelope the most in hard mode and when he first speaks to Penelope, he's putting a sword at her throat, even though he's killed Penelope in so many timelines, the timelines where he doesn't are the happiest... which I honestly don't know how to feel about that.

then there's Derrick, and uh yeah, I don't blame the fandom this time, he does suck and he has a sister complex.. Fantastic

Still though for such a hateable character it's done so well. He's not always so in your face about it, Derrick is still a 3d character with a "reason" that explains his stepbrother-stepsister love he has for Penelope, he's afraid of losing her like he lost Ivonne (that just opens so many weird doors though with how they imply it) and even if you take that away he's still a perfect example of abuser. No matter what Penelope did he's consistently blaming her for the negatives of their family, he loves her but he also controls her and makes her feel like shit. It's like another form of Eckles and Penelope which is kind of depressing since it's more portrayal of repeating cycles of abuse. *SPOILERS* He also gets to live normally after that and apparently becomes a loving uncle to Penelope and Callistos daughter which I interpret as the harsh reality that abusers who are family aren't likely to go away especially if they are older and hold more power over you, they can stop it all they want but that wound never got treated.

Reynold is another one I have a weird relationship with, he's not as terrible as Derrick but the shit he put Penelope through is yet another example of generational abuse that he started

Reynold represents the regret an abuser can feel after the harm is already done. The entire family has issues in general and communication is one that's seriously lacking but Reynold indirectly started it and justified it when he found the og Penelope praying that Ivonne would never return and from both sides, you can understand why. Penelope doesn't want to go back on the streets and Reynold is still grieving over his sister and the replacement was just wishing for that little sister to dissappear or die, but no matter the reason, abuse is still abuse. But he was willing to change after hearing her true story, but he continues to reprimand her for the past, not letting go so easily which made him a easy target for Leila to brainwash, as I've said, the damage is already done and while the two can remain civil, I wouldn't be surprised if Penelope never feels comfortable around him again.

EDIT: I thought about it and maybe "never feeling comfortable around him again" might be a little too far, OG Penelope probably wouldn't but I think the current Penelope would be more likely to move on.

And now for the figurative and literal embodiment of the lost/ghost child: Ivonne who represents how we handle grief and lost child syndrome.

Almost nothing is known about Ivonne for a long time, the family has fond memories of her but we never get to see what it was like beyond a single memory of the siblings sneaking out to the festival the night Ivonne went missing. In grief we tend to over fantasize the person we lost, usually as a perfect being who did no wrong. Thats what Leilas control represents, Ivonne is dead, her skin is cold to the touch like a corpse as described by Penelope , the goddess Leila who took over her body represents flaws the deceased may have had or a toxic coping mechanism in general and causes everyone under her control to only think about the best of her.

For Ivonne as a character, she is lost child personified, she's literally lost so it's already right there, a lost/ghost child is the type of child that stands by the toxicity of the family, they blend in and no one really bothers about them, though this is more of a reach then the other two, there arent a whole lot of chapters that mention Ivonne beyond comparing her to Penelope and the chapters where she actually does appear, shes separated from everyone else. Even her own father who spent years searching for her, he still gave up and what pushed Ivonne to become a literal ghost child is when she sees the Duke take Penelope off the streets to be his replacement daughter when his real child was staring right at him. Ivonne ends up in a mirror forever, where all she can do is watch the family from afar.

final main character is Winter, and he was the trickiest to place.

I forgot about Winter half the time since he kind just shows up at random, his introduction is literally happening to be there at the right moment when Penelope is running away from Callisto. So I wasn't very interested in him until the battle against the Leila cult, but even though I wasn't interested in him, I still preferred at the time if he was the love interest instead since he was the least violent of all the guys, he actually wanted Penelope to be happy, and very protective of nor just her but the sorcerer children so it was just green flags all around with the exception of the age gap. (I don't know how to feel about since Winter is 26 and Penelope is physically 18 but mentally she's in her 20s)

My interpretation of him is that he could be the friend/therapist that's outside the family, the one to give a little break from the disaster of a homelife. But a therapist or friend can really only do so much and in rare cases they could start suspecting you as a liar since they are also people who are dealing with their own set of problems. Kind of like how Winter starts to lose Penelopes trust when suspects her to be from the Leila cult.

Conclusion: VADTD is popular for a good reason and it has tons of great commentary on toxic households and that no character is truly innocent, but it doesn't get enough credit in that department since tons of people misinterpreted it as yet another basic reincarnation girl boss story where everything is black and white.

This is part 2 to a series I want to call "my feelings on", I'll read through a manhwa/anything one webtoon and I'll either critique it or come up with my own interpretations of it.

[culttvblog]

Ann Way Season: Lollipop Loves Mr Mole - Lollipop and the Two Bares

In case the title of this post seems somewhat confusing, I have double checked and it is actually the title of the series and episode I'm writing about!

Yet another show which has never appeared on this blog before, and if I'd heard of it I probably wouldn't have run to see it because Lollipop Loves Mr Mole was a sitcom. It was shown across two series in 1971 - 2, and only two of its thirteen episodes have survived. The premise is that it is about a mismatched couple Maggie Robinson (known as Lollipop and played by the legendary and much loved actress Peggy Mount) and her husband Reg (known as Mr Mole, and played by Hugh Lloyd). As far as I can tell much of the episodes revolved around family members staying.

In this one they get rid of one set of relatives who have been staying and another couple arrive. The relatives who arrive turn out to be vegetarian and nudists. To my delight this immediately leads straight into a very classical plot of people running around naked (because they persuade Reg to join in) and other people being shocked. I can't really give the plot justice with this description, but it is genuinely a great plot, and strangely reminds me very much of Joe Orton's What The Butler Saw.

Ann Way's role is limited to being the neighbour who is outraged at the number of nude people in the garden, and she articulates the outrage wonderfully.

For readers in countries with better weather than we have on a windswept island in the channel, the 'nudie screen' that the nudists put round themselves in the garden is actually what is known as a windbreak. I haven't seen one for years, but at one time you would take these screens to the seaside and set them up on the beach so that you could catch the sun and the windbreak would protect you from the wind.

It is entirely possible that our Peggy Mount may be getting a series of posts from me about her TV output at some time. She escaped an unhappy childhood by acting, ultimately breaking contact with her birth family completely. I love the story that her first role on the stage was obtained purely because they couldn't find anyone else willing to play the role, and on her very first night as a completely unknown actress she received a standing ovation. Her TV output doesn't represent her real work as an actress very well, because she was a serious actress who had a repertoire well beyond the rather light comedies she used to do on TV. Also her own personality was very different from the battle axes she tended to play on TV. I would particularly recommend George and the Dragon in case you haven't seen her work, but she appeared in such far-ranging shows as Dr Who and The Tomorrow People.

There is a podcast called The Peggy Mount Calamity Hour about TV and popular culture which measures everything by its proximity to Peggy Mount which I cannot recommend highly enough for its completely foul mouthed approach to everything.

This show has been commercially released but only two episodes survive and as far as I can tell this is the only one available online.

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[cornus27florida]

this disaster blondie dubbed himself to read ALL fictional fairy tale stories that he could borrow at his academy's library - so I say he truly know everything about fairy tales, at least i could bet that he knows the typical mainstream one (which more light hearted) VS the original grimm ones (where everything dark, he didn't say or react to anything when Lorena excited over Grimm version of Cinderella simply because he knows about it already. Example from my fanfic

the 'eternal slumber' curse. This is easy because it's related to a well-known fairy tale, Sleeping Beauty and Snow White. Both 'eternal slumbers' were broken by a "true love's kiss" in the popular version, but Frederick himself is not sure if his kiss could be a true love's kiss for Gwen. What's the criteria for a love to be considered as true love? And doesn't it sound illegal to kiss someone without consent, someone that passed out and have no consciousness? Although im another version, it's either grim (Princess Aurora from Sleeping Beauty is raped) or kinda of a ridiculous reason which the princess vomiting the apple piece back.(Snow White - Sneewittchen) /ch 5

Frederick (my interpretation) is a prince that has very vast knowledge about fairy tales, stories of fictional world. If someone chill and he calm, maybe he could pointing out how the real life of them as at CPC is similar with books he read

Also if we see hia favorite fairy tales and compared it with real life stories...

Dogyssey=Odyssey is a very complicated book about the protagonist long journey while need to fight monsters in order to reach his lover.

Little prince=the tiniest prince=little prawnce supposed to be a very high philosopical classis literature that has same goal with Odyssey, so he at the end could reach his lover

My cowriter tell me about the grimm, original version of Sleeping Beauty that comfirmed that indeed the princess is raped. Frederick no matter what people say, will def has moral and ethic education about how to behave socially(consent)

Original 'forgotten' version of sleeping beauty!

“There once lived a great lord, who was blessed with the birth of a daughter, whom he named Talia, and he sent for the sages and astrologers in his estates, to foretell him what lot and fortune would befall her; and they met, and counselled together, and cast the horoscope over her, and at length they came to the conclusion that she would incur great danger from a chip of flax. Her father therefore forbade that any flax, or hemp, or any other matter of the kind should be brought within his house, so that she should escape the predestined danger.

One day of the days, when Talia had grown into a young and beauteous damsel, she was looking out of a window, when she beheld passing that way an ancient dame, who was spinning, and Talia, never having seen a distaff or a spindle, was pleased to see the twistings of the spindle, and she felt so much curiosity as to what thing it was, that she bade the old dame come to her, and taking the distaff from her hand, she began to stretch the flax. Unfortunately one of the chips of the flax entered her nail, and Talia fell dead upon the ground. When the affrighted old woman beheld this, she hastened down the stairs, and is hastening still.

As soon as the wretched father heard of the disaster which had taken place, he bade them, after having paid for this tub full of sour wine with casks full of tears, lay her out in the palace (it was one of his country mansions), and put her seated on a velvet throne under a dais of brocade; and closing the doors, being desirous to forget all and to drive from his memory his great misfortune, he abandoned for ever the house wherein he had suffered so great a loss. Such was his case.

After a time, a king went forth to the chase, and by decree of the Decreer he passed that way, and one of his falcons, escaping from his hand, flew within that house by way of one of the windows, and not returning at the call, the king bade one of his suite knock at the door, believing the palace to be inhabited; but though he knocked for a length of time, nobody came to answer the summons, so the king bade them bring a vintager’s ladder, for be himself would clamber up and search the house, to discover what was within it.

Thereupon he mounted and entered, and sought in all the chambers, and nooks, and corners, and marvelled with exceeding marvel to find no living person within it. At last he came to the saloon, and when the king beheld Talia, who seemed as one ensorcelled, he believed that she slept, and he called her, but she remained insensible, and crying aloud, he felt his blood course hotly through his veins in contemplation of so many charms; and he lifted her in his arms, and carried her to a bed, whereon he gathered the first fruits of love, and leaving her upon the bed, returned to his own kingdom, where, in the pressing business of his realm, he for a time thought no more of this incident.

Now Talia was delivered after nine months of a couple of beautiful creatures, one a boy and the other a girl; in them could be seen two rare jewels; and they were attended by two fairies, who came to that palace, and put them at their mother’s breasts; and once they sought the nipple, and not finding it, they began to suck at the fingers, and they sucked so much that the chip of the flax came forth; and Talia awoke as if from a long sleep, and beholding beside her the two priceless gems, she held them to her breast, and gave them the nipple to suck, and the babes were dearer to her than her own life. Finding herself alone in that palace with two children by her side, she knew not what had happened to her; but she noticed that the table was laid, and refreshments and viands brought in to her, without seeing any attendants.

In the meanwhile the king remembered Talia, and saying that he would go a-birding and a-hunting, he fared to the palace, and found her awake, and with two cupids of beauty, and he was glad with exceeding gladness, and he related to Talia who he was, and how he had seen her, and what had taken place; and when she heard this, their friendship was knitted with tighter bonds, and he remained with her for a few days. After that time he bade her farewell, and promised to return soon, and take her with him to his kingdom. And he fared to his realm, but he could not find any rest, and at all hours he had in his mouth the names of Talia, and of Sun and Moon (thus were the two children hight), and when he took his rest, he called either one or other of them. Now the king’s wife began to suspect that something was wrong from the delay of her husband in the chase, and hearing him name continually Talia, Sun, and Moon, she waxed hot with another kind of heat than the sun’s, and therefore sending for the secretary, she said to him, ‘Hearken to me, O my son, thou art abiding between two rocks, between the post and the door, between the poker and the grate.

An thou wilt tell me with whom the king thy master, and my husband, is in love, I will gift thee and largesse thee with treasures untold; and an thou hidest from me the truth, I will not let them find thee neither dead nor alive.’ Our gossip was frightened with sore affright, and his greed of gain being strong above fear, blinding his eyes to all honour, and to all sense of justice, a pointless sword of faith he related to her all things, like bread and bread, and wine and wine. And the queen, hearing how matters stood, despatched the secretary to Talia, in the name of the king, bidding her send the children, for he wished to see them; and Talia with great joy did as she was commanded. Then the queen (that heart of Medea) told the cook to slay them, and prepare several tasteful dishes for her wretched husband; but the cook, who was tender-hearted, seeing these two beautiful golden apples, felt pity and compassion of them, and he carried them home to his wife, and bade her hide them; and he made ready two lambs in their stead in a thousand different ways, and when the king came, the queen, with great pleasure, bade the viands be served up, and whilst the king ate with delight, saying, ‘O how good is this priest of Lanfusa, O how tasteful is this other dish, by the soul of mine ancestors;’ she ever replied, ‘Eat, eat, that of thine own thou eatest.’ The king heeded not for twice or three times this repetition; but at last seeing that the music continued, answered, ‘I know perfectly well that I am eating of mine own, because thou hast brought naught into this house;’ and waxing wroth with exceeding wrath, he arose and went forth to a villa at some distance of his palace, to solace his soul and alleviate his anger.

In the meanwhile the queen, not being satisfied of the evil already done, sent for the secretary and bade him fare to the palace and bring Talia thither, saying that the king longed for her presence and was expecting her.

As soon as she heard these words, Talia forthwith departed, believing that she obeyed the commands of her lord, for she longed with excessive longing to behold her light and joy, knowing not what was preparing for her. And she arrived in the presence of the queen, whose face changed by the fierce fire which burned within, and looked like the face of Nero; and she addressed her thus, saying, ‘Well come, and fair welcome, O thou Madam Rattle, thou art a fine piece of goods, thou ill weed, who art enjoying my husband; is it thou who art the lump of filth, the cruel bitch, that hath caused me such a turning of head? Wend thy ways, for in sooth thou art welcome in purgatory, where I will compensate thee for all the damage thou hast done to me.’ Talia, hearing these words, began to excuse herself, saying that it was not her fault, because the king her husband had taken possession of her territory when she was drowned in sleep; but the queen would not listen to her excuses, and bade a large fire to be lit in the courtyard of the palace, and commanded that Talia should be cast therein.

The damsel, perceiving that matters had taken a bad turn, knelt before the queen, and besought her to allow her at least to doff the garments she wore. And the queen, not for pity of the unhappy damsel, but to gain also those robes, which were purflewed with gold and pearls, bade her undress, saying, ‘Thou canst doff thy raiment, I am satisfied;’ and Talia began to take them off, and at every piece of garment she drew off she uttered a loud scream, and having doffed the robe, the skirt, the body, and the under-bodice, she was on the point of withdrawing her last garment, when she uttered a last scream louder than the rest; and they dragged her towards the pile, to make cinders of her to warm Carontes’ breeches; but the king suddenly appeared, and finding this spectacle, wished to know the matter, and asking for his children, heard that the wife who reproached him for his treachery had caused them to be slaughtered and served as meat for him. Now when the wretched king heard this, he gave himself up to despair, and said ‘Alas! then I, myself, am the wolf of my own sweet lambs; alas! and why did these my veins know not the fountains of their own blood; ah, thou renegade bitch, what evil deed is this which thou hast done?

Begone, thou shalt get thy desert as the stumps and I will not send that tyrant-faced one to the Coloseum to do her penance;’ and thus saying, he commanded that the queen should be cast into the fire which she had prepared for Talia, and the secretary with her, because he had been the handle for this bitter play, and weaver of this wicked plot, and he was going to do the same with the cook, whom he believed to be the slaughterer of his children, when the man cast himself at his feet, saying, ‘In very sooth, O my lord, for the service I have done to thee, there should be naught else than a pile of living fire, and no other help than a pole from behind, and no other entertainment than stretching and shrinking within the blazing fire would be needful, and no other advantage should I seek than to have my ashes, the ashes of a cook, mixed up with the queen’s. But this is not the reward that I expect for having saved thy children, in spite of the gall of that bitch, who desired to slay them, to return within thy body that part which was thine own body.’ The king hearing these words, his senses forsook him, and his wits were bewildered, and he seemed to be dreaming, and he could not believe what his own ears had heard; therefore turning to the cook, he said, ‘If it be true that thou hast saved my children, be sure that I will take thee away from turning the spit, and I will put thee in the kitchen of this breast, to turn and twist as thou likest all my desires, giving thee such a reward as shall enable thee to call thyself a happy man in this world.’ Whilst the king spake these words, the wife of the cook, seeing her husband’s need, brought forth the two children, Sun and Moon before their sire.

And he never tired at playing the game of three with his wife and children, making a mill-wheel of kisses, now with one and then with other; and giving a rich gift and largesse to the cook, he made him a gentleman of his chamber, and took Talia to wife; and she enjoyed a long life with her husband and her children, thus knowing full well that at all times:

‘He whom fortune favoureth Even in sleep good raineth for him.’

This is the original version of sleeping beauty that is so freaking dark-

Y'know...

I'm starting tp realize why Frederick was THAT averse to kissing Gwen without her consent...

[pearlparty]

Goodbye, Angel

Austin!Elvis x Reader, Elvis x Reader

Summary:  Break ups are tough, especially when no one did anything wrong.  She wants Elvis’ career to reach the heights he deserves, even if that means breaking his heart.  

Warnings:  Angst, very light smut (if you can even call it that lol), some negative self-talk, the Colonel is a dick, mild language, reckless driving, no use of y/n

Word Count:   5.3k (I went a little overboard sorry lol)

Note:  I tried something a little new with this and have this in 3rd person perspective because I wanted to do more of an omniscient POV to get everyone’s emotions and stuff, so please let me know if you hate it--like please be mean to me about it.  Bully me.  Roast me. Let me know if you prefer 2nd person perspective (the one that uses you/your)  I want to improve lol.  This is meant to be a reader fic, so our MC is only called Baby by Elvis.  Idk if that technically makes her an OC or not--I’ll let you decide on that one. 

The headlights stretched down the road, the lonely beams reaching out in the night only to find nothing but a few trees reaching toward the stars.  No wandering eyes.  No other drivers.  Just her and the car coasting down the lonely backroad, with a sense of dread settling into her stomach and tears streaming down her face as the radio played and the moon watched.

 Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision, as the Colonel’s words echoed in her mind.  He’d stopped by her small apartment a couple of hours ago, and she was far too polite to slam the door in his face and send him on his way.  Mama had always taught her to be gracious to guests and “do what Jesus would do” so she allowed him to waddle in, plop into one of the armchairs, curl his chubby fingers over the creepy clown on his cane and say what he needed to say.  The bizarre situation had her wondering what this man would have to say to her, but she’d never have guessed he had the audacity to insult her to her face.  

It was a quick conversation.  He skipped over pleasantries and got straight to the point by bringing up Elvis’s popularity with the younger female fans, and flat out said that if she continued her relationship with him, things wouldn’t work out like they could.  “He needs to be available,” the fat man had put it plainly, “and with you in the picture, he can’t be.  Besides, a backwater, country girl like you can’t compete with the love of his fans.”  If he noticed the emotions flitting over her face, he didn’t comment on it and instead pushed further.  “You are no good for him, or his career.  You need to leave him, or he will not be able to achieve the success he deserves.”  He’d said the words so matter of fact in his stupid voice that she almost wondered if it was a cruel joke. 

It wasn’t.  

“You don’t want to be the reason that he can’t live his dream do you?” His question rang in her ears and an intense guilt settled into her stomach.

It was crushing, but nothing she hadn’t heard before.  She’d occasionally listened to the insecure voice in the back of her head--the one that reminded her that she didn’t really deserve Elvis--her angel--or how he’d swept her into his arms and given her an escape from her drunken mother all that time ago.  

Their friendship had begun when they were so young; she'd stopped a few of the other boys from poking fun at his stutter in 9th grade and they’d bonded over their love of comics and music.  He’d made time for her outside his friends and loved inviting her over after school.  He’d say it was so they could read Captain Marvel Jr. or do homework together, but she knew he was trying to help her get away from her chaotic homelife for a little longer.  It had blossomed into something more after graduation when they shared a night of stargazing, confessing their secrets to the moon.  

He’d stolen a kiss and her heart in the same night. 

They had it all--giggling and wandering hands in movie theaters, disagreements about the condiments that belonged on hot dogs, and soft reassurances after long crying sessions.  He’d become her safe haven, a piece of tranquility in her hectic home life. He always listened intently and did what he could to help where he could, even if she said she’d be fine and could do it herself. He even helped her when she moved out and got her own place--a shitty little apartment with creaky floorboards and a faucet that dripped a little too loudly at night.  He’d offered to spot her some cash for a better place, but she declined.  The apartment wasn’t the Ritz, but it was hers.  All hers.  They’d spend hours there, away from the prying eyes of family, talking about everything and nothing.  She supported his dream for the arts, encouraged him to take risks.  Once he’d landed a deal at Sun Records and gotten more attention, that small voice prodded again.  

What if I’m not good enough for him?  

The voice nagged that she’d be bad for his image and prevent him from climbing to the heights that he wished to see.  She usually dismissed the thoughts, but hearing them out loud and from another person only seemed to confirm the worst of her fears. 

She was the worst thing that could happen to him right now.  She was holding him back.

The fat man had finished things with a simple, “You understand don’t you?  It’s just business.” She forced herself to nod before calmly ushering him out of her house, a whisper of stale cigar smoke lingering in the air.  

It was only after his car left the parking lot that she allowed herself to cry--a dull ache erupted in her chest and spread to her extremities as she considered her options.  Stay with the love of her life but jeopardize his career, or leave and break both of their hearts to help him succeed?  Would he resent her if she became the reason things tanked and he couldn’t afford to give his family a life of luxury?  What if she was worrying about nothing and everything would be fine?  Maybe they could have it all:  the glamor and the love.  But it wasn’t guaranteed.  Nothing ever was.  The road to success is paved with sacrifices, and while it holds promises of fortune and glory, it always takes its toll along the way.

But the Colonel was right, wasn’t he?  About everything.  Elvis had just gotten a taste of fame, and the adjustment was already harder than she’d expected.  She could barely keep up with it all now.  How could a little backwater country girl like her follow him to more?  She was just a simple girl meant for a simple life--built to drift along the wind on the trees.  He was born for greatness--ready to spread his wings and fly.  He couldn’t coast along the wind currents along the tree line with her, not when he was meant to soar with the angels in the clouds.  She wouldn’t let him.  She wouldn’t be the one to hold him back.

Racing to the car, throwing it into gear, and speeding away wasn’t intentional on her part.  It might have seemed like eagerness and excitement, but that couldn’t be further from it.  She loathed the idea of what she was about to do, dreaded it the whole way over, but her chest was so heavy and filled with emotions that she felt like it would burst.  She needed to get it over with and fast or she’d suffocate.  “Rip it off like a bandage--act like a grownup,” she’d told herself.  

The high beams flickered over the sign ahead, its white lettering a stark contrast to the red surrounding it.  STOP.  A wet laugh left her lips.  

I can’t.  

She didn’t hit the brakes or let up on the gas--she floored it.  The engine groaned with effort, accelerating to a speed well above the limit, but she didn’t care and blazed through it without a second thought.  Her car zoomed into the intersection, and a pair of headlights beamed into her passenger window.  A horn blared, but it didn’t matter.  She was reckless, angry, and secretly hoping that something would come along to prevent her from reaching her destination.  The tires screamed as they scraped the pavement, the back bumper kissing the asphalt with a flash of sparks as the car climbed the small hill.   The other driver zoomed through the intersection behind her, likely shaking their fist in the darkness, but still in one piece.  

She’d made it through unscathed.  Dammit.

A sudden burst of fury bled through the sharp sadness and left her skin hot.  She smacked her fist into the wheel.  “This isn’t fair!” she cried, angry tears burning behind her eyes.  “Why can’t I have the things I want?!”  No one was there to hear, though.  Just an empty road and the moon spying through her back window.  

A light orchestra faded in over the radio followed by Bing Crosby’s jazzy crooning.  It was a ballad. 

Be careful.  It’s my heart.

It’s not my watch you’re holding, it’s my heart.

It’s not the note I sent you, that you quickly burned.  

It’s not the book I lent you that you never returned.

Remember, it’s my hear--

The guilt in her stomach crawled up her throat as she slammed the radio in the dashboard, silencing Bing and his pleas.  It seemed everything was telling her to turn around.  To give the Colonel the finger and continue loving her dark haired angel, consequences be damned.  

But she knew she couldn’t.  

***

A sharp knock on his door cut through the still house caused Elvis to jump.  His brow furrowed as he glanced at the clock.  About a quarter after nine.  Who would be stopping by now?  He wasn’t expecting anyone, and Mama and Daddy wouldn’t be home until tomorrow afternoon when they’d finished visiting a family friend.  

He closed his book and set it on the side table as he rose from the armchair and padded over to the door.  He’d gotten home only about a half an hour ago after rehearsing with the guys.  He needed a little peace and quiet after the long week, and reveled in being able to kick off his shoes and relax in the empty house.

The sweet, humid southern air fell around his sock clad feet as he pulled the door open to see his girl on the welcome mat.  His lips curved into a smile at the pleasant surprise.  She was wearing that little yellow flower sundress that he loved--the one with the sweetheart neckline and ruffled skirt that brought his attention to her hips whenever she moved.  She’d paired it with a white cardigan tonight, even though the heat wave didn’t allow the temperature to drop below 85.  God, she was beautiful.  

His smile dropped when he saw the tears in her eyes, the quiver of her chin, and the way her gaze never left his.  Something was wrong.  

“Baby, what--”  He moved to step forward, bring his hand to her face and wipe the tears from her cheek, but she swept into the apartment and pressed her lips to his before he could get a chance to do or say anything else.  He stumbled back for only a second before he found his footing, melting into her.  Another pleasant surprise.  Her trembling fingers grazed their way across his face, caressing his cheeks before tangling in his hair.  On instinct, his hands planted themselves firmly to her waist.  The tang of salt ran over his tongue as she took his full lower lip between hers.

She’d never kissed him like this before.  There was intensity, fervor, yes, but something was off.  She had given him gentle chaste kisses when he bought her flowers for her birthday.  She’d nipped, sucked, and kissed down his jaw to his collarbones when they’d gone stargazing after a midnight swim in the pond near her house.  She’d grabbed him by the collar, pushed him against the kitchen wall and slammed her lips into his after a heated argument about jealousy (which he’d won, by the way).  She had breathed moans to his lips when he stole open mouth kisses during a night of passion after he’d been away for so long.

This was different.  It was desperate.  Needy.  And something else that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.  Sorrowful, maybe.

A quick sob fell from her lips before she pressed them up to his again.  Her hands twisted his curls, gently tugging.  His breath hitched and he tightened his grip on her hips.  As much as he wanted to continue kissing her (and he really wanted to after what she just did), he needed to know what had happened to make her so upset.  He wrapped his fingers around her wrists and gently eased her backward, feeling her chase his lips as the distance grew between their bodies.  

Her eyes were still screwed shut, and the light in the foyer made it easier now to see the puffy, red irritation in her face.  A pang of sorrow bit into his heart.  She’s been sobbing, he thought.  She bit back another cry when her small trembling hands dropped to his chest, gripping his black button down.  He hated seeing her like this.

“Baby,” he cooed, letting his hands move to her shoulders before he brought one up to caress her cheek.  She didn’t move to look at him--she focused on his shirt as his fingers ran over her splotchy skin.  “Baby, what’s wrong?  Did something happen?”  He kept his voice soft, low, afraid that he might scare her off with anything louder.

A wet, wry laugh escaped her chest.  Ironic, she thought.  She came here to do the worst thing imaginable and he was still looking out for her.  She shook her head.  He’s too good to me.  She steadied herself, fixated on his shirt as she rolled the soft fabric between her fingers.  Finally, she met his concerned gaze.

The deep blue oceans in his irises threatened to pull her down into their depths.  She wished they would.  Maybe then she wouldn’t have to do this and everything would be alright.  His fingers stilled on her cheek.

She could practically feel the dread growing in his chest.  

A light breeze ghosted over the two of them, the door still agape.  He didn’t move to close it, though.  His only priority was the girl in front of him.  She’s all that mattered.

She sucked in a breath, gathering every ounce of strength she had in her body before speaking.  “I’m sorry.”  It came out more as a whisper.  “I just had to kiss you one last time.”  She allowed her thumb to graze his lower lip and chin before settling on the sliver of exposed skin on his chest.  

“‘One last’?--” he shook his head as if dismissing the words because he’d clearly misheard her.  “What are you talking about, baby?” Both hands were cupping her face now.  “Just tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll fix it for you,” he urged.  Panic almost crept into his voice, but he kept it soft and low as he tried to understand.  He searched her face for any kind of clue, something that told him that she really didn’t mean what she’d just said.  His heart caught in his chest.  

Surely, she couldn’t mean one last time, right?  

“Oh, angel,” she breathed out as she brought her fingers to his cheek, “you always were much too good to me.”

“Baby, what’s goin--” 

“I have to leave, angel,” she cried, almost in pain.  The words cut him off and struck him to the bone.  Leave?

“For how long?” he asked, brow furrowing.  

She shook her head, tears spilling over her lashes, not wanting to say the words.  It was too painful.  Please, don’t make me say it.

“For how long, baby?” he repeated, locking eyes with her.  Her heart sank at the nickname.  He loved calling her that--more than her real name.  

“Forever.”  She had to force it out in a whisper.  

“‘Forever’?” he repeated.  Why was she being so cryptic?  “Baby, what the hell you talkin’ ‘bout?” She held his gaze, another tear staining her cheek, but didn’t answer.

He stared at her for a moment, processing it all.  Leaving?  Forever?  But that would mean…

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks.  His eyes flitted over her face for any sign that it wasn’t true.  Her glassy gaze was unwavering, serious.  Final.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head and dropping his hands.  He barely even noticed her apologizing again as he backed away, knocking into the wall behind him.  As if escaping would make this all go away.  His quaking hands raked through his hair, grasping at the roots to try to rationalize the scene playing out before him.  

“No,” he repeated the whisper, sadder than the last one.  His mouth fell open, trying to find the right words, fighting off the tears burning behind his eyes.  “You c-c-can’t--you’re not--why--no,” he stammered, swallowing thickly. “You’re l-leaving me?”  His stutter always seemed to come back when he was stressing out.

He was hoping, praying for her to shake her head no.  Say it was all a cruel joke, or a moment of panic--something that said she really loved him and it was fine.  Pull him into her arms and sit there for a moment as she whispered soft reassurances in his ear.  

But that moment never came.  Her small fingers played with the hem of her cardigan as she nodded and muttered, “I have to.”

“No!  No, you don’t have to go!”  he yelped.  The panic crawled over his skin.  “I-I-I can-- I-I can fix this!”  He couldn’t lose her.  “W-w-what--whatever’s wrong, I can fix it, baby!  We’ll figure it all out t-t-together, just like we n--we n--we n-n-normally do.”  He grabbed her hands, begging her to reconsider, but she slipped from his grasp and took a step back, silently shaking her head.  

“No, angel… I have to go--you need to let me go.”  She couldn’t meet his eyes.  

His future shattered.  Heart dropped.  He’d made so many plans for them.  He was going to marry her--they were going to have a summer wedding and a beautiful honeymoon somewhere nice, far away from home.  They were going to spend a few years worshiping each other then start a family--two boys and a little girl that he was going to spoil rotten.  They were going to get a dog and play in the backyard while she baked a pie in the house.  He was going to steal kisses from her when she came around the corner with a basket of laundry.  They’d put the kids to bed and stay up late dancing to old records.  He wanted to send his kids outside to play while he made love to his wife inside after he’d been away from her for too long.  They were supposed to grow old together and then die a few days apart because life would be unbearable without each other.  

He’d wanted it all, and here she was throwing it in his face.

“B-but why--?”  He’d barely breathed the question out when she cut him off.

“I’m not good for you, baby,” she rushed the words out, resisting every urge to reach out and touch him, hold him, make him feel better.  Dammit, why did this have to be so hard?

“What?”  How the hell could she think that?  “No, b-b-baby you’re--you’re--you’re everythin’ to me,” he reeled off, desperately grabbing her hands again.  Maybe there was still a chance to fix this.  “You’re so good for me, you d-don’t even realize--you make me so much b-b-b-better.”

The worst part about his words was how true they were, and she knew it.  They both made each other better, but she still vehemently shook her head, hoping to stop this whole thing--end it now before she had to say something she didn’t want to.  

“I have to do this,” she squeaked out.  A new wave of sadness broke over her, more tears gathering on her lash line.  “Please, let me do this.”  

It was like a knife to his heart.  Their fate was sealed.  There was no negotiating.  Once she’d made up her mind, no one, not even he could convince her otherwise.  He suddenly found himself full of regret, another emotion to add to the cocktail of feelings in his bloodstream.  Maybe he did something wrong--didn’t appreciate her enough or let her know how much he cared.  

The blue in his eyes only seemed to intensify with the glassy tears shimmering back at her.  “But,” he choked out, his voice small, almost meek, “I love you.”  The tears in his eyes finally spilled onto his cheeks, streaking down the soft skin and towards the corners of his lips.  

Her heart squeezed, chin quivered.  Oh, how she wished to say it back.  She squeezed his hands and pressed a gentle wet kiss to his knuckles, the cool metal of his silver ring briefly soothing the heat in her cheeks.  She sucked in a shaky breath, and pressed her forehead to his, breathing in his scent, committing it to memory.  

“That’s why I have to go,” she murmured, a wave of tears falling over her lashes as her voice broke.  “I promise you, angel, it’s better this way.  It’s better if I go.  I’m sorry.  I’m so so sorry.”  

She gave his hands a tight squeeze before letting go and turning to walk back into the warm night air, but stopped short at the door’s threshold.  Tentatively, she turned back towards him, her heart beating fast and loud in her chest.  His chest rose and fell quickly, biting back another round of sobs as he ran his ringed fingers through his hair.  Steel blue eyes met hers.  

Just one last kiss, she told herself before turning on her heel.  

He met her halfway, pulling her into his arms and crashing his lips to hers, arms wrapping around to pull each her impossibly close.  Despite feeling so good to have her pressed against him like this, he couldn’t ignore the ache in his chest.  It seemed that knowing this was their last kiss made it more painful. Each second that passed meant she was one second closer to walking out of his life.  

They moved with the familiar rhythm they’d perfected over their time courting.  He breathed her in, hoping God would show him mercy and slow time just long enough for him to savor every last second with her.  He wanted each one burned into his memory.  The feel of her soft flesh beneath his fingers, the sound of her breath, the scent of her hair, even the taste of her tears on her tongue as they kissed--everything.  He didn’t want to miss a single detail.  He deepened the kiss, gripping the fabric on her waist as though she might disappear if he loosened his grip.  

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into her mouth, a tear slipping from his eyes and melting between the mess of kisses.  “Oh, baby, ’m so sorry,” he whimpered.  His hand cupped her face, sorrow and regret lining his features as a sob raked through his chest.  A pang of guilt hit her square in the chest.

“It’s not your fault, angel,” she gently corrected him, tugging on his hair and pulling his lips to hers for a quick kiss.  “It’s not your fault that I had to ruin this.”  Her voice broke, quaking at the thought.  “I ruined this, not you.  You…” she paused and sucked in a shaky breath, looking to the stars for strength.  “You are, and always be, my angel.”  She could only leave and wish him the best with his career--with her out of the picture it would be fine and he could reach for the stars like he wanted to.  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She brushed a tear from his face again, hoping that he could read the sincerity in her eyes.  He never did anything wrong--it was simply against his nature, but that didn’t stop him from beating himself up.  

He kept her close to his face, his hand firm behind her head as they soaked in the moment, foreheads resting against each other softly.  His breath shuddered through his lungs as he looked at her through his dark tear soaked lashes.  The word slipped from his lips before he had the chance to stop it.  

“Please,” a whine edged into his voice as he begged her with his eyes.  Begged her for more time, a chance to celebrate what they’d once had.  She read him like a book, understanding immediately.  His fingers tangled themselves in her hair as she looked up at him, hesitating to indulge both of their desires.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” she whispered.  As painful as this was for her, she knew it was worse for him--she never even gave him a real reason.  Her angel didn’t deserve this kind of torment, not when he’d done so much for her.  He’d welcomed her with open arms, and she wrenched a blade through his heart.  

“I don’t care if it hurts,” he rasped, his voice coming out a little more husky from the crying.  “I can’t end it like this,” his voice broke as he pressed closer so their noses were touching.  He wanted to delay her departure as much as possible.  He needed to be in her presence a little longer.  End it right.  They couldn’t part ways like this: sobbing messes clinging to each other in the doorway.  “A little more hurt won’t kill me, baby,” his soft voice fluttered into her hair.  “I just need you here a little longer.”

She didn’t want to end it this way either.  If their story was going to end, at least let it be bittersweet.  Close this chapter of their lives on something a little less heartbreaking than weeping in each other's arms.  She could be with him one last time, really appreciate what she had before she let him go, and show him how much she cared.  

Maybe it could be the salve that soothed the agony of this moment.  Maybe they could fool themselves that delaying the inevitable wouldn’t hurt more than leaving now.  This can make us feel a little better about it all.  

It was a lie, and she knew it, but she didn’t care.  She just wanted to be with him one last time.

Her lips met his again slowly, and she allowed herself to twist the knife.  

It was a mess of lips, teeth, and tears.  Needy hands roamed the hills and valleys of the bodies they each knew so well.  They tumbled backwards towards his room, never taking their hands off each other.  Any moment without physical contact was a moment wasted.  Garments slipped to the floor, gently discarded with almost a reverence.  

He was always so gentle with her, but tonight he’d treat her like glass.  Feather light kisses brushed her sternum as he laid her down, cherishing each gasp and moan.  He worshiped her with his mouth, slowly whispering sweet nothings in her ear as he took his time.  Slow love always seemed more meaningful, like a chance to showcase their affections and prove their love to each other.

She pressed hot wet kisses to his jaw and whispered his name like a prayer.  Her nails scraped over his skin, pulling his body, his essence, his soul closer to hers.  She gazed in his eyes, silently hoping he knew how much he was worth to her.  She pressed her face into his neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and cologne, nipping at the soft supple skin.

They kissed away the memories, breathed away the pain.  Their plans faded into the moonlight on the floor.  The hopes and dreams that they’d wished to see each other fulfill, tucked away to a chest of regrets that they could visit on sleepless nights.  Each gasp drawn from the other celebrated what had been.  Each cry was a token of gratitude to the universe for allowing them to love and be loved.  

Strings of praise, pleas, and panting floated into the air as they reached their highs, soaring in the clouds of ecstasy with each other’s names on their lips like a mantra.  Time froze as they relished the moment, taking their time to sink back down to earth with slow sensual kisses and forgotten whispers, collapsing into a mess of tangled limbs and twisted sheets.  

Back to reality.  Bitter reality.  

Muscle memory took over and she wrapped herself in his arms, pulling his warm chest to her back.  She couldn’t bear to look at him now.  The guilt swallowed her whole, drowning her slowly.  She couldn’t imagine the pain she’d experience if she looked him in the eyes.

They laid there for a moment, each knowing what came next.  Each dreading it and hoping something would change so it wouldn’t happen.  She’d barely even shifted under his sheets when his hands tightened on her ever so slightly.  She winced when she dared a glance over her shoulder.  Puffy, bloodshot, cried-out eyes met hers.  Why was she so cruel to someone so good?  

“Please?” he whimpered, his hair falling into his face.  They both had another sob creeping up their throats. This was the end.  Their time had run out, and neither of them wanted to leave the sanctity of this moment.  His voice sounded again, small like a child.

“P-p-please, can I h-hold you just a little longer?”  Tears spilled over his cheeks, his shaky hands pulling her even closer to his chest as he buried his face into the back of her shoulder.  Guilt racked her body.  This was her doing.  She was responsible for making her angel cry like this.  Heat flooded her face as she swiped a tear away, biting back a sob of her own.

“Of course, angel.”

****

He woke up to a cold and empty bed only a few hours later.  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, glancing around the room as he set his feet on the cool floor.  Moonbeams peaked through the blinds, illuminating the room in a soft blue.  His clothes had been picked up from the floor and neatly folded on the desk.  A soft glint in the corner of his eye tore his gaze from the room to his bedside table.  A small, sad smile crept to his mouth, barely turning up a corner of his mouth.  The glass of water shouldn’t have made his heart clench, but it did.  She’d always made sure to take care of him.  He tentatively reached forward, but gulped the cool water down quickly, welcoming the soothing sensation to his dry throat.  

As he set the now empty glass back, his hand found the nape of his neck, rubbing the skin and tugging on his hair.  Her scent still lingered on his sheets, his skin, gripping his heart in a vice, haunting him.  It all cemented the reality:  he was alone now.  

A gentle breeze oozed through the open window, fluttering the translucent curtains in slow waves.  The airflow was nice--it almost helped break his trance of the same thought echoing in his mind on repeat.

She’s gone.

As much as he wanted to sit up and replay the night’s events in his head over and over, exhaustion settled into his heavy limbs and nearly pulled him under right there.  The bed seemed to welcome him into its warm embrace.  

He could think about it and grieve tomorrow--yes, he could properly come to terms with it all in the morning.  Tonight, he could drift into a wonderful reality where everything was alright.  Perhaps, it was silly, wrong even, to try to delay reality with dreams of soft touches and warm kisses, but he didn’t care.  He’d done it all night, so what was a couple more hours?  

He wouldn’t even notice the scrap of paper on the table until the next morning.  It wasn’t much, a few words scrawled in her delicate handwriting on the back of a newspaper ad for laundry detergent is all:

Love you always.  Goodbye, angel.

Strangely enough, the five little words provided some kind of comfort as he picked up the shattered remains of his heart.  It couldn’t undo the damage or magically make his heartache go away, but it wasn’t supposed to.  All the note could do was make the transition a little less… painful.  It became a little piece of her to carry with him as he tried to move on, a reminder of what they’d had and how good it had been.  He didn’t need a monologue of reasons for why she left, he didn’t want one because this note said something far more important than all of that:  she loved him.  

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

Let me know how you hated it!  I want to improve so literally ANY feedback is welcome (especially the mean stuff lol)

Love y’all lots! xoxo

[library-child]

The Midnight Sun's Cycle of Abuse

One thing about Pseudonymous Bosch’s “The Secret Series” and “The Bad Books” blows my mind: the chilling and all too real way the Midnight Sun recruits generation after generation of loyal followers. While never directly explained, their tactics are shown all across the books, and once you put the pieces together, you see a nightmare far worse than the characters who are caught in it seem to comprehend.

So how exactly does their system of abuse work? What are the victims’ chances of escaping, and why does the Midnight Sun need to rely on an abuse cycle in the first place?

The Need for Followers

‘All of you here – all of you brave souls – you are all testimony to our success. Every year our elixirs grow stronger, and our lives grow longer. And yet—’ Ms Mauvais’ tone turned sombre. ‘And yet – we must face it – the ultimate triumph has eluded us. We call ourselves the Masters of the Midnight Sun – but still we chase the sun!’ 

(The Name of This Book Is Secret)

Promising longevity, power, and possibly immortality, the Midnight Sun probably never had challenges attracting new members. The problem they must have faced was binding their members to the organization for life. Under the glamorous facade, Midnight Sun members live on the edge of existence. Once they've reached a certain age, it's a constant struggle to make it yet another year and another, never knowing how much longer the elixirs will keep them alive. The servants just seem to slave away without benefitting from the luxury. The Masters seem to enjoy a pretty relaxed life unless the leader sends them on a mission. As for the leader, they are apparently responsible for everything: Supplying everyone with elixirs, bringing in money, bringing in new recruits, and chasing the secret of immortality. They literally carry the weight of the entire society on their shoulders, keeping everyone alive.

So how exactly do you convince people to dedicate their lives to your cause, all in the hope of uncovering a secret of which existence they can't even be certain? You make your organization a cult. You create a group identity of brave adventurers who push the boundaries of humanity. And you focus on recruits you can easily mold into your faithful followers: vulnerable children.

Attracting Children

‘Are you...a queen?’ Amber asked, trembling.

‘Ha! No, not...at the moment.’ Ms Mauvais made a chilly, tinkling sound that might have been a laugh. ‘But you are very shrewd – something tells me you’ll go far.’

She stepped forward and stroked Amber’s bowed head as if she were rewarding a little lap-dog.

(If You’re Reading This, It’s Too Late)

We see the Midnight Sun directly targeting children who have a certain quality they want and/or are in a vulnerable position.

Ms. Mauvais had been orphaned by the time she was ten years old and left with her horse as her only emotional connection. Itamar perceived her as “heartless,” by which he, given the context, probably meant emotionally numb. This implies she was traumatized and dissociating, her brain protecting itself from the pain. She must have felt utterly lost and helpless in a world that could collapse at anytime.

Young Luciano was in a precarious situation as well. Pietro and he had to leave behind their home and their family. Alone in a foreign country, they were forced to fend for themselves while constantly fearing for their parents’ safety. They were at the mercy of a callous ringmaster who viewed them as mere assets for profit.

While Amber does have a very sheltered life, by comparison, she is tormented by her insecurities. She’s always anxious about being popular and pretty. When she’s not surrounded by people who admire her, she feels lost and insignificant. We see her struggling with her social status and the physical changes of growing up. By the time of “You Have to Stop This,” she’s most likely terrified of going to high school and having to prove herself from scratch.

This is where Itamar/Ms. Mauvais step in. They appear as stunning, charismatic saviors who promise to fulfill these kids’ needs: to be accepted, safe, cared for, and loved. They provide them with a community and a role model, offering them a sense of control over their lives and a new identity. They make them feel special and worthy of being chosen for a superhuman life.

Once they’ve wrapped the children around their fingers, they isolate them from their surroundings and keep them around at all times. Now they got them right where they want them: depending on them alone.

Systematic Abuse

Itamar pointed his cane at Ms Mauvais. ‘I hope you’re not getting sentimental, Antoinette. We chose you long ago for your heartlessness. That is what the Midnight Sun needs. Not maudlin concerns about my health.’

(This Book Isn’t Good For You)

The goal of the Midnight Sun is to break these kids, molding them into efficient, unfeeling machines who will stop at nothing to advance the organization’s goals. The “mentors” use their power over their “students” to control their thoughts, feelings, and behavior. They punish them emotionally and physically abusing them when they don’t fully meet their expectations.

What we see is mostly a combination of invalidation and shaming. Itamar dismisses Ms. Mauvais’s fear of losing him, making her feel guilty and worthless for having natural human emotions. Later, Ms. Mauvais does the same to Amber when she’s panicking because of the fire. She also publicly humiliates her for failing to capture the dragon and infantilizes her by calling her “girl” even when she’s an adult. 

Both Itamar and Ms. Mauvais make a point of never fully appreciating their wards’ accomplishments. No matter how hard they try, they’re never good enough. Itamar’s last words to Ms. Mauvais are literally him telling her to do better recruiting new members.

The victims are made to feel small and worthless, losing any self-esteem and sense of agency. They’re no longer valued as people. Instead, their only worth and the chance of achieving anything come from behaving exactly like the abusers want them to. The abusers put themselves on a pedestal, always pretending to know best. Ms. Mauvais still displays that attitude toward Luciano by snapping at him whenever he questions her decisions.

The abusers make themselves the center of their victims’ lives, whose only goal is to please them and to win their affection. Ultimately, this results in destroying the victims’ sense of personhood. Instead, they absorb their role as a Midnight Sun agent as the only thing that defines them and gives them a purpose.

Internalizing Abuse

The French were cruelly snobbish, very strict about their manners and customs, none more so than the grande madame Antoinette Mauvais; and there had been many times over the last ten years when Amber had regretted making herself Antoinette’s ward. She knew she could never fully please the ancient French woman.

(Bad Luck)

As they grow up, the victims deny and justify the abuse as a coping mechanism. They buy into the lies their abusers feed them to protect themselves from the horrible truth: That the one person they’ve latched onto is a violent monster who has never viewed them as anything but a tool to further their agenda, and there is nothing they can do about it.

We see them glorifying their abusers, blaming themselves when they are being hit or humiliated. This thinking is hinted at when Ms. Mauvais calls Mr. Cabbage Face a “miserable and ungrateful creature” for killing Lord Pharao. She’s probably unable to comprehend why he would rise against his creator, who tortured him. She seems to have internalized the idea that your master is your savior, your master knows best, and if they mistreat you, you deserve it. Instead of complaining or rebelling, you should embrace the role they have chosen for you.

There is even some logic to this: The Midnight Sun “saved” the children from a short life span and dire circumstances, so they should be grateful. They are offered money, power, beauty, long life, and perhaps even immortality. Once they’ve tasted this, they quickly become corrupted, wanting more. It’s so seductive, for instance, to forget you’re just one step away from being crushed when you get to control an entire cruise ship and bring a millionaire to his knees with your charms. Or when you run a school full of brain-washed children or command servants with a snap of your fingers.

They start viewing themselves as powerful leaders who stand above common mortals. They convince themselves everything done to them was necessary to prepare them for the exceptional task of attaining immortality. Of course, they repeat this pattern, for this is how you set up a kid for greatness. They create an illusion of control: If they are only determined and ruthless enough, nothing will ever be able to harm them again.

But none of this will ever heal the wounds inflicted on them or even those that made them prone to their abusers’ influence in the first place. And at some point, they either need to admit this or sink deeper into their delusions. 

Awareness

‘Itamar made you what you are, didn’t he? Just as you made me,’ Dr L reflected. ‘I wonder what I will feel when you die...’

(This Book Isn’t Good For You)

At Itamar’s deathbed, Luciano seems to realize how wrong he has been. We have seen him struggling internally before when facing his brother. He witnesses the Midnight Sun’s failure and Ms. Mauvais’ mourning, both of which shouldn’t be possible, according to his indoctrination. He probably understands that their chances of actually achieving immortality are minimal. Ms. Mauvais never acted the way she did because she knew best but because she never knew better. They are trapped in machinery set up by people who never cared about any individual.

Though she never admits it to herself, Ms. Mauvais seems to know this too. This becomes clear when Cass confronts her about being unable to triumph because she will never be loved. She’s given her whole life to Midnight Sun, yet she’ll still be lost. Eternal life would be eternal suffering to her.

Amber doesn’t seem to realize she’s being abused at all. She’s unhappy with her situation, but she is convinced she needs to side with a strong team, so the Midnight Sun is the best option. She can’t imagine being her own person.

Escape?

'After you two saw him, my brother, he stopped taking those evil elixirs,’ explained Pietro. ‘I think he wanted to prove to me he was true - he was done with the Midnight Sun. He came for a last visit and looked very old, very old. He could hardly speak. And then this morning - he is no more.’

(You Have to Stop This)

So how can you break the cycle? It gets harder the longer you stay in, especially after you’ve reached the end of your natural lifespan. At this point, the people and the world you knew are gone forever. Besides, you’ve given your entire identity and humanity away. There truly is no place for you anywhere but in the Midnight Sun.

Luciano manages to turn his back on them because of two things: First, he has the strength of character to face the painful truth and act upon it. And second, he still has his brother Pietro, who never gave up on him. Pietro’s willingness to forgive him is likely what Luciano needs to make his final decision. He chooses to die, being reunited with the one person who has always loved him, over living for an eternity of emptiness and self-deception.

As for Ms. Mauvais, her only way of getting out is literally death. When Clay offers to take her along as a prisoner to save her from the dragons, he unknowingly builds her an easy exit. There is no way she could live with only herself, being stripped of her power and identity as the leader of the Midnight Sun. Finally, she can choose to leave it all behind without having to face any of it. Perhaps she even believes she’s dying a hero’s death, proving how great a leader she is by making the ultimate sacrifice.

It’s a real pity we never see the closure of Amber’s arc because she has the best chance to make it out alive, heal, grow, and lead a normal life again. She is still very young, still has a family, and, as far as we know, there is no blood on her hands yet.

Conclusion

The real villain of the series is the Midnight Sun as a system. It’s far more powerful and terrifying than any of the individual members. It weaponizes victims and makes them continue the cycle, causing suffering and destruction to everyone around them and themselves. 

[lonely-lost-soul]

Under The Floorboards pt. IIII

(Technoblade X Reader): Pt. I, Pt. II, Pt. III, Pt. IIII, Pt. V

Whipping the sweat off your brow you placed the honey jars you collected on the ground, Phil really built this farm efficiently. However, that didn’t stop you needing to collect honey pots here and there, now that the vault was complete you could actually use the honey for normal things. Technoblade would never admit it but he loved when you put honey in his tea, contrary to popular belief he wasn’t a fan of plain black tea or coffee. You rolled up your sleeves and adjusted the sunhat that sat lazily on your head against your better judgment you had left your armor inside. The only thing on your person was a netherite ax Techno had enchanted for you, it was an effective weapon but without your armor, you were a bit of a sitting duck. As the bees buzzed and bumped lazily into each other, you couldn’t help but smile fondly at the sight. They were just so silly. You picked up the crate of jars and turned around, your eyes narrowed as you saw some movement by the trees, it was still too early for Tommy and Technoblade to be back...so just who was snooping around the property. You felt very naked in your sun hat and overalls, especially if it was Dream himself that you were about to encounter. Your worry only increased as you noticed four men all in netherite armor walking towards the house, their swords were drawn. You had a feeling that these were the men who took Technoblade the day prior. They were like a little gang all dressed the same way, bloody aprons and all they really had the executioner vibes down. 

    “Hello, gentlemen.” You smiled giving them a wave while you adjusted the box of honey, “beautiful day isn’t it?” 

The first to answer was a man who had a scar from the tip of his eyebrow down to the bottom of his lip. He sent you a smile and you noticed a tooth missing from the upper row, a navy blue beanie held his dark hair in place. 

    “Very beautiful, it’s always a good day when the sun is shining.” He mused the sun in question reflected beautifully across all their netherite armor. The one thing you decided to leave inside, you weren’t intimidated nope not at all. “What’s your name sweetheart?”

    “(Y/N).” You responded with a hum, “Is there something that I can help you all with today?” Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed two of the men moved to surround you, they thought they were slick. The only one who didn’t move was the tallest of the children there, he looked to be half Enderman. He also looked like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was right now poor thing. Drawing your gaze back to the other three men, you noticed one was Tommy’s age and had small horns atop his head, along with goat-like ears. A burn scar also took up half of his face. It made you frown distastefully, what was with these kids getting traumatized? First Tommy and now the half enderman and the goat kid, you couldn’t adopt all of them, well you could but it’d be a lot of work. The other looked to be part fox after all the big orange ears and the fluffy tail was dead give away, wait didn’t Ghostbur say his son was a fox. “Are you Fundy?” You asked, suddenly tilting your head to the side.

    “How do you know my name?” Fundy’s face flushed a little and he shuffled on his feet, his hand twitching to grab the sword that was at his side. 

    “I talked to your father earlier today. I’m assuming that’s how you found me?” You took the hat off your head and rested it on Carl’s stable. The fox gave a reluctant nod of confirmation you licked your lips and put your hands behind your back. “So? Do you have a problem with Technoblade or just me specifically?”

    “Wow, she’s not even a little bit ashamed.” Quackity mused and you frowned, “We’re here because your boyfriend blew up our country. He also disgraced our President right Tubbo? Don’t know if you’re aware of that or not but he escaped his punishment. So we intend to make him repent.” He walked towards you and you took a step away from him. 

    “That’s far enough thank you.” You held up your hand in hopes it would stop his trek towards you, Quackity did pause for a moment. He let out a chuckle and smiled. He thought your tough attitude was cute, but he was clearly mocking you. 

Jackass. 

    “Quackity maybe we should leave her be...she didn’t do anything.” The young goat kid murmured his ears flicking as he looked up at you. 

    “Quiet Tubbo. Let the adults speak,” Quackity snapped at him before clearing his throat and looking back at you. “Listen (Y/N) was it? We’re going to have to ask that you come with us. If you don’t we’ll have to take you by force.”

    “Wait, couldn't Technoblade have trained her?” The half enderman spoke holding up his finger in the air but no one seemed to pay him any attention. 

    “I guess force it is. Although the fight is a little unfair.” You took out your ax and twirled it in your hand, “Something tells me you don’t exactly like fair fights.” Fundy took a hesitant step backward not really wanting to lose a life for this of all things, but he pulled out his sword just in case. Clicking your tongue in distaste you sent a bloodthirsty smile their way, one that rivaled Technoblade, “Come at me.” 

Without hesitation, Quackity charged at you with his sword he didn’t aim to kill, just disarm or injure. You blocked the swing with the wooden part of your ax and spun around just in time to dodge an attack from Tubbo. You managed to elbow him in the back and he stumbled forward into Quackity, the man made a grunting sound before shoving Tubbo off of him and into the snow. Fundy moved next and managed to land a hit on the side of your arm, you hissed loudly glaring daggers at the fox. His ears pressed against his head and he let out a small whimper, “sorry!”

    “Don’t apologize to her!” Quackity groaned, “You guys are the worst gang ever.” He slapped his forehead as you readjusted your posture, “I have to do everything myself.” Quackity snarled charging at you again you sidestepped out of the way. As he stumbled trying to regain himself he knocked over the honey pots and they shattered against the ground. You swung your ax and managed to land a hit on him in the back of the legs, he let out a strangled yelp and fell on his face into the snow like Tubbo had done earlier. Yanking out the ax out of the leader of the gang blood splattered all over the ground and stained the snow. Little red beads dripped off the ax as you held it by your side, the man only let out another scream as it was torn out of him. 

    “Back. Off.” You repeated again baring your teeth with a hiss, “Turn around and go back to L’manburg and I won’t kill you. Got it.”  The ax was pointed at all of them, you saw the half enderman nod vigorously, 

    “Yes ma’am.” He nodded rapidly grabbing Tubbo and Fundy by the arm and pulled them back, the three of them watched as Quackity snarled and backed up to join them. You watched them cower and you dropped your ax on the ground so you could press the palm of your hand into the wound on your arm. You quickly turned and ran back into your home to collect bandages and fix yourself up, blood speckled the floor as you made your way into the bathroom. You tore off your overalls and shirt, washing out the wound before wrapping your arm in bandages. You didn’t know how long you stood there in front of the mirror but you looked worse for wear. 

Technoblade was going to lose his shit.

---

All Technoblade could think about on their way back to his retirement home, was you. He could only put up with Tommy for so many hours until he needed to talk to literally anyone else. He was ready to get your relaxing date night underway; he could already feel your fingers running through his hair braiding his as you went. He hummed fondly listening as the voices called him simp repeatedly, he didn’t mind this time considering he was when it came to you. 

    “That’s still cringe chat.” He murmured to himself as Tommy continued to scream about something in the background, “Yeah, yeah I love her.” He heard the chat flip their shit and he fondly chuckled, intermixed with their happy cries there was a distinct sound of ‘E’ as well as ‘nerd.’ He almost didn’t hear Tommy’s worried shouting. He frowned and rolled his eyes back into his skull, 

    “What Tommy?” 

    “Technoblade! Technoblade!” The teen bumped back into him, Technoblade grunted and looked down at him. He followed Tommy’s eyes and spotted the blood littered snow outside his house. Technoblade paused and his vision went red around the edges, his eyes stayed trained on the bloodstains as the voices began to roar within his skull. His head shot up and he saw the honey box spilled over on the ground, glass littered the snow, your hat hanging loosely on Carl’s old stable. 

     “T-Technoblade.” Tommy stuttered again looking up at the pig-man, seeing how glazed over his eyes looked. He swore steam was coming out of Technoblade’s nose and his hand drew out his pickaxe gripping it so tight his knuckles turned white. He felt his tusks grow in size and his face began to shift into his pig form. Tommy’s voice was drowned out by the flood that was the voices in his head: 

‘SHE’S GONE. THEY HAVE HER. KILL THEM ALL. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD. WE DEMAND BLOOD. E. SAVE HER. YOU’RE A FAILURE. YOU DIDN’T PROTECT HER. SLAUGHTER ALL OF THEM. SHE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG. SHE NEVER HURT ANYBODY. YOU BROKE YOUR PROMISE. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD.’ 

Technoblade took a step forward to which Tommy rapidly backed up in response. He’s never seen Techno this gone before, oh shit he has it bad for (Y/N). However, Tommy didn’t make a move to stop Technoblade; he didn’t want him to release that rage on him. Technoblade walked into the house, stepping on his glasses that fell off his face. He threw his door open with a loud slam, he needed potions and he needed a new sword. 

Whoever did this all their cannon lives were gone he’d make it long and torturous.

A soft voice broke him out of his stupor his entire body went rigid. 

    “Bubs…” He slowly turned around and came face to face with you, you looked so small, so delicate standing in the doorway. You were wearing your pajamas, soft blue with little sheep all over them. His ears twitched and his shoulders softened considerably seeing you standing safe in the doorway, however, he tensed again the minute he saw the bandages tied around your arm. Blood leaking through them, he growled eyes locking in on the spot as you made soft shushing sounds at him. 

‘SHE’S HURT. SHE’S ALIVE THOUGH. BUT SHE’S HURT, THEY NEED TO PAY. ATONE FOR WHAT THEY DID TO HER. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD. SPILL THEIR BLOOD THEN MAKE OUT WITH HER. SHE’LL LOVE YOU MORE IF YOU DO. BLOOD. BLOOD. BLOOD.’

Technoblade jumped feeling her hand caress his cheek, “Bubs it’s alright I’m okay.” Your voice was smooth and soothing, his eyes dilated as you spoke to him. His face shifting back to normal as he breathed heavily through his nose, “See?” You brought his head down to rest against your chest, it looked uncomfortable the way that he was bending. However, he could feel your heart beating in your chest, he made a soft whimper and grabbed onto your shoulders his pink hair tickled your chin. You brought your hands up to run his fingers through his hair as he finally calmed down enough to ignore the voices for the time being. Right now they were just commenting on how nice and warm her hands were anyway.

    “What happened to you? There was blood everywhere I was so scared.” His voice broke a little bit as he pulled away from you. Your heart twisted painfully in your chest Technoblade had never looked so broken. 

    “The butcher squad came and attacked me. They wanted to use me to get to you but I fought them off just like you taught me.” You couldn’t help but smile proudly at him and he let out a disbelieving laugh. His hands moved from your shoulders to your back as he cradled you gently in his arms, you both stood there rocking back and forth together until Technoblade was satisfied. 

    “That’s my girl.” He finally murmured backing away from you, you flushed at the compliment. Whenever he called you that it made you flush all over, you let out a loud flustered whine and whacked him on the chest. Technoblade laughed at your flustered expression, it was a rare moment the tables were flipped like this and Technoblade was going to take full advantage of the situation. “Princess what’s with that look? Am I, thee Technoblade, making you flustered? I know I’m a lot to handle, I beat Dream once, I never die, I’m not homeless. Guess what?” 

    “What?” You couldn’t help but let out a giggle as he circles you eyeing you up and down. 

    “I’m single.” 

    “Oh really?” You cocked an eyebrow, “I thought you had a girlfriend.” You twirled your hair around your fingers and you felt his strong hands rest on your waist. 

    “Hm I don’t think so. You might need to refresh my memory,” Technoblade mused kissing your neck tenderly. 

    “Well she’s stunningly gorgeous, and tough as nails,” Your eyes fluttered closed as you leaned back against him. “She absolutely adores you and how protective you are of her, and how much of a gentle giant you are.” He made a noise of protest and rested his chin on the top of your head. You could tell he was pouting at you, 

    “See, not only is that super cringe but also factually incorrect. I am not a gentle giant, I just committed vast sums of minor terrorism and I also kill orphans so what would my girlfreind say to that huh?” He huffed clicking his tongue distastefully. 

    “She would say that you’re right but also she sees the way you take care of Carl, and how you put up with Tommy. You’re totally brothers. That makes you at least a little bit soft” 

    “Not brothers and I don’t like him.” 

    “Right sure,” You giggled a little and kissed his chin lightly. 

Technoblade let out an indignant sound before muttering, “Oh we should probably tell Tommy you aren’t kidnapped. Also discuss what to do about L’manburg now that they know you exist.” You blocked out that last part and made a beeline outside to find Tommy. The teenager in question was fumbling with his hands over by his cobblestone tower, you ran over to him and engulfed him in a hug. 

    “(Y/N)!” He shouted letting out a disbelieving laugh hugging you back with a childish smile. “You’re okay! Holy fuck I totally thought you were dead and shit! Technoblade was going fucking apeshit! His face went all pig like n’ shit totally thought he was gonna kill everyone for you! Not that I was worried.” He added quickly shoving you away crossing his arms. 

    “Of course you weren’t THE Tommy is never worried.” 

    “Yeah exactly Miss Blade you get me.” You smiled fondly at him and you ruffled his hair and he shouted at you to stop. You did so sensing Technoblade approach the both of you, Techno interlocked your hand with his own and squeezed it tightly. “You chill now Big T?” 

    “I’m always chill Tommy. Only nerds aren’t chill.” He mused with a scoff, “Hence why I always call you a nerd.” 

    “WHAT THE FUCK TECHNOBLADE! I AM ALWAYS CHILL! I’M THE CHILLEST MAN ALIVE I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW!” 

    “Stop shouting,” Technoblade groaned burying his face in your hair as you laughed fondly at their antics. Although L’manburg knew about your existence now, and although you knew Dream probably wasn’t too far behind in learning that knowledge either, you felt everything was going to be okay. 

All you needed was each other, Technoblde, Tommy, Phil and you. Together you four were gonna do great things, you just knew it.

~~~

I do plan on making another part because people seem to be enjoying this story a lot more than I originally thought when I first posted it. Which is amazing thank you for all the love and support! New stuff is also in the works, thanks again for reading and enjoying! Stay safe guys! 🥰✨

[snailwritesfics]

anything about jd idc what

Yes jd is very nice let see hmm, I have an idea.

———

Warnings; mentions of suicide (specifically hanging); guns; bombs

Pairing; Jd x M!Reader

———

You had always admired your twin sister Veronica. The way she stood up to people and stuck with her friends. That all changed in senior year. She turned into a real bitch, started to hang out with girls that she deemed “popular”. You hated having the Heathers over, you always hid in your room whenever they came.

Her boyfriend was different though, he was strong and powerful. He didn’t take bullshit. You would never admit it, especially to Veronica but you where in love, or at least had a strong sense of admiration for him.

But like your admiration for your sister, that all changed when he broke into your home. You wanted to bring up something with Veronica, but that didn’t matter now. You would never talk to Veronica again, and you knew it. You heard it in his reaction.

But then you had to make a decision.

You had heard everything about Jason’s plan to blow up the school, and his plan to run off with Veronica. Then the realization hit, you would’ve died if you went to that pep rally. If Jd could kill the entire school who else could he have killed? Who else did he kill. The second wave of realization. He killed them, Heather, Ram and Kurt. And by the sound of it Veronica had helped.

But what could you do? You were the average sibling, you weren’t popular, you had average grades, not the many friends, average strength.

You felt your breath start to grow faster until you where almost hyperventilating. You moved one foot forward, ready to step into the room. But something stopped you. You couldn’t. How could you stop a serial killer? You just couldn’t. But you had too. You took a deep breath, trying to regulate your breath as fast as possible.

You were running out of time, you needed to move fast. You heard him open the window and that’s when the gravity of the situation finally hit you, for the third time, and you ran into the room.

“Jason!”, you yelled at the taller male.

You then smelt it, and you turned your head to the side. When you saw it you wished you hadn’t, you knew she was there but you didn’t know how bad it was. “Veronica..”, you muttered.

When you looked back Jd was gone and he you heard the door shut once more. He was behind you now, but not for long. He stepped close to you, used his hand to make you look back in his direction. You saw some sort of spark grow in his eyes as he stared at you.

“[Name], what happened to Veronica was unfortunate.”, he said, the slightest bit of remorse lining his words.

“Why?”, you asked as he let go of your face. He moved his hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. He soon then laughed.

“Veronica was a coward. I was willing to give her everything and she failed, she couldn’t handle it!”, he exclaimed. He stared you down, examining your scared yet, somehow confident stature.

“You’re different aren’t you. You want to be noticed don’t you? You’ve always been in Veronica’s shadow, [Name].”, he said. “Which, it really disappointing, you are a very talented boy.”, he said ruffling your hair.

You were slightly annoyed, he spoke to you as if it your where a child. Like he could coax you out of the situation. But a part of you liked the attention coming from him, you didn’t want to admit it, but it was something nice in the grim situation.

“I’m not a child”, you muttered, looking back up at him.

He chuckled, looking you dead in the eye. He stare was intimidating, but he wouldn’t hurt you, right? No, he always treated you kindly, he seemed to only kill people who hurt him. Then again, he was willing to kill the whole school including you.

“Why?”, you asked him. Before he could answer you added on. “Why did you kill them? Why where you willing to kill the whole school. Willing to kill me, I thought we had some sort of.. I don’t know, connection? Maybe it was all just show, but you always treated me like-“, Jd cut off your rambling.

“Like a god? I hope you saw it that way. The fact of the matter is, I’ve always known this would happen to Veronica. But I got lost in the romance of it. I thought our love would be, I don’t know. But you’re different, you always have been. Sweet, precious [Name], you’re always doing things for others, but you’re never really noticed are you? I could change that. I’ve always noticed you, you were the one I wanted to be my partner from the beginning, but something about your sister manipulated me, but let’s face it, that doesn’t matter anymore.”, he finished with a laugh.

You couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. He sounded so convincing.

“I’d even be willing to, I don’t know, go out?”, he whispered with a smirk. “I really like you, and I want to grow with you. And change the world with you.”.

Your heart felt like it was going to escape out of your chest, well it already did that before but now. Your face must be bright red and you were thankful for the darkness of the room. “I-”, you started before reverting back to your thoughts. You couldn’t date Jd! He was a serial killer for Christ’s sake! But maybe, this is the only way you could stop him. You had no other plans.

“I’ll be you’re partner, on one condition!”, you yelled. Jason looked slightly surprised before he walked back over to you. He hugged you. The embrace felt nice, and for a moment you felt almost, normal with him.

“What’s the condition dear?”, he asked, ending the embrace.

“Well actually there’s two. One, you don’t blow up Westerburg.”.

“Disappointing.”

“I know. And two, we move. We leave go somewhere else, another country I don’t care, but we have to disappear.”, you said.

Jd looked surprised but grabbed your hand.

“Okay, let’s go then.”, he said.

And before you knew it you where out of Veronica’s room, having jumped out of her bedroom window.

[ariel-seagull-wings]

FINETTE CENDRON

@grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales @the-blue-fairie @princesssarisa @faintingheroine @angelixgutz @themousefromfantasyland

(Until the 19th century this variant of the Cinderella tale written by Madame d'Aulnoy was more popular than Perrault's Cendrillon. Unlike most versions where the heroine is the daughter of a merchant or small title noble, here she is from am impoverished royal family. Like Božena Němcová's The Three Sisters, the heroine is abandoned in the woods with her sisters and has to escape a canibal ogre, before the story goes to the familiar Cinderella plot)

Once on a time there was a King and a Queen who had managed their affairs very badly. They were driven out of their kingdom. They sold their crowns to support themselves; then their wardrobes, their linen, their lace, and all their furniture, piece by piece. The brokers were tired of purchasing, for every day something or other was sent for sale. When they had disposed of nearly everything, the King said to the Queen, "We are out of our own country, and have no longer any property. We must do something to get a living for ourselves and our poor children. Consider a little what we can do: for up to this time I have known no trade but a king's, which is a very agreeable one." The Queen had much good sense; she asked for eight days to think the matter over; at the end of that time, she said to the King, "Sire, we must not make ourselves unhappy. You have only to make nets, with which you may catch both fowl and fish. As the lines wear out, I will spin to make new ones. With respect to our three daughters, they are downright idle girls, who still think themselves fine ladies, and would fain live in that style without work. We must take them to such a distance—such a distance, that they can never find their way back again, for it will be impossible for us to keep them as fine as they would like to be."

The King began to weep when he found he must separate himself from his children. He was a kind father; but the Queen was mistress; he therefore agreed to whatever she proposed. He said to her, "Get up early to-morrow morning, ​and take your three daughters wherever you think fit." Whilst they were thus plotting together, the Princess Finette, who was the youngest daughter, listened at the key-hole, and when she discovered the design of her father and mother, she set off as fast as she could for a great grotto, at a considerable distance from where they lived, and which was the abode of the Fairy Merluche, who was her godmother.

Finette had taken with her two pounds of fresh butter, some eggs, some milk, and some flour, to make a nice cake for her godmother, in order that she might be well received by her. She commenced her journey gaily enough; but the further she went, the more weary she grew. The soles of her shoes were worn completely through, and her pretty little feet became so sore, that it was sad to see them. She was quite exhausted; she sat down on the grass and cried. A beautiful Spanish horse came by, saddled and bridled. There were more diamonds on his housings than would purchase three cities, and when he saw the Princess he stopped and began to graze quietly beside her. Bending his knees he appeared to pay homage to her; upon which, taking him by the bridle, "Gentle Hobby," said she, "wouldst thou kindly bear me to my Fairy godmother's? Thou wouldst do me great service; for I am so weary that I feel ready to die: but if thou wilt assist me on this occasion, I will give thee good oats and good hay, and a litter of fresh straw to lie upon." The horse bent himself almost to the ground, and young Finette jumping upon him, he galloped off with her as lightly as a bird. He stopped at the entrance of the grotto, as if he had known where he was to go to; and, in fact, he knew well enough; for it was Merluche herself who, having foreseen her goddaughter's visit, had sent the fine horse for her.

As soon as Finette entered the grotto, she made three profound curtsies to her godmother, and took the hem of her gown and kissed it, and then said to her, "Good day, godmother, how do you do? I have brought you some butter, milk, flour, and eggs, to make a cake with after our country fashion." "You are welcome, Finette," said the Fairy; "come hither that I may embrace you." She kissed her twice, at which Finette was greatly delighted, for Madame Merluche was not one of those fairies you might find by the dozen. "Come, goddaughter," said she, "you shall be my little lady's maid. Take down my hair and comb it." The Princess took her hair down and combed it as cleverly as possible. "I know well enough," said Merluche, "what brought you hither. You overheard the King and Queen consulting how they might lose you, and you would avoid this misfortune. Here, you have only to take this skein of thread; it will never break. Fasten one end of it to the door of your house and keep the other end in your hand; when the Queen leaves you, you will easily find your way back by following the thread."

The Princess thanked her godmother, who gave her a bag full of fine dresses all of gold and silver. She embraced her, placed her again on the pretty horse, and in two or three minutes he carried Finette to the door of their majesties' cottage. "My little friend," said Finette to the horse, "you are very handsome and clever; your speed is as great as the sun's. I thank you for your service. Return to the place you came from." She entered the house softly, and hiding her bag under her bolster went to bed, without appearing to know anything that had taken place. At break of day the King woke his wife: "Come, come, Madam," said he, "make ready for your journey." She got up directly, took her thick shoes, a short petticoat, a white jacket, and a stick. She summoned her eldest daughter, who was named Fleur d'Amour; her second, who was named Belle-de-Nuit, and her third, named Fine-Oreille, whom they familiarly called Finette. "I have been thinking all last night," said the Queen, "that we ought to go and see my sister; she will entertain us capitally. We may feast and laugh as much as we like there." Fleur d'Amour, who was in despair at living in a desert, said to her mother, "Let us go, Madam, wherever you please; provided I may walk somewhere, I don't care." The two others said as much. They took leave of the King and set off all four together. They went so far—so far, that Fine-Oreille was much afraid her thread would not be long enough, for they had gone nearly a thousand leagues. She walked always behind the others, drawing the thread cleverly through the thickets.

When the Queen imagined that her daughters could not find the way back, she entered a thick wood, and said to them, "Sleep, my little lambs, I will be like the shepherdess, ​who watches over her flock for fear the wolf should devour them." They laid themselves down on the grass and went to sleep. The Queen left them there, believing she should never see them again. Finette had shut her eyes, but not gone to sleep. "If I were an ill-natured girl," said she to herself, "I should go home directly and leave my sisters to die here, for they beat me and scratch me till the blood comes. But notwithstanding all their malice, I will not abandon them." She aroused them, and told them the whole story. They began to cry, and begged her to take them with her, promising that they would give her beautiful dolls, a child's set of silver plate, and all their other toys and sweetmeats. "I am quite sure you will do no such thing," said Finette; "but I will behave as a good sister should, for all that." And so saying she rose, and followed the clue with the two princesses, so that they reached home almost as soon as the Queen. Whilst they were at the door, they heard the King say, "It gives me the heart-ache to see you come back alone." "Pshaw!" said the Queen, "our daughters were too great an incumbrance to us." "But," said the King, "if you had brought back my Finette, I might have consoled myself for the loss of the others, for they loved nothing and nobody." At that moment they knocked at the door—rap, rap. "Who is there?" said the King. "Your three daughters," they replied, "Fleur d'Amour, Belle-de-Nuit, and Fine-Oreille." The Queen began to tremble. "Don't open the door," she exclaimed; "it must be their ghosts, for it is impossible they could find their way back alive." The King, who was as great a coward as his wife, called out, "It is false; you are not my daughters!" but Fine-Oreille, who was a shrewd girl, said to him, "Papa, I will stoop down, and do you look at me through the hole made for the cat to come through, and if I am not Finette, I consent to be whipped." The King looked as she told him to do, and as soon as he recognised her, he opened the door. The Queen pretended to be delighted to see them again, and said, "that she had forgotten something, and had come home to fetch it; but that most assuredly she should have returned to them." They pretended to believe her, and went up to a snug little hay-loft, in which they always slept.

"Now, sisters," said Finette, "you promised me a doll; ​give it me." "Thou mayst wait for it long enough, little rogue," said they. "Thou art the cause of the King's caring so little for us;" and thereupon, snatching up their distaffs, they beat her as if she had been so much mortar. When they had beaten her as much as they chose, they let her go to bed, but as she was covered with wounds and bruises, she could not sleep, and she heard the Queen say to the King, "I will take them in another direction, much further, and I am confident they will never return." When Finette heard this plot, she rose very softly to go and see her godmother again. She went into the hen-yard and took two hens and a cock, and wrung their necks, also two little rabbits that the Queen was fattening upon cabbages, to make a feast of on the next occasion. She put them all into a basket and set off: but she had not gone a league groping her way and quaking with fear, when the Spanish horse came up at a gallop, snorting and neighing. She thought it was all over with her; that some soldiers were about to seize her. When she saw the beautiful horse all alone, she jumped upon him, delighted to travel so comfortably, and arrived almost immediately at her godmother's.

I can see nothing." "Ah, then, the oak is not tall enough," said Fleur d'Amour; so they continued to water it, and say, "Grow, grow, beautiful acorn!" Finette never failed climbing it twice a-day. One morning when she was up in the tree, Belle-de-Nuit said to Fleur d'Amour, "I have found a bag which our sister has hidden from us. What can there be in it?" Fleur d'Amour replied, "She told me it contained some old lace she had got to mend." "I believe it is full of sugar-plums," said Belle-de-Nuit. She had a sweet tooth, and determined to ascertain the fact. She opened the bag, and found in it actually a quantity of old lace belonging to the King and Queen, but hidden beneath it were the fine clothes the Fairy had given to Finette, and the box of diamonds. "Well, now! was there ever such a sly little rogue?" exclaimed Belle-de-Nuit; "we will take out all the things, and put some stones in their place." They did so directly. Finette rejoined them, without observing what they had done, for she never dreamed of decking herself out in a desert; she thought of nothing but the oak, which speedily became the finest oak that ever was seen.

One day that she had climbed up into it, and that her sisters as usual asked her if she could see anything, she exclaimed, "I can see a large mansion, so fine—so fine, that I want words to describe it; the walls are of emeralds and rubies, the roof of diamonds; it is all covered with golden bells and weathercocks that whirl about as the wind blows." "Thou liest," said they; "it cannot be as fine as thou sayest." "Believe me," replied Finette, "I am no story-teller; come and see for yourselves; my eyes are quite dazzled by it." Fleur d'Amour climbed up the tree. When she saw the château, she could talk of nothing else. Belle-de-Nuit, who had a great deal of curiosity, failed not to climb in her turn, ​and was as much enchanted as her sisters at the sight of the château. "We must certainly go to this palace," they said; "perhaps we shall find in it some handsome princes, who will be only too happy to marry us." They talked the whole evening long on this subject, and lay down to sleep on the grass; but when Finette appeared to them in a sound slumber, Fleur d'Amour said to Belle-de-Nuit, "I'll tell you what we should do, sister; let us get up and dress ourselves in the fine clothes Finette has brought hither." "You are in the right," said Belle-de-Nuit; so they got up, curled their hair, powdered it, put patches on their cheeks,[1] and dressed themselves in the beautiful gold and silver gowns all covered with diamonds. Never was anything so magnificent. Finette, ignorant of the theft her wicked sisters had committed, took up her bag with the intention of dressing herself, but was vastly distressed to find nothing in it but flints. At the same moment she perceived her sisters shining like suns. She wept, and complained of the treachery they had been guilty of towards her, but they only laughed and made a joke of it. "Is it possible," said she to them, "that you will have the effrontery to take me to the château, without dressing and making me as fine as you are?" "We have barely enough for ourselves," replied Fleur d'Amour. "Thou shalt have nothing but blows, an' thou importunest us." "But," continued she, "the clothes you have on are mine; my godmother gave them to me. You have no claim to them." "If thou sayest more about it," said they, "we will knock thee on the head, and bury thee without any one being the wiser!" Poor Finette did not dare provoke them; she followed them slowly, walking some short distance behind them, as if she were only their servant.

The nearer they approached to the mansion the more wonderful it appeared to them. "Oh!" said Fleur d'Amour and Belle-de-Nuit, "how we shall amuse ourselves!—what capital dinners we shall get! We shall dine at the King's table; but Finette will have to wash the dishes in the kitchen, for she looks like a scullion; and if anybody asks who she is, we must take care not to call her our sister; we must say she is ​the little cowkeeper in the village." The lovely and sensible Finette was in despair at being so ill-treated.

When they reached the castle-gate they knocked at it. It was opened immediately by a terrific old woman. She had but one eye, which was in the middle of her forehead, but it was bigger than five or six ordinary ones. Her nose was flat, her complexion swarthy, and her mouth so horrible that it frightened you to look at it. She was fifteen feet high, and measured thirty round her body. "Unfortunate wretches!" said she to them; "what brought ye hither? Know ye not this is the Ogre's Castle, and that all three of you would scarcely suffice for his breakfast? But I am more good-natured than my husband. Come in; I will not eat you all at once. You shall have the consolation of living two or three days longer." When they heard the Ogress say this, they ran away, hoping to escape; but one of her strides was equal to fifty of theirs. She ran after and caught them, one by the hair, the others by the nape of the neck; and putting them under her arm took them into the castle, and threw them all three into the cellar, which was full of toads and adders, and strewed with the bones of those the Ogres had eaten.

As the Ogress fancied eating Finette immediately, she went to fetch some vinegar, oil, and salt, to make her into a salad, but hearing the Ogre coming, and thinking that the Princesses were so white and delicate that she should like to eat them all herself, she popped them quickly under a large tub, out of which they could only look through a hole.

The Ogre was six times as tall as his wife; when he spoke, the building shook, and when he coughed it was like peals of thunder. He had but one great filthy eye; his hair stood all on end; he leaned on a huge log of wood which he used for a cane. He had a covered basket in his hand, out of which he pulled fifteen little children he had stolen on the road, and swallowed them like fifteen new-laid eggs. When the Princesses saw him they trembled under the tub. They were afraid to cry, lest they should be heard, but they whispered to each other: "He will eat us all alive; is there no way to save ourselves?"

The Ogre said to his wife, "Look ye, I smell fresh meat; give it me." "That's good!" said the Ogress; "thou dost ​always fancy thou smellest fresh meat; it is thy sheep which have just passed by." "Oh! I am not mistaken," said the Ogre, "I smell fresh meat for certain, and I shall hunt everywhere for it." "Hunt," said she; "thou wilt find nothing." "If I do find it, and thou hast hidden it from me," replied the Ogre, "I will cut thy head off, and make a ball of it." She was frightened at this threat, and said, "Be not angry, my dear little Ogre, I will tell thee the truth. Three young girls came here to-day, and I have got them safe, but it would be a pity to eat them, for they know how to do everything; I am old and want rest; thou seest our fine house is very dirty, that our bread is badly made, and thy soup now rarely pleases thee; that I myself do not appear so handsome in thine eyes since I have worked so hard. These girls will be my servants. I pray thee do not eat them just now; if thou shouldst fancy one of them some other day, they will be always in thy power."

The Ogre was very reluctant to promise that he would not eat them immediately. "Let me alone," said he, "I will only eat two of them." "No, thou shalt not eat them." "Well then, I will only eat the smallest;" and she replied, "No, thou shalt not touch one of them." At last, after much contention, he promised he would not eat them. She thought to herself, "When he goes hunting I will eat them, and tell him they have made their escape."

The Ogre came out of the cellar, and told his wife to bring the girls before him. The poor Princesses were almost dead with fright; the Ogress tried to comfort them. When they were brought before the Ogre, he asked them what they could do. They answered, they could sweep, and sew, and spin, exceedingly well; that they could make ragouts so delicious that you would eat even the plates; and as for bread, cakes, and patties, people had been wont to send to them for a thousand leagues round. The Ogre was dainty. "Aha!" said he, "set these good housewives to work immediately; but," said he to Finette, "after you have lighted the fire, how do you know when the oven is hot enough?" "My Lord," she replied, "I throw some butter into it, and then taste it with my tongue." "Very well," said he; "light the oven fire, then." The oven was as big as a stable, for the Ogre and Ogress ate more bread than would feed two armies. The ​Princess made a terrific fire. The oven was as hot as a furnace; and the Ogre, who was present, waiting for his new bread, ate in the meanwhile a hundred lambs and a hundred little sucking-pigs. Fleur d'Amour and Belle-de-Nuit were making the dough. "Well," said the great Ogre, "is the oven hot?" "You shall see, my Lord," said Finette. She threw in a thousand pounds of butter, and then said to him, "It should be tasted with the tongue, but I am too short to reach it." "I am tall enough," said the Ogre; and stooping, he thrust his body so far into the oven that he could not recover himself, and so all the flesh was burnt off his bones. When the Ogress came to the oven she was astounded to find her husband a mountain of cinders!

Fleur d'Amour and Belle-de-Nuit, who saw she was very much distressed, consoled her to the best of their ability, but they feared her grief would too soon subside, and, her appetite returning, she would make a salad of them as she was about to do before. They said to her, "Take comfort, Madam, you will find some king or some marquis who will be delighted to marry you." She smiled a little, showing her teeth longer than one's fingers.

When they saw her in such a good humour, Finette said to her, "If you would throw off these horrible bear-skins in which you wrap yourself, and follow the fashion, we will dress your hair to perfection, and you will look like a star." "Come," said the Ogress, "let us see what thou wouldst do; but assure thyself that if there be any ladies handsomer than me, I will make minced-meat of thee!" Upon this the three Princesses took off her cap, and began combing and curling her hair, amusing her all the while with their chatter. Finette then taking a hatchet, struck her from behind such a blow that her head was taken clean from her shoulders.

Never was there such delight! The three Princesses mounted upon the roof of the mansion to amuse themselves by ringing the golden bells. They ran into all the apartments, which were of pearls and diamonds, and the furniture so costly, that they were ready to die with pleasure. They laughed, they sang, they wanted for nothing. There were corn, sweetmeats, fruit, and dolls, in abundance. Fleur d'Amour and Belle-de-Nuit went to sleep in beds of brocade and velvet, and said to each other, "Behold us richer than our father was ​when he was in possession of his kingdom; but we want to be married, and nobody will venture here. This mansion no doubt is considered a cut-throat place, for people are not aware of the death of the Ogre and Ogress. We must go to the nearest city, and show ourselves in our fine dresses, and we shall soon find some honest bankers who will be very glad to marry Princesses." As soon as they were dressed, they told Finette they were going to take a walk; that she must stay at home and cook, and wash and clean the house, so that on their return they might find everything as it should be: if not, she should be beaten within an inch of her life! Poor Finette, whose heart was full of grief, remained alone in the house, sweeping, cleaning, washing, without resting, and crying all the time. "How unfortunate," she said, "that I should have disobeyed my godmother! All sorts of evils happen to me; my sisters have stolen my costly dresses, and array themselves in my ornaments. But for me, the Ogre and his wife would be alive and well at this moment. How have I benefited by destroying them?" When she had said this, she sobbed till she was almost choked. Shortly afterwards her sisters returned laden with Portugal oranges, preserves, and sugar. "Ah!" said they to her, "what a splendid ball we have been to! How it was crowded! The King's son was amongst the dancers; we have had a thousand compliments paid to us. Come, take our shoes off and clean them, as it is your business to do." Finette obeyed them, and if by accident she let a word drop in the way of complaint, they flew at her, and beat her almost to death.

The next day they went out again, and returned with an account of new wonders. One evening that Finette was sitting in the chimney corner on a heap of cinders, not knowing what to do, she examined the cracks in the chimney, and found in one of them a little key so old and so dirty that she had the greatest trouble in cleaning it. When she had done so she found it was made of gold, and presuming that a golden key ought to open some beautiful little box, she ran all over the mansion trying it in all the locks, and at length found it fitted that of a casket which was a masterpiece of art. She opened it, and found it full of clothes, diamonds, lace, linen, and ribands, worth immense sums of money. She said not a word of her good luck to her sisters, but waited ​impatiently for their going out the next day. As soon as they were out of sight she dressed and adorned herself, till she looked more beautiful than the sun and moon together.

Thus arrayed, she went to the ball where her sisters were dancing, and though she had no mask on,[2] she was so changed for the better that they did not know her. As soon as she appeared a murmur arose throughout the assembly; some were full of admiration, others of jealousy. She was asked to dance, and surpassed all the other ladies in grace as much as she did in beauty. The mistress of the mansion came to her, and making her a profound curtsy, requested to know her name, that she might always remember with pleasure the appellation of such a marvellously beautiful person. She replied civilly that her name was Cendron. There was not a lover who did not leave his mistress for Cendron: not a poet who did not make verses on Cendron. Never did a little name make so much noise in so short a time. The echoes repeated nothing but the praises of Cendron. People had not eyes enough to gaze upon her, nor tongues enough to extol her.

Fleur d'Amour and Belle-de-Nuit, who had previously created a great sensation wherever they appeared, observing the reception accorded to this new comer, were ready to burst with spite: but Finette extricated herself from all ill-consequences with the best grace in the world. Her manners appeared those of one born to command.

Fleur d'Amour and Belle-de-Nuit, who never saw their sister but with her face begrimed with soot from the chimney, and altogether as dirty as a dog, had so completely lost all idea of her beauty that they did not recognise her in the least. They paid their court to Cendron, as well as the rest. As soon as she saw the ball was nearly over, she hastened away, returned home, undressed herself quickly, and put on her old rags. When her sisters arrived, "Ah! Finette," said they to her, "we have just seen a young princess who is perfectly charming. She is not a young ape such as thou art, she is as white as snow, with a richer crimson than the roses; her teeth are pearls, her lips coral; she had a gown on that ​must have weighed more than a thousand pounds. It was all gold and diamonds. How beautiful! how amiable she is!" Finette said in a low voice, "So was I; so was I." "What dost thou mutter there?" said her sisters. She repeated in a still lower tone, "So was I; so was I." This little game was played for some time. There was scarcely a day that Finette did not appear in a new dress; for the casket was a fairy one, and the more you took out of it the more there came in, and everything so highly fashionable, that all the ladies dressed themselves in imitation of Finette.

One evening that Finette had danced more than usual, and had delayed her departure to a later hour, being anxious to make up for lost time and get home a little before her sisters, she walked so fast that she lost one of her slippers, which was of red velvet, embroidered with pearls. She tried to find it in the road, but the night was so dark, her search was in vain, and she entered the house one foot shod and the other not. The next day, Prince Chéri, the King's eldest son, going out hunting, found Finette's slipper. He had it picked up, examined it, admired its diminutive size and elegance, turned it over and over, kissed it, took care of it and carried it home with him. From that day he would eat nothing, he became thin, and altered visibly; was yellow as a quince, melancholy, depressed. The King and Queen, who loved him to distraction, sent in every direction for the choicest game and the best sweetmeats. They were less than nothing to him. He looked at it all without uttering a word in reply to his mother when she spoke to him. They sent everywhere for the first physicians, even as far as Paris, and Montpellier.[3] When they arrived they saw the Prince, and after watching him for three days and three nights without once losing sight of him, they came to the conclusion that he was in love, and that he would die if they did not find the only remedy for him. The Queen who doted on her son, was nearly dissolved in tears, so great was her grief at not being able to discover the object of his love, that he might marry her. She brought into his apartment the most beautiful ladies she could find. He would not ​condescend to look at them. At length she said to him, one day, "My dear son, thou wilt kill me with grief, for thou lovest and concealest from us thy passion. Tell us whom thou lovest, and we will give her to thee, though she should only be a simple shepherdess." The Prince taking courage from the promises of the Queen, drew the slipper from under his bolster, and showing it to her, said, "Behold, Madam, the cause of my malady. I found this little, soft delicate, pretty slipper as I went out to hunt, and I will never marry any one but the woman who can wear it." "Well, my son," said the queen, "do not afflict yourself, we will have her sought for." She hastened to the King with this intelligence. He was very much surprised, and ordered immediately that a proclamation should be made with sound of drum and trumpet, that all single women should come and try on the slipper, and that she whom it fitted should marry the Prince. On hearing this every one washed their feet with all sorts of waters, pastes and pommades, some ladies actually had them peeled, and others starved themselves in order to make their feet smaller and prettier.

They went in crowds to try on the slipper, but not one of them could get it on, and the more they came in vain, the greater was the Prince's affliction. Fleur d'Amour and Belle-de-Nuit dressed themselves one day so superbly, that they were astonishing to look at. "Where can you be going to?" asked Finette. "We are going to the great city," replied they, "where the King and Queen reside, to try on the slipper the King's son has found; for if it should fit either of us, the Prince will marry her, and then my sister or I will be a queen." "And why should not I go?" said Finette. "Thou art a pretty simpleton, truly," said they; "go, go, and water our cabbages; thou art fit for nothing better."

Finette thought directly she would put on her finest clothes, and go and take her chance with the rest, for she had a slight suspicion that she should be successful. What troubled her was, that she did not know her way; for the ball at which she had danced was not given in the great city. She dressed herself magnificently; her gown was of blue satin, covered with stars in diamonds. She had a sun of them in her hair, and a full moon on her back; and all these jewels shone so brightly, that one couldn't look at her without ​winking. When she opened the door to go out, she was much surprised to see the pretty Spanish horse which had carried her to her godmother's. She patted him, and said, "You are most welcome, my little hobby. I am much obliged to my godmother, Merluche." He knelt down, and she mounted upon him like a nymph: he was all covered with golden bells and ribands. His housings and bridle were priceless, and Finette was thirty times more beautiful than fair Helen of Troy.

The Spanish horse galloped off gaily, his bells went "ting, ting, ting." Fleur d'Amour and Belle-de-Nuit, hearing the sound of them, turned round and saw her coming; but what was their astonishment at that moment? They knew her to be both Finette and Cendron. They were very much splashed, their fine dresses draggled with mud. "Sister!" cried Fleur d'Amour to Belle-de-Nuit, "I protest here is Finette Cendron." The other echoed the cry; and Finette passing close to them, her horse splashed them all over, making them a mass of mud. Finette laughed at them, and said, "Your Highnesses, Cendron[4] despises you as you deserve;" then passing them like a shot, she disappeared. Belle-de-Nuit and Fleur d'Amour looked at each other. "Are we dreaming?" said they; "who could have supplied Finette with clothes and a horse? what miracle is this? Good fortune attends her; she will put on the slipper, and we shall have made a long journey in vain."

Whilst they were distressing themselves, Finette arrived at the palace. The moment she appeared everybody thought she was a Queen. The guards presented arms, the drums beat, and the trumpets sounded a flourish; all the gates were flung open, and those who had seen her at the ball preceded her, crying, "Room! room! for the beautiful Cendron, the wonder of the world!" She entered in this state the apartment of the dying Prince. He cast his eyes on her, and enraptured at her sight, wished fervently that her foot might be small enough for her to wear the slipper. She put it on instantly, and produced its fellow which she had brought with her on purpose. Shouts immediately arose of "Long live the ​Princess Chérie, long live the Princess who will be our Queen!" The Prince arose from his couch, and advanced to kiss her hand; she found he was handsome and very intelligent. He paid her a thousand delicate attentions. The King and Queen were informed of the event. They came in all haste, and the Queen took Finette in her arms, called her her daughter, her darling, her little Queen! and made her some magnificent presents, to which the liberal King added many more. They fired the guns; violins, bagpipes, every sort of musical instrument was set playing; nothing was talked of but dancing and rejoicing. The King, the Queen, and the Prince, begged Cendron to consent to the marriage taking place immediately. "No," said she, "I must first tell you my history," which she did in a few words. When they found that she was a Princess born, there was another burst of joy, which was almost the death of them; but when she told them the names of the King and Queen, her father and mother, they recognised them as the sovereigns whose dominions they had conquered. They imparted this fact to Finette, and she immediately vowed she would not consent to marry the Prince until they had restored the estates of her father. They promised to do so, for they had upwards of a hundred kingdoms, and one more or less was not worth talking about.

In the meanwhile Belle-de-Nuit and Fleur d'Amour arrived at the palace. The first news that greeted them was that Cendron had put on the slipper. They knew not what to do or to say; they determined to go back again without seeing her; but when she heard they were there, she insisted they should come in, and instead of frowning on them and punishing them as they deserved, she rose and advanced to meet them, embraced them tenderly, and then presented them to the Queen, saying to her, "Madam, these are my sisters; they are very amiable, and I request you will love them." They were so confused at the kindness of Finette, that they could not utter a word. She promised them they should return to their own kingdom, which the Prince would restore to their family. At these words they threw themselves on their knees before her, weeping for joy.

The nuptials were the most splendid that ever were seen. Finette wrote to her godmother and put the letter, ​accompanied with valuable presents, on the back of the pretty Spanish horse, begging her to seek the King and Queen, to tell them their good fortune, and that they had nothing to do but return to their kingdom. The Fairy Merluche acquitted herself very graciously of this commission. The father and mother of Finette were repossessed of their estates, and her sisters became afterwards queens as well as herself.

Revenged on the ungrateful wouldst thou be,

Of young Finette pursue the policy.

Fresh favours on the undeserving heap;

Each benefit inflicts a wound most deep,

Cutting the conscious bosom to the core.

Finette's proud, selfish sisters suffer'd more,

When by her generous kindness overpower'd,

Than if by Ogres they had been devour'd.

From her example then this lesson learn,

And good for evil nobly still return;

Whate'er the wrong that may thy wrath awake,

No grander vengeance for it could'st thou take.

[sonneillonv]

yea you're right with everything. i guess eddie sometimes takes the special k when he needs to escape too. what most people criticise is that he could have made her addicted to it because that happens when you take drugs to escape

Yeah, that can definitely happen. And who knows? He might take it. We don't really know whether he self-medicates with anything (besides alcohol, and very mild alcohol at that). He's definitely not getting any actual medication for his obvious ADHD 😅

Talking about addiction is thorny and difficult for a number of reasons. Classism, ableism, general anti-drug attitudes, and hell, even racism all play a part in how addiction is viewed in American culture. Addiction is hard to define - a lot of people in this fandom have pointed out that K is about as harmless, and only slightly more addictive, than caffeine and marijuana. But when people are dependent on caffeine, we typically don't describe that as an 'addiction', or if we do, we don't attribute the same stigma to it as we would if someone was addicted to Ketamine.

This is especially funny to me because I have ADHD. People with ADHD notoriously self-medicate with caffeine because it has the opposite effect on us that it has on other people. It's incredibly easy for someone with ADHD to develop a caffeine dependency that can actually affect their health in many ways (not just the withdrawal headaches but blood pressure and heart problems that can be dangerous), but we don't get stigmatized for that: we get stigmatized for taking Adderall, which basically does the same thing for us. Adderall is a controlled substance because it's SO popular on the street. It is, essentially, a legal dosage of Speed, and because it's associated with recreational drug use, it's heavily regulated - which means I have to overcome hurdles to get my prescription that a lot of other people don't. Since ADHD makes remembering to do stuff and forming habits really difficult for me, extra barriers result in frequent medication lapses - I can't get a 90 day supply, so I have to do a special song and dance to get my meds every single month, and I have to keep seeing my GP so she can keep prescribing it to me in case I'm suddenly 'cured' and don't need it anymore, and she has to put a special call into the pharmacy so they know a real prescriber actually wrote the prescription she transmitted electronically from her office, etc, etc. Those medication lapses fuck with my health because you're not supposed to just 'stop' Adderall. It's addictive, and you will have symptoms if you go cold turkey. Not to mention, if I have a lapse for more than a few days, my life starts heading down the tubes because I need my medication to function enough to do basic tasks like, y'know, dishes. Laundry. Vacuuming the floor.

So I depend on Adderall, which is addictive. Am I an addict? Is there a difference between me, a person with a prescription, and the kids who are buying it off their local pill guy to help with 'academic performance'? If so, WHY? Why is it different that I need a drug to perform, and they need the same drug to perform? Or, if we flip it around, why is the idea of children taking Adderall to focus better in school such a threat that the system needs to make it nearly impossible for me, an adult with a medical disorder, to have consistent medication? Many, MANY disabled and mentally ill patients face systemic barriers to getting help because people are SO scared of enabling 'addicts'. Pain management in America is utterly fucked because people are so scared of (and disdainful toward) 'addicts'. At some point, we have to recognize that our culture uses the word 'addiction' as a boogeyman. It's meant to create fear and demonize individuals, and that is NOT a constructive way to talk about or address dependency.

Other countries have begun to recognize and treat addiction as an illness (or a consequence of treating an illness which can be managed with professional assistance), and they are seeing a LOT more success in harm reduction and addiction recovery than the US. I don't want to type another five-page essay here, so I'll just say that a lot of people get addicted because they self-medicate. They self-medicate because something in their life is intolerable to them. They may choose more harmful or dangerous methods of self-medicating if they're unable to fix the bad situation or alleviate the pain/stress. A long-term, unhealthy, and degenerative 'addiction' the way that we typically think of it has two factors - the chemical addictiveness of the drug itself, and the threat of the environment you're trying to escape. American rehabilitation suffers because even if you can break a person's chemical dependency on a substance, we don't have the social programs in place to fix the shitty situation that caused them to self-medicate in the first place. Once they're 'clean', they have to go right back to being broke, jobless, unloved, ill, stressed, abused... and if that's too much, and they turn back to substance abuse again, most of us get on a high horse and go, "Tsk tsk, well I guess you never deserved my help in the first place. Never trust an addict!"

To continue my personal example... evidence-based research proves that if you want kids to stop abusing Adderall, it's not effective to put it behind a bunch of legal barriers. What's effective is asking yourself, "Why are kids feeling such immense pressure in school that they need chemical assistance to meet standards? What could we do to alleviate this kind of pressure on students while still helping them learn?" Then addressing the root problem, which removes the need to self-medicate.

'Addiction' isn't a monster in the closet. It isn't some kind of looming evil. Lots of people need a particular substance to live and function. The diabetics in my family are utterly dependent on insulin to live, and I'm dependent on Adderall to do dishes. They need one kind of help, I need another. Someone who's become dependent on heroin needs a different kind of help to thrive. But it's all HELP. It's all NEED. With Harm Reduction, we focus less on demonizing the fact that people have needs, and more helping people meet their needs without destroying their lives. In the case of heroin that would mean breaking their chemical dependency, but it's not because "OMG it's bad that you need this". It's because the heroin is killing them and we want to find a way to alleviate their suffering that doesn't also kill them.

So when people are like, "OMG Chrissy could have got addicted!" I'm over here like "Yeah she could have got 'addicted' to pseudoephedrine or adderall or prozac too, so what?" (in the sense that none of the above are 'addictive' on par with, say, opioids but can create dependency in the long-term.) Nice upper-middle-class girls take that stuff all the time. If people care about Chrissy avoiding addiction, the solution is to address the problems in her home life, not to clutch pearls over a tranquilizer she was offered once.

That's why it seems pretty obvious to me that people who demonize Eddie for selling her K don't actually care about Chrissy (or real people with chemical dependencies) at all, they're just trying to feel superior. Just another expression of modern puritanism in fandom and I'm over it. 🙄

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I have always appreciated your thoughtful views on the defence of the British monarchy, and as a university historian it’s reassuring to see someone using history to make invalubale insights to a controversial institution. I wonder what are your own thoughts on the passing of Prince Philip and what his legacy might be? Was he a gaffe prone racist and a liability to the Queen?

I know you kindly got in touch and identified yourself when you felt I was ignoring your question. I’m glad we cleared that up via DM. The truth is as I said and I’m saying here is that I had to let some time pass before I felt I could reasonably answer this question. Simply because - as you know as someone who teaches history at university - distance is good to make a sober appraisal rather than knee jerk in the moment judgements.

Contrary to what some might think I’m not really a fan girl when it comes to the royal family. I don’t religiously follow their every movement or utterance especially as I live in Paris and therefore I don’t really care about tabloid tittle tattle. I only get to hear of anything to do with the royal family when I speak to my parents or my great aunts and uncles for whom the subject is closer to their heart because of the services my family has rendered over past generations to the monarchy and the older (and dying) tight knit social circles they travel in.

Like Walter Bagehot, I’m more interested in the monarchy as an institution and its constitutional place within the historical, social, and political fabric of Britain and its continued delicate stabilising importance to that effect. It was Walter Bagehot, the great constitutional scholar and editor the Economist magazine, who said, “The mystic reverence, the religious allegiance, which are essential to a true monarchy, are imaginative sentiments that no legislature can manufacture in any people.” In his view, a politically-inactive monarchy served the best interests of the United Kingdom; by abstaining from direct rule, the monarch levitated above the political fray with dignity, and remained a respected personage to whom all subjects could look to as a guiding light.

Even as a staunch monarchist I freely confess that there has always been this odd nature of the relationship between hereditary monarchy and a society increasingly ambivalent about the institution. To paraphrase Bagehot again, there has been too much ‘daylight’ shone onto the ‘magic’ of the monarchy because we are obsessed with personalities as celebrities.

Having said that I did feel saddened by the passing of Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh. After the Queen, he was my favourite royal. Anne, Princess Royal, would come next because she is very much like her father in temperament, humour, and character, so unlike her other brothers.

I have met the late Prince Philip when I was serving in the army in a few regimental meet-and-greet situations - which as you may know is pretty normal given that members of the royal family serve as honorary colonel-in-chiefs (patrons in effect) of all the British army regiments and corps.I also saw him at one or two social events such the annual charitable Royal Caledonian Ball (he’s an expert scottish reeler) and the Guards Polo Club where my older brothers played.

I’ll will freely confess that he was the one royal I could come close to identify with because his personal biography resonated with me a great deal.

Let’s be honest, the core Windsor family members, born to privilege, are conditioned and raised to be dull. Perhaps that’s a a tad harsh. I would prefer the term ‘anonymously self-effacing’, just another way of saying ‘for God’s sake don’t draw attention to yourself by saying or doing anything even mildly scandalous or political lest it invites public opprobrium and scrutiny’. The Queen magnificently succeeds in this but the others from Charles down just haven’t (with the exception of Princess Anne).

However, many people forget this obvious fact that it’s the incoming husbands and wives who marry into the Windsor family who are relied upon to bring colour and even liven things up a little. And long before Kate Middleton, Meghan Markle (very briefly), or Lady Diana Spencer, were the stars of ‘The Firm’- a phrase first coined by King George VI, Queen Elizabeth II's father who ruled from 1936 to 1952, who was thought to have wryly said, "British royals are 'not a family, we're a firm,” - it was Prince Philip who really livened things up and made the greater impact on the monarchy than any of them in the long term.  

Prince Philip’s passing belied the truth of a far more complex individual: a destitute and penniless refugee Greek-Danish prince with a heart breaking backstory that could have been penned by any 19th Century novelist, and also eagle eyed reformer who tried to drag the royal family into the 20th century. At the core of the man - lost scion of a lost European royal dynasty, a courageous war veteran, and Queen’s consort - were values in which he attempted to transform and yet maintain much older inherited traditions and attitudes. Due to his great longevity, Philip’s life came to span a period of social change that is almost unprecedented, and almost no one in history viewed such a transformation from the front row.

Prince Philip would seem to represent in an acute form the best of the values of that era, which in many ways jar with today’s. He had fought with great courage in the war as a dashing young naval officer; he was regularly rude to foreigners, which was obviously a bonus to all Brits. He liked to ride and sail and shoot things. He was unsentimental almost to a comic degree, which felt reassuring at a time when a new-found emotional incontinence made many feel uncomfortable. Outrageous to some but endearing to others, he was the sort of man you’d want to go for a pint with, perhaps the ultimate compliment that an Englishman can pay to another Englishman. This has its own delicious irony as he wasn’t really an Englishman.

There are 4 takeways I would suggest in my appraisal of Prince Philip that stand out for me. So let me go through each one.

1. Prince Philip’s Internationalism

It may seem odd for me to say that Prince Philip wasn’t English but he wasn’t an Englishman in any real sense. He was a wretch of the world - stateless, homeless, and penniless. That the Prince of Nowhere became the British Monarchy’s figurehead was more than fitting for a great age of migration and transition in which the Royal Family survived and even flourished. That he was able to transform himself into the quintessential Englishman is testimony not just to his personal determination but also to the powerful cultural pull of Britishness.

He was born on a kitchen table in Corfu in June 1921. A year later in 1922, Philip, as the the great-great-grandson of Queen Victoria and nephew of Constantine I of Greece, was forced to flee with his family after the abdication of Constantine. He grew up outside Paris speaking French; ethnically he was mostly German although he considered himself Danish, his family originating from the Schleswig border region. He was in effect, despite his demeanour of Royal Navy officer briskness, a citizen of nowhere in an age of movement. From a very young age he was a stateless person, nationally homeless. Indeed, Philip was an outsider in a way that even Meghan Markle could never be; at his wedding in 1947, his three surviving sisters and two brothers-in-law were not permitted to attend because they were literally Britain’s enemies, having fought for the Germans. A third brother-in-law had even been in the SS, working directly for Himmler, but had been killed in the conflict.

Even his religion was slightly exotic. He was Greek Orthodox until he converted to Anglicanism on marrying Elizabeth - what with his wife due to become supreme head of the Church and everything  - but his ties with eastern Christianity remained. His great-aunts Princess Elisabeth of Hesse and by Rhine and Tsarina Alexandra are both martyrs of the Russian Orthodox Church, having been murdered by the Bolsheviks; Philip’s mother went on to become an Orthodox nun and a “Righteous Among the Nations” for saving a Jewish family during the Nazi occupation of Greece, spending much of her time in squalid poverty.

His parents were part of the largely German extended aristocracy who ruled almost all of Europe before it all came crashing down in 1918. When he died, aged 99, it marked a near-century in which all the great ideological struggles had been and gone; he had been born before the Soviet Union but outlived the Cold War, the War on Terror and - almost - Covid-19.

The world that Philip was born into was a far more violent and dangerous place than ours. In the year he was born, Irish rebels were still fighting Black and Tans; over the course of 12 months the Spanish and Japanese prime ministers were assassinated, there was a coup in Portugal and race riots in the United States. Germany was rocked by violence from the far-Left and far-Right, while in Italy a brutal new political movement, the Fascists, secured 30 seats in parliament, led by a trashy journalist called Benito Mussolini.

The worst violence, however, took place in Greece and Turkey. Following the defeat of the Ottoman Empire, what remained of Turkey was marked for permanent enfeeblement by the Allies. But much to everyone’s surprise the country’s force were roused by the brilliant officer Mustafa Kemal, who led the Turks to victory. Constantinople was lost to Christendom for good and thousands of years of Hellenic culture was put to the flames in Smyrna.

The Greek royal family, north German imports shipped in during the 19th century, bore much of the popular anger for this disaster. King Constantine fled to Italy, and his brother Andrew was arrested and only escaped execution through the intervention of his relative Britain’s George V. Andrew’s wife Alice, their four daughters and infant son Philip fled to France, completely impoverished but with the one possession that ensures that aristocrats are never truly poor: connections.

Philip had a traumatic childhood. He was forged by the turmoil of his first decade and then moulded by his schooling. His early years were spent wandering, as his place of birth ejected him, his family disintegrated and he moved from country to country, none of them ever his own. When he was just a year old, he and his family were scooped up by a British destroyer from his home on the Greek island of Corfu after his father had been condemned to death. They were deposited in Italy. One of Philip's first international journeys was spent crawling around on the floor of the train from an Italian port city, "the grubby child on the desolate train pulling out of the Brindisi night," as his older sister Sophia later described it.

In Paris, he lived in a house borrowed from a relative; but it was not destined to become a home. In just one year, while he was at boarding school in Britain, the mental health of his mother, Princess Alice, deteriorated and she went into an asylum; his father, Prince Andrew, went off to Monte Carlo to live with his mistress. "I don't think anybody thinks I had a father," he once said. Andrew would die during the war. Philip went to Monte Carlo to pick up his father's possessions after the Germans had been driven from France; there was almost nothing left, just a couple of clothes brushes and some cuff-links.

Philip’s four sisters were all much older, and were soon all married to German aristocrats (the youngest would soon die in an aeroplane crash, along with her husband and children). His sisters became ever more embroiled in the German regime. In Scotland going to Gordonstoun boarding school, Philip went the opposite direction, becoming ever more British. Following the death of his sister Cecilie in a plane crash in 1937, the gulf widened. As the clouds of conflict gathered, the family simply disintegrated. With a flash of the flinty stoicism that many would later interpret, with no little justification, as self-reliance to the point of dispassion, the prince explained: “It’s simply what happened. The family broke up… I just had to get on with it. You do. One does.”

In the space of 10 years he had gone from a prince of Greece to a wandering, homeless, and virtually penniless boy with no-one to care for him. He got through it by making a joke of everything, and by being practical.

By the time he went to Gordonstoun, a private boarding school on the north coast of Scotland, Philip was tough, independent and able to fend for himself; he'd had to be. Gordonstoun would channel those traits into the school's distinct philosophy of community service, teamwork, responsibility and respect for the individual. And it sparked one of the great passions of Philip's life - his love of the sea. It was Gordonstoun that nurtured that love through the maturation of his character.

Philip adored the school as much as his son Charles would despise it. Not just because the stress it put on physical as well as mental excellence - he was a great sportsman. But because of its ethos, laid down by its founder Kurt Hahn, a Jewish exile from Nazi Germany.

Hahn first met Philip as a boy in Nazi Germany. Through a connection via one of his sister’s husbands, Philip, the poor, lonely boy was first sent off to a new school - in Nazi Germany. Which was as fun as can be imagined. Schloss Salem had been co-founded by stern educator called Kurt Hahn, a tough, discipline-obsessed conservative nationalist who saw civilisation in inexorable decline. But by this stage Hahn, persecuted for being Jewish in Nazi Germany, had fled to Britain, and Philip did not spend long at the school either, where pressure from the authorities was already making things difficult for the teachers. Philip laughed at the Nazis at first, because their salute was the same gesture the boys at his previous school had to make when they wanted to go to the toilet, but within a year he was back in England, a refugee once again.

Philip happily attended Hahn’s new school, Gordonstoun, which the strict disciplinarian had set up in the Scottish Highlands. Inspired by Ancient Sparta, the boys (and then later girls) had to run around barefoot and endure cold showers, even in winter, the whole aim of which was to drive away the inevitable civilisational decay Hahn saw all around him. To 21st century ears it sounds like hell on earth, yet Philip enjoyed it, illustrating just what a totally alien world he came from.

That ethos became a significant, perhaps the significant, part of the way that Philip believed life should be lived. It shines through the speeches he gave later in his life. "The essence of freedom," he would say in Ghana in 1958, "is discipline and self-control." The comforts of the post-war era, he told the British Schools Exploring Society a year earlier, may be important "but it is much more important that the human spirit should not be stifled by easy living". And two years before that, he spoke to the boys of Ipswich School of the moral as well as material imperatives of life, with the "importance of the individual" as the "guiding principle of our society".

It was at Gordonstoun one of the great contradictions of Philip's fascinating life was born. The importance of the individual was what in Kurt Hahn's eyes differentiated Britain and liberal democracies from the kind of totalitarian dictatorship that he had fled. Philip put that centrality of the individual, and individual agency - the ability we have as humans to make our own moral and ethical decisions - at the heart of his philosophy.

At Dartmouth Naval College in 1939, the two great passions of his life would collide. He had learned to sail at Gordonstoun; he would learn to lead at Dartmouth. And his driving desire to achieve, and to win, would shine through. Despite entering the college far later than most other cadets, he would graduate top of his class in 1940. In further training at Portsmouth, he gained the top grade in four out of five sections of the exam. He became one of the youngest first lieutenants in the Royal Navy.

The navy ran deep in his family. His maternal grandfather had been the First Sea Lord, the commander of the Royal Navy; his uncle, "Dickie" Mountbatten, had command of a destroyer while Philip was in training. In war, he showed not only bravery but guile. It was his natural milieu. "Prince Philip", wrote Gordonstoun headmaster Kurt Hahn admiringly, "will make his mark in any profession where he will have to prove himself in a trial of strength".

2. Prince Philip and the modernisation of the monarchy

In his own words, the process of defining what it meant to be a royal consort was one of “trial and error.” Speaking with BBC One’s Fiona Bruce in 2011, Philip explained, “There was no precedent. If I asked somebody, 'What do you expect me to do?' they all looked blank. They had no bloody idea, nobody had much idea.” So he forged for himself a role as a moderniser of the monarchy.

He could not have had much idea back in 1939. Back then in Dartmouth in 1939, as war became ever more certain, the navy was his destiny. He had fallen in love with the sea itself. "It is an extraordinary master or mistress," he would say later, "it has such extraordinary moods." But a rival to the sea would come.

When King George VI toured Dartmouth Naval College, accompanied by Philip's uncle, he brought with him his daughter, Princess Elizabeth. Philip was asked to look after her. He showed off to her, vaulting the nets of the tennis court in the grounds of the college. He was confident, outgoing, strikingly handsome, of royal blood if without a throne. She was beautiful, a little sheltered, a little serious, and very smitten by Philip.

Did he know then that this was a collision of two great passions? That he could not have the sea and the beautiful young woman? For a time after their wedding in 1948, he did have both. As young newlyweds in Malta, he had what he so prized - command of a ship - and they had two idyllic years together. But the illness and then early death of King George VI brought it all to an end.

He knew what it meant, the moment he was told. Up in a lodge in Kenya, touring Africa, with Princess Elizabeth in place of the King, Philip was told first of the monarch's death in February 1952. He looked, said his equerry Mike Parker, "as if a ton of bricks had fallen on him". For some time he sat, slumped in a chair, a newspaper covering his head and chest. His princess had become the Queen. His world had changed irrevocably.

While the late Princess Diana was later to famously claim that there were “three people” in her marriage - herself, Prince Charles and Camilla - there were at least 55 million in Philip and Elizabeth’s. As Elizabeth dedicated her life to her people at Westminster Abbey at the Coronation on June 2, 1953, it sparked something of an existential crisis in Philip. Many people even after his death have never really understood this pivotal moment in Philip’s life. All his dreams of being a naval officer and a life at sea as well as being the primary provider and partner in his marriage were now sacrificed on the altar of duty and love.

With his career was now over, and he was now destined to become the spare part. Philip, very reasonably, asked that his future children and indeed his family be known by his name, Mountbatten. In effect he was asking to change the royal family’s name from the House of Windsor to the House of Mountbatten. But when Prime Minister Winston Churchill got wind of it as well as the more politically agile courtiers behind the Queen, a prolonged battle of wits ensued, and it was one Philip ultimately lost. It was only in 1957 that he accepted the title of “Prince.”

Even though he had almost lost everything dear to him and his role now undefined, he didn’t throw himself a pity party. He just got on with it. Philip tried to forge his own distinct role as second fiddle to the woman who had come to represent Great Britain. He designated himself the First Officer of the Good Ship Windsor. He set about dusting off some of the cobwebs off the throne and letting some daylight unto the workings of the monarchy by advocating reasonable amount of modernisation of the monarchy.

He had ideas about modernising the royal family that might be called “improving optics” today. But in his heart of hearts he didn’t want the monarchy to become a stuffy museum piece. He envisaged a less stuffy and more popular monarchy, relevant to the lives of ordinary people. Progress was always going to be incremental as he had sturdy opposition from the old guard who wanted to keep everything as it was, but nevertheless his stubborn energy resulted in significant changes.

When a commission chaired by Prince Philip proposed broadcasting the 1953 investiture ceremony that formally named Elizabeth II as queen on live television, Prime Minister Winston Churchill reacted with outright horror, declaring, “It would be unfitting that the whole ceremony should be presented as if it were a theatrical performance.” Though the queen had initially voiced similar concerns, she eventually came around to the idea, allowing the broadcast of all but one segment of the coronation. Ultimately, according to the BBC, more than 20 million people tuned in to the televised ceremony - a credit to the foresight of Philip.

Elizabeth’s coronation marked a watershed moment for a monarchy that has, historically, been very hands off, old-fashioned and slightly invisible. Over the following years, the royals continued to embrace television as a way of connecting with the British people: In 1957, the queen delivered her annual Christmas address during a live broadcast. Again, this was Philip’s doing when he cajoled the Queen to televise her message live. He even helped her in how to use the teleprompter to get over her nerves and be herself on screen.

Four years later, in 1961, Philip became the first family member to sit for a television interview. It is hard for us to imagine now but back then it was huge. For many it was a significant step in modernising the monarchy.

Though not everything went to plan. Toward the end of the decade, the Windsors even invited cameras into their home. A 1969 BBC fly-on-the-wall documentary, instigated by Philip to show life behind the scenes, turned into an unmitigated disaster: “The Windsors” revealed the royals to be a fairly normal, if very rich, British upper-class family who liked barbecues, ice cream, watching television and bickering. The mystery of royalty took a hit below the waterline from their own torpedo, a self-inflicted wound from which they took a long time to recover. Shown once, the documentary was never aired again. But it had an irreversible effect, and not just by revealing the royals to be ordinary. By allowing the cameras in, Philip opened the lid to the prying eyes of the paparazzi who could legitimately argue that since the Royals themselves had sanctioned exposure, anything went. From then on, minor members of the House of Windsor were picked off by the press, like helpless tethered animals on a hunting safari.

Prince Philip also took steps to reorganise and renovate the royal estates in Sandringham and Balmoral such as intercoms, modern dish washers,  generally sought to make the royal household and the monarchy less stuffy, not to have so much formality everywhere.

Philip helped modernised the monarchy in other ways to acknowledge that the monarchy could be responsive to changes in society. It was Prince Philip - much to the chagrin of the haughty Princess Margaret and other stuffy old courtiers - who persuaded the Queen to host informal lunches and garden parties designed to engage a broader swath of the British public. Conversely, Prince Philip heartily encouraged the Queen (she was all for it apparently but was still finding her feet as a new monarch) to end the traditional practice of presenting debutantes from aristocratic backgrounds at court in 1952. For Philip and others it felt antiquated and out of touch with society. I know in speaking to my grandmother and others in her generation the decision was received with disbelief at how this foreign penniless upstart could come and stomp on the dreams of mothers left to clutch their pearls at the prospect there would be no shop window for their daughter to attract a suitable gentleman for marriage. One of my great aunts was over the moon happy that she never would have to go through what she saw as a very silly ceremony because she preferred her muddy wellies to high heels. 

A former senior member of the royal household, who spent several years working as one of Prince Philip’s aides, and an old family friend, once told us around a family dinner table that the Duke of Edinburgh was undoubtedly given a sense of permanence by his marriage into the Royal Family that was missing from earlier years. But the royal aide would hastily add that Prince Philip, of course, would never see it that way.

Prince Philip’s attitude was to never brood on things or seek excuses. And he did indeed get on with the job in his own way  - there should be no doubt that when it came to building and strengthening the Royal Family it was a partnership of equals with the Queen. Indeed contrary to Netflix’s hugely popular series ‘The Crown’ and its depiction of the royal marriage with Philip’s resentment at playing second fiddle, the prince recognised that his “first duty was to serve the Queen in the best way I could,” as he told ITV in 2011. Though this role was somewhat ill-suited to his dynamic, driven, and outspoken temperament, Philip performed it with utter devotion.

3. Prince Philip’s legacy

One could argue rightly that modernising the monarchy was his lasting legacy achievement. But he also tried to modernise a spent and exhausted Britain as it emerged from a ruinous war. When peace came, and with it eventual economic recovery, Philip would throw himself into the construction of a better Britain, urging the country to adopt scientific methods, embracing the ideas of industrial design, planning, education and training. A decade before Harold Wilson talked of the "white heat of the technological revolution", Philip was urging modernity on the nation in speeches and interviews. He was on top of his reading of the latest scientific breakthroughs and well read in break out innovations.

This interest in modernisation was only matched by his love for nature. As the country and the world became richer and consumed ever more, Philip warned of the impact on the environment, well before it was even vaguely fashionable. As president of the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) in the UK for more than 20 years from 1961, he was one of the first high-profile advocates of the cause of conservation and biological diversity at a time when it was considered the preserve of an eccentric few.

For a generation of school children in Britain and the Commonwealth though, his most lasting legacy and achievement will be the Duke of Edinburgh Awards (DofE). He set up the Duke of Edinburgh award, a scheme aimed at getting young people out into nature in search of adventure or be of service to their communities. It was a scheme that could match the legacy of Baden Powell’s scouts movement. 

When Prince Philip first outlined his idea of a scheme to harness the values of his education at Gordonstoun by bringing character-building outdoor pursuits to the many rather than the fee-paying few, he received short shrift from the government of the day. The then minister of education, Sir David Eccles responded to the Duke’s proposal by saying: “I hear you’re trying to invent something like the Hitler Youth.” Undeterred he pushed on until it came to fruition.

I’m so glad that he did. I remember how proud I was for getting my DofE Awards while I was at boarding school. With the support of great mentors I managed to achieve my goals: collecting second-hand English books for a literacy programme for orphaned street children in Delhi, India with a close Indian school friend and her family; and completing a 350 mile hike following St. Olav’s Pilgrimmage Trail from Selånger, on the east coast of Sweden, and ending at Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim, on the west coast of Norway.

It continues to be an enduring legacy.  Since its launch in 1956, the Duke of Edinburgh awards have been bestowed upon some 2.5 million youngsters in Britain and some eight million worldwide. For a man who once referred to himself as a “Greek princeling of no consequence”, his pioneering tutelage of these two organisations (alongside some 778 other organisations of which he was either president or a patron) would be sufficient legacy for most.

4. Prince Philip’s character

It may surprise some but what I liked most about Prince Philip was the very thing that helped him achieve so much and leave a lasting legacy: his character.

It is unhelpful to the caricature of Prince Philip as an unwavering but pugnacious consort whose chief talent was a dizzying facility in off-colour one-liners that he was widely read and probably the cleverest member of his family.

His private library at Windsor consists of 11,000 tomes, among them 200 volumes of poetry. He was a fan of Jung, TS Eliot, Shakespeare and the cookery writer Elizabeth David. As well as a lifelong fascination with science, technology and sport, he spoke fairly fluent French, painted and wrote a well received book on birds. It’s maddening to think how many underestimated his genuine intellect and how cultured he was behind the crusty exterior.

He didn’t have an entourage to fawn around him. He was the first to own a computer at Buckingham Palace. He answered his own phone and wrote and responded to his own correspondence. By force of character he fought the old guard courtiers at every turn to modernise the monarchy  against their stubborn resistance.

Prince Philip was never given to self-analysis or reflection on the past. Various television interviewers tried without success to coerce him in to commenting on his legacy.But once when his guard was down he asked on the occasion of his 90th birthday what he was more proud of, he replied with characteristic bluntness: “I couldn’t care less. Who cares what I think about it, I mean it’s ridiculous.”

All of which neatly raises the profound aversion to fuss and the proclivity for tetchiness often expressed in withering put-downs that, for better or worse, will be the reflex memory for many of the Duke of Edinburgh. If character is a two edged sword so what of his gaffes? 

There is no doubt his cult status partly owed to his so-called legendary gaffes, of which there are enough to fill a book (indeed there is a book). But he was no racist. None of the Commonwealth people or foreign heads of state ever said this about him. Only leftist republicans with too much Twitter time on their hands screamed such a ridiculous accusation. They’re just overly sensitive snowflakes and being devoid of any humour they’re easily triggered.

There was the time that Philip accepted a gift from a local in Kenya, telling her she was a kind woman, and then adding: “You are a woman, aren’t you?” Or the occasion he remarked “You managed not to get eaten, then?” to a student trekking in Papua New Guinea. Then there was his World Wildlife Fund speech in 1986, when he said: “If it has got four legs and it is not a chair, if it has got two wings and it flies but is not an aeroplane, and if it swims and it is not a submarine, the Cantonese will eat it.” Well, he wasn’t wrong.

Philip quickly developed a reputation for what he once defined, to the General Dental Council, as “dentopedology – the science of opening your mouth and putting your foot in it”. Clearly he could laugh at himself as he often did as an ice breaker to put others at ease.

His remarking to the president of Nigeria, who was wearing national dress, “You look like you’re ready for bed”, or advising British students in China not to stay too long or they would end up with “slitty eyes”, is probably best written off as ill-judged humour. Telling a photographer to “just take the fucking picture” or declaring “this thing open, whatever it is”, were expressions of exasperation or weariness with which anyone might sympathise.

Above all, he was also capable of genuine if earthy wit, saying of his horse-loving daughter Princess Anne: “If it doesn’t fart or eat hay she isn’t interested.” Many people might have thought it but few dared say it. If Prince Philip’s famous gaffes provoked as much amusement as anger, it was precisely because they seem to give voice to the bewilderment and pent-up frustrations with which many people viewed the ever-changing modern world.

A former royal protection officer recounts how while on night duty guarding a visiting Queen and consort, he engaged in conversation with colleagues on a passing patrol. It was 2am and the officer had understood the royal couple to be staying elsewhere in the building until a window above his head was abruptly slammed open and an irate Prince Philip stuck his head out of the window to shout: “Would you fuck off!” Without another word, he then shut the window.

The Duke at least recognised from an early age that he was possessed of an abruptness that could all too easily cross the line from the refreshingly salty to crass effrontery.

One of his most perceptive biographers, Philip Eade, recounted how at the age of 21 the prince wrote a letter to a relation whose son had recently been killed in combat. He wrote: “I know you will never think much of me. I am rude and unmannerly and I say things out of turn which I realise afterwards must have hurt someone. Then I am filled with remorse and I try to put matters right.”

In the case of the royal protection officer, the Duke turned up in the room used by the police officers when off duty and said: “Terribly sorry about last night, wasn’t quite feeling myself.”

Aides have also ventured to explain away some of their employer’s more outlandish remarks - from asking Cayman islanders “You are descended from pirates aren’t you?” to enquiring of a female fashion writer if she was wearing mink knickers - as the price of his instinctive desire to prick the pomposity of his presence with a quip to put others at ease.

Indeed many people forget that his ‘gaffes’ were more typical of the clubbish humour of the British officer class – which of course would be less appreciated, sometimes even offensive, to other ears. It’s why he could relate so well to veterans who enjoyed his bonhomie company immensely.

But behind the irascibility, some have argued there also lay a darker nature, unpleasantly distilled in his flinty attitude to his eldest son. One anecdote tells of how, in the aftermath of the murder of the Duke’s uncle and surrogate father, Lord Mountbatten,  Philip lectured his son, who was also extremely fond of his “honorary grandfather”, that he was not to succumb to self-pity. Charles left the room in tears and when his father was asked why he had spoken to his son with so little compassion, the Duke replied: “Because if there’s any crying to be done I want it to happen within this house, in front of his family, not in public. He must be toughened up, right now.”

But here I would say that Prince Philip’s intentions were almost always sincere and in no way cruel. He has always tried to protect his family - even from their own worst selves or from those outside the family ‘firm’ who may not have their best interest at heart.

In 1937, a 16-year-old Prince Philip had walked behind his elder sister Cecile’s coffin after she was killed in a plane crash while heavily pregnant. The remains of newly-born infant found in the wreckage suggested the aircraft had perished as the pilot sought to make an emergency landing in fog as the mother entered childbirth. It was an excruciating taste of tragedy which would one day manifest itself in a very princely form of kindness that was deep down that defined Philip’s character.

When about 60 years later Prime Minister Tony Blair’s spin doctors in Downing Street tried to strong arm the Queen and the royal household over the the arrangements for the late Prince Diana’s funeral, it was Philip who stepped in front to protect his family. The Prime Minister and his media savvy spin doctors wanted the two young princes, William and Harry, to walk behind the coffin.

The infamous exchange was on the phone during a conference call between London and Balmoral, and the emotional Philip was reportedly backed by the Queen. The call was witnessed by Anji Hunter, who worked for Mr Blair. She said how surprised she was to hear Prince Philip’s emotion. ‘It’s about the boys,” he cried, “They’ve lost their mother”. Hunter thought to herself, “My God, there’s a bit of suffering going on up there”.’

Sky TV political commentator Adam Boulton (Anji Hunter’s husband) would write in his book Tony’s Ten Years: ‘The Queen relished the moment when Philip bellowed over the speakerphone from Balmoral, “Fuck off. We are talking about two boys who have just lost their mother”. Boulton goes on to say that Philip: ‘…was trying to remind everyone that human feelings were involved. No 10 were trying to help the Royals present things in the best way, but may have seemed insensitive.’

In the end the politicians almost didn’t get their way. Prince Philip stepped in to counsel his grandson, Prince William, after he had expressed a reluctance to follow his mother’s coffin after her death in Paris. Philip told the grieving child: “If you don’t walk, I think you’ll regret it later. If I walk, will you walk with me?”

It’s no wonder he was sought as a counsellor by other senior royals and especially close to his grandchildren, for whom he was a firm favourite. His relationship with Harry was said to have become strained, however, following the younger Prince’s decision to reject his royal inheritance for a life away from the public eye in America with his new American wife, Meghan Markle. For Prince Philip I am quite sure it went against all the elder Prince had lived his life by - self-sacrifice for the greater cause of royalty.

This is the key to Philip’s character and in understanding the man. The ingrained habits of a lifetime of duty and service in one form or another were never far away.

In conclusion then....

After more time passes I am sure historians will make a richer reassessment of Prince Philip’s life and legacy. Because Prince Philip was an extraordinary man who lived an extraordinary life; a life intimately connected with the sweeping changes of our turbulent 20th Century, a life of fascinating contrast and contradiction, of service and some degree of solitude. A complex, clever, eternally restless man that not even the suffocating protocols of royalty and tradition could bind him.

Although he fully accepted the limitations of public royal service, he did not see this as any reason for passive self-abnegation, but actively, if ironically, identified with his potentially undignified role. It is this bold and humorous embrace of fated restriction which many now find irksome: one is no longer supposed to mix public performance with private self-expression in quite this manner.

Yet such a mix is authentically Socratic: the proof that the doing of one’s duty can also be the way of self-fulfilment. The Duke’s sacrifice of career to romance and ceremonial office is all the more impressive for his not hiding some annoyance. The combination of his restless temperament and his deeply felt devotion to duty found fruitful expression; for instance, in the work of Saint George’s House Windsor - a centre and retreat that he created with Revd. Robin Woods - in exploring religious faith, philosophy, and contemporary issues.

Above all he developed a way to be male that was both traditional and modern. He served one woman with chivalric devotion as his main task in life while fulfilling his public engagements in a bold and active spirit. He eventually embraced the opportunity to read and contemplate more. And yet, he remained loyal to the imperatives of his mentor Kurt Hahn in seeking to combine imagination with action and religious devotion with practical involvement.

Prince Philip took more pride in the roles he had accidentally inherited than in the personal gifts which he was never able fully to develop. He put companionship before self-realisation and acceptance of a sacred symbolic destiny before the mere influencing of events. In all these respects he implicitly rebuked our prevailing meritocracy which over-values officially accredited attainment, and our prevailing narcissism which valorises the assertion of discrete identities.

Prince Philip was Britain’s longest-serving consort. He was steadfast, duty driven, and a necessary adjunct to the continuity and stability of the Queen and the monarchy. Of all the institutions that have lost the faith of the British public in this period - the Church, Parliament, the media, the police - the Monarchy itself has surprisingly done better than most at surviving, curiously well-adapted to a period of societal change and moral anarchy. The House of Hanover and later Saxe-Coburg and Gotha (changed to Windsor), since their arrival in this country in 1714, have been noted above all for their ability to adapt. And just as they survived the Victorian age by transforming themselves into the bourgeoise, domestic ideal, so they have survived the new Elizabethan era (Harry-Meghan saga is just a passing blip like the Edward-Wallis Simpson saga of the 1930s).

There was once a time when the Royal’s German blood was a punchline for crude and xenophobic satirists. Now it is the royals who are deeply British while the country itself is increasingly cosmopolitan and globalised. British society has seen a greater demographic change than the preceding four or five thousand years combined, the second Elizabethan age has been characterised more than anything by a transformational movement of people. Prince Philip, the Greek-born, Danish-German persecuted and destitute wanderer who came to become one of the Greatest Britons of the past century, perhaps epitomised that era better than anyone else. And he got through it by making a joke of everything, and by being practical.

I hope I don’t exaggerate when I say that in our troubled times over identity, and our place and purpose in the world, we need to heed his selfless example more than ever.

As Heraclitus wisely said,  Ήθος ανθρώπω δαίμων (Character is destiny.)

RIP Prince Philip. You were my prince. God damn you, I miss you already.

Thanks for your question.

[bookstantrash]

A/N: Huge shoutout to the lovely @perseusannabeth​ who obsess over Pride & Prejudice as much as me. After very politely threatening asking  me to write more of Nessian as P&P (I’m so glad Sarah made it canon that Nessian’s relationship is Darcy and Lizzie’s) she told me about THE lake scene in the BBC version. I watched all six episodes and fell in love, so I highly suggest you all watch it too.

Also, huge shoutout to @firebirdofscythia​ (I stole your Azriel line lmao) and the rest of the gc for being so supportive!! Enjoy

Pemberley’s Lake

Cassian was so tired it was a wonder he had not fallen from his horse, which made him realise that Azriel may have been partially right in telling him to take a break and go back to his state to rest.

Although he suspected that Azriel kicking him out of his office and practically throwing him in a carriage to Pemberley had more to do with the fact that Azriel had gotten sick of his mopey mood more than anything else.

“I shall never show my face in society again” Cassian had told a bored looking Azriel one afternoon, laying on his office’s floor as if it was the end of the world “I shall work until my eyes grow tired and my beard and hair are so long they reach the ground.”

“Stop with the theatrics brother. It is not becoming of you.” Azriel had answered as he shuffled a deck of cards.

“Theatrics!! Azriel for Cauldron’ sake I have no idea how I can keep on living after that refusal” he sighed from his place on the carpeted floor “There is not another woman alive who could hold my heart. It's lost forever. And now I shall live in regret and shame of not being enough for her.”

Azriel rolled his eyes so hard at his brother’s words it was a wonder they did not stay permanently like that.

“I shall grow old and drown my sorrows in the finest beers and wines, turning fat and bald. And after I have passed, my cursed ghost shall roam our country crying in despair over my terrible life”

That had been enough to make Azriel pack Cassian’s belongings and get his brother the fastest horse available.

“If it were not for the laws of this land” Azriel had mumbled after he had bid his brother farewell, wishing a good trip and forbidding him to appear in his office again until he had fixed that mood of his.

Breathing in the clear and fresh air of his home, Cassian was able to momentarily forget his troubled heart. But one look at the blue sky and he was reminded of the gray-blue eyes belonging to the lady who had made him, General Commander of the British Army, who had enough condecorations to fill his whole coat and who had made enemies tremble in fear when faced against him, wallow in self pity and misery.

Lady Nesta Archeron.

Her name alone was enough to make his chest tighten in longing.

Feyre’s oldest and most notorious sister, if not by her breathtaking beauty and intellect but by her ruthless and dismissive regard to the oposite sex. Whereas Feyre had surprised society by marrying before her older sisters  — and securing herself the best of matches of the season at that with his brother Rhysand, which was nothing but a Duke  — and Elain had enough suitors to fill a ballroom, the oldest Archeron did not seem inclined to marry at all. Oh she did catch the eyes of more than one gentleman  —  Cassian could vaguely reckon that she had had a long courting with Sir Thomas Mandray, although it had ended rather abruptly — but no one had been able to snare her heart.

That had been what had initially peaked his interest. He had briefly seen her at Rhysand’s wedding, attempting some small talk that was easily and diplomatically dismissed by her. He had then relentlessly engaged in conversation with her in any opportunity he could find, being it from the few occasions in which she frequented Feyre’ small reunions over tea or when he coincidentally met her during her daily walks around town to visit Lady Emerie, a modice whose popularity was raising tremendously after Feyre’s bridal trousseau and wedding dress were all designed by her.

It was not until Feyre’s first official gathering as Duchess that Cassian realised the depths of his feelings for the sharp eyed lady.

He had been watching the ballroom from the sidelines, trying to escape the mob of scary mamas who wanted to throw their daughters at him, a glass of champagne in his hand.

Rhysand and Feyre had already danced the opening song, so the floor was now free to hold more partners. Both Cassian and Azriel had danced once with Morrigan — Rhysand’s cousin and a dear friend of theirs — and Elain had enough names on her card that they’d have to wait a fortnight to dance with her. Nesta on the other hand…. she had refused all invitations, although one could not help but wonder why by the way she seemed to glow whenever a new song was played.

“Lady Archeron” Cassian had greeted, bowing deeply and throwing at her his best smile, one that usually had young ladies fainting and old ones blushing.

But not Nesta Archeron. No, she had only deigned to make a polite bow and look ahead.

“I could not help but take notice of how entranced by the music you appear to be, my Lady” he had offered her his hand “Would you do me the honour of allowing one dance?”

That had caught Nesta’s attention, and she turned towards him, her gray-blue eyes finally meeting his hazel ones.

“I do not think why I should. I am perfectly satisfied to watch from the sidelines” she raised a perfect manicured eyebrow, glancing in the corner where the mamas and their daughters were “I am sure many other young ladies would rather have my place”

Cassian knew she was lying. Knew she desperately wanted to dance, but something was holding her back.

“It is said that dancing is the best way to encourage affection. Even if one’s partner is barely tolerable” he had nonchalantly said

“I beg your pardon” Nesta had exclaimed

“The lady has nothing to fear. I will not let you suffer ridicule because of your poor dancing” he had said in a patronizing tone, if only to see that fire in her eyes ignite.

And to see her accepting his offer with a murderous intent.

They had moved to the center of the ballroom, shocked faces all around them, both from the fact that Nesta was joining the dance floor and her partner being him of all gentlemen.

Cassian had never been proved more wrong once the first string from the violin was drawn and Nesta moved. He had been sure she knew how to dance, had only said those words to get a rise from her. But to see Nesta Archeron actually dancing… it was something straight out of a dream.

Cassian knew the waltz. His mother had insisted that all three sons have the same education, even though only Rhysand was set to inherit the duchy.

However, when paired with Nesta Archeron one could not be called nothing but a simple object to display her talents. Even the most notorious dancer would pale in comparison to her.

And Cauldron, she knew that. Nesta knew she was Terpsikhore, greek Muse of music, song and dance.

What a fool he had been, what a complete and utter fool he had made of himself. His only consolation was that some good had come out of his childish behaviour.

Nesta Archeron was dancing, and when she danced she threatened to bring empires to their knees, for her beauty got inhumanly enhanced, her delighted smile sending an arrow straight to his chest.

Cassian realised he had fallen hopelessly in love with Nesta Archeron. If he was to be true with himself, he had been for quite some time, since their first exchange of words when she had all but dismissed him as a pesky bug.

And as the last note was drawn, as the whole ballroom breathlessly took in Nesta, in complete awe of her, Cassian decided he was going to marry her.

Was going to propose to Nesta Archeron right at that moment.

Using the excuse of getting some fresh air after the tiring dance, he walked them to Rhysand’s extensive and well lit garden, quiet enough that they would not be interrupted but not so isolated as to risk her reputation.

They had walked only a few minutes in the garden when Cassian declared his feelings. He all but tripped with his words, hoping Nesta could see past his fool’s act.

She had not.

She had refused his hand in the most brutal way, her words so articulately poisoned that Cassian felt himself a young boy again, desperately trying to achieve perfection so his father would dare to spare him more than a passing glance. Would not regret having adopted him into his household and given him a home.

He had uttered an apology, saying how sorry he was that his feelings had caused her such pain and disgust, reigning his temper enough to walk her back to the ballroom.

Cassian left town the same night, and had stayed in his office and headquarters training the new milicia since then, burying himself with work until Azriel grew tired of his awful mood.

Sighing, Cassian brushed his horse’s neck, eyeing the lake.

Maybe a dive in the cold waters of Pemperley would help clear his mind.

~•~

Pemberley was, in Nesta’s opinion, the most beautiful state she had ever seen. Even more than her newly married sister’s dukedom.

“However this house’s lady is, she sure is happy” Emerie commented as the head maid showed them to the music room.

“As if someone could be unhappy with this much money” Gwyn whispered back, eyeing the grand piano.

Nesta was inclined to agree, even more after having seen the library. She could not help but envy the lady. Her husband must be a very cultured gentleman.

“May I show you the external grounds? I am sure the gentleman will find it quite delightful” the head maid said, looking at Balthazar, the only men among their group of four.

“I am most grateful for your hospitality” he answered, and they promptly moved outdoors.

Their party of four had been travelling through the countryside for almost two weeks. It was as much as a vacation for Emerie and Balthazar — with Emerie’s shop the season’s current sensation and Balthazar being her current business partner  — as a time out from the ton, which Gwyn — the most required opera singer of the season — had announced to be in desperately need of a vacation from.

As for Nesta, she had always wanted to travel, but as a single woman of marriageable age without a male relative to escort her, it would have been a nearly impossible feat to accomplish.

When Balthazar had offered to escort both her and her friends Nesta had wanted to shout in delight.

Secretly, she also wished to avoid a certain gentleman, one whose heart she had mercilessly and regretfully broken.

Nesta shook her head as she walked through the garden, distancing herself from her party to think and remember.

Remember how she had enjoyed dancing with Lord Cassian.

How her body had sung and heated where his skin touched hers.

How she had found herself smiling and agreeing to take a stroll with him, using the excuse of feeling overwhelmed in the crowded ballroom.

How his smile had faded once she tore at him, throwing every hateful word his way to refuse his proposal.

Nesta had not seen Cassian since her sister’s ball, but she did not want to risk an encounter.

That trip could not have been more well timed.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not notice her hair getting caught in a low tree branch, ruining her intricate updo.

“No one is around” she muttered to herself as she took off the pins holding it in place “A few minutes with my hair down will not hurt”

So Nesta took each pin off, massaging her scalp as she walked in the direction of the state’s lake, the sun shining over its  clear waters.

And that is when she spotted him.

Cassian.

Cassian was at the lake.

Cassian was shirtless, dripping wet by the lake’ shore.

Nesta knew she should turn around and forget what she was currently seeing.

But she could not take her eyes off of him.

Seeing a shirtless man in person was indeed a far cry from what her imagination conjured when reading romance novels.

Especially the way the water was running down Cassian’s tanned and hard torso, all the way down his pecs and stomach — was that a six pack or were her eyes playing tricks on her? — until it collided with his pants, which were hanging so low on his hips that Nesta could not help but feel a weird sensation low in her stomach.

Her legs stopped obeying her, and she swore her knees got weak when Cassian noticed he had company.

“Lady Archeron?” he exclaimed, as if he could not believe his eyes.

“Sir!” was all she could say, feeling her cheeks warming.

Cauldron what was wrong with her? It was just a body. A very nice, very wet muscled body and—

“What may you be doing here?” Nesta quickly inquired, cutting her errand thoughts.

“I am the owner” he simply answered

“Of the lake?”

She wanted to smack herself. How could have she blurted such a stupid and rude question?

“Yes, of the lake. And of Pemberley” he answered, amusement lacing his words.

“I didn’t know. The head maid said all the family was not home— we should not have presumed—”

“I returned without prior notice”

“Excuse me, are you and your sisters in good health?” Cassian added, and Nesta dared to think that he sounded a bit nervous.

“Yes. Yes they are. Thank you, sir” she managed to answer, her eyes firmly placed upon his face and not anywhere else.

“I am glad to hear that” he licked his lips and Nesta could not help but wonder if they would be cold due to the lake’s water or if Cassian’s unbothered face meant he was not cold at all.

Was she really inquiring of how his lips would feel against hers? Against her skin? If kissing Cassian would feel as dreamily as her novel's kiss appeared to be?

Nesta hated him.

Did she not?

“I had never seen you with your hair down”

Cassian’s words took her out of her reverie, and Nesta suddenly felt self conscious.

“Do excuse me for showing myself in front of you with such an unsightly appearance” she felt mortified. To have Cassian of all people seeing her like that, hair in complete disarray….

Nesta quickly turned around, fumbling with the hair pins in a vain and desperately attempt of redoing her hair.

“It’s beautiful” she heard Cassian saying in a breathless voice, and thanked the Cauldron her back was turned so he would not see how her face warmed considerably, a small smile gracing her lips.

“Let me help you” he quietly added, and she gasped at the proximity of wet, shirtless Cassian, who touched her hair softly.

“How come a gentleman such as you knows how to hairstyle a lady’s hair?” Nesta asked, feeling his warmth on her back, a tingly sensation between her legs when his fingers brushed her neck.

“I frequently helped my younger sister, Georgiana, fix her own hair in the occasions she played a little too far from what would be deemed proper for a young lady” she felt his hot breath against her neck as Cassian laughed “She favours outdoors activities such as horseback riding, although she’s quite accomplished in arts and music.”

“Your sister sounds lovely” Nesta said, turning to face him once she felt he was done fixing her hair.

“She is my brothers’ and mine whole world. There’s nothing we would not do for Georgiana”

Nesta felt her heart warming at his words, at his devotion and love towards his family. She wondered if he would do the same with his wife.

If he would have acted the same way towards her had she accepted his proposal.

Unbeknown to her, Cassian was imagining the same thing.

He was picturing how he could have helped her every morning with her hair if she had agreed to marry him. Instead, he would have to live with this one memory forever.

He was lost in her eyes, their bodies so close they were sharing breaths and Cassian was holding back by a sliver thread of self control to not hold her against him.

If it were not for the appearance of three people — Cassian supposed them to be Nesta’s companions — he very well could have done that.

“Excuse me” Cassian abruptly said, bowing deeply and leaving Nesta alone.

Although soon her friends joined her, Gywn and Emerie bombarding her with questions seeing her ruffled state.

Their party was getting ready to depart when Cassian appeared again, having ran inside to get changed and appropriate.

“Lady Nesta!” he called before she could get inside the carriage “Please allow me to apologise for not receiving you properly just now. You are not leaving?”

“We were, sir. We have already imposed too much” she said, spine straight and looking every bit the regal queen she was.

What he did not know was that was her way of maintaining a cool exterior and not blush remembering his naked figure.

“You are not displeased with Pemberley, are you?” Cassian asked, anxiously brushing his hair back.

“No. Not at all”

“And you approve of it?”

“Very much” Nesta said softly, a dreamy smile on her face as she remembered the library “A few would not approve”

“But your good opinion is rarely bestowed and therefore more worth earning” he said, and his smile was enough to make Nesta’s heart skip a beat.

Why was she feeling in such a way, she wondered. Why did her body feel hot and strange all over whenever Cassian was involved?

“Thank you. That is very kind of you”

“I shall not hold you back any longer” he said, helping her in the carriage, his calloused hand a stark contrast against her soft one “I will call on you and I hope you can introduce me to your companions. Perhaps we may go fishing tomorrow? My property is blessed with an abundance of them”

“We would be delighted to. Thank you, sir’

After the farewells were bid and Nesta’s carriage was only a distant dot in the horizon, Cassian got inside, smiling broadly at his head maid and butler.

“You are very chipper, sir'' the old woman said with a knowing smile, the butler agreeing with her. Their lord had been mopey for quite some time now, so it brought joy to their hearts to see his mood so high.

“I had a very good evening Mrs.Pots” he declared, thinking about how he should swim more frequently in the lake.

A few miles from Pemberley, Nesta stared at the scenery lost in thought, Cassian’s touch lingering in her hand all the way back to the inn.

•

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{Please let me know if you’d like to be added to my Fixed Tag list}

[straightlikewetspaghetti]

Detective, Stripper and Executioner

Pairings:

Main: Poppy x MC (Bea Hughes)

Secondary: Veronica x Zoey, Ina x MC (mentioned)

Warnings: Mature themes, mention of death

A/N: I wrote this after I hit my head, so don't mind me 🙈

The sun was already going down to let the moon shine in the sky, when Bea Hughes threw out a still smoldering cigarette on one of the city streets.

"I thought you quit."

The brunette turned at the sound of a familiar voice and saw her best friend and partner she could only dream of, smiling in her direction. She and Zoey were practically an inseparable duo after they graduated and lived together for a short time.

At the police station, they were second to none.

Zoey, was the best at talking and getting information, even the toughest guys are no match for her charm and cunning. Bea, on the other hand, was the complete opposite of her partner: cool and composed, with a hint of madness that was her ace up her sleeve.

Everything changed after a certain event that shook Bea's world and made her resign from the service for some time and completely cutting herself off from public life. The situation was so dramatic that the woman even pushed away her best friend, whom she damn well needed at the time.

But Zoey understood.

She always knew that what brought the two of them together was stronger than titanium and that they would always find a way to get back together. She loved her like sister and couldn't imagine life without Bea's sarcastic and cold comments.

"Because I dropped it." the brunette shrugged her shoulders, a smile visibly pulling at the corners of her mouth, just as a pleasant feeling grated on her heart. "On the ground, didn't you see?"

Zoey couldn't hold it in and laughed ruefully. Bea wasn't entirely sure if it was from her idiotic joke or just the fact that they were finally seeing each other. It had been a long time since she had felt such inner peace and happiness as she did now, listening to the black-haired girl laugh.

"Zoey, it's really good to see you." she walked up to the woman and gave her a friendly hug, letting the contact last minimally longer than usual.

"I wish the situation was different." the black-haired woman sighed deeply and her cheerful expression changed to one of clearly painted fatigue, which didn't escape Bea's attention as she nodded thoughtfully.

It wasn't until she got closer that she could see how big the bags under her eyes were and how much her eyes had lost their natural youthful glow. Bea felt guilty that because of her, Zoey was sure to have a lot more work to do, which even aged her mildly in appearance.

Bea is not the emotional type, but she was really worried about her friend.

"Detective Hughes, Wade." a feminine authoritarian voice interrupted their conversation and both women visibly tensed. Zoey straightened immediately as Bea slid her hands into the pockets of her coat. This is going to be good.

A woman with light brown hair and skin as white as milk, whose beauty rivaled that of many goddesses, walked toward them. The way she walked exuded power and dominance, making the heads of onlookers automatically turns in her direction. Everything from her feet to the top of her head had to be perfect.

“Chief Kingsley! How nice to see you." despite the cheerful tone with which Zoey spoke those words, the note of sarcasm was impossible to miss. The black-haired woman shifted from foot to foot, visibly troubled by the presence of the third woman.

Bea only watched Ina with cool, calculating eyes, who did not even take her eyes off her from the beginning. The woman hadn't changed since the last time they'd seen each other, and that was when the brunette had the opportunity to get to know her up close. Very close.

To this day, the scent of Ina's perfume could be smelled on her bed sheets.

She cringed as inappropriate memories began to flood her consciousness, stimulating something in her that she didn't want. There was no time for weakness in the workplace and women and romance were the worst of them.

"Who's the victim?" she asked once she was sure her voice wouldn't break under the strain of the very upsetting emotion that like a virus, had seeped into her system and was slowly wearing it out.

"Ford Tuantie, 28, single with a definite overactive sex life. He was strangled."

Another female voice interjected before Ina had time to say anything and the startled women flinched at the sound of it.

"Jesus!" Zoey was horrified, jumping away from the woman kneeling on the ground. "You should walk with a bell around your neck!" How long have you been here?" she asked surprised to see Veronica carefully scanning every last detail of the victim's body, furrowing her brows every now and then in wonder.

Veronica Lombardi was one of the best pathologists in the entire country. Her work ethic was as impeccable as the room she worked in. Her only flaw was her sharp temper, which she considered her greatest asset and source of pride.

The only person who was able to bend her was Bea. Though lately, Zoey's been doing it. On many levels.

"All the time, that's the job." she shrugged her shoulders without taking her eyes off the victim. "You'd know if you were doing yours properly." She added teasingly, winking at the woman. A red blush of embarrassment spread across Zoey's face.

Ina grunted loudly, visibly annoyed by the spectacle.

She stepped between the two women and focused her attention on Veronica, who made no secret of the fact, that she would be most happy to ignore her. "You mentioned about a sex life?"

Bea moved away a piece further, dragging an even redder Zoey with her to question potential witnesses to the incident, leaving the two women alone with each other. The tension between them was highly visible. Anyone who worked with them knew, that Ina and Veronica together, were only good at jumping down each other's throats.

"The man lying here is a perfect example of why I prefer women." she said proudly, tilting her head slightly to the side and tucking the genetic sample into a container.

"To the point, Lombardi." Ina snorted visibly disturbed by her subordinate's unnecessary comments.

"Of course." Veronica rolled her eyes discreetly. "I found several sachets of condoms in his pockets. In addition to the strangulation marks on his neck, there are visible scars on his body from fingernails, rather feminine if I may add." seeing the chastising gaze of her superior again, Veronica only sighed.

Ina nodded and walked around the man's body looking for any particular clues, but was unable to see anything special.

"He still had this in his pocket." Veronica carefully handed the woman a crumpled paper, which when unfolded turned out to be a flyer for an exclusive adult club in a nearby area.

After a brief examination, Ina nodded in acknowledgement and approached Zoey, who was talking animatedly with the witness, almost giving the impression that she was flirting with him.

"Wade, you and Hughes go to the strip club where our victim was last seen alive." just as Veronica had earlier, the woman held out her hand with the flyer and showed it to the black-haired woman, who scanned it with a sharp eye in a flash.

Zoey's eyes lit up and she had to concentrate hard not to show her superior how happy she was to be going to such a club. There's rarely time to relax in a job like this, so every opportunity like this is worth its weight in gold.

Plus, sexy women.

"Oh god, stop drooling already Wade." Ina crossed her arms over her chest, chastisingly looking at the woman standing in front of her. She never would have expected to be assigned a bunch of kids like that. "Pathetic." she chuckled as she walked away, leaving Zoey alone with herself.

***

"You'll like this." Zoey said excitedly, parking the work car in front of the large building from which the hushed rumble of music could be heard.

"A strip..." Bea said grimly as she turned her attention to the large led sign with the outlines of a cocktail and a naked woman. "Club." she finished looking towards her partner, who was looking impatiently at the large door leading to the supposed paradise.

"Well don't tell me it won't be interesting!" Zoey darted out leaving the dazed brunette behind and without looking back, disappeared into the fog and the glow of dim red lights.

Bea didn't like places like this; loud, overcrowded and dripping with visible sexual tension. The music rumbling in the distance made her slightly dizzy, and the thick fake fog floating around, limited her vision.

It was distracting, and the last thing she needed was trouble focusing on her work.

Having trouble finding her partner, Bea leaned against the nearest pillar and scanned her, surroundings once more, this time more calmly. Her gaze stopped on a single dancer who, for some reason, particularly caught her attention.

The woman's cascade of blonde hair glinted in the muted red light, imitating as if sparks were dancing between the strands. She wore a carnival mask over her face, but Bea was sure she was the most recognizable figure here. Her shapely body bent to the rhythm of the music, intimidating everyone who looked at her with its divinity.

In front of the stage was quite a large crowd of fans, who surprisingly were able to stand on their own feet.

As if sensing the brunette's gaze on her, the woman raised her head, crossing their gazes: hers mysterious and inviting, Bea's cool but excited.

The blonde winked flirtatiously, definitely sensing how Bea was responding to her hypnotic hip movements, which, accompanied by slow, sexual music, were impossible to look away from.

A slightly out of breath Zoey interrupted their moment, as she shielded her view of the stage and made Bea snap out of her strange trance.

"We're looking for a dancer nicknamed Queen B. Blonde hair, mostly performs in pink lingerie and a tiara on her head. She's supposedly very popular here, so I think we'll have no problem finding her."

"Not even a little bit." whispered Bea, who, without saying anything else, began to head towards the stage where the woman they were looking for had just danced. A strange feeling of indefinable excitement grew in Bea with every step, that brought her closer to meeting this mysterious Queen B.

As she walked backstage, a sweet rose scent hit her nostrils, enveloping her senses and making her slightly dull. How long had it been since she had smelled such a sexy feminine perfume? And how long had it been since the last time anyone had affected her in any way other than repulsive?

"I knew you'd come here." an especially lowered female voice echoed through the room, causing the women's heads to immediately turn in its direction.

From a distance Queen B was phenomenal, but up close she was arousing feelings of such intense lust in Bea, that she had not yet felt with any other woman. She almost felt guilty. Almost.

Zoey looked questioningly at her partner, but when she looked away, she smiled in understanding. This would be fun to watch.

"I'm detective Hughes, and this is detective Wade." she nodded in Zoey's direction, trying to ignore with how much curiosity the blonde's eyes were skimming over her body. "We're here to ask about your yesterday's client, a certain Ford Tuantie."

The blonde mused for a moment tilting her head to the side and revealing a piece of her slender neck. If Bea could read women's language, she would have thought she was doing it on purpose to distract her.

"Ah yes, Ford." she began, completely changing her tone of voice to a more formal one.

She stretched out in one of the comfortable looking pink couches and indicated to the others to sit too. Without a word of objection Zoey and Bea complied with the woman's silent request and followed suit, occupying the sofa next to her. The blonde seemed very pleased with herself for some reason, but her face became formal again.

This woman's ability to change her emotions was remarkable.

"Ford and a couple of his colleagues were popular VIPs here. From what I recall, they even formed a club for themselves." the woman shifted her leg over and clenched her thighs together, absolutely certain that Bea would take notice.

She wasn't wrong.

"When was the last time you saw him?" asked Zoey, noticing how Bea was focused on everything else but the blonde's words, which was totally unlike her.

But that was the truth. Bea watched diligently as the woman's full and seductive lips spoke words, whose meaning didn't even reach her in the slightest. It was like a charm had taken hold of her, and she didn't want to look for an anti-spell.

How many lonely nights had it been?

"Today he was here for a while. As I think about it now, he was clearly arguing with one of the members of this club of theirs. It almost would have come to hand-to-hand, but the security here is very good. Nothing goes unnoticed here." again that cursed wink, as if the last part of her statement, was specifically directed at Bea.

"The bartender can tell you more, he heard the whole incident and I don't like to gossip. I'm a fan of discretion." a flirtatious smile, flutter of eyelashes. Women who know how their charm works on others, are damn dangerous.

Zoey nodded and rose first from the couch. "We'll contact you if we have any other questions, thank you." without looking back the woman left the room. Her behavior worried Bea, who saw the strange look Zoey gave the two of them, before she disappeared back into the depths of the club.

Bea moved to follow her, but something stopped her. Obviously.

"Detective?"

She closed her eyes taking a deep breath. How could one stupid word she said, have more of an impact on her, than her entire previous relationship? She clenched her hands into fists feeling the blonde's gaze burn a hole in her back, but said nothing, waiting for the other to continue.

A strange silence descended on the room, not even drowned out by the rumbling music from the main room and the whistling of the men. At this point, the two of them were in a completely different reality, which was even more dangerous than coming face to face with a murderer. Or rather, that's how Bea felt when she began to hear the clatter of heels heading her way.

She turned on her heel and immediately her neck was encircled by the blonde's arms, which clung to the brunette's stiff body. Fortunately, Bea had her poker face trained, so when she looked down at the satisfied blonde, her expression betrayed no emotion, not even the slightest.

"I'm here almost every day." she muttered and her hot breath brushed against the brunette's neck, a pleasant lightning bolt coursing through her body.

Bea had to use all her rationality to disentangle herself from her embrace and move away, instead of pressing into her inviting lips. She momentarily felt the absence of this woman at her side. She cursed in her mind at her weakness. She was acting like a horny teenager.

Queen B rolled her eyes playfully and bit her lower lip. Now she looked like a child, who was trying with all its might to solve a mathematical equation on its own, but no matter how much it wanted to, it couldn't. After a few moments, her face clouded over, which completely knocked her out of her character.

"Be careful, Detective Hughes. There's more going on here, than you think." was it possible that worry was painted on her face?

"What do you mean?" she asked, but the woman's face returned to its previous flirty expression and Bea knew she wouldn't get her answer, and she didn't have time to force it.

Turning around, she walked out of the room this time, squinting to find Zoey. She didn't spot her anywhere so she figured the black-haired girl would be waiting for her outside.

When she emerged from the club the moon was already towering in the sky and the air was cool and refreshing.

Zoey leaned against the hood of the car, moving her leg every now and then as if in nerves. She looked mightily pissed off and Bea was sure it was her behavior, that had caused the black-haired girl to be in this state now. If she had heart, it would have broken in half at the thought of the conversation, that was probably about to take place.

"Damn it Bea!" irritation in her voice was definitely noticeable. "Get a grip on yourself, you're a detective, not a frisky teenager! People's safety is in our hands!"

Jealousy?

"I know I acted unreasonably, which could have affected our investigation, I really do." Bea said cautiously, but the trigger had already set off much earlier and steam was almost coming out of Zoey's nostrils. There were moments when the black-haired woman scared her to the core and right now, the brunette would most like to hide inside her four walls.

"You don't know shit Bea..." in the blink of an eye her voice went to the verge of crying, as if all the negative emotions that had been accumulating during their separation had just exploded and pierced the fake facade of her composure. "That day, you weren't the only one who lost someone. I lost someone too." tears began to drip from Zoey's eyes, which Bea felt like wiping away, but she didn't move. "My best friend."

Those words hit her right in the feels.

"Zoey..." Bea said her name in a pleading tone, which worked the other way and upset the black-haired woman again.

"I don't feel like talking to you anymore tonight." those were the last words Bea expected to hear. She had an incredible urge to run up to her, hug her and apologize for all those moments of separation, but she respected her too much to invade her space

As the black-haired woman approached the car the deafening silence was pierced by a terrible bang, followed by Zoey's body falling to the ground, motionless, with a loud thud.

"Zoey!"

[airi-p4]

Love in the sky

I wrote this for the @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers LBSC Sprint challenge - Meet cute week event and, once again, I got carried away and broke all the rules. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Prompt: Sitting next to each other on the plane.

Summary: Marinette is going to NY on an international flight for the first time. What she doesn’t know is that the one seated next to her is the popular new band Kitty Section’s guitarist: Luka Couffaine.

Thank you @livrever for checking it for me 💙

AO3

______________________________________

Marinette rushed through the aisle of the plane. She couldn’t believe she almost missed it! her first international trip to the US! Stupid alarm! Of course she was tired. She was so nervous she couldn’t sleep all night… until 5AM… and the plane departed at 10AM… and obviously she had to oversleep. *sigh*

Running, tripping and spinning on her feet, she finally searched for her seat. 38B - aisle seat. Her pink polka dotted suitcase was heavy, but thanks to the cabin attendant she could finally put it inside the overhead bin, while her backpack rested under the seat in front of her. All set, she let her weight fall on the seat at last and let out a deep breath as she fastened her seatbelt.

The doors of the plane closed, and the PA message started: Welcome on board… Security instructions… Marinette wasn’t listening. Her legs were uncontrollably shaking, and her fingers were fidgeting with the laces of her hoodie.

Those nerves and stress couldn’t be healthy.

She examined her surroundings, and, next to her, someone was sleeping. Someone, who appeared to be a young man, with a sleeping eye mask and a face mask on, messy blue hair showing under a knit hat and a blanket covering his body. Overall, it didn't give much more information about her plane's seat neighbor. Not wanting to wake him up, she focused on the rest of the passengers instead. Why were all of them so quiet when she felt her heart could burst out of her chest anytime?

The plane started its runaway and Marinette closed her eyes tightly when it raised from the lane. Once in the air, she started breathing again, but her heart was still beating fast.

"First time on a plane?" a masculine voice beside her asked.

She turned to her side, and looked at the person seated next to her. His eye mask was over his head now, and she could see his blue eyes clearly, while his blue bangs partly covered his eyebrows.

“Y- yes!” she squeaked.

“You’re making me nervous too. Calm down, it’s going to be ok” he assured.

“I- I know!" She said, but her body wasn’t obeying. “I’m sorry...”

The young man sighed. “Look, I’ve been on a plane many times. It’s safe. Why don’t you try to sleep? It’s going to be a long flight.”

“I- I can’t! I’m too nervous! I’ve never traveled alone before, plus my career depends on this trip! I can’t stay calm!”

“Why don’t you try listening to some music, then? It always helps me relax” the young man offered her a sympathetic look.

“Music…?” she blinked. ‘It could work’.

She plugged the earphones and put them in her ears. Then, she scrolled through the music programs on the touch screen in front of her. Classical music? For some reason, it only made it worse. Country music? Not her style. XY? Hell, no. Her eyes stopped at the name of a fairly new band: “Kitty Section”. She played the video called: “Kitty Section's Paris Live Concert”.

“Good choice” the man next to her said when the title started showing on the screen.

Marinette had heard about the band called Kitty Section. They had featured in most of her favorite magazines after they won Eurovision several months ago, but she wasn't familiar with their music. In less than a minute, she was hooked and forgot completely about her surroundings or her nerves.

“Wow!” she mumbled, mesmerized, and the man next to her let out a snicker.

The music was amazing- the rock vibes, their stage presence, the vocalists’ cuteness and high ranged voice, the accurate and insane drums, the gorgeous purple haired bassist… all of them sounded incredible. But the guitarist… the blue haired guitarist was extraordinary- unbelievably good. Not only talented, but also powerful, charismatic and incredibly handsome.

“They’re good, huh?” The man beside her commented and she nodded. She could tell he was smiling under his face mask. She nodded in agreement.

“I had never heard them properly before but damn- they are incredible” Marinette answered, and he laughed. Her fingers tapped rhythmically, following the beat of the song.  “But…" she continued, observing. "I think they could do better. There’s a margin of improvement,” she said with judging eyes.

“Oh, really? How?” The blue-eyed man asked, curious, resting his elbow on the arm rest to get a closer look.

“The costumes,” Marinette pointed out. Then, she reached her backpack under her feet and took out a sketchbook and a pen and started drawing. “The outfits could be improved if they added this, and this” she signaled. “And this-” She kept scribbling while the blue-haired man observed and listened to her suggestions. “And ta-da! Wouldn’t they look even better if they were like this?” She proudly showed him her designs, only to realize she was being embarrassing towards a stranger. “Ah, sorry- I got carried away…” She apologized. But the man took the sketchbook in his hands.

“Let me see,” he said, and she saw how his eyes examined every detail of her drawings. She gulped nervously. It felt like her skills were being tested. But the man took his face mask off and smiled. “Wow, that’s impressive. Fresh, charismatic, unique- and perfectly according to the band's style. I love them" he returned her the sketchbook. "You’re very talented. Are you famous? Do you take commissions?” He asked, and she looked at him speechless.

“I- I’m still a no-one… Is it really impressive?” She looked at him and blushed at the compliment.

“Yes, I think so. What would you do with this outfit?” He asked, showing him a photo of the same band on his smartphone. Her inspiration overflowed as she kept drawing and explaining her ideas. They kept discussing costumes and visual aspects of the band and chatted comfortably for a long time.

"I think Rose should go with something more… daring, bolder. She looks innocent but she's fierce inside. Of course, cuteness is her main trait, so I think she should combine both" she explained, coloring her design with colored pencils. "I think something like this would be perfect for her" she showed him her sketchbook and he was impressed. “As for Juleka-” She continued, turning to a blank page. “She’s so beautiful. I wish she didn’t cover her face so much, even if the mystery look is really attractive too…" She stopped drawing for a moment to admire the bassist on the screen. "Gosh- She's so gorgeous! I wish I was that beautiful” she commented.

“I think you’re even more beautiful than her, you know?” The blue-haired man casually said, and she shyly blushed with a 'no way' frantic arms movements. “What about the guitarist?” he asked, raising an eyebrow with a smug smile.

“Luka Couffaine? OH LORD SHOW MERCY- Have you seen him? And his eyeliner? It should be ILLEGAL to be this HOT” She said, convinced.

“Hmmm… So you like him, huh?” He teased, his smile widening.

“Who doesn’t, really?” She shrugged. “He’s literally the SEXIEST man alive. His eye contact with the camera could kill! Oh, and whenever he gets shirtless on stage or photoshoots? GOD- I almost get a nosebleed EVERY FREAKING TIME! He's TOO DAMN HOT" She fanned herself at the image. "Don’t you agree?" She asked and he blinked twice. "You like him too, right? You have so many photos of them in your phone! I bet he’s making you question your sexuality too, like he does with all my friends! How could anyone resist those blue eyes and his manly features, his soft looking blue hair and- his tattoos..." She looked away from her seat neighbor's blue piercing eyes, and focused at the smartphone screen again, to a close-up photo of Kitty Section’s guitarist. "How did you get these close-up casual photos...?” she asked, and then she noticed the tattoo on his neck. She looked back and forth at the man seated next to her and the one in the picture. ‘It couldn't be, right…?’ And at that moment, when he had a knowing smile on his face- one she knew too well-, she realized who he was seated next to on the plane. Her eyes opened as big as plates and she overheated. He was smirking amusingly at her reaction. “You- You- You are-? Lu-Lu-Luk- It can’t be…”

He nodded to confirm her suspicions and her jaw fell to the floor. “Hi. I think I haven't introduced myself yet. My name is Luka. But I think you already know that. It’s nice to meet you.” He chuckled, straightening his hand for a handshake.

“Oh God, kill me now...” She mumbled, sinking on the table. Luka snickered.

“What’s your name?”

“Ma-Ma-Marinette… I mean- Marinette!” She felt his eyes on her and panicked. “Excuse me- I- I need a moment... This- This is too much- Oh My God...” She stood up and rushed to the end of the plane, not without tripping twice on her way there.

________________________

While Marinette was gone, the two ladies in front of Luka and Marinette’s seats turned to Luka. “Having fun?” They smirked, knowingly. He was chuckling, having real trouble to keep his laugh from escaping.

“Oh, God, Yes. This is so much fun." He wiped the tears that were forming on his eyes. "I think I’ve found our potential new costume designer” he continued laughing under his nose.

“Only that? I think there’s more...” Juleka smirked, and Rose giggled in agreement by her side. He couldn't deny it: his sister was totally right.

Behind Luka's seat, Kitty Section's drummer, Ivan and his girlfriend Mylene had been enjoying the show the blue-eyed pair had been giving. It was definitely more entertaining than any movie. It would have been perfect if they had popcorn to accompany their fortunate first row seats to the hilarious show. They also approved Marinette's designs.

Luka took the chance Marinette wasn't there to freely stand up, go talk to their managers and stretch his legs for a bit.

_________________________

Back at the end of the plane, Marinette drank some juice and moved to the bathroom. She was panicking in front of the mirror, talking to herself.

“OH. MY. GOD. I’m seated next to Luka Couffaine! For at least… 5 hours more!? And I just called him hot! And- And- he said I’m beautiful and talented! And- Oh my God, he asked me for commissions, right? This can’t be real- I-" her feet wiggled uncontrollably and she let out a long squeak. "Ahh… Calm down, Marinette! He’s human- A sexy human, but still human! He’s famous but very friendly, kind and nice. And fun! It’s going to be alright. Just- Avoid his eyes. That’s it. It’s dangerous. Don’t fall in love. You’re not a teenager anymore, you’re over that stage, right? Only a few hours more. You can do it. I CAN DO IT!” She convinced herself with a confident nod and returned to her seat, only to find Luka was gone.

She looked for him from her seat, at her surroundings, but he was nowhere to be found. She sighed in both relief and sadness as she seated.

For some reason, she was missing him. Which was stupid, considering they had just met! But his company was certainly enjoyable... And, moreover, it was FUN. More than she ever remembered having. And not only because she was passionate about fashion or music. It had to do with his aura, his personality, his gentle manners- just... Luka.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back in a moment” A voice said from in front of her. “My brother is stupid, but he’s a decent person. Treat him well” The purple haired lady winked, beside a petit blond lady.

“Jul-!” She covered her mouth with her hands to stop herself from yelling her name. “And Rose-!?” 'Oh, no! They might have heard what I said too!' She panicked again and the ladies giggled amused.

“Ignore my sister and her girlfriend” Luka returned, and her face flustered when she noticed how tall and well built he was (not that she didn't know that, but it hit differently in first person). “Can I get back to my seat?” He politely asked, pointing at the window seat.

“Ah-! Yes! Of course!” She stood up so suddenly she tripped and fell on Luka’s chest. She immediately moved away in embarrassment, falling back instead, and Luka had to hold her again to avoid her imminent fall. “I’m sorry!”

“Are you ok?” He asked in concern, and she shyly nodded. Luka reluctantly let go of her and returned to his seat and Marinette settled back to hers.

Wait- Was that a blush on his face?

“Here” Luka offered her an envelope. “I don’t know what your plans in NY are but, here’s a VIP pass to our concert next Sunday. There’s also our contact card inside. I want you to consider the idea of working for us. Your costumes are impressive. We discussed it, and we want you in our team” Marinette had no words- totally speechless. Could she be this lucky? “What do you say?” Luka asked with a hopeful tender smile that made her weak.

“I- I’ll think about it. And- Oh God- I’ll totally be there for your concert” She blushed and Luka smiled kindly at her. Suddenly, she started searching inside her backpack, and took out a business card she offered him. “This is my contact. I- I have a fashion event next Monday. I would love you to come, if you can make it. Send me an email and I’ll get you some passes”

“Wow! That's impressive. I'll try to make it. Thank you, Marinette”

Marinette could hear her heart beating faster. No looking in his eyes, dammit. They kept talking for a while, enjoying their time together until they fell asleep out of exhaustion, Marinette’s head resting on Luka’s shoulder. He woke up earlier than her, but didn’t have the heart to wake her up until lunchtime. She looked like she really needed that rest.

When he left half of his lunch untouched, Marinette scolded him. “You have to eat! You’re too thin! Those abs and arms need consistency! Proteins!” She pointed at a photo of him shirtless and flustered again in embarrassment in realization. “Ah-”

Gosh- it really was fun, Luka thought, chucking. It was hard not to laugh out loud. Everything flowed so naturally it was unbelievable.

Damn. He didn’t want the plane to ever land.

“Marinette” he called, during their coffee time, and she looked back at him, redness still on her cheeks. “The plane will land soon but- Even if you don’t accept our offer… Is it possible for us to meet again? Out of business? Like this?”

Marinette flustered at his implications. “Do- Do you mean-?”

“A date. Would you go on a date with me, Marinette? Or just as friends, if you prefer. I like you, and I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun with anyone else” He took Marinette’s pen and one of his ‘Kitty Section’ contact cards and wrote something behind it. “These are my personal telephone number and email. We'll be in NY until Friday next week. It would make me very happy if you contact me, whenever you prefer, anytime” He said, securing the card in her hands.

Marinette blushed, looked at the card with glowing eyes, and then at his honest loving stare. Was it even possible that the man everyone was gushing about was asking her out? But this had nothing to do with his stage persona. Luka was someone she more than enjoyed spending time with. Naturally, quietly, assuring… She had no doubts about her answer.  

“I want to meet you again, too” she stated, and wrote her personal number under his wristband. “I’m free on Wednesday” she shyly smiled, and his smile widened.

“Wednesday is it, then. I'll manage to find the time. Just for you." He smiled happily and only then she realized how deep she had fallen.

Ah- she hadn't wanted to fall in love. What a way to fail her own determination… But she couldn't complain, not at all.

And he felt the same way.

Luka and Marinette's hands locked together, and they lost themselves in each other’s eyes, smiling at each other.

“Why don’t you kiss her already, dumbass?” Juleka called, and Marinette blushed. “He won’t kiss you if you don’t give him proper permission, you know? He’s very considerate despite his looks. Tell him already”

“Jules… Why don’t you mind your business and make out with Rose instead?” He shushed his sister and Rose giggled, embracing Juleka. Luka returned his attention to Marinette. “Sorry about that”

“It’s ok… I-” She started, looking at his thin lips. “Will you kiss me if I want to? Because I think I do...”

“You do?” he asked, and she shyly nodded and he smiled softly, making her heart flutter.

She closed her eyes and he leaned closer to give her a sweet kiss on her cheek. She pouted a little, in disappointment, but he told her that, if she really wanted to kiss him, that would be the perfect excuse to meet him again and make it more special, like a beautiful lady like her deserved. Marinette understood his reasoning and agreed with it, despite the slight disappointment she felt she would have to wait a few days to get the chance to kiss him. Nevertheless, both of them happily smiled while their fingers remained interlaced, chatting and enjoying their time together the rest of the flight, until the plane landed and they had to unavoidably say their farewells.

“Thank you for everything, Luka. I forgot how scared I was of planes thanks to you and- I’ll see you soon?”

“I really hope so. I still owe you something, right?" He winked and she blushed happily. Luka gave her a final discreet and quick kiss on her knuckles. "Gosh- I miss you already...” He added, and Marinette felt the urge to cry. She dropped her bag to hold him in a needed embrace. He gladly reciprocated her gesture. Despite neither wanting to separate, they forced themselves to. "I hope I see you soon, Marinette"

"Me too, Luka…" she wiped her tears and waved, as the band started walking away.

When the arrivals doors opened and all the camera flashes blinded her, she understood why Kitty Section members always wore sunglasses in airports. They were more popular than she could have expected. She understood why he had refused to kiss her outside of the plane, but he still saluted her before disappearing in the multitude of fans and paparazzis.

On the other side, Sabrina, Audrey Bourgeois’ assistant, waited for her. She had almost forgotten about her own business. But now, she found the motivation she had lacked. If she was willing to be with Luka, she had to become the best. She wanted to make a name of herself, more than ever. And her meeting with Luka certainly boosted her confidence.

Unexpectedly, her trip to NY had already become one of her most memorable experiences yet. And it had just started! She couldn't wait to spend the rest of the week in the city.

[usergreenpixel]

JACOBIN FICTION CONVENTION MEETING 7: SCARAMOUCHE (1921)

Hello, Citizens, and welcome to the seventh meeting of our lovely Convention!

I deeply appreciate your wishes for my speedy recovery and I assure you that I’m right as rain.

So, with that out of the way, let us begin.

1. Introduction

“Scaramouche” is a historical fiction novel written by Rafael Sabatini, who might be familiar to some of you via works like “Captain Blood”, which was among my favorite novel series when I was growing up as I’ve always loved (and still love) me a good swashbuckling story and I never quite grew out of these tastes in literature.

In the case of this novel, it never was a blip on my radar when I was a kid but my renewed interest in the French Revolution and my research of topics for future reviews led me to this story. Apparently there’s a sequel and I might review it in the future.

I found the ebook readily available in English on Project Gutenberg so it’s pretty much in public domain now.

I guess it shouldn’t be surprising that there’s a swashbuckling novel set in Frev - the setting is like a perfect fertile soil for external and internal conflicts, adventures and drama, so it was only a matter of time before someone came up with an adventure novel in this setting.

That being said, at first I had quite a few fears that this book would be just another propaganda piece, especially since the author was technically Anglophone.

Did my fears come true? Let’s find out.

2. The Summary

The story’s protagonist is one André-Louis Moreau - a ward and godson to a Breton nobleman and a lawyer by education who swears revenge on a Marquis who kills his friend in a duel.

To escape the gallows after landing himself in hot water for igniting the fire of revolution in Rennes and Nantes, André-Louis joins a troupe of traveling actors and performs as a character called Scaramouche, hence the title.

3. The Story

Like I said, I have a soft spot for swashbuckling novels so I actually quite enjoyed reading the book. And, on a pleasantly surprising note, the revolution is NOT demonized. If anything, the protagonist actually becomes an idealistic republican by the end, which is a really uncommon narrative choice in Frev media.

The narrative clearly portrays the nobility as too privileged and corrupt and the people are in the right - at least, this is what the protagonist understands during his arc.

There’s also not that much Thermidorian bullshit, at least no popular stereotypes, which I really appreciate.

That being said, I do have three main issues with the story.

Firstly, sometimes there’s too much filler and it feels like the narrative is barely dragging along, which got tiresome at times.

Secondly, I didn’t like the romantic subplot between André and the niece of his godfather, Aline. For context, the two were childhood playmates and grew up referring to each other as cousins, only to fall in love as adults.

Maybe it’s just me, but I find romance between family members (no matter how honorary) gross even if there are no shared genes involved. I know cousin marriages were more common in the past but personally I think the novel would’ve benefited from Aline and André only sharing a platonic bond and familial love.

(Spoiler alert!)

Thirdly, I highly doubt the “I’m your father” twist was necessary here as I usually dislike such plot points because they’re hard to do right.

Here there was no proper building up to the revelation, at least in my opinion, and the twist itself can (and most likely will) seem predictable to modern audiences.

However, it was resolved in a fairly realistic way. Marquis de la Tour and André don’t immediately reconcile just because they’re father and son but André calls off his revenge quest, grants the Marquis a safe passage out of the country and doesn’t want to see him again, which is understandable considering their prior enmity.

On that note, let’s take a closer look at the characters.

4. The Characters

Right off the bat, the biggest issue the modern readers might have is that the characters are too “black and white”. In the era of “grey morality” and complex characters, these archetypes might come off as done to death and boring but, other than that, the characters were mostly easy to empathize with.

Personally, I didn’t like André himself in the beginning but he grew on me.

He starts off as a stoic almost to the point of coldness, a cynic and a borderline nihilist who believes fighting against the noble class is futile and there’s no point in trying to improve the country.

But when his idealistic best friend is killed, André vows to take the Marquis down by using the volatile revolutionary climate to his advantage. Slowly, André too becomes a revolutionary and an idealist, which is admittedly rare as usually people in stories become cynical by the end.

Seeing this character ark but played in reverse felt quite refreshing to me so even though at times André’s sarcasm and stoic attitude made him insufferable, I think he is pretty well-written and fleshed out as a protagonist.

Next is Aline, and unfortunately she is underdeveloped in the novel, more so than a female lead should be. She is ambitious, which makes her consider marrying the Marquis, prejudiced against actors due to her upbringing and in general is a typical noble ingenue.

Her and André are playfully witty at times and verbally cruel to each other at others and, unfortunately, they suffer from the “misunderstanding” trope which makes them unable to talk things out. I always find this trope annoying and, coupled with prejudice and not being fleshed out enough, it played into my apathy for Aline as a character.

Then there’s Marquis de la Tour, the typical privileged corrupt noble. He loves women, is a master of fencing and has no heart. André even calls him the embodiment of sin various times.

I know despicable people can and do exist, but here it seemed like he was made a bit too evil, to the point of being simply cartoonish and hard to perceive as a threat or, for that matter, take seriously.

At least he wasn’t threatening for me personally as a character and was more amusing than anything else.

Interestingly enough, historical figures don’t feature much in the story but we do get cameos of Marat, Danton, Robespierre and Desmoulins, as well as Mirabeau.

Mirabeau is called a hypocrite by the author but the other four, surprisingly, aren’t portrayed as evil villains. Marat is even called a philanthropist and his pamphlets inspire André! How rare is that, Citizens?!

Anyway, let’s continue.

5. The Setting

Although at times the text is overloaded with descriptions, all of them were vivid enough for me to imagine myself in the story with the characters.

Sabatini sure knows how to convey the images of villages, cities, nature, inns, etc in an exciting and engaging manner. I just wish that the descriptions were a bit shorter.

6. The Writing Style

Seeing as the novel was published in 1921 and I’m pretty good at English, I didn’t have many problems with reading but there were some outdated grammatical structures and vocabulary so be prepared.

Besides, in the version I read didn’t have translations of French and Latin phrases that occasionally pop up in the text, which was a bit annoying but not that much as I could understand the context of the phrases and therefore figure out what they mean more or less.

In general though, despite occasional overload of descriptions and the aforementioned grievances I have with the text, the writing style is engaging, very easy to understand and not too complex.

7. The Conclusion

In short, I can definitely recommend this novel to anyone who loves good swashbuckling stories and hates propaganda. Not the most original story but enjoyable and a good read regardless.

With that, I announce the end of the meeting. Stay tuned for updates and stay safe, Citizens!

Love,

- Citizen Green Pixel

[misssophiachase]

Happy, happy belated birthday @destellolunar​ 

Sending all my thanks to my lovely and talented partner in crime @sekretny13​ (who wasn’t late at all just me fyi) for creating this AMAZING and stunningly beautiful mood board. She’s also been my much-needed brainstorming buddy, fic title aficionado and general sounding board. 

We hope you enjoy our gift. 

Princess Mary of Denmark met her future husband Prince Frederick at the Sydney 2000 Olympics. Yes, fun fact, they did meet in a bar (how very Australian). This is a totally fictional version of what their meeting could have been like. 

You Should See Me in a Crown

Two famous strangers, both trying to avoid paparazzi for different reasons, find themselves in a bar one night during the Summer Olympics.

Hank’s Bar, Downtown Los Angeles, CA - Tuesday, 2311 hours

“At the end of day seven, the United States tops the medal tally board with 23 gold, 17 silver and 11 bronze.”

“Let’s not forget half those medals were won in the pool, Gary, an absolutely brilliant effort by our athletes at these Olympic Games. The nearest competition is Poland and Australia with 14 and 9 gold medals respectively.”

“We’re only halfway through the games too, John, and given our impressive talent in the track and field competition there’ll only be more medals to come, especially gold ones.”

“No pressure,” she mutters, playing distractedly with the antique brooch firmly in her grasp. Given it’s a family heirloom and her lucky charm, she’s long since familiarised herself with each and every groove as her fingers trace over it slowly.  

She figures asking the bartender to turn down the volume is not an option given he’s clearly entranced by the Olympic coverage on TV, much like the rest of the world. 

Hank’s is a small dive bar in downtown Los Angeles. Popular on the weekends but thankfully fairly empty at this late hour on a Tuesday, exactly what she hoped for when planning her impromptu escape. 

Her coach would kill her if he knew she’d sneaked out of the olympic village after curfew but she needed some breathing space as well as the assistance of a strong vodka on the rocks. 

“Don’t forget we still have strong medal potential in a number of other, upcoming events including gymnastics, kayaking and equestrian, Gary.”

“Yes we do, who can forget America’s golden girl, Caroline Forbes?” Gary offers, all too enthusiastically for her liking. “She’s a triple threat, and has the potential to be the best we’ve ever seen from this country in the equestrian competition.”

“It’s her first Olympics but given the plethora of National and World Championship titles under her belt at only 26, she can easily take out the individual eventing competition and single-handedly help the US to a team victory.”

“For our viewers out there who might not be familiar with the particulars of equestrian, there are three competitions; dressage, jumping and eventing. Eventing is by far the most difficult given it encompasses all three disciplines. This is the triathlon of the horse world.”

“No pressure, at all,” she sighs loudly, forgetting her plan to be discreet just as her image fills the screen.   

“You...” the bartender begins, turning around slowly just as Caroline realises she’s done a lousy job of remaining incognito. Before she can reply, he continues, “need another one?” 

“I’m fine, thank you.” 

Being a world class athlete, having one vodka is bad enough let alone multiple especially the night before your competition.

“You sure do look familiar, has anyone ever told you that?”

Caroline’s hoping that her strategically placed baseball cap is enough to convince the guy she isn’t the person currently on screen. Before he can press further, the front door opens unexpectedly.

“Evening, what’s good here, mate?” He’s clearly out of breath as he asks the question while shrugging off his jacket. 

She looks up from beneath her cap, not sure whether this interruption is a good or bad thing. If it diverts attention elsewhere and drowns out the television she figures it can’t be all that terrible. 

The stranger’s voice is distinctly English but what grabs her attention most is that he’s wearing a baseball cap too, even if a few, stray, blonde curls have teasingly escaped. 

A Californian native, Caroline immediately recognises his orange, black and cream cap as that from her rival team. In Los Angeles there’s only one team and clearly this guy didn’t get the memo or has a death wish. 

“Alcohol,” the largely silent but burly bartender grunts, not even bothering to turn around given his attention is back firmly focused on the television. 

“Great, I’ll take one of those then,” he requests, taking a seat on the neighbouring barstool. 

“Really?” It’s out of her mouth before she can stop it. 

“Not that it’s any of your business but I was merely responding to sarcasm with sarcasm.” 

She gives him an exasperated look by way of response. 

“What? Was that too sarcastic a response? Fine, I’ll take a beer,” he asks, before leaning across to whisper in her ear.  She’s trying to ignore how his breath tickles the shell of her ear and just how good he smells, a mixture of spices and mint. “I’m sure your boyfriend will get over it.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” she lies. Nothing against the bartender but Caroline likes to think her taste in men is slightly less hairy.  

“Liar,” he teases. “What you’ve failed to notice is that this place is practically dead so it probably doesn’t matter much.”

“Says the guy in that, just do us all a favour and take it off.”

“Excuse me? Take what off exactly? I’ve only just met you and, believe it or not, I’m not that easy, sweetheart.”

Read the rest on AO3 HERE