the flower that blooms in adversity

Punching Bag || Conrad + Brigita

“That makes two of us, then,” he said, the hint of a smile creeping to his lips, the first he’d worn in weeks. “More concerned with what’s going on up here,” two fingers tapped his temple, “Than what’s happening out here.”

#p: Conrad #Punching Bag #No worries love! c:#Brig can be much the same

He straightened as she did, taking a half-step back to give her room to move and breathe; Conrad was certain he smelt awful thanks to the rigorous workout he had just subjected himself to. It also gave him a chance to take in the full picture of her and he was surprised that he found himself thinking her rather pretty. Guilt, that familiar old companion, followed close behind the fleeting thought, reminding him that Max lay dead and buried a scarce ten weeks, or had he forgotten so soon (no, never, the date was etched in the core of his being). But the fact of this young woman’s attractiveness remained, unchanged by lingering ghosts and self-recrimination.

Her jesting, off-hand comment about the world’s end brought Conrad, again, to the here and now and brought the soft exhalation of a laugh from his lips. As with the near smile of before, it was the first laugh he had uttered in the past two months. And, again, guilt creeped up, long probing fingers seeking to steal this small, faint, ray of joy from the still-grieving man.

This time, however, he pushed those negative feelings back.

“It’s a better ending than any of the ones I’ve heard,” and as he said this, his smile brightened in degrees. “If you don’t think it too forward of me, I could help you see those,” he jerked his chin to the dishes stacked high in her arms, “Safely home. No chips or bruises.”

Then, remembering his awful state, he added, “And I’ll clean up first. That is, assuming you don’t mind the company and waiting …”

In spite of himself, Conrad found himself liking this strange girl and wanting to spend just that much more time around her.

He had laughed with her. Perhaps not a belly-shaking, gut-splitting laugh, but the sound brought Brigita's face upwards, able to wipe away some of embarrassment weighing it down. At least he wasn't totally off-put by her disrupting his workout.

"Yes, well, this one's something honest that wasn't lyrical enough to fit poetry." She moved one hand from beneath her stack of plaster - probably not the best idea, but she was balancing without problem so far - to tuck the left part of her hair behind her ear. The casualness that had begun to nestle over her skin suddenly startled in a mess of butterflies as he offered his presence up to her. He was startlingly attractive. "Oh --" Her fingers curled over the bowls in an attempt to steady herself, surprise caught and framed in the stretching of her eyes. When she was lucid enough to register what she was doing, she shook her head and brought her eyes down. One foot pivoted on the floor, and she watched her heel turn over as she spoke.

"You should know I have a habit of chipping easily, so you may put forth your best efforts, and fail nonetheless." She looked up again, a pinkish tinge colouring her cheeks as she smiled with closed lips. "But I wouldn't mind at all, if you're sure. You musn't - You needn't feel obligated to do this, I would be perfectly fine." And it wasn't a lie. She walked the streets alone with more nefarious intentions at odd hours of the night, and she more or less (too often then she liked to say, it was the latter) emerged unscathed. But the man had a soft, kind smile, and despite his exceptionally large build, he didn't prove to be as brutish as one might imagine. In fact, she seemed sweet, and it made Brigita bite her lip.

"I'm Brigita, by the way. Or Brig, if you like."

Spit on a Stranger || Moa & Brigita

moa-hult:

"What’d you wanna do that for?" Moa said quickly, pulling her head back in confusion. "I’ll give you back the money when I can, darling. You know I don’t like being in anyone’s debt."

But still, the idea of some alcohol was one that Moa couldn’t resist. “I’ll have whatever you have…” Then, eying up all the coins in her friend’s purse, Moa murmured, “That’s a lot of money you’ve got there.”

"Uh - 'cause I figure you need something to brighten ye up after such a shite day?" What should have been a statement was voiced as a question, trailing off with laughter. Moa made her feel like that wasn't a viable answer. "I know, and it's not a worry." She liked to think Moa would do the same for her.

"Sure," She nodded signing over the bartender and paying for two gin and tonics. "What?" She had to take a moment to hear what the brunette had said. "Oh. Oh,yeah, um, I have a new regular who puts me up in his place for whole nights. Won't last long, but it's good for some extra change." She shrugged, returning her purse to the bag hanging from her arm.

#c:moa

Punching Bag || Open

Conrad had not seen the girl; if he had, he would have held his punch and staid the bag, allowing her safe passage across the floor. As it stood, he only realized what had happened when he heard the out of place sound of crockery dropping and the repeated apologies in a feminine voice. Bandaged hands immediately unclenched themselves and went to steady the swinging bag lest it cause any more trouble. Sweat was blinked out of red-rimmed eyes and, gaze falling on the stooping girl and the scattered bowls, he crouched down himself to help, heedless of his half-dressed state and the sweat dripping from his brow.

“Ahhh, I’m sorry about that, miss. I should have seen you there. Are you alright? Anything broken?” His concern was obvious, though a hint of tiredness, perhaps melancholy, seeped into the edges of his words. The dish he had picked up was handed back to its rightful owner and it was then that he realized he probably ought not have been handling a girl’s good dishes with his sweaty, bloody, betaped hands. Self-consciously, he wiped them across his undershirt, further dirtying the once snowy white garment.

“I’ll replace anything’s that busted, miss. Least I could do …”

She felt him before she'd heard or seen him; the large mass of his physically exerted body emanated heat that she felt at once. That, or the proximity of the man she'd disturbed furthered her humiliation and set her body alight. Her eyes flicked from the chipped dish to the hulking form before her, but his appearance only sent them skittering back down.

"Don't be silly, it's really all my fault, I was all up in this head of mine and not paying attention." She attempted to wave the man off with her good-natured tone, shaking her head. "I'm quite alright, nothing but a few chips on me and a bruise or two on these things." She brandished a cup, offering up a slightly nervous laugh. It was a bad habit, using jesting word play in the times anxiety struck - because most people furrowed their brows and sucked on their teeth, rather than laughed. Brigita carefully took over the dishes he extended and stacked them in her hold, balanced and pressed carefully against her torso.

"Please, don't worry about it," She reassured in her most sincere tone. "I really take the blame for this. 'Sides, I'm pretty sure this is the way the world ends --" A brief pause as she stood, smoothing her skirt behind her as she straightened up. "Not with a bang, but the clatter of dishes at the hands of a disheveled, very embarrassed klutz of girl. Eliot must have gotten it wrong." Pressing the dishes tighter to her chest, she finally gave her full gaze to the eyes of the giant - whose aesthetic certainly wasn't helping to balm her mortification. It certainly felt like the end of the world.

#p: Conrad #Punching Bag

Punching Bag || Open

Of all the ways he had found to express his grief-fueled anger, boxing at the Montford Athletic Club was the healthiest. Conrad had entered those dingy Irish-owned halls only a few weeks ago, spurred on by an almost all-consuming desire to do violence to something, anything. The emotional battle he waged with himself every day screamed for an outlet and drinking and attempts at suppression were no longer viable options.

A punching bag seemed the best answer; as mad as he was being driven in his worsening depression he still had the presence of mind not to pick a fight on the street.

Dues paid and a crash course in technique saw the cop parked before one of those weighted canvas bags, taped fists bearing home with loud thuds. The first few days saw his form as sloppy, his hits doing more damage to knuckles and arms than canvas and sand.

He improved; with as much time as he spent in the gym, now, it would have been odd if he hadn’t. His strikes grew faster, his landings harder.

He did this to try to forget Max and yet the act never failed to bring the Italian forefront in his thoughts. Proud might not be the right word, but Conrad had no doubt that his lost friend would have approved. The cop had always been lousy in a fight, a fact Max had commented on more than once and always with his particular brand of derision.

So lost in thought, Conrad didn’t realize how long he had been at his workout and, indeed, was oblivious to anyone and anything else around him unless, of course, a secondary presence made itself known.

Not unlike a bird, Brigita had stitched together a home out of the odd things she found on a day to day basis. Should you investigate her nest - whose basic structure currently took form in a girl’s rooming house - one could find an odd assortment of treasures accumulated over the years. Maps, dilapidated books, an assortment of broaches and a few collections of brightly coloured string were among the mundane oddities kept in her drawers.

But unlike a creature of the fowl variety, her home was not pitched up in a tree, nor was it entirely in one place. On the contrary, her household was spread out over the city of Montford (and extended beyond the sea, to her birthplace, if she was being honest). Almost all of her interwoven addresses were due to the people behind it, and the athletic club was one such place. Having recently reconnected with Liam, whom she was entirely too grateful for, she had made an effort to visit him at his gym in her free time - and almost always with a gift food. Brigita knew she buried herself away from people often, and it had become a conscious effort of hers to at least remain in contact with the few she deeply cared about.

After spending lunch with the large boxer in his office over a bowl of mashed potatoes and sausage, her shoulders felt lighter and her smile easier. In fact, as she left his domain and walked through the main athletic floor to the exit, Brigita was reliving their conversation, and left chuckling. Humming a popular tune that was only interrupted by gentle laughter, she was so completely consumed in the ephemeral thoughts swirling in her mind that she completely forgot to tune her senses to the world around her. As a result, when a resounding thunk and a corresponding object jutted towards her, she was torn from the purgatory of happiness with a jolt, yelping and throwing her hands up in instinct, dropping the bowls. With a hand pressed to her startled heart, Brigita oriented herself enough to look up and recognize that what had seemed like some kind of assailant in her peripheral vision, had been nothing more than a canvas bag in use.

The realization was enough for her to feel a heat on her cheeks and neck, exhaling in a quick gust as she saw more than one pair of eyes had come to look at the source of the disruption — her.

"Sorry, I’m — I’m so sorry," She sputtered, offering a consolatory smile to the large man behind the bag, then turning to the few men around him with her apologies. "I have no idea where my mind was, I’m - never mind me, I’ll just clean this up and —" Flushed, she got onto her knees with a gesture meant to signify her imminent (and hopefully timely) exit, too embarrassed to finish. She began picking up her mess with quick hands, only halting when she found one of the bowls chipped. "Shite.” She sighed under her breath. There went some of the only decent crockery she had.

#p: Conrad #Punching Bag

Hello To You || Liam & Brigita

What she said was truthful after all. “You’re right. You’ve never broken a promise to me before, so I’ll have to trust your word this time.” Liam smiled down at her, taking in her face. “Well…” He leaned back and thought for a moment. “I have missed your cooking. I can’t even begin to lie to you, and tell you otherwise. You know that I can’t cook for anything. Come to think of it, I’m wondering if I would be able to convince you to cook something for me again soon.”

Her face blossomed, shoulders gently alleviated by such a mundane, but meaningful comment. "Oh yeah? What were you t'inkin' about havin' me cook up?"

"Name one dish, and by God's green earth, if I can find the ingredients, it's yours!" She laughed, removing her hand from atop Liam's only to rest her elbow on the bar and then her chin in her palm.

#c:liam

wash the town clean ; Aidan & Brigita

knucklesmcconnell

Whistling one of his favorite tunes, Aidan had strolled down the street from working a long day at the pub. With the new business ventures helping the business perform exceptionally well, he wondered how much if this was too good to be true. At least he could live a bit more comfortably now. Whatever.

With his eyes forward, he’d nearly missed the person standing not too far from where he walked when he decided to do a double take. Seeing Brigita had put a smile on his face, especially since he was still trying to devise a plan to restart the brothel. “Well, look at you!” He teased while reaching for a quick hug. “It’s been a while. Too good to come see me anymore? I understand.”

She should've known who was coming her way the moment she heard the whistled melody drifting through the alley. Instead, her tired head didn't register it's musician until he stepped into a patch of moonlight, and her name echoed off his tongue. But as soon as she recognized him, Brigita's face seemed to light and pull up.

"Aidan!" She gratefully took his hug, arms throwing around him with gusto, words laced with disbelief and glee. For the briefest of moments, she rested her head on his shoulder and felt warm and young -- as the first person she'd known in Montford, he had always served as an immediate comfort to her. "It's been too long," She conceded immediately, her smile still holding up before splitting into laughter. "Oh, don't go speakin' blasphemy like that! I was always too good to see you."

Her quick laughter and facial expression solidified the jest as she shifted her weight. "Naw; it's been a stormy few months, Aid. I kept meanin' to come by, but... you know how it is. And you've certainly had better things to be t'inkin' about than visiting this poor soul!"

#c:aidan

Spit on a Stranger || Moa & Brigita

Moa looked up at Brigita, raising an eyebrow. The blonde wasn’t always ideal company—Moa thought her to be a bit soft-minded—but she wanted some kind of company none the less. And anyway, Moa was still fond of the girl, if only in a passing sort of way.

ruminating-rumsfield-blog

"I was cheated out of money," Moa let out a heavy sigh, eyes traveling towards the window. "Bloke only paid me half and took off running."

An understanding exhale of air was the immediate response to Moa's tale. Every girl who shared their profession knew this story, and had starred as the cheated protagonist at least once -- Brigita was no exception.

"Oi," She sighed, grimacing. "Sorry, love. I can see why you're ill humors are actin' up; there's nothin' worse." There generally wasn't, considering these were generally the types of men who used up an unholy amount of time for even unholier things. She paused for a moment, recrossing her legs and biting her lip. Brigita wanted to help. "... Can I buy you a drink or somethin'?" She withdrew her small coin purse, which had filled up. "I had a good week."

#c:moa

Staying In Shape || Brigita & Gordon

ruminating-rumsfield-blog

"Well," He replied, scratching at the back of his head, humbled by what she said. "I have a lot to live up to, I guess." Clearing his throat he looked back up at her with a smirk, "My old man is the Chief of Police and he didn’t get there by beating on troublemakers." No, for the majority of Gordon’s childhood, he felt his father had taken far better to the hoodlums that he’d helped turn around than his own son. He had a better understanding of it now, but there was still touch of bitterness at the thought.

"I agree to a point, but sometimes a strong hand is the only thing that will send a message." Gordon sighed, shaking his head sadly. As much as he disliked it, sometimes people needed to be made an example of.

"I don’t think Grateful would do you justice, Brigita." Gordon grinned, "Detective Gordon Rumsfield, at your service ma’am." He held his arm out for her to take and gestured down the block a way. "My car is just a short walk from here." He explained, his Boston years turning the word ‘car’ into ‘caah’.

"Oh?" There was a fleeting moment of anxiety, that she was speaking not only to an officer, but the son of the Chief. She had friends who were surely on their watch list, and she herself was on the wrong end of the virgin-whore dichotomy in an all too literal way. "A family tradition, then. I’m sure you’ll be following suit in not too long." And then a flash of melancholy — she should have stayed at home with her own father, but it was too late now. Far too late.

"No? Perhaps Hopeful would work?" She laughed, nodding at the introduction, arm winding through his in order to rest her fingers on his arm like a bird on a branch. It was only at the hint of an accent that she turned with gusto. "Your caah?” She repeated with his affected tone, laughter shortly following. Her repetition was spot on, but imitation was easy for her after years of learning to hide her Irish intonation by covering it with her learned American pitch. “Why, Detective Rumsfield, wherever is that exotic accent from?”

#c:gordon

Spit on a Stranger || Moa & Brigita

"Haven’t seen you about much."

The words hung in the air as soon as they left Moa’s lips. Her usual cheery demeanor at Moriarty’s was long gone—and it was her own fault, she knew that. Hadn’t been a good couple of days. Money was tighter than usual. Cheated by one of her customers two nights ago. Moa was in a bad place, and what better way to fix that then go to the best place she knew? The Pub…it wasn’t much, but wasn’t it home?

She looked up at the figure standing above her, leaning back in her seat as she raised an eyebrow. “Seat’s not on fire. Go on, take a sit.”

"That'd be because I haven't been around that much." Brigita paused, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she shifted weight and glanced at Moa's stoic, porcelain face. If she hadn't known better, she'd think the girl was carved out of marble - she looked as beautiful, and could be as cold.

"A'right." The quip alighted her cheeks as if she was the one subject to fire, glancing downwards. She didn't mean to seem overly hesitant, but Brigita was never precisely sure where she stood with Moa.

"You seem in a mood," she ventured, head canting slightly. "Somethin' happen?"

#c:moa

dimitrileoni

So glad that it’s starting to warm up. Winter was just brutal these past few months.

It’s about this time of year that Montford specializes in two things — road removal, and snow repair. So I can't say I disagree.

#c:dimitri

desmond--murphy

The Bouncer || Open

desmond--murphy

Something about the way this woman spoke threw the man off. It was… charming. Being around, rough-tounged, vile, borderline-filthy mouthed men and women alike had caused a certain alienation from those who structured their sentences with a level of gusto. He couldn’t help himself from cocking his head to the side as he stared.

"A friend of Aidan’s, huh?" he said, following suit and lighting up a cigarette of his own, "You seem a little too brain-ey to be a friend of Aidan’s." He laughed, giving in to his own sour joke. A bad habit he had.

"I’d love to say that I could never forget a pretty face," he sighed, "But I’m sorry, lass, just can’t place my finger on it."

She kept his gaze, exhaling a long gust of smoke, watching as his head canted. The gin she'd been nipping at all night had made her bolder than normal, but there was still a languid reservation as she leaned in the shadows. There was comfort in being there.

"Yeah, well, it's a mutual relationship. I do the thinkin', and he lends me some muscle." She followed suit in his laughter with a low rumble of a chuckle. An eyebrow arched, but she said nothing for a moment. Perhaps he'd remember, or he wouldn't. Either way someone would probably tell him.

"S'alright, love. It'll come to ye -- or not." Shifting her arms to unfold one from the other, she extended a slight hand. "Brigita. Now you have a name."

#c:desmond

Hello To You || Liam & Brigita

Liam didn’t push, or ask any other questions of her. When she didn’t say anything, he allowed her the small moments of silence. It was all he could do after he’d controlled the conversation the entire time. His eyes fell to where her hand rested over his. Glancing back up at her, he gave her a sort of half smile. “You’d better hold true on that promise. I’ll be very upset with you if you ever break it.” He replied, meaning the words that he said. He knew that she was strong, and he would have to trust that she would be fine, and that if she needed him she would come to him.

#The Mind Beyond The Eyes

"Have ye ever known me to break a promise, Liam? It's not in these Irish bones a mine." She leaned over their hands to smile at him in emphasis, eyes still glazed but everything around them warming up. "Now come on, let's not be a pair of fools, muckin' around at our first reunion in months. Tell me something that'll get me laughin' again. Or at least say you missed my cookin'."

#c:liam

tylerknott

You of such strong heart, you of such fierce tenderness, you the delicate.

Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson (via mashamorevna)

gameofthronesdaily

#me

duphoenix

Don’t ask me to be vulnerable with you if you have no intentions of protecting me.

(via hay-girl-hay-lesbifriends)

#The Mind Beyond The Eyes

Hello To You || Liam & Brigita

There was a bit of surprise at how soon she’d been able to stop the tears, but Liam was even more surprised by the ghost of a smile that she shot up at him. “Well…” The truth was that Liam was at a loss for words. He wanted a way to be able to help her, make her feel at ease, or help her in her attempt at happiness, but he had no idea how to do that. “All I can say is that I’m here for you if you ever do find out if there’s anything going on, or if you feel like you need someone. I’ll be here. You know that already, but I feel the need to express that again.”