sophie hatter of howl's moving castle, book and movie infused interpretation.
composed by soar (she/they, 18+).
[ about (to be made), AUs (to be made) ]
regulations.
Standard RP etiquette here: no godmodding, metagaming, force-of any kind.
Semi-selective and mutuals only.
"#hattering" is the tag followed to see any content directed towards this blog.
AU/Crossover friendly. If anything, AU/Crossover is preferred.
Non-rp blogs are more than welcomed! Just, no roleplaying w/ y'all. Anons and questions are cool, especially about DWJ's series and OOC things.
Plotting is preferred and encouraged.
Novellas and multi-paras, third-person is styling found here. Quality is not quantity.
Tags will have "[content] tw" incase any particular content is noted. NSFW content will be tagged "nsft tw."
AI-generated content, writing, images, and anything else, will not be found on this blog, and is not interested in interacting with blogs with this content.
(NEW!) Selective shipping, some verses ( degen : single-shipped with @mindsdistance )
icon art by yaekissu / dash icon and icon adjustments by bitchguarded
"--You don't exactly give me any other options you know! I-I've tried to talk about this sober, I've TRIED to ask to kiss you. Did you think it was a joke?"
Your emotions were probably heightened due to the alcohol in your system, you knew your voice was louder because of it. It wasn't like you weren't cognitive of your actions either. You just needed a little push when it came to Sophie was all. Every time you did try to confront her on this topic, she would always find a way to make it backfire. There was a reason you were acting the way you were.
Ten long years you were trapped in this purgatory of yearning for her, and yet you were always too cowardly to admit how you felt. At first due to false assumptions of gender preference, than nerves and now- you didn't have any reason to other than it was what you were used to. Were you cursed? Was this how it would always play out?
You didn't want that anymore. Which was why you decided to make your intentions clear enough so that they couldn't be misconstrued anymore, pushing her face towards you.
"--I'm going to ask you one more time," only now the volume of your voice went low, soft enough so that only the Hatter could hear you, "--Are you going to smack me or kiss me?"
“Other options? All you ever have done was ask for that—!” Sophie’s brows knit as her grip on his shirt loosens. Prior commitment to contain the intoxicated escapades of Kazic is now on the back burner.
Cinnamon still reeks on his breath. One question refused to submit to the silence: how long, how long, how long?
Containing herself was the other challenge. Proximity, accursed closeness, her concentration flickers between the drunken flush over his cheeks, his wet lips, and his hand—
Sophie tries to reel her head back, feeling his hand manipulate her closer. She groans as the inquiry arises again, practically tasting his drink in her mouth.
“Neither.” Her hand wedges between his hold on her, pushing it away. One large stride back, Sophie scowls at Kazic.
“That is all you have asked of me. It is the only question you have for me, sober or drunk.” Her breathing steadied as her gaze, though unwavering, hardened the longer she looked at him. “After all this time, of everything you could ask me…you decide on that? Only that?” Her jaw tightens.
“As is—” She huffs, throwing her hands. “First and foremost, I refuse to act on anything when you are inebriated! Why would I—” She fans her hands to herself. “Ever do that to you?” She shakes her head, incredulous. But she soon re-approaches. “Even if you were sober, is that really where you want to start?”
“Not once have you spoken to me.” An accusatory finger pointed at the chest. “Never have you looked me in the eye and expressed to me the truth. All it is ever been—all you ever done—is toy with me with this question”
“Like all I am to you is a kiss.” The finger jabbed at his chest slowly lowers. Anger ebbs, exhaustion remains in its place. Shoulders finally slacken from the unbridled indignation.
“Not me.” Her gaze dropped to the ground. The words came out choked, small and defeated. “Just..a kiss.”
" Perish the thought. Do I seem so wicked? " The Vermillion Witch's infamy would certainly suggest so, but—any figure shrouded in mystery was often subject to vast exaggerations. Miya was no exception. Not that the young man knew her moniker (or at least, he shouldn't).
Despite these thoughts, the sly smile dares not depart. Nothing said she couldn't play the mystery up. " I assure you: nothing lethal. " As for what else could qualify, she will leave that to the imagination. More importantly—
In the midst of their dance, her feet suddenly come to a halt, head tilting upwards to seemingly examine the gilded ceiling, a heavy silence filling the space between them. After several moments, she tilts her head. " It appears I won't need a hunt to remain entertained. "
This moonlighting life fails to differ from her life in the sun. Yielding their position out of deference to the Witch, not another word left Simeon’s mouth. Already had their merriment petered out as the mysterious figure humored the mystery of her methods. A forced simper adorns their face.
No different in this form or the original, they subject themselves as a listener. Silence reveals more in the space of revelations; information breaking proved that well enough. As quiet as a mouse, no one ever quite pictured or thought Simeon lingered. In a past life, no one quite remembered that Sophie was there. And in both, there was consequence is silence; it only leaves openings to a too loud, too cacophonous mind.
‘What are you planning to do?’
Yestermorrow's routine play like thread fed into a spinning wheel. With elbows perched on her desk, the tired detective remained. Several empty bowls littered around her, as did the paperwork, head canted and eyes fluttered shut. The hired hand opened the door, grimacing at the debris. Wake fights against heavy eyelids as the detective acknowledges the familiar company, able to hold herself conscious for long.
Over and over, between the Witch and her housekeeper, the convention is banal, plain, and simple.
Watching the Vermillion Witch filled Simeon with a heaviness in their chest. A hapless person were they, bound to only observe in order to keep their secrets. With a simple dance and twirl, she followed their lead. Over and over, the cycle was so perfect, nothing must converge and ruin its rhythm.
Yet, she beneath the facade had only one question.
‘Miya, how can I protect you?’
All comes into a lull as wide-eyed Simeon holds their partner closer. Their eyes followed her lead, only to squint against the glaring lights. Then all disappears. Darkness swallows the ballroom whole.
As everything became enshrouded in shadow, the informant’s hand slipped under their coat. Their palm finds the pommel of a dagger tucked into their waistband. Simeon’s heartbeat buzzed in their ears while the hold on the woman remained in place.
“What happened—?!” a woman’s voice cried out. Panic billows. Murmurs fill the room, murmurs then to disgruntled grumbles, and then grumbles to shouted fusses, until footfalls began and soon overtook every other sound.
First were the patrons on the dance floor, retreating with quick steps from the open space. Shoes skidded and clicked on the polished wood. Chairs scraped, table legs screeched as people stumbled through. Sharp exclamations, muttered gasps, and the rattle of disturbed dishes by fumbling hands and colliding persons. Bodies in whichever direction push past the other.
Simeon stayed rooted despite the commotion. They guided the woman to follow their lead yet again. “Do not move,” they whispered. “T’at’s what they want us to do.”
Beyond the crowd’s frantic shuffle comes a different sound, one that preys rather than fears. Heavy, purposeful. A pair of feet. Then another. Then several more. Not fleeing, but charging.
They swept behind Simeon, and they tried to follow. Yet, it was useless in this blinded state. In that direction, there was only one person of recent interest —
A glass shattered across the pavement. Another follows. Helpless yelps and grunts from people.
A table overturns, crashing to the ground; dishwares burst across the floor.
A man’s struggled gasp. Then comes the unmistaken thud of a body slamming the wall. A sickening crack cuts through the man’s screaming into the darkness.
“Unhand me—oof—!” The shriek dies first. Then his cries, replaced by gagging and violent retching.
Several indistinguishable voices overlap over the other in snipped, hurried spurts. Whatever it was, the uproar swallowed it.
Something massive smashes. Partygoers scream as countless smaller objects scatter across the floor.
A rush of chilly night air tears through the ballroom.
Curtains snapped violently.
Only then does pale moonlight spill into the room through a newly broken window.
“That’s your man,” spits Simeon, venom dripping from every word. “We need to GO.”
The informant finally releases her.
Their boots crack across the path of shattered glass. They brace a gloved palm against the windowsill and vault through the opening.
Both tolerate eachother's favorite foods and cook them for one another. Sophie hates extremely sweet sweets yet she bakes and prepares his favorite treats for him. Kazic doesn't much care for Lancashire Hot pot but still stomachs enough to cook it for her and even eat it so she doesn't feel like he prepared it just for her (he would but he knows she would berate him for only cooking for her instead of for both of them.) Opposites in their food pallets always.
They are each others personal babysitters when under the influence. Toni will always call Sophie to tend to her brother and Alek will do the same back to Kazic despite their differences when Sophie needs assistance home since he's "unaware" of her home address (he knows due to his own background checks but keeps it on a need to know basis- he runs background checks on everyone he works with) but they know the psychic knows. Though its more of a hunch, given their history.
Everyone assumes they are exes in some way shape or form. Toni assumes they were together as kids but never kissed out of nerves, Adelinda thinks they separated due to the strain of long distance. His coworkers think they're separated and about to divorce...everyone assumes their relationship wrong.
They had a little notebook they would both scribble secret messages and codes to as teenagers. She still has this book on her and Kazic likes to sneak away when he visits her scribble small secrets for her to decipher one day since he's such a coward and won't just tell her how he feels.
Sophie liked to play with his hair, and let him brush hers when they were younger, he learned to style hair from doing hers mainly. Years later he tries to brush her hair as before but she's far too self conscious of the silver strands in her hair to let him though she still likes to play with his hair. He allows her to do so but hopes one day she'll let him close enough to mess and brush her hair again since he found it so relaxing a task when they were teenagers.
I have more but.. i'm sticking to how they are currently rather to in the future :>
Send your headcanons about our muse's relationship and I'll react to them. / not accepting.
Food:
I’d contextualize that Sophie does not hate overtly sweet things, but her palate cannot handle them. It’s like licking a lemon for her; it is very overwhelming! She does indulge in portions of the desserts she has made for Kazic, which inevitably helps desensitize her and increase her tolerance for and liking of the flavors. Would she go to the extremes that Kazic and his sister go to? Absolutely not.
When it comes to knowing that Kazic does not like a dish or may not care for it, she can alter it. Like with a Lancashire hotpot, she incorporates his preference by layering cheese underneath the sliced potatoes. Cost efficiency and resources are things Sophie is keen on. She would tell Kazic that she doesn’t want him to waste money on making a dish she would eat because he has to take care of himself, too. As is, there are dishes they both like. (Pot, meet kettle.)
Chaperoning/Babysitting:
(Contextually, this is written in the time frame before they make up unless I specify a difference)
As far as Kazic and Sophie go, when he first comes to Midgard, the association wasn’t as strongly established. Largely in part to her acting and distancing herself from him. At least at first.
Sophie can already be an option as someone’s trip sitter(/babysitter) for any occasion. This didn’t start when Kazic came to Midgard. Over time, as the association being glaringly obvious (no thanks to Sophie), the arrangement solidified. Being his “babysitter” stemmed from the more overt, visible attachment he has towards her when intoxicated.
However, drunk Kazic has sought her out before anyone else informs Sophie of the situation. That also could be among the driving forces that someone might have started calling her about her estranged friend’s condition.
On the other end, Kazic faces more tribulations if he has to be Sophie’s sitter. While he approaches her when drunk, she avoids most everyone. Once he’s in the picture, she makes more effort to be further away from him. A drunk Sophie is blunter like drunk Kazic, but she would isolate more and be overwrought with existentialism. Unlike him, too, she is not as animated about it. Sophie is mostly to herself and polite, which wouldn’t spur any outside interest or suspicion of her. Unless someone has been keeping track of what and how much she’s been drinking.
Kazic being called to watch Sophie would probably mostly happen if they notice her wobbly coordination. To which, the psychic is most definitely going to be putting up with a defiant, if not petulant, seamstress, who is telling him to “leave her alone because she is perfectly capable.” At, which point, he would comply. And it ends up where he follows her several steps behind or takes the lead and picks her up to escort her home.
When alone together, another similarity happens (clinginess). Mister yearner 3000 would have inebriated Sophie asking him to stay while she’s hugging him. Kazic would give Sophie well-deserved words about her abrasiveness when all he’s trying to do is help. Unfortunately, as much as she tries with him, he tries with her and caves in.
On the topic, I can see both of them getting drunk for particularly petty reasons; Kazic has already been written to where he may get drunk to “encourage” himself to approach her. While I haven’t done that for Sophie, I imagine her getting drunk would result from her frustrations (jealousy, uncertainty, inferiority, etc.) and she’s trying to drown out the sounds. This applies to stopping herself from speaking and exposing herself, and also stopping her thoughts exposing her to a certain mind reader. This is specifically post-make up.
Both drunk and in forced proximity is fun. Not them tipsy like in the bar thread, but them actually wasted and at each other’s throats (not literally).
Fundamentally, Kazic and Sophie are codependent; they built versions of the other in their head due to the sudden separation/grief/traumatic event that led to it. They idealized the fictive other and continue to prescribe things of this fantastic, nonexistent idea onto another human being. It is not all positive attributes they project on the other, but it was how they coped and still cope. NOT ONLY THAT, they were each other’s closest friendships during their teenage years and were practically inseperatable. Besides that, they were the only other’s only support system.
Not holding back any inhibitions means that conversations will happen; anything involving substances will mean sloppy, charged exchanges.
These are thoughts for a rainy day!
Relationship Misconstrues:
This is still among my favorite things I’ve come up with. Everyone can play “What are/were Kazic and Sophie” because when their feelings show up, it’s the biggest elephant in the room. Thankfully, this only really happens other people observe them from a distance, rather than them dragging it up randomly with other people. Thank you for giving us some grace.
This already happened with them younger when her family, customers, everyone in the town, and at Kazic’s encampment. However, it’s on the other extreme. People rumored that they were quietly dating. Some believed they would elope. Sebastian, Sophie’s father, was one of those people.
People will also ask Kazic and Sophie questions that imply these assumed relationships too. Sophie actively corrects them, but would do so politely. If they mentioned while drunk, her corrections are more incredulous, like “Why the hell would Kazic kiss me?” with a scoff before she thinks about “impossible” chance and resumes drinking. Yes, the prior section has bled into this.
Actually, this just came to me. There are bound to be people who come up to Kazic and apologize for not knowing about him and Sophie. He’d be confused when they tell him, “Yeah, we tried flirting with her. We didn’t know she was still with you. Is she still with you? Are you two on the rocks?” Sophie also receives those comments and quietly has to stew on them. It definitely comes up when they’re alone together, like a funny comment, “Oh, can you believe they thought—" while Kazic takes a long drag of his joint or Sophie takes a very loud sip of her drink. The reaction depends on who brings it up.
Notebook:
Sophie mourned this man like a widow and has (tried) to keep every earthly possession of his that she could. She sorted away that notebook in boxes. Kazic only knew she had it after one of his break-ins into her apartment, and he went through more of her more “hidden away” boxes in storage. If he continued writing in that notebook, trouble will be waiting for him.
When Sophie revisits memory lane and sees that there is new, undeciphered writing in the book, she would be mad. Besides her insatiable desire to break the code, Kazic proved that he doesn’t listen. On another level, Sophie is highly protective and controlling of those items. It is an immature animus, not specifically directed at him, but at anyone who poses a threat to alter or damage the memorabilia.
Those items were and still are the only proof of Kazic’s existence in England. By extension, Sophie was also the leading person in Kazic’s post-death care; including identifying the “body,” arguing with local government for proper burial, clearing the stuff in his apartment, and the like. It doubles as a capsule of a peaceful time, too.
Sophie has understood that things and people naturally leave her life once they meet their fulfillment or outgrow her. But losing him? That was when everything went awry.
Kazic’s death was the precursor to her spiral, which included her combatting self-destructive beliefs with only worse reactivity. She clung to everything she could to protect what little peace she had in an unforgiving world that would let the memory of him go.
As much as they took away from her, this was her first retaliation. which went off the deep end.
Even with the man whom everyone considered dead, and who rightfully owns these possessions, she is still possessive.
Sophie is a well-adjusted person. :)
Playing with Hair:
Being the eldest of three sisters, Sophie essentially had two other people on whom she practiced her hairstyles. Occasionally, she was their styling mannequin when Martha was feeling particularly creative, especially as a toddler. With the various ideas the sisters read about in magazines or saw on others through the worldwide web or television, Sophie was either a stylist or a customer.
Kazic was unofficially absorbed into the Hatter household within the year he spent pacing and visiting the family’s shop. In part, he silently signed his life away to being treated like a Barbie doll. Martha took particular attention in giving manicures and trying different hair accessories in his hair, while Lettie tagged in and gained Martha’s decision on what kind of clothes he’d look good in. Make-up, of course, was added to the mix. These big makeover projects were not constant, and the sisters always had the best interests in mind. Hell, they even commented that Kazic’s adrogony worked very well in his favor. Kazic’s alter ego name amongst the girls was “Karola.”
Sophie was no different. However, it seems that her preening and playing were consistent. She even taught Kazic how to style hair, using herself as the model (or one of her sisters eagerly tried at the opportunity). It should be noted that her playing tends to work as more “fix-ups” when she brushes his bangs away from his eyes or tucks his hair underneath a beanie when it is snowing.
With how much touch-up she does with her hair, Kazic is familiar with Sophie’s unusual condition: a plethora of unusually shaded silver locks, so different from his own and far too many for a girl her age. After being apart for five years, if he were an inquisitive type, he would note a discrepancy in the hair color. All appears to be that summery copper orange, but that is the result of the flawless maintenance she does. These days, there are only several strands here and there that appear in her hair.
Kazic has the opportunity to play with her hair when he does his little routine and intrusive break-ins into her store (to see if she has passed out) or when he escorts her home (his or her own) as she needs to stay the night over due to inclement weather or intoxication. Man has a nagging need to let loose her hair, so I imagine he does that when she’s about to go lie down in bed. It isn’t always happening, but it is frequent enough that Sophie tends to anticipate it, and if he tries when she is feeling very self-conscious or fed up with his teasing, she’d bat his hand away like a peeved cat.
Old habits die hard because Sophie still fully fixes his hair, but only when he gives her permission. There is sometimes a loose strand she tucks behind his ear, or she offers him a hairband to tie up his hair — typical small gestures.
"Ms.Hatter!" always the sucked into her work as usual. It felt she was practically glued to the place, but on the brightside it made finding her easier. "Merry Christmas! I hope you've been treating yourself okay" she hands the woman a small bag of vanilla cookies, the bag almost filled to the brim. Sakura hoped at least the seamstress would take it as a clue to enjoy herself ... even if it meant drinking warm tea and eating cookies to herself in solitude.
Sometimes, the small window above her worktable reminded her that life extended beyond sewing machines, bolts of fabric, and disorganized supplies. Cuts from her needles and cutters felt softer than cashmere. What did grass feel like? What about basking in the sun? Bark against skin? Moss tangling her feet?
Around and around her mind goes, transfixed in another world beyond. Daydreams are as indulgent as sugar biscuits and tea. Sincere opinion advised her to limit herself; enjoy sparingly to avoid excess. Miss Hatter, however, was far too permissive with her imagination.
Small sproutings shed from the earth, tangled around weathered brown boots. In a tattered, patched apron around her waist, and a sun-bleached dress fitting her frame, the Sophie of the world far away braved through shrubberies and pricking thorn bushes. Minute tears decorate the hem of her skirt. Her own hair escaped its braided bondage; the sun painted a golden halo upon her copper head.
What broke the reverie was a subdued exclamation. Sophie blinked once, then twice, staring at the work in her hands that still needed to be done. “Hm?” Lethargy becomes clear as her head turns to the source of the sound. Between her fingers, she rolled the sewing needle.
Although the voice was familiar, she couldn’t conjure a face at that moment. Instead, her thoughts were with the weeds and trees. The Sophie in the other, far-away place bolts through the forest, collecting samples to include in her make-believe garden. But the Sophie in the now slumped her shoulders under the weight of a perceived stare.
With a monotone drawl, she says, “Oh.” Her eyes connected with who it was. She squints before nodding. “Sakura. Good afternoon.” She gives a weak wave before she goes to observe her work again.
At the very least, an attempt was made. A shadow soon joins her over the table, another body beside her, leaning with intrigue. Sophie lowers her project and rests her tool. “Yes?” Out of societal obligation, she asks the curt, short query.
Darkened boundaries meet, distinct shapes joined, silhouettes inter-joined. Of glass extract bottles and bakeries, the air is sweet. Not overwhelming, not tooth-rotting, but only a hint of it.
In the periphery of her mind, long gone is the greenery. Her worn boots rest at a doorway. Past the threshold was a disaster of a kitchen toppled with splattered dough and half-filled cake pans, plates swarming on counters with botched slices and pink, yellow, and other bright frosting. This was not Sophie’s fault.
The perpetrator was found red-handed, but she cared not for her unlawfulness. Bright yellow pigtails bounce in darting across one of the table to the other, waving her wooden spoon and making a larger mess in her wake. She kicked her wooden stepstool around to the too-tall counters to make sure that she could reach the countertops.
This time of year, there would be cookie tins instead and malformed dough men. Misshappened gumdrops, chocolate pieces, and misplaced frosted laces on gingerbreads, surely, it was the season.
The seamstress looks past the conglomerate of shadows meshed together, eyes finally settled on Sakura. Brimming glint in her brown eyes, a promise shining above her irises.
Is she going to keep putting favors out on Father Christmas?
Is her tree up already and decked with ornaments and lights?
Does she have stockings up for-..
This is the third year we are not…
Where I am here, and they’re all over there.
Here.
Sophie’s hand come in contact with a silken bag pushed into her hands. Her head jerks as her fingers hold onto the bag. To the very top, tied in a curled green string bow was an assortment of vanilla cookies. She had to stop herself from clutching the the gift close to her heart.
With a simple motion, she opened the bag and plucked out a cookie. All she took was a hesitant nibble of the sweet. Not too sugary, not too dry.
”Thank you.” Finally, a sliver of emotion from Sophie—a resigned smile, the familiar smile that never quite reached her eyes.
The bag was put on the table as she then took out another cookie. “Here.” She offers to Sakura and nods her head to an empty chair.
"--Let 'em hear. All I'm asking is if you're gonna punch me or kiss me- They've done worse-are probably doing worse as we speak."
You needed some assistance from the liquid courage or else it'd always be the same song and dance with the two of you. Let the others hear all they want, they did worse or asked you worse anyway- Like the one time Adelinda tried to ask if you enjoyed being smothered by her chest or being suffocated by Toni's ass- before you got adopted. Strangers asked what you were into- the usual. Why would you care what others thought? You just wanted an answer.
"--So you gonna do something or do I have to make the first move?"
Kazic slouches closer to her, Sophie's noise wrinkles. Cinnamon heavy on his breath, its sugariness she could practically taste on her lips.
Never mind that fact, the pursuant man speaks heresy. Forbidden words on a delicately crafted reality the seamstress orchestrated all this time. Awareness, validation, reciprocation -- how many years of yearning in anguish had it been now? Five? Nearing six?
The question bubbling in the back of her mind was how long it was for him.
"What?" Was all the spectacular rebuttal she could say.
Her hands grab at his shirt, fingers twisting into the material. Purely for his own safety, one could say. To keep him away from causing other disturbances, one could also say. Both of which may not entirely be the truth.
"I am doing nothing of the sort while you are," she emphasized, "drunk!"
"--I-Is the only way you WOULD kiss me is if you were drunk?!"
