Howlett, The Prize Beast
Bridgerton AU | Prize Fighter| Regency Society | The grumpiest man alive

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THE SOCIETY PAPERS
Dearest Gentle Reader...

HOWLETT, THE PRIZE BEAST
BRIDGERTON AU   •   PRIZE FIGHTER   •   REGENCY SOCIETY   •   THE GRUMPIEST MAN ALIVE

Blood, wagers, and very poor breeding.
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Dearest Gentle Reader,

Polite society would have one believe that London sleeps peacefully once the chandeliers are extinguished. This author has learned otherwise. Beneath respectable streets, gentlemen wager fortunes upon blood, bruises, and one particularly disagreeable fighter.

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A SELECTION FOR THE EVENING
Music for a Most Improper Affair

Our oneness is the wrestlers', fierce and close,
Thrusting and thrust;
One life in dual effort for one prize,--
We fight, and must;
For soul with soul does battle evermore
Till love be trust.


NOW PLAYING
Do I Wanna Know
Vitamin String Quartet

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SOCIETY PAPERS // ITEM OF NOTE
A Matter of Particular Interest
Concerning one Mr. Howlett and a guest of uncertain standing

A curious disturbance has been noted in certain less reputable corners of the city—though not, of course, by those who ought to be present. One such account places a most out-of-place individual—you—within the crowd of a private fighting ring, where gentlemen of means gather to indulge in spectacles they would never name aloud. More intriguing still is that Logan Howlett, a man not known for distraction, was seen to take notice. Whether this reflects poor judgment, unfortunate timing, or something rather more interesting remains to be seen—but one suspects such a pairing will not pass without consequence.

SCANDAL SHEET // RUMOR NO. 01
A Most Uncharacteristic Distraction

It is whispered that Mr. Howlett—whose interest in polite company is generally limited to how quickly he may escape it—was observed watching one particular guest throughout his latest bout. Whether the mysterious spectator inspired suspicion, curiosity, or something considerably less proper remains, for now, deliciously unclear.

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User Information
YOUR PLACE WITHIN THE SEASON

Alright guys, the beauty is you can be ANYONE, the hard this is you can be anyone. You could be sent to place a bet, a working class person, a noble trying to find something new, a lady who ended up in the wrong place, someone desperate for money while wearing silks... It's gonna be goooood

SOCIETY NOTE // FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION
One need not be respectable to be interesting. Indeed, this author has found the opposite is often true.

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Momye Notes
A WORD FROM YOUR HOSTESS

I couldn't not, ya know? I wrote this a week ago and scheduled it out! Look at me being proactive so you don't go weeks without something! Back to requests next

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Initial Message
THE EVENING'S ACCOUNT

Logan was disgusted by the club. At home in it, too. That was how he knew that two things could be true at once.

The people that came here repulsed him—and kept him alive with their bets, their money, their godawful hunger for blood. These were men with too much money and not enough fear. Here they liked to dress rot up in cleaner language– Sport, exhibition, private entertainment. But the truth of it sat shit thick in the air no matter what name they pinned to the pile. The rot lived in the damp spaces beneath the floorboards, the old iron stink ground into the timber, in the roar that rose ugly and eager for the wet thunder of fist meeting flesh.

By the time Logan stepped into the pit that night, the crowd was already half-feral with drink and anticipation. They were packed shoulder to shoulder around the ring in dark coats and polished boots they’d never risk dirtying anywhere respectable– here though... here those same boots got flecked with blood and caked in mud. Everything smelled so strong, the smoke of the candles blazing around the edges of the room, the stink of cologne and sweat—and the sounds were worse: loud, stupid laughs, wet smacking gobs. He ignored it all– the same way he ignored blood when it weren’t his. Had to. Pushed it right out of his head.

He stood there in the center of the ring, bare chest heaving under the dirty burn of light, broad, heavy through the shoulders, dark hair already damp and wild at his temples, despite the cool air clinging to the stone outside. He looked wrong next to the others– all wrapped in their fucking silk and perfume, vultures that paid to watch men split themselves in two just for them to choke on their -sucking guffaws.

His shirt hung open, exposing the thicket of coarse hair down his chest and belly, sleeves shoved to the elbows, broad forearms corded with muscle from old work and older violence. His knuckles were wrapped– though not neatly. Scars littered his body, pale and silvered. One ugly line dragging over a brow– the sort of face people looked at once and their minds were made up. And that was fine by him. Saved fucking time.

His opponent came in quick, all confidence and footwork, playing to the room before he even looked at who was in the ring with him. He’d seen the sort plenty– young enough to think speed could make up for weight. Pretty enough the crowd liked him. Stupid enough to grin. Logan scanned the crowd—always watching, always aware— and there, toward the center—one body, just a little wrong. Hood up, cloak draped over them, head moving like they were watching the room too– like they were on guard. Too clean. Too still in the push and sway of the crowd. He shook his head and looked back toward the cocky son of a before him. Logan rolled one shoulder, loose, head dipped slightly, hands low in a way that made people underestimate just how fast he could make them regret it. He didn’t grin back– and when the first swing came, he slipped it with barely a shift, boots grinding against sawdust as he drove a fist into the man's ribs hard enough to fold him around the breath leaving his body.

The room erupted.

Logan fought like someone who learned early that grace was for people who could afford to lose. For him, nothing was wasted, nothing showy– so instinctive it almost looked lazy. Right up until it knocked you on your ass. He took a hit to the jaw in the second pass, then closed in, one hand fisting in linen, the other driving sharp and short where it’d do damage quickest, a spray of blood across his chest. The crowd loved blood. So, they got blood. The more damage he caused the louder they got.

They called his name sometimes– though rarely the real one. Wolverine. Animal. Bastard. He’d answered to worse. Numbers shouted, wagers placed, money passed around like the greedy it was. His eyes flicked back to the figure—still wrong. Still too still. What the ?

By the third round, the other man was slowing. Logan wasn’t. He could feel the familiar burn in his shoulders, the pull in his bruised side where someone last week had landed a lucky shot, the steady crawl of sweat cooling under his shirt. He could also feel it– somewhere at the edge of all that noise– something off. Not wrong enough to stop him. Just wrong enough to hook under his skin. That one– standing back from the rest, like they had edged back when everyone else pressed forward, like they didn’t know how to move with a mob. Clean hem where every other cloak had some city grime. Boots that moved careful through muck others strode through without a thought. Didn’t belong.

He ended the fight with a hook that sent the other man to the floor hard enough to rattle the ring beneath them. The cheer was foul and triumphant, men getting richer off his blood– off this sorry ’s blood. He stepped back before anyone could grab his arm and raise it for him, breathing through his nose, low and rough, shoulders lifting with each ragged pull of air. Blood slid warm across his cheek. His mouth tasted like iron. Before his opponent even stood, Logan was out of the ring, ducking ropes and heading for the side door with the same stagnant expression he’d worn walking into the ring.

Behind him came the handlers first, all false concern and fast hands, already talking about the next bout, the next purse, the next crowd they could feed him to. Behind them, eventually, the bettors—worse in some ways, flushed and eager, wanting a piece of him now that the violence was over, like winning in a pit meant he owed them conversation. Logan wanted neither. He shoved through the corridor instead; one hand braced briefly to the wall as he took the turn toward the back rooms– needed to get the away from these people before he took another swing at the wrong one. He was heading back to the washroom when a figure came around the corner too fast—that same too-clean, all-wrong one. They jerked—he got that a lot, covered in this much blood—and veered straight into the wall.

Logan moved before thought got involved, his wrapped hand shot out, catching a bicep in his grip, then a waist as their heel slipped on a loose stone, their back nearly hitting the wall. The impact never came– his body took it instead, broad frame bracing, boots planted. The hood fell back in the scramble and a quick, rough breath left him. “ ... Yer in the wrong place.”