#Lodge Bread Co

[blizzard202]

Standing Still

Hi reader, welcome to Standing Still!

This story is the complete narrative of the two characters created by Blizzard (@blizzard202) and Axol (@alien8tdd/@no-i-wanna-go-down)

The protagonists of this story are two Newsies named Raymond (Nicknamed Blizzard) and Archie (Nicknamed Pup).

Raymond was created by Blizzard, and Archie was created by Axol. We both write chapters together as co-writers.

Chapter One - Archie

It feels like only moments ago when Archie and Ashton Larkson’s parents passed. The two children never received the details on how it happened. The police never care enough about anything when it comes to poor people. And just like that the 15 and 13 year old boys were kicked to the streets. All they can do to get by now is beg and steal.

It’s late, Archie knows that as he’s dragged by his brother through the streets. All he can register is that his brother has stolen a loaf of bread and now they’re being chased by around eight scary-looking men. 

“Get back here, you rat-bastards!” One of them shouts. Archie’s feet drag against the cobblestone and ache terribly. Shops and people fly by in a blur. He thinks he can feel tears sting at his eyes, but he fights them back. Don’t be a sissy. Ashton’s voice echoes in his mind.

They turn a few corners. He can hear his brother swear under his breath. The grip on his wrist disappears before he hits the ground. Hard. There’s a sharp, ringing pain in his head. He blinks up at the scary men. They grab his arms, though a few others continue to chase Ashton. Before Archie can do anything, his vision fades to black.

When Archie wakes, he’s in some sort of cell. Alone. Everything aches. He can feel dried, crusty blood on the back of his neck, on his shoulders and clothes and… where is he? He shivers. It’s cold. His stomach grumbles madly. How long has it been since he’s eaten? How long was he knocked out for? His head hurts. Everything does.

He looks around once more. There doesn’t seem to be a way out. There’s no toilet. He thinks he can see something move in the shadows. Archie inches towards whatever it is. It is, in fact, a rat. He lets out a yelp and it immediately scurries back off into the shadows. 

All Archie can do is tuck himself into the corner of this cold, dark room, curl up on his side like a dog and close his eyes. He fights back tears.

What did I do wrong? Why did all of this have to happen? First ma and pa are gone and now…Archie doesn’t fall asleep for a long, long time. When he does, it’s a light, dreamless sleep, often interrupted by the scurrying of rats or the footsteps of more scary men like the ones that took him here. But he sleeps. Barely.

Chapter Two - Raymond

Raymond is sitting in the break room of his job, eating his dinner. He works as a cleaner at a tailor’s shop down the street from Jacobi’s Deli, where he bought a ham sandwich with the 3 cents he made on his job that day. Almost 9:00. He thinks, glancing at the clock on the wall every couple of seconds.

12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2… He springs up from his seat, locks up the doors of the shop, and makes his way down the road, dodging carriages and newsboys walking back to their lodging houses. He accidentally nicks a kid’s hat off when shooting his wrapper into the garbage can.

“Ay’ whaddya think you’re doin’?” The kid seems much too old to be a newsie, probably in his 20s at that point.

“Look, I’m sorry, you don’t gotta make a big deal about it.” Raymond says. The new face is slightly shorter than him, red hair, he looks tougher than Raymond though.

“It is MY first day on my job wit’ The Bronx newsies, and I don’t need you ruinin’ it, dipwad!” The guy takes a swing, Raymond dodges and trips him, making him fall flat on his back. He starts running. Wasn’t planning on dyin’ today. 

Raymond looks back to see that he isn’t being chased, but he doesn’t look where he’s going, and bumps into an old woman, knocking her over. Luckily, he catches her and puts her back on her feet.

“Oh my goodness! I am so sorry! Are you alright ma’am?”

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you for asking. I know it was an accident, it’s ok, things happen.” The two chat for a bit, then go their separate ways. That could’ve been way worse. 

Suddenly, a man dressed in clothes not seeming to fit the streets of Manhattan. “Excuse me child, do you not see what you just did?” The mysterious man asked.

“Yes? I was runnin’ too fast and I accidentally bumped into a lady. Luckily I picked her up before she could hit the ground! She’s alright, I made sure-”

“That isn’t what I saw.” The man tells Raymond.

“Whaddya mean?” Raymond asks.

“What I think just happened was an attempted murder. Don’t you know how old that woman is? If she hit the ground, she would have perished the second she came face-to-face with that concrete. Luckily, you noticed that people were around, and played it off as some kind of accident.”

“What? You’re bein’ ridiculous! Why would I try to kill some poor old lady?” Raymond is flabbergasted, confused about what is entering his ears.

“I don’t know, why would you? OFFICERS! TAKE HIM AWAY!”

“What? What are you doin’!? I- Get offa me! Stop! I didn’t do nothin’!” 

“Exactly kid. You didn’t do nothing, a double negative.” 

“What did I do to you to deserve this? Why are you being so mean?!” 

“Because I can. Wow! Two new inmates in one hour! We’re going to have a drink tonight boys!”

Great. Now I’m gonna rot in a cell because some ass thinks that capturing kids to put in your jail is just a fun game. He sits in a holding cell, feeling hopeless, until he looks to his side, and spots something in the corner. Another boy, about his age, maybe a year younger, curled up. He’s asleep. His curly, copper hair is tainted with a bit of blood, and there’s a small sort of gash in his head that’s barely visible through the thick curls.

Chapter 3 - Archie

When Archie wakes again, a pair of dark eyes are peering back at him. He uncurls himself and presses against the cold wall of the strange, small room. The dull ache in his head is still there. His eyes take a moment to focus on the other boy. 

“Wha… who?” Archie’s speech is barely comprehensible as he slowly regains his senses. The other boy greets him.

“Hello? Are you ok?” The brown-haired boy’s concerned voice rings through the small room. It takes a few moments for Archie to even register what he said.

“I’m.. fine. Who- Who are you?” Archie tilts his head slightly and squints. It occurs to him that maybe he should introduce himself. 

Be polite, like Ma always said. “I’m Archie.” He offers a small, weak smile in an attempt to come off as friendly despite his situation.

The other boy blinks. “My name’s Raymond. You in here for somethin’ stupid too?” 

Archie winces. Something stupid? Sort of. He’d have to explain everything to this stranger, and from experience Archie knows it’s hard for him to stop talking once he starts. It’d be embarrassing to just spill his guts right here.

Don’t overthink. “Yeah, I guess so… do ya know where ‘here’ is?” Archie’s voice waivers a bit more than he’d prefer. He doesn’t want to seem weak. Raymond glances around.

“Seems like a prison? Dunno. I didn’t do anythin’ besides bump inta an old lady.” Raymond’s eyes land on the blood. 

“Are you ok? You’re definitely hurt… C’mere.” Archie hesitates before inching closer. Raymond pulls him the rest of the way and uses a hand to tilt Archie’s head downwards and to the side. It’s an awkward but not uncomfortable angle.

Raymond lets out a concerned “hm,” Archie can feel gentle fingers against his hair, seemingly clearing the way so his wound is more visible. Raymond’s fingers graze the raw, injured skin, which prompts Archie to suck in a sharp breath. He hasn’t been treated so gently since… well, since before his parents died. He’d received no such treatment from his brother.

Archie finds himself so lost in his thoughts that when Raymond pulls away, he takes a moment to open his eyes. He hadn’t even realized they were closed in the first place. 

“How bad does it hurt?” Raymond asks. It takes a short moment for Archie to reply. 

“Not… horribly? I’m bad with words. It’s like background noise but pain. Background pain.” Raymond laughs wryly, though he still looks concerned.

“What if you have a concussion or somethin’?” Ashton would have replied with a snarky, sarcastic reply. Archie doesn’t want to be like his brother, he’s realized that now. 

“I’m not sure… I’ll be fine, though. Uhm.. are you hurt at all?” Archie tilts his head. His eyes gleam with concern.

Raymond shakes his head. “I’m ok.” Archie is thankful Raymond hasn’t asked anything more about how he got here. As much as Archie would like the relief of crying into someone’s arms, he doesn’t want to scare this boy off. An awkward yet peaceful silence envelops the two. Archie ponders what Raymond could be thinking, and who Raymond is outside of this cold, dark cell. 

Chapter 4 - Raymond

After a while, Archie starts explaining his story while Raymond creates a makeshift bandage by ripping off a piece of Archie’s shirt. Raymond has tried, and failed, to convince Archie to let him use his own shirt. 

“Thanks.” He says quietly. Raymond paces his way around, kicking a pebble around the cell, until he gets bored and slumps down against the wall next to Pup.

The two are sitting next to each other against the wall of the cell. A black, furry rat darts towards them but skitters the other way when it gets too close. Archie yelps loudly. Raymond snickers faintly, it’s a bit funny how timid Archie is, even if Raymond is concerned for the other boy. Raymond looks over to his left. 

“They’re just rats...” He says gently. There is a hint of amusement in his voice. Archie glances away and folds his arms. 

“But theys gonna bite me and I’ll get a disease!” He retorts. Raymond thinks he can see a hint of a smile on his face, though. 

“Just don’t bother them. They’re probably more afraid of you than you are of them.” Raymond places a hand on Archie’s shoulder. Archie smiles and looks back at Raymond, but his eyes still flicker back to the shadows every once and a while. 

After a few minutes, footsteps can be heard down what could be a hallway. The door opens. “Hey kids, you fellas gotta get in the room, boss says so.” A guard that seemed way too tired to work tells the two. He leads the two to a large room with about twenty sets of bunk beds. “There, that’s where you’re gonna sleep.” The man points at a bottom bunk. 

“…Which one?” Pup asks. 

The guard chuckles. “Are ya serious? Just be glad you aren’t in a three-kid bed!” The officer walks away, still chuckling to himself. 

“LIGHTS OUT!” The warden yells an hour later. 

Alrighty… Raymond thinks to himself. The two find themselves over to their bed after a while, they get affiliated with a couple other kids in the block: James, a young teen who didn't have a pinky finger, and Clippers, who said he does haircuts for kids who can’t afford them. Blizzard feels a little uncomfortable in the rock-solid mattress, but after a while, he eventually falls asleep.

[thiswasinevitableid]

for the winter prompts, #16 Indruck nsfw

16. I’m an adult film star trying to break into Hollywood and this Hallmark movie could be my big break… if my costar and I can get along

What is it with Hallmark and the woods? Most of Indrid’s shoots have taken place in studios or houses or other places with some kind of temperature control, but from the script and the schedule Ned sent him, he’ll be outdoors for much of his first “respectable” screen appearance. So he parks his car in front of Mountain Man Pizza and walks up the closed off main street, stripped of it’s Christmas decorations so they can pretend it’s late January instead of early November. 

Late Winter Love is one of two shoots Amnesty Productions is running in Kepler. The other, Dead of Night, is about a killer stalking a sleepy mountain town, and Ned kindly gave him very clear directions for making sure he ended up on the set of one and not the other. Splitting resources between romance to sell Hallmark and Lifetime and horror to sell Tubi and, occasionally, Netflix, is an odd combination that’s Amnesty’s bread and butter. 

Indrid appreciates said odd approach; it’s probably what convinced the studio to take a chance on a guy whose screen credits all have titles like Tent Pitchers, Bear Hunters Two,and Little Red Riding Shorts.

Oh no, did someone think those were indie, outdoor-set film titles?

No, nono, he heard someone mention Glory Hole Confidential. They know what they’re getting. 

As he smiles at production assistants scurrying about to ready the street for the days filming, he tucks his hand into his pocket and wraps it around his fidget cube, reminding himself that he’s watched every rom-com Amnesty put out in the last three years and he knows he can do this. 

“Indrid! There you are, dear boy.” Ned, the director, appears with remarkable silence for such a large man from around a trailer, “I trust you found accommodations and such without issue?”

“Yes, thank you. Bit of a coincidence, there being an Amnesty Lodge where we’re filming.”

“Not in the least; Amnesty is where our studio took it’s name from. The founders did all their brainstorming and writing there and shot their first film right here in Kepler. Mama, who runs the Lodge, was our first ever final girl. In fact, if you look just there…”

Indrid lets Ned talk as he leads him through the roped off chunks of the street forming the set, immensely grateful that the older man is clearly trying to put him at ease. As Ned is showing him the make-up trailer, a man with bright green eyes and a deep green bomber jacket steps from it. 

Indrid knows him instantly: Duck Newton, the most handsome, most engaging part of Indrid’s deep dive into Amnesty’s videography. 

Duck is playing Drew, a carpenter in the sleepy mountain town that Ryan, Indrid’s artsy, trust-fund laden character arrives in. Being attracted to him will be the easiest part of Indrid’s job. 

He raises his hand in a little wave as Duck looks up from his phone. A round face goes through a dozen emotions before landing on a small smile and an awkward, stiff wave in return. Indrid tries not to read into it; after all, his porn never went mainstream. The odds of lots of people on set, let alone his co-star, having seen it are incredibly low.

—------------------------------------------------------------

Emperor Moth is his fucking co-star. Emperor Moth, the guy Duck has jerked off to at least once a week for years, is apparently the exact same person as Indrid Cold, who Duck has promised to help feel comfortable on his first movie set. 

What the fuck is Duck supposed to do?  

His mind supplies his favorite scene from Bar Room Brat in reply and he shakes his head like that will somehow bang all those memories from his brain and send them out his ears. The guy is probably nervous, Duck knows he was the first time he stepped on a real film set, and Duck wants to help him out, wants him to feel comfy and safe and maybe stay on as part of Amnesty. He’s betting saying “hey, I love your movies” isn’t as welcoming when it means “I’ve seen your dick and know exactly how many piercings you have.”

Joe always says that, while Hallmark doesn’t show it’s actors fucking, he wants his characters to at least seem like they want to. Duck likes to think he walks that line, but what if having Indrid next to him makes him come off as slavering instead of charming? What if he makes him uncomfortable?

He slumps against a brick  wall under the sign for Dave’s Dehumidifiers and takes a deep breath. He’s a professional. Indrid is too. They can just do their scenes and chit chat between them, and no one has to be the wiser that Duck thinks Indrid makes the cutest noises on earth when he cums. 

Rain patters on the pavement and he makes tracks to the Lodge cafe, finding a solo table to read through his script. He’s glad Ned–and, to a lesser extent, Joe–cast him in this one; he knows Late Winter Love is written to fill Hallmarks programming gaps between Christmas and Valentine’s day, but he likes the idea of a love story that takes place after all the bright lights and whimsy of the holidays are past. Yeah, kissing under mistletoe or out in the snow on Christmas Eve is romantic, but so is finding someone who’ll stay by your side when it’s grey and slushy and summer is a thousand years away. Someone who thinks all the presents in the world can’t compare to one rainy afternoon with you. 

His phone dings with a text. It’s a photo from Aubrey, who’s over doing special effects for Dead of Night. It seems Dr. Harris Bonkers, her fifteen pound rabbit, got into the fake blood again. As he’s teasing her that she better shampoo the bloodthirsty monster before Joe finds out, the door dings and Indrid walks into the Lodge. 

Off camera, he favors red-tinted glasses and keeps his silvery hair half-up, making him look even more like someone mashed the one a.m fantasies of a dozen, horny goths and weirdos into one body and set him loose to roam the night. 

Indrid flashes him a smile and he manages one back. As soon as the taller man turns to order, Duck stands, not quite ready to make an ass of himself in front of his co-star, and heads for the door, grateful the whole way that he can’t get a noticeable hard-on. He doesn’t need that embarrassment and neither, for that matter, does Indrid. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Don’t play this too flirtatious just yet. You’re feeling each other out, but neither of you is seeing the other correctly.” Ned hops into his chair, “action.”

“Well, well, back already, city boy?” Duck leans against the wall of the hardware store. 

Indrid turns, arms crossed, and glares at him, “I don’t have to buy anything here, you know.”

“That you don’t. But if you know another place to get the gear to fix busted front door hinges, a stuck window, and a draft that’d kill a polar bear, you better tell me so I can scope out the competition.”

He raises his eyebrows, “How did you know that’s what was wrong? Were you spying on me?” Before Duck can answer he stalks forward, “look, if you think you can pull some kind of, of Deliverance thing on me-”

“Whoah, whoah, hang on.” Duck is bright pink, “I, uh, I was just, I used to live there, uh, uh, fuck” he spits out the last word, “sorry Ned.”

“No harm done, let’s take it again.”

They get the scene in four takes. And so begins a pattern of Duck continually missing lines or coming across as stiff or awkward during their scenes. They always get it in the end, but Indrid’s been in  orgies that were more efficient. 

When he combines this with the fact that Duck is polite but evasive with him off-camera and constantly leaves when Indrid arrives in a space, there’s one, obvious conclusion: Duck’s figured out who he is and his previous line of work. If he wants to be weird about it, fine, that’s his choice, but Indrid worries the awkwardness will be unavoidable in the final take and make them both look bad. At which point he can count his film career as a dead fish in the pond of his dreams. 

It’s time he and Duck have a little chat. 

—------------------------------------------------------------

Duck’s reading his Best Science and Nature Writing compendium when there’s a knock. Opening the door reveals Indrid, whose smile is tight as he says, “May I come in?”

“Oh, yeah, uh, sure.”

He catches a whiff of vanilla as Indrid slips past him, closes the door just as the taller man whirls on him, mouth set in a line. 

“I want you to know that I am not ashamed of my past work. Whatever fears you have or, or ideas you have about it or me are yours to deal with, so please stop fumbling through your lines because you can’t handle talking with someone who’s had sex for money.”

Indrid’s hands, which usually conduct a symphony as he speaks, are jammed in his pockets, and Duck gets the feeling he’s rehearsed this. He also feels like a dick. 

“I, uh, I do know that you’re, uh, you’re Emperor Moth. I actually watch your stuff.”

“Lovely, you’ll get off to me but-”

“Lemme finish. I really, really like your, uh, your other work. Which is why I’ve been so goddamn weird. I didn’t wanna come across as this drooling fanboy who wants you to know he’s seen you gettin’ fucked. You’re my co-star. I, I wanted to make sure you were comfortable and I guess I didn’t pull it off the way I was hoping.” He scratches the back of his neck as Indrid’s hands slip from his pockets and cross his chest. 

“No, you most certainly did not.” He looks at the zig-zags on the carpet, “All the same, I apologize for assuming the worst.”

Duck shrugs, “Guessin’ you’ve had folks be weird about it before.”

“And then some. I, ah, I’ll let you get back to your book.”

He sets a gently hand on Indrid’s shoulder, “How about we get dinner instead? My treat. Feel like we got off on the wrong foot, and since you’re kickin’ ass on set so far, don’t think this’ll be the last time we work together.”

“I’d like that.” Indrid falls into step beside him as they head to the cafe. They give Billy their order and sit in the corner booth, Indrid tracing shapes in the condensation on his water glass. 

“So, uh, how’d you end up auditioning for Amnesty?”

“A friend of mine, Barclay, got cast in the horror side of things. Not Dead of Night; The Woodsman. He’s playing the killer.”

“Damn, that’s a score. That’s gonna be the second, no, third Amnesty one to get a theatrical release.”

“He’s overjoyed.” Indrid smiles, genuine and shy, “and he’s a good friend; he didn’t have to put me in touch with Ned and the casting team, but here we are. As for why I actually tried for it, I want to make them jump to movies. It’s not that I hate what I do, but I like acting much more and I figured the worst they could do was turn me down. Plus this script didn’t make me gag or roll my eyes out of my skull.”

“I hear you.”

“How’d you end up with Amnesty?”

“Had a bit-part as a ranger in Blood Cabin and both Joe and Ned encouraged me to read for more parts. Lucky they did; I like doin’ romcoms, but there ain’t a lot of studios that see me as the romantic lead type. Comic relief if I’m lucky, background dude if I’m not.”

“Which only confirms those studios are run by people with no taste.” The waitress sets their drinks on the table and Indrid dumps sugar into his tea, “I like A Cowboy for Christmas. You wear a Stetson and boots well.”

His smile is turning flirtatious, which is ten times more distracting than when he does it on camera. Duck’s not going to think about anything else for the rest of the night. 

“Thanks. Joe keeps pushing to see if Hallmark will take a movie called A Werewolf for Christmas. Or if they’ll take an actual, decent Halloween rom-com.”

“Now there’s something I’d watch of my own volition.” Indrid rests his elbow on the table and his face in his palm, “out of curiosity, what were you reading?”

“Essay about how carnivorous plants might be able to count.”

Indrid leans a little closer, and Duck realizes he wants him to continue. So he chats about plants until dinner arrives, and which point they switch to debating what genre is hardest to make porn of. And by the time they’re walking back to their rooms, Indrid is sticking close enough to him that his goodnight consists of bumping, cat-like, into Duck’s shoulder and murmuring, “See you tomorrow.”

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“You know, I told you my favorite film of yours. But you never told me your favorite of my work. That hardly seems fair.” 

The bag of chips crunches between Duck’s hands and Indrid cackles, laying back in the rare burst of sunshine they’re sitting in to eat lunch. 

“It’s alright, you don’t actually have to tell me. I was simply curious as to what you would do.”

“Jerk.” Duck playfully whacks his knee. The best part of them clearing the air has been the ease with which they can talk, how they can joke, how Indrid feels like he’s flirting with his high school crush all over again. 

“Were the Doritos damaged in your alarm?”

“Nah. And, uh, it was Silverlocks and the Three Bears.”

“Mmm, that one was a very nice shoot. Though it’s seldom where people know me from.”

“I watched it the first time because you were in it and there was a trans guy bein a dom, which still feels fuckin impossible to find some days. But I like to re-watch it because…I dunno, it’s so playful? You seem like you’re havin fun.”

“Oh I was.” Indrid stretches out in the sun, relishing the image of Duck on his couch on splayed on his bed, fucking himself with a toy or rubbing his dick with his fingers all because he likes how Indrid looks smiling and on his knees. 

“You know I had a guy dump me because I ‘didn’t take sex seriously? All I did was laugh a lot, and I, I really can’t handle certain kinds of dirty talk. Even if I think it’s hot, if it sounds corny I can’t help it. I crack up.”

“Goodness. That hardly sounds like a dumpable offense. Then again, if my work proves anything, it’s that what turns people on, and off, is incredibly diverse.”

Duck’s smile still seems a bit glum as he asks, “You have a favorite of the ones you made?”

“Not really, though I’m partial to the Bear Hunter series.” He winks Duck’s way, “I like the subject matter.”

Before he can say that he thinks Duck is the best bear to ever cross his path, Ned is calling for them. He’ll just have to wait to show Duck how lucky someone would be to have him.

—--------------------------------------------------------

Wrap days don’t mean much at Amnesty; most of the cast and crew return for multiple shoots a year and keep in touch with each other, so the bittersweetness is reserved for fact they all have to drive back into the city instead of staying out here in the woods.

Ned’s all but confirmed that they’ll cast Indrid opposite him again. Which is good, because they shot their final kiss scene this morning and Duck’s lips are still burning for another. What’s strange is that he hasn’t seen Indrid since they finished the shoot; he can’t have left, he promised Duck he’d see him at the wrap party. 

He unlocks his hotel room and sees the silver hair on his pillow before he even turns on the light.

“Well now, seems like someone’s been sleeping in my bed.”

There’s a snicker and Indrid disappears further under the covers.

He pulls off his shoes, “If he ate my leftovers I’m gonna be pissed.”

“In my defense, they were delicious.” Says a voice muffled by the red-checkered bedspread. 

Duck steps to the edge of the bed, grabs a corner of the covers, and flips them open. 

“Oh no” Indrid, wearing only some tight boxer briefs and a smile, throws a hand over his head, “I’ve been found by a bear.”

“Pfft, teddy bear maybe. I…are those fuckin bear-patterned boxers?”

“Yes. I bought some for a shoot but they’re a very nice texture so I bought more. And I, ah” a blush slides up his chest, though Duck’s gaze stops to admire the silver bars in his nipples, “I thought about being naked when you came in but I didn’t want to presume.”

“Awful thoughtful for a fella who broke in.” Duck crawls onto the bed, “or did someone let you in?”

“I picked the lock.”

“All that trouble just to surprise me? Ain’t you a sweet thing.”

Indrid whines adorably and hides his face in his arm. 

Duck chuckles, “You’ve done porn for years and it’s sweet talk that makes you blush?”

“Yes. Especially when you do it. I love your voice.” Indrid’s breath catches as Duck fiddles with the band of his underwear. 

“Tell me what you want, sugar.”

“You. I want you, I’ve wanted you for weeks and I, we, we don’t have to do anything wild or kinky, just because I do it at work doesn’t mean I need it now, we can just do what you feel comfortable if that’s…what…oh.” Indrid hums happily as Duck kisses him, and when his tongue slips into Duck’s mouth he can feel the piercing. 

“I asked what you want ,sugar.” Duck straddles him, stroking his hair as they kiss and snickers when Indrid’s hands instantly grope his ass.

“Will you tie me up with something? I, I’ve been dreaming about being at your mercy.”

“I can do that.” Duck hops up, searching the room as he sheds his clothes. He settles on using the tie from the complimentary robe instead of his leather belt. When he climbs back into bed, Indrid growls softly and grabs his waist, kissing his belly and pawing his ass and thighs.

“Sugar, if you want me to tie you up you gotta give me your hands.”

“Ugggggghfine.” Indrid puts his hands above his head but keeps his face pressed against Duck. This makes tying his wrists tricky, but Duck doesn’t mind at all. 

“You want me to drive?” 

“For tonight, yes. But know I don’t come by my reputation as a bear tamer lightly; I fully intend you have you tied in all sorts of lovely rope and then fuck every hole you’ll let me.”

“Christ.” Duck straddles his chest, “yeah, yeah let’s do that soon as we’re back in the city. But for now….know you already had dinner courtesy of my fridge. So open up for dessert.”

Indrid “mmphs” as Duck lowers onto his face, and a welcoming mouth and clever tongue set to work on his dick. For a moment, all his insecurities rear up and he wonders if he could ever compare to someone who does this for a living. Then Indrid is moaning and squirming beneath him, and he forgets why he was so worried. 

Bound hands sneak towards his thigh, so he grabs them and pins them to the pillow while his other hand tangles in silver hair, “Uh uh, focus on what I told you.”

There’s a whine and he tugs on Indrid’s hair, grinding against his face, “That ain’t negotiable. Make me cum and, and then we’ll talk oh, ohfuck.” He tightens his grip as Indrid doubles his efforts, losing himself in the eager attention of his mouth and the muffled squeaks and moans as he treats him like a toy. 

His orgasm hits him out of nowhere and remarkably fast. Whether that’s due to the weeks of pent up desire, Indrid’s skill, or some kind of sex magic, he’s not sure, but as he slumps and crawls off his partner, he’s hit with a brilliant idea. 

“AH!Ahhhhhhn Duck please.” Indrid thrashes as Duck strokes his dick. When he tugs one of the nipple piercings, Indrid yelps and moans and fuck does it sound even better in person. 

“Always wondered if that was fun.” He tugs again, “Turns out it is.”

“Ohhhhhgod. A, again, more” Indrid bites his lip as Duck tugs harder. He thought, if he ever get this chance, the hottest thing about this would be Emperor Moth coming apart under him. 

Turns out it’s much hotter to have Indrid, his Indrid, twisting and begging to cum. 

“Okay sugar, since you asked so sweet and look so goddamn cute.” He strokes hard and fast, bending down to tug the silver bar with his teeth, and then cum is spilling down his hands. 

He pants, wiping his hand on Indrid’s discarded underwear. Even in the aftershocks of his orgasm, Indrid turns and wiggles into Duck’s arms, humming happily and peppering his shoulders and chest with kisses. 

“You okay there?”

“I’m wonderful. As are you. So very wonderful.” Indrid cuddles closer, holding him tight, “mmmm, you’re right, you really are a teddy bear. So perfect to hold.”

“Be your teddy bear any time, darlin.” Duck fumbles with the blankets, pulling them up to cover them from the draft coming under the door. 

“Have dinner with me Friday?”

Duck brushes silver hair out of the way to meet Indrid’s eyes, “I can’t fuckin wait.”

[cruger2984]

THE DESCRIPTION OF SAINT ELIZABETH OF PORTUGAL The Queen Consort Feast Day: July 4

Elizabeth, daughter of Peter III of Aragon and Constance of Sicily, and the sister of three kings: Alfonso II and James II of Aragon and Frederick III of Sicily, was born in Aljafería Palace, Zaragoza, Kingdom of Aragon on January 4, 1271. At 10 years of age, she was given in marriage to Denis of Portugal, and bore two children, Alfonso, later became Afonso IV of Portugal, and Constance, who married King Ferdinand IV of Castile. Elizabeth is the great-niece of another saint - Elizabeth of Hungary.

Eventually, her prayer and patience succeeded in converting her husband, who had been leading a sinful life. She was modest in her dress, humble in conversation, and charitable towards the poor. It was her habit to provide lodging for pilgrims and to procure dowries for the poor girls of the kingdom.

One of the best moments of her life was the miracle of the roses. Caught one day by her husband, while carrying bread in her apron, the food was turned into roses. Since this occurred in January, Denis reportedly had no response and let his wife continue.

Elizabeth would serve as intermediary between her husband and Afonso, during the Civil War between 1322 and 1324. The Infante greatly resented the king, whom he accused of favoring the king's illegitimate son, Afonso Sanches. Denis was prevented from killing his son through the intervention of the Queen, when she, in 1323, mounted on a mule, positioned herself between both opposing armies on the field of Alvalade in order to prevent the combat. Peace returned in 1324, once the illegitimate son was sent into exile, and the Infante swore loyalty to the king.

In 1325, after the death of her spouse, she retired to the monastery of the Poor Clare nuns, now known as the Monastery of Santa Clara-a-Velha in Coimbra, and entered the Third Order of St. Francis, devoting the rest of her life to the poor and sick in obscurity. During the great famine in 1293, she donated flour from her cellars to the starving in Coimbra. She was also known for being modest in her dress and humble in conversation, for providing lodging for pilgrims, distributing small gifts, paying the dowries of poor girls, and educating the children of poor nobles.

She was a benefactor of various hospitals (Coimbra, Santarém and Leiria) and of religious projects, such as the Trinity Convent in Lisbon, chapels in Leiria and Óbidos, and the cloister in Alcobaça.

She died on July 4, 1336 on her way to Estremoz Castle, where she was supposed to settle a family quarrel. She was called to act once more as a peacemaker, when Afonso IV marched his troops against King Alfonso XI of Castile, to whom he had married his daughter Maria, and who had neglected and ill-treated her.

In spite of age and weakness, the Queen-dowager insisted on hurrying to Estremoz, where the two kings' armies were drawn up. She again stopped the fighting and caused terms of peace to be arranged. But the exertion brought on her final illness. As soon as her mission was completed, she took to her bed with a fever from which she died, and earned the title of 'Peacemaker' on account of her efficacy in solving disputes.

Elizabeth was beatified in 1526 and canonized a saint by Pope Urban VIII on May 25, 1625. Her feast is also kept on the Franciscan Calendar of Saints.

Since the establishment in 1819 of the Diocese of San Cristóbal de La Laguna (Canary Islands, Spain), Saint Elizabeth is the co-patron of the diocese and of its cathedral pursuant to the papal bull issued by Pope Pius VII.

[funemploymentradio]

THE MIND OF TODD

Today the one and only Todd Werkhoven joins the show to co-host with Greg! Discussions range from LA vs Elks Lodge, Madonna, bread, and a SHOCKING SECRET IS REVEALED! Tune in to find out and don't forget to listen to Portland at the Movies and The Mark and Toddcast!

Check out our new episode!

[standingincontempt]

Oscar Wilde, The Soul of Man under Socialism, 1891

The chief advantage that would result from the establishment of Socialism is, undoubtedly, the fact that Socialism would relieve us from that sordid necessity of living for others which, in the present condition of things, presses so hardly upon almost everybody. In fact, scarcely anyone at all escapes.

Now and then, in the course of the century, a great man of science, like Darwin; a great poet, like Keats; a fine critical spirit, like M. Renan; a supreme artist, like Flaubert, has been able to isolate himself, to keep himself out of reach of the clamorous claims of others, to stand ‘under the shelter of the wall,’ as Plato puts it, and so to realise the perfection of what was in him, to his own incomparable gain, and to the incomparable and lasting gain of the whole world. These, however, are exceptions. The majority of people spoil their lives by an unhealthy and exaggerated altruism – are forced, indeed, so to spoil them. They find themselves surrounded by hideous poverty, by hideous ugliness, by hideous starvation. It is inevitable that they should be strongly moved by all this. The emotions of man are stirred more quickly than man��s intelligence; and, as I pointed out some time ago in an article on the function of criticism, it is much more easy to have sympathy with suffering than it is to have sympathy with thought. Accordingly, with admirable, though misdirected intentions, they very seriously and very sentimentally set themselves to the task of remedying the evils that they see. But their remedies do not cure the disease: they merely prolong it. Indeed, their remedies are part of the disease.

They try to solve the problem of poverty, for instance, by keeping the poor alive; or, in the case of a very advanced school, by amusing the poor.

But this is not a solution: it is an aggravation of the difficulty. The proper aim is to try and reconstruct society on such a basis that poverty will be impossible. And the altruistic virtues have really prevented the carrying out of this aim. Just as the worst slave-owners were those who were kind to their slaves, and so prevented the horror of the system being realised by those who suffered from it, and understood by those who contemplated it, so, in the present state of things in England, the people who do most harm are the people who try to do most good; and at last we have had the spectacle of men who have really studied the problem and know the life – educated men who live in the East End – coming forward and imploring the community to restrain its altruistic impulses of charity, benevolence, and the like. They do so on the ground that such charity degrades and demoralises. They are perfectly right. Charity creates a multitude of sins.

There is also this to be said. It is immoral to use private property in order to alleviate the horrible evils that result from the institution of private property. It is both immoral and unfair.

Under Socialism all this will, of course, be altered. There will be no people living in fetid dens and fetid rags, and bringing up unhealthy, hunger-pinched children in the midst of impossible and absolutely repulsive surroundings. The security of society will not depend, as it does now, on the state of the weather. If a frost comes we shall not have a hundred thousand men out of work, tramping about the streets in a state of disgusting misery, or whining to their neighbours for alms, or crowding round the doors of loathsome shelters to try and secure a hunch of bread and a night’s unclean lodging. Each member of the society will share in the general prosperity and happiness of the society, and if a frost comes no one will practically be anything the worse.

Upon the other hand, Socialism itself will be of value simply because it will lead to Individualism.

Socialism, Communism, or whatever one chooses to call it, by converting private property into public wealth, and substituting co-operation for competition, will restore society to its proper condition of a thoroughly healthy organism, and insure the material well-being of each member of the community. It will, in fact, give Life its proper basis and its proper environment. But for the full development of Life to its highest mode of perfection, something more is needed. What is needed is Individualism. If the Socialism is Authoritarian; if there are Governments armed with economic power as they are now with political power; if, in a word, we are to have Industrial Tyrannies, then the last state of man will be worse than the first. At present, in consequence of the existence of private property, a great many people are enabled to develop a certain very limited amount of Individualism. They are either under no necessity to work for their living, or are enabled to choose the sphere of activity that is really congenial to them, and gives them pleasure. These are the poets, the philosophers, the men of science, the men of culture – in a word, the real men, the men who have realised themselves, and in whom all Humanity gains a partial realisation. Upon the other hand, there are a great many people who, having no private property of their own, and being always on the brink of sheer starvation, are compelled to do the work of beasts of burden, to do work that is quite uncongenial to them, and to which they are forced by the peremptory, unreasonable, degrading Tyranny of want. These are the poor, and amongst them there is no grace of manner, or charm of speech, or civilisation, or culture, or refinement in pleasures, or joy of life. From their collective force Humanity gains much in material prosperity. But it is only the material result that it gains, and the man who is poor is in himself absolutely of no importance. He is merely the infinitesimal atom of a force that, so far from regarding him, crushes him: indeed, prefers him crushed, as in that case he is far more obedient.

Of course, it might be said that the Individualism generated under conditions of private property is not always, or even as a rule, of a fine or wonderful type, and that the poor, if they have not culture and charm, have still many virtues. Both these statements would be quite true. The possession of private property is very often extremely demoralising, and that is, of course, one of the reasons why Socialism wants to get rid of the institution. In fact, property is really a nuisance. Some years ago people went about the country saying that property has duties. They said it so often and so tediously that, at last, the Church has begun to say it. One hears it now from every pulpit. It is perfectly true. Property not merely has duties, but has so many duties that its possession to any large extent is a bore. It involves endless claims upon one, endless attention to business, endless bother. If property had simply pleasures, we could stand it; but its duties make it unbearable. In the interest of the rich we must get rid of it. The virtues of the poor may be readily admitted, and are much to be regretted. We are often told that the poor are grateful for charity. Some of them are, no doubt, but the best amongst the poor are never grateful. They are ungrateful, discontented, disobedient, and rebellious. They are quite right to be so. Charity they feel to be a ridiculously inadequate mode of partial restitution, or a sentimental dole, usually accompanied by some impertinent attempt on the part of the sentimentalist to tyrannise over their private lives. Why should they be grateful for the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table? They should be seated at the board, and are beginning to know it. As for being discontented, a man who would not be discontented with such surroundings and such a low mode of life would be a perfect brute. Disobedience, in the eyes of anyone who has read history, is man’s original virtue. It is through disobedience that progress has been made, through disobedience and through rebellion. Sometimes the poor are praised for being thrifty. But to recommend thrift to the poor is both grotesque and insulting. It is like advising a man who is starving to eat less. For a town or country labourer to practise thrift would be absolutely immoral. Man should not be ready to show that he can live like a badly-fed animal. He should decline to live like that, and should either steal or go on the rates, which is considered by many to be a form of stealing. As for begging, it is safer to beg than to take, but it is finer to take than to beg. No: a poor man who is ungrateful, unthrifty, discontented, and rebellious, is probably a real personality, and has much in him. He is at any rate a healthy protest. As for the virtuous poor, one can pity them, of course, but one cannot possibly admire them. They have made private terms with the enemy, and sold their birthright for very bad pottage. They must also be extraordinarily stupid. I can quite understand a man accepting laws that protect private property, and admit of its accumulation, as long as he himself is able under those conditions to realise some form of beautiful and intellectual life. But it is almost incredible to me how a man whose life is marred and made hideous by such laws can possibly acquiesce in their continuance.

Read the rest here

[brandonwayneb]

Grabble, beg an Arabic Arab,

Grabble, Gravel, Stone Yard

Gravel, Judge Wooden Mallet.

Hazmat Murders, “Tan Til Eyes”

“bowl of onion stew swet lodge log cabin, cabin fever sweet candy cane Ron Hall War, Ron Howard, white supremacy, global genocides”

“white hebrew, murders arabs, to say GRAVEL STONE”

Arabic Bone Rib Cages

Wooden Teeth Genocide Lawn Mowers

“Rod Stewart”

“Ron Howard”

Mass Genocide, ‘murder co op’

"Hidden white FAN FACE PALM crimes"

"Ceiling fans blood blades"

"Lawn Mower blood blades"

Ice Skate Shit Shop Indian Irish,

Red Skin Blood Baths,

Hot Sona Spa,

Sweat Shop Hog Lodge,

Wooden Wine Cabins

Death at 3

death at 5

death at "sick cell sickle cell"

white supremacy death casting global genocide patterns.

"Loot Shun"

"White Sex Kitchens"

"White Casting War Rafts At Death Cast Podcast Radio Episodes TIDAL WAVES."

white genocide casting global death canvassing

Cash Money

Clown Cop Money 💵

KAAAA CHING

CHICKEN CHECK BLING BLING

DINNER BELLS

TRIANGLE COUNTRYSIDE DINGLE DONGS.

Documents, BAY BAY white docks.

Helicopter Dicks.

“henrew Duck”

“WHITE HE BREW”

“White Hebrew, HEN DEN BREW”

“HENBREW” HENCE…

Geese Pen Chins

PENTCH BRAIN PENIS

WHITE WEE NEE.

WHITE TEA NEST

White Coo Ops Genocide Camps

American Space Needles Seattle Washington,

SEA SALT SEATTLE

ALT OP.

CORPSE BOT

CORPSE ROBOT CORPORATE RAT ROBOTS, RALLY COUPON TICKET WHITE SEA PAPER, RECEIPT JERKY JOCKEY HORSE :)

White Hebrew

White Roman

SEA SEA RECEIPT COOP

SEA AT ALL

SEAT A TALL

SEAT STALL DEATH HALL

SEAT SEATTLE MICRO BEAT

BEATLE DEATH DRILLS

SEAT SEA SEATTLE NEEDLES

CASH SPACECRAFT WHITE GENOCIDES....

BLEACH BROWN BLEACHER SCHOOL Homicide, homeschooling, fake wood lodge, pooling

CABIN WINE POOL

HOMEWORK HOMEMADE

CORN BREAD PAPERWORK

RON POLE, CORN HOLE

Bleacher, Brown Nose

Mustard Gas Stations, Suicide Bombers,

White "micro pod quadra DOM Win Dixie Dock Bay Cast"

white chicken brew

white he brew

white roman

white boston markets

white box stand genocide

Keep yourself PERPLEXED SAFER

KEEP LEEP YOURSELF TO SAFETY

HOP AND A SKIP.

Over genocide culprits

culling pits

hospital skits

hazmat micro zippers

duck duck goose,

goose neck

goose bump

pumpkin dump

Genocide white houses casting “hebrew and roman”

titan and gladiators sex bolsters

BOLD STERS,

FALSE COMPLIMENTS.

SUB SEX SETS

SEX STAGE

GENOCIDE STAGE

Hostage STAY still

Hostage STAND off

Hostage Hazmat Murders

Hazmat Reverse Allegations

Carmen Electra

Xmen Psyloche

Xmen Cyclops

Cyber Sex Copy Cat Cops

Fall CUM PLYWOOD CUSTOMER

Fall Customers

Fall Quad Cum Circle Jerky Horse Stone Keys

Red Skin Jerky

Furniture Decor

Circle Jury Jerky House Horse Stone Jockey Short Key

Mod key

Mid Key

Mod Lodge Key

Wooden Spoon.

Spear Harpoon.

Sky Wales.

“MICRO TWINE”

“GRETCHEN WRESTLING WRETCHES”

“WRESTLING WITCHES”

“RAFFLE RALLY QUAD PUN RECEIPT RE SEA PAPER TICKETS”

Paper Shop

Paper Towel Heads

Micro Organisms

“Gretchen Gray Hair Twine”

Gretchen,

Bitch Wet Check.

WET CHECK

BED CHECK

Bitch Wreck Shop.

BITS AND BYTES.

Bits, Bytes, Terra, Bugs, MURDER MODELS,

MURDER MODS

MURDER QUADS

GENETIC GENOCIDE

Homicide ATM 🏧 CASH MACHINE

Homocide GYM

“HOMO IDEA”

“HOMOSEXUAL IDEAS”

HOLD MY PSY,

GENOCIDE MASS WAR CRIMES

Murder Valley

Murder Mallard Mall War

GAS LIGHT ODD DUCKY

GAS LIGHT OFF FUCK KEY

FUCK KEY

MOD KEY

DOM KEY

WIN DIXIE

Vad EYE KKK rants.

Blow Out Cans.

Cannon Ball

MODEL DOM

MODERN DOM

ROBOT HEBREW

ROBOT ROMAN

American Mass Genocide Coverts.

Towels and Shoe Laces

Shower, Hot Hotels and Hotdogs

White Hebrew

White Roman

Cash Ops

Payment Robot Corpse Necromancer Cops

Necrosis Nerc Caught Ticks

Narc Narrow Minded Cotton Cots

NERD HAX

WHITE GENOCIDE PUBLIC AIRS

KISS AIRPORTS FIND IN BARBIES PEDEL SHOES

BARBIE WITH AIRPLANE PANCAKE SHIP CAR SHOES

say.

“TA”

and stare eyes 👀 at STARE AT TALKS

STARE AT TALKS

“HIGH TA”

“LOW TA”

“EVER TA”

TALL VICTORY.

TALLEST TELLEST

TELE VEST

TELE PUBLIC AIRS

Ever TA

Ever “TA”

ROYAL KEEP TAKES

ROYAL KEEP SAKES

“hot cheetah yellow death tolls”

“hot cheetos hot cheetahs cat scratch stretch death stories, maxi loot, maxi loop, maximum axe wood body shop murders.”

“hot sheet, sim money genocide crimes high man low man, circle blood sea water reef coral reef cheetah cheerleader model holes”

“yellow cheetah bowls, indian bow and arrows”

“sex women names Boe” “bow bow”

VICTORY WOMEN, NOT GENOCIDE KITTENS

“TEN PUT SHIN HEN COCK DEATH PEN COCK GENOCIDE QUAD DOCKS”

“yellow cheetah white super sea death rhymes genocide crimes.”

“pink tooth”

“pinky winky, tooth pinky finger.”

‎الاستيلاء ، التسول عربي عربي ،

‎ إمساك ، حصى ، ستون يارد

‎ الحصى ، القاضي الخشبي المطرقة.

Hazmat Murders ، "Tan Til Eyes"

‎ "وعاء من حساء البصل ، مقصورة خشبية للنزل ، حمى المقصورة ، حلوى حلوى قصب رون هول وور ، رون هوارد ، التفوق الأبيض ، الإبادة الجماعية العالمية"

‎ "العبرية البيضاء ، تقتل العرب ، على حد قول غرافيل ستون"

‎ أقفاص أضلاع العظام العربية

‎ الإبادة الجماعية للأسنان الخشبية جزازات العشب

‎ "رود ستيوارت"

‎ "رون هوارد"

‎ الإبادة الجماعية ، "القتل التعاوني"

‎ "جرائم نخيل الوجه المخفية البيضاء"

‎ "شفرات دماء مراوح السقف"

‎ "شفرات الدم جزازة العشب"

‎ متجر الجليد سكيت شيت الهندي الأيرلندي ،

‎ حمامات الدم الجلد الأحمر ،

‎ هوت سونا سبا ،

‎ سويت شوب هوج لودج ،

‎ كبائن النبيذ الخشبية

‎ الموت عند 3

‎ الموت في الخامسة

‎ الموت في "الخلية المنجلية المريضة"

‎ موت التفوق الأبيض يلقي بأنماط الإبادة الجماعية العالمية.

‎ "نهب شون"

‎ مطابخ الجنس البيضاء

"White Casting War Rafts at Death Cast Podcast Radio Episodes TIDAL WAVES."

‎ الإبادة الجماعية للبيض تلقي تصويت الموت العالمي

‎ قيمة نقدية

‎ مهرج شرطي المال 💵

KAAAA CHING

‎ بلينغ تشيك الدجاج

‎ أجراس العشاء

‎ المثلث على الجانب القطري الدنغلي دونغ.

‎ المستندات ، BAY BAY الأحواض البيضاء.

‎ هليكوبتر ديكس.

‎ "هنرو داك"

‎ "أبيض هو يشرب"

‎ "العبرية البيضاء ، HEN DEN BREW"

‎ "هينبرو" هنس ...

‎ ذقون قلم الاوز

PENTCH BRAIN PENIS

‎ ني وي وايت.

‎ عش الشاي الأبيض

‎ معسكرات عمليات الإبادة الجماعية White Coo Ops

‎ أمريكان سبيس نيدلز سياتل واشنطن ،

‎ ملح البحر

ALT OP.

‎ بوت كوربس

CORPSE ROBOT CORPORATE RAT ROBOTS ، RALLY COUPON TICKET WHITE SEA PAPER ، RECEIPT JERKY JOCKEY HORSE :)

‎ عبري أبيض

‎ روماني أبيض

‎ تعاونية استلام البحر في البحر

‎ البحر على الإطلاق

‎ مقعد طويل

‎ قاعة الموت في كشك مقعد

‎ مقعد SEATTLE MICRO BEAT

‎ خوض تدريبات الموت

‎ إبر مقعد البحر

‎ مبيدات الحبيبات البيضاء النقدية ...

BLEACH BROWN BLEACHER SCHOOL جريمة قتل ، تعليم منزلي ، كوخ خشبي مزيف ، تجميع

‎ بركة نبيذ كابينة

‎ المنزل

‎ ورق خبز الذرة

‎ رون بول ، ثقب الذرة

‎ مبيض الأنف البني

‎ محطات غاز الخردل ، الانتحاريون ،

‎ الأبيض "جراب صغير كوادرا DOM Win Dixie Dock Bay Cast"

‎ شراب الدجاج الأبيض

‎ أبيض هو الشراب

‎ روماني أبيض

‎ أسواق بوسطن البيضاء

‎ صندوق أبيض يقف الإبادة الجماعية

‎ حافظ على نفسك أكثر أمانًا

‎ حافظ على سلامتك

‎ أمل وتخطي.

‎ على مرتكبي الإبادة الجماعية

‎ حفر الاعدام

‎ التمثيليات في المستشفى

‎ السحابات الصغيرة الخطرة

‎ بطة بطة اوزة،

‎ رقبة الإوزة

‎ عثرة الإوزة

‎ تفريغ اليقطين

‎ الإبادة الجماعية في البيوت البيضاء "العبرية والرومانية"

‎ تيتان و المصارعون يعززون الجنس

‎ ستير جريئة ،

‎ المكملات الكاذبة.

‎ مجموعات الجنس الفرعية

‎ مرحلة الجنس

‎ مرحلة الإبادة

‎ الرهينة لا يزال

‎ الرهينة تقف قبالة

‎ قتل الرهينة حازمت

‎ مزاعم عكسية من Hazmat

‎ كارمن الكترا

Xmen Psyloche

Xmen العملاق

‎ رجال الشرطة نسخة الجنس عبر الإنترنت

‎ سقوط CUM الزبون الخشب الرقائقي

‎ عملاء الخريف

‎ سقوط رباعية نائب الرئيس دائرة متشنج مفاتيح حجر الحصان

‎ أحمر الجلد متشنج

‎ ديكور أثاث

‎ دائرة لجنة التحكيم جيركي هاوس هورس ستون ستون جوكي مفتاح قصير

‎ مفتاح التعديل

‎ منتصف مفتاح

‎ مود لودج مفتاح

‎ ملعقة خشبية.

‎ رمح هاربون.

‎ سكاي ويلز.

"MICRO TWINE"

‎ "كلمات المصارعة الجريتشن"

‎ "ساحرات المصارعة"

"RAFFLE RALLY QUAD PUN RECEIPT RE SEA PAPER TICKETS"

‎ أوراق مالية

‎ رؤوس المناشف الورقية

‎ الكائنات الدقيقة

‎ "غريتشن غراي خيوط الشعر"

‎ جريتشن ،

‎ فحص الكلبة الرطب.

‎ فحص مبلل

‎ فحص السرير

‎ متجر حطام الكلبة.

‎ بت وبايت.

‎ بت ، بايت ، تيرا ، البق ، نماذج القتل ،

MODS القتل

‎ القتل الرباعي

‎ الإبادة الجينية

‎ جرائم القتل ATM 🏧 CASH MACHINE

Homocide GYM

"HOMO IDEA"

‎ "الأفكار المثلية الجنسية"

‎ امسك نفسي ،

‎ الإبادة الجماعية جرائم الحرب الجماعية

‎ وادي القتل

‎ قتل حرب مالارد مول

‎ ضوء الغاز ODD DUCKY

‎ ضوء قبالة مفتاح اللعنة

‎ مفتاح اللعنة

‎ مفتاح MOD

‎ مفتاح دوم

WIN DIXIE

Vad EYE KKK الصدق.

‎ تفجير العلب.

‎ مدفع الكرة

‎ نموذج DOM

DOM الحديث

‎ روبوت هيبرو

‎ روبوت رومان

‎ أغطية الإبادة الجماعية الأمريكية.

‎ المناشف وأربطة الأحذية

‎ الدش والفنادق الساخنة والهوت دوغ

‎ عبري أبيض

‎ روماني أبيض

‎ العمليات النقدية

‎ دفع رجال شرطة مستحضر الأرواح جثة روبوت

‎ اشتعلت النخر نيرك القراد

‎ أسرة قطنية ضيقة الأفق

‎ نيرد هاكس

‎ الهواء الأبيض الإبادة الجماعية

‎ العثور على المطارات في KISS في أحذية BARBIES PEDEL

‎ باربي مع حذاء سيارة بطائرة من طراز بانكيك

‎ قل.

‎ "تا"

‎ وتحدق في عينيك في STARE AT TALKS

‎ تحدق في المحادثات

‎ "عالية تا"

"LOW TA"

"EVER TA"

‎ انتصار طويل.

‎ أخطر

TELE VEST

‎ الهواء العام الاتصالات

‎ من أي وقت مضى تا

‎ من أي وقت مضى "TA"

‎ يأخذ الملكي الاحتفاظ

‎ رويال كييب سايكس

‎ "عدد القتلى الأصفر الحار من الفهد"

‎ "الفهود الساخنة الفهود الساخنة القط خدش قصص الموت تمتد ، نهب ماكسي ، حلقة ماكسي ، الحد الأقصى جرائم القتل متجر الخشب الفأس."

‎ "ورقة ساخنة ، جرائم الإبادة الجماعية للمال ، رجل مرتفع ، رجل منخفض ، دائرة الدم في مياه البحر والشعاب المرجانية والشعاب المرجانية الفهد نموذج الفتحات"

‎ "أطباق الفهد الصفراء والقوس والأسهم الهندية"

‎ "جنس النساء أسماء Boe" "القوس القوس"

‎ النساء الانتصارات ، لا يقتلون القطط

"TEN PUT SHIN HEN COCK DEATH PEN COCK GENOCIDE QUAD DOCKS"

‎ "الفهد الأصفر الأبيض سوبر البحر قوافي الموت جرائم الإبادة الجماعية."

‎ "الأسنان الوردية"

‎ "الخنصر الخنصر ، إصبع الخنصر الأسنان."

[harrisonarchive]

Screenshots rom the e-book edition of Pattie Boyd's Wonderful Tonight: George's letter to Pattie from New York City during the mixing of the Concert for Bangladesh live album. No copyright infringement intended in posting this on this fan site.

This was previously posted some years ago, but I'd removed the post since (copyright!), so this is another try, at the request of an anonymous ask. (An excerpt was posted during 2021's Concert for Bangladesh anniversary special.)

“This is a letter George wrote to me from the Plaza Hotel in New York where he was staying whilst editing the Concert for Bangladesh in 1971. He seems very scattered as his mind races between thoughts, with so much going on and so much to do. […] In the letter he is concerned about the high price of a basin because we weren’t used to spending money. We had no idea about the price of things or even whether we were rich or poor. Money just wasn’t something we ever had to deal with. Everything was always taken care of for us.” - Pattie Boyd, Wonderful Tonight (e-book edition 2011)

The letter (mentioning niece Janet and nephew Paul, father Harold, and others) reads:

“Monday Evening

Dear Pattie, Hello. Hope you are O.K. I tried to call you when I got here but there was no Greg in the Lodge — Can you call me through Apple at ABKCO or the Plaza —> Room 601 (212) PL9.300 to say hello to Hubby! Its a drag not being able to speak to you. You can call ABKCO and tell them a time, and I’ll call the Lodge. The ‘France’ was not as good as QE2 more straights in Tuxedo’s and not as many things to do, so I read a lot in the cabin. Started looking at the film and it should be O.K. for a T.V. show — but a lot of juggling to do — to get what I would like. The Camera men where not too hip on the Rock part — but Ravi’s part seems well covered. Ravi is going to be at the Plaza on Wednesday — so I am going to try to get a Rough cut together by then — so he can tell me where to edit the music — as it should be reduced for T.V., as 15 minutes should be enough for the Film. We have to get the film to about 54 minutes total, for an Hour show. Neil and I are going to work now (tonight) so as to get it started. Bob is coming in the Morning, so we will have to work on his part tomorrow day, and then Ravis again int the Evening, and it will save us time if Ravi has something to see before he leaves town, as his bit is too hard to edit without him (the soundtrack). Saw a great wash basin in a window — full size white with blue flowers but just one Tap in the centre — haven’t been back when its open (the shop) but will get it, if its there, not too much, when I go back. Here are you’re shoes — hope they are O.K. Don’t I write crazy!!! Very fast before Ringo goes to the Airport — What have you been doing? Hope you’re O.K. I miss you — I’m starving — many grilled cheese sandwiches — Love you — Call me or tell me when I can call you at the Lodge. 
Do you need anything from N.Y. cos I will go shopping for a day or 2. Still haven’t been to Lill Nassau’s yet but I passed her window one night and there is some great stuff — Hope I can get the Bed Piece without spending too much bread in there. Saw a good shop with Indian fabric + cushions etc. which is what I want for my room 206. Are there shops in London with that stuff, as the cushions are so big it would be daft trying to carry them home — but I can. What do you think? The Electric Yo-Yo’s are for Paul + Janet (after you finish playing with them.) Eddie Veal was funny in N.Y. with his arm Bands and we took him to the Auto bar. How’s the house? D. Tapp? Any Problems? How’s DAD? — our Lou is coming Tomorrow so thats going to confuse me for a while. Shit! Has Quinnell done the stairs and Rails in 203/4 109 yet? The Bangla Desh Proof of the Box front with guitar, was awful — so I had to jump on that and change it and shout at them and Now it will be O.K. with the original idea of the kid — Its such a pain in the arse all that messing around — just because they didnt like the truth— anyway it will be O.K. in the end except we now have RAGA — B/Desh and Paul all coming in the same month — well I know which will win! (Ha-Ha) Love you — love to Ted - Gred - and Kled George”

[fatehbaz]

White-flour bread; French state destruction of wheat biodiversity, food-making traditions, and bread variations; corporate/neoliberal recuperation and institutionalization of so-called “artisanal” breads

-------

Though the milling industry had already become big and powerful by then, after WWII in France (and elsewhere in Europe) the various links in the industrial chain came together to form a giant bread business. Along with implementing land reforms, the French state slowly limited the wide variety of available wheats to a selection of “modern” ones; the only varieties to be sold after 1949 were more resistant to lodging and guaranteed high yields when spayed with the right pesticides and fertilizers. Modern wheats were also selected for their baking strength. [...] Since kneading had come to be done by big machines instead of human hands, high baking strength was necessary for producing loaves attractive to consumers. [...] In the 1950s, French wheat fields expanded in size to produce the right raw materials for this new milling industry. [...]  The less bran, the poorer the flour is in fiber and minerals. To compensate for the nutritional loss from the chemically induced whitening process, the milling industry started to enrich flours [...]. In fact, when bread first became a commodity, white bread was always trendier than browner bread. It’s a class thing: historically, white bread was traditionally for rich people because it was thought to demonstrate the “cleanliness” and “purity” of the flour. This fallacy was reproduced with industrial bread production, and so shitty industrial white flour started to flood the market.

-------

After the milling industry came the baking industry. In the postwar period, bread-making companies began to use a wide array of baking improvers while also over-kneading the dough to oxidize it so it would whiten further. In this situation, bread-making no longer depends on its environment: in dry or humid weather the recipe remains unchanged. Bread is no longer alive; it has become a machine, just like the baker. In bread factories, flours only need two hours to become bread, rather than the typical twenty-four.

Like most of the food we consume in the West, bread became rationalized. And hyper-leavened, innutritious, high-glycemic-index white bread took over supermarket shelves.

Efficiency above all else, at the cost of quality, respect, and pleasure.

The bread industry could have continued in this direction and thrived. Instead, in a quintessential neoliberal move, it co-opted a smaller “mom-and-pop” industry, adding a new link to its corporate chain. It all began in 1998 when the French government passed the May 25 Law, probably under pressure from small bakers afraid of disappearing due to supermarket competition. The law established a strict definition for what it means to be an “artisan” baker. [...]

But, as is often the case with state intervention, the public was misled [...]. The story of institutionalizing “artisan” bread production in France is really the story of corporate recuperation and consolidation.

The food-processing giant Vivescia (3.1 billion euros total revenue in 2021) now controls much of the artisan-bread value chain; it owns the second largest grain cooperative in Europe, and its brand Francine is a huge player in the milling industry (covering 32 percent of all-purpose flour market in France in 2018). Since the May 25 Law, Vivescia has also absorbed fifteen thousand artisanal bakeries into its affiliate chain Campaillette, forcing subsidiaries to follow standardized recipes and to use Vivescia-produced ingredients, turning bakers into mere machines. In 2015, an amendment to the 1998 law guaranteed the production of unhealthy bread in artisanal bakeries by introducing the requirement that artisan bakers hold a special degree (Certificat d’Aptitute Profesionnelle, or CAP). This new requirement systematizes the learning of “traditional” bread making recipes that rely exclusively on chemical yeast and near-white flours. As a result, many artisan bakers wake up in the middle of the night to combine water and ready-made mixes, breathing in industrial flour and baking improvers that trigger asthma and pollute their lungs [...].

---

Text above by: Alix Guibert. “We Will Lack Bread No Longer.” e-flux journal #128. June 2022. [Italicized first paragraph/heading in this post added by me. Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[wavesmp3]

[ksw] clouds

sunwoo x reader

wc. 5k warnings: medical inaccuracies, death, illness, hospitals, overall just a pretty heavy piece genre can only be described as an absolute mess inspired mainly by san junipero but also slightly by charlie kaufman and wong kar wai

a/n: this is supposed to be told nonlinearly but like the creation of it was very messy so i have no clue if it actually worked, so good luck trying to make this piece make sense of this :) 

act iii. scene iii.

Sunwoo sits and watches the sun shift from pink and blue to an impossible shade of green. And it’s then he knows that without a doubt Clara has ruined the color green for him. Because instead of marveling at the color of the sky, Sunwoo is reminded of the doors in her apartment building.

“Thought I might find you here.” The voice of a stranger who Sunwoo loved once upon a time says behind him. He tries like hell not to turn around. Not to lean back towards the voice and wait for your hand on his shoulder or your shin knocking familiarly against his back. He focuses on the waves crashing below instead. The roar of the water beneath him is deafening, but only if you let it be. He does, and he almost forgets that you’re behind him.

“Where’d you go?” You ask, now sitting next to him, tugging at the long grass. 

“I’m right here.”

“And what about in there?” You bring a finger up and poke at the side of his forehead. 

He turns to you, facing you in full. He takes in your features like it’s the first time all over again. And, oh, he wishes he knew before how many firsts you already had together. This is just another. This is just the first time he’s seen you in the past six months and remembered the thousands of times he’s seen your face before. 

He studied your cheeks. The one he now recalls running the back of his palm over after you left for the Cloud. 

He memorizes, for the millionth time, your eyes. He used to swear they were darker than they are, but then he saw them in the sun. He was dying back then; then he saw your eyes and you saved him. Just like that. 

Mr. Choi was right of course. As he always must be. You and him are like an old married couple. Not like. You are. Almost were. 

“I had lunch with Mr. Choi today.” He tells you. 

You squint at him. “I know. It’s Thursday.” You pull out a piece of the grass. “What’d he make?”

“Ramen.”

“Was it good?”

“It was okay.”

“Too spicy?”

Suwnoo answers with a sigh, looking away from you and back towards the water. The deafening waves crash against the cliffside. “I know you looked at your file.” He finally says. You stop pulling at the grass. You still. “Mr. Choi told me.”

After he says it, there’s a silence that isn’t actually silent at all. The waves rage below his feet. The seagulls are there too, beneath, above, somewhere, everywhere. And then, of course, there’s you and Sunwoo, trying to be silent over the static in your heads and the machines you’re hooked up to in a universe far far away. 

“Did he tell you about my file?”

He looks at you again. “No.”

“Oh.” You look away, brows furrowed, lick your lips, and then turn back to him. “So why are you upset?”

“After he told me, I went and I…”

“You didn’t.”

“I looked at mine.”

There’s another silence, except that this time it really is quiet. Sunwoo read once whilst in a rabbit hole of medical research that true silence only happens in a vacuum, where there is no medium for sound waves to travel through. This must be that. This place, the files, Mr. Choi and Mr. Chan, Clara and her apartment building full of green doors--it’s a vacuum. And they stick people in it then call it the Cloud. They call it extra time. But it isn’t. It’s nothing and he’s stuck in the middle of it. So Sunwo stares at you, straight through the vacuum of time and space you’re both lost in, waits for you to say something, and then waits for himself to hear it. 

“You looked?” You finally say, voice folding in on itself. 

“Yes.” Sunwoo’s own voice is barely there. You must be reading his lips which you’ve always been good at anyways. 

“So you know now?” 

“I always knew, and now, I remember.”

act i. scene iv.

There’s been an accident. 

That’s what they say when the sun falls out of the sky and the world starts spinning in the wrong direction. It’s how they show up at Sunwoo’s door painted in shades of blue and red, with authority in their arms and hands on their hips. How they prepare him for the looming moment where they rip past his skin, blood, bone to shoot a gun straight at his heart. I’m so sorry for your loss, they say leaving him with a bullet lodged somewhere between his left and right atrium. 

And those are the four words that play over and over and over in Sunwoo’s head as he gets to the hospital. Those are the words that crawl inside his open chest and turn him blue and black with infection. There’s been an accident, he remembers, staring at the extraordinary measures taken to keep your heart beating and lungs beating. This is it. Except that the accident isn’t that you’re dying, but that you’re dying. It’s always supposed to have been him. He’s supposed to be the one stuffed with tubes and hooked up to monitors, the one whose life is hanging on by a thread, and you’re supposed to be the one that saves him. It all feels like a play that’s gone horribly wrong because everyone switched parts after intermission without telling him. At what point did you steal the role of dying protagonist from him? 

We did everything we could, a stranger in a white coat says. Except that it’s not some stranger, it’s your colleague and co-worker because this is the hospital you work at and the hospital Sunwoo met you in. There was too much damage to the brain, they explain as the image of their tear-stricken face goes from your friend during intern year to the doctor who operated on you as your brain went dead. 

“We have two options, right?” Sunwoo is far too familiar with surgery and all this. He knows from his hospital days what’s supposed to happen next. But apparently, things have changed since then. 

“Actually, there’s a third option.”

Sunwoo doesn’t waste a second. He jumps out of the chair stained red from his bleeding heart and asks: “What is it?”

“We can upload them.”

act iii. scene ii.

In fifty days of living in the cloud, Sunwoo has learned all about the people that he shares a building with. There’s Mr. Chan who lives behind a vomit green on the same floor as him and who hasn’t left his room since last January. There’s also Mr. Choi, who lives behind the emerald door and invites Suwoo over for lunch every Thursday. Clara lives upstairs, where the walls are painted in various shades of green--olive, seaweed, moss, hunter, shamrock, sage, and others that Sunwoo tries not to think too deeply about. He’s only met Clara once in the past fifty days and has no particular wish to see her again. He hadn’t expected her to be a kid. Cancer, you told him after their introduction in the lobby, poor girl was only seven. As said before, Sunwoo tries not to think about it. 

And then of course there’s you behind the forest green door who has been slowly showing him all the good places. There’s the beach where you spent the day making seashell necklaces. The  cafe which serves its tea too sweet for him, but sweet enough to be considered your favorite. Sunwoo just gets the chocolate bread. You took him downtown. To a club. The tallest building. And to midtown where the amusement park is. 

But his favorite place you’ve taken him so far is the cliffside above the beach, where the waves crash against the rocks in a way that can only be described as violent. That day you and him laid in the grass and stared at the clouds with your heads dangling just over the edge and water spraying the backs of your necks. That day you turned to him and told him you’re sorry. For what, he asked. I’m so sorry you’re sick, you said, but it’s nice to have you around here. I think in a sense, we’ve both been waiting for this. Then, you smiled and stole all of the blood from his body. So yeah, that day, that place--it’s his favorite. 

Today, you take him on a hike up a mountain. 

“Do you believe in an afterlife?” You ask him after having spent thirty minutes silently staring at the view from the best peak. 

“One after this?”

“Yeah. I guess. Although, I’m not so convinced this counts.”

“I don’t know.” Sunwoo shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Do you think we’d be able to be with our loved ones in it?”

His chest lurches. “If there is one, yes.”

“Do you think it’ll be different than this?”

Sunwoo turns to you finally. “Why are you asking about this?”

You shake your head. “Nevermind. It’s a stupid question.”

He turns back towards the view. From here, he can make out Clara’s building. He thinks about her, about Mr. Choi and Mr. Chan, who he recently found out were once married but who haven’t spoken since Mr. Chan read his file in January, and he thinks about you and about him. 

“I think,” Sunwoo says, loud enough so that you can hear after wandering a little bit away from him, “that whatever the afterlife is, if it does exist, it’ll be worth it.”

You turn to him, but don’t make any move to come near him again. “And if it doesn’t exist?”

“Then life will have been worth it.”

The corner of your lip lifts. “I like that.”

Sunwoo only nods at the sentiment, and after a long while, he builds enough courage to ask, “you’ve been here a really long time, haven’t you?”

“Time doesn't work as linearly in the cloud as it does in the real world. Sometimes it feels like I got here and then you arrived the very next day.” You turn back towards the view and exhale heavily. 

“But yes. I’ve been here for an eternity.”

act ii. scene i.

Before he actually sees you, Sunwoo feels you. Not you, in particular, but something in the distance, a presence in the corner of the room and a pair of eyes watching him from somewhere far away. 

The scariest part is how much the feeling doesn’t actually scare him. 

--

Two days after that, he starts to see you in the flesh. He tells himself that his mind is playing tricks on him, that the person he saw in the produce aisle wasn’t actually you at all and was just a stranger with the same hair. 

He doesn’t go straight home from the store that day. Instead, he stops by the hospital and checks in on you, but even that doesn’t do anything about the fact that he sees a shadow of you behind the bed.

--

The day after that, you speak to him. Standing in the middle of his kitchen in broad daylight, you speak, you say hello, and the first thing Sunwoo thinks is that he’s dead. 

You aren’t, you reply. You’re a zombie, he reasons, here for my brain. I’m not. A ghost. No. Are you, here Sunwoo falters, fear flooding out of his body to make room for the briefest blotch of hope that’s crushed almost immediately by you saying: I’m not alive, Sunwoo. You saw me in the hospital yesterday. 

“So then,” he swallows, “what are you?”

I’m here. You look at him, stare at his face and without a sliver of doubt say, I’m here for you. 

Sunwoo knows it’s impossible. You can’t be here. You can’t. And yet, you are. 

Three years ago Sunwoo was told he had three months left to live, and he still remembers how impossibly you saved him from the brink of death. He remembers how impossible things happen all the time, and how impossibly possible it is that this is one of them. He steps towards you, touches your face, and feels the real, impossible thing against his hand. 

“You’re here.”

--

On the fifth day of your haunting, Sunwoo finally has the sense to ask why. 

Why what?

“Why are you here?”

I’m here for you.

“Stop saying that.”

But I am, you tell him. You asked, and that’s the answer. I’m a doctor, Sunwoo. I’m here for you. 

Then, finally, he hears what you’ve been saying for the past five days. You’re here for him. 

And the thing about doctors is that they’re there for you when you need them. 

“I’m sick.” 

Yes, you answer quietly, although it wasn’t a question. 

“Again.” 

I’m so sorry. 

“You’re a hallucination, aren’t you?” Sunwoo’s shocked by how sad that makes him, how disappointing it is. “I’ve been hallucinating.”

Find me in the Cloud, Sunwoo. There’s something I want to say. 

You’re gone by the time he gets to the hospital. 

act iii. scene i.

Sunwoo stares at the hall of green doors, eyes darting from door to door in an attempt to stare down the shades until they confess which one of them is tea green.

“Clara, the landlord, likes colors.” A voice says from behind him. “Every couple of months she repaints all of the doors in different shades of the same one. Before the green, it was yellow.” 

Sunwoo turns around to face you. When your eyes find him, they go blank for the smallest of moments. You give him a look that goes right through him, turning him inside out like you’ve seen the underside of his skin. It irks him. 

“I’m Sunwoo. I’m new.”

You gulp. “You’re here.” He doesn’t know what to make of the statement. Do all people in the cloud act like this? “Why?”

Sunwoo nods, maybe you’re not so weird as much as you just have a weird way of posing questions. “I was told I’m sick.”

“I’m sorry.” You say, frowning like you actually might feel back for him. 

“Have you been here a while then?” You nod. “Can I ask how long?” You shake your head. Sunwoo doesn’t think too much about it. Instead, he returns your earlier question “Why are you here?”

“Brain dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

You ignore it and point to a door down the hall. “I’m forest green. You?”

“Tea green. But I can’t find-” 

You tap the door in front of him. “This one, genius.”

“Oh.” He laughs awkwardly. “Thanks.”

Your mouth parts as if to say something, and your face goes blank again. He feels his skin turning itself inside out because of it. “Have you read your file yet?”

He shakes his head. “I just got here.”

You inhale, softening, and mutter an ‘okay’. You continue down the hall towards your door. Sunwoo is stuck in place. “I can show you around here, if you like. Take you to all the cool places.”

Sunwoo takes you up on it.

A forest green door slams shut down the hallway. 

act i. scene ii.

“Thank you for taking me out of the hospital.” Sunwoo says, exhaling. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to a park like this.” 

And it’s true, he really can’t. He’s been sick for so long now, and has been through a multitude of treatment plans and too many surgeries. When you’re sick and have 9 surgeons turn you down after asking them to save your life, you forget the joy of being outside and feeling the sun on your skin. You were the first doctor to agree to the surgery. You’re the only doctor to have ever treated Sunwoo like he wasn’t dying, like he was actually going to live.

“You don’t have to thank me. This is good for me too.” You say, head resting against the park bench and eyes closed. 

Sunwoo inhales, taking in the park with all his senses. A visceral sort of thing you learn to do as often as possible when you’ve been as close to death as frequently as he has. He feels the wood beneath his body and the grass beneath his feet. He feels the light on his skin and the wind pushing against his arms and nose. He listens to the kids screaming at the playground at the bottom of the hill and to the dogs barking within the dog park beside it. He takes all this in, relishes in it for the last time as a dying person. 

You sigh. “One more surgery.” 

“And then I’ll be done with this sickness.” 

You smile. He pretends not to see. “And then you’ll be done.” 

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“Don’t do that.”

“No. Seriously.” 

You smile again, this time at him. Sunwoo doesn’t have to pretend not to see. “I haven’t finished saving it yet.”

He leans back against the bench and closes his eyes. “But you will.” 

You tap on your coffee cup. “Honestly though, you did more work than me.” Sunwoo frowns while you take a sip. “The other nine doctors you called are good doctors, and they made the same judgement call I would have made for any other patient. No sane doctor would have agreed to treat you. But you were the reason I said yes. You had such faith that you were going to live and so much faith that I could do it that I believed you. I might be the one doing the technical saving, but you, Sunwoo, you’re the one who convinced me to do it. You saved yourself.”

He stares at you. The light hits your eyes like it’s finding a way to break through them. In truth, before Sunwoo got sick, he didn’t think he was scared of death, but he is. He’s terrified of it. Sunwoo realized it two weeks after his diagnosis and the day after he was wrongly told he only had three more months left to live. But now, for the first time since he was diagnosed, he doesn't feel so afraid of it. Despite how far he’s come and how close he is to beating this fucking illness, while staring at the light woven through your eyes, Sunwoo thinks he could live with himself if he dropped dead tonight. 

That thought alone, is almost as terrifying as death used to be. 

act iii. scene v.

“I saw your ghost, you know.” It’s the first thing Sunwoo has said to you in over two weeks. “It wasn’t actually you though, was it?” You don’t even bother looking up from your cup of tea. Through the silence, Sunwoo orders a coffee. 

“I didn’t know that.” The coffee turns lukewarm. “It wasn’t me.” You push an uneaten half of chocolate bread towards him. “It’s in your brain this time. Symptoms can include hallucinations.”

“Think you can still save me?” You can’t. If you know that much, you know he’s out of medical miracles, and that this time, he really won’t survive it. But it’s a joke. And you laugh at it.

“Definitely not. I never really liked neurosurgery.”

And all at once, he’s painfully aware of your friend somewhere in the real world that does like it but watched anyways as your brain died before her, split wide open. 

“Anyways, how do you know all of this?” But what Sunwoo really wants to say is brains are killer. Literally. Figuratively. 

“I’ve known since we...“ you hesitate, mouth stuck halfway through a word he can’t place. “After last time, I read your chart and looked at your scans.” Sunwoo nods. He expected as much. He doesn’t ask how you got them. “I’m sorry you're sick again.” You say to him quietly. “I’m sorry you’re dying.”

“I’m sorry you’re dead.” As soon as the words have left his mouth, he regrets them. Because you aren’t. And he knows you too well to think you’d look past the technicality. 

You scoff, shake your head slightly, and with a spiteful smile say, “Can I say it?”

Sunwoo only sighs. “Let’s start over instead.” 

You nod. He pushes the chocolate bread back. 

act iii. scene iv.

Mr. Choi was the one to recommend that Sunwoo give you and himself space. It’s been a month since you and him last spoke, since that moment hovering above the waves after he read his file and after he found out you read yours. He misses you, and has been for so long now. Mr. Choi was wrong. Sunwoo’s standing outside your forest green door to prove it. 

You open the door before he can knock. There’s no shock in your voice when you say his name, like you’ve been waiting for this day, expecting it. 

He looks behind you, at your apartment in Clara’s building that looks just like your apartment in the real world. The same one he cleaned out after you died, still filled with things he gave to your family or donated or took back to his place. He wants to crumble just looking at it again. “Can I come in?”

“It’s only been a month.”

And he knows what you mean by it. Three months is the recommended time off after reading one’s file. To reacclimate, they say, to process. But the insinuation that Sunwoo was supposed to go three months without seeing you makes him feel sick. The insinuation that after a year of being without you in the real world he was supposed to be without you here too, enrages him. Then he remembers how long you’ve been here, and how long you’ve been doing this and feels slightly murderous.

All he says is: “It’s been a lot longer than that for you.”

Your lip twitches. You lock and unlock the open forest green door five times before saying, “Are you sure?”

He nods. You let him in. 

Sunwoo used to imagine what it would be like to meet you again in the Cloud one day. He imagined tears and hugs and kisses. He imagined i love you’s and i hate you’s and i miss you. He imagined the scenario more times than can possibly be considered healthy. But he imagined something. He was waiting for the day. Waiting for this day. But this moment, sitting at your round wood table while you boil water for tea, is nothing like the million different ways he imagined seeing you again. 

And as you set down two mismatched mugs and take the seat across from him, he doesn’t even try to create one of them. “How long has it been since you read your file?”

You watch the steam rise from your tea for a long moment, then stand, grab the sugar and pour a spoonful of it into your tea. You take another spoonful and look at him expectantly. “Want some?” He nods, and you pour the sugar into his. You stir the tea then taste, then cringe, then add more sugar and then ask if he wants it. He refuses. You stir again. Sunwoo watches the whirlpool and waits the eternity it takes you to say: “I read it on my first day.”  

You put the sugar away, satisfied with the tea’s sweetness while Sunwoo marvels at how long you’ve known and how silently you’ve been carrying the knowledge of you and him since he came. And that knowledge is what makes him finally remember one of the reasons he came. “Is there something you want to tell me?” You look up at him when he asks it, exhaling like you’ve been wanting to bring it up for so long now, which Sunwoo guesses isn’t as much of a simile as he thinks it is. 

“Yes, actually. I…” you hesitate, flicking the mug as if the right words will come hopping out of the tea. Sunwoo watches for it. “I’ve just been here for a long time now, Sunwoo.”

“Two years isn’t that long.”

“Time doesn’t work the same here as it does down there.” You tell him tiredly. “It’s been decades.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“In the beginning, I didn’t mind the waiting. I knew you were on your way, but I just,” you hesitate, “I didn’t think it’d take so long for you to come back to me.” 

Sunwoo covers your hand with his. “I’m sorry.” You twist your palm into it, squeeze, then pull your hand away. Sunwoo swallows. “I came as fast as I could.”

“I know. I waited.”

“Do you regret it?” Sunwoo’s terrified of what the answer might be.

You don’t give it. “That’s not what I meant.” 

“Then?”

“I’ve been here for so long, and,” your head drops, voice breaking under the weight it carries, “it’s been so lonely.”

“But I’m here now.” Sunwoo says, leaning forward against the table. “You aren’t alone anymore.”

“I know you’re here. I know, and I thought that would fix it, but it didn’t. Seeing you in the hall that day was so bittersweet, because you were here but that also meant you were somewhere else dying. Because you were here and I still felt lonely.” You stop, chugg the remaining bits of your tea, and then wipe your cheeks. “Do you get what I’m saying?”

“No.” But it’s a lie. He does get it. He knows all about loneliness and the way it creeps inside, so slyly. The way it starts small and then grows, feeding on negligence, until it's too big for your body. He knows how it sits inside you, for all its enormity, and spills into everything. He knows how it lingers. How it has nothing to do with people or lack of them and everything to do with grief. Sunwoo knows all about loneliness. The day he read his file he felt a dam of it burst open within him. 

“I’m saying that in the real world I saved you, and now it’s your turn to save me.” You gulp. “I’m saying that I want you to unplug me.”

It takes a moment for Sunwoo to even register what you’ve said, but when he does remember the life support that’s keeping your body alive somewhere in a universe far away, he doesn’t say anything. He just stands and walks out of your apartment. 

act i. scene iii.

“Doctor, please present.” The attending announces, stepping into Sunwoo’s room for rounds. 

“Mr. Kim,” a resident starts, flipping open his chart, “was diagnosed 14 months ago and has gone through several different treatment plans. When he came to us, the illness had spread and was deemed inoperable and untreatable by several other physicians. Our treatment plan was aggressive and grueling but ultimately, effective. Sunwoo is 20 days post op from his third and final surgery. The surgery went extremely well with no complications and his vitals were excellent. He has been a model patient all throughout recovery, and according to our latest scans, he is also now illness free…”

Sunwoo doesn’t even bother listening to the rest. 

--

“So, now that I’m no longer a patient, if I ask you out on a date, will you actually say yes?” 

“Well,” you say, signing his discharge papers, “only one way to know.”

“What is it?”

You look up at him, smiling. “Ask me again.”

He does. 

You say yes. 

act iii. scene v. take ii. 

“I saw your ghost.” The first thing Sunwoo says after the last failed attempt.

You look up from your tea. “It wasn’t me.” 

“I know.” Sunwoo orders another coffee. “But the hallucination was how I knew I was sick again. It made me feel like you were trying to warn me, like you were up here somewhere caring from a distance. Right after I pieced it all together you told me to find you here and that there was something you wanted to say.” The coffee turns lukewarm again. Sunwoo can’t bring himself to say it. You sigh and push the same piece of chocolate bread back towards him. This time, he takes a bite from it. And with a mouthful of chocolate bread, he cries, “I just got you back, and now you want to leave all over again.”

You frown. “I didn’t want to leave the first time, and it’s different now.”

“How?”

“I want to go. Isn’t that worth something?”

“And what about what I want?”

“Oh, Sunwoo,” you say, “I’m sorry you’re sick. The hallucination was you and your head, but for what it’s worth, I have been up here caring from a distance. I still…” you don’t need to say the words. He knows. He never had to doubt it. “I never stopped.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you asked of me.” Sunwoo tells you. He made the decision last week but today, right now, with your confession still falling through the air, is the first time he’s had the stomach to swallow it. “And I’ll do it. I will. I just need some time. You’ve had so long and in comparison I’ve had nothing.”

“Okay.” You say simply.

“How long can you give me?”

You smile. “You know I’d give you an eternity if you asked for it.”

“I’m scared.” Sunwoo confesses then. “I know it’s what you want, but selfishly, I don’t want to let you again. I don’t know if I’m a big enough person to do it.”

“I do.” You say to him, leaning forward against the table and looking straight through him. “I know because I was your doctor. I have cut inside your body, seen all your organs, and during surgery two, I held your heart in my hands. I felt it beating. So I know exactly how big it is, and I know it’s big enough for this”

Sunwoo feels the heart you worked so hard to repair bursting inside of him. 

“God. Why’d you have to read your file so soon?”

You laugh. “I missed you. I couldn’t help it.”

And just like that, you’ve stolen the entire concept of fear from him. 

“I’m ready.”

“What?”

He looks at you and feels the loneliness slither away.

“Ask me again.”

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Wednesday 12 July 1837

8

12 55

fine morning but dull F54° at 9, and breakfast In about ¾ hour – then to the hay barn – found  Messrs. Holt (James) and Wood, Mr. Bates’s engineer there come to speak to Booth who came soon afterwards – sent B- and W- to the wheel-race and followed slowly with Holt – he did not see Mr. Jeremiah Rawson on Monday – is to see him tomorrow – told H- I had well considered the business – sure no agreement could be comfortably made with Mr. R – and desired H- to ask what they would take for the Bank-bottom staith  and upper and lower bed soughs, but to say that he (H-) had mentioned the thing to me and I had said I would have nothing to do with it, but would abide by my answer to Messrs. Alexander – if Mr. R- chose to make me any definite proposal, he might do so – but I would offer nothing – H- said he had been calculating and found that the coal would be hurried at less expense by the steam engine up the Incline than along Mr. R-‘s road by 3 galloways – the coal along R-‘s road would cost 1/. per score hurrying much more uphill road than mine would be, and mine would also be much better for the upper bed and for carrying the loose forwards – in short H- owned that he had come round to my opinion that it would be best to push on with the Incline – I told him the job engine and all would = £2500 – no! not quite that he thought – he said it would cost me £200 to make R-‘s road available to me (he said the other day it would be done (all to be walled and arched) at 10/. a yard - .:. I should have 400 yards to wall and arch which would take longer doing than 2 months (the time he mentioned the other day) – I convinced him the Inline would pay me best even it cost £2500 – R- would not take less than £1000 + £200 and extras = £1200+ would be more than ½ the Incline; and after all, we could not pull out ½ as much coal as by the Incline; and it was the quantity got that we ought to look to – By the Incline we could get 6 acres per annum and H- agreed we should have sale for as much if we could get it – sometime with Messrs. H- and Wood and Booth at the wheel-race – all to be ready on Monday next for Joseph Mann to being setting the pumps – on this promise from both W- and H- for him I consented to delay setting up the gin – Joseph M- and co. and Charles Howarth took it down today, and Zebedee brought the bolts and lights part down this afternoon to Listerwick cabin, but will not set the gin up just yet at Listerwick – will wait and be sure that I do not want it 1st at the Engine pit – long while talking to Booth – talking over the work to be done, and disposing of the men 7 masons and 1 labour and 4 lads and B- himself  - to take 3 and labour to the pen-trough to be done in a fortnight – and the temainder to finish the hay-barn in a fortnight – then the haybarn men do the jobs at home and the back Lodge (and the pen-trough) men do Little marsh I would give up the terrace wall till next year -  Little marsh to be done by the 1st of October – B- not against my giving up working the Hipperholme quarry as soon as we have got all the footings we can – it was after 12 before I got back – asked Booth in to have beer and bread before going to Dobsons’ to order more ashler for pentrough – sometime with A- out again about 1 – at the hay barn Thomas Pearson’s cart filling up the low end with scale from the old slip in pit and bringing stone from between wood and sour Ing to wall up for hay barn floor to rest on – about (before) 12 John B- come to tell Mrs. Henry Priestley and Miss Larkham had called – very civil to them – Mrs. HP- asked if anything remained of the hall – shewed them over the house and cellars – they had walked from the Lodge and the carriage followed them sometime afterwards and returned to the Lodge while I walked with the 2 ladies to the haybarn and thro’ the paddock into the Godley road – asked Mrs. HP- to come and spend a day with us – she will come next summer – both A- and I very civil –s aw them in their  carriage (Mr. Edwards’ carriage) at 2 ¾ then a little while at the hay barn – the stack got up ½ height [?] last night – asked Mark Hepworth (the stacker) to get me a cart horse to job about for 2 or 3 months to come – he said Sugden had given £30 or less a piece for the 2 bay horses – Mark would get to know what he really did give – from about 3 ¼ to 7 with Robert Mann + 5 at the new pool – or rather set Mr. Gray squaring and setting out the lines of terrace, and set the men regularly to work – I really must be with them all the day, or I see little will be done – they  had got more bilberry sods, and placed them, and planted fox gloves, and monkey plant and Coll myrtle in full flower to shew the effect of colour along the new pool and the one immediately beneath and had been repuddling at the foot of the Sam stone – came in at 7 5 – dinner at 7 25 out with Mr. Gray at 8 ½ the men all gone – would stay till 8 ¼ - A- sent for us to witness the signing of Bairstow’s lease of water Lane mill – Messrs. B- Tetley and Cunliffe come – B- objected to pay the insurance – A- rather pothered – I thought she ought to insure the building for £700 or £800 and the wheel and going geer for £150 – I had told Cunliffe the radical he ought to give us a split vote for Wortley, and the other should plump for Wood – but finding B- awkward about signing , I quietly said A- did not care whether they signed or not, and I wanted he to go out and she had best leave them – so out we all went for ½ hour at the end of which time George came to say, as he had done on our going out (when we had desired him to tell them they must wait) that they would sign, on which we (A- and I and Mr. Gray) went to them in the upper kitchen (at 9 40) and Mr. Gray and I witnessed their all signing the lease, and I witnessed A-s’ signed the copy of the lease written by herself which B- and co. took away with them – the water Lane mill lease signed term 8 years dated by me 31 January last – then at 10 coffee – Letter charged as weighing one oz. from the office of Messrs. Gray solicitors York (in Mr. Watsons’ handwriting?) containing the account of interest due from A- and myself  the 15th instant and containing the deposition respecting Eliza Raines’ will by Mrs. Duffin and Mr. Jonathan Gray himself but not containing that stated to have been given by Mrs. Belcombe senior – came upstairs at 10 ½ at which hour F55° - fine day tho’ rather gloomy – about 3 10 came a man from Mr. John Dearden junior the chair-man of the country election committee with the subscription book to defray the election expense of Mr. John Stuart Wortley – too much to pay expense of the 2 brothers borough and country – 4 names down Messrs. John Derden, Waterhouse, Rawson (Christopher) and Holmes (Thomas) for £20 each – I put my name down for £10

[queen-erika-the-songful]

TELL ME YOUR ISLA HEADCANONS I want to fall in love with her!!!

Here’s a few I can remember off the top of my head (I’m exhausted from this week LOL):

She’s 17, almost 18

Post-movie she considers herself WLW but also questioning. She hadn’t really had any crushes until Barbie, so she lets herself explore her feelings and attractions.

When she discovers other kinds of bread, she starts trying a new one like every other week. She really likes hot dinner rolls, melonpan, and soft breadsticks.

Her pink hair is natural - because, you know, ~mermaid magic~

Her main human outfit is a hoodie because she first picked it out as a way to conceal her face and keep her head low, but she doesn’t wear it in the movie just because she didn’t think about it. Freeing Emerald was her first priority and it just slipped her mind.

She still distrusts humans, but not as much as before she met Barbie and co. She doesn’t want to let her guard down too much but is a lot more open to interacting with them and even making friends.

Even though she had to interact with humans many times before meeting Barbie, she had never experienced things like beds or bread or toothbrushes because the most she did was gather intel, obtain human clothes to disguise herself, or to buy seafood if she and the Dolphins were having trouble finding food themselves

The “intel” she gathered was stuff like making sure no one knew about her or the Dolphins, tracking down things about Gemstone Dolphins, seeing if anyone had info on mermaids/mermaid sightings, etc.

The reason she is so distrusting of humans is because they are the reason she lost her mother. They were attacked by some fishermen and her mom was captured and taken away (this was only a few years prior to the movie). Her mother is actually alive, but Isla doesn’t know that during the timeframe of the movie. Once they were separated, Isla had to fend for herself because her mother was the only (known) family she had. Plus, when they got separated Isla became lost from the place they were living anyway. Thankfully, Isla still had her magic necklace, so she was able to still transform from legs to tail at will so she could blend into human society when necessary.

She met the Gemstone Dolphins a little after her mother was captured. Like her, they were alone in the world and scared. They had separated from their pod and couldn’t find them. Isla didn’t really find them, more like they found her. She was sheltering in a hidden cove a few miles from a beach town when they found her. She formed a pact with the Dolphins out of survival, but it quickly blossomed into a friendship. When the Gemstone Dolphins were almost captured by some scientists (similar to what happens in Dolphin Magic), Isla realized that she couldn’t lose them and after they all managed to get away she admitted that she had come to love them like family. 

They have seen other mermaids, even lodged with a few on their journey, but Isla always put the needs of the Dolphins first, and refused to stay behind or be separated from them.

Marlo’s research facility is actually right around where the Dolphins’ pod is supposed to be, which is why they are a legend to the locals and why they were around the area to begin with. Isla was helping them search for their pod before Emerald was kidnapped.

That’s all I can remember right now but I’d be happy to answer asks about her!

[wrctings]

Dick Winters x reader | The best way to recover

for all of my fellow soft dick winters stans 🧡

“Is being mess officer that horrible?” Nixon asked lightly, trying to get a smile out of his friend as he made his way through the kitchen, avoiding army cooks to join Winters.

As usual, the clinking melody of cutlery knocking together was reverberating through the room, bouncing off the walls and mingling with the voices of the men whom avidly scraped their ration of food off their plates, which had somehow led the atmosphere of dinnertime to become congenial over months. After the long hours of draining, at first even almost unbearable preparation that they endured daily, the soldiers of the 506th had started to form a bond that not only got them through the toughest of training sessions, but also manifested whenever they were bestowed a bit of free time. In between running to exhaustion, teasing and munching on flavourless beans together, camaraderie was growing day after day among Easy Company.

“I’d rather not be here right now,” Dick replied shortly, only giving the brunet officer a brief glance before his eyes drifted back toward the window pane. As a Lieutenant, the redhead was accustomed to watching over his men with care, even moved as he witness their efforts bear fruit and theirs friendships grow tighter, but on that evening his thoughts and attention were directed toward something else — someone else, rather. As the pouring rain drummed outside, accounting for the definite arrival of Autumn’s brisk weather and carpets of brown leaves, what Dick would have otherwise considered appeasing had now become the cause of his worry, distracting his diligence from the task that Sobel had given him when he designated him mess officer. 

“Dick, what’s happening?” Lewis frowned, sensing that the other man’s tone smacked of particular concern — he could tell that something was off by the hardened look on Winters’s face, the officer pacing up and down without truly acknowledging what was happening all around. 

“Sobel made Y/n run Currahee right before dinner. Guarnere and Toye went with them, but they’re not back yet.” 

“Shit, it’s pouring out there,” Nixon cursed under his breath, shaking his head at the news. He now understood his friend’s state of mind much better, knowing how much you meant to him. “How long?”

“Twenty minutes. They should be back soon,” Winters’s gaze was shifting from the window to the door, the man intensely hoping that you and your two companions in misfortune would finally show up at last. 

“They’ll be okay,” Nixon put a hand over Dick’s shoulder, giving him a few comforting pats. “They’ve run that mountain dozens of times.” 

“I know, Nix, but have you seen the weather? We don’t need soldiers falling ill now,” Winters added roughly, in sharp contrast with the composure of his usual behaviour. 

“Dick, Y/n is a good soldier,” Nixon spoke in a quieter voice, understanding that Dick was most of all worried about your well-being. “And they’re with Guarnere and Toye, the three of them can help each other out.” 

“Yeah.” The redhead eventually nodded, turning around to get a glimpse at the other officer. “Why did he made them run the forsaken mountain now...,” he muttered, jaw clenching as his eyes narrowed. 

Lewis’s lips parted, the man about to agree on the deplorable nature of Sobel’s methods, but before he had time to lash out at their Commending Officer the door finally swung open and ricocheted off the wall, revealing three panting figures. Soaked to the bone, Bill, Joe and you stepped inside, getting your helmets off as you took in the warmth of the room, shivering in your drenched gear. 

Soldiers cheered as you walked up to the kitchen, giving you pats on the back and congratulating you for getting through the task, to which Joe was bitterly swearing that he would “always hate that son of b*tch” and Bill grunted by your side, sharing your exhaustion. You couldn’t have been more grateful for your friends’ presence, Guarnere and Toye following you in solidarity after Sobel had commanded that you run Currahee, but you didn’t feel like you had enough remaining strength to join Toye in his breathless attacks against your CO. All you could strive for at that moment were a hot meal and a place to collapse in, your legs threatening to cave in with every additional step — while braving the downpour your equipment had felt heavier than ever, painfully weighing down on you for miles. 

When he saw you come in Dick’s first instinct was to rush up to you, attempting to help out best he could, but the interdiction to surrender his post in the kitchen left the ginger-haired man no choice but to helplessly watch you get a plate of beans and bread, then taking a seat alongside Toye and Guarnere with your uniform wet and hair sticking to your skin as you took a hasty mouthful of food. You hardly payed attention to anything around you, trying to stop yourself from shaking while filling your empty stomach with the lukewarm beans that you had been served, feeling Bill also quiver beside you.

The time to depart came after you had just finished eating, the company being ordered out of the canteen. Rushing out as fast as possible to find shelter without getting sodden in the rain, the men rapidly emptied the room, leaving no one but Dick, Nixon and the cooks behind; the First Lieutenant still having to face their CO before he was free to go, Lewis disappeared just in time for Lt. Sobel to march up to Winters, requiring his daily report. In the meantime, you headed back to the barracks, eager to get a change of clothes and finally be able to have a break — after this evening, you couldn’t wait to tumble upon your bed, your sore muscles sending you clear signals that they demanded to rest. 

However, an unexpected visit awaited you a short while later. As you were carried forward amidst the flood of soldiers — everybody willing to take refuge from the icy droplets of rain piercing their skin with coldness —, you caught a glimpse of a figure coming toward you from the side, making way among the company. Soon enough, the blurred lines turned into a familiar shape, then becoming clearer as the man got closer to you, and in a few seconds Lt. Winters stood at the side of the crowd you were part of. His dark green iris fixed upon you, he made a small movement of the head when you met his gaze, as though asking if you could join him. After quickly looking around to be certain that your retreat wouldn’t be noticed, you slowed down, letting men overtake you, and stepped to the side until you found yourself close enough to Dick.

You strode away from the barracks without a word, but you rapidly recognised the direction you were taking — it wasn’t long until you reached the officers’ lodgings, the building’s outline illuminated by a beam of light flickering through the windows. Opening the door, Dick let you in first before closing it behind the two of you, making sure that no one had seen you leave together; Nixon and Harry were visibly missing as well, probably enjoying a game of cards in the headquarters.

The redhead immediately went to his footlocker afterwards, not even bothering to take his side cap off as he rummaged through the piece of furniture, and only spoke after he handed you the blanket which he had retrieved. You took it gratefully, teeth still chattering in spite of the warmer temperature of the room.

“How are you? I learnt that Sobel sent you off after you had already left...” he let you know apologetically, helping you unbutton your wet uniform.

“Cold,” you gave him an honest answer, resting the blanket on the bed nearby while starting to get your soaked clothes off. “But Bill and Joe made it a lot easier.”

“Still, ordering you to run Currahee by yourself in that weather..” Dick harsh voice however broke off as he was about to enlarge upon his disapproval of Sobel, deciding at the last moment that it wasn’t worth it — he would much rather focus on you.

Kneeling, he unlaced your boots, your own fingers being too numb to get a firm grip on the shoelaces, and went back to his footlocker while you took off the shirt that you were wearing under your uniform; it hadn’t been spared from the rain, unpleasantly clinging onto your body and sending chills down your skin. Dick then handed you the sweater, trousers and socks that he had taken out while politely looking away — which you always found irresistibly sweet since you were in relationship and had been intimate before —, leaving you all the needed time to change into dry clothes. Only when you were done did he finally came close to you again, the worry that had been painted over his face slightly alleviated now that you were safely shut away from the rain and cold.

“Is it better now?” Winters inquired caringly, his heart swelling as he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of you in his clothes, fitting too big for your smaller frame. It was as though he had given you a real part of him, aside from the discreet kisses and affectionate words that you had to find a way to exchange throughout the day.

Dick greatly admired your strength — the way you held your head up, kept your spirits firmly focused even though your first months in the army had been rough since you had to constantly prove your worth to the men —, but the intimacy that had developed between the two of you allowed him to see another side of you, just like you could access another side of him. With you, he was not afraid to be himself — he was not afraid to care, because you cared too, and understood. And you were not afraid to let your guard down — to let him help you, just like you also helped him.

“It’s so much better. Thank you, Dick.” You gave the redhead a touched smiled, deeply grateful for the trouble he put himself into just to make you feel better. “Hey, you haven’t even taken the time to take care of yourself,” you then added in soft indignation, it being your turn to look after him. You reached for his side cap, cautious not to wrinkle it, and folded it neatly while Dick took off his jacket.

The Lieutenant ran a hand through his hair, quickly fixing it, and gave you a smile that revealed the creases happiness shaped around his eyes. Although you ought not to be seen inside the officiers’ barracks, such an intrusion being formally forbidden, for once Dick couldn’t have payed less attention to the rules — if risk was the price to pay for spending time with you, he would assume it.

“You must be tired, I’m sorry if I’m cutting your hours of sleep shorter,” Winters still apologised, getting up to hang your wet uniform so it dries out overnight. “I didn’t want to let you go like that.” He sat back down, taking your cold hands into his, warming them up. “I’ve missed you.”

“Me too, Dick,” you squeezed his fingers, a strong, fuzzy feeling coating the inside your chest while you were peering into the man’s eyes, their pale greenness reminding you of everything safe and loving. At the end of the day, after bullets had miraculously flown by and spared your life, Winters was always whom you came back to — though so far away from home, you had found something in him that couldn’t be immured between four walls. 

“Come here,” the redhead added, gently inviting you into his embrace as he opened his arms, and you ensconced yourself right up against him, pecking his lips tenderly before you rested your head against his chest. In spite of the barrier of cloth that the Lieutenant’s uniform represented, you could hear the beating of Dick’s heart, each of its pulsions holding onto the frail life that you all tried to preserve from the brutal grasp of death. You tried to keep the thought of it away from your mind as much as possible, standing by the same principles as the ginger-haired officer. In the field, you didn’t have time to mourn; and outside of it, time was too precious to attempt predicting the breath that the following day would suck out out of one of your fellow soldiers. Although the both of you had at first tried to fight it, thinking ahead about what devastating consequences falling in love would bring be one of you killed in combat, you couldn’t have come as far as you had without each other. Even the most violent of human struggles hadn’t managed to turn your heart into the same steel that made up your bayonets. 

“Aren’t Nixon and Harry going to come back?” you whispered regretfully, your fingers mindlessly running through the slightly damp hair at the back of Dick’s head.

“I asked them to wait for a bit.” Winters gave you an implicit answer followed by a little smile, stroking your forearms as he kissed you on the cheek. “They’re busy playing games and gambling anyway.”

“I see,” you smiled back, closing your eyes as you let yourself go all against Dick, the regular rising of his torso lulling you as you felt much warmer, your preceding running of Currahee now already seeming like a distant memory. 

It was in each other’s arms that the two of you eventually dozed off, soothed by the fluttering rhythm of the rain pounding against the windows of the barracks and the cosiness that enfolded you, making you hope for many more evenings like this. Even on the chilliest and most straining of days, the space between Dick Winters’s arms was a place for your heart to rest in. 

[teamhook]

|AO3|

|FFN|

I want to thank @captainswanmoviemarathon and Discord. My co-writer @revanmeetra87

I want to also thank @ultraluckycatnd for Beta-ing thiis thing for us.

Thursday

Jefferson's broken leg was on a sling. His arm was in a cast. He wasn't in the best condition but he knew if he didn't get Killian back home he would be worse off. He would disappear. The TV kept reminding him that he needed to get out of the hospital ASAP. There were reports the elevators had either stopped working completely or malfunctioning. He had firsthand experience that is why he is in a hospital bed and not at home preparing his Nobel Prize speech. He had tried to charm the nurse to let him leave the hospital but failed miserably. Nurse Ratched told him he had to be released by Doctor Hyde. Jefferson didn't realize that she had come in to check on him earlier and overheard his entire conversation with Emma. She was concerned that he was crazy and suicidal.

Emma was getting ready for her day at work. The sudden ring of the fire alarm startled her. She could hear her neighbors yelling and Cat's frantic barks. She decided to check it out.

Killian had attempted to make breakfast and chaos had erupted, the fire alarm blared, smoke filled the apartment. Cat's barking got louder. As Emma entered she yelled, "Cat shut up!" She turned off the alarm, and opened the window to air out the apartment.

Killian glared. "That thing is a bloody hazard."

"It's just a toaster!" She glared back at Killian.

"That thing does not produce toast! One insertion only produces warm bread and two insertions produce charcoal!" he yelled.

Emma rolled her eyes, this man was a drama queen. "It's just a toaster." She repeats annoyedly.

Killian was pacing back and forth ranting, "You would think that when the General of Electric built the bloody thing he would test it, for him to take pride in his creations instead of just foisting them on the public without warning!"

"You know what, no one cares if they have to insert the toast twice. You know why? Because we all insert it twice!"

He took a step forward, he looked like a hunter going after its prey. He didn't stop until they were toe to toe. "Not where I come from!"

For a second Emma felt a rush, then she squared her shoulders. "Oh no, of course not because where you come from, toast is the result of reflection and study."

"Aye, you mock me, but perhaps one day, when you're awoken from a pleasurable slumber to the scent of a warm brioche smothered in marmalade and fresh creamery butter you'll understand that life is not solely comprised of tasks, but tastes."

Emma's smile widened. "Say that again."

Killian was baffled at her sudden change in demeanor. "Pardon me?"

"Nevermind, you'll be perfect." She looked him up and down. "Good, you're dressed. Come on, you're coming with me."

Killian followed her without question.

Emma and Killian arrived at her work, but not without some stares directed at Killian's wardrobe.

Emma had called Mary Margaret to meet them at the door. Just as requested, Mary Margaret was waiting for them. She greeted them as soon as they walked inside. "Emma, we've been waiting for you. We had-" She looked at the list, "five read so far-"

Emma shook her head. "Mary Margaret, meet Killian. Please take him to the greenroom; I want him to read." Mary Margaret smiled at Killian and nodded.

"Killian, this is Mary Margaret. Go with her and she will explain everything."

Killian and Mary Margaret disappeared down the hall.

Emma walked to the control room. Her boss was chatting up the client, so she went over to the monitors. There were women smiling and batting their lashes as they gazed into the screen with Killian on it.

The client, Mr. Spencer, was frustrated and finally said, "Walsh, I don't have time for this."

Emma responded, "Mr. Spencer, let's look at this last one."

Walsh Oz shakes his head. "Emma, the client said he wants to stop."

"Walsh, trust me, this is the one," Emma said with confidence.

"What is he wearing?" Walsh scrunched up his nose. "He looks like the Quaker Oats guy."

"Well, it doesn't really matter what you think. What really matters is what the ladies think. They love him. To them he is a dream. He's honest, courteous, handsome; a true gentleman. He stands up when you walk in a room. He brings you brioche in bed. If you eat his margarine, maybe your hips will shrink."

In the greenroom, Killian fidgeted under the scrutiny of the director's eyes.

"Mr. Duke, do you see that mark on the floor?"

Killian nodded.

"You need to stand on that tape line," the director said. "Okay, everyone quiet! And action!"

Killian stayed quiet with the rest of the room.

The director stared at him and rolled his eyes. "Mr. Duke, this is the part when you start talking."

Killian turned his gaze to the monitor and with a raised eyebrow, his blue eyes twinkled under the light. "Fresh creamery butter. Is there anything more comforting? I say there is. You'll agree once you sample fat-free Farmer's Bounty with the genuine essence of creamery butter in every bite. You shall receive butter's splendid flavour in your mouth without adding to the luxury of your waistline."

Mr. Spencer laughed boisterously. "Where do I sign?"

Walsh leaned in to whisper in Emma's ear. "Where did you find him?"

Emma took a step away. "Oh, he lives in my building."

Killian waited patiently by the door while Emma gave Mary Margaret some last minute instructions.

Walsh Oz walked out of the stairwell. He smirked as he noticed Emma was still in the building. "What's the deal with the elevators?" he asked no one in particular. He slowly approached her from behind, and smelled her hair. She stiffened. "Emma, we have so much to discuss over dinner tonight."

Oh yeah, Emma though. I'd forgotten about that. She tried to smile. "Yes, we do. I look forward to it."

Killian's jaw clenched at the display of power abuse and the obvious discomfort it caused Emma. Walsh grinned as Emma walked up to Killian so they could leave. "Nice job, Mr. Margarine," Walsh said as the glass doors closed behind them.

Once they're outside, Emma turned to Killian with a bright smile. She started dancing.

Amused, Killian smiled. "You look pleased."

"Killian, you did an amazing job in there! You are going to be famous!"

Killian simply smiled. "I take it you're dining with that man this evening?"

Emma's smile disappeared. "Yes, he's my boss, Walsh."

"Do you require a chaperone? His intentions are obvious," Killian asked.

"I'm alone with you, do I need a chaperone?" Emma rolled her eyes.

"Emma, we're not courting but if we were, as a man of honor, I would inform you of my intentions in writing."

"I don't need saving. No one saves me but me. Don't worry about it," Emma said, slightly annoyed.

Emma walked in front of him. Killian could tell she was miffed at him, so he kept a small distance from her. A horse carriage caught his eye. He patted the horse and turned to Emma. "How about we take one of these?"

She shook her head no. "Those are for tourists."

Killian smiled at the kind old man. "I'm sorry sir, she's not interested."

The man kindly grinned back. "No worries."

Emma raised her hand, and Killian watched her until one of the powered carriages - cars, he remembered - screeched to a halt at their side. It is bright yellow with some black trim, just like the one they used as transport earlier, but it appeared to have a different coachman.

"All right," Emma said as she opened the car door, "We're probably going to need a bank account number and possibly a birth certificate from you before we start filming. Legality and all. So if you could just drop the 'back in time' act for a few minutes and track them down for m-"

From behind them, a man in a billed cap darted forward and jerked Emma's reticule from her hands, then rushed across the street.

"Hey!" Emma shouted, enraged. "That's my purse!"

Emma took flight after the scumbag thief. "Hey asshole! That's my bag! I'm gonna get you, you ass!" She chased after him while wearing the most uncomfortable shoes. He was fast, but she was not about to give up.

She stopped for a brief second to catch her breath. She doesn't want to lose him and was about to restart her chase once more when she heard galloping hooves which confused her. She then heard her name being called out. That's when she noticed him. It was Killian riding a horse and he was fast approaching her.

"Emma, give me your hand," Killian instructed once he reached her.

She gave him her hand and he easily pulled her on the horse as they broke into full gallop in pursuit of the thief.

Emma held on to Killian tight as he maneuvered the animal. The chase didn't last long. They cornered the lowlife rapidly. "I warn you, scoundrel. You stand no chance. When you run, I shall ride and when you stop, the steel of this strap will be lodged in your brain."

The thief had nowhere to run so he just threw the purse on the ground and took flight. A sudden onslaught of cheering and applause erupted from their previously unknown audience. Killian unmounted to retrieve the purse. Emma simply stared at him as she tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.

Soon enough, they find themselves back at the corner where the chase began. Killian hooked the horse back up to the carriage as the older man smiled at Emma. "Your boyfriend is a great rider."

Emma smiled. "Yes, he is."

On the ride home, they sat quietly in the carriage.

"Are you for real?" Emma asked.

"Pardon?" Killian responded with a raised brow.

"You're a Duke?" Emma asked.

"I was born a Duke, but I never felt like one," Killian smiled.

Back at the apartment, Emma was getting ready for her dinner with Walsh. She noticed the interactions between Cat and Killian.

Cat was eagerly waiting for her next command from Killian with a wagging tail.

"Stay...Sit. On your feet… Stay… Stay… Good girl," Killian said with a triumphant smile.

Emma can't help as her eyes drifted to Killian. He was a good looking man after all and she wasn't blind. He was distracting, but she had to focus. Dinner equals promotion.

"What are you guys doing tonight?" Emma asked.

David's attention was glued to the game on TV and he mumbled under his breath, "we might meet up with some of my friends."

"Alright, I'm off to dinner then," Emma said.

"Emma, please reconsider my offer to chaperone," Killian begged.

Emma rolled her eyes. "I can take care of myself."

"David, don't you think it's inappropriate-" Killian asked as he helped Emma put on her coat.

"As her brother, I would think my sister would invite me to an audition," David said, outraged.

Emma sighed. "David, you're not exactly margarine material. I'm sorry."

"What!? I can't sell butter? Emma, I'm a great actor. I can sell butter! It's insulting that my own sister has no faith in me."

"Yes, David you are an amazing actor but-"

"Is it the accent? I can do British, Emma. Hell I can be anyone." David continued ranting as Emma turned to Killian. "Good night." She opened the door and lingered for a second before walking away.

Killian gazed after her with a small smile.

Emma and Walsh are seated and he ordered some drinks for them.

After the waiter left, his attention turned to her. "Emma, I have to admit I was nervous for you. When your friend walked in wearing that outfit, saying 'if you eat this margarine your hips will shrink'," Walsh laughed.

Emma smiled. "I was just doing my job."

"He is going to be bigger than Mr. Whipple. You're not sleeping with him are you?" he asked.

"No." She shook her head, yet at the tip of her tongue was a comment about it not being his business. Sometimes she had to remind herself to play nice.

Killian and David decided to go out and meet some friends. "Hey guys, this is Killian," David announced.

Killian smiled as he greeted everyone.

His companions were enthralled by his voice as Killian made a comment about how the best things in life are hidden in the basement of the Louvre.

David excused himself to go to the bar and get drinks where he bumped into a dressed up Mary Margaret out for a girls night out.

Killian noticed the interaction and David's obvious attempt at flirting. so he excused himself to get a closer look. Before he could get closer, though, the connection had been cut short and they returned to their respective parties. Killian stopped Mary Margaret to greet her as David caught their exchange on his way back to the table with the drinks.

Before anyone was aware of it, the evening came to its inevitable end. Killian and David were walking home and David stopped walking. Killian turned to him to see what the problem was as David started talking in a mocking voice...

"Please, allow me to assist you, Abigail."

"Oh, please, allow me to light that for you, Merida."

"What's this? Ah, this is my family crest. It has been in the family for generations."

"What do they have in the basement of the Louvre? The works of Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Chardin, David all surrounded by great coral sponges to absorb the moisture."

Killian was confused by his friend's behavior.

"Not all women are going to swoon over your-" David pointed up and down Killian's form.

Killian studied his friend, trying to understand David's point.

"I was going to get her number but-"

"I believe this is her number," Killian said as he handed his friend the paper. "Mary Margaret has no inkling of your affections. You are a Merry Andrew. Women respond to sincerity. This requires pulling one's tongue from one's cheek. No one wants to be romanced by a baboon. Here's her number and give her a call tomorrow. It's late now and Emma should be home by now."

"Wait, you like her." Realization dawned on David's face. "You really like my sister!"

"David, that's nonsense. You're intoxicated," Killian said as he scratched behind his ear.

"Now who's the Merry-Andrew? You know, Emma is having dinner not long from here. We should go and you can show me the proper way to make a move."

Killian sighed. "Not a move David, an overture. Make your intentions known. Think of pleasing her, not vexing her."

"Fine, no vexing. Come on let's go." David smiled as he pulled Killian in the direction of the restaurant.

Emma cleared her throat. "I have to confess I'm a bit confused. When you mentioned dinner, I was under the impression that we were here to discuss business, a possible promotion even." She sighed. "Dinner is winding down and we have yet to discuss those things. We've talked about your love of La Boheme, and the lovely place you purchased in Sussex."

Walsh gave her his best attempt at a seductive smile. "I don't believe I've ever seen you this flustered Emma, and you haven't even kissed me yet."

Emma fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Right. I like you, Walsh, I do. But I think you would agree that a working relationship- a successful working relationship, requires-"

"Hello, Emma!" David's cheery voice interrupted. "We found you."

Jumping in her seat, Emma turned to see her brother suddenly hovering beside the table. "David?" she asked in disbelief.

"We wanted to say hi," David explained, then proceeded to introduce himself to her boss.

"We?" Emma thought, before realizing Killian was standing at her side.

"Emma," he said in a low, earnest voice as his eyes searched hers. "May I speak to you in private?"

Her mouth fell open. "Seriously? No!"

But Walsh was already inviting the two to pull up seats and join them.

"Where, exactly, did you say it is?" Killian asked Walsh with a cocked eyebrow.

"Sussex, near Ballmour," Walsh said with offhanded superiority.

"Built in the 18th century?" Killian reiterated Walsh's earlier words.

"Early 18th century," Walsh emphasized, with a look at Emma. Killian could almost see the man puffing out his chest with pride. "I have pictures to prove it."

"Well," Killian said, thinking of the empty, rolling green and scattered trees of the area as he knew it. "I do believe you were swindled. I can assure you, as of the late 19th century, there is nothing in the area but farmland."

"You're mistaken," Walsh said immediately. "That's not possible."

Emma quickly jumped in. "He's right; you may be mistaken, Killian!" she hissed. "You don't know-"

Irritation rising due to the fact she was defending the cretin who was so obviously looking to take advantage of her, Killian snapped back. "I was raised there, I do know."

Clearing his throat to break up the discussion, Walsh changed the subject. "Killian, do you enjoy opera?"

Still stinging from Emma's words, Killian plastered a smile on his face. "Oh, indeed. Do you have a favorite?"

Raising his eyes to the ceiling, as if thinking deeply, Walsh finally said, "Boheme. La Boheme. I've seen it 12 times. That's...that is how I learned to speak French."

From the corner of his eye, Killian could see Emma's eyes widen with surprise. Clearly she was impressed, or pretending to be.

Now the irritation grew to ire, and Killian could feel it gnawing at him. He knew he should just let it go, but suddenly he heard himself making a statement in French.

Emma looked to Walsh. "What did he say?"

As Killian had expected, Walsh was sitting there dumbstruck, only managing to croak out a small scoffing noise.

Killian translated the phrase, explaining it was the opening words to Boheme - a duet.

Still slightly stunned, Walsh managed to jump back in and tell the table that Andre sang it to Mimi.

Unable to believe what he was hearing, Killian laughed softly. "Andre?"

Now recovering, Walsh lifted his head. "Yes, I invited Emma to the Met to see it. But she turned me down! Can you believe that, Killian?"

Voice tight, Killian said, "True, it should not be missed by anyone. But perhaps Emma resists on moral grounds."

Emma groaned softly, lowering her head into her hands.

Walsh narrowed his eyes. "How so?"

"Let's get the check!" Emma said hastily, but nobody answered her.

"Well," Killian said, staring at Walsh challengingly, "some feel that to court a woman in one's employ is nothing but a serpentine effort to make a lady fall from grace."

Silence fell over the table, though David was trying to hide his grin.

Finally, Walsh said stiffly, "This guy is charming, Emma. The Duke of Margarine thinks I'm a serpent."

"No, not a serpent," Killian corrected. "Merely a braggart and cad, who knows less French than I, if that is possible." Pushing back his seat, Killian rose and collected his jacket. "And by the way, there is no Andre in Boheme. It's Rodolfo. And though it takes place in France, it is rarely played in French as it is written in Italian. Good night."

Knowing he had made himself a fool, and facing the possibility that Emma would never speak to him again, Killian still turned on his heel and stalked out of the restaurant.

Back at the apartment, Killian and David waited for Emma's return. At the click of the door's lock unlocking, Killian rushed to the door.

Emma opened the door and breezed in, ignoring Killian's plea for a word.

Tag List:

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[soyforramen]

Betty Cooper + Teen Witch please!

Anon, this has taken me an embarrassingly long time, but here we are:

Betty Cooper bit her lip as the figures in the house across from her leaned towards each other, their flirting as clear as any neon sign.  This wasn’t how she was supposed to spend her sixteenth birthday.  She was supposed to be the one in that room, laughing and flirting with Archie, all the while waiting for him to kiss her.  Instead, she was sitting alone in her dark room and wistfully thinking about the boy who didn’t want her.

Polly had warned her that love spells didn’t work, but Betty made sure she hadn’t used a love spell.  She’d used a persuasion charm and a dream potion, both meant to make Archie see what they could be, if only he’d give it a chance.  Except, instead of noticing Betty, his lifelong best friend, the one who’d been there for him through his thick head and her thin patience, Archie had fallen for Veronica Lodge, the rich socialite who’s every move was infused with sophistication and seduction.  

With a groan Betty threw herself back onto her bed.  She picked up a pillow and covered her head to scream in frustration.  Frustration that she hadn’t proved she was a real witch like Polly and their mother; frustration that she’d failed at becoming the one thing she’d always wanted, Archie’s girlfriend, before her birthday; and worst of all, frustration that she didn’t even know if she wanted to him anymore.  

A knock came from the window and Betty ignored it.  Probably just another one of Polly’s suitors, clamoring for her attention despite her heart already belonging to another.  Pretty, perfect Polly.  The all-American girl next door.  Perfect grades, perfect hair, and perfect spell work.   Though Betty still adored her older sister, it was annoying how easily things came to Polly and Chic.  Both slipped gracefully into the realm of popularity, neither breaking a sweat in their pursuit of adulthood.  Chic was the captain of the football team and the editor of The Blue & Gold when he was a sophomore on top of his laundry list of extracurriculars.  And Polly had naturally become the co-head of the J.V. Cheer squad, organized a coat drive for the homeless, chaired the dance committee, and successfully protested for adoption of organic, cruelty free lunches by the time her freshman finals had come around.  

All Betty had managed during her two years at Riverdale High was maintain the moniker ‘Queen of the Nerds’ for pacing Dilton Doiley in rank and get politely rejected for all extracurriculars except for the school paper (and even then she’d only been allowed in as a legacy recruit).  Her turn in shop had ended just as quickly when the older boys found out she could clean a carburetor and fix a flat quicker than any of them cared to try.  Heck, even the marching band, always ravenous for new blood, kicked her out after she’d staged a one-woman protest over the sexist and archaic twirler uniforms were.  (Upon further reflection, brought upon by a long weekend detention for interrupting the Homecoming performance, Betty realized her expulsion from the wind section might have more to do with her protestations about the choice of music for that year.  Classic Horror Reimagined might have been all well and good for NYSFBC competitions, but she hadn’t been able to find it in herself to not speak up about the music choices from The Reflecting and Cardamom’s Baby, both directed by, and paying royalties to, truly awful directors.  It seemed Riverdale’s band director was not ready for a more enlightened view of women in film and thus Betty had been regulated to spending the rest of the semester in study hall.)

The knock came again and Betty rolled over.  Let Polly’s beaus wait.  It was as if they cared about Betty’s birthday, so why should she care about their heartache?

“Betts,” came a muffled voice.  “Let me in, will you?  I’m about to fall off this ladder.”

At the sound of her name, she sat up and peered out the window.  The top of Jughead’s grey beanie, a sight for sore eyes at all times, but especially now, stared back at her.  Betty rushed to the window and opened it.  Jughead shoved a greasy Pop’s bag and cup towards her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked as he pulled himself through the window.

He shrugged and turned on the table lamp by her bed.  The soft, warm glow cast long shadows through the room, its reflection against the window blocking Archie and Veronica from her view.  Jughead jerked his head towards the Andrews’ house and sat down on the window seat.

“Archie  had plans tonight, and you’d mentioned your parents had a thing.  So.”  Jughead gestured towards the bag in her hands.   “I probably should have brought a slice of pie or cake or something.”

Her heart fluttered into her throat and if it weren’t for the melted milkshake in her hand, Betty would have thrown her arms around him.  And, maybe, if she thought a little less and acted a little more, she might have even tried to kiss him.  He shifted in the seat and stared around the room as if it were the first time he’d been there.  A ridiculous thought considering how many times he’d climbed through her window since they were old enough to know what a ladder was.  Despite his familiarity with the room, Betty felt a surprising, sudden urge to hide all her stuffed animals and childhood trinkets under the bed.  

Instead, she cleared her throat.

“This is perfect, Jug.  But what about you?  Won’t you be hungry?”

He grinned, that sheepish, boyish charm of his that lit up his sleepy face.  Her heart thumped painfully at the sight of it.  Not for the first time, Betty wondered why she’d never noticed just how nice of a smile he had?  

“I ate mine on the way over.  And I might have stolen a few onion rings.”

“There’s that famous Jones’ appetite,” Betty laughed.

She sat down on the floor and pulled the paper container of onion rings out.  When he didn’t move from the window, Betty patted the carpet next to her in invitation.  Jughead stood slowly, his movements jerky and uncertain.  Whether he was wary of her, or of the chance that Archie might see them together, was unknown.  But when she pick up the milkshake, now nothing more than thick strawberry milk, his eyes flicked to her lips then ran away to stare at the pastel pink wallpaper.

“How’s the witchcraft going?  Turn anybody into frogs lately?”

Betty shrugged and picked at an onion ring.  Jughead had been the only one she’d told about her heritage.  Despite his inherent skepticism, he was the only one she felt she could trust.  

“Slowly.  Mom wants me to memorize the basics first, but Polly’s been showing me a few things.”

Ever the skeptic in need of tangible proof, Jughead raised an eye in challenge.  Betty shot him a grin and pulled the burger out of the bag.  While she unwrapped it her lips moved wordlessly, the strange form of the spell coming to the front of her mind.  As they watched, steam rose from the burger as it slowly heated.  Jughead let out a low whistle and clapped.  Glib as it might have been, his approval was enough to draw a grin.  

“Finally, useful voodoo.”

Betty rolled her eyes and let out a huff.  She knew he was pushing her buttons, a childish attempt to draw her attention, but it had become a sort of game between them.

“Vodun is a religion, Juggie, and not at all like -“

She paused as a loud whistling cut through the air.  With a puff of air, the burger exploded, sending pieces of rye bread and vegetables all through the room.

“More practice, maybe?”  Jughead said softly.  

Betty worried at her lips, her mind racing to figure out what had gone so wrong.  She’d brought the words to her mind, and focused on shifting her power into them, and then…. did she close off the spell?  Or did she get so distracted by -

Her mind stalled as Jughead reached towards her.  Gently, he pulled something out of her hair and popped it into his mouth.  A few seconds too late, Betty realized it was a tomato.  

“What?” he said at her wince.  “Can’t waste good food.  What about your other project?  The one that doesn’t involve exploding burgers?”

Betty groaned and leaned back to lay down on the (thankfully still clean) carpet.  “You mean The Archie Project.”

Jughead nodded.  He moved a few pieces of bread out of the way, tossing those into the bag, and lay down next to her.  

“I’d name it Operation Ginger Theft, or Lonely Hearts Prevail.  The Archie Project sounds like some lame make-over reality show Kevin and Veronica are always going on about.”

Betty snorted at the image of a swarm of stylists descending upon Riverdale, intent on cleaning up the jocks.  “Or maybe Archie’s the one who gives you a make over.”

Jughead faked a shudder and she giggled.  “Armed with Hamburgercrombie & Fritch, way too much hair gel, and a daily bath in Old Sugar?  Hard pass.”

“You’re willing to give up the chance of a life time to let him and his talented team of bros -“

“Reggie and Moose?” he asked.

“Naturally.  And they come fully equipped to dudify -“

“Dudify?”

“Well, what else would you call it?”

Jughead thought about it while he stared at a piece of cheese on the ceiling.  Betty stared at him, transfixed on just how clear his skin seemed.  The realization that she’d never been this close to him, that he’d probably never let anyone come this close to him who wasn’t related to him, was grounding.  Skin like that had to be a miracle considering how much junk food he ate.  Not a single blemish to be seen.  Pity, too, that his eyelashes were that long and thick.  They covered up just how blue eyes were when he had them half-closed all the time.  No wonder Ethel spent middle school writing sonnets about -

“Masculinize?  Toxify?  Fraternize?” he asked, his drawl drawing her out of her trancelike observations.

“Maybe,” she said softly.

He turned towards her and his eyes met hers.  The stare between them went on far too long to be a look between friends.  Especially when his eyes flicked down to her lips and she couldn’t help but draw the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip.  Jughead cleared his throat, his eyes darting back to the ceiling.  

“I should have brought a cake.”

Betty sighed heavily at the reminder.  “At least you remembered it was today.”

Jughead pushed himself up on his elbow, confusion littered across his face.  “What do you mean?”

Not wanting to fall back into that particular pit of self-pity, she shrugged.  “Forget about it.  And as for The Archie Project -“

“Coming soon on RBC,” he deadpanned.  Despite the humor, Betty knew him well enough to note the tension in his jaw.  

“I think I’m giving up on him.”

Jughead’s eyes went wide and he stared at her.  

“Why?”

“It turns out Archie wasn’t really who I wanted.”

Betty chewed the inside of her mouth.  His half-lidded eyes were normally hard to read, but his sudden interest held intriguing lines of mystery.   She waited, as she always had, on Jughead.  He’d always been last to everything; the last to class, the last to wake, the last to notice when the winds of romance were changing.  Only this time, Betty hoped that for the first time, she’d been the last.

He swallowed, hard enough to be heard in the dark, quiet room.  

“Then who -“

Betty raised up on her arm and leaned forward slowly as if not to spook him.  She met his eyes and, finding the same heat that she felt, met his lips with her own.  

[musedblues]

Born To Love You [Part: 3]

summary: When Gwilym ropes you into a lie, the truth becomes painfully obvious. When Joe makes things harder, there's no telling if he even has a clue.

a/n: Forgive me for taking a while! Life has been properly wild. And I was taking my time with this story anyway, I really want each chapter to be special...  So I hope you lot dig this one! All the feedback and love continues to overflow my little old heart! 💖

w/c: 6k

Part 4

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If you got to have it your way, you'd avoid going on set and gladly greet Gwilym every night and odd day off. But if Gwilym wouldn't take no for an answer, you did your best to hide out in his trailer, avoid suspicion and keep your fake husband happy all the same. But because Gwilym had made such fast friends of his co-stars, some invitations were unavoidable. When Ben called you both to join him and the others for lunch in some posh garden lodge, you slapped on a big grin and agreed.

The lodge was back behind a mess of trees, it's sign faded by the sun that shone down on the place like it was on display by the heavens. You followed behind Gwil on a gravel path. And before you could reach the steps that lead to the eatery, a voice called out from the opposite fork in the trail.

"Hey!" Ben's recognizable timbre echoed from behind a row of trees, as you whipped your head to see him waving from the bench of a weathered picnic table.

The rest of the cast had taken over a small jungle gym. Rami claimed the only swing, its rickety bubblegum poles threatening to uproot. Lucy and Joe were squealing on opposite ends of a seesaw. And when Joe noticed you and Gwilym had joined the picnic table across the way, he practically launched Lucy off of her end of the equipment in his hurry to come and greet you.

And there it was again; that look. The one Joe gave you when you met. The one that made your heart stir just thinking about it. If his gaze painted your daydrems, meeting his eyes in real time was spellbinding. This was why you stayed away. Because you couldn’t help but stare. 

Olive cackled in your arms as Lucy cursed Joe's name from the place she'd fallen in the mulch. All at once everyone passed around warm greetings, then hurried back to the play place, arguing over turns to help Olive down the slide like antsy siblings on the first day of recess.

"Alright, I invited you all here for the food! We can have fun later. I'm starving." Ben coxed, waving for everyone to follow him indoors at last. You had just beaten Rami at a rain worn hopscotch game painted on the path that led inside. He kept walking to follow Ben, and when you turned back, you spotted Joe lifting Olive up and pointing to a pair of sparrows settled on a branch near the play place.

The only thing that stopped you from melting into a puddle was catching Gwilym's eye. There was a smile behind his expression and a look in his gaze, a little like a warning, but more like a dare.

"Joe, I would ask if you want children one day but the answer seems pretty obvious." Lucy laughed on her saunter toward your side.

"You should really be asking Rami these kinds of questions, Lucy," Joe said, causing Gwilym to laugh hard. Lucy linked her arm with yours, leading you away from the scene and toward a steadier heartbeat, you hoped.

The lodge was made up of a couple of dozen miss-matched tables and chairs, occupied by a few other chilly looking patrons sipping warm drinks. There was even a small gift shop in the corner, where most of your crew scattered toward.

You followed Gwil to a cozy little table and left Olive in his lap while you took his order to the counter across the room. A sweet young girl with warm curls and the perfect smile was happy to hand you a couple of pastries and informed that someone would bring out the hot drinks you ordered. You thanked her and eased to rest across from Gwilym and your girl.

You mindlessly noshed on sweet blueberry bread when your drinks came but you failed to ignore when Joe flirted with the girl behind the pastry counter. Gwilym wasn't helping. He offered no distractions, or conversation as you listened in on Joe's sickening exchange with the girl who had just been as nice to you.

"A large vanilla frappe and a complimentary cinnamon muffin because you're so sweet." The freckle-faced girl giggled, repeating back his order with a special modification of her own.

Joe was genuinely thankful at the gesture, a treat from the universe. He lingered in front of the counter a little longer, but you had to block out the continued chat. Something like this seemed to happen every time you'd wound up near Joe.

You noticed when he got free muffins, favorite songs on the car radio, pennies on the sidewalk. He cradled these gifts and called them his own, because they were. And it was a precious sight to behold. You couldn't shake the wish splintered within you; that you might be one of those things he held onto so dearly.

"Hey!" Gwilym actually threw a raisin at you. It bounced from your brow onto the floor as you turned back in shock.

"Stop staring you look like a sad puppy," Gwilym warned through his teeth, holding Olive in his lap as she reached for the cup of tea he lifted to his lips.

You let out a sorry whine as a memory of your arrival at the top of this hill flashed across your mind. Joe's shimmering eyes locking onto yours while something electric buzzed through his glare. You slumped your head onto the marble tabletop and continued to pathetically groan like Tina from Bob's Burgers.

"Am I... interrupting something?" Joe's stupidly recognizable voice cut through your self-pity. You just lifted your head with a neutral smile.

He pulled up a seat from a mismatched table, setting his drink down. You reached for your own and leaned back, pretending to be preoccupied with your coffee. Joe cast a curious look to Gwilym who was sharing apple slices with his daughter.

"Must be nap time." Gwilym stretched a silly smile across his face looking to Joe.

"Ha ha." You mocked.

"You guys gotta try this muffin," Joe demanded.

You let out a hopeless chuckle while Gwilym shook his head at you with a sorry grin. It was such an unfunny, funny little predicament you found yourself in. Maybe laughing about it was good. Maybe you were getting through this...

"There's a bar upstairs!" Lucy chirped, skipping over to settle between Gwilym and Joe, bringing along a chair, it legs scraping on the hardwood. The other boys followed...

"And there's a band playing in an hour." The girl was making plans, casting big eyes to the boys who knew the question behind her statement. Lucy explained that Rami had already planned to sleep the rest of his weekend off and that she was desperate to have a little fun. Joe had plans with Ben, and Gwilym was exhausted, too. 

"I'll pay for our drinks and our ride back." Lucy turned her big sad eyes your way.

"You should stay! We can manage, just us two, done it before haven't we?" Gwilym spoke up, bouncing Olive in his lap. It was a sweet offer but the way he alluded to being on his own with Olive made your heart clench. It was almost like he wanted someone to find out you weren’t so often around each other. You noticed a look on Ben's face, pushed in brows at the sound of Gwilym's tone.

"Are you sure?" You asked, almost reminding him that you were supposed to be acting like you'd never spent a day without each other since your made up honeymoon.

"Yeah, of course," Gwyilm assured, softer now. And whatever worry had sprouted in you, was settled with the nod of Gwilym's head. You took note then of how he always knew just how to put you at ease, even if he hadn't realized he was the one who caused your apprehension.  

///

Upstairs was made up of fairy lights, a well stocked mini bar, a small stage where an old married couple sat strumming guitars, and very few audience members. And while you and Lucy did your best to clap after every song, you just wound up getting lost in conversation.

Lucy was on her third cocktail. You stuck to water after your second. And between drinks, you laughed over nothing in the way that made your heart ache with melancholy for the day moments like this were only memories.

When there was more ice in her drink than alcohol, Lucy started in on some monologue about life, and love, and Rami. She rambled about how she felt about him, and how she was sure he must have felt about her.

You had no doubt that they were close to perfect for each other. But Lucy headed into chattering about their first fight, and how petrified of losing him she was. How she wanted to shower Rami with love, but was afraid she wasn't good enough for the job.

"Did you feel that way with Gwil at first? How are things now, after so long together?" Lucy seemed to plead for her own clarity.

You let out a humorless chuckle. "Things with us have always been... complicated." You thought,  choosing your words carefully even in your happily buzzed state. Lucy kept her gaze zeroed in on you, waiting to hear more.

"Even now. We've never been better... or worse. All at once." You gave a shrug, and Lucy raised her brow in obvious surprise.

You and Gwil always talked about things before diving into them together. That changed when he missed the opportunity to take back his usually forgivable lie. But the talking stopped. Life with Gwyilm became uncomfortably familiar. You'd never shared so many wordless looks.

"Well, better is good, yeah?" Lucy gently suggested, more like she was hoping for herself.

"Yeah, I guess so." You decided, because that's all you could do. That seemed good enough for Lucy, as she sat up with a new speech in mind.

"I want the rest of this year, this time we all have together, to be nothing but fun." Lucy pointed, stringing her words a little closer together than anyone with a clearer head might have. The pretty girl rambled about how her sister was opening a gallery the first of the new year, and how she was inviting you and Gwil and neither of you could back out. Saying something about how if you all started the new year out together, then you'd be surreptitiously inclined to be the best of friends for the rest of all time.

"But I'm getting ahead of myself." Lucy giggled, grabbing onto your arm, shooting you a look that warned she was scheming. You grinned back, turning to face her all the way, setting your glass of water aside.

"Joe's birthday is soon and I'm planning something big. Something we can all do together, for him." Lucy declared. You felt every muscle in your face automatically reacting to pull your smile into a frown. But with every bit of sober strength you still had, you put on your best poker face and reached out for your drink you'd only just abandoned.

"What did you have in mind?" You asked, hoping you sounded more curious than cautious. Lucy burst into a laugh as you sipped your drink to keep from panicking out loud.

"I don't have a single clue yet." Lucy laughed with a sigh. "But it's going to be great."

///

As you sneaked back into your Airbnb you felt grateful for the night of fun with Lucy. It was the first time you'd been away from Gwil and Olive since this whole big thing started, and as the night went on you'd found yourself missing their usual constant presence. You'd get that in the morning, with a catch. Joe.

Gwilym had planned a big day out, buying tickets to the aquarium and talking about how excited he was to roam around for a day, no schedules or work to worry over. He'd invited Joe knowing the guy had no plans all weekend, no family nearby, nothing better to do.

When the morning came, and Gwil gushed over breakfast about what he was looking forward to the most, you let that be enough. You let Olive’s claps of the agreement be your fuel for gearing up to go out.

And when Joe knocked on your door wearing a withheld grin and a warm jumper, you stepped back to let him in, turning your eyes toward the carpet so he couldn't see you blush. Maybe he noticed though, because when you looked back up, Joe was still waiting to meet your gaze.

Gwilym was quick to greet his friend, ushering everyone out of the door Joe had only just entered. Today was going to be a good one, you told yourself so.

After parking the car, you watched Gwil wrestle to unfold a new stroller. Joe chuckled when his friend denied help, insisting he had to figure it out on his own. Eventually, he did, buckling Olive in triumphantly. The effort must have exhausted your fake husband because he made a b-line for a coffee shop around the corner while you and Joe took shots at poking fun at Gwil.

You stood guard next to Olive in her brand new ride while Gwilym raced to patiently wait in the long coffee shop line. Joe stood near you, debating on joining Gwil, but decided against ordering anything.

As you distracted yourself by checking your cell, you heard Gwilym's warm chuckle from across the room. The sound was familiar enough for you to gaze up curiously, finding the guy with his arms crossed, leaning closer to listen to some woman in line speak just to him.

Gwilym was kind to everyone, always keen to listen. Everyone loved Gwilym. And whether you were near or not, plenty of people had taken their shot at flirting with the handsome man. You were hardly phased in those cases and were usually quick to poke fun at his attempts to flirt back. But when the girl in front of Gwilym kept spinning in line to gaze up and bite her lip as he spoke, you rolled your eyes. When he reached out to nudge her to keep the line moving, a faint bout of resentment threatened to wash over you.

You quickly decided that it was because Gwilym had done such a marvelous job at testing your nerves this week, and the feelings you'd been trying to push away were looking for an excuse to creep back up. So you started to bring your phone closer to view, but then your eyes swept over Joe.

His gaze was unsettled, watching Gwilym shamelessly flirt back with the girl, even after she ordered her coffee and lingered too close while he ordered his.

"Uh..." Joe uttered, starting to look back at you with a troubled frown.

"It's okay." You quickly shut down whatever Joe might have wanted to say next. You hadn't expected him to accept this with a shrug, but you needed Joe to stop looking at you like he was. You realized that anything you might have said next would probably worsen things , so you just gave Joe a small shake of your head, silently asking him not to worry about it.

That's when Gwilym approached, seemingly clueless of the thin ice he'd just skated away from. You shot him a look on your way back outside and managed to shift into a comfortable chatter as you led the way toward the aquarium. So far the morning was just as awkward as you feared it might have been, and with that thought, you decided you could manage. You'd learned how to attach yourself to Gwil, and how to save your swooning for Joe when you were alone at the end of the day.

As you approached the aquarium, Gwilym's phone rang. He groaned when his agent's name flashed across the screen, excusing himself a few feet away to answer.

You settled onto a bench as Olive pointed toward your bag, babbling in a way you understood. You reached in and revealed a small stuffed elephant much to your daughter's delight. When you handed the thing to her, she held it right back up,

"Joe!" The kid caught your guest's attention as he sat next to you, taking the toy from Olive with overblown thanks.

"You sure you wanna spend your day entertaining her?" You asked Joe through a warning laugh. Now that she had his attention, she'd likely long to keep it that way.

"Gladly." Joe looked at you as he answered. Luckily, Olive called out his name again so you both had a reason to look away.

That's when you noticed Gwil approaching while his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

"They want me and Ben to come in right bloody now." He huffed, gazing up to the entrance of the place he'd made big plans to spend the day exploring.

"For how long?" You wondered.

Gwilym didn't know, lulling his head back clearly at a loss. He had to go, but what about you? You couldn't just not take Olive in with the way you'd been promising her this adventure all week.

"I'll email you guys the tickets to get in... I'll try and meet back up soon. Unless you want a ride back with me, Joe..." Gwilym offered, knowing there was no reason the guy had to spend his afternoon with his best friend's fake wife.

"I'll stay..." Joe decided, but hesitantly. "If that's alright?" He looked at you, seeming to realize, or at least recognize for the first time, that this was strange.

You nodded to the man with fossils for eyes, and made a mental note to scold Gwilym later. After a rushed goodbye, Gwilym sulked off. You felt bad that he was suddenly called away, knowing how excited he had been for this day. But then there was Joe. He seemed happy. And you weren't about to take this sudden change of plans for granted, no matter how your guts twisted up on your walk inside, alone together.

///

Olive was purely enchanted by the sea life. Giant radiant fish glided above your heads in expansive tanks. It was like stepping into another dim, quiet world.

"Bird!" Olive pointed up to a slow-moving sting ray. You figured she'd like the aquarium based on her fascination with things with wings, but this wasn't exactly the same.

"No, fish." You corrected, pointing up.

"No, scary." Joe joked, pointing to a larger, more intimidating looking sea creature. Your eyes searched the plaque on the wall that told what types of fish swam through the tank you stood near.

"Oh my God, look." You laughed, stepping closer to the wall. "It's called a Guitarfish." You pointed to the display and looked back into the tank at the skinny, oddly shaped stingray that you now recognized as half-shark. Joe shared in your laughter and stepped closer to take a photo of the plaque.

"Thanks for inviting me to this death trap." Joe laughed, as you three eased into the shark exhibit. It was a bit jarring, surrounded by walls of water where ancient monsters floated just feet away from you.

"They're just dinosaurs, ya know?" You mused, setting Olive on her feet and watching her shuffle closer to the glass where a sand tiger shark floated right by her face. You noticed another plaque and spun toward Joe with a smile, pointing to the fish behind his back.

"That one's name is Bungle. See? Loveable and harmless."

"It says here you can swim with them," Joe smirked, stepping closer to read what you just had.

"Okay, well maybe that's taking it a little too far." You laughed.

"Why? They're harmless dinosaurs, right?" Joe chuckled. You watched Olive watching the sharks glide by as Joe spun off into a story about Jurassic Park. Families cruised through pointing and chatting as you stood against the wall, listening to the guy you'd been avoiding until now.

When Olive ran back toward you pair and reached her arms up to Joe, he scooped her up without missing a beat and kept on telling his story. You laughed and listened and let yourself become completely entranced by the daydream you were living.

This was it, you decided. As good as it gets. When today was over, you'd let yourself have it, and then you'd move on. No more yearning. No more hopeless gazes right in Joe's direction. This was it.

The turtles were a big hit, and you were personally taken with the octopus exhibit. But the room full of penguins obviously took the cake.

"These are birds!" You excitedly chirped, probably a little more excited than Olive about the scenario. She clapped her hands together, all the same, dashing toward the glass. You sat on the floor next to her and watched a group of penguins waddle toward where you sat. Olive waved and pointed and squealed accordingly. Even though you had to remind her to use her inside voice, you felt just as overjoyed that this experience was a win.

"We can leave if you'd like." You assured Joe when he appeared next to you after another family cleared the area.

"Absolutely not!" Joe demanded, sitting on the other side of Olive who was glued to the glass of the exhibit. "This is obviously our reward for making it out of the shark tank alive."

You sat there forever, watching Olive travel back and forth when the penguins would jump in the water. Then came the gift shop. Olive picked out a plush penguin, and Joe corralled you both to the storybook section where he put on a dramatic reading of a magazine about jellyfish.

You left the aquarium and stepped out to the golden hour. The afternoon was still new, but your eyes felt heavy after all the fun had been left inside the aquarium.

"I think I'd like to find that coffee shop again." You spoke up, rubbing your eyes as they adjusted to the new light.

Joe insisted on buying your drink since you'd treated him to today's grand adventure. You eventually obliged upon arrival, settling into a cozy booth by a window. Olive had curled up in the curve of the booth next to you, with your jacket bunched under her head, fast asleep.

You praised God that naptime had found its way into the afternoon schedule and took some time to send James and Andy photos of Olive pointing at giant sharks. That's when Joe reappeared with two plastic cups of coffee. You greeted him with a grateful thanks.

"These photos turned out so well. I was just sending them to my roommates." You explained, clicking your phone off altogether.

"You have roommates?" Joe wondered, sipping his own latte and leaning across the table with his head propped in his hand. Oh, shit. You and Joe had grown increasingly comfortable with each other during your aquatic escapade, but you surely weren't dumb enough to slip up so carelessly.

"Used to." You falsely corrected. "Lived together so long, sometimes I forget." You let out a breathy laugh, wrapping your fingers around your warm styrofoam mug and thanking Joe again for being so kind.

His hair was a little windblown, and his eyes seemed tired. The warm coffee shop was certainly a change of pace from walking the chilly London streets. But the conversation was just as easy as it had been always. Joe texted you the photo of the guitarfish plaque and you spoke about things that you each marveled over as children. When you started cracking up over some silly joke, Olive sat up and was ready to party all over again. You started to brush back her matted curls, but she clamored away from you and toward Joe, around the curve of the booth.

"You don't have to put up with her, ya know?" You reminded as Olive climbed into Joe's lap before you could stop her. But Joe welcomed the baby's embrace, sipping his coffee all the same.

"I really don't mind. We're like, best friends now. Right?" Joe looked down at Olive, who responded by wrapping her tiny arms around Joe's neck. Oh God, you should have never come to London.

But soon your coffee's were gone, and Olive was clearly ready for dinner. Without much discussion, you ended up in a small bistro with a friendly atmosphere. Olive demanded orange juice, and some came in a novelty sippy cup.

"That's way too fun. I'm so about to get one of those for myself." Joe decided, laughing over the boldly designed sippy cup. He really did order one for himself and kept pretending to steal Olive's and forgetting his own, making her laugh like crazy. You were just about to take a photo of the scene when your phone rang. It was Gwilym.

"Hello?"

"Hi," Gwilym greeted seeming sorry.

"Good day?" You wondered, unsure what else to say as a pang of strange guilt crept up inside of you.

"I'm just about to leave the city. Do you need a ride home? Should I pick up dinner?"

"No, no, wait where are you?"

Gwilym was literally a street away from where you were. So you demanded he come and enjoy the last half of your adventure. Joe was happy to hear your party was growing in size, and a kind waitress brought Olive a set of crayons and some paper to keep her from going crazy while stationed in a high chair.

That was about the time Gwilym showed up. He shouldered past a few patrons and laid eyes on you and Joe in an instant. Olive was holding out a crayon to Joe, babbling to him while he listened intently.

Gwil should have been jealous, or oddly territorial, right? He wondered if he should have even pretended to be. But Gwilym only felt a huge swell of happiness, watching you all laugh. He felt happy to see you happy for once. Because for a while now, your smile had mostly been for show.

When Gwilym approached your table, you couldn't even hold back your cheesy grin, while you rested your crayon and greeted him. Before he sat down, Gwilym gave you the strangest look. As if he'd just watched the end of a very satisfying movie. Like he'd just seen something unexpected come together.

Gwilym sat next to Joe, and the two made a show of reuniting. Then you both got to telling of the fun you had while Gwil was away, and even though a lingering sadness pulled at you, knowing Gwil was sad to have missed out, he seemed charmed by your stories. For the rest of the evening you all spent together, you kept crossing your fingers behind your back every time laughing at Joe's jokes seemed easy. You kept wishing this would somehow become as normal as it felt.

///

The weather was worse than dreary, the sky black with rain and fog clouding your view out of every window. Gwilym had been extra busy after the weekend break, so there wasn't much of a chance for you to visit him on set. As a result, Olive was going a bit stir crazy. 

You did your best to keep the girl entertained with the children's channel permanently playing on the flat screen, attempting to build a fort in the living room. But it wasn't enough for Olive. She started tossing toys away with frustrated whines and wailing when she didn't like the breakfast you cooked, even though it was her favorite. And the crying got worse as you wrestled her for bath time and offered teething toys she just didn't want.

Going on day three of her never-ending tantrum, you were exhausted. And even though you barely slept, you were out cold when Gwilym made it home, and you hadn't heard him leave before you woke up. Your morning started when Olive wept from her cot, hardly soothed by your attempts to cuddle her frustrations away.

By the middle of the afternoon, you sat on the edge of the sofa, waiting for your poor daughter's next big breakdown. This time, it came with a warning. Olive stood on the opposite side of the coffee table, staring right at you as she reached for a cup full of juice.

You called out her name, warning her to be careful, giving her a chance. But the kid tossed the cup to the floor, the lid falling off, red seeping into the rented shag rug. She wasn't two yet. The days weren't supposed to be so terrible. You called out her name, standing to stop her from crawling away. The babe burst into upsetting cries, knowing she was in trouble. You placed her in the playpen across the room, taking her favorite toy bat as the only punishment you could think up in your frazzled, fatigued state. And while you rushed to clean up the stain to the tune of your daughter's sobs, you cried too.  

Maybe Olive missed home. Maybe you did too.

"Hello-oh." Gwilym dropped his bags by the door and cautiously floated toward where you slumped against the coffee table. Olive was still wailing, and you were practically despondent and equally as tear-stained.

"Hi," You mewled as Gwilym held a hand out to. He shot you a sorry frown as he guided you to sit on the sofa.

Olive remained wailing, and you both knew something had to be done quickly or the baby would go permanently insane. Gwilym spun on his heels, noticing Olive's favorite toy bat on the coffee table. He picked it up, you thought, as an easy fix for her crying.

"Wait!" You plead. Gwilym looked to you in confusion as you hurried to explain yourself. "She's in time out. If you give that back, you'll be the good guy. I'll be the bad guy and I can't be the bad guy while I'm alone with her all day." You were panicking. You felt the walls closing in. You had to come back from this.

Gwilym listened as he slowly walked back toward you. Olive's cries were somehow dulled as she watched the two of you interact.

"She spilled juice all over the rug. I tried to clean it up but it's still kind of there. That's not even the half of it, though." You slumped forward, running your fingers through your hair.

"Then here, darling." Gwilym knelt before you, placing the plastic bat in your lap. He clasped one of his hands over your knee to get your attention. "You give it back to her, later."

Just the simple act of expressing your pent up frustration was a load off your shoulders. 

"We'll run to the store for carpet cleaner. We'll even take the long way home so you can have a bit of quiet." Gwil assured.

"You don't have to take her, I know you've had a long day and-" You started.

"I'm gonna." Gwilym chuckled. He took your hand, placed it over the toy bat in your lap and gave a decided nod. "I'm sorry I've been away. And I'm sorry the week has been so hard. But I'm very glad you came to stay, for what it's worth."

You nodded, furrowing your brow. "Thank you Gwil."

With another small nod, he stood to collect your daughter, and you stood to go draw a bath. This might have been your only chance to relax for the rest of the foreseeable future. As you rounded the corner, before the door shut behind him you heard Gwilym talking to Olive,

"You've got to stop causing your mummy so much trouble. That's my job."

You wanted to laugh, but you knew you'd only cry. Because he made you want to shake his shoulders and sense into his head. But you really couldn't believe how much you relied on him. You considered this during a steam-filled bubble bath, and crawled into bed for a nap when you just couldn't think any longer.

///

You woke up to dull thuds of rain against the window, the smell of food in the air. Your daughter was babbling in the other room, and the sounds of pots and pans rattled you all the way awake.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes to find Olive flipping through big picture books in the low lit living area. A little further away, Gwilym was shutting the oven door when he noticed you.

"Hello! I got the stain out of the carpet and picked up some extra bits for dinner." The guy smiled kindly, turning back toward the stove when steam started to billow. You took a beat to watch on in wonder before thanking Gwil profusely for going above and beyond saving the day- the week rather.

Everything was back to normal, with a little help from the father of your child. "Oh, and I've got a surprise for later!" Gwilym echoed as you eased further into the kitchen.

Right when you were about to ask what the hell Gwilym was on about, a Facetime call from James lit up your phone screen. You answered in a flash, greeting your dearest friend like you hadn't spoken in years.

You settled onto the floor next to Olive who was just as pleased to see your roommate on your phone screen. You only stood when she kept threatening to chew on your phone case, and floated toward the kitchen where Gwil was happily working away.

"And how's the happy couple?" James jeered like usual, as you propped your phone against the counter. But instead of laughing, or giving some exaggerated answer like you always would, your face fell. Gwil shifted from the stove, noticing your expression as he turned down one of the burners.

"Tell him." Gwilym softly suggested, stepping closer as if to encourage you. You'd never planned to tell anyone. You weren't sure what to say, but you wondered if getting this lie off your chest to someone who it hardly affected might help, somehow.

"Uh, guys..." James pipped up.

"Actually, allow me to begin." Gwilym stepped further into the frame as you took his place string dinner on the stovetop.

"Oh, of course, our third wheel! Was I crazy in expecting this video chat date to be a one on one?" James wildly drew. You chuckled from behind Gwil, watching him lean both arms against the counter.

"Where's our fourth wheel?" You jeered from across the room. "This car is running like shite." You laugh. You missed Andy, and the comforting chaos your two roommates provided.

"Listen" Gwilym brought the focus back to the matter at hand. "I wanted to start by saying that I messed up and I really wish I hadn't. And every time I suggest making things right, your darling Y/N stops me." 

Gwilym was obviously immensely regretful, but you were both in too deep. You had been long before he perpetuated the lie. But he still should have cleared the air from ever becoming even more sticky.

He went on explaining the whole situation to James, who listened without piping up once. James was never speechless. You must have really fucked up.

"You guys. I'm going to ask you something and I'm gonna need the honest, raw truth." James wasn't being funny anymore. You drifted closer into the frame, watching your best friends pixelated form lean close.

"Do either of you have feelings for each other? At all?" James questioned.

He'd asked this before, in a much more lighthearted manner. You and Gwilym had always been sickeningly doting to one another, giving the circumstances. Like one morning, very soon after finding out you were pregnant, you pleaded for Gwilym to spend the night simply to keep you company. The morning after, you both burst into a fit of giggles over breakfast, waking James from his bedroom down the hall. "Are you two shaggin' again?" He groaned. "God, no." You laughed.

"They bang, or whatever." James once said when introducing Gwil and a very pregnant you to some of his coworkers at a party. "We don't, actually!" You corrected. But Gwilym's hand was already splayed across your shoulder. James coworkers fixated their stares on your pregnant stomach and looked back up to you as if to prove a point. And you spent the rest of the party explaining that even though you used to bang Gwil, didn't mean you still were or even wanted to. Because you didn't. But you wanted to want to.

"No!" You sighed in frustration, after considering all of that. James' digital eyebrows rose as if to give you a second chance.

"Look. She's telling the truth mate. I don't think I have romantic feelings for her either. But I do love her and I feel like shite for making her put up with this, especially because-" Gwilym halted, ran his hand through his hair, and sighed. You knew exactly where he was going with this.

"Because...?" James prodded.

"It's not my place to say." Gwilym turned to look right at you.

"Y/N. What's going on?" James called. Right on cue, Olive cried from the other room, it must have been time for a change.

Gwilym stopped you from turning away and insisted he go. And when he drifted into the other room, you let out a deep sigh as your friend spoke up again.

"Now that he's gone... is there anything you need to confess?"

"I don't know what's going on James." You admitted, bringing your phone closer as you moved to lean against the door frame of the patio.

"You sure about that?" James squinted.

"I was so pissed at Gwil. But then I thought we could make it work. And I've been spending all week trying to think up exactly how to fall in love with my baby's daddy. And I just fucking can't." You gestured pitifully.

"You're sure? Love isn't a crush babe. Do you think of Gwil when he's away?" James wondered gently. "Do you feel at home when you look at him?"

And then all at once, there was a traffic jam in your heart. Something inside you stopped and caused all your other feelings to halt. Your realization was so massive that there was nowhere else to look but the cold hard truth.

"Not... not Gwilym, no." You spoke slowly, in a hush. That was what you'd always wanted. To feel like someone was your missing link. You wanted to feel sick with love. You'd longed to be looked at the way you'd seen in movies.

Joe's face blinded your vision, and it made you sick alright. Sick with the realization that no matter how badly you wanted Joe, you seemed to need Gwilym.

"Oh." James hummed like he'd read your mind. And with how closely bonded you two had become over the years, you didn't doubt the possibility. "I see."

"James I can't talk about this tonight." You realized, noticing Gwilym guiding Olive to crawl toward the kitchen for dinner. You feared if you started unraveling your tangled feelings that whatever the messy web was holding back would break through. And you couldn't let that happen. You promised James you'd fill him in soon, and hurried to hang up.

But before you could lock your phone and finish making dinner, you noticed an unseen message in your notifications. With a held breath you opened it,

Joe: Forgot to send you this! See you soon?

Below his simple statement was a photo you never knew existed. It was of you crouched next to Olive at the London Aquarium's penguin exhibit. Your silhouettes were illuminated by radiant blue light and you and your daughter were looking at each other, instead of the birds crowding near. Your heart swooped in your chest at the thought of Joe snapping the candid.

You let out a sigh and sucked your feelings way deep down in one giant breath, leaving your phone on the counter as you turned to unveil dinner from the oven.

Gwil quietly asked if you were alright in a way that sounded like he already knew the answer to that question. You convinced him everything was fine, that everything had to be fine. Then there was a knock at the door.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

taglist: @sonic-volcano​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @redspecialty​ @itscale​ @stardust-killer-queen​ @joemazzelo​ @dancetohotspace​ @kiwi-hardy​ @joeneslee​ @borhapqueen92​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @johndeaconshands​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @beepbeephardy​ @slutforbritdick​ @joemazzmatazz​ @almightygwil​

[idlecreature]

a mountain is a lovely, cold thing to surround one

Barnabas Bennett and Mordechai Lukas have an... unorthodox relationship. 

Barnabas has debts, and Mordechai makes sure he pays them. 

Vampire!Mordechai for Jonah Magnus Week! Part 1/Part 2/Part 3 

Rating: Mature 

Relationships: Mordechai Lukas/Barnabas Bennett, Jonah Magnus/Barnabas Bennett 

Content warnings: Dubcon, Unhealthy relationships, heavy on the internalized homophobia, the Lonely, manipulation (hence the dubcon warning), Barnabas does NOT die in this fic, happy ending for Barnabas because he deserves it rrrr  

Fragments from a letter written circa Christmas 1814 

—and I am looking forward to fainting at the sight of his sweet little face, Jonah! The splendid mane around his neck! Your little tiger, king of his jungle, king Ceasar, his croaky battle-roar as he runs down the hallway for his cream—

*

Barnabas has a sixth sense for earthquakes. In the hours leading up to one, he feels odd jolts in his bones, like someone is reaching through his skin and rattling him. He feels them where he broke his zygomatic process when his mother dropped him as a toddler, just to the side of his left eye. If he had a soul, he thinks that’s where it would live: in the part of him that was first broken. 

When he and Jonah are thirteen and eleven respectively, he feels his skull itching and watches the trembling of their school’s pet rabbit and the anxious pattern of birds wheeling, and on their tea break, he leads Jonah outside and takes the other boy’s hand and presses it to a patch of bare dirt beside the rugby field. 

“Do you feel that?” Barnabas asks. 

Jonah’s eyes narrow in concentration. His hand scrapes nonsense patterns in the dirt. “Describe what I’m supposed to be feeling?” 

Barnabas shakes his head. How does a thirteen-year-old describe a sense of inescapable doom? It feels like standing outside his mother’s room unbreathing and counting down from twenty before knocking. It feels like being sucked under a wave and not fighting as hard as he knows he should to resurface. It feels like waking up on a grey morning crying. 

The quake, when it hits that evening, lasts for six minutes. An entire epoch for a child. And Barnabas understands it’s no use knowing about an oncoming earthquake if you are powerless to stop it coming on. 

At least he has Jonah, whose dirty hand wraps tightly around his own. 

Despite what Jonah believes, there are some things that just can’t be explained in words. 

*

His skull’s been prickling in recent months. 

It’s gonna be a bad one. 

* 

—It’s freezing cold, and, oh, you know I feel the cold most cruelly. I cannot make myself warm with double-socking, or blankets over my knees, or hot bread and soup... nothing warms me, only the morning sun as she shakes her fiery head. I cannot wait for summer-time—

*

Isabel Blackwood is a saint. 

“Another slice of Three-kings-cake, B....Barny?” Isabel asks, her knife poised in the air. There are two slices left, and James has already found the bean. Her four children stand at her elbows, eyeing the cake with hungry, dark eyes, but they, too, cede to Barnabas. Even the little king bows. 

“Mr. Bennett, if you please,” Barnabas replies, aiming for a terse-but-gentle tone. “And I couldn’t eat another bite!” He pats his stomach in emphasis. 

“Come on, Mr. Bennett, it’s Christmas!” 

“Leave off, Mr. Blackwood,” Isabel says to her husband. She smiles at Barnabas as she cuts the two slices into four and divides them amongst her children. 

“Don’t wolf it down or you’ll make yourselves sick,” Isabel warns the two girls, Frances and Annie. 

The Blackwoods are decent folk, letting him come over for cake on Christmas. They were the first to sign up for Barnabas’ family charity earlier in the year; he has since taken on half a dozen more, but his closest working relationship is still the Blackwoods. The charity pulled the eldest, James, out of the workhouse and into an apprenticeship, made co-payments on lodgings that are just a step above their old squalid tenement, provided them with new ill-fitting clothes. It seems pitifully little to Barnabas, but the Blackwoods seem to worship the ground he walks on. 

You can’t be too friendly with people like that. It’s unfair to you both. It’s awkward enough sitting in their smoky central room, the air smelling like damp and soap and sweat and charcoal, in a tailored suit that may as well have been spun from gold, hands soft from white-collar work, clear-eyed and ruddy-cheeked. Look, his appearance mocks, how the world could be if it were not so cruel. 

Before Barnabas leaves the Blackwoods, the littlest one, Henry, gives him a tight hug. Henry tries to wrap his entire body around Barnabas’ middle, constricting him like a snake, and when he doesn’t seem to want to let go Isabel has to pry him off. 

“Don’t be so clingy,” she chides her son. She looks at Barnabas nervously. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bennett. He’s somehow got it in his silly noggin that you’re his Uncle.” 

Barnabas looks at her in mute horror. “I - I - I should go,” he says, and makes a hasty exit. 

*

Barnabas runs a finger down the perfectly neat columns of his ledger again, double-checking every minutia of his expenses. He’s made a mistake, he must have missed something. He’s fifty pounds short of where he should be. 

His hands curl into fists. The absence of fifty pounds shouldn’t be a big issue, not for him and his big house and servants and nice things. But the charity is obviously chewing through more of this month’s allowance than he’s anticipated, and he needs to make some adjustments if he wants to be able to keep all the nice things and pay the servants and keep the debt collector from his door. 

This is why he shouldn’t let people become attached to him. Because he ends up disappointing or hurting them. People could starve and it would be his fault. 

A thick splat of water lands on his ledger, making the perfect lines run, and that’s just great, isn’t it? What are tears ever good for, when are they ever useful? He is just a very small cog in a very big machine, and now he’s getting ground up in it like the rest of them. 

But what else can he do? He must participate in the world if he wants it to change for the better, even if it’s a marginal improvement. He could live in the margins. 

He’ll find the money somewhere. 

*

—did you get my copy of Queen Mab? The Vice Society has declared it OBSCENE MATERIAL, and I mustn't be seen with a copy of it in my house, but you do not rely so much upon a good reputation. I hope you keep it safe. I hope you read it and I hope you side with P.B.S. and I. A good world starts with a good person and a few choices that are made with the heart—

*

Barnabas’s game of solitaire lies forgotten as he stares at Jonah.

They are more different now than ever. Barnabas keeps the company of bankers and lawyers and politicians, and Jonah runs with crackpots and devils and the insane. Jonah has fourteen powers; Barnabas has a list of names in his address book. People he barely knows, who remain in his orbit because of his good breeding, his impeccable reputation, and they still only half-listen to his pleading and his petitioning and his politicking. The people with the power to actually change the world; people he wants at arm’s length.  

But there’s just something about Jonah that makes Barnabas want to touch. He flares to gold with an audience; but, even now, curled up on his couch idly scratching between Julius Ceasar’s whiskers, he is a dim and majestic copper. There’s something undeniably old testament about Jonah; the fire and fury of creation, the self-annihilating stare of Lot’s wife. 

Jonah’s close to buried under the Millbank proofs spread over his lap, sucking gently on the tip of his pen, occasionally darting down to make some arcane adjustment on the design—just a penstroke or puzzling scribble. Mostly he just stares at the paper, eyes wide enough to look like holes in his face. When he gets like this, Barnabas can balance teacups on Jonah’s head without him noticing. The record is three. 

“Still keeping the elevator?” Barnabas asks. It’s just one of the many strange embellishments that Jonah’s insisted upon, putting it far outside the budget of any public works project. The price of Jonah’s fancies must run into the tens of thousands of pounds. 

“In my dreams, there’s a glass elevator to the top of my tower, from which I look down upon the imprisoned and the powerless,” Jonah says. 

“Taking cues from your dreams?” Barnabas replies. “You know only the desperately mad do that?” 

“Or desperately inspired—savants and prophets and visionaries.” 

“And prison wardens, apparently,” Barnabas mutters. He bites his teeth together, unwilling to work through this old argument. “Who’s paying for your dream towers, again? Think they might lend me fifty pounds for a project that actually is for the public good?” 

Jonah finally unpeels his eyes from his proofs, and Barnabas’s throat runs dry. Jonah stares until he’s got Barnabas squirming in his seat, and then he says, brightly, “Oh, I’m sure he would. I’m sure I could tell you. But I don’t think I will.” 

“Jonah,” Barnabas says irritably. “That’s very unfair.” 

“Oh, pish posh, life’s unfair, Barny, and I can’t believe that you in your infinite wisdom and your even more infinite disposition to share it can pretend that it isn’t. That the evil in man has made life unfair, that it’s just not the natural order to put some creatures above others.” 

Barnabas counters him an instant later. “Obviously, you stupid little man, not everyone was created equal, but it’s the good in man to want to put things to rights, to create a system where unequal creatures can be equal. Are you trying to make me angry with you by playing the devil’s advocate?” 

“Just testing you,” Jonah says in his alloyed voice, silver-and-honey-gold. 

“Well? Who’s this rich man then?” 

Jonah sticks his tongue out at him. 

“Alright, it’s getting late,” Barnabas says. He tidies his long-forgotten card game and makes ready to leave. 

“Wait,” Jonah says. 

“It really is getting on, Jonah, I promise you can tease me about secret benefactors some other day.” Barnabas stands up and stretches on his stiff legs. 

“No.” Jonah shuts his eyes briefly. “It’s very late. You should stay.” 

Barnabas shakes his head and makes his way out of the fire-warm lounge and into the cold front room. Jonah springs up, sending the proofs flying and Julius Ceasar yowling in annoyance and surprise, and Jonah follows close on his heels. 

“It’s raining,” Jonah says more softly. 

“It is Edinburgh,” Barnabas replies, but cold apprehension curdles in his belly. “I - I need to leave. I - I already visit you too often, Jonah, and you know what people say about you, and they might think that I’m.... I’m some kind of...” 

Jonah steps closer. “Aren’t you, though? ‘Some kind of’?” He reaches for Barnabas’s hand where it is clumsily buttoning his coat. “I know you, Barnabas. Your morality has only ever been a thin cover for your shame.” 

The blood drains from Barnabas’ face. “That’s very cruel,” he whispers. 

“It’s true,” Jonah says. He cants his head. “Haven’t you thought about why your morals don’t ever make you happy? It’s because you wield them like a sword, to keep yourself away from the world. A world that won’t ever accept you for who you are. A world that wants you to keep waving that heavy, sharp thing until you give up and throw yourself upon it. That’s your pain, Barnabas, that’s your fear. Whenever I look at you I can see it as easily as I see your face.” 

Jonah steps closer again. His chin touches Barnabas’s chest, and Barnabas can see the pulse fluttering in his friend’s throat. “It doesn’t have to be that way,” Jonah says. 

“It does,” Barnabas says, stepping out of his reach. “Because - because I’m still afraid, and I still love the world, even - even if to live in it I must throw myself upon my sword and die and haunt my own life, all at the same time.”

Jonah remains silent. If he is stung by the rejection, his expression doesn’t show it. He’s got that crinkle between his brow he gets when he has to solve two maths problems simultaneously.   

“Mordechai Lukas,” Jonah says, eventually. “That’s my moneyed friend. Tread carefully with him.” 

Jonah wishes him no goodbye when he shuts the door. That’s fine with Barnabas. He’s not the only one nursing fresh wounds. 

* 

—I confess since I’ve been away this time my need or my wish for people has absolutely fled. I have learned to love solitude, and I forget what it means to be lonely.— 

* 

Mordechai looms as large as a mountain and is beautiful in the way a portrait is beautiful—two steps removed from humanity. 

He tilts Barnabas’s head to the side, impervious to the muscles in Barnabas’s neck straining against him. 

“Hm,” Mordechai says. 

“I take it you’re not convinced by the moral position, then,” Barnabas spits out. His cheeks are burning, but Mordechai’s other hand is wrapped around Barnabas’s hip, stopping him from stepping away. 

Mordechai laughs; a strange thing, guttering as it starts, in contrast with his unmoving, lifeless, beautiful face. His thumb strokes Barnabas’s cheek despite Barnabas trying to shake it off. “No. But there are certainly other positions to consider.” 

“We’re in public,” Barnabas hisses. He looks pointedly at two women walking down the other side of the street. 

“Are we?” Mordechai murmurs. He’s still circling his thumb on Barnabas’s cheek, but his fingers press down on Barnabas’s carotid artery, taking its measure, making Barnabas’s vision swim with silver fish. 

“What - what vile magic -” 

“Just a glamour.” 

Barnabas processes this new information rapidly. “They can’t see us?” 

“Would you like them to?” 

Barnabas tries to shake his head, but it is locked in place, pulled as taut as a bowstring. The pressure is starting to hurt, and he rests against Mordechai’s hand for a moment to ease it. 

“Good,” Mordechai says, and releases him. Barnabas takes several staggering steps backward, massaging his sore neck. “Spirited, aren’t you?” 

“I can - I can work up a repayment plan, we can sign it at the -” 

“No,” Mordechai replies, his voice heavy with finality. “I decide how I am repaid.” 

Desperation is a harsh master, and Barnabas nods. He’d prefer to keep it off the books, anyway. An agreement between Gentlemen. 

“You will find my terms very agreeable,” Mordechai says. 

Barnabas swallows and feels the heat of his blush creep under his hair. There’s something in the way Mordechai looks at him that promises danger, but Barnabas only feels the anticipation of a fight, so strong he can barely keep it down. He takes his time to make sure he doesn’t sound too eager when he replies. 

* 

In the dark of his bedroom when Barnabas finally wraps a hand around himself, he isn’t thinking about Jonah, his many dog-eared fantasies, tired and sad Frankensteinian conjurations of the few ginger kisses they’ve shared, memories of Jonah flushed, excited, exerted stitched together and his own imagination filling in the rest—they’ve been friends for so long it’s completely understandable if Barnabas’ thoughts occasionally (privately, every night) run to intimacy. He’s trying very hard not to think about Jonah. 

He’s thinking about that strange, death-pale, flat-edged face, the terrible pressure on Barnabas’s jaw, the feeling of compression on his artery, the voice both mocking and stern in turns. Its appearance in Barnabas’s thoughts elicits a new and fierce shame. 

Barnabas rubs his chin, trying to chase the feeling of Mordechai’s hand. 

It’s almost comical, how quickly Barnabas’s shame runs to pleasure. 

* 

His fifty pounds arrives with an invitation. 

* 

The first time Barnabas visits Moorland house, he expects Mordechai to be waiting for him. But Mordechai is not there, and Barnabas is expected to wait. 

Moorland is certainly a large and imposing estate, perhaps once opulent, but it has been left to ruin. The building’s beams sag with damp; its tapestries are delicately laced with powder-white fungus; there is an atrocious stuffed albatross over the mantlepiece with half of its feathers snowed around the room. The grounds are pale and bare; an empty wind roils through. 

Barnabas is fairly certain that Moorland has three servants, but they whip around or disappear through doors when he tries to approach them. Barnabas’s own house is much smaller, but he has just as many in his staff; he suspects that Mordechai is not a rich man at all, just someone with a once-impressive but dead family name and an estate too large to be managed on a pittance. He wonders why Mordechai pretends otherwise. 

These thoughts slip through his mind like freshwater fish down a stream, but Barnabas wanders through the house contentedly enough. After a week he barely even notices the servants’ presence, save for his changing sheets and pressed clothes and the serviceable meals prepared set and left for him in at the kitchen table, in front of the unlit hearth. He eats with blackened silverware and tastes the neglect. 

After two weeks, Barnabas sails through the house in fraying silk undergarments and dusty, pink-tinged mink he’s pulled out of a room he can’t remember, his days blurring together in their monotony. He stops to wipe a sleeve at one of the many ancient, spotted mirrors and squints through the smear of dust at his reflection, trying to reconcile the person standing in front of him with the person he thought he was. Wasn’t he supposed to have a purpose here? Wasn’t he needed in London? There is poverty, suffering; but it is far, far away, and he is in a place it would never touch him. 

There are as many mirrors as there are portraits of Mordechai’s family, all exactly alike, his haunting beauty and domineering presence. Barnabas drags a finger down the paint of one of them, leaving behind a thin white line. A tally mark to as many days he thinks he’s spent in this place. 

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, clipping pearlescent roses from the garden for a floral arrangement when he thinks about all those mirrors, and how a ghost could wander this house trapped forever. If he covers up the mirrors, then he could leave. 

*

Mordechai returns when Barnabas no longer keeps track of days and nights; when the mirrors don’t make him think of anything in particular, although he wonders why half of them are shrouded or turned to the wall. 

Barnabas drifts down to the coatroom and threads his arms through Mordechai’s. 

“Welcome home,” he says dreamily. 

“Hello,” Mordechai says. Barnabas makes a small, disappointed sound when Mordechai disengages himself to unwind his scarf. He scratches his beard. “You’re in a biddable mood.” 

“‘Course I am. I’m lovely,” Barnabas replies. He presses himself to Mordechai, enjoying the whole, solid block of him. Mordechai’s hands are worryingly chilly, and Barnabas gathers them and blows on them gently. Once he finishes the task he settles against Mordechai again, pleased with himself. 

Mordechai forgoes a response but for tipping Barnabas’s head back and sucking an open-mouthed kiss against his neck, working the skin with his tongue and the slick coldness of his teeth, and, oh, this is the touch that Barnabas has craved these past days. He’s felt so forlorn without it, only he never realized. 

He’s gasping and moaning by the time Mordechai splits his skin open and drinks his blood. It’s only then, with his blood being pulled out of him in long, deep strokes, that Barnabas remembers with ice-cold clarity why he’s here; to repay a debt; and that he should be feeling rather a lot of either shame, or anger, pain, or worry, but instead he’s trying to rut his puffed-up prick against the vampire’s body. 

Mordechai licks the wound closed and kisses Barnabas, sharing with him the taste of his own blood. 

“Happy new year,” Mordechai says.