#Mrs. Hall is a stalwart

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2023: October 8th

Day 8: Sex Pollen/Fuck or Die, Chastity, Sexual Competition

Max Lord x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: Magic stones, ancient inscriptions, DUB-CON, compulsion to have sex, wordless consent, public sex, frantic sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, mentions of biting

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Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The TV guy has been hanging around for the last few days. Causing a disruption in the everyday workload as the director had pushed for a personalized tour to the CEO of Black Gold since he was promising a sizable donation to the foundation. If there was one thing that could turn your normally stalwart director into a groveling slut, it was the promise of funds. 

You hear a booming laugh and roll your eyes. Unsure of what the joke was down the hall, but you know it was Barbara that was giving him the tour so it couldn’t be that funny. Nothing against her, but she wasn’t the joking type. You look back down at your large magnifying glass, looking through it at the inscription etched into the stone that has been a source of intrigue to you over the past few days since it had arrived. 

When your name is called, you try not to get annoyed, knowing that your boss would want you to place nice. Looking up and plastering a smile on your face as you watch Barbara and the TV guy, you forget his name, walk in. 

Well, she walks. He seemingly saunters in like he owns the place. Perhaps he thinks that because he’s going to write a check, he is an owner. 

His eyes are quick, clever. Far more clever that you would imagine seeing those cheesy commercials he always has played on the tv during Jeopardy. The smile you could do without. It’s screaming slightly sleazy, put on and false in order to get what he wants. The only question is, what does Max Lord want?

Introductions are made, Barabara bouncing almost nervously as you shake the salesman’s hand. Pulling your hand away quickly and turning towards her so she can tell you what she wants. She never approaches you unless she needs something. You aren’t one of the posh, beautiful scientists she wants so desperately to be close to. 

“Can I ask a favor?” She asks, clapping her hands together and giving you a pleading look. “I have a meeting that I can’t reschedule.” Her eyes flicker over to the suit and then back to you. “Could you please finish up the tour for Mr. Lord?” “Please….” He winces. “Call me Maxwell.” He offers with a sugar sweet smile that he seems to think to be a gift. He’s not bad looking, but he would look better if he took the Sun-in out of his hair and lost the boxy shoulder pads. You were one of the few that hated the way fashion has gone. 

“I have a lot to do here.” You protest but Barbara gives you an even more pleading expression. “But…..I can finish it up.” She nearly claps in relief. “After I finish up my work.” You warn seriously. 

“Yeah….sure….” She’s bobbing her head quickly and looking over Maxwell. “That’s great. Well, I know you’ll have a great time, so I’ll just run along.” 

You ignore the flirting and flustering as Maxwell makes a slight scene at Barbara leaving, kissing her hand and making her giggle like she’s five again. Soon enough, there’s blissful silence back in your lab so you can concentrate. 

“So what are you studying?” The question comes after two blissful minutes of silence. Two minutes that you had obviously hoped would be longer. Your eyes cut up from your magnifying glass to find Maxwell looking at the stone curiously. 

“A rock.” You glibly answer, keeping your tone just as dry as you possibly can. Barely resisting the urge to smirk when his grin slides off his unfairly handsome face. 

Maybe you feel a little guilty, but it’s not enough to make you apologize as you look back down at the inscription with a frown. While your Latin was rusty, you swear this is talking about fertility. Just as you tilt the glass down more, a finger appears in front of your magnifying glass, making it look even larger than normal, showing you the grooves in his skin. “What’s-”

“No!” You cry out, knowing that the stone cannot be touched without gloves. The instructions had been very clear in the crate that the stone was packed in. “Don’t touch it!” 

Your fingers collide, both of you touching the vivid jade stone at the same time. The piece seemingly glows at the contact and both of you gasp as you snatch your hands away, knocking over the magnifying glass. 

The next few moments are nothing short of a blur of pain and confusion. Nearly blacking out until a pair of lips smash against yours in the most inelegant, needy kiss of your life. 

“Ohhhh!” Your eyes fly open, finding Maxwell’s face right in yours and his mouth opens, groaning. 

“I can’t- I need-” He doesn’t stop kissing you, his words are just cut off by the tongue sliding into his mouth. Your tongue. The feeling of him pressing against you awakening something base inside you. 

You don’t know why, but you need him. The word fertility flashing in your mind and you push it away because of the burning of your skin and the throbbing of your cunt. 

He apparently feels the same way. Something hard and pulsing starts to push against your hip as he backs you up against the table you had been working at. Nothing but fervent kisses being exchanged, and his hands start to pull at your clothes. 

You never even think to push him away. It doesn’t even cross your mind. Too busy grabbing handfuls of him and ripping open the obvious faux Gucci belt so you can rip those ridiculously baggy pants off of him. 

His hands are bigger, harder than you ever would have imagined when watching those commercials of his. Wonderful on your skin as he slides them up  your thighs under your skirt. Hot as find the edge of your panties and hooking under them to start dragging them down. 

It’s not like you’ve talked about this, but neither one of you cares. Both of you groaning when your own hand dives into his briefs and wraps around an impressive cock. He hides it well under those bulky suits. 

Both of you need each other in a way that can’t even be described. The pain flaring in your stomach drives you, squeezing and pumping his cock, pulling back the foreskin and smearing the bead of precum around the head while he pants into your mouth. 

Your name, not even spoken by him before, sounds like ambrosia as it drips from his tongue. His own fingers sliding through your folds before he is pushing you up onto the table and spreading your legs to step between. 

Your cry would draw any number of personnel if there had been anyone. It had already been late in the day, and then the meeting had drawn everyone else away, leaving your floor empty with the exception of you and Maxwell. “Max!” Your eyes widen when he pushes inside you, filling you to the hilt with a needy, frantic thrust. 

He groans again, twitching violently inside you and gripping the edge of the table behind you. Pulling his hips back and shuddering when he thrusts forward again and moans at how tight you are. 

Rocking the table with how hard he’s fucking you, you can’t do anyting but hold on and whine for him. Every piercing thrust of his cock pushing the pain away and making your cunt feel amazing. Hitting all the best spots, deep inside you and scratching an itch you didn’t know you had. 

Kisses are littered on your skin, his teeth being used far more that you ever thought possible as a man fucks into you as frantically as Maxwell does. Chasing that same goal with the urgency that is burning underneath your own skin. Both of you pulling and grabbing at each other, clothes bunched between you as you grind your hips, your legs wrapped around his waist. 

“I didn’t- fuck, it’s so good.” Maxwell rambles. “You’re so good. I can’t - it’s so- fuck.” 

You can only moan in agreement, not even coherent enough to speak right now. Your entire focus on the connection of his cock in your pussy. 

Your body is so sensitive that you are shocked by how quickly you cum. Taking you by surprise as your head falls back and your hands hold onto his broad shoulders. Cunt clenching down around him and the heat of your orgasm rushing through your body and seemingly quenching that fire that had been burning since you touched the stone only minutes before. 

“Oh fuck, oh mierda.” He groans, clenching his teeth and shouting when he thrusts once more, pulsing heavily inside you as he paints your womb with his seed in hot spurts. Panting and whining as he rocks his hips to push every drop into your quivering cunt until he’s spent and collapsing against you and both of you drop to the table top. 

Gasping for air, you try to catch your breath as you roll your head to the side and feel Max nuzzle against your neck, his own breath still undstead. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of the stone. “What the fuck was that?” You ask, bewildered and almost giggly as you look at the fertility stone that had compelled both of you to fuck like wild animals in your lab. 

“I don’t know.” He pants. “But I might need a minute if we do it again.” 

Breaking into a giggle, your hand slides up to pet the hair that you had been snorting at earlier. Maybe Max Lord wasn’t soooo bad. “Hell of a tour, huh?” 

“Fuck.” He chuckles, still not moving on top of you and snuggling into you even more when your fingers scratch his scalp. “The best.” 

[smallpotato80]

I see an alternate reality where Mrs. Hall leaves with Gerald and ends up in a very bland life at the Lakes. Stuck caring for Gerald's sister with no real community around her. Her marriage to Gerald is bland. A kind man who cares for her, but it is rather sexless. Our dear, stalwart, Audrey is actually a red-blooded woman who had hoped for...more. There's no real flare other than Gerald bringing her chocolates and an occasional flower. She misses the Skeldale crew...but especially the ridiculous creature that is Siegfried Farnon. And, somehow, Siegfried was always able to reassure her when it was needed. A steady hand. A strong presence. She was strong for him when needed, as he was for her. Siegfried's antics, while exasperating to most, always seemed to both challenge and amuse her.

Very much hoping we see another door has opened for Audrey in series 5.

[readingrobin]

Silver in the Wood by Emily Tesh

There is a Wild Man who lives in the deep quiet of Greenhollow, and he listens to the wood. Tobias, tethered to the forest, does not dwell on his past life, but he lives a perfectly unremarkable existence with his cottage, his cat, and his dryads.

When Greenhollow Hall acquires a handsome, intensely curious new owner in Henry Silver, everything changes. Old secrets better left buried are dug up, and Tobias is forced to reckon with his troubled past, both the green magic of the woods and the dark things that rest in its heart. -Storygraph

There is a severe lack of green men in the current fantasy landscape, so I'm glad Tesh gave us at least some crumbs to nosh on in this novella. It's a type of being that can have widely different depictions, such as literal men in green with a tie to nature like Robin Hood or or something with a more supernatural, fae-like twist like The Green Knight. Tesh places Tobias somewhere in the middle, a seemingly immortal man living in the woods among the dryads and serves as its caretaker.

I particularly enjoyed the romance between Tobias and Henry, as there is something constantly endearing about the flirty, excitable youth being paired with the more world-weary, stoic type. It allows for a growth on both parts, with Tobias learning how to open himself up and reconnect to others, while also introducing Henry to the very real dangers of his folklore fascination. For a novella, their relationship was paced very well, allowing for a more steady buildup of mutual feelings as Tobias finds difficulty in sharing his emotions to, well, anyone.

The setting of the book is absolutely one that surrounds you as you read. The woods of Greenhollow exudes all the vibes one could want in an old forest: a stalwart quality that comes from living so long, a hidden magic that comes from its otherwordly denizens and history, and a danger that routinely lurks among the trees, preying on any innocent that it happens to cross. It paints the woods as a respectable, ancient force that carries peace, yet also a sense of loneliness from time to time.

Being a novella, there were thing that I wished had a little bit more focus or depth in its short page length. I didn't really get a good sense of what had happened to Tobias to be put in his Green Man position, nor exactly what was going on with the antagonist, but that's most likely due to Tesh's more cryptic storytelling that falls in line with the book's tone and atmosphere. It could very well just be a personal thing for me, so I won't knock it too hard. I would, however, have liked to see an entire series dedicated to Tobias fighting off paranormal threats with Mrs. Silver, Henry's mother, who is a force in of herself. But that's only a reader's simple wish.

Definitely going to be checking out the sequel in this duology to see where the characters go from here.

(4/5)

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Amid this revival of the coal trade, in the summer of 1881, [Robert] Drummond [an experienced union man and coal miner, the son of a grocer] arrived in Cape Breton on an organizing mission accompanied by William D. Matthews, formerly of Caledonia Mines. Given the personal acquaintance of the Cape Breton–born Matthews with the miners at Caledonia, the pair commenced their mission there. Notices of a meeting were “posted around the works at various points,” and Drummond and Matthews spoke of the many concessions “secured on the mainland” before the “largely attended meeting.” The attendees decided to form a Provincial Workmen’s Association [PWA] lodge in defiance of the contrary pleas of the mine manager, David McKeen. The manager at Reserve Mines, D. J. Kennelly, had sought to pre-empt such an outcome, summoning the labourers at the colliery to hear his anti-union speech. However, the miners had met in advance of the manager’s oration to decide on a course of action. They marched together to the hall and openly declared their intention to join the union. Drummond recalled that his plan was to organize the “southern collieries” before Sydney Mines, where strong resistance from R. H.Brown was anticipated. The strategy worked. By the time Drummond and Matthews arrived at Sydney Mines, “the union contagion had spread,” and “a union was formed without any opposition.” Thus, before the end of July, lodges had been formed at Sydney Mines (No. 8 Drummond), Bridgeport (No. 9 Island), Reserve Mines (No. 10 Unity), Caledonia Mines (No. 11 Equity), Gowrie Mines (No. 12 Banner), Block House Mines (No. 13 Eastern), Little Glace Bay (No. 14 Keystone), and Lingan (No. 15 Coping Stone). A Cape Breton subcouncil of the PWA was also created. By the fall, a lodge at the Ontario Mines in Big Glace Bay was established as well (No. 16 Wilson). The PWA by then claimed a total of 1,297 individual members on the Sydney coalfield. Suddenly, within a few months, the majority of the PWA’s membership was in Cape Breton

The decision of the PWA’s Cape Breton subcouncil to designate Little Glace Bay as the site of its meetings underlined the shift of gravity on the Sydney coalfield, away from Sydney Mines, to the south side of the coalfield. The rural context of the mines played a foundational role in shaping the character of the coal communities here, and it also shaped the social and cultural underpinnings of the new unionism. Of 71 Cape Breton PWA officers identified in the Trades Journal, nearly one in three had the surname McDonald (11), McLeod (6), or Ferguson (5). With these developments, the mythical “loyalty” of the Highlander was recast and celebrated in the pages of the Trades Journal to reinforce union solidarities. The sudden rise of the PWA in Cape Breton revealed the highly fragile and attenuated local rule of the coal operators. “One thing remarkable about the movement in Cape Breton is the sympathy expressed by both farmers and merchants for the success of the Association,” reported the Trades Journal, as both groups wished to see miners “draw their pay out of the office without being stopped in some of the truck stores.” Meanwhile, in the midst of the PWA’s organizing success, the priest who had in 1868 aided Mitchell in driving trade unionism from Little Glace Bay was depicted approvingly in the Trades Journal as a stalwart of the community. A correspondent from Cape Breton thus reported on Father Shaw’s removal from Little Glace Bay to mainland Nova Scotia: “General regret is expressed at the removal of the Rev. Mr. Shaw from Little Glace Bay, where he officiated as parish Priest for the past fifteen years. He was loved and revered by his parishioners, and as a man he was respected and esteemed by all who knew him. He was a thorough advocate of temperance, worked diligently for the cause, and was the main stay of the ‘League of the Cross’ in his parish.” The PWA was hardly a centrally administered body but rather a loose confederation of lodges, driven and shaped by local agency and perspectives. The League of the Cross – the Catholic total-abstinence society with which Father Shaw was deeply involved – gained an important local following and advocated an improving mission that was not entirely unlike that embraced by Drummond. The PWA channelled traditional sources of local authority at Little Glace Bay; it did not rival them."

- Don Nerbas, “‘Lawless Coal Miners’ and the Lingan Strike of 1882–1883: Remaking Political Order on Cape Breton’s Sydney Coalfield,” Labour/Le Travail 92 (Fall 2023), p. 99-101

[stevenjohnsenblog]

Community stalwart's savage attack on wife

Victim was hospitalised, court hears

A PILLAR of a village community attacked his wife so savagely she was hospitalised.

Newbury magistrates heard how 53-year-old Andrew Gravatt knocked his wife Catriona to the ground and stamped on her chest three times.

Jennifer Riddell, prosecuting, told the court on Thursday, September 3, that the incident happened at the couple’s Hill Green home in Leckhampstead.

She said: “There had been an argument about money and it became heated.

“She slammed the door, catching his foot; she picked up his laptop, raised it above her head and threatened to smash it.

“He later said all the problems they had been having over the years just boiled over.”

Mr Gravatt’s wife was taken to hospital, where she was detained overnight for treatment to her ribs, the court heard.

Mr Gravatt admitted assaulting Catriona Gravatt by beating her on July 28.

He has no previous convictions.

Laura Phillips, defending, said her client was extremely remorseful and a “professional man of examplary character, with not so much as speeding points on his record”.

She said Mr Gravatt, a father of two, was “extremely involved in his local community”, that he was treasurer of the Chievely Village Hall committee, a school governor and organiser of a local fireworks display.

Ms Phillips added: “He and his wife have been together for 25 years and married for 19. It has been a long and happy relationship.”

She said Mr Gravatt’s wife, who attended the hearing, had not supported the prosecution.

Ms Phillips handed in character references for magistrates to consider and urged them to grant her client a conditional discharge.

However, presiding magistrate Brenda Harding said she and her colleagues viewed his actions as “a serious case of domestic violence” and that a conditional discharge was not an option they were considering.

She added that pre-sentence reports were required and that a mid-level community sentence was likely.

Mr Gravatt had previously been on bail subject to a condition that he had no contact with his wife.

At Mrs Gravatt’s request, magistrates released him on unconditional bail until his sentencing hearing, scheduled for September 24.

[ra-tolkein]

Horror In Cool Air

You ask me Ra U sule to explain why I am afraid of a draught of cool All Types of Fridges, Aircons, Coldrooms, Freezer Room, why I shiver more than others upon entering a cold room, and seem nauseated and repelled when the chill of evening creeps through the heat of a mild autumn day. There are those who say I respond to cold as others do to a bad odour, and I am the last to deny the impression. What I will do is to relate the most horrible circumstance I ever encountered, and leave it to you to judge whether or not this forms a suitable explanation of my peculiarity.

It is a mistake to fancy that horror is associated inextricably with darkness, silence, and solitude. I found it in the glare of mid-afternoon, in the clangour of a metropolis, and in the teeming midst of a shabby and commonplace rooming house with a prosaic landlady and two stalwart men by my side. In the spring of 2023 I had secured some dreary and unprofitable magazine work in the city of New York, and being unable to pay any substantial rent, began drifting from one cheap boarding establishment to another in search of a room which might combine the qualities of decent cleanliness, endurable furnishings, and very reasonable price. It soon developed that I had only a choice between different evils, but after a time I came upon a house in West Fourteenth Street which disgusted me much less than the others I had sampled.

The place was a four-story mansion of brownstone, dating apparently from the late forties, and fitted with woodwork and marble whose stained and sullied splendour argued a descent from high levels of tasteful opulence. In the rooms, large and lofty, and decorated with impossible paper and ridiculously ornate stucco cornices, there lingered a depressing mustiness and hint of obscure cookery, but the floors were clean, the linen tolerably regular, and the hot water not too often cold or turned off, so that I came to regard it as at least a bearable place to hibernate till one might really live again. The landlady, a slatternly, almost bearded Spanish woman named Herrero, did not annoy me with gossip or with criticisms of the late-burning electric light in my third-floor front hall room; and my fellow-lodgers were as quiet and uncommunicative as one might desire, being mostly Spaniards a little above the coarsest and crudest grade. Only the din of street cars in the thoroughfare below proved a serious annoyance.

I had been there about three weeks when the first odd incident occurred. One evening at about eight I heard a spattering on the floor and became suddenly aware that I had been smelling the pungent odour of ammonia for some time. Looking about, I saw that the ceiling was wet and dripping; the soaking apparently proceeding from a corner on the side toward the street. Anxious to stop the matter at its source, hastened to the basement to tell the landlady, and was assured by her that the trouble would quickly be set right.

"Doctair Muñoz," she cried as she rushed upstairs ahead of me, "he have speel hees chemicals. He ces too seeck for doctair heemself-seecker and seecker all the time but he weel not have no othair for help. He ees vairy queer in bees seeckness all day he take funnee-smelling baths, and he cannot get excite or warm All hees own housework he do-hees leetle room are full of bottles and machines, and he do not work as doctair. But he was great once-my fathair in Barcelona have hear of heem and only joost now he feex a arm of the plumber that get hurt of sudden. He nevair go out, only on roof, and my boy Esteban he breeng heem hees food and laundry and mediceens and chemicals. My Gawd, the sal-ammoniac that man use for keep heem cool!"

Mrs. Herrero disappeared up the staircase to the fourth floor, and I returned to my room. The ammonia ceased to drip, and as I cleaned up what had spilled and opened the window for air, I heard the landlady's heavy footsteps above me. Dr. Muñoz I had never heard, save for certain sounds as of some gasoline-driven mechanism since his step was soft and gentle. I wondered for a moment what the strange affliction of this man might be, and whether his obstinate refusal of outside aid were not

the result of a rather baseless eccentricity. There is, I reflected tritely, an infinite deal of pathos in the state of an eminent person who has come down in the world.

I might never have known Dr. Muñoz had it not been for the heart attack that suddenly seized me one forenoon as I sat writing in my room. Physicians had told me of the danger of those spells, and I knew there was no time to be lost; so remembering what the landlady had said about the invalid's help of the injured workman, I dragged myself upstairs and knocked feebly at the door above mine. My knock was answered in good English by a curious voice some distance to the right, asking my name and business; and these things being stated, there came an opening of the door next to the one I had sought.

A rush of cool air greeted me; and though the day was one of the hottest of late  June, I shivered as I crossed the threshold into a large apartment whose rich and tasteful decoration surprised me in this nest of squalor and seediness. A folding couch now filled its diurnal role of sofa, and the mahogany furniture, sumptuous hangings, old paintings, and mellow bookshelves all bespoke a gentleman's study rather than a boarding-house bedroom. I now saw that the hall room above mine -the "leetle room" of bottles and machines which Mrs. Herrero had mentioned -was merely the laboratory of the doctor; and that his main living quarters lay in the spacious adjoining room whose convenient alcoves and large contiguous bathroom permitted him to hide all dressers and obtrusively utilitarian devices. Dr.

Muñoz, most certainly, was a man of birth, cultivation, and discrimination. The figure before me was short but exquisitely proportioned, and clad in somewhat formal dress of perfect cut and fit. A high-bred face of masterful though not arrogant expression was adorned by a short iron-grey full beard, and an old-fashioned pince-nez shielded the full, dark eyes and surmounted an aquiline nose which gave a Moorish touch to a physiognomy otherwise dominantly Celtiberian. Thick, well-trimmed hair that argued the punctual calls of a barber was parted gracefully above a high forehead; and the whole picture was one of striking intelligence and superior blood and breeding.

Nevertheless, as I saw Dr. Muñoz in that blast of cool air, I felt a repugnance which nothing in his aspect could justify. Only his lividly inclined complexion and coldness of touch could have afforded a physical basis for this feeling, and even these things should have been excusable considering the man's known invalidism. It might, too, have been the singular cold that alienated me; for such chilliness was abnormal on so hot a day, and the abnormal always excites aversion, distrust, and fear.

But repugnance was soon forgotten in admiration, for the strange physician's extreme skill at once became manifest despite the ice-coldness and shakiness of his bloodless-looking hands. He clearly understood my needs at a glance, and ministered to them with a master's deftness; the while reassuring me in a finely modulated though oddly hollow and timbreless voice that he was the bitterest of sworn enemies to death, and had sunk his fortune and lost all his friends in a lifetime of bizarre experiment devoted to its bafflement and extirpation. Something of the benevolent farustic seemed to reside in him, and he rambled on almost garrulously as he sounded my chest and mixed a suitable draught of drugs fetched from the smaller laboratory room Evidently he found the society of a well-born man a rare novelty in this dingy environment, and was moved to unaccustomed speech as memories of better days surged over him.

His voice, if queer, was at least soothing; and I could not even perceive that he breathed as the fluent sentences rolled urbanely out. He sought to distract my mind from my own seizure by speaking of his theories and experiments; and I remember his tactfully consoling me about my weak heart by insisting that will and consciousness are stronger than organic life itself, so that if a bodily frame be but originally healthy and carefully preserved, it may through a scientific enhancement of these

qualities retain a kind of nervous animation despite the most serious impairments, defects, or even absences in the battery of specific organs. He might, he half jestingly said, some day teach me to live -or at least to possess some kind of conscious existence-without any heart at all! For his part, he was afflicted with a complication of maladies requiring a very exact regimen which included constant cold. Any marked rise in temperature might, if prolonged, affect him fatally; and the frigidity of his habitation some 55 or 56 degrees Fahrenheit -was maintained by an absorption system of ammonia cooling, the gasoline engine of whose pumps I had often heard in my own room below.

Relieved of my seizure in a marvellously short while, I left the shivery place a disciple and devotee of the gifted recluse. After that I paid him frequent overcoated calls; listening while he told of secret researches and almost ghastly results, and trembling a bit when I examined the unconventional and astonishingly ancient volumes on his shelves. I was eventually, I may add, almost cured of my disease for all time by his skillful ministrations. It seems that he did not scorn the incantations of the mediaevalists, since he believed these cryptic formulae to contain rare psychological stimuli which might conceivably have singular effects on the substance of a nervous system from which organic pulsations had fled. I was touched by his account of the aged Dr. Torres of Valencia, who had shared his earlier experiments and nursed him through the great illness of eighteen years before, whence his present disorders proceeded. No sooner had the venerable practitioner saved his collea gue than he himself succumbed to the grim enemy he had fought. Perhaps the strain had been too great, for Dr. Muñoz made it whisperingly clear-though not in detail -that the methods of healing had been most extraordinary, involving scenes and processes not welcomed by elderly and conservative Galers.

As the weeks passed, I observed with regret that my new friend was indeed slowly but unmistakably losing ground physically, as Mrs. Herrero had suggested. The livid aspect of his countenance was intensified, his voice became more hollow and indistinct, his muscular motions were less perfectly coordinated, and his mind and will displayed less resilience and initiative. Of this sad change he seemed by no means unaware, and little by little his expression and conversation both took on a gruesome irony which restored in me something of the subtle repulsion I had originally felt.

He developed strange caprices, acquiring a fondness for exotic spices and Egyptian incense till his room smelled like a vault of a sepulchred Pharaoh in the Valley of Kings. At the same time his demands for cold air increased, and with my aid he amplified the ammonia piping of his room and modified the pumps and feed of his refrigerating machine till he could keep the temperature as low as 34 degrees or 40 degrees, and finally even 28 degrees; the bathroom and laboratory, of course, being less chilled, in order that water might not freeze, and that chemical processes might not be impeded. The tenant adjoining him complained of the icy air from around the connecting door, so I helped him fit heavy hangings to obviate the difficulty. A kind of growing horror, of outre and morbid cast, seemed to possess him. He talked of death incessantly, but laughed hollowly when such things as burial or funeral arrangements were gently suggested.

All in all, he became a disconcerting and even gruesome companion; yet in my gratitude for his healing I could not well abandon him to the strangers around him, and was careful to dust his room and attend to his needs each day, muffled in a heavy ulster which I bought especially for the purpose. I likewise did much of his shopping, and gasped in bafflement at some of the chemicals he ordered from druggists and laboratory supply houses. An increasing and unexplained atmosphere of panic seemed to rise around his apartment. The

whole house, as I have said, had a masty odour, but the smell in his room was worse and in spite of

all the spices and incense, and the pungent chemicals of the now incessant baths which he insisted on taking unaided. I perceived that it must be connected with his ailment, and shuddered when I reflected on what that ailment might be. Mrs. Herrero crossed herself when she looked at him, and gave him up unreservedly to me; not even letting her son Esteban continue to run errands for him. When I suggested other physicians, the sufferer would fly into as much of a rage as he seemed to dare to entertain. He evidently feared the physical effect of violent emotion, yet his will and driving force waxed rather than waned, and he refused to be confined to his bed. The lassitude of his earlier ill days gave place to a return of his fiery purpose, so that he seemed about to hurl defiance at the death-daemon even as that ancient enemy seized him. The pretence of eating, always curiously like a formality with him, he virtually abandoned; and mental power alone appeared to keep him from total collapse.

He acquired a habit of writing long documents of some sort, which he carefully sealed and filled with injunctions that I transmit them after his death to certain persons whom he named -for the most part lettered East Indians, but including a once celebrated French physician now generally thought dead, and about whom the most inconceivable things had been whispered. As it happened, I burned all these papers undelivered and unopened. His aspect and voice became utterly frightful, and his presence almost unbearable. One September day an unexpected glimpse of him induced an epileptic fit in a man who had come to repair his electric desk lamp; a fit for which he prescribed effectively whilst keeping himself well out of sight. That man, oddly enough, had been through the terrors of the Great War without having incurred any fright so thorough.

Then, in the middle of October, the horror of horrors came with stupefying suddenness. One night about eleven the pump of the refrigerating machine broke down, so that within three hours the process of ammonia cooling became impossible. Dr. Muñoz summoned me by thumping on the floor, and I worked desperately to repair the injury while my host cursed in a tone whose lifeless, rattling hollowness surpassed description My amateur efforts, however, proved of no use; and when I had brought in a mechanic from a neighbouring all-night garage, we learned that nothing could be done till morning, when a new piston would have to be obtained. The moribund hermit's rage and fear, swell ing to grotesque proportions, seemed likely to shatter what remained of his failing physique, and once a spasm caused him to clap his hands to his eyes and rush into the bathroom. He groped his way out with face tightly bandaged, and I never saw his eyes again.

The frigidity of the apartment was now sensibly diminishing, and at about 5 am the doctor retired to the bathroom, commanding me to keep him supplied with all the ice I could obtain at all-night drug stores and cafeterias. As I would return from my sometimes discouraging trips and lay my spoils before the closed bathroom door, I could hear a restless splashing within, and a thick voice croaking out the order for "More more!" At length a warm day broke, and the shops opened one by one. I asked Esteban either to help with the ice-fetching whilst I obtained the pump piston, or to order the piston while I continued with the ice; but instructed by his mother, he absolutely refused.

Finally I hired a seedy-looking loafer whom I encountered on the corner of Eighth Avenue to keep the patient supplied with ice from a little shop where I introduced him, and applied myself diligently to the task of finding a pump piston and engaging workmen competent to install it. The task seemed interminable, and I raged almost as violently as the hermit when I saw the hours slipping by in a breathless, foodless round of vain telephoning, and a hectic quest from place to place, hither and thither by subway and surface car. About noon I encountered a suitable supply house far downtown,

and at approximately 1:30 p.m. arrived at my boarding-place with the necessary paraphernalia and two sturdy and intelligent mechanics. I had done all I could, and hoped I was in time. Black terror, however, had preceded me. The house was in utter turmoil, and above the chatter of

awed voices I heard a man praying in a deep busso. Fiendish things were in the air, and lodgers told over the beads of their rosaries as they caught the odour from beneath the doctor's closed door. The lounger I had hired, it seems, had fled screaming and mad-eyed not long after his second delivery of ice; perhaps as a result of excessive curiosity. He could not, of course, have locked the door behind him; yet it was now fastened, presumably from the inside. There was no sound within save a nameless sort of slow, thick dripping

Briefly consulting with Mrs. Herrero and the workmen despite a fear that grawed my inmost soul, I advised the breaking down of the door; but the landlady found a way to turn the key from the outside with some wire device. We had previously opened the doors of all the other rooms on that hall, and flung all the windows to the very top. Now, noses protected by handkerchiefs, we tremblingly invaded the accursed south room which blazed with the warm sun of early afternoon.

A kind of dark, slimy trail led from the open bathroom door to the hall door, and thence to the desk, where a terrible little pool had accumulated. Something was scrawled there in pencil in an awful, blind hand on a piece of paper hideously smeared as though by the very claws that traced the hurried last words. Then the trail led to the couch and ended unutterably.

What was, or had been, on the couch I cannot and dare not say here. But this is what I shiveringly puzzled out on the stickily smeared paper before I drew a match and burned it to a crisp; what I puzzled out in terror as the landlady and two mechanics rushed frantically from that hellish place to babble their incoherent stories at the nearest police station. The nauseous words seemed well-nigh incredible in that yellow sunlight, with the clatter of cars and motor trucks ascending clamorously from crowded Fourteenth Street, yet I confess that I believed them then. Whether I believe them now I honestly do not know. There are things about which it is better not to speculate, and all that I can say is that I hate the smell of ammonia, and grow faint at a draught of unusually cool air.

"The end," ran that noisome scrawl, "is here. No more ice -the man looked and ran away. Warmer every minute, and the tissues can't last. I fancy you know what I said about the will and the nerves and the preserved body after the organs ceased to work. It was good theory, but couldn't keep up indefinitely. There was a gradual deterioration I had not foreseen. Dr. Torres knew, but the shock killed him. He couldn't stand what he had to do -he had to get me in a strange, dark place when he minded my letter and nursed me back. And the organs never would work again. It had to be done my way-preservation-for you see I died that time eighteen years ago.

Ra U Sule O lucifer lode My Son HPLOVECRAFT

[therealmrsdana]

Posted @withregram • @williammraineshigh For Immediate Release 8-6-22 William Marion Raines Senior High School Mourns the Loss of Deborah Mosely Norman At her guidance suite dedication in 2019, Mrs. Deborah Mosely Norman ended the event saying, “Thank God for letting me serve my purpose in life, for the children at Raines, so that they could be all that they could be. Thank God.” This one hit me hard. I am still in shock. It is with extreme grief and lasting sadness that I announce the passing of Mrs. Deborah Mosely Norman. Mrs. Norman was the longest serving guidance counselor in the history of William Marion Raines Senior High School. Mrs. Norman’s guidance was a beacon of light for many students on their paths through high school and post-secondary journey. She was a stalwart champion in the field of public education. She dedicated 35 years of her life to educating the students of Raines. She continued her benevolence to the Raines graduates through her consistent monetary gifts and community service for many years after she officially retired. She never left Raines. We all carry a piece of her guidance with us in our hearts. Today she has gone home, and we've lost one of the most influential, courageous, and profoundly good human beings that any of us will share time with on this Earth. She no longer belongs to us; she belongs to the ages. We mourn her loss and send our heartfelt condolences to her family and loved ones. A more appropriate and detailed tribute will be released later and as we learn of an official memorial service we will share. For now, let us pause and give thanks for the fact that Deborah Mosely Norman lived, a woman who guided us and bent us towards the light. Please keep her family and all Vikings in your thoughts during this very difficult time. Vincent Hall Principal (at Jacksonville, Florida) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cg7VhYLLEb_/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[wordynerdygurl]

Hello Everyone! I've been conspiring with @sammy-jo1977 to create a new series of sorts. We want to explore all those characters that started us on our journey into Fandoms, large and small.

This series will be a place for those ladies and gents who haven't had a lot of attention recently, are old favorites or the ones you can't seem to shake. If you would like to contribute a chapter to this guide, please send me a message! We want to have a full and accurate guide, so we are hoping you'll hop in with your character of expertise!

As an example, I'm posting our first story... I'd love to get your thoughts! With Love - Your WordyNerdyGurl

In The Stacks - A Rupert Giles Story

Author’s Note:  This story is due, in large part, to my beta-bestie @sammy-jo1977 and it is part of the afore mentioned series.  This character might be off television, but his fiery spirit lives on!! As always, reblogs/ shares are encouraged as are comments and love!

Pairing:  Female Reader x Giles (Buffy The Vampire Slayer Series) Summary:  You get up to mischief with the librarian, in the stacks. Warnings:  SMUT ahead.  General Buffy knowledge might help, but is not required.  There’s a moment with a bit of blood, but hopefully nothing too triggering for anyone! I hope you enjoy!

“Mr. Giles?” “Just a moment!”  You heard the clipped British voice answer before being drowned out by the heavy thumping of falling books and the rustling sound of shifting papers hitting the floor. As you stepped further into the Sunnydale High library, you weren’t surprised to see the familiar faces of Buffy, Willow, Xander and Cordelia huddled around a small table.  The friends were practically inseparable and clearly close.  You found their kinship adorable and couldn’t help smiling at the group as you drew closer. “Hello to some of my best students!  And of course, to you Mr. Harris.  How is everyone today?”

Willow, stalwart student and overachiever, smiled broadly, “Pretty good.  I did ace my math quiz and got an A on my English paper… but, well, I only pulled a B on my Bio test and I just know that I could have done better.” Offering her friend a consoling pat to the shoulder, Buffy sighed, “It’s ok, Will.  You’ll get those cells next time!” “Tune in next week as Willow passes her AP Biology test with flying colors, on ‘As Sunnydale Turns’!” Before anyone could counter, Giles came around the corner carrying a sturdy stack of texts which he dropped onto the table as gently as the large load allowed, “As always, you four are the best assistants a librarian could ask for.” “Come on Giles!  You know I only hang out here for the beautiful ladies!” Pinching the bridge of his strong nose, Rupert Giles sighed, “I am well aware of where your interests lie, Xander.” “Please, he can hardly handle being with one beautiful girl.”  That was from Cordelia who pouted prettily, her hand mirror open as she fixed her hair. “My girlfriend, ladies and gentlemen!  Thanks for that, Cordy.” Snapping the case shut, staring down her beau, she smiled, “You’re welcome.” “Uh, Mr. Giles, if I may?”  You hated to interrupt but you had come in with a purpose and you meant to see it through. “Yes, of course, how can I help?” Shuffling your feet, a bit nervous now with the asking, you smiled shyly, “I asked at the local library but they were absolutely no help.  You see, I’m looking for a specific point of reference and I was led to believe that you could help me.” “Oh!  Is it something for our Inner Vision collage boards?  I love working on mine, only… It’s not my fault that I only see dark clouds and blood when I close my eyes.” “Well, Miss Summers, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  And the best art challenges us to see that beauty.” “I hate to tell you what I see when I close my eyes.”  Xander retorted. “Ah, Mr. Harris, your collage certainly showcases your, ahem, cultured world view.” “Hey!  The Simpsons are fine art, ok?  Just because they don’t live in a museum doesn’t mean they aren’t culture.” Giles, unable to stand by any longer griped, “Xander, I am almost positive that cartoons do not count as culture.” You started to answer but Buffy cut you short, adding, “Don’t mind Giles.  If it doesn’t come out of some dirty, dusty old book it can’t be culture.” “It’s pop culture!  The entertainment of my generation!” It was your turn to cut in, turning to the tweed clad gentleman, “Actually, Mr. Giles, Xander has a point.  Cartoons and animation in general are all increasingly seen as valid forms of art.  No matter what your tomes might tell you.” Smirking a little, he appraised your answer before replying, “Be that as it may, Mr. Harris, the amount of television you consume is corrosive.” Raising his hands in defense, Xander’s head swiveled between the two of you as Willow chimed in, “Give it up, Xander.  You know you’ll never win and besides, I’m pretty sure that animation and art are different.  Wait.  They are, aren’t they?” “When I was in Rome last summer, the very attractive, very Italian tour guide told us that they’ve found painted graffiti on the Coliseum.  It only goes to prove that times change but people don’t.” “Cordy’s right!  About the art, not the dishy Italian.  And they didn’t paint it, they carved it.”  Bouncing her blonde hair decisively, Buffy made her declaration.   “Wouldn’t paint be easier?  I mean, who wants to carry a chisel in order to deface a wall?” “Oh!  Oh!  I know this!  The kind of paint needed to last for centuries hadn’t been invented yet!”  Willow, lifting out of her seat in the excitement of academic excellence, was giddy. “Yes, Willow, that is correct.  In fact, a lot of the graffiti is simple and very crude.  Mostly of the phallus, if memory serves.  I’m sure I can find a documented case in Agrippa if you’ll all just-” And you watched as everyone rolled their eyes as Giles trailed off, lost now in the hunt for a specific volume which could be sited, should further proof be needed. “Ew.  Pass.” “I’m with Buffy here, Giles.  Keep your Grecian graffiti out of my brain.” “I’ll stick with the Simpsons, thank you very much.” “Yes, well.  It’s not Grecian at all, is it?  It’s Roman-” Smiling broadly, Buffy hopped off the table, “Giles is right.  The Greeks were more into orgies!” “Buffy!”  Willow’s shocked response made you cover a laugh with a fake cough. “-Of course, cites are rare.  Very difficult to find documentation.”  Giles, typically, hadn’t given up the search. Cutting through the chatter, louder than it ever needed to be, the period bell sounded. "Ugh.  Gym class for me.  Why is this even a thing?" "I don't know Buffy, I thought you liked showing off in your little shorts and beating the boys at basketball." "Cordy, that's enough.  And while us boys do love looking at you, Buff... we don't love the beatings you regularly deliver." "Well, I have a free period Giles!  Do you want me to stay and -" Snapping shut the leather book he was gripping, Giles caught your eye and turned to the peppy student, "Uh, no Willow, I don't think so.  I believe I need to see what our Art Department is in need of at the moment." With a shrug, Willow began packing up her belongings as Xander slung his back back over his shoulder, "Will, you can come with me.  I'm going to find a nice little corner, under a tree, and sleep away my study hall." “But, I… I could help find the Agrippa?  Or… some other old Roman book?” Xander wrapped an arm around Willow and took Cordelia’s open hand, “But why do that when nothing calls?” "Another fine example of your scholastic aptitude, Mr. Harris", was your parting shot at the foursome as they walked out the door. "Well. Mr. Giles, now that we’re alone… Could I talk you into helping me out?" “Of course, of course.”  Pushing his glasses further up his nose, fixing his light eyes on yours, “What are we looking for?” Sighing deeply, knowing the chances were slim, “I was hoping we would find some examples of Pre-Columbian deity carvings.” Pausing, his look serious, Giles peered at you, “Interesting.  Anything in particular?” “Yes, actually.”  Again you flushed, more than a little flustered at what you were really looking for, “I’m researching fertility icons.” Raising his eyebrows, Giles started, more than a little outside of his comfort zone, but you had to give him credit.  He recovered from the shock rather quickly, “Oh… I… I see.  Well yes, I’m sure we can find… something.  If you’ll follow me, please.” “I’m right behind you.”  Biting into your bottom lip, you smiled to yourself.  Right behind Mr. Giles?  What a place to be.  Giles led the young art teacher through the deepest stacks of the library, pausing once or twice to confirm that she was keeping up with him.  He was ashamed to admit that he had lost travelers a time or two as he stalked through his overstuffed shelves, knowing instinctively where to find the book he needed most. For her, watching the tweed covered bottom of Mr. Giles was no hardship.  True, he was older and tad bit reserved in the best British way, yet she had the sneaking suspicion that underneath all the wool and starched cotton was the heart of a wild man poet. "Uh... just a bit further, I'm afraid.  Books like this, well, I keep them at a greater remove." "It makes sense.  Don't want the kiddos getting a hold of anything too tantalizing." "Of course not.  As you well know, they don't need much help in the libidinous response department." You chuckled softly, nodding as the air around you grew stuffier, "Too true!  You should see what some of them turn in and call art.  It would make a blind man blush." And at the mention of blushing, you were shocked to see a rosy hue grow on Mr. Giles' cheeks.  You liked it.  It reminded you of the high color in a Vermeer painting.  You couldn’t help the flutter in your belly at the thought, "Mr. Giles, have you ever seen a South American fertility statue?" "I can't say that I have... have... have you?"  Something about the idea of you examining an ancient artifact directly connected to sexual congress made his body stir.  "Hmm... Oh, yes.  I was able to study in Mexico for a semester.  Some of the art work is just incredible and the carvings, they're truly magnificent.  Carefully made.  Usually stone or..." swallowing hard, your throat suddenly dry, "hard wood." Breaking fast at the implication in your words, Giles froze in place which caused you to press directly against his broad, vest covered back.  You had a second to register the soft scent of his aftershave; something spicy and masculine, which made your mouth water.  Moaning quietly, you offered a weak apology, “Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Giles.” Offering you his profile, the bookcases too cramped for him to turn around fully, you saw his sweet smile, “That’s… that’s quite alright.  In fact, we’re here.” Stepping out of the way, you pushed back against the opposite wall, the shelves digging into your spine in the confined space.  Giles bent over, giving you a great view of his backside, as he extracted a slim book from the bottommost ledge.  When he stood up, directly in front of you, the narrow, book covered alcove caused him to stumble. Giles’ chest collided with your own, forcing the air out of your lungs.  Instinctively, you lifted a leg, curling it over the swell of one trousered hip and lifting the hem of your knee length plaid kilt.  Nose to nose in a compromising position, you exhaled a shaky breath as Mr. Giles inhaled, “Close quarters around here.” Shifting under his deceptively hard figure, it was difficult to ignore all the places that were firm to the touch, especially when you could feel so much through the thin barrier of your cotton panties.  Bracing one arm on the obliging shelf biting into your shoulder, Giles pushed back a bit, lifting his weight off of you without making any other attempts to move away.  He was so close now.  Close enough to feel your fuzzy sweater and all the soft skin that trembled beneath it.  Close enough to see the pound of your pulse in your throat.  Close enough that when you licked over your bottom lip Giles could almost taste it too.  And why shouldn’t he?  “Giles?”  Your voice was whisper soft, fanning hotly over the face of your colleague. “Uh… yes?” “I’m stuck.” Blinking behind his thick lenses, it took the normally quick witted Brit a second to process your words, “You’re stuck?” Nodding slowly, your hair curling over your cheek, “My… My skirt.  It’s… uh, caught.  Caught on something behind me.” “Good heavens!  I’m so sorry, let me help you.”  Slowly, Giles lowered your bare leg to the floor, his hand lingering for a second longer than absolutely necessary.  He was still in your space.  Still incredibly close to you. You arched away from the bookcase in an attempt to free yourself with a groan that sounded heady in the stuffy stacks.  All you managed to do was force your sweater covered décolletage into Giles’ chest.  Stammering, a wave of sweat breaking over his brow, “Allow me?” The way your skirt was caught pulled the bright plaid lower on your waist than you would normally consider decent.  It meant that you had a fleshy strip of skin exposed along your tummy and Giles raised his eyebrows by means of asking permission to touch you.  “Yea, yes.  Please!” Tentatively, gently, you felt the strong fingers of Rupert Giles circle your waist and shivered at the unfamiliar familiarity of his touch.  Your chin rested on his shoulder as he worked and you couldn’t help sighing when he opened his hands and pulled you closer.  Under other circumstances you might have misunderstood the embrace but you were both professionals.  Not that you hadn’t considered the handsome book guardian a time or two before. “I… I think we’re almost there.  If you’ll just, maybe to the right?” “Um, sure.”  Following his directions you twisted in his arms, trying hard not to tear your outfit or rub against Giles.  All the close contact and talk of fertility gods had you feeling a little aroused and it wouldn’t do for your colleague to learn that fact. With a triumphant grunt, Giles set you free, only for gravity to kick back in.  The momentum created by your falling took the gentleman and the entire Grollier’s Gothic Almanac collection with you.  A cascade of papers, scrolls and dust rained down on you both. Coughing, aware that you were laying on something softer than the floor, you struggled into a sitting position, swatting away clouds of disintegrated pages, “Rupert?  Are you alright?” From beneath you a rumbling grumble that sounded like, “Yes quite… you?” was heard.  It was then that you realized exactly where you were.  Straddling your friendly neighborhood librarian, surrounded by debris, but safe, all the same. “Oh my!  I’m so-” “No, No.  Please, don’t apologize.  I’ve been meaning to reorganize this section and well, now it seems I’ve got no choice.” “You’ve got a bump.  Right here…”  Just over his right eye a small bruised egg, the color of lilacs, was starting to rise and you gingerly touched the swelling spot. “Then it will match the one on the back of my head perfectly.” “Poor Giles!  All of this injury in the name of research!” “No one ever tells you the dangers one might encounter in the library.” His dry British wit sent you both into giggles and suddenly nothing could be funnier than the moment you were in with Mr. Giles.  Looking up at you, his fingertip traced over your cheek, suddenly serious, “I’m not the only one with a war wound, it appears.” “Oh?”  Your hand covered his as you realized that you had a small cut, bleeding just a little, over the apple of your jaw.  Smoothing his thumb over your injury, Giles soothed you, saying, “Hush now, I think you’ll live.”  And you watched as Giles sucked the drop of scarlet from the pad there, his green eyes on yours, daring you.  Something about it was so… sinful.  So dark.  So alluring. Then his lips were on yours, suddenly and savagely.  Hands, firm and capable, slid under the fluff of your sweater along your spine as you tangled your own in his dark hair.  Giles, drawing you near, was satisfied only when you were splayed over him, writhing between the piles of text and stacks of piled paperbacks, as his tongue plundered your mouth. Trapped by his bent knees at your bottom, Giles helped center you over the firmness of his excitement, teasing you as you moaned, “Oh, oh Rupert!” “Call me Ripper.”  Before the word had left your throat, Giles was sloppily kissing over your neck, sucking lightly on the skin revealed by the v-neck of your top.  Sitting up quickly, you lifted the soft sweater over your head, tossing it away from you without concern.  Like one of the teenagers you might chastise, you then hugged your lover tight, gasping when you felt the nip of teeth over your bra.  “Giles… Uh, Ripper!  Please, go easy?”  With a hard grip on your upper thigh and one hand on the back of your neck, Giles held you still, smirking, “If you wanted easy you shouldn’t have come looking for fertility icons, my dear little art teacher.  And if this particular article of clothing-” He paused long enough to pinch at your hardening nipple before continuing, “-is dear to you, take it off.” Clenching your abdominals at his crass language, more turned on that you could remember, you reached behind you.  Unhooking the pretty scrap of lace and satin, you shyly covered yourself, biting into your bottom lip, “Fine… Ripper.  Should I be worried for my virtue?” “Absolutely.”  Without waiting for permission, Giles pulled your arms away, exposing your bare body to his blazing gaze, “You have nothing to hide, you know?  You are-” “Just shut up and kiss me, Ripper.”  And he did. Grinding your hips into his, it was impossible to ignore his hardening manhood, even through the fabric of his pressed trousers.  Giles cupped your bottom, under your skirt but over your panties, bouncing you in place as if he was already inside of you.  For your part, you tried to unbutton his pin striped shirt, but the force of his kisses was proving too distracting. “Oh, dear!  Poor thing been kissed senseless?”  He was teasing and cruel, but in the sexiest possible way. Red cheeked and huffing, you nodded, “Yes… let me touch you!” “Tsk… you didn’t say ‘please’.” “Please!  Please, Ripper!  Oh god, please let me!” Unseating you slightly, Giles leaned up on his elbows, cocking his head to one side as he took in the mess he had made of you, “Go ahead then.  Unzip my pants.” “What?” Removing his glasses, eyeing you darkly, “You heard me, I think.” Swallowing hard, your hands shaking with excitement, you reached for Giles’ belt.  Watching him, and only him, you slowly slide the leather from it’s buckle.  When you popped the button of his pants and let your hand drag over his hardened length, Rupert groaned and tossed his head back, “Yes.  Keep going.” Slowly, agonizingly so, you lowered the zipper as you were ordered to do, “What now, Ripper?” “Take me out.  I want you to feel what you do to me.” “I can do that.”  You played it cool, but the saucy words being said in that clipped British baritone did things to you.  They made your thighs tighten, your belly flutter and your breath catch.   Trailing a hand over Giles' barely exposed hip, you moved closer to the prize, your prize, as it pulsed with need.  Wrapping your hand around the meaty girth of Rupert's member, you couldn't help stroking the silky hot skin, so vital in your palm.  That it caused the man beneath you to moan your name only added fuel to the fire of your desire. Slick and sorely wanting, you licked your lips, ready to savor the flavor of your book stacking beau but he stopped you, saying, "Last chance to run back to the studio." "No way… Ripper."  And you felt a rough jerk as your panties were removed by force, the air cool on your overheated core.  Another kiss, full of needful things, distracted you as Giles parted your lower lips with his nimble fingers. Pumping into you, once, twice, just to ensure that you were ready, Rupert swiftly stretched your center.  With your small hand guiding his shaft, you lowered yourself onto the engorged tower of his power, crying out a ragged, "Oh God!" You thought you were capable of handling any man, but the delicious spread Giles' fine form forced you to endure was more than you expected.  Clutching at his bunched up sweater vest, your back arched tautly as Rupert dragged your hips down onto his unrelenting hardness over and over.   In your head, a rhythmic, tribal tattoo that made you think of ancient fires and curved statues took hold and you rose and fell against Giles on the beats vibrating through your brain.  He sensed it too, alternating his stroke, slowing down and speeding up in time with the thrumming pulse only the pair of you could hear.  "I want you to cum for me.  Do you understand?  Tell me you understand." "Yes!  Yes!  I'm so close, Ripper!  So close!" "Good.  That's very good."  Tingling now, your muscles tensed, ready for the release Rupert would provide.  You flung yourself onto his swollen sex without thought or reason, merely searching for the pleasure he had promised.  His thumb, so thick, so clever, pressed against your sensitive clit and your world imploded. Rupert felt it.  The moment your body and his melded together was forceful.  It tore his pleasure from his loins in grunting gasps as he experienced your ecstacy at his hands. Limp and listless, you draped your half nude body over his, dazed and drained.  Who knew screwing the librarian would feel this good?  In your post coital haze you started to laugh.  Giles, his hands roaming over the sweat soaked skin of your back, heard your chuckles and joined in.  It was another release, of sorts, and you found it almost as intimate as the act you had just committed. Folding your hands under your chin, flashing Rupert a wide smile, "Ripper, huh?" Sliding his glasses back into place and carding a hand through his hair, Giles grinned, "Oh, uh… yes.  Ripper.  My nickname in London." Toying with the collar of his shirt, "I'd love to hear about London sometime… Ripper." At the sound of that name in your voice, Rupert flexed inside of you, "Call me that again and you'll miss last period." Gasping against him, nodding weakly, "Hmm… promise?" That made him smile broadly as he handed you back your sweater, "We can't have a repeat of last week, can we?" "It wasn’t my fault you didn't hear the bell ring, Mr. Giles!" Sitting up, you fastened your bra and shrugged into your sweater before asking, "Did you have to destroy my undies?" "I'm afraid I did.  Although I told you to remove anything dear, didn't I?" "What am I gonna do for the next hour, Giles?" Pushing his glasses up, "I would advise you not to bend over." Swatting at him playfully, you used one of the sturdier shelves to stand, adjusting your skirt and fluffing your hair.  Looking around at the absolute mess created by falling books, embarrassed, you asked, "Can I help clean this up?" "No, I don't think that'll be necessary.  After all, Willow will be in-" "Along with Buffy and Xander and Cordelia.  Got it." Standing himself, Giles chuckled as he fastened his trousers and set himself to rights, "Precisely.  Now-" he bent over to retrieve a slim volume, "- The book you asked about.  Fertility iconography in Meso-American subcultures." "Thanks.  Ya know, I always enjoy coming to the library.  I'm surprised more people don't." Walking with you, his hand on your lower back, nuzzling into your neck, "I enjoy you cumming in the library." It was on the tip of your tongue to say something fresh when the overly loud bell clanged.  Lifting up on tiptoes you pressed a kiss to the goose egg over Giles' eye, saying, "I hope that makes it feel better!" Snagging you into a tight hug, Giles stared into your eyes before kissing you deeply, "That.  That makes it feel better." And then the library door swung wide on the four students who called the library a second home, "Um… are my eyes deceiving me or is Giles sporting a black eye?  I was only gone for an hour, big guy, what happened?" "If you must know, Xander, a shelf collapsed in the back.  We were fortunate enough not to be badly hurt but, there were some bumps and bruises." "A shelf!  Oh no… which one?!" Giles turned to Willow solemnly, "I'm afraid all the Grollier’s… and most of Crentist." "On it.  Come on Xander.  You can help me sort!" "Aw, gee.  That sounds like fun." As the pair trotted off, you turned to Giles, whispering low, "Dinner?  My place?  You can tell me about London, your childhood and why you love tweed." Eyeing Buffy, who was distracted and a distraught, Giles answered, "Tonight?  Um…" "He'd love to!  Say 9 o'clock?  And, he'll bring the wine."

Spinning on your heel, surprised that Buffy was your champion, you grinned, "Great!  Awesome!  I will see you then."

As you left you heard the bubbly blonde doling out instructions, "No Giles.  You can't wear that outfit to dinner!  You need to look nice.  Nicer than you do now.  Also, why is there so much dust in your hair?" If Giles answered you didn’t hear it over your big yawn.  You had a lot to do between now and 9 o’clock.  Rupert Giles was coming over for dinner and you could hardly wait.

------ Fin ------- I’m tagging my minxes, even though this is specifically NOT a Loki story.  I do want you guys to send me stories that might fall under the “Hot Characters” banner though!   Minxes:   @scrumptious-finicky-illusion​ @iamverity​ @mizfit2​ @sammy-jo1977​ @wolfsmom1​ @jessiejunebug​ @iluvsumbucky​ @unadulteratedwizardlove @procrastinatinglikeabitch @shxdowofdarkness​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @ahintofkiwistrawberry​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @rorybutnotgilmore​ @crystalizedcaramel​ @lokislittlecorner​ @capcapcapsicle @jamielea81​ @caffiend-queen​​ @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore​​ @jenjen8675309​​ @that-one-person​​ @roguewraith​​ @toomanystoriessolittletime​ @vodka-and-some-sass​ @just-random-obsessions​ @brokenthelovely​ @lots-of-loki​ @thefallenbibliophilequote​

[sardinesandhumbugs]

If you're still doing the musical writing prompts, could you do 45, maybe with Mole?

Of course I can! 45 was “Home. I've heard heard the word before, but it never meant much more than just a thing I've never had” from a Very Potter Sequel. Sorry for the long delay, nonny, but hopefully it was worth the wait! It certainly turned out longer than expected.

x

"The important thing about having lots of things to remember is that you’ve got to go somewhere afterwards where you can remember them, you see? You’ve got to stop. You haven’t really been anywhere until you’ve got back home."

The Light Fantastic, Terry Pratchett

x

If someone had asked Mole what home was before that fateful spring morn, his answer would have been easy.

Home was the cosy, still air of beneath-ground. It was the door jamb that stuck and the window that leaked. It was the carols that alighted his porch each winter, the smell of jams being prepared in the autumn, and the dust that made him sneeze every spring cleaning. It was found in solid things that marked the passage of time as surely as clockwork in the sunless tunnels. (Clockwork marked the hours, and seasons marked the year, and everything else between was of little consequence.)

Several months on, and his answer is no longer so sure.

The first hint – at least, the first hint he takes notice of – that it is no longer the clear-cut divide of holiday verses home comes in the fright of the Wild Wood, so far from either.

(If he had been taking notice, he perhaps would have seen the spare glasses that now live at Ratty's riverside residence, the household chores that are shared without comment, or the divide in the larder that Ratty has made for Mole's more species-specific snacks. But he hasn't been taking notice, and such things have passed him by in the comfort of a new normality.)

So Mole is far from home (either, both) when Ratty finds him. They are both scared and shaken, but there is no doubt in Ratty's voice with the question, "Wouldn't you rather just go home?" as if home couldn't be anywhere but the river. Maybe (probably) for Ratty it's true (he had certainly once proclaimed it to be his food, his drink, his company – his world) but for Mole, the word is an altogether more complicated affair.

In that moment, however, he longs for the sunlit riverbank.

It is only later, when they settle into the familiar underground air of Badger's sett, that Mole remembers Mole End at all. It lasts only briefly – they have so many other issues at hand, namely that of the disastrous Toad – but it is enough to give him pause. It leaves him stranded between betrayal and mutiny. Betrayal, for his hasty abandonment of his home, and mutiny as he realises he does not want to give up his newfound riverbank life.

But when it comes to it, it doesn't really matter – not in Badger's sett, nor in his brief yuletide return to Mole End – because in the end, at Mole End, he looks to Ratty and knows that he'll follow wherever his friend goes.

(The feeling, though Mole does not realise it at the time, is mutual. Although in Ratty's case, the stubborn loyalty had made itself known months ago, back when he chose the open road over his river – if only for a passing season. Even so, he has never had cause to doubt (not even on the open road, not really) that his river might not be enough to tempt even the most stalwart undergrounder to linger a while longer – but Ratty looks to his friend, surrounded by his titular home, and realises Mole is as much of the earth as he is of the river and that one day it may reclaim him.)

x

It is the week following Toad's grand party that life eventually settles back to the point that Mole can finally turn his mind to more homeward bound matters. For as life has calmed – as adventures and escapes and daring retakings have made way for the more mundane reality of day-to-day living – he realises another spring is on its way out, a year has passed, and he is in danger of becoming rooted to the riverbank. There is the scent of summer on the horizon, thick and heady, and a strange sensation he hesitates to call homesickness lingers in him. It whispers of dirt and earth and it makes his claws itch until he can stand it no longer and he knows – he knows he must return.

He attempts to casually bring up the subject as they clear away dinner.

"I'm thinking," he says, "of returning to Mole End." Ratty's step falters, if only for a moment. "Just for a few days," Mole adds. "I thought I might get some of that spring cleaning done that I never finished from last year."

"We'll make a trip of it then," Ratty suggests brightly, and if Mole knew him just a little less well, he might believe the forced cheer – but he does know him that well and he reads past the façade. "I've never picnicked underground before, but there's a first for everything–"

"Just me, I think," Mole interrupts. "It's just a little tidy up; there's no reason to drag both of us there."

"Oh." Ratty falters again. There's some unease at the sure exclusion, but there's a trace of relief too; underground is still a discomfort to the riverbank-born animal although, if Mole is being brutally honest with himself, his reason for returning alone is more to do with his own needs than Ratty's.

He is not brutally honest. At least not this time. But he suspects Ratty has him figured all the same, for he lingers by the door, watching as Mole packs up a few choice belongings to accompany him to Mole End. Ratty's stance is nonchalant, but the way he talks of their plans after Mole's return feels like he is eking out a promise he isn't sure Mole will keep.

Mole senses enough of this to hold his tongue when it comes to the strange homesickness that has stolen over him. He has learnt enough of his friend to know the comment, however innocuous, however true his intent to return to the riverbank, will do little to help. And it will recede, if only he can ground himself in the underground existence that has served him well all the years previous – but for that, he must go alone. Ratty would bring with him the reminder of the sunny shore above, of rivers and boats that turned his head in the first place.

And the strange homesickness does settle back in Mole End – momentarily. Beneath the ground, the muggy summer loses its grip and the air is steady, constant. It is a refuge from the humidity that stifles Mole – Mole, who has never considered claustrophobia, but when the air grows heavy and airless in the sway of summer, it is all he can do to retreat to north-facing rooms and wait out the heat. But in the bowels of the earth, the seasons are muted and he sleeps sounder for it.

He oversleeps. He assures himself that it is the comfort of a long-familiar bed, but part of him wonders if he has grown too accustomed to the wake-up call of the morning chorus and the sunrise – if he is not so much an undergrounder as he was a year ago.

His underground instincts sated, he turns his attention to more practical considerations. The door jamb that sticks and the window that leaks is all well and good through the lens of nostalgia, but it is quite another kettle of fish when it comes to tending to them. And as he adds yet another chore to the list (a home neglected, he realises, continues to decay with, or perhaps because of, its owner's absence) Mole End seems to shift from cosy to tired. He knows it not to be as grand as Toad Hall, nor as chronicled in history as Badger's sett, and certainly not as comfortably ship-shape as Ratty's place, but the reality settles in about him as he stands, frozen, with the chore list in paw.

What Mole End is, is dark and dim and shabby.

And, worst of all, that homesickness has returned.

He is an underground animal – or was, once upon a time. Now he is not so sure, for while his burrow calls, so does the bright sun-filled air above... and he doesn't think there is a word for an animal that holds both worlds in their soul.

Home. this place is home, he tells himself, but the definition has shifted, expanded, grown in his year's absence, and he doesn't know what to do with that.

His reverie is broken by a knocking at his door, and he finds his porch crowded by four very familiar animals. Mole gapes for a moment until Toad bounces in.

"So this is Mole End, eh? Naturally, it's not as grand as Toad Hall but then, of course, what is?"

"Toad, be civil," Badger warns.

Mole squeezes out of the way as the large mammal enters. "It's only a small home," he says, apologetic. "I'm afraid it's going to be a little snug with everyone here–"

"Don't you worry about that, pet," Mrs Otter assures as she follows after the others. "Snug is my home with the pups on a regular day."

Mole turns to the last animal yet to enter. Ratty stands at the threshold, hesitant as if wary of a boundary overstepped. "I know you said you wanted to attend to this alone," Ratty says – he shifts the trusty luncheon basket between his paws – "but it's been three days and, well" – a wan smile – "I've seen your attempts at spring cleaning. I figured you might appreciate the help if you were still at it."

"So you brought Toad along?"

Mole's humour seems to mollify Ratty's nerves, for the water rat's smile turns rueful. "Toad brought himself along."

Mole leans in with a conspiring whisper. "Do you think he even knows what a broom is?"

There is an almighty sneeze from Badger as Toad unsettles a layer of dust from the kitchen cupboards.

Ratty grins. "Do you?" The humour, however, is as quick to go as it was to arrive, and as he watches the other animals descend upon Mole End he glances back to his usual housemate with unease. "Of course, if you'd rather we left you to it, naturally we can–"

Mole commandeers the basket. "Stay." He doesn't mean it to sound such like an order, but for all his previous bluster, he suddenly doesn't want the newcomers to leave. For despite the extra shadows they cast, Mole End somehow feels brighter than before in a manner not quite tangible. "And, just between you and me," he adds as he ushers his friend inside, "I hadn't got that far with the cleaning."

There's another sneeze from Badger that sets the lanterns swinging, and a fresh falling of dust scatters down from above.

Another grin from Ratty. "You don't say?"

Badger wastes no time in assessing the undertaking ahead. He settles back into that same role as in the retaking of Toad Hall, distributing the chores with little fuss, and quietly Mole is glad for it, because the task of Mole End has become overwhelming in the past few days.

Regardless of the nature of the housework, it is humour, not tedium, that springs up. And at some point in this collective effort – between the idle conversations and the laughter and the "Where's the duster – I swear I left it here just a moment ago" – Mole End sheds its overcrowded air. Nothing palpable changes, for the occupants continue to fall over one another and Badger still has to duck his head through doorways, but somewhere in the midst of all this it has become cosy, not cramped.

Somewhere in that space, that strange homesickness has quelled.

Mole realises this midway through restoring the peeling wallpaper back to its proper place, teetering on a stepladder while Ratty applies paste to the paper's underside. He falters in his task to take note – to truly take note – of his friends. To listen to the bustle of Mrs Otter as she strips the beds, and the jabbering of Toad as he regales her with some loosely-related story. (Mole believes it is his experiences from the open road; a period in which Toad categorically did not take to the chores like a duck to water, whatever he is emphatically telling Mrs Otter.) Further off, there is something that sounds suspiciously like humming, coming from Badger as he inspects the tunnels for natural wear-and-tear, partnered with his sure steps and the tap of his cane.

Mole lingers too long in thought, and his balance flounders. Ratty catches the ladder before it can tip and his laughter is both familiar and new as it bounces across the earthen walls in an echoing reprise.

Home. this place is home, Mole realises, and the definition has shifted, expanded, grown in his year's absence.

And he's okay with that.

[sometimesinsomniac]

Yesterday was Perfect

As perfect as a day could be. From beginning to end, there was not a moment that didn’t fill me with joy. From work, which I love, first thing in the morning, to my cozy bed filled with twilight at night, the moments were organic, brilliant, beautiful, and flawless.

How? I shall fill you in, dear reader- I work a job I love. I’m good at it and I’m getting better every day. It is a tough job to make a living at and I’m not completely self-sustained yet, but I will get there someday and I love the hustle in the meantime. When I awoke, I had work to do that, once done, allowed me the opportunity to talk with my mentor and be suggested for another project. 

Next on the docket was a gathering with women that support me, love me, and allow me to be vulnerable. The encouragement and wisdom they offer is something I’ve never had before and spending time with them is like spending time with a whole bunch of aunts that can not stop offering you cookies. They do try to always send me home with food and yesterday was no different. Have you ever experienced the joy of having someone insist that you take home boxes of cookies, platters of fruit, chips, and dip for the simple reason of “You need to eat more?” It’s love in its most base form: food.

The next moment of the day happened thanks to a coffee shop. Originally intending to go to one coffee shop, I found myself swerving the path and arriving at an old stalwart. After maybe ten minutes in the cafe, in strolled my type of individual: tall, slim, blue-eyed, and passionate. I still blush to think of the first moment our eyes met and you could feel a sunlit ray enter the room. He made me smile and the potential between two individuals who know absolutely nothing about each other is better than a caffeine high. What does he do? Where does he dream of visiting? Why did he find himself in this coffee house and how does he view the world? The future could be truly filled with grey or blackness, but for right now, it’s golden with hope.

As happens, the time flew by and we found ourselves at the cross roads of “farewell forever” or “until next time”. I bet you know which we chose. My heart has scars and a wall around it borne from necessity, but maybe, just maybe, it won’t always be that way.

Continuing with the perfect day was coffee shop number two (this one had wifi: a must when you work from a laptop). With a shy smile the owner of said hole-in-the-wall happy place offered me my pastry for free since “It’s the end of the day and it’s been sitting there, so...”. Outside of the shop, I pet a beautiful dog that had hair (yes, hair, not fur) so pure and curly it should be in the Hall of Fame for Softest Touch. A gentleman walking past questioned the tastiness of my new favorite shop and I assured him that this was a very good place for a fix of java. He entered. He exited. He tasted his coffee and concurred. It is a very good place. Jokingly, he offered my next coffee on him, should we ever see one another again and I, jokingly, told him I’d hold him to it. No longer joking, this gentleman re-entered the shop and purchased a coffee in advanced, informing the owners that, should I return without my new coffee-purchasing-friend, I was to receive the gift in full. 

Friends. Readers. I do not claim to have favorite strangers, but I do believe that were I to take up the practice, Mr. Tony would proudly carry the title. 

These sort of days are filled with sunlight and soft breezes. Sea smells are the perfume of this moment in history, and I wish I could bottle it for a rainy day. Because I know the days will come. Reality will once more pull my heart, beating, from my chest and carve her initials in the base, yet I will still have yesterday. In as much detail as I can remember, I am bottling yesterday. It started cloudy. I was having a great hair day. My body was nourished by foamy coffee and buttery patisserie. My walk in the morning took me past Jim and his  dog Max, who always greet me with wags and cheers. I texted my soul sister. I texted my brother. I experienced the fullness of being and was able to drink deep of life and savor. 

Tomorrow will come. Today already has, but as for yesterday? I can say, with a clear conscience, that I had, truly, a perfect day.

[smallpotato80]

I think we need an origins episode in series 5. One that tells the story of Mrs. Hall's arrival to Skeldale. Helen could feature as she told Audrey she remembers the days when it was just Siegfried and Mrs. Hall. Tris would be gone off to school and we could see Helen dropping by to pay a bill. We know Siegfried was "a mess" and Mrs. Hall was dealing with the fallout of her marriage breaking up and her son being sent away. Mrs. Hall said it "were chaos" but we know she was a "stalwart" and she completely understood Siegfried was grieving Evelyn. He may have been prickly, but she knew he was a good man. I would imagine seeing how much he loved his wife meant a great deal to Mrs. Hall. His struggles with trying to parent Tristan? She could relate to that as well due to her struggles with Edward. Perhaps we would see the fallout of an assistant that did not work out. It could be really, really good. Imagine if it played out that the tale was being told to baby James by either Siegfried or Audrey...or both as they sat for him.

I have to say, I would very much like to see the first time Audrey helped Mr. Farnon get ready for a dance at Pumphrey Manor. I want her breath to catch a bit when she sees him in his tails for the first time. Kind of like his breath was taken away when he saw her in the fancy dress on Christmas Even 1938.

[emergingsentiments]

Hometown Cha-Cha-Cha: Episodes 3 & 4 (Repost)

If the premiere episodes of Hometown Cha-Cha-Cha dealt with the definition of home, then episodes 3 & 4 were a careful exploration of the past and how it mingles with the present.

Hyejin is settling well in Gongjin, with plenty of help from Dusik, of course, and the companionship of the ever effervescent Miseon. While business at the dental clinic is picking up, Hyejin remains tethered to her life in Seoul. She is, after all, only in Gongjin temporarily, right? Her ways are still that of her big city life. Orders from across the world arrive in her provincial home. As expected, Dusik is tasked to deliver all the packages to Hyejin’s home. Who else will be the delivery man?

Behind closed doors, however, our dentist tries out every imaginable outfit for a colleague’s wedding back in the capital. It’s a short montage that tells us that, for all her assertiveness in the clinic, Hyejin is still insecure. Like Gongjin, the dentist’s community in Seoul is small. Everyone seems to know everyone. With word of her opening shop in a fishing village, she has to frantically posture as successful and content like her urban counterparts. Thus the indecisiveness over her clothes—and even over herself.

Her quick trip to the city isn’t smooth-sailing, though. Ever a step ahead of everyone, Dusik decides to hitch a ride with Hyejin, bringing with him the three halmeonis. Offered with no way out, Hyejin reluctantly agrees. As expected, the journey to Seoul is far from uneventful, with the elderly ladies offering every bit of comic nuisance to Hyjein who is struggling with her patience, while Dusik offers little more than a request for her to be more understanding.

The unlikely troop makes it to the capital just in time, however, and our good dentist arrives at the wedding after dropping everyone off. At the reception, the psychological warfare among the female dentists is palpable, each maneuvering the conversation as they see fit. Confronted with questions about her choice to open a clinic in Gongjin, Hyejin keenly pushes the narrative of the business potential of the rural areas.

After the reception, she stumbles upon Dusik — but wouldn’t be caught dead being seen with him, and so rushes to get away from the crowds. Unbeknownst to her, the eyes of the city have snapped a photo just as the pair make their way back to Gongjin.

If the trip to Seoul was full of hysteria and uncontrollable tempers and bladders, the return to the fishing town was marked by awkward silences and what seems to be the growing fascination of Hyejin over Dusik. Who wouldn’t be curious, anyway? Mr. Hong appears everywhere. He’s always at the right time and place, even if it’s not the right time and place for Hyejin. Who is this virtuoso with his brazen confidence sleeping in her car? What are the stories hidden lurking underneath his methodical ways?

Back at Gongjin, Hyejin is the talk of the town in Seoul. Not for her so-called success in the province but instead for having been seen with Dusik. Are Mr. Hong and Hyejin a couple? They weren’t fast enough to hide after all. Hyejin’s immediate response is to squelch the rumors. But when the chit-chat from her colleagues turns to her favor, she changes her tone to boost her stock.

It’s this type of back and forth in Hyejin’s persona that makes her stand out as a lead female character. She’s not perfect. But she isn’t flawed either. She is, instead, human. As a woman, she can also afford to be contrary. We see her genuine desire to help her patients. She minces no words about what needs to be done. But she also has her affectations, a defect seemingly rooted in the early death of her mother. Like the veneers she puts on her patients, she also uses plenty of covers to improve her appearance. And it's this contradictoriness that often clashes with the more obstinate Dusik, too.

Mr. Hong, after all, usually gets his way. He’s also single-minded about how he runs his business. He’ll help you, go out of his way, and offer his time, effort, and support. But he carries out his duties with honesty, pragmatism, and fairness. There is no need for pretensions here. He settles accounts with little fanfare or desire to simply draw attention to himself. Be yourself and you should get along well with Dusik. Do your job and you shouldn’t get on his bad side.

Like Hyejin in the first episode, however, we can’t help but ask what is the deal with Dusik? For someone so omnipresent, he is also so elusive. The show offers plenty of clues about his intriguing past. Seonhohappy made a comprehensive thread about what we know of Mr. Hong so far. While many of these theories can be true, why a renaissance man should be in a fishing village carrying out odd jobs remains a mystery. No single motivation has yet to emerge.

What’s clear is that Dusik is always attentive to the needs of Gongjin’s people. When Cheon-jae was hoarse and couldn’t entertain the business owners at the cafe, Mr. Hong was quick to pick up the guitar and sing. Upon learning about the mystery trail of trash in a part of town, he joins forces with Hwa-Jung to persuade — or threaten— the city hall in installing a camera. When he fishes out Hyejin’s missing shoe from the sea, he takes pains to make sure he returns it in good condition. In a wonderful display of community, Gongjin’s people also rally together to put a sexual predator in prison — but at the center of the town’s heroic efforts is Mr. Hong once again.

Dusik is superman. But what is his kryptonite? So far, I see two. Gam-Ri is one. A stalwart presence of the town, the elderly woman has been the guiding presence of Dusik since his grandfather died. She is a strong and at times stubborn lady but very sensible, too. Her wisdom allows her to see past the defenses of people. Because Dusik owes her a debt of gratitude, he makes a great effort to ensure she’s safe, happy, and healthy. Sometimes, his kindness to her is to a fault.

The other is Hyejin — for reasons that are obvious.

This woman from Seoul is different. We’ve already seen how Dusik bends over backward to help out Hyejin. But when he pushes her to treat Gam-Ri’s teeth with little regard for ethics, Hyejin stands her ground. It’s not just for matters of principle, however. Hyejin — the woman — has largely been shaped by grief and her losses inform her creeds. We find out later on that she does care for Gam-Ri and convinces her to get the treatment — something Dusik, who is emotionally attached to Gam-Ri, is unable to do. Hyejin is a tough nut to crack, one who will not change her ways overnight, and that is part of her appeal to Dusik.

Homcha’s second pair of episodes wrap up in the best way possible. Indebted to saving her and Miseon from a pervert, Hyejin leaves a gift on the doorsteps of Dusik’s home. Unable to let go of her treasured wine, however, she ends up having dinner with Mr. Hong — might as well enjoy the gift, too, right?

Inside, Hyejin carefully examines the charming quaintness of Dusik’s home, surprised by the decor and adornments that reveal a man more cultivated than she had anticipated. Books, cameras, vinyl records — this isn’t some freelancer trying to make ends meet. If anything, Dusik’s home adds a layer of mystery to his character, and Hyejin is clearly fascinated by him. For Mr. Hong, it’s probably one of the few occasions someone breathing has entered his home. As he shared before, he doesn’t take anything alive — but here is Hyejin, heart beating, inside his most personal space.

At dinner, she insists on being sophisticated, acting out her role as a wine connoisseur only to fail out of nervousness. Dusik doesn’t mind. He lets her play the role. Soaked in the warm glaze of incandescent lights, they pry each other's lives, every sip of wine loosening thoughts and unzipping their lips. Shin Min Ah is at her best here as Hyejin, embodying a tipsy woman with naturalness and detail. She is nervy, and lightheaded, feigning confidence she can hold her liquor — and her secrets — only to reveal her vulnerabilities. Kim Seon Ho’s Dusik, on the other hand, is gracious and watchful, with a steely gaze that pierces through Hyejin’s defenses. He looks at Hyejin as if he’s studying her, exploring the contours of her personality, but careful not to let his eyes disclose whatever secrets he hides himself.

And yet they seem more alike than they could admit, with pasts that still loom over their heads, emerging only with the powers of wine. In the end, Hyejin and Dusik are inebriated, alcohol running through their veins, cleansing wounds as any antiseptic does, lowering defenses, unguarding hearts, breathing hot, and falling. Cool hands clasping a feverish face, body betraying mind.

Drunk in the past. Drunk in attraction. Perhaps drunk in love?

[afvdvd]

Executive Rober

By John A. nike black tn 001 Morris and John A. The committee, appointed by nike pegasus 34 hombre sprinterCounty

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Executive Robert R. After working as a reporter for The New York Times, Perkins joined the venerable publishing house of Charles Scribner's Sons in 1910. That same year he married Louise Saunders, also of Plainfield, who would bear him five daughters. Unlike most editors, he actively sought out promising new artists and made his first big find in 1919 when he signed F. People start tut tutting like stern Victorian schoolma'ams about a lost golden age of childhood innocence, they ought to read a little history. In Victorian England the age of consent was 12. London was awash with childhood slavery and prostitution. Monday. nike phantom vision academyThe 38

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year old is a self described former model and fashion designer. A security guard who told police he saw her steal the scarf followed Boman out the store and down Greenwich Avenue. (Smaller tubes of clobetasone can also be bought from pharmacies for the short term treatment of eczema and dermatitis flare ups see the Eumovate eczema and dermatitis cream factsheet for more information.)Eumovate ointment is more greasy than the cream. It is more suitable for very dry, scaly areas of skin, whereas moist or weepy skin is best treated with the cream.How do I use Eumovate?Eumovate cream or ointment should be applied thinly and evenly to the affected area(s) of skin once or twice a day, as directed by your doctor. However, if you are applying this medicine to a child's skin, it should preferably not be used for longer than 7 to 14 days at a time. Left no doubt about his true feelings of the president program. Me be clear, I am no fan of the Affordable Care Act. If lawmakers agree and in New Jersey, they almost surely will the coverage becomes effective on Jan. Guess, which has always targeted the youth market, is hotter than ever with its stretch denim, pastel colored jeans. Calvin Klein's CK jeans are big with the young, urban adult crowd and Hilfiger's baggy jeans have the lock on the teenage boys market, analysts said."Designers are hot because they are superb marketers," Millstein surmised. Several "put $20 million behind their ad campaigns."In fact, jeans moda 2015 donna amazon retail experts say there are now so many new players crowding the jeans market that stalwart manufacturers have found themselves grasping for teen dollars even though industry sales are growing."The party is over for Levi and Lee," Millstein said."They owned and dominated their collective brands in department stores and mass merchandisers through the '70s and '80s. Not only is it packaged in and plantable packaging made only in the USA, the family guarantees it is natural, with no additives, fillers, or conditioners of any kind the yin to the yang of Burning Man. This year, the folie samsung j6 2018 pt tot telegonil family is offering a chance to win a one day detox at its mud springs, called Afterburn. .. Nevertheless, he is required, in the context of the program, to abide sandalias doradas gioseppo by the relevant CBC Journalistic Standards and Practices. His statement in and of itself is not a violation of policy, as commentators are able to provide their views based on the perspective they bring to the discussion. However much people disagree with Mr. I went to Club Fantasy for the first time on Thanksgiving 1987, and truly that was the genesis of my experience with the music. Club Fantasy was owned by former Club Odells and Club Cignel DJ Wayne Davis. Club Fantasy was the ground zero for what people now call Bmore club. Few traditional retailers are immune: The Limited filed for bankruptcy and shuttered all 250 of its clothing stores. Hudson's Bay, the parent company of Saks Fifth Avenue and Lord Taylor, announced a $75 million annual cost cutting effort. Banana Republic and Abercrombie Fitch each named a new chief executive, leadership changes that were precipitated by ongoing struggles to connect with customers.. Symptoms: discharge occurs in 95 per cent of men and is purulent in 75 duci alkalmi ruha per folie samsung j6 2018 pt tot telegonil cent, white or cloudy in 10 per cent and clear in 5 per cent. Recent urination can make the discharge appear less purulent. When the infection begins to resolve, the discharge changes from purulent to mucoid (mucus like).. "Access Time Oracle for Planar Graphs", K. Deng, J. Li, C. Voc j nasceu no mundo da moda. Alguma vez pensou em fazer outra coisa? Eu cresci e tive uma vida maravilhosa em famlia, mas nunca imaginei trabalhar na Ralph Lauren. Ainda que ache meu pai um dos meus melhores amigos, nunca sonhei em trabalhar na empresa dele. What better element to improve your current wardrobe next an AH MAZING tailored bag? Your ones this time of the year usually are satchels, luggage, as well as ocean handbags. Not merely would there is a significant presence within the Fall The year 2013 runways, but we regularly acquiring these on the quantity of stylish celebrities and also keeping in mind they may be remarkably useful and attractive that can blame these?Selena Gomez is often accessorizing with the large carry. Your star can often be shot which has a bag or even a satchel and she or he looks impressive!We definitely experiencing the ocean bag this year. One thing that's been forgotten is that Freeport is still a very small town, with 7,000 people. We share our downtown with 5 million visitors,'' said Randall Wade Thomas, executive director of the historical society. Leasing this town hall, in our opinion, would further diminish the historic landscape of our village.''.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“TOBACCO PLANTING GENERAL IN NORFOLK,” Brantford Expositor. May 31, 1932. Page 3. ---- Farmers Will Be Taking on 500 Extra Men Soon --- SIMCOE, May 31 (By Staff Representative) — Tobacco planting throughout the district is general this week and the plants are going in under very favorable condition. Much planting was done last week and the recent rains have been a benefit. 

Farmers in different parts of the county will be taking on about 500 extra men within the next few days, but it is estimated that about double that number are already in the county, many of them on the roads going from farm to farm in search of the coveted jobs. Many are calling also at the department of agriculture office here, quite a number of experienced men having been placed through that agency during recent week.

GOING TO LONDON H. P. Innes, secretary of the Norfolk-Elgin Liberal-Conservative association, has been advised of the ninth annual meeting of the Liberal-Conservative association of Western Ontario to be held in the Masonic Hall London, tomorrow. Mr. Innes, with number of the party stalwarts from Simcoe will be in attendance at the convention which opens at 2 p.m., and concludes with a reception and dance at night. Rt. Hon. R. B. Bennett and Hon. George S. Henry are on the speakers’ list for the banquet in the evening.

[mercurygray]

The Eleventh Hour

A Darkening Sky drabble for Armistice Day - as one does.

Saturday mornings off were for sleeping in - which was why Connie's presence in front of the mirror at this hour seemed particularly odd.

"Bit early for a date, isn't it?" Doris asked, coming back in from breakfast with a smile on her face, watching Connie adjust the tilt of her hat.

"There's a ...thing at the Hall." Connie turned to look at Doris. "Eleven o'clock?"

Doris realized the date, a haze of embarrassment at having forgotten coming over her face. "Anyone going with?" Connie shook her head, and Doris's mind was made up. "I'll come. Shouldn't just be one of us."

There was already a crowd forming when they arrived, everyone in their Sunday best, circles of red flashing on collars and coat-fronts. Connie dug in her pocket for change as a woman at the edge of the crowd shook her collecting tin, a tray in her hand. "Two, please," she said, passing over what she hoped was an appropriate amount of change.

"No charge," the woman said reassuringly, passing them both a poppy. Connie couldn't think of a way to get around her, and accepted them with silent thanks, fixing the pin onto her collar while they joined the crowd.

"We'll get her later," Doris said quietly over Connie's shoulder. "When she's not looking we'll put something in the tin."

When all were assembled, the Mayor spoke, words that they'd heard a dozen times from different throats, about patriotism and sacrifice and giving all. The order of the words didn't matter much - what did was the people listening. Connie searched the faces in the crowd, looking for people she knew, as if by some strange coincidence she'd see her father's friends from the Legion Hall, Mr. Hersey the high school principal and Mr. Bowman from down the road, and Mr. Powell who ran the hardware store and was missing a leg. All the faces she was used to seeing every year on the 11th of November, waiting for them to raise the flag, and for Mr Oleson to play 'Taps' on his bugle. She didn't know these faces, though there was the woman from the stationers, and Mrs. Morgan and her husband. Captain and Mrs. Frobisher were here, too, and in close step behind them was Joan, looking the part of a dutiful daughter on her way to Sunday service, uniform in perfect order, a fabric poppy prominent on her collar.

But despite the accents, the strange faces and strange names, Connie knew this...this ritual, the costumes, the speeches, the reading of the names, the massed voices saying, in practiced, patient unison, as like a prayer,

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.

Then they were silent a while, the only sound the rippling of the flags and then, as the minute finished, the slow, solemn tolling of the Saint Michael church bell, twenty one notes singing dolefully through the crisp autumn air.

And that was that. Wreaths deposited, they departed as they came, in measured silence as to a funeral, some women breaking off in twos and threes to whisper greetings and offer condolences and ask in hushed tones about this nephew or that son. An older couple lingered a while, looking at the wall - she with tears in her eyes, he silent but stalwart next to her, his arm around her shoulders. Was this for a name already on the plaque, or for one not yet added? This grief seemed newer, fresher.

Connie and Doris hung back from the crowd, waiting for Joan to finish accepting accolades for her wreath-laying from the little white-haired parish ladies before she was allowed to join them.

For a moment no one spoke. "It was good of you to come," Joan said, finally. "They were ...thanking us all for caring." She nodded in the direction of the departing ladies.

"Didn't...seem the same, without going to the Legion Turkey shoot," Connie offered.

"Or the cemetery." Doris's usually bright face was unusually solemn. "I'm sure you had places to be," she said, looking with a wry smile at Joan, who gave a wry smile of her own in return. How could I not, with an uncle like mine?

"When I was in school, not so much, but after -" she gave a shrug. "I always make sure to call him, this week. It's a hard day - for everyone."

"And now we're all back in it," Connie said with a sigh, looking again at the names on the wall, the red wreath flapping in the breeze, the bouquets of field poppies and wildflowers already wilting in the fall air. And this time next year, we all might be names on a wall.

[sevenincubistolemyheart]

Blood Bag

Au: Mafia

Tag list: @xsunnyhoseokx 

Rating: T

Potential Triggers: Kidnapping, Nonconsent(for Vampire biting only), Manipulation, Character Death

Pairing: Kim Namjoon x Reader, BTS x Reader/OT7 x reader

Genre: Horror, Drama

Length: 4.3k+

Summary: When Kim Namjoon came to give a lecture to your Public Speaking class you couldn’t help but be vaguely annoyed now that you had someone to direct your irritation at. After all, there were so many groups who would go unnoticed in the wake of these 7 boys' success. When you accidentally make eye contact with him and run into him at a cafe while doing your assignment on his lecture things take a dangerous turn and you find your feelings of unease about the boys were correct firsthand.

You'd first met him when you were in college in Seoul. The transfer program was no joke nor was the workload but you wanted to excel in your job as a translator. You'd heard of BTS of course. Who hadn't? They'd all but taken over the world with their reputation.

Still, you'd be lying if you said you weren't a bit bitter.

After all; so many groups worked just as hard as them yet would fail due to lack of sales or notice in the wake of their triumphant success.

It just...made you frustrated. More at the industry than anyone in particular...but then he came in and suddenly there was a source to direct your irritation at.

He held himself with confidence as he walked into your lecture hall for public speaking, clearly projecting the image of the ever secure in himself leader everyone knew him to be. Girls were whispering among you frantically, nervous giggles leaving their lips just from his presence alone.

It made you uncomfortable and caused you to cringe.

Even without your resentment, he was a person. Not a fucking light-up toy to “ooh” and “ahh” at.

You looked down at your notebook to begin doodling aimlessly as he seemed to be conversing quietly with your equally star-struck professor.

It was almost enough to make you groan aloud. Was there no-one who realized how ludicrous it was to act like this over a single Human being? It wasn't like he was giving up his life for them. He was just giving a single lecture, and probably being paid handsomely to do so.

You didn't realize you'd unintentionally made eye contact until Kim Namjoon himself smirked knowingly at you.

Your heart jumped up to your throat in fearful surprise as a blush filled your cheeks, even as you straightened your back and forced yourself to glare defiantly into his copper irises.

His smirk only widened in response...and then he began speaking, stalwart gaze never leaving your own in a clear test of wills.

Words can’t properly describe the effect his words had on the class. You swear you could hear a pin drop as they all immediately rushed to quiet themselves and barely breathed.

Truthfully, you barely registered them; too lost in his hypnotizing gaze for a moment, the way his eyes seemed to refuse to unlock from your own had you swallowing nervously...and then your gaze hardened and you dropped it as you instead began intently scribbling in your notebook.

You refused to act like all the other cattle surrounding you.

You would not be tricked by this charismatic deceiver.

Unbeknownst to you, said deceiver hid a cunning smirk behind his hand as he watched you scurry out the second he was done with his lecture.

How absolutely intriguing.

-----

'Nothing is quite as motivating as fear. Well; except maybe love and adoration.'

That was the first line on your paper on Mr. Namjoon's lecture. You stared at it, feeling the truth of it yourself as you thought back to the flush that had filled your cheeks.

Irritation at him getting to you bubbled in your gut until a voice broke you out of your thoughts.

"That's supposed to be about me? How do you figure?"

His voice was husky, like he'd just woke up; he was referring to your assignment as he leaned right over your shoulder to look at your screen. You tensed at the close proximity and slammed your screen shut as you whirled on him with a scowl.

“I don’t see how it’s any of your concern, sir. I have an assignment to do so if you wouldn’t mind…”

You motioned for him to leave through gritted teeth in some form of a smile.

He observed you for a few moments before a chuckle left his lips and he stood up to his full height and grabbed your wrist and began walking away with you just barely managing to stuff your laptop into your bag before he relinquished that from you as well with a flourish.

“Where are you taking me? Let go of me right now or I’ll scream.”

Your voice was a venomous hiss and he stopped abruptly, making you bump into him, He turned suddenly and you stopped breathing as he cornered you right in front of the cafe and leaned down to coo into your ear, voice so soft you could barely hear it.

“Try it. Draw attention to us. Your identity will be found out, you’ll be doxxed and you and your family will be tormented. Not to mention I have your laptop and it sure would be a shame if you had things on here you didn’t want others knowing to get out. If that’s what you want; then by all means scream.”

You were left with no choice but to stumble after him, heart now beating a mile a minute as he turned on his heel and walked away, dropping his grip on you as he knew you’d follow.

You were right. He wasn’t what he pretended to be...but then...what was he planning to do with you now that he’d intentionally outed himself to you? Why did he?

Your mind spun with questions as he walked until you both reached a nondescript black vehicle. He held the back door open for you but you knew the action wasn’t gentlemanly. The smile he wore was too threatening; his eyes held no emotion as he held your bag firmly in his grip.

You steeled yourself, raised your chin and got in the back as he shut the door; sealing your escape route and leaving you entirely under his control.

You felt like a helpless moth, knowing the flame would spell the end but still completely enraptured, drawing ever closer to your own demise.

What could you do to get out of this? There had to be a way.

You reminded yourself to stay calm, knowing if you panicked he’d see it as yet another weakness to be taken advantage of.

How did he know you so well? Were you truly so easy to read? You thought for sure you’d hidden your annoyance at him well but even so...he was a minor inconvenience on your radar. Hell, you never thought you’d see him again after that lecture save maybe at the presentation where you read your oral presentations on him!! And even that was a long shot.

“How did you know where I was and what do you want with me?”

The question was blurted out before your filter could hold you back and Namjoon turned to smirk at you as the driver continued on stoic as ever.

“You really are a bold little thing aren’t you?”

Your eyes hardened even as a shiver went down your spine at the almost predatory glint in his eyes. You couldn’t let on you were afraid. You just had to be strong until you found an opening to escape.

Or so you tried to think until a lithe arm wrapped gently around your throat and tugged you against the back of your seat so you couldn’t turn to look to see your captor.

Their voice told you they were male though and you didn’t so much as breathe as he cooed near your ear at Namjoon, leaning his chin on your shoulder as his free hand played with your hair affectionately.

“Isn’t she fun though? We haven’t had one with such spunk for a while…”

Namjoon snarled in retaliation as your eyes showed your genuine terror at the realization that this boy had been lurking behind you this entire time out of sight.

“There is no we. She’s mine Jimin. Back off.”

The arm relinquished its hold and you whirled to meet playful brown eyes. Jimin? He...was one of the other members of BTS that much you knew. And that he was supposedly the “pure” one of the group. Ha. Your frustration finally spilled over into genuine panic.

“What the fuck do you people want from me!? Threats or no so help me the second you stop this car I will scream. Blackmail me, try and hurt my family if you want; your reputation will be the main one to suffer and I will make sure you go down.”

There were a few beats of tense silence before Jimin’s sharp laughter abruptly broke it before he brusquely cut it off and you tensed at the feeling of a sharpness on your throat, swallowing nervously as Jimin spoke quietly into your ear, voice deathly calm.

“Look at you, trying to threaten us. Naughty girl. Maybe I should teach you some manners, put you in your place~”

"Jimin!"

Namjoon's animalistic snarl cut through the air and you could hear the pout in Jimin's voice as he pulled away, pink hair blinding your vision momentarily as he hopped from the storage area into the seat beside you.

"Ahh, you're no fun hyung~"

Your mind was spinning. Now, your life was truly at risk. Sure Jimin had the strength advantage and you were also under Namjoon’s control as you had no clue where you were going but now there was a knife involved. Jimin had a weapon. Your carefully constructed mask was starting to crumble and you didn’t realize you were crying until Jimin brushed away a tear with a joyful giggle.

You hastily wiped the rest away as you wrenched yourself away from his touch, pushing yourself as far towards the window as you can as you looked out it, trying to get a sense of your surroundings and attempting to calm down and control your breathing.

Damn it. Why were you so weak? This was not the time to panic.

Namjoon glanced back at you, watching you with quiet contemplation shining in his gaze.

Silence filled the car then and you eventually managed to doze off, occasional silent tears falling from your eyes as you hid your face in your arm as best you could.

Maybe when you awaken next you’ll be back in your favorite cafe and this would end up being nothing more than an unbelievable nightmare.

-----

You slowly returned to consciousness, cuddling closer to the warmth enveloping you; breathing slow and even. You awoke with a start scrambling to get our of the person who was holding your grip as you realized you were moving.

"Who are you? Where am I? Put me down!!"

Namjoon sighed merely tightening his grip on your legs, holding you with one hand supporting your bottom as the other pressed your shoulder into him so you couldn't scratch at him or hit him.

"God, you're loud. Relax. We're almost there. Jimin went on ahead to warn the others."

Your mind caught up with you as you remembered how you got in this situation and what had transpired beforehand.

Others? Like Jimin? Would they all be so violent, ready to slit your throat if you put up too much of a fight?

Namjoon must've sensed your fear because he let out another heavy sigh.

"No-one is going to lay a hand on you or hurt you. Just be a good girl and cooperate okay? We just need to figure out why you seem to be immune."

"Immune to what? And why are you acting so nice all of a sudden!? You're the one who kidnapped and threatened me in the first place!!"

You hissed, eyes sparking with anger. At least you felt validated since he was indeed as off as you'd felt he was the first time you laid eyes on him.

Namjoon merely shrugged and went quiet, choosing to let the two of you remain in silence as you walked.

You huffed, crossing your arms.

"...I can at least use my legs, can't I? Seeing as I have no idea where we are you can trust I won't run."

Namjoon barely spared you a glance before he shook his head.

"It's not safe. If I put you down; the forest will take you. You need me to get through here safely. Otherwise, you'd be nothing but fodder."

You sagged in his grip, finally just giving up. This didn't make any fucking sense. He had to be delusional right? Absolutely off his rocker talking about forests taking you. Hell, they probably all were crazy. Jimin did hold a knife against your throat after all.

By the time Namjoon has led you into the cozy wooden cabin in the woods you were starting to doze off again- only awakening when an excited voice broke the silence.

"Ooh! Hyung you found her? She's the one with the shield right? She somehow saw past your magic?"

You jolted, turning to look with wide eyes at who you guessed was the youngest one thanks to his apparent innocence.

Another unfamiliar voice groaned audibly

“Wait to go Jungkook if she wasn’t, we would’ve either had to alter her memories which we don’t have the energy to do right now or kill her.”

The words didn’t register until you locked eyes with the broad-shouldered tall male and you took a step back on instinct at the cool glint in his eyes, bumping into Namjoon in the process as the beginnings of panic began to make your stomach churn again.

“Why don’t you all just shut your fucking mouths? You’re making her scared.”

Namjoon muttered.

You jumped in surprise, a sharp gasp of pain escaping your lips as a boy suddenly appeared in front of you, black hair and red eyes staring you down as he gripped your upper arms with an amount of strength that had you wincing.

“Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing if she can resist our charms. Tell us sweetheart have you figured it out yet or do we need to spell it out?”

His voice was little more than a low rumble and you felt your breathing starting to pick up as tears of both pain and being overwhelmed pricked at your eyes.

“Please. I just want to go home!! I don’t care what you are or what you want with me! I’m just a college student for God’s sake!!! What could I possibly have that you want!?”

Your voice rose in reaction to your emotions and the boy gripping your arms gave you a smirk that had you freezing in place in fear. Or rather, you thought it was fear.

You couldn’t move.

“Wrong answer. As for what we want…? For starters...I suppose I am a bit peckish. What about you Jimin? You haven’t eaten since yesterday yeah? Come have a bite.”

Your mind was spinning, trying to process what was happening, what they were saying and why Namjoon wasn’t doing anything to help you. He defended you earlier why wasn’t he-?

You would’ve screamed if you could have at the sharp sound to your left- the familiar sound of bones breaking as Namjoon’s lifeless body was tossed to the side, a little ways in front of you by a new blond male who had entered the living room.

Yet another new face appeared in your peripheral as a man with dark brown eyes and hair to match came into view, a self-satisfied grin like that of a naughty little boy on his face as he giggled at your horrified gaze.

“Don’t look so scared baby. He’ll come back. I’d worry about yourself~Name’s Hoseok."

The blond boy-Taehyung, if you were remembering from that perfume ad correctly, stepped over Namjoon’s body carelessly.

“Namjoon get too big for his britches again? Honestly, he could use that big brain of his for more than showing off his manipulation skills he’d see we're all just as equally gifted Some of us just choose not to show it off as much.” He raised his index finger to his lips, shooting a playful wink your way.

“That’ll be our little secret, okay Hutie~?”

Jimin snorted as he slung an arm around your shoulder, making you slam your eyes shut in terror.

“Hutie? What kind of stupid nickname is that?”

“Human and cutie together? Aww c’mon! It totally works Jiminie!”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yah! You're just jealous you couldn’t come up with something so cool on the fly!”

You would’ve screamed if you could.

Namjoon was dead and these two were bickering over nicknames!?

“Can we eat now? Please? I’m gonna start without you.”

Yoongi grumbled, catlike red orbs making your stomach do a backflip.

“Heh. Cute. Look at you all worried even though Namjoon’s the one that kidnapped you. Trust me, he wasn’t doing it out of the pureness of his heart. He just wanted the first bite. Oh. And you’re right in your guess. We’re Vampires.”

He responded, but that didn’t bother you. What bothered you was that he was apparently in your head.

His smirk widened as you tested your theory.

‘Yoongi’s my name doll. And yes, you’re not going crazy. I can talk in your mind like this too as well as hearing your thoughts. See since I’m the one that paralyzed you, I have complete control over you, including that. I’d explain more but like I said...I’m famished after having to hold back so long.’

You wanted to cry out, scream, beg...anything to make him stop as his lips approached the soft, vulnerable skin of your neck but there was nothing you could do. The feeling of his sharp fangs against your neck made your eyes widen in remembrance of Jimin’s assault earlier. ‘Not a knife…’ You heard Yoongi snicker against your skin as he purred in your mind. ‘I am glad Namjoon held him back. I’m glad it gets to be me to take you.’ You finally got back your ability to speak and move just as he bit down and you felt your knees give out along with a loud gasp of surprise. If Seokjin hadn’t lunged forward to wrap his arms around your waist from behind you surely would’ve been overwhelmed by the pleasure that hit you and fell to the ground.

“Wow, she looked so surprised!”

Jungkook giggled and you weakly grasped at Yoongi with trembling fingers to wordlessly tell him to stop as you bit your lip as hard as you could to frantically keep from making any sounds, instead catching Jimin’s shirt in your grasp.

As pink hair tickled the side of your face you knew you'd made a mistake. He positioned himself in front of you, leaving you no choice but to see the smirk on his face before he leaned down to nuzzle the opposite side of your neck to Yoongi who was still relentlessly sucking away, the only sounds leaving him the occasional hum of delight or sigh.

"Don't worry angel. If you think one is good, let's see how you handle two~"

You could hear an almost resentful edge to his voice; you guessed it was because Namjoon had held him back earlier but in any case, just as he was about to bite down Seokjin interrupted him.

"No. She'll lose too much blood with how much Yoongi has taken. Not to mention she'd probably pass out from pleasure first with how blown out she looks right now."

You saw Jimin's eyes darkened in anger as he raised his head and while you couldn't see Seokjin, the faux innocent yet dangerous tone in his voice was enough to make you shiver.

"You remember how it felt for you when we Turned you, don't you?"

Jimin froze and you swore you saw him flinch though just as quickly he was on the other side of the room with a final wordless snarl.

“Good boy. And Yoongi; that’s enough.” When he didn’t respond, he repeated his name voice growing sterner.

“Yoongi.”

He didn’t so much as grunt in acknowledgment. In fact, it seemed like he only redoubled his efforts and you were genuinely getting lightheaded and losing strength when there was a blur of brown and Yoongi was pulled off of you by his hair.

He hissed and writhed in the other Vampire’s grip, switching between trying to get back to you and gnashing at the younger-looking boy's hands.

“Try it again. Go on. Lunge for her one more time. I fucking dare you. You won’t have a piece of her again for a month. I’ll make sure of it.”

Jungkook’s voice had dropped a few octaves and you watched in awe as Yoongi held his gaze for a moment before he growled and finally sagged in his grip in submission, making Jungkook simply nod once and release him.

You saw Hoseok taking a worried few steps towards you as Seokjin finally released you, thinking you’d gotten your bearings and come down from the sudden assault. You barely registered the feeling of something being pressed to where Yoongi had bitten you before the world spun and a strong grip caught you as you swooned and fell forward. You barely registered the gust of air that ruffled your hair lightly and then you were being laid down gently on a bed in another room. You’d barely registered whoever caught you must've carried you with inhuman speed before you fully fell unconscious.

-----

When next you awoke, it was with a start as you looked around in a frenzy and stumbled out of the bed. You all but fell out of the room you’d been left in as you stumbled into the living room looking around as you tried to get a solid grasp on your surroundings and regain your bearings.

“Hey! Calm down, you need to rest you’re not fully recovered yet!!”

The slightly scolding voice by your ear made you flinch as you looked up to meet Taehyung’s gaze. Your eyes narrowed in distrust as you looked around and reluctantly let him lead you to the sofa where Seokjin and Hoseok were both waiting.

Jungkook sat on the chair diagonal to where you were sitting observing you curiously.

“Here. Drink this. You need to replace some of the blood you lost and this will help.”

Taehyung’s explanation permeated your thoughts as you observed the bottle of cranberry juice in your hands.

“It helps promote blood flow around the body by lowering the stress on your blood vessels. Given you’re going to be our blood supply and all-”

You hopped to your feet in fear at his words but Jin grabbed your wrist, easily halting you with his superior strength as he shot a vaguely miffed glare at Taehyung.

“...Couldn’t you have used a little more tact? Honestly. I know it’s tiring wearing masks for our fans all the time and we have a Mortal who knows what we are now but she’s still a Human being with emotions. You know how sensitive they are.”

Taehyung shrugged.

“What’s the point in hiding it from her? She bears the mark of the Bangtan clan now. Even if she tried to run, it’s not like she could get far in the forest. Even if she did somehow make it out, If she tried to talk about what she’d witnessed no-one would believe her.”

Jungkook hummed in agreement.

“Tae’s got a point. We’re the most popular boy band in the world. People think we’re in a management building in Seoul right now when we’re right in the center of Fae lands.” He clasped his hands behind his head with a smirk. “Making that pact with them was a damn good idea. It’s the perfect place to take our donors and other blood bags.”

“What makes you think I’ll even willingly go along with this huh!? You can’t keep me locked in this place forever! I have family, friends who will notice that I’m missing!”

Seokjin’s polite smile turned a bit strained and his grip tightened slightly on your wrist.

“Funny. You say that like you’ve got any damn choice in the matter. We’re superior to you in every way. And honestly? All we have to do is bite you if we want you compliant for a little while. Our saliva has a potent aphrodisiac to you Humans, it’s why you became so overwhelmed and couldn’t really fight back. In smaller doses than what Yoongi gave you we can keep you nice and calm for as long as we desire. And that’s not even taking into consideration our physical superiority over you. As for your friends and family...well.” His eyes tinged with a darkness that had your eyes tearing with despair. “Easily deal with. We have the money to make it go away without so much as a snap of our fingers.”

“In other words..”

You gasped sharply as Jin finally released your wrist and Namjoon raised your chin to look into his eyes, a self-confident smirk on his face at your shock and horror as he looked down at you both literally and figuratively.

“You’re entirely at our mercy babygirl. Oh. And Taehyung. Kill me again like that and I’ll break every bone in your body next time when it’s your turn. You know my neck is sore as Hell because of your little temper tantrum.”

He grunted as he cracked his neck in an attempt to loosen it some.

There were so many questions spinning in your mind. How was Namjoon alive? What was the deal with the immunity he mentioned earlier? Where exactly were you?

But...in the end, did it truly matter? Did any of it matter? You were going to be nothing more than a slave to 7 boys who were fooling the world with their fake smiles and charms while using you as their constant source of sustenance.

If only you hadn’t locked eyes with Namjoon that day. Maybe he wouldn’t have known. Maybe you would be in class right now, or eating brunch with your parents. But instead you were here; in this house, now no more than a simple meal.

As you sunk into the couch in defeat you sighed, closing your eyes.

What were you going to do? What could you do?

This was the end. A bad one perhaps...but an end nonetheless.