#once the phonograph is fixed of course

[victorluvsalice]

-->With the animals calmed and cheered, it was time to grab some milk and gather the eggs (two normal, one hatchable that I immediately sold because, well, the coop is full and I don't want those). And, of course, time for Victor to get exiled out to the greenhouse to do all the tending (mainly just watering today), evolving, and harvesting. XD Though it was a little better than usual for him today -- once Alice and Smiler had gotten all cleaned up from their farm-animal-tending adventures, and Smiler had gotten the laundry out of the dryer, I sent them into the greenhouse to help out a bit! Primarily by having them do some fertilizing to help more plants get up to a higher level of quality. Because better quality produce means better quality food for the grocery store, after all! :D

-->With that sorted, it was time to wrap things up around the house and get these Sims on the move! Smiler took everyone's trash piles to dump them into the recycler, while Alice cleaned out Moory's shed (see, cow, we DO take care of you) before disappearing down a rabbit hole to empty their trash bin. She indulged in a snow angel upon her return, while Victor finished his harvesting and shared a significant hug with Smiler. ;) Everyone then ended up in the living room to destress with a bit of chatting and dancing right before they left --

-->And then the phonograph broke. Reminding me that I’d seen some busted wind turbines outside earlier. Which then caused me to find a broken water collector too while I checked on those. *shakehead* Fortunately, Victor was on it with the Repairio -- seriously, now that that spell no longer causes fires, it is literally the best. He finished up as Smiler donated $1,000 to charity in response to a phone call (hey, this family can more than afford it)...

[smolvenger]

Miss Narracott and The Captain- Chapter Eight Finale (!)

Fandom: War Horse

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of sex, death, and violence but nothing brutal other than one brief mention that gets a bit vivid. But LOTS of fluff and emotions and crying and hugging. A Happy Ending.

Chapter Word Count: 3K

Series Summary: It is 1914. You are Y/N Narracott, the older sister of Albert Narracott. You must do what you can so your family can keep their farm. And so your brother can keep his beloved horse. Under financial struggles, you never expect romance to come into your life...until you have a chance encounter with James Nicholls- a Captain with a knack for drawing. But the threat of war lingers in the air...

Part One//Part Two//Part Three//Part Four//Part Five//Part Six//Part Seven

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

A/N: Thank you guys so much for sticking with this story for a character who we saw only briefly but deserved much more <3!! I hope you enjoy the finale!!

Taglist: @evelyn-kingsley @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract

@eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @infinitystoner @12-pm-510 @meowmeow-motherfucker

November, 1918

It was another long day at the hospital. Not another overnight, but still long. You had an hour to go for your time, as you checked the clock. You headed over to make sure there was a glass of water on each bedside table.

It was simple training. It didn’t take long to get a First Aid and Home Nursing certification. They gave you a uniform of a white cap, a dark dress, and a white apron with a red cross stitched over the chest. Your first days as a VAD were full of fixing cups of tea and changing sheets.

But by now you had sewn flesh together. You had seen men die with their eyes open. You had seen infections that made you feel queasy to look at. Once, you were asked to hold down a man’s leg as it was amputated. You never forgot his screams. They rung in your nightmares for a week. Compared to that, sewing together flesh was easy. Many of the other volunteers were women from families who were not accustomed to hard work. They were in for a large shock and were forced to adaptation. Only a few came from labor or farms, as you did,and could tolerate work for long hours. But it was as if the sight of death had bonded and toughened you all.

With the young men in town away to fight, it was mostly women you ran into. They were glad and grateful friends. Your weekly knitting club for the troops led to much baked goods, playful gossip, released sobs, and vulnerable confessions. You valued the women you met and befriended in your circles, your fellow VAD’s, and neighbors and new in-laws.

But none of them could replace James, of course. James with his occasional visits when he was discharged- visits that ended too soon every time. James with his constant, beautiful letters filled with sketches. Just the last one read.

“My dear Mrs. Nicholls,

Joey is doing well. He’s as fit and stubborn and spirited as can be, no wonder he’s lasted so long. He’s racing alongside Topthorn-not that I’m too surprised about the speed of his gallop. Jaimie sends you his love and good wishes as well.

 I’ve been thinking of you in Somerset. Of the reward to come-to come back to my wife, to come back to you. I hope you recall the Teddy Bear I sent you for your birthday. Yes, it is a children’s toy, but when you miss me, you may embrace him as you would me and kiss him on his head as you would me.  It is a bit of love I send back to you to console you. At least until I can return to your arms and kisses for real.

Do not think of me as less of a man, but I confess, that is what moves me- a future of ours. A house of our own.  Children of our own playing around the living room and getting into trouble. We can play music on the phonograph all we want without the cacophony of guns around us. We will laugh and talk over any silly old thing over every meal. Then we’ll go to bed, and I’ll take you as I did in the grass and we’ll make love without any fear or shame, only how much we adore each other…”

But now it was not only James and Joey you had to worry about. That first year, Albert ran off to join the army. When you found out, you ran to your parents and sobbed as you hugged them. Only sometimes you got a letter from him and you would press your parents for updates.

It only pushed you to work harder as a VAD and take it seriously. Knowing these soldiers groaning in their beds were someone else’s James or Albie. That someone was going to lose their husband or brother or son. And if you hurried and focused on the tasks at hand, you could help save someone’s life. That was what was on your mind when one of the doctors walked into the room.

“Everyone, there is an announcement- all staff must hurry into the lobby,” he declared.

Finishing pouring the last glass of water, you set the pitcher on a table and hurried there. All of you gathered in your uniforms, heads turning with whispers of what it could be. The head of the hospital stood there in the center of the room with a newspaper, he took off his spectacles to face you all. There were tears in his brown eyes.

“Everyone…England is going to sign an armistice this month with Germany and the other countries on the eleventh of this month. It will be the last day of fighting. In short, the war is about to end.”

There was silence. You could hear a few gasps. Every bit of you was vibrating and the breath in your lungs stopped. Finally, there was a cheer and an applause that broke out. Your colleagues wrapped their arms around you and hugged you and you hugged back.

You couldn’t believe it. Had it all been so fast? Yet so slow? It’s over…it’s over…the war is finally over!

But, from that last letter…James sent it just last month. Things could have changed. He still could have been killed! Or Albert too! All you had to do was wait for a final letter or telegram. One last one and it would confirm if James and Albert survived. Or not. In your heart, the war was not yet done. Just a few more days of fear…then it would be settled.

November 11th arrived, and the bells of the church rang louder than any Christmas you had seen. People danced in the streets, threw confetti, and cheered. There was no telegram. But no letter either.  You shook every time the mail was delivered that month. But nothing crucial so far. 

You were enjoying one of your free days eating luncheon with Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls. There was a knock on the door that made you jump.

“This isn’t when the postman arrives- it’s two hours early. Are we expecting visitors?” asked Mr. Nicholls.

“No, Mrs. Hayter isn’t arriving until tomorrow…” Mrs. Nicholls answered.

“I’ll get it,” you offered, getting out of your chair.

As you took a few steps closer to the door, you heard a sound.

A whinny. A horse’s whinny. A very familiar horse’s whinny. A whinny you had not heard since…since…

Your steps to the door became a run. You threw it open and let out a scream at the sight.

It was James in his now dirtied green uniform. He was standing outside leading Joey by the leash and giving you a salute. Without another word, you ran towards him, almost tackling him into a hug.

“James…James…is it you? Please tell me if this is real! Please-please tell me it’s you!” you begged, your voice breaking into tears.

You felt a hand reach your back. You could smell him, feel him, and hear that voice you loved so much.

“Yes, my darling…it’s me…and I’m not leaving anywhere, I’m staying with you for a very long time…” he answered.

There were footsteps and a shout from his parents behind you. You grabbed his face and pulled him in for a kiss. He smelt of wind and the smoke of travel as well as the horse and could feel his hands wrap around your back. You hugged him again and began to sob into his uniform, not caring anymore if it stained. He wrapped his arms around you and hugged you back so tight. Then he let go and greeted his parents, taking off his cap. Mrs. Nicholls kissed her son’s face a dozen times. Mr. Nicholls was weeping so badly his back shook as he hugged his son, James let him cry and rocked him as he stood. Assuring him, “it’s alright, father-I’m here. I’m back…”

You then turned to Joey and hugged his muzzle. The younger colt in the Narracott farm would have run away the second his leash was freed. But Joey, now a beautiful stallion in his own right, stood still. He accepted you just as he did the last day you saw him.

“I missed you, old boy. I missed you so much! I’m glad you made it- I’m so glad! Albie’s missed you most of all-he’ll be beside himself!”  you whispered to the horse.

You kissed his long snout with its white diamond. He leaned back into you as if to hug you back.

To think, James was back home. Every single neighbor visited to see him all afternoon.  Already at dinner, he was here to eat and compliment the cook. He finished his plate, cupping his wine in his large hand with one palm.

 “Good God, I’ve missed all of you so much…the things I’ve seen…things I’ve heard…I don’t know if I can be in another war after this…” he said.

“This one is over…it’s all bad memories, James…you can rest now…” Mrs. Nicholls said.

“And how is the prettiest volunteer in England? I hope she can rest as well?” James asked, turning to you.

“I was thinking…I do like being a part of the VAD…if they still need help, I’ll volunteer…”

“Oh, of course you can, Mrs. Nicholls,” he replied with a smile.

“You can always tell us what you saw…what was it like-fighting?” your mother-in-law questioned.

James became still and his face was white.

“I saw everything ….my first battle, I saw a man blasted to pieces-his guts flying from the shot of a machine gun…”

He opened up as much as he could. The horrors and violence he had seen. The deaths too many to name. A friend one day was a corpse the next hour. All of you were silent as he recounted.

Both of you planned to return Joey to the Devon farm tomorrow. You both laid in bed after dinner. Too tired for anything more than simply holding each other. You put your fingers through his blonde-red hair. Traced each feature of his to memorize it.

“You didn’t fool around with some French girl, I hope!” you huffed.

His voice was earnest.

“I swear on my grandfather’s grave, there were no girls from any country anywhere near me all that time! Jaimie will tell you likewise…Y/N…may I confide something to you?” he asked.

“Yes…”

“I remembered the promise I made you when I left. When it started…”

“Yes, I recall, my dear…”

He turned over to you. Adjusting himself on the pillow so he lay right in front of you. You retreated your hands.

“I kept it. I talked to my superiors. Told them we needed to consider the German’s weaponry and plan accordingly. At first, they said no. I asked them again. They said no again. Then another major came in. He agreed. Then the more they talked to, the more it was agreed. Like common sense. They got permission. They sent spies. We fought with guns when we knew there’d be guns…no surprise attacks. Nothing without strict preparation and knowledge…”

“Did you ever charge your calvary?” you asked. You shifted to be in the blankets from the cold November night.

“Only a few times. But, Y/N, I remembered…I remembered you. And I did my best to survive without disobeying orders. Somehow…well, to be honest, I never went against major orders and even then, I don’t think I was ever caught to be killed as a traitor! But I survived. I thought of you…of how sad you were and how you told me you didn’t want to spend your life a widow. I wanted to keep my word…”

He swallowed. You saw one tear in the duct of his eye.

“You did, James, you did…”

He took both of your hands. He smiled down, seeing you both still wore your wedding bands. Then he placed a kiss on them.

“I wanted to thank you, Y/N…if it wasn’t for that…for you, your promise-if I never met you, never loved you, never married you…I don’t know if I’d be here…” he confided.

You gave him a kiss on the lips. It was probably your fiftieth of the day. But after four years of deprivation, you were glad to be caught up. You positioned him to rest against your chest, wrapping your arms around him.

“My parent’s will cry when they see you tomorrow…when they see Joey, too. We’ll have to ask them if they heard any word on Albie…I can only pray he’s alive now,” you said.

“He’s a natural soldier. There’s a chance he did…” James mused.

You stared up at the white ceiling. The house creaked with the nighttime settling over it.

“To think, James, we have one part of our lives ending. Now there’s a new one. No guns, no violence. A peacetime-just beginning….”

He got up from how you held him, then pulled the blankets over the both of you.

“As long as that peacetime is with you, then it will be worth it…” he said with a smile.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

April 1920. A year and almost a half later.

A new spring was born to match the new decade. Today, it was the perfect temperature of not too hot and not too cold. The tulips, daisies, and crocuses were in bloom everywhere. The field between Somerset and Devon was stunning. You noticed how it rolled on as James drove the motorcar down to visit your family. The brown rabbits hopped around the fields. The river, Innocent’s grove, was such a bright blue it seemed to sparkle in the sunlight. Soon it turned to the wide, sloping streets of your hometown. You waved hello to your old shop friends- Mary, Ida, and Alice all had found loves, marriages, or occupations of their own and were smiling. Of course, you made a quick stop to admire the painting of your husband in the town hall. On one corner, you could read its inscription.

’Joey’- Cpn. Nicholls, Fall, 1918.

All of you then finished the drive to the Narracott farm for a picnic.

Your family, along with a much alive Albert, welcomed you each. You, your husband, and baby sitting up in your arms. She thankfully didn’t make one cry the whole trip!

Dressed in her little white frock and little tufts of hair that looked just like yours, Little Rose Nicholls was the picture of infant health. Named after her grandmother, your mother.

There was never a happier night than when she arrived.  She was born in October of 1919. She arrived and cried her first cry when the clock struck eleven. James ran up to the room the second he was allowed, and her crying calmed down when he held the small baby in a white bundle. He teared up and kissed her forehead, never letting her go until she needed to be fed.

James told you he was glad he survived the war just for that day. He got to live to have her, to see her, to hold her in his arms, to love her.

The newly crowned Uncle Albert took her in his arms and blew a raspberry on her cheek. She turned with wide eyes.

“Can we introduce her to Joey?! I don’t think they’ve met yet!” he offered.

“Yes, of course we can!” you said.

Out all of you walked to the backyard. Harold still waddled about. The War To End All Wars came and went and Harold was still biting everyone’s legs. He did make a few threatening nips of his beak that made Rosie a little scared and she cried. But she stopped when they passed him, and you approached Joey’s field.

“Oof- she’s already getting’ heavy!” Albert commented. “She’s a big girl now!”

“Here, let me have her,” James offered.

Her father scooped her into his arms. Albert whistled like an owl as Joey trotted closer, swishing his long, black tail.

Would Joey make a sudden noise to frighten her? No. The creature seemed to know that she was young and had to approach her with gentleness. How incredible animals had a sense like that, Albert would say! Joey slowed his steps and moved his nuzzle close. Only his breath tickling her cheek.

“Here-this is a horse. His name is Joey, darling. What do you think?” James asked, holding her up and closer to the animal.

Her eyes went wide, and she made a small coo. Joey leaned forward. She reached out a grubby hand and touched his nose, petting him.

“There…there’s my girl, Rosie, you pet him like that,” James nudged.

She kept reaching for him, petting him again and again. Then Joey got out his large, pink tongue and licked her hand. Rose Nicholls smiled and began squealing in delight. Joey let her pet him with her grubby hands. And once she was done, he turned away. James carried her over to show her the farm and the animals.

“Here’s the garden mummy grew up in. She’d see rabbits eating her flowers, like the naughty rabbit eating the vegetable garden in your storybook! If you look, we might see one!”

You couldn’t help but smile. Your daughter was worth every sleepless night and disgusting diaper. James was always there by your side to help you. He knew your child needed her father as much as she needed her mother. In fact, he was already beginning to spoil her! A room in your new house dedicated to her nursery. It had the teddy bear in her cradle as well as any little cloth dolly and book and dress he would splurge on for her.

James decided to retire from being a soldier. The War to End All Wars had done too much for him to endure another. Sometimes he even awoke from a nightmare or jumped at a loud sound. He did find work as a schoolteacher. His gentle authority and calm voice of reason was one his students adored him for. And it meant you could still volunteer as a VAD on weekends. He would grade his papers next to Rosie’s cradle in the evening.

You turned around to see Albert smoothing the corners of the picnic blanket out on the grass. Your father brought over a picnic basket. He looked healthy and cheery-he told you he was going to quit drinking and was on his second month without a sip.

“Here! Foods ready! While it’s hot everyone!” Your mother announced, bringing out the savory pie, fresh from the oven.

All of you sat on the blanket. James handed you little Rosie as you sat down. You bounced her on your lap. James made you a plate and passed you yours. Savory pie, sliced bread, berries, cheese, and fresh produce and jam cake too.

Then your father lifted a glass of lemonade.

“Here-let’s have a toast, eh?”

 You all lifted a glass with your free hand.

“Here-to us. Our family!” he cried.

“To us!” all of you repeated.

James turned to you and clinked your glass again.

“And our little family as well,” he cheered.

“To the three of us,” you agreed.

You received him with a peck on the lips. Then all of you began to help yourselves. Rosie herself was beginning to enjoy the small bits of bread you gave her. She gave a laugh like music and you, and James beamed at her. You took a deep breath. Enjoying the spring weather and the picnic with both families. The one who raised you and the one you had. A family, a happy life full of peace with a living husband who loved you.  

[tenebris-lux]

“How did you know I wanted to marry any one?” His reply was simply contemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned his eyes from Mrs. Harker to me, instantly turning them back again:—

“What an asinine question!”

‘Your staff can all hear you talking into your phonograph, and they gossip about it around us; you suck at keeping your own secrets.’

“I don’t see that at all, Mr. Renfield,” said Mrs. Harker, at once championing me. He replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as he had shown contempt to me:—

“You will, of course, understand, Mrs. Harker, that when a man is so loved and honoured as our host is, everything regarding him is of interest in our little community. Dr. Seward is loved not only by his household and his friends, but even by his patients, who, being some of them hardly in mental equilibrium, are apt to distort causes and effects. Since I myself have been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, I cannot but notice that the sophistic tendencies of some of its inmates lean towards the errors of non causa and ignoratio elenchi.” I positively opened my eyes at this new development. Here was my own pet lunatic—the most pronounced of his type that I have ever met with—talking elemental philosophy, and with a manner of a polished gentleman. I wonder if it was Mrs. Harker’s presence which has touched some chord in his memory. If this new phase was spontaneous, or in any way due to her unconscious influence, she must have some rare gift or power.”

IT’S CALLED “RESPECT” AND TREATING HIM LIKE A PERSON, YOU FUCK

Edit: fixed some of the formatting

[tu-sugar-mami]

The things that could have been (2.2/3)

You can read part 2.1 here

You can read part 1 here

You can read part 3 here

Roughly 4k, the chapter is 8k but Tumblr crashes so half and half it is

Warnings: fluff but mostly angst, no happy ending, read at own risk

_________________

You could have sworn everything was perfect, and after bugging your beloved with many questions about how would be the best way to –hypothetically– woo someone (using a book as a cover for the info search), you felt ready to take the next step and finally let your heart out.

Everything was ready to put your plan in motion. All was as it needed to be, one more step and the dream life by her side would come true… right? If only you had known that not all stories were as pink looking as they appeared…

Between giggles and cookies, a song on the phonograph caught your attention. It was soft and had a slow tune. You took the idea of one of the many movies (Before Donna, you had never even known what electricity was, let alone a movie, and learned to be thankful of the whole new world Donna had so kindly shown you) you watched with Donna, and in a bold move you stood up only to offer her your hand with a light bow.

A dance, you offered, and a dance she agreed to.

She was breathtaking. Beautiful indeed. The warm light from the lamps made her look inviting, and her lips looked so soft. Licking your own, you wondered if it would be a mistake to claim hers and finally savor their sweetness. If you did, would she kiss you back with the same need? Your heart desired to have her lips dancing desperately with yours until you both were left out of breath.

“Have you ever been in love, my Lady?” 

The words left your mouth before you could even think about stopping them, but once they were out, you waited with anxious expectance for the Lady’s response.

But that simple, innocent query arose many feelings within Donna.

'Why, yes. I'm reminded of that every time i look at you.' Is what she wanted to say.

“Why do you ask, dolcezza?” Is what she said instead.

Her heartbeat picked up when she noticed your eyes fixed on her lips with such intensity that she couldn't help but blush. If she had been a bit braver, she would have closed the gap in a heartbeat, but then again, what if she was mistaken? She didn't want to risk giving a step forward and ruining your friendship.

“I’m just wondering.” You both kept swaying along with the music, her hands touching each other behind your neck and your arms circling her waist, holding her close, in such way that in the moment the two of you were the only ones existing in the world. “Say, if you were to declare your love to someone, how would you do it?” 

A huff came from Donna, before she stepped back enough to twirl you and then hold you by the waist, now being her the one to take the lead. 

As every second passed, doubt and insecurity began to find their way into you, and despite your need to declare your love, the sudden fear to mess things up kept you grounded.

“I’m sure you know that is not possible for me, darling. If it were I would have done it a long time ago.” Donna said.

If she noticed the way your expression saddened, she didn’t comment on it.

The night kept its course, and the two of you danced the night away, sharing secrets and stories that only you and the walls could be the only witnesses of.

The next day -quite windy-, you spent the day in, and Donna took you to the workshop with her. She had just finished her most recent project, a beautiful tanned doll with white curly hair and cream colored freckles splattered along her whole body, but the new girl needed clothes, and as you found yourself reading one of Donna’s favorite novels, the Lady was busy finishing the new doll’s dress with Angie’s help. 

Between playful banter and quips going back and forth, you decided to try again your failed attempt at confessing.

“Donna, i–” Your hands grip on the book was so hard that they began shaking. The courage you spend all the night gathering finally took effect, and you decided it was now or never. You thanked any deity that was listening that Donna was facing away from you, presumably engrossed in sewing the dress embroidery. Swallowing the lump on your throat, you forced yourself to keep talking. "I am in love with someone.” You took a deep breath and noticed that Donna had stopped her stitching, presumably to give you her full attention. You took a moment to calm yourself before continuing. “When I think of her my stomach feels fuzzy and my heart starts beating faster, and I don’t know if she loves me back but I really need her to know. I’d really like to move in with her if she allows me to–”

Donna Beneviento, a woman who could be considered a master in the art of sewing, had never missed a stitch since she perfected the craft, until that moment where the last words she expected to hear from you came to be.

The needle punctured into another section entirely, it was quite the misstep but certainly something that could be fixed, alas, Donna’s train of thought was far, far away from the embroidery in her hands, instead fighting with the bucket of cold water that was your confession. In her mind, your strange behavior from the last days was finally making sense. Of course you’d ask her what how to woo someone, probably intending it for your beloved. She should have known…

“Oh…”

The air felt thick in your lungs as you waited for more words to come. Your hand found its way to your pocket where a small present was hidden. You took all the advice from Donna and made her a small token of your affection to finally try and ask her to let you be her life companion. 

“I…was not expecting that, to be honest.”

Donna tuned towards you, and your eyes widened at the serious expression, and the way her voice was devoid of all the prior playfulness stung. The churning in your stomach became almost unbearable with the heavy way Donna’s dark eye was on you. The anxiety kicked in and you knew it had been a mistake.

The Lady’s eye refused to meet yours, focusing instead on a slowly retreating Angie.

“Perhaps I misread everything.” Her voice was so low that if the room wasn’t as silent as it was, you would have missed it.

“I mean– if you want me to–” You cursed yourself for stammering in such an important moment, but your Lady didn’t even blink. The knot in your throat prevented you from taking back your words.

“Don’t bother.” In a second, the embroidery was all but forgotten on the table as the Lady collected herself and strode away with hurried steps. “If you don’t mind, I’ll head to bed now.” Donna said, which would be completely understandable had it not been for the fact that it was barely 4 in the afternoon.

Needless to say, you tried to stifle your sobs when Donna, in fact, never made it to your shared bed that night.

Or the next.

Thanks to Angie you knew that the Lady had been cooped up in her workshop, but every time you tried to bypass the hall, a few dolls would gently herd you back to the hall’s entrance and wouldn’t let you see your Donna. You wanted to apologize, to offer to pretend you hadn’t say anything and beg for her to forget of the whole issue, but how could you fix anything when the Lady wouldn’t even let you near her?

The sheets were cold, and by the third night you felt it foreign to spend the night in her bed, despite how much you needed to feel her comfort even if it was just her scent lingering in her nightgown. After that, you took shelter in what was once your room, right across the hall.

Unbeknownst to you, Donna was in a similar position. Though your Blinky the blankey was less comfort and more pain to her as she surrounded herself with it at her workshop, your own perfume –a present from her– embedded in the fabric, with the delicate embroidery slowly getting crumpled and ruined by the white–knuckled grip of a heartbroken woman.

The tension became palpable the next days. Not a single laugh had come from you in a while, not even a smile. Donna eventually came out from her secluded space, but to your disappointment, it was not without her face covered again, and Angie noticed how you couldn't even look at her for more than mere seconds before having to turn away.

It was so strange to see Donna wearing her veil again, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't sting.

While Donna's heart felt like a million needles buried themselves on it at night, whenever she saw you felt as if she couldn't breathe. She had to fight to keep her tears at bay.

Until…

Yet another morning, yet another night spent crying. Since it was impossible for you to conceal the sleep you decided to use the time to do something productive, or at least something that would keep you busy enough to not think, and if you were good at something, it was working with your hands. If Donna could coop up in her workshop, so could you.

It was around five in the morning when you decided you had enough, and your hesitant steps took you to the kitchen. It was still dark but you waltzed through the halls of the manor easily despite your lack of vision just like you had done on many occasions before to try and surprise Donna by preparing her favorite meal, although this time you were unsure if it was appropriate after last night’s event. The scene of your failed confession repeated itself on loop in your mind, and as you climbed down the stairs you recalled the cold tone in the voice of your beloved as she so dismissively rejected your feelings, not to mention the way she had been avoiding you like the plague.

You were so caught up in your thoughts that you almost missed the leather pouch that sat on the kitchen’s countertop. The same pouch you always received after a job well done. Judging by the size though, and if your calculations were correct, the payment in the bag was several times bigger what you were usually given. 

While certainly you weren’t expecting a payment so soon (or at all actually, as you had since decided that a payment wouldn’t be necessary as long as you could be close to Donna) what was even more confusing was a folded paper waiting next to the pouch, with your name written on it with Donna’s scribbly handwriting. 

Not knowing what to expect, you opened the letter, but the contents in it had made you wish you’d never opened it.

“Your services will not be needed anymore. Here is the payment for the last pieces and enough to cover the expenses of your unwilling stay at House Beneviento. I expect you to be on your way by tomorrow noon. Thank you for your work.”

Needless to say, the pouch wasn't even acknowledged.  Your feet carried you to Donna’s bedroom and you began frantically knocking on the door.

“Donna! Please let me in, we can pretend this never happened, but please don’t shut me off like this!” Tears were already blurring your vision.

Donna, laying on her side of the bed, knew she was being unfair, cruel even, but she was hurting so much. Even something as simple as looking at you reminded her of how foolish she had been for daring to hope. Having you near her was torture. Knowing you were in love with someone else left her completely destroyed. She needed to send you away or her heart wouldn’t stand it.

Your cries and begging didn’t stop, and while Donna did her best to ignore you, she could do that for only so long. She stood up, and marched towards the door, almost ripping it from its hinges with unmeasured strength.

“Would you stop with that.” Her voice was low, and she did her best for it to stay that way, even if the sight of a defeated carpenter greeted her from across the doorframe.

You looked so small and defeated. Despite the lack of light, she could make out the bags under your eyes and how tired you seemed to be. Donna had to turn around to avoid caving in and hold you until you felt better.

“Donna, why are you sending me away?” Your voice was fearful and broken, barely keeping your sobs at bay. 

"It's Lady Beneviento for you." Donna’s voice was harsh, and the coldness of it stung even more when she didn’t even turn to reply.

It was shocking, but you pushed through. Another opportunity wouldn’t show up again.

“I need an explanation!”

“I don't owe explanations to a villager like you.”

And It felt like a slap to the face. Donna, the person that showed you that if you cared enough, the rest didn’t matter, had just left it clear that you were not equal at all, contrary to what you had believed. 

She was lying, it had to be…

That was a backstabbing betrayal, and your mind struggled to recognize the person in front of you as your beloved Lady.

But it must have been a mistake, right? So you kept pushing.

You took a decisive step towards her, trying to get ahold of her hand, only for her to turn and slap it before you could get to close. It was hard enough to sting.

For a moment, you saw the room closing in around you, the ground began shaking and the roaring of the waterfall became thunderous. The vision went black at moments and a heavy pressure overcame you. The Lady was nowhere to be seen, but deformed creatures from the corner of your eye were slowly approaching with wicked smiles. Whispers became screams and the air left your lungs. You fell on your knees and closed your eyes until you saw dots of color behind your eyelids.

And then, in a second, everything returned to normal.

In front of you stood the Lady, her veil still covering her face and thus making you unable to read her expression but in your mind, a cruel smirk graced her lips.

“If I see even the shadow of you roaming around I will not be held responsible for what I do to you, am I understood?”

Your head was pulsating, and your glazy eyes couldn’t stay on her for long before they went astray.

This was it. 

Lady Beneviento had done a small display of her power but that was more than enough.

Just like that, every single one of your fears had come true, and you forced yourself to not cry. No matter what it took you wouldn’t break in front of her.

Just like that too, the woman so sweet and caring you loved, became the monster everyone in the village said she was.

“I– of…course, Lady Beneviento…”

Not even an hour after, you found yourself packing the nearest belongings in the guest room, and trying to hold back the sobs you ran and ran away from the estate until your legs felt they couldn't go another step without collapsing. Not even Angie frantically chasing after you and incessantly apologizing in behalf of Donna could stop you.

Angie knew, when she saw your figure quickly disappearing the furthest you went, that all of it was a big mistake, but that no matter how she wished, that was not something she could fix.

Later in the hall, Angie tried to get answers from Donna, only to be roughly dismissed after the first question.

That afternoon was spent by two women with broken hearts crying their sorrows out until they fell asleep…

No matter what anyone believed, Donna Beneviento was not a morning person. Of course she always made a point to wake up before the sunrise to start with her tasks and some house chores, but that didn't mean she particularly enjoyed it. She always struggled to start her day in the morning, but after so many years of doing it her body got accustomed to work on autopilot. She found herself, still sluggish from the uncomfortable night sleep but already in the kitchen making your favorite breakfast while thinking on what to do later, maybe she could finally get some work done on that jacket she planned to gift you for your upcoming birthday…

The knife she was holding fell out of her grasp and clacked against the countertop as her eyes landed on the untouched coin pouch at the countertop and the memories of the day before finally registered in her mind. All those hurtful words she had said to you, the way she threatened you not only with words but with her power, by Mother Miranda, how could she? 

The clock marked 8am, plenty of time before her deadline kicked in, or more like kicked you out. Donna ran upstairs towards the guest bedroom, and by the way it looked, nothing had been moved. Although there was no trace of you. The bed was made and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Donna thought that maybe, for some saving grace, you were in what once was your shared bedroom, but even there your side of the bed was intact. Even after the fallout Donna couldn’t bring herself to invade your rightful place in her bed.

No matter, not even with her dolls eyes searching the whole Beneviento land could they find a trace of your person, finding instead a familiar book in the yard, just before reaching the elevator. 

The book was picked up by the Lady, and she recognized it as the journal you always carried with you, that not even she had been able to peak in its contents, until now. She was positive it must had fallen from your pocket, and she felt hesitant to read it, but the lack of you moved her to invade your privacy and switch through the pages.

Measurements, notes, sketches, designs for furniture details, one or another recipe, but above all the thing that flooded the pages were personal entries the first day of your permanent stay at the Beneviento estate

Many entries in that diary made her open her eyes, but at the same time crushed her heart and filled her with regret.

Notes about how your day was brighter because ‘Lady Beneviento offered me homemade cookies today. She's always so caring and kind.’

Or…

‘Today she held my hand as she bandaged the knife cut, her hands were trembling and I feared I made her uncomfortable.’

Some of the notes made her heart twist, how did she miss this?

‘Lady Beneviento is so pretty. I can't help but to stare at her portrait and long for a smile of those full lips. I wish one day she can see me the way i see her.’

‘Donna, Donna, such a beautiful name for a gorgeous woman. Donna, sounds like birds chirping on a tranquil morning. All i can think about is you, Donna.’

But then… Donna's heart clenched upon reading an entry a day prior to the date of that horrible afternoon when you uttered those dreadful words.

‘I’m proud of myself for once. A great job I did indeed. I managed to make Donna tell me some of her favorite things so I could add them to the bracelet. Hopefully soon I’ll find the right time to ask her to be mine. I love her and I can’t hide that truth from her anymore… I think she’ll love it!’

And in that same page, a beautifully handmade bracelet was acting as a bookmark, but it had pieces missing. The wire had been twisted in a brutal way, almost as if someone had tried to tear it apart, and the glass charms were chipped, with some places letting Donna know that there were ripped pieces. The bracelet was beautiful indeed, not even it being mangled could take that away. 

Donnas heart twisted almost as badly as the wires when she read the next two and last entries that were longer than the previous ones, and had many scratched sentences. Some parts were even barely legible and on some spots the shaky ink was marred.

‘I made her upset. I stupidly told her about my feelings for her but she's not happy about them. I have never felt more ashamed in my life. How did i fool myself? How did i even believe for a second that i was different? That i had a chance at winning her heart? I take it back my Lady, please forgive me. Don’t deny me your presence for long, I need you.

Please…’

And the last entry…

‘Lady Beneviento left me a notice and urged me to leave her property by tomorrow noon. I tried to confront her about it and… I guess I disgusted her enough to kick me out. I’m so stupid, I knew it was a mistake. I’m leaving now. I don't think I'll be able to face her. It's best that i leave all this behind as soon as possible…’

Donna held the journal close to her chest with mixed emotions. The realization that your mysterious beloved was her! It was herself! You loved her as much as she loved you!

How could she be so blind?

No, how could You be so blind?

It was all a misunderstanding! Why did everything have to go downhill? She was doing well.

If your words were true –and they were, Donna hoped– it was just a matter of time before you returned… right? How long was it since you moved in, around two years? All of your belongings were still in the manor; the handmade clothes Donna made for you, your tools, your books, your favorite tea set. Everything, if not in your room then in your workshop. You had to return for them, and that's where Donna would talk things through with you. She'd confess to you how you always made her feel safe, how you made her days feel like a gentle breeze in a flower field on her face. She'd tell you how she grew to love your particular way to brew her coffee and how well she rested when she slept in your arms at night.

Of course you had to return, if not for your things at least you needed to talk to Donna, right?

So she waited.

And waited…

You did not return.

Three days after, and Donna realized that you would not come back, at least not anytime soon. 

Reading the rest of the journal did nothing to quench the guilt. Full pages of your daydreams were only fueling the fire of sorrow in her.

‘Please love, all I want to do is look at your beauty forever. I yearn for the day I can taste your lips and call myself yours.’

She had to go find you before she lost you for good. It took her a lot of effort but after weighing her options she decided you were more important than her discomfort.

Desperate, Donna did something she wouldn't ever do if she didn't have to.

The trek to the village was bumpy, and the Lady couldn’t recall when was the last time she set foot on the village limits. If not for Karl –who received a call from a desperate Donna whilst in the middle of trying to convince a blonde man to reign with him– that lead the way, she wouldn’t even know where to begin to look for.

But such was Donna’s surprise when Heisenberg forced open the door to your old cabin, only to find it empty. Not even a sign of anyone living there, at least for some good time, almost as if it was abandoned altogether. But Donna didn’t lost hope, as there was still one place left to check.

Angie is with her, the carpentry shop is open, and a young man is sharpening some tools when he's startled by her sudden entrance.

“Hey, you!” Angie's sudden interruption makes the man drop the heavy-looking tool, effectively landing on his toe and making him cry a pained hiss. “Where is she?” Of course they didn’t have to specify, you were known in the whole village for being Lady Beneviento’s carpenter.

“My Lords!” The boy quickly bowed to the pair (and Angie) to pay his respects. “I- well um, yeah she was here a few days ago but only picked up her old tools and left. I swear ma'am she wouldn't stop crying and babbling about breaking her promise or something… but I don’t know where she went.”

After the visit to the workshop, Karl took it upon himself to find answers.

No one in the village though could tell them where you had gone to, not even when Karl threatened people mercilessly for answers, as he hated to see his little sister hurting so much.

The journal was held snuggly against Donnas chest, but not even hugging it with all her might made it her feel comforted.

The sun was finally setting, and the darkness began to engulf the village in shadows. 

And just as the warmth of the sun dissipated and the chill air of the night overcame the village, Donna’s heart also felt cold.

[plutodetective]

Since this was missing from today’s e-mails...

Dr. Seward’s Diary.

18 September.—Just off for train to London. The arrival of Van Helsing’s telegram filled me with dismay. A whole night lost, and I know by bitter experience what may happen in a night. Of course it is possible that all may be well, but what may have happened? Surely there is some horrible doom hanging over us that every possible accident should thwart us in all we try to do. I shall take this cylinder with me, and then I can complete my entry on Lucy’s phonograph.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY

18 September.—I drove at once to Hillingham and arrived early. Keeping my cab at the gate, I went up the avenue alone. I knocked gently and rang as quietly as possible, for I feared to disturb Lucy or her mother, and hoped to only bring a servant to the door. After a while, finding no response, I knocked and rang again; still no answer. I cursed the laziness of the servants that they should lie abed at such an hour—for it was now ten o’clock—and so rang and knocked again, but more impatiently, but still without response. Hitherto I had blamed only the servants, but now a terrible fear began to assail me. Was this desolation but another link in the chain of doom which seemed drawing tight around us? Was it indeed a house of death to which I had come, too late? I knew that minutes, even seconds of delay, might mean hours of danger to Lucy, if she had had again one of those frightful relapses; and I went round the house to try if I could find by chance an entry anywhere.

I could find no means of ingress. Every window and door was fastened and locked, and I returned baffled to the porch. As I did so, I heard the rapid pit-pat of a swiftly driven horse’s feet. They stopped at the gate, and a few seconds later I met Van Helsing running up the avenue. When he saw me, he gasped out:—

“Then it was you, and just arrived. How is she? Are we too late? Did you not get my telegram?”

I answered as quickly and coherently as I could that I had only got his telegram early in the morning, and had not lost a minute in coming here, and that I could not make any one in the house hear me. He paused and raised his hat as he said solemnly:—

“Then I fear we are too late. God’s will be done!” With his usual recuperative energy, he went on: “Come. If there be no way open to get in, we must make one. Time is all in all to us now.”

We went round to the back of the house, where there was a kitchen window. The Professor took a small surgical saw from his case, and handing it to me, pointed to the iron bars which guarded the window. I attacked them at once and had very soon cut through three of them. Then with a long, thin knife we pushed back the fastening of the sashes and opened the window. I helped the Professor in, and followed him. There was no one in the kitchen or in the servants’ rooms, which were close at hand. We tried all the rooms as we went along, and in the dining-room, dimly lit by rays of light through the shutters, found four servant-women lying on the floor. There was no need to think them dead, for their stertorous breathing and the acrid smell of laudanum in the room left no doubt as to their condition. Van Helsing and I looked at each other, and as we moved away he said: “We can attend to them later.” Then we ascended to Lucy’s room. For an instant or two we paused at the door to listen, but there was no sound that we could hear. With white faces and trembling hands, we opened the door gently, and entered the room.

How shall I describe what we saw? On the bed lay two women, Lucy and her mother. The latter lay farthest in, and she was covered with a white sheet, the edge of which had been blown back by the draught through the broken window, showing the drawn, white face, with a look of terror fixed upon it. By her side lay Lucy, with face white and still more drawn. The flowers which had been round her neck we found upon her mother’s bosom, and her throat was bare, showing the two little wounds which we had noticed before, but looking horribly white and mangled. Without a word the Professor bent over the bed, his head almost touching poor Lucy’s breast; then he gave a quick turn of his head, as of one who listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to me:—

“It is not yet too late! Quick! quick! Bring the brandy!”

I flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell and taste it, lest it, too, were drugged like the decanter of sherry which I found on the table. The maids were still breathing, but more restlessly, and I fancied that the narcotic was wearing off. I did not stay to make sure, but returned to Van Helsing. He rubbed the brandy, as on another occasion, on her lips and gums and on her wrists and the palms of her hands. He said to me:—

“I can do this, all that can be at the present. You go wake those maids. Flick them in the face with a wet towel, and flick them hard. Make them get heat and fire and a warm bath. This poor soul is nearly as cold as that beside her. She will need be heated before we can do anything more.”

I went at once, and found little difficulty in waking three of the women. The fourth was only a young girl, and the drug had evidently affected her more strongly, so I lifted her on the sofa and let her sleep. The others were dazed at first, but as remembrance came back to them they cried and sobbed in a hysterical manner. I was stern with them, however, and would not let them talk. I told them that one life was bad enough to lose, and that if they delayed they would sacrifice Miss Lucy. So, sobbing and crying, they went about their way, half clad as they were, and prepared fire and water. Fortunately, the kitchen and boiler fires were still alive, and there was no lack of hot water. We got a bath and carried Lucy out as she was and placed her in it. Whilst we were busy chafing her limbs there was a knock at the hall door. One of the maids ran off, hurried on some more clothes, and opened it. Then she returned and whispered to us that there was a gentleman who had come with a message from Mr. Holmwood. I bade her simply tell him that he must wait, for we could see no one now. She went away with the message, and, engrossed with our work, I clean forgot all about him.

I never saw in all my experience the Professor work in such deadly earnest. I knew—as he knew—that it was a stand-up fight with death, and in a pause told him so. He answered me in a way that I did not understand, but with the sternest look that his face could wear:—

“If that were all, I would stop here where we are now, and let her fade away into peace, for I see no light in life over her horizon.” He went on with his work with, if possible, renewed and more frenzied vigour.

Presently we both began to be conscious that the heat was beginning to be of some effect. Lucy’s heart beat a trifle more audibly to the stethoscope, and her lungs had a perceptible movement. Van Helsing’s face almost beamed, and as we lifted her from the bath and rolled her in a hot sheet to dry her he said to me:—

“The first gain is ours! Check to the King!”

We took Lucy into another room, which had by now been prepared, and laid her in bed and forced a few drops of brandy down her throat. I noticed that Van Helsing tied a soft silk handkerchief round her throat. She was still unconscious, and was quite as bad as, if not worse than, we had ever seen her.

Van Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to stay with her and not to take her eyes off her till we returned, and then beckoned me out of the room.

“We must consult as to what is to be done,” he said as we descended the stairs. In the hall he opened the dining-room door, and we passed in, he closing the door carefully behind him. The shutters had been opened, but the blinds were already down, with that obedience to the etiquette of death which the British woman of the lower classes always rigidly observes. The room was, therefore, dimly dark. It was, however, light enough for our purposes. Van Helsing’s sternness was somewhat relieved by a look of perplexity. He was evidently torturing his mind about something, so I waited for an instant, and he spoke:—

“What are we to do now? Where are we to turn for help? We must have another transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor girl’s life won’t be worth an hour’s purchase. You are exhausted already; I am exhausted too. I fear to trust those women, even if they would have courage to submit. What are we to do for some one who will open his veins for her?”

“What’s the matter with me, anyhow?”

The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought relief and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quincey Morris. Van Helsing started angrily at the first sound, but his face softened and a glad look came into his eyes as I cried out: “Quincey Morris!” and rushed towards him with outstretched hands.

“What brought you here?” I cried as our hands met.

“I guess Art is the cause.”

He handed me a telegram:—

“Have not heard from Seward for three days, and am terribly anxious. Cannot leave. Father still in same condition. Send me word how Lucy is. Do not delay.—Holmwood.”

“I think I came just in the nick of time. You know you have only to tell me what to do.”

Van Helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking him straight in the eyes as he said:—

“A brave man’s blood is the best thing on this earth when a woman is in trouble. You’re a man and no mistake. Well, the devil may work against us for all he’s worth, but God sends us men when we want them.”

Once again we went through that ghastly operation. I have not the heart to go through with the details. Lucy had got a terrible shock and it told on her more than before, for though plenty of blood went into her veins, her body did not respond to the treatment as well as on the other occasions. Her struggle back into life was something frightful to see and hear. However, the action of both heart and lungs improved, and Van Helsing made a subcutaneous injection of morphia, as before, and with good effect. Her faint became a profound slumber. The Professor watched whilst I went downstairs with Quincey Morris, and sent one of the maids to pay off one of the cabmen who were waiting. I left Quincey lying down after having a glass of wine, and told the cook to get ready a good breakfast. Then a thought struck me, and I went back to the room where Lucy now was. When I came softly in, I found Van Helsing with a sheet or two of note-paper in his hand. He had evidently read it, and was thinking it over as he sat with his hand to his brow. There was a look of grim satisfaction in his face, as of one who has had a doubt solved. He handed me the paper saying only: “It dropped from Lucy’s breast when we carried her to the bath.”

When I had read it, I stood looking at the Professor, and after a pause asked him: “In God’s name, what does it all mean? Was she, or is she, mad; or what sort of horrible danger is it?” I was so bewildered that I did not know what to say more. Van Helsing put out his hand and took the paper, saying:—

“Do not trouble about it now. Forget it for the present. You shall know and understand it all in good time; but it will be later. And now what is it that you came to me to say?” This brought me back to fact, and I was all myself again.

“I came to speak about the certificate of death. If we do not act properly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and that paper would have to be produced. I am in hopes that we need have no inquest, for if we had it would surely kill poor Lucy, if nothing else did. I know, and you know, and the other doctor who attended her knows, that Mrs. Westenra had disease of the heart, and we can certify that she died of it. Let us fill up the certificate at once, and I shall take it myself to the registrar and go on to the undertaker.”

“Good, oh my friend John! Well thought of! Truly Miss Lucy, if she be sad in the foes that beset her, is at least happy in the friends that love her. One, two, three, all open their veins for her, besides one old man. Ah yes, I know, friend John; I am not blind! I love you all the more for it! Now go.”

In the hall I met Quincey Morris, with a telegram for Arthur telling him that Mrs. Westenra was dead; that Lucy also had been ill, but was now going on better; and that Van Helsing and I were with her. I told him where I was going, and he hurried me out, but as I was going said:—

“When you come back, Jack, may I have two words with you all to ourselves?” I nodded in reply and went out. I found no difficulty about the registration, and arranged with the local undertaker to come up in the evening to measure for the coffin and to make arrangements.

When I got back Quincey was waiting for me. I told him I would see him as soon as I knew about Lucy, and went up to her room. She was still sleeping, and the Professor seemingly had not moved from his seat at her side. From his putting his finger to his lips, I gathered that he expected her to wake before long and was afraid of forestalling nature. So I went down to Quincey and took him into the breakfast-room, where the blinds were not drawn down, and which was a little more cheerful, or rather less cheerless, than the other rooms. When we were alone, he said to me:—

“Jack Seward, I don’t want to shove myself in anywhere where I’ve no right to be; but this is no ordinary case. You know I loved that girl and wanted to marry her; but, although that’s all past and gone, I can’t help feeling anxious about her all the same. What is it that’s wrong with her? The Dutchman—and a fine old fellow he is; I can see that—said, that time you two came into the room, that you must have another transfusion of blood, and that both you and he were exhausted. Now I know well that you medical men speak in camera, and that a man must not expect to know what they consult about in private. But this is no common matter, and, whatever it is, I have done my part. Is not that so?”

“That’s so,” I said, and he went on:—

“I take it that both you and Van Helsing had done already what I did to-day. Is not that so?”

“That’s so.”

“And I guess Art was in it too. When I saw him four days ago down at his own place he looked queer. I have not seen anything pulled down so quick since I was on the Pampas and had a mare that I was fond of go to grass all in a night. One of those big bats that they call vampires had got at her in the night, and what with his gorge and the vein left open, there wasn’t enough blood in her to let her stand up, and I had to put a bullet through her as she lay. Jack, if you may tell me without betraying confidence, Arthur was the first, is not that so?” As he spoke the poor fellow looked terribly anxious. He was in a torture of suspense regarding the woman he loved, and his utter ignorance of the terrible mystery which seemed to surround her intensified his pain. His very heart was bleeding, and it took all the manhood of him—and there was a royal lot of it, too—to keep him from breaking down. I paused before answering, for I felt that I must not betray anything which the Professor wished kept secret; but already he knew so much, and guessed so much, that there could be no reason for not answering, so I answered in the same phrase: “That’s so.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

“About ten days.”

“Ten days! Then I guess, Jack Seward, that that poor pretty creature that we all love has had put into her veins within that time the blood of four strong men. Man alive, her whole body wouldn’t hold it.” Then, coming close to me, he spoke in a fierce half-whisper: “What took it out?”

I shook my head. “That,” I said, “is the crux. Van Helsing is simply frantic about it, and I am at my wits’ end. I can’t even hazard a guess. There has been a series of little circumstances which have thrown out all our calculations as to Lucy being properly watched. But these shall not occur again. Here we stay until all be well—or ill.” Quincey held out his hand. “Count me in,” he said. “You and the Dutchman will tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

When she woke late in the afternoon, Lucy’s first movement was to feel in her breast, and, to my surprise, produced the paper which Van Helsing had given me to read. The careful Professor had replaced it where it had come from, lest on waking she should be alarmed. Her eye then lit on Van Helsing and on me too, and gladdened. Then she looked around the room, and seeing where she was, shuddered; she gave a loud cry, and put her poor thin hands before her pale face. We both understood what that meant—that she had realised to the full her mother’s death; so we tried what we could to comfort her. Doubtless sympathy eased her somewhat, but she was very low in thought and spirit, and wept silently and weakly for a long time. We told her that either or both of us would now remain with her all the time, and that seemed to comfort her. Towards dusk she fell into a doze. Here a very odd thing occurred. Whilst still asleep she took the paper from her breast and tore it in two. Van Helsing stepped over and took the pieces from her. All the same, however, she went on with the action of tearing, as though the material were still in her hands; finally she lifted her hands and opened them as though scattering the fragments. Van Helsing seemed surprised, and his brows gathered as if in thought, but he said nothing.

[thomastair]

“Isn’t that my shirt?” For any ship you want

thomastair—“isn’t that my shirt?”

Thomas rolled over, flinging his arm across his face. Sunlight was streaming through the gap in the curtains, slanting in a blinding line across his eyes. He felt bone weary, tired in a way he usually didn’t. It had been like that since Barbara’s death, more painful to rise and meet the day.

Of course he’d been up late and that didn’t help his exhaustion.

Thomas froze suddenly as details of the previous night washed over him. Alastair’s face tilted up towards his, his eyes wide and dark like deep pools in the shade. Alastair taking his hand gently with his long fingers and spinning under the arc of his arm as the phonograph played a tinny waltz. The burn of liquor down Thomas’s throat as he and Alastair collapsed together on the bed laughing.

His parents and Eugenia were weekending in Idris which meant that Alastair, desperate to avoid his own father, had appeared on Thomas's doorstep not even an hour after the Lightwood carriage had trundled away. Thomas didn’t mind.

He did not know who he was to Alastair. He didn’t know who Alastair was to him, but he was glad to be in Alastair’s company and whatever that entailed.

Including drunken kisses apparently.

Thomas removed his hand from over his eyes and blinked into the sunlight. The dark blue coverlet was piled on the floor at the foot of the bed. He was shirtless and his legs were tangled in the mess of the rest of his bedsheets. Thomas stared at the tattoo on his forearm, the ink tracing a delicate path over the pale skin. He still felt bleary and sleep-logged, the beginnings of a headache starting at the base of his skull.

Alastair was gone. That much was evident. The indentation where he’d lain next to Thomas was cold and his clothes were missing from the various places they’d been tossed the night before. A pang of regret went through Thomas. There had been only a handful of late nights and every time he woke Alastair was long gone in the morning. He’d been meaning to wake up earlier, to catch Alastair before he slipped away, to see the way he looked in the morning light before the sun sharpened his edges.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the soft pillows, closing his eyes against the light. If Alastair wasn’t there he didn’t see any reason he shouldn’t sleep the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. He wanted to be rested for his patrol that night and besides, his mother wasn’t there to chide him out of bed.

He was just starting to slide back into morning buzzed dreams when his bedroom door clicked open. The pad of feet on the thick carpet prompted him to crack open an eye.

Alastair tilted his head to the side and smiled crookedly at him. The morning light outlined the dark tips of his sleep mussed hair in gold where it lay against the illuminated brown of his skin. Lines of sleep creased his face and he yawned, careful not to spill the two mugs of steaming liquid he held in each hand. He set one down on the side table before sitting on the edge of the bed with his long musician's fingers wrapped around the other one.

Thomas realized the shirt Alastair was wearing was too big for him. He had had to roll the sleeves up several times to carry the mugs in and the hem fell nearly to his knees. The linen was slightly transparent, showing the shadows of Alastair’s muscles and black marks underneath it. Thomas found he could not stop staring like an absolute fool.

He knew Alastair noticed him noticing because he was smirking a little as he took another sip from his mug. He had an infuriating tilt to his mouth. Thomas shifted, reaching a long arm across to pick up the mug from the side table. As he lifted it to his mouth he smelled earl grey, wafting up to him in wisps of steam. He took a sip and sat up, letting the sheets wad around his bare waist.

“Isn’t that my shirt?” His voice sounded rough to his own ears and he coughed, wrapping his fingers comfortingly around his tea.

Alastair’s dark eyes flicked up and down Thomas’s bare chest once before fixing on Thomas’s face. “Do you mind?” His voice was low and hoarse from sleep.

Thomas felt himself go red. “No, of course not.” Damn Alastair for so easily having this affect on him. He imagined a world in which every morning started with him flustered and blushing and was surprised to feel a pang of wistfulness. He didn’t know if it was possible for them to have something like that. He wondered if Alastair even wanted it as much as he did.

“What’s wrong?”

Thomas jerked his attention back to Alastair who was frowning at him slightly, his expressive eyebrows quizzical. “Huh?”

Alastair reached out an absentminded hand to him before letting it fall forlornly onto the bed between them. “You’re far away.”

Thomas sighed, taking another sip of tea and letting the hot liquid burn his throat. “I thought that you’d left again.”

Alastair’s hand curled on the sheet in front of him. “Did you want me to?” He sounded a little hurt, but also as if he’d expected it. As if it was the most natural thing in the world that Thomas wouldn’t want to see him in the morning. Something about his tone made Thomas’s heart go out to him.

“What? No!” He scrambled for words. “I never want you to leave. I just figured that you would.” He felt himself blushing again. He was dangerously close to admitting something embarrassing and shattering whatever delicate thing they had built between them.

Alastair looked surprised, eyebrows shooting up as he stared at Thomas. With a sudden violent movement he drained the rest of his tea, standing up fluidly. The hem of Thomas’s shirt fluttered against the bottom of his bare thighs as he moved to set the—now empty—mug on the side table. He looked at a loss for words, twisting the silver Carstairs ring around his finger in a nervous tic.

“It’s just—” He broke off in frustration, running a hand through his hair and tousling it even further. “Nobody’s ever wanted me to stay before.”

Thomas’s heart gave a sudden powerful flutter. He stared up at Alastair, who was standing above him by the bedside now. “Why not?” He mentally answered his own question as a dark look passed across Alastair’s face. He’d always been worried about being found out before. “Nevermind actually. But I—I want you to stay.”

He met Alastair’s gaze stubbornly, almost daring him to not believe his words. He watched Alastair’s face soften into a look that he’d never seen before. The look made him feel warmer than the quickly cooling mug of tea he was holding. The edges of Alastair’s mouth curled in the beginnings of a smile and he bent to lift the mug deftly out of Thomas’s hands, leaving it next to his empty one. He leaned forward, leaning his hands against Thomas’s shoulders, rubbing small circles with his palms. The brush of his fingers felt like sunlight pouring into Thomas’s veins and he tilted his chin up, smiling slightly.

“You want me to stay?” Alastair’s tone was teasing but his face was serious even as he traced paths lightly over the skin of Thomas’s shoulders.

Thomas reached up and tugged at his shirt, pressing his hands against the skin under the fabric. “Of course.”

Alastair began to grin, he was dazzling. Thomas felt his breath catch in his throat. “Alright then.” Alastair leaned down to kiss him. “I’ll stay.”

The kiss was languid and warm. Alastair tasted like earl grey and smelled like Thomas’s own shirt. As Thomas’s hands curled around the lean line of Alastair’s waist he allowed himself to imagine dozens of mornings like that, with the press of Alastair’s mouth against his own, the sunlight shining around them in a haze, warmth pouring into his blood and bones. The idea suddenly seemed less like a far fetched dream and more like a reality. Thomas smiled.

[strikearose]

Over a jazz tune (IchiRuki)

Here’s the translation of a little story written years ago, I hope you guys enjoy it <3 Summary: It was by pure chance that Rukia had found it one day as she was exploring the wonders hidden in the Kurosaki's attic. You can also read it on ff.net (link) and ao3 (link)

It was by pure chance that Rukia had found it as she was exploring the wonders hidden in the Kurosaki's attic. This place was truly a treasure trove and among her greatest finds were a whole bunch of out-dated items of clothing, dusty furniture and hilarious picture books. However, what that was standing before her very eyes was even more extraordinary and intriguing than anything she had ever seen before. The object had a very peculiar shape : a large sort of golden horn was fixed on top of a wooden box while a small, delicate, crank handle was anchored on the side. She felt the fabulous instrument with her fingertip, appreciating the roughness of the woodwork and the delicacy of the bronzed details.

What could be the purpose of this thing? If there was even one, of course, as her sojourns on Earth had taught her how much Humans liked to surrender themselves with objects that were utterly useless!

A smile of wonder came on her lips as she lifted the object of her dreams with her hands, eager to know more about it. Unfortunately, Rukia quickly felt disenchanted as she realized that it weighed a ton. Bringing it to the redhead's room was going to be a real pain, but she could do it on her own - she was a Kuchiki, after all!

**

His eyebrows frowned as he heard the heavy footsteps of the brunette coming in his direction. What the hell was she going to show him, now? Vintage pictures that were from a time than none of his close relatives had lived in? Other eccentric outfits that had belonged to his father long, long ago? Well - at least that was what he hoped because even he had no real interest or whatsoever in fashion, the memory of that awful purple sequined jacket still gave him chills.

Ichigo did not have the time to think of it any longer - the door of his room opened with a bang, revealing Rukia's exhausting face. Not expecting it, he watched her struggling to drag a large cardboard box into his room. It was only after receiving a murderous glare from the shinigami that Ichigo finally decided to give her a hand - hey, it was way more heavy that what he'd thought. What the hell was inside that box?

When the brunette's treasure was finally brought to his bed, Ichigo allowed himself a sigh of relief while Rukia, losing no time, immediately began to unwrap... A phonograph.

The young man squinted his eyes slightly, he had no recollection of ever seeing that thing. It probably belonged to the previous owners.

"Ichigo, what is this marvelous thing?"

His chocolate eyes slowly lowered onto his friend's face - she was literally begging him to answer. He had learned over time to appreciate this side of the goddess of death, far different from her usual professional and distant mask. It was in those precious moments, when she left aside her role of shinigami to appreciate every little thing she was given to discover on Earth, that she seemed the most human to him. Her curiosity was always genuine.

"It's a phonograph, Rukia", he smiled and closed his book for good. "It's like the ancestor of a record player, you know? It's kind of a radio, it makes music."

He wasn't going to give her in a nonsensical explanation of how the machine worked - a demonstration would make much more sense. With a cautious gesture, he lifted the sapphire from the record-deck and, plunging his hand into the box, tried to grab whatever record was supposed to be in there.

...

Nothing.

He frowned - if the phonograph was stored there, everything should be in there too.

"Ichigo?", inquired the brunette after a few moments of silence.

"Something is missing", he sighed. "Sorry Rukia but it won't work."

A veil of disappointment passed over her, quickly swept away by her usual mask of neutrality.

**

"Ichi-nii, are you there?"

Ichigo's eyes opened and he slowly lifted his head, lost. What had happened? He just remembered looking at a particularly tough math problem and then... Nothing. He had fallen asleep on his desk.

"Ichi-nii?", his little sister's sweet voice brought him back to reality:

"Come in Yuzu", said the elder Kurosaki, muffling a new yawn.

The schoolgirl opened the door carefully, smiling, and closed it behind her.

"I wanted to have a look around the garage sale downtown, but Daddy has patients to take care of and..-", he cut her off gently.

"Just give me a few minutes to finish up and then we'll go."

A big smile brighten up the face of the youngest Kurosaki - he knew how much she loved dusting off, sewing, and bringing back to life whatever ancient dolls she could find - Kon being a living proof of it.

With his hands in his pockets, the schoolboy walked through the streets and stalls of the city, keeping a close eye on his precious little sister. Yuzu was on her seventh purchase when they passed along an old vinyl stall - if Ichigo didn't bother to pay it the slightest attention, the young girl grabbed his arm and forced him to approach.

"Weren't you looking for one of those things Ichi-nii?"

His gaze fell mechanically on the discs, but it was only when he met the radiant smile of his sister that he made the connection. The sweet giggle that escaped Yuzu's lips set his cheeks on fire as he used his last savings for an 'ungrateful idiot who wouldn't even understand'.

**

Several days had passed since the yard sale but the shinigami hadn't bother to even show her face. If at first, the brunette's lack of interest had upset Ichigo - 'She brings and unwraps it, lose all interest two seconds later and leaves it in the middle of my fucking room' - he stored his latest acquisition in a empty corner of his desk and eventually forgot about it too.

The red-head was writing the thirty-seventh line of his essay when he heard a few knocks at his window. Any form resentment instantly forgotten, it took him only a tenth of a second to unlock it for her. It wasn't like he was really looking forwards her return.

...

No.

Ichigo simply had good reflexes.

And maybe bad faith, too.

The high school student didn't comment on how tired she looked - the contrite smile she gave him when she entered his room definitely erase any rancor he still felt. She looked as if she hadn't have a proper night of sleep for ages - there was no way he could have kick her out in her state.

"Yo", he cleared his throat, the silence made him feel quite uneasy.

"Good evening Ichigo."

The conversation stopped there but the atmosphere had mellowed down considerably. Rukia, removing Sode-No-Shirayuki from her waist, gently put it in the closet as he went back to his geography.

"Oh, it's still there!", Rukia's calm voice forced him to look up.

Obviously, she was talking about the phonograph which hadn't been moved for almost two weeks, forcing the poor student to hop over it each time he wanted to go to his bed.

"Yeah, it's your mess by the way so you better..-"

A murderous glance stopped him in his track - well, as he had already paid for it, the least he could do was to surrender for once.

"Here, try this one," said Ichigo, handing the shinigami the disc he had brought.

Her big eyes sparkled. At last! She was about to find out how this fabulous machine worked. With a carefully gesture, she accepted the present and placed it on the player-deck. There was a sizzling sound and then, finally, the music began.

Of course, it had to be jazz music - a waltz, more precisely. The room soon felt into a relaxing, peaceful - not to say intimate - atmosphere. And as time went by slowly, Ichigo who wasn't particular fond of the genre, began humming along the song.

They were far from the sound of clashing swords and cries of the hollow. Far from the violence of the wars they had to take part in. Far from the suffering they had to endure.

He closed the geography book, this time for good, and turned his attention to the brunette who hadn't say a word in what felt like hours.

What the ?

Ichigo almost burst out laughing when he saw her dancing - she looked simply ridiculous : wiggling her tiny body to the music, her eyes were closed, her eyebrows furrowed and she was wrinkling her nose in what seemed to be great effort.

"Rukia?"

She didn't even bother to lift her eyelids and continued her strange choreography. More serene than ever. She didn't seem to care one bit that dancing wasn't her strong suit.

"Gosh, you really can't dance..."

As if by magic, the enchantment instantly broke.

The shinigami opened her eyes, her mouth now twisted in an angry frown - she was about to strike the student with a kidō spell when she realized that he was smiling at her.

Genuinely smiling.

Her cheeks turned an almost adorable pink hue as he nonchalantly rose to stand beside her.

**

"You suck at this too."

He didn't retort.

"No, you're even worse than me Ichigo."

"Stop complaining", he glared at her. "And watch your step!"

They both went silent.

Their cheeks were bright red and their gestures clumsy - but none of it mattered at that moment.

"Ichigo?"

He opened one eye to look at her, but said nothing.

"Ichigo!", she insisted.

"What now Rukia?"

For god sake, she couldn't hold her tongue for five minutes! She definitely had a knack for ruining moments.

"Thank you."

She smiled at him, her eyes gleaming, as if all the fatigue accumulated over the last few days had vanished.

"Don't mention it, silly."

**

None of them heard the light footsteps coming up the stairs nor the weak knocks at the door. Yuzu waited a few moments and hesitated before opened it carefully. What she discovered there remained forever engraved in her memory:

Ichigo, with his eyes closed, was in a trance. With his hands placed around what she guessed was supposed to be the waist of a woman, he was moving back and forth, whirling around himself.

The poor girl slowly closed the door and ran away, promising herself never to set foot in his room again.

** (small explanation: Because Rukia wasn't wearing her gigai, Yuzu unfortunately couldn't fully enjoy the show.)

[sexysilverstrider]

A Practice to Remember

 To this day, Claude still wonders why his professor even considered him, of all people, to participate in the White Heron Cup.  “Ah,” she remarks, “a little to the left. You slid too far for that move.” Instructions pour out of her mouth calmly. Serenity and focus grace her face. But don’t be fooled. In all honestly, Byleth herself is at lost in the art of dancing. While she struggles in trying to guide the young heir in his dance practice, at least she can be glad that she isn’t the one that is going to dance in the competition.  Still…  “Teach…” Huffs of unsatisfied air escape his mouth. Finally halting to a stop, Claude plops his hands to his sides. “I mean this in the nicest way possible,” Green eyes stare at the apathetic woman, “but I feel like a crab who has lost its purpose on a Tuesday morning.”  The joke runs over her head; that is obvious with such a blank stare she is giving him.  Arms crossed and tightened. A single breath is held, then released in a slow manner. “Sorry…” is all she musters. Shame kisses each cheek. As agile as she is in the battlefield, Byleth has to bitterly admit that dancing has a different grace altogether that even she cannot grasp. Her head lowers, hiding the embarrassment of being unable to guide her student.  Byleth is rarely one to show emotions. But to see guilt wash over her face, Claude feels his stomach clench in complete discomfort.  Turns out he doesn’t like that sort emotion from her.

 “Hey now.” Hands quickly wave in front of her, he approaches forward. “I didn’t say you’re a bad teacher, Teach!” Laughter is forced in vain hopes that it will dispel her sorrow. “It’s just…uh…” One hand quickly rubs the side of his neck. “I’m sorta bad at this dancing thing, that’s all—”  “No.”  Her reply is quick. Sharp. Completely silencing him from saying any further.    Lavender eyes snap forward, actually making him flinch where he stands. “I’m your teacher.” A frown tugs the corners of her lips. “I should be guiding you, even if it means making sure you ace this dancing competition.” Resolve burns in those big beautiful eyes. “Even if it means I’ll dance with you to make sure you learn!”  Shock is the recurring character in his opera of emotions as Claude stands in bafflement at her statement. Fire burns in a pair of lavenders. Sparks of awe twinkles in a pair of greens. “Uh…” He tries to break the suddenly awkward silence. Both hands level near his chest. Both feet remain glued where he stands.  It takes her a full minute to realize what she said. And once the thought has registered, a flush of red splashes her cheeks.  Cute.  “I-I mean…” Stutters. She actually stutters. “Of course I don’t want to intrude. But I’ll make sure by the end of today, you’ll have the grace of a—”  “Dance with me.”  Shock ties her tongue tied.  Things seem to happen too fast for someone like her. And Byleth soon realizes that a hand—his hand—has reached out for her. Once, twice, she blinks at the waiting palm. A low chuckle accompanies her ringing head, and the young professor looks up at him.  His smile can rival the sun above.  “Well…” A light snicker tickles his tone, “since you did say you’ll dance with me so that I can learn better.” The grin on his face widens to a smile; playful at first, then slowly eased to one of anticipation. His other hand is positioned behind his back. Claude doesn’t move much afterwards, merely waiting for the response of his beloved professor.  However, as seconds grow to minutes, regret and shame start to envelop him—  He’s thankful he manages to swallow a gasp once his hand is finally being held.  “Well then…” Gaze falls to the held palm. She watches as slender fingers gently curl around her own. She hitches a breath as his grip cosily tightens around the shape of her hand.  It feels…right. Safe.  Warm.  The thought echo in unison without their realization. Byleth remains still in her position, unaware, lost, and frankly, very embarrassed at the action she has done. Courage took hold of her a few seconds ago, but that bravado now dissolves into awkwardness. She keeps her vision low, straight at their held hands. Uh… She wonders if Sothis is available in her head now. If that mysterious being is available, she can give her advice or at least ease her of this painful still-stone moment—  “B—Teach…”  His voice. She hears his voice.  Shivers run down her spine for his tone lacks of the cunning tune she is ever so used to.  Finally holding on to the bits of courage she manages to collect, Byleth finally looks up.  His smile can truly take her breath away.  Unbeknownst to her, a tornado of emotions is raging inside of him as well. Her eyes are flames that always attract him like a helpless moth. Her quiet stare both eases and wrecks him. Though words are not her strong suit, Claude feels hilariously hopeless every time she decides to open her mouth and speak.  He feels absolutely foolish every time she easily but unwarily snatches his attention with the simple movement of her pretty pink lips—  “Anyways—” he quips, then inhales sharply. “Ready to be swept off your feet?” Enlightening the atmosphere is always is strong suit. And even in this moment that literally takes his breath away, Claude holds on to his shaking sanity and straightens his back. “I may not look like it, but I’ll make sure to impress you by the end of the day.”  Surprise washes her face. And in a split second, short laughter bubbles inside the practice hall.  He fears his traitorous heart will blow their cover anytime soon.  “Okay,” is all she replies. Pushing away the bundle of nerves that twists her chest and stomach, Byleth fixes her posture. Her right hand squeezes his left, and she can feel her body being gently pulled forward. Though she had never danced in her life, Byleth is quite proud in her observation skills. She has seen commoners and mercenaries danced around a dancing campfire. She has seen happy couples gracing the earth with no regards to anyone around them. As a kid, Byleth always found the scene amusing and interesting. She even wondered once what it would feel if—if—she was ever in that situation.  And now, looks like she doesn’t need to wonder anymore.  Without a word, she moves her left hand to his right shoulder. Gaze never falls to the tall heir, always to the positions of her hands and body.  She isn’t ready to look at him now anyways.  A hand can be felt on her left hip. Shoulders flinch ever so slightly, but composure is quickly recollected in hopes that he didn’t see. “Ready…?” His voice huffs softly above her head. Warm air brushes dark blue strands, caressing each to each of her burning cheek. Words are absent entirely; a simple nod is given as a response.  A hum tickles her ears, and Byleth rues over the fact that she already feels empty from losing the touch of his right hand.  With ease, Claude gently placed the spindle of the phonograph near him. Once music starts to fill the hall, he places his focus on the woman in front of him.  By the stars, when he does, Claude actually feels his breath being taken away as his stares into those pair of dashing lavenders.  A smile stays in place. A heart howls like a wild beast.  Without a word, he starts to move. Following her instinct, she starts to follow. Left and right they sway. His hand on her hip tickles her ever so slightly, twitching a shaky smile that only widens his own. One step forward. Two steps back. Their bodies are merely inches apart. Their heartbeats drum as one.  As much as Claude is supposed to be the one practicing, Byleth isn’t all that surprised when she feels him guide her on the dancefloor. Soon enough, laughter fills the air. Joy beams brightly among the two. While this whole ordeal was meant to be practice for the Alliance heir and she was supposed to teach him, in a matter of minutes, the sound of harmonious glee fits perfectly with the lovely music.  Fingers entwines wonderfully with his. The sway of her skirt provides cool air to her thighs. The swish of her hair tickles his ticklish chin. Sometimes her left hand will be released so that she can twirl a few steps away. Sometimes his right hand will brush up her back when she returns back to his arms.  Tap, tap. The sound of heels echo in the halls. Once more she twirls, and this time she jumps a mere inch, and jumps again when she spins back to his embrace.  She’s beautiful. He has never seen her this happy before. She’s beautiful. He has never seen her laugh so much. Sure, she is one who rarely to never show a proper reaction. Hell, the smile he saw from her for the very first time still lingers in his mind like haunting memory.  But to see her like this…right now…  His heart only howls louder. A gulps slides down a dry throat.  From afar, none can tell who is learning and who is teaching. The image that is a sight to behold right now is an image of two people happily enjoying their presence without a care in the world. Only momentarily that she has forgotten her role as a professor. Only momentarily he has forgotten his ambitions as a leader.  If only…he wonders. If only—she wonders.  Time could stop right now.  Suddenly, the steps she takes falters, but instead of flinching backwards, she only holds a tiny gasp to feel her body being pulled closer.  “I got you…” is all he musters, whispers, tracing delicate shivers down the sides of her neck.  His voice lulls close. Too close. Realization hits her far too soon and far too later when she feels his heartbeat drum near her face. Her right cheek, warm and kissed by heat, is pressed against his sturdy chest. One hand pressed close to his chest, while her right hand is still held tightly, firmly by reassuring fingers.  Words are absent in a presence of soothing music. But alas, even the music has finally reached its end. Thoughts are in a jumble, but her mind forces itself to focus on anything but his heartbeat. Emotions boil inside her roaring heart, but her brain firmly ignores it in complete vain.  But the situation is proven a challenge. How can she ignore this? Not when she can feel his arm, strong and safe, tucked comfortably around the small of her back.  She then hears his breathing. Harsh. Quick. Hitched.  She cannot look at him just yet.  Silence is always a norm for her. Silence is her friend. Noise often irks her, and there are only a selective few who she can tolerate especially since entering the academy.  But Claude. His voice is never noise. Not to her. Not ever.  So that’s why—as their bodies pressed close together, as their warmth caressed the skin shivering underneath—Byleth wants nothing more than to hear his voice right now—  “—leth…”  It was faint. Too faint. But she swore by the name of her deceased mother that she heard—  His hug tightens. Something is pressed gently onto the top of her head.  Ba-dump!  She wonders if the wave of emotions coursing through her accidentally caused a Divine Pulse. But one things is for sure: everything is happening too much, too fast around her. In a matter of seconds, just as she was about to register reality, she instead gasps meekly at the feel of her body being released and pushed away.  She wonders why she feels sad by the action.  Bafflement widens a pair of lavenders. Neither a sound nor a peep, Byleth gapes at the tall heir before her. She sees him pant, wheeze, all the while clutching where his heart screams.  Bafflement still paints her face, and will continue to do so when she hears short laughter next.  “Well I—uh…” Stammers break down what words he wishes to say. “I—gotta go, Teach. I think I’m late for—” One look at her is enough to rattle him. “—Professor M-Manuela’s class—” Breathe, you idiot. Breathe!  He is never like this. He should never be like this. Not once. Not ever. Never would he expect himself to be so easily exposed like a startled fawn. His masks should serve him well. His smiles should provide him the protection from the world he craves to save.  But now…as she stands before him…  Answers are never given, and Claude doesn’t know whether to be thankful or not. He laughs again, ever so dumbly. One arm bent on his stomach, he gives a little bow. “Bye, Teach! Thanks for the lesson!” Without a single hesitation, he dashes off.  Tick…tock…tick…  Byleth wonders how and when she got herself to sit on the ground.  A few dumbfounded blinks happen all too fast. Her head feels numb, then dizzy, until she finally cups her face with shaking palms.  His voice lingers in her ears like an enchanting tune.  Did he just… No. It couldn’t be. She was hallucinating. She is, still.  Legs bend, then straighten forward. A tiny whine escapes behind pursed lips. Heat can be felt on her palms. Her lower lip juts, shakes. Memories of minutes ago stirs her heart ablaze. The whine is now being vainly gulped down a parched throat. One hand slides to her heart, and Byleth groans meekly at the singsong tunes of the incident.  He feels so warm…safe…right…  Slowly she closes her eyes; she wonders if it would be alright to lie on the floor for a few hours. ---  He wonders if it would be alright to slam his head against a concrete wall.  Puffs of hot air are forced out of his lungs. Sweat trickles down the side of his neck and face. In truth, his whole body was on autopilot when Claude made a run for it. So colour him surprised when he finds himself safe and sound in his room.  He soon rues that the silence of the room only intensifies the memories of a few minutes ago.  The touch of her skin. The warmth of her body. Hell, when his nose tickles the strands of such soft, dark blue hair…  Fingers shakily move to his tingling lips.  “Ha ha…” Dumbfounded laughter cracks the deafening silence. “Ahaa…” His legs feel wobbly. Is he dizzy? He feels dizzy. Should he sit? Maybe he should sit. The decision is never made as Claude soon finds himself squatting on the floor.  He can still feel her touch.  In…out…and all he can smell is the scent of tempting mixture of caramel and vanilla.  Byleth…  A fool. He is a fool for almost sputtering out her name out of the blue.  Bump…he finally falls to the floor. Hands now ruffle the messy strands of soft hair. Claude closes his eyes once, then snaps them open immediately when all he could see was her bright smile.  A fool. He is a fool for letting his masks crumble when it comes to her.  She feels so safe…warm…right…so right…  Byleth… Thoughts in a haze of her, Claude mindlessly brings his right hand to his face. Eyes closed, he takes a deep breath, letting her scent linger in his nose, in his mind, in his heart.  He misses her already. So much.  Damn it… Looks like he needs to see her later during dinnertime and apologize for whatever’s happened back there.  And yet—I want to see her now…—he doesn’t regret the moment one bit. END

[ducktracy]

91. those beautiful dames (1934)

release date: november 10th, 1934

series: merrie melodies

director: friz freleng

starring: n/a

back to color, permanently this time! now we’re using two-strip technicolor, focusing on red and green as opposed to the red and blue two-strip cinecolor process. this seems to be a follow up to the shanty where santa claus—a poverty stricken girl longs to have toys of her own, and it seems her wish may be granted after all.

parallel to the introduction of the shanty where santy claus lives, a little girl trudges through the snow, hugging her shawl close for warmth. she stumbles upon a toy shop and eagerly glances inside, enticed by the happy and warm nature of the toys. the scene is staged nicely—i love the detail of the street lamp in the background bent slightly.

forlornly the girl continues her trek, wrapping her shawl around her and bracing against a terrible wind. the scene of her walking against the wind overstays its welcome slightly, stretching on for awhile, but it isn’t supposed to be a scene that’s urgent anyway. and, of course, friz’s love of butt gags prevails as the wind blows some snow inside the girl’s pants. can’t have anything too sad, now!

she approaches a tiny little shack and warms herself up by the stove conservatively. even the mice are starving—a mouse that’s all skin and bones checks the contents of a bread box, thoroughly disappointed. the meager flame inside the stove is also disappointing. a few blows inflate it ever so slightly, but melting ice on the inside of the stove extinguished the flare with ease. the poor girl cries herself to sleep as she situates herself in the chair. the first half is drawn out, but again, there’s no need for urgency, and it establishes pathos quite effectively. you instantly feel bad for the girl.

the fun enters once one of the toys from the toy store approaches the shack, a gang of toys approaching behind her. tentatively the leader creeps inside, finding the girl asleep at the chair. the coast is clear—the toy motions for the others to stroll on in.

a very cute scene as the toys spruce up the place as a nice little surprise. firefighters eject red paint on the door, a horse spreads glue with its tail on some wallpaper waiting to be hung, and a bulldozer spreads the wallpaper, driving up the wall. the gags aren’t entirely original, but they’re very cute. the newness of the color enhances the scene entirely. i’m sure that same magic wouldn’t be there had the cartoon been in black and white, not that the black and white cartoons are dull by any means because of their appearance, but the cheeriness translates better in bright greens and reds. it’s a fitting cartoon to test out the two-strip technicolor process.

hours fly by as indicated by a church clock (a very moody and pretty scene). the hands whirl from 9 to 12, and we spot the finished interior. a hearty fire roars in the fireplace, the wallpaper is cheery and happy, there are rugs and chairs galore... the girl has a proper home. all of the toys crowd around the slumbering girl and cheer, waking her up. she glances around in bewildered glee, absolutely delighted.

a few dolls launch into the titular “those beautiful dames”, harmonies beautiful as always. there’s a quick tap dancing sequence from a windup jazz toy (featuring blackface caricatures as always... ugh) and all the dolls sing: a monkey and a trowel, a clown and a paintbrush, a bear with a hammer and saw... two more blackface dolls (ughhh) singing about how they made a chocolate cake for the girl, etc. the girl claps on the performance, thrilled. we have a tap dancing number between two jack in the boxes. nothing too exciting, but the backgrounds are especially nice, the gaudy green and red floral curtains a nice touch. the color will definitely boost the enjoyment factor in these merrie melodies, adding some much needed charm (though black and white cartoons are just as beautiful... i suppose it all boils down to quality of the cartoon, which isn’t the say of the original creators).

elsewhere, a toy dump truck gorges itself in chocolate cake as the dance rages on. rude! this poor girl is starving! both scenes go on for awhile, the dance and the eating, until a doll catches the truck in the act and scolds it. the truck mopes away like a dog with its tail between its legs.

the girl approaches a toy phonograph and gives it a few good cranks, putting on a record of “those beautiful dames”. the animation of the teddy bears dancing on the base of the phonograph is very fun, very smooth, very well articulated, especially when they shuffle along to opposing sides (“turning corners” is the best way to describe it). even more amusing to watch the dance halt, the bears all hopping on one leg and ogling at the record as it skips. the girl fixes it and the dance continues on. some amusing moves from the girl herself as she boogies down to the melody. this cartoon isn’t anything too fascinating, but it’s a lot of fun, even if it’s not necessarily funny.

two toy soldiers march in front of a set of doors and trumpet a fanfare. the doors open to reveal a marvelous, sugar coated feast for the girl, all of the toys cheering and whooping in celebration. very cute to watch the girl happily walk along the table and fix herself a seat. a little pep is added to the scene as the girl turns the meal into an eating contest, declaring “one, two, three, go!” and all the toys indulging in plates of ice cream. this is a very feel good cartoon, even if it’s not the most exciting. i found myself smiling like an idiot at this part. how can you feel down watching a crane shovel ice cream into the mouths of various toys while happy jazz blares in the background?

now, time for the girl to indulge herself. some nice animation as the girl antics, reeling back to really get a good shovel full of frozen cow juice. unfortunately for her, her ice cream is a protective layer to hide a jack in the box that springs out at her. she’s a good sport, though. iris out as the girl joins in with the giggles and jeers of her fellow companions.

interesting to note, the merrie melodies sign off would gain a new mascot. the tradition used to be that the star of the cartoon would sign off, either saying “so long, folks!” or “that’s all, folks”. it got to be quite entertaining when the sign offs with particular characters were reused often—piggy, who had starred in only 2 merrie melodies, was used quite frequently as a sign off. though it is pretty hard to keep up with a new sign off for EVERY cartoon, new voice and everything. pretty hard and pretty costly. the jester would serve as the “mascot” for the 1934-1935 season.

a very endearing cartoon, much better than the shanty where santy claus lives. it didn’t have much going for it, and was relatively... not exactly boring, but mild. nothing really stood out to me (except the occasional blackface caricatures, which, at this point, i shouldn’t be surprised by seeing anymore. still needs to be addressed as always). however, that’s not always a bad thing. this cartoon was very cute, very endearing, very sentimental. the ending was extremely feel-good and warm. i caught myself smiling like a goof while watching it. the girl, although without any discernible personality, was a character you wanted to root for, and thus it was satisfying to see her house all spruced up and to see her reunited with her toy friends. worth a watch, especially towards the second half where the toys come in.

link!

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Eighty-sixed

(Slang for getting rid of something by burying it, ejecting someone, or refusing service. This is a fic about Langdon Shaw and his December 1926 memories of magic that weren’t quite washed away. This is one of my favorite stories I’ve ever written. I may write another chapter in time.)

He slipped into the speakeasy at 86 Bedford Street and shook off the rain that was falling outside. Brazen in his distaste for prohibition and in his taste for whiskey, he opted for the sidewalk entrance rather than sneaking around back. After all, he was Langdon Shaw, and he went wherever he wanted and he did whatever he damn well pleased. Nobody objected... except, of course, his father. But that was old news, as old as Langdon himself. He tried to think as little as possible about the man, and Chumley’s was a good place to go to forget awhile most anything that needed to be forgotten.

The room was hazy warm with cigar smoke and conversation. Tonight Langdon wasn’t interested in either, just the booze and the forgetting.

He approached the bar and nodded to the man pouring drinks, “Lee.”

“Hiya, Shaw. What’ll it be tonight?”

“Whiskey. Make it a double.”

“Sure thing. Comin’ right up.”

“Run me a tab tonight.” Langdon flashed a wad of cash but didn’t need to. The barkeep knew he always paid up. And if not, Shaw Sr. was easy enough to find.

Langdon took the glass and scanned the room for a table in isolation. He settled into a booth at the back. Music was playing low, drowned out by chatter. He tossed back half the whiskey and the individual voices became a collective hum, like the hornets’ nest he and Henry Jr. had found as kids in a hollowed out tree in Central Park.

His brother had been missing going on two years now. The details of Henry’s disappearance nagged at Langdon as a memory just beyond his grasp, like a word playing on the tip of his tongue that he couldn’t spit out, so he would just sit at his typewriter staring at a blank sheet of paper.

He and Henry had been at odds most of their lives. Langdon wouldn’t have expected to hurt, not quite remembering what happened to his brother, or even not knowing at all. But the reality stung, still, like that hornet he couldn’t outrun. He drank the second half of the whiskey in a single gulp, same as the first.

Raising his glass for a refill is when he saw her, a young woman sitting at a table across the room. Her eyes, fixed on his, were the only part of her that he couldn’t recall, though he couldn’t place why she was so familiar. Dark hair fell below her ears in waves, the kind that flow natural like the tide at night. Her skin was fair and her cheeks flushed. She reminded him vaguely of the porcelain doll his mother had kept in a hope chest, hoping for the daughter he wasn’t. But his familiarity with this woman staring at him now didn’t live in stagnant glass. His memories were alive and uncertain. She wore modest clothes, in contrast to the atmosphere, but he couldn’t stop himself from gazing along the length of her. Twice.

A server refilled his glass, and he hardly noticed. Who IS this girl?

She looked at him unmistakably and without flirtation. His hair caught her attention first, damp tonight and damp in her memory. The kind of memory you reach for but can’t quite touch; colors when the sun peeks out after rain. The stubble on his face was longer than the 5 o’clock hour, as if he hadn’t shaved today, perhaps not yesterday either. But his clothes were sharp: a pressed collar and a loosened tie. His eyes were unrecognizable. She wanted to get a closer look. She needed to see more.

Langdon picked up the glass of whiskey, and drank it absentmindedly, never taking his eyes from her as she approached. He was used to women approaching him in places like this, with winks and smiles, eager for shared drinks. They usually wore sleeveless dresses and showed a sliver of their thighs, just enough to make him want to see more. They danced close, and occasionally he took them home and lost himself in their bodies, when they wanted that too.

This woman was different. She didn’t smile, at least not now, not at him. But she didn’t take her eyes from him either.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked.

To another woman he might have said smoothly, “I’ve been saving it for you, doll.” But he wouldn’t trifle with this girl. Something inside him wouldn’t allow it.

“No,” he answered simply.

“Would you like to be alone?”

“No.” His answer surprised him. “Please,” indicating with an open hand that the space beside him was hers if she’d take it.

She took it, keeping a distance. She smelled faintly of vanilla and wet wool. Her coat was unbuttoned, and the porcelain quality dipped to her chest, unadorned with necklaces or pretense.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asked out of habit, like a phonograph playing on repeat. He didn’t want her drunk, but he diid want to hear more of her voice. He wanted to place her in his memory, and he couldn’t.

“I already have a drink,” she said.

He hadn’t noticed her glass. “I see.”

“I’m Marie.” She extended her hand in such a way that he didn’t know if he should shake it heartily or curl his fingers with hers and kiss them. He silently cursed himself for not introducing himself first.

“Langdon.” He took her hand without either a shake or a kiss. Her skin was warm and unfamiliar. His grip was light and lingered too long perhaps, but she didn’t protest.

She was assessing him too, this man who tugged at her memory. His eyes were green in the light of the bar, green like clover that popped up in Central Park. It bloomed white flowers which no one else seemed to notice. She picked them in passing and put them in a tiny glass on her windowsill.

He noticed her eyes were the same shade of brown as her hair. Her gaze was soft on him, soft inside him, as if he had a soul or something. He scoffed at the notion and eased his hand away from hers.

She filled the emptiness with her glass, and took a sip.

“What are you drinking?” he asked in lieu of tasting the flavor on her tongue.

“Gin. ...I think.” She smiled at last. “It’s hard to know sometimes in these places.”

“Lee gets the good stuff. If you ordered gin, that’s what you’ve got.”

Marie wanted to touch him again, to smooth the wrinkles in his suit. He was a stranger to her, and at the same time he wasn’t.

“Do you mind if I...” She brought her fingertips to his forehead and pushed back a lock of wet hair without waiting for an answer.

Langdon was mesmerized. This didn’t feel like flirtation, but his body lit up in the familiarity of her.

“How do I know you?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.” She withdrew her hand, suddenly hesitant to reveal too much. “I... I remember your eyes closed in the rain. Rain that went on for hours.”

Lightning flashed in his memory and turned the grey clouds blue. Lightning flashed in a dome, a giant snow globe without snow, filled with evil and good. He didn’t know which was which, and he didn’t care. Both were thrilling. It was the story of the century, untellable, yet clamoring in him to be told.

“You looked up at the sky,” he whispered what she already knew, “Years ago.”

She nodded.

“What did you see?” He kept his voice low, understanding they were exchanging secrets long held alone.

She scooted close. To others they would appear as lovers.

“A bird,” she murmured, “A golden bird with two tails. I think... I think he made the rain.”

“I remember the rain,” Langdon spoke into the soft patch below her ear, all at once longing to kiss her there in the resonance.

“What else?” Her whispers turned electric. She was aware of his breath against her neck and her thigh touching his. But this was more than physical. This was digging up something long buried.

“I remember...” He hesitated to use the word witchcraft. He’d been burned by that term before, shamed and not believed. He wanted more with this woman, but how could he trust her when he didn’t trust anyone?

“I remember ...magic,” he said instead.

She turned to face him. His lips were parted, with the word filling the space between them.

“Do you think we’re the only ones?” she whispered into him. Gin mixed with whiskey in a potion of breath without touch.

“There must be others.”

“Will we find them?”

“I don’t know, Marie.”

She liked the feeling of him saying her name.

“I didn’t expect to find anyone,” he added, “Yet here you are.”

[rosabrachetto-promo]

Amaretto

-

{Check out the disclaimer before reading, please!}

-

Chapter 11

Dinner was almost ready, but Gin had yet to return from his rounds. Amaretto peered out the window trying to find him. His eyes were wide and his hand squeezed at his arms. Ludwig noticed this odd behavior, but already knew what was bothering the other young man. He gently caressed his back, hoping it would calm him down a bit.

“He’ll be back soon.” Ludwig said to him, his tone calm and soothing and his touch gentle.

“I hope so.” Amaretto sighed. “Dinner gets cold like this all the time. Then he gets angry at me for it. He turned around to face him, the concern and worry present in those caramel spheres of his. “I’m not allowed to eat until he gets home either, so I always have cold dinners or sometimes go without.”

“That’s terrible, Amaretto.” At this point, he was becoming numb to Gin’s treatment, but more concerned for Amaretto’s well-being. It was no surprise to Ludwig that the British pimp treated his lover so poorly, but still sad to hear Amaretto say such things.

Ludwig reached over to the stove and turned down the temperature to a low heat. “This should keep the food warm for the time being without burning it.” he explained.

“Oh, I never thought of doing that before. Grazii mille, Ludwig.”

“Grazii mille?” Ludwig repeated, curious to understand what he meant.

“Oh, it’s how we say ‘thank you’ back in Italy.”

“And how do people back in Italy say ‘you’re welcome’?”

“Di nenti.”

“Then, di nenti, Amaretto.”

Then, the only noise in the room was the stove warming the meal in a hushed sound.

Seeing the younger man there gave Ludwig a warm, comforting feeling. His contagious smile added to his natural beauty. His fingers brushed against the side of the other man’s cheek as he moved a lock of his fire auburn hair back behind his ear. Those caramel eyes gazing at him were filled with joy and comfort. Before realizing it, Ludwig found his lips meeting Amaretto’s, his sweet taste captivating the German. Without a single thought, he wrapped his arms around the younger man’s waist, their lips continuing to meet.

It was only moments later when Ludwig realized what was happening, and pushed Amaretto away. He wanted to help the prostitute, not romance him. These feelings were not that of romantic love nor sexual love. These feelings were that of concern for his safety and well being, of sympathy and pity for his state of living, and of joy whenever the other man was happy. But these feelings were not feelings of love.

“Ludwig, is something wrong?” Amaretto asked, the caramel eyes showing concern for him.

“N-nothing.” he said, his mind still trying to process what had all just happened. Everything was so sudden, he couldn’t fathom any of it. Was it just this man’s way of showing gratitude? Did he think he was trying to help him in order to get sex? Or was this other man truly in love with him? And why did kissing him and holding him in his arms feel so wonderful? Ludwig was not in love with him at all, yet, he had never felt such a strong attraction to anyone as he did with Amaretto.

The front door slammed open and Gin came striding in, bringing Ludwig back into reality.

“Master, you made it!” Amaretto said in relief as he embraced his lover. “We were just about to set the table-“

He was cut off by his master’s lips frenching him, a sight making Ludwig begin to see red.

“Sweetheart, go set the dishes in the living room, will you?” Gin said crooned. “Make sure to add a plate for Ludwig. And get three wine glasses as well.”

“Yes, Master.”

Once he left, Gin turned his attention to Ludwig. “Please, stay for dinner. There’s plenty for the three of us.”

“I couldn’t-“

“Nonsense my boy. You did help that useless boy learning the recipe, didn’t you? You should enjoy the fruits of your labor with us. Afterall, you are going to be seeing us regularly now that you’ve agreed to teach him reading. We should get to know each other a little more.”

He already knew what he needed to know about Gin, but there was so little he knew about Amaretto. Perhaps one dinner wouldn't hurt. he thought.

He followed Gin to the living room, a small area with a fireplace with a large radio against the wall and a phonograph near the window. There were also two sofas adjacent to each other circling a small table.

“Please make yourself at home, Ludwig.” Gin said, before leaving to his office.

Amaretto then returned with two plates of the meal, setting them down on the table. He gave him a fork and a set of chopsticks. Ludwig was puzzled by the fact that there were only two plates and three of them eating. Amaretto quickly left and returned with the three wine glasses and set them by each dish. The second plate had two glasses and two sets of chopsticks. This left Ludwig to wonder, did Gin really not allow Amaretto to eat? No, that couldn’t be it. He would have starved to death by now if that were the case. And he did look healthy enough; not famished and definitely not just skin and bones. But why only two dishes between the three?

“Perfect!” they heard Gin exclaim as he returned with a bottle of white wine. “I almost thought we ran out of the sauvignon blanc. Amaretto, go turn on the radio for me, will you?”

“Of course, Master.”

As the young Italian went to the radio, the Brit began pouring the wine, beginning with Ludwig’s. “Such a loyal and faithful one, isn’t he?” he said to the German. “I would be nothing without my little mouse, and he’d be nothing without me.”

“Anyway,” Ludwig said, desperately trying to change the subject. “So how did you and Amaretto meet?”

Amaretto returned to the sofa and sat next Gin, taking his glass and sipping the wine quietly, avoiding eye contact with either men.

“Yes, how did we meet?” Gin repeated, his attention now drawn to his lover, giving a smug grin and stroked his hair like he were a house pet. “He was just a young, bright-eyed Italian when I first met him. So full of life and joy and wonder. And so friendly with the locals. But then, these horrible thugs came and tried to kidnap him, I knew I couldn’t let such a young man like him die like that. So after finishing off those bastards, I took him in, gave him food and shelter, and told him he could work for me as my house servant.”

The Brit wrapped his arms around the Italian and pulled him closer to him. “Within just a month, I knew he was the one.” he continued, his fingertips brushing against his beloved’s arm. “So full of love to give to this world. It’s a shame he’s just a weak little mouse in this place we call New York City. It’s just a vicious jungle out there, chap; you’re either predator or prey. See, Ludwig, I am a predator; a deadly, man-eating green anaconda. And Amaretto? He’s a chinchilla; cute and adorable, but just prey. That’s why he sells himself; the only way prey can survive in this world is to ‘pleasure’ the predators. The poor creature is lucky to have someone like me to look after him.”

He pulled his chin up and turned his head to face him. “So beautiful, so perfect.” he murmured sliding two fingers underneath the boy’s rhinestone choker and playfully teasing him. “I know, I can be harsh on him sometimes, but I just want to keep him safe and loved. I really can’t bear to see anything happen to him. I love him so much.”

“I love you too, Master.” Amaretto replied, giving his master a soft, loving, genuine smile as his caramel pools gazed into his lover’s peridot gemstones. The two shared a sweet, gentle kiss as they held each other closely.

Ludwig chugged down his wine and began eating. He didn’t believe a single word Gin had said. But still, his concerns for Amaretto only grew more. He knew there was more to him then just another male sex worker. He just wanted Amaretto to see that too. He wanted to accept his love as well, but, he feared it would give the young man the wrong impression. As for how Amaretto behaved around Gin, it all felt so real, but impossible to believe. How could he still be in love with a man that treated him so poorly? He needed to find out.

He faked coughed at them, trying to break the two of them apart from their kisses.

“Oh, do forgive me, chap.” Gin said. “He’s just too cute and irresistible when he’s gets all affectionate like this.” He took a pair of chopsticks and began digging into his dinner. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Ludwig? What brought you to the grand city of New York all the way from Germany?”

“Actually, it was Gilbert.” Ludwig began.

“Who’s Gilbert?”

“You know, my brother. He’s one of your bootleggers.”

“I don’t have any bootleggers named Gilbert. Just Cognac, Sherry, and Bärenfang.”

“Bärenfang, that’s the one.”

“So, you came here for Bärenfang?”

“Ja. He kept telling me how great America was, and that I could make a modest living fixing people’s cars. Nothing lavish, but enough to get by.”

“I see.”

He then began taking pieces from his meal and feeding them to Amaretto. Ludwig watched as the two shared bites of their meal. He didn’t know why, but something about the way Amaretto was eating from his master’s chopsticks made him seem so... sexy.

Get it together, Ludwig. he thought to himself. You’re not into him.

He finished the meal as fast as he could to get away from them; both away from Gin and his disgusting manipulation and away from Amaretto’s unintentional temptation. Once he finished, he grabbed his dishes and headed into the kitchen.

“Well, I should be leaving now-“ he rushed trying to put the dishes away in the sink.

“Not so fast, Ludwig.” Gin interrupted in his smooth, gentle voice. “I still have to pay you for your service, remember?”

“I don’t need it today-"

He then felt another muscle pull at him, causing him to give a soft groan in pain.

“Amaretto, I need you to help relax Ludwig’s muscles with those special hands of yours.” Gin continued, not bothering to address Ludwig on the matter. “And I need you to do this every night after reading lessons, understood? This is how we’ll be paying him.”

“Understood, Master.”

Ludwig turned around in defeat and sat on a nearby chair, watching as the couple got up from the sofa and the pimp pecked at his prostitute’s cheek. “Wait here, sweetheart.” he ordered as he left the room.

“You don’t actually have to help me with anything, Amaretto.” Ludwig began to explain. “I only said that so he could let me teach you to read-“

“It’s ok, Ludwig.” Amaretto replied. “You taught me something I always wanted to learn. It wouldn’t be right of me not to thank you somehow.”

They exchanged small smiles to each other. Gin may have been wrong about the world not accepting Amaretto the way he was. But he was right about Amaretto being a kind, loving person. If only he could leave this place, and share some of that love with others, then maybe the world could be a better place, even just a little.

“Sweetheart,” Gin called as he returned into the room. “make sure to give him this before you work on him.” He then handed him a small vial, then took out what looked like some long pipe liked device.

“Do we have to do that now, Master?” Amaretto asked, looking at the pipe like thing.

“Yes, now, sweetheart. You’re fully booked this evening. We won’t have time later.”

Amaretto took the pipe in between his lips and Gin lit it, the sight making Ludwig cringe his face in both disgust and sadness. Whatever he was doing to him wasn’t good, and heartbreaking to see the young man going through this.

He started coughing up smoke moments later and Gin gently rubbed his back.

“You’ll be used to that soon, love.” he told him. “Now go be a good boy, and show Ludwig to the guest room. Thirty minutes. And I need you to get ready for the evening. We have another wealthy client coming.”

“Yes, Master.”

He then helped Ludwig off the chair and lead him to the guest bedroom.

At least we’ll be alone now. Ludwig told himself.

[thebestpersonherelovesbucky]

I absolutely adore Of Broken Dreams; it was the fic that got me into Stucky, and it's my go to when I need a pick me up! I love all of it, but Christmas at the farmhouse is one of my favorite sections and I would love a little bit of a DVD commentary on your favorite bit of this section! (I can't decide which is my favorite bit XD)

Omg, yes, my dear Lords Rogers and Barnes. I miss them. I should write a one shot with them. anyway I’m gonna do this bit. It’s on the long side, but you need the whole thing for my feelings on it lol 

And thank you so much! That is such a huge compliment!! 

“You’re even the most popular one here.” Steve chuckles as he fixes the ends of the blanket with one hand so that it sits around him. The other hand’s holding a saucer and teacup. “I think they like you better than me.” He smiles and hands him the saucer. “Here.”

Bucky looks at it without taking it. “What’s this?”

Steve gives him a shy smile. “Your cocoa.”

“My…” Oh. Bucky’s tickled pink. He can’t believe Steve actually made him this. A giggle’s about to ripple through him. “I was only fooling, husband!”

“I know.” Steve chuckles. He shrugs and sits down, placing the cocoa in his hands now. “But I promised.”

“Is that where you’ve been?”

“Yes. I’m sorry it took so long. I had to wait for my chance at the stove.”

“Oh. I thought… maybe you… forgot about me.”

Not forgot, not truly lost from his mind. Became distracted and engrossed in deep enough conversation that Bucky was just a distant memory. The expression on Steve’s face though, those large eyes filling with worry and possibly bordering on the edge of panic, tells him his fears have been for naught, and Bucky feels positively absurd. He’s not quite sure he even understands himself anymore.

A year ago he could waltz into uncharted territory, date on his arm--lady, fella, it mattered not--room crowded with people whether he knew some of them, none of them or all of them, and the air would breathe contently around him. Bucky can smile with ease and make others blush with just a bat of the eyes. He’s sweet-talked his way into lots of bed before, taken great care to be the source of pleasure and tenderness to those he’s shared nights with. But this place, surrounded by the House of Rogers’ laughter, he feels small and timid.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers. “I didn’t mean to take so long. I should have come back to sit with you while the water boiled.” He leans in closer, scoots over enough that he’s able to slip his hand under the blanket and across his thigh. Gives him a tender, arousing squeeze. “Shall I show you how you’ve been on my mind, my Sweetheart?”

The cup rattles in Bucky’s hands. Steve stays them so he doesn’t drop it and spill cocoa all over his lap. Everything, everything, in his body is tight.

“No…” Bucky whimpers. Eyes frantic as they glance around the room to make sure no one has noticed. “Steve!”

His husband snickers and takes his hand back. “M’sorry.”

Bucky glares at him. Tries to anyway. He can’t really complete the expression, can’t fully conjure up the proper amount of heat when it’s too busy surging through the rest of his body.

“You really are mean, husband.” He sniffs. Turns his nose up. “I hope you realize you can no longer hide this fact from me.”

He laughs. “I know it. You don’t really seem to mind all that much.”

“I suppose I don’t,” Bucky sighs and glances down to take a sip of the drink he’s been given. He laughs before he can even bring it to his mouth. “Are there really seventeen marshmallows in this?”

Steve folds his smile in, blush sneaking under his skin as he peer through his lashes.

“That’s how many you asked for,” he says softly. Innocent, even pouty like. “And you were tickling me.”

“Oh boy.” Bucky takes a drink this time. Gives him a peck on the cheek as a means of a peace offer. “Maybe you’ll go easy on me when you find out how ticklish… I am?”

“Ah.” Steve lights up with this information and lets his fingers run along Bucky’s ribs. Bucky tenses and makes a funny, embarrassing noise, but Steve doesn’t wiggle into his side any more than that. “I can be nice, too, you know.”

“Nice?” Bucky muses. “I think you can be much more than nice, husband. But I still believe you’ll tickle me.”

“First chance I get.” He snickers.

Bucky whines. Lip pushed out and eyes big, round and puppy like. One of those illegal looks he knows Steve likes. Letting his eyes fall closed, Steve rests his brow against his, lips curving up.

“And you say I’m unfair,” he mutters.

A giggle rivers through Bucky. Soft and tranquil, and he’s about to run fingers through his husband’s hair when someone shouts. Loud, powerful and followed by a bursting round of laughter. Though neither of them were paying attention, Steve is smiling; gaze focused on the red-headed aunt that doesn’t seem to have use for an indoor voice.

Bucky watches him for a moment. His husband, here, comfortably surrounded by all these people, where it’s noisy and loud and there’re so many different things happening at once. Music is playing from the big phonograph and the children have taken to singing along. Stories are being shared by means of affectionate shouting. Not all that different from a club yet nothing like one at all. Something inside Bucky clicks.

He’s nervous around these people. Feels those knots tying inside of him whenever he thinks of them ignoring him, even tighter whenever he think of them talking to him. They’re sweet and kind, friendly and accomodating and every bit as easy to get along with as Steve. None of that makes being lost in the middle of all of them any less nerve-wracking. Because Bucky’s not here to put on a show.

Not like going to a club opening. There’s no flashy smile or flick of the eyebrows. No running his fingers through his hair and a cool, casual wink or witty remark that’ll win them over. This isn’t about Bucky. Or rather, not just about Bucky.

This is for Steve. This is Steve’s family. The House of Rogers is Bucky’s House now. And… Bucky wants them to like him.

“Are you okay?”

He hears Steve’s question. Looks at him and tries to offer a smile. There’s no real answer. Bucky’s as okay as one who keeps discovering new things of themselves lately can be.

“Okay, everyone!” Lord Rogers, Joseph, as he’s been insisting, just like Sarah, for Bucky to call him, announces. “It’s five minutes to midnight and you know what that means!”

The children hop up and down. Their little hands clap together and they cheer while some of Steve’s aunts and uncles whistle through their fingers. Only Bucky’s not quite sure what it means. Other than it being five minutes before the official start of Christmastide’s Eve, of course. He glances over his shoulder. Steve smiles at him.

“House tradition,” he whispers in explanation. “Dad’ll tell one ghost story before we open the parlor doors and we’ll all add one decoration to the tree.”

“Oh…”

Bucky can feel his face falling as quiet descends upon the room. The walls that once held a cacophony of voices are now hushed as they wait patiently for Joseph to begin. The electric lighting have been turned off, the children excited to make the atmosphere right. Shadows lick the ceilings and floors, hugging everyone as they dance out of the fire in the fireplace and along the wicks of the candles placed haphazardly around the room.

“Is that…” Steve tilts his head. Must see the apprehension growing in Bucky’s eyes even in the dimmed light. “All right?”

“Uh… it’s…”

Something he’s always been teased about. Always. Ghost stories are tradition even in the House of Barnes and from childhood to adolescence to adulthood he’s never outgrown his embarrassing fear of them. Fear of the unknown, of unseen creatures sneaking into his room in the middle of the night to make a playground of his privacy, of his life. Fantasy or truth, it matters not. As a child he’d crawl into his mother’s lap. When he got older, Rebecca would hold his hand. When he grew older still, she held his hand under the table where no one could see.

There’s no Rebecca this year. No sister to hold his hand in hers, fingers gliding over skin when he tenses at the parts that get to him most. No mother to kiss his cheek and offer to check under his bed when the stories have all been spent. A joke of course, but Winifred would’ve done it for him if Bucky asked. No father to clap an arm over his shoulder and remind him that they’re only stories. Stories meant to remind the living to live true and righteous.

“Bucky?”

“Yes,” Bucky whispers back since Joseph is clearing throat to begin. “I’m… fine.”

This story is one that Bucky particularly hates. It’s the outcome that gets to him most. The uncertainty of it. Does the school teacher live or die? Does he make it across the bridge? Does the headless man catch him or not?

Bucky’s trying to focus mostly on the cocoa that he has. Making heavy work of drinking it slowly. But not even halfway through the story the glass is empty and if he doesn’t focus enough, it’ll rattle atop the saucer in his shaky hands. The second time this happens, a pair of large hands cover both of his and the teacup and saucer. They appear out of the darkness and startle Bucky enough that he gasps.

From next to him, Steve, the source of the hands, of course, snickers. More embarrassment flushes through Bucky when he peers up at his husband. Even in this darkened room his eyes glow, piercing through the blackness like a lifeforce. He leans forward after setting the cup aside, mouth by Bucky’s ear.

“Are you scared, Bucky?” he whispers. “Do you not like ghost stories?”

He opens his mouth to answer. Nothing comes out though. All he can manage to do is give Steve a weak nod. Hope his husband won’t be too harsh with his teasing. Only Steve smiles at him. Smiles and then opens his arm out for him. There might not be a sister here tonight. No mother. They’re back on the Isle of Manhattan. No father. Lost to the world. But there is his husband. His Steve.

Bucky scoots closer, lets himself melt into Steve’s embrace. To help out even more, Steve gently cradles the side of his head, pressing a hand over Bucky’s ear so that his other is resting up against his chest. He can hear, even feel Steve’s heart. Beat, beat, beat. His chest rises up and down with his contented breathing, as though having Bucky so close provides some sort of extra comfort. Smooth, rhythmic movements that at first hide the small vibrations running through him. It takes him a few minutes longer for Bucky to figure out what it is. Steve is humming. Blocking out the sounds of the story even further by humming to him.

Not just any tune either. Bucky recognizes it immediately. Their wedding song. Steve is softly humming their wedding song.

I love this particular scene because of how much Bucky’s grown over the course of only three to four months. I think it was easy for people to forget that his life was literally upheaved. The rug was pulled out from under him after his father died and this was not the life he’d been groomed for. And, sure, we the readers know that Steve would never do anything to hurt him, but in the story, Bucky has no idea. 

Bucky’s been in a spiraling depression since the night his father died and it’s around now that he’s finally seeing his way out of it. Not for Steve, though, but because Steve’s been shining a light for him and letting him climb out on his own terms and at his own pace. 

No longer is Bucky wary of Steve’s touches. In fact, he’s so comfortable with him now that he misses him when he’s simply another room away. And because Steve is so much more comfortable here with his family, Bucky gets to see just how real and genuine he is. Steve is so kind-hearted and good-natured that Bucky is blown away by it. 

This is also Bucky’s first holiday away from his family, people he’s not even supposed to consider his family anymore and even though he still mourns for what he’s lost, he’s able to take comfort in Steve. 

And, Steve, well, Steve is just thrilled. They’ve been playful and teasing and touching. Exploring a whole new side of their marriage. Since they’re all pretty sure this will be Sarah’s last holiday with them, this is hard on Steve and having Bucky here with him is like a warm anesthetic pumping through his veins. 

The children are all taken with Bucky, too. Even when he’s not trying, Bucky’s charming and sweet. It’s just part of who he is and the House of Rogers fully embraces him. Bucky’s always been popular and well-liked, but he actually wants Steve’s family to like him for who he is, not a song-and-dance for Society and their watchful eyes. 

Fanfic DVD Commentary Asks

[thephoenix-hq]

☞ NAME: Dorcas Meadowes. ☞ AGE: Nineteen (10.11.1959). ☞ BLOOD STATUS: Halfblood. ☞ HOUSE: Former Ravenclaw. ☞ GENDER: UTP. ☞ FACECLAIM: UTP.

+ THE STORY SO FAR +

Dorcas Meadowes was an only child until she turned five years old. On her fifth birthday, in fact, her parents sat her down amidst a room full of presents and told her she was going to be a big sister. She had been excited at first. The prospect of being a big sister, being someone another human being looked up to was a big deal to her. This all changed when her little brother had actually been born. He cried all the time and was a rather sickly child, taking up most of her parents attention. Dorcas didn’t mind once they started dropping her off at the park every day after school. She would happily spend time with children her own age anyway.

However, around the time Dorcas was seven years old, her magic began to show. It scared the other children and many of them turned mean, pointing their fingers at her and calling her names. Dorcas’ parents warned her against telling anyone what she was. They wouldn’t understand, they told her. Better just to keep it between us. So Dorcas didn’t tell anyone. She played by herself at the park and tried her best not to say anything whenever someone did come up to talk to her. They were either being callous, or they didn’t know any better. And Dorcas found it easier simply to ignore them. That is, until she met Mary MacDonald who became her dearest companion.

The two girls would go their separate ways once school started. Dorcas was sorted into Ravenclaw, the sorting hat making a sharp comment about how powerful the young witch was and how well she was going to do once she began learning how to hone it in. Dorcas was one of the top students throughout school, excelling the most in ancient runes and care of magical creatures. She was a viable quidditch player and enjoyed the physical activity that came along with it. Rather quickly, she became known as the girl with the studded boots and tangled hair, unafraid of giving her opinion and quick with a strong hex if crossed the wrong way. When she graduated, she was offered a position at the ministry but turned it down in favor of working with wild dragons around the world.

- J U N E 1 9 7 9 -

She had been packing her bags for a month-long stint in Romania when Albus Dumbledore showed up at her parents front door. He told her of the cause, explained to her the intentions of the Order of the Phoenix, and Dorcas had taken to it immediately. Her desire to protect Mary, the sweet, innocent girl she had known her whole life from the ugliness their world was being swallowed by was insurmountable. Dorcas felt as though she didn’t truly have a choice in the matter. “Yes.” She said, a cold determination in her voice. “Yes, of course.”

← C O N N E C T I O N S →

← Mary MacDonald

One day a little girl fell out of a tree. Dorcas had been on the nearby swing set when she heard it. There was a small squeal and then a telltale snapping of bones. Dorcas ran over to help her, a tangled mess on the ground. The girl was screaming, but it was dying on the air, giving way to shock as confused tears streaked down her cheeks. Her wrist, which had been bent awkwardly was healing itself. Dorcas was grinning because she knew what this meant. There was another witch in her neighborhood. Dorcas wasn’t alone anymore. However, by the shock on the young girls face, she could tell her parents were likely muggles and it was going to be quite a shock to learn of their daughters abilities. Heeding her parents warning, Dorcas never told the girl why it happened. She merely shrugged and told her it happened to her sometimes, too. They were immediate friends and it was another two years before the girl, Mary MacDonald, discovered the truth. Albus Dumbledore came to her home and explained everything to her and her family, offering her a place at Hogwarts school. Mary had run to the park afterwards to tell Dorcas everything. Dorcas, admitting that she knew and had always known, didn’t realize at the time that this would put an almost permanent phisher in their friendship. They would go off to school, be separated into different houses, and drift almost completely apart. Six years would go by before they became friends again, and it was by a far more devastating accident to Mary. However, since she awoke with Dorcas by her bedside, they had been all but inseparable ever since.

→ Sirius Black

The annoyance of all annoyances. Sirius never left Dorcas alone. When they had been in school together, it had been an entirely random day that he came up to her. He asked her something about quidditch that was so obviously a line she had done nothing more than fix him with a deadly contemptuous stare. This only seemed to spur him on further, however, and before Dorcas knew it, he was around every corner she turned. He was still annoying, but she found it oddly endearing and took to hanging out with him any time they weren’t separated by their other friends. They seemed to have a similar mindset on the matter. Mary was more important than him to Dorcas, and the Marauders were more important than her to Sirius. Their similar thinking patterns was why they got on so well. They had a mutual understanding. Graduation took them along different paths and they drifted apart exceedingly naturally. That is, however, until now. They both have the determination and the desire to take part in the order, knowing neither would pass up such a thoroughly rebellious opportunity.

← Peter Pettigrew

Peter isn’t a follower. He’s not timid or shy. He’s sneaky, devious. He doesn’t say much because he would rather you think him dim and be able to prove you wrong than put on as extravagant a show as, say, James Potter. That was incredibly clear to Dorcas. Her ability to read him came naturally from the first conversation they had. He approached her in the Three Broomsticks during their seventh year. Dorcas had been deep in a story recently published by the Daily Prophet about the discovery of a new breed of dragons in Brazil when he seemed to appear across from her as if out of thin air. She knew that hadn’t been how it happened. She had been too involved in the paper and he had been purposely quiet. ‘Hullo,’ he had said to her with a charming little smile and a sweet tint to his cheeks, as if he was embarrassed. Dorcas called him out on it. He wasn’t embarrassed and if he was going to pretend to be anyone other than himself, he could go. He watched her in baited surprise for a few minutes as she went back to reading her paper. When the barkeep sauntered over the them, finally, Peter ordered two butterbeers. She looked up and he was grinning, genuinely. She quirked an eyebrow, put the paper away, and from then on, they enjoyed each others’ company endlessly.

→ Marlene McKinnon

trigger warning: eating disorder

Dorcas had been made a prefect in her fifth year. It was something she did out of duty, but she didn’t mind it once they started letting her take late shifts. She would patrol for a few hours past curfew to make sure there weren’t any straggling students out of bed, but really she typically found herself wandering around aimlessly. It was the only time she was truly alone with her thoughts and she enjoyed it. She had been thinking about how she was going to approach a particularly difficult advanced transfiguration assignment when she heard something. Her ears pricked up, her footsteps growing silent as she crept along a third floor corridor. A hauntingly beautiful piece of music was drifting out of the girls bathroom. Lovely as it was, it set her hair on end and Dorcas pulled out her wand before pushing into the room. At first, she thought the room was empty except for a small, portable phonograph that balanced precariously on the sink. But then she saw her. A crumpled, scrawny blonde girl sprawled on the floor inside one of the stalls. A gasp left her mouth, it’s true, but Dorcas’ instincts kicked in and she dashed over, pulled open the door and knelt down to her. Her eyes were rolling around in her head as her lids bobbed, fighting hard to stay open. She was pale, sweating. There was a thin redness under her eyes which were primed by dark, heavy bags and her lips were turning blue at the corners, breathing incredibly shallow. Dorcas didn’t think. She simply scooped her up and headed straight for the hospital wing. She knew this girl. She was normally incredibly put together - so lovely it was sometimes painful to look at her. Marlene McKinnon. The Slytherin girl with the world seemingly in the palm of her pretty hands. Seeing her like this was a shock, but it had made Dorcas realize how little she knew about the people around her. She didn’t know who Marlene’s friends were, wasn’t sure who she could trust to keep this incident a secret. She had seen her talking with Lily Evans lately, however, and as Dorcas had been academically parring with Lily for seven years, she knew the redheaded Gryffindor was a good person to have around. So Dorcas wrote her a note and told her owl to keep tapping on her window until she opened it and read the letter. Dorcas wouldn’t mention it, but she wished Marlene well. No one deserved to put up such a front as she seemed to. This had been the start of Dorcas paying more attention to those around her. She became exceedingly good at reading people, seeing through the cloud of how they presented themselves and to who they really were inside. At the very least, she had Marlene McKinnon to thank for that.

DORCAS MEADOWES IS CURRENTLY OPEN FOR APPLICATIONS.

[delanceyxbrothers]

More Than Everything

I wasn’t sure about posting the prequel to “The Witching Hour”, but I’ve got the last fic almost done, so I might as well post the ‘beginning’ before I post the end. Once again, the relationship between Lucille and Snyder is extremely toxic, and the usual triggers/content warnings still apply. Warden Snyder has his own cw tag on my blog at this point, so that can also be blacklisted. 

Fair warning, unlike with TWH, this takes place shortly after one of their “meetings,” so Snyder is actually conscious for this one. There’s a lot of coarse language and some sexual comments thrown back and forth, but nothing overtly NSFW. I have lived my entire life not writing Warden Snyder smut, and I intend to keep it that way.

“I was thinking, maybe Sunday morning we could—“ “—I can’t, you know that.” Lucille snapped through bruised lips, not even bothering to look away from pouring their drinks. The last thing she wanted to see was Snyder, half dressed and far too proud of himself. “I go to mass with my brothers.” “Mass,” he scoffed, sneering at her. “You fucking sheep—“ “—You didn’t seem to care how I worshiped when you were screaming God’s name a few minutes ago.” Lucille didn’t bother to listen to the rest of his tirade, knocking back her glass of scotch in an attempt to burn the frustration out. She heard him snarl something under his breath, pretending as if she didn’t hear him cursing her name. If he was already this bad after only a few minutes, god knew she didn’t want to remember much the next morning. “In fact, you called on the whole trinity for my sake.” “Just give me my damn drink.” Lucille handed him the glass, shooting a glance over her shoulder as Snyder downed his drink, smirking slightly before she took a few gulps straight from the bottle. “Use a glass, for God’s sake!” He snapped, snatching it away from her, some of it spilling onto the floor. Lucille laughed at his frustration, grabbing her tumbler from the coffee table. “Damn… if you get upset by my mouth being on your bottle, how do you feel about my mouth on your—“ “—Don’t be fucking crass.” Lucille raised her eyebrows at him, smirking as she knocked back the drink with new fervor. She crossed the room to look at herself in the mirror above the mantle, scrunching her nose at the bruises dotting her neck and throat. She’d be wearing her highest collar tomorrow, unless she wanted everyone at Mrs. Grospkoff’s to be talking. As Snyder lit a cigar, she did her best to fix her corset and chemise, the green dress and leather boots forgotten somewhere on the parlor floor. “What time is it?” She asked, leaning heavily on the fireplace as the room spun under her feet. She looked around for something to tell her, staggering halfway out of the room before Snyder caught her. “The hell are you looking for?” “Don’t you have a goddamn clock somewhere?” She hissed, nails cutting into his skin as she caught herself on his shoulder. “Don’t you know ladies aren’t supposed to talk like that!” Snyder snarled, shoving her towards the couch as he went to find his pocket watch. “Where the hell did you put my jacket?” “It’s on the coat rack, where else would it be?” Lucille growled, bristling at his tone as she gracelessly sat down on the couch. She’d lost track of how much she’d had to drink, most likely racking up more money in brandy than she’d make in a year at the shop— of course, Snyder had to know it, or else he wouldn’t have shown off so much. Damn son of a bitch always has to show off. “I have to say, you don’t seem to care as much about what I am until after you’ve gotten your fill. Sheep, unladylike, bitch— never until you’re drunk and satisfied.” “And you never act like a bitch until you’ve had your fill, either. Just stay there ‘til I find out the time.” Lucille stood up after a moment, wandering around the room before she noticed the phonograph by the fireplace. She went over to it, glancing through the different songs as she waited for him. “How do you work this thing?” “It’s a quarter until three.” Snyder said, returning with his jacket, pocket watch in hand. As he looked up, he noticed her trying to figure the phonograph out, rolling his eyes at how childish she could be.  “Don’t touch that!” “I didn’t ask if I could touch it, I asked how to work it.” Snyder growled under his breath, roughly yanking her aside. “If you break that, I swear I’ll—“ “— If you’re so damn worried, just show me how to make it play!” Lucille snapped, face hardening as she caught herself on the arm of the couch. “Why do you want to listen to it so damn bad?” “I’m tired of waiting around for you to decide if you still want me here or not, so I’d like to listen to some music while you act like I’m some bother— if that is okay with you, Nigel.” His only response was to angrily get the song set up, muttering to himself as she watched over his shoulder. There was something good about seeing him so annoyed, a small victory in all of the things she had no control over. She couldn’t make him leave her alone, or leave her brothers out of their fight, but she could piss him off in the meantime. As the music began to play, he turned around, suspenders hitting the wood of the stand as he glared at her. “Are you happy now?” He asked, stalking past to get his drink. “Possibly, are you?” “Christ, I don’t know why I put up with a whore like you.” Lucille’s head snapped up, smirk instantly disappearing in favor of an angry scowl. “Don’t you dare call me a whore!” She growled, standing to unsteady feet. “You’d have quite the back-payments if I was.” “You’re really going to get mad at me after how you’ve been acting all night?” “You’re the one who asked me to come, or did you forget about that?” She hissed, shaking her head as she hastily grabbed her dress off of the floor. Even with the alcohol making her feel dizzy and unstable, she easily slipped it over her head, teeth bared. “Where the fuck are you going?” He asked sharply as she started buttoning the collar, hair already pulled into a haphazard bun. “Home— if you’re gonna treat me like a whore and not pay me, it ain’t worth my time.” Lucille replied, grabbing one of her boots off of the floor, leaning against the mantle for support as she put it on. “I’ve got work tomorrow, and it’s already late. Unlike you, I gotta get up early since I don’t have a carriage to drive me around.” “You’re not going anywhere.” Snyder replied, snatching her other shoe off of the floor before she could reach it. “Give me my shoe—“ “— I told you, you’re not leaving—“ “— and I said, give it to me!” “Just sit down and shut up, Lucille.“ “Give me my goddamn shoe!” Lucille screamed, sweeping the glasses off of the coffee table with one arm. There was a new fire in her eyes, something more intense than the playful spark from before. This was not a game, it was war, and she intended to win no matter what. “If you break one more thing, I swear to god—“ “—How are you going to stop me and keep my shoe, Nigel?” She asked, laughing bitterly as she picked up a decanter. “Either give me my shit and let me leave, or I’ll break everything in this goddamn room!” There was a moment of silence as they stared each other down, the expensive glass sparkling in the firelight as she held the decanter in a vice grip. After a moment, Snyder gave in, throwing the boot at her as hard as he could, missing her head by a few inches. “You bitch.” He hissed, grabbing her jacket from the coat rack by the door and throwing it to her as well. “You goddamn, cock-sucking, bitch.” “I didn’t suck your cock, you fucked me.” Lucille snapped, giving him a sharp look as she grabbed the jacket off of the floor. “You invited me here so you could fuck me, got me drunk on expensive alcohol so you could fuck me, and then fucked me on the couch in your expensive house before treating me like shit.” She headed to the door, her hand barely on the knob before Snyder roughly grabbed her from behind, gripping her arm. “I told you that you weren’t leaving just yet!” Lucille turned on him faster than she ever had, her nails cutting into his cheek as she scratched him with all of her might. “Don’t touch me, you bastard!” She shrieked, shoving him as hard as she could. “I’m going home, and that’s it. I don’t want to stay here anymore!” She opened the door, this time making it halfway out before he lunged at her again, blood dripping down from the slashes of red across his face. She screamed as loud as she could, pulling back hard enough that he was almost dragged out the door with her. “Shut the fuck up!” “Let me leave or I’ll yell loud enough that every one of your neighbors will hear!” She yelled back at Snyder, finally forcing him to let her go. “Get out of here, you stupid whore!” He said from the doorway, motioning angrily at her as she backed down the stairs. “Go to hell, and take your goddamn phonograph and your goddamn house with you!” She stumbled down the street, swearing and crying the entire walk home, only stopping to lean on something or vomit in an alleyway as she made her way back to the tenement she shared with her brothers and uncle. It was almost four in the morning before she made it inside, the dizziness from before fading into a pounding headache. Getting dressed in the dark, she glared hatefully at the bruises on her wrist and bicep, snarling insults at Snyder under her breath. She could hear her uncle snoring as she pulled out a bowl and filled it with water, doing her best to cool herself off and sober up. Her stomach turned suddenly, the bowl tipping over as she ran to empty what was left of her drinks into the sink, swearing any time she had a break from the retching. “Lulu, is ‘zat you?” A voice called from the doorway, Morris rubbing his eyes tiredly. “You good?” “I’m fine, Mo, don’t worry.” Lucille replied after a moment, glancing tiredly over to the thirteen year old before as she shakily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m okay.” “You sick or something?” “I’m fine, just a little under the weather.” Morris quietly grabbed a glass and filled it, holding the wet washcloth in his other hand as he gave it to her. “Here, just… lemme help you.” Lucille started to argue, but the taste of bile and brandy in her mouth changed her mind, sipping at the glass of water as he wiped her face. After the horrible night she had just been through, it was a refreshing moment of peace, tears filling her eyes as she wrapped her arms around him. “I love you, Morris.” She whispered, running her fingers through his hair. “You sure you’re okay?” He asked, pulling her hair out of her face. “I can tell Mrs. Gross that you ain’t feeling good tomorrow.” “I’m fine, I promise.” Lucille replied, kissing him on top of the head. “Go back to bed— it’s late.” Morris nodded, too tired to even notice how wide awake she was for the hour, yawning as he headed back to his bedroom. “Morris?” Lucille called out before he could close the door, tears still in her eyes. “I want you to know, if anything ever happens— and I mean anything— I’ll always be there to watch out for you.” “I know, Lulu.” “I mean it Morris, I’ll do anything it takes to keep you safe, because I love you best.” Morris gave her a puzzled look at the declaration, lips pursed in confusion. “Are you sure everything is okay?” “I just had a bad day... it’s fine.” She smiled after a moment, an attempt at looking more okay than she’d felt for almost a year. “I love you.” “Love you too, Lucille.” She watched him until he closed the door, a sigh of relief breaking the sudden silence as she moved to clean up the water she had spilled. There was no use going to bed if she had to get up in an hour or so, instead focusing on gathering up the laundry she had to finish. On the roof, with the basin full and smelling like lye and cotton, she watched the sun rise, a cigarette between her lips as she tried to wash away the night before. No matter what, she’d always have the rooftop of her apartment, somewhere Snyder couldn’t touch. Or, at least she hoped so.

[chiseler]

Happy Cal Stewart, Yankee Comedian

There was very little that was original about Cal Stewart’s routine. He was simply very good at embodying what had, on the vaudeville circuit, become a well established stock character type. But thanks to some fortuitous timing, Stewart, and his alter ego Uncle Josh Weathersby, became perhaps the most popular and influential comedian of the early recording era. His fame was on a par with Mark Twain’s or Will Rogers’s, but his stardom was a direct result of the advent of the phonograph.

The only thing known about Stewart’s parents—and this only by way of his death certificate—was that they had immigrated from Scotland and settled in Charlotte County, Virginia, where Stewart was born in 1856. By his own account—and I should note here that his accounts tended to change depending on his audience, the weather, and the time of day—Stewart left home early and wandered the country, picking up jobs here and there as he went. He was a miner, a lumberjack, a short order cook, and traveled with a medicine show. More than anything, however, he worked a series of low-level jobs for the railroads, where he earned a reputation as a colorful storyteller.

Although by most accounts Stewart had no fixed address, he spent a lot of time in Decatur, Illinois. Decatur was a major railway hub at the time, and the locals came to consider him one of their own. He was so familiar a presence around town he came to be dubbed Happy Cal Stewart on account of his lighthearted demeanor regardless of the circumstances. The moniker would stick, at least for a little while.

His skills as a storyteller  soon began landing him side jobs as a public speaker, and in the 1870s, while working on a train that was carrying a touring production of Uncle Tom’s Cabin from stop to stop, Stewart volunteered to fill in for an actor who was regularly too drunk to perform. Despite that brief taste of the limelight, Stewart continued working for the railroads until 1894, when the combination of a railroad strike and an accident that cost him a finger and several toes convinced him to look for other work.

Given his background, personality and the times, vaudeville seemed the obvious next step. He began by working in blackface and as a general purpose comedian, impressionist, and storyteller. It was around 1896 that his Uncle Josh character began to emerge.

Now, lampooning New Englanders (particularly the accent) in lowbrow American entertainment can be traced back to the late 18th century, but in the decades following the Civil War it coalesced into a stock comic character, a farmer who was both naive and shrewd, a little uptight but rustic. For some reason, all these characters seemed to be named “Uncle Josh.” There were dozens of Uncle Josh comedians out there on the circuit long before Stewart came along, all with different last names. A few of them, in fact, came to be mighty popular. Although Stewart would later claim his own Uncle Josh character just came to him naturally, he had plenty of predecessors to build on.

Initially Stewart’s Uncle Josh Weathersby hailed from New Jersey, but he quickly transplanted him to the north, smack dab in the middle of the fictional rural Yankee town of Punkin Center. And though originally the act was designed for a male and female comic duo, with that hick Uncle Josh matching wits with a sophisticated woman from the city, soon enough Stewart went solo, turning the routine into a comic monologue about the assorted small adventures, tall tales and colorful characters in and around Punkin Center.

“One day Harold Wheeland had a bunch of colored Easter eggs he wanted to hide from the kids, so he went into the barn and stuck ‘em under his brown hen. Well, I’ll tell ya, when that rooster came into the barn and took one look at what was goin’ on, he marched right across the field and beat up a peacock.”

By 1897 Stewart’s vaudeville routine had become popular enough that Berliner Recordings invited him into the studio to record a cylinder for them. The result was “A Talk by Happy Cal Stewart, The Yankee Comedian,” in which he essentially edited his standard vaudeville monologue at the time down to about three minutes. The job earned him a check so of course he took it, but he likely thought, with sound recording being such a novelty at that point, it would be the last one he ever did.

About six months later, Edison’s National Recording Company conscripted Stewart to record a series of twelve Uncle Josh discs. Most of them were, likewise, condensed vaudeville routines, like “Uncle Josh’s Arrival in New York,” “Uncle Josh in Society,” and “Uncle Josh’s Invitation to Visit His Farm.” He also recorded several comic songs including “I’m Old But I’m Awfully Tough” and “Paper from Your Own Hometown.”

The discs were a hit, and Stewart became an overnight national sensation, at least in late 19th century terms. He relocated to New York. Although he didn’t leave vaudeville completely behind him, his efforts were definitely concentrated on becoming a recording artist. Without anything resembling an exclusive contract with Edison, and considering he was paid a flat fee for every cylinder he recorded, he soon began recording for Columbia, Victor, Berliner, and a dozen other little recording outfits now long since forgotten, often recording the same monologues for several different labels.

Which brings us to his laugh—the sort of half cackle, half chuckle that soon became Stewart’s trademark.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bb5StJh8M_I

Stewart’s Uncle Josh almost never laughed during his live stage routine, as he had an audience right there to take care of that for him. Once in the studio, however, having lost that live audience and moreover having lost a number of the visual gags that were part of his act, he had to do something, so in essence he provided his own laugh track.

In the very early recordings there’s almost a desperation about it, with Stewart letting loose with a cackle every time he pauses to take a breath. It becomes a distraction and at times overwhelms the story he’s telling. As he cut more and more discs—and this may be where his genius as a performer lay—he came to better understand the art of recording. The laugh became a more genial chuckle, and more carefully placed. While at first he was laughing with every breath, soon it was with every punchline, and later still only with every third or fourth punchline. Some historians have argued that Stewart’s laughter was deliberately dropped in the recordings at specific points  to give listeners themselves a pause in which they could laugh at home without missing any of the material. Whatever the case, the stories once again took dominance and, as much as his laconic vocal mannerisms,  the laughter merely became part of Uncle Josh’s personality.

Uncle Josh discs became so popular that whenever anyone put one on the Victrola in a store, small crowds would gather to listen, while other people, it’s said, would call friends and family to play them over the phone.

In 1901, Stewart divorced his first wife and married his second, Florence, who performed with him whenever he went back to the stage, and collaborated with him on the recordings. The latter is more interesting, because while female comic actors were commonplace in vaudeville and female singers commonplace on early Edison and Columbia recordings, Florence may have been the first female comic actor to appear on record.

In the years following the turn of the century, the recording industry was changing quickly, not only in terms of technology, but in the way artists were treated. Up to that point, as mentioned above, Stewart was paid a flat fee for each cylinder recorded, meaning he had to scramble from studio to studio in order to make any money. It was exhausting work, and Stewart found himself spending most of his waking hours in recording studios. But in 1903 Columbia, who had been touting Stewart as one of their top-selling recording artists since the late 1890s, offered him an exclusive contract. The pay was good, but better still the work was easier and it left him with the time to return to the stage now and again. He also had more freedom in terms of what he recorded. Along with his wife, he collected a small ensemble of actors and began recording more elaborate sketches. Uncle Josh remained front and center, but these new discs included several characters and sound effects. Bestselling discs like “Uncle Josh Buys an Automobile” and “The Moving Pictures Come to Punkin Center” soon followed.

That same year, 1903, a publisher conscripted Stewart to write down some of his most popular monologues, which they released as a book entitled, obviously enough, Punkin Center Stories. Stewart was a bit of a writer as it was, having already published a handful of Westerns, but by most accounts he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of the book from the start. Uncle Josh was definitely in the oral tradition, and the stories were supposed to be spoken and heard, not read. Stewart rarely wrote the monologues down and they changed and evolved as he told them.

Apart from some aesthetic discomfort, the Punkin Center Stories led to other problems. Using the stories as scripts, other comedians began recording and releasing their own versions of Stewart’s monologues, usually with unremarkable results. Stewart, needless to say, never saw a dine from any of these imposters.

Unlike songwriters who received residuals when their compositions were performed by other artists, Columbia’s contract offered Stewart nothing by way of royalties . Demanding his monologues be treated like musical compositions, in 1911 Stewart left Columbia and signed with Edison’s National Recording Company, which did offer to pay royalties. Just to ensure he’d get something out of the deal, Stewart began writing and recording more original comic songs.

In 1914, Stewart married his third wife, an actress and violinist. Only problem there was, there seems to be no record of him ever divorcing Florence. Florence did suddenly disappear from his recordings, and while the new wife never appeared on record, she did perform with Stewart onstage. Although there were some mutterings about it in some of the trade papers of the day, some wild speculation about Uncle Josh and his two wives, it doesn’t seem to have become much of a scandal. Not enough to hurt his career, anyway.

In 1916, Stewart suffered a small stroke and collapsed during a recording session. He recovered soon enough and finished the session, but a few weeks later while doing his vaudeville routine in Chicago, he collapsed onstage again. This time doctors were able to determine he had a brain tumor.

Stewart continued recording Uncle Josh records as he could until his death in 1919. He was later cremated and buried in that third wife’s family plot in Indiana.

Stewart was the first great spoken word comedian to have reached the top thanks to recording technology. Although all but completely forgotten today, for two decades he was one of the most popular comedians in America, and without him, well, we might not have any of those great Red Foxx records. We can also blame him for Garrison Keillor.

by Jim Knipfel

[agentbrunhilde]

THOSE MOMENTS OF CHANGE. PART 2.

The night began in the drawing room, as the soft fuzzy hum of classical music wafted from a phonograph. The bright cold light of midday during a Russian winter blared through the sheer curtains. The slight pine scented draft tickled the back of her neck. She regretted putting her hair up, as the low neckline of her dress did nothing to keep her warm.

No matter how much she tried to anticipate the weather, in Russia, she was always cold. Sitting alone on a faded pink chair, she ran her fingers over cold metal studs which kept the upholstery intact. She felt the impulse to dig her fingernails under the tacks and pry them out. For no particular reason other than the fact that her neurotic behavior had spiked recently as the season changed. Additionally, she had receive news earlier that month that her assignment to Russia was indefinite, and she had little change of escape.

When James entered the room any thought of leaving Russia flitted away, and suddenly she was Anya again. She was the young woman in love, happy, and overjoyed to be in a manor so dredged in snow that one had to exit through the second floor balcony. It had been nearly a year since she’d met James, and each of his visits were nearer together but felt further apart. Just a week before he announced that he would be staying in the countryside for the winter, which was met with much confusion as only the summer months were vaguely enjoyable.

She smiled up at him, the expression sitting well on her pale features.

“Dinner soon?” she inquired.

He shook his head, his hands in his pockets and his posture tense. She could tell he was anxious, and his lack of words instantly sent her into a spiral. All possibilities of terror entered her mind, and she was inclined to reach for the gun at her thigh. But she hesitated, realizing that this may be a personal problem and it was unlikely that any spy activity was going on at the location or time.

“Is there something bothering you?” she asked, eyeing him as he stayed in the door frame.

A nervous chuckle danced out of his lips and his eyes fell to the richly carpeted floor, “No, not at all. Cold, I suppose.”

“I’d think you’d be used to it by now,” she replied.

“I try to never get used to anything. That would be dreadfully boring,” he replied, his posture easing up at bit as her comforting presence reminded him that he could relax.

“Ever the source of insight,” she responded, the sing-song quality of her voice lilting in the air.

A silence hung between them as he did not respond to her compliment. Usually he was gracious towards her flattery, taking the compliments with short and humble responses. But a trace of distraction played over his face.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he said, his eyes fixed on the window.

“Yes?”

Another pause this one longer and filled with the buzzing tension of anticipation. A few times he shifted his feet and opened his mouth as if he was about to begin a sentence, but no words came out.

“I had a whole speech prepared,” he old her, his eyes glancing over to her while another chuckle graced the room. She could feel the tremor in her voice, like he was trying not to crumble completely.

Lena had seen this many times before. There was only one question that could make a sure man shake. However, this time was different. All the occurrences before she had revelled in watching the gregarious or pompous suitors attempt to choke th words out. She loved the thrill of power, knowing that with one word she could change the course of this person’s life. And with a simple ‘No’ she could defeat them in way that they would never recover: always questioning ‘Why not?’.

But looking at James, his hands curled together so tightly that they were white as a marble statue, she felt her heart sink. It hurt her to see him in pain, even just the fleeting emotional strife of not knowing but hoping.

She stood, stepping close to him, and placing her hand on his arm. Lena felt the soft white fabric crinkle under her touch until she could feel the warmth of the person underneath. He looked down to her, his pale eyes filled with pleading. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled into view a small gold band with a glittering white diamond. It was simple and understated but undeniable expensive. It was a ring that only a rich man could buy, but it was intended to avoid the flashy or trendy faux pas. In the silver light of day it was the most beautiful object Lena had ever laid eyes on.

Her heart beat in a slow and steady rhythm, no flourish of excitement or anxiety. She was so sure, more sure than she had felt in her life. Without the need for words she extended her hand and let him slide the ring on to her finger.

She had said ‘No’ to every man before. None of them were good enough for her, none of them played the game she wanted them to. But James. . . James pulled her out of the twisted and painful habits she had of turning everyone else into her puppet. She was entirely at his will because she knew he would never take advantage.

Lena was content for the first time in over two years. After fighting to get home to be ‘Lena’ once again, she realized that was not the life she actually wanted. If she couldn’t be Betty Lou anymore, then Anya was a second best. Even if she had to live the rest of her life as a lie, it was a lesser of two evils. She would prefer to die hand in hand with the man who called her the wrong name but loved her for the truth of what she was, than to die a pawn in a system that relegated her to glorified listening device.

She knew she would be happy as his bride.

No words, no clever remarks or quick jabs to manipulate. All she could think was ‘Yes. Finally. Yes.’