#Calloways

[silverseaming]

Summer drifts in on a warm wind, the heat climbing so subtly at first that it was hard to notice. By the middle of the harvest, though, the rays beat down with such intensity that man, beast and flower wilt beneath them. Only the wheat is uncowed, tall and golden as a sticky breeze runs ripples through the fields. It’s almost bearable in the morning — beautiful, even — when the sun only peeks over the mountaintops, glazing the crops orange as the sunrise. The stalks are still heavy with dew, Chestnut’s feathering shining with the moisture.

At midday, however, it is decidedly not beautiful. Despite setting out at dawn and having the help of the Mellors and Gillis boys, the need to harvest while the dry weather lasts means Kit can’t avoid the worst of the heat. By now his shirt sticks to his back, calluses throbbing on his palms. Even the faithful Chestnut has abandoned him to amble down to the creek, not that he can blame her. Each pile of straw tossed increases his longing for the sweet relief of cool water. It’s hard work, yes, but it must be done. This harvest, just like their first harvest, cannot be allowed to fail. Not when he’s risked so much for this, not when they need this, need— well, not even only the money. The success, the small joy of all the crops being gathered in, a bounty in one area of their lives, when others have been painfully barren. And enough to buy a Johnson self-raking reaper, he thinks, as he fiddles with the latest knot of twine. At least then Chestnut would have to pull her weight, rather than leaving everything to Kit and his scythe.

Just when he can’t take any longer, sustenance arrives in the form of Meg and Daisy, laden with freshly baked bread, jams, lemonade, and all sorts of other delights. This little ritual has quickly become Kit’s favourite part of the day — not just because of the welcome meal they bring, but for the view of watching them walk over the field, the moment before Daisy’s sticky hands grab at his where they come close enough for him to see their smiles. It makes something tighten in his chest. Gratitude. Guilt. The two never seem too far apart these days. Looking at Daisy it’s easy to forget, simply lose himself in her innocent happiness. But there are moments of sadness he catches in Meg’s eyes that bring up a whole new guilt, the old crashing harder in its wake. It’s all for them. That’s what he tells himself. It’s better Meg doesn’t worry. Not now. “Thank you, love.” Kit says, pulling Meg a little closer. “It’s no trouble,” Meg smiles, “And this way Daisy gets to be out in the fields with Pa, without driving me to distraction.” “Well, you two are my saviours all the same.”

[necessary-quotation-marks]

His mind is fucking intriguing as hell, I more than willingly follow every thread, every line of thought.

Krista and Becca Ritchie (Damaged Like Us)

[otterlyart]

"A voice to the side goes, 'And Grogory shouldn't have been drinking before this meeting.'

[yudol-skorbi]

worst tv marathon ever

[magsowo]

fearneposting

[ruidusnightmare]

liam and laura's in sync head turn sends me

[ohbeauregard]

C3E105

Bells Hells + official titles

[sango-blep]

🙄

[notherpuppet]

Radio drip 🦌📻🩸

[olessan]

"While you were out and about, trying to just spread your legs a little bit - OOP - spread your wings - aah oh no -"

"I was spreadin' my legs ALL over town-"

[wheezing]

"I was trying- I was trying to say- I was trying-"

"It was a scissoring of wings and legs-"

[oddthesungod]

Fearnie and Mister but.... edwardian era 🤌

[silverseaming]

At the harbour there’s noise everywhere — hurried rushes of footsteps, snatches of conversation, the voices of street-sellers rising above the everyday din with cries of “Fresh whelks! Fresh whel—”, “Apples and pears! Fresh today!”, “Roses, sir, roses for your Mis—!”. Along the quayside cargo masters bark instructions to their men, and crates clatter earthward from the decks or are borne aloft on the shoulders of brawny dockers. Beneath it all is the sound of the shipyard, a constant beat of hammers that Kit can feel in his chest.

Kit pushes on through the crowds, buffeted along by the busy current of fellow humanity. He wishes dearly for the open fields or leafy avenues of Brindleton. There the air is sweet, not thick with the salty seaweed taste, the people don’t rush, don’t crowd together, shout, or jostle.

A journey of bumping shoulders and muttered apologies washes him up on the doorstep of The Lermond’s Cove company, as the modest brass plate beside the door proclaims. The building is smaller than the grand shipping offices, tucked on the end of the harbour frontage, but it’s smart enough, and offers welcome shelter from the bustle outside. A small bell rings above the door as Kit makes his way inside.

“Hello, sir.” The young woman greeting him sits behind a solitary desk, a large ledger arrayed in front of her. The frugality of the outside of the building is continued on the inside, with the only ornaments to the small room besides its occupant being a few framed charts and maps. The whole arrangement gives the impression of being newly established. “How can I help you?”

“I, er, have an appointment with Mr Allen,” Kit says, suddenly abashed.

After checking an entry in the ledger, the young woman gestures down the hallway.

“It’s the first door on the left, sir.”

Making his way to the indicated door, Kit hesitates a second before knocking. He can hardly turn back now, with the secretary watching in the entryway.

His knock is answered by a curt “Enter.”

The man behind the desk rises to greet Kit, extending a hand over the tabletop. He’s smartly dressed, in a well-made suit of the latest fashion. The clothes look new — too new, perhaps. The thick callouses beneath Kit’s hand betray the lifetime of hard work that the suit tries hard to erase.

“Fred Allen,” The man says, by way of introduction. Releasing Kit’s hand, he gestures to the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “You must be Calloway.”

“That’s right, sir. As I said in my letter, Mr Miller up in Brindleton heard you might have opportunities going for someone willing to sell their crop.”

“Well, he heard correctly, I guess, though I have to say I wasn’t expecting anyone round here so soon. How’s about you tell me what set up you’ve got going, and then I’ll think about it?” says Allen.

“I’ve got about two-hundred acres just outside Brindleton, wheat and potatoes mainly. Only took over two years ago, but the last two harvests have done well.” Kit picks at a loose thread at the edge of his jacket, wishing he hadn’t done his collar up so tightly.

“You got any hands, or is it a one man show?” Allen asks as he sifts through a stack of papers, running a finger down a column of figures.

“Just me at the moment, sir, but some of the local lads help out around harvest. There’s room for expansion, though, if we come to an agreement.”

“Hm.” Allen seems to be considering, rubbing a large hand across his coarse chin. The more Kit looks at him, the more he struggles to see the businessman through the farmer — or is it sailor? At any rate, Allen’s tanned skin and deep crow’s feet speak of a life that, until recently, was spent working out of doors. The tailored clothes seem almost like a costume. It’s reassuring, perhaps, to know that Allen would understand something of the toil put into producing the crop.

Eventually Allen reaches the end of his deliberations with a great sigh.

“Look, son, I won’t pretend this isn’t somewhat of a cowboy venture, and that I haven’t got as much capital to be free with as certain larger companies. But I think we understand each other, and on account of your being the first to come and see me, I’m willing to give you an offer. I’ll take half your next wheat harvest, and I’ll give you two dollars a bushel if you’re willing to shake on it now.”

“I’m more than willing, sir, thank you,” Kit says. There’s a weight that’s lifted from his shoulders with Allen’s words, the anxious knot in his stomach loosening a little. Somehow, he’s managed to grab hold of the life ring thrown to him, and for a minute the hard work of hauling to shore can be forgotten.

Arriving home that night, dusty from the road, Kit feels lighter than he has done in months. For once he looks at the farm and sees it as something beautiful, rather than a never-ending source of work. There’s a little moonlight dappling through the trees, outlining the farmhouse against the night sky behind it.

For a moment, he leans against the fence of the cow-pen, taking slow lungfuls of the cool night air. Then he turns towards the house, and the faint glow behind the front door that draws his weary feet over the threshold.

Meg’s standing at the kitchen table, placing the finishing touches on a freshly baked cake. From the untidy tendrils of hair she keeps trying to blow from her face and the flour down her apron, it’s been a hard-fought battle with the sponge. The weak firelight from the stove behind her casts her in a rosy glow, and oh, it’s enough to knock the air from Kit’s chest.

“You’re up late,” he murmurs, giving into the urge to take her in his arms. Her body is warm against his, and she smells slightly of strawberry jam.

“I had to remake the sponge,” Meg sighs, finally pushing the finished cake away and leaning into his touch. “And I split the cream. It’s all a horrible mess.”

“Well hang the cake then, because I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up.” Gently Kit spins her round to face him, pulling her close.

“I take it your meeting went well?” She smiles.

“I think so. He’ll take half of next year’s wheat, and for a good price as well.”

“Oh, you wonderful man,” Meg says softly.

Kit’s reply is to lean down and kiss her. Even though he’s only been gone a day, it feels like he’s waited months for that kiss, for Meg’s hands on his shoulders and lips on his. Without thinking, he lifts her onto the table, hands finding her waist and hair.

“Christopher James Calloway, if you want to carry on with this nonsense then you will unhand me and let me clear up before we go upstairs!” Meg pulls away, trying to sound cross, but the barely concealed laughter rather ruins the effect. “I love you very much, but I will not ruin this cake for you.”

“Consider me told,” Kit laughs.

[necessary-quotation-marks]

So I’m not returning this second chance, this extra time.

Krista and Becca Ritchie (Alphas Like Us)

[saintdri]

Just wanted to try drawing some of the Bells hells in my style as I’m finally. Finally catching up

[yudol-skorbi]

they are communicating