#Douglas Wick

[bobwess]

Top 5 books, mayhaps?

No order:

Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency

(Trust me on this one) Phantom Cat of the Opera

Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (Can you figure my fav author?)

Wicked

DtoA A Thousand Lights in Space (It counts I have a physical copy)

[books-in-a-storm]

Currently Reading 💛

Wolf God & Wicked Rejection

[papermoonloveslucy]

Lucy in Beverly Hills

Part 1 ~ The Cast

Although thematically the shows created by Lucille Ball were worlds apart from the down-home humor at the Clampett Mansion, there were artistic and creative commonalities that are worth discussing.

"The Beverly Hillbillies" ran from 1962 to 1971, while "The Lucy Show" ran from 1962 to 1968, both on CBS TV. Interiors were filmed at General Service Studios, where "I Love Lucy" began filming until it moved to larger quarters.

Like Jed Clampett, Lucy Carmichael and Lucy Carter are single parents, raising teenage girls, a popular trope of the 1960s and '70s.

The Desilu sitcoms "I Love Lucy," "Make Room for Daddy," "The Andy Griffith Show," and "Gomer Pyle USMC" are all related shows with characters in common much in the same way the Henning sitocms, "The Beverly Hillbillies," "Petticoat Junction" and "Green Acres" were related. Interestingly, "The Beverly Hillbillies" was mentioned during two episodes of "The Danny Thomas Show", in 1963 and 1964.

Jed Clampett's fortune is made from striking oil. In the 1960 Broadway musical, Lucille Ball played a wildcatter looking to find black gold. On "I Love Lucy," new neighbors the O'Briens move from Texas, where they made their fortune in oil. Soon the Ricardos and Mertzes have dreams of riches from Texas tea.

Animal trainers Frank and Juanita Inn worked on both shows, as well as on "Here's Lucy."

Both shows went from black and white to color in October 1965. Although "The Lucy Show" had filmed its second season in color (1963-1964), CBS declined to air it in color.

Editor Dann Cahn (1963 to 1964), was also an editor for "I Love Lucy" and many Desilu shows.

Shared Casting

Their “Beverly Hillbillies” characters are in parentheses, followed by their Lucycom / Desilu credits.

Irene Ryan (Granny) performed with Lucille Ball on a May 3, 1949 episode of "The Bob Hope Radio Show." In 1963, Ryan and Ball both appeared on CBS specials featuring their TV shows.

Buddy Ebsen (Jed Clampett) appeared in a 1958 episode of "The Westinghouse-Desilu Playhouse" introduced by Desi Arnaz. He appeared with Lucille Ball on several CBS specials and numerous award shows.

Donna Douglas (Ellie Mae Clampett) performed in a 1960 episode of Desilu's helicopter series "Whirlybirds." She was seen with Lucille Ball on a 1963 CBS special "The Stars' Address".

Max Baer Jr. (Jethro Clampett) was seen with Lucille Ball on a 1963 CBS special "The Stars' Address".

Raymond Bailey (Millburn Drysdale) never acted opposite Lucille Ball, but was seen in episodes of Desilu's "The Whirlybirds," "The Untouchables," "The Ann Sothern Show" and "Westinghouse-Desilu Playhouse" introduced by Desi Arnaz.

The bankers of "The Lucy Show" (Theodore J. Mooney) and "The Beverly Hillbillies" (Millburn Drysdale) were remarkably similar: loud, quick-tempered, miserly, abusive to their secretaries, and willing to grovel and sacrifice their dignity to land a big account. 

Stretch (Duke) the Clampett's lethargic bulldog, also played Thunderbolt on "Kiddie Parties, Inc." (1963) on "The Lucy Show." Stretch was one of Frank Inn's biggest stars.

Nancy Kulp (Miss Jane Hathaway) played the Cockney maid who teaches Lucy Ricardo ow to curtsy in "Lucy Meets the Queen" (1955). She also appeared in the Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz film Forever Darling, again playing a maid. Kulp returned to Desilu for a 1959 special with Milton Berle and Lucille Ball and a 1962 episode of “The Lucy Show” where she played Navy Officer Jane Corey.

Miss Jane's relationship to Mr. Drysdale was not dissimilar to Lucy Carmichael's relationship to her banker boss, Mr. Mooney.

Bea Benadaret (Cousin Pearl Bodine) first starred with Lucille Ball on her radio series “My Favorite Husband” (1948-1951), primarily as best friend Iris Atterbury. Benadaret was Ball’s first choice to play Ethel Mertz on “I Love Lucy,” but she was already contracted to play Blanche Morton on “The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show”, another best friend character. Ball still managed to cast her as a one-off character, Miss Lewis, an elderly spinster, on season one of “I Love Lucy.”

Frank Wilcox (John Brewster) appeared with Lucille Ball in the films Her Husband’s Affairs (1947) and The Fuller Brush Girl (1950). He played Frank Spaulding, owner of the Connecticut house in "Lucy Wants To Move To The Country" (1957).

Elvia Allman (Elverna Bradshaw) was heard with Lucille Ball on “My Favorite Husband” before playing the strident Candy Factory Forewoman on “I Love Lucy.” Allman returned to the show as one of Minnie Finch’s neighbors in “Fan Magazine Interview” (1954) and prim magazine reporter Nancy Graham in “The Homecoming” (1955). She made two appearances on “The Lucy–Desi Comedy Hour“ - first as Ida Thompson, Westfield’s PTA director, then as Milton Berle’s private secretary. Allman would also be seen on two episodes of “The Lucy Show" as a customer in a department store and the manager of an employment agency. Allman’s final screen appearance with Lucille Ball reunited her with Bob Hope: “Bringing Back Vaudeville” in 1971. For Desilu, Allman was seen on “December Bride” (1954-59), and “The Ann Sothern Show” (1958).

Milton Frome (Lawrence Chapman) played Sam, who Lucy Ricardo tried to fix up with Dorothy, in “The Matchmaker” (1954).  He played Milton Berle's agent in a "Lucy Saves Milton Berle" (1965). He also played a waiter in a 1972 episode of “Here’s Lucy” starring Donny Osmond.

Ray Kellogg (Gate Guard / Police Officer) played the barking Assistant Director (“Roll ‘em!”) in “Ricky’s Screen Test” (1954) and later appeared in “Bullfight Dance” (1955). He was seen on 7 episodes of “The Lucy Show” and two episodes of “Here’s Lucy.” In many of his appearances he played policemen or guards, just as he does here.

Charles Lane (Foster Phinney / Homer Bedloe / Billy Hacker) appeared in 7 films with Lucille Ball between 1933 and 1949. He was also heard on her radio show "My Favorite Husband". On "I Love Lucy," he played 4 characters and 2 more on "The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour." He was cast as banker Barnsdahl on "The Lucy Show," but was released after 4 episodes so that Ball could hire Gale Gordon. He went from Desilu to Hooterville with his role of Homer Bedloe on "Petticoat Junction," which he also plays on "The Beverly Hillbillies".

Phil Silvers (Shifty Shafer aka Honest John) gave Lucille Ball a cameo on his show "Sergeant Bilko" in 1959. In 1963, Ball and Silvers performed the classic ‘Slowly I Turn’ sketch for “CBS Opening Night.” In December 1966, Silvers guest-starred as Oliver Kasten in “Lucy and the Efficiency Expert”. A year later Ball and Silvers both had bit parts in the film A Guide for the Married Man (1967). 

Roy Roberts (John Cushing / Judge) appeared with Lucille Ball in Miss Grant Takes Richmond (1949). On “The Lucy Show” he first appeared as a Navy Admiral in “Lucy and the Submarine” before creating the role of Mr. Cheever, the president of Mr. Mooney’s bank, a recurring character he played through the end of the series. On “Here’s Lucy” he played the Superintendent of the Air Force Academy in season two’s two-part opener.  He also played doctors in “Lucy and the Astronauts” (1971) and in "Lucy is N.G. as an R.N." (1973).  

Shirley Mitchell (Opal Clampett) became friends with Lucille Ball in the late 1940s when she was featured in 4 episodes of “My Favorite Husband.” Mitchell reunited with Lucille Ball on “I Love Lucy” playing Marion Strong, member of the Wednesday Afternoon Fine Arts League. She also played Mae Belle Jennings on "Petticoat Junction."

Joi Lansing (Gladys Flatt) first worked with Lucille Ball on “I Love Lucy” in “Desert Island” (1956) and returned to play Miss Long Neck in "Lucy Wants a Career" (1959). She did an episode of Desilu's "The Untouchables" and appeared for Desi Arnaz on an episode of "The Mothers-in-Law".

Alan Reed Jr. (Sheldon Epps / Buddy) is probably best remembered as the voice of Fred Flintstone, acting opposite Bea Benadaret (Cousin Pearl). He was heard with Lucille Ball on "My Favorite Husband" (1949). In 1963 he played a café owner in “Lucy Visits the White House”. In 1967, he made an appearance on the Desi Arnaz series “The Mothers-in-Law”. 

Most of the principal cast of "The Flintstones" (1960-1966) appeared on "The Beverly Hillbillies": Bea Benadaret (Betty), Alan Reed Jr. (Fred), and Mel Blanc (Barney) all appeared on the show. Jean Vander Pyl did not act on "The Beverly Hillbillies," but did appear on its sister show "Petticoat Junction" and voiced Maw on the cartoon "The Hillbilly Bears" (1966). All four also worked with Lucille Ball on radio and/or television. There was also an episode of "The Flintstones" titled "The Bedrock Hillbillies" (above) featuring animated characters named Granny and Jethro Hatrock with voice talent Howard Morris, John Stephenson, and June Foray, all of whom also worked with Lucille Ball.

Richard Deacon (Dr. Klinger / Mr. Brubaker) made two guest star appearances on Desilu's “December Bride” in 1956 in one of which he played Desi Arnaz’s butler. It’s not surprising that he was cast as Tallulah Bankhead’s butler Winslow in “The Celebrity Next Door,” a 1957 episode of “The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour.”  In 1963 he played Harvey Rittenhouse in the Ball / Hope film Critic’s Choice. In October 1964, Deacon and Lucille Ball both played themselves on “Bob Hope Presents The Chrysler Theatre: Have Girls, Will Travel”.  He was employed again by Desi Sr. as a regular on “The Mothers-in-Law” (1968-69).  He was seen on two episodes of "Here's Lucy."

Paul Winchell (Grandpa Winch) was just 40 years old when he donned old age make-up to play Grandpa Winch in "Home for Christmas" (S1;E13). Four years later he was aged again to play Doc Porter on a two-part episode of "The Lucy Show" set in a the small town of Bancroft.

Mary Wickes (Adaline Ashley) was one of Lucille Ball's best friends of screen. She appeared on "I Love Lucy," "The Lucy Show," and "Here's Lucy," in addition to many other TV specials alongside Ball. The 1967 episode of "The Beverly Hillbillies" Wickes appeared on was aired between two of her "Lucy Show" appearances and featured Gail Bonney, who was seen on "I Love Lucy" and "The Lucy Show."

Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor (Oliver and Lisa Douglas) ~ were visitors to Beverly Hills from Hooterville, but both stars were also favorites of Lucille Ball. Gabor appeared in two episodes of "Here's Lucy", one as herself, and Albert played himself in a 1973 episode. In 1950, he co-starred with Lucille Ball in The Fuller Brush Girl. 

Star Casting

John Wayne made a cameo appearance on "The Beverly Hillbillies". When asked how he wanted to be paid, he is best remembered answering back with: "Give me a fifth of bourbon--that'll square it." Wayne appeared as himself on "I Love Lucy" (1955) and "The Lucy Show" (1966). His uncredited cameo on "The Indians Are Coming" (S5;E20) was aired in 1967.

Sammy Davis Jr. (Sergeant Patrick Muldoon) made two appearances on the series during November 1968 episodes set in NYC. Although he plays a character here (an Irish cop!), he played himself on "Here's Lucy" in September 1970. His first "Hillbillies" appearance also features Lucy's friend and co-star Phil Silvers as Shifty Shafer (aka Honest John), a recurring character that was seen in eight episodes.

Impressionist Rich Little played himself in the season nine opener of "The Beverly Hillbillies." Mr. Drysdale convinces him to impersonate President Richard Nixon over the telephone to fool Jed. Nixon was one of Little's most popular impressions. When he played himself on a 1971 episode of "Here's Lucy," Nixon wasn't mentioned, but he did do his impression of John Wayne (see above).

Hedda Hopper played herself in "Hedda Hopper's Hollywood" (S3;E4) in 1964, an episode named after her newspaper column and television specials, one of which featured Lucille Ball. That same 1960 special featured Gloria Swanson, who did a cameo as herself in a 1966 episode titled "The Gloria Swanson Story" (S5;E12). Curiously, Hopper played herself in a 1955 episode of "I Love Lucy" titled "The Hedda Hopper Story." An episode of "The Lucy Show" titled "Lucy and the Lost Star" was intended for Swanson, but the lost star eventually cast was Joan Crawford.

Robert Cummings appeared as himself in "The Race for Queen" (S2;E19) playing the celebrity judge of the Queen of Beverly Hills beauty contest. He was known as Bob Collins on "The Bob Cummings Show" (aka "Love That Bob!"), which ran from 1955 to 1959. The same year it ended he played himself on a 1959 episode of "The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour" set in Japan. He reprised the character of Bob Collins on a 1972 episode of "Here’s Lucy” (above) and returned the following season for another episode as a different Bob. His sitcom had featured many of the same actors as "The Beverly Hillbillies" and various Lucycoms, but especially Joi Lansing, Nancy Kulp, and Elvia Allman. Cummings' appearance on "Hillbillies" is primarily attributable to the fact that BH creator Paul Henning produced "The Bob Cummings Show"!

Other Common Cast Members

Jack Bannon, Wally Cox, Peter Leeds, Bobs Watson, Lyle Talbot, Doris Packer Eleanor Audley, Maurice Marsac, Leon Ames, Jesse White, George Barrows, Herb Vigran, Jean Willes, Norman Leavitt, Leon Belasco, Burt Mustin, Iris Adrian, Foster Brooks, Ted Eccles, Robert Foulk, Tristram Coffin, Byron Foulger, Gil Perkins, Hal Taggart, Robert Cummings, Natalie Schaffer, Mel Blanc, John McGiver, Don Rickles, John Carradine, Jacques Bergerac, Hans Conried, Murvyn Vye, Bernie Kopell, Barbara Morrison, Phil Arnold, Ellen Corby, Robert Carson, Barry Kelley, William Newell, Lurene Tuttle, Karen Norris, Hayden Rorke, Benny Rubin, Helen Kleeb, Bill Quinn, Frank J. Scannell, Irwin Charrone, Gail Bonney, Fritz Feld, Norma Varden, Murray Pollack, Jil Jarmyn, Olan Soule, John Gallaudet, George N. Niese, Dick Winslow, Tommy Farrell, Cliff Norton, Robert Osborne, Nestor Paiva, Larry J. Blake, Hans Moebus, Norman Stevans, Monty O'Grady, Steve Carruthers, and Bert Stevens.

~ Stay Tuned for Part 2 : Episodes ~

[dyingswanpavlova]

"Your girl" - Part 21 | The Salesman x Reader

Summary: During a weak moment, you think back to happier times.

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, kidnapping, mentions of sexual abuse and other traumatic events in the past, numbness, helplessness, violence, threatening (knife), mentions of blood, mentions of murder and rape, body issues, trauma talk, stockholm syndrome, forced relationship, unhealthy relationship, depression, manipulation, mentions of sexual activities and desires, mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy issues like nausea and puking, kidney failure, cockwarming, rough sex, penetration, oral sex, blood play, degradation kink, not beta-read and not proofread yet! if I've missed any please tell me! mdni 18+!

"Your girl" - The Salesman x Reader Masterlist

Having a knife pressed against your throat wasn’t half as exciting, if it wasn’t the one person you trusted not to kill you with it – and even if he did…you’d forgive him.

But what if it was someone else? What if it wasn’t the man who made everything possible, the man you had come to trust and love?

It wasn’t enough to kill you. But it, sure as Hell, was enough to break your soul.

You couldn’t help but think back to your last birthday. It had been quite the celebration, hadn’t it?

You had never really celebrated your birthday before and why would you? There were not enough people to invite, at least none who wouldn’t secretly make fun of you behind your back. A few people pitied you for being shy and quiet, they would have come for sure. Others were not so gracious – they said they’d show up and then they didn’t. It wasn’t uncommon, right? Nothing but a pathetic pity party. And yet it was enough to keep you from ever celebrating your birthday again.

Back home you had most often spent the day watching tv shows, probably comfort shows to keep your mind occupied, but at the same time not all that much. Carrie and Douglas shopping groceries for Thanksgiving. Samantha and Charlotte splitting up over Charlotte’s hot brother. A few of your favorite episodes and yet nothing to trigger any emotions in you. Because you knew, if you did, you’d spend all day and all night feeling miserable because your life was so goddamn empty. It went like that every messed up birthday of yours. No one to congratulate you, except for the people who felt obligated to. Your mother’s untrustworthy good wishes. Nothing of meaning.

That was until you met him.

Your last birthday…It had been…

God, if you had died and went to Heaven, it couldn’t have been like that.

Your gaze involuntarily wandered back to the typewriter. A part of you almost wanted to smile at the memory, but it was hard under these circumstances.

And yet you knew, you knew, you had to dissociate somehow. Because if you didn’t, your soul would be gone for good. And what good was it to spend the last few minutes of your life broken and miserable? No, that was so silly. So silly. Why would you do that to yourself, when instead you could remember one of the most beautiful days of your life?

You remembered it like it had been yesterday, though it was a few months in the past by now. You hadn’t been pregnant yet or if you had been, at least you hadn’t known.

Now, lying on your bed under the sharp threat of the blade, you felt your first trimester nausea had passed. Almost on the dot, three months into the pregnancy and the vomiting had stopped. Pasta was still an unbearable thing to you, but at least Tteokbokki worked – though not half as spicy as he liked to eat them. You just weren’t sought out for that kind of tongue pain.

The first morning you woke up and didn’t immediately feel like throwing up the emptiness of your stomach, your desire for something else than food immediately returned – and tenfold.

You didn’t consider yourself an especially wicked or wanton person. But now, that the nausea had passed…

Fuck, you wanted him all the time.

And you got him all the time.

Having him inside you was as natural as breathing. It didn’t matter if you woke up with him stretching you out lazily against the sleepy morning blur or if you found yourself on your knees, keeping his hardness warm for him like a good girl.

“Good girl. Fuck. My good girl. Daddy’s good girl. Mh-mh. Don’t you dare move, you know the rules. I know that you want it. Fuck, I bet you’re dripping by now. Ah…Fuck. No, darling, no. Keep that pretty mouth in place for me, will you? Stay in place and I might just reward you.”

The thought sent a thrill up your spine. Even in that situation.

A part of you still felt incredibly ashamed for being what you were. Every time you came to the thought of something degrading, something cruel, something shameful, your first impulse was to feel bad afterwards. But it got less. And less. And less.

Sex got easier. And so did pleasure.

He made sure to keep your mind occupied. And he made sure to cuddle and caress you to oblivion, each time he had just finished fucking you like a rabid animal, while throwing the worst insults your way and doing the most heinous things to your body.

Of course he took a few measures now that you were pregnant.

When you knelt before him for half an hour while he read the newspaper, he made sure you had a pillow under your knees.

When he pounded into you so hard that you were sure you felt him rip you apart, he made sure to kiss every part of your body afterwards.

Every time.

But your birthday, your birthday…That was different. That was a day you couldn’t ever forget. If you were forced to find your end at only twenty-five, pinned to your bed and pregnant, at least you wanted to think of something beautiful. And that was what your birthday was.

Everything started when he woke you up with a soft breath of a Happy Birthday in your ear. You had been so sure that he either had no idea about it, or if he did, he wouldn’t mention it. But he did. He wished you a Happy Birthday, only a few seconds after he felt you stir in the morning. The thought of that alone was enough to make your heart race in your chest. But that was nothing compared to what else was to come, right?

You didn’t expect much. No, in fact you didn’t expect anything.

So it was all the more surprising and unnerving when he left the room and came back with a giant present. It was packed in dark green wrapping paper, with a big, white ribbon on top. He hadn’t even gotten dressed yet, which was rather uncommon. Sure, he wasn’t the most organized, not with you. He had his ways of dealing with things, but he allowed himself to let loose every now and then. Morning sex and messy kisses before he even got out of bed. But when he did, he normally headed towards the bathroom and came back dressed. Not in anything special, but enough to remind him – and you – that another day had started.

But that day he vanished in nothing but his boxers and he came back exactly like that. You sat on the bed and watched with wide eyes as he came back, wearing no more than that little clothing. His body drew your attention almost involuntarily. Whenever he was near and whenever he looked like that, just a little messy, but still so fucking perfect, you couldn’t help but stare at him.

He was yours. He belonged to you. Only you.

That thought was enough to nearly make your heart stop beating.

You hardly even focused on the present, until he placed it right before you and made you snap out of your thoughts.

“Open it."

Your gaze dropped down, before you met his again.

“You…you got me a present?”

He immediately frowned. “What kind of silly question is that? Why wouldn’t I? It’s your birthday.”

Your cheeks burned, but not in embarrassment or anything similar. You simply felt the hurt of your last nineteen birthdays well up in you.

His expression softened and he gently cupped your cheek in his hand, his calloused palm rough against your skin and yet you felt yourself lean into his touch. Every touch was a gift.

“Just open it.” He said in a softer tone.

For some reason he seemed far more excited than you were. It wasn’t that you were not – but he seemed all but nervous about your reaction.

With a soft sigh, you began to tug at the paper, your thoughts a whirlwind of emotions.

When was his birthday? Would you ever get to know it? Would you ever be able to go out and buy him a present?

What a funny thought. You didn’t care to flee his fangs any longer, no, all you wanted was to buy him a gift.

By the time the floor was covered in paper snippets and the packaging of the present revealed itself, all other thoughts left your system.

Fuck.

Your head shot up and you stared at him with the most incredulous and confused look you could come up with. He wasn’t smiling, nor was he smug, he seemed to be assessing you. Reading you.

“Is this…”

You looked back down at it and ran your fingertips over the flat surface.

Olympia Carrera de Luxe…Typewriter.

Your fingers stilled against the box and you felt your heart skip a few beats.

You told him about it, of course you did. Just like many other things, like almost every ghost of every thought you ever had. So how would he have missed this? He wouldn’t. He was too observant.

Your dream was to become an author one day, but that wasn’t a secret. But you never mentioned the typewriter, not as in wanting to own one. All that you told him was how your father had owned one, back in the day. You had faint memories of sitting in his study and running your fingertips over the keyboard. It was so different from a computer or a laptop. You couldn’t tell what it was. The feeling of seeing whatever you had written right there, as a physical thing you could touch, fold, take wherever you wanted? Or maybe the way it fit into your physical representation of life. Mobile phones were fine, because everyone had one. It was impossible to survive without them nowadays, if you weren’t living in the forest, in a small cottage, with your own farm and freshly made sourdough bread every night.

But you liked real things. Mostly because you never had them.

You had relied on imagining your life rather than living it for as long as you could remember. But what you really wanted was a man to build a fence for you. Someone to wear dresses for. Fresh food. Real laughter. Dancing. Moonlight. Forehead kisses. Vintage phones. Photo albums. Ink. Paint. Sizzling food. And love.

Love like you could only find it in old love stories.

The feeling of the typewriter keyboard under your fingertips always made you feel like these things were possible, like life was endless and love was real. But then your father died and your mother got rid of everything, including the typewriter.

You had spent three weeks crying over it, until you finally realized that tears indeed dry out at some point. And if only, because she didn’t allow you to drink any water, until you finally stopped that pathetic whining of yours.

You had told him that. And he had heard you.

So when you looked up at him again, your eyes wide and filled with a veil of tears, the corner of his mouth twitched in uncertainty.

“I can bring it back, if you don’t like it.” He said in a soft voice. “I just thought you might.”

You swallowed back the lump in your throat as you looked back down at it.

“I can’t believe you did that.” You whispered.

When you looked back up again, you were smiling.

His eyes were still narrowed in uncertainty, as though he believed you were only saying this, because you felt obligated to. Your smile widened at that and you let out a quiet laugh. Without hesitation, you set the package down on the floor and straddled his lap, causing him to fall back against the mattress. His eyes widened for a brief moment, but he let you. His hands fell to your hips and he held you gently in place.

“You really like it?” He asked quietly.

“No one ever did something like that for me.” You whispered and rested your forehead against his. The way his breath seemed to catch in his throat, how your initiative still seemed to catch him off-guard, it was just a lovely bonus.

“Thank you.” You breathed out before you brushed your lips over his. “Thank you. I love it. And I love you.”

His eyes fell shut and he brushed his fingertips under your shirt, gently running his palms along your bare back. It made you shiver and he only ever pulled you closer.

“Happy Birthday.” He murmured against your lips.

Your smile widened impossibly, despite the tears that still stung your eyes.

“Just because of you.” You murmured right back.

Later that day, you found yourself sitting opposite him at the kitchen table. Things were…incredible.

They had often been these days, but that day was different in any sense. Not for a single second had you seen his hand twitch or his jaw clench. No, he was simply perfect.

Of course he had cooked the most heart-wrenching meal. You had no idea what it was or how you were supposed to spell it out, but it was delicious. More so than anything you had ever tasted before. Sitting in the kitchen and watching him cook had been the most relaxing thing you had done in a while, but it also made your mind wander all the same.

You loved cooking with him. It was always sweet, because he never lost his patience over spilled condiments or little mistakes you might have made. No, he stood behind you, his hands on your hips, his head resting on your shoulder. Or sometimes you stood curled into his side, simply observing. He liked cooking, you could tell and you tasted it with every spoonful. What you loved most though was simply co-existing with him, performing a basic, human task. Sometimes he’d hug you from behind and other times he’d shoot you that cocky smirk you loved so much. Whatever it was, it made you love him all the more.

But that night was different from any other time you had done it. You simply sat there, your knees pulled to your chest and your chin resting on your knees and you watched him cook. The precision in his movements, the focus in his expression, that little lip bite. It was all enough to make you swoon.

He was an attractive man, that much was clear. Aside from that, you weren’t sure if he really was your type – in case you ever had one. A part of you believed you didn’t have the right to have a type, since you never loved anyone and no one ever loved you before. It was all in your head, a wild mixture of all kinds of people in fiction and real life you had come to think attractive during some point in your life. Most of them actors, some your age, a few a little older, others quite a few decades above you. It wasn’t that you had daddy issues per say. You just found solace in the thought of a life that was already figured out.

Whatever it was, all of them normally had a little flaw. A little something, a little difference. You never fell for the quarterback, no, it was always some outcast who caught your attention.

Most people fell for Jon Snow for the time being, but your focus was always on Dolorous Edd. With his whole rough-around-the-edges-appearance and his dry sense of humor, he was your man. Jon was too perfect.

It had always been like that and you had never really thought about it. But that night, you suddenly realized, there was more to him that attracted you than his looks. If he was him, but with a kind, uncomplicated soul, with a smile that never left his lips, if all he ever did was assure and love and lull you…Would you still have fallen in love with him?

Probably not.

You realized that you weren’t exactly normal. But as you sat there, watching his quiet confidence and yet the ever-present sort of tension that always lingered somewhere inside of him, you realized you loved him.

For him.

You didn’t need him to change – not for you. The only reason you wanted it, was for him to be happy and carefree. Nothing more.

You didn’t mind his darkness, not even his cruelty, because he was yours and after every storm there followed the calm.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

You snapped out of your thoughts. “What?”

He took a sip of his drink and watched you over the rim of his glass. “You’ve been staring at me. Again.”

That made you smile. “Are you getting shy?”

The sound of his laughter filled the room, real and unbridled. Your heart swelled with happiness and peace as you watched him, a warm smile on your lips.

“Just admit that you don’t like it.”

At your confused frown, he nodded towards your plate. You blinked in confusion and glanced down, only to realize he was almost done and you had hardly even eaten anything.

“Oh!” Your face flushed at the sentiment. “How long did I stare at you?”

He flashed you a grin that bared his teeth. “Are you getting shy?”

Your smile widened and so did the flush on your skin. “Oh, shush.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he observed you pick up your cutlery and take a generous bite, just to prove him wrong.

A part of you had always assumed men preferred women who didn’t eat. Who never used the bathroom and God forbid, there was ever a hair on your body where it didn’t belong.

But he had quickly proven your thoughts wrong. In reality, except for the times he had starved you in order to…break your will? Whatever it was. Except for those times, he seemed very content watching you eat and rather concerned whenever you didn’t. You didn’t feel the need to be something you were not with him. It should have probably been the bare minimum, but to you it was more. To you, it was something to be grateful for.

You did prove him wrong and showed him that you indeed loved whatever he cooked, by finishing the plate. You raised a brow and shot him a challenging look, as you set the cutlery aside.

He grinned like a predator stalking its prey. “Aren’t we proud over some pasta and steak.”

Your lips curved up into a slow smile. “Just trying to prove a point.”

He hummed softly and leaned back in his chair. “You want your cake now or later?”

Your eyes widened. “Cake?”

He shrugged. “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

“But I’m full.”

“So, later.” He smirked. “Or do you give up already? Weakling.”

You laughed. “You’re in for a real tragedy. There’s always space for cake.”

His smile softened. “That’s my girl.”

His words sent a pleasant tingle down your spine and you had no way of hiding that from him. He watched you with a mixture of amusement and fondness.

“Come. Let’s dance.”

Your brows shot up. “But I don’t know how.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll show you. Just trust me.”

And you did. When he held out his hand to you, you took it and followed him to the living room. Except for the gramophone (how old was this man, truly? There it was again. Your dream life…The cottage.) in the corner of the room, he wasn’t entirely frozen in time and so he had a music box playing, connected to a phone. Before you knew it, you heard a familiar tune hum quietly in the background.

He placed on hand on your waist, while he used the other one to intertwine your fingers. Your free hand rested on his shoulder and you looked up at him with wide, unsure eyes.

“Don’t be nervous.” He murmured. “It’s just us. I’m leading you. Just relax.”

It was no more than gentle swaying through the air, but to your surprise it felt far easier than expected. You couldn’t tell if it was the wine in your system, cutting your usual inhibitions short, or if truly was him. Whatever it was, when he spun and twirled you around, you let him – and you found you enjoyed it more than you ever thought possible. You were wearing the green dress, one of the first ones he had ever gotten for you. Mostly because you knew what it did to him. He kept glancing down at you, assessing you, licking his lips. And it drove you wild.

Not only with desire. But also the desire to be looked at like that by him.

You continued dancing, your rhythm slow, your thoughts caught in-between right there and somewhere else entirely. After a little while you felt his fingers tangle in your hair, gently pulling you into his chest.

“You know I tried my best to turn your black eyes hazel…And kiss away your cruelty…I gladly got undressed, put all my cards on the table...And by cards, I mean me…Apple in mouth, then you left town…Ran after you until my legs gave out...”

You hummed and your brows furrowed. “Interesting…choice of song.”

You heard his smirk before you saw it. “I found it on your phone, so I assumed you might like it.”

That made you look up at him. “Before you drowned it in tea, you mean.”

He exhaled softly through his nose. “Do you miss it? Your phone?”

A thoughtful hum later, you shook your head. “Not really.”

“I could always get you a new one.”

That caused your brows to shoot up in surprise. “Oh? Aren’t you afraid that I might end up calling the police?”

He shrugged. “To tell them what?”

There it was. The crack in the fourth wall, the cut in the curtain. What was it that you were doing here with him? You were hardly his victim, right?

“I came crawlin' in on all fours…Knockin' at your door…Knockin' at your door…”

Instead of making things more complicated, you somehow made a smile happen. “That a crazy man drowned my phone.”

He smiled as well, but it didn’t seem as genuine as he might have hoped for. He pulled you back into his chest and you continued to swing and sway to the soft melody. It was a song you had heard quite some times before, but you hadn’t ever thought back to it since you were there. Music was the least of your concerns. But now that you thought about it, maybe it did apply to him in a way.

“I don't wanna bleed anymore…I just wanted love…But you wanted gore…You're my matador.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

You didn’t need to look up to see the genuine concern in his eyes. His tone of voice was gentle, almost nonchalant. But there was a depth behind his words, a quiet uncertainty.

When you pulled your head back, he was already staring at you.

“Do you want me to be afraid of you?” You asked in the same, gentle tone.

He regarded you with a soft look and quietly admitted: “I don’t know.”

You took a slow breath, but didn’t say anything more. There was not much to say anyway. His words weren’t hurtful or at least they weren’t meant to be. You could tell.

“I want you to feel safe with me. Because you are.” He breathed against your temple. “Sometimes I just…I don’t understand what I want.”

“I do.” You whispered back, before you could stop yourself.

He froze in his tracks and looked down at you.

You decided to continue on with your courageous mission, even it might cost you your head in the end. “You want to control me.”

“Why are you so calm about this?” He asked quietly and he seemed genuinely confused.

“Because…Well, I don’t know.”

The only sound in the room were the soft tunes of the music and the quiet rustling of your clothes when you went back to your slow dancing. He didn’t press any further and so didn’t you. It was a quiet understanding of some sort. You belonged to him and you didn’t fight it. You weren’t perfect and he didn’t fight it either.

Because he fucking loved you. What else could matter there?

After a long while, after you already thought he had slipped into the abyss of his dark thoughts, he suddenly made you snap out of your own thoughts.

“Do you miss home?”

The question hit you harder than expected.

“Home?” You croaked out.

He nodded. “Yorkshire.”

You had to think it through for a moment. Then, with certainty you could say: “No. Not the way you think.”

He cocked a brow and waited for you to explain.

You hummed and gently tightened your grip on his shoulder. “I don’t miss her godforsaken house or anything else there. I don’t miss the Yorkshire I left behind. If anything, I miss the Yorkshire that Emily Bronte created. And I don’t miss her. I miss what it could be.” Your brows furrowed. “With you.”

His lips twitched in half-amusement. “Oh, yeah? You want me chase you through the moors like Heathcliff?”

You smiled. “Isn’t that what you are to me?”

His expression softened somewhat, but you saw the quiet concern flashing behind his dark eyes. “You’re not just some possession to me.”

“I know.” You whispered.

He exhaled a slow breath and gently cupped your face in his palms. They felt warm against your skin and everything else faded away, leaving your soul stripped bare beside his. He saw no flaws in it. Your brokenness didn’t send him running. Instead he was here, wrapping his clipped wings around you to protect your own.

“I want a future with you.”

There was not a thing in the world he could have said that would have made you feel a similar way. Your palms felt sweaty and your breath stuttered in your throat. There it was. The wall. The curtain. It was crumbling – and it didn’t hurt at all. But hope was a dangerous thing to have.

When he saw the way you struggled to come up with a reply, he continued, while his thumbs drew gentle patterns on your cheeks.

“I may not be the right man for picket fences and barbecues, but for you, I’d like to try. I never saw myself in that. Marriage. Children. Life. I never thought I’d make it this far anyway. I was always sure I’d be dead and gone and long forgotten, before I even reached thirty. It was never meaningful to me, none of it. I might as well have died.” He sighed softly. “Maybe it’s still that way. But you make it much more bearable for me.”

You didn’t mean to feel as touched as you did. But you were a natural crybaby it seemed and also, you were sure you were about to get your period, so you found your eyes grow damp.

Marriage. Children. Life.

“I don’t want picket fences and barbecues.” You heard yourself whisper. “We…we could just be us.”

His lips curved into a soft smile and you were sure, you saw the way his black eyes turned hazel again.

“I’d love that.”

Later that same night, after you had learned that dancing wasn’t as bad as you thought and your life wasn’t equally as hopeless, you found yourself underneath him. It wasn’t new, it wasn’t special either. But to you, it felt like it was.

His lips moved against yours with the same urgency as always, but there was something softer behind his touch, something that was almost careful. Like he didn’t intend to break your already fragile soul any further.

The tip of his tongue brushed against your own and that alone was enough to draw a moan from your lips.

“My naughty girl.” He murmured and slowly ran his fingertips up your thigh, pushing the material of the dress up your body. A few seconds later, he froze.

“Where’s your underwear?”

You couldn’t help but grin and shrug.

He sucked in a sharp breath and you saw his eyes darken. “You had no underwear on this whole time?”

“Mhm.” You purred.

“You…little…”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that you didn’t realize-“

“Minx!”

His lips crashed against yours again and he wasted no more time. His warm hands wandered up your body and he quickly discarded your dress on the floor, followed by your bra. You felt exposed when the cold air hit your skin, especially since he was still fully dressed. Your hands instinctively reached up to undo his shirt, but he quickly pinned your wrists against the mattress above your head and he kissed you with the fervor of a dying man. He used one hand to undo the buttons, while at the same time one of his knees settled between your own, pushing your legs apart. You felt so vulnerable, but at the same time, you couldn’t help but part them even further for him, desperate to finally feel him. When he felt the way you parted your legs for him, a low growl rumbled in his throat.

“Fuck, my dirty girl.” He breathed out and tossed his shirt aside, soon followed by his slacks. You felt his hardness before you saw it. He took your hand and guided it down his body and before you knew it, you felt your fingers wrap around him, your thumb brushing the little, damp spot on the material of his underwear. He groaned against your lips and bucked his hips against your touch.

“Fuck, yes. Come on, baby, touch me.”

Your hand slid inside and wrapped around his skin, all the while your eyes stayed focused on his face. The look in his eyes, the darkness, it was enough to drive you mad.

You bit your lip as you began to gently stroke him, rubbing your thumb over his tip in the most gentle touch. He groaned again and his head dipped forward, his forehead pressed against your collarbone.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He kept bucking his hips, moving in rhythm with you. The way he bit his own lip to stifle any sounds and yet it didn’t help. The fact that you could do this to him…

A shuddering breath and...

“I want to have your baby.”

The words slipped past your lips way faster than you could stop them and you weren’t sure if you were ready to regret them. It was true. And at the same, you were scared shitless. It was stupid before it was anything else. But you wanted what he said. A future. A future with him.

He froze and his body went rigid above you. For a short moment, you were sure you had fucked up. But then he pulled his head back and you saw his eyes. Nearly black.

“Say that again.” He growled.

“I…”

“Say it.” He breathed out and tugged your head back by your hair. You moaned and arched your back, involuntarily pressing against him. He pulled your hand away and held your jaw firmly in place.

“Say it again.” He nearly hissed.

“I want to have you baby. I want you to…I want you…to…”

His lips found your neck and he left a trail of flaming-hot kisses against your skin. His kisses turned to bites, his bites to groans. His boxers shared the same fate your clothing did and before you knew it, he pushed your legs apart, as wide as possible.

“I don’t want you to say this, if you don’t really mean it.” His voice was a mixture of furious and pleading. He was taking control so effortlessly and at the same time, he was incredibly gentle.

You might have been confused, had you not been so desperate to finally feel him.

“I do mean it.” You whispered breathlessly. “I don’t need a fucking picket fence. Haunt me all you want. Kill me if you will. But let me be yours. Don’t look at anyone else. Love only me.”

You had no idea what you were talking. It was probably the wine speaking…or just the depths of your soul.

His expression shifted from quiet despair to something dark, something dangerous.

He leaned down and bit down on your earlobe, the sting of it enough to make you jerk, but not quite enough to really hurt you.

“Are you sure about this? Because, if you are, there is no way back. Because I want this. I fucking want this.”

You bit your lip and slowly wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him against you. His hardness pressed up against your slick core and you were sure you heard him let out a muffled moan against your neck.

“Fill me up. I don’t want a way out. I just want you.”

He didn’t ask again.

He pushed himself inside you, but he was gentle about it. It was as though he was trying to savor the feeling, to feel every little bit of you wrapped around him. You inhaled sharply and exhaled just as hard. Every time his breath hit your neck and he pushed a little further in, you couldn’t stop yourself from trying to meet him in the middle.

“Fuck.” He breathed out. “Fuck. I love you. I love this. Fuck, I want to die this way.”

His words sent a shudder through you. “Shut up.” You breathed out. “If something happened to you…”

You didn’t want to think about it, but you did every day. If something ever happened to him…

You couldn’t finish the thought.

He intertwined your fingers with his and pressed your hands against the mattress, his lips just a breath away from yours.

“You’d just go on living.” He whispered.

He gave a slow, deliberate roll of his hips and so you couldn’t answer immediately. But when you did, it was no less desperate. You shook your head, almost frantically.

“What am I going to do if you die, huh? Just live in a world with no you in it? Pass. Fuck. You’d have to kill me first.”

His movements stuttered for a moment, his eyes fixed on you. There was a slowness between you, a feeling like the rest of the world wasn’t really there. Eventually, he continued moving and he wasn’t slow about that. Every thrust he gave was determined, determined to either prove a point or maybe get you pregnant.

He leaned down and his lips barely grazed your ear as he whispered: “You can’t say shit like that to me.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. You were too busy clawing at his back and trying to focus solely on the pressure he put on you. Before you knew what had hit you, you were already gasping and whining out your release.

When he felt your walls clench around him, he let out a low moan against your neck. “What do you want?” He breathed out, his movements never slowing.

“Fill me up.” You breathed out desperately. “Fuck, I want you. Forever.”

These words were enough. His movements stilled, but you felt the way he throbbed inside you, filling you with his seed and his love. His hope. Whatever this was, you wanted more of it. You wanted it all.

He was still gasping for air and so were you. His hands were gentle in your hair and his lips moved softly against your temple.

“I love you. Fuck, I love you. My birthday girl.”

You bit down on your lip and closed your eyes. “I love you more.”

He let out a low chuckle and was probably about to protest, when he felt you tense underneath him.

His eyes shot open and he regarded with a concerned look. “What is it? Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, your expression tense. “I just…I think I got…I may have gotten my…” You swallowed, still feeling him pressed against you, but you suddenly felt way more uneasy.

His brows furrowed in confusion, until it suddenly hit him.

He pulled back just enough to look down at you and, indeed. A bloody mess.

“Ah.”

“I’m sorry…” You murmured, your face flushed in embarrassment and shame. “I’ll clean it up, I’ll-“

“Shh.”

He gently tipped your chin up, but your eyes stayed firmly shut.

“What?” He murmured. “You thought I’d be repulsed by this?”

You swallowed and nodded. For some reason, this felt far more humiliating than you ever imagined before.

He sighed softly and gently stroked your hair.

“I’m cleaning it up.” He murmured. “But I’m not repulsed, my silly girl.”

“You’re only saying this so I feel better.”

“No.” He murmured. “I’m saying it, because it’s fucking turning me on.”

Your eyes shot open the same instant.

“You…what?”

He nodded without hesitation. And truly. You felt him, just then. Hard again.

Your eyes widened impossibly, but the flush on your face only deepened. Your mother had somehow made you believe that your monthly blood was something terribly shameful. A curse, a punishment, because women were without shame and that was the only way to stop them.

You never knew what exactly she meant, but it was enough to make you hate yourself over it.

“That- I-“

“Why don’t you come to the shower with me…and I’ll show you exactly what I mean?”

You had no strength to protest. You had come quick to learn, his word meant more than your mother’s ever did. And you didn’t mind.

Even when he hated you, he still loved you. Unlike her.

So you found yourself in the shower only a minute later, pressed against the cold wall behind you. He turned on the water for the cold to fade, but he quickly had you pinned against the wall, while the hot water burned its way through your skin.

“What are you-“

He groaned against your lips and pressed himself against you. All normal. It was all fine. The blood would just wash away, right? Like all bad and shameful things did at some point.

But before you knew it, he was on his knees.

On his knees.

You nearly fainted.

“What are you-“

He hooked one of your legs around his shoulder and attached his lips to your core, before you could protest. Your eyes widened and your blush was near painful. But the thrill…the thrill it sent through your body…

You nearly came, right then and there.

What the hell was he doing? Did this really turn him on?

And why did it turn you on, the way it did him?

He lapped and sucked at you in the most intimate way, a low groan on his lips every now and then. His lips and tongue moved in a cruel speed and you quickly realized you couldn’t just pretend this wasn’t happening.

Because it was happening. And you were about to feel it unravel.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him in place, your hips moving on their own accord and a breathless moan was on your lips.

There it was. The feeling.

May the water never wash that feeling away.

Your body trembled and shuddered violently as you came and it never seemed to stop. A few seconds later it eventually did. The reality of the situation came crushing back on you, but before you could dwell on it, he was on his feet, towering above you.

“Are you still ashamed?” He whispered breathlessly, brushing his lips against your earlobe.

“Yes.” You whispered back.

He groaned and spun you around, so his chest was pressed against your back.

“Don’t be.” His tone was a quiet command, and yet you recognized the hint of pleading behind his words.

Don’t be ashamed of your pleasure. Don't be afraid of mine.

He didn’t give you time to be ashamed though. He was inside you before you could even think about being. And this time there was nothing gentle about it. Just your vampire lover, pounding away at you and taking what he wanted.

“Are you still ashamed?” He grunted while he mercilessly fucked you into the wall.

You opened your mouth, but all you could do was moan.

His smirk. His smirk was the most cruel sound in the world. But at the same time you were thankful. He didn’t let you be ashamed for something you both wanted.

“Thought so.”

A beat later, his smirk softened into something else and he slowed his movements just slightly to whisper against your earlobe.

"You'll get to know in time. Everything...Me. I promise you."

That was exactly what you thought about.

A day filled with as much sorrow as there was hope. And now there it was. A life growing inside of you, strong and resilient against everything that had hurt you in the past and would continue to hurt you. Until it was too late.

Fucking hell.

Was this your last day on earth?

__________________________________________

Tag list 1: @mitsuki-dreamfree@kpopsmutty69@heroine-chique@vkeyy@mizuwki@blu-brrys@z0mbi345@yourpointbreak@ayieayee@freddyzeppsworld@lola11111111@indifitel6661@salesmanlover08@laurenbenoit70@lalalaa2210@lila-marshal@auspicious-lilana@0-aubrie0@lovelyaegyo@theredvelvetbitch@violentbluess@muriels-lover@dorayakissu@eviebuggg@muchwita@ririgy@strxlemon@obsessedwthdilfs@kiwilov3@misty-q

Author's note: Hey, guys! This chapter cost me years of my life yet again......I started writing this last night and finished it just now, with a sleeping break of course, but I'm just about to head out and I'm still sick, so I'm in no real condition to proofread. I'll do that later, I think...I just hope I didn't talk gibberish here. If I did at some point, please forgive me!

However, thank you guys for your patience and your constant love and motivation! A few things in this chapter were inspired by (anonymous) requests and I'll answer the asks in time!

What I remember definitely is: the period issue, the slow dancing, her wanting for him to finish in her in order to get pregnant, teasing him with no underwear and "What am I going to do if you die, huh? Just live in a world with no you in it? Pass." - "You can't say shit like that to me."

I love you, guys!

Yours eternally,

Lana

[carodibs]

The Fractured But Whole but the kids’ main outfits are their superhero costumes and their superhero costumes are their casual wear.

Timothy Douglas/Guns n’ Roses

Class - Psychic Pyromancer

Race - Post-Human

Sexuality - Bisexual Cis Male

Alignment - Chaotic Good

Power Source - The electric guitar

Weakness - Stairs

From a well-behave boy of a few words to a mischievous rebel who can speak telepathically through his guitar. Every string Guns n’ Roses pulled can bring hell in his path and won't hesitate to incinerate his enemies if he so desires. However, that's only for the big baddies! Despite Guns n’ Roses’s thirst for violence, he's still a kind-hearted kid at heart when Timothy is the one in control of the guitar.

Kenneth Tyson/Bloodlust

Class - Brutalist

Race - Unknown

Sexuality - Bisexual Cis Male

Alignment - Chaotic Neutral

Power Source - Azathoth

Weakness - Poverty

Every night, there's bound to be a massacre where criminal activity takes place. Criminals who survived the massacre lived to tell the tale of Bloodlust. An undying entity who doesn't get tired or defeated no matter the state he's in. He won't stop spilling blood until every criminal is either injured or killed. Bloodlust may be a wicked beast who will kill anything on sight but in reality, he's actually a caring brother and son to his family, and the lust part doesn't mean he enjoys seeing people dying. It actually means his dirty mind and his interest in Timothy.

Tollers Williams/Kickbox

Class - Martial Artist

Race - Human

Sexuality - Straight Cis Male

Alignment - Lawful Good

Power Source - Black Belt

Weakness - Dodgeballs

After years of learning kickboxing at a younger age with his father, Kickbox harnesses his inner beast’s power to make a perfect battle between him and his enemies. His instincts and awareness of his surroundings are off the roof, and no threat can ever pin him down to the floor. No matter what, Kickbox is always on top of many defeated foes with a stoic look on his face. That is until someone happened to have a dodgeball with them.

Twain Wonder/Roaring Inferno

Class - Primal Blaster

Race - Hybrid Dinosaur

Sexuality - Homosexual Cis Male

Alignment - Neutral

Power Source - Love

Weakness - Caffeine Addiction

Born from the grounded-up beans growing from his fossilized carcass, Roaring Inferno rises to wreak havoc once again. Well, at least for a bit as a human boy defeated him and taught him a lesson (And then fell in love). He's now a baker and coffee barista at his family’s coffee shop with the help of his flames that can instantly get hot orders done. As long as he kept his aggression through a lot of things he could cope with, he is a good friend to be around!

Stanley Kimble/Quickdraw

Class - Gunslinger Animal Whisperer

Race - Human

Sexuality - Straight Cis Male

Alignment - Lawful Neutral

Power Source - Nature

Weakness - Seeing animals getting hurt or killed

Quickdraw can excuse killing people and monsters, but draws the line on killing animals. One shot at an animal equals a shot in the head from Quickdraw. He speaks for nature and will do anything to protect the wildlife from pesky dangers. Ironically, his sniper is made by his Uncle Jimbo, a hunter who hunts animals. Also, the red cardinal he has with him 24/7, is an ex-member of the woodland critters and is seeking redemption by following Quickdraw everywhere to see what can it do to redeem itself through his actions.

An edit I made of them :)

[bullet-prooflove]

6000 Follower Celebration Event: Control - Douglas Hamilton x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @cosmic-psychickitty @star017 @elenavampire21 @silverstar70

Companion piece to:

Mississippi Meanders - Douglas doesn't expect to meet the love of his life.

Mistletoe - Douglas runs into you at City Hall underneath the mistletoe.

Pedestal - Douglas puts you on a pedestal, much to his detriment.

The Prettiest Damn Thing - Douglas regrets having to leave the morning after.

Something Special - You decide to give Douglas something special after you notice how stressed he is.

Tonight is all about Douglas. He doesn’t ask for it, he doesn’t expect it, it’s just something you do because you can sense his need for it as soon as you step over the threshold into his house this evening.

“What if…” You drawl as your fingertips trace over the buttons of his shirt. “…I was in control tonight.”

“And what would that entail?” He murmurs as your finger hooks on his tie, drawing it away from his throat.

“A blindfold.” You murmur as you unknot the fabric. “Your wrists bound to the headboard while I have my wicked way with you.”

“No blindfold.” He negotiates as you slip the tie from his collar, pulling it taunt between your hands, the sight of it like that, the promise of it, it excites him more than he can say. “I want to see you.”

“No blindfold.” You agree as you take his hand and lead him up the stairs to his bedroom.

You take your time undressing him, hands stroking over his body as you kiss his mouth, guiding him back onto the mattress. You don’t stop, not even when you’re drawing his hands up above his head, using the tie to bind them in place. He whines when you draw away, delving into the night stand to pull out the expensive lube.

“Hush.” You say, nipping at his lower lip as you drizzle it over his leaking cock. “This is going to be good for you, I promise.”

It starts with light caresses, the gentle sweep of your palm over his silky shaft, gently stroking. His dick twitches with every touch, pre-cum seeping over the head mingling with the lube. He groans when you wrap your fingers around him, the intensity of the pleasure increasing as you set a slow relentless pace.

Your lips brush over his chest, his shoulders, his throat, keeping him connected in the moment. Your body presses against him, your breathing hitching because getting him off, it gets you off and that does something to Douglas, knowing his pleasure is yours as well.

He gets louder as your grip tightens, a pink flush creeping across his skin as he fucks up into your hand, urging you to move faster. Already he’s at the precipice, the desire to come surging through his veins as he tugs at the restraints. You don’t give into him, you kiss him instead and it feels like he’s drowning as the ecstasy builds and builds, making his hips arch and his heels dig into the bed.

"That's it, baby. Just a little bit more. God, you're such a good boy." You whisper into his ear, your lips ghosting along his jaw.

The way you say those words, it absolutely fucking ruins him. A moan tears from his throat, stealing away his breath as he comes in long, hot spurts, streaking across his stomach. Your mouth covers his, the sweetest sensation of bliss overcoming him as he succumbs to you completely.

“I think we can do that again can’t we?” You whisper against his lips.

Your hand is still moving, mixing his spent with the lube and already Douglas feels what euphoria rising up inside him again, overwhelming every single one of his senses.

“Douglas.” You murmur, your nose trailing along his as you look into his eyes, capturing that beautiful, vivid shade of blue that reminds you of the sun rising across the Gulf first thing in the morning. “Is it too much?”

“No.” He whispers, his voice rough as he finds his words. “It’s just right.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot "Available" (Rated E)

Summary:

Blaine is proud that he can be available to service his Master whenever his Master needs, even if Blaine isn't exactly thrilled with what they're doing. But their festive holiday fun time gets interrupted by a persistent man calling and insisting that Blaine gave him his number, a distinct no-no.

Notes:

Written for the December Klaine Fanworks Challenge 2024 prompts busy and make. (1451 words)

Part 73 of Taking a Journey Together

Read on AO3.

“God!" Kurt moans, sweat rolling down his back as he claims his hobbled sub on their living room floor. Kurt still has his shoes and socks on, his designer slacks pooled around his ankles, getting hopelessly scarred from the friction. But Kurt couldn't help ruining this one outfit.

He was way too eager.

He'll punish himself for it later.

Kurt spent all of yesterday decorating their loft from floor to ceiling for the upcoming holiday. Today, at work, he could barely concentrate, thinking about the finished product.

He was dying to race home and christen it properly.

He figured his level of commitment warranted a reward.

Coupled with the stressful afternoon he'd endured, he couldn't think of a better way to take a load off...so to speak. He informed anyone who matters that he'd be busy the rest of the afternoon, so don't even think of calling him. Then he had texted his pet from the Uber home and told him to make himself merry and bright.

And Blaine delivered.

From an outsider's perspective, their living room is an idyllic scene, straight from the pages of this season's Vogue at Home: roaring (electric) fireplace, Douglas Fir decorated to the nines with vintage ornaments from his and Blaine's combined collections, wood-wicked candles crackling in their frosted cups and wafting sweet holiday fragrance into the chilly air. The only outlier is Blaine on all fours, dressed in festive reindeer antlers and a leather harness draped in brass bells, which he is trying hard to keep silent while Kurt pounds him from behind.

Talk about impossible tasks.

Blaine set himself up to fail with that one since there was no way those bells wouldn't ring out the cadence of Kurt's oncoming orgasm for all to hear.

Kurt snaps his hips to the rhythm of the carols playing over the speakers around the room. It's Jingle Bell Rock this time, but the Mean Girls version. Blaine found it on Spotify and downloaded it to their December playlist after Kurt revealed that Mean Girls is his favorite holiday movie. Blaine doesn't agree that Mean Girls is a holiday movie. Kurt thinks that if a movie even mentions Christmas, it's a holiday movie. Blaine suspects Kurt inherited these beliefs from his father, who claims that Die Hard is his favorite holiday movie.

Blaine doesn't argue. He's smart enough to keep his opinions to himself.

"I love your ass, pet," Kurt coos, gifting Blaine a hard slap to the right cheek. "Those defined muscles, everything so tight, Christ on a cracker...”

Blaine bows his head, cheeks glowing as red as his ass with a pride that he keeps to himself. Kurt sounded so frazzled over the phone. Blaine pulled out all the stops to make this scene perfect for his Master. It doesn't end here, either. There are freshly baked cookies cooling on the kitchen table, Kurt's favorite dessert wine chilling in the fridge, a roast baking in the oven. Once Kurt is done with him, Blaine will draw his Master a bath and finish making dinner.

Blaine is pleased he can do this for Kurt, be available for him no matter what. This scene is all about Kurt. Kurt has a thing about Christmas.

Truth be told, he has a Santa fetish.

Blaine doesn't. Role-playing during the holidays gives him the ick. It brings back too many memories of time spent with his family—the sentimental kind of memories that Hallmark makes movies about.

But that's okay. This isn't a hard limit for Blaine. And Kurt knows. He doesn't push Blaine too far out of his comfort zone. Scenes like this one come with tons of praise for Blaine, especially after Kurt finishes.

And Kurt's praise is the only reward Blaine needs.

"Oh, Blaine...oh, Blaine," Kurt chants. "God, you're so...so..."

Bzz-bzz… bzz-bzz…

...

Bzz-bzz… bzz-bzz…

...

Kurt groans at the sound of a vibrating cell phone harshing the swell of his orgasm. His hips grind to a halt.

“Blaine Devon Anderson! That is the fifth time your phone has gone off this hour!”

Blaine doesn't put his phone on silent because Kurt doesn't let him. No one should be calling Blaine; hence, it shouldn't matter. His phone shouldn't be going off. But here it is, buzzing across the wood floor. Blaine mumbles muffled apologies behind his sticky gag, but Kurt isn't hearing it.

Literally.

He can't hear much of anything through the duct tape over Blaine's mouth and not with the music playing. And even though Kurt is frustrated as hell, a smile slips on his lips as Blaine struggles to try.

Oh, how Kurt loves to see Blaine struggle.

Kurt leans forward and reaches a hand into Blaine's view.

"Phone, pet," he commands. Blaine gives it to his Master without hesitation. The infuriating thing buzzes again, and Kurt takes a moment to consider. He was initially going to disconnect the call, block the number, and shove the thing under a pillow. But now that he has Blaine's phone in his hands, he is too curious.

Who the hell would be calling Blaine now?

Kurt answers the call, but before he can speak, a male voice says, "Blaine? Is that you? I've been trying to get a hold of you all day! I have something to ask you..." The caller rambles on in that syrupy, presumptuous way someone does when they're about to ask you out, and they're sure you'll say yes.

"No," Kurt says dryly. “This is definitely not Blaine."

A tense silence follows.

"Who the fuck is this?" the man asks with a huff.

"None of your business! Did you say you’re looking for Mr. Anderson?” Kurt corrects. As far as he’s concerned, if someone he doesn’t know is calling Blaine without Kurt’s express knowledge or permission, then he does not have the right to refer to his submissive in the familiar.

"That's none of your fucking business," the man claps back.

"Ah. I see." Kurt's hips start again slowly, eyes going from grey to steel. “Well, he’s busy right now. By the way, how did you get this number?"

Another dramatic huff. This phone call is giving Kurt Gossip Girl flashbacks something fierce. "He gave it to me."

"He gave it to you?”

Blaine’s head pops up at the icy tone in his Master’s voice. He shakes his head frantically back and forth, indicating that NO! No, no, no, no way did he give some guy his cell phone number without Kurt’s permission! Not in a million years! Blaine keeps his number secret. With the exception of his family, he hands it out sparingly, and for work purposes only. Still, he can think of several ways someone might have gotten it. But he doesn't have the ability to explain at the moment.

Luckily, he doesn't have to.

Kurt trusts Blaine. He's a good pet. An obedient pet.

And they love each other.

Blaine isn't going to throw what they have away by breaking a simple rule, and not for some random douche.

“Yeah, no. I don’t believe you," Kurt says, running the nails of his free hand down Blaine's back. His fingertips skirt a few sensitive spots, and Blaine squirms. "Blaine didn’t give you his cell phone number."

"Did he say that?" random douche asks. "Because he's lying."

Kurt glares at the phone, insulted on his sub's behalf. "I'm inclined to believe him over you. I love him. I trust him. And at the moment, I hold the key to whether he cums in the next two minutes or not again for three months, so I don’t think he’s going to lie to me. He knows the consequences.”

Kurt’s expression sours when whoever-never on the other end of the line makes a snarky remark Blaine can't hear. Kurt shakes his head, absolutely aghast at the audacity of the man arguing his null point as if Kurt could be persuaded to hand Blaine the phone.

“You know what?" Kurt interrupts him with a vindictive chuckle. "You’ve done it! You've convinced me! Congratulations! Come on, Blaine. Talk to your little friend.”

Kurt reaches over Blaine's back, blindly feels for the end of the tape, digs his nails underneath, and tears it from Blaine’s mouth with a resounding Rrrriiiipppp!!! Blaine yelps in pain, but that’s all he does.

“Why don’t you explain to Major Tragedy here exactly the position you’re in!” Kurt drops the phone on the floor underneath Blaine's chin for the best reception and goes back to the business of taming his feisty reindeer.

But Blaine doesn’t explain. He doesn’t have to. The man on the phone hangs up after listening to two minutes of Kurt drilling his sub, accompanied by Blaine screaming his Master’s name.

[hoursofreading]

The notion that students can master a range of literary competencies is further diluting the already deluded approach to English class. To put the National Council of Teachers of English guidelines in action, teachers are substituting intertextuality and experiential learning for engaging with the actual text. What might have been a full read of “The Great Gatsby” is replaced by students reading the first three chapters, then listening to a TED Talk on the American dream, reading a Claude McKay poem, dressing up like flappers and then writing and delivering a PowerPoint presentation on the Prohibition. They’ll experience Chapters 4 through 8 only through plot summaries and return to their texts for the final chapter. Going mostly by summary and assumption, students get thumbnail versions of things. They see the Cartesian grid, the lines on a map that chart the ocean, but they “don’t see the waves,” as the media theorist Douglas Rushkoff recently said about the reality in which many seem to be living in now. They see “the metrics that can be measured rather than the reality that those metrics are simply trying to approximate.” He is not an alarmist, but he is alarmed about losing the “in-between, this connective reality.” Of all the things I could do in this world, I’m fortunate to peddle stories from faraway lands to young minds and see whether I can rouse their synapses. Sometimes, I’ll admit, I’d rather be watching sports or “Saturday Night Live” clips or sleeping, even. And it’s not easy for students to crack open a book, to decipher language written in a way they don’t speak and to codify multisyllabic names. (It’s also not easy for them to wake up at 5:30 for hockey practice, but they’re really good at this.) The juniors and seniors I taught last fall had little knowledge of environmental activism or animal welfare when I handed them Richard Powers’s “Bewilderment,” about a precocious 9-year-old who is consumed with saving endangered species as his grieving father struggles to protect him. But the vicarious safety of fiction gave students an invitation to discuss planetary ethics and the power and limits of parental love. This pathos they raised will be a part of their forming identities. Had they merely read the summary, they would have seen many of the same words, but they’d have lacked the feeling part. When a semester begins, I often give my students a wicked little essay by Virginia Woolf, “How Should One Read a Book?” She advises, “Begin not by sitting on the bench among the judges, but by standing in the dock with the criminal. Be his fellow worker, become his accomplice.” Like this, a classroom allows students to travel along with dockworkers and tycoons, tyrants and liberators. And when they have turned the last page, Woolf invites the reader to “leave the dock and mount the bench. He must cease to be the friend; he must become the judge.”

Opinion | Let Students Finish the Whole Book. It Could Change Their Lives. - The New York Times

[alovelywaytospendanevening]

Lit Hub: How Oscar Wilde Created a Queer, Mysterious Symbol in Green Carnations

In London in 1892, everybody—or, at least, everybody who was anybody—was talking about one thing: green carnations. Nobody was sure, exactly, what wearing a green carnation meant, or why it had suddenly become such a deliciously scandalous, dazzlingly fashionable sartorial statement. All anybody knew was that one day, at a London theater, someone important (stories differed as to who exactly it was) wore a green carnation, or maybe it had been a blue one (stories differed about that too).

Green carnations may have had something to do with sexual deviance. They may also have had something to do with the worship of art. And the whole thing somehow had to do with Oscar Wilde, the flamboyant playwright, novelist, and fame-courting dandy who—as he never tired of telling the press—put his talent into his work but put his genius into his life. Wilde lived his life as a work of art (or let people think he did). The affair of the green carnation gives us a little glimpse into how.

One story about what exactly happened comes from the painter Cecil Robertson, who recounts his version in his memoirs. According to Robertson, Wilde was keen to drum up publicity for his latest play, Lady Windermere’s Fan. A character in the play, Cecil Graham—an elegant and witty dandy figure who rather resembled Wilde himself—was ostensibly going to wear a carnation onstage as part of his costume. And Wilde wanted life to resemble art.

“I want a good many men to wear them tomorrow,” Wilde allegedly told Robertson. “People will stare…and wonder. Then they will look round the house [theater] and see every here and there more and more little specks of mystic green”—a new and inexplicable fashion statement. And then, Wilde gleefully insisted, they would start to ask themselves that most vital of questions: “What on earth can it mean?”

Robertson evidently ventured to ask Wilde what, exactly, the green carnation did mean.

Wilde’s response? “Nothing whatsoever. But that is just what nobody will guess.”

Within days, carnations were everywhere. Just two weeks later, a newspaper covering the premiere of another play, this one by Théodore de Banville, reported a bizarre phenomenon: Wilde in the audience, surrounded by a “suite of young gentlemen all wearing the vivid dyed carnation which has superseded the lily and the sunflower,” two flowers that had previously been associated with Wilde and with fashionable, flamboyant, and sexually ambiguous young men more generally.

A little over a week after that, a London periodical published another piece on this mysterious carnation. It is a dialogue between Isabel, a young woman, and Billy, an even younger dandy—heavily implied to be gay—about the flower, which Billy has received as a gage d’amour (the French is tactfully untranslated) from a much older man. Billy shows off his flower to the curious Isabel with the attitude of studied nonchalance: “Oh, haven’t you seen them?…. Newest thing out. They water them with arsenic, you know, and it turns them green.”

The green carnation is something desperately exciting, understood not by ordinary society women but by Brummell-style dandies, shimmering with hauteur. It’s deliciously dangerous, perhaps even a tad wicked; the carnations are colored with poison, after all. It’s also, in every sense of the word, a little bit queer.

The green carnation’s appeal as a symbol of something esoteric persisted. Two years after the premiere of Lady Windermere’s Fan, an anonymous author—later revealed to be the London music critic Robert Hichens—published The Green Carnation, a novel that appears to be very obviously based on Oscar Wilde’s real-life homosexual relationship with the much younger Lord Alfred “Bosie” Douglas.

The Green Carnation, though it is certainly a satirical exaggeration, can tell us much about this strange, new class of young men cropping up not only in London but also in Paris, Copenhagen, and so many other European capitals during the nineteenth century: the dandy. Inheritors of the mantle of Beau Brummell but far more flamboyant in their affect—John Bull would certainly have turned around to look at them in the street—these modern dandies didn’t just live their lives artistically.

These dandies believed—or at least made out that they believed—that the highest calling a person could have was a careful cultivation of the self: of clothing, sure, and of hairstyle, but also of gesture, of personality. And behind that belief lay a kind of bitter nihilism, as poisonous as arsenic itself. Nothing meant anything, unless you decided it did. A green carnation could signify homosexual desire, or aesthetic dandyism, or “nothing whatsoever,” depending on your mood and what you felt like conveying to the world that morning.

(Full article)

[akihabara-division03]

How the OC’s Beat The Heat at Home

Taking a shower every four hours: Kisouna Yuzairu (Sakura Clan), Tomi Chōten (Jet Set Trio), Mireya Quinlan (Private Party), Maki Umemoto (山茶花 Zombeez), Kaiji Sano (Lovesick), Joey Kurusu (Justice Shield), Keiko Yumi (Otaku Corps), Fleuret Otoshiro (Blaid Maiden)

Puts a fan in every room: Anika Kiyozaki (Pixel Syndicate), Alexis Ward (Sounds of Silence), Yano Ietsuna (ECO BooN), Kureha Koizumi (Femme Fatale), Sakura Kito (Silent Tragedy), Akihisa Mashiro (Death Row Block), Seiji Tsukimoto (Valor Guard), Asahi Tomoharu (Miraitabi), Kunio Chōten (Strange Magic), Meari Miracle (Oculus), Criss Hiromi (Otaku Corps), Evelyn Rose (Liberty Guild)

Infinite uses of the air conditioning: Queen Card (R.I.P Märchen), Reiaki Suzubayashi (R.I.P Märchen), Aranai Norikoru (Sakura Clan), Kensaku Morimoto (ECO BooN), Miho Kobayashi (CodeX), Wataru Sasaki (Justice Shield), Yuriko Kuromiya (Wicked Requiem), Reika Aichi (Silent Tragedy), Lyall Shiba (Valor Guard), Saigo Fuyugami (Miraitabi), Aoba Yamamura (Strange Magic), Reiji Enjouji (Diabolik Love), Ayame Kurokawa (Diabolik Love), Yorii Sakuma (ENIGMA)

Lots of cold drinks: Miku Shirazuki (R.I.P Märchen), Zakari Hiroya (Private Party), Asato Rikiya (ECO BooN), Shuu Edogawa (山茶花 Zombeez), Sayaka Miyuki (Femme Fatale), Ren Nakashima (Lovesick), Kyler Aaron (Justice Shield), Kanra Akemi (Wicked Requiem), Ayumu Hayami (Valor Guard), Yuuya Kanata (Miraitabi), Natsume Kurome (Strange Magic), Ruka Shiina (Howling Moon), Kaede Iwasawa (Trickstar), Nikki Yoshie (Otaku Corps), Ace Douglas (Liberty Guild), Rashaad Young (Liberty Guild), Eldrid Iwasaki (Blade Maiden), Ted Bridges (Kuma no Ie)

Banning the use of clothes: Shian Meizono (Pixel Syndicate), Karada Kessaku (Jet Set Trio), Hoàng Diệu (Sounds of Silence), Ryuko Umemoto (山茶花 Zombeez), Hisoka Tetsuma (Veiled Vanguard), Lola Takahashi (Femme Fatale), Max Soukoku (Lovesick), Touya Kisaragi (Death Row Block), Eden Yamamura (Trickstar), Aika Yumi (Oculus)

Actually living in only the few cold hours of the day: Makina Setsukura (Pixel Syndicate), Kai Quinlan (Private Party), Daiki Kamiyama (Veiled Vanguard), Sumire Shinomiya (CodeX), Kaoru Shinozaki (Wicked Requiem), Kanon Hojo (Silent Tragedy), Kei Himeno (Diabolik Love), Hisui Meguno (Howling Moon), Nadya Kuromiya (Oculus), Mina Nakayama (ENIGMA), Kotan Anchikar (Kuma no Ie), Kokomi Morozov (Kuma no Ie)

Stands Still: Shisuta Heisha (Sakurai Clan), Luis Kōkyū (Jet Set Trio), Ivelisse Martinez (Sounds of Silence), Jack Verrill (Veiled Vanguard), Ritsuko Okada (CodeX), Rintaro Himura (Death Row Block), Aoi Yamamura (Howling Moon), Nellie Yukimura (Trickstar), Elliot Shimizu (ENIGMA), Azusa Furukawa (Blade Maiden)

@akihabara-division03 @uenodivision @aoyama-division @arakawa-division @roppongi-division @toyama-division @suginami-division @obihiro-division @saitama-division @shinagawa-division @kobedivision @kanazawa-division @edogawa-division @shizuokadivision @katsushika-division @niigata-division @naradivision @kumamoto-division @hamamatsu-divison @kofu-division @aomori-division @minato-division01 @akihabaradivision @setagaya-division @okinawa-division @taito-division @hakodate-division

[hemlockwilde]

I first wrote this song back in 2019, and it's gone under a lot of transformation since then. It's also been a long time since I last uploaded an original song, and I've missed it as much as getting back into it has terrified me.

My songwriting capabilities have changed a lot but I still take inspiration in my story-telling from other stories that have come before mine. Here my cultural touchpoints have been Ziggy Stardust, Rocketman, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency – both the 2016 show and the original books by Douglas Adams, from which comes the wonderful word 'psychosassic' – and of course, the Greek myth of Icarus. In my version Icarus made his own wings, his act of hubris was motivated by an all-encompassing desire for freedom, and he survived.

Icarus is one of a number of songs I've been putting together for my first EP.

LYRICS below cut:

I was the kid who chased the rainbow, always looking for the end I was the lonely child who loved the wild things but had no friends I grew up in a labyrinth and found my way with string What a clever boy to build himself a pair of broken wings Hubris laid its claim on me ‘fore I was even grown And into my embroidery these shapes and patterns sewn I made a bid for freedom and I bid my home goodbye Although my father warned me I would fall into the sky Oh, Icarus Icarus, what have you done now? What a mess What a mess you are become now Flying far too high, you’re gonna fall into the sun Oh, Icarus These flights of fancy have their foolish ends I’ve dabbled deep in palmistry and psychosassic paths But it seems I only ever draw the Fool in Tarot cards Always teetering on cliff edges and dangling from strings A silly boy to trust a pair of broken, melting wings CHORUS My father says that he knows best, that I should let it be These wicked thoughts of all I’ve sought are not for boys like me My impulses are wild, they need to be reined in And naive boys get just deserts unless you clip their wings Oh, Icarus Icarus, you’re falling still now From above Our prophecy has been fulfilled now Soaring far too low, you’re gonna sink into the sea Falling into patterns like we told you so and so shall be And tell us, was it worth it? Just to see the sea and sky? Oh Icarus This unearned confidence will your – “Icarus” So they’ve told me, so I’ve been But look at this Icarus has learned to swim Flying through the foam, and I will finally be free Feathers all around me leaving patterns on the sea And Icarus is smiling as he sings into the wind Oh, Icarus Oh, Icarus Oh, Icarus These flights of fancy always were my friends

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Nine

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Language, sexual assault, World on Fire spoilers.

Word Count: 7K

Note: Oh boy, this chapter is a *juicy* one. I’ve put in the warnings sexual assault, the scene will not be graphic but the warning is there. Please take care if you find this sort of thing triggering. Here we go pals…

New Year’s Eve 1939

The tinkling of laughter drifted through the open bedroom door, and Cora giggled from her seat at the vanity table.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it? Hearing them altogether.”

Bess hummed and watched her sister carefully tuck hair behind her headscarf. She looked just like Etta. It was 8 in the morning, and the two girls were readying themselves for a day of work. Dot was dressed and downstairs, talking to their father and Albie, the third Vaughn child, returned from war.

On the bed, Bess sat with her feet curled beneath her bottom as she read Tom’s last letter for the hundredth time. It was dated 13th December 1939. He had written it the day the Exeter was hit.

“Makes me less scared of dying. I’m just one bloke.”

What if he was dead? Had he been scared? Was it quick or did he die in a drawn-out frenzy of screams and terror? Bess screwed her eyes shut and pinched the back of her hand. The tears that threatened to fall disappeared.

“I’ve told the lads all about the dark-haired Vaughn girl and they’d love to get a look at you. You know you’re gorgeous –“

From behind the letter, Bess revealed the photograph of Tom. He thought she was gorgeous. Him, with his mischievous blue eyes and boyish smile, the curve of his lips and his broad shoulders. His height and his strength. His iron will and cocksure swagger. Tom Bennett thought Bess Vaughn was gorgeous. She blushed and looked at the mirror to examine herself. Cora was looking back at her.

“No telegram is good news, Bess,” she seemed to know what Bess was doing, what she was thinking. “We all miss him.”

Bess placed the letter in the biscuit tin, shoved it under the bed and ran downstairs without a word. When she entered, Albie moved a plate of toast towards her.

“Not for me,” though she kissed the top of his head all the same. “What are you doing with your day?”

“Going to see some of the other lads. Might pay poor Walter Watson a visit, see how he’s holding up.” The Vaughn children smirked, for Fergal had no idea just how Walter had broken his arm. “Then, of course, the new year dance.” Albie grabbed Dot and swung her around the kitchen, her shrieks and laughter near rattling the china.

“You enjoy yourselves my darlings.” Fergal said from his perch by the stove. His face was pale and his eyes were tired. He had been to see Douglas Bennett the night previous and had returned home on the milk float. Still, he was happy to have Albie home and that was all Bess could ask for. Almost.

Cora edged down the stairs, lipstick and hair perfectly in place. Ever since Roger came along, Cora had been glowing. Bess smiled at the sight of her older sister. She was in love, and my God, did she deserve it.

“Ready, Vaughns? Minus you Albie, of course.” Cora called to the kitchen at large.

“Can’t believe they’re making you work on New Year’s Eve.”

“No rest for the wicked,” said Bess, shouldering her satchel.

“And you’re the wickedest of them all,” Albie said and Bess pinched his belly. From the corner of the kitchen, Dot sniffled. They all turned to her.

“It’s so good to have you home, Albie.” She burst into tears. Bess and Albie laughed as he moved towards his little sister.

“Stop being soft. You’re eighteen now!” He wrapped his arm around her. “Come on, I’ll walk you to work.” And together, the five Vaughns stepped into the December day, each feeling the hope of the new year more fully than ever before. From across the street, Lois watched the family smiling and laughing together as they walked to work arm in arm. Behind her, Douglas sat at the kitchen table, the newspaper and cereal before him untouched.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

“It’s so wonderful to have all the boys back, isn’t it?” Queenie Warren’s girlish voice carried across the canteen, echoing Cora’s sentiment from the morning. Bess stared at her spam sandwich and placed it back in its brown paper. “Well. Most of the boys.” Queenie corrected herself and dabbed away a crocodile tear. Bess’ mouth curled in disgust at her overt display of despair for Tom, and Roberta elbowed her in the ribs.

“How’s Frank, Queenie?” Roberta asked her.

“Hm?” Queenie looked across at her, unused to being addressed by the fearsome girl. “Oh, he’s grand. Taking me to the dance tonight. Will you both be there?” Bess and Roberta nodded. “And Hattie too? I’m looking forward to meeting this fella of hers. Shame Jude can’t be there. Who are you two going with?”

Queenie knew full well that no men had asked Bess and Roberta. “My brother.”

“Oh,” Queenie said sweetly. “Isn’t that lovely.”

“Christ,” Roberta muttered and Bess laughed sadly.

The bell rang, signalling the end of their lunch break, and the three women made their way back to the warehouse floor. Bess inched closer to Roberta and whispered in her ear.

“If I push her off the wing, you run her over with the truck.” Roberta guffawed and Bess winked. “See you later.”

If she discounted Queenie’s girlish social commentary, the rest of the day passed in relative ease for Bess. The foreman had a gramophone brought into the warehouse and played Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman on repeat. Bess loved American big band and was enjoying its gradual emergence in the dancehalls of Manchester. Her mind had been so filled with thoughts of Tom Bennett for the past two weeks, that she felt guilty for the anticipation growing in her stomach. But the prospect of dancing, and drinking, made Bess quiver with excitement. Maybe, for an hour or two, she could play make believe. Pretend to be happy. The remaining hour of her shift was spent imagining the compliments she would get for the dress already hanging at home. Imagining swaying in someone else’s arms, with no obligation but to share a dance with them. The bell rang.

“Bess!” Roberta was already waiting at the door. Bess jumped down the ladder from the wing, stored her tools and strolled towards her best friend. Queenie hurried passed.

“See you later, girls.” Bess gave a mock salute.

“At least with the boys back, she’ll leave us alone.” Roberta said as she offered Bess a cigarette. They exited the factory gates. The air was crisp and across the horizon, smoke funnelled from the factory chimneys. Bess admired the bleak beauty of it all, and her eyes fell on a solitary figure leant against the gate. Douglas Bennett, collar turned up against the cold, ready to pedal away on his bike, Peace Paper tucked into his bag. Seeing him there made Bess think of a Lowry painting, and she was just wondering whether she would populate the painting with more gloomy figures or leave Douglas the sole subject when Roberta shrieked.

“Albert Vaughn, put me down!”

“Good to see you, Bobbie.” Albie laughed and placed her back on the ground.

“Silly beggar,” Roberta huffed as she clutched her chest. Bess smacked her brother’s arm and left them to catch up. When she approached him, Douglas touched his cap the way he always did and Bess was utterly charmed by him.

“How are you?” she asked him. He fidgeted with the handlebars of his bike.

“No news is good news.” Behind them, Albie and Roberta laughed.

“I’m sorry, Douglas, about Albie-”

“Nonsense.” He cut her off firmly. “Don’t you dare apologise. It’d be selfish of me to wish away your happiness. God knows I’ve had enough sadness not to press it on other people.” The honest vulnerability of his statement took Bess’ breath away, and she covered his hand with her own.

“Douglas,” Albie appeared at his sister’s side and shook hands with the older man. Bess turned and saw Roberta striding down the road.

“Good to see you back, lad.” Douglas smiled warmly, and Bess was amazed at how genuine it was.

“Hop on, Bess.” Albie gestured to his own bike. “Give Douglas a break from carting you around.”

Bess opened her mouth in mock offense and Douglas laughed. “Ah, she’s alright.”

“You don’t have to lie to me Douglas, I know she’s a lump-” Bess hit his arm harder than before and Albie laughed with Douglas. She sat gracefully on the handlebars and leant back. Even through the multiple layers of coat and jumper, Bess could feel the bones of her brother’s chest. The war wasn’t being kind to him, no matter how jovial he tried to seem. In an odd way, she wished she was on Douglas’ bike instead. Bess loved resting against his broad shoulders as he cycled her home at the end of a shift and, if the wind was in the right direction, she could smell the detergent Lois used. The one that smelt like Tom.

Douglas and Albie cycled side by side the two miles from the factory to their street. At just two o’ clock, the brisk afternoon was still bright, and Bess relished the kiss of the cold on her cheeks as they sped down the ginnels and backstreets of Manchester. Albie made a point to hit every cobble, pothole and bump in the road, and Bess was giddy with glee when they turned into their street. Douglas smiled next to them as her laughter pealed through the grey day. The sound of Bess’ voice had become such a source of comfort to him over the months since Lois and Tom left. With Lois home, he hadn’t heard it for a while, and his chest swelled. Never did he think he would miss the company of quiet Bess Vaughn, or that a woman like her would want his. He took his eyes off his path for a moment to revel in Albie and Bess’ youthful joy. A flash of blue and yellow skirted his periphery. His head whipped around and the bike slammed to a halt as his foot skidded off the pedal. Shocked by Douglas’ sudden loss of control, Bess looked at him. His eyes were glazed and though she couldn’t hear, she saw him mouth one word as she and Albie passed on their bike. She gasped and followed Douglas’ eyes.

“Oh my God,”

“Christ, Bess!” Albie shouted, for Bess had tried to dismount the still moving bike. She lurched off the handlebars as it stopped unexpectedly, stumbling a little. At the sudden commotion, the source of their scuffle looked up.

Beneath the cap and sweep of blond hair, blue eyes gleamed with barely supressed satisfaction. A roguish grin spread across the man’s face, recognition flickering there as he realised he was the cause of the fuss. Moving slowly from Douglas, to Albie, his eyes landed on Bess and she blushed. The sailor pushed himself off the wall to greet the stunned party.

“Tom,” Douglas came to a standstill before his son.

“Alright, Dad? Brought you a canary.” He held up the cage and the silent trio glanced at it. Tom smirked at their confusion.

“What the fuck is that!?” Albie was first to break the silence, laughing as he grabbed Tom in an enthusiastic hug.

“Found a bird in Argentina.” The friends laughed as Douglas unlocked the door, glancing at his son every now and again in shock. Bess hadn’t moved. Couldn’t move. He was alive. Bright and brilliant and alive. And stood in front of her. Over Albie’s shoulder, Tom caught Bess’ distant, disbelieving gaze and smiled at her.

“Hi,” he said, looking her over just a little. Fuck, his voice. Fuck, he was handsome. Simultaneously, Bess wanted to kiss and slap him.

“Hi,” she breathed giddily.

“Tom,” Albie’s voice sharpened Bess’ senses and she swayed a little on the spot, arriving back at reality. “New Year’s Eve dance tonight? Your Lois is singing.”

Tom looked at Bess as he replied. “I wouldn’t miss it. What time are you going?”

“We’re leaving around eight.” Albie hadn’t seemed to notice that Tom was ignoring him. Instead, Tom’s blue eyes bore into Bess’ brown ones.

“Eight o’clock,” he whispered.

“Tom?” Douglas motioned for him to come inside.

“See you then,” he winked at Bess and disappeared. She turned and marched through their own front door.

“You alright?” Albie called up the stairs.

“Yeah, just tired. Gonna lie down.” Bess slammed the door to the small bathroom, grabbed a flannel from the linen closet and ran the faucet. She swiped the cloth under the cold tap and fumbled with her slacks and shirt. Stripping down to her underwear, she took the cloth and held it to her chest, a few trickles of icy water running between her breasts. Bess shuddered and moved the flannel between her thighs. Her head tipped forward and she fought to still her erratic breathing.

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

She gripped the sink and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Despite the cold of the day and the water dripping down her legs, a pink flush covered her chest and face. Her eyes were heavy and she could feel every feather-light hair on her neck standing to attention. Slowly, she dragged her weary body into the bedroom and collapsed on top of the turned down bed. Without hesitation, without warning or without care, Bess began to laugh. Fat, salty tears welled in her eyes and fell into her hair. Hysterical sobs wracked her body and she buried her face in her pillow.

He was alive.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

“Think we’ll have to go with one rasher each.” Douglas stood frying bacon over the stove, his back to his son sat smoking at the table.

“Don’t worry, double rations when you’re under fire.”

Douglas chortled. “Give over,”

“I was cooking all the way through the battle,” Tom smirked, glad to be home and have a moment of normalcy with his dad. “Slice of my fried bread sunk a U-boat.”

Douglas flipped the bacon and remembered his own experience of war. “You don’t have to pretend to be brave for me, lad.”

“Good,” Tom spoke almost before Douglas had finished. “’Cos I’m not going back.”

“What?”

“I’m not going back, I’m deserting.” Douglas’ smile faltered. Tom wasn’t joking. “S’why I came home to you, cos I knew you’d be the one to help me.”

Ignoring the sizzle of the pan, Douglas turned to watch his son. Tom’s head was bowed as he looked at him through blond lashes, eyes sad.

“God, you look like your mother,” Douglas whispered.

“Dad. Please. Will you help me?” The sincerity of Tom’s voice scared him. Memories of nightmares clouded his mind. Images of Tom drowning. Of being shot. Of being blown into a million irrecoverable pieces. Douglas placed his hands in his pockets.

“Give me a day or two, to think of a plan. Just enjoy yourself for now, and let it from your mind.” He turned back to the stove, and the men were silent.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

It was almost as if the war was not happening. From the kitchen below, the three Vaughn girls could hear the warble of the wireless and rumbling laughs of Fergal, Albie and Roger. Roger wore his dress uniform for the occasion, powder blue and spotless. Albie, in his usual suited slacks, tie a little skewwhiff but handsome all the same. Dot had finally mastered her curling tongs and persuaded Cora into using them on her too. As ever, Bess sat smoking a cigarette in the window.

“You look like a film star,” Dot said dreamily, and Bess blew her a kiss. She knew she looked incredible. The waist of the red dress she had chosen was gathered dramatically, the skirt tightening over her bottom and falling in a straight line down her legs. It stopped narrowly above her ankles. The halter of her bodice highlighted the curve of her breasts, the Grecian straps of the capped sleeves trailed fabric down her back and revealed a daring square of pale skin. Her hair was fluffed and parted to one side (she had seen a picture of Rita Hayworth pinned up in the foreman’s office) and swept back off her shoulders. Rouge was mottled lightly on her lips, as though she had just been kissed; what with her hair and the dress, one could have too much red. The black trench coat she made last winter was hung on the door, she had seen Lauren Bacall wearing one similar. The dress she had picked before she knew Tom was home. The rest; the hair, the makeup, the severe coat and heels, she had decided on that afternoon. It was New Year’s Eve, the boys were home, and Bess Vaughn was dressed to kill.

Dot wore the dress Bess made her for her eighteenth. Pastel pink, bias cut, and adorned with a beaded flower brocade. Cora was elegant in black, waist cinched below the bust with red carnations at the hip. The Vaughns, despite their little money, were the most fashionable girls for miles. A great cheer rang from the kitchen.

“That’s Tom!” Dot cried and ran excitedly downstairs. Cora gave herself one last glance in the mirror then turned to Bess.

“What?” Her sister asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Cora winked. “Don’t forget your coat.” She left the room. Bess put out her cigarette and took a deep breath. Walking to the mirror, she donned her coat and smoothed her hair. Trying to disguise the nerves threatening to take over her body she winked at herself, grabbed her cigarettes and lipstick, and made her way into the kitchen.

“All the nice girls love a sailor, all the nice girls love a Tar,” Cora was singing affectionately as Tom twirled her around.

“We’ve got a full set tonight!” Fergal laughed. “Pilot, soldier, sailor-”

“Who’s the tinker and who’s the thief?”

Everyone turned to Bess and Tom swallowed with difficulty. At sea, he frequently imagined Bess. More often than not, he imagined her sat at the piano or sewing by the kitchen table. Sometimes she was sat smoking on the front step or giggling with her sisters. When he did something stupid or made a mischief of himself, he heard her make some sarcastic comment. But not once had he remembered her this way. Stood there on the stairs, hair glowing from the flicker of the fireplace, she looked like a goddess. Tom adjusted his trousers and took a subconscious step away from Fergal.

“Off we go!” Albie stood and clapped his hands.

“See you next year, Dadda!” Dot gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Get away with you,” he laughed. One by one the group spilled into the street. Dot chattered to Albie the whole way to the dancehall, with Cora and Roger linked arm in arm, totally unaware of anything outside their loved-up state. Bess lit a cigarette and watched the people she adored most in the world. Tom, noticing her fall behind slow his steps. His hands were in his trouser pockets as usual, though he had left behind his worn brown slacks for a navy suit.

“I know the men are always fighting over you-”

“I doubt it since I shouted at Walter Watson.”

“Don’t interrupt,” Tom said lightly and Bess smiled, glad to be back to their old ease with one another. “I know the men are always fighting over you, but save a dance for me.”

“You going soppy?” She nudged his shoulder in a feign of nonchalance, but her heart was already skipping with anticipation.  

“No, but I told you, I’ll be saving my dances for Dot tonight. I owe her for her birthday.”

“Yes you do!” Dot called back to them. Tom laughed as Bess chastised her for listening. After she playfully chased Dot up the road, they fell back into step. This time, the air was heavy. Neither knew what to say.

“No Roberta tonight?” Tom rubbed his neck. He normally had more game than this…

“She’s meeting us there, with Hattie and Glen.”

“Oh yes, Hattie’s farmer fella.” The silence resumed as they rounded the corner and a throng of people appeared. Over the din, Bess heard the first few bars of a tune she didn’t know and began to tap her feet as they shuffled into the hall. Dot turned back from her position at the top of the steps and called for Tom to join her in a dance. He saluted with a smile, and made to stand next to her, when Bess caught his wrist.

“Tom,” her voice was quiet but firm. He looked at her long fingers clutching him, and the skin there prickled. “I’m glad you’re back.” Bess’ eyes were wide and teary.

“It’ll take more than the Jerries to finish me off.” Tom winked, took Dot’s hand and escorted her inside.

To Bess’ delight, the band played some of the new American hits amongst their regular tunes and, accompanied by Lois’ gentle singing, she danced the night away. Mostly, with Albie, Roger and Glen, switching with Cora and Hattie after every other song. Roberta danced only a few with her best friends, before disappearing. Breaking for a cigarette, Bess spotted her across the street sharing a close embrace with a woman she recognised as the teacher at the local primary. She smiled and left them to it. Dot still stole dances with Tom, and Bess noticed that many of the men were eyeing him warily. Clearly, they hadn’t forgotten the last time Tom Bennett graced the dancehall. She joined her brother at the bar, who was deep in conversation with Frank Smith and Walter Watson. As she approached, Walter glared and left. Albie gave Bess a look that clearly told her to play nice, and as she took a whisky from the bartender, she spoke.

“How are you, Frank? Where’s Queenie?” He looked a little sad, if Bess really considered him. His eyes were downcast in a way that reminder her of a Bassett Hound, and he was swilling the dregs of his beer around his glass.

“Oh, I can’t keep up with Queenie when it comes to this kind of thing. She’s having a dance with Tom Bennett.”

Bess turned so quickly that she hurt her neck. Sure enough, in the centre of the dancefloor, Queenie Warren was clinging onto Tom’s shoulders, pressed indecently close to his body. He was speaking in her ear and Bess sincerely hoped the closeness was due to the proximity of the dance. Whatever he said, Queenie clearly found it highly amusing as she tipped her head back and giggled. The act exposed her neck, and a little of her cleavage and Bess’ stomach lurched. She looked back to Frank. He smiled sadly. Obviously, he was just as jealous of Tom as she was of Queenie. Bess downed the whisky.

“Steady on,” Albie half laughed, half warned. “Ah, talk of the devil and she shall appear,” he muttered as Queenie Warren bounded to the bar and kissed Frank’s cheek with another giggle. Tom raised his eyebrows to Albie in relief, as though he had just diffused a bomb.

“Your turn, Miss Vaughn.” He held out a hand.

“I see the navy has turned you into a gentleman,” Bess said, eyes lowered to his hand.

“They’re trying. My God, they’re trying.” Tom smirked, and when she didn’t take his hand, he leant to take her own, eyes never leaving hers. As they walked silently to the dancefloor, both trying to hide their smiles, Lois’ voice spoke above the gentle tinkling of Connie’s piano keys.

“A slower one now, before we pick up the pace as we head towards 1940.” The crowd cheered. “I know this one will mean a lot to many of you. I think I speak on behalf of everyone here when I say how glad we are to have some of our boys back, my own brother among them.”

Bess squeezed Tom’s hand and, from the back of the hall, someone shouted, “And you, Lois!” A wolf-whistle rang out.

“You’ll be lucky to make it to 1940, Walter Watson,” Lois teased and the crowd laughed. Lois nodded to Connie, and together they led the band in a moving rendition of We’ll Meet Again.

Let's say goodbye with a smile, dear Just for a while dear we must part

Don't let this parting upset you I'll not forget you, sweetheart

Tom placed Bess’ hand on his shoulder and brought the other to wrap around her waist. Her face had turned serious, though she had not realised it. All Bess’ effort was focused on staying upright and remembering to breathe. She almost forgot both at Tom’s next statement.

“You look gorgeous.” The hand that had been on her waist moved to brush some hair from her shoulder, before going to its original position. This time, he moved Bess closer to him so that their legs were entwined as they swayed to the music.

We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day

Without thinking, Bess placed her head on Tom’s shoulder and his palms grew sweaty. He caught Albie’s eye at the bar, one eyebrow raised. Slowly, Tom steered them to avoid the soldier’s scrutinising gaze. With his cheek against the top of Bess’ head, he could smell the vanilla of her shampoo and the spice of her perfume. Chanel No.5. Another present from the Manchester Atelier, worn only on special occasions.

Keep smiling through Just like you always do 'Til the blue skies chase those dark clouds far away

Tom hummed the chorus lowly in Bess’ ear and felt her shudder within his arms. Oh fuck. He marvelled at the effect this had on her and promised himself he’d do it again. Tantalisingly slowly, he ran a finger down the exposed curve of her spine. He heard it that time. The stuttering exhale. Once again, when his hand reached her waist, Tom pulled her closer.

“I was so scared,” she whispered into his shoulder. What the fuck was he meant to do? He was no good with this sort of thing. Feelings. Emotions. Romance? But he longed to hear what Bess had to say. Tom stilled a little but held her tight.

We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day

She sniffed and looked up at him. Her eyes were brimming with tears and suddenly any trace of quiet, confident Bess vanished and she looked like that little, bullied girl again. It was too much. Queenie’s incessant laughter, the eyes of her siblings, the chatter of couples and the swell of the brass section. The scent of Tom’s cologne and the heat of his hands against her body.

“Bess-”

“This song…sorry-”

“Bess-”

“Makes me so sad. I’m sorry-” And with that, she broke away from Tom and hurried to the exit.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

Bess’ hands fumbled for her cigarette case. Her coat was still inside the dancehall, and the cold December air did nothing to ease the shaking of her hands. The alley behind the stage door was empty. Under the glow of the lamplight, Bess leant against the brick wall, the cold piercing her exposed skin but rooting her in reality.

“You look gorgeous”

She took a steadying breath and tried once more to extract a cigarette.

“We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when”

The spot where Tom held her still burned, and as she played over the last few minutes, she recalled that he had been trying to tell her something. Her hand slipped.

“Fuck,”

Bess reached down to retrieve her cigarette case, the enamel of which had split, but another hand got there first.

“Let me help you.” It was Walter Watson. Bess straightened as she watched him pull a cigarette out and hand it to her. From his own pocket he produced a lighter and struck it so that she might light her cigarette.

“Thank you,” she whispered. They said nothing more, but Walter looked at her with a wolfish gleam in his eye. Looking up and down the alley, Bess saw they were alone and fear twisted beneath her ribs. It’s just pathetic Walter Watson, you’re fine. “Your arm is looking better,” she tried.

Walter nodded and gestured to his arm, still cast but without a sling. “Yeah, not long until I’m sent back. And I can dance now.” Bess smiled, not knowing what else to do. “You owe me a dance, Bess.”

“When I’ve finished my ciga-”

“You’ve danced with every other person in there, man and woman. But you’ve avoided me.”

“Don’t be stupid, Walter, I haven’t been av-” Walter took a sudden step towards her and Bess’ head hit the wall as she tried to step away.

“Dance with me now.” At this close distance, Bess could see the slight glaze of his eyes and smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Not now, Walter. And certainly not here.” She gestured to their surroundings. “You’re drunk.” He paid her no heed, gripped her waist roughly and pulled her against him, slinging one arm around his neck.

“Just one dance,” he slurred.

“Fine,” Bess said through gritted teeth. He stumbled around, head on Bess’ shoulder, turned towards her neck; he was humming some indistinguishable tune. Walter’s weight grew heavy as he slouched against her.

“Walter, stand up.” She hissed.

“Sorry, sorry-” He grinned dopily at her, and when he stood to his full height, his eyes grew clear. He seemed to have remembered who was dancing with. “Bess Vaughn,” his eyes were dark and his smile widened. The hand that was resting on her waist slid downwards and he harshly gripped the flesh of her bottom.

“Walter,” She tried to push him away but his hold tightened. He squeezed her backside again and white-hot fury raged in her chest.

“Never thought I’d be in this position with Bess Vaughn,” he laughed a little. “That little freak from school.” Bess struggled to push him off her again. “Then you came back from Manchester with this-” Both hands grasped her bottom now. “And these,” They came to grope at her breasts. With his hands on her chest, Bess was finally able to push Walter away. He stumbled only a little, and Bess had no time to move before he grabbed her by the face and shoved her into the wall. “And thinking she’s so high and mighty. That she can make fun of me,” he spat. His face was so close to hers she could barely see, the self-satisfied smile he wore now a vicious grimace.

“Please, Walter-”

“Shut up.” With one hand gripping her jaw, the other fumbled with the skirt of her dress. She clamped her legs shut. “Fucking bitch,” he hissed. “This is all you’re good for, Bess Vaughn, all you will ever be good for.” A leg forced her own open and she whimpered. Just as one of Walter’s fingers found the hem of her knickers, his weight disappeared.

Bess opened her eyes. Beneath the reach of the lamplight, a lump was writhing on the ground.

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Her!” Every word was punctuated with the harsh cracking of knuckle against skin. Tom Bennett was straddling Walter, who was cowering beneath him. He had Walter’s broken arm pinned above his head, using his other hand to pummel any bit of the man he could find.

“Tom,” Bess whispered, finally moving from her position against the wall. Tom landed another blow to Walter’s jaw. “Tom!”

He whipped round. Her dress was wrinkled, make up a little smudged and hair messy but the serious glower of her eyes had returned. She looked like she was about to spit fire. Tom’s chest swelled with pride. Standing up, he made his way to her, not without a swift kick to Walter’s stomach. “Shut up!” He shouted as Walter groaned. Under the light, Bess saw the frenzied fierceness of Tom’s eyes, the heavy breath from his flared nostrils and the delicious twitch of the muscles in his neck. She placed a hand on his chest to calm him. “I’m taking you home, wait here.” He said to her, and she felt for a moment as if she was being scolded. He turned back to Walter.

“You so much as look at her,” his voice was a low growl. “And I’ll break your fucking skull.” Without another word, he strode through the stage door and out of sight. Bess looked at Walter cowering on the ground like a stray dog. She approached him, and he look at her feet.

“You’re pathetic,” she said, and spat on him.

“Here,” Tom was at her side, holding out her coat. “I’ve told the others.” He steered her away from Walter and into the street towards home.

They didn’t talk a while and every now and again Tom jittered, still humming with energy from the fight. When they neared the dockyard with its silent cranes and slap of water against the quay, Bess found her voice.

“Tom?”

“Hm?”

“What were you going to say to me? When we were dancing?”

Tom wanted to shrink but instead puffed out his chest. “Do you know, I can’t remember.” Bess deflated, and Tom caught the change in her demeanour. Thinking it was to do with Walter Watson, he asked her whether she was ok.

“Hm?”

“Are you ok? You know, what happened back there.”

“Oh. Oh!” Recognition dawned on her. “Yeah, I’m fine. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Right.”

They walked a few more steps and quite unexpectedly, Bess giggled. Tom looked at her.

“Everything alright, Bess?”

“This is ridiculous,” she said, looking at him frankly. “We’re never this quiet!”

 Tom laughed. “If only I was. Would save the fellas some gip.”

“Tell me about it. How are the other boys?” She regretted asking immediately. Tom eyes darkened and he looked up at the night sky.

“Well, Norman and Terry are fine. I imagine they’re out celebrating somewhere too. Sorry I didn’t bring Norman for Dot.”

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you.” He smiled at her kindness. By now they were departing the industrial landscape of the docks and entering the suburb of the estate.

“But, er, Vic-” Tom took a deep breath through his nose. “He, um-” His chest was rising quickly and his throat constricted. Bess’ hand slipped into his.

“It’s ok. You don’t have to tell me.” He nodded, though it seemed to be more in the aid of calming himself than responding to Bess.

They turned into the ginnel behind the Vaughn’s home. “We got hit.” Tom said suddenly. “We were in the gunroom, me, Vic and Henry. And I don’t know, there was this explosion and when I came round it was all dark and Vic-” His voice faltered again. “His face, it just-” He took a deep breath. “It was gone.”

A tear fell from Bess’ eye but she wiped it hastily away. This time was for Tom, not her. “It won’t surprise you, Bess, but I’d had a fight with Henry just before it all happened. Though Henry was winning, can you believe. And Vic was trying to calm me down. The siren went off and I refused to shake his hand. I was so angry and blind and I don’t know,” He shrugged. “One of the last things Vic said to me was that I wind everybody up, and then I didn’t shake his hand. So maybe, yeah, it would be best if I was a little quieter.” Tom laughed a little, though Bess couldn’t see anything funny about what he had told her. He caught the silent horror in her eyes and smiled.

“And now you’ll never get your chance with him.” Bess laughed and leant against the gate to the yard.

“And you’re stuck with horrible old Henry.”

“Ah, he’s not so bad. Lost an arm, actually, in the battle.” Bess said a quick prayer of thanks. It was a miracle he was stood before her. “You know I told you we were betting on when Vera laid an egg?” Bess nodded. “Well, Terry was closest, jammy bastard. But he wouldn’t take the money. Said we should give it to the widows-”

“Is Terry single?”

Tom gave Bess a pointed looked but smiled all the same. “I gave it to Henry. The others were getting at me for keeping it. I never would have done, but I wanted to make sure it went to the right person. Bit of a peace offering really.”

“Did the others leave you alone?”

“I asked Henry not to tell anyone.” Bess beamed at him. “What?”

“You’re a good man, Tom Bennett. Even if you pretend otherwise.” He placed a hand on his cheek in mock shyness, then laughed brightly. “You should smile more too! Less of this-” Bess squared her shoulders and swaggered around him, pouting her mouth and squinting her eyes.

“Oh ho! Is that what I look like to you?”

She laughed then flung her arms around his neck. The action took Tom by surprise but his hands instantly hugged her waist. “What’s this for?”

“For being in one piece. For being here. I was so scared.” She pulled back to look at his face. They smiled and studied each other a moment.

“Henry’s a ginger too, you know.”

“I’m not ginger! It’s-”

“Auburn, yes, I know.” And it was true. Her hair was a colour he had never seen before, dark and glimmering like Alexandra Park in autumn. Then a memory came to him, and he realised he was wrong. He curled a strand round his finger.

“Just before the explosion, when we’d been hit, these great flames came down the turret. Ever so slow, like. And for a moment, they reminded me of your hair.”

He looked from the strand of hair now coiled around his finger to Bess’ face. Her lips, the lipstick now worn away, were parted. The dark eyes that he so often thought of flickered to his mouth, and when they reached his eyes again, he noticed that the pupils beneath her thick lashes were wide. Realising that this was the first time he had been alone with Bess, without the threat of a family member bursting in on them sent heat prickling up his neck and chest. From one of the houses, a muffled cheer called out.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered, his hand cupping her neck.

“Tom-” What she was going to say emptied from her mind, for no sooner had his name left her mouth was he kissing her. Slowly and sweetly, Tom kissed her. Bess grinned into his mouth as she thought of those full, curved lips finally kissing hers and she sighed. The noise stirred something in Tom and his tongue lathed warm and languid over her lips. Bess’ hands wound their way into his hair and he groaned, pulling her flush against him. Bess whimpered at the noise and pulled away. Tom’s eyes were still shut, and the look of hunger in them when he finally looked at her made her head spin.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the day you came back from Manchester.” A hand left her hip and he ran his thumb over her bottom lip, before he kissed her once again. He pushed her against the gate and granted kisses along her neck. “I missed you so much, Bess.”

She brought his face to hers. “I missed you too,” she whispered into his mouth. Tom’s head was spinning and he laughed.

“Fuck,” he said, looking at Bess’ swollen lips and giddy smile. “Fuck!” They got the giggles, and Tom tucked his head into Bess’ shoulder to keep from hysterics. A light from the house flicked on.

“Shit! Dadda’s already home,” Bess laughed some more and Tom covered her mouth, looking down at those big brown eyes of hers. When she stilled, he removed his hand and kissed her gently.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said and pressed something cool into her hands. Bess looked down. Sixpence.

“What’s this for?”

“A gift from Henry. Get a picture taken for me.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him with a smile. She couldn’t get enough.

“’Oiled up at the factory’?” she whispered seductively in his ear.

Tom groaned. “Don’t tease me.”

Bess opened the gate and snuck into the yard. Turning back, Tom was stood exactly as he was in his picture. Collar turned up, hands in his pockets, but with the unmistakable smirk of the cat that got the cream. Slowly, she closed the gate.

“Goodnight,” she whispered.

“Goodnight,” Tom said back. Bess’ face peered at him through the crack between the wall and the gate, and he followed. “You have to shut the gate,” he teased.

“I know,” she felt like a lovesick schoolgirl.

“Goodnight, Bess.”

“Goodnight, Tom.” The gate clicked shut. On the other side, she heard Tom’s footsteps down the ginnel as he whistled We’ll Meet Again. She wanted to cry out with happiness, and when she walked into the kitchen to find Fergal and Douglas by the fire with a glass of whisky, she beamed at them.

“Happy New Year, Bess.” Douglas said.

“You’re back early. Did you have a good time, my darling?” Fergal turned in his seat to face her.

“The best, Dadda. Goodnight.”

Note: Below is the inspiration for the girls’ dresses. Come through Tom beating Walter to a pulp. Come through Tom talking about feelings. Come through Tom and Bess finally getting together! Beginning the next chapter immediately. Boy, have I got some stuff in store for you guys…

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris

[euniexenoblade]

top 5 Mordreds 😳

Mordred, trans guy that drops his wicked world into the sun from High Noon Over Camelot, an album by The Mechanisms.

Mordred, a gay man who must learn to fit into a pagan world his mom belongs to that is being erased over time from Mordred, Bastard Son - a novel by Douglas Clegg.

Mordred, trans guy extraordinaire who is brash and bold and fights to earn the chance to take on the sword of selection from Fate/Apocrypha and Fate/Grand Order.

Mordred, whom I'm not very into his cowardly gossipy role, I do love his faggy movements that work with such a faggy King Arthur, from the 1967 movie Camelot, which is a movie adaptation of a play.

Me :)

[queer-ragnelle]

hello! i was wondering if you knew of any text specifically about mordred? but not texts where he’s a one dimensional evil guy into evilly affairs, but someone complex still?

Medieval Texts:

The Vulgate Cycle

The Alliterative Morte Arthure

The History of The Kings of Britain by Geoffrey of Monmouth

Modern Retellings:

[Mordred as protagonist/his point of view]

The Wicked Day by Mary Stewart

The Winter Prince by Elizabeth Wein

I Am Mordred by Nancy Springer

Mordred, Bastard Son by Douglas Clegg

The Book of Mordred by Peter Hanratty

The Queen's Knight by Marvin Borowsky

Arthurian Tales by Phyllis Ann Karr

[Mordred as deuteragonist/not his point of view]

Idylls of The Queen by Phyllis Ann Karr

The Road to Avalon by Joan Wolf

The Queen of Summer Stars by Persia Woolley

The Legend in Autumn by Persia Woolley

Arthur, King of Time and Space by Paul Gadzikowski

[bullet-prooflove]

PATREON EARLY ACCESS: Control - Douglas Hamilton x Reader (NSFW)

Tonight is all about Douglas. He doesn’t ask for it, he doesn’t expect it, it’s just something you do because you can sense his need for it as soon as you step over the threshold into his house this evening.

“What if…” You drawl as your fingertips trace over the buttons of his shirt. “…I was in control tonight.”

“And what would that entail?” He murmurs as your finger hooks on his tie, drawing it away from his throat.

“A blindfold.” You murmur as you unknot the fabric. “Your wrists bound to the headboard while I have my wicked way with you.”

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[tsarisfanfiction]

Overgrowth

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Gen Genre: Friendship Characters: Will, Miranda, Billie, Douglas, Steve Clearly the newest Demeter kids haven't yet got the hang of growing plants with their powers. TOApril day 14 - Every Rose Has Its Thorns. I went literal today. Also, despite Meg being the clearly obvious candidate for this prompt, I managed to go with every other TOA Demeter kid except for her, whoops. All kids in here are canon names, I promise.

“Hey, Will!”

He turned to see Billie jogging towards him – as fast as she ever moved unless she was fighting or running from something actively trying to kill her – and sighed, because the daughter of Demeter didn’t usually seek out his presence, which only meant one thing.

“Miranda wants you,” she said, then confirmed it with, “bring your medical stuff.”

“Medical stuff?” he parroted at her, bemused.  She shrugged dismissively, turning her back on him and starting to head back the way she’d come.  Will hadn’t paid attention to it, but it was the direction of the cabins so he had a pretty good idea where she was leading him.

He’d long since got into the habit of keeping an emergency pack of medical supplies on him at all times, so he didn’t bother to make a detour to pick anything else up.  Not until he knew exactly what he was dealing with; Billie hadn’t been running, even if she’d been jogging, so Will was confident that his emergency pack would at least suffice for initial treatment of whatever cabin four had done to themselves.

Sure enough, Billie ploughed straight through the door of her cabin without stopping, and Will hurried to get across the threshold before the door slammed in his face.

Cabin four was, in Will’s opinion, the strangest of the cabins.  Sure, the Hecate cabin had magic permeating every inch of it rather disconcertingly, and the Nike cabin was an active puzzle for reasons he’d never quite worked out, but there was something about a floor that was actually grass, and a central support that was actually a living, thriving tree that had never quite managed to click in Will’s head.

He was pretty sure those things were all supposed to grow outdoors, but if there was one place where they had an argument for growing indoors, Demeter’s cabin would be it.

The central tree was swarmed with other plants, which certainly hadn’t been the case that morning when Will had done cabin inspection and given cabin four a seven for scattered seeds but tidy hammocks.

For some reason, Demeter wasn’t counted alongside her brothers as superior amongst even the Olympians.  Everyone knew the Big Three was the three male godly children of Kronos, while their sisters went mostly unacknowledged.  It was difficult to understand why so many people dismissed her or her children, though.  Will had seen cabin four members consistently pull off illogical feats – always plant-related – ever since he first arrived at camp, and having seen the sheer destruction they could bring about when they wanted to, he had no intention of ever underestimating them.

Unlike most demigods, who got ADHD and dyslexia and no special powers to show for it, Demeter’s kids consistently got green thumbs and plants that would do anything they asked.  Will had never seen one that couldn’t manipulate plants to some degree, and that certainly held true for the current occupants of the cabin.

In the middle, tangled around the central tree, was a massive rose briar, complete with wicked sharp thorns and fully blooming roses the colour of blood.  Billie had made her way to join Miranda where the head counsellor was standing by the cabin’s new plant addition and trying to get the plants to move.

Inside the snarl of thorns and vines seemed to be something that Miranda was specifically trying to get to – or someone, because Will could count just fine and there were two kids unaccounted for, visually, at least.

Douglas’ thick accent was slurring out curse after curse as something struggled inside the branches.  Will couldn’t make out the exact words, but that wasn’t particularly unusual when the Scottish boy slipped into Scots.  He could get the gist, though.

He sighed, drawing Miranda’s attention to his arrival.  “What happened?” he asked her.

She responded with a sigh of her own.  “Plant growing gone wrong,” she said, gesturing broadly at the massive plant.  Some of the branches rustled with her movement, just enough to reveal a glimpse of Steve fighting inside as well.  That answered the question on where both the young Demeter boys were lurking, at least.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened.  It wasn’t even the first time it had happened to those particular boys – Douglas was an enthusiastic plant grower, and Steve was far more of an enabler than he was clearly prepared to be when it came to the consequences.  Neither of them had been in camp all that long, but Will was already well aware that they were going to be a potential headache source for him – especially once they found their own feet at camp.

Will knew the routine, so he waited while Miranda did her magic (not that she would ever call it as such when it was just her normal) and slowly got the branches to release their death grips on the two boys.

Steve was the first one to disentangle enough, rolling out of the mess with stray leaves and the odd broken off thorn stuck deeply into his hair.  He also had several freshly-bleeding scratches across his skin, and Will didn’t wait to be invited over when his role was pretty obvious.

And also very much routine.

“Can you at least try not to bury yourselves in plant matter of the injury inducing kind?” he asked as he pulled out some antiseptic wipes and began dabbing at the myriad of scratches that stood out red against the younger boy’s dark skin.

“It was Douglas’ fault!” he protested.

There was an immediate “Oi!” in a thick Scottish accent emanating from the centre of the still-snarled tangle of thorny vines, followed by what Will was pretty sure was a protestation of innocence in Scots.

“You’re not blameless, either!” Miranda called over, and Steve’s shoulders hunched up to his ears.

“It was an accident,” he muttered.  “They weren’t supposed to get so…”

“Big?” Billie supplied.  “Wild?”

“Yeah, that,” Steve shrugged, thankfully letting his shoulders drop again after a warning poke from Will.

Another sharp gesture from Miranda and Billie had Douglas spilling out from the briar as well, his own curly hair sporting a fine collection of leaves and thorns, and even the occasional petal.  He also had openly bleeding scratches on his bare skin, including one long one too close to his eye for comfort.  It wasn’t close or deep enough to cause permanent damage, or even scar, but it was a reminder of what could have gone wrong.

Will wasn’t a fan of could have gone wrongs, although he did prefer those over the did go wrongs, for hopefully obvious reasons.

He sighed again and pulled out a fresh wipe to attack the other boy’s scratches with.  Douglas winced away from the sting, but Billie grabbed him and held him still.

Neither boy was injured enough to need anything more than just the disinfecting wipe, thankfully, so Will’s medical duties didn’t take long to complete.

“At least try not to injure yourselves on your own plants,” he said as he balled up the used wipes for disposal in the infirmary.  “I’m pretty sure that’s lesson one for plant summoning.”

“Something like that,” Miranda said.  “Thanks for the assist, Will.  I’ll take it from here.”

Will didn’t need to be told twice; he was already in charge of his own cabin and anyone that ended up a patient in the infirmary.  He neither needed nor wanted to expand his responsibilities beyond that – Miranda could handle her own siblings.

“See you at dinner,” he said, and made his way out of the cabin, back to where the grass was outdoors and normal.  As the cabin door shut behind him, he heard the Demeter kids discussing the best thing to do with the rose bush and whether or not it would damage the tree – or pose an ongoing risk to demigods – if they left it where it was.

That was certainly not Will’s problem, either.  Miranda was welcome to that one.