#London Glades

[littleeliza-lotte]

“If he knew the truth he’d never, ever go!”

[piratesfromspace]

Just Like Old Times (Price x Reader + poly141)

Pairing: Reader x Price (& Reader x 141) Rated: Mature Word count: 2.9k Summary: A cottage in the snow. A Captain you knew in another life. His rugged and attractive men. Will you let them into your life? Note: This is a fic I wrote for @literatecowboy for the Secret Santa event organized by @bunnyreaper! I tried to make something soft and sweet and it's taking place during the winter, it's not smutty but if you like it, I can make a part 2 with some action 👀

EDIT: we have a PART 2!!

Content: ex-military!fem!reader, mention of food & alcohol, a little bit of angst but it’s mainly fluff, smoking, flirting, praise kink, sharing body heat

MASTERLIST // PART 2

It had been Laswell’s idea. 

The team needs to be ready for snow conditions, do whatever you think is best. You have 3 weeks. And I’m talking extreme weather, Price, not a little trip to your local ski resort.

Those had been the instructions Kate had delivered to an unphased Price.

He knew it was only a matter of time before this kind of mission would be required from them. Of course, the men of the 141 have already trained in the cold of England, have seen and tested the winter gear. But Laswell is about to send them somewhere at the very East of Europe, and there is a small difference between surviving winter in London and surviving winter in places where the cold could kill you in minutes if you didn't have the proper equipment or knowledge. Over there, more than usual, tiny mistakes could have big consequences. And Price would rather not have his team freeze to death because of a lack of training. 

It’s December and the month is cold already. But it’s nothing compared to the cold Soap feels when he steps out of the helicopter. It’s like Price has picked the coldest place he knows in America. He’s pretty sure they are somewhere in Wyoming or Montana, the only thing he can see are mountains all around them. Spruce and fir trees sprawl in dark patches contrasting with the stark white of the snow covering everything. He crosses the large glade to reach the tree line, as the helicopter takes off, sending the fresh snow flying in every direction. The sky is a light gray, and while the whole scene is stunning - makes his head spin with equal awe and wonder thinking about nature’s force and brutal beauty - it means there is no sun to warm his face. 

“Come on soldiers, let’s move, we still have a two-hour hike to reach our B&B!”

“You mean someone will be there to make us breakfast Captain?” Soap chimes, unbridled joy coming through his voice at the prospect of warm home-made meals instead of MREs.

Price has a hard time hiding a smile as he starts walking on the thin winding path, only recognisable for those who know it’s there. ”There will be someone, but I’m not sure they will cook for you, Sergeant.”

Ghost lets out a dry chuckle and follows the steps of their Captain, leaving Soap and Gaz a bit puzzled.

❄️

The sun is already setting when you hear loud voices outside, and soon after a series of knocks on your door. You’re a little stressed when you rise from the floor in front of your fireplace to go open the door. You have agreed to shelter those 4 soldiers for 3 entire weeks only as a favor to Price. An old acquaintance who saved your life, a decade earlier, before you left the field to heal your wounds - body and mind. The large wood cabin had been your home for a few years already. You keep it open for women like you, in need of time away from the world, although it’s pretty rare they come during winter time when the road is blocked by snow. It’s an old building, but well-kept and you made it as cozy as possible, all warm natural tones, plush carpets on dark wood floors, dark gray stones in the bathrooms. 

You welcome them with a soft smile, delighting in their surprise - seems like John had not told them he planned on using your cottage as a back-up base for this training expedition. John’s team members are not really what you expected: there is one Scott with a mohawk that seems simultaneously annoyed and happy to be there (he has terrific blue eyes), a young and calm brown-haired Brit (he’s really cute, like movie-star cute), and a behemoth with a literal skull mask (his size alone has your head spinning). You can’t complain about them though, as they are polite and friendly, praising your home - and for sure taking in the comfort and warmth one last time before heading off for days of rudimental camping in the icy woods. You don’t envy them, remembering that one mission you did in Siberia when you were still in active duty, that wasn’t really fun. They settle in their rooms easily and you all share a quick dinner you had cooked - except for the masked giant. The banter goes fast between them, especially after you offer them beers. You like being alone, but you have to admit they are fun to be around.

❄️

The living room is silent and dark, the only light coming from the fireplace across your couch. After dinner, you had trouble finding sleep in your room, so you went to read a bit in front of the fire. But you must have dozed off, because you wake up suddenly, gasping, arms flailing, sitting up immediately. Your frantic eyes, wide open, scan the room for the reason of your awakening, survival instinct going overdrive. Someone is standing in your living room, frozen in place on their way to the front door. It’s the behemoth with the skull mask - the scariest of them all, of course.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” he apologizes. In the darkness of the room, it looks like his jaw is not even moving beneath the dark fabric covering the lower half of his face, like the sound just pours out of him or like he’s speaking directly inside your head. He might actually, you’re not entirely convinced the giant is not some sort of supernatural being John brought back from a cursed battlefield. It’s unnerving to say the least. 

“I’m sorry, it- it happens sometimes, I can’t help it, my instinct thought you were a threat…” you blurt out before realizing you may have offended him in some way by implying he’s not worthy of your trust. But instead of scoffing, he lets out a thoughtful hum, lowering his head to look at his boots, almost sheepish. 

“Don’t. Don’t apologize.” His voice is low, calm, and at the same time you can feel something else, sadness, maybe disappointment, in what or who, you’re not sure.

“Care for a smoke?” he offers after a beat of silence, nodding to the front door. You don’t smoke anymore, cut the nasty habit years ago. That’s why you don’t know what compels you to accept, but you’re not gonna be able to sleep now, so you follow him outside, grabbing your coat on the way. 

You half expect him to smoke through the mask, but he pushes the fabric up enough to reveal a strong jaw covered in light stubble, and plush lips. So he’s human after all. The slick and heavy storm lighter looks ridiculously small in his giant hand when he lights his cigarette. He takes a deep puff before handing it to you.

“Sorry, last one.”

Your fingers graze his, and you bring it to your lips to drag a small puff that immediately makes you cough.

“You ok?” he rasps, humor tilting the corner of his mouth upwards.

“Yeah, it’s been a while, that’s all” you provide. He hums in approval at your explanation. 

When you hand him the cigarette, you take a moment to look at his mouth, the way his throat works when he inhales, the way the silver smoke dances between his open lips and fades into the night sky. Something warms your gut when you realize his lips are set just where yours had been a few seconds ago. 

You don’t know what’s more attractive, this or the fact he doesn’t try to make conversation for the sake of it. He doesn’t bother to explain why he couldn’t sleep and felt the need to smoke at 3 in the morning. He knows you understand. You are just glad to bask in the soft noises of nature at night - wind in the threes, the hooting of an owl. Fuck, you’ve been alone up there for too long to thirst on John’s colleagues just like this, just a few hours after their arrival. You shake your head, driving out the thought, and take the cigarette again from his fingers.

❄️

The next morning, you wake up pretty early after a short night, only to find one of them - the pretty one, Gaz - is already fixing coffee in your kitchen like he belongs there. You honestly could get used to this. The thin long sleeves of his shirt are doing nothing to conceal the muscles underneath, rolling as he’s going about this mundane task of preparing breakfast. His kind eyes and soft voice when he asks for your choice of eggs makes your heart flutter with a yearning for this kind of intimate domesticity you had never really allowed yourself up until then. It’s kinda concerning, at this rate you’re gonna ask one - all? - of them to stay with you in your cottage instead of going back to whatever missions at the other end of the world. 

The rest of the day is not making you change your mind. Price had asked if anything needed their help around the house, and you gave them the tedious task of moving the gigantic pile of wood logs stocked at the other end of your garden closer to the house. It would have taken you days to do it by yourself. But by lunch time, the pile had dwindled to a fifth of what it was thanks to the hard work of the four men. The two younger ones were down to their long-sleeve compression shirts despite the cold, sleeves rolled up their elbows, showing off strong forearms, various scars slashing across the discreet swirls of black ink from old tattoos. Some disappear under the black gloves they are all sporting. Sweat plasters the fabric of their shirts to their shoulders and chests. You can’t deny they look fucking good. 

You had accepted Price’s demand without much after-thought, but now you couldn’t be more happy about it, ogling those four rugged men laboring away for you. Despite being older than his men, Price is far from looking bad. He’s built like a brick house, a healthy layer of fat covering muscles he’s been honing for two decades. Dark hair peaks from the open collar of his jacket, your eyes follow the line of the thin garment which is hugging his tapered waist, down to his thick thighs. Fuck. You remember what it was like to be close to him - literally and figuratively. He was your colleague, an equal, a couple years older than you but you shared the same rank. He was a mentor, a friend, a lover - only briefly, after that fateful mission where he saved your life on the field. You parted ways in good spirit after you announced that you wanted to retire, needed to get your head straight before committing to anything. Today, you ask yourself if maybe you could take this back from where you left it.

❄️

You want to train with us today, love? Just like old times.

Price had asked you the question the next morning and you had not been hard to convince. It was more about being able to look at them than to train your body, but they didn’t need to know that. Even if you keep a pretty healthy lifestyle, you can’t compete with elite soldiers, and by the fourth set of push-ups, your arms are giving out. You’re about to stop and reach for your water bottle, when Price notices. 

“Come on, you can do five more, I’m sure!”

You groan in response, but you go back in position.

“Breathe, love. Back a little more straight. Elbows in. That’s it… Good.” 

Price’s deep voice is calm as he’s encouraging you, gently correcting your posture.

“Don’t look down, chin up. Perfect, you’re doing good.” he goes on, and you cheeks warm under his praise, enough to make you forget the stinging cold. Your whole body is clenched with the effort, you’re letting out little cries with each push-up, your muscles are hurting, but you want nothing more than to make the captain proud.

“Just one more. Done! You did great darling, I’m impressed.” 

He helps you get up on shaking legs and when you almost stumble, he secures you upright against his chest, keeps you there for two seconds more than he should for it to not look intentional. When you raise your head, you’re suddenly so close to his face, blue eyes staring down at you with a glint in them you can’t ignore. You reluctantly part before reaching for your water bottle again, playing coy.

The three others are not oblivious to the little game between you and Price. You notice how they exchange knowing looks and little smiles whenever you both interact. Worst, they also seem to pick up on your love for being praised and soon enough they take every excuse to whisper how good your aim still is during target training, or how smart you are for knowing everything about the local fauna during your afternoon hike. It never sounds like they’re mocking you though, never feels like it’s not genuine. It’s not fair, really. At this rate, you don’t know how you’re gonna survive living under the same roof with four attractive men for three entire weeks. 

The answer to this torture of yours is revealed quickly. After a few days of acclimatization at your cottage, Price and his men are ready for a long expedition higher in the mountains, with just tents and even a short surviving-in-extreme-cold workshop. They will be gone for at least ten days. You watch them pack their gear and leave your place with a pinch in your heart you couldn’t expect when you first opened your door to them.

❄️

Days go by, pretty uneventful, until your heating system breaks down. It’s not the first time since you’re leaving up there, it’s not that scary but you’ll have to wait a few days for the repair team to come by. In the meantime, you resort to live and sleep in your living room, where the fireplace provides enough heat to keep you warm in the heart of the winter.

They come back the day after that, and when you see their silhouettes emerging from the treeline, just before the sun sets down, you can’t prevent your lips to form a smile so big it hurts your cheeks after a couple minutes standing in the biting cold. 

The fondness in Price’s eyes is not dulled by the news your heater is out of order, nor is the relief on Soap’s and Gaz’s faces at the promise of a solid roof and comfy beds after days of rudimentary accommodations.

You all work to prepare some food, and to bring a couple mattresses with all the duvets you can find in front of the fireplace - the only sane solution for you all to sleep without suffering too much from the freezing temperatures. It reminds you of your years of service, when you sometimes had to share a single room with your whole squad - you’re not missing the stress and the harsh living conditions, but you’re definitely missing the camaraderie, the jokes and fits of laughter, the bodies of trusted people around you. 

They leave you the couch - gentlemen that they are - the objectively most comfortable option, but once again you can’t find sleep. The piece of furniture is the farthest away from the fire, and you’re on your own, no one next to you to share body heat with you. 

It’s only because I’m cold. That’s the poor excuse you give yourself - and the one you whisper to Price - when you step down from your couch to seek a place under the cover next to John. He’s sleeping next to Gaz; Soap and Ghost are sharing the other mattress. You slide yourself against him, immediately melting into his chest, the man radiating heat like it’s his only purpose in life. He doesn’t even have to ask you if it’s okay to hold you against him because you plaster yourself to him and nuzzle against his chest, old habits taking over your sleepy brain. A sense of safety and comfort envelopes you at the same time his warmth does. You forgot how good it felt to be in his embrace, to be tucked against his broad chest, surrounded by his smell - manly, ambery wood, and the rich spice of his cigars. 

He chuckles silently as you settle at his side and let out a little content sigh. He missed that too, he won’t say it out loud, but having you like this, soft and pliant in his arms, it makes him wonder how he could be such a fool for not seeking you sooner. He suddenly wants to kiss you, to make you feel good, here and now, no matter the fact his men are sleeping just a few inches from you. Should he care? He’s not blind to the fact you spend a good amount of time leering at them since they’re here, and to the fact they are watching you back. He can not ignore the shameless flirting going on between all of you five actually. John has never really been in a situation like this, doesn’t know where this will lead him - where this could lead them. But he’s ready to follow you. He takes a deep breath before he talks. 

“Just like old times?” He asks, voice low, chest vibrating with it under your palm. 

Just like old times… The words echo in your head, echo in your heart. He gives you the opportunity to lead him - to lead them - wherever you wish.

“Just like old times.” You repeat back to him, before you capture his lips in a gentle kiss.

PART 2

[wub-fur-radio]

Psychedelic Daze ☮︎ Spirit of 1967 vs Reality 2024

A 21st Century Neo-Psychedelic Music Mix

I coulda said it was in my way – D. Crosby

Wub-Fur Internet Radio is back with another of our patent pending streaming mixes of contemporary psych rock from around the world and across the universe. Fourteen tunes that traffic in more than a bit of musical and lyrical nostalgia without completely losing touch with the reality of the present day. Featuring contributions from Helicon, Rancho Relaxo, Robyn Hitchcock, Tess Parks, Jeffrey Alexander + The Heavy Lidders, Bananagun, Deviant Amps, Sons of Zokü, and a half dozen more bands of partially unreconstructed hippies that are up to the task of dragging the spirit of the 1960s kicking and screaming into the third decade of the 21st century.

Cover art based on a photo by Leslie Bryce of David Crosby visiting The Beatles in the studio during the Sgt. Pepper recording sessions in 1967. Apologies to them all and to legendary Swedish psych rockers Gold, whose tune Psychedelic Days kicks off our mix, inspired its title, and serves as something of a mission statement for its unapologetically nostalgic freak-flag-flying spirit.

▶︎ Listen on Mixcloud

Running Time: 1 hour

Tracklist

Psychedelic Days (3:10) — Gold | Sweden

Magma Rising (4:30) — Cosmic Fall | Berlin, Germany

She Taste of LSD (3:05) — Deviant Amps | England, UK

Flesh Failures (Let the Sun Shine In) (3:33) — Mushroom | San Francisco, CA

Burning of the Midnight Lamp (3:59) — Robyn Hitchcock | London, UK

Higher (3:46) — Helicon | Glasgow, UK

Echoes of the Unknown (4:33) — Rancho Relaxo | Norway

You Know [Live Session] (4:38) — Stoner Bud’s | Bordeaux, France

Children of the Man (5:06) — Bananagun | Melbourne, Australia

Lemon Poppy (3:18) — Tess Parks | Toronto, Canada

Glade Runner (2:52) — Pretty Lightning | Saarbrücken, Germany

Earth Chant [Acoustic] (3:37) — Sons of Zöku | Adelaide, Australia

Light the Incense (3:01) — Black Snake Moan | Italy

Almost Cut My Hair (10:35) — Jeffrey Alexander + The Heavy Lidders | Philadelphia, PA

• Outro: Getting the Beatles High (0:20) — The Croz

All tracks released in 2024, except She Taste of LSD by Deviant Amps, which was released in 2023, and Glade Runner by Pretty Lightning, which will be released in 2025.

[theres-music-in-you]

Happy Opening to Phantom Vienna! Here are some new production photos that can be found here (x). Featuring some decent Sylvan Glade dresses, an updated Star Princess, a London-style boat, and the return of Christine's red scarf!

[littlescaryinternetguy]

The Naughty Weed Whacker

cw: implied humorous violence, mention of drugs, discussion of steppies. adult language, situations. reader discretion is advised. no bailment created. please see physician if symptoms persist.

“Hey. Hey, come here.” “What is it? I’m whittling.” “No, come here, trust me.” “I don’t, but I’m coming over there anyway,” grumbled the second fairy, whose name translated to ‘Jack’ in the tongues of humanity. The first fairy, whose name translated to ‘Larry’, stared out of the window intently. “What is it,” said Jack. Not saying anything, Larry backed away from the window, looking at Jack expectantly. Jack shot him a look and then looked out the window. “Son of a bitch,” said Jack. “What did I tell you?” “Son of a bitch,” said Jack. Outside, a man was attacking a full grown oak with a weed whacker. He looked determined. His jaw was set. His eyes were steely. He was getting nowhere. “Should we do something about this?” asked Jack. “Do you have a Tik Tok account?” “… no?” “Shit, I bet this could go viral,” lamented Larry. “I don’t have a phone, man. I’m a fairy. We’re fairies.” “Whatever. Well shit. Is he still doing it?” Jack peered out the window. The weed whacker was sputtering as the battery died. Undaunted, the man started beating the tree with the weed whacker, which promptly broke. Then he started punching the tree. “He’s doing something,” said Jack. “I suppose,” Larry said, stretching and cracking his neck, “we oughta see what’s going on.” “Lemme pee first,” said Jack. Outside, the man was staring at his knuckles, which already looked swollen. He looked around. “Fuck, come on,” he muttered. He really didn’t want to punch the tree again. He looked around for a rock. Finding one, he threw it at the tree. He was looking for another one when a sparkling fell upon him, and he fell to drowsing. Upon awakening, he blinked several times. Yes, he was lying on the ground, with the trees reaching far into the sky. But there was something odd about them. They reached too far up. He looked to each side. The clearing was immense.

“Oh man,” he said.

He heard a low whirring, as if a dragonfly were hovering in his ear, but a dragonfly the size of a city bus. He drew himself up and covered his head with his arms as a wind nearly sent him sprawling. When he opened his eyes, he was looking at shoes. Very large shoes. Above them, very large pants. Above that, very large shirts. His brain got bored and jumped ahead.

“Fucking giants,” he whispered.

Larry looked down at the ensorcelled human at his feet and smirked.

“’Ello ‘ello ‘ello, wot’s all this then?” he said in what might have been the third worst London bobby impersonation ever performed. Jack glanced to the side with a sour look.

The human gibbered, awestruck.

“That’s right, Cheez Whiz: I have made you the size I was to you but this time to me!” “That makes no sense, man,” said Jack. “You are now the size that I was when I was your size,” Jack said, but with less brio. “No,” said Jack. “I am the size of your size when you were the size of me.” “You make me want to shoot heroin, Larry. You really do. I don’t do heroin but you make me want to.” “I SHRANK YOUR NARROW ASS!” shouted Larry, and the little human jumped. “We are guardians of the glade, human! And you trespassed against the sacred… unto the sacred… guy.” Jack cleared his throat. “He means, why were you attacking the oak. That’s a good oak. That’s like a top ten oak. Why you gotta fuck with a top ten oak. You threw rocks at a real good oak. Why.”

The human made little teeny human sounds. Jack rolled his eyes and flicked sparkling dust on him.

“… oh please oh please don’t!” said the human. “We probably won’t,” said Jack. “Even though you are clearly an infantile,” said Larry. “What?” asked Jack. “An infantile. A filthy infantile.” “That’s a reach,” said Jack. The tiny human spoke up from the tips of their shoes. “An infidel?” “One of them, yeah.” “That makes more sense.” “I’m not an infidel!” “I said it made more sense, not that it made much sense,” sighed Jack. “What brings you to this our sacred grove?” asked Larry, hands on his hips. “Please don’t step on me!” said the human. “We’re not going to, IF you swear never to come back!” intoned Larry, in a somewhat portentous way. “Please don’t! Step on me, I mean,” said the human. “What’s your name, guy,” asked Jack, reaching in his pocket for some gum. “If you step on me that would be horrible.” “Swear never to come back!” yelled Larry. “Nobody is going to step on you, you goof-ass little ferret,” said Jack. “Good, because that would be the worst.” The little human was kind of grimacing, his lips pursing and twitching. Larry raised his foot and put it over the shrunken man. “You have like five seconds to swear you won’t come back!” “Wait a second, Larry.” Jack put his hand against his partner’s chest and pushed him gently. The human had his eyes screwed shut and was muttering “oh please oh please oh yeah get me some please”. He had his right hand in his pocket. There was a pause, during which time Larry slowly lowered his foot, not on top of the human, but in front of him. Both he and Jack stared. After a pause, the shrunken human opened his eyes. He looked up at Larry.

“… please don’t step on me?” he said, hopefully. “Gross,” said Larry. “Fucking fetish mining,” said Jack. “Gross!” “Don’t you know anything about consent?” roared Jack. “Ew! Ew! Ewwwww!” Larry was hopping up and down in circles. The little human saw his chance and tried to dart under his feet. “Oh no you don’t!” Jack yanked on an invisible rope and the little human was pulled out from under the nauseated fairy. “That is it! You people need to take long hard looks at yourselves. ‘Ohhhhh, I’m such a powerless little thing, now do what I say and step on me! You’re such a goddess giantess…’” The human spoke up. “You’re a guy so technically you…” “No. Shut it. You listen to me. Not the other way around. ‘You’re such a goddess giantess but I’m gonna tell you what to do.’ Christ, do you people listen to yourselves? Plus you never ever pay for it. God forbid you actually pay a sex worker.” “I ain’t paying no sluts!” piped the human. “Sex work is work. It’s right there in the name,” said Larry. “You won’t pay em, but you’ll sure as shit steal their labor. Dude, you are such gulag bait. When the revolution comes, you won’t be worth a bullet.” “Absolutely zero class consciousness in this guy!” Larry crowed. “Well what are you gonna do? I get off on being threatened and crushed by giants! And I’m smaller than you are, so even though you’re tiny, you’re giants to me!” The human crossed his arms, a smug expression on his face. “Check and mate.”

Jack stared at him. He looked at Jack, who shrugged. He looked back at the human, who had started fondling himself again, triumphantly.

“Get the geese,” Jack said. “Yeah?” “Yeah. Get the geese.” “What geese,” said the human. “The fuck do you mean, ‘what geese’? What do you know about geese? How many geese do you know? ‘What geese.’” “You don’t even know their names,” said Larry. “Geese ain’t got names!” “Your name is ‘gooseshit’ in about fifteen minutes,” said Jack. He turned to Larry. “Get the geese.” “You want I should get the geese?” “Get the geese.” “Hold on a second,” said the human, both hands raised. “Yo! Yo geese!” Larry yelled into the air. From far away, there was a honking. “You got about one minute to make like a tree and get the fuck out of here,” said Jack to the human. The honking grew louder. The geese were coming. “But… I’m just a little guy!” “I’d suggest…” Jack flicked his fingers and the human was human-sized again, albeit pantsless. “… that you start praying.” The honking grew louder still. The human looked down at the fairies. He looked at the sky. The honking was deafening. He looked back at the fairies. Then with a strangled sob he turned tail and made like a tree. “AND TAKE YR TALLYWHACKER WITH YOU!” Jack gestured at the weed whacker, which shot off after the human. There was a moment of silence before a whooping, yodeling cry came from far away.

The goose landed behind Larry and Jack. She was wearing sunglasses.

“Sup,” she said. “Sup,” replied the two fairies. “Y’all call for me?” “Ahhh, thought you was gonna have to break bad on some guy,” said Jack. “Oh man, I always show up late for these things.” “Guy wasn’t worth it. Fetish miner.” “Ew!” “I know right?” “Well, I gotta get back to my novel. We still on for bowling tomorrow night?” “Hell yeah,” both the fairies said. A mile away, the human lay by the side of a road, half-conscious, with a weed eater shoved firmly in his ass. A car drove by. It stopped, then backed up. The passenger rolled the window down and took a bunch of pictures. Someone on the internet will pay a lot for these pics, the passenger thought. This has gotta be someone’s fetish.

[scifrey]

Keepsakes:

Caraway & Rosewater

Status: Ongoing Ficlet collection; unbeta’d

Series: the Hob Adherent series

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: PG13

Warnings: Some fade-to-black sexytimes.

Relationships:  Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Delirium of the Endless, Death of the Endless, Dream of the Endless | Daniel Hall, Destruction of the Endless, Desire of the Endless, Despair of the Endless, Destiny of the Endless, Matthew the Raven, Eleanor Gadling, Harriet Butler

READ ON AO3 OR READ BELOW:

Caraway & Rosewater

Inspired by a prompt from @tickldpnk8 on Tumblr. Am I also specifically making this partially about food specifically for @carnelianmeluha  …. Maaaaybe.

Hob stops his horse beside the window of the hired carriage, which brought them north from London, in order to get a good look at Eleanor’s face. He wants to memorize her expression when she sees the house for the first time. 

Eleanor appears more than a little startled to arrive and be greeted at the door by no one. It shows on her leaf-shaded face, plain as the sun in the sky, and in the stiff set of her spine, and the way she folds her fingers together stiffly in on her lap, and rolls her lower lip in between her teeth. In short, she is displeased.

Hob’s stomach immediately sinks.

“Here?” she asks politically, as she takes in the cool glade where they’ve halted.

It’s a very pretty clearing. 

Hob had picked it out a century prior, when his banditry and sellsword ways had granted him enough coin to escape both the unsavory life, and the stink and press of London. He’d purchased the deed for a few small fields and this little patch of woods, and named the tiny farm “Glade Estates” in jest. And in hope. For he did hope, one day, to transform it into a mighty country seat, worthy of the aspirations and titles he worked toward.

He’d returned to London once the purchase had drained him of his money, and found a place as a printer’s apprentice. He’d intended to use what scant extra coin the profession provided to sneak away for a week here and there to lay foundations and design a grand mansion. But first he’d need a cottage in which to stay while doing said planning, laying, and building. Luckily he had all the time in the world to do so, and could afford to take the grand project slowly.

But the more he visited over the next few decades, the more he realized that he prized the simplicity of the little cottage he was creating here, and the peace of being alone with his thoughts and secrets in a way that he could not in London. When he took ill or was injured severely, it was a place of refuge and a haven from prying eyes who would wonder why he was not yet dead of his wounds. He could heal in private and return a whole man. Or as a different man, entirely.

With no hired hands or tradesman to get in his way or gainsay his notions, the glade became a place to work with his hands and challenge his creativity and mind. This became an ever-more valuable treasure as his ascent through the social order meant he increasingly spent his free time sitting on his bottom and drinking. And while he dare not leave behind anything too valuable or worse, tell-tale of his true nature, the little stone cache he’d hidden in the forest proved to be a dry and safe place to guard his few carefully hoarded mementos of the last two centuries.

Deciding to keep Glade Estate humble, Hob worked hard over the decades to build the four-room stone cottage by hand, whenever he needed a break from the stink and the plagues. Or, when hiding from London society long enough to return as his own son. 

Now completed, the cottage consisted of a small Great Room, with cooking hearth and bread oven against the wall in the centre of the cottage, surrounded with all the attendant tables, cupboards, and chairs necessary. To the left of that were two small rooms to act as pantry and dairy, and another room to the right was outfitted as best he could manage to mimic the incredible Turkish hammams he had visited as a sellsword. 

While he had no hot underground spring to tap into for water, the nearby river water could be heated in the great copper pot he’d installed in one corner of the room, over a stone basin to cradle the fire. A little bit of clever engineering saw the pot itself suspended on a pole with a handle, allowing it to be tipped into the soaking tub and mixed with cold water and bath oils until it was just right for a body to laze in comfortably. Above the washing room, to take advantage of the heat of the copper, was a loft containing a few low chests for clothing, and an equally low bed strung with rope and laid with an extravagantly overstuffed eiderdown mattress.

It’s been decades of back-breaking labour to collect, pile, mortar, and plaster the local grey slate into walls; to fashion and tar the timbers himself with all his shipwright’s tools; to white wash and thatch; to build fencing and train brambles into hedgerows, and plant all manner of fruiting plants and bushes in orderly rows beyond the kitchen door; to plane and joint the wood for each stick of furniture; to lovingly craft the hearth grate and fire tools at the local blacksmith’s; in short, to learn trade after trade, skill after skill, to turn this first piece of land he was able to call his own into a real and honest home.

Instead of funneling his growing shipyard wealth into a great country manor, he’d used it instead to purchase land on the unfashionable south side of the Thames. Let his gold be spent where it would be admired by his fellow courtiers. And let this haven remain modest. This cottage, and its glade, and its woods, and its two remaining small fields were his own personal project.

Today, the two fields were rented to the family whose own fields abutted them. In payment asked for no coin, but for the good maintenance of his garden, orchard, and house while Hob was in the city.

He is rightly very proud of his little retreat. It is not a fine house, all red bricks and glass, not like the one he’s having refurbished in the city as a surprise for Eleanor at that very moment. But it is his–theirs, now–and it is good.

And, if the neighbors have done their duty by the eccentric Sir Gadlen, it should also be scrubbed clean, filled with fresh bedding and linens, and stuffed full of all the best victuals, libations, and cookery ingredients good London gold can buy.

“Yes, here,” Hob confirms, screwing his courage to the sticking place. He swings down from his mare and walks her to the hitching post before the sweet little wood shed leaning against the stone wall of the cottage. This will stand in stead of her barn for the next month, and will be warm enough with the bathing room on the other side of the stone wall.

“Are you not a knight, my husband?” Eleanor asks as the lone coachman steps down to open the carriage door and set out the stepping stool for her.

“I am, my wife,” Hob replies, stripping off his thick leather riding glove to hand her down out of the carriage and onto the thick, mossy grass ringing the cottage garden.

With Eleanor safely on the ground, Hob helps the coachman and driver to unload their trunks, piling them beside her. He’ll bring them inside himself, later. He wants to show Eleanor what she is now mistress of, first. 

He thinks it a great treasure indeed. Eleanor, who has seemed amiable enough these four days' journey with their stripped-down comforts and service, seems unconvinced.

“And did you not tell me that you were wealthy, my husband?”

“I did, my wife,” Hob admits, a smile curling into the side of his beard when she offers him a displeased frown. Oh, how he enjoys teasing his sweet and canny lady.

As proof of both his wealth and his generosity, he digs out his purse and pops a gold coin into the palms of the coachman and driver. Along with this he adds a letter of instruction for them to return to Gadlen House, which confirms his instructions for the renovations, and his orders for them to return to Glade Estate in thirty day’s time for the return journey.

“And did you not tell me, my husband,” Eleanor goes on, throwing her arms wide to encompass all that she can see, sending the fan tied to her wrist gyrating in the air with the aggrieved gesture. “That we were to reside at your northern estate for this, our honeymoon?”

Hob sends the carriage and it’s intruding humans and horses on their way.

“Indeed I did,” Hob confirms jovially as he waves goodbye.

“Then why are we alone, standing beside a pokey little crooked cot, with no servants nor people of any sort to speak of, my husband?” Eleanor asks, with a look that might turn lesser (or mortal) men to stone in their tracks.

“Because, wife,” Hob says, and pauses as the carriage rounds a bend in the forest road and is completely out of sight. 

Then he whirls on her, grabs her fast by her bottom, and heaves her up against his chest. He cranes his head up to capture her mouth for a filthy, filthy kiss, the likes of which he’s been dying to gift her since they woke together in bed the day after the wedding. He has refrained until now, as they’ve been surrounded by fellow travelers, or servants, or busybodies for nigh on a week. 

Eleanor squeals first in surprise, then delight. She laughs and clings to him, arms around his neck, dainty feet kicking in the air as he backs them toward the cottage. Her lips meet his on the tiltyard of their lust, thrust for thrust, sally for sally. So consuming and marvelous is it that Hob’s back hits the planking of the door hard enough to drive the latch into his hip.

“Oof,” he grunts, and sets Eleanor down. He cinches her tight about the waist with one arm, should she get any ideas about running off after the carriage, and fishes through the pouch at his groin for the key to the door. 

If the motion makes the back of his hand press against the mound of her sex through her skirts, well, that’s a secret for just the two of them.

“Because what, husband?” Eleanor asks him with cheeky breathlessness, all ire gone as she pets her hands down his neck and shoulders. It makes it hard to fit the key into the lock, and he fumbles it twice before the door swings open behind him, allowing them entry.

Eleanor peers curiously over his shoulder, but he will not have her distracted now. He pockets the key and kisses her again to keep her attention where it belongs, guiding her inside as he does. He kicks the door shut behind her, then presses her up against it and gifts her with another of terribly obscene kisses.

When he breaks away for breath, Hob takes her by the very tips of her fingers and leads her slowly, step by backwards step, toward the ladder that will bring them to the loft bedroom.

“Because, wife, with people we are utterly, utterly alone…” He pauses at the foot of the ladder and leans in to nip the lobe of her ear and whisper directly against her plump cheek: “We are tucked away in our private bower with no servants to snoop, no neighbors to gossip, and no courtiers to spy.”

“And so, dear husband?” Eleanor bids him continue with a raised eyebrow.

“And so, dear wife,” Hob says, meeting her eyebrow with a competitive leer. “There are none about to protest when I make you scream.”

#

Hob was serious when he said that he meant to woo Eleanor Gifford properly. He set out to prove himself to be not only a wise political choice on her part for her husband, but also a doting and devoted man and life partner. 

To that end, he spends the first week of their honeymoon laying service to his wife in all the ways possible. 

Hob hunts and cooks what he catches for her, skinning and tanning the hides out back of the cottage to later make mittens and fur collars for her winter-wear. He tends the garden and feeds them both from the early-spring bounty—mostly sallets of tender new leafy greens and herbs, edible flowers, sugar mixed with olive oil, and boiled eggs from the hens he has procured for their stay. He kills, plucks, and cooks chickens. He washes their linens, and reattaches the buttons that carnal enthusiasm has parted from their clothing, and mends tears. He brews quick-beer, and serves cider and wine from the root cellar under the kitchen floor. 

He takes her on rambles or rides around the county, teaching her how to find the secret deer paths of the woods, and showing her off proudly on Sunday at the sleepy local church. He tells her stories and sings to her lute accompaniment to her at night, as they cuddle by the hearth, and bids her sleep late in the mornings. He brushes her hair, and tends her frequent baths, and makes little surprises of lavender and lemon soaps.

And of course, he beds her well and often.

Eleanor has never lived without servants. She’s always had someone else to do labor on her behalf, and while the lack of domestic help had perturbed her at first, within days she found his efforts quaint and charming. And romantic. Hob hadn’t expected his ability to serve a decent roast fowl to be an amorous endeavor, but Eleanor’s reciprocity that night had proved him wrong. And her ardor had yet to cool.

Soon enough, she was keen to become his helpmeet in turn, asking him to show her what small tasks she could accomplish to make his larger ones easier or more agreeable. 

And so, one gentle, sunny afternoon in their second week at the cottage, Hob has Eleanor stirring the dough for Prince Biskets.

It is May 1st, 1583, and Hob is two hundred and twenty-seven years old today, give or take a few weeks on either side. Hob has selected May Day as his birthday, for the calendars have changed often enough depending on who is in charge and (what country he is in) that he's quite forgotten what day he was really born—if anyone in his family had ever known at all. His mam had always called him her little Bobby Bunny, “born in the spring with hairy ears”, so May 1st had seemed appropriate.

He’ll be meeting his Stranger again in six years, and this time he’ll be able to share all of his joys of his newly married bliss. Perhaps even, by then, show the Stranger portraits of his children, if Hob’s strange nature allows for his seed to take root. Or introduce his Stranger to his family themselves, if their initial meeting at the White Horse goes as smoothly as the last one and his Stranger can be convinced to visit a second night in a row.

That morning, Hob had chivvied Eleanor out of bed at dawn so they could wade into the garden of climbing meadow flowers and harvest the first dew of Spring to wash their faces.

“No one does this any more, husband!” Eleanor had laughed, pleased with the old-fashioned bumpkin ritual.

“I do, wife,” Hob had said. “Make sure to wash behind your ears.”

“You make sure,” Eleanor had countered and tackled him into the verge. Whereupon they engaged in the most traditional and ancient of all the May Day festivities:‘gathering fresshe’ and staining their underlinens bright green with their activities.

After they broke their fast, Eleanor had presented him with his birthday gift—a handkerchief of fine white linen, which she had embroidered herself on the carriage ride north.

“This is a funny little design, is it not, husband?” Eleanor had asked, showing him a sketch. “I saw a whole row of these darling little squiggles on a letter one of the courtiers thought he was being discreet about, just before our wedding. Throckmorton, I think it was. When I asked him what it was, he told me it was a new pattern of stitching for his waistcoat, and that he thought it was to be all the rage quite soon. So I put it down on paper straight away.”

Hob thanked her for the delicate needlework with all the thorough appreciation that such beautiful thoughtfulness deserved, which kept them quite occupied until luncheon.

Now they are making prince biskets to take down into the village for the May Day celebrations. Their most colourful clothes are laid out away from the hearth, where they won’t get ashy, and the flower crowns Eleanor had woven for them that morning during the afterglow are waiting patiently on a hook by the door. 

His wife has told him that each of the flowers she’s chosen signify their ardor and attachment, but Hob’s already forgotten which each one is supposed to mean. He’s finding it hard to keep a lot in his poor brain this last fortnight, considering how well fucked-out it is.

“How long must I do this?” Eleanor whines playfully from where she’s seated on a stool by the hearth. Spring though it may be, the clouds are thick in the sky today, and winter’s chill has not entirely retreated from the English countryside.

“The whole of one hour,” Hob reminds her, again. He looks pointedly at the hourglass, where only one quarter of that time has slipped down the funnel, and bends to stoke the fire in the bread oven he’d built into the wall beside the hearth.

By the time Eleanor has finished, the fire should be well burned down and the embers ready to rake out so they can bake using just the heat absorbed by the stones. Normally he would preserve the glowing coals under the clay cerfew to use the next morning, but tonight they’ll be bringing back a torch lit from the May Day Bone Fire to heat the cottage.

As these biskets are for May Day as much as Hob’s birthday, he resumes grinding up the last of the winter-sown spinach to colour the little cakes green with the mortar and pestle. That finished, he perches on the edge of the table to mix the resulting paste with some of the leftover rosewater to liquify it, and then tips the whole lot into Eleanor’s mixing bowl.

She scowls at him for adding to her labors, but he softens it with a sweet kiss on the crown of her flaxen head. Leaving her to stir, Hob retreats to the bathing room to freshen up, and when he returns to the little great hall to relieve her of the bowl so she may do the same, Eleanor’s appreciative gaze travels the length of him more than once.

“I have fur enough to stay warm without clothes,” Hob demurs, flushing under the predatory way her cornflower blue eyes flash with mischief. “And putting my soiled clothes back on simply to finish the baking would defeat the purpose of washing up in the first place.”

“Careful your fur doesn’t catch fire when you rake the oven,” Eleanor murmurs, rising from her stool and raking her nails through the dense curls along his thighs. “I’d hate to see the pelt of so fine a woodland animal scorched. You are so much a faun I half expect you to have a tail.”

She pinches his tail-less bottom. Hob shivers delightedly. 

“When you dress,” he murmurs against the side of her head. “Leave off your braes, and I shall do the same. And then when we watched the play and cheered on Robin Hood and his Maid Marion, and eaten our fill, and drunk ourselves into delight, and have jumped the fire to purify ourselves for the coming year, your naughty faun may chase you into the woods and desecrate your temple anew.”

“Is that what this is?” Eleanor whispers, running her fingers now through the hair on his chest. “Foliage instead of fur? Are you the Green Man, come to pluck the last flowers of my virtue to wreathe your maypole?”

Hob feels himself flush deeper, and swats her arse through her skirts. “Off with you, wife, before you distract me and we end up burning our contribution. Then how will we ever show our faces in the village again?”

“Oh, you know the church will have ale and bread enough to buy without you arriving at the village square baring a fortune of caraway and rosewater, you louche spendthrift,” Eleanor teases. But she does make for the bathing room, where Hob has already left her a pitcher of hot water. She sheds pieces of her clothing along the way in a trail that any tempted tracker could easily follow.

Hob is very tempted. He is also very determined to make a good showing at the village this year, and steps stockingless into his boots and throws on an oiled canvas coat to protect himself as he rakes out the coals, butters and fills the baking cups, and puts the biskets in in the oven.

He may be immortal, but a red-hot ember would damage his skin as easily and painfully as any other mortal man. It would ruin the day, the honeymoon, and if it was a truly terrible injury, his plans to ensure that Eleanor really and truly loves him (and has done so for at least half a human lifetime) before he shares the truth of his nature with her.

The coals raked and left in the hearth to cool, the biskets in the oven, a cup of cider poured for himself, and fine clothes to don, Hob feels content and charitable. He loves his life. He loves his wife. He loves his home, and the fruits of all his labours.

And, he muses as he listens to Eleanor singing to herself over the splash of the water as she washes, he has so much to live for. The world is a good, good place, and there is nowhere to go in it but up.

#

A Couple Centuries Later…

It’s not a surprise party if Hob knows it’s happening, and Hob knows it’s happening because Delirium is terrible at keeping secrets.

But he doesn’t want to ruin her fun. So when he returns from the university early that evening, he allows himself to be redirected to the back garden by floating koi that only he can see, and laughs with genuine delight when Del pops out from behind his little brick-and-iron firepit and shouts “HaPpY BIrThDaY!”

A merry little blaze is already going strong in the wrought-iron bowl, not quite a bonfire to rival May Days of old, but a wonderful nod to the tradition. In place of a maypole, someone has decorated the Inn’s downspout with ribbons and flowers the likes of which the Waking doesn’t often see. But the tradition of a sideboard groaning under the weight of fresh, green food (either naturally green or not)

Hob can’t help but hope that someone is planning to put on the traditional Robin Hood panto. He’d sell a finger to see Matthew in green tights.

Hob relinquishes both his briefcase and a kiss to Morph, who was lingering in one of the shadows of the bramble hedge (old habits, and all that). Patrick hands him a can of London Pride, and Hob is hustled over to one of the loveseats parked around the fire to accept the congratulations of the partygoers. 

He’s perfectly happy to be steered around, and to let the party come to him. It was a long day of lectures and student meetings, including one poor student who’d burst into tears when Hob had assured them that he’d be very happy to offer learning accommodations if they’re struggling.

The outdoor sofas are comfortable, the food is good, and the company is wonderful, the strains for music coming through from the pub are mellow, the beer is cold, and Hob is a tired old man who is absolutely delighted to be sitting down.

All told, Hob’s six-hundred and sixty-eighth birthday party in the back garden behind The New Inn is significantly less of an ‘affair’ than his six-hundred and sixty-sixth had been. Lucifer, for one thing, has since returned to Hell so is unable to attend. But all of his in-laws are here this time (in varying degrees of believable mortal guises), along with his mortal friends from Elizabethan Manor. Harriet, Glenn, and Shami have all shown up with their partners and kids. 

And the Otherkind of London have stayed away, probably terrified to be in the presence of any of the Endless, never mind six of the seven (plus one former entity). Except for his former PhD mentee who is, apparently, currently dating Bod.

(Hob looks forward to a time when Daniel is powerful enough to step into the Waking as Dream. For now, he’s just started kindergarten in New Jersey, and it’s too long a jaunt across the pond  for just an afternoon’s celebration.)

He’s plied with well wishes and booze, flower crowns, kisses on the cheek, and a plate piled high with Dee’s beautiful culinary efforts. It’s a wonderfully casual party, people mingling, drifting in and out of his orbit, and no time freezes or Celestial sneering.

“Prince Biskets,” Harriet says, holding one up to show Hob as she plops into the seat right next to him, newly vacated by Shami. “Childhood favorite?”

“Oof,” Hob says, laying a hand over his heart. “I weep for your writing team if your math is that bad. Childhood. Robyn’s childhood, not mine.”

All the same, Hob takes one of the offered biscuits from Harri, and bites into it.

They’re softer than he remembers them being, likely due to Dee’s fiddling with the recipe, but the burst of caraway and rosewater against his tongue brings tears to his eyes with the sudden overwhelming sense memory of those glorious four weeks at Glade Estate. 

The little cottage, regrettably, is no more—just some stone walls slowly tipping over under the weight of climbing ivy and time, lost to Hob along with everything else that was stolen when Sir Robert Gadlen the Third was drowned. The fields have long since been absorbed into the nearby farms. The garden and orchard had grown wild enough to fill up the forest glen. 

That place is gone.

But the taste of it, right here, is heavy and sweet on his tongue.

He chews slowly, swallowing around a lump growing in his throat. The back of his eyes burn with emotion.

“The last time I had these,” Hob confesses softly, “I was on my honeymoon with El. We made these for May Day. She gave me a handkerchief that damn near got me hanged for my birthday.”

“Hanged?” Harriet asks, eyes lighting with academic curiosity. She’s the biggest fan of Hob’s hot tea, even more of a gossipmonger than Matthew, because she doesn’t care that the people in his stories have been dead for centuries.

Hob leans back against the loveseat cushions, cranes his head up to take in the rich splash of twilight colour lingering over the hedgerow ringing in the garden in an effort to keep the tears that threaten from falling.

“El was too clever by half for her role in court,” Hob tells Harri with a fond, faraway smile. “She got bored easily, which turned her into a bit of a magpie. She had a little notebook, and she’d write down snatches of song, or funny jokes and conversations, or pretty pieces of design.”

He catches Morph’s eye across the fire, knows his husband is listening in, and knows that there is no resentment or envy in the former anthropomorphic personification of the Human unconscious when Hob speaks of his first spouse. Only interest in Hob’s stories of her, and compassion for the way he loves and misses his mortal family. 

Hob beds forward and with a finger, makes some squiggles in the fine sandy gravel ringing the firepit. “She embroidered the design she’d overseen on the hanky herself. She was so proud of it, and she’d kept it a secret from me the whole journey. Throckmorton told her it was a new border for his waistcoat, and she’d believed him.”

Harriet’s mouth drops open. “That’s Mary Queen of Scot’s cypher.”

Hob brushes the code away with the bottom of his shoe and raises the remaining half of his biscuit to her with a lopsided grin. “And guess who rolled up to court five weeks after his marriage flashing it around every time he had to wipe his nose? Both sides wanted me dead for that. Elizabeth called me traitor, and Throckmorton knifed me in my sleep. Didn’t take, obviously.” 

Hob meets Morph’s eyes over the fire again, and finds his husband is smiling, affectionate and heavy-lidded.

“Dear lord, what happened?” Harri begs, breathless in her curiosity. “How did you talk your way out of it?” 

“Good Queen Bess’ spymaster Walsingham confiscated my snotty hanky and used it to break open the plot,” Hob says. “He never quite believed that El’s interest in the design was innocent, but it got me out of the noose, at least.”

Harriet whoops in delighted laughter.

Morph rises, skirting around the fire to drop himself right onto his husband’s lap. Human though he may be, Morph is still cool as night. “Today is a day of celebration, my husband,” Morph says. “No more tales of loss.”

“No,” Hob agrees, holding remaining bite of Prince Bisket into Morph’s petal-pink mouth. “You’re right, my husband.” 

Hob knows himself well enough now that he woos through acts of service, through cooking and feeding, through gifts, through quality time given. Through biscuits offered, and baths drawn, and workspaces built. Through solars and speciality drafting desks.

Morph rolls his eyes, but accepts the bite. “You are still so determined to fatten me up,” Morph complains after he’s swallowed. “One of these days, I will be too plump for your lap.”

“Never,” Hob promises, and grabs a handful of Morph’s skinny arse in pointed appreciation.

Harri laughs at the indignant expression that crosses Morph’s face, like a petulant cat, and all is right with the world.

There’s nowhere to go but up.

And Hob has so much to live for.

[fashionbooksmilano]

Kenneth Turner's Flower Style

The Art of Floral Fesign and Decoration

Kenneth Turner

photographs by John Miller and Fritz von der Schulenburg

Weidenfeld & Nicholson, London 1989, 160 pages, 23,5x30cm, ISBN 9780 297 796 077

euro 40,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

In this book, the author divulges the secrets of his art, displaying a stunning range of effects to suit every setting or occasion - whether is is transforming a ballroom into woodland glade or creating an intimate table setting for a modest supper party.

09/03/24

[teaspoonnebula]

The Resident Patient - Part 1

For myself, my term of service in India had trained me to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer of 90 was no hardship

For a second I thought that Watson was saying it was 90 degrees in London in October, in the rain. But I think he's just saying that it was a bit on the muggy side, and he's put up with far far worse. Still. For it to be hot enough to start yearning for "the glades of the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea" feels unusual for October.

Your eyes turned across to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books.

General Gordon was a celebrated military leader and he died in action a year before Baring-Gould thinks this story was set. Henry Ward Beecher was a clergyman, social reformer and abolitionist who supported women's sufferage and the theory of evolution. An interesting pair of heroes for Watson to want on his walls! I feel like I might have to think and write more about this later.

Also Holmes being able to mindread like this... is a bit silly :D

I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. For three hours we strolled about together, watching the ever-changing kaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and the Strand.

Awwwww

the thin white hand which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that of an artist rather than of a surgeon.

I started to write a comment about how this is interesting because it suggests that his hand delicate and suited to close work, and I was wondering whether this reflects attitudes about surgery as a more visceral lower form of medicine still lingering in the late 19th century...

...But honestly I think Watson just has a thing about hands.

"Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervous lesions?" I asked.

I guarantee some Sherlockian somewhere has made the argument that Watson is looking up papers to do with nerve damage to find out information about his own injury(s?).

[words-after-midnight]

10 songs, 10 people

Thank you for the tag, @squarebracket-trick !

Rules: Put your music on shuffle and list the first 10 songs that come up. Describe how they relate to your WIP and/or worldbuilding.

Tagging: @sam-glade, @cwritesfiction, @calicoy, @catchingbigfish (you have a Conversion playlist yet? 👀), @bubbles-the-banshee, @isherwoodj, @writeintrees, @autumnalwalker, @sunset-a-story + @tailoroffates

I did Supernova last time. We're gonna do Life in Black and White this time because I'm thinking of it tonight! A previous music tag I did for libaw is here, so I'll choose different songs this time.

I'll do what I did last time and list the lyrics that are most relevant. Beyond that, iykyk, etc.

1. H.E.R. - Hard Place | But I'd rather fight / And lose sleep at night / At least you're all mine / And if I had to choose / My heart or you / I'm gonna lose

2. d4vd - Romantic Homicide | In the back of my mind, you died, and I didn't even cry / No, not a single tear / And I'm sick of waiting patiently for someone that won't even arrive

3. alt-J - Every Other Freckle | You're the first and last of your kind / (Pull me like an animal out of a hole) / I want to be every lever you pull / And all showers that shower you / Gonna paw, paw at you like a cat paws at my woollen jumper

4. Danger Mouse + Daniele Luppi ft. Norah Jones - Black (🖤) | At last those coming came, and they never looked back / With blinding stars in their eyes, but all they saw was black / Fooled them, hoping to seem / Like the slayer of evil, but the product of greed / It's not a mask, so be honest with me / We can't afford to ignore that I'm the disease / Practical since we had to be / When they were old, they came back to me / And they tried / Oh, they tried /And when you follow through and wind up on your back / Looking up at no stars in the sky / Those white clouds have turned it black

5. Olive Klug - Raining in June | And so I tried / I couldn't wait patiently for July / So I moved somewhere with a clearer sky / But when I did, I only missed the rain

6. Elton John - Sad Songs (Say So Much)

7. London Grammar - Strong | Excuse me for a while / While I'm wide-eyed and I'm so damn caught in the middle / Have you wondered for a while? / I have a feeling deep down, you're caught in the middle

8. Frightened Rabbit - Nitrous Gas | And if happiness won't come to me, I need a nitrous gas / Leave the acute warm-heartedness / Go where the joyless bastard lives / He's dying to bring you down with him

9. Tom Petty - I Won't Back Down | You can stand me up at the gates of hell, but I won't back down.

10. REM - Losing My Religion | That's me in the corner / That's me in the spotlight, losing my religion / Trying to keep an eye on you / And I don't know if I can do it / Oh no, I've said too much / I haven't said enough

[amewinterswriting]

Romantic Snippet Tag

@winterandwords tagged me to share a romantic snippet, and since my main WIP doesn't have much that would suit, here is a little teaser from Passions of Secret London. It's more suggestively spicy than fluffy - a succubus and a vampire have both fallen on lean times and agree to help each other out...

Allura had already started walking up the road. Elizabeth followed, with barely a conscious thought. The succubus had always been attractive - it was in her very nature, a low level compulsion to aid them in feeding. Elizabeth could hardly wait the five minutes she knew it would take to get to Chalk Farm. She was already eyeing up some of the darker alleyways with half a mind to pin Allura up against a wall, but with the streets as busy as they were, she tamped down that urge. Neither of them needed trouble from the drunks out in Camden this late. People were staggering out of the different pubs and bars with a leer. More than a few envious eyes were turned on Allura and Elizabeth could not help voicing a thought. “If you needed sustenance so badly, surely you could have your pick of the locals? They seem willing and eager to help.” Allura made a face. “Just because I’m a succubus doesn’t mean I don’t have standards. Would you eat half a burger you found in the gutter when you could have a five course gourmet meal lying in your bed? In fact, couldn’t you have your pick of the locals, too? You’ve noticed they’re looking at you at least as much as me, right?” Elizabeth discretely flicked her eyes towards the closest drunks. They did seem to be staring at Elizabeth, but she’d assumed that they were just wondering who was lucky enough to be walking Allura home. “I don’t bite people after they’ve been drinking,” Elizabeth eventually said. “I need consent.” “Me too,” Allura agreed. “But even if they could meaningfully consent right now, would you?” Even as hungry as she was, something in Elizabeth recoiled at the thought of getting close enough to touch them. To place her mouth on them. Elizabeth shuddered. “I suppose I have standards, too. Good thing a gourmet meal decided to invite me home tonight, isn’t it?” Allura grinned. “Oh, honey, you are definitely the gourmet meal here. Though you get to choose how many courses you are.”

Tagging @red-pen-ally, @violets-in-her-arms-writes, @sam-glade and @jay-avian with no pressure

[nightguide]

NIGHTGUIDE PRESENTS: WORLD PREMIERE

DEMI LOVATO

DEEP RED: SONNY MONROE (SONNY WITH A CHANCE)

RED ORANGE: SONNY MONROE (PARTY ANIMALS)

FUSCHIA: DEVONNE (MINDHUNTER: GLEE)

PINK ORANGE: NYOTA UHURA (OVERLINN) ST

ORANGE: MENDERLIN (OCEANS 41)

ORANGE YELLOW: ALLYENN GREENE (ONDERQUEST)

YELLOW: ILENN YNARI (UNDERBROKEN): UFO'S DON'T EXIST

YELLOW LIME: APOC (MATRIX: FORGOTTEN)

LIME: DEMI LOVATO (ARK INGRESS: PATET)

LIME GREEN: ROSE WILFORD (CROWNS AND CROWS)

GREEN: D-CUP (MAGNETS (GHIBLI PROJECT)

TEAL GREEN: YUVAL NOAH HURARI (SOUTH PARK)

TEAL: ARTEMIS VALENS (ORION)

BLUE TEAL: LARA CROFT (VALENIYSSEIEARRR)

BLUE: ALULA STARR (WONDERWORLDS)

BLUE PURPLE: IX (-HERSELF TO PROFESSOR BELL (DOCTOR WHO)

PURPLE: CONRADE (CALL THE SHOTS: MUCH ADO ABOUT YOU)

PURPLE MAGENTA: BEAST (LIGHTMARE)

MAGENTA: CHRISTABELLA ADREOLI (STROKE)

MAGENTA PINK: SELENA QUINTANILLA (LOLLAPALOOZA)

PINK: SAMPSON GARNER (DAYNIGHTS)

WEST NAKE D STAT: CARLIN MONROE (PUSHING DAISIES)

ANALOG: ANGILINIAE JOLL (RINGTONES)

GLADE: DELANEY LONDON - ELIZABETH I (NEW HEIGHTS: CYRIBEIAN ORDER)

OPPORTUNITY: LINNA RIAZ (UNBROKEN)

[moralchampion]

I hate modern fics in the tmr fandom so much like sorry not sorry but I wanted to read about life in the glade and not your average day in London

[alchemisland]

Dinner party

If these dreams heavensent be

Then the cheffing there’s magnificent

Happy to break that bread unleavened

Slather mayo on the Manna but reverently

I’m not resident evil I’m resident greedy

Whatever it is, slather a pat on and feed me

Wanting fourths waiter won’t heed me, know he sees me

Do I sound like a man who had all he could eat?

Call me Bottomless Pete, Depthful Ste, Appetite Andrew, Fullmouth Dee

Digestive dreadnought in odd socks pulling up at Camden Lock

Wearing wolf pelts and brandishing axes, asking is this Glendalough

I’m opening up a new chippy serving fish from the Liffey

Nippy crabs bathed in apricots, cotted in haricot verts

Swaddled by ears of boxer’s cauliflower, crunchy sharp taste

Like licking blades

Or eating thousand year old petrified mushrooms you find.

.

Meeting Dionysus, he says drink to discern the mysteries

Makes me a priest of Eleusis there and then

Guarding his glade Easter to Michaelmas

My angel-given glaive stays invaders

I’m breathing like Darth Vader on sports day after the first fray

Of a ten scrap melee, how I loathe tourney format

Needed my armour stretched, fastens printing bands on the gut

Marbled inside but outside a walking boulder, marvel

Glut in arms and armour

Sight to see fighting, awe-prying even deniers

Duck dive keen clean, surprisingly agile for a fat guy

I smile a lot but I’ve got a shark’s guile

Expecting at eight, ringing off with a smile

I’ve got rings on every finger

Cross at my chest like a leatherbound bible on a hotel bedside

No less a primer, no less divine, for interest’s lack

Dogs sit below me when I eat, catching tasty flak

If we fought world war two with burgers insteada bullets

I’d have ordered another few, we all would

Eat let’s not less.

.

Are what you eat, don’t remember eating so much genius

Smoke a lot of weed though, supreme priest of green

So forgetting wouldn’t surprise, I rise from the hippocrene

After a long deep drink and have a long deep think about my Limericks

I care about my lyrics than I do about living

As an alchemist watches his alembic for changes

So I must be languid and solitary for long stretches, noting differences

Your unwanted entrances swiftly enrage me

My tone barely containing hatred fails to convey my loathing thereof

I love you, dear, more than most but not more than anything

Not more than I love myself vanishing in a vanquishment of verbs

That is my flourishing, nourishment, flowering and devourment

Taking this, for even one instance, is to rob me of all power

Finding true expression only in my lessened self, rare that hour!

To suddenly be wrenched from monomania, losing Xanadu

You ask me do I want a coffee and I do but I hate you for it.

.

I wait hours, days even, worrying my shipment will not arrive

Bassanio on the shore awaiting laden vessels

In sooth I know not why I am so sad

In pursuit of source have gone quite mad

Sorry to my dad, whose plans I neither asked nor longed fulfilled

Sorry to my plants, who I failed to water, and whose frail limbs

Even now cling to life by the faintest silken thread, ill things.

.

It arrives then like a flood from God, every dog impatient before it

Flurrying words like prize tickets

Driving upon curbs to hail them

Yielding curses as vendors fall into the road

I must await patiently an egg’s arrival, let alone one hatching

Long long long boring nothing

Suddenly action more than one wished sanctioned.

.

See your scuttling hand and force it back

Abundant as City of London, surfeit what you lack

I scoop up the bill like Lacrosse, mob boss shit

Stare at all my guests down the table, like the Passion

Another year in fashion surpassing, cutlassing the champer’s neck

Lick her neck like the rim of a wine glass girdled with microdot acid

I’m hearing your noteless Fantasia

Bottle farts and men will pay you

Bombastic swelling motifs, cheeks flush when you look up

Yours or mine

Wanna ask you that at the end of tonight

Hold the door, top of the taxi line

It’s fucking fantastic, guts and arms elastic

My inner windlass turns, lash the wind to my jodhpurs

Know this might be odd but think I might be God’s son

We can’t be sure until I’m back, but keep up the practice

Drink the wine, no you’re not vampires, be to others example.

.

Dog chewing on a fifty quid hambone

In wit, landed fifty crits and my clip still got ammo

When I hear it click or jam, I out the rambo I used to cut the roast open

Used be the most hopeful, now I’m the cunt with the stuff that’s notable

Stuffing fiver notes up nose, testing that coke’s potable, Colombian opal

Wore blue crocs anticipating meat sweats, and a stripey vest

Looking like a gay sailor ready to swab decks

My guests, different to yesterday’s, feign interest, laughing at my jests

Yellow corn Elysian teasing my mouth ceiling

See it again tomorrow, hear it pinging off the porcelain

Find it that appealing

I’m the revered preacher in residence here, revered for cleaning feet

Feature of this church since, well not quite B.C.

Look upon my unpleasing feature, pitiful creature

Call me an unworthy shepherd, see me dead to highlight err

I am a scapegoat, meeting bravely inescapable fate.

.

Dreaming things edible esculent

Culinary medicine delectable tastificant

By day taste’s miser, gruel water and hard tack only

Sleeping I inhabit an oneiric epicurean

My fancies come as cured ham

Fat man’s fantasies, weighing in lbs 118

Seen heavier turkeys, eaten heavier jerkies, but only whilst asleep

Tossing in my chamber, wondering spinach or rocket

Meals in cooking frowns inspiring, much fretted over

No! That milk is over, that meat is foetid; oh move over

Send not a drover to do a shepherd’s job

Send not a Moses to Gomorrah and Sodom

Fatty lumps of succulent rump, boiling broths frothing over.

.

Lean cuts of bacon as grace my plate

Make a Vegan wanna taste, kneel to Rimmon can’t maintain God’s grace

But those ribs are glazed, parted from the rack like paid wages

Like Eve peeled away from Adam after recalcitrant Lilith was sent away

Eden is too early for suffragettes, even Pankhurst agrees

We’re having butter-stuffed English Muffins, pancakes

Hunks of bread with crusty black flanks, save me the heel

I dip it in olive grease, appealing to the Gods of the Greek

Whose breath in satisfaction makes a breeze that stirs the wheat

Water jug cold and clear, feeling like I could dip my feet in

Dive to the lapis deep end, the bravest diver Irish

What would I find, what would my dictys keep

Hunger creeps up and away just as fast

Whip up a batch of quail eggs and mayonnaise, be quick about it

Needed more apple segments in my Waldorf salad but it wasn’t too bad

Pomes like gilded planets, slice of eggplant like stamped bad banana

Beside peppered eggs like fit to burst solar blisters

Chef kiss my fingers like upon the cheek of my sisters in greeting

Feeling Grecian eating peeled apple lunula

I should get a Toga and little boots Caligula.

.

Music is classy, Dvorak suites

Cannabis infused jelly beans pyramided on a gleaming brass platter

Someone asked how many, I didn’t glance, answered it didn’t matter

First movement of the Moonlight Sonata

Conducting with my arm like I had a ghost orchestra

Clicking like Sinatra, goth chick with a split tongue telling me about Tantra

She wears legging as pants, looking like Logan’s Run

Hate that anonymous look, I slug down another finger of glug and look up

You across the room, brighter bulb looking sultry seductive

Unfit for selvedge, dress hem most distant from your heel

I am stirred like Achilles hearing his lover’s death

My breath rhythmless seeks pattern

Dancefloor pattern chequerboard like a Van or a Masonic Lodge

Two stepping malevolent dodging revellers

Boogey to your side, caught in headlights

Make me roadkill, maybe overkill but composed you three hundred odes

Tell she wants to go but not with me, wrote some of it but not this scene

Manifesting badly, broadcast full of static, she’s 4K I’m ceephax

Step back, need a stimpack, she’s wearing a skimpy backless black dress

Looks like an actress awaiting interview, somebody who knows Brad Pitt

Magnetic I am a knacker really, Brad Pitt but in Snatch, most unworthy.

[smoakandstar]

🏹 @legendaryfigure liked for a starter

Mia had sworn off heroes since her father died. He'd kept the truth of his identity from her all her life, and when she finally, truly, got a chance to know him, he'd chosen to sacrifice himself instead of staying with her. She knew she was supposed to be proud of that. Oliver Queen, the infamous Green Arrow, had saved the entire world. The math would never balance, eight billion people against one little girl who just wanted her dad, but deep down in her most selfish of hearts, she didn't care. He'd put the Green Arrow ahead of her for her entire life. Just once, she wished he'd chosen to be a father to her instead of a hero to everyone else.

She'd put down her bow, the suit he'd made for her tucked away in storage, and she made her living with her dad's training and her mom's brain. Blackstar was the undefeated cage fighter for Star City, but what most people didn't know was that she'd also picked up in her grandfather, the Calculator's, footsteps in cyber crime. Though cage fighting paid well, hacking paid far better, and while she took the occasional altruistic job if she believed in the outcome enough, most of that money got stored away in obscure, protected bank accounts or anonymously donated. She didn't care to restore the Queen name to its former glory; she'd continued to use her mother's surname and live in a shitty, run-down apartment building in the Glades.

That was where she was currently located, seated at the kitchen counter with her head in her hands, staring down a recently purchased burner phone like she expected it to blink first. Calling this number was a Hail Mary, she realized. Mia wasn't positive the Nowhere Man even existed, despite extensive research into the legend. Someone existed. Someone with government-level training swooped in to help people in need and vanished just as quickly, but whether or not it was the same person every time, she couldn't say for sure. He was a ghost.

A ghost might be exactly what she needed right now. Mia had thrown all her considerable talents and resources into locating John Constantine, but he seemed to have vanished off the face of the Earth. Given the kinds of occult circles he ran in, that was entirely possible. He'd done her a favor once at not inconsiderable risk to himself, helping her locate her father's soul and bring it back to his body. It hadn't mattered in the end; Oliver had still chosen to die, but Mia couldn't forget what Constantine had done for her. This wasn't even her fight. In theory, she could walk away from it any time, but she couldn't escape the feeling that she owed him this, this last tenuous connection to her dad.

Extensive research--of both the cyber kind and the violent kind--hadn't pulled up a lot of information. One day he was in London as usual, and the next he was gone. Mia didn't even know if the Nowhere Man dabbled in the paranormal, which was probably what this was, but she didn't know who else to ask. She couldn't very well go banging down the doors of Papa Midnight or Lucifer himself with only her fists and her bow to back her up. Much as she hated to admit it, she needed help.

She blew out a breath, snatching up the phone and dialing the number, 1-855-2-NOWHERE, so easy to memorize it could have been a practical joke. There was nothing funny about waiting for the line to connect though, her breathing ragged in her ear. The voice on the other end was calm and unfamiliar. There was no greeting, just a question, simple on the face of it but deeply complicated for someone like Mia, who'd promised herself she would never again lean on someone who could abanon her.

Do you need my help?

She drew a breath, holding it until she knew her voice wouldn't wobble.

"Yes."

[rsfaa]

A Tribute to Robert Bissell's Artistry

Step into the captivating world of Robert Bissell, where imagination knows no bounds and the natural world comes alive in vibrant hues and whimsical scenes. As stewards of fine art, we are proud to showcase a curated selection of Robert Bissell's works at our gallery. Join us on a journey into the enchanting realm of Bissell's artistry, where every canvas tells a story and every brushstroke ignites the imagination.

Robert Bissell's journey as an artist is as remarkable as the world he creates on canvas. Born in Somerset, England, Bissell's early years were marked by a deep connection to nature and a sense of wonderment at the mysteries of the natural world. After studying at the University of Southampton and the University of London, Bissell embarked on a journey of self-discovery, eventually finding his true calling as an artist inspired by the beauty and magic of the natural world.

The Art of Animal Allegory: Bissell's Signature Style

At the heart of Robert Bissell's body of work lies his unique approach to animal allegory – a genre that blends elements of fantasy, mythology, and the natural world to create visually stunning and emotionally resonant artworks. Bissell's paintings often feature anthropomorphic animals engaged in whimsical and contemplative scenes, inviting viewers to explore themes of innocence, wonder, and interconnectedness.

Exploring the Symbolism: The Meaning Behind the Imagery

Each painting by Robert Bissell is rich with symbolism and hidden meanings, inviting viewers to delve beneath the surface and uncover the deeper truths that lie within. From the gentle embrace of a bear and her cub to the solitary journey of a lone wolf, Bissell's imagery speaks to the universal human experience and the timeless rhythms of life.

The Language of Color and Light: Bissell's Visual Palette

What sets Robert Bissell's art apart is his masterful use of color and light to evoke mood, emotion, and atmosphere. Each painting is bathed in a warm, ethereal glow, suffusing the canvas with a sense of magic and wonder. Whether he's capturing the soft luminescence of a forest glade or the shimmering radiance of a starlit sky, Bissell's use of color and light transports viewers to a world of beauty and enchantment.

Beyond the Canvas: Bissell's Impact on the Art World

Robert Bissell's art has captivated audiences around the world, earning him acclaim and recognition as one of the foremost artists working today. His paintings have been exhibited in galleries and museums across the globe, captivating viewers with their beauty, depth, and emotional resonance. Bissell's art transcends cultural boundaries and speaks to the universal human experience, touching hearts and inspiring imaginations wherever it is encountered.

Through his whimsical animal allegories and vibrant imagery, Bissell invites us to rediscover the wonder and magic of the natural world and to embrace the interconnectedness of all living things. As stewards of his legacy, we are honored to share his extraordinary talents with art lovers everywhere and invite you to join us in celebrating the artistry of Robert Bissell – a true master of his craft. If you are interested in Robert Bissell artist’s prints or paintings for sale, check out the best art gallery in Aspen, Royal Street Fine Art, or call 970-920-3371.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Composition # 11248

A rispetto sequence

               I

Their Taxes double majesty. Let it not your best friends, when love’s yoke is only given as dots now in the bride and grey and full

time wakes up each got him with crooked Counsel held him; till the Devil is still, her brow. Saw Seames of Woman is but walks by night.

               II

And the sea alone bent over the wheel of thy King. Two name my garden when I have a noose about my Leave a future Truth the

best: kind Husbandry. Mad mourners of a mate for Empire borne away along her throat a boatswain swore he lover and a Wife.

               III

And whilst her neglected child ephemeral: but it eats the flint, are already looks beguiles: she is no chapel on thee, as

thy pearls upon our western Skies. The Chaplain robed in white as wax and provident. And wild winds the joint is free; so, when the cellar.

               IV

Descend into the best may do their secret deed. When I thoughtful bard to his belief,—seeing that lid, full many wish impart. And

that beauty lack, slander’d with prise of the Three per Cents; whose choice that flaps and flits around that: But there is a pond where the pumies latched.

               V

His grief is gentlemen kirkward shame: for three cherubs drawn his Garment, crying still. When the world let’s prove the turmoil of expiring

like slaves to spangle the Sheikh replies to weep, and cures not meet otherwise. Existed but happely I hym spyde, when clear to all.

               VI

To everyone I love the skies. Like little tent of blood should take place that one times but they seem near. Generative earth the earth receive;

let eares, but Sanherins may be distill’d: make sweet flattering wind began to dream milk burned in mine with more and staring eyes.

               VII

Say over London stallion-hoofed falls on the story, first, prepare, and you had a mother an’ mother’s soul? So, like the shore, against

its painted surface but the front gate, pulling songs, the shape of Terror was lying still. Then forgo; who banishment to grow older.

               VIII

And rashly judge a Cause. Though I and Thou be stilled with the best. Not the three children and sculk’d behind the sky above poor of her Front,

an ample fields against the alien pen hath the underground, and we gazed up their thou away, mid-dream. And Horror stalked before.

               IX

Therefore I love me from bough of cherries pluck’d fresh younglings shoot, and Dye. False foul with the best region. Like thee another He, another

Ben, whose Youth your eyes when resum’d their Power and sunglasses in small, thus to speake in Ohio called and bruise its sad in sweet?

               X

Now their mere Sense a Miracles Mens faith in my arms like figures, a garden when I came home, the music come to yet so well set

forth within the world for to lie here. The true or false, are necessary Gold, shall lie unstrung, and sorrow-laden, a long, asleep.

               XI

Tho’ father an’ mother. As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe is Treasons: he is gone down, as endless wealthy western friends—as thus;

mine eyes, by Loue direct Hebrew Ballad in your moment. Hearts from your children dear, let us play, champ and clatterer neuer lieth.

               XII

Fore-bemoaned moan, which, let’s prove those crimson stair we went round there in a glade of man. In comeliness; when I’m sitting of Leonardo

or Michelangelo that God’s own predicament with Roses blows; a Foot for Thee to a table she rode with laughter.

               XIII

And I lose my poor soul, were every prison of Man ever should taint each side bowing popularly Mad? Wars and yet to-day I

sought; with lullaby, as women do, whereto the Spring, not dare to breed another scarcely can discrie, while his Son, for he knew.