#and say ‘said lenny in his normal voice’

[lenny-zesty]

ok so my voice is kinda messed up and people are often surprised by what I actually sound like but I think the funniest part is asking what people think I sound like.

like I’ve had people expect me to sound like stitch, n, fucking mort from madagascar, and that gay vegan shark from shark tale. but the absolute funniest one ever came from my friend’s bf.

this man refers to me as “the little trans boy in the phone” and sees me as a weird cryptid. this makes it even funnier when my friend relayed to me that he thinks I sound like michael caine. this man is fully convinced that I sound like alfred pennyworth and ebenezer scrooge

[hihomeghere]

Desperado | Charles Smith x f!Reader

Word Count : 1.2k

Summary : Set four months after Charles leaves with the Wapiti. You and Charles try to figure out what to do after the gang falls apart. Comfort fic

Warnings/tags : Mention of dead bodies, death, shooting, Established realtionship. Let me know if I missed any

divider by @saradika

Unfortunately for you, you found yourself in this situation more than often. Cupping your steaming cup of coffee watching as the sun turned the magenta sky a burnt orange hue.

It was a beautiful sight, something that should have spread warmth throughout your body, like the near boiling liquid you forced down your throat. Instead, it left a bitter taste in your mouth. You should be back in your bedroll, curled up in Charles' warm embrace. Feeling the soft puff of his breath against your neck, the gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back. 

You pulled your shawl tighter around your body, although there was no chill in the air. The Wapiti were settled, as settled as they could be. Forced off their land again, and again. As much as you hoped they would not be displaced again, you knew it was mostly wishful thinking. You grit your teeth, a spark igniting in your belly that had been smoldering for months.

It had been four months, and you knew what Charles would say if he was awake, four months isn’t a long time. Four months since John got shot, four months since the last time you had seen Arthur alive, four months since you took the grieving Wapiti north, farther away from their lands. Four months since you last saw the gang, or what was left of it. If you could even call Dutch’s ramblings and whatever fools Micah brought along the van der linde gang. 

That’s not what it had been when you had joined, when Hosea had caught you stealing from him in that saloon back in Wyoming. A small chuckle left your lips, shaking your head as you recalled his crooked smile as he cornered you leaving the bar. Your smile faltered, just another one of your family buried under the ground. Another one you and Charles buried.

At least he wasn’t alone, poor Lenny next to him. You always thought his sickness would catch him before a bullet did. But you were always the dreamer. More like Dutch in that regard. 

Dutch.

You threw your cup as far as you could, swallowing the sob that threatened to break past your lips. 

“What did that cup ever do to you?” Charles' groggy voice asked, pulling the tent flap back. The bright morning light illuminates him, like your own personal beacon. 

“Burnt my tongue.” You mumbled, crossing your arms.

“And that’s the cup's fault?” He asked, raising an eyebrow as he strode towards you. He stood beside you, his dark skin glowing in the dawn. 

“Yes.” You said, a deep rumbling chuckle worked through his chest. 

“Stubborn.” He said softly, shaking his head. You hummed, tearing your eyes away from him. A deer, a stag, broke across the plains. Pausing for a moment as he caught sight of you and Charles, before he ran off. 

“Was it the same one?” His voice broke the silence, your stomach sinking into the pit of your stomach.

“What do you mean?” You could practically hear his eyes roll in his head. You knew what he meant, was it the same nightmare that had been plaguing you since you came across Grimshaw’s body, Arthur’s body. “Yes.” You said, your lip twitching as you sighed.

He hummed, nodding as he crossed his arms. He didn’t speak, didn’t talk just to fill the air. It was another thing you loved about him. He was comfortable enough to just… be.

Something that had drawn you towards him in the first place. He was calm, quiet, and collected. Someone like him didn’t come along often in your line of work. Men who ran in gangs were normally brash, loud, abrasive, sometimes down right intolerable. He wasn’t a man without a few faults, you had seen that flash of anger spike through him once or twice. But it was healthy, having passion and morals wasn’t a crime. Shooting fellas who didn’t was but you had committed worse crimes in your lifetime than killing a poacher or a racist. He was… helpful, kind, maybe a bit cold at times. You didn’t mind, you liked just being in his presence, sharing his company without having to worry about coming up with something to say.

It happened quickly, falling in love with Charles. Like the way cold spreads through your body after dipping your toe into a river. It overtook you, he overtook you. 

You avoided it at first, avoided him. Took odd jobs from Dutch, spent as little time around camp as possible. But it was like he had crawled under your skin, infiltrating your every thought.

He took a different approach on his affection, one that involved cornering you once you returned to camp. You were glad for it, glad that he had the balls you lacked.

Since then you were inseparable. Like two halves of a whole, you felt complete around him. He felt like home, that in itself was a dangerous thought. After spending your whole life running from place to place, your ‘home’ being wherever you laid your head at the end of the day. It was strange, running towards someone instead of away. He allowed you to speak of your dreams without the fear of being told they were foolish. Looking back, he shouldn’t have indulged you so. Shouldn’t have allowed you to dream. Where did it get you? 

Where did your loyalty get you?

“You’ve got that look again.” He mumbled, looking at you from the corner of his eye.

“What look?” You asked, as you turned to look at him

“That look.” He said softly, pressing a finger between your furrowed brows. “Talk to me.” 

“I can’t.” You swallowed thickly, hating how your voice broke. Hating how damn confusing everything got, your words were a constant stream in your mind that you couldn’t make sense of. 

Sean, Kieran, Hosea, Lenny, Molly, Eagle flies, John, Miss Grimshaw, Arthur.

He softened, frowning as he moved to cup your cheek. 

“Y/n,” He said gently, running his thumb over your cheekbone. 

“I can’t.” You whispered, blinking back the tears as you looked into his eyes. He let out a sigh, pulling you into his embrace. You buried your face into his chest, letting the tears fall. Hiccuping sobs wracked your frame as he gently shushed you, running his hands up and down your back.

“Breathe darlin’.” He said softly, holding you tightly against him. 

“I keep seeing them- seeing them lying there, rotting-“

“Shh,” He shushed, pressing his lips to the crown on your head. “Tell me what I can do.” He pleaded gently, petting your hair.

“Just- just hold me.” You mumbled, sniffling as you pressed yourself deeper into his embrace if that was even possible. He held you, his arms strong and secure around you. In that moment, no matter what had happened or what was to come, you were safe. You knew you would always be safe in his arms. You would always have a home with Charles.

So let the nightmares come, the law, it didn’t matter. You had all you needed as long as he was beside you.

[gothsoyl]

┊┊┊⁺ ⁺ DECEMBER CHALLENGE

"A treatment" +18

lenny busker x reader

word count: 1,3k

summary: you're in a mental hospital because of your anxiety and panic attacks. she's your... you don't know how to call her. maybe she's your buddy here since she was the first who offered you some kind of comfort. she lets you take her dessert and listen to music in her headphones.

to be honest, you didn't see any point in going to a psychiatric hospital. you were just a little anxious... just a couple of panic attacks a month. that's not a cause for concern, is it? for a while, you really thought that's what most people face.

it wasn't until things got worse that you finally listened to your psychiatrist's persuasions. he said it would be better this way. he said they'd help you there. and you agreed.

but did you have any other choice? your anxiety didn't really allow you to work, and you were afraid to go outside for fear of another panic attack. not to mention that you were also afraid to be at home, because if you had a panic attack, you would be left alone.

everything was strange in the psychiatric hospital – there were strange people here, even those who were treated here laughed at. and you felt sorry for them, even though you couldn't help them.

one of the first days, you were sitting in the cafeteria for lunch. a man in a wheelchair is sitting in front of you, viscous saliva is flowing from his mouth, and no matter how disgusting this sight might be, you couldn't bring yourself to tear your eyes away and start eating.

and, let’s just say, you didn't have much appetite after that.

“oh my God.”

you flinch when you suddenly hear a woman's voice next to you. you didn't even notice how she sat next to you.

“what do you think he ate that makes his saliva so viscous?”

you swallow nervously and look first at the man and then at the woman next to you. she's tapping out a strange rhythm with her fingers on the cassette player and looking at you with a strange twinkle in her eyes, and everything inside you is sinking with panic.

and what should you tell her? you don't want to seem weird or anything... but is it weird at all to try to look normal in a psychiatric hospital? 

“I don't know...” you finally shrug and look at the cherry pie on the table. for some reason, you feel strangely embarrassed next to her, and the man opposite has long since left your thoughts.

“are you going to finish eating, or should I continue talking about his saliva?” the girl puts her hand on the table and supports her cheek with it, looking at you at the same time so attentively and so indifferently.

you're about to nod, but you glance at her headphones and cassette player.

“if you let me listen to music,” a slight smile touches your lips and the girl opposite laughs loudly and pretentiously, and you already think that you have said too much. but the she finally calms down and takes off her headphones, putting them on the table along with the player. you chuckle and slide her a plate with a piece of pie, concluding your agreement.

***

lenny busker.

you learned her name after a couple of weeks of your communication. for some reason, every time you asked what her name was, she changed the subject, or told you to call her whatever you wanted. 

It pissed you off, but you didn't really argue. you loved her company after all.

she was funny and constantly calmed you down when you had a panic attack – she just sat next to you and when you felt a little better, she gave you her headphones and turned on some old song that you hadn't heard in a hundred years.

you felt better with her. It's like everything was really okay with you, even if you're both not quite “normal.”

***

one night you woke up to the creaking of your own bed. you immediately tensed up, feeling a sudden wave of anxiety, and tried to get up to see what was going on, but immediately felt someone's hand on your shoulder and a quiet, familiar whisper, “shh... it's just me.”

you immediately freeze, not knowing what to do or how to behave.

“what are you doing here?” you ask quietly as she did and want to look at her, but she squeezes your shoulder harder, not allowing you to turn around. your throat gets dry and you don't even know what's going on. so many bad thoughts fill your head, but you try to get rid of them, telling yourself that lenny would never hurt you.

you lick your lower lip when her free hand wraps around your waist and pulls you closer to her. her hot body is pressed against your back and she leans so close that you can feel her breath on your skin.

“I just decided to check if you were okay,” her voice is saturated with playfulness and she gently bites your earlobe, making you shudder unconsciously. 

“I'm fine,” you say, and your whole face starts to burn red with shame and excitement. you're not entirely sure that your psychiatrist was talking about it when he sent you to a mental institution.

“I see,” lenny hums, and her lips slowly slide over your neck, leaving wet kisses, “just relax and we'll start the treatment.”

you can feel your body slowly starting to relax under lenny's gentle and assertive touches, even if your brain is still sounding the alarm. you're used to it – your brain is always on alert and afraid of everything, even if it's something minor or something you've done a hundred times before. It pisses you off. you're tired, so you don't resist.

you'd be lying if you said you'd never thought about what it would be like to kiss lenny. you're lying if you say you don't want her at a time when you can literally feel her heartbeat.

you close your eyes and try to push away the annoying thoughts. a sigh escapes your lips when lenny's fingers get under your t-shirt, scratching the delicate skin with her nails and squeezing your breast until it aches pleasantly. her lips are still exploring your neck, leaving barely noticeable hickeys and biting in some places only to run her tongue later.

your body shudders as she slowly pulls off your panties and the cool air touches your bare skin. lenny just grunts and nuzzles your hair at the back of your neck, inhaling your scent.

“I could do this for days on end...”

she laughs low, her fingers moving between your folds, collecting all the moisture, and you just bite your lip, trying not to moan at her every touch. you'd like to answer her, but you're afraid it might be louder than you planned. and the last thing you want is for the paramedics to come running at the noise and find you like this.

“come on...” you squeeze out such weak words, but it's enough for lenny, who slowly begins to insert her fingers into you, teasing and not letting you fully feel her. you move your hips, trying to speed up the process, but she doesn't let you – she presses you to the bed with her free hand and continues to tease. her movements are slow and measured, and you're one second away from begging her. 

“please, lenny...” you whimper, burying your face in the pillow, your own fingers grab the blanket out of desperation, and only then do you begin to feel the brutal thrusts. lenny whispers something in your ear, but you can't make out what it is.

you feel too good at this moment and you don't have a single thought in your head. just lenny's fingers, stretching you from the inside out, forcing you to grab the pillow with your teeth just to keep from moaning.

the bed starts to creak even more, and you move your hips towards it, before your walls contract for the last time, hugging lenny's fingers and your body begins to tremble from orgasm. you're breathing fast and hard, and your legs are still shaking from everything that happened, even after lenny pulls his fingers out of you with a wet sound.

she doesn't press you to the bed anymore, but even so, you can't turn to her – the treatment went so well that you no longer have the strength.

only for the second session.

[irisintheafterglow]

...with the big iron on his hip

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ now playing: marty robbins - "big iron"

summary: he's not the first to go after the crystal-eyed bandit, but something tells you that this one will keep his promise to buy you a drink when the hunting is done. (cowboy!suguru x you)

wc: 2.47k

cw/tags: western!au, implied fem!reader but gn pronouns used, reader is called pretty and darlin', strangers to lovers (??), descriptions of alcohol, drinking, and general lawlessness

note: yayy another @ficsforgaza installation, this time for @strawberrystepmom <33 thank you so much for donating to help palestinians, i know i went WAY over the word count but i hope you enjoy this anyway!

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated!

“You heard about Death riding in this morning?”

“I was told he got back from the east a few days ago. Some business with the big banks,” you reply, your voice a careful volume. Your effort is hardly needed, though, as the saloon was reaching its rowdiest hours of the evening; the smell of chewing tobacco and questionable choices was enough of an indicator. As the bar girls’ heels click-clack on the stage, you wipe the dust off a clean glass and pour its whiskey without another thought, sliding it across the bar.

“Oh, rest assured he did,” says the other bartender, Davey, a jolly-mustached man of about 60 who’d run this saloon since before your parents settled in this town. “But, word is there’s another outlaw loose and runnin’ now. Rode in on a big, black stallion, he did. Old Man Leonard swears the sun done shrunk away from rising.” You roll your eyes with patient affection, listening diligently to Davey ramble on about the rumors surrounding the newcomer. “I’m serious! ‘Stallion black as death,’ that’s what old Lenny said. You trust my word or not?”

“I believe you, I believe you. Though, you did spout a lot of nonsense ‘bout the window creeper last week, too,” you chuckle, holding up your palms in surrender. Davey tuts with a pout, muttering something about you never listening to his warnings anymore. “I wasn’t aware you were cautioning me of anything, Davey. It’s not like I’m gonna go looking for the guy.” You knew the town was a familiar stomping ground for all sorts of no-good creatures, jail breakers and tax collectors and bounty hunters alike. Word of your saloon’s neutrality spread among the underground because of its ‘whiskey or weapons’ policy where no man could carry a firearm through the batwing doors and still be served a drink. Hence, as volatile as the patrons were, honor among thieves guaranteed the saloon the ideal place for meetings and deals. Davey, relishing in the booming business it brought in, didn’t seem to mind the reputation.

“You best believe I’m cautioning you,” he insists, waggling a finger. “Whether you like it or not, you always seem to attract the eye of the most vile manner of people.” 

“I do not–” A drunken shout cuts your indignance short, a slurred exclamation of Who the Devil is that! 

As if on cue, the saloon falls into silence broken only by the sound of creaking floorboards. The girls on stage crowd up the staircase, hiding in the shadows; a stack of poker chips topples over at a corner table. 

“When have you known me to be wrong,” Davey mutters, his question becoming more of a statement as the wood continues to groan under the steps of the interloper. Knowing that the saloon guests would be looking to him to react, his tense demeanor is replaced by warmth before you can blink. “What happened to the music, boys? The night’s just beginning!” He calls out to the band, who immediately begin plucking their banjos and dancing across the keys of the out-of-tune upright piano. Normal cacophony continues with an uproar, drowning out the sound of approaching boots until he’s right in front of you. 

“You got a beer, darlin’?” For a moment, you’re a rabbit with its foot caught as a coyote stalks closer. His cowboy hat casts the upper half of his face in shadow, revealing nothing but a poisonously sweet mouth. You can feel his eyes analyze you, though, and it takes a few seconds and a deep breath to remember who’d been in this town longer. Outlaw or not, you had the high ground in this saloon. 

“No sir, not a good one,” you admit. “All the best’s kept in the cellar where it can stay cold and I ain’t going down there this time of night. Davey’s old wife haunts it after the sun goes down.”

“You afraid of ghosts?”

“Oh, no sir,” you correct him quickly and his eyes narrow, ever so slightly. “She’s very much alive, which I am of the opinion is scarier than if she was trapped in a different realm.” Your quip has amused him, enough for his gaze to soften and the corner of his mouth to turn up. He lifts his head and you’re introduced to a pair of dark eyes, framed by equally dark hair that you guess falls just above his shoulder blades. The man is devilishly handsome, and a voice in the back of your mind that suspiciously sounds like Davey issues more warnings than you can fathom. You ignore them on account of wanting to figure out what about this man made the saloon of outlaws, even for a second, fearful. “Somethin’ else I can get you?”

“Bourbon’ll do.” You pour it mechanically, watching him out of the corner of your eye. Something stops you before you slide it over to him, something akin to instinct. His face remains unchanged as you hold his glass hostage, looking at him expectantly with an open palm. 

“You got payment for me, cowboy?” 

“This work for payment? Also, not a cowboy.” He fishes something from his pants, flashing a silver star that you know all too well is the symbol of a ranger. “If not, I’ll be happy to take out a loan. I’ll pay it off before I leave in a few days, anyhow.” He’s of the law, then, you think to yourself with raised eyebrows, remembering the fact that he was hiding the authority in his pocket. Well, as much as you can be in these parts. Must need to dirty his hands a little bit to get his work done. You pretend to appraise the badge before nodding, handing him the drink. He takes a sip and triumphantly inspects the liquor swirling. 

“Up to your standards?”

“I believe it’s not the drink but rather who pours it,” he drawls with a smirk. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?”

“I could ask the same thing of you,” you counter, matching his cunning smile. “I’m assuming you’re the stranger who rode in on Death’s horse early this morning?”

“The horse’s name is Wormy.” You snort unexpectedly and he huffs out a quiet laugh before continuing. “But, yes. That was me this morning. Like I said, I don’t plan on staying a while, and I believe you could help me with that.” A ranger in your town scaring everyone half to death. Pieces click together in your head and it’s not long before you realize his mission. Who else would he be here for?

“You want the crystal-eyed bandit.” 

“You know him as a bandit, I know him as a kid whose corrupt family successfully tainted his mind. I’m here to get him out–”

“Or die trying?”

“Definitely not the plan,” he says with a shake of his head. “If he doesn’t come willingly, I’ll kill him. Plain and simple.” You admired his earnestness, but also allowed the skepticism to show on your face, something that the stranger takes note of. “You think I won’t be able to get him.”

“You’re not the first one to come through town on a hunt and I’m sure you won’t be the last,” you state with complete honesty. “20 men have tried and failed. Who’s to say you won’t become number 21?” 

“I’m talkin’ to you and that’s a better start than any of the other guys had.”

“How so?”

“Something tells me that you’ve been wanting out of here for a long time, now,” he assumes and it’s your turn for your eyes to narrow.

“You don’t know anything about me, cowboy.”

“Not a cowboy,” he replies automatically, quickly getting back on track lest he lose your precious attention. “See, I don’t know much about you, but I do know that our bandit can’t resist pulling others into his schemes, especially ones who aren’t too sore on the eyes.” In any other scenario, such overt flirtation would result in his immediate expulsion from the premises, but you find yourself intrigued by what he has to offer you. 

“You think I’m in leagues with outlaws because of how I look?” 

“I think you’re forced into said leagues because of your position of employment,” the ranger says. “You’re his ears, aren’t you? You’re the reason he knows the dirt on the residents in this town, because you receive that dirt and relay it to him. It’s also,” his voice drops to a dangerous octave, “why he isn’t here right now…at this bar…in this seat.” You meet the challenge in his eyes, neither confirming nor denying what he’d declared was true. By some way or another, he knew much more than he let on. He knew you lied to Davey about not seeing him ride in early this morning; he knew you promptly told the bandit of a newcomer in town who could rival his control; he could tell you hesitated to slide the bourbon over to him because it was the wrong body on the stool. 

“When’d you gather all this information if you’d just rode in this morning?” He lifts his eyebrows expectantly, like you knew the answer to your own question. Your mouth opens slightly in realization and you whistle in admiration. “That was you giving us a fright last week? The monster creeping around the windows that everyone swears they saw but didn’t have proof? Your reconnaissance methods became a tall tale around here.” The ranger hums, taking another sip from his glass. “So, what’s my part to play in your plans? I tell you where he is, you go in and shoot him, I stay put and keep my mouth shut?”

“Nope, I want you to bring him a message.”

“That being…?”

“An old friend wants to duel,” he says cryptically. “Tomorrow at dawn. Do that for me,” he continues, “and I’ll give you half the bounty.” Your eyes grow larger than the wagon wheels outside. Half the bounty was more than you made in three months and would be more than enough to get you out of this town of scum for good. Before you let your hopes run too rampant, a lingering question pushes itself to the forefront of your mind.

“Why do you need my help to do this? Why not just ambush him?” 

“I’d like to take him out fairly, let it be a true show of who’s stronger.” The man continues to sense your hesitation and another question appears.

“I don’t even know your name,” you point out. 

“Call me Suguru. Ranger only in name, not practice. My superiors would be disappointed if they knew half of my bounty suddenly disappeared in the hands of the pretty bartender at the saloon.” He thinks I’m pretty? Before thinking twice, you nod in understanding and he flashes a grin, standing up to leave. “We have a deal?” 

“I’ll do it,” you begin, “but that’s all assuming you’re successful, cowboy.” The ranger’s face becomes even more satisfied, like returning to you was the easiest part of his challenge. 

“Not a cowboy, and just trust me,” Suguru responds confidently. “Both our futures are riding on this, so I’d be damned if I screwed it up!”

—

“You’re late,” you deadpan to the approaching footsteps in front of you. You’re holding the lead of Suguru’s black stallion and your new Pinto, a parting gift from Davey for all your years of service. Get the hell out of here, he’d said through fatherly tears, an affectionate hand on your shoulder. Find a new life and a new adventure with that ranger of yours. 

“My apologies,” he drawls, stepping into the dim light of your oil lamp. “Couldn’t find my ranger badge.”

“Did it turn up?” He shakes his head, unexpectedly unbothered. “You don’t seem in anguish over it.”

“Mmm, far from it. I don’t plan on wearing it again once I turn in these, anyway,” Suguru says, holding up the small burlap sack containing two crystal-blue eyeballs. “That’s what I wanted to discuss with you, before we left. I was working up the courage while I was rummaging around for the star.” You hum thoughtfully, adjusting one more strap on the saddle before sticking the front of your foot in the stirrup. You accept Suguru’s hand of assistance and mount your horse with ease. Beneath you, he gazes up like he was staring at a bright full moon. 

“Can we discuss as we ride out of here? I’m itching to get a move on.” He accepts your request without another word and swings himself onto his horse, following your pace as you trot slowly down the empty street. Just a day ago, this very street was where the notorious crystal-eyed bandit was shot down in a duel with the man riding beside you. His swiftness left you awestruck and you heard the shot before registering that he’d pulled his gun, the bandit’s body falling into the dust. “How many days’ ride is it to where you collect the bounty?”

“We can get there in three if the weather is agreeable.” Your conversation falls silent, both of you formulating questions and answers and waiting for the other to make the first move. Swallowing his pride and clearing his throat, Suguru decides to act first. “You wanna ask why I’m not wearing the badge after this bounty.” 

“That a statement or a question, cowboy?”

“Not a cowboy, but it’s a fact and whatever you make of it,” he shrugs. “Truth is, I’m not really sure what I’m going to do now that I’ve completed the only hunt I really cared about.” You nod, encouraging him to continue as he shifts awkwardly in his saddle. “So, if you’d let me…would you let me keep you under my protection, wherever the wind takes you?”

“You want to stay…with me?” You echo his proposition with a flutter in your stomach and a racing heart. “Wherever the wind takes me, you wanna be there with me,” you reiterate, seeking confirmation that he gives wholeheartedly. 

“A ranger’s name can still have some standing,” he explains, incorrectly believing that you still need convincing. “And the darker circles I’m in respect me as a bounty hunter, so I can get you to basically wherever you want to go–” You pull your horse around perpendicular to his, stopping you both in your tracks. 

“I already agreed to your proposition, Geto Suguru, so stop talkin’ before I change my mind,” you tease, unable to wipe the smile from your face. He hits you with that poisonously sweet grin again, looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky. 

“If I may,” Suguru says as the sun starts to peek over the desert landscape, “your cowboy would like to know where it is he’ll be escorting you next.”

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[satureja13]

Shortly after Lenny's broadcast, Batuu's dwellers went on the streets. Releasing their anger in protests all over the planet. They already had to swallow too many of the First Order's lies. Change is due. The ban of cats (after whatever Lenny had pulled here), the cover up of B.D's detention, arresting friends of Lenny who only wanted to bring the borrowed shuttle back, the Master claiming Jino again... Enough is enough!

In the early evening, Master Ren still waited for the TIE Fighter to be ready - to bring Jino far far away from here.

Lt. Agnon: "Master, we can't keep this up. Not after last time. We almost lost Batuu because of that Boy - your obsession for him. The price is too high. We can't reign here without the support of the people. The First Order will get rid of us if we don't stop this madness - now." Master Ren: "So it shall be then. I will leave with Jino and give him the worlds - all of them."

Lt. Agnon took his Master to the bedroom. Jino is still unresponsive. In complete shut down. He didn't even touch his food. Lt. Agnon: "He won't be able to see the worlds you are going to offer him. He's dieing. If you really love him - let him leave - and live."

Something in the Master broke when he saw Jino withering away. Better without him than seeing him hurt. Lt. Agnon was right. The Master's voice was hoarse when he told Lt. Agnon that Jino and his friends were to be released. Lt. Agnon: "It is for the best."

Before Lt. Agnon could leave the apartment to release the Boys, the Master stopped him. Master Ren: "You will never leave me - promise me." Lt. Agnon: "Master..." Master Ren: "Promise." Lt. Agnon, breathless: "I will never leave you, Master."

Master Ren kissed Lt. Agnon wildly. And Lt. Agnon knew he had to give the Master his all to make him forget Jino...

If only for a while. This isn't the first time he let the Master use him so he could get over Jino...

Maybe, one day, the Master would use him because he wanted him - and only him. The Master just said he didn't want him to leave... One day - maybe. Until then he would take all the Master had to give to him.

Let the Master use him. His burning anger and fathomless sadness. His probing tongue and hard lightsaber shaft...

Eventually the Master fell asleep - exhausted. And Lt. Agnon went down to the cell block to discuss the further procedere with Saiwa. Lt. Agnon: "You can leave with Jino and we will broadcast the handover of the Shuttle to convince the Batuu folks that everything went smoothly and we can get back to normal." Saiwa: "And B.D?" Lt. Agnon: "He will be there too. You will agree it is for the best for our diplomatic relations if no one learns about our little ... eh - mishaps. The arrests - and attempt kidnapping." Saiwa: "Agreed." It was hard for Saiwa to remain calm after all that had happened to Jack and Vlad and Ji Ho. But they had to think of their mission - to get B.D free without tainting the diplomatic relationships with Batuu. That would only be a hardship for the good people here. The people who'd helped them. And they'd known beforehand what they'd get themselves into by setting foot on this planet... Sai even expected it would be much harder o.o'

Lt. Agnon: "And you really should keep your distance to that cat - Lenny. He became even more of a legend after we'd banned all cats down here on Batuu. But you agree that was necessary after what he'd pulled here..." Saiwa: "What exactly did he pull here?" Lt. Agnon: "I thought they'd told you at the Cantina?" Saiwa: "Well, there was no time for chitchat since we got arrested before we could even order our drinks." Lt Agnon: "Right. See, after Val and Jino left, Master Ren wanted to chase them - but something rampaged through the ventilation shafts of his ship and scared the mechanics and his personnel to death. The Master lost track of Jino and was so furious he banned all cats from Batuu." Saiwa: "We really should stay away from Lenny..." So Lenny was the reason why Val and Jino were always a step ahead!

Seems Skully has hacked the speakers down in the cell block, because there was a really weird song playing:

'He's compelled his creepy elves To do his every wish One sought to be a dentist Now he's sleeping with the fish Mrs. Claus, she works the pole Plans her man's demise Soon the elves will all rise up And stab out Santa's eyes

Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho Earthlings are so weird I don't know what Christmas is But Christmastime is here'

I don't know what Christmas is - but Christmas Time is here from the Guardians of the Galaxy Holiday Special

From the Beginning 🔱 Underwater Love 🔱 Latest

Current Chapter: starts ▶️ here Last Chapter: 'Here comes the Sun' from the beginning ▶️ here

📚 Previous Chapters: Chapters: 1-6 ~ 7-12 ~ 13-16 ~ 23-29

[verdemoun]

does sean ever get to re-tell the stories of his da, except now he has the gang’s attention he doesnt need to overexaggerate? like he used to tell stories of his father holding a gun in the air righteously, yelling battle cries, or just saying really cool insults (which poor darragh probably wouldnt even know). but now he can properly say what happened without having worry about the gang thinking his da isnt cool or outlaw-y enough then discovers his da sounds way more realistic, normal and somehow more admirable this way? sorry if this is too random😭

c:< no this is the perfect amount of random

sean is telling one of his usual stories about his da, to a much more patient and understanding gang who have learned about darragh's legacy and genuinely enjoy how animated and proud and happy sean is to tell stories about his da, when sean says one of his dad's famous insults 'your ma's sucking cocks in hell!!'

and a few, namely arthur and lenny, give each other a glance. they don't interrupt, they let him finish, but lenny says later, in semi-private 'sean i'm pretty sure that quote's from a movie'

sean gets. weird. heated, obviously furious, but quiet. insists they must've got it from one of the articles about his da, because he remembers hearing it clear as day. could tell the exact same story again, word for word, that his da said it just before running the barn was set alight and the smoke created enough of a screen for him to slip away all while dodging enemy bullets. stole one of their horses and galloped off into the night

arthur doesn't say anything, but he knows that wasn't true. because that was him and sean that set the tobacco fields ablaze

separately, but almost at the same time, lenny and arthur remember sean was only 10 when he lost his da. 10 was a long time ago. hell, arthur was 14 when dutch and hosea picked him up but he has maybe half a dozen memories from his life before then

maybe there's an element of truth in the stories, maybe there's a distant memory, but sean's brain has been picking up little factoids and quotes and quips to fill in the blanks. he doesn't actually remember that much about his da's adventures in detail - but admitting it would absolutely kill sean

so they listen to stories, and sometimes notice things that couldn't be true like turns of phrase that weren't a thing in pre-1890s and stories that sound oddly like movie scenes or their own adventures but they don't say anything because remembering his da, even if the memories aren't entirely true, makes sean happy. and who are they to correct him?

one thing that sean does remember is perfect, second for second memory, was the first time he saw his da properly afraid. he remembered the wagon he was sleeping in jolting to a stop, when he was maybe 8 or 9, and when he poked his head out to ask what was going on darragh covered his mouth roughly and told him in lethal seriousness to be quiet

there, standing in the middle of the trail, was a bull moose. an absolutely stunning moose that stood taller than their dingy little wagon. just looking at them them. darragh was terrified, because nothing he had ever seen before prepared him for the sight of a living moose.

sean, equally terrified but in awe, crawled out onto wagon's bench seat beside his da, wincing as it creaked, and both watched and waited in terrified awe as this moose boredly chewed a few leaves off a tree, snorted a plume of steam in the cold air at them, but decided to trot away into the woods.

sean said something along the lines of what in the jesus christ was that. darragh collected himself in a second, scolded him for using the lord's name in vain, and told him to go back to sleep. moose are still his favorite animal, because every time he sees one, or even the antlers, he remembers his da as clearly as a photograph

it's lenny's favorite story to hear, because there is that unspoken affection for his da and confidence in sean's voice, because he knows that story is completely 100% true

[rabbitzk]

John Marston x Reader! Wife

Warnings: None

Type: Fluff

Fandom: Red dead redemption 2

When you're in a group of outlaws, helping out with camp chores was the only way to pass the time. We didn't have many options for entertainment, but we did what we could.

Wiping your hand on your clothes the moment you finish, you get up from the floor, you can see Karen and Molly fighting in the distance, their voices cursing at each other, the heavy air was palpable between the two women.

But a normal day in the Van Der Linde gang.

Sighing, you spread out the missing clothes in Tilly's area, until you're interrupted, your concentration fading when you realize it was only Dutch returning with the other boys.

— Hey, guys! Dutch is back! — Lenny announced, lowering the gun he was pointing.

You're relieved to see that they're finally back, running towards him just like the other girls, worry on your face.

— Where's John? — You asked, your anxiety growing even more.

— He stayed behind, but Arthur went after him. The idiot's all bruised up! — Micah sneers, laughing out loud.

— Shut up, Micah.

You warned, fists clenched and eyebrows furrowed.

— Ha! Easy there, tigrona! — Micah teases, not caring about your anger.

You decide to ignore Micah, until you see Arthur's horse, Arthur was on his horse while leading John's, which was in a terrible state.

You run up to them, heart racing.

—John! John, are you all right? — You screamed, tears streaming down your face, clinging tightly to your husband.

— Calm down, woman, it's just a scratch. — John said, getting off the horse with Arthur's help, and walking over to me, taking my hands in his. - I swear.

You hold back the tears, hands clutching John's clothes, before you pull him into your tent.

John grumbled as he felt the sting of the medicine I was giving him.

— Take it easy. It stings.

— What burns, heals. — You say, trying to comfort him.

After that, you remain in a comforting silence, but not before he mutters angrily to himself, he didn't want his wife to see him in this state, even more so looking after him like this.

— Enough.

He takes your wrist carefully, before you can react, John kisses your wrist, and pulls you onto his lap, kissing your neck lightly, and sighing in relief.

— Okay. Just be more careful next time!

— Hm.

— I love you.

And we kiss, as passionately as ever, our lips perfectly complementing each other.

— Also.

[inafieldofdaisies]

WIP Weekend | Tagged by @thesingularityseries ❤️

More from John and Sabrina's AU first chapter, where he's acting absolutely normal and acing a phone call.

"Lead the way then, before you freeze." "I'm totally fine, John.", Sabrina glanced back at him as she started walking down the sidewalk, eventually coming to a stop in front of an old Ford Bronco while she searched for her keys. Something about his silence must have made her think he was experiencing a surprise at her choice of vehicle, because she added, "Go on, ask why I'm driving that at my age." "I wasn't going to." "No?" All he could offer was the truth, sensing a certain level of attachment to her vintage ride, "It suits you." "Oh? Should I feel offended?", she parroted his earlier words with a grin as she opened her door first and climbed into the driver seat, then reached over to unlock his as well. "No.", he settled next to her, reveling into her closeness when she pivoted to throw her bag on the backseat of the truck, "It was a compliment." His gaze drifted up to small metal butterfly charm paired with a couple of rainbow beads that hung from her rearview mirror as she put the Bronco into drive, "A butterfly?" "Hm?", she snuck a peek from the corner of her eye, another strange expression passing over her dimly-lit features. "A butterfly.", he repeated, grasping at the ornament carefully as he examined it, "Interesting choice."

Rin-Rin? It was what the beads spelled, and despite the fact she said nothing at his remark he could feel something about her demeanor shifting while she chewed on her lip nervously and did her hardest to keep her eyes on the traffic light she was waiting on to turn green. "So… did you at least have a good flight from, uh-" "Atlanta. And not really. No." That captured her interest, "Why's that?" "Hardly enjoyable when someone is sleeping on you mid-flight." Yet he couldn't say he would be saying the same if she was the one sitting in the middle seat on that plane and leaning on him. She let out a laugh, "That bad?" He frowned at the awful memory, "I swear he was snoring and close to drooling." "The wonders of public transportation." "Yes, I was envious of the pilot." "Oof, I wouldn't.", she shuddered lightly, "Imagine being responsible for so many lives and flying…" He was about to ask if she had fear of flying, when she changed the subject, "Awful flight, larceny, dead phone, you must be having a blast in Portland." "Don't forget Lenny sleeping on the job, but… my night is frankly starting to look up.", John retorted as he watched the lights from outside dance across her skin. Where during any drive, he would usually stick to minimal conversation and keep his gaze trained out of the window, from the second he had sat in the Bronco he had found himself being unable to look at anything but her, hating how every new turn and street brought them closer to his destination. To saying goodbye. In the daze, he had barely noticed they had driven over a bridge. "I'm glad to hear that.", her voice was small. Are you thinking the same, Detective? Feeling… disappointed?

The truck rolled to a stop in front of the brightly lit circular entrance of his hotel, his mood soaring at the very sight he was dreaming of seeing throughout his whole flight. "See, arrived in one piece, with your briefcase intact.", Sabrina quipped, finally turning in her seat to face him. "Thank you for the ride.", images of leaning in and stealing a kiss invaded his mind, but he shook off the outlandish idea as he reached for the door handle and swung the door open. Stop thinking if she'd going to taste just as good as she smells. Stop. The words echoed and did little to reign in his thoughts while his feet carried him away. Away from the moment. From her. From whatever he felt anytime she looked his way and said his name. "John.", her voice rang out, making him swivel around to face her and finding her leaning across his vacated seat to peek at him from the passenger side window. "Yes?" Go on… Ask to see me again. You're feeling it too, aren't you? Instead of giving him what he wanted, what he knew would be highly inadvisable, she uttered out, "Good night. I hope you get your things back soon. And… I'm sure you're not going to let the perp get away with it, Mr. Duncan." Damn right.

Her smile and small wave haunted him as he entered the hotel and crossed over the spacious lobby towards the reception where a petite blonde was in a deep conversation over the phone. As he got closer, she raised her index finger in a signal for him to wait while she scanned him from head to toe. Minutes flew by where she tried to resolve an issue a guest had with their room before she finally hung up the call and offered him an all-too-familiar grin. It bore a striking resemblance to the one Penny always aimed his way before trying to seduce him. These were his first sign to make his escape from the potential legal trouble brewing on the horizon. "Welcome, Mr-" "Duncan. I have a reservation.", annoyance creeped in at her flirtatious tone and heated look that made him feel like she was undressing him with her eyes. Her face fell at the cold reply, but he couldn't bring himself to correct his demeanor, feeling too tired of keeping up the usual charming facade, and of entertaining people in general, "Yes, yes, of course. One moment." Her fingers flew over the keyboard, and she shifted her gaze to the monitor in front of her, slight panic spreading over her features when her green eyes moved back to him again, "Uh-" "No.", he shook his head, sensing another thing was about to go awry. "I'm afraid there's been a mix-up. The room, we have on record for you is already occupied." He rose to his full height, resting his elbow onto the desk as the ruthless attorney in him came to the surface, "I have a reservation, miss." "I-I- understand that, Mr. Duncan, but…" "I flew 5 hours from Atlanta. My assistant made the arrangements weeks back. All has been paid in advance. I expect this "mix-up" to be fixed immediately. I'd hate to see this escalate further and ruin both of our nights." Starting with stripping all the stars your hotel has first thing in the morning.

The woman took a deep breath, forcing a smile, "I will get you settled into another room right away, sir. You can take a seat, it won't take long." "Thank you." John sauntered to one of the leather couches she had pointed at, making a show of checking his phone as he sat down, a part of him enjoying the anxious glances the woman sent him while she thought he wasn't paying attention. "Mr. Duncan.", the receptionist called out, depositing a black keycard to him the second he reached the desk again, "You're on the third floor, room 309. If you need anything, I will be at your service, just a simple call way.", her last words came out in a sultry tone, suggesting she had quickly recovered from previous tense interaction. Her eyes darted behind him in search of his suitcase, "Do you, uh-, you're traveling light, I pressume?" "No.", he offered nothing else despite her visible confusion. "Alright.", she gestured to a set of elevators to his right, "Have a good rest of your night, sir… and don't hesitate to reach out if you need any assitance." For heaven's sake- He set off without another glance in her direction, pressing the call button with way too much force and taking a calming breath at her excited parting wave, seeming completely unaware of his mood as the elevator doors closed.

John moved on autopilot to his room, unlocking the door and tossing his bag on the bed with a sigh, still refusing to believe he was finally there after the chaotic day he had lived through. After searching the bedside drawers for a charger, he plugged in his phone in last ditch effort at reviving it, then stripped off his suit jacket and matching vest as he stared at the empty street below. She's long gone. And I'm just another good deed under her belt. With his watch off and placed on the nightstand, he moved onto loosening his tie while thoughts of Sabrina doing the same emerged in his mind. How her fingers would work on the buttons of his shirt next and push it off his shoulders. Glide over his chest until they'd reach his dress pants. The whole time, her eyes would drink him in, paired with a caress that would set his skin on fire. "Fuck.", he groaned out, having no recollection when his own hand had slithered beneath his boxers in an attempt to mimic her ghostly touch. His feet carried him over to the bathroom while he slipped off his underwear somewhere between the doorway and the shower, depositing the garment on the counter before stepping under the stream. Hot water cascaded down his body, soothing his muscles and washing away the 5 hour-flight as his fingers wrapped around his erection. He shut his eyes tightly, picturing her in front of him at that moment. How he would finally kiss her until he'd almost lose himself in her taste. Her lips tracing a path down his chest and past his abdomen before closing around his length. His hand tangled in her hair to guide her and set the pace, hazel eyes looking up at him full of desire.

Out of nowhere, the water turned ice cold just as he began feeling his climax building up, the shock making him yelp out a string of curses as he fumbled with the knobs to no avail. The stream remained freezing, the universe deciding he was in a dire need of a cold shower. "Fuck that. Fuck this city and this goddamned hotel.", he exclaimed, hand traveling down his abs again as he imagined how Sabrina would squeal at the cold droplets raining down and plaster her body to his in search of warmth. Her giggles at the irony and his misfortune quickly transforming into moans as he'd thrust deep into her again and again. John leaned his forehead against the tiles, strokes picking up and making his body feel hot all over despite the biting water temperature. Her name left his lips as his release spilled out in spurs, then he focused on washing up in record time thanks to the shivers that racked his form. Completely spent, he stepped out of the shower and wiped off the stream that had gathered on the mirror, preparing himself for the usual guilt and emptiness that would settle in. The same ones he dealt with anytime he'd give into what his parents deemed sinful urges. He took a deep breath, staring at his reflection, eyes slowly filling with disbelief as he gripped the sink for support. Yet no matter how much he stood there and waited, the dreaded feelings never made an appearance. Instead, the place reserved for them over the years was occupied by thoughts of her. His body felt lighter, giddier, like every ounce of stress had left him at once. A current coursed through his limbs while his lips twisted into a smile. For once, the grin he wore wasn't forced or part of the mask he let people see, rather than real, like the few she had squeezed out of him during their interaction.

"What did she do to me?", he mumbled as he secured a towel around his waist and tip-toed back into the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed, body practically melting into the soft matress. His hand felt around the sheets blindly, in search of his suit jacket, fingers slipping into its pockets to fish out a business card. The one he had grabbed from Sabrina's desk without her even noticing before they had left the precinct. John rose back up to a sitting position, eyes drawn to his phone on the nightstand, "I'd be damned." The screen was lit up, showing the charging process. Before he could stop himself, he dove for the device and turned it on. "Thank God.", he exclaimed, completely ignoring the usual array of messages that always awaited him. His spontaneous plan to call her and hear her voice again had just been granted the plausible excuse he needed. Impatient fingers flew over the phone screen to input her digits and dialed her despite the small numbers on top telling him it was well past midnight and she was probably already asleep. Ring after ring sounded in his ear as he ran his hand through his damp hair, dreading getting to voicemail.

"Hello?", her smooth voice came through instead, surprising him for a brief second and prompting her to repeat, "Hello?" "It's-", he cleared his throat, suddenly feeling unsure, like he was making his very first phone call, "John. John Duncan." Where most would demand to know how he had even gotten their number, Sabrina only laughed, then added, "Don't tell me you're in trouble. Feels like I dropped you off 5 minutes ago." "Does a broken shower count?", on her side, he could hear water running in the background before it suddenly shut off. "John?" "Yes?" Her question carried another hint of amusement, "Are you, like… making up excuses for the call?" He frowned at the baseless accusation, "No. Of course not." "It's okay if you are… I mean, it would be a bit strange, but, I-" "I'm not, I promise. What did you say before? Cross my heart?" "Okay.", she mumbled, not sounding at all convinced he was telling the truth, "So… why did you call then?" "You said to await a call from the detective that would be in charge of my case. I finally managed to get my phone to turn back on and thought-" He wanted to slap a hand over his mouth, to stop the ramble from coming out so fast and furthering her suspicions of the nature of his call. This is going brilliantly. "John, uh, can you give me a second?", she thankfully interrupted his unrestrained explanation, sounding a little distant like she was talking from across the room out of a sudden. "Are you alright?", he asked slowly, wondering if whatever bad luck was plaguing him had rubbed off on her, too.

Her voice was back to normal, aside from the laugh she forced, "Just peachy. You caught me as I was coming out of the shower, you dialed my work number… anytime I get a call on it, it's some type of development on a case, so I rushed out without thinking." "Oh.", was all he could get out, the visuals of her admission making him shift on the bed. Was I on your mind, too? Were you touching yourself, wishing I was there? "John?", her tone made him worry he had spoken his thoughts out loud on accident. "Yeah?" "You got really quiet over there, I thought the call dropped.", a drawer slammed shut somewhere in the distance, "I was saying, that seeing how it's not an emergency, I thought I could put some clothes on first, instead of…", she trailed off, then added more quietly, "sitting around in a towel and talking to you." "Because that would be weird?", he looked down at the towel that was concealing another inevitable "situation" in the making. "Yes. So just… pretend I said nothing." He leaned back on his free hand, pressing the phone closer to his ear, "And if I don't want to?" "Why would you-", she thought better of it, "Never mind." It would be a miracle if I wake up tomorrow and she doesn't have a restraining order in place. "Would it help if I said I'm dealing with the same issue? So I won't exactly judge you." She breathed into the receiver, no doubt shocked at the revelation, the sound going straight to his one body part that needed it least at that moment, "No. Not really. Is this a joke?" "No."

"Okay. Um, wow.", he could hear shuffling from the other side, a door closing, "So what's your excuse?" John ignored the question, "Did you get dressed?" "Yes. I told you I was going to.", the long pause before she responded fed his curiosity, "Are you trying to dodge my question?" "Stolen suitcase, remember? Or did you imagine me sleeping in my only suit? I suspect my client wouldn't appreciate that when I go to our meeting in the morning." That won another laugh out of her, "Yeah, you probably wouldn't be too comfortable sleeping in it, either way. Now, about your phone… is this the number I should pass along to Stockton?" "Yes." "Alrighty. I will make sure he gets it." "Thank you." He lay back down on the bed, knowing any second she was about to wrap up their call. For once, he genuinely wished to talk to someone, and he somehow ended up making things awkward. A muffled yawn, followed by a quick 'sorry', filled the silence, "I know I probably shouldn't have called, Sabrina. You could have been sleeping." "It's okay. But next time, if it's not absolutely urgent, you could maybe text, keep the line free for tips." "What are the chances of you giving me your personal number?", he pushed his luck further, then checked the screen to make sure that she was just thinking over the idea in silence, that the call hadn't disconnected or she hadn't finally had enough of his blunt tangents and hung up.

"I'm not sure that would be appropriate.", she concluded flatly. "Why?" "You're a victim involved in an ongoing case." John rolled his eyes at the poor excuse, "That has nothing to do with your division, Detective." "You're from Atlanta." He was starting to worry about her inevitable appearance in court, "That sounded like an insult." "It wasn't meant to be one." "Try again." He could physically feel the sigh she let out, "Why did you really call me?" "Should be obvious." "Why, John?", she repeated. Fine, I will bite. "I wanted to hear your voice." Yes. She's definitely getting a restraining order now. When Sabrina said nothing, he tried again, "So, the number? One I could call you on." "I will think about it." It wasn't the answer he wanted to hear, but still, it was better than a straightforward 'No' or 'Fuck off, you creep.'. "Okay.", the word was followed by more shuffling, this time sounding like rustling of sheets, like she was turning in bed, getting comfortable. "Are you in bed?", he inquired, not taking any time to think better of it. "Are you?" He smirked, "'On it' would be more accurate." "Ah, semantics, why am I not surprised."

Her playful tone urged him on, "And you're wearing-" "an old T-shirt, an absolute sight to behold and write home about." "Show me.", the request came out as more of an order. "What are you asking?" "Send me your number.", he muttered before hanging up. He knew chances were that she might not entertain the idea, but taking a gamble when the outcome was worth it wasn't anything new to him, and neither was weighting up his odds. He could only hope her curiosity and the interest he had observed earlier were strong enough, louder than her professional reasonability. John held up his phone, waiting for a message to pop up until the screen went dark and minutes passed by without anything coming through. He got up, putting away the only clothes he had and scowling at the wrinkles that had formed on his shirt and how he would have to show up to the meeting with Mooney wearing yesterday's suit. He eventually dragged himself back to the bathroom, switching the towel for his boxers. The smile he wore minutes prior was long gone, substituted by a frown over the realization Sabrina wasn't going to text him and the fact he was still hard for her. "Shitstorm.", he muttered under his breath and exited the bathroom, his gaze falling on the hotel phone as he remembered the offer the girl at the reception had made. "No." He had tried that before with every time ending up the same - with him feeling that wretched emptiness once the high was gone and wanting to kick the woman out of his bed as soon as possible. He had no doubt if he was to call her up, he would only find himself imagining someone else - Sabrina, which would only complicate things even more.

His mood was getting darker by the second just as his phone pinged with a new message, the sound making him cross the room with quick strides. He clutched the device, hope taking flight within him as he opened the notification. A number. Sabrina had given into her curiosity, thrown caution to the wind. "Or she's texted me a random number and is having a laugh at my expense." He dialed it without wasting any time in wondering about the most likely outcome or how his look in the mirror had shown him as a less put-together version of himself. Anticipation climbed up his spine as the rings sounded off, and her face filled the screen. "Hey.", she said in a greeting, rubbing at her eye before propping up her head against her hand as she regarded him. He drank her in as she reclined back against her bed's headboard- from the shy smile pulling at her lips to the messy bun her hair was in and how the soft light in her room teased her features. "I was starting to think you'd gotten cold feet." Her hazel eyes shone as she let out a laugh, "If I had to bet, I'd say you'd be the one getting cold, Mr. Duncan, stolen clothes and all that. I feel like I can skip on asking to see what you're wearing." "Ouch.", he rubbed at his chest at the jab, "That one hurt." "Too soon?" "Mhm. Now, I was promised a sneak peek, or should I say, undeniable proof?"

She matched his smirk, panning the phone down while she announced in a hushed but still dramatic tone, "Behold. The most exquisite sleepwear you will ever see." His gaze took in the dark blue short-sleeved shirt she was covered by, worn-out and equally as alluring with how it hugged her body. The cotton material left little to his imagination. She moved the camera back to her face way too soon, "See?" He nodded thoughtfully, "Designer brands have nothing on it." "Truly." His mind drifted to the unknown man in her phone and her speaking quietly, "And you're alone?" Definitely didn't sound creepy or anything. "No.", his heart sank until she added, "A whole harem of guys is keeping me company, actually. They're currently fighting who will be sleeping on my tiny bed, and who's taking the ground, pillowless. A true form of punishment, I tell you." "Sounds entertaining." "Oh, absolutely. Wish you were here, huh?" His voice grew serious, huskier, "You have no idea." "Though, chances are you'd probably end up on the floor too, I love my bed too much to share it." Sleeping on the ground had never sounded more appealing to him, sore back and everything.

Tagging, @madparadoxum @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @strangefable @strafethesesinners @florbelles @chazz-anova @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @g0dspeeed @aceghosts @adelaidedrubman @poisonedtruth @purplehairsecretlair @corvosattano @euryalex @trench-rot @voidika @v0idbuggy @cassietrn @simplegenius042 @jillvalentinesday @stacispratt @nightbloodbix @theelderhazelnut @shegetsburned @dumbassdep and anyone with something to share ❤️

[gamergirl-06]

Uncle Bruno

I just thought of this idea of Bruno being an uncle and I had to write it down because I think it is adorable.

Bruno was at the workbench modifying his weapon before he was due to head out again to the Serling Hotel to find Reed.

Once he was done he turned back to see his 3 year old nephew, Len, on the couch next to Sam who was talking to him.

Bruno had become Len’s sole caregiver after Len’s parents passed a year ago.

It was hard to drag a toddler through the apocalypse, it just wasn’t natural for a child to be apart of this world in its current state.

Bruno did the best he could though, ensuring his nephew lived a normal life as much as possible.

He protected him from the dangers of the Zombies and always kept him by his side at all times.

Walking over to the couch Bruno smiled at Len

“Hey buddy, you having fun with Sam?”

The toddler smiles “yes uncle Bruno”

Bruno picks him up and sets the little one on his hip

“Uncle Bruno has to go out, you have to stay here and keep safe with Emma and Sammy” Bruno told Len as he looked up at him.

“Are you coming back?” The toddler said “are you leaving me?”

“What? No of course not Lenny, I’ll be back, I will be a day or two” Bruno said kissing his nephews cheek.

He set him down and Len climbed back on the couch and next to Sam who smiles at the little tike.

Bruno turns to Sam “Sam can you look after him while i am gone? I don’t want anything to happen to him”

“Of course I will, he has everyone in this house to protect him, nothing will get him, they have to go through us first” Sam assured him.

Bruno smiled and turned to walk to the door before he heard a “bye bye uncle Bruno”

He smiled “bye bye buddy, I love you”

Emma walked down the stairs when Bruno walked out and sat beside the little one.

“Hey buddy, do you want to watch a movie with us, you can pick” she smiles

The toddler smiles “Yes!”

She grabs his hand and leads him to the the disc collection she had and he chooses what to watch and they all sit down and watch it.

Meanwhile Bruno had made his way to the Serling were he met Reed.

They talked about his immunity for a bit and Bruno confessed to the doctor:

“I need to get out of this city doc, I have a 3 year old nephew and I don’t want him to live in an environment where he needs to defend himself every second of everyday.”

Reed gave him a soft glare “hey your doing your best, he is still alive because of you”

Bruno nodded “yeah..”

Reed put a hand on his shoulder “Do what you can for him and stay alive, he needs you”

The next Back at Emma’s, Len had spent time with Andrea who he was a little helper for.

After a while they both stopped cleaning and went to the main lounge area and when they do the radio on the table goes off and Emma answers.

“Hey guys I need you guys to come to me right now, bring Len with you, I found a helicopter and a pilot to fly”

Len perked up at his uncles voice and made his way over to Emma who picked him up.

“Ok we are coming, where do we meet you?” Emma asked

“In the sewers” Bruno said and hung up.

The three of them leave the house and made their way down to the sewers. There were a few stray walkers but Sam took care of that.

Entering the sewers they turn right and walk up to a door and open it and wait for Bruno.

The door opens 5 minutes later and Len makes grabby hands.

“UNCLE BRUNO!!!” Len cried

Bruno immediately picks him up and hugs him tight

“I missed you buddy, your ok” Bruno looks at Emma and Sam “thank you guys for keeping an eye on him”

“What can we say we love him too” Emma says pinching lens cheeks making him laugh.

Bruno knocks on the door “Patton I have some friends”

The door opens and an older man reveals himself and they all made their way through and Patton comments on how adorable Len is.

Going deeper into the sewers and onto train tracks Bruno hands Emma Len and helps Patton open the door which he succeeds in doing.

Unfortunately the door closes before Bruno can get in and and Emma tells him to find another way around.

She runs with Len in his arms as he cry’s out for his uncle.

She soothes him “it’s ok he is going to find us”

They get to a part with multiple walkers and Patton and Sam Take them on and Bruno come through the door on the other side.

“Alright” he says smiling and looks at his nephew who is begging for him.

“It’s ok buddy I’ll be with you in a minute” Bruno said his heart breaking at his nephew sounding so sad.

“We will meet up with you down the line” Emma yells before taking off again.

a little while later the 4 of them find themselves in a train station with some zombies close by chasing after you.

The radio goes static and Emma picks up “hello?”

“Good news I have found a train” Bruno says.

“You know how to drive one?” Emma asks

“If I get it powered on I can come to you guys, I’ll see you soon”

Walking through the station they finally make it and see light.

Walking up stairs they see a figure and it’s appears to be Bruno.

“Hey you made it” Emma says startling Bruno

“Yeah” he replies before a wave of zombie noises are heard.

“No time for a debrief, we got a mob in our tail” Sam says hitting the handle of his hammer on his palm.

Bruno opens the shutters and grabs his never before they track up an escalator but patton start to get scared.

“I don’t know if I can do this”

Emma approaches him and reassures him that he can and referenced on of her movies and asked him to help her like the guy in her movie did.

This convinces patton to fly the plane when you come to it and Sam collapses.

“Sammy” Len says

“I’m ok Len” he says weakly

Emma puts a hand on his head “he is burning up we need to help him now”

Bruno look at Len in his arms and says to him “Lenny..I’m sorry but I have to go find medicine for Sammy, to make him better. Be a good boy ok?”

“Yes” Len says as his uncle leaves yet again to make Sam feel better.

Len sat on Sam’s lap and Sam smiled at this “thank you buddy”

They the three embrace as Patton smiles watching them.

It seemed like ages passed when Bruno came back with the cure for Sam and giving it to him.

Sam comes too and says “for some reason I’m starving, got any of that pastrami”

Bruno nods and bends down to his nephews level

“You, Emma and Sammy need to get out of here”

“What about you uncle Bruno” Len said

“I still have work to do here but I promise I’ll come find you, ok” Bruno said hugging his nephew before putting him on the plane with the others and the doors close.

Len waves and Bruno waves back.

As the plane takes off, Bruno turns back to the gate of zombies getting in and he readies his weapon as his thoughts say.

‘Do this for Len’

[alixinwwonderland]

What would you say the show showed Lenny’s love language as? Quality Time?

Actually, I'd say it's acts of service and/or words of affirmation.

Even before he's a "love interest," while he's still primarily a friend and mentor to Midge, Lenny lets his generosity do the talking. He bails Midge out in return for her bailing him out, but then he goes further: he makes sure she gets to Susie okay, he invites her to the Vanguard, and, later, he breaks Sophie's blackball for her. He does favors for her that he wouldn't for anyone else, because, as he says, "You know I like you, and normally I would do anything in my power to make you feel better."

But mixed in with all of that is his words of affirmation. It starts simply, with him using his microphone (literally and figuratively) to tell others how great she is.

But then it goes beyond that. The deeper he gets into being actively in love with her, rather than caring about her solely as a friend, the more he lets his guard down, and the more he says the loveliest things to her in lieu of actually saying "I love you."

And it seems like he blossoms under the same things. Midge's words to him aren't phony, or trying to get something from him — so her compliments mean something. Just look at the glistening eyes and hear the crack in his voice when she says "lucky girl" about Kitty coming to stay with him, as if no one's ever said that about him. But even more than that, see the way he reacts when Midge shows up for him the same way he shows up for her. It's how he falls for her.

[folkimplosionmusic]

Tim Buckley

Martin Aston, MOJO, July 1995

IN 1965, THE LOS ANGELES MAGAZINE CHEETAH dubbed three emerging singer-songwriters – Jackson Browne, Steve Noonan, and Tim Buckley – 'The Orange County Three'.

Browne progressed towards a comfortably feted stardom which endures to this day Noonan vanished into the ether after one album. And somewhere between their two paths drifted the late Tim Buckley. Between rabid adulation and ignoble obscurity, between legendary status and the losers' list, his is a fixed position, like a star that shines fiercely in the night sky but in space was extinguished eons ago.

Twenty years after his death on June 29, 1975, diehard disciples complain of the mismanagement of Tim Buckley's legacy. Here was a man whose recordings remain extraordinary cross-pollinations of folk-rock, folk-jazz, the avant-garde and all points in between. They are, in the words of Lillian Roxon's famed 1969 Rock Encyclopaedia, "easily the most beautiful in the new music, beautifully produced and arranged, always managing to be wildly passionate and pure at the same time". A shame, then, that they are still to be posthumously rewarded with a decent CD reissue campaign.

"When an artist finally comes through all this mess, you hear a pure voice," said Tim Buckley three months before he died. "We're in the habit of emulating those voices when they're dead."

TIMOTHY CHARLES BUCKLEY III WAS BORN IN AMSTERDAM, New York on Valentine's Day, 1947, his family uprooting westwards a decade later to Anaheim, home of Disneyland and strip malls. He grew up with music. Grandma dug Billie Holiday and Bessie Smith, mom adored Sinatra and Garland. Timothy Charles III himself leaned towards the gnarled county of Johnny Cash and Hank Williams, the lonesome sound of the singing cowboys. The kid even taught himself to play the banjo.

Larry Beckett, the Buena Vista high school friend who added erudite lyrics to Buckley melodies over the years, recalls how schoolboy Tim always wanted to sing. Buckley had learnt how to use his perfect pitch from crooners like Nat 'King' Cole and Johnny Mathis but chose to exercise his range by screaming at buses and imitating the sound of trumpets. His voice set sail for the edge early

Jim Fielder, Tim's other best buddy at school, recalls first hearing the Buckley voice. "One hesitates to get flowery but the words 'gift from God' sprung to mind," he says. "He had an incredible range of four octaves, always in tune, with a great vibrato he had complete control over. You don't normally hear that stuff from a 17-year-old."

Recruited by C&W combo Princess Ramona & The Cherokee Riders, Buckley played guitar in a yellow hummingbird shirt and turquoise hat. The Princess soon saw that Timmy's heart wasn't in country – his nascent love of Miles Davis and John Coltrane testified to that – so suggested he turn instead to the burgeoning folk scene. Despite an intuitive gift for its melodic nuances, 'folk-rock' was a tag that would later irk him. Buckley was always cynical about how the business worked. "You hear what they want you to play when you're breaking into the business," he told Sounds in 1972, "and you show 'em what you've got."

With Fielder on bass and lyricist Beckett on drums they formed two bands, the Top 40-oriented Bohemians and the more esoteric, acoustic Harlequin 3, who would mix in poetry and freely ad-lib from Ken Nordine's Word Jazz monologues.

Buckley quickly won great notices in LA, and the 'Orange County Three' accolade only heightened the interest of the music business. Mothers Of Invention drummer Jimmy Carl Black was impressed enough to suggest a meeting with Herb Cohen, a manager with a curiously dual reputation for unswerving breadheadedness and courageous work with mavericks from Lenny Bruce and the Mothers to Captain Beefheart and Wild Man Fischer. Instantly smitten – "there was no question that Tim had something unique" – Cohen sent a demo to Jac Holzman at Elektra, home of folk-rocking excellence.

"I must have listened to it twice a day for a week," said Holzman. "Whenever anything was getting me down, I'd run for Buckley. He was exactly the kind of artist with whom we wanted to grow – young and in the process of developing, extraordinarily gifted and so untyped that there existed no formula or pattern to which anyone would be committed."

Buckley in turn told Zigzag that he respected Holzman because he believed Jac only signed multi-talented acts who made each album an individual statement. Yet Buckley's self-titled debut album in 1966 was also his most generic. "I was only 19," Buckley later recalled in Changes magazine, "and going into the studio was like Disneyland. I'd do anything anybody said." The beat-guitar chime of Lee Underwood and the songs' baroque dressings were blood-related to The Byrds, par for the folk-rock course. "Naive, stiff, quaky and innocent, but a ticket into the marketplace," was Underwood's verdict. But you can discern what Cohen and Holzman had so clearly appraised: above all, that soaring counter-tenor voice and remarkable melodic gift.

The follow-up, Goodbye & Hello (1967), was tainted less by convention than by overambition. Producer Jerry Yester probably saw the chance to drape Buckley's ravishing voice in all the soft-rock flourishes at his disposal, while Beckett's convoluted wordplay was just the wrong side of pretentious. Buckley had radically outgrown the first album's high-school origins, his voice now adopting the languid resonances of his Greenwich Village folk idol Fred Neil on the aching ballads 'Once I Was' and 'Morning Glory'.

"Me and Tim hung around in Greenwich Village during the 1960s," recalls the reclusive songsmith of 'Everybody's Talkin'' and 'Dolphins'. "Tim was completely immersed in the music 24 hours a day He ate, drank and breathed music. I would not be at all surprised to learn that Tim worked on chord progressions and melody lines in his dreams, he was that committed to the art form."

In the Neil vein, Buckley's bristling 'I Never Asked To Be Your Mountain' is a six-minute epistle to his already estranged wife Mary Guibert and son Jeffrey Scott (better known now as Jeff Buckley).

"The marriage was a disaster," says Jim Fielder. "Mary was full of life and talent, a classical pianist and Tim's equal. But the pregnancy made it go sour, as neither of them was ready for it. To Tim it was draining his creative force, and Mary wasn't willing to take the chance on his career, putting it to him like, Settle down and raise a baby or we're through. That kind of showdown."

In the climax to 'I Never Asked To Be Your Mountain', Buckley yelped, pleaded, even shrieked "Baby, pleeeaEEESSE!"), the first evidence of the places his pain would take him. Honesty was the key. When Buckley and Beckett played it autobiographical – exquisitely vulnerable, naive yet insightful – the results were stunning. When they played to the gallery it sounded forced. Of the title track's anti-Vietnam tract, Buckley said, "I just hate the motherfucker. It's like, 'OK motherfuckers, you want a protest song, here it is'. They were bugging the hell out of me so I figured, just this once, and then I wouldn't have to do it again.

"Talking about war is futile," he reckoned. "What can you say about it? You want it to end but you know it won't. Fear is a limited subject but love isn't. I ain't talking about sunsets 'n' trees, I'm involved with America...but the people in America, not the politics. All I can see is the injustice."

Elektra's Jac Holzman, however, felt positive: a poster of Buckley loomed large over Sunset Strip. "As we got deeper into 1967 and Vietnam," Holzman observed, "the combined effect of his words, his music, his passion, his persona struck a particular resonance. To some extent he was the bright side of people's tortured souls, and maybe of his own tortured soul. He could express anguish that wasn't negative."

Goodbye & Hello reached 171 on the Billboard chart, but Buckley wasn't in the mood to consolidate. Instead, when Tonight Show guest host Alan King made fun of his hair, the singer retorted, "You know, it's really surprising, I always thought you were a piece of cardboard." On another outing he refused to lip-synch to 'Pleasant Street' and walked out.

WITH HINDSIGHT, UNDERWOOD TRACES Buckley's depressive tendencies to his father who "suffered a head injury in the Second World War and from then on his insecurities and rage made life miserable for Tim. He saw Tim's beauty, and called him a faggot and beat him up. He looked at Tim's talent and said he'd never make it. His mother didn't help: she'd tell him he'd die young because that's what poets always did. So he grew up deeply hurt and feeling inadequate, yet driven by this extraordinary musical talent that possessed him." The result, Underwood ventures, "gave Tim a deep-seated fear of success...he wanted people to love him but, as they did, he pushed them away".

"Long after his death," says Beckett, "I realised that there were very few songs he wrote that didn't have the word 'home' in them. It seemed like he felt homeless, and nothing would restore it. He seemed OK in high school, maybe a little wild, but he got increasingly neurotic. He'd almost welcome a negative comment that would reaffirm his feelings."

When, in 1970, Jerry Yester's wife Judy Henske poked fun at the line "I'm as puzzled as the oyster" in the majestic 'Song To The Siren', Buckley instantly dropped the song from the set. "He took the smallest criticism to heart," says Larry Beckett, "so that he couldn't even perform a song which he admitted was one of his all-time favourites!"

Another incident stands out from this period. Tim's choirboy looks and froth of curls had attracted a Love Generation-style teenybop following. At a show at New York's Philharmonic Hall, his most prestigious to date, various objects were thrown on stage, a red carnation among them. Buckley stooped down, picked it up and proceeded to chew the petals and spit them out.

"He was very vulnerable and emotional," says Beckett's ex-wife Manda. "It made him terribly attractive to everybody of both sexes. People just sort of swooned around him because he was so sweet. I think that frightened him. He was difficult to deal with because he was scared of his power over people. He almost seemed to reject his audiences for loving him so much. He wasn't mature enough to accept that kind of attention."

Tim would also embroider the truth. At school he'd lied about playing C&W bars, while Larry Beckett remembers dubious boasts of female conquests. Buckley also claimed to have played guitar on The Byrds' first album, which Roger McGuinn always denied. "Tim liked to feed the legend," Beckett recalls with a wry chuckle. "He was quite amoral – if a lie gave a laugh or strengthened his mystique, that was fine. But his music was always honest."

"If someone dared him to do something, he'd do it," recalls British bassist Danny Thompson, who accompanied Buckley on his 1968 UK visit. "This free spirit was what most people saw, but I also saw a bit of a loner. Unlike most people who get into drugs, he wasn't a sad junkie figure. He was more of a naughty boy who said, 'OK, I'll have a go, I'll drink that'."

If he admired Hendrix and Hardin and Havens, Buckley frequently railed against the rock establishment. "All people see is velvet pants and long, blond hair," he fumed. 'A perfect person with spangles and flowered shirts – that's vibrations to them."

"He viewed the blues-oriented rock of the day as white thievery and an emotional sham," says Underwood. "He criticised musicians who spent three weeks learning Clapton licks, when Mingus had spent his whole life living his music.

Retreating to his home base in Venice, LA, Buckley and Underwood took time out to immerse themselves in the music of the East Coast jazz titans. Miles, Coltrane, Monk, Mingus and Ornette Coleman all provided inspiration as rehearsals slowly metamorphosed into jam sessions. The day before playing New York's prestigious Fillmore East theatre, Buckley asked vibraphonist David Friedman to rehearse for the show. Seven hours without sheet music later, a new sound was born.

With Happy/Sad (1969), Buckley began to arc away from the underground culture that had launched him. New York photographer Joe Stevens, a good friend of Buckley's at the time, recalls the singer's suspicious attitude towards the forthcoming Woodstock festival. "He said, Are you really going? Oh man, it's going to be awful.' Yet we used to hang out on a friend's farm which was like a scaled-down Woodstock, with hippy girls walking around, weird food, drugs, freedom and trees."

Although Jerry Yester was again involved, Happy/Sad was the polar opposite to Goodbye & Hello's crowded ambition: spacious, supple, a sea of possibilities. The line-up was just vibraphone, string bass, acoustic 12-string and gently rippling electric guitar. "The Modern Jazz Quartet Of Folk," enthused vibraphonist David Friedman. "Heart music," Buckley offered, and Elektra used his words in the ads like a manifesto. Happy/Sad's only real comparison is Astral Weeks, a similarly symmetrical, fluid work that revels in its lack of boundaries while possessing a unique tension.

"The trick of writing," Buckley felt, "is to make it sound like it's all happening for the first time. So you feel it's everybody's idea."

Van Morrison, Laura Nyro and John Martyn were also melting the walls between rock, blues, folk and jazz; at 22, Buckley was the youngest of the bunch. He'd also caught the jazz bug the hardest. Yester revealed that the band resisted second takes, while 'Strange Feeling' was bravely anchored to the bass line of Miles Davis's 'All Blues' before Buckley's voice set sail, caressing and cajoling.

"Being with Tim was like going out with an English professor," recalls Bob Duffy, Buckley's tour manager at the time. "He was very serious and almost stodgy, exactly the opposite of what you'd think a rock star would be. He wasn't in the music business to get laid. If one of the guys in the band came up and mentioned women, 13 of them would run out of the room, except for Tim who just sat there, guitar in hand, almost like he was teaching himself the songs again even though he'd played these songs 200 times, because he wanted the show to be as musically performed as possible. I saw incredible shows that he got depressed about, and wouldn't talk to anyone afterwards – he was very Zappa-like in that demanding way, but he was one of the sanest people on that level that I worked with."

As its very title acknowledged, despite Happy/Sad's sun-splashed backdrop, musical invention and lyrical joie de vivre, its mood was acutely introspective. Critic Simon Reynolds has described it as "a poignant premonition of loss, of an inevitable autumn..."

Lyrics had clearly shifted to a secondary, supportive role. Larry Beckett says he was politely informed that the singer would pen the lyrics alone. "He was moving toward a jazz sound, so to have wild poetry all over the map, you'd miss the jazz. But it was my feeling too that Tim felt his success was due to my lyrics rather than his music, so he wanted to see how well he'd do alone. He tended to believe the worst about himself..."

"It was very hard for me to write songs after Goodbye & Hello, because most of the bases were touched," Buckley admitted. "That was the end of my apprenticeship for writing songs. Whatever I wrote after that wasn't adolescent, which means it isn't easy because you can't repeat yourself. The way Jac [Holzman] had set it up you were supposed to move artistically, but the way the business is you're not. You're supposed to repeat what you do, so there's a dichotomy there. People like a certain type of thing at a certain time, and it's very hard to progress.

In another interview Tim said, "I can see where I'm heading, and it will probably be further and further from what people expected of me."

"He was very friendly and open to ideas, not a prima donna or a hypocrite," recalls John Balkin, who played bass with Buckley in 1969-70. "There was no drugs, sex and rock'n'roll in relation to him as an artist, not like Joplin and Hendrix, getting stoned before or during a gig. He felt stifled and frustrated by the boundaries that be, trying to stretch as an artist but making a living too. I remember Herbie Cohen saying, 'Go drive a truck then'..."

PROGRESSION WAS NOW BUCKLEY'S WATCH-word. Dream Letter, recorded in 1968 at London's Queen Elizabeth Hall, was already more diffuse than Happy/ Sad, lacking the pulse of Carter CC Collins's congas. The budget couldn't afford him or bassist John Miller, so Pentangle's Danny Thompson was drafted in to play an intuitively supportive – and barely rehearsed – role.

"I got a call asking me to turn up and rehearse everything at once," recalls Thompson. "He refused to get into a routine of singing 'the song'. We did a TV show, and when it came to doing it live Tim said, 'Let's do another song', which we'd never rehearsed. It was two minutes longer than our time slot, and the producer was putting his finger across his throat, and Tim looked at him with a puzzled expression and carried on, like art and music was far more important than any of this rubbish that surrounds it. He was fearless."

Clive Selwood, who ran the UK branch of Elektra records, recalls the same episode: "Tim had got a slot on the Julie Felix Show on BBC. He turned up to rehearsals with Danny Thompson an hour late; he shuffled in, nodded when introduced to the producer, unsheathed his guitar, and they launched into an extemporisation of one of his songs that lasted over an hour. The producer and Felix watched open-mouthed, not daring to interrupt. The most exhaustingly magical performance I have ever witnessed – and all to an audience of three. When it was done, Tim slapped his guitar in the case, said 'OK?' to the producer, and departed."

A year later after a heady bout of touring, including the Fillmore East's opening night alongside BB King, Buckley's muse was flying high. In 1968 he'd sounded enraptured, a wayward choirboy testing the limits of a new-found sound, but the voice of 1969 scatted and scorched, twisting and ascending like a wreath of smoke. The music mixed blues, jazz and ballads, throwing in calypso, even cooking on the verge of funk. A key Buckley moment arrived at the climax of a simmering 14-minute 'Gypsy Woman' (from Happy/Sad), when he yelled, "Oh, cast a spell on Timmy!", like an exorcism in reverse. Few singers craved possession so hungrily.

A little-known artefact from this period is his soundtrack music for the film Changes, directed by Hall Bartlett who later went on to helm Jonathan Livingston Seagull. A live set from the Troubadour, finally released two years ago, previewed material that surfaced on Lorca (1970). The album was named after the murdered Spanish poet, whose simultaneously violent and tender poetics Buckley was vocally mirroring. On the song 'Lorca' itself, and on 'Anonymous Proposition' and 'Driftin',' Buckley floats and stings over a languid blue-note haze – crooning and stretching half-tones over shapeless stanzas.

"We never had any music to read from," bassist John Balkin remembers. "We just noodled through and went for it, just finding the right note or coming off a note and making it right." Buckley regarded the title track as "my identity as a unique singer; as an original voice."

The timing wasn't great. Now tuning into such mellow songsmiths as James Taylor, the Love Generation was in no mood to follow in Buckley's wayward footsteps, any more than Buckley had kowtowed to Elektra's craving for old-style troubadour charm. As Holzman says, "he was making music for himself at that point...which is fine, except for the problem of finding enough people to listen to it."

"An artist has a responsibility to know what's gone down and what's going on in his field, not to copy but to be aware," the creator responded. "Only that way can he strengthen his own perception and ability"

Around this time Holzman was poised to sell Elektra, which upset Buckley Although major label offers were on the table – "a lot of bread, which makes me feel really good" – he decided that money wasn't the issue: "That's not where I'm at. I can live on a low budget." After some deliberation he signed to Straight, a Warners-distributed label formed by Herb Cohen and Frank Zappa. "It would be better for me to stay with one man who had taken care of me," he said. "No matter what anyone thinks of Herbie, he's a great dude." But he capitulated to Cohen's demand to record a more accessible record: aptly named, Blue Afternoon (1969) is a collection of narcotic folk-torch ballads.

"Tim always wrote about love and suffering in all their manifestations," says Lee Underwood. "He felt that underneath love was fear, fear of love and success and attention and responsibility" In the album's centrepiece, 'Blue Melody', Buckley keens: "There ain't no wealth that can buy my pride/There ain't no pain that can cleanse my soul/No, just a blue melody/Sailing far away from me." In 'So Lonely', he confessed that "Nobody comes around here no more". In press material for the album, Buckley said the songs had been written for Marlene Dietrich.

Blue Afternoon beat Lorca to the shops by a month. With two albums vying for attention, his already diminished sales potential was halved. (Lorca didn't even chart). Buckley never commercially-minded, was still looking forward. "When I did Blue Afternoon, I had just about finished writing set songs," he told Zigzag. "I had to stretch out a little bit...the next [album] is mostly dealing in time signatures."

Has any troubadour ever stretched out quite as Buckley did on 1970's Starsailor? Buckley's third album in a year in the words of bassist John Balkin, was "a whole different genre". Balkin, who ran a free improvisation group with Buzz and Bunk Gardner of the Mothers, had introduced Buckley to opera singer Cathy Berberian's interpretations of songs by Luciano Berio, inspiring the ever-restless Buckley to new heights. Over throbbing rhythms and atonal dynamics, the Gardners' blowing was matched by Buckley's gymnastic yodels and screams: one moment he sounded like an autistic child, the next like Tarzan. Everything peaked on the title song, with its 16 tracks of vocal overdubs. Larry Beckett, recalled to add impressionistic poetry to expressionistic music, also had a field day: to wit, the likes of "Behold the healing festival/complete for an instant/the dance figure pure constellation." Indeed.

"For the 'Starsailor' track itself," recalls Balkin, "we wanted things like Timmy's voice moving and circling the room, coming over the top like a horn section, like another instrument, not like five separate voices. His range was incredible. He could get down with the bass part and be up again in a split second."

Fiercely beautiful, Starsailor is a unique masterpiece. Aside from 'Song To The Siren', the album was the epitome of uneasy listening. "Sometimes you're writing and you know that you're not going to fit," Buckley responded. "But you do it because it's your heart and soul and you gotta say it. When you play a chord, you're dating yourself...the fewer chords you play, the less likely you are to get conditioned, and the more you can reveal of what you are."

If Starsailor came close to Coltrane's 'sheets of sound', it was hard not to see it as commercial suicide. Attempts to reproduce Starsailor live didn't help. "The shows Tim booked himself after Starsailor were total free improvisation, vocal gymnastics time," recalls Balkin. "I can still see him onstage, his head down, snoring. There was one episode of barking at the audience too. After one show, Frank Zappa said we sounded good, and he wasn't one who easily handed out compliments."

"BUCKLEY YODELLING BAFFLES AUDIENCE," ran a Rolling Stone headline. As Herb Cohen says today, "he was changing too drastically, playing material that audiences weren't necessarily coming to hear and that was beyond the realm of their capability"..."An instrumentalist can be understood doing just about anything, but people are really geared to something coming out of the mouth being words," a resentful Buckley said in a subsequent press release. "I use my voice as an instrument when I'm performing live. The most shocking thing I've ever seen people come up against, beside a performer taking off his clothes, is dealing with someone who doesn't sing words. If I had my way, words wouldn't mean a thing."

Buckley was driven into deep depression by Starsailor's failure. Straight wouldn't provide tour support, the old band had fragmented because there was so little work for them, and Buckley was reduced to booking his own shows in small clubs. At last he shared the bitter, neglected status of his jazz idols. Underwood confirms that in order to take the sting away, Buckley dabbled in barbiturates and heroin. When Buckley prefaced 'I Don't Need It To Rain' on the Troubadour album by saying, "This one's called Give Smack A Chance", it was a dangerous joke. "He was mocking the peace movement, the whole Beatles mentality of the day" says Underwood.

At least his personal life had improved. He'd re-married, bought a house in upmarket Laguna Beach (subsequently painted black to outrage the neighbours), and effectively gone to ground. "I'd been going strong since 1966 and really needed a rest," was Buckley's explanation. "I hadn't caught up with any living." He also inherited his wife Judy's seven-year-old son Taylor.

Judy doesn't recall any drug abuse. Nor does she remember Tim driving a cab, chaffeuring Sly Stone or studying ethnomusicology at UCLA, as the singer often claimed at the time. Instead, she recalls Tim reading voraciously catching up with his favourite Latin American writers at the UCLA library and channelling his creative urges into acting.

The unreleased 1971 cult film Why? Starring OJ Simpson was shot during this period. "It was their first film but both Tim and OJ were incredible actors. The camera loved them," remembers co-star Linda Gillen. "Tim had this James Dean quality He's so handsome in the movie and yet such a mess! You know those Brat Pack kind of films, where people play prefabricated rebels who see themselves as kinda bad but they have a PR taking care of business? Well, Tim was the real deal. He didn't give a fuck how he looked or dressed. He had no hidden agenda. He had an incredible naivety.

"We used to improvise in the film. Tim's character talks to the effect that you can't commit suicide. You can't amend your feelings for other people; you have to find that thing that's good in you and keep that alive. A lot of the group had been onto my character about taking heroin but Tim would always be the sympathetic one. But that was Tim. He'd understand where they were coming from, why they would do what they did.

"On set, I used to hum to myself to fight off boredom and Tim would pick up on what I was humming, like 'Miss Otis Regrets', and we'd end up harmonising together" she continues. "I loved Fred Neil, and asked if he knew 'Dolphins', which he sung for me. He'd say 'They got to Fred Neil, don't let it happen to you'. He'd talk in this strange, paranoid, ominous way, about 'the man'. That night, we went to buy Fred's album and bypassed Tim's on the way! He never hustled his records to me; he wasn't a self-promoter.

"I wondered why Tim was working on this schleppy movie, because I knew people like Roger McGuinn who were making millions, and he said, very silently 'I need the money'. We were only earning $420 a week on the film, and I said, is that all the money you have right now? and he said, 'No, I'm getting a song covered,' which I think was 'Gypsy Woman' which Neil Diamond was going to do."

Meanwhile, the comic plot of his unfilmed screenplay Fully Air-Conditioned Inside was based on a struggling musician who blows up an audience calling for old songs and makes his escape tucked beneath the wings of a vulture, singing 'My Way'...

WHEN AN ALBUM FINALLY EMERGED IN 1972, Buckley had once again avoided covering familiar ground. Greetings From LA was a seriously funky amalgam of rock and soul. His youthful verve might have gone, but his wondrous holler whipped things along. "After Starsailor, I decided to re-evaluate, and I decided the way to come back was to be funkier than everybody," he boasted. But would radio stations play a record as shocking lyrically as Starsailor had been musically?

Judy was the new muse ('An exceptionally beautiful woman, provocative and witty too," says Underwood) and the album was drenched in lust. In a year when David Bowie made sex a refrigeratedly alien concept, Buckley wrote a set of linked songs in a sultry New Orleans populated by a constellation of pimps, whores and hustlers. "I went down to the meat rack tavern," was the album's opening line; and it closed on, "I'm looking for a street corner girl/And she's gonna beat me, whip me, spank me, make it all right again..."

Buckley explained his reasoning to Chrissie Hynde when she interviewed him for the NME in 1974. "I realised all the sex idols in rock weren't saying anything sexy – not Jagger or [Jim] Morrison. Nor had I learned anything sexually from a rock song. So I decided to make it human and not so mysterious."

Producer Hal Willner who subsequently organised the Tribute To Tim Buckley show at St Anne's Church, Brooklyn, remembers the singer at this time. "I saw Buckley live four times, including two of the best performances I've ever seen. He was everything someone could look for in music, totally transcendent. The first time took 100 per cent of my attention, like taking some sort of pill. You'd expect it from guys like Pharoah Sanders and Sun Ra, but that's a very rare feeling to get in rock. Another time he opened for Zappa in his Grand Wazoo period, and the audience was incredibly rude to him, booing and heckling. But he handled it beautifully just carrying on, talking sarcastically, trying to get them to blow pot smoke on the stage. He was a genius in every sense. He should be seen on the same level as Edith Piaf and Miles Davis."

"Rock'n'roll was meant to be body music," Buckley stated in Downbeat magazine. But diehard fans wanted to know why he was now singing rock'n'roll. "His last albums were dictated somewhat by business considerations," says Lee Underwood, "but few understood they were also dictated by major music considerations. Where else could he go after Starsailor's intellectual heights except to its opposite, to white funk dance music, rooted in sexuality? At least Tim's R&B was honest, unlike the over-rehearsed stuff that pretends to be spontaneous. Greetings is still one of the best rock'n'roll albums ever to come down the pike. Throughout his career, he constantly asked and answered a question that can be terrifying, which is, Where do we go from here? People criticised him during Lorca and Starsailor and wanted him to play rock'n'roll, but when he did they said he sold out."

True compromise was far more detectable on 1974's album Sefronia, released by Cohen and Zappa's new DiscReet label under the Warner Brothers umbrella. "Everyone was second guessing where he should go next," says his old friend Donna Young, "and Tim started listening to what other people thought."

Some new-found literary acumen was displayed on the title track, a ballad as lush as the album's reading of Fred Neil's 'Dolphins'. But five of the songs were covers, including the sappy MOR duet 'I Know I'd Recognise Your Face', while pale retreads of Greetings' honeyed funk served as filler. Guitarist Joe Falsia was now in the Tonto role, Underwood having stepped down to deal with his drug addiction. Herbie Cohen was obviously calling the shots. "Some of those songs were beautiful but you have to get through Herb's idea of what is commercial," says Underwood.

As commercial compromises go, Sefronia was terrific – radio-friendly and lyrically approachable – but Buckley knew the score. "If I write too much music, it loses, as happened on Sefronia. Y'know, it gets stale." In reference to the folk-rock era, he observed that "the comradeship is just not there any more, and it affects the music." His boisterous barrelhouse sound was showcased at 1974's Knebworth Festival in Britain, where Buckley opened a bill that included Van Morrison, The Doobie Brothers and The Allman Brothers Band. It was his first UK show since 1968, and few knew who he was.

Photographer Joe Stevens reacquainted himself with Tim at a DiscReet launch in London: "He was sitting at a table signing autographs, which I couldn't have imagined him doing before. When he saw me he said, 'Come on, let's get out of here,' before they'd even said, 'Ladies'n'gentlemen, Tim Buckley!' We hit the street, took some photos, then took a taxi back to my place. He spent two days curled around my TV set, cooing at my girlfriend. We got calls from Warners accusing me of kidnapping their artist! You could see what had happened to him. The youth had gone out of his face, and his smile would break into a frown as soon as it had finished."

Look At The Fool (1975), with its frazzled, Tijuana-soul feel, was purer Buckley again, but the songwriting meandered badly – 'Wanda Lu' remains one of the most ignominious final songs of any brilliant career. "It just seemed that the more down he became, the more desperate he sounded," his sister Kathleen told Musician magazine. "The work of a man desperately trying to connect with an audience that has deserted him," pronounced Melody Maker. The photo on the back cover caught Buckley with a quizzical, defeated expression. Look at the fool, indeed. Honest to the end.

In 1974, Buckley wrote to Lee Underwood: "You are what you are, you know what you are, and there are no words for loneliness – black, bitter, aching loneliness that gnaws the roots of silence in the night..."

"Tim felt he'd given everything to no avail," says Underwood. "He was even suicidal for a short while because he felt there was no place left to go, emotionally speaking. He was gaining new audiences and improving his singing within conventional song forms, but comments that he'd sold out made him feel terrible. He never understood his fear of success, and remained divided and tormented to the end. I urged him to take therapy shortly before his death, when he was feeling very bitter, to the point of suicide, but he said, 'Lose the anger, lose the music'."

"We saw a lot of him over the years as disillusionment set in," says Clive Selwood, who, inspired by Buckley's session for BBC's John Peel Show, later founded the Strange Fruit label and its Peel Sessions. "When we first met he spent his leisure time cycling across Venice Beach, guzzling a six-pack. When we last met, he was carrying a gun, in fear of the reactionary side of American life, who despised his long hair. He said, 'If you're carrying a gun, you stand a chance'."

"He continually took chances with his life," adds Larry Beckett. "He'd drive like a maniac risking accidents. For a couple of years he drank a lot and took downers to the point where it nearly killed him, but he'd always escape. Then he got into this romantic heroin-taking thing. Then his luck ran out." Buckley's most revered idols were Fred Neil – who chose anonymity rather than exploit the success of 'Everybody's Talkin'' – and Miles Davis, both icons and both junkies. "He lived on the edge, creatively and psychologically" says Lee Underwood. "He treated drugs as tools, to feel or think things through in more intense ways. To explore."

One planned exploration was a musical adaptation of Joseph Conrad's novel Out Of The Islands and a screenplay of Thomas Wolfe's You Can't Go Home Again. Of more immediate consequence, Buckley had won the part of Woody Guthrie in Hal Ashby's film Bound For Glory. The role might have restored him to public consciousness as well as financial independence, but in the end it went instead to David Carradine.

Buckley was still up for playing live. After a short tour culminating in a sold-out show at an l,800-capacity venue in Dallas, the band partied on the way home, as was customary An inebriated Tim proceeded to his good friend Richard Keeling's house in order to score some heroin.

As Underwood tells it, Keeling, in flagrante delicto and unwilling to be disturbed, argued with Buckley: "Finally in frustration, Richard put a quantity of heroin on a mirror and thrust it at Tim, saying, 'Go ahead, take it all', like a challenge. As was his way, Tim sniffed the lot. Whenever he was threatened or told what to do, he rebelled."

Staggering and lurching around the house, Buckley had to be taken home, where Judy Buckley laid him on the floor with a pillow. She then put him to bed, thinking he would recover; when she checked later, he'd turned an ominous shade of blue. The paramedics were called but it was too late. Tim Buckley was dead.

"I remember Herb saying Tim had died, and we all just sat there," recalls Bob Duffy, Buckley's old tour manager. "It wasn't expected but it was like watching a movie, and that was its natural ending."

"It was painful to listen to his records after he died," says Linda Gillen. "I remember how vibrant he was. He had that same lost alienation as friends who had committed suicide. He was smart, wonderful, mean nasty, kind, racist, and a loyal friend, all kinds of contradictions. A true original."

"When he died, I took a week off," remembers Joe Stevens. "He was special – an innocent in an animal machine."

IN 1983, IVO WATTS-RUSSELL of the 4AD label had the inspired notion to marry the vaporous drama of the Cocteau Twins to Buckley's 'Song To The Siren'. Punk's Stalinist purge was over, and the result was a haunting highlight of post-New Wave rock, launching both This Mortal Coil and Buckley's posthumous reputation.

Before he died, Buckley had been planning a live LP spanning the various phases of his career. Sixteen years later Dream Letter was released to great acclaim. "Nobody would have listened before," reckons Herb Cohen. "Things have their own cycle, usually close to 20 years. You have to wait."

"He knowingly compromised his fierce artistic ideals, but his gut feeling was that he'd get more freedom later," says Larry Beckett. "If he'd gone into hiding for 10 years, no end of labels would have recorded anything he wanted. Things do come around."

"He was one of the great ballad singers of all time, up there with Mathis and Sinatra," believes Lee Underwood. "He would have pulled out of his youthful confusion, expanded his musical scope to include great popular and jazz songs. Tim Buckley didn't say 'I am this, I am that'. He said, 'I am all of these things'."

© Martin Aston, 1995

[softrozene]

Fear

Anon asked: That did help with the comfort ask thank you clearing that up for me. Um may I get hc or scenario for a male reader that tries to keep his relationship with Lenny private because he's been traumatized for coming out years prior? There can be a solution or just comfort from the gang I just need to feel valid rn thnx if you do this Ro ❤️ 

rdr2 masterlist

Of course Love. You are valid and I hope you are in a safe spot. I did base this trauma after some past experiences I have heard over the years or things I’ve seen from media so I hope that it okay. I just want you to know that you are loved and I would fight the world for you.

For everyone else who needs to hear it, you are also valid and loved.

Why do I end up turning things into one-shots? 

Originally published on February 28, 2020

Lenny Summers x Male Reader

Warnings: mentions of past verbal/physical abuse, mentions of past homophobia, angst for a hot second, but then a fluff I promise

*I mention an American poet in here named Walt Whitman. Our father of free verse. He has constantly been presumed as gay because of some of his works such as in the Leaves of Grass and honestly, I just thought it was a nice touch since he lived from 1819-1892. (I totally have not read this dude’s works. I’m just a nerd when it comes to literature and recall a class discussion.)

Words: ~2k

-

Guard duty is extremely boring. Or right now it is. The only thing that is saving you from dying of boredom is the occasional squirrel or birds making movement. Not even a carriage is heard from your post and there is usually a gunshot or two heard from the road to Rhodes.

“Sleeping on the job?” Lenny’s teasing voice, that took you completely by surprise, makes you come alive.

A lazy smile forms on your face as you say, “Never.”

You take a glance around, making sure the coast is clear, before placing a chaste kiss on Lenny’s cheek. Lenny immediately reaches for your hands and both of you look at each other content. You relish in moments like this.

“(Name),” Lenny’s voice breaks the comfortable silence.

You give him your full attention as he goes on. “I know that we said our relationship is secret, but I’ve been thinking… I want to tell the gang soon.”

The good atmosphere comes crashing down around you as you slowly begin to fill up with panic. Your face is emotionless as you let your hands fall from his and rest at your sides. He senses the drastic change in your mood and is quick to continue on his thought.

“Now, we don’t have to anytime soon. I just thought it would be kinda good to get it out there. We’ve kept it secret for two months already- I guess I’m just tired of having to sneak around,” Lenny explains.

He reaches for your hand only for you to pull away abruptly. The flash of hurt doesn’t go unnoticed by you and you feel the guilt flood through your system. He plasters on a smile anyway.

“Just think about it (Name). I can tell you don’t wanna talk about it right now so I won’t force you. Uh- I’ll see you later.” He tries to go in for a kiss but stops immediately as he sees you tense up.

Before he can show the hurt once more, he leaves. You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. Everything feels heavy as his words go through your mind. All the past pain and panic feels like it’s setting you on fire.

“Fuck this I need a drink,” You say to yourself.

   ~*~  

“Thanks, Arthur! I really just needed someone to talk to,” Lenny states as he takes another drink of his beer.

The saloon is crowded at this hour but it makes good for talking normally then. The bottom of the saloon is packed so Arthur and Lenny lean against the railing on the upper level.

Arthur chuckles. “Yer lucky I came back to camp or you would’ve had to suffer from someone else. Let me guess… Is this ‘bout yer boyfriend?” Arthur asks bluntly since he already had a few drinks himself.

Lenny has only been sipping on his beer, being too consumed by the worry he feels. However, upon hearing Arthur’s guess, he lets out a gasp.

“What are you talking about?”

Arthur snorts as he states, “It ain’t that much of a secret, well to me anyway. You are acting how you were when you were sweet on Jenny. So shoot.”

“Well, I’ve been wanting to tell everyone since we made it official ‘bout two months ago but he… Doesn’t seem to want to? I don’t know if he’s ashamed of me or anything but I get the feeling that something deeper is going on-“

Arthur cuts Lenny off as he points down below them. Lenny follows the direction only to see his boyfriend looking rather troubled with the gentle Hosea. “Looks like you can go find out. C’mon kid, I’ll go with ya. Just follow my lead.”

“Oh Arthur, I think this is a bad idea.” He follows Arthur anyway.

   ~*~  

After a shot and getting a beer ready, you finally turn to the patient Hosea. He’s always all ears as he waits for you to speak about your problems. He’s used to this and you’re used to this. He is the father you never had, the father you wished you had.

“Hosea, thank you for taking me here,” You start your voice loud so Hosea can hear you.

It didn’t bother you at all that the place was filled with raucous men and working girls. No, whenever you were with Hosea, his presence just always made your worry disappear unless of course, it was a job. Whenever you feel like you have no one on your side you are able to go to him.

“I- Lenny and I are dating.”

Hosea smiles. “I know.”

Before you can ask how or anything else Hosea continues with a light-hearted tone. “I’ve known for a while. I’m not as dumb as the others and thanks to my age you can see love miles away. You and he are dating so what’s the problem?”

It takes a lot to admit this. Especially in this time and age when a male shows weakness, it’s usually considered pathetic. However, with your father figure sitting right here completely non-judgmental, the words fly right out of your mouth.

“I’m scared.”

All Hosea does is nod as he waits for you to continue. The wall you’ve set up so high is slowly crumbling down.

“I… Before I joined Dutch’s gang I was living with my family. They were considered high class which is why I had no problem stealing from them before I ran away on my 18th birthday. Anyway, this was a few years prior to that. I realized that I… simply wasn’t attracted to women. I told them this and my father’s reaction was to set up an arranged marriage with a gal from another wealthy family,” You explain.

You pause only to drink some of our beer. All this has been holding you back and finally bringing it up to Hosea is making you feel a bit better. You continue your story.

“The disgusted look my father gave me was enough to shut me up for a while. Well, until the first meeting with the girl. I started to not act like myself. I begged my mother who was heartbroken that her only son wasn’t perfect, to do something. ‘Course she didn’t. Just stopped talking to me unless it was ‘bout the wedding. The one thing I did enjoy doing there was reading. I read like crazy and one time my pops saw me reading but it must’ve been the last straw from my behavior because he burned the literature. Told me I shouldn’t be reading such filth.”

Hosea pipes up with a question, “What was it?”

“A collection of poems by Whitman. Leaves of Grass*,” The smile on your face is small.

Hosea smiles as he reassures you. “I borrowed a few of his works from Dutch. Interesting stuff. Dutch would love to talk about Whitman’s views of transcendentalism and realism. Beware if you do that though, he may talk the whole day. Though the works you referred to… I suppose your pa didn’t much like them.”

You give him a sad smile.

“You would be correct,” You say taking a shaky breath in before continuing, “After finding out I read the poems he grew beyond bitter to me. Eventually, he just snapped after I refused to talk to my fiancé. He paid some of his friends to beat me up on the way home. They would’ve killed me instead if it weren’t for a passerby.”

You seem to be done talking. Hosea can feel the relief but strong sad emotions coming from you. His eyes flicker a bit around the room before he speaks again.

“You said this was years ago. How did you cope after that?” He asks now curious about your mental state.

You laugh. It wasn’t a good laugh.

“I pretended to be in love with my fiancé. I acted like the son they wanted until my 18th birthday. The wedding was supposed to take place a week after on her own birthday but I just left,” You reply a bit stuck in your head.

Hosea knows this and he asks, “And now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Now you seem scared to tell everyone at camp about you and Lenny. From what I’ve heard your parents are frankly shit. They didn’t really love you but the idea of you representing them as a proper man. Well, I’m telling you, right now, that you are a proper man. You are a good man. You deserve to feel happy and not scared. You know that everyone at camp will be happy for you and Lenny. They don’t care about things like that, that you two are both men. I don’t care. I’m just happy to see you both happy,” Hosea states.

He places his hand on your shoulder and the warm energy radiating off of him makes you want to cry. He’s so genuine and knows his words are true.

“I, for one, don’t care. Though, it was obvious to me anyway. ‘Sorry to hear ‘bout what happened but don’t think that we’d do that to ya,” A voice behind you states.

You turn around to see Arthur with a big grin on his face. Lenny is beside him just staring at you with a bit of wonder. Instead of having a negative reaction to these eavesdroppers, you start laughing, this time completely happy.

“Arthur, how the hell did you manage to eavesdrop in your state?” You question.

He growls but answers, “I ain’t drunk. I’m just tipsy boy. Now go on get out of here. Both of ya.”

He pushes you into Lenny and you look back at Hosea. He gives you a nod before he makes Arthur sit down by him. Both men are a blessing. You turn to face your lover who just takes your hand, rather gently and for the first time with others around, you don’t pull away.

Lenny leads you outside and you stop him from going to the horse. To his absolute surprise and happiness, you give him a peck in public.

“C’mon, let’s head back to camp before it gets too dark. Y’know I don’t like these townsfolk and history,” You murmur.

Lenny catches the tone and gets on his horse. As you start the short ride back to camp he says, “We can take your time telling them. If I’d known ‘bout your past I wouldn’t’ have been so pushy.”

“You’re not mad that I didn’t talk to you ‘bout it?” You question feeling just a tad guilty.

Lenny states, “Not at all. I’m happy that it wasn’t me who did something. I was worried you were scared to be with me. I had an idea it was all ‘bout an experience gone wrong. Listen (Name), you need to know that I love and care for you deeply. We can take all the time in the world to come out if that’s what you want.”

You glance at him and smile. He’s been so understanding throughout all this. It feels as if your heart can burst any second. Shaking your head you give him your final reply with full confidence.

“Nah, I believe what Hosea and Arthur said. No one in the gang will treat me like that. We can come out together as an item. And Lenny? I love you too.”

[12timetraveler]

Something In the Orange

Chapter 10

Summary:

Reader plots to get Arthur and Charles together while she and Hosea have some fun.

Notes:

Sorry this one took so long. I got som serious writers block while trying to work on it. Finally I finished it up and decided to send it out into the world. So sorry if there are any typos. I've been staring to long to do an editing read through.

Got a couple more chapters before shit hits the fan so be prepared. Enjoy the peace while it lasts.

As always below is a preview, read the full chapter on AO3.

Please note you do have to be logged in to view my works.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Arthur had called you at 7 in the morning on a Saturday, you'd been grumpy at first. You'd been working late, and Saturday was your day to sleep in. At first you ignored it, and nearly fell back asleep, but a few minutes later he called again and you started to worry a little. You reached for your phone a second too late, and the call ended before you could pick up. You waited to see if he'd call again before unlocking your phone to send him a text. Before you could hit send, another call came through, this time from an unknown local number.

Normally you wouldn't pick up from an unknown number, but you had a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that urged you to answer. When you picked up, a cheerful little tone played before an automated voice began speaking.

“This is a call from the Saint Denis Sheriff's department on behalf of... ARTHUR MORGAN,” The AI voice said his name, and your heart sank further. “Do you accept the call?”

“Yes,” you said, interrupting the AI voice.

“One moment while I connect you,” the little jingle played again, and then Arthur's voice came on the line, saying your name hesitantly.

“Arthur? What's happening? Are you alright?” You asked in rapid succession, not giving much time to answer.

“I'm fine. We're both fine.” He mumbled groggily.

“Both?”

“Lenny ‘n I. Um... We went out drinking and... We kept drinking. And drinking. And drinking.” He mumbled.

“God damnit, Arthur,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Are you under arrest or?”

“Not really, I don't think,” he mumbled. “Not entirely sure what happened but they said they'd let us go if someone came to get us.”

“Fuck. Alright I'm coming. Are you at the station near campus?”

“Er... Not exactly. We're at the downtown station.”

“Jesus Christ. Alright I'll catch the next trolley and come and get you.”

You heard a knock at the door, and a moment later Charles pokes his head in. You held up a finger, signaling him to wait a minute.

“Do I need to bring anything?”

“Mmm a change of clothes would be nice. We uh... Kinda went swimming. Off the docs, if I remember right.”

“God, lucky they weren't fishing your arm out of a gators mouth,” you grumbled. Charles raised his eyebrows. “Alright. We'll get y'all some clothes and be right down.”

“We?”

“Charles is up. I'm guessing you alternated between calling me and him,” Charles nodded in affirmation, and Arthur only grunted to confirm. “We'll come down together so I don't have to herd you two soggy drunkards home on my own.”

“Okay. See you in a bit,” Arthur sighed sheepishly.

“Yeah. See you soon,” you huffed, hanging up your phone. You took a minute to wipe the sleep out of your eyes.

“I saw I had two missed calls from him, but I called him back and he didn't pick up. Thought I'd see if you knew anything,” Charles explained. “What happened?”

“It seems he and Lenny had a night they'll never live down,” you grumbled.

“I'll go brew some coffee,”

[sector-z-knd]

"Can do, doc." Syd chuckled, wincing a little as she found herself doing so a bit too hard. Maybe she couldn't count on herself adhering to such, but she knew "her kids" were going to be on her like stink on a skunk.

In an attempt to try and make some conversation (maybe see if she could get more info on David), Syd

"Soooo...what's the deal with the lady up front? Not exactly the most inviting person. She missing a distemper shot or somethin'?"

Part of that was a joke, part of that was totally serious. ___

"What WON’T you fight?”

Probably not the best question to ask the gaggle of grade-schoolers...

"You kidding? There's lots!" one said, throwing out his arms to show just the amount of bullpucky they had to deal with.

"Yeah! There's the dentist dude you mentioned, there's pirates that jack your candy, there's this grandma that makes the yuckiest food in all of forever, and she expects you to eat it!" The group let out a collective gag, remembering the last time they fought her.

"Then you start gettin' into the more 'supernatural' stuff..." Twin B piped up.

Twin A nodded. "Weredogs that eat your homework, vampires that'll spank you into next week if you've done bad stuff...you ever have to fight back a bunch of nerd zombies, String Bean? It's nuts!"

"I heard from some of the other operati- ...er, kids in our classes, that you can get transformed into all of those things. Granted, I don't think all at once, but...still!" Now cue a collective shudder.

"You know what'd be the worst, though?" one of the girls asked, "Walkin' around in some goofy, goody-goody outfits and bein' bossed around by a grown-up with a literal fiery temper. I'd rather be a zombie or a vampire any day!"

Initially, there was some agreement between the kids, as they knew exactly who she was talking about. ...But then the debate of not being able to have garlic bread as a vampire came up, and all heck started to break loose again.

Not only did they fight villains, they appeared to fight (well, "fight") between themselves as well...

--

Mrs. Lowry made a noise that was probably a laugh, putting away her medical apparatus. "Oh, she's just sour because she has to weigh the animals, and David always gives the animals extra treats. He's notorious for being nicer than he looks, much like..."

Her smile fell a little and her eyes were suddenly far away, like she was remembering something. She snapped back with a shake, and tried to pull her smile back on. "Sorry! Got a little memory flash there. It's just been a long time since David's had friends. Probably since his 13th birthday, now that I think about it. I figured he must have had a falling-out with Lenny, because he never talks about him anymore.

"What I'm trying to say is... thanks for being David's friend, even if it's only for a little while." At that, the woman looked almost happily nervous, but did her best not to let it show. "Oh, if he heard me, he'd be moaning about me embarrassing him! Come on, let's see if any of your sector has gotten a chance to be with the puppies. That was another weird little thing he said, 'sector' instead of something normal."

As she led them to the back of the vet clinic, the two could hear the kids still pelting David with questions and comments, and from the high pitch of his voice, he was running out of ideas. "Guys, I'm not a vending machine! I don't know even what blurpleberry is! How the heck am I even supposed to tell yo gif I like it if I don't know what it is?!"

"Don't all old people know what blurpleberry is? They talk about it all the time like it just grew out of the ground!"

"But I'm NOT an old person! Sixteen isn't even that old! It's actually like really young in the grand scheme of things!" he nearly howled, and they saw his figure briefly pass the doorway, going backwards as the kids were advancing on him like a swarm of ravenous raptors.

"You might as well be with how grumpy you are!" was the comeback, followed by a "GET HIM!" and finally the yowl of David falling to the ground and all five kids dog piling him.

Mrs. Lowry snorted and gave Syd a sideways smile. "It sounds like they're certainly getting along with him, but it might take him some warming up! Sounds like it might be time to save the day. Good thing we're on your side, huh?"

Life. It sucks. It does! But nothing sucks more than having to help clean the school’s attic for “community service.” Especially with some red-head.

David, at the tender year of 16, was more than tired of “community service”. There were so many more interesting things he could be doing! …nothing came to mind, but it could be there!

“Stupid school with their stupid rules and their stupid giant boxes full of junk!” he grumbled, awkwardly shuffling backwards to drag a box over to the “dump” pile. From the corner of his eye, he could see the red-head girl watching him. “What’re you lookin’ at, weirdo? You’re in here too for whatever misdemeanor the school slapped on you, so get moving!”

@red-rad-and-rod

[wonderlandleighleigh]

5 times lenny wanted to punch joel + the one time he still didn't but he wanted to punch him even more than normal

(Let me see what I can do here...)

"Whelp. I guess this makes us Eskimo brothers," Joel says, obviously trying to joke.

Lenny's eye just twitches and he takes a long, slow sip of his whiskey.

2.

Lenny finishes up his set and lingers at the bar at the Button Club. Midge is working late at Gordon Ford, so there's not much reason to head home. He sighs and orders another drink.

"Lemme guess," Joel says, leaning over the bar. "Midge has a headache tonight? She used to pull that shit on me all the time."

Lenny's eye twitches, and he turns to the bartender. "Can you please make that a double?"

3.

"I just don't see what the big deal is," Joel admits.

Midge pinches the bridge of her nose. "Ethan punched someone in the face, Joel."

"Kid probably deserved it," Joel argues.

"That's not the point."

"It's good that he knows how to fight!" Joel cries. "God knows Lenny's not gonna teach him."

Lenny's eye twitches and he slips out of the kitchen to go fix both he and Midge a pitcher of martinis to be enjoyed when Joel finally fucking leaves.

4.

"Can I tell you something?" Joel asks him. He's pretty drunk after a full day of fasting an then a big dinner and a lot of wine with said dinner.

"Please don't," Lenny requests.

It doesn't work.

"Even after having having two kids, Midge was still tighter than Penny," Joel admits.

Lenny squeezes both eyes shut. "Moishe, is there any more wine?"

5.

"Still can't believe she picked a fucking junkie over me," Joel mutters under his breath. Obviously he believed that he'd be quiet enough not to be heard.

He was wrong.

Lenny takes a breath and turns to Midge. "I have a joint. You have a fire escape. I say we go make use of both."

She nods. "Lead the way."

And one time he reeeallllyyyy wanted to punch Joel...

It had been a particularly brutal fight. Joel had really let Midge have it, standing there in the foyer of her apartment, kids waiting patiently, though uncomfortably to leave with their father.

"If you're so in love with your fucking comedy job, maybe you shouldn't have the kids anymore," Joel says. "Since they're taking second seat to your shiny career - or hell, third, considering Lenny is always around."

Lenny takes a breath and lets it out slow, as he watches Midge step back. She's hurt, that's clear. And angry, but not quite sure what to do about it, with her children and Lenny standing right there.

"Joel, it's time to go," Lenny says evenly, his calm voice masking his anger.

"You don't get to tell me what to do," Joel snaps.

"Go cool off," Lenny snaps back. "Come back for the kids tomorrow."

"You can't keep me away-"

"No one wants to be around you when you act like an asshole," Lenny cuts him off. "Least of all your small children who have no clue what the hell is going on. No go home."

Joel glowers at Lenny, and then Midge, before turns around and storming out, slamming the door behind him.

Midge jumps, and lets out a breath, giving Lenny a grateful look before going to hug the kids.

Lenny locks the front door.

[theycallme-thejackal]

One MidgeLenny x TSwift Fic Per Day

134. Last Kiss

He kisses her slowly, his fingers brushing the hair from her face.

And then he laughs.

It’s quiet at first, but then she’s laughing with him, and their laughter builds until they’re breathless, tears in their eyes, and as it stops, they’re left staring at each other and grinning stupidly. “You, Mrs. Maisel, are very, very funny,” he whispers.

“Damn straight,” she agrees.

He walks her to the subway station as the snow falls around them. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“Oh, is something happening tonight?” She asks teasingly.

He chuckles and kisses her again slowly, his hands cupping her cheeks.

She couldn’t have ever imagined that would be their last kiss.

But as she sits across from another one of her mother’s setups, she’s painfully aware that it was. She hasn’t seen him in weeks, and before they slept together, she’d consider that normal, but now she knows he’s avoiding her.

She’s puling out all the stops with this guy. She’s managed to bring up two of her arrests, her career talking about her sex life, and her failed engagement, but her date isn’t deterred the slightest bit.

Normally that would be great. She’d know he doesn’t scare easily, but...

She doesn’t want him. She hasn’t wanted anybody since that blue room.

“Midge?”

Great, now she’s hallucinating him in an effort to -

“Miriam, who is that guy?” Tom asks, and Midge whirls her head around.

Nope. Not a mirage.

“Lenny, what are you - ”

“Excuse me, sir,” Lenny says to her date. “I need to speak to my wife for a moment.” Midge’s face contorts in confusion, and when Lenny looks back at her, she sees the glint in his eye.

He’s rescuing her. Again.

“Miriam, is this true?” Tom asks. “You’re married?”

She decides to lean in. “I can’t believe you!” She looks up at her ‘husband’ in faux disbelief. “I tell you I’m pregnant, and you disappear on me?”

“Wait, you’re pregnant?” Her date asks, his voice rising with his surprise.

“I freaked out!” Lenny cries. “We didn’t plan this. How are we going to take care of four children?”

“You said you only had two...” Tom grumbles.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore,” Midge snaps. “You don’t get to just waltz in here and - ”

“I don’t waltz,” Lenny spits.

“ - and ruin my lovely evening with Tom.”

“It’s Todd...”

“I’m sorry, Todd,” she says. “But...I have to get out of here.” 

She grabs her things and rushes out of the restaurant, Lenny shouting after her, “We are not done talking!”

She bursts out the door onto the sidewalk, continuing the charade until she rounds the corner, and when he catches up, they both burst into laughter.

When their laughter slows, he looks at her, a finger covering his mouth, and then he asks, “Buy you dinner?”

“God, yes,” she agrees, looping her arm through his and letting him lead her away.