#andrew innes

[all-rock-and-roll-is-homosexual]

Select Magazine March 1992/Primal Scream

📸: Kevin Westenberg

if you like my scans and want to help out you can do so here I'm currently trying to raise around $100 to buy a better scanner any help is appreciated!

[spilladabalia]

Primal Scream - The Centre Cannot Hold (Official Video)

[mychameleondays]

Primal Scream: Give Out But Don’t Give Up

double, GFS

Creation CRE146/SCR 475809 1

Released: March 28, 1994

[guerrilla-operator]

PRIMAL SCREAM

[animaltollkeeper]

Primal Scream at Coachella 2003. Photos by Tim Mosenfelder

[edupunkn00b]

Meus ex Machina, Chapter 19: Silvertongue and Hesper

Edited public domain image of two hands reaching for each other, lit in deep blue and neon green.

Prev - Silvertongue and Hesper - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

WC: 2689 - Rated: T - CW: non-graphic torture, blood

Where Janus went in the pre-dawn hours. But first, what happened to Lucas after he left HQ on Remus and Roman's 21st birthday. If you haven’t yet read Progression, stop here and read it now for maximum impact. The flashback at the start of this chapter takes place two days after the end of that story.

For at least the hundredth time and for the second time in the past 72 hours, Lucas punched in the coordinates to The Inn. This time, though, he made the trip out to their old watering hole alone.

The ghost of Re’s giddy nervousness bounced around the ship. 

Really? You’re gonna let me have a drink tonight?

Sure, Re. You only turn twenty-one once…

Banking around the scaffold of the Newland Towers, Lucas jumped at the static he picked up from the construction site. For the past three days, Lucas had stayed up, listening, waiting. He’d kept the aircar radio open the whole way out, childishly hoping Jan or Pat or anyone else would reach out. Tell him it was all a mistake. Ask him to come home.

No-one did.

He set down behind the bar and circled his and Jan’s old haunt. A flashing ‘closed’ sign shone in the darkness, and the landing pads out front were vacant, but Andrew’s movement behind the bar cast long shadows in the back windows. The gate was down in front so Lucas returned to the alleyway.

Shiny, new, and with five layers of encryption, the deadbolt on the backdoor was impressive. The rusted screws holding it in place, however, were not and one swift kick opened the door.

“What the hell—” Andrew’s tough guy shout from the bar dropped to a whisper when Lucas came into view. His eyes darted side to side, searching for someone in the empty bar to rescue him.

“Lucas! Hey… hey, um, no hard feelings, right? You know I didn’t call the feds on Re… they just… they just showed up and took care of the body, I…” He stepped back, fumbling along the railing under the taps for his emergency call switch. “But y—you got outta here way before they got here, right?”

“The call button’s two meters to your left,” Lucas responded, flipping a bottle sealer at the powerbank just above the switch. It exploded, sparks raining down on Andrew’s hand. “You wouldn’t want the corpos to just show up coincidentally again, now would you?”

“No, Lucas, no…” He shook his head. “Of course not. C’mon, man… You know it’s not like that. You and Jay have been coming here for years… You all are like family to me.”

Lucas’ voice was quiet. “You took my family from me.” He unbuttoned his coat and peeled it off, revealing a harness with an antique taser and five extra charge canisters. “You took my brother.” Gaze focused on his coat, Lucas walked to the rack next to the front doors and hung it on the closest hook before drawing down the window shade and checking the locks on the door. 

“You took my boys.” Andrew’s eyes widened and he slowly straightened, shaking hands raised near his head. Lucas snapped a fresh charge into place and watched the standby light stutter to life. “You took my love.”

Finally he looked up, eyes ablaze. “I’ve lost everything.” Andrew began to tremble, sympathetic nervous system rooting him in place, full freeze mode. As though that could do anything to help him now. Lucas absorbed the fear pouring out with his rank sweat and smiled. “Just as you’re about to.”

Lucas unlocked the taser and flicked it on. A sharp buzzy whine filled the room, followed by the trickling sound of urine dripping from Andrew’s pant leg. Lucas tsked. “So soon? Very well.”

“No, no, no… Lucas… You don—you—you don’t wanna do this… This—this isn’t you.” Lucas aimed the taser and the man’s words jumbled, hands out as though he could stop the assault. “Wha—what would Jan think if he—”

Lucas’ eyes brightened, orange fire pushing away his doubt. “Jan already thinks I’ve been purchased. He already thinks I betrayed him. To you.” He grinned, his smile broad and easy. And empty as the bar. “Let’s show him who I really answer to, shall we?”

“No… no, please, Lucas, no—” With a bang, refurbished guidewires shot out and embedded in the man’s neck. 50,000 volts cut short his pleas, the bright white glow rivaled only by Lucas’ orange eyes.

~

The slow death of Andrew’s brain ripped away the last shreds of Lucas’ control. Eyes squeezed shut, he doubled over, arms crossed over his head as the bartender’s dying cries shot through his heart. Seared flesh set fire to his nerves. Andrew’s fear his pain would never end. The fear of what would happen when it did.

And Andrew’s last thoughts, the tiny spark of relief that it was finally over.

Lucas slumped to the floor, barely noticing the knot on the side of his own head. He lay there for as long as he dared before pulling himself to his feet and staggering to the toilets.

The lukewarm recycled tap did a poor job on his hands and no matter how hard he scrubbed with the bar’s watered down soap, bits of Andrew’s blood clung to his knuckles and under his nails. In the engraving on his ring.

He took it off, twisting to get it past the callouses, and held it up to the light. Dingy rust filled in the swooping cursive ‘Ja’ on the engraving. Shoulders slumped, he fought the tightening in his throat, the burning behind his eyes. 

But he was spent. His eyes flickered weakly under the dingy bathroom lights. A sob ripped up from his throat and hot tears spilled over, dripping down his cheeks and his neck as he rubbed at his stained wedding ring under the faucet.

His wrist buzzed and hope sparked in his chest.

Hope quickly doused by the message on his comm. Instead of a message from Jan, from Pat, from the boys, a bold proximity warning scrolled across the tiny screen. 

CORPORATE POLICE ACTIVITY 100 YARDS AND CLOSING…

CORPORATE POLICE ACTIVITY 50 YARDS AND CLOSING…

CORPORATE POLICE ACTIVITY 10 YA—

A small blast was followed by the crash of the front door coming off its hinges. His ring hit the basin, rattling as it rolled around and down the open drain.

“Come out with your hands up! Come out—shit! Look what they did to him! Dear god…” The buzz of a dozen tazers more advanced than his own couldn’t cover the tremor in the pig’s voice. “Arms up! That’s an order!” 

Lucas’ comm hummed quietly, a constant vibration against his wrist now.

Auto-distress alert enabled. Contacting HQ in 30… 29… 28… 27…

“We have you surrounded!” Jackboots tromped down the old hardwood floors and came to a stop outside the locked bathroom door. Dust sprinkled from the hinges as they banged on it. “Come out or we’re coming in!”

Lucas turned off the water and watched the numbers tick before tapping Disable just as the distress call countdown hit 1.

His comm screen went dark and he wiped his hands on his pants. “Be out in just a mo’!” he sing-songed. Only Jan would’ve caught the hitch in his voice. Well, Pat, too, most likely. But they weren’t here to care.

He checked the mirror, drying his face and smoothing back his hair. He smiled at the dim but growing amber rings around his eyes, then turned and opened the door.

~

Rain and hail drummed against the hull, a syncopated beat that dragged Lucas from a deep sleep. He’d been dreaming of home again, of the boys chasing each other through the halls. Pat’s more Teddy Bear-than-Papa Bear warnings to slow down. Re promising Pat they’d try before erupting in laughter with Ro, a soft, calm laugh, nothing like his laughter the last time he’d seen him. 

Jan’s smooth hot toddy voice, spice and heat and comfort. His hand, ungloved, unshielded, carding through his hair. 

Lucas leaned back and shook his head to clear away the clingy wisps of dream from his mind.

But Jan’s voice only grew louder. 

-”We need to talk, Hesper. Where can I find you?”-

Amber light bled through his eyelashes and he smiled. -”Mmm… So formal, ma cheri,”- he purred back. -”And yet so rude! Not even a ‘good morning, how did you sleep? How would you like your tea?”-

Jan’s shield was strong, nothing but a faint buzz was his answer.

He was close. Lucas checked the local time. Technically morning, though the sun wouldn’t be up for hours. It had been winter when they’d met, too. He shook off the thought and lit up the room with his eyes. 

-”Is it actually morning where you are?”- Jan asked as though he didn’t know. As though he wasn’t close enough for Lucas to smell his cologne.

Or maybe he just imagined it.

-”I have risen with the light…” Lucas pushed a memory of Jan’s smiling face back at him, hair mussed and splayed out on his pillow. He wasn’t sure how much got through Jan’s shield. Or who he was trying to hurt more. -”Does that count as morning in your calculation?”-

-”I wish to speak with you, Hesper,”- he sent, dull and flat and cold.

Lucas checked the sensors. The others weren’t with him. Jan had actually come alone. He chewed at his lip. Whatever this was, the platform was already dotted with intent detonators. If this was some surprise attack, Lucas would soon know. He sighed, his curiosity getting the better of him, and he lowered the gangway. 

“Welcome aboard, ma cheri,” he called down the open ramp. An elegant shadow in grey and yellow stepped into view and Lucas bowed, one arm sweeping out. “Wipe your feet before you come up, s’il vous plaît. It’s simply filthy out there.”

Hurrying back to his bunk, he pushed up the platform to hide his bedding and flipped down both benches on either side of the little table where he ate and planned and built most of his tools. He started to sit, then rose again and dispensed two cups of hot water for tea, dropping in sachets from his dwindling stash and set them down across from each other.

By the time Jan turned the corner into the main area of the ship, Lucas was sat back, right arm hooked over the back rest, left leg crossed over the other, ankle to knee. He lowered orange-tinted lenses over his eyes and smiled.

“Welcome aboard,” he repeated, biting his cheek when he realized he’d already run through his script.

“You already said that,” Jan replied, voice smooth. Well, mostly smooth, with only a tiny catch at the end which could just be a bit of his old morning hoarseness. Jan’s mind was completely shielded—fuck he’d gotten good at that—but there was a twitch in his left pinkie and he hesitated before sitting. “I appreciate the hospitality,” he nodded before switching their cups and taking a slow sip from the one that had been in front of Lucas.

“Ah, ma cheri, you wound me…” He shook his head and took the other tea cup, blowing away the steam. “You still don’t trust me.” Lucas clucked his tongue, grateful he’d thought to don his glasses as his eyes burned in the attempt to keep his voice light. “Well?” He looked up over the lip of his cup between sips. “While your company is a pleasure as always…” They could both pretend Jan’s cheeks warmed from the heat of his tea. “You said you had something to discuss with me.”

Jan set down his cup and watched the steam rise. “To be completely honest with you, Luc, I’m not entirely sure why I’m here.”

All Lucas’ powers couldn’t stifle how much he wanted Jan to say his name again, how much he needed Jan to say his name again. He hid his face behind his cup and took another sip to buy time to settle his heart. “Interesting,” he murmured, cracked voice betraying him. Jan’s eyes shot up.

Lucas sat, silent and pinned down by his gaze, until Jan finally continued. “I suppose given everything that’s happened, I…” Jan addressed his cup, lifting it up for another slow sip. “I was so sure we’d done everything we could do to help Re. That we’d given him every safeguard, every protection possible. But…” He shook his head. “If I was wrong about that,” he whispered, more to himself than to Lucas. “What else have I been wrong about?”

“What’s happened?” Lucas leaned forward, reaching for Jan before he could even think to stop himself. “What’s wrong with Re?”

Jan leaned back, eyebrow raised, and sipped his tea. -”You don’t hear him?”- he asked silently.

Brow furrowed, Lucas closed his eyes and reached out. There was the buzz of Jan’s shield, a dark, staticy hole where his feelings should be. A couple asleep in their ship two platforms down. The rumble of families in the surrounding shelters. A little boy crying from a nightmare. And then…

Lucas gasped. Like finally noticing a song playing in the background, he suddenly registered the touch of Re’s mind in the distance. His cup clattered to the table and he leapt to his feet. Re! “You left him alone? Unshielded and alone and—”

“And happy,” Jan murmured to his cup, seated serenely across from him. “And not alone.”

Lucas slowly took his seat, stretching, feeling for any sense he could detect of Re’s thoughts over the distance. He’d moored this ship on the knife’s edge of his own abilities, near enough to hear everyone in HQ. Far enough he wouldn’t be too tempted to listen.

Re was completely unshielded but… he was calm. His thoughts rippled around him, gentle and rhythmic drops on a pond. Sleeping? Given the hour and the wordlessness of his thoughts, probably. A light sleep, no dreams yet, nothing that would trigger a strong emotional response at least. He was calm and content and… happy.

And Jan was right. Re was not alone.

“Is Ro—” He shook his head, answering his own question. No, if Ro had been with him, the boys most certainly would be up and making good trouble around—or outside—the house. No, he was with…

“He’s with Machina,” Jan answered.

“You left him alone with your twitchy bot?” Again, Lucas was on his feet, stomping toward the controls. “You trust him not to hurt him? I know you remember what hap—”

Jan followed and caught his arm, pulling him away from the pilot’s seat. His hand was warm through his gloves, gentle as it lingered on his forearm. “The Muse would never hurt Machina. Never intentionally.”

“I’m not talking about your fucking robot getting hurt! How do you know it won’t hurt Re?”

He never got to answer.

Lucas’ wrist buzzed half a second before a charge rocked the ship. “Get down!” he ordered and pushed Jan to the deck. Another blast hit the other side of the ship. 

The glow of his comm screen peeked out from under Jan’s sleeve and he pushed it back. Jan swore. “They’re close. Too many to count.”

Lucas nodded, shifting to tap at his own wrist. Bright white dots surrounded their location. The hull clanked, hurricane clamps tearing at the fuselage. “Damn.” 

Jan twisted beneath him, eyes wide and staring at his wrist. “You still wear your—”

He ignored the question and pushed to his feet before offering a hand to Jan. “You turned off your proximity alarm.”

“Had to,” he muttered, brushing imagined dust off his cloak. “It went off every day at the DC. Don’t avoid the question. Why do you still wear—”

Another blast rocked the ship. The corpos were getting bolder. And closer. A second blast was followed by a pained cry. They were now near enough to trigger the intent charges.

Lucas shook his head, eyeing the roof hatch. “We need to get out of here.”

The outer hull blew and jackboots tromped up the gangway, comms crackling. Lucas dropped the inner blast door just before they reached the top, then grabbed Jan and a pack. He sealed off the corridor from the inside just before the corpos entered the main control room.

They were now trapped inside the ship.

-“We need help,”- Jan corrected and pressed the HQ alert on his wrist. -“Now.”-

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

WOKE politicians 'support gay CONVERSION therapy' as confused kids 'fast-tracked to STERILISATION'

Andrew Doyle: On Friday there was a heated debate in the House of Commons about conversion therapy. Emotions ran high and few were more impassioned than the conservative MP Alicia Kearns who berated Alba MP Neil Hanvey for appealing on behalf of the LGB community.

So, here's how that exchange went.

Hanvey: People in the LGB community are often referred to as bigots and transphobes and other slurs just because we have concerns about legislation such of this. And we want to make sure that young LGB people are protected. And trans people. Does she agree with me that that must apply, that rule must apply, to all sides of any debate and not just one side that she favors.

Kearns: ... absolutely right, but there was one digit missing from his LGB: LGBT. We do not divide the LGBT community in this place. You can say that you have concerns about we doing. But by removing the T, you are suggesting that transgender people do not exist. You are suggesting they are lesser than other LGB people. And I will not stand for that, because it was trans people who stood with gay people at Stonewall. It was trans people who fought alongside for LGBT rights. So, when you say LGBT, when you remove the T, you suggest that they are lesser.

Doyle: Now it's clear to me that Alicia Kearns is well intentioned and sincere, and I mean no disrespect when I say that this is a subject about which she clearly knows very little. And that is dangerous, because if she gets her way on this issue, it will set back gay rights by decades.

So, let's address some of the key misconceptions. So, firstly, Kearns claimed that Hanvey was suggesting that transgender people don't exist, and at no point did he make such a claim. Sexual orientation and the belief in gender identity are totally unrelated concepts. Kearns seems to be suggesting that gay people have no right to campaign for their interests unless they simultaneously campaign for trans people. But why? Groups such as Mermaids campaign solely for trans rights. Are they therefore homophobic? Perhaps Alicia Kerns would like to berate them in Parliament. I look forward to seeing that.

Kearns went on to say that it was trans people who stood with the gays at Stonewall. Trans people fought together for LGB rights. Did they? I mean there were some trans people involved in the struggle for gay rights, certainly. But not all that many. The activists who changed history for the better were predominantly lesbians and gay men. At the Stonewall Inn, it was mostly gay men with some lesbians and drag queens who were involved in the riots. And it was likely a lesbian, Stormé DeLarverie, who sparked the whole thing. After the police raided the bar, she was being forcibly arrested and is said to have shouted to the crowd, aren't you going to do something?

Now, some trans activists have since attempted to rewrite history, claiming that a transwoman called Marsha P. Johnson threw the first brick at the Stonewall Inn. The trouble is, Marsha P. Johnson wasn't trans. He was a drag queen. And he wasn't even there when the rioting started.

Now, if Alicia Kearns wants to know about the actual history of Stonewall, not the revisionist fabrications of activists, she could read "Stonewall: The Riots That Sparked the Gay Revolution," by David Carter. Or, she could talk to someone who was actually there, such as the gay rights veteran Fred Sargeant.

Now let's talk about the confusion that's at the heart of this parliamentary debate. What exactly is conversion therapy? A YouGov poll last year revealed that 65% of voters believe that gay conversion therapy ought to be banned, and 62% feel the same about "trans conversion therapy." And this would suggest that most voters do not recognize the difference between the two, and nor do many politicians. Now this photograph was taken in Westminster Hall. A cross-party collective of dozens of MPs with a placard that reads, "I support a trans inclusive ban." The image was posted on Twitter by Laboir MP from Nottingham East, Nadia Whittome.

In truth, and without realizing it, the these politicians are supporting a new form of gay conversion therapy, something that most of us thought would be consigned to the history books by this point. When we hear that phrase, "conversion therapy," most of our minds leap to a variety of horrific practices. So, in America, Christian fundamentalists have established programs to address the "problem" of homosexuality, there are camps where young people can "pray the gay away." Which I suppose is at least a step forward from brain surgery, castration and the kind of electric shock treatment favoured by scientific practitioners in the 20th century, or the corrective rape of lesbians to "cure" them of homosexual tendencies that still goes on in some countries.

Such practices are of course already illegal in the UK. So, why the need for a conversion therapy ban? Well, what's happening is there is a conflation of sexual orientation and gender identity and this is why so many are confused. In her book, "Time to Think," Hannah Barnes revealed that between 80 to 90% of adolescents who were referred to the Tavistock pediatric gender clinic were same-sex attracted. We've known for a long time there's a strong correlation between gender nonconformity in youth and being gay in adult life. Members at the Tavistock itself joked that, "soon there would be no gay people left." Whistleblowers revealed that homophobia was endemic. In other words, children who are likely to grow up gay are being "fixed" by medical practitioners to better conform with stereotypical heterosexual paradigms.

Barnes's research shows that the Tavistock clinic -- and this is a quote -- "ignored evidence that 97.5% of children seeking sex changes had autism, depression or other problems that might have explained their unhappiness." They are only 2% of the country's children that suffer from an autistic spectrum disorder, so why is it that 35% of referrals to the Tavistock fit into that category?

in almost all instances, children who are prescribed puberty blockers go on to cross- sex hormones, which in some cases leads to irreversible surgery. We're dealing here, overwhelmingly, with gay and autistic children fast-tracked onto a pathway to sterilization. This is what MPs such as Lloyd Russell-Moyle and Alicia Kearns and Keir Starmer are supporting. Whether they realize it or not.

Now, thankfully, more and more people are waking up to the scale of this problem. So, recently the equalities Minister Kemi Badenoch wrote to the Commons Women and Equality Select Committee about her discussions with former clinicians at the Tavistock. And the conclusion? So-called gender affirmative care amounts to what she described as, "conversion therapy for gay kids." And crucially, she cited a survey of detransitioners -- these are people who have been pressurized into transitioning and they later regret it -- in which 23% of respondents put their determination to transition down to experiences of homophobia.

Badenoch quoted a gender clinic in Germany. They said, "it must be understood that early hormone therapy may interfere with the patient's development as a homosexual. This may not be in the interests of patients who, as a result of hormone therapy, can no longer have the decisive experiences that enable them to establish a homosexual identity."

It is profoundly disturbing that Starmer's Labour party is now officially supporting gay conversion therapy in the form of a ban on "trans-inclusive conversion therapy," and that he's gaining cross-party support. Now, a charitable interpretation is that Starmer, Kearns, Russell-Moyle, Whittome, all the other MPs who are supporting this, simply do not understand that they are advancing dangerously anti-gay proposals. They are supporting the new Section 28. And all the while, they think they're doing the precise opposite.

If any of these politicians would like to come on to this show and discuss these issues, I would be delighted to have them. Consider it an open invitation. In the meantime, I'd like to remind Parliament that homosexuality was removed from the World Health Organization's list of psychiatric disorders back in 1993. Being gay is not a medical condition that requires treatment. Unfortunately, activists have been remarkably successful in confusing the issues through semantic ambiguities and the redefinition of terms. And so, although it sounds desperately counterintuitive, the truth is that in order to oppose gay conversion therapy, one must be opposed to a ban on "trans conversion therapy."

[sinceileftyoublog]

Andrew Combs Interview: The In-between Space

Photo by Austin Leih

BY JORDAN MAINZER

Andrew Combs has discovered the magic in the stillness. For this singer-songwriter with a family, including young kids, the evening, post-bedtime, represented the do-or-die moment for creativity: He could either kick back and relax or start some new tunes. What he found was that such hours of the night were actually the most fruitful. At ease, Combs was able to tell all kinds of stories, from autobiographical and biographical to fictional, with tones ranging from light, sweet, and romantic to heavy and devastating. The result is the aptly titled Dream Pictures (Chunk of Coal/Missing Piece), a collection of songs that started at home and built up into their own surreal worlds in the studio.

Upon reading the history behind Dream Pictures, I immediately thought of Combs' previous album, Sundays, because it was also named after and born out of a regular schedule. (Combs wrote a song during the week and recorded it on a Sunday.) But in speaking to Combs last month, it became clear to me that Dream Pictures' existence as a product of mental clarity was more casual than it was some newfound, purposeful desire to create. It's also not an album of kitchen table existential dread like Hiss Golden Messenger's Bad Debt; while they contain moments of self-doubt or even anger and violence, the songs on Dream Pictures are attitudinally variable, even within themselves. On "Eventide", Combs' dedication to his wife rife with subtle drums and piano, muted pedal steel, and whooshing synths, he nonetheless delivers lines like, "I passed away deep in my slumber / Far from fury and far grief." The folky, soulful, and textural "Your Eyes and Me" juxtaposes clever, pointed similes--"Your melancholy hair like curtains in between your eyes and me"--with verses that are weighty in their ambiguity. "Swan dive in the water / Down to the bottom of the lake / Visions of you and our daughters / But I drowned them all now, didn't I babe?" Combs asks, as you gasp, wondering who or what (the visions? the daughters themselves?) was exactly drowned. The very same song contains a plea to "remember the good before the bad," a useful mantra no matter the context.

On Dream Pictures, Combs worked again with Dom Billett, the drummer on Sundays. Billett co-produced Dream Pictures and helped Combs flush out the instrumental arrangements, playing drums, bass, piano, and synthesizers and providing background vocals. Overall, Billett's keen ear for atmosphere, combined with Combs' acoustic and electric guitar playing and Spencer Cullum's pedal steel, gave life to the idea of "dream pictures." Opening track "Fly In My Wine", written by the three of them, is an instrumental consisting of upright piano, pedal steel, and field recorded audio from Richard Serra's installation at the Bilbao Guggenheim. "To Love" is another sonic experiment, one not too far removed from Combs' initial demo, Combs delivering high-pitched, starry-eyed mantras over analog synths, electric guitars, and noise. "The Sea in Me" binds scraped acoustic guitars with an 8-bit synth line. These off-kilter sound collages effectively represent the fragility of memories and dreams. Even on comparatively traditional pop songs like the ballad "Point Across", the echo and delay on Billett's snares feel like time being bent. And when the instrumentation itself is cleaner, it effectively contrasts Combs' unhinged narrator: On Burton Collins co-write "I'm Fine", an electric guitar and Rhodes jam, Combs plays the part of the lovelorn person denying his own heartbreak. "Do I ever touch your heart at all?" he asks, "Or are you busy laughing while I'm punching the walls?"

When I spoke to Combs, he was again in the stillness, but he wasn't working. He was on a beach in the Florida panhandle, on a vacation with his family and parents, getting some much needed rest before moving again. Starting tomorrow, Combs will embark on a two-and-a-half-week tour of the UK, Ireland, and the Netherlands, armed with an acoustic guitar, drum machine, and keyboards. Though Combs is known as a Nashville singer-songwriter, his first love was electronic music, and these days, he writes most of his songs on piano as opposed to guitar. And if the sparkling smog of Dream Pictures is any preview, he might just be able to shed that Americana label once and for all. Below, read our conversation, edited for length and clarity.

Photo by Austin Leih

Since I Left You: Sundays was titled and formed around a dedicated day of the week that you sat down and recorded the song you had written over the past seven days. Dream Pictures is sort of similar in that it was inspired by your periods of creativity after your kids went to sleep. Is there something that's special in general about setting aside consistent time for music?

Andrew Combs: Honestly, it started out of pure necessity. It's [when] I can have time alone. I don't know how conscious I [am] of it, but at this age, I'm trying to stay more present and really take in every day and what I'm grateful and thankful for. That doesn't necessarily mean that the songs are all about that, but [I'm] trying to be cognizant of the world that I'm living in now. That time of day is when [songwriting] is easiest to do, [when] I'm still with it enough that I can formulate creative output that may or may not mean something.

SILY: Let me ask you a couple questions about what the songs on Dream Pictures are about. First, I'm assuming there are some songs on here that are not autobiographical.

AC: Yeah. I do feel like pieces of me are in every song, but "The Sea in Me" is about two friends going through a breakup with each other. That's not about me at all, really, but there are things I identify with in that song from my history.

SILY: Even if songs aren't about you, however, they have that same sort of biographical presence, that "moment in time" feel.

AC: Listening back now, I definitely think that's correct. They are little snapshots in time.

SILY: Quite literally, the opening track, "Fly In My Wine", has field recordings, which I find, when mixed with abstract instrumentation, to be very dream-like, which would go along with the theme of the record. When did you realize you wanted to open the album with something like that?

AC: When I figured out the album title was going to be Dream Pictures. I'm right there with you in that field recordings mixed with abstract music feels dream-like. I also really love the song "Eventide". I wanted it to be the first song, but I didn't feel like just starting [the record] with the song itself. I wanted to have some sort of bed to dip your toes into.

SILY: "Eventide" is, on the whole, a dedication to your wife, but one can read yourself working through some troubles. A line like, "I passed away deep in my slumber / Far from fury and far grief"--I don't know what you're referring to, but both within the album and within certain songs themselves, there are moments of struggle or darkness.

AC: Totally. I'm always looking for the darkness in the light and the light in the darkness. Maybe I should try to accept the light when it's light and the dark when it's dark.

SILY: But the former is more true. It speaks to the complexity of things, that things aren't one or the other.

AC: Sure. It would be nice, though, to live in the light.

SILY: If we could figure it out, everybody would be doing it.

AC: That's right.

SILY: What's the story behind "Heavy the Heart"?

AC: Without getting too namey, it's sort of about Elvis, but it's really about a couple people I've known within the music industry who burned it at both ends. They've all been tragic people deep inside, destined for a large and horrific crash.

SILY: Spencer Cullum's pedal steel stands out to me throughout the record. Normally, pedal steel stands out in general by virtue of its sheer quality, but on a lot of this album's songs, it's really subtle. Was that a product of Spencer's choice, the mixing, or something else?

AC: It's a combined brainchild of Spencer, myself, and Dom. Pedal steel is a beautiful instrument, but being in Nashville and starting our careers in the Americana sphere and hearing pedal steel all the time, it can be overplayed and overused. We three have all gravitated towards simplicity and stripping back instead of layering and putting a lot of stuff on top. That being said, on a song like "Mary Gold" or "Genuine and Pure", we really wanted it to stand out for a solo section. I know Spencer's taste is similar, and Dom's is probably the same, but I really like Steely Dan pedal steel instead of alt country [pedal steel,] a more tasteful, thought-out thing. Some of [the pedal steel subtlety] is in the mixing, but I'd say 90% of it is where we chose to put it.

SILY: The instrument has become really prevalent in indie rock to the point where so much prominent indie rock is basically alt country. You'd be considered more of an Americana artist, accurate or not, but Dream Pictures is closer to me to Steely Dan than it is alt country.

AC: Yeah. I know how I got into [Americana,] but I don't necessarily know how I'm gonna escape those tags. [laughs] I'll let time deal with that.

SILY: You've definitely never released a song like "To Love", which is electronic. Can you tell me how that song came to be from start to finish?

AC: I made demos for a lot of [the Dream Pictures] songs on my computer at home. I have a really simple setup with the MIDI controls, microphone, and guitars. That was the only song for which we actually used a lot of the demo. I didn't think or know if it was gonna fit. I still don't really know, but I like it a lot. I definitely feel like there's a handful of songs that I really like that I have stowed away in that vain.

When I first got into music, I was into electronic music. Besides hearing The Beatles and knowing it was something special, when I first started making my own compositions or songs, it was all electronic stuff. It's something I've always loved to do. I haven't always felt confident enough to put it on a record. I definitely feel like I'm doing it more and more. [On the] "To Love" demo, I had done the drums and some of the keyboards and the guitar solo and the vocals. [Dom] added percussion, more keys, and real bass. I don't have a real bass, so I just played bass on the keyboard. It's definitely different than the rest of the record.

Photo by Austin Leih

SILY: I wanted to ask you about "Table For Blue", which seems like a very sweet, simple, almost low-stakes song, in the best way. Is that how it fits within Dream Pictures, providing levity?

AC: Yes. It's the kind of song I've always been trying to write since I started writing songs. It is a low-stakes songwriting song. I'll always try and write songs like that, but they're fewer and farther between these days.

SILY: You co-wrote "I'm Fine" with Burton Collins. Can you tell me about your working relationship with him?

AC: Burton and I have written a lot since 2011 or 2012. For six years, I had a publishing deal where I was co-writing all the time for people on Music Row. Burton is one of the very few people I've maintained a working relationship with. He's mostly an actor. He doesn't play or sing. But he's a brilliant lyricist. He writes with Doja Cat and also collaborates with country people. He did a kids play. He likes to keep his fingers in as many things as possible. We've written a lot over the past ten years and try to do so once or twice a year.

Dream Pictures cover art

SILY: How did you come up with the front cover for the album? Lately, you have a lot of experimental photographs of yourself adorning your records.

AC: It's a photo my buddy Austin Leih took. He's done videos for me in the past and did the "Eventide" visual accompaniment. I was just messing with the picture and the idea of "dream pictures" and the in-between space, [such as] between dreaming and sleeping. I might have hit the nail too much on the head.

SILY: It doesn't have to be subtly symbolic. It can just look cool.

AC: Good. [laughs]

SILY: You co-designed the record cover, too. I know you paint, but do you do design work?

AC: My dad is a retired graphic designer, so I grew up knowing that world. I've always dabbled in it, but I've never had the money to buy the Adobe suites and have never had the time or want to learn how to do it technically well. It's something I do find pleasing to toy around with. I didn't have much money behind this record and Sundays, so [I tried] to do as much as I could by myself.

SILY: Will your upcoming tour be the first time you've played these songs live?

AC: I've played a few of them at a show here and there, trying them out, but yeah, in terms of a formal setting. I'm playing solo, so it's not going to be a full record experience, but I'm trying to incorporate drum machine and keyboards. I'm so bored by the [just] acoustic guitar thing.

SILY: I'm sure it'll prove an artistically satisfying challenge to adapt the songs in that way, too.

AC: Totally. It's actually been really fun.

SILY: On what instrument did you write most of the Dream Pictures songs?

AC: A lot of them were on keys. I'm not a great keyboard player. I just kind of plunk along with chords. Dom did the more elaborate arrangements. I have an old RMI Electra-piano and mess around on that a lot. There are certain things that only guitar can do, but I've grown bored with it being the thing I reach for every time. I think it's nice to start with keys or even a drum beat to change things up.

SILY: Are you planning on touring in the US?

AC: I don't know. I'd like to do some stuff. I can't really foresee doing a real long tour, hitting smaller markets, because I can't afford it. I would at least like to do New York, Philly, the East Coast big city stuff. Do a Nashville show, maybe go out West. It might also depend on if a big artist likes the record and wants to take me out to do some opening sets. I'm always keen on that in the States. It's a lot easier that way.

SILY: That makes sense. You don't have to do a ton of the planning yourself.

AC: And if they have an established audience you haven't tapped into. I did some shows with The Milk Carton Kids, and it was the best opening slot ever, because their crowd is quiet and respectful and they listen. What I do is subtle and can be quiet, so it worked. Then you have those people on your side.

SILY: Are you writing right now?

AC: The time period after you make something and before it comes out is actually really productive for me. It's a time to dream and mess around without a deadline or expectations. I don't know what exactly it is, but I have ideas floating around for what's next. Who knows whether it will stay that way or morph into something different. A lot of my time right now is being spent getting ready for the tour.

SILY: When you're making music, do you try to not consume other media? Or are you pretty good at compartmentalizing and not letting other records, TV shows, movies, or books affect you?

AC: I like learning and listening and seeing new stuff all the time, so I keep it going at all times.

SILY: Anything recent you've liked?

AC: I read [Daniel Mason's] North Woods, which was really beautiful. I'm re-reading East of Eden, which is one of my favorites. The King Hannah record is really cool. I'm listening to these Romanian folk songs, which are mostly a capella with maybe some sparse instrumentation, but they're really cool. I wouldn't know how to tell you what they're called, though, because they're in a different alphabet. I don't watch a ton of TV. I really liked The Zone of Interest.

Photo by Austin Leih

Tour dates

8/22: The Keep, Guildford, UK 8/23: The Railway Inn, Winchester, UK 8/24: Stanford Hall, Bottesford, UK 8/25: Caroline Street Social Club, Shipley, UK 8/26: Kazimier Stockroom, Liverpool, UK 8/27: St Mary's Creative Space, Chester, UK 8/28: The Workmans Cellar, Dublin, Ireland 8/29: Cleere's Bar & Theatre, Kilkenny, Ireland 8/30: The American Bar, Belfast, UK 8/31: Run of the Mill 2024, Paisley, UK 9/1: Sneaky Pete's, Edinburgh, UK 9/3: Water Rats, London, UK 9/5: De Doelen, Rotterdam, Netherlands 9/6: Luxor Live, Arnhem, Netherlands 9/7: Burgerweeshuis, Deventer, Netherlands 9/8: Sugar Mountain x Indiestad Met Festival, Amsterdam, Netherlands 9/9: Muziekgebouw Eindhoven, Eindhoven, Netherlands

[anissakmorris]

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[deadmegumi]

Struggling deciding whether to kill isobel not because I would feel bad or the harpers in the inn would die but because it would mean barcus would probably die :(

[tobacconist]

@cyprussy

In Cornwall is two speches; the one is naughty Englyshe, and the other is Cornyshe speche.

God morow to you, syr! Dar day dew a why, serra! (Durda dhywgh hwei, syrra!)

God spede you, mayde! Dar zona de why math-tath! (Dursona dhe'hwei, maghteth!)

You be welcome, good wyfe!  Welcom a whe gwra da! (Wolkom owgh hwei, gwreg dha!)

I do thanke you, syr. Dar dala de why, syra. (Durdala dhe'hwei, syrra)

How do you fare? Vata lew genar why? (Fatl'yw genowgh hwei?)

Well, God thanke you, good master! Da dar dala de why, master da! (Da, durdala dhe'hwei, mester da!)

Hostes, haue you any good meate? Hostes, eus bones de why? (Ostes, eus boos da dhe'hwei?)

Yes, syr, I haue enowghe. Eus, sarra, grace a dew. (Eus, syrra, gras a Dhuw.)

Giue me some meate, good hostes! Rewh bones de vy, hostes da! (Rewgh boos dhe'vy, ostes da!)

Mayde, giue me bread and drinke! Math-tath, eus me barow ha dewas! (Maghteth, […] bara ha diwes!)

Wife, bringe me a quarte of wine! Gwrac, drewh quart gwin de vy! (Gwreg, drewgh kwart a win dhe'vy!)

Woman, bringe me some fishe! Benen, drewh pyscos de vi! (Benyn, drewgh puskes dhe'vy!)

Mayde, brynge me egges and butter Math-tath, drewgh me eyo hag a manyn de vi (Maghteth, drewgh oyow hag amanyn dhe'vy)

Syr, much good do it you! Syrra, betha why lowe weny cke! (Syrra, bedhowgh hwei lowenek!)

Hostes, what shal I paye? Hostes, prendra we pay? (Ostes, pandr'wrav vy pe?)

Syr, your rekenyng is 5 pens. Syrra, iges rechen eu pymp in ar. (Syrra, agas reken yw pymp diner)

How many myles is it to london? Pes myll der eus a lemma de Loundres? (Pes mildir eus alemma dhe Loundres?)

Syr, it is thre houndred myle. Syrra, tray kans myle dere. (Syrra, tri hans mildir.)

God be with you, good hostes! Bena tewgena a why hostes da! (Bennath Duw genowgh hwei, ostes da!)

God gyue you a good nyght! Dew rebera vos da de why! (Duw re dharbarro nos da dhe'hwei!)

God send you wel to fare! Dew reth euenna thee why fare eta! (Duw re dhanvonno dhe'hwei fara en ta!)

God be wyth you! Dew gena why! (Duw genowgh hwei!)

I pray you, commend me to all good felowes. Meesdesyer, why commende me the olde matas da. (My a’s desir hwei, komend vy dhe oll matas da.)

Syr, I wyl do your commaundement. Syrra, me euyden gewel ages commaundement why. (Syrra, my a vydn gul agas komondment hwei.)

God be with you! Dew gena why! (Duw genowgh hwei!)

http://wiki.kernowlingo.com/w/index.php?title=The_fyrst_boke_of_the_introduction_of_knowledge

[spilladabalia]

Primal Scream - Ready To Go Home

[magewritesstories]

[ ᴊᴇꜱꜱ ᴍᴀʀɪᴀɴᴏ ] ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʟɪᴋᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴘᴇᴀᴛ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ

summary: jess moves back to stars hollow to open a new branch of truncheon books in his hometown, and tries not to murder the girl living in the apartment above him and the town enjoys watching another grumpy business owner fall in love with a bubbly inn manager. TW: none note: in love with him and not even in a funny way, i need a jess

“Are you sure this is the place you want?” Andrew asked for what felt like the millionth time. The bookstore owner gave the 25-year-old a nervous stare as he signed the last few papers.

“Yes, Andrew, for the millionth time, this is the place.” Jess sighed, he couldn’t blame the man for his hesitance, he hadn’t exactly left a good impression on the people of Stars Hollow while living there.

Out of all the places he’d imagined settling down, Stars Hollow, Connecticut was incredibly low on the list. 

But he couldn’t deny the fact that it was a good commerce town, people passed through on business or on their way to Hartford all the time. So when his friends asked him where they should open a new branch of their bookstore, it was the first place he thought of.

Once all the paperwork was finished, Jess had spent the week driving back-and-forth from Philadelphia to Stars Hollow and everything was finally done. 

Andrew took papers, “Okay, I’ll get these to Kirk—” He moved to grab his bags— “Have you met Y/N yet?”

Jess shook his head, Y/N the mysterious person that lived in the apartment above the bookstore, “Nope, haven’t run into her yet.” Andrew nodded, “Well, I better get going.”

Once the older man had left, Jess turned to the bookstore. There were cardboard boxes everywhere, and all the bookshelves had been emptied along with the walls, where the hanging bookshelves had made place for paintings.

Jess started to unload the first box of books when Luke walked in, with you tailing behind him.

“Oh come on, don’t lie,” You insisted, “It is so a different brand.”

The older man sighed, maneuvering his way through the mounds of boxes. “Y/N, for the last time: I’ve been using the same brand of coffee for the past twenty years.”

You crossed your arms, “Liar, I know you did something different with it.”

“Well fine, you got me, I put drugs in yours hoping they would shut you up,” Luke deadpanned, handing Jess a paper bag, “Here’s your lunch.”

You turned to him as well, “Oh, you must be Jess!” You exclaimed excitedly, “I’m Y/N, I live upstairs.”

You stretched out your hand for him to shake. Jess stared at you, it was 9 in the morning, how were you so upbeat already?

“This is the part where you take my hand and tell me it’s nice to meet me,” You whisper jokingly. “Jess Mariano,” He replied, shaking your hand as you give him a bright smile.

“Don’t you have places to be?” Luke questioned, staring at you. You raise an eyebrow at him, “What’re you talking about?”

The older man sighed exasperatedly, “The Inn.” Your E/C went wide in realisation, “Michel’s going to kill me!”

Without another word, you ran towards the door, almost tripping over a box of paintings on your way out, “Sorry!” You excused, and quite frankly Jess wasn’t sure if you were talking to the box or him.

“Wow,” He breathed as he watched you made your way down the street, only to stop halfway to pet Babette’s cat before resuming your run.

Luke nodded, a small smile on his face, “Yeah, that girl’s a storm with skin,” He replied, “So, you need any help with these boxes?”

Jess groaned as Voulez-Vous played loudly upstairs. He couldn’t say anything about it yet, though, per Stars Hollow rules you were allowed to play music as loud as you wanted to until 10 PM.

When Toxic started playing he had enough. He made his way up the creaky stairs. You’d left your door open, and Jess took it as a sign to go inside. 

You were standing on your couch, singing along to the song, using your spatula as a mic. Jess watched you jump off and spin around, before finally coming to a halt in front of him.

“Oh, Jess, hi!” You grinned, not even slightly flustered, “Can I help you?” 

“Yes, you can, by turning that god awful music down.”

Your eyes went wide, “Shit, is it ten already?” He shook his head, “No, you just have bad taste in music.”

You laughed, “Right, you’re the kind of guy that listens exclusively to Metallica and Iron Maiden,” You teased, “Hey, I’m making cookies, you want some?  They’re almost done.”

“What I want is for you to turn down the music,” He deadpanned, arms crossed over his chest. You shrugged, “‘Kay, Roommate.” You reached for the stereo and turned down the music.

“Are you my roommate, ‘cause you’re not the landlord, you rent the place too, but you don’t sleep here— or your not supposed to, I’ve seen you sleeping on the couch— but your not my neighbour either,” You rambled, smiling at him.

“Just keep the music down,” He grumbled, “And if you have to play it at max volume, play some decent music.”

An hour after your little encounter, you came skipping down the steps, a plate of cookies in hand. “You never told me whether you wanted the cookies or not,” You said, putting the plate down, “So I brought them anyway.”

The black-haired man stared between the plate of cookies and your bright smile in confusion. Finally he rolled his chair away from the desk and grabbed something out of the drawer near him.

“Here,” He said, handing you a CD he’d burned himself, “Some acceptable music I think you’d like.”

You inspected the plastic case and grinned, “Thank you.” With one last sunbeam of a smile you turned around and practically skipped up the steps to you apartement.

[yona049]

𝕻𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖔𝖒 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕺𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖆 𝖝 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗

Part 1

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Disclaimer!

This is a story following the events after the Phantom of the Opera (2004) and only follows the movie and not any other adaptations!

Started with this fic a few years ago and finally continued bc I couldn't find any new fic's to read! 🥺

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

(For ambiance~)

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Y/n stood with her feet planted infront of the burning Palais Garnier opera house, the ashes of a once red stage curtain falling on her bare shoulders. The only bit of warmth was the costume she was wearing.

A red fire dancer, her hair still in perfect shape. Tho it seems that the other staff of the Opera house weren't as lucky.

Her home was burning down infront of her eyes, and snow did nothing but usher on the burning flames of rage.

This was the doing of one Phantom of the opera. The damned demon took it all from them, their home, their jobs and even Christine Daaé.

The lead singer and great musician that made Y/n dance like never before, Christine's sweet melody made her feet float inches from the ground as her soul danced in sync with her body.

One shiver crawled up Y/n's spine when she heard an unghastly scream. Her feet simply lept to it, only to find a man crawling out of the burning opera house.

"Monsieur!" she cried out to him.

His face seemed to have already been caught by the fire and he barely wore anything but a shirt and his trousers. Y/n fell to her knees beside his weak body.

"Don't worry, Monsieur, you are out of the fire! Please, be still! You are injured. "

She trembled watching blood force its way through the thin gaps between the snowflakes. Blood still warm enough to melt and merge with ice to water.

In a desperate attempt, Y/n pulls off the bottom part of her dancing grown and desperately looked for the point of injury when she finally found the wound on the calve on his leg.

Tieing it tightly before Y/n hoisted him up to his feet.

"Please lean on me, we need to get further from the flames!"

He didn't speak, only grunted in pain. His voice was deep, without effort as if he was willing to Perish without hesitation.

Y/n took a moment to gently touch his burnt skin on his face, he didn't seem to whine. It was as she thought, the wound was not from the fire that had engulfed many others in its treacherous flames.

She shakes herself awake and quickly focuses on the problem at hand.

"I have strength to carry you, but you'll need to carry your consciousness for a little while longer!" she shutted, her voice swelling with pity for him.

'What happened to this poor soul?' She wondered and dragged his feet though the snow.

Y/n didn't know his name, nor his origin from the opera house. Perhaps a operator for the theater special effects? Or perhaps a member of the audience, sitting among the red velvet seats and nearly getting crushed by the chandelier falling loose from its hinges.

It wasn't long after when Y/n and the other performers were taken to a nearby inn. Perhaps it was the will of a greater power that the Opera managers didn't leave them to rot on the streets. Rather to reclaim insurance funds or come around a lone?

At least, she hoped that was the case. But for the moment, she was afraid of what might happen.

The opera house had been home for the last eighteen years of Y/n's life. No, certainly more!

Her father was a dancer, and her mother's legacy had been lost among the chatter and rumors of the opera.

Y/n's father had passed when she was only ten. Now, she was eighteen years older and she promised to follow in his dancing steps to fame.

Still engulfed in her thoughts Y/n stared into the small oil lamp flames while she sat on the bed of the inn. The figure of a woman danced in the red and orange colors.

This seemed to distract her from the man waking up from his exhausted slumber behind her.

He winced with a grumble when Y/n's head turned to face him. His palm covering the burn on his face that she saw before.

"Monsieur?" she whispered in an effort not to frighten him.

His gaze slowly trailed to Y/n's worried expression, but his palm never left his face.

Y/n took this opportunity to explain their predicament.

"Please, do not be frightened. We're in an inn, the managers have sent us to wait until they can reclaim funds."

She stood up to take the bowl of water and cloth to dampen the burnt flesh on the man's face.

She knelt down beside the bed and lightly lifted the damp cloth to his face. His eyes met hers, but Y/n only stared in silence hoping he'd understand her efforts.

Tho he was hesitant, his palm lightly lifted from his face. She feared the wound was still hissing with pain. Lightly the cloth is placed onto his eye and he gave a simple sigh of relief.

Silence filled the room, it would've seemed like only the stars were their witness if it weren't for the drunken cheers from the bar below.

Finally the man took a breath and spoke.

"What of Christine Daaé? Has she been found?"

Y/n's breathing seemed to betray her when her body couldn't fathom the gentle voice the man muttered. She tried to form words, creating a stutter.

"Y-yes, it um, It seems she has been retrieved by the Viscount Raoul de Chagny. She has offered many services to those who did not escape the flames unscathed." she whispered and willed herself to not look into his captivating eyes.

He looks to the side and gives a simple smile, seeming satisfied with his thought.

As soon as his skin was dampened once more he tried to stand with a gasply hiss of pain.

"Monsieur, please be patient! Your wound is still open and fresh!"

He grits his teeth before taking his seat again but looking back at the fireplace.

The rest of the night remained quiet, like he didn't have need to ask her anymore questions.

An awkward night spent sharing a room with a stranger. He fell asleep quickly with exhaustion.

Y/n couldn't sleep. Things ended so abruptly! How could she? Her love died in the fire, her home, belongings. She had nothing to her name anymore.

Y/n quietly stood up from the bed trying to keep noises to a minimum. Avoiding the creeking floor boards and opening the window to look outside.

The smoke from the Opera house covered the sky, no moon in sight. This quiet moment with her thoughts caused her throat to close up and her eyes to push tears.

As quietly as she could, she tried crying everything out, to no avail. Morning her loss took more than just a moment of soft tears.

"I'm sorry my love, Aloïs, I couldn't save you!"

She whispered. Her lover in the theater house had been burnt in the flames because he pushed her away from falling beams.

"Aloïs?"

She gasped when the voice lurks from behind her caught her off guard. The man stood up from the bed and had walked to right behind her without her hearing him.

"Monsieur! I'm so sorry, did I wake you?"

He shakes his head before spotting Y/n's shivers. Looking back at the blanket on the bed, he grabs it with one hand and swings it across her shoulders.

A gentleman! Y/n wasn't sure many workers from the Opera were quite so kind.

"You knew my Aloïs?"

He nods before leaning on the wall next to the window.

"Indeed, he helped me with costumes, more specifically Masks." The man mumbled folding his arms across his chest.

Y/n quickly realized what he meant when the dim light shone on his burnt face. Aloïs was the lead costume designer for all actors, singers and dancers in the opera. He'd certainly be willing to help a gentleman like the man stood next to her.

With a small giggle she put her hand on his shoulder.

"Of course, Aloïs would do something like that. I'm sorry if I make you uncomfortable without a mask."

He looks at me confused almost relieved that he wasn't the one in trouble for once. That someone genuinely asked if he was uncomfortable instead of rushing him away and out of sight.

"You're apologizing? Mademoiselle-"

"Y/n, please."

He seems to smile before leaning closer and wiping a lingering tear off Y/n's cheek.

"Y/n, my name is Erik."

Small talk lasted for a few more hours until the sun started to rise.

All members of the Opera house were called to the outside of the Inn where Monsieur André and Firmin would enlighten them of the situation.

Monsieur André took the lead standing ontop of the inn balcony.

"Listen all! I'm afraid we have terrible news you will all now be let go from the Opera house!"

A sudden uproar of voices filled the street and Y/n felt my body wobble a little from shock. Erik stood beside her with his hand on the small of my back trying to stabilize her.

Monsieur Firmin then took the lead and explained:

"This was a terrible tragedy! And with the business in shambles we have no hope of reviving it, thanks to our generous sponsor, Viscount Raoul de Chagny, we will be giving out warm clothes to help with your resignation."

They both quickly scurry out of view back into the inn, likely out the back door leaving the crowd in shock and anger.

Y/n bit her lip feeling another wave of sadness overcome her. Quick breathing and a pounding heart for the unknown future that lied before her.

"Fools!" She hears Erik mumble under his breath.

"We must go quickly!" he said grabbing her hand and pulling her through the crowd to the front.

They got their clothes, thanks to Erik for getting them there early enough to take a few extra pieces of clothes.

Even with a wounded leg, Erik managed to take them to a proper alleyway to get dressed in the clothing.

He dressed first, then stood at the front of the ally to let Y/n get dressed keeping a look out.

A gentleman walked by peeping into the alleyway, but Erik growled loudly and with his burnt face scared the gentleman away.

"I'm done!"

Y/n smiled walking out with the costume she wore neatly folded in her arms.

Erik seemed to smile at her for a very small second then it quickly fell away, he brought his palm to cover his face.

"May I?"

He looked at Y/n confused until she gently took his hand and pulled it away.

"This might not be as good as Aloïs's handy work."

She looked down at her costume before quickly ripping off a piece of the skirt. She used the edges to tie it delicately around the side of his face tracing over it.

"You shouldn't have to hide! People are children! Gasping at the first strange thing they see." Y/n declared.

Erik chuckles but only for a second before going back into a smile.

"Perhaps."

He offers his arm which Y/n gladly took. They walked out into the crowded streets.

The sights were great and all the small shops and children seemed so foreign to her. In the Opera house they only had wooden or stone walls with the occasional windows high up in the building. The space of an open sky and streets going as far as the eye could see was a breath of fresh air.

A few hours later, Y/n suddenly realized that neither Erik or herself currently had a place to live, she have no living family to rely on.

Walking around the city for the first time in years distracted her from the dormant thoughts about the trouble we were in.

She looked back at Erik ready to ask him if he has a plan, but his eyes were sparkling. He was bewildered and intrigued by buildings, people, sounds and other sights. Y/n was starting to wonder if he'd ever been outside the Opera.

She felt a smile spread across her face from the warmth radiating off Erik.

"Erik, have you never-"

"Hello little mis!" a voice from behind her.

Three men quickly surrounded them and Y/n felt her body shrink into fear. Her lack of outside experience made her forget about the rats lurking around the city.

"Well, well! Give us a smile! How much?"

Y/n felt one of the bigger men behind her run his hand down her back.

She jump forward from his touch ready defend herself however, Erik pinched her arm tightly between his bicep and torso.

Y/n looked up at him and noticed the grimace clenching of his teeth.

"Now, this is unfortunate, just as I was starting to enjoy the outside." Erik fumed.

The man reaches for Y/n's behind again but this time Erik uses a closed fist to swing right into the man's nose.

He pushed Y/n off to the side, just hard enough for her to delicately hit the wall. She watched while this night old acquaintance fights off three large men with a bit of wood he swooped off the ground.

Using it to jab into the first mans forearm and then kneeing him in the groin.

Erik kicks the second man in the side, and to their luck, the third starts running. Finally all three run at the first sight of blood.

Erik breathes heavily before dropping to a knee with a loud grunt,clutching his injured leg from the fire.

"Erik!" Y/n ran to his side and wormed her arm underneath his arm and around his torso.

"We have to leave before they bring friends." Y/n stammered.

Her eyes dart around to land on a Inn with a tavern at the ground floor. The sun was setting again so soon and the candles of the tavern were lit.

She walked with Erik and quickly made their way inside to set Erik down in the corner of the tavern by a table.

"Oi!" The barkeep yells at us.

"Out!! You don't have no money!"

Looking at their clothes Y/n understood exactly how he knew we had no money to spend.

"Please! This man is injured, we need-"

He interrupts Y/n again.

"No money, no service! Out!"

Y/n bit her lip hard, thinking of anything to pay this man until she got a small shred of an idea.

"I dance!"

This makes the barkeep stop and look back at them. He leaned against the bar and waited.

Y/n realized he wanted an example before she swallowed the lump of pride in her throat.

She slowly pulled her coat off revealing a very inexpensive dress they received from the Managers.

Low cut to account for all bust sizes and too long skirt for all heights of woman in the Opera house. Throwing the coat over Erik she leaned close to his ear to whisper.

"Hold on, I'll get more help and medicine for that leg."

He groans grabbing Y/n's arm, objecting to what he knew she'd do. She felt her heart want to cry at his genuine worry for her pride. She gently lifts his hand off before turning back to the bar keep.

She looked down at her skirt before lifting it and tieing it into a knot showing just above her knees.

The musician with a pocket fiddle in the corner starts playing a rhythmic song and patrons start coming in.

Y/n puts on the best smile she could muster before starting to move her legs and hips.

Y/n felt the gazes of every drunken basted, but worst of all, she felt Erik watching her. Intrigued or Disgusted? She wasn't sure. She hoped for the latter. It was the better of the two.

Moving her hand over a rich looking patrons shoulders before spinning to the bar and smiling at another gentleman.

For what felt like forever, Y/n danced following each rhythm of each song played.

Getting a small tip from some patrons before she stopped and leaned against the bar.

Out of breath with her chest moving up and down rapidly. Another song had ended. She wasn't sure how much longer she could continue, her legs burnt from no warm up before hand like she knew she had to.

The barkeep, more likely the owner of the inn, pushed a glass of water toward her.

"Well done girl! We haven't had this many patrons in a while."

He praised but Y/n growled and reached out to him with an open palm.

"I did my part, I need payment."

The barkeep looks disgusted and Y/n was afraid for a moment he would refuse her payment. Thankfully he reached into his apron pocket and gave her a good hand full of coins.

Before she could pull her hand back he grabbed her wrist and smirked.

"Come back, with a better attitude, and you can make twice as much."

Y/n gritted her teeth looking away knowing its a large possibility she'd need to come back for more payment.

She pulled her wrist back then ran to where she'd left Erik only to spot him with an angry expression.

"Erik?"

She knew it, he was disgusted! She hesitated in front of him. He only managed to lean forward and pull the knot out of her skirt letting it cover her legs again.

He looks away but patted on the seat beside him. Y/n felt her body once again shrink in on itself as she sat beside him.

She took this opportunity to count the coins and realized they had enough to rent a room for the night and for her to go buy bandages and medicine.

Once they were in the room she felt a very strange hole in her heart, she felt like she'd betrayed him. She was sure he'd leave the next chance he got. She basically did what he'd tried to prevent in the first place.

She sat on the bed facing away while Erik used this time to wash up in the wash room and apply the medicine and bandages himself.

"Y/n."

His voice stood out from the muffled cheers downstairs.

His hand traveled to Y/n's and he sat beside her on the bed.

"I'm sorry."

Those small words made Y/n breath a sigh of relief before she felt his arms wrap her into a hug.

She'd never cried in front of anyone or at least she tried to avoid it as much she could, so how is it possible for this man to have seen her cry twice.

His chin rested on her head as she sobbed. It felt like she would never stop. Until Erik started humming. A soft but familiar tune. A song from the Opera house used in one of the famous plays.

It was beautiful, an angel of music. A voice she didn't know she longed to hear. In sleep he sang to her, and in dreams he he came.

Y/n slowly calmed her sobs before her body fell into a limp sleep and exhaustion.

Erik smiled before slowly laying her onto the bed, however she was clenched onto his shirt so tightly, Erik gave in and layed with her on the bed.

He looked at her calm face wondering how she was able to remain so strong though everything, even taking care of him aswell as herself.

Feeling his heartbeat similarly to the first time it did when he saw Christine. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and slowly pulled her into his chest, keeping her covered from all the worldly wrongs.

[vintagelasvegas]

Las Vegas Strip facing north – c. 2002.

Frontier, Stardust, Stratosphere, Sahara, and Riviera. The second photo continues with One and Two Turnberry Place, and the Desert Inn's remaining Palm and St. Andrews towers.

Below the Stratosphere is the construction of Hilton Grand Vacations Club.

Photos by (1) Elan Penn, and (2) Richard Cummins.

[dreamwritesimagines]

Garden of Secrets [34] - Heartsease

A.N: I'm back from my vacation! Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback and support and patience my loves!❤ I hope you’ll like this chapter, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think, thank you! ❤

Summary: Love can cause protectiveness.

Warnings: Regency era society and social rules, some gender specific language and terms, mentions of trauma, violence.

Word Count: 3600

Series Masterlist

For a couple of seconds, you could do nothing but just stand there and stare at him. Your ears were muffled from the blood rushing through them and you gritted your teeth, narrowing your eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

“Rupert!” you heard your uncle and turned your head to see him approaching you all. Your father raised his brows.

“Can I not talk to my daughter?”

“No you can’t,” your aunt said and he held up his hands.

“Why did you not send us an invite for your wedding breakfast?”

“Rupert, I thought I told you to leave,” your uncle said and he shrugged his shoulders.

“I wanted to greet my daughter, that is all.”

It felt as if you were swallowing coals and you pursed your lips together before turning to your uncle.

“What is he doing here?” you asked and your uncle shook his head slightly.

“He dropped a surprise visit,”  he answered. “An hour ago, and now he’s leaving.”

“Not yet dear brother,” your father said and your uncle raised his brows.

“Would you like me to get you dragged out of here?”

Your father looked like he was considering pushing his buttons before he heaved a deep sigh and turned his glances to you.

“Your mother is here as well,” he said. “Resting at the inn, the journey tired her a lot.”

“It’s a long way here from hell,” you pointed out. “I’d say so.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “I’m not sure about today, but I think she’ll have gathered enough strength to see you tomorrow if you want—”

“Why on earth would I want to see her?” you cut him off. “Or you for that matter?”

“We’re family.”

“No we’re not,” you spat. “Has all that drinking finally muddled your mind beyond saving? You’re not my family, neither is she.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Believe that if you wish,” he said. “Your mother and I still missed you. You and Teddy.”

Your head shot up, your jaw clenching in anger and you scoffed, then walked past him.

“Y/N—”

“I’ll see you tonight,” you muttered to your uncle and made your way out of the garden, your thoughts like a storm in your head. You approached the carriage and the coachman opened the door for you.

“Where to, ma’am?”

“To Josie’s house,” you said through your teeth and got in the carriage. “Thank you.”    

                                        *

You had spent almost three hours in Josie’s house after telling her that your parents were here. You had both decided that it would be better if they didn’t see Teddy, so Bess was going to stay with Teddy in their house instead of coming to the ball. Though you had insisted she did not have to, Josie refused to let you handle your parents alone, so she and Andrew would in fact be coming to the ball tonight.

When you finally arrived home, you were exhausted beyond words. You dragged your weary self up the stairs, taking off your gloves and entered your room to fling yourself on the bed, letting out a groan.

It was fine.

It was going to be fine.

You just needed to go through tonight’s ball, and then you were going to come up with a plan to avoid them as much as possible until they decided to go back to the countryside.

“Y/N?”

You turned your head upon hearing Benedict’s voice, then sat up in the bed.

“Over here!” you called out, rubbing at your eyes and Benedict knocked on the door.

“May I?”

“Sure!” you said and he opened the door to peek his head in.

“Were you sleeping?”

“Not at all,” you said as he entered the room and closed the door behind him. “I just got home actually.”

“So did I—you will not believe what happened.”

“Neither will you I’m guessing,” you muttered and he started pacing in the room.

“So you know how I was meeting Colin and Anthony because Anthony had this huge news for us?” he said. “Guess what the news were. He asked—”

“Lottie to marry him.”

“And he didn’t even ask for my permission and she’s been my best friend since—wait,” he stopped his rant mid-way. “How did you…?”

“Lottie told me earlier and trust me, I’d love it if that was the only news I got today,” you said, slipping a little to get to the edge of the bed. “I need to talk to you.”

Benedict’s brows pulled into a frown and he stepped closer to you. “What’s wrong?”

“Um…” you trailed off and cleared your throat as he crouched down so that he could get on your level while you sat still on the edge of the bed. He reached out to hold your hand, making you smile before you swallowed thickly, willing the words out of your mouth.

“I need your help,” you managed to say and he nodded.

“Anything,” he said without any hesitation. “Name it, it’s yours.”

“First of all, promise me you will not do anything stupid.”

He tilted his head. “I’ll try?”

“Try your hardest.”

“Alright,” he said with a small smile. “What is it?”

“My parents are here.”

That was enough to make the smile on his face fade away as that furious fire started burning in his eyes.

“What?”

“I went to my uncle’s house and my father was there,” you said. “Talk about bad surprises…”

His jaw clenched. “Where is he now?”

“You promised me not to do anything stupid less than a minute ago,” you reminded him. “My father said my mother was too tired from the journey but he will be at tonight’s ball I’m guessing and I wanted you to know beforehand because he knows I’m married. He will probably try to talk to you—”

“Good.”

“Benedict, you don’t know him,” you insisted. “He’s not exactly someone who you’d like to have a conversation with.”

“I’m not planning on having a conversation with him,” he said, his voice low with carefully contained anger and you tilted your head.

“Ben.”

“Let him try to talk to me,” he told you and you shook your head.

“Whatever it is you’re planning…”

“I’m not planning anything,” he said. “I’m merely stating the truth. If he so much as tries to come near you, there will be consequences. It’s about time he heard that, no?”

You bit down on your lip. “I can handle him though.”

“Oh I know,” he said and offered you a small smile. “You just don’t have to do it alone anymore, that’s all.”

Before you could even control your expression, you found yourself mirroring his smile and you nodded slowly.

“Alright then,” you murmured. “Let’s see how tonight goes.”

                                      *

To say that you were tense at the ball would have been the understatement of the century and by the murderous look on his face, Benedict shared the sentiment. He had refused to let go of your hand since the beginning of the ball even when Gordon, Henry and Lucy came to talk to you or when the rest of the Bridgertons showed up, happily chattering about the news of Anthony and Lottie’s engagement. Thankfully your parents were nowhere to be seen and your aunt and uncle looked very happy, so as the time passed you found yourself relaxing a little while you sipped your lemonade while Benedict looked like a guard dog, his eyes searching through the crowd while he half-heartedly listened to what you were saying.

“And then Lucy for some reason decided to—Ben.”

“Hm?” he muttered without dragging his gaze off of the crowd but when you raised your brows in silence, he turned to you. “Yes?”

“If he shows up and tries to taunt you or something, don’t take the bait.”

He looked almost too innocent. “What bait?”

“I’m just saying if you killed him, you’d go to prison and then get hanged,” you pointed out. “And I’m too young to be a widow.”

He grinned at you. “You didn’t have an issue with that idea before.”

“I do now,” you insisted, elbowing him. “We haven’t even visited Rome yet for the honeymoon nonsense, and you want to die already?”

“That’s not what I said at all—”

“And if you die, everyone will try to talk to me and you know how much I hate that,” you made a face, making him laugh.

“Mm, such an inconvenience.”

“Exactly,” you said and raised a hand to wave at Josie and Andrew who made their way to you.

“Any sign of him?” Josie asked and you shrugged your shoulders.

“I don’t see the ground opening up to spit out any demons, so no.”

Andrew heaved a sigh. “Maybe he just won’t show up,” he said. “Maybe he fears your uncle will get him dragged out of the place.”

“That’s not like him, and he knows uncle wouldn’t do that.”

“Have you met him before?” Benedict asked Andrew, making him scoff.

“Mm hm,” he said. “He’s terrible, you’ll hate him.”

“I already do.”

“Where’s Felix by the way?” you asked and Andrew shrugged.

“He was drinking with Lucy and arguing with her about who the biggest artist of the Renaissance was.”

“That argument has been going on for over three days now,” Benedict muttered and Josie stole a look at Andrew.

“You really don’t have to spend the whole night away from him just to be with me.”

Andrew shot her a light-hearted glare.

“You’re my best friend Jo,” he said. “Not to mention mine to safekeep when Bess isn’t here. Of course I’ll be here for you, don’t be ridiculous.”

Josie repressed a smile and squeezed at his arm, then cleared her throat.

“I need a stronger drink than just a lemonade,” she mumbled and Andrew held her hand.

“Come on,” he said. “I think I know who to find for that task.”

He pulled her away from you into the crowd and you huffed out, making Benedict turn to look down at you, caressing the back of your hand with his thumb as if trying to assure you.

“A dance, my lady?” he asked, making you smile.

“I’d love that but I just need some fresh air first,” you said. “Would it be rude to auntie if we stepped outside for a moment?”

“Not at all,” he said, nodding towards the entrance. “Come on.”

You let him lead you out of the ballroom and passed the foyer with him, then stepped outside, the fresh air making you inhale and tilt your head back before you followed him towards the garden.

“They’re very good friends huh?”

“Josie and Andrew?” you asked and nodded. “They’d die for each other, even though Josie is less obvious about it. If the roles were reversed and Andrew’s father were here, Josie would be walking around that ballroom with a pistol or something.”

Benedict hummed, looking around the garden before turning to shoot you a lopsided grin.

“What?” you asked and he shrugged his shoulders.

“What’s that one?” he asked and you let out a small giggle.

“Oh are we doing that again then?”

“We absolutely are,” he said. “So what is it?”

You heaved a sigh, then turned to follow his line of sight.

“That’s heartsease” you said. “I planted it around a month before we got married.”

“What does it do?”

You smirked at him. “Well it can be used as medicine or tea,” you said. “But in medieval times, people used to use it to make so called love potions.”

He raised his brows and let out a chuckle. “Is that right?”

“I mean clearly it’s nonsense but…” you said. “It’s quite popular now as well, especially among courting couples, considering its meaning and everything.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means—um,” you stole a look at him, then turned your gaze to the flowers. “It means you’re in my thoughts.”

A small smile curled his lips but before he could say anything, another voice reached you.

“Oh if it isn’t the happy couple…”

You could feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise when your eyes fell on your father, your jaw clenching as that familiar pain in your wrist came back. Benedict seemed to have understood who he was immediately, because he stepped in front of you as if to shield you from your father even if he was just standing there.

The shift was so sudden that for a moment you couldn’t even focus on anything else. You were more used to Benedict being quite carefree and you hadn’t exactly seen him angry up until now, he had always made sure to keep that part of him under control around you, but now?

This was different.

There was no sign of warmth in his unwavering gaze as he glared at your father, towering over him. His back was completely straight, and he didn’t even have to say a word for your father to understand he wasn’t wanted here.

But of course, your father didn’t see that.

“You must be my son-in-law, Benedict Bridgerton,” he said and offered his hand. “Rupert Thorne.”

Benedict didn’t shake his hand, instead he just raised his brows, that calm anger radiating off of him in waves. Your father looked rather surprised, but then retrieved his hand.

“I see,” he said. “My daughter had a lot to say about me I’m sure—”

“What are you doing here?” Benedict cut him off as if he had zero patience for him and your father hummed.

“It’s a ball thrown by my brother’s wife.”

“They didn’t invite you.”

“They don’t have to, we’re family.”

“We’re not,” you spat, narrowing your eyes. “No one in there wants to see you, so you can go away now.”

“Your mother sent her love,” he said. “She wants to see you tomorrow.”

“Tell her she can go to hell.”

Your father tut tutted. “Always so emotional,” he told you, making you pull back slightly.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m guessing this hostility of yours is because of the lies she fed you?” your father asked Benedict, making your jaw drop. “It’s exaggeration, I hope you know that. She’s always been too sensitive—”

“You will not talk to or about my wife like that,” Benedict cut him off sternly and you felt a warmth spreading through your chest while your father looked slightly taken aback before pulling himself together. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Henry and Lucy stepping outside and you shifted your weight.

“Ben,” you said, reaching out to touch his arm. “Just…let’s go inside. I don’t want to do this where people can see, and he’s not worth it.”

Benedict gritted his teeth, then looked down at you while your father scoffed.

“I’m not worth it?” he repeated. “Careful there Y/N. Just because whoring yourself out got you a fortunate marriage doesn’t mean you can forget where you come from.”

Benedict’s head whipped around and a silence fell upon you for a moment before Benedict clicked his tongue.

“Fuck this,” he growled and lunged at him, making you gasp as he grabbed him by the neck to punch him in the face, the sound of a bone cracking reaching you.

“Benedict no!” you rushed to them as your father tried to get out of his grip but it was of no use, even you could see that through your panic. Benedict shoved him back and he tripped before losing his balance, falling on his back. Someone grabbed your arm before you could get in the way and you saw Lucy pulling you back to stop you from getting hurt accidentally while Henry rushed to get between them.

“What on earth are you doing?!”

“Get out of the way, Henry,” Benedict said and took a step towards your father again but Henry pushed him back.

“Benedict—”

“Stop!” you said, your heart beating in your ears as your father found his footing, then stood up, wiping at the blood pouring out of his nose that looked broken. If it were any other time, you would have felt like at least some justice had taken place but now, all you cared about was Benedict not getting harmed in this in any way. You pulled your arm out of Lucy’s grip and turned to your father who was glaring at Benedict, no doubt trying to decide whether he could take him down or not but that was impossible, anyone could see that.

“Just leave,” you said through your teeth. “Or do you want to ruin your chances of getting any money from uncle?”

Your father spat out the blood on the grass and wiped at his nose again.

“This is not over yet,” he pointed at Benedict who scoffed.

“Oh trust me, it’s not,” he said, glaring daggers at him and Lucy let out a breath while your father walked away.

“Are you alright?” you rushed to Benedict while Henry gawked at him.

“What was that?”

“Or who was that?” Lucy asked and you grabbed Benedict’s bloodied hand to check for any injuries.

“Benedict…”

“I’m fine, it’s not broken,” Benedict assured you and Henry’s shook his head.

“Have you forgotten that you’re an artist?” he asked. “If you broke your hand—”

“Who was that, Y/N?” Lucy asked and you heaved a sigh.

“My father,” you told her. “It’s um, it’s a long story but… thank you, both of you.”

“Of course,” Lucy said and Henry’s eyes darted between you and Benedict before motioning at his hand.

“A doctor should see that.”

“It’s not broken,” Benedict repeated and you licked your lips, then looked back at the house.

“Come with me,” you said, grabbing at his wrist before pulling him towards the house. You passed by the guests in the hallway, then led him upstairs to the second drawing room before you both got inside and you closed the door behind you.

“It really feels fine.”

“Sit down,” you said, walking to the cabinet to pull it open, then took out the familiar box and opened it to get some bandage and a piece of clean cloth. You uncapped the bottle to pour some carbolic acid on the cloth, and walked to him.

“Sit down I said.”

“You would make a terrifying doctor,” he joked as he sat down, and you sat down across from him to take his hand carefully into yours.

“Can you move it?”

Benedict nodded and moved his fingers, making a face.

“Not broken, thank God,” you said and lightly pressed the cloth on his bruised knuckles. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, trying to pass it off as a cough but you were very familiar with how much it stung when someone pressed carbolic acid-soaked cloth on a wound. You lifted the cloth a bit and blew on his knuckles gently, trying to lessen the sting, making a smile curl his lips.

“How did you know…?”

“That it was here?” you finished his question. “Well I used to live here in case you forgot. And Teddy can be rather clumsy, so we have these boxes in every room just in case.”

“Really?”

“My aunt is a bit too careful when it comes to our health,” you muttered, pressing the cloth on his knuckles again, then heaved a sigh. “Benedict…”

“I think I know what you’re going to say but—”

“You really shouldn’t have,” you said, lifting your gaze to look up at him. “Henry is right, you’re an artist.”

“To repeat, it’s not broken.”

“It could have,” you insisted. “What if that happened?”

“Broken bones heal.”

“Not completely.”

He pressed his lips together, then shook his head. “You heard what he called you.”

“He called me much worse before,” you muttered, putting the cloth to the side. “It means nothing to me, really.”

“Maybe not, but he’s still not going to call you that,” Benedict insisted as you started wrapping the bandage around his hand. “I’m not going to just stand there and let him insult you.”

You bit back a smile and stole a look at him. “Ben…”

“Y/N, you’re the love of my life,” he said in a determined tone, the simple statement making your heart skip a beat. “That sort of disrespect will never take place again. Not from him, or anyone else.”

You could swear your heart was melting inside your chest and you stared at his handsome face before willing yourself to turn back to bandaging his hand.

“What he said; it not being over yet…” you trailed off, deep in thought. “Perhaps you were right earlier. About him hearing of the consequences.”

 “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you said, tying up the bandage around his hand, then pulling back to look at him better. “The next time he tries to talk to me, I’ll make sure he understands that if he so much as looks at you wrong, I won’t hesitate to cut him.”

A smile curled his lips and he turned his hand to entwine his fingers with yours despite the pain you knew for sure he was feeling.

“Don’t,” he said, running his thumb over your wedding band. “I told you. I can take the torment but not your absence.”

You bit inside your cheek and smiled at him back, the urge to lean in slightly to kiss him almost overpowering you before you swallowed thickly and took a trembling breath, clearing your throat to make yourself snap out of the haze.

“We should um—we should get back,” you said. “Josie will be worried if she can’t find us anywhere on a night like this and I think my uncle should hear that my father was here, just in case.”

He nodded and stood up, still holding your hand and you looked up at him.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not at all,” he said with a soft smile, then kissed the top of your head. “Come on then, let’s go back to the ballroom. I believe you promised me a dance, Mrs. Bridgerton.”

Chapter 35