#flimsy little british man...

[theautisticarchivist]

smiling friends malevolent crossover created by my dear friend @breadedbiscuit a piece of art i am ecstatic

[sapphicthunderhead]

TMAGP 21 Spoilers Ahead!

Right out the gate we get yet more confirmation that Sam is trying his best to do the right thing, but that his curiosity is a substantially greater motivating factor behind his actions than either his self-preservation instincts (which may be nonexistent) or his moral principles. This is positively fascinating characterization.

Also, this episode really uses setting to help establish tone in a much subtler manner than a lot of podcasts, which require the characters describe to the setting verbally (Penumbra, Sherlock & Co., Malevolent). Of course, I don’t think it’s quite on the level of setting-through-sound-design that The Silt Verses pulls off, but environmental storytelling isn’t as necessary to the plot and world-building in TMAGP as it is in TSV, so that’s not necessarily a criticism.

Celia cracks me up with her talk of “complicated immigration status.” Every scene featuring Celia is heavy on Dramatic Irony from the perspective of we who Know (have listened to TMA) and bring an element of mystery to the plot for any and all audience members, be they in the Know or not— just a little bit less for the former. Reminds me of the early days of TMA in the way. Jonny does a great job of introducing a mystery element seamlessly into all his horror fiction, and I think the two complement one another perfectly. For another example of this, see his book 13 Storeys (it is spelled that way deliberately). I highly recommend the audiobook on Audible.

(Did anyone else subconsciously assume Jack was some sort of sinister Fear receptacle before this episode? Celia seems genuinely emotionally attached to him, so I’m a little less concerned now.)

On to the statement itself: FUCKING MAGNIFICENT. I am positively infatuated with this one. So much suspense! So much information, such a beautiful bit of storytelling, and yet NO ANSWERS! I am dying for an explanation here, in the best way possible— because I also found myself perfectly content to just enjoy the events unfolding while I was listening.

I really felt that the authorial tone and style Jonny used for this character, Mr. Kennings, harkened back to one of the major inspirations for TMA: the ghost stories of M.R. James, one of my favorite horror authors (alongside Shirley Jackson). I first read his collected works after Jonny mentioned him in a Q&A, and I was hooked; I have since re-read his work a couple of times.

But it wasn’t just the style of this episode I enjoyed. The substance was also very satisfying. I find the idea of the scholars and administrators of the Institute bickering like petty children whilst using their most formal jargon, attempting to conceal their contempt for one another behind a flimsy facade of civility, incredibly amusing. I also found Kennings’ jabs at the British monarchy and his concern about soil toxicity and its effect on the laborers and foremen at the construction site allowed me to follow his perspective somewhat sympathetically— although I was horrified when he did nothing to assist the poor man whose decrepit old doppelgänger emerged from the earthen wall of the ditch to drag him underground. But I should have expected it. Kennings worked for the Magnus Institute, after all.

As an aside, this tragic event could have a couple of possible symbolic meanings. The description of the haggard elderly counterpart of the younger construction worker, who drags himself out of a wall of dirt that Mr. Kennings specifies exhibits “tell-tale indications of heavy metals in the earthen edges of it,” evokes the idea of a young man confronting what his life looks like if he continues to sacrifice his health and safety to this dangerous line of work. It could also be the reverse: the old man killing a younger version of himself who made poor choices (because he had so few choices or none at all, because he had to support himself or a family, who knows?) that would otherwise have killed him slowly and perhaps agonizingly, the toxic gas seeping out of the soil and into his lungs and blood. By the end of the statement, I was surprised that the writers had titled the statement “Breaking Ground” instead of “Poisoned” or something along those lines.

Alice trying to protect Sam from the scary little men in the computer was very amusing. Silly Alice, he serves the plot now! There’s nothing you can do to stop him, my dear! Mwahahahaha!

Lena Kelley being worried about Gwen wasn’t entirely unexpected, but does further emphasize the contrast between her and Jonah-Elias. Still unclear whether Lena is a cog in the Fear machine or is actually doing anything to protect humanity, but she clearly thinks she’s doing the latter. Can’t wait for her disillusionment arc, epiphany, and/or moment of self-awareness.

Then we have Gwen, Ink5oul, and…. What the fuck is that. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck? That can’t be Jon. Another Archivist? Gertrude? Doesn’t sound like it. Who? What? Definitely an extension of the Eye, but the voice is unfamiliar.

Returning to the subject of Kennings’ statement: this series continues to emphasize that there are no clear delineations between Fears. Doppelgänger? Stranger. Dirt? Buried. Pollution? Extinction. All of the above? It’s just fear. That’s all that matters.

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 3 EPISODE 04 || OF LOST THINGS ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

She bent her head and shuffled through the papers before her, turning the pages over slowly, one by one. They were lists of names, these sheets, lists of prisoners, copied from the ledger books of British prisons. The task was complicated by the fact that not all prisons had been well-run. Some governors kept no official lists of their inmates, or listed them haphazardly in their journals, in among the notations of daily expenditure and maintenance, making no great distinction between the death of a prisoner and the slaughter of two bullocks, salted for meat. Roger thought Claire had abandoned the conversation, but a moment later she looked up again. “You’re quite right, though,” she said. “I’m honest—from default, more than anything. It isn’t easy for me not to say what I’m thinking. I imagine you see it because you’re the same way.” “Am I?” Roger felt absurdly pleased, as though someone had given him an unexpected present. Claire nodded, a small smile on her lips as she watched him. “Oh, yes. It’s unmistakable, you know. There aren’t many people like that—who will tell you the truth about themselves and anything else right out. I’ve only met three people like that, I think—four now,” she said, her smile widening to warm him. “There was Jamie, of course.” Her long fingers rested lightly on the stack of papers, almost caressing in their touch. “Master Raymond, the apothecary I knew in Paris. And a friend I met in medical school—Joe Abernathy. Now you. I think.”

She tilted her cup and swallowed the last of the rich brown liquid. She set it down and looked directly at Roger. “Frank was right, in a way, though. It isn’t necessarily easier if you know what it is you’re meant to do—but at least you don’t waste time in questioning or doubting. If you’re honest—well, that isn’t necessarily easier, either. Though I suppose if you’re honest with yourself and know what you are, at least you’re less likely to feel that you’ve wasted your life, doing the wrong thing.” She set aside the stack of papers and drew up another—a set of folders with the characteristic logo of the British Museum on the covers. “Jamie had that,” she said softly, as though to herself. “He wasn’t a man to turn away from anything he thought his job. Dangerous or not. And I think he won’t have felt himself wasted—no matter what happened to him.” She lapsed into silence, then, absorbed in the spidery tracings of some long-dead writer, looking for the entry that might tell her what Jamie Fraser had done and been, and whether his life had been wasted in a prison cell, or ended in a lonely dungeon. The clock on the desk struck midnight, its chimes surprisingly deep and melodious for such a small instrument. The quarter-hour struck, and then the half, punctuating the monotonous rustle of pages. Roger put down the sheaf of flimsy papers he had been thumbing through, and yawned deeply, not troubling to cover his mouth. “I’m so tired I’m seeing double,” he said. “Shall we go on with it in the morning?” Claire didn’t answer for a moment; she was looking into the glowing bars of the electric fire, a look of unutterable distance on her face. Roger repeated his question, and slowly she came back from wherever she was. “No,” she said. She reached for another folder, and smiled at Roger, the look of distance lingering in her eyes. “You go on, Roger,” she said. “I’ll—just look a little longer.”

When I finally found it, I nearly flipped right past it. I had not been reading the names carefully, but only skimming the pages for the letter “J.” “John, Joseph, Jacques, James.” There were James Edward, James Alan, James Walter, ad infinitum. Then it was there, the writing small and precise across the page:

“Jms. MacKenzie Fraser, of Brock Turac.”

I put the page down carefully on the table, shut my eyes for a moment to clear them, then looked again. It was still there.

“Jamie,” I said aloud. My heart was beating heavily in my chest. “Jamie,” I said again, more quietly.

It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. Everyone was asleep, but the house, in the manner of old houses, was still awake around me,creaking and sighing, keeping me company. Strangely enough, I had no desire to leap up and wake Brianna or Roger, to tell them the news.

I wanted to keep it to myself for a bit, as though I were alone here in the lamp-lit room with Jamie himself.

My finger traced the line of ink.

The person who had written that line had seen Jamie—perhaps had written this with Jamie standing in front of him. The date at the top of the page was May 16, 1753. It had been close to this time of year, then. I could imagine how the air had been, chilly and fresh, with the rare spring sun across his shoulders, lighting sparks in his hair. How had he worn his hair then—short, or long? He had preferred to wear it long, plaited or tailed behind. I remembered the casual gesture with which he would lift the weight of it off his neck to cool himself in the heat of exercise. He would not have worn his kilt—the wearing of all tartans had been outlawed after Culloden. Breeks, then, likely, and a linen shirt. I had made such sarks for him; I could feel the softness of the fabric in memory, the billowing length of the three full yards it took to make one, the long tails and full sleeves that let the Highland men drop their plaids and sleep or fight with a sark their only garment. I could imagine his shoulders broad beneath the rough-woven cloth, his skin warm through it, hands touched with the chill of the Scottish spring. He had been imprisoned before. How would he have looked, facing an English prison clerk, knowing all too well what waited for him? Grim as hell, I thought, staring down that long, straight nose with his eyes a cold, dark blue—dark and forbidding as the waters of Loch Ness. I opened my own eyes, realizing only then that I was sitting on the edge of my chair, the folder of photocopied pages clasped tight to my chest, so caught up in my conjuration that I had not even paid attention to which prison these registers had come from. There were several large prisons that the English had used regularly in the eighteenth century, and a number of minor ones. I turned the folder over, slowly. Would it be Berwick, near the border? The notorious Tolbooth of Edinburgh? Or one of the southern prisons, Leeds Castle or even the Tower of London?

“Ardsmuir,” said the notecard neatly stapled to the front of the folder. “Ardsmuir?” I said blankly. “Where the hell is that?”

7 A FAITH IN DOCUMENTS ~voyager

[hauntedjpegcollection]

same old

wc: 2312 au: core au ch: xavier, benji

The parking lot to the office building is dead empty. It used to make him nervous—parking lots at night, big empty space. A flood light flickers and barely illuminates his path up to the stone steps. Windows line the front, real two way mirror like. Can’t see out as well as you can see in. That also used to make him nervous—Xavier figures he was a pretty nervous man before. But when he shakes off his coat and tosses it onto a rack aside the door, a man at the welcome counter whistles. It relaxes him instantly, this friendly greeting, this familiar face.

“Wolffe, you see that plan on last nights game? Whiffed it, he fuckin’ did, yeah?”

“Go easy on the guy. First time playing after a knee injury? Like you could do better.” Xavier leans over the counter to fish for a pen on a messy desk. Banner heaves back in the office chair, booted feet propped up on the counter. The toes are scuffed to death and they’re clunky and militant, obviously old. He’s former…something. Xavier never actually remembers—which is sort of nice. It’s hazy anyway, just like his own flimsy background that has somehow held for as long as it has. Most of the British don’t seem to care if he was Air Force, Navy, Marine or what.

“I’d hold it down, my own. ‘Fore the—”

“Before the bullet, right, right.” Xavier nods along, grinning toothily as he signs his name into visitors. Not entirely necessary, but since his paperwork is also flimsy, he likes following rules. Makes it easier. Lessens the everyday hovering fear that something will one day happen to take all this away. “Tell Eden I said hello. Meant to bring in the casserole dish, but—” he gestures to the oil stained mechanics jumpsuit.

“Right off from work?”

“Cut out early.”

“Lazy dog!”

“Woof,” Xavier jokes, tongue out as he pushes through the side door that leads into a long, beige hallway.

Used to be Xavier couldn’t stand the color. Reminds him of…

He hangs a right, sidesteps a short woman whose hair is pulled back in a severe bun.

“Going to call security on you one day,” she comments, eyes cutting up above small, rectangular glasses. Xavier presses both hands to his heart, attempts his sweetest, most good boy smile. It might not land, with the little bit of gray that’s seemed to finally push through at his temples. Luckily, the office he’s looking for is only a few steps backward and to the left. Xavier’s hand closes around the little gold knob just as the woman is rolling her eyes and turning back to a printer that will likely occupy her for a full night.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, holding up his broad hands in surprise. Xavier frowns, brows pulling together. He makes a quick glance behind him to the glass window pane that has a last name on it, in big black lettering. “I’m looking for someone. Have you seen,” he turns and steps forward, hands closing onto the back of a chair. It’s nice than those standard wooden chairs in some of the other offices—someone had clearly thought of comfort first, when putting these in here. For whoever might be in The Veterans Affairs office—who might need comfort before anything else.

“My husband? He’s around this tall,” Xavier touches his chest, admittedly a bit suggestively. “Dresses almost entirely in black and has the prettiest eyes. I haven’t seen him in, like, a week?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Benji sighs, tossing paperwork onto his desk.

Maybe it was because Xavier had only just been sitting in his car, looking through old pictures on his phone that Benji’s appearance strikes a hard chord inside his heart. It’s devastating occasionally, knowing time just sort of passes like it does. Xavier feels it slip through his fingers, that metaphor of sand or water or whatever the fuck getting away too quickly. One day, he was standing in front of a job fair booth, making the worst decision of his life; the next day, he was waking up next to a result of that decision and the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Benji removes his glasses, tossing them alongside the paperwork. He pinches the bridge of his handsome, curved nose. He must have been the last of his soldiers already, because he’s yanked all his hair back haphazardly with a claw clip that barely contains all those curls. Gray weaves through them, a thick band that sprouts from one temple and blends with his raven ink colored hair.

He’d gone gray first. Xavier thinks it started back in the forest, with the wound. Benji had aged ten years in that moment, knife slit in his side. Xavier, when he’d finally found himself back in his lovers arms, months and months later, had found the first gray hair. He’d put his lips to it, his nose to it, in that way Xavier showed affection and breathed Benji in and made peace with the fact that the gray would stay.

A dog breathes in the corner, a soft snuffling sounds. Anika lays there, in her SERVICE ANIMAL vest, utterly tuckered out and asleep. Her side rises and falls in that soothing, animal pattern. One of her back legs kick, like she’s firmly inside a nice, sunny dream.

Xavier slinks around the chair he’d been leaning on, hand walking across Benji’s desk. He pokes fingers into paperwork, slides it just a bit further away. Benji snorts at the gesture and it makes Xavier pouty, until he’s firmly on the other side of the desk. Then he can’t hel smiling again, leaning back against Benji’s messy workspace, feet spread to make himself a bit shorter for his husband.

“Promise I didn’t come to revisit the old argument,” Xavier says, holding up his hand in a mock scout salute. Benji’s long hours, huge case load, dedication to his job, all had already been a sore spot at more than one dinner table argument. But sometimes Xavier liked that—what they argued about seemed simple and domestic and sweet because of it. Letting the laundry sit too long so it got wrinkled, or ordering the wrong sized door for the shed they were building, or that Benji worked himself to death sometimes or that Xavier felt he didn’t work enough, didn’t pull his weight, didn’t really add enough to their income.

Benji’s dark hands lift, slide around Xavier’s thighs and squeeze. He pulls himself closer, resting his cheek against the rough material of the mechanics jumpsuit on Xavier’s stomach.

“Mm,” he hums. “Love you in this, y’know.”

“Do you want me to leave and walk back in and pretend I’m just some lost mechanic? Get a little roleplay with it?” Benji’s laugh is a soft bark, something that moves his shoulders. Xavier brushes fingers through that jet black and steel gray hair, appreciating how it causes Benji’s hands to tighten around his thighs as if in reflex.

“Naw,” he drawls and tilts his head back until his chin is resting on the lower part of Xavier’s stomach. A strong current of hot blood suddenly rushes straight to that spot, leaving Xavier dry mouthed and dizzy. “I wanna go home.” Benji’s dark, husky voice makes that hot blood pool painfully lower. Those pretty eyes blink up at him, making it even worse. Xavier groans, loudly, completely unashamed of the sudden and intense desire for his husband.

“Say fucking less,” he mumbles, quickly bending to dark a few kisses to Benji’s mouth and cheek and accidentally, his eyebrow. It causes more laughter, which does not make his hard on any less hard.

—

It’s not noise or temperature or a dream that wakes Xavier up. It’s sheer absence of a body next to his own, when nightly, there is a body beside him. His pale hand pats around the bed, searching for Benji and coming up empty. Xavier lays flat on his stomach, still half asleep, drifting in and out of a dream that was all green and blue and warm. He blinks himself awake, forces consciousness in the wake of realizing he’s alone in their bed. He rises, stumbling a little bit.

Xavier’s long body tips over as his hands scramble along the floor to find his boxers. He tugs them on, yawning with his head tilted back. The elastic snaps on his hips. He notices how much tighter they feel, a little roll of fat above the band. He pinches it, grumbling to himself, because he wasn’t sure where all that came from.

He leaves the bedroom, scratching idly at an itch on his side. Fingers run accidentally on scar tissue, but he pays it no attention because it’s an old wound. A before wound—a knife slipped up to take his life and having missed, just made his pale, freckly skin less pretty there. Xavier doesn’t think about that old scar anymore, barely thinks of any of them. Not even the one along his jaw, since he’s regularly kept just a thin layer of five o’clock shadow. Now that it doesn’t grow in so God damn patchy.

Sleepiness still clings to him, dragging him down like a warm blanket, so he nearly trips over Anika. She’s laid on her side, in the hallway, which is where she tends to sleep if Benji’s left the bedroom. The poor girl raises a head and then lays it back down, her tail thumping softly.

“I know, girl,” Xavier says, bending to pet her big, blocky head. He gives her a sweet kiss to the face, a thank you for forever protecting his husband when Benji refuses to wake Xavier up.

It was funny that the insomnia didn’t really go away. There were good stretches of time where Benji slept fine. Better than fine, there were Sundays were they overslept and stayed in bed and cat napped through out the day. Most days, Xavier woke up before Benji to be at the shop early—and Benji was still asleep. Not the half sleep he’d become accustomed too when he’d first come home (here, home). Benji, flitting through a hundred different nightmares, on the precipice of being awake during every single one. That wasn’t real rest.

But Benji did get real rest these days. Most of the time. Love was not a cure all for everything, though. And the insomnia stuck around more often than Xavier would have liked.

The TV is on, but the sound is so soft it’s more for light than anything else. Benji lays on the couch, arms around himself, tucked inward. His side rises and falls softly, but Xavier doesn’t believe for a second he’s truly asleep. It’s that half state again. He can tell because Benji’s fingers dance, twitching here and there.

Xavier says nothing as he approaches. He continues to say nothing as he takes Benji’s wrist and slowly unravels the former medic. Benji makes a few noises himself, a grunt here and there. A resigned sigh. Xavier doesn’t care and he doesn’t stop. He merely tugs Benji up from the couch and starts the walk back to their bedroom. It’s almost child like, pulling him along. He can picture the dour, petulant expression across Benji’s face; caught in his ridiculous independent act. He didn’t like bothering Xavier, he didn’t want to toss and turn in bed when the other man needed sleep. Even years together, Benji had a hard time asking for things.

There’s no use arguing over it. And besides, before it made Xavier angry. Now, he feels nothing but this surging, protective affection that makes him yank back the blankets and shove at Benji to get back into the bed.

“Dickhead,” he mumbles grouchily.

“Mhm,” Xavier hums, climbing in as well. Mean old fuck, Xavier thinks fondly, lovingly, happily. He tucks arms around Benji’s broad torso and yanks him back into the cushion of his chest and thighs, spoons around him like a warm blanket. Benji mumbles something else, not really meant to be heard. Xavier presses a kiss to skin, anywhere he can find it. Shoulder, neck, behind Benji’s ear.

“Sorry,” Benji finally folds. “Not a nightmare, alright? Just couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to—”

“Just bother me,” Xavier interrupts. “I like being bothered.” He flattens a hand and gropes across Benji’s chest to make him laugh. It’s a lovely, husky sound. Xavier presses another aimless kiss. “Besides, I already called off tomorrow.”

“You never call off work.” Which was true. Xavier’s loyalty and work ethic combined was dog like. Anika would be jealous. Or, if she could communicate, she’d probably tell her stupid humans to stop being so stubborn, so annoying and also to buy more quail eggs for her. Before Xavier can answer, Benji is hauling away from him and patting at the bedside table. There’s a brief illumination—the pale sickly light of technology—and then the thumb patting sound of Benji texting. The phone’s put down and then Benji wiggles back into place—which is both adorable and very hilarious, considering he’d been the one to wander out of the bedroom in the first place.

Xavier does not point out the sudden change of heart. Instead, his fingers brush softly through coarse, black body hair at Benji’s navel.

“I just texted Graham and said I was using a sick day.”

“Ooooooh,” Xavier whispers into Benji’s ear. “So bad.” And he yanks them together tighter, eliciting a huff of affection. Maybe if they were younger, the loss of anticipation for next day responsibilities would have spurned them into turning toward each other with wandering hands. They would have kissed and fucked and talked the entire night. Instead, Benji actually falls asleep. His breathing is a soft, beautiful pattern against Xavier’s arm, tucked as it is underneath him.

[stopeatingwhales]

the 1995 brits x damon albarn & liam gallagher

hhhiiii I'm here with a very cute little fic about the brits!! the idea of writing something with Damon and liam fighting over someone was requested quite a long time ago (sorry it’s taken so long omg) but I loved the idea!! I do hope you all enjoy it as I enjoyed writing it a lot hahah xx

Pairing: 90s damon albarn & 90s liam gallagher x reader

Warnings: nothing, just a little bit of bickering n dat

Word count: 3.057

Requested by anon x

༉‧₊˚✧

Being a part of the madness that adapted the name ‘Britpop’ was truly an experience. Paparazzi at every corner you turn, equipped with the brightest, flashiest cameras, also having the most annoying click noises to the point that after one image you’ve earned yourself a migraine that would last the entirety of the day; parties that would last entire nights, bearing millions of different kinds of drugs - some that hadn’t even been given a name yet, but you’d still give a try anyways, since you’re so high and drunk that you simply lose the intellectual capability to construct decisions, you say fuck it, and get so high to the point that you’ve blacked out in a booth in a bar, with the owner asking you to get out since you’ve been inside for one too many hours after closing time; as well as constant press coverage. With your name plastered over literally every newspaper and music magazine known to man, as well as having your entire life consistently dictated for the entire nation to read about every Sunday morning and indulge themselves into as a form of entertainment, it was what being famous delivered, right on your doorstep at 7 in the morning. Any earlier and you’d feel rude not to give them a cup of tea as a form of dignity and respect towards their sublime dedication to the job. Although it was fun being associated with it all, my band in particular gaining a different form of calidity due to it being a female fronted band, by the time that the entire nation was hooked on this ‘Blur vs. Oasis’ rivalry, it was as if every other britpop band had been washed away from existence, due to eight boys arguing as to whom had the better music. And the better looks, according to Liam Gallagher.

Tonight was the night of the Brit awards, perhaps the most prestigious awards ceremony for music. To be awarded a Brit was probably the largest achievement possible in British music in the form of an award, and it was definitely either going tonight to either Blur or Oasis. The chances that another band, say Pulp, were to get the award, would not only be extremely amusing to see the reactions of the two biggest names in the Britpop game, but would also cause the largest uproar in the nation. It’s either Blur or Oasis. “Their drama is so silly,” laughed Emily, the guitarist in our band whilst flicking through the latest edition of the Sun, the cover of the newspaper being, of course, Liam Gallagher. “They’re literally bickering about who looks the best. How do people find this interesting?”

“Because of how silly it is, people never leave their secondary-school-like selves. Just a bit of fun I guess.” I replied, fixing up my hair in the mirror in front of me. We were currently getting ready to go to the award show, and needing to look your best was an expectation. Though I wasn’t dressed in anything that would result in jaw’s dropping, it was important that I at least appeared somewhat admirable - the entire nation always had their eyes on us, but tonight they were going to see us all, live. Perhaps the reason why bands like Oasis and Blur are so obsessed over nowadays, since all they’ll do is turn up in some flimsy Adidas t-shirt and call that fashion. I suppose scruffy was the new elegant.

“Who do you think they’ll give the award to?” she questioned, still aimlessly flicking through the recycled pages of the magazine. “I think Oasis. Their music is so much better than Blurs.”

“Really? I’d say Blur. They won on top of the pops, so the likelihood of them winning the Brit award is highly likely,” I answered, shuffling away from the strong reflection of myself towards Emily, my eyes quickly scanning the page that she had her eye on currently. “Gosh Liam’s so full of himself.”

“He’s got his eye on you, you know,” She said, shoving the paragraph she had just read in my face of Liam boasting about his little crush he had supposedly gained from watching our latest performance on top of the pops. “Thinks you’re ‘well fit’.”

Scoffing in response, I mumbled back to Emily. “If he thinks that he’s sleeping with me, he’s very deluded.”

By the time we had arrived at the venue, you weren’t able to walk into the entrance without at least 50 cameras blinding your eyes and the shouts of so many begging for you to quickly turn your head and grin - the price for the photo would reach the many thousands. Once walking in, it was less crowded, only having select people by the ground floor, dedicated for musicians and bands, with the occasional interviewer walking past to every circled table, adorned with white cloth and champagne glasses, asking questions about how they’re feeling, who they think may win, and what they thought of the music throughout the past year. What was nice was that people didn’t have that much interaction with one another, just with their groups. It created a sense of formality in the space, which made me feel a bit at ease from the idea of some random row happening in the middle of the floor, most likely between Liam and Damon. The past year in music was truly something. Britpop was at its peak the entirety of the year, with songs like Parklife and Supersonic pouring out of every radio station in Britain that by the end of the year, you had ditched casual radio music and began blasting the classical station. It was a nightmare. Since the fall of grunge subsequent to Cobain’s death the previous year, the talk of any other genre in Britain apart from Britpop didn’t occur. It was as if we were living on this mystical island, miles away from any other music and culture, whilst adorning and obsessing over our own. What was nice about Britpop was that it was a pure celebration of English culture, whether it be a simple Sunday roast, or going to school, they all carried the same ambience of nostalgia and pride - also disregarding whichever band wrote what song.

“Free champagne… Yes please,” said Madeline, the secondary guitarist of the band, whilst heading to the first seat she could sit on, then quickly indulging herself with the first taste of the rich drink. “Oh my gosh it’s heavenly!”

Laughing at her reaction, the rest of the band took a seat around the table and took their first sips of the champagne, which we would all come to find to be indeed heavenly. Small talk was shared here and there with the rest of the group, but overall I stayed silent. In all honesty I found attending award shows was quite boring because if you didn’t end up getting an award, you would essentially be sitting there for two hours doing nothing. Even if you did win an award, it’s simply a minute of glory with the speakers blasting your music, and another minute of all eyes piercing into your soul as you make sentences about your gratitude towards those who had helped you along the way to earn such an achievement. I doubt anybody genuinely liked attending shows like these.

“The champagne is good, yet we don’t get enough for our table,” I complained, grasping my now empty champagne glass and waving it around in the air. “I’m gonna head to the bar to get a refill, anybody want anything?”

After receiving a handful of nos from the rest of the band, I took myself out of my seat and wandered over to the bar, which was empty, perhaps due to the venue not yet being completely filled with all the artists that were set to attend the night. “Just a refill of the champagne, please.” I asked politely, handing the bartender the used glass I had kept in my hand. Whilst waiting, I noticed that Damon was on the other side of the bar, who also didn’t notice me there, until he caught eyes with me.

A grin broke out on his face as I walked over to him. “You alright?” He asked me, quickly thanking the bartender for his drink and turning back to look at me. The height difference between us was evident, but it wasn’t the case of something so dramatic that he was the height of the empire state building and me, just a measly common tower in the city. He looked quite content, his hair scruffy yet neat, along with his outfit being just as I had assumed: a white shirt with jeans, a used pair of Adidas for shoes.

I smiled back at him and nodded. “Suppose you have high hopes for the award tonight.” I said, simultaneously receiving my refill of the beverage I had ordered, followed by my thanks. We stood adjacent, although there was enough distance between us to establish our relationship - mutual acquaintances whom had met every now and again, since they’ve both been dragged into this wormhole of madness. He was quite the opposite in comparison to his rivals, though he himself could be quite bothersome occasionally, he still had a grasp to what those may call sensibility.

“Oh well we’re better than them, aren’t we love?'' He chirped, his head now cocked to the side in a teasing manner. “I’ve heard that you’re rooting for us this year.” He added, a little smirk pasted on his face.

“Do you read every paper you see?” I questioned, my face turning away from him in slight embarrassment. Between us, there was no shared intention for a relationship to stem, though there was definitely a flirtatious tension that followed between us wherever we had met. Whether it be a random photoshoot for a magazine double-spread, or backstage at top of the pops, we always managed to share a chat with one another, and nothing else followed on from then. It was quite sad, because once you’ve established a connection between something you either both disagree or agree with in terms of societal views, something in the press, or life in general, you’re instantaneously cut off and asked to hop onto stage to record a meaningless three-minute performance with fake, plastic instruments which practically mean nothing.

“Well it was nice seeing someone else's face on the papers for once.” He replied, downing his drink, then ushering at the bartender for another. A thing that we both realised was that, between our conversations, we indirectly indicated that we were both there for each other, because we both had a complete understanding towards what may be happening to the other person. It was stressful being in the limelight constantly, and for someone who was the frontman of a band so large, with his face plastered on every magazine cover imaginable, things were bound to be stressful.

Sighing, I turned to face him again. Despite the fact that before I had the ability to respond, our conversation was cut short from a voice shouting my name from behind. “Well if it isn’t bloody Y/N.” the voice said, and from then I instantly knew it was Liam’s. Turning my face away from Damon’s, I locked eyes with Liam. As always, he was dressed in the usual: a parka, with casual jeans. Oh, and don’t forget the Adidas shoes. Even though he and Damon practically hated each other’s guts, they always seemed to have similar fashion senses, but I could never picture Damon in a parka. And I don’t think I even want to.

“How’ve you been love?” He asked, swinging his arm around my shoulder in a warm, but nonchalant manner. Me and Liam had a similar relationship to that of mine and Damons, simply just minusing the sentimentality of it. We were friends, and had come across each other at random parties, which opened the gateway for us to drink and get high together many a time. While he was quite the idiot, he was also a very fun guy to be around, but I knew Damon would never understand that. “And why’re you letting this twat chat to you?”

A laugh escaped Damon’s throat. “I think you’re the only twat here, Liam,” he began, a sigh leaving my mouth as I was trapped in a situation that I could only pray didn’t gain much traction from the rest of the attendees. “Me and Y/N are friends, don’t suppose we’re getting jealous are we?”

Liam’s grip on my shoulder tightened as I stared at his reaction to Damon. I felt quite small in this situation, due to me needing to tilt my head a good amount to properly look at Liam, and knowing if I left it would just erupt chaos and make it worse. “No need for me to be jealous when I know that she wouldn’t want to spend a minute with you in bed you bastard.”

“And you’re so sure about that are you?” Damon replied, amusement laced in his words. “Because you’ve totally spent a minute with her haven’t you?”

“Well I’ve got my arm around her haven’t I? And she’s not stopping me,” Liam argued back, a smirk entwined on his lips. Reaching for my hand, Liam grasped it lightly, then then brought it to his lips, kissing it, before holding it gently. Method of intimidation, perhaps, and though it was sweet, there was a time and place. And this was definitely neither the time, or place. “Who’s the jealous one now, eh?”

“The last I recall, she had hoped that we were winning this year, not you,” He boasted, moving the contents of his drink around whilst grasping it firmly. Whilst it would be something that would offend Liam, he was simply the type of person to not take criticism regardless of whomever it was coming from. I respected him for that. “So much so for a healthy relationship.” Damon mocked, staring into my eyes as a small laugh escaped my lips.

Granted that I had found the argument shared between the pair of them to be extremely silly, it was good entertainment as the time passed before the award show would begin. Watching them both, attempting to throw insults at one another, each one trying to cut a little deeper than the one previous, made me almost laugh at the both of them right there. “You know, it’s so silly that you both think you know me so well to think which one I’d pick from the both of you,” I said, detaching myself from Liam’s embrace and snatching my half-empty glass of champagne. “At this point, it’s neither of you.”

Walking back to my band’s designated table, I quietly took my seat as the show began. “Saw you chatting to Damon,” Emily whispered, raising her eyebrows. “Also saw you grinning like a madwoman.”

“Oh shut up you,” I replied, looking back at the bar to notice that both parties had left, assuming back to their places. “There’s nothing going on between me and Damon- Liam too in fact.”

~~~

As the ceremony went on, the boredom got to us. Even the amount of drinks I had didn’t entertain me, but what could we do, we were stuck in the middle of an award show celebrating music, even though I had largely doubted that the majority of those attending were enjoying themselves. I had no clue who the awards were going to be handed out to, and whether that somebody may be us in a category, but we all knew Blur were going to win something. Yes, Oasis had gained a lot of fame and had become one of the most famous bands in the music scene at the minute, but by the way things had gone for Blur after the release of Parklife, things only seemed to go further up from there. And that was only proven to be truthful, after Blur had left with four different awards.

After Blur had received their fourth award for best British group, we all knew that there was nothing left for Oasis. “They’ll get it all next year, they only debuted this year you know.” I said to the table, who were staring at the four smiley boys on stage as they trotted up to receive their award. I admired Damon as he said his speech, then also turning to look over at Liam, who looked quite evidently pissed off. He was practically drooling in anger from the sight brought to him at that particular moment, and I couldn’t blame him - their band hadn't gone home with one award that night, but neither had ours. “They’ve taken four awards home, isn’t that like, the most anybody has ever taken?”

“Indeed it is,” Madeline replied, taking a sip from her drink. “Must be a good year for them then, eh?”

As I watched the band leave the stage in absolute glee, I stared at Damon as he walked back to his designated seat for the short remainder of the evening. Despite the fact that my band had been sat in our seats the entire evening in complete boredom, just like Oasis and so many other acts that had been nominated for pointless awards, it would be a lie to say that I wasn’t proud of how far Blur as a whole had come and evolved through their music, and especially Damon. From beginning as young, bowl-cut boys only charting so far on top of the pops, to creating songs and melodies that could unite our entire nation, it was impressive.

Damon was the face of Britain at this very moment, and a very good looking one. Once I watched him sit down, he scanned the room for a while until he was able to find where I was sitting, which was parallel to his seat, merely a couple metres away. He connected eyes with me as soon as he found me, also accompanied with a small smirk painted on his expression as he raised his eyebrows and sent me a wink. I simply smiled back at him in response before turning away abruptly, disrupting the little moment we seemingly shared, and though I felt my heart flutter a little, he’s definitely not winning me that easily.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Thursday 5 July 1838

4 50

10 5

awaked 2 or 3 times during the night, so terribly bit by something – had slept between my 2 cloaks (my old maclean plaid and 8 years old green and black Paris merinos) – my artillery man, lance-corporal Colin Morrison, an Edinburgh man, was waiting for me – a fine looking soldier-like, civil man of apparently 24 or 25 – very fine morning – off at 6 – soon passed the little fortified gate (drawbridge and double trench) out of the town, leaving (left) the sandy inlet and the long bridge over the river (Urumea) and the road to Passages – we soon passed thro’ the ruined village (vide line 2 above) and pursued our road by a steepish ascent towards Hernani distant 4 English miles – about a mile or more from St. Sebastian, a fort, (left) on the hill [manned] by Spanish soldiers – hilly road – hilly country – but not much wood beyond bush wood – Colin talked all the way and explained their positions at the useless siege of Hernani – for what have the chistianos got by it? merely a little more elbow-room about St. Sebastian and a walk of 4 miles into the country – nothing else – the carlists are still all roundabout – the Christianos destroyed the convents and village and houses about St. Sebastian for fear of their affording shelter to the carlists – whatever the carlists do, the xtians and British Legion rob just as much – and Colin has often been ashamed even for our artillery (about 120 men at St. Sebastian but entered as marines because we have no right to send a land force tho’ everybody sees thro’ this flimsy subterfuge) – Colin has seen our artillery ordered to go to the different villages 8 or 10 miles off and take even the very beds the people slept and what was worse oblige them to carry their own things thus plundered to St. Sebastian – the artillery men are quite sick of all this – but the officers wish to stay – they like to be on service – and the commandant has extra allowances and Lord John Hay has £6 a month extra for table money as commodore etc. etc. – Colin cannot like the Spaniards – they have no heart – give us no thanks whatever we do for them – They think they can do anything and everything, and can do very little – will not stir themselves more ambition than the English but not courage to follow it – they themselves (the Xtianos) could have done nothing at Hernani without the English - the Carlists fight better – never saw men behave better than some of them did at Hernani – but they are all light armed – have nothing but musquettry  - or else he agreed with me they might easily take even St. Sebastian by a corp de main and Hernani – I see nothing to prevent it – the 200 or 300 of the British legion at Hernani, look miserable – whatever happens they are always put into the worst quarters and have the worst of everything and cannot get paid – they live on their rations and plunder and as they can – they had confidence in the bravery of general Evans, but not in his talent – he brought the artillery into action at Hernani much too close to the enemy’s fire – if Don Carlos had had any artillery, all our men would have been blown to pieces – Hernani a poorly walled little fortified town, Colin said of about 500 inhabitants – 1 longish narrow street opening into a little grande place and one or 2 little side streets – more picturesque than good – a few of the houses handsomely carved on the gable front towards the street and seeming to have been inhabited by better sort of people – porte cochère into large room where stood carts or what not and au fond the large wide stone (handsome perhaps if clean) staircase – altogether Spanish – walked thro’ the town to the last xtiano guard perhaps ¼ mile from the town – 4 or 5 men there one with a telescope watching the carlists in force on the opposite hill, and taking care that the last xtiano sentry at a house a little distance below us was not surprised – the women with the legion are chiefly if not all Irish – I saw the serjants’ wife bargaining in the street – she contrives to do pretty well for she washes etc. for the men, and when they got paid she gets something, and they can live on her husbands’ rations and her allowance of ½ ditto – I think Colin said they had per man 1lb. beef (very good considering) 1lb. bread 1/4lb. cheese – I forgot what of potatoes and I think a gill of rum – 20 or more above proof – would bear 4 water and still be as strong as our rum in England – the artillery have all this for 5d. English and Colin said they (the artillery) could sell it to the [pursuer] at St. Sebastian if they chose for 10d. that is the price it cost him at St. Sebastian – a road direct from Hernani along the valley to Passages but not open because the middle part of it in possession of the carlists – or I should have liked to walk the round back this way to St. Sebastian – 12000 of the legion at Passages – 12 companies with 4 officers to each = 48 that is the colonel and major and two more I forget what he called them – I had thought of breakfasting at Hernani – Luisa had said there was a café there where I could breakfast – but seeing no signs of it, I said nothing but turned back – off from St. S- at 6 at the last guard (about 1/4mile out of Hernani) at 7 35 and back again at the fonda at St. S- at 9 10 having just gone on the ramparts to see the breach made under the d. of Wellington – breakfast immediately – café au lait – I was thirsty and thought the warm breakfast would quite refresh – the café seemed to have a queer taste – took the milk by itself – it was hardly down before it was up again! (surely it was goats’ milk which never did and perhaps never will agree with me) – lay down for 50 minutes till 10 and was dozing when the Captain rapped at my door – said I had not breakfasted but should be ready in ¼ hour – I had luckily brought up my wine from dinner last night – ate a little bit of bread and drank a little wine and water which did very well for me – had Luisa up and got her to write

SH:7/ML/E/21/0141

me out the bill – myself 20 réals – George 12 reals and 4 reals = 1 piastre or 1 franc .:. my bill was just 8 fr. – gave la fille 1 piastre or franc (took it from George who had exchanged a 5fr. piece) and in paying Madame veuve Iriarte gave her two 5fr. pieces saying that the 2 fr. over where for Mademoiselle Luisa – at the quai in 2 or 3 minutes but no captain – waited for him 20 minutes and embarked and put off from the jetty at St. Sebastian at 11 40 – dawdled a little in the port for one of our rowers (3 now instead of 4 as in coming) to pick up a bottle of wine or something – we were now myself and George our captain and 3 rowers – doubled the rock island to the westward as in entering and rowed 20 minutes till 12 – then hoisted 2 sails and went I should suppose at the rate of 5 knots an hour – a good deal of surf (considering the fineness of the day) under the citadel-rock and between this and the rock-island – we had considerably less to the westward of the island under the tower fort which Colin had told me they (our men) fortified without ever receiving anything for their labour – they did a great deal of work at first – they understood our government set all down to the Spanish debt – yes! said I, but Spain will never pay I think – In sight of Passages at 12 35 – sick at 1 ¼ - again at 2 ¼ and Fontarabia in sight at 2 35 – St. Sebastian-citadel, and rock-island, and tower fort – Passanges – all high green rock to the bay of Fontarabia (i.e. to the striking projecting rock called Pointe de Figuier [Figueres?]) – at the French end of it (north side of this bay as I call it, of Fontarabia – embouchure of the Bidassoa) red rock head looked at a distance like a red-tiled town – then while from this end all the way to St. Jean de Luz – land at 3 50 at St. Jean de Lux near the douane – the solider or douanier seemed afterwards ½ ashamed to have questioned me about my little packet of night things but I went in and opened it out – a good deal of surf in entering the little harbour at the embouchure of the little river Nivelle – I can well believe the difficulty and danger of getting in a bad weather – soon walked to the Inn – M. Junca and all glad to see me – followed me to A-‘s door, as if to see the happy meeting – but they fell back for all was deadly still – poor A- was poorly and all had seemed more glad to see [me] back than she – I had thought to try the land-way or at least go to the frontier, and stand on the bridge between the French sentry at one end and the Spanish at the other – no danger or difficulty so far – but A- wanted to be off immediately back to Bayonne – a diligence would go at 5 – But I fell faint – ordered a mutton chop – had it in the salle à manger and M. Junca and Conigo and others came round me – M. Junca had discovered that I was carlist – found it out from my manner on embarking yesterday – Conigo a contrebandier – M. Junca the means of getting formation for Mr. Mitchell shewed me one of the notes Mr. M- pays him weekly I think for conveyance of messengers M. Junca a very good sort of little man – said I had trusted him and he would do the best he could for me – paid Conigo the 50/. as agreed and gave him 5/.  over for his crew – all parted good friends – the diligence, an omnibus à 6 places de chaque coté  (12 persons) horsed by M. Junca – about 7 persons besides A- and myself and George 6 women and a boy inside, and a gentleman on the box outside with the cocher – waited ¼ for us – off at 5 ¼ at the barrier at 7 ¼ - to leave our passport and take a receipt for it – I got impatient of waiting, and A- and I walked to our hotel St. Etienne – 12 minutes and arrived there at 7 ½ - ordered dinner – then had Josephine to do my hair at 7 50 – then a minute or 2 with A- all had heard of A-‘s not going to St. S- our coachman had not returned when she got back to St. Jean de Luz – poor M. Junca had looked after us, and not seeing the boat (while he turned aside we had put into the port of Socoa to land A-) was quite alarmed was just going to give orders for sending out after us when he saw A- returning and heard what had happened – A- said she had not got back till 5, and if I had not left her the umbrella could not have got back at all – the people told me she had got back between 3 and 4 – however I thanked heaven she had turned back – she could not have borne the boating and the impossibility of getting her anything comfortable at St. S- would have been terrible – with her a minute or two after my hair was done but I soon came to my room and wrote  the following in pencil in my little note book  she means to trouble everybody as little as she can will do for herself   I gently said well if you can do better I shall be very glad   I saw before she was all wrong and guessed the nature of her illness  it is astonishing how little I care  I was guiltless of thinking of her yesterday or this morning till my arrival   when at the moment I forgot my anticipations and ran up to the people and then to her I was soon set right  how different my last reception on returning from Spain to Lady S. de R-! dinner at 8 ½ to 9 25 and then had Josephine ¼ hour very fine day tho’ a light shower just before leaving St. Jean de Luz F71 ½° at 9 55

[keanuquotes]

i-D Magazine, "The Sound Issue" (UK), April 1993

KEANU ACHIEVES NIRVANA

Interview and Photography by Stephen Hamel. Additional Research by Matthew Collin, David Eimer and Stephanie Dosunmu

Hollywood Sex Symbol, Righteous Dude, Air Guitar Expert, Buddhist? While Preparing for the Forthcoming Film The Little Buddha Keanu Reeves Fell In Love With Buddhist Philosophy. Here He Talks About That "Audacious" Experience...

Keanu Reeves: without doubt, the sexiest young male actor on screen today. However, from the air-guitar-wielding dude in the two Bill and Ted films to the FBI man undercover as a surfer in Point Break, the impressionable young nobleman in Dangerous Liaisons, and, most recently, the unfortunate Jonathan Harker in Bram Stoker's Dracula, Keanu has asked as many questions as he's answered.

First off, why do people (yes, that's girls and boys) find him so irresistible? He's not a Swayze hunk or a clean-cut Cruise or a Jason Priestley dreamboy. Instead, he has this unaffected gawky charm, a loose-limbed posture, a certain wayward innocence; there's something completely uncalculating about his personality that attracts people to him. He'd have been perfect as a leading man in the Hollywood of the '30s with the goofy glamour of a fantasy boy-next-door.

Secondly, can he act, or is he just the Bill and Ted dude surf-speaking his way through parts that are way too weighty for his flimsy talent? Opinions here differ. He was impressive as the wayward son of a businessman potentate in Gus Van Sant's tale of street misfits in Portland, Oregon, My Own Private Idaho, an update of Shakespeare's Henry IV in which he played the middle class kid alongside River Phoenix's narcoleptic drifter, slumming it with the rent boys and drugheads, all the while anticipating the time when he has to embrace the straight world, reject his lowlife friends, put on a suit and take over his dad's role.

Reactions to Francis Ford Coppola's Bram Stoker's Dracula were less positive. Reeves struggles with an English accent, not to mention a wooden role, causing titters in British cinemas with his unintentionally comic renditions of expletives like "blooming" and "bloody."

Born in Beirut in 1964 and brought up in New York and Toronto, he started acting at 15 and had his first role in the forgettable Rob Lowe ice hockey romance flick Youngblood in 1986. Punk aficionado and bass player in the thrashy mutant rock band Dog Star, Reeves' career has, to some extent, been defined by his face.

However, he seems to have escaped the fate of the 'brat pack' of the early '80s -- Charlie Sheen, Kiefer Sutherland, Rob Lowe and Emilio Estevez -- who had bright starts but ended up in dodgy films and straight-to-video no-hopers. Reeves has already gone further: actors say that the three most desirable directors to work with are Bertolucci, Scorsese and Coppola; Reeves has already done two of them. His career could be seen as evidence of the increasing power that young, hip actors have in Hollywood these days. None of the above directors (nor Gus Van Sant, for that matter) have any real box office pull: their films don't make any real money (although Dracula did alright) and they need people like Keanu even if they don't have the same intense talent as Robert De Niro, Harvey Keitel or Christopher Walken.

You could draw a comparison between Reeves and Mel Gibson, who started out strictly as beefcake but escaped the stereotype by taking on risky roles (appearing in Kenneth Branagh's interpretation of Much Ado About Nothing is a step in the right direction for Reeves, rather like Gibson's Hamlet). He's past the stage of taking on roles just because they're there and will probably end up forming his own production company and picking projects more judiciously.

Historically, those actors who the camera and the public love do alright. And although the jury is still out on Reeves' long-term worth as an actor, he's more than bankable and the parts keep coming. This year he'll be starring in Much Ado About Nothing, but the most exciting project on the horizon (it'll probably come out next year) is his role as Siddhartha in Bernardo Bertolucci's Buddhist epic The Little Buddha. Currently blanketed in secrecy, The Little Buddha is a fairy tale set within a contemporary framework. The story of the search for the reincarnation of a dead lama, it contains within it the ancient myth of Siddhartha, the central tale of Buddhism. Siddhartha, born a prince, was cosseted in luxury by his father, before rejecting his privileged enclave to seek spiritual fulfillment. This eventually came after years of fasting and deprivation, while sitting in meditation under a tree, where, finally enlightened, he reached nirvana....

The film, reportedly, will look spectacular. Filmed in Kathmandu and Seattle, it's being made by the same team that produced Bertolucci's visually amazing Chinese dynasty fable The Last Emperor. This is Buddhism for the mass market. But for Reeves, Siddhartha has been more than just another role. "He was a great spiritual, intellectual, social redeemer, a radical," he says with the respectful awe of a novice. "He became a liberator within his lifetime. People took up his practices, his ways." Soaking up Buddhist teachings through books and then, in Nepal, through direct contact with Buddhist lamas, there's a sense that the experience has struck a chord deep within him. "You're just invigorated by them," he says of the lamas. "Even now when I read books I find myself getting energy from them. I feel it going up my spine, up my back. All of a sudden I'll be bolt upright as I'm reading. I'll stay awake longer, I'll be more active. It's very, very cool!"

Reeves was interviewed in Nepal by film-maker and photographer Stephen Hamel, a friend of eight years' standing, just after completing the filming of his part. The conversation shows a more thoughtful, introspective Keanu Reeves than we're accustomed to. "This was a huge thing for him," says Hamel. "He was overwhelmed by this whirlwind of experience that affected him a great deal, made him start questioning himself."

Reeves certainly seems serious about it. You couldn't imagine the Keanu of Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure talking about dharma -- but that was five years ago. From dude to Buddhist? Perhaps it's still too early to pin Keanu Reeves down.

i-D: How did you get involved with Bernardo Bertolucci and The Little Buddha?

Keanu Reeves: Bernardo had seen My Own Private Idaho and he saw me. I didn't know anything about Buddhism. When I was a kid my mother had Chinese artifacts, so to me Buddha was this big fat smiling guy. I come from a background that is not Christian. My mother is English and has no interest in the church, no Western religiosity. In my life I have searched for and asked about God. I joined a Bible group for a bit when I was 11 but it was boring. We met in New York City in a hotel and Bernardo told me the story of the script. He spoke about the lamas he had met and how he had come from a non-religious background, a disbelieving aspect, and he felt he had met religious men and they infected him, you know? And as he told the story, I was crying, I was very excited to be there. When I said I was crying, I didn't, like, drench my jeans, but I was fucking moist on it because it was very sweet and moving and I was affected by seeing this man affected. I was thinking, my God, this is audacious!

While you were filming Much Ado About Nothing in Italy, you met the actor Brian Blessed, and he helped you out with preparing for The Little Buddha.

There was something about Brian Blessed which made me think that he meditated. He's an actor, he climbed Everest, and there was just something about him that made me want to ask him about the dharma (truth). So I asked him if he would spend some time with me, teach me about meditation. I had to prove to him that I wanted to learn. He taught me a basic, very simple meditation. It was my first introduction to many other experiences, to a magnetism that draws you. Throughout the three months that I've been involved I've had many examples of running into Buddhists out of thin air. Driving to Florence to meet my sister and picking up a hitch-hiker and me just asking out of the blue 'are you Buddhist?' And yes, he was. It's occurred many times. Sometimes I've had moments when it's been a little maddening -- like, leave me alone! Man, these fucking guys! There's a power about them, things get taken care of for them without them asking for it. Higher energies, I guess.

When did you start to get totally immersed in Buddhism, on your first visit to Nepal?

I started to have books shipped out to me whilst I was doing Much Ado About Nothing, and began reading, practicing posture and sitting. The first things I learnt were the four noble truths: suffering, the cause of suffering, the path that leads to suffering, and the sensation of suffering. The Buddhists believe in no 'self.' The 'I' -- what we call the 'ego' in the West -- does not exist.

When I was in Nepal to do the costume fittings I met a 'master', a Rimpoche (Buddhist adept), who was working with Bernardo. I had some sessions with him doing personal training, he gave me a couple of meditations and he spoke to me about basically working on the notion of 'self'; you have to come to terms with that, then move onto subtler, greater aspects, and basically come to compassion and wisdom and happiness.

When I began working with the Rimpoche and dealing with the sense of self and the practices that he taught me. It's terrifying, it's so painful it's terrifying to give up that idea and the whole notion of the 'I' itself. The Rimpoche said to me do not take what I say on faith! Taste it, bite it, test it like gold. That is Buddhism's strength. It's not proselytising. A Buddhist will not make you fucking say 14 Hail Marys before they give you food. It's not about that the principle that has kept me interested in this is that Buddhists are interested in truth. The bottom line is love and compassion and kindness and happiness.

You were obviously very influenced by the Buddhist teachings. Did you want to become a monk?

No, but there was something inside of me that wanted to. There was a part of me that was searching for a vow to take, you know? There is something in you that can put you over the edge and basically it is only now that I am considering Buddhism. I am going to continue to study it.

How did the influence of Buddhism affect you as an actor?

I've trained as an actor for the past ten years: watching myself, asking why do I feel this, what do I feel now, physically learning expressions, trying to delve into the emotional and intellectual aspects of relationships. And this helped me. It's been therapeutic in a sense -- I've been training my mind.

The first shot you did for the film was the scene of Siddhartha's enlightenment. How did you prepare for that?

I just tried to invoke in myself a calm and a vastness. Bernardo had a picture from a book of the facial expression that he was interested in seeing. I would just try and relate to that and conjure it up.

What about the restricted diet you had to eat while you were doing the scene where Siddhartha is naked and starving himself in the forest?

You and I know, I fucking love feasting! Feasting is one of the great joys of life! But in the past couple of weeks we've been doing the mortification scene, so l fasted; I had an orange and ten litres of water a day, it's crazy, things are revealed to you, that's one of the kicks! Siddhartha was this man who was seeking release from old age, suffering and death. He was conquering his body, he was conquering his desires, his cravings, he was testing himself. He thought, 'if I can conquer my desires, I will be liberated'. You should read some Dalai Lama books, he's very eloquent. There's this one book I've been reading recently called Kindness, Clarity And Insight; if anyone wants to have a little taste of any of these things, they should try to read it.

What's the overall tone of the film?

We're doing a fable-istic, emotive and compassionate representation of Siddhartha. That's my view of it. It's trying to push out and magnify the pain that this man felt.

How are Buddhists going to react to this film?

I don't know. I haven't seen the film yet.

Originally the Indian director Satyajit Ray was against the idea of a film about the story of Buddha. There must be other people who think that too.

The film isn't about the story of Buddha. It's a representation of Siddhartha and his life. Bernardo has been very careful about his responsibility. Tradition, ritual and practice is reflected in the film very accurately, and the teaching of the dharma is subtle, rich and deep, and hopefully that will help.

How do you feel about going back to Los Angeles after the filming?

I've come to believe that there is so much ludicrous about America, I can't even believe it! (laughs raucously) Being here (in Nepal) I realise the sewage is so good in America, how we take care of our shit -- the technology is so great, the industry of America is so beautiful. You can see its wonderful, incredible promise -- the potential of a land to really, really help everyone with its ideas and machines, to really fucking help everyone.

When I arrived in Nepal, I'd never ever seen anything like it before in my life. It was amazing. The shock of seeing the culture, the cows everywhere, people brushing their teeth in the street, the bare feet. How did you deal with that?

I had the really bizarre feeling of being very comfortable and not thinking that it was strange at all. It seemed to make sense. I like cows! One of the most amazing things was an evening I spent at a sacred burial ground where they burn the dead. The sun was going down. On one side was a Hindu temple, some monkeys and dogs; on the other side were people praying and the preparations for a cremation. There were children playing around and selling food and the monkeys were playing with the dogs, the river kept flowing and the sun was going down and the whole of life was there. I didn't grow up on a farm, I grew up in the city. As a bourgeois white boy, sometimes you don't get to see the whole thing -- the morning, the joys, the children, the beginning and the end, the respect and the holiness. The feelings that coursed through me were awe, respect and just being a part of it and looking at all these different people. That was, to me, the most affecting time I spent there.

So you're going back to LA in two days.

Whoo hoo! It's hilarious, man, I've had, like, visions in my bathtub, of going home, lying on my lawn and pouring red wine over my head, soaking myself, going 'forget it, I'm just going to be an ordinary guy, just eat and shit and love and do whatever, man!' I'm looking forward to seeing my friends and family and riding my bike, hanging out and reading, eating some crab and relaxing. I shipped all my books home -- I'm very interested in learning more about the doctrines, maybe becoming Buddhist. In the world that I'm in, you just want to talk to your friends, hang out, kick back; it's hard sometimes to see deeper things. All we want to do is be happy, have a sense of ease, comfort and joy. Most of us aren't looking for anything beyond that. We all want pray to something, we all feel that something more is 'out there' sometimes. I know I do. And all this has helped me come into contact with that -- an actual experience of it. And that is cool!

http://www.whoaisnotme.net/articles/1993_04xx_kea.htm

[ladyreapermc]

Fic: Closer (August x Reader)

Author’s notes: so this is both my entry for Steph’s birthday writing challenge AND her second birthday present. She gave me: August - fuck or die situation. My brain came up with the rest and the lovely @meetmeinthematinee was my beta. So @toomanystoriessolittletime I hope you enjoy this filth as much as I enjoyed the one you wrote for my birthday!

Summary: you and August go undercover to dig information on a Donaka Mark, but get caught and end up in a very unsual situation.

Pairing: August/Reader; Donaka

Wordcount: 5k

Warnings: suggestion of violence and electric shocks; smut (unprotected sex; oral (male receiving); fingering; penetration; voyeurism and exhibitionism; power play; degradation; squirting; overstimulation; choking; tiny bit of breeding kink). Yes, I did go wall out with this one. I think it broke my smut brain. LOL. Now, I tried to make sure the consent was very very explicit, but the fuck or die situation is dub-con-ish, so be warned.

It was the pounding of your head that woke you up, the headache so intense that it pulled you from unconsciousness almost like a flick of a switch but your vision was blurry, and your focus was slippery. All you could process at first was the bright morning light bleeding through the wide window panels and the softness of the bed beneath you. The sheets silky soft and smelling of fresh laundry.

“You’re awake, good.” His voice was low and gravelly, surprisingly soothing but a far cry from August’s smooth baritone so you shot to a sitting position, forcing your senses to apprehend your surroundings despite the throbbing in your head.

Sitting in an armchair only a step away from the bed was Donaka Mark, sharply dressed in dark trousers and a dark dress shirt, the first two buttons undone. His sharp brown eyes watched you with unsettling interest and suddenly your mind was flooded by the memories of the night before.

You and August were supposed to infiltrate Donaka’s illegal fight club. CIA and Interpol weren’t all that worried about the fighting itself, but there was evidence that Mark might be financing a few militias in the Middle East and providing some other unsavory services through the Silk Road. You had been the intelligence agent that picked up Donaka’s trail and Sloane had agreed that it would be a good idea for you to join August in this undercover mission. Donaka might have promising information that could aid US troops in Iraq, and it wasn’t as if August would know what to look for or even how to breach Mark’s files.

Something went wrong though. Maybe someone leaked information about the operation because before you could even try to sneak out to check the servers, Mark’s security team caught up with you and August and the last thing you remembered clearly was August trying to fight them off while you got knocked out by a prick of a needle on the back of your neck. Now here you were, apparently the morning after, still in your satin red dress, mostly likely in Donaka’s compound God knows where faced with the man himself.

You had seen pictures of him before. He was, for all intents and purposes, a real businessman in the entertainment business. You knew he was of Chinese heritage, born of a Chinese father and British mother, but grew up in the US, where he made his fortune. He was a handsome man, but there was an air about him. A certain frost in his demeanor, but mostly in his eyes that sent chills down your spine.

The way his brown gaze pinned you down, tracking your every move made you feel like prey being stalked by a dangerous predator and despite any logical reasoning, there was a throb in your center that made you deeply embarrassed.

“How’s your head?” he asked, voice perfectly pleasant, movements deliberately slow as he reached for the bedside table and picked up a glass and round pill waiting there, offering them to you. “The sedative I use tend to have some undesirable side effects.”

You didn’t reply but took the aspirin, swallowing down with the water before returning the glass to him, following his movements as he set it aside and returned to his seat, his gaze settling on you once again.

“Where’s August?” you had to force your throat to work, terror clutching your gut, especially with the smirk that surged on Donaka’s face.

“He’s somewhere here,” he gestured vaguely, and you followed the direction of his fingers towards the door.

It was ajar and for a second you wondered if you could make to it before Donaka caught you but as you shifted on the bed, your limbs seemed to be made of concrete so you very much doubted it.

“Would you like to see him?” Donaka offered in that same placid tone. You decided you hated it, still, you nodded. “I’ll take you to him, but first…” he indicated another door that stood just a couple feet away from the exit. “I’d like you to change.”

You hesitated, but did you really have a choice? Donaka might be alone with you here but he was twice your size and an apt fighter according to his file. Even if you somehow managed to take him down, he would have security around the compound and you had no idea how big it was or where August might be. Best to play along.

With slow, careful steps you walked into the bathroom, finding a pale pink lace nightgown hanging behind the door. The fabric soft and silky but completely see-through. It fitted your body perfectly, like a second skin and as you stood in front of the mirror looking at yourself, a flush rushed to your cheeks. You could see the smooth skin of your belly and the shadows of your panties beneath it.

You wondered why Donaka wanted you to wear this. Was it another form of humiliation, to make you parade around in sexy lingerie like a kept pet that he could display to the world? Well, you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing your shame. With your chin held high, you stepped out of the bathroom and he looked up from his phone to glance at you, his smirk widening at the sight of you.

“Beautiful,” he moved into your personal space and his size made you swallow thickly as you had to tilt your head up to keep your gaze at him. “So, so beautiful. Turn around.”

You hesitated, of course, every inch of you opposed to giving your back to this predator but once again you knew you had no choice so you complied with his order and nearly jumped when he touched you, his calloused digits a strange contrast against the softness of the nightgown. His fingers traced a path from your shoulder to your nape, before he gathered your hair and with dexterous fingers, Donaka braided it tightly, letting the tip fall at your back.

“And for the final touch…” you heard his shift and the rustling of fabric before you were startled by the cold silver surrounding your neck and clicking close at your nape. “Now you’re perfect.”

Donaka guided you to a mirror and you swallowed the lump of desire in your throat. There you stood in flimsy lingerie, a choker of diamonds around your neck, his large hands resting on your shoulders, warm and surprisingly pleasant. You looked hauntingly beautiful and you hated it.

“Come.”

He offered you a hand and this time you didn’t even bother hesitating. Letting him guide you through the long halls of his villa, down a few stairs until you two reached an underground floor. The walls were made of bare concrete and the air was cold and damp, raising goosebumps on your bare arms.  

Down here you saw some of Donaka’s men stationed around and you could see exactly who they thought it was the real threat between you and August and you couldn’t say you didn’t agree.

At a nod of his head, one of the men pushed a door open and Donaka waited for you to step in first before he followed, the heavy metal plank clicking closed behind him, surrounding you with darkness, the damp stench here was heavier and while your eyes adjusted, the only thing you could really see was shadowy shapes.

Bright light inundated the room suddenly and your ears caught a soft wince. For the first time, you realized that slumped form in the center of the room was August, battered and bruised, hands and legs tied behind his back, breathing ragged,  cuts and wounds dotting his face; dry blood caking his hair, mustache, and stubble.

You whispered his name softly, falling to your knees to reach for him, but at the first touch of your hands he growled like a rabid animal and you pulled away startled.

“I’m afraid he put up a bit of a fight, unfortunately,” Donaka spoke from somewhere behind you, but you ignored him, too focused on the man in front of you.

“August…” you called again, inching carefully letting him see your hands until you rested it against his cheek and he let you, his blue eyes trailed on you as if he was finally processing who you were. “It’s ok, you’re ok.”

Slowly he edged closer towards you, letting you cradle his head in your lap as you brushed the hair away from his face and tried to assess the damage. August was in bad shape but nothing seemed to be particularly fatal, thankfully.

“May I have some water for him?” you asked, finally looking over at Donaka, surprised to see he was sitting on a chair watching you and August. “Please?”

There was a moment of silence and then the door opened again, another one of his men stepped inside with a bottle of water and set by your foot before leaving again. You unscrewed the cap, bringing it to August lips and helping him to drink slow sips. You had no idea how long he was down here. Probably as long as you were in that room.

“You truly care for him, don’t you?” Donaka spoke and that flush raised to your cheeks again, heating your chest and neck. “Don’t bother to deny it. I see it in your eyes. Are you in love with him?”

You looked down at the man below you that seemed to be a little more awake now, his gaze steadier and less hazy as he took in his surroundings and you. Even in this terrible state, August was beautiful and your heart thundered in your ribcage. How could you answer without compromising yourself or August?

“Does he love you?” Donaka asked and you didn’t even realize he moved until he crouched to enter your line of sight. “I mean, you know what he is, don’t you?”

Biting your lip, your attention shifted to the man on the ground again. You knew some things, having read his file. Most of it was blacked out so you knew it was bad. There was a reason he was called The Hammer after all. You knew how Sloane liked to operate. You knew that you sent in this mission to collect the data while August was sent to eliminate the threat.

“They say the prettiest faces hide the worst monsters,” Donaka ran a finger from August’s temple to his jaw and you could see the way the agent tensed under the touch. “And he sure is beautiful.”

A bright flick of metal appeared in Donaka’s hand and it took you a second to realize it was a blade. Your heart stopped for just a second as he traced the tip over August shoulder, but with a quick motion he cut off the ropes bounding his hands and legs. Just as fast as the blade appeared, it vanished and August was free. In a flash, August was on his feet, crowding Donaka against the wall of the bunker, one thick forearm pressed against the older man’s throat and the knife in his hand.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Donaka warned, seemingly completely unaffected by the threat of the blade.

“Why not?” August growled.

You screamed as sharp, electrical bolt ran through your spine, blinding you to everything around you. Good thing you were already kneeling because the shards of pain raking your body would have made you fall gracelessly. Your body was overtaken by seizures and you shook on the ground like a fish out of the water.

As suddenly as it started, the shock receded, leaving you gasping and sobbing, tears hot on your cheek; blood metallic on your tongue; muscles as if made of jelly, completely unresponsive. You could only look at August’s stunned expression and Donaka’s cold amusement.

“That was level one, and that pretty collar goes to eleven. Want to see what two looks like?” You tensed in fear, curling into a ball like a little mouse waiting for their punishment.

“No!” August shouted, letting go of Donaka and through your glassy eyes you could see the fury in his cold blue ones. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I guess he does care about you, sweetheart,” Donaka said, his smirk widening, and you could only whimper in response.

“She’s nothing,” August hissed, and his words felt like acid in your ears, making you curl into yourself even more. “She knows nothing. Let her go.”

“That I believe,” Donaka replied, and you could feel the heaviness of his stare on you. “That she knows nothing about your extracurricular activities. That she’s nothing…”

Donaka clicked his tongue and his shadow fell over you, his strong hands forcing your muscles to uncurl until you were sitting up, his hand wrapped around your neck, holding your chin up so you could look at August.

“You like her,” he whispered, lips brushing against your temple and you could see August’s jaw clenching. “You like her naivety and purity. You crave her innocence. We’re not too different, Agent Walker.”

“What. Do. You. Want?” August asked through clenched teeth and Donaka stood and moved away from you. You didn’t turn to look, but you heard the scrape of metal against concrete and knew he must have taken a seat again.

“What I always want. I want to watch.”

There was a long pause and this time, you dared to look over your shoulder and there was Donaka on the metal chair, legs spread apart, and you could see the volume in his trousers. It made you swallow and blush, looking back at August.

“You’re going to ruin her and I’m going to watch.”

The silence was heavy in the room. Enough that you could hear the drumming of your heart and August’s deep exhale he contemplated your captor. For a moment, you wondered what Donaka meant by ruin but all it took was a quick look at yourself and you knew.

The worst thing was that you wanted it. A little dark seed had settled itself deep in your heart and mind the first time you saw August. The first time you contemplated those solid muscles and the menace that he exhaled.

You were always attracted to violence, that much you knew – but August was something else. Something primal and dark and every time you let your thoughts turn to that, you felt your body igniting with that forbidden desire that you usually kept completely hidden.

Against your better judgment, you let your gaze settle on August and you saw the darkness in his eyes but also the blaze of want as he contemplated you, taking in for the first time your flimsy attire and you could see it affected him, just like Donaka expected.

“It’s ok,” you whispered getting up. Your limbs still felt unsteady as you moved closer to him, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the slow and controlled beat of his heart as you gazed up at August through your lashes. “I want this.”

Those words seemed to snap the last shred of control in him because he caught you by the nape and smashed his lips against yours. The kiss was brutal, all tongue and teeth, and your knees nearly gave out from the heaviness of your desire, the coiling tendrils of your pleasure making your core throb and your panties soaked.

His other hand found its way to your thigh and ass beneath the nightgown, kneading and massaging the supple flesh, pulling you tighter against his chest and you could feel his rock hard erection against your belly, making the heat inside you increase.

You had caught glimpses of August in his underwear back at the hotel. You knew he was massive and you wanted him. You wanted him inside your mouth and inside your cunt, spearing you open in the most savage of ways.

The last rational part of you might have taken notice that you were not alone, that Donaka was still lurking behind you but that thought just made the want in your gut increase. You wanted him to see August taking you. The animalistic part of you even wanted him to take you too.

“August…” you whimpered softly and was surprised by a slap across your face. Why that made desire throb inside you even more you didn’t know, but your whimper turned into a wanton moan.

“Sir or master, girl!” August hissed and you nodded obediently, bottom lip caught between your teeth. “Know who owns you.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s better.” He gripped your jaw, his hold like iron as he looked at you with a glare. “You look like such a good girl on the outside but you’re nothing but a dirty little slut. I bet right now you’re dripping, wanting my cock, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” you mumbled as best as you could as he kicked your legs apart, cupping your sex and you jolted, excited and ashamed because he could feel the dampness of your panties, his fingers rubbing you roughly against the lace, making your head spin with the overwhelming sensations.

“You think he can smell you from all the way across the room?” August asked, releasing your jaw and spinning around to face Donaka, his lips against your ear, one hand down your panties the other alternating between squeezing your breasts and pinching your nipples. “Are you this soaked because you know he’s watching?”

Your answer was a pathetic little whine as you caught Donaka’s dark stare, his large palm cupping his erection through his trousers. August forced you to walk forward until you were standing right in front of the other man, close enough to touch but Donaka made no motion to reach for you, just inhaled sharply.  

“She smells sweet,” he said, his voice lower, sultry, and sending shivers down your spine. “Like ripe cherries.”

August hummed in reply, one finger dipping into your panties and running up your folds as if he was gathering the nectar of a honeycomb and you gasped at the overwhelming tingling of your swollen clit. He brought his glistening finger to his mouth, sucking it in like it was the most delectable delicacy he ever tasted and you had to press your legs together against the quivering of your cunt, clamoring to be taken.  

  “You taste so good, pet,” August huskily whispered against your ear.

His hand returning to your core while the other exposed your breasts, the sound of the ripping lace loud in the quietness of the room, punctuated by your breathy moans, August low grunts as you rubbed your ass against the volume in his pants and Donaka’s soft hums of appreciation.

In seconds August had you listening to nothing but the sound of blood rushing through your ears as his fingers worked faster and faster against your clit, sending wave after wave of pleasure starting at your center. They spread through your entire body and it only got even more intense when he pushed two fingers inside you, crooked like a hook and rubbing that perfect spot over and over as he fucked you, making you whimper and shake as if your insides were being completely consumed by pleasure.

“Sir, I’m gonna…” you hiccupped, tears in your eyes, and that only made August chuckle and redouble his effort, his thrusts so hard now you felt his knuckles hitting your pelvic bone uncomfortably but you couldn’t care less.

Your entire body tensed and arched as the coiling knot snapped and your cries reverberated through the bare walls of the bunker as your cunt fluttered and you gushed warm, clear liquid all over August’s hand. He laughed against your bright red cheeks.

“Bad girl…” he tsked, pulling his soaked hand away from your cunt and panties. “You got me all wet.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you mumbled, eyes on the ground and nearly jumped when August shoved his wet fingers in your mouth, making you taste yourself and it was enough of your core to throb and pulse once again, apparently yearning for more.

You swirled your tongue and sucked his fingers, cleaning every drop of your juices from his skin; picturing something else instead of those thick digits. Picturing the hard edge that was pressed against your ass, hot and pulsing.

“On your knees,” August ordered, pulling his fingers away and you didn’t have to be told twice, hands eagerly going to his waistband and you noticed that his belt was gone. Pity, it would have been nice if he could tie you up with it. Or even spank your ass with it, leaving bright red welts on the soft skin of your ass.

You made quick work of his buttons, pulling the pants down along with his underwear, releasing his long and thick, glorious cock. Just the sight of it had your mouth watering. You desperately wanted it; to feel it filling you and coating your tongue with his cum. Stroking the back of your throat, making you choke and cry.

Before you could reach for it, August took a hold of your braid, holding your head still and away from him. He smirked at your hitching whines as you looked up at him with a pout while he kicked his pants to the side and started to undo the buttons of his shirt, letting go of you only long enough to shrug off the fabric.

Now he stood before you completely naked. A work of art by God or something more devious because his thick thighs and solid torso, along with the sculptured chest and chiseled features could only speak of temptation of the darkest kind.

“Sir, please,” you begged, crawling forward, your knees wet from your previous release, your cunt still dripping. “Let me taste you.”

“Dirty little cock slut,” August whispered, hand twisting around your braid until it was wrapped around his palm tight enough to make your scalp burn, while he stroked himself until his tip was glittering with his precum.

“Please.”

He took a step forward, so close you could smell his sex, musky and heady and it only made you want him more. You licked your lips and watched him through your lashes, waiting for authorization. You were a good little girl, you took what your sir gave you. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Finally, August let the tip of his cock rub against your lips, coating them with his essence and you traced and gathered every drop with your tongue eager for more, until he pushed the head past your lips, invading your mouth with a hard thrust that had you gagging almost immediately.

“Is this what you want, slut?” August growled, fucking you hard and fast, holding your head still as he took what he wanted from you, making you choke and sputter, tears leaking from your eyes, spit running down your chin as he brought you nearly to his pubic hair, holding you there as your throat worked around his head before pulling back and finally allowing you to breath.

You watched him through tearful eyes but August wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was on the man behind you and you wondered what Donaka was doing. Was he touching himself? He did say he wanted to watch August ruin you and here you were, being completely wrecked by the man in question. As he took every inch of pleasure from your mouth, you could feel the gathering waves at your center again, preparing for a new tide.

Another pathetic little whine escaped you when August pulled away from your mouth, allowing you to breathe fully and finally looking down at you as he rubbed your spit over his length, his eyes a dark pool of something that almost made you afraid.

He tugged you to your feet again. His lips were bruising and biting against your swollen mouth, his tongue unrelenting as if he was chasing his own taste. The reprieve to your raw knees was short-lived because August was pushing you down again but this time he followed, maneuvering your body until you were on all fours, spine low, ass up looking at Donaka as August knelt behind you.

You held your breath in expectation watching those haunting eyes, like a bottomless pool of darkness taking you in, the bulge in his pants evident but he didn’t make any motion to take care of it and you would admire his self-control if your mind wasn’t pulled away from that and shifted back to the way August yanked your panties down and rubbed his cock against your folds teasingly, the tiny sparks of pleasure barely enough to soothe the burning volcano of want deep inside you.

“Sir, please fuck me. I need to feel you inside me.”

The words were out before you even registered them but they were obviously the right thing to say because you felt the first press of his cock against your slit, stretching it almost painfully and you gasped and moaned, wanting to rock back but August kept you still with an iron grip on your hips, painting bruises on your skin as he pushed inch by agonizingly slow inch, filling you up like never before.

You could feel every single vein and ridge of his cock. The pulsing and twitching of his length filled you to the brim and the sensation was impossible to describe. A sort of completion that you had never experienced in your life and that would only be made more perfect when August finally decided to move.

It was like he could read your mind because he started to rock his hips in tiny little thrusts at first, the friction driving you insane with wanting and all you could do was chant more and harder and faster, please now, you need it so bad. August chuckled against your ear, his body covering yours as he ground his hips.

“You want more?” he grunted, licking the sweat dripping down your temple and wrapping the braid around his hand again, pulling your head. “You want me to use that pretty hole so he can watch?”

“Yes, please,” you whimpered almost hypnotized by the intense gaze that locked you in place as August’s thrusts started to gain speed and strength, rocking your body forward with its force and reducing you to a moaning mess. “Oh yes, sir. Just like that, please.”

Any rational part left of your brain was completely turned off by the primal call of desire. Your entire body was alight with pleasure like your nerve-ends were little fireworks just waiting to be kindled. From your mouth spilled the most obscene sounds. Moans and hitching little gasps and cries, as fresh tears blurred your vision.

Could you cry from feeling so good? So perfectly completed and raised to the heavens almost in a trance-like state of rapture? You didn’t know and you honestly didn’t care. The only thing that mattered to you was the growing pleasure in your core, threatening to spill and overtake you completely.

It seemed to swallow you whole, especially when August started to rub your clit in time with his thrusts, his grunts and groans becoming louder and louder as the lewd words poured out of his mouth.

“Such a delicious cunt. Holding me tight. Pulling me deep. Trying to milk me dry. Do you want me to fill you up with my cum, huh?” he asked, his sharp thrusts hitting your cervix and making you cry out. “Paint your pussy with my seed, maybe even put a piece of me in there? Does my pretty little whore want me to put a fucking baby in you?”

“Yes, yes, yes, please, sir!” you whined, beyond coherence now, already submerged in the midst of your second world-shattering orgasm. August could be asking you to set the world on fire and you would gladly agree so as long as he kept fucking you.

Just. Like. That.  

“I want everything. Please.”

The hand on your hair let go only enough for August press a hand in the middle of your back, pushing you face down on the concrete, your cheek pressed against the damp floor and your ass raising higher, changing the angles and now he was hitting your sweet spot with every violent ram of his cock. The second wave of pleasure didn’t even have time to subside for the third one to crash around you.

Now you were sobbing, the ecstasy and bliss becoming too much to your oversensitive sex, especially as August kept rubbing your clit, pressing harder and harder, making a new flow of liquid to gush and soak down your legs.

It was deliriously good, but also almost like torture, your walls clenching and quivering. If trying to hold his cock in or push it out you didn’t know, but it didn’t deter August from his salvage thrusts that were slowly losing their rhythm, but going deeper and harder, pushing you forward and scraping your cheek as much as your knees.

You were crying now, pain mixing with pleasure, your thighs quaking, tired of keeping you up. Your lower back hurt from the awkward angle, your knees cut to ribbons by the rough ground. Your cunt ached from the constant slam of his pelvic bone against your swollen flesh and all you wanted was to let go and sleep.

August’s tug on your braid made you scream and you forced your torso up to preserve your neck. You were looking at Donaka once again as August gave his final thrust, burying himself to the hilt and letting out a loud growl as he spilled inside you and you nearly sobbed because it was finally over and you could finally rest.

When you August finally pulled out of you, your limbs gave out completely and you fell in an awkward heap on the ground, too exhausted and sore to move a muscle. Your mind felt untethered and floating, unable to register the words being exchanged by the two men.

All you wanted was to curl into a ball and forget everything and it was so easy to let the darkness snaking in the corners of your mind claim you. It whispered seductively at you, like the warm hug of a caring lover, the perfect contrast to the violent fucking you just endured.

Before you slipped away completely, you felt two strong arms surrounding you, picking you up from the cold, hard ground. Even your lashes felt like lead otherwise you would dare to force them open to see who was carrying you away.

“You did very well, pet,” a voice whispered, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. “You might just survive this.”

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[krabmeat]

𝚓𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜: Wilbur Soot

𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚜: he/him

𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐: mentions of death, implied s_!c!de, aggressive and angered yelling, glass shattering

𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎: this is gonna be a 7 part series im doing where I write all of the songs from the album "Your City Gave Me Asthma" by Wilbur Soot as short stories! this is the first one of the 7, jubilee line- hope you enjoy!! this short story does deal with extremely heavy topics, so please reach out to a professional or a trusted person in your life if you deal with similar emotions or similar situations. your emotions are valid and deserve to be dealt with, no one expects you to handle your sh-t alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wasting your time.

“Wilbur, what are you talking about?” She’s trying to help again. It’s tiring. She’s my therapist, but also my friend and roommate so I see her often. She can see how much I’ve been struggling with my job, and she’s been trying to help. I don’t think I want it. My eye bags are more defined since I’ve tilted my head down to lace my fingers through my slightly greasy hair. I’m thinking. My eyes are closed when she speaks up again. “Wil!” I snap my eyes open and look up at her.

You're wasting mine.

I don’t know where my body is taking me. Pent up impulse has taken control of my body, and I stomp my way over to the door while briskly grabbing my beanie and trench coat from the coat rack.  “Wil, where are you going?” “Away.” She desperately grabs onto my upper arm. She’s concerned, but am I? In any other situation, I would be. But it doesn’t feel like me talking. 

I hate to see you leaving,

Her voice was shaky when she spoke. There are tears in her eyes. It’s strange, really. She always managed to let her tears roam as they pleased, it’s always been something I’ve found fascinating about her. But my curiosity doesn’t seem to be where it usually is on my mental shelf. I think I may have misplaced it.  I take one last glance around the place before calmly removing her hand from my arm.

Fate worse than dying.

I don’t know how late it is until I hear 11 distinct chimes roll out across the city like a blanket. Even then, I don’t know how long I’ve been walking but I think I’m getting close to my destination. But why am I feeling dizzy? Oh right, 

Your city gave me asthma

Probably one of the only things I brung with me, I found an inhaler in my coat pocket. It’s got enough to last me to where I’m going. With the last puff in it, I chuck the empty inhaler into a nearby alley. Climate change hits hard everywhere, but it gets bipolar in London. It doesn’t matter to me right now. I’d turn it all to ash from the fleeting joy I get from adding more smoke to the sky.

So that’s why I’m f*cking leaving.

The inhaler helped me breathe, but the dizziness is still there. The inhaler doesn’t even matter, the air is still dense and damp from the drenched night before. The world around me is melting, but when I blink it’s like everything was inflated back to normal with an air pump. Before I know it though, my lack of eyesight sends me tumbling to the ground. My arms and legs are damp, I tripped on a puddle. 

And your water gave me cancer.

I’m never usually this mad. Bottling up comes easy to me, yet I find myself angrily stomping on the puddle, causing me to fall again, leaving more scrapes scattered across my pale, cold skin. The concrete meets my knuckles, aggressively landing blows to its invisible face.

And the pavement hurt my feelings.

I get up from the ground. The blood from my knuckles is unrecognizable, washed away by the sudden downpour. The buildings have become a haze. Familiar, but I don’t know what it is. Not the familiarness associated with a home, or a warm and comforting hug. As if I’ve seen it before, constantly looming over me, watching me like a renewed episode of their favorite show. They already know what’s happening, they know what’s coming. I can’t take it. There’s a rasp in my voice and I’m surrounded by re renovated apartments and business buildings, factories puffing their black cigarette smoke out for the ignorant tourists to see. 

Shout at the walls,

My tears are confused with the rain, but both are dripping viciously from my face as gravely shouts and yells stream out of my mouth. Nearby bottles and littered beer cans are pleading for mercy, crushed and shattered by my aggressive hands thrown against the walls.

Cause the walls don’t f*cking love you.

My senses are getting overwhelmed, my arms and legs shaking from either the cold or the jolt of sensation I get when the glass shatters into a million pieces before I could stop it. 

Shout at the walls, 

“SHUT THE F*CK UP, WILL YA!?” My head tilts upwards to see a man at his windowsill with a dirty glare coming my way. A few seconds later, a little girl appears behind the man, seeming to have just woken up. A soft and whispery “Dad…?” Can be heard from the little girl. The softness I feel from the small wholesome moment soon turns into mind-numbing guilt. I run away, the numbness going to my legs as they once again travel on their own.

Cause the walls don’t f*cking love you.

My legs burn and sting with every stride and step they take along the path. I’m almost there. The strange looks and stares I’m getting are blocked out by the splashing and slapping of my damp shoes against the thin puddles on the ground.

Clap, clap

It’s almost as if this place is a second home for me. It’s my home, crowded with chatter and people making their ways through the Jubilee line. I’m so familiar with this place, you’d think I actually live here. I make my way to the glass barriers that block me from reaching the train, my damp feet still slapping against the ground.

Clap, clap

The barrier frustrates me. The visitors see it as a safety precaution, London’s trying to keep us safe! But we know, I know.  It represents ignorance, laziness, failure. London’s desperacy to please those foreign to this place while ostracizing those who have been fed to the brim with government immaturity. I’ve broken barriers like these, it was easy for me to shatter the flimsy glass. The crowds and crowds of people stop, scream, panic, run and express their disgust all at once. I stood on top of the railing, the only other thing in my way. The tracks are calling to me, but so does a voice.

There’s a reason that London puts barriers on the tube line!

This voice isn’t familiar to me, which is why it bothers me so much.  Foreigner. They don’t know. They COULD know, it’s not as if our hierarchy here has made a completely opaque wall between their intentions and actions. I’m still on top of the rail, but my back is faced towards the tracks. My eyes land on a short, blond white woman. Her voice sounded like she was talking with sticks in her mouth, nothing like the smoothness of a British accent. I fail to turn around in time before another voice is heard from another part of the station.

There’s a reason London puts barriers on the rails!

A tall man with ginger hair and lanky arms speaks up. He’s just like the woman, uneducated. Poor foreigners. The brotures and online ads and magazine cut-outs only give webs of lies and deceit when advertising to come to London. It speaks of the grand sights but not the horrid trauma that children here have to bear their sight to because of our crippling economy. The photos show places with warm rays and never the vicious rain and storms or scolding heat. The videos show clear, blue skies and never the gray turning grayer from the remains of society's mass-production. I’m done listening to these people. But one in particular stops me.

There’s a reason that London puts barriers on the tube line,

A tone I recognize, but a face that’s a haze. The man is from here, his voice says it all. His gray outfit and security guard patch on his vest. He knows what I’m thinking. He understands. Understanding would have been useful about an hour ago, yet I still find a soft smile slowly etching on my lips. I spread my arms out, like a bird with its wings spread out from its body. I wish I had wings, I would fly out of this wretched town. Fly out to freedom like Icarus. He flew too high, however. Where I’m going, the only upwards I’ll be is 6 feet under. But I’m ready for that. My face expresses a feeling of relief, tranquility, satisfaction. I haven’t smiled like this in years, it’s nice to close things off with a smile. The buzz of a train can be distantly heard, and I look out to the crowd. With the breeze of the air pushing against my falling back, I manage to breathe out a final arrangement for the crowd to hear.

There’s a reason they fail.

[poptod]

jiāoqiǎnyánshēn (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: jiāoqiǎnyánshēn (chinese, v.) - to have a deep and intimate conversation with a stranger.

Notes: for @hideamnos​! a bit longer than my last couple of fics so I hope you don’t mind. the strange city happenings are all things I’ve seen in San Fran. As always, gender neutral. Word Count: 2.6k

Rain falls down from the sky in great sheets, battering down at your umbrella so harshly that you have to tuck it away to avoid flying off. Wind whips at your hair, biting at your exposed skin, pushing you to seek some sort of shelter, any shelter, from the fall-winter weather.

Nowhere is open. It has to be around midnight – you can't be bothered to check your phone, considering the last time you used it it was on 5% battery. The only light you can really see is the one near the train station, and with that singular sliver of hope, you run off in that direction. With the wind at your back, something finally goes right for you.

In the fluorescent light another man sits, skin that you assumed would've been dark in any other light paled in the station lights. The dull buzzing you usually hear is gone, beaten out by the rain, pounding harsh against the flimsy rooftop. With shaking hands you sit on the bench, curling up into a ball as though that would keep you warmer.

You won't deny that New York City has some strange folks – it's much like that in many other cities, though New York has to be the worst case you've seen of it. There was one point where a long line of monks, numbering somewhere into the fifties, walked down the sidewalk chanting some language you couldn't understand. This one can't be the strangest occurrence, though it is a little peculiar. His clothes are too nice to be a costume but it can't be anything else; a man wearing ancient Egyptian garb, donned entirely in gold and bearing a crown that looked far too heavy for his head. He's standing, carrying a tablet at his side as he stares off into the ink black of the city's night.

When it begins to hail he looks up at the sky, a calmness in his movement that you hardly ever see. Turning back down to the ground, he steps further inside the safety of the train stop, sitting down on the bench beside you.

"Come here often?" He asks in a humorous tone, a British accent shocking you mildly. With a chuckle and a wide smile, you shake your head, mumbling a small 'no.'

When he turns to once again stare at the empty railroad tracks, you let yourself examine him, his bone structure, the way his skin rests on his face – all very middle eastern, probably Arabic or Egyptian, or a mix of the two. It's becoming a bad habit at this point, staring at people's facial structure. Despite the fact that it'd probably make people uncomfortable if they knew you were doing it, it's good practice for you, what with your attempts to become a forensic pathologist. He's pretty, you note that as well – soft skin, sharp jawline, sweet eyes, pink lips – all leading to you blushing and looking away when he notices your stare.

"You're curious, aren't you?" He says in a quiet voice, but you can tell he doesn't mind your intrigue in him.

"Well... yes, but I'm used to not figuring out why people do strange things," you say, recalling the fifty monks and the one woman wearing only dog leashes as clothes. Your comment earns you a tiny smile from him.

"My name is.. Ahk," he says, removing his hand from the many folds of his clothes, holding it out for you to shake. You do so, noting nice fingernails and a firm grip.

"I'm (Y/N)," you respond, releasing his hand.

"I'm from the Natural History Museum, here in New York. The Egyptian exhibit," he says, and for a moment you wonder what the hell he's talking about, before remembering they created a new exhibit recently. Some sort of attempt to 'bring history to life' by hiring actors.

"Oh, you're the actor playing that boy king," you say in recognition, secretly proud that you remembered that.

"He's... he's not really a boy," he laughs sweet, a wide grin and crinkles around the eye – you can't help but continue noting how handsome this man is.

"How old is he then?" You ask, scooting closer in a fashion that made sure he wouldn't recognize what you were doing. This was too good of a chance to lose so suddenly.

"I – um, he died when he was around seventeen," he stutters out, blushing when you both know that's still a very young age for a king. "But – but he would've... grown up."

"All of us would've grown up. Doesn't mean that fellow is 4,000 years old now," you snort.

"Yeah..." he chuckles nervously, "right."

"Are you interested in Egypt or.. is it more of just a job for you? It seems interesting nonetheless," you say, leaning in. Stories have always been a staple of your life, the woes people go through and the accomplishments of humanity – everyone has something interesting about them.

"I'm actually from Egypt," he says, confirming what you'd deduced earlier. "It's a bit like returning to my childhood. I.. um, I lost my parents at a pretty early age, so it's a little difficult sometimes, since my job sort of.. reminds me of that part of myself, but um – I, uh, I still enjoy it."

"I understand. I lost my father recently," you say in a soft voice, your gaze drifting to the hail covered cement as you recall your father. He'd always been much nicer and closer to you than your mother. "It must be difficult. It's great that you've been able to enjoy yourself, though. When did you leave Egypt?"

"... in my twenties," he says after blipping out for a moment, which only makes your sentiment for him warmer – maybe you have a thing for airheads. "I left to go to Cambridge."

"Really? Wow, that's a nice school," you say with a sigh, already shuddering just imagining how expensive it had to be. Not even factoring in the fact that University in itself can be expensive, Ahk is Egyptian and had to be a foreign exchange student, which only ups the price.

"Yeah, I had a mildly pleasant time there," he chuckles, and you laugh as well – you wonder for a moment if you could manage to get his number.

"Here's another question for you, if you don't mind my asking," you say before being promptly interrupted by him.

"Only if I can ask you a question after."

With a sheepish smile you nod, realizing you've been bombarding him with question after question, and leaving him little time to figure out anything about you. He adjusts himself in his seat, and waits patiently for your query.

"Why are you at a train station in the middle of the night wearing your work clothes?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he laughs, but proceeds to answer anyway. "A couple friends and I went out for fun since we weren't actually working, we, uh, we don't work on Tuesdays and weekends, but we do rehearsals and such on Tuesdays so it's... technically work? Anyway, we went out, had some fun, caused several statues to come to life and then we got separated because they got arrested for disturbing the peace, but I managed to escape, ever the lucky one –" you laugh when he says that as though it's a monumental accomplishment, "but I need to get back to the Museum before dawn.. my clothes, and all that. I don't have an automobile, so... train."

"Sounds like a hell of an evening," you say with a laugh, wondering what other hectic things this man could be up to.

He proceeds to ask you the same question, 'what are you doing at a train station at midnight,' but it doesn't process in your head when you realize he said he caused several statues to come to life. He had to be joking, but he didn't mention it, which he definitely should've since it's a very confusing and worrying statement to make.

"(Y/N)? Are you alright?"

"Hm? Oh, sorry," you rush out, registering he's been waving his hand in front of your face. He backs away when you finally react, though he continues to look worried, and asks you if you're alright. "I'm fine, I just.. remembered I haven't had dinner and I need to plan that when I get home."

"Oh, that's not good. Definitely eat something. But, uh, as I was saying..." you perk up again, "what are you doing here?"

"That's – that's a funny story, actually. I was off at an art exhibit, or at least I was planning on going to it, and it was a pretty late night one," you look down at your phone, which is now dead, "it was supposed to go till around 1 AM, not sure what time it is now but – I was, I was stopped at the door because, as it turns out, I had the wrong address. I didn't know that at the time, though, so I kept insisting I wanted to go inside. I sort of thought they might've been discriminating against me but I digress. I finally got inside, turns out I actually was at the wrong place. I'm honestly not sure what kind of party I walked into, but it was.. really odd. Decided to stay because it began to rain, but then somebody started stripping and so did everyone else and I decided it was time to get out, as many people would decide. I left the building incredibly disoriented and a little drunk, got a bit lost, and then the rain picked up and I couldn't see a thing. Eventually found my way here."

"That sounds a lot more exciting than my evening," he says after giving your spiel a moment to set in.

"Yes, well, at least no one got arrested. To my knowledge."

"Right," he laughs, looking down at the floor when you meet his eye. As his laughter fades he tucks in his lip, biting and discreetly rolling his tongue over the top lip, making your heart stutter in your chest.

"Hey, do you know where we are? I might be able to drive you back to the museum," you offer, something you can immediately tell was the right move to make. He sits up a little straighter, a spark of hope in his eye.

"Would you do that? That'd be wonderful, really. I'll die if I don't get back in time," he says with wide eyes, turning to you like you've just become best friends. You giggle and nod your head, thinking about the many strange things this man has said, and wondering if he has always been so different from others.

Unfortunately, neither you nor Ahk have much of an idea as to where you are, so you turn to the maps. Two of them sit on either side of the small rest area, illuminated by the pale light and protected behind glass. There's a marker telling you where you are, and while Ahk is absolutely horrible at reading the map, you manage to pinpoint where you stand.

"It's a good thing you're smarter than I am," he comments as the two of you head off, trying your best to stay out of the hail.

"I don't think I am. I think I've just lived here a while," you say, ducking beneath the overhang of a building roof. "You start to recognize patterns and such the longer you stare at things."

"Yes, I've..." he looks to you as though you're suddenly precious, "I've noticed. I used to look at the stars quite a bit when I was younger."

After going through both sopping rain and biting hail, the two of you are exhausted by the time you reach your car. You hadn't driven it to the function (it would've been much easier to find had you done that, but you didn't) and you hadn't left it at home either, but you distinctly remembered leaving it in an underground parking lot. The reasons as to your decision to leave it there are unimportant, and Ahk does not ask. Painted an alarming shade of red, your car was a gift from an eccentric aunt, and though it's tight to fit more than two people in there, the two of you manage.

Throughout the evening you've noticed things that are 'off' about him – the way he tells stories, how he recalls memories, his choice of words, his life in general, but sitting in the car with him has to be the strangest thing that's happened to you. It doesn't feel as though he's ever even been in a car, mesmerized by the blinking lights and the soft radio that comes from the surround sound system you have. So it's a fact in your mind – there's something about him that isn't entirely true, that isn't wholly normal, and the idea excites you just as much as it terrifies you. Maybe he's a prince. Maybe he's a murderer. You don't know, but he keeps up the happy energy that seems ever present in his company all throughout the ride.

Large lights dug into the ground shine bright onto the front of the museum, showing off the pillars and carvings and, of course, the ever-changing advertisement posters. The hail has lightened back into rain, though it's still freezing and biting when you walk him up the entrance. Your legs slow in the cold, sore to move and making your whole journey up the many steps just a little more difficult, but Ahk doesn't seem bothered by it. It's another thing that strikes you as unusual – he hasn't complained of the cold, or shown any of its effects at any point. His clothes only add to your confusion, as they're definitely suited towards warm, Egyptian weather, not hail and sleet.

"I want to thank you again for driving me here. I am indebted to you," he says with a small bow once the two of you are safe underneath the portico. Inside, all the lights are on, and it looks as though most of the actors inside are still in their costumes.

"It's not a big deal," you insist. "I'm happy to help."

"Still, you're very kind," he says, taking your hands in his, a sincere smile on his face.

"I, uh –" you stammer, blushing from the contact. "I enjoyed our conversations. Is... do you, um... is there any way I can, uh, contact you?"

He halts, and for a moment you think you misread the signals – maybe he isn't as interested in you as you thought, and the idea of that alone puts an anchor in your chest.

"I don't have any phones," he says, a sentence that sounds wrong but is technically correct, "but I'm here pretty much every night. I'm very dedicated to my job." He winks, and you can't help but smile.

"Then I hope I'll see you again, Ahk," you say softly, biting at your lip as your nervousness begins to get at you.

"I hope to see you again as well."

With that he leaves you starstruck, already dreaming of when you'll see him again.

[nomanwalksalone]

RECKONING

by Réginald-Jérôme de Mans

It was time. Like some death cart from Daniel Defoe’s A Journal of the Plague Year, which my morbid ass had reread at the beginning of confinement, I made the rounds, from room to room, over and over, slowly, wrenchingly, prising out each single condemned charge one by one from its temporary resting place in closets, under beds, at the back of drawers. Each had entered my world as a little piece of hope, a scrap of new identity. Heaped up together, ungainly, their legacy is not so much failure as reckoning with changed circumstances.

Most prominent among the departing: a host of broadcloth button-front shirts, most of them with years behind them before they succumbed to my inexorable cull. I had accumulated them, often through a providential sale where they poked up like rare truffles among the detritus brick and mortar retail was shedding, in days when they represented a particular fantasy. What was that fantasy? Where I could play the part of elegantly British-shirted professional in those rather lovely cotton checks, some with the perfect English spread collar, a fantasy that would call for me to be in a role where that sort of mummery would matter.

If it ever did, it sure as hell doesn’t now. I’m planing down my accretion disk of ready-to-wear haberdashery, all of these fantasies I thought I could shrink down to fit (being off the rack and made to fit the most generously proportioned among us). Each and every one of us from the old days of #menswear social media had Gatsby’s heaping piles of shirts behind his eyelids as he blinked at his hauls from the sales. Now, those are pre-confinement frivolities, non-essentials… with their passing out of my earthly dwelling they cycle back through sartorial samsāra, through what I might as well call confinement consignment.

Because I’ve realized that with confinement and working from home not only have I changed what I wear for practical reasons, I have new priorities in how I wear it.  When I confessed to a shirtmaker friend that in the last nine-months I had worn a button-front shirt literally once, he told me that I disgust him. But my weekly uniform is no longer the workday enchanted armor of a suit, buttoned shirt and tie. It’s more casual but no less freighted for me. Each day of the work week for the last nine months I’ve worn a soft, comfortable, polo shirt, its flimsy collar a passport to the flimsy formality of videoconferences. Soft cottons in the summer, cashmere-silk mixes the rest of the year, or a rollneck when things actually get cold. And jeans only on weekends; instead trousers in wool or linen based on those that Marc de Luca cut for me… a strange flourish in exuberant colors that I’ve shared with readers before. I guess that vividness is a desperate grab at flamboyance (and, yes, my mentioning him is a desperate flex) that only those I live with need to bear. After all, the old chestnut is that videoconference meeting participants don’t even need to wear pants since nobody remote will see them. I do draw the line before pantslessness, choosing instead the line Marc drew to elide my decidedly inelegant proportions.

Polos and pants are not exactly revelatory choices. The main interest of my choice is what it replaces: ironing replaced by the forgiveness of jersey knits, and the comfort of stretchy warmth. Can we expect another cycling after things change again to a new, unconfined normal? Simon Crompton of Permanent Style posited that post-confinement, people would pivot to aggressively formal dressing: wearing not just suits, but structured, shaped suits instead of the drapey, soft tailoring that had been fashionable for the last 15 years. Frankly, I kind of doubt it. Fashion’s pendulum had already begun to swing away, not just from soft suits but from the idea of the suit itself. I don’t really care, I’ll wear what I want, disgusted shirtmakers and all, hoping to remember to look outwards instead inwards on constantly cycling steez fantasies. Outwards and outside, to mauve skies at sunset, to a moment of reflection and gratitude for what surrounds me, not possessions, but family and environs, and the enormous luck and accidents of fate that I should never take for granted.

[sabraeal]

Seven Swipes for Shirayuki, Chapter 1

Prologue

Obiyuki AU Bingo Medical Drama AU

Here it is guys, the modern AU version of Seven Suitors for Shirayuki that you all asked for and I thought I would never really write. Obviously the chapters for this will not be 1:1 with parallel content-- I think we ALL would like to avoid another Chapter 6-- but here at least is the beginning of what I’m sure will be a stupidly long journey.

Plink. Plink. Plink plink plink--

“You know.” Shirayuki sets her hands flat against the keyboard, the surest way to keep them from becoming fists. “I really don’t think the janitorial staff will appreciate having to get those down.”

Obi turns wide eyes on her, striving for an air of innocence she doubts he’s possessed since long before his voice dropped. “What do you men, Miss?”

He twirls a pen between his long fingers-- cheap ones, little blue Bics that hardly scratch out a solid line since the hospital cut down on frivolous spending-- and flicks his wrist. It flies unerringly upward, lodging itself firmly in the particleboard of the ceiling.

At least it won’t be lonely with all its friends to keep it company. “They can’t just leave those up there, Obi. It’s probably a fire hazard.”

At least, she thinks so. Considering how EHS feels about anything being on the floor besides furniture and feet, she can only imagine they have strong opinions on ceilings too.

Obi scoffs, languidly kicking his legs over the arm of his chair. Anyone else would look ridiculous, but with his long limbs and cunningly tailored suit, Obi just looks dangerous, like a panther behind glass.

“Don’t worry, Miss.” Another projectile unerringly hits its mark. “They’ll come down on their own.”

Her mouth flirts heavily with a frown. “So I can look forward to a pile of pens on my floor next Monday?”

“Nah.” Teeth flash between his lips. “It’ll be all cleaned up before you get here.”

Shirayuki stifles a sigh, turning her attention back to her notes. Exasperation only encourages him. “I’ll be done soon. If you want you can wait in the hall--”

“Miss.” He presses a hand to his chest, affronted. “Would I ever leave your side? What if something happened to you while there was this one, flimsy door between us? What would Master--”

“Don’t let Zen catch you calling him that.”

“--even do to me if some terrible fate befell you while I turned away for just one moment?” He blinks, far too innocent to be earnest. “You wound me, Miss.”

She lets out a huff, flyaways fanning out around her face. “Considering how many bags of Funyuns you’ve fished out of the vending machine the past year, I think it’s safe to say that nothing will happen to me if you choose to harass Higata down at the nurse’s station instead of me.”

His smile sits stiffly on his lips, pen stilling between his fingers. “It did happen, once.”

Her heart gives a single, loud pound in her chest. “Obi--”

“Anyway.” His smile slides into a smirk, sitting more comfortably on his face. “We’re back on days after this, aren’t we?”

Her fingers roll back into their rhythm, keys tacking pleasantly beneath them. “For a little while at least. Why, do you have exciting plans?”

“Miss.” His expression wilts like a plant left in the maintenance closet. “That’s what I’m asking you.”

She blinks. The answer is simple: lounge around in her scrubs-turned-lounge wear and catch up on The Great British Baking Show while eating a staggering amount of Thai food. But he should know that; it’s what she does every weekend after she’s been on nights, and he’s usually right there beside her, making inappropriate comments about Paul Hollywood’s piercing eyes and speculating if he comes by the last name honestly or whether he had a stint in the adult film industry.

(”It’s the future, you know.” She waggles his smart phone; hers is still in her bedroom. As nice a gesture as it was from Zen, she’s never quite gotten used to keeping it on her. “We could just google it.”

“No.” He turns to her, affronted. “I appreciate the thought, Miss, but there are some things you don’t google.”

She arches a brow, tucking her feet under his butt on the cushion. He lets out a put-upon grunt, but allows it. “You just don’t want to find out it’s some old, perfectly respectable English last name.”

“It’s not that,” he snips as Netflix rolls through to the next episode, promising nun-shaped pastries. “Knowing things ruins the mystique.”)

“I mean,” he sighs, “are you going out with the boss?”

“Oh!” She stares, helpless. “I don’t...know? He hasn’t said anything to me.” She gives the keyboard a few cursory pecks before asking, “Has he said anything to you?”

His expression only falls flatter. “Has he said anything to me about your theoretical romantic plans?”

Her cheeks prickle, the sure sign that a blush is starting to dawn. “Well, you usually know before me!”

“I...wish I could say that isn’t true,” he sighs, rolling until he’s sitting properly in his seat-- or at least, as properly as Obi ever does, slouched so low that his chin is level with the ankle crossed over his knee. “But it is. And no, I haven’t...heard of any plans.”

“There you have it.” She waves a hand and turns back to her work. “No plans. Just us, some Thai, and a bunch of decorative but delicious meat pies.”

“And Paul Hollywood’s piercing eyes,” he says with more relish than anyone should. “But you’re all right with that?”

“What? Of course.” She shrugs, clicking down to the last field. “He’ll call if he has time. And if not, there’s always next week.”

Obi arches an undeservedly dubious brow, in her opinion. “Next week?”

“Sure.” She barely pauses as she says, “Zen’s a busy man. And I’m a busy lady! I don’t need to see him every weekend. Or every week!”

“Right,” he huffs, “but you, you know, presumably would want to see him more than you did when we lived three thousand miles away.”

“Obi.” Shirayuki shoots him a warning look. “We see each other plenty, and certainly more than every six months--”

“Ten months.”

“Fine, ten months.” She shrugs, gazing fixing back onto her screen. “Still. We saw each other just last week.”

He blinks. “Last week?”

“Yes, last Saturday.” She tilts her chin up, chuffed she’s remembered it. “We went to the Getty Center to see the Monet exhibit.”

“Miss.” His mouth twitches. “That was three weeks ago, and you were bored out of your mind.”

Her jaw drops. “I-- I was not!”

“You kept calling him Manet, blamed it on your Portland ‘accent’--” Obi does some vigorous finger quotes she does not appreciate-- “when the curator corrected you, excused yourself halfway through and then speculated whether drowning was a peaceful death while we stared out at the Pacific.”

Her lips pull thin, and she pointedly shifts her attention back to the screen. “I need to finish this.”

Obi raises his brows, rucking up the silvery slash above his eye. “You were bored.”

“I’m not the biggest fan of art, no.” Her fingers hesitate above the keys. “Three weeks?”

He nods. “Three weeks.”

She grimaces. “All right, let me just get the notes for this discharge written up for Garrack, and we can head out.”

“Oh, the discharge?” Obi’s looking far too pleased with himself. “You mean the ultrasound girl?”

“Yes?” His sudden interest is unnerving, to say the least. “Third trimester pregnancy, lots of blood and cramping, thought she was losing the baby, ended up just having a ruptured luteal cyst.” She stares at him, brows drawing down in confusion. “Did Ryuu tell you about it?”

“Mm-hm.” If it was possible to look like those little mischievous kitty emojis he sends her, he’d be doing it now. “And that you held her hand through the whole sonogram dealie.”

“Well, yes. No one was with her.” The girl had been so pale she nearly matched the sheets. “I wasn’t going to let her find out she had a stillbirth by herself. That’s just cruel.”

His eyes melt from gold to amber. “Of course you wouldn’t, Miss.” In a breath that softness is gone, replaced by his Cheshire Cat grin. “But are you sure that’s all?”

“W-what else would it be?”

“Ryuu said you were very interested in that baby on the screen.”

“I’m an obstetrician, Obi--”

“No need to deny it, Miss,” he assures her. “I understand completely. After all, some of that may be in the cards for you, soon.”

Shirayuki stares at him. “A luteal cyst?”

Obi heaves a sigh. “No, Miss! Maybe you have--” he waggles his narrow brows-- “baby fever.”

“What?”

“It’s only to be expected, after all,” he says with a shrug, as if this were a done deal. “You and Master have been together for six years.”

Shirayuki nearly balks, nearly suggests that he takes a walk down to the pediatrics ward and ask to check out their number line--

Until she does some mental math of her own. It has been six years. “But I-- but we-- we haven’t--”

Obi’s brows lift in a terrible cross between amusement and curiosity. “You have talked about this, haven’t you?”

They most definitely have not, which didn’t seem like an oversight until just this moment, and now--

“Shirayuki.”

She jumps, eyes darting to the door. “Dr Gazalt! I didn’t-- I didn’t expect you.”

Garrack blinks, brows raising. “Yes, me. The one who is waiting for your shift notes. Higata tells me there’s a discharge I have to sign for?”

“Oh, yes. I--” she glances at the empty notes field-- “I’ll get that done right away. I was just, ah, finishing up now.”

“Hm,” Garrack grunts, gaze shifting to where Obi is contorted in his chair. “I can’t imagine what’s keeping you.”

“Why, Chief,” he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “You can’t possibly think I was being anything but the most helpful for Doctor--”

“Oh, I know what you were being.” There’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth, and a spark in her eye as she reveals, “A nuisance.”

“Chief.”

“I’ll be done in a minute!” Shirayuki interjects, too shrill. Both of them turn to her, brows raised mildly, and she adds, “Just, ah, give me some quiet.”

“You heard the lady, big boy.” Garrack grins. “Looks like you’ll be shadowing me.”

Obi’s expression rings with alarm. “Oh, I think I’m supposed to--”

“Oh no, you’re not escaping this time.” She reaches in, getting a good grip on his tie, and tugs. “I got some heavy things that need to be lifted.”

save me pls Miss

I’m almost done

Miss she wants me to help rearrange the stock room PLS hurry

Five minutes

im wasting away i can feel the life leaving my body

We’ll get breakfast This will go faster if you stop interrupting me

the angels are calling me home theres a light at the end of the tunnel Miss

Walk towards it This is probably your only chance at heaven

M I S S

It’s no use, Obi. I may be an optimist, but I’ve seen your search history

Touche

It’s not until she’s in the elevator that it hits her: she’s forgotten something.

Her brain is, as usual, coy with the rest of the information. Did she forget something important on her report? Did she leave her keys back on her desk? Does she have some appointment this evening that will keep her from getting confused every time someone says biscuit in the tent?

Nothing comes to mind, the answer hanging frustratingly out of reach. She’d have better luck trying to get Obi to talk about his past than she will trying to brute force this memory.

Shirayuki sighs. Time to check everything.

She’s wearing clothes-- check. They’re not her scrubs-- also check. Shoes match-- double check.

Her hand sweeps into her purse. Keys-- ouch, yep, check. Wallet-- check. Phone--

Buzzes hard against her palm.

Shirayuki blinks. It’s quick, only lasting a beat before it stops. Just a text, but-- it’s eight in the morning. Even with all her early-rising, day-shift doctor friends, this is well before their first morning coffee has kicked in. This is--

Weird. Worryingly weird. She drags the phone out of her bag, waking the screen to be greeted with 12 MISSED CALLS.

Shirayuki stares. That can’t be right. She’s kept her phone on her all shift, only tossing it into her bag when she’d stopped by her office to log her notes. There’s no way she’s had that many calls in an hour. And texts--

Well, that number is staggering. Her screen shows only the last one, a very cheerful, ill kill him and hide the body so well hell get famous as cold case from Yuzuri. She grimaces. Whatever Suzu’s done now, he’ll spend the whole day regretting it.

Well, that’s not exactly fair. It could be Kazaha, or even Shidan if he’d made her work down in the pharmacy hard enough. But...

It’s definitely Suzu.

She traces the appropriate squiggle onto her phone to open it and her homescreen unfurls before her. Her thumb hovers right above the little speech bubble--

A bright ding lets her know she’s arrived at ground level, and the entirely unamused bodyguard leaning against the doors lets her know that she’s late.

“Well,” she says, tipping the phone back into her bag. “You’re looking...hale?”

“I was promised breakfast,” he reminds her in a pleasant, if displeased rumble. “This is a thing that is happening.”

She makes sure to infuse some extra bounce into her step as she exits the elevator, earning a weary scowl. “Doctor Gazalt must have worked you hard.”

“Doctor Gazalt has some definite opinions about how her office should be arranged.” He raises a hand, rubbing pointedly at his neck. “What do they make the furniture out of here? Bricks?”

“Concrete, probably,” she agrees. “Pancho’s?”

He nods. “Spicy sauce. Extra spicy sauce. I’ll get the car.”

She grins. “Sounds like a deal. Meet me out font in ten?”

He lets out a huff. “I’ll meet you out front whenever I manage to lug my broken body across the parking garage and into the driver’s seat.”

“You poor baby,” she deadpans, patting his arm.

“I’ve suffered,” he tells her, affronted. “And don’t forget! Extra Spicy!”

The hospital is a cool cocoon, it’s temperature scrupulously maintained for the benefit of the labs and supplies inside, and so when Shirayuki emerges into the bright, May morning--

The heat hits her like a wall.

The air is oppressive; with each step it weighs her down, like a body laying across her back, and oh, she cannot wait until Obi gets here with the towncar, because there is no way she can last more than ten minutes without air conditioning.

Shirayuki has to laugh at that as she trudges down the granite stairs. She, who had spent her summers in a stuffy attic of an old Victorian house with only a single circular window to allow air in, happily devouring book after book as she laid on her bed with little more than underwear on, to whom air conditioning was a ridiculous luxury--

And now she can’t live without it. Probably couldn’t bear to sleep in a tiny twin bed either, with a mattress last changed out when she stopped wetting the bed. Not now that she’s experienced queen size and memory foam. Zen’s truly made sure she can never go home again.

Not that it was an option, anyway.

She oozes onto the pavement, taking a moment to really feel how sweaty twenty steps and thirty seconds can make her, and turns, goal blessedly in sight. Pancho’s lime green paint glistens in the morning sun, and the smell of meat cooking on the griddle inspires her to make the last three yard push. Well, that and she’s absolutely sure that Obi won’t let her in the car empty handed, not after he had to move Garrack’s desk.

“Good morning!” Shirayuki manages. “Two breakfast burritos. One...al pastor...extra spicy. The other...veggie? Mild.”

The vendor peers down from the counter-- it’s the dark-haired one, Shiira. Good. He won’t scream if she passes out in front of him. “Doing okay there, ma’am?”

“Never better,” she assures him, knuckles white where she grips the metal. It’s the only thing keeping her upright “I love heat. So much.”

His mouth curves into a faint smile, ringing up her order. “Boston thinned your blood, did it?”

“I’ll get used to it.” It’s been a year, sure, but it will happen at some point. It has to. “I did it before.”

He barks out a laugh, mouth opening to say more until his gaze catches over her shoulder. “Oh, can I take your order, sir?”

Shirayuki steps off to the side, her shoulder bumping hard into the magazine rack hanging off the window. It wibbles hard, metal banging against metal as it vibrates against the side of the truck. She catches it with a grimace, stilling it before it can make more of a racket, and glimpses the name WISTERIA on the front page. Her hand hovers, ready to grab it--

And catches the National Enquirer above it. Her hand jerks back like it’s been scalded. She doesn’t need to see any of that, thank you. Probably just more articles about Izana’s philandering ways.

She huffs out a laugh. Anyone who wrote about his wife crying in bed, unable to stand from grief has clearly never met her. Yuzuri’s probably read it already, with bullet points ready to bitch about, and--

Oh! Yuzuri. She digs into her bag, fishing out her phone. 12 MISSED CALLS sits bright on her welcome screen, nagging at her. As much as she wants to know just what ridiculous scheme has gotten Suzu in trouble now, she can always catch up later.

With a flick of her thumb she summons her call screen, and there it is, twelve calls missed, and all of them--

All of them are from Yuzuri.

Her heart pounds loud in her ears, the sound of the street around her muted. The screen won’t stay still, making words blur as if she’s trying to read in a dream, as if any moment they’ll drip off the page.

But it’s no dream. She’s had twelve calls from Yuzuri in the past hour, and her hands are trembling.

Something must have happened. Suzu’s hurt, or Kirito’s sick, or-- or--

What had her text said? She swipes a thumb, ready to find out, but--

Her phone buzzes, right in her hand. Shirayuki stares at it, dumb. She must have forgotten to turn on the ringer.

YUZURI it reads, and her heart skips a beat.

“Is everything okay?” she breathes the moment the call connects, one hand clenched in her collar.

“No, nothing is okay,” Yuzuri snaps, voice crackling in that way that means both danger and most probably homicide. “I will fly out there and help you hide the body. There are lye pits everywhere, Yuki.”

She blinks, head jerking back from the whiplash. “Excuse me?”

“Or I’ll do the job myself, if you want,” she continues, undaunted. “I’m sure a rich kid like him has a lot of enemies. We’ll never get caught.”

“Yuzuri.” She shakes her head. “Who on earth are you talking about?”

“Wha--? Zen!” she says, exasperated. “You mean he hasn’t even told you?”

“Told me what?”

“Oh my god,” Yuzuri breathes. “I can’t-- you haven’t even seen the news?”

“I was on nights.” She turns to the rack behind her, riffling through the magazines. “I didn’t really have time to-- oh. Oh my.”

WISTERIA WEDDING BELLS TO RING AGAIN! the tabloid boasts, showing Zen right on the front, his hair tousled as he steps down from the private jet. She’d laugh it off, just like she always does-- she’d lost count of the number of times they reported his engagement to Kiki before she got married, and Obi made a habit of buying anything that reported them having an affair so he could snapchat it to Kiki at his leisure-- but this-- this--

(”Is everything all right?” She picks her head up from his shoulder, but beneath her palm she can still feel his heart racing. The movie keeps playing on the screen, something fraught and in French, and when he stares down at her, she can see the white all around his eyes, shining in the dark.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” His arm wraps tighter around her, and he gives her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. She’s never realized how much he looks like Izana until now.

She raises a brow. “You seem tense.”

“Ah.” he shifts beneath her, gaze flicking back to the TV. “Yeah, I just-- have a project I have to finish up next week. Just...starting to really feel the deadline. You know how it is.”

A line carves a chasm between his eyebrows, worn by the inexorabe waters of worry. There’s never much she can do for him, the man who wears the weight of the world on his back, but-- but she can do this, sitting back on her knees, fiddling with the watch around her wrist.

“Here,” she says, pulling it tight around his.

He stares down at it, confused, and she smiles. There’s something perversely gratifying to giving a man who has everything something so second-hand it still has the heat from her body. “What--?”

“My lucky watch.”

He tilts his eyes up to watch her, so blue in the dim. “Is this the one I gave to you?”

“After I broke yours?” She nods, smile tilting ruefully. “And now I’m lending this to you. Bring it back safe.”

His fingers brush it, almost reverent. Zen may not let her bear any of his burden, but she can make it feel lighter, even if only for a while. “I...will.”)

Her watch gleams from beneath the cuff of his blazer, visible as he holds out an arm to help a pair of shapely legs behind him. The cover creases in her hands, cracking under her grip, and--

“Are you going to buy that too?” Shiira asks, somehow both pointed and concerned.

Shirayuki shakes herself. The tabloids are always quick to speculate, slapping fiancée over any woman he shared air with for more than a minute. This doesn’t have to mean anything.

And it wouldn’t, not if she hadn’t already thought--

“Shirayuki?” Yuzuri prompts, alarm ringing through every syllable. “Are you--?”

“I’m fine.” It’s not a lie if she doesn’t know whether or it’s true. “I just have to-- I’ll have to call you back.”

She hangs up with Yuzuri mid-breath, doubtlessly gearing up to give her an earful of opinions. It’s rude, yes, but she can hardly think past the next name on her list, scrolling until ZEN WISTERIA lights up on the screen.

It’s a mistake, it has to be. It’s just some picture, out of context, slapped right onto the page like it means something.

Two foil-wrapped packages slide toward her. “That will be seven forty--”

You’ve reached the voice mail of Zen. Wisteria. Please leave a message at--

“This too,” she says, slapping the rag on the counter.

Shiira stares at her, wide-eyed.

She coughs, arranging it with slightly more care. “And, um, a horchata. Please.”

You’ve reached the voice mail of Zen. Wisteria. Please leave a message at the tone.

Shirayuki shifts her load to the crook of her elbow, nibbling at a cuticle. “Hi. It’s, um, me again. I just got off shift, and I--” she takes a long, hard breath, and switches tack-- “just call me. Whenever you can. I’ll keep my ringer on.”

A black sedan slips up to the curb, the passenger side door stopping right at her toes. The window scrolls down with a soft hum, and Obi stretches across the seat, his mouth rucking up in a smirk. “Come on, Miss, we don’t have all--”

His whole body stiffens, the warm amber of his eyes fixed to her face. “Miss,” he breathes, lips hardly moving, knuckles white where he grips the console. “Miss, what’s wrong. Are you--?”

She shoves the magazine through the window, crumpling it into his hands. “Miss, what--?”

He stares. Obi might not recognize the watch-- might not even know she had given it away-- but oh, he can recognize the ring.

“That’s Mrs Wisteria’s--”

“Yes.” She can’t even bear to hear it spoke. “Yeah.”

His brow furrows. “There has to be some explanation. You know how these rags like to come up with--”

“He won’t pick up.” Her voice cracks, but she can’t-- she can’t do this here, right on the sidewalk. Not in front of her hospital. His hospital. “Or Mitsuhide. Or Kiki. I don’t...”

Know what to believe. her lips catch the words before they slip out. If she doesn’t say it, it can’t be true, it can’t be real, this can’t be happening.

“We’ll figure it out,” Obi tells her, but his voice wavers, and his hands clench tight on her seat. “Just get in and we’ll--”

Her phone cuts him off. She jumps to answer it, glancing down at the screen to see--

Oh. Oh no.

IZANA WISTERIA, it reads.

“Oh,” Obi breathes. “Shit.”

[softschofield]

hello!! re: rossi, i've been meaning to ask you if there is any significance of the big blue & white patches on his jacket sleeves? i honestly just noticed he had them.

it’s so funny that you ask that because i have been agonising over this for months. and honestly? it is spectacularly difficult to find out what that fucking patch is. my first thought, when i saw 1917 for the first time and realised he was scottish, was that it was some sort of identifier of that fact - it’s the scottish colours, after all, and maybe it would make some sort of sense that a scotsman in an english regiment would be identified? but that idea is flimsy at best and isn’t backed up by any evidence whatsoever.

my next thought, through hours of attempts at research that are eternally thwarted by the fucking goddamn canadians and australians who seemingly have a much better record of that sort of thing than the british GOD BLESS, is that he may have been part of the signal corps, or the corps of royal engineers. as far as i can glean from this, it might make sense that a spattering of individual signallers would be attached to an infantry regiment, and that they then may have fought alongside the frontline troops, as they do now. 

and, if he were a signaller, rossi would then have been trained in horse riding, would have been tasked with ensuring that “intelligence is passed to the decision makers and the mechanisms by which decisions and orders are communicated”, operating battlefield communication systems like telephones and radios, and possibly photography, both for military purposes and for propaganda and civilian news back home.

but that theory again falls short when you take into account the fact that the badge on rossi’s helmet is not the insignia of the signal corps - and i haven’t yet been able to identify which insignia it is. 

and yet another thing has been bothering me: while scho and blake wear a red patch on their shoulders, which, as far as i’ve been able to gather, simply means infantry, the convoy boys wear either green patches (embroidered with a regiment name, or just blank) or red x’s. is it a battle patch, a way of distinguishing regiments at a glance? is it the patch of the 50th (northumbrian) division? does it mean HQ battalion, or division HQ? is the red x the patch of the 112th brigade? does it mean something other than infantry? machine gunners?

is could be the staffordshire regiment, which looks very similar to it, and which would make sense considering they were most likely part of one of these divisions that fought at arras in april, one of which encompassed two battalions of the north staffordshire regiment: the 31st division, my personal favourite possibility, because they fought in the battle of the scarpe at arras, because it’s mostly made up of northern regiments, and because it followed after the newfoundlands to the new hindenburg line in spring 1917, just like captain smith said; the 37th division, which contained both the 8th (service) battalion of the east lancashire regiment and the 10th (service) battalion of the loyal north lancashire regiment, which would align with the presence of liverpudlian soldiers, and, since it also contained yorkshire regiments, would also account of the fact that atkins wears the red x; the 19th (western) division; the 7th infantry division; and the 62nd (2nd west riding) division. 

but again, the north staffordshire helmet badge is a very fucking distinctive pretzel knot, and rossi’s badge looks like this:

(and can we also just appreciate that rossi is doing the absolute bare minimum with pushing the truck and he’s mainly just pushing into jondalar’s back, we love to see him thriving and pretending to help) (and we also love that he wears mittens and that his scarf is so lovely and clean, kilgour is quaking)

and rossi doesn’t wear the green arm patch at all!!! which may legitimise the signaller theory? 

so, to answer your question, my love: i don’t know. i honestly don’t know, and it absolutely kills me and my pride to say that. i’ll keep digging, but for now my best guess is that he was in the royal signal corps. and you know what? even if that’s wrong, it makes for a pretty cute headcanon. i always love characters who have something a little different and special about them, and being a signaller or royal engineer in the middle of an infantry battalion, being the one who has to report to the officers and communicate information and handle technical things like radios, that no one else would have any idea about and that would have been a thing of awe and mystery in the edwardian age, in the middle of a battle - having to be calm and shout down a phone line while shells are exploding all around him... i like that. and if he were indirectly in charge of propaganda footage and photography, and privy to the internal workings and politics of the army, that would have naturally led to the quiet, bitter cynicism of “look at it. fucking look at it. three years fighting over this.” 

WAIT

NO

ANON

I’VE BEEN A FOOL:

THEY’RE FROM THE WORCESTERSHIRE REGIMENT!!!!!!!!!!! AND THE 10TH (SERVICE) BATTALION WAS ASSIGNED TO THE 19TH (WESTERN) DIVISION!!!! LIKE I SAID BEFORE!!! SO I WAS HALF RIGHT!!! 

WE HAVE A NAME, LADS!!!! 10TH BATTALION OF THE WORCESTERSHIRE REGIMENT!!!! and man oh man, there are some stories about the insolence and rowdiness of the worcestershires!!! and that fits in so brilliantly with their personalities, I LOVE IT!!!!

still, though, rossi’s helmet badge really doesn’t seem to be the worcestershire lion and, as far as i can make out, has a crown atop the insignia, so who knows what tf that boy is wearing.

but that is completely off track, i’m so sorry my love LMAO. so yes: the arm patch you were actually asking about may mean that he was a signaller attached to the worcestershires ♡♡♡♡ we got there in the end!!! ilysm!! x

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Three; Hunger.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Violence and gore in this chapter !!! As-well as stalking, dub con and mentions of attempted sexual assault. Hungry horny vampires gotta eat somehow right?

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

When the coach door enclosed him in darkness and silence at the end of the evening, he tosses his head back to the scarlet velvet wall behind him and sighs out a deep releasing exhale. One of gladness.

 It felt like the most cleansing breath he’d taken all damned evening.

 Polite society hereabouts was exhausting- he rather preferred the one of years past.

 The coach lurches away. Hooves clip on the icy midnight road, splashed in watery silver moonlight and mushed grey snow.

 He listens to the glorious sound of his driver steering the horses to take him away from that stuffy ballroom and all its conceited occupants.

 His body rattles and shifts on the softness of the upholstered bench with the rickety rumbling and turning of the carriage wheels. He lets it ground his restless temper.

 He tries to recall the differences of when he last stepped foot on this island. What he’d said to Miss Ashton was no incorrect lie. He hadn’t been on these shores in an age. Not in 600 years atleast-

 The last time he was here was during the crusades.

 Everything was truly different in comparison. Back then he’d donned a hauberk chain-mail coat, with a conical helmet and a kite shield. He’d come here armed with only a horse, a long bow, a lance and his mail armour.

 He’d been a Knight back then. In the third crusade of 1189. Fighting under the blood soaked banner of an Christian king to reclaim the Holy Land from a Sultan. He forgets the kings name, theres been so many he’s served. The lionhearted one perhaps? Faces and names of mere humans fade back into his mind like fog.

 He’s seen so many lives begin and end. Even kings fade eventually. Too many mortals to list.

 He remembers how hospitality and society was vastly different then. It was peasants and lords. Not all these lords, and dukes and earls and titles.

 He recalls the wide unpolluted pure of cobalt sky and meadows of yellow daffodil flowers stretching on for miles. The kiss of their innocent nectar in the air. Exotic new spices, cloves and saffron and salt, animal sweat, dung, and musky furs and hides.

 Salt of the earth humble houses were squat little wood straw huts. Dominated by the reaching slanted cold shadows, that came from the immensity of the rich grey-stoned castles.

 People revered one God and their masters. Kylo was a knight. He was as good as both.

 He has memories of great fine feasts with roast suckling pigs or boars turning on the great hall spit over the fire. The glaze of flame crackled pork skin and the dirt of ash. He recalls to this very day the sweet honey spice of mead on his tongue.

 He remembers gorging himself on that honey-wine and devouring still bleeding slices of roast venison. That juicy ichor dripped down his chin. He ate meat off the bone like a starved dog. Drank flagon after flagon of barley ale to celebrate war and shedding the blood of the infidels.

 He’d greedily dined with the Lords at their courts, scarfed down their hospitality like a beast. Then he’d gone and ripped apart a peasant or two in the forest afterwards.

 Blood pulsing with matter and protein, and stomach groaning full with wine and blood. The next day when they found the decimated bodies they blamed the innocent deaths on the wolves. How appropriate-

 He can remember this country in the spark of its infancy. He was there to see it born.

 He was in Runnymede in Surrey in 1215, outside the fringes of the very room, watching, as the band of feuding Baron’s made the unruly King sign the Magna Carta. The cornerstone of British law. The first time a higher power was held accountable.

 And now look at the pitiful state of it-

 He’d been in the ballroom tonight of this grand house when those higher powers had sneered at his choice of footwear behind their snifters of French brandy and their fans. Foppish young ladies and men and all ignorant as to their place in the world they think they improve.

 He was there at the very inception of all the powers and laws these vapid people obsess and fuss over. The one that gave all those preening lords and ladies their cursed little country and their dignity.

 Maybe if he were a nicer, more patient man he could settle for people flattering him and wheedling him with idle compliments at every turn. Maybe if he were more vain, and knew his own handsomeness, he could accept those honeyed words. The sickly ones that rotted in his ears. If he was like them he could indulge their meaning.

 He’s not like them. He never will be. And he’s glad of it.

 He’s older. Laughably older. He’s a warrior. He’s seen every facet of life and history and war imaginable. And they are all nothing but specs of insignificant dust to him.

 They think they matter, when all they do is fuck and breed and drink and dance. They marry well, and produce offspring to hold up their fetid titles, and stately homes. Then they die. And the next generation begins the same thing all over.

 Some of those ignorant men tonight had the sheer nerve and effrontery to sneer up at him. Thinking he was so foreign and unfamiliar that he wouldn’t find the insult in their sniping adulations. The way they dug at his incorrect attire, his gloves, his boots. His dark clothing and his longer unfashionable hair.

 Were he in a less forgiving mood he would have snapped a few necks in that room tonight. Stopped a few hearts from beating by breaking the ribcage open and reaching in with his bare hands.

 He could’ve- it was vastly too tempting. But he had to assimilate to this petty crowd and open bloodshed wasn’t the way to do so. He has to remember rules and politesses about where to stand and what to discuss. It’s infuriating-

 He reaches a leathered hand to his neck and yanks open his neatly tied cravat. Jerking it lose from his neck so he could take a damn breath. Shoves the tie pin from it deep in his pocket.

 Irritation pounds at his temples reminiscent of a headache; his throat is crackling and sore-dry.

 He’s imbibed many glasses of Portuguese port and piddly French red wine. The crushed grape of its taste still sits on the back of his tongue and it’s simply not enough.

 He needs to feed-

 Aching to feel the blushing heat of it drool down his chin. Frothy pink where it blends with his drooling mouth.

 He’s been hungry ever since Miss Ashton crossed his path that very afternoon. Her blooming innocent scent unfolded for him like the rarest flower.

 That lavender oil and clary sage essence of her fragrance. He likes her eyes. So shy and soft. Grey like Howlite.

 People say they couldn’t see beauty in pale eyes but he very much disagrees. Pale. Like the pearled moon, like clouded open skies. Like the gentle purity of creamy rose petals.

 That girl he glimpsed tonight was shades away from the shy creature he saw walking along a pale road. With a crease of concern on her brow.

 Arms and hands aching with strain and numb from her labours and holding that basket.

 Even in her ill fitting coat and her cracked shoes and worn dress he’d seen more of her. More of her obvious true beauty.

 Her hair this afternoon was riotous and wild and he so likes wild things.

 Tonight she’d been trussed up, and decorated and tamed in a flimsy silk gown and made to look like every other girl donned in their best. To parade in the ballroom like a swan showing off its feathers.

 Or like a snowy little dove-

 He smiles to himself. Time was - back in some far less strict age - he’d have cleverly concocted some excuse to get her alone at that ball tonight.

 A darkened room for a lovers tryst. A room out of use and earshot of everyone where he could be her lover just for the night. Where he could kiss her senseless. Sate the craving.

 Crowd her to the wall of some parlour, tear those silly slippers off. Rip those papery silk skirts right up the middle. Make her cry out in pleasure on his cock. Make her thighs shake with rapture that makes her sweet core drip right down to the insides of her stockinged knees.

 He’d feed on her too. Oh, he’d make a feast of her. Make her last.

 The little delicate morsel she was. What a mouthful. He’d mouth everywhere. Her gorgeous breasts, her neck, devour between her thighs at a place where he’s certain no other man has ever been.

 Shove his muzzle in her neck and lick the sweat off her soaped salt skin. Taste that awful cloying fragrance she put on. Growl at her that she should never bother with scent again to entice him. He didn’t want the citrus rot of perfumery and flowers.

 He wanted her. Her bare skin. He wanted the clean pure innocence he smelt off her from his carriage that afternoon. Her skin. Body. Her unguarded neck.

 He’d bite and suck and feed. He’d feed as they are joined as one with him slipped up inside her. And he’d happily watch that white white dress turn crimson garnet.

 He damns civility. He growls and tears the infernal cravat right off his neck. Not only is he raging hungry, but he’s now got an appetite for things that just blood won’t sate.

 His appetites for Miss Ashton.

 He balls up the cloth of his cravat and shoves his deep in his coat pocket. His shirt neck now gapes wide open. Down is pecs. Almost to his chest. Baring him to the cold that he’s too deadened and numb to feel.

 When the coach bumps over a rickety track in the road, he gazes out the window, feeling the chilled glass brush his icy hands. Even through his thick skinned leather gloves. Lined with silken rabbit fur. An irony when his hands were ones that didn’t even need keeping warm.

 He peers out the tiny icy slither of the window pane in the door. See’s that they are now heading through some tiny hamlet. One far from home. Somewhere quiet where there’s a quaint roadside tavern under the heavy bruising of a night sky.

 A run down roadside coaching inn by the looks of the squat old building wedged into the earth, compressed under a heavy blanketing snow. The roof sags in the middle. There’s tiles missing. A wonky chimney which coughs and chokes out little smoke.

 The crusty paint peeling sign above the door announces it’s called ‘The Horse & Wagon’ In faded wheat gold paint. He sees the small square spits of Tudor windows to the front are glowing with candles and many men are crushed within. Drinking away their riches. Or drowning their sorrows. Escaping their nagging wives or their crying children. Getting away from the responsibility of all the hungry mouths they had to feed.

 He pounds a big rattling fist once on the carriage roof. Careful not to plough his ravened fist through the wood. He could tear it apart like brittle match wood if he wanted.

 The coach shudders, whip cracks, horses whinny and snort in protest. Kylo wets his lips and climbs out down the coach.

 “Going in for a drink. Don’t wait on me.” He instructs. His driver tips his hat and the carriage churns up wet and muddy snow as it lurches away.

 He strides to the warped door and shoves it open. Creaky and shuddering old thing. The aroma of the dingy place hits him like being cut down by stampeding stallion.

 The decay of sweat. The heat and filth of working men. Body odours. Stale ale and musty unclean floors.

 His heavy treads from his expensive boots skid on the muck lining the grey flagstones as he steps in. As tall as the door, and more so, he had to stoop to get in. His shoulders too wide for the tiny door.

 The bar is crowded with labourers and farm hands. They have their backs turned to him. But the miserable portly barman assesses Kylo with offence and derision as he comes in. With his probable educated accent and his fine clothes.

 This was normal men’s refuge from their masters or the fine men and lords they serve. The scowl on the tubby mans face tells kylo this.

 In a previous life, any man looking with such open derision at his lord and master rightfully entitled them to be pilloried for a month, or flogged until he can’t stand, Kylo thinks.

 He looks around the dismal offering of this atmosphere. Settles on a table in the mouldy walled corner. Damp dripping from the sagging ceiling over the exposed stone.

 The tables are wonky chunky oak ones. The only light in the place are from melted and misshapen candles in brass black stands on each uncleaned table. Kylo sits with a full vantage of the bar. Next to the fireplace. Soot and ash spewed all over the floor. Crunching and crushed under his boots.

 A waify little barmaid appears in a dirty donkey-brown wool dress. Her hair the shade of red rust scraped back off her face in a low bun. Stained chemise under her rumpled dress.

 She still had the flush of youth in her cheeks. The baby-weight of it on her face too. She was still a girl and yet she had to work serving the foul pigs in here. He pities the poor thing. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen. And he knew men lost to drink could turn truly vile.

 “Serve the gentleman, Maggie.” The miserable barkeep growls. She does as she’s bid. The way he says ‘gentleman’ was as if the word turns his stomach.

 Kylo’s sat in shadow in his corner. Fully confident the girl can’t see him. Doubtless she’s had to approach more rowdy awful men than him. She doesn’t seem scared. Why should she be? She doesn’t know she’s approaching a man who’s scarier than all the rowdy and randy drunk men she’s seen, put together.

 She focuses her innocent little brown eyes at him. He sees the flush on her cheeks. And the dew of labour on her chest. There were splashes of drink sullying her crumpled linen chemise sleeves. She’s soaked in sweat and smells of drink and dirt. “What can I get you, sir?” She asks. Her accent was low born.

 “Ale.” Kylo asks for. All the alcohol this place would serve is spirits or beer. No cordials, port or madeira to be found in here. This isn’t the place for that. This is the place to get drunk quick - he hopes.

 She nods and scampers back over to the bar. She brings him back a filthy tankard of ale that he doesn’t even dare touch.

 He reaches his pocket and gives her two silver shillings. She turns away but he stops her by grabbing her wrist. Bones grate under his leather palm. Turning back she looks afraid.

 “Please, sir-“ She tries to protest.

 Kylo reaches out again and puts three crown coins in her hand. She looks at him with surprised wet eyes. Bordering on offence at his insinuation. This was an inn. There were rooms upstairs- she thought he wished to buy her time.

 “Nothing like that.” Kylo assures her with a cross frown. He prefers his partners willing. Not paid.

 “That’s for you and your family.” He nods to the bar. “Not for him.” He states firmly.

 She smiles and quickly pockets the coins. He likes travelling with coins in his coat. Knowing what he could idly spare to a deserving soul could feed a family in reduced circumstances, for an entire week.

 She walks away happily from his table. He slouches back in the shadows again.

 He lets the fetid ale sit in front of him and suffers this putrid place so that his dinner might show itself soon.

 He listens to the men cackle, hacking booming laughs, share stories and jokes, and drink and stoutly ignore him. Which is what he wanted. He planned for that. It always serves him and his appetite well.

 He waits and watches. As any good hunter does. And he’s one of the top predators stalking this earth-

 He was the second vampire ever made. The only devil worse than him is the one who made him. And the only one Kylo’s maker bows down to, is the original demon himself who bought them all into creation. The one who fell from heaven.

 He continues his waiting game.

 Eyes slipping over every man. Watching them imbibe. Watching the sense drain from their thick heads. Watching. Looking. Searching. Wondering who who who it will be.

 He doesn’t have to prey for very long. He never had to in filthy, discarded and squalid places like these.

 Kylo’s eyes zip to the bar where some letching man now has his hands tugging at the bar maids skirts and trying to get her in his lap.

 The assailant was young. Not very handsome. Ruddy faced. Tanned. A farm hand at his best guess. Broad backed with a square jaw and wheaten hair. Kylo leans forwards in his chair. Eyes churning. Stomach calling.

 She wrenches her skirts away from him and gives him a stout slap across the face. Before scurrying away scared, heading out the door at the back to fetch the things her boss barked at for her to go get.

 His friends all jeered and laughed and told him he got what was owing to him.  A red welt spreading across his face.

 Kylo’s stomach knots up in anticipation.

 The affronted farm hand sloshes down his pint. And starts after the girls retreat. Kylo slips out the front door with a smirk. And a belly full of rage.

 His feet crunch on the snow. Where he stands. He rips his gloves off and shoves them in his pocket. He’s a feeling he’ll need his bare hands soon. Nails already growing sharper. The promise of a hunt hangs in the air. 

 He slips around the side of the tavern. To the ale barrel store out back. He’s nearly there to the out sheds when he hears it. The crack of a slap harshly ringing the air, whimpers. Gasps of pain. Pairs of feet shifting in the snow.

 He rounds the corner. Silent as his shadow trailing behind him.

 He sees the farm hand with his hand over the girls mouth. Crushing her to the tavern wall by the back door. Hidden by the barrels, boxes and crates stacked all around. He’s trying to stuff his hand up her skirts again.

 “Give us a kiss, lass. You know you want to-“ He smirks.

 Hunched over the poor girl. Leering at her. Snarling that no one makes a fool out of him. Her eyes are so wide and terrified. Whites of them and sticky in the dark night air, like pearls.

 Kylo can’t stop the low growl slipping from his throat. The natural part of him- the animal- slipping free.

 He marches over with his blood raging fury through his body. Temples pulsing with strain and need. He fists a hand in the boys collar and yanks him back, slamming him up into the wall instead. See how he likes it.

 He holds with death. He doesn’t hold with rape.

 Not in any sense. Not to young girls with their whole lives ahead. He was born and bred in a time when women were revered as highly as men. They were treated and respected as equal. Not handled and oppressed, bred and showcased and sold like livestock.

 He turns the letch to face him. Marvels in the scared screams that come from his mouth. He likes hearing how horrible he is in his most feral state.

 His eyes are glowing gold now. Golder than coin. Golder than sun and wheat and everything precious.

 Only he looks terrifying. Gold eyes. Edges rimmed with raw red.

 The girl cowers on the snowy floor next to them. Tears streaming down her innocence puppyish face. One cheek reddened by a slap from a harsh hand. Kylo looks down at her. The farm hands feet dangled high off the floor, kicking at him.

 “Run along girl. Go home.” Kylo warns. Looking down at her. She scrambled back and heaved herself up to stand on shaking legs. 

 “W-What are you gonna do with him?” She asks. Edging away down the wall.

 “You don’t wish to know.” Kylo smiles squeezes the guys throat. Spit splutters out his mouth. He gurgles on his shouts of terror.

 She scarpers away in the snow. It clings powdery wet to her skirts and she run’s around the building and off into the dark. He’s not worried for her safety now. She won’t encounter a more dangerous creature than him out there tonight.

 The man before him whimpers. Kylo rakes his eyes over his face. Rubs his thumb along the pulsing jugular in his neck. His sharp nails quickly piercing the skin. Notes of hot sweet copper and pennies bloom up in the air.

 “Please. D-Don’t hurt me please-please sir.” He begs.

 Why do people think begging will save them? Like any amount simple pleading will keep them from harm. It won’t even scratch the surface.

 “I’m giving you a little taste of how scared that girl was when you followed her out here. Not very palatable is it? You beat her with your bare hands. You caused her pain. She suffered you. Now you’ll suffer me...”

 “And I will make sure it hurts.” Kylo’s promising with mirth in a savage whisper.

 When he smiles there are two glimmering sharp fangs where his pointed canines used to sit. Gleaming wet in the light. The farm hands eyes are shrieking with fear.

 Kylo strikes quickly and cleanly. Hands fisted into this grubby workers clothes. He growls as his teeth sink and he tears through the flesh like the skin is no more to him than wet paper being gouged at by knives.

 He groans as he drinks. Laps it down. As the hot viscous filled his mouth and slid warm down his throat to his belly like a trail of fire.

 His blood tasted of apples and coins. Sharp and bronzy bitter.

 Kylo can feel it smeared over his mouth. Slipping down his chin. Onto his chest and staining his open shirt. He’s crushing the man’s windpipe in his free hand. The other planted to the wall. He feels the wretch twitch and sag under his hands as he slowly eats away his life.

 The part he always likes the best- when the fight drains away and the muscles loosen. And everything unwinds. That’s when the blood comes quicker. Thicker. Less of it being pumped around a panicked body.

 There’s no panic anymore. There’s nothing. Not even life.

 He greedy with meals. He drinks until he’s had his fill and his appetite is about as large as his body.

 He feasts until blood is staining his hands. His chest. And smudged all across his chin. He even saw some drop on his boots. His teeth are stained crimson and his belly heavy with the bliss of being so full. He hadn’t fed since he arrived here. It’s nectar euphoria flushing into his blood.

 When he’s had enough. He easily drags the bloodless corpse away from the tavern.

 Discards his useless body in a nearby icy ditch at the side of the road. He reeked of Gin. And Kylo thinks it a fitting end that it looks like the drunkard stumbled into the path of an oncoming carriage and got torn and crushed to bits under the wheels.

 He kicks snow over him and leaves. Sucking the blood off his fingers as he walks.

 He’s not sure how or why. But he finds himself knowing to head through the woods. The opposite route to home. Trekking through snow in his leather boots. Forest and ice brushing at his wool jacket shoulders from the low hanging branches in the trees. Wisps of snow land in his hair. Floating all around and catching on every gnarled bark of each tree.

 He finds he ends up in the oddest of places. Westwell manor.

 He looks up at the large block of the Manor house. Gold brick. White sash windows. An ivy smothered roof. Cracked roof tiles that had seen better days, freckled in melting snow and moonlight. Just like the snowy gardens.

 He stands shaded under the old horse chestnut tree, and looks up to the one room, high up in the house. In the middle. There’s a candle glowing amber in the window. Turning the glass into a sheet of apricot cornelian standing stark in the bruised black night.

 He just wants a glimpse. He’s aching for it- he thought it was the bloodlust that pulled here. But perhaps he’s wrong- it’s deeper than all that feral nature.

 Just a glance. Just the one. Can’t hurt. It’ll help him make up his mind

 And there’s his little dove. Draped in a white nightgown. Sat in her window alcove.

 Up against the frosty glass with a shawl bundled around her shoulders. A novel cracked open and sloped in her lap. Her delicate face exposed by her hair. Now in that messy, freed arrangement. Tucked into a wild plait tied with beige muslin at the end. The nightgown it so big it slides off one pale shoulder.

 Kylo aches at the sight. His bones ring with wanting. Maybe this power is no more than desire.

 He shuts his eyes and he can smell her. Can imagine the simple taste of her hot skin on his tongue. Wants to feel his eyelashes kiss the crook of her neck as he does the same to her shoulder. Wants the drum of that pulse in his mouth. Is this desire? Or is it more?

 She turns the page and smiles a little reading the passage. He smiles too. As if they are linked. Already joined as one. It makes something stir in him.

 He softly whispers words that echo out into the frigid cold night. So only he can hear them “Sweet dreams, little dove.”

 Kylo’s not felt like this, or this strange pull of attraction in all his 1,027 years walking this earth. And now it’s here, she’s here-

 He wonders- 

 Maybe she doesn’t know it yet- he doesn’t fully know or understand it himself. They shared something like a deep connection as soon as their eyes met. He felt it. And he never usually feels things such as those. Not for another human.

 Kylo is in serious danger of outstaying his welcome- but he just wants to look at her. To admire her for a second longer. As openly as an astrologist studies the beauty and wonder of the moon. Perhaps he can make sense of all this.

 As Iris moves to close her book, blow out her candle and climb into her much cosier bed to warm her feet; she glances out the gardens, up past the pond and up at the bright cyclops of that pearly winter moon. 

She could’ve sworn she caught sight of a hulking man stood, looking up at her from under the chestnut tree. She blinks and rubs away the cold fog smeared on her window and there’s nothing there- idle trickery from her tired mind. 

He vows he will see her again; he’ll make sure if it. As he walks home in the cold night. Dripping dried blood and agitated with desire. He declares to himself that he will do everything in his power to uncover more. To make something sensible out of all this mess.

 After all. Kylo Ren is a creature of little patience. But this feeling, this situation. That is what he will patiently unpick. 

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

[the-awkward-outlaw]

Bonjour ! How are you doing ? I've read you're depressed, I've been through it too, feel free to talk to me whenever you want ! Since you're my favourite writer, I've got an imagine request for you ! Imagine Leviticus Cornwall's young wife has been kidnapped by the gang. She's a classy british girl and she is very pretty, but she is not arrogant and is friendly with the gang. Arthur and her fall in love but Dutch want a ransom and doesn't want her to stay. You can choose the ending.Thank you :D

Awe thanks friend! My depression is luckily on the down low and I am in therapy to learn how to control it, but it’s awesome to hear that we support each other. If you need to talk, I’m here as well!

Sorry it took so long to do this one. Honestly this request could have turned into a multi-chapter fic! That being the case, it’s really long (only 20 pages lol). Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

(Author’s note: Arthur doesn’t have TB in this scenario) 

Word count: ~10,500

You look over at your husband across the breakfast table with disgust. Although it’s a rather rare occurrence for him to join you for your morning meal because his schedule is so full, you’d rather he never did. Of course, you’ve no say in any of this. You’re just his wife, his property. He’s made it clear more than once that he’s no interest in your feelings, your hopes and dreams. 

You’d grown up in London. Your father was and still is the owner of a prominent bank. When you were in your late teens, your father and mother decided to move to New York and start a new bank there. Your father saw the ocean of opportunity there. New York was a fast-growing city, and although it didn’t have the wealthy history of London, it had new sources of money that had yet to be tapped. Your father raved about the correctness people used when they called the area New England, for it was like it in many ways but so many of the people were “new money” and your father loved it. Within only a few years, your father’s new bank in New York took off so well he even built another one in Boston, which was where he decided to permanently locate you, your mother and younger brother. 

When you first arrived in America, you knew very little about the country and certainly nothing about the American West. The little you had learned about the country was mostly in regards to the Revolutionary War a little over a hundred years ago. How the Americans had basically won against the British with little more than varmint rifles and their unique strategies of outsmarting their rivals. You learned in school that thirty years ago America suffered a Civil War, something to do with slavery. You had no idea though that many of the states had wanted to become their own separate country. 

Your mother was aware that your knowledge of America was flimsy at best. Hers was the same way, so she encouraged you and your brother to go and learn about the history of America in order to appear knowledgeable about it despite being a foreigner. However, she wouldn’t let you study at Boston’s library. She insisted that, coming from a wealthy family, you should read from the University’s library and study with their tutors. Only common folk went to the public library, although you thought it would be a wonderful source to observe American culture firsthand. Per her wishes, you went to the University’s library with your brother, but you didn’t like it much. You felt that its books would have been no better than the library’s and the tutors were so stuck up and over-educated, it made you miserable. 

In London, you were constantly surrounded by the wealthier folk since they were the only ones your parents would let you be around as a child. When you moved to Boston though, you were old enough to disobey them and mix in with a different crowd. You found yourself enjoying the company of the middle class. They were not concerned with manners and etiquette. Many of them had a sense of humor you enjoyed and because they were not so caught up in their wealth, they had a sense of community the wealthier folk lacked. They cared about each other. That was something so unique to you that you absolutely loved. It made you openly disobey your mother and you went to learn about America in Boston’s library. They offered tutors as well, and they were friendlier and had a richer knowledge in basic history, not just the history in politics and the prestigious like the University’s tutors had. Some of the tutors had even been involved in some of the events you studied up on. One was a former doctor during the Civil War and he told you some awful yet intriguing stories about it. 

As you learned about America, you found yourself divulging into the American West. Of course you’d heard and learned a little about it as a child, the hot deserts with their cacti and the cowboys. However, as you learned about it now, you realized your previous knowledge had been minimal. You knew nothing of the true wildness of it. The outlaws, the sheriffs that were just as tainted as the criminals they sought. The tough ranchers who fought wars against wolves. The heartbreaking histories of the Natives that had lived and been treated like less than vermin by the settlers. The Mexicans who came and brought pieces of their own rich culture. It fascinated you. You’ve known nothing but civility and the West sounded like the opposite of it. Of course, you read a little about the wild gangs that flourished there and had no interest in experiencing them firsthand or even from a distance. 

Your husband wipes his mustache and beard with a napkin and stands up without looking at you. His servant Bradley comes forward, holding a book open for him to read. You know this book very well. It contains your husband’s daily schedules. You have one as well. You’re used to living by a tight schedule, having done it most of your life. Your husband studies it for a moment and then says something to Bradley. You don’t hear it, not that you care. Without a glance in your direction, your husband turns to leave when the butler, Mr. Blomsbury comes in. 

“Mr. Cornwall, the mayor of Saint Denis is on the phone for you.” 

“About time that wretch finally returns my calls,” Leviticus says. “I’ve been needing to discuss matters with him for far too long. He’s an idiot and I’m a fool for ever getting into business with him.” 

He leaves the room, followed by Blomsbury and Bradley. You sigh and finish your meal, your servant Marie comes forward to clean your plate. “Mrs. Cornwall, you have an appointment with your tailor in an hour. He is expecting you in the…” 

“Yes, Marie, I am aware of this,” you say kindly. “Please make sure the room is ready to receive him.” 

She curtsies and heads off. You dismiss the rest of the staff to do their other chores and head off to your own personal library to read a bit before the tailor arrives. You don’t want to go to this pointless party you’re being dressed for, but you’ve little choice in the matter. 

On your way to the library, you bump into Leviticus Cornwall. Your miserable husband. You apologize for bumping into him as you know it’s the last thing he will do. 

“Y/N, make sure you actually choose a flattering color to wear this time. That purple you wore to the last event washed you out. I had many people ask me if you were ill.” 

“You were the one who told me to wear purple, Leviticus. You wanted us to match, remember?” 

He ignores your remark. “Just pick something that actually looks good on you, Y/N.” He continues on down the hall to his study. 

You sigh. How you hate him. Being born with a silver spoon in hand, you thought your entire childhood you’d be able to afford the luxury of finding someone you loved to marry. In your early twenties, your father and mother took that opportunity completely out of your hands. All the other women your age they knew were already married and some were even mothers. Your father was at least generous enough to want to find you a husband who was wealthy enough to let you live comfortably the rest of your life. Soon after, Leviticus Cornwall became a client of your father’s. They talked much and your father found out that Leviticus was a widower. His wife had passed away some years ago from complications during her first childbirth. The baby hadn’t survived either. It was arranged shortly after your father met him that you two should at least become engaged. 

You were not happy when you found out. You’d recently met a young man at the library you were rather fond of. You knew your father would never accept him, he came from a middle class family. But he was your age, funny, attractive and very sweet. Just before you’d gotten the nerve to ask him out on a date, your father told you about your arrangements with Leviticus Cornwall. The man himself had been present when your father told you this, for Leviticus wanted to make sure you were at least pretty enough to be his fiance. When he saw you, he didn’t smile but he nodded approvingly. 

“She will do,” he said after circling you and assessing your body. “You didn’t tell me she was so young.”

“I have no control of her age, Mr. Cornwall,” your father replied. 

“No I suppose not,” Leviticus answered. “Still. You are lucky that I am a busy man and have no time nor patience to care for the opinions of others when it comes to my lifestyle. I hope she does not either, for some will think it inappropriate a man my age have a wife so young. A mistress, sure, but not a wife.” 

“Of course, Mr. Cornwall. But she will make a wonderful wife,” your mother assured him. “She’s smart, she went to the best girls’ school in London. She also has many skills, she learned to paint and sing from a young age. She’s also finely accustomed to riding a horse. Properly of course, not that uncivilized way some women choose to ride with a leg on either side.” 

Your mother was really selling you to him. Of course, you had learned how to do these things, but it didn’t mean you liked them. As far as riding side-saddle went, you detested it. There was little that was more painful than doing it that way, but of course you’d never ridden the way men did. 

After much discussion, mostly on the matters of your dowry, it was settled. You were to be married to this man whom you barely knew. Three months later, you became his wife, despite him still being mostly a stranger to you. He’d had so little availability during your engagement he rarely visited and when he did, all he talked of was the things he had to do, his businesses and the problems that came with them. How he was interested in buying stakes in certain companies or outright buying them altogether. 

When Leviticus became your husband, you moved with him down to Pennsylvania. He had the largest estate of any person you’d ever known. His mansion sat on over a hundred acres, some of them finely manicured but most used for livestock or farming. His stables themselves were huge and he even had an indoor riding arena, a rare thing to see. Leviticus bred horses on the side, although he did little of the business himself. 

You head off now to the parlor where you are meeting the tailor. After over an hour of measuring and discussing styles, you finally give the tailor the final order on your dress and head out of the room. Marie meets you in the hall and holds open your schedule. 

“Mrs. Cornwall, Mr. Cornwall has just received urgent news from New Hanover. His train traveling through Ambarino has just been robbed.” 

“Well, good for him,” you say, growing tired of hearing about nothing but your husband’s affairs. “I have other things to attend to.” 

“Actually, that’s just it, ma’am. Mr. Cornwall will be travelling later this evening to New Hanover in order to speak with the investigators. As he will be travelling, you are to accompany him.” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Of course he wants you to go with him. It’s not because he loves you, hell you’re just another possession of his. You’ll be there strictly for appearances. Marie does not wait for you to respond.

“Your things are already being packed, Mrs. Cornwall. Be ready to leave by this afternoon.” Without another word, she leaves.

You’ve had enough of this. Over the past few weeks, you’ve caught yourself fantasizing about a simpler life, one without schedules and a loveless marriage. One that doesn’t mean you’re surrounded by money but by opportunity. People won’t tell you where to go, how to dress, walk or talk. One where you’d be allowed to just be you. All your life, you’ve been told how to act, how to be. But before you got married and were still studying in the public library, you had all those friends who your father called “common folk”. Although they had undeniably less money, they were happy. Happier than your parents, happier than your husband surely. They were free to go where they wanted and be who they were. You’ve never had that luxury. 

Not only that, you don’t want to go with Leviticus on another boring trip to investigate nonsense with his business. What does it matter if his train got robbed? The criminals likely only took a few thousand dollars and Leviticus had enough to buy a small country if he wanted. Still, you know that if he lets this slide, he’ll feel he’s made himself a target and a fool. As you know, he is all about appearances. You come to the decision to talk to him about you staying here.

You find Leviticus in his study, going over some papers. Bradley stands attentive before him as Leviticus murmurs things about his train being robbed. 

“Mr. Cornwall,” you say as you rarely address him by his first name. 

“Not now, Y/N, I have something more important to see to.” 

“Mr. Cornwall, I want to talk to you about tonight,” you say, sounding more bold than you feel. 

He throws down the papers and glares at you. “What? What could you possibly want? Did you not hear that I have just been robbed?”

You stare right back at him. “I heard, but I don’t know why you’re making such a big ordeal of it. They couldn’t have taken more than a few thousand dollars. Do you not take more than that on a daily basis from the people who work for you?” 

His eyes darken. “I will not be told how to run my business by my own damn wife. Bradley, get out.” 

Bradley bows and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Leviticus stomps up towards you, his teeth bared. You stand your ground. He simply puts his face inches from yours and breathes hard, clearly trying to intimidate you. After a moment, he takes a step back. 

“Now go get ready. I want to leave in an hour or two.”

“I am not coming with you, Leviticus. You can deal with things on your own. Hell, I’ll just be shut up in some damp and poor excuse for a manor anyways. It’s not like you need me there to impress a governor. You’re simply overseeing an investigation of your own affairs.” 

Without warning, Leviticus turns and slaps you hard. You flinch and cup your cheek. Of course, this wasn’t unexpected. He’s hit you several times before, but most of the time he’s been decent enough to put your bruises in places others won’t see. 

“I said you’re coming with me and that isn’t changing just because you don’t feel like it,” he hisses. 

You lower your hand and glare at him again. “No I’m not, Leviticus. It’s completely pointless for me to go with you. You can’t make me-” 

He slaps you again and this time you feel your lip burn. Pulling your hand away, you see a spot of blood on your finger. 

“Don’t make me hurt you,” he snarls. 

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” you say, your eyes watering from the stinging of your face. He raises his hand again but does not swing. 

“If you think what you feel now is pain, you’re in for a surprise, Y/N. Now go get ready. I won’t tell  you again. I’ll drag you out to the carriage by your ears if you don’t come willingly.” 

You take his threat seriously. His servants will not hesitate to force you into his carriage, they’re just as frightened of him as you are. Everything in his life he rules over with an iron fist. His eyes flash as you stand there and you quickly dart out of the room, knowing that to stay means further abuse. 

When you arrive in your dressing room, Marie applies a powder to your face to hide the red welt rising on your face. She says nothing to comfort you though and then she helps you into a dress suitable for travelling in. When you’re done, you dismiss her, claiming you need some time alone. She curtsies and leaves, closing the door. 

You’re done with this. This life, this marriage. You want no part of it. Of course, your parents aren’t a help. They’re the ones who arranged this marriage for you in the first place. You’re going to escape though, and this trip is the perfect opportunity. You know there will be ample opportunities to escape, after all your staff aren’t that tough. They simply take care of you, not act as a guard. 

Quickly, you grab a bag and stuff several items of jewelry into it, knowing you can trade them for money. You won’t go east or north towards Boston or New York. When Leviticus discovers you’ve gone, he will search for you and those directions will be the first place he looks since they’re the only places you’ve been. You’ll head west. Maybe you’ll act as a house maid or something of the likes, except you’ve no workable skills. You’ll work out those details later. Right now you focus on your escape and how you’ll be able to afford living on your own. 

You head into your large closet and grab a small black box behind a rack of overcoats. In it is stored a few thousand dollars Leviticus always keeps in case of emergency. You swiftly empty it, stuffing the bills into your bag. Then you tuck the bag under the skirt of your dress. With a belt, you secure it around your waist where no one will notice its presence. 

A few moments later, Marie enters the room again. “Mrs. Cornwall, the coach is ready. Mr. Cornwall reminds you that you are obligated to accompany him.” 

You nod and grab your gloves, slipping them onto your arms and following her out. Once outside, you hold your head high and Stanley, your coachman, offers his hand to help you inside it. Once you’re settled, you wait a few minutes before Leviticus joins you. You ignore each other as the coach moves.

You’re taken to the train station where you ride inside Leviticus’s personal car and head down to Annesburg. There, Leviticus puts you on another coach but does not accompany you as he wants to discuss buying a stake in the Annesburg mine. You don’t care, of course. Soon his business won’t be any concern of yours. 

The coach leaves Annesburg and heads west in New Hanover. Stanley explains  you’re to stay in a small manor near the border of West Elizabeth. The coach travels further away from Annesburg.

The sun is setting and the coach travels along long grassy plains. Deer dash away from the trail at the sight of your coach. The coach travels over some tracks and then comes to a halt. The driver explains the horses need to rest and feed. Stanley gets out of the coach in order to stretch his legs. You wait for a moment, knowing he’s going several yards away in order to smoke. The driver of the coach is not paying you any attention either as he fiddles with the feed sacks, attaching them over the horses noses. 

Now is your chance. You swiftly look around for anyone who might be watching, but no one’s around. Two men are playing dominoes on the train platform but they don’t even glance your way. A train rumbles up and then stops, preparing to take on passengers. As quickly as you can manage with your heavy gown, you dash out of the carriage and onto the train, not bothering to buy a ticket. Just as quickly, you settle into a seat on one of the finer cars, knowing that you look the part of someone who belongs there. You fidget with your hands, afraid someone spotted you. You keep a close eye on the driver of the coach and Stanley, who’s still smoking. Before either of them even start looking towards the carriage, the train’s whistle blows and begins to move. 

You breathe a sigh of relief as the station disappears behind you and you check again that your bag of stolen money and jewels is still attached to you. You’ll get off at the first station, knowing that a ticketmaster is likely to come around and see everyone aboard has paid. Almost on queue, he comes into your car and starts making his way around. When he gets to you, you slip a ring with a large ruby on it in order to bribe him. He nods and goes on his way. You realize you should have asked him that he’d never seen you on this train, but he’s gone at this point. Oh well, he likely won’t remember your face anyways. 

The train chugs north. You know by this point Stanley knows you’re gone. How could he not know? The coach had only stopped for a few moments. You’re sure at this point they must know you’re on the train. There was nothing else around that could whisk you away so quickly. Now you’re beginning to see the flaws of your plan. At least you have it in your favor that a train is much faster than a coach. 

A little over an hour goes by and the train begins to slow after coming out of a long, dark tunnel. It stops at an old military station, the name “Bacchus” written above a rickety door. Some men, dressed in army uniforms, stand on the platform. When the train stops, you see men begin moving some boxes and barrels off a flatcar towards the rear of the train. Now is the time to leave.

You head outside, glad that none of the other passengers questioned your movements. Once off the train, you travel south, following the road but staying off it in case the coach happens to come along this way. 

You’ve never been this far west before, but the country is beautiful. Tall, wispy aspens flutter their leaves in the gentle evening breeze. An elk lifts his proud head from a berry bush and stares at you, almost as though he knows he’s far more of a threat to you than you are to him. He goes back to browsing as the sun dips beyond the mountains. 

Now you’re faced with another predicament. You’ve never slept outside and you don’t know the first thing about how to start a fire or find shelter. However, in a cluster of trees just south of the road, you see flickering firelight. Approaching it, you see a wagon and near it, surrounding the fire, is a blond man, his wife and two children, a boy and a girl. You approach slowly and the man looks up. 

“Ah, hallo, gnädige Frau!” he says. You swallow. Of course, you took German when you were younger, but it’s been many years. 

“Guten Abend,” you respond. His smile is warm and his family looks at you kindly, though they have already noticed how out of place you look in your heavy dress, feathered hat and high heels. You ask them if you could use their fire for the evening and they agree brightly. 

You sit down, thanking them and the boy hands you a plate of Bratwursts and the girl offers you some German bread. You thank them again and eat, feeling quite hungry. As the sky grows darker, the family talks in their native tongue. You’ve forgotten most your German lessons, but still manage to pick up a few words. 

“Ich haben ein Fragen,” the woman says to you. You recognize the word Fragen: question. You nod in recognition. “Was machst du hier?” 

“What?” you ask, not understanding that line. 

She gestures your clothes and then the fire. She wants to know why you’re here. You’ve no idea how to translate your predicament into their language. The young girl tugs on your sleeve. 

“Ich kann etwas Englisch sprechen.” You nod.

“I am running away from my husband,” you say slowly enough that the girl can translate to her parents. “He is very rich but I am not happy with him.” 

“Bist du schon lange gelaufen? Bist du mit dem Boot hierher gekommen?” The girl looks at you.

“Have you been running long? Did you come here by boat?” 

You realize they must be confused by your accent. Although you’ve lived in America many years now, you still retain a decent amount of your British accent. 

“No, no I only just ran away. I came here on a train, but my stagecoach driver and servant will be looking for me and they know I took the train.” 

The parents nod, understanding now how you came to be at their fire. 

“You are welcome to stay with us tonight,” the girl translates for her mother. “We are headed for Valentine tomorrow and can drop you off there.” 

You thank them again and finish your meal. Not longer after, they show you a place under a canopy they’ve stretched over a spot of grass next to their wagon you can use. They’ve nothing to offer you except an old blanket. You take off only your shoes and hat and fall into an uncomfortable sleep. 

 **********************

In the morning, the family takes you to the small town of Valentine. There, you say your goodbyes and head into the general store where you trade in some jewels for money and buy some shirts and pairs of jeans. You’ve never worn pants before, but you figure the less you look like yourself, the easier you can hide. By this time surely, Stanley will have found a way to reach your husband and tell him of your disappearance. Leviticus may see you as nothing but property, but he will want you back, so you know he will begin a raging hunt. You desperately hope he never finds you as you hate to think what he’ll do to you if he does.

After buying clothes, provisions and a satchel to store things in, you head over to the stables and buy a tall cherry bay Thoroughbred named Willow. Only when the stablemaster comes out holding a heavy saddle do you realize another problem: you’ve never ridden with one leg on each side of the horse, only side saddle. Still, when you lead Willow out of the stables, you climb awkwardly into the stable and try your best to secure yourself in it, though it feels very foreign to you. You almost decide to buy a pistol from the gunsmith but realize that’s a foolish decision. You don’t know the first thing about guns and could very well end up shooting yourself. You decide it’s best to try and keep heading west, further from your home. 

As you head south and away from Valentine, only going at a walk since you’re unaccustomed to riding this way, Willow snorts and stomps her foot, coming to a stop. You try urging her to walk on, but she just snorts again. Looking on the ground, you see a rattlesnake on the path, coiled and rattling its tail at her. Willow suddenly rears up and throws you to the ground before darting off into the trees. The snake slithers off, but your shoulder hurts terribly from where it slammed into the ground. 

“You a’right, ma’am?” a voice asks. 

Looking behind you, you find the picture-perfect example of a cowboy sitting astride his horse. His dark gambler’s hat shades his eyes from the sun and his blue shirt is worn and dirt. He looks at you, his face tanned and dirty from days of being in the sun and the wild, his jaw stubbled with a short beard. You notice his blue eyes. 

“Yes, I’m alright,” you say, standing up and clutching your shoulder. “My horse was spooked by a snake.” 

“I saw,” he says, dismounting his horse. “You need help catchin’ her?” 

“Could you help?” you say, grateful he’s offering. “That would be lovely, sir.” 

He tips his hat and then runs off into the trees where Willow went. You hear him talking to her in a gentle voice. A moment later, he leads her out. You thank him and then try mounting up, but what was a difficult task before is even harder now that your shoulder’s hurt. 

“You need help, ma’am?” he asks again. 

You nod and with a wavering voice explain that you’re new to this. He huffs a small laugh. “New to ridin’ a horse, sounds like ya just came here from London or someplace. You sure you’re doin’ a’right?”

You realize he’s not asking about your physical being, but more about your situation. 

“To be honest, no sir. I’m… well, I come from a wealthy family but my husband died in a… a bad way and I had to run. Only I don’t know the first thing about being on my own.” You hope  he doesn’t hear the lie. 

“That much is clear,” he says, his hands on his hips. He looks rather attractive as he does and you blush and look away. He sighs heavily. “Well, sounds like you need help. Now I ain’t exactly clean in my own history, but I’m willin’ to offer you help until you get settled. Come on.” 

He helps you into your saddle and then leads you further down the road and into a large cluster of trees where a large camp is nestled. Over the next few hours, you’re forced to sit by the horses as the man who helped you discusses with two other men whether you should be allowed to stay. In the end, they agree you can with the warning that if you mention them to anyone, particularly lawmen or Pinkertons, they will not be forgiving. 

“Trust me,” you say to a tall man with a large black mustache and dark eyes. “I’ve no interest in speaking with lawmen. My husband will likely have them in his pockets, so they are just as much my enemy as they are yours.” 

The man nods and walks away, asking a middle-aged woman with a thick bun on her head to help you set yourself up.

*******************************

Over the next few weeks, you learn that the camp you’re living with is a gang of outlaws, led by Dutch Van der Linde. His second in command is Hosea Matthews and the man who brought you here, named Arthur Morgan, is his right hand man. 

Your introduction to the rest of the gang was not the smoothest as the matriarch, a woman named Susan Grimshaw, went into a right fit when she learned you have no domestic skills. “I never heard somethin’ so ridiculous in all my life!” she said. “Can’t even wash clothes!” 

The other girls were kind enough to teach you how to do the chores around camp. You knew how to sew at least, not because you ever had to repair your own clothing but because you’d learned as a child how to embroider and knit. Luckily, sewing up the gang’s clothing is similar work, though with little art. 

You like learning how to cook with a man named Simon Pearson. He’s quick to tell jokes, although he tells a lot of stories about his days with the navy and he only knows how to make a few things. You do somewhat miss having three-course meals three times a day, but you know you won’t starve here. 

Most of the people in camp are kind and curious about you, although you tell them nothing of your husband’s real identity. You’ve told them all he died and never mentioned his name. For some reason, you get the feeling that to let slip the fact that your husband is Leviticus would be a bad thing. Cornwall’s got a lot of business out this way and he’s made a lot of enemies. You simply tell the others that your husband and you moved down here from London a few years back but he’s always been an abusive, hateful bastard and because you’re in America, the land of opportunity, you finally had a chance to get away from your life after his death. The others scoff at you calling this place the land of opportunity, saying there’s little of that to go around for people like them. 

*******************************

You’ve become quite close to this gang that has quickly become your family over the last few weeks. Although most of them have their own sordid pasts, they’re good people. They have a sense of family you’ve never seen before, considering they come from a background your father would call “degenerate”. You’ve never seen people work so quickly and with such a sense of duty. Of course, that doesn’t mean they don’t have their problems with each other. Arguments do break out, but most of them seem to be for show and rarely end in physicality. 

Only a week after you’d shown up, Arthur and some of the others came back with a red-haired man named Sean. You instantly knew he was Irish the moment he spoke. Since you both came from across the pond, you became close friends. You would have liked to get to know a woman named Molly O’Shea better as she was also Irish and she clearly came from a privileged background, but she didn’t seem interested. 

The person who was most interested in you though was Arthur, the man who’d brought you here. Of course, you were extremely interested in him too and it didn’t take long for you to get feelings for him. He works the hardest out of all of them and he cares about everyone. You saw him bring Mary-Beth a fancy fountain pen one day after she’d mentioned she wanted one. During his rare breaks when he was in camp, he’d often come find you. He claimed he just wanted to make sure you were settling in fine, but you noticed he stuck around you more than the others. He asked a lot of questions about your past, what your childhood and marriage was like, why you left. You told him everything except who your husband was and the fact that he wasn’t really dead. 

When you mentioned you lived your entire life being waited upon, he told you it sounded awful. “How did you not feel like a prisoner?” he asked. You were caught off guard by the question. Before you’d run away, you never felt that way. Now that you’re out here though, completely responsible for yourself, you realize you might as well have been a prisoner. You feel slightly envious about the others, realizing that even though none of them (except perhaps Molly) grew from well-off families, they’re wealthier in something you missed out on in life. All of them have tradable skills that you’re just now learning. Not only that, none of them have to put on a mask, hide who they are. Karen’s not shy about her drinking habits. Tilly used to run with a vicious gang and sometimes she talks about what that was like. No one in camp has ever had to pretend to be someone else. Something you were never allowed to do. 

You sit now with the girls, reading aloud from a book Mary-Beth gave you. Although you often worked with them, they liked you to read aloud. Something about your accent, you suspected. Just as you’re reading a rather romantic scene from the almost sickeningly passionate story, Arthur walks over to your group, clearly wanting to see what’s going on. He has a habit of doing that, which you find endearing. You hide your smile and continue reading as he stops, his hand on his gunbelt. He smiles as he listens, his eyes soft. 

Just as he’s about to say something, John Marston walks over and punches his arm. “Come on, Arthur. Got a job for ya. We’re gonna steal some sheep but need to go to Valentine for something.” 

“Fine,” Arthur says gruffly. Not long after they leave, Dutch and Strauss head off too. 

An hour or so later, the four men come back looking sweaty and angry, Strauss’s leg is bleeding. You’re washing some plates by Pearson’s wagon and Hosea marches over to them. 

“Dutch, Dutch what happened?” 

Dutch dismounts his white horse. “Turns out old Leviticus Cornwall don’t take too kindly to being robbed.” You freeze when you hear the name, but Dutch doesn’t notice. “He came up and tried to kill us, wants us to stop robbing him. We’ll have to leave this place, we had to shoot half the town in order to escape.” 

You follow Dutch into his tent, staying a few steps behind as you listen to him and Hosea. They talk a little more about what led to them being shot at, but neither of them mention knowing Leviticus has a runaway wife. You breathe a sigh of relief. They don’t know, and if they do, they don’t know it’s you. 

******************************

After fleeing Horseshoe Overlook, Arthur and Dutch both agreed you needed to learn how to rob, ride a horse properly and shoot a gun. Arthur took it on himself to teach you those things and he was an incredible instructor: patient, knowledgeable but not arrogant. The more time you spent with him, the deeper your feelings got. A nagging suspicion settled in your gut that he liked you too. It was just the soft way he spoke to you, how his hands lingered on yours when he taught you how to shoot a shotgun. One time you slid right off Willow’s back and he came over to help you up, but his hands stayed on your arms too long. 

It didn’t take long for rumors to get out that you and Arthur were sweet on each other. Of course, you tried denying them, more to protect Arthur than yourself. No way could he want to be with you: a spoiled rich girl who didn’t even know how to sew a button on a shirt when he met you. He never treated you like a spoiled brat and he mentioned to you time and time again how sweet and honest you’ve been with everyone. 

One night after Arthur, Karen, Bill and Lenny robbed the bank in Valentine, Dutch demanded a party for their success as they brought back a lot of cash. Everyone drank and sang together, but it wasn’t long before Sean, Uncle and Lenny started needling Arthur for having a crush on you. He denied it again and again until John came up and joined the fun, stating how obvious it was with a list of examples of his behavior that proved he liked you. 

“I bet you ten dollars, Morgan,” John said, “that if you went over there and kissed her on the mouth right now, that girl would be blushing like crazy and wouldn’t even be mad. I know she likes  you.” 

“Shut your damn mouth, Marston,” Arthur retorted. That was until the other boys joined in on the bet, which climbed up to fifty dollars. All he had to do was kiss you in front of everyone right now. He’d had a lot of whiskey and his face was bright red, but when he looked at you sitting at the round table singing with Grimshaw, he couldn’t help but feel his heart flutter. You looked so beautiful in the light of the lantern, your cheeks pink from your own drunken state. 

“Go get her, son,” Hosea said. Arthur looked at him and then got up, walking slowly over to you. He fidgeted with his hands, terrified but fueled by drink. When he got to your table, he stopped. 

“Y/N, I got somethin’ to say to ya,” he said. 

You smiled and stood up so he could address you. “Alright, Mr. Morgan. What is it?” 

He stammered for a bit, his face growing redder. He hid his eyes beneath his hat and his hands were shaking. God, he was cute when he was nervous. 

Without warning, he suddenly grabbed you and bent you slightly backwards, his lips planting on yours. Out of all the things Arthur could have done that night, that was certainly the last thing you expected. You almost pulled away, but his lips were warm and rough against your smooth skin. He smelled nice too, like pine and leather although you could taste the alcohol on his lips. Forgetting that you had an audience, your hand wove up behind his neck, pulling him closer. Your chest grew warm and a light feeling overcame you, making you kiss him back. 

Someone whistled at you and Arthur, followed by several people laughing. That brought you back down to the present and Arthur pulled away from you and then straightened you up. His face was horribly red, but he was smiling. “Sorry, Y/N,” he said. “I hope I didn’t frighten ya.” 

“Maybe a little, but I liked it,” you said, your hand still on his chest. You glanced at the onlookers as they continued to laugh and tease you. You bit your lip and looked up at Arthur. “What say you we go somewhere more private and try that kiss again?” 

He quickly grabbed your hand and led you off into the trees and then onto a moon-bathed beach by the lake. There, you two ended up doing much more than kissing, although that’s how it started. Encouraged by your drunken states, you were the one who got carried away and stripped out of your clothes in order to swim in the lake to relieve the heat of the air and your body. Arthur followed soon after, but you remember the way he watched you swim. Not long after, you ended up lying with him on the beach, his body glowing silver under the moon. You climbed onto him just to kiss him, but as you were naked and alone, it didn’t take much to end up going further. 

Although the only man you’d slept with before had been Leviticus, it was never on your terms and he only did things with you for a moment before he reached his satisfaction and was done with you. However, Arthur was so different. He touched you in just the right places, his rough hands gliding along your naked back and hips. He felt amazing inside of you as well, almost as though your bodies were molded for the other’s. He’d gotten you to release first then followed shortly after. You never knew sex could be so passionate and emotional, but Arthur made you feel and think things you’d never experienced before. 

The morning after had been a bit awkward when the two of you woke up naked on the beach, still wrapped around one another. You had a pounding headache and knew Arthur did too. When you remembered what you’d done together, you both panicked a moment. Had you really slept with Arthur the same night you found out he loved you back? The two of you dressed but stayed on the beach and talked things out. You came to the decision that what had happened had felt right and you wanted to stay together. After that, you were very open with your relationship to Arthur with the rest of the gang. 

That all happened weeks ago, and you’ve grown to love him more than you thought possible. You’d dreamed of finding a man to love as a child, but had no idea it felt like this. Even as a child, the men you’d imagined you’d love couldn’t hold a candle to Arthur. He’s thoughtful and secretly sensitive, but protective and strong. You remember the way he held you when Sean died, almost crushing you as you sobbed into his chest. Another time in Saint Denis, a man on the street had said something rather rude about you and Arthur punched him in the jaw. “You don’t get to say shit about my girl, ya hear?” he roared as the man fled. You couldn’t dream of a more perfect man to love than Arthur Morgan. 

You were crushed when Hosea and Lenny died and most of the gangs’ men, including Arthur, ended up on a boat and stranded on Guarma. You never thought you’d miss anyone so much, but during the couple of weeks that he was gone, you felt physical pain in his absence. You spent many nights lying on his cot clutching one of his shirts, willing his scent to stay and offer you some level of comfort. When he returned, it was like you could breathe again. Shortly afterwards though, the Pinkertons forced you and the gang to flee Lakay and into Beaver Hollow, an old Murphree hideout. 

That’s where you are now. While things with the gang have always had rough patches, now they’re worse than ever. People fight constantly and Dutch seems to be losing his mind. He’s changed from the intelligent, cunning but caring man into someone who’s still intelligent and cunning but enjoys killing. It doesn’t help that Micah constantly hisses into his ear. 

Over the past few months of travelling with the gang, you’ve heard relatively little from and about your husband. Somehow you’ve managed to avoid the patrols he’s likely sent out to look for you and you only saw your name show up once in an article in the Saint Denis paper about your disappearance. However, with tensions in the camp running higher than ever and Dutch acting so mad, you’re beginning to fear things are about to come to a head with you at the center. 

Micah strolls into camp, holding a newspaper under his arm and followed by Bill. They’ve just come from Annesburg, having scouted there for possible leads on scores. You’re standing at Pearson’s wagon, preparing tonight’s stew. Micah gives you a knowing and dark smile that you don’t like as he heads to Dutch’s wagon. A bad feeling comes into your stomach and you follow behind him a few steps. 

“Dutch, I just found somethin’ out. Somethin’ that could be real useful. Somethin’ with ol’ Cornwall,” Micah simpers at him. 

Dutch lowers his cigar and looks at Micah expectantly. Micah rubs his hands together. 

“Did you know ol’ Cornwall’s married and his little wife ran away right after we robbed his train up in Ambarino?” 

“How is this any use to us?” Arthur demands, having been attracted by the name Cornwall. “Not like we’re gonna find her.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, cowpoke. Turns out we already found her and she’s right there.” Micah spins and points right at you. Everyone in camp stops and stares at you as your blood runs cold. 

“Shut up, Micah,” Arthur growls, walking up to your side to protect you. “Y/N’s husband’s dead.” 

“Or is he?” Micah retorts. He flings the newspaper at Arthur. “Read it and weep, Morgan.” 

Arthur furrows his brow but opens the newspaper. “N-no, don’t!” you plead, but too late. There’s a black and white photograph of you standing arm in arm with Leviticus Cornwall, your unsmiling faces staring up at Arthur. He reads the first bit of the article aloud. 

“Leviticus Cornwall, executive of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar, Cornwall Rails blah blah blah has released a new statement regarding the disappearance of his wife. Back in May, Mr. Cornwall’s train was robbed in Ambarino by the notorious Van der Linde gang. In order to investigate the robbery, Mr. Cornwall and his wife Y/N came down from their home in Pennsylvania. Mr. Cornwall last saw his wife in Annesburg when she left to stay in his residence in New Hanover. It was reported that she did not arrive at the home but her stage driver and chauffeur, Mr. Stanley Wilcox, claimed she was missing shortly after arriving at Emerald Ranch. It was unknown then if they had been involved in her disappearance or if she’d been kidnapped by other means.”

“Earlier this month, a citizen of Saint Denis stated he’d seen Mrs. Cornwall in the city. ‘I’d just visited the Cornwall manor a week previously on business with my brother,’ Mr. Henry Larson reports. ‘I saw a painting in a hallway of Mr. Cornwall and his wife Y/N. I recognized her immediately. She was dressed like a farm girl but it was definitely her.’”

“A few days after this incident was reported, authorities had reached Mr. Cornwall about his wife’s appearance, but before he could arrive, the Saint Denis Massacre occurred in which the previously mentioned Van der Linde gang attempted to rob the city’s bank and a shootout between them, the city’s law enforcement and the Pinkerton Detective Agency occurred. The gang of outlaws has since fled the area, but rumors speculate that Mrs. Cornwall is among them. If anyone holds any information towards her whereabouts, they are greatly urged to come forward. Mr. Cornwall has offered a considerable $20,000 to anyone who can find his wife and return her safely.” 

Arthur lowers the paper, his eyes dark. Your hands are trembling. The cat’s out of the bag now and you’re in big trouble. Micah sniggers as Arthur looks at you, his eyes tell you the betrayal and pain he feels. 

“You’re Y/N Cornwall,” he says as a tear slides down your cheek. 

“Only on paper,” you say. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” 

“Oh because it was so hard to say ‘hello, I’m Y/N Cornwall, you just robbed my husband but do you mind if I run with you fellas a while’ when you first arrived?” Micah taunts. Dutch’s eyes are narrowed slightly, the way they do when he’s got a plan coming together. 

You look around at everyone staring at you in shock. Some look like they have a hard time believing it, Mary-Beth and John for example, while others look angry and hurt. Arthur is among them. He drops the newspaper and takes a step back from you.

“All this time,” he says quietly. “All this time and you never mentioned once you’re his goddamn wife!” 

Another tear falls. “I’m sorry, Arthur. Everyone, I’m sorry. But how was I supposed to tell you the truth? You robbed my husband, he tried to kill you. Not only that, I was never married to him by choice. My parents basically sold me to him and he’s never made me happy. Maybe… maybe I was just happy to finally be around people who didn’t associate me with him for once.” 

You clasp your hands in front of you, willing any of them to understand. Dutch walks slowly towards you, his jaw set. Micah follows behind, looking excited.

“You’re Y/N Cornwall. The man who has been hunting us for months. The man who holds the ticket to our freedom from this cesspit of a country. I think I have a new plan.” 

His eyes narrow, glittering. You suddenly realize what he’s thinking. 

“Dutch, please don’t take me to him. I’m begging you. If he finds me again, he’ll kill me. I don’t even know if he’ll pay you for me. Dutch, he hates you and your boys more than anything, you were the only ones stupid enough to rob him. I know for a fact he’s paying the Pinkertons to hunt you down.” 

“How do you know this?” John asks, standing next to Arthur.

“Because I know Leviticus better than any of you,” you say. “He obviously figured out pretty quickly that the gang from Blackwater were the same ones to rob him. He also must have found out the Pinkertons were looking for you, so I’ve no doubt he contacted them and started putting money into their pockets.” 

“Or you’re the rat we’ve been looking for,” Micah sneers. “Maybe you’re the one telling the Pinkertons our every move. Think about it, Dutch. All our problems with them started right after we took her in. She’s been lying to us from the start.” 

You don’t know what to say in your defense. Since you have lied to them from the start about your true past, there’s nothing you can do to say you aren’t lying to them now.

“Dutch, please,” you whisper, your lower lip trembling. 

He sighs and stares hard at you. “Tie her up.” 

Before you can move, two pairs of hands grip you tight and throw you down, your hands and feet being tied up. People are yelling, you hear Sadie screech and Arthur roar. You start trying to look around to ask someone for help, but a black cloth is tied around your head, covering your eyes. Someone shoves another cloth into your mouth, preventing you from speaking. You can still hear though. 

“Dutch!” Arthur roars. “Let’s talk about this! We can’t take her to Cornwall! Like she said, ain’t no guarantee he’d pay us after all the problems we given him.” 

You feel yourself thrown over a horse’s back as Dutch says, “This is the right move, Arthur. I don’t like it, but she’s used us and this is our best shot at getting out of here. Heyaw!” 

The horse beneath you suddenly begins to run and you can hear the pounding of other horses. Arthur still yells at Dutch, trying to make him think logically, but Dutch ignores him. 

After a while of heavy riding in which you feel like all your ribs and your stomach have been heavily bruised from the horse’s movements, they stop. You can smell the thick coal dust and the smell of polluted water. Someone’s hands grab you and you’re set on your feet, the ropes cut. The bandana and gag are removed and you see you’re standing on the pier of Annesburg, a boat docked. The name of it is The Soaring Emily. Leviticus named it that after his first wife. 

“Cornwall!” Dutch hollers, keeping a painfully tight hold on your arm. “Cornwall! Get out here! My friends and I have a proposal for you!” 

Looking behind you and Dutch, you spot Bill, Micah, John and Arthur. Arthur looks at you, pain in his eyes. He doesn’t want to do this, but nothing can stop Dutch in his roll. 

A door on the ship’s deck opens and Leviticus Cornwall steps out, flanked by a group of men, all holding rifles. His eyes glare at you and then to Dutch.

“My friend,” Dutch says. “I heard tell that your lovely wife got away from your clutches. Well, just so happens, she’s been stowing away with me and my boys for the last few weeks. Rumor says you’re wanting her back, so we’re here to make a deal. You give me and my boys that $20,000 and a boat. You get your wife back and we’ll stop robbing from you. In fact, you’ll never hear from us again.” 

Leviticus just laughs. “Mr. Van der Linde, I admire your determination and your daring, but if you think I will give you a single penny, then you’re sorely mistaken.” 

“How about now?” Dutch responds, pulling out his pistol and aiming it at your temple. He pulls the back the hammer, your heart pounding in your ears as more tears fall down your cheeks. Dutch wouldn’t kill you, would he? After all the time you spent in his camp, helping feed the others and bring in money, he’s just going to kill you. Something tells you he will if he doesn’t get his way. 

“Dutch,” Arthur hisses a warning behind him. He’s ignored.

“Now Mr. Cornwall, I know what it’s like to see the woman you love die by the hands of your greatest enemy. Now while I doubt poor Y/N here is the love of your life, you obviously value her in some way. Which would you rather keep? Her life or your money?” 

Cornwall glares back at him, his teeth bared. “I’m a businessman, Mr. Van der Linde. Business doesn’t care for feelings or love. Shoot her if you must, but I will not give you anything!” 

Your stomach drops as you realize that this is it. Dutch is just crazy enough that he won’t care about shooting a member of his own gang. You’re not surprised at all that Leviticus is willing to let you die. To him, you’re replaceable, a mere object. Still you thought you mattered to the others, to Arthur. 

Before anyone can do anything to save you from Dutch’s grip, Dutch nods. “You sure? Fine, I prefer it this way.” He suddenly swings the gun forward and shoots Cornwall, the bullet piercing his chest. He pushes you down as Cornwall’s men begin firing, the others shooting back. The gang begins to run as more men come out from the boat, leaving you where you’ve fallen. You start to scream, begging for help, but it seems no one can hear you amidst the gunfire. 

Suddenly a pair of hands grabs your arms and cuts the length of rope binding them, then they lift you up. “Come on, sweetheart,” Arthur’s rough voice says as you stand. 

You’re shaking hard and you want nothing more than to throw your arms around him, but now isn’t the time. Sharp gunshots litter the air, echoing off the buildings. Arthur grabs your hand and runs north on the train tracks. When you reach a bridge going over a sharp dip in the land, a path running through it, he stops. 

“You go, darlin’,” he says, breathing hard. “Go, don’t come back to Beaver Hollow. It ain’t safe for you there.” 

“Arthur, I’m sorry,” you say, thinking he’s pushing you away because he’s mad. 

“Just go, darlin’. I’ll come find you when I can. But you can’t come back, ya hear? You do and you’re dead.” Before you can say anything else, he’s running back down the bridge towards Annesburg to rejoin the gang. You know he can’t leave of course. Not now anyways. Dutch and the others still depend on him too much. 

You flee from Annesburg, having no idea where you’ll go or what you’ll do. Your horse is back at Beaver Hollow, but luckily all your money and the few pieces of jewelry you stole from Leviticus are in your satchel. You run north towards Willard’s Rest and then stop by the wide river where you finally break down. The past few weeks come rushing through you, the good and the bad. You know since Guarma, Dutch has gone crazy but you never thought he’d turn on you like that. Not when he’s spouted for weeks about having loyalty and faith to anyone who would listen. Your life has come crashing down around you so swiftly, you aren’t sure how to process it. 

You stay here for a few hours, going between sobbing, missing the gang (especially Arthur) and feeling numb. As the sun begins to set, you look down the path and see Arthur riding up, your horse in tow. When you see him, you begin to cry again. You don’t run to him though, knowing how hurt he must be. 

He dismounts and walks over to you, pulling you into a tight hug which surprises you. “Arthur, I’m so sorry,” you wail into his shirt. “I never meant to hurt you.” 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he says into your hair. “I know why ya lied. Hell, I probably would’ve too. But everything else you said, was it true?” 

“Everything is. The way I grew up, how I was sold to him. I promise his name and the fact that he wasn’t dead at the time was the only parts I hid.” 

He sighs and pulls away. “Well, I guess one of your lies came true today though. Darlin’, I’m so sorry.” 

Over the next few hours, you and he discuss what will happen now. He comes to the decision he won’t leave the gang, he can’t. He knows now that there’s no saving Dutch, but maybe he can help the others get out. You, on the other hand, would be handed a death sentence if you stepped foot into the camp. He asks what you want to do and you admit that you just want to live somewhere alone with him and have a quiet life, begin a family with him. He blushes but agrees that’s what he wants to. 

The next day, he takes you to a small cottage he’s seen on the borders of New Hanover and Ambarino, not far from the river. It’s secluded and well hidden in the trees. You have plenty of money to set your things in order, so you’ll be well off here. It’s also far enough from the gang that they won’t find you but it’s not far enough for him to not come visit you. 

Over the next couple of weeks, he visits every couple of days. You manage to take care of yourself quite well having learned through him how to hunt and skin animals. You bought some materials and seeds from the store in Valentine and are determined to start a garden, although you’ve never taken care of plants before. It’s a lot harder than you thought, but you manage to get a few plants sprouting. 

When Arthur visits, he tells you of the things he and the gang has done, how much crazier Dutch gets. Arthur himself is growing angry and mistrustful of him, but he’s determined to help the others escape with their lives. Sometimes you read about the gang’s activities in the paper in Valentine, like Bacchus Bridge being blown up, Colm O’Driscoll’s hanging in Saint Denis followed by a deadly shootout, tensions growing between the Wapiti and the army. 

One night Arthur shows up at your little cabin late into the night. He’s exhausted and there’s blood on his hands. “I’m done, darlin’,” he says when you open the door. “I ain’t ever goin’ back there. I’ve wasted my life livin’ the preachings of a crazy man.”

“What happened?” 

Arthur explains how the son of the Wapiti chief went and did a raid on Cornwall’s oilfield in order to retaliate for them forcing his people off their land. You know Arthur has had many dealings with them, trying to help them in their struggles against the army. Arthur then describes how, after getting bonds from the foreman’s office, he got knocked down by a burst pipe. An officer pinned him to the floor and nearly overpowered him. Dutch had seen it all and even had the chance to kill the man, but Arthur watched him walk away, sealing his fate.  

“If Eagle Flies hadn’t come, I’d be dead. Then that asshole Colonel Favors shot him. He’s dead now, and all because Dutch didn’t care if I died. When I accused him of such, he lied in front of everyone and said he’d done no such thing. I’m done, darlin’. I’m done fightin’ his battles for him just so he can leave me to die. I wanna start a new life with you properly now.” 

“Arthur,” you say, cupping his cheek. “That’s all I ever wanted.”