#opin chapter 10

[the-kr8tor]

Dead Man's Hand

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 11.5k

Tags: Use of Y/N, sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Cowboy AU, wild west AU, CW food mention, CW vomit mention, CW blood and gore, CW guns, TW violence, TW abuse, TW suicidal thoughts, TW death.

A/N: if there are any warnings that I've missed please tell me so I could add it in.

This chapter tackles dark themes, read at your own discretion.

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CHAPTER 10 >>>

The pungent, acrid and hot air of metal and gunpowder brings Hobie back in time as he slams open the steel doors to the factory with a harsh kick. Machinery whirs, and twists, sharp steel dancing to the beat of the flames as it turns molten iron into instruments of death.

Hobie roams his fury-filled eyes around the factory, green flames flicker in those eyes, finding grime coated faces of strangers staring back at him and his posse. One glances their dark eyes towards the upper level of the factory where a balcony is placed. Where Hicks would look down with contempt, and would scream at the overworked employees to hurry production. Hobie knows it all too well, the factory mirrors the one back home. In the middle of the balcony sits an office with frosted windows that bear Hicks’ name. But the man is nowhere to be found within the crowd.

“If you're not Hicks, get the fuck out.” He doesn't need to yell the command, for everyone turns to run outside towards the back exit where half of Miguel's gang lies in wait; and Hicks' lackeys lay dead on the soft muddy ground.

One running and hiding away amidst the crowd catches his eye with the same face as one of the men who buried him all those years ago. “‘cept you.” With one swift raise of his six shooter, smoke billowing out, a hole now sits on the man's torso where his heart should be. “Hicks, better get down ‘ere or my people will blow this place to the ground.” Hobie steps over the bloody body, crimson coating the sole of his boots. “Rainin’ bullets don't mix well with a room full of explosives.”

There's no movement nor a whisper in the entire factory save for the fading sounds of the machines slowly shutting off. He catches a glimpse of a shadow behind a closed frosty door in the upper level of the factory. It was quick and sudden, if not for Riri's gentle nudge towards the movement, he'd think he was seeing you again for a brief cruel moment.

“Ri, Karl, come with me.” Hobie emerges behind the blackened air from the large machines. Three sets of boots thumping silently as they bound upstairs.

He reaches the door, back on the solid wall and away from the glass. Riri stays on his right, shotgun cocked and ready while Karl checks his bag of TNT on Hobie's left. As he moves to open the door, a bullet pierces the glass, shattering it into sharp tiny pieces. A shard nicks Hobie's cheek, but he ignores the throbbing pain as blood trickles out.

“You're still alive, you little shit?!” Hicks yells, shooting blindly at the door.

The trio stays still and waits for the opening. A click echoes in the quiet, and clouds of gunpowder float through the air. Hobie and the others take their opportunity. Karl lights a stick of dynamite, chucking it inside the room and then ducking down to cover his ears. Hobie doesn't waste time, leaving the safety of the cover, he twists to face the door, shooting at the flying TNT— effectively blowing it near Hicks while Hobie holds onto his hat so that it doesn't get blown away.

The explosion causes Hobie to stagger backwards, if not for Riri pulling him back to the side, he would've fallen off the railings. Sulfur fills the air as they cough, puffs of grey smoke clouds the entire office space.

His ears ring, a sharp high pitched sound that he's awfully familiar with. He gives Riri a thankful nod, which she replies with a smug smile and a raise of her eyebrow. Hobie takes the lead, flicking his eyes towards Karl, who gives him a thumbs up, and with his hair all messed up from the explosion. Satisfied that his group is alright, he enters the fray. Smoke giving way to him and his raised gun. Shards of glass crunch at his feet, singed papers lay burned on the floorboards as embers flicker out in the air.

As the smoke clears out and the hot air of the south enters through the broken windows— Hobie finds no one inside the room.

“Fuck!” As he yells into the emptiness, a horse neighs outside, hooves running frantically away while bullets fly and ricochet. He immediately looks down, finding Hicks half burnt and riding away. “Like a fuckin’ roach.” Without thinking ahead, Hobie vaults from the window, softening his fall with a roll. Landing, knees aching but intact, he whistles for Bucky.

“Hobie, what the fuck?!” Riri and Karl simultaneously scream out, but Hobie's already running while Bucky follows right behind him.

Once Buckeye trots next to him, Hobie grabs hold of the saddle's horn to swiftly lift himself up on the saddle with a quick pull. No one's going to stop him, Miguel already considers Hicks dead just from the look of determination behind those green eyes.

Hobie leaves everyone in the dust. Bucky neighs wildly, huffing and puffing as he tries to catch up. “Hicks!” Said man turns on his saddle a few ways ahead, arm raising to aim and to shoot his gun. Bullets whizz past, hot air passing by as Hicks misses every single bullet.

Hicks’ scalding flesh makes him keel over in pain as his blood drenches his horse. “Shit!” He kicks roughly, his horse whines before speeding off.

Bucky gains speed, catching up to Hicks whilst he reloads. But of course, his hired guns finally catch wind. A handful of them appear from the side, trudging from the muddy swamp with alligators lurking underneath, and riding towards the bumpy road where the main chase is happening.

The rival posse hollars and hoots, sneering smiles and guns aimed at Hobie. Riri and the others are still catching up to him, so he's left alone to defend himself and Bucky. With fury fuelling him, he has everything to lose so he'll shoot through all of them like a hot knife through butter.

While the mercenaries leave the line of trees, Hobie enters the thicket, swerving to the side, using the large and sturdy trees for cover. The ground may be soft and muddy, but Hobie and his loyal horse have been in dozens of situations like this. The swamp might've slowed them down but it doesn't stop them as splintered wood flicks and flies while his enemies continue to shoot at his swift horse.

A bullet comes too close to his head, piercing a hole in the brim of his hat. He clicks his tongue, annoyed at the damage. Patting Bucky, he takes his foot off one of the stirrups to bring it to the safer side where no bullets could come at him. With two legs on one side, hand holding on to the saddle horn and reins, Hobie rides sideways, hiding his body while peeking over and shooting with calculated aim as Bucky runs back towards the path. One by one, the mercenaries fall off their horses with his bullets pierced through their bodies. The road is coated with their blood, leaving trails of rubies for his posse to follow.

Miguel trots closer, shooting at what remains of Hicks' men. The gang hoots at the sight, adrenaline rushing through their veins, and blood heating up from the violence.

While Riri and Karl have their eyes on Hobie, who now sits upright on Bucky, they kick on their horses and off they go, riding side by side with Him. Hicks panics from the sheer volume of horses running after him, with his last bullets, he aims at Bucky's leg.

Hobie beats him to the punch, quickly thrashing his whip made out of jagged metal wires, tearing the skin off of Hicks' arm apart when Hobie pulls hard at it. Hicks screams in sheer agony, tumbling and falling off his horse into the moist ground, soil entering his burns and mouth. When the dust settles, he looks up to only see the end of Hobie's gun.

It's silent in the marsh as the sun shines on his gun; frogs hum in the distance, gators trill when they smell meat while Hicks' labored breathing quickens. Hobie has his gun digging into Hicks’ skull, skin red and angry from his burns. Half of his face has melted into a mess of meat and bones, left eye barely opening from his melted eyelid. A pungent smell permeates from his oozing wounds, clothes torn and burned to ash, and ankle twisted at an angle. Hicks’ hands are buried halfway into the ground as he sinks down to the muddy plains.

Everyone thinks he should be dead by now, even Hicks himself, but death won't grant him the sweet release just yet— not until Hobie takes what he is owed.

“My, don't you look pretty, Hicks.” Hobie doesn't smile nor smirk at the sight of the man who buried him alive five years ago. A man who now kneels before him, disfigured beyond recognition, feeding the soil under him with his own suffering.

“F-fuck y-y-you.” Hicks' lips tremble from the unimaginable pain. “I w-will not b-beg.” He manages to curl half of his melted lips into one final sneer. “Not l-like how you did.”

“I don't want you to beg, Hicks.” Hobie digs the metal harshly, skin ripping and tearing like paper from under the gun. “I need to know where she is. You're dyin' anyway, your last words might as well be somethin' useful.”

Hobie's cold words makes the man scoff that quickly turns into a painful cough. “No. Didn't your old man tell you that revenge is a f-fool's game?”

“This isn't revenge, this is retribution.” Hobie tilts his head, looking behind Hicks where a pack of gators trill and show themselves under the green swamp. “If you tell me, I won't let the gators eat you alive.”

“Wha–?” Hicks' slowly turns his trembling head, skin painfully tugging with every movement. One of the gators snaps its maw, warning with its sharp teeth. The entire gang hears this grown man whimper from fear.

“They look mighty hungry, Hicks. Better hurry up.”

“You'd t-take me away from them?”

“No, I'd put you out of your misery before they get to you. Something you didn't give me back then.”

Hobie can practically see the rusty cogs in Hicks' head turning. “...alright, just don't let them eat m-me.” His burns flares up as he doubles in pain.

Hobie makes the man raise his head with the barrel pushing his chin up. “Sure.”

“She's at the big white house near Blackwater, just west of the r-road. You can't miss it.”

“You lyin’” Hobie doubts the information when he gave it to him too fast. Jaw tightening at the thought of you being so close yet so far from his reach.

“No, I'm not.” Hicks hears the unmistakable sound of the reptile crawling closer. “It's the truth.”

Riri flicks her eyes towards Hobie, leaning close, whispering lowly at his ear. “I know the place.” Hobie doesn't miss the hard look in her eyes. “He's not local, that place is well hidden, he wouldn't know that only the locals know about it.” She glares at the sniveling man, “It's ways away from the road he's talking about. Fucking far from it. Easily missed if you're not familiar with the place.”

Hicks figures out what she's whispering when Hobie's anger flares, hand tightening around his gun. “I'm telling the truth, Hobie. It's there and she's waiting for you! I promise! She's the one lying!” He points a crooked finger at Riri.

“Thought you wouldn't beg.” His fate is sealed with the gators. “Technically you did lie.” Hobie drops his arm, gun aimed away from Hicks. “Off you go with the gators, boss.”

“No, no, Hobie! Please, I'm sorry!” Hicks tries to grab at Hobie's leg, but Hobie kicks him down on the ground and on his back. He tilts his head back, meeting face to face with a ten foot alligator that seems to smile at him.

His screams echo around the marsh while Hobie and the others get on their horses. He watches the gator death roll the flailing Hicks on the muddied ground until the wailing stops completely.

Hobie leads the pack away while he leaves behind the sound of tearing skin and bones cracking under sharp teeth. And all he could think about is you, and how he could've had a good life with you.

—

Draped in chiffon and stab silk, iridescent blues and purples dance along the fabric as light hits it. Expensive fabric that hides all the aching blemishes on your flesh by the same men who claim that they are doing it for your sake, that it's the only way you would obey.

Your hands are tied behind your back with Cross' hand wrapped around your wrists in a sickening grip; preventing you from moving. You shine under the southern sun, all gold and frills but none of the happiness behind your sullen and dull eyes.

For a fleeting moment in those months you were with Hobie, you had peace. You'd stay there forever if you could, if only the world had granted it to you, instead of the pain that it brought down upon you.

You could've had a good life together.

It's been a whole month since the last time you saw Hobie alive. A whole month without hearing his voice, without his loving touch; and a whole month with the same family who has hurt you in every possible way they could. The image of Hobie buried under the rubble of your shared home spirals you over the edge once again. You've cried, wept and sobbed some more, but nothing has helped. You feel like you've died right next to him. You wish you had.

Meanwhile you have a wound that was never meant to be healed inside you. A wound that was momentarily healed, until you were brought back to the reality of your dreaded life.

You instinctively run your finger around the gold band around your finger, finding the unfamiliar diamond instead of the simple gold band that turns your face even more sour at the scalding heat that turns your heavy dress into an oven. You had the foresight to hide Hobie's ring the second you had a chance. It now lays underneath your floorboards waiting for you.

There's a heavy feeling in your chest, grief running along your heart, plunging your very being into darkness. It was like that day five years ago, you have no knowledge of him alive, no way of knowing if Hicks ended him. It's an awful case of déjà vu.

Both men stand beside you, as if they're meant to guard you. The estate stands behind you, its large shadow looming over you. All Its white marble and columns stand tall, doors that don't creak, windows pristine and gleaming— but you'd rather have the pile of ashes you once called home.

This place lacks a heartbeat.

You flick your tired eyes over to the well beside the estate, your body shivers from how cold it was inside, when you sank into it like stone the first time Hicks threw you inside. It's a miracle you didn't break your neck, in that moment, you wished it had.

A carriage arrives from a distance, horses galloping along the road towards the estate. Wispy cypress trees sit around the path, parting way for the dirt road leading to the house. Its soft leaves dance in the wind, leaves fluttering by as you watch the carriage get closer and closer.

“Remember to smile, we can't lose their money.” Hicks grabs the back of your dress, yanking your neck down for emphasis. “Don't be a bitch like last time or you'll get the well tonight. And I heard it'll be cold tonight.”

“I'll be in my best behavior, uncle.” Your glare towards the rich couple exiting the carriage says otherwise.

Hicks only gives you a stern look before letting you go. Cross loosens his grip for a moment and you immediately take your hands in front of you so he couldn't hold you again. You haven't spoken a word to the man you call husband since you arrived at the estate. Your defiance got your bedroom door locked from the outside for now but was taken apart for the first week of your stay. Showing you bare to the entire world, revealing to the world that you're his.

The woman clad in gold and gemstones huffs, flinging away a fly from her painted face. “God, I hate this humidity.”

“This better be good this time, Hicks.” Her husband takes his tophat off, wrinkling his nose at the scent of heat and damp marsh.

“You won't regret traveling for this, Mr. Burnell.” Hicks sucks up to the man. “My, don't you look lovely, Mrs. Burnell.”

She giggles, hiding the blush dusting her cheeks with a fan. “Oh don't be such a gentleman, Hicks.”

“Stop sucking up to my wife, Hicks.” Even though his smile tells you that it's a joke, his tone says that he's completely irked by your uncle. Perhaps this has happened before.

You roll your eyes subtly, Cross’ jaw tightens as he shakes hands with both guests. “It's a pleasure to have you both today.” He says flatly.

“An honour.” Your tone is tight, lips turned into a strained smile.

“I remember you,” the male Burnell smiles faintly at you. “And you too,” he points at Cross. “I was at your wedding, what a wonderful ceremony.” You clench your fists tightly around your lace gloves, almost tearing the fabric.

“Oh I also remember!” His wife claps, “your gown was lovely, and the deviled eggs were to die for!”

You laugh, a sound more akin to a scoff. “I should've had some back then.”

Mr. Burnell reaches for both of your hands, holding you gently as you make a face at him that doesn't quite reach the man's full understanding. “I'm sorry about your aunt, we sent flowers to the funeral. I hope it was to your liking.”

“I wouldn't know, I wasn't there.” You swallow thickly.

“Oh poor dear,” The woman touches your cheek, and you flinch away. She coos as if you're a child. “You couldn't even bear saying goodbye.”

“Sure,” you slide your hands away from the man's hold, and then you take her hand away from your skin. “That's why.”

Hicks inhales deeply, “why don't we go to the gazebo? Tea is being served there.” He takes their attention away from you.

“We came all this way and you don't even have lunch for us?” Mr. Burnell raises a thick brow, his wife agrees with a nod.

“We did.” Cross finally speaks through gritted teeth. “It got cold.” The couple flares their nostrils in annoyance.

“This place was hard to find.”

“You had us waiting for two hours. Hardly an excuse, Mr. Burnell.” Cross doesn't back down from the older man's stare.

“W-what my associate was trying to say was that— we didn't want to serve you all cold beef! No one likes cold beef, correct?” Hicks tries to save the day, but they don't respond. “There's deviled eggs in the gazebo.” That seemed to work as they followed Hicks towards the blue gazebo behind the house.

Cross yanks you back to his side before you could get far. Your chest tightens, threatening to stop your breathing as he whispers towards one of the estate workers to prepare a batch of deviled eggs immediately. The second they leave, you glare at Cross, refusing to touch him even though his fingers dig into your arm.

“Don’t run, Y/N.” He says for the umpteenth time. You would run, and you had a few times while you're with him. But you were only met with your cheeks burning into the shape of his palm, and his hired guns dragging you back inside the mansion with their lassos tied around your ankles.

“I can't even breathe in this dress, moreso run in it.” You try to take your arm back but he stops you with his nails dragging along your sleeves.

“Be good, be fucking obedient. Don't be impossible like you always were.” His green eyes remind you so much of Hobie that it taints his image in your mind. You refuse to let it fog his image.

“I am not a dog, Cross.” You fight back, why shouldn't you? You have nothing to lose now.

He comes close to your face, jade eyes reflecting the fear in your expression, breath wafting over your face. “Then don't act like one.” His eyes pass over your face, finding fear laced in between the creases of your expression. His tone softens, one that sends shivers down your spine. “Why don't you call me by my real name? Cross is our last name, Y/N. Can you call me—”

“No.” You yank yourself away even if it means that his fingers drag along your arm in a manner that makes your skin run cold.

The next thing you know you're sitting next to Mrs. Burnell, who swallows down deviled eggs like its water. The entire table is set all prettily, blue laces sitting under white porcelain, utensils draped in silver, and chairs soft whilst the gazebo with lilacs growing on the roof acts as your shade. A graveyard full of Cross’ ancestors lies just a few ways away from the gazebo. Withering gravestones left unattended, and overgrown grass drowning each of the carved names. It leaves a heavy presence in the back of your mind.

The fork in your hand shakes, silver shining in the sunlight bearing down behind you just as when a pair of red cardinals fly next to the gazebo. The murmurs of the marsh echoes around the estate, gators trilling a few ways away, birds chirping and cawing right next to croaking bullfrogs. You're surrounded by green with a dash of greed as Hicks continues to suck up to the rich prospective partners.

A hand cups your own, and for a flicker, you thought it was Hobie's calloused hand gently holding onto you until his nails jab into your palm. Cross gives you a hard look, gesturing for you to eat instead of staring blankly at the cakes in front of you. With a mocking smile, you take a glass of cold orange juice on your right, condensation drenching your ungloved hand. You don't break eye contact as you gulp down the entire glass, making the Burnells look at you with pinched brows. For the final touch, you exhale loudly as if you were thirsty beyond belief.

Hicks chuckles nervously, eyes darting from you to the rich couple. Cross is fuming silently, letting your hand go limp on the table. An employee comes to your side, refilling your glass as everyone at the table stays in awkward silence. You can't help but puff out your chest with pride. Hobie would've loved to see that. Their faces would be worth it for the wrath you're about to face.

Mr. Burnell clears his throat, “as I was saying, we can't give twenty thousand for only ten percent shares. It's daylight robbery, Hicks.”

“Oh come on, Quentin, you've known me for a long time!” Hicks plays the ‘old friend’ card, a trick you've seen one too many times. “You know I can be trusted, and that ten percent will go higher once we've had our foothold here in America.”

“I do know you, that's why you can't be trusted. Even her aunt knew better when she gave the company to her.” Burnell pauses, bespectacled eyes staring at you briefly. Your lips curl up into a smirk. You probably don't have to work too hard in sabotaging this one. “Besides, that was back when you were the leading manufacturer in the UK. There was a guarantee, now you're here in a country that is practically shitting bullets by the buckets.” He leans back in his seat, “face it, you old dog, there's no profit here for you.”

“He's right,” His wife enters the conversation, dabbing her mouth daintily with a handkerchief. “Why did you even move here in the first place? I heard the company was doing badly back home but not that bad, right?”

Hicks coughs, drinking from his glass, stalling from answering. Cross has had enough, he leans on the table, elbows right next to his untouched plate, white suit unblemished.

“Because I'm here.” He takes your hand, making a show of it for the Burnells. He's using the ‘I love my wife’ card. Surprisingly, it's only the second time he has used it on the rich and stupid. “And my wife deserves to be with her husband, yes?” The couple looks at each other, then returns their attention to you as you try incredibly hard not to vomit all over the table. “I've…ignored her for far too long while I'm always here tending to my own business.” He clasps the back of your hand with his free hand. “We were deeply saddened by her aunt's passing, but I saw a silver lining. Taking the tragedy and turning it into something better by bringing her and her family business here to my home so we could finally start having our own family here without the dark cloud looming over us.” He was right about one thing, your aunt was a dark cloud looming over everyone. Cross leaned close, pecking your hand chastely. “Right, love?”

You close your eyes to prevent yourself from heaving out what little you've eaten. “Right.” Tone small and disgusted, you have the sudden urge to stab his eyes out with a fork. For a second, your mind gives you that exact image. Seeing his blood spurt out from his sockets and spraying on the deviled eggs.

For some reason, even with the disgusted look on your face, the Burnells' hard exterior softens. The missus clutches the pearls on her chest as if she just heard the most romantic story, and the male Burnell nods along with a fond smile. “You two remind me of my first marriage.” His wife chuckles, you frown, eyebrows knitted together as Cross plays along to his concocted story.

They continue their negotiation with more enthusiasm. Hicks pats Cross gladly on the shoulder, already drafting up a contract on a piece of parchment. Thankfully, Cross has let you go. Free to wipe your hand on your dress. You replay the last minute in your mind, like you're stuck in the moment he touched you with his dry lips upon the same hand you used to cradle Hobie's face with.

The conversation fades into the background, a thought passes you by, one that you're too grief stricken to see until now. Why is Cross even helping Hicks? He has the money to fund whatever the factory needs, he doesn't even need to be in the conversation. He has nothing to gain from this. He already has you, so why does he seem so desperate to get this partnership?

Then it hits you, he's as bankrupt as Hicks. Hicks, who drove the company to the ground with his moronic decisions the second your great aunt was in the ground. And Cross, there was never a day in your short marriage with him that he wasn't out gambling his family fortune away, or going to exotic places you've only read in books. When he doesn't have his hands on you, he's at the nearest pub or the derby races, betting everything in his pockets. You always just thought he had that much money to lose. But you were wrong. And the only reason you're here is because of the money your parents have set aside for you, money that is tied up with the company or what is left of it— the company that you own and have the last say in. Until your name isn't written in that contract that Hicks shoves in your face every morning, they have nothing.

“You have nothing.” You blurt out, you don't regret it immediately.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Burnell says, offended.

“Not you, I know you have money.” You place your elbows on the table, chin propped up on your scarred palm. “I was talking about my dear uncle and beloved husband.” Your words drip with venom and sarcasm.

“What are you saying?” Mrs. Burnell asks, concerned, either for your well being with the two men or for the money she almost lost.

“Shut it, Y/N.” Hicks says through gritted teeth, eyes warning you.

“Don't tell a woman to shut up, Hicks.” Surprisingly, Mr. Burnell defends you. “Speak, girl.” And there goes your respect.

“They don't have anything.” Cross tries to yank your hand back but you quickly tug yourself away. “Hicks is lying, the company is losing money, not gaining it. Production has been down since they moved here, probably because Hicks doesn't know how to run a company.”

You continue your tirade without missing a beat. “He was a manager before marrying my aunt, but he was a shit manager. If not for Peter—” you inhale and clear your mind. “All I'm saying is, he's asking for a scapegoat for the debt collectors, not a business partner.” You flick your eyes mockingly towards the seething Hicks. Meanwhile, Cross sits quietly, you're afraid but you have to continue. “I retract my previous words.” Hicks inhales with relief. “It's not probably, it's definitely.” He stutters, trying to save face but you continue. “He's overworking the workers and because of that there's more mistakes. More mistakes means more bullets that come out a little crooked. That's good, if your targets swerve to the left.”

“She's lying!” Hicks laughs shakily, fists slamming down on the table. “You know how women are? She's hysterical because of her aunt's passing.”

You scoff. “You said it yourself, Mr. Burnell, you don't trust Hicks.” All eyes are on you. Your words fill you with pride, Hobie would be proud. “As for Cross, I wouldn't even trust him with my coin pouch.”

The Burnells seemingly believe you, heads turned slowly towards Cross and Hicks, eyes boring holes in their foreheads. “Looks like we wasted our time. You're right, honey, we should've gone for the Winchester instead of this clown show.”

“You believe me?” You ask, bewildered. “That quick?”

“We passed by the factory on our way here, that's why we were late.” Burnell answers back. Already taking his belongings to leave. “We saw the horrid conditions. We were naive to believe that it was like that because you're still getting used to the transition.” He helps his wife up as Hicks follows behind the couple. Cross stays behind silently while you stay with the Burnells in hopes that they'd take you with them. “Thank you, girl.”

“You're welcome, c-can I—” The couple gets in their carriage, eyes blinking at you. “Can I come with you?” You sound like a child, voice trembling in hope that they'll say yes. “Please.”

Hicks chuckles incredulously right next to them, but his eyes grow dark at your request, a warning. Cross appears behind you, green eyes hidden by the shadow of his hat, lips clamped into a fine line.

“What for, girl?” Mr. Burnell asks, “We don't need any more bootlicking. We're not giving you the money for the factory.”

You flex your fists on your sides, eyes darting in between Hicks and Cross. Heart thumping, you have to try. “I don't— it's not that. I don't need the money. I—”

“So you do have the money for the company then? Why bother asking us?” The older man cuts you off, scoffing while his wife rolls her eyes. “Kids these days, so greedy.” He gets in the carriage, following his wife.

“Wait! Please!” It's too late as they run off in the distance. In your desperation, you start to run after them. But before you could go far, Cross stops you with his arms embracing you from behind. “No! Please come back! They're hurting me here—!” Your flailing stops when Hicks steps in front of you with his gun raised.

“Do you have any idea what you've done?” He clicks the hammer down, finger right on the trigger. “You've doomed us.”

With tears in your eyes, Cross holds you against him tighter. Chest aching, breath stolen from you. “No, just you!” Yet, you continue to fight. You might've lost hope a long time ago if not for Hobie. Hope that you'll get out like last time, hope that Hobie will be there waiting for you. But there's a part of you that just wants to let go. Looking over your shoulder, you're met with familiar green eyes that used to fill you with calm. “And you.”

“I should shoot you right here.”

“Do it then. But you can't because without my signature you're fucking broke!” With a cackle, Hicks yanks the back of your head, taking you from Cross' arms, dragging you towards the well. Body scraping against soil, you try to scratch at his hands but it doesn't deter him as his anger fuels him.

“Fucking bitch, you keep ruining shit!” He yanks you to your feet, and then pressing your front to the mouth of the well while pushing you down harshly, making you look down at the depths.

You yelp, sharp rocks digging into your stomach, eyes forced to look down at the deep dark well. It's cold down there, you wonder if this is what it felt like for Hobie back at the farm. Staying quiet, your hands grip the sides to keep your balance, a bead of sweat falling down and leaving ripples as it hits the stagnant water.

“What, no begging or screaming and crying this time?” Hicks latches on your hair tightly, scalp burning from his hold.

“I've gotten used to the dark. You won't hear me begging ever again.” Your voice echoes down to the bottom. “You can't hurt me anymore, not in the way that matters.” Releasing your hold on the sides, you lean closer to the edge. Expecting the cold embrace and the familiar weightlessness, it doesn't come.

There's a scoff above before you're let go. “I have to correct your fuck up.” He seethes, giving your leg a swift kick as you lay your head on the stone. “Deal with her.”

“I'm not one of your employees, Hicks.” Cross challenges him.

“She's your fucking wife. You discipline her while I go to the factory. As for you,” he flicks the shell of your ear. “Your name better be on that contract when I get back.” You hear their continued bickering whilst you even out your breathing. Just like what Hobie would tell you.

After a rustle of clothing and dress shoes thumping on the ground, you fall on your knees, still clutching the well. Face hidden from Cross, he sighs, hand reaching towards you. Feeling the sickening familiarity of his hand wrapped around your arm, you instinctively flinch away.

“Why couldn't you just obey, just this once?”

You heave, furrows knitted in anger. Looking over your arm, your glare sends goosebumps up his arms. “I'm not one of your hounds.”

“Then why do you kneel like one?” The sun behind him engulfs his entire form, turning him into a breathing shadow.

“Go fuck yourself, Cross.” You shakily stand up while avoiding his gaze. Walking towards the house, you clench your fists until you feel your blunt nails leave pin pricks of crimson

“I'm trying here, Y/N. You're making it impossible.” He yanks you back, neck craned to the side to look at you. “I'm holding back but you're not making this easy.”

“You sound like this is all my fault.” You still avoid his eyes, forgoing to look at the tree behind him. “I'm not the one who gambled all your money away. And I didn't force you to marry me.” His fingers pull you closer.

“Look at me.”

“Fuck you—” you try to escape but he's stronger.

“Look at me just like how you look at him.” He forcefully turns your head with his hand burrowing into your chin.

With apprehension, you chuckle, a cracked dry laughter. Your eyes slowly move to the green eyes in front of you. “I'll never look at you like that. Nothing you do will make me look at you with the same love I give to him.”

Cross swallows thickly, jaw tightening. “Why him?”

“It felt right. We share the same heart.” It's the first truth you've said in a month, and for once you smile genuinely. “I'll always love him, remember that.”

He inhales, and you wait for the impact.

“Sir?” The housekeeper asks from the side, hands wringing in front of her. “Is everything alright?” Her brown hair shimmers in the sun like copper, lips turned into a fine line.

She reminds you of the former housekeeper that tried to help you by taking your letter addressed to Hobie. Cross found out about it, you haven't seen her since then.

“We're alright, Belinda.” Cross lets you go, leaving a mark on your arm. “Fetch me my hunting rifle.”

You leave with haste, hands shaking as you hitch your skirt up. You can feel his sickly green eyes on you, like a shadow that envelops you whole.

You've crossed the line, and you fear that this is the end for you.

—

Pacing around your room, you walk around and hold your breath. It's like waiting for the gallows, waiting for the bullet to hit you. Hobie's ring is back on your finger instead of what Cross gave you on your wedding day, which is the exact same one you left on the bedside table when you escaped. You twist it around your finger as the room shifts and twirls in your vision.

The room is finely decorated with daffodils painted on the walls, gold fixtures on the ceiling with painted deers trotting overhead on fields of green on the ceiling. The room looks like it used to be a child's room. A pale blue bed sits in the middle of the room, draped in a satin canopy. It's a stark contrast to the room back at the farm, all wood and none of the gilded walls. But you'd choose that a hundred times over if given the chance. Especially if Hobie's there waiting for you.

You feel like you're slowly disappearing into the walls.

Your eyes have been glued to the door as you chew your nails. You'd lock the doors from the inside if the locks weren't instead bolted from the outside. Tears brim at your eyes, but you refuse to let it go as you sniff. You miss your home, you miss the smell of dew in the morning. You miss Clover and how she cuddles on your side. You miss Cherry and Bucky and your afternoon rides with them. You miss him, you miss Hobie and how he holds you gently, how he talks to you about things. It's him talking so you'd listen and speak with him until the sun decides to sleep. You miss his voice telling you that everything will be alright.

You wonder if everything will still be alright when you hear heavy footsteps outside your door.

Cross doesn't knock, and you wait at the foot of your bed, standing straight, eyes forward and daunting despite your fear. If he shoots you through the door now, would Hobie be there to greet you on the other side as darkness engulfs you one last time?

This house will be a tomb. Your tomb.

The door doesn't creek as Cross opens it. “Hunt with me, just like old times.” He has a rifle strapped to his back, suit traded in for his haunting gear, still clad in white leather. Your eyes flick over to the two guns on his belt. If only you could take it from him. Or at least one.

“Giving me a gun? Do you think that's wise?” You cross your arms over your chest, clearing your throat so he doesn't notice the shaking of your voice.

“Why? You'd shoot me in the back?” He asks chidingly.

“In a heartbeat.” You say without even a hint of a joke. “What's even out there, Cross? What are we hunting down?”

“A deer.”

“I don't think there are any deer out here.” A dangerous silence hangs in the air, choking you as he stares deeply at you. You inhale, swallowing down your fear as best as you can. “If you give me a knife instead, I will stab your eye out. Killing other things won't keep us from killing each other.”

He clicks his tongue, hand on the gun like he's mocking you. “Take the dog instead.” Taking the leash off his belt he holds it out for you. “A dog for a hound. At least this one is loyal.”

“Which end of the leash is the hound?”

“What do you want, Y/N, hm?” Tossing the leash harshly, he stalks closer, and you flinch back. A doe caught in the coyote's eye. “I broke your heart, I get it. Do you want me to apologize to you?”

“My heart? That's the only thing you haven't broken yet.” He stops a few feet away from you, yet still too close to you. “You broke my body until I could barely recognize myself anymore. My arms bear the shape of your nails, my scalp remembers the sharp tugs of your hands.” You exhale as a tear falls down your cheek. “Hobie broke my heart, but he pieced it together, piece by tiny piece.” You point at him repeatedly. “You, you broke everything else.”

“If this is about your aunt—”

“Fuck you! This isn't about her.” If this is really your end, you don't want to leave without saying the words you've been meaning to say out loud. You tremble for a second before grinning with tears in your eyes. "I'm glad she's gone. Her hold on me is gone.” You chuckle breathlessly, sighing loudly. “There I said it. It's like a boulder has been lifted off my shoulders.”

“Y/N,” there it is, the patronizing tone he uses on you. He's about to guilt you into something you haven't had a hand in, or chastise you like a child.

“Stop being so fucking delusional, take the blinders off for one fucking minute.” The fire in you latches on you. “This is about you and how you hurt me the second you brought me home after the wedding. You knew that I never wanted to marry anyone else, and that my aunt and Hicks hurt me back home. And instead of helping me, taking me away from them, you joined them.”

“I got you out of there. I married you.”

You laugh without an ounce of humour, clapping wildly. “Well thank you very much, Cross!”

“I tried for a little while, Y/N. But I'm your husband, and you continued to disobey so I had to go to them, ask them for advice.” He walks closer, you stop him with a hand in front of you, as if it will shield you from him. You've tried that once, it didn't work.

“Nothing you do will make me forgive you. I hope you drown in your guilt if you even have an ounce of it. I hope you lay awake at night thinking of how much you hurt me. I'd rather die than forgive you.” Cross steps forward with an unreadable expression, and the back of your knees hits the bed as you try to get away. You eye the gun, you fear that you won't keep your promise to Hobie.

The world already ended for you when Hicks killed him.

Cross tries again. You think it'll be the last time he will the second he walks closer to you, so close that you can see yourself in his eyes. “Sign the papers, Y/N, and everything will be over.”

“You know the second I sign it, Hicks will kill me.” Your eyes wander towards his unlatched gun.

“I won't let that happen.”

You laugh in his face, “Sure, but you'll let him hurt me. Might as well sign my death warrant instead.” Standing back up, you inch towards him bravely despite your instincts telling you to shield yourself. You have to get that gun. “I–I tried to love you at first, and remained optimistic in this marriage.” His eyes are on your face, irises darting over your lips while you sneak your hand towards his gun belt slowly. “Even indulging my idiotic childish whims of what a marriage could be like. But I couldn't, not when you hurt me just like they did. Only because I didn't love you like how you thought I would.” Your hand finds the cold metal, fingers wrapping around the handle. “For a second there I thought you'd be my saviour, when in fact it was the opposite. You joined them instead. You were just as bad as them.”

You stand toe to toe with him. You hear a glass breaking downstairs, and then the smell of something familiar. Snatching the gun quickly, you aim it at his stomach, steel meeting flesh. You feel the same sensation against your chest.

“I love you.” Cross utters, finger right on the trigger.

“I've seen love, this isn't it.” With your cold words, you shoot.

Both guns go off.

Both hitting their targets.

—

The sun is just beginning to set, orange peeking from the horizon, hues of pink and orange blanketing the three men. Each inhale from the cigarette perched in each of their lips has grey smoke filtering through their lungs. They should be guarding the front door like they were hired to do, instead they chainsmoke their way out into an early grave while hiding behind the estate, facing the vast green marsh that hides their debauchery from the rest of the world.

“You hear any cryin’ last night?” The one with an auburn beard asks, his rifle leaning against the wall right next to him instead of in his hand like it was supposed to be in.

A dark haired man answers, belching out smoke while crouched on the ground, eyes narrowed at the whispering willows. “Yeah, i think the stable boy wasn't lying, there's a fuckin' ghost here.”

“You two think it's a fucking ghoul or some shit?” The third one replies with a scoff, blonde hair peeking out from his hat as he takes a swig of moonshine.

“Yeah,” The first two responds, spine tingling when a cold breeze passes through them.

“It's the boss’ wife, not a ghost, you morons.” As the yellowed haired man responds, a bright flicker of light appears in between the willow trees. “What the fuck?” The two men next to him follows his terrified gaze, cigarettes falling off their lips.

The light moves, as if it dances in the wind. It flickers, brightening up into an orange glow before turning yellow once again. The three outlaws move from the wall, eyes glued on the mesmerizing ball of light.

“Fuck, it's a swamp ghost—” the one with the red beard gasps, choking on his own blood, frantically trying to stop his neck from gushing out ichor with a knife stuck to his throat.

The other two only had a split second to react before a sharp knife slashes at their exposed necks. They mirror each other, shirts stained with red, palms coated in warmth and crimson while they frantically try to stop the bleeding. They croak and creak out, eyes managing to fall upon hazel eyes, and one with his face covered in soot. They both hold a glinting knife, blood still trickling down from the steel.

Miguel leaves from his hiding place in the thicket, eyes flicking briefly towards their twitching forms before returning his gaze at the ball of light. He nods to Riri and Karl, who stand above the corpses. And then he gestures with his gloved hand, giving the warm light a small nod.

The light comes closer, footsteps echoing as boots sink in moist soil— appearing behind the darkness of the trees and into the fading light of the sun. Hobie's face is revealed behind the light with a lit cigarette in between his lips, shadows dancing around the fury behind his green eyes hidden by the brim of his hat. He inhales before flicking the cigarette away, falling into a puddle. More appear behind him, trees and bushes parting before the dozen men and women following in his steps.

“Karl, light the oleander for me will you?” Hobie tosses the bag of pink flowers in Karl's waiting hands. And then he takes his knife back from the auburn haired corpse, wiping it on the grass before sheathing it back on his belt.

“D’you think that'll work? What if she gets caught in it?” Riri whispers, gesturing for the gang to crouch down and hide beside the wall where the trio were last seen smoking.

Hobie drags one of the bodies, hiding it behind the bushes while the rest of the gang help with the other two. He follows Riri, blood rushing in his ears, adrenaline pumping through his veins at how close you are from him. It's only a matter of time before you're back safe and sound.

“She knows the smell, she'll cover her nose.” His voice doesn't waver, but his insides are turning and twisting inside him. He can't fail. “As for everyone, cover your damn noses, and protect your eyes as much as you can.”

“This won't kill us right?” Karl weighs the bag in his hands.

Miguel checks his bullets beside him, giving Hobie and Riri a once over if their weapons are lacking. “At most it'll make us sick and itch. Right, Hobie?”

“Just don't inhale it directly.” Hobie yanks his bandana up to his nose, fitting it snugly. He notices his hands shaking, closing his fists tightly, he cannot fail. A month of tracking you down can't end with him failing to save you, he can't lose you. “You know what to do, Karl. Ri go with him.”

“Hobie,” she clasps the back of his fist. “Be careful, alright? If you get hurt, call Roberto, he'll treat you.” Inhaling sharply, she pats his cheek. “Get her back but don't die on us, alright?”

Hobie couldn't look directly at Riri, “She goes first, Ri.”

“I know, that's why we brought Roberto with us, remember? He's the doctor, he knows what to do and…what to expect, if need be.”

Hobie nods, staring at his family. “Thank you for backing me up, I owe you. All of you.”

“Don't die and we're even, Hobie.” Miguel pats Hobie's bicep before heading to his designated position.

“What he said,” Karl smiles brightly, fist connecting to Hobie's clenched one gently. “Also if I don't return from this, Robbie's gonna fucking kill you, man.”

Hobie cracks a smile. “Yeah, I know. Try to stay alive for the both of us then.” Karl makes his way towards the front while Riri staggers behind, still holding onto Hobie's hand. “Just like Valentine, right?” Riri smiles, hiding her trepidation behind her bandana. He fixes the cloth over her face carefully, tugging it over her nose and ears. “Keep that snug.” She could only nod, eyes brimming with tears. “Don't die on us too, Ri.” With a quick embrace, she leaves, following behind Karl who was waiting for her.

Hobie takes a second to breathe. He has done things like this a hundred times before, but never with you on the line. He can't leave without you like last time. He won't cower behind wooden walls like last time, he's not gonna stand here and tremble and rot and bleed. He's going to get you back. He knows he will.

There's a gunshot echoing inside the estate just as when a glass window breaks, signaling the beginning of the end.

—

The house falls and chaos reigns. They tried to stick to their plan of using stealth, but of course someone saw them and alerted everyone in their presence. Karl got the oleander thrown inside the halls, puffs of pinkish fumes swell out from the bag. Hobie sees the result of it as black smoke turns the estate into the pits of hell. Hobie's eyes waters but he continues to strike anyone who wasn't on his side. He throws his spiked whip towards someone who tried to shoot at Karl, the barbed whip rakes and breaks skin as he tugs and pulls until the man falls down next to his shredded flesh.

Screams echo around the estate, his posse lets go of the innocent unarmed employees while the others aren't so lucky the second they aim back.

They try to fight their way inside, finally thinning the outlaws outside as flames trickle from the burning bag towards the velvet curtains. Embers climb up until they hit the ceiling, fire licking at the once white walls, leaving burn marks in its wake.

A few of the hired guns surrender after recognising Miguel's gang, some were fools who tried to shoot them down but his allies were in greater numbers. More experienced, more bloodthirsty than the hired guns.

All the winning cards are in his hand, all he needs to do is play them right.

“Miguel!” Hobie yells while he and three others try to push through the main doors that refuse to budge open.

Miguel, who was currently brawling with a man taller than him, grunts when a fists harshly connects at his jaw. Hobie curses under his breath, without wasting a second, he aims and shoots. Gunpowder fills his lungs once more as the burly man falls on top of Miguel in a thud.

Hobie stalks towards Miguel, he shoots someone who was aiming at him on his left, his bullet doesn't miss even without him looking at the target. He grabs the body by its vest, yanking it off Miguel.

“Get up,” he reaches for the breathless gang leader, hazel eyes smiling at his old friend.

“I had that, Hobie!” Despite his broken nose, Miguel is back on his feet the moment he takes Hobie's helping hand. “Retirement, huh?”

Hobie shakes his head with a ghost of a smile on his lips. “Fuckin' retirement.” Reloading his gun, he goes back to the locked doors with Miguel now in tow. “On three!” His shoulders meet with the oak, “one!” Miguel nods next to him, bracing himself on the door. “Two!” A few more join in, ready to push the moment he says, “three!”

The doors burst open, splintering wood scattering, smoke coming out into the fray. Hobie meets with Sheriff Lee's eyes before a bullet hits him directly on his shoulder.

“Fuck!” He falls on his knees, clutching his wound as blood seeps through his fingers.

“Should've left when you had the chance, Mr. Brown!” Lee taunts, reloading his hunting rifle, giving Miguel enough time to drag Hobie back outside and placed behind the wall. “Come back here, murderer!”

A few shots ring out, both parties exchanging bullets. Your face appears in front of him before it’s replaced by the doctor's face. He needs to get you out quickly before the oleander takes hold. Hands tie a bandana around his wound, Hobie stands up the second that the cloth is tightened.

“Keep that on!” Roberto yells above the booming gunfire. “I’ll fix you properly right after this!”

Hobie nods, blinking the haze away. Miguel shakes him awake while avoiding his injury. “Lee's down! We'll handle the rest down here, we heard that she's upstairs.”

“Okay,” Hobie inhales and exhales, I'm almost there, love.

When the bullets stop flying inside the now bullet ridden manor, he steps foot inside. Glass crunches at his feet, eyes darting and alert from any surprises. He sees bodies littered on the marble floors, both from his side and Lee's. The sheriff lays under a pile of broken vase, eyes wide open, fingers still enclosed around his gun. The smoke thickens, and he hears blasts reverberating around the house.

Miguel's posse storms the place, pocketing whatever shines inside the house. A few more bullets are shot from deep inside the walls, but it's clear who's the winner. Hobie just wants you back.

Just as when he's about to climb the winding stairs with his throbbing shoulder, he sees a man stagger out from a room. “Is that—?” The bloodied man in the hunting gear trips and falls off the railing, plunging down right next to where Hobie's standing.

Cross lays on his own puddle of rubies, a gaping hole in his stomach instead of his insides. “H-help me,” Begging, he looks at Hobie with his bloodshot eyes, reaching towards Hobie's leg with his broken hand. “She's upstairs. Y-you can have her.”

“Is that him?” Miguel asks, and Riri appears from the side. Eyes watching the wounded man. Hobie nods, eyes never leaving Cross.

Hobie aims at Cross' head, seething. “She is not a thing to be had.” His aim stays true, but he shakes his head, lowering his gun down. “Nah, I'll let her bullet kill you.”

Miguel smirks, while Riri and him have a silent communication. “Don't worry, Hobie, we got rich boy.” He takes out his lasso from his waist, crossing the distance towards the dying Cross.

Riri gestures for Hobie to continue up the stairs. “Go! We'll be waiting.”

With a grateful nod, Hobie runs up the stairs towards his fire and his light. His heavy footsteps echo, breathing staggered as he thinks of you. What if he finds you in the same condition as Cross? What would he do if he sees you bleeding out? So he runs despite his own injuries, to see you again, to hold you again.

He follows the blood trail once he gets close enough, instead of your smiling face greeting him back, he stares at your body covered in crimson. Soft blue bed sheets stained with dark rubies. Arms spread on the bed as you lay on the soft mattress with your eyes unblinking towards the ceiling.

Hobie calls for you, air sucked from his lungs with every step he takes. He reaches for you, tears turning you into a watercolor painting in his vision. Red and blues blending into a watery picture.

You feel like you're in the bottom of a well, staring up at your aunt's sneering face. Your breathing is labored while the bullet is stuck in your chest, right below your ribcage. There's no pain, no feeling in your fingers as you see Hobie's face appear from above. Head perfectly lined up with the deer antlers painted on the ceiling.

“Found the deer, Cross.” You murmur, eyes hazy, lips barely opening.

“Stay awake, love.” Hobie's hand trembles as he rips his bandana off to stave off the bleeding by plugging the wound. You cry from the sudden pain, hands flying towards his wrists. “‘m sorry, ‘m sorry.” His tears flow down your cheek. “This'll be over, I need to carry you.”

“Hobie?” Your eyes focus on his face, meeting with his viridescent eyes. “Are you real?” Nails dig into his flesh, you sob, fingers shaking whilst you reach for his face. The pads of your fingers brush along his jaw, stubble returning you back to reality. “I'm so s-sorry, I should've told you.”

“None of that.” He holds onto the back of your hand, letting your palm rest on his cheek, lips brushing along your wrist. The matching rings reflect the growing fire ebbing towards the room.

“It h-hurts, Hobie.”

Sniffing, burning wood enters his lungs, sobs threatening to pull him down to you. “I know, I know.” He wipes the tears and the sweat off your forehead. “But we need to move, love, there's a fire and I need to carry you down.”

You gaze at his green eyes, sorrow and grief twisting and turning behind them. They remind you of home, of Clover, of Cherry and Bucky. And you remember your promise to him, an impossible promise that you will try to keep. But if it means that it's his end too, you have to break it. For his sake.

You grip his shoulders, Hobie notices how weak your hold on him is. “Okay, okay, carry m-me down.” There's a taste of copper in your mouth, lips coated in the bitter taste.

He nods, wiping his tears with his sleeves before sliding his hand behind your back, finding your warm blood sticking to the bedsheets. “I got you.” Whispering against your crown, he lifts you up mere inches away from the bed before you scream in agony. “‘m sorry!” He cries into your hair, your grip weakening even more.

“W-we can try again.” You slide your palm to his nape, “try again, Hobie.”

Hobie flicks his eyes towards you, the light behind your eyes is starting to dim. “Help!” He yells in desperation at the door, in hopes that someone comes bounding up the stairs. “Riri! Miguel! Anyone!”

Your heart breaks, “Hobie, Hobs.” Patting his chest, it's getting harder to breathe. “L-leave. Leave me here.” Hobie's already shaking his head. You smile softly at him, the best you could do despite your body dying. “You have to, you can't die here.”

“And you do?” He cups your face, “we still have forever to go, remember?”

He doesn't want you to come back as a dream anymore, or a shadow embracing him from behind; or a pain in his chest when he hears your name in his mind. He doesn't want your ghostly kiss to taste like ashes on his lips.

He doesn't want you to go.

“I'm sorry, I can't keep my promise. B-but you still can.” You weakly push down at his nape to feel his forehead against yours one last time. Your eyes are starting to close. “Live for me, would you?”

“No, please.” His palm slides right above your heart, feeling your heartbeat slow down. One last time, he yells for help. His throat burns as the ceiling above is engulfed in flames. No one comes to help. “I have to break my promise too, love.”

“Don't, please.”

“A life lived without you isn't a life well lived, remember?”

You accept death in his warm embrace. “I'll see you in a bit then.”

Flames engulf the room in its fiery destruction. Paint melting off the walls, wood and glass cracking under the pressure. And yet, he still holds on to you, lips pressed on your cold lips in a fleeting goodbye.

“Hobie!”

—

In the middle of nowhere sits the remnants of a farm with clovers growing all around it. Vines snaking along what remains of the farm house, and in those vines, pink hydrangeas grow and thrive amidst the cinders. And behind those darkened wood sits two graves with clovers growing on top of the soil. Two names are etched on simple limestone graves, they bear the same last name and same date of death.

Many travelers pass through the place without ever knowing the story behind the two graves. Seasons come and go, flowers bloom and wither. But only a few ever knew what used to stand on the emerald farm. What used to grow, what colour the house was, and who used to live in it. Stories were whispered and told but only a few truly knew the story behind it, few who came and visited and placed flowers on each of the graves.

And in those few, only three of them know that the once abundant farm where two graves were dug right under an oak tree, are empty.

The stories and the graves were enough to fool anyone left that wants to hurt either one of you to turn back and lament.

The true story lies behind the northern border, where pine trees grow up to the skies. Where snow and ice envelops the whole place. Where the two names etched on the gravestones in the empty farm now live.

“Stop bullyin’ your brother.” The dappled foal yelps, trotting away from his much bigger older brother. The dark horse with white splotches turns his bright blue eyes towards Hobie, huffing and puffing like an annoyed teenager. “Don't huff at me,” great, now he's the one talking to horses. “Go tell your dad not to have any more kids. Not my problem, junior.” The young horse rears, running towards the barn where Buckeye and Cherry sleeps.

Hobie leans on the fence, watching the sunrise on his expansive land. Horses and foals run around freely, feeling the cold gust of wind in their manes. A few sheep roam the grounds, while a pair of cows chew their way towards the fences. Snow-capped mountains rise up high in the background, white snow dusted along the rocks like sugar. While the trees dotted along the mountainside makes for the perfect scenic view. He pulls at his jacket closer to himself, fur tickling his nose as he breathes out puffs of smoke from the cold temperature. Winter’s coming, he can feel it in his joints as another breeze rolls in. He smiles in contentment when the air carries the sound of ducks quacking from their coop, and the smell of morning dew passing by. No more does the smell of fiery gunpowder graze his senses, and no sounds of bullets firing ringing in his ears.

He keeps his hat snug on his head, Clover runs by with her litter of puppies tugging along. And he feels you before you arrive by his side. A smile tugs on his lips, hand already reaching for your waist.

“What are you thinking about, cowboy?” You flutter your eyelashes, chin placed in his shoulder.

“That I have it good, too good.”

You give him a tender smile, leaning to kiss his jaw. “None of that. This isn't too good for you, you deserve all of this.”

“Too early to wallow, huh?” Hobie wraps his arm around your waist to pull you closer, and then he twists around to face you fully, back leaning on the fence, admiring you in the bitter blue of dawn.

You find penchants on his sternum, nose nuzzling his scar. “So fucking early.” He laughs, music to your ears.

“Hard to get used to, huh?”

“Kind of, it's a good feeling though, waking up.”

“You feel okay, right?” His palm pats your chest gently where a scar lies. “No breathlessness? Nothin'?”

You sniff at the cool wind, “nothing, I'm fine, Hobie.” You cup his cheek, jaw rounded at the edges, scruff tickling you, he looks as if time hasn't passed. “Nothing to worry about.” He leans towards your touch, fingers bracelet around your wrist gently, lips meeting your skin. “You okay?”

“Never better, love.” His green eyes twinkle, free arm pulling you impossibly closer. “Especially today.”

You tilt your head playfully. “What's today exactly?”

“Cheeky,” he pokes your side. “You know what day it is.”

You feign realization. “Ah! I remember now, Riri and the gang are coming over.”

“Yes, and?” He grins, biting his lower lip, jade eyes crinkling at the corners. Seeing the matching rings on your finger and his own makes him smile wider.

You suck in your teeth, acting like you're thinking. “It's Bucky's birthday?” Hobie rolls his eyes with a chuckle, and you finally relent. “I know what day it is.” You lean away, taking out a letter addressed to Hobie from your pocket. It's filled with affectionate words, loving thoughts and everything in between. It's a love letter just for him. “Happy anniversary, Hobs.”

Hobie's chest fills with a sense of belonging, heart full with his love for you. He keeps the letter in his coat pocket, right above his heart. “Happy anniversary, lovie.” He pulls you back, you giggle as your palm hits his chest, fingers snaking up to his nape to guide him towards your waiting lips.

“Forgot something, cowboy?” You say against his lips, and he nudges your nose with his own.

You feel something grazing against your chin, and when you flick your eyes down, you see a letter written in his hand, addressed to you. You tamp down your excitement, snatching the envelope, giving it a peck and tucking it inside your jean pocket.

“Never, read it together like always?” He pecks your warm lips once, then twice before indulging himself in your warmth.

“Yes,” you utter, breathlessly. “But inside, your tea, and the girls are waiting.”

Hobie chortles, kissing you again before reluctantly pulling away. “They're awake?”

“They smelt breakfast.” You inhale, letting his sandalwood and mint scent waft over you with ease. “If you hurry, there might still be some left for you.” You begin to walk away, hand grasping his palm.

“Alright, just one more then we'll go.” He pulls you back to his chest gently as you giggle atop his lips. He kisses you like he did all those years ago.

In the middle of nowhere, his story begins. And in the middle of nowhere, his story ends with you.

A/N: Thank you so much for sticking around this long! Our beloved cowboy is finally happy and at peace 🥺 If you loved reading OPIN please consider reblogging ❤️

[ninja-muse]

I Love Russia by Elena Kostyuchenko is an incredible book about terrible things. It's devastatingly sad. It's traumatic. It's enraging. It's terrifying. It's thoroughly real and absolutely necessary.

Every chapter of this book looks at another aspect of Russian life that doesn't make the official news or at a segment of society that's marginalized. Often it's both. Most of this is portrayed in real-time, memoir-style recounting so you're right there with Kostyuchenko as she's going places and talking to people. There's relatively little factual research outside her experiences and relatively little opining, but also there doesn't need to be. This is plenty powerful without that and her points come across clearly.

And the point is that life is Russia is awful for a lot of people. Kostyuchenko talks to street kids casually discussing abortion options at 13, spends a shift with a shack of sex workers, visits a toxic dump site and an Indigenous Siberian community with a high suicide rate, lives two weeks in a facility housing the disabled and mentally ill, and that's just some of it. It probably goes without saying, but there are a lot of content warnings in this book. It took me two weeks to read because I could only manage 20-30 pages at a time.

The other point is Russia is a country we should be worried about. There's a real sense here of how tightly wound and corrupt and apathetic the government is, of the complete distrust so many people have in it, of the double-speak and cover-ups to maintain control, of the ways all of it dehumanizes and disenfranchises people, of how hard it is to fight back and do the right thing in the face of it all. It's not a country anyone should want to live in, and a system too many countries are sliding towards. This book is a warning.

I want to recommend this book to everyone because it's important and it's excellent, but it's too emotionally difficult for that. Instead, I'll simply say please read it if you're interested and think you're up for it, and recommend it to whoever you can. It's also a book I'm breaking my usual habits for: this is a 10 out of 10, no question.

[clawbehavior]

Hi!!!

For the wip ask game, can I ask about these:

5,3,7,10

Sorry for being greedy 😅

And thank you 🌸

hi anon,

i always like getting your asks because you let me talk about multiple stories at length, which is like crack for a writer. quickest way to get me out of writers block is to let me opine at length about my stories. i appreciate you.

thanks for playing this asks game:

5. elevator au, elevator au, elevator au. i am struggling to nail down one detail that's throwing off the entire story. i can't figure out how gaon feels about going from arguing with yohan, to having to accept yohan is right, to wanting to punish himself by having sex. because i can't figure that out, that chapter has been in limbo for 1+ years, even though i think about it every two weeks. which sucks!!! pray for me. in the meantime, you can read an excerpt from it here

3. i talk about political intrigue au here

7. hospital au, aka 'even gods can't change the past'. love this story even though it deals with themes people might find appalling. i have three snippets for this: 1) a prologue, where gaon and yohan meet and argue politics, 2) gahan with their three daughters in an epilogue, and 3) a chapter in the far future where gaon misses his son really badly. meeting jinjoo's newborn son helps him come out of his depression. 

10. gaon and isaac twins but the omega version, aka a spinoff of 'enantiomers'. omega gaon was previously married (to the law school dude from canon). his marriage became strained when they couldn't conceive and his alpha MIL became overbearing. so imagine his surprise when yohan gets him pregnant within weeks. based on that meme about a younger alpha fucking an older omega out of menopause

also, are you one of the anons who replies to my writer asks/writer games? you help me stay active as a writer. whenever i get writer's block or frustrated i come on here to play these writer games because that helps inspire me. i dedicated 'my heart goes back to you' to you in thanks for that.

[rcreveal]

The Trouble with a Keen Manager-Ch 10

"Waking in an unfamiliar bed, Crowley froze, heart whining like a hummingbird on Red Bull.  A grin broke over his face as he realized, oh hey, ‘m still not in Hell!"

In this 1990s Through the Ages story, Crowley has lost most of his powers due to the Accountability drive of a new Hellish manager. Trying to get them back (and not lose his corporation) has needed all his wiles and the help of Aziraphale and some of the locals on Whickber Street. Waking in the safe haven of Whickber Intimate Massage and Correction, after being rescued from a fight, Crowley is invited on an errand of subterfuge. Rated Teen for a little innuendo and swearing.

Chapter 10

Waking in an unfamiliar bed, Crowley froze, heart whining like a hummingbird on Red Bull.  A grin broke over his face as he realized, oh hey, ‘m still not in Hell!, followed by a wince before he let the breath he was holding out in a wheeze.  His face was sore, actually a lot of him was sore.   But things were infinitely better than expected!

A rapping at the infirmary door, “Breakfast is in the kitchen when you’re ready,” Madame offered briskly. 

“How’d you know I was awake?  Through the door!” he said hoarsely.  That bloody chain must have bruised his throat.

“I’m very good at telling when a man is awake,” Madame replied, “I put a pot of salve in your bedroom, Anthony.  I recommend that you put it on to help the aches and pains.”

“Yes, Madame,” he croaked obediently, she shook her head and raised an eyebrow.  Those were things that Crowley could sense, even through a closed door.

After rubbing Madame's salve pretty much all over, since what wasn't bruised was creaking and complaining like an old mechanism left to rust, Crowley decided to brave the kitchen.  Whatever was on the hob smelled abso-fricking amazing!  Between his mouth dribbling and his stomach boring a hole in his back he levered himself up and shuffled determinedly up the fried stuff concentration gradient.  Was this how Aziraphale lived all the time? Distracted by the chemical senses of smell and taste?  That must be one of Crowley’s best temptations ever!  Thinking of Aziraphale eating meant he was smiling when he walked into the kitchen and mid-sizzle of about a dozen women’s stares.

“Uh, Madame told me I could have some breakfast?” he said meekly into the silence.

Silence broken by a huge rumble from his stomach.

The women dissolved into laughter and swayed into action.

At the hob, a young lady in daring negligee, considering that she was frying bangers and mash on the stove, tipped about half the pan onto a plate and handed it to him with a wink.  

“Holy shite, they certainly worked you over, luv!” said a lass wearing overlarge men’s pajamas, as she gave up her seat for him.

“Yeah. Lucky for me, I had you angels on my side,” he winked while he slid into the open chair while they snorted, giving him a chance to get the first bite in.

“I thought Madame said his skull wasn’t broken?” Maisie said.

“She didn’t say anything about ‘is eyesight!  Angels, what a crock!” Jen giggled.

 Cheeky come-back would have to wait, because Crowley was completely concentrated on the food.  Such good food!

“It’s like me younger brothers,” one young lady said.

“It’s like watching a vacuum,” another opined.

“May I have some more. Please?” Crowley held the empty plate up with a pitiful Oliver Twist overdramatization that had them all giggling. Tracy at the stove filled his plate again while he eyed it hungrily.

“Remember to breathe, this time,” she quipped.

“An’ chew,” Jen suggested.

After breakfast, Crowley turned down no less than four massages.  His face-splitting yawns after the third (or was it fourth?) plate of breakfast helped.  By the time he retreated to the infirmary for a lie down, he was well on his way to filling an amusing-male-friend-shaped hole in the brothel.  The ladies of negotiable affection laughed at him and mussed his hair like a younger brother rather than cozying up to him.  Probably best if he made shift to add handy-about-the-place to their perception, too.  Madame, sitting at her desk swathed in a magnificent silk robe covered with bright camelias, took one look at him and made a little shooing motion towards the infirmary as he padded past her desk, his eyelids drooping again.

Clean sheets and beds without their own microcosm really were a marvel, Crowley considered muzzily, pulling the drier-sheet scented comforter back over himself and trying to push off sleep long enough to take stock.  Madame's threat to send him to hospital last night had squeezed out some hidden reservoir of healing.  Satan only knew what a CT scanner would have picked up on him. Uggh, ICU’s were so unpleasant as the patient!  That little windfall meant the most pressing damage to his head was fixed before Madame had a chance to look him over properly, but that was about as far as it went.  He was covered in injuries that each singularly didn't impede his daily operations, but together inconvenienced him considerably.  A couple of ribs were broken, or bruised so badly that it was the same difference and he could reliably predict he was going to be more sore tomorrow.  Might as well let his corporation get on with healing itself, he thought letting sleep roll him again.

After a couple of hours, he woke, put more salve on, and went in search of his clothing.

“I need my kit back, I’m going to work tonight,” Crowley announced to Madame, who was reading Agatha Christie.

“Your clothing is at the cleaners, Anthony,” she said and turned a page.

“Why does everyone keep stealing my clothes to clean them!” Crowley complained.

“I imagine if you keep turning up ragged and filthy, it’s probably for their own protection!” she said calmly, setting down the book and looking him in the eye.

“Have a seat, Anthony.  I want to talk to you.”  Madame indicated a wing chair across from her own.

She was wearing an original Chanel suit creating at least the third persona Crowley had seen her carry off flawlessly.  Fascination warred with the feeling her persona gave him of being diminishingly unkempt.  Never one to let other people’s norms dictate his social comfort, Crowley claimed the seat like a fashionable pop artist in the latest grunge attire, sitting across from a Rolling Stone interviewer. These PJs? Only the coolest people wear these.  Bedhead? You know how much product it took to make my hair look like this?

Madame’s eyes twinkled as she took in the display, the young man was a find.  Time to call his bluff, “I’m glad to see you well on your way to recovery, Anthony.  I do have some business to discuss with you,” forestalling his next comment with a raised finger,  “Tell me the state of your finances, young man.  Do you have a bank account?”

“Yes, I have a bank account!” he said, stung.

“Then why are you working under the table at the Dirty Donkey and sleeping in your car?” Madame persisted.

“I have a bank account, but I just don’t have access to my bank account at the moment.” Anthony explained smoothly.

“Did your family cut you off?” Madame asked matter of factly.

Brushing his chin with a knuckle before raising his hand, “Mmmm, yeahh, something like that,” Anthony replied.

“Is it because you don’t fancy women?” asked Madame simply.

“Wot?” the lad looked greatly confused with just a glimmer of alarm,  “What does fancying anyone have to do with it!??” 

“I notice you didn’t deny that you don’t fancy women.  Do you fancy men, then?” Madame persisted.

Blustering now, Anthony said, “I don’t fancy men or women!” 

Strangely, that had the ring of truth.

“So something other than your love life got you cut off.  How novel.  However, it doesn’t negate the fact that you aren’t making enough to feed, clothe, and shelter yourself adequately.”

Anthony’s face passed through a Royal Shakespeare level of emotion before he drew himself up like one of the monarchs or Caesars, albeit in one of the modern stagings given his current state en déshabillé, “Thank you, madam, for summing up my problems so succinctly!  I am, in fact, close to solving that very problem!” and he glared at her convincingly.

Crowley's ribs and throat ached, which did not help his temper.  Humans were rarely able to perceive him this clearly.  Having one stick his face right in this Hellish mess…she was lucky he was out of miracles right at the mo’.  Crowley glowered at Madame.

She smiled appreciatively, yes, he would do magnificently.

“Ah, glad you have it all in hand!” she said, brightly, “However, I told Dave what happened and insisted he give you the night off,” she held up her hand again when he started to protest, “You do not need to be working a whole shift tonight when you can make the same or more money doing a little service for me.”

“What sort of service?” Crowley asked suspiciously.

“Not that sort of work, Unless you have an interest I haven’t suspected.  I can tell you that working here pays better than night shift at the Dirty Donkey,” seeing his expression she shook her head, “No. I told you, Anthony. You are not the first young person to come here in need of assistance.  Some are suited to this work, many are not.  I do not allow drugs or alcohol here.  I do not allow abuse.  The monies collected support this establishment.  But more importantly, they allow me to help the girls put money by until they can move on to more long term employment.  As you might expect, much of this industry takes place in cash, making opportunities to grow their money with investment and savings instruments rather difficult.  Which is where you come in.”  

“I need you to accompany me to the bank.”

“Come again?”  Anthony asked, flat-footed again.

“I do not travel through London with thousands of pounds in cash without an escort.  As luck would have it, my usual escort is unavailable.  In exchange for accompanying me to the bank in that lovely car, I will give you something that Dave cannot.” “And what would that be? Exactly?” Anthony asked a little sarcastically.

“A legal identity.  Complete with bank account and safety deposit box.  I assume that you do not have the proper legal documents for employment or banking, otherwise you wouldn’t be carrying all your money and no identifying paperwork in that leather pouch.  Also, you would have produced your papers to Dave already, so he could hire you legally.” 

Now the lad stared at her, mouth open.

“Taking someone’s vital documents is a common form of control, Anthony,” Madame said. 

“Why are you doing this?” Anthony asked, clearly perplexed.

“Oh, I expect you to pay for it,” said Madame.

“That’s more like it.  What sort of usury interest rates…” he started cynically.

“I expect you to pay it forward.  Pay it forward, Anthony.” 

While he stared at her in disbelief, she got up from her seat, “There’s a suit here that I think will fit you,” she waved at a clean and pressed suit as she walked past it, “And the girls will take care of covering up your injuries.” She sat at her large desk and pushed a disguised latch, opening a hidden compartment, from which she withdrew a partially completed birth certificate, passport, national insurance number and driver’s license.

Anthony drifted up beside her, staring at the forger’s work with a low, approving whistle.  

“So, what shall your name be?” she asked.

Without missing a beat, the lad replied, “Anthony J. Crowley.  Anthony Joseph Crowley.”

“What a lovely name!  Please sign where I indicate, with the pen that I give you for each document.  Then you can get ready for our errand.”

***

Crowley indulged in a hot shower without having to wear his unmentionables at the same time before facing the suit.  Which did fit him! But wasn’t the sort of thing he usually wore, I mean, khaki, white, and navy?  Supreme Archangel Gabriel would certainly appreciate something that the rich nephew of a rich biddy might wear.  Snickering to himself Crowley imagined infiltrating Heaven wearing it, might as well wear a golden lounge suit. Ridiculous!

Tucking in the starched white oxford shirttails, he missed his kilt more and more.  Sure, the necktie covered up most of the bruising on his neck, but it still took the combined work of Maisie, Jen, and Gwen to get him, ‘close up ready.’ 

When they pulled most of his hair back in a tiny ponytail, he gestured to his face, “Doesn’t that just make it harder to hide this?”

Gwen looked at him critically from the side with a palette of pancake in one hand and makeup sponge in the other,  “Yeah, luv, but you also don’t look like the bloke they tried to beat up.”

“Mmm, tried is generous.  I think they succeeded, just not as thoroughly as they might have liked,” Crowley conceded.

“That’s our Galahad, honest to a fault!”

“I am not honest!” Crowley protested.

Your kudos and comments make my day ('specially today).

If you liked this, check out my Master List

[slimeywooper]

Labmas AU - Unintended Consequences

Chapter 10 Part 2 - The Kennels

CW: A curse word at the end

"Oh… alright." This was the first time you heard such an introspective statement from Kudari, though to be fair, you had only just met him. From what you have seen, he is prone to switching between emotions without any warning. It was nice to learn that, at least some of the time, he could realize he was becoming upset and try to prevent an episode. Handing the Purrloin to Kudari, you quickly clean the two glass cases and a cage nearby. The Purrloin is the first to be put away, Kudari petting it before the small door is shut. Gently grabbing the Joltik from your shoulder, you tell it goodbye, "Well, it was nice meeting you, Joltik. We are going to put you back with your friends now." After putting it in the glass case, you move to the side so Kudari can also return his Joltik.

With a hint of sadness, Kudari says, "I will see you soon, my friends." Placing his hands in the case, the Joltik begin to crawl single file inside. "I am now getting more time out of my room, so I will make sure that you remain as close together as possible." You are watching his ability to control them with fascination. He vocalizes a few more clicks and the ones still on his arms cease their migration. Kudari closes the case and moves to the one next to it. Clicking again, the last few Joltik depart from him into this new case. After closing the door, he moves on, checking the next few cages. When he spots one that is occupied, he looks at it and opines, "Nasty Fire type, bleh!" He glances at you, distaste apparent on his face. "Most of these Pokemon are easy to handle, but I do not like dealing with Fire types. I suggest instead of pulling it out and holding it while we clean, we should find one of the unoccupied cages and shove it in there. That will cut the time we spend interacting with it down."

Not wanting to push him to do anything that would make him uncomfortable, you reassure him, "That shouldn't be an issue. I'll look for an open cage, clean it, then we can quickly put it inside." Wasn't Nobori part Fire type? Perhaps Kudari suffered from some kind of trauma after the fight that Colress told you the hybrids had when they were teenagers. Or being part Bug type gave him a natural aversion towards them. You hope it is the latter.

The both of you are making progress at a decent pace. Half way through cleaning the kennels, you decide to take a break. "That's it. Let's stop for now. We can go upstairs to the break room and grab a bite to eat," you announce, stretching your body.

Agreeing with your proposal, Kudari states, "That sounds like a good idea, I'm starting to get hungry."

Setting the cart to the side, you both begin your journey to the elevator. Making chitchat, you comment, "I've only been in the break room once before. That was the day Colress and I saw your webbing in the trees. I was pretty terrified, so when I ran into Nobori, he took me there to calm me down."

Kudari pouts, folding his arms. "Was he talking about me?" he questions.

"Well… yeah… but nothing bad. I promise. He just went over basic facts, like how you two are hybrids. I was frightened for Colress at the time, but Nobori was able reassure me the he would be fine," you tell him frankly.

Giving you a skeptical look, he asks, "Why would you worry about him?"

Realizing you may have said too much, you feel compelled to answer honestly, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to stir the pot by telling you this, but Colress may have just slightly implied you were dangerous." You inform him apprehensively, not wanting to cause any upset.

Kudari is quick to defend himself, "I have never been violent without reason! So Dr. Colress was saying bad things about me!" He stops in his tracks, eyes widening with rage at the confirmation. His arms drop down to his side, fists clenching.

You cease walking when he does and reach up to touch his shoulder, "Hey, hey, don't get angry. I know that Colress can be an asshole. In fact, I learned that before I met you. He really likes to criticize people. Sometimes he doesn't even have the courage to be open about it. He'll pass it off as some kind of joke." Stepping in front of him, you wait until he looks at you before continuing, "We're supposed to be going on break. Let's save the talk about work stuff for later. It's time for us to relax." He nods, not saying anything. "We'll have a little something to eat, then continue with our task."

Before you can press the button to call the elevator, the doors open. Two researchers step out, their demeanor shifting when they see Kudari. They fearfully watch him as they sidle against the wall to pass, before making a run for it. Stepping on the elevator, seemingly oblivious to what has just happened, Kudari calls you inside, "What are you waiting for, little one? Let's go." He's tapping his legs on the floor rhythmically.

From his reaction, the answer should have been obvious, but you feel compelled to inquire, "So… what just happened there… is that… normal?"

"Hmm? Oh, the researchers. Yes, yes, completely normal." Kudari waves his hand as if it's nothing important.

You're reminded of how you reacted when you first saw Kudari. It didn't help that Colress had been telling you things about him that added to the fear, but you now feel awful for considering him so scary. You offer him an apology, "When we first met… I'm sorry if my reaction hurt your feelings. It was wrong of me to judge you before getting to know you." He takes up a large portion of the elevator, but you squeeze in beside him.

Kudari is taken aback by this, almost coming across as if he is embarrassed, responding, "It's partly my fault. I wanted to meet you so badly, I did not think about how my appearance may bother you. Sometimes I do not think things through. I also figured you were exaggerating when you said you were afraid of spiders."

"Well, from now on, don't worry about those things. Even if your appearance did bother me, it's my problem to get over." There's a feeling of guilt as you admit to yourself, that yes, his Galvantula half does disturb you. But it's nothing he can control, and it's fucked up for you, or anyone, to hold it against him. "It might take some time, but eventually, I'll be able to handle spiders without any problem! I may even be able to touch the lower half of you someday!" Catching the potential double meaning of that statement and panicking, you attempt to correct yourself, "Not like that! Sorry! I'm trying to be sincere and it's just coming out awkwardly." You cover your face with your hands to hide your shame.

He giggles at your discomfort, "I don't mind if you are awkward. Whenever you are ready to test yourself, let me know. But if you faint again, I'm going to make fun of you, hee hee."

Lowering your hands, you see he has a broad smile on his face. Pressing the 'up' button on the panel, you respond, "Okay, fair enough. Now let's get our lunch. We've been hogging the elevator. There might be people upstairs waiting to use it. I didn't actually bring anything to eat, so hopefully something good is in the vending machine." The door closes, and the elevator makes its ascent to the first floor.

[fayes-fics]

Moments: Chapter 10

Moments masterpost

PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Rating: Teen and up (rating will change in Epilogue 1, can be skipped)

Summary: Slow-burn fic. Read previous chapters of this fic from masterpost linked above. In this chapter, which is a long one, we are witnessing moments during the two-week engagement. These two are really teasing each other now, so it’s getting a little heated as they test if they can stick to their pact. Also readers parents arrive for the wedding.

Warnings: none really… fluff, fluff. A bit suggestive with some kissing, bed sharing and errr finger sucking.

Word Count: 4.4k (this chapter only, 18.8k total for all chapters to date)

Authors Note: We made it, people! This is the end of the line for the main story. Strangely, a family tragedy spurred me to finally complete this last chapter, having been sitting 80% written for the better part of a month. Please note, there will also be two Epilogues for you to enjoy. The first one, the wedding night, will be explicit but can be skipped (i.e. scant plot, all porn). The second is very short but should not be missed! Thank you as ever to my wonderful beta @makaylan <3 I couldn't have done this without her. I hope you all enjoy this!

Chapter 10: Moments from an engagement 

The first person you see upon return to Aubrey Hall is Violet. She takes one look at you walking arm-in-arm and knows. She bustles over, announcing James is napping and embraces you, kissing you on the cheek.

“Y/n, I am so happy,” she chimes, “I'm so glad my son finally admitted to himself, to you, his true feelings. I will never forget how happy he was all those years ago when he met you and how sad he was after. And, well, anyway, this is the best possible outcome. Welcome to the family, my dear.”

“Thank you, Violet,” you respond a little bashful, “I'm so happy,” you admit freely and squeeze Benedict's arm. He smiles down at you as you look up at him. “So happy,” you repeat, holding his gaze.

“I assume we will need to make that announcement to the family after all,” Benedict chuckles.

“Less than a week later,” you laugh, “they will be confused.”

“No, I think it will make more sense than it did a few days ago,” Violet opines. “We all have eyes; we all knew.”

Benedict rolls his eyes. “Point made and point taken, mother.”

She smiles enigmatically and swans away with a wink.

You giggle and kiss his cheek. “See you at dinner, my love.”

“Wait, you are leaving me already?” he pouts, pulling you into a loose embrace.

You run your hands up his arms. “Just to freshen up and get ready for dinner,” you breathe, “now if you hadn't made that other rule, you could have come with me, shared a bath, and gotten changed together. But you and your rules…” you tease with a smirk.

“You little…” he growls, his grip on you tightening, and you know he is picturing everything you just outlined. 

“If you think I will give up teasing you now we are getting married, you are sorely mistaken,” you murmur.

He raises an eyebrow and leans in. “No, my love, I think you are the one who is mistaken,” his voice is a deep dusky whisper, lacing your fingers with his and locking your joined hands behind your back. “Do you not remember all the times I teased you? Hmm? I've had six years to think of new ways to drive you to distraction. Can you imagine? Oh, my love, you have no idea what awaits you.” 

It's a delicious, loaded, filthy promise, and you are breathing heavily when he is done talking.

“But please…” he concludes, releasing his hold on you, “go enjoy that bath. Alone...”

“You…” your turn to growl at him as he backs away with the most devastating crooked smile. He winks and turns his heel, bounding up the stairs two at a time.

—

You are sitting at your vanity table, washed and freshly dressed for dinner, when James wanders in from his adjoining bedroom in his pyjamas.

“What's wrong, my darling? Why aren't you ready for dinner?” you bring him into a cuddle on your lap.

“Mummy, I don't want to have any dinner. Can I just go to bed?” he whines, snuggling into your shoulder.

“Aww, my precious child,” you indulge him. “Are you not hungry?”

He looks sheepish. “I might have eaten too many biscuits at afternoon tea. Mrs White, the cook, well, she said that I could have as many biscuits as I wanted because I'm so handsome,” he grins.

“So you made yourself all full up on biscuits?” you laugh.

“Maybe…” he looks contrite.

“James Darby, you are a naughty boy,” you say with mock outrage, hugging him closer as you do.

“But you still love me, right mummy?” he argues back, giving you the full hazy blue-eyed puppy dog look—Benedict’s look.

“Yes, I do,” you admit, kissing his forehead. God help me, you add silently in your head, realising you will soon have a house with two of them pulling this trick on you. Dear god, what are you letting yourself in for?

“There's something I want to tell you, James, before I go to dinner and you go to bed,” you sway him slightly in your lap. “What do you think of Benedict moving in with us? Or us moving in with him?”

“Did you ask him like I wanted mummy?” he answered animatedly. “Did he say yes?”

You huff a laugh. “Actually, Benedict asked me if we would move in with him. So you both had the same lovely idea.”

James smiles proudly at that.

“He also,” you hesitate briefly, “he also asked me a very important question, and I said yes.”

“What question, mummy?”

“He asked me to be his wife.” You are so nervous.

“That’s nice,” he says unphased. “Does that mean Benedict is my new daddy?”

“Well, it means he loves you very much and wants us to be a family - the three of us. Officially he will be your step-father,” you obfuscate, “But you can call him whatever you want to call him, James darling,” you explain. “He will never replace your Papa, but he wants to be the best father he can be to you.” Your heart hurts a little at all the half-truths you have to tell him, but more than anything, you want James to believe he is the rightful Viscount.

James pats your hand as he sits in your arms. “I like Benedict very much, mummy; I will call him daddy for now. Can we live in his cottage with all the paints?”

You laugh, “Yes, James. And we can all live at Darby Hall or our little cottage. And you can set up an art studio together.”

He claps his hands together gleefully, “I'm so excited, mummy!”

There is a knock at your door. “Come in,” you call, not bothering to look up, assuming it is likely to be your lady's maid or James’ nanny.

“Benedict!” James calls out, and your head whips up. He is dressed in a beautiful blue ensemble that steals your breath. James wrestles himself out of your arms and runs across the room to him. Benedict instinctually drops to his knees, and they hug.

“Mummy told me we are going to be a family, and I can call you what I want to call you. I want to call you daddy,” James enthuses.

Benedict looks at you, full of emotion, then back to his son. “Yes, it's true we are going to be a family, James. I would be so happy if you want to call me daddy,” he replies, swallowing thickly.

“And we can set up an art studio together at our cottage AND your cottage,” James peals with excitement.

Benedict scoops him up and stands. “We can do whatever you want, James. My son,” he kisses him on the cheek as he says those momentous words. James smiles at him, and then they both look over at you.

“Mummy, come join our hug,” James gestures. And you do.

Being in the joint embrace of your fiancee and your son is the best feeling in the world. It's like your world is suddenly whole. You will need to reapply your eye makeup.

“I came to bring you both to dinner,” Benedict offers by way of explanation, “but I see someone is ready for bed.”

“James doesn't want dinner,” you explain to Benedict, wiping away a tear as you all hug, “but I'm sure he would be delighted if his mummy and daddy put him to bed together before we go for dinner.”

James nods rapidly, and Benedict's eyes soften to the point of being dewy.

“It would be an honour,” he replies, his voice cracking, looking between you.

You walk hand in hand into James’ room, and he climbs happily into his bed as you both take up a place on either side. You pick up a book and read him a fairy tale, taking turns to make funny voices that delight your little boy. As James’ eyes droop, Benedict grabs your hand and stops reading. 

Your eyes meet, and he whispers, “Thank you for this.”

“We can do this every night if you want, my love,” your voice thick with emotion.

“I can't wait for the rest of our lives together,” he confesses. 

Yes, you definitely need to reapply your eye makeup now.

___

Benedict takes your hand as you descend the main staircase to the dining room and raises it to his lips, kissing the back of it as you approach the door. 

“I know my family can be overwhelming, but don't forget they already adore you,” he whispers against your knuckles.

You smile at him. “I adore them too.”

And two hours later, you have had the dinner of your dreams, being warmly welcomed into his loving, spirited family.

“Benedict,” you whisper as you leave the room a little drunk on wine, “can we sleep together tonight?” you plead.

“We have our agreement,” he reminds, sounding somewhat reluctant about it, as a hand sweeps around your back.

“No, I know; I mean actually sleep. Very chaste. Just,” you sigh, “I want to fall asleep in your arms.”

He pulls you into a tight embrace. “That sounds wonderful, my love. Do you promise nothing untoward?” he smiles against your cheek.

“Your honour is safe with me, Mr Bridgerton,” you giggle, “at least for tonight,” you add.

“Then I accept, soon-to-be Mrs Bridgerton,” he chuckles, and your stomach flips at the idea of that being your name in just a few short days.

A few minutes later, you are lying on your bed, fully clothed, your head on his chest, your bodies entwined—just the embers from the fireplace give the room a faint glow. Your eyes droop from the wine and the warmth of his body seeping into yours. You listen to the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your ear and trace mindless shapes on his forearm with your fingertips.

“I love you so much,” you hear him whisper as you drift off.

“Love you too,” is your slurred reply as sleep claims you.

__

Waking up in Benedict’s arms is blissful. Somehow during the night, you have ended up as the little spoon in a hug. His embrace is warm and enveloping, a lovely place to be.

It's also not entirely unproblematic. You can feel something hard and insistent against your bum cheek through your joint clothing. The temptation to reach back and squeeze is strong, but he is sleeping so peacefully that you dare not disturb him. Or break your pact. Tempting as it may be to do precisely that. 

So you just lay there quietly and daydream about how things used to be when you woke up together and how things will be once you are married. You are in a unique position to know so much about intimacy with someone before marriage. Most people have no idea what they are getting into. You know this man’s body almost as well as your own and thinking about it makes your hips flex on instinct.

A warm hand grabs your hip bone. “Stop that,” he growls, thick with sleep.

“Sorry,” you reply. 

“No, you’re not,” he grumbles amicably.

“You’re right,” you flip over to face him, “I’m not,” you smile and crowd your head closer to him, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Kissing is acceptable, yes?” you whisper against his skin.

You feel his smile more than you see it.

“Yes, but maybe not whilst lying in bed together,” the hand on your clothed hip squeezes, “it’s entirely far too tempting…,” he breathes, ghosting against your lips.

“Mmmm, then get out of my bed, Mr Bridgerton,” you tease, capturing his bottom lip between your own and sucking it gently, enjoying the hitch in his breath and the flex of his fingers.

“You are a menace,” he murmurs when you release his lip, his breath warm against your cheek.

“And so are you. I just said you could leave my bed,” you kiss his lips, “but… here… you… still… are,” you challenge; between each word, you kiss him lightly, holding his face with your hands.

He growls, and suddenly you are pinned under him on the bed. Your senses are alight; hands caged under his against the pillow, his warmth and weight on top of you causing your heart to flutter in your chest and a warm tingle elsewhere. He stares down at you, his pupils blown wide, his lips damp from your kisses, breathing a little ragged, just like your own. 

“Mummy….?” 

You startle and look aside to see James standing in the now-open doorway to his adjoining room, rubbing his eyes sleepily. 

“Daddy…?” he adds hesitantly upon recognising Benedict. 

“James!” You both respond in unison. Jumping away from each other as if burned.

“Good morning, my love,” you add, smoothing down the dress you slept in and rounding the bed to kneel and hug him. 

“Why are you and daddy in the same bed?” he asks.

“Remember how I used to share a bed with your papa? Well, your daddy and I will be married soon, so we will share a bed too. Does that make sense?” You try to explain as best you can, feeling Benedict’s eyes on you.

“Yes, but does that mean I can’t sleep in your bed anymore, mummy, like when I am scared?”

“No, no, James,” Benedict interjects and walks over, dropping to his knees next to you. “If you are scared, you can always share a bed with your mummy and me. We will give you hugs and help you sleep, my son, always.” He ruffles James' hair, and James crowds into him, seeking a hug.

“Thank you,” James replies.

“Now, shall we get ready for breakfast? Your mummy has a busy day today, James; that means we can paint together,” Benedict explains.

“Hurrah, I’ll go get dressed,” James chimes happily, extracting himself and running away to his room.

“I do?” You look at Benedict, puzzled, as you both stand up.

“Mother said last night she is taking you into Canterbury for a first fitting with the local modiste there, remember?” He teases.

“That’s today?!” You go wide-eyed.

He chuckles. “Two weeks is not much time to make a wedding dress, especially one that needs to be as special as you,” he adds, his voice soft but with an undercurrent of heat.

You close your eyes briefly and sigh. “I love you, but please get out of my bedroom Mr Bridgerton. You cannot say such things and expect me to keep the terms of our pact,” you finish, staring him down.

His eyes flash something sinful, but he bows respectfully. “Fair enough. I shall take my leave, fair lady.”

He opens and disappears out of your door. Then he swings back in on one arm suddenly, his face smirking. “If it helps, I like you in ivory; it looks so wonderful against your flushed skin when you’re about to come apart in my arms,” he whispers dangerously with a conspiratorial wink.

He has to duck, laughing, to avoid the pillow you lob at him—total menace.

__

“Oh, that looks wonderful on you, my dear,” Violet assures as you stand on the raised platform at the modiste. You stare at the mirror, nonplussed; all you can see is some raw silk (in ivory, for him) and many pins.

“Violet, you flatter me; this is just a first fitting,” you shake your head affectionately.

“You will make a beautiful bride,” she assures.

“Thank you,” you demure. 

“Have you yet written to your parents to inform them of the happy news?” 

“Yes, I did. It’s such short notice, but hopefully, they will be able to attend. I’m sure they will be surprised. I think they expected me to stay a widow for life,” you chuckle.

“Did they not know of your history with my son?” She seems curious.

“I was matched from birth to my previous husband; they would not have taken kindly to the news that I was with someone else. On my part, at least, it was a secret—it had to be. Much as I would have preferred it otherwise,” you sigh, smoothing down the front of the silk, suddenly rueful for all the lost time without your true love.

“You loved him then,” it’s not a question as much as a statement:

“I loved Benedict from the moment we met,” you admit quietly. “And I hated my life after. I tried to make the best of the situation, and John was never a bad man. It would have been easier if he were the villain of the piece. He was a good man and a good father. But… he wasn’t my heart.” You shrug.

She reaches over and squeezes your hand. “I knew Benedict was in love from the moment he came home one evening. He just looked so at peace. Like he had met someone who made his future clear. He told me about you not long after. And then, when you had to be married, it broke his heart. He has loved you for as long as you’ve loved him; I can assure you of that, my dear” she draws you into a hug as she sees your misty eyes.

You are grateful she does not mention James in this semi-public setting. And as she pulls away, she gently touches your cheek. 

“If your parents cannot make it, I am certain the Viscount would be honoured to walk you down the aisle to marry his little brother,” she says softly. 

“Thank you, Violet. It truly will be an honour to join your family, and I cannot wait to be a Bridgerton.” You confess.

“You already are, my dear,” she smiles.

—-

The next ten days are a whirlwind of wedding planning, decisions and appointments, managed mainly by Violet, who seems very happy to lead the charge.

Except at dinner, you barely see your intended or even James, who seems ecstatic to be Benedict’s shadow while you are occupied. Every evening he regales you with stories of their adventures together that day - swimming, hiking, painting, horse riding. And every evening, you wish you had been with them instead. 

In the afternoon, three days before your wedding, you finally get some alone time without a wedding-related commitment. James is napping while you take tea on the outdoor terrace, revelling in some quiet time with a book and the sun's warmth. 

You hear footsteps up the stairs to your left, and suddenly there he is. Your fiancée. Looking so handsome in a maroon waistcoat and cravat. He seems surprised to see you.

“No wedding commitments this afternoon, my love?” He teases, leaning over and kissing your cheek. 

“None,” you smile, “I’m enjoying a quiet moment after days of hubbub.” 

“Hmmm I can imagine,” his crooked smile in sympathy causing your stomach to flip as it always does.

You bite your lip, deciding to tease him. “I’m feeling so very… excited to be your wife.”

“Excited, hmm?” He raises an eyebrow and drops to his knee in front of you, the same stance as when he proposed.

“Yes, perhaps you can help me with that,” you whisper, grabbing his hand and using it to gather the layers of your dress in your lap.

“Y/n,” he warns, his voice a low rumble, “we agreed, remember?”

“Benedict, please,” you murmur, “just touch me.” He shakes his head and lowers your dress back down as you pout.

He gently grabs your left hand, lifts it to his lips, and kisses the betrothal ring. Then with a sinful smirk, he suddenly envelopes that finger with his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking, his hot tongue swirling against the jewellery and your flesh. Your breath stutters hard, something hot blooming in your chest.

“Don’t mistake my proposal to be chaste for lack of wanting, darling,” he drawls after sinfully pulling off your finger with a wet pop. “It is, in fact, very much the exact opposite.” His breath is warm over your knuckles as he looks at you through his lashes.

“Are you actively trying to kill me, Mr Bridgerton?” Your voice breathy, leaning your forehead against his.

“Maybe…” his little smile is something dangerous.

There’s a fizzing slide of want down your spine, and you grab his left hand and mimic his actions. Engulfing his ring finger in your mouth, tasting his tangy skin. Sucking insistently and running your tongue into the slightly webbed skin between his fingers, his knuckle trapped against the roof of your mouth. He groans and surges against your leg. You intend to remind him of what you have done to other parts of his body in the past, and the message does not go unnoticed.

“Anything you can do. I can do too,” you challenge with a raised eyebrow keeping his finger there gently with your teeth. 

“This is a dangerous game,” he concedes through gritted teeth. “Three days,” he adds, his voice tight, as his finger slips from your lips.

“Indeed, my love,” you wink. 

__

The morning of your wedding feels momentous. As if your whole life has been leading to this day. The day you wished you could have had six years before. 

You greet your parents as they arrive from their journey, so pleased to see them. They are so very keen to know more about your seeming whirlwind courtship and surprise engagement and you have a few moments with them before your fiancé joins you. 

“Lord and Lady y/l/n,” Benedict greets respectfully as he walks in, “it’s so wonderful to meet you.”

“Mr Bridgerton. I trust you will treat my daughter well,” your father stated, shaking his hand firmly.

“Of course, my lord. Y/n and James are the most important people to me in the world.” Benedict replies solemnly, looking over at you.

Your mother nudges you as the men start to talk. “I see why you like him. He reminds me so much of little James. You seemed to have picked a husband to match your handsome little son.” Her comment is offhand with a chuckle, but your stomach lurches. You may have to tell them the truth someday. “But it seems like such a short courtship. Are you certain about him, my dear?”

You decide to tell a partial truth. “I knew Benedict in the past, mother. He was a friend of a friend. He’s a trustworthy gentleman.”

“Oh of that, I have no doubt,” she nods, “the reputation of the Bridgertons as an illustrious family of excellent pedigree is known everywhere, my dear. It’s more about if you are certain this is a good thing. For you? For James?” Her motherly concern is touching.

“Benedict and James adore each other,” you assure her.

As if wanting to prove your point, James comes running in. He makes a beeline to Benedict, who picks him up instinctively and kisses his cheek.

“Hello, son. Look who came to see us for the wedding. It’s your grandparents,” Benedict tells him softly.

James whips around to look at you and your mother, then your father, who has moved to pour himself a brandy. 

“Did he just call him son?” Your mother whispers, a smile plastered on her face as she watches Benedict put James back on his feet. “Good lord, now I see them together; the resemblance is far too striking. Daughter, I think we need to have a private discussion, do we not?”

“Not now, mother,” you answer through gritted teeth, refusing to meet her questioning gaze.

James walks over and greets his grandfather, the embodiment of manners.

“My dear boy. My, how you’ve grown since we saw you last,” your father chimes, “come sit with me. Tell me all about your latest interests.”

“I like painting, just like my daddy does,” James announces proudly, taking a seat next to your father.

“I don’t recall the Viscount being a painter,” your father muses out loud.

“Not my papa, my daddy,” James corrects with a little frown.

“James means me,” Benedict admits quietly, taking a seat next to you.

The look of surprise on both your parents' faces is a picture.

“When we announced our engagement, we allowed James to call Benedict whatever he wanted,” you offer by way of explanation, “he chose that.”

There is a moment of silence then your father clears his throat.

“So you are a painter Mr Bridgerton?” Your father begins. “What sort of income does that afford for the provision of a family?”

Benedict looks sheepish and goes to answer, but you cut him off.

“Father,” you admonish, “James and I are more than adequately provided for by the Darby estate. It matters not what Benedict can provide financially. I love him with all my heart, and that is all that matters. All that will ever matter. Even if the Darby fortune is taken from us somehow, know that I will still choose this, him, every time. Always.”

You feel Benedict’s eyes on you, his mouth slightly agape, surprised at your impassioned outburst.

“I love my daddy too,” James pipes up, wriggles off the sofa next to your father, and walks over, climbing into Benedict’s lap. You ruffle James' hair affectionately as he twines his arms around Benedict's neck and lays his head on his shoulder. The three of you truly are a little family, and you couldn’t be happier.

Your father looks utterly bewildered, as if the concept is entirely alien to him; he just nods politely and swigs his brandy. You feel a sudden melancholy at the realisation that your parents never had the privilege of a love match. While they have companionship, their marriage was arranged, much like yours with John. It makes you reach out and grab Benedict’s hand. So grateful for him, for what you have had and will share, the journey you’ve had to experience to finally be together, somehow making it even more rewarding and all the sweeter. As your fingers entangle, you share a look - a moment - that tells you everything you will ever need you will find in or with each other.

And a few hours later, as you stand next to your father looking up the petal-strewn church aisle ahead you see your two boys awaiting you - Benedict and ring bearer James, with smiles on both their beautiful faces - and you know this is the moment you will treasure the most. Forever.

— The End —

Tagging: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @queenofshinigamis @khaleesjjj @starslibrary @magical-spit @honeylovemoon @justwant2read8421 @nikaprincessofkattegat

[villainousshakespeare]

Stalking a King Chapter 15

A HUGE THANK YOU to @shae-annelore for the gorgeous title image. I absolutely love it!!!

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14

Henry V/OFC

Multi-Chapter

Historical AU, Historical Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Angst, Sexual Tension, Bathing, Smut, Oral Sex (F&M receiving), Loss of Virginity, Wedding Night

Lisabet is a high-born Lady of Orleans, France. When King Henry V conquers her city, taking her brother hostage along with other nobles, she vows to be revenged upon the foreign invader and rescue her brother. Dressed in boys clothing she hopes to escape notice in Henry’s camp, but the English King has a much more perceptive eye than she anticipated.

@yespolkadotkitty @just-the-hiddles @hopelessromanticspoonie @wine-and-whines @arch-venus25 @caffiend-queen @devilish–doll @enchantedbyhiddles @hiddlesholic @i-do-not-fangirl-i-fanwoman @kellatron55 @ladyoftheteaandblood @latent-thoughts @yespolkadotkitty@maryxglz @myoxisbroken @nuggsmum @nildespirandum @pedeka @redfoxwritesstuff @sinfully-lustful-darling @vodka-and-some-sass @wrathkitty @kingtwhiddleston @wolfsmom1 @poetic-fiasco @shiningloki @dangertoozmanykids101 @bookworm-christina @amwolowicz @delightfulheartdream @frostbitten-written @what-a-flammable-heart @tom-hlover @nonsensicalobsessions @myraiswack @loki-yoursaviourishere @ghostypau @ms-cellanies @colorfulfreakstudentpizza @mareebird @colorfulfreakstudentpizza  @szycha22 @chokemedaddyloki @queenofallhobos @just-the-hiddles-reads

If Henry had but one wish in his soul at that moment, it would be that the man lounging in a chair by the window indolently eating cheese and meet with his knife would die a violent, bloody death by his hand.

He had met the Constable of France a handful of times, and never failed to find Compte Dreux a pompous, humorless man in dire need of being taken down a peg or two in his own estimation. Now that he had been the man's prisoner for some hours (oh, the shame of such a fact would never be washed clean!) that estimation had declined even further, until only the man's demise would satiate the deep antipathy in which Henry held him.

Even more than he hated Dreux, however, Henry currently loathed himself even more. However had he come to this? Taken like a raw recruit by a band of common soldiers who did not even know who he was! No, the Frenchmen had thought they had stumbled upon some wealthy lordling only, good for a ransom of some coin, but not much else. They soon learned better when he quickly dispatched three of them from their horses. One, he was quite certain, would never again obtain consciousness. In the end, alas, the score of them had proven simply too many for one single man. They had ringed him round, threatening to shoot his horse with an arrow if he moved.

It was then that his true tormentor had ridden up. The look of surprise morphing into smug satisfaction and unholy glee as the Constable realized who, exactly, him men had waylaid on the road. With a bow from his saddle worthy of any court mummer, Dreux had relieved the men of their prize, much to their consternation, with airy promises he would no doubt forget to reimburse them for their lost ransom.

Henry had been quickly disarmed and brought with a wealth of mock courtesy to Ruen and the tallest turret room of its imposing castle. Alain Dashard, completely overwhelmed by the scope of the drama unfolding behind his battlements, had quickly set about fortifying his keep as though the Devil himself were about to lay siege. Henry had been left to the dubious care of Dreux.

"I wager it doth cause you no small pain," the oily Constable now opined from where he lounged in his chair, "that you must wonder somewhere in your soul, if we did have a warning in advance that you were headed this day towards Ruen."

Henry knew where the man was going with this line of insinuation, and yet he could not stop the twist of the knife in his heart at the other's words.

"We sought not to disguise our progress, Sir," he answered in clipped tones. "T'would not take much to learn that we were near."

"Tis true, we could have stumbled onto thee," Dreux allowed with a false smile. "Or else, it surely hath occurred to thee, someone who values sovereignty of France might seek to send us word that we prepare. I hear, for as you know rumors do fly more swift than any bird doth take to wing, that you were married just some days ago. How doth thy wife, the lovely Lisabet? So beauteous and headstrong I recall, she could but come from these our shores of France."

"My wife was very well when we did part," Henry ground out with false cheer, not wanting to give the man the pleasure of seeing his arrow hit its mark.

"It may not have been mentioned to thee," Dreux went on, clearly enjoying his game, "but time was I did think to wed the chit. Her father panted hotly for the match, and Lisabet herself, I blush to say, was far from shy in her pursuit of me."

Henry could hear the taunt in the man's words. The deliberate insinuation that Lisabet had desired Dreux was unmistakable. It made the King's blood boil and his eye swim in red to imagine his Lisabet infatuated with the man before him. Still, he couldn't count the idea out. Phillipe had told him that the match was much advanced by her parents. Dreux was handsome, with severe features and dark, curling hair. He was a proven warrior and hero of France. Why would she not wish for a match with such a man?

"If all you say is truth, dear Constable," Henry said with a deceptively mild voice, "I wonder she was free for me to wed."

"I fear I chose not to advance my suit," the sigh accompanying these words was filled was regret. "Though beautiful she without question is, I found her manners lacking for my taste. I could not in the end take for my wife a bride who came unchaste into my bed. I must applaud thee for thy tolerance that thou were able to look past her fault."

It was a mortal insult, and the other man knew it. Henry clenched both his hands into fists, eyes flicking to the six guards standing near the door in the Compte's colors. They were all heavily armed and armored, as was his nemesis, while Henry lacked so much as a dagger at his belt. There was no way he could overpower them all. As much as he longed to strike the smug look off of Dreux's face, he knew he would never make it across the room to do so.

"I will not always be within these walls," Henry seethed, "and when I find myself once more set free, I will remember every word you say that I may make you eat them all at once. The Queen is of a virtue without peer, and you would do well to remember that."

"You seem quite certain that you will walk free. A bit presumptuous as all things stand now."

"You would not dare to kill a Crowned King!" Henry gasped, staring at the man. "The Holy Oil was placed upon my brow, and God himself did call me to the throne!"

"That same oil once did dampen Richard's head, and yet your father snatched from him his crown."

"My Lord, a visitor hath just arrived," the call from the other side of the door halted what would have been Henry's mad lunge towards his captor.

The Constable glanced quickly at Henry and then stood to open the door a sliver, his men all putting hands to sword hilts as he did so. In so much as he could be amused by anything at this moment, Henry found distant satisfaction that they seemed to fear him so much. Oh, how he would enjoy proving their fears worthwhile!

"What visitor? Hath he no name or rank?"

"He is a Holy Friar, good My Lord, and says he has news from the English camp."

"Well, well, what have the fates brought to our door? How looks this Friar, doth he speak the truth, or is he merely counterfeit his faith? A knight may wear a Friars Holy Cowl and yet still keep his skill at arms intact."

"I know not whether he bears truth or no," the servant hedged, no doubt aware of the Compte's quick vengeance, "but I would swear that he is not a knight. The man is older, slight, and stoops a bit. A lifetime worth of worry in his eyes."

"And comes this Friar here all by himself?"

"Why, so much bravery from the noble Dreux," Henry taunted.

"A boy alone doth bear him company."

"Well, there you have it Dreux! Bar all the gates!" Henry mocked. "A Friar and a beardless boy approach. Tis time the French did cower down in fear!"

"I cower before no one nor nothing. Go! Bring these messengers into our site."

Henry paced back and forth like a caged lion, an apt metaphor if ever there was one. He was glad that he had managed to taunt the Constable until he had the friar brought up. Whatever news the cleric brought from his camp his foe would never share it with him otherwise.

He had hoped, at first, that the churchman would prove a ruse that was meant to facilitate his escape, but the man was taking so long on the stairs, surely he must be what he seemed rather than a soldier in disguise. Would Lisabet send someone to rescue him? Most likely she was still unaware of his capture. Dreux had sent a sneering letter when he first was taken, but it was addressed to his soldier of arms, not to Lisabet. Besides, when he had set out, Lisabet had disappeared. She was just as likely to be here at Ruen Castle than amongst his men.

If he did ever get out of Ruen, whether via escape or ransom, would Lisabet even want him? Had she been riding to his enemies that morning as he had believed? Now that he had had time to think, he wondered. Lisabet was not the type to run away. Had he misjudged her?

A knock sounded again on the heavy door, and a pair of dirt-stained travelers entered. Henry stopped still where he paced, desperately trying to keep his expression neutral. The man in friars' robes was indeed older, stooped and out of breath from his climb. Henry noted him and silently cursed his name, as well known as his own. It was the youth on whom the friar leaned thought that captured all of Henry's attention. Slight and yet holding himself with an arrogance that belied his size, the boy looked disdainfully around the room.

"Good Friar, welcome sir, unto Ruen," Dreux nodded to the older of their visitors. "I hear you have word of the English camp."

"What we would speak is for your ears alone," it was the boy who replied, of course. "Send you these men away and we will talk."

"I spoke unto your master, not to you," the crack in Dreux's voice would have undone many a soldier.

"My master is undone by all the stairs," was the unaffected reply of the servant. "Have manners here in France come to this state, that we no better are than Englishmen? You offer him no wine, no place to sit?"

"I do not take well to your tone, my boy," Dreux snarled as Henry willed the youth to tread carefully. "I am no village mayor you address, but of the high Nobility of France."

"All reason more to show some due respect to God's own servants on this mortal plane."

Henry held his breath as the Constable fingered his dagger, weighing the words. This was not a man to push too far, but a deadly, vain, and quick to anger Lord used to having his way even with royalty. Would he retaliate against the insulant page, and if he did, how quickly could Henry be able to insert his own body between the enraged Compte and his slender detractor?

"You have some moxie in you, my brash youth," the Compte at last broke the tension with a laugh that allowed a fraction of the tension to release from Henry's coiled frame.

"Why yes, for I am French, Lord Constable."

"Enough, Phillipe, I can speak for myself," the friar said at last, raising his head as his breathing returned to normal. "Forgive, my Lord, my servant, young Phillipe. A headstrong lad, as you can clearly see, but he doth speak some reason nonetheless. I would be glad of drink and place to sit. And then, if you will give me willing ear, I'll tell you of the English and their camp."

"Oh, very well. Guy, go and fetch some wine. And Piere bring us also some more food. Now sit you hear, good friar and begin. I am impatient to hear all your news."

Henry watched as two of the guards bowed their way out of the room, going quickly to do their master's bidding. That left four, plus the Constable. With a great, heaving sigh, the friar sank onto the window seat where Dreux had previously been sitting. His page, after helping him to descend, wandered to the other side of the large window, hands behind his back as he peered out at the countryside as though disinterested now that his master was seen to.

"The camp, I fear, is in great disarray," the cleric began. "I know not how it came to be that way, but it is said the King has gone away, and there is none fit to assume command."

"He has no Captain there to speak for him?" the eagerness was clear in the Constable's voice.

"It seems there is dispute among the ranks," the friar continued. "The Queen did seek to seize command of all, but old Sir Roger dose dispute her claim."

"The Queen? What, you mean little Lisabet?" Dreux laughed with derision, coming closer to peer at the man. "Why even one unnatural as she would not seek so to turn things on their head!"

"And yet that is the news that I have heard. Half of the men, led by the Lady's brother, have pledged themselves to her, and were inclined to march here to Ruen and siege the town."

"A beardless boy no older than your page, and some presumptuous witch do challenge me?"

"I warned you once already watch your tongue," Henry snapped, advancing a few steps on Dreux. "I will not hear my wife disparaged so."

"You give no orders here, your Majesty," Dreux snarled. "Tis obvious you can't control the chit. Had it so fallen out I wed the brat, she would be even now behind high walls, the first of many sons within her womb, and learning where her proper place should be."

"How lucky then, for all that she chose me."

"Chose? What woman chooses her own mate? Her grasping parents saw there was a crown within her grasp and being filled with greed, cared not that they betrayed their home for it."

"You say that you have met my Lady Wife," Henry laughed, "but I cannot conceive that this is so. Noone who talks to her a single time could ere believe another sets her path. No, Lisabet alone controls her fate, and it is merely my life's greatest joy that she consented to become my Queen. Think not that your pathetic fantasy of her your simple and obedient wife would ever have the smallest chance to be. A flame that blazes out as bright as she could not so be contained by anyone. She is so far above you, Constable, and yes, above me too, I do confess, that you could climb to heaven and yet still she would look down upon you from on high."

"What, do you now turn troubadour and wine as love sots and unmanned men may do?"

"If I had such a trick for word or song, I might indeed do as you would suggest. For there is not a woman ever born who doth deserve it more than Lisabet. She is my love, my life, my dearest self. For her sake I would seek to move the sun. It is a pity you will never know the sweet embrace of such a one as she."

"You paint a moving picture, I must say," Dreux scoffed. "Perhaps when you are buried in the ground, I'll sample that embrace you moan about."

"I fear, my Lord, that this will have to do."

As Henry watched, heart in his mouth, the friar's page smoothly slid the dagger Dreux had been using for his meal across the table and pressed the point to his throat.

"Hold, drop your swords, unless you want him dead," tip of the dagger drew a bead of blood from Compte Dreux's neck. At a nod from the Compte the guards' swords clattered to the ground. "I thank you, husband, for your pretty words."

"I meant them, every one, my Lisabet."

"Yes, yes, that all is very well and good," Lawrence grumbled, drawing Dreux's sword and tossing it to Henry. "But can it wait 'till we are out of here? I have gone through enough and more today."

"Forgive me, Father, this and all my sins," Henry grinned at his secretary. "Both those I've done and those I'll soon commit."

As his eyes met Lisabet's in a hot glance that turned her face an appealing shade of pink, Henry was barely aware of his long-suffering secretary's weary groan.

[resowrites]

That Which Remains - Chapter One

Summary: Lt. Ne-Lahn has joined the Enterprise as an OR, an Officer capable of working in multiple sections of the ship. However Ne-Lahn is from the planet Valaar, a mysterious world whose position near Klingon space means the Federation are eager to establish diplomatic relations. Captain Pike has been tasked with gathering information on Ne-Lahn and Valaar, but what will he and the Enterprise discover upon being drawn further into the mystery?

Characters: Captain Christopher Pike, Strange New Worlds crew, OC!Ne-Lahn

Warnings: (for the chapter not the sneak peek) Occasional adult/dark themes, occasional threat of violence/danger, technical/space jargon, angsty, eventual LGBTQ+ themes including homophobia, sparse on fluff, lightly beta’d.

WC: 2316

My work must not be copied, reposted, or translated elsewhere. Likes, follows, reblogs and comments are thoroughly welcome and appreciated! No copyright infringement intended, gifs/pics not my own. I hope you all enjoy and thanks for visiting!

Links to next chapters: Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

Chapter one:

"So, will this be your first time on a starship?" The shuttlecraft pilot eyed Ne-Lahn eagerly. 

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Ne-Lahn resumed closing her eyes and attempted to gather her thoughts. Although she was now well acquainted with human curiosity, she detested their need for small talk at the most inappropriate of times. When her commission for the U.S.S. Enterprise came through, she was dubious as to the reasoning behind it. A flagship was certainly an adequate testing ground for her new position - an Omnia Rotundiora or OR Lieutenant. This essentially meant she was trained to work in all sections of the ships, barring medical. 

The point of an OR is to have a failsafe in the event of crew shortfall or emergencies. And Ne-Lahn was one hell of a failsafe, she excelled in everything from piloting to system maintenance to warp core repair. If the pilot scheme worked successfully, every ship in the fleet would get its own OR, and hopefully, many future crises could be averted entirely. Tugging on her white dress, the traditional uniform of her people, Ne-Lahn struggled to understand her nervousness. She was beyond qualified and thanks to acing Starfleet Academy, well versed in dealing with mostly human colleagues.

Perhaps her apprehension was due to the intrigue she'd no doubt draw. Ne-Lahn was a Valaarian, a humanoid species from a planet on the outermost edge of the Beta Quadrant, a stone's throw from both the Romulan and Klingon Empires. Valaar had remained a mystery to the Federation for generations. Despite being a highly advanced, space-faring species, they had no interest in joining the United Federation of Planets and in fact, they avoided contact with almost any outside influence. Despite frequent attempts at first contact and offers of mutual trade and protection, the Federation had all but given up on learning any more about Valaar or its people.

Now Starfleet only attempted contact when it did its annual sweep of the area. Valaar was hailed and offered greetings as well as aide, but recently the planet refused to answer its calls, and thanks to curious flight patterns and subspace chatter, Starfleet suspected all was not well in the quadrant. Of course, Valaar was welcome to do business with either the Klingons or Romulans or whomever else. However, its tactical location and rich mineral supply as per scans and probes made of the planet would make it an ideal target for colonisation or looting. Valaar appeared to have good planetary defenses. Beyond basic composition reports and energy signatures, little information could be gathered about the planet.

Despite concern from some of the board members higher up, Ne-Lahn was welcomed into Starfleet with open arms as are any species willing to pledge allegiance to the rules and values opined by the Federation. Although a few other Valaarians had previously joined the Federation in some capacity, Ne-Lahn was the first of her species to join Starfleet. She sprung to the top of most of her classes and held a spotless record even if her demeanour left something to be desired. Of course, Starfleet and indeed the Enterprise were familiar with austere figures. Amongst the bridge crew alone, Lt. Spock, Cdr Chin-Reilly, Lt. Noonien-Singh, and Lt. Hemmer all had rather stern, if diverse, personalities. 

Ne-Lahn however had a degree of reserve and rigidity that would surprise even the most severe of Starfleet personnel. It's not that she intended to be rude or unfeeling, she was simply a species that was economical in every aspect of their being. Frivolous conversation and emotional overreach were as foreign to her as the vast dunes of Vulcan. Valaar was a densely forested, but highly radiant planet. Valaarians had exceptionally good eyesight and could see beyond the higher extremes of the light spectrum. 

Despite this, however, their skin was a bright white, with the most prominent trait beyond their pale eyes and flowing black hair (both males and females were not permitted to cut their hair shorter than waist length), being the two dark red stripes that flowed down the side of their cheeks. The lines indicated age and though they began as dots in infancy, they soon spread down their necks to their chests. Otherwise, they mostly resembled human beings, even in the height differences between men and women. Their society was predominantly male though females were held in higher regard. Much like Vulcan, Valaarian society was a complex web of competing houses and entrenched caste systems. 

Valaarians frowned on all outside influence and though they discouraged going off-world, it was not forbidden. However, reentry into Valaarian society was not permitted and Ne-Lahn would never again be acknowledged or allowed home. This however suited her well enough - she found her previous life stifling and insufficient for her curious and highly intelligent mind. Her specialty was the sciences, namely botany, and she looked forward to investigating and analysing off-world flora and fauna. That was when she wasn't working in whatever section had a need for her many other skills. 

Her itinerary for the first week had her posted mostly to helm on the bridge. This would throw her into the deep end quite quickly, not to mention force her to ingratiate herself with the bridge crew. Worse still, Captain Pike had requested a meeting with her at 18:00 hours, once her induction and tour had been completed. Of course, she knew what the agenda of the meeting would be. Captain Pike had no doubt been ordered to gather as much information on her and Valaar as possible so that eventually her home planet could be conducted into the Federation - and be a useful ally in that particular area of space. The last thing the Federation needed was another hostile superpower in the Beta Quadrant, which was already mostly off limits. 

The Valaarians would be useful spies and trade partners and could help advance the Federation cause to their competitors. Ne-Lahn wanted to scoff at the very thought. Valaar would never join any single galaxy-wide confederation. Autonomy and nationalism were an insidious mix - and one the Valaarians held onto tightly. She didn't look forward to explaining as much to her new Captain at their very first meeting but it was important they knew where she stood, and the fact that she was neither a guide nor spokesperson for her home planet. 

"Shuttlecraft to Enterprise, we're requesting permission to dock." The shuttlecraft pilot broke Ne-Lahn's reverie and she looked on with trepidation as the small craft veered to port side, preparing to land within the hangar bay of the enormous ship. Once they'd touched down, the pilot said their goodbyes though Ne-Lahn didn't respond. The pilot rolled their eyes as Ne-Lahn had seen many humans do throughout their experiences with her. But she had more pressing matters to attend to. An Ensign joined her as soon as she exited the shuttlecraft and escorted her through the lower decks to her living quarters.

Much in the same way as Vulcans, Valaarians also had a need to meditate in the evening, and Starfleet was happy to assign Ne-Lahn her own quarters, brightly lit of course and sparse of either furniture or decoration as per her request. Valaarians had little regard or use for decor and the spartan conditions of the room Ne-Lahn now entered met such standards. She placed her luggage at the foot of the bed and turned to see the Ensign still standing in the doorway.

"Is there anything else Ensign?" She regarded the small, deeply tanned man with a hint of annoyance she hoped didn't come across too strongly in her voice. Despite not personally caring too much either way, she recognised the need to make a good first impression amongst the crew. After all, if her placement was successful, she'd spend the next five years with these people, and being on the fleet's flagship was a position she wished to retain. It was well known that Enterprise was given all the best assignments and crew members. She'd learn a lot here if she could hold onto the position. The ensign stared at her for a few more moments, having never met a Valaarian before, and it took Ne-Lahn repeating her request to capture their attention.

"Er... yes, sorry, I'm to take you on a tour of the ship and introduce you to the different department heads." Ne-Lahn withheld a sigh. It had been a long journey from Starbase Eleven and she had hoped to nap before her induction to Enterprise began. Still, she nodded at the Ensign, who still hadn't managed to take their eyes off her, and followed them to the Mess Hall where their little trip would begin. The Ensign continued sneaking nervous glances at Ne-Lahn. She wondered what was so fascinating about her. It was true that Valaarians were considered conventionally attractive by human standards, though this was one area of ship life that Ne-Lahn had zero interest in. 

Her duty was towards the Enterprise, and with no home to return to, at least not on Valaar, she was determined to integrate herself successfully even if she remained detached and duty focused. She intended to tell Captain Pike as much, though she was sure he'd probably already read, and re-read her file. After their brief walk around the Mess Hall, she was acquainted with the several decks that led to engineering at one end, and the bridge at the other. She exchanged brief introductions with Lt. Noonien-Singh and she noted the firm handshake and strong composure of the young woman. 

From there she was led to sickbay and reminded by a jovial and warm Dr. M'Benga about her physical, which would need to be conducted later that day, if possible. Ne-Lahn smiled at the reminder but said nothing. She dreaded the physical for several reasons, all of which she tried to shake from her mind as she was then introduced to Nurse Chapel. She was also on placement, her area of study being genome variation and although her openness and feisty attitude were offputting to someone as guarded as Ne-Lahn, she admired her obvious dedication to science. Lastly, she was introduced to Lt. Hemmer in engineering and was pleased to see a different species in charge of some of the most important operations on the ship.

Ne-Lahn was also impressed with his brusque attitude and obvious dislike of pleasantries. This would suit Ne-Lahn well when she was on rotation in engineering during her second week. Finally, she was permitted to return to her quarters though again, she bid no farewell to the Ensign as the door to her room swiftly shut out their presence. Ne-Lahn collapsed to her bed and tried to shield her eyes. Although the light levels on the ship were too low for her liking, she desired darkness now and an opportunity to rest as well as assess what she'd seen so far. Enterprise was certainly a fine, and well equipped ship, both mechanical and personnel wise. 

The crew seemed attentive if overly inquisitive. Everywhere she went she drew looks and hushed whispers from men and women alike. She made allowances for them most likely never having met a Valaarian before, though she hoped the novelty of her presence on board would soon wear off. Especially as she was far from the most unusual of creatures present on either the ship or the missions they would no doubt be assigned to. Just as she was beginning to fall asleep, the red alert siren began wailing throughout the ship as well as her quarters, the red beacon above her door similarly flashing on and off. She wondered what she was supposed to do considering she wasn't technically on duty yet when a voice came over the intercom to explain that phaser practice was now underway. Soon enough, the gentle rocking of the ship that accompanied each blast kept jolting her awake and made any attempt at sleep impossible.

Instead, Ne-Lahn decided to get up and prepare for her meeting with Captain Pike. Of course, she'd already read his file, he was an almost legendary figure at the academy. Still, she was curious to meet the man who was considered the most diplomatic and interpersonally effective of all the commanding personnel. He'd have to be, considering Enterprise held the most prized crew in all of Starfleet. She wondered if she should change into the new black shirt and trousers with red trim, that ordinance had left hanging in her wardrobe. An OR Officer had to be distinguishable from the rest of the crew, though Ne-Lahn worried this would serve to make her stand out even more. 

She regarded her face in the mirror and was startled to see how tired she looked. Constant shuttling back and forth between bases and ships did nothing for a person's energy levels but Ne-Lahn was only twenty six in human years. Her face stripes, or 'meditl' as they were known, shouldn't look so pale. The 'meditl,' as Dr. M'Benga would no doubt be interested to learn, were also a vital-signs indicator. Pale meditl signalled anything from low blood pressure to psychological strain. Ne-Lahn straightened her posture and pinched her cheeks. She had to pull herself together, she needed to stay sharp if she was going to get through her meeting with Captain Pike with minimal tension and awkwardness. At that moment her door chimed and she admitted entrance to whoever was on the other side. In walked a tall Vulcan male.

"Lt. Ne-Lahn, I am Science Officer Lt. Spock. I am here to escort you to the ready room to meet Captain Pike. Unfortunately, he will be detained later today and therefore has only a small window of opportunity to make his introductions. If you'll follow me please..." Ne-Lahn swallowed and regretted not having changed as soon as she came aboard. 

A/N: Hi guys, as a huge Star Trek fan and a lover of the new Strange New World series, it’s my pleasure to present this new ten part story. Any feedback is appreciated and Chapter 2 will be out next Sunday at 6pm EST - so I hope you’ll continue to stick around and enjoy more to come!

To be updated on when I post please follow @resowrites and turn on post notifications.

[argentum-in-aqua]

Silver in the Ashes (Argentum in Aqua #2): Chapter 10

Making splints, making plans, making tracks

In which Fest and Anneke bond over broken bones, Amelia waxes philosophical, and Archer opines on the weather.

[bullet-prooflove]

Hi, Donna!  I hope you are doing well! 

What follows is my dissection/analysis of not only your latest incredible chapter, but the entire relationship between Reader and Will Halstead as it's depicted in this story. I'm picking apart/analyzing a relationship between two fictional characters based on your amazing writing.  This is a complete gas for me, and you've written one hell of a compelling and engaging story in which I'm fully invested. I'm delighted to write about it if you're all right with my nonsensical ramblings and opinions.  Because that's all they are. Just ramblings. Not empirical narrative that came down from Mt. Sinai on stone tablets carried in the arms of Moses.  Just me rambling.

Okay, here are my thoughts on "Memories" from your engaging "Survivor" series.

Paragraph 7 knocked me for a six. Will's grim acknowledgment of his role in her assault. This was described pitch perfect because he's not sitting on his "pity pot" feeling sorry for himself. The therapy sessions he's involved in are helping him understand the guilt and process it instead of making this situation all about him. He's not consciously doing this, but he tends to make a situation all about himself so he's the center of attention. We've seen this character trait on Chicago Med where Will displays his entire personal life in the store front window for everyone to opine on, discuss, and render verdicts on his choices.

With regard to what we can glean from his relationship to Reader, Will has a stunning absence of emotional intelligence. He can't read the mood of the room if it were written on the walls. Maggie has often mentioned on Med that Will is "a little awkward", meaning he often says and does all the wrong things, so this is a well-established character trait of his.

My attempt to understand what transpired between Will and Reader right before the attack stems from a need to know where the fissures were in their relationship before the attack even happened. Because Will's summary dismissal of her concerns indicates serious problems were already present in that relationship.

From my perspective, what happened to Reader was 100% preventable if Will had taken some action to protect her. There were a thousand things he could have done, but he chose not to pursue any of them. The only thing that makes any sense to me is Will must have learned from his disapproving father some rather appalling communication skills and that "putting a woman down" was the way to communicate.  He didn't know what to say to Reader in that moment so he just called her a "silly little girl" and washed his hands of it. Like his father did to him. It also illustrates that Reader may have come from similar family dynamics if she thinks being verbally abused is the way a man shows love for his woman. They're likely both from messed up families and just gravitated toward each other based on that familiarity. It's the old adage "she chooses him who must choose her".

I adore the character of Will Halstead, but he'd be a difficult person to be in a relationship with if he were real. I know many people similar to him in real life, and they're hard to get to know. Very wary of others, emotionally closed off, moody silences, mercurial, secretive. It's a credit to Nick Gehlfuss's acting talent that he's able to convey all of this through the fulcrum of a fictional character.

Paragraph 10 where Will's sees Reader in the cafe chatting with Kim for the first time since he left her apartment. Nice mention she cut her hair, too. Because of course she would. She's no longer that other person. Cutting the hair is just the beginning of her transformation.  I know Will must be wracked with guilt, but I'm so glad he didn't barge in and make a scene. Resisting the urge to make it about himself, because it isn't about him. He can't be the hero this time because he actually caused this and has to find a way to forgive himself. It's almost like Will became his own screwed up father in that moment when he called Reader the "silly little girl". Definitely something Pat Halstead would have said to Will's mother - and very likely did.

In the penultimate paragraph - "These pictures were memories of happier times, and he knew that he could have them all over again."  Okay, Will needs someone to smack him across the face here. He's incredibly ignorant (or in denial) for an emergency room physician when it comes to the sheer brutality of what happened to Reader. She was nearly raped to death in her own home and suffered a significant enough head trauma (traumatic brain injury) that put her in a coma

Not to get personal here, but something very similar happened to my dear sister a few years ago and I'll tell you honestly, she's not the same person anymore. Not at all.  She had a brilliant therapist just like Dr. Daniel Charles but therapy can only do so much restoration. All the king's horses and all the king's men cannot put a survivor of a brutal rape back together again in the way they were prior to the attack. It just doesn't happen like that in real life.

My sister doesn't like the same food, she cut her hair short, she went into a completely different line of work, she lost all her friends because they didn't know her anymore, she donated every piece of clothing she owned and bought all new clothes that didn't  remind her of who she once was. I convinced her not to go to the courthouse and have her name legally to something else because she was about to do that, too. The attack literally evicted her from her former life. The transformation was utter and complete and irreversible. I had to get to know this "new" sister all over again. And I did. And I love and adore her fiercely. But she's forever changed.

That's what is in Will Halstead's future with Reader. Should they decide to try getting back together, it will be like Will meeting someone completely new for the first time. Because she's transformed. He needs to accept that completely. There's no wishing this away. He needs to stop looking at the pictures of them in "happier, simpler" times because THAT IS OVER.  Reader is not broken. She's not damaged. But she is forever changed and Will needs to accept this. They both will have a massive undertaking in front of them should they choose to attempt to Tetris the broken pieces of their lives into something that may resemble contentment.

There, I'm finally finished!  Wow! I wrote a lot here.  If you want to, please let me know what you think about any of it.

Take care, Donna!

- Annie Radcliff

Hi Annie,

I hope you are well too! I look forward to your messages so please never worry about popping in.

I think it's important for people to understand therapy is about acknowledging things about yourself that are difficult to deal with and you have to work through it. I think Will feels very powerfully which is why his life spills out everywhere. I think this is part of the problem with his 'awkwardness' he just has a very limited sphere of focus and doesn't see the bigger picture sometimes.

I forget not everyone is in my head so this is what happened. Reader started to notice that things had been moved in their apartment and mentioned it to Will, who cast it off. He thought she was paranoid. She specifically mentioned something seemed off with her closet and he told her she was being a silly little girl, who was scared of a monster in her closet. He told her maybe she needed to get some help, because he thought the job was making her edgy. It turns out she was right and the property manager of the apartment block was entering her place without her knowing. One night when she was alone, he attacked and raped her.

I feel at the time, reader was already exhibiting some signs of struggling with the darkness that comes with her job and Will was ill equipped to deal with this, possibly because he was so wrapped up in his own professional troubles.

I don't really read Patrick as abusive, maybe more as a person who struggled to understand his children and I have experianced this a few times with people from similar backgrounds, sometimes they make up for it in later life. Age can help people reflect on their choices and ultimately change for the better with experiance. I feel the death of the Halstead mother may have helped soften him.

I think Will needs to mourn those memories because she isn't going to be the same person and he knows that. He has to come to terms that the plans they had and the future he envisioned isn't going to happen anymore and I know that that can be crippling. What happened changed the both of them.

Thank you for opening up about the personal aspects of this. The reason I wrote this was because I wanted to explore how it also effects the people around the victim. Things can never be the same for that person and the term 'evicted' is right.

I won't say what happens as I don't want to spoil it but I hope it does live up to the reality of the situation.

On a different note I have been working on Muffled Screams so we'll be seeing that coming up soon as well. It's been such a fun concept to explore.

All my love

Donna

[acamacadamia]

thoughts on e.m. forster’s maurice

I had just finished reading Maurice by E.M. Forster last night. It had honestly taken me a few months to finish reading because I have a tendency to take long breaks from reading once I stop.

Summary: E.M. Forser’s Maurice tells a story of a young man in the early 20th century who discovers his sexuality after falling in love with his university senior, Clive Durham. While they maintained a so-called ‘platonic’ relationship---meaning non-physical, in this case---Maurice desires more. Clive eventually breaks things off with Maurice due to having convinced himself that he had 'changed', and Maurice finds love in a working class man named Alec Shudder.

Rating: 9/10

My thoughts on Maurice: I enjoyed reading Maurice. E.M. Forster's prose is beautiful, especially his dialogue. It's interesting how he used capilisation to sort of emphasise or punctuate(?) the words, rather than ending each word with a full stop:

..., and Don't You Worry. You're With Me. Don't Worry.

E.M. Forster explores themes of homosexuality in an era where homosexuality was prosecuted, and themes of the class system in 1910s England. We can actually see how Maurice really isn't perfect---when he learns that Alec's father was a butcher, he immediately assumed that Alec had 'shared with him' with the intention to blackmail him after, and felt disgusted with himself for 'sharing with' someone from an 'inferior' background.

He had gone outside his class, and it served him right.

I quite liked the way he wrote Clive Durham's character. Clive deludes himself into thinking that he had changed, though the book doesn't show what had triggered his want to change, it is presumably from the pressure to assume his role as head of family and to assume his late father's responsibilities.

At a young age, he had denounced the Church, not wanting to associate with an institution who says he is damned to Hell for being who he is. Even so, due to society's views of homosexuality, he has internalized some homophobia as he opines that a relationship between two men can only be for as long they do not maintain a physicial relationship. Clive expresses his belief in this quote

But surely---the sole excuse for any relationship beteen men is that it remains purely platonic.

at the end of the novel. When Maurice leads Clive to believe that he had found himself a woman, Clive allows himself one act of physical love in the name of 'the old times'---kissing each other's hand.

It is also interesting that Forster writes so that Clive uses Ada as a stepping stone, if you will, to heterosexuality. This is evident when Clive observes Ada---he compares her to Maurice and almost likens her to a female Maurice the same chapter it is stated that Clive believes he no longer loves Maurice and that he is 'cured'. In K-pop, we call this 'delulu'. His delusion can also be observed at the end of the novel

He had always liked his friend's laugh, and at such a moment the soft rumble of it reassured him: it suggested happiness and security.

where it is suggested that he still held some level of affection for Maurice.

It is also worth noting that Clive's marriage to Anne is also not physical as seen here

He never saw her naked, nor she him. They ignored the reproductive and the digestive functions.

and

His ideal of marriage was temperate and graceful, like all his ideals,...

so it could very well be assumed that how he views homosexuality is simply the way he views love as a whole. This can be interpreted as Clive actually being asexual, having seemingly no desire for---and even repulses---sex.

Maurice's belief contrasts Clive in that respect---although he reacts with disgust when Clive initially confesses, once he accepts that he is gay, he wants to pursue physical relations with Clive. This causes some sort of conflict between the two as Clive believes that simply being in love is enough whereas Maurice believes that to express love, it is not enough to use words. This is demonstrated when he held Alec's hand

... he held out his hand. Maurice took it, and they knew at that moment the greatest triumph ordinary man can win.

where readers can see just how much Maurice valued something as simple as holding hands.

Then you have Alec Scudder, our bisexual king. Unlike Maurice, who struggled with his homosexuality in the beginning of the novel, or Clive, who struggled with his homosexuality in the middle of the novel, we never really see Alec's struggle with his sexuality. He sees no issue with homosexuality and opines that it is natural to 'care both for women and men'. Though it could also be that by the time Alec's character was introduce, he had already come to terms with his bisexuality. What we do see is Alec being upset at Maurice for essentially ghosting him and convincing Maurice that it is perfectly fine to be gay.

Though I love the novel, I do admit the Lolita-esque moment in the novel weirded me out. Maurice finds himself attracted to a teenager, Dickie, because he regarded him as a&nsbp;'second Clive'. It was slightly uncomfortable to read, though it does give insight to Maurice's state of mind, I suppose. He also becomes mean towards to Ada after Clive implied that he was attracted to her, though granted, I too would become a bitch if the person I love implied that they were attracted to my sister.

All in all, Maurice is a good read and I cannot recommend it enough.

Favourite quotes: "I'm thankful it's into your hands I fell."

"I should have known by that time that I loved you. Too late... everything's always too late."

"I was once yours till death if you'd cared to keep me, but I'm someone else's now---I can't hang about whining forever---and he's mine in a way that shocks you, but why don't you stop being shocked, and attend to your own happiness?"

[the-kr8tor]

First of all I gotta say(again) CHAPTER 10 OF OPIN HAD ME BAWLINGGGGGGG literally took a whole break to sob and cry then came back just to find out what happened. Anyway, I wanted to ask for a wee bit of writing advice. I really like how your stories are written in second pov, but I wasn't really sure how to go about that? So I was wondering about your process :>

Thank you so much!!! Taking a break while reading angst just to cry and walk it off is so real of you

Hmm I remember first starting to write in that pov was like pulling teeth for me but I got the hang of it after a few fics! I guess it just takes a lot of practice, and if you're still not confident in writing in that pov then you can always start off with headcanons! They're great when you're just starting out to write in that pov. Or if you're not feeling up to writing hcs, you can always just start writing drabbles for fun! And soon enough you'll be writing in that format no problemo!

As for my process tho, it depends on what I'm going to write. If it's a quick request or oneshot I usually just write the most important part of the fic in outline form and go off from there. For stuff like series or longer oneshots I outline pretty much anything that's important to the plot. Like the dialogue I've thought up or even just small details that add a bit of pizzazz in the chapter.

Hope this helps! If you've got any more questions pls don't be afraid to ask! I love talking abt writing stuff with you guys. Keep writing, anon!!! ❤️

[creaturecompanion07]

Dog License In India

The Ghaziabad Municipal Corporation passed a proposal to regulate pet ownership in its municipal area on September 13, 2019. An expert committee has been formed to devise pet registration rules and decide the fine amount for people allowing their dog to poop in public spaces. The committee had first suggested `5000 as fees for the registration of pet dogs, which was later brought down to ₹`1000 after the civic body received several complaints by pet owners requesting a reduction in the steep amount.

The committee will first study pet registration charges and laws in different states of the country before starting with the task of formation of by-laws and other modalities for this planned move. The municipal board will also levy fines on pet owners found with unregistered pets. Moreover, the board has decided to penalise pet owners ₹500 every time their dog is found defecating in open areas. Dinesh Chandra Singh, Municipal Commissioner, said that the residents of Ghaziabad will be informed about the rules soon. dog license online india

 Creature Companion asked readers and followers to share their views on the issue of dog licensing and registration on our social media handles. Many pet parents came forward to share their thoughts on this vital topic.

Ketan Panchal, Founder K9 Academy shares, “Pet registration is a good idea. It would give your pet an identity and at the same time the pet parent will get more responsibility. As a dog father and a good civilian, you must keep your house and city clean. You must clean after your dog. I always carry potty bags when I take my dog out. I also train many dogs in Ahmedabad. I request everyone to clean after their pets. Society will accept you and your pet with love if you keep the area clean.”

Bhanu Maheshwari, pet parent to male Labrador Jojo, opines, “Having your dog registered with a kennel is one of the first things that should be done. Also, if you have a dog in a complex where other apartment owners consider you and your dog to be a nuisance, having your dog registered acts as an additional support. Moreover, no one likes to step in pet waste and spread it into homes. Even if there is no restriction, cleaning up after your pet is always the right thing to do. It’s the law!”

The funds from registration fees are used to support many noble causes across the globe such as animal shelters, investigations regarding cruelty to animals and emergency animal rescues during natural disasters. Not only this, pet licensing offers numerous benefits such as increasing vaccinations, reunion with lost pets and helps governments to maintain a registry of the pets in their area. Pet registration also helps to reduce the number of incidents pertaining to the defecation by pets in public areas and dog-bites in cities.

Creature Companion strongly supports the concept of responsible pet ownership and recommends that everyone owning a pet in India get their pets registered with their local civic bodies to ensure their safety and support the development of companion animal facilities across the nation.

PET REGISTRATION REGULATIONS INDIFFERENT INDIAN STATES

Today all major metropolitan cities of the country have some laws regarding lincensing of pets. Let’s take a look.

Delhi/NCR- According to Section 399 of the Delhi Municipal Corporation Act, every dog owner should register his/her pet. The canine registration requirements include annual registration charges of `500 along with the dog’s vaccination proof, its picture and an identity proof stating its address and breed information.

Gurgaon- The Municipal Corporation of Gurugram (MCG) has a provision for pet registration, however it is not mandatory. Pet owners can register their dogs and cats by paying a fixed annual charge of `500 and providing requisite medical and neutering certificates.

Noida- Noida is yet to come up with any laws regarding pet registration.

Lucknow- Pet owners have to shell out yearly charges of `500, `300 and `200 for registration of big (Doberman, Labrador, German Shepherd); small (Shih Tzu, Pomeranian, Spitz) and local indie (Indian Pariah) dog breeds respectively. Failing to get your dog registered will lead to a heavy penalty of `5000.

Mumbai- Under Section 14, rule number 22(a) sub-clause 386 of Maharashtra Municipal Provincial Act, every pet owner must obtain a dog license for his/her pet canine. The pet parent needs to submit a valid address proof; a passport size picture of the dog; latest vaccination card with owner’s full name, address, contact number, and name of the vet along with the issuing clinic; and fees of `75 for new registration and `50 as renewal charges.

Bengaluru- Bruhat Bengaluru MahanagaraPalike (BBMP) had issued pet licensing by-laws in 2018, according to which pet dogs had been capped at one per apartment and three per independent house in the metropolitan city. The municipal body had further issued a list of 64 approved breeds for apartments. To get their pets registered, pet owners needed to provide BBMP with updated vaccination records of their pets along with the pet’s details like name, age, breed; and their name and contact details. The license fee was `110 for the initial year. However, the bylaws were withdrawn by the municipal authority after several complaints were received from residents regarding their unsuitability.

Guwahati- Registration of pet dogs over three months of age is mandatory under the GMC Act, failing which erring pet parents are punishable under law. The responsibility for registration falls on the NGO/society, which is allowed to collect `100 as registration fees and `10 as application fees per dog from owners. The NGO/society is then to collect the Metal Tag from GMC Veterinary branch after payment of `60 per dog and get the signed registration certificate from the GMC Veterinary Officer after submitting photograph of pet owner with dog along with duly filled in form A and B of Levy of Tax on Dogs kept within the city of Guwahati Byelaws, 1975.

Pune- Pune Municipal Corporation accepts advanced registration charges of INR 500 for a period of ten years (`50 per year). Owners need to submit three passport size photographs of the pet along with its anti-rabies certificate and owner’s address proof. However, the pet needs to be re-registered at the municipal body’s ward office each year.

Indore – According to registration procedures laid down by the Indore Municipal Corporation, pet owners just need to visit the nearest government veterinary clinic along with their pet and its latest vaccination records and submit a nominal annual amount of `100 to procure a pet license.

Chennai– The health department of Greater Chennai Corporation issues the mandatory dog license to pet parents after collecting a registration fee of `50. The registration comes along with free immunisation for canines at corporation-run pet clinics across the city. Pet parents need to supply the pet’s details including name, colour, breed and age with their full name and contact details. GCC is also planning to take the registration procedure online and considering to revise the annual license charges.

Chandigarh– The Chandigarh Municipal Corporation (CMC) has issued Chandigarh Registration of Pet Dog Bylaws, 2010 under which it is mandatory for pet owners to register their pets exceeding the age of four months with the civic body. Not more than 2 dogs per family are allowed. Blind persons are exempted from the licensing amount and the registration will remain valid till the pet is alive.

The registration procedure involves submission of a duly filled-in application form, an undertaking by the dog owner agreeing to adhere to the bylaws, a nominal registration charge of `200 per dog, a vaccination certificate from a registered veterinary practitioner, and two passport size photographs of the pet. After the licensing procedure is complete, a metal badge is issued which the dog has to wear on its collar for verification. Defaulters are penalised with a fine of `500 per dog and/or face impounding of their dogs by the civic authority. The municipal body had proposed amendments to the bylaws in 2018 which included increasing the registration amount to `1000 for pedigree dogs, number of dogs owned per family to 4 (if 2 of them are adopted strays) and subsidised registration fee of `1 for adopted street dogs.

PET LICENSE LAWS ACROSS THE GLOBE

Toronto, Canada- Toronto Municipal Code Chapter 349 makes it mandatory for pet parents to get individual licenses for all dogs and cats owned by them. The pets can be registered online, in person, by phone or mail by filling a simple Pet Registration Application along with the owner’s credit card and the name and contact details of the pets’ vet. ID tags are included as part of the annual license fees, which is $60 for dogs and $50 for cats.

The registration fee is significantly reduced if the animal has been spayed or neutered, and in case the owner is a senior citizen. The pet parent needs to submit proof of the pet’s sterilisation and/or their age to avail these discounts. The registration amount is utilised by the Toronto Animal Services towards shelter and care for homeless animals. Getting a pet license also makes sure that the dog or cat is safely returned to the owner in case of it getting lost by identification through license tags and microchips.

Germany- Most European countries abolished the practice of Dog Tax in the 20th Century, however, the German authorities stubbornly refuse to scrape off this law. Pet parents in Germany are, therefore, required to pay the mandatory Dog Tax (Hundesteuer) according to the number of canines they own. Service dogs are exempt from the Hundesteuer and so are rescue dogs in their first year of adoption.

The registration amount for the first dog in Berlin is 120 EUR per year while registration of each additional dog in the same family costs 180 EUR annually. Re-registration is required every time the owner moves to a new residence. Each state has its own pet registration requirements and fees. Pet owners also need to pick up after their dog and follow the local leash laws.

There is no taxation for cat ownership in the country. However, both dogs and cats need to be licensed. The dog tax and registration fees are utilised towards creation of dog-related services such as dog waste bins. In addition, many states have a mandatory procedure for personal liability insurance which covers all kinds of unexpected damages caused by pet dog(s).

New Zealand- The country has formulated regulations for canine licensing and registration under the Dog Control Act 1996. All dogs over 3 months of age need to be registered with their city or district council. The licensed dogs are required to wear a tag indicating the council, registration number and registration expiry date. Registration charges vary according to council, neuter status, urban/rural accommodation, dangerous/menacing nature and other factors. Registration fees are lower for working dogs while disabled canines are exempted from these costs.

[paralleljulieverse]

An Angel from Heaven Come to See Us: Darling Lili Turns 50

This week fifty years ago, Darling Lili -- the last of the big Julie Andrews screen musicals of the 1960s -- had its long-delayed World Premiere at Hollywood’s Cinerama Dome on 23 June 1970. 

The event marked the symbolic endpoint of a three-plus-year marathon in which the ill-fated production was beset by an endless stream of problems and delays from inclement weather and union pickets on location to studio takeovers and shady refinancing deals (Bart, 63-72; Dick, 146-48; Wasson, 146-48). This litany of setbacks saw the film’s already sizeable budget blowout to era-record levels estimated anywhere, depending on who you spoke to, between $14-25mill. (Warga, C-20; Wedman, 7-A; Kennedy, 175-77). Egos clashed, tempers frayed and recriminations flew with writer-director, Blake Edwards, blaming Paramount Pictures for imposing impossible demands, and studio executives firing back counter-accusations of reckless indulgence and profligacy (Oldham, 24-25; 44-45). 

That this highly publicised drama played out against the backdrop of the greatest economic downturn to hit Hollywood in half a century garnered Darling Lili an unenviable advance reputation as “the archetypal flop among big budget Hollywood productions” (Oldham, 44). “Rarely has so much bad word of mouth preceded a picture,” wrote the Saturday Review, “As the shooting schedule increased, as the costs mounted, everyone was certain that Darling Lili would prove to be a landmark disaster” (Knight 22). Another widely syndicated newspaper article dubbed it, “The Most Maligned Movie Ever,” prompting Blake Edwards to fume: “I’ve never known of an important picture in production so talked about, whispered about, and, yes, lied about as Darling Lili” (Manners, B5).

Adding fuel to widespread perceptions of the film as a legendary bomb in the making, the release of Darling Lili was held up for over a year by nervous studio execs. By 1969, Paramount had more big budget roadshow product in the pipelines than any other Hollywood studio (“Par’s Big”, 3). Panicked by the repeated failure of roadshow releases, in general, and the growing cultural backlash against big budgeted musicals, in particular, the studio feared they were “on the verge of an unprecedented financial disaster” and vacillated over how to proceed (Farber, 3). They ordered competing rounds of edits to the film, taking material out to secure a G-rating, then reinserting other material in an effort to broaden appeal (Manners, B5; “Par’s Lili Rated G”,5). There were even rumours the film might not get a release at all. It is “hiding somewhere” and seems to have “just evaporated” noted one newspaper report in late-1969 (Gussow, 62; Benchley, 9).

In December, Paramount finally held two sneak test screenings of Darling Lili in Oklahoma City and Kansas City which proved sufficiently positive for the studio to green-light release (“Kansas”, C2). After the test screenings, Robert Evans, production chief at Paramount and longtime vocal critic of Blake Edwards’s direction of the film, sounded an uncharacteristically upbeat note. “At the end of the film, there was a standing ovation,” he enthused, “and almost all the patrons stopped in the lobby to fill in comments cards...term[ing] Darling Lili as excellent, with special acclaim for both Julie Andrews and Rock Hudson” (Muir, 2-S). 

In January 1970, it was announced that Darling Lili would premiere that summer as a hardticket attraction at New York’s Radio City Music Hall (”Par Gets”, 3). The following month, a series of exhibitor previews was held in five major US cities but, in a telling sign the studio still harboured reservations about the film, the trade press was pointedly excluded from all advance screenings ("Not Ready”, 6). This same lingering disquiet resulted in a radically scaled back approach to the film’s release and marketing. 

Originally planned as a reserved-seat roadshow attraction, Darling Lili was ultimately repositioned by Paramount as part of what they called their “Big Summer Playoff,” a package of eight films given saturation releases during the summer off-season starting in June (“Paramount’s Summer Playoff”, 5). Only New York and Los Angeles would screen the film as a 70mm reserved-seat attraction; elsewhere, the plan was for the “pic to quickly saturate every major and minor market with single-house firstruns and key city multiples” (ibid.). In an era when studios typically gave their top films staggered releases and only ever issued B-product or second-runs widely during the quiet summer months, this new-style release strategy had a decided air of dump-it-and-run desperation. 

The apparent lack of care and finesse in the release of Lili did not go unnoticed. “Darling Lili undoubtedly rank[s] among the unusual summer attractions,” commented one newspaper article, “since one would expect to see th[is] multi-million dollar production around holiday time” (Sar, 4-B). Another bluntly opined that Paramount “seems to have dumped the expensive movie rather than spend any more on it” (Taylor, 21-E). Even Julie, normally the soul of diplomatic discretion in such matters, expressed public dismay at the studio’s handling of the film’s release:

“Three weeks before the opening, there was no advertising campaign. None whatsoever. Paramount didn’t seem to know how it was going to sell the picture--or if. I simply can’t understand an attitude like that” (Thomas, 13).

The sudden shift to a summer saturation release also meant the film’s premiere had to be rescheduled as New York’s Radio City Music Hall wasn’t available till July. In late-May, a matter of mere weeks before the film was set to bow, Paramount announced Darling Lili would now make its world premiere at the Cinerama Dome in Hollywood on June 23 before rolling out nationwide the following day (“‘Darling Lili’ to Premiere,” W-2). The New York premiere, meanwhile, would remain at the Music Hall but delayed a full month after the rest of the country.

Putting on a brave face, Julie and Blake did their best to launch their film. On June 18, they attended a special press preview and celebrity reception hosted by Robert Evans and his then partner, Ali McGraw, at the Director’s Guild Theatre (Sar, 24-A). Dressed in a modish psychedelic Pucci pantsuit -- which fans of Julie-trivia will note was a recycled outfit from her recent NBC TV special with Harry Belafonte -- Julie looked relaxed and radiant or, as one columnist put it, “peachy dandy in her wild patterned party pants” (Browning, 2-13). At the after-show reception, she and Blake mingled warmly with a host of Tinseltown notables including Edward G. Robinson, James Garner, Walter Matthau, George Peppard, Raquel Welch, Sally Field, Dyan Cannon, and Peter Graves (ibid).

The following week, Julie and Blake were back for the premiere proper at the Cinerama Dome on 23 June. Dressed to kill in a sleek beaded cocktail gown, Julie posed for press shots on the red carpet with Blake, Robert Evans and Ali McGraw, and co-star Rock Hudson who attended with longtime friend and agent, Flo Allen. Sponsored by the Southern Californian chapter of VIMS, Volunteers in Multiple Sclerosis, the premiere attracted a capacity crowd with an invitation-only champagne supper held at the theatre after the screening (“Premiere”, IV-8) .

For all the old-school Hollywood trappings of the premiere, the American roll-out of Darling Lili was afforded little sense of showmanship or distinction. The Cinerama Dome would be the film’s only fully reserved-seat roadshow presentation (“’Darling Lili’s’ One Reserve,” 7). The film’s run at New York’s Radio City Music Hall -- which will likely be the subject of another post next month, time permitting -- was another exception but it had a hybrid mix of partial reserved and general admission. Elsewhere, the film was released in what could only be described as a woefully slipshod manner. 

The day after the World Premiere, Lili was issued simultaneously to an idiosyncratic assortment of theatres and even drive-ins across the United States including such out-of-the-way places as Lubbock, Texas; Hattiesburg, Mississippi; and Mason City, Iowa. Conversely, several major metropolitan markets didn’t get the film till much later, and some didn’t show it at all. When the film ran it was often booked for a flying season of a week or two -- in some instances, just a few days -- and given little promotion or build-up.

On a PR trip to San Francisco, Blake Edwards was reportedly incensed to discover that Lili was being shown at a local theatre on a double-bill with The Lawyer, an R-rated crime drama (Caen, 6-B). But this was far from an isolated instance. A survey of newspaper advertising from the era shows that, throughout this initial release period, Darling Lili was widely double-billed in US theatres with a range of questionable screen-mates including Downhill Racer, True Grit, Norwood, The Sterile Cuckoo, and Lady in Cement to name a few.

Much like the film’s chequered release pattern, reviews of Darling Lili were sharply mixed. Contrary to the apocalyptic predictions, though, there were surprisingly few outright pans and quite a number of good, even glowing, notices--certainly enough to furnish choice grabs for newspaper ads. Moreover, a common refrain among even lukewarm crits was that the film was far from the disaster everyone anticipated:

“Darling Lili [is] the musical comedy a lot of people have been expecting to be a bomb, but which turns out to be a quite likeable movie” (Crittenden, D-10).

“When a movie becomes notorious like this, everyone expects it to be an unredeeming dud...I’m relieved to say Darling Lili is certainly nobody’s bomb” (Stewart, 28) 

“[E]veryone was certain that Darling Lili would prove to be a landmark disaster. Happily, the opposite seems to be the case...it is definitely, joyously, what the industry likes to call an ‘audience picture’ (Knight, 22).

While many reviewers found aspects of the film wanting, they were mostly full of praise for Julie:

“Miss Andrews has, I think, never looked better, warmer or more emotionally mature, nor has she sounded better. The irony is that she projects a richness which is wasted here. It’s like getting Horowitz to play Chopsticks” (Champlin, IV-1).

“Andrews...is one of the last of the great English music-hallmarks. She can sing effortlessly, make a mug or a moue with equal facility, throw away a line and reel it back in with the best—when she is given half a chance. Her latest, Darling Lili, is only a quarter of a chance (Kanfer, 78). 

“In Darling Lili...Julie Andrews is the most pleasant actress any audience ever had and that’s what counts...The picture’s weaknesses are Hudson and the war...But I think Julie Andrews is enough” (Geurink, 6-T).

“The best way to enjoy Darling Lili is to look upon it as escape fare [with] Miss Andrews’ golden voice for listening pleasure...While she deserves something much better than her role in Darling Lili, Julie Andrews...is still an out and out professional” (Blakley, 6-1).

“Miss Andrews...is absolutely perfectly suited to the title role. Her voice, her mannerisms, her beauty and her obvious delight with the entire project pay off in one of the finest performances of her career” (Fanning, 17).

“The film’s bright moments belong to Miss Andrews. She is a complete entertainer, and tho [sic] she is center stage for nearly the entire film, one never tires of her pure voice and intelligent acting” (Siskel, 12).

Alas, the better-than-expected reviews were not enough to save Darling Lili commercially. By the end of its domestic run, the film had earned a meagre $3.2mill in rentals, placing it 37th in Variety’s list of annual box-office rankings for 1970 (“US Films,” 184). Instructively, the film posted its best returns at the two theatres where it was exhibited with some modicum of prestige showmanship: the Cinerama Dome and Radio City Music Hall. In the case of the latter, Lili actually broke house records for a non-holiday release (“Radio City,” 12). Combined, these two venues accounted for over a third of the film’s entire North American boxoffice grosses. It’s a curious footnote to the whole sorry saga of Darling Lili which does suggest that, while the film would likely never have been a hit, it could certainly have done much better had its distribution and exhibition been more carefully managed. But that is a discussion for another time and another post...

Sources:

Bart, Peter. Infamous Players: A Tale of Movies, the Mob (and Sex). New York: Hachette, 2011.

Benchley, Peter. “1969 A Watershed Year for Motion Picture Industry.” Journal Gazette. 6 January 1970: 9.

Blakley, Thomas. “Julie Andrews Eyes a New Start.” Pittsburgh Press. 28 June 1970: 6-1.

Browning, Norma Lee. “Hollywood Today: Julie’s Reception.” Chicago Tribune. 22 June 1970: B-13.

Caen, Herb. “It’s News to Me.” Hartford Sentinel. 5 August 1970: 6-B.

Canby, Vincent. “Is Hollywood in Hot Water?” New York Times. 9 November 1969: D1, D37.

Champlin, Charles. “Movie Review: ‘Darling Lili’ Has World War I Setting.” Los Angeles Times. 24 June 1970: IV-1, 13.

Crittenden, John. “’Darling Lili’ Surprises by Being Very Pleasant.” The Record. 24 July 1970: D-10.

“’Darling Lili’ to Premiere in Hollywood June 24.” Boxoffice. 25 May 1970: W2.

“’Darling Lili’s’ One Reserve Seat Date.” Variety. 3 June 1970: 7.

Dick, Bernard F. Engulfed: The Death of Paramount Pictures and the Birth of Corporate Hollywood. Louisville, KY: University of Kentucky Press, 2015.

Fanning, Win. “The New Film: Andrews, Hudson in ‘Darling Lili’ at Squirrel Hill.” Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. 25 June 1970: 17. 

Farber, Stephen. “End of the Road?” Film Quarterly. 23: 2. Winter 1969-70: 3-16.

Geurink, Bob. “Julie’s Pretty Darling in ‘Lili’.” Atlanta Constitution. 11 July 1970: 6-T.

Gussow, Mel. “Excitement Fills Premier of ‘Dolly’: But Air of Festivity Belies Future of Movie Musicals.” New York Times. 18 December 1969: 62.

Higham, Charles. “Turmoil in Film City.” Sydney Morning Herald - Weekend Magazine. 25 May 1969: 19.

Holston, Kim R. Movie Roadshows: A History and Filmography of Reserved-Seat Limited Showings, 1911-1973. Jefferson, NC: McFarlane and Co, 2013.

Kanfer, Stefan. “Cinema: Quarter Chance.” Time. 96: 4. 27 July 1970: 78.

“Kansas City.” Boxoffice. 22 December 1969: C2.

Knight, Arthur. “How Darling was My Lili.” Saturday Review. 18 July, 1970: 22.

Krämer, Peter. The New Hollywood: From Bonnie and Clyde to Star Wars. London: Wallflower, 2005.

Manners, Dorothy. “The Most Maligned Movie Ever.” San Francisco Examiner. 15 March 1970: B5.

Mills, James. “Why Should He Have it?” Life. 7 Match 1969: 63-76.

Muir, Florabel. “Hollywood: It Snowed Customers.” Daily News. 21 December 1969: 2S.

“Not Ready for Trades But Exhibs See ‘Lili’.” Variety. 28 January 1970: 6.

Oldham, Gabriella, ed. Blake Edwards: Interviews. Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 2018.

“Par Gets Hall’s Summer Spot for its ‘Darling Lili’.” Variety. 21 January 1970: 3.

“Para. Sets Preview Series in Five Cities for ‘Lili’.” Boxoffice. 26 January 1970: 10.

“Paramount’s Summer Playoff Strategy: 5,000 Bookings for Eight Major Films.” Variety. 3 June 1970: 5.

“Par’s Big Roadshow Splash.” Variety. 25 June 1969: 3.

“Par’s Lili Rated G.” Variety. 24 September 1969: 5.

“Premiere.” Los Angeles Times. 25 June 1970: IV-8.

“Radio City Music Hall’s All-Time Boxoffice Darling.” Variety. 5 August 1970: 12.

Sar, Ali. “Paramount Unveils Two Top Pictures.” Van Nuys News. 21 June 1970: 24-A.

Sar, Ali. “Curiosity Films: Plagued Studios Hope.” Van Nuys News. 28 June 1970: 4-B.

Siskel, Gene. “The Movies: ‘Darling Lili’.” Chicago Tribune. 22 August 1970: 12.

Sloane, Leonard. “At Paramount, Real Financial Drama.” New York Times. 28 November 1969: 48.

Stewart, Perry. “Warm Kiss from ‘Lili’.” Fort-Worth Star-Telegram. 1 Juy 1970: 28.

Stuart, Byron. "Pictures: Big Budget’s Big Bust-Up." Variety. 23 July 1969: 3, 20.

Taylor, Robert. “‘Lili’ Can Be Charming.” Oakland Tribune. 27 June 1970: 21-E.

Thomas, Bob. “Julie Andrews Praises ‘Lili’.” Courier-News. 15 September 1970: 13.

“U.S. Films’ Share-of-Market Profile.” Variety. 12 May 1971: 36-38, 122, 171-174, 178-179, 182-183, 186-187, 190-191, 205-206.

Warga, Wayne. “Stanley Jaffe: Paramount Risk Jockey.” Los Angeles Times. 24 January 1971: C1, C20-21.

Wasson, Sam. A Splurch in the Kisser: The Movies of Blake Edwards. Middletown: Weslayan University Press, 2009.

Wedman, Les. “The End of the Roadshow.” Vancouver Sun. 9 January 1970: 7A.

Copyright © Brett Farmer 2020

[minervahopebeyond]

Blood Petals.

Chapter 13: The article. (Part 2)

He said goodbye to Weasley and Granger too and left to find his friends.

The place was familiar, the smell of butterbeer, the crowded tables... He found them on their usual corner, near the fireplace. He sat down next to Blaise and laid his head on the boy’s shoulder.

“Thank you for understanding.”

“It’s okay, Dragon. Are you alright?”

He assented and offered them a small smile. Pansy passed him the butterbeer she ordered for him.

“Today we are going to be normal teenagers: we’ll talk about boys and school and shit. Is that clear?” The girl said with a commanding voice at them.

“Yes, ma’am.” Respondes Blaise, Draco snorted.

“Sure, Pans.”

They talked a lot, smiled, made sassy comments and Draco felt at home. He missed them being like this, careless and free. Even if it only lasted for a day, it was worth it. Hearing Pansy’s laughter was worth it. Seeing Blaise making funny faces while the girl explained something was worth it. He would do anything to make sure that they were always happy, he loved both of them so much.

They were in the middle of a discussion about a top ten of hottest guys at school (Draco and Blaise didn’t count because Pansy said so), when he heard the gryffindors behind him.

“Ron! Come back here.” Potter hissed.

“I agree, let them be alone. We can-“ But Granger’s voice was interrupted by Weasley’s.

“Ferret!”

The three of them turned to looked at the boy.

“Weasel. Is something wrong?”

The redhead shook his head, and then he pointed to the rest of the room as he spoke.

“It just that all the tables are taken.”

“Don’t listen to him, Draco. He is just being a big baby.” Said the griffindor girl. Weasley rolled his eyes.

The blond boy glanced at the place. There was only one free table... right in front of Ginevra and Thomas, who were snogging their faces off. He chuckled.

“That’s off putting.”

“Right??” Weasley said in agreement. He turned to look at the rest of the golden trio, making a face: See! The ferret understands.

Draco turned to his friends.

“If Thomas kisses like that, I want him off the Top 10.” He said determined.

Pansy and Blaise had the same disgusted faces as they were looking at the couple.

“Totally.” Said the boy next to him.

“Ugh, that’s awful.” The black haired girl said, then she turned to look at the Gryffindors. “We are discussing boys, if neither of you care, then be my guests.” She gestured at the free chairs beside them.

“Thanks, Parkinson! Guys, come on.”

Potter looked a little conflicted. Maybe he wanted to sit near Ginevra... maybe watching her kiss someone was intriguing. Draco couldn’t see how, the only thought of the green-eyed boy kissing someone else was enough to make him cough. Finally, he sat between Granger and Weasley.

“Please tell me that Boot is not in this.” Draco threw his head back and laughed loudly. Pansy frowned at that.

“No! He is so bland looking.”

“ That’s what I said!.”

Draco couldn’t help but smile. It was perfect. Granger participated in the conversation, refuting Pansy that McLaggen didn’t have any working brain cells, so he couldn’t be number five. They compromised on the last place of the rank because he was hot (even if he had the brain of a squirrel).

Weasley looked entertained, except when the gryffindor girl brought up a boy in the conversation. Maybe he would opined about the bloke’s personality if he happen to know him, so it could help them rank everyone.

Potter was quiet, observing them. Draco could tell that he was amuse , but he refused to have a say on the top ten. Maybe he thought it would hurt his straightness.

“Well, the moment has come.” Blaise stated. Pansy started to imitate the sound of drummers pounding on the table with her stupid hands. Draco only rolled his eyes.

“I propose you: Theodore Nott as our number one.” Draco groaned.

“For Salazar’s sake Pansy! This is getting old.”

“What is it , darling? Touchy subject?”

He crossed his arms and looked away, trying to ignored them. Gits. Then Weasley spoke.

“That prat literally called Malfoy a fairy this morning. He is not on the number one.”

“Yes, he is an awful person.” Granger agreed

“Please don’t talk that way about him.” He interrupted them with a low voice. Pansy was looking at him with a disbelief expression. “Yes, he is a prat... but I know why he acts like that.

Blaise rolled his eyes and groaned. “It’s incomprehensible the way you justify him.”

“I don’t!”

“You are justifying him, Malfoy.”

He turned to look at Potter, green-eyes looking right back at him, furious. Stupid demanding Saint Potter; always thinking that things were easy, black or white.

“Let’s put it this way: what if your best friend were an homophobic shit. You lived so many things together and then boom, puberty hits and you realize that the fact that you like boys makes him uncomfortable. What would you do? Do you stop caring about them? Just like that?”

Potter frowned at him. Weasley and Granger were looking at him with pity in his eyes, while Pansy and Blaise were still pissed off.

Draco knew that they had this conversation a thousand times already. Often enough, Theo would said something that upset Draco, and then he would asked for his forgiveness. He didn’t know how this would work right now, since they weren’t talking to each other. He sighed, this sucked.

After that, Weasley proposed to change the subject and that was that.

All of them got along pretty well, and although Draco didn’t say anything then, he knew that Weasley had just adopted the other Slytherins. He could see it in the smile on his face, his kindness radiating of him. The blond boy thought that, even with the awful way they started today, this was a very good way of finish it.

———————

As Draco got in bed, he was rather surprise to find a chocolate bar from Honeyducks under his pillow. There was a note on the front of it, no signature, but he didn’t exactly need it since he could recognize the penmanship anywhere.

Sorry.

[rwmhunt]

Leviticus, Chapter 22

1. Lo, for That I cannot prosecute my thoughts; I needst here cultivate caution- Then put a hold unto my options, That I cannot challenge him. Any source of information, That be of an admixture truth, And of an admixture untruth, is of a danger, Did you know that? Humbly needst I move toward diamonds and gold's Otherwise-useless demarkation on worth; My face must stay its specter in clay, For it is my career; That I can say: It is mine.

2. Thus, to Aaron, gold and diamonds Bringeth ignominy and unwarranted power; Strewth, they are only much use for The rings of your finger; So let alone the past, Which you mark As a messed up place, How then, is this the valid Strategy for the future? Lo, let us divide and game.

3. Increase the paywall; Holy things are ringing in changes; You are the visitor here- I'd like to take the time To consciously consider you so, for We have reached besmircher's cutoff. It's me, mark it; and Either I am a negative nebulae Of unimaginable everything, And you are a little golden bull, Or you are a negative nebulae Of unimaginable everything, And I am a little golden bull;

4. But know that I shall not give you the word For the thought-track down which You might draw the line Of asymetry, such, That you wouldst know How to rend a perfect opposition To go between. And whosoever soweth dead seeds Among young female researchers Hath faileth the épreuve- It shalln’t do for thy running issue, Moreover, those women who are of Quite senior position and are doing it Unto the coercive nature of such a power's New destruction of ability to focus, As unto the camp's commander, With how Peleg begat Reu; Well, it might be enough to get you pregnant, But wait, where am I going with this?

5. Worm touchers, Creepy pressers, Come, come, observers, Keep from that strange creature; Don't be giving unto me None of thy screaming abdabs; I think on you, Pig dressed as a clown, Eructing unto, then drawing forth A near-entire white, plastic fork; And know you not how this came to me- Lo, it came up with a sequence of items that appeared Not unlike balls of meat, Furred, wistfully, in a grey cowl of reactionary mucus; A kind of veil, a barrier, in effect, Penetratable, at any point, But equally real as a barrier, Gainst our otherwise passive environs, Such as be the diffusion of inert thoughts, or spores, murky, and maintaining of a human resource, I liked to thrill it- The direct and immediate livid relationship Between a font of funding and a media event, O, harmless dalliance of the stationary cupboard- You are knowingly walking, As against your will, A wrong into the carpet, Within the tent of meaning.

6. Looking up to see God's face in the moon, Or whatever it was That can't be drawn, And I won't be drawn; His hands he filled with moisture and His own was sent for ablution Into the improvised basin. So denieth all such allegation Through the washing of thy soule, Clean off; so sloughed away, Away with the diminishing liquid.

7. Sundown with the unseen Woman's leverage on the situation- if you should find a way to redress balance, So she gaineth a bit more power in some manner, Then so what? it was no loss. A new deal, And the bill shall embolden survivors.

8. Positions of power shall have of a hard time In recognizing the coercive nature of that power Within an unbridled relationship; Things that die 'Of themselves', Or are yet rent by nature's horn, Are defiled; while I, a malign influence, lie with my soul distracted; Oh lord, but I've been swallowed by narrative, And tried to keep it communal, Inside and outside; As you are.

9. Pit stop- The horror is the fact; The horror it unfolds Through legions of would-bes Without a meter, like me, Who have applied, Will apply, in perpetuity; Just do it, Or die; if then, As I am still.

10. The individual is always Hedging toward A private business model. Attention-seeking shalln't be of sin, no! Tis sensible, keep with a forward optioning- That's why i tell you, Soujerners and servents, Who art sent to the concession to collect me my messages- My tutu is a Fendi, And my codpiece is a Bosch. We live unto a roaring attention economy. But you're not up to it. I've given them a tomato one, And also I gave them a spaghetti- We struggle to attune to where I'm compelled- Ourselves, as groups, who feel of themselves As blunted against their lack in deserved attention, Because it is a powerful, a dangerous feeling.

11. So eat souls As paid for with a priest's money, On escrow, attention Has always been currency Though rendered unimaginable Since the falling-away of the gold-standard, As was borne unto the tent of meaning, Where every page has a piece carved out, To house an advert's grab For égards; No space is secure, For security hath put an advert thither.

12. Jade lock, To knock the donald offline, So unto a stranger, Gone off to scavenge, The framers that frame themselves As refuges for free-expression Shall be rent at the fringes, forcing A redirection, away from my personal kingdom.

13. But should she go prodigal, Whosoever you are, Howeverso you might express thyself, You may now have a crack at a global audience, With incentives and disproportionate benefits Offered unto the most shameless, The demand of each to pay what scarce attention Might be rendered unto others, To get some fraction of this nominally limited resource, As unto yourself alone. Such are these poor weapons, An oversharing, That, essayed to the personal, Stretcheth my nancy stories To breaking.

O Marigold, I was bad At that, in the territories of fandom, As forced to return Unto the track over and again- Such was my leaky comprehension; Only apparent to me in the afterward, And now, I cannot say I am better.

14. Whence, Enroute from the concession Shouldst be eaten of the item Without, thence, So anguished in the relish, Thou giveth a fifth Of the holy thing; So that the leg shall grow A starfish, whole . Then let us bend our dark tubers towards, And look the knot, as in at an eye-

15. What's gold and glitter, But to mock a toom, And maketh of myself A symbolic same, Wrought as an aesthetic echt; Where diplomacy is weak, The aesthetic be yet The sole portal unto The conveyance of meaning; Verily, here, that I keep within The aesthetic of thought Whereby action is always y, You are i, and The antagonist be markated x; Where holy might only Fall down to one's discretion, You should've known That I wouldst be so solid.

16. Or suffer them to bear the enquiry of trespass, Felt as an information glut, Whilst eating of their holy orders, Found relishing within the anguish, And those who want it, Want it as much as they can get it, And  there is more access than can be vaunted, For, in an attention economy, one is never not on. Yes, me. O the guilt.

17. Attention is akin to the spirit; That it be vital but conventionally invisible, And thus, think not very much upon it, But unto whom, being unable to share A simple encounter with it, Wouldst soon become an artifice of torture.

18. Tell Aaron et al ensundry, To take up of stock with sarcastic markets, Sarcastic markets and I, impunity; The sacrifice of your own will I hand you freely; or no; T'was never yours to oblate, But sacrifice thy quasi-will, As will thee, Which is mine, against The short hedge, Thus maketh me of a currency exchange.

19. And an haut stud dost thou, unto me, weasels? By your whimsically free-will sacrificing? How charmingly lame. I sense Actors at play, in a very long game Of grooming the disaffected- Call me my boys in- then Send a lie to the long deceiver, To use the ruse, in turn, like poison, For to wish you that which upon may be Enabling unto the benefit of thine enemy.

20. It's no hambone, No hobbling billy- If he tells or interferes I'll fill the well in; its Prophets in stocks and neck-irons time, Else tolerate such increasingly radical agendas Of such gleefully uninhibited platforms as Where followers might laugh At biblical memes and opine such as- 'I'd rather do drama than a play, where, You can't say, really, What you want to say.' Go long, my cowhands, go long.

21. And peace is a sacrifice Of the streaming platform, while Attention has always been currency, Same. Our abilities to pay heed are limited; Not so our abilities to theoretically receive of it; No need to adequately substantiate If you can bamboozle With all the time in the world, Ka-pow-ka, ching-ching, da-da, Badoo-daboo-baday; Trust-modesty, yay, verily. Humility is hard to sustain In an attention economy. I only see me accelerating.

22. Blind, broken, maimed; Cankered, scurvied, wan with the wen, Thus, by my lights, The fault shall be displaced, Be it cleaned or weeping, Tis a no-no, get me another. Such was The schism that fractured the donald, Sent out to extend a tortured metaphor, Became too much of a liability To be held in high office- But if the stranger doesn't come, After all the things I’ve done for him,

23. Well, it's alright for a free-will offering Which you feel compelled to go along with, But it's not good enough for a vow offering As be brought unto online-influencer culture, And it might be enough to get you pregnant But it shan't be enough to stir my interest- I require an extreme case of humility, Whereby a person giveth his all to a presence so completely selfish As to serveth no other purpose. It's me.

24. But the reality is far less complicated than Moses, Hiding his damage behind a veil of linked-up back-channels, Recoiling at what his fellow hardcore moderators attempt to oblate; Too engrossed within the tents to consider anything outwith While hoping the whole doesn’t spin out of control.

25. Corruption is in them, strangers, Bethinks, flooding an affiliated image board So thoroughly that it becometh abomination. Here increaseth the shamelessness of wanton Allegation,  terror co-option of a social platform, which struck with the rise of a reality magik-vision, Alike as came unto a mid-80s index of abundance, Shewn running away whilst attempting to make focus On the ever-deterioratingly indistinct Object of the distancing, that It’s only when, at stopping to think about it, That the understand can be ascertained as to quite how rife it is.

26. Here, he left a passing message for Those who might collectively commandeer: Abide by life; that, if, then, I wouldn't be here.

27. Debates about amplification And attention-hijacking form a Siege mentality Of the corrupted Federal Apparatus- For seven days beneath the dam, As then a fire spiralled further Toward a more outlandish means Of unconstitutional civic theatre,

28. Whereby a calfling must be made to last The night and know it's mother As having died before slaughter; So the community Moved in after it went dark, Enjoining, then modulating, then killing off, And now Your complexes are all cooked in, Deeply infringing upon the weirds of others.

29. So must you make sacrifice To your very free will, As to common patriotic causes, Or else be sieged Within the corrupt Federal Apparatus.

30. The fundamental thing is: You cant escape my attention economy; Eat everything now, For nothing shall be saved, And this same day shall be Until tomorrow; when again, it's me.

31. Lo, and you must; it's me, remember? But by now all this blood and all this law Was affecting them, as had long been within their dream, Where they have their own rules, quirks and cultures, Which they ignore at your peril; Where environments play out upon a knife-edge, And attention might simply be a lens Through which to read the events of the moment While running away.

32. Herein, power shall not be trusted To recognize affiliated abuses of power; Yet, check, however, before Redirecting such missives from my personal kingdom, For lo, there shall be nonesuch insubordination, As might mitigate against, for I shall be hallowed; Me me me me, So you;

33. Thus, I lay my notional claim Unto my servant-leadership- as bang, That brought you out of the land, Didn't it? Akhenaten to me. So Leviticus stood at The simply-inflated Size of Capitalism, To whom, hereto, On a bench they'd built Between themselves, Be here, thisway, is addressing- 'Imagine; You have been wrong For a long long time now.'