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wilwheaton · 10 months

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When you watch The Curse, you are watching two children who were abused and exploited daily during production. No adults protected us.

This was originally published on my blog in August, 2022.

I had a wonderful time at Steel City Comicon this weekend. It was my first time at this particular con, so I didn’t know there was such a huge contingent of horror fans, creators, and vendors who attend.

I love horror, and I was pretty psyched to be in the same place as John Carpenter and Tom Savini, across the street from the Dawn of the Dead mall. Pittsburgh feels like one of the places horror was invented, at least to me.

A number of these horror fans came to see me, and asked me to sign posters and other things from a movie my parents forced me to do when I was 13, called The Curse. I had to tell each of these people that I would not sign anything associated with that movie, because I was abused and exploited during production. The time I spent on that film remains the most traumatizing time of my life, and though I am a 50 year-old man, just typing this now makes my hands shake with remembered fear of a 13 year-old boy who nobody protected, and the absolute fury the 50 year-old man feels toward the people who hurt him.

I told this story in Still Just A Geek, and I’ve talked about it in some podcasts I did on the promo tour, but I’ve never put it out in public like this, in its entirety.

I suspect someone at the publisher would prefer I tease this and hope it drives book sales from people who want to read all of it, but I honestly don’t want to have another weekend like this one where everything is awesome, except the few times people who have no idea (and why should they) put that fucking poster in front of me, and all the fear, abandonment, and trauma come flooding back as I tell them that I won’t sign it, and why.

To their credit, each person was as horrified as they should have been, told me they had no idea (if they didn’t read my book why would they), and quickly put the poster away. They were all understanding. I am grateful for that.

But I really don’t need to tell this story over and over again, so here it is, with a child abuse and exploitation content warning, so I can just tell people to Google it.

After Stand by Me, everything changed. The attention from entertainment journalists, casting directors, and especially teen magazines came pouring in. The movie was a generational hit, beloved by critics and audiences alike, and every single one of us could pick anything to do next.

River’s parents and his agent got him Mosquito Coast, with Harrison Ford, as his next movie. I also auditioned for the role, but I knew even then that River was going to book the job. He was perfect, and I’d have to wait a little bit for my opportunity to come along.

I went on a lot of theatrical auditions after Stand by Me. I had tons of meetings with directors and the heads of casting at every major studio. It was all a very big deal, and I felt like we were all looking for something really special and amazing as my follow-up to Stand by Me.

At some point, a couple of producers contacted my agent with an offer to play one of the leads in an adaptation of H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Colour Out of Space.” The script was titled The Farm. (It would, of course, be changed when the film was released).

I read it. I did not like it. It was a shitty horror movie, and I saw that right away. It was the sort of thing you rented on Friday when the new release you wanted was already out of the store.

My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.

I told my parents I didn’t like it and didn’t want to do it. I clearly recall thinking it was a piece of shit that would hurt my career.

It wasn’t the first thing that had come our way that I wanted to pass on, and every other time, it hadn’t been a very big deal.

Sidebar: I was cast in Twilight Zone: The Movie, in 1983. The film tells four stories, and I was cast as the kid who can wish people into cartoonland. It was a GREAT role, in a movie I still love. (Note that Twilight Zone had four directors. One of them got three people killed. The segment I was cast in was not that one. I mention this because too many people zero in on this to deflect from what this whole thing is actually about.)

But I was CONVINCED by my parochial school teacher that if I worked on The Twilight Zone, which she had determined was satanic, I would go to hell. (This woman and her bullshit played a big role in my conversion to atheism at a young age, but when she told me that, I was all-in on the supernatural story they taught us in religion class.) I was so scared, more scared than I’d ever been to that point in my life, I cried and wailed and begged my parents to not make me do the movie. And I never told them why, because I was afraid my dad would laugh at me for being weak and afraid. My agent tried to talk me into it, and I wouldn’t budge. It’s the only thing I deeply and truly regret passing on, and I really hate I made that choice for such a stupid reason.

Okay. Back to The Curse.

This time, when I told them how much I hated it, they wouldn’t listen to me. My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.

That is, until they made me take a meeting with the producers of the movie, in their giant conference room on the top floor of a tall building in Hollywood. All I remember about this place was that it was huge; the table was way too big for the five of us who spread around it, and there were floor-to-ceiling windows on three of the walls, but the room was still dark. There was a weird optical illusion in the center of the table, this thing they sold in the Sharper Image catalog, made from two reflective dishes with a hole in the top of one. You placed an object in the bottom of the bottom dish, and it made it look like that object was floating above the whole thing. They had a plastic spider in it. What a strange detail for me to remember, but it’s as clear in my memory as if I were sitting in that room right now.

One man, who I presumed was the executive producer, was European or Middle Eastern (I didn’t know the difference then, he was just Not Like People I Knew), and I was instantly afraid of him. He was intimidating, and seemed like a person who got what he wanted.

So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.

I don’t remember what they said to me in their pitch or anything other than how uncomfortable and anxious I was to even be in that room. I tried so hard to be grown up and mature, but I — and my parents — was way out of my depth. I’d done one big movie and that was it. We didn’t have my agent with us, who had lots of experience and would have known what questions to ask.

No, in place of my experienced agent, my mother had decided she was going to be my manager, and she tackled the responsibility with an enthusiasm that was only matched by her absolute incompetence and inability to go toe-to-toe with producers the way my agent did. She was outwitted, out-thought, and outmaneuvered at every turn.

“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”

So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.

At some point, this man, who is represented in my memory by big Jim Jones sunglasses under dark hair above an open collar, said, “We are offering you a hundred thousand dollars and round-trip travel for your whole family. We will cast your sister, Amy, to play your sister in the movie.”

It all made sense, now. I was only thirteen, but I knew my parents were pushing me so hard because this company was offering me — them, really — more money than I’d ever imagined I’d earn in my life, much less a single job.

I knew that the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, was to say no. There would be other opportunities, and it was stupid to cash myself out of feature films for what I thought was, in the grand scheme of things, not very much money.

It’s incredible to me that I knew all of this. It’s incredible to me that I could see all these things, plainly and clearly, and my parents couldn’t (or, more likely, chose not to).

So after this man made his offer, all the adults in the room ganged up on me, selling me HARD on this movie.

My mother said, “Don’t you want your sister to have the same opportunities you’ve had? Wouldn’t it be fun and exciting to go to Rome? Think of all the history!”

The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.

I don’t think about this very often, because it’s super upsetting to me. Right now, I’m so angry at my parents for subjecting me and my sister to this entire experience. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In that moment, I felt bullied and trapped. All these adults were talking to me at the same time, and I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted to go home and get out of this room. I just wanted to go be a kid, so I did what I’d learned to do to survive: I gave in and did what my parents wanted.

The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.

But here’s the thing: when you watch The Curse, you are watching two children, me and my sister, who were abused on a daily basis. The production did not follow a single labor law. They worked us for twelve hours a day, on multiple film units (while I work on First unit, second unit sets up and waits for me. When I should get a break to rest, they send me to Second unit, then to Third unit, then back to First unit. I was 13.) without any breaks, five days a week. I was exhausted the entire time. I was inappropriately touched by two different adults during production. I knew it was wrong, but I was so scared and ashamed, and I felt so unsupported, I didn’t tell anyone. I knew my dad wouldn’t believe me, and my mother would blame me. Anything to keep the production happy, that’s what she did. That was more important to her than the health and safety of her children. The director was coked out of his mind most of the time, incompetent, and so busy fucking or trying to fuck one of the women in the cast, he was worse than useless. He was a fading actor who was cosplaying as a director, as in over his head as my mother. My sister and I were never safe. Instead of harmless atmospheric SFX smoke, they set hay on fire in barrels and blew actual smoke onto the set. They took buckets of talc, broken wood, bits of wallpaper and plaster, and threw it into my face during a scene inside the collapsing house. My sister is in a scene where she goes to get eggs from some chickens, and they attack her. So they hired Lucio Fulci, the Italian horror master, to direct her sequence. His idea, which everyone was totally on board with, was to throw chickens at my sister. Live chickens, live roosters, live birds. Just throw them at a nine-year-old girl. Oh, and then tie them to her arms and legs so they’ll peck her. All of this happened under my mother’s observation, and with her full participation.

Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.

If just ONE of the things I can remember happened to someone I loved, I would have grabbed my kids, gone to the airport, and flown home. Fuck those abusive assholes in the production. Let the lawyers sort it all out. Nobody hurts my children and gets away with it.

My mom says she “had some talks” with the producers. She claims that, once, she wouldn’t let us leave the hotel. (God, what a fucking dump that place was. It was just slightly better than a hostel.) I have no memory of that, but honestly the entire experience was so traumatic, I’ve blocked most of it out.

The movie was the commercial and critical failure I knew it would be. My parents spent the money. I don’t know what they spent it on. I got to keep fifteen cents of every dollar, so . . . yay?

My sister and I hardly ever talk about this. I suspect it was as upsetting and traumatic for her as it was for me. I told her I was writing about it, and asked her if she remembered anything. She told me she’d been lied to her whole life about this movie. Our mother let her believe she had been cast on the strength of her audition. “I was excited to work with you,” she said. She reminded me about some stuff I’d blocked out, including a scene where my character’s older brother (played by an actor named Malcolm Danare, who was kind and gentle, and made both of us feel safer when he was around) shoves my character into a pile of cow shit. When it came time to shoot the scene, the mud they’d put together to be the cow shit looked an awful lot like cow shit. When Malcolm pushed me into it, we all found out it was real cow shit. I was FURIOUS. The director had lied to me and had allowed me to have my entire body shoved into an actual pile of actual cow shit. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember he treated me the exact same way my father did whenever I got upset: he laughed at me, told me I was being too sensitive, reminded me that he was the director and he wanted to get a “real” performance out of me, and concluded, “If it bothers you so much, we’ll get you a hepatitis shot,” before he walked away.

My sister also recalled that, after she survived the scene with the chickens, it was the producers’ idea to give her one as a pet.

Okay, let’s unpack that for a quick second: you’ve been traumatized by these birds, so we’re going to give you one as a pet. That you’ll somehow keep in your hotel, and then will somehow get back to America. It will shock you to learn that neither of those things happened.

She remembered, as I do, the huge fight I had with my parents in our kitchen, where I told them I hated the script and I hated the movie. I didn’t want to do it, and I hated that they were making me do it.

“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”

“This is the only film you are being offered,” my mother lied to me. She made me feel like, if I didn’t do this movie, I would never do another movie again in my life. I had to do this movie. As my father bellowed, I had no choice.

Both of my parents denied this argument ever happened. Can I tell you how reassuring it is to know that my sister, who was also there, remembers it the same way I do?

The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them.

But one thing she told me, the thing I did not know, the thing that makes me so angry I want to break things, actually managed to make the entire experience even worse than I remembered it.

There’s a scene after her chicken incident where I check up on her in her bedroom. She’s got cuts and bruises, and I guess we talk about it. I don’t remember and I can’t watch the movie because I’m terrified it will give me a PTSD flashback (I’ve had one of those and I recommend avoiding it). Here’s the thing about that scene: she has some cuts on her face, and those cuts are real. They are not makeup.

I’m going to repeat that. My nine-year-old little sister had actual cuts on her face that were placed there by an adult, on purpose.

The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them. My sister told me our mother wasn’t in the makeup room when this happened — honestly, it seemed like our mother was strangely and conveniently absent when most of the really terrible things happened to us on the set — and when my sister told her what they’d done, she “lost her shit” at the production. She was pissed, I guess, which is appropriate and surprising. I wonder what would have to have happened for her to put us on a plane and get us home to safety? I mean, her son being abused daily didn’t do it, and her daughter being CUT IN THE FACE ON PURPOSE didn’t do it.

I just . . . I can’t. I can’t understand or comprehend allowing your own children to be physically and emotionally abused. They were literally selling my sister and me to these people, like we were some kind of commodity.

This was a tough conversation. My sister’s experience with our parents is very different from mine. My sister and I love each other. We’re close. I know it’s hard for her to hear that her brother, who she loves, was so abused by her parents, who she also loves. I was really grateful she made the time to talk to me about it, and grateful the experience wasn’t as horrible for her as it was for me.

As we were finishing our call, Amy also remembered one man, a young Italian named Luka, who was our driver for the movie. I haven’t thought about him in thirty years, but I can see his face now. He was kind, he was friendly, he taught us how to kick a soccer ball, and in the middle of an abusive, torturous experience, he stood out as a kind and gentle man. I mention him because she remembered him, which made me remember him, and goddammit I want at least one small part of this thing to not be awful.

The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares.

Ultimately, as I predicted and feared, this piece of shit movie cashed me out of respectable films forever. I got offers for movies, but they were always mindless comedies or exploitative horror films. They were never the serious dramas I wanted to work in after Stand by Me. The industry looked at me and River, wondering if one or both of us would become a breakout star. They quickly saw that River was doing real acting work, and I was in this piece of shit. For River, Stand by Me was a beginning. For me, it would turn out to be pretty much everything, at least as far as film goes.

There are thousands of reasons film careers do and don’t take off. Maybe mine wouldn’t have taken off anyway. Clearly, it’s not where my life ended up, and I’m super okay with that now. But when all of this happened, it hurt and haunted me.

The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares. Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.

This annotation is the last thing I wrote before I turned this manuscript in, because opening these wounds is hard and painful. I put it off as long as I could, and I feel like I’m still holding back, because just this small glimpse of the experience has taken me a week to write. I can’t imagine trying to go back and unpack the whole thing. (Note that is not in the book: I’ve made an EMDR appointment to work on this because the nightmares have come back after the weekend).

Fuck The Curse, and fuck every single person who exploited and hurt two beautiful children to make it. You all participated in child abuse, and you all knew better. Shame on all of you. I hope this follows you to the end of your life. I hope that living with what you did to innocent children has been as hard for you as it has been for me, because you deserve no less.

#tw abuse #tw child abuse #tw exploitation #child actor #still just a geek #lucio fulci #trauma survivor #speaking up for the child who was silenced by his abusers

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ofpd · 1 year

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my beloved twin daughters Major Tom and Ground Control

#txt

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meryldian · 11 months

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★ Dating 2023!Bill Kaulitz ★ (Fluff overload)

AN: Oh boy, I never thought I’d actually post some of my hcs, let’s see how this goes. I’m typing this half-asleep on my phone so I apologize for any grammatical or technical mistake, please let me know if anything!!

Let’s start with setting something straight, Bill does not fall for someone easily nor does he like to sleep around, as he’s said himself. If he’s actually decided on dating you it is a synonym for “I can see an entire future with you and I have probably thought of marriage plans”

No matter how you guys met; whether it was through mutual friends, by chance or were childhood friends, it would take you weeks, months or even years of forming a strong bond before even considering the first date.

Bill has said many times that he believes in love at first sight and probably still does, but fame and people have definitely left him with some major trust issues.

Won’t give you a house key or ask you to move in till he’s completely certain that you’re fully trust-worhy, but he loves having you over with him.

Now that you guys are together, he is the sweetest person on earth, will worship you like you’re a divine creature that landed on earth. He would worship the ground you walk on if he could.

Never-ending honeymoon stage kind of relationship not going to lie-

Will take you out to theme parks, rent out movie theatres, take you on hikes and long walks on a deserted beach.

Don’t be surprised if you ever wake up to a screaming Bill, all hyped because he decided that you’re spending your weekend at Disney.

He is so cheesy but it’s so sweet to see. He’s at a point in his life that he just wants to love and be loved. Kisses on the cheek, opening doors for you, pushing your chair at restaurants. He’s a gentleman.

Till it applies to his fashion. You ARE doomed to help him out of his outfit when he decides to be a bit more daring. Just like he does with Georg and Tom he will do it with you. “y/n you know the drill. When my assistant is not around you’re my assistant now help me out of these shoes”

Speaking of shoes, he is almost 2 meters (and sometimes more) when he wears his platforms and he absolutely loves towering over you. Bill loves to see you reach for a kiss. He will also walk behind you and ruffle your hair to annoy you.

This man is so whipped. He can gush about you for hours on end in interviews, his socials or his podcast.

He would also expose you a lot on Kaulitz Hills because that’s what he does.

He loves physical touch. When you’re walking in downtown LA he will always have an arm wrapped around your shoulders or waist, holding your hand or linking your pinkies.

He has the sneakiest of hands, it’s even worse than Tom. Bill always finds a way to have hand under your shirt or skirt if you happen to wear them. He can’t help it, he loves to feel your skin on his hands.

Back Hugs !!!

You will become his muse. He loves to dress you up however he pleases, you just look so good in everything! Bill will spend so much cash on designer sets to match with you. Only the best for his beloved.

He mostly calls you by your name in public but behind closed doors he would address you by the sweetest names like “My love, Darling/liebling, Pumpkin”

You guys are always out to eat

And at coffee shops

You’re each other’s personal photographers. Plus he absolutely adores to show you off on his instagram

I can see him as the type to start a vlogging channel just to show off how in love and happy he is with you.

Prepare yourself mentally to be woken up early to walk the dogs and drink sour green juice. Bill used to be a tremendous sleeper when he was young but those days are way behind.

When you wake up together, it is the best. He tends to wake up first and will stay in bed just admiring how beautiful you are. Tracing your features with his fingers. He wants to memorize every inch of your skin.

If you take too long though, he will get up and go prepare breakfast. Yes it includes celery juice.

You guys are always hanging with Tom & Heidi! You get into the craziest adventures

Heidi would love you so much, so would her kids. You and Bill are the cool relatives.

#bill kaulitz x reader #bill kaulitz #tokio hotel #gustav schäfer #tom kaulitz #georg listing #tom kaulitz x reader #tokio hotel imagine #tokio hotel x reader #georg listing x reader

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milknhonies · 3 months

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A Lesson In Service

Masterlist || Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: In 1880 you are hired as the governess of Lord Dalgliesh's children. When you meet your employer after months of already being in his employment you feel a strange change in your position. It's terrible when we discover the people we are expected to trust are as wicked and evil as the devil

Pairing: Lord!Henry Dalgliesh x Governess!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Indimidation, Drugging, Implied infidelity, implied sex trafficking/solicitating, Implied sexual abuse, manipulation, blackmail, Victorian era period typical sexism.

Word Count: 8.5k

Author Notes: My dream cast is Henry Cavill as Lord Henry Dalgliesh. Colin Firth as Colin Fowler. Cillian Murphy as Cillian Walsh. Ben Barnes as Benjamin Byrnes. Natalie Viscuso as Natalia Naclerio Tom Hiddleston as Tom Ransome. Smut is next chapter.

Inspiring Song: “How many miles to Babylon.” child's lullaby

London, England 1888, Saturday 14th January. 18:45pm.

A loud crack of thunder rattled the windows to the study where a man sat back cradling a glass of scotch.

Henry Dalgliesh was most incredibly not a kind or purely generous gentleman. Long ago he’d learnt to accept the rude whispers about his behaviour, he believed being bothered by comments made by those lower than he in title was pointless prattle to even hear. Thank God for his large fortune, physical attractiveness and major title that allowed him to spend, whore, drink, gamble, and travel to wherever he dared to venture.

A shine of lightening defined the shadows of his chiselled jaw, his presence was forever intimidating. A wicked smirk laced across his devious face; he raised his scotch and toasted the frozen grin of his past wife’s portrait over the fireplace. Her painted golden locks shining as bright as they did when cascaded over their marriage bed, and her casket.

The late lady Natalia Dalgliesh or rather Naclerio, the unfaithful wench, had often accused him of being a cold and a selfish monster. He chuckled to himself at the memory of her tears along with her cruel tone. She was right. But what of she? At constant, a needy bitch in heat? A nymphomaniac? For her, was he not enough? Henry truly had tried with Natalia, at least for a time he forced himself to be what she had envisioned.

He huffed and set his drink aside on his desk.

Sweet Natalia, goodness was she a darling piece. She obviously used her own innocent beauty to gain the attention of anything that could mount her. Henry did wonder, where did he go wrong? Was his size not to her desire? Was her appetite craving another type of bodily position he did not know? How was he not satisfactory? She should’ve known better than to marry him knowing full well he was not a man of pure affections.

In the end however he would forever remember her vile speech about how she had never loved him not that he cared- and that he was not even the legitimate father of their two darling children. Just like now he experienced a swirl of nausea in the pit of his stomach and a burning headache to his temple.

He lifted the scotch and pelted it at the painting, glass and alcohol splattered across her face down her neck and into her bosom he ever so missed. Her expression mocked him, that smile, the same lips that tricked him into losing fifteen years of valuable time.

He hated her.

Henry bit his lip and snarled, “Good riddance, you selfish cunt...you should count yourself lucky...Lucky it wasn’t my own hand that ended you.” Tears filled his eyes. His bottom lip trembled.

And sometimes, he missed her.

A whole year had went by. The four seasons changing back into the one that began his torment. Little Marianne and Michael, his beloved children had been sorely neglected for so long he knew it was time to return home. After the exposure of their false parentage, he felt an agony in even them knowing that their faces were of no spawn of his, Henry admitted he needed to man up and care for what his stupid wife left behind.

Yes, it was now time for the Earl of Jersey to return home to his estate of Radier Manor.

He buried his face into his hands and sighed, before plucking up the unopened envelope by his desk.

Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9 April. 01:30 pm.

On a canvas was a very artistic image of a charcoal vase of flowers. Leaves and petals shaded in nothing but strategic black strokes. You were delicately scraping the black drawing charcoal across the white papers when the intruding house keeper Mrs Sharpe simmered inside the children’s nursery.

The wrinkled prude sneered distinctively towards the you and you lessons to the two children, sitting on either side of you. Her dark greying hair appeared a little to tightly pinned today. Her thin lips slightly redder than normal...your eyes tried not to strain at the possibility of rogue on her cheeks. You forced a kind grin at her arrival.

“Miss Y/L/N,” Mrs Sharpe scowled, “I’m to inform you that you are required downstairs to the masters’ study immediately. He has just officially arrived and desires the attention of all new staff in his study, now,” her lips tightened whilst looking you up and down, “Oh! And do...I pray- make yourself a little presentable.”

The callously spoken crone tapped her cheek in reference to the black marks covering your face and rolled her eyes in annoyance as she spun sharply around to leave.

Your forced grin fell once the elder woman noisily stalked out of the room with her keys rattling away on the hip of her chain.

Rubbing your hands clean on your art apron you then turned and smiled to the two younglings in your care.

A pair of twins aged eight years old with dark reddish hair and similar features. The boy beheld blue eyes while his sister gained a pair of hazel.

“Well, my little darlings, I suppose our lesson in art must be placed on wait until tomorrow? I shall see you at supper and tomorrow we shall continue our art lesson but with watercolours instead.” You smiled at an excited Michael who unpinned the scribbly mess and Mary, who perched over her own work of rose sketching. Black smudges covered little Mickey’s hand who had given up his attempt of drawing daffodils and went by a creative approach of squiggly lines and stick figures of those in the household.

Nanny Nettle who sat in the corner of the room, polishing the children’s shoes chuckled, “Sharpe doesn’t make no move to hide her ill feelings towards you.”

You sighed, shrugged and looked to the elderly scots woman with a look of despair written across your face, “Mrs Nettle, I don’t understand,” You started to pack up the art equipment into a small supply chest and carried the box of art equipment to the children’s bookshelf, putting them away. Michael folded his picture to his chest while his sister placed her art on her miniature duchess.

While you folded the canvas stands the woman with her twinkling milky eyes observed you with an amused curl in her lip.

“I have been governess here for most of the winter and this spring, but Mrs Sharpe still treats me like a unwanted pest- I have done naught but share my kindness, my patience and my help around the estate: I mean really? What have I done to upset her so?” You approached the nanny and sat at her feet wiping your face with the corner of your apron of any black marks.

The children went and washed their small hands in the basin and hung their aprons on a wall hook.

“What have you done to offend her, lass?” Nanny Nettle grinned and shook her head, pausing her polishing she reassuringly patted the young woman’s cheek.

“I gather it be that she didn’t have a say in your employment to the household dear. That cow likes having everything under her control,” She cackled suddenly, “O’ course, it also don’t help that her nephew Thomas, that footmen who likes to smoke in the barn, can’t seem to keep his eyes off your chest when you waddle pass, acting like a drooling dog he does.”

You gawked and quickly fled to Mary’s side, holding her ears, if you had another hand you would’ve covered Mickey’s too.

You softly hissed with a flushed face, “Please Mrs Nettle, I must request you keep a decorum of respectful language in front of the children. And furthermore,” you flushed, “I don’t appreciate your jesting since I’ve never seen Mr Ransome acting so beastly as that. He is a gentleman.”

The older woman chuckled at your sweet innocent alarm and shrugged, “Alright, I’m merely explain’ why that housekeeper

‘Hoity Toity’ has it out for you, dear.”

You sighed and released the confused Mary who was very curious about why her Nanny compared her father’s footman to a puppy. In the end of her mind boggling, the girl went to sit on her bed and play with her doll she had come to name Antoinette.

The Nanny pointed her wrinkled finger at the door and then jabbed it back at the you, “Best be off downstairs Governess, the master don’t like to be kept waiting. He’s not known for his patience, lord knows I couldn’t teach it to him.”

Breath hitching, you nodded vigorously and hung the apron on the hook before you fled outside the nursery, down the hall to the stair case. You hurriedly descended the stairs while you prayed desperately that the Earl of Jersey did not take the same disliking to you that housekeeper Sharpe had. Fixing your hair into what you deemed suitable, you skated passed the kitchens.

It was honestly a miracle you had this position. You were a newly officialised governess just starting out in your first family, becoming employed on your first letter of recommendation written as a favour by a friend of your late father, Lord Colin Fowler. You desperately vowed to help the children grow fruitfully and improve intelligence majorly. Your wages were above the average at fifty pounds a year, including the free house boarding and food.

You knew there would be a time and day where you would need to ask or at least thank your employer for his generosity. You had worried that when you would meet him, he would see you for what you really were...a country mouse with only the capacity to teach what little you knew in the arts and literature.

Biting your lip, you decided all you wanted in this world was acceptance. And you truly needed the lord of the estate to accept you; Your father’s debt rested heavily on your shoulders at the moment. Your mother died a few days after the birth of your little sister Odette, and your father was a tremendously poor loser in gambling poker. He’d left you and Odette with a cough that killed him along with no money or respectable station in society.

At only a young age of eighteen, you’d been forced to leave the quiet life of the pastures in the south for the employment of the east. Boarding the ship out to this island was the most scary thing you had to partake. And in fact you had casted your bowls over the sides of the rocking boat more than twice.

Your twelve year old sister Odette was thankfully now in the custody of the kind and charitable Lord Fowler who only required a monthly fee to care for her which you were utterly grateful for. It was unfortunate though that even after the auctioning of your family cottage and small farm, plus your exuberant wages was still not enough to entirely pay the debts Mr Y/L/N left. If you were not so frugal with the expenses of books and dresses you owned, you wouldn’t be getting by and that terrified you.

‘Do not fall front you silly girl’, you mentally scolded, ‘if you muck up it’ll be Odette to pay for it.’

Reaching the closed door of the Earl’s study, you stood frozen and hesitated from twisting the door handle. Mentally and physically prepping yourself, you straightened your back and held your head high- but not too high to present too confident in a man’s presence, let alone an Earl.

Quickly you checked your hair again and the hairpins that secured it down in the ‘appropriate style’. Your hands you then noticed trembled, ‘goodness why am I so nervous!?’ your shaky fingers pressed down on your dark navy skirt.

You bit your lip and self-assuredly nodded, finally lifting your hand up to the wood and serving three slight taps. The door opened wide, behind it was Mr Cillian Walsh, the house’s head butler and supposedly personal keeper to the Lord Dalgliesh.

The butler gave you a grand smile, he was one of the most friendliest of the staff here in Radier

Manor. He was the one to first welcome you when you had gotten off the boat many moons ago. And Cillian was extremely helpful and kind, especially when it came to the children. He was the one to inform the little dears of their father’s planned return.

“Miss Y/N, do come in,” he whispered and fondly winked, “His lordship is eager to meet you.”

He stepped aside and bowed his head a little to you. Stepping into the study for the first time, you noticed another young man waiting inside. He clearly was another new employee of the household.

And in front of him was an extremely handsome male.

You had seen his painting in the drawing room but it was nothing compared to his true form. The Earl was sitting behind his large desk and when you walked into the room you witnessed him rise at your entrance. Y/N’s eyes widened. The painting depicted him with an image of late forties but now you gathered his age to be somewhere in his middle thirties or early forties. The painter had drastically aged him. His chiselled jawline and thin lips romanticised his face along with his soft brown curls falling like gentle swirls down his cheek.

What the painting hadn’t entailed too was his height. By god he would have put Goliath to shame giant. You had never met such a broad and tall man in your life. Your eyes widened as he slowly bowed his head to you respectfully.

Snugly fitted to his muscular frame was a black waistcoat that matched his deep blue eyes. It wasn’t hard to say you felt a tickle of attraction to this man. On his left hand a gold band entrapped his finger.

‘That’s right, he was a married man’.

You swallowed quietly and moved to stand beside the younger stranger with a leaner appearance, and dashing mid length Jett black hair.

The Earls gaze was dominating. His aura intensely intimidating. And it was all pinned directly onto you...poor thing. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as the Earl’s eyes paused in front of you.

You kept your eyes low under his cool regard and fought to stand still and not fidget.

“Good day, it is my desire to formally welcome you both to Radier Manor despite the unfortunate obvious that one of you has been in my care for a few months already,” your employer said glancing your way while he stepped forward from behind his desk, “As I am sure you must already know, I am Henry Dalgliesh, the Earl of Jersey.”

Cillian gestured his white gloves hand to you while clearing his throat, “My lord, this is Miss Y/N

Y/L/N, the new governess.”

You curtsied too low and before it was too late you almost tripped yourself onto his shoes when his heavy hand caught your shoulder. A rush of blood dusted your face from nervous embarrassment. You wobbled back onto your feet and softly apologised for your clumsiness, eyes staring at his shoes.

Unseen by you, Henry smirked. Holding his palm out to you, you gently laid her own clammy own into his hand. He bent his head, his eyes set on your heated face while his oh so very soft lips pressed against the hot skin of your fingers, “Miss Y/L/N, It is a pleasure to make your official acquaintance after all this time.”

His facial expression was unreadable, only that he appeared to be kind and polite…

‘Oh goodness, he smells divine, like baked biscuits!’

The butler cleared his throat again, “and here Sir, is Mr Benjamin Byrnes, the secretary from Wimbledon.”

Cillian continued to inform the master about his benefits for this particular Secretary but you were too distracted by the Earls penetrating eyes that had refused to stop staring you down. Your heart pounded against your chest, you felt like you body was being dragged towards him despite being completely still and unmoving. Your eyes locked for a painfully wonderful eternity.

You exhaled gratefully when the Cillian led you and the secretary out of the study after Henry shook Benjamin’s hand and allowed the you both to remain employment. You felt weak and tired by your first encounter. After all you never expected to experience such an debilitating presence.

Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9 April. 18:30 pm.

That night Lord Henry didn’t make his appearance at supper, he was too busy under some account, which sourly upset the children who missed their father greatly.

And when said that they were upset, they were very, very disappointed. The twins had become woeful and unpleasantly behaved, deciding to ignore their food and gossip about what their father had done while he was away.

Marianne was mature and stated confidently that he was a business man perform business duties, when asked what duties they were she was unable to answer.

Michael on the other hand was a wild imagination. He was certain that his father had been away fighting criminals and bringing justice to the realm. He stabbed his mutton and exclaimed it was how he believed his father ran a sword through wicked men.

As Cillian passed with a tray to take to the masters study he paused and pinched Michaels cheek, before commanding the boy eat his dinner lest it turned totally cold.

After dinner concluded Nanny Nettle took them back to the nursery to ready for bed...

But as you were making your way down to the servant quarters where your room laid, you were nearly knocked over by a hurling body that flung itself back when it collided with your strong body.

You rubbed your belly with a light groan and looked dow at the floor and baring witness to one of your students.

Michael’s shirt front had a large wet spot. His red face was scrunched up, puffy crying eyes spilled tears and down his nose and chin was a trail of snot and drool. His little fists clenched and unclenched while he continued to wipe his face on his soaked sleeves. He was crying loudly.

Shockingly he stood up and collided into you but this time clung to you and held up his hands in silent pleas. Between tears he was clearly crying out sentences that were incoherent. You carefully pieced together what was wrong when you managed to hear, “Papa”.

Sighing you bent onto your knees and cupped under his armpits and lifted him up onto your hip and held him close, rocking him softly. He reminded you in that moment of your sister Odette who cried when your father died. You patted his back, he was a baby missing his parents. You rocked him as he clung to your shoulders.

The little boy sobbed into your neck and held onto you like you were a life anchor.

“O’Mickey dear, hush now, hush,” You gently cooed as you walked him to the nursery which conveniently was just down the hallway.

Your heels clicked to the thudding of the nursemaids’ feet just as she called around the corner “Michael! Where are you, Lad!? There you are!” She puffed, following her was Marianne who also looked to have been crying with the red hue of her eyes.

You turned to Mrs Nettle and smiled sadly, “I think someone won’t be letting go anytime soon,” just as you said this, Michael tightened his grasp on her blouse and shoved his head deeper into your neck, “Shall I put the children to bed?”

The Nanny looked slightly shocked at the offer, her grey brows raised and jaw dropped before sputtering “O’ course lass, I’ll get their nightclothes.”

As she tried to walk pass you into their bedroom, you reached out and touched her hunching shoulder. You knew the children needed a female figure who was frankly a lot younger than Mrs Nettle, sixty five years younger perhaps.

“Please Mrs Nettle, I can manage. Come Marianne, time for bed,” You held out a hand to the girl that tilted her head and bit her lip, reaching out to grab at your hand.

After bidding the Nanny a good night the three of you went inside.

Closing the door behind them, you softly sighed and brushed through Michael’s auburn curls with your fingers trying to sooth him a little more as his crying dialled down to sniffles. Slowly you sat on his bed, Marianne sat on hers across you both.

“Mary darling,” you gentle asked, rubbing her brothers back, “Could you please fetch yours and your brother’s night clothes?”

“Yes Miss Y/L/N,” She sniffled and smiled sweetly before hurrying off to the draws and closet.

Eventually you detached little Michael from your body and laid him down on the mattress. You quickly undressed the boy and soothingly brushed his wet cheeks with your thumbs. When

Marianne came back with the clothes, you made it your sole duty to ready them for bedtime.

The two hadn’t seen their father in over a year is what you had heard through the staff and on the day of lord Henry’ return he is ‘too busy’ for them?

You beckoned Marianne closer, you slipped off Marianne’s skirts and slipped over her head her long white nightgown. Marianne mumbled as she tugged her night dress on, “Pap- I mean Father, he did not want to wish us a good night and,” she choked, her little lips started to wobble, “Mrs

Sharpe smacked Michael across the cheek when he would not obey to leave.”

You gasped and brought her into your arms. While holding her close, you heard her ask on the brink of a sob, “Does he not really love us?”

‘What kind of man would act such a way ’, you grumbled to yourself, ‘and here I thought he was a very good looking man inside as he was outside. He’s unkindly neglectful of the family who missed and love him dearly.’

Then you sighed, ‘maybe he’s an extremely important man concerning business matters. He does after all own land on which now is booming with tourists.’

“I am sure your father loves you dearly Marianne,” you cooed and rubbed her back as she hiccuped.

Buttoning up his night shirt and wiping his wet face with his sleeve cuff, Michael had calmed down completely.

Turning her around to undo her braids, Marianne asked, “Miss Y/L/N? Can you…can you please sing to me and Mickey?”

Your fingers froze in Marianne’s hair. Such a request was endearing to you but was it too intimate? The girl turned around and forced herself into a hug between you . It was Marianne’s teary eyes that forced you to cave in.

“I can Mary,” you assured and pinched her shoulder playfully, “After you’re in bed.”

A bright grin returned to the little girls face. She and Michael eagerly clambered into their beds, diving beneath the covers.

You tucked the blankets of both their beds and made sure their sheets rested up to their chins. Then you laid Antoinette the dolly beside Mary on her pillow and picked up a toy solider off the floor, setting it on the bed side table next to little Michael. The two children gazed up to you awaiting their lullaby from their governess.

Carefully you knelt onto the floor and turned down the kerosene lamp on their shared bedside draw. Humming first and slowly slipping into song, you sang…

“How many miles to Babylon? Three score miles and ten.” They smiled and gasped lightly, happy and content.

“Can I get there by candle-light? Yes and back again.”

The little ones nuzzled into their pillows and smiled at you after sneaking a glance at each other almost as though they were keeping a secret with one another.

“If your heels are nimble and light, three more miles and ten, you may get there by candle-light there and back again.” You kissed each of their foreheads and tapped their noses softly.

“King and Queen of Cantelon, How many miles to Babylon?”

You stood and went to the curtains and drew them open, up in the night sky was a full moon shining down on them.

“Eight and eight, and another eight. Will I get there by candle-light?”

Coming back to the children, kneeling next to them you noticed Michaels mouth open wide and yawn silently. His eyes shut lose and his yawn lift his lips softly parted. Exhaustion took him first.

“If your horse be sprite and good and your spurs be bright.”

You continued to the last line of the diddy as you observed Marianne’s lashes fluttering down.

“How many soldiers there have been? More than yee dare come and see."

You laid your hands over both their belly's and rubbed small circles into them.

"How many miles to Babylon? Three more miles and ten. Can I get there by candle-light? Yes and back again."

Their chests lifted up and down with the steady slumber they fell into.

You whispered the final line, "Yes and back agaaiiinn."

It was such a sweet sight. You knew deep in your heart you loved them, for such little bodies they had such big hearts. From the moment you arrived they had been nothing but joyful creatures and to see them distraught so terribly by their father and housekeeper broke your heart. You smiled and rose from the floor to kiss both of their little foreheads again. Each softly moaned in their sleep and turned their heads into the pillows away from your sweet kisses.

Turning the kerosene down completely, You walked out of the nursery into the door way and carefully closed the door behind you. You prayed it wasn’t too loud to wake them up.

The sound of movement caught your attention away from the nursery, your eyes viewed a slight shadow moving through a door way at the end of the hall. For a moment you clenched the front of your blouse in fear of any ghosts.

‘Must be a servant cleaning one last room.’

You had no fear and no knowledge of any existing dangers. You decided to not worry, after all you were clearly safe and just needed to go to bed. You were tired from a day of work and meeting the formidable master of the manor.

Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9 April. 18:56 pm.

You retreated to the quiet sanctuary of your room. Located on the same floor as the laundry parlour but its door was opposite the wall. You were still grateful for your given room, since it was bigger than your own cottage one on the farm you sold off, not only that but the bed mattress was so comfortable that most morning you’d lay there and pray it was Sunday so you didn’t have to rise up and sleep in until the afternoon church service in town. In fact the only issue with your room was the lack of warmth with no fireplace.

Stripping down to nakedness you ripped over your head your cotton nightgown before unpinning your hair. Placing each pin onto the duchess and scratching your scalp you sighed and preceded to slink into your bed. You shut your eyes preparing for the world of being governess another day. Though after turning and tossing beneath the covers that provided the tiniest of warmth for another hour, you huffed and flung the sheets away. Sleep just wasn’t an option tonight.

It was like an itch as your mind trailed off in recalling all the activities of the day and vaguely came to remember the meeting with his lordship. O’ how he had kissed your hand in his study. The odd sensation of butterflies returned to your belly. Your thumb rubbed over the spot where his lips had touched.

‘Did he kiss every young ladies hand like that? Surely not? I should perhaps be offended by such impropriety...what would his wife have thought? He should still be in mourning, as should I...o’ he is a Earl after all...and he’s paying you plenty good, don’t be ungrateful over a light kiss on your hand.’

It was scandalous if thought long and hard about. But maybe that’s how lord’s greeted women of any standing.

You giggled to yourself as you imagined a scene of that wrinkly dragon Mrs Sharpe getting her paws kissed by the Earl. You imagined he would be very displeased doing so while the old beastly woman would salivate! What a lark!

Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9 April. 22:13 pm.

Knowing you were never going to sleep any time soon, your stomach made a faint murmur.

You believed that Mr Mikkelsen the cook wouldn’t mind if you went into the kitchen and snuck out a warm glass of milk and one of his sweet baked treats, surely that would aid this sleepless night? You rose from the bed with a sigh. Covering yourself with a wrapper that laid on the bar at the foot of the bed.

Making your way out of your room and through the halls that lead to the kitchen, your bare feet padded quietly across the carpet of the sitting room. You graciously were thankful for the moonlight that lit up the home through the unclosed curtains.

Your eyes casted to the wall above the unlit fireplace. His painting hung large and proud. The artwork held no candle to his true masculine beauty but might resemble his figure in another ten years. The moon truly reflected the blue eyes that lay on the canvas; they seemed to watch your every movement and with the stern frown brushed on his lips he didn’t look very pleased with your late awakening.

You tried not to think to hardly on your imagination.

Tiptoeing across the main entrance hall you sighed, finally you’d arrived. The wooden door was inches away from your fingertips, awaiting the moment you’d push it open; but something wasn’t right… Since a prickling sensation that trailed from the top of your skull, down your spine and through your legs suddenly sparked.

“Is it regular that you would wander about your employers home alone in the dark at night? Or is it just mine that’s so much more intriguing?”

Biting back a squeal of fright, you wheeled around to find that behind you was the Earl who had caught you attempting to sneak in the kitchen. His form was relaxed against the stair rail as he glared you down like a naughty child with arms folded across his chest similar to that of a displeased parent. Lord Henry body was basking in nothing but the light of the moon. His coat and cravat were long gone, his dark blue banyan draped over his shoulders and tied around his waist.

His height frightened you and made you feel inexplicitly tiny as a mouse.

This was your second meeting and now you realised how much you possibly looked like a dirty

thief.

You bit your lip and wrapped your arms around yourself nervously. It suddenly was obvious how immodest you appeared in your night garments, wandering about the house. You felt your breath quicken.

‘God, please don’t let him sack me’, you prayed.

You were already beyond humiliated and flustered at the extreme inappropriateness of being alone with the Earl in nothing but both your night wardrobe, you just couldn’t figure out how to politely flee back to your own room without walking around him.

You stammered “M-my Lord, please forgive me I had trouble sleeping an-and thought to get a glass of warm milk.” ‘Honesty is the best policy!’ your face screwed up into an embarrassed contortion, “Please do pardon and excuse my intrusion, I shall make way and return to my room immediately.”

You lifted a hand to your face and shielded your eyes away from Henry. Making movement to step around his tall form, you took your chance to escape, alas it was all in vain as the Earl’s large hand shot out and stole at your wrist. A high gasp drop from your parted lips. His grip not to rough but stern and strong. He was not making any notion to harm you, just to stop you from leaving his presence.

His warm liquid voice dripped out into your ears “Miss Y/L/N, please wait,” He pleaded in voice, his sapphire eyes mourned “I beg you not to leave under my sudden arrival.”

You bit your lip at the sight of his face- the hardness of his features fell away, replaced by a soft graceful smike as he quietly murmured, “It is not the first time one has found themselves awake in the night within search of Chef Mikkelsen’s delicious biscuits. Will you not sit for a moment with me?” he opened the kitchen door and gestured for you to enter.

You felt a gigantic wave of relief. Though the effects of shock were still attached to your body when all you could reply with was a scared hum.

Henry ventured into the pantry. You ventured around the table in the middle of the kitchen and looked around the spices that hung above the windows.

When his lordship came out with a tin box and two tea saucers, he noticed how his governess was standing in the middle of the kitchen looking rather…lost.

Clearing his throat he gathered your attention, “Miss Y/L/N please, do sit,” gesturing towards the chairs at the kitchen table, and graciously you sat in the chair when he dragged one out.

Laying the tin of biscuits down and placing the saucers in front of you, he fled to the cool room and collected a jug of milk. The stove unfortunately had been put out hours ago and the attempt to reheat it would take longer than desired.

He sighed, “I’m afraid only cold milk is available Miss Y/L/N.” He poured the ivory liquid into a rose painted china tea cup.

“Thank you nonetheless sir,” you politely smiled and accepted the cup into your hand. Laying your lips on the cup, you took a slight sip of the milk.

Your eyes widened, ‘this milk is phenomenon!’ Taking another small sip you hummed happily,

“Your milk must be sweeter here one the Island.”

It was lighter than cream but contained a watery consistency. Something edged the final flavour, it was eerily sweet like sugar or honey. The milk might’ve been cold to the lips but it was surprisingly warm in your belly.

Sitting down in front of you the Lord’s eyes were wide, “You haven’t tasted our milk? After all this time?” he jokingly gasped.

You shook your head. The past many weeks was too hectic for you to simply sit down and have a cup of tea or a glass of milk. You were too concerned for Odette’s wellbeing and support along with the Dalgliesh children’s education.

Your afternoons were busied with the planning of the next day. And even for the past three Sundays, you had caught sleep in bed and made sure your room was tidy and that you were ready for Mrs Sharpe intruding as she was known to do so well.

The callous woman carried all the house keys on a large ring, so despite locking your door, your privacy would still be breeched. Henry threw his head back and laughed.

Your glanced between him and the kitchen door. He was so loud! What if someone saw you like this with him ? It would be the island scandal!

It didn’t matter...

For a man possibly ten to twenty years older than you, he was very charming and boyish; his smile made suddenly made you swoon. You grinned stupidly.

Lord Henry finally settled himself and paused, swallowing down a biscuit, and glanced over at you.

“Will you not have some of the biscuits? They’re sublime,” His long fingers hooked around the edge of the tin and held it out to her.

You shook your head again with all your meek sweetness, “Oh no, my lord, you enjoy it.”

You felt you had overstepped your place and should be humble when it came to his offers.

However a little growl from your middle betrayed your motives.

The Earl let loose another hearty laugh and stole a biscuit to give to you. Biscuit in hand reached out towards you.

Still you refused the offer knowing you should’ve removed yourself from that improper and intimate scenery, you whined “No, my lord, please I ca-“

The Earl smirked and shoved the treat into your talking lips, which caused you to stop midsentence and avoid not choking on the sweet biscuit. A light gag escaped you.

The crumbs rubbed rough on your throat and you wanted to be mad at the Lord but knew not to step that boundary, ‘you got yourself into this mess stupid girl.’

“You’ll come to learn soon that I don’t take to hearing the word ‘No’ kindly Miss Y/L/N.” He flashed her a smile filled with bright whites, proud of his actions.

‘He’s rude and childish!’

A great prickling of hairs on the back of your neck rose up, something was telling you to be afraid of Henry. ‘But he only force fed you a biscuit calm down- if anything be grateful.’

“Now drink the rest of your milk, dear,” he said, pushing the cup up to your crumb covered lips.

You instantly sat back and away from his long claw like fingers, you now just wanted to go back to bed. Sculling down the sweet milk and hastily standing, you moved the chair back into place and waddled over to the sink.

You spoke respectfully but a slight tremble ran through your hands, “I should- um, I think it best I bid you a good night, my lord.”

‘Something is definitely not right, I shouldn’t be here…goodness Y/N don’t be such a scaredy cat!’ you chided yourself. Shaking your head slightly you told yourself firmly, ‘everyone knows full well that the gentry are an odd lot from time to time. He is just being friendly.’

Henry stood to attention and caught you again by the wrist before you could even lay the dishes into the sink. He had excellent aim for wrists it would appear. Providing you his uneasy smirk, he dragged you back in front of him. A single digit cupped your chin and wiped up to your parted gasping lips. Moving his finger away, he deliberately showed you the white spill of sweetness he’d caught on the corner of your mouth. His long tongue flicked out and licked up the drip before completely sucking his finger in front of you.

You gasped. ‘Too friendly, for a man of his standing; is he…with me? No, he can’t be flirting. Great scot girl, get a hold of yourself. Act not like the impute girls of your age, be a mature woman! Goodness! Why would he ever think like that? The man just lost his beloved wife a year ago.’

His hand holding your arm released and dug into the pocket of his over-night coat.

He tutted you softly “Come with me, I have an urgency to question and acquaint myself better with you.”

A hand twirled around your back and softly shoved you forward and guided you into the dark cold drawing room.

‘Is he escorting me back to my living space?’

Suddenly, he froze, his palm left your back and gestured to the lounge. You glanced behind back and up to your employer “Sir?”

“Sit,” he sharply directed followed by a lengthy spaced cough, “Please Miss Y/L/N,” he added “I desire to inquire about the children.”

You blinked under his intense stare, slowly you sat down in the lounge. You slowly drawled, “The children, my lord?”

Sitting down across from you, the Earl rubbed his hands, his brows raised followed by a light chuckle, “Yes Miss Y/L/N, the ones I am paying you to educate?” his fingers laced together.

….Marianne and Michael. So now he showed his care and interest of them?

You flushed and uneasily smiled, you felt like an utter fool, “Of course, my lord. They are doing exceptionally well. They have taken a joy to writing their own stories, they’ve demonstrated great imaginations.”

He didn’t seem too interested in what his children enjoyed that was obvious from his bodily reaction lacking any bright eyes or head perks. “I see...” He bit his lip and sighed, his face lifted to the fireplace. He looked at his portrait and snidely snickered to himself.

Scratching his chin he looked back to you, “Tell me, Miss Y/L/N, are you very tired?”

“Actually, my lord, I-“

“Miss Y/L/N. I have a few brief questions regarding the children, if you do not mind.” He asked as he lit some of the candles with a box of matched from the desk draws.

‘The children, not his children? For a lord he should learn how to speak correctly.’

You gripped the top of your wrapper collar with icy hands and uneasily shuffled. You just wanted to go to bed and sleep, but Henry pursued you further more even after you asked if they might continue the conversation at breakfast in the morning.

He release a wicked chuckled that bewildered you. ‘He’s mad!’

The Earl tossed a leg over one of his knees, he sat back and relaxed, “Now, now, I would prefer to keep this frank, quick and confidential between two adults…”

He turned his head away briefly before he leant forward into your face, his hot breath blew down on your cheeks and eyes as he tilted his head.

His dark eyes turned hot and frightening, he purred, “Do you fear me, Miss Y/L/N?”

As expected if not planned, You lurched back and gasped. Your cheeks heated up. The blue light of the moon shown on his profile. He looked like a painting of Lucifer you’d seen in a children’s bible. His mesmerising features were both terrifying and attractive to you.

You shook your head, trying to stand up straight and tall. You felt silly and embarrassed in yourself for being so flushed.

‘Except…Why would he ask me that? Does he want me to know my place, have I overstepped my glass standings too openly?’ you truly hadn’t meant to upset him enough to try and upset you in return.

“I don’t understand, my lord,” you nervously huffed, “I believed we were talking about Miss

Marianne and Mr Michael?”

You turned your head to the side away from his eyes that squinted and lips that frowned. He moved forward, resting his hands either side of your arms on the lounge. His body heat surrounded you, his banyan and your wrapper folded against each other. Silk against cotton brushing softly.

“S-sir, you come too close, please sit back.”

Henry leant into your ear and hissed in a threatening tone, “Perhaps you will learn to tolerate my ways in time, Miss Y/L/N, as my children learn from you.”

Now you were properly scared. Your chest heaved up and down. He might’ve just as well told you that he was going to throw you down the grand stair case. You were petrified and paralysed.

“Indeed but I beg you to remain civil, I am- I am most happy to inform you of their accomplishments.”

Henry smugly smiled and hummed, leaning away from your unprepared body. He clapped his hands lightly and licked his teeth. He was a hungry looking man, a man looking to conquer in war.

“Yes, I suppose you’re correct Governess,” he continued in his cheerier tone, “We must discuss the children, Miss Y/L/N. Please do tell me of their achievements in your lessons? Do they work hard? I want to hear your curriculum and methods of teaching since you seem to have difficulty understanding respect of your superiors.”

‘Difficulty understanding respect of my superiors?!’

You tightly swallowed and faced him. You wanted to bluntly tell him he was a terrible father and a rude man. Instead, you submissively answered every question he asked. Most questions he asked related to their French lessons, dancing, mathematics and literature.

“Où avez-vous appris à parler français?” Where did you learn to speak French? He asked suddenly in French. It caught you off guard his snap in transition to the language.

You curled your lips in and politely replied, “Mon père m’a appris” my father taught me.

He smirked and his brows raised, he slowly nodded, “Par exemple, un enseignant?” was he a teacher?

You smiled and shook your head. A small flush came to your cheeks

“Il devient marchand et propriétaire terrien.” He was a merchant and landowner, you gently explained. Your father was a travelling man and left he farm and cottage to you and your mother while he was away. And when your mother died, you took care of little Odette and father remained to work a little more in England instead of sailing off for months to India and China.

You felt your mouth grow incredibly dry and your lips numb. Your vision became spotty and the room swayed. You tried to stand to your feet and almost fell over onto him again like you had this morning.

“Je m’excuse,” you weakly slurred, “je suis fatiguée.” Excuse me, I am very tired.

You needed to go to bed. It was far too late for this meeting in the night that could wait till the morning.

Just before you could tell him any of this, your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You fell ungracefully to the floor and weakly collapsed.

The earl smiled while whispering ‘timber’ with a tiny whistle and left you to fall hard, but winced at the loud thud. Your wrapper tie became loose and fell away to reveal your scantily clad night gown.

You were still awake. Unable to move unable to understand what was happening. Why your body would not rise and why you were just so incredibly tired. The last thing you saw was the earls looming shadowing silhouette and his deep voice humming a familiar tune.

"How many miles to Babylon..." He smiled and cocked his head to the side as he watched your poor confused gaze flutter shut.

With your eyes closed and your lips parted and your arms perfectly lain above your head, he believe you were a grand depiction of a goddess offering her life to a sacrifice.

He dug into the pocket of his banyan again, while this time he pulled out a tiny vial the size of his thumb. Henry hummed the merry lullaby as he twirled it around his fingers. It was just too easy to slip it into something as milk.

"How many miles to Babylon? Three more miles and ten. Can I get there by candle-light?" He smirked, "No and ne'er again."

He believed it to be remarkable that you would fall unconscious so easily under the influence of his drug induced milk. He worried you would cease sipping after your exclamation on the sweetness.

While poor little you was trusting him to be a gentleman…but it was part of that old scally-wag Colin Fowler’s plan, sending the girl here to be his governess.

London, England 1888, Saturday 14th January. 19:03pm.

Yes, it was now time for the Earl of Jersey to return home to his estate of Radier Manor.

He buried his face into his hands and sighed, before plucking up the unopened envelope by his desk. From the side of his desk Henry ripped open a draw and collected a letter pen. Cutting the mail open, he plucked out the parchment and glued his eyes to the words that lay before him.

My dear friend Henry Dalgliesh,

It has been over a year since your dear Natalia passed and from our last meeting you had asked whether I could provide you one of my girls for your taste in desire. I wonderfully inform you that I have discovered something much more exceedingly pleasurable in the realm of succulent kittens, consider it a gift for the favour I owed you.

I have come across two young ladies from a small farm down south, they’re virgins and as pure as snow they come. Their names are Y/N and Odette Y/L/N from Bristol. Little Odette, I will be keeping under my hand for a few more years as the dear is not ripe yet only eleven or twelve I believe; the cusp of womanhood my friend, but her older sister; a true English rose is perfect for the reaping. After the misfortune of their father’s death whom was a gambling friend of mine, the girls are in a river of debt.

For every month I will expect a “payment” from Y/N to “support her sister” despite us both knowing I don’t really need anything to care for the little dear. I suggest you use the debt against her.

Do teach the girl some manners Henry, she’s polite and innocent but completely lacking in true submission. Make her cry, beg, squeal- break her, bend her, fuck her; whatever you do, don’t kill her. Henry, do not waste my gift, use her as you want and give her back when you’re finished. I have sent her your way as a governess for your children. She should be there in a week. Sincerely,

Lord C.F.

Henry sat back and proceeded to scrunch up the news into a ball of paper, casting it into the fire. He watched the flames engulf and swallow down the evidence of his ever interesting desire. He smirked and looked back up to the painting of Natalia and laughed at her face.

“I look forward to a nice new toy darling, don’t you?” Henry threw his feet up onto his desk and folded his hands behind his head, “I am sure you do, bloody harlot.” His eyes gleamed yellow as hellfire in the reflection of the burning letter.

Yes, it was now time for the Earl of Jersey to return home to his estate of Radier Manor.

Radier Manor Jersey, England 1888, Monday 9Th April. 22:28 pm.

“That worked rather well, bit too quickly for my liking though, however extremely effective,” He muttered to himself as he pocketed it back and bent onto one knee to hover above you.

His eyes travelled your the lines of your form that he was observing from the moment he discovered your shy presence around the estates home.

He slid closer, pressing his nose to your forehead to inhale the sweet scent or your hair and skin. His eyes fluttered as his lips gasped, his cock twitched. He caressed your soft cheek with his knuckled. His eyes scanning down to your entrapped bosom.

‘I wonder if she would taste better than she smells.’

With a solidary eye to the open area down through the drawing room into the dining room, he sighed and drew you closer. If anyone caught him, he would kill them. His hand softly rubbed your forehead, which cause you to react in a subtle moan.

‘Could she be as innocent as she seemed? Is this a mistake? Should I still do this?’ Henry dared ask himself. His eyes narrowed and he consi-

- Wait… Excuse me? Hello, reader, are you holding onto hope he’s gracious and kind? It’s because you think those are Henry’ thoughts don’t you? Well, I’m afraid you’re dearly mistaken. You see, it isn’t one of those stories....romance, no; here we feed on lust, blood and blackmail. Now that’s been cleared up, back to the story, where were we? He scares you, he drugs you, ah yes here we are-

Henry tucked his hands and arms beneath your fragile body and lifted you up onto his hip, his lust pressing harshly into your waist. He blew out the candle and fled. You were his prize being glided to the forbidden room, the room he considered very special indeed.....

Helplines:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

#henry cavill x y/n #henry cavill x ofc #henry cavill x you #henry cavill x reader #A Lesson in Service #henry cavill #henry cavill x female reader #sherlock holmes x poc!reader #sherlock holmes x you #enola holmes sherlock holmes #henry sherlock holmes #henry sherlock #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #dark!henry cavill #dark!sherlock holmes #ALIS

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morethanwonderful · 1 year

Text

Also feeling insane about how Tom and Shiv both want to go back to the points in their relationship where each of them had power over the other.

Tom goes to Shiv on the stairs of her dead father's home and reminds her of when she was vulnerable and fell in love with and relied on him. He hearkens back to a time in their relationship where she was going through a hard time and he supported her, because that's what he wants again. Being the rock supporting Shiv through a storm gives him irreplaceable power there, even if he's nothing but good to her in the process.

Meanwhile, when they had the divorce talk in 4x1, one of the reasons that Shiv cut things off so quickly was that she wanted Tom to reach out and ask for her. If she said "it's over" and Tom tried to fight for her, then it would have been him begging her and her making the decision. It would have given her power over him again.

But I think Shiv recognizes Tom's ploy at the wake, and she pushes him away rather than fall on him, and Tom doesn't let himself beg when she tells him it's over. Tom wants to be her rock again and Shiv wants to be in control of someone subservient, but Tom's sick of subservience and Shiv refuses to be weak or reliant on him. So they're both just grasping at what the other one won't let them have.

#they loved each other but also Tom misses his anchor to the roy family and shiv misses her loyal little meat puppet #but those dynamics have collapsed and there cannot be a relationship without them #they're so madness inducing #I think the bit about 'Shiv stays cold because she wants Tom to fight for her' came originally from a Snook interview #definitely an interview with someone #but god it's so true it makes so much sense #succession spoilers #succession #tomshiv #failmarriage #tom wambsgans #shiv roy #tom wambsgans my beloved #siobhan roy #shiv roy my beloved #english major hours #successionposting #failmarriage tag

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aetherdoesthings · 4 months

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Hi, can I request hurt/comfort and love confession Robin x Reader after Enies Lobby? That arc broke my heart sm 😭

(Also love your work, ty in advance)

hello anon! thanks for the compliment! apologies this took so long, life's a bitch.

forethoughts: this is my first time writing angst ever. be nice 😔. i tried 😭.

notes: gn!reader, MAJOR SPOILERS FOR ENEIS LOBBY. LITERALLY, KEEP SCROLLING.

It was a tiring day, and you desperately needed rest. You fought with the Straw Hats to save Nico Robin from the World Government’s claps, and you witnessed the passing of the Merry, the Straw Hat’s beloved ship. You stood there on the boat aside Robin, watching the ship break apart and sink into the depths of the sea’s dark abyss. You should feel bad; You know you should. Chopper was sobbing, Nami was on the ground. Usopp (or Sogeking you didn’t really care about whatever name Usopp wanted to call himself) had tears streaming down his face, it could drown the boat all the Straw Hats was on. But despite the head of the beloved lamb sinking into the ocean, your mind was set on one thing, your heart beating out of your chest.

Holy shit Nico Robin is standing right next to me. She’s right next to me. Is she crying? Oh my god she is. Holy shit. She’s right next to me. Should I do something? No, I'll ruin the moment. Your mind was racing, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt as you resisted from turning your head to your right, to stare at the beauty next to you.

After the goodbye, all the Straw Hats got on board the Galley-La ship, everyone getting their well deserved rest. Except for you. You tried to sleep, you really did. But you just couldn’t. Not with Nico Robin on your mind. Ever since you joined the Straw Hats, you immediately felt a connection between you and the archaeologist. Nami always (if not everyday) teased you about the way you looked at her, the way you were willing to throw yourself in danger for her. When you heard Robin had sacrificed her freedom for your safety, it broke your heart into a million pieces, it felt like it could never be fixed. So when the Puffing Tom pulled up to Eneis Lobby, you fought like a wild animal, almost on the same level as Zoro and Sanji, fighting Marines left and right until you could see Robin with your own two eyes alright and unharmed.

You argued with your brain for a while, before finally sitting up from the hammock, quietly exiting the room without waking up the other Straw Hats. You snuck around the hallways of the ship, trying to find the room Robin was in.

Taking a deep breath, you knocked on the door. When you heard a soft, ‘come in’ from a familiar voice, butterflies flew around in your stomach, a shot of serotonin flooding your brain.

“Robin?” You quietly called out, opening the door. Your heart pounded at the sight in front of you, as you desperately tried to maintain your composure. Robin was sitting on a bed, wearing nothing but an old shirt, perhaps not even any pants from the look of it, making your cheeks flush bright red. Thank God it was night. She had a tired look on her face (of course she had a tired look on her face, you idiot), but regardless had a faint smile.

“Yes, Y/N? Did you need something?” She asked, her ever elegant voice making your legs wobbly.

“O-Oh, uh, no, not really. I just wanted to see if you were okay.” You responded.

Robin smiled warmly at you. “That’s so kind of you, Y/N. Thank you. I’m okay, just.. having a hard time falling asleep. After everything, it feels hard to just… fall asleep and not wake up in danger.”

“Oh.” It made your stomach churn to hear that she was struggling to sleep, but it made your heart flutter since she trusted you with that information. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Talking to you, perhaps. You always seem to know how to make me feel better.” Robin smiled at you, welcoming you to sit next to her. You swallowed. Oh my god. Okay. Holy shit. You walked over to Robin, creating a dip in the mattress.

“Why did you want to see if I was okay, Y/N? It doesn’t fit your character.” Robin casually asked.

So maybe you were avoiding her a lot before the Merry found its way to Water Seven. You were trying to get over Robin, forget everything she had made you feel inside and how red you got whenever she complimented you. You should’ve expected the ever observant Robin to immediately notice your sudden disappearance whenever she entered the room.

“Well…um…” You tried to form coherent sentences to explain your reasoning, without the words ‘I have a crush on you’ coming out of your mouth.

“I was busy at that time…and didn’t really have the time to stick around to talk.” You nodded your head, approving of your own reasoning that didn’t raise too many red flags.

“I see.” That was all Robin said.

There was a wave of silence that plagued the room, until you mustered up the courage to speak again. “Nami told me… the reason you decided to turn yourself in was for our safety to leave Water Seven… right?”

Even in the darkness, you could see Robin’s smile drop, her head pointing down.

“You don’t need to answer if-”

“Yes. I wanted to make sure all of you were safe and unharmed by CP9 and the World Government. I wanted to make sure you would escape their wrath.” Robin answered.

“But… to turn yourself in after running for two decades… just for us?”

“You all were the first group of people who were willing to wage war against the World Government for me. Even though you knew I was Miss All Sunday, even though Aojiki threatened you to turn me in, none of you let that affect our friendship, and well, we’re all here, aren’t we?”

You wanted to smile at that last sentence, but you frowned instead. “No threats would ever purge our friendship.”

Friendship. That word pained you to say. Friendship was the relationship you and Robin had, but that was not what you wanted.

“Indeed.” Robin murmured, looking back at you with a small smile. You tried to return it, but you just couldn’t. Not after being friendzoned.

She doesn’t even like you. Get over it. Move on. You told yourself. That was the only option you had, wasn’t it? The two of you were friends. Just friends. Nothing more, nothing less.

Right?

It’s now or never. Ask and just move on. That’s all.

“Robin…” You muttered quietly.

“Yes, Y/N?”

“Have you…ever thought of…being more than friends with someone?”

“You mean have a romantic interest?”

Your brain short circuited at her sudden bluntness. “Y-Yeah, that.”

“It hasn’t crossed my mind for a while. I wouldn’t think it would be a good idea to find one, since the World Government is out for my head. That would endanger the other person’s life, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You wouldn’t endanger my life…” You mumbled softly, expecting Robin not to pick up on it.

Robin paused after your mumble. Did she hear me?

“Still,” she sighed. “I can’t seem to find it in me to want to find someone that would love me for who I am. I’m afraid I’ll ruin another life.”

“No you won’t.” You blurted out against your mind’s protest. “You’re not going to ruin some random person’s life just for being you. If they walk away, they just don’t know you well enough to appreciate who you are.”

Robin raised an eyebrow, a smirk growing on her face. “And do you think you know me well enough to appreciate who I am?”

Yep. Your entire face was definitely red, and your skin was definitely hot. You opened your mouth to say something, anything really, but something came out. It didn’t help when Robin moved closer to you, to the point you could feel her breath brushing against your ear.

“I… do.” You finally say.

“You do? What makes you think you do?”

“Because I would sacrifice my life for you in a heartbeat. I would kill myself if it meant you were safe. I… I…” You look down, summoning all the courage, all the heartache you had bottled for months. “I love you. I love you more than a friend, more than best friends. I love you as if you are my soulmate. I want you to be my soulmate. I love you so much. W-When I heard you left… it broke my heart. I didn’t want you to go.. I didn’t want you to leave because of us. I love it when you’re here. You bring so much joy to the Straw Hats, to me. You mean the world to me, Robin.”

All the while you were ranting about your feelings, Robin was calmly looking at you, a small smile on your face. Even as your mouth continued to move, she didn’t interrupt you. She sat there, watching you pour your heart out to her, watch you express your love. As you kept talking, Robin placed a gentle finger on your chin, tilting your head towards her. Before you could react even, she leaned in, placing a soft kiss on your lips. With her free hand, she pushed you onto the bed, taking her place next to you. Robin caressed your face with her hand, running the back of her fingers against your cheek.

“You’re cute when you ramble.” She smiled. “Thank you for telling me that. I never knew you were that… enthusiastic about me.”

You laid there, no thoughts in your head. All your muscles were concentrated on trying to remember what her lips felt like. What her lips felt like on yours. It was as if you got a kiss from an angel from heaven, blessing you with infinite serotonin.

“You kissed me.” You stated matter-of-factly after a while.

“I did.” Robin responded with the same manner.

“Why?”

“Because, my sweet Y/N,” she moved closer to you, placing an arm around your chest. “I love you more than a friend too. I wanted to see you live, even if it means I will die. Nothing matters to me more than your wellbeing, and seeing your smile.”

“You… you do?”

“Yes. I’ve been feeling it for a while… I just never knew or wanted to ask you since I wasn’t sure you would return the same feeling. But after everything that you’ve said tonight… I think I’ve made my decision. I’m not leaving anytime soon. I want to stay with you. Live my life with you, my dear sweet Y/N.”

When you didn’t respond, Robin let out a small chuckle. “Your heartbeat is enough for me to know your response.”

Robin cuddled next to you, placing her head on your arm as she closed her eyes. You laid there on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

“I’ll always stay with you.” You finally say, before closing down for the night, your body relaxing against Robin’s. The sound of the ocean waves finally brought you to sleep, the whole world snuggling in your arms.

#one piece #op #nico robin #nico robin x reader #angst #love confession #aetherasks #guys be nice #this is my first time writing angst ok #eneis lobby

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wambsgraham-archive · 2 years

Text

It somehow just occurred to me for the very first time that there's a decent chance "what am I going to do with a soul anyways" is, at least on some level, Greg purposely playing into what Tom wants from him.

I've talked about this before, but Greg leaning into the whole "screw it, let's be evil" angle fits really well with how Tom tends to approach his life with the Roys. Tom knows they're awful in a lot of ways and owns it, making casual jokes about the death star and telling Greg to stop pretending he has principles. And Greg knows this is Tom's perspective.

At the same time, earlier in All the Bells Say, there's a whole little scene devoted to reminding us how duplicitous and manipulative Greg is. He spends Caroline's wedding going back and forth between the Contessa and Comfrey, telling one how he loves weddings while he talks shit with the other. We saw it before with his "loyalty" to Kendall too, but the s3 finale goes out of its way to re-establish how Greg tends to tell people whatever he thinks will endear himself to them.

So while Greg likes and trusts Tom, and I think he lies to him less than he lies to others, we know he's not above trying to play him when he deems it necessary. And Tom just gave Greg a profit motive for closeness with his promise of "the bottom of the top." Once he decides to take the offer, Greg's got every reason to pull out all the stops to get Tom excited about him, and he knows Tom wants him to embrace the fact that he's evil. So he does.

Regardless of whether he's ready to face the music and genuinely accept that he's not a good person, Greg plays into Tom's soul selling metaphor because he knows it'll make him happy.

Greg might get swept up in some genuine sincerity as he and Tom goof around and hug in the aftermath, but he also figures his deal with the devil is his best opportunity to climb the ladder. That doesn't mean he's quite as attached to Tom as Tom thinks he is.

#I know I literally having a long post talking about how 'honest' greg is in that scene #but I like this reading better actually #Greg is both sincere and not #he gets caught up in the fun once he and tom start screwing around #and might genuinely want to stick around with Tom as his buddy #but that doesn't mean saying yes and leaning into Tom's joke wasn't a somewhat calculated choice #his sliminess contains multitudes #succession #cousin greg #tomgreg #greg hirsch #cousin greg my beloved #english major hours

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assortedseaglass · 1 year

Text

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Thirteen

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Very strong language, NSFW themes (kinda smutty?), depictions of war, World on Fire spoilers

Word Count: 4.1K

Notes: The banner is absolute potato quality, soz. We’re gonna say hello to the Vaughns, but we’re with Tom for the majority of this chapter. If you’ve seen the series, you know what’s happening. Buckle in, my dudes.

Late May, 1940

“Up you get, Dadda.”

A hand tucked under each of Fergal’s arms and hoisted him from the pew. He looked blindly at the faces around him. Each solemn and unrecognisable through his grief. The only faces he knew where those of his daughters. Cora and Bess holding him upright, Dot rubbing his back as they walked him out of the church. Beautiful spectres in their mourning veils, the girls moved through the congregation, shook hands with the priest and entered the piercing sun of the June day.

A few of their friends and neighbours were gathered at the church steps. There was Dennis Warley, Mrs Mason and her children, Mrs O’Connell and Mrs Flaherty. Queenie Warren, Roberta, Hattie and Jude. Leading the sea of black was Lois, her bump growing by the day, and Douglas.

“Could you hold this?” Bess whispered to Lois, who nodded and took the order of service from her hands. At the bottom of the page, after the service readings and the parish notices, was a small note. Mass dedicated to the memory of Albert Michael Vaughn. Together, the group formed a procession that made its slow journey from the church to the Vaughn’s home. Occasionally, Fergal wobbled on his feet as a new wave of grief wracked him, and the procession paused as his daughters steadied him. A few people meandered into their own homes after kissing the girls and shaking Fergal’s hand. Mrs O’Connell and Mrs Flaherty brought round a selection of sandwiches for the mourners, and Queenie set about making tea. Douglas led Fergal to his armchair and set him down, while Lois cradled a hysterical Dot. Cora made her way to them, and along with Lois, held her shaking little sister.

“Bess, I’m off,” Queenie’s voice was quiet as she handed Bess a cup of tea. She tried to keep her voice measured as she spoke again. “He really was the best of them.” Bess removed her veil and nodded. Queenie kissed her on the cheek and departed. Roberta, Hattie and Jude were next to say their goodbyes, with promises to visit Bess in Manchester next weekend. Soon, the house was occupied by just the Vaughns and the Bennetts. Cora saw Dot to bed, then set about scrubbing the china more vigorously than Bess had ever seen, Lois helped her put away the remnants of the dreadful day. Douglas spent a silent hour with Fergal by the unlit hearth, holding his hand and sharing a glass of whisky. Outside on the front step, Bess sat alone, gazing at Tom’s photograph. When the front door opened, she hastily tucked it into the belt of her dress. Someone settled on the step beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Bess inhaled the familiar smell of laundry detergent and relaxed into the arms she had become so used to. She and Douglas sat there a while, neither speaking for there was nothing to say. Eventually, Bess whispered into the descending night.

“I just want to hold him.” With Albie’s body buried somewhere in France, the Vaughns had been unable to hold a funeral. Unable to see their beloved Albie one last time. The string had been cut, and Bess’ kindred spirit was no more. Beneath Douglas’ arms, she began to shake. “I feel untethered,” she choked out. “Like I’m going to float away.” For what felt like hours, Bess cried and cried into Douglas’ shoulder. He said nothing, merely stroked her hair and let her wail. When her sobs eased into hiccupping breaths, he took her face in his hands.

“You’ll make it through, I promise.” He kissed the top of her head, opened the front door and called for his daughter.

“Douglas,” Bess’ voice cracked with the effort of using it. “I have some of Albie’s old clothes. I wondered if you might take them for Jan, next time you visit the Chase’s?” The older man nodded with a sad smile.

“I’ll be round in the morning.”

Lois clung to her father’s arm as they crossed the road, and when they had shut the door to their own home, Bess retrieved the photograph from her belt. It was real. Albie was the first of them to die. How many more would there be now? It had started. She kissed Tom’s face and prayed. Keep him safe, keep him safe, keep him safe.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

“God help the Jerries if that’s the look you give ‘em.” Norman laughed as he watched Tom read over his post. “I wouldn’t cross you in a month of Sundays.”

“I have a date with a solider from the infirmary. He’s called James. I think we’re going to the Palais. How are you managing with only men aboard ship?”

Tom’s bottom lip quirked with annoyance. “How long until the auxiliaries leave?”

“About an hour, I reckon.”

Tom nodded with resolve. That evening, the HMS Keith was to join Operation Dynamo in the attempt evacuate Dunkirk. In dock reloading with fuel and supplies for the men they to rescue, most sailors aboard were taking a few hours of shore leave before entering the fray. The air had been tense all morning. The resulting lack of crew meant that when Tom entered the mess hall, he found it empty. He took Bess’ photograph from its permanent residence in his pocket and placed it on the table with his paper and pen. This letter better be a good one.

But when he tried to write, nothing came. He stared at the blank paper, unable to escape the image of Bess and this James man dancing at the Palais. Tom smirked as an idea popped into his head. Lighting a cigarette, he picked up the pen and with a laugh, began to write.

Bess,

I know what you’re trying to do. Telling me all about your little date in the hopes it will make me jealous. Would it make you smile, love, if I told you it was working?

Tell me more about James, love. Is he tall? Is he handsome? Does he know you like I do? Does he know that you hate wearing pink because it clashes with your hair? That you sneak fudge from the picture house into your pocket? That you collected feathers and eggshells when you were small, or that you write secret letters to a criminal like me?

Can he read you like I can? Does he know that when you don’t wear make up, or curl your hair, you feel defiant? Or that when you’re angry, your eyebrows straighten? That you only smoke as a means to avoid speaking? That when your eyes darken and those perfect lips of yours part, when you blush and it spreads right across your nose, it means you desperately want fucking?

Can he satisfy you like I can, Bess? What’s it like when he holds you? Are his fingers long? Have they been inside you yet? I know I could do it, Bess, if you’d let me. I heard the way your breath hitched every time I touched you. I watched your chest heave every time I got close. I see the way you watch me, the way you’ve always watched me.

God, what I’d give. You’re all I think about. At night, when the other men are sleeping, or else touching their cocks and pretending no-one’s noticed, it’s you I see when I close my eyes. I replay the day I watched you changing behind the screen each night. The outline of your body. Damn your family for coming home. What would have happened, do you think? After I had pinned your body beneath mine? If I try, I can hear you moaning my name. I can feel your cunt against me. If your family hadn’t come home I’d have ravished you, Bess. I’d have fucked you with my mouth, my fingers, my cock. Watched you take me. Watched unflappable Bess Vaughn come undone by my body. Made love to you until your mind could think of nothing but me. Can this James boy do that for you? Can he satisfy you like I could?

I can’t take it anymore. I can’t kiss another woman and pretend it’s you, calling them by your name. I don’t want to imagine anymore what those nimble fingers of your can do. I’m tired of using my hand and pretending it’s your mouth around me. I’m mad with wanting you, love. I’ll kill any man that gets in my way to you. You’re mine, Bess. You tell James that.

Yours, hungrily,

Tom.

He stopped writing and reread the letter. His cigarette had dwindled to a stub and when he reached the end of the letter, Tom barked a laugh. At least that was out of his system. Perhaps, one day, he would give it to her. He folded the page, placed it in an envelope and wrote, simply, Bess on the front before tucking it into his pocket. When Tom took out the second page of paper, he hung his head and thought. Really thought, before placing the pen upon the page.

Dear Bess,

Thank you for the letter. Please, if it upsets you, don’t write anymore. Your letters are the best thing that happens to me at sea, but I couldn’t bear being the cause of more pain.

I’m sure you’ll have all heard back home, but we’re starting the evacuation tonight. I won’t lie to you Bess, I’m terrified. Thousands all herded onto one beach with us to rescue them. Feel like sitting ducks. We’re going into something big, Bess, and I’m scared I won’t come back.

If I don’t, know that I think of you every second of every day. And if this James fella doesn’t treat you well then I’ll haunt him until his dying day. I hope he makes you happy, Bess.

If I do come back, I’ll spend the rest of my days regretting what I did to you but know this, I will make it right. I adore you.

Think of me, as I’m forever thinking of you,

Yours, always,

Tom.

Tom rubbed the pen between his fingers. That was it. That was all. Writing Bess’ name and address on the envelope, he hurried from the mess hall back to the cabin he shared with Norman.

“Gonna get a last look at land,” he said as he opened the door and placed the two letters he had written on his bunk, one addressed and one not. “You coming?”

“Last look? You’re optimistic.” Norman lay on his side and watched Tom don his cap. “You’re alright, gonna stay here and get some rest before it all.”

“Right you are.” With that, Tom made his way to the __ deck and watched shadows of cloud drift across the French docks. Two minutes after he departed, a ratings officer knocked on the cabin door. Norman answered.

“Anything for the post before we leave?”

“Just these,” Norman grabbed a letter of his own, addressed to his parents, and the two from Tom’s bunk. “Hang on, he hasn’t addressed this one.” Hastily, he copied Bess’ address from one envelope to the other and handed them to the man at the door, who looked at the name.

“Two letters to one girl?” He whistled lowly. “She must be a special one.”

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

Despite the calm water and pastel sky, by the eve of the evacuation’s second day, Tom’s agitation was reaching fever pitch. Arms resting on his knees, he watched the point behind Norman’s head where the horizon burned. Dunkirk. Tom was in half a mind to wrestle a paddle from an oarsman, just to give himself something to do. Their lifeboat, capacity 40, made its slow way back to the beach and the 300,000 people waiting to be rescued. From their position a mile off the coast, the evacuees looked like ants fleeing a magnify glass.

“What’s on your mind, Tom?” Norman asked. His back was to the beach and Tom envied his brief position of ignorance.

“How come our ship is called HMS Keith?” Tom tried to sound light, breezy. “Keith isn’t the name you give a fighting ship.”

“You what?”

“All the other ships are called Atlantic, Calcutta, Dreadnought, and we get Keith.”

Norman shrugged. “Well? What’s the problem with that?”

Tom leant down to fix his shoe in order to give his hands focus. “Well, Keith was always the name of the kid who wore a balaclava till April, candlewax snot hanging from his nose.” He thought irresistibly of Frank Smith and Norman laughed at him. The sound lightened Tom’s mood and he continued the jest. “How many trips back and forth have we done? Twenty? And not one tip all day-”

“Would you like it better if it was HMS Tom?”

“If it was called HMS Tom it wouldn’t be here, mate. It’d be cruising round the brothels of the Med.” Tom’s arms came to rest once more on his knees, head oscillating a little as he fixed his mouth in a smirk. Norman thought it made him look cocky, like he was gearing up for a fight. Tom knew that it was a nervous twitch, something to make himself seem bigger when danger loomed. He glanced behind Norman again. They were getting closer. Black smoke billowed in the town beyond the beach and the fearful shouting of the stranded filled the air like braying horses.

By the time they made it to the beach, Tom’s agitation had turned itself into reassurances to the soldiers and an eagerness to be as far away from France as possible. So close to England, it was almost as if he could smell home over the sea and gunpowder.

“Move it lads! Fritz is due to call again soon and he won’t be selling ice creams. You’ve had all day to sunbathe, just get on board, let’s go home, eh?” He called to the queue of soldiers shuffling into the shallow water. They looked like the living dead. Behind him, Norman and the oarsmen hauled them into the lifeboat. “Go on, here you are pal.” Tom gripped the shoulder of a man as he stumbled on the unstable ground. A young man in civilian clothing took his chance and pushed forward through the queue. Tom spotted him in an instant, pushing the man back as he tried to board the boat. “No chance, get to the back and wait your turn.”

“You can’t stop me,” The man looked like a ghost, eyes rimmed with purple circles and face ashen with tiredness. He wasn’t French, though from where, Tom didn’t know. The stranger lunged forwards.

“Oh yeah?” Tom pulled a pistol from the waistband of his uniform. “I can with this. Jerry’s only gone for his tea break. If we don’t get away on this tide, we get sunk, so killing you’s a small price if it stops all these fellas buying it too.” Tom hated this. He’d let him on if he could, but thousands of angry soldiers would end him before the Germans if he did. What’s more, with a tiny boat full of scared and exhausted men, he needed to assert that he was in control. It was chaos enough on the beach, God help them if it spilled over into the rescue boats.

The man stumbled forward and spoke lowly, pressing his chest into the gun. “I’m ready for death.”

“We’re all fucking ready for death, mate.” Tom scoffed and indicated at the men surrounding him. “We’re all ready for death.” Once more, he pointed the gun towards the man.

“SHOOT ME!” The man screamed. Before the war, it would have stunned Tom, but he’d seen too much to know that death was a welcome choice by many now. In the dark of the night, he thought about it too. Tom watched all hope fade from the man’s eyes and was about to take his hand when another solider grabbed the stranger by the shoulders.

“Get out of the way,” he growled, pulling him backwards until he fell into the shallows. “Get back and fight for your country, you Polish bugger.”

Thankful, Tom continued calling to the soldiers. “Right, behave lads. Any more hassle and we’ll be going home with a boat half full, alright? Now come on. I’ll put the kettle on for us, eh? Let’s go home.”

“You won’t want any of his tea,” Norman shouted as he pulled another man into the lifeboat. “Bath water tastes better.” A few soldiers let out half-hearted laughs, which for Tom and Norman, was an achievement in itself. They smiled at each other a moment and, there with his friend, Tom forgot about the war around them. For that second, they were just two friends on the beach at sunset. The sounds of war had faded.

A muted thud carried across the expanse of beach. Then another. The dull thumping of metal and rock. From the clouds above, Luftwaffe descended. Two from the east and two from the west, they wailed their battle cry. Sand soared into the air, each mound rising closer and closer to the boat. Tom froze. He looked around. Men were scrambling towards the boats, back up the beach towards the town. Debris from the already bombed out boats and trucks ripped through the air, through bodies. Like dominos men fell, or else were blown into the sky. Was Tom ready to die? If I don’t come back, know that I think of you every second of every day. He saw her. Sat at the piano. At the dancehall, tucked under the blankets and sat on the front step. On the carousel, hair aflame under the lights.

Boom, boom, BOOM. A missile struck the lifeboat nearest Tom’s own, and in a flash, he ran. From all sides, metal, sand and viscera attacked his senses. Weaving around scattered bodies, Tom ran as his eyes scanned the beach. What he was searching for, he didn’t know. Somewhere to hide? Someone sent to rescue the rescuers? The juddering of gunfire sounded and screams rent the air. Keep weaving. Bullets flew past his ears and he ducked. Through the mist of sand, he saw the metal hull of an overturned truck. If he could just reach it, he could clammer inside or hide beneath it. Twenty metres. His legs were burning. Ten metres. Next to him a man dropped. Five metres. Hot pain ripped through his shoulder. He could smell the burning of his own flesh. Taste gunpowder and iron on the air. The force of the bullet caused Tom to stagger and, breathless with pain, he collapsed.

✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼　　✼

The clattering of the ceramic pan rang echoed throughout the ward, and Bess fell into a seat by the soldier’s bed.

“What is the meaning of this?” The matron hissed as she stormed towards Bess. Joan and Helen looked at her from their nearby stations. Since the death of her brother, Bess’ ‘funny turns’, as Joan and Helen called them, increased but she had always managed to push through until now.

“I’m sorry, Sister Stern,” Bess knelt from the chair and fumbled to pick up the equipment. “I’m sorry-” A pair of gleaming boots entered her vision and she looked up. Sister Stern was staring at her down the bridge of her pinched nose.

“You’re white as a sheet,” the matron said, placing a hand on Bess’ forehead. “And burning up. Go home at once. You’re no use to us here in this state.”

“Yes, Sister.” Bess bowed her head, not looking at her friends as hurried away. Bess didn’t go home as the matron demanded. Instead, she boarded the first bus for Longsight. Something told her she had to get to the Bennett’s.

She heard him before she saw him. From beyond the turning to their street, Bess heard Douglas’ shouts through the fog.

“Anybody in?” There was the unmistakable thundering of fists on doors. “Hey? Are you in? Come on! Help me-” Bess’ feet hurried along the cobbles. More banging. “Hello? Are you in? Help me, help me, help me. Come on!” By the time she made out the man amongst the fog he was trembling, hands over his eyes and cowering on the pavement. Bess ran to him just as he slumped onto the floor.

“Douglas, ssh, come on.” She struggled to lift him. “Let’s get you inside.” Two more figures arrived through the haze.

“Dad?” Lois and Connie rushed forward and placed their arms beneath Douglas’.

“Help me get him in,” Bess said to Connie. “Lois, you get the door.” It was half an hour before the three women managed to get Douglas settled, and even then he muttered under his breath and stared into nothingness.

“I know it. I can feel it in here,” Douglas indicated to his chest, and Bess looked at the kitchen table scattered with newspapers and a magnifying glass. Another chip broke away from her heart.

“Any real news? Not one of your “feelings” like Gypsy Rose Lee on Blackpool Prom.” Lois said gently. She was just like Cora, and Bess gazed at her in awe. Pregnant and alone to look after her father, Lois Bennett was extraordinary.

“If anything’s happened to him, I made him go,” Douglas mumbled. “I told him to go. I…I made him-”

“Dad,” Lois tried to reason with him.

“I’m no dad. I’m no father. No father to you. No father to him. I’m no father, me.” Connie and Bess looked at each other as Douglas continued to spiral. “We just have to wait now.” He stood abruptly and made his way to the wireless.

“They’re not going to announce anything on the radio, are they? Not just like that-” Bess heard the plea in Lois’ voice but she was cut off by her father.

“Shut up, will you?”

Bess whispered to Connie. “I’ll back in a minute.” Connie merely nodded and watched Bess speed across the road. Dadda would know what to do. Wiping tears from her eyes, she opened the door to her childhood home.

“Dadda?” She called out. “Dadda?” No-one replied. Deflated, Bess realised that everyone would still be at work. Just as she turned to leave the house, a thud came from above her head. Tentatively, nervously, Bess made her way upstairs. “Hello?” The door to her old bedroom was open. Nothing. No-one. Across the hall, the door to her father’s room was ajar. “Dadda?” She pushed it open. Face down, drool spilling from his mouth, Fergal was asleep on the bed. One arm was flung out across the bed and beneath the hand that lolled over the frame, an empty whisky bottle lay on its side on the floor. She stared at his pitiful state for a moment, then her eyes drifted to the empty bed next to the door. Set out, perfectly folded atop the quilt, was a jumper and pair of moleskin trousers. A framed photo was propped on the pillow, and Albie smiled gently at her from the faded image. Bess wanted to scream. Instead, she stepped from the room and slammed the door to her old bedroom. She heard her father grunt. Good. She couldn’t care less about his sore head and sorry state. Sitting on the bed she once shared with Dot, Bess opened her purse and took out the photograph she always carried with her.

“Don’t you dare be dead, Tom Bennett. Don’t you dare.”

Notes: Woof. Writing this has been a rollercoaster. Just a little note again to say that I replaced Fred in the episode with lovely Norman. Poor Grzegorz too. I’m hoping we’ll see him and Tom interact again in WoF series 2, considering Grzegorz is now in Manchester. Also, the letter situation is very obviously inspired by Atonement, which incidentally has one of the best Dunkirk scenes in cinema!! Next chapter soon!

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#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #tom bennett x ofc #world on fire #ewan mitchell x reader #the seamstress & the sailor

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