darius scarlett (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
onefellswoop) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kingdomsofrain2024-01-24 08:25 pm
onefellswoop) wrote in kingdomsofrain2024-01-24 08:25 pmtexts texts texts
this one is for texts!
onefellswoop) wrote in kingdomsofrain2024-01-24 08:25 pm
3
On your finger, where it belongs. Where it's going to stay until we work out something a little more permanent.
[...]
Everything isn't healed yet, but I want to be where we were just as badly. There's no reason to punish ourselves for the hurts Lacey caused, is there? We should chase happiness together.
Mine is with you. It's always been with you. I'm not letting some random loon off the street - or a "dark curse" - tell me I can't have a "happily ever after" with my mate.
Bring the pen, please.
[...]
Are you picking me up or am I meeting you there?
1/3
Would you?
Of course you would. Oh, Love
Please, Puppy.
Mark me; grace ink upon my finger. Where your claim belongs; where I have missed the sight of you.
I’ll pick you up, of course. Transportation via
Cadillac[ … ] [ … ] Daddy Caddy is part of the premium package; it’s marked quite clearly on page three!And as well, I’d like to, I need to see you, safe and kept within my car, by my side through as much time as we can claim.
I’d like your hand on mine as we drive.
Ah, and bear in mind! We’ll be taking a circuitous route, with perhaps a stop of two along the way. Just to pull over and take a moment, who can say what for! (I suspect my Puppy can envision. >;3)
I’ve missed you, my Darling.
Your collar is twined now through my fingertips; I draw my thumb against its symbol, our infinity. It waits only for you, my Love. It waits only for your mate to return it, settle it where it belongs.
Your collar for my mark; your forever for my own. There is no better, no more necessary trade.
2/3
That I once [ … ] embodied something other.
Four legs, where most often I had two.
Scents brighter than I now can fathom. Sunbursts in the fragrance of gardenia, lilac laced with terror laced with iron. Blood on my [ … ] hands, not hands. A plunge of fur beneath my muzI remember none of this. But oh, the feeling in it, the way I long to stretch muscles, coil myself into a tightness and then spring, then race, miles and miles, with a fond voice calling[ … ]
There is something here I don’t remember, Puppy.
You’re correct [ … ] I think. What I am can’t be effected quite like other beings; a wolf’s biting kiss wouldn’t change me from myself. But there are other ways, always. Ways to become sometimes a wolf; ways to be a mate, preserved.
Your eyes were honeyed, bright, exhilarated. Beneath me, looking upward. Starlight’s reflection and around us, blood and sweetness.
My wolf, my Puppy, my light.
[ … ]
Careful. Careful, yes, I will be— Cautious. I have suspicions on this matter. Inklings; not-quite-memories burning beyond reach. I can’t approach them now - I won’t; not when they sear too sharp; not without my mate to hold me anchored - but in time, perhaps, I’ll understand.
In time we may remember.
In time we will; I'm sure of it.
And I will run with you again.3/3
[ … ]
Love. Puppy, you drew your Desmond from the fire in that moment.
It was your voice, yes. And something bound to it, as well.
[ … ]
I thought I knew the feeling. I felt something [ … ] familiar, as you drew me away from those efforts to remember. Something that runs through my veins alongside my Puppy’s breath.
I take this as further evidence that certain artifacts are secure, and just where I would wish them.
I take this as further evidence, as well, that we were bound all through those memories we can’t recall. And I see no reason we can’t hold one another as we heal; as we mend and seek our broken pieces.
1
Well, there's my dork[...]
No, wait. I made that up! That was my joke! You were picking me up from the cottage and I said I felt like royalty, getting driven around in Daddy's Caddy!
I was about to call you adorkable again, but it was all me this time.
[...]
I've missed you, too, Desmond, in ways I couldn't explain. I've been aching to be happy with you. To joke with you like this.
To be able to hold your hand and not be anxious someone will see. To smile with you and not worry that someone will know what those smiles mean.
You know what your Puppy can envision about driving the long way around? Music and afternoon sunlight, falling leaves, and your hand in mine; the destination not being a place where I have to walk away from you and pretend you're anything less than the love of my life.
2
I think I would have loved it. I'd love it now. I think [...] seeing you take that form, knowing you did it for me, would be something close to heaven.
I don't mind being this for you, but knowing we could be both ways together? It melts my goddamn heart.
It's okay; don't try to remember anything for me. The speculation's good enough for me right now. I can't stop grinning at the idea.
3
Did I hurt you?!
1
It was in fact your joke, and one that stayed beside me.
One I’ve
waited towished tobeen eager to speak. 😌✨No sense in permitting a pleasing turn of phrase to go unused or forgotten, hm?
And Daddy does like to see you in his Caddy. 😌❤️ Just as I love to see my Puppy smile, and meet you with my own happiness, uncurbed, without caring a damn who might see. Wanting everyone to know just how dizzy you turn me, and how ardent my heart sings for you.
These words you’ve painted: Music and sunlight, falling leaves, hands graced with holding and no threat of departure, no need to tear my eyes from your own. The ease of— Oh, simply of existing beside you. Knowing how clear you see me; knowing how close in resonance my own breath twines with yours.
All of this gifts balm upon my soul.
Ah, and! For the record? You are royalty: The lord of all Daddy holds dear. My Perfect Puppy Prince. ❤️🐕
2/3
What would I not dare for my Puppy. What would I not have found my way toward, if it meant knowing you, and the world as you saw it. If it meant hearing your voice.
You had a name. I know I spoke it, know it filled my throat with joy, in human-adjacent tongue and something otherI’m [ … ] not certain how I would have reached that magic. Where I might have learned its cadences, or found form beyond the one I’d claimed.
But I could have found a way. There is much about my own magic that [ … ] I believe has been closed to me. Lost in whatever struck between us. But I know my own resolve; I know how ceaselessly I seek for what I wish.
I would have found that form for you.
I would have wanted to roam beside you; I would have made myself a wolf.
[ … ]
[ … ]
A secret to be disclosed once more. It can’t hide from my knowing forever, Love.
We’ll roam field and forest together again.
3/3
There was no ruin, because you spoke my name.
You didn’t hurt me, no.
I don’t believe you ever could, and—
My Love, you saved me. Drew me from the edge of burning, breaking.
Brought me back to you, and to myself.
[ … ]
It isn’t and it is simple to explain. The basic fact of this artifact, and how it relates to myself and my behavior.
[ … ]
The artifact is [ … ] bound to me, and I to it.
[ … ]
Please, my Puppy; understand that there was no harm done, and no act you took that I wouldn’t have asked or commanded, had I been more cognizant.
Understand how much it means, that this artifact may be [ … ] near to you. That if it is where we believe, I must have given it to you freely; that this represents a choice we both made.
[ … ]
A simple fact regarding the Dark One, and the dagger that bestows their - his - magic: If a hand beyond the Dark One’s holds the dagger, that hand may [ … ] speak command, and the Dark One must follow.
Even if I stray beyond comprehension of any voice - even the call dearest to my soul - the artifact’s pull will reach me.
Do you see, Puppy?
Do you see, Love, why I know complete relief to think it is with you?
Why I placed the artifact within your care?
In the wrong hands, my dagger can spell hazard.
In yours, it is salvation, guardianship only.
You guard your Desmond well; never doubt this, Puppy.
1
That's a good reason to hide it somewhere no one can get to it. Good reason to hide it with someone you trust.
For the record, I didn't know. I didn't have any idea it would compel you to [...] obey, I guess. You probably figured that already, but it needed saying.
I've never liked giving you orders, even when we were playing around with that contract. I preferred giving you the choice. (Well - I prefer obeying you. Much more fun.)
I wonder [...] how much of that reluctance to command is a holdover from before.
Maybe I knew without knowing that you wouldn't have a choice.
Wouldn't have been right.
Forcing someone to obey isn't right.
I don't know how I feel about what I did. I suppose if you're okay with it, and you know it wasn't intentional...that's all right. And it was because I was afraid for your immediate safety. An exceptional, dire circumstance.
[...]
I don't like the idea of someone else potentially getting their hands on the artifact in question and using it to force you to act any way you wouldn't otherwise. It reeks of enslavement.
Seems like something Lacey would try to do.Anyhow. At least I didn't hurt you. At least you came back to me.
[...]
Desmond, I'll always protect you. Even if you weren't mine, I'd protect you.
2
Redacted!
3
[...]
Here's something weird. You never told me it was going to end, or when, but I knew.
I think I know how, too. Generally, anyway. I don't know who it is, but I know the delivery format.
But I don't know how we're going to get back if there's no magic here. I feel like if we had been the ones to set all this up, we'd have made a way to get home.
We are going to be able to get back, right? We're going to be able to reach our magic again?
I don't want to stay here.
Please - tell me you have a plan?
4
Daddy's Aut[...]
Autumnal Prince.
I remember laying in leaves and there was a crown of them on my head, but I don't remember how they got there.
I say I remember, but I remember dreaming about it.
I dream about it all the time: the glade, sunlight in patches through the trees, a creek nearby.
Butterflies in summer, red falling leaves in autumn.
Being loved more than I've ever felt in my life -
Except when I'm with you. During those first months, before Lacey, that was the feeling.[...]
I suppose I remember it now, too, from more than just dreaming.
I was smallish - I must have been just a little more than a pup. I told the frogs in the creek that I was the Autumnal Prince. That it was going to be cold soon and it was time for them to think about hibernating.
I remember feeling so proud of that leaf crown, like it was my most prized possession.
You're calling me your Puppy Prince now; I'm going to bet that's not anything new.
[...]
What do you suppose that makes you? Not a king. Kings are dull. A wild god, maybe?
1
Only one other hand has held it. Early on and [ … ] it was a mistake. An error in my judgment, made when my mind was still too much a man’s. When I believed I owed my son
A father owes something to his offspring and I
[ … ]
A subject for another time.
You couldn’t have known, Love. You hardly knew the artifact was with you, hm?
I trusted you. I [ … ] must have known then what I know now: That my heart is your own; that our present, past, and future sing entwined. And I suspect my hope in giving it to you was threefold, at the least: To protect the artifact, to protect you, and to leave you with the means of protecting me in an exceptional, dire circumstance.
You acted perfectly, my Love. I know you didn’t use my name as an infliction; I know you acted only to reach me, save me.
Should necessity arise again, I urge you to do the same. I’ll command it in perpetuity, if you will allow— And think of it this way, won’t you? If Daddy orders his Puppy to - in potential future situations, in the most dire of circumstances - command his Daddy, then Puppy’s future, potential command is itself a sign of obedience to Daddy, as well as a sign of Puppy’s love.
It’s a safeguard, and a way of accounting for and working with my nature. A bit like the contract you so wisely (so compassionately) proposed, an agreement that our family comes first, agreed to and enshrined so that I needn’t risk compromising our family or acting against the being I am. Something that may never prove necessary, something we might not like to use or to rely on, but that doesn’t hurt to have on-hand.
My Love. I know it’s nothing you wish to do, and I hear the conflict it brings you. But if necessity arises, if your voice upon my other name is what will call me back and keep me here with you, you must speak it, and know your Daddy trusts you, know I love you.
I’ll erase this message - and all others referencing the artifact - but Puppy, please understand: I want to remain with you, always. And you protect me very, very well.
2
(For our record, which is the only accounting that matters. 😌)
I enjoyed - I reveled in - the play of our recent contract; it eased and thrilled me both to see my Lovely in command (never forcing, never requiring; direct, but I never felt apart from my own agency; you treated me with such care, and in the future, here and there, I’d be pleased to step into that space again). Even so—
I much prefer commanding you. 😌❤️
I love to see my Puppy melt beneath my touch, and hum contentment at his Daddy’s thigh.
The excitation that speeds your pulse and turns your body wild when Daddy calls for your obedience; when my Puppy chooses again, again to obey.
The smirk that shows itself the moment before my brat presses at the boundary of obedience, seeing just how much he can get away with.
The quiver in your knees when I tell you to sit. To kneel. To step forward, closer, so Daddy can see you.
My obedient, my cherished Puppy. We’ll always have such fun. >;3 ❤️
3
Oh, Puppy, Puppy— I never would have let our mayor cast this curse if I’d had no exit waiting.
We will be returning home.
And we will have magic before that. Here; within the boundaries of this town. It returns with the breaking of the curse.
Just think, Dearest: Your abilities will be returned. Your other form is waiting.
Twelve years, my Love, and you’ll roam again, fur and fangs, paws and
shw[ … ] brushing tail, and all.[ … ]
I long to watch my wolf run free. To hear you howl; to see your beauty racing through the trees, and after
to curl, to nestle my??to curl against you, to embrace you and nestle my head at the warmth of your throat, the fullness of your coat.[ … ]
We must have done that, as well. Cuddled, man-not-man and wolf.
In the tower, fireside [ … ] where I laid my cloak.
In our den.
Perhaps in the same glade that saw my prince’s coronation.
[ … ]
…My Autumnal Prince.
Yes.
Words that sing somewhere in my knowing. Words that shower pinprick pains of severed memory, and at the same time rush my lungs, my heart with vast relief, with sanctity.
I know the glade you mean, and the stretch of moss and loosestrife and ragged robin by the creek. [ … ] It blurs in my memory, much like the cottage that looked so like your A-frame here. Much like the ink marked throughout our castle, red and persistent.
I am—
Oh, Love. I wish I could remember.
We must have had decades ofHow long did we live side-by-sideTo have watched you flourish, watched you in every form, and to have forgotten all of this; to have had every moment stolenSo much was taken from us.
We’ll have it back. Our memories, and our home. When the curse breaks and our magic is restored, we’ll have what we need. All of the tools to return to the Forest.
It will take some time, but trust me, my Autumnal Heart, my Puppy Prince; your wild god will take us home.
no subject
Both bodies that I love. Mine and yours.
And we'll be home. We're going to go home.
We'll be together.
[...]
Why don't you come get me now? No one would mind if I take off an hour or two early. We can still go out tonight, but maybe we can get in a little quality time together beforehand.
I'm very interested in what you have in mind when you say you like me kneeling.
That's awful far away from kissing, isn't it? ;)
no subject
Because as it happens, I find I quite need a private word - at least a full and uninterrupted hour of a word! - with my mate.
At least an entire hour of quality time; quality adorations.
After all! If I am to take my Puppy out for the evening, I consider it my duty and my pleasure to see him properly prepared, all wearinesses and excitations eased away. >:3
Yes, Love; let me take you away. Let’s claim all the day’s remaining hours to ourselves.
I only need to clear the baker from my shop; permit me a minute (or ten; Puppy, Puppy, save my soul, this man refuses to let up), and I’ll be on my way.
I’ll steal my Love away from the trials and tribulation of employment, and we’ll have a pleasant walk home arm-in-arm, hm?
Then, more pleasant still, a bit of kneeling for my Puppy, and some discovery of where his kisses might be placed. 😌✨❤️
[ It take less time than Desmond thought; only a few words (with a mention of Jack’s name that draws an odd… smile?… from the baker), and Sonny is persuaded away with promises of first dibs on the next Hummel - set to arrive within the week, and yes, Desmond will notify him and no, it will not be via text, Desmond conducts phone-based business through voice-to-ear speaking thank you very much - and Desmond hurries through the business of closing shop, checks his hair and double-checks his tie (spends a moment with his hand at his necklace, thumb drifting along its charm), then slips out the door and makes his way toward The Rabbit Hole.
Not paying a moment’s notice to the townsfolk scattered along the sidewalk, the infrequent cars that trundle by. Thinking only of his Puppy waiting, just ahead, within the bar. Thinking he’ll simply wait outside, and greet his love with a lasting kiss.
Finding, once he arrives, that he’s disinclined to keep a minute’s wait more than is necessary before he sees his Puppy. Thinking— Well, he hasn’t entered this establishment before, he’s never had the interest and he’s not certain the vibe will agree with him, but for the sake of a little more time stolen with his Puppy? For sake of perhaps surprising Jack, watching as his mate registers that Daddy’s found him, come for him, that the barricade of his employment can’t keep Daddy away—
Well. It is tempting.
And it can hardly be much more discomforting than the forays he’s had into that wretched diner to collect ‘Granny’s rent, can it?
(What’s odd, though—
What’s odd is how certain he is of this establishment’s rancidity, despite never having seen its interior, despite knowing it’s offered his Puppy an amenable enough employment, and seems to do fairly by Jack. Despite having heard no particular tales of squalor.
What’s odd is how little thought he’s given to this place, apart from considering it a dive (but does that track with what Jack’s said?), a sad little corner of Storybrooke and a hideaway for Rowan’s avowed rival (that too has changed; Reynolds has maintained their fixation on the bar’s owner, and though Desmond tells himself it’s only a passing fancy, they’ve remained remarkably convinced that this… this, whatever his name, this barman is worth their time and interest?).
If he thinks about it, if he lets himself focus, doesn’t his disregard for The Rabbit Hole reveal itself as something other? As a sensation like some absent ringing, like a hollowness carved into the world?
It means something. (It may mean quite a lot.)
He can’t think into it now.
But he can, perhaps, begin to reconcile himself to the bar’s presence. Can at the very least permit himself a glimpse of his Puppy at work; can at least better grasp just where it is his mate works, and so beguiles the vapid shitheels of this town. It can’t hurt to enter. And he’d like to see Jack sooner than not.)
Desmond takes a breath. He regards the doorway; looks to the sky, then to his watch. Thinks, no, he won’t wait any longer.
He sends a swift text: ’Puppy, Puppy, best be on your guard; your Daddy is going to find you… 😌’
And, braced for whatever rabble or raucousness awaits, Desmond enters The Rabbit Hole. ]
no subject
Jack is of the same mind as Benny on this matter; he never could quite figure out why the Rabbit Hole draws early afternoon crowds, even if it is a Friday. (Knowing there's a curse doesn't help matters: he's pretty sure Regina wouldn't have added this to their daily routine.)
Whatever the case may be with the patrons, Benny is ignoring them and Jack doesn't have his phone.
Neither does Jack have half of his clothes, which, in this bar, is no more or less uncommon than the presence of the early patrons. He had planned to make a swift departure after asking Desmond to come get him, but Benny (with some assistance from Margot) conned (yes, conned!) him into doing one set. (Just one!)
Margot, per her brief plea, needed the money, and if she could just get Jack and Ell to stay and each do a set - one teensy, quick set! - they could pool their tips - which is when everyone had loudly objected, and in doing so, Jack and Ell had accidentally agreed to perform.
He figures Desmond won't mind. Much. (He might mind a little, but then again, it won't be Jack with whom he takes issue, so it's not a problem.) Besides, if Desmond strolls in, liberated from Sonny, then he'll get a nice preview of his Puppy.
The Rabbit Hole is a decent-sized bar, and Benny had it expanded somewhat to accommodate the modest stage. Small bands can play, Margot can do her bubble bath routine (but not her aerial hoops), karaoke night could happen if Benny could tolerate karaoke, and Jack has a little room to maneuver when people get too grabby. The music's decent, as well: not overpoweringly loud, but still "professional" acoustics, and the current bass beat is -
Not something Jack chose, and if he hears Toxic one more goddamn time, he's going to scream. (He didn't glare at Benny for that one, but he did make eye contact with the bartender's book, which was conveniently covering his face.) Sure. Sure, the women love this one, and sure, he does get more tips out of it, but he got more tips out of the bunny costume, too, and you don't see him out here wiggling the ears every Friday night. Benny.
His smile remains firmly in place as hands slide over his exposed chest. Whoever she is - the spotlight illuminates him but throws his audience in contrast shadow - she squeals when he rolls his hips, abdominals rippling under her palm. A moment ago, he'd tipped a finger under her friend's chin and came close enough to tease at contact (and get a face-full of her breath, Jesus Christ-) He moves away before she can claw at him, shirt peeling away, shirt whipped over his head in a graceful spin (Why do they love that move? He never figured it out.) Shirt looped around the neck of someone whose lap he straddles without touching, and hey!
Hey!
There's Daddy!
His smile turns genuine, then falters into bemusement when he feels a hand trying to take a chunk out of his ass.
Shit.
He got distracted. Never get distracted. First rule of the game. (But the thing is, Desmond is wonderfully distracting.) ]
no subject
A tension through his shoulders; a pressure as his hand grips firmer at his cane.
(He shouldn’t be here.)
((There’s something here he wasn’t meant to see, and briefly, briefly pain flecks insistent, aching.))
Discomfort, wariness dissipates as soon as light and darkness settle into place, as soon as vision settles and he finds the blessed, the only man he’d wish to see.
Oh, Puppy.
Oh… Puppy?
A recognition striking for the hundredth time: Jack is a terribly, terribly striking man. Whose beauty in body and in energy, and vibrancy alike shines with enhanced impact beneath brilliant-thrown lighting.
He could tear this crowd apart, and they’d never sigh objection.
Who could run this place with blood, and still they’d coo, they’d cry for more.
They don’t know what they witness. No one here - woman, man, anyone at all - can grasp the fury or the heart within this being. What runs beneath admittedly, admittedly adroitly-tailored abs and coils of muscle.
Desmond hadn’t expected to walk in on this… This performance. What might feel like something that could veer toward exploitation, if his Puppy weren’t so certain in his motions. If he didn’t know the gleam in Puppy’s eyes, and the strength he draws from dancing.
(He doesn’t like to see this crowd of nothings, of base-braying souls fixing eyes desires wishes on his Puppy. On this man who merits far, far better than their passing fantasies and brief amusement. He doesn’t like it—
But what matters here isn’t the irritation he knows toward the crowd. Isn’t the grit of his teeth as he sees this audience wide-eyed and reaching, as if daring, as if daring to think they held some right to this beholding.
What Jack gives them is a gift. These idle-minded shits don’t know it, but what in fuck’s name do they comprehend? Very little, and their presence hardly matters here. Save for what it offers Jack. Save for the way that their presence, their asinine and for the moment set aside judgments allow him to revel, to relish. To find beauty in this body he’s so often ached against.)
In silence - stricken, rooted, his heart tripping and then racing - he watches as his mate performs with graceful abandon. Sees the glint of skin he means to taste; the curve of lips he’ll claim for his own, and give his own up to. He sees as well the way his love takes care. How he slips the reach of a clawed hand. How he steps toward the stage’s extremity, and doesn’t linger.
His Puppy is clever. His Puppy has been given reason to be wary. And Desmond feels his jaw clenching, eyes narrowing, feel as if he might nearly charge in—
But then, the sight of amber eyes arresting and arrested with his own.
Then a smile, angelic, as if struck through to the soul.
Puppy’s eyes find him, find his own eyes, and time shatters in place. So that breathing, so that thought becomes extraneous. So that all else, all bodies fade away, and what Desmond knows is only his love lit in perfect radiance. What Desmond knows is his heart stammered, his heart welcomed, and his own expression tilting toward a fevered half-smile, an invitation and a promise.
’Soon, Puppy.’
’Soon, my Love, I’ll hold you.’
’Always, you, you are my world.’
It’s a staggered moment that melts away all tension, all unease.
It’s a moment that can’t last, doesn’t last, because his Puppy flinches, Jack’s attention drawn by some interceder, some flagrant disruption.
Desmond didn’t see what happened, but he feels his muscles coiling toward intent. Feels his jaw snap - barely, barely, but with a sharp sound - and keeps himself from launching forward only by watching his Puppy, watching the way Jack moves now, evades further infraction.
(Someone dared—
That woman near him. She, dim in shadow but with a particular dip of her head, a particular titter climbing up above the music that sets her into knowing: Mariel Strop. A teacher. A would-be social climber. Embedded with the PTA and not free of her own debts.
He marks her name; he notes her. He’ll find a means of recompense for this disgrace she’s played upon his love.)
He can’t dive in with cane and cuts. He knows this. He reminds himself, breathing, breathing. (Early, early on, Jack told him this could happen, does happen: Viewers reaching for more than a sight, hands reaching and turning into cuts, to grasps.) (Desmond doesn’t fucking care for this.) (And. Desmond knows his Puppy can handle himself. That this is one situation in which Daddy’s aid wouldn’t end well, or aid his Puppy’s interests.) As wild as ire shrieks his blood, he knows that other concerns ought to be given room; that other pieces of this moment matter more than satisfaction of his rage.
So Desmond draws a breath between grit teeth.
So Desmond searches for Jack’s eyes, and if he can find them, he gives a cant of his head, a half-grin flashing teeth, promising that Daddy’s watching; Daddy saw precisely who wronged his Puppy. And Daddy will be patient; Desmond will be waiting, will be admiring and adoring.
And he does watch. Continues to watch, fixated, even as he drifts toward the bar. Where there’s some measure of space between himself and the (offending! overreaching!) squalling (insulting, wretched!) crowd. Where he can feign to be a patron of some manner, perhaps entertaining the notion of a drink from the bartender who ((is difficult to look at)) appears to be doing his level best to ignore everyone and everything occurring on the floor.
He settles an elbow on the counter. He breathes again; lets himself feel the weight of the cane in his grasp and considers the possibility of maybe, maybe permitting himself to order something. If anyone looks his way (anyone who isn’t Jack, which of course means they’re no one at all), he’ll ignore them. If anyone speaks, he’ll feign difficult catching their voice over above the music.
Mostly, he observes the shrouded figures in the crowd and takes notice, takes name.
He watches his mate and thrills to the sight of— Ah, there is so much to see, and such worship he means to play on every inch of skin exposed and still-unseen.
If nothing else, it’s a gift to see his love perform.
It’s a pleasure, to know the wolf that waits beneath this human skin, and to think how perfectly, how beautifully his Puppy plays this crowd.
And how thoroughly he and his love will celebrate each other after. ]
no subject
He focuses on finishing the set, which, thankfully, does not involve having some eager woman throw a stack of cash at him and lean forward to rub her face in his crotch. It happens. A lot of things can happen in the five-to-six minute length of time it takes the remix of a given song to play.
Over at the bar, Benny is watching Desmond over his book, his brow slightly furrowed as though he can't quite decide what he's looking at.
He knows -
This is Mr. Gold. And he knows -
Jack is dating Mr. Gold. And he knows -
Mr. Gold is (un)married. And he knows -
(Mr. Gold was not married, was married, is (un)married now. (A very merry unmarried?))
(Makes no sense.) Lacey, that's the one. Accused him of being unfaithful and so he was (to Jack) (to his (un)wife) (no, to Jack-.) (Lacey blames as Lacey does.) Makes no sense at all.
Looking at Mr. Gold makes his head hurt.
He knows the man at the bar looks irate, and that's no good, so he puts his book down and three patrons straighten in their seats, only to slump with dismay when he sets a glass of whiskey on the bar at Desmond's elbow. A moment's pause and, without looking at Desmond, he comments -]
Let them be, won't you? The sort of person who's in here of a midday's miserable enough, and apt to be made more so when off he goes with you instead of one of them. He doesn't need heroics over a little grab-ass.
[ He glances in the direction of the stage where Jack is wrapping things up. In a moment, the younger man will, Benny imagines, pull on some track pants and help Margot with her scenery. He always does. ]
Not as if they'd remember any lesson you did try and teach them come tomorrow. If brain cells were horses, this lot would be walking home.
no subject
He simply— Has to be patient, and this scatter-fucked crowd will turn their focus to the next performer. Be patient, and his Puppy will be beside him.
Be patient, breathe steady, and maybe, maybe he’ll be able to keep himself gathered. Much as his fingers itch for blood. Much as he winces - minutely; a glint through his eyes a subtle flare of nostrils - at each renewed squeal, at each thump and rise of music, does the song have to be so loud, do these humans have to reach with such idle such proprietary desperation, does the air need to be so thick with perfume and with weeks’-old breath do the lights need to flare so bright why on fuck’s earth can’t he be alone with his Puppy and—
What the fuck?
There’s a glass before him. (He didn’t order that!) Where did that come from, and who is it that’s speaking, Desmond didn’t ask for conversation and he doesn’t (no, that’s not quite true) know this voice and—
He squeezes his eyes shut. Listens to the unasked-for voice and takes a breath. Lets his gaze return to Jack - there, there, that’s better, his beautiful vision of a mate; focus on this sight, and this alone - as the speaker’s words prattle their way into comprehension.
’A little grab-ass?’
He jolts, throws a glare at the speaker, who… Adamantly isn’t looking at Desmond. Which doesn’t stop Desmond from scowling. Which also doesn’t stop Desmond from identifying the voice, or from recognizing a bright-flared pain as he watches the man.
((A thought, distant, recurs: It’s possible that the gauze that kept this bar from Desmond’s knowing wasn’t only to keep him distant from his mate. It’s possible that there’s another factor, another figure that’s been hidden here, as well.)
(The face isn’t familiar.) (Looking at this man feels like looking at a tear in time, like something’s been displaced, scrambled out of comprehension.)
(Who was this man in the Forest?) (Who the fuck is Benny?))
This is the enigmatic Benny, then. Jack’s employer. Rowan’s rival, perhaps no-longer-rival. Proprietor of The Rabbit Hole; the voice tirading through Jack’s phone. The one who hurled an ashtray at Desmond’s Puppy without pause or question.
Noodly-looking fuck, isn’t he?
Who has, it seems, reached the end of castigation, his little lesson, whatever. Who continues watching everything apart from Desmond, though Desmond can feel the man’s attention - weighted and cautious, almost too vigilant, almost too prying - fixed his way.
Desmond lets the words settle, gives himself a moment - several long-drawn moments - to return his eyes to Jack. Then returns his eyes to the bartender, brushing back the discomfort the sight brings. What was it he’d said? Apart from the little quip about ‘grab-assing’— Ah. Yes. Brain cells scarce as horses.
He lets his hand settle loose against the glass, speaking evenly— ]
In which case, I see very little argument against beating their insubstantial brains into the pavement.
[ Not entirely true, because he sees the argument in protecting Jack’s relative peace. And in any case, Desmond makes no move toward violence. Settles for tossing his hair with a huffed sigh, then takes up the glass, tasting the whiskey within. (It isn’t the worst he’s tasted.) (It could use a touch of honey.) He taps a finger at the glass - slow and over-sharp - before returning his gaze to the man. ]
They’d do well to keep their claws sheathed and to themselves.
At the least, allow me to profess some joy in their inevitable and oncoming disappointment.
Benny, yes?
[ It isn’t a question.
(Or that isn’t the question he means.) (‘Benny,’ and what else, who else? (Why doesn’t Desmond know?))
Desmond keeps watching, scarcely blinking. Cants his head just slightly. ]
The fliers that plagued my sight for a month’s time: ‘Climb a pole at The Rabbit Hole.’ I understand that was your doing.
[ A shake of his head; a deep roll of his eyes. ]
Cute.
no subject
Might've lost my mind without a little variety, and what this town lacks for -
[ He begins to say 'culture', then thinks of Rowan's bar, then thinks of Rowan and feels a tight sorrow that works his way up to his throat like a scream. ]
- excitement, I thought I could offset with scandal. Seems I've got a little competition now, but I doubt yours is the kind that lingers.
[ A flap of his hand, not at Jack but at the women loitering near the low stage. ]
They've already forgotten he's a "homewrecker". [ The tone of his voice suggests "homewrecker" is a source of amusement for him. ] Not a new situation for him; he always has chased the barest hint of romance, nevermind the home situation.
And before you start winding up to have a go at me for casting aspersions or slandering your darling Jack: I say it all now only because I know he's told you already. You're not unaware that he's been through this before, nor that the homes are already well wrecked before he ever puts in an appearance.
[ Benny glances down the bar to see one of the men is watching them out of the corner of his eye, clearly listening in. He leans over and speaks in a slow, patronizing sort of tone. ]
Gene. Unless you've got something of value to add to the proceedings, go back to nursing your IPA. Unless you want me telling Theresa you've been here instead of looking for honest labor?
[ The man cringes over his class and stares at his hands, his face gone pale.
Benny tsks, mutters Nosy shite and shakes his head, then continues as though he was never interrupted. ]
You're the first he's loved, though. First to leave the missus for him, as well.
no subject
Though here, it’s less about the way this man speaks of Jack. Desmond feels no rise of anger, no irritation when the bartender speaks of Jack. Any aspersion in his tone seems pointed toward the gossips of this town, the people who shout gleeful at the sight of (they don’t deserve the sight of) Jack’s performance, his being half-bared before them. (He plays his prey so well. He toys with them, glinting fangs they fail to see.) Which speaks, perhaps, a point of two in the barman’s favor. If nothing else, he scents some measure of where the town’s rot lies, and sees who doesn’t carry its infliction, and is far above its blame.
What irks Desmond is (his own actions) (that woman) (Regina’s fuck-minded interference) (how close he came to losing his love) the fact of the scandal, and the fact that it never should have been. That Lacey never ought to have existed, and that in Storybrooke’s eyes, Desmond was and remains legally attached to the woman. That for all of this town’s recurrent forgetting, they’ll continue to know Desmond as her husband, or once-husband; that until the curse is broken, there’s no way of freeing himself from the association.
Which isn’t the point now. Which isn’t worth letting himself tangle into a fit over, and he pries his mind away. Finds instead that he’s caught upon that mention of Jack’s love, and can’t quite curb a crooked smile at the words. (Yes, yes his Puppy loves him. And Desmond knows his fortune, knows the glory he’s been given.)
Curbs himself back toward this conversation, and yes he’s listening, yes the man’s effusive (how long would this barman prattle on, left to his own devices? (given any chance to think his words might be received)). Still, there’s a suspended moment before Desmond recognizes the strangeness of Benny’s words. The improbability (impossibility) of the knowledge they suggest.
That Jack’s been through this before, where ‘this’ means being caught up with a married man. (A twinge of guilt at that, but it’s brushed aside, it isn’t salient just now and there’s no good getting bogged down in self-declamation.) That Jack has been stamped a ‘homewrecker’ (odious and mis-pointed fucking term) before Lacey ever stepped into the scene. That there were ever any (other) married men who could have left their wives for Jack, but didn’t.
Knowledge that ought to have been wiped away when Jack’s memory, his existence (there, another twinge; Desmond needs to take care with how he tries to aid his mate; there will be no more erasing) was reset.
Benny shouldn’t know any of this.
(Who. The fuck. Is Benny?)
(A thought. A recognition. If Desmond looks around, he knows both ‘Gene’ and ‘Theresa’; who they are here and now, and who they were in the Forest. He can identify the women crowding the stage, the scattering of men who lurk along the room’s edges. Everyone here he can identify, with one notable, effusive exception.)
One query, one fracture revealed suggests another: This barman recalls Jack before the reset, and this same barman speaks of the town’s capacity for forgetting, speaks of how rare variety is found.
It might mean nothing. After all, small towns are full of repetitions, cycles of the same old stories told, the same faces seen, the same schedules followed with near-religious (deeply desperate) assertion. But as well—
But as well, don’t small towns, any small and gathered community of beings, hold fast to memory, to making life-long lore from minor disputes? It shouldn’t seem natural, that gossip will pass into smoke. It shouldn’t register as given, that rumor won’t take root.
There’s something out of place in Benny.
(Does he know what this town is? Does Benny know what he himself is? How deep does the disconnection go. How far is he akin to Rowan, who holds vague memories they take as passing fancy, or to Corbin, who keeps and who is plagued by memories in overlay? )
When Desmond speaks at last, he finds the words aren’t what he might have meant to voice - finds he speaks ahead of intention, speaks on impulse and what needs voicing - though his tone keeps even, just loud enough to be heard above the music. ]
I ought to have left long ago.
[ A tick of Desmond’s lip; a sneer aimed only at himself, and he takes a drink to steal a moment’s pause. Then shakes his head, speaks— ]
Perhaps I was waiting for a cause worth its while— And far, far better than.
[ Here, his gaze, his focus drifts. Returns to the sight of his love, and if - yes - he knows a trilled thrilling at the sight of Puppy’s skin set bare (if he knows as well flared ire at the eyes that dare to stray upon, think fantasies upon his love), what he feels most is an embracing rush of warmth, and yes, again he smiles, soft and slight, before returning his attention to the barman. ]
There’s little interest this town holds; that’s true. Little that changes. Little that inspires.
And for credit’s sake, I’ll admit: You certainly brought about a change.
[ Which— The thought brings a queasy roiling with its wake. Because this too is an oddity. Managing to bring permanent alteration to this town. To initiate a change that sticks, and brings with it a permanent fluctuation, an evolution in what this bars holds and how it fosters growth, change, shifts in scenery and clientele.
It’s nothing Regina could or would have planned. It’s more change than anyone in this town should be capable of enacting.
Endemic to the curse is a breed of inertia. A factor that flummoxes memory, keeps knowledge keeps experience from evolving. Those living in the curse’s thrall can - or should be able to - effect nothing with lasting effects.
But this bar didn’t always have its dancers.
(The Troll Bridge wasn’t always labeled as such. Hadn’t Desmond noted it, and hasn’t Rowan spoken of it? That one day, an ‘R’ presented itself upon that sign. That someone must have marked it. The alteration became permanent, and this itself shouldn’t have been possible.)
(Does Regina know what this man has done? Does she know what he is, and who?)
Another sip of whiskey, this time to combat the fresh-bloomed spike of pain within his mind. ]
There aren’t many in this town that could.
[ A pause. A fingertip’s tap against the glass, and a slight canting of his head before he sets eyes unwavering on Benny again. ]
For a man who craves variety, it’s a wonder you’ve not set foot in Null Set.
Though I am given to understand that at present, it’s precisely the place you’re avoiding.
[ He gives a moment to let that land, then breezes on to— ]
You’ve known my Jack for some time, yes?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)