The Kind Heart.
Jul. 28th, 2007 09:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quigonejinnParts of this have shown up before, but I finally bit the bullet and put the last pieces together.
Your children are dead, and your husband is gone. Your mother, who is some comfort, no matter how much the two of you squabble, is still around. Nevertheless, you are very much alone.
One evening, a man in a lieutenant's uniform knocks on your door. It takes you all of a minute to decide that he ought to have dinner with you and mother tonight, and ten minutes into that dinner, you offer him the front room as a place to sleep.
...
Bush eats like a man starving. He is trying to be polite, but he looks ill-fed underneath his tan -- you have practice at telling this sort of thing because while Horatio always comes back brown, the sea is sometimes harder on him than at others. Consequently, you have learned the signs. You watch Bush lay into the second bowl of soup with gusto, and you can feel your mother's disapproving eyes on him because he is not holding up his end of the conversation. Bush is not a gentleman. He does not talk while he eats.
Eventually, the story comes out. You are not a great conversationalist, and despite your eagerness at his presence, you have no idea how to gracefully ask him what he is doing on your doorstep, wet, hungry, and asking if you have had word of when your husband will be back. Eventually, not because you have drawn it out of him, but instead, because he realizes that you must be burning with curiosity, and he tells you: he had been a lieutenant in the Temeraire.
(Your mother shifts a little in interest, her eyes lighting up, but he shoots her a look; you sense that there is going to be animosity.)
Your husband wrote to him and said that he had been given a frigate, the Lydia, and he wished to know if Bush wanted to be his first lieutenant. They were bringing the ship out on the regular schedule, so it would take some time to get her fully ready; the position would be held open for him until the ship sailed, if he wanted it.
"I went with the dispatch boat," Lieutenant Bush says. The bowl is empty now, every barley taken off the bottom, and he's eaten half a loaf of bread, one and a half thick chops. The wind is blowing outide; you can hear it howling around the windowpanes, over the top of the chimneys.
"They sent the ship out with less crew than they ought've," you say, by way of comfort. "The Admiralty was keen to have Horatio -- he did not know what they were sending him for, but it was urgent."
He does not look much comforted.
...
In the whole course of the evening, he has not said a word about the children. He has not commented, or asked; he has noticed the fact that they are not around. You have seen his eyes moving, and there are moments when a baby in a neighboring house begins to squall. The sound penetrates the walls; conversation stops for a little while, and he tilts his head to listen. Still, he has not said anything, and you are a little angry with him. You are in black. How could he not notice? How could he not say anything?
You leave the pillows and blankets for him on the floor in the front room.
...
Still, that night, you lie awake. Your mother sleeps next to you, snoring a little. The wind whistles over the chimneys; the sides of the house creak. Your neighbor in the next house and one floor above has a new baby, and sometimes, at night, you think you can hear it crying before it is shushed by the nurse, and the houses here are not as large as either you or Horatio might might want.
In the front room, Bush snores. Out of all the sounds of the night -- wind, house, baby -- you find yourself listening for him.
...
He is gone at first light and without breakfast. For the Admiralty, you realize when the serving girl comes up and starts, in between setting the plates out, muttering about the gentleman who made her brush his coat while it was still dark outside. Ratty, nasty thing, as though brushing would help, and he didn't leave enough copper to rub together at the end. Not a gentleman like Captain Hornblower.
Your mother shoots you a look and opens her mouth, but you turn from her and look at the mantle.
...
Here is the reason for his poverty: there are sisters. Four of them. Bush mentions them in passing when you apologize for some womanly thing, but you could have guessed. From all accounts, he is a man who has lived much at sea, but he does not mind when you and your mother squabble. He does not object to being pushed about here and there, being asked four or five times how he likes the food. In fact, he takes less mind to it than Horatio does. After you indicate to him that he is welcome to it, after dinner, he settles by the fire in the man's position comfortably.
There is no tobacco, though. He does not have money for it: after a lifetime in Portsmouth, you know how Navy paymasters work. He left his position on the Temeraire, but he has not been officially appointed to the Lydia, and consequently, Bush is on half-pay. It is not truly enough for him to stay in Portsmouth and keep his sisters.
That night, when he comes back from waiting at the Admiralty, you tell him that if he has washing, you will see to it for him.
...
It is late, and the letter in his hands. You think it must be from his sisters, or maybe his sweetheart, but he is lost in reading the lines over and over, and as a result, he is not as quick with putting it away as he might be otherwise. You recognize your husband's looping handwriting on it. In the half-light from the fire, it is still possible to see Bush's lips moving as he reads over the words, and after as much time as you have spent teaching school and young readers, you can almost hear the words. It is, in fact, the letter where Horatio asked him to be his first lieutenant, the letter for which Bush gave up a place a third lieutenant on a great ship of the line.
He has a kind face, you think, as you bring him the fresh pillows. He is a big man, a rough sort of man, much like the ones that lived at the boarding house your mother had before she married you off -- you fell in love with Horatio in part because he was different from the other men who stayed there, whereas Bush is most definitely of the regular sort, but you hand him his two clean shirts and realize that may be part of what is comforting about him. He is familiar. He is old.
In your next letter to Horatio, you remind him that Bush is in Portsmouth. In fact, you tell him that Bush has come to stay with you, that he is without a ship.
...
You remember teaching school. Money has never been scarce enough so that you would have to go back to it again, but sometimes, after the twentieth afternoon of sitting and sewing, you see children in the street, and you think that you might go back to it again if only to have something to do. If only to relieve the boredom and loneliness.
Horatio, your son, was almost to the age where he could start to learn letters.
...
One night, when the wind has been blowing especially hard, Bush returns with a package.
"For the pictures of the children," he says, with a nod.
The stand is small and made out of wood. It is pine, varnished black to look more expensive. There is a nick on the underside of them and the hinges are stiff, so they are used; he like bought them at market. Nevertheless, he gaged, accurately, the size of the painting. Little Horatio and Maria now stand together independently. You can set them on your sewing table and look at them while you mend; it is no longer necessary for them to be rest on the mantle, leaning against the wall.
...
You had forgotten, in fact, how comfortable it was to have a man around the house -- Bush fixes the table by bringing in a chip of wood in from the street and gluing it into at place. When you are in bed at night, you do not start at every noise because because you know that you are safe. There are three floors between your bedroom and the ground; there is Bush in the front room, sleeping by the bed.
His size and strength are comfortable, and you remember, for a good long while, his smile when you smiled at how the forks no longer tumbled after one another across the dinner table.
...
One afternoon, for some reason, he decides not to go to the Admiralty. He left in the morning, but came back for the middle meal. There was no explanation, but after eating, you explained that you were going to visit the children.
He came and walked you down to the church. It rained a little.
...
Not that afternoon, but some afternoons later, your mother is out calling on a friend, and Bush is back after a morning at the Admiralty. He has the Gazette in his hands and is drying by the fire, as there was rain for much of the early hours. The rain cleared; your mother went out, and Bush is sitting there, wearing only his shirt and breeches. You stand by the table; you look at him, and eventually, he turns his head over his houlder and looks at you.
Eventually, you turn and walk to your bedroom. When you turn close the door, you find him there instead, holding the door with his hands, so big and broad across the shoulders that he blocks out sight of the room behind.
He closes the door behind him. From the door, it is only a few steps beyond to the bed.
...
There is something more than a little wicked about sleeping with a man who, by all rights, loves your husband and has traveled half an ocean for the chance to serve with him, and it is definitely wicked to sleep with him in your husband's bed -- there is, however, actually no sleeping that afternoon. He gets you out of your dress. You lift the shirt over his shoulders.
He undresses you; you undress him. It is very little like going to bed with Horatio, and it is surprising how the thought of him does not fill you with guilt the way it should: at the end of the undressing, you are naked in front of Lieutenant Bush except for the fact that your hair is still loosely braided down your back, and he picks you up, and he carries you to the bed like a bride.
There, the differences continue. He is not as fond of kissing as Horatio. Instead, he likes to pass his hands over your skin, bury his face in your hair. Even when he does bring his lips to you, it is over your throat, your shoulders and not your mouth -- again, you return the favor, though with your hands and not your lips. Your fingers are against his stomach, on his back, brushing over his queue, which is tightly knotted, hard as rope under your fingers. You have not seen Horatio with one for years; there is less hair on him, even, than on Horatio, and you touch the scars on his chest. They are smooth to the touch. They feel no different than the rest of him.
"Does that hurt?" you ask, a little hesitantly, just in case it does.
He shakes his head, says nothing, and you go on to stroking his forearms, wondering what it must be like to be that strong. To have that many muscles. You are running your fingers along the inside, where a pale blue vein shows up against the untanned part of his skin, when he enters you, and even that is very much different from Horatio -- it is not slow and dreamy like it is with Horatio. Your breath hitches in your chest; sweat runs down between your breasts, and again, when Lieutenant Bush bends down to be near you, it is not to kiss you.
He does brush his lips over your cheek, but what he has done also is put your legs up over his shoulders, lean close so that is almost lying on you and is, in fact, propping himself up on his hands. Every time he thrusts into you, you let out a moan. You cannot help it; it comes out of you. He gasps in your ear, thrusts into you again; you moan, hold him tighter, raise your legs up until until your toes brush the wall, and even though it is the middle of winter, the two of you are sweating like it is August and not November.
Even if you had wanted to, you could not pretend this was your husband.
...
Two weeks later, the Lydia comes into port.
While your mother stays at the lodgings to make sure that supper will be kept warm, you and Lieutenant Bush go down to the quay together to meet Horatio. Lieutenant Bush fusses at you to make sure you are wrapped up properly against the cold; you eye him to make sure that he has gotten the last details of his neck cloth, and you realize, as you pick your way across the cobblestones and the snow comes down in fat, white flakes and Lieutenant Bush hovers nearby to catch you if you so much as give a hint of slipping -- you realize that this is the happiest you have been since your children died.
...
He is devoted to your husband, and you are devoted to Horatio, too. Nevertheless, neither of you can entirely deny the events: he comes by the house sometimes when Horatio is not there, and you go to bed with him even though you know that you are not the only woman that he touches like that. Sometimes, he has presents for his sisters that he does not want to risk to the uncertain civil post, so it is arranged that they come to your lodgings for them. That way, you get news of what has happened to him -- you do not think that even your husband has met them, but over the course of time, you come to have had all four of them in your front room, drinking your tea, and telling you about the difficulties of life in Chichester.
Both of you are devoted to Horatio, and neither of you can think of willfully hurting him. Bush sometimes comes to dinner and gives no sign of any affection for you beyond what a first lieutenant has for a wife who keeps her husband, his captain, in good running order. You are vaguely horrified then, as before, for his speech and rough manners and way of eating without talking, but it is nevertheless clear to both of you that what began as a way to fill the space missing in both of your lives left by others has become something more, something that has only a little to do with other people and has, instead, everything to do with the two of you.
Across the table, his eyes lift from his soup bowl for a moment,then go back to the soup. Your husband goes on talking about Italy and Swiss cantons. You remind him that the barley has sunk to the bottom.
If either of you had been inclined to use the term, in fact, it would not have been entirely wrong to call it love.
This piece of crazy engendered by talking with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nolivingman and black_hound at the fount of crack known as ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
navalchronicle. We'd decided that this was the craziest pairing ever, which meant that it HAD TO BE WRITTEN, then proceeded to throw ideas around until we found a plot that stuck.
The really scary thing is that there's a sequel of sorts in the works. Of, um. A sort.
Your children are dead, and your husband is gone. Your mother, who is some comfort, no matter how much the two of you squabble, is still around. Nevertheless, you are very much alone.
One evening, a man in a lieutenant's uniform knocks on your door. It takes you all of a minute to decide that he ought to have dinner with you and mother tonight, and ten minutes into that dinner, you offer him the front room as a place to sleep.
...
Bush eats like a man starving. He is trying to be polite, but he looks ill-fed underneath his tan -- you have practice at telling this sort of thing because while Horatio always comes back brown, the sea is sometimes harder on him than at others. Consequently, you have learned the signs. You watch Bush lay into the second bowl of soup with gusto, and you can feel your mother's disapproving eyes on him because he is not holding up his end of the conversation. Bush is not a gentleman. He does not talk while he eats.
Eventually, the story comes out. You are not a great conversationalist, and despite your eagerness at his presence, you have no idea how to gracefully ask him what he is doing on your doorstep, wet, hungry, and asking if you have had word of when your husband will be back. Eventually, not because you have drawn it out of him, but instead, because he realizes that you must be burning with curiosity, and he tells you: he had been a lieutenant in the Temeraire.
(Your mother shifts a little in interest, her eyes lighting up, but he shoots her a look; you sense that there is going to be animosity.)
Your husband wrote to him and said that he had been given a frigate, the Lydia, and he wished to know if Bush wanted to be his first lieutenant. They were bringing the ship out on the regular schedule, so it would take some time to get her fully ready; the position would be held open for him until the ship sailed, if he wanted it.
"I went with the dispatch boat," Lieutenant Bush says. The bowl is empty now, every barley taken off the bottom, and he's eaten half a loaf of bread, one and a half thick chops. The wind is blowing outide; you can hear it howling around the windowpanes, over the top of the chimneys.
"They sent the ship out with less crew than they ought've," you say, by way of comfort. "The Admiralty was keen to have Horatio -- he did not know what they were sending him for, but it was urgent."
He does not look much comforted.
...
In the whole course of the evening, he has not said a word about the children. He has not commented, or asked; he has noticed the fact that they are not around. You have seen his eyes moving, and there are moments when a baby in a neighboring house begins to squall. The sound penetrates the walls; conversation stops for a little while, and he tilts his head to listen. Still, he has not said anything, and you are a little angry with him. You are in black. How could he not notice? How could he not say anything?
You leave the pillows and blankets for him on the floor in the front room.
...
Still, that night, you lie awake. Your mother sleeps next to you, snoring a little. The wind whistles over the chimneys; the sides of the house creak. Your neighbor in the next house and one floor above has a new baby, and sometimes, at night, you think you can hear it crying before it is shushed by the nurse, and the houses here are not as large as either you or Horatio might might want.
In the front room, Bush snores. Out of all the sounds of the night -- wind, house, baby -- you find yourself listening for him.
...
He is gone at first light and without breakfast. For the Admiralty, you realize when the serving girl comes up and starts, in between setting the plates out, muttering about the gentleman who made her brush his coat while it was still dark outside. Ratty, nasty thing, as though brushing would help, and he didn't leave enough copper to rub together at the end. Not a gentleman like Captain Hornblower.
Your mother shoots you a look and opens her mouth, but you turn from her and look at the mantle.
...
Here is the reason for his poverty: there are sisters. Four of them. Bush mentions them in passing when you apologize for some womanly thing, but you could have guessed. From all accounts, he is a man who has lived much at sea, but he does not mind when you and your mother squabble. He does not object to being pushed about here and there, being asked four or five times how he likes the food. In fact, he takes less mind to it than Horatio does. After you indicate to him that he is welcome to it, after dinner, he settles by the fire in the man's position comfortably.
There is no tobacco, though. He does not have money for it: after a lifetime in Portsmouth, you know how Navy paymasters work. He left his position on the Temeraire, but he has not been officially appointed to the Lydia, and consequently, Bush is on half-pay. It is not truly enough for him to stay in Portsmouth and keep his sisters.
That night, when he comes back from waiting at the Admiralty, you tell him that if he has washing, you will see to it for him.
...
It is late, and the letter in his hands. You think it must be from his sisters, or maybe his sweetheart, but he is lost in reading the lines over and over, and as a result, he is not as quick with putting it away as he might be otherwise. You recognize your husband's looping handwriting on it. In the half-light from the fire, it is still possible to see Bush's lips moving as he reads over the words, and after as much time as you have spent teaching school and young readers, you can almost hear the words. It is, in fact, the letter where Horatio asked him to be his first lieutenant, the letter for which Bush gave up a place a third lieutenant on a great ship of the line.
He has a kind face, you think, as you bring him the fresh pillows. He is a big man, a rough sort of man, much like the ones that lived at the boarding house your mother had before she married you off -- you fell in love with Horatio in part because he was different from the other men who stayed there, whereas Bush is most definitely of the regular sort, but you hand him his two clean shirts and realize that may be part of what is comforting about him. He is familiar. He is old.
In your next letter to Horatio, you remind him that Bush is in Portsmouth. In fact, you tell him that Bush has come to stay with you, that he is without a ship.
...
You remember teaching school. Money has never been scarce enough so that you would have to go back to it again, but sometimes, after the twentieth afternoon of sitting and sewing, you see children in the street, and you think that you might go back to it again if only to have something to do. If only to relieve the boredom and loneliness.
Horatio, your son, was almost to the age where he could start to learn letters.
...
One night, when the wind has been blowing especially hard, Bush returns with a package.
"For the pictures of the children," he says, with a nod.
The stand is small and made out of wood. It is pine, varnished black to look more expensive. There is a nick on the underside of them and the hinges are stiff, so they are used; he like bought them at market. Nevertheless, he gaged, accurately, the size of the painting. Little Horatio and Maria now stand together independently. You can set them on your sewing table and look at them while you mend; it is no longer necessary for them to be rest on the mantle, leaning against the wall.
...
You had forgotten, in fact, how comfortable it was to have a man around the house -- Bush fixes the table by bringing in a chip of wood in from the street and gluing it into at place. When you are in bed at night, you do not start at every noise because because you know that you are safe. There are three floors between your bedroom and the ground; there is Bush in the front room, sleeping by the bed.
His size and strength are comfortable, and you remember, for a good long while, his smile when you smiled at how the forks no longer tumbled after one another across the dinner table.
...
One afternoon, for some reason, he decides not to go to the Admiralty. He left in the morning, but came back for the middle meal. There was no explanation, but after eating, you explained that you were going to visit the children.
He came and walked you down to the church. It rained a little.
...
Not that afternoon, but some afternoons later, your mother is out calling on a friend, and Bush is back after a morning at the Admiralty. He has the Gazette in his hands and is drying by the fire, as there was rain for much of the early hours. The rain cleared; your mother went out, and Bush is sitting there, wearing only his shirt and breeches. You stand by the table; you look at him, and eventually, he turns his head over his houlder and looks at you.
Eventually, you turn and walk to your bedroom. When you turn close the door, you find him there instead, holding the door with his hands, so big and broad across the shoulders that he blocks out sight of the room behind.
He closes the door behind him. From the door, it is only a few steps beyond to the bed.
...
There is something more than a little wicked about sleeping with a man who, by all rights, loves your husband and has traveled half an ocean for the chance to serve with him, and it is definitely wicked to sleep with him in your husband's bed -- there is, however, actually no sleeping that afternoon. He gets you out of your dress. You lift the shirt over his shoulders.
He undresses you; you undress him. It is very little like going to bed with Horatio, and it is surprising how the thought of him does not fill you with guilt the way it should: at the end of the undressing, you are naked in front of Lieutenant Bush except for the fact that your hair is still loosely braided down your back, and he picks you up, and he carries you to the bed like a bride.
There, the differences continue. He is not as fond of kissing as Horatio. Instead, he likes to pass his hands over your skin, bury his face in your hair. Even when he does bring his lips to you, it is over your throat, your shoulders and not your mouth -- again, you return the favor, though with your hands and not your lips. Your fingers are against his stomach, on his back, brushing over his queue, which is tightly knotted, hard as rope under your fingers. You have not seen Horatio with one for years; there is less hair on him, even, than on Horatio, and you touch the scars on his chest. They are smooth to the touch. They feel no different than the rest of him.
"Does that hurt?" you ask, a little hesitantly, just in case it does.
He shakes his head, says nothing, and you go on to stroking his forearms, wondering what it must be like to be that strong. To have that many muscles. You are running your fingers along the inside, where a pale blue vein shows up against the untanned part of his skin, when he enters you, and even that is very much different from Horatio -- it is not slow and dreamy like it is with Horatio. Your breath hitches in your chest; sweat runs down between your breasts, and again, when Lieutenant Bush bends down to be near you, it is not to kiss you.
He does brush his lips over your cheek, but what he has done also is put your legs up over his shoulders, lean close so that is almost lying on you and is, in fact, propping himself up on his hands. Every time he thrusts into you, you let out a moan. You cannot help it; it comes out of you. He gasps in your ear, thrusts into you again; you moan, hold him tighter, raise your legs up until until your toes brush the wall, and even though it is the middle of winter, the two of you are sweating like it is August and not November.
Even if you had wanted to, you could not pretend this was your husband.
...
Two weeks later, the Lydia comes into port.
While your mother stays at the lodgings to make sure that supper will be kept warm, you and Lieutenant Bush go down to the quay together to meet Horatio. Lieutenant Bush fusses at you to make sure you are wrapped up properly against the cold; you eye him to make sure that he has gotten the last details of his neck cloth, and you realize, as you pick your way across the cobblestones and the snow comes down in fat, white flakes and Lieutenant Bush hovers nearby to catch you if you so much as give a hint of slipping -- you realize that this is the happiest you have been since your children died.
...
He is devoted to your husband, and you are devoted to Horatio, too. Nevertheless, neither of you can entirely deny the events: he comes by the house sometimes when Horatio is not there, and you go to bed with him even though you know that you are not the only woman that he touches like that. Sometimes, he has presents for his sisters that he does not want to risk to the uncertain civil post, so it is arranged that they come to your lodgings for them. That way, you get news of what has happened to him -- you do not think that even your husband has met them, but over the course of time, you come to have had all four of them in your front room, drinking your tea, and telling you about the difficulties of life in Chichester.
Both of you are devoted to Horatio, and neither of you can think of willfully hurting him. Bush sometimes comes to dinner and gives no sign of any affection for you beyond what a first lieutenant has for a wife who keeps her husband, his captain, in good running order. You are vaguely horrified then, as before, for his speech and rough manners and way of eating without talking, but it is nevertheless clear to both of you that what began as a way to fill the space missing in both of your lives left by others has become something more, something that has only a little to do with other people and has, instead, everything to do with the two of you.
Across the table, his eyes lift from his soup bowl for a moment,then go back to the soup. Your husband goes on talking about Italy and Swiss cantons. You remind him that the barley has sunk to the bottom.
If either of you had been inclined to use the term, in fact, it would not have been entirely wrong to call it love.
This piece of crazy engendered by talking with
nolivingman and black_hound at the fount of crack known as navalchronicle. We'd decided that this was the craziest pairing ever, which meant that it HAD TO BE WRITTEN, then proceeded to throw ideas around until we found a plot that stuck.The really scary thing is that there's a sequel of sorts in the works. Of, um. A sort.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 02:13 am (UTC)YES!!!! Just what I needed. <333333333333333
The not liking to kiss thing is so perfect. So Bush. So very Bush.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 04:28 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 03:12 am (UTC)Jesus. This pairing is a first rate guilty pleasure They so fit. And oh how I love that the sisters meet Maria. Dear Lord. <333333333
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 04:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 04:47 am (UTC)But, I just keep rereading this. Because there is so much wonderful detail. The way he fixes the table and smiles when the cutlery doesn't roll. omg. <3 The picture frame. His kind face. Just ALL of it.
I want them to be together forever.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 07:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 01:33 pm (UTC)I love the wordless way they get to bed.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 07:23 pm (UTC)And yeah. I can only imagine how puzzling Maria finds Hornblower sometimes. On the one hand, the guy is so enormously charismatic, and he's a pretty decent husband by the standards of the time.
But really.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 04:31 pm (UTC)As always, a brilliant piece. Your writing makes me think of dreams and half-remembered moments ... there's a brilliant sense of alienation that makes the fact that they may love each other that much more stark. Yay!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 09:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-30 03:56 am (UTC)I REALLY want to write something new and worthwhile, but my muses have all fled.
*sigh*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 08:45 pm (UTC)--oh, and this?
Even if you had wanted to, you could not pretend this was your husband.
has me, like, dead on the floor. I just keep reading that one line over and over and over again. Oh my God.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 09:09 pm (UTC)<3333333333333333333333 Yes, I am glad you like the crack. Come play with us in the crack sandbox!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 09:15 pm (UTC)But yeah. I love the crack. I need the crack. GIVE ME MORE OF THE CRACK. <3333333333
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 09:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 10:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 10:45 pm (UTC)I love this particularly: Bush is not a gentleman. He does not talk while he eats. The way you turn the first sentence on its head.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-02 04:43 am (UTC)But I did read it and I looooove it. It's so lovely and tight and almost gentle in a way. I love Maria being content having a man in the house and Bush buying the stands for her babies and oh. <333 So much love for this, dear. <3333
I AM SORRY I AM SUCH A SHITTY FRIEND.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-13 06:45 pm (UTC)Very well done, and totally believable. Definitely made my day! Been catching up on despatches, and squeed muchly to find something by you!
*goes back to writing Bucard/Whore fic*
The Kind Heart (HH, Maria/WB)
Date: 2008-03-28 05:14 pm (UTC)So sweet together! I enjoyed this--thanks for writing!
~