thiswasinevitableid - Tumblr blog

thiswasinevitableid · 1 month

Note

For the meet ugly prompts, 15 and/or 21 for ot4?

Here you go! I went with 15: I step out of the bathroom and right into the middle of a bar fight and you punch me accidentally so I punch back on instinct. There's no sex scene, but quite a bit of talk about sex.

Duck’s taken a few hits in his life. He’s not expecting one when he steps from the bathroom of Tarkensian’s General Store and Lunch Counter, but that’s what he gets, sharp and hard in the eye.

“Fuck” He yelps, swinging his fist out to keep whoever the fuck is pissed at him from doing it again. He misses, catching sight of a tall government suit as his momentum spins him into the wall.

At the gunshots, he drops to the floor.

“Goddamn it.” His attacker sprints towards the front of the store. Another shot, squealing tires, banging doors. By the time he’s made a cautious journey to the cash register to make sure Leo is okay, the man who punched him is arguing with another suit in front of a Dusenberg with bullet holes in the right front tire.

“I told you to never discharge your weapon unless absolutely necessary.” All six feet of mr quick fists is staring down at his partner.

“They were getting away!”

“Necessary means life or death, Agent Roberts; if we tracked them once, we can track them again, and stopping them today is not worth the life of the civilians in that store. Or anywhere else.”

“Who gives a damn if some hill-billys take a hit, this is government business-”

“That’s enough.” The taller man’s voice sharpens, “Protecting the people down here is why we’re doing this in the first place. If you can’t get that through your skull, you’re asking for a one way ticket back to the tiny police force they pulled you from.”

The shorter man rips his badge from his pocket, bouncing it off the other’s chest, “Save yourself the fucking trouble, I fucking quit.” With that he stomps down the dusty road towards the only hotel in town.

Duck and Leo, who’ve been watching the exchange like it’s a picture show, pivot to setting knocked cans and scattered boxes right as the remaining agent steps through the door. He stands, waiting for them to look his way and clearing his throat to speed them along.

“I, um, I apologize, Mr. Tarkesian. I only meant to question those two men in a friendly way, but the moment they saw my badge one threw a haymaker. Which leads me to assume they are bootleggers, a conclusion I was deferring until I could speak to them. That’s neither here nor there. Are you alright? Are your customers?”

“All in one piece, sir. Your partner ended a sack of flour, but nothin’ else.” Leo tilts his head at the pile of white dust, “though you gave Duck here a hell of a shiner.”

“Oh my lord.” The man puts a hand over his mouth when he sees Duck’s face, “I’m sorry. You stepped out of the washroom right when I tried to stop the younger brother.”

“S’okay. Not, uh, not the worst thing to ever happen to me at dinner time.” Duck would rather not get involved in whatever the hell is going on here.

“No, it’s not.” The man runs a hand over his slick-backed black hair, “will you let me buy you dinner as an apology? Or at least some ice for your eye?” The chagrin is unusual from a government man in this part of the country, and Duck can think of worse evenings than letting a handsome face pay for his meal.

“You buy me dinner” he tilts his head at the lunch counter, “I won’t be sore about bein’ sore.”

The man smiles, “That seems fair. Mr. Tarkesian, if you’re able to write up a bill for the damaged goods I’ll...well, I’ll do my best to get you paid back for it. Have someone drop it off at Amnesty Lodge for Agent Stern.”

“Will do.” Leo nods, then adds, “Duck, ask Pigeon for some ice on the house for that eye.”

Once their orders are in and Duck’s eye is chilling, the agent sets a thoughtful hand on his hat where it’s resting on the counter.

“I really am sorry.”

“Not the first time someone’s slugged me. Definitely the hardest, though. So, uh, guess that’s somethin.”

“If it’s any consolation, my hand sympathizes with your eye.” He holds up his right hand, bruises blooming on the knuckles. Duck holds out the ice but the agent shakes his head, “it’s my own fault for not opting for a more efficient way of apprehending those men.”

“Take it you’re here tryin to bust some moonshiners?”

“Yes. As you might imagine, it hasn’t led to the best reception.” He tilts his head towards the quartet of men scowling at them from down the counter.

“Doubt your partner helped with that any.”

“You don’t know the half of it. One of those men who wants the respect for his badge but doesn’t give a damn about earning it.” He sighs as Pigeon sets their sandwiches in front of them, “Nevermind. I shouldn’t complain about a fellow agent. Um. What do you do here in Kepler?”

“Arborist for every town in the county. The bigwigs at city hall realized any money they saved lettin me go when things got bad wouldn’t make up for what would happen if trees took out houses or the brush got too high and made it easy for the whole damn town square to burn to the ground.”

“Sounds like they’re lucky to have you.”

“Yep.”

They eat in silence, evening sun searing their backs through the windows.

“I’m, um, well I was going to say I’m usually better at conversation than this. But it’s been so long since I did any talking that wasn’t part of an investigation or government business I’ve forgotten how to be charming. Or even interesting.”

“Buyin a fella dinner is pretty charming.”

“No, it’s just the decent thing to do.”

“Take the compliment city boy.”

The agent raises an eyebrow and Duck prepares to be hit again for disrespect. Then Stern laughs, soft and tired, before sending a Clark Gable caliber smile his way, “It’s nice to be talked to like a person instead of a suit.”

Duck shifts on the stool to more easily enjoy the way blue eyes glint when he says, “Even easier if you told me your name.”

------------------------------------------------------

“Well, Joe, this is me.” Duck gestures to the house that’s been in the Newton family since it was built. He’s the last one left in town, so the faded paint and sturdy foundation are all his.

The agent regards the house with the same cool curiosity he’s applied to everything else they’ve encountered tonight. It’s only when his gaze lands on Duck that it takes on a new dimension, friendly and almost innocent in it’s hope.

“You, uh, feel like joinin’ me for some coffee? Wouldn’t wanna interfere with government business by keepin you.” He teases.

Joe is already joining him on the porch, “Roberts probably reported on our earlier altercation. I’ll have better luck keeping Agent Hayes from shouting my ear off if I give him until tomorrow to cool off.”

Duck gets the lights on as Joe hangs his hat and jacket by the door. He opens the cabinet, searching for clean glasses and mugs, spotting the bottle of bourbon that was there long before prohibition started right when the taller man steps behind him.

“Uh, any chance I can convince you that’s a bottle of vinegar or somethin’?”

“No. It doesn’t matter, though.” Since Duck’s hands are full, Joe closes the cabinet, “I don’t give a damn if people drink. I don’t care if someone wants to brew up moonshine in their yard or run a bar. What I care about is how this whole mess has made it easier for mobs to flourish, for normal people to get caught in the crossfire of a corrupt police force and ruthless criminals.” The sofa creaks as he sits down, “I’m not in Kepler because I think it’s some cesspool; I’m here because I know a major bootlegging ring has a leg here, and that the people who benefit from it won’t be the people who get arrested in my investigation casts to small a net.”

Duck keeps his mouth shut; he could tell Joe just how much Kepler’s changed since a certain family got their hands on it. But he’s not sure what else he’d reveal without even meaning to.

Even exhausted, Joe manages to look handsome when he adds, “All that’s to say, I wouldn’t mind a drop of that bottle in my coffee.”

The longer he sits on the couch with his coffee cup, the more relaxed Joe turns. He also doesn’t move when Duck scoots closer, and soon their legs and hands keep bumping each other.

“Do you know Amnesty Lodge?”

“Yep. Few of my friends work there, it’s full of good folks.”

“I agree. I, um, the only other person in town who’ll talk to me like I’m a human works there. Barclay’s one of the few people who doesn’t seem scared of me. Or, he did at the beginning. Now, well, some days I’m almost convinced he’s happy to see me.” A secretive blush dusts his cheeks, “I’m sorry, I get rambly after ten p.m. It’s just nice to have someone to talk to about him.”

Duck happens to be privy to what a man in love with Barclay Cobb looks like. So he keeps some gentleness in his tone when he teases, “City boy likes his men a little country?”

“Barclay is from San Francisco.” Joe looks up from his nails, bringing them almost nose to nose.

“That don’t answer the question.”

“Maybe this will.” Joe drops backwards onto the cushions, taking Duck with him courtesy of a kiss and not letting him up until dawn.

-------------------------------------------------

Practically everyone in Kepler has a job on the side, some legal and others not. Duck considers himself lucky that his is all pleasure with a chaser of business.

He let’s himself into what could generously be called a shack, the ragged exterior giving way to walls of beautiful drawings and a floor that’s more paper than wood. Seated in the far corner at a three-legged desk is a tall, skinny man with pale hair and red spectacles. Kepler’s Van Gogh of Vice, Indrid Cold.

At Duck’s footsteps he turns, angular cheeks and sharp nose a bit sunburnt but smile putting that star (and any other) to shame.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite model.” He stands, undershirt and denim pants hanging off him as he gathers Duck into a kiss. Then he pulls back, concerned, “goodness, what happened to your eye?”

“Hey, sugar.” Duck kisses his chin, “Got caught up in some trouble at Leo’s. Nothin to worry about. What am I today?”

“A brush salesman. Go put on that jacket, the rest of your clothing will do just fine.”

It’s the same routine every time; Indrid sketches Duck in some poor replica of a costume (a policeman, a boxer, a salesman), then instructs him to strip down to some level of undress. If it’s a weekend, Indrid will ask if he can sketch Duck for more complex drawings, some nude and some not, rather than the Tijuana Bibles that help line his threadbare pockets.

He always pays Duck for his time, even though Duck points out that, as his boyfriend, he can see him naked and hard any time for free.

They talk about birds and work, about going to the city sometime soon for a real night out, until Indrid instructs him to remove his shirt.

“My, my, what did you get up to last night?” Indrid traces a finger around the hickey on Duck’s lower belly.

Duck tells him, letting Indrid scoldingly nibble his collarbone as punishment for not inviting him to join.

“I’ve given Agent Stern a wide berth, so it is reassuring to know he’s a decent sort. Though someone really ought to inform him that Barclay shares his feelings.”

“Yeah. Barclay.” Duck chuckles, “they’re two grown men, if they can’t figure out they wanna fuck, I ain’t gonna hold their hands and drag ‘em into bed. Uh, wait, fuck-”

“I got both your intended meaning and the double one. Now kindly remove your trousers and lay on the bed.”

“Any specific pose?”

“Whichever one allows me to be in you the quickest.”

“You’re the boss, sugar.”

-----------------------------------------------------

“He did what?” Barclay thunks the last crate into the back of Indrid’s car.

“Dearest, I know you’re attached to Joseph, but Duck did nothing wrong by sleeping with him-”

“That’s not what I meant.” The cook sets the bags atop the clinking crates, “Duck can’t lie. Him fucking around with Joseph could end really badly.”

“Duck doesn’t know about this” Indrid closes the car, fidgets with the key.

“Yeah, which means he doesn’t know what things to hide. Joseph is smart, Duck could say something totally innocent and give him a clue.”

Indrid rubs his forehead, “We can discuss it further when I get back from this run.”

Barclay mumbles, “okay.” Then Indrid is being lovingly crushed in a hug as his boyfriend speaks into his shoulder, “Sorry I snapped. I get so fucking nervous when you do this.”

“That makes two of us. But I didn’t come by my nickname for nothing. I slip by as quietly as a moth in the dark.”

“But what if the cops lay a trap? Or some other family wants in on Leeshon’s territory and decides to hijack you? Or-”

“Leave the what-ifs to me, dearest. I’ll be back in two days. I promise.”

When Indrid is no more than a shadow on the backroad, Barclay trudges back to the Lodge. He hates this, hates the men who put him in this position, hates the feds who sniff around like dogs waiting to bite, hates how one of the two men who can stop his heart with his smile is also one who could throw him in jail.

The instant he sees Joseph in his usual corner seat, that all evaporates. He knows the agent originally used the Lodge restaurant as a place to eavesdrop. When he’s here these days, it’s solely for Barclay’s cooking and attention. Barclay will give him as much of both as he desires, feed him full of it in hopes of delaying the inevitable. So when the chairs are up and it’s only Joseph leaning on the counter asking if Barclay will join him for a slice of pie, the cook sits on the stool beside him, leaning in as close as he dares, and tries not to think of the future.

---------------------------------------------------

“Mr. Cold?”

“I’m on the back porch.” Indrid calls, cleaning up his paints as Joseph rounds the house, his pristine shirt, shoes, and hair making Indrid feel a rare bust of self-consciousness at his dishevelment. He stands, brushing off his pants, “how can I assist you?”

“By letting me take a look inside your home. I’ve heard rumors that you deal in items that are only bought in back rooms and I need to see if they’re true. I don’t have a warrant, and I’ll get one if I have to, but then I’ll have to bring other kinds of law enforcement with me who might, um, might....look, you’re important to Duck; I don’t want this to escalate any more than it has to.”

Indrid grins, waving him inside, “Say no more. I do believe there’s been a misunderstanding. Your mind, on account of your profession, went straight to bootlegging. I deal in something a bit different” He flips open a briefcase and gets the pleasure of watching Joseph Sten blush.

“It’s not the kind of art I’d sell if I had my choice, but I have a talent for rendering all manner of lewd acts on paper. Owners of bowling alleys and hunting clubs pay decently enough for them.”

“I, um, I see.” Joseph picks up one booklet, flipping through it, “I must admit these are more realistic than the ones I've encountered in the past.”

“I use models whenever possible in both these and my other work” he gestures to the non-explicit paintings on the wall, “in fact, you know two of my preferred muses.”

“Duck” Joseph’s thumb runs tenderly over the illustration.

“Indeed. And this one…” he holds up a second book, “is based on Barclay.”

“Good lord.”

“That’s the general consensus on that part of his body.” Indrid places both booklets safely in their spots, “does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“Yes.” Joseph runs a hand over his hair, “very much. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Cold.”

“Of course. And by all means, call me Indrid. Should you ever be interested in modeling...” he let's Stern feel the full force of his appreciative gaze, "do let me know."

The agent leaves in more of a hurry than he arrived. Indrid closes the door, slumps against and says to the dust specks, “that was too close.”

He reiterates this point to Barclay in the evening, who agrees with him that, as much as Joseph means to him and Duck, when Indrid returns from this run they’ll talk with Mama about how to get the agent out of the Lodge and, ideally, the town. They finish their conversation right as three members of the Leeshon family arrive, electing to travel north along with their goods for some “official business.” Apparently, word of the The Moth as a skilled driver is spreading, the implications of which are keeping Indrid up at night.

He stoops and smiles for the men with menacing shapes under their coats, blows a final kiss to Barclay, and speeds off into the night.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

“Is everything alright?” Joseph hovers over Duck’s shoulder, his eyes locked onto Barclay.

“‘Drid does these trips to sell his stuff, and he ain’t back yet. Ain’t called either of us, which is mighty strange. Usually he lets us know when he’s headin home.”

“And I tried the motel where he usually stays on his last night back down. They haven’t seen him.” Barclay wipes the same spot of table for the fiftieth time, “Duck’s truck is busted and Mama’s got the one we use for Lodge business, so we can’t go look for him ourselves.”

“We could take my car.” Joseph offers without hesitation, “if you know his usual route, we can at least rule out a wreck.”

Barclay shudders; he doesn’t want to think about Indrid, caged and lifeless in twisted metal. He wants to think about it so little that he does the most foolish thing possible; he decides to give a federal agent a guided tour of their bootlegging route.

Soon, they’re creeping along the winding backroad, Barclay navigating from the front seat while Duck bounces his leg in the back. The longer they drive, the more somber the expression from the man beside him.

“Indrid’s the Moth, isn’t he?” Joseph murmurs.

“Hate to say it Joe, but you’re so outta bounds you ain’t even in...the...game” he catches Barclay’s eyes in the mirror, “oh you gotta be fuckin kiddin me.”

“Wish I was” Barclay locks his hands in his lap, “Started about six months ago. Leeshon and his mob decided Kepler was a good spot to stage some of their smuggling. They went to the lodge first; Mama told ‘em hell no, told ‘em to get gone, and they threatened to shoot her then and there to burn the whole place and everyone in it. I stepped in, offered to do it. I was so fucking bad at the driving I almost got caught. Indrid offered to help to keep me safe and keep them from going after the Lodge.” He glances at Joseph, “we’re just trying to protect our family.”

“I don’t doubt it. But you haven’t exactly put me in an easy position. I had a hunch after I was in Indrid’s house; the faint smell of alcohol on certain bags, the regular trips along the exact same route. I just...I was hoping I was wrong.”

“You know damn well ‘Drid ain’t a threat to anyone.”

“He’s aiding the mob”

“To protect us--ohfuck” Barclay’s door is open before Joseph even stops the car. At the crossroads before them are two cars, each riddled with bullet holes. The one on the right, back half full of shattered bottles, is Indrid’s.

“No!” Barclay dodges the other bodies, Duck right behind him, and wrenches the driver-side door open. There’s bullets in the seat, but no body.

“Rival family, I can tell by the rings. They must have ambushed them.” Joseph stares down at one of the bodies by the second car.

“We gotta find him, he might still be, there-” Duck grabs Barclay’s arm, pointing towards the brush, “someone dragged themself that way.”

Duck leads the scramble through the foliage, following signs Barclay can’t see until they reach scuffed shoes on long legs.

“‘Drid, fuck, fuck, c’mon sugar talk to me.” Duck is on his knees, guiding the unconscious man into his arms.

“He’s breathing.” Barclay runs his hands over Indrid’s body, looking for broken bones. Finds one on his left leg, making his boyfriend groan in pain.

“You’re gonna be okay, we’ll get you home.” There’s a clanking noise from the direction they came, “I like Joe an awful lot, but if we gotta steal his car I will.”

Indrid manages to smile with dry lips, “I tried so hard to get back. Hard to crawl on a broken leg after playing dead for as long as it took everyone who’d been shot to finish dying. I just...can we...I want to go home.”

“You clear a path, I’ll carry him.” Barclay scoops Indrid up, follows Duck back towards the car as he snaps and pushes at brush.

“Thank the lord.” Joseph opens the back door of the car, “here, he can lay down. We’ll take him to the doctor right away.”

Duck stays in the back, Indrid’s head in his lap, petting his hair and whispering to him as Joseph turns the car towards town.

“You realize I have to report the shoot out.”

Barclay never takes his eyes off Indrid, “Do what you have to. Just don’t expect a warm welcome back.”

----------------------------------------------------

“....no, Agent Hayes, there were no survivors of the shoot-out.”

“Any records on the cars?”

“Only one. The other didn’t have plates.” Joseph keeps his breathing even as his boss mulls over his report.

“Alright. I won’t send a second man down, but if this escalates I expect you to alert me at once.”

“Understood, sir.” He hangs up, relieved, and steps into the hall of the Lodge. There’s not much spring in his step, since he doesn’t dare show his face in the restaurant.

Then there’s a lot of spring as he’s yanked through a door. Before he can raise a fist, calloused hands cup his cheeks and a beard prickles his skin as Barclay pins him to the wall in a kiss.

“Did, did you hear the callmmpph” He holds tight to Barclays shoulders as the cook manhandles him towards bed.

“Yep, had Aubrey eavesdrop on you.” Duck grins from his spot on Indrid’s comfy sickbed, “you gonna tell us why you covered our asses?”

“Barclay may have to release him for that.” Indrid pats the space next to Duck and the cook let’s Joseph drop into it.

“Arresting Indrid would have put the whole Lodge in danger and done nothing to stop the mobs vying for power on this bootlegging route. It’s the better call to let people think you’re dead for a time and see if I can catch Leeshon as he’s sniffing around for a new driver. And, um, I, I couldn’t hurt you. Any of you. You’ve made me happier than I’ve been in years and I, I just want to help you protect the town.”

“Aww, knew you were soft deep-down, city boy.” Duck kisses his cheek.

“I never did get to thank you for your role in saving my life. Come here.” Indrid crooks his finger and Joseph leans in, expecting a kiss on the cheek. He gets one full on the lips, Indrid humming when he brushes their tongues together. He purrs when they part, “after all, if you’re staying in town, I intend to join my boyfriends in their admiration of you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Wonderful. Iin that case, perhaps you’ll model for me.”

“Only if you buy me dinner.”

“Hey, I had to get punched to get dinner.” Duck teases.

“Let me go get it started.” Barclay winks, “don’t get into too much trouble until I get back.”

#reblogging purely because I forgot how much I like this one

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thiswasinevitableid · 1 month

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I’ve been on a kick reading your work and I can’t figure it out by googling it but….

Is Apollo an oc? He’s in a lot of your works as Indrids twin but I can’t find him in the taz wiki

He is!

I initially created him for The Thrilling Adventures of the Green Knight. After that, he was popular enough that people would request/mention wanting to see him when did prompt fills. He didn't really appear in a longer fic again until Kingdom of Silk and Moths, and now there have been longer fics where I got requests to include him as well.

At the same time, over in Discord we were riffing on what happened after The Thrilling Adventures, and someone posited Apollo falling for someone where he was being monitored, and I posited Vincent, almost as a joke, since my read on him from canon was he was pretty chill. It kind of snowballed from there.

I didn't expect him to be so popular, but villains are fun to read to and fun to write. Too, the more I've used him, the more I've been able to use him and Indrid to write about things like trauma, or the ways people find to survive an abusive parent. And I think that resonates with people (I wish that it didn't, in that I wish no one had to deal with that ever, but I'm glad that people find things they want or need in the stories about my OC, Mothman's Horrible Brother)

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thiswasinevitableid · 1 month

Text

Perfect Specimen (Sternclay)

I decided I wanted to do something for Monster March, and @bellafarallones and I were riffing on this amazing art from @panthermouthh, as the design on Doctor Frankenstein is not unlike how I personally picture Stern.

A few content notes: This is NSFW, and given the subject matter it touches on death. There's also animal death but everything comes out okay in the end.

It’s the perfect night for mystery and horror. The very air itself is filled with monsters.

And if Joseph’s lab does not have a monster of its own by the time this thunderstorm is done, he’s going to walk out the highest window in the castle.

Four years of research, another year of planning, six months of gathering supplies, days and nights without sleep, the burns on his upper arm, the white in his hair, all of it has been for this moment.

The instruments tell him the voltage from the storm is the highest he can hope for, and a moment later the readings from the nodes attached to the experiment tell him a bolt has connected long enough and strong enough to restart the heart.

He rigged the lift table to be moveable by one person, but it’s still exhausting to strain against the chains, to control the force of the descent, all the while sweat mingles with the rain as it drops from the platform. The instant the table touches the lab floor, he wrenches the handle to close the gap in the roof, shutting out the storm at last. Now all that’s left is the crackle of the equipment, the distant thunder, and his heart beating so loud that for a moment he can’t manage to move.

When his stethoscope can’t find a twin beat in the chest of his specimen, he sags to the floor, pushes himself back until he’s resting against the nearest table and tosses his gloves away in frustration. He digs his hands into his hair, gripping at the root, wanting to scream in frustration but somehow, after all this time, afraid someone might hear.

He did everything right, picked every part as carefully as if the body were his own. No beer-saturated livers, no bad hearts, no black lungs for his specimen. And it still hadn’t worked.

The window calls to him. He tugs his hair again, frees his hands only to dig his nails into his palms. No. He can do this. He’s Dr. Joseph Stern, he has brought life to lower animals and god damn it he will bring life to this one.

He rises, brushing off his lab coat, brain already churning on a new plan.

Then the figure beneath the sheet sits bolt upright and starts to scream.

—-----------------------------------------------------------

The last thing Barclay remembers is his room at the Lodge. He’d been alone, the doctor had told Mama and the others they couldn’t come in, not unless they wanted to risk the flu that was stealing his energy and breath away. He could feel he was dying, and he was so scared, he’d begged the man to at least let him see them in the doorway, but his usual doctor had passed from the flu himself. This one, sent from the city, had talked to Barclay like he had rocks for brains and didn’t even stay with him until the end. He’d cried out, weakly but still a cry, for his friends.

And now he’s crying out again, thrashing at the fabric above him. Fuck, he’s in a shroud and he can’t move, they’ve fucking buried him alive. That thought horrifies him so much he wrenches upward, freeing himself from the confines of his coffin and gasping for air.

Only there’s no wood or dirt anywhere. Just broken, leather straps hanging off his wrists and a white bed sheet tangled around his waist. A laboratory gleams and hisses around him, and to the right of his bed stands a man in white lab coat.

The man's hands are over his mouth in shock, his blue eyes wide with excited surprise. Barclay notices the streak of white in the front of his black hair as lightning flashes across the skylight.

“You’re alive. Alive!” He steps forward and Barclay leans away, body too full of residual panic to do anything else.

The scientist holds out a hand, as if Barclay is a spooked dog hiding under the bed, and says slowly and quietly, ��Don’t be afraid. You’re not in danger. My name is Dr. Joseph Stern. This is my lab. And you…” a rapturous smile spreads across his face, “you’re my specimen. My vindication.”

“Specimen?” Barclay’s voice creeps upwards.

“You can talk.” Dr. Stern carefully sets his hands on the metal table Barclay mistook for a bed, “amazing, thank god I didn’t use my first choice of head and neck, it’d been damaged by hanging and might have-.”

“Woah, woah” Barclay holds up his hands, trying to get the doctor to make sense. It’s then that he sees his hands aren’t the ones he remembers, and they’re sewn to arms where the skin is a few shades darker. He tosses the sheet aside and finds the rest of his body the same kind of patchwork, clutches his face and notices a beard that wasn’t there before.

He starts screaming again.

“Please, stay calm-”

“What did you do? What the fuck did you do to me? What am I?”

“You’re a modern golem. A, a testament to science and progress.”

Barclay growls and grabs for him, dragging him close by the front of his coat, “Where the fuck is my body? My real body.”

“This is your real body.” The man pushes him back, cheeks slightly pink, “you’ve never had another one.”

“The hell I haven’t! Where is it, where’s, where’s the body of Barclay Cobb?”

The doctor stills, staring at him with fascinated confusion, “He…he’s in Kepler cemetery. Where he was buried. I needed his brain. And his eyes. But I left the rest of him there. Unless.”

“Unless?”

“Unless he’s here now?”

“Yeah. Yeah he is. He’s here and he’s confused and none of this is making that any better.” Tears sting his vision and spill down his cheeks

“I’m…I’m sorry. I didn’t expect this. Everything I read suggested that bringing you to life would potentially give you a soul. Or raise you without one. Not, not just bring back someone who was lost.”

“Feel like we have that saying about not believing everything you read for a reason.” He replies helplessly.

A slight smile, “True. And being cutting edge with my research meant there weren’t a lot of reference points.”

“Look” Barclay wipes his eyes and stands, finds himself actually looking down at the doctor, who himself must be six feet tall. The new height is the first thing about this whole mess that doesn’t feel like a curse, “whatever you did, it didn’t go how you expected. I’m not some new creature, I’m just a normal guy in a fucked-up body. So I’m gonna let you go back to the drawing board and I’m gonna go home and give my friends the biggest fucking hug I can manage.”

“You can’t” Dr. Stern steps between him and the door, “They won’t recognize your new body, and they might be upset if they put together what happened. More to the point, grave robbing and desecration of a corpse are serious charges and I have no plans to be brought up on them.”

“That sounds like a you problem.” He ties the sheet around his waist. That’ll have to work for now.

Blue eyes narrow, “Mr. Cobb. Barclay” the doctor brings his hands to his sides but makes no move to get out of the way, “People fear what they don’t understand. Right now, I barely understand what’s going on with you. How do you think people in Kepler are going to react?”

“Doesn’t seem like I’m much safer here.” Barclay glowers at the pistol sitting on one of the tables.

Stern sighs, “Several of my predecessors died when the animals they brought back with electricity turned on them. I don’t plan on joining them. It would have been an absolute last resort; Barclay, years of my life have led to this moment, and I’m not going to discard them lightly. Or let them walk right into the path of an angry mob.”

Barclay steps around him, and fingers grab his arm.

“If your old self saw this self coming down the dark road toward him, what would he do?”

“....Probably panic and run inside. Lock the doors and windows so he couldn’t get in and hurt my or my friends.”

“Now imagine how one of your less gentle neighbors might react.”

“Fuck.” Barclay wraps his arms around himself. His next step lands wrong, his legs unsteady, and sits heavily down on the floor. When he looks up, the doctor is hurriedly making notes.

“So, what, is the plan to make me sleep down here? Because staying in a dungeon sounds fucking miserable.”

The doctor shakes his head, “No. Lord knows there’s plenty of space in the castle, and I have a room ready for you. Um, just give me a few minutes to get it heated.”

More than a few minutes later Stern returns, dust on his coat, and gingerly extends a hand. Barclay takes it, and allows himself to be led up into his new home.

He only manages a few hours of sleep before pain wakes him. Anywhere he’s been stitched hurts. When it gets to the point where he can no longer comfortably lay in bed, he groans and gets up in search of the guy responsible.

The only light and noise in the house is still from the direction of the lab. Inside he finds Stern diligently filling a notebook with words and diagrams. The doctor doesn’t see him right away, and he wonders if this is even a good idea. The guy brought him back as an experiment, seems shocked that Barclay is a person instead of an empty vessel. Maybe asking for help will just cement the idea that Barclay needs to stay here for his own good.

Then again.

In the lamplight of a less panicked mind, Joseph Stern doesn’t look quite like the confident, business-like doctor ready to order Barclay around like he’s nothing. There are dark circles under his eyes and his black hair is a mess from wind sneaking through the skylight. And when Barclay awoke, monstrous and afraid, Stern didn’t flinch from him.

“Uh, Doctor Stern?”

The man looks up, and Barclay pushes down the urge to haul him up to bed before he passes out at his desk.

“Do you have anything for the pain?”

“That depends on where it is.”

Barclay explains the situation, Stern’s expression tinged with disappointment by the end. It’s only as the doctor unlocks a drawer that Barclay understands the emotion is directed at himself instead of Barclay.

“It didn’t occur to me that your nerves would react that way, though it makes perfect sense. Here” He holds out a tin of bitter-smelling salve, “this should help numb the pain if you rub it around the stitches.”

“What is it?”

“A topical painkiller. I developed it when I was earning my degree. The number of my colleagues who thought it was fine to give patients who needed to work to keep a roof over their heads ingestible pain relief that made them groggy was shocking. I wanted my patients to have another option.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

The other man smiles, subtly steadying his swaying body against the lab table, “You’re my housemate, not my servant. Call me Joseph.”

It’s only the fact that those last three words sound as if they haven’t been spoken in a long, long time that Barclay doesn’t roll his eyes at the idea that a rich boy from the city won’t see him as a servant. Instead, he takes the tin, returns to his bed, and falls into a deep, if somewhat tingly, sleep.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Joseph wakes to the smell of coffee and toast and the patter of the rain on the windows. He’s glad he managed to crawl into bed last night instead of passing out at his desk again; it’s cozy here.

He and Barclay spent the last thirty-six hours in opposite states of energy; Joseph was unable to sleep, anxious to write down every observation and note from Barclay being resurrected. When the anxiety started to fade, a wave of pride would come and buoy him along as he imagined everyone who mocked him being forced to admit he was right. The source of his excitement, on the other hand, spent the entire time in such a sound sleep Joseph checked him twice with the stethoscope to make sure he was still alive, and left him some clothes once he was certain he was. His guess is that, among the many effects of being brought back, Barclay’s body registered the life-giving jolt as a massive expenditure of energy. Not to mention that panic can really take it out of a man. Joseph knows that much from experience.

The smell of frying meat mingles with the toast now. He should get up and have breakfast.

He should figure out who in the castle is even making breakfast.

Joseph hurries out of bed, tying his robe as he descends the stairs. In the kitchen, humming as he moves from stove to table and back again, is Barclay.

“What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast. I’m sure you’re the kinda guy who survives on coffee and thoughts or whatever, but some of us need actual food.” The knife he’s using on a potato finds his finger instead, nicking it, and he pulls back with a sigh, “I’m sure the bigger hands will be good for something, but right now they’re a pain to get used to.”

Joseph shakes the thoughts of what those hands could do from his sleep-addled head as Barclay ties a small bandage–he must have found them in the lab– around the cut. There’s also a fresh burn on the back of his left hand; he must have hit it on the oven.

“I’m sorry, I know the new body must be hard to adjust to. In my defense, I didn’t think you’d be cooking.”

The taller man pulls the percolator from the stove, looking at him warily “What did you think I’d be doing?”

“Recovering and gaining control of your body for the first few weeks. Frankly I’m proud of the fact my careful work means you’re up and moving so soon, and the apparent transferring of your muscle memory into a new body is intriguing.”

“Yeah, if you’re not the guy banging his head into things. Or dealing with how itchy a beard can be.”

“I can buy you a razor if you want it gone.”

Barclay studies his reflection in a hanging pot, running his hands over the beard that’s barely past stubble, “Nah. I like how it looks. Mine always came in patchy.” He moves sausages onto a plate, “guess I oughta thank you for picking a handsome face for me, even if you did put stitches on it.”

“You can blame the fox that ate his nose part way off for that.”

Barclay grimaces.

“Sorry. I’ve been rooting around graveyards and charnel houses for so long it’s sort of…skewed how I talk about these things.”

“I mean, it seems like its’ kinda your life’s work so I get it. But no surgery talk at the table.” He sets the sausages and toast on the wood, then a plate down in front of Joseph and one in front of himself. Joseph pours them each coffee and they eat in awkward but not unpleasant silence.

As they’re walking past the fireplace in the dining room, Barclay pauses to look at the chess problem Joseph laid out a month ago.

“Do you play?”

The other man nods, “Learned how when I first started working at the Lodge. We, uh, we could play sometime.”

“I wish, but there’s a reason that’s just been sitting there. My work comes first.”

“I thought that was done. Or are you just going to keep making more guys like me?”

“No” he meets Barclay’s gaze, tries not to feel guilty for the distrust he finds there, “I have so much to learn from you. I’ve re-written some of the core beliefs of science, and I need to put my findings in enough order to present them eventually. Then there’s the fact that the process of constructing you has massive ramifications for the field of surgery.”

“So is my job just to lay in that fucking lab all day?”

That had been his plan. The moment Barclay turned those brown eyes on him and told him his name, it all went up in smoke.

“I’ll need to ask you questions now and then. And if possible have you do a few physical tests; that serves a second purpose of making sure your motor function isn’t deteriorating or you’re not getting ill from some unforeseen side effect of all this. Other than that, well, my home is yours to make your own.”

They leave it at that, Joseph retreating to his lab and Barclay wandering back towards the kitchen.

It’s just after six when Joseph is comparing his notes to those of one Professor Cold. There were rumors he’d succeeded in restoring not one, but two, bodies; his twin sons had been killed in a carriage accident. Joseph sees the groundwork for such a feat in the notes, but the way Cold writes about his potential subjects has always bothered him. They were living, breathing men with hopes and ideas and he sees them as nothing more than projects.

Than specimens.

Joseph closes the book, sets his notes in order for the night, and returns to the main floor of the castle. Barclay is in a chair by the fire, a book of Virgil in his lap and his focus on the window that faces town.

“Barclay?”

“Mm?”

In his old life he knew how to be charming. Maybe it’s time to dust off that skill.

“I’d be honored if you’d join me for a game of chess and a cup of coffee.”

Barclay looks him over, firelight dancing along the line of his jaw.

“Honored, huh?”

He nods and offers his arm. Barclay smiles, amused, and stands to take it.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------

They’d been making progress over the last month, in more ways than one. Barclay’s skill and comfort with his new body improved, he grew more relaxed when Joseph asked him questions for his research, and his glances toward town are not nearly as melancholy. The reason for that last change is obvious.

“Okay, either a carriage splashed you or you decided to take a mudbath in the center of town.” Barclay helps Joseph out of his coat as the doctor pulls off his boots.”

“Not quite. There was a puddle in the cemetery that I swear was up to my knees.”

Barclay looks at him, eyebrows raised and lips quirked in a smile “Looking to replace me?”

“Never. But you were the reason for my visit.” Joseph straightens the black vest stretching across Barclay’s chest, “you were so worried you’d be forgotten. I needed to find your grave. Barclay, it’s so covered in flowers I nearly missed the inscription.”

“Oh.” Barclay looks lost and sad, as if Joseph had found him in the middle of the forest, miles from home.

Joseph takes his hands, “You’ll see your friends again. We’ll figure out a way to re-introduce you without setting off mass panic. I promise.”

Barclays mood had improved massively after that. Which is puzzlement, not panic, is what grips Joseph when he finds his friend crying at the kitchen table. When he asks what happened, Barclay points to a bundled rag. In it is a rabbit kit, eyes open and glassy.

“I, I found it a few others, they got stuck against the outside wall when that tree came down last night” Barclay sniffles, “I moved them so they could find food but that one I, I must have held him too hard, I, I didn’t mean to. I, what if I do it again, what if I can’t be gentle anymore, what if I, I hurt something else, or someone else?”

Joseph steps next to his chair, only for Barclay to hide his face in his waistcoat. He lets him cry–he hasn’t since that first night–and cautiously pets his hair.

“Wh-what if I’m too much of a monster?”

“Barclay, look at me.” Joseph gingerly cups his chin, pushes his shaggy auburn hair from his forehead so he can see his face, “you’re not a monster. You’re a wonder, and more than that you are gentle. And kind. This was just an accident, one we can learn from.”

Barclay sniffs, wiping under his eyes.

“A monster wouldn’t cry for a rabbit. Or be thoughtful enough to give it a shroud.”

That gets him a watery smile.

“Go rest for a bit. I’ll take care of everything.”

Barclay slowly gets to his feet. Joseph waits until he’s in the library, then gathers the sad bundle and slips down to his lab.

It’s fiddly, frustrating work, but it’s worth every second when shakes Barclay from his lap and shows him the rabbit, fur slightly on end but nose wiggling calmly, and asks if he’d like to help him choose the spot to set it free outside.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’s getting better about not working to and past midnight, but after Barclay made a particularly delicious shepherds pie for lunch today, Joseph had passed out cold on couch the moved to be by the library fire (it’s more comfortable sitting side by side on it than in separate chairs) with his head on Barclay’s shoulder.

He’d awoken, now on top of his companion, to find it was four in the afternoon and he was behind on the monograph he’s writing on how to effectively reconnect eyes to the brain.

Barclay’s footsteps are just audible under the crash of the storm outside. Joseph isn’t surprised to see him in the doorway; electrical storms set him on edge. Neither of them can figure out if that’s some lingering effect of the experiment that brought him back to life or if the dislike of lightning is somehow stored in a particular body part. But when it happens, Barclay prefers to be wherever Joseph is.

“Anything I can help with?” Barclay sets a hand on the back of Joseph’s chair.

“Nothing comes to mind–no, wait, I think we have a few items on my initial checklist to cover.” He pulls out the stack of papers recording the various physical functions of Barclay’s body, “let’s see, the remaining one is, um, is…”

Barclay leans down, then blushes at the underlined words,“Figures you’d be that thorough.”

“We don’t have to test it. Now or ever.”

“What does testing my, uh, sexual functioning involve?”

“Seeing if you can achieve erection and release.”

Barclay’s blush deepens, “Yeah, about that. Kinda confirmed it myself.”

“In that case I’d just need to collect ejaculate. Just to see if you’re, um, able to reproduce like this.” The clinical language is his last hope of not admitting that part of his reason for wanting to know that is personal; his fantasies will be more accurate if he knows whether he could let Barclay come in him without fear.

Curiously, his more detached tone does nothing for Barclay’s reddening cheeks.

“We can do that. If, if you want. Hate to leave you with an unfinished checklist.” He says it so tenderly Joseph wants to cry.

“Okay. Please take off your clothes and go sit on the lab table.”

Barclay obeys, and as he does Joseph sees just how far down the blush goes.

“Should I…” Barclay gestures to his crotch. Joseph picked his cock out himself. He doesn’t remember it being so intimidating. Or so tempting.

“Let me.” He steps between Barclay’s legs, the closeness feeling safe than watching from a chair would be; if they did that, Barclay could see his face, might realize how hopelessly smitten Joseph is. Worse, Joseph might learn that Barclay enjoys being watched and ordered around by a seemingly in control Joseph, and then he’d really be screwed.

His fingers brush Barclay’s cock and the cook sighs and laughs, nervously, “Y’know, usually make a guy buy me dinner before he does that.”

“Does paying for our groceries count?”

“Guess soOH, oh” Barclay’s legs fall wider as Joseph begins stroking him, “yeah, yeah just like that.”

Joseph grips the edge of the table with his free hand. Focus, if he can just focus-

Barclay’s cock is fully hard, heavy in his hand, and when he runs his thumb over the head the other man bucks and moans. His head tips back and Joseph tries to focus on the scars, on what they mean, but all he can think about is dragging his tongue.

Barclay moans again, fucking into his hand, and Joseph’s vocal cords act without permission.

“That’s it, big guy, I want this to feel good. I want my perfect specimen to enjoy himself.”

Brown eyes snap open and the noise from those plush lips is a whimper.

“Do you like when I call you that?” He asks, hopeful at the prospect of something he didn’t know he wanted until a moment ago.

“Uh huh, Joseph, please-”

He squeezes the base of Barclay’s cock, letting his nails graze his balls, “That’s sir to you.”

Barclay grins, “Fuck yes it is. Sir. I, I like when you look at me like a project, like a puzzle, no one ever paid attention to me like that, like you, fuck, sir” his head tips forward and his lips find Joseph’s neck, mouthing and kissing at it and soaking his collar in the process.

“Messy” He scolds. Barclay whines, cock starting to slide more purposefully in his fist, but keeps up his barrage of kisses.

“Don’t care, sir, promise I’ll make it up to you, want you so bad, tired of waiting.”

“Waiting for what, big guy?”

“You” Barclay says weakly, moan spilling out of him as cum spurts between them. Joseph should be hurrying to catch it with something, but he doesn’t want to lose this moment, doesn’t want to stop feeling Barclay’s breath on his neck and arms around his shoulders.

He risks a kiss to his beautiful specimen’s forehead and gets a happy sigh in reply.

“Your turn, sir.”

“Barclay, we don’t need to, you’re probably tired and I should-”

His lower back slams into the table so abruptly he yelps.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me, sir” he growls, “I said it’s your turn to be stuck on this fucking table.”

Between the baritone rattling his bones and his terrified excitement at how easily Barclay turned the tide on him, he forgets the reason he hasn’t done this since his first year of university until Barclay rips away every scrap of clothing covering his crotch.

“I…I can explain”

“Don’t need to” Barclay’s eyes are wide and hungry as he takes in the slick folds, “saw the scars on your chest that time you got acid on your shirt and had to get it off in a hurry.”

“If it’s not to your taste we canFUCK, fuckingchrist” His back and head hit the table as Barclay wrenches his legs over his shoulders and drops to his knees.

“Oh it’s to my taste, sir, because I can do this from how fucking wet you are from just touching my dick” He shoves three fingers inside, fucking Joseph insistently and laughing as the heels of his shoes catch the cooks upper back.

“Lookit you” Barclay sounds like he’s drooling, “this why you made me so big, sir? Because you know just how fucking needy you are and you have to have something nice and thick in you before you can relax.”

“No, I mean yes, maybe, fuck” His hands thwack against the metal, “don’t make me think anymore, I can’t, I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t” Barclay purrs, warm lips ghosting over his dick, “just lay back and lemme give you everything you need. Don’t need to be a genius, just gotta let me use this” he curls his fingers “needy thing whenever I want. And let me do this, too” his lips close around Joseph’s dick and Joseph forgets every word that’s not a curse or a plea for more, his world becoming nothing other than Barclay’s face and fingers against him, his forearm trapping his hips so he can only writhe uselessly as Barclay takes what he wants.

Joseph digs his hands into Barclay’s hair, certain that if he doesn’t hold onto something his whole body will come apart from the force of his impending orgasm. As it is, when it hits his scream is embarrassingly high and broken, though Barclays only reaction to it is a groan.

As Barclay pulls back and stands, Joseph can see the slick on his beard, and moans when the cook licks his fingers with a blissful expression.

He lunges upward at the same second Barclay bends down, kiss reverberating through his entire being as his monster–no, his lover–holds him close. When they finally break, Barclay literally gasping for air, Joseph rests his hand on his beard and smiles as the other man rubs against his palm.

“You okay?” Barclay murmurs, fingers playing comfortingly along Joseph’s cheek.

“That’s an understatement. Even if a think you might have strained my hip flexor throwing my legs up like that.”

“Sorry” shame creeps across his face and Joseph will not stand for that.

“I don’t mind, big guy. Though maybe next time I’ll tie you down until we learn just how your strength plays out in the bedroom.”

“That means you’ll have to do all the work, sir.” The smile is back, honey-sweet and warm.

“I can handle that. I’m not afraid of hard work.”

Barclay chuckles and kisses him again, and Joseph sets aside his planning in favor of staying in his arms a little longer.

#reblog for the morning crowd

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