Work for It

by Talia Hibbert

“You’re very odd sometimes, Olu. It’s my favourite thing about you.” “I thought your favourite thing about me was my ability to mysteriously solve any and all problems,” I say. It’s a joke, of course. So why does my sister respond seriously, and why am I grateful? “No,” she says. “No. You can be undeniably useful, but I don’t need to use you. I just love you.”

I should have enough dignity not to salivate over my enemies.

There’s a tension vibrating through him that matches his awkward laugh. One that says, I know this seems serious, but I don’t want it to be.

“You look good down there.” His voice is even deeper than usual, feeling like midsummer air, heavy and sweet. When I look up at him, his mouth is soft and open, and his gaze is hot on me.

“I think,” I whisper, “that something about you makes me 65% less violent, and that’s well worth exploring.”

In fact, the longer he pauses, the faster my heart pounds. I tell myself it’s just this precious, budding arousal, but the truth is, it’s anxiety. Anxiety. That’s a word I’ve never used for the stomach-roiling discomfort that chases me, but it… fits.

don’t want anyone to see me like this. Like what? Wanting.

stand, and he slides the fabric over my head, quick but careful. As if he knows instinctively that the first priority is getting me dressed, because no-one can be permitted to see my nakedness or my injuries. I let him see, though. And I wasn’t afraid.

I search for something else to think of, and my focus wanders, predictably, to Griff. I see him on his knees before me. I feel his knuckles grazing my ribs as he helps me put on my clothes, as he protects the proud, fragile parts of me without being asked. He didn’t even make me ask. My body tightens in that hot, reckless way I no longer thought I was capable of.

I’m not sure why he bothered giving instructions. He could’ve just said, “Fernley,” and whoever’s flying to our rescue would’ve found us in 0.5 seconds flat.

He arches a brow like he’s daring me to argue. It’s painfully fucking hot. Down, Griff. Chop your bloody ginger.

Griff’s hands are folded behind his back, making his shoulders broader, and his booted feet are spread wide, drawing attention to his thighs. Not my attention, but someone’s, I’m sure.

I squeeze his hand like I can push the truth into him through the places where we touch.

I don’t have the energy for all these feelings he causes. It’s disgusting.

Candlelight glitters, because men of Henry’s ilk pine for ye olden days, when they were legally allowed to beat their serfs and people like me were rarely permitted to taint the purity of their class—or indeed, their race. Oops. Not supposed to think about that sort of thing in this sort of situation. Makes it rather difficult to smile.

When I re-enter the world, the soup course has been served and a debate about the (un)suitability of the Duchess of Sussex has commenced. Clearly, I chose a terrible moment to resurface, so I go under again.

as if he is a character rather than a human being. Actually, I don’t wonder that at all, because Griff isn’t on my mind.

My voice is different. A little hoarse, shaking with a rather vulgar excess of emotion. I am not unaffected, I am not distant and sparkling, I am not even sheer, safe ice. I suppose I’m human right now. I’m human out loud, in public, and I wonder why I’ve never done it before.

I’m imagining the reluctant curve of Keynes’s grin if he saw me, and the way he’d murmur, “Look out, world,” or some sarcastic shit like that.

“Very witty, Liz. No, I simply thought I’d—” There is a knock at my door. “Never mind,” I say. “You’re right. It’s a very long journey.” “Well, even so, of course I’d be thrilled to have you.” “No,” I say firmly. “We must think of the fossil fuels, my darling. We must think of the earth. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

The way i am screaming

“You happy to be an uncle?” “I do believe it’s what I was born for.” It’s not. I want to be a father, but I’m too old and too cold and who would ever have a baby with me anyway?

Touching him doesn’t make me nauseous. It hasn’t since he held my hand and told me he was sorry, and I’m not sure how to deal with that realisation. I should probably be jumping for joy and then jumping him.

You are completely safe from ravishment this afternoon.” But not safe from my sudden hunger for closeness, it seems. “Thank you,” he says gravely. “I was worried about my virtue.”

At some point, I make us both a stir fry. He tells me I’m a good cook and asks for seconds, which I, of course, don’t care about, because I do not require external validation. But, hours and hours later, I make him dinner too. Might as well.

“I was going to ask if I could see you tomorrow, but I already promised Rebecca I’d help her with… something.” The image of my hands shoving Rebecca into a conveniently located ditch is there, then gone. “That’s okay,” I say, because I am a normal and reasonable man.

I have promised myself that the next time he touches me, as long as I still want it, I will eat him alive. And I’m certain that he will touch me again.

“It’s only been a bloody week. A week, and there’s romance!” “It’s not romance.” “Get inside, you slut, and tell me all about it.” “There’s nothing to tell,” I protest, but by the time my arse meets her kitchen chair I’m already babbling, “He liked my cooking,” like a fool. I am a happy fool.

I’m mumbling under my breath, telling myself to relax, when a shadow spills over me. “Have I ever told you,” Keynes asks, “that you think rather ferociously?” My heart throws a fit.

“Intense. Do you like that?” His smile is a surprise and a relief, teasing with an edge that I’m willing to swear is flirtatious. “Don’t talk dirty to me at work, Griffin. There are children present.”

“You should teach me things, too, so I can remember them for you.”

raise a slow hand toward his side, and when he doesn’t flinch or stiffen or go cold in front of me, I touch him. Press my palm against his body and wait patiently for an answer. That’s me: patient. I’ll be so fucking patient for you.

He’s burning me down to the bone. They’ll find the scar of him on my remains.

“You deserve it. Everything you want, you deserve it.”

He laughs. I drink down the sight greedily:

My heart is pounding against my ribs, which are still feeling delicate. He really ought to have some consideration for my condition.

I’ve been thinking, lately, that I’d like to stop hating myself forever. I would like to try, anyway. But you know what they say: baby steps.

Sometimes I’m so angry with him. How dare he make me feel like he adores me?

“I assumed you would stop loving me if you found out how depressed and anxious I am,” without making it sound as if you think the other person’s a bit of a prick? Then I stop and remember that Griff understands how certain worries can eat someone alive.

“Sorry I didn’t call ahead, but I was a bit distracted”—nervous, anxious, shitting myself—“and it completely slipped my mind.”

“We’re DIY-ing it today.”

“Well, since you need it so bad…” “Actually, never mind. Get my dick in your mouth again so you can’t talk back.”