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glenncoco4 · 5 years ago

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To Love

A/N: Chapter 3 of What Happens Next? A little bit T.

XXXX

"Are we really doing this?” Marty looks over at his wife with a bit of apprehension.

She hold her hand out for him to take, giving him a faint smile. “Yeah, you don’t like the idea?”

“I love the idea very much but just the thought of that thing being jabbed in my skin and drug through it is kinda cringe worthy.”

“Come on, baby, I already did it. You can’t bail on me now.” She bats her eyelashes at him and sends it home by pouting her lips. “Do it for me?”

“Damn you, Kensi Deeks.”

“I love you.”

45 minutes later

They’re standing by the wall on the side of the room, each of their arms that are closest to the mirror raised. She places her palm against his and threads their fingers together.

He brings his lips to her for a chaste kiss and then they both turn to look at the reflection. A smile spreading to each of their faces at the now complete image before them.

The two waves start off slanted and then start to barrel, forming a heart. It’s them; it’s their love.

Kensi had been thinking about these matching tattoos for awhile. Whenever they would have a break or lull in cases she would sit at her desk and just stare at her hand wishing she could be wearing her ring. They decided to keep their marriage a secret at work together but she still felt wrong without her ring. It was a part of her now, a part of their story and she loved their story. One day she was coming back from lunch and walked past a tattoo shop and that’s when it hit her.

She watches as his eyes slowly flutter open and is met with two ocean pools. “Good morning, handsome.”

A lazy smile spreads to his lips at the sight of his beautiful wife in front of him. He tightens his arm around her even more and pulls her towards him until they’re bare chest to bare chest.“Morning, Sunshine.”

“Do you know what today is?”

“Yeah, it’s Saturday.”

“Try again, buddy.”

“Of course I know what today is, wifey.”

May 28, 2004

Kensi glares at him when she sees that playful look in his eyes.“Martin Deeks, if you want sex tonight I would be very careful with that cake if I were you.”

They cross her arms and bring the cake towards the other’s mouth. He does as told and places the piece of dessert in her mouth but the newly Mrs. Deeks has other plans.

Marty’s eyes go wide in shock at the feel of her missing his mouth and shoving the fluffy dessert directly into his nose and upper lip. “Kenssss, come on. That’s not fair.”

She brings her lips to his ear, a seductive grin playing at her lips. “Be good and I’ll let you play with the cake later, hubby.”

He turns his head, their faces now a breath a part as a awestruck look crosses over his features.

“What?”

“Hubby. I’m your husband.”

“Yeah, and I’m your wife.”

He shines his pearly whites at the truth of her statement. Closing the small gap, he brings his lips to hers.“I love you, wife.”

“I love you more, husband.”

....

She starts playing with his hand, his wedding ring on full display. “So I was thinking.”

“Thinking’s good.”

“I was thinking that we should get matching tattoos.”

“Tattoos. Interesting.”

“Well, it’s just that I hate that I can’t wear my ring at work and I love you so much. I thought it might be comforting.”

“Baby, you know it’s just a piece of jewelry.”

“I know but still.”

He knows how much her ring means to her and how she hates that she has to leave it behind while at work, he feels the same way. “To be honest with you, I hate that I can’t wear mine either.”

“And that’s where the tattoos come in.”

She turns over and reaches into her night stand, pulling out a picture to show him what she had in mind.

His eyes light up at the image before him and how surprised he is at how much meaning a 2 inch image could have. “Wow, that’s so us.”

“Right? It’s inconspicuous and no one else would know the true meaning behind it.”

“It’s just a wave and of course together it would give us away but if someone….lets say a criminal were to see it, it wouldn’t get a second glance. Just another Californian with a wave tattoo.”

“Mmhm.”

“But we’d know what it meant.”

“We would.”

Marty stares at his love, god how he loves her. She’s still staring at their new artwork and he can’t help but notice the happiness that’s radiating off her. Truth is is that he would get his whole body tattooed if it made her happy. “We can still do stuff with these, right?”

She’s pulled out of her trance when her husband’s words hit her ears. Her hand that’s resting on his hip finds their mark and pinches the skin of his love handle.

“Ow!” He yelps at the sharp pain. “Hey, it’s a valid question.”

Blake laughs at the blonde man’s clear meaning behind his words. “Yeah, man. You can do stuff.”

They keep their hands interlocked and thank the man that just poked and prodded at their bodies for the past hour and a half. “Thanks, Blake.”

The heavily tattooed man nods in appreciation of their business. “Anytime.”

As they make their way out of the tattoo parlor the sun is setting, which is perfect for his gift for her. Walking across the street hand in hand, he guides her over to the dunes. “If you’ll have a seat, my lady. I will present you with your gift.”

She brings her lips to his cheek at his adorableness. God how she loves him. She takes a seat in the sand just like he asked and looks up at him. The sun is hitting the water as it sets. Right here in this moment, she can’t imagine loving him anymore than she already does.

He reaches for his back pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. Just as he unfolds it, his body begins to tremble at what he’s about to say. His eyes lock with hers and he relaxes. The love she holds in her heart for him shines bright in her eyes and he doesn’t think he could love her anymore than he already does.

Just to say I love you

never seems enough.

I’ve said it so many times

I am afraid you won’t understand

what I really mean when I say it.

How can so much feeling,

so much adoration possibly fit into

those three little words.

But until l find some other

way of saying what I feel, then

“I love you” will have to do.

So no matter how many times I say it,

never take it lightly, for you are my life,

and my only love.

I love you now more

than ever before.

She can’t keep her eyes off of him. The words that leave his lips and the desperation she so clearly sees in his cerulean blues to find the words that describe how he truly feels makes her desire for his touch that much stronger.

He watches her beautiful mismatched eyes and his heart does a million little flips as an angelic smile spreads to her face. She reaches out her head which he gladly accepts but instead of him pulling her up, she quickly pulls him down on top of her. Her arm wraps around his neck, pulling his face closer to hers.

She waits for him to bring his lips to hers but they seem to be stuck in this moment. Saying all they need to with their eyes. Somehow conveying to each other the depths of their love. Marty finally closes the distance between their lips and places a passionate kiss to hers. His tongue sweeps across her lips, asking for entrance. Their tongues begin to duel and hands begins to wander until they remember they’re on a public beach.

Kensi pushes her husband back a little to put some distance between them with a smirk. “We can continue that at home but it seems as though great minds think alike because I also have a gift for you.” She wiggles a little bit to pull out an identical sheet of paper from her pocket.

Sensing that they’re being watched, Marty places a kiss on his wife’s forehead and rolls over so now he’s laying on his side with his hand propping up his head.

The brunette doesn’t stay laying down though. She sits up in front of him, crossing her legs and gives him a sweet smile.

In you,

I have finally found all I

never dared dream I could

deserve or have—the kind

of love that is rare.

Be known in a way that

touches the deepest parts

of me. Accepted in a way

that blows my mind.

In you,

the love I have always

desired to give now has a

place to call home. I have

been a skeptic, but you are

my undeniable miracle.

The questions don’t matter

anymore. We have finally

found each other, and that

is enough.

As the last line leaves her lips, she’s abruptly pulled up onto her feet by her husband who then begins to hurriedly walk them to their car.

“Baby?”

“We gotta get home now.”

Her laughter emanates from her joyous smile at his clear excitement.

Once they reach the car he opens the passenger side door and all but pushes her inside.

She watches as he quickly walks around the front of the car and she bites her lip when she sees that his hands are down towards the front of his pants blocking any bystanders view of what’s going on underneath.

Hopping inside, he turns the key, starting the ignition. He feels her eyes trailing up and down his body. Marty locks eyes with her and right away knows that’s a bad idea because she has that seductive grin on her face and yep, she’s biting her lip. “Unless you want to explain to your boss why we got arrested for indecent exposure I suggest you stop looking at me like that.”

She really likes this game. The excitement of trying not to get caught adds that much more fuel to her fire. As he throws the car into drive and starts heading down Highway 1, her hand slips over the console and rest firmly against the bulge in his pants. “Happy Anniversary indeed.”

XXXX

Deeks’ poem is by an unknown author. Kensi’s is by John Mark Green.

#Densi #Densi Fanfic #Kensi Deeks #Marty Deeks #What Happens Next?#AU #NCIS: LA #NCIS: LA Fanfic

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nicholsonespersen22-blog · 6 years ago

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Sex Workers To Get HIV Treatment, ARVs

South Africa has embarked on Africa’s first strategy to treat and prevent HIV among sex workers. South Africa will soon begin providing HIV treatment to HIV-positive sex workers upon diagnosis as part of its new announced national plan. Currently, most people living with HIV must wait until their CD4 counts - a measure of the immune system’s strength - fall to 500 before they can start treatment. At least 3 000 HIV-negative sex workers will also receive the combination ARV Truvada to prevent contracting HIV. When taken daily as https://www.2nd-circle.com/escorts-madrid/ -exposure prophylaxis, Truvada can reduce a person’s risk of contracting HIV by about 90 percent. In December, South Africa became the first country in southern Africa to register Truvada, which combines the ARVs emtricitabine and tenofovir, for use as prevention in December.

South Africa National AIDS Council (SANAC) CEO Dr Fareed Abdullah credited Health Minister Dr Aaron Motsoaledi for driving the plan’s creation. The plan comes on the heels of research released that found about 72 percent of Johannesburg sex workers surveyed were living with HIV. “The good news is that sex workers are showing a lot of responsibility and about three-fourths of sex workers are using condoms with their clients,” said South Africa National AIDS Council (SANAC) CEO Dr Fareed Abdullah. The bad news is although more than 90 percent of sex workers surveyed had tested for HIV, less than a third of those who were living with HIV had received treatment - far less than the national average, Abdullah added. Sex work is estimated to account for as much as 20 percent of new HIV infections in South Africa, according to Deputy Health Minister Joe Phaahla.

The three-year national plan also aims to reach 70 000 sex workers with a standardised package of services, including PrEP adherence support, delivered in part via a network of 1 000 of their peers. Deputy President and SANAC Chair Cyril Ramaphosa called the plan a chance for South Africans to affirm their rights. “This plan is about the human rights, about the rights of ordinary people,” he said. “Sex work is essentially work,” said Ramaphosa, who ended his address by embracing national leader of the Sisonke sex worker movement Kholi Buthelezi. Buthelezi joined other sex workers in calling for decriminalisation of sex workers to remain on the national agenda. “We are the vanguards of pleasure,” said Mpumalanga sex worker Lesly Mntambo. “Stop criminalising my adult body and what it is capable of doing.

In order to set them apart from "decent" women and avoid confusion, the church required that prostitutes adopt some type of distinctive clothing, which each particular city government was allowed to select. Those who argued against prostitution suggested all sorts of reasons for its existence. Andreuccio in II.5. This young woman is presented as extremely clever and exceedingly cruel. Boccaccio, Giovanni. The Decameron. Trans. G. H. McWilliam. Brundage, James A. Law, Sex, and Christian Society in Medieval Europe. Bullough, Vern L. "Prostitution in the Later Middle Ages." Sexual Practices and the Medieval Church. Ed. Vern L. Bullough and James Brundage. Buffalo: Prometheus Books, 1982, pp.176-86. Karras, Ruth Mazo. "Prostitution in Medieval Europe." Handbook of Medieval Sexuality. Ed. Vern L. Bullough and James A. Brundage. New York: Garland Publishing, Inc., 1996, pp. Richards, Jeffrey. Sex, Dissidence and Damnation: Minority Groups in the Middle Ages.

Getting a gang tattoo is about as smart as getting your girlfriend's name tattooed on your arm. Like you're never going to break up. Another thing to consider is what you want to take pride in representing. Is selling crack or date rape drug really something to brag about? What about Otis Garret and Dave Picton? The Hells Angels deny everything and keep secrets from their own members. They only reveal things on a need to know basis. Otis Garret was incarcerated for running a Hells Angels prostitution ring in San Fransisco. The woman who testified against him was murdered along with her twin seven year old daughters. There is nothing there to be proud of. I know a guy who wears Big Red Machine support gear. I asked about them selling crack and he just said he didn't ask about that part of the business. To me wearing support gear is like wearing a T-shirt that says I support Clifford Olsen and getting a Hells Angels tattoo is like saying I support Dave Picton. Something they did but deny.

When researchers taught capuchin monkeys how to use money, it didn’t take long for one of the male monkeys to offer a female one of the coins in exchange for sex. Prostitution is often called “the world’s oldest profession” with good reason; it is a form of exchange that predates the human species, and has even been observed among chimpanzees. Males tend to want sex much more frequently than most females are willing to accommodate, and where a demand exists it is inevitable that some individuals will choose to meet it for a price. The terminology used to discuss this subject is probably unfamiliar to some readers, so a short summary may be in order.

First and foremost is “sex work,” an umbrella term for all forms of labor in which the sexual gratification of the customer is the primary focus. Prostitution, stripping, acting in adult movies, providing phone sex, and the like are included. As you can probably guess, the boundaries are somewhat fuzzy; some dominatrices and burlesque dancers consider themselves sex workers, while others vociferously insist they aren’t. But in general, a “sex worker” is one whose job is specifically focused on the customer’s gratification, not merely tangential to it. As with the term “sex work” itself, there is some controversy regarding the exact meanings and extent of the terms for the various models of legislation.

I find that the simplest and most useful categorization divides all of the individual legal schemes into three broad categories. In the first, criminalization, the act of selling sex itself is illegal; despite the common American perception that this model is nigh-universal, it is actually the least common in the developed world. The United States and several communist and recently-communist countries are the only large nations which have full criminalization, but in the Swedish model (also called the Nordic model), only the act of paying for sex is de jure prohibited. The most common system, found in the majority of European, Commonwealth, and Latin American countries, is legalization. The act of taking money for sex is not illegal in and of itself; rather, certain activities associated with it are.

The specific activities prohibited under legalization schemes vary widely and arbitrarily; for example, while brothels are illegal in Canada, in Nevada they are the only legal venue for selling sex. Specific regimes also vary widely in extent: while in some there are so many prohibitions the act itself becomes de facto illegal, others differ from decriminalization by only the narrowest of margins. The third model, decriminalization, is at present found only in New Zealand and the Australian state of New South Wales. Under this system, sex work is recognized as a form of work like any other, and therefore not subject to any laws that do not bind other businesses. For example, brothels are regulated by zoning laws and the like rather than subjected to special criminal laws; sex workers are responsible for taxes and covered by workers’ compensation programs, and so forth.

For most of history, sex work was generally unregulated; exceptions to that rule were frequent, but nearly always local and temporary. ” And in the Far East, most of the laws were designed to maintain the rigid social order and class structure of those societies, rather than to police the private sexual arrangements of individuals. Indeed, up until the nineteenth century almost nobody imagined that prohibition could be done, let alone that it should. By the beginning of the twentieth century, the “white slavery” hysteria was in full swing. Yet despite this complete failure, Swedish-style rhetoric has been heavily marketed to other countries. …International authorities regard the NSW regulatory framework as best practice. Contrary to early concerns the NSW sex industry has not increased in size or visibility…Licensing of sex work…should not be regarded as a viable legislative response.

New Zealand decriminalized in 2003, with similar results; neither jurisdiction has had a credible report of “sex trafficking” in years. The reason for this should be obvious: despite the claims of prohibitionists to the contrary, the strongest hold any exploitative employer has over coerced workers is the threat of legal consequences such as arrest or deportation. Remove those consequences by easing immigration controls and decriminalizing the work, and both the motive and means for “trafficking” vanish. There is a popular belief, vigorously promulgated by anti-sex feminists and conservative Christians, that sex work is intrinsically harmful, and therefore should be banned to “protect” adult women from our own choices. But as the Norwegian bioethicist Dr. Ole Moen pointed out in his 2012 paper “Is Prostitution Harmful? ”, the same thing was once believed about homosexuality; it was said to lead to violence, drug use, disease, and mental illness.

These problems were not caused by homosexuality itself; they were the result of legal oppression and social stigma, and once those harmful factors were removed the “associated problems” vanished as well. Dr. Moen suggests that the same thing will happen with sex work, and evidence from New South Wales strongly indicates that he is correct. Sex worker rights activists have a slogan: “Sex work is work.” It is not a crime, nor a scam, nor a ��lazy” way to get by, nor a form of oppression. It is a personal service, akin to massage, or nursing, or counseling, and should be treated as such.

The sex industries around the world are associated with serious forms of marginalisation, violence, exploitation, and even forced labour. Media, research, and fiction tell stories of sex workers being abused, exploited, and trafficked. They do it so often that we become almost indifferent to it, as almost always happens in front of horror. A sex worker killed in the Italian countryside, a sex worker robbed in Rio de Janeiro during a transaction, a sex worker leaping to her death from a brothel in Seoul. Poor people, what a life. Gendered, racist, classist, homophobic, and transphobic violence haunts the world of sex work, and many of us believe that states, intergovernmental organisations, and NGOs should do more to help.

Yet a lot is being done. Indeed, one finds that, especially following the 2000 UN Palermo Protocol, the last decade has seen a multiplication of interventions ‘against sex trafficking and exploitation in prostitution’ (see for instance UNODC). The problem is the efficacy of these interventions, as it is abundantly clear that the situation has not demonstrably improved in the intervening time. Poor people, what a world. But is there something more to know? We believe there is. This series addresses the violence, exploitation, abuse, and trafficking present in the sex industries, but it does so from the perspective of sex workers themselves. These are the women, men, and transgender people who are directly touched by the abuse, exploitation, and trafficking under discussion, and they are the people who actively and collectively resist all forms of violence against them.

By publishing their voices directly we hope to help readers resist indifference, on the one hand, and to become more critical of states’ interventions, which are widely regarded and legitimated as necessary to combat ‘trafficking’, on the other. All the authors of this series are involved in sex workers’ organising or have been in the past. This means that they are or have been part of organisations composed of, or at least led by, people who have direct experience selling sex. It is our hope that their contributions over the next two weeks will convey some of the radical richness and diversity of knowledge produced within the contemporary sex workers movement.

This movement is fragmented, stigmatised, and under-funded, yet it has continued to expand since its birth in the mid 1970s in Europe, the US, and Latin America. It now involves at least 273 groups that are part of the Network of Sex Work Projects (NSWP), and many more individuals all over the continents. They have organised despite the fact that speaking out as a sex worker puts your relationships and families at risk. It exposes you to threats from your ‘employers' and may lead to harassment or arrest by the police, especially if you are an undocumented migrant. You may lose your political credibility, and even be accused of representing the interests of ‘pimps’ and taking money from them.

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platitvdes · 7 years ago

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BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME: edward michael kaspbrak

NICKNAME(S): eddie, eds, spaghetti head, eddie spaghetti, spagheds, etc. by the losers/party. also wheezy, “sissy little queer boy,” and uh a bunch of other… more aggressive things by non–partylosers according to the book thanks a lot steve (king, not harrington)

AGE: eighteen

DATE OF BIRTH: september 3, 1976

HOMETOWN: derry, maine

CURRENT LOCATION: derry, maine

ETHNICITY: he white

NATIONALITY: americano

GENDER: cis male

PRONOUNS: he/him/his

ORIENTATION: het thanks!!!!! just kidding he’s a homoromantic homosexual

RELIGION: a good christian boiy. he was raised methodist. what is he really? who knows. fighting a giant clown monster demon thing makes you really question a lot about religion and he’s not willing to go too deep into it

POLITICAL AFFILIATION: left-leaning, but very moderately so, mostly influenced by his friends and also by the fact that maine has been a blue state pretty much for the entire time he’s been old enough to think about these things. his mom’s a democrat solely because she lives off the welfare system ( and because she finds bill clinton incredibly charming and charismatic ); otherwise she’d definitely be a republican

OCCUPATION: student, a sad small gay

LIVING ARRANGEMENTS: he lives with his momma in a very toxic environment also his mom is lowkey a hoarder it’s not so bad that he’s embarrassed to invite people over but like she’s a hoarder

LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: english and…. english

ACCENT: um idk a maine accent

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

FACE CLAIM: timothée chalamet

HAIR COLOUR: dark brown

EYE COLOUR: hazel—sometimes more green, sometimes more brown, sometimes more weirdly gold-ish; depends on the day and lighting

HEIGHT: five feet, eight inches.

WEIGHT: one-hundred twenty-two pounds.

BUILD: skinny af and long-limbed ( for his stature ). not crazy short anymore, but still below average height

TATTOOS: LMAO

PIERCINGS: y’all. pls

CLOTHING STYLE: from my head canons, bc i’m too lazy to rewrite it: eddie often looks like he’s stepped out of the pages of a ralph lauren catalogue not because he is stylish or fashionable at all—he isn’t—but because he wears a lot of polos and shorts, though he doesn’t fill them out nearly as well as the ralph lauren models do. Especially pastel polos. he also frequently wears your good ol’ graphic tee and jeans combo, because you can’t go wrong there, right?

USUAL EXPRESSION: concerned tbh

DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: slightly doe-eyed, extremely doe-bodied, a preppy haircut, an inhaler in hand, and also he’s probably getting squeaky-voiced about something and/or visibly shaking. like a chihuahua.

HEALTH

PHYSICAL AILMENTS: technically? none

NEUROLOGICAL CONDITIONS: LORDY okay so the number one most important one is munchausen syndrome and hypochondria courtesy of being the proxy of his mom’s munchausen by proxy; severe anxiety (including generalized anxiety disorder, panic disorder, and social anxiety disorder); clinical depression; and, finally, i believe the medical term for it is “FOMO"

ALLERGIES: supposedly pollen, animal dander, insect bites/stings, dust, latex, mold, wool, and, like, a bunch of other shit. he does actually have some allergies, especially to pollen/animal dander/dust, that aren’t super severe and therefore don’t necessarily present typical allergy symptoms and contribute to his constant feelings of general illness and malaise that heighten the aforementioned hypochondria. he also is actually allergic to latex. womp womp

SLEEPING HABITS: not the best but not the worst—eddie falls asleep early enough and wakes early enough, especially when left to his own devices, but he’ll often stay up later just to be in the group chat because of the aforementioned FOMO and also because richie will usually show up at his house and they’ll just talk for a while. but even then tbh he has a hard time staying up later than like 1 or 2, and even on the weekends he’ll wake up pretty early. so……… all this adds up to having ambitions of getting a good amount of sleep, not getting Terrible amounts of sleep, but also not getting Enough sleep.

EATING HABITS: you would think he would have some special diet and maybe in 2018 he would be raised eating nothing but kale and granola and gluten free shit but bitch it’s 1994 eddie eats hella processed foods

EXERCISE HABITS: that’s cute idk he gets exercise from running from bullies and riding his bike w his friends although they don’t do that as much anymore now that people have cars

EMOTIONAL STABILITY: 1 probably eddie is always on the verge of a nervous breakdown. in actuality he’s probably around a 7, which is much higher than you might think; as much as he is indeed constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown, he’s done a pretty good job of pushing down literally everything into a well so deep that most people, including himself, can’t really tell what’s wrong or what’s going on, and it’s been that way for a long, long time. or anyway, repression is the only version of emotional stability he’s learned to manage and maintain, which probably doesn’t actually count as very stable, so who knows, maybe he’s a 3.

SOCIABILITY: not as introverted as one might think; he’s definitely an introvert and needs some time alone to recharge, but in general, he prefers being around his friends to not being around them and will go out of his way to be with the people he’s closest to

BODY TEMPERATURE: runs cold, typically, which also means he gets cold easily, which sucks when you live in fucking maine

ADDICTIONS: none

DRUG USE: a seasoned pill popper of all kinds of vitamins and various placebos. he’s also on like 35 different mental health related medications. i know this isn’t what you were looking for but this is eddie kaspbrak

ALCOHOL USE: fam, come on

PERSONALITY

LABEL: “the little nervous one,” according to me upon my first watch of IT (2017); the crepehanger

POSITIVE TRAITS: loyal, feisty, energetic, brave

NEGATIVE TRAITS: defeatist, anxious, rambling, hypocritical

GOALS/DESIRES: to overcome his biggest fears, mainly—which means to be able to leave derry ( and his mother ) behind; to accept that he is not some sickly boy in need of protecting; to feel comfortable in his own skin.

FEARS: disease, death, abandonment, intense feelings of any kind honestly, his sexuality, exposure of said sexuality, change, his mom, disappointing his mom, independence, failure

HOBBIES: comics, movies, spending fucking HOURS reading medical websites and learning that all roads lead to cancer, hanging out with The Gang™, annoying his friends, lecturing his friends, sneaking out of his house, super mario bros, is candy a hobby? it is now, not dungeons and dragons ‘cause he’s not a fuckin nerd

HABITS: nail biting, compulsive timekeeping, pencil chewing tbh but only at Home, ice chewing also…..it’s super bad for your teeth but man does he love it……., assuming death lurks around every corner and shouting at everyone else about it

FAVOURITES

WEATHER: he likes a sunny day in weather that is slightly crisp, like late september, bc he has seasonal allergies

COLOUR: blu. particularly a good royal blue. sometimes sky blue if he’s feeling festive

MUSIC: pop music mostly…………. he loves a diva. he is a Loud whitney houston stan but he keeps his madonna love much closer to the vest

MOVIES: comedies definitely. he doesn’t care much for movies that are like, cinematically renowned and artsy or whatever. he’s here for something stupid that’ll make him laugh. he really likes dumb and dumber, embarrassingly enough. he also loves bill & ted. it’s his favorite movie. good ol wholesome fun, there.

SPORT: tennis obviously

BEVERAGE: an arnold palmer he’s really wildin out here

FOOD: honestly? a fuckin ice cream sundae

ANIMAL: penguins they’re gay and they mate for life

FAMILY

FATHER: frank kaspbrak. he died of cancer when eddie was a wee bab ( he was five so not actually a wee bab, but wee enough )

MOTHER: sonia kaspbrak, a devil woman

SIBLING(S): none

PET(S): he had a goldfish named arnold once that’s it

FAMILY’S FINANCIAL STATUS: lower middle class. his mom doesn’t work and lives solely off disability checks and the like, but they never seem to be for lack of money for eddie’s extensive medical care or, like, food or shelter.

EXTRA

ZODIAC SIGN: virgo binch

MBTI: ISFJ ( the defender )

ENNEAGRAM: type 6 ( the loyalist ), but actually he’s a type 6 with a type 5 wing that’s almost balanced, which, hilariously, is also called the defender

TEMPERAMENT: melancholic

HOGWARTS HOUSE: GRYFFINDOR FIGHT ME

MORAL ALIGNMENT: lawful good

PRIMARY VICE: envy

PRIMARY VIRTUE: charity

ELEMENT: earth

#( m. — eddie kaspbrak. )#( profile | eddie kaspbrak. )

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lickstynine · 7 years ago

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When Even the Doctor is Low-key Judging You (Part 1)

This is a followup to @ocsickficsideblog ‘s eating contest piece that she did at my request. It’s set after Kit’s birthday, but before the earthquake. Collab obv. More to come.

Alistair woke late the next morning, weak and thirsty and still with a mild stomach ache. He groaned as he sat up, full of aches after sleeping for so long in an armchair. Kit was still out for the count, his snore even worse than usual when combined with the rattling of his lungs.

Alistair thought he should make an appointment with the doctor - but he’d never actually done that himself. He went looking for one of Kit’s staff who could do it for him, his legs still wobbly. There were plenty of servants wandering about, as there always were, and it wasn’t hard for him to find one. Alistair just asked the first one he found.

“Um, excuse me..? Who do I ask to make an appointment with the doctor for Kit?”

“Oh, any of us can do that. When do you want it for?” She asked.

“Today, hopefully. If that’s alright?” Alistair said. He didn’t actually know how making an appointment worked. Did you have to have more notice than that?

You did if you were poor. It didn’t seem odd to the servant, and she simply nodded. “I’ll call right away and get back to you, sir.”

“Thanks. And...you don’t have to call me sir.”

“Yes, s- okay. What should I call you then?” She asked.

“Just...Alistair. And you can tell me your name. You know, like humans. Equal humans.”

She paused for a moment before replying, “it's Emily.”

Alistair gave her a shy smile. “Hello, Emily.”

“Hello s- ah, Alistair.” She smiled back, slightly less robotic than her usual servant behavior.

“I’m sorry about having to ask you to make this call. I’d do it myself if I...knew how,” he mumbled, blushing. He frequently felt utterly useless in the world. He was sure he’d die without Julius looking after him.

Emily shook her head. “It's no problem. It's my job to take care of Master Kit.”

“Ha, Master Kit? I’m gonna call him that to annoy him. Thank you.”

“You're… welcome? I think.” She walked off to make the call. Alistair went back to the parlor (they passed out in there remember) to see if his cousin had stirred yet. Kit was still out cold and snoring like a chainsaw. Alistair gave him a poke, mostly just to shut him up at this point.

Kit blinked, groaning and curling up more rather than trying to get up. Alistair lifted Kit’s hair so he could whisper in his ear. “Morning, Master Kit. Better get up so your servants can wipe your arse for you,” he teased.

The older boy immediately jerked away, flailing his hand at Alistair until he felt it hit something. “You can fuck right off.”

“Well, are you getting up or not?”

“wasn't planning on it, no.” Kit grumbled.

“Well, we’re going to the doctor eventually. When Emily has made an appointment.”

Kit groaned dramatically. “I don't want to do thaaaat. I'd have to get up, and put on proper trousers.” at the moment, he was only wearing pyjama bottoms and a bathrobe, definitely not something he could leave the house in.

“You don’t have to put on proper trousers. I go everywhere in pyjamas in the mornings. You’re sick, they doctor isn’t gonna care.”

“Well I'm less of a mess than you.” Kit muttered, pushing himself up and swaying briefly before climbing all the way to his feet.

“Thanks a lot. Fine, put on pants. You should probably eat something before we go. I’m not eating though,” Alistair added quickly.

“Then why do I have to?” Kit grouched, slogging up the stairs as though it were the most laborious task any man had ever been made to endure.

Alistair followed him, almost as miserably, his legs still weak from the day before. “Because there’s no chance of you shitting your pants when you see the doctor if you eat something.”

The older boy rolled his eyes, discarding his bathrobe as he began to rifle through the shirts side of his walk-in closet. “ever considered maybe I'm just not hungry, and it's nothing to do with my arse being a walking time-bomb?” he asked, buried up to his shoulders in fabric as he leaned into the rows of shirts. He was looking rather thin, and it made it seem as though the tattoo roses wrapped around his waist were squeezing him like a corset.

Alistair winced. “Do you have to use phrases like that? Like, do you have to say it in the most embarrassing way possible?” He didn’t mention it yet, but he made a mental note to remember to tell the doctor that Kit had lost weight if his cousin didn’t say it himself.

“I do. It's my specialty.” Kit smirked devilishly as he popped out of the racks holding a shirt. It was a warm purplish grey, and when he put it on, he left the top few buttons open, whether out of laziness or slutty habit, who knows. Cuffing it neatly to free his forearms, he turned to the other side of the closet in search of pants, settling on a pair of dark charcoal grey slacks. A black leather belt and matching shoes finished off the look, and he flopped onto the small cushioned bench in the center of the closet with a sigh. “alright. I'm dressed. I'll need a bit to fix my hair, then we can go.”

“Honestly, look at you. You’re dressed like we’re off strutting down the catwalk,” Alistair grumbled, mostly annoyed because he knew he still looked pale from yesterday, his clothes crumpled and his hair a mess. He couldn’t measure up to Kit when they were stood together, even though they were cousins.

“This is just how I dress, Al. I don't really do casual clothing. And if you're feeling underdressed, you could always borrow something.” Kit climbed to his feet, making his way over to the bedroom vanity to brush his hair and tie it back. He did his best to sweep his bangs in a way that didn't let his roots show, but they were overgrown as hell and not terribly cooperative. He finally gave up, instead just grabbing his burgundy hairspray to cover up the orange.

“I’m not wearing your clothes. I’ll look like a mouse dressed up as a cat,” Alistair said. He just finger combed his own hair idly, sweeping the bangs forward so they could cover his eyes if he needed.

“You can at least borrow a jacket. It's freezing out. I plan to wear at least two.” content with his hair, Kit returned to the closet, grabbing a cardigan, a pea coat, an overcoat, and a scarf, along with leather gloves to match his shoes.

“Do you have anything else leather?” Alistair asked hopefully, trying to sound casual. He didn’t know enough about fashion to realise the coat Kit was wearing was incredibly expensive. Julius would have melted at the sight of it.

“Yea, should be a coat near the end of the rack.”

Alistair found the coat and slipped his arms into the sleeves, loving the feeling of the soft, supple leather. He didn’t realise he had a huge grin on his face. Kit smirked broadly. “You like it?”

Alistair tried to quickly straighten his face. “‘S okay.”

“Don't bullshit me. I saw you smiling. Maybe I'll get you one for Christmas. But you can't go all vegetarian righteous me about the leather.”

“Oh Jesus, don’t you start with that too. But wait...real leather is still made from animals?”

“Iit wouldn't be real leather if it wasn't, nitwit.” Kit rolled his eyes.

“Oh gross, really?” Alistair looked down at his jacket, trying to chose. Did he care about his morals or his image more? There should have only been one answer - but he didn’t take the jacket off.

Kit hid his amusement this time, instead turning to the door. “Should we go find Emily? See if the appointment is made?’

“Yeah, okay,” Alistair said, following him out of the bedroom.

Kit padded down the hall, still clearly sluggish despite his improved appearance. Emily was in the main hall, dusting the decorations. Alistair smiled at her but let Kit do the talking. He didn’t really like ordering the servants around. He’d hated watching the way his father used to call at them imperiously back in his own house.

Kit wasn't rude of course, he simply shuffled over and murmured in her ear, pulling out his notepad when she gave him the time. He then returned to Alistair, mumbling, “3pm. What time is it now?”

“Almost two. You took so long to get fucking dressed, princess.”

“Oh, forgive me for wanting to be presentable.” Kit huffed.

“We’re only going to the doctor. You’re not going to flirt, are you?” Alistair asked.

“No, I'm just terribly vain.”

“Well...fair enough. I did just choose to walk around in strips of withered cow because I like leather.”

Kit chuckled and nodded briefly. “Fair enough indeed. What shall we do until we leave?”

“Well, you don’t look too good… Do you want to rest?” Alistair asked, genuinely concerned.

“Sounds good, but I'm not going back up those fucking stairs.” Kit instead trudged to the parlor and dropped into his favourite armchair. Alistair squashed up beside him - with people he liked, he tended to be stuck in the stage a toddler goes through where they have no concept of personal space. Kit didn't seem to mind, using his cousin's shoulder as a pillow.

“What’re you gonna tell the doctor?” Alistair asked. He was used to planning conversations in his head a hundred times before he did anything.

“I dunno, I'll see what he asks and answer it.”

“Well, you can estimate what he asks and then plan it out.”

Kit looked up at Alistair with a puzzled face. “Why would i do that? I'll just answer what he asks, and approximate if I don't know the answer. It's not a play with specific lines I have to recite. And thank God it isn't, because I’d never remember them.”

Alistair shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, I thought that’s what everyone did…”

“Nah. I just bullshit everything as I go.”

“How do you...just talk to people like that? I can’t do it. All the words get stuck.”

“I used to be that way. Then I got drunk so that I would be more comfortable making conversation. And I gradually tried doing it while less drunk until I had the balls to do it sober. Not saying alcohol is the right answer, it’s just how I did it.” Kit shrugged.

“Right. I don’t think I can try that method. I worry Jules enough as it is.”

Kit shrugged again. “Dunno what to tell you, Al. Maybe just go outside, find the friendliest-looking person in the area. Talk to them. Repeat until you stop sucking at it.”

“That sounds fucking horrendous. Can’t I just always go out with you or Jules or someone who can do it for me?”

“If you never want to be a functioning adult, yes.” Kit replied flatly.

“They’re making me take pills for that,” Alistair grumbled darkly.

“Oh, what a tragedy.” Kit snapped back. “Doctors work for years to find ways to make your life easier, and you're the one who's suffering because you have to take a whole pill every day.” There was a surprising amount of venom in the older boy’s voice, like this had opened up some bigger issue.

Alistair scowled at him, looking rather hurt. “You don’t have to be a dick about it. Those pills freak me out.”

“What's so scary about them? That they help you? Not everyone gets help in time, why do you have to be so ungrateful that you do?” Though his anger had set off a coughing fit, Kit climbed to his feet, stifling the sound behind his fist as he stalked off down the hall.

Alistair ran to the door, his eyes flashing angrily. “Fuck you! You didn’t see me for seven years, you’ve no idea what happened then!” He slammed the door hard to make his point, gripping his shirt sleeves, his heart banging in his chest.

Kit didn't seem bothered by the decreased population of the house, or if he was, he didn't show it. Emily picked up a vase that had been knocked over by the force of the door, straightening it and dusting it again.

Alistair stood by the door, not sure what to do. He didn’t want to fight with Kit - he hated to fight with people he actually liked. He sat on the steps, his breathing fast and shaking, tears stinging his eyes. It wasn't long before a car pulled up outside, a middle aged-man climbing out and approaching the front door. He seemed a bit perplexed by the presence of Alistair, but eventually asked.

“Pardon me? Is Master Kit around? I'm here to take him to his appointment.”

“He’ll be inside,” Alistair mumbled, his voice wobbling.

The chauffeur nodded, awkwardly stepping around Alistair to get inside. When he opened the door to enter, coughing could still be heard echoing through the house, sounding worse than earlier if anything. The chauffeur went off in search of his boss, but to his surprise, the usually amicable redhead snapped at him to fuck off and leave him be. Rather taken aback, the older man simply headed back out to his car, lingering in the drive and unsure of what to do.

Alistair glanced up at him. “Couldn’t you find him?”

“I did. He… didn't want to be bothered?” The chauffeur seemed confused by it himself.

“Fuck… That’s my fault,” Alistair mumbled. He put his face in his hands, gripping his hair. “I should go back. I really don’t fucking want to though.”

“That's up to you, mate. I'm just here to drive.” The chauffeur didn't want to pressure Alistair.

“I should, shouldn’t I?” he sighed. He quickly wiped his eyes and went off to look for Kit. He wasn't hard to find, considering Alistair just had to follow the sound of coughing. The older boy had holed up in one of the old back rooms; it looked like it used to be a study, with a desk, bookshelves, and a big leather chair. Kit was sitting in the chair, knees pulled up to his chest, and still coughing his lungs out. As Alistair drew close, he could hear another, softer sound mixed in with the coughs: weak, raspy sobbing.

Alistair paused at the door. He knocked softly. “Kit..?”

“What do you want?” The older boy’s confrontational tone was ruined by how faint and croaky his voice was. Alistair wanted to run home and hide his shame there, but he knew he had to make it up with Kit - besides, if he did go home and told Julius they’d argued, the small boy would just send him right back to apologise.

Alistair slipped inside the room, his back against the door. “Are you okay?”

Kit shrugged. “I don't know anymore.” He mumbled, ducking his head into his knees as he coughed again.

Alistair bit his lip. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, mentally cursing himself when his voice wobbled again.

“S’not your fault. I got mad at you for shit that's really not your problem. I was just drawing parallels and throwing a fit.”

Alistair paused. “Mother and father used to...give me something. When they wanted me to be quiet. That’s why...I don’t like having to take things.”

Kit sighed. “Yours did that, too? Ah, why am I even surprised…” He paused to cough before adding, “This is different, though. It's not some asshole who doesn't care about your wellbeing recommending it. It's doctors, and Julie. And me, for that matter. Our family is horrible, but that doesn't mean the whole world's out to get you, you know.”

“I know. I try to tell myself that.” He paused. “You were drawing parallels..? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. It's just... frustrating... to me to see people turn their nose up at nearly miraculous medicine when my mother…” He sniffled, hiding his face behind his arms, “My mother would've done anything for a medicine to help her. We had all the money in the world, but the doctors couldn't do fuck all… and I just… I don't want to lose somebody else I love because they won't take the cure that's being handed to them!”

Alistair looked horrified. He dashed over to Kit, putting his arms around the older boy. “Fuck, I’m sorry… I’ll take them, I promise. You won’t lose me, I promise. I’m not even suicidal anymore, not since… It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.”

Normally, Kit would've been embarrassed to be seen, even by Alistair, bawling like this, but he couldn't be bothered. He clutched desperately to his cousin's shirt, like a child on their mother's dress, sobbing and coughing and just making a right mess of himself. Alistair held him close, stroking his hair. He was so worked up that he started crying too. Kit eventually settled down, with the crying at least. He'd gotten off on another coughing fit and his lungs were rattling like the engine of a car about to die.

“We really should take you to the doctor,” Alistair said, scrubbing at his eyes.

“I can't… can't show up to the doctor in this state…” Kit groaned. His hair was disheveled, and his whole face was red and teary.

“You look perfect for the doctor. They’ll probably let you jump the queue, you look sick as a dog.”

Kit chuckled faintly. “There's no queue, he's the family doctor. He doesn't serve random patients off the street. But I suppose you're right. Help me up?”

Alistair took Kit’s hands, pulling him up. “Come on…”

The older boy tugged himself to his feet, trying not to lean on his cousin as they walked to the door. The chauffeur was still waiting out front, now just chilling in his car. Alistair pulled Kit along. “I know it’s not classy, but I need to get in the front. Otherwise I’ll puke in your car.”

The chauffeur just shrugged. “Go ahead, sir.” He got out to hold the door for both boys, and the inside of the car was remarkable. All sleek black leather, with heated seats to fight the chill outside. Rather than buckling in properly, Kit sprawled across the entire back seat with a rattling sigh, wondering if he could catch a nap on the way to the doctor’s office. Alistair was happily playing around with the heated seats, grinning.

“Jesus, I should travel with you guys more. Hey, if you want I could drive for a little bit,” he said eagerly to the chauffeur.

“No, sir. My duty is to drive, and this vehicle is my responsibility.” The chauffeur replied dryly.

“You don’t have to call me sir. Jeez, it’s gonna take me years to tell all the servants in your place not to call me sir, Kit. What’s your name?” he asked the chauffeur.

The man furrowed his brows, taken aback. It was several moments before he replied, “Thaddeus Bradley. But you can call me Taddy.”

“Cool name! That’s almost the kind of name you’d find in our fucking family.”

Taddy grinned. “Thanks. It was my father’s. Mum used to jokingly call him ‘Daddeus.’”

“How’d you get stuck working for our shitty family? I mean, Kit is the only good one,” Alistair said bluntly.

“They don’t actually pay attention to me. They sit in the back and drink champagne. And I enjoy driving. It’s honestly the easiest job I’ve ever had. I’m salaried, so there’s no chance of me going broke if they don’t travel much one year, and I rarely work more than ten hours a week.”

“That’s all? Huh, maybe I should do this as a job,” Alistair said thoughtfully, despite knowing he was not able to drive.

Taddy shrugged. “Maybe. You need extra licensing for it, though. To do it professionally.”

Alistair groaned. “Aww, really? I haven’t even got my normal licence yet.”

“Well, then you’ve got a ways to go.”

“Fuck that, then. I’ll do something else,” Alistair said. He paused, frowning. “There must be something…”

“You never did check back in with Osiris, did you?” Kit mumbled from the backseat. Alistair paused. Fuck.

“Yeeees.”

“Bullshit you did.” Kit knew better, and he'd told Osiris to call when Alistair got in touch.

“Alright alright. I will do it.”

“You'd better.” The older boy grumbled.

“Can’t he call me?” Alistair whined.

“No!” Kit snapped back. “Be a fucking adult, and make the call before I shove your phone so far up your arse, your colon dials it for you.”

“Jeez, you’re touchy today. Heard he snapped at you too,” Alistair said to Taddy, teasing Kit.

Taddy nodded briefly, “That he did.” He wouldn’t have said a word to any other member of the Raycraft family, but he knew Kit wasn’t a raging ass like his father.

“Oh, shut up Al. You try spending a third of your life ill and see how you feel.”

“I couldn’t even handle spending a third of yesterday ill.”

“Exactly. I have the right to be in a mood here and there.” Kit muttered, burying his face in the heated seat of the car. Despite his many layers, he was a little shivery.

“Yeah, I know. I was only teasing.”

Kit sighed dramatically. “Yea, well tease me later.”

“I’m allowed to tease. How much did you tease me yesterday?”

Kit didn’t reply right away, finally answering with, “Dunno, lost count.”

“Exactly. Only fair.”

Kit groaned, but didn’t speak up again the rest of the ride. Alistair was quiet too, fiddling with the radio and playing around with the seat warmers and the catches for the windows and all the different lights, just like a little kid on a car ride. Taddy didn’t seem bothered, and Kit was silent whether he liked it or not.

When they made it to the doctor, Alistair thanked Taddy and went to haul Kit out of the backseat. “You alive?”

“Barely.” Kit grumbled, stumbling to his feet. Alistair kept hold of Kit’s arm to keep him steady.

“Come on. Your appointment is in five minutes.”

Kit shuffled along, tugging his jacket tighter around him and trying not to shiver as they made their way inside. Alistair sighed and put an arm around him. “You’re always cold…”

“I know.” The older boy mumbled, coughing into his four-layers-thick-sleeve.

“I should get you one of those jackets they have for little shivering dogs.”

Kit huffed. “Shut up.”

He shuffled into the office, sinking into one of their sleek, fancy chairs with a dramatic groan. Alistair sat down beside him. He pulled a face at an old lady who was staring at Kit with disapproval, and she huffed irritably. Kit had only half noticed her, and couldn't tell whether she was judging his sorry state, or his dyed hair and metal-filled ears. Old people judged his tattoos all the time, but he was so bundled up they weren't visible right now.

Alistair nudged his cousin. “That old bitch is staring at you.”

“Why? You can't even fucking see my tattoos in this weather. That's normally what old bats get their knickers in a twist about.”

“God knows. Maybe your piercings.” Alistair stuck his finger up at her, and she hissed in outrage and stomped over to sit as far away from them as possible.

Kit scoffed, throwing a dirty gesture at her as well as she walked away. Normally he gave stuffy old people a lecture on minding their damn business, but today he was in a bad mood. He leaned against Alistair's shoulder with a yawn, allowing his lead-weighted eyelids to drop closed. Alistair idly plaited a long lock of Kit’s hair, waiting for his name to be called.

“Christian Raycraft?”

Kit sat up ramrod straight, immediately tense. Good things rarely followed when people used his real name. He had been half asleep and was noticeably shaken and disoriented. He stammered out a quiet, “H-here…” like a shy kid when attendance was called, stifling a coughing fit behind his hand as he stumbled to his feet.

Alistair helped him walk, following the doctor to a consultation room. He was mostly just there for moral support - he didn’t want to talk unless he had to. Luckily, the nurse was directing all of her questions towards Kit, despite the poor boy being so hoarse post-coughing-fit that it must've been painful to answer.

“How long have you been feeling ill?”

“Dunno, maybe a month.”

“What are your symptoms?”

“I'm coughing, I'm tired, I'm fucking miserable.”

“Have you been ill much recently? I have records of you being admitted to the hospital both this summer and last winter.”

“Oh, that…. Those. Just accidents. Hypothermia, and… and drowning, while on holiday. I've only really had a couple colds this year.” Kit waved his hand dismissively, dropping onto the examination bench with a rattling sigh.

The nurse nodded, making notes and wordlessly taking his temperature and blood pressure. “Alright. The doctor will be with you shortly.” she walked off.

“She must think you’re a right mess,” Alistair pointed out. “You almost died twice in less than a year.”

“I didn't do it on purpose!” Kit whined.

“I know. Try not to do it again though. You’re all I’ve got.”

Kit nodded, coughing into the bend of his arm. “Wasn't on the agenda.”

“Do you think you need a chest x-ray or anything? I don’t know a fucking thing about this shit. I hated science.”

“They probably will, since they'll suspect pneumonia. I've spent a good third of my winters with pneumonia at this point.” Kit groaned.

“Can’t they do something to prevent that?” Alistair asked.

“Besides telling me to wear a surgical mask in public and me telling them hell no?” Kit shook his head.

“Isn’t there anything that makes your immune system better? Hey, you should meet Jules’s grandmother. Every time I get sick, even if it’s just motion sickness, she’ll give me a spoonful of fucking cod liver oil for my immune system. She’d have you drinking the whole bottle,” Alistair said, grinning.

“There’s only so much to be done, Al. It’s a legitimate immune deficiency. To treat it, I’d have to be getting regular, fuck what’s the word... immune… immuno…. immunoglobulin replacement therapy my whole fucking life.” Kit sighed. “It’s a right mess and I hate it.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“They literally have to replace part of your fucking blood intravenously. It’s hellish.” Kit glanced warily at his arm as if someone might go for it with a needle. Considering all his tattoos and piercings, it must have been remarkably unpleasant for him to mind.

“Ugh… How is that even possible?” Alistair asked.

Kit shrugged, “I’m no biologist.”

“Is it like...similar to how they do dialysis? Isn’t that replacing blood? Or doing something to it? I don’t fucking know.”

“Sort of, yea. I think so.” Kit nodded, looking up as the doctor came in the room.

“Ah, Mister Kit. It’s been too long. I’ve only seen you twice this year.” The doctor quipped.

Kit sighed, “Yea, well, here I am.”

“My nurse was saying you’ve got a bad cough?”

“That - ahem - I was - mm - yes.” Kit groaned, stifling a cough in his shoulder.

The doctor nodded, checking his clipboard. “I’ll need you to shed those jackets, I’ve got to listen to your chest.”

Kit’s fingers were clumsy and shaky, but he gradually managed to peel off his overcoat, his pea coat, and his cardigan, unbuttoning his dress shirt for the doctor. He shivered miserably as the cold metal stethoscope touched him, and the doctor’s brow furrowed as he ordered Kit to breathe.

“That doesn’t sound great… We’ll probably need a chest x-ray.”

Though he sighed, Kit didn’t seem surprised, dryly inquiring, “To the back?”

“To the back.” The doctor nodded, heading for the door and gesturing for the boys to follow.

“Do you have to hold a metal plate over your balls?” Alistair whispered loudly, his mind of course jumping to that point before anything else. Kit rolled his eyes.

“No, it’s a lead apron over your legs.” He mumbled, having had far too many chest x-rays over the years.

“Will they let me look at your lungs?”

“I don’t see why not.” Kit shrugged.

“Cool! Your doctor is way better than the one Jules drags me too. They wouldn’t even let me touch the bag when I had a blood test.”

Kit bit back several comments, simply following the doctor to the x-ray room, dropping onto the seat and calmly accepting his lead-legged fate. Alistair watched from the doorway, looking fascinated. The doctor scowled at the screen and sucked air in through his teeth. “As I’d suspected… your lungs are filled with fluid.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” Kit grumbled. “And what’s the tonic of the day? My thousandth round of antibiotics?”

“That was the plan, yes.” The doctor replied dryly.

“You must have created a ton of resistant bacteria in your body over the years, Kit,” Alistair called from the corridor.

“Probably. Or maybe it's an alien parasite slowly plotting my death. Who knows.”

“Just take the medicine, drama queen. I take mine, you take yours.”

“I wasn't planning not to.” Kit replied, following the doctor up front.

“Get this prescription filled as soon as possible, and I want to see you again in a week.”

Kit nodded, too busy stifling another coughing fit to talk. He put his jackets back on, slipping the prescription in the outermost pocket and shuffling for the door.

“Are we going to get the prescription then?” Alistair asked.

“Hell no. I'm going home to lie down. I'll send someone out for it.” Kit muttered, tugging on his scarf and gloves as he walked. The second the cold air hit him, he went from faintly shivering to shaking like a leaf, his teeth chattering loudly. Alistair tugged him back to the car quickly.

“Quick, get in. You really do need to lay down.”

Kit nodded, curling up on his side across the heated back seat. The exposure to cold air had set him off coughing yet again, and he halfheartedly covered his mouth with a gloved hand. The warm seat felt nice against his feverish cheek, as everything else around him was abominably cold. He slumped back against the leather, coughing and shivering and not talking to anyone. He hadn’t even remembered to give Taddy the prescription so it could be dropped off at the pharmacy on the way home.

Alistair prodded him from the front seat. “Kit, prescription.”

“Mm.” The older boy barely replied, fumbling in his coat pockets with gloved hands and tossing the paper vaguely towards his cousin. Alistair had to fumble on the floor for it, tutting, before handing it to Taddy.

The driver scanned it briefly as they stopped. “Right, I’ll drop this off soon as you two are home.”

“Thanks, mate. I’d do it myself if I could fucking drive.”

Taddy shrugged. “No trouble. Here we are.” He pulled into Kit’s drive, parking and getting out to open the doors for both boys. Kit didn’t show any interest in actually getting up, still curled up on the seat and shivering. Alistair rolled his eyes and opened the back door.

“Come on, Kit. You can get back in bed.”

“Don’t wanna move…” Kit grumbled.

“I think you’re a bit big for me to carry you to bed like we used to,” Alistair said gently. “Though I’ll try if you want.”

Kit shook his head. “I… I can get up. ‘M just moping.” He slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes and swinging his legs off the seat. It took several moments for him to clumsily crawl out of the back seat, but he managed to get to his feet and shuffle up the walkway towards the house. Alistair kept hold of him, starting to really worry.

“Are you going to be okay? Shall I call Jules? He’ll bring about a thousand things that I wouldn’t think of to look after you with.”

“You don’t need to bother him.” Kit muttered, promptly slipping on the slick pathway up to the house and falling in the thick snow coating the lawn. A small cloud of flakes were thrown into the air, trickling down on top of Kit as he struggled to get up. The exertion was causing him to cough, and not helping his efforts in the slightest.

Alistair helped haul him up. “Careful, it’s slippy,” he mumbled, like it wasn’t obvious now. “And Jules won't mind if you want. He likes you.”

Kit groaned, coughing into his shoulder and leaning on Alistair as he shuffled inside. “Are you sure?” He asked, dusting snow off himself.

“Of course. I’ll call him in a minute. Let’s just get you inside before you die in my arms,” Alistair said.

Kit laughed hoarsely, fumbling in his jacket for his keys before finally getting the door open. As soon as they got inside, he dropped onto the couch with a deep rattling sigh. Alistair grabbed a duvet from the closest bedroom, carefully draping it over his cousin. “I’ll call Jules, okay? He’ll actually know what to do.”

“Sounds good.” Kit muttered, curling up under the duvet.

#whump #illness #cough #fever #pneumonia #kit #raycraft #alistair #ocsickficsideblog #collab #sickfic

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ebaeschnbliah · 7 years ago

Text

MISTER KINGSLEY

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Some time ago I wrote about the short cases Sherlock investigates at the beginning of TST (Spinning the plates). As it turned out each case seems to be closely connected to Sherlock himself in one way or another. It appears to be the same with characters who have a tattoo. Even as unlikely ones as the torturer in Serbia (TEH) or the unconscious ex-con in CAMs office (HLV)

In TST a man comes to Baker Street and seeks the help of Sherlock Holmes. His wife left him and he assumes she was having an affair. Sherlock doesn't take that case but throwes the man out instead. This case might have been too boring for Sherlock but the man - Mr. Kingsley - is quite interesting. He has an almost faded tattoo on his forearm. Reason enough to take a closer look at this guy. Could he be a Sherlock mirror as well?

More under the cut .....

His name is KINGSLEY

Which includes the word KING. While Mycroft is compared to the 'queen' in ASIB, Sherlock is more than once connected to the 'king'.

'Am I the current king of England?' asks Sherlock in TSOT.

Elvis is called the 'King' as well and in THOB his face overlays Sherlock's while the first accords of 'Hound Dog' can be heard.

In TLD Elvis is mentioned again as a person who can be recognized by one name alone ... like Sherlock.

Now, you haven’t always been in life insurance, have you?

This is the very first information about Mr. Kingsley. He works in 'life insurance' .... is it too far a stretch connecting 'life insurance' to a form of protection ... of guarding? Sherlock himself (and some of his mirrors) are several times presented as 'guardians'.

You started out in manual labour. Oh, don’t bother being astonished. Your right hand’s almost an entire size bigger than your left. (“10½” over the right hand and “9½” over the other.) Hard manual work does that.

KINGSLEY: I was a carpenter, uh, like me dad.

A carpenter who is the son of a carpenter?. Is this another Christ reference? Wouldn't be the first time Sherlock is associated with Christ in this story.

In the New Testament, Jesus is commonly referred to as "Jesus of Nazareth" (e.g., Mark 10:47). Jesus' neighbors in Nazareth refer to him as "the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon" (Mark 6:3), "the carpenter's son" (Matthew 13:55), or "Joseph's son" (Luke 4:22).

And you’re trying to give up smoking, unsuccessfully,

SHERLOCK: Not just e-cigarettes – ten individual e-cigarettes. Now, if you just wanted to smoke indoors, you would have invested in one of those irritating electronic pipe things, but you’re convinced you can give up, so you don’t want to buy a pipe because that means you’re not serious about quitting, so instead you buy individual cigarettes, always sure that each will be your last.

This speaks for itself, I think. :))))

You once had a Japanese girlfriend that meant a lot to you

But now you feel indifferent about. You’ve got a Japanese tattoo in the crook of your elbow in the name ‘Akako.’ It’s obvious you’ve tried to have it removed. KINGSLEY: But surely that means I wanna forget her, not that I’m indifferent. SHERLOCK: If she’d really hurt your feelings, you would have had the word obliterated, but the first attempt wasn’t successful and you haven’t tried again, so it seems you can live with the slightly blurred memory of Akako, hence the indifference.

This topic - the 'broken off realationships' of various kinds (parents, friends, lovers) - runs throughout the whole story. Stillborn children, orphans, lost siblings, children, friends, a dog and romances ending before they even had a chance to properly begin.

And of course the connection to Japan is another reference to the East, the Eastwind, Eurus and memory.

KINGSLEY: Sorry. I-I thought you’d done something clever. No, no. Ah, but now you’ve explained it, it’s dead simple, innit?

The whole deduction scene up unto this point is taken - with little changes - from ACDs Story 'The Red-Headed League'. In the original the client's name is Mr. Jabez Wilson. He is a former ship's carapenter who had once travelled to China. Holmes deduces this by a very distinctive fish tattoo on his arm and a coin on the watch chain. Mr. Wilson comes to Baker Street because the company he worked for suddenly 'vanished' without a trace. Turns out the whole organisation was a fake from the start. It's existance had been only created to lure Mr. Wilson away from his house for several hours per day to dig a secret tunnel to a nearby bank ... and the considerable fortune of French gold in its vaults.

The meaning of names

An interesting thing to notice is, that the name chosen for the lady in pink in ASIP is ... Jennifer Wilson. The name Wilson is also related to 'William', which is Sherlock's first name in this story.

William comes ultimately from the given name Wilhelm (cf. Old German Wilhelm and Old Norse Vilhjálmr). That is a compound of two distinct elements :

wil = "will or desire";

helm = Old English helm "helmet, protection"

Protector of desires - what a fitting name for Sherlock in this special adaptation!

Original Sherlock Holmes reacts to Mr. Wilson's rather simplifying interpretation, regarding the explanation of the deductions, quite different.

“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in explaining. ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico,’ you know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid."

Omne ignotum pro magnifico .... 'every unknown thing is taken for great'

Or 'everything becomes commonplace by explanation' that's how Dr.Watson translates this statement in the lovely Granada adaptation of the 'Red-Headed League' with Jeremy Brett and David Burke (here).

Back to Sherlock and Mr. Kingsley

Highly indignant and offended by Mr. Kingsley's dismissive reaction to his explanations, Sherlock launches from nil to a hundred into a real torrent of deductions about poor Mr. Kingsley, who listens dumbfounded.

I’ve withheld this information from you until now ...

... but I think it’s time you knew the truth. Have you ever wondered if your wife was a little bit out of your league? You thought she was having an affair. I’m afraid it’s far worse than that. Your wife is a spy. Her real name is Greta Bengtsdotter. Swedish by birth and probably the most dangerous spy in the world.

WATSON: You’re working for Mycroft? MRS WATSON: He likes to keep an eye on his mad sibling. HOLMES: And he had a spy to hand. Has it never occurred to you that your wife is excessively skilled for a nurse?

A 'super-agent' with a terrifying skill set? Oh, Mary I hear your tapping.

She’s been operating deep undercover for the past four years now as your wife for one reason only: to get near the American embassy which is across the road from your flat.

And once again the mention of an embasy - an ambassador. First Rufus Bruhl the US ambassador and his children Max and Claudette. Then the ambassador in Tiblisi who knew the truth about AMO. Three ambassadors in one story? A bit much for just coincidence, I think.

Tomorrow the US president will be at the embassy as part of an official state visit. As the president greets members of staff, Greta Bengtsdotter, disguised as a twenty-two stone cleaner, will inject the president in the back of the neck with a dangerous new drug hidden inside a secret compartment inside her padded armpit.

Like poor John in TEH? Before he got dumped under the bonfire woodpile? Is John the president?

This drug will then render the president entirely susceptible to the will of their new master, none other than James Moriarty.

Ahhhh .... another dangerous drug. H.O.U.N.D. is for creating fear. TD12 is to create the bliss of ignorance. And now something to gain full domination over someone else. Fear - loss of memory - loss of power .... how frightening.

Moriarty will then use the president as a pawn to destabilise the United Nations General Assembly which is due to vote on a nuclear non-proliferation treaty, tipping the balance in favour of a first strike policy against Russia. This chain of events will then prove unstoppable, thus precipitating ... World War Three.

This sounds a lot like '... Nuclear codes – I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king; and honey, you should see me in a crown.' Jim Moriarty ... ruler of the whole world!

JOHN: Are you serious? SHERLOCK: No, of course not.

'... his wife left him because his breath stinks and he likes to wear her lingerie.'

KINGSLEY: I don’t! Just the bras.

Really? Cross dressing like unle Rudi? Like Mycroft as Lady Bracknell? Oh, what a coincidence! Sometimes the universe seems to be rather lazy. :)))))

'his breath stinks' ... the simplest translation would be 'not liking what comes out of someones mouth' and I guess there are a lot of people who are convinced this applies perfectly to some of Sherlock's deductions.

SEBASTIAN: He could look at you and tell you your whole life story. Put the wind up everybody. We hated him.

Assuming Mr. Kingsley is indeed a mirror for Sherlock - created in his own mind - how heartbreakingly sad is this last deduction! Sherlock imagining a life partner who leaves him because of what comes out of his mouth ... and because of what he likes.

JOHN: So. What’s this all about, then? SHERLOCK: Having fun. ..... While I can.

In a nutshell ... Sherlock is annoyed and wants to have fun while he still can and because of that he invents an impromptu story - far-fetched and dramatically charged - about a most dangerous 'super agent' employed by a criminal mastermind to gain world domination. Sounds familiar ....

Are these kind of stories the ones Sherlock loves most?

Stories about undercover agents, secret spies, super agents ... like Mr. 'double-0-seven' James Bond? Then he would propably get along very well with another character in this story. A little boy ... with a mop of unruly, curly, dark hair. For he seems to have quite similar interests as Sherlock .... and he is a clever boy as well .... Max Bruhl.

SHERLOCK: What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out? This little boy; this particular little boy ... who reads all of those spy books. What would he do? JOHN: He’d leave a sign?

The ambassadors son .... Max Bruhl .... abducted and poisoned and left to die together with his sister Claudette.

This reminds me very much of Sherlock - who gets abducted and drugged as well ..... or poisoned?

September, 2017

I leave you too your own deductions Thanks @callie-ariane for the scripts.

@gosherlocked @loveismyrevolution @sagestreet @sherlockshadow @monikakrasnorada @kateis-cakeis @sarahthecoat @raggedyblue @darlingtonsubstitution @tjlcisthenewsexy

#mr kingsley

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kitashiwrites · 7 years ago

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Acquiescence - An ACOWAR Lucien Fic

Series: A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas Characters: Lucien, Cassian, Azriel, Mor, Amren, Feyre, brief cameo of Rhys POV: Lucien Rating: T Word Count: 3490 Ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11653326/

Summary: End of Chapter 13 - beginning of Chapter 14 of ACOWAR from Lucien’s POV.

Lucien arrives in the Night Court with Feyre, but what did he and the Inner Circle do while Feyre and Rhys were reuniting?

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I had never seen Eris look so fearful in all of my life. Feyre’s words rang through icy tundra of Winter, the swirling tattoo I’d thought gone now stark against the pale skin of her other hand.

I am High Lady of the Night Court. That was what she had said to him. I would have been lying if I said I was not as surprised as the brothers I barely knew, who had hesitated when they no longer had the upper hand. I was being carried by Azriel, the Shadowsinger I had seen near death in Hybern weeks ago, and we were ignoring each other—and the awkward situation of him having to carry me—with great efficiency. But I was too grateful to not be running and had too much to think about to really let it bother me. Feyre was being carried by the Illyrian Commander that had his wings shredded, but judging from how Cassian now flew ahead of us, he was healed and back to normal. I heard a peal of laughter—could see Feyre throw her arms around his neck, see her joy and relief. On the other hand, I wasn't sure where they were taking us, or if I would be thrown in a cell and tortured upon arrival. Feyre didn't seem worried, and though I tried to let that calm my nerves, the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach wouldn't go away. Azriel flew slower for whatever reason, though it was clear he was no less capable than his fellow Illyrian, and we had fallen behind the others. “Thank you.” The Shadowsinger’s quiet voice startled me.

“For what?”

“Bringing our Lady home.”

Before I could say anything else, we banked suddenly. The border of the Winter Court loomed ahead, where it and the neutral, lawless land that divided Prythian in half was easily the best thing I had seen since we had left the Spring Court. I could see a blonde woman that I recognized from our confrontation in Hybern standing on the neutral side. The Morrigan’s expression was stoic and she watched us carefully. We had barely touched down before she practically grabbed Feyre from Cassian, enveloping her in a hug that would have been bone crushing were she still human. It was moments like this that reminded me that Feyre was no longer the Fae hating huntress that had killed Andras—she return the hug with just as much enthusiasm. The leathers she wore matched the Illyrians behind me, making her a devastating blend of deadly beauty. She had been the one to singlehandedly take out our sentries when Feyre had been taken away all those months ago, and I had no doubt that she would be a force to be reckoned with in a fight. I began to wonder if I would have been safer left on the tundra.

When she finally released Feyre, her gaze drifted to me gravely, as though she were determining whether I was a threat or perhaps a potential prisoner.

“He fought against Eris and the other two,” Cassian said breaking the silence. An explanation for my unexpected presence.

She tensed and swallowed hard. “Eris,” she blurted out, the tension in her voice thick and at odds with the image she portrayed. “Did you—”

“He remains alive,” Azriel answered. “So do the others.” I could see shadows curling at the clawed tip of his massive wings, a dark and deep seated rage made manifest. I knew that something had happened with Eris and the Night Court centuries ago, but I had never found out the details. From the looks on their faces, it involved the two Illyrians and the woman before me, and knowing Eris's personality, it wasn't hard to put the pieces together. Morrigan tossed her mass of golden hair over her shoulder, her face a perfect mask.

“Then let's go home.” Home. To the Night Court. It suddenly occurred to me that in my single minded quest to find and save my mate, I’d never fully thought through exactly where I had been following Feyre to, or what fate could possibly await me as a member of the Spring Court once we arrived.

“Which one?” Feyre asked carefully. The woman turned towards me and gave me a stare that made me feel like she was looking at my soul instead of me. It was not a comforting feeling.

“The town house,” she said to her after a long moment, as if I had passed some sort of test. “You have someone waiting there for you.”

Morrigan winnowed all five of us at once—a testament to the depth of her power, though she panted from the exertion. When she had said a town house, I imagined it would be somewhere under that northern mountain that I knew held the inspiration for Amarantha's cursed court.

But it looked so… normal. A dining room and sitting room filled with plush furniture overlooking a little front yard and a city street. Stairs and a hallway that led to somewhere that looked like a kitchen. And a shut front door that had light shining through the window, making colors dance on the rugs at our feet.

This was supposed to be the Night Court—the Court of Nightmares—and instead of darkness… instead of agonizing screams and wickedness…

“There are children laughing in the streets,” I said, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice as I looked at the people before me. I hadn't heard children laughing so carefreely since—

Jesminda. Since those days before everything went to hell and I sought sanctuary in Spring.

A small woman with short black hair and unearthly silver eyes emerged from the sitting room at that moment, her expression bored and even a little grumpy. “That they do so at all after Hybern’s attack is a testament to how hard the people of Velaris have worked to rebuild.” She turned to Feyre and bowed her head. “I see you brought home a new pet,” she said as she looked at me, her nose crinkling in distaste.

Amren. The Second of the Night Court. I bowed deeply to her, trying to curb my fear at being in the presence of the woman who was a story told to Autumn Court children to make them behave. I heard someone—likely Cassian—make an amused grunt, but I didn't care.

“Already trained, I see,” she said. I straightened and could see a hint of a smile on her face.

“Amren, this is Lucien… Vanserra,” Feyre said by way of introduction. I stiffened. I’d never told her that name, and I wondered how she suddenly knew it.

“I don't use my family’s name,” I clarified with another bow of my head. “Lucien will do.”

Amren gave me harder look, specifically at my metal eye. “Clever work,” she said appreciatively before turning to Feyre as though I wasn't there. I wasn't complaining. “Looks like someone clawed you up, girl.” There wasn't an ounce of deference in her voice, and Feyre didn't seem to expect it.

“What is this place?” I found myself asking before Feyre could answer her. Everyone looked at me.

“Home,” Feyre answered after a long moment. “This is—my home.”

Home. This bright, comfortable looking house. Not a palace, or even a manor like Tamlin.

“This is Velaris,” she explained. “The City of Starlight.”

The city that the mortal queens had given the name of to Hybern. The one absent from all recorded maps and memory. I left of my own free will. Feyre's letter to Tamlin had read. I am cared for and safe. I am grateful for all that you did for me, all that you gave. Please don’t come looking for me. I’m not coming back.

She had told us. If this was where she had been when she sent it, I wouldn't have come back to the Spring Court willingly either.

I swallowed hard. “And you are High Lady of the Night Court.” The title sounded foreign on my tongue.

“Indeed she is,” a familiar voice drawled. Feyre froze at the sound, the look in her eyes one of cautious hope. The others in the room, even Amren, smiled as she turned towards the doorway where Rhys leaned nonchalantly, wearing that irritating half smirk he always did and his ever present black attire. He didn't give any of us so much as a second glance—didn't question why Tamlin’s emissary was in his territory. But as he looked at Feyre, I saw that smile fade into concern and joy and something else I couldn't name.

Feyre let out a broken noise and fell to her knees, her hands covering her face. Before anyone could take a step in her direction, Rhys was on the floor in front of her, knees touching. Gently, he pulled her hands away from her face.

“My love,” he murmured and kissed her, clearly not caring that they had an audience. Feyre seemed to share the sentiment as she slid her hands into his hair, melting into him, her eyes closed and completely uninterested in the world around her. I wanted to look away, but couldn't. Rhys scooped her up smoothly as they broke apart. Never taking his eyes off of her, nor she him, he said, “Go find somewhere else to be for awhile.” Without waiting for an answer, the two of them winnowed out of sight, leaving me in the hands of the four people who regularly did the bidding of the only High Lord who could compare to my father in cruelty. Before I could say anything, Morrigan pulled me towards her and nodded to the others before winnowing us out of the house.

We appeared in a cluttered looking apartment that looked like a windstorm had gone through it. Papers were strewn and stacked everywhere, some under an egg shaped ruby and others under collections of mugs that had a dried rust colored substance I didn't want to think about. And the jewelry. The bed alone qualified as a dragon’s treasure hoard, and as Amren took a seat amongst the gold and jewels, I could see her resembling one.

“I can't believe Rhys kicked us out to fuck Feyre,” Cassian laughed, taking a seat on a stool at the counter. He leaned on his forearms with a lazy smile. “He didn't waste any time.”

“What did you expect? They have a new mating bond and they've been separated for over a month,” Azriel reasoned.

“Honestly, I'm surprised he lasted that long,” Amren said bluntly, studying a brooch with a disinterested eye.

Morrigan threw her curls over her shoulder and sat down on a plush chair, her lips curled in amusement. “Or that he was courteous enough to tell us to leave.”

“How are you all okay with this?” I asked incredulously.

They all turned to me in unison, as if they just realized that there was another person—an intruder really—in their midst.

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “Okay with what?”

“Leaving Feyre with Rhys after all she's been through.”

“There is no one else we would leave her with,” Cassian said, his tone matter of fact. He gestured to Azriel. “As our brother, I would trust Rhys with my life. As her mate, Feyre would—”

“A mating bond doesn't make you a perfect match,” I argued. “Rhys hasn't done anything to prove himself worthy of Feyre. He can control—”

“Those are some bold words for someone with such a small and narrow view, Lucien Vanserra. And you were the Spring Court’s emissary?” Cassian commented from his seat. His barely veiled mocking made me cringe almost as much as my family's name did. I hadn't heard it this much in such a short period of time in centuries.

But I couldn't stop myself from asking, “What reason would I have to believe any different?”

“Rhys would never do anything to intentionally harm Feyre,” Mor replied, her voice betraying nothing. “He’s not Tamlin.”

He absolutely wasn't. For all that Tamlin didn't listen, he could never be worse than that bastard. Tamlin didn't dress get Feyre drunk and up in gauze and cobwebs to dance in his lap. He didn't let anything happen to her—

Except he had. He had gotten her drunk on faerie wine at the Summer Solstice. He sent her away with no explanation when he could have saved us all by accepting she loved him. He hadn't stopped her from coming back and getting trapped Under the Mountain. He didn't do anything when she was beaten and tormented before him. Tamlin had beaten me at Amarantha’s orders. He let Rhys take Feyre on their wedding day and then sold the Spring Court out to Hybern to get her back.

I swallowed hard. “Tamlin didn't try to—”

“He didn't have to try,” Azriel interrupted, his voice quiet but powerful. “There are many ways to harm someone—to control them. You don't have to be a daemati to utterly destroy them.”

“It certainly doesn't hurt though,” I snapped back.

Before I could so much as blink, I was slammed up against the wall, the telltale edge of a very sharp blade angled against my throat. I dared to look and found the cold, wrathful gaze of the Shadowsinger staring at me, and knew I’d finally pushed my luck too far.

“Let’s get something straight, Vanserra,” Cassian said coldly. He stood up from his stool and crossed his arms. “The only reason you are alive right now is because of Feyre. We could have left you on the ice with your pathetic brothers, but instead of being grateful you were spared, you insult our High Lord and High Lady—the very reasons you are currently not rotting in a dungeon in the Hewn City.”

“I didn't insult Feyre.” Despite everything, she’d been one of the few I could trust. I couldn't say that of Tamlin anymore. Not after watching him wield his whip against an innocent sentry at that harpy Ianthe’s command, as though she were the High Lady of Spring.

“You’re not helping yourself,” he growled.

“You weren't Under the Mountain,” I bit out. “None of you were. You didn't see what he did to her there.” The memory of Rhys holding Feyre’s waist, her drunk on faerie wine and dancing between his legs as he laughed with Amarantha's cohorts flashed through my head. If anything, he was no better than Tamlin, but certainly had the capacity to be worse.

“No,” Morrigan said calmly, “we weren't. Rhys ensured we were kept out. But I know what happened. There is no one in this city who is not aware of the sacrifices our High Lord made for their safety.”

“Do you though? Did he tell you the things he did? Or what he put Feyre through? How about what he was to Amarantha?” I knew I was treading on dangerous ground, but I couldn't find it in myself to care. If they were going to kill me eventually anyway, I could at least anger them enough to make it quick. Judging from the cold, calculated anger in Azriel’s eyes, I knew I'd have to hope for Cassian.

“I know the sacrifices he made to ensure their safety, and yours and Tamlin's as well,” Morrigan replied evenly.

“He didn't do anything for our safety,” I snapped.

“You have no idea the sacrifices Rhys made, the things he did, when eyes weren't on him. He was willing to do anything to get her and those she loved out of there alive, even if she hated him as a result. That includes you and Tamlin.” She narrowed her eyes. “And you let your High Lord neglect her until she was so broken that we almost couldn't bring her back.”

“I—” My defense died in my throat.

“Feyre has made enough sacrifices. I think we both can agree with that?” She looked at me expectantly, and I nodded as much as the knife would allow. “She is perfectly matched to Rhys in that respect,” Morrigan continued. “Neither of them will let anyone help if they think it will put someone they love in danger.” While I knew she wasn't wrong, there was still the reason I had followed Feyre all this way.

“Then where is my mate?” I asked, my bravado gone. All I felt was bone deep weariness. “Is… is Elain safe?” I wouldn't believe anything until I saw her. Until I saw that Jurian had lied—that she was unharmed.

“Let’s get one thing straight, fox-boy,” Cassian answered. “You are only here because of Feyre's good will. Demanding answers from us, especially after insulting our High Lord, will get you nowhere. For whatever reason, Feyre chose to take you along, but that doesn't mean that you are immediately welcome here.”

“She saved me,” I said softly. “From Ianthe and Hybern. I do not let my debts go unpaid. And after—” I swallowed hard. “After what happened in Hybern, I needed to see my mate.”

A silence filled the room, and when I looked up, I could see an understanding in their eyes. As if they knew. But they couldn't know, and their looks of pity only made everything worse.

“Let me ask you something, Lucien,” Morrigan said quietly. “If Elain had been taken by Beron, what would you have done? Would you have let her be used as leverage against you?”

“Never,” I growled without hesitation. “I would have ripped him and anyone else who got in my way apart with my bare hands.”

“And if you thought she didn't want you, would you do it anyway?” she pressed. “If you thought she was in danger?”

“Whether we are matched or not, I would want to see for myself she is okay. I would make sure she was safe.” I didn't understand where she was going with this, but from her triumphant smile, I apparently had said what she wanted. They all exchanged glances, and I felt Azriel's knife leave my throat. I let out a sigh of relief.

“If only you could have understood that earlier for Rhys and Feyre’s sake,” Cassian said finally. “If she allows you to see her sister and Elain wants to see you, we won't stop her. But if you put so much as one toe out of line…” He glanced at Azriel, who gave an almost imperceptible nod, still palming his dagger. “We may not be in the Hewn City, but we still have ways of making you suffer. And we will make good on that threat.” The Shadowsinger gave me a look that promised endless torment, and I didn't doubt for a second he would follow through and enjoy it.

“Elain is my mate,” I reiterated softly. “I would never hurt her.”

“If you are about finished threatening our new pet, how about letting him wash the dirt and blood off?” Amren said suddenly, her voice cutting through the room, reminding everyone of her presence. I turned to see those silver eyes fixated on me. “As much as I enjoy the latter, it's of no use to me dried.”

I barely suppressed my shudder and she smirked. “There is a basin over there,” she said, jerking her head towards the simple sink. “It will have to suffice until you can get properly cleaned up.”

“Well, I suggest he hurry,” Morrigan interjected, “It seems our Lord and Lady have decided to leave the welcome home marathon for another time. We can go back now, and you can discuss your requests with them.” I nodded and walked over to the small basin, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror. I looked like absolute hell. My hair was in knots and snarls, and I was splattered with what I was sure was more than just my blood and a layer of grime and dirt. I washed off the worst of it from my hands and face as the others waited for me. The water felt good against my skin, and I couldn't wait until I could be properly clean again. I did my best to ignore the voice in my head that suggested that I’d be thrown in a cell before I got that chance.

“I wonder if the townhouse will still be standing,” Cassian said innocently as I dried my hands and face, though when I turned to look at him, his grin gave him away. “Rhys is lucky that the cabin is in the middle of nowhere. That avalanche he caused when they first mated—” Mor elbowed him hard in the ribs, effectively shutting him up, but his unabashed grin made it clear he wasn't the least bit sorry. I scowled at him, but he didn't spare me another glance as we winnowed back, and I waited to see what the eddies of the Cauldron had in store for me.

#Acquiescence #Lucien #Cassian #Azriel #Morrigan #acowar fanfiction #Amren #Feyre #Inner Circle #Not going to lie #this fic was mostly an excuse to have Lucien and the Inner Circle interact #hopefully you find it as fun as I did writing it #ACOWAR Chapter 13-14

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sparrowwritings · 7 years ago

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Writing Challenge Day 22: Illegal

Previous Day -- Original Post -- Next Day

Captain Sellis stopped looking in his spyglass to talk to his first mate. “They seem friendly enough. Their flag is much more colorful than most of the ones we normally see! And they’ve got the proper colors put out to talk to us anyway. I don’t see what your problem is.” Indeed, the flag flying at the top of the other ship’s mast was a bright yellow in color, with a brown splotch next to a red crescent. As the ship drew closer, the shape became more clearly a monkey’s face next to a sword.

Olive gripped the railing tight enough to turn her dark knuckles white. “Captain, did you notice the bright yellow symbol painted on the ship’s hull, by chance?” It was a circle of braided rope that surrounded a crown and three flowers with four petals each. The crown was placed in the center, with the flowers placed to the sides and underneath it. The sight made her stomach churn.

“Well yes, I thought it was quite gaudy so I failed to mention it in my observations,” He scratched at the thinning hair on his scalp. “Is there something the matter with ships that associate with that symbol?”

“It’s nothing to do with the symbol itself,” Olive’s hands moved from gripping the rail to balling into fists. The pain from her nails helped ground her in the middle of her panic. “It’s the symbol of the Queensmen,” she explained gravely. “Those that sail with the Queen’s blessing and authority.”

“Queen’s men, eh? Then we must be in Turkonian territory, then! Although,” The captain gave Olive a side eye. “I thought the roles of family and work were flipped on the Islands? Why are they called Queen’s men if women run everything?”

She weighed her options and decided to go with avoiding the question entirely. “Why don’t you ask the captain of the ship when you see him.”

Sellis adjusted his jacket as the other ship drew close enough for the other crew to see him. “Don’t you mean her?”

“Not for the ship that flies that flag.” Painted above the Queensmen symbol in Common was the innocent sounding name “Merry Tale”. Olive swallowed the lump in her throat. It wouldn’t do to show her fear, especially with her captain being so clueless.

“Ah, so it’s famous! Jolly good!” Captain Sellis marched down the steps onto the main deck confidently. Olive followed afterword, tugging at a braided strand of her brown hair.

Most of the crew was already at work getting ready to be boarded by the Merry Tale’s crew. The more experienced crew members were just as wary as Olive about the other ship. She gave a knowing nod to those that caught her eye, followed by a short gesture towards the deck. Lie low, the movement said. The response was always a nod back and a return to helping the younger crew members with their tasks.

When the gangplanks had been set and rope tied securely, a small group marched from the Merry Tale’s deck towards their own. At the head was a man in fancy dress, walking with a cane to help with his peg leg. His blonde hair was neatly tied with a red ribbon, though it was hard to see beneath his large black hat and the distracting white feather that was attached to it. His skin had clearly seen sun, though it wasn’t nearly as dark as Olive’s own complexion. The man smiled as he noticed her examinations. She paled in response. This must be the captain of the Merry Tale himself.

She was so focused on the other captain that she barely registered the others in his party until they had already come aboard. There was nothing terribly different about them compared to her own crew, as far as she could tell from a brief glance. Other than the obvious tattoos of the Queensmen symbol that were present on the bodies of a couple of the members, of course.

Captain Sellis greeted the other captain enthusiastically. “Hello and welcome good sir! I am Ulfen Sellis, the captain of our dear Dragon Aria!” He shook the other man’s hand with vigor. “I didn’t name it myself, but I purchased it for quite a good price if I say so mySELF--?!” He yelped and dropped what he had been holding. A wooden replica of a hand landed on the deck with a dull thump.

The blonde captain chuckled and held his currently empty jacket sleeve up for inspection. “I’d offer you a hand with that, but it seems you’ve already taken one.” A couple of the members of his party laughed, but Olive could see a couple who had clearly heard the joke too many times. Sellis glanced from the wooden hand to the sleeve and back before loosing a nervous giggle.

“I-I see, sir.” When one of the other captain’s crew members made a move to pick it up, Sellis waved them away. “No no, I am hosting all of you on my ship, I shall pick it up.” He gave a grunt as he bent over to pick up the limb. By the time he had returned to an upright position, his pale face was already turning red from the effort. Olive bit the inside of her cheek. Her captain was serving the Merry Tale without even knowing it. She wasn’t sure if that meant well for them.

After accepting the hand and twisting it in place, the blonde captain smiled. There was something about it that Olive didn’t like. She couldn’t pin down what, exactly. “Thank you, Captain Sellis.” He put an emphasis on ‘captain’ that she couldn’t identify. “Allow me to introduce myself properly, then.” With a flourish, he tipped his hat enough to touch Sellis’ own with the feather. “Captain Cevonnis Torrent, of the Merry Tale.” Returning his hat to its proper position, he added, “And what a fine ship you own, good sir.”

After the introductions, the two captains exchanged quite a number of pleasantries. Olive tuned out the words while she studied the Merry Tale’s crew members some more. They seemed well fed. None appeared to be armed. This didn’t mean that they had no weapons. Oddly, she couldn’t tell which of them were Captain Torrent’s first mate. None of them seem particularly as attentive to her and the Aria’s crew as she was of them.

Olive’s musings were disrupted by a cry of alarm from Captain Sellis. “Search my ship! Whatever for?” Her eyes widened as she realized just how much of the conversation she had missed.

Captain Torrent had a lazy smile that still seemed off. “As a Queensman, I have her authority to search a ship within the Islands’ waters that is displaying suspicious activity. The Aria is certainly the most suspicious ship I’ve seen in ages. I need a list of what cargo you claim to have, while my crew will verify that all that you have recorded is up to standard.”

“Now see here!” Captain Sellis was starting to spit from his rage. “What proof to you have that you even ARE a Queensman, eh? All of those in the Turkon Islands’ workforce are WOMEN, are they not? So SHOW ME that you truly are one!” Olive’s blood turned to ice.

No one was smiling anymore. Not even Captain Torrent. “Rello, if you please.” One of the burlier members of the party stepped forward with their arms held out. The captain quickly and quietly handed over his cane, hat and jacket in quick order before he began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Now see here, this isn’t the time to STRIP--” Olive stamped on Sellis’ foot as hard as she could. “Now what was THAT for?”

Captain Torrent’s voice cut through whatever response she could have given. Despite the situation, it was still as even and almost light as it had been throughout the conversation. “I do not enjoy doing this, but you are well within your right to demand proof of my occupation, Captain Ulfen Sellis.” He turned around using his peg leg and pulled his shirt down over his shoulder blades. On his spine, just below his neck, was a tattoo of the Queensmen symbol. It glowed faintly gold. “Just as it is my duty to sail these waters in the Queen’s name, it is also my duty to inform you that refusing to comply with a true Queensman is illegal and subject to harsh punishment.”

As he turned back to face them, Olive realized why his smiles had seemed so strange. None of them had ever reached his cold eyes. Even the one he gave to Captain Sellis and herself now was that of a hunter towards his prey.

“I’m sure you haven’t heard of the Merry Tale, but I know you have heard of the Bloody Meri.” Captain Torrent waited until he saw Captain Sellis pale even further before continuing. “So now you shall see why exactly my ship is called that.”

#writing challenge #original fiction #day 22 #prompt: illegal #pirates #sorta #again #caregarn #i love my pirates i don't write enough about them #so two pirate stories close to each other #this one obviously takes place a LOT earlier than the previous one #with some worldbuilding and such #yeah you...really don't wanna piss cevo off #just saying #THIS GOT TO BE PRETTY LONG WOW #twenty two down nine to go

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