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iguana-eyanna · 3 years

Text

The Beauty Within Everything

Pairing: preserum! Steve Rogers x 1940s! reader

Summary: reader thinks Steve stood her up on their date but realizes he’s very ill

Warnings: illness, decline of physical health, angst

You were walking on the sidewalk, fuming with every step you took in your heels, cursing under your breath to whoever invented these shoes.

You were on your way to confronting Steve, your boyfriend, at his place.

You think back to the first time you met Steve at a park. You both sat on the same bench as you were reading a sort of novel while Steve was drawing something on paper. The wind blew strongly as he lost his grip on the piece, flying beside your feet. You pick it up and give it to him, looking down to realize he was drawing you.

You both blush at each other as you complimented his talent and he commented on your beauty. Then on, you guys have been dating for a couple of months.

Now, you were beyond upset about Steve avoiding you for the past week. He promised to take you out on a date, but then stood you up on the very night. You tried calling his telephone but he never picked up the line. Now you arrived on his doorstep, knocking on the door loudly. What you didn't expect was for Bucky, his best friend, to greet you.

"Hi, angel face. What brings you here?" Bucky tiredly asked. "I can ask the same for you, it looks like you haven't slept in days." you replied. Before Bucky could rebut, you invite yourself in looking for any sign of your boyfriend.

"Now's not a good time to visit Steve, doll." Bucky says, trying to usher you out. "That charm won't work on me Bucky. I have been beyond worried about why Steve hasn't been responding to my calls. Is he alright?" You ask, not realizing a figure is shuffling to the two of you.

"You shouldn't have come." a voice croaked out, coughing afterward. You turn around and gasp lightly, looking at a very ill Steve. His skin was pale as snow, and it looked like he was prying to keep his eyes open for a bit longer. Steve tries to take another step but almost falls down to his knees.

You and Bucky catch him in time, as you could feel your boyfriend going limp in your arms. "Help me take him to his bed." Bucky gritted his teeth as he properly held Steve on his side. The both of you took him to his mattress as you opened his blankets so Bucky can tuck in his friend. Steve's eyes were partly closed, but you both can tell he was drifting off to sleep. You sweep his hair out of his eyes and then follow Bucky to the living room.

"What happened?" you whispered lightly, trying not to wake him up. Bucky looks down to the ground, not wanting to break the news to you. "When Steve was a kid, the doctor said that he has a weak immune and respiratory system. Since then, he's had a lot of fevers in a span of months, up to the point where he contracts pneumonia twice a year. I've been staying with him for the past week in case something happens." You sit on a nearby chair, feeling your heart aching for Steve's health.

"This has been going on for years? Why hasn't he said anything? I would have understood if-" Bucky rolls his eyes and sits next to you. "You know him, he's stubborn as a piece of wood. But I think he was scared you'd reject him." Bucky sadly admitted. You stare at a nearby window, trying to think.

You stood up and grabbed your purse "I'll go to the market to buy some things. I'll take care of him. You need to go home and get some rest." Bucky was too tired to fight you on it, so he waited for your return.

You came back with bags of groceries as Bucky helped you carry them to the empty fridge. Before he left, he gave you instructions on how to help steve if he had a coughing fit or if he wasn't able to hold himself.

"Remember, he may have the will of ten men, but he's delicate." You nod your head and lock the door once Barnes leaves. You then started making a pot of your signature soup to pass time in case Steve wakes. Suddenly you hear him coughing uncontrollably, so you turned off the fire and grabbed a glass of water.

Seeing him sitting up with his chest heaving made your heartstrings pull. You then tended to him as you offered to Steve the cup that he gradually took.

Once his breathing slows to a normal rhythm, he looks up to you with such heartbreak. "You should go, I don't want to be a burden." he said the best he could.

You sit in front of him by the foot of the bed, ready to scold the living heck out of him. "I am not going anywhere, mister. You still owe me an apology for standing me up this past week. I was worried sick, Steve. Why would you keep this from me?"

“Cause I didn't want you to be looking at me like this." He replied in a small voice.

"You know I would have understood, you shouldn't have kept me in the dark." You told him, not breaking eye contact. Steve's eyes begin to water and cleaned them away with his sleeve.

"When I recently got sick, I realized something. I’m not the man who could carry you in my arms and kiss you with every ounce in my body without wheezing. I'm not the man who's able to provide for you, like giving you pretty dresses or sweet-smelling perfumes. Heck, I can't even afford you a rose” Steve said as his voice was breaking.

"And now you're spending your money to feed your poor pathetic boyfriend back to health. Can't you see I'm nothing but trouble for you?" He concludes, staring at you. You pause for a bit, reflecting on the words he uttered from his mouth.

"Not once have I ever thought you were weak, Steve. Dear God, I think you're one of the bravest men I know. So please, don't bring yourself down because you can't perform these things you've fantasized about doing. I have never cared for extravagant gifts and just having you in my life is more than enough. You taught me so much about life and the beauty within everything around me. That's why I..." you close in to take his hand on top of your beating heart.

"I love you. I love you so much that it hurts me to think you can't rely on me when you're in so much pain. So please Steve, don't push me away when we both know we were made for each other."

Steve's face softens as he begins to cry. You begin to tear up as you pull him into your chest, comforting him with all that you could give.

"What did I deserve to be with you?" he hiccuped.

"Everything, love. Everything, and more." you replied, lightly combing the back of his hair with your fingers.

Steve lets go of you and wiped away his tears, regaining his breath.

“How can I make up for the past week?” he asks, knitting his eyebrows with determination.

“You can make it up to me by telling the truth from now on. No more secrets between us. And I am nursing you back to health, starting with a soup I just made.” You told him.

Steve nods his head and feels his stomach rumble just from the mention of food. "Well, I am hungry." he sheepishly smiles. You laugh at his reply and got up to fetch a bowl of soup. You return back with the food and Steve holds his hand to feel the warmth of the bowl. Once he starts consuming it, his eyes roll to the back of his head and almost made a moaning sound.

"This is the most amazing meal I've had in a long time." Steve announced, making you laugh harder. He's happy that he made you smile, realizing how much he missed hearing the sound of your voice.

She was his rock, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

#preserum steve rogers #preserum steve rogers x reader #skinny steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x 40s! reader #steve rogers imagines #chris evans #steve rogers imagine

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janekfan · 4 years

Note

Hello! I'm back again with a Witcher prompt for you, if you’re in the mood! You said once that Geralt forgetting Jaskier’s human-ness is your jam, so: five (or however many) times Geralt completely overestimated his human companion’s physical tolerance/abilities, plus one time that he underestimated what Jaskier was capable of when called on. As gen or shippy as you like, but either way I’d like to politely request you go heavy on the kindness, affection, and comfort if you choose to fill it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26867821/chapters/65555047

Thank you! It is, in fact, my jam :D

Oh, he’s having a right time with this. Jaskier sipped his tea, hot as his sore throat could manage and grimaced at the sharp sting. He thinks I can’t see his smug grin. Last night, Jaskier had gone to sleep after a rough performance with an aching behind his tongue and woken to full fledged agony, and no he wasn’t being dramatic, it hurt, and unable to speak. After finishing his gruff assessment of him, Geralt had prescribed hot tea, plenty of water, and even so magnanimously agreed to stay one more day at the inn and for that, the bard was grateful. The thought of sleeping out in the rough feeling this dreadful inspired many a woeful ballad. If only he could sing them. But his voice was quite and thoroughly gone. Something Geralt found amusing to say the least.

“What a pleasant day this is proving to be, wouldn’t you say, bard?” Jaskier glowered, setting the cup aside and burrowing deeper into the inadequate bedclothes. He was positively freezing, clenching his jaw to avoid chattering his teeth, because while Geralt seemed to be in relative good humor, he could just as easily leave without him. “Ah, I forgot, you can’t.” Petulant, Jaskier stuck out his tongue and twisted up his face, turning away in the bed to curl up in his misery. He’d sleep this off. A good, restful day would clear whatever this was right up.

And of course, with his terrible luck, it didn’t and he woke in the early evening so incredibly thirsty, cursing himself for sleeping throughout the entire day. He downed the cold tea, whimpering and holding his neck at the burn of it, and noticed that Geralt was gone. The flash of fear at being abandoned was tempered by seeing armor and packs by the door, but Jaskier felt very suddenly alone. He longed for something warm to sip but after barely making it to the rough hewn pitcher to pour himself the last bit of water, he decided against a trip down the stairs. He would fall and make an embarrassment of himself and that wouldn’t do. Jaskier was exhausted and aching, a headache making itself at home behind his eyes and the throbbing, pulsing agony in his throat made tears spring to his eyes. Sleep. Sleep would make it all go away, at least for a little while, and he staggered back into bed to will himself to sleep. At least when Geralt came back he’d be warm.

The next morning dawned cheery and bright, the wretch, and Jaskier woke perhaps even worse off than yesterday. But he was met by a cup of medicated tea if the smell was anything to go by, being thrust into his face and Geralt saying he’d be waiting with Roach, but not without one more jab about his lost vocal talents. It was bringing him no end of amusement.

“Take your time.” Ah, that was nice of him and by the looks of things, Jaskier would need a fair bit of it. The weakness in his legs didn’t bode well for a day of travel. He was about to collapse and the day hadn’t even truly started. But he forced himself up, reeling as the room spun sideways, and very carefully limped down the stairs. He offered up a wan smile, trembling under all his layers.

Geralt looked furious.

He’d taken forever, he knew, but he really was trying his best, and as the sun rose high and the chills became worse, Jaskier fell behind. He could hear Roach, Geralt was traveling at a much slower pace than he normally would, and Jaskier would be grateful if he wasn’t focused so hard on the weight of his lute pulling him toward the forest floor. Everything hurt and the tears springing to his eyes almost had time to fall before he remembered himself. Geralt wasn’t a fan of his over emotional displays and without words he wasn’t able to express just how poorly he really was. No cure but to walk on. Stumble on. His weaving steps slowed him further, enough that Roach had been turned back around.

“G--” Like swallowing a blade, and the syllables died on his lips. Oh goddess. He was going to be ill and was, thankfully not all over Roach’s hooves, and the fire of it drove him to hands and knees.

“Jaskier?” The thump of heavy boots hitting the ground was all the warning he got before a rough, blessedly cool palm pressed itself over his forehead. “Alright.” Jaskier could have sobbed as Geralt grabbed his bicep and dragged him, supported him, a little ways down the path. There was enough space here to set up a small camp and Geralt threw down his bedroll, dropping Jaskier on top of it and going about the motions that suggested they’d stay for at least a little while. The bard held his breath, tried to inhale, exhale in a way that didn’t make everything hurt worse and had almost dropped off to sleep when more tea was thrust under his nose. Willow bark and something else. And even if his stomach did feel up to it, the promise of even a modicum of relief was a heady thing, and Jaskier downed the cup even though it was too hot, falling back and curling into the rough wool.

Late afternoon sun lancing across his face woke him up and Jaskier was not well pleased at how sick he still felt. It was unlike him to be laid low like this. He shifted his head, drawing a shaky half breath, and found Geralt tending to the fire. He was so thirsty with no way to tell him and no way to get up. He hadn’t been drinking enough and tried to gesture, nimble fingers uncoordinated and frightened because of it.

“Go back to sleep, Jaskier.” With no other recourse, he did as he was told.

This time, Geralt’s hand on his cheek pulled him up out of the dark place he’d gone. The witcher tutted, levering him up and holding more tea to his lips, only this time Jaskier could barely swallow, the pain was so great, and rather than waiting on him to finish, he pressed the cup into his quaking hands. Jaskier wasn’t sure he could even lift it. So he didn’t. Just watched blearily as Geralt broke camp, tied his lute to the saddle and that was good. Except there was no way he’d be able to stand, he could tell, and the thought prompted the tears to slip silently down his face and off his chin. He was going to be left here to die. Because he was human and weak and useless. Geralt could sell off his instrument for a good price, make up for the time Jaskier wasted slowing him down. The tea dropped from his fingers and he hid his face behind his hands. Geralt didn’t like it when he was emotional. Better to hide it. Better not to see him walk away from him. At least then he could pretend that he hadn’t left him.

“Jaskier?” He risked a glance and wished he hadn’t. Disappointment and frustration. With him. Always with him. He hadn’t meant to get sick. He hadn’t meant to. “You’ll have to hold on.” Hold on? To what? And the answer came moments later when he was hoisted onto Roach’s back like he weighed nothing at all and Geralt mounted in front of him. “Hold on.” Tentative, confused, Jaskier threaded his arms around the witcher’s waist, hugging him for lack of a better term and burying his cheek into a warm shoulder. Hold on. Easy enough. Even he could do that, right?

Apparently not, and Geralt’s gruff demands for him to hold on and stay awake and don’t fall became increasingly intrusive. Jaskier didn’t want to do those things. He wanted to stop moving and sleep, he didn’t even care anymore about how mad his failures were making Geralt. The alternating stripes of trees and beams of sun passed by too quickly, dizzying him and it seemed like everywhere he looked there was more of it and he couldn’t keep up. The speed was too great, he was being shaken from his precarious perch and his arms were so numb he couldn’t feel them where they’d let go of Geralt.

An attenuated moment passed where Jaskier was completely airbourne. He’d fallen from horses before. He knew how to fall. But he couldn’t get anything to work with him, all deadweight and drained. When he hit the ground, the hard impact wasn’t even bad enough to distract from the stoked embers burning up in his throat and he laid there, listening to Roach’s nickering and uneven gait as she turned around. He was cold. He was hot. He was nothing at all and Geralt’s shout of surprise sounded like it had come to him from miles away underwater. Jaskier knew he was being touched, knew he was being lifted, even knew he was being yelled at, but it seemed like it was all happening to someone else. Someone far away from all this. He’d tried. He had. But like always, it hadn’t been good enough.

“Jaskier!” Growling, loud and rough, and he couldn’t open his eyes long enough to see the rage painted there. The light was too bright, blinding and blistering, adding to the fire and the heat and Jaskier wasn’t able to stay conscious even through the witcher’s shouting.

An indeterminate stretch of time passed and Jaskier wouldn’t be able to tell anyone all of what occurred within. It was a haze of hurting and being touched by unfamiliar hands. Maneuvered whether he wanted it to happen or not. Horrible tinctures poured down his throat that made him shed silent tears because he was nothing without his voice and no one would listen to what his body was trying to say. He was helpless, frightened, confused. Glimpses of familiar white hair caused him to weep because he was sorry, so, so sorry that he’d done this, even if he wasn’t completely sure what ‘this’ was. Damp clothes soothed some of the blistering and there were moments in between the suffering where he was sure he’d never again open his eyes.

But he did.

And he felt dreadful. So sick. Still pained and barely able to lift a finger. Gently, as though he might break, a cool flannel swept over his hot face, down his cheek and the warm compress over his throat was adjusted, wafting the strong scent of garlic into the air. He must have made a face because a familiar chuckle rang out somewhere to the left of him.

“Jaskier?” Soft and kind and he did Geralt the courtesy of tipping his face toward him but didn’t remember much after that.

“You should’ve told me.” Jaskier glared weakly, pained, wrung out and still so, so tired, and Geralt had the sense to look shamed. After a strict regimen of teas, potions, and elixirs from the village healer, Jaskier appeared to be on the mend, albeit slowly. The witcher explained, for what was probably the seventh time seeing as he couldn’t hold a thought in his head for longer than a moment when he first began to wake, that he’d succumbed to a blood infection. “I should have noticed sooner." He fussed, tucking the blankets closer around him, smoothing them out and brushing back his sweat-soaked fringe. "Shouldn’t have pushed you so hard.” With an obscene amount of effort, Jaskier patted Geralt’s hand where it now rested on the sheets beside him, letting it linger there, absorbing the warmth.

All forgiven.

Or it would be after a few more days of attentive doting.

#The witcher #the witcher fanfiction #prompt #Geraskier #Jaskier #Geralt of rivia #Geralt #Sick #fever #illness #caretaking

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jovialyouthmusic · 4 years

Text

Past Times

Here’s my attempt at writing a Regency Period Drama. You can catch up on my Masterlist. My MC Elizabeth and her family are visiting her fiancé at his estate south of Edinburgh in Scotland. House guests are expected for the beginning of a series of balls and other amusements similar to the Social Season normally held in London. I’m not attempting to make this super accurate, I’m just fascinated by social history from this era and am having a little fun. My period AU, my rules!

Word Count 2983

A/N No smut, mostly fluff, but this is an adult blog and will get more explicit so No under 18s

11 Company

After luncheon, the family gathered in the lounge to await the arrival of the next guests. Elizabeth practiced a tune on the piano, and her sister sat embroidering a sampler. It had been decided that after Amelia had been introduced to Tom and Dorothea, she would enquire as to whether Lady Margaret wished her to read to her. Sir James read his newspaper, and Lady Charlotte and Morag played cards together. John stood by Elizabeth’s side turning the pages as she played. From there he had a view of the driveway, and would see any new arrivals.

‘I see a carriage approaching’ he announced as Elizabeth took a break in playing to sip a glass of raspberry cordial. ‘I shall go and greet them outside – will you come with me, Lizzy?’

‘Of course’ she replied, and stood, smoothing back her hair ‘Do I look presentable?’

‘Always, my dear’ he assured her, but Lizzy turned in question to her mother, who nodded in approval. Together the couple went out to greet the guests while the others made themselves ready in the lounge. They arrived with a few seconds to spare, and the carriage, drawn by two fine chestnut horses, drew to a halt in front of the manor. Tom alighted first, and helped Dorothea out before turning to John, who embraced him and slapped him heartily on the back.

‘Welcome, welcome Tom. We will have a merry time now you and Dorothea are here. You’ve met my fiancé, Elizabeth Dalgliesh, if you recall?’ Dorothea made a little curtsey and stepped forward to take Elizabeth’s hand.

‘I well recall how rude Tom was when we met at Duddingston. I am so pleased that his ill manners did not deter you from accepting John’s suit’ she said, smiling brightly.

‘Not at all Dorothea, my mind was made up already and nothing would put me off, I assure you’ Elizabeth replied, and Tom turned to her and took her hand, kissing the back of it.

‘My apologies for my former misbehaviour, Miss Elizabeth. I am pleased John has found such a determined and forgiving soul to spend his later years with’ John dealt a playful blow to Tom’s shoulder.

‘Less of the later years, you scoundrel. You are but two months my junior, Tom’ he asserted. ‘Come inside, you must meet Lizzy’s family. I fear mother is not available yet, but I believe she may join us for dinner later.’

‘I’m sorry to hear she’s indisposed’ Dorothea said ‘I hope you do not mind if I call you Lizzy, my dear’ she said, squeezing Elizabeth’s arm. ‘I am determined we should be firm friends, for we women should stick together when there are such rascals as my husband about’

‘That is most acceptable’ Elizabeth replied ‘Do you know many of John’s other guests?’

‘I do indeed, for I grew up not far away, and know all the gentry in John’s social circle. I am sure that between us we can name each guest and tell each other their temperament, for I am not often in Edinburgh and you are almost certain to know those who visit from the city’ The four young people went inside the house to introduce themselves to the Dalgleish family, then going up to their room to settle in and prepare for dinner. Amelia was loathe to spend time with Lady Margaret, realising that the arrival of guests closer to her sister’s age might afford more entertaining activities. However, Elizabeth instructed her to make sure and read something uplifting and entertaining so that the Duchess might feel more able to take part in the gathering.

Tom and Dorothea chose to go for a walk in the grounds before dinner, and John and Elizabeth joined them. The conversation was lively, and Elizabeth knew it would be easy to share confidences with her female companion. Her friend Rosanna would be coming for but a short visit for the betrothal ball to be held in a week’s time. She herself now had her own beau and was spending much time with his family, so had little to spare for Elizabeth. However, the two young women wrote to each other regularly and kept each other updated on their love lives and other matters.

After their walk, Elizabeth went to dress for dinner. Amelia came into her room.

‘How did your visit with Lady Margaret go, Melly?’ she asked

‘She seemed more cheerful after I had read to her’

‘What did you choose?’ Amelia smiled mischievously

‘Lady Margaret has a collection of gothic novels. She reads much of Anne Radcliffe’s work, so we have chosen a book called The Romance of the Forest. I fear we shall not be reading it in public, but shall choose poetry should there be anyone to eavesdrop’

‘That sounds most exciting’ Elizabeth laughed ‘Who would have though that Lady Margaret had such tastes?’ The sisters helped each other prepare for dinner before going to their parents’ room for approval, and the family descended together. Truly there was no pressing need to dress grandly in the company of Tom and Dorothea, but Lady Charlotte thought it good practice for the upcoming ball and other dinners.

Lady Margaret was present at the meal, and looked a good deal better, having some colour in her cheeks and being more animated in her conversation. After dinner the men withdrew to the study for Sir James to get better acquainted with Tom. The ladies went to the drawing room, the older ones playing cards while the younger women sat and conversed until the men joined them. Dorothea was prevailed upon to play the piano, but Elizabeth was concerned about John’s agility with his injured leg as she played a merry dance tune.

‘I understand if you are not able to take a turn’ she said in a low tone, as music filled the air. Her hand rested on his forearm, and he patted it comfortingly.

‘I can manage the slower dances if I have had some exercise during the day’ he assured her ‘Our walk in the garden helped to ease it somewhat’ Elizabeth pulled out her fan and deployed it as colour rose to her cheeks.

‘Would that we were in the arbour alone again’ she replied ‘Though I must confess having Tom and Dorothea here has enlivened things somewhat’ John smiled

‘Their company is very agreeable, and it is good to have guests closer to our own age’ He patted her arm and raised his voice to address the room. ‘If Dorothea would oblige me in playing something a little more sedate, I invite everyone to take the floor in order to practice for the ball’ he announced.

Dorothea smiled, and Sir James and Lady Charlotte rose to take part, the furniture already having been arranged to make space. Tom asked Lady Margaret if she wished to dance, but she declined and suggested that perhaps Amelia would partner him. She blushed furiously, but Elizabeth reminded her that before long she would be taking part in dances that might cause her to dance with someone with whom she had very little acquaintance, and it was good practice for her. Timidly she agreed, and Tom promised to make her feel at ease.

Eagerly Elizabeth took John’s hand and the partners arranged themselves. Dorothea started to play a tune for the Cotillion. The dance needed only a very few couples, and they managed very well before they went on to attempt a reel. There were a few hitches in the changeover of partners which caused a great deal of laughter, and after that Elizabeth declared that it was a good opportunity to practice with friends so that they would not be embarrassed in wider society.

Lady Margaret had watched the dancing with a smile, and declared that the hour was late and she would retire for the evening. Lord and Lady Dalgleish politely followed her example, insisting that Amelia would also. She pouted a little but dared not complain in front of Tom and Dorothea, so did as she was told.

That left the two young couples to themselves, though Morag declared that she would be sitting in the hall to await Elizabeth’s lone departure to her room.

‘Oh Lizzy, I well remember the restrictions of a chaperone’ said Dorothea, leaning toward her and fanning herself. ‘Mine was an absolute fright and never went out of earshot if she could help it’

‘Morag did allow us a very few freedoms’ Elizabeth confided ‘but now I have accepted John’s proposal she is more lenient’

‘We should play some parlour games’ Dorothea cried

‘With only the four of us, there are few games we could play, my dear’ Tom said ‘Perhaps when there are more young people like ourselves we may indulge, but I have an idea to put to our dear friends’

‘Do tell’ Elizabeth begged ‘I dearly love my parents, but their pastimes can be dull, and I must be careful not to do anything improper for Amelia’s sake’ John looked wary.

‘Beware, Lizzy – Tom’s ideas of fun can be rather – extreme’ he warned her. Tom looked aghast

‘I was but going to propose a card game’ he protested ‘One in which we play for points’

‘Father will not allow me to play for money’ Elizabeth sighed ‘He always was wary of wagers and gambling, and his fears were realised with my former fiancé’

‘I was not thinking of money’ Tom smiled archly ‘I propose we pay with kisses’ Elizabeth gasped and fanned herself furiously, and Dorothea giggled, putting her hand on her friend’s forearm.

‘We have played this before, my sweet friend. You need have no fear of impropriety, for the person receiving the kiss may choose where it is bestowed. You may have a kiss on the hand or the cheek or wherever you will, and the person doing the kissing can also choose if they are uncomfortable’ Elizabeth felt a little thrill at the thought of perhaps gaining a kiss from John despite them not being alone, but she wasn’t sure just how proper it was. John leaned close to her.

‘You need do nothing you feel uncomfortable with, Lizzy’ he assured her ‘We can play for matchsticks if you prefer.’ Elizabeth sat in contemplation.

‘I only fear that mother and father would not approve, but what they don’t know cannot harm them, and we are engaged, after all’ Dorothea clapped her hands

‘Does that mean you will play?’ she asked eagerly, and Elizabeth took a deep breath.

‘Yes, I surely will. Why sit and be dull and proper when we can have a little fun?’ She looked at John, his eyes darkening and glittering at her boldness. He rose to fetch a deck of cards, and the others arranged themselves around the card table.

‘I propose that we might be make our own rules’ Tom asserted, and Elizabeth looked dubious. ‘It’s simple – we each are dealt three cards, and count up the points, with aces high, and the highest scoring player will be the one to kiss the lowest. The loser may also choose to play a forfeit if they don’t wish to be kissed.’

‘But there is no skill in the game’ John protested.

‘Indeed, it is all chance, and is not love all a matter of chance?’ Tom laughed ‘We see a pretty face and fall in love, no matter what station or class that pretty face might possess’ Dorothea pouted.

‘I suppose that means you may try for the hand of a milkmaid if she be comely enough’

‘That is where society comes in’ John interjected ‘If one is poor, one is unlikely to marry rich’

‘We are fortunate to be comfortable in our way of life’ Elizabeth replied.

‘Indeed, and I believe in helping those in need’ John smiled ‘It is our duty to help those who cannot help themselves, if we can’

‘Enough of this virtue!’ Tom sighed ‘let us play’ He picked up the deck of cards and shuffled. Elizabeth felt her heart beat a little faster as he dealt. Her hand shook a little as she picked up hers , guarding them from John’s sight. She had a queen, a two and a five, which came to nineteen. She flicked her gaze to her fiancée, who smiled back at her reassuringly.

‘Count up’ Tom directed, leaning toward his wife to look at her hand. She batted at him and laid them down. She had but six points, and Tom had twenty, so Elizabeth sighed with relief. John had seventeen points and Tom rolled his eyes. Dorothea laughed.

‘You must kiss me then, husband’ She offered Tom her hand, which he grabbed and kissed, then proceeded to continue with small kisses up her arm to her shoulder, finishing up on her cheek. ‘Fie Tom, one kiss would have sufficed’ she protested.

‘One kiss is never enough with you, my dearest’ he murmured, gazing deep into her eyes. Elizabeth swallowed, and Tom gathered up the cards, handing them to his wife to deal out. This time John had the most points and Tom the least.

‘My dear Tom, I have no intention of kissing you’ he asserted ‘So I charge you to tell my intended the circumstances of our meeting’ Tom winced

‘That is a sad tale indeed’ he said glumly.

‘Only for you’ John laughed. ‘It is your forfeit, and you must do it’ Tom sighed heavily.

‘Very well. Miss Dalgleish, the day I met John he most likely saved my life, for I missed my step on the gangplank to the ship we were to serve on together, and he dove in to fish me out of the water’

‘That water was not the cleanest either’ John added ‘I swear I came out smelling worse than when I went in, and had to pay extra to have my uniform cleaned’ He took the cards to deal them out. Dorothea had the highest score and John the lowest. Tom frowned slightly as she rose from her seat and walked around the table. She leaned down to John and lightly kissed his forehead.

‘See, it is not so difficult’ she smiled ‘Elizabeth, should you lose to my Tom, this is all you must do’

‘This game will not last very long, I fear’ Tom sighed ‘It would also be better played with more participants.’

‘It grows late, and Lizzie’s chaperone is waiting’ John pointed out. ‘We don’t want to scandalise Sir James, we should retire soon.’ Tom nodded sagely, and the cards were handed to Dorothea. She dealt while Tom refilled everyone’s glasses with wine. Elizabeth felt a little light headed as she sipped, and turned her cards over, squinting a little to read them. She felt a flutter as she realised that hers was the highest count, but was dismayed to discover that Dorothea had the lowest. Tom smiled at the two women and his eyes darkened.

‘Surely you will kiss, my dears?’ he said hoarsely, shifting in his seat a little. Elizabeth felt a little dizzy as she rose to walk toward her new friend.

‘Do not fear’ Dorothea said softly ‘You may but kiss my hand’ Elizabeth blushed and leaned over to peck her on the cheek. A scent of jasmine and lavender greeted her, and her skin was soft. Tom’s eyes glittered as John shifted uneasily.

‘You are bold Miss Dalgleish’ Tom said throatily, and she went back to her seat swiftly, picking up the cards to deal again. She calculated that she had a low count, and scanned the faces of the others as they work out their hand. She turned her card over to show them.

‘I have but five’ she admitted ‘Who of you shall be the one to kiss me?’ All eyes were on John as he revealed his cards one by one, being two kings and an ace. Tom threw his hand down with a heavy sigh, and Dorothea smiled sweetly.

‘You and your sweetheart may have at it’ she asserted, revealing a hand of but two sevens and a two, and Tom with a king, a two and a three. John smiled and beckoned her, pushing his chair away from the table and patting his lap.

‘We should do this properly, my dearest, for I think after this we should retire’ She rose and approached, for him to take her hand and gently pull her onto his lap. After a pang of self consciousness, she threw her arms around his neck, surrendering to his warm solidity and inhaling the scents of leather and musk that rose to her. She pressed her forehead to his.

‘I can barely wait to be wed’ she murmured ‘To have the freedom to touch and be touched is my most fervent wish’

‘It is my wish too’ he assured her, gazing into her eyes before their lips met. Everything around her – the room and its occupants – vanished from her senses and she felt only his firm body and his lips, a little scratch from the stubble on his lip and chin that she had noticed developed over the day.

She snapped back to her senses as she heard a tap on the door.

‘Miss Elizabeth, the hour is late’ her chaperone was heard to say. The lovers broke their kiss and again rested their foreheads together.

‘Until tomorrow my dear Lizzie’ John murmured ‘I may perhaps visit you in your dreams’ Elizabeth rose, looking over at her new friends. Dorothea smiled sympathetically, but Tom looked away, somewhat embarrassed.

‘Until tomorrow, my dear John’ she replied, and curtseyed to the other two. ‘I enjoyed our game. It is wonderful to have you here and I hope we will have more fun in the weeks to come’ She went to the door and turned to blow a kiss before she left to go to her lonely bedchamber.

@sirbeepsalot @camillemontespan @dcbbw @rainbowsinthestorm @katedrakeohd @trappedinfandoms @kingliam2019 @nomadics-stuff @texaskitten30 @princess-geek @texaskitten30 @fluffyfirewhiskey

#past times #period drama #regency drama #regency scotland #elizabeth and john #Elizabeth Dalgliesh #Captain John Lykel

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ddagent · 5 years

Note

I know we just got it, but is there a chance of a follow-up to Brienne being able to read people's minds? It's sooooo good.

I have been absolutely overwhelmed by the response to telepathic!Brienne, and I truly hope you enjoy this follow-up! Thank you to @resthefuture for this AMAZING moodboard!

Part One, “Noise” can be read here.

Brienne’s elbow jerked, and a nearby coffee cup tipped to the side; brown liquid spilling across the conference room table. Her colleagues scrambled to clear away the papers littering the surface; a flurry of thoughts bombarding Brienne as she suddenly became the focal point of the meeting.

What a klutz.

You’d think someone with arms that long would have better control over them.

What is Tarth even doing here? She hasn’t worked on a proper case in months.

Fuck; thanks a lot, Tarth! Why don’t you go back to the bridge you crawled out from?

She shouldn’t be here. She probably has a concussion.

Brienne looked up at that last thought; Jaime Lannister’s voice cutting clear across the din. Despite the concern in every syllable, the senior partner sat in his chair, scrolling through his phone with disinterest. He seemed utterly oblivious to her mishap at the other end of the table. And, yet, Brienne was sure it was him. Sure it was his voice, filled with longing, that had called out for her to look at him for once. And, yet—

“Are you finished, Ms Tarth?” Brienne opened her mouth to respond, but Lannister didn’t allow her the opportunity. “Good. Stone: update on the Greyjoy case.”

As one of her fellow associates launched into the latest legal battle between the brothers warring over their father’s will, Brienne dropped to her seat; cheeks flushed. On a normal day, knocking over a coffee cup and drawing the ire of a senior partner would rank amongst one of her worst. But her newfound...ability pushed it to the very top. Her colleagues barely tolerated her. Renly Baratheon used her. And Jaime Lannister— Well, Brienne wasn’t entirely sure what to make of him just yet.

The meeting finally drew to a close, and her colleagues filed out one-by-one. Renly was the first to leave; he had an appointment with an intern at the advertising agency on five for some illicit fun in the men’s bathroom. Her colleagues had casework, calls to make, games to play. Brienne was the last to rise, and almost the last to leave. Jaime Lannister remained sitting; his manicured fingertips tracing the grain in the wood.

“We don’t do injury claims here, Ms Tarth.”

Her forehead furrowed. “I’m–I’m sorry?”

He pointed at her face. “The bump on your head. This is a serious firm, taking on serious cases. You won’t find anyone here to take your case if you decide to sue.” A lawsuit is too good for whatever animal did that to you, anyway. A broken jaw would be better.

“I—” Brienne was tired of half-finishing her sentences; so overwhelmed was she that words were far beyond her grasp. So she swallowed, straightened, and said: “I don’t intend to sue, Mister Lannister, but I do intend to press charges when the gold cloaks catch whoever was responsible.”

If she hadn’t heard his soft, aching thoughts, Brienne would have missed the taut line of his shoulders; the tightening of his grasp around the table. “You were attacked?” A broken jaw is far too good. I’ll call Tyrion; he knows people. We’ll have him buried by day’s end.

“No!” Brienne blurted; Lannister’s eyes widening at her sudden outburst. Fuck. “I mean, I was attacked, but only because I was trying to save someone else from being mugged.”

“Well, aren’t you the gallant knight.” Like Ser Blue. Tall, strong; I bet you could pin me–no, Jaime, not in the workplace. “We have an excellent healthcare policy, Ms Tarth; we here at Lannister, Baratheon, and Targaryen pride ourselves on it, in fact. I suggest you use it.” Please go home, Brienne. Get some rest.

“Thank you, but I’m fine.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But this was me covering my own arse; if you decide to sue us later for breach of care or...whatever, your case won’t hold water. I’d get some ice for your head, though. That bruise makes you look even uglier than usual.”

Lannister rose from his seat and made his departure from the conference room. He looked like the Warrior as he departed: expensive suit, well-cut mane, golden grin. But Brienne could hear his thoughts, and they betrayed a different kind of man. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did you say that, you idiot? Now she’s going to think you think she’s ugly, and judging from last night’s— Brienne was grateful when Lannister disappeared from her eye-line, and she could no longer hear him. If she had any doubts that his thoughts were about her, they had evaporated some ago. Jaime Lannister, the most eligible bachelor in King’s Landing and a disgrace to the legal profession, liked her.

Too many thoughts. Too many questions. Too loud. Too much noise.

Brienne retreated to her office, adjusted the blinds and shut the door. She logged onto her company laptop and pulled up a search engine, deciding to start at the beginning. Hearing people’s thoughts brought up more than a few results about mental illness. Telepathy was a more prosperous search, although Brienne was led to more than one site promising to teach people how to read thoughts for a monthly fee. Her search came up with nothing as to how to control or stop it; the most useful advice she saw was not telling a maester she could hear other people’s thoughts.

After a while, Brienne opened a new window and typed in Jaime Lannister.

As expected, there was the firm’s website; a series of tabloid articles detailing his well-publicised affair with his step-sister. The images tab revealed numerous photoshoots for various magazines, including a charity calendar of various attorneys in the city. Renly’s month had been in Brienne’s kitchen all year round. The news tab made mention of cases he’d won – and the Aerys Targaryen debacle. He’d wrecked Targaryen’s defence on purpose; had almost been disbarred had his father not come to his aid. Jaime Lannister was deplorable. And he liked her.

Before Brienne could fall down a rabbit hole about what that said about her, there were two knocks at the door. Renly didn’t even wait to be invited in before he came inside, throwing her that winning smile. “Hey, you.”

She quickly pulled down the lid of her laptop before he could see the pictures of Jaime and jump to the wrong conclusion. “Hello yourself.”

“So, earlier, I mentioned that very special job for you?”

“Right.”

“Shall we head to my office? We can talk about the case, one-on-one.” Come on, you never miss the opportunity for some alone time with me, Brienne. Take my special job, so I can get some jobs of my own down at the Club. “I’ll get the tea – no coffee.”

“I–I can’t.” Are you serious? Brienne was serious. She was better than this; a better lawyer than this. Now she knew the truth, she would not let herself be used in such fashion. “I’m afraid I’m working on another case already.”

Renly chuckled. “Well, as a senior partner, I’m sure we can move a few people around.” Are you really trying to play hard to get, Brienne?

“The case I’m working on is for a senior partner. Mister Lannister asked for my help.”

Oh, fuck off he did. He can’t stand you. “He did?” At that exact moment, as if the Gods wished to test Brienne further, Lannister walked by her office. “Jaime, can I bother you for a minute?”

“Why stop at a minute?” Why couldn’t you have run the Storm’s End office? Your brother is a bore, but at least you know where you stand with him. “What’s wrong, Renly?”

“Brienne here says you’ve asked for her help on a case? I was rather hoping she could help with mine.”

Lannister’s head swivelled towards her; one eyebrow raised, intrigued. “She did, hmm?” Don’t tell me you’ve finally wised up to this arse, Tarth. She had. And if it came down to it, she’d rather listen to his thoughts than Renly’s. What a sorry state her life had become. “Well, she is. Working with me on a case.”

Renly spluttered. “But–but Brienne and I have a special working relationship.”

Oh, I know all about your relationship. She does all the work while you galavant around town. “Well, this case requires Ms Tarth’s special skillset. Sorry, Renly. Guess she’s mine now.”

Brienne was about to voice an objection over being treated like property when she heard Jaime’s inaudible sigh. If only.

#braime #jaime x brienne #brienne x jaime #anonymous #mine: paragraph prompts #ship: braime #fic: telepathic brienne

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voidselfshipp · 4 years

Text

Saved

Cw: violence, food

Ok to rb

It was late, she knew she shouldnt be out at this hour.

Yet here she was, a bag of food in her hand, another with her keys ready, her breath quickens as she feels the presence of someone behind her.

She had the strenght to take them, she knew she could defend herself.

But there is no worse enemy than fear, she speeds up, and the Man behind her also does.

Shes praying, seeing her appartment was two blocks away,trying to start running.

Another Man walks infront of her, she cant see his face,just a black and white mask, who as soon as she passes him gets infront of the stalker stopping him.

-- get out of my way, asshole-- the stalker said.

-- what where you doing following her?

She knew that voice,or well she heard it before,the moon shined as some clouds move away.

Rorschach...

She didnt think the anti-hero would be around this block, but thank goodness he was there.

The stalker resists and rorschach in a swift move makes him fall on the ground-- leave the woman alone-- his foot stomped on his chest-- go back to the hole that you crawled out of,you Filthy Scum!

The stalker freaks out and bolts running away from the anti hero.

He turns to face jerico,walking some steps towards her-- are you hurt? Did that bastard do anything to you?

--No, thankfully, thank you uh...for saving me...

--im happy to help, can I Scort you back to your home?

--yeah id love that...

Both walk togheter in silence, the appartment building was silent as ever, she says her goodbyes and enters the building.

Rorsarch, or well, Walter, sighs, scratching the back of his neck, the woman he saved was so beautiful, If she started talking while walking he wouldnt know how to react, hed get nervous, his face would heat up and wouldnt be able to utter a Word, surely making a fool out of himself.

He stuck around the block for a little longer, and Walked up the Fire scape stairs, he peeks his head and there she was, fifth floor, asleep on her bed, something curled up besides her, she rested soundly,and he lets out a loved full sigh, putting a hand on the locked Windows glass it started to rain, and he then sighed in annoyance.

And so he went back home,making sure he wasnt followed either.

He took routes nobody knew, he checked every corner and alley, nothing,no-one tailed Him to his home.

The door clicks Open, he locks it behind her and takes off his mask,breathing the fresh air.

Taking off his clothes changing into normal ones,leaving the others in his secret Office.

As he enters the kitchen hes greeted by this tiny pomerarian jumping at his feet, he picks the dog up and kisses its forehead-- hello princess,did you miss me?--the dog barks and he makes himself something to eat.

After dinner, altough, late dinner, he went to sleep,clinging to the pillow,thinking of the woman he saved.

And so, destiny kept making them meet, or more so, rorschach would always make sure shed be safe, even during the day.

Silently following her from a distance,oh how much he blushed when he heard her laugh, her sense of style, it knocked the breath out of him sometimes.

He wished he could do something,anything to talk to her, but he cowered every time.

One particular Day,she had it rough, when the day ended he saw her throw herself on the bed,and pass out shortly after.

Hed got her some chocolates and roses, left them there in her room as she forgot to lock the Window,he left them on her desk, silentely stepping out and closing the Window.

--Good night dear...--he smiled under his mask.

Jerico woke up by the licking of her pet dragon she sits up hugging him--mornin...

The dragon squeaks and she looks at the desk, finding the gift someone left for her, walking up to it she reads the note attached to the box of chocolates "I know you had it rough yesterday, I hope this helps, I know nobody gave you flowers before... I hope todays better.

-W "

Who could they be? How did they gor in there-- im...such...an...idiot-- she locked the Window and put the flowers in a base filled with water.

After eating breakfast she sat on bed, laptop on her lap, writing the next chapter of her second Fantasy novel.

Unkown to her, her savior did enjoy her first book.

Now rorschach wasnt a Man of fiction, but her writing was just so catching and interesting.

So here he was drinking coffee while Reading on his kitchen, princess sitting on the table eating her food.

He found out she was a writer when he snucked into her home and found the first book of her novel, "the clan of the Rose dragon" he decided to buy his own copy, and he was enjoying it very much.

That same night he did his patrol and stopped in jericos home.

There he was, hand on the glass, wishing he was there cuddling besides her, specially tonight,a very cold and rainy night.

-- are you gonna come in or Will you Keep there brooding

Seeing her Open her eyes while talking to him makes rorsarch jump back, she opened the window-- come on its cold outside

--i uh...didnt mean to bother you

Jeri chuckles-- nonsense, come on

He steps in taking off his trenchcoat, he sits on the chair right infront of her desk, she sits on the edge of the bed--thanks for making sure im always safe ror

He smiles at the petname,--just making sure that creep isnt around to harm you

She chuckles--y'know...I was thinking...I got some roses and chocolate the other week, did you get them for me?

Hes surprised,howd she knew?-- yeah...--he said scratching the back of his neck -- howd you figured?

-- well...youve been brooding in silence these nights...and the roses and chocolates...I just figured...I liked the detail, thank you

--im glad you like them...

Both stay in silence,he then looks outside and yawns.

--Want to stay the night? Its too late

He snapped his head to her -- what?

--want to stay the night? Its late, and youll catch a cold,cant have my savior sick -- she winks at him and he looks away with blush creeping up his cheeks.

--i uh..I dont wanna bother but...if you insist I can take the sofá

--no no..come here stay in the bed, its warm already, ill take the sofá in case you want to take your mask off, to give you privacy

Normally anyone would kill to see his face..but there she was, geniunly respecting such boundary.

--dont do that, ill take the sofa its your bed...besides I know I wont get too much sleep

She got into bed and patted the space besides her-- come here then,lets share

Hes taken back, jumping slightly in his Seat, blushing red, he was stuttering,she was so beautiful, he didnt know what to do with himself.

--i dont want to look like a creep, its your personal space

-- Its not being a creep if I invite you

He sighed in defeat and took his scarf and shoes off, he locks the Window and draws the courtains laying on the bed with her.

--Night ror-- she said her back facing his.

--night-- he whispered back looking at the bedrooms door.

The Next morning he woke up with breakfast on the nightstand, just a coffee and she made pancakes.

He ate the breakfast with the happiest and biggest of grins, he washed the dishes, hough the sun was already out, he stayed the whole day and at night he would go back home.

Both shared lunch and dinner, not too much speaking was involved, but her presence was soothing.

And now at night he was just about to leave,he hugs her tightly and whispers a soft goodbye.

She caresses his cheek-- come back tomorrow?..

His hand lifted her face by the chin--of course sweetheart --He caresses her Lower lip and presses his lips against her forehead, even while using his mask,the kiss was as if he didnt have the mask on.

He left back home missing her terribly, his lips longed for hers, to hold her, have her wrap her arms around his back...

Rorschach sighed in love, he loved her so much.

So the Next night he came back and as soon as he stepped into her room lifted her up, hugging her tightly and taking off his mask, at least up to his lips to kiss her.

She kissed back and pressed him against the wall where the Window is,he grippes the Windowsill with one hand, the other ghosted her Lower waist as her arms wrapped around his neck.

He parted his lips, she smiled pressing hers against his again, hugging her tightly he drops her to the bed where they cuddle the night away.

Its late, the rain hits the Window and the thunder struck the Sky.

She caressed his cheek, rorsarch sighed--can you promise me something?--he asked.

--Of course...what is it?--she asked leaning in.

--If I take this off, Will you Keep my identity a secret?

She nodded--of course,I adore you too much...id never snitch on you ror

He licked his lips at took the mask off, oh wait, she saw him before, he would follow her around the city,she always knew he was familiar to her in some way,never really knowing what seemed so familiar of him.

She kissed rorsarch holding him close, he hugs her tightly.

-- I love ya so much--he said hoarsely, kissing her again.

-- I love you so much too...ror

He smiled-- my names Walter...you can call.me Walter

She nodded and hid her face on the crook of his neck.

Theyd spend the night like that.

Theyd be okay togheter.

#f/o fic #cw violence #cw food #tw food #tw violence #🖤⬜you dont have to hide with me ⬜🖤

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trials-by-blood · 4 years

Note

For the short story request: I would very much love to see Old Man Ki’lte and his favourite mate either as youths or in their old age. Or both?

Midway through the first phase of hunting season, Ki'lte's pack had not yet left the clan world. This was completely normal, for this pack was one which specialized in teaching the next generation. Teaching any skill takes time, waiting for gangly would-be hunters to finish cutting their adult teeth takes even longer. De'val-tu, current leader of the pack and one of Ki'lte's own former apprentices, may chose to delay departure up to the second half of the hunting season if their batch of students failed to pass their trials until such a point. After that halfway mark, any failures would be left behind so that the passing candidates could test their mettle against the kiande amedha.

This year's crop looked good, so far, and Ki'lte anticipated a sprightly bug hunt from the youngsters. Not yet, no, they were far from ready today, but soon.

While the leader, combat advisor, and the young ones slept under the shade of the great training arena, Ki'lte basked himself in the morning rays of heat and thought of his favorite companion.

Ah, Chiruli! The most lovely of Paya's blessed creations.

His admiring thoughts were crudely interrupted by the sound of water pit-pattering against sand.

Ki'lte glanced over his shoulder to witness an early riser who possessed the sense to step away from the resting area to relieve himself, but not enough to avoid pissing into the wind and misting his own shins in the reeking shower.

It may take longer than he thought to imbue the students with any semblance of common sense. Suppressing a snarl of frustration, Ki'lte decided then that he would visit his oldest and most trusted friend, Chiruli, today. This could be the last visit of the long cycle before the students were ready to taste the wrath of the hard-meat swarms. Maybe. Gods knew he needed his dose of conversation with someone of his own age.

So, the old one stood, began to gather his things, and called the one youngling who happened to be awake with an impatient growl.

Once decent, the student jogged over, keeping a respectable physical distance and dipping his head in submission.

"Shaman?" he addressed Ki'lte in question, waiting to be told the reason he was summoned.

"You will wait for our leader and Warku to wake, you will inform them that I have gone into the city and will return before two nights pass, but before anything else you will go wash yourself. You smell like piss."

A wizened crone sat outside on a great stone patio upon a mat as she scanned through her daily itinerary with her wrist computer display, checking off all that had been done and choosing what to relegate to another day. The list is never short, and there is never enough time to attend to every matter of daily life when you occupy the position of a family's eldest matriarch and a district council member, but today was a good day, no matter how busy or how short this period of rest would be.

Chiruli had spent the morning watching over her eldest daughter as she filled out her petition form to request a seat on the district council. Her eldest was a thinker, which came as little surprise. The male who sired that child also spent much of his time pondering morality and justice, perhaps too much for a hunter.

No matter, Chiruli did not concern herself much with the business males get up to during the hunting season. That was their business, politics was hers and her daughter's. It was their duty in society to write and define the law. Chiruli had hopes that one of her brood would take a position in the profession of arbitration, one who reigns in those who stray from the code. This would complete the four sides of her legacy as if it were a pyramid. Hunters, Matriarchs, Law makers, and Law Keepers. Skemtri showed promise in that area, though it is troublesome to mothers when their older children think so highly of themselves that they believe it is their right to punish their siblings themselves for perceived wrongdoings.

As if on cue, the sound of a child screeching in the secondary courtyard pierced the air. It sounded like one of the youngest grandchildren, so Chiruli chose to ignore the sound for now. Just a little longer and she could finish her itinerary and truly begin her day.

The squealing and screams of excitement only rose in pitch, the first cry joined by at least half the crèche within the span of only a few breaths. Why were none of her daughters handling the disturbance?! A matriarch must do what is necessary to maintain an orderly family, so, Chiruli stood, foregoing her list making to check on the children and quiet their squalling.

Through the commons, down the corridor, and out into the courtyard. The children flowed past her, each with sticky hands and naxa flesh on their breath if not the cool smooth fruits gripped in their hands. A few of Chiruli's daughters stood about looking amused at the victim the little ones had made a game of harassing.

There stood her favorite mate, cutting the last of his offerings in half for the final two children to share.

With a few raps of her claws against the keys of her wrist device, she cleared her schedule for the day.

"You disturb my peaceful morning, Hunter, and you've failed to save your offerings from the broodlings,"

"It was an ambush," he grumbled as the children, satisfied with their treats, left him on his own under her stern gaze.

"Is that your excuse?"

"Does it displease you that I dote upon our grandchildren?" Ki'lte challenged, boldly meeting her gaze from across the yard.

"You make it too easy for them, and remember that not all of them are of your line, Philosopher," Chiruli teased him, pleased to watch his jowls become hot with ire over the jest.

Ki'lte was too old to fall for such a trap with verbal retaliation, but he could not hide the grudge he still held toward her second favorite warrior.

"There is no ill will between Hap and I, and I would not fault his descendents even if there was," he half lied. Chiruli knew the second half of the statement was true.

"Enough meaningless niceties, come old hunter, you will make yourself useful in private."

That was the last of what was said within reach of curious ears. The male dipped his head respectfully and followed the matriarch to her chambers, and there, their demeanor changed.

"You're tense, Ki'lte," Chiruli rumbled warmly as she sat at the edge of her bed with both arms outstretched for him to join her, "cease all formalities and speak to me, Bright Mind. I've missed your rambling."

Chiruli, like most females, was a head taller than Ki'lte and perhaps twenty percent heavier than he was. She pulled him easily onto her lap where he may as well have melted with the comfort of her embrace.

"I watched one of my students piss all over his own feet today. My hope wanes, beloved one." he rattled with bleak amusement and so did Chiruli.

"Ah, then tell me all about them. Perhaps there's more potential in them than you realize. A comfortable rest in something other than sand might improve your mood as well."

Chiruli dragged her lower tusks against the thick tendrils of his tresses to draw an answer out of him. He trilled softly with clattering mandibles before making a quiet request.

"A rest first?"

"Yes, after you bathe. You're still full of sand, decrepit old man," she teased a final time before encouraging him off her lap with a gentle push.

Of course, he made a show of his protest but made his way out toward the bathhouse in spite of his lack of enthusiasm.

Chiruli only smiled and settled herself on her back in the neatly made bedding, awaiting a freshly washed mate to help her rumple it.

#predator #yautja #aliens versus predator #asks #Ki'lte

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iris-ymir · 4 years

Text

The Torment of L’zetta - Part 2 : L’zetta Medrawt

The baby was named “L’zetta”, which soon got shortened to Lizzie by L’zily. Any real naming rituals were not held for the girl, as most of the carnival wanted to have very little to do with a peculiar child, which was seen more as a curse, than a blessing. An ill omen of something to come... L’zily did not let the words of others pull her down though, and she loved her little girl, and the peculiar abnormality she carried nonetheless. Lizzie had inherited the deep black hair of her mother, but her eyes were her father’s red pools, even though the left one appeared more with a pinkish hue, like an eye of a corpse. Said eye had been blind from birth. This did anything but cease the talk of a child of a curse.

Even though Lizzie had been small in birth, she grew up at a decent pace, and astonished her parents and the carnies alike, by learning her first words, ‘mama’ and ‘bunny’ when she had only turned seven moons old. From there, Lizzie learned new words at a fast pace, and could soon form simple sentences. It soon came clear, the child was exceptionally smart. Medrawt was not there to see his daughter grow up. He had only held L’zetta once after her birth, and even then, he had quickly placed the girl back into her mother’s arms. This would not normally be anything weird. Young fathers sometimes were afraid to hold a baby, because they were worried of breaking it. But the expression on Medrawt’s face, when he held Lizzie for only some seconds, was not that of concern... but disgust. Years went by, and Medrawt started spending more and more time in the woods... hunting. Yet he hardly ever brought much meat with him. And after L’zetta’s ninth nameday, L’zily found out Medrawt had an affair with a dancer-girl, who had joined the Carnival some time after Medrawt himself. The girl had been just a teenager back then, but during the past years, she had bloomed into a beautiful young woman. At first, L’zily tried to ignore it, but when Medrawt hardly even returned from the woods anymore, she brought the topic to the table with the man. The two had a loud argument, and soon the carnies saw Medrawt rushing out of L’zily’s tent, with the woman on her heels. The right eye of the woman was swollen, and had started to turn reddish blue. “Leave me the fuck alone!! That's not even my god damn child! Look at her! For who did you spread your legs to bring that... thing into world, huh?!”, the man shoved L’zily in the chest, making her fall back onto a bed of fallen leaves. “...W-What are you talking about?! Medrawt! ...Y-Yeah, run back to that girl of yours! That's what you want?! T-That girl is just a child!”, the keeper woman wailed on the ground, while trying to fight herself back to her feet. Behind her, at the doorway to the tent, Lizzie peeked out, eyes filled with tears, as her mother had an argument with a man Lizzie hardly even knew, but who’s name she still carried. “Not any more of a child than you, when I met you! Leave me the fuck alone!”, and with that said, Medrawt walked out of the camp, disappearing into the woods. Rougan, the oldest son of the leader of carnival walked up to L’zily, helping her up. The man gave a quick glance towards little Lizzie, before walking L’zily off to find something cold to hold over the eye. The next morning, ashamed of the affair, which had come to daylight, and the daughter he did not even accept as his own, Medrawt Tia took his own life at the age of 39. His body was later found hanging from a tree, close to the campsite. Under the body, the hunters found the corpse of a young dancer-girl, shot in the back with an arrow.

For the following years, L’zily worked hard to gather money for Lizzie’s studies. It had become clear, the carnival was not the place for the young girl, and L’zily thought about sending the girl to Ul’dah or Gridania, so she could study, as soon as she would come of age. Medrawt’s death had been a hard hit for L’zily’s psyche, and even though she seemed to get over it as time went on... the light in her eyes was gone, and would never return to the former glow of life. When the carnival set a camp, like most of the carnies, L’zily too went to the nearby settlements to earn money. She wanted to take her girl along, but some time after Medrawt’s passing, Lizzie was diagnosed with a weak heart. No one knew if it was something she had from birth, or if it was caused by the stress the young girl had gone through. Lizzie was in no shape for traveling to settlements and back on a daily basis. The tests were made after Lizzy had constantly complained about the pain on her chest, and had ultimately fainted, while eating dinner, after gathering firewood all day. The girl had thrown up onto her plate, and right after fell face first onto it. For the following week, one of other kids had started mimicking her, while others were laughing their asses off. In the end, Lizzy no longer went for dinner with others, and instead ate the leftovers she got from the cook afterwards. The carnival cook did not like the “child of a curse” any more than others, and sometimes threw the food onto the ground for the girl to pick up like a dog. Even though L’zily did her best, balancing between earning money for Lizzie’s studies, and being a mother at home, she could not always be there for her daughter, who was constantly being picked on by the other younglings of the traveling group. Hardly a single day went by without L’zily having to return to her tent, only to find her little daughter bruised, smeared with feces, with a black eye, or torn clothes. After talking to other parents took L’zily nowhere, she finally went to the caravan leader with her problem. The leader... an old, green bearded highlander named Arin, promised he would look after L’zetta, and in the end, the man kept his promise. The bullying ceased almost completely, except for occasional name-calling and pushing. Once, the other kids started throwing rocks at L’zetta when the girl was washing carpets by the stream. One hit her on the temple, drawing blood, and painting the freshly cleaned carpet with red mist. Arin marched in, shouting curses, dragged the boys away by the ear, and made them clean the outhouse for three months. When L’zetta was 14 years old, a long-term lung disease took Arin, and in his place as a leader rose his son, Rougan. This is where L’zetta’s nightmare truly began... < Part 1 : Carnival of Broken Dreams Part 3 : How memories are made... >

#the corpse weaver; Liz Morgue #storytime!#the torment of L'zetta #my writing #tw; suicide

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rosethesongbird · 4 years

Text

Angelic Illness

Crowley looked on as his best friend of six millennia lay alone in a large bed. He shifted in the armchair next to the bed, serpentine legs desperately trying to find comfort. Aziraphale’s brow—normally so gentle, friendly, and soft—was knitted in a pained grimace, and moist with sweat. He inhaled a shuddering breath, exhale quickly becoming a wet, productive cough; then, a coughing fit. The demon quickly rose from his seat at the sight of the angel rising from the nest of pillows, face in the crook of his elbow, struggling to breathe.

“Ngk— Come on, let’s get you sitting up a little.” Aziraphale nodded, still choking on air. Crowley supported him with one hand on his shoulder, the other hand fluffing up pillows so he could rest more upright. The coughs finally stilled, and the angel leaned back, breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sighing.

“Don’t be, angel,” said Crowley, frowning. “I’m sure you would get rid of this, if you could. And it’s no hardship for me. Not like there’s much else to do.”

“I suppose you’re right,” whispered Aziraphale. After the Armageddon’t (as Crowley had named it), life had fundamentally changed for them. They both had the same desire to do good or evil, respectively, but no one to answer to whether it was done or not—so they were more like freelancers at this point.

A soft, cautious knock came at the door.

“Everything okay?” a head of curly brown hair poked in. “I heard you coughing, Z,”

“I’m really quite alright, Dawn, and we really should get out of your hair, don’t you think Crowley—“ he said, breaking out into another coughing fit. Crowley’s jaw set with concern as he rubbed his friend’s back.

“Nonsense,” said the gamine, walking over to the bed. “It’s my pleasure to be able to host you. Not counting the fact that if you were human I’d have you admitted. Although, I’m not sure if I should count you as ‘over sixty-five’ or not.” She smiled and sat down on the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer, smiling. “And don’t lie. It’s not becoming of angels.”

His smile fell. “Well, um, not—not very well, to be honest.”

“Let’s take your temperature again, huh? What was it last time, Crowley?”

“38.5,” said Crowley, a little too quickly. He was worried.

Dawn froze for a moment while retrieving the thermometer from the cupboard. She laughed to herself. “I was really confused for a minute, then I remembered we’re measuring in Celsius like sensible people. Now open up, tenderheart.” The thermometer let out a small beep as she placed it under Aziraphale’s tongue. Her gaze lingered on the angel for a moment, before brushing white-blonde curls off his forehead. She turned to face the lithe demon.

“Get any sleep last night?”

“Don’t need to,” said Crowley.

“I know, but did you want to?” Dawn asked, accusingly. Crowley only responded with a “Ngk,” and looked away. She was perceptive—an advanced nurse practitioner and American expat whose husband was one of the few stationed at the Tadfield Air Base. She had what she called “the spiritual gift of discernment”—upon first walking into the bookshop on a rainy day, she had immediately “discerned” Aziraphale’s angelic nature, and by “discerned” Crowley meant “she could see the wings for some reason.” Aziraphale had made quick friends with her, although, to be fair, he made quick friends with just about everyone who liked old bookshops.

The thermometer let out a second digital beep, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Hm,” said Dawn.

“What, what is it?” said Crowley.

“39.7,” Dawn frowned. “I think this is bacterial,” she stated to no one in particular. “Have you ever taken medication, Z? Like, would there be any point in me giving it to you?”

“I’ve never tried. Never needed to,” said Aziraphale, crestfallen. “But, I suppose it’s worth a shot.”

Dawn ran her fingers through his hair. “I’ll be right back,” she said, a half smile on her face. The door closed softly behind her.

Aziraphale sighed. “I really do feel awful, Crowley.”

He looked awful, too. His face was sticky with fever-borne sweat, the usual pink flush to his cheeks was multiplied, the rest of his skin looking so pale it was almost grey, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that normally only appeared when he smiled were emphasized. His sparkling blue eyes were weary and dulled.

“Well, Dawn said you probably had been sick for a few days by the time she noticed. I mean, have you ever been sick before, angel? Or did the bacteria or whatever make you stupid?”

“I don’t think so,” said Aziraphale, grimacing and rubbing his chest. “I think I would remember feeling this bad,”

“What you’d think is that you would have, I don’t know, mentioned something to your lifelong best friend before keeling over in a pile of dussssty old books,” Crowley’s agitation came through in a snakelike hiss. They always came out when he got upset.

“It came on fast, Crowley! You know I would have said something if I—“ Aziraphale leaned forward into another coughing fit. The wet coughs sounded like they came from the very pit of his lungs, and were so strong they shook his whole body. Crowley reached over and began to rub the angel’s back again, drawing slow circles onto the tartan pajamas he had conjured up in a quick miracle on the way to Dawn’s cottage in Tadfield, the Bentley screaming down the country roads like a—well, like a bat out of hell.

Dawn had called from Aziraphale’s phone, upon finding him unconscious in the bookshop. She had dropped in with a box of homemade macarons—telling Crowley later that she had intended to use Aziraphale as a guinea pig for new recipes, but he loved sweets too much and would never say which one he liked the best—only to find him lying curled up on the floor, shivering, sweating through his shirt and burning up in fever. Upon waking, he had started to cry (a sight Crowley had only seen a few times, and was not interested in seeing again) and Dawn had been concerned enough to call out of the rest of her day at work and take him to her home. Thankfully, in the past day he had grown much more coherent, but his symptoms had gotten worse. The wet coughing, the chest pain, the sound Dawn described as a “crackling on inspiration” when Crowley arrived and she was still in “work mode.” (Crowley thought he was going deaf when she thankfully explained that she could only hear it through the stethoscope still hanging around her neck.) Dawn had decided it was pneumonia, but none of the three were sure quite how Aziraphale got it in the first place. I mean, they were heavenly beings after all. Aziraphale had said that he felt too weak to miracle it away, so it was up to Dawn and Crowley to nurse him back to health.

The cautious knock came at the door again, and Crowley was knocked out of his inner monologue to find Aziraphale now still except the rise and fall of his chest. He normally chose not to sleep, unlike Crowley who was quite a fan of closing his eyes and hallucinating wildly for eight hours each day. This illness was taking so much out of him that it was all he could do to stay awake for short bursts of time.

Dawn entered, Crowley holding a finger to his lips in a “be quiet, the baby is sleeping” motion. She smiled. “I went ahead and called in some antibiotics, but they won’t be ready until later today,” she whispered. “Would you like anything for breakfast?”

The demon cocked his head, thinking. It was early, about half past six, and the first light was beginning to peek through the curtain. “Cup of coffee might be nice,”

“Cup of coffee it is, then. Oh, and I brought these,” she set out a bowl of cool water and rags, alongside a cup for drinking water. “That fever’s worrying me, I don’t want to let it get back up to where it was yesterday if I can avoid it. Think you can persuade him to take these when he wakes up next?” she handed Crowley a few pills. “Just aceta-uh, paracetamol, I promise. Nothing sketchy.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Crowley. “Maybe they would go down a little better if they came alongside some sweets?”

“Oooh, good idea,” Dawn remarked. “I normally wouldn’t encourage macarons for breakfast, but can I really deny a poor little angel his favorite?”

“Exactly,” agreed Crowley. “Now you know how I’ve felt for the last six thousand years.”

A laugh bubbled up from Dawn as she left the room. The bittersweet aroma of coffee snaked through the house.

—

Aziraphale didn’t wake up until it was nearly lunchtime. He had been stirring in his sleep, and started breathing faster and heavier. Crowley almost woke him up, but decided against it when Dawn didn’t seem exceptionally concerned. When he actually woke, however, was a totally different story.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Yep, I’m here,” he said, calmly. “What’s up?”

“Oh, heavens, Crowley,” Aziraphale moaned, eyes glassy. “The books,”

“What books? The bookshop’s fine, remember angel?”

“Crowley, the books, I forgot,” the sick angel suddenly appeared frail to Crowley. He grasped at Crowley’s shirt in agitation. His hands were burning like holy water in Hell’s mop bucket.

“Angel, you’ve got to calm down, I can get you whatever book you want,” said Crowley, confused.

“No, no, Crowley, my books—“ said Aziraphale, breathing heavily, nearly choking. “The books are going to get blown up,” he grimaced in pain, with a sorrowful groan. “Crowley,”

Crowley called out for Dawn. He tried shushing the angel. “That was a long time ago, Aziraphale. Your books are safe now, I saved them, remember?”

“No, no, Crowley, help—“ he broke out in another fit of coughing, gasping for air. Dawn rushed in.

“What’s going on?” She crouched at the angel’s bedside, opposite the worried demon. Aziraphale jumped and turned to look at her, searching her face.

“I’m scared, I don’t know what’s happening,” he said, wheezing. “Have you seen my friend?”

“Sweetheart, we’re right here with you,” she stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. “Oh, honey, you’re burning up,”

“Aziraphale, look at me,” said Crowley, sternly.

“Oh, Crowley,” said the angel, leaning into Dawn’s hand, cool on his feverish skin. “Please, would you take me home? But, I forgot my books,” he said, relieved at first to see his longtime friend then distraught again at the thought of the unspecified books being damaged. Hot tears began to fall from the blue eyes as he let out a sob.

Crowley and Dawn looked at each other, yellow snake eyes meeting deep brown. Dawn’s hands moved to the angel’s back as he shook with sobs.

“Angel, I promise to go find your books, but for now you have to take thesssse,” There was the hiss again. He handed Aziraphale the medication and the water glass, thin bony hands supporting soft pink ones. His hands were shaking worse than Crowley’s houseplants after a bad day. The angel cooperated but did not stop weeping.

“Which books did you lose, my dear? I can go look for you,” said Dawn, now rubbing small circles on the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

He sniffed and seemed to calm for a moment, before wailing “I don’t remember,” and going back into hysterics.

Crowley looked at Dawn again, exasperated, and Dawn shot back a look that so clearly communicated “I’m trying,” that he decided not to speak.

“Here, how about a snack to regain your strength so we can go look later,” said Dawn, softly. She turned and retrieved a plate with two macarons on it from the nightstand.

“Oh, yes,” said Aziraphale, tears still falling inexplicably but demeanor significantly changed. “Yes, that sounds good.” His hands still shook as he took the plate, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He quietly started eating the sweets as Crowley and Dawn both took a simultaneous sigh of relief.

After the snack, Aziraphale thankfully fell back to a fitful sleep.

“Well then,” sighed Dawn, brushing crumbs off the reddened cheeks. “That was exciting.”

“You’re telling me,” said Crowley. “Exciting” was not exactly the word he would use. Maybe “upsetting,” “very concerning” or “horrifying” would be better words.

“I guess I didn’t realize quite how attached he was to his books,” said Dawn, chuckling. She wiped his face with a cool, wet rag. “Whatever they were, they were pretty important,”

“Oh, yeah,” Crowley waved his hand. “I had to rescue the books a few times. The Blitz, the fire in the bookshop… The whole Library of Alexandria thing was really rough. Had to do a lot of damage control on that one.”

“Oh, goodness, I can imagine.”

A beat of silence followed as they both looked down at the sleeping angel. Even sick, a sleeping Aziraphale was practically the definition of “angelic,” between the white-golden curls, upturned nose, and softly parted lips.

“The medicine should bring down his fever,” said Dawn, standing from her place by the bed. “Which I’m pretty sure was the cause of… all that. Shouldn’t happen again, theoretically, but steel yourself just in case.”

“Gotcha,” said the thin, tall redhead.

“I have a random question,” she said, coming around to Crowley’s side of the bed.

“Shoot.”

“Do they have… mothers? In heaven, I mean?”

“Ngk, not really,” said Crowley, shrugging. “You kinda just… start to be.”

“Hmm.” Dawn looked lost in thought.

“Well, consider yourselves ‘mothered’ then,” she said, grinning at the demon. “Everybody needs a mama, especially in tough times.”

She patted him on the shoulder before leaving the room.

Part 2 here

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable partners #ineffable husbands #whump #hurt/comfort #sickfic #pneumonia #my writing

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chorusfic · 5 years

Text

ill tidings--

N’Zoth rises, and Halford hates himself for watching Kalyste more closely.

He knows, as a military commander, that she might be a risk now, or at the very least susceptible to the Old God’s influence. As a military commander, Halford knows it is a necessary, regrettable measure to take against a dedicated, honorable warrior for the sake of the greater good.

As someone who loves Kalyste Wildlight for the woman she is, though, Halford is terrified, not of what she might do, but of what she is suffering.

For a time, it had seemed as though Kalyste’s typical discipline was holding firm. Occasionally her attention would drift and she would lose focus for a few seconds before either shaking herself out of it or being drawn back into the conversation by someone else, and she went to sleep slightly later and woke up slightly earlier, but altogether those things were far from alarming. Halford had somewhat reluctantly chalked it up to the sudden urgency of their situation, of needing to be ready to strike when N’Zoth’s forces struck.

It wasn’t until a week after Kalyste returned from Nazjatar, a week after the fall of the Eternal Palace, that she awoke screaming just past midnight.

That night, it had been relatively quiet as they’d caught up with all their daily tasks earlier than normal--partly credited to the fact they rose earlier than they had even during the original war effort--and both of them had been looking forward to an earlier night’s rest.

Halford’s first indicator that something is amiss comes when Kalyste’s arm lands heavy across his chest, waking him, and he has only a split second to realize she’d accidentally struck him in her restless sleep, tossing and turning, before she screams.

The sound reaches deep into Halford’s own chest and yanks his pounding heart into his throat as he flips onto his side and rests one hand on Kalyste’s face, the other on her shoulder. “Kalyste--Kalyste, look at me--”

Her hands seize his shoulders so sharply and so suddenly that Halford has to resist the urge to break the lock and pin her entirely, and her eyes open, but they’re unfocused as her pupils dart frantically around all corners of the room, seeing something invisible to him. Her body writhes under his hands, frantic with terror, and it’s all he can do to hold her still enough she doesn’t hurt herself with her thrashing. Halford can just feel a shadow of her pulse in her neck where his hand rests on her face, so fast he’s moments from waking her more forcefully, risks of injury be damned, when Kalyste gasps, and her eyes abruptly launch back into focus. “Halford--”

“I’m here.” he tries to hide the worst of his fear, but he takes one of her shaking hands in his, wrapping their fingers together, and knows she’ll be able to feel the matching tremors. “Ka--”

“Where’s Briony?” Kalyste manages to blurt out, voice unsteady and thick in her throat like she’s on the verge of breaking down into complete, hysterical sobbing, half-choking on her words. “I need to see Briony’s all right.”

“Kalyste, I--” Halford’s mind races as he processes the abrupt question, but answers, “...Briony was quite well when I saw her this evening. If I remember correctly she was planning on beating Miss Frey’s record for arm-wrestling victories against the Snug Harbor’s travelers.” Halford takes in Kalyste’s uneasy expression and makes a compromise. “We’ll go at first light to check on her, but nothing has happened tonight. She’s safe. I’m safe.”

He wants to say so are you, but that is a promise he cannot make, a battle he cannot fight for her, and Kalyste seems to know it. Her breath, when she releases it, shivers in her chest, and her usual volume is stolen by her exhaustion as she says, “Very well.” Running a hand over her face, Kalyste pulls it away with disgust. “I feel filthy.”

Halford rests the back of one hand against her forehead and feels the stickiness of half-dried sweat. “You should take a bath,” he says, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed in search of Kalyste’s robe. “It might help you feel better.”

Kalyste hasn’t moved by the time Halford’s located her robe, draped over a chair in the corner, and she shakes her head slowly as he hands it to her. With careful hands, she drapes her robe over her shoulders as she says, “It’s late--I shouldn’t keep you up even later. I can get it myself.”

Her movements are slower, more painstaking, but Halford waits until Kalyste balances her hands at the edge of the bed, struggling to push herself up on shaking arms, before saying, “Kalyste.”

With a huff of frustration, Kalyste lets her weight slump again, and Halford goes to where she sits, holding her face in her hands, shaking her head. This time, Kalyste doesn’t protest as Halford slides one arm under her legs, the other cradling her shoulders, and, with a faint noise of effort, carries her away. She releases another sigh, a longer, heavier one, and with it, the rest of the steel in her bones drains away, as she slumps against him.

Downstairs, Halford nudges the washroom door open with one foot, moving to set Kalyste down in the nearby chair, and she leans her weight heavily on her knees as Halford begins to draw water, checking the heat. He tries in vain not to keep looking over one shoulder, checking to see if Kalyste is getting worse, but her attention is drifting again, her gaze distant and unfocused, until he gets up to rest a hand on her shoulder. With a shake of her head, Kalyste looks back up at him. “I wasn’t hearing the whispers that time.”

“What were you thinking about?” he asks as Kalyste moves his hand away, to slip the robe off her shoulders. With one hand on her hip and the other holding her free hand, Halford carefully helps Kalyste sit herself down in the full tub until everything below her shoulders is submerged, and he pulls the chair she’d been sitting in a moment ago up to the edge, lacing the fingers of one hand with hers.

She waits until he’s settled, watching her with an even, steely-gray gaze, before responding. “I don’t see how we emerge victorious from this.”

Halford’s heart drops into his feet, but he restrains the reaction to a tightening of fingers around Kalyste’s own, cold in his grasp. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t know how to respond, and Kalyste continues, “I have fought in more battles, against more foes, than I care to remember. They have never been black-and-white, as nothing is, but there were constants: ways to defend, ways to attack, strategies to counter and weaknesses to exploit.” Kalyste’s gaze flickers away for a heartbeat before returning. “There is no defense against this. Against something that reaches into your very mind and rearranges things to its liking. I would never say this to our people, not to anyone, and I would fight to my last to see that victory done, but...” Kalyste’s voice breaks again, and a piece of Halford’s heart breaks with it, “...I don’t know how to fight this..”

“Everything has a weakness, Kalyste. Everything.”

“If you could see what I have seen...” Kalyste shakes her head, but her grip against his hand tightens, ever so slightly.

Halford has been a soldier since the early days of the Second War, has seen victory and defeat, morale at its highest and lowest. He has been the hope brought to others, and the hopelessness in the deepest pit of his chest that he hasn’t dared to acknowledge since this started, while it’s reared its ugly head. Kalyste, far older with quel’dorei blood running in her veins, corrupted by the void, has assuredly seen the same, and far more.

This is not a battle he can fight for her, and she does not know how to fight it herself. A situation he suspects neither of them ever prepared for.

It is for that reason Halford thinks long about his response, and Kalyste seems unhurried, but her gaze remains in focus. If the whispers pull at her, she is exerting the last of her energy to pay them no heed. “It will only show you what it wants you to see,” he finally produces a response, unsure of its direction, but Kalyste straightens almost imperceptibly, and he gains momentum, “and it is an attack that we cannot repel with the methods we are both familiar with. That doesn’t mean they do not exist.”

“You misunderstand.” Kalyste straightens again, but he can see her fatigue in the shadows under her eyes, lit in sharp relief in the room’s dim candlelight. “I don’t doubt that such methods exist. I doubt that we have the time to find them.”

That, Halford has no satisfying response to, and so they sit in somber silence for a long moment, candlelight flickering against the walls.

“I need you...” Kalyste pauses, gathering herself as her voice breaks, “...I need you to promise me something. I need you to promise you’ll...you’ll do what’s necessary to stop me.”

“Kalyste,” he can’t help leaning back in shock that time, but Kalyste follows, her free hand clamping down on his wrist in an iron grip. “That won’t be necessary, you--”

“We don’t know that. No one does.” Her eyes are sharper than he can remember seeing them all week, and it’s that, more than anything, that convinces him she’s serious. “Anyone touched by the void--priests who utilize its power, warlocks, the void elves--is susceptible. Three thousand years ago my father left behind a legacy of betrayal and death by slaying someone who saw him as a trusted ally, and I refuse to follow in his footsteps. I will not be a weapon in the hands of our enemy. Do you understand?”

Halford contemplates, for a split second, drawing his weapon and striking Kalyste down. He imagines her face, twisted into a vicious snarl as she unleashes her full breadth of skill and hard-won training upon him, seeing him only as her enemy. They know she can best him in a sparring match, but a real fight, with both of them trying their utmost to strike the other down?

It knocks the breath from him, but in the part of him that knows duty must remain separate from attachment, he knows in the end that he would do it.

He would hate himself for the rest of his days, but he would do it.

“I promise,” he says, voice considerably more ragged than a few moments before, and he has to look away for a few moments to compose himself before he can face her again. “I will do what I must, should it become necessary.”

“I’m well aware it’s no small thing to ask.” Kalyste relaxes her grip on his wrist, instead placing her free hand atop their joined ones. “I have known the pain of being forced to kill someone I loved, and I don’t ask it lightly.”

“I know.”

They let the quiet sit for a long beat before Kalyste shifts in the rapidly-cooling water, disentangling her hands from his to comb her fingers through her hair, dipping them into the water and brushing them out. “I don’t think I can stay awake long enough for a proper wash, but this did help. Pass me that cloth, would you?”

Halford does so, and Kalyste rises shakily to her feet, drying off before reaching for her robe, which he already has in hand. “Can you make it back upstairs?” he asks.

Kalyste pauses, considering. “Slowly.” she finally admits, handing him the damp drying cloth and taking his proffered free hand. While her steps are careful, placed very deliberately, she moves on her own steam, until they reach the bedroom again. Just outside the window, dawn threatens to touch the horizon, but both Kalyste and Halford pointedly ignore it, settling themselves for whatever sleep they will manage to snatch from the time remaining.

With his face buried into the crook of Kalyste’s neck, smelling of the soap she uses on her hair, body curled around hers, still Halford waits until the gradual evening out of Kalyste’s breathing tells him she’s fallen back into sleep before releasing a long breath.

He strongly suspects the worst of the battles they will have to fight are yet to come.

#my writing #kalyste wildlight #otp: true as steel #ok this turned out more sad than soft but i can't mess with it anymore #it was gonna be longer but i lost steam and if i didn't post it now it wasn't gonna get posted lmao

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qqueenofhades · 5 years

Note

I already hate myself for this but go ahead and totally fuck me up. Asher and Maria’s last night together?

Belgravia, London

January 31, 1942

The curtains are closed, the room is dim, and then and odd, a lonely streetlamp or wavering lantern casts shadows on the floor, but otherwise, the world is dark and silent beyond the window. The Blitz ended just about a year and a half ago, but nobody leaves their lights on at night, especially when electricity can be sparse and a book of ration coupons are passed out to every household each week. A residence of vampires does not need them, so Maria thought about giving them to the neighbors, but did not want to draw any suspicion about whether they had a secret or black-market source of food. The de Clermonts have been living here since the fall of France in June 1940, in splendid exile like many other European aristocrats, in a fashionable row house on a very expensive street that mostly escaped being blown to smithereens. At least, in theory. Gabriel will not remain long with them; he has gone to Buckinghamshire, has a job he can’t talk about at the handsome estate of Bletchley Park. Garcia has taken his daughter and moved to his house in Woodstock, outside Oxford, where he is involved in something equally secretive with MI5. The household here is Asher, Maria, William, Cecilia, and Harry. It was mooted that they could go to the family’s estate in the Cairngorms, in Scotland, but Maria firmly declined. No matter what may befall them here, she prefers to remain in the city.

Tonight, however – tonight, she almost wishes that they had, that they were a hundred miles from anywhere, among the rock and heath and gorse of the Highlands like two lovers from a tale, among the glens and lochs and the stars, and that her husband would never go. He is leaving tomorrow, to return to France and go deep behind enemy lines, to link up with La Résistance and work in whatever capacity is necessary. He must do it, Maria knows he must, and yet for some reason, she cannot shake a particularly ill feeling about this parting. It is war, yes. Terrible things happen. But he has survived all the other ones.

(He must survive this one too. He must, he will. She is only a fearful old woman, and yet she clings.)

They move slowly, dreamily, entangled in the sheets. Asher’s strong hands grip the pillow on either side of her head, his tall, lean body moving and rising and riding in time with hers, as she wraps her legs around his waist and he pushes her tangled curtain of mahogany hair out of her face, so to kiss her and caress her cheek with his knuckles and whisper shared longings in Greek, their language of intimacy and the bedchamber. Normally Maria is the assertive one, the one who enjoys domination and control, who enjoys seeing her husband serve her will as much as he enjoys doing it (though he is plenty capable of asserting some control of his own). But tonight she is soft, almost fragile, hungry to be held and reassured, to imprint the knowledge of every sinew of him onto her and into her, so as to succor her through the dark weeks and months to come without him. Rarely is Maria de Clermont meek, submissive, but she is tonight. She wants to be held tenderly, cherished, and Asher knows her more than well enough to read it in the wordless language of her touches and kisses. It is the logic of broken things, her and him, one and the other. A pair strong enough, handsome enough, on their own, but only the most in completion.

Asher thrusts, and Maria mewls, and pulls his mouth to hers, raw and hungry and half-opened to gasp, even as he browses slowly down her cheek and jaw and slowly, sweetly sets his fangs into her throat, the blood beneath the fragile porcelain skin. They are the words inked on the page from the poet’s pen, and they are a thousand sunrises, and they are the priestess’s smile as she took the soldier for her own, her husband, beneath the harvest moon, and they are the madness of mating in the wilderness, far from anyone except each other, and how she ran in the night like Artemis herself, and over and over, they were made one. They are eternity and they are time, they are the nights he turned up at her door smelling of hard riding because he could not stand to be away from her, they are the parents of three sons who barely speak, they are cracks and they are shattered, they are the rose shorn of its petals and left to wither its poem of promises – she loves me, she loves me, she loves me – in the rain. There is no she loves me not. There never has been. There never will.

“Stay,” Maria whispers, raw and shaky in the dark, when they are finished, and he lies heavy on her, his head on her shoulder as she strokes his dark curls with their permanent threads of silver. “Asherios. Stay with me. Please.”

He lifts his head, his eyes soft as melted moonlight, and looks at her. At last he says only, “You know I have to go.”

“You could – ” As ever, Maria struggles with the bitter necessity. Why my husband, she might ask, as will millions of other wives across the world and its second war to end all wars. Why my sons? Why could you not leave off this folly, or have never begun it in the first place? Why could this not be over, this hell and darkness, and I could see you come through the front door, grubby and tired but smiling, and know my trials and my grief laid to rest? Why must he be such a gods-damned hero, her dearest love? Why could he not be a more selfish man, even slightly, and stay, and stay with her? “If you go,” she whispers at last, “you must, you must come back to me.”

Asher catches her hand, and kisses her knuckles. “Always.”

They sleep on and off, waking every few hours, tense and unhappy and aware of the coming dawn even through the veils of sleet. They rise before the sun, and Maria helps him dress: the plain brown suit, the overcoat and trilby, the briefcase and the papers that will get him as far as Dover, and however he will manage to enter France from there. She clutches his lapels as her knees almost give out, and he sweeps an arm around her waist and holds her until she steadies. He offers his elbow, and they walk downstairs.

The car is waiting outside. There is no more delaying it, no more hoping it would not come. He looks at her, and her to him, and he kisses her one more time, rough and raw and passionate, until Maria de Clermont, the inimitable, the matchless, almost weeps. “Please,” she begs her husband, as all the other wives have, if only that will make it true. “I love you. Please come home.”

“I will,” he says again, and claps on the hat. The door opens and closes with a rush of damp London wind, and she watches him go down the step, and get intot the car, and drive away. She stands there small and fragile, housecoat wrapped around herself, until she can summon the strength to move, to go upstairs, and crawl into the sheets, the rumpled bedclothes that still smell of him. I will.

(Of all the many centuries of their marriage, she thinks later, that was the first and the last lie that Asher ever told her.)

#timeless ff #asher x maria #all souls au #i apologise in advance #extasiswings #ask

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amydancepants-peralta · 5 years

Text

we won’t run - part two

leave all your love and your longing behind (you can’t carry it with you, if you want to survive)

“Okay, you’ve got my attention Jake” Amy responds, hand moving away from the cloth that covered her wound as she studies his expression carefully.

He winks, a smooth flicker of his eyelid that makes her heart do a tiny jump up into her throat. So handsome.

Stop it, Amy.

His boots scuff against the platform as he tents his legs, leaning his forearm against his knees and sitting up a little straighter. “Okay, so admittedly I probably should have remembered this a little earlier, but I think it’s fairly safe to say that a lot has happened in the past month or so for me to turn a little absent-minded.”

Her head nods in agreement.

“Back when Holt was King, he’d begun planning for a masquerade ball. His anniversary with Lord Kevin was approaching, and he wanted to surprise him while he was away with the other scholars.”

Twisting her legs until they were tucked underneath her, Amy finds herself leaning forward in interest.

“And then after his .. illness,” Jake pauses, using air quotes to show his suspicions, “Pembroke decided it would still go ahead - only now it was going to be this lavish display of his supposedly brilliant ruling. Which, let's face it, is all a facade, but you I both know that he just doesn’t care about that.”

Rolling her eyes as she nods again, Jake leans forward, beginning to describe his plan.

“That ball is supposed to happen at the end of the week. All the extra food and wares he’s been stealing … they’ve got to be for that. Every member of the elite will be there. And if there’s anything I learned from guarding with someone like Pembroke, it’s that he will never pass up on the chance to show off his wealth.”

“Okay, and …?”

“I have this friend, her name is Gina. She and I have known each other since childhood, right up until I left to join the Royal Guard. She lives in Truglia with her beloved, Rosa, which is why I went there to hide after escaping the castle. And I’m not exaggerating when I say that she’s the best in the province when it comes to forgery.” He pauses, making sure he has Amy’s full attention (if only he knew that was always the case) before continuing. “There’s not a doubt in my mind that she could make us invitations to the masquerade ball. You and I … we could infiltrate the castle, right under their noses.”

A silence falls over the platform as the idea of getting dressed up and attending a ball and the palace with somebody like Jake washed over Amy. It sounded like something out of a fantasy - a dream that for so many reasons could never become real. She looks up at him, taking in the hopeful look that has crossed over his face, and finds herself replicating his smile. There was just one thing. “I … my family haven’t ever been to anything like that. I don’t have a dress. I don’t even know where I could find one.”

He regards her for a moment, head tipping slightly to the side. “Is that your only reservation to my plan?”

She nods, not trusting herself to speak.

He smiles in triumph at her response, slapping his hands across his thighs. “Then leave it with me. Lady Amelia Santiago of Fumera, you and I going to a ball.”

“Sounds wonderful, Sir Jacob Peralta of Truglia.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa … what are full naming me for?”

“I know, I'm sorry I just - hey, wait! You full named me first!”

He laughs, loud and clear, dodging her flailing fists with ease and having the decency to look contrite when she winces from jostling her wounded arm. At some point, between midnight conversations and daydreams of bright smiles, this man had become her best friend. And she found that it didn’t bother her in the least.

Charles toys with the edge of the dagger as he moves along the dungeon wall, fingers tracing every ripple of the stones that rose high above his head. It’s the same activity that he had been doing for countless days in a row now: wake, search, play Helpless Prisoner as the guards do their rounds, search, eat, sleep … wake up, and repeat. His ankle, red from the constant scraping of rusty metal, throbs in protest as he stretches, forcing his body weight forwards to reach the higher edge of the wall. The secret passageway that CJ mentioned (a time that he can longer count the days from, he’s noticed) has been playing on his mind, and he was growing more and more determined with every day to find its trigger.

There was a steady drip of water in the corner that acted like an uninvited metronome, an unrelentingly monotonous beat that had become his new normal. Shutting it out for a moment, he pushes himself higher still, hands shaking as he thrusts the weapon forwards until it acts as an extension of himself. The sharp point scrapes the surface as his pulsing wrist reaches, the dull sound it creates a welcome distraction from the falling water. He falls as quickly as he rose, an exasperated huff escaping his chest as his heels slap down.

It must be somewhere.

Overgrown fingernails scrape against his scalp when he runs his fingers through his hair, travelling down to tangle into the beard that time had spread onto his face. He missed the warmth of sunlight, missed the comfort of his bed. The memory of his lady love, Genevieve, was fading day by day. And as much as he hated to admit it, there was always the possibility that Jake wouldn’t be able to come back to rescue him. And so, he persisted.

Resting his right hand against the cold stone, Charles shifts his weight to his left foot – and maybe his mind isn’t as clear as it should be, from so many days in this dungeon, but he swears he hears a click. Holding his position, he pushes both limbs harder, and a section of the wall pulls back, scraping against the floor as it slides behind the rest of the stone revealing a dark corridor.

Balling his hands into fists, Charles rubs his eyes carefully before opening them again, staring dazedly at the sight before him. He’d done it. He’d actually done it.

His feet begin moving before his brain can catch up and he trips, arms flailing as he struggles for purchase before slapping onto the floor with a thud.

Right. The chain.

The wall scrapes against the stone again as it slides back into position, and his eyes dart back to imprint the earlier positioning of his hands and feet before his frazzled mind tries to forget. He’s desperate to know more. And there was always the danger that what lay beyond the secret passage was far more dangerous than what he had here.

But the fear of staying still is greater than the fear of the unknown, and he must try.

Elbows digging into the stone as he pushes himself up, Charles reaches for the dagger that had just slipped out of his fingers, twisting until his leg is bent at an angle he can reach. Lock picking had always been a specialty of his - a fact that had obviously been overlooked by the new so-called King - and with a determined grin he begins to dig.

It was time to find a way home.

The blades of grass between Amy’s fingers begin to split as she twists them around her digits, skin turning pale as she tightens the curl, then rushing towards pink with every release. After spending the morning training in Beatra, the cool ground was a welcome reprieve for her weary body. If there was anything the last few days had taught her, it was that plotting to overthrow an unjust King was an exhaustive experience. Her mind is too occupied with a myriad of thoughts for her to notice her visitors until they’re nearly in front of her, and she blinks in surprise at the sight of another woman with Jake. Behind them, the sky darkens as heavy storm clouds begin to roll in.

She has red hair; and a discerning look on her face, casting careful eyes over Amy as she follows Jake into their secret meeting place. In her hands she carries a large package, wrapped up in hessian cloth, and Amy feels a twinge of excitement run through her at what she hopes lay beneath.

It had been three days since Jake had told her about the masquerade ball, and with the night’s watch resulting in a plan firmly set in place they had spent every possible moment, day and night, working with their prospective villages: training their fighters, drawing up maps of the castle’s grounds, essentially doing whatever they could to prepare their people for any possibility.

This of course meant that their nightly stakeouts had come to an end - and as Amy watches Jake walk towards her, she feels a pang in her heart at the realisation that she had missed him way more than she could have anticipated.

He smiles at her as he draws closer, one hand raising in a gentle wave before reaching out to help her stand up from her comfortable spot amongst the grass. His hand grips hers for a beat longer, and she can feel her face heat up as he pulls away.

“Ames, this is my friend Gina.” He gestures behind him at the mystery woman, who raises one eyebrow in response. “She found a gown for you, as promised.”

“It’s fit for a princess. And you, I guess.”

He throws a glare at the other woman before turning back around. “Ignore her. The bark is worse than the bite, I promise.”

Too long for Tumblr ... you can find the rest here.

#my fic #b99 summer 2019 fic exchange #part two #stick with me guys it's long but it'll be worth it #b99 fanfic #peraltiago fanfiction

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plague-of-insomnia · 5 years

Text

“Circus” AU Drabble #2: Seb meets Lau

Here's another drabble set in the world of my AU tentatively called Circus! In this scene, Sebastian visits Lau to threaten him, only to be threatened in return.

If you enjoy, please reblog, comment, and like!

Note: This scene does not have any nudity or sex, but it does feature some graphic language.

It's not necessary to enjoy this drabble, but you may want to read the first one I posted, in which Seb and Ciel talk over dinner, and which temporarly will probably come before this scene below.

I’m hoping to post these weekly on Sundays (no promises), and next week I’ll likely post at least part of a Sebciel sex scene I’ve been working on.

This story really should be my last priority atm but it’s been taking over my inspiration...

____________________

Sebastian sat stiffly in a gaudily decorated room on the second floor of what, from the outside, appeared to be a rather unassuming shopping center in Chinatown filled with massage parlors, restaurants, and small grocery stores. The room he’d been led into was filled with kitschy faux Chinese antiques, including a large golden dragon Sebastian was almost certain was made out of molded resin. He longed to explore, to ascertain if the door he’d been led through was the only exit, but a buff man, likely one of Lau’s bodyguards, had positioned himself so that his beady eyes watched every move Sebastian made. Occasionally the man would murmur something gruffly in Mandarin with a smile Sebastian assumed was intended to be menacing as he apparently enjoyed the thought of the tall foreigner being “devoured by the dragon.”

Sebastian barely contained a snarky retort; it would be better to keep his cards as close to his chest as possible, and if everyone but Lau assumed Sebastian was a clueless, typically monolingual American, it would give him an advantage if things turned ugly. Of course, it would still be just him, armed with only the small knives the guards hadn’t found in the heels of his boots against a veritable army of automatic and semi-automatic weapons, but he had been taking a careful survey of his surroundings, filing away any potential cover or objects that might be sturdy enough to use as spur-of-the-moment weapons should the need arise. He felt like he’d had worse odds. Besides, it wasn’t his intention to start something here and now, no matter how much he wanted to kill Lau. And Lau wasn’t the kind to draw undue attention to himself: bad for business.

Sebastian briefly entertained the idea of sticking his hand in his pants and putting on a very vocal maturbatory show to make the guard uncomfortable, but he immediately dismissed it. The idea of touching himself anywhere remotely near that slimy son of a bitch Lau made Sebastian’s stomach turn.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and the guard whispered in Mandarin to whoever was on the other side, speaking too softly for Sebastian to make anything out. A moment later the man stepped aside and a half dozen too-young looking Asian girls entered. They wore tiny, form-fitted qípáo with skirts that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Between them, they carried all the trappings for tea and authentic Chinese sweets. While it wasn’t uncommon for Asian girls to appear younger than they actually were, Sebastian doubted any of them were older than fourteen, and he inwardly seethed, keeping his outward composure as he watched the girls arrange everything on the coffee table in front of him, all of them kneeling and not a one making eye contact. It was impossible for Sebastian to tell if that was cultural, out of respect to him as a guest of their—it made Sebastian ill to think of Lau that way—master, or if they’d merely been beaten into submission. He suspected likely a combo of both, as the girls—as beautiful as they all were, their hair and makeup flawless—seemed broken. Sebastian could recognize that anywhere.

A moment later, Lau emerged from behind a curtain in the opposite end of the room from the door, with another girl on his arm, this one definitely Chinese, and she looked of age. She was dressed similarly to the tea-serving girls, but her dress and hair accessories were of finer quality, and she held herself with a composed and calm air, her eyes scanning the room. Sebastian decided it would be best for him not to underestimate her. It would be just like Lau to have a female as his personal bodyguard.

Although middle aged now, Lau had apparently changed little in the years since Sebastian had last seen him. He still wore a long chángpáo as was his custom, his hands hidden in the voluminous sleeves. This was no cosplay costume; even at a distance Sebastian could appreciate the quality of the silk and the embroidery on the outer coat, a deep emerald offset by dancing gold dragons. Undoubtedly a reference to his appellation of “The Green Dragon,” as the leader of Qīng Bāng, aka “the Green Gang,” a fearsome criminal syndicate that operated both in the US and Asia. The outfit made Sebastian roll his eyes, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

Lau took his seat across from Sebastian, acting like an emperor arriving at court. The woman bodyguard took her place beside him, and all but one of the girls shuffled so they were kneeling around Lau, some of them leaning against his legs, while others received absent head pats as if they were pets rather than people.

Lau began speaking in Mandarin, his voice soft and light as it almost always was, his eyes nearly closed, his affect totally opposite the tension the younger man was feeling. The woman beside him translated, “It is good to see you looking so well after so long apart, Li Xiǎo Guǐ. This is Ran Mao.” So that was the woman’s name. Two surnames? Perhaps it was an alias. “Have my chǒng wù been treating you well?” So the girls really were his “pets,” as Lau used the same word used for an animal, rather than a favorite person.

Sebastian snarled, but otherwise kept his anger in check. “I’m called Sebastian now,” he bit back in Mandarin.

Ran Mao seemed unphased that Sebastian could speak Chinese. In fact, her face was expressionless.

Lau, on the other hand, chuckled as he accepted a cup of tea from the chǒng wù serving them. “Yes. I know, Mr. Michaelis,” Lau said the name like a curse. “But you’ll always be my little demon,” Lau continued, switching to perfect English, his voice soft and lilting and beguilingly soothing. Normally a nickname for a troublesome child, because of his ink-black hair and unusual red eyes, Sebastian had been given the name Xiǎo Guǐ, one he hadn’t heard used since he’d fled Lau years ago. “Your Mandarin is a little rusty, Xiǎo Guǐ. Have you been living apart from me so long that you’ve forgotten to call me father? Or speak to me with the proper respect?”

Sebastian scoffed. Lau was not his biological father, although who that man was was unknown. All Sebastian knew was he was mixed, a son of one of Lau’s underage whores, which made him even more of a demon in Lau’s eyes, although his beauty had made Sebastian a useful commodity. “A man like you deserves no respect,” he replied, switching back to Mandarin because English wouldn’t convey the level of insult nearly as effectively.

The chǒng wù gasped, and Ran Mao stiffened, but Lau simply laughed and held up a hand to signal it was fine. “You haven’t changed, Xiǎo Guǐ. And you’re still beautiful. How old are you now? Nearly thirty? And yet you appear younger. I imagine you must be a valuable asset to Joker. Especially with how deadly you are.” Lau’s smile was feral, even if he still barely opened his eyes, sipping his tea calmly.

Anxiety creeped in on the edge of Sebastian’s brain. How much did Lau know about his life? Was it true that he could never truly escape the dragon’s talons?

“By the way, how is that little blue-eyed boy you stole from me? Does he still look underage? Is that why you enjoy fucking him so much?” Lau’s expression was placid, as if he were merely chatting about the weather, rather than doling out one veiled threat after another.

Sebastian growled and jumped up from his seat, his fists clenched, not even thinking clearly enough to yank his knives from his boot heels. “You son of a bitch. Stay away from Ciel.”

Ran Mao stepped between the two men, pulling knives of her own from holsters strapped to her thighs, normally hidden by her dress, bracing herself to launch herself toward Sebastian.

But Lau merely chuckled, murmuring in Mandarin for Ran Mao to stand down before addressing Sebastian again in English, “I’ll do as I please. You both belong to me, and I’m very possessive of my property, as you well know.” Lau handed his cup to one of the girls and rose. “You used to be dangerous because you had nothing to lose, but you do now, don’t you? What do you think some of my clients would do to a beautiful white boy like Ciel? Ah, but you do know. From personal experience.” Lau opened his eyes, revealing a cold, menacing glint that said more than his even tone suggested. “Interfere with my business, Xiǎo Guǐ, and I interfere with yours. Consider it a courtesy that I’m letting you leave today.” Lau issued commands to his guards in Mandarin, and without a further word, he and Ran Mao departed the way they came, leaving Sebastian still standing, heart pounding, hands trembling.

#fan fic #fan fiction #drabble #kuroshitsuji #black butler #circus au #my writing #sebastian michaelis #lau #first draft #wip #alternative universe #ran mao #modern au #all details subject to change in final version #where demons hide story

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the-ravens-requiem · 5 years

Text

The Beginning

The alchemist's shop seemed to have manifested itself out of the gloomy air that surrounded Darkwood late one autumn night.

The sun rose over the trees, the morning fog lifted -- and there the cottage sat, surrounded by a garden and a tall iron fence. The building itself was situated on a flat piece of land near the lake, where weeds and brambles had grown in the past. On a wooden sign in front of the cottage, there was a picture of a black bird with a red ribbon in its mouth.

The name of the shop was painted neatly underneath: The Raven's Requiem.

The townsfolk were afraid to approach the warm-looking cottage, citing old superstitions. The location of the shop was in sight of a road, and although the placement of it was only frequented by foot traffic like local fishermen and hunters -- surely someone would have seen the place being built over the summer?

The bravest of the townsfolk craned their necks as they found reasons to walk by the shop, curious eyes hungry for a single glance of their new neighbor -- but never daring to cross the threshold between the shop and the road. Some swore they had seen a dark figure move amid the orange glow in the windows -- yet others claimed they'd been haunted by an image of a cloaked figure hunched over the plants that lined the sides of the building. Whatever the case, none could say or prove that they had actually seen the shopkeeper for sure.

And so a wealthier resident of Darkwood hired an outsider to look inside the shop. She was to report back to him with whatever she found, and tell him all she could find out about the shop’s owner. The wealthy man was just a simple trader, and he found the sell-sword in a small tavern by chance when on his usual travels. He hired her on the spot for a small amount of gold. She promised that she would complete the job before the week was out.

As she stood in front of the simple cottage with the painted sign out front, Amelia felt like laughing. If she had not personally seen the fear on the trader's face when he told her of the so-called 'strange' shop, she would have thought the job was a complete joke.

He claimed that the townsfolk sensed an evil presence of some sort when near to the place, but she felt no such thing. He had told her that they were afraid to fish or hunt near the building, afraid that there was some sort of poisonous miasma -- superstition, no doubt.

It was just a simple cottage; The roof built with wide eaves, and in the style that was common in the northern areas of The Middle Kingdom. To look upon this place and assume that there was evil here was downright silly -- madness even. There was no haunting here -- no ghosts, strange creatures, or ancient magics.

Amelia had made up her mind already, even without having stepped a single foot inside. The townsfolk were simply mistaken, and there was no way that the shop had sprang up out of the weeds and grass overnight. The cobbled stone and wooden framework looked worn, as if the building had been there for decades. The glass in the windows and the small greenhouse in the back seemed cloudy with age.

It had to have been some kind of mistake. Amelia tried to piece together what could have happened for the townsfolk to get so hysterical.

The explanation could be that the owner simply had restored the building recently, cutting away overgrown grass and ivy and settled in to open up their shop. Maybe it was the new sign which alerted folks, and thus had created this widespread notion of a whole house appearing overnight.

The mercenary examined the area around the cottage, noting that it seemed to be a lesser-traversed road. There were no deep wagon-ruts carved into the roads, and the grass and stones seemed to be relatively undisturbed.

Amelia was no detective, but this she was sure of: A whole shop -- a whole house and garden, even -- could not just appear overnight. And even if one could, why would such a power be wasted on a little town such as Darkwood?

To Amelia, this sort of fanciful thing was simply not possible. In her short life and in all her travels around The Known World, she had never heard or seen anything like it. Therefore, it simply could not be true. Fixing her leather armor for the last time and double-checking her scabbard, Amelia confidently strode past the sign along the road and trekked up the worn path.

The cottage loomed, nestled between the sky-reaching conifers. It reminded Amelia of a painting -- the kind a noble might commission, for it was almost too fanciful and wistful of nature to be real. It was a quaint little place for sure -- and well kept, too. The fallen leaves and nettles were raked into neat piles on the far side of the house, and the garden seemed fragrant with late-blooming flowers and cold-weather plants.

It was clear that someone lived inside, simply because the grounds were kept nicely. The grass and bushes were clear-cut, and the path seemed to improve the farther up she went -- as if someone had recently fixed it up for easier travel. The windows were aglow with light, too.

A bell above the door jingled cheerfully as she entered the shop -- the door itself heavy and carved with intricate symbols Amelia did not recognize. She thought that they were likely decorative, if nothing else. The interior of the shop was mostly wooden -- the floors, the counter-tops, the shelves. Baskets of dried herbs and bottles of elixirs, tonics, and potions lined every inch of space in the large central room.

Doors leading beyond -- possibly to the shopkeeper's personal home -- were situated to the north and east. The eastern door looked like it lead outside, having a short hallway between it and the shop proper. To the west lie what appeared to be a sitting room with shelves of books that did not appear to be for sale -- and what laid beyond, she could not see.

Amelia called out a polite greeting, glancing every which way to see if she could spot the shopkeeper. After a few beats of silence, she stepped further into the shop. The pleasant smell of freshly dug dirt and perfumed herbs filled her senses as she began to walk around, noting the way the wood groaned and creaked with age beneath her feet.

A bottle caught her eye, far into the shop on a shelf. It was a sort of reddish color, and looked viscous. The bottle seemed to be made of a clear sort of glass, though she could not read the label from where she was. Amelia walked over to it, stepping carefully so as to not disturb any of the various baskets and bottles on the many shelves and tables that filled the space.

As she approached, she realized she could see into the sitting room more properly. The bottle forgotten, curiosity got the best of her. She moved closer. At this angle, it looked more like a small library, with pots of flowers and herbs and other assorted plants decorating the room. The chairs looked comfortable and well-worn, made of fabric and dark lacquered wood.

The prolonged silence of the shop began to make her feel like she was intruding, and an acute sense of dread began to overcome Amelia. What if the shopkeeper was out? What if she had accidentally broken into the shop because they had forgotten to lock the door? She may be a mercenary, but she was no thief.

A sudden break in the solemn silence startled her, and with a gasp Amelia spun around to see what she assumed to be the shopkeeper standing directly behind her.

It was a decidedly peculiar and rare sight to see someone in a full plague doctor ensemble, as the guise was often seen as frightening to common folk. Of course, it often heralded many deaths to illnesses, but there hadn't been such a widespread case of sickness in years. As it was, it did indeed catch the mercenary off guard, and so she was giddy with nervousness at the sight of them. Especially so, because she wasn’t certain how such a heavily costumed person was able to sneak up on her.

"...You are the shopkeep, I presume?" She offered politely, setting an embarrassed smile onto her face. "I saw the sign along the road. I...Have to admit, I was a bit curious. You don't see many alchemy shops outside of the cities." The mercenary realized her hand was on the hilt of her sword, and she quickly removed it for fear of coming across as aggressive.

The figure seemed to draw slightly nearer then, making a motion not unlike nodding with its black beaked mask. "Yes," A muffled but pleasant voice drifted from behind the stitched leather, "I suppose they are a fair bit more rare in the countryside. I thought it clever to open one here for that very reason -- though I must say it hasn't been quite as fruitful of an endeavor as I originally assumed. I must confess, you are my first visitor."

Amelia nodded, slightly more relaxed now that she knew there was a rather well-spoken person hidden beneath the heavy layers of garb. She noted that the quality of the doctor’s voice was surprisingly youthful, if perhaps a bit smokey in quality. "I hope business picks up for you, then. It's quite a lovely place you have here, it would be a shame if it never saw much prosperity."

"Thank you, that's quite kind." The plague doctor replied, "Besides curiosity, is there anything in particular you were looking to cure? I have many things here for sale."

Amelia's face warmed slightly. She hated to lie, though she really was curious despite it being her job to come here. "Oh, no. Well --" She floundered for a moment, "A-actually, do you have anything I can use to keep Rot away from wounds suffered in battle?"

She wasn't normally one to use poultices or tonics, far favoring field dressings and bandages -- but she would be lying if she said she didn't feel compelled to buy something. After all, Amelia felt a bit sad that she had been the first customer the shop had seen. The easy money from the trader who hired her would be more than enough to offset the cost, anyhow.

"Wounds suffered in battle?" The doctor questioned in a conversational way as they turned to presumably seek for what she asked for. "May I ask what line of work it is that you do?" The unabashed curiosity in their voice compelled Amelia to answer truthfully.

"I'm a mercenary." She muttered, watching as the doctor stopped in front of a set of shelves. "Quite an unsavory job, all things said and done. But I've always liked to travel, and I like helping people."

"Is that so?" The doctor hummed thoughtfully, drawing a gloved hand over a few vials and jars. Amelia watched the slightly eerie way the doctor moved, almost too smooth and precise. She supposed that they were just extremely comfortable with the layout of their own shop, which made sense. Or perhaps it was an elf under all those layers. She couldn’t be sure which.

"Yes." She answered, and still more spilled forth in an attempt to get the doctor talking. " I - I guess...I've always been this way. I wanted to see the world ever since I was a little girl. When I was young I trained to be a guard, but I realized I didn't want to be stuck in the same city or town on duty. So I became a sell-sword instead."

The doctor was quietly listening, taking various jars and bottles from the shelves and looking at their labels briefly before putting them gently back. The silence between them practically compelled her to continue talking, though she was not usually uncomfortable with such quietness.

"...I personally only take honorable jobs, mind you. Escorting caravans and whatnot. It's good money, too..." Still more silence, save for the sound of her feet shuffling nervously, and the waxy fabric of the doctor's ensemble every time they moved. It almost seemed like they were waiting for her to finish her thoughts. She worried she was being rude by leaving the quiet between them. "...I might start my own mercenary company one day. I've been wanting to for a while. To make sure I only have good folks in it -- not that the company I work for has bad folks!"

The doctor's head turned, the sun's glow from the window catching on the red glass that covered the eyes of the mask. "That seems to be quite the lofty goal for such a young woman. I think the world could always use more kind-hearted people with initiative, like yourself."

Amelia couldn't help but smile at that, though she wasn't sure if it was due to the flattery or because the doctor had finally broke the silence. "Thank you, ser. I agree."

The doctor pulled a small jar carved from wood from off of the shelf. "I suppose you'd want something easy to apply, with no prior preparation to be had. On the field, things can be chaotic and messy, correct?" Amelia nodded in response as she stepped closer to them. "...Staving off Rot and stopping the spillage of blood is of the utmost concern. This should do nicely, I think." A gloved hand placed the jar into hers.

"...What is it?" The mercenary asked.

"Oh! My apologies. It's a paste, which only requires water to be activated. Apply it thickly to a wound like one would butter a piece of toast, and it will keep the Rot away while also soothing the pain. You can then wrap the wound with bandages, and it will harden into a plaster to stop the bleeding over time. When it begins to crust and peel, you may scrape it off."

"Thank you. It sounds like exactly what I needed." Amelia took the jar in one hand and shuffled around her belt for her coin pouch with the other, "Now, how much do I owe you?"

The doctor held up their gloved hands in a surrendering motion. "Oh, please. It's free, madame. In honor of you being my first customer. Hopefully a kind gesture such as this will bless the shop with prosperity in the future."

Amelia laughed, pulling a gold piece from her pouch. "I insist. That's no way to run a business, ser. If word catches 'round that you give out your wares for free, what will you do then?" She grabbed one of the doctor's gloved hands and pressed the coin into the leather palm. "Even so, if you insist on it being a gesture of goodwill so that the Gods will favor you, think of this as a gift -- for the pleasant conversation."

The doctor seemed to regard her for a moment before closing their fingers around the coin. "You are too kind." They hum thoughtfully.

Amelia made her way toward the door, bade the doctor farewell, and shortly thereafter stepped out into the evening air of autumn. When she closed the door behind her, she sighed heavily. She'd have to give a full report to the trader tomorrow when they met again at the tavern. She could only hope that maybe the shop would start to see more customers after she gave the all-clear. The doctor seemed to be a nice person -- or whatever they were. With such a kind demeanor, Amelia could only wish the best for them.

She smiled once more, shaking her head. Small towns like Darkwood were home to many superstitious people, but she supposed that was good for business. She’d been called to many jobs such as this one -- an odd noise from the woods, skittering from a nearby cave. Her swordcraft thrived off of folks like the trader, of small towns like Darkwood.

The odd visage of the doctor and the look of the cottage had been enough to scare them into hiring her to have a look-see. But it had been a simple task for good coin, and she'd have been a fool to turn it down.

She glanced back up at the shop.

...If the paste worked, Amelia would likely be back again to purchase more from the doctor.

masterlist | ko-fi

#doctor #amelia #ts

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imagineclaireandjamie · 6 years

Note

Can we please have more of HRH, pretty please??🙇‍♀️

Previously:

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part VIII: Schoolmates

Frank had called for her. Fraser had walked away. Claire had steeled herself, attempting to assemble her face into as neutral of an expression as she could manage under the circumstances. Shoulders straightened and teeth gritted together, fingers clenching intofists before relaxing, she was doing the best she could.

Claire saw him round the corner of the palace, jogging down thesloping green hill in athletic shorts and a polo. He was almost breathless when he reached her, grinning.

“Just grabbed a quick game of tennis withsome friends over on the –– Claire…” his voice trailed off just as he kissed her cheek, his lips coming away salty. “What is it?”

“Nothing you shouldworry yourself over,” she said a little too quickly, accepting thehandkerchief that he removed from his back pocket.

While she had notexpected him to wipe tears from her eyes (it was just not his style), but something about the impersonalityof the gesture made her breath catch. Her heart was still breaking a few dozen meters behindher in the stables, but she was trying to grab onto it and pull it back intoher body. With a little internal coaching, she reminded herself that she had no right to criticize any of this man’sgestures.

“Are you okay?”

She heard the grindingroar of a motorcycle start behind her and concentrated on dabbing the innercorners of her eyes. It was the truth when she spluttered out: “Just sayinggoodbye.”

“Ah, the horse.”

She reached for Frank’shand, swallowing back the urge to lie. “Why don’t we get cleaned up for ourmeal?��

His thumb traveled over the back of her hand. She was sure he meant as a reassuring gesture, “Let’s.”

____________________________________

“I knew your sister,” the man said by way of introduction, hishand warm in hers. Claire’s heart hammered.

“How?”

“Schoolmates. She was a lovely, warm child.” Inspecting his facefor even a trace of insincerity and finding none, her posture relaxed only infinitesimally.“It was devastating. Her loss. Your parents’ loss, too, of course.”

“Of course,” she echoed, mind reeling.

At night, when she closed her eyes, she could see Ann’s face.She could smell the floral-sweet scent of Ann’s sheet of blonde hair. It fellpin-straight to the middle of her back. Their mother used to fuss over Ann’s hairin a way that tinted Claire’s vision green with jealousy. Teasing Claire hadbeen one of Ann’s favorite pastimes –– her hair, her teeth, her soft pudge her elbows. Claire remembered little else of her sister and it disgusted herto recall only the superficial (the look of her) and the darkness (thesuperiority, the way she laughed at Claire’s expense).

Her memory of Ann was pathetic and ill-formed. Claire regularlycombed her memory looking for fragments to piece into a narrative about their sibling relationship. Shelonged for someone else to be in front of her in the line of succession. A long lost sister or brother or cousin (someone to surface who could assert a colorable claim that Lamb had an uncharacteristic indiscretion). She knew neither of these things would happen.

So Ann dwelled, cast in shadows, in her subconscious. Continuing to tease Claire.

The man sounded fairly abashed when he said, “I am terribly sorry, ma’am. I should not have raised it.”

Closing her eyes, Claire consciously set the thought of Ann ona shelf in one of the far-flung parts of her mind that she rarely touched. Collected, shesmiled. “It is fine, Mister….”

He bowed but did not take his eyes off of her. “Captain FrankRandall, your majesty.”

The unusual intensity of the look pulled something tight in herbelly.

Captain Frank Randall was a man on a mission. She was not so naive as not to know that the mission had something to do with her.

Later that night, Lamb pulled her aside. “It is not anaccident that Captain Randall is here, love.” Breath hitching, she had nodded. She had figured as much. “Nothingwould give me more comfort than to know that you are cared for.”

“But what if I don’t want to be cared for?”

Lamb took his niece’s elbow, almost so gentle that she could not feelit. “When I die, the wolves will descend upon you. Do you understand? Ahusband, a family. The promise of those things will protect you, insulate youfrom scrutiny like what I faced.”

“I don’t understand how to do this,” she had whispered, pullingher elbow away from Lamb as she looked to Frank. “I mean, to do this to accomplish someend and to be…”

Lamb gave her a sympathetic look. “Happy?”

She nodded, knowing that he did not know either.

____________________________________

Claire swallowed away thetang of the memory with a sip from her glass. The red wine tasted almostdirty on her tongue –– too earthy and almost stale.

Dining with Frank thatnight was a quiet affair.

The dining room’sstillness was undisturbed but for a well-mannered symphony of forks, spoons,and knives. The sound of cutlery scraping across plates and tapping on the lipsof soup bowls made the hairs on the backs of Claire’s hands stand at attention.

Looking at Frank fromacross the table, his disgust only thinly veiled he cut fat away from his meat,Claire thought and thought about the word to best describe the atmosphere. All she was able tocome up with was “mausoleum.”

Seemingly out ofnowhere, Frank commented, “You would like Egypt.”

His voice was a littletoo loud for their tomb and it echoed, making her feel as though she could jumpout of her own skin.

“I have been to Egypt.” She stared at him. Itwas something that even Jamie Fraserknew about her. He had marveled as they rode one night, asking her about thepyramids and making soft, impressed noises that had made her smile.

“Have you really?” Frank asked, taking a long drawfrom a glass of wine and motioning with his hand that he would likeanother. The bottle was barely out ofhis reach and she shook her head as one of the dining room staff approachedhim.

‘Just get it yourself!’ she wanted to shriek. Instead, she said, “Leave us.”

Frank snorted. Herdirective had been a little shorter than intended and the attendant visibly shifted inside of his jacket.

Steadying her breath,she smiled just a little before averting her glance to the dining room attendant. She raised her eyebrows and added, “Please.”

“Of course, ma’am,” theman mumbled under his breath, casting his eyes down as he shuffled out of theroom. She could tell that he was moving with alacrity and attemptingto keep his footsteps light. She hated this–– people watching her at all times. She hated herself for it.

Claire rose from herchair, wiping at her mouth with a linen napkin as she strode towardsFrank. Picking up his wine glass andswirling it meaninglessly in the air by the stem, Frank smirked. “You havescared the dickens out of that poor man.”

“I did not intend to,”Claire said blandly, filling his glass with a generous hand. “Doyou not ever wish for things to be just normal?”

“Darling,” he drawled,drawing the glass to his nose and inhaling deeply. His eyes closed with thekind of pretension she found utterly distasteful. “I have lived normal. An entire lifetime of it. Then nine monthsof it in a prison camp in what seemed to me to be an endless winter. No. I do not wish for normal.”

“Would you say that youare chronically disinterested in normal?” she asked, narrowing her eyes andresting her weight on the table.

Raising an eyebrow,Frank looked down at where her linen dress was dangerously close to his soilednapkin. “I would say that one can garner a lot of insight into her majesty’sstate of mind from the mere fact of her asking the question.”

Huffing a little and rolling her eyes, Claire took the wine glass from his hand. “I am going to ask youa question. With all sincerity.”

“Oh goodie.” He leaned back into his chair,crossing his ankle over his knee.

He was playing a game with her.

“Why are you going toScotland with me?”

Licking his lips, hehad a long look at her. “You really are an enigma to me, Claire. We have beentogether for a while and yet, I find you a difficult riddle to solve.”

“As an initial matter,I am not someone’s puzzle to solve. Not yours, not anybody’s.”

“Come now, I think weboth know that is not true.”

Clicking his tongue, he leaned forward and grabbedthe small, monogramed silver cigarette case that he carried everywhere. It was one she bought for him afterhe proposed to her –– a public affair where he looked over his shoulder at acamera before he looked at her. He turned it over and over in his hand.

“Ihear that you have been having a dalliance with the strapping Scottish stable lad.”

She lost herself for amoment –– hand fluttering to the collar of her dress, the apples of her cheekswarming, her tongue darting out to wet suddenly-parched lips. Judging from thesmirk on Frank’s face, it was enough of a moment for him to see right through her.

“Well, so it is true,then.”

“I would not call it adalliance.”

“How interesting,”Frank mused, opening the cigarette case and drawing a single hand-rolledcigarette out. “There was a time when I would have killed a man to see thatlook on your face. What has he done?”

She did not believe him. She did not believe for a second that he had ever had it in his sights to make her truly happy, to create a life. She had been a challenge to be won and he had.

“You did not answer myquestion.”

“You, my dear, did notanswer mine.” Sighing, she finished the glass of wine in a single pull. “Yourposture. It is atrocious, Claire.”

She suddenly needed an answer more than she needed air. “Scotland. Why?”

From the curve of a smile ghosting on his lips, she knew she would be forced to ask again and again. “Did you know that theyare printing calendars with our photograph on it?”

Frank placed a cautious hand on her shin, justat the hemline of her skirt. His fingers were warm as they moved up, brushingover the curve of her knee.

“Were you aware that the preparations for our honeymoon areunderway? Touring the far reaches of your kingdom and such. Imagine the jobs that have been created just so you can go on a little trip.”

Cold sweat broke outalong her sternum –– collecting along the curve of her breasts and in the cupsof her bra. Her tongue was dry when she said, “I had heard about the calendars.”

“Kings. Queens. Princes. Princesses. Nobility. All to come see the big show in a few shortmonths. State dinners are planned with any number of foreign dignitaries after we marry. Of course yours truly is expected by your side.”

It was all true. Sheswallowed the realization of it over the –– the things to be undone if she were to sayshe was finished, that this relationshipshe was in was not going to work. His hand crawled up her inner thigh.

“How in the world do we undo all of that?”

“I did not say anything about undoing it.” The idea of undoing it was new to her, though her distaste for it had been a long-standing, niggling feeling at the back of her mind.

“You asked aboutScotland. Well, there are appearances to keep up, which you know as well as Ido. Whisky. Golf. Cigars. Parties. Imagine the spectacle of canceling all of it”

“Right,” shesaid, pursing her lips and studying his face. “Beyond the work… theCrown’s duties… why are you coming to Scotland?”

“It is what we areexpected to do.”

Hesitating, she wonderedif she had to tell him about Fraser as a matter of transactional fairness. It was a strangefeeling. To have a heart so full of business that she found herself consideringwhether it was part of her duty to disclose material facts to the man she wasto marry. As if he were buying a property where the basement had a habit of flooding during a hard rain or a car where the second gear stuck.

She passed the winebottle under the nose, shrugged, and emptied more than a few gulps intoFrank’s wine glass. Flavorless now, it drained down her throat easily, but did nothing toquench the thirst that was closing her throat.

“Your dalliance. Your Scot. I truly do not care, Claire. Provided our children do not have red hair, I could not give a single fuck less who you let into your bed.”

The tips of his fingers tented her dress as they crept up over her knickers, drawing a meandering line. His thumb hooked in the waistband before pressing into the soft, fleshy part of her lower belly.

“And something tells me that you, my dear, are going to look the other way if I let other women into mine.”

The world blurred, the stillness of the mausoleum threatened only by the pounding of her own heart (in her ears, her throat, her chest, her stomach, between her legs). The part socialized to love one person, to make a life wanted to vomit, to hit him, to cry, to scream. Another part of her found itself considering his statement.

Well into the night, Claire tiptoed out of her bedroom and stole into Uncle Lamb’s library –– the one area of the palace that she had demanded not be disturbed after his death. It smelled of him –– over-sweet like pipe tobacco, clean. She dug until she found a copy of the book that had been open on Fraser’sdesk earlier that week. Tolstoy.

She read until dawn, her fingers troubling one page and her lipsmoving soundlessly over the words she read over and over again:

I wanted movement andnot a calm course of existence. I wanted excitement and danger and the chanceto sacrifice myself for my love. I felt in myself a superabundance of energywhich found no outlet in our quiet life.

The ink of the words rosefrom the paper and melted into her, becoming a tattoo on her softest parts.

There was no outlet.

#Her Royal Highness AU #HRH #jamie x claire #;mod kate

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